#( omg this took so long i'm so sorry sjghkfgjs

[cruelprincae]

❛ what are you going to do to me? ❜ from locke!

Reclined with both legs draped over the armchair's arms, Cardan's mouth opens into a dramatically exaggerated yawn, one that reveals gold-tainted lips and a sharp set of fangs, ever so slightly more elongated than the remainder of the Gentry. The drowsy inhale is met with a sharp exhale before his mouth purses and he hums a thoughtful murmur, all the while making it a point for his black eyes rimmed in a halo of gold to not meet the redhead's fox-like amber hues; partially due to meaning to further unnerve the other, by making him believe his fate rested on little more than one of the Prince's capricious, wild and temperamental decisions ― for which he is particularly known for amongst the Folk ― yet mainly because he still does not trust himself to be able to look Locke in the eye without bursting into yet another fit of violence ― one that Nicasia would be unable to stop, given her intended absence the last handful of weeks after the incident herself and Locke the two took place.

Even so, the mere sound of his voice ― melodic, song-like and weaving, ever so always weaving ― bothers him, and it requires a great amount of effort on his behalf to keep his own sharp features nonchalant and void, as though he is drunk on Faerie wine and any semblance of thought currently eludes him. Alas, he does not miss the wavering speech ― near identical to how his voice had faltered when he caught him and Nicasia, nude in his chambers ―, that minute pitch of fear in the other's voice and he pretends not to hide the slight curl of his lips in the prospect of the thought that Locke fears him.

Good, he decides with evident satisfaction. He has proclaimed himself to villainy, after all; he is worthy to be feared.

❛ You believe yourself to be so important that a Prince of Faerie will dirty his hands with you ? ❜ Comes the lazy response, escorted by a high arch of a manicured brow beneath the golden, leaf-like circlet resting just above his brow. The Prince's head turns to face him, and for a brief moment, it appears as though he is looking past the other instead of at him, buried deep in thoughts ― but such is minute, and soon enough, his lips curl into a wicked grin that gradually spreads across his ethereal features, promising cruelty. And cruelty he would deliver. ❛ I care not what happens to you, nor the fish Princess for that matter, ❜ A dismissive wave of his hand is offered as one leg gracefully crosses over the other upon the chair's arm. ❛ You may indulge in your little. . . dalliance, for as long as your heart desires. However, you should keep in mind you broke the engagement between land and sea, and Queen Orlagh is exceedingly displeased with you. ❜

He does not mention that it feels as though as weight has been lifted from his shoulders upon the prospect that he will no longer have to spend his life as a consort by Nicasia's side, in the dark, watery tomb that is the Undersea's palace, nor the fact that he has spared him from the murderous ploy Queen Orlagh had in store for him as soon as her daughter's claim to the throne of Elfhame had been established. It matters little in this instance, and it would only give the Fae a footing to spin the story in his favour and claim that he only acted in Cardan's best interest rather than himself's.

With a swift motion, similar to that of a feline, the Prince is sitting upright, with his body now fully turned to face the redhead. ❛ Perhaps, you ought to be more concerned with how many fish and shrimps you have enraged rather than my pettiness. I hear Queen Orlagh is quite. . . creative, when it comes down to her ways of vengeance. Thus, to answer your question: nothing. I do not intend to do anything, for the Undersea will do it for me. I believe, it will be rather entertaining sitting idle while a bunch of Nixies munch on your skin the next time we go swimming. ❜