#;e. ethereal ball | 2023

[lycianlynx]

the wiping party of mach // w.h.c. round 1

If Chad can say anything, it's that they don't want to be here — But between suffering Earth's heavy scrutiny for the entirety of the rest of the night and just suffering it for a little while and being mostly free of it the rest of the night, they picked the latter.

They're kind of regretting it, honestly. Though the boy's not an awful dancer, though they've gone through the practice moves with a clear mind, critical eye and definite objective: Do passably and Get Out — The closer their turn draws, the more their hands shake. There's a tension in their entire body they can't force out, jaw clenched, shoulders drawn taut like a livewire.

All they can see and hear with the lights turned on them is their own thundering heartbeat, their cloying breath and light, light, light, piercing them through — But at least muscle memory wouldn't fail them as the music starts up — A low roar, slow, deliberate, flowing movements that go from one into the next — But a set of strings builds up speed, becomes frenetic as Chad lets momentum carry them from one gesture to the next, half-falling into a spin that dips them low and back up again, their own gravity precarious as their sleeves trail out behind them —

Fine, so far. But they can't keep up the balance they need for for the recovery, their limbs sluggish from anxiety nipping at their heels, and their foot loses ground into an ungainly stumble, disrupting their flow.

A roaring panic begins to eat at them, the fiddle fraying not just the strings, but the last of their own nerves alongside it; There's a recovery as they substitute in a heel spin, but the rest of the choreography flies away from their fingertips as a controlled dip falls out of their hands, has them falling to the floor, and instead of coming back up smoothly, they hit the ground, hard, and the shock has them take a fraction too long to get back up.

The music cuts out. The boy lies, wide-eyed, not daring to move for a long moment — Before the eyes, the eyes register, and they're scrambling onto hands and knees, stricken. This — This was a mistake. This was a mistake. They never should've — Never should've—!!

Earth rumbles in disapproval. Chad can't even bring themself to look at the score numbers, lifted up damningly just inches above their field of vision.

style: 1 choreo: 3 technical: 3

They need to get out of here, now. They gather themself up, bow hastily and vacate the stage for their opponent — Making themself scarce in the maze of hedges under cover of night, tears pricking at their eyes.

et tu, @viridescent-lance @nagaficat?

[beholdenning]

Perhaps death had made Ephidel soft, but he finds comfort now in the silent manner Denning speaks. A manner Ephidel once found far below himself. 'This feels familiar.' He signs to his elder, with eyes trained skyward. Upon the stars and elementals looking down upon them. 'These strings...' The thought remains unfinished, in a way that implies his mind would not allow him to form the idea. What it means to look upon your puppeteer.

Ephidel is a familiar sight, a familiar hollow in their senses. Denning falls into this silence with a readiness it would never offer any other, its hands coming up with fingertips pressing together, waiting, patiently, for Ephidel to finish, to signal to its younger kin that it is listening — But its gaze trails upwards to follow his, and it gives pause even in words it can string together more easily.

The morph has spent much of its time thinking upon the scrutiny given to it. The strings — The strings are a comfortable tension in a body that had gone so long without, but this constant supervision... It sits strangely between its shoulderblades.

It did not get to look upon its master often. Beyond the first year or so, Lord Nergal had never looked upon it so constantly again. Time between his gaze fixed upon it and time without became irregular and disjointed when it bothered to recall exactly how long each period was. It is less looking upon, it thinks — So much more being seen in return.

Something like a breath leaves it without thought or intent.

'do you miss it?' it asks, in return — For him, for itself. It does not know what to make of it. It craves to be wielded, but to be spectated... Coveted... Admired...

To be all these things, at a constant? Denning is a mimic, no chameleon, no performance piece. Art meant to be hoarded rather than displayed. A tool meant to be used rather than treasured. It has been so long since it has seen proper use.

'i... i could do better, more, back then.'

[justices-blade]

Coffee: Even more popular (to the mice) than the champagne is the coffee. It comes in all types - from light, medium, to dark, french-pressed or drip, espresso or latte - but you’re pretty sure the staff is drinking more of it than you are. Rodents love caffeine… who would have thought

Bitter tastes had never suited him, but there's something about the aroma of coffee that makes him wish they did — But only things like coffee candy that little grannies passed him on occasion really met his tastes.

And didn't make him buzz like he was grazed by one Elthunder too many, but that's peanuts. Still, there's a bajillion blends that he never even thought existed, and the mice are chugging the stuff like it's water. Maybe it's not as strong? Maybe there's a kind that's more creamy than bitter?

