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+---- Thread: [P] and his skin went pale; (/showthread.php?tid=3484)
and his skin went pale; - Tuolouse - 04-19-2019
He knows he shouldn’t be here - not now, not tonight, not when he knows what was coming soon. Perhaps it was his insatiable curiosity, his need to be around like-minded gamblers such as these that brought him back to Denocte, and back to the White Scarab tonight. Perhaps it was the heat of Solterra, forcing him out of the deserts in search of cooler weather.
Or maybe he just enjoyed toeing the line a little.
The familiar whirr of the beetle’s wings was welcoming, and the palomino slipped through the doors like a golden ghost. It took his eyes only a moment to adjust to the darkness, but only one; he was used to the darkness. It was arguably the best thing to be greeted with, after all the brightness of Solterra.
The light of a hundred candles flickers against the vaulted ceiling, casting shadows that spun and danced down to the floor below. Easily the brightest lighting inside, they shine subtly yet brilliantly into the darkness of the Scarab. They remind him of golden stars, shimmering and twinkling; but he was also golden, and a wolf was no less a star in his own eyes.
Even after he’s adjusted to the darkness, Toulouse waits by the entrance. His eyes rove across the floor, with its scattered tables, dealers, and patrons. For half a second, he’s tempted - it’s been a long time since he’s tested his luck with gambling. He can hear the soft music the coins make when they exchange hands, can see the stacks piling up on the nearest table. There’s a lot of gold being thrown tonight, gold that would line his pockets well when he won.
You already have gold, though, his mind whispers to him, and he can’t deny it. There’s something else to be won here.
He weaves through the tables slowly, hardly looking at them as he passed. Tonight he’s set aside his green silk for red, and it’s turned as dark as blood beneath the soft lighting, dark against his pale body. The tassels bounce gently at his sides with every movement, the weight of his scarves pressing against his back. Toulouse walks as if he owns the place, his stride commanding. He goes out of his way to pass by as many tables and gamblers as he can, feeling well at home on the floor.
And all the while, his ears are turning this way and that way, flicking to catch the end of every sentence, every bet, every whisper.
But his walk takes him to the edges of the room, and a board hung on the wall catches his eye. Toulouse pauses, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looks over the bits of parchment pinned there.
He’s seen the board before, and each time it’s different, yet the same: the messages pinned there change, but each time he finds them nigh unreadable.
He moves closer, as if expecting to find a hidden message written between the lines. Toulouse stamps one pale hoof into the carpet, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
It isn’t until he’s all but ready to turn away and try his luck at the tables after all when he hear hoofbeats approaching him from behind.
And when he turns, it’s the green-eyed girl he sees standing behind him.
"Good evening."
His voice is low and charming, but his eyes are sharp. A smile, at odds with his eyes, stretches slowly across his lips. "I don’t suppose you can tell me what these are?" he asks, gesturing at the bulletin board.
He knows better than to expect her to tell him - but he’s been here enough times, he’s starting to feel like he deserves to know.
But perhaps he can make it worth her while to tell him?
Or maybe he just enjoyed toeing the line a little.
The familiar whirr of the beetle’s wings was welcoming, and the palomino slipped through the doors like a golden ghost. It took his eyes only a moment to adjust to the darkness, but only one; he was used to the darkness. It was arguably the best thing to be greeted with, after all the brightness of Solterra.
The light of a hundred candles flickers against the vaulted ceiling, casting shadows that spun and danced down to the floor below. Easily the brightest lighting inside, they shine subtly yet brilliantly into the darkness of the Scarab. They remind him of golden stars, shimmering and twinkling; but he was also golden, and a wolf was no less a star in his own eyes.
Even after he’s adjusted to the darkness, Toulouse waits by the entrance. His eyes rove across the floor, with its scattered tables, dealers, and patrons. For half a second, he’s tempted - it’s been a long time since he’s tested his luck with gambling. He can hear the soft music the coins make when they exchange hands, can see the stacks piling up on the nearest table. There’s a lot of gold being thrown tonight, gold that would line his pockets well when he won.
