The alcohol hits her blood like molten gold, bright and hot, scalding her. It almost makes her forget, almost makes her feel like she can enter the intimate space of the campfires instead of the crowded and impersonal places where the eyes of others stutter past her. When there's too much to see, they see nothing at all and the lost girl disappears into the crowd. It would be wrong to say that this is how she is most comfortable, Rivane doesn't want to disappear, she doesn't want to be lost, and despite her ease in the market, she did not live in the busy places. A caravan can be full - of keen, noisy, children and shouting adults, of the ringing of hammers on metal, creaking wagons, and the WUP-WUP of rugs being beaten clean of dust - but it never feels packed, and you never feel adrift.
She's adrift, now, anchorless and carried along by the current, imagining the faces of her family illuminated by the fire's titian glow. Her heart lurches, and she - a child, really, in the body of someone grown - feels the prick of tears in her eyes.
Be brave, her father had said, and smart. She feels like she is neither of those things.
For luck, her mother's voice holds back the emotion of a few hundred nights tucked side-by-side as she ties the summer-bright silk necklace around her daughter's throat.
Her brother had said nothing, jealous, angry, heartbroken, he couldn't understand his twin's need for more when this life was still enough for him, but he stepped into the firelight, too, and slips something into her bag when she isn't looking before disappearing into the darkness without a word.
Rivane feels someone draw up close beside her but does not turn to see the way that the mare's large eyes roll across her and linger above, too lost to her memories. The woven grass doll her brother gave her - a toy she had made him, once, when they were much smaller and happier - seems to weigh heavily in her bag, resting warm and safe in the downy nest of Breadnut's curling fur. Once it had comforted a frightened colt, now it does the same for him. If only her own anxieties were so easily soothed.
She needn't look to know where the stranger's eyes will go, experience has told her where they will stop, and so she is statue-still, not a breath or a twitch, or a hair out of place except for at the very end of her tail where the sea breeze exposes the tip of something metallic. The next gust covers it again. Beech is still at her poll, scouting, his tail stiff, whiskers bristling, but he keeps his high perch, ever watchful. The star-flecked mare argues softly with the borzoi that follows her to the bar but the violet mare is only half listening to them - to her, really. It is Barley instead that holds the attention of those clear, red, eyes, sneaking down the length of the bar where a tray of olives and cherries and small cubes of cheese wait to be impaled on small swords of finely-whittled wood and dropped into colorful drinks. It takes her a moment to realize that a question has been turned to her.
"Oh, I--" Rivane stutters, unprepared, but the mare interrupts again with an unnecessary apology, a fumbled explanation, "Um, no, it's fine, but there's a ton of options. What do you like?" She pulls her watchful eye from Barley to the borzoi as though trying to guess the conversation from the half she can hear. "You, uh, you probably won't like what I'm having if you aren't a drinker, it's an acquired taste."
The scent of the drink in her glass is smoke and leather and vanilla and it tastes like fire.
It is Barley's turn to radiate victory, and scarlet eyes look up suddenly for the familiar curves of his portly shape. He does not run full tilt with gold between his teeth but rather trots with his head in the air and his jaws overflowing with bounty. The spoils spill forth from the up-turned horn-a-plenty of his long incisors (and not for the first time, the little rat wishes he had cheek pouches like a hamster that he could fill to bursting.) Barley gloats over the two bits of cheese left from the end of the cutting and half a sugary cherry he's nicked from the bartender.
No olives this time? Rivane asks him, the very edges of her lips quirking up, the shadow of a smile, while the brown-nosed rat sneezes expressively in reply. Barley likes everything but not olives.
No, but-- Oh!
The borzoi's nose pops up above the bar searching for snacks left by partiers too dazzled by drink and smoke and stars to remember to bring them, but Barley has already hunted the easiest prey. Then, slowly, because he is not as wild as Beech, he creeps closer for a better look. Rats do not see well, but he can make out the shape of the beast and he can see by its willowy, athletic frame that the poor thing must be famished.
Hey! Hey, Dog!
Rivane tenses, her stiff neck making an awkward slide that Beech throws himself down from, leaving scratches beneath the slick fur.
Barley, don't!
But it's too late, Barley is already too close to the edge. At the next pass of a curious nose, he grabs it in two small, and so, so, fragile, pink hands. She holds her breath; Barley releases the wet, cold nose almost immediately and, like a magic trick, a slightly chewed crumb of cheese appears between them. When did he learn that sleight of hand? Rivane still has not exhaled, though it's been an eternity of watching. Beech is on her back, ready to launch himself onto the hound's offending head, his thoughts are red fury, his teeth itch. It makes hers itch too, and she pulls her lips back into a rictus grin, but Barley - little fool! - Barley drops the bit of cheese with a flourish and a chirping squeak.
Eat, Dog! You look hungry!
@Kassandra
