<strong>Who:</strong>Henrik Raubriter<br/><strong>For:</strong>Open, Chi specifically<br/><strong>Where:</strong>the Courtyard<br/><strong>When:</strong>12:02pm Sunday<br/><br/>Henrik was meditating infront of the fountain. This was not an uncommon sight. The sound of the falling water was soothing, and helped him to reach a higher state; aided, of course, by the sword which he was never seen without, no matter what.<br/><br/>The broadsword was sheathed in a metal studded leather scabbard, and was currently not attached to his person, but rather, held in his lap. He had one hand resting on the grip, and one at the bottom portion of the sheathe. His eyes were closed, his breathing barely noticeable. He was wearing his usual attire; cloth pants that were reinforced with special steel strands, combat boots that provided support and a good grip, a breastplate made from a strong, high-carbon steel alloy, and his black cloth cloak. The cloak did not have visible blood stains on it; yet, to those with the nose for it, it still smelled of old, stale blood.<br/><br/>He could feel the world around him despite his intense state of deep meditation. Everything was, for a time, as still as a tranquil pond on a windless day. But bit by bit, ripples formed in the stillness; and it was right around the time that the arachnid demon was halfway to the ground that he was startled out of the trance.<br/><br/>Startle would perhaps be too strong a word; the only physical action, at first, is his eyes flying open. By the time Chi was making her announcement, he was rising up from his position, and moving towards the small group that had formed.<br/><br/>He would look over the new ones, his gaze cold and dispassionate. When he spoke, it was with a voice that was as chill as a cold winter's night; there was no real emotion to speak of, and even the empathic would have to focus particularly hard to pick up on what he was feeling. Emotions were a thing he was in nearly absolute control of, through the introspective meditations he does throughout the day; and that wasn't their only benefit, either.<br/><br/>"Hello. I am Henrik." As he spoke, he was still holding the sheathed sword, in both hands. He had no threatening posture, and no ill will, even if his chill neutrality might be off-putting.