[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

[Eik]

It is almost funny, how men follow their fathers. Even men like Eik, who strove to be everything but his father's son. There is something inescapable about blood, there is some hard-coded fate in the double helix. Too small to see, but if you feel for it, fumble in the dark like a preteen lover, you'll find it if you're lucky.

(and maybe
when you hear the river say your name,
it is just your blood babbling in your ears)

But even if you feel its presence you can't escape it, the strings of fate. The fork in the road is an illusion. All paths lead here.

These are the mottled thoughts that pass through his cavernous mind when he finds, to his surprise, a creature with bones painted on his face. Eik has been gathering stories of such a creature- a woman, they say, with silver coat and violet eyes and skull-like patterns on her face. This woman has popped up in various places in Novus' history, over a span of centuries-- identified by those violet eyes and distinctive markings.

He does not know what truth there are to the tales, and his attempts to find her have been for naught. The resemblance of the man before him is uncanny, and Eik settles his excitement with a stoic mask as he steps forward with a quiet nicker in greeting.

Suddenly, he doesn't know what to say. "Hello." He begins (lamely), tilting his head to peer at the violet-eyed stranger. The dusk streams through the canopy in long beams of light, emphasizing the stillness that surrounds them. The world holds its breath- or is that just Eik?

"You look like a woman I seek." He admits plainly. His face reveals little emotion, but the years have worn it down in such a way that his personality is painted in its lines. They show he is a tired man who has seen a lot in his time (but his scars could tell you that), and they show an honest man, a good man for all the shit he's been through. Good despite all the blood he's shed.

Not to say he's not going to hell.

Whether or not it occurs to him that his words could come across as a horrible insult if taken the wrong way. ("you look like a woman," smooth) he continues on, after a pause as he tries to figure out what it is he's trying to ask. "Did your mother give you those eyes?"

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

@Káin <33 sorry this is not my best! And sorry Eik has 0 manners.
some backstory- a while back Eik was looking for @Grainne who is immortal and he had heard about in various stories. Her eyes/coloring are similar to Kain's so that's what Eik's going on about.

[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

[Eik]

For all the things he's done and seen in his life, the blood spilled, the lives he wiped out of existence (mothers, fathers, children)... for all the sorrow, the anger, the angst, there has been so little fear. And he's certainly never been afraid of another man.

It is only, sometimes, himself he is afraid of.

(And did you forget already the fire? The smell of burning flesh? Isn't that really what twists your secret heart?)

So while he should be wary of this stranger, he is not. Perhaps it is his usual carelessness- what is it this man could take from him, that he has not already lost? His life? Or perhaps he is simply too exhausted to keep his walls up, especially this far from home. Certainly he forgets there are snakes in the forest, too. Anyway, he keeps his distance out of respect if not fear. He knows how sweet solitude can be, and how easily ruined.

But there is no upset in the other man's features as the quiet is intruded upon. Nothing, for a moment, other than violet calculations. Eik lets himself be looked at placidly, cocking his head at the foreign greeting. It is more familiar to his mother tongue than the language they speak in- but not familiar enough to understand.

He has a sudden ache for the language he was raised on, the sometimes rough, always poetic flow to it, the ancientness of it. In speaking it he felt rooted to his ancestors. Maybe this man before him is distant systrungr, cousin. Maybe he is a ghost.

But he will brood on that elsewhen. The other man's laugh is strangely pleasant to hear, although Eik does not return the cheeky smile.

'Why do you seek this woman?' He asks, to which Eik replies, simply, "I have questions for her." And his next question is followed by a burst of inexplicable laughter, to which the grey can do nothing but patiently await an explanation. When the explanation comes, his eyes widen in surprise, ears flicking back for a moment as though finding the joke unfunny. But Eik can hear the straightforward sincerity in the other man's voice, and he remembers his world is so much bigger now, and far odder than it was just a few years ago. Once he had never dreamed of seeing men fly- now he hardly looks twice when large, winged shadows pass above.

He accepts his ignorance of the world and relaxes again, nodding in response to the man's words.

"Son, grandson, great-grandson..." A silent shrug in the trailing off of his voice. "She could be twenty generations from you, or more." It doesn't matter anyway, if the man does not know the witch. "But you are not from here are you." A veiled look and a half smile. So this man is a red herring, but Eik is not the sort to only take interest in those who have value to him. He is intrigued by the man's story, by the offhanded way he tales such a fantastical story.

