News of the grand “Party of the Season” had easily reached Denocte, the noble families abuzz with gossip and excitement at the prospect of attending. Better still was the news that Lord Arden Sarrallon had turned his nose up at the invite, disdainfully declining the offer. Locae had made his mind up, upon hearing his father’s response, that he just had to go.

A night of high class revelry with no expense spared and the chance to wander the halls of a Solterran noble’s palace rather excited the young Lord. That and of course the prospect of frustrating his father whose disdain for all but the highest class of Denoctians almost outweighed his disappointment of his wayward son. Dressed in the finest velvet money could buy and crowned in a halter of gold and ruby, Locae perused the marbled halls of the Ieshan’s lavish home, his hoof-falls lost to the echoes of the towering, painted ceilings. Though his outfit marked him as one of them, as someone with staggering wealth and grand holdings, the scars wrought across his plain ebony fur did more to draw attention than any gold or rubies could. He felt like a lion prowling among them, wreathed in a mane of auburn. But the Sarrallon Lord was under no illusions that there was many a viper and desert cat in the court of Solterra.

Though Locae was all too happy to attend the party as a manner of annoying his father, he had very little interest for the finer things in life and even less interest in the conversations between this noble or that. In fact the only thing that would make the evening at least somewhat enjoyable lay spread out across a number of rather vast tables.

The heady blend of alcohol and fine foods wafted from the gigantic hall as Locae greeted Prince Pilate at the door, a smirk upon his lips that suggested any pleasantries he spoke were entirely false. Then he made a beeline for the whiskey, weaving artfully despite his sheer size between the many horses that had packed out the room. The fruity cocktails and multi-coloured drinks promised more than just the usual effects of alcohol and were far too garish for Locae’s tastes and he instead went for a glass filled part way with amber whiskey. Sipping on it in a refined manner (or as refined as the scarred brute could be), he surveyed the packed hall and the guests within, searching for any faces he might recognise.

Blood hewn eyes trace faces across the elaborate hall, cast around again and again as he leisurely sips his drink. Within their depths burns the mirth, the anticipation of what chaos awaits; they need only spy a target.

Among the sea of face- both richly adorned and slightly more plain, Locae picks out one belonging to a rather feeble cousin of his. A sneer paints the crevices of his scarred face, the cruelty of it matching the vicious tears in his ear, the lines of battle strew across his visage. The young Lord had never particularly liked this cousin and was rather enjoying imaging the various ways to toy with him, especially given the stumble in the lesser lord’s step, the way his glass of wine swept emphatically as he conversed with some other nobles, the burgundy liquid splattering his pale coat. Oh Locae would certainly enjoy toying with his cousin. Frankly, he was even more of an embarrassment to the Sarrallon name than Locae, though for his feeble nature, arrogance and overindulgence in drink and expensive escorts. That was the kind of embarrassment many expected a noble to pose, not roughhousing the streets, earning scar after scar like badges of honour. No, Locae’s cousin had the luxury of more anonymity, less pressure, something the darker steed would always envy him for.

Yet, before he could take even one step in his cousin’s direction, a face he knew anywhere entered the room. She was living, breathing chaos, a creature honed from violence and hewn from the desert that adorned her scent. She stood out from the nobles, an exotic predator amidst the frilly prey, the paints of war across her earthen hide. With the strike of a single wing, the glasses lining the bar were swept to the floor, the chattering disturbed by the shattering of glass. For a mere second only silence followed, until those closest erupted into clamouring anger, admonishing the waste of alcohol, the disturbance of the evening. Locae hardly pitied them, a family like this could replace the entire table of glasses ten times over without even denting their wallet. He did however feel bereft of the chance to sample more of their expensive liquors for free. Nevertheless, a smirk plays across his dark lips; usually they were competitors, each trying to fuel the fires of their respective fighting clubs, but tonight- tonight they were in accordance. Tonight they were both lions amongst sheep. Or so Locae hoped. Amaunet was wildfire and desert winds, untameable, unpredictable and entirely intoxicating. Whether her whims would encompass him or capture him, Locae wasn't quite sure. The Lord found himself quickly swallowing his drink, lest it find itself spilt across the floor (or worse, his coat) in the same manner as the rest of them.

Wings outstretched, Locae might have compared her to a preening swan as she sliced through the crowd with decisive ease. But to compare her to a swan was to diminish the wild, dangerousness that cloaked her like a second skin for she was no elegant genteel, beautiful as she was.

“A pity,” he said, his ruby eyes regarding the travelling puddle of alcohol with a tiny amount of mournful distaste, “whatever shall these squabbling nobles do without drink to make their evening slightly more bearable.” A devilish smirk crept across his lips with each word. The wickedness in her eyes had him anticipating their verbal dancing tonight.