Acton had lost track of what day of the festival it was; all he knew was it was late, and dark, and he was well on his way to being drunk.
This place, this event, was pretty enough, but he couldn’t stop wondering what was going on in Denocte. There was no darker underbelly, here – or if there was he hadn’t yet found it. There were times when he might have been satisfied with clean fun, content to perform and watch others do the same – but oh, not when the sun set. Not when the buzz set in. Not when each whiff of woodsmoke still made him think of that disastrous meeting where Reichenbach all but threw down his crown for the will of his regime.
So you see, it was for the best he distracted himself with laughter and liquor.
There had been a storm, earlier in the day, and the grass was still silver-wet beneath the moonlight. But all the stars were out, and the lanterns cast a cheery glow on the pathways. Music floated from the main stage, but it wasn’t enough for Acton – he craved something thicker, lower, grittier. He wanted shadows patterning his skin, wanted the glitter of shattered glass instead of wet grass. He wanted to go home.
Or he wanted to get drunk enough to forget what he wanted altogether.
He was winding his way back to the liquor booth he’d been frequenting when the scent of lavendar caught him. It was not altogether strange – not with the pathways lined with flowers, pungent from the recent rain. But this smell caught him with a memory, and he stopped in the middle of the path (to the protest of a few around him, who received the kind of look that sent them on their way with no comment). It only took a second to spot her, silver and rose and dapples like smoke.
Acton didn’t have to think before moving toward her, and that was a relief in itself. He wasn’t yet to stumbling (though he remembered getting to that point with her, before, and wouldn’t mind it again), but he did lean just a little precariously toward her. He was wearing his first grin of the evening, and his voice was a little louder than their proximity called for. “Nameless girl! Did you ever finish your fairytale?”
Pavetta drifted along like smoke, neither here nor there, just flowing with the sway of the crowd, lingering at the vendors and booths in the dreamy glow of lantern light. For no other reason than she felt like it, Pavetta had decided to wear her best this evening—the intricate and flowing garb she received as a gift from the night of her initiation into her husband’s clan, marking her as a high ranking bride and worthy fighter. Not that anyone here knew that. Here, she was just another face in the crowd swathed in festival attire, another Dawn court lady out to celebrate music and art.
But mostly she was here for the drink. As was her former drinking accomplice from Denocte, it would appear.
She had not planned on seeing him ever again, quite frankly. But she instantly recalled his voice: the careless drawl, the hint of easy laughter on his lips, and gauging by the loud tone, he’d only just begin his nightly run. That made two of them.
Nameless girl.
She smiled demurely, moving to meet him. The firelight brought out the bold colors of his skin, the gleam of his eyes. Yes, she recalled his cleverness more clearly now, despite the hazy cloud of drink they had last met under. “So we meet again.”
She remembered very little about the later hours of the night, only that she hadn’t wanted it to end. “It didn’t end happily ever after, that’s for sure,” she said with a huff as she settled in beside him. “No prince anywhere to speak of and I woke up lost in the bushes of Denocte with a severe hangover.” Admittedly, it was not her finest hour. “And what of you? Come to relive that night over again and buy me pretty things?"
a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---
He could feel that grin on his lips, warm as the liquor in his belly or the firelight on the summer air, and it was one of only a few things that felt real as she closed the space between them.
Acton didn’t comment on her outfit, though he raised an appreciative brow at it – as before he was caught more thoroughly by the glint in her eyes, the way the light danced on her gleaming horn. The things about her that promised danger in addition to just heightening beauty.
The buckskin snorted a laugh at her answer, though he also shook his head. “That is a Denoctian happy ending, friend. Especially considering nobody picked your pockets.” Curiously, he felt a little thrill of satisfaction that she claimed to have found no prince, though he had no right to the feeling. He couldn’t even claim a name for her, and he wasn’t even a pauper at the moment.
More like a refugee, or a runaway.
Her question reminded him sharply of the position he was in, and he shook his head, rueful. There was a part of Acton that wanted to share all with her – who better to listen than someone nameless? It would be like making a confession to a priest, if said priest had also helped you empty several tankards – but that part of him warred with his pride.
