No, that's not quite right. Everything is distinctly, definitively, different here. Yet strangely, after so much difference (and, let’s be honest, so much summer wine) it all begins to seem almost similar. So much so that as Dune looks at the field with its many-blooming lights, the novelty of it all fades to a dim sense of familiarity. Wonder withers to apathy.
It is an evening just like any other. This one in particular may have more brightness, but it’s all the same show. The sun will always rise and fall; the waking world would fall asleep, and then wake once more. In a few days he would be home again, and in Solterra, just as in Delumine, countless strangers would long to be relieved of the terrible burden of their money.
Dune is their savior, or could be. He ambles among the festival goers, shaking his very small sack of coins to call attention to the wares in baskets slung over his back. Most of his goods tonight are for eating. Festival foods from Solterra: Sun cakes sweetened with sage honey sit nestled among candied cactus and agave-smoked sugar cubes. There are other items too, of Dune’s own making: little creatures, mostly dragonflies and butterflies, crafted from scrap metal from the forge. (he sometimes helped tend the fire and even, on very rare occasions, work the metal. The scraps were his payment for this hot, exhausting work-- the smith was not generous with the temporary help.) Deeper in the basket are other delights, recognizable only by a particular sort of client. To advertise these hidden wares, Dune wears a golden sun painted on his forehead, right between the eyes, to mark himself. He didn’t know how exactly these networks worked-- he was only the mule-- but those in the know would recognize the mark and know him as a dealer in black market goods.
Now, Dune doesn’t pay much attention to politics, but he knows a sovereign when he sees one. It helps that none of them were ever plain, like him. They caught the attention, held it. They warranted remembering. He certainly would not soon forget his encounters with Orestes and Ipomoea-- and it is precisely these memories which makes him wary when he casually meanders towards Antiope, jingling his coin and glancing at the sovereign sidelong, like a wounded dog. The act was a winning one-- he landed many a sale this way. It was hard to say no to someone so pitiful.
Dune had a very natural suspicion of those of higher class, yet he hoped, and indeed had reason to believe, that she was a generous queen.
drinking deeply of moonlight magic and the rich golden hum,
Ipomoea had once told Antiope he hoped she would visit Delumine. When she heard about the celebrations they were holding for the autumn solstice, she thought it the perfect time to do just that. This season in particular her own court was not holding any large festivals, and things were still relatively quiet. The Denoctian sovereign had finally left all those months ago to create bonds, and she couldn’t keep herself locked away now if she wanted them to prosper.
She doesn’t quite make it to the court, for outside it, to the north, is a meadow full of stars. Or, so it appears. Antiope changes course and wades in among the glowing field. She finds not stars but shining blooms. She imagines this must be what it’s like to walk in the sky, and if ever once could say she looked more like a goddess it is with stardust lighting her eyes and framing her face.
A metallic sound distracts her, an Antiope turns toward the sound. There she finds a man, carrying upon is back a few baskets full of an assortment of items. A merchant of some sort. He is jangling his coins and watching her as a starving pup might. She doubts he is as worse off as he seems—she’s seen much poorer folks act with more dignity—but perhaps he at least had something worthwhile to offer.
The sun on his forehead is almost like a third eye, the sovereign observes, as she makes her way toward him. It sits proudly, almost unassumingly upon his brow. One could almost mistake it as a token of Solterra, a symbol of the origin of the goods he carries. She realizes, as she looks at him, that she has seen this man in passing in her own markets before.
Antiope eyes his offerings curiously. The foods are too sweet for her tastes. Sugar cubes and rolls that glisten in the light. Treats Moira or any self-deserving child would certainly enjoy, but not for herself. “I’d have thought the court would be a better place to market your wares,” she comments, glancing at the man.
The metal trinkets are cute. Charming, even, in their simple craftsmanship. She imagines Maeve’s face upon receiving one and considers for a long moment to buy. “Having much luck?” What the night court Queen wants to ask is who are you hoping will find you out here or who are you waiting for, but doesn’t. For the moment, she merely browses by sight alone.
It would have made Dune exceedingly uncomfortable to know the night sovereign had recognized him. Anonymity was one of the things that made him exceedingly valuable in this line of work-- that and discretion. But he doesn’t know, and in his ignorance he is bold as he steps closer to the queen.
“I’d have thought the court would be a better place to market your wares,” Her voice is satin. Cool at first, almost cold, but as the words settle they seem to warm. “Couldn’t stay away.” The bay gestures to the field around them, all alight and magical. “Never seen anything like it.” Except a hundred times in dream but… there was something different about it in the waking world, wasn’t it? There was consequence here. More importantly, the field was alive around them, and would go on living (or not) independent of the mind’s whimsy.
Dune smiles briefly as her eyes run over the sweets without the slightest interest, and though his face is warm he is thinking with derision “I bet you don’t ever have fun do you? You royalty and your issues… bet if you were dreaming there’d be blood, just like those kings...” There was something more to her, though. He sensed it lurking like a caged animal and while reason and professionalism told him to remain calm and play his part, the boy in him was bristling with the morbid desire to push her. He wanted to see what was on the other side of the calm sea she presented.
Dune recognizes his desires as dangerous, so as Antiope’s attention is drawn to his homemade goods he nods proudly and returns to the hustle. “Two for the price of one. Made those myself.” She would surely recognize his accent as Solterran, although his origins were most likely already obvious by the nature of the treats he sold. She also would be likely to hear that he was not educated, at least not in the way of the nobles and the middle class. He did not enunciate his words as they did, although he could-- since beginning to speak he found he had a natural talent for mimicry-- but he loathed that highbrow way of speaking. It was just another way to distinguish the haves from the have-nots, and this was not a game that someone like him could win. The closest thing to victory for a man of his station was to not play, and that is what he strove to do.
"Having much luck?"
She already knows the answer doesn't she? “Oh, not at all.” He laughs, unbothered, and meets her gaze pointedly. “I’m hoping that might change soon.” Inwardly he cringes at how heavy-handing he is being. But it’s not every day you can make a sale to a sovereign. "What are you looking for tonight?" There are many things he couldn't help her with, many things he did not have the resources to acquire or do, but you never know... maybe he could surprise her.
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