Night creeps slowly, slowly across the sky. It is an all-consuming, inevitable fact of each new day. As sure as death, the night will come. Remnants of sand from the desert spill from his fine ashen coat. Reminders of his visit to Solterra. His once-home. Sebastien is nothing if not nostalgic. It is where he met here until she crept away from him. An inch somehow stretched into a mile. Sebastien is not worried, he knows she belongs to him. Belongs to him just like all beings eventually will. Until he joins the Ancestors. Through the streets of swirling smoke and incense, he glides. An ashen ghost drifting through the streets with an array of sights and smells. There is a steady hum of life in the Night Markets, they are no different than the markets in Solterra. Solterra. Their markets do not have the promise of Solis' touch the way that the Night Markets boast about Calligo.
Each city. Each one is alive. Abuzz with new life each day. Novus is a very interesting place in recent times. Sovereigns from three courts are now absent. Their throne sits empty while suitors throw their hats into the ring. As though their hat is little more than a cheap date and idle promises. The head of House Vogelstein has forbidden him from tossing his own hat into the ring. He is not ready. Not yet. Sebastien doesn't agree. He thinks this as he plucks a ripe plum from the vendor waving it into the street. Coins fall atop their booth as he continues on, biting into the soft flesh of the fruit. It drips and spills into the stone. Some of it splashes on his limbs, as it does the same for the strangers shifting in the night. Sebastien musters an apologetic look to the oncomers, who seem to shrug their shoulders at him with a smile.
Sebastien continues on until he spots him. He is unsure of why his fixation is drawn to the simple-looking stallion ahead of him. Perhaps it is because he reminds the charmer of Meira. Waves of his magic swirl, mingling with the scents of patchouli that are drifting out into the street. He moves. Moves towards the man with a suave smile on his lips. "Hello." He greets the stranger with warmth. It is inviting. It feels like home. "I wonder if you might be able to help me?" Sebastien asks the stranger again. He makes sure to give pause so that the man can respond. All the while he remains attentive, focused. Yes, he will come to possess this man. Someday. Someday when Meira's touch fades. He needs to fill the void.
I'll come to thee by the moonlight,
though hell should bar the way
H
e had made it nearly his entire trip without being interrupted. The leather bag which hung at his side was mostly full of the necessary supplies he had come into town for; spices, fruits (both dried and fresh), meats for Merlin, thread, lantern oil, and various other necessities he had long gone without simply because he had no desire to leave the solitude of his mountain cabin.
Leaving his home always filled him with dread and discomfort, but with the everlasting trepidation came a hint of blasted excitement, a kick to his old heart that made his pulse race just a little faster. Throughout his entire visit into the Denoctian Markets that evening, Tristan’s brilliant turquoise eyes scanned the throngs of shifting bodies for one face in particular. Disappointment was a familiar feeling as the hours dragged on, however, as Ira seemed determined to remain out of his watchful eye… But perhaps that was for the best. He truly could not afford to be any more distracted than he already was, and Ira was terribly distracting.
Having just tucked away a jar of honey and a parcel of coffee beans into his satchel, Tristan deposited a number of Signos upon the stall counter and offered the vendor a curt nod before turning on his heel. The full satchel bounced against his shoulder as he walked, the slate-blue of his cloak hanging heavy and familiar around him, the fabric brushing against his legs with every step. The hood was down, permitting him with perfect vantage, and the Genesis blade remained within its scabbard at his hip.
He truly was nothing like the denizens of Denocte, but their cheery disposition and welcoming ambience had not yet driven him away. Perhaps it was because he stood out amidst their ilk that he was finally waylaid, and just when he was about to go home…
A larger man approached with a casual swagger, all saccharine grins and considerable bulk of smokey black. He stood a great deal taller than Tristan himself, but the knight was undaunted; he had felled far larger beasts in his time. There was a look in those amaranthine eyes that Tristan didn’t appreciate, a hunger... But perhaps it was simply the tricks of an old man’s warped mind.
A simple ‘hello’ was his greeting and Tristan arched a brow. The smokey black fellow went on casually, acting quite chummy despite their lack of intimacy. ‘I wonder if you might be able to help me?’ Turquoise eyes glanced left, then right, and then focused back on the large fellow. All of these smiling, amicable faces and this man came to him for assistance? The cloaked buckskin let out a long sigh before rasping out his answer, shifting casually from hoof to hoof, none the wiser to the swelling waves of magic around them with the protection of his mantle.
“What do you need? I’m in a hurry.”
Glancing to the right, Tristan mentally called for Merlin to come back from wherever the Wyvern had gotten off to. More than likely he was out chasing the Pygmy Dragons again…
As he peers into the shadows cast across the man's face from his cloak, Sebastien thinks he notices a certain wariness in the older man's eyes. He wonders then if the man knows what kinds of hate Sebastien is made of. His magic drifts like the man's cloak. It extends away from him, it is hungry just like him. It tries to wrap its gravity around the man, to pull him into Sebastien's orbit. It tries, but it is weak. This man is a mountain. The flicker of irritation is not missed by the politician, who dips his tongue in rot as he prepares to lie. Hurried words flow from the buckskin's mouth. His exasperated sigh escapes into the night markets. It too wears a cloak of honey and coffee. Sebastien allows his own features to flicker momentarily as if he feels great concern for troubling this fine gentleman. He admires the way the cloak hangs on the other man's body. It is an aura all its own and shapes his frame nicely. He does not miss the outline of a scabbard resting on the man's hip.
