The atmosphere of the summit is incredibly tense, and Sacha chooses to disregard it completely.
Why stress himself out when he’s got nothing left to lose? Dawn is empty save for Paphos, boring and stuffy and erudite as ever, nothing but books and dust to bore him to death. It seems that everyone in Novus has migrated to Veneror to stick their noses where they don’t belong, and Sacha is happy to follow the status quo.
He glances down at the stranger beside him and notices her , truly, for the first time - coated in dark purple and a motley of fine feathers, eyes a globe of lilac sans pupil, the smell that floats off of her one gentle and delicately feminine, in stark contrast to the alcoholic stench that sticks to Sacha’s skin like a burr. She looks anxious, like the whole world is something to be scared of, like this is a car wreck in motion and not something to be celebrated.
Confidence only slightly dimmed, his azure gaze narrows in consideration. Perhaps this was a wrong turn to take. Perhaps this situation is more serious than he thought, if the girl he’s staring at now is trembling like a leaf in a gale even as the crowd around has simmered to quietness and calm. Then again, Sacha’s first impressions are wrong more often than not. He can only hope that the celebration picks up speed: right now it looks like more of a funeral procession than anything, and not one anyone wants to be attending.
Distracted as he is by the scene around them, he at least does notice her wing scraping against his side as she falters and attempts to regain balance; with a loud sound of surprise, he snaps his own wing out to curve against her back and hopefully push her back to standing, taunting her with a good-natured, Careful, there, sorry if I swept you off your feet. Still only half cognizant of her blindness, he throws her a wink and folds his wing back in as she begins to speak again.
Trapped! Sacha repeats in surprise. Again, head and gaze swerving over the top of the crowd, he remains blissfully unaware of the logistics of this situation - the sheer volume of his deep voice, how his breath stirs the fine hairs on her ear with its closeness. Iiiin-ter-est-ing, he mumbles mysteriously. Chance of death if they’re all trapped, huh? Only more reason to drink - Sacha bares his teeth in a salacious grin. Too bad it’s a dry spell then. What’s your name, anyway?
SACHA;
