A bell tolls somewhere in the distance and Avdotya pauses to listen. It is a familiar sound, one she has heard many times before - but today it does not ring with ominous purpose. Today it rings not with the promise of death or looming destruction, instead it births a new and fragile hope for a nation plagued by misfortune as its new king gains his crown. The viper frowns.
Begrudgingly, she follows that calling bell. She winds through barren alleys until the citadel is before her, and with it a crowd of citizens whose expressions are painted many a colour; some look on with joy and relief, while others remain skeptical of the speck of a man who stands before them. Orestes, he says is his name. Prince of the Sun, he claims, chosen by Solis. Avdotya cannot stifle the poisonous chuckle that falls from her cracked lips, the very sound of which clears the space around her when others realize who stands beside them. Many a man have deemed themselves chosen, and many a man have found themselves dead just as fast.
But perhaps Orestes, Prince of the Sun is different.
Perhaps he is not.
Regardless of what he is, he goes on to make his case to the people, speaking of fairness and servitude and other pieces of typical political blabber, then asks those who may think they are worthy enough to step forward. It is at this point that the woman turns to leave, only to stop suddenly when Jahin’s name - spoken by his own voice - echoes from the front of the crowd. Her ears fall back against the curve of her neck and she tilts her head just so, enough to better hear what the stallion has to say... but in truth, Avdotya does not care to know what else it is the man will say.
And now the Davke Khan lingers only to hear what will come of Jahin, but the smoldering look of condemnation in her fire-lit eyes is enough to illustrate what now brews within her. It is anger, burning disappointment and yet there remains a touch of curiosity in the back of her mind. What sort of mettle does Orestes bear, to take a rogue Davke under his wing when he knows not of the beast that awaits him should he slip so early on in his young tenor.
What will it be, chosen one?
Begrudgingly, she follows that calling bell. She winds through barren alleys until the citadel is before her, and with it a crowd of citizens whose expressions are painted many a colour; some look on with joy and relief, while others remain skeptical of the speck of a man who stands before them. Orestes, he says is his name. Prince of the Sun, he claims, chosen by Solis. Avdotya cannot stifle the poisonous chuckle that falls from her cracked lips, the very sound of which clears the space around her when others realize who stands beside them. Many a man have deemed themselves chosen, and many a man have found themselves dead just as fast.
But perhaps Orestes, Prince of the Sun is different.
Perhaps he is not.
Regardless of what he is, he goes on to make his case to the people, speaking of fairness and servitude and other pieces of typical political blabber, then asks those who may think they are worthy enough to step forward. It is at this point that the woman turns to leave, only to stop suddenly when Jahin’s name - spoken by his own voice - echoes from the front of the crowd. Her ears fall back against the curve of her neck and she tilts her head just so, enough to better hear what the stallion has to say... but in truth, Avdotya does not care to know what else it is the man will say.
And now the Davke Khan lingers only to hear what will come of Jahin, but the smoldering look of condemnation in her fire-lit eyes is enough to illustrate what now brews within her. It is anger, burning disappointment and yet there remains a touch of curiosity in the back of her mind. What sort of mettle does Orestes bear, to take a rogue Davke under his wing when he knows not of the beast that awaits him should he slip so early on in his young tenor.
What will it be, chosen one?
