the motherland don't love you
so why love anything
so why love anything
T
he scarab was quieter up here in the lounge, where the waiters glided near-silently past tables and patrons spoke in hushed voices. Occasionally the clink of glass on glass filled the air with a sweet, happy melody as drinks were poured and served and drank and reordered. It was a game, a never ending cycle: drink, whisper, repeat. From back in the corner, which the light conveniently bent away from, the horned man was the only one it seemed not partaking in the lounge’s usual affairs. He was quiet, and he sat alone; a lonesome drink sat on the table before him, a trickle of condensation running down its length as the ice began to melt. But while he was alone, he was not idle: his green eyes were in constant motion, his ears swiveling to and from to catch any gossip that might drift his way. While most of the scarab’s patrons kept their voices low, Toulouse had notoriously good hearing, and his mind was adept at filling in the gaps between the stray words he caught.
For once, there was very little to pique his interest. All the talk was of old news, of the queen that had disappeared in the maze and the borders that had been tightly closed in Delumine. Things he already knew, told in a hundred different ways.
He was about to get up and leave when he saw her, a girl with a necklace strung about her neck, at whose end a single twig was caught. She was dusted in russet and spots of brown, with hair as long and pale as his own. And when she moved about the floor, she did so as if she belonged; here in this den of secrets and vices.
He hadn’t seen her before. And her’s was a face he would have remembered.
His eyes followed her across the room, the rest of the horses fading away like static in the background. And when a server drifted by to collect empty glasses, he waved him closer.
"Who’s the girl?"
The server’s eyes, a startling blue that matched his sapphire attire, regarded Toulouse with an acquisitive look. With a slight frown hinting in his eyes, he slid a silver coin across the table - and only then did the server’s eyes turn to regard the serpentine mare.
"The red rose."
The server regarded her thoughtfully, before with a shake of his head turned back to the table. "You’ll not be wanting anything to do with her. Trust me. Another drink?"
Toulouse shook his head and sent him off.
When next the mare visited the bar, the palomino rose from his seat and followed.
"What’s your poison?" he asked as he came along beside her, his voice lowered in a way that was reserved only for her ears. He glanced at her from the corner of one eye, a smile playing at the edges of his lips.
rallidae
