I HOPE YOU WILL TAKE IT, AND REMEMBER ON EARTH
I did not know how to touch it it was all so raw, / and if by chance there is no edge to the crowd / or anything else so that I am of it, / I will take the orange and toss it as high as I can.
Oh, goodness. I’ve never seen anything like this before.
First, there was the desert itself. I am newly-acquainted with the concept of sand; I discovered it a matter of weeks ago, when I arrived in Novus on the beach. I was shocked to discover that you can have sand independent of a beach, and that the sand in the “desert” was quite different from the sand on the beach, in both color and texture. And – in quantity. Mostly in quantity, in fact. The desert was almost entirely composed of sand, after I managed to escape the canyons at the entrance.
(I only escaped them by flying out of them, after spending hours lost in their red-gold depths – but that is beside the point.)
There were a few, gnarled trees, leafless and bleached like what I have heard described as “driftwood,” washed up on the coast. A few trees – a bird or two that I didn’t recognize – little lizards – a thing like a fox with too-big ears – a rabbit – a tortoise. I spent more time than I should have at the only spot in the desert I discovered with water, a lush green paradise nestled between big, sandy waves. The trees were unfamiliar; they would have looked out-of-place in a forest, even the scrubby ones, but they seemed to me to fit that little lake quite well. I saw plants with large spikes sticking out of their sides, and I was careful not to investigate them too closely.
I was told, too, that the desert was hot. I did not understand that the desert is hot until I was in it, sides heaving, sweating everywhere. I fanned myself with my wings as I walked, but I’m not sure that expending the energy was worth the rather pitiful reward.
(When I arrived in this land, which is, apparently, known as “Solterra,” I did not even understand what hot meant. I thought of the lukewarmth of my autumnal homeland; it was certainly hot compared to the fierce bite of winter, which seemed to be growing stronger each passing day in Terrastella. But this was different. This was what hot really was – it made you gasp and raked your lungs and tangled in your hair with sweat like sea-salt. It was laborious and heavy, where cold, I am finding, is airy and sharp.)
I heard about the party from a new-friend-of-a-new-friend. Up close, it is not what I expected.
At home, parties were far simpler than this. We might have crafted some lanterns with fireflies or real fire (depending on the occasion) and strung them in the trees, and I suppose there might have been an obscure decoration here or there, but- this is gilded and brilliant, and, everywhere I look, there are carved stones in the figures of horses or things and there are strange dabs of color spread across paper-like frames (sometimes like a drawing; sometimes unlike anything I have ever seen), and there are glittering precious metals embedded into the walls, and there are flower arrangements with oh-so brilliant blooms that smell dizzyingly strong and sweet, and there are fine fabrics, and- oh, a million things I don’t even know the name of. And there are so many people! In the entryway, I struggled to so much as move through the crowds. (I have never been to a party indoors - none of the buildings at home were large enough. Here, save for the courtyard, everyone is maintained within the (sprawling) halls of the manor. I cannot tell if I am overwhelmed by it or enamored with all of the faces I can see at once.)
At home, there were lanterns – and there was dancing, though we had more space for it, and there were sugary pastries and sweet drinks, though none of them were fancy. I don’t even know what to call most of the foods that they are passing out, much less what they are made of. (I tried a few. Tentatively. The taste was strange, but sometimes wonderful; after my accident with saltwater, I am trying to curb my tendency to stick things in my mouth unthinkingly.) The music is different, too. I think that it is good; I think that it is hard to deny that it is good.
It doesn’t feel earthy – that’s how I might describe the music at home. Earthy, like it was composed from the babble of a brook or the movement of stones or the way the wind threads through leaves in the trees above. This feels completely detached from the world. I can almost forget the desert – and the sprawling city, which I have had no time to explore – outside.
It’s beautiful, but I – don’t know what to do with it.
I don’t even know the etiquette. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, at this kind of party. It’s so much fancier than anything I’ve seen before, and everyone looks so fancy, even the people who seem to be working instead of enjoying the event – and, well, at least I brushed my hair and strung the gold leaves and charms into it, so I don’t look too much a mess, but I don’t know anyone here at all. I suppose I could find the hosts, and thank them, but I don’t know what they look like, and-
I am near the edges of the courtyard, looking at the artists brushing complicated designs onto the coats of passing equines, when my tangle of thoughts are abruptly interrupted by an ahem. I blink, and then I turn, and my eyes catch on a young stallion with a tray of drinks.
He is quite lovely, I think. A dark, rich shade of brown, with dark coils of hair – it reminds me of the tree trunks in my homeland. My attention is first captured by the elaborate designs on his side that seem to me like the night sky, or the day sky, or dancers (it takes me a moment to realize that they seem to shift with the light and angle), and then I realize that the other half of him as bare. (Perhaps it is some cultural tradition that I am unaware of.) He smiles, but it is a polite smile, not a real one, and he asks me if I’d like a drink.
(The other people inside of me notice a few other things: the sweat that beads on his brow, the labored cadence of his step.)
“Oh,” I say, smiling in a way that is probably more silly than it is bright or dazzling - smiling exuberantly, the kind that comes from the privilege of seeing this beautiful new world without knowing too much about it. “I think I could - that would be lovely, thank you.” I eye the refreshments thoughtfully, and settle on the amber one, with the red in it – it reminds me of home. (The ice is also appealing.) It occurs to me that it might have been wise to ask what they are made of only after I’ve taken a sip of it. It’s…minty, I think. It certainly smells like it.
I’m not entirely sure what to do, or what to say, so the first thing that pops out of my mouth is, “Why are you only painted on one side?” I blink, then, and it occurs to me that the question might sound – rude (at least I sounded curious, I hope, instead of accusatory), and I backtrack almost before I can think about it. “I- I mean- oh dear. Is that…appropriate to ask? I’m sorry if it isn’t.”
(This is why I normally keep my mouth shut.)
@
"Speech!"
Note // Nic picked up drink 3 <3
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
