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Twist and step and twirl and [i]stop[/i]. One [i]beat[/i]. Two [i]beats[/i]. And step and turn and hold and [i]entwine[/i]...

The atmosphere was palpable you enough that you could nearly cut it with a knife, all attention drawn to the dance's epicentre. Here and there, a gasp or whispered word could be heard under the music's sonorous notes. Almost without meaning to, people hushed such interruptions, their eyes never leaving the spectacle. Two figures were the unquestionable masters of the floor, their every motion sending out ripples through the greater crowd. No one in the ballroom was anything less than a master, else they would not have merited an invitation. Nevertheless, all but the two were merely set dressing, background. Much like the music, they seemed to fade away as your eyes drew ever in on the undulating figures in the middle of the floor.

One and two and three and [i]four[/i]. Footstep around footstep, no more than a breath apart. Lean in, [i]sway[/i]...

On the one hand, Lady Lyanne cut a striking figure in cream. Her dress looked so soft and smooth, fingers itched to caress it and it almost whispered as she moved. And she was tall, taller than most on the floor and half a head taller than her partner, yet still inestimably graceful. On the other, Lord Wylde lived up his name, ever the rogue in purple. His cloak was dusty, his cloth was humble, more like travelling wear, and he had been impertinent enough to wear his sword-belt. But he moved with such grace no dancer could claim to have been inconvenienced by it, the legendary sword seeming to shift to avoid tangling or tripping. Even his lackadaisical dressing seemed almost calculated to draw the eye or, even better, a comment.

Move, counter move, [i]readdress[/i]. Passion, poise, [i]precision[/i]. Back and forth and [i]on[/i] and [i]on[/i]...

The dance was approaching its crescendo, the tempo building from a comparative lull to new heights. Almost automatically, all dancers but the lady and the lord started to move off the dance floor. The two circled and watched, sizing the other up. Thus far, neither could be said to have had the better of the dance. Not a foot had been put wrong, not a turn misjudged. This sort of dance could never be learned, practised or [i]understood[/i] until it had been danced under the eyes of an unfamiliar partner. When they watched, you moved with more precision than ever before, determined not to be the first to make a mistake. Or you cracked, losing time and rhythm, only for your partner to twirl around and carefully [i]not[/i] mention your blunder.

Further, faster, [i]more[/i]. Upwards, onwards, [i]more[/i]. Build and build and [i]build[/i]...

The final bars swam across the room, wrapping themselves around the dancers even as Lady and Lord wrapped around each other. All would be decided soon, the last haunting notes would see one silently admired and the other tactfully congratulated. It was better, at least in Lyonse, for everyone to know that you'd won but never mention it than to do some so gauche as to proclaim victory. The pleasure was in knowing that not only did you know you'd won, not only did everyone else know, your opponent knew and could say nothing against it. Smug, self satisfied and so very stylish; Lyonse in short.

And on and on and on... [b][i]now[/i][/b].

The final chords sang out, the dancers span away from each other, each ready to take their final place. For a second or less, Lady Lyanne's back was to the Lord, as she finished with an effortless pirouette. No more than a moment, no more than that. But when she turned, expecting to see his famously roguish smile, she saw nothing. He had gone, not even a trace left behind. A flurry of whispers shot around the floor and, to her horror, Lady Lyanne saw a few hastily hidden smirks. It was hard to top disappearing at the crescendo of the dance, no doubt, she thought ruefully. It seemed that the Lord Wylde had, once again, exceeded expectations. Now if only she could find him to to be viciously, icily, devastatingly [i]civil[/i] to him.

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In another space entirely, Constantine Wylde looked up from a deep bow, grin in place and hand outstretched. To his mild irritation it was not to the sight of Lady Lyanne's dark eyes, perhaps curved in displeasure at a loss. Instead, he saw greenery, ruins, a man in red and gold and rather a lot of strangely dressed folk. Never one to be taken aback, wrong footed or even surprised, he rose and removed his hat in a fluid motion. The old man in the robes seemed very intent on babbling about some enemy, some quest. Same old, same old...

[color=5A3F50]"Lord Constantine Wylde, at your service. And might I say, what charming environs we find ourselves in, matched only by such esteemed company."[/color] His eyes rolled over the other figures in that place-between-places. A mission? Well, Constantine knew missions inside and out. But a band of heroes, united by common purpose, all working as one to save the worlds? That sounded rather diverting.

[i]Perhaps[/i], he thought, [i]I'll even be able to finish my dance.[/i]