The invitation had set his Court afire with excitement — a great, big party at Dusk! Calligo's people adored a good party, and hosted some of the best themselves, but to visit another Court and mingle with others from all over Novus? That was an occasion nobody in Denocte wanted to miss, save for some of the darker souls littering their Southern territory. It had made his own chest swell with a sense of pride, then a burning flash of something akin to anxiety... for if Florentine was now Queen, it laid her open to the corrupt and the greedy, to purveyors of crimes even the King of Thieves rejected.
It made her the masthead that all of Novus would look to if ever war threatened again, the face of Dusk. The thought set his stomach churning, shadows coiling like ink around the rough lines of his chest and underneath his ebony hair. Still, he had to have faith that his honey-sweet girl was the right choice, that she was not too gentle to rule a Court... to fend off suitors —
The thought had his black lip curling, silver eyes narrowing as he trotted after the dancing, jostling crowd heading toward the mountain pass. They would emerge at Praistagia Cliffs and likely make their way through the festivities from there. Reich grinned as he caught sight of golden flesh, a flash of endless hair, the glint of a knife — the Crows were on their way to the party.
They gestured for him to join, but The Night King had another escort waiting — one wreathed in moonfire and Dusk itself.
The whole of Terrastella had come alive, no longer did she slumber and maintain a sleepy facade. Music rang into the crisp night air, heartfelt and unbound as they danced the night away. Others huddled close to the bonfires on pillows reminiscent of his own, plush and intricately decorated, watching the lanterns light the sky with their warmth as they shared sweet treats.
It was beautiful, it lit a fire in ones chest so warm and bright, a beacon of pride and love for the Court which was home.
But there was a wisp of anxiousness inside the Kirin's ribcage, the smoke to the fire, which made him reserved and on edge, nervous. This was more than a celebration, is was a reveal. Terrastella debuted her new Queen, and with it, her Court. Thrust out on to the chessboard, a chessboard the twice crowned King knew well, tonight was the first impression, the pivotol first step.
The diadem which hung delicately upon his forehead, was a symbol of his new position. Set with three glittering Dragon's Breath Opals, the middle wrapped in the embrace of a dragon, they glittered in the low light of the fires brightly. Silvered strands looped from the delicate piece to nest in his hair, each lined with smaller opals that were no less beautiful. Near weightless, it still felt like the world upon his slender shoulders, for all the responsibility now allocated to him.
A steady breath exhaled, he pushed it aside as best as he could. Now was not the time. As much as the feeling persisted beneath his skin. Fire warmed breezes, both from the mountains and the sea coasted over his scale kissed skin, and tousled his moon colored tresses, left long and loose and adorned with Dusk Lilies and their soft glow. Even the large ornate halo behind his head had not escaped the touch of the winter's end festival, intricate candles in the shape of the gods had been melted into the prongs, bathing him in their warm light.
Each gentle breath of the wind further alleviated the worries, made them drift further and further away.
Lilac eyes focused at the pass which lay before him, which had not escaped the touch of festivities, bonfires and lanterns lighted the way for those that danced past toward the cliff edge, beckoning them forward with warmth and reverie. His eyes did not linger on them, no, among the crowd there was one who the Regent waited for with baited breath and a smile upon his pale lips.
It did not take long to find him among the Denocte citizens who waltzed to the tune of the night. As handsome as the heroes immortalized in marble, wreathed in his infamous coins and charcoal curls. A fleeting thought turned toward the moon charm still wrapped around his tine. Instinctively, porcelain hooves carried him forward, a wry smile replacing the faint one that had been there moments ago. "You're almost late, King of Thieves." He teased silkily, head tilted a fraction to the side.
Each step drew his muscular body closer to their Dusk neighbours, the pathway decorated by lavish lanterns and strings of light, the sound of revelry and excited chatter setting the air alight. Reich emerged from the path smoothly, a grin plastered upon his devilish black lips, silver eyes taking note of all the delicate details as they searched and wandered —
Until they found what they had been searching for.
Isorath looked luminous in lilac and opal, his hair long and loose (could it be possible he knew that Reichenbach preferred it that way?) and woven with delicate Dusk lilies. Flames crowned him, the small wax gods seeming to wink and shift underneath the fluttering candlelight, trickling down the tines of his crown only to halt as they touched the winter air. Reich's grin only grew as their gazes met, the small smile hovering upon Isorath's supple mouth responding in turn.