When Kurth approaches with two cups of coffee, one clearly to offer, Edward meets him with a beam, takes it gratefully, and takes a big old sip; It's more milk and sugar than coffee, with a slight hint of hazelnut.

"Oh, this stuff's fantastic!" he laughs, wiping a bit of foam away with the back of his hand. If it does make him start vibrating half a foot to the left of himself later, he'll deal with that when it happens. Hey, the drink's tasty! "Thanks, Kurth!"

Another sip, more adventurous this time, before he holds up his hand, palm out to show off the blue mark. "By the way, you want a handshake? You don't have a water flower yet!"

[justices-blade]

A flap, two, a push, and —

They're in the air with a whoop and a holler. He's not sure what he expected, but he assumed this would be, well, harder. Wind rushes into his face as he and Micaiah shoot upwards to meet the sky, but the hard part's coming next — While Micaiah's already found her aerial sea legs (wind wings?), Edward wobbles a little before finding a rhythmic flap and stabilising. The magical wings pull at muscles he doesn't have, and despite it being certifiably weird, he relishes in the repetitive tension and release.

Edward laughs again, exhilarated, then keeps laughing as Micaiah laughs too, steel and gold molten and brilliant in reflecting every shining light below. His wings tuck and he dips precariously, before he spreads them into the turn she'd called for; This has got to be part of the magic, he swears he doesn't know how to fly, but here he is, soaring like any old songbird! Well, to be fair, he's concentrating real hard on the flying, but his point stands!

Laughter continues to ring like bells, several temple-towers calling out across the city in an uncoordinated but lovely gong-gong-gong. He settles into a half-glide half-flap near but not too close to her, following her line of sight to the dandelion ahead.

"Think it? I know it!" He dips sideways, then back, sizing up the big, fluffy landing platform, before, perhaps recklessly, tucking his wings into a divebomb — The boy goes plummeting, but spreads his wings on the final stretch along with his arms with a wild whoop and cheer — He lands on his feet, then falls right on his butt from the flower bouncing back a teensy bit from the impact, like a bumblebee had bumped into it. He cackles, rolls over so Micaiah has more than ample room to try landing, too.

"All clear for landing, cap'n!" He calls upwards. "It's so soft, you wouldn't believe it! C'mon, c'mon!"

Edward’s emotions, as they so often do, only serve to equip Micaiah with new confidence; her own laughter bubbling up naturally in shared wonder as their brands of fire and water interact. The primary feathers on her wing twitch as if in anticipation and squeezing Leonardo’s hand she urges him “lead on!” Wisely he takes them away from the main venue toward a greener clearing, and she only needs to look at his face to know each excitements’ is mirrored in the other’s smiles. Edward creates a draft of air and, remembering again how the wings first felt on her back, Micaiah tells him “yes, let’s” before she can think better of it. Hands still clasped in his they take off, Micaiah realizing that once she is up in the air the whole process is much easier than she had anticipated – well, so long as she only thinks of continuing to fly that is and, laughter bubbling up once more, she can hardly think of doing anything else!

“It really worked! This is – o-oh, turn here!” The field sprawls out before them with petals as large as their own bodies alive on the wind, as they avert one coming their way Micaiah points to a dandelion bud they might safely be able to land on.

“Do you think we can make it over there?”

[lycianlynx]

It takes a little while for Raven to notice them, but eventually he spots Chad moving about the space.

"Look at you," he says, canting a head at the intricate designs of the robe the boy is wearing. "Thought you were from Lycia. That pattern's eastern, isn't it?"

Not that Raven can say much about another's outfit, for he staunchly refuses all attempts to get him into something fancier than his school uniform. But he supposes he's glad that some people, at least, are enjoying the festivities provided for them.

Barely, one corner of his lips curve upward. "You know, that really complements one of your classmates, doesn't it? The redheaded girl, what's her name? I spoke with her earlier."

As a mouse-waiter passes by with a tray of flavored pastilles, Raven picks a couple from the tray and flicks them toward the boy.

Mint.

Just in case.

There's a point of the ball where their stance towards the circumstances of it firmly plants itself at the stage of acceptance — Grudging and temporary, yeah, but acceptance at its core. There's enough folk milling around in uniform in the beginning, but those gradually get lost in the bustle... At least, until the boy realises they recognise some old faces in new garb that definitely wasn't present before, with fanciful touches even the most skilled of tailors wouldn't be able to pull off. It's nice, probably, but, well...

