When he opens his eyes it is to find a golden stranger, his hair curly and made wild by the smoke and salt air, his eyes the green of the sea on a clear day following a storm. Their is mischief in them glinting like the sunlight glints on the waves and that look is the only thing Lysander finds familiar.
“It seems I was waiting for you,” he says, settling his green-eyed gaze on the other man’s, “Toulouse.”
At that moment his glass arrives, a deep dry red that may as well be black in the dim of the lounge, and the antlered man breaks his study of his companion to take a slow drink. He can’t resist the smaller pleasures of the wine - swirling it in the glass, watching the firelight reflect in its depths as the bouquet rises before his first taste. Oh, to live for a moment longer in that scent! It bears him away, a ship made of memory, to warm waters and languid afternoons on a hillside thick with vineyards. He wonders if he could travel there, with the dagger that rests warm and silver-hilted against his breast - but he already knows it is not only the subtle knife that opened the doors between worlds and times. It is Florentine’s magic that brings it to life; when it hangs around his neck it is only pretty, only deadly, like any other knife.
Not until he sets the glass down again, noiseless on the table, does the once-god of wine and madness turn his full attention back to the golden fellow. “I am Lysander. This establishment only just made me aware of itself - but you look at home here.” He pauses, in no hurry in this place of luxury and mystery, each scent promising a different indulgence - and then he smiles, tilting his head so that the bone-pale arch of his antlers dips toward Toulouse. “I hope you haven’t come to tell me I’ve broken a rule already.”
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
@Tuolouse sorry this is so late!
