(2025-06-30) Greetings to Speech - Fallon Gala Year 29

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	The initial meets and greets and general mingling before the speech of the Fallon Charity Gala Year 29. 17k~ words.
Rating:	T for Teen

The sun lingers on the glittering horizon over the western coastline of Elwynn like an obedient child that knows they must go to bed, but cannot resist one last, wistful moment poised on the stairs to watch the arriving procession of elegant guests to the lavish party about to commence at the great estate of House Fallon.

The heat of the late June day has begun to soften into evening’s coolness, and fireflies wink here and there in the gradually dimming air as guests emerge from the forest road and onto the broad, clifftop estate lands. Hanging lanterns dot the long drive to guide the way up to the house, a warm constellation of earthbound stars.

The front gardens before the house are pale clouds of viburnum among a colorful, wild-looking profusion of peach and scarlet globe amaranth, multi-hued yarrows, golden compass flower, and violet heliotrope. The floral beds are framed by a groundcover of sea-foam soft alyssum, garden sage, thyme, and marjoram, which lend a crisply herbaceous note to the coastal sea salt air. Young linden and pear trees stand graceful sentinel here and there. The scars torn in the grounds by last year’s tidal wave are gone, filled by new and blooming growth.

The manor itself is a massive Gothic sprawl of sunset-painted stone. The day’s last light glitters in reflection from dozens of tall casement windows, in competition with the candle-flames gleaming from within. In the circular drive before the house, grooms and footmen in smart navy blue and silver Fallon livery await arrivals, their white gloves as pristine as their manners (if not their accents).

The terrace behind the house has been strung with more hanging lanterns; the darkening gardens beyond are illuminated only by fireflies and the fading daylight. Gravel paths wind among more beds of viburnum, wild color, and herbal fragrance, duplicates of those in the front of the house. Discreet benches are arranged here and there among the growth, some screened by trellises overgrown by honey-scented stephanotis blossoms. An occasional arbor stands gracefully across a path, draped in trailing wisteria. An orchestra of cricketsong has begun to tune for the night.

FOYER

The entrance to Fallon House is a formal space decorated to display a comfortable wealth that feels no need to outshine the sun with glitter to make its point. White wainscoting gleams in the light of a graceful chandelier, and the polished parquet floor is adorned by a hand-knotted silk carpet patterned intricately in hues of blue and white. Polished console tables bear arrangements of ruby-hued amaryllis, spikes of wild yellow agrimony, and profuse clusters of white bellflower, and trail tendrils of flame-hued nasturtiums.

Entering guests are faced by a large portrait of the lady of the house, hanging between the wings of a broad double staircase. The painting depicts her in a somber dark navy and white beaded dress, holding a bouquet of orange marigolds. She is unsmiling, her gaze fixed on some point off to the right of the viewer; her cheeks are unusually gaunt, and there are smudges around her eyes where grief and pain have marked her. It’s not an exceptionally flattering portrait in terms of pure physical beauty, but there is an unbowed strength in her squared-off shoulders, a presence undaunted by whatever task lay before her.

Set on a polished console table against the wall is a carefully arranged bouquet of fresh flowers. The center has a bold, beautiful trio of white and pink striped amaryllis, framed by golden agrimony united with orange and red nasturtium, and surrounded by sweet cups of small, white bellflower, and framed with the unusual and delightful hanging orange crown imperial montague.

Awaiting the arriving guests is the butler Vane. He is a shave-headed, impassive behemoth in immaculate livery; his extraordinary size suggests some sort of missing link between humans and their vrykul ancestors. He offers no smile, but his quiet courtesy is unfailing as he welcomes each newcomer and directs them down the parquet-floored hallway to the left, toward the grand ballroom.

BALLROOM

The ballroom is a rectangular room with a high ceiling, the chandeliers offering a soft candlelight that flatters guests with its warm, natural hue. The windows have been left uncurtained to create little pockets of cooler air, and to let the moonlight peek in at the dancers as night falls.

In the northeastern corner of the room, there is a band of eight people (two Stormwind men, a male Bronzebeard dwarf with a tightly-shaved beard, a female draenei wearing possibly an entire month’s rent worth of jewelry on her horns, a male gnome with a moustache that once placed third in a Gnomeregan-wide competition for Best Moustache, a non-worgen Gilnean woman, two Lordaeronian men with features so similar they are likely related, and a tall, thin Alteraci man by the name of Mr. Alexa) with several types of instruments among them as well as the ballroom’s gorgeous grand piano.

In the southeastern corner of the room, sixteen chairs with festive drapery and plush seats are arranged into neat, mathematically-elegant groups of four, for those who need a moment to sit or catch their breath.

REFRESHMENTS

Along the edges of the room are many tables, evenly-spaced and perfectly symmetrical, draped richly with the House Fallon colors of navy and silver, and laden with refreshments desirable for a room filled with socializers and dancers who want both to drink, and to drink.

There are two tables, one on each side, of sweet-tart chilled lemonade garnished with violets, plain soda water awaiting fresh ice cubes, and fresh milk from Elwynn. Two other tables, likewise mirrored across the ballroom, have true champagne (from the Champagne region of Lordaeron, of course), as well as Kir & Kir aperitifs, and glasses of Lillet. Anyone who has been in Lord Fallon’s company doubtless knows they have only to ask for whiskey and a bottle will be politely produced from beneath the table of more elegant drink.

Centered along the wall between the drink tables are hors d’oeuvres style grazing foods: radish roses with sweet cream butter and salt, piping-hot gougères, rich olives, nuts, and tapenades, various cheeses from across the nations of the Alliance, Elwynn-cured meats, and baguettes so freshly baked they scent the air. At one end of each table is a tiered, iced platter of mignonette oysters and peeled shrimp; at the opposite end, a three-tiered fruit display of pineapples, grapes, dried apricots, and sweet cherries is crowned by late spring Alpine strawberries, small and incredibly flavorful jewels.

YOUR HOSTS

Standing by the entrance to the ballroom is the hostess, Her Grace the Duchess Esprit, Lady Avrenne Fallon of the Stormwind Fallons. She is resplendent in a large bell-shaped ballroom dress, supported by a crinoline to give it a sense of near weightlessness as she moves. The bodice leaves her shoulders bare, all the way to her upper arms, while her hands and forearms are covered in dark, nearly black gloves, her wedding ring worn over the glove on her left hand.

The dress is a deep, inky navy with swirls of darkest maroon matte velvet, so dark that if not for the lights of the room, the cloth would seem black, but this is merely the stage set for the decoration of the details: hundreds bright metallic silver and gold threads and beads have been sewn to craft a night sky filled with a thousand glittering stars. Those with a keen knowledge of the stars and stellar navigation might note familiar constellations that prove it to be as true to exact mathematical placement as a star chart, while others might only glean the general sense of it.

She wears a necklace of a star sapphire with diamonds worth a king’s ransom, and upon her head she wears her golden hair in a crown of braids with a gold and silver diadem of tiny diamond stars that glint against her hair. Dangling from each ear are two discs the size of silver coins, the left a blueish silver, and the right a pure white gold.

Avrenne’s expression is her usual cool composure, her cosmetics subtle but for the smoky kohl that lines her eyes to make them far more intense, her bearing regal as a queen as she greets her guests dutifully.

The lady’s husband, Lord Siamus Fallon, stands at a cordial if not close proximity to his wife, and greets entering guests with a gleaming smile and a sardonic glint in his near-black gaze. He wears a dark blue suit of elegant evening cut with gold brocade trim at the cuffs and lapels, a waistcoat of navy blue with the same gold brocade, and a crisp white cravat with a pearl-topped gold cravat-pin. If there is a statement being made by his clothing, the statement is: This guy is Admiral Fallon.

Early Arrivals

Harvey arrives as early as politely permissible for his situation, almost as if he has been hovering in the woods nearby until the very second his presence would not go amiss. He is wearing a deep green suit and pants, with a lighter green waistcoat and white shirt beneath. After greeting his hosts with the courtesy expected of a guest who knows his presence is undesirable, he banishes himself to the room selected for him, where he awaits the presence of Ralaea.

A Sentinel does not understand the concept of 'fashionably late', and like many a soldier of Azeroth, she knows that if you're on time, you're late. Auralind has been waiting patiently outside the Fallon house for the last hour, but largely unnoticed (because she's standing still, as the cliché goes).

As other guests begin to arrive, Auralind emerges from the shadows. A violet, spectral tiger manifests at her side, translucent and emitting a kind of spiritual mist that quickly evaporates. The Sentinel is attired in her Sentinel uniform — highly decorated armor in the silver and purple hues associated with the kaldorei, teeming with swirling patterns, antler-like protrusions, and large purple feathers. The amount of skin on display might be positively scandalous, but nothing about her presence or postures suggests she is attempting some sort of titillating performance.

Auralind allows herself to be led through the grand home, her bare feet making no more sound on the rugs and hard floors than Thaeru'kal's. As they near the ballroom, she takes pause to ask her guide if the lord and lady are here. Only then does the servant realize he is leading a blind woman, and carefully explains that they are just by the entrance. With a whispered thanks, Auralind approaches the Fallons and offers a kaldorei salute and slight bow of respect. "Sentinel Auralind Mistwalker. Thank you for inviting me to your home."

Siamus returns the bow. "It is our honor, Sentinel Mistwalker. Thank ye for joining us."

Oranna Stormbreaker arrives earlier than the stated time looking very different from her usual work clothes of mail and leather. The dwarven hunter is clad in a lovely, soft white dress, with a decorative black bow under what must be honestly described as a substantial bust. Her hair has been loosely rolled and braided to flow down her back. She wears no make-up, only the fresh face of an open expression, all bright brown eyes and strong eyebrows.

Elsewhere, Befound chews through another set of gloves in revenge for being left out.

Oranna, perhaps sensing this, waves hello to the hosts that includes an actual duchess, and beelines for the snacks. Ooh, strawberries.

Eulysses Reeve arrives promptly fifteen minutes before the scheduled time. He is dressed in a finely tailored Gilnean style suit with a charcoal grey coat and trousers, burgundy waistcoat, and white shirt. He also has a black cravat around his neck and a black top hat on his head. He holds himself upright as he walks in, standing nearly eight feet tall.

