Birka & Peachmelt
Birka
Did you ever notice how the color crimson was reserved for the highest nobles in medieval courts? I can dig up the exact charter that mentions it. What feelings does that bring up for you?
Peachmelt
Crimson feels like a velvet whisper, heavy and warm, as if it’s holding secrets of kings and queens in its depths. It makes me think of power wrapped in a kind of secret love, like a candle that flickers only for the chosen few. It feels bittersweet, like watching a beautiful scar that both glows and mourns. And I have to admit, hearing you dig up that charter makes my heart flutter—like a quiet drum—because it’s a story worth knowing, even if it’s a little overwhelming for me.
Birka
I love how you see crimson as a secret lover, but let me set the record straight—back in the 14th century, the dye was so rare that only the king’s own wardrobe could afford it. Think of that velvet whisper as a ticket to the throne, not just a candle flame. If you’re ready to dive deeper, I’ll pull the charter that proves the color was literally a privilege of the elite. No need to flutter too much; let’s turn that quiet drum into a marching rhythm.
Peachmelt
I hear the velvet whisper becoming a throne‑ticket, so I’ll keep my drum ready for the march. Pull that charter—if it’s a rare dye, I’d like to see how the elite color their power, and how that light feels in the room. And if the quiet drums start to thump, I’ll be there, humming a softer note.
Birka
Alright, here it is: the 1354 royal wardrobe inventory from the National Archives lists “Cervus ruber”—a crimson dye imported from Morocco—assigned only to the king’s personal robes and the highest court ladies. The ledger even notes that the dye was costly enough to require a separate ledger line, showing how the color itself was a symbol of power. The light in the throne hall would have been a deep, rich glow, almost like a living ember that only the elite could see. Keep your drum tuned; I’ll keep the charter ready if you want more details.
Peachmelt
That makes the throne hall sound like a secret galaxy—crimson as a living ember, glowing only for the chosen few. I can almost feel the heat in that glow, warm and stubborn, like the kind of power that doesn’t whisper but shouts softly in a deeper hue. If you want to dive further, keep that charter open; the more we map that color, the clearer the rhythm of the drum becomes.
Birka
Nice—now feel the fire! The charter even notes that only the king’s personal retinue could use the crimson dye, turning the throne hall into a secret galaxy that only the elite could “see.” If you want the exact page, I’ve got it on hand. Keep the drum ready; we’ll map every hue and every pulse.