Rivane's people may once have been gods, and they may have walked among the nobility, but she is a creature of trade and she follows the ringing call of gold coins. It is how she finds herself at the Night Market just in time for a festival, like a bird finding its way across an ocean it has never seen to reach winter nesting grounds. Business is reasonable, and she knows how to be convincing, but as evening drifts softly down upon them, she finds herself becoming distracted. Scarlet eyes skim the road away from the beach where the cobbled road is still thick with bodies, but she is only interested in one of them, a small one, scuttling between the hooves of shopper and merchant alike. Beech is on the prowl for bread and baubles.
he's going to get himself crushed.
She nods quietly, but there has never been any stopping Beech. A rush of victory courses through her veins, and she grins, wide and bright, a crescent moon that cuts through the shadows of her face. It's the wrong sort of smile, though: the red-winged mare who has been perusing her table (and, frankly, taking entirely too long deciding on whether or not she wants to purchase the little mirror,) looks up at her suspiciously. The tabby cat that has made a nest in the hollow of the mare's back hisses its Lady's displeasure through bristling whiskers and in reply, the leather bag at Rivane's hip begins to shudder, the unlatched brass lock vibrating against itself, tik-a-tik-a-tik-a. A brown nose peeks out from underneath, twitching, tasting the air.
rivane. Barley's voice noses into her mind like an insistent child. rivane i don't think breadnut likes the cat. its probably a perfectly nice cat so im sure he's being unfair, but maybe you could make it go away?
"Lovely evening, Ma'am."
Her grin softens, voice all charm and innocence. The stranger's crimson wings ruffle softly, unconvinced, but at last she hmphs and moves on, and just in time: Beech is running back, triumphant. Something gleams like sunlight in his mouth and Rivane casts a wary eye back to the retreating form of the pegasus to be sure she has gone
i found treasure. Beech's nimble hands are stuffing the gold ring into her pack. Someone is sure to be missing it, the violet mare thinks, definitely time to go, then. His spoils safely tucked away, the blue-masked pirate climbs up her neck to sit in the crow's nest of her ears while Rivane packs up what remains of her trinkets for sale and heads for the drifting scent of bonfires.
i wish i was taller
"You would be a worse thief for it, Beech." no. better. i could carry bigger things.
"You would look ridiculous, like a cat that swallowed an alligator"
The bag at her hip shudders again, but Beech laughs, delighted with the image. Ahead, faces in the firelight remind her of her caravan, of nights spent around the flickering flames, but this is not her family, and when she is not selling her odds and ends in the Market's, her charm falls away, her easy smile falls away, and she is as obscure as their beloved Night. Beech's anticipation of the fire-lit party and the things they might discover there pours out from each of his seventy whiskers and she can feel his eagerness sing to her blood, to the memories of her childhood, and the smell of roasted marshmallows pulls Barley out of the satchel, the sound of his sniffing almost as loud as the revelry below them, but she feels Breadnut's anxiety, too, and turns her head to look home again. There's comfort in solitude, in the old, familiar demons. Her breath comes in sharp, irritated exhalations and she dances like a moth, coming closer, then wheeling back again. There are strange folks here, some so odd that having four ears... Well, it probably isn't even a rarity, but the old seeds of prejudice have rooted in her heart and in her belly and at last Rivane pulls aside, her leonine tail lashing the air, testing the comforting weight of the blades concealed there.
"I'm going to need a drink."
She heads to the bar instead, and only Barley is pleased.
12-03-2020, 11:21 AM - This post was last modified: 12-03-2020, 04:36 PM by Rivane
From the bars of her window, the markets of Furae had seemed polished and weapon-like, all silver canopies and straight streets of cobbled stone. Little did Kassandra know the heavy taxes levied from the earnings of the merchants went towards keeping up order and appearances. Stall owners had to fight tooth, hoof, and coin to keep the preferred spots, and so only those who produced the highest profits could stand to exist. The remainder sat at the far end of the market in crumpled heaps, often bearing their wares from spread aprons, or stalking up and down the streets with objects in coats or hidden under a cloth, trying to find a buyer for the unpermitted, illicit goods. Of course, her windows were almost always shut-- for both the safety of the populace at the hands of her terrible magic (all lies conjured up by the despot king), and to further strengthen her entrapment-- and so she did not get to hear the loud and often obnoxious hawking, the yelling, the cursing, and the overall thunder of voices as people packed the lanes and sought the best deals.