... Eyeing an insanely ornate gown across the room, absolutely drowning in sequins, they're actually pretty grateful they brought their own threads to this fiasco.

Raymond, meanwhile, manages to stick out all the more from the fact that he's (stubbornly, no doubt) still in uniform. Chad knows well enough to surmise he probably definitely doesn't want to be here right now, but the fact they get approached first —

Ah, they don't know. It's nice to have some kind of rapport to warrant it, or something.

"Oh." A hand reaches down to tug at a fishnet sleeve self-consciously. "Yeah. I am though. From Lycia, I mean. It's complicated." A tsk, a wave of his hand — Though, from the looks of it, he should've saved the cool, aloof handwave for the next statement.

His face flushes, with no way to hide it. The waving hand comes to reflexively cover the bottom half of his face in a motion that would have pushed the collar of his cloak up, if it were still there. He's — He's being so obvious right now, he should really knock this shit off and pull himself together —

But that notion crumbles to nothing after Raymond throws something at him, and his other hand moves reflexively to catch it, several 'it's, snagged out of the air as easy as playing knucklebones. A pause. Candy?

Candy...

Mint.

Mint. The implication doesn't miss.

"Oh, fuck off," they splutter with half a laugh and a face full fire, shoving the other weakly, just as unable to conceal a flustered laugh. Maybe they'd be able to appreciate Raymond's own lopsided smirk, too, later down the line. "That's Maria. We're friends."

[beholdenning]

full flowers five // engagements

the ball has begun, but not in the way expected or prepared. what was once a tentative unknown becomes a fully foreign affair, with masters over the room... voices whisper to denning, telling it to play, to speak, to make merry.

the spirit of water speaks to it most often, dotes on it for being such a perfect little darling doll, urges it to be just as nice and perfect and darling. denning sees no reason to disobey, save the fact it does not know how to execute half the commands given to it to satisfaction.

so it stands upon the floor, looking lost.

MARKS

air ��� ivy.

earth ✢ hector.

fire ✢ zelkov.

lightning ✢ louis.

water ✢ deirdre.

[justices-blade]

do it for the vine! // engagements

edward was starting to wonder how he'd get in on the festivities while he's the size of a thimble, so this sure is a turn of events! there's a very doting blob of water watching him like a hawk, and while he's a bit perturbed, he's raring to get out there and shake some hands.

MARKS

air ✦ griss.

earth ✦ kurth.

fire ✦ eos-asami.

lightning ✦ nanna.

water ✦ lachesis.

[justices-blade]

Seriously, the curiosity was genuine — Edward was never fond of sticking around in the aftermath (that's inviting trouble of all kinds), and seeing this guy hang around like it was nothing seemed, well. Not safe, nah, but —

Something about a wounded hound showing its belly, there. He didn't think someone with an already broken hand would pick a dang fight.

'Cept, well, he does.

"Oh —?!!"

There's an apology on Edward's tongue, but it's seized alongside his wrist as his heart leaps — Whether it drops afterwards or howls in his ears, he can no longer tell, focus zeroing in in honed response.

He notices, in that single moment, several things; The grip around his dominant wrist, ready to bruise, ready to break, the bright flash of bared teeth and white sclera, that there is, indeed, a familiar cobwebbing of scar tissue under the surface of blood-red ink. It culminates in one signal: Danger.

Judgement passes in a split second. It's one hand to two, melee to probably-mage. With his own hand on the line, the last thing he's doing in this situation is holding still — Not even gracing Griss with a recoil in turn, Edward's other fist flies forwards like clockwork, going for the eyes, wrestling his captive wrist free by force, his striking hand coming back for a solid blow against Griss' temple —

(And, well. He guesses he understands why Larcei broke this guy's hand, now.)

Griss flicks one finger toward the crimson stain crawling up the left side of his face. "Scars are the trophies when the pain's all done," he agrees, and whatever hostility had bunched his shoulders up into knots just a few moments ago melts away completely. It sounded like he'd found someone like-minded; maybe not a connoisseur, but an appreciator of a body's wear and tear nonetheless. If they traded blows now, it'd be far more gratifying than two strangers knocking each other's lights out. Maybe he'd understand the godliness of that act, too.

