silence .
He would not have known except for the commotion. There are whispers and cries so he pushes forward, following the crowd to its edge. A sharp inhale.
Liquid silver and blood and some hell-borne beast at his heels. Arrogant arrogant arrogant. The serpentine cockerel looks ready to pounce on the silver man or any bystander and it takes everything in El Toro’s being - his greater judgement included - not to step back. He follows quickly through the throng of bodies, keeping pace as the bloodied stallion makes his way to the Keep, and stops. Toro’s ears slip forward, anxiously, he is tight with anticipation because something does not quite feel right and for what little he knows of this land, it has started to feel like a home.
”Your queen is dead. Seraphina fell before me in Bellum Steppe. I left her broken.”
He thinks to the woman of the sands that fought at his side, for all his biting words and venom, of the woman who battled the sandwyrm, who charged the creatures of winter and famine. He had only respect for those that held their own in battle.
And she had not. Not this time.
He is a little sad for it; the loss of any good warrior is an unfortunate one and he thinks that he may have liked to challenge her, if only once. The opportunity is gone. Forever.
The cockerel caws and something in Toro’s blood shocks cold. It is no natural thing. The words of the silver one - a new silver - drip venom and nothing good, nothing sounds good. He cannot name a comforting quality of this man or his speech. Much of the crowd cannot either. A woman asks a question.
Long live the king!
El Toro’s pale mouth twitches at the cries, growing now, but he stands stock-still and silent. For once, he only wants to listen.
"What I say,"
What I think,
