#unqueensorcha

Raucous laughter rang true and honeyed wine was abundant. The scene that welcomed her was a familiar one - alien eyes and inviting smiles, a flash of flesh and bone and limb as they danced in a whirling dervish. The music was discordant, loud, grating and yet still the fae danced and danced, past her, around her, a hairsbreadth away but never truly touching. 

None would dare. 

Her dress was reminiscent of slow summer days, bright, sweet, and buttery yellow. It captured sunlight in its threads; a pattern of dandelions taking flight sewn onto the folds of her skirt. The ruffled hems, the lovely little bow was at odds with the valleys of skin that peaked through - an enticement, a dare. 

Maeve walked through the crowd with ease, a sea parting before each step. As was expected, she found her at the heart of it all, seated on a throne of sorts, fashioned from things Maeve dared not look at too closely. Snarls, growls, and spittle greeted her approach, and yet she walked with a surety and a boldness that was uncommon in one so young.  

Maeve stood in front of her, hands clasped daintily in the folds of her gown, flashing the Unseelie monarch a winning smile.