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Jan. 24th, 2022 12:59 am[ Lucky wasn't exactly the word Janryk would have used to describe himself, if you asked.
He had ascended to the throne at fourteen by no choice of his own, an unfortunate witness to his parents' poisonings and a lucky picky eater who had escaped it; by some stroke of the universe all coming together in a plan to fuck over him, specifically, he had narrowly edged away from a more direct attempt on his own life. The attack was clumsy, Janryk was smaller and flightier in person than they had predicted, more well-protected. The evidence of it now was an angry red scar on his throat where they had managed to plunge in the knife, and he swore he still woke up in the dark tasting copper.
The unrest had grown, a whisper at first that had built into a roar, since he had stepped into a crown too big for him. The truth of it was that Janryk was a poor leader, but children often are, and to expect anything else was ludicrous; the choices he made were never particularly egregious, but he was both reactionary and weak - he had never ordered an execution nor had he started any wars, but his attempt to diplomatically end one had instead made his rule look exactly as fragile as it was, and they had lost several miles of border territory to contest as the northern border was pushed inward. He had failed to finish a war that was started before he had even been a thought in his parents' minds, but people are people, and they were done with giving him chances: he had burned through all of them before he existed.
And so it's just the two of them, now. Holed up somewhere secret, because they rode until the horses tired and Janryk didn't even... complain, which was rare, since he complains about everything. Picky, petty. Pretty, too - brown, freckled skin, yellow-gold eyes and waves of dark hair with sunny highlights from living on the Southern sea, but with a face pulled into sharp features that screamed leave me alone.
It's just the two of them, and fundamentally Janryk is just an exhausted, grieving, frightened boy who has just lost everything familiar to him, but it doesn't mean it's okay that he slips out the door of their little hideout in the dark. All the grief in the world doesn't mean that he can just slink off, and he doesn't go far, no - just a walk, just to clear his head because he wakes up clawing at the pillows and his mouth open in a silent scream - but the fact is that he could end up dead. He has a cloak draped loosely over his shoulders - it doesn't belong to him - and his head down, standing some hundred yards away and standing, barefoot, on the rocks of a little creek. For all he knows they could have been followed.
There could be bowmen in trees, a rogue in any nearby shadow, a capture party out for the bounty on his head, and here he is: stood on the rocks like an absolute walnut, hair pulled into a loose braid that fell over his right shoulder, dipping his toes into the water. If assassins don't get him, him falling in and getting hurt is the next most likely possibility. ]
He had ascended to the throne at fourteen by no choice of his own, an unfortunate witness to his parents' poisonings and a lucky picky eater who had escaped it; by some stroke of the universe all coming together in a plan to fuck over him, specifically, he had narrowly edged away from a more direct attempt on his own life. The attack was clumsy, Janryk was smaller and flightier in person than they had predicted, more well-protected. The evidence of it now was an angry red scar on his throat where they had managed to plunge in the knife, and he swore he still woke up in the dark tasting copper.
The unrest had grown, a whisper at first that had built into a roar, since he had stepped into a crown too big for him. The truth of it was that Janryk was a poor leader, but children often are, and to expect anything else was ludicrous; the choices he made were never particularly egregious, but he was both reactionary and weak - he had never ordered an execution nor had he started any wars, but his attempt to diplomatically end one had instead made his rule look exactly as fragile as it was, and they had lost several miles of border territory to contest as the northern border was pushed inward. He had failed to finish a war that was started before he had even been a thought in his parents' minds, but people are people, and they were done with giving him chances: he had burned through all of them before he existed.
And so it's just the two of them, now. Holed up somewhere secret, because they rode until the horses tired and Janryk didn't even... complain, which was rare, since he complains about everything. Picky, petty. Pretty, too - brown, freckled skin, yellow-gold eyes and waves of dark hair with sunny highlights from living on the Southern sea, but with a face pulled into sharp features that screamed leave me alone.
It's just the two of them, and fundamentally Janryk is just an exhausted, grieving, frightened boy who has just lost everything familiar to him, but it doesn't mean it's okay that he slips out the door of their little hideout in the dark. All the grief in the world doesn't mean that he can just slink off, and he doesn't go far, no - just a walk, just to clear his head because he wakes up clawing at the pillows and his mouth open in a silent scream - but the fact is that he could end up dead. He has a cloak draped loosely over his shoulders - it doesn't belong to him - and his head down, standing some hundred yards away and standing, barefoot, on the rocks of a little creek. For all he knows they could have been followed.
There could be bowmen in trees, a rogue in any nearby shadow, a capture party out for the bounty on his head, and here he is: stood on the rocks like an absolute walnut, hair pulled into a loose braid that fell over his right shoulder, dipping his toes into the water. If assassins don't get him, him falling in and getting hurt is the next most likely possibility. ]
