The silencing charm shuts out most ambient noise of the townhouse, and it goes both ways; Lucius, the elder of the Lucii that remain there, would have his conversations go private. For all that he's the only one present with real intent to invade any privacy.
"I won't be sharing a floor with anyone; don't be absurd."
It's difficult to maintain standards on a budget, but adaptation has stretched enough for Lucius to carry out conversation with the real estate agent over CiD which has, he will grudgingly admit, turned out to be quite useful. But rather than write at length about purchasing living space in a nicer, perhaps even urban corner of Baedal, narrative twist dictate the scenario turn more interesting when sudden, signalling pain lances beneath white scars gone black.
He gives a shout that goes unheard against his own spells, the device forgotten and fallen, and eventually, the guy on the other end may just roll his eyes and hang up. The conversation for Lucius is all but forgotten as he wrenches back a sleeve to confirm what doesn't need it.
Intellectually, he immediate deduces it is not the Dark Lord. There is no familiar urge, no direction, and there is something not quite correct about the nature of it.
All of which counts for nothing as low, simmering panic immediately sets in, quite resembling that constant state of his final year at war. Quite cold beneath his own skin and physical nausea entirely of his own making flood senses, leaving him sitting abrupt enough on bedroom ground, back against his bed and hands shaking at the very idea of the Dark Lord's return, seeing as the bastard ought to stay dead.
Doesn't he deserve that much? 'He' being either one of them.
It doesn't occur to him to take down the silencing charms and run out and see who else is feeling this. Quite the contrary, he remains right where he is, until the unpleasantness is quite over, and things return to a normal pace.
no subject
"I won't be sharing a floor with anyone; don't be absurd."
It's difficult to maintain standards on a budget, but adaptation has stretched enough for Lucius to carry out conversation with the real estate agent over CiD which has, he will grudgingly admit, turned out to be quite useful. But rather than write at length about purchasing living space in a nicer, perhaps even urban corner of Baedal, narrative twist dictate the scenario turn more interesting when sudden, signalling pain lances beneath white scars gone black.
He gives a shout that goes unheard against his own spells, the device forgotten and fallen, and eventually, the guy on the other end may just roll his eyes and hang up. The conversation for Lucius is all but forgotten as he wrenches back a sleeve to confirm what doesn't need it.
Intellectually, he immediate deduces it is not the Dark Lord. There is no familiar urge, no direction, and there is something not quite correct about the nature of it.
All of which counts for nothing as low, simmering panic immediately sets in, quite resembling that constant state of his final year at war. Quite cold beneath his own skin and physical nausea entirely of his own making flood senses, leaving him sitting abrupt enough on bedroom ground, back against his bed and hands shaking at the very idea of the Dark Lord's return, seeing as the bastard ought to stay dead.
Doesn't he deserve that much? 'He' being either one of them.
It doesn't occur to him to take down the silencing charms and run out and see who else is feeling this. Quite the contrary, he remains right where he is, until the unpleasantness is quite over, and things return to a normal pace.