You already have gold, though, his mind whispers to him, and he can’t deny it. There’s something else to be won here.
He weaves through the tables slowly, hardly looking at them as he passed. Tonight he’s set aside his green silk for red, and it’s turned as dark as blood beneath the soft lighting, dark against his pale body. The tassels bounce gently at his sides with every movement, the weight of his scarves pressing against his back. Toulouse walks as if he owns the place, his stride commanding. He goes out of his way to pass by as many tables and gamblers as he can, feeling well at home on the floor.
And all the while, his ears are turning this way and that way, flicking to catch the end of every sentence, every bet, every whisper.
But his walk takes him to the edges of the room, and a board hung on the wall catches his eye. Toulouse pauses, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looks over the bits of parchment pinned there.
He’s seen the board before, and each time it’s different, yet the same: the messages pinned there change, but each time he finds them nigh unreadable.
He moves closer, as if expecting to find a hidden message written between the lines. Toulouse stamps one pale hoof into the carpet, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
It isn’t until he’s all but ready to turn away and try his luck at the tables after all when he hear hoofbeats approaching him from behind.
And when he turns, it’s the green-eyed girl he sees standing behind him.
"Good evening."
His voice is low and charming, but his eyes are sharp. A smile, at odds with his eyes, stretches slowly across his lips. "I don’t suppose you can tell me what these are?" he asks, gesturing at the bulletin board.
He knows better than to expect her to tell him - but he’s been here enough times, he’s starting to feel like he deserves to know.
But perhaps he can make it worth her while to tell him?
the motherland don't love you,
the fatherland don’t love you.
so why love anything?
the faithless; they don't love you
the zealous hearts don’t love you.
and that's not gonna change.
ut deo.
@aghavni
ahh ignore the slightly crappy starter, i hope this is alright c'':
enfanir art
RE: and his skin went pale; - Aghavni - 05-19-2019
the gardener of bone and hydrogen
She has taken to sipping at tea ever since her father gave her a small box full of gold-and-crimson tea tins the last time he had visited. A tea trader from overseas had gifted a crate of his rarest blend to him as a token of gratitude at being granted a trading license, and though she knew her father to be an avid tea-drinker (yet another habit he has never shed from his days as a Scarab prince) the crate had contained far too many tins for any respectable man to drink in a year.
She has finished two tins in two months. They sit atop her dresser, filled with various trinkets — one for gold, the other for silver — because Aghavni had thought them too pretty to toss away.
The night is still dreadfully young. Already, she has run out of droning reports and loophole-riddled contracts to read through and sign. Charon’s desk boasts a new stack of curling parchment all marked with her scrawling signature (with their seldom-dotted ‘i’s), but still in need of his. Hence the tea. She had stepped into the kitchens on her way from his room, and had frowned at the prospect of heading back to her own.
There is a hidden chamber tucked along the very back of the Floor that Aghavni often stays in on her evenings off. It is far enough away from the gambling for sanity, yet close enough to eavesdrop on back-room gossip (and lover’s quarrels) whenever her books proved too tedious.
She is heading for the room, with her two cups of tea in tow, when she spots him. His name comes immediately to her tongue. Toulouse. The golden man with the scarlet scarf is a well-known regular, but he needn’t have been for her to remember him. It is a crime to forget a face so pretty.
Never, however, has she spoken to him. “Good evening.”
Her eyes snap warily to his before she corrects herself. She uses her curtsy to rearrange her features back into contemplative placidity. “Good evening to you, sir.” Tugging her lips into a smile, she pads softly over to his side. Her brows quirk when she sees the man staring curiously, dubiously, at the Bulletin.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what these are?”
