This whole thing is fucking absurd is the first thing out of Bexley’s mouth when she storms free of the previously-collapsed Summit. The lament is aimed at no one in particular, but it is absolutely venomous. Covered in a thin film of dust, braids starting to unwind, setting random patches of dry grass on fire as she prowls over them, Bexley’s first and foremost thought is I want to leave, followed immediately by a craving for alcohol as she remembers that it’s up to Seraphina to dismiss the regime. Bex can’t help rolling her eyes at the thought of lingering a moment a longer, but the deeply submerged, logical part of her at least recognizes that only the gods know what will happen next - if were something to happen in their absence, leaving too early might set them at a distinct disadvantage, and Solterra simply can’t afford another disadvantage.
So drinks it is.
An obnoxiously large horde of civilians has gathered just beyond the clearing, milling around as they kill time in nervous wait for their regime. Bodies on bodies on bodies - Bexley’s not sure she’s ever seen such a big crowd in Novus, sans the one that gathered around the opium tent at Dawn’s festivals. What a wonderful scene to return to. With a curled lip and a huffed, annoyed exhale, Bex steels herself and plunges in, shoulders squared, head ducked, ignoring the questions of what happened and where are they? that flood her from every side as she tries to pass through the throng. Bodies jostle her from every side. The stinging scent of sweat and fear fills the air. And of course, Bex is disgusted by it.
All she wants is to leave. To go home, to sleep on the cool, cricket-loud shores of the Oasis, maybe to apologize to Seraphina for all the damage that her big mouth might have done. But none of those wants are accessible. Gods, if she could just get a drink -
Like an omen, a familiar form appears ahead of her, caught a few strides away in the huddle of bodies. Bexley’s head snaps up. Is that her? - yes, that rose-quartz skin, the spiraling horn, the only face recognizable in this teeming, horrible crowd. Relief washes over her. Pavetta! she calls out, shoving her way toward the caretaker. I need to get drunk. Wanna come?
She was not Regime, not important. She was not a worshiper of gods. She was not a believer. She was a healer from the Rift, a cruel, desolate place. Only survival mattered there. She had been waiting for hours, digging, scrambling, trying to find a way into the locked pass where the Regimes were trapped. The crowd murmured and swayed, a restless, shifting mass where she was jostled to and fro. Another face in the crowd. No one. Insignificant. A star in the galaxy.
What was she doing here? Meddling with gods and kings and queens?
She could not leave Somnus, however. And so she stayed, just as shocked as everyone else when the Regimes were released. Pavetta strained, rearing to see over the milling crowd. Somnus? Ipomoea? There. They exited calmly, stoically. What had taken place behind that stone wall? Pavetta knew better than to bother the Regime at a time like this. So she slowly melted back into the crowd until she was wandering away down the slope, uncertain of where she might go next.
She ended up at Solis’ statue sometime the next day only to watch him materialize into flesh and bone and arrogant godly glory.
It was a disappointing experience to say the least.
She felt relieved when Bexley approached her boldly afterwards; golden skin glittering in the light. While the flaxen-haired mare was a new acquaintance Pavetta had thoroughly enjoyed their brief conversation before the Summit. It had been awkward and comfortable at the same time. Awkward that it felt so comfortable, perhaps. And Bexley had stood up to Solis with such recklessness, such boldness. “You really need to ask?” Pavetta laughed, glad it didn’t feel forced. "After lecturing a god I'm sure you could use a drink or ten. I could too, to be honest." She fell in step beside Bexley, wondering if she would remember the night to come, or if it would be another blur of shadows and light as it had been with Acton at the Night Markets in Denocte.
“Delumine has pretty good wine, you know. Do you need to return to your court right away?” Pavetta glanced at her slyly. “If not…follow me."
a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---
They fall into step so easily it might be a crime to look upon. While the rest of the world simmers in uneasy anticipation, chewing at their tight-strung leashes, she and Pavetta are disgustingly amicable, unworried that their synchronized steps are walked through a world set half on fire. Bexley bangs a slender shoulder against Pavetta’s as they start away from the summit and answers with an air of carelessness, Ten seems more apt. Underneath that dry humor so characteristic of Solterrans, it’s obvious that anger still lingers, an itch that can’t be scratched.
In the red light of the setting sun, Bexley’s eyes glow blue-blue-blue - the fervent wanting of an ocean, bright and bold. She walks next to Pavetta, simmering with feverish rage but casual as ever, with long strides and narrow hips swaying even as they pick their way down the slope and through pockets of crumbling rock. It seems that the touch of the Gods has set Novus to decaying. The world below them is shrouded in cold white mist, and through the haze she can see Solterra and almost doesn’t recognize it, pale and unwelcoming in the chill.
Who cares? Bexley manages to laugh at Pavetta’s question, even flashes her a shark-sharp smile. The world is ending. I don’t think it matters much where I last get drunk.
In her heard churns something hard and bitter, a sore craving for love. Bexley thinks briefly about the empty space in her heart that she carries around like her own black hole, about how Seraphina won’t miss her being gone, about how Solterra might not notice if she disappeared, and for a brief moment her eyes shutter their brightness, as if turning off completely. Her lips twist downward into a mockery of a frown. And then, disciplined as ever, she grins again and bats her eyelashes at Pavetta and pushes a shoulder against the Deluminian’s, open and flirtatious.
