b e x l e y
WE LAUGH, & IT PITS THE WORLD AGAINST US.
This whole thing is fucking absurd is the first thing out of Bexley’s mouth when she storms free of the previously-collapsed Summit. The lament is aimed at no one in particular, but it is absolutely venomous. Covered in a thin film of dust, braids starting to unwind, setting random patches of dry grass on fire as she prowls over them, Bexley’s first and foremost thought is I want to leave, followed immediately by a craving for alcohol as she remembers that it’s up to Seraphina to dismiss the regime. Bex can’t help rolling her eyes at the thought of lingering a moment a longer, but the deeply submerged, logical part of her at least recognizes that only the gods know what will happen next - if were something to happen in their absence, leaving too early might set them at a distinct disadvantage, and Solterra simply can’t afford another disadvantage.
So drinks it is.
An obnoxiously large horde of civilians has gathered just beyond the clearing, milling around as they kill time in nervous wait for their regime. Bodies on bodies on bodies - Bexley’s not sure she’s ever seen such a big crowd in Novus, sans the one that gathered around the opium tent at Dawn’s festivals. What a wonderful scene to return to. With a curled lip and a huffed, annoyed exhale, Bex steels herself and plunges in, shoulders squared, head ducked, ignoring the questions of what happened and where are they? that flood her from every side as she tries to pass through the throng. Bodies jostle her from every side. The stinging scent of sweat and fear fills the air. And of course, Bex is disgusted by it.
All she wants is to leave. To go home, to sleep on the cool, cricket-loud shores of the Oasis, maybe to apologize to Seraphina for all the damage that her big mouth might have done. But none of those wants are accessible. Gods, if she could just get a drink -
Like an omen, a familiar form appears ahead of her, caught a few strides away in the huddle of bodies. Bexley’s head snaps up. Is that her? - yes, that rose-quartz skin, the spiraling horn, the only face recognizable in this teeming, horrible crowd. Relief washes over her. Pavetta! she calls out, shoving her way toward the caretaker. I need to get drunk. Wanna come?
@pavetta <3