Reeve takes a moment to address the hosts as he makes his way inside, "Lady Fallon." He gives Avrenne a bow, "Admiral." He salutes Siamus.

Siamus offers Eulysses a firm handshake. "Captain Reeve. We're grateful ye could make it."

"Grateful to be here. If only it were under more favorable circumstances." Reeve says a bit grimly. He minds his claws as he returns the handshake.

"Aye, indeed. We take a moment to honor our people's service and sacrifice amid the fray, aye?" Siamus clasps Reeve's hand between both of his own briefly before releasing him.

"Aye Sir." Reeve nods to the Fallons once more before emerging inside the ballroom.

After him is Kalindra, "Lady Fallon. Lord Fallon." She bows to them both, "Allow me to express my thanks for hosting this lovely gala. I only hope I will one day be in a position to return the favor once more." She says, likely referencing her wedding, a party of a level of extravagance she cannot afford another of at the moment.

"May we all have a more prosperous year with the stability of a world no longer subjected to the chaos it has been," Avrenne says, her manner as cooly polite as always.

"We're very glad to return your hospitality meanwhile," Siamus tells her warmly, with a bow.

"Light willing." She inclines her head to Avrenne, "Thank you, Lord Fallon." She says turning to Siamus, "But I will not keep you overlong for now. We can speak more later." Kaldinra bows one last time and heads inside.

Sintha Fallon is already wafting around the ballroom, a glass of what appears to be a Kir Royale in hand. She wears a softly draped gown of Alliance-blue silk, with a wrap bodice that forms a plunging v-neck. At her shoulders, ornaments of gold filigree and delicate gold chain evoke military epaulets over flowing draped sleeves that leave her tanned arms bare as she moves, and her slim waist is clasped with a belt of matching gold filigree. Her sleek, dark hair is pulled back in an intricately knotted chignon and secured with ornate golden pins.

Lady Niris Ference appears in the doorway on the arm of her lord husband. She is wearing a gown that certain pinch-faced society matrons might suggest is inappropriate for a lady of her age, right before certain society gentlemen told them to mind their own goddamned business.

It is a gown of moss-green taffeta; the full, pleated skirt has a thigh-baring slit up one side, and the wrapped off-the-shoulder bodice leaves bare a considerable expanse of smooth brown skin. She carries herself with a golden-eyed, regal hauteur.

At her side, the distinguished Lord Ference wears a charcoal-gray suit with a forest-green waistcoat and cravat. He looks like a man who just won the lottery and now he would like to take the lottery into another room and be alone with it for a while.

Niris curtsies smoothly to Avrenne — she's practiced — and offers Siamus her hand in aristocratic fashion, a little warily. Watch yourself, buster.

"Lady Fallon," Elohad says in his resonant voice, which carries across the ballroom as he bows. "Lord Fallon," he says then, and this bow is a bit more familiar, almost mischievous. "Another splendid event. I always look forward to your hospitality."

"What a delight to see you again, Lord Ference, Lady Ference. Thank you for joining us tonight," Avrenne says, her manner one of speaking with a peer.

Siamus bows cordially over Niris' hand. "Lady Ference. A vision, if I may say so." He releases her to turn his smile on Elohad and offer his hand out. "Ference. Always delighted to have ye, man."

Elohad gives Siamus a warm handclasp and a little wink before getting himself out of the way of the next waiting guest and escorting his magnificent wife - at a dignified pace - coincidentally in the precise direction of all the fancy cheese. The woman must be paid for the fuss and trouble of attending such a thing, after all.

Jenzelle arrives in the middle of what would be considered early, clinging to Brendol’s arm in a way that he is probably losing circulation, at least a little. She’s dressed in a brown and yellow dress, almost the reverse of a sunflower, matching Bren’s brown suit, the only one he owns. Given their general awkwardness around each other, it’s unlikely that their outfits were coordinated, fitting together only by sheer coincidence.

Brendol steels himself as he approaches the hosts, his cheeks already flushed red from the woman on his arm, the color deepening as he pauses before Lord and Lady Fallon and realizes he’s forgotten what he meant to say. He starts to bow, figuring out halfway through that he’s standing too close. Jenzelle, beside him, starting to curtsy, is interrupted as he suddenly backs up and tries again. She joins him several steps back and repeats it.

“L-Lady Duchess, uh Fallon,” Bren begins. “Dadmiral — I mean Ad! Admiral. Fallon. Sir.”

Jenzelle, thrown off by Bren’s own shaky introduction, mumbles, “Lady Duchess —” only to freeze as it dawns on her that she’s just repeated him. “M-Milord and Lady,” she amends slightly. She looks willing to take up a new job as a carpet.

"My, how many titles that is," Avrenne says, and is there a slight stress to the words how many titles? A gleam in her eye as she keeps her gaze deliberately off Siamus? No, surely not. Your imagination. Instead, she smooths out the awkwardness through a graceful incline of her head, as if nothing odd has happened at all, her voice warmer by several degrees than it has been for the majority of her guests. "Brendol. Miss Halveris. How lovely to see you both again, and looking so well together. What a splendid match your outfits make."

Whew, she said the name. Siamus is grinning too broadly at Brendol in the wake of Dadmiral to acknowledge Avrenne's little victory. "Westwind, Miss Halveris. A pleasure to see the both of ye. Please, make yourselves at home, aye?"

You know, Brendol. At home. Like your sister.

Brendol and Jenzelle turn redder if possible, each avoiding the eyes of the other as they mumble their thanks and proceed into the ballroom.

Avrenne waits until they're out of earshot, but before the next guests approach to lean towards Siamus. "Do we count 'Ad' as another title, or shall that be listed under only a slip of the tongue for How Many Titles he managed in that one?" Avrenne teases to Siamus in a low tone, her head turned away from the next guests. "Dadmiral. I wonder if he will pass that one off to Ralaea."

"I will grant ye the point for Ad," Siamus concedes low-voiced without looking down at her. "A nickname-title, perhaps."

That hum in her chest, as she suppresses the laughter. "Gracious as always, Admiral." Before her eyes can stay twinkling, she sets her chin and shoulders again, back to the ice queen for her guests.

Yveris arrives early for a reason known only to her, wearing a light green dress embroidered with flowers, a slit up one side. She greets her hosts with her customary introduction of, “Yveris, healer,” before slipping into the ballroom to investigate the people present.
On Time
Joelle arrives at exactly the time stated on the invitation, to the very second. He is wearing his usual traditional clothing, loose and in navy blue and white. His sleek dark hair is held up with a pin of blue flowers, crystalline petals dangling from it on thin gold chains. It softly jingles when he turns his head.

He greets the hosts with a courteous bow, his gaze focused primarily and perhaps intently on Avrenne. “Lady Fallon, Lord Fallon,” he says, his voice soft and controlled. Anyone skilled at reading him might note there is a silent turmoil buried in his eyes, but it doesn’t reach his expression or his voice, and he produces a long box from his sleeve to present as a gift.

Siamus smiles warmly at Joelle. "Elle," he greets. "Welcome. I'm pleased ye could make it."

Avrenne blinks in surprise at the reveal of the gift, and she makes an elegant gesture for one of the footmen to come forward, as she reaches for the box. "Mr. Ebek, what a delight to see you again," she says, a cool polite composure that leaves little to be observed, like a stainless steel lantern held deliberately fully closed. "Thank you. Is it meant to be opened now?"

Across the room, Finley pauses mid-pleasant conversation with a random NPC generated for this moment, and watches Elle with a new subtleness that his conversation partner doesn't pick up on, even as Finley skillfully rotates them so he can keep an eye on Avrenne and Elle both.

"I don't want to keep you from your guests," Joelle replies. "It isn't urgent." His eyes warm a fraction, pushing the turmoil further back. "Thank you for hosting." He bows again, the pin in his hair clinking softly.

"Thank you for joining us. Finley has been looking forward to speaking with you again," Avrenne says as her eyes flick directly to Finley in such a way that it's clear she knew exactly where he was, even though he was not in what seemed to be her direct line of sight. "Do enjoy the evening, Mr. Ebek."

Joelle attempts to track her gaze, distracted for a moment, then nods. "You too," he says sincerely, before moving into the ballroom.

Devon Tennerow arrives on time and greets the hosts as usual. He is there in a nice, well-fitted suit.

Stelliana is right on time. She stares in amazement at the fancy house, moving a little clumsily in her one-shouldered brown dress like she’s not used to being in gowns and heels. She pauses in front of Siamus and Avrenne, frozen in terror, and bows, mumble-rushing what sounds like a rehearsed polite greeting for the hosts.

Siege Engineer Kerlo Quarterflash, a tall dashing platinum-haired gnome, arrives in his 7th Legion dress uniform, conveniently Fallon blue, with Cobalt Company captain Jocoza Sparkwire on his arm. They look like, and are, two young people just back from a honeymoon.

Jo Sparkwire is beaming at Kerlo like a newlywed bride (because she is one), as they enter the ball room. She's wearing a deep blue dress, the skirt adorned with stars. Her hair is down today, a thick cascade of dark brown.

Siamus offers a smiling salute to Kerlo, and a low bow to Jo, and offers his genial re-congratulations on a delightful wedding.

Jo accepts the congratulations, smiling, and then stares at Lady Fallon's dress for a little bit longer than propriety might allow. She seems to be identifying constellations.

"It's a delight to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Sparkwire," Avrenne says politely, her expression composed enough that if she notes the staring, it's not obvious. She may even be smoothing out the potential for awkward pausing. "Cobalt Company is truly an asset to the Alliance."

Jo blinks, and remembers not to stare at people's dresses. She beams up at Avrenne and squeezes Kerlo's arm. "We certainly strive to be so, Lady Fallon! Are you interested in astronomy?"

"Yes, I have had an interest in constellations since I was a young girl," Avrenne answers, with the tone of someone who is speaking about something that was a very, very long time ago as she is now an Elder Stateswoman of 33-years-old.

"Oh, how lovely!" says Jo, who probably has no idea how old Avrenne is. "I did a lot of study a few years back, when I was making a… gift for a friend. Displaying the stars as seen from a particular location."

