 | "And we who seek to balance pleasure and pain We blow against the wind and spit against the rain" It is perhaps unfortunate for Sloane that Eik does not use his magic tonight. If he knew the sheer effort that she was putting into being polite, he would move on quickly. It is not in his nature to inconvenience others, even in his inebriated state. As it is, he feels he ought to make up for nearly crashing into her. Besides, he has the sinking suspicion that he and Isra are circling the court looking for each other, and perhaps it is wiser to stay in one place and let himself be found. "Perhaps you've had too much," she says and he blinks, asking his body "have I had too much?" to which the response is a slow but giddy, stupefied "maybe, Eik. You're talking to me". Before he can ponder this, Sloane asks what the drink is, to which he is a little dumbfounded. There had been no one at the table to tell him. "Mmm... something like blueberry. Salt. Lavender. Alcohol." He squints at it in thought. "I think something magical too. Like this place." He grins suddenly, bright as a puppy. "Makes everything sound better, feel better." Eik is certainly not always like this. Distracted, clumsy... light somehow, like all his troubles lie on the other side of a thin veil. He can see the shape of them but not the details, not their teeth. And even if he were to reach out he could not touch them-- all he would feel would be something like linen and maybe, behind it, maybe the warmth of a fire that aches in anticipation of the bellows, of re-ignition. Part of it is the alcohol, sure, but there's something else, something that makes him feel like swaying, like moving. He is keenly aware of the music that fills the room, of the way the beat undulates like tall grass in the wind. "She's good, isn't she." His eyes rest on the singer, a chestnut with a small white snip and eyes that look right into your soul. When they turn back to the draft mare beside him, he offers her the cup once more. "I'm Eik. So how about it?" "For what could be more real than sweat and dust and sun? And what more sure than night and death and sleep?" |
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Time makes fools of us all