(He wonders who shattered reality, and when, and where all the other pieces are. The head lies in one place, the tail in the other, and Why can he only one fragment of the picture.)

"Where are you from, and why are you here?" It is not interrogative- in fact, it is asked with open-handed interest, as though he does not care if the question is ignored altogether. He has learned to temper his expectations, to beat them thinner and thinner until, held to the light at the right angle, it is as though they do not exist.

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

@Káin nothing to forgive! Kain is fascinating <3

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face Káin thought about the questions he must have for this woman, for a tale told to this dappled man, curious as to what you could ask a ghost on the lips of the community. Could one even ask such questions to something that does not exist? No, he thinks, that questions will go unanswered, unheard by the woman he seeks an audience with. To this, the Son has an answer. "A Szellem - your ghost - has no answers, lest she make herself known once again," he coos quietly, ominously. Beyond the dapple there are shadows dancing between the trees; perhaps the woman he seeks is lost somewhere among them. But Káin is no religious man, he does not believe in spirits, in a soul or a heaven or hell, he does not believe in anything beyond the emptiness of death. That is a reality he has come to face, he has learned and accepted it over his brief lifetime. He has seen it take many before, the disappearance of his own father was shrouded in rumour of Death (but he knew nothing of it). The man has only a subtle response to learning of the Son's origins. God's blood and faux love, the story of the powerful prince of a distant powerful nation. And now? He was a king among nobodies; he was an absolute something while the rest of them were just stains and smears in his life. He did not matter here, not yet, but that will all be in due time. For now, he is a man in the shadows, a distant figure gazing out over the lands new to him, foreign yet growing increasingly familiar. Eventually he may find comfort in seeing the looming trees and silence within the forest, the weather that he has yet to adjust to. But is that who he is? (No) Does he truly settle? Is he ever satisfied with what he has? (No) He wants more than the world can give them, more than it is capable of offering. He has inherited his greed from his father; Emyr too was driven by his desire for material things, for glory and a glistening gold throne. The woman, godly from the way the man describes the many generations she has come to outlive. Immortality - the Son concludes. He once dreamed of it, of shedding mortality and gifted with eternal youth, but a man can only rule and conquer for so long. In his lifetime he will rule, he will be prominent and powerful, he will be a brutally just king and his gilded kingdom will be blessed by deities of all faiths - but he will not live to see it through eternity. He will pass his power down, his sons and daughters will take the throne for him, will carry on this twisted family tradition. Immortality, no matter how appealing some may believe it to be, is a cruel mistress that is only meant for the truly detached and boundless. "No, I grew up far outside of these borders. I have only arrived within recent weeks." He turns a head to the setting sun as the low syllables slide, as he wonders about the distance he traveled before setting hoof in this land. The Son is a blessed thing to enter this country, he has granted it the privilege to taste his sweat against its earth, to feel the warmth of his skin surrounding its flora, to feel the weight of him standing over it. To see a half smile from his companion, Káin feels interest pique. So, this man was curious about his past? Although not an elegant weaver of grand tales, he could offer what he had. And so it goes. "I am from a land that must be almost a month's journey from here, Miskolc, a nation ruled by my father. I left once my father believed me ready, seeking to satisfy my curiosity of the world outside of our border. I could of happened anywhere, but it was here that I came, simply by chance." And he keeps it at that, short and sweet. A taste of what his past holds, savory and leaving some wanting more than what he offers. "And what of you? Where did you begin your story? What is your purpose here?" If he must share, he demands something for this knowledge; it comes at a price, knowing his history. -- @Eik basically just chose a random hungarian city to name káins home country after C':

[Eik]

Eik is greedy too, in his own way. He has no lust for glory or power or material goods- if anything he has an aversion to these things. But silence, open space, the smell of rain- there are moments when the curtain of reality billows and he glimpses what is on the other side,, moments when the beauty and synchronicity of the world are so astounding that he can do nothing but stand there in awed silence and hope that it lasts, this time, the warmth in his chest resounding like the first crack of the frozen river each spring. This is what he is greedy for- this sudden, half-mad sense of grace. The thing is, it never lasts. The breeze settles and the filth of the world comes back in focus and his scars, silver and black, burn white-hot with the ache and anger of his loss.

He does not speak of the secret desires of his heart, because if the gods are real they certainly are not on his side. At this thought he realizes perhaps they are the reason he has not yet found the ancient one... he shakes his head, forgetting his company until the other man speaks once more.

