Alaric Redhart was pacing the room in the manner of a caged lion, his guards watching with carefully maintained stoicism. Again and again, the young warrior paced along that stone floor, as if determined to wear a trench into it through sheer friction. Then, knowing his temperment, using it hold off a siege after he declared the room his sovereign territory. He looked, in the guard's professional estimation, about ready too.<br/><br/>The silver-haired Mâţă (catfolk, as humans reckoned such terms) turned about sharply once more, and continued along his circuit of the room. Like all of his kind, he sported two pointed, feline ears at the tap of his head, poking up through his lovingly tended silver man of hair. Behind the lithe creature, a well-groomed and quite fluffy tail swayed, relaxed and unguided. A stunning contrast to the rest of the prince's body, which seemed tense and ready to explode at any given moment.<br/><br/>One of the guards, a red-haired felid, stepped forward and cleared his throat. "I'm certain he will be here soo-"<br/><br/>Alaric yowled, halting in his tracks. Focusing his one good eye, the one not hidden behind an eyepatch, on the guard. "Ironsky. You said that an hour ago. And yet, my husband has not arrived." Every part of the feline's tone, every bit of his movements, from the tension in his muscles to the slight narrowing of his eyes...telegraphed the fact he did not want to be here. Not in the least. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He'd rather be fighting a dire wolf of the isles naked, armed with nothing but a pointed stick, then be here.<br/><br/>The guard sighed, and shrugged. "You know these humans. Their time matters more then anything, the speaker wouldn't-"<br/><br/>"My father has excellent instincts, and I cannot fault them." Alaric returned tiredly. "Maybe the humans even meant it when they spoke to him last, but they change their minds as quick as the weather. You remember how the prince's-" He said that name as if it were a curse, "-father tried to renege on this bargain. We were barely kits!" Not that Alaric would have minded. He knew his promised. He'd even fought his promised, in countless tourneys. The score betwixt them was even. Which, of course, meant they each detested each other thoroughly. There was nothing a prideful man hated more then being unable to beat someone.<br/><br/>....<br/><br/>Especially if that someone was part of an arranged marriage that one didn't particularly want. Prince Laurence was, as far as Alaric was concerned....an imposition. An arrogant, irksome one<i>who just wouldn't stay beaten.</i>Unless....<br/><br/>Slowly a smile slide across the cat's face. A look of contentment. Even peace followed. "Ironsky." The silver-haired feline slide into a chair, one at the head of the table he'd been studiously ignoring for the last hour or so. "Fetch me some wine. I've just had the most delightful thought..."<br/><br/>"....?" His reply was a quizzical stare.<br/><br/>"If the prince doesn't show for our....meeting." Bonding. It was a tradition, a strong one, in Mâţă culture for betrothed to spend time together. His kind did normally marry for love after all-this arrangement was a concession for peace. A tribute, of sorts. A promise between peoples. The meeting they were to have now, before their marriage, was a concession to the Mâţă's ways. A chance to...commissariate. Alaric had expected sudden silence. Or a brawl.<br/><br/>But if he didn't show...<br/><br/>"Then it means that he is....afraid of doing his duty. And yet here I am." The son of the speaker flashed the guards a winning grin. "Unafraid." Nevermind the fact he'd been nervously pacing for some time, and was on his way to wearing a trench into the floor.<br/><br/>".....I'll....get the wine, honored warrior."<br/><br/>"Please do!"