Warlord Princes, we have them.

[eyrienprince]

Lucivar is outside again. Practicing. Yes, again. His face is motionless and cool, his eyes are cold and blank and very, very still. He goes through the motions slowly, evenly, and with total calm, but within a hundred yards of him, the temperature drops. There's frost around his feet. Lucivar has gone cold. The only reason no one's splattered on

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[myrddin_wyllt]

The old wizard has been observing from a safe distance. He knows - not who he is, but where Lucivar is from - his scent is reminiscent of the Faerie Queen, and that alone draws concern.

Merlin has been watching, first drawn by the movements and the deadly efficiency Lucivar displays - then, fascinated by what a warrior such as he might have done in his time, and how he might have turned the tide. Yet, the old geezer, crazy as he may be, knows the infinite waves of time’s ocean cannot be mastered, but only ridden, and so he lets go the musings to get lost in his observation.

His shape, today, is the one he assumes when he is by the mansion - drab colors reminiscent of the forest, and an ageless face splintered with humorous eyes. His pipe, today, smells of a mix of tobacco and sage.

[eyrienprince]

Lucivar wheels around after not too long and stares at Merlin with blazing eyes. "Why are you watching me?" He snaps, his temper raw.

[myrddin_wyllt]

Merlin is very calm. If he were Japanese, he would be a Zen monk.

"Why would I not be?"

[eyrienprince]

"Why would you?" Lucivar says back, but the calmness defuses his temper a bit - Merlin reminds him of Saetan, a little, if less dark.

[phedre_25]

Phedre has been walking - walking off her loneliness, partially, but also trying to spy places to pick berries, places where she might find roots to dig. This place reminds her of other places - of Alba and Eire, and their rolling plains, but also of Siovale, and the places where goats might be herded. Oh, but she misses Montreve, this day

[eyrienprince]

He stops, breathing hard, and turns around slowly, giving her a narrow, golden eyed look, not of suspicion or wariness, just of intense, heated and suppressed rage and frustration - not at her, of course, but -

He fans out his membranous wings and vanishes the stick with a sigh, knowing it's useless. "Yes?" he says curtly, trying to keep his temper on a leash. It's not her he wants to kill, after all.

[phedre_25]

The look in his eyes tell her many things - anger is raw, powerful, and she freezes in place, unable though to take her eyes off him.

"Forgive me," she whispers. "I meant no offense."

She tries to remove her eyes from him - wondering, fearing that they may be a burn on him. Yet she cannot.

[eyrienprince]

He looks away from her, his shoulders tense. "None taken. I'm sorry." After all, the anger isn't directed at her, and he can feel her tension in her psychic scent.