Fear gripped the heart of our hero.
Was he in a pitched battle, using his spells to fend off a mighty dragon? No. Was he casting his ship through another winter storm, soaked to the bone and screaming himself hoarse? Also no. Was he in the grip of dark magic, using nothing but his will to escape? Yet again, no.
But all those seemed like welcome alternatives to the bossy and stern seamstress who had already poked him twice with a needle and was preparing to tighten up his inseam. As she gave him another command to "No move!" our whimpering hero glared at the man in the room who he blamed for his current circumstances. This villain was a monk who played at being oblivious to his torture while going through yet another list of courtly protocols.
"… and as you know, the honor guard will always wait to be introduced. Your position takes precedence rather than direct formal protocol. You act as a guard until you are introduced, until then, be mute."
A second voice guffawed at that and added "If you can manage to shut up! Liosin, maybe with that new outfit, we can fit him with a gag just in case." Malark's seemingly ineffective glare was then turned to a heartily chuckling wood elf in the corner. Though admittedly the fire from his look may have been doused by the beads of sweat running down the forehead as the seamstress and her needle moved higher. The currently unfazed wood elf Thamior merely sent him a cheeky wink as the monk Liosin ignored his comment and continued down the list of protocols. Malark went from glaring at Thamior to glaring at the monstrous "courtly noble liaison" outfit that was the current bane of his existence.
The new outfit in question was undoubtably gaudy. Malark was currently being fitted with new breeches of a bright blue color rapidly contrasting with his typical muted style. Yet while the breeches and the approaching needle did bother him, they were the least of his concerns as they were accompanied by an overly tight and ridiculously pompous doublet matched by a flamboyant cape and hat. Malark had initially objected that he knew how to dress formally; he had served as an ambassador for over a decade and had worn many stylish formal robes. However, he had been overruled by Liosin who had determined that "important but not distinctive" was going to be replaced by "illustrious and unforgettable". Malark concluded his monk "friend" was a blind sadist.
But Malark was never one to dwell on his current misfortune when there were friendly insults to be exchanged. "You're one to talk o' Mighty Thamior. How many times have I heard your daring escape from slavery?" Malark raised a sarcastic brow. "How many enemies will you slay on your next retelling? Ten? Twenty? Or will it break a hundred when those poor trapped guests hear it?"
"I'll add in an extra dozen for you next time I tell it then!" Thamior may have been enjoying his friend's misfortune but took his mocking in good humor.
At the last comment Liosin had finally given up trying to read through the lengthy scroll and dropped the formality. "Just be glad you haven't heard him when he's drunk. He 'heals the bloody slavers so they can stand up and take another beating'. It's quite dramatic and rather barbaric really. Try not to terrify the guests, will you?"
Thamior laughs a light reedy laugh and makes a rude gesture at Liosin as the seamstress finishes up. Malark finally gets to relax and strip off the formal clothing while Thalmior resumes the banter. "No promises Monk! Have you seen a properly distressed elven noble lady? It's priceless how flustered they get. They freeze like a startled buck and can't react or flee. Why this one time…"
Malark interrupts with a shout from behind a screen, while changing back to his normal attire "How that deity of yours stands your praying, I'll never know. It's a good thing Ilmatar is the God of Endurance with those never-ending stories of yours."
More good-natured ribbing between the three followed them out the door as they headed back to their rooms at the Elturel keep. As they pass the ballroom Malark pulls up short and stares at the preparations coming together, still somewhat baffled at the pace in which his life had picked up after his encounter with dreaded pirate of the Sword Coast.
Dozens of servants darted to and fro, finishing final arrangements for the ball planned two nights hence. Each one seemed as stressed as Malark, understandably. Everything had to be perfect for the presentation of the Guest of Honor or the Lord of Frostshear would have their heads.
Malark would be standing right beside said Guest of Honor as she accepted the acclaim. The center of attention for hundreds of elven nobles as they guess for themselves why someone of his birth and station has bothered to grace their presence.
It's frankly a scenario that has haunted his nightmares before his diplomatic service days. Thankfully during the ball he'd have clothes on (if unbearably gaudy ones). Then he would just have to receive disdain in good grace and find comfort among the few allies there to support him. Otherwise he would have to grit his teeth and bear it all: the overly formal dining, the pomp and circumstance, the overwhelming potential for danger, the dancing.
At the thought of dancing, he initially grimaced before becoming lost in thought, and suddenly he pictured a different scene in this ballroom. Something with a low hum of music but less stiff and packed and formal. He was dancing smoothly and holding onto a beautiful woman in a gown, a smile on his face and his eyes sparkling.
He could practically see the exact shade of purple….
A hand clapped on his shoulder and woke him from his daydream as Thamior had doubled back to find his friend. "What's on your mind lad? You looked to be even more distant than when you arrived."
Malark smiled back wryly "Can you believe I'm going to peacock around in this room? It's a damn amphitheater; I could raise a full thunderstorm and people in the corners would still stay dry. What is the point of this much space?" The wizard joked but his mind was still back on that dance, and his hand had darted inside his coat to trace his components pouch in a slight nervous twitch.
Thamior seemed to notice his discomfort and didn't press him, instead laughing at his bad joke and walking him the rest of the way back to his room. Though on the way back they did manage to spot the Guest of Honor, the high cleric Felosial from afar. Her golden blonde hair shining from below as she walked light as air. The Lady seemed to be being led around by handlers as much as Malark and his companions had been these past few days as the preparations were finalized. But a genuine smile graced her face as she waved down the two. Malark returned the gesture and hoped that she would be alright (those minders kept her on a brutal schedule) before making his way back to his quarters.
As Malark entered his chambers he was struck with a sense of déjà vu. The first feeling was tension; something was out of place and his highly toned instincts told him that he was not alone in his bedchamber.
But the battle mood was broken almost instantly as soon as a familiar scent hit his nostrils, he knew what his eyes would see when they returned to his bed. Malark turned slowly and savored the moment, feeling the same concentration from his daydream earlier.
His room was decorated for a high-status guest, with a large four-poster bed as the centerpiece. It was a deep brown color and decorated with translucent curtains and propped up in the center of it was a lithe half-elven woman decked out in travel gear with a pack tossed lazily to the side of the bed. He only saw the tips of her worn boots and the legs of her tight trousers, but he knew her eyes were closed, and her arms were pillowed beneath her head. It was just like before.
As he walked forward every detail was as he remembered it. Malark didn't speak a word as he took her in, her legs splayed out in the same provocative pose before she turned on her hip and opened her violet eyes to look at him directly without fear or hesitation.
"I need your help"