[P] shadows and light

[Pavetta]

p a v e t t a - - - The flames licked high into the sky, serpent tongues of fire licking and frothing, sparking; embers floated in the star-littered night like fireflies. She wandered among the throng of Night, intoxicated and entranced by the shadows cast by the light, and hypnotized by the light burning amid the shadow. What was this place? Who were these people who dwelled and danced beneath the stars? Star-people, she thought in wonder and awe. Sweet aromas she had never smelled before overwhelmed her in a dizzying haze; she wandered among the bonfires and merchant stalls as if in a dream. Would she wake up? Would she be disappointed when the dawn came, and it was time for her to return to her court of sunrises, instead of starlight? She pushed the abstract thought from her mind. Part of her belonged here, Pavetta thought, here in a crowd of beautiful moonlit strangers, and she would enjoy the Night. She stopped before a stall decorated in blue flowers and silks of every color; how her eyes glittered at the sight of such luxurious items. The vendor smiled at the gleam in her eyes and lightly settled a silken scarf the color of burgundy wine around her silver shoulders. “How lovely,” Pavetta murmured. “It suits your eyes, Noble Lady,” he purred. She laughed. “Noble Lady, I think not. Thank you for letting me try it on.” Using her weak powers of telekinesis, she removed the sash and laid it gently in a delicate twist amid his other various crafts. She wandered aimlessly, taking in every colorful sight and every interesting face. She blended with the crowd; a joyous, humming throng of mystery and moonlight. The bonfire flames danced in her eyes; rose quartz jewels alive with flame. She had never felt so intoxicated by life, had never felt so free and whimsical as she did now. Never again would she return to being a servant to a priestess or a husband. She would be Pavetta, and she would be free. Next, she stopped before a vendor with small, sparkling vials of liquids every color of the rainbow. Violet, magenta, emerald greens. The scents were sweet and delicious; musky and scandalous. The merchant glanced her over, in a practiced, precise movement. She could see his mind working, thinking. “Well, what do you think, sir? What marvelous scent would compliment me best?” She tilted her head, eyeing the quaint vials closer. “Just a hint of lavender on your throat, and you would make even the most modest of kings or queens swoon.” For effect, a small vial with a sparkling violet liquid with flecks of shimmering light inside floated before her and misted her cheeks and throat, leaving sparkling, diamond-like residue glittering on her silver skin. “Every maiden’s dream, I am sure.” She fluttered her eyelashes sarcastically and tossed her silver-rose locks, enjoying the sweet aroma that now flowed around her like an invisible ribbon. “But you have me convinced. What do I owe you, sir?" isn't it a little late, shouldn't you fly away?  little dove with cigarettes ---

@Acton

[Acton]

 
The scene was a familiar one to Acton, but that didn’t mean he loved it any less.

He was fully at home here amid the spiraling smoke, the drums that beat steady or frantic like the echo of his own heart, the shine of eyes, the shine of coins. Everything here was enhanced, a dream that never ended: that was the charm of the Night Court. A smile, a wink, the stars as a crown; it was a world made for wishes and oh, how Acton loved the illusion.

Because of course that’s what it was. As many dreamers as the night markets drew, there were no shortage of them that woke late the next morning with dully throbbing heads and lighter pockets. Not all of their coin had been taken honestly; the Crows knew that better than anyone. Acton knew that Denocte was chock full of both magic – and marks.

Tonight, though, he had no plans for Crow business (other than drinking and carousing, but that was always a given for him). After his recent activities, even Reich thought it best the buckskin lay lower than usual, and so tonight he only wandered, winding his way through the chaotic throng.

It’s a woman who looked a little like smoke herself that caught his eye, firelight and moonlight glancing off her silver horn as she stood at a perfume vendor’s stall. She was a stranger, and maybe that’s what interested him most; on a whim he cut toward her through the crowd, the rich deep floral scent of lavender meeting him as he arrived in time to overhear her conversation.