She seals her lips in a sly hum. “Nothing of much importance. Reminders for the staff. Memos.” She glances over at him, at the old-gold luster of his skin, and chews on her lip thoughtfully. “They are spelled to be unreadable except to the ones they are written for.” Even she cannot decipher the majority of the notes tacked to the scarred face of the Bulletin. It is a mysterious entity, driven by Vikander’s magic no doubt, though Aghavni had never thought it strange.
The Scarab plays host to stranger things.
On a whim, she lifts a porcelain cup towards him. “Would you care for a cup of tea?” The second cup had not been intended for anyone other than herself (she had read once, in a book of etiquette, that well-brought-up ladies were not to indulge in more than one of any delicacy in polite society — the Scarab is hardly polite society) but tonight she feels especially generous.
“Imported. More indulgent, even, than the drinks they pour in the Lounge.”
@Tuolouse "speaks" { she's already charmed c': }
RE: and his skin went pale; - Tuolouse - 08-01-2019
”Sir,” she calls him, and he smiles simply to avoid loosing the laughter that collects on his lips. If only she knew, that it was the savage twin she spoke to, the one that concealed a snake beneath his skin, always preparing itself to strike. His brother would love being called sir, of that he had no doubt; and he had to remind himself that today he was his brother, so today he loved owning that title, too.
“They must be important reminders,” he says, and his green eyes look between her and the notice board, “to be written in such a secret code.” It only makes his curiosity grow stronger, and his imagination runs rampant, imagining all the things they could say, all the things the Scarab might not want its patrons to know.
The problem is at the bottom of the lake, he imagines one to say, and They’ll bring the package in with the morning’s deliveries. It’s absolute torture to take his eyes off those notes, but he manages. And when he sees her chewing on her lip, his smile turns sharper. ”Can you read them?” he asks, and while his tone is innocent, it’s the only thing about him that is.
He’s not expecting her to offer him a glass, its amber liquid sparkling in the light in a way that tempts him sorely.
”Well,” he takes the offered cup, its porcelain warm from the tea, ”how can I say no, with a reputation like that?” He holds it close, breathing in its warmth, and is about to lift it to his lips -
”Although,” he lowers it slowly before he can take a drink, ”they say it’s rude, to drink alone.”
He smiles again at her, his teeth white and pearlescent. And in the time between them he imagines a string, pulling them closer, wheedling her secrets out of her (secrets for him to take back to his brother, to use, to hoard.) "I don't suppose you have another glass?"
Toulouse can hear the music of the lounge still drifting through the air around them, low and sensuous.
“They must be important reminders,” he says, and his green eyes look between her and the notice board, “to be written in such a secret code.” It only makes his curiosity grow stronger, and his imagination runs rampant, imagining all the things they could say, all the things the Scarab might not want its patrons to know.
The problem is at the bottom of the lake, he imagines one to say, and They’ll bring the package in with the morning’s deliveries. It’s absolute torture to take his eyes off those notes, but he manages. And when he sees her chewing on her lip, his smile turns sharper. ”Can you read them?” he asks, and while his tone is innocent, it’s the only thing about him that is.
He’s not expecting her to offer him a glass, its amber liquid sparkling in the light in a way that tempts him sorely.
”Well,” he takes the offered cup, its porcelain warm from the tea, ”how can I say no, with a reputation like that?” He holds it close, breathing in its warmth, and is about to lift it to his lips -
”Although,” he lowers it slowly before he can take a drink, ”they say it’s rude, to drink alone.”
He smiles again at her, his teeth white and pearlescent. And in the time between them he imagines a string, pulling them closer, wheedling her secrets out of her (secrets for him to take back to his brother, to use, to hoard.) "I don't suppose you have another glass?"
Toulouse can hear the music of the lounge still drifting through the air around them, low and sensuous.
the motherland don't love you,
the fatherland don’t love you.
so why love anything?
the faithless; they don't love you
the zealous hearts don’t love you.
and that's not gonna change.
ut deo.
@aghavni
at last <3
enfanir