So Griss extends his hand, literally at the moment, to give the kid a better angle. It's still kind of weird being gawked at like an animal, and that same sort of skin-crawling sensation he'd gotten from the fell romanticists earlier that evening comes back again, albeit made milder only by the kid's own apparent ruggedness. It looked like he could walk the walk, at least, if it came down to it.

Then he grabs his hand and it's not the sudden, sharp pain that laces through Griss' fingers that has him recoiling, but the surprise of it. He hardly notices the newly-bloomed flowers alongside each of their necks, and the instruction he'd had about making contact with another's hand is pushed to the background with a bewildered shake of his head.

"Never had someone do that before." He blinks, but before Edward can withdraw himself, Griss' grabs his wrist roughly with his uninjured hand and a wild-eyed smile. "If you're that interested, lemme give you one of your own. Hold still."

[bchukerman]

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I did not intend for these pieces to resemble artwork by the guy who has works in over 60 museums, has had audiences with presidents and popes, splits his time between Rome and New York, plays and composed his own scores, and has assistants make his paintings for him. I did not. It happened on its own. I guess I could call this That Artist or someone who works just like him meets that other artist, the one who makes waterfalls go backwards and impossible stairs and the ladder. The story you were about to see is not true, & the names were changed to protect the innocent. (Me) “hyperrealistic photograph of a joyful dripping wet, faceless human form coming up shiny reflective confusing ladder, low dramatic ground fog creates an ethereal glow from deep blue tiled pool filled; a classic inflatable beach ball, a pink inner tube, & an iconic rubber duck floating with shadows. used but brightly colored children’s toys float by. lonely. bright colors. half submerged. dramatic lighting. studio lighting. more cheerful. Light trails. still surreal.” Content credentials Generated with Al • November 9, 2023 at 2:33 AM Powered by DALL•E 3 - Eventually eliminating the human form and focusing on the ladders. Dalle-3 does crazy things with ladders and it seems to add a random limb or two at random. - But that’s one of the things that keep it lively. #nothingrealhere #artificialintelligience #istilldontknowwhy #becauseicaniguess #ai #bingimagecreator #dalle3 - There is no intention here to do anything other than experiment with text and the results and to share them. - And then suddenly there was an astronaut??? November 09, 2023 at 09:02PM via Instagram https://instagr.am/reel/Czc92_IrBIa/

[askforfireman]

ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ - ᴍᴀʏ 2023

Status: Passed Points earned: +1 (activity) Points allocated to: Gauntlets (E+) Total points: 4 -> 5

Threads Concluded (none) Inventory Addition (none) New Mastery (none)

ETHEREAL BALL

Flower wreath Dancer class accessed Enchanted hairpin

HOUSEKEEPING

Edward : "A Costly Size ( Size Get It?) " : Gauntlets +1

Veyle : "Why Do Kids Ask So Many Damn Questions?" : EtherealBall2023 (ME)

Ivy : "It's Just Business." : EtherealBall2023

[lycianlynx]

a necklace full of posies // engagements

chad's not happy about this, but with the earth elemental's stony gaze upon them, they're hardly in a position to resist... for now. in the meantime, they try to justify the affair: it's just the same event with different steps, and surely the elementals will change them back once it's over, right...?

(they wouldn't admit it, but there's a certain whimsy about the setting that softens them up, too...

idunn's dance card, too, sits as a reminder in their pocket. maybe they can make something of this worth bringing back. promises are meant to be kept, after all.)

MARKS

air ✦ maria.

earth ✦ raymond.

fire ✦ lilith.

lightning ✦ nanna.

water ✦ odin.

[beholdenning]

Denning is made for battle. He is not blindsided.

He isn't, truly, even if it seems as such: He sees every tense, every movement, but somehow, it does not yet occur to him that he should react — The morph has no orders to kill, and ever has he only acted in the interest of others, caring little for things such as self-preservation.

Kill for me. Die for me.

Such was ever the song and dance. Without a master — No, a master weaving those very commands into his very being, why should he fight back?

Hands find the collar of his shirt, malice recognisable without effort. A clatter as a platter of food falls to the polished floors. His back hits the wall hard, rattles his frame. Still, his eyes are flat as ever, empty, devoid of reaction, even under direct threat — And while there is response to demand, there is also enough pressure on his chest that it is difficult to draw in enough air to vocalise anything, be it reply or mimicry. A rattling noise leaves him, proof of the limitations of a system since improved. Denning's head tilts at the realisation, with no further indication of struggle, regarding Hector with a dim confusion; Why give him a command, then actively hamper its fulfillment?

