Conclusion: Benden
2-24-2007:
Diminished height means increased skill in maneuvering around people, so it isn't overly long before the weyrwoman of High Reaches finds herself approaching the men from Boll and the woman they speak to (or at least that Kelar speaks to). She flashes a small smile, one hand smoothing her skirts as she steps up beside the trio. "Good evening Headmaster, Kelar, Ronan. You finally managed to escape the afternoon festivies, I see." This last is for Sefton, though her gaze continues to flick a little towards his brother and Ronan as well.
R'vain's target has eluded him; she is not exactly where she was when his gaze last left her. The big man is not entirely displeased, but his gaze grows darker and his grin, more thoughtful. He waits a moment to scope out the rest of the visible part of the gathering-- marking Roa's tiny figure maybe, or Lord Carlin's enormous presence. Then he turns about and stalks through the tables, searching out a place to settle down with his dinner. Being distracted serves him perfectly-- he comes across his prey all over again, and once she's sighted, approaches an empty spot near Fienne.
Reyce gives his head a tiny shake when Issa addresses him, returning his squinted gaze to her and blinking a few times until his expression evens out. "Don't know how to dance to this," he tells her, shifting his stance so he has his shoulder to his father's crowd-surfing, blocking it from even his peripheral sight. That done, he settles a bit more, and shrugs.
"The Masterfisher," Kelar murmurs, brows coming together in brief contemplation of the question. "I last saw him back inside," he supplies, as Sefton extricates himself with a laugh and a nod. Charm, charm. "Master Warragul, Sef?" Kelar queries, drawing a nod. "Inside, last seen sharing a drink with Master Ghera, I believe," the Headmaster drawls. Then Roa is arriving, and he's shifting helpfully to make room for us to join our group. "We are escaped indeed," he drawls with a grin, one hand coming up to rake hair back from his eyes.
Alas for his chances of getting a dance, Gans has already used up one of his get out of jail free cards. While him and Miniyal perused what the bookseller they tracked down had to offer he was lured away by Lord Tillek. So as the two older men wandered off to do whatever it is they would do she remained behind with the remains of Gans' wine and the bookseller whom she soon had convinced she should be allowed within the stall to see everything he offered. The two talk quietly and when he must help someone else she leafs through his collection. A few items pique her interest and they bicker over them as he produces a flask of something stronger than wine to share with her as they haggle. For now it appears the party must get on without her.
T'ral laughs, carefully juggling his plate as the crowd threatens to press in, and moves once more in Ginella's wake. "Don't start that," he replies, pausing for a mouthful from his wineglass. "Days like this are about how you girls dress up. All we have to do is make sure our shirt's been ironed and our boots polished, easy." Spots are opening up on tables, and he's quick to claim one, setting down his plate and glass so he can clear her place for her.
Breaking free from the crowd, Lord Carlin begins to stroll down the main aisle of the market. When he passes the stand with the drawing for the golden nut, he pauses to chat up the young shiller boy and then to try his hand. The line makes way for him, some of its occupants receiving pats on the shoulders as he walks by, but his seconds of fishing through the barrel yield only an ordinary peanut pinched between his giant fingers. "Well, I win the peanut!" he declares for the benefit of those nearest him, then pops the prize between his bearded lips.
"He was drinking with the Masterweaver." Ronan grimaces at the answers from Sefton and Kelar, crossing her arms over her chest and looking balefully towards the hold again. "Coward," she decides with a sniff before turning to Roa's greeting, blinking once and replacing the glaring grimace with a swift, bright smile. "Weyrwoman," she nods lightly, adjusting her shoulder again as she straightens to...Well. A /little/ taller than the Weyrwoman.
Definitely not diminished in height, M'eri stands in fresh form at the moment, sporting a quite fashionable, fitted riding jacket made of slate blue hide shined to a nice gleam and warm, comfortably clingy slacks made of finely woven llama wool; even his boots are nice, though they're a pretty simple sable color and look to be old boots just waxed up to a nice gleam. That long, bound tail of hair he sports has had the white cloth removed and replaced with a crisper silvery navy fabric. Yes, M'eri is dressed up and behaving himself, his left hand tucked into his hip pocket while the other is occupied by a cup of what is likely alcohol. For once, the bluerider looks to be acting his age, or at least a slightly more sane version of his age, even standing up perfectly straight and pretending he has things like etiquette and poise. Anyone that knows him - and a few here do, really - can likely recognize that being at a Hold is making him fidgety, though, as he continuously shifts his shoulders as though plague by discomfort.
"All -you- have to do?" Ginella replies with a laugh, "I believe -I- was the one who sent your shirt down to be ironed. Though you did do the boots yourself," she allows, adding in an intentionally patronizing tone, "Good boy." She grins at him then, and continues towards the tables, finally setting down not too far from where Sefton and others are congregated. Ginella smiles pointedly at the men next to her until they move to make room for T'ral. "There we are. This looks good. Eat, then maybe we can dance?" she suggests.
The masked woman weaves through people, careful to avoid those who don't look particularly steady with their plates of food. As she passes by a young man, a hand reaches out to nonchalantly take his glass. He notices only a moment later and blinks, mouth moving uselessly and his eyes following the ornate creature as she moves towards Fienne. The masked woman holds the drink out for the blonde Caucus girl. "That handsome gentleman over there would like you to have this," she says with a wide puckish grin. The gentleman in question is, of course, agape in Fienne's direction. The masked woman flicks a sly glance at the Weyrleader, as if her strangely painted mouth shares some inside joke.
"Well, the thing is, it's ironed," T'ral replies with a grin, inserting himself into the space their neighbours make, and lifting his glass in thanks. "Anything you like, today. You should dance with some of Benden, I suppose. M'arik'll expect." His broad shoulders rise in a brief shrug, and he applies himself with some enthusiasm to his meal.
"And what, prey tell, shall be done with your newfound freesom?" the weyrwoman inquires, her head canting a little to the side as she smiles. "Races? Food? Dancing? Drink? Benden has put such choices at our fingertips. Seems a pity not to attempt to enjoy at least one of them."
Kenathan makes note of...M'eri. Juggling food and red wine, he makes his way towards the bluerider, looking quite cheerful if a little...nervous and fidgety himself. "Hey," he greets as he finally gets within something resembling conversation distance. And his height not being diminutive, he is definitely having problems getting through the crowd.
Issa sighs heavily, markedly, for Reyce's answer, but her warning seems to dissipate on hearing it. She can wait for her dance, but she will get it. Her blue eyes turn on those who do know how to dance to this one when she takes up the spot to his side, her hand beginning to tap along with the beat of the song once it's slung, more casually than before, into the curve of his arm.
Sefton and his brother, so alike, exchange a glance for a moment, amusement lighting the Headmaster's eyes as he nods fractionally. "Dancing, I think," Kelar opines, extending a hand to Roa with a flourish. "Perhaps we will see if this time we can manage it without some disastrous interuption, Weyrwoman?" For his part, the Headmaster laughs at Ronan's disgust, raising his hands to indicate his innocence. "You think he fears to brave the storm outside? What is it you say holds him back?"
Somehow the looming figure of R'vain escapes Fienne's notice as he approaches, so absorbed is she in the beat and the steps of the dancers. Indeed, the arrival of the woman in the mask catches her out of the corner of her eye first and as the gleam of emerald and crimson flashes she looks up. Her first instinctual reaction is a bright smile of greeting, though that puzzled blank glint flickers close behind. And then the words and the offered glass have her looking truly confused. "Oh. Gosh. Me, are you sure?" She leans a bit around the anonymous woman, looking toward the gaping man. A blink, and she arches a brow, then straightens to look at the drink again. "Um, did he say anything else? I mean, who is he?" Hesitant fingers reach for the glass just the same, and when she looks up again there's that sly glance meant for someone past her. This makes her glance over her shoulder where she spots R'vain and she swallows hard, fingers hovering near the offered glass. She can't quite manage any words for him at the moment, as the mystery of the strange man and his drink bring her eyes back to the woman in the mask.
"It is ironed," Ginella agrees, smoothing the sleeve with a finger, "And it looks very nice." She says it again, despite his protests, and leans over to kiss his cheek before beginning her meal, glancing over her shoulder automatically at his mention of the Benden leaders. "M'arik'll find me himself if he wants a dance," she replies, "I'm not going to go seek him out again. I suppose I'll have to dance with I'lyan if I see him, too." She pulls a face. "Other than that... I was thinking perhaps the Headmaster and the Weyrleader, and otherwise, it's all you," she says, tone turning teasing, "If you think you're up for it. It's been a while, I know."
Before leaving the two stands, Lord Carlin buys a pair of elaborate bookends which he hands off to one of his guards. His purchase, though idly made, encourages more people to descend on the two merchants' wares in a minor buying frenzy. The Lord has already moved past that, cutting his way towards an outdoor dinner. No sooner has he stepped into the entertainer-ridden throng than a bold mime takes up after him, mimicking his bold, striding walk with such perfection that the crowd cannot help but snigger at the sight. Lord Carlin is halfway to the banquet tables before he notices anything, and when he turns to look, puzzled, and sees the mime there, he bursts into a bark of laughter and claps a small mark piece into the man's hand before shooing him off to bother other people.
What, the-- R'vain's brows draw as the masked creature dances that glass over to Fienne, and as she does so his stride pauses-- but the point to the gaping gentleman from which the drink originally came has the Weyrleader looking that way too. Then back at Fienne. Then, a little sharply-- do not interrupt the Weyrleader while he's leering!-- at the masked woman, just in time to register that sly look. Freckled nostrils flare and the man prowls again, toward women masked and seated; but he's watching, mostly, the gaping fellow who gave up his wine for this moment's sport.