The Night King drew closer still, argent eyes moving slowly over the porcelain scaled sage, lingering on the coiled dragon and the craftmanship of that diadem as his mind connected several threads between his Queen's new position and the members of her Court. Still, in a rare display of restraint, he made no comment upon the conclusions he had drawn, preferring to set his gaze upon the dainty moon charm dancing in the firelight, petite and silver and full of meaning.
Finally he stood almost before the ex-King, body emanating heat despite Winters grip. Shadows nestled in the silky coils of his hair, retreating from the cold. Isorath closed the final steps between them, a wry smile turning Reich's own black grin teasing.
"You should always turn up late for a party, don't you think?"
Amusement brightened his gaze for a moment before his eyes glanced upward at the diadem once more, considering. His scent was dampened in the winter, as if the jasmine and woodsmoke could only survive close to the heat of his mahogany body or in the coils of his ebony hair — and yet the draw of him remained the same, perhaps because of all those attending the festival, he was the only one that seemed unaffected by the brittle winter air.
Music bloomed around them as he spoke again, gentler this time:
"You look resplendent.."
His voice was deep, a compliment lost within the swell of song, only for the kirin to hear. Yet he smiled swiftly, charmingly, face breaking from the sincerity into something mischevious.
"Now, tell me, what does Terrastella offer her Southern neighbours on this night? ... And in the cold winter nights to come?"
It was a strange moment, the air around Isorath shifted with his anticipation and inner conflict. Reichenbach, his Crows and all of his beautiful, shadowed denizens revealed themselves on after another from the dimly lit pass. Glittering like Calligo's stars in their finery and trinkets. Seeing their King and them proved to almost be too much and not enough, as the realization sank into the marrow of his bones tenfold, and branded them with a searing pain.
Yet, he did not let it show upon his ethereal, gold flecked features. He remained a crafted piece of art, illuminated by candlelight and the twilight above as he waited for the King of Crows to come forward. Silver chains held tight his exhilaration, fine tendrils of composure and pride holding him to a standard beyond expectation. He dared not admit the brief absence from Denocte, and those that he'd come to call friends, had wounded him like a dagger might do. One that had hidden behind star embroidered curtains and pierced him as he chased the pastel hues of Dusk.
Raglan, Araxes, Cynix and Camdis to name a few, and then of course, Reichenbach.
But Reichenbach was not his to flutter after. What remained of him to burn in a bed of it's own ashes, knew Reichenbach was not his to burn for, but his heart and his tattered banners, dared to want. Just a taste, it had said to him in a breathless whisper. Just a small taste of what he knew he could feel before. To feel what it was like to want, even if it was unrequited. He would be content.
But he was fire. Starfire and Moonfire. He was the sun and the cosmos' passion wrapped in porcelain and crowned in gold. He was a Prince, he was a King. It could not settle for second best, and worse yet, it could not stagnate in it's own destruction.
Only when he noticed the King's attention had shifted, did the veil waver, a momentary slip. Grief lined the corner of his eyes, for the first time in a long time, Isorath felt the first prickling sensation of guilt. He was an unapologetic creature, his actions were his own and his to own. It's gone in a flash, a flicker of feathery white lashes and the mischief easily slotted over his face like an artfully crafted mask.
You should always turn up late for a party, don't you think.
"Of course." Isorath replied, a ghost of his sing song laugh whispered on the edges of his words. "But you should never keep company waiting, no? Especially when they go to the trouble to making sure they are worthy of escorting a King." The Regent added with a flourish of a teasing smile, more of a smirk if he'd been honest. Winter was a fickle season, with it's elements of cold. The landscape became so beautiful, and yet so bleak as life eeked out it's existence longing for spring, and equines bathed in the warmth of wood fires and company.
Still, Reichenbach looked as he always did. Wild and powerful, Calligo's shadows clung close. Even if the scent of jasmine and wood smoke was a distant memory under Lady Winter's harsh breath.
You look resplendent..
The compliment is an arrow, and Isorath's lashes fluttered at the impact. The music provided the perfect cover as the King and the Regent stood close, as the Kirin's body shifted in a sinuous slink, all curves and long legs. An artful recovery which grasped at the mischievous smile that replaced the sincerity which had wounded him so openly moments before.
"Has the King of Thieves come to steal me away this night, with such wonderful compliments? It has been such a long time since I've had someone try." This is easier, the casual mischief of flirtatious arrows, rather than golden ones aimed to strike deep. He turned then, as easily as silk in the breeze, an invitation for the King to walk with him. His gilded halo hovered behind his head, and the candles flickered in the winter breeze.
