"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
I was looking for a breath of life another taste of divine rush
There’s a good reason why Shaytan never shows up to the kingdom meeting - it’s because she isn’t in the Chamber at the time. Driven (for a moment, at least), by the appearance of Gryffen and his captive, Shaytan has the urge to do something of the same. Something that will make Straia smile once again on her and maybe even reach out to stroke her again, with that velvety soft nose of hers.
Yes, yes. Just a little show to prove that she isn’t completely incompetent. (They know she is)
A little something to bring Straia’s magnetic eyes back to her own.
She doesn’t know her object of desire has found her own object of desire, which leaves Shaytan with nothing.
Nothing except a Tundra Man. The King’s Hand.
Which I guess is… something.
The spotted mare ambles back into the Chamber, taking a nonlinear path, as she is wont to do. Her lips are stained a dark brown, the remnants of a pit stop before the Tundra. How she pulled it off, Shaytan doesn’t even know. Somehow, the painfully awkward, do nothing but snap at her kid, gives nothing back to the Chamber, mare managed to steal someone important. A shit-eating, pleased grin is just plastered across her face - too wide and too something else to seem normal. She passes over the border, but stops soon after, waiting for Crito and perhaps even another Chamberling (because they are everywhere, and the birds know everything), who is bound to wander over towards them.
Him? Seriously? Who would want an old man with nearly one foot down in the grave? Oh, right. They might not want him necessarily, but they’d want a Hand. He follows a dozen or so paces behind the leopard mare who he assumes is gloating all the while. For his part, his scowl is so deep that it appears to break his face. He’s been doing a lot of scowling lately, he realizes. Ever since he took Errant up on his offer of more responsibility – the king’s hand, no less – he’s been bothered by more and more. He wonders if his face shows the extent of his storminess, wonders if the Chamberlings will think they’ve taken the grumpiest captive of all time. He’ll make sure they know his discomfort. Not that it will phase them, of course. He’s an old man long in the tooth and increasingly short in breath.
Seriously, how long does it take to get to this damn kingdom?
The bay roan has questioned Shaytan’s choice of route since they left the winter-frigid north. At times, it feels like they’ve even gone in circles, though that would be ridiculous. He thinks one of them must be delirious, and for once, he’s not certain it’s him. The woman had seemed a little not-right the moment he met her. Of course, it probably had something to do with her blood-stained lips and rather haunting face. She’s the stereotypical dark, which he might have been able to deal with – crazy is another matter entirely.
He follows her anyway, bound by the laws of the land.
The Chamber soon rises ahead of them, looking as spooky as he always imagined. Oh yeah, he thinks to himself, she definitely sprang from this hell-hole. It’s eerie but also beautiful in its own way. The pines wear the mist on them like a heavy shawl; the rocks decorate the ground in small groupings. Crito thinks it wouldn’t be an awful place to call home if the residents aren’t as crazy as his captor. It’s certainly chilly, a fact he can appreciate in his shaggy Tundra coat. He finds a silver lining, as painful as it is to admit: at least the Amazons are an ally and unable to steal him back.
Shaytan steps over the invisible border and stops. He supposes she is waiting for him. He has half a mind to make her wait a little longer, limp a bit more in order to stall. “Just a minute, don’t wait for me,” he grumbles under his breath. When he finally, finally makes it to her side, his storm grey eyes bore into her less-than-sane ones. The bay roan asks, though he’s somewhat afraid to: “what now?” His eyes dip down to study the splatter of crimson on her lips, wondering if it was equine or some other poor animal. He wonders, too, if his own blood will soon make an appearance there.
There is someone new in the Chamber, someone that doesn’t belong. He remembers Shaytan who had looked at his gift with hungry eyes. Now she stands with her shit eating grin, looking immensely pleased with herself. An old stallion stands by her side and his expression is far less happy. The Chamber ghost changes his direction, crimson gaze glowing brightly as he comes closer to them. Once upon a time, a very very long time ago, he had thought of following in his old man’s hoof prints and going to the Tundra. Pretty quickly, although the coldness had been appealing, he figured his unique skills and personality wouldn’t be much wanted there. The Chamber however had always embraced him fully, appreciative of the things he could for it.
