His time in the Chamber does not change him overmuch.
It takes him longer to return home than it might others, perhaps. His pace is slow and ungainly; he is exhausted by the time he passes easily and without thought through the icy hole in the wall. But he is just as grumpy and cantankerous as ever. If anything, he’s become more so thanks to his time in captivity. It is not hard to understand why – they’d practically passed him around like a cheap gift, threatening his life and livelihood. Well, that may be a bit over the top. His response about war and gore and death if he’d been harmed might have been too much, too. But it had worked, hadn’t it? Not a single hair on his balding head is missing. No new scars (apart from those he’d gained in the caves) mark him as a prize of the Chamber (though it might have hardened his soft, diplomat image, he wagers). All in all, it had turned out all right because he had assured it would. Crito never thought they’d kill him or sacrifice him to their tree – they’d have Errant and Scorch at their borders in hours if they had. But it was better to protest too loudly, just in case the idea crossed their charred, heathen minds.
He ambles slowly through the mushy snow, the cold of it like a balm to his aching joints. Fire seems to shoot up through them in a way it hasn’t before, as if he’s gotten worse in his time away. He doesn’t know that Errant is gone and the relief his body had felt in his presence is gone now, too. All the bay roan knows is that it is more of a struggle to reach the ruins than ever before.
Hurricane’s voice is carried over the spring winds. At first, Crito thinks it’s for the army, and therefore not his concern. Maybe I’ll find a cave and sleep for a week, he thinks to himself, grimacing as another piercing pain rattles his knees. But he hears something new in the grey man’s voice, something akin to urgency and uncertainty in a way he doesn’t think the pegasus has ever sounded. Puzzled and intrigued, despite his exhaustion, he keeps on towards the ancient ruins.
Crito’s old, stormy eyes take in the scene when he comes upon it. A small group has gathered around his Brother, taking up a respective stance around him. The once-Hand notices that his own blood-brother is absent, however, and his frown deepens. Hurricane’s words soon mirror his observation. Errant is gone? And his lady, Lea – he’s just brought her back in time for both of them to disappear? It doesn’t make sense, and for once, Crito doesn’t think it’s his fuzzy mind that’s to blame. Errant is a king above all and before all; he’d never let family matters overwhelm his responsibilities to his people. But as they always are, others are quick to grab at the mage’s still-warm crown in his absence. The roan is fine with Hurricane stepping in (at least until Errant returns) but this new ‘brother’ is a different story.
Fortunately, Hurricane gives the newcomers name. Crito isn’t sure he would have learned it if not, as readily as he assumes authority over them and delves into kingdom matters. Another new man (though he uses that term lightly, seeing the peeling and rotting flesh that haphazardly adorns him) seems to agree. He challenges this Tarnished, calling him out on his eagerness to take the helm. Being the only peacemaker surrounded by warriors for years on end has at least given the old man a sharper tongue. He appreciates this barb directed towards the yellow-eyed place-holder, but he doesn’t supply one of his own. “You have my confidence,” he says to Hurricane instead, sharing a glance with the only horse he really trusts among the gathered. “Thanks for trying to bail me out, by the way.” A short-lived grin rises and falls on his face. He looks back at the others, not knowing of his sister’s recent death. “The Amazons won’t be any trouble, unless Scorch has pissed someone off again. But perhaps you should share the details of the deal now – unless you plan on turning the Tundra into a dictatorship on your first day.”
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra