[hider=My Hider]
(Mirror Ball (+Heart): 2d6+2= 3+6+2= 11, both player and influencer choose 1. "You get +1 forward to Entice while performing. Optionally, the influencer gets credit for the performance"  and "Your audience is rapt")
[/hider]


“Oh, were it not for Grace-of-Heaven’s encouragement and guidance, my dance tonight would be nowhere near how far it has progressed. My performance is dedicated to you, as trained by our lovely sultan!”

If Ruz’s expression were anything, she needed to increase the association between her performance and the simple joys between herself and the sultan than any wisdom or ambition within the girl. A few lingering glances back to Grace-of-Heaven, looking at her with an expression she had seen modeled all too often by Taima, and the gifted girl was certain she was playing the role Ruz expected of her. After drinks had been poured and dinner had been served (after all, if their trick were to play out, it seemed unreasonable that the princes would spend the entire night punishing her concubine on an empty stomach and not once call for food), Nahla made her way to the front of the room, before each of the three who had come to dinner, as well as the slaves flitting in and out of the room to take plates, pour more drinks, and so on.

Nahla took a deep breath before closing her eyes. Her thumb pops the guard of her blade just barely out of the scabbard, displaying a small gleam of the blade within. With a sudden twirl, the metal [i]shing[/i] of her blade sliding out echoes through the room, her hand lashing out and holding onto the sword as the flat reflects the lights and colors of the room, the setting sun over the gardens. A sword from the Northern kingdoms that has seen nearly no use, wielded by a concubine in Sjakal garments. As Nahla dances, the hilt rests against the crook of her neck, the solid, sharp metal twirling with her, the handle rolling over the back of her neck for her to grasp on the opposite side. The entire performance is a spectacle, of a blade to represent the rigid harshness of the northern lands, that no matter how hardened they may be, the flow of the coastal waters shall never fall to them. Fluid movements, intermittently switching direction and intensity much like the tide that pulls in and pushes out onto the sands, her sword flashing glimpses of the world around them like a weaponized mirror.
 
Eventually, she had gotten enough spectacle out of the blade, twirling once to the right and ending the spin with holstering the weapon. Then, as though the halt was merely the pause of an object unspinning one way just to build enough force to spin the other, a flourish to the left as the scabbard was removed from her person, raised high into the air, and gently slid to the floor behind her. In all her theatrics with such a blade, there was nary a cut on the girl, nor on the floor around her. The threat was contained, concealed, and retreated within this tale within her interpretive dance, and as the wind billows over the ocean to the lands of Sjakal, so too did Nahla swirl towards the Sultan of those lands. Her footwork was impressive, near immaculate with each rotation. If this had ended as it should, she would leap into the air, seemingly striking downward with her entire body to land on her elbows and knees before the Sultan’s feet, a sign that all of Sjakal and all of the elements that should aid them in pushing back against their enemies would bend bow to the mandate of heaven.

Instead, she tripped. All by plan, once her feet had kicked off the ground mid-spin, her ankles had hit each other, throwing her off her concentration. With an unfortunate slam, Nahla reaches out and grips fabric to play into instinctively steadying her fall, the sound of both party’s discomfort in the sudden impact interlaced with the ripping of thread. The sudden downward motion had also incidentally lead to an unintended consequence- as she landed on the sultan, her veil had fluttered upwards, and in that brief moment, she had realized her lips were placed firmly against Grace-of-Heaven’s. Pulling away, a bit red in the face, laying on the couch in the sultan’s lap, and with her bare form now left exposed for Soot and Ruz to see from the hips upward, Nahla stuck to the plan and awkwardly stumbled out,

“Well, if the artist is to capture your essence, it’s best that she behold your best assets.”