#concealedbybreeze

HE HAS WAITED ALL YEAR FOR THIS.

Second place has never sat right with him. Last year, he came away only a runner-up to victory, and while there is no mark of shame for how far he came, it still left a chip upon his shoulder that has never quite gone away.

This year, it will be his year.

This year, he is not alone, and has twice the reason to succeed.

Anticipation may work itself quietly through his body before Lorenz and Maria step to the floor for their dance, but Lorenz reaches for Maria’s hand, gives it a light squeeze before the spotlight is at their backs and all the eyes in the room rest upon them.

“Let us show them our grace, and leave our competitors in the dust.” The words are not gentle, but assured, and Lorenz beams brightly at dear Maria before he starts them off.

He believes them to be the epitome of elegance. Their bond is strong, and in the moment, Lorenz feels as though it’s reflected in their dance—

The judges have a rather peculiar idea otherwise:

7, 3, 3.

—No, that can’t be right.

"Alright Maria, how 'bout these? They seem quite fun, don't they?" Lewyn holds the spectacles up to his face, setting them on the bridge of his nose and adjusting until they fit right. He turns to little Maria, giving her a smile and short wave.

"How do I look? Handsome as ever, right?" He laughs at his own joke, for the glasses looked rather absurd on him. One eye could be seen nicely through the 0's hole, but the other was obstructed by his hair. If the photo could get a giggle out of her though, it'd be worth it.

Her new-acquaintance-hopeful-friend Lewyn is possessed of an astute eye, Maria finds, for she's absolutely certain he's somehow picked the most exciting glasses straight out of the prop box. No matter how well she knows what they were going for, in the end, the design is simply... so funny! Oddly jagged and horribly impractical, while at the same time utilizing bold, brash colors to be as exuberant as it possibly can. It's wonderful, she loves it, and she giggles with cheer enough to lay any doubts to rest.

Happily, she returns his wave, but whether it's misfortune that very nearly leads her to misspeak, or fortune that stops it on the tip of her tongue, who is she to say? Eleven out of eighty, she almost says, but for a blessing, her mind catches up with the unintentional insult ere she says it. Instead, holding her palms out in front of her, the little cleric crosses her arms as if to flip the numbers, because that is a very important step that she does not want to forget.

"Mmhm! Eighty out of eleven!" A delighted deliverance of her verdict, punctuated by a thumbs up thrown in his direction -- snap! Ah, fate, ever a fair or fickle mistress... Perhaps both on this occasion, it seems, for though it is most certainly Maria's blurry thumb that occupies the bottom left corner of the photo, it only obscures the bard's sleeve. The rest of it is thankfully intact, from the single encircled eye to the rather green lens, and Maria... Maria...

This guessing game of who-was-who's-kid had become a staple of Lewyn's time at the academy, and so for the Ethereal Ball he finally felt confident in walking up to people to offer that sort of opening.

"Knowing him I'd have expected you to be brooding in a corner. But here you are, lookin' sharp as a blade. Care to join me for a dance?" An arm is offered to Ares, inviting him to join the bard. If he looked closely, he'd be able to notice Lewyn's card tucked neatly in his sleeve. The top of it peeked out, as if to tell the Nordian that he'd get his stamp after they hung out. Lewyn was coy when it came to interacting with people like this, but he considered it just part of the fun for the night.

"I can lead, if you ain't comfortable."

Ah, the most fool-proof way to grab Ares' attention.

“You knew my father?” Ares blurts out without even thinking. He hadn’t known Lewyn to be acquainted with either of his parents. That said, he had known precious little of the man during the war. He’d behaved very differently, something that’s a little confusing right now. Ares decides not to dwell on it too much. He himself is far more relaxed and sociable than he usually is. “No, brooding in a corner is definitely more my thing than my father’s.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable leading. I learned from the best, after all.” Under his best friends instruction, he’d risen from having two left feet to being a fairly competent dancer. Hopefully good enough to make her proud. “I never said I’d dance with you though, did I?” Ares smirks.

[ | Continued from here // @concealedbybreeze 𝄞 | ]

“Peace,” he hums a laugh-like verse, hand raised and poised to decline the generous suggestion. There’s an effortlessly airy quality to the other’s tone that Elphin would liken to the refreshing winds that blow through the capital on a pleasant afternoon.

“You need not trouble yourself. This harp is my preferred instrument of choice, though as you can imagine, it is not exactly suited for such events without proper accompaniment.” Unquestionably lovely as the sounds it produces may be, he cannot fault those who would favor a more upbeat tempo to dance to. He plucks its strings in demonstration, melody lost and barely audible at present.

Admittedly, he is a little curious.

Ares keeps his expression tight and controlled as he leads Lewyn through the steps. It’s a simple, basic waltz. Something he’s truly grateful for. The things that drip from the man’s tongue would have his head spinning if the choreography was any more complex. Lewyn’s tone promises something salacious. Things that would contradict the noble, knightly image of his father he has always held dear.

Baseless rumours are just that though. Gossip, hearsay, facts weren’t important to telling a good story. And who tells more scandalous tales than a bard?

“No, thank you. I’ll have to decline,” Ares’ tone is curt and clipped. He turns them around and hopes his palms aren’t sweating. Prays that Lewyn can’t read any of his tells. Not that he knows his own but Lene has always been able to read him like an open book. Something he’s comfortable with but he’d rather not be quite so simple a challenge for Lewyn. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about my father. From my mother, Lord Sigurd, people in Agustria. People who knew him personally.”

“I’ll take their word... and what precious few memories I have in mind to be my truth.”