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addressing:Asshole Prince, Rosemary[@Hero] Theobald [@Xiro Zean], Dom [@Abstract Proxy][hr]

Theobald and Lucas' bickering proved to be irritating but ignorable background noise as Justinian kept his attention focused on their host. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of tutors this kid had to be able to keep her composure better than most adults, but maybe that was just part of the resilience of childhood. Before his mind could linger on his own childhood, or what little of it he could remember these days, the princess' voice brought him back to the present.

She spoke quickly and with as much excitement as kids often did, and while the actual books she brought were much more valuable than anything he'd had at the same age, the stories were as familiar and timeless as ever. Justinian did raise an eyebrow at the statement of this 'crying woman' glancing towards Lucas but decided not to say anything about it. Best to let sleeping dogs lie for now, and besides, he doubted a six-year-old had any particularly prescient insights on what her dreams could mean if they turned out to be more than that. Still, maybe he could read up on the old scions of light to see if prophetic dreams from Incepta were a common theme. It felt more like the kind of thing that would happen to the Scion of Time, but he didn't remember Theo ever speaking of such things before.

Banishing the thoughts with a sip of tea, Justinian couldn't help but smile at the way Lucas and Rosemary interacted. Much of an asshole that the young prince was, he at least didn't have it in him to berate a child. It was, of course, the bare minimum of decency, but it still gave him a slightly better opinion of the man. Maybe they could really leave all that horror behind them, at least for one night.

[color=lemonchiffon]"How old were you when got the si...si-gil,"[/color]

Justinian nearly dropped his cup at the question, body tighening like a coiled spring as thoughts he tried to keep to the edge of his mind sprung to the fore. As if on cue, he felt that same presence taking shape behind him. Any shift or movement made was accompanied by the long drag of claws on wood and the clatter of plates now all too similar to the clicking of chitanous plates on stonework. He doesn't dare close his eyes, knowing he'll see what he always sees. Instead, he tries his best to slow his breathing and set his cup down as gently as possible. 

[color=darkorange]". . . Eleven years old, about 14 years ago."[/color] He kept his gaze low, counting backwards from 100 in his mind. And old exercise to help center himself in the moment. Sometimes it helped, most of the time it didn't. But it helped to keep him from acting out or running off when his nightmares go the better of him.