[center][h2][color=D2691E]M[/color]arlijn [color=D2691E]V[/color]aanse[/h2][/center][hr]
Zeno Mozaru was… rather handsome. Marlijn strode right up to the stage, feeling like a thousand neskals. She curtsied deeply, flicking a few locks of auburn hair over her shoulders. [color=D2691E]“I’d say it’s an honour to meet you, Zeno Mozaru, but it’s more than that. I want to thank you for seeing something in me. I won’t let you down.”[/color] 
    
The Zeno, taken aback at first, smiled thoughtfully. “Thank you, Marlijn, and I know you won’t. I promise to be worthy of you as a mentor.”

Rising, she blinked. Her grandmother always went on about how snotty and arrogant Greenlanders were, but this one was humble. She was a sweaty mess in this still-dissipating heat, but she couldn’t stop smiling. [color=D2691E][i]They saved the best for last![/i][/color] She thought. 

Then, her fellow apprentices appeared and she wasn’t sure what to make of them, to be honest. There was a tall solemn-faced Torragonese, a simply-dressed Rettanese girl who looked a dreadful mess - or how Marlijn often felt inside on Dalldays - and then there was that scraggly boy with the limp and a black eye who she’d been convinced was a street urchin earlier. His name was unmistakably Ath Eskandish, yet he didn’t seem much like an Eskandishman to her. [color=D2691E][i]Could he have been…[/i][/color] she started to wonder, but then, Marlijn remembered her manners. With little else to go on she merely cleared her throat and offered another curtsy. [color=D2691E]“Marlijn Vaanse, undoubtedly from a place much colder than you two gentlemen, if not my fellow lady.”[/color] She rose, smiling, and for some supid reason, offered a little wink. It was corny, but she did it. Before a blush could turn her entire face into its canvas, she took her place, rubbernecking this way and that occasionally for glimpses of her brother and friends.

[hr][hr][center][h2][color=#800080]J[/color]omurr [color=#800080]I[/color]kon III[/h2][/center][hr]
They had insulted him. Jomurr knew how not to disgrace his family, of course, so he composed his face - mostly. It was proper to let some hint of your displeasure to show: enough that people would understand that you were only being friendly out of etiquette. Still, this could be little other than a calculated insult intended to chastise him for some sin, real or imagined. Why the Academy would do this, or who the bad-faith actor within it was, presently escaped him. He rose to his full height, bearing dignified as always. He was with Leon Solaire and some riffraff. The latter, to be expected. This was an insult, after all. The former, as well, for Leon - a mere performer, even if one of some renown - had led the cohort through the New Gate when, by rights, it should’ve been him: Jomurr Ikon the Third, future Prince of Zowenga, a brother or two notwithstanding. 

But then Solaire showed him respect. For all of his fame, he stepped aside and waited for Jomurr to go first. The Belzaggicman found himself subtly impressed. Mostlike, the honour of leading the procession had been foisted upon him due to his renowned abilities as a showman. In truth, he should’ve refused it, but perhaps, Jomurr allowed, there had been mitigating circumstances. Perhaps it had simply appealed to his natural inclination to be the centre of attention. Performers were of that ilk, after all, and they could scarce help themselves. In any event, resisting his inner voice in this way was clearly a show of contrition and Jomurr accepted it as such. 

Of course, that did not excuse the other part of the insult. The duke walked, composed, to the stage. This… ‘Zeno’, if you could call her that, was perhaps the poorest example of the species he had yet seen, and what sort of name was ‘Fades-in-Moonlight’!? It was an effort to maintain a civil - much less respectful facade. Facepaint? What was this? Eskand!? That slinky, slouchy posture? The utter disregard for proper etiquette and order of precedence? She stank of common. That Ersand’Enise was allowing this manner of trash to title itself ‘Zeno’ was a ill-portent and a reminder of how political necessity had begun to trump any actual respect for the practice of magic and the established order - which had been established for a reason.

He made it to the stage, unhurried, and took his place first - from left to right - among his fellow Biros, as it should have been. Truly, to call him a Biro was nonsense in all but the technical definition of the word. He was easily on the level of some of the lesser Zenos, like this one. The thought brought a smile to Jomurr’s face. [color=800080]“I am Jomurr Ikon the Third. You will have heard of me, I expect.”[/color] He let his eyes address each member of the group, one by one. [color=800080]“An honour to meet you Zeno… apprentices.”[/color] Then, other people opened their mouths and his moment of dignity died a quick death. [color=fff200]“I, Leon Solaire, am present.”[/color] A predictable flourish for a performer. At the very least, he was stylish. Jomurr could appreciate style, even if his was a tad ostentatious. Everybody was ostentatious these days and understatement would be the next wave in courtly fashion - of that, Jomurr was near-certain. [color=800080][i]Bold contrasts,[/i][/color] he thought, [color=800080][i]or else building around a centrepiece.[/i][/color] He could forgive Solaire the minor fashion impropriety, however. The man clearly knew what he was doing on the whole and being a bit flashy was all a part of his job, Jomurr supposed.
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