Roa settles her hand in Kelar's as she chuckles. "It may be a futile effort, but one I think worth attempting. She falls into step besides Sefton's brother and allows him to take the lead towards the dance floor. It is only after they drift a few steps away that the weyrwoman exhales and tips her chin so she can glance sideways at her companion. "How is Boll?"
"Oh, he just said that I should bring the glass to the lovely thing over here," the masked woman singsongs, her voice too sweet to be innocent. She shifts her weight to change the angle of her hips, setting her body to a curve as her attention slips up to the looming red man. She includes him in the conversation since he is near enough to overhear. "I assume he didn't mean you, though perhaps that was hasty of me." Oh, that is a cheeky smile as she blatantly flicks her glance up and down the Weyrleader.
"He'll stumble out eventually, once he's had a few skins of wines in him," Ronan replies to Sefton without really answering his question, taking one last look at the entrance to the hold before stepping back again and flashing an innocent smile at the Headmaster. "No worries," she declares cheerfully then, brushing her hands off on her skirts.
Reyce flicks a glance down at Issa for that sigh, his brow crinkling up again with some concern. He doesn't voice any of it, though, just leans his weight towards her as he waits for this song to end, and another begins. Fortunately the next song is one he does know, although not very well: he pulls her out of her casual lean and onto a fairly unpopulated corner of the dance floor, but there he keeps misstepping and losing the beat for a good portion of the song. The growl forming at the back of his throat is near invisible in all this noise, but his frown's clear enough; frustration makes him work all the harder to synch up his steps with those of more agile dancers near him.
Eventually Miniyal concludes her business with the man selling books. Whatever she has bought was not from the items he displayed to those few people of a literate bent at the party. Clearly some arrangement has been made for she exits without a package in hand. Well, who wants to carry something around when hands are meant for wine at a party? She laughs at something the merchant says as she makes her way through the crowd once more. Not towards the wine for it seems what she has had along with what she shared in the flask will do her for now. Without Gans there is no need to head towards dancing either so she wanders about aimlessly peering at goods she's little interest in.
"M'arik'll expect you to find one of Lord Carlin's lot," T'ral points out. "Headmaster, M'arik, I'lyan, Weyrleader. I'll be lucky to squeeze in on the end. Perhaps it'll be enough time for me to rest up, see if I'm able to manage a dance or two for you when my time comes. If I'm up to it." The brownrider has a wink to go with those words, and there ends his reply, for he's eating again.
AGHjkd;ldkypnjkdjk!!! M'eri starts as Kenathan pops out from seemingly nowhere, startling and stepping back slightly only to make a choked sound as he bumps into the couple behind him. Glancing back at them, he quickly apologizes only to laugh as he looks down at Kenathan, "Ah, hello, again. Enjoying the party?" He relaxes pretty quickly, really, an exhale loosening the muscles of his torso, easing out that fidgeting quality as nice as you please.
"A few too many people...and...umm...sorry about that." Kenathan regards the bluerider rather...sheepishly. "Good food, though." He's sampling bits of what's on his plate in between comments. And he seems...an odd mix of relaxed and nervous, clearly trying to enjoy himself.
Those tentative fingers finally settle on the glass, though a slight wrinkle of a frown continues to mar her high brow. "Well." Such an articulate word that, and though she holds the glass she doesn't actually take it, chin tipped up as she seeks to find the eyes behind that mask. It's a futile attempt, especially considering she is still seated, not to mention the pose the other woman strikes now. In the face of her brilliant plumage and the blatant curve she has set her body into, Fienne is like a shrinking violet, sweetness in the face of spice, and she shrinks back a bit, holding the glass. "Thank you I suppose." Still looking puzzled she lifts the glass a bit, summoning a smile for the lad who offered her the drink, for the moment unaware of the nostril flaring going on at her back.
Piling beef ribs unashamedly onto his plate, Lord Carlin moves down the line of dinner goers filling up their plates. Lurking ominously by desserts table, the black bird entertainer is the one caught off-guard this time when Benden's Lord appears at his elbow, catching him in the act of surreptiously sneaking baklava after baklava onto his plate. An amused smile rests on the Lord's face while he watches the bird startle and turn to acknowledge him with a perfect bow that earns him a fond slap on the shoulder before Lord Carlin leaves him to his pilfering.
The Headmaster's brother laughs, as he steers Roa towards those who dance, white teeth flashing against his olive skin. "Boll is beautiful in the Springtime," he replies lazily, looking down to her. "We are planting, and our orchards are in flower. Perhaps you'll grace us with your presence one day soon, and make her complete. I know one orchard that looks particularly beautiful at this time of year."
Sefton grins a diplomatic response to Ronan -- no audible agreement with her prognosis, but amusement is certainly visible. As he makes ready to speak again, he looks past her, eyes lighting on a man in a Herder's knot who's making his determined way towards them. Perhaps, in the minute pause that ensures, the Headmaster changes tack. "Might I tempt you to pass your waiting time in a dance, Ronan?"
"I suppose," Ginella grumbles, "They're all dreadful, though. What, am I supposed to dance with Reyce? I can't imagine he even dances. Poor Issa." She takes a few more bites, smiling at him after a swallow, "You just warm up and relearn the steps while I dance with the fancy sorts," she suggests, "And by the time I'm done with that, half the people here will be under the table and they'll be playing far more interesting music for -us- to dance to." Another few bites, "You should dance with Roa," she suggests, "I didn't see Ashwin here, she'll have some free time. Plus I know she won't make a pass at you like those girls over there would if you asked them," she admits, gesturing at a knot of giggling holder girls.
"Mmm, I suspect I know the name of the cotholder that maintains said orchard," Roa muses as they find a spot not taken up by anyone else. "Tialith, alas, is a bit indesposed at the moment, and she'd never forgive me if I paid a visit without her." One brow arching, the smile that touches the weyrwoman's lips slightly mischevious, she asks, "Are they still trying to marry you off to a weaver?"
"I know a step or two," Ronan answers Sefton, looking over her shoulder to follow his gaze and smirking with some amusement when she sees the herder heading towards them. "Enough to keep you occupied, at least," she adds with a broader grin, holding out a hand in a casual gesture towards the headmaster. "Shall we?"
T'ral grins, the very picture of innocence. The freckles help with that sort of thing, although his brown eyes dance with a mischief that undermines his message. "Issa can see to her own interests," he remarks around a mouthful, spearing another slice of meat with his fork. "The Weyrwoman'll be too busy for me. I'll find a floozy or two and remind myself how the steps go while you do your duty." And with a solemn wink for Ginella, he makes a show of turning his attention to the aforementioned giggling holder girls.
"Don't want it anyway," grumps R'vain at the feathered creature who brought the glass. "Beg pardon," he adds in a low rumble, leaning, looming, on the other side of the Caucus student so he can put down his plate on the table in that spot he'd intended to sit down at. It would be like him then to turn to Fienne, to have a word, to make a suggestion-- but what he does instead is straighten and stalk two steps behind her toward the drink-carrier, eyes narrowed. There is too much crowd noise, maybe, to know if he growls.
Wander, wander, wander around. Aimless feet take Miniyal here and there. With no one to insist she speak to anyone she doesn't bother. Instead she pauses by every stall no matter what it is selling to peer at the goods. Rarely does she engage the seller in any conversation and when she does it doesn't seem to be in an effort to purchase anything since she does none of that. Maybe she spent all her allowance on books.
"No floozies for you!" Ginella insists with a laugh, reaching a hand to T'ral chin and turning it back away from the gigglers and back to her. "Come on," she says, "Let's dance one now, before I go find someone fancy. I'm done eating," And done with her wine as she downs what remains in a gulp and tugs at his wrist. "Come on."
Kelar wrinkles his nose, taking hold of Roa's hand to pull her out onto the dance floor, gazing back over his shoulder for a moment to find a clear place. "Boll will be less bright without you," he replies with exaggerated gallantry, falling into step with the ease of long practice. "No weaver would have me," he continues over the music, grinning broadly. "I'm a bachelor for a little time longer."
Sefton watches Ronan follow his gaze, and as she looks back with her grin, he matches it, taking her hand in his, and departing with as much alacrity as grace will allow for the dancing. "You are good to indulge me," he drawls.
M'eri hooks an arm comfortably around Kenathan's shoulders as though including the younger man in some private knot of conversation, "There's always a lot of people at big events like this. The best thing you can do is try to meet people... either that or get terribly, smashedly drunk, so that you don't even remember embarrassing yourself. As you're fresh Searched and not likely to have the last option, might I suggest making friends." Just like that and poor Kenathan is lightly pushed - directly into Fienne. Hello. M'eri then makes himself scarse by way of excusing himself from the nearby botherers to pretend he needs food. Bwehehe.
Eschewing the dinner tables in favor of the seats set up before the central stage, Lord Carlin cuts his way back through the crowd and takes a seat right up front. In honor of his appearance, the acting troupe cuts short their current play and sets in on a new routine, a farce about the Benden Blood. No one gets any quarter from these actors, not even the Lord himself, who's portrayed as a round bellied blundered whose frequent shouts keep knocking down the actors who stand close to him. Reachians may recognize the character of a skulking, pouty young man whose greatest is dashing out of the sidelines to throw (and miss) such an enthusiastic punch that he goes spinning and lands heavily on his back. "/That's/ the smart one," pseudo-Carlin bellows, and the real one bellows laughter. "Send him off!" Someone slaps a great big C on the chest of the failed pugilist and hooks up under his armpits to drag him away.
