♕
The porcelain dancer’s smile never wavered as she bowed left and right at the swarm of patrons that crowded her like bumbling bees. Despite her best efforts to conceal it, exhaustion pulled at Messa’s limbs like syrup and each curtsy became more sluggish than the next as she struggled to escape the crowd.
Cerulean eyes searched for a familiar head of dark curls through the madness, to no avail — and so with a quiet desperation did she retreat, finally, to a velvet-swathed table topped with colorful sparkling glasses. Swiftly, a glass goblet floated up to tip its contents past parched lips, and the fizzing drink was downed in a wink. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was drinking, but it was as sweet as honey and satisfied her thirst enough to keep caution at bay.
She had never expected for her performance to draw such acclaim as it had. Not because Messalina lacked confidence in her skill — she had dedicated too many hours to believe so little of herself — but because her performances in Algernon had always drawn nothing more than polite, muted applause. As was the custom there, where anything past a certain volume was regarded as unrefined. And so she had thought nothing of it, until now.
Her blood still buzzed with the thrill of a roaring crowd, heightened perhaps by the drink she ought to know the contents of but didn’t. It was all too much exhilaration for the solemn girl to handle, and without thinking she downed another sparkling goblet. She hoped to the gods it was nothing more than cider.
“That was quite a performance.” The sudden voice at her ear, deep and rumbling, startled her. The glass goblet trembled dangerously in the air, refracting light like a chandelier; it took a sharp intake of breath to steady it again and lower it to the table with a sigh of relief.
Messalina stared tensely through ivory lashes as she turned towards the voice, her vision a field of rich chestnut. “Thank you,” she spoke, eyes traveling upwards to settle into a warm gaze. “I am glad —" she paused mid-sentence as a flame of recognition sprung to life in her crystal-blue eyes.
The copper pelt, the blade for a tail… she had seen him before. The storyteller with the intricate woodcarving.
“I remember you,” she breathed as her manners returned to her at last, lips lifting into a fleeting smile. “Your story was lovely — I was backstage at the time, but I heard it all.” A stray curl fell across her eyes as she curtsied. “My name is Messalina. Welcome to our festival.”
@Raymond | "speaks" | notes: dw the drinks aren't alcoholic
