It no longer feels like spring, he thinks, trudging through sand and squinting at the impassively watchful sun. Somewhere between the tick forest and the rippling grass of the plains, the cool breath of wind had been lost. When a breeze did stir, it felt like the dry heat of an open stove. Lucky he’d come here toward evening - and even so he was slick and salty with sweat, the tangled curls of his mane a damp press against his dark neck.
Not at his most charming, true — but! he was on an adventure. For the moment, that was excitement enough that he could forget about his normally pristine appearance.
He was still new to Novus, only a few days beyond his first initial glimpse of the sea, and if it weren’t for meeting Camdis he’d likely still be nosing about in the meadow, unaware he’d found the Dawn Court. Meeting the mighty stallion, though, had imbued Charlemagne with a confidence he’d never had before. Ergo, he is only a little nervous to exploring on his own, and with every strange cry of a bird or moving shadow on a far-off dune he starts and stares for just a little less long.
All the same, he’s decided to head back the way he’s come when first he sees the equine shape top a dune next to his. For a moment he only watches, dipping his golden horn and pricking his ears as the golden mare makes her way across the sand. She makes it look far more effortless than he’s sure he does, but he’s too curious to feel jealous. That same curiosity - and perhaps a measure of loneliness - soon have him crossing over to her, hot sand sinking up to his ankles as he plunges down the dune and up again, a strange ship cresting a strange wave.
Charlemagne might have newfound courage, but as soon as draws alongside her, struggling to keep from panting, he finds that he does not have a newfound flair for starting conversation. The young unicorn offers her a shy smile and a dip of his snip-nosed head before his green eyes glance away, seemingly scrutinizing the dunes.
“Hello,” he says. “Do you know how far this goes on?”
The desert blazes now with unsustained heat, and Bexley delights in it. Summer is her season without a doubt. The incessant dripping of the sun onto her skin, the wind less of a breeze and more of an exhale, the sand radiating rays back and forth from the atmosphere. Everything is stagnant and seasonally-depressive. Except for Bex, who lives and breathes not only under the sun but for it, who has, for the past few days, been entirely absorbed in the excitement of the oncoming dog days.
She’s grown into Novus over the past few weeks. Now the Day Court is becoming her home, and she knows how to traverse the world around her, smart enough to start picking less fights and making more friends. Bexley’s never been unsure of herself, but her confidence is is still increasing by the day. For example: she’s in the middle of the desert all on her own, picking her way through the dunes on nimble, bleached hooves, ignoring the way sweat is plastering her curls to her skin, and she’s not intimidated by the vast stretch of the sands because she knows where she is, and who she is, and how not to get lost. It’s exhilarating to be so independent.
After hours of walking she slows to a crawl, sloughing sand off to the side of the dune with each step. Sweat sparkles over her chest and legs. And then, from nowhere, she becomes aware of a second presence, a body somewhere near, followed by footsteps and the sound of sand shifting. Bexley’s head turns, and her indigo eyes fall on a man, even smaller than she, making his way up the slope. That’s interesting, unexpected. She draws to a stop. Gaze inscrutable, Bex watches his smile but does not yet return it.
Forever, she answers after a moment, but then breaks into a wolfish grin, belying the falsity of her answer. Quite a while, I mean. Hours even if you know where you’re going. Bexley squints at him through her reddish lashes. Do you know where you’re going? It’s meant to catch him off-guard. He seems nervous, a new kid - bad for him, but fun for her.
Forever, the stranger says, and as Charlemagne looks out at the swells of dunes like waves he thinks, at first, that she’s serious.
It’s not until he glances back at her, green-eyed gaze dropping to that grin, that he realizes she’s joking. He snorts as she continues, thinking back to the winged girl he’d met along the sea, and wonders if all females were like this. The ones he’d known were either training to be warriors or raising their children. Outside of those capacities, few (beyond his mother) bothered speaking with him. If they were all like this, perhaps he hadn’t been missing anything.
Still, it’s good to not be alone, out here where vultures watch from their circling and the only other creatures are distant specks hardly identifiable as gazelles. The unicorn keeps wearing his smile at her question (often his defense was an expression of vague affability), and this time brings himself to look her in the eyes. They are very big, and very blue, and seem to mirror some far-off sky.
