Stolen.
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.
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra