He has always been a bit player on the grand stage of life.
He has always lingered in the shadows: his mother, his sister, his brother. Crito is happiest there, truth be told. He doesn’t seethe or burn like charcoal; he doesn’t reach for the northern lights. He’s more like one pillar among many, ready to support and share the burden of the building above.
Unlike him, Scorch had never been a support.
The naked rat was ambitious and driven since the day they exited the womb one after the other. Often, in their youth, Crito aspired to be more like her. Echion might have spared him more than a second glance if he had followed through on that wish, but he hadn’t. He high-tailed it out of the Amazons as soon as he felt he was ready, and only now, decades later, does he realize how much of a place in his heart it has. The palm trees sway gently in the humid breeze, their fronds bumping each other and whooshing softly. Howler monkeys hoot in the distance, their cries a nostalgic backdrop he has missed. It’s utterly tranquil, standing at the border, and he almost wishes the figure approaching him had held off a bit longer – especially if it is indeed his sister.
Crito squares his feet, preparing for her to lurch through the cluster of trees at him. He still wears that crooked, toothy grin, knowing that it won’t be an easy greeting but one he’s ready for all the same. But it’s not pink, hairless skin that emerges into the sunlight from underneath the dark canopy – it’s the gunmetal grey of a familiar face. “Lagertha! Long time no see.” His smile warms considerably as his body relaxes. It has been quite a while since their last rendezvous in the meadow, but he’s always felt a natural ease around her. Their’s is a strange, unorthodox friendship, but one that exists despite their great differences.
The diplomat closes the distance she leaves between them, one ear fixed on her while the other swivels to catch the sounds of the rainforest around them (after all, this will likely be his last chance to take it in – he doesn’t expect he’ll make another journey this far from home). He looks past her, waiting for his sister to barrel down the narrow trail at any moment, put off by the fact that she’d been beat by Lagertha. But his attention is caught by some newfangled appendages taking over the warrior’s head. He eyes them with some amount of trepidation before his grey gaze falls to meet her own. Clearly, she’s had some sort of success (though he’s not sure the added weight and discomfort is any kind of prize – more like a punishment, in his admittedly old-school opinion).
“Pretty god-awful, to be honest.” Crito snorts. Yep, she’d found just the question to hit him hardest. The smile doesn’t leave his face, but it’s tough to keep it going. She’s lucky she’s one of the few people he spares an effort for. “I took a year-long sabbatical in the Chamber. They don’t fully inform you about their bird problem when they’re trying to sell it, let me tell you.” He shudders when he remembers the damned ravens that seemed to be everywhere all at once. But he’s not here to talk about his problems (for once in his life). Not to Lagertha, anyway. He’ll spare her his grief unless she’s so inclined to hear it. “You’re the bright end in a tunnel I’ve been stuck in for longer than I cared to be.” Crito bumps her neck with his muzzle lightly, withdrawing almost as soon as he’s made contact. Affection doesn’t really come easy to his family, but he is glad to see her, so he does the best with what he has to work with. “Speaking of doom and gloom, where’s that hairless rat sister of mine?”
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra
ooc: eee, so excited for Vidar! <3