and horror in the halls of stone
Jahin isn’t entirely sure what to do with his time off. He can’t say he has a grasp on the job yet. So really, he should be studying up on court etiquette or learning the finer intricacies of writing and reading. Unfortunately, most of these subjects have proven elusive, frustrating, and have yielded little result thus far. It’s after one such particular session that Jahin practically snapped his study desk in half in frustration, shouted at his gray-haired teacher, and stormed from the infuriatingly windowless room to the streets below.
It’s not his proudest moment to be sure, but the thought of spending one more moment in that suffocating palace room with that stuffy old badger is practically begging Jahin to bash someone's head in. While Jahin has been accustomed to unbearable circumstances in the past, he would honestly rather spend time chained in the dungeon rather than listening to that old stiff rambling on and on about the finer points of Solterran tragic literature about a sad love storying involving a helpless damsel named Sally and a boring Joe that no one actually gives a heap of sandwyrm dung about.
He wanders the streets, shoulders tense with frustration and jaw aching from clenching his grinding teeth together. No one could have warned him of the infinite loneliness he would endure in the Captiol away from his people, despite the vast population humming busily within the city walls. There is not a day that goes by that he does not question the soundness of his reasoning and his argument that ultimately condemned him in the eyes of his Khan. He’d like to attribute such insubordinate actions to grief and the loss of Makeda but he knows deep down that would be a lie. It has always been something he’s felt to some vague degree and successfully suppressed. Until now.
Uncharacteristically, he wanders into a bar. The simple, unadorned bar is nothing special or outstanding; it’s certainly not like the upper terrace clubs that serve expensive cocktails to elegant looking folk adorned with glittering jewels and luxurious clothing.
Instead, the pub is small and dusty but surprisingly beautiful in its homely simplicity. The afternoon light floods through the doorless entryway, illuminating the masterfully painted panels depicting the fall of Zolin behind liquor bottles shining like golden sea glass.
“I’ll reap what I’ve sown,” he says to the bartender, in a tired, defeated sort of voice. The bartender is obviously no stranger to such dramatic lamentations; he nods briefly and slides a shot gloss overflowing with amber liquid his way. Jahin glances to his side, noting that the bartender hadn’t bothered to switch bottles before pouring his own drink. He downs the glass without thinking, without feeling, despite the fact that he has always vehemently abhorred drinking. Today, he would like to forget that he is Jahin of the Davke and Jahin the Regent of Solterra.
He would like to pretend he is no one, just as any stranger can be. And today, his neighbor is a golden stranger downing another shot. Jahin would like to pretend that he, too, has nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than drink expensive whiskey. “Me too,” he utters hoarsely after his first shot, sliding his empty glass back towards the bartend, along with a few glittering coins. “And a third for my friend.” Of course, Jahin doesn’t have any friends in the Capitol but it is certainly nice to pretend when alone in a bar and about to get drunk.
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
It’s not his proudest moment to be sure, but the thought of spending one more moment in that suffocating palace room with that stuffy old badger is practically begging Jahin to bash someone's head in. While Jahin has been accustomed to unbearable circumstances in the past, he would honestly rather spend time chained in the dungeon rather than listening to that old stiff rambling on and on about the finer points of Solterran tragic literature about a sad love storying involving a helpless damsel named Sally and a boring Joe that no one actually gives a heap of sandwyrm dung about.
He wanders the streets, shoulders tense with frustration and jaw aching from clenching his grinding teeth together. No one could have warned him of the infinite loneliness he would endure in the Captiol away from his people, despite the vast population humming busily within the city walls. There is not a day that goes by that he does not question the soundness of his reasoning and his argument that ultimately condemned him in the eyes of his Khan. He’d like to attribute such insubordinate actions to grief and the loss of Makeda but he knows deep down that would be a lie. It has always been something he’s felt to some vague degree and successfully suppressed. Until now.
Uncharacteristically, he wanders into a bar. The simple, unadorned bar is nothing special or outstanding; it’s certainly not like the upper terrace clubs that serve expensive cocktails to elegant looking folk adorned with glittering jewels and luxurious clothing.
Instead, the pub is small and dusty but surprisingly beautiful in its homely simplicity. The afternoon light floods through the doorless entryway, illuminating the masterfully painted panels depicting the fall of Zolin behind liquor bottles shining like golden sea glass.
“I’ll reap what I’ve sown,” he says to the bartender, in a tired, defeated sort of voice. The bartender is obviously no stranger to such dramatic lamentations; he nods briefly and slides a shot gloss overflowing with amber liquid his way. Jahin glances to his side, noting that the bartender hadn’t bothered to switch bottles before pouring his own drink. He downs the glass without thinking, without feeling, despite the fact that he has always vehemently abhorred drinking. Today, he would like to forget that he is Jahin of the Davke and Jahin the Regent of Solterra.
He would like to pretend he is no one, just as any stranger can be. And today, his neighbor is a golden stranger downing another shot. Jahin would like to pretend that he, too, has nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than drink expensive whiskey. “Me too,” he utters hoarsely after his first shot, sliding his empty glass back towards the bartend, along with a few glittering coins. “And a third for my friend.” Of course, Jahin doesn’t have any friends in the Capitol but it is certainly nice to pretend when alone in a bar and about to get drunk.
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
