m o l i o a n i m a t r a

They pass a pane of diamond-studded glass, twinkling with that sweet Vision of the Moon amongst her candid stars, and a flash-boom of colorful fireworks hast Roland, so, to startle, hard like the deer amidst the quiet brush of the Wood.

He laughs at himself, chortling and hushed. “The Lady wilt merry be borne beneath beddings and within closets or wardrobes; she takes these games fairly seriously,” warns playful Roland, and smothers his cookie in that fit of spreading crumbs, and swiftly moves to devour another treat; holding that bundle aloft, ready for taking and thus to share.

A haughty group of drunken laughterers meanders close to them as they pivot ‘round a corner, those great marble’d hallways sprawling down infinitely in their decadence and splendor of the chosen architecture, and Roland waves for friendliness, as sum of the group wave back, and try to clutch at his coat. “Didst thou play these games whence thou were young, friend Maretus?” asks Roland curiously, and none for offense nor picking of despicable privilege.

Were this new warlord of the Inquisition known for catch or seeking or sighting shapes within the clouds? Pointing to clarity with his back to the soft grass?

“I never had the chance to,” Maretus replies without malice. Nor the playmates, but he leaves that part unsaid. “Unless you count playing with alley cats. I grew up alone on the streets of Marothius,” he explains, expecting some kind of curious look from his companion. “I don’t remember my family at all. When I was about ten or so, a legionnaire found me and took me to the barracks of the Perivantium Legion. That’s where I grew up.”

Another group of revelers wander by them, chatting with one another loudly and gaily, though Maretus could not have said what they were discussing. One of them dances a little in response to another’s joke—or, they try to dance. It ends up being a little more than an awkward shuffling around of their feet that nearly sends them tumbling directly into Roland and Maretus. The two step easily out of the way, and the offending party-goer’s friends laugh good-naturedly at their stumbling. Out of instinct, Maretus presses a gentle hand against the small of Roland’s back as if to steady him, though the moment after he does the automatic act, he realizes Roland likely didn’t need the help. Still, his palm lingers a moment longer before he withdraws it.

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Favorite color: I prefer palettes: grey/green/black/white; terra cotta red/deep blues; muted green/white/purple, etc

Song stuck in my head: this moment? Sleeping on the Blacktop by Colter Wall

Last song you listened to: Blackalven by Black Hill

Favorite Foods: oh man, so many. Bulgogi, chicken tikka masala, coffee cake, chai, chicken florentine, awaze tibs, horchata, tres leches, yam tempura, corn casserole, pierogis, patychky, latkas, çilbir

Dream trip: Caribbean, Mediterranean, Scotland, the Pacific NW, Kyoto, Thailand, Northern India, Slovenia, Kiev, Moscow, Ireland

Anything you want right now: I'd love a 32" US4 circular right this moment

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Tagged by: @daughterofhighever-blog

Without pause dost Roland confer, now, with his satchel, to flip the flap and to rummage inside for Clarity and sweet treasure amidst this gentle walking.

He pulls out a wrapped bundle in a perfected handkerchief, albeit stolen from one of his ladies ‘awaited in the wings. He unwraps for a grasping hoard of cookies, embellished sweet treats, and places he one in his mouth to hold as dost he offer Maretus a choice of expensive sweet.

“Seven, close enough,” murmurs he, close to prevention that gentle spew of crumbs. Roland dost smile around it. “The Lady of the House, her husband, her consort, her consort’s three sisters, and one of the consort’s sister’s husband. Married for the Night to weave through these fantastic qualms of furniture and hiding beneath beds and curtains all a-flowing, prithee. All drunk,” confirms he, and smiles harder, and juggles his hoard to bite down promptly into his cookie.

Maretus plucks a cookie with thick chunks of chocolate in it from Roland’s proffered array. He can’t quite recall the last time he had chocolate, and always regards it a luxury when he has some. Tonight feels a night for decadence and danger of a sort he is unused to: no swordplay no martial encountering, but something more intimate and, perhaps, far more frightening for Maretus. While his first instinct is to shy from such a possibility of pushing his social proclivities and boundaries, something’s stirred within him to continue pursuing it.

