Prince Doredan
Human Martial Bard 5
AC: 14 HP: 25/33
PP: 9 PIv: 11 PIs: 9
Conditions: ---

"Excellent!" still speaking aloud, the Prince is not really sure if the magus can read his mind or hear his thoughts back, or not. It's a bit of an unnerving thought, but her aggressively neutral face gives away no hints that she can detect his wandering mind. Instead of focusing on that, Doredan keeps up a polite smile and walks alongside the elven party.

Walking ahead could give the impression that he views himself as superior, and walking behind would look weak in front of the people. Both could reinforce the elements desiring to take up arms again for fools' causes. The Prince knows enough of appearances that going alongside the magus would present the best message to the people.

On the matter of love and fools, the romantic in Doredan wants to disagree. However, he has been educated on these matters. As a royal, the liberty to choose his spouse was an unlikely one, and something he had to resign to long go. In the end he chooses not to comment.

"Well, I am quite a gifted fencer, if I do say so my- oh," just as he begins to answer, Prince Doredan realizes she was talking (thinking, think talking?) about the war. "To fight in the war, right. Old enough to stand in a line as a lancier were I a conscript," he answers as they step into the familiar bright colors and ambient smells of the market. "But too young to be sent out as an officer."

When they pass the many flavors of street performers, Doredan sets a hand upon his coin purse, wary of losing it. "The street magicians have skilled legerdemain," he warns his traveling companion(s). "Good for making coins disappear." The guard is out in full force, but one can never be too careful when carrying a hefty coin pouch.

It is a cart pulled by a centaur in shamanic garb that draws Doredan's attention. Inclining his head towards her, he suggests to the princess' attendant, "A fine array of wardings. I am sure that the princess would appreciate their efficacy." He also motions towards the pair of swords on display, of Arborian and of Wessimvalian style. "These also are of fine quality and a most keen symbol of union, though the tale of their making seems, to me, too tall."

Thinking the swords a little to on the nose for himself, he approaches the centauress' cart and peruses the protective charms. Drawn to the intricate woven strands of the dreamcatchers, he takes a closer look at them. "Most captivating, speaker of spirits. Of the dreamwebs, this one would know the purpose," he questions the craftswoman, speaking in flowery Sylvan.