“I know where I’ve come from,” he says, and gestures back toward the forests of the Dawn Court. “Do you think that’s good enough?” His words are light, matching the tone of hers, but worry nips at their edges. It seemed straightforward enough - he’d been walking east with the lowering sun at his back, and all it took to go home was to turn around and follow the sunset - but suppose it grew dark, and there was no moon? It wasn’t as though his tracks were still there to follow.
And then there was this: once, he’d heard a story about a giant worm that lived in the desert, long as a fallen log, that ate its prey whole. Charlemagne had forgotten it, until now, and immediately wishes he’d failed to remember.
Glancing at her again, he takes in her easy posture, her golden necklace, the shades of her coat not so different from the sand as the evening deepened. Had she ever been worried out here? He doubted it. “Where are you going?” There’s a quick beat of silence after the question before he adds, “If you don’t mind my asking.”
He could hardly be mistaken for a threat, but even worse would be having someone assume he was rude.
@Bexley :D she's great. Feel free to give the kid as hard a time as you like!
Bexley watches the poor boy take her at face value and wants to laugh at the way his expression drops, but doesn’t, biting her tongue instead to see how he’ll continue to react. It’s amusing, to watch the way he’s already wriggling in her grasp - she glances at him with an even humor, with the glint of mischief cold and metal in her eyes. It’s been a hot minute since she’s met someone so naive. The seriousness in his gaze, the way he looks her up and down for clues. Bex tilts her head at him and stares back.
He’s small, smaller than she is, but besides that they’re built almost the same, with slim lines and curves that are flashing under the white glare of the sun. She catches the cuff on his leg, the green in his eyes, the metallic glinting of his horn, and decides the kid can’t be any more dangerous than a kicked puppy, granted his extra appendage doesn’t have any special powers. Bex huffs out an exhale as she listens to his answer, then coos, derisive: No, it’s not, babe.
It’s not her job to take care of him, which is why she answers with honesty instead of support: the desert goes on for miles and miles without respite, and even those of the Day Court have gotten lost in its vast dunes, which means, without Bexley’s help, this kid’s chances of leaving unharmed are slim. Her homeland crawls with terrible beasts and the stinging promise of heatstroke, and it has mercy for no one. She teeters close to sympathizing but doesn’t - he’s gotten himself into this mess, he should get himself out of it.
And yet Bexley does not turn away, does not leave him on his own, but watches with an uncertain warmth, something deep in her maternal brain begging her not to be so callous. She hates it. Hates the warring of weaknesses inside her chest. When he speaks again, she grits her teeth before answering in a debate of whether to tell the truth or not.
I was heading home, she says finally. From meeting a friend. It’s uncomfortable to be telling the truth, but at least she’s calculated that sentence so it can’t be used against her.
That glimmer of mischief in her eyes - the unicorn colt chances to catch it, and this time he recognizes it for what it is.
That other girl had looked at him the same way, her amethyst eyes laughing, and leaving him wondering whether or not she meant him ill. It makes him swallow hard and look away. Unlike last time (thank the gods) no tears sting and cloud his vision; he’s learned to master his frustration somewhat, at least.
To add insult to injury, she calls him babe. She couldn’t know what Florentine had called him - pretty boy,lover boy, but nonetheless it’s a final wound. He stamps a fore-hoof with a snort and faces her again, lifting his chin. In those moments, more brief than the passing breath of wind that lifts both their golden manes, he decides that this encounter with a mare will not end the same way as the last one. Otherwise he’d only be proving that terrible winged girl right.
And so, when she tells him after some consideration where she’s headed, Charlemagne looks her in the eye and flashes his most courtly smile.
“I’ve just joined the Dawn Court as a scholar,” he says, and shapes his voice into something more sure of itself, bedrock beneath the shivering sand. “Do you mind if I accompany you? I’ve not had the chance to see the other courts yet, and there’s so much to learn.” Maybe he’d learned something from the Dusk Court girl after all; there was a strange power in talking and assuming people wanted to listen. Without waiting for her answer the unicorn started forward, each step a susurrus in the sand, and only paused to glance back over his shoulder to add, “I’m Charlemagne. A pleasure to meet you.”
@Bexley aaaand now she's stuck with him for the time being
Bexley isn’t sure what to make of him, which is novel for her. Usually her instinct screams whatever it feels is right, usually has an opinion already locked and loaded, but here it whispers, just hinting at a hundred different ideas of what this boy could do for her. His glance away is intriguing, suspicion obvious in the way he turns against what must be Bexley’s grating gaze.