"What do our Southern neighbors desire? That's a better question, isn't it? Here beneath the lanterns and shadows you love so much, the music and the dancing with the stars as your witness. What is it that Denocte wants from their Western Neighbors this night?"
TAG: @Reichenbach
it's fine! I hope my reply is okay ;o;
"isorath talks"
Snow falls, tumbling down, down between the rising lamps. The midnight sky glows black and gold and flickering white. A hundred lamps fly away with the ending year, chased by wind and memories.
The flower girl stands upon the edge of the cliff. She watches her petals drift over the swelling sea and down through a thousand falling snowflakes. Snow falls into her lashes, into her hair and paint her kingdom as white as day.
Stars and moons and galaxies dance through shifting light. There is nothing still in Terrastella this night and even as she shivers, even as her breath curls like dragon smoke, Florentine smiles.
“Will you stay here?” She asks the mysterious boy beside her. Ever the girl with her heart upon her sleeve, Flora does not even think to hide the yearning from her voice, the too-keen glimmer in her eye. “I have just got you back… I would hate to wait until another sea dries up until I see you again.”
The waves crash angrily below them, and her eyes lift from their frothing, fretting waves to the boy with his red, red antlers. She is gazing at them, when from between their tines, the dusk girl glimpses a gold and white more pure than the shifting skies. Shadows and night curl and weave behind it.
Her attention focuses back upon Lysander as she smiles, heeding the call of shadows, stars and infinite skies. “Come, I have someone for you to meet!”
Feathers and lips brush his side, in a nudge and a sigh. With smiles and laughs she pulls her flower boy on through the tangle of bodies and on to another boy she has not seen in what felt like so, so long. She has become a queen since she saw him last, and learned to bear its weight with trepidation. And he – oh where has he been?
Florentine flies to him like a butterfly might, its journey true but its path fluttering hither and thither.
Her wayward heart is a tattoo within her chest and it is just enough to hear Isorath’s voice above the festival din and the trembling of her blood. Her butterfly ways had lead her and Lysander behind them, and only then do her eyes fall on how close they are and the play of his words.
Coy smiles and playful words, they are all things she knows but…
Was that her heart stumbling and her breath catching? Was that the stutter of stars and the sputter of lamps that flee the shore; they know and her heart begins to awaken too.
It remembers and with such terrible beats it remembers Aislinn’s tears and Bexley’s angry words.
It sings their songs into her veins until she is wildfire gold in this festival night.
Terrible, fickle, fitful heart. She wears her smile like a mask as her eyes drift back to Lysander. She needs vines to tether her soul to the earth and might he, a boy of flowers and mysteries, possess them?
From the nearby throng of bodies, Flora steps, swathed in dusk-hewn light, and her mask does not fail her. Her anxious heart, a flighty bird within her chest, does not fail her.
“I hope not.” She says to Isorath, so softly, too softly. There is a wariness within the curve of her skin and she makes herself soften with smiles, with the snow that tumbles and tumbles and turns all to white, unblemished. “I have only just made you my regent.” Her eyes trail over the kirin and then to her boy of stars and night stood so close. Had their intimate moment, broken by her? Oh traitorous, questioning heart – would Bexley be proud?
Florentine’s lashes flutter against her cheek, hiding a feeling she cannot bear to name. When they open they seek Lysander and her breath is thin as ice. “I brought a friend to meet you both.” She says to her Night King and her Regent. Slender limbs, sunset gold and winter dirtied, step back to draw Lysander in. “Lysander,” She breathes with eyes too wide and hidden too late, “Meet Reichenbach, the King of the Night Court and Isorath… my regent.”
@Isorath @Reichenbach @Lysander
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
He is charmed at once by the festival; it reminds him of a boyhood that lies worlds and lifetimes away.
Never in the riftlands was there a place like this. That kind of feral, godless magic could never conceive of something so civilized. There was no craftsmanship there, just survival, and the only beauty was the beauty of things wild and savage.
Lysander had not minded it, for the most part, but he had missed these things. Music, and fires set and tended to, and drink, and dancing.
Already his veins hum with the promise of living, and he devours the sights around him, lanterns drifting over the sea like errant stars. The drums are in his blood and oh, he wants nothing more than to dance –
But there is time for that yet.