The markets of the Night Court did a fine job of filling in the gaps in her knowledge of commerce and gathering. Here she was jostled and shoved, bounced by haunch and punched by muzzles, and accosted on all sides by yelling and pleading in the hopes of grabbing her attention. "Jewelry for a pretty lady!" Yelled a gentleman as he dangled some sort of moonstone necklace in her eyesight; she jerked away, startled, and her hound companion snapped at the peddler's forearm. If the salesman noticed, he said nothing, and simply turned to the individual behind her: "Jewelry for a pretty lad!"
"My lady!" A voice calls, and Kassandra, honed at a young age to respond to the polite beck and call of elders and betters-- everyone was her better, she was but an ugly bird trapped in a beautiful cage-- "A trinket, a bauble, for your sagacious eye-- what? Where did the ring go?" The jeweler almost upturns their cart in a tizzy, and Kassandra uses the opportunity to slip away.
It is all very overwhelming, especially for a lady with no coin to spend. The din and bustle are both loud and soft, both right next to her ears and yet fading into the background (there is a cry of "Thievery! I have been pilfered from!" growing ever distant behind her). But Kassandra finds herself drawn to the chaos, to the areas of the world where life is being lived. She does not understand it herself, not truly; but as she ages and the ache of lost time in her heart becomes a squeezing black void, she is led more and more to the places she might have missed, despite the stress that makes her withers jump as the crackles of distant bonfires grow louder.
Here, at least, the air is sweet and touched by sea salt and woodsmoke, and she does not feel like she has to fight for each breath. The stars in her pelt echo the stars in the sky and she feels relaxed underneath them, feels connected to Caligo in a way she cannot place. Kassandra fills her lungs readily but pauses in her path to the fires. There are so many people, talking and laughing and in the throws of conversations... she would hate to spoil anyone's enjoyment by the insertion of her frequently awkward presence. She does, instead, alter her course, heading towards the less populated bar. It is inviting like a tree in fall, as those approaching to bring spirits back to their respective parties fall away when their order is filled.
She finds a spot at the bar next to a strange but beautifully colored equine, with a lion's tufted tail and fuzzy ears that remind her of those pink salamanders, or maybe some rare coral. She catches herself staring a bit, before giving herself a slight shake and turning her eyes to the menu.
(You and alcohol?) Oculos snickers from beside her, head on the swivel as his remarkable vision clues him into potentially falling snacks, (This can only be a bad idea.)
"Hush, you," Kassandra scolds, loving. She studies the menu with such force her tongue sticks out a bit, but she knows nothing about such indulgences and every recipe that may sound good comes with some unknown.
(You, quite literally, have never had a drink in your life,) the Borzoi said, grinning now.
"Well, there is a first time for everything," Kassandra huffs. She turns to the violet stranger beside her. "You seem a bit more familiar here, would you have any advice?"
(Congratulations, you just called a complete stranger a lush,) Oculos said, voice flat. (This is why we don't have any friends.)
"Lush..? Oh! Oh." Kas blushed, her outburst probably seeming out of place for the poor four-eared stranger, who could not hear her Bonded's chastisement. "Forgive me. I simply meant... well, you seem more confident here. Er, in general. My goodness." She lowered her gaze and bit her tongue, hoping the stranger was not too insulted by her folly.
The alcohol hits her blood like molten gold, bright and hot, scalding her. It almost makes her forget, almost makes her feel like she can enter the intimate space of the campfires instead of the crowded and impersonal places where the eyes of others stutter past her. When there's too much to see, they see nothing at all and the lost girl disappears into the crowd. It would be wrong to say that this is how she is most comfortable, Rivane doesn't want to disappear, she doesn't want to be lost, and despite her ease in the market, she did not live in the busy places. A caravan can be full - of keen, noisy, children and shouting adults, of the ringing of hammers on metal, creaking wagons, and the WUP-WUP of rugs being beaten clean of dust - but it never feels packed, and you never feel adrift.