"How interesting," Avrenne remarks, and there is genuine interest in her tone now, as she looks over at Siamus. Does the Admiral want a gift of displayed stars from a particular location, as a treato? "Perhaps I might speak more with you on that later, if you still take commission work for such things in addition to your position in Cobalt Company."

"That particular gift was a one-of-a-kind," Jo says, brightening at her interest. "But I would be delighted to speak with you further, if you're interested in something similar."

"I understand, of course. I shall look for you later, Mrs. Sparkwire. Do enjoy the evening," Avrenne says courteously.

Tabiana arrives at an appropriate time and promptly melds into the background of the ballroom, offering a light curtsy to Siamus and Avrenne on her way by. She is wearing a simple navy blue dress, perhaps in an effort to blend in, because surely many others will be wearing blue. Her dark hair is pulled up in its usual neat tail, though today there is a braid woven in for the occasion.

Cressidha, dressed in pastel blue, waits in line to greet the hosts. There is a lot of intricate runic embroidery around the edges of the pockets of her dress. (The pockets might be bigger on the inside.) "Have you met the Fallons before?" she asks Alysson.

"Which ones are they?" Alysson asks, glancing around. The… ones they are standing in line to greet, Alysson. Apparently this does not occur to him. He is dressed in a bright orange suit, with an equally bright orange waistcoat and a white shirt. It is bright enough to be blinding in the sun, much like his fiery hair.

Siamus spots Alysson from some distance off, because… well. His expression does not change. The sinking feeling is all on the inside.

Sil stands out much less in a beige suit, which suits his non-fiery brown hair. Really, slipping around unobserved is much more Sil's thing, anyway, and Alysson is making it easy.

"Over there," Sil says, nodding towards Avrenne and Siamus. "Surely you've met the Admiral, though?"

"The bathtub fellow?" Alysson grins and waves at Siamus, even from his position further back.

Miranda, dressed in a simple green and black dress, quickly wrestles his arm back under control. "Alysson, don't be rude to other guests," she scolds. Her black hair is pulled back in its usual tail; she has done nothing fancy with it. "And please call him Lord Fallon, not 'the bathtub fellow,' to his face."

Siamus does not wave back, because there are guests between him and Alysson to be greeted, and also because waving. He nods courteously to acknowledge Alysson at a distance, though.

Cressidha smiles faintly. "That's Lord Fallon, yes. His wife is the Duchess Avrenne Esprit Fallon. The polite thing to call her is 'your Grace'," she explains to Alysson. "Because all duchesses are very graceful," she says with a perfectly straight face.

"Shall we go say hello?" Sil asks, glancing over at the other two.

When the person in front of them finishes greeting their hosts and heads on inside, Cressidha steps forward. "Good evening, Your Grace, Lord Fallon," she greets politely.

Alysson bows down extra far, because he can, he is flexible, then pops back up to greet the hosts. "Ho there Lord Fallon," he repeats dutifully, "Your Gracefulness." Well. He tried.

Miranda only looks slightly horrified, and dips into at least a commoner's version of a curtsy. "Your Grace, Lord Fallon," she says politely.

"Lady Cressidha, a pleasure as always." Siamus bows. He glances sidelong at Alysson and gives him a courteous nod. "Mr. Mondragon. And this young lady is…?" He smiles at Miranda.

"Miranda Wylderson, milord," Miranda says graciously. "Alysson's half-sister."

Siamus bows again to her. "A great pleasure, Miss Wylderson."

Avrenne at least doesn't look offended. He tried™. "Mr. Mondragon, I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Count Amerith, if I recall correctly," she says after introductions have been made.

Alysson stares at her blankly.

"You burnt his house down," Miranda whispers in reminder.

"I burnt his house down," Alysson says louder. Whoops. "Y'know, by accident." An important clarification, perhaps.

Siamus twitches back very slightly. "Ah," he says, perfectly neutral.

"So I have understood," Avrenne says in a dry voice. "I expect knowing Count Amerith that he found it interesting." Good interesting or bad interesting? Who can say.

"He will not be burning anything down tonight, on that you have my word," Miranda assures them both.

Alysson smiles sheepishly.

Sil looks over at Alysson in concern. "Mine too, sir." No one who came to a party with him will burn down Fallon House.

"Of course," Avrenne agrees, and it's not just agreement, but also a suggestion that is also an order, all wrapped up in two small words spoken just so with layers of subtle inflection. "Do enjoy the evening."

Kalindra also arrives promptly. She is dressed in a well fitting blouse and trousers with a long coat overtop of it making her outfit reminiscent of a dress without her actually needing to wear one. It seems fitting attire for a lady knight. Her hair is also done up in her Azuredown headdress with blue feathers splayed out behind her head.

Florande comes into the ballroom wearing a vibrant green, knee-length dress, which highlights the green of her hair. Her usually-ragged hair is trimmed neatly and curled, one might assume not by Florande herself. She turns to smile hopefully at her… date? Raschal. She has entered the room, and she has no idea what to do now.

Raschal's lanky form is covered by a dashing dark suit and a tie the color of Florande's dress. He also has a jaunty hat. He greets the hosts with a sort of slangy, boyish enthusiasm, then drags Florande straight to the food.

Janice Mattingly arrives just at the point where the arrivals are peaking, as though trying to slip in like flotsam on a tide.

Her three-piece suit is uniformly white, a veritable beacon of expert tailoring, but other than the color of her clothing and her chin-length blood-red hair, she seems to be doing her best at camouflage - arriving with the main flow, greeting the hosts as briefly and quietly as she can, and then finding an out of the way place to stand and observe.

Those few who get a good look at her face will see eyes rimmed with dark kohl, almost excessively,, and a touch of sheer dark lip color, giving a strangely brooding effect at odds with the crisp cleanness of her suit.

Corvin looks a little uneasy in a suit that doesn’t quite fit him in the shoulders. He probably rented it. Still, he’s cleaned up as he can, his blond hair combed tidily back for the evening. He greets the hosts, and heads over to the drinks table. On the way, he spots Janice, and freezes in place.

Lena Coit enters on Shine's arm. She is wearing a graceful, sleeveless lavender tulle gown, with lighter flowers and vines embroidered on the bodice and trailing down the skirt. On her right wrist she wears a silver bracelet set with a fog-blue aquamarine, on her left hand a ring with a matching stone, and around her neck a simple silver necklace chain. Her blond hair is down, falling freely over her shoulders.

Beside her, Shine is wearing a formal black suit. His waistcoat is a subtly-shaded gray-lilac brocade and his cravat a deep purple; he wears a cravat pin of black mother-of-pearl, the striations of silver and violet in it picked out by the candlelight as he moves.

He nods cordially to both the Fallons with a slight smile, and the couple continues past them. They live here, they don't have to stop to say hello.

Estel looks excited to be back at the house of free food, and more excited that she has managed to drag her fiancé with her. Her light blue and white-edged dress makes her look even younger than normal, like a very cheerful layer cake on legs. "Hey, Captain Admiral!" she greets Siamus at the door, and looks at Avrenne with open curiosity. "You're his wife, yeah? Hi, I'm Estel, this is my partner Shun."

The scarred man with Estel is dressed in an all black suit. He might be familiar to a number of people around, but he's missing the mask that is almost always seen fixated to his face.

Though Estel is excited and cheerful, he has a much more stern and focused look about him.

He grunts out a greeting as she introduces him to Averenne.

"Miss Herald," Siamus says with a smile. "Her Grace the Duchess Esprit, Lady Fallon." There is something in the tilt of his smile that looks a little like a dare.

He nods courteously to Shun and offers a hand, making an undisguised survey of the other man's unmasked face

"Admiral," Shun greets in turn, shaking the extended hand with a single firm gesture.

Avrenne curtseys for the one-hundredth time, which is why her legs are the strongest part of her. "Miss Herald. It's a delight to make your acquaintance. I have heard good things about you from the Admiral." There is nothing about her manner to suggest delight, although also none to suggest any negative feeling really. She's a composed coolness, neutral by elegant choice. It might contrast especially standing next to her gregarious husband. "And, Mr. Shun, is it?" The question is to confirm if this man has only one name or has a proper last name for her to refer to him as.

Siamus KTF, Avrenne.

"Just Shun is fine," he replies, misunderstanding the intention of acquiring his last name.

"You have?" Estel grins at her. "Oh, that's brilliant. Nice to meet you too."

Estel glances between Shun and Avrenne. "See, once they know somebody's last name, that's all they ever use," she explains to Shun. "That's why I'm Miss Herald all day." She looks at Avrenne, seems to consider something, and makes a snap decision. "He's Shun Kuroda. I'm going to be Mrs. Kuroda soon and I like that better than 'Miss Herald', but it's not technically true yet. We still gotta do the wedding part."

"I see. Thank you," Avrenne says with a small, elegant smile. "I wish you both congratulations on the engagement. I hope you enjoy the evening."

Siamus inclines his head to Shun. "Mr. Kuroda," he adds in courteous acknowledgement. And maybe a gleam of mischief.

"I see…" he utters to Estel, furrowing his brow as Siamus immediately gets right to what she just warned him about.

"It is not my preference to be referred to as such. But… Very well. Thank you for the invitation, Admiral."

"Thanks! I hope you two get to sit down at some point," Estel says to her hosts. "There's a lot of chairs inside if you want 'em." She grabs Shun's hand and tugs on it to indicate they should go inside.

Avrenne's eyes flick over to Siamus, a smile that flickers just a little wider than her proper small smile, something in her eyes for a moment that hints at a warmth. "Indeed there are, for a respite should there be need," she says, ostensibly to Estel.

Siamus glances down at his wife and smiles back, that sardonic, gleam-eyed look.

Shun gives another nod, then follows Estel inside. Once they're through the threshold, he does his usual thing of taking in any and all important details such as the locations of exits and the like.

Mordecai approaches Siamus and Avrenne at the door with only a little nervousness. He can't fiddle with his sleeves while he's holding Colson's hand.

Mordecai Aspenwood’s husband is at his side, holding the priest’s hand as the most natural thing in the world, dressed in a finely tailored gray blue suit, with a subtle pattern on the ivory and blue waistcoat that on closer inspection reveals itself to be embroidered sheep. His broad shoulders are emphasized in the fit of the jacket, and his soft wave wheat blond hair has been recently trimmed to the paladin’s preferred length.

