i have made the obscene decision
to do something unforgivable.
to do something unforgivable.
T
he Illusionist steps out from the darkness of Solterra’s (recently rebuilt) library and shivers. He is not made for the cold. A month of snow and ice — in the desert, of all places — has chilled Caine’s perpetually frigid mood to something so terrible and absolute, the citadel’s aging librarian had wondered, once, if the scowl had simply frozen solid along the boy’s obsidian maw.
It could’ve, for all Caine cares.
Scrunching his woolen cloak tighter against him, he glares into the frosted afternoon sun and watches in silence as his breath fogs into steam in front of him, a cloud of white against a sea of blasted snow.
Never, in all his years, has Caine wished so desperately for one thing, and one thing only: everlasting warmth.
Begrudgingly, he navigates through the icy streets, each footfall a rebellion against whatever madness the gods had released upon the land. He has heard the rumors. The gods are at fault - they are always at fault. Vectaeryn, Novus — the only similarity among the divine, Caine thinks, is their unsatiatable lust for chaos.
The market gleams hazily in front of him as he nears, slivers of smoke curling into the sky from the bonfires blazing merrily in the square.
They have acclimated, the Solterrans. A people of the sun and sand, and here they are, bustling like ants among the punishing frost. Their defiance cheers him, just slightly. The impending Hunt has raised everyone’s spirits, it seems, for the streets are more crowded than Caine has seen in weeks. He never used to care for being in a throng of bodies, but now he relishes the heat they provide.
His black scowl lightens, just slightly.
The aroma is what draws him to them. Griddle cakes — is that what they call them? — flip lazily in the air, once, twice. Golden and honey-drenched and warm. He watches jealously, a raven in the shadows, as the white stallion brings one to his mouth, and the dark mare following suit. Swiftly, he draws a coin from the depths of his cloak and approaches the booth.
“I’ll take one as well.” The old man beams at his patronage, and Caine gives a cool nod of acknowledgement. As he waits for the cakes to finish, thanking (not the gods, he hates the gods) the stars that the sizzling of the grill muffles the growling of his stomach, his silver gaze sweeps, cautious yet curious, towards the others.
“A festive day today, isn’t it?” He offers, not quite smiling, but he is pleasant enough. He will be more pleasant when he sinks his teeth into that warm, oozing cake. “The hunt has worked all of Solterra into a tizzy. Not that I blame them.”
@El Toro @Elif | "speaks" | notes: caine loves griddle cakes more than he wants to admit
