From the few that knew him, or the most that knew of him, the general consensus when asked to describe the Head of House Hajakha was this: here is a man who is utterly unable to be summed up in the course of a few words. Unable to be summed up, period.
It was the same reason why no respectable king carried less than three official titles. Great (in the magnitude of their deeds; their temperament was another topic entirely) men were always a great many things, and to attempt to pare them down to one-word-titles was an attempt to sully their very legacies.
Senna—and he was quite aware of this—was a man more myth than flesh. Tales of his political maneuverings and outright scandalous marriage to Princess Zofia had swept the Solterran court off their disgruntled feet for years, accounts of his actions—painted black and hideous or red and heroic—spreading farther across the fractured kingdom than his own four hooves would ever take him.
Attempts to title Senna had been made, however, and they went something like this: half-breed prince. Sand snake. Ruthless tactician. Bloodsucker. A living embodiment of cold-hearted ambition.
They were noble attempts; he couldn’t have done much better himself. And yet —
Never had these descriptions pegged him as the pious man he was. All of Scarab, especially the princes, had been. The biggest shock to him when he'd arrived in far-away Solterra, was seeing how unpious this desert kingdom was. They did not pray, or at least not to a strict schedule, and they did not sacrifice. He'd barely seen any shrines to Solis, or to the three other gods, anywhere except the pitiable altar and near-crumbling statues on Veneror.
Over time, as all feelings do, the shock had ebbed. His devoutness had faded in the face of tragedy, and he'd never since had the heart to rekindle it.
Knowing this about Senna, then, makes it much more understandable as to why he found Marisol's greeting such a phenomenon. How utterly casually she invoked the hand of her goddess, he thought. How utterly devout she immediately made herself out to be. It was not a display Senna saw with any regularity, and his crimson eyes darkened with intrigue as he dipped his head to her in courteous acknowledgment.
It was to be this small occurrence, the Halcyon commander's unexpected greeting, that would stay with Senna long after the chapter between them closed.
His gold-plated collar glinted weakly under the fading dusk. Marisol's gray eyes (so similar to what Sol’s used to be) gleamed in what Senna discerned to be anticipation when she inquired after his arrival. She'd recognized him from a glance, and therefore, if his famed reputation did him any favors, she knew he wasn't the sort to journey all the way to Terrastella to sightsee.
He passed his gaze roughly over the two cadets flanking her, found their discipline impressive, and, after a beat of consideration, gestured for Kite to take out the book.
“You are looking for something, Commander.” The spine of the aged journal groaned in protest when Kite smoothed it open to a marked page and angled the book towards Marisol. Under the light the thin paper was almost translucent, yet the illustration had been done in bold charcoal strokes and seemed to leap off the page. Prudence, glorious even in her echo.
“And soon enough there will be hunters and common thieves turning up at your doorstep searching for it.” He watched her carefully, though to her credit her expression was schooled in trained neutrality. It was always difficult with the military types. Bureaucrats turned over squealing with the lightest pressure applied on their tender spots, but for those like Marisol—discipline ingrained into their marrow, honor worn like a medallion around their necks—manipulation was a foolish route to take. She had to trust him. It was a delicate balance.
“Prudence is rumored to be so great a treasure,” he continued, thoughtfully, “it has attracted even the likes of me. But make no mistake. I am not here to be a threat.” All around them the citizens of Terrastella milled about like drowsy ants, either returning home or sneaking from it, but Senna did not miss the inquisitive ears turned slyly towards them. Neither, he thought, would Marisol.
His arrival was no doubt becoming the evening's freshest piece of gossip. It had been his intention. News of the Halcyon’s desperate hunt was, as he'd insinuated, well-known now by the public, and he wouldn't attempt to keep his involvement hushed. Senna had discovered early on in his career that secrets had a nasty habit of attracting the fattest, hungriest flies.
“I would like to propose a deal.” His voice, deep and accented with the Solterran clip, drew to an expectant halt. He blinked slowly, the glow of his horn washing Marisol’s fine, if solemn, features in an ominous shade of crimson. Nestor’s presence crept into his awareness like slow-descending fog. She was somewhere above him, circling silently in the dark velvet sky. Always watching.
Her wings are a pretty color, the falcon commented blithely.
Yes, Senna mused back, dropping his eyes momentarily to the commander’s white spotted wings. A faint smile crossed his lips. I've never seen anything like them.