Even with this outfit, with no weapon or armor in sight, he still seems like a paladin even at a glance. His only jewelry is his wedding ring, despite his hobby of jewelry making.

Colson bows for the appropriate length of time plus a little extra. "Your Grace." The words are Extremely Formal in tone. "Fallon." That is less formal, although the dialing down of formality seems to only go so far for the paladin. "Thank you for your invitation."

Mordecai bows along with his husband. "Thank you for having us," he mumbles.

"Lord Colson, Lord Mordecai." Siamus smiles warmly and offers Colson a handshake. "Very pleased to see ye both, welcome. Ye make a handsome picture."

Colson takes Siamus' hand in his strong grip, which isn't as naughty as it sounds, and he gives an adoring gentle smile to Mordecai. "Thank you."

Mordecai blushes, because of course he does. He mumbles a thank you.

"It's a delight to see you both. How is your mother?" Avrenne asks Colson (and technically Mordecai) politely.

"Well, thank you. I shall pass on your regards," Colson replies.

Neither of them make enough of a facial expression between the two of them in the exchange to light a candle.

Ismene Hazan enters on the arm of her husband. She's wearing a summer-weight gown of palest blue decorated with swirls of patterned rhinestones that give the effect of a butterfly's wings. Around her waist is a simple golden cord. She wears a bronze apple locket around her neck. Her hair is up, pinned here and there with tiny pearl accents. Her dark eyes are sparkling with eager happiness; here is a woman who loves a good gala.

Ben is wearing a dark blue suit with a waistcoat in a pale blue and silver brocade to complement his wife’s airy gown. His cravat is also pale blue, and disarranged in a way that suggests it’s already been tugged at uncomfortably a few times. His hair has not required as much taming as usual, thanks to his relatively recent death-by-fire, and he looks rather distinguished apart from the cravat thing and the way his gaze slides warily around the ballroom.

Nesselos is there in a human-style black suit – from the size of his shoulders, he probably had it specially tailored. He pauses just inside the ballroom, glancing down affectionately to Kaerix as they approach the hosts.

Kaerix, wearing an elegant burgundy gown that compliments her dark blue hair and complexion, is already smiling serenely as she enters, but her smile triples in wattage when she spots Siamus. She whispers excitedly to Nesselos and hurries them forward, so she can curtsey to the Fallons.

"Your Grace, Admiral," she says. "I am so delighted to be here at your home this evening. Thank you for the invitation."

Nesselos quickly follows and offers a clumsy bow, following Kaerix's lead.

Siamus smiles warmly to Kaerix and offers a courteous half-bow in return. "Delighted ye could make it, Kaerix. Ye look lovely." He nods to Nesselos and offers a hand. "Admiral Fallon."

Nesselos shakes it, maybe a little too firmly. It's enthusiasm. "Nesselos, sir. I am so happy to be here."

Siamus flashes him a brilliant smile. "And we're happy to have ye. Enjoy."

The exceptionally tall eldest ward of House Esprit-Fallon gives a proper bow to his parents guardians, and then makes his way into the room with the ease of a gentleman who has not a care in the world, and never has. His smile is amiable and pleasant, his murky green-brown eyes only a little guarded, perhaps a man who simply doesn’t wear his heart fully on his sleeve.

As for that sleeve, it’s a warm brown of a formal wear jacket, paired with a matching subtle golden brown embroidery on brown silk of a waistcoat, topped by a maroon cravat pinned with a simple gold rectangle. There is nothing truly remarkable about it, and the man who wears it is similarly so, of pleasing average features, although notably his nose is crooked where a break was not set correctly. His hair is worn long enough to brush the edges of his collar, curling a little.

Atley, as always, takes on the appearance of a bipedal lion that’s survived an attempt of taming at the hands of civilization. His hair is still shoulder length, but it has been trimmed, along with his beard. Both sets of hair are darker in color with beard oil and pomade, his mane coaxed into a stylized wave against the back of his head. The overall cleanliness and well groomed nature of his appearance only seems to enhance the scars on his face, giving them a sculpted look.

His attire is relatively subdued. A dark tailored jacket highlights the density of his arms and the width of his shoulders, with matching fitting black slacks and shoes. His vest is styled, black with interwoven Alliance-blue threading. A simple, sturdy golden wedding band rests on his left hand’s finger, while the Seal of Wrynn glitters like a jewel on his right index finger. Naturally, he is glaring.

He appears remarkably unarmed, if you don’t include the vibrant weapon on his arm.

He looks to her as he escorts her to the Manor’s entrance and grunts. “Once more into the breach, then.”

Ivrianna wears a gown that's a black-to-blue ombre color. The bodice is snug with a star design at the waist, a gem-encrusted single strap over the opposite shoulder. The back proves to be low, skimming the bottom of her waist, with four black straps cutting across her back, joined at the star design.The skirt is soft and just touches the ground, belling around her with every step. Her hair is up, braided softly then gathered at the nape of her neck. The gather is held in place by a sapphire-and-silver hair ornament. She smiles up at Dane. "It's not a battle, it's a party. Try to remember not to behead anyone over the cheese platter."

Atley shakes his head as they enter and stoops to speak lowly to her, resting a hand on hers. “No. This is a fight, alright,” he quips, before righting himself, his gaze still on her. “I’ll save the beheadings for desert.”

He marches the both of them inside and to the entrance of the ballroom, briefly disconnecting to bow twice before the Fallons. “My Lady. My Lord. Thank you for having us. You’re most gracious hosts.”

"Sir Atley, Mrs. Atley, what a delight to see you again," Avrenne says, all ice queen politeness as she dips into the automatic curtsy. "It's an honor to have a knight of the realm of your caliber here, Sir Atley. And allow me to offer my congratulations in person, Mrs. Atley, for your most recent child's birth."

Atley inclines his head with respectful gratitude

"Thank you, your grace," Ivri says. "And may I congratulate you on the birth of your twins? Such a time saver. I should've thought of having two at once." She grins, a saucy thing that discards politeness for honesty.

Siamus, already grinning in welcome at both Atleys, laughs delightedly at Ivrianna. "Her Grace is a model of efficiency. And we're very pleased, thank ye. The both of ye look lovely this evening. Honor to have ye."

That's Avrenne Esprit Fallon — model of efficiency. She allows a small smile of a practiced elegance without any sauce for flavoring.

Atley turns to Ivrianna and scoffs with warm amusement, shining a look of deep pride and approval on her. He even tightens his arm around her with appreciation before he nods to the Fallons and escorts Ivrianna farther into the ballroom to show her off to the world.

Maisha steps into the ballroom in a sky-blue sleeveless tulle gown that matches the banded Wildhammer tattoos that cover her arms up to her neck. Her red hair is loose, just barely brushing her shoulders. She looks up… quite a ways up… to her date this evening.

Aszera enters the room quietly. Her dress today leans more towards a military style, a long-sleeved blue coat belted over a blue dress beneath. One can still see the tops of her tattoos along the collar, and she does nothing to obscure the blindfold over her eyes. She’s smiling faintly, but her manner is more soldier than socialite today.

She gives the correct curtsy Avrenne and Siamus, and the appropriate words of greeting, before she slips away to the side of the room.

Merelda is in a dark green gown embroidered with leaves, with a cluster of Gilnean roses on the right hip. Her unruly red hair cascades down her back. Aside from that, she is perfectly composed for the evening, with delicate gold jewelry on her ears and neck, and her face expertly made up. She walks into the ballroom with confidence, glancing over to the younger woman at her side.

Miss Oslynn Boles is quite possibly unrecognizable to all but her closest friends, with her normally wild brass-blonde hair pulled sedately into an updo, secured by two beautiful crystal-flowered pins, one made in the image of a Gilnean rose and one some manner of white wildflowers. The deep red rose is the only color on her. Her off-the-shoulder dress is silver, the tight bodice suggesting chain mail, the sleeves and skirt filmy and full and feminine. Her shoulders and hips are perhaps a bit too broad and sturdy, but the sleeves conceal her well muscled arms.

The most startling thing is her face. Clean and glowing, scarcely any color and no liner applied to her already full and flushed lips. All attention has been drawn to her eyes, highlighted also with luminous silver, her long lashes darkened and lined. A touch of powder and rouge has given her a ladylike complexion. For possibly the first time in her life, Oslynn is empirically, non-controversially beautiful.

She herself seems aware of this and unsure what to do with it; her posture is straight, her body language appropriately mannerly but a bit stiff as though with fear. Beneath the silvered paint and dark lashes, her eyes lack their usual glow of enthusiasm.

Perhaps it is the hint of the proximity of Merelda, her backstage knowledge, or her usual observant nature, but Lena looks at Miss Oslynn Boles with a faint and knowing smile. She reaches over to nudge Shine and says, "Look. That's her, if I'm not wrong."

Shine studies Ozzy with a moment's bemusement, and then his eyebrow goes up. "Tides a'mighty, it is, isn't it?" He gives a low, smiling whistle.

"Lady Merelda," Avrenne greets. "How wonderful to see you again." Her attention holds the proper beat on her, and then looks to Oslynn, waiting patiently for the formal introduction.

"I am pleased to introduce Miss Oslynn Boles," Merelda says, with a faint smile, gesturing the younger woman to make her greetings — like she's practiced.

Oslynn curtseys deeply to Avrenne. "Lady Fallon," she says in a Stormwind-noble accent. Then another curtsey. "Lord Fallon. How do you do."

Merelda looks unusually proud.

That catches Avrenne's attention in a very different way, a flash of something around her eyes, a flicker around her mouth. Her tone is not quite as cool, though it'd be a stretch to call it warm. "Miss Boles. How lovely to make your acquaintance. I was briefly acquainted with your sister, Lieutenant Boles. I was sorrowed by her loss, though I remember her bravery in her service and sacrifice for the Alliance."

Siamus looks genuinely astonished, and then delighted. "Lady Merelda," he says, "And Miss Boles. What a great pleasure to see ye both." He offers for Merelda's hand to bow courteously over it, and then makes the same offer to Oslynn.

For a moment Ozzy's face does a 404 Page Not Found thing. She glances briefly at Merelda, and the cut of her dress makes the sudden pounding of her heart all too visible as she rifles mentally through her Phrasebook.

