@Kassandra
S
he's quiet, at first, because she's thinking of the stories that her mother told, tucking them in for bed at night. Fantastic tales that filled the children's heads with wonder and made their father's eyes roll, and not once, Rivane thinks, did any of them mention rats.Those stories leap to her tongue but the jail of her teeth remains locked. Instead, Rivane swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it clings to the sides of the glass, dripping down in spidery trails. The stranger's openness is a lure, this curious, child-like creature that tries to smoke out wasps for their honey, but Rivane is wary prey.
(there's always rats in our stories.) Barley adds, gaining a quirk of the eyebrow in response. If he notices the dry reproach of her silence, he makes no mention of it, turning back to where Beech has joined him on the tabletop and is scrubbing cherry from his hands and face until his long whiskers shine like needles of starlight in the flickering torches.
(hey,) there is only one piece of cheese left from Barley's raid, which he swipes off the bar, leaning far forward with twitching nose and wide eyes like dark wine, trying to watch the slim hound. (ask the dog to come closer, I want to sit on him.)
The very idea! Rivane snorts sharply, disapproving, ready to scold him, but suddenly her new acquaintance catches sight of Breadnut poking his sheepy head out of the bag and is squealing at her side with unexpected quickness and she jumps noticeably. Breadnut, equally startled, disappears again with a horrified squeak when the stranger's face materializes so close to him, to the delight of Beech and Barley whose snuffling laughter fills the air around them. They have little sympathy for their pack brother's timidity. Rivane shifts her weight; clears her throat. The young mare can easily understand his fear of the world - she holds it like a millstone in her chest, and if his worries carry any of the same heaviness, it's no wonder he so often feels overwhelmed by the burden of it. It makes her wonder: if she had half the candid nature of the star-eyed Denoctian, would she be even a quarter as happy?
"Four years?" The words choke on themselves. Four years in a single place. As long as Rivane has been alive, she has been wandering, vagrant. As long as she's been alive her silver-haired companion has been here. Right here. Making a home in one place like it's such a simple, easy thing to do. The idea is alluring and she's hungry for it, jealousy kindling a fire in her throat. Perhaps it's just the whiskey. She coughs it away, self consciously.
"I mean, uh, I suppose that isn't such a long time," if a lifetime isn't a long time, "But, long enough maybe to know what there is to do at one of these parties?"
The tyrian mare attempts a smile, it's not a very good one, a bit crooked, a bit wry, but it's the best she can do.
"My name is Rivane. That's Breadnut in the bag, and Barley trying to climb onto your companion, and Beech-- Beech?" The blue-masked padfoot has disappeared again.