Another set of calculations run parallel in his mind — This frame can take a degree of superficial damage from weapons and magic. Blunt force trauma inflicted by things such as bare fists would prove less effective than they would on the average human. His head is less of a vulnerability, too — Even if it were bashed halfway in, he would retain most function. Overall, the lordling's chances of doing significant damage to him in the short frame before they draw the attention of their deities remains slim.

But — Beyond even that, a quiet roaring override: The morph remembers a sleeve cut away, black ichor staining white cloth, ruining it for further 'proper' wear altogether. He would still 'bleed' under duress. And this garb, made for him, according to his specifications... Though half of it is already black as night...

... It would still stain.

How disagreeable.

There is a spark, for a brief second, in hollow depths. A pale hand shoots up to claw at Hector's, digging the nails in, beginning to pry the fingers loose, drawing breath. If a flower blooms from the blood he draws, he pays it no mind.

"Are here," he rasps, cadence eerily identical to the lordling's. Golden eyes meet blue, piercing, bright and unwavering. Then, in Lord Nergal's: "Dread Isle. Await."

One more fragment, his own, mouthed and unvoiced: 'dress. it will stain.'

And then he breaks off with a hissing noise, not unlike static —

To twist in Hector's grip for leverage, for momentum,

And kick out, aiming right for Hector's gut.

➵ pause. charcuterie board.

The world tips as he passes by an array of tables, a strange stasis taking his balance, his limbs, his synthetic breath. There is a strange jamming of time, not unlike those days spent in nothingness upon the Dread Isle, and that alone sets a strange spike of static through his chest —

And then it passes, and suddenly, his body is left to its own devices — It is his instinct to collapse like an unattended marionette, but he stands firm, mindful of the small plate of various cheeses and crackers pushed into his hands.

Take a break, his elemental seems to croon — Not that he understands. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be in his future either, for the morph just so happens to not be where he was moments prior, instead perched upon the arm of a plush bench, next to...

Ah. Marquess Ostia. He no longer has any orders to kill the other, but it is jarring to see the lordling at such proximity.

... What to do? Sitting stiff a moment longer, Denning blinks owlishly, before silently offering the man a cube of fragrant gouda, stuck on a toothpick, as greeting and offering.

The night is going surprisingly well,

until it isn't.

He's still not quite accustomed to those bratty elementals' shenanigans. Why earth? Is it that he's not rebelled enough of late? Quite frankly, Hector's got enough of the codgers back home, never mind this stiff peacock overhead.

And so he is, for a moment, sat and enjoying a spot of respite.

The elemental can't begrudge him that much, right?

Hairs at the nape of his neck prick suddenly, and it feels like he's been burned - not by flame, but by something too cold to touch, a primal fury born of instinct.

"You."

The monster who'd led the charge during the infiltration of Ostia back then. Hector recalls the stare, sharp yet empty, as mockery of life drained from the creature's body.

Impregnable Castle Ostia, all had said. Untouchable... no more.

Because of this freak and its master.

"You...!"

He's on his feet at once, Denning's collar in his grip and

WHAM.

The wall gets a lovely taste of morph, up close and personal.

That the Fang had somehow crawled back to life from the gutters of the underworld was one thing, but this, this was too much.

Already, he feels Earth's roving gaze looming toward them. Better be quick then.

"How is it that you are here?"

This thing should be dead. Long dead.

[beholdenning]

Zelkov had a soft spot for Denning. He couldn’t quite describe it, or even why, far beyond the kind of care given to a creation like a doll or piece of art, yet not quite that of a romantic sort. A sort of fondness, affection, for someone who every so often, Zelkov found the simplest sorts of interactions to be profound. If it was in his hands, held against his chest in a warm embrace, that they understood life, he was happy to be there to witness it.

Ah, but he could not be jealous. They deserved many others to be with them too. Dance partners, friends, coworkers, a whole array of life.

So, Zelkov carefully measured their hips and torso, explaining as he did so. “Are you *excited*? I’ll have this *ready* by the time of the ball. Taking down accurate *measurements* ensures I have little to no future *corrections* to make.” He hadn’t asked if Denning needed an outfit, simply going ahead and making them one. He didn’t want them to miss out on anything because they didn’t know what they needed. Zelkov could already imagine the flattering cut of suit he’d make for them.

