[Stirrings of activity just beyond these manor’s walls are of interest to a prisoner kept within them. Hubert is expected to remain languid and pliant, accepting of his new role in lockdown, but he is like a tiger kept in an iron-barred cage — prowling uselessly within, treading in circles, head bowed low and eyes ever outwards, leveled on his captors.
So of course he watches her approach from the pane of a shut window, and the recognition is immediate, his mind trained to know key figures present in the Kingdom’s army when the war was still burning across Fódlan. An old classmate of sorts is even harder to forget, though that was but a laughable age ago. Better still, one present in the last battle he partook in, before a lance greeted his middle to end it.
And with this same flare of recognition comes the paired indignation that it would be one of them — her, Faerghus’ most prevalent healer — waltzing up to “his” door. Rapping knuckles against it like he had much of a choice whether or not he could bar her entry. A part of him wishes to let her remain out there, to count the seconds until her faux propriety gives way to the reality of the situation, but deep agitation has his hand gripping the knob and swinging the door open.
He looks— Well. He looks better than he did on the edge of death itself, and even better than the days spent in some dank and shadowed dungeon cell. A part of Hubert will always carry himself with a straight back and angled shoulders, but an ineffable facet of him has equally been snuffed out to keen eyes; he is very tired, restless, behind his own.
His words, however, have not lost even a degree of their sharpness.]
It is not enough that I’m kept here, but now I’m paid a visit by one of Faerghus’ favored? Are we certain this place is fashioned for my comfort, rather than my torture?
no subject
So of course he watches her approach from the pane of a shut window, and the recognition is immediate, his mind trained to know key figures present in the Kingdom’s army when the war was still burning across Fódlan. An old classmate of sorts is even harder to forget, though that was but a laughable age ago. Better still, one present in the last battle he partook in, before a lance greeted his middle to end it.
And with this same flare of recognition comes the paired indignation that it would be one of them — her, Faerghus’ most prevalent healer — waltzing up to “his” door. Rapping knuckles against it like he had much of a choice whether or not he could bar her entry. A part of him wishes to let her remain out there, to count the seconds until her faux propriety gives way to the reality of the situation, but deep agitation has his hand gripping the knob and swinging the door open.
He looks— Well. He looks better than he did on the edge of death itself, and even better than the days spent in some dank and shadowed dungeon cell. A part of Hubert will always carry himself with a straight back and angled shoulders, but an ineffable facet of him has equally been snuffed out to keen eyes; he is very tired, restless, behind his own.
His words, however, have not lost even a degree of their sharpness.]
It is not enough that I’m kept here, but now I’m paid a visit by one of Faerghus’ favored? Are we certain this place is fashioned for my comfort, rather than my torture?