And then that stamp! The pathetic frustration, the defiance, evident in his snort of a response! Bex can’t decide if she’s annoyed or amused, if she should take him seriously, snap something back, or dismiss this newest piece of emotion as she’s dismissed all his others. Her eyes narrow underneath that flutter of lashes. He’s a weird kid, that’s for sure. Hard for her to box in as quickly as she wants to. She tilts her head at him, feeling the sun glance sharply off one cheek, but doesn’t look away. That smile, glancing over his face - it takes a moment, but then she returns it tenfold, in a sudden good mood now that he’s interesting to her, body humming in the gauze of attention he’s passing over her.
- the Dusk court as a scholar - Bex opens her mouth to shoot back a quip, but doesn’t make it as far as an inhale before the kid is talking again, his words so rapid she’s temporarily backed into silence. Amusement glitters in her eyes. His enthusiasm is kind of adorable, in an annoying, childish sort of way. With the wind wafting through her curls she lets him finish speaking, then, with a catty, self-assured smile, responds, My pleasure, sweetheart, hoping her second pet name will cause as visceral of a reaction as the first. That was the most fascinating thing he’s done so far - the most obvious of what he’s hated her to do. The more time she spends around him, the easier it is to see he doesn’t trust her, so why not push whatever buttons she can reach?
With that she leaps after, then ahead of him, spraying sand with the force of her landing, nimble and light a creature though she is. A purr as it leaves her mouth, she tells him, I’m Bexley. And then a moment of silence. Something thick and tepid. It could almost be an accident, how close to his side she’s slinking, but of course it’s not. Nothing she ever does is an accident. She calculates it to look that way, though: the slight brush of her tail against his fetlocks, matching their hoof prints exactly, the subatomic skim of her shoulder against his. So, do you get lost in the desert often? Love wandering around places you probably shouldn’t be sticking your nose in? She hits him with a graceful side-eye, not bothering to hide the judgement in her gaze, but doesn’t falter or pause in those well-placed steps.
True, he doesn’t quite believe the thousand-watt smile she beams back at him, but it still fit in line with how that Dusk Court girl had responded. The unicorn had never realized how quickly females’ moods shifted when you gave them your full attention; it’s a lesson he files away with a little self-satisfaction.
Even sweetheart doesn’t sting so badly this time, because he’s sure he has the measure of her, now. Inwardly he’s rolling his eyes, but the chestnut keeps wearing that debonair smile until their eye contact is broken and he’s walking away. Then, it fades and he has just enough time for a little breath of relief before she bounds ahead of him.
Here was another little parallel to his meeting with Florentine; he can’t help but remember the way he’d walked ahead, just like this, and she’d flown overhead and cut off his path. Then had come the threat.
This mare didn’t wear a dagger, but it seemed naive to think her words were the only sharp thing about her.
Bexley. It leaps off her tongue like she just had before him, all golden and sure of itself, not the too-grand name his parents had saddled him with. In fact, she seems very sure of herself indeed, walking near enough he can feel the heat rolling off her golden skin, near enough he feels they are already touching. Delicately he edges away, and huffs a breath when she keeps the gap between them less than miniscule.
Charlmagne has never yet considered whether he is interested in girls (his head has always been too full of other things), but he is alarmed to discover that they seem highly interested in him. It does not cross his mind that this might be as much an act as his own pretend confidence.
He finds himself suddenly very warm, and very aware of everything their bodies are doing. It’s a strange thing; he’s never felt like an awkward walker before, but now he expects to stumble with each step, and tries to distract himself with answering her. “I never said I was lost. And no, I’ve never been to a desert before. I only left home this spring.” Quite determinedly, he does not meet her gaze, opting instead to focus on the dunes ahead. That is, until her second question hits him - then his green-eyed gaze flicks to her with a new sort of interest. This time, when her golden shoulder brushes again against his dappled one, he only barely notices (though once again he steers his body subtly away). “Shouldn’t be? Are those of other courts not allowed in Solterra?”
