Mithrava

"You are a disgrace."

Those were the last words he heard his grandmother utter before her head was permanently removed from the vicinity of the rest of her body.

He barely remembers the day his grandmother was executed save for the fact that he'd been hiding behind his mother's legs and that he closed his eyes a split second before the sharp blade connected with his granmama's neck.

His granmama's words still haunt him. They hadn't been meant for him exactly, but he had always felt their weight, like a smirch in his blood that wouldn't wash away no matter what he did.

There are whispers in the halls and Mitarava observes the way people move out of his way with equal parts fear, respect and distaste. He fakes his own distraction as conversations trickle into silence at his passage and speculating looks follow in his wake.

He watches as his parents war with each other and sneers when his brothers close in with their greedy fingers and hungry eyes. There is a clear scent of decay and weakness when their father tells them again of the glory of their own lineage, and of the responsibility behind it. Mithrava sees no such thing, and never has.

Sometimes his mother watches him with cunning and cruelty in her eyes, and Mithrava knows to stay away from her reaching grasp. She plays those around her like a maestro, and much as Mithrava admires this gift of hers, he's less inclined to become one of her pawns.





He had always been prone to choleric, often violent moods and his temper was as quick to cool down as it was to rise to the surface, often leaving a trail destruction whenever he was. Tutors despaired of his reserved, yet conflict-prone nature; he was a brilliant student, they'd say, and he would be a perfect pupil if only he could reign in his bad tempers (or tantrums, as his tutors liked to call them).

THE SCRIPTER (feline skull with antlers over his face/head, long dark cape, face hidden in shadow from nose up)