She's adrift, now, anchorless and carried along by the current, imagining the faces of her family illuminated by the fire's titian glow. Her heart lurches, and she - a child, really, in the body of someone grown - feels the prick of tears in her eyes.
Be brave, her father had said, and smart. She feels like she is neither of those things.
For luck, her mother's voice holds back the emotion of a few hundred nights tucked side-by-side as she ties the summer-bright silk necklace around her daughter's throat.
Her brother had said nothing, jealous, angry, heartbroken, he couldn't understand his twin's need for more when this life was still enough for him, but he stepped into the firelight, too, and slips something into her bag when she isn't looking before disappearing into the darkness without a word.
Rivane feels someone draw up close beside her but does not turn to see the way that the mare's large eyes roll across her and linger above, too lost to her memories. The woven grass doll her brother gave her - a toy she had made him, once, when they were much smaller and happier - seems to weigh heavily in her bag, resting warm and safe in the downy nest of Breadnut's curling fur. Once it had comforted a frightened colt, now it does the same for him. If only her own anxieties were so easily soothed.
She needn't look to know where the stranger's eyes will go, experience has told her where they will stop, and so she is statue-still, not a breath or a twitch, or a hair out of place except for at the very end of her tail where the sea breeze exposes the tip of something metallic. The next gust covers it again. Beech is still at her poll, scouting, his tail stiff, whiskers bristling, but he keeps his high perch, ever watchful. The star-flecked mare argues softly with the borzoi that follows her to the bar but the violet mare is only half listening to them - to her, really. It is Barley instead that holds the attention of those clear, red, eyes, sneaking down the length of the bar where a tray of olives and cherries and small cubes of cheese wait to be impaled on small swords of finely-whittled wood and dropped into colorful drinks. It takes her a moment to realize that a question has been turned to her.
"Oh, I--" Rivane stutters, unprepared, but the mare interrupts again with an unnecessary apology, a fumbled explanation, "Um, no, it's fine, but there's a ton of options. What do you like?" She pulls her watchful eye from Barley to the borzoi as though trying to guess the conversation from the half she can hear. "You, uh, you probably won't like what I'm having if you aren't a drinker, it's an acquired taste."
The scent of the drink in her glass is smoke and leather and vanilla and it tastes like fire.
It is Barley's turn to radiate victory, and scarlet eyes look up suddenly for the familiar curves of his portly shape. He does not run full tilt with gold between his teeth but rather trots with his head in the air and his jaws overflowing with bounty. The spoils spill forth from the up-turned horn-a-plenty of his long incisors (and not for the first time, the little rat wishes he had cheek pouches like a hamster that he could fill to bursting.) Barley gloats over the two bits of cheese left from the end of the cutting and half a sugary cherry he's nicked from the bartender.
No olives this time? Rivane asks him, the very edges of her lips quirking up, the shadow of a smile, while the brown-nosed rat sneezes expressively in reply. Barley likes everything but not olives.
No, but-- Oh!
The borzoi's nose pops up above the bar searching for snacks left by partiers too dazzled by drink and smoke and stars to remember to bring them, but Barley has already hunted the easiest prey. Then, slowly, because he is not as wild as Beech, he creeps closer for a better look. Rats do not see well, but he can make out the shape of the beast and he can see by its willowy, athletic frame that the poor thing must be famished.
Hey! Hey, Dog!
Rivane tenses, her stiff neck making an awkward slide that Beech throws himself down from, leaving scratches beneath the slick fur.
Barley, don't!
But it's too late, Barley is already too close to the edge. At the next pass of a curious nose, he grabs it in two small, and so, so, fragile, pink hands. She holds her breath; Barley releases the wet, cold nose almost immediately and, like a magic trick, a slightly chewed crumb of cheese appears between them. When did he learn that sleight of hand? Rivane still has not exhaled, though it's been an eternity of watching. Beech is on her back, ready to launch himself onto the hound's offending head, his thoughts are red fury, his teeth itch. It makes hers itch too, and she pulls her lips back into a rictus grin, but Barley - little fool! - Barley drops the bit of cheese with a flourish and a chirping squeak.
