well any man with a microphone
can tell you what he loves the most
can tell you what he loves the most
There is soot on one corner of the fortune-teller’s tent, and a few small holes have eaten black-edged through the fabric, like it’s been caught by stray embers. It’s nothing too out of the ordinary for Denocte; with an abundance of both fire and alcohol and a people quite comfortable with both, the real wonder is that the city hasn’t burned down before.
Perhaps ironically, that’s always been more Solterra’s curse.
August is near to his fill with waiting here, a task that feels uncomfortably like scrounging for information. But it’s a pleasant day, with the late afternoon sunlight slanting down, the air crisp and cool and the trees resplendent in scarlet and gold. Denocte is bustling, thick with foreigners, and he knows many of them, pockets heavy with gold, will find their way to the Scarab’s doors. But there is a wealth of information here, too, easy as autumn-ripe berries to glean - if you knew where to forage for them. The psychic’s tent hasn’t yielded much of worth yet, but he’s spent worse afternoons learning less.
When the murmur of voices from within the canvas grows louder, August straightens and takes a few steps away, flicking his tail at a nonexistent fly. He looks like nothing but another lost soul waiting to have their future revealed as a mare slips from the tent, relief writ clear on her face. For the first time, his curiosity crosses into something more honest than business, but she passes him with nothing more than a glance and the hint of a grin.
Maybe at the end of this he’ll have his own cards read. He grins, too, at the warnings he imagines: trouble with money. Mysterious dark strangers who want something from him. All a standard night’s work at the Scarab.
A raised voice breaks him from his imagining, and the golden stallion looks over his shoulder, cool silver eyes assessing. There is a paint mare who seems to be in the midst of telling off a flock of yearlings; they scatter like sparrows and August raises a brow when he places her. He’d been in the crowd that night, when their unicorn queen named the council and regime; this feels like better fortune by far than waiting for whispers outside a clairvoyant’s tent. When the dark-haired woman begins to walk, each step falling so hard for a moment he imagines he sees sparks spitting up from the cobblestones, he falls in step beside her.
“Happy harvest, Warden. I’m glad to see someone’s keeping the peace.” He’s schooled his expression back to bland affability, but he grins as he jerks his muzzle toward the departing kids.
“Morrighan, isn’t it? I’m August. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.”
@Morrighan hope this works!
