Unmovable. It is a word that truly suits the woman well; he is right to see her in such a light. Avdotya is wicked and hateful, she is proud and she is vindictive and there isn’t a soul alive who could ever change her - even Jahin, one of the last friends she thought she had in this world wasted his breath in trying to convince her to act not with vengeance but with malleability. Now he stands as regent to the Day Court capitol, no longer a Davke and a traitor in her eyes whether he thinks he is helping them or not. What will he say to his king when the caravans are raided for their goods, pillaged and left burning? What will he tell the people when bodies are found headless, taken by young Davke earning their place? What will the excuse be to ensure his people are not struck down from the desert for their ways. Orestes would be a fool to excuse such crimes, and he does not strike her as a fool.
Peace then, quite simply, cannot exist. No matter how much these men think it possible.
I imagine your spear does not lose its thirst for blood of any kind. She smiles, a half smile that masks the malice hiding behind it. The viper and her spear carry an intimate bond, one stronger than most others she’s shared in her lifetime. They have accompanied each other through many a situation; it is what she used to slay the grizzly she now wears upon her back, it’s seen battle with teryrs and sandwyrms, it helped her bathe the Court in ash and blood. Never is there a moment she spends without it strapped to her leg, always at the ready, always lusting for the hot flesh of another’s throat. Yes, it does not, indeed, Avdotya thinks.
As he continues, she draws a heavy and exasperated breath. Whatever change Orestes is planning will not alter who she is or who the Davke are. It will not reverse time and bring her sister back, nor her fallen brethren. She recalls that day in the canyon... the image of Makeda’s emaciated body - among a horde of others - blanketed by flies and rot forces her skin to crawl with a desperate rage. Someone needed to repay the debt left behind in her wake and she is adamant that there is no settling for anything less than death.
Yet even still, in spite of who she is and her utter lack of interest in bridging long-left gaps, he extends an olive branch. He reaches out with it and turns from her, leaving the offer of a position within his regime sitting heavily in the cold, winter air. She laughs in return. It is throaty, deep inside her chest but not at all excessive; it bubbles with black tar and she tips her head ever so slightly to the sky. This man is a different flavour of king, one Solterra hasn’t seen in some time...
... and she wonders how long he will last.
”Careful, Orestes, it is unwise to invite a wolf into the flock.”
Then she, too, peels away into the frosted pines. Her desert is calling.
@orestes cheers to a fab thread. <3
