—
It reminds him, a little, of home.
All of the worst parts are there - the nobles in their finery with their sharks-eyes gleaming, serving-boys weaving through the crowd with wine and stronger drink, the hum of violence outside that transmutes to a winking modesty within. They are snakes in fine skins, and he -
He may need them.
He has always been a quick study, but this is a game the general already knows how to play. It is a little easier, being Martell: he is a stranger, unwatched, free to make small talk and free to drink and dance. Even so he feels like a ghost, for there is no honor in others’ eyes when they pass over him, or respect, or fear. There is nothing at all, and inside he feels superior and despising and distant as a star.
The unicorn hides these things, keeps his brow smooth and his mouth a sickle moon, but not well enough.
At first, when she approaches him, he thinks she’s turning toward the stallion beside him. She is too obviously somebody, not only with her painted sigils and shimmering gold on her skin and binding her hair but the way the crowd parts before her and watches after she’s passed by. What he cannot tell is if she is shepherd or lion in the midst of them. Perhaps it is both, because she is watched with fear and desire.
But neither is in his gaze when he shifts it to her own. Only a sharp curiosity, and the reflection of her crimson and gold. At her question he drops his muzzle, just a little, and the tip of his horn makes a cut in the air.
“You mistake me - I am only observing. I’m too new to these customs to be bored.” The unicorn eyes her smile, her well-adorned throat, and meets once more her vivid eyes. Somewhere, there is the faint scent of blood. Before she can reply, he continues, his voice a note lower. “But I can see why you are. And you do not look like someone who suffers boredom for long.”
@Amaunet
All of the worst parts are there - the nobles in their finery with their sharks-eyes gleaming, serving-boys weaving through the crowd with wine and stronger drink, the hum of violence outside that transmutes to a winking modesty within. They are snakes in fine skins, and he -
He may need them.
He has always been a quick study, but this is a game the general already knows how to play. It is a little easier, being Martell: he is a stranger, unwatched, free to make small talk and free to drink and dance. Even so he feels like a ghost, for there is no honor in others’ eyes when they pass over him, or respect, or fear. There is nothing at all, and inside he feels superior and despising and distant as a star.
The unicorn hides these things, keeps his brow smooth and his mouth a sickle moon, but not well enough.
At first, when she approaches him, he thinks she’s turning toward the stallion beside him. She is too obviously somebody, not only with her painted sigils and shimmering gold on her skin and binding her hair but the way the crowd parts before her and watches after she’s passed by. What he cannot tell is if she is shepherd or lion in the midst of them. Perhaps it is both, because she is watched with fear and desire.
But neither is in his gaze when he shifts it to her own. Only a sharp curiosity, and the reflection of her crimson and gold. At her question he drops his muzzle, just a little, and the tip of his horn makes a cut in the air.
“You mistake me - I am only observing. I’m too new to these customs to be bored.” The unicorn eyes her smile, her well-adorned throat, and meets once more her vivid eyes. Somewhere, there is the faint scent of blood. Before she can reply, he continues, his voice a note lower. “But I can see why you are. And you do not look like someone who suffers boredom for long.”
@Amaunet
