He hadn't heard such a din since the Tamren party, 9:41.
Drusa Tamren, old bag that she was, sat at the head of the feast table. She was a veritable mountain on her own, a crust of sable velvet tumbling over craggy wrinkles, and a cap of white dressed in neat curls atop her head. She chewed slowly, her teeth grinding together, waddle trembling. Bits of greenery dropped from her lips and forested the hills. Her coal pebble eyes stared out at the band playing in one corner. The musicians stole nervous glances at one another.
"Eh? Whassat they're playing?" the lady hissed through her gums, splattering cabbage on the tablecloth.
The musicians played louder.
The partygoers stabbed at their food with their forks. A few visibly clenched their brows together.
"Ehh?"
Louder.
"EHH?"
A chunk of fresco, once adorning the ceiling , plopped into Gareth's soup.
Rhocanth's eyes snapped open and he shifted uncomfortably. His face felt tight, too exhausted to do anything at his memory but grimace vaguely. Lightning crackled outside the window, briefly igniting the air before fizzling out again. He tossed around on his makeshift bed, the edges of cobblestones sticking through the thin wool blanket he had been given by a sister. His back would ache in the morning, this he was sure of. He tried to close his eyes and will away the storm outside, not for any sort of fear... well, maybe a little. But mostly because he was too dignified to get out of bed and huddle next to someone, like the sergeant, like some sort of toddling child. He could cope with this. He would need the rest.
They could feel the shock waves of Gareth's voice, still roaring over his soup, as they skittered through the street. Rhocanth hugged a chunk of bulbous green fruit to his chest. Vedahl Tamren grinned at him, and he grinned back, exhilarated by the depth of their depravity.
They had stolen a very expensive imported watermelon.
The pair of young nobleman leaned against the railing on the edge of the Diamond Quarter, the heat of the river of lava ruffling their hair and decorating their faces in gems of sweat. Vedahl parted his lips and sucked a chunk of pink fruit into his mouth, teetered precariously on the rail for a moment, and spat. The wet flesh and seeds popped and shrieked before it hit the glowing waves.
Rhocanth flipped around in his bedroll again. Thunder ripped through the chantry and he shuddered hard, legs knotting the blanket beyond redemption. Finally, he sat up, grumbling under his breath and sweeping a hand through his mussed hair. One foot and then the other went to the stone floor -- brutally cold -- and the blanket sank in a heap. He squinted through the dark, noting no movement. It was deathly quiet. No one would notice that he was gone.