Heron planted his elbow firmly onto the table, wood creaking softly in protest beneath the sudden, unyielding pressure. Arthur's arm rose calmly to meet it. The stark white sleeve of his ceremonial rainfolk cloak slid back to reveal skin as pale and smooth as ivory, traced by a faint, latticework map of faded scars, each line speaking of a quiet, enduring history of pain survived and secrets kept.
Heron gripped Arthur's waiting palm, fingers curling into place, and almost instantly a chill surged through him. The hand he clasped was cold; not unpleasantly so, but impossibly firm, like weathered leather wrapped tight around an unyielding bar of forged steel. He shifted slightly, seeking a better angle, a more comfortable grip, but found none. Arthur's hand simply did not give, did not bend. It sat waiting with all the movement of carved stone, passive yet infinitely patient.
