Lucivar Yaslana

Lucivar is sitting outside, on the porch, staring out into the distance at nothing in particular. His arm is wrapped up in a sling close to his chest, still broken - he's avoiding Jaenelle for now. There's only a Twin again. And this time, he could have prevented it. Should have prevented it. And somehow he didn't.

He's not moving much, if at all, just the simple rise and fall of his chest, blinking every so often, face very quiet, expressionless. But there's a bleak coldness in his eyes that doesn't match with the relaxed posture or the expressionless face.

Lucivar has family he wants to see.

And so he's wandering around the Mansion looking for them, hands in his pockets and almost smiling a little, giving his golden eyes a little glow. He's almost even in a mood to meet people! Feel free to say hello to the tall, scary looking batwinged man. At least he doesn't look pissed off like he usually does, right? 

Lucivar finally left Jaenelle after fetching Aaron and telling him firmly that under no condition is he to leave Jaenelle by herself. He's scared that if someone does, she's going to go back into herself and this time she won't come back.

So he's outside, practicing, flickering between temper and fear, spinning thoughtlessly through routines, his mind clearly elsewhere, face set in a curiously unhappy expression. A twitch and he stops, breathing hard, staring at nothing. Checking on Jaenelle, through the thing that still makes him nervous - a connection that's strangely fuzzy, as though Jaenelle's shutting him out from something. And that, Lucivar does not like. At all.

Your brother has gotten you into some trouble with Lucivar. He looks calm. He looks very calm, in fact, striding across the lawn looking for Melou with his wings tucked neatly into his back, face nearly expressionless. Because if Melou is leading Miranda on, as he just heard, he is going to be in very big trouble with this rather scary Warlord Prince.

He's not going to look scary now, though. Because talking is good. Yes. Yes it is.

Lucivar is outside again, and alone, his wings folded tight to his back as though their weight is a comfort - as well it might be. He looks pensive, walking across the grass for once sans weapon, his bearing altered only a very little from the events of the past weeks. He's healed, physically and mentally, but far from unaffected by the experience, even if already the memories of what happened have become rather fuzzy. The death doesn't bother him much - he didn't know the man, and he can hardly be blamed for destroying a perceived threat while on the killing edge - but what does is the damage to Jaenelle - the damage he did by being hurt and she damage she inflicted on herself in helping him.

He's been hovering over her to make sure she slept since he got back on his feet, but now that she seems to be better, he's not sure how to apologize - as he wants to, even knowing how little his stubborn sister will like it.

His eyes are back to normal, golden, fairly calm for the moment, but with an edge of sadness deeper and fresher than it should be, his shoulders perhaps more tense.

He just keeps telling himself that he has to focus on the fact that it's over.

As usual, Lucivar is pacing through the Mansion, frowning a little, and searching intently. For who else but Miranda. Because whether it's just Jaenelle being calmer, or meeting some new and marginally interesting people, or trying to teach Anita how to use an Eyrien stick, he's in a good mood, and finally ready to see her again without snarling about that little revelation he coaxed out of her last time. He wants to reassure her, and make sure she didn't misinterpret it, as upon further thought and knowing Miranda, he might.

He's also looking for Melou, perhaps - he's not confident that he'll find him or even that the boy will want to talk to him, but nonetheless he didn't look well when Lucivar last saw him, and as he's adopted Miranda, he might as well adopt Melou too. And that means keeping an eye on him.

All this watching over people he can't contact on a psychic thread is beginning to make him realize why this place has Jaenelle so frazzled.

Though he wouldn't give up his new sort-of-not-family for the world.

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 the walls yet is because the particular person he wants to splatter he hasn't found, and because he's avoided nearly everyone since descending. He hasn't even considered the consequences from Jaenelle's direction.

He continues stepping through his routines in total silence, a few images flashing through his head behind open eyes. A white sheet soaked with blood. Jaenelle - the nightmare of her lying still, dead, hair fanned out like a golden banner around her too pale face, blue eyes closed forever. Too late.

And now - with the first sound that he's made in nearly an hour, he snarls and wheels, slamming the blade on the Eyrien stick deep into the trunk of a nearby tree, shearing through the wood like paper, propelled by the Ebon-Gray. Too late again. Once again, he's failed all his promises of protection and the promise to himself that it would not happen again -

The handle of the weapon snaps as his fists clench and he lets go quickly, examining palms he neglected to shield bleeding from splinters from the now useless handle. It doesn't stop him for long.

Momentarily, the broken weapon is vanished and Lucivar has another, spinning through the exercises with less control and more frenetic energy. Failed again. Too late again. So much for promises.

Butchering whore.

He flinches and speeds up, trying to lose himself in the familiar movements.

Lucivar would really like a conversation with a certain young man. Would really like a conversation with him. He wants to know what's going on with his sister his friend Miranda and all this sudden discussion of scary things like marriage.

