The Dale. Ah, that’s the smell coming off of the other roan man. With his aged nose, it’s a rather weak scent, but still distinct. There are traces of pine and deciduous decay similar to the Chamber he’s more familiar with. Crito doesn’t know much about the once-neutral kingdom, other than the fact that his niece – Errant’s daughter – ruled it in the recent past. He’d meant to visit her years ago (had schemed to visit all of the kingdoms in his lifetime, really) but of course, his life hadn’t panned out exactly as he’d meant it to. Too little too late, my life in a nutshell, he thinks to himself, though it’s no longer a bitter thought. He’s come to accept his late start as a contributing member of society – he only hopes his brother doesn’t resent him too much for it.
As he studies the visiting man with a careful, calculating gaze, Crito realizes that he and Hurricane aren’t dealing with the usual diplomat. Weir’s words are alright: dry and tailor-made for the Tundra, if a bit detailed. But the way he holds himself is atypical. The Hand had seen his pause after Hurricane’s introduction even from a distance. He’d observed the blank recognition before Weir had begun his spiel, diving headfirst into waters he seems not to have swum in before. It doesn’t bother Crito that the Dale has sent a new diplomat (he’s the last one to complain about quirkiness, even he realizes this). If anything, it will make this otherwise boring meeting all the more interesting and shake him from his initial grumpiness.
It’s clear that Hurricane is handing him the reigns to lead the conversation, anyway, why not make use of the power? He does tell the Dalean their king’s name, and Crito nods agreeably, turning to the roan stallion when his Brother finishes speaking. He wonders what the man knows of their former arrangement or if he is too new to his own kingdom to know its history. Surely, he’s not been a peacekeeper for long, anyway. “I’m not sure if you know, Weir,” he pauses, reading the roan’s face for hints of recognition. “We were allies in the not-so-distant past, but our relationship dissolved once our king returned to the throne.”
The old man flicks his tail against his haunches, absently remembering days long gone. As then, the Tundra has few allies today. But what they lack in quantity, they more than make up for in quality. He holds the fact that they are blood-allies of the Jungle (for he doesn’t know of his sister’s abdication) on his tongue. If Weir asks, maybe he will tell him, maybe not. “Does he want to re-engage in an alliance with us, is that the crux of this meeting?” Crito’s cracked lips form the beginning of a smile as he asks it. If it is, they might be calling upon Errant after all.
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra