Open The Lion Dances Tonight

[Lestat til Leoncoeur]

Akin to the gardens, the ballrooms of Lion's Rock lied deep within the upper levels, its ceilings high enough to echo every voice, every note of music. Flickering chandeliers hung from iron curtains, as the stone itself glew warmly under the firelight. One of these magnificent halls was filled with low murmur of conversation, whilst soft notes of a string quartet were filling the in-between space from the western wall. Silk and velvet shifted across the floor as lords and ladies mingled, and servants in Leoncour colours of Blue and Gold were smoothly moving through the crowd carrying silver trays of wine, ale, fruit and honeyed pastries.

At the far end of the ballroom, Count Lestat stood near the raised dais, clad in the finest material that money and vanity could buy. Speaking with ease, his sharp eyes watched the room with the instinct of a commander. This celebration alone wasn't without its merits, considering it was one of the many which he hosted in the past, as well as preparing for future ones. It brought together local vassals, foreign envoys, and noble guests from across Altusia; some to honor old pacts, some to forge new ones. Every toast, compliment and dance carried weight, both light and heavy.

As the evening deepened with quickened music and louder laughter, as well as the wine and ale flowing more free than ever before, the heat in the room continued to rise...

 

[Cardinale Cartegeña]

Thud. Step. Thud. Step. Thud. Step.

"Announcing the Lord of Bloodroost, Viscount Cardinale Cartegena."

Labored, but sure steps brought him to the center. Some proffered deference, others disdain. It made little difference to him in that moment. Names were noted and providence would come due. The finality of such offenses would not become clear in the immediacy. No, why enjoy the swine now when it could be ever more succulent in the days to come.

Crimson cloaked without assumption he made his way towards libations.

The lion presented maw, how could a fowl reject.

 

[Lestat til Leoncoeur]

"Ah, Viscount Cardinale Cartegena, welcome to the humble abode of House Leoncoeur, I hope the journey wasn't too unpleasant?" Lestat jokingly greeted and stretched out his hand for a shake, having observed the Cardinale beforehand. Once it was clear that the guest had chosen his desired libation of either wine or ale and settled in, the Count made his move. Although it was stereotypical to think of Altalusians drinking wine, ale was very much the preferred beverage in the area of Lion's Rock and the Mheara Mountains in general; a combination of climate denying the growth of grapes and the Dwarven influence on flavour, especially when the latter were a sizable minority within the settlement itself. Still, the Leoncoeurs made also made sure to stock up on wine from the south, considering that it was apparently more palateable for others with fermented grape, rather than hops, barley and yeats.

"I believe it's your first time here within these very halls, yes? Well, what are your first impressions thus far?" A rather standard question, albeit an important one nevertheless, if one were to establish courtesy from a guest to a host.

 

[Zayad]

„Announcing Lord Kuresh of Miraj'Dah“

Close enough.

Zayad al-Kuresh zi Takoumba, though no one here would say it right, stepped lightly into the ballroom. The mistaken name was yet another in the layer of silks and linens that trailed behind him. His dress utterly unsuitable to the northern chill, let alone the perfumed heat of the chamber. The light caught on the embroidery of his sash, gold glyphs spelling out words only he could read. Polished skin gleamed with travel. Not sweat, never sweat. His smile arrived a full heartbeat before he did.

He had intended to approach the host. Bow as custom demanded, and offer some appropriate flattery. But Count Lestat was otherwise engaged. While he did not know many of the attendees by name, he could quickly pick up clues from his preparation. Those looks and that bearing – one of the Cartagenas, surely.

Instead, the envoy sailed sideways with a grace of a dancer whose music changed mid-step. Past nobles in brocade and guards in steel, past velvet gowns and whispered deals, until the glint of silver righted his course.

Refreshments! Most wonderful.

He claimed a pastry in one hand and wine in the other. No attempt was made to disguise the pleasure. Ah, if only a man could have hands enough to write about such delight as it happened.

 

[Lysanne Shard]

Her movement smooth as water slipping down stone. Her body wrapped in Lestat’s chosen vision. The elven fabric in cool blue, molten silver. She felt like a watersnake dressed in a wave. Both beautiful and absurd in it. Beautiful, because she always was. Absurd, because she’d rather choose her own dresses. This dress had one strange softness that felt more spell than garment.

Lysanne wore the dress because refusing would mean another fight. And she was so very tired of losing them. Her hair was pinned just how he liked it. Dark, gleaming, arranged to frame her face. Every strand in place. Controlled. Not a curl loose. She hadn’t worn it loose in years, not since he’d called it unruly in front of the court.

She caught the golden glimmer of movement and she drifted toward the dessert table. She studied him as she approached. Gold-threaded silks. The dark skin untouched by northern winds. Eyes that had seen sandstorms. All silk and sunlight. He looked out of place… and entirely comfortable with it.

Her finger swept lazily through a fold of cream on a delicate cake as she approached. She brought it to her lips without shame. She could almost hear her brother's voice nagging inside her head. 'Too much of that and you’ll lose the shape I’ve worked so hard to present.'

If she had been born a man…

… oh, the things she would’ve done.

All her half-brothers would be dead. She would have slit their throats before she turned sixteen.

A bastard’s thought, she knew.

“My lord, we are honored,” she greeted. “Not many of the Miraj'Dah brave the journey north.”

 

[Zayad]

Zayad turned slowly. His gaze passed over her without urgency. The silk, the frame, the cream – a woman raised on wine and war. A most interesting mask to wear. His expression did not change.

„Lady Lysanne Kain“ A name like a spice. Familiar, smuggled, and far more potent in the north. „Your reputation precedes you. And somehow still falls short.“ Voice on the edge of flattery. Only then would he offer a slight bow. Precise and unhurried. He knew who she was. There were worse rumors in the air. But that was not his mission.

„They warned me to expect ice behind silk in these halls.“ Eyes lingered. Just long enough to suggest something beyond the dress. „I see now they're mistaken. There's heat here.“ He sipped his wine as if to cool down. „Heat draws eyes, my lady. Even from across the Boiling Sea.“ His hands were free much too quickly for a courtier. Wine set down. Pastry completely gone.

„We have both braved the step.“ He extended an open palm between them, perfectly poised. „In Miraj'Dah we honor boldness with a dance.“

He smiled. Wide enough to invite. Small enough to deny.

„Shall I offend tradition and let yours go unanswered?“

He didn't look at the room. But knew someone would be watching.

 

[Lysanne Shard]

At the mention of her name, she lowered into a curtsy. Slow and controlled. Like a swan folding in on itself at the final gasp of winter. She tilted her head, a dark curl brushing her cheek. Lysanne rose again with her chin lifted. A smirk dressed her plump lips. “If mine falls short, then the tale-spinners should try harder. I hate to be misunderstood."

"You must excuse our herald, my lord, northern tongues are blunt instruments.” Ice behind silk. A phrase meant to flatter. Or provoke. She couldn’t yet decide which amused her more. "Yet, you need not to worry. Men like you could melt glaciers if you wished.” Her tone remained genteel. She glanced down, noticing the empty place where his pastry had been. Gone. So quickly. A blink. No more.

“Tradition, my lord, is a battlefield all its own, let us not offend tradition tonight.” Her fingers slipped into his palm with the grace of a sleek dagger. Her skin was like milk against his.

Lysanne moved with him to the dance floor. She turned with him into the first steps. The elven silk of her gown shimmered like water curling around a stone in a river. "I must admit some surprise.” she continued “Surely you don’t risk these winds for flattery and to sip our wine... Or perhaps pastries draw greater men than I imagined.”

@Zayad