The boy could stay in this place forever, with its brightly colored tents, and the din of the night drowning his senses. There is too much to see, too much to hear, too much even to smell in this world. It is a place that dreams are made of, and the boy is lost in the magic of it all. He takes everything in, wanting the market to consume him and take him into this land of play and mystery. Wandering between the booths, his emerald eyes are wide and eager to drink it all in, scouring this place and committing it to memory.
He narrowly skirts the fire breather, close enough to feel the heat of the flame against his scales. Sweat sheens against him – whether in fear or in warmth – and he offers a sheepish smile to the jeering male as he skirts away and toward a gypsy dancer. Shaking with her music, he jingles in his own way, the items in his satchel tumbling against each other as he trots in place and swings his head from side to side. Grateful for her music, he tosses her a coin before continuing past the smoke and chaos toward the strange grey tent.
Blinking, the boy steps inside where he is met by the toothy grin of the soothsayer. She whispers to him, low enough that only he can hear, and promises him the moon. Drawn into her spell, the boy nods eagerly, one thought rising above all the rest. Who am I? But these are not the answers she offers. Instead, his mind shifts to the dreams – the ones he’s had for as long as he could recall. Of the girl with flowers in her hair, the magic dagger, the spitting anger in a chain-laden boy’s voice, the chittering of an otter, the tangy scent of blood against mounds of winter snow.
@Official Night Account
