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[color=004b80][center][h3]Central Point 🍧 Public Party 🍧 Friday Evening[/h3][/center][/color]

[i]'The darkening mist proceeded to envelop an otherwise sleeping village's harmonic form. Cold and unforgiving, the touch of death accompanied the ever looming presence. There had been rumors of a herald, one who brought judgement to the unworthy. He was said to be freeze the very blood of an onlooker's fragile frame. Truly, meeting this gestalt was a curse reserved for stories, and nightmares. It is however as they say, there is always a fraction of truth, in every myth.'[/i]

With a soft breath escaping his lips, Winter tapped slender, pale fingers against the cold surface of his glass. Short nails clicked against the reflective surface, though the sound was quickly drowned out not only by the ever growing crowd, but also the ever present music making its way from Winter's headset. An inspiration for his story? The chilling surface of his glass offered an idea, if nothing else. He had promised his sister to attempt this feat of social pursuits. Thoughts of his last meeting came to mind, and Winter could not consider the event a success by any stretch of the imagination. That white haired young student on the path to a doctorate offered anything but a pleasant introduction, and Winter was not prepared to act much better in response. Needless to say, this did not bode well as a first impression by the brave, new world Winter had so carelessly promised his sister to be part of. 

Sipping from the drink which was a beverage far more appreciated by those of a refined palette, the author managed a sigh before his eyes traced their gaze across the festivities. Groups had formed and shaped into smaller clusters, each one a source of communication which in turn offered pleasantries the corner could not compete with. Where was the safety, however? Where was the tactical approach? In the air of an approach, what exactly was Winter doing here? Feeling of place was sever understatement. He had found a corner which was quickly confiscated by the young man and called home. Its confines would do, and it would act as a fine excuse. If no one came to talk with him, it wasn't Winter's fault, now was it? To be fair, his sister was expecting quite a lot from him. She was supposed to join him in this event but work swept her from heeled feet. 

With his hands upon the circular bar table, the esteemed and far too forgettable author lazily leaned his slight weight against it's shape. Large, raven eyes then shifted between the fiction presented in a leather bound notebook, and those drawing the surroundings a social event. What inspiration could he gather, in a place like this? A masquerade, perhaps`A vampire ball, dark and mysterious? How about a scene where the shy and reserved author poked a whole in that bubble known as insecurity and stepped out of his comfort zone? No, no one would read that. Would they? People didn't dive into the world of a book's many sentences because they wanted to read a reflection of reality. They wanted something else. Winter wasn't it. 

Then, it was unfair to assume, wasn't it? Taking another sip of his glass, Winter narrowed it down to the atmosphere, at this point. He never did like white wine, or any kind of wine, for that matter. But there was a thin line between appearing vaguely interesting, and being a pathetic waste of breath in the corner. That glass of wine was the line, and it did not require deep thought to come to a certain understanding. One approach was more attractive, than the other. 

There was a certain air of mystery upon a man making the scene his own, sensually sipping from a glass of wine with dark eyes welcoming his surroundings. This was, of course, not the image brought to fruition at the sight of this eternal teenager apparently unable to reach the physical shape of his age. Of course, it was worthy of note, dotting his awkward and less than graceful personality. Tripping on his words, lost in thought and unable to look others in the eye. Indeed, Winter was anything but the alpha would seek in the male companion. Rather, a lost puppy would reach along a more fitting description. 

Eventually, Winter would be forced to yield to his less refined tastes, and gently pushed the still filled glass a distance across the table. [i]'Welcome to your life..,[/i] there was however one thing Winter could constantly count on. His music. Without it, it was safe to say that the young author would barely function. Words would not leave his fingertips and they certainly would not find home on paper. [i]'...every body wants to rule the world!'[/i] But at least there was that, wasn't there? At least, he would always have that.