It is the clink of silverware which pulls that roving gaze to find focus upon what one may call an esteemed hostess. The illustrious ruler of this land - this manor - and by all claim and titles she was and yet he cannot banish the coy disinterest cast in the eyes which beheld her. Daring to say there were far more important matters to tend to, all of which did not include bearing witness to speeches. Hers thankfully one kept short and to the point, however, no matter the breath taken it would be a lie to say it did not pull his ear. That it did not bring an annoyance to broil beneath the surface.

A scoff swiftly silenced before it could claim his breath at such announcement, a lip twitching yet morphed into a practiced grin despite the way that name echoed on repeat in his mind, ‘Theodred?’ Mismatched stare flickered toward one seen as nothing more than a stick in the mud, a creature who had spoilt his fun on more occasions than he cared to count. Though in these moments he bites his tongue, no scathing remark offered toward one’s promotion. This apparent general.

Ears turned back at the thought. Glass hardly raised to their celebration as instead it immediately found his lips to savor the tinge of iron as it flowed freely over his tongue. Words refuted to none but himself. The wolves not seen as heathens, that man not seen as suited for ruling over the lands such beings dwelt in. And yet Aariak was not here to cause a scene nor attempt to draw the queen’s focus so early, after all, a friend had requested information. What better place to find loose lips than at a party? Surely at least one of the attending had heard of a tyrant king, of the fleeing maiden left to fend for herself upon another’s demise.

Decorated crown shook, while the ghoul was fully prepared to leave here empty handed there remained a sliver of hope at success as attentions danced over faces both familiar and strange. Nobility holding an air of recognition about them, the bard one spoken of like so many others of his magnitude and talents. Servers unknown, the dotted sign of guardsmen an obvious choice when it came to matters of imprisonment yet with them there lingered doubts over such information being handed over willingly. Ideal musing - and admittedly those lyrical tones - soon drawing focus to linger on one who flitted about the stage.

What of him? Did fools still whisper secrets to entertainment when tongues lay loosened by tavern drink? When guard was dropped around a creature found so alluring? Such had proven true in the past, surely even now this wonderment held merit. It had been some time since the damned himself had sought the attentions of the crown though music for not it came in the twist of a surgeon’s knife. Yet this man sang of victory. He had to hold some knowledge of events even if it was fed by those who ruled above, by whispered tales or rumor. There was a chance he knew.

Besides enrapturing the balladeer held far less risk than attempting to pry information from the lips of soldiers, beings who directly served the queen and obviously held some favor. This man, this bard, was purely for their entertainment. Yet Aariak was not one to interrupt another’s performance, allowing a song to finish before the gentle curve of a smile would touch his lips. Those which remained unmoving despite how lyrics rang within the siren’s mind, “Do you take requests dear bard? Or has the Queen forbade anything but tales of triumph?” Sights never faltering as they lay glued upon the mortal. The steady beat of that pulse as alluring as his looks, after all, the ghoul had always been a sucker for blonds.

gimmie that hot bard

Barthélemy Pélissier

It wasn't unusual for the young bard to pique the interest of the crowd - truthfully, the entertainer thrived on the attention, the unwavering eyes.  That was a tale of a song well sung, a story expertly woven.  Each clapping hand was like a rush nigh indescribable.  Whispers of praise and coos for more.  

This night, he'd heard it all and a new sensation among it.  The cerebral invasion and the awkward touch of magic worming into his mind.  A new delight, he'd admit. 

Pale eyes sought its master and found one odd, striking man amongst the crowd, one whose mix-matched gaze was like glue to his skin.  The young bard offers him a smile and a cordial bow. 

"Our lady queen has paid for her guest's entertainment, m'lord."  Barthélemy approaches.  "You need but ask and I shall ever be at your service."  His voice harbours a coy drawl, an almost wanton invitation.

Tinted drink is raised in silent greeting the moment one’s brightened gaze finds him amidst the gathered, only for steps to bring the dazzling balladeer ever nearer. Distance the damned had been slow to lessen yet now drifted within an arms reach. Close enough to brush if one truly desired yet never reaching out against those final spaces between them. His tongue held over dismissing the calling of lord, a title not often worn less it suited him in those passing moments. For much rather did he prefer the address of doctor or even artist - whether it was known from paintings or woven by tongues which recalled performances.