For now, the one that had always been the victor won out.
“‘Fraid not,” he said. “My pockets are empty, and these people would doubtless not take well to money that vanished as soon as I left. You’ll have to find someone else to spoil you tonight.”
“So we are friends, friend? Surely we are no more than mere acquaintances? After all, we haven’t even introduced ourselves.” What is the name behind your mask, golden man? But the game was fun and so she let it go on. All in good time. “Perhaps I was the pocket-picker and not the other way around—you ought to be more careful with the company you keep.”
Her smile was subtle, demure. It certainly was not beyond her nature to nick someone’s goods when no one was looking. After all, if a tree fell in the forest and no one was there to witness, did it really fall? Did it really mean she was stealing if no one knew?
"And what of your fairy tale ending? Did you convince some poor maiden to eat the food after I had gone?"
Her smile turned wolfish, feral.
The drink was strong and she wanted more. But was it really the drink she wanted more of, or something—someone else?
Pavetta was keen to notice his glance, the way his golden eyes lingered on the sheen burgundy cloth draped across her back, spilling down her sides like wine. Did she seem ridiculous? Was she overdressed? She couldn’t discern his thoughts, the shadowed expression on his face suggested his mind was elsewhere, somewhere far away and far from what she chose to wear.
Pavetta dismissed such frivolous thoughts—she would no longer second guess herself, no longer would she doubt. The strange unicorn in the woods would frown on such childish antics, of what a mere boy thought of a girl. Pavetta straightened; she liked the way the silky cloth felt on her skin, the way the jewelry glittered in the moonlight and the cold kiss it left on her dappled skin.
She was who she was and damn what anyone else thought.
Her Denocte guide seemed the same as the first time she had met him: jolly and drink, velvet smooth, and yet…he did not belong here. He did not own the shadows here as he did in Denocte. “Your pockets may be empty but mine are not. What does my Denocte guest desire tonight?”
a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---
“Oh, I think some of the best friends are the ones whose names you don’t even know,” he answered her, and then laughed again at her follow-up statement. As if reassessing her Acton leaned back, studying her with that molten-gold gaze, and if she was just a little fuzzy at the edges from all the drinking he’d done, well, there was no need to mention that.
“Hardly the first time I’ve been warned of that,” he said, and scowled as though it bothered him at all. The buckskin was surprised to find that thinking of the other Crows, now, didn’t sting nearly so badly as it had a few hours ago – but that should have been no shock. Alcohol was a wonderfully blunting thing, the best kind of magic he had right now.
His amber eyes caught the way her smile turned wolfish, and he couldn’t help the way his own lips crooked up in response. “No time for that, when I was working on a worse hangover than yours.”
He couldn’t remember if they’d ever touched in the city of starlight – a brush of shoulders, a bump of muzzle – but he found he wanted to, now. Sharp eyes, sharp horn, a treasure map of scars; soft cloth smooth as water, draping, flowing, dark as wine or blood in the gathering shadows.
Acton took another step toward her; easy to think he was only being propelled by the current of people around them.
“Such a hospitable pickpocket,” he said, and arched a brow at her, eyes laughing. Their last adventure was as much a blur as this one already was, for him – had he told her of the Crows? He knew they’d gone to the bar run by one, but couldn’t recall if they’d gotten much into his profession. Now he was no longer in Denocte, he supposed it didn’t matter either way.
Indeed, it was a good night for forgetting, and for distracting. He doubted there was a better companion for both in the whole of Novus.
“I’ll start with whatever you’re having,” he said, “but only if it’s strong.” A wink, and then he stepped past her, just so happening to bump her hip with his own as he did. He’d already memorized the path to the three nearest liquor-booths; as he headed for one now, he glanced back at her, wrapped in her shadows and her silk, and if he hadn’t been so drunk his gaze would have been almost keen. “Are you from Delumine, then? If my being here makes me your guest.”
He wondered if they might unravel all of one another’s secrets tonight.