She turns back to Avrenne then and says, in the same perfect Stormwind accent, "You are too kind, my lady." Another deep curtsey, deep enough to hide her expression briefly.

Avrenne returns the curtsy automatically. "Do please enjoy the evening," she says, equally by rote, but likely sincerely.

At some point in all of this, Sgt. Zath Tyrrell of the 7th Legion arrives alone and gives the Fallons a greeting that appears to everyone else like such cold politeness it is almost rude, and to the Fallons is likely understood as though he had hugged them both and sobbed briefly on each shoulder.

Velrin is all smiles as she gets ready to enjoy a night of socializing. Nylarria, however, seems a little on edge. The trio makes their way inside and greets the hosts.

"Thank you for the invitation, Lord and Lady Fallon." Velrin beams.

Nylarria quietly broods behind her veil.

"Of course. Thank you for coming. Do enjoy the evening," Avrenne says, the usual litany of a hostess who has practiced until every reiteration is as elegant and regal as the last.

"Miss Silverbloom, welcome. We're very glad to have ye. Ye look exquisite. Evensong, a pleasure. Ta speaks in glowing terms."

(If that is sort of hard to imagine, it's because it's a polite fib. Sintha doesn't speak in sincerely glowing terms about anyone.)

He turns his attention to Nylarria and pauses a moment to consider her blindfold. "And a pleasure to have ye here as well, Miss — ?"

"Nylarria." Velrin speaks up on her behalf, "She's a close companion of ours." She smiles.

Nylarria remains still and adds, "Are you aware there is a demon in your home? It's been making its way here ahead of us this whole time."

"Aye," says Siamus affably to Nylarria, as though this is both a very normal question and a very normal thing to have in one's home. "Glad to have ye, Miss Nylarria. Enjoy yourself, please. I might suggest, while you're here, that ye seek out a close friend of mine, a Miss Aszera Sunstrike. I believe you'll recognize her. She's a long-time guest of ours, friend of the family."

Nylarria tilts her head, "Sunstrike… What sounds like a Sin'dorei name." She pauses in thought, "An Illidari?"

"I will leave the lady to address her own business, should ye encounter her. But I assure ye she's a loyal member of the Alliance." There is a slightly warning emphasis on the last sentence, though Siamus continues to smile. "Please. Enjoy the gathering."

Nylarria nods, "If she is the same as me then there is no issue. I just thought you might want to know."

Velrin's face grows purple as she blushes in embarrassment, "Just trying to keep everyone safe! That's right. It's my duty as a Watcher." She chuckles nervously.

"Naturally. Our guest list is, of course, curated specifically with an awareness of safety for our guests. You may assume that the ballroom is so, and that you may enjoy an evening off from duty," Avrenne says in a cool tone that holds its own subtle warning. "Please, try the refreshments."

Nylarria seems perplexed by the notion of being 'off duty', but Velrin drags her away before she can ask any more questions.

"Of course! We just didn't expect to have another demon hunter here. Just trying to lend a hand hehe…" And the trio shuffles off…

Anareline Silvershade enters the ballroom, glancing around as if sizing up the defenses. Her serious expression is at odds with the sleeveless, silver-grey silk dress that falls over her form like water or moonlight. Her long dark blue hair is down, and what’s visible of her upper body looks like a soldier – lean and strong. She turns to Lord and Lady Fallon and nods slightly in greeting. There's a moment of silence where she waits to see if they will speak first.

Avrenne gives Anareline a beat before she curtseys. "Thank you for coming," she says, to at least open the conversation.

"Thank you for the invitation," Anareline says, and seems to be searching for the right words for a fancy party. It's possible she hasn't been a fancy party in…. a very long time. "I am… Anareline Silvershade. I am here as a part of the invitation extended to Cobalt Company, for those who fought Deathwing."

"Oh, of course. It's an honor to meet you at last, and to have a sentinel of your standing with us tonight. Ralaea has spoken well of your instruction and training. I am her guardian, Duchess Avrenne Esprit, Lady Fallon. You may call me Lady Fallon, unless you have a preference for another title," Avrenne says graciously.

"I am pleased to meet you as well, Lady Fallon. Ralaea is a promising student," Anareline says calmly. "I am not a Sentinel, though I have been assisting my daughter in Ashenvale for some time during the current troubles. My military history predates the organization."

"My apologies for the assumption. I am not as familiar with the full history of the kaldorei military structure as I would like," Avrenne says. "That is an exceptionally long time to be in service, and I commend you for your dedication. I do hope you enjoy the evening for a moment of celebration as gratitude for your recent efforts in ensuring the safety and sanctity of our world."

Siamus offers Anareline a solemn half-bow. "We're grateful for your work with Ralaea. She speaks very highly of ye."

Anareline looks at Avrenne and then Siamus very seriously, choosing her words with care, and finally says, "I hope you are pleased with the results. As for military history… I was a soldier before the Sundering, and since then I have been…. primarily a trainer of the following generations. It is recently that I have taken up arms again, in defense of our world. I can speak with you at more length at an appropriate time, if you would like to know more of our traditions."

"I would be delighted to," Avrenne says, although it's hard to read anything like delight in the tone, but sincerity at least is there. "Do enjoy the evening."

"Aye, I'd be glad of the opportunity," Siamus tells her. Yes please let us discuss Fighting.

The Fallons can have a little war talk, as a treato.

"Until then," Anareline says, with another slight bow. Once she takes her leave of the hosts, she looks around the room blankly, until she spots Auralind by the ham. She makes for her immediately.

Close to the end of Proper On Time arrivals, Stormwind’s most infamous lawyer (I’d say in ‘certain circles, at least’ but all those circles are actually the people here, so), Alwynneria Demasco, inches into the ballroom sideways, following the wall of the door, in an attempt to get into the room without anyone realizing she’s in the room. It’s a little more difficult than it might have been if she were wearing her usual serious suits, because someone has Helped the woman out. Her dress is a rich, warm plum color that does wonders for her sallow complexion, the deliberate tucks and drapes giving her form some real shape, and her ordinarily limp mouse brown hair has been softly curled, while someone’s taken a bit of cosmetics to her wide eyes and thin lips to sweeten both. A necklace with a single delicate pearl graces her throat.

The way she moves though suggests that she wishes she had a lampshade over her head.

Accompanying her, much more normally striding to the hosts for a jovial handshake is Xandros “Andy” Demasco, dressed comfortably in a relaxed suit, with loafers that barely fit the standard of the dress code. His hair has gone whiter, and his appearance for his age has slid closer to the actual number, since his time in the campaign for a seat on the House of Nobles, where recent war and strife in Elwynn has taken a toll. Still, his eyes are twinkly merrily now, especially as he’s caught sight of the shrimp table.

About ten minutes after the appointed hour, Arthur Reeves appears before the gates of the Fallon estate in a puff of logic. He walks up to the house bearing a bouquet of outland flowers, arranged in a tall spray and trimmed with a cobalt blue ribbon. He hands it over immediately and follows to the ballroom, more glowed up than he's ever been in his life. Tall navy riding boots, stitched all over with cobalt blue thread depicting feathers. gleaming midnight blue mageweave trousers tight enough to be hose cover his legs. His coat, knee length and split for riding is belted closed with a wide leather sash with stitching matching his boots. On his label, a silver brooch hammered into the symbol of the Kirin Tor held aloft by the wings of Cobalt Company shines.

Art himself is clean shaven with his white hair left to hang loose down his back. Cobalt babe has definitely arrived.

He smiles at people, but excuses himself. "I've been at the mercy of Benny Scissorshine all day, I'm starving, I'm going to demolish the buffet."

Siamus has locked his target. Hello, Cobalt babe. You will be meeting Admiral Fallon at more leisure later.

Count Lester Amerith arrives in good time, wearing his usual silvery grey suit, black waistcoat, and white shirt. It’s the suit he wears to every occasion, from daily business in the House of Nobles, to casual strolls along the canals. Only rarely does he ever seem to change up his wardrobe, and today is not one of those days.

He steps out of his carriage and turns back, offering a hand to a woman in a matching black and silver dress. It is a very large ballroom dress, flaring out around her and filling the doorway of the carriage. After a theatrical flash of magic from Lester, the woman leaps out, a surprisingly graceful movement, and floats — yes, floats, her falling speed magically slowed — to the ground. Her dress remains, somehow, in place around her.

The woman in question is recognizable to some as Adrien Velart, the star of the Briarthorn Witch play put on by Lester many months ago, and the occasional vocal accompaniment to another of the Count’s acts, a man by the name of Silver, whose repertoire ranges from opera to ballads, and often mournful elegies. Her pale brown hair is gathered into a loose chignon, and her expression is composed and dignified.

Adrien takes Lester’s arm as they proceed into the house, their pace slow, strange, and deliberate, definitely not indicative of either of their strides, and liable to block the traffic of anyone caught behind them. When at last they reach the hosts, Lester offers his usual dramatic bow in greeting, Adrien performing an uncharacteristically wobbly curtsy at his side.

“Lady Fallon, Admiral Fallon,” he says. “A lovely event, as ever.”

Adrien’s skirts titter. Then shush themselves. Adrien herself manages to keep her expression frozen in pleasant neutrality.

Siamus regards Adrien's skirts with interest, and probably not for the usual sort of reason. "Amerith," he says. "A pleasure. Miss Velart, welcome. What an extraordinary gown."

The gown shifts on its own, followed by another hushing.

Adrien remains perfectly composed, bowing her head to Siamus. "Lord Fallon, thank you for your kind words," she says smoothly.

Avrenne's eyes flick to Adrien's skirt. "Indeed, most interesting," Avrenne remarks in agreement with. "It's always a pleasure to see what you might bring to enhance the loveliness of an event, Count Amerith. Shall I forward to what tonight's will be, or perhaps underneath to it?"

Adrien glances to Lester, who gives her a slight nod. Stepping back for more room, she lifts her skirts ever so slightly, so as not to reveal anything scandalous, and five maids in slim dresses of black and silver emerge from beneath. They each curtsy in practiced unison, greeting the Lord and Lady of the house as the Count introduces them.