"I'm always available for contributing to delinquency," Ronan declares to Sefton, slipping through the press of the crowd with a marked lack of concern or notice of whether or not the headmaster can fit through the spaces she uses. "Besides," she adds, flashing another wicked grin over her shoulder, "I hear they let Headmasters into the Hold for all those official bits."
The weyrwoman laughs. "Boll will hardly notice my absence, but it's kind that you shall." She takes her place before him, one hand resting on Kelar's arm and the other finding his hand. Proper dancing position. "Anyhow, I'll try and visit when I can. I just...am not quite sure when that will be." The tale that the weavers unanimously refused Kelar earns him a skeptical and dubious look, but she only asks, "How is Belsa managing?"
A surprised but obviously pleased little smile is Reyce's reward as he tugs her out onto the dance floor and it only grows when she discovers how unpracticed he is. Subtly, Issa tries to guide his missteps back into line with the tune, but only laughs lightly when he inevitably strays again. A rattling flourish marks the end of the song and of Reyce's obligation. She separates long enough to spare her approval for the harpers along with the others around them, a few claps only before she drags herself up on her tiptoes, lifting herself for a kiss as she murmurs a, "Thank you," just for him. Sliding her hands back down his jacket, her eyes flick over to the harpers, watching as well as hearing them begin the strains of a more comfortable, standard waltz. "One more?" she asks, grinning with one raised eyebrow.
Fortunately or unfortunately, instead of actually hitting *Fienne*...Kenathan gets pushed right into a rather large man. "Sorry!" he says, breathlessly, juggling his food even more now. "Too many people!" He's not trying to blame M'eri. And then he manages to step around the man, who's glaring at him...he blushes *scarlet* at that.
The masked woman ignores all the ruckus going on nearby and grins slyly at R'vain as he moves in toward her, "Aw, don't worry, gorgeous, she doesn't seem to like him too much anyway." She slips her attention back to Fienne, her mouth turning to an exaggerated pout as she twists away from the Weyrleader to bend beside the Caucus girl. "You don't think he's pretty? Perhaps you'd have me pass the drink of to someone who suits your tastes better?" She leans down to put her masked head beside Fienne's and point a long finger across the way, directing the girl's attention to Sefton. "What better time to be bold?" she whispers richly in Fienne's ear. Mouth still open and her tongue tipped to her teeth, she lifts her glance to R'vain again before straightening up.
"Spoil all my fun," T'ral replies with a laugh, allowing Ginella to turn his eyes away from what's on offer, and downing the last of his wine. "We'll dance." He rises to his feet, extricating himself carefully from the bench so as to avoid jostling his fellows, and reaches for Ginella's hand, forging a path for them through to the dancing square, and setting both hands at her waist to bodily lift her into place for their first step.
Sefton follows in Ronan's wake, lifting one hand in a falsely regretful salute to the Herder as he disappears into the crowd. Though more accustomed at these events to spending his time in talking, unless his absent fiancee is there to draw him into dancing, it turns out the Headmaster has had as many lessons as the most exhausted of Caucus students, and he swings Ronan out with a grin. "They let Headmasters anywhere they'd like to go," he confirms with a grin. "I'll take you in on my arm later on."
Kelar, meanwhile, is cheerfully steering Roa through the mass of bodies, is laziness not extending to this task. "Besla is enormous," he informs Roa. "Burgeoning forth in all directions, we're all convinced she's carrying two. The healers say it's just one, though, and apprently it's normal to look like that. Mittan lets her do all sorts of things, he says there's no point in trying to protect her. Really, though, she's giant. She'd like to see you, too."
Fienne flicks a glance to the deposited plate and glass, but makes no comment on it. When R'vain excuses himself in that low-pitched rumble, she just nods with her eyes darting back to the masked woman. As the richly attired lady bends and whispers in her ear she shies away ever so slightly, tension returning to the too-rigid square of her shoulders and her grip on the given glass. "Hmm? The Headmaster?" The gasped words are more aghast at the mere suggestion than anything and she hastily shakes her head. "Is it, mmm, a joke maybe? I mean, who are you and who is he?" When narrowed blue eyes go back to the lad who supposedly gifted her with the drink he is obscured by the floundering shape of Kenathan, who gets a sympathetic little smile for his flush. Still perching on the very edge of the chair with that too-straight posture, her chin tips upward as her eyes follow the masked woman's to R'vain, then back. "I... I already have a drink, but maybe he'd rather give it to someone else? Or you would? I mean, is it meant to be funny?" She is the picture of befuddled, looking from the woman to R'vain as if he is on the joke while she is left in the dark.
R'vain notes Kenathan's near-blunder, only because he's for a moment seething when the feather-masked woman bends to council with Fienne. The Weyrleader shrugs off the commotion a little ways off and turns back to find the eyes behind the mask gazing up at him-- and he rewards them with a narrow gleam indeed, and a tongue-on-teeth moment of his own. It's a stare made to wilt kitchen girls, laundresses, weyrlings, wingriders, and the occasional Caucus student. He has /nothing/ to say about the fate of the drink.
"You're a good man, Headmaster," Ronan grins broadly, laughing as she settles into the steps of the dance. What she lacks in technical knowledge she makes up for in grace and energy, navigating the crowded dance floor with ease. "So what's your herder chasing you down for?" she asks curiously, tipping her chin up and rising on her toes for a turn to see if they've lost their 'tail.'
Reyce keeps his hand on Issa's waist when she separates to offer the harpers her applause, thus she will be the only one of the pair offering approval. His mood, somewhat stormy after that first difficult dance, is mollified somewhat by the kiss she gives him, and his appreciation shows in the tightening grip of his hand. As well, when the next song begins, as his reluctant agreement for one more. His nostrils flare when she asks him, but after a beat he nods, takes her in his arms again, and watches their feet for a moment while he waits for the beat to come around to him. And then move with it, keeping much better time for this one. If there's anything he does very well it's count to three.
The second of Roa's eyebrows joins the first. "That's...descriptive," she offers, and then she clears her throat and lets her gaze drift among the crowd as her feet start to move to the music. After a moment or two her attention comes back again with a little smile. "I expect you'll write me when the enormousness diminishes and there's some other darkhaired troublemaker to keep an eye on. Which reminds me...how's Trelson?"
Lord Carlin watches the farce wind down to its close, his attempts to eat and drink frequently interrupted by unexpected jokes that have him snorting mirth into his napkin (lest he snort it on the crowd). Once it's done, however, so is he, as he leaves his chair and heads back to the doors of his hold. Another crowd, hanging outside while they buy things or try to catch glimpses of the fancy guests milling around within, greets him, and he handshakes his way merrily through before going back to join the more formal party.
When chatting up merchants appears to be growing dull, Miniyal leaves them behind. She drifts towards the wine table just long enough to get the glass(es) she carries refilled. It's only polite, after all, to be able to provide someone with a fresh glass when she insisted on taking his before he departed. For the moment she only drinks from the one and this sparingly. Rather than risk running into someone she knows with no conversational backup she finds a spot where she might listen to the music without seeming as if she desires anyone's company. Clearly she expects someone anyway what with the two glasses.
The masked woman twists again to better face Fienne. "Is it funny to be sent a drink? I'd think the word would be 'flattering'. But perhaps a pretty thing such as yourself receives so much attention that it becomes dull after a while." She is unperturbed by the girl's reluctance and continues to smile impishly. And Fienne's questions? They all go unanswered. "Meanwhile, the Headmaster has been known to turn many an eye." She smirks at that and glances at the drink. "Perhaps you'd prefer to set your sights on men within reach." With that she looks at R'vain again, and lets 'within reach' go without explanation as to whether she means nearby or just easily laid. And the stare of the man in question? The masked woman does not wilt. She stares back, one predatory gleam for another.
Quick to refute the idea that she is bored by all this, Fienne shakes her head, sending pale curls bouncing. "No it isn't that. I just... well, it's odd and he looks just as confused as I am. Or at least he did." She looks down into the glass, a faint wrinkle touching her nose. "And it's not really full..." her tone is more confused than complaining, and finally she just sets the glass aside at the edge of the table farthest from her. "I don't really mean to set my sights anywhere... I mean, on anyone." Fluttery fabric is plucked at restlessly now that Fienne's hands are free, and she watches the exchange of glances between the pair with quick-darting eyes.
Sefton laughs, obligingly turning Ronan about, and pausing to allow her up onto her toes for that peek, before he leads into the next few steps. "I strive to ensure the happiness of my staff," he replies to her with a grin. "I should imagine he wishes to speak to me about my recruiting efforts. One of my students requested a more advanced riding instuctor some time ago, and I am minded to oblige her. The Master over there will be experiencing some regret at losing the man."
Kelar is likewise whirling his partner across the floor, and with even more energy than his older brother. "I'll do better, I'll send for you," he replies. "Tialith will beat Besla to the punch, and then you'll have no excuse not to greet my first nephew in person."
"I..." for a moment Roa again looks away, this time down to her feet, though this might be excused by the fact that she's unused to wearing heels. Once again, she looks back up, this time with a shrug of her shoulders and a little laugh. "Suppose you're right. No excuse at all."
"And how do you think the poor instructor's going to feel?" Ronan tosses back to Sefton, arching a brow with a playful grin as she follows the steps. "Sweet Faranth, but I've never seen such whining as I heard from- Who was it? You know, I think it was some Igen sprig. Anyhow, the whining over the news that we'd be demonstrating the principles of a sail as high as we could get on the heights. You'd think I'd told the boy we were going to push him off. Spoiled, if you ask me." Not that anyone did, but it's not really necessary.
