Like Real People Do ✶ Aventurine

II. Desolate in a honeyed and saccharine land.

THE STARLIGHT CARESSED (Y/N)'S SKIN with the gentle touch of ancient whispers, casting a shimmering glow upon her as she stood static amidst the whirlwind of jubilant chaos that enveloped Penacony's Reverie Hotel. Auberge staff and travellers darted through the venerated halls, gilded chandeliers flashing overhead as cursory chatter echoed, conveying everything yet nothing, alongside hurried footsteps, heading everywhere yet nowhere.

Boothill, wearing a sheepish smile as authentic as the words of a Masked Fool, had bid (Y/N) farewell earlier, citing undisclosed business that prevented him from accompanying her. If I'd had my druthers, he'd drawled in his peculiar vernacular, I'd be down there with ya, cutie, but I've got some business to attend to. His evasiveness was a well-known trait, as familiar to her as the constellations that adorned the night sky.

"Miss (Y/N)?"

The sound of her name snapped the girls attention away from the bustling scene around her, drawing her gaze to an unfamiliar face. The mans eyes glinted gold, his features as pleasant as they were benign. He seemed to glow beneath the enveloping golden candles, fair skin creasing near amber eyes. Feathered wings of muted blue adorned his ears, while a halo hovered just behind his head, a silent testament to his celestial heritage — the Halovian race, was it? 

He smiled at her, and he appeared to be another element of this humdrum society. Still, a warning hissed behind her instinctive nod. It was in the tilt of his head, the curve of his lips. He smiled at her, lips turned up in welcome, but she knew The Family was only welcoming to those they deemed worthy of the gesture. "Who's asking?"

The man laughed, a white-velvet clad hand outstretched in arbitrary greeting. "My name is Sunday. I serve as one of The Family's representatives. We were glad to receive your acceptance of our invitation."

"Oh, of course. The.. Head of the Oak Family, if memory serves?" She paid no heed to his gesture, arms loose by her sides. Boothill had mentioned a particular haloed man in the same conversation that he'd informed (Y/N) that he would only join her on Penacony later. That Sunday's been livin' in high cotton. He's young, but he's pretty important, so don't go barking up the wrong tree with him, hear me? Not without me. Her premonitions must have bloomed from Boothill's words. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sunday."

Her lack of requital didn't go unnoticed by the Halovian. He retracted his fingers, lips pursed as his smile grew strained. When he spoke, his voice sounded as serene as it had earlier — (Y/N)'s ear, however competent, seemed to grow taut in the effort that it took to detect his undertone of wired pique. "Yes. I serve as one of The Family's representatives."

So you've said. His reference to the leading Family seemed to act as more of an admonition in the face of disturbance than an introduction in goodwill. She nodded, gaze flitting between Sunday's pursed lips and stiff arms. Amateurish silence reigned, leaving her ill at ease. She watched as he cleared his throat, yellowish eyes going dark as he let his eyes shut. "Well, Miss (Y/N), it was a pleasure —"

"Ah, but I can't!" A shrill voice suspended Sunday in his speech. (Y/N) turned on her heel, proclivity overruling any shadows of chagrin or diffidence. Part of her was glad; the sugary aspects of conversation and negotiation were best left to Galaxy Rangers like Boothill. As infuriating as he could be, she was decidedly of more use in the midst of clashing blades or certitude. 

A young girl, hotel staff most likely, seemed to be surrounded by a group of peculiarly appearing individuals. There was a woman with fiery red hair, clad in an ivory dress that exuded elegance; a boy with unkempt grey hair and crude attire; and a man wearing glasses and carrying a cane.. ah, she recognised them. 

The Nameless, the Trailblazers — whatever moniker they bore, they were devout followers of Akivili's fiery path. Boothill had mentioned them, and she had hoped for the opportunity to greet them herself. Perhaps she'd accompany Sunday, considering the way his stance shifted to face the Nameless. 

"Alley, just a moment." (Y/N) observed the flicker of capricious behaviour in Sunday, noting the subtle shift as his composure was fully regained. The restrained tone of his voice seemed like a relic of the past; a bygone as he turned his gaze kindly towards his entourage. "The Family cannot allow guests to enter a dream while wearing burdens."

"Speak of the devil, look who's here!" (Y/N) started at the sudden exclamation, her gaze drawn to a man with auriferous hair akin to spun gold. It was peculiar; she hadn't noticed him before — despite his obvious attempts to capture attention down to the glinting stones adorning his viridescent apparel, she had somehow overlooked him. It unsettled her; she prided herself on her ability to observe everyone in a room. With eyes of dichromatic fluorescent hues and attire reminiscent of a peacock's plumage, he had slipped past her scrutiny.

"It's Sunday, the most handsome man in Penacony! Oh, and along with him..." The man's smile held a disconcerting quality, almost as if it were a facade. The mere reality of it made it seem fraudulent. . His bi-coloured eyes swept over her, abnormally dismal beneath the sparkling chandeliers. "A very, very pretty Galaxy Ranger!"

(Y/N) blinked, her head tilting slightly to the left. While she had grown accustomed to deflecting remarks about her appearance while working alongside Boothill (distress in the face of his philandering only resulted in double the output), she couldn't help but find it terribly interesting how effortlessly the man sugar-coated his words. It seemed like second nature to him, and the thought of that brought a bitter taste to her mouth. A blue-eyed girl was frowning. Even subsequent to what must have been a variance with the nameless, he smiled. "A pleasure."

The curve of the man's lips deepened, and (Y/N) wondered if Boothill had mentioned him.

"I've kept you waiting, Mr. Aventurine," Sunday interjected. He glanced at the aforementioned Galaxy Ranger, unfamiliar irascibility veiled under years of practised composure. "This way please, let us speak in private."

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DESOLATE IN A HONEYED AND SACCHARINE LAND,

Chapter Two.