[ Those probing eyes aren't unfamiliar to Lucius, and their weight serves only to further deflate his rapidly worsening mood. Fabius is entirely without his tools, and yet Lucius couldn't feel more like he was strapped to his operating table; he half-expects to hear questions about those narcotic mixtures he had made Lucius a lab rat for, in the few moments he spared for anything but Commoragh's archives, like some perverse imitation of a doctor asking a patient about the side effects of a tonic. It never comes, though, even as Lucius feels his shoulders pinch as Fabius passes behind his back.
Frankly, that he doesn't whip Fabius back to the sand with a swing of his tail is the greatest act of restraint he has practiced in centuries. ]
That much is plain to see. [ And, unlike Fabius, Lucius sees no silver lining in that fact. The words are soaked with disdain, and now he thinks of envenoming his wayward brother just to cheer himself up. ] The locals call it Ryslig.
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Frankly, that he doesn't whip Fabius back to the sand with a swing of his tail is the greatest act of restraint he has practiced in centuries. ]
That much is plain to see. [ And, unlike Fabius, Lucius sees no silver lining in that fact. The words are soaked with disdain, and now he thinks of envenoming his wayward brother just to cheer himself up. ] The locals call it Ryslig.