[ Dimitri sways slightly in his seat; he feels as if he's sinking into that gaze and he doesn't know why. There's nothing he can say. Nothing he can put his finger on. It's simply as if his world is shrinking - or the eyes are growing - but that's nonsense. He blinks slowly, tries to consider his own words. There is a lurking nervousness and apprehension now; that shuddering fear of being hunted. The slide of a knife, the bite of a blade. The scent of blood.

His throat works and he shifts in his seat and takes another breath as he tries to focus on the question.

On what he's saying.

Memories stir; blood and fire and death and the haunting apprehension that he's losing everything. That it's all slipping through his fingers. ]

...my father was killed, along with all of our companions. Dear friends of mine... in the Tragedy of Duscur. I was but a child at the time and I - I alone survived.

[ His fingers curl into a fist. He can almost imagine the whispers again. The sharp pain behind his eye. ]

And vengeance was asked for. Or so I thought.