He knows he shouldn’t be here - not now, not tonight, not when he knows what was coming soon. Perhaps it was his insatiable curiosity, his need to be around like-minded gamblers such as these that brought him back to Denocte, and back to the White Scarab tonight. Perhaps it was the heat of Solterra, forcing him out of the deserts in search of cooler weather.
Or maybe he just enjoyed toeing the line a little.
The familiar whirr of the beetle’s wings was welcoming, and the palomino slipped through the doors like a golden ghost. It took his eyes only a moment to adjust to the darkness, but only one; he was used to the darkness. It was arguably the best thing to be greeted with, after all the brightness of Solterra.
The light of a hundred candles flickers against the vaulted ceiling, casting shadows that spun and danced down to the floor below. Easily the brightest lighting inside, they shine subtly yet brilliantly into the darkness of the Scarab. They remind him of golden stars, shimmering and twinkling; but he was also golden, and a wolf was no less a star in his own eyes.
Even after he’s adjusted to the darkness, Toulouse waits by the entrance. His eyes rove across the floor, with its scattered tables, dealers, and patrons. For half a second, he’s tempted - it’s been a long time since he’s tested his luck with gambling. He can hear the soft music the coins make when they exchange hands, can see the stacks piling up on the nearest table. There’s a lot of gold being thrown tonight, gold that would line his pockets well when he won.
You already have gold, though, his mind whispers to him, and he can’t deny it. There’s something else to be won here.
He weaves through the tables slowly, hardly looking at them as he passed. Tonight he’s set aside his green silk for red, and it’s turned as dark as blood beneath the soft lighting, dark against his pale body. The tassels bounce gently at his sides with every movement, the weight of his scarves pressing against his back. Toulouse walks as if he owns the place, his stride commanding. He goes out of his way to pass by as many tables and gamblers as he can, feeling well at home on the floor.
And all the while, his ears are turning this way and that way, flicking to catch the end of every sentence, every bet, every whisper.
But his walk takes him to the edges of the room, and a board hung on the wall catches his eye. Toulouse pauses, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looks over the bits of parchment pinned there.
He’s seen the board before, and each time it’s different, yet the same: the messages pinned there change, but each time he finds them nigh unreadable.
He moves closer, as if expecting to find a hidden message written between the lines. Toulouse stamps one pale hoof into the carpet, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
It isn’t until he’s all but ready to turn away and try his luck at the tables after all when he hear hoofbeats approaching him from behind.
And when he turns, it’s the green-eyed girl he sees standing behind him.
"Good evening."
His voice is low and charming, but his eyes are sharp. A smile, at odds with his eyes, stretches slowly across his lips. "I don’t suppose you can tell me what these are?" he asks, gesturing at the bulletin board.
He knows better than to expect her to tell him - but he’s been here enough times, he’s starting to feel like he deserves to know.
But perhaps he can make it worth her while to tell him?
Or maybe he just enjoyed toeing the line a little.
The familiar whirr of the beetle’s wings was welcoming, and the palomino slipped through the doors like a golden ghost. It took his eyes only a moment to adjust to the darkness, but only one; he was used to the darkness. It was arguably the best thing to be greeted with, after all the brightness of Solterra.
The light of a hundred candles flickers against the vaulted ceiling, casting shadows that spun and danced down to the floor below. Easily the brightest lighting inside, they shine subtly yet brilliantly into the darkness of the Scarab. They remind him of golden stars, shimmering and twinkling; but he was also golden, and a wolf was no less a star in his own eyes.
Even after he’s adjusted to the darkness, Toulouse waits by the entrance. His eyes rove across the floor, with its scattered tables, dealers, and patrons. For half a second, he’s tempted - it’s been a long time since he’s tested his luck with gambling. He can hear the soft music the coins make when they exchange hands, can see the stacks piling up on the nearest table. There’s a lot of gold being thrown tonight, gold that would line his pockets well when he won.
You already have gold, though, his mind whispers to him, and he can’t deny it. There’s something else to be won here.
He weaves through the tables slowly, hardly looking at them as he passed. Tonight he’s set aside his green silk for red, and it’s turned as dark as blood beneath the soft lighting, dark against his pale body. The tassels bounce gently at his sides with every movement, the weight of his scarves pressing against his back. Toulouse walks as if he owns the place, his stride commanding. He goes out of his way to pass by as many tables and gamblers as he can, feeling well at home on the floor.
And all the while, his ears are turning this way and that way, flicking to catch the end of every sentence, every bet, every whisper.
But his walk takes him to the edges of the room, and a board hung on the wall catches his eye. Toulouse pauses, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looks over the bits of parchment pinned there.
He’s seen the board before, and each time it’s different, yet the same: the messages pinned there change, but each time he finds them nigh unreadable.
He moves closer, as if expecting to find a hidden message written between the lines. Toulouse stamps one pale hoof into the carpet, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
It isn’t until he’s all but ready to turn away and try his luck at the tables after all when he hear hoofbeats approaching him from behind.
And when he turns, it’s the green-eyed girl he sees standing behind him.
"Good evening."
His voice is low and charming, but his eyes are sharp. A smile, at odds with his eyes, stretches slowly across his lips. "I don’t suppose you can tell me what these are?" he asks, gesturing at the bulletin board.
He knows better than to expect her to tell him - but he’s been here enough times, he’s starting to feel like he deserves to know.
But perhaps he can make it worth her while to tell him?
the motherland don't love you,
the fatherland don’t love you.
so why love anything?
the faithless; they don't love you
the zealous hearts don’t love you.
and that's not gonna change.
ut deo.
@aghavni
ahh ignore the slightly crappy starter, i hope this is alright c'':
enfanir art