But a man such as this wouldn’t be bothered with such details even if the phrases spoken hinted at more than song laying on the table. Something which may not have been entirely an act to enrapture attention for the damned had - and still did - play the very same games. A hand rose in passing gesture as if waving off the possibility of a foolish request, “I do not wish to hear of victory nor one of Dunmeath’s fallen lords but of a bride, a Lady Markai.” Crown tilted as luminescence sought to judge expression, hoping to catch reaction before he continued with a hushed insistence.

“You needn’t sing this one so loud should you know of it. I’d like to request this as a more private performance. One outside the reach of prying ears and eyes,” there is time given for denial - of any admittance of not knowing more than what the damned already assumed or had heard from passing whispers. The glimmer of his gaze briefly flickering to those who lingered, the untrusted strangers, before fixing back to the bard. “I’m sure they would understand the need for a break. Even if it does not happen right this moment, for your company I could be a patient man,” yet surely the queen held back up to allow for a moment of reprieve.

Barthélemy Pélissier

The young bard piques his bemused brow. Was this celebration not to cheer the fall of the Markai's and their reign over Dunmeath? Why then search for that which was certain? The Markai's were dead.

Regardless of this stranger's reason, his request for seclusion roused a slanted grin to cross the bards thin lips.

"You flatter me, monsieur." Barth signalled to the poets on reserve who were more than eager to take the stage.

Their lutes and flutes filled the temporary void of silence, illuminating the ballroom with music and cheer once more. Patrons danced, the political pawns whispered and the golden-haired bard offered a half bow, a hand extended towards one of the more private halls. "After you."

Music swiftly replaced the silence and yet invitation rang clearest above all else within his ears. Faint hints of uncertainty - unasked questions - reflecting as half sights hovered over the bard just long enough to pass him by, to take those first steps toward the supposed privacy of those distant halls. Yet despite the allure of it all a paranoid mind would whisper. It coaxed the brightness of his stare to dance over surroundings as if another may sprout from the very walls and invade that seclusion.

These absent entities not those which held focus for much longer as attentions were keen to wander, to rove over the canary when finally those paces did stall. Only then did that mask of ease settle fully back into place, any hint of reluctance washed away by the subtle flash of fang still resting behind darkened lips. Lyrics focused, a whisper meant only for the man before him as a figure hovered in mark of secrecy no matter how such phrase would slither against thoughts.

“I’ve a personal interest in the Lady Markai. I already hold my own suspicions of her story, explanation as to why no body was found,” those he had already shared with the wolf and yet a kirin would hold true to his word. The promise of conducting a more thorough investigation would not be cast aside if it would ease another’s fretting mind. “However, I would like to hear what you make of such a fate.” what he may have heard not only in passing but to conduct tales of battle. Dimitris claimed her to have fled, the damned swore she’d been devoured, but what did this one have to say? If he were to give way to anything at all.

Barthélemy Pélissier

At the mention of the Lady of Dunmeath, the piqued brow would settle into a thoughtful furrow, smoothing softly over the youthful features and replaced by a demure smile of charming aspect. Lady Markai, an interest to several as it would be of late. Practiced fingers strummed thoughtfully upon his chin much the same as they would skillfully pluck his lyre. Information of high profile, whispered secrets uttered to the night and its shadows between gossiping ears upon the balcony that he simply happened to overhear.

No body found, my oh my what could it mean, but to be asking for such things here?

In these halls, there were ears everywhere, the walls themselves could verily breathe. Even to inquire of such a thing was a risky business, perhaps more so to himself than the other, and yet... "Why, monsieur, she's perished, of course." The vocals rang clarion, not too loudly, but perhaps a bit too slowly. A hint, a menagerie to unwind for his guest, but a reassurance to any other privy to their exchange. "But... I have my doubts you've pulled me from the hall, asked a... private performance... to ask such mundane questions, yes?" The words were entertained upon the lips of a salacious, almost teasing grin, mischief dancing within the caspian sea of the bard's irises.