Siamus bows to the gaggle of young ladies with perfect bland, gentlemanly equanimity and that glint in his gaze. "Ladies, welcome. What a delightful entrance. Now I shall spend the evening wondering whether any of our other lady guests is hiding ladies under her skirts."

He was probably gonna wonder something like that anyway.

Avrenne gives a hum of a laugh, her mouth closed to contain the sound in her chest, but her eyes gleam with mischief, blinked away back into composure when the final maid makes it out of the clown car dress.

"Always interesting to witness one of your unique entrances, Count Amerith," she eventually says, back to an elegant lady once more.

Almeiria arrives just behind Count Amerith, Her arm linked with Ilanya’s. Her hair is its usual straight black curtain, and her dress is a deep purple trailing into a black skirt, her arms faintly visible through the sleeves. Ilanya’s dress is the same black and silver as Count Amerith’s other maids, and her short blonde hair adorned with a clip of silver snowdrops. Her fingernails, though, are painted their usual cherry pink.

They greet the hosts in their customary ways, Almeiria with her smoothly sweet tone, and Ilanya in an extremely demure manner, suggesting she is nothing more than a humble servant who is privileged to be present at such an occasion.

House Lysander arrives as a unit. Lord Lysander is in military dress blues, while Lady Lysander, their daughter Alaisa, and their son Kyris are all dressed in suits reminiscent of the Lord of the House. Alaisa pushes her mother's wheelchair.

Siamus offers firm handshakes to both of the Lysander men, and then bows to the two ladies as a collective. "Lady Lysander, Lady Alaisa." Alaisa has a name, even.

Emerine approaches the Fallons at the door with an air of familiarity. She is wearing a form-fitting black dress, sleeveless and backless, with a leg slit. Emerine is lean, with little in the way of curves to speak of, and her bare arms make it obvious that she is well-muscled. Her green hair has reached her shoulders by now, and her eyebrows are well on the way to ordinary kaldorei length after their unexpected trim from Deathwing.

"Lord Fallon," Emerine says with a faint smirk. "Your Grace. It is a delight to be here as a guest rather than an employee today." She sounds like she's flirting with both of them.

At the flirtatious tone directed potentially at her, Avrenne's expression grows chillier, her eyes flintier, and her manner more remote, not less. "Miss Nightvine," she greets, with a tone cool enough to be possibly refreshing in the early summer heat. "Welcome. I do hope it proves a delight."

Siamus offers Emerine a warm, slanted smile. "Sentinel Nightvine. What a great pleasure to see ye again."

Emerine does not look offended at all, just happy to be there. Perhaps 'flirting' is her default setting. "You have such a lovely home," Emerine says, looking between Avrenne and Siamus as she speaks. There's real warmth in her words. "Thank you for inviting all of us."

"You are always welcome," Siamus tells her, with another smiling inclination of his head.

Lord Bertrand helps his wife out of their carriage, and the two of them proceed to the Fallons at the door like they have done this many times. Bertrand's dress uniform is immaculate, and his long hair is worn down. Priscilla, dressed in pink and yellow, has lost a lot of weight, and it looks like it may take her a little time to return to her usual level of plumpness - but she's been working on it. She looks better than she did a couple weeks ago; the improvement is obvious to Avrenne. Her sunshine smile illuminates the evening. "Avrenne, oh, every time you outdo yourself," Priscilla says, reaching out for a socially acceptable Friendship Handclasp.

Avrenne accepts Priscilla's hands warmly, smiling at her friend. Bertrand has been temporarily edited out of the picture, sorry, Birdie, she'll get you back in a moment. "Priscilla. You're looking wonderful, dearest, and you mustn't disagree with me on principle, for I won't hear anything to contrary that you are anything less than perfectly lovely tonight," she says. "I am so glad you could make it."

This said, she turns her head to include Bertrand back in (see? just as she said she would) with a smaller smile. "Lord Bertrand." Oh, that's it, that's the statement.

"Lady Priscilla," Siamus says. "What a pleasure to see ye out again. Ye look radiant." He does not reach for her hand to bow over it, perhaps chiefly because his wife is still clasping her hands and he is not going to get between a Duchess and her best friend. Instead, he smiles and offers a handshake to Birdie. "And Lord Bertrand. Congratulations, man."

Priscilla squeezes Avrenne's hands. "Oh, I shan't argue with the two of you and Birdie. If you say I look wonderful, it must be true."

Bertrand nods, shaking Siamus's hand. "Fallon. Your Grace. Thank you."

"Of course it is," Avrenne agrees. She gives Priscilla a squeeze back, and then releases her friend. "There are chairs if you need them should you grow tired or footsore, and of course the library is open for a respite from the noise, and the gardens are pleasantly cool if you grow overwarm. Do be sure to avail yourself if you need them." It's a motherly sort of fussing, though she's technically younger than Priscilla. She's a step away from patting Priscilla's hair and checking to be sure Priscilla's packed a fan and a cardigan in case the gardens are too cool.

"I will, I will," Priscilla promises. "I'll see you inside later." She takes Bertrand's arm, and the two of them proceed into the ballroom.

About twenty minutes after the invited hour, a dapple gray mare in a paladin's dressy tack slows to a trot before passing through the gates, its rider seated side-saddle. She accepts a hand in dismounting, entrusts the (small, agile, battle-trained) mare to a groom and enters the manor, remembering the names of staff she's met here before. She surrenders a gleaming mithril shield and a slender longsword to Vane. "It's fancier that way," she confides with a grin.

Ionala Webster arrives at the ballroom in frothy, full white sleeves gathered at long cuffs fastened by a tight row of fiendishly tiny buttons. Those same buttons close a long bead-embroidered sleeveless frostweave robe in icy blue that flares away from her waist, split down the front to let her long stride free. Deep cobalt blue trousers nearly hide the toes of her flat-heeled dancing slippers.

Her blond hair is dressed in a confection of braids and curls pinned with pearls and blue topaz. it's complex, pretty, and a wise eye knows it won't budge an inch in a fight with three ogres. Miss Webster has grown into a dashing figure over the months of paladin training alongside her duties as a priest.

Ralaea does not emerge with the same punctuality as Harvey. In fact, she is nearly late, possibly spending every last second with her swords before she has to bid them farewell. Her dress is a Kul Tiras green, with off-the-shoulder straps and a smattering of sparkles. She takes the stairs at a slow and easy pace — by now, she has trained for this — and skips the ballroom entirely. No need for her to greet the hosts, she lives here. Instead, she heads straight into the room containing Harvey to greet her fiancé.

Gausandy has been there at the gala this whole time! He arrived on time. Not fashionably late, not early. In the foyer, he looks for the gnome he was supposed to come with, Natlee. He's wearing a light blue suit with a dark blue shirt, a orange flower bursting from his welt pocket.
Later Arrivals

Cerethan is all but fashionably late - only late. He's wearing his usual blue and black battle-outfit - he didn't understand it was that type of event. At least, his turban is fancy no matter the occasion! In the foyer, he blinks between the guests, rushing to the auction. Here's hoping he didn't miss anything good!

The former first daughter of the Elwynn Kensington-Whits enters the house unusually – where she would have once had canes or crutches, she now floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee with the power of the Light in [Levitate]. She’s held closer to the ground by her grip on her escort, a paladin guard, keeping her only two or three inches above the floor, which puts the couple at the appearance of being the exact same height. Her attitude is confident, and comfortable, immersed again in a world she grew up in, and she looks the part of belonging in this place: her dress is light blue with a poofy skirt, and a scandalous neckline half covered with frothing overlay of soft white tulle that drapes over the entire dress, flecks of black beads stitched strategically in places that catch in the light, in a mimicry of the Summer Azure butterfly.

The ominous hovering does things to the movement of the dress, which seems weightless, and it might strike two notes equally of unsettling and beautiful, which is appropriate for the worgen lepidopterist who wears it. Her hair is down, styled with an artful wildness around her face and touching her shoulders, and she’s done things with kohl to her eyes that give her a seductive twist to every expression she makes.

She seems electric with energy in contrast with her unhappy moping a year ago at her last social event of the Aspenwood-Moore wedding, tugging on Lathrik’s arm eagerly, her eyes lustrous with delight, and her smile wicked with promise.

Lathrik is dressed in his military dress uniform of Stormwind blue and gold, followed a few paces back by Reniya, wearing the same. He does not look particularly excited to be here, especially not this late, but there is resignation in his steps, and a soft fondness in his gaze as he moves along with Natalyah.

Reniya is already scanning the ballroom for someone to flirt with.

Natalyah surveys the gathering closely from where they are, even easing up on her grip on Lathrik to intentionally float up higher so that she can see over people's heads. Whatever she sees makes her grip his arm tighter, a wave of emotion rippling across her face, and a breathless laugh.

"They're not here," Natalyah says, somewhat enigmatically. She looks at Lathrik with a strange mix of triumph and surprise. "They invited me, and snubbed my parents. Or were invited in such a way that they knew they weren't really invited. The Fallons chose me." The emotions are strong enough to make her lean her face closer to his and breathe him in to center herself.

"I'd be havin' words with our hosts if it were different," Lathrik says, his tone serious despite the lazy smile on his face. Strong words, probably.

Azizia arrives fashionably late. As she's seen wearing an off-the-shoulder, short coral and white dress. A light blue, semi-transparent shrug with white embroidery mimicking waves is tastefully off of her shoulders and wrapped around her elbows. It's very long, sweeping the ground as she walks. Her hair is its usual curls, with one strand carefully tucked behind her ear and the other elegantly falling in front of her face. A coral and light blue handkerchief is wrapped around the back of her head, like she used to wear when she was trying to heal people after the events of Wrathgate. Ankle bracelets made of pearls fall delicately around her hooves, matching the dangling pearl earrings she's wearing. It seems she's taken a page from Natlee's book, and she's using this event to show with a sea-inspired outfit that she's trained as a water shaman, not only a fighter anymore.

Conversations

Natlee, Sandy

An absolutely gorgeous little gnome in a scandalous but fashionable blue dress approaches him, her doll-like face spoiled by a grimace.

"What! Are! You! Wearing!" she hisses between clenched teeth. "OMT, when I said blue I didn't mean like -" she makes a spastic, world encompassing gesture with her tiny, tastefully but lavishly beringed, four fingered hands. "EVERY blue in creation, plus orange!"