"A Szellem..." He repeats the word softly. And then smiles an odd, brief smile before continuing. "Well she isn't mine and I hope she is no ghost." The other man's attention drifts to the shadows growing long around them, and Eik studies him acutely, wonders what lies before him- and behind.

"Miskolc," he again repeats the foreign word- his tongue has always enjoyed speaking new words. "Prince of Miskolc..." If there is something laughing in his voice at that word, prince, something mocking even, it is not clear why. "Welcome to Novus. Are you staying with the Dawn Court, then?" That is, after all, whose forest they stand in. Eik wonders briefly if Ipomoea is here somewhere too, picking flowers or something. The thought brings a small smile to his face.

(Well we can't all be masochists)

The flow of the conversation leads back to him. He wonders, briefly, what it matters.

"I'm just-"

Running from my past, is what was about to spill forth. It is one of those truths that you don't recognize as truth until it blurts out of you. He pauses for a moment, a private, puzzled look on his face, before tucking the thought away for later. He backs up, to the beginning. He supposes he owes the man that much. As uncomfortable as it may make him.

"I come from a place with no name." They had not bothered to name the land, it was simply Home. Heima. It was all most of them ever knew. The few who left, never came back. And foreigners were not heard of. "I left when everyone else died... Not much else to say." His tongue heavy, he sways his head in a shrug-like gesture. The man can ask as many questions as he wants, demand them even.

Or at least try to.

Ah, but there was a third question wasn't there... At the thought of his purpose, Eik almost laughs. To not go insane, that's all he wanted here. But Solterra wrapped its dusty hands around his neck. It is everywhere now, the sand and sun. When he closes his eyes he sees red dunes where he once saw fire. One burden, traded for another.

(This grand show is eternal whispers the universe in his ear, half-laughing.)

"My purpose is survival. And... politics now. I am the emissary of Solterra." Eik's voice is smooth and steady, but he looks away sheepishly. He is still not used to the ways of this world, the hierarchy, the power of words and titles. He hated the endless war of his homeland, but at least it was familiar. "But most just know me as Eik."

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

@Káin sorry for the wait! Laptop issues + 50 hour work weeks, not very conducive to writing

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face "Regardless, I wish you luck in finding her." In truth, he was indifferent. If this man found his szellem, or if she perishes somewhere he cannot reach, leaving unanswered questions and unspoken truths. Whatever the case, it did not matter much to the Son.   A wicked grin creeps over his features, breast brimming with pride and satisfaction, ego inflating to hear the word prince slip from the mouth of a stranger. That's what he should be truly recognised as, and he would grow and learn and soon become a King. The brute tosses his head, disregarding the question of the dawn court. He was still learning of each court and its role in the world, he had managed to find himself in Solterra, warn torn and desperately piecing itself back together. The Dawn Court wasn't even a thought in his mind, not a single whisper of its existence prevalent to him. Does it matter to him either? No, he has no time for trivial, insignificant lands that won't provide him with the power he so eagerly seeks. His greed will lead him to them eventually, that he knows, but he has already sprung roots into the heart of Solterra. "No, I am not of the Dawn Court. I'm simply - looking at what I'm working with, at what this land can offer to me." It was reasonable to want to have a feel of the terrain, wasn't it? Violet flickers over the lips of the stallion, muscles quivering at the hesitation between his words (what is he hiding?). The eagerness to devour secrets, to have ears graced by hushed history and a knowledge many do not, that is what he desires. The Son wants to be trusted deeply, to be falsely entrusted with secrets of darkest desires, of unrequited adoration and fatal passion. What he Himself desired, a gilded throne, a weighted crown against his skull, True Power. But will his secrets ever spill carelessly from his lips, recklessly revealing the true nature and meaning of his existence? No, he is not that foolish. Letting the syllables linger, drawn out and teasing as he leans forward; a brow subtly rising, begging for the completion of a broken sentence. "You're just?" The Son stares, curious and questioning, hinting at an inquiry, at the pieces falling together to create the history of the stallion before him. He wants to know, always want to know. He can't stand not knowing, even if it isn't entirely his business to. It's a king's duty to know the business of his subjects, as his father had once told him. Káin had taken those words to heart, had listening intently to his father's long speeches as he detailed his own practices, the blood and manipulation, the seduction and eventual success. And with ears cocked the Son believed that he too could follow in the steps of his father, so sure that he will achieve royalty as he was intended. The grim reality of the man's past, unnamed and rotting, littered with corpses of loved ones and uncomfortable stillness; Káin feels sorrow shroud his breast at the mention of death. But such is life, he thinks, watching the shoulders of the dapple shrug as if that same thought had plagued his mind since the death of his home and he had finally succumbed to agreement. "Részvétem - my..." he stops, realising that he had never come to speak this word in the common tongue, hesitant to continue. "My sympathies?" he shakes his head, feeling that although that conveys a similar meaning, it isn't what he wants. "Whatever the case, I'm sorry to hear." Upon his introduction, Káin nods his head in a formal greeting. This man belonged to Solterra as well, and the Son, being so green in the ways of the land, almost forgot he belonged there too. Perhaps he could use this knowledge to gain insight into the happenings of Solterra, to understand better what its laws and customs were. Must Káin know them too, being the outsider that he is? Yes, for his name was now garnished in the golden sands of Solterra, though not deeply rooted yet, he had begun to sift his fingers through the dirt, burying his name into the sands. "Tell me of Solterra; I feel it appropriate to know about my new home, and who better to ask than the emissary himself." He hesitates, considers and weighs his options, before letting his name spill from his lips. It sounds almost foreign to him to say - he has not had to introduce himself in a long time. In Miskolc he was already well known and renowned, his name and reputation preceded him. But here, he is nothing to these people. For now. -- @Eik, sorry this is super late, ive been super busy!!!!!!

