It hurts to be home.
To be fair it just hurts in general - August has not yet recovered from having his ass handed to him in Solterra’s fighting pits. There is a long, scabbed-over cut along his cheek, a lurid bruise on his ribcage just visible beneath his summer coat, and a limp to his usually elegant gait. His injuries seem to be good camouflage - he has yet to be recognized in the drifting woodsmoke and growing darkness, though he thinks, wryly, that perhaps his old friends are simply avoiding him.
But oh, it isn’t just that kick on his ribs that has his heart aching to see the bustling night markets again, hung with flags of gold and rich blue. He had left Dencote months ago determined to write his own story, but only missed the pages he’d lived in its alleys and the foothills of its mountains. He’d missed the clamor of the streets, the raucous calling of the gulls, the specific scent of smoke and salt and jasmine. He is grateful to see it again - and yet August feels unraveled, dissembled pieces when he once was a man. The Scarab is not his home, and he is not its proprietor. Aghavni is not here. Minya is as broken as he is. And he had left everyone else behind.
Still, he walks down the street with a smile - at least until he hears his name. It is not spoken fondly.
He turns to find the Warden behind him, and even if he couldn’t tell her disposition from her tone or expression, it would take more of an idiot than him to miss it from the ball of fire burning between them (uncomfortably near) or the wolf snarling at her side.
It seemed a bit like overkill.
“Warden,” he says carefully, lifting his gaze from the fireball between them to her face, lit by flame. His mind races for a moment, reaching for an explanation for her anger, until he remembers the agreement he’d made - the same night he’d learned about Aghavni’s leaving, the same night he’d enlisted as a sailor, set to sail the next day. Shit.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. “By all means, take a swing. Though maybe leave the wolf and the fire out of it.” He eyes the latter two warily, and wonders what punishment for his hubris he’ll receive this time.
@Morrighan
To be fair it just hurts in general - August has not yet recovered from having his ass handed to him in Solterra’s fighting pits. There is a long, scabbed-over cut along his cheek, a lurid bruise on his ribcage just visible beneath his summer coat, and a limp to his usually elegant gait. His injuries seem to be good camouflage - he has yet to be recognized in the drifting woodsmoke and growing darkness, though he thinks, wryly, that perhaps his old friends are simply avoiding him.
But oh, it isn’t just that kick on his ribs that has his heart aching to see the bustling night markets again, hung with flags of gold and rich blue. He had left Dencote months ago determined to write his own story, but only missed the pages he’d lived in its alleys and the foothills of its mountains. He’d missed the clamor of the streets, the raucous calling of the gulls, the specific scent of smoke and salt and jasmine. He is grateful to see it again - and yet August feels unraveled, dissembled pieces when he once was a man. The Scarab is not his home, and he is not its proprietor. Aghavni is not here. Minya is as broken as he is. And he had left everyone else behind.
Still, he walks down the street with a smile - at least until he hears his name. It is not spoken fondly.
He turns to find the Warden behind him, and even if he couldn’t tell her disposition from her tone or expression, it would take more of an idiot than him to miss it from the ball of fire burning between them (uncomfortably near) or the wolf snarling at her side.
It seemed a bit like overkill.
“Warden,” he says carefully, lifting his gaze from the fireball between them to her face, lit by flame. His mind races for a moment, reaching for an explanation for her anger, until he remembers the agreement he’d made - the same night he’d learned about Aghavni’s leaving, the same night he’d enlisted as a sailor, set to sail the next day. Shit.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. “By all means, take a swing. Though maybe leave the wolf and the fire out of it.” He eyes the latter two warily, and wonders what punishment for his hubris he’ll receive this time.
@Morrighan
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
