He disliked the propriety of it all, the way that everyone gathered to preen their feathers and boast their praise. Everyone had arrived sporting their absolute best, their coats groomed a sleek shine and hair adorned or braided or left to veil. It stank of alcohol and smoke, and more than once he’d caught a whiff of opium but left it at that. So long as no one was causing any trouble, he wouldn’t interfere.
Oh, he’d received an invitation as well, but he’d left it in his quarters with absolutely no desire to attend… Yet here he was. Helios had claimed that ‘it would be good for him’ to get out and go, even if it was to simply keep watch on things. He was a soldier, after all, and hardly could he see himself dabbling in such pompous, egotistical, self-absorbed tomfoolery as everyone around him was doing.
Drinks. Special cocktails, he heard some bedazzled dame exclaim. Games. Truth or dare and scavenger hunts. What, were they all dumb little foals needing to be lead to the teat for a meal? Could the adults not act accordingly? Ba’al scoffed quietly and rolled his eyes, nonplussed. Parties.
The sooty palomino shifted uncomfortably as he played sentry in a quiet corner of the courtyard, letting out a slow, measured breath. Two-toned eyes of rich gold and gentle blue glanced about, taking in the various faces and shows of grandeur, watching the party goers gossip and mingle and strut their stuff that reminded him of the way peacocks bragged their feathers. He recognized very few of them, and that stirred something in his gut that forced him to look away.
Envy? Anger? Yearning? It was a word he didn’t have, a foreign language upon his tongue, and so Ba’al kept his silence and continued to scrutinize and judge and watch. He was there for a purpose, to keep the peace, and had no intentions on being drawn away from his self-imposed employ.
Even so, his eyes wandered, trailing after a finely dressed fellow in subtle admiration. Handsome, that one. Shame there was a pretty little mare at his side, all dolled up and glamorous. Letting them pass without a single word, Ba’al resumed his vigilant watch, letting the ambient noise settle over him.
HUNGER IS THE ONLY STORY HE HAS EVER HEARD IN HIS LIFE
THAT HE COULD BELIEVE
Dune was off for the rest of the night. It couldn’t come soon enough-his mind was tired from balancing trays of drinks for hours, and for some reason his stomach was feeling worse and worse by the minute. The golden paint that had been so carefully and deliberately applied before the start of the party was now a smeared mess across his left side. There were too many horses in too close quarters- he had to politely brush past so many strangers that the paint was blurred beyond all recognition. Some of it had gotten on the tip of his nose, and it glimmered foolishly in the “ambient” lighting. (lighting which, he knew from firsthand experience, was a bitch and a half to light).
Waves of nausea came and went, as did the clenching of his stomach, as he wove his way toward the exit. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. The tips of his limbs felt tingling, which he attributed to some kind of jonesing for a good Dream. Later he would admit this was probably another effect of food poisoning. Or in this case poisoning-poisoning. What a god’s awful bartender- it was baffling, when they had the money to hire a professional. Scratch that, even a complete novice like Dune could probably run the bar without poisoning anyone.
He was feeling terrible. But the boy was an opportunist, and he intended to metaphorically pocket some of the fancy canapés to share with the street urchins on his walk home. A small rough-hewn bag is somewhat discretely slung over his shoulder, and into it he slips the silly, decadent foods that took far longer to make than it would to eat. Some of his favorites were the apples sliced into the shape of roses, and caramels swirled with paprika and salt and pressed in the shape of little suns- he took extra of those. And for his cats (not technically his cats, strays) he carefully swiped the few things they might be interested in.
Dune was not planning to stay for very much longer, as it would obviously look very very bad for him to be caught with a bag of stolen goods-- although was it stolen if they were free? So it was not want of conversation that made him stop by one of the guards as he grabbed a bundle of grapes and placed it into his swelling bag.
He clears his throat to catch the guard’s attention. “You’re scowling.” He comments quietly, barely audible above the din of “good music” that streams through the warm night. “You know they don’t like that.” The guards were of course not allowed to partake in merriment, so expressions of enjoyment were also unwanted. Neutrality was the name of the game, for mares and stallions of his position. Didn’t the man go to his orientation? Dune had walked past it on his way to be painted, and he had overheard a stern old mare, wizened as a grape left in the sun, rattling off a list of expectations that effectively summed up to: make like a statue.
