He was intrigued from the first moment the smile touched her lips, the kind of look worn by a cat with a secret. Acton wondered if his own looked as at home, and he twisted an ear forward, ignoring the cacophony of the night around in favor of her words.
And then he laughed, delighted, at her mention of fairy tales. Little about her seemed like a village maiden, slipped away to the forest, and he was far from a fae prince – but he nodded anyway. “Best not eat the food, then,” he said, the echo of the laugh still in his voice. “or you’ll have to stay.”
Don’t you? Acton made a low noise at the question, half between a huff and a sound of consideration. His gaze, which had been traveling down the blade of her horn and over the scar across her eye (and oh how he wondered at the story of that), flicked to catch her own. They were bright in the firelight, and made him think of all the dares he’d taken, all the bets he’d lost and won. “I think,” he began, “that I am not the first poor fool you’ve separated from his coin.” Nor would he be the last – but Acton gave no sign of minding.
There was little he loved more than a challenge. Never mind that the last woman who hadn’t given him her name when he found her in the midnight streets was Bexley; maybe this stranger was right to be wary.
With a last glance at the merchant – a raised brow the seller met with a smile and a shake of his head – the buckskin followed the unicorn back into the throng. The scent of lavender and the pale shroud of her hair led him softly on, a trail of moonlight into a mad wood.
At her question he pulled his gaze from the revelry around them, drawing up beside her as they passed a troubadour whose voice rose and fell hauntingly in the Rahilah gypsy language. Acton had no doubt it was about a love story turned tragic – so many ballads were.
“That depends on what you’re looking for,” he answered. “There are the parts everyone comes to see…” he gestured with his muzzle to the world around them: the sweetbreads and first fruits of spring being sold, the fire-dancers performing with a wide berth and bright showers of sparks, the laughing, dancing, drunken crowd. “And then there are…other things.” The things well-hidden in Caligo's dark. Here he only shrugged, though his grin turned wicked for a moment before vanishing. “But I always like to begin with a drink.”
@Pavetta
these violent delights have violent ends