[Eik]

There is something like hunger. Do you see it there, in the shadows? There, it shows itself in quick, almost imperceptible flashes as that word is said. Prince. Eik feels an intuitive sharpening in response, a sudden awakeness in his body. The wolf takes a step forward in him, the mind takes a step back.

(slowly now, don't get carried away. Don't let them see the fire in you)

Best be alert with this one. As with all other newcomers. No one in Solterra should become trusted as quickly as Eik had been.

"I'm simply - looking at what I'm working with, at what this land can offer to me."

Eik looks past the man, to the long shadows of the forest around them. This place is so different from harsh, bright, brutal Solterra. He sees an abundance of life, a hundred microcosms. The pattern of life seems so blatantly obvious here- birth, life, death, and from the death of one thing rises the life of another. Where ancient trees have fallen, saplings battle to fill its place. Some do so by growing upwards as quickly as possible, others unfurl great greedy leaves to catch the sun. He supposes that he and his hungry friend are like the brawling saplings- so why does he feel instead like he is floating down a river, careless of everything except what might lie around the bend?

(have you mixed your metaphors enough?)

"What do you see?" He asks, curious what the other man makes of the forest... You can tell a lot about a person by how they regard trees. And he'd much rather talk about anything other than himself... But inevitably talk swings back to him, and the other man's curiosity strikes the ever-humble Eik as amusing.

The tale is woven, brief and bare- the only way he knows how to tell it. He simply nods his head dismissively in response to the stranger's condolences- he is surprised, though, at the sympathy of the stranger. He had not expected this sincerity... and in fact, it is not particularly welcome. Eik has never wanted sympathy. It's actually one of the things he's run from most of his life. Perhaps it is pride, which he foolishly thinks he left behind years ago. More likely it is guilt- whatever he's been made to suffer, he feels responsible for it all. He is headstrong, and his ruin is his own-

This is what he tells himself.

He notices that the stranger does not give his name. Eik will have to settle for calling him prince of Miskolc, until a shorter calling reveals itself. When the conversation rolls on to the great Solterra, Eik takes his time to gather his words. "Solterra is...." how perilous it can be, to speak. To shape one's opinion on things they do not know. Eik takes speech very seriously, as most other things.

"Violent. Beautiful. The court itself lies where the sun rises. Follow the coast South you'll find the canyon lands; mazes and cathedrals of sandstone." He takes a breath. It is rare for so many words to leave him; each one is given away with consideration. "The coast in the other direction, towards where we stand, is the Mors desert. Miles and miles of sand, as far as the eye can see. It is the most dangerous place in Novus that I know of." He considers what else there is to tell. Of course his first reaction had been to describe the landscape, not the people. He realizes now that is probably not what the man was after.

"The people there play a dangerous game." He shakes his head uncomprehendingly. By some small miracle he has been able to stay out of the worst of the political games, even in his humble rise to Emissary. "It is a court known for its warriors, but honor..." He almost sneers. All the stupid, stupid pride, the bloodshed, the inequality, it is almost enough to make a man like him sick. "everyone seems to have a different idea of what that means."

The quiet thickens, until he breaks it once more- "Is there anything else you wish to know?"

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

@Káin no worries <3