Starglow Basin Tutunduğum şeytan

@Osiel sorry this is later than expected!

Arslan had always been quick to grow bored. It is his nature, above all else. It was never an issue in Siena for he had servants to keep him pleased, but now he finds himself placed in a lower class. 

What is there to do?

He can only seem to wander the stone quarter, eyes carefully scanning for familiar faces or one that simply catches his interest. He wants to find Soto, but it is too soon. What sort of prince would he be to appear so desperate? Or, worst of all, he could be given a tedious task.

He misses the beautiful men of his homeland. The way they cowered beneath him and bended to his will. He wonders if he will ever have such privileges again. For someone so recklessly confident, even he has doubts.

The look in this one’s eye says more than strife. His face is handsome, composed; the rusted blondes almost accustomed to coiffing.

In ways, there is common ground. Osiel no longer resides in the idyll wilds. He does not have meals prepared or servants to tend him. Now he plants seeds as the of head of the most ambitious organization in the Teekons. He has bent his back in work for status.

Has this one?

“Hola. What is your name, señor?”

A voice cuts through his thoughts. Once he would have been able to scold such behaviour whether he had a particular reason or simply found himself bothered in the moment. His situation is no longer the same, now he must fight for favour.

He will be good, obedient. A well-trained dog.

He turns to the stranger, a practiced smile crossing his face. It is warm, the narrow of his eyes speaking of deeper intentions. Intentions that must not be spoken of. Arslan. He responds, his gaze crossing over the other. And yours?

His head tilts, only the slightest bit. He likes the man's dark coat, his lean figure and piercing eyes. He masks his desires for now, putting on the front of the diplomat he was taught to be. It is a mask that is often quick to slip.

“Ocho,” the ocelot greets in kind, jowls splitting to a grin. But the red eyes are wide and studious and do not conceal the way each mannerism is assessed. The man lowers his hips to a seat, observing some from of hesitancy from the russet lion.

“Where are you from, Arslan?”

He speaks far more than many of the other's, and Arslan can find pleasure in such a trait. He is not one to enjoy silence.

Sitting in turn, he considers how he will answer the question. Siena. My father's pack, about week or two of travel from the wilds. He will not speak of his reason for leaving, rather his answer as of late is simply that he dispersed.

You run Verapaz, yes? With Soto. He is the one who allowed me to stay.

“I do.” Osile grins, still and pleasant upon the stone. How elegant this man is in his mannerisms to be here, in the desert; in the wastes, where a smile is rare to come by and a kind word rarer still.

It amused him, but the ocelot played no games.

“They have dirt in Siena, Arslan?” He asks next.