b e x l e y
the merry girl who became lot's bride, the happy woman who loved her wicked city;
N
ight is only beginning to crack the sky. Ribbons of yellow and red unspool from a just-visible lip of sun; Denocte’s buildings are outlined in thin, shimmering stripes of gold, backlit like trees on a silver lake, and they are frozen still and silent against the oncoming dusk. The world is quiet-quiet-quiet, maybe for the first time since Bexley’s arrival.But not for long. The Night Markets are just now waking up, stirring sleepily as the chill of the dark sweeps in on the wings of the wind. Vendors are setting up, wares being distributed, dancers flooding into the streets with their hair done up in ribbons, laughing, musicians setting up their instruments just outside the bars. Oh, things are coming alive again: Bexley does not know whether she is grateful or not.
She knows what she’s looking for, but it may take a while to find it. Everywhere she looks there is something vying for her attention—a loud, desperate vendor, the particularly loud sawing of a violin. Briefly Bexley feels like a magpie, distracted by each flash of teeth, each glint of light on a piece of jewelry, each laugh or whisper or mockingbird call.
The golden girl draws to a stop just outside a roofed emporium, stacked to the top with bed-things. The shopkeeper gives her a nod, as if he recognizes her, then goes back to rearranging his wares. There are towers of pillows in shades of dark velvet; pools of plush, brightly colored woven blankets; stacks of neatly folded sheets, robes, and pillowcases, all soaked through with the signature sooty-jasmine scent of the court itself.
As the crowds part around her, Bexley begins to nose through the wares and tries not to pay any mind to how lonely she must look.
@Moira | "speaks" | notes: <3