“Drunk?” echoes Maretus. “That may very well tip things in our favor. Though,” he adds, glancing around to the revelers around them as they walk, “most everyone appears to be drunk, so we might also have our work cut out for us.” The slant of a grin slowly spreads across his face. “I expect they will be among the most ostentatiously costumed,” he says, keeping an eye both on Roland for his reaction as well as the ebb and flow of the festivities through which they wend their way.

Blessedly, and with all the permissions of doting and a'fore fond, amused smiles through friends and elderly ladies wreathed in gilded finery, is Roland presently gone without those gold-heel’d shoes; comfortably barefoot and ringed with gemstones in gold-and-silver bands of rings ‘round his toes, and each nail prettily painted with iridescent colors befitting the freshwater opal. Roland’s grin is lazy, pressing his powder-smeared cheek into his own palm.

“The Lady of the House is wanting of a game of hide-and-seek,” comes he, without any of that superfluous tic of judgment and fluttered for that gorgeous sound of mirth within Roland’s drink-burred voice. His handsome eyebrows dost bounce in thrice. “I am the Seeker, and shalt find and peruse each individual spot with utmost aplomb, and in so of due diligence. But as am I the animal, the Feral Tooth pressed and pulled into these expensive clothing hast I smelled thine own perfume.” And he presses his finger to the side of his nose, twice, and so winks in that Cunning of a fluttering eyelash. “And didst meander to find thee.

"Art thou well?” asks he, suddenly and serious. “Art thou too exhumed upon thine own humor to enjoy the festivity? Art thou so overwhelmed?” concerns Roland, and furrows his brow to find the littlest nuance, any crease within a wrinkled, internal Tapestry.

There is an ease of tension within Maretus’ chest that he hadn’t been aware was there as Roland asks after his well-being. Large, ostentatious social situations had ever made Maretus uncomfortable; he never felt as if he belonged at them. Having a familiar face with him and friendly concern bolstered his mood more than he thought it could.

“I am well,” he assures Roland. “Maybe a little overwhelmed, but brooding is second nature to me. Nothing to worry over.”

He takes in the sight of his friend, shining in opalescence from cheek to foot, clearly enjoying himself. For a moment, Maretus finds himself wondering what magic he might find during a glittering masque such as this if he didn’t feel the press of anxiety. For a moment, he thinks he might find secret doors and hanging illusory gardens that still smelled of sweetness, that he might find delight in the flutter of layered, gauzy costumes that promised to grant hands sight better than what the eye could see, that he might find the heat of laughing bodies scattered throughout the marbled corridors intoxicating rather than oppressive. A strange shiver runs through him, prickling the skin along his neck and forearms.

He thinks he might just need another one of those effervescent drinks the servants were carrying around on unending silver trays.

@eritvita from here

“And get trapped in some vapid conversation with an Orlesian noble? Or worse, propositioned by one?” Maretus snorts softly. “I’d rather fall upon my sword.”

He leans with his back against the marble balustrade of the balcony, elbows resting against the cool stone, though he doesn’t quite feel it through the thick brocade of his military jacket. Unlike Roland beside him, he doesn’t appear to have much interest in gazing down at the revelry beneath them in the gardens, a cacophony of colors and jewels and metal embellishments on men, women, and everyone else. It’s a warm night, of course, made even more so by the free-flowing drink, the many braziers and wall sconces and hanging lanterns lit with dancing flames, and the presence of so many bodies shifting and moving against and beside one another. Even the bit of fresh air of the balcony seems to be whisked away by the cascade of shimmering fireworks in the night sky.

Maretus’ jacket hangs open, the first several buttons undone and his midnight hair curling at the tall back collar. Beneath is a soft linen tunic, the cream color a stark contrast to the warm, earthen skin of his throat and clavicle, bared to the warm night air. The faint glisten of sweat clings to the long line of his neck. The rest of his dress, however, remains sharp: the wide, crimson sash about his waist and hips, the crisp lines of his trousers, the hardness of his tall boots. Roland is not alone in carrying the cloying scent of incense with him, though the smokey smell of that turns amber on Maretus.