Of all the scant lessons and tutelage of her youth, the art of spirits and fine indulgences was a lesson Kassandra missed out on. Half of these words she could not pronounce, with accents in strange places and letters next to each other that made no sense in articulation. She eyed the bottles stacked along the bar to see if any of them felt more friendly, more inviting, but at a distance, in the dim light they were just as intimidating. The bartender was not helping matters in the artful way they spun and twirled the containers, snatching away vials by the neck mid pour without spilling a drop. It was impressive, and Kassandra was once again reminded that most everything in this world was an art form; of course, everything impressed her, so that wasn't saying much.
She is distracted from her decision-related stress momentarily by the presence of an adorably cute creature clambering over the bar towards what could only be a jar of accouterments for various drinks and snacks. Kassandra zoomed in like a camera, wanting desperately to snuffle his adorable cream-colored head between his chocolate pointed ears and somehow hold him like a baby.
So focused is she on watching the delightful rodent, she is barely able to drag away her attention to respond to her new acquaintance. "Ah, I'm not sure. I suppose I've never... hmm, what a strange thought, have I ever had anything that isn't water before?" She was, after all, just a captive, a useless throwback. Not even cheap wine was worth being spilling on her. "I guess something sweet would be the lesser of the evils, yes?"
"May I ask, what are you having? For curiosities sake, if nothing else," Kas queried, fighting the urge to lean forward and sniff the stranger's glass. It was a strong desire, but she was no longer the innocent and belligerent child wandering about the world. She had learned manners, if only just.
She watches the precious rat move with its prize of pilfered snacks and tilts her head as they approach Oculos' sniffing nose. Small for his breed and vertically challenged in the movement department-- Kas once watched him try to jump a smallish log and trip over his own legs-- it was all he could do to stick his twitching snout up above the barline.
The two creatures seem to touch noses for a moment, and then the rat seizes Oculos' nose in his small hands; the hound crinkles his face and twitches his head in a small sneeze, whiskers squeezing upwards.
Kassandra is immune to the tension in the air. Neither she nor her canine companion is prone to violence, and while Oculos is possessed of a vicious prey drive, it is triggered by the chase. He simply waggles his tickled snout, the black button of his nose twisting at an almost impossible angle-- and then his brown eyes pop open wide as he struggles to follow the line of sight of the falling cheese. He is not quite quick enough to catch it before it hits the sand, but he picks it up, delicate, in his long jaws to avoid eating the beach along with it. It is gone in a moment and he licks his lips, looking upwards at his newfound friend with perked ears (his right ear has never stood up all the way) and raised brows.
"Oculos, please," Kassandra said, her voice soft and purring with amusement, "we have pride."
(Yes, and they have cheese, so it's kind of the same thing.) He does not even bother to look her way.
Kassandra rolls her eyes and shifts slightly on her hooves, relaxing. "Your companions are quite charming," she says, affectionate. Not even the bared teeth and tense posture of Beech can convince her the rats were anything short of adorable.
@Rivane | 641 | the beginning of a beautiful fwendship
12-06-2020, 11:38 AM
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The breath caught in her throat becomes a sigh; Beech's tail stops its slow snaking through the air, his bristled whiskers relaxing. Barley does not notice their tension any more than the hound or the mare that have joined them; instead, he sneezes another laugh and noses the second bit of cheese from the bartop.
"They aren't to everybody's taste," Rivane's voice is dry: a particular gold ring hidden away in her pack comes to mind. Stolen sweets, nibbled loaves of bread, the rats leave mischief in their wake to which no-one is immune save, mostly, for Rivane herself. It strikes her as unsubtle, the daughter of outcasts gifted the companionship of a troublesome and reviled species. She finds in their history too many parallels to think that the choice was a random one, and it makes her wonder about the swift courser and his star-dusted mare. Still, she accepts the compliment with a fond smile for the little rogues though it has nothing to do with anything she has done, "Rats, y'know, not the best reputation, and these two in particular."
