Litotes;

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

Hyaline.

It is a scent he will not – cannot – forget. It’s etched into his memory, forever a part of him. Despite the multiple turns in life that brought him to the familiar hills and lake, Castile never made it truly a home. It began as a place of hope and prosperity, but it quickly soured him as it wreaked havoc on his life, again and again. Hyaline offered him nothing except despair. It helped break him down, but in turn, he was built stronger.

Funny how each of the lands Castile has lived in has helped mold him, no matter how long or short the time he spent.
It’s also funny how he comes around full circle and finds himself back in Loess. He was once its Alliance representative, once its soldier, once its Regent.

As often as he shunned the idea of settling here, Loess has been the only land to offer him anything substantial.

A quick replay of his life resurfaces when Hyaline’s scent scratches desperately at the inner lining of his nostrils. Instinctively, he bristles for a fleeting moment but softens as both his children and Solace come to mind. Although the source is neither of them, it still sets life to his curiosity. With the sun at his back, Castile closes the space between them, his mismatched eyes brimming with scrutiny as they rove across the male. ”Hyaline,” he notes aloud, suppressing all emotion tied to the familiar territory so that his voice remains rather flat. From what he has gathered, there aren’t friendly ties bounding the two. That means only one thing. ”A prisoner, hmmm…?” His voice throaty, a near growl, as the words roll against the lining of his throat – not unkind, but not amiable either.

With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, Castile glances away toward the rocky hills surrounding them before easing his focus back on the prisoner. ”How long, do you guess, until your home tries to desperately take you back? I know they aren’t keen to see you fulfill your full term.” A deep, analytical breath is pulled into his lungs. Every scent mingling with Litotes (whom remains a nameless face still to the draconic king) is thoroughly noted and dissected until a malevolent grin lopsidedly crawls across his lips. ”I imagine a lady at home misses you dearly.”

castile

[litotes]

Finally, he comes.

It has been weeks since Litotes was first captured. Too long of a time for the leader to show their face, and too short of a time for a change in leadership. The lion-man ponders the shifts as if he is God: nudging the rulers like the menial chess pieces they are. A meeting with Starsin is all he was offered, so how can he humanize the men? Sure, he attempted a steal, but they were declaring war on the whole of Beqanna. To take offense to his action seems utterly silly.

Yet, here he is - trapped and feline, ignoring the fear that he has spent too long as a lion.

Sharp cat senses take control when the smell of Castile blows lazily on the Loessian wind. Of course, the Primarch does not recognize him for who he is, but comes to an alert stand. The lion matches the dragon’s scrutiny with equal critique, golden eyes closing to cold slits. Quickly, he recognizes the others teeming aggression - how it quivers beneath his skin and echoes off Lie’s own repressed desires. He notices how the other holds himself, how he studies. The new king, then: Castile himself.

Hyaline.

The first word to hang between them - oddly fitting. Litotes cocks his head to the right and smiles the coyest of smiles. He questions him as a prisoner, giving the feline blank pause.

A beat - then, “A king who knows not of his prisoners?” The glittering smile remains.

Castile continues, perhaps using language that dares to beckon a rise from the predator. If so, the aggressor will be sorely disappointed: Lie remains as quiet and as thoughtful as ever, pantomiming one who needs to think for too long on an answer. Truly, though, he does not care to reply. His rage burns deep within, but he uses it when he hunts - and has a purpose here that will surely be complicated if violence comes to play.

“I don’t think they’re terribly desperate. The East is quite the strong suit.” The lion disregards the comment about Kensa, feeling it a jibe that requires no response.

“If you didn’t know I was here, then you certainly don’t know my name. Litotes, half of the Primarchs of Hyaline. And I presume you’re Castile, the new king?”

A growl builds in the back of Litotes’ throat, soft and pleasured, offering no threat. Let us play our word games, he thinks. Nothing I say will release me from my sentence.

---

@[Castile]

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

A single laugh, gravely, claws the soft edges of his throat when Litotes quips in return with an arrogant, feline expression. It nearly reminds him of Sochi, but of course she is far more beautiful and a figure that Castile is drawn to. ”I obviously knew you were a prisoner,” his brow rises in amusement beneath his tangle of forelock. His gaze is unyielding as he sternly watches while thoughts makes chase across his mind. ”You reek of imprisonment and restlessness.” His voice is frigid despite the flames that lick the lining of his gut, wanting release. They threaten to kiss his lips, to escape beyond his yawning mouth, but Castile suppresses it all in place of his amusement. Two hunters, face-to-face, and they mirror impassive expressions and testosterone-brimmed retorts. It’s a mild faceoff, but one in which Castile doesn’t allow his temper to rise.

”Oh yes, the strong East,” the words drip from his tongue, indiscernible as to whether he is honest or sarcastic. One of the Cove’s territories lies in silent ruins while the other is missing half the monarchy. Powerful, indeed, he muses as his eyes dart away to a nearby outcropping of rock where a snake basks in the sun and speaks to him. It has only been in recent months that Castile has opened his mind to decipher the rantings of nearby reptiles. They’re only slightly informative with their vague descriptions of their world. Alas, word has slowly crept west with news of a silent and pestilent Pangea. ”The longer I have you, the weaker they appear, no?” their pacifist views perhaps prohibit them from taking more aggressive measures to return home one of their own. Although Litotes – he just now offers his name and role in Hyaline – seems assured that the East won’t try acquiring him back, Castile is largely unconvinced. He doesn’t oppose the statement, however, as he tucks his own beliefs into the deeper corridors of his thoughts to where much is happening.

His thoughts are chasing one another, reeling endlessly as Castile sweeps his eyes across Loess’ familiar grounds before settling again on the Hyaline prisoner. ”My, my, such an esteemed guest,” he drawls as the sunlight covers his body like a blanket, incubating his naturally-hot body. A contemplative narrowing of his eyes appears almost as a shield from the bright sun, but when his eyes open wider they flicker from serpent to equine. He can nearly taste the primarch’s pulse and sashay to the steady rhythm of his heart. ”Tell me, Litotes. Do you plan to always be the Cove’s bitch?” He does not say their names – Solace and Kagerus – aloud, lessening their pull on the lion just for the time being. ”Aren’t you bored with being their pacifist pet and holding the peace? Doesn’t it get stagnant having no fun or chaos or plans? To always obey them and their personal motives, and to let them decide who and what you are?” Venom dribbles from his words into the feline’s ears, seeping into his thoughts, tainting them.

A pause develops for a few breaths until Castile’s brow furrows in conflict. ”Or are you not as independent and ambitious as I thought? I could easily be mistaken.”

castile