#afallenprophet

  Hiss. Uses his staff to push his fingers away.

        send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse complimenting them

The corners of her mouth twitch behind her helmet.

       “Laksiris, HouseWinter… Ba—”

He doesn’t even finish the word before she interjects curtlyand through her teeth, lips pulling back slightly in a scowl.

    ”Kell.” Her voice is lowered, aggravation lingering along theedges dangerously. What seems to be a tinge of amusement flickers in the oldWolf’s eyes, much to her displeasure.

      ”Kell… Of House of Winter. Yes. Forgive me.”

Things have been terse. Draksis dead. Aksor dead the secondthe pod entered.. and the previous Archons of their house gone.. with the Prime.Considering the struggle they’re currently going through, it’s no wonder nobody’sreally heard of her beyond being a baroness.

It feels as if he – Skolas – had swooped in before she couldeven settle herself, proclaiminghimself Kell of Kells and rallying those who had not fallen underneath her winginto his own house, at least temporarily. He’s charismatic, she’ll give himthat, but she refuses to be so starry eyed like the rest of those naïve dregs.

    “Kell,” Laksiris hisses, eyes narrowing, “of the house you’ve stolen from.”

Skolas leans backwards, betraying no hint of emotion in hisresponse.

        “I’ve stolen nothing.They come of their own free will.”

    “They are mine.” Her fingers curl into fists;she could dock them all right now ifshe were able..

    “Please, Winter Kell,”the proclaimed prophet begins again, leaning in; his voice carries a pleasantundertone, but she knows he’s tryingto manipulate her, “This is all temporary.We work towards a common goal, don’t we?”

    He takes a single step closer, and she stiffens, armsfolding defiantly across her chest. Both sets. Unconvinced, but the posture ofthis ‘Kell of Kells’ is strong as his determined expression. 

     “Why should you be condemned to struggle andhide amongst the shadows to survive? To live? Why can you not step foot insideyour own ketch without being slain by these un-people?”

Her expression relaxes, though just barely, head canting androlling for her eyes to follow the man who circles her now, posture so infuriatingly relaxed, and yet…

    “We work towards acommon goal now, us Wolves and you Winter. Of whom slain your Kell in his ownthrone-room? Who were they, the walking dead, these ghouls—Who were they sentby?” Skolas stops, then, leaning in just far enough for his voice to lowersome, as if to drive the nail into his point. “The Queen. The Queen and her army of mendacious enslavers. She whocondemns your House to die before you prosper, to kill you while you fightanother war with the living metal.”

Skolas extends a hand to her. His voice is alluring, full ofpromises she wants to tell herself are false.

   “Join me, o head of HouseWinter, join me, bolster our forces and show them what to be a scourge reallymeans.”

The smaller Kell’s eyes focus on his hand for a moment, herown lifting before freezing and just about drawing back before she muttersquietly;

   “You,” shegrunts, “talk far too much for your owngood.”

His eyes squint amusedly, his back straightening out some asshe lowers her hand. Clearly he’s been told the very same thing before.

   “It varies on theworth of the subject.”

…