“I thought a darker *palette* would suit you, so I brought a little selection of *colors* for you to choose from.” Zelkov noted down his measurements and then held out a small arrangement of materials, dark and rich colors of every main hue available.

“Which is your *favorite*?” Had Denning ever been asked their opinions before? Zelkov made an effort to soften his tone, hoping to make them feel reassured. “There is no incorrect answer.”

The ball approaches.

Denning observes its approach with perfect neutrality. It does not lurk, nor does it loom; There is far too much talk of it among the denizens of the monastery for it to creep up unexpectedly, nor is the morph particularly perturbed by it. Fervor sweeps through lines of conversation and gossip as the knight goes about their day-to-day, occasionally even assigned to tasks to help prepare for it. Between all of this, the bustle and the overheard words and the texts they have all but devoured in their hours in the library, They believe they have a decent idea of the entire affair — Though the exact form and function continues to elude and confound them. The only aspect between the food, dance, and people that had even remotely stirred them was when they heard tell of the musicians that would be in attendance.

Even that minuscule flicker of interest apparently was enough interest for their colleagues to leap upon the unintended opening, insisting they attend for 'their own sake', citing irrelevant things such as 'hermithood' and 'isolation' as reason for them to 'get out more'. There is a palpable energy in the insistence. Even a minor inclination is more than enough, it seems.

It is certainly enough for Zelkov, based on how quickly he had leapt upon the chance to dress them 'appropriately'. This energy — Is it 'excitement', is this 'excitement' what pushes so many to gossip and chatter? Their own interest nowhere near approaches excitement. The ball remains a confusing unknown to them that they feel no compulsion to investigate, internal or external.

... No, that is untrue. There is external compulsion aplenty, from fellows-in-arms, from meddlesome clergy. They had ever been driven by external compulsions, by orders and the vision of another, from the moment they had come into being from the ashes of another.

(Speak for me. Kill for me. Die for me.)

... There is external compulsion from Zelkov, too, who measures them with the same care their master must have before they were more than a diagram, perhaps, to fit them according to his vision — But this time, they are alive, cognisant, lifting their arms when told, staying perfectly still otherwise, pliant and obedient; A model mannequin, all of their limbs his to manipulate. Bright gold follows him as he goes about his work. It is methodical, precise. Gold eyes not their own shines with a glimmer they cannot place. They cannot help but wonder: Had Lord Nergal let the same light into his eye, looking upon them? Is excitement what is meant to be felt, here? What does Zelkov intend for them?

Color cascades into their vision as if in reply to the latter: Blue, red, black, purple and spectrums beyond and between. They have given freely to him, yet he still gives them a choice.

There is no incorrect answer.Then there is no correct answer, either. Still, Denning finds themself reaching for one out of habit — Because they do not know how else to live, because there had always been a correct answer of some kind, because there had always been expectations of them, expectations they yet eternally strive to fulfill. It was hardly a gift, then; Just the natural course of things, what they owed in return for their creation, their existence, their voice and limbs and name. But now — Now it is a gift. Denning owes noone aught, owes none but their master — and yet owing and giving is all they know.

So they will give. But what, what are they supposed to do with someone who will not take and will just give again in turn?

ask me to speak. ask me to kill. ask me to die, and i will.

but i do not know how to do this.

Still, they try. Swaddled in purple and green for most of their life, in white and red for but a number of months, they pause for a long moment, before their hands gravitate towards first towards the familiar — Then towards a rich mixture of black, red, white. A pause, a deliberation. The purple reflects the man who made them their garb, the green draws their eye inexplicably. But once again, they stray towards chiaroscuro, highlighted with vermillion. It is only right they continue to display their allegiance, is it not?

Golden eyes flicker up for confirmation, even despite Zelkov's reassurance. Fingertips gingerly trail over the proffered palette of choice. They tap the sample twice, still watching his response, still uncertain; But, ah, they are certain of one thing.

"... make it easy to move in."

[lycianlynx]

[Maze]

Raven wasn't about to get caught dead near the dancing competition - he'd already had quite enough of bending to the elementals' will this evening, thank you very much, and so when there had been a murmur of a it through the crowd he had made himself as scarce as possible, posting up in a far corner, and keeping his eyes sharp.

As it happened, many couples and individuals (of varying levels of enthusiasm) had shown up, and some danced their heart out, some with their hearts on their sleeve, and others...

With a frown, he had seen how anxious Chad had been, the amount of eyes on the boy a clear weight against their shoulders, dragging them down further and further with every misstep.

