Ithacles looked the way that nobility ought to look - with lips that mirrored a fish's mouth, that pouting sort of haughty stare reinforced effectively by dead eyes and that foppish hair that made it look like Lethe dressed him every day of the week. Of course, he was no less strutting than the gorgeous blonde who was tailing him around. Probably one of the minders that Lethe always put on his trail - Skandra couldn't remember seeing her before, and he'd seen a great many of the pretty things that Ithacles dandled on his knee when he thought no one was looking. Not that Skandra had any objection at all to dandling. And Ithacles was not a scoundrel, not like Skandra. At least - Skandra didn't seem to remember hearing anything about Ithacles being a scoundrel. Where would one get such news, if such news were there to be got? He did stand up when Ithacles appeared, and tossed his cup into the empty washbasin with a clear ringing of tin on steel.
"You can call me Skandra," he informed the most beautiful person in the world. "As for you, you son of a bitch, what kind of kingdom needs thirty jails?"
The cursing was done with same tone he always cursed in - but it was odl hat between them, amusing and comfortable rather than truly hilarious as it might have been after a few drinks. Everyone said that Ithacles was Leironuoth's younger cousin - and he supposed if he'd ever gotten a straight answer out of Leironuoth he might have believed or not believed that tale. But Ithacles was the more mature of the two. Odd considering that he was human, that he had no reason to be mature, and that he was incredibly wealthy as well as popular. In short, all of the things Skandra could never have personally stomached. But if you chose a group of adventurers based on their strengths than Ithacles' strengths were clearly freedom. As in, freedom from paying for anything while in his company. Freedom from cells that you were tossed into for no discernible reason. And freedom from pretending like you gave a damn that he was a prince.
"Your Highness," the Captain - what was his name again? - hesitated. "I am under strict orders from your sister, Her Highness Lethe of Faustben. This man is being held in connection with an investigation-"
"I love this part," Skandra's hands slid through the bars, up to the elbows, and then stuck his clove into the torch that the Captain was holding - the man withdrew the fire, but not before Skandra's lungs were full of sweet spice. "You protest that you're under strict orders, he protests that he's a prince and therefore in charge, you hold fast, he threatens your job, you give in."
"I will not be addressed in such a manner," the Captain was a deeply prideful man, apparently.
Skandra only stared. Ithacles was good to his people, whether they worked for him or not. He'd probably want an apology if Skandra kept on this way. So instead, the Immortal said the two most awful words in the whole of the language of Common, and the two words he could not possibly mean any less than he did right at that moment - no matter how much he wanted to get out of this gods-damned cell. It wasn't worth it. It just wasn't.
"I'm sorry," he told the fellow.
The key clicked into place. Lock undone. The bars were sliding open, and Skandra withdrew his arms. As soon as both of his boots were outside the cell, he extended a hand to the Prince of Bastards with a smile.
"You combed your hair," Skandra said as if Ithacles had no idea. "Looking sharp. Maybe Ithunvel will make you tax collector."