PRAVDA
the world has a place for you today
this war has adopted you
the world has a place for you today
this war has adopted you
The king did not send him. Those were Caine’s words. The king did not send him and everything Pravda had ever learned of kings was that monarchies were flawed. Too personal. Selfish. And the air, thick with tension he could identify but not understand, he wondered at that word. King. He had known Novus was a land of kings and queens and wondered to which king Caine referenced.
But Pravda did not ask. He was wise enough to recognise his place in this interaction; as a bystander, as unlucky as that may have been. After all, the palpable tension was one that not only tugged at his curiosity, but his sense of obligation. It was against Pravda's nature, to remain indifferent. If he were a more prideful man, Pravda would have been outraged at Caine’s dismissal and Seraphina’s protective disinterest—although her awkward smile stuck with him, and he was grateful for it. But Pravda knew what he was to them. He was a child and his body betrayed it; the nervous tremble of his limbs, the way his voice caught, sometimes, as he spoke. And even in the way that it betrayed his frustration in the welling of slight, barely perceptible tears. Angry tears, his body demanded, and he did not have enough control over it to reel them in.
But Pravda was not angry, because he was not prideful. And he was not angry, and he was not prideful, because he was not a child. In fact, his heart tinged with a bit of pity—I could help them. It was not a thought, or a contemplation. He could help them. He had sat on Trials of every imaginable transgression or disagreement. He was the arbitrator. He knew Justice more intimately than a lover; and more significantly, he knew disagreements.
I’d tell you, but I don’t want to involve you in Solterra’s affairs right now. Let’s say Caine and I hold two very different opinions of our king.
And Pravda could not help if he did not know the reason for the disagreement.
Now he knew the reason. He would have commented, first to express his gratefulness at her willingness to share at least that much—now he knew the identity of the king, and with it was a rush of rumours, the Blood King—but there was no more time to speak.
Caine was saying something, to which he cut off. Behind you! The black stallion lunged toward them, and Pravda flinched back—damn this young body!—in order to collide with a large, writhing cat. There was no yowl of pain to accompany the distinguished sound of a blade piercing flesh, a wet thud that made his stomach writhe.
Pravda knew enough of the primordial, the visceral, to know their backs had been to the beast. His nostrils flared with the dead bird’s blood and his mind flashed with how easily it could have been him, were it not for Caine’s interference. His first instinct was to thank the black stallion, and his second one was that now is not the time for that, you idiot. Pravda drew back, momentarily heeding Seraphina’s command. It was true. He was unarmed. But that did not mean he was incapable.
What had he learned as an arbitrator? A man could kill with anything. Slowly, so slowly, he reached out a telepathic hand—groping the ground nearby, searching, searching…
He ensured he remained behind Seraphina and Caine, but circled so the draconic, demonic jaguar remained in view. Yet, if he could guess at anything, it was that their partnership in combat would go about as well as their conversation thus far had. He cringed at the thought, but--there. It was not a glowing sword with a magic name, but it was something. Pravda had discovered a grouping of rocks on the jungle floor, and began to tug at them with his mundane telekinesis…
One of the stones removed itself from the rotting earth, roughly the size of a softball. Jagged at the edges. Perfect. He spiralled it in the air, testing the weight, and waited patiently for a break in the action. Then, with precision and force, he tossed the rock toward the largest target of the creature: its wings. He reached for another rock… circling, circling, eyes wide and watchful. His legs were shaking, although he tried to tell himself they were not. They trembled like a fawn’s and the fear was rampant in his blood.
Pravda, however, did not identify with the trembling. If anything, it frustrated him, and that frustration welled again at his eyes. Why did he feel such fear? The young stallion shook his head, and snorted, pawing at the earth. Perhaps the fear was not because of his mortality; but the idea that he could not help them. The creature were a mere distraction. Already, his mind was moving back toward the problem at hand—toward their sins.
“Near death experiences,” he quipped over the fray. “Are an excellent opportunity to make new resolutions and amendments. Perhaps you could reach an agreement over unsettled business?” It might of been funny, if his voice did not possess the dutiful purpose of a preacher at sermon. He cleared his throat, and fighting against his trembling, threw another rock toward the beast.
@Pravda "speaks"