"Come on, kid," Raven muttered, cocking his head, eyes narrowed. He knew the boy had it in him - had seen firsthand, for had they not performed themselves in front of a lively audience? But he supposed that was with the support of each other and the traveling performance troupe, Miss Marcie's confidence bolstering them considerably And the energy, too, of the audience of strangers versus a captive gathering of friends, allies, and comrades.

"Ah," he said as the boy twirled their last pirouette and stumbled, falling flat on their back. They recovered just well enough to kip to their feet and sprint from the room, but the distress in their eyes was palpable even from this distance.

Slowly, deliberately, Raven weaved his way through the crowd, snagging a flagon of water and a couple of the crystalline glasses as he made his way out and into the hedge maze.

Light of foot though Chad certainly was, he left tracks all the same, and eventually Raven found him crouched in a dark corner, sniffling softly in the cold night air.

Silent, Raven poured one of the glasses full of water and set it beside the boy, and then another for himself, setting the flagon on the ground as he sat on a stone bench nearby. Giving the boy the grace of not having to have an audience for his tears, Raven kept his gaze on the path he'd come from, and simply said, "You'll get dehydrated."

The tops of flowers offer shelter only from the eyes below, and the corners of the maze only a tenuous one from the ones above. While Chad's initial getaway was inelegant at best, his tracks were more meticulously covered after he descended from his initial not-haven, hedges crossed and steps lighter he'd been on that legends-forsaken stage...

Though, there's few corners that offer equal shelter from above as below, and fewer still that're sufficiently deep enough into the maze to not have some snogging couple walk in on some guy having a fucking breakdown. Mood ruined on both ends, probably.

Tucked away in a dead end, in the shade of a dandelion — A spot so secluded that anyone really looking for them, anyone who knows how to look would be able to find them, is where Raymond, of course, finds them. They heard him coming from the other side of the hedge, not daring to think he's actually looking for them until he's on the wrong side of it.

Or the right one. Whatever helps him sleep at night.

Since when did they know the cadence of his steps, anyways? It feels like something they've known for years, against the creaking of familiar floorboards half an age ago. Maybe that's why Chad doesn't tell him to go away. Maybe that's why they don't bother to look up from where their face is buried in their arms, curled up with their knees to their chest. They don't look up when he stops in front of them, either, sets something down in the dirt next to them, and steps away.

The boy does look up when the other speaks though — It's a sullen look, petulance entirely undermined by the fact he looks like shit, eyes and nose rimmed red and face streaked with tears. The automatic glare it comes up as is also undermined by the fact that Raymond... Isn't looking at him.

Eyes flicker sideways, spy the offered glass. It's water. Raymond is still looking away. The lack of that intangible weight is staggering in and of itself, but as he looks at Raymond's back, then at the glass, as he tries to open his mouth to say something, anything, to save face, to thank him, to make this — Less awkward, less bothersome, less of a complete fucking freakshow for both of them —

"Th—hrk,"

His throat closes up around the first and only syllable with an ugly noise, and Chad can only lurch forward with a choked sob. Disgusted with himself, he buries his face in his hands again with a ragged noise, a shuddering intake of breath as the dam breaks again.

Gods fucking damn it.

"don't look," he begs. His voice is thin, fragile. "— please."

[lycianlynx]

[Charcuterie Board]

"And look how handsome you are." Igrene hadn't had the chance to catch up with everyone that had been in Roy's Army together, but by chance Chad happened to attend a few of her classes. They rarely stayed behind to chat, though, and she understood - they were always the quiet type, skirting about the peripheries, declining to engage.

It seemed quite the opposite now, where they emerged from the shadows and into the beautiful lights of the ball, dressed in what looked like Sacaen finery, flitting about nervously.

Igrene pressed a gentle hand to their shoulder, steering them to a seat at a nearby table, and presented them with the charcuterie board she had picked up, the variety of cheeses, meats, and finger vegetables being an acceptable substitute for a meal, for the time being.

"Have you eaten? You look close to fainting. Come, we'll share this."

Brown eyes brighten with recognition, before sharpening with — Not displeasure, not entirely, but the boy waves the compliment off with a small shake of their head, a tired scoff tugging at their lips.

"Miss Igrene," Chad replies, mildly, trying to skip over the compliment stage as quickly as possible (and looking just that bit closer to fainting from embarrassment alone); "Or, um, is it still Professor? That's a lovely dress."

