CASPIAN
/
the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees;
the fog is in the fir trees;
It was a good night to be a bat.
Most of the time Benvolio went ignored, but tonight every time someone caught sight of him swooping high over the crowd, haloed by bonfire smoke, they let out a cheer. The little brown bat, shy by nature, did not care much for the attention, and ducked often to the alleyways and belfries. His companion, however, was among those whooping delight.
It was hard not to be in a celebratory mood. The spiked cider was certainly a contributing factor, but Caspian would have been having a good time anyway; he loved fall, the harvests and the stories of spirits, the last hurrah of merriment before the quieting snows. He’d never been to Denocte before, and this seemed like the perfect way to experience it - cool enough to make the bonfires a welcome, dark enough the city was lit by lanterns and gourds carved and set with candles. Everywhere he looked there was a butterfly or a princess or a pirate or a demon; for his part, Caspian was painted like a ghost. His blue spots were dusted white, and dark circles smudged his eyes; he couldn’t afford a real costume, but thought he looked pretty good anyway.
But the party wasn’t the only reason he’d come to the Night Court. Its reputation was as smoky as its bonfires, an irresistible draw; many of the smugglers he worked with operated from Denocte. He was supposed to meet one here, tonight - and the thought jarred him into squinting upward, searching for the moon, which was only a pale smudge through the smoke. It was hard to tell what time it was, exactly, but a good bet that he was already late.
The problem was, he didn’t know where he was going. Caspian ambled down the cobbled streets, leaving the bulk of the festival behind; the crowds grew more sparse, the buildings looked like crooked teeth and the sea gleamed in the harbor.
I’ll look up ahead, Benvolio said down their bond, and the paint glanced up to where he could faintly hear the bat echolocating. A pause, and then, last one to find it’s a rotten anemone.
Caspian grinned and shook his head, but he couldn’t resist a competition. Neither could he resist a shortcut - and so when he saw a figure coming his way, he approached them without hesitation, wearing a boyish smile and hoping they weren’t afraid of ghosts.
“Hey there,” he said. “Do you know where I can find the Surly Seahorse?”
