As Orsa bustled about fetching the tools to keep track of his alarming mind, Estevan did indeed seat himself, harbouring a furtive smile over how easy it had been to spark that creative madness again. At this point he was firmly convinced that despite some strange, savant level genius existing behind those febrile seeming eyes, he was also suffering a degree of insanity, and would have to be observed carefully. He seemed prone to outbursts of speech that might make him a liability where secrets were concerned, and he gave some very real consideration to locking him away in a location more discreet, where he might not have opportunity to mingle with the rest of his court and unsettle the men and women he'd managed to garner such impressive loyalty in. The alternative, that he became an object of ridicule, displeased the king. If all went to plan, and the vitamancer was a powerful addition to his arsenal, he would need to include him in war councils, where the others would have to consider strategy with his beasts alongside their soldiers. Such a thing could never work if they were sneering at him behind closed doors.<br/><br/>"Now there is the ingenuity I had hoped for," he murmured, approvingly. A bastard, father-slaying warmonger he might be, but the rare gift of his praise was surprisingly warm.<i>Personal.</i>There had been a test, tangled in this impromptu visitation, and it would appear Orsa had passed it. "Soldiers," he informed his foreign guest, "very rarely have cause to look up unless there is a barrage of arrows threatening them. Difficult though it might be to accomplish something temporarily airborne, I believe it would only further the reputation of our army if the survivors were to carry tales of a threat from above. Wailing, you say? By all means give them voices, something shrill and unnerving. We will see to it that you have the tools required to accomplish something... spectacular." Mendoza could appreciate the benefit of a performance, even if he'd once rolled his eyes at such theatrics. Making an impression was only the polish on the armour, something to add to the legend in the making.<br/><br/>There was a soft knock at the door, and Mendoza answered it on Orsa's behalf. Raoul's brief assurance that their lunch was on its way earning him a lazily waved dismissal until its arrival. "Should you wish to requisition anything... exotic for your purposes that we do not have readily to hand here, provide that young man a list, and if it can be found within my territories, we shall see it delivered here to the castle," he continued lazily. "I can be generous when the mood takes me, but I will of course expect regular updates, and your creations must appropriately tested before we take them to the field. I will not be made a laughing stock should one of your constructs come apart mid-charge. Reputation, at least for the moment, is everything, and I am sure it has not bypassed your manic mind that mine has been rather carefully cultivated."<br/><br/>Already he considered making a display of a particular traitor consigned to his cells. Let a select audience witness his demise at the hands of the vitamancer's pets and it might deter others from following suit. Foreign spies, those found to be inciting rebellions, any and all might be fodder for their tests. Let his foolish neighbour depend upon his pet lion - the thing would seem inviting compared to the horrors he would swell his ranks with. Transiently, he wondered at his own ready acceptance of such unnatural methods - an absence of scruples or soul? In the end it mattered not. There was another soft knock, and their meal was delivered; traditional seafood platters, grilled swordfish and marinated peppers, a salomene served over rice, and fried anchovies. Of course there was wine too, which Estevan had poured for them both generously, without caring to ask whether Orsa actually wanted any.<br/><br/>The King it seemed, had a healthy appetite, but he was a large man, tall and thick through the shoulders and upper arms, a virile looking specimen who likely burned off every mouthful he ate without much fear of turning soft, despite being well advanced from juvenile masculinity. "Tell me, Orsa," he encouraged between mouthfuls, "how many knew of your coming to Segovia? Did you inform relatives of your intention to seek me out as a place of refuge, or did you drift here on the tides of fate, and merely petition me on a whimsical hope?"