"I see, perhaps then.. I should ask someone else. It's just that, your cloak reminds me of home. I think I sought a fondness I have not known in quite some time." Sebastien trails off, playing the part of one who worries far too much of others. "And your scabbard resting at your hip. Are you a soldier here?" He trails off again, making sure he does not peer straight at the man. Sebastien does his best to seem a bit nervous in his presence. The last of his plum drips from his lips and splashes upon the stone like blood. He can feel his frustration seep in, because he cannot get a read yet on this man. It becomes much harder to possess another if you cannot first come to know them. Sebastien pauses a moment to watch the crowds sweep by them. The two have become immovable boulders inside a steady stream.
Their fates are inevitable. His gravity will extend around this man someday, and it will sweep him up. It will carry him into the stream that Sebastien controls. He knows this to be true. "I apologize. I'm wondering if you know where I might find a bit of seclusion here. I'm not yet used to such a large bustle of strangers occupying the streets. I seem to have gotten myself turned around." He lies again, but this time there is half a truth nestled inside. Sebastien is still learning his way around Denocte. He knows only the area around his noble home. "I just need a moment to get my bearings." He explains again, hoping that the man will risk a bit of time with him. A rambling stranger who plays the part of a shy stranger too well. This is his own cloak that he pulls tight against his body. Sebastien wants nothing more than to be a chameleon, but more than that he wants to be a believable one. Until Meira's memory is gone. Until he is just him.
I'll come to thee by the moonlight,
though hell should bar the way
E
ven as he held this man’s amaranthine stare, Tristan could feel the returning call from Merlin. The Wyvern was not far and would be among them soon, but the buckskin willed him to hurry. Dragons were not out of place among Denocte so seeing one would not come as a surprise, but having his companion closer filled the buckskin with a soothing confidence that he otherwise lacked.
Again, the saccharine words flowed from plum-sweetened lips. They seemed innocent enough, he supposed; the man’s brows furrowed as though perplexed and troubled, as though guilty for disturbing Tristan’s peace. It seemed genuine, certainly, but the knight was no fool. A pretty face and sweet words could hide an ugly heart and disgusting intentions. One only had to look at the Usurper for that.
Rolling a shoulder, the flesh hidden beneath the comforting weight of his slate-blue mantle, the stud hummed. Despite his misgivings and tendency towards paranoia, he should treat this man with kindness. Tempus have mercy if word got back to Ira in regards to his poor behavior… Yet his words in regards to the enchanted cloak wrapped securely about the knight’s frame gave him pause, an ear flicking forward intently.
“... And where do you hail from, stranger?” Tristan asked, his words measured and slow as he cocked a hind hoof. The streets were wide enough that the other citizens could pass them by with ease, and so he felt little concern of standing in their way. ”’Tis a custom piece.”
Did this man know of his homeland? Did he know of the Usurper? Should he be exercising more caution?
A flash of black scales and broad wings and Merlin appeared over the tops of the nearest shops, gliding over the crowds of passerbyers to join them. The Wyvern landed without preamble upon Tristan’s back, his size larger than that of the Pygmy dragons of Denocte, and as his bulk rested upon the stallion’s spine the sooty buckskin shifted his weight to compensate for it. Sharp claws dug into tawny fur as Merlin’s peering eyes stared hard at the stranger, yet he remained silent and calculating, watching, and he waited. Tristan continued without pause, flawless in his vocal execution.
“... But to answer your question, no. I am no soldier here.” His fealty was not to Denocte, but to something more.
’Someone more,’ Merlin cackled, and Tristan sighed, exasperated.
The apology caught Tristan off guard. Both ears twisted forward and his jaw worked curiously, brows raising, and then he shrugged again. ”I know of a few places. Should you desire quiet, the Market is hardly the right place for that. Come. I’ll show you.” It wouldn’t even be out of the way, as the knight knew of a place nearby that wouldn’t take him from his path home.
Without a further word or even waiting for the smokey-black male to answer, the sooty buckskin pressed on, diving into the crowds with confident, purposeful steps. Merlin watched the stranger the entire time, his piercing stare curious yet cautious.
There is a wariness within the man that persists above all else. Sebastien is unsure whether he has a strong sense of self-preservation or if his wariness has been created from something more, someone more. More words flow from the finely chiseled man created from the dust of the stars in the sky. They carry notes of apprehension as if there are violent thoughts churning behind blue eyes. "Solterra, but the reaches of my kin surpass the borders that encompass Novus." He answers the man honestly. A politician cannot rely entirely upon his allegories in conversation. He must scatter the truth throughout the fictitious creations to earn the trust of others. "I have fond memories of a relative with a cloak of similar design. It always seemed so heavy to me as a child, but in a way that made one feel secure rather than hindered." He explains this carefully because he does not want to trigger an ounce of suspicion from the wary stranger.
He comes to learn that the cloak is a custom piece. This new information interests him, as he lets his eyes sweep across the expert craftsmanship of the fabric. It does indeed remind him of the cloak that his uncle drew around his shoulders to keep warm when night fell upon the desert. "Does it means something to you? A symbol of something?" His gravity grows hungry again as it reaches out to encourage the man to share with him.
A dragon, much larger than those he has ever seen in Denocte lands upon the broad back of the man bound to his sword. Sebastien studies the creature with renewed interest. The weariness he begins to feel from his magic wanes a little as he peers at the dragon. Sebastien is a scholar down to the very core. Even if most of his study involves the exploitation of others. He peers at the stranger as his face ripples through a set of emotions that he cannot identify. Sebastien lets his ears flicker forward, the appropriate response to show gratefulness.
His eyes flood with wonder and appreciation, though he is devoid of any such emotion. Sebastien waits to join the man until he turns to lead him away. He places himself at the right side of the man, away from the swarming bodies. "I appreciate your help." He murmurs appreciatively to the buckskin man.
@Tristan
It's so rusty and so so late I'm sorry rrow <3