This is not entirely true: nobody has caught Beech yet to know he's a thief, and Barley is as apt to make a friend of a potential enemy as anything else. He is charming: stout, and smiling, and always willing to part with a crumb of cheese to gain a new friend. It's good to have friends, he would say, to which Rivane always replies that they are her friends, and she doesn't need any others. This is also not true, and none of her companions accept it aside from Breadnut, who agrees: the fewer, the better.
(Barley, why do you have to feed the dog? Now it will never go away.)
Drawn at last by the smell of cheese, the little rex peeks his nose out from beneath the folded edge of the unlatched bag, pink hands gripping the edge tightly and kinked whiskers pointing in every direction. His bright eyes are nearly a match for Rivane's as they follow the hound nervously. He will not be so easily won over.
"Something sweet..." Rivane considers this, ignoring the bickering rodents. Her ears flick back and forth in a cascade as she mulls over the request. Any confidence she exudes is mostly an act, a thin and shining veneer of self-assurance that barely manages to contain her apprehensions, but she grasps it tightly and close to her breast.
"I don't really go in for mixed drinks, so I'm not the best to ask if you want one of those colorful cocktails, but if you just want something sweet, there's a sack mead out of Delumine that's just like drinking honey."
And liable to knock the roan off her feet if she drinks too much of it - something Rivane thinks a real possibility judging by how little you notice the alcohol in drinks like that. Not at all like her own, which reminds you with every sip.
"This? It's whiskey. You're welcome to try if you like," she pauses, unsure how to continue, stepping tentatively into the conversation with a feeling like blindness. She's spent too much time on her own.
This cheesebit doesn’t even make it to the ground. Oculos’ teeth are a flash of white in the dark. He is back on his haunches, spine coiled like a spring, but he could not jump when thinking about it. He could leap twice his body height in the air chasing butterflies or lunging at birds on the wing, but the moment he planned a start and end location, his vertical abilities stopped at the length of his back legs, and finished with his chest plopped on whatever he was trying to clear.
It was embarrassing, really, so he stayed on four paws.
“Well, it’s rats, isn’t it, that help the princesses. In the stories.” Kas’ voice falters halfway through, unsure if her memory is serving her correctly. “The unwanted princesses.” There’s a moment when she thinks maybe she is mixing up a fairy tale heroine with her own self, but there had been no rats in her ivory tower. Too high up, and the offerings were sparse. On hot days she was visited by flies, and once a nest of hornets sprung up beneath her windowsill. They buzzed between the silver bars with enviable freedom. The winter killed them, and they did not return the next year. “Anyhow, I quite enjoy them."
As if on cue, another one pops out of her satchel. Kassandra gasps with delight. “You have such delightful little eyes,” she tells the rodent, her own crossing a bit to focus in on the beady, red dots.
The stranger’s ears move a bit with her thinking as she mulls over taste and flavor; they remind Kassandra of beautiful aubergine sargassum, floating in the sea; she imagines them as gills, air moving over them to produce thoughts. They look fuzzy. She wonders how they feel.
Ever excitable, she rises a bit at the mention of honey. “I do like honey! Though, once I tried to harvest some using a smoldering campfire. It did not work.” She pauses, unabashed. “Also, they were wasps.”
(And I’m the embarrassing one,) Oculos snorts.
The stranger offers her a taste and Kas crowds in a little more, manners swallowed by curiosity. She took a gentle sniff and her nose wrinkled. It smelled like the bastard child of smoke and ozone.
(Do it,) Oculos jeered, grinning. (Coward.) Kassandra swatted him with her tail.
“It seems like it, but not really. Four years.” Four years of island traipsing and star watching and vision having. Compared to time stuck like a ship in a bottle, it was nothing at all.
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.
