#secularch

At least there's food. That's, hands down, one of the best parts of having to deal with all the stress of a big shindig like this. The food is good and free and, as far as she's seen, just keeps coming.

Or at least, that was the standard. This weird corn thing that they keep insisting is corn even though she's not too sure about that really doesn't taste like anything. She tosses a piece in the air and catches it in her mouth. Nope, still nothing.

A second piece goes up, higher this time, and that is where disaster strikes. Somehow, she misses the toss, and instead of falling right back into her mouth, the piece bounces off, hitting someone else in the shoulder.

Yunaka squeaks, flinching back when they turn to her. "Whoopsie! Sorry about that, looks like it popped right outta my hand." Joke? Good? Funny? No? Anyway.

She gestures over to the little display of individual bags of the stuff. "Hey, do you know what's up with this stuff? Tastes like a whole lotta nothing, if you ask me. The flowers they gave us probably have more flavour." Wait...she looks to her bouquet.

The lights dim around them, and the crowd blurs together in shadows. Still, Deimne thinks he recognises one person through the dark, someone he fought with, someone who was awfully like him… It’s got to be him, right? With Seliph and Lana here, surely he wouldn't be too far behind? Even if the darkness obscures some details, he can just make out the blue hair and the archer’s build.

He lightly taps who he thinks is Lester on the shoulders. “Hey, it’s nice to…” and the realisation hits. “Oh, no, you’re not- Ah, I am so sorry, I thought you might’ve been someone else.” He shoves a flower into the man’s hand as a makeshift apology gift. 

"Who--" Ronan glances at his hand, uncomprehending at first in the whirlwind of emotions. Any tap on the shoulder would first start with expectation, then maybe pride or anxiety or delight depending on circumstances - for Ronan, it had been all of the above. Expectation that he might turn and find a familiar face. Delight in the idea that it might be a friend calling on him, anxiety that it might instead be one of the guests he'd accidentally bumped into as he fumbled his way through the dimly lit ballroom.

For a beat or two, they'd just gawked at one another - each a decidedly unfamiliar face to the other. Now the only thing familiar is the hyacinth in Ronan's hand - blue, like many of his own - and the subtle sting of rejection that he knows rationally has no place here. Broken expectations, like glass, still have their edges.

"... Hey, wait!" Gathering his wits again, Ronan notices that the man who'd mistaken his back for that of someone else has already scurried ahead in the dark without so much as a name. Embarrassed, most likely, but Ronan doesn't see why that can't be fixed. He circles around ahead of the other to stop him.

"Wait, seriously?" Did they not know they didn't taste good, she wonders like someone who didn't not know that a few hours ago and also ate the flowers as a result.

Weird! Funny coincidence that so many people would have the exact same thought though. It's almost like the monastery should've been smarter about handing out things that people could mistakenly think were edible!

What's next, free alcohol? Pfft. She sips her champagne.