A. A mage is a curiosity--an elven mage doubly so, if he's not being dismissed as part of the help--and a blind elven mage is such downright novelty that he's bound to attract attention once the Hightown nobility loosen up enough to mingle.
He js dressed elegantly enough not to embarrass the Inquisition and without his staff. Perforce, he's pinned to the spot where he'd been left (don't think abandoned, don't think malice--think oversight) by a helpful servant, with no easy escape route to quieter parts of a crowded ballroom. But, so: he's been in worse situations, ones where he had to rely on muscle and magic and cunning rather than his own natural charm. And he is charming, flirting exactly the right amount with all comers and drawing even the most reluctant interlocutor into easy conversation.
Not the sort of conversation he'd come expecting, fortified with Ser Coupe's pep talk on making a proper showing on behalf of the Inquisition. He'd prepared for difficult questions--about rifters, or the Inquisition's heretical reputation, or some insight on the mage-templar conflict that still veined the world with strife. Instead: Requests for alienage gossip, and what's it like being blind, and do elves really--?
One blowzy matron--flushed, talking too loudly, clutching her fifth flute of champagne--demands to know if he's got eyes under the blindfold and if not, would he show her? She hadn't come expecting a freak.
This last makes him turn an appealing look in the direction of a friendly voice, a silent plea for temporary rescue. He didn't sign on to be exhibited.
B. Slowly, carefully, Myr's managed to work his way from the ballroom floor to the nearest wall to take momentary refuge by a potted plant. A nest of shem vipers, he'd judged Hightown once--and now he's left in the midst of the vipers as punishment for that bit of uncharity. The Maker created them too-- is a pretty, facile platitude when they're biting at your heels, demanding things of you you wouldn't even tell your friends--
Breathe in, breathe out. He laces his hands together before his face, thumbs against his lips as he mouths the Trials--though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide--in a brief prayer for fortitude.
shows up three hours late with starbucks
A mage is a curiosity--an elven mage doubly so, if he's not being dismissed as part of the help--and a blind elven mage is such downright novelty that he's bound to attract attention once the Hightown nobility loosen up enough to mingle.
He js dressed elegantly enough not to embarrass the Inquisition and without his staff. Perforce, he's pinned to the spot where he'd been left (don't think abandoned, don't think malice--think oversight) by a helpful servant, with no easy escape route to quieter parts of a crowded ballroom. But, so: he's been in worse situations, ones where he had to rely on muscle and magic and cunning rather than his own natural charm. And he is charming, flirting exactly the right amount with all comers and drawing even the most reluctant interlocutor into easy conversation.
Not the sort of conversation he'd come expecting, fortified with Ser Coupe's pep talk on making a proper showing on behalf of the Inquisition. He'd prepared for difficult questions--about rifters, or the Inquisition's heretical reputation, or some insight on the mage-templar conflict that still veined the world with strife. Instead: Requests for alienage gossip, and what's it like being blind, and do elves really--?
One blowzy matron--flushed, talking too loudly, clutching her fifth flute of champagne--demands to know if he's got eyes under the blindfold and if not, would he show her? She hadn't come expecting a freak.
This last makes him turn an appealing look in the direction of a friendly voice, a silent plea for temporary rescue. He didn't sign on to be exhibited.
B.
Slowly, carefully, Myr's managed to work his way from the ballroom floor to the nearest wall to take momentary refuge by a potted plant. A nest of shem vipers, he'd judged Hightown once--and now he's left in the midst of the vipers as punishment for that bit of uncharity. The Maker created them too-- is a pretty, facile platitude when they're biting at your heels, demanding things of you you wouldn't even tell your friends--
Breathe in, breathe out. He laces his hands together before his face, thumbs against his lips as he mouths the Trials--though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide--in a brief prayer for fortitude.