“Probably because the time is spent blacked out or high as the moon and there’s no time to ask for meaningless things like names.” She smiled in agreement; she was fond of him and their drinking expeditions, their fade to black nights. She had never met someone like him (someone who wanted nothing in return but a good time), and this was only the second time they had met. They had laughed and drank and laughed some more.
Had they…flirted, touched, embraced? She glanced away, briefly, no longer than the flash of lightning. Hopefully he would miss her shyness and hesitation; hopefully her edges were blurred, his eyesight not as keen as it might have been otherwise; hopefully the drink had dulled his sight, his senses, his memories. Of course they had. Pavetta had been without companionship, closeness, contact for so long; she did not trust herself to be the innocent princess home before midnight…she missed the caress of a man, the whisper of promises no man could keep. But who said she had not whispered promises her own?
A sweet lullaby in the dark, the sigh of two lovers together.
Surely that had not happened during their night in Denocte.
She could not forget Fearghal so soon, so cruelly. Or could she?
“I’m just returning the favor—surely that was no coin of your own that bought me such expensive perfume.” She smiled a crooked, lazy smile, matching his own and disguising her own doubt about what may or may not have transpired that night in Denocte. He seemed a bit more tuned up than she; that needed to be fixed, immediately. “This isn’t my coin either, so I ought to buy you a gift to remember the nameless girl by.”
“The wine here is excellent,” she assured him, returning to herself and the desire for drink, for numbness. The glowing lanterns, the singing of melancholy love stories in the air. She smelled the sweet smoke of vendor stalls; the food, the fires, the wine, the promises of the night.
“I would not be at this festival were it not." His wink was charming, roguish. But who was he behind the charm, behind the liquor? Who was he raw? Pavetta did not want him drunk beyond remembrance; she wanted him as he was, as he was meant to be. But was she brave enough? She didn’t think so. It was easier to hide beyond the wine and the fine clothing, the drink, and the endless stars that night. And so she ambled the cobblestones with him, weaving through the crowd like serpents, fluid and easy. She felt his skin, the subtle whisper of his flank against hers.
“Yes, Delumine is my home. It is fair, is it not?” she asked as they wandered the streets in search of drink, of blood red wine. Perhaps not like Denocte, swathed in shadow and starlight. But Delumine harbored a unique beauty of its own. “It’s peaceful here. Unlike anywhere I have ever been.” Her voice trailed off. She thought of the Rift and of the monsters and of the cruel gods and of the innocent blood spilled. “I came here two seasons ago through a portal...I remember a flash of green light...,” her voice trailed off, wondering if she had offered too much, but unable to dissuade her tongue from speaking more. She had only spoke to Somnus about her unexpected arrival in Novus, of the world she came from.
They were at the wine vendor, side by side, breath for breath. Dozens of dazzling wine goblets embedded with gems and jewels littered the moonlit counter, glittering in the starlight, free for the taking, for the tasting. Rose quartz eyes met his; a dare. “Bottoms up, friend.”
“Oh, Nameless Girl, you wound me. I do get up to other things, every now and again.” No need to mention that those other things included thieving, cheating at cards, aiding in espionage, or (very rarely) murder. He didn’t even mention, at the moment, his proclivity for magic tricks – some things were better kept waiting for the right moment, and some better left in the shadows altogether.
She had whispered him no promises, for Acton surely would be remembering them now. The only womanly contact he’d had in recent months was a bombshell blonde beating his kneecap in, and that had certainly put a damper on any would-be pursuits.
So her proximity now has his every nerve aware, or at least as much as they could be when the world wasn’t swimming gently past every time he closed his eyes. “It was my money,” he said, eyeing her lovely lupine grin, “though I somehow can’t recall how it was earned.”
He was almost surprised to hear how easily she admitted to belonging here, and was certainly surprised by the little thrill he felt go through him at the knowledge. What might she say, if he admitted the truth: that Denocte was his home no longer, that he was, for the forseeable future, staying here? A part of him wanted to tell her, wanted to remove the mask, set aside the game; the truth tripped up against the back of his teeth. But then he only nodded, and whisked his tail against his hocks, a whisper like long grass against his skin.