They're not sure how to continue; They hadn't planned that far ahead, and it occurs to them that maybe they should've just... Properly said hello to her earlier. Luckily, Igrene has more reason to talk to them than just compliments, and it's a relief when she lets the deflection roll over, even for just a moment.

So it is that they're too done with this entire ordeal to brook complaint when she rests a hand on their shoulder with intent to guide, though they can't help the instinctual tense; Two less layers to guard their shoulder, making the weight of her hand feel almost branding in its familiarity. The seat offered is eagerly taken, if only to escape it (Saints forbid they start missing it, that'd just be sad), before —

Oh. A hard blink as Chad tries to recall the last time they filched something substantial from the table, but bar the sweet buns from earlier, they come up blank. The night's been too long for their liking already, and the constant surveillance making it a fucking struggle to do anything and really enjoy it... Damn, just being reminded of it makes them want to crawl under the table and make sure noone ever finds them again.

Undignified, yeah. Pathetic, hell yeah. But. Man. They slump subconsciously as they regard the charcuterie board, before their eyes flicker, just briefly, up to their elemental overlords, before landing back on Igrene again.

"I — No, it's been a bit, yeah. Thanks." Chad straightens up a touch, plucks one of the little forks for the food up and hands it to her, their own fork finding their other hand. "If you don't mind. Sharing, that is."

A pause as they stick a grape, pick it up. "It's good to see you, by the way. Thanks again."

[lycianlynx]

Sweet Bun Trio: The first bun is filled with sweet cream and topped with icing and a candied cherry... The third is a bun sliced in half, filled with almond paste and whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar on top. || The refreshment table. The savior of those looking to avoid getting trapped in awkward conversations with stuffy nobles. It would be better if some sort of meat dish was included, even if it were just slices of ham or salami, but upon introspection, that would bring along the rather unsettling implication of carnivorous mice. With a slightly heavy heart, Lyn takes a plate of sweet buns instead. One bite into a honey-glazed roll is enough to let her know this choice was a mistake. She had gone for the least sweet looking of the trio first, but it's still sweet enough to make her cringe. She can at least pick out the nuts and cranberries to eat on their own, but she will no doubt have to pass the rest of the rolls off to someone else. Lyn extends a mouse-sized plate towards one of the teens standing around the hall, two entire rolls left untouched. If anyone would want such an overwhelmingly sweet treat, it would probably be a kid.

"Do you want this? It's too sweet for me to eat by myself." It is only after she has already extended the plate that she truly gets a good look at the boy and startles, eyes growing wide. The pattern on their clothes is one that is both one that is instantly recognizable to Lyn and one that she never expected to see at the ball on anyone besides herself. "You're Sacaen?" Equal parts surprise and delight color Lyn's voice. "Are you Kutolah? Djute? I'm Lyn, of the Lorca tribe."

"Huh? Oh, sure. Thanks."

The sweet buns do look delicious. They've been sneaking treats from the refreshments table on and off, but half the things felt an order too fancy for Chad to even stomach looking at for too long; Or, at least, take them themself. They're not going to complain about a plate of the sweet buns handed off to them, for sure. Gloved hands gingerly extend to accept, and — Oh, that's powdered sugar. They pull off one glove with their teeth and stuff it into their pocket.

Then the girl who handed them the plate startles, and he flinches, eyes wide. Wait, did he fuck up somewhere? Wait, roll that back, what's happening —

"Ah," The noise is a bit thick as the boy realises who he's talking to. There's — She, Lyn, she sounds so excited too, and a weird pit of guilt opens up in his stomach when he realises he has no idea of what the answer to her question might be, suddenly overconscious of the way he's pulled blankets of belonging around himself that don't feel like his to claim — Student, family, heritage.

He could answer any other question. He's gone digging. Just not that one. Maybe this outfit was a mistake. Some flimsy fucking feeling of belonging wasn't worth how she's gonna be disappointed, right? That he's not... Real enough. Their weight shifts a bit, their smile coming off as more of a grimace.

"I, um. I am, kind of. It's nice to meet you, Lyn." Chad ducks his head a bit, brown eyes practically boring through the buns for want of anywhere else to look in shame. "I... I don't know. I'm probably not Kutolah or Djute, I think? Noone there recognised me."

Another pause. He's not sure if he wanted the latter to, with how he remembers how Mulagir's, uh, retrieval went. "Yeah. Sorry."