He yanked his glove off. He drew in a steadying breath and looked up to meet their gazes. Setting his shoulders, he held his hands out to them. They both turned to him questioningly, not sure if it was a sign. He lifted his hands again, encouraging the couple. Fearchar reached out and grasped one hand. Seonaid tentatively followed suit.
This time, the darkness was not hell ridden. It was a soft encompassing warmth. A dim shape formed in the void. Naked save but for a gleaming torc about his throat and a gold band around his head, the man stood confidently as a wind blew about him, tugging at his hip length hair. Bands of ocher red tattoos circled his biceps. Lines peaked out at his waist, indicating more tattoos. The wind quickened, to encircle the man in a modest light. It petered out to leave him wrapped in white robes and a white great kilt. His shoes were a soft white leather wrap held on with bright red woven tassels. A simple bodhran and cipin appeared in his hand. Leather pouches and bone and metal accouterments hung from his belt.
He stepped forward, greeting them formally. “I am Prince Eoin Impundulu Niloofar of the Fyskar clan,” the tenor voice informed them.
Seonaid and Fearchar glanced at each other. “Prince?” Seonaid was the first to test the word.
“Not much of a prince any more, am I,” the pale man smiled sadly to them.
“You are beautiful,” Seonaid gasped before she could censor herself.
“I’m glad you think so,” he chuckled softly. Dismissing the bodhran and brushing the pouches off of his outfit, he paused to revel in the texture of the cloth for a second.
“Man. Ye are a man! Wait, ‘ow the hell ‘ve ye lived behind that mask f’r three months and na’ ‘ave a beard!” Fearchar demanded, then a dawning realization occurred outside of that revelation. “Ye can talk?” Fearchar blinked.
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