and horror in the halls of stone
The smooth texture of unmarred marble beneath his cloven hooves is both alien and familiar. An uncomfortable tightness builds in his chest as the walls of the palace close in around him. His muscles are taut with apprehension and he can’t seem to unclench his jaw. He’s never been one to enjoy the luxuries of indoor life (why does it always feel like he’s walking into a trap?) and that hasn’t changed any since he last spent time in the capitol under Seraphina’s reign.
Guards escort him on either side until they reach the entrance to the throne room. One enters to announce his arrival to Orestes, while the other remains posted in front of the door. The young guard doesn’t stare vacantly into nothingness like most trained guards do. Instead, the young guard ogles Jahin like he is some sort of carnival freak. Damn capitol fools. To be fair though, it’s probably not every day that a Davke warrior (one in sore need of a bath, at that) waltzes around in the palace.
“Have I sprouted another eye or appendage that I’m not aware of?” Jahin growls, flattening his ears. The young guard startles to attention with a stuttered apology and then does not meet his stony gaze again. Jahin snorts with amusement, satisfied with his handiwork. These capitol pups are too soft.
He thinks about pacing while waiting to be admitted into the throne room but that seems like an unnecessary waste of energy. So he stands motionless, trying to shrug off the uneasiness resulting from the four walls that surround him. He occupies his mind by agonizing over every choice that led up to these past few weeks (which in retrospect, ruminating on things he can’t change also seems like an unproductive way to spend his time and energy).
He doesn’t know what hurts worse--Makeda’s death or the loss of Avdotya’s respect. Both had been a dagger straight to the heart. He’d seen it in her eyes--his khan thought him weak. He’d like to say he hadn’t lost any sleep over it--that it didn’t matter what she thought of him--but that would be a lie and Jahin didn’t much care for liars.
But it does matter. She matters to him immensely. And her opinion? That matters more than anything. But maybe that in itself was true weakness, and in a way, an obscure form of slavery. So why doesn't he feel liberated? Why--of all the possible things he can feel at this point--does he simply feel like a massive, worthless pile of sandwyrm shit?
A question for another day.
The doors swing open silently. The outflow of cool air ruffles strands of fire-colored hair across his face. The older guard motions for him to approach. To his surprise Orestes is nowhere to be seen. Hurry up and wait. He cocks a hoof on its tip and resigns himself to more waiting.
The throne remains relatively unchanged since the last time he’d stood in these halls. Ornate, elegant, expensive-looking. A symbol of everything he has been raised to hate, everything the Davke detest, everything that is supposedly wrong with Solterra. But as he stands before this symbol of destruction and tyranny, his blood doesn’t boil, his teeth don’t grind. Overall, the experience is rather underwhelming. Jahin figures that the only reason it holds such sway is because people unwittingly give it power by making it out to be more than what it truly is in essence: a harmless, grossly ostentatious eyesore worth a pretty penny or two.
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
Guards escort him on either side until they reach the entrance to the throne room. One enters to announce his arrival to Orestes, while the other remains posted in front of the door. The young guard doesn’t stare vacantly into nothingness like most trained guards do. Instead, the young guard ogles Jahin like he is some sort of carnival freak. Damn capitol fools. To be fair though, it’s probably not every day that a Davke warrior (one in sore need of a bath, at that) waltzes around in the palace.
“Have I sprouted another eye or appendage that I’m not aware of?” Jahin growls, flattening his ears. The young guard startles to attention with a stuttered apology and then does not meet his stony gaze again. Jahin snorts with amusement, satisfied with his handiwork. These capitol pups are too soft.
He thinks about pacing while waiting to be admitted into the throne room but that seems like an unnecessary waste of energy. So he stands motionless, trying to shrug off the uneasiness resulting from the four walls that surround him. He occupies his mind by agonizing over every choice that led up to these past few weeks (which in retrospect, ruminating on things he can’t change also seems like an unproductive way to spend his time and energy).
He doesn’t know what hurts worse--Makeda’s death or the loss of Avdotya’s respect. Both had been a dagger straight to the heart. He’d seen it in her eyes--his khan thought him weak. He’d like to say he hadn’t lost any sleep over it--that it didn’t matter what she thought of him--but that would be a lie and Jahin didn’t much care for liars.
But it does matter. She matters to him immensely. And her opinion? That matters more than anything. But maybe that in itself was true weakness, and in a way, an obscure form of slavery. So why doesn't he feel liberated? Why--of all the possible things he can feel at this point--does he simply feel like a massive, worthless pile of sandwyrm shit?
A question for another day.
The doors swing open silently. The outflow of cool air ruffles strands of fire-colored hair across his face. The older guard motions for him to approach. To his surprise Orestes is nowhere to be seen. Hurry up and wait. He cocks a hoof on its tip and resigns himself to more waiting.
The throne remains relatively unchanged since the last time he’d stood in these halls. Ornate, elegant, expensive-looking. A symbol of everything he has been raised to hate, everything the Davke detest, everything that is supposedly wrong with Solterra. But as he stands before this symbol of destruction and tyranny, his blood doesn’t boil, his teeth don’t grind. Overall, the experience is rather underwhelming. Jahin figures that the only reason it holds such sway is because people unwittingly give it power by making it out to be more than what it truly is in essence: a harmless, grossly ostentatious eyesore worth a pretty penny or two.
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@Orestes
