Anatoly laughs, bright and fierce. “Safe? Surely Solterra’s charm has never been in its safety, Madame.” This land has always been one of heat and death and legendary beasts, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. The outside world is a soft thing in comparison, all dulled edges and the knowledge that, with the correct precautions, you wouldn’t be struck down by something hiding beneath your feet or the emptiness of your stomach or the thickness of your blood when water ran too scarce. “The most fearsome of monarchs have yet to manage to tame this land into something so pretty.” And why should they? Safety is so terribly boring after all, leads to weak willed fools who can be tempted into spilling secrets with a touch of kindness, or a suggestive smirk and hooded eyes. No, safety is a useless platitude, an amusing pastime formed from lies and intermittent bloodshed. Really, it isn’t much more than a bother. “Why ever would I fear this dangerous King more than any monarch past?” He asks, ears pricked forward, truly interested in what her reasoning might be.
Could it be that Queeny is still frightened by the very idea of who everyone presumed to be her killer? Hopefully not, for while wariness he might understand, fear is a useless barricade she really must overcome before the castle comes tumbling down on their heads. Crippling fear is something he will not allow in a leader, and as disappointing as it might be, if she is truly afraid he may need to set in place a more promising general for this little rebellion of hers.
Never mind that, figurehead or something greater he still needs her favour to get access to this whole business and some say in how it operates. (There needs to be a way for him to perform checks and balances, just in case he finds them charging head first off a cliff for the glory of it – and like hell he’ll settle for being a simple foot soldier in this crusade.) And at least she is a clever one, immediately sussing out the truth of his turn of phrase; she doesn’t seem to think for an instant that he might be talking about the weather like a common tourist unused to the constant sun and pressing heat.
Then, at her frank admittance of her true feelings, his grin widens a little further. Naughty naughty. Is it bravery or foolishness, speaking so plainly to a stranger about such a… political topic? Well, that rather depends on if she can back it up. He certainly hopes so. (He thinks, just maybe, she might.)
Truthfully, he has no personal quarrel with the King, his stance on the opposite side is purely because someone needs to put in a good word for the Davke. Regardless of who wins in the end (and Anatoly means to see that he wins), if the people come to hate and fear the whole of them as they hate and fear the King, no monarch present or future will allow them to live for long. Once, maybe, they could have survived a monarch’s ire, a people’s ire, but the previous Matriarch had ruined that in a fit of madness. No, Anatoly has learned his lesson: no Queen, no Matriarch, will allow their numbers to run themselves bloody against a wall of shields and swords and keep his loyalty. No, Anatoly cannot stand anywhere but opposite the current Khan while she promises such a future with her actions.
Still, he bows his head as though agreeing.
“Truly, Madame Fia, the pleasure is mutual.” He smiles again, courtly and charming and just a hint laughing. Part of him wants to mock – Oh, so we’re going by nicknames, are we? You must call me Ana. – but he thinks that might be pushing things a touch too far. Let her come to him, he must not chase her away with too much knowledge, with too forward a goad. This is all about building trust, building favour, and she is terribly good at playing this game. He doesn’t want to end things too soon, not when he’s spent far too long without such an interesting challenge.
As for her question? Well, the Davke were just one big dysfunctional family at the end of the day. “Just some distant relations making questionable decisions.” He shrugs. There really is no accounting in taste, and he can’t say he blames his fellows for rushing to the first Khan brave enough to take the mantle – he too has missed the comradery something fierce. “Family:” he sighs, put upon and grinning, “always trying to get the rest of us killed, you know?” Really, he was terribly fond of the nostalgia tinted memories full of skirmishes and raids alongside his fellows’.
Could it be that Queeny is still frightened by the very idea of who everyone presumed to be her killer? Hopefully not, for while wariness he might understand, fear is a useless barricade she really must overcome before the castle comes tumbling down on their heads. Crippling fear is something he will not allow in a leader, and as disappointing as it might be, if she is truly afraid he may need to set in place a more promising general for this little rebellion of hers.
Never mind that, figurehead or something greater he still needs her favour to get access to this whole business and some say in how it operates. (There needs to be a way for him to perform checks and balances, just in case he finds them charging head first off a cliff for the glory of it – and like hell he’ll settle for being a simple foot soldier in this crusade.) And at least she is a clever one, immediately sussing out the truth of his turn of phrase; she doesn’t seem to think for an instant that he might be talking about the weather like a common tourist unused to the constant sun and pressing heat.
Then, at her frank admittance of her true feelings, his grin widens a little further. Naughty naughty. Is it bravery or foolishness, speaking so plainly to a stranger about such a… political topic? Well, that rather depends on if she can back it up. He certainly hopes so. (He thinks, just maybe, she might.)
Truthfully, he has no personal quarrel with the King, his stance on the opposite side is purely because someone needs to put in a good word for the Davke. Regardless of who wins in the end (and Anatoly means to see that he wins), if the people come to hate and fear the whole of them as they hate and fear the King, no monarch present or future will allow them to live for long. Once, maybe, they could have survived a monarch’s ire, a people’s ire, but the previous Matriarch had ruined that in a fit of madness. No, Anatoly has learned his lesson: no Queen, no Matriarch, will allow their numbers to run themselves bloody against a wall of shields and swords and keep his loyalty. No, Anatoly cannot stand anywhere but opposite the current Khan while she promises such a future with her actions.
Still, he bows his head as though agreeing.
“Truly, Madame Fia, the pleasure is mutual.” He smiles again, courtly and charming and just a hint laughing. Part of him wants to mock – Oh, so we’re going by nicknames, are we? You must call me Ana. – but he thinks that might be pushing things a touch too far. Let her come to him, he must not chase her away with too much knowledge, with too forward a goad. This is all about building trust, building favour, and she is terribly good at playing this game. He doesn’t want to end things too soon, not when he’s spent far too long without such an interesting challenge.
As for her question? Well, the Davke were just one big dysfunctional family at the end of the day. “Just some distant relations making questionable decisions.” He shrugs. There really is no accounting in taste, and he can’t say he blames his fellows for rushing to the first Khan brave enough to take the mantle – he too has missed the comradery something fierce. “Family:” he sighs, put upon and grinning, “always trying to get the rest of us killed, you know?” Really, he was terribly fond of the nostalgia tinted memories full of skirmishes and raids alongside his fellows’.
