well any man with a microphone
can tell you what he loves the most
can tell you what he loves the most
Funny how no matter what’s going on in the outside world, it is always business as usual at the Scarab.
It’s early evening and the gambling hall is just beginning to fill up - soon it will be warm with bodies who are in turn warm with wine. Nothing seemed to make the people want to gamble and drink to foolishness like the threat of disaster, and a continent’s unease; bad news turned to good in the dark and hallowed hallways of the den. Or even if it didn’t, at least it was easy to find company.
August does not share in the frenzied mood. With Raum due to appear in days, with tensions building as high as they’d been at the Pass Incident, the golden man has plenty on his mind. Tonight he’s making the rounds, his saber at his side, unhurried as a lion on the veldt - but his thoughts are a knot becoming too tangled to tug apart. Somewhere, he knows, there is a thread to pull that will free the whole snarl, but he hasn’t found it yet. If only the guests in the Lavender room would stop their damn laughing —
He pauses when he hears the jiggling of a handle from the door he’s passing. For a moment he only listens, ears pricked forward, picking up what scents he can over the floral-and-incense that fills the Scarab. A brow lifts when he hears what sounds very much like a scream, and August resists the temptation to sigh. Maybe it was only someone playing a game - there were lots of games to play in the Scarab, some of which had very flexible rules - but he has an inkling this has more to do with a red girl with a wicked smile. It isn’t the first time.
But with Isra’s kidnapping, and Raum’s usurping, and the whole world turning topsy turvy, it was probably not the best idea to go poking at any other nests that might hold vipers.
Manon, Manon, he thinks, don’t go getting careless, and the palomino unlocks the door.
He has schooled his expression into genial neutrality, but his other brow goes up at the sight of the small boy in front of him. Judging by the looks of him, it ruled out the possibility of his being here by his own volition. He certainly wasn’t Manon’s usual type, and his distress is written across every line of his body. August makes a mental note (another thread to the damn knot of his problems) to talk with the mare later, and maybe Aghavni too.
To the boy he smiles, and offers a dip of his muzzle in the slightest of nods. When he leans against the doorway with his sword at his hip, it’s as much to present a picture of languid calm as it is to block the exit - at least until he knows what’s going on.
“Well,” he says lightly, “I don’t think you’re on the guest list. How did you wind up here?”
@Erd
