I knew a summer child when I saw one. It was not just the fact that he was golden, like the sun or sand or fields of wheat. It was something about the heft of his shoulders. It didn’t matter what his story was, how tragic or painful it could be; he was born in a time of bounty, and he glowed with it.
I, on the other hand, was a winter child. It didn’t matter what my story was, how I was offered the world and taught how to take it-- if it was what I wanted. (yet I was expected not to take but to give. Because I was the legacy of the selfless, the one (of two) thing(s) they did for themselves.) I was born in a time of thrift, and for the rest of my life I would echo that need.
We were not complete opposites, but we had our differences. I didn’t know this at first. I might not ever know this, if he did not let me.
I only watched him for a little bit before revealing myself. “Halt!” I jumped from the bushes and into the middle of the well-worn trail, horn poised in a way I hoped was fearsome. A second later, Furfur trotted out after me, yawning. Despite my silent urging he remained stoic. Not even the slightest bare of his teeth. We had been waiting in ambush on this road for hours now. I was young and bored and in desperate need of entertainment, so I decided to play Trolls. Naturally, I played the troll.
Now, before this gets too far I should note this was an unusual game for me. I was a quiet, introspective child, more interested in wandering the forest talking to rocks than pretending to assault men much bigger, a little older, and (I assumed) only marginally more mature than me. Blame it on boredom or growing pains or the inevitable changes that were about to take hold of me. I was growing up, and it was not a comfortable process for anyone.
I took up a fighting stance, horn lowered daringly, and though I tried my hardest to be serious, I really really tried, I could not keep the smile from leeching into my voice. “What’s the password?”
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@Locke this takes place on the road to Night Court. I hope this works! <3
Fortune. It glowed in his mind brighter than gold, and shimmered more lustfully than any jewel. Riches abound, fortune awaits, in the Night Markets. Or so the rumors said. They had snagged ahold of Locke, hooked him in his very lungs like fish caught by the gills on a hook being reeled in.The poor youth was lead far from his own lands to promises of a carnival of the senses, capitalism, and avarice. That was how the young thief found himself on the well traveled road south towards his awaiting adventure.
Perhaps he should have guessed that all was going too smoothly. Afterall the first part of his venture had included a horse falling from the sky for god’s sake,and this peaceful morning afield, winding his was through the prairie was blissful, relaxing, utterly enjoyable and most importantly, far too quiet. Yet the calm of the day had drugged him, washing him in a sense of normality that should have set his sense on high had he listened to his tutors more. Usually he kept himself well in check, but the more social he’d become, the heavier he felt the drag of memories, voices, and emotions of the past. Those he was happy to escape by following the pied piper of the peaceful prairie.
That is until he ran into the ambush. Jolting back with a snort and awake from his unconcerned travel the young thief stepped back several paces, feathers lifting in surprise. It was just a young thing though (of course it could have been a rabbit and the young foolish son would have likely still had the same reaction). Armed and ready, but younger than even he. So immediately Locke’s head tilts back and he settles to really see past the flash of horn and commanding tone, to the short height, yawning pup, and singularity.
Never underestimating an opponent for their appearance was a better taught (and experienced) lesson than the one he had just failed, so the young thief does not raise a brow, or laugh to the small girl...yet. Instead he settled himself back, soothing his shock to curiosity, not trying to false face her. She obviously was doing all that particularly deceitful work for him, or trying to, as she demands the password.
Part of him thought her serious, a true sentry keeping watch (for in his time spent learning of this world at the sun’s home he had heard many things about the Night Court). Yet most of him, rooted in that suave and assurity that only a youth thinking themselves grown can possess, saw a lone young mare, with humor in her voice, as nothing but an invitation to play. And Locke ever so loved playing games. So the boy let’s a frown fall on his face, and head drop ashamed. “Password? Hmm, that might be a problem.” Insincerity of his shown emotion wrapped his words in a layer of dust, aging them past their due and keeping the theme she had begun of revealing the truth through all but words. “I was told not to give it to anyone, least it be whispered to the wrong ears.” Locke stepped towards the slip of a filly. “How do I know you aren’t just trying to steal it?” The young thief was the first to break and let one corner of his mouth lift to reveal his internal thoughts on this charade. Whether she was or was not a sentry was irrelevant, the game had begun, and ever since it had he’d left thoughts of his past which had weighed him like an anchor all morning, far behind. For that, Locke liked her already.
"Speaking."
OOC:: @Aspara She's adorable. I love her already! Hope you like!
It was a warm day for winter, and the sun felt hot and hungry on my back. Far above us, seafoam clouds ambled across a cornflower blue sky. Nearby, the trees lining the narrow road swayed slow and lazy. I watched how the stranger’s creamy white forelock wavered in the breeze as his expression morphed from surprise to curiosity to something like warmth. It was like watching water flowing.