Over by the dining tables, a juggler has just taken center stage - or as it were, created center stage with his fire juggling act that has spectators inching back lest he miss a torch. His sticks start out unlit, but an impish adolescent (and patently his assistant) sneaks up to take them one by one, lighting them on fire to the increased puzzlement of the juggler. When all the sticks are on fire, the adolescent produces more sticks out of his pocket, lights those on fire, and adds them to the juggler's burden. Puffing and juggling wildly, he has what seems like twenty of them spinning in the air before he stops and starts throwing them back to the boy, who panicks as he snuffs them out.
Miniyal's glass is empty soon enough. One polite sip after another and that is what happens. With nothing to distract her attention from the slow, but steady, consumption of wine she is left with a dilemma. Drink the other glass as well? Or be polite and save it. Oh, who are we kidding? He can get his own wine when he tears himself away from Anshuman. The second glass earns her attention now. It could possibly be time for food soon, but right now it is still time for wine.
If R'vain's eyes got narrower they'd be closed. As it is there's just these fine green slits of fury steaming between the lurid fringes of tangled lashes. He's silent for quite some time longer, glaring, possibly thoughtful, before he turns his focus /pointedly/ away from the mask and toward Fienne. For /her/ he can manage to speak, and speak not too harshly, even, voice a low and thunderous rumble. "Lovely as you are, shouldn't have to." A beat. "You been too interrupted t'eat, we could dance."
Issa drifts delightedly back into Reyce's dancing hold, lithely picking up the steps as soon as he starts. She seems less focused on counts of three, though, lifting contented looks up to Reyce as well as glancing about the dance floor at the much more daring dancers as they whisk by. Reyce's lead takes them past a distinctively small Weyrwoman and her familiar-looking partner and the sight of them has Issa's head turning back to follow their path. Formality forgotten out her on the dance floor, the greenrider calls out an enthusiastic, "Roa!" in greeting, attempting to catch the goldrider's eye and give her a smile before they swirl out of sight. With a squeeze of her hand, Issa turns back to pay her attention to her dancing partner until the dance spins itself down into another round of light applause.
"That's settled," Kelar pronounces, pausing to take a more active lead, and spin Roa in a wild circle, with or without her consent. Both hands are ready to keep her upright as he finishes, and the Headmaster's laughing brother is grinning at his success. "I suppose I had better hand you on to the next man, Weyrwoman. Where is your Lieutenant?"
Sefton, meanwhile, manages a shrug to Ronan, as he eases her around behind a pair of smiths, both large enough to offer plenty of shelter. "The poor instructor will be well paid, which is why he has accepted the position," he replies in his drawl. As to the Igenite sprig: "We have certainly a spread of personalities at Caucus. I like to think there is something to be learned from each one."
Ronan quirks a brow at Sefton, smile crooked. "Do ya really, or is that what you say when you're being eavesdropped on by their parents?" the sailor asks with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, though it bears a touch of lasciviousness when she looks over their smithly shelter.
By the time Gans comes back to Miniyal - he has intuition enough, or merely wit, to know to find her near the source of wine - he has had opportunity to pass by the feast tables and make up plates for each of them. There are poached pears, baklava, and a little bit of goose for each of them. Dessert first. "Here you are," he says, mild. "Shu wishes you well, of course. I fear we came across one of the Bitrans while we were about and there was some description of the current state of the Caucus and the fishercraft and almost anything else one might be able to make a mark out of obliged." He pauses, glancing at her wine glasses, to smile and lower, note, "It is somewhat a relief to have slipped him this time."
A rush of color flares in Fienne's cheeks at the compliment, and is made worse yet by the offer to dance. "Oh, goodness." It's not really a complicated question, and yet the girl seems torn. She flicks a look at her rapidly cooling plate, then one toward the dance floor. If nothing else it is somewhat crowded and can't possibly be constituted as being alone with the prowling R'vain. Her tongue flicks out between her lips, wetting them briefly as she looks up at him through a veil of lashes. The motions are borne of hesitation, not meant to be coy, though paired with the beat before she dips a nod they may be taken as such. "I would be honored?" Unfortunately the uplilt at the end turns it into more of a question than anything, but she does rise to her feet. There's another of those wary glances about as if a lonely room with a locking door might suddenly appear out of nowhere around them, leaving her somehow trapped. That doesn't happen of course, neither does the Weyrleader disappear, so she just musters a soft smile for him and reaches out a hand.
There is a bright smile flashed in return as a chipper greenrider swirls past and the weyrwoman crans her neck to see where Issa vanishes off to so that she might locate her later. But then she has other things to think about, because she's suddenly whirling, her hands digging into Kelar's arms. "Kel!" she's half laughing and half fretting. "No, don't...really, I can't...please stop..." but they twirl and laugh a few moments more until Kelar exhibits his merciful nature by halting. Or maybe it's just that the music ends. Roa stands still for several moments, eyes closed, looking a little pale. Then she draws in a slow and careful breath, opens her eyes, and continues on. "The lieutenant is, alas, back at High reaches. We decided the first public outing of weyrleader and weyrwoman ought to be just that." her half-smile is a touch dissapointed, but then she shrugs. "I suppose you'd better. Thank you, Kel. For the dance."
Oh, he's returned. And here she is with but half of one wine glass to offer him. However, she is polite and does so, holding it out with a smile that is made bright by the wine she has been sharing with herself. "Here. There is not much left, but I saved it for you." Blinking at the food she smiles again and rewards such thoughtfulness with a kiss that gives little thought to the balancing of that food on those plates. However, when the kiss ends Miniyal takes one of the plates although it requires holding both glasses in one hand and after what she has consumed without food it's a miracle nothing spills. "Take these? Or one. Take yours. I can't eat. I've no free hands." If there is a little pout in those sentences they are accompanied by an endearing smile towards Gans. "Tell him next time if he truly wishes me well he'll not steal you for so long. Or I will just tell him myself. That will work."
"Ronan, Ronan," Sefton mock chides, meeting the twinkle in the sailor's eyes with another of his easy, lazy grins, utterly failing to reply to the question in any helpful way. The music flares, and he the Headmaster steers his partner into another series of turns. "Now, will I walk you inside, or will I hand you off and let you wait until your Master has had more time to celebrate?"
Kelar turns his head briefly to note Issa, but she is an unknown face, and he has Roa clinging to him to contend with. His expression is not that of a distressed man. His smile fades momentarily as the Weyrwoman pales, and he ducks his head to inspect her, but her recovery is quick enough that his grin is restored with equal speed. "More fool he, to give you up for the day," he replies, guiding her to the edge of the floor so that he can release her, dipping into a theatrical bow. "Save another for me towards the end," he requests, grinning as he tugs his shirt straight. "Now, duty calls, my Lady." And so saying, he turns away to a gaggle of dignitaries, his grin unwavering.
Reyce gets comfortable with this easy waltz step soon enough, daring enough to stop staring at their feet. Instead, somewhat awkward in his trained dancing, he stares off over her shoulder, although his gaze returns to her now and then when she throws glances up at him, and the more of those he accumulates the less tense his muscles (hence his movements) become. When Issa hails Roa, he blinks once to sharpen his focus because yes, that really is the weyrwoman; no, that really is not the Headmaster. There's not much time to ponder this as the song swirls them away and then ends, leaving him holding onto Issa through the scattering of applause. He waits for her eyes to turn up to him, making no comment one way or the other about the next dance that starts up, and keeping his expression carefully neutral.
There's an appreciative glance for Fienne's bouncing curls. The masked woman smirks to herself for the girl's response. "You worry too much," she says, quick to sweep issues of the distant gentleman, all but forgotten by her now, and the half-full state of the glass. "And aren't there but two reasons for a person to attend a wedding? Free food and drink and a chance to make eyes at someone across the way?" Again she flicks a glance at R'vain. It's brief, though, and her attention returns to Fienne. "If he won't do and the Headmaster isn't enough to make you smile, perhaps you'd like the drink to go to a fairer sort?" But for R'vain's words, the masked woman's green eyes mirror his violent narrowing - how dare he spoil -her- game. But a smile flashes back onto her lips. "Of course she doesn't -have- to set her sights on anyone. There's nothing with two girls idly scoping out the favors of a party, is there?"
Gans, in one slender hand, takes both wine glasses. If that's a message, it's not at all pointed; he smiles his one-sided, wry smile and nudges the small plate full of -his- dessert and tiny bit of dinner into the heel of that hand. Some excess of turns ago the ability to hold a large number of plates and glasses all at once, all in one hand, served him well; it serves him just as well, now. He has, just like that, a hand free to offer his lady. "He would invite you along, you know. I suspect he would offer you a dance, if you stayed long enough to hear him out."
"Let's give him time for one more skin." Ronan winks to Sefton as she steps back, tipping her chin up to look towards the hold one more time. "Slower reaction times, less chance to run away. But I thank you most kindly for the dance, Headmaster," she adds with what can only be called a mockery of a curtsey. "I'll catch you in an hour's time."
Sefton replies to Ronan's mock-curtsey with a bow far more theatrical than necessary, and doubly so given the difference in their ranks. "The pleasure was entirely mine," he replies with a grin, one hand up to rake his curls from his eyes as he straightens. "Do call on me when you need me, Ronan." And with that lazy drawl, he turns away to move around the edge of the crowd, towards where a brightly dressed drudge is circulating with drinks. And, incidentally, towards R'vain and his companions.