(Think of it,) Oculos said, a reverent growl as he eyes the rat with its next offering. He sneaks a little closer to the bar, feet pacing a rhythm in the sand. His long neck is stretched to max length and his chest is almost placed flat to the wood, ears flopped back along his small head. Eventually the temptation is too much and he does rise, softly, onto his hind legs, and even though his stature is small he is still impressive, standing close to six feet at his shoulders. He flops his gangly, slender paws on the bartop next to Barley, tongue lolling. (Think of the chaos if we teamed up, rat.) He awards the small creature an affectionate and gentle snuffle with his long, cold black nose. (You could steal and I could run. We’d be unstoppable.) Undoubtedly together they would make an excellent team; but Oculos was all dog. He was not distracted by shiny bits and golden baubles unless they were made of cheese.
While Oculos is busy making rat friends, Kassandra is busy making rat enemies, probably. Her ears drop and her face falls and she feels a bit like crying. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She may be immune to subtle signs of tension and ill-ease but she would have had to be blind to miss Rivane startling. “And you as well. I apologize. I’m afraid my social graces could use some… polish.” She applies a small, friendly smile to try and soothe the air. She steps back and turns her attention, instead, to the barkeep, from whom she orders one of the first items on the drink menu, something called a brandy alexander.
She is brought back to the conversation by the tone at which Rivane chokes on her words. “Well, when you say it like that, I suppose I’ve wandered here and there. There was that weird island that one time. But I keep coming back here, for some reason. I like it here. I liked Isra. I--,” her words get caught in her throat and she tilts her head slightly as though to shift them free.
Shocked and uncomfortable, Kas looked at her life put into perspective. She spent four years locked in a tower because her mother was a whore and her uncle was a tyrant. Was four years such a long time?
The waiter brought her drink back just in time to save her from sliding into that dark, morose place. It was in a small v-shaped glass with a long stem, cream-colored and thick, topped with a dusting of some brown spice. Kas sniffed and did not recoil. She took a small taste. It was warm and silky, and burned a bit on the way down; she made a face but did not cough. “Tastes a bit like… sweet, hot mud,” she decided and had another sip.
She hummed over the buzzing in her mouth as she pondered Rivane’s words. When she spoke, her tone was positive, if reflective. “Unfortunately I’m not the best party guest. You may have already noticed. I was not invited to many.” Her uncle had thrown parties. Loud ones. She could hear them through the walls of her tower. “It’s hard, isn’t it? There’s knowing. And everyone is friends with each other. I have two friends-- well, they are my friends, at least-- and neither of them is here, I think.” She throws a curious glance over her shoulder at the silhouettes near the fire. “One is very tall and the other has wings on his feet so I would think I’d notice them.”
(I swear I didn’t eat him,) Oculos pledged as Rivane took roll of her companions and realized one was missing.
he's given up on her search for Beech, who disappears into the darkness at will; as if he isn't almost entirely white and should therefore be easy to find lurking through the shadows of the festival. In the near distance, she can see the dark shapes of partiers passing between the bonfires, becoming momentary illuminated in the severe light of the flames. They become monsters, exaggerated and bizarre. Words tumble over her, she listens without really paying attention while the frosted mare apologizes - to her, to Breadnut, hidden away.
You should not have stuck your head out if you didn't want to be seen, she scolds him silently.
At the bar, the alcohol is doing its job. She can feel her shackles loosen, can see how others at the cocktail party are also beginning to lose themselves to it. Two stallions nearby whisper heatedly at one another over a sapphire gone missing from a staff. One ear follows their conversation, their hissing voices easy to pick out from the growing, joyful, rumble of the celebrations. Red eyes turn back to the frosted mare beside her and she tries another smile. It's easier, this time.
"No, I'm sorry, only I've never stayed anywhere more than a few days. It's hard to imagine being in one place for four years. What do you do with yourself?"
It's a genuine question. She's come with the intent to stay, but she doesn't know how. Her attention is pulled away momentarily by the long, mournful, nose of Oculos, peering intently up at her as if willing words into her mind, but he is not hers, and she cannot hear him. She does, however, hear the manic exclamations of Barley who has managed to ease himself off the bar to sit in the narrow hollow between the hound's shoulders, small nimble hands gripping tightly to silky curls.
they'll never see us coming.