”What’s this Shaytan?” He asks quietly, looking over Crito with vague interest. ”Is it my turn for a present?” Blood stains her lips and he wonders where she has been lately. In fact he wonders if she had been feasting on the remains of the girl that was currently rotting a few feet from here. The girl he had ordered Cellar to kill in the name of science. He ticks off a mental note to remind her not to eat that thing, probably wasn’t safe considering the corpse’s blood was infected with poison. The raven that Straia had given him to beat up Chezter still remains perched on his shoulder. When it sees Crito, it hops up the Chamber ghost’s crest till it’s standing between Gryffen’s ears. It’s head twists as beady eyes take in Crito and a loud kraa comes from it’s beak as if to inform the others, special delivery.
I was looking for a breath of life another taste of divine rush
Scowly Face. He has a name, but she likes Scowly Face. The old man was easier to steal than he thought he would be - maybe because he’s old, or maybe because it was just the biggest fluke ever. Shaytan can’t even - or doesn’t choose to - walk in a straight line back to the Chamber. You think she can reliably pull off another steal? That’s funny, she’s already a bunny blood addict, Chamber-queen fanatic. Not much more room in her brain for anything else besides satiating that Id. Scowly Face is a means to an end. A means to a beautiful, soft, arched neck and smart, calculating eyes.
She really likes Straia’s eyes.
Driven to see them again, Shaytan pauses to wait for her prisoner to catch up. Scowly Face walks slowly. It is irritating; she has an itch that needs to be scratched and he is making her wait. She glances back at his plodding figure and storm gray eyes, her own brown ones flashing as she matches his scowl. “Now you meet my Queen.”
But it is not her Queen that appears first, it is Gryffen, and he is not the one she wants to see. She turns her own scowly face to the white stallion and spits out, “He’s not for you, he’s for Straia. Her present.” Like he’s a thing to be traded and given freely, without consent or consideration. She cranes her neck to see around him, to see if her lady is coming. She will lead him deeper into the Chamber if she has to. She will search the whole Kingdom, with her gift on a leash, if she has to.
This one smells of ice, and he’s wrinkly. With the bunny killer and the ghost.
This is how the ravens alert Straia of the little group. Icy old man, bunny killer, and a ghost. Yes. Her life really is a bit odd. She’s probably one of the more normal ones that live here. She can smile politely (when it’s required only), she can play nice, she can flirt, can even be charming. She also dreams of destruction that isn’t, for once, the Chamber burning to the damn ground. But you know, that’s just part of being raised in a kingdom made of ash and ruin for far too long.
One day you are bound to want to inflict it elsewhere. Or maybe to avoid it altogether. But Straia didn’t pick that route.
For now, the Chamber simply ruffled feathers. The Chamberlings were amazingly active wandering around to the other kingdoms and scooping up a member here and there. Maybe failed attempts, but that was to be expected. She’s rather pleased with their successes though. And this one. Oh, how unhappy the Tundra will be. Poor boys.
She slips through the trees, the group coming into hearing distance and then not long after, Gryffen’s white coat appears. After that, the rest of the figures turn into horses, rather than blobs within the pine trees. Today, she has black raven wings tucked against her side. She’d been considering practicing with them, since it was a rather lovely summer day. Not too hot (though it was rarely hot in the Chamber), and not too cold. Ah, but her job is never done, and she never really does get to use just the wings. She’s much better at flying when she simply shifts to raven all together.
As usual, the crown of black raven feathers sits perched atop her head. “They are all my presents Gryffen,” she says with a chuckle, and a slight grin. To be fair, she had in fact brought him a present not all that long ago. She hadn’t intended it as such, but when the thought struck, it seemed so perfect. And indeed, it has seemed to work out well. She comes to stop by Shaytan, close though not touching (it seems rather inappropriate in this particular gathering). “And who have you brought me, Shaytan?” Of course Straia already knows, but she’ll give Shaytan the opportunity to brag.
A stallion the color of virgin snow is the first to find them. He looks very much the part of the white knight of decency, from his frosted coat to his gleaming smile. Crito might have relaxed (okay, it’s doubtful) if he hadn’t noticed the gleaming, demon eyes boring into him. Of course he has red eyes, the old man thinks to himself. Probably a mark of some next-level sacrifice shit. He hadn’t worried too much about Shaytan, despite the red froth decorating her lips, but this guy is a different story. He’s even got himself a dirty scavenger bird to complete the white-knight antithesis picture. It squawks at Crito loudly, in what he supposes is a murderous tone. He doesn’t speak bird, though. The thing could be warmly greeting him or sharing an escape route for all he knows.
