BEXLEY BRIAR
The night is dying, at long last, and the thing that blooms in Bexley’s chest is undoubtedly relief. She feels the ache of a long travel in her bones like a drumbeat; her muscles whine with each extended stride. For quite a while the festival kept her sated, kept her always balancing on a high, always full of energy as she whirled from one stall to the next, from one merchant to another, from band to dancer to artist - celebrations have always been her weak spot - but now more than one serving of sweet mead fizzles in her veins, warm and numbing, and the music is starting to quiet, and Bexley is fighting to keep a smile on her face as she wanders the festival in search of somewhere quiet.
Still, the crown of waxy plumerias rests comfortably on her head, and her eyes glitter with something justifiably dangerous. Not even exhaustion can rip Bexley’s sharpness from her. Head dropped close to her chest, she weaves snakelike through the crowds, beautiful but, for once, quiet. Those already familiar with the Solterran would find such inaction strange, and it is for this exact reason that she thanks Solis, quietly, for setting her far away from anything close to a friend. Thank you for leaving me alone. Tonight is for strangers. For acquaintances at the very most. For untapped opportunity, for the feeling of sinking into something, somewhere new, no matter how fleetingly nervous it might make her, no matter how strange she might seem, slinking alone through the crush of people with purpose but with no aim.
Not that her strangeness bothers her much at this bound.
She hears a pocket of quiet open up somewhere to her left, and Bexley’s head jerks up to seek it out, white curls erupting around her in a maelstrom. The moon-silver scar on her face bursts into vision. With predatory precision she zeroes in on the slice of empty field, just barely visible over the heads of the dissippating crowd, and, breathing out a brief sigh of satisfaction, pushes toward it -
Only to be knocked nearly off her feet by a bodily weight crashing against her ribs. Letting out an involuntary squeal of surprise, she ducks sideways, leaning in and out in an attempt to regain balance, and in the flurry of a few quick steps manages to stand up straight again, this time planted firmly in place. Annoyance already hot in her blood, the golden girl whips around to catch whoever has the gall to nearly run her over, and, flush with characteristic Solterran anger, she’s already poised to speak when she meets the eyes of the perpetrator. But just as quickly as her jaw snaps open, it shuts again.
Whatever she was expecting, this was not it. She feels guilty, now, for even thinking of snapping at such a stranger: small, unthreatening, dulcet, the ringlets of her hair doll-like, the gaze that looks back at Bexley far too soft and starry to ruin.
Bex's heart slows. Perhaps it calms. She swallows her anger, pushes it deep. Accidents happen. From the Regent's mouth, it seems almost sarcastic, but still there is a cool, genuine curiosity in her eyes as she watches the stranger, noting the paint that freckles her skin and hair, the cake crushed against her wing, which Bex frowns at. There's water over there, she starts, head jerking toward a nearby well. I can help you clean up. And clean myself up while I'm at it - she adds, glancing down to find an icy trickle of Moira's drink running down her leg.
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