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[SUP][SUB][H3]The Ballroom[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][/COLOR][INDENT][sup][color=silver]August 31st, Evening | At the Banquet Table | Buncha NPCs[/color][/sup][/INDENT]
Some arrived to King Charles’s Castle upon a gilded carriage. Others rode in upon great stallions. Nariman, for lack of better options, plodded along to the stables with a mule in tow. The beast of burden had been a gift from the mayor of a nameless village after the Baldori mercenary had returned his daughter to him, unspoiled yet by the bandits that had rode off with her to begin with. Rinshi was the finest of the herd, with a shiny coat and a strong back, but that had been ten years ago, and now, she was a more weathered beast, with a slower gait and a duller coat. Doubtlessly, the stable boy had been confused as to where such an inglorious steed should even be kept, but Nariman set the child straight easily enough. What noble knight would even deign to notice the old mule stabled beside his pure white thoroughbred, after all? Probably too busy polishing his sword to see anything beyond what’s right in front of his nose. Rinshi got stabled with the rest of those big, brilliant chargers. Hoped she enjoyed the company.

Nariman, on the other hand, already had decided in his mind that he didn’t like any of this. It was his first exposure to high society, and two seconds into the ballroom, he wanted to take a bottle of wine and smash it over the head of one of those fat, glibbering noblemen who were guzzling down decadence like it was water. With six different musical cultures present, of course all they played were the bland, unintrusive harmonies of the Kingdom, and the food was all distinctly Thelian: meats and pastries roasted and baked without any grace, originality, or season. What really got him, though, was how restrained and [i]boring[/i] everything was. Only a couple individuals feasted with gusto, and there was certainly no groups of people breaking into spontaneous dance. Anyone who approached the Thelian King, irreverently indolent upon his lonely throne, walked as if upon caltrops, while small parties toasted with fragile cups. Around the room, graybeards delivered tales of past valour in the most self-indulgent manner possible, while their listeners smiled and nodded, every word melting away like snow in their minds.

Like everything else portrayed in the ballads of brave heroes and valorous kings, the reality of a royal feast was far removed from the fiction of it.

If there was something to be glad for, it would be that in the wake of the Nantego procession, the guards around King Charles were far less concerned about Nariman’s approach. He may have been wearing chainmail and dirt may have still been crusted in the creases of his boots, but at least he wasn’t exposing the skin of his upper limbs to them. The mercenary bowed once, right arm sweeping up to rest over his heart. [COLOR=FF6347]“Nariman, mercenary descended from the Baldori people,”[/color] he began, a practiced smile slipping on his features. [COLOR=FF6347]“I do pray you’ll host a merrier feast when I return with your Queen, Your Majesty.”[/color] One of the men bristled at the audacity of his words, but nothing else came of it. What was a mercenary without some insolence? Nariman turned and strode off upon the King’s grunt of a dismissal, and, after a brief pause to sip some wine and rein in his less pleasant desires, slipped off towards the banquet table.

One part of him wanted to eat. Another part of him wanted to drink. More parts wanted to leave. But he ignored all those parts of him and began to socialize instead. With a glass of wine in hand, Nariman glided in and out of conversations, promoting himself to the wealthy and well-bred. He toasted with the Thelians, chugged with the Vikings, philosophized with the Alovians, compared faiths with the Nantego, and strode through the ballroom as the good-hearted but crude mercenary he was.

And in the merriment of his step, the rowdiness of his laugh, no one noticed that silverware occasionally disappeared when he gestured with his free hand, that the sweetmeats he tossed into his mouth didn’t always find its way to his stomach. Nariman hated the party, but that didn’t mean he’d pass up on an opportunity to squirrel away something special for his blood-bonds.

If he wasn’t going to make it back, at least his mother and sister would have something nice to dine with.