The pale horse doesn’t give his name, and for this simple transgression, the bay roan’s more offended than anything so far. Having grown up in a world of politics and silver tongues, he can’t believe the omission by the Chamber denizen, if not for notoriety alone. If you’re going to be a killer, at least give your name. How else will the world remember you?
Instead of a name, he shares that he wants Crito for a present. Sure that he wants no part of whatever fun comes with that unwrapping (probably a literal unwrapping of flesh with these heathens) his scowl deepens. Shaytan counters that he belongs to the queen. The captive watches the back and forth between the two of them with growing apprehension, his face nearly breaking with its continuous downward motion. If he thought he could outrun them, he’d consider making a break for it now while they’re so distracted. His grey eyes flit to the raven then, wondering if he could even get by with a set of wings tracking him.
Before he can make a decision to escape now or at a later date, (or not at all, with his creaking bones still protesting their journey here) they are joined by a third Chamberling. This one is far more visually appealing than either of her cohorts. His frown evens out the slightest bit. Maybe she’s the voice of reason, he thinks, a dash of hope settling his stomach. But then he notices all the raven-related accessories she sports: wings, headpiece, and all. He holds out judgement at first. Perhaps Shaytan and ghost-boy were just fringe players in the Chamber. Perhaps they were kept around for the usefulness and forgiven for their craziness – maybe it’s all just a big misunderstanding. But then the paint mare with the crown of feathers calls him a present like the others had, and all sympathy goes out the window.
This must be Queen Bird-Bitch.
He’s not so foolhardy to say it out loud, but it’s certainly perched there on his thus far-quiet tongue. “Straia,” he names her, conjuring it up from the fear-space that his mind has made blank. And because he wants to take whatever moment Shaytan wants to have with her queen by naming him, he rushes to answer the queen’s question first. “She’s brought you Crito, King Errant’s right hand man of the Tundra.” The old stallion looks back at his captor, his lips raising into a small smirk of triumph. Crazy lady wasn’t going to get every victory she’d anticipated today.
The smile is quick-lived, however. The word “present” has too many nasty connotations when spoken from the lips of the once dark kingdom. What will they do to him? Torment him? Torture him? Kill him? Errant won’t let that happen, he thinks. Scorch won't let it happen, either, though he’s not sure of anything, really. He hopes the Tundra and Amazons will combine and come to his rescue if the need arises. He has little in the way of defense; he’s an ancient man who favored knowledge over power, and perhaps now, it will be his downfall. Grey eyes find Straia’s, trying to read into the paint mare’s own. “You’ll start a war,” he says quietly, not knowing if it’s true or not. Not really caring, either, if it means his skin will be spared. “You’ll start a war if you walk the fool’s road and take this too far.”
The ravens aren’t dirty. They are clever, cunning little creatures that just so happen to have figured out that no one will eat dead things. They had a plethora of food, rather than so many other starving creatures out there. Especially in the Chamber. There’s usually something dead not all that far off. She would not take kindly to his thoughts, if she could read them. Calling her birds dirty is a very good reason for her to go to war.
Straia doesn’t really need much in the way of reasons.
But neither Gryffen nor Shaytan are fringe players in the Chamber. They wear their crazy a bit more on their sleeve. But everyone in the Chamber is a little bit crazy. She just recently had a conversation with Kushinel about this very thing. It is a beautiful, uninhibited madness that lives in the Chamber. They do not require names to be polite. Truthfully, they do not care who you are unless you are useful. They are happy to watch the world burn.
Except the pine trees. Though eventually, Straia would even pay that price if needed.
The man, despite hailing from the Tundra supposedly full of strong, war-minded men, somewhat seems like he wants to pee himself. He tries to threaten, and she can’t help but grin at this point. “I had no intentions of hurting you at all,” she says, flicking her black and white tail. It is an old habit, one of the few that remains from her petulant child days. She has grown into mischievous Queen instead, but still, the two are not so very different. “But the promise of war is rather tantalizing. I’m not entirely sure why you think that’s a threat.”
She smiles at Shaytan, then looks over to Gryffen. “What do you think? Should we start a war over an old man?” She really doesn’t intend to do anything. He’s not enough of a reason to start a war, and if she were going to have the Chamber raid a kingdom, she’d rather set the terms. While she may have the advantage of the pine trees, of watching invading armies get lost trying to actually find the Chamberlings, it’s far more fun if they have some stake in the game. And she doesn’t know what the hell they’d actually do with an old man.
But it’s fun to amuse herself. And he’s making it so terribly easy.