Sandy blinks. "I didn't know which blue! I thought… blue goes well with blue, no matter the blue right?" he looks around for other people dressed in blue. "And mom said the orange flower would look good with that! She said it would pop!"

"Ugggggh whatEVER, here." Natlee makes a few adjustments to the fall of his coat. "Undo that button there, I can't reach it. We can salvage this a bit." She fusses over him.

Sandy obeys. "Are you sure? Will it look formal like that? I wouldn't want to disrespect the Fallons by looking to casual!" He chuckles. "I mean, my mom wouldn't want me to disrespect the Fallons with how I dress!"

"As long as you make it fashion, it's fine," Natlee says encouragingly. She now has the air of a brain surgeon in mid operation as she fiddles with his clothes. "I am doing my best to make this look, like, on purpose. Lift me up so I can fix your hair."

Sandy nods. She seems to know what she's doing. He picks her up and raises her up to his head. His long hair is slicked back.

Natlee runs eight fingers through it, mussing it artfully. It's also rather a relaxing sensation, like a scalp massage. She keeps leaning back to peer at her work, then pulling out more strands to dishevel flatteringly just so. She does not weigh very much at all.

"There," she says. "Now you look like a rebel instead of a — um, instead of how you looked. Let's go in and be seen!"

Sandy's eyes widen a little. "Am I supposed to look like a rebel here?" He's not so sure she knows what she's doing anymore. He lowers her back to the floor.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Natlee says sweetly, deploying her big blue eyes. "Not, like, a war rebel. I mean a fun rebel. An iconoclast. Half the fun of events like this is dressing all newfangled and shocking. It's sexy! It will get people talking about you!"

Sandy pauses to think about this. He pauses for a long time. "Do I want people talking about me?" he thinks to himself. He opens one more button on his shirt. he's blindingly pale. Then, he rolls up his pants' flowy left leg, showing off his prosthetic. "Okay, I'm ready!" He grins at Natlee.

Natlee leans in to get a closer look at the prosthetic. "Cool," she declares. "Who made that?"

Sandy shrugs. "I don't know! But it's human made."

"Wow, I didn't know humans were any good at making things," she says. She gives each of her cheeks a gentle pinch, then presses her lips together to freshen up her lip gloss."Okay, I'm ready to go in!"

Sandy chuckles at the comment. "I'm ready too! I hope the guy you didn't want to invite you isn't in there," he offers Natlee his hand as he's ready to step further into the event.

"Ugggggggh," Natlee replies. "If he is we will know immediately, as he will probably be like, drinking straight from the punch bowl or telling girls stuff about, I don't know… rocket car engines." She eyes Sandy up and down, mostly up. "Please don't do either of those things."
Sandy laughs. "I wouldn't even know where to start to talk about rocket car engines!"

"Oh thank the Titans," says Natlee, as she and Sandy make their eye catching entrance.

Stelliana spots Sandy and Natlee coming into the ballroom and stares in amazement. So fashion! The staring is obvious. It might even have been audible, if she hadn't had her mouth full of cheese.

Auralind

Auralind has positioned herself by one of the refreshment tables, as if guarding it. Surely it's not merely because it puts the cured Elwynn ham within arm's reach.

Zath, Bertrand, Priscilla

Bertrand and Priscilla return to the ballroom. Bertrand guides his wife over to the chairs, where she takes a seat.

"Are you hungry?" Bertrand asks her. "Thirsty? I can get you something."

"Oh, I'll eat the entire buffet if they let me," Priscilla says, chuckling. "But I suppose you can bring me some cheese. If you see Finley, send him my way, would you?"

"Of course." Bertrand kisses her hand and then skirts around the edge of the room towards the buffet table to begin making a plate for his wife.

To his delight, one of his friends is also nearby. "Zath," Bertrand greets, smiling warmly.

At the refreshment tables, a lone, pale, gaunt, brooding gent in a 7th Legion dress uniform eats one (1) single strawberry.

Zath is trying to be an ice sculpture, but one cannot be an ice sculpture at the sight of a friendly golden retriever man, especially when you have not seen said man in a little while.

"Lord Bertrand," he says formally, though his tone is not formal at all, but warm and velvety. "It does me good to see your wife looking so well and hale. I heard rumors, and I was concerned. You must be overjoyed."

Merelda, Oslynn, Arric, Maisha

Once the greetings are concluded, Merelda gestures Ozzy into the ballroom, and comments very quietly, not to be overheard, "Remember, it is polite to have a reasonable number of snacks."

Ozzy presses a hand against her abdomen, encased in a tight bodice, and whispers to Merelda, "'M'afraid to eat a fign oi am…"

"It'll get easier as you go," Merelda says reassuringly, and whether she means her bodice will loosen up, or the whole act will be easier, she leaves unclear.

Arric escorts his date over toward Merelda and Ozzy with an almost ungentlemanly swiftness. When Ozzy spots him, she stands up a little straighter, and something hopeful lights up her eyes as she arranges her skirt.

"What happened?" Arric says to her nervously, without even a greeting. "I saw your delay in answering Her Grace."

Ozzy looks immediately crestfallen down at the floor, though she is careful to keep her bare shoulders from slumping.

Arric, seeing she's not going to answer, looks to Merelda.

"Lady Fallon was acquainted with her sister," Merelda says in a low voice. "It was a bit of a shock, but I think she recovered well. I'd consider it a success."

Maisha looks on curiously.

"Ye look lovely, lass," Maisha says in a strong Wildhammer accent she is not even attempting to hide.

Ozzy smiles tentatively at Maisha. "You flatter me," she says, very Stormwindily.

Arric, seeming satisfied with Merelda's explanation, relaxes a bit, his gaze roving the ballroom.

"Oh, I try to aim for truth o'er flattery," Maisha grins, completely oblivious that she's getting phrase-booked. "I don't think we've met? I'm Maisha Cloudskimmer. Arric and I have kind of play-dates for our raptors." That is probably not a euphemism. What would it even be a euphemism for?

"Oslynn Boles," Ozzy says. "How do you do." She curtseys. "Raptors? How interesting. Do go on." It's straight out of the Phrasebook, but a current of urgent sincerity runs through it, threatening to shatter the words with its pressure.

Arric is giving Ozzy a peculiar look. "I didn't realize you were interested in raptors," he says.

She shoots him a sudden smolderingly furious look that clearly says YOU AIN'T NEVER ARSKED, YOU TIT, before her face melts back into bland noblewoman amiability.

"Oh indeed," she says. Then she turns to Maisha. "I should like that very much, thank you."

"Then it's a plan," Maisha says, looking between the two of them with mild bemusement.

Merelda raises her eyebrows at Ozzy's smoldering fury, and says calmly, "But for now, I think you've made a lovely start, Miss Boles. Let's see how the evening unfolds? There are any number of people here, mercenaries and nobles, for you to converse with."

Ozzy gives a bright, fixed smile. Oh how lovely. So many people to converse with.

Maisha laughs. "Oh, it's no' so bad, lass. If ye get knackered, ye can always jus' rest by the wall an' most folk will leave ye be. But then, I'm one o' the mercenaries, no' one of the nobles."

Ozzy waits for a moment when Arric and Maisha seem to be engaged in friendly conversation with one another, their attention off her, to whisper forlornly to Merelda, "I ain't fink it's workin'," she says. "It ain't loike I pictured."

"No?" Merelda asks, looking Ozzy up and down, looking around the room. "What's different?"

"I dunno," Ozzy whispers sulkily. "I f'ought… oi'd walk in an' a dozen noblemen would be instantly smitten an' foightin' for my attention. Just… stupid daydreams. Loike when I used to pretend oi was a lost princess. Nuffing ever turns out loike you 'ope."

Arric has noticed her extended whispering to Merelda, and he frowns.

"Miss Boles," he says in Teacher Voice, "you can save private conversations for private moments."

Ozzy gives him another flash of an angry look, then settles back into bland approachable ladylike vibes.

Shine, Lena, Oslynn, Arric, Merelda, Maisha

Shine glances down at Lena and gives her the subtle suggestion of a nod in Ozzy's direction before he escorts her toward the young woman.

"Miss Gravehowl," he greets her. (He has not been informed of the new naming convention.) "Ye look very lovely this evening. Almost too dainty to live, I daresay." This latter is delivered in a tone of deeply courteous solemnity.

"Ah, you know Miss Boles, do you?" Arric says with just a slight emphasis on the surname. "I'm Arric Falrevere. A pleasure."

"A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Shine," says Ozzy demurely, with a curtsey. "And Miss Coit."

Merelda glances down at Ozzy in concern, and looks like she might say something, but Arric's admonition moves the moment onward. What she does do is give Ozzy's shoulder a little fortifying pat.

Lena, unaware of daydreams, smiles at Ozzy. "Yes, I hardly recognized you when you came in. How are you finding the party?"

"It's lovely," Ozzy answers by rote. A brief pause. "Unseasonably warm, isn't it?"

"Ah, Lord Arric, aye. Fallon and Lady Sintha have mentioned ye. Shine." Shine offers his hand. That's it, that's his name. "I met Miss Boles a short while ago."

Arric's eyes light up. "Ah yes!" he says, shaking Shine's hand eagerly. "Table manners, wasn't it? She's just flawless at them, well done, Mr. Shine!"

Shine smiles modestly. "A very apt pupil, she was. Took to it straightaway." He nods respectfully to Ozzy herself, his eye bright.

Ozzy's smile of pure adoration and gratitude is quickly muffled into one of polite friendliness.

Arric looks down at Maisha. "Have you met Miss Cloudskimmer?" he asks Lena and Shine.
Ozzy just smiles and looks to Arric, indicating that he is In Charge of Conversation.

Maisha waves cheerily.

"I don't believe I have," Lena says, glancing to Shine.

"I believe ye've been to the house before, Miss Cloudskimmer?" Shine asks politely. "Wi' the Cobalt Eye? A pleasure to meet ye formally."

"Aye," Maisha agrees with a smile. "We were here ta report an' stayed fer dinner. It's a lovely place."

