[i][u]That meddling Ashbell boy.[/u][/i]

Brande didn't falter, his blade stayed steady, true. For an instant, he thought, he must have looked the spit of his father. But the thought passed quickly enough.
With his free hand, he gestured mutely for Zanna to join his side. Then, finally, he smiled amicably. 
"[color=DC381F]Perfect,[/color]" he breathed, half in relief. He might have looked like his father for an instant, but he'd never share the man's iron nerve: that was an arrogance he'd borrowed from the aristocracy, to which Brande was now estranged. It was remarkable how quickly favours dried up in the presence of burning wealth.
"[color=DC381F]Peachy. See? That was easy.[/color]" 
Esmeralda remained at her station, but Brande seemed to relax a little. The fire in his eyes had given way to the cool reflection of a distant smoke.
He dropped his unoccupied hand back to his bag, sure to keep his sword arm rigid, and then calmly fished out his box of matches. He slid it open with his thumb, and- unable to grab a match without his other hand- he extended the box to Zanna.
"[color=DC381F]Do me a favour? Strike one, then put it back in the box.[/color]"

Once the deed was done- after a short, confused pause from Zanna- Brande closed the box again, and counted down from three.
"[color=DC381F][i]Three... two...[/i][/color]"
And then - he threw it upwards. 
Anybody who has ever, when young and curious, lit a box of matches on fire just to see what happens, has likely been shocked to find just how quickly and brightly they burn. The box will burst suddenly into a fireball. 
That was the plan.
At the last instance, Brande had drawn Esmeralda back, only to fiercely jab forwards again, and pierce the match box as it fell. 
In that instance, he utilised his [i]gift.[/i] 

It was a strange sensation, heat climbing from his heels and through his body, as though he were being engulfed by his own, personal inferno. The first time it had happened, it had stricken him as unpleasant. But now, when he felt the fever of his own powers overtaking him, it was... a strange comfort. Empowering. As there is no sensation quite like playing with fire, and knowing you will never get burnt.

Esmeralda pierced the matchbox, and in that instant Brande willed the heat that had swallowed him out of himself, and into the sword's sterling blade. As he did so, he closed his eyes.
The matchbox exploded: and with Brande's influence, it went off like a short-range firework. A burst of white-hot fire, right before Shuzug's eyes.
And in that instance of blinding heat, Brande had grabbed Zanna by the wrist- "[color=DC381F]Let's get outta here, amica![/color]"- to guide her through the suddenness of it all, and made off around the corner, beating a retreat as hastily as he could whilst he sheathed Esmeralda at his side.
He made a mental note to invest in some new matches as they fled.


[i][u]Meanwhile, at a party nobody asked to be invited to.[/u][/i]

Akelda sat beside [color=C900FF]Ellise[/color] with the sort of delicate, weightless manner of a tea party hostess: unobtrusive and quiet, as though it was rare she socialised without a table and a tea pot between her and her compatriots. She brushed down the frills of her dress as she did so, but the gesture did very little for the broken and rotted lace's appeal.
[i]"[color=C900FF]Don't figure you might have a guess as to why we've been summoned, m'lady?[/color]"[/i]
Akelda didn't respond, at least not right away. She seemed to roll the thought around her head contemplatively for a few moments, and as she did so she tapped her nails- long, well pointed, and painted a pearly white- absentmindedly into her own knees. 
She, too, cast her glance around the assembly, as Ellise had. And as she did so, the craning of her neck revealed a fragile looking collar bone, and a very slender throat.
When she spoke, her voice was still small, and soft, but it was laced with a sort of distant dreaminess. As though at any moment she might lose herself in a waltz that wasn't playing, or else fall into a slumber.
"Perhaps, it is because we are [i]all[/i] formidable warriors", she concluded, vaguely. She made a hand gesture that seemed to suggest this was a tenuous guess, but the best she had to offer at such short notice.

[color=C8B560]James'[/color] conversational partner smiled tiredly, as though she couldn't wait for this soiree to end. It was- decidedly- not her 'scene'. 
"Mikka," she told him, shoving her scarf into the pocket of her overalls, quite indifferent- if not outright resistant- to the invite's demands that she wear it, "Mikka Corriander." 
She folded her arms across her chest, still leaning against the wall, trying her best to look unsophisticated on the vague hope they'd let her leave.
"I'm a country gal, myself. Well, a migrant worker, technically." 
Something about the way she said 'technically' seemed to suggest whatever home she'd had in the country was unlivable now, "How 'bout you? What's your name, where're y'from?" 
She seemed weary but nonetheless glad of another "normal" person's presence.