For now, he turns his attention back to Florentine, and marvels again that a girl born to such a place as they’d left could be as at home at playing queen in a kingdom of twilight. Her gold shames the lamplight and the setting sun, and he bows his head close to hear her words. “As long as you’ll have me,” he says, and smiles, though they are both well aware he can hardly leave this world the way he’d come.
He forgets the itch of his antlers, still smeared with blood but finally free of velvet, as they stand there beneath the snowfall, beside the sea. He sees Flora’s attention catch and hold, and follows her with curiosity through the crowd. There can be no one to spark her eye like that but the king she’s told him of, and Lysander is eager to meet him.
Her people part for her, all smiles, but her gaze is an arrow and he follows its path, and what he sees there makes him wonder. Much of his life has been spent giving people what they want (their deepest wants, their secret wants) and he has always read them well. Lysander knows, too, the games men play, particularly when there are crowns involved.
And oh, they are both beautiful – and beauty makes everything worse.
Perhaps this place was as savage as the last world, after all.
The stallion gives away nothing with the evening deep around them, only stands just behind Florentine until she makes his introduction. Only then does he step forward, dark curls and bloodied antlers, a lost god on the longest night of the year.
“How wonderful that inter court relations are so close,” he says, and his smile blooms sweet and secretive on his dark lips. His gaze is the dark green of dappled shadows in a strange old wood as he sweeps it over the kirin, impeccable from his hooves to the shining crown he bore. Lightly he turns his attention to Reichenbach, and dips his muzzle toward his chest. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Florentine has told me she only accepts the most handsome of suitors, and I can see why she chose you.”
The fact that Isorath's smile turned radiant and mischief-ridden was not lost on him, in fact the sight and information buried itself deep into the wall of his vast ribcage, tucked away for later consideration... later enjoyment.
"But you should never keep company waiting, no? Especially when they go to the trouble to making sure they are worthy of escorting a King."
He grinned, silver gaze slowly running over Isorath once more, making sure the kirin felt the warmth of his eyes — the appreciation. After what seemed like an age, he returned his gaze to the long lashed lilacs before him, admitting;
"True, very true..."
His stance was almost predatory, the smile on his lips enough to send anyones heart thundering — that muscular body so still save for the roiling shadows dancing upon his skin. They would occasionally stretch out in long fingers as if to touch the ex-King and then would dance away skittishly, tempted. He should have seen his Queen enter, should have felt her honeyed wildness — but he was encased in a cage of porcelain and gold, enthralled, unable to look away.
Her butterfly dance, something he had always adored, was lost on him.
As Isorath spoke, it felt as if a culmination was about to happen — that he'd finally break and admit himself to the allure of the antlered man. That moment was shattered by the voice that he knew better almost than his very own, though not a version of that voice that he had ever heard.
The Night King looked up abruptly, finding himself looking into the searching, hurting eyes of Florentine. She was better at masking emotions than him, better — but only just. The hurt was not cast away quick enough, the questioning pain not faded completely by her gentle smiles. Reichenbach refused to look away, his own heart thundering guiltily, knowing that his reaction to the porcelain kirin was not entirely without promise. But he could not see the hurt in her eyes without feeling it himself, without feeling a sudden and unbearable anxiety that he would lose his honeyed girl forever.
He ignored the man she was with, staring without breaking, fighting off the small sound threatening to slip from his throat as her lashes brushed her soft cheekbone. His bones groaned in warning, eyes flicking to Lysander only as Florentine looked to him — to him. He saw the slight longing there, the attraction. A flame flickered to life inside of him, cruel and angry.
He eyed the dark skinned man, saw him beside Florentine as nothing but the man she had bloomed for in that fraction of a second.
“How wonderful that inter court relations are so close,”
He wanted to beat that fucking smile bloody.
He wanted to wrap his hands around that silky neck and shake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Florentine has told me she only accepts the most handsome of suitors, and I can see why she chose you.”
Reichenbach stiffened, his eyes a cold, abyssal silver.
Then he relaxed, muscles rippling as they settled underneath his shining mahogany skin. A callous smile snared his black lips, it threatened and bled a killing calm.
"Oh?" he began, his voice a melodic baritone "So strange that she is spending her time with you."
That argent gaze flitted to Florentine, a winters sunbeam, before returning to Lysander. The shadows coiled insidiously around him, Calligo whispering his own bloody thoughts into his gold ringed ear. A tense moment passed, silent, before Reichenbach straightened, cocking his roguish head and asking;
"Tell me, what else has Florentine told you?"
