[EXP] our endless numbered days;

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* He makes no note of her moving away, save for the flick of a slender ear, but he does not try again to close the space between them. Asterion hopes he has not offended her (though he is growing used to acting outside of custom, here), but he also knows what it is to be shy. Whatever her reason, their conversation continues unburdened, smooth as the shine of sunlight on water. The bay likes the idea of ghost stories, though such legends are ones he’s never been the most drawn to – but he can see such a thing, here, youths gathered with watchful, laughing eyes, finding the fun in being afraid. It has been a long time since he’s felt that little-fear, a wanted thing. But it’s her mention of mortality that truly catches his interest, and he tilts his fine-boned face toward her, the dark tangle of his forelock falling across his eyes. He peers at her through that veil of hair and she becomes a shifting thing, a magic thing, distorted by perception – until the breeze lifts his fringe from his eyes again. He had not noticed, before, the carvings on her horns. “I think you should,” he begins, “I’d like to hear what you think of it all –” but then the dark stranger points out that they have not yet exchanged names, and Asterion shakes his head at his own rudeness. A flash of gold darts by, some nameless bird from branch to branch, and it makes the bay think of Florentine, which in turn reminds him of what waits for him in Terrastella. In this turn of thoughts, he misses her own pause, the tiny hesitation that might have signaled her deception. “I’m Asterion. And under regular circumstances I would say I’m at your service, Rhea of the Tinea.” He smiles then, but it is followed soon after by a sigh. The sound of it is lost immediately amid the wistful murmur of the wind and the singing of the insects and the frogs, but the shape of it is still in his gaze when he looks at her. “But I’m afraid I should return to the court. I would like to hear more of your stories, someday – and maybe I could show you more of Novus in return.” Oh, he is sorry to tear his gaze from her and from the weathered, fading building; he feels that he may even miss the constant, close backdrop of droning insects and trilling birds. But he knows there is work to be done (always there is work to be done), and so he turns away, though Asterion cannot help a last glance. “Find me sometime? Only because I’m sure I’d end up lost if I tried to find you,” he says, and laughs. It echoes strangely in the swamp, even soft as it is, like unfurling leaves.   @Rhea