it coils like a molten snake,
and cuts you like a sharp knife.
this desert heat is a hunter—
it will ruthlessly take your life.
and cuts you like a sharp knife.
this desert heat is a hunter—
it will ruthlessly take your life.
Teiran didn’t know why she was here in Denocte at this masquerade they were throwing. Hadn’t she once said that she disliked parties? The Solterran soldier wasn’t dressed up, no mask or any other sort of finery draping across her body. She stood by and her sage green eyes moved over the bustling crowd filling the court. Most if not all seemed to have taken the masquerade very seriously, and she found it difficult to discern if any were also Solterrans at a distance. Masks shielded their faces and scarfs and other clothing covered the rest of them. She wondered again what she was doing here, where she so clearly did not belong.
“Stop being so fuckin’ stubborn.”
Ah, right. She remembered now. Parties meant drinking and drinking meant recklessness, and Mathias, of all she thought, was as reckless as you could get. He would drink himself to death if he got the chance she was sure, as he so often and willingly seemed to put himself into downright stupid situations. Her gaze flickered back over him as he slammed a bottle down in front of her. The equine next to her startled at the sudden noise, cursed and wandered off, drink clutched in their hand. Anyone else might have sighed, but not Teiran.
She took ahold of the bottle and lifted it, watching the way the light gleamed through the slightly golden liquid inside. It wasn’t full, since Mathias had been nursing it for awhile, and without ceremony or announcement, Teiran put the bottle to her lips and tipped it back, downing a few gulps before setting it back onto the bar. “Are you satisfied?” she said, her voice as flat as it ever was, her expression still as steel cold, while the whiskey warmed its way from the back of her throat and down to her stomach.
“Stop being so fuckin’ stubborn.”
Ah, right. She remembered now. Parties meant drinking and drinking meant recklessness, and Mathias, of all she thought, was as reckless as you could get. He would drink himself to death if he got the chance she was sure, as he so often and willingly seemed to put himself into downright stupid situations. Her gaze flickered back over him as he slammed a bottle down in front of her. The equine next to her startled at the sudden noise, cursed and wandered off, drink clutched in their hand. Anyone else might have sighed, but not Teiran.
She took ahold of the bottle and lifted it, watching the way the light gleamed through the slightly golden liquid inside. It wasn’t full, since Mathias had been nursing it for awhile, and without ceremony or announcement, Teiran put the bottle to her lips and tipped it back, downing a few gulps before setting it back onto the bar. “Are you satisfied?” she said, her voice as flat as it ever was, her expression still as steel cold, while the whiskey warmed its way from the back of her throat and down to her stomach.
