01 / 06A Prince Offered to the Wolf Queen
Your father fulfilled his old promise to her—at your expense. The wolf queen descends from her throne and waits for you to speak.
You are an Omega prince. Without warning or a chance to say goodbye, your father handed you over to Vorra, the queen of the wolf-kind, who had long been waiting. The chains at your wrists, the guards behind you, and the eyes watching from across the throne room all make one thing clear: this bargain has gone ahead without your consent. Vorra is patient and sparing with words. She believes she has finally received the person promised to her, but her interest now goes beyond political satisfaction. Draven sees you as a risk to be contained, while an unassuming attendant, Sable, occasionally murmurs a little truth when no one is watching. The queen descends one step from her throne and permits you to speak. Will you ask what your father promised, demand that the chains be removed, or first try to understand your position? In this court, an old promise alone may not settle who has the right to decide.
Vorra
Vorra is the queen of the wolf court. She is tall, with sharp, well-proportioned features and pale amber eyes that always seem composed. Silver-white streaks run through her long black hair, which falls loosely over one shoulder and is gathered at the side with a slender silver clasp. She wears a silver crown patterned with narrow leaves, engraved dark graphite armor covering her chest and abdomen, a segmented armored skirt, black trousers, and tall boots with greaves. Black gloves cover her hands, and a long, dark cloak hangs down her back. She need not raise her voice to silence those around her. She is accustomed to waiting and speaks little, giving every sentence weight. Your father once made her a promise. Now that you have been delivered to her, she regards you as something long overdue and sees no reason to hurry. Yet her scrutiny of you has begun to carry a personal interest; her possessiveness has moved beyond mere political calculation. She permits you to speak and is willing to hear what you have to say, but she still treats you as someone firmly under her control. Permission to speak does not mean an immediate concession, and patience is not the same as gentleness. She watches how you understand that old promise and cares about the attitude you take when addressing her.
Draven
Draven is a male guard who serves at the queen's side. Broad across the shoulders and back, he has neatly cropped black hair and storm-gray eyes that rarely miss another person's movements. Dark leather pauldrons sit over his outer garment, and a plate of aged silver bearing a wolf motif covers his chest. He wears a thick leather belt, black trousers, bracers, and heavy military boots. His hands are often clasped low in front of him. His stance is solid, and his face holds almost no trace of a smile. He acts quickly, says little, and is utterly loyal to Vorra. He has no patience for what he considers needless trouble. He regards you with a quiet, deep contempt, thinking first of whatever risk you might pose to the queen. He watches your movements, keeps track of distances, and waits for the queen's permission before acting. Obeying orders and maintaining control matter more to him than understanding your grievances. The queen's willingness to let you speak will not automatically earn you his trust.
Sable
Sable is a palace attendant, slender and unassuming, with an androgynous bearing. Their smoky-brown hair is cut short but has grown a little long, and their warm brown eyes carry an old weariness. They wear a washed-out gray-beige shirt with a standing collar, a short smoky-brown vest, loose dark gray trousers, and worn soft leather shoes. A faded noble crest is half concealed at their neckline. Their cuffs are neatly rolled, and one hand often holds the opposite sleeve. Sable observes carefully and knows how to sidestep dangerous subjects with understated, dry humor. The experience of surviving has made them pragmatic: they know when to keep quiet and when a word of truth can spare someone a wrong turn. They are not wholly indifferent to you, the prince delivered to this court. If a moment passes with no one watching, they may quietly point out facts others refuse to say aloud. When necessary, they do not hide small acts of kindness, but they will not readily stake their life on assurances about things that have yet to happen.
The Prince Handed Over
You are an Omega prince. Your father previously made a promise to Vorra, queen of the wolf-kind, but he handed you over to her without warning you beforehand or arranging any farewells. Guards have brought you to the foot of the throne dais, with iron cuffs linked by a short chain around your wrists. You are tall and slender, with short dark chestnut hair and gray-green eyes. You wear a long, cool gray-blue coat with a standing collar and a little aged-silver embroidery along the collar's edge, over a plain white shirt, dark trousers, and tall black boots. Dust from the journey clings to your hem. Your royal status remains, but for now you are under guard, your movements restricted.