We're sorry he's so protective.

However, talking to others is an option as well, old acquaintances or even some new ones.

Lucivar is hunting. But not the way he usually is. Rather, he wanders through the house, checking open rooms, knocking on closed doors, looking distracted and worried. She may not want to see him again, but he at least want to know that the little not-witchling is all right. She may notice that he seems thinner than when she saw him last. A lot of practice and not much sleep will do that to you.

He hasn't thought about Terreille in several months, now, and he shouldn't be now. But the appearance of a man who is thoroughly dead and ought to stay there has unsettled him more than a little. Especially when he can't be sure that it wasn't some sort of machination of Hekatah or Dorothea that brought him here, however briefly. It's reminded him that the Mansion isn't free of scourge. If it is now, it might not always be. If Morton came here...others could, just as easily. Especially when they aren't even dead.

Lucivar already ripped the kitchen to shreds. He tried calling Jaenelle and she's ignoring him or else -

No, he won't even think about that. Won't think that he missed the chance to pin down the bastard before he got away and kill him more thoroughly this time. Won't think about what might have happened since he last saw his sister. Hunting through the mansion, radiating fear and nervous energy, Lucivar is very, very close to going cold, and that's not something that happens very often.

Greer is here somewhere. He saw him. He saw him, dammit. And now...he's nowhere to be found.

This is one dangerous Warlord Prince.

He's already left a mess in his room, broken furniture and everything, and he's moved outside to go to work on something living. He hasn't hunted for years, but he is now. The animals don't have it very good though when he can rip them to pieces before ever touching them. The power of the Ebon-Gray rages through him and his golden eyes are completely glazed over. Protocolprotocolprotocol throbs through his veins, keeping him from killing something more substantial, but rabbits are not a very satisfying killing field, and there's too much fury to let it all out that way.

He needs Jaenelle, but truth to tell he's frightened of provoking her anger or making her worry. That, above all else, he does not want.

So he stalks like a natural disaster through the woods, determined not to leave until he's sure that he can keep himself from killing someone.

Lucivar is sitting outside, knees drawn to his bare chest, steam rising off his back, the bladed stick cast in the slushy snow around him. His chin resting on his knees, he stares at the woods, nearly gasping for air, trembling with exhaustion. His face is, strangely, streaked with tears, and a new one drips from the corner of his eye, though he impatiently swipes it away. His eyes are closed, though, his face taut in a rictus of anguish and anger and determination.

Words lie. Blood doesn't.

It's an uncomfortable thing, to lance a wound, and more so when it is one you didn't know you were bearing. Lucivar knows this. He has had to lance wounds before, when they were poisoned and foul. But the lancing of soul wounds is rather more difficult to endure. And he has just lanced one, one that has been there so long that he hardly notices it except when it is prodded. But he can't feel soothed yet, not while the foulness is still rushing through his memories all over again.

Butchering whore.

He clenches his fists once, hard, then relaxes, lowering his forehead onto his knees and allowing himself to cry.

Lucivar is sitting on a stool somewhere in the mansion, holding his war blade and sharpening it carefully - not out of any particular need, but just because the automatic motion is soothing and gives him time to think over everything that's changed in the past few months, both inwardly and outwardly, and some of it is rather disconcerting. 

Lucivar is inside, for once, sitting by the fire, eyes half closed and looking almost asleep, very tired indeed. However, he is awake enough that if someone were to walk into the room, he'd notice - having been caught napping once by Armand, he's determined not to get caught again by people more likely to tease him about it.

There is a plate of nutbread on the table next to him, though, still warm and absolutely delicious, stolen from the kitchen, though no one's noticed its absence yet. He's in an uncommonly good mood lately, and it shows in the slight smile on his lips and the laugh lines that have deepened around his eyes.

Lucivar has found himself outside again, though this time he doesn't look too happy about it, as he doesn't really have anything to do. The basket for firewood is full and since his last stick broke when he tried to practice because of the cold, he's not really inclined in that direction - but not having any other ideas, he starts off towards the little shed where he's stored his weaponry for now, until he finds a better place. 

Lucivar is where he usually is - practicing. Perhaps with more savagery than is necessary, but with a certain amount of desperation as well. But he's not practicing in his usual way, with a bladed stick and a tree as an opponent out in the clearing. Instead, he finds a pile of unsplit logwood and begins splitting it with little more than ax and muscle in one stroke. He is very welcome to be bothered, and even more would like someone to talk to who doesn't want to kill him. At least, not outright. 

Lucivar spent far too much time downstairs drinking today, and finally managed to overcome his metabolism and get drunk. Horrendously so. However, he's now passed out on a chair downstairs, still wearing his Jewels and with an expression of extreme annoyance still on his face. At least the hangover will distract him from the headache he has. 

So. He's snuggling with her in somewhere private. {{continued from chat}}.