there are many paths to tread
It was easy to slip into his brother’s skin, to paint an unwavering smile with his eyes. The ram horns were a familiar weight on his brow, the cerulean scarves billowing like sails at his sides as he weaved through the streets. They matched his eyes, a fact that he was acutely aware of; it was no secret that green was his favorite color.
He weaved through the market streets now, enjoying the feeling of the breeze caressing his skin, his caramel and ivory curls tumbling from his crest. It was a somewhat humid day, with the clouds rolling in off the coast - he knew it was wreaking havoc on his hair, despite the oils he’d put in to tame it. And still, the weather here was a respite from the dry heat of Solterra.
If he wasn’t careful, Toulouse could easily find himself overstaying his welcome here.
Smoke and perfume cloyed the air, a thousand spices from a thousand lands. Denocte was like its people; wild, mixed, mysterious. It was a gypsy king and a scaled queen, a storyteller and a stormsinger. It was a pale man with false horns, a stranger with green eyes and the heart of a snake. It was everything and nothing for a man like himself, a place full of temptations and disappointments. What it was depended on what face he wore, and which scarves adorned his body.
His card was well worn, but still they let him in. He breezed through the Scarab like it belonged to him, without sparing a glance for the horses already gathered. They could continue their drinking and their gambling for all he cared; there was only one thing Toulouse would ever want from the Scarab, and he knew where to find it.
The Lounge is a familiar sight, despite his long absence from it. He knows it like he knows his own brother’s face, knows its hidden rules and the game everyone plays. He enters into it late, as per usual, but he scans the quiet shadows with hunger glinting in his eyes. Everyone is already preoccupied - all but one.
He watches as the dark stranger is seated along the edge, waits as he’s served and settles in. He holds his breath as his heart beats, once, twice, thrice; and still, no shows up to take the empty seat at the table.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips, and then he was moving. He weaved around tables on pale legs, his eyes set on his prize.
”Not many sit alone here,” his voice was a murmur in the darkness, begging the antlered man’s eyes to open. He wondered what color they would be - brown like his body, gold like the sun? Or were they green like his own? “Are you waiting for another, or is this seat open?”
He wastes no time in settling himself at the table across from the bay man, without waiting for an invitation.
”My name is Toulouse.”