“You owe him nothing,” he said, and sent a silver coin spinning in an arc to the merchant, who accepted it with a grin and turned his attention demurely away. Acton winked in return, then settled his attention full on the unicorn, from the glitter of the perfume like starshine on her throat to the echoing glimmer of her eyes. His smile was just a hint of a thing, the sly sliver of moon behind a cloud. “As a Denoctian, I appreciate your support of our vendors. For my payment, on the other hand – how about your name?”



@Pavetta 

these violent delights have violent ends

[Pavetta]

p a v e t t a - - - He was unexpected; a delightful surprise with amber eyes. Almost jewel-like in the way that they glittered in the firelight, brighter than the silver coin winking in the air before the merchant tucked it away and left them be. She pocketed the vial of perfume in her satchel, facing the stranger: the Denoctian. Danger and mystery. Golden skin, wild black hair, a hairless scar branded on his shoulder. Who was he? She could not resist, and who could blame her? His smile was sly and faint as a shadow, as if he knew something she didn’t. “Mmm.” She matched his sly grin, lavender perfume glittering on her throat. She wondered at the game they might play together. “All the fairy tales say I shouldn’t tell you my name and that we have but until midnight before I must flee.” She matched his sly grin, rose-quartz eyes bright with mischief. “I think we would remember each other more fondly, come the dawn, if we remained mysterious strangers to each other. Don’t you?” She sidled casually away into the bustling hum of activity, flaxen silver-rose hair swaying in her wake. “What else ought I see in this Court of Mystery and Intrigue before midnight?” she asked him, glancing briefly over her shoulder, wondering what the Night held for them. isn't it a little late, shouldn't you fly away?  little dove with cigarettes ---

@Acton

[Acton]

 
He was intrigued from the first moment the smile touched her lips, the kind of look worn by a cat with a secret. Acton wondered if his own looked as at home, and he twisted an ear forward, ignoring the cacophony of the night around in favor of her words.

And then he laughed, delighted, at her mention of fairy tales. Little about her seemed like a village maiden, slipped away to the forest, and he was far from a fae prince – but he nodded anyway. “Best not eat the food, then,” he said, the echo of the laugh still in his voice. “or you’ll have to stay.”

Don’t you? Acton made a low noise at the question, half between a huff and a sound of consideration. His gaze, which had been traveling down the blade of her horn and over the scar across her eye (and oh how he wondered at the story of that), flicked to catch her own. They were bright in the firelight, and made him think of all the dares he’d taken, all the bets he’d lost and won. “I think,” he began, “that I am not the first poor fool you’ve separated from his coin.” Nor would he be the last – but Acton gave no sign of minding.

There was little he loved more than a challenge. Never mind that the last woman who hadn’t given him her name when he found her in the midnight streets was Bexley; maybe this stranger was right to be wary.

With a last glance at the merchant – a raised brow the seller met with a smile and a shake of his head – the buckskin followed the unicorn back into the throng. The scent of lavender and the pale shroud of her hair led him softly on, a trail of moonlight into a mad wood.

At her question he pulled his gaze from the revelry around them, drawing up beside her as they passed a troubadour whose voice rose and fell hauntingly in the Rahilah gypsy language. Acton had no doubt it was about a love story turned tragic – so many ballads were.

“That depends on what you’re looking for,” he answered. “There are the parts everyone comes to see…” he gestured with his muzzle to the world around them: the sweetbreads and first fruits of spring being sold, the fire-dancers performing with a wide berth and bright showers of sparks, the laughing, dancing, drunken crowd. “And then there are…other things.” The things well-hidden in Caligo's dark. Here he only shrugged, though his grin turned wicked for a moment before vanishing. “But I always like to begin with a drink.”




