and horror in the halls of stone
Jahin hears the call of Solis but he does not answer.
The desert sings to him. A lullaby at first. A haunting, beautiful song he hears from his personal quarters in the palace at night. The melody lilts through the open window with the cool breeze, crooning, luring him to the belly of the desert. He finds it difficult to sleep with the window shut; cut off from the open air of the desert...and yet as of late the only peaceful sleep he can find is when the windows are firmly closed. He sweats in his sleep and has restless dreams; enduring the humid, stifling air rather than face the haunting song of the desert. He knows he cannot answer. He has never been a man of ambition. He has never sought power. But the song of the desert is enticingly alluring. Even Jahin -- though it is not an easy task -- can be seduced.
He is, after all, a man.
On the seventh night at midnight, he awakens. Beads of sweat glisten upon his brow and shoulders like pearls. His dreams are haunted with the faces of Solterra. Makeda, Avdotya, Seraphina, Raum, Orestes. Jahin...the desert beckons. Demands. Seduces.
No, he says. My work here is not yet done. Still the desert sings. Not even the shuttered windows can keep the song away, for now it is a keening wail akin to a mourning widow; horrible and raw. He wakes in a pool of his own sweat and knows he will not sleep again this night, or maybe any other night, until someone worthy answers the call and assumes the throne.
He finds himself wandering the capitol walls at night, assigning himself extra patrols whenever possible to elude the duties of the crown. Protecting is what Jahin does best. He can lead in battle certainly, but governing the populace is not what the desert fashioned him for--He is made for raw, physical tasks...the matter is either black and white, rarely does Jahin see in grey.
As such, the intricacies of the crown elude him. He has stood next to the throne (refusing to sit upon it in the absence of a sovereign), day in and day out after Orestes’ disappearance, hearing the complaints of Solterra’s people. Most are petty--civil issues involving neighbors and criminal mischief. He renders his judgement on the incidents, as is required of him in the absence of a Sovereign.
But he does not find joy in the task; he is not suited to interacting with with people constantly. He is a man of few words and his lack of charisma does nothing to help the matter. Citizens are dissatisfied with his dispositions on their issues, despite the fairness of the judgement rendered; feeling as if they have not actually been heard due to his unforthcoming, reserved nature. Not to mention the endless paperwork. He can neither read or write (yet), and the mountain of paper on the sovereign’s desk continues to grow, overtaking much of the royal office.
During this time of unrest and upset, Jahin would argue that the lack of a crown weighs heavier on the head than any bedazzled, jeweled, golden crown any sovereign has ever born.
He relieves and nods goodnight to the soldier on duty, replacing the watch on the northern most tower. He shoulders his spear into a more comfortable position and Sahar settles herself in graceful coils across his back, hissing softly. The stars and moon are bright tonight. The pearls of sweat on his skin have dried and only the silver light of the moon washes over him now. The haunting desert song is louder in the open air...a song only Jahin and a few others can hear. Who will answer the call? And when?
(open thread for anyone...join Jahin on patrol!)
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
The desert sings to him. A lullaby at first. A haunting, beautiful song he hears from his personal quarters in the palace at night. The melody lilts through the open window with the cool breeze, crooning, luring him to the belly of the desert. He finds it difficult to sleep with the window shut; cut off from the open air of the desert...and yet as of late the only peaceful sleep he can find is when the windows are firmly closed. He sweats in his sleep and has restless dreams; enduring the humid, stifling air rather than face the haunting song of the desert. He knows he cannot answer. He has never been a man of ambition. He has never sought power. But the song of the desert is enticingly alluring. Even Jahin -- though it is not an easy task -- can be seduced.
He is, after all, a man.
On the seventh night at midnight, he awakens. Beads of sweat glisten upon his brow and shoulders like pearls. His dreams are haunted with the faces of Solterra. Makeda, Avdotya, Seraphina, Raum, Orestes. Jahin...the desert beckons. Demands. Seduces.
No, he says. My work here is not yet done. Still the desert sings. Not even the shuttered windows can keep the song away, for now it is a keening wail akin to a mourning widow; horrible and raw. He wakes in a pool of his own sweat and knows he will not sleep again this night, or maybe any other night, until someone worthy answers the call and assumes the throne.
He finds himself wandering the capitol walls at night, assigning himself extra patrols whenever possible to elude the duties of the crown. Protecting is what Jahin does best. He can lead in battle certainly, but governing the populace is not what the desert fashioned him for--He is made for raw, physical tasks...the matter is either black and white, rarely does Jahin see in grey.
As such, the intricacies of the crown elude him. He has stood next to the throne (refusing to sit upon it in the absence of a sovereign), day in and day out after Orestes’ disappearance, hearing the complaints of Solterra’s people. Most are petty--civil issues involving neighbors and criminal mischief. He renders his judgement on the incidents, as is required of him in the absence of a Sovereign.
But he does not find joy in the task; he is not suited to interacting with with people constantly. He is a man of few words and his lack of charisma does nothing to help the matter. Citizens are dissatisfied with his dispositions on their issues, despite the fairness of the judgement rendered; feeling as if they have not actually been heard due to his unforthcoming, reserved nature. Not to mention the endless paperwork. He can neither read or write (yet), and the mountain of paper on the sovereign’s desk continues to grow, overtaking much of the royal office.
During this time of unrest and upset, Jahin would argue that the lack of a crown weighs heavier on the head than any bedazzled, jeweled, golden crown any sovereign has ever born.
He relieves and nods goodnight to the soldier on duty, replacing the watch on the northern most tower. He shoulders his spear into a more comfortable position and Sahar settles herself in graceful coils across his back, hissing softly. The stars and moon are bright tonight. The pearls of sweat on his skin have dried and only the silver light of the moon washes over him now. The haunting desert song is louder in the open air...a song only Jahin and a few others can hear. Who will answer the call? And when?
(open thread for anyone...join Jahin on patrol!)
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