Not that Dune was bothered by the stallion’s transgressions. He was just giving some advice, one questionable worker to another.
Truly, there were sights of all kinds to be seen at such an event. No matter which way he looked, something was happening. A couple across the way clearly indulged a little too much in the spiced wine and were being quite affectionate with each other, pressed against one another in the way only intimate lovers could be. A prissy little thing rushed by with the cloying stench of far too much floral perfume only to be followed moments later by a fretting man, and by the whiff of him he’d perhaps grown far too close for someone else for the little woman’s liking. Another fellow, the paint upon his sides smeared and stained, a sweat coating his brow, was busy plucking treats and snacks from the tables and stuffing them unceremoniously away for another time.
Ba’al watched him, perplexed although his expression didn’t show it. It wasn’t his business what this man was doing with all of these snacks, nor did he particularly care... It was only when the stranger’s gaze snapped up and met his own that Ba’al arched a brow, nonplussed.
’You’re scowling’
If he could see him now, Helios would surely be pleased by the way that Ba’al barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes. ‘No shit,’ he wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut for the time being, two-toned eyes simply staring with that same disconcerted look.
’You know they don’t like that.’ ‘They’. The nobles and rich, snooty, posh bastards that ran this ‘party’ and by association, attended it. Ba’al didn’t care much for the Ieshans. They were too concerned with themselves and their propriety and flaunting their wealth and extravagance to care much about the small folk like him, like the orphans skulking the streets, with the hungry mouths and those less fortunate...
With an arched brow and a cocked ear, he spoke. “... I don’t work for them.” The statement was said on a murmur, a faint trace of disdain coating his every word. It wasn’t a lie, and Ba’al didn’t have the energy to care if this stranger cared. He certainly didn’t seem the type to go rattle his tongue to the nearest soldier actually assigned to this mediocre event.
Deciding to take a page out of this stranger’s book and press his nose into business that wasn’t his own, Ba’al cleared his throat and made a vague motion towards the stands of treats and snacks and other assorted tasty goods. “Do you not eat enough that you need to resort to taking food from a party?”
HUNGER IS THE ONLY STORY HE HAS EVER HEARD IN HIS LIFE
THAT HE COULD BELIEVE
The wealthy spoke in their own language. Dune knew well the derisive, sour curl of the lip when one of them saw something that displeased them- like a stray, mangy dog or a servant with an unkempt tail. He knew how laughter could be twisted from an expression of joy to one of scorn, and an appraising frown could be a hard-fought victory.
So when Ba’al says “I don’t work for them,” Dune’s focus narrows in on the note of disdain behind the statement. At first the bay thinks it’s directed at him, or those like him-- those who were not gifted with the opportunity to stand around pretending to be working. The man would not be the first to look down on Dune for his position, and certainly not the last. He should be used to it by now, the derision, but he isn’t. Every foul look or comment, every condescending tone of voice (interpreted correctly or not) he carries with him. He remembers.
But there is something different about this man. Something about his disdain that does not reek of class. Dune soothes his ruffled pride, and his fierce gaze softens. “Well, then. Scowl away.” Dune looks terrible. Sweating profusely, the golden paint on his body gone clumpy. His eyes shift in and out of focus, the poison blurring his attention. But his smile is still bright and gleaming, a gleam of liveliness that refused to be tarnished by time and circumstance. “Having fun?”
Dune holds up an apple, perfectly red and round. Before the party they had been polished to a deep sheen with a linen rag. Everything here was about appearance. He laughs at the thought of taking all this food for himself. “Oh, it’s not for me. Some friends of mine weren’t invited.”
“Friends” is a term used loosely. Some of these friends would stick a knife in his back for the right price, but… well, street kids only had each other. Theirs was a violent, twisted sort of family, the only one most of them would ever know. Dune owed his own childhood survival in part to older boys and girls-- it is only fitting that he pay it forward. "It all gets thrown out anyway, end of the night." He shrugs, tucks the apple into his sack. There were few things he abhorred more than waste.