In those days I was constantly underestimated, particularly by boys and adults-- and that was most of the world. But the golden stranger did not underestimate me, and for that I instantly liked him. But I had to be very very careful to hide my delight. I wore, as they say, my heart on my sleeve, although I went through great, painful lengths to attempt not to. So the edge of my lips might have curled upward for just a moment, but I was quick to temper the expression.
“Hah! I can hardly trust someone with... feathers.” I tried very hard not to wince at my own crude sentence. I don’t know where this feather prejudice came from... I just scrambled for a reason to not trust him, and the feathers seemed like his least trustworthy features. The rest of him was normal. Likeable, even, though I would die before admitting such a thing..
I stared at the boy with as much judgement and deliberation as I could muster. “State the password or my wolf will eat you.” I was quite good at being serious. Furfur took a sidelong look at me as I urged him in the place only we could hear, “play along, please? For me?” After an overdramatic sigh, he raised his lips in the slightest snarl. I beamed my enthusiastic appreciation through the bond between us. I had forgotten about my face, which had broken out into a triumphant smile. This I quickly smothered as I returned to the game at hand.
“Or,” my eyes gleamed with pleased mischief, “you can pay the toll. It’s up to you.” I shrugged, conveying practiced nonchalance. I could certainly get used to playing games that were crafted in my favor.
It was a rare occurrence Locke found someone younger than he. Rare and utterly delightful. It only added to his delight as he saw the eagerness gleaming in her, brought forth, little doubt, by her seemingly successful ambush. It was contagious in the most wonderfully intoxicating sensation to feel the same emotions bubble forth in his blood and roll through his head (washing away the last of the grim his more serious conversations had left there).
“Ah! Such ignorance, proud sentry!” He chides her while still cajoling her with the title and ever present smile. The young thief pauses, letting in a beat, before whipping back at her. “Everyone deserves to be distrusted, not just those with feathers.” And a meaningful up-down assessment is given to her and the dutiful half asleep watch wolf.
Yet he does not interrupt her hold up and threats anymore. How rude it would be to talk over your robber, as if they did not matter. Besides his delight at seeing one so young toss about the knives of violence and threat so joyously was a siren song to the ghost of his own foalhood. Having not long left it, and having cherished it more than any other time in his short life, it hadn’t needed much convincing to come out to play. So Locke listens, letting his frown rise again, though he struggled just as much as she to make it hold (having to reassert it the same moments she had).
With her threat delivered, all she was missing was a knife to spin. His head rises up from her level, holding taunt in feigned arrogance, but betrayed ever still by that half lipped smirk and relaxed stance. “Ah well, as you breathe and speak, I see you as distrustful and wishing only to steal the magical words.”Would likely help if there had ever been any to begin with. “And as it seems your blood thirsty hound is full and so he will not be having me for a snack...” Proud head comes down, casting a wary look to the wolf as he traded her a secret. “Besides, between us, I’m rather boney.” Her wink was returned with a smooth practiced mannerism. (Just don’t tell anyone he practiced that move three days by the creek when he was two years old) Then just as quickly he gains back his high headed smirk. “And last, but most regretfully my dear ambusher, you will find me rather penniless.” Like a mirror, echoing her own moves, he adds a shrug of exhausted indifference.
What a delightful game (the possibility it could become more serious simply was not able to find purchase in the youth’s thoughts). “So as you are the clever one here, what do you propose we do?”
I liked to dance. I liked to be moved by music, and it seemed to me the most natural thing in the world; swaying like a reed in the breeze, or swirling like a riptide.
The game we played was not unlike dancing. A little give, a little take. A flow, a pulse. Like blood, I suppose, but if there was any red to the scene it was forgotten. All I remember is gold and white and green. Scars and feathers and charm.
He was not wrong, about everyone deserving to be distrusted. Papa tried to teach it to me. For your safety, he said, you can’t trust anyone you don’t know. But it was a lesson that some defiant seed in me refused to learn. And even though I looked sidelong and suspicious at the golden boy, I already felt safe with him.
The problem was this: I was not very good at not being myself. This ruse I had put on, this portrayal of a girl louder, bolder, more careless than myself, it could never last. It wanted to fade, and it took a lot of energy for me to keep appearances going. To skim the surface of conversation, to banter when my natural inclination was to dive deep. But then I saw an opportunity to align my two selves: the lonely girl and the story teller’s daughter.
I snorted. “Well fine. If all you have is your tongue, you will have to pay me with a story.” I carved a delicate frown into my expression. Something disappointed. It was surely at odds with the spark in my eyes. “It better be a good one,” I said with an air of haughty expectation. “Or I’ll set my wolf on you. Unfortunately for you, he quite likes bones.”
I nudged Furfur with my leg, and with a heavy sigh he wagged his tail as if in excitement. "And to prove I'm no roadside thief, I will escort you to the court. Or wherever it is you're heading." The court proper, the night markets, the seaside, the mountains... wherever his destination in Denocte, I could guide him there with my eyes closed. Despite my young age, this was my country and I knew it like the skin on my back.
