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