Contrary to the brilliance of their looks, the pale creature abhorred the daylight, and even though it was winter and the temperatures were cold (if you were an Anaxi, anyway), the sun was no less bright. Brighter. Sharper. It stung. It dug under skin that was born without pigmentation, clawing at nerves and leaving pink burns in its place if Xavier wasn't careful to cover themselves appropriately. Well, mostly appropriately. It wasn't as if the albino wick had any care for social convention when it came to dressing themselves, let alone any firm grasp on propriety other than making sure their precious skin was mostly safe during the day.
Thank Hurte herself—it was partly cloudy this morning: a wintery, etherial mist clinging to the low-lying areas near the Avora, curling upward from sewer drains, shrouding even the Soot District in its cool embrace. It was cold (for Anaxas), but there was a hint of more sun later in the afternoon, and that just would not do. It was either roll out of bed and earn some ging or stay in bed all clocking day. Not wanting to sit still, restless after a night of performing at the Toy Lantern just the evening before, Xavier promised themselves a long soak later. And a drink or two.
Hardly dressed for the chill in comparison to the kingdom's natives they walked among, the albino wick was used to the atmosphere high above and born into colder climes. The willowy musician wore a coat, long but and of a comfortable weight, dyed a deep purple and embroidered with silvery flowers by a very skilled hand—oh, gods, skilled indeed; putting it on always brought comfortable memories of Brunnhold and sometimes a bit of a blush—over two layers of loose, equally long linen shirts in dull, pale tones. Far too many shiny necklaces hung low with baubles, feathers, fake jewels, beads, would have caught the sunlight and sparkled like the rings on their fingers and the bangles at their wrists, entwined with a thin, hand-knit scarf in autumnal golden tones. Bone white hair worn down and wild peeked out from beneath their fashionable, charcoal grey wool bowler hat and, as always, their translucent skin stood out in stark contrast to the dark leather boots that crunched through crusty, icy puddles and sloshed through dingy alleys which reached above the albino's knees that allowed just a glimpse of trousers that while a comfortable weight may as well have been hose with their snugness. To top off the outfit, tucked just so into their hat that protected shaded their beautiful face from the peek of the cruel dayball through the clouds, slipped perfectly into the purple velvet ribbon was a long, bold whice feather in a stunning turquoise green.
The pale wick wove through the streets, sticking to the to the shady sides of walkways, forced into dodging the brightest of open areas and stepping through alleys to stay out of direct sunlight. They made their way out of the Dives toward Crosstown Court, with their oud slung over their shoulder as dark as the night they preferred to prowl through, mother of pearl celestial bodies etched into its surface dull without the sun, Xavier humming and striding through the shadows between the main street as if they clocking well owned the place.
Not that they wanted this conflicted spitchhole, Circle save them all, no. But, still. They could act like it, right?
Squinting, vision blurrier in the brightness of the light that crept through the thin early clouds, the small thoroughfare the tall Gioran strode through opened up into a huge, circular courtyard. Shops and cafes lined the outer perimeter with neat little sidewalks and well-kept, sculpted trees. A fountain rose from the center of the wide open space, King Romelius II on blackback read the plaque along with an exhaustive list of his probably half-ersed accomplishments.
While Xav had heard that Off the Path played here, they weren't interested in competing. They were interested in doing better. Being better. Well, they already assumed they were better—or could be, if they'd only had a clocking band.
Violet gaze studied the impressive sunk-in theater for oratory moments, probably boring affairs led by stuffy ignorant politicians with their ramscott golly fields shoved up their ramscott golly erses. Today, in the hint of rain and the cold weather, it was empty. A couple of jugglers tossed around brightly colored batons in one of the grassy areas, smiling and laughing and surrounded by a few lookers-on. There were a few other performers—someone painting portraits under a handmade portable tent for a couple of forts a face; a mime, maybe; some scruffy looking kids with homemade instruments barely playing loud enough to be heard.
Some petite well-dressed ladies were walking their fancy little dogs through the wet grass, giggling. Under an overhang, a bunch of whithered-erse gollies cursed at each other politely while playing Kingdoms on park benches like proper old folks should.
As if they knew anything about the real kingdoms beyond their own. Bastards.
Finding a nice little spot near a lovely, leafless tree, Xavier huffed a few rebellious white strands from their pale face. Removing their hat to set it at their feet just out of reach in order to catch a few tips, the albino wick paused to run their dark-painted fingers through their hair, long and wild.
Glancing around the Court one more time, he moonlit creature slid their dark oud from against their spine and began to carefully assess the state of its tuning, uncaring whether or not they attracted an audience just yet.