Asra's halfway into a cup of sparkling wine before he realizes this is one of those places. Where they don't even try to crowd the beast into their stables because they've seen bigger, and odder. Where the wine is sparkling--someone asks him how he likes the champagne, and he answers with a smile around the rim and a tip of his glass. Just fine, thank you. The champagne likes him as well, bubbling down his throat, not so strong as to put him immediately under one of the tables.
He's drinking champagne at something called a fête, and they call the language something different but they still seem to understand each other perfectly.
Just--one of those places. The beast had been following a river, and at some point it had become another river, in another land, and then canals, and then--this keep, dusted in snow. This festival, spilling into courtyards, lanterns hung, the halls of the manor somewhat empty and dark--but in a way that is warm and inviting. "What is the festival for," he'd asked, and been kissed properly on the cheek, handed a new cup. A lot of strangers come through, this time of year. The party lasts as long as the waning of the moon, and there are alliances made, wares sampled, children of odd gifts and coloring sired.
He'd barked a laugh at that, and clinked one glass to another, and let himself return to wandering.
Perhaps when he's all the way into his cups, he'll be persuaded to some of that. Right now he's content to sample foods, committing the shapes of lanterns and odd fashions to memory. Eventually he finds a spot under a tall tree, bare of leaves but made up for in strung lights. There are all shape and size of children playing games that seem to span worlds, and he gathers some of them in a demonstration of simple magic. Little tricks of water and light, pouring gold fish onto cobblestones that burst apart like soft fruit, splattering shrieking girls with gold dust and water that seems to hold no chill.
Toward the end of it, in a final trick, he picks one of them up on his shoulders and turns them to the tree, letting the little boy spread his arms and believe he is the one unfurling bright yellow leaves across its branches, obscuring and coloring the lights.
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He's drinking champagne at something called a fête, and they call the language something different but they still seem to understand each other perfectly.
Just--one of those places. The beast had been following a river, and at some point it had become another river, in another land, and then canals, and then--this keep, dusted in snow. This festival, spilling into courtyards, lanterns hung, the halls of the manor somewhat empty and dark--but in a way that is warm and inviting. "What is the festival for," he'd asked, and been kissed properly on the cheek, handed a new cup. A lot of strangers come through, this time of year. The party lasts as long as the waning of the moon, and there are alliances made, wares sampled, children of odd gifts and coloring sired.
He'd barked a laugh at that, and clinked one glass to another, and let himself return to wandering.
Perhaps when he's all the way into his cups, he'll be persuaded to some of that. Right now he's content to sample foods, committing the shapes of lanterns and odd fashions to memory. Eventually he finds a spot under a tall tree, bare of leaves but made up for in strung lights. There are all shape and size of children playing games that seem to span worlds, and he gathers some of them in a demonstration of simple magic. Little tricks of water and light, pouring gold fish onto cobblestones that burst apart like soft fruit, splattering shrieking girls with gold dust and water that seems to hold no chill.
Toward the end of it, in a final trick, he picks one of them up on his shoulders and turns them to the tree, letting the little boy spread his arms and believe he is the one unfurling bright yellow leaves across its branches, obscuring and coloring the lights.