(Next part.)
Diminished height means increased skill in maneuvering around people, so it isn't overly long before the weyrwoman of High Reaches finds herself approaching the men from Boll and the woman they speak to (or at least that Kelar speaks to). She flashes a small smile, one hand smoothing her skirts as she steps up beside the trio. "Good evening Headmaster, Kelar, Ronan. You finally managed to escape the afternoon festivies, I see." This last is for Sefton, though her gaze continues to flick a little towards his brother and Ronan as well.
R'vain's target has eluded him; she is not exactly where she was when his gaze last left her. The big man is not entirely displeased, but his gaze grows darker and his grin, more thoughtful. He waits a moment to scope out the rest of the visible part of the gathering-- marking Roa's tiny figure maybe, or Lord Carlin's enormous presence. Then he turns about and stalks through the tables, searching out a place to settle down with his dinner. Being distracted serves him perfectly-- he comes across his prey all over again, and once she's sighted, approaches an empty spot near Fienne.
Reyce gives his head a tiny shake when Issa addresses him, returning his squinted gaze to her and blinking a few times until his expression evens out. "Don't know how to dance to this," he tells her, shifting his stance so he has his shoulder to his father's crowd-surfing, blocking it from even his peripheral sight. That done, he settles a bit more, and shrugs.
"The Masterfisher," Kelar murmurs, brows coming together in brief contemplation of the question. "I last saw him back inside," he supplies, as Sefton extricates himself with a laugh and a nod. Charm, charm. "Master Warragul, Sef?" Kelar queries, drawing a nod. "Inside, last seen sharing a drink with Master Ghera, I believe," the Headmaster drawls. Then Roa is arriving, and he's shifting helpfully to make room for us to join our group. "We are escaped indeed," he drawls with a grin, one hand coming up to rake hair back from his eyes.
Alas for his chances of getting a dance, Gans has already used up one of his get out of jail free cards. While him and Miniyal perused what the bookseller they tracked down had to offer he was lured away by Lord Tillek. So as the two older men wandered off to do whatever it is they would do she remained behind with the remains of Gans' wine and the bookseller whom she soon had convinced she should be allowed within the stall to see everything he offered. The two talk quietly and when he must help someone else she leafs through his collection. A few items pique her interest and they bicker over them as he produces a flask of something stronger than wine to share with her as they haggle. For now it appears the party must get on without her.
T'ral laughs, carefully juggling his plate as the crowd threatens to press in, and moves once more in Ginella's wake. "Don't start that," he replies, pausing for a mouthful from his wineglass. "Days like this are about how you girls dress up. All we have to do is make sure our shirt's been ironed and our boots polished, easy." Spots are opening up on tables, and he's quick to claim one, setting down his plate and glass so he can clear her place for her.
Breaking free from the crowd, Lord Carlin begins to stroll down the main aisle of the market. When he passes the stand with the drawing for the golden nut, he pauses to chat up the young shiller boy and then to try his hand. The line makes way for him, some of its occupants receiving pats on the shoulders as he walks by, but his seconds of fishing through the barrel yield only an ordinary peanut pinched between his giant fingers. "Well, I win the peanut!" he declares for the benefit of those nearest him, then pops the prize between his bearded lips.
"He was drinking with the Masterweaver." Ronan grimaces at the answers from Sefton and Kelar, crossing her arms over her chest and looking balefully towards the hold again. "Coward," she decides with a sniff before turning to Roa's greeting, blinking once and replacing the glaring grimace with a swift, bright smile. "Weyrwoman," she nods lightly, adjusting her shoulder again as she straightens to...Well. A /little/ taller than the Weyrwoman.
Definitely not diminished in height, M'eri stands in fresh form at the moment, sporting a quite fashionable, fitted riding jacket made of slate blue hide shined to a nice gleam and warm, comfortably clingy slacks made of finely woven llama wool; even his boots are nice, though they're a pretty simple sable color and look to be old boots just waxed up to a nice gleam. That long, bound tail of hair he sports has had the white cloth removed and replaced with a crisper silvery navy fabric. Yes, M'eri is dressed up and behaving himself, his left hand tucked into his hip pocket while the other is occupied by a cup of what is likely alcohol. For once, the bluerider looks to be acting his age, or at least a slightly more sane version of his age, even standing up perfectly straight and pretending he has things like etiquette and poise. Anyone that knows him - and a few here do, really - can likely recognize that being at a Hold is making him fidgety, though, as he continuously shifts his shoulders as though plague by discomfort.
"All -you- have to do?" Ginella replies with a laugh, "I believe -I- was the one who sent your shirt down to be ironed. Though you did do the boots yourself," she allows, adding in an intentionally patronizing tone, "Good boy." She grins at him then, and continues towards the tables, finally setting down not too far from where Sefton and others are congregated. Ginella smiles pointedly at the men next to her until they move to make room for T'ral. "There we are. This looks good. Eat, then maybe we can dance?" she suggests.
The masked woman weaves through people, careful to avoid those who don't look particularly steady with their plates of food. As she passes by a young man, a hand reaches out to nonchalantly take his glass. He notices only a moment later and blinks, mouth moving uselessly and his eyes following the ornate creature as she moves towards Fienne. The masked woman holds the drink out for the blonde Caucus girl. "That handsome gentleman over there would like you to have this," she says with a wide puckish grin. The gentleman in question is, of course, agape in Fienne's direction. The masked woman flicks a sly glance at the Weyrleader, as if her strangely painted mouth shares some inside joke.
"Well, the thing is, it's ironed," T'ral replies with a grin, inserting himself into the space their neighbours make, and lifting his glass in thanks. "Anything you like, today. You should dance with some of Benden, I suppose. M'arik'll expect." His broad shoulders rise in a brief shrug, and he applies himself with some enthusiasm to his meal.
"And what, prey tell, shall be done with your newfound freesom?" the weyrwoman inquires, her head canting a little to the side as she smiles. "Races? Food? Dancing? Drink? Benden has put such choices at our fingertips. Seems a pity not to attempt to enjoy at least one of them."
Kenathan makes note of...M'eri. Juggling food and red wine, he makes his way towards the bluerider, looking quite cheerful if a little...nervous and fidgety himself. "Hey," he greets as he finally gets within something resembling conversation distance. And his height not being diminutive, he is definitely having problems getting through the crowd.
Issa sighs heavily, markedly, for Reyce's answer, but her warning seems to dissipate on hearing it. She can wait for her dance, but she will get it. Her blue eyes turn on those who do know how to dance to this one when she takes up the spot to his side, her hand beginning to tap along with the beat of the song once it's slung, more casually than before, into the curve of his arm.
Sefton and his brother, so alike, exchange a glance for a moment, amusement lighting the Headmaster's eyes as he nods fractionally. "Dancing, I think," Kelar opines, extending a hand to Roa with a flourish. "Perhaps we will see if this time we can manage it without some disastrous interuption, Weyrwoman?" For his part, the Headmaster laughs at Ronan's disgust, raising his hands to indicate his innocence. "You think he fears to brave the storm outside? What is it you say holds him back?"
Somehow the looming figure of R'vain escapes Fienne's notice as he approaches, so absorbed is she in the beat and the steps of the dancers. Indeed, the arrival of the woman in the mask catches her out of the corner of her eye first and as the gleam of emerald and crimson flashes she looks up. Her first instinctual reaction is a bright smile of greeting, though that puzzled blank glint flickers close behind. And then the words and the offered glass have her looking truly confused. "Oh. Gosh. Me, are you sure?" She leans a bit around the anonymous woman, looking toward the gaping man. A blink, and she arches a brow, then straightens to look at the drink again. "Um, did he say anything else? I mean, who is he?" Hesitant fingers reach for the glass just the same, and when she looks up again there's that sly glance meant for someone past her. This makes her glance over her shoulder where she spots R'vain and she swallows hard, fingers hovering near the offered glass. She can't quite manage any words for him at the moment, as the mystery of the strange man and his drink bring her eyes back to the woman in the mask.
"It is ironed," Ginella agrees, smoothing the sleeve with a finger, "And it looks very nice." She says it again, despite his protests, and leans over to kiss his cheek before beginning her meal, glancing over her shoulder automatically at his mention of the Benden leaders. "M'arik'll find me himself if he wants a dance," she replies, "I'm not going to go seek him out again. I suppose I'll have to dance with I'lyan if I see him, too." She pulls a face. "Other than that... I was thinking perhaps the Headmaster and the Weyrleader, and otherwise, it's all you," she says, tone turning teasing, "If you think you're up for it. It's been a while, I know."
Before leaving the two stands, Lord Carlin buys a pair of elaborate bookends which he hands off to one of his guards. His purchase, though idly made, encourages more people to descend on the two merchants' wares in a minor buying frenzy. The Lord has already moved past that, cutting his way towards an outdoor dinner. No sooner has he stepped into the entertainer-ridden throng than a bold mime takes up after him, mimicking his bold, striding walk with such perfection that the crowd cannot help but snigger at the sight. Lord Carlin is halfway to the banquet tables before he notices anything, and when he turns to look, puzzled, and sees the mime there, he bursts into a bark of laughter and claps a small mark piece into the man's hand before shooing him off to bother other people.
What, the-- R'vain's brows draw as the masked creature dances that glass over to Fienne, and as she does so his stride pauses-- but the point to the gaping gentleman from which the drink originally came has the Weyrleader looking that way too. Then back at Fienne. Then, a little sharply-- do not interrupt the Weyrleader while he's leering!-- at the masked woman, just in time to register that sly look. Freckled nostrils flare and the man prowls again, toward women masked and seated; but he's watching, mostly, the gaping fellow who gave up his wine for this moment's sport.
