[P] we've smashed to smithereens;

[Acton]

Acton whatever you feed me I'll feed you right back   Acton had lost track of what day of the festival it was; all he knew was it was late, and dark, and he was well on his way to being drunk.   This place, this event, was pretty enough, but he couldn’t stop wondering what was going on in Denocte. There was no darker underbelly, here – or if there was he hadn’t yet found it. There were times when he might have been satisfied with clean fun, content to perform and watch others do the same – but oh, not when the sun set. Not when the buzz set in. Not when each whiff of woodsmoke still made him think of that disastrous meeting where Reichenbach all but threw down his crown for the will of his regime.   So you see, it was for the best he distracted himself with laughter and liquor.   There had been a storm, earlier in the day, and the grass was still silver-wet beneath the moonlight. But all the stars were out, and the lanterns cast a cheery glow on the pathways. Music floated from the main stage, but it wasn’t enough for Acton – he craved something thicker, lower, grittier. He wanted shadows patterning his skin, wanted the glitter of shattered glass instead of wet grass.  He wanted to go home.   Or he wanted to get drunk enough to forget what he wanted altogether.   He was winding his way back to the liquor booth he’d been frequenting when the scent of lavendar caught him. It was not altogether strange – not with the pathways lined with flowers, pungent from the recent rain. But this smell caught him with a memory, and he stopped in the middle of the path (to the protest of a few around him, who received the kind of look that sent them on their way with no comment). It only took a second to spot her, silver and rose and dapples like smoke.   Acton didn’t have to think before moving toward her, and that was a relief in itself. He wasn’t yet to stumbling (though he remembered getting to that point with her, before, and wouldn’t mind it again), but he did lean just a little precariously toward her. He was wearing his first grin of the evening, and his voice was a little louder than their proximity called for. “Nameless girl! Did you ever finish your fairytale?” @Pavetta