“Fairer that I thought it a moment ago, before I knew you lived here.” It sounded too true, almost dangerously so; he tried to disguise it with a crooked grin, and was grateful when she continued speaking. His heart had skipped ahead, too fast; it was a relief to let it slow now.
Almost he missed the significance of what the talk turned to, but at the mention of a portal he stopped, and looked her full in the face, though any seriousness was ruined by his slight drunken swaying.
“Funny, I met a kid last fall who said she arrived the same way. Aren’t you afraid it’s gonna happen again – just flash of light, poof, gone?” The thought struck him as funny, and the buckskin laughed, though there was doubtless something unsettling about it. But for Acton the concept was worlds away from his own life – no gods, no portals, only slight magic; full only of little dramas, the kind that existed between men.
They were at the vendor, now, and he turned to look over the impressive array of goblets. When his shoulder brushed once more against hers, he did not draw away, though when he spoke it was a dark mutter, mostly to himself. “And they say the Dusk queen can open up holes between worlds, but pfft, if that were true Reich and Iso would be canoodling on the moon by now.”
The wine, when it was passed to them, was a deep and bloody red, near-black in the darkness; if he looked at the lazy circle of it, he could almost make out his own reflection, trembling back up at him. Acton didn’t care to see himself so revealed, so he was glad to look up and find her eyes on him. Gladder still to recognize the look in them; one he knew, one he understood, one it was no challenge to meet.
Bottoms up, indeed.
He drank deeply of the wine – he was not a man who imbibed with much finesse – and closed his eyes as it ran its bitter warmth down his throat, to pool in his belly like fire. Then he licked his lips and glanced back at her. “Me, I arrived by boat, like the sensible man I am.”
“Like what?” she dared ask, curiosity glittering in her quartz eyes. What exactly did he get up to in his spare time, outside parading through festivals and buying women pretty things? Why did he hide behind such a facade? Pavetta could understand most of it, certainly. She herself craved the drink so she might enjoy the freedom to experiment, to travel, to present a new mask of confidence and intrigue wherever she might go, to whoever she might meet. But rather than encourage their habits this night, she wanted more. More than the sly smile he offered.
She wanted truth amid the smoke and masks and stars this night.
“Although it is indeed fair, Delumine is probably a bit more docile than what you’re accustomed to over in Denocte.” Dawn certainly was a softer place, more pastel and daydreams than the shadow and firelight of Denocte. It had grown on her, though. She had felt a certain restlessness when she first arrived in the fair vale of green and flowers and gray, rain-filled dawns. It was a place of melancholy, of solitude. A hidden place, untouched by most of the strife of Novus. For now, anyhow. Surely even this peace couldn’t last forever.
He jabbered along, almost chatting in a nervous manner—why should he be nervous? And so she helped usher him in the right direction, swaying along with him through the crowd as she pondered his idle chatter. He seemed lost, misplaced. A denoctian in Delumine.
She waited until they had both drank deeply from the goblets of sparkling wine. Pavetta had not thought about the portal that had brought her here for some time. She drank once more, until the stars seemed brighter, the colors more vivid, the night blacker. A pleasant haze of warmth bloomed in her chest. “Do you mind if we take a walk?—Well, in your case, you can stagger along.” The path through through the vendors and booths was lit by glowing lanterns, casting golden light across their skin as they ambled under the forest edge.
“I entered the portal by choice. I could have stayed in my home realm but there was nothing for me there. Here, there may be.” That night she had been running, running, running. Running from the pyre, the flames licking in the sky, the emptiness in her heart. She missed him on nights like these. When the drink was too potent and the sky was beautiful—for he had always been a man of the moon and stars, a man of shadow and shade, earth and rain. And suddenly, the guilt leaked through the dam she had built over the past few months, the guilt of abandoning her clan, the clan she had been meant to lead after Fearghal’s passing. Her shorn hair had grown back but she feared a small part of her had disappeared forever. She didn't think she could ever know a man again the way she had known Fearghal.
