[AW] áldott herceg;

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face "Regardless, I wish you luck in finding her." In truth, he was indifferent. If this man found his szellem, or if she perishes somewhere he cannot reach, leaving unanswered questions and unspoken truths. Whatever the case, it did not matter much to the Son.   A wicked grin creeps over his features, breast brimming with pride and satisfaction, ego inflating to hear the word prince slip from the mouth of a stranger. That's what he should be truly recognised as, and he would grow and learn and soon become a King. The brute tosses his head, disregarding the question of the dawn court. He was still learning of each court and its role in the world, he had managed to find himself in Solterra, warn torn and desperately piecing itself back together. The Dawn Court wasn't even a thought in his mind, not a single whisper of its existence prevalent to him. Does it matter to him either? No, he has no time for trivial, insignificant lands that won't provide him with the power he so eagerly seeks. His greed will lead him to them eventually, that he knows, but he has already sprung roots into the heart of Solterra. "No, I am not of the Dawn Court. I'm simply - looking at what I'm working with, at what this land can offer to me." It was reasonable to want to have a feel of the terrain, wasn't it? Violet flickers over the lips of the stallion, muscles quivering at the hesitation between his words (what is he hiding?). The eagerness to devour secrets, to have ears graced by hushed history and a knowledge many do not, that is what he desires. The Son wants to be trusted deeply, to be falsely entrusted with secrets of darkest desires, of unrequited adoration and fatal passion. What he Himself desired, a gilded throne, a weighted crown against his skull, True Power. But will his secrets ever spill carelessly from his lips, recklessly revealing the true nature and meaning of his existence? No, he is not that foolish. Letting the syllables linger, drawn out and teasing as he leans forward; a brow subtly rising, begging for the completion of a broken sentence. "You're just?" The Son stares, curious and questioning, hinting at an inquiry, at the pieces falling together to create the history of the stallion before him. He wants to know, always want to know. He can't stand not knowing, even if it isn't entirely his business to. It's a king's duty to know the business of his subjects, as his father had once told him. Káin had taken those words to heart, had listening intently to his father's long speeches as he detailed his own practices, the blood and manipulation, the seduction and eventual success. And with ears cocked the Son believed that he too could follow in the steps of his father, so sure that he will achieve royalty as he was intended. The grim reality of the man's past, unnamed and rotting, littered with corpses of loved ones and uncomfortable stillness; Káin feels sorrow shroud his breast at the mention of death. But such is life, he thinks, watching the shoulders of the dapple shrug as if that same thought had plagued his mind since the death of his home and he had finally succumbed to agreement. "Részvétem - my..." he stops, realising that he had never come to speak this word in the common tongue, hesitant to continue. "My sympathies?" he shakes his head, feeling that although that conveys a similar meaning, it isn't what he wants. "Whatever the case, I'm sorry to hear." Upon his introduction, Káin nods his head in a formal greeting. This man belonged to Solterra as well, and the Son, being so green in the ways of the land, almost forgot he belonged there too. Perhaps he could use this knowledge to gain insight into the happenings of Solterra, to understand better what its laws and customs were. Must Káin know them too, being the outsider that he is? Yes, for his name was now garnished in the golden sands of Solterra, though not deeply rooted yet, he had begun to sift his fingers through the dirt, burying his name into the sands. "Tell me of Solterra; I feel it appropriate to know about my new home, and who better to ask than the emissary himself." He hesitates, considers and weighs his options, before letting his name spill from his lips. It sounds almost foreign to him to say - he has not had to introduce himself in a long time. In Miskolc he was already well known and renowned, his name and reputation preceded him. But here, he is nothing to these people. For now. -- @Eik, sorry this is super late, ive been super busy!!!!!!