It was the same reason why no respectable king carried less than three official titles. Great (in the magnitude of their deeds; their temperament was another topic entirely) men were always a great many things, and to attempt to pare them down to one-word-titles was an attempt to sully their very legacies.
Senna—and he was quite aware of this—was a man more myth than flesh. Tales of his political maneuverings and outright scandalous marriage to Princess Zofia had swept the Solterran court off their disgruntled feet for years, accounts of his actions—painted black and hideous or red and heroic—spreading farther across the fractured kingdom than his own four hooves would ever take him.
Attempts to title Senna had been made, however, and they went something like this: half-breed prince. Sand snake. Ruthless tactician. Bloodsucker. A living embodiment of cold-hearted ambition.
They were noble attempts; he couldn’t have done much better himself. And yet —
Never had these descriptions pegged him as the pious man he was. All of Scarab, especially the princes, had been. The biggest shock to him when he'd arrived in far-away Solterra, was seeing how unpious this desert kingdom was. They did not pray, or at least not to a strict schedule, and they did not sacrifice. He'd barely seen any shrines to Solis, or to the three other gods, anywhere except the pitiable altar and near-crumbling statues on Veneror.
Over time, as all feelings do, the shock had ebbed. His devoutness had faded in the face of tragedy, and he'd never since had the heart to rekindle it.
Knowing this about Senna, then, makes it much more understandable as to why he found Marisol's greeting such a phenomenon. How utterly casually she invoked the hand of her goddess, he thought. How utterly devout she immediately made herself out to be. It was not a display Senna saw with any regularity, and his crimson eyes darkened with intrigue as he dipped his head to her in courteous acknowledgment.
It was to be this small occurrence, the Halcyon commander's unexpected greeting, that would stay with Senna long after the chapter between them closed.
His gold-plated collar glinted weakly under the fading dusk. Marisol's gray eyes (so similar to what Sol’s used to be) gleamed in what Senna discerned to be anticipation when she inquired after his arrival. She'd recognized him from a glance, and therefore, if his famed reputation did him any favors, she knew he wasn't the sort to journey all the way to Terrastella to sightsee.
He passed his gaze roughly over the two cadets flanking her, found their discipline impressive, and, after a beat of consideration, gestured for Kite to take out the book.
“You are looking for something, Commander.” The spine of the aged journal groaned in protest when Kite smoothed it open to a marked page and angled the book towards Marisol. Under the light the thin paper was almost translucent, yet the illustration had been done in bold charcoal strokes and seemed to leap off the page. Prudence, glorious even in her echo.
“And soon enough there will be hunters and common thieves turning up at your doorstep searching for it.” He watched her carefully, though to her credit her expression was schooled in trained neutrality. It was always difficult with the military types. Bureaucrats turned over squealing with the lightest pressure applied on their tender spots, but for those like Marisol—discipline ingrained into their marrow, honor worn like a medallion around their necks—manipulation was a foolish route to take. She had to trust him. It was a delicate balance.
“Prudence is rumored to be so great a treasure,” he continued, thoughtfully, “it has attracted even the likes of me. But make no mistake. I am not here to be a threat.” All around them the citizens of Terrastella milled about like drowsy ants, either returning home or sneaking from it, but Senna did not miss the inquisitive ears turned slyly towards them. Neither, he thought, would Marisol.
His arrival was no doubt becoming the evening's freshest piece of gossip. It had been his intention. News of the Halcyon’s desperate hunt was, as he'd insinuated, well-known now by the public, and he wouldn't attempt to keep his involvement hushed. Senna had discovered early on in his career that secrets had a nasty habit of attracting the fattest, hungriest flies.
“I would like to propose a deal.” His voice, deep and accented with the Solterran clip, drew to an expectant halt. He blinked slowly, the glow of his horn washing Marisol’s fine, if solemn, features in an ominous shade of crimson. Nestor’s presence crept into his awareness like slow-descending fog. She was somewhere above him, circling silently in the dark velvet sky. Always watching.
Her wings are a pretty color, the falcon commented blithely.
Yes, Senna mused back, dropping his eyes momentarily to the commander’s white spotted wings. A faint smile crossed his lips. I've never seen anything like them.
@Marisol | "senna" nestor | notes: eee
