[P] she walks in beauty, like the night

[Pavetta]

She hears the chimes of jewelry before anything else, followed by the whisper of rustling feathers, and lastly, the sigh of the air around them as the stranger settles by her side. Pavetta stares a little; she can’t really help it. She has had enough of the sparkling plum wine to inhibit her emissary diplomatic manners for the evening. He is unlike anyone she has ever seen before. His raw masculinity is undeniable and her first thought, however foolish it might be, is Fearghal? But then she blinks and the silly illusion of hopeless longing for a dead man passes. His scent is not right (not that it is displeasing); but oh, that cascade of black hair, black as obsidian at midnight.  And now that she breathes him in (she can’t help that, either), she realizes their scents are not so different after all. The same gritty, unembellished scent of the natural world, contrasting to her sweet perfume of lavender and vanilla. But the delicate golden chains that hug his skin like burning stars speaks otherwise…he likes to be noticed, he knows his physical appearance is appealing and wants to embellish it further. Or is it some sort of symbolic gesture, a decoration symbolic of culture or status? She finds she is fascinated and wants to know more. Who are you? She realizes she is staring blatantly (perhaps a bit too late though), and quickly looks back at the fishbowl. She can feel his gaze on her skin and for some reason, feels uncomfortable. As if he knows the rubies dotting her skin like droplets of blood and the glittering circlet on her brow are trying to hide or compensate for something. As if he knows she is pretending to be someone else tonight.  He flashes a grin; his teeth are too white, too stark in the dimly lit candlelight room of subtle blues and creams. The fish dart to the farthest side of the glass and she can’t help but feel like she should probably do the same. But she is not a fish; she is a moth drawn to a flame, however cliche it may sound. “Yes, of course.” What a peculiar, philosophical question. “Don’t you think so? a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse, creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---

@Veer sry they'll get better?