[AW] áldott herceg;

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face And so is the act of appearing— never once had he beckoned company, did not call for companionship or attention, but here it was before him. It took the form of a dappled man, ivory illuminated by the light spilling between branches, eyeing the blank features for anything that could give him away. What the herceg can see is the expectation for something he is not, the bitter taste of disappointment already smeared against his lips as he responds to the greeting. "Csókolom-" the rough syllables slide casually, cut short briefly by the realisation that he will not be answered, not in the way he wants. "Hello." Critical violet seeks some story beneath the worn dapple hide, something to pull from the scarring along the man's body, even in the way he holds himself. He gets nothing in his momentary search, coming up empty handed. Amethyst slides forward to greet hardened black, eyes so dark something gets lost within them, the light barely catching within the irises. The Son lets a corner of his lip slide, lets his signature smirk take its throne. Entertainment, he supposes. Upon the man's comment, there is a rumble of laughter from within his white streaked breast. No, he is no woman. He is a man, born of men, royal blood flooding his veins. He does not take it as an insult (in fact, a compliment perhaps, women's figures were deceptive). "Unfortunately for you I am no woman. I hope you aren't too disappointed," holding his tongue, he does not let the ending of that sentence escape him. Instead, he just lets a cheeky grin spread against his lips, sickeningly sweet and mischievous. Much like his father, he is charismatic, charming in that he knows just what to say and do to get his targets to sing for him. This man before him, he may not sing, but he will keep Káin entertained nonetheless. Curious, he lets loose an inquiry, wondering why the grey man sought a woman like the Son. "Why do you seek this woman?" Now there is laughter, abrupt and nearly childish in the way he lets it go. He shakes his head, thinking about a mother— "no. I have no mother. I was born from two men." He looks over the expression of his companion, seeking the confusion that so commonly occurs on the heels of this news. No one ever expects a child born of such unnatural circumstances, created from god's blood and unrequited passion, false security and affection. "My father has pink eyes. The other—" he stops to wonder, to recall from blurry childhood memories whether or not the King had blue eyes or golden, whether his irises reflected the sun on a summer's day or the sky after rain. "I do not remember." But he remembers the vivid nature of his father, of Emyr with rose quartz gazing over him, nurturing and honey sweet to a young herceg. The Son remembers only him, not the other half responsible for his creation, the one who truly wanted to share parenthood and love with a cold-hearted man. He recalls the utter devotion, the praise and rewards for even the simplest actions. He was the cherished son, the áldott herceg. He focuses back on the man, then beyond him, to the trees and dark forest lying before them. Distantly, he speaks in a low tone with a subtle accent he can't hide, curious to hear the answer. "Did you expect me to be the son of your woman?" - @Eik still getting back into the routine of writing C': forgive me