Roa settles her hand in Kelar's as she chuckles. "It may be a futile effort, but one I think worth attempting. She falls into step besides Sefton's brother and allows him to take the lead towards the dance floor. It is only after they drift a few steps away that the weyrwoman exhales and tips her chin so she can glance sideways at her companion. "How is Boll?"
"Oh, he just said that I should bring the glass to the lovely thing over here," the masked woman singsongs, her voice too sweet to be innocent. She shifts her weight to change the angle of her hips, setting her body to a curve as her attention slips up to the looming red man. She includes him in the conversation since he is near enough to overhear. "I assume he didn't mean you, though perhaps that was hasty of me." Oh, that is a cheeky smile as she blatantly flicks her glance up and down the Weyrleader.
"He'll stumble out eventually, once he's had a few skins of wines in him," Ronan replies to Sefton without really answering his question, taking one last look at the entrance to the hold before stepping back again and flashing an innocent smile at the Headmaster. "No worries," she declares cheerfully then, brushing her hands off on her skirts.
Reyce flicks a glance down at Issa for that sigh, his brow crinkling up again with some concern. He doesn't voice any of it, though, just leans his weight towards her as he waits for this song to end, and another begins. Fortunately the next song is one he does know, although not very well: he pulls her out of her casual lean and onto a fairly unpopulated corner of the dance floor, but there he keeps misstepping and losing the beat for a good portion of the song. The growl forming at the back of his throat is near invisible in all this noise, but his frown's clear enough; frustration makes him work all the harder to synch up his steps with those of more agile dancers near him.
Eventually Miniyal concludes her business with the man selling books. Whatever she has bought was not from the items he displayed to those few people of a literate bent at the party. Clearly some arrangement has been made for she exits without a package in hand. Well, who wants to carry something around when hands are meant for wine at a party? She laughs at something the merchant says as she makes her way through the crowd once more. Not towards the wine for it seems what she has had along with what she shared in the flask will do her for now. Without Gans there is no need to head towards dancing either so she wanders about aimlessly peering at goods she's little interest in.
"M'arik'll expect you to find one of Lord Carlin's lot," T'ral points out. "Headmaster, M'arik, I'lyan, Weyrleader. I'll be lucky to squeeze in on the end. Perhaps it'll be enough time for me to rest up, see if I'm able to manage a dance or two for you when my time comes. If I'm up to it." The brownrider has a wink to go with those words, and there ends his reply, for he's eating again.
AGHjkd;ldkypnjkdjk!!! M'eri starts as Kenathan pops out from seemingly nowhere, startling and stepping back slightly only to make a choked sound as he bumps into the couple behind him. Glancing back at them, he quickly apologizes only to laugh as he looks down at Kenathan, "Ah, hello, again. Enjoying the party?" He relaxes pretty quickly, really, an exhale loosening the muscles of his torso, easing out that fidgeting quality as nice as you please.
"A few too many people...and...umm...sorry about that." Kenathan regards the bluerider rather...sheepishly. "Good food, though." He's sampling bits of what's on his plate in between comments. And he seems...an odd mix of relaxed and nervous, clearly trying to enjoy himself.
Those tentative fingers finally settle on the glass, though a slight wrinkle of a frown continues to mar her high brow. "Well." Such an articulate word that, and though she holds the glass she doesn't actually take it, chin tipped up as she seeks to find the eyes behind that mask. It's a futile attempt, especially considering she is still seated, not to mention the pose the other woman strikes now. In the face of her brilliant plumage and the blatant curve she has set her body into, Fienne is like a shrinking violet, sweetness in the face of spice, and she shrinks back a bit, holding the glass. "Thank you I suppose." Still looking puzzled she lifts the glass a bit, summoning a smile for the lad who offered her the drink, for the moment unaware of the nostril flaring going on at her back.
Piling beef ribs unashamedly onto his plate, Lord Carlin moves down the line of dinner goers filling up their plates. Lurking ominously by desserts table, the black bird entertainer is the one caught off-guard this time when Benden's Lord appears at his elbow, catching him in the act of surreptiously sneaking baklava after baklava onto his plate. An amused smile rests on the Lord's face while he watches the bird startle and turn to acknowledge him with a perfect bow that earns him a fond slap on the shoulder before Lord Carlin leaves him to his pilfering.
The Headmaster's brother laughs, as he steers Roa towards those who dance, white teeth flashing against his olive skin. "Boll is beautiful in the Springtime," he replies lazily, looking down to her. "We are planting, and our orchards are in flower. Perhaps you'll grace us with your presence one day soon, and make her complete. I know one orchard that looks particularly beautiful at this time of year."
Sefton grins a diplomatic response to Ronan -- no audible agreement with her prognosis, but amusement is certainly visible. As he makes ready to speak again, he looks past her, eyes lighting on a man in a Herder's knot who's making his determined way towards them. Perhaps, in the minute pause that ensures, the Headmaster changes tack. "Might I tempt you to pass your waiting time in a dance, Ronan?"
"I suppose," Ginella grumbles, "They're all dreadful, though. What, am I supposed to dance with Reyce? I can't imagine he even dances. Poor Issa." She takes a few more bites, smiling at him after a swallow, "You just warm up and relearn the steps while I dance with the fancy sorts," she suggests, "And by the time I'm done with that, half the people here will be under the table and they'll be playing far more interesting music for -us- to dance to." Another few bites, "You should dance with Roa," she suggests, "I didn't see Ashwin here, she'll have some free time. Plus I know she won't make a pass at you like those girls over there would if you asked them," she admits, gesturing at a knot of giggling holder girls.
"Mmm, I suspect I know the name of the cotholder that maintains said orchard," Roa muses as they find a spot not taken up by anyone else. "Tialith, alas, is a bit indesposed at the moment, and she'd never forgive me if I paid a visit without her." One brow arching, the smile that touches the weyrwoman's lips slightly mischevious, she asks, "Are they still trying to marry you off to a weaver?"
"I know a step or two," Ronan answers Sefton, looking over her shoulder to follow his gaze and smirking with some amusement when she sees the herder heading towards them. "Enough to keep you occupied, at least," she adds with a broader grin, holding out a hand in a casual gesture towards the headmaster. "Shall we?"
T'ral grins, the very picture of innocence. The freckles help with that sort of thing, although his brown eyes dance with a mischief that undermines his message. "Issa can see to her own interests," he remarks around a mouthful, spearing another slice of meat with his fork. "The Weyrwoman'll be too busy for me. I'll find a floozy or two and remind myself how the steps go while you do your duty." And with a solemn wink for Ginella, he makes a show of turning his attention to the aforementioned giggling holder girls.
"Don't want it anyway," grumps R'vain at the feathered creature who brought the glass. "Beg pardon," he adds in a low rumble, leaning, looming, on the other side of the Caucus student so he can put down his plate on the table in that spot he'd intended to sit down at. It would be like him then to turn to Fienne, to have a word, to make a suggestion-- but what he does instead is straighten and stalk two steps behind her toward the drink-carrier, eyes narrowed. There is too much crowd noise, maybe, to know if he growls.
Wander, wander, wander around. Aimless feet take Miniyal here and there. With no one to insist she speak to anyone she doesn't bother. Instead she pauses by every stall no matter what it is selling to peer at the goods. Rarely does she engage the seller in any conversation and when she does it doesn't seem to be in an effort to purchase anything since she does none of that. Maybe she spent all her allowance on books.
"No floozies for you!" Ginella insists with a laugh, reaching a hand to T'ral chin and turning it back away from the gigglers and back to her. "Come on," she says, "Let's dance one now, before I go find someone fancy. I'm done eating," And done with her wine as she downs what remains in a gulp and tugs at his wrist. "Come on."
Kelar wrinkles his nose, taking hold of Roa's hand to pull her out onto the dance floor, gazing back over his shoulder for a moment to find a clear place. "Boll will be less bright without you," he replies with exaggerated gallantry, falling into step with the ease of long practice. "No weaver would have me," he continues over the music, grinning broadly. "I'm a bachelor for a little time longer."
Sefton watches Ronan follow his gaze, and as she looks back with her grin, he matches it, taking her hand in his, and departing with as much alacrity as grace will allow for the dancing. "You are good to indulge me," he drawls.
M'eri hooks an arm comfortably around Kenathan's shoulders as though including the younger man in some private knot of conversation, "There's always a lot of people at big events like this. The best thing you can do is try to meet people... either that or get terribly, smashedly drunk, so that you don't even remember embarrassing yourself. As you're fresh Searched and not likely to have the last option, might I suggest making friends." Just like that and poor Kenathan is lightly pushed - directly into Fienne. Hello. M'eri then makes himself scarse by way of excusing himself from the nearby botherers to pretend he needs food. Bwehehe.
Eschewing the dinner tables in favor of the seats set up before the central stage, Lord Carlin cuts his way back through the crowd and takes a seat right up front. In honor of his appearance, the acting troupe cuts short their current play and sets in on a new routine, a farce about the Benden Blood. No one gets any quarter from these actors, not even the Lord himself, who's portrayed as a round bellied blundered whose frequent shouts keep knocking down the actors who stand close to him. Reachians may recognize the character of a skulking, pouty young man whose greatest is dashing out of the sidelines to throw (and miss) such an enthusiastic punch that he goes spinning and lands heavily on his back. "/That's/ the smart one," pseudo-Carlin bellows, and the real one bellows laughter. "Send him off!" Someone slaps a great big C on the chest of the failed pugilist and hooks up under his armpits to drag him away.
