3/16/2025, 8:11 PM
Francis didn't often enjoy revealing his former role as Prince to many. Growing up in his family's gilded halls, surrounded by a pit of vipers, he'd learned quickly just how much his title changed how other people saw and treated him. He was a little stiff, his smile slightly brittle as he waited for Takala's reaction to the admission.
She joked, bumping her shoulder into his. She didn't seem interested in groveling or gathering stars in her eyes, and the nonchalance of her reaction put Francis back at ease. His smile spread from ear to ear, strides loosening once more.
It's just a title, one I didn't even do anything to earn.If he were back home, where his people were, that would be a different story. The rightful claim to his throne would be something he'd gladly shed blood over - out of revenge for Delythena, and out of a duty to free his people from the rule of a foreign, bloodthirsty usurper.
But in Mythris, he had no such duties, and had no way to change that. He just had to accept what he was - a wolf, with no titles and a ragtag group of allies he was trying to give the space and support to thrive.
Mountainous, cold, Takala said. Francis arched a brow, about to mention the mountains to the west, when she went on. Forward...? A laugh barked out of his chest, harmonizing with Takala's own for a brief moment.
Forgive me, Miss Takala. I am not sure I've ever been accused of being subtle before.Her family sounded...interesting - after all, they'd produced Takala and she was perfectly fascinating - but Francis, at the risk of confirming Takala's assessment, felt it was too forward to mention his interest in meeting them, should they ever make it to Mythris.
He wouldn't hope they were so displaced from their homes, their lives, to end up here...But he knew fate was fickle.
More like a deer, but shorter, squatter, and covered in white wool.He paused, realizing she might not know what wool was if they didn't have sheep.
It's...their pelts are-Ah, there.The Prince dropped his voice to a whisper, instinct urging his limps to lower his frame into a slight crouch as his keen gaze landed on the distant shape of his quarry.
Short, squat, blissfully unaware of its hunters as the sheep pawed at the snow to search for the dormant, mostly frozen grass beneath.