Having
spoken to Celebrimbor, Pandora is on the look out for a young prince who should not, ever, at any rate, be in schackles. It’s very soon after sundown, and she is in her usual dark, close-fitted faux-victorian robes. She wears around her shoulders a colorful shawl that is not unlike one she lost recently and is purposefully striding towards
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and, by God, if he gets the same job done by two different people at the same time, well, we're flexible about that too.
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"It ends here," she murmurs. "Come, Prince. My consort awaits."
Heh, you never know. The Mansion. It is magic. Shackles can reappear during one's sleep. Or something. ^___^
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It's the band at his throat that marks him as a slave, but those at his wrists were an added humiliation because he was a prince. And it is in resistance to these that he has turned them into weapons.
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Yes, she gleaned that in his mind, and she has no qualms about adressing the issue.
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"Henry."
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He's walking outside after dark, and maybe it's recklessness, or maybe it's just that he's almost more comfortable here, where it's cool, and silent, with no one to ask questions.
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Taunting, almost.
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::I was waiting for you.::
The voice is beautiful. It's almost angelic.
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