@Pavetta 

these violent delights have violent ends

[Pavetta]

p a v e t t a - - - He was right; she was not some village maiden come to dance with princes and elves and fairy tales beneath the moon. She was in-between—certainly not who she had once been, but neither was she sure about who she wanted to become. Pavetta had found freedom for the first time in her life and she knew not what to do with it or what destiny might lay before her. Less then a year ago she had been a servant, then a bride, then a widower. Now what was she? A silver nymph in the moonlight, come to dance in the shadows. The light of day was too revealing, too stark. Here she could wrap herself in mystery and pretend, and the man with the black mask didn’t seem to mind. He made a quip about not eating the food; she grinned at his cleverness.  And so their game continued.  She felt his eyes tracing her skin and the contours of her face, lingering on the scar laced across her eye. His golden eyes were too intense, too sharp, too perceptive. What did he see? Could he pierce the veil of illusion, did he see what she truly was? A ghost of a girl with no real future or past? Or was her glamour of glittering perfume and lilting smiles enough to bewilder him; was the lie believable? Did she seem like a queen who knew what she wanted and always got it? Whatever he knew, or didn’t know, he didn’t say. He pretended along with her, played the part of the fool. She had not known many men in her life, but if she knew anything at all, he was far from a fool. “And I think I am not the first you have bought pretty trinkets for,” she replied. He was too practiced, too suave; it was too easy for him. But she didn’t mind, either. They were what they were and that was that. The crowd swayed around them, a river peacefully flowing, rippling, reflecting light and color. A voice, sweet and low, serenaded lovers and drunkards alike. Laughter and mirth. Shadows and light. Midnight would come too soon. That depends on what you’re looking for… Her heart rate quickened, a flurry of wings desperate to take flight. What was she looking for? Did he know that she searched for purpose, her destiny? Pieces of her former selves (servant, healer, bride, wife, warrior, orphan) lay fractured and shattered like glass all around. Was she searching for a way to piece them together in a new way, or searching for the shards that were missing?  But no, it was not some existential question. He merely referred to the physical pleasures of the night before them. She followed his gaze, his gesture, allowing the panic to fade, sinking back into the night of masquerade and shadows. Firelight and music, dancers and brawlers, food and drink. And other things…. She threw him a knowing look, amused by his suggestive, wicked grin—of course there were drunken lovers slipping away into the shadows of more, ah, private places. “One? Let’s begin with two,” she said daringly. “After all, I’ve only got until midnight." isn't it a little late, shouldn't you fly away?  little dove with cigarettes ---

@Acton

[Acton]

 
Acton loved nothing more than playing pretend.

Of course, the best fictions all had some grain of the truth, and his acts were no different. He was always himself -- sometimes he was just more, or less, or a step to the side. He had been a beggar, a thief, an orphan, a prisoner. And then he had taken the narrative into his own hands.

Those hands were a little bloody, now and again, and almost always dirty – but they worked for no one but himself. (And the Crows, but that was different; that was family).

Tonight he was the most stripped-down version of himself. The scents of the night markets clung to his thick hair, a deeper contrast to his companion’s lavender; he was utterly at home beside her, watching the glint of her jewelry in the moonlight when she spoke. Bodies wound around them, a chaotic, colorful shoal. It would be terribly easy to get swept up with them, with her, and to not surface again until…midnight.

Too early, in his opinion, to get to real fun.

“Ah, but I never get tired of being turned down,” he said amiably, and flicked his tail with a grin. A shout across an alleyway made him raise his head, missing any sign of her anxiety. It was nothing, just two friends meeting, but the buckskin filed away their faces when he turned his own back toward the unicorn.

A grin was quick to reappear at her suggestion, and he arched a brow. “Pretty and pragmatic,” he answered, glancing at her slant-wise in admiration. “I like you, nameless girl.” Swiftly he weighed the options, then tilted his head toward the city’s heart. “Follow me, then. I know of a place where it’s always on the house.” When he started forward, he allowed his shoulder to brush against hers, stirring up that floral scent sweet as any secret. If the contact was intentional, he made no sign of it, only continuing to weave through a night so loud with merriment they couldn’t hear their own steps.

Only after a moment did he glance back at her, noting again how well she fit here. She looked like a creature of smoke and starlight, not least because of all those scars. “Where is it you have to flee to,” he asked, “or is that another part of the spell?”




@Pavetta <3 I am sorry this took me so long! I love her, I'm already looking forward to their meeting in Dawn

these violent delights have violent ends