His edge away is subtle at its very best, but that’s not enough, especially when Bexley’s scrutinizing him so closely: he should know better, but obviously he doesn’t know much. She gives him a dry glance with half-lidded eyes, so that he knows she’s noticed, but doesn’t push it. Whatever. Let him have his space. Just a few months older, smarter, more mature, and she’s convinced he’ll be begging for her to close that gap. With a self-assured toss of those tight curls she trudges forward and doesn’t graze him again.
This spring! He’s really a new kid. Fresh meat, she’d call it. At that an unsubtle smirk crosses Bexley’s white lips, but she ducks her head for half a moment so he won’t see it, knowing if he asks why she’s grinning so sharply she won’t want to lie. She’d have to tell him that she’s amused thinking about how much he’s going to have to go through here, how thoroughly he might get tossed around. It shouldn’t be even be funny, as the threat of danger in Novus is truly around every corner, but it’s Bexley, so somehow it is. She inhales sharply and stifles that smile before looking up again.
They’re not not allowed, comes her answer, casual and somehow still weighty. She turns her eyes away from him and toward the horizon with a purposeful drama. Just, you know, if you’re not from here, you have to watch out for the snakes, and the scorpions and sand vipers or whatever. We hunted an elder teryr a while ago - there might be more, though. Bex shrugs at him and keeps her eyes to the dunes, starting to whistle a tuneless song under her breath.
At this point, he’s new enough that her warning about the dangers of Novus would have been met with more disbelief than worry. Give him a few weeks, though, and - much like her assumption about his change of heart when it comes to personal space with mares - he’d be forced to agree. But this is still Charlemagne pre mazes and dragons and frightening, wizened sages, and his hopes are still far higher than his fears.
Although, when she speaks again, the two grow a little nearer to even.
He snorts a breath at her response, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. There was a tone he was accustomed to from the girls in his homeland, and he knows better to press her on it. It’s not until she continues that his gaze slips back to her, first taking in her expression and then following the scrutinizing sweep of her own eyes over the endless roll of the dunes. As she casually lists each danger he searches the horizon intently, but all he sees is an ocean of sand, and flat clouds, and the shimmer of heat at all the edges of the world.
Suddenly he feels as though he is sweating even more, if such a thing were possible. It’s clear enough from her whistling that she’d intended to unnerve him, and he’s irked that it had worked. Charlemagne is suddenly tempted to surreptitiously check every step he takes to make sure some stinging or biting creature isn’t laying in wait beneath, and his brows furrow as he tries to keep his gaze with hers on the horizon.
“What’s an elder teryr?” he asks, forcing his voice steady and nonchalant. It’s proof of the dubious things he has learned from both Bexley and Florentine that he adds, offhandedly, “If you hunted it, we should be fine, right?” In all fairness, he, at least, had a horn.
Bexley relaxes into her own steps, sinks all her weight into the sand, lets her narrow hips sway as she keeps pace just in front of the smaller unicorn. Confidence reverberates from her body as strongly as her typical scent of smoke and flowers. She’s in her element again: the desert, in sunlight, with an invisible advantage to hold over him. This is her territory. Shaking the crunch of salt and sweat from her hair, she lapses into a comfortable silence, convinced it will affect him more than anything else she could say (for the moment).
If you hunted it - A brief moment of violence blazes across Bexley’s face as she turns to look at him, sun-bright and overwhelming, but it quickly smooths out into something milder, brows furrowing, her teeth bared at him in a lazy half snarl. Ha ha ha, she deadpans, voice brittle and dangerous. How dare he insult her like that - her, a Day Court champion, a princess, a thing of hidden teeth and nails -she could kick his ass from here to next week. Yeah, like some Dawn Court flower-picker has any room to talk. Don’t insult me, she snaps. Her ears are pressed flat to the back of her head, those fervent blue eyes leveled with annoyance. Nostrils flare as she inhales a gritty, annoyed breath. I have a high tolerance for seeing blood, especially if I’m extracting it from other people.
Jaw grinding, she lets out a loud huff of an exhale and steps ahead of him, widening the gap between them. Idiot. She turns her eyes away from him, trying to calm the rupturing heat in her chest by observing the desert around her, studded with tall bent-backed saguaros and the spiny bodies of agave, sparse but for clumps of yellowed grass and the old, half-shattered tracks of coyotes. Up on the horizon, a brownish blob begins to take shape. It coos and chatters. Bexley chokes on her amusement: a committee of vultures, spread lazily against the cold blue of the sky.
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