@Isorath @Florentine @Lysander reich bad side reich bad side reich bad side
Isorath will be the first and last to declare he is a vain creature, as all creatures crafted in porcelain and inlaid with gold are. They thrive upon the adoration, the stolen glances laced in awe and reverence, and utterly delight in those which radiate fires of desire.
To see such warmth in Reichenbach's eyes, there's little to wonder that the Kirin visibly preens at such attention. It's mirrored in his draconian gaze, the pastel hues glittering around as slitted pupil as they regarded molten silver knowingly.
The sight of the shadows intrigued him, drew his gemmed gaze to the wispy tendrils which tried to reach forward, out from beneath the sanctuary of the King's charcoal curls. Not for the first time, he feels the chasm in his chest where magic should sit, jagged and aching. Where is the smoke of dragonfire wisping in his nostrils, and the fires of the cosmos eminating from his porcelain skin?
How quickly one could be snatched from the Cliff's Edge.
I hope not.
Florentine's voice is a voice he knows well, the coolness, the softness. Softer and finer than Silk. He's mastered such a thing himself, polite decorum in the face of the stinging, hissing uncertainity skittering beneath the skin. Isorath's crowned head tilted with a regal air to his Sovereign, all divinity and taught grace, as all Taeryn are. Her words provoked an equally soft and musical laugh to escape his pale maw, and a look of resolution slides across his face as a sharp smile also took it's place upon his features. "There are few, if any, who could pull me from my task. I'm much too in love with my duties, Lady Florentine, and the finery it brings."
Her companion received a different look, the Prince's gaze is observant as it finally rested upon him, while his ears soaked in his words. Handsome, his mind supplied with a leisured shrug. "Reichenbach and I knew each other before Florentine granted me my new position." He explained as his gaze flicked back to the Night Sovereign out of politeness, and then back with a beat of snow lashes. "Those of us from my land are not so rigid and restrained in our mannerisms. Friendships and Courtly necessities fair much better when we're all having fun, no? Frowns and polite awkwardness are rather boring. I would sooner throw myself into a pit of vipers than endure a gathering filled with it." His sharp smile remained fixated upon his all too delicate features.
He is not so prepared, but perhaps she should of been, for the candid, scathing remark which sounded from the King of Thieves. A silvery brow rose, it's fine scales twinkling in the low light. Isorath had grown up dealing with underhanded remarks and quips, and handled them with artful precision and flippant comments. True to form, he cannot help but step in, both for his own pleasure and simply for the sake that he can. Something appraising settled darkly in his lilac hues as he observed Lysander.
"Ah, but he is handsome enough for me. Perhaps Lysander would like to be my escort to the festivities this evening, so the lovebirds may look ravishing together."
Tonight was a night of stars and revelry. It was a night to say goodbye to old regrets, but for Florentine, no sooner had she absolved herself, than new regrets were laying heavy upon her heart.
She had looked to her gypsy boy, as she stepped into their small circle. Intimacy had crept upon her like a thief in the night. But oh, it was not theirs. In those moments of silence, where time ticks without a voice, she sees too much, and too little. The snow still fell, the lamps still ascended into the midnight sky and the antlered boy still stood behind her… but it was all lost. This wild girl’s eyes were only full of white and gold dragons and boys dressed in stars and shadows.
Twilight bonds with night, but it is not hers; Florentine’s has no space here.
It is only when she spoke, with a small voice, with a fluttering heart, borne upon a thousand feathers, that her king saw her. Then he looked and looked and looked. She was not enough for that gaze, for that guilt that pulled her apart with its callous hands. Florentine shies away from the press of that gaze, her musical limbs restless. They are full of the same fateful disquiet that had brought her to his coronation dance.
How wonderful that inter court relations are so close, The amethyst of her gaze snags upon Lysander and the girl’s lungs are too, too tight. His words have squeezed them so. They are the pinch she needs: that terrible realization that no, this was not some dream to awaken from. Ah, this was reality, this was Aislinn upon the cliff with her tattered heart. This was Bexley’s incredulous laugh.
The smile upon Flora’s gilded lips is gone and she does not know where. Did she discard it like the mask it was? Did it dissolve beneath the King of Thieves’ guilt-laden gaze? It does not matter, for where her sorrow and guilt once were, now Reichenbach’s fury seethes. Flora’s ears fall to her poll and feel so unnatural there. The Night King has turned his night stormy and his words rend her sorrow as lightning might the sky.
