Rehearse
The careful aesthetics of Demacian culture never sat in well with him. That doesn't justify his reason for being dressed in the finery worn by nobles.
It was stifling and preposterous; why would anyone want to wear such constricting clothing? He tugged on the collar of his clothes, trying to ease the severe tightness of the fitting.
How he let himself be dragged into this, he can't bear to explain.
The metal heels of his boots were an odd sound to bounce along the marbled walls.
Haste.
He'd need to make haste. She'd been adamant on his presence, and he was damned to have succumbed to her wills.
With a final fix to the thorough ensemble, he stepped around the corner to be done with this evening's event. Had Katarina been here, she would be incessantly pointing out how awkward he was in such clothing.
He replayed the words they've rehearsed hours and hours ago, it was almost second nature. Killing someone in such an event was pumping adrenaline in his vein. Oh, it won't have to be bloody but he could finally enact the very profession he was groomed with.
The loud music from the ballroom filters through the door that stood ajar. He paused a moment to admire his reflection on the hall mirror. Rich navy and deep silver accented his face. His long brown hair was clasped neatly by his nape, he looked noble enough.
He'd have to thank the maid who had aided in dressing him up earlier.
Quickly, he scolded himself. He pushes open the door as a man hastily announces his false name. False titles into this game, he quickly descends down the flight of stairs. Gossip arose in each corner but he sought only for one thing in the crowd.
His sepia eyes rove over the sea of expensive accessories and silk as he maneuvered himself around the nobility. Sneered by his sheer choice to ignore the women vying for his attention, he was quite the charmer.
He stepped sideways, his feet pausing on their journey. His eyes fell upon the flush color of her shoulders. He's quite accustomed to the sight now.
The rich midnight color of her dress hid the harsh marks of her agony in the Noxian dungeons. Gold brocades decorated her dress which caused more focus on her hair. Gold chains wove along purple waves reminding him of her eyes.
He continued onwards, brushing the stray gloved hand of an unknown noble. She was chatting idly with the older Crownguard. It would seem the man had an acute sense of his surroundings,
"Do you know of this man, Quinn?"
Golden eyes turned to him, framed by thick lashes; crimson rouge to accompany the heavy blush upon her cheeks. She was at a loss for words, he'd presume.
"Ah- yes, I know him."
"Might I take this lovely lady for the night, Crownguard?" The words felt so awkward on his lips but he had swept her away without an answer from the man. The head of the guard looked confused at how a stranger had known him but he put the thought aside and gestured the two off.
She purses her lips in frustration, "You took your time."
"Tell the maid your sentiments." She muttered. In spite, he dragged her along to the center of the ballroom, stepping along with the dancers.
"Talon!"
"Revenge is sweet, Demacian." They fall into step without any difficulty. He secretly thanked the lessons Cassiopeia had pushed on him, back when she was still human.
Amber eyes turned at each corner, a heavy flush on her visage. He very much enjoyed this look. As the music dragged on, couples filtered away from the dance.
He maneuvered them to the side, his eyes catching the sight of their target. She followed his gait, understanding the change in his demeanor. They will need to be careful lest they incite the Demacian council's wrath.
It's time.
"I will be off." The odd selection of words is like lead on his tongue but it's necessary to keep appearances especially in a place where everyone is listening. He turns on his heel, eager to be rid of the clothing. Eager to be rid of the emotions bubbling inside of him, this wretched evening was making him so confused. Eager to be back in the familiar comfort of his skin, his weapons and his emotions.
"Talon." Her gloved hand steadied on his arm, sepia to amber; a questioning gaze to her own, "Careful." This isn't rehearsed; no far from it. There's a rawness in her eyes that tells him her words were true, her words were her own. No layer of mask can hide the thought in the phrase. He shouldn't drown in these words, they were poison.
He gapes at her, the crimson color of her cheeks a delighted shade. Letting a smug smile lighten his features, he dips down to whisper along her ear, "Silly girl, an assassin is always careful."
The Noxian gingerly slips her hand off his arm and blends into the crowd, with little effort.
He wants the night to be over, lest the bubbling emotions be an effect of their many nights of rehearsing.
Author's Note: Too much Fire Emblem Nohrian set-up to pump any sensible Tainted Wings chapter. But have some Quinn and Talon in a dress and a suit, respectively.