Ira studied Sitri idly wondering how all those nasty scars had been earned, or given whichever figuring there was a story behind each one. Not that Ira cared enough to ask. As it was, the Prince was contented just to wonder, or worse yet, make up stories of his own. He wasn’t terribly imaginative when it came to spinning tales but sometimes amused himself with it every now and then. They were never created with the intention of leaving the Prince’s lips, coveted mostly for his own cruel and sick amusement. Even as he tried to come up with something, his mind refused to play the ‘make shit up’ game and so Ira gave up with a soft huff of annoyance. Little did the Prince know that Sitri and him were something of kindred spirits; both were broken despite the polar opposites of their situations. Ira didn’t know Sitri enough to like or dislike him but he was, at least, in Ira’s ‘good book’ if only because of the apparently unwavering loyalty to Jinx that Ira had watched Sitri exhibit. That was a tentative place though and Ira searched for reasons so scratch names off of it. It took more effort to like someone than it did to dislike them.
Gazing down at Sitri, Ira watched as the other male turned to look up at him and the Prince offered the red-eyed fiend a toothy grin, letting a foreleg drape off of the ledge, swinging slightly in what was meant to be something like a lazy wave. Tail beat against the solid rock formation for a few seconds as silvered eyes gazed relentlessly into the darkened fires of Sitri’s bloodied eyes. Ira watched Sitri intently, ears thrusting forth as gaze narrowed to one of suspicion and the Prince drew his leg back until his paw found purchase on the outcrop of rock, rising so is stomach barely brushed the rock, the muscles of his broadening shoulders pulled taunt, the junction between his shoulders prominent as he stared down at the Epsilon in a predatory manner. The lack of surprise and hostility made Ira aware that Sitri had, more likely than not, known he had been there all along.
Ira could barely tolerate listening to Sitri speak but worked to regain his composure as he listened, regardless, noting on the strange way Sitri referred to himself by using his name instead of ‘I’. Ira was a Prince and he could not allow his ire to fall upon Sitri who had not earned it (and really Ira was mad at himself for falling lax). He would not punish that which was innocent. It was Sitri’s use of the word ‘curse’ that captured Ira’s full attention, his anger at himself gone in that split second and intently, with unbidden curiosity that Ira’s silvered gaze went back to the scarred creature below him. He eased into a lazy lounge once more, though it was more of a regal sphinx than haughty carelessness as it had been previous to his rise in anger.