To hold my tongue except when I try to pray...
The seasons shifted more quickly than he could grasp. If he could sink his enamels into the flesh of time and haul it backwards, he would. He would change his destiny with that one simple move. He would not have been born to the noble house in Denocte. Reinhart allowed his hardened stare to remain on the swelling crowds. He studied the ebb and flow of the streams of bodies shifting in the streets that served as canals from beneath the proud stone walls of Solterra. His mind swirled with thoughts about the time he was wasting. Reinhart had not meant to be here for so many months. He had treated his time here as something of an extended vacation, out from beneath the watchful eye of his father. He did not doubt the eyes of Solis had replaced those of his father. He would much prefer to deal with the ire of a god than to listen to his father spout one more lecture at him about how his orientation was the single worst, an all-consuming horrible trait he held. He scoffed at the thought and disappeared into the shadows. He joined the flow of bodies from the shores that the shadows had made.
Reinhart was still a citizen of Denocte, although he had half a mind to spend his days in Solterra. He traipsed to the makeshift-markets of traveling salesmen that had set their wares up in various booths decorating the proud city of Day. His tongue itched, and his heart ached for the love from his father he could never have. For the recognition as a son, he would never earn. The taste was bitter and dripped like toxic mercury down his throat. The silver tongue melts into the streams of equines chattering and ogling the wares of the merchants. Reinhart spotted a booth with a brilliant red and purple scarf, with golden fringes. There was an intricate inlaid gold pattern strewn across the scarf as if it were trying to mimic the stars of the night sky. Reinhart approached the booth, a woman stood enclosed within the station. She had many scarves and wonderful items and trinkets, but he had eyes only for the scarf. Reinhart was short on money, he always was. That didn't stop him from making a life here and running among the other ruffians who claimed the streets. The thief allowed his charismatic smile to make an appearance as he came to a halt beyond the borders of her shop. He gave a silent nod toward the scarf to let her know that he wanted to see it.
"Are you the weaver of this? It looks as though it could be sunset at the Day Court, or the streams of stardust in the night sky." Reinhart complimented the intricacy of the scarf. He had never been interested in fabrics, but this had captured his attention. The buzzing of his tongue began as his smile widened. He wondered if he could earn a free gift for himself before his departure from Solterra. The woman denied being the weaver but said that she was connected to them. Reinhart's eyes began to swirl as his lips parted to spin seas and serenades. "I don't suppose you would reveal your connections. Smart business. I suspect you've traveled through many courts and world to collect all these wares you have to trade. Is it just you? Impressive feat. I wouldn't have the patience. It looks like you're popular too. Is the Festival treating you well?" Reinhart wove words, as though he were crafting an expert story. He was. Urged in the right direction by the magic he did not know he possessed. When the woman turned around to speak about her favourite item, Reinhart disappeared into the crowd.
Reinhart was still a citizen of Denocte, although he had half a mind to spend his days in Solterra. He traipsed to the makeshift-markets of traveling salesmen that had set their wares up in various booths decorating the proud city of Day. His tongue itched, and his heart ached for the love from his father he could never have. For the recognition as a son, he would never earn. The taste was bitter and dripped like toxic mercury down his throat. The silver tongue melts into the streams of equines chattering and ogling the wares of the merchants. Reinhart spotted a booth with a brilliant red and purple scarf, with golden fringes. There was an intricate inlaid gold pattern strewn across the scarf as if it were trying to mimic the stars of the night sky. Reinhart approached the booth, a woman stood enclosed within the station. She had many scarves and wonderful items and trinkets, but he had eyes only for the scarf. Reinhart was short on money, he always was. That didn't stop him from making a life here and running among the other ruffians who claimed the streets. The thief allowed his charismatic smile to make an appearance as he came to a halt beyond the borders of her shop. He gave a silent nod toward the scarf to let her know that he wanted to see it.
"Are you the weaver of this? It looks as though it could be sunset at the Day Court, or the streams of stardust in the night sky." Reinhart complimented the intricacy of the scarf. He had never been interested in fabrics, but this had captured his attention. The buzzing of his tongue began as his smile widened. He wondered if he could earn a free gift for himself before his departure from Solterra. The woman denied being the weaver but said that she was connected to them. Reinhart's eyes began to swirl as his lips parted to spin seas and serenades. "I don't suppose you would reveal your connections. Smart business. I suspect you've traveled through many courts and world to collect all these wares you have to trade. Is it just you? Impressive feat. I wouldn't have the patience. It looks like you're popular too. Is the Festival treating you well?" Reinhart wove words, as though he were crafting an expert story. He was. Urged in the right direction by the magic he did not know he possessed. When the woman turned around to speak about her favourite item, Reinhart disappeared into the crowd.
Notes: I hope this is alright! | Tags: @Cyrra
... try to breathe words out, But I’ve got nothing to say
