D U N E
- ☾ -
T
he ground trembles quietly as the crowd shifts back and forth, necks craning for a better view, hooves stomping restlessly. And there is chanting, ominous and frothing like a dark swell of stormy sea. The excitement is palpable. It has often occurred to Dune how much money could be made if he were able to bottle this feeling & sell it. If only he had a useful magic, something he could put to work.Oh well. He drinks again, and when he hears someone say "hey" he doesn't think twice. Surely he's not the object of anyone's attention. But then the speaker is standing alongside him, and Dune raises an eyebrow in question. "Did you just come from down there?" The man is very obviously not Solterran, and Dune would have written him off immediately if he did not seem so concerned by the wellbeing of a stranger. "You’re bleeding through your bandages."
It's... it's very sweet, and Dune almost laughs. “Mmm, few days back,” he shrugs, sips his ale to hide a smile. It did not surprise him the wound had re-opened. He could not afford to stand still long enough for healing to happen. Even today, his day off, was full of movement and the pursuit of money. He’s about to say “it’s fine,” when the crowd suddenly turns riotous. The warriors have entered the ring. The Solterran champion of battle, a crowd pleaser, versus--
“Amaunet, a demon of the underground.”
The announcer’s voice is almost comically low and dramatic, and the crowd eats it up. There is hooting, screaming, stomping. Chaos that ebbs and flows like a living tide. It all reeks, to him, of a citizenry desperate to forget the toil of their own lives. It was only natural that they would throw themselves into the violent ambitions of the ring- it was a kind of oblivion not unlike a dream. And so he understood, in his own way, even if he was not inclined to get carried away like the rest of them. “Got it from her,” he says cheerfully to the golden, head bobbing in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of the wild woman. Just as he is about to take another gulp of the ale, a broad-shouldered stallion in a rush to a better view shoves the bay to the side. Most of the drink leaves his cup and flies sideways, to embrace the golden stranger and a tall yearling nearby.
Dune’s first instinct is reactionary. “Hey, watch it!” He yells, ears pinned, to little effect as the bulldozer is quickly gaining ground. He has left in his wake a number of disgruntled citizens, but it is little solace to Dune that he was not the only one subjected to such an asshole. Then his attention turns to his cup and the single sad, foamy swirl of beer left behind. He makes a noise of disappointment, then finally looks to his left and sees the stranger’s shoulder wet and sticky with the ale. “Oh I am so sorry.” He speaks with utter sincerity. And then, since he has no idea what to do next, he just stands here dumbly staring at his beer dripping slowly to the ground. What a waste.
we look almost happy out in the sun, while we bleed to death from wounds we don't
know about