"I'm always available for contributing to delinquency," Ronan declares to Sefton, slipping through the press of the crowd with a marked lack of concern or notice of whether or not the headmaster can fit through the spaces she uses. "Besides," she adds, flashing another wicked grin over her shoulder, "I hear they let Headmasters into the Hold for all those official bits."
The weyrwoman laughs. "Boll will hardly notice my absence, but it's kind that you shall." She takes her place before him, one hand resting on Kelar's arm and the other finding his hand. Proper dancing position. "Anyhow, I'll try and visit when I can. I just...am not quite sure when that will be." The tale that the weavers unanimously refused Kelar earns him a skeptical and dubious look, but she only asks, "How is Belsa managing?"
A surprised but obviously pleased little smile is Reyce's reward as he tugs her out onto the dance floor and it only grows when she discovers how unpracticed he is. Subtly, Issa tries to guide his missteps back into line with the tune, but only laughs lightly when he inevitably strays again. A rattling flourish marks the end of the song and of Reyce's obligation. She separates long enough to spare her approval for the harpers along with the others around them, a few claps only before she drags herself up on her tiptoes, lifting herself for a kiss as she murmurs a, "Thank you," just for him. Sliding her hands back down his jacket, her eyes flick over to the harpers, watching as well as hearing them begin the strains of a more comfortable, standard waltz. "One more?" she asks, grinning with one raised eyebrow.
Fortunately or unfortunately, instead of actually hitting *Fienne*...Kenathan gets pushed right into a rather large man. "Sorry!" he says, breathlessly, juggling his food even more now. "Too many people!" He's not trying to blame M'eri. And then he manages to step around the man, who's glaring at him...he blushes *scarlet* at that.
The masked woman ignores all the ruckus going on nearby and grins slyly at R'vain as he moves in toward her, "Aw, don't worry, gorgeous, she doesn't seem to like him too much anyway." She slips her attention back to Fienne, her mouth turning to an exaggerated pout as she twists away from the Weyrleader to bend beside the Caucus girl. "You don't think he's pretty? Perhaps you'd have me pass the drink of to someone who suits your tastes better?" She leans down to put her masked head beside Fienne's and point a long finger across the way, directing the girl's attention to Sefton. "What better time to be bold?" she whispers richly in Fienne's ear. Mouth still open and her tongue tipped to her teeth, she lifts her glance to R'vain again before straightening up.
"Spoil all my fun," T'ral replies with a laugh, allowing Ginella to turn his eyes away from what's on offer, and downing the last of his wine. "We'll dance." He rises to his feet, extricating himself carefully from the bench so as to avoid jostling his fellows, and reaches for Ginella's hand, forging a path for them through to the dancing square, and setting both hands at her waist to bodily lift her into place for their first step.
Sefton follows in Ronan's wake, lifting one hand in a falsely regretful salute to the Herder as he disappears into the crowd. Though more accustomed at these events to spending his time in talking, unless his absent fiancee is there to draw him into dancing, it turns out the Headmaster has had as many lessons as the most exhausted of Caucus students, and he swings Ronan out with a grin. "They let Headmasters anywhere they'd like to go," he confirms with a grin. "I'll take you in on my arm later on."
Kelar, meanwhile, is cheerfully steering Roa through the mass of bodies, is laziness not extending to this task. "Besla is enormous," he informs Roa. "Burgeoning forth in all directions, we're all convinced she's carrying two. The healers say it's just one, though, and apprently it's normal to look like that. Mittan lets her do all sorts of things, he says there's no point in trying to protect her. Really, though, she's giant. She'd like to see you, too."
Fienne flicks a glance to the deposited plate and glass, but makes no comment on it. When R'vain excuses himself in that low-pitched rumble, she just nods with her eyes darting back to the masked woman. As the richly attired lady bends and whispers in her ear she shies away ever so slightly, tension returning to the too-rigid square of her shoulders and her grip on the given glass. "Hmm? The Headmaster?" The gasped words are more aghast at the mere suggestion than anything and she hastily shakes her head. "Is it, mmm, a joke maybe? I mean, who are you and who is he?" When narrowed blue eyes go back to the lad who supposedly gifted her with the drink he is obscured by the floundering shape of Kenathan, who gets a sympathetic little smile for his flush. Still perching on the very edge of the chair with that too-straight posture, her chin tips upward as her eyes follow the masked woman's to R'vain, then back. "I... I already have a drink, but maybe he'd rather give it to someone else? Or you would? I mean, is it meant to be funny?" She is the picture of befuddled, looking from the woman to R'vain as if he is on the joke while she is left in the dark.
R'vain notes Kenathan's near-blunder, only because he's for a moment seething when the feather-masked woman bends to council with Fienne. The Weyrleader shrugs off the commotion a little ways off and turns back to find the eyes behind the mask gazing up at him-- and he rewards them with a narrow gleam indeed, and a tongue-on-teeth moment of his own. It's a stare made to wilt kitchen girls, laundresses, weyrlings, wingriders, and the occasional Caucus student. He has /nothing/ to say about the fate of the drink.
"You're a good man, Headmaster," Ronan grins broadly, laughing as she settles into the steps of the dance. What she lacks in technical knowledge she makes up for in grace and energy, navigating the crowded dance floor with ease. "So what's your herder chasing you down for?" she asks curiously, tipping her chin up and rising on her toes for a turn to see if they've lost their 'tail.'
Reyce keeps his hand on Issa's waist when she separates to offer the harpers her applause, thus she will be the only one of the pair offering approval. His mood, somewhat stormy after that first difficult dance, is mollified somewhat by the kiss she gives him, and his appreciation shows in the tightening grip of his hand. As well, when the next song begins, as his reluctant agreement for one more. His nostrils flare when she asks him, but after a beat he nods, takes her in his arms again, and watches their feet for a moment while he waits for the beat to come around to him. And then move with it, keeping much better time for this one. If there's anything he does very well it's count to three.
The second of Roa's eyebrows joins the first. "That's...descriptive," she offers, and then she clears her throat and lets her gaze drift among the crowd as her feet start to move to the music. After a moment or two her attention comes back again with a little smile. "I expect you'll write me when the enormousness diminishes and there's some other darkhaired troublemaker to keep an eye on. Which reminds me...how's Trelson?"
Lord Carlin watches the farce wind down to its close, his attempts to eat and drink frequently interrupted by unexpected jokes that have him snorting mirth into his napkin (lest he snort it on the crowd). Once it's done, however, so is he, as he leaves his chair and heads back to the doors of his hold. Another crowd, hanging outside while they buy things or try to catch glimpses of the fancy guests milling around within, greets him, and he handshakes his way merrily through before going back to join the more formal party.
When chatting up merchants appears to be growing dull, Miniyal leaves them behind. She drifts towards the wine table just long enough to get the glass(es) she carries refilled. It's only polite, after all, to be able to provide someone with a fresh glass when she insisted on taking his before he departed. For the moment she only drinks from the one and this sparingly. Rather than risk running into someone she knows with no conversational backup she finds a spot where she might listen to the music without seeming as if she desires anyone's company. Clearly she expects someone anyway what with the two glasses.
The masked woman twists again to better face Fienne. "Is it funny to be sent a drink? I'd think the word would be 'flattering'. But perhaps a pretty thing such as yourself receives so much attention that it becomes dull after a while." She is unperturbed by the girl's reluctance and continues to smile impishly. And Fienne's questions? They all go unanswered. "Meanwhile, the Headmaster has been known to turn many an eye." She smirks at that and glances at the drink. "Perhaps you'd prefer to set your sights on men within reach." With that she looks at R'vain again, and lets 'within reach' go without explanation as to whether she means nearby or just easily laid. And the stare of the man in question? The masked woman does not wilt. She stares back, one predatory gleam for another.
Quick to refute the idea that she is bored by all this, Fienne shakes her head, sending pale curls bouncing. "No it isn't that. I just... well, it's odd and he looks just as confused as I am. Or at least he did." She looks down into the glass, a faint wrinkle touching her nose. "And it's not really full..." her tone is more confused than complaining, and finally she just sets the glass aside at the edge of the table farthest from her. "I don't really mean to set my sights anywhere... I mean, on anyone." Fluttery fabric is plucked at restlessly now that Fienne's hands are free, and she watches the exchange of glances between the pair with quick-darting eyes.
Sefton laughs, obligingly turning Ronan about, and pausing to allow her up onto her toes for that peek, before he leads into the next few steps. "I strive to ensure the happiness of my staff," he replies to her with a grin. "I should imagine he wishes to speak to me about my recruiting efforts. One of my students requested a more advanced riding instuctor some time ago, and I am minded to oblige her. The Master over there will be experiencing some regret at losing the man."
Kelar is likewise whirling his partner across the floor, and with even more energy than his older brother. "I'll do better, I'll send for you," he replies. "Tialith will beat Besla to the punch, and then you'll have no excuse not to greet my first nephew in person."
"I..." for a moment Roa again looks away, this time down to her feet, though this might be excused by the fact that she's unused to wearing heels. Once again, she looks back up, this time with a shrug of her shoulders and a little laugh. "Suppose you're right. No excuse at all."
"And how do you think the poor instructor's going to feel?" Ronan tosses back to Sefton, arching a brow with a playful grin as she follows the steps. "Sweet Faranth, but I've never seen such whining as I heard from- Who was it? You know, I think it was some Igen sprig. Anyhow, the whining over the news that we'd be demonstrating the principles of a sail as high as we could get on the heights. You'd think I'd told the boy we were going to push him off. Spoiled, if you ask me." Not that anyone did, but it's not really necessary.
