- 35 Spring 519
Caspian had let slip, sometime earlier that week, that the 35th day of Spring is his birthday.
“Let slip” being the misnomer in this instance, because he’s not one to turn down a cause for celebration, especially when said celebration might have him at its focal point.
26 isn’t much, to Ravokian standards, in contrast to the typical Sunberthian lifespan, by which it’s practically a miracle. Especially divine if you’ve wrangled your way to adulthood with all of your limbs, and psyche relatively unscathed.
But despite Caspian’s best efforts - and despite his having to put out efforts in the first place an unnecessary burden to have had to take on, given the circumstances - none of the three people who ought to be paying attention to him on his 26th birthday have made themselves amenable to the task.
Saticath had knocked back one too many the previous night. Caspian knows, because he was there, and that’s hardly an excuse for skipping out on knocking back several more in his honor. But when he’d bounded up to her door, she’d blearily stuck her head out to inform him that on this day of all days, her parents are paying her a visit, and she’s got her hands full tidying up the place to make it not come off as an iniquitous hovel frequented by all manner of entertainers, courtesans, roustabouts, and at the bottom of the barrel, people like Caspian.
Thancerell’s reasons for absence are along similar lines. Today’s the one-year anniversary of the passing of a great aunt, of no particular emotional consequence to anyone in the family, but a ceremonious occasion to be attended all the same.
“Later, alright?” Thancerell promises him as he’s hastily buttoning on one of his nicer shirts, nicer as determined by mild embroidery around the cuffs, and an absence of a Lakeshore hunter’s grime and gore. “I’ll come by later. Swear it.”
Unsurprisingly - really, he should have seen this coming - Caspian’s last resort hasn’t much of an excuse, and doesn’t bother the courtesy of fabricating one when prompted.
“Today?” Taalviel asks absentmindedly as she peers at herself in his mirror.
“...yes?” he flusters to fill the air when she resolutely doesn’t. “I mean - have you got something going on today, or -?”
“No.” She considers a lock of her glossy hair, decides to fuss with a bit of his - yes, his, because she’s got no sense for ownership or insult when convenient to her - gold eyeliner. “But, I mean...” She affords him one glance. “Something might come up.”
Aghast, Caspian pulls on his boots and slams the door behind him.
A walk and a smoke and a loiter - that’s all he’s left with now, and on his birthday of all days. The usual fare, the quotidian death of it bringing down even the qualities of his magically transformative suit. Instead of the rainbow mast of spangles he’d half-wished for, it’s come about as a checkerboard suit of charcoal and ivory, a subdued harlequin left to sputter.
The apathy of it - the sheer nerve of all them - has him kicking stones into the nearest canal.
“Let slip” being the misnomer in this instance, because he’s not one to turn down a cause for celebration, especially when said celebration might have him at its focal point.
26 isn’t much, to Ravokian standards, in contrast to the typical Sunberthian lifespan, by which it’s practically a miracle. Especially divine if you’ve wrangled your way to adulthood with all of your limbs, and psyche relatively unscathed.
But despite Caspian’s best efforts - and despite his having to put out efforts in the first place an unnecessary burden to have had to take on, given the circumstances - none of the three people who ought to be paying attention to him on his 26th birthday have made themselves amenable to the task.
Saticath had knocked back one too many the previous night. Caspian knows, because he was there, and that’s hardly an excuse for skipping out on knocking back several more in his honor. But when he’d bounded up to her door, she’d blearily stuck her head out to inform him that on this day of all days, her parents are paying her a visit, and she’s got her hands full tidying up the place to make it not come off as an iniquitous hovel frequented by all manner of entertainers, courtesans, roustabouts, and at the bottom of the barrel, people like Caspian.
Thancerell’s reasons for absence are along similar lines. Today’s the one-year anniversary of the passing of a great aunt, of no particular emotional consequence to anyone in the family, but a ceremonious occasion to be attended all the same.
“Later, alright?” Thancerell promises him as he’s hastily buttoning on one of his nicer shirts, nicer as determined by mild embroidery around the cuffs, and an absence of a Lakeshore hunter’s grime and gore. “I’ll come by later. Swear it.”
Unsurprisingly - really, he should have seen this coming - Caspian’s last resort hasn’t much of an excuse, and doesn’t bother the courtesy of fabricating one when prompted.
“Today?” Taalviel asks absentmindedly as she peers at herself in his mirror.
“...yes?” he flusters to fill the air when she resolutely doesn’t. “I mean - have you got something going on today, or -?”
“No.” She considers a lock of her glossy hair, decides to fuss with a bit of his - yes, his, because she’s got no sense for ownership or insult when convenient to her - gold eyeliner. “But, I mean...” She affords him one glance. “Something might come up.”
Aghast, Caspian pulls on his boots and slams the door behind him.
A walk and a smoke and a loiter - that’s all he’s left with now, and on his birthday of all days. The usual fare, the quotidian death of it bringing down even the qualities of his magically transformative suit. Instead of the rainbow mast of spangles he’d half-wished for, it’s come about as a checkerboard suit of charcoal and ivory, a subdued harlequin left to sputter.
The apathy of it - the sheer nerve of all them - has him kicking stones into the nearest canal.
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