BUT THERE'S CHAOS BREWING UNDERNEATH MY SKIN, TECTONIC PLATES GRINDING AND CRASHING IN AN EFFORT TO RATTLE MY BONES.
Boudika was, perhaps, twice as glad to meet the small dragon if only because it meant she no longer had to dwell on the story of her past. She feared if they continued to speak of it—the shipwreck, her coming to Novus—that her small lies would become larger, or worse, betrayed by truths. The most guilt-ridden of all: it may as well have been me that killed him—would never be spoken loud, she kept it so deep within her, so strangled, that the words themselves could not quite form in her mind. They only existed around her heart, with a leaden weight that kept her awake most nights, on the perpetual edge of drowning. But no. No, there was a glorious, bright little beast in front of her—crimson and gold, like royalty, and he peered at them with bright expectant eyes. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Templeton.” For effect, Boudika bowed in greeting, but not without a mischievous glance toward August. "
And: the waves were crashing somewhere in the distant, and everything she was flooded with the fear the sound evoked. But no. No, no. There was a dragon begging for bread, and her mind reached not for a memory but for the crumbs, tossing what would amount to a handful at the jittering, brilliant creature. And Templeton gobbled them greedily, lashing his tail and ducking his head as other jewel-bright dragons approached for scraps. They, at once, held the mystery and majesty of a cat—but more, more, more, and Boudika did not have words for it, even as she turned away. Her heart, for the first time in a very long time, welled with something like hope. She could learn to love small, shining dragons. She could learn, perhaps, to love the marketplace of Denocte.
But I’m also a… manager, of sorts, at a gambling house in town. The dancer could not help but arch a brow. But, quite conveniently, they had arrived at their next stop. Boudika did not pursue with additional questions, although she found his answer… strange, perhaps only because of his pause. Boudika did not speak, uncomfortable when surrounded by the bustle of morning-goers and the curious stare of the chestnut stallion. He did not ask, however, and Boudika stored the name away. Talan. Perhaps now her runs could end somewhere. At August’s too-kind offer and the stallion’s expectant stare, she gestured toward some sort of sticky bun, which the baker’s boy deftly wrapped and handed back.
There were many things she began to store away, for later. If you could think of anyone who could use the rest of these… and Boudika wondered what lay behind that loaded statement. She wondered at August’s generosity, which was utterly foreign to her. Strangers were given no favours from her people; even acquaintances were treated cooly. The kindness August expressed was reserved, on Oresziah, for the closest of friends—
Then the palomino gives her a grin that belonged not on the face of a horse, but a fox. Boudika took the card curiously, sparing only a glance at the image. She rushed out: “Thank you for the bread—“
Come visit sometime.
And the offer was one that echoed in the chasm of her loneliness like salvation might. She cleared her throat, suddenly awkward again, and uncertain. “Well…” And with brief, nearly faux bravado: “On one condition. You have to come watch me dance.” There was something almost sultry about it, although Boudika did not intend for it to be so. Boudika cleared her throat again, her head ducked slightly, and amended. “Or—” grasping, desperately, for straws. “We could even spar.”
Boudika did not know what possessed her to say that, aside from the fact it was the only thing she was good at aside from dancing, and there was nothing—and she told herself, don’t think about Torix don’t think about Torix don’t think about Torix—sultry about it. And, she realised a little late, he had quite the fighter’s build. Whatever that meant.
If she had been pure white, the flush of her skin would have been evident.
THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE IN-BETWEEN GOOD DAYS. TO BE A SELF-CONTAINED HURRICANE FLOATING ON CALM WATERS. TEETH GRITTED, KNUCKLES WHITE, TRYING TO HOLD IN THE STORM INSTEAD OF MAKING WAVES.
@August