She watches smiles turn sharp and callous; they are ugly things when not painted in desire. The dusk girl cannot stand to look at them, not the one upon her lover’s lips, not the one upon Isorath’s. Instead, when the lost queen speaks, she looks to the Night King’s eyes and prays for a tether; she cannot freefall within that star-strewn gaze this night. “Reichenbach, how dare you.” Her words are the softness of petals caught in the swirl of a wild wind.
Florentine becomes that wild wind, her heart unpredictable, her dagger warm. She was not made to be still and she has been still too long. The snow swirls, pulling at the mane of its wild girl.
“You cannot make accusations of Lysander when I saw the way you looked at my Regent.” Those words are poison upon her lips and she turns her head from her Night King and on to her Regent. Isorath’s musical laugh still swirls between them and his words are its dancers, soft and graceful with their dismissal. Florentine wonders what the Night King makes of such a deft deflection.
“Dragon’s do love their gold.” A smile finds her lips and it is soft where his is sharp. Florentine’s eyes are the bright of amethyst where his are subtle lilac, her petals soft where his scales are smooth. “Be careful of the few who might pull you from your duties, Isorath.” Her smile does not waver, it is the bruise of dusk lit with many colours and glittering with the first and brightest star. It will not succumb to night so easily.
The Dusk girl looks to Lysander and feels a child once again in his eyes. Is that what he sees in her now? Is she still just the rebellious child of the Winter Court leader? A child trying to be a queen.
She looks back to her boy of shadows and stars. Oh, the crying ache of her limbs that long to carry her to him. Oh, the hurt of her heart, fearful of the guilt she saw in Reichenbach’s eyes.
Florentine does not go to him, instead she stands, like a deer, lost between Isorath’s casual dismissal, Reichenbach’s anger and guilt, and Lysander’s discerning gaze. Shame creeps like weeds upon her; was this a game, and did she know how to play it?
@Lysander @Reichenbach @Isorath
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
It is not for him to say anything, when first he and Flora interrupt – and surely it is an interruption they have caused. It’s amusement he feels, and surprise, and all that is natural enough for him – but it’s the hurt he feels on Florentine’s behalf that comes more unexpected, and it’s something like anger that he tucks down before the attention of the king and the regent turns to him.
Less of a surprise is the amusement that blooms in him at the virile anger in Reichenbach’s look. His wants are written clear across his handsome face, and it takes Lysander an unusual amount of control to keep his smile from becoming anything but innocently genial.
Ah, it would not do well do get tangled in a brawl the first day in a new world. And he is a man made for other things than fighting.
The king’s words surprise a laugh out of him, bright as a bell. “Ah, no. I’m no suitor. Flora and I are old friends – I’ve not seen her since she was a little girl.” He glances to her then, all fondness, and smiles at the secret between them – that her childhood, for him, was only weeks before. What a funny thing time and worlds were – what a marvelous creature she was, that she could play in in them like a seal in the sea. He wonders if any of those here have any idea just how remarkable the golden girl and her dagger truly are.
He is saved from just what they’d spoken of – likely for the best; he can’t imagine Reichenbach pleased to hear how Florentine, small enough her flight-feathers had not yet grown in, had proclaimed she would marry him someday – by the kirin, who stepped in deftly as any practiced courtier. Lysander offered him another bland smile, though he was well aware of Florentine’s growing unease.
He shifts his gaze politely away when she replies, both to her lover and to her regent, and as he watches lanterns rise and snowflakes tumble he wonders just what kind of world he’s walked into.
Certainly not a dull one.
At the ivory-and-gold man’s words he flicks his gaze back, an eyebrow arched, and looks him once more from gleaming antlers to glorious golden scales. How doth the little crocodile, he thinks, and inclines his head affably.
“I was promised dancing and wine – I would be happy to follow anyone, so long as they take me to those things.” Another grin, white teeth and dark curls, his gaze keen on the kirin, assessing in turn the look he found in those pale slit-pupiled eyes. “Lead on, then, if you are up to the task. I would love to learn more of your people and how they conduct their affairs.”
One more look he gives to Florentine, this one softer. There is a part of him that wonders if he should stay – but she is no longer a little girl, and his presence here would do more harm than good. He does not touch her, but inclines his head, and inhales once more the scent of hyacinths, of distant summer. “With your permission, my lady,” he says, and indicates Isorath and the festival that waits ahead.
@Florentine @Reichenbach @Isorath - shall we start a new Iso/Lys thread?
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
