[AW] áldott herceg;

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face An unexpected presence, lingering at the edge of the forest. Unfamiliar, looming and ominous— there was something off about the aura, about the look he gave to the earth beneath his hooves. Dirt, compact and stemming with spring life, weeds and blooming flowers reaching for his cream hooves as if begging for his attention. Mercilessly, silently, he crushes the life beneath him, flattens the flora into the earth and spits at it, as if offended by it. "Áldott fiam, menj el, ahogy tetszik. Nézd meg a világot a szemeddel, fedezze fel, mi fekszik e falakon túl. Visszatérés, ha elégedett az eredményekkel." That is what his father had said to him, Fiú Király, the silver tongued ruler of his homeland. He idolized his father and everything the man did, the twisted manipulation of the hearts and loyalties of his subjects and allies - a man of true power. The son has looked to him for everything, has dreamed of taking a seat beside him, of taking his throne and ruling righteously over his homeland. As a child he dreamed of dragons, of hellfire and the silver spit of his beloved sire. He dreamed of sweetened blood, of wicked trances and wielding power the way his father did, silent but terrifying. (the sugar sweet, honey thick drop of bleeding red, resting on his tongue and letting him fade into the unconscious). To harness that power, he could only dream. He passes the trampled flowers, past the trees growing their green leaves and the chirping birds that sing of a joyous spring. He shrugs the cold winter off his shoulders, the iron grip of cold ice over his heart the only thing to remain— he was a son of the winter, born in the winter months, comfortable in the dead silence of darkened days and frigid nights. To be here, with spring in full swing and the days growing longer, he feels something akin to annoyance bubbling beneath the surface. He expects that activity will bloom in tandem with the season, anticipating to be approached, to be noticed or questioned. Strangers are never able to slip seamlessly into societies, into cultures and countries; they were alien, visitors from distant fantasies, from dreamlands and spoken word. They carried with them stories and history incomprehensible to some, experiences and existences that were beyond the borders they were in. And that was him, Káin, áldott fiam; a presence brought into these borders for a reason he cannot place, but knowing that here there was something for him. He treads through the forest, weaving through the tall and oddly familiar pines, crooked face a ghastly sight in the dark of dusk, catching flares of golden light between the branches of trees. He haunts this forest, ghosting through the unfamiliar realm, mapping out the location with keen observance. He waits in this stillness and silence, letting idle minutes pass him by. -- i'm super rusty forgive me C': and basically the big long hungarian sentence is his father telling him to go see the world for himself, but come back when he's satisfied with what he's seen