He mentioned the Dusk queen and Pavetta’s eyes widened in surprise. “I think I have met such a woman…in the woods of lovers and secrets. Do you know the place?” Perhaps she ought to blush when she mentioned she had been lurking in Amare Creek with a golden fairy woman but she was too intrigued by the rumors he shared. “She was mysterious indeed. If that is what is said about her I believe it—the powers, I mean—I don’t know anything about this canoodling on the moon you speak of.” She thought she ought to tell him that if he ever intended to engage in female companionship of the intimate sort, he really ought to avoid the word canoodle. It didn't exactly inspire the flames of passion, after all. She looked closely at him, delighted that the wine had loosened his tongue more than usual. “Who are Reich and Iso? Friends of yours in Denocte?”
“Ah, by boat makes sense,” she said, almost to herself. She smiled wryly. “That is why you seem so adrift. What are you really doing here, friend? Like I said, Delumine seems a bit tame for you and your kind.” She didn’t fail to notice the way their skin brushed, for the second, or even third time. It felt nice. “Before we take ourselves too seriously, I need another drink.” She opened the bottle and let it flow; the wine stained her lips red.
“I’m a magician,” he told her, a silver note of pride clear in his voice despite the drunken syllables. And then he frowned, his brow furrowing as he reconsidered. “Or at least I was. Here, look -“
His intent was to conjure a standard deck of cards, one she could pull from for a classic trick, but what materialized between them was all strange. Instead of the normal suits, there were stars and horseshoes, dragons and cups. None of the numbers matched, and all the lines were squiggly. It was a drunkard’s deck, a dream deck, and the cards were flying everywhere, all out of hand – but they each vanished before hitting the ground, to the consternation of the other passerby.
“Huh.” Acton coughed and shook his head before continuing on down the street. “I’ll show you later, maybe.” He was too drunk to be embarrassed, and instead settled back as the conversation moved on, though his expression remained a little baffled.
After both had cleared their cups at the vendor, he nodded assent to her request for a walk and followed contentedly beside her, the occasional whisper of her gossamer garb brushing against him light as a breeze. It was a pleasant evening, and the light from the lanterns seemed to bob and sway around them, casting fae shadows. A fitting setting for talk of portals and magic.
“That was brave,” he commented, and did not ask her how she had decided there was nothing for her in her home-country. Hadn’t he made the same decision once? – or maybe it was twice, now, after the Gate.
That’s temporary, he reminded himself blackly.
“I’ve no doubt you’ll find what you’re looking for here. As long as you stay away from drunkards and roustabouts.” He laughed, then, and nudged her shoulder with his own. The wine had done its blessed work – he felt warm, companionable, lighter. Only a little more, and maybe he could forget entirely the reason he was here.
He laughed at her description of Amare Creek, and the laugh was there in his eyes, too, when he cut his gaze back to hers. “I do,” he said, the tone almost like a wink, “but I’ve only been there once. I met a madwoman.” Almost, almost, the memory of the bone-pale girl and her talk of blood and death is enough to cool the night – but the wine-buzz was warm in his veins, and there was music on the wind, and he could think of no less-mad (at least in such a way) companion than the one he had now. “Florentine is something, from what I’ve heard.”
He couldn’t help his lip from lifting, just a fraction, at her next question, though he smoothed his expression back to jocularity quickly. “Reichenbach and Isorath – the Night Court Sovereign and his Emissary-slash-lover.” His voice dropped then, became something dark and sad, a long shadow in the grass. “I would not call them friends now.”
What are you really doing here, friend? Before he answered, he took the bottle from her, taking his own long draught. If he leaned against her a little as he did it, well, he could probably use the help in keeping upright.
Then he shook himself, and glanced around, gauging the interest of those surrounding them before turning his wine-blurry gaze back on her. “It’s a long story. But the short version is I left after the regime burned the pass, closed the gate, and set a dragon to keeping people from coming or going.” His breath was sweet and dark with wine; his eyes were bright molten gold on hers. He felt a hundred things and wanted to feel none.
“Some fairytale, eh?” he said, and laughed again.
@Pavetta I tried to make this shorter xD
wanna start to wrap in the next post or two? (otherwise his posts are apt to grow longer and longer until they hit 1000 words and nobody wants that)
