Letter to Vaelion : Rags is born

Dear Vaelion and Arya,
 
You will both be delighted (or horrified) to learn that my legend continues to grow.
 
The grand Drakemont gathering was this week—the annual festival of strained smiles, subtle threats disguised as compliments, and enough marriage plotting to fill a dozen courtrooms. And naturally, I left my mark.
 
It began, as all great disasters do, with a dare.
 
Theodric, driven half-mad by yet another evening of being paraded about like a prize ox, dared me to do *something* to make it bearable. Specifically, he dared me to attend the gathering dressed not in velvet or brocade, but in the humble linens of a street beggar.
 
And because I am a Morvain—and because a dare is sacred—I had no choice.
 
I entered the grand hall clad in rags worthy of the finest alleyway. Torn cuffs, threadbare sleeves, patched knees—the whole ensemble. When the first wave of silence hit, I simply adjusted my (imaginary) collar and explained, quite seriously, that I was wearing the latest fashion: *Garbage Chic*, freshly imported from the western provinces. I added that the more discerning houses would catch on within the year.
 
Orren Von Urkseld was there, of course. He gave a small laugh—somewhere between amusement and resignation. I believe at this point he simply expects chaos whenever I enter a room.
 
As for my family:
My father, ever the pragmatic one, simply rubbed his forehead and muttered something about "creative spirits." My mother, the Viscountess Rosalind Morvain, kept her composure before the assembled nobility, maintaining a stern mask of disapproval—but when no one was looking, she gave me a wink and a conspiratorial smile.
 
As for my mom, Lady Sylwen Aerathis, she wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, yes—but not surprised. I caught the exact moment she sighed and glanced skyward, no doubt asking the heavens for patience in raising a son like me.
 
In short: I regret nothing. (Except, perhaps, missing the chance to add a tattered hat for flair.)
 
Now, rumor has it that House Drakemont’s court is abuzz with talk of "the wild Morvain boy." I can only hope that when you next see me, it will be with a full entourage of scandalized matrons trailing behind.
 
Write soon, and tell me you’re causing trouble wherever you are. I’d hate to be the only one holding the standard.
 
Yours (in questionable fashion),
Caelith Morvain