[Mobius is on hand to--mostly just to exist, frankly. He was pleased that Adrasteia had been so receptive to the idea, and pleased that the majority of people he'd spoken to were...at least not against it. It's hard to go wrong with a casual party atmosphere and a warm fire on a cold winter night. If it makes even one person feel better to unburden themselves, that'll feel like success.
For his own part, he doesn't have anything he didn't hurriedly pack last minute and drag with him from city to city and thus doesn't have any flammable reminders to get rid of. And he knows that it's all just figurative, to burn a thought away, to render trouble to ash, to start a year truly new. But the idea still exists to help one to move beyond the hurt and to hope for better.
It's very Andrastian, as Astarion had pointed out. That is, admittedly, quite deliberate. He tears a scrap off a sheet of parchment, jots down words. A series of names. He doesn't know the extent of the psychological damage done by demons infesting a snowed-in mansion, but he has some bare and small idea of what one might try to draw forth from him.]
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.
[It won't banish the doubt or the memory. But it eases something in his shoulders nevertheless to let the edge catch light, to let it be consumed. He watches sparks and ashes both rise and looks contented.
Most of the night he is also contented just by people-watching. There's fun to be had if people have it, if someone brings music or drink. He's not a social butterfly, but he's no wallflower either, willing to say hello and make proper introductions, especially to those whose voices he recognizes from the delightful little crystal. (And he'll take in whatever gossip and advice he catches going around. How else is he to learn about the misfits and fuckups he's decided to align himself with?)]
no subject
For his own part, he doesn't have anything he didn't hurriedly pack last minute and drag with him from city to city and thus doesn't have any flammable reminders to get rid of. And he knows that it's all just figurative, to burn a thought away, to render trouble to ash, to start a year truly new. But the idea still exists to help one to move beyond the hurt and to hope for better.
It's very Andrastian, as Astarion had pointed out. That is, admittedly, quite deliberate. He tears a scrap off a sheet of parchment, jots down words. A series of names. He doesn't know the extent of the psychological damage done by demons infesting a snowed-in mansion, but he has some bare and small idea of what one might try to draw forth from him.]
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.
[It won't banish the doubt or the memory. But it eases something in his shoulders nevertheless to let the edge catch light, to let it be consumed. He watches sparks and ashes both rise and looks contented.
Most of the night he is also contented just by people-watching. There's fun to be had if people have it, if someone brings music or drink. He's not a social butterfly, but he's no wallflower either, willing to say hello and make proper introductions, especially to those whose voices he recognizes from the delightful little crystal. (And he'll take in whatever gossip and advice he catches going around. How else is he to learn about the misfits and fuckups he's decided to align himself with?)]