[AW] A Heated Tide

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face The son is on the move. He had traversed the desert swiftly, carried on his own burning curiosity. Since his arrival, he only knows that he belongs to Solterra, that their lands are his temporary home. He has spent several days away, has journeyed outside of Solterra's borders, curious more about the country he has stumbled upon rather than the desert home to which he belonged. The sun had burned against his exposed back; blazing black journeying through red sands. He did not tire through the journey, taking his time, pacing himself for the distance. As he approaches the worn stone wall, stacked high with brick and history, it hits him. It's the smell of death, of blood and war; it's carried to him on the wind, a stench that makes him crinkle his nose, disgusted at the presentation of his future home. How dismaying. Slowly, cautiously, he approaches the crumbling walls, making out the details of scorch marks, of blood ingrained into the sand at the door. The air of tragedy and fury stings his skin, of great loss and recovery. The details are quick to be picked up, the sight of war was not unfamiliar to him. His father had lent aid to a war nearby, and it had been he who led those troops forward into the battle. Passing the gates, everything is stronger. The smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air, hanging above his crown as if to haunt him. Ears flick back, violet focusing on what lies ahead. The further into the keep he gets, the more damage can be seen. From chipping in the stone walls to stains deep in the strewn sand beneath his hooves, signs of struggle. He can smell the lingering ash, settled in a fine layer along the surface of the courtyard he approaches. In the eerie silence, there are two voices cutting through, piquing interest in the hold. Stepping confidently, princely elegance and pride, he comes upon two figures. A dark, towering stallion stands near a smaller bay woman; silver eyed and her presence doting. The man was shrouded by his own wings, midnight and massive, he seemed to settle into the feathering well, holding an air of neutrality. And there was the áldott herceg. It had been a long time since he spoke the common tongue, since he had let anything but his Father's tongue roll from his lips. The foreign words were pulled together, jumbled and unfamiliar to him, mashed haphazardly into a sentence he doubted. Crown head raised, feigning confidence in his sentence, a subtle accent slides from his tongue. "What a curious place to take - asylum, hm?" The word struggles to leave his mouth, menedék is what he wants to say; filling in the space of an unknown word with words he knows. He casts a curious look to the woman, intrigued by her choice to seek refuge in a place war torn and desolate, with it's foul heat burning against their dark skin. The sweat beads beneath his mane, along his back and drips down to his belly; he feels like egy disznó. This will not do for him. -- @Vanora @Caine dont mind me jumpin in with my poor writing