Word of a very important summit had reached the serpent’s ears, one in which all four Sovereigns were supposedly to meet in the presence of a god. Up until this week, Toulouse hadn’t even known there was a god in these strange lands—at least one that was more than fable or fantasy. But when the earthquake had caused the ground to tremble and roll beneath his hooves, that had been everyone’s reaction:
It seemed silly to him, to attribute a natural disaster to a god. Of all the things gods were said to be capable of, why would they choose something so irrelevant? And why now?
He supposed he would have to educate himself a little more on this new world he found himself in. Everyone seemed so devoted, so quick to label both blessings and curses as the work of their deities.
But what made a god besides power?
Toulouse wasn’t familiar enough with these lands to know what they looked like before the earthquake. For all he knew, these trees were as old as they looked, and the clearing a carefully tended landmark. Doubt hung heavily on the Palomino’s mind as he slunk through the shadows, wandering around the perimeter of the wall the trees formed.
He came to a stop with a huff, his breath fogging up the early morning air. Whatever it was that was going on here, Toulouse was determined to be in the middle of it.
A summit was no place for a wanted woman, yet it was there that Avdotya walked with a sharpened swagger in her step. She knew the risks of skulking such an event, but she also knew that many did not know her face- although a Regent she once was, very few ever met her outside of the Solterran populace (even those very residents rarely caught a glimpse of her). They knew a name, a story whose villainess held no other identity than the scars upon her hide and the unkempt grizzly across her back.
She had shed what small details there were to give her away: Feliks remained with the Davke in the Mors, along with her old, treasured bearskin... but even with them left behind, Avdotya presumed there would be someone out there slicker than the rest. There were always prying eyes that then led to big mouths, rats who would love nothing more than to spill their secrets for a shred of attention from someone far more pertinent than they would ever be. And so, the viper slipped away from early morning light to the cover of the trees.
She stayed there for the most part, but the sight of a golden boy up to no good caught her astute amber eyes. Apparently a Davke queen was not the only lurker in these parts. "Not invited either?" She purred to him, looking past his prim and proper figure and to the clearing ahead of them. It was almost disappointing, really- each and every court was void of its ever-exalted figureheads, and here she was standing quietly in a forest with a man she did not know and perhaps did not care to know. The only thought that crossed her wild mind was:
He heard her before he saw her; her voice a gentle purr that crawled menacingly to his ears. He tilted his head in its direction, watching out of the corner of his eye as she slid into view. Like a cat playing with her prey.
“It would appear so—I’m mildly offended.” He matched her tone for tone, flashing a toothy grin at her. His bone-white teeth glint and glisten in the early morning sunlight, their edges razor sharp and hungry looking. She looked past him to the clearing, and it was then that Toulouse allowed himself get a better look at her.
The look in her eyes is nearly as hungry as his own.
She’s a mixture of greys and blacks, splashed in symmetrical patterns across her skin, but it’s the scars that catch his attention. They run down her face and side alike, the remnants of what once must have been a nasty wound. She makes no move to hide them, in fact seeming to flaunt them—it makes Toulouse all the more curious. He takes a step closer while her back is turned, his eyes boring holes into the back of her skull. Could she feel it, he wondered?
“I suppose I shouldn’t be mad, who wants to be stuck in a meeting?” He watches her, gauging her expression carefully. But he doesn't think before he speaks: the words flow like honey past his lips, warm and soothing. Instinctual. For the first time since he's entered Novus, he finds himself speaking candidly. “I would much rather be getting into trouble.”
With the way Toulouse says it, he makes it sound like trouble could be the best pastime in the world. And maybe it was, for a wolf. The best gambles were the ones you put your life savings into, a game he knew all too well.
But really, he was just dying to know if she was the type to agree.
colossal we come
these renegades in the ring
where the lost get found
in the crown of the circus king
just surrender~
@avodtya i like to thing things are better late than never talking. acting.
He did not seem the sort to attend a Summit on good merit; perhaps it was the way he spoke, or perhaps it was the wolfish flash of chaos she noted in his smile. He was a card Avdotya rarely pulled these days and, truthfully, it was refreshing to know that her hackles need not be raised so soon. The makings of quiet smirk even tugged at the corners of her cracked lips, her ears having spun back to listen to him express his lack of interest in stuffy meetings. "Ah," she murmured, "that is where you and I differ." She turned her head to look back at him, barely catching the man as her stepped closer. "I do not know the meaning behind this meeting, but I presume there is plenty to be gained from it." She would have loved to be a fly on the wall during that little get-together, if only to soak in the tension that surely pulled tight on the minds of attendees. How unfortunate, that it happened after her departure from politics.
Regardless of Avdotya's desires, she could only assume that there were other things outside of Tempus' walls to bury her nose in. Her newfound company seemed to have already focused his attention on such things, and so she eventually turned her body to stand face-to-face with him. "I cannot say I see you as the bloodied, fighting type." Her fiery eyes found themselves studying his rather... proper appearance, clean and well-maintained; if trouble really was his desire, she assumed he had a tendency to wage his wars intellectually. A sharp mind need not the edge of a blade. Then again, maybe the fellow simply had a knack for cleanliness.
Her stillness began to crumble when she began a fluid waltz around him, that burning stare of hers tracing his every curve in search of a blunt end. He was, indeed, refreshing, but the viper was not so quick to lay her defenses to rest. She would not indulge him until she knew those pretty pieces of cloth concealed no more than their own billowing folds, and when she did, the woman slithered right up alongside him. "So tell me, then, what sort of trouble is it that you seek?" Her voice was but a low susurration, an invite and a sweet temptation to fall into anarchy's embrace.
