[center][h3][sub][i]The Shunned Prince[/i][/sub][/h3][h1][color=silver]~ ℭ𝔶𝔯𝔲𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔫𝔲𝔰 ~[/color][/h1][/center]

The click of Cyrus' heels on the polished floor are all that is needed to signal his arrival. Sweeping into the atrium with all the grandiosity and opulence of an emperor and dressed to the nines in a velvet three-piece suit and [url=https://www.pinterest.com/pin/362750945005482120/]cloak[/url], Cyrus is the epitome of [i]rich[/i]: priceless, powerful, untouchable. Dressed head to toe in black with intricate, swirling gold embroidery that mirrors the twist of smoke drifting from his cigar, the prince makes his entrance, flanked by three guards in matching black and gold. In the face of such luxury, one would never guess that he was entering his 26th year of exile. 

And yet the House of Manus remains a sojourner among the solar systems. No home. Just continued indignity and smoldering hatred. He had only been born a few years after the exile, and yet he feels like he has lived it along with his grandfather, father, and the whole tribe. The stories of their faithful service, Luxor's betrayal, and, of course, the destined return. With his grandfather dead and his father not far behind, Cyrus is now the Head of the House of Manus, and he is determined to bring his people home -- and to crush the heads of those who dared betray them. 

Cursed to wander the stars as he may be, Cyrus would never be caught dead without making a proper spectacle of himself, and today he is satisfied with his efforts. He has brought his own mask, a beautiful, gilded thing that curls around his cheekbones, leaving only just enough for people to see his sharp jawline and lips - just enough to let people wonder. Paired with his gloves and high collar, only his neck and bottom half of his face are exposed. Why let people see the splendor of Manus before its due time? At least, not for [i]free[/i]. 

Bringing his cigar to his lips, Cyrus indicates with a finger that his guards take his luggage to his room. He's well aware that he has appointments to attend to and guests to persuade, but why rush? The Starfire is a beautiful craft, far more streamlined and sterile than the vessels he's used to. The House of Manus does what it can to keep up appearances of wealth, but Cyrus is still more accustomed to the smells of grease and fuel than those of cologne and perfume. For all his love of expensive things, his outfit today is merely a tool used to assume the appearance of power, and there's a tiny part of him that cringes thinking about how much food and fuel could have been purchased with just one cufflink off his suitcoat. Even if Mother and Grandmother had insisted he commission a new outfit for the occasion.

If his business partners - and rivals - knew he carried such sentimental thoughts, he'd be defeated before he could say a word. Time to get down to business.

Walking slowly and calmly through the atrium, Cyrus admires the sights while keeping his eyes out for potential targets and interesting individuals. However, he can't stop himself from indulging in a few luxuries. Alcoholic spirits, otherworldly appetizers, the finest desserts, even drugs of varying legalities - the Starfire truly has it all. Making his way down the the private lounge with a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other, Cyrus has to admit: he's enjoying this. Unlike some of the people on this craft, he is still capable of drawing enjoyment from things. Such is his burden to bear.

The CEO he's arranged to meet with has no doubt already been notified of his presence, and so it's with supreme confidence that Cyrus knocks on the door, ready for whatever conversation lies on the other side.