Over by the dining tables, a juggler has just taken center stage - or as it were, created center stage with his fire juggling act that has spectators inching back lest he miss a torch. His sticks start out unlit, but an impish adolescent (and patently his assistant) sneaks up to take them one by one, lighting them on fire to the increased puzzlement of the juggler. When all the sticks are on fire, the adolescent produces more sticks out of his pocket, lights those on fire, and adds them to the juggler's burden. Puffing and juggling wildly, he has what seems like twenty of them spinning in the air before he stops and starts throwing them back to the boy, who panicks as he snuffs them out.
Miniyal's glass is empty soon enough. One polite sip after another and that is what happens. With nothing to distract her attention from the slow, but steady, consumption of wine she is left with a dilemma. Drink the other glass as well? Or be polite and save it. Oh, who are we kidding? He can get his own wine when he tears himself away from Anshuman. The second glass earns her attention now. It could possibly be time for food soon, but right now it is still time for wine.
If R'vain's eyes got narrower they'd be closed. As it is there's just these fine green slits of fury steaming between the lurid fringes of tangled lashes. He's silent for quite some time longer, glaring, possibly thoughtful, before he turns his focus /pointedly/ away from the mask and toward Fienne. For /her/ he can manage to speak, and speak not too harshly, even, voice a low and thunderous rumble. "Lovely as you are, shouldn't have to." A beat. "You been too interrupted t'eat, we could dance."
Issa drifts delightedly back into Reyce's dancing hold, lithely picking up the steps as soon as he starts. She seems less focused on counts of three, though, lifting contented looks up to Reyce as well as glancing about the dance floor at the much more daring dancers as they whisk by. Reyce's lead takes them past a distinctively small Weyrwoman and her familiar-looking partner and the sight of them has Issa's head turning back to follow their path. Formality forgotten out her on the dance floor, the greenrider calls out an enthusiastic, "Roa!" in greeting, attempting to catch the goldrider's eye and give her a smile before they swirl out of sight. With a squeeze of her hand, Issa turns back to pay her attention to her dancing partner until the dance spins itself down into another round of light applause.
"That's settled," Kelar pronounces, pausing to take a more active lead, and spin Roa in a wild circle, with or without her consent. Both hands are ready to keep her upright as he finishes, and the Headmaster's laughing brother is grinning at his success. "I suppose I had better hand you on to the next man, Weyrwoman. Where is your Lieutenant?"
Sefton, meanwhile, manages a shrug to Ronan, as he eases her around behind a pair of smiths, both large enough to offer plenty of shelter. "The poor instructor will be well paid, which is why he has accepted the position," he replies in his drawl. As to the Igenite sprig: "We have certainly a spread of personalities at Caucus. I like to think there is something to be learned from each one."
Ronan quirks a brow at Sefton, smile crooked. "Do ya really, or is that what you say when you're being eavesdropped on by their parents?" the sailor asks with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, though it bears a touch of lasciviousness when she looks over their smithly shelter.
By the time Gans comes back to Miniyal - he has intuition enough, or merely wit, to know to find her near the source of wine - he has had opportunity to pass by the feast tables and make up plates for each of them. There are poached pears, baklava, and a little bit of goose for each of them. Dessert first. "Here you are," he says, mild. "Shu wishes you well, of course. I fear we came across one of the Bitrans while we were about and there was some description of the current state of the Caucus and the fishercraft and almost anything else one might be able to make a mark out of obliged." He pauses, glancing at her wine glasses, to smile and lower, note, "It is somewhat a relief to have slipped him this time."
A rush of color flares in Fienne's cheeks at the compliment, and is made worse yet by the offer to dance. "Oh, goodness." It's not really a complicated question, and yet the girl seems torn. She flicks a look at her rapidly cooling plate, then one toward the dance floor. If nothing else it is somewhat crowded and can't possibly be constituted as being alone with the prowling R'vain. Her tongue flicks out between her lips, wetting them briefly as she looks up at him through a veil of lashes. The motions are borne of hesitation, not meant to be coy, though paired with the beat before she dips a nod they may be taken as such. "I would be honored?" Unfortunately the uplilt at the end turns it into more of a question than anything, but she does rise to her feet. There's another of those wary glances about as if a lonely room with a locking door might suddenly appear out of nowhere around them, leaving her somehow trapped. That doesn't happen of course, neither does the Weyrleader disappear, so she just musters a soft smile for him and reaches out a hand.
There is a bright smile flashed in return as a chipper greenrider swirls past and the weyrwoman crans her neck to see where Issa vanishes off to so that she might locate her later. But then she has other things to think about, because she's suddenly whirling, her hands digging into Kelar's arms. "Kel!" she's half laughing and half fretting. "No, don't...really, I can't...please stop..." but they twirl and laugh a few moments more until Kelar exhibits his merciful nature by halting. Or maybe it's just that the music ends. Roa stands still for several moments, eyes closed, looking a little pale. Then she draws in a slow and careful breath, opens her eyes, and continues on. "The lieutenant is, alas, back at High reaches. We decided the first public outing of weyrleader and weyrwoman ought to be just that." her half-smile is a touch dissapointed, but then she shrugs. "I suppose you'd better. Thank you, Kel. For the dance."
Oh, he's returned. And here she is with but half of one wine glass to offer him. However, she is polite and does so, holding it out with a smile that is made bright by the wine she has been sharing with herself. "Here. There is not much left, but I saved it for you." Blinking at the food she smiles again and rewards such thoughtfulness with a kiss that gives little thought to the balancing of that food on those plates. However, when the kiss ends Miniyal takes one of the plates although it requires holding both glasses in one hand and after what she has consumed without food it's a miracle nothing spills. "Take these? Or one. Take yours. I can't eat. I've no free hands." If there is a little pout in those sentences they are accompanied by an endearing smile towards Gans. "Tell him next time if he truly wishes me well he'll not steal you for so long. Or I will just tell him myself. That will work."
"Ronan, Ronan," Sefton mock chides, meeting the twinkle in the sailor's eyes with another of his easy, lazy grins, utterly failing to reply to the question in any helpful way. The music flares, and he the Headmaster steers his partner into another series of turns. "Now, will I walk you inside, or will I hand you off and let you wait until your Master has had more time to celebrate?"
Kelar turns his head briefly to note Issa, but she is an unknown face, and he has Roa clinging to him to contend with. His expression is not that of a distressed man. His smile fades momentarily as the Weyrwoman pales, and he ducks his head to inspect her, but her recovery is quick enough that his grin is restored with equal speed. "More fool he, to give you up for the day," he replies, guiding her to the edge of the floor so that he can release her, dipping into a theatrical bow. "Save another for me towards the end," he requests, grinning as he tugs his shirt straight. "Now, duty calls, my Lady." And so saying, he turns away to a gaggle of dignitaries, his grin unwavering.
Reyce gets comfortable with this easy waltz step soon enough, daring enough to stop staring at their feet. Instead, somewhat awkward in his trained dancing, he stares off over her shoulder, although his gaze returns to her now and then when she throws glances up at him, and the more of those he accumulates the less tense his muscles (hence his movements) become. When Issa hails Roa, he blinks once to sharpen his focus because yes, that really is the weyrwoman; no, that really is not the Headmaster. There's not much time to ponder this as the song swirls them away and then ends, leaving him holding onto Issa through the scattering of applause. He waits for her eyes to turn up to him, making no comment one way or the other about the next dance that starts up, and keeping his expression carefully neutral.
There's an appreciative glance for Fienne's bouncing curls. The masked woman smirks to herself for the girl's response. "You worry too much," she says, quick to sweep issues of the distant gentleman, all but forgotten by her now, and the half-full state of the glass. "And aren't there but two reasons for a person to attend a wedding? Free food and drink and a chance to make eyes at someone across the way?" Again she flicks a glance at R'vain. It's brief, though, and her attention returns to Fienne. "If he won't do and the Headmaster isn't enough to make you smile, perhaps you'd like the drink to go to a fairer sort?" But for R'vain's words, the masked woman's green eyes mirror his violent narrowing - how dare he spoil -her- game. But a smile flashes back onto her lips. "Of course she doesn't -have- to set her sights on anyone. There's nothing with two girls idly scoping out the favors of a party, is there?"
Gans, in one slender hand, takes both wine glasses. If that's a message, it's not at all pointed; he smiles his one-sided, wry smile and nudges the small plate full of -his- dessert and tiny bit of dinner into the heel of that hand. Some excess of turns ago the ability to hold a large number of plates and glasses all at once, all in one hand, served him well; it serves him just as well, now. He has, just like that, a hand free to offer his lady. "He would invite you along, you know. I suspect he would offer you a dance, if you stayed long enough to hear him out."
"Let's give him time for one more skin." Ronan winks to Sefton as she steps back, tipping her chin up to look towards the hold one more time. "Slower reaction times, less chance to run away. But I thank you most kindly for the dance, Headmaster," she adds with what can only be called a mockery of a curtsey. "I'll catch you in an hour's time."
Sefton replies to Ronan's mock-curtsey with a bow far more theatrical than necessary, and doubly so given the difference in their ranks. "The pleasure was entirely mine," he replies with a grin, one hand up to rake his curls from his eyes as he straightens. "Do call on me when you need me, Ronan." And with that lazy drawl, he turns away to move around the edge of the crowd, towards where a brightly dressed drudge is circulating with drinks. And, incidentally, towards R'vain and his companions.
(Next part.)