It’s too early for the Scarab to have opened its doors, but it’s not (it is never) too early for revelry in the Night Markets.
August isn’t even sure what they’re celebrating. Maybe the beginning of autumn, when the days are long enough for the bonfires to be more than symbol and habit. Likely Raum’s death, news of which has only just broken over the continent like a swallowing wave. Or maybe just because it’s a day that ends in y.
He ought to be in more of a festive mood. All those things were cause for rejoicing, as is the simple fact that he and his friends are alive (after the latter events of the island, that feels like nothing so much as pure dumb luck). But many wheels are now in motion - kings dying, kings vanishing, rumors of Solis calling the worthy to vie for the Solterran crown - and the idea of rest is laughable. Even his usual methods of burning off steam are unavailable until the ground feels solid underfoot again.
It’s been a long, long time since August has been the praying type, but he pauses as he passes by Caligo’s moon-sigil. Briefly he presses his lips to the cool gemstones at the center, tonight reflecting the waning moon overhead, but he feels no less uneasy when he straightens and moves on.
What he needs - well, what he wants - is a drink, or a fight, or any kind of diversion that doesn’t smell like apocalypse and will leave him exhausted in body, not soul. What he wants is six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Instead he gets to play watchman for another night of Denocte’s unending revelry.
There’s a whiff of salt on the air from the harbor, but it’s lost to woodsmoke and a hundred kinds of spices as soon as he turns down one of the more crowded streets. The sound is just as chaotic; sellers raise their voices over the shifting sounds of the crowd. Somewhere, someone is playing a tambourine; August side-steps a few young mares who are shimmying with the music, hardly sparing them a glance.
When he closes his eyes, even brief enough to blink, the noise of the crowd transmutes to the chaos of the island, and he shakes his head and sets his jaw. That’s when a glimpse of shimmering-gold hide a few stalls down makes him jerk his head up, searching for the glint of a choker, the track of a scar -
but it’s just another girl in a city of them. The only butterflies are in his stomach, and it’s high time for a drink to drown them.
August isn’t even sure what they’re celebrating. Maybe the beginning of autumn, when the days are long enough for the bonfires to be more than symbol and habit. Likely Raum’s death, news of which has only just broken over the continent like a swallowing wave. Or maybe just because it’s a day that ends in y.
He ought to be in more of a festive mood. All those things were cause for rejoicing, as is the simple fact that he and his friends are alive (after the latter events of the island, that feels like nothing so much as pure dumb luck). But many wheels are now in motion - kings dying, kings vanishing, rumors of Solis calling the worthy to vie for the Solterran crown - and the idea of rest is laughable. Even his usual methods of burning off steam are unavailable until the ground feels solid underfoot again.
It’s been a long, long time since August has been the praying type, but he pauses as he passes by Caligo’s moon-sigil. Briefly he presses his lips to the cool gemstones at the center, tonight reflecting the waning moon overhead, but he feels no less uneasy when he straightens and moves on.
What he needs - well, what he wants - is a drink, or a fight, or any kind of diversion that doesn’t smell like apocalypse and will leave him exhausted in body, not soul. What he wants is six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Instead he gets to play watchman for another night of Denocte’s unending revelry.
There’s a whiff of salt on the air from the harbor, but it’s lost to woodsmoke and a hundred kinds of spices as soon as he turns down one of the more crowded streets. The sound is just as chaotic; sellers raise their voices over the shifting sounds of the crowd. Somewhere, someone is playing a tambourine; August side-steps a few young mares who are shimmying with the music, hardly sparing them a glance.
When he closes his eyes, even brief enough to blink, the noise of the crowd transmutes to the chaos of the island, and he shakes his head and sets his jaw. That’s when a glimpse of shimmering-gold hide a few stalls down makes him jerk his head up, searching for the glint of a choker, the track of a scar -
but it’s just another girl in a city of them. The only butterflies are in his stomach, and it’s high time for a drink to drown them.
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