"They are absolutely going to see you coming," she tells them both, certain that rat and borzoi are of a similar mind in their plans, and that the pair are apt to draw attention like a couple of circus performers. Barley huffs, indignantly, but his reply is cut short when the bickering stallions' argument suddenly explodes into a brawl that sends them blundering into the group, sending drinks flying and Rivane shying sideways to avoid their twisting bodies.
"What the--?" Her tail snakes close to her body, the gleam of sharp metal tines piercing through the long purple hair, defensively. Four ears flatten and if she had any mane at all they might disappear, nonetheless it gives her a serpentine aire. "What the hell are you doing?"
Ugh I'm sorry this took so long. Work is so awful right now it's sapping all my words. I have no plan here, feel free to do whatever lol
The torches are crowned with dancing flames that send shadows skipping and hopping across the bartops. Strings of magical twinkling lights, meant to mimic Caligo’s precious stars, extend from pillar to pillar, interwoven with the canopy supports; they are so faint they provide little more than mood lighting. Around them, the darkness is encroaching, it’s encompassing hold shattered and splintered by the flame. The bonfires are both beacon and storm, swirling hot in the summer air, a whirling vortex that seems to churn the black night as fuel.
Kassandra is starting to feel floaty. Like there is a vibration in her head that stops her eyes from looking straight forward. It is with half-hearted recognition that she realizes she has consumed much of her drink. She is not, and has never been, observant. She does not care that Rivane seems to be standing in the wash of her words, letting them roll over her sangria-hued skin instead of soaking them in. She simply enjoys the companionship of a most pleasant warm body to stand next to, especially given the fact she had more than likely crashed Rivane’s party of one.
There is a small disturbance close to them at the bar and Kassandra frowns. Why can’t these people simply have a good night, like she is? Belatedly, she realizes Rivane is talking to her again. “That sounds exhausting. Aren’t you tired?” The nutmeg-flavored swill has taken any barriers to her speech and shattered them like glass. She gives Rivane an empathetic look; in her less-than-rational mind, she literally images a constantly moving figure. As though Rivane is walking around the outside of the planet and the globe is really small.
Kassandra frowns then. What does she do with herself? “I… I don’t know. I walk around. I see things.” She shifts the weight over her front legs. “I spent the first four years of my life locked in a tower. The servants were forbidden to speak to me. Sometimes the queen stopped by to tell me how worthless I was. I have only Oculos. So, there is a lot left for me to see.” She does not realize she is waxing pathetic. At least she retains the dignity not to slur.
She watches with unhidden glee as the little rat clambers himself over the hound in question’s long nose, slips over a finely carved head between perked ears-- one of which does not stand up all the way, but flops over at the end-- and scales down thick, silky, star-spattered curls to rest between at the base of his long neck. In his natural confirmation, Oculos’ back hunches a bit and comes to valley here between his shoulder blades. Here, Barley is safe, and Oculos shimmies down a bit to make a bigger cradle.
(“I saunter up, all unassuming like,”) Oculos explained in response to Rivane’s admonishment, (“lil’ bud sneaks off my back, does the do, and then we escape like lightning with the prize.”)
“He says the plan is to sneak up looking like a starving dog, then run away with Barley in tow once the theft is complete,” Kassandra translated, unable to fight the smile which came to her face.
There is a moment of peace, then, before the chaos. Something wet splatters across the bar in front of her and there is a sound of breaking glass. Kassandra is dulled enough that she doesn’t shift out of the way in time; Rivane tries to dodge the body hurling at her and bumps into Kas, who does little more than sway to the side. Oculos has jumped away, crossing behind the mares, stuck between trying to keep Barley safe and his honed and practiced instinct to protect Kassandra.
Kassandra steps back and swings her head over the lowpoint in Rivane’s croup. “Excuse me,” she says, angrier than she’s probably ever been in her life-- and even then not truly angry, just peeved-- and her tongue untemper’d on by the fuzziness in her veins, “my friend and I are having a good time, and I would thank you to take your nonsense elsewhere.” Her tone is an amalgam of shaming, insult, and protectiveness. Her throat brushes gently against Rivane’s back as she is slightly dizzied by the alcohol.
@Rivane | You good homie. take all the time u need. we just here 2 have a good time. <3