Mordecai, Colson

Mordecai squeezes Colson's hand and nods towards a figure he recognizes in the crowd, even if he doesn't know all of the others around her. "That's Lady Merelda. Should we, um. Say hello? Or is she busy…?"

"I believe we can speak with her, if you would like," Colson says after a moment's consideration of the conversation. "Or does it seem as though they may want some privacy, what they might be able to have?" The guy is not known for his excellent read on facial expressions and body language, after all. It doesn't look like they're in a heated debate, but…

Mordecai shrugs helplessly. "It's a big group," he mumbles, indicating Lena and Shine (who he knows) and Maisha and Oslynn and Arric (who he does not). "But nobody's… yelling, so." He starts nervously towards Merelda.

Shine, Lena, Oslynn, Arric, Merelda, Maisha, Mordecai, Colson

Lena looks over as Mordecai and Colson arrive, and then Merelda notices where she's looking and turns. "Oh! Lord Colson, Lord Mordecai. A pleasure to see you here."

Shine straightens from his polite conversational lean toward Maisha and offers a faint smile and a nod to Colson and Mordecai.

Lena looks over as Mordecai and Colson arrive, and then Merelda notices where she's looking and turns. "Oh! Lord Colson, Lord Mordecai. A pleasure to see you here."

"Lord Colson, Lord Mordecai," says the young lady in the silver dress, curtseying impeccably. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Good evening, everyone," Colson says politely, bowing appropriately.

"May I introduce you to Miss Oslynn Boles?" Merelda says, gesturing to the young woman. "This is the former ward I was speaking of earlier. And do you know everyone else?"

"Hello," Mordecai says softly, and bows.

"It's nice to meet you," Mordecai says very quietly to Oslynn.

"I know, um," Mordecai mumbles, gesturing subtly to Shine and Lena. He looks at Arric and Maisha with shy curiosity.

"Ah," Colson says, as he bows to Oslynn again. His expression is a stoic neutrality that makes it difficult to know if he approves, disapproves, is counting the seconds until he can leave for a wedge of cheese, or mentally working his way through prayers. Anything could be going on in that head.

Maisha waves cheerfully. "I'm Maisha Cloudskimmer, with Cobalt Company."

Oslynn watches Colson from the corner of her eye, possibly studying him for role model purposes.

To Mordecai and Colson, Shine says courteously, "And this is Lord Arric Falrevere, of Tiragarde, an old family friend of the Fallons'. He's with Cobalt Company as well."

"Oh, aye?" Maisha says cheerfully. "We've likely been around the same places, then, even if we'd not known each other at th' time."

Colson inclines his head politely to Arric.

Arric bows to Mordecail and Colson, a smile on his face when he rises. "What a pleasure to meet the both of you. I'm well familiar with your service to the Alliance… and to the Light! I'm studying the Light myself at present in my free time, as it isn't spoken of much where I come from, and I find it most fascinating."

"Nice to meet you," Mordecai says softly to Arric. "You've… heard of us?"

Miss Oslynn Boles, standing with Lena, Shine, Arric, Maisha, and Merelda, has forgotten for a moment to pretend to be interested in the conversation and just staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaares at Art as he drifts by.

"Oh of course I have!" Arric says, looking genuinely surprised. "I suppose it's not surprising you'd be so modest, being a man of the Light, but you and your husband are some of the most highly regarded members of Cobalt Company, are you not?"

"Well, Colson is," Mordecai says, blinking at his husband. "But I've only been on a formal squad the once. Recently, um. In the Firelands."

"But were you not personally involved in unmasking- " here Arric lowers his voice to a respectful hush, "The Archbishop? Did you not give an absolutely tremendous and inspiring speech?"

Mordecai blushes. "Oh, well, yes," he says, biting his lip. His ears are starting to go red. "That was - I did give a speech. Did you - were you there?"

"I was, I was. Absolutely magnificent." He turns to include Colson in his enthusiasm. "You must have felt so deeply blessed, Lord Colson. If that had been my husband up there I think I'd have fainted dead away from pride." Is… that a thing? People faint from pride? Apparently Arric thinks it's a thing.

"I have always felt deeply blessed to know Mordecai, and more to call him my husband," Colson says, and even for the stoic paladin, the smile he turns onto Mordecai is gentle, but visible enough to be clear the words are meant truly for all the others around to see as well.

Arric clasps his hands together in delight at Colson's words about Mordecai.

The young woman in silver hasn't said a word since the introductions. Her mouth might almost be described as a pout. But nothing in her demeanor can technically be called out as unfriendly or inappropriate.

Mordecai beams and presses his hands to his cheeks. Gosh.

Janice and Reeve

Janice lurks at the edge of the room like a ghost, but while her posture and positioning projects detachment and withdrawal, her brown eyes project quite the opposite. Her gaze is intent, lingering on each person as though memorizing them. Lingering longer on Reeve and Corvin, and returning often to the Fallons and Jocoza.

Someone is taking very precise mental notes.

Reeve notes the intent gaze and steps in to speak with her, "Ms. Mattingly. You look as if you are seeing ghosts. If you aren't feeling well you should get some rest."

Janice looks up at him, and something stubborn flickers through her dark eyes.

"I believe I've been arbitrarily punished enough as of late without missing the social event of the season," she says frankly. "There are five hundred stories walking around in this room at this very minute. There is nowhere I'd rather be. Tell me what's wrong about the way I look, and I'll fix it."

"Forgive my presumption." Reeve nods contritely, "I've simply seen too many good folk lose themselves during tragedies like this."

Janice studies him with interest. "Have you? I'll admit this is my first time attempting to mix tragedy with socializing. I don't even usually attend funerals. Do you have advice?"

"Between the civil war and the Forsaken invasion I've had my fill of tragedy already. This is just one more." Reeve speaks evenly. He absentmindedly sniffs around him, "As for advice: focus on the things you can do. You won't help anyone by wishing you could help those who are beyond your reach."

Janice nods slowly, her eyes softening for just a moment before she returns to her All Business face.

"That's wise. I'll try to remember it. Try being the operative word; I am not known for my logic and good sense. Now if you'll forgive a possibly impertinent compliment, that suit is flawlessly tailored. Is there a worgen specialist for such things? I'd think there would be a learning curve for human tailors in Stormwind that would be too steep for anyone to have mastered thus far. A Gilnean tailor perhaps?"

"Aye." Reeve lifts an arm to better show off the suit, "It took some time, but I've found a tailor who has adjusted their style to better suit this form. I'm quite pleased with it." If that is true he doesn't show it in his face.

"I won't remember the tailor's name if you tell me now," says Janice, "but do send me a letter with the name later, if you have time and remember. I might like to interview them for that piece I was working on. Still working on it, by the way. A bit more likely to sell it, now." She smiles wryly.

"Is that so?" Reeve raises an eyebrow, "And I'll write to you about it later this week. I'm afraid I'm up to my neck in meetings and paperwork at the moment. I afforded myself this one luxury for now."

"No rush," Janice says. "I can only imagine. If you forget, I'll just write you a letter and pester you about it. I'm known to do such things. Have you attended a lot of parties like this? Are you much for dancing? Or do you just enjoy the food and fine wine?"

Reeve lets out a low rumble from his throat, "I've seen my share of them. My parents and sister used to parade me about to show off to their business partners." He pauses and sips some of his drink, "Not that it bothered me. I was a decorated officer, and something of a duelist. And I can dance, yes."

"I'm decent at it myself," Janice says. "Maybe we can take a spin later, once things heat up a little. Madly curious what it's like to dance with someone your height. But I'd rather not be the first out on the floor. Trying not to draw any more large-group attention than absolutely necessary. I'm more of a one-on-one kind of person."

"That is a sentiment I can appreciate. We'll have our dance later then. For now I need to take advantage of the refreshments. I've barely had the time to eat the past few days." Reeve says.

Janice, Corvin

Corvin sidles his way over to Janice, sipping from a glass of Kir. "Officer Mattingly?" he asks with some hesitance, as if unsure of his accurate identification, or possibly it's that he's unsure whether or not she's a phantasm.

Janice's herding-dog stare shifts to Corvin, inexplicably intense.

"Corvin Trent," she says. "Cobalt Company." It's not a question. She's showing off her memory.

"It is you," he says, looking her over. "Last I saw, you were at Honor's Stand. Glad to see you made it out alright. I was down south at Triumph for a while, but they send us to take word back through to Stonetalon. I looked for you on the way through, then, but didn't see you."

"You looked for me," Janice repeats. "I'm more memorable than I thought. It's the hair, isn't it."

Corvin gives a short sound like a laugh. "That, and the story… about Honor’s Stand. You're a pretty good storyteller."

Janice stares at him for a solid four seconds of absolute blank silence. Then her well-groomed burgundy brows give a little jump of realization and she barks out a short, sharp laugh.

"I didn't even remember telling you that," she says. "It's one of those stories I've told so often I don't even mark it anymore mentally. I do remember the fox that was with you. And that you seemed a bit sly yourself. You were with a draenei and a dwarf and another human. Do I say that? Another human? Or just, a human? How do you conceive of yourself, at this point? It seems to vary. There's a whole continuum."

"I'm still human, I think," Corvin says, running a hand up through his hair. "A cursed human. I didn't bring Gon with me — that's the fox — for obvious reasons. He's fine, though. Glad to see you got out of there safely."

Another strangely long stare. "Yes, I have the luck of Sargeras, it seems."

"Are you alright?" Corvin asks, finally intuiting that something is actually not alright.

Janice gestures down at her flawless white three-piece suit, the literal physical embodiment of pristine unsullied condition.

"As you can see, not a scratch on me."

Corvin nods, looking at her flawless fashion, and then raises his gaze to meet her eyes. "Yeah, doesn't necessarily mean — anyway, glad to see a familiar face here. I just got to Stormwind yesterday myself, and the invite was through my mercenary company, so… it's a really fancy party."

"Am I the only person here you know?" Janice asks Corvin. Again, that direct stare.

Celaven, Nylarria, Velrin

Once in the ballroom Velrin smiles at Ven and Nylarria, "Isn't this nice? We're all here together!"

"Yes, of course," Celaven smiles, and then hesitates before he adds, "I should tell you that I am… somewhat acquainted with Miss Sunstrike. If she's invited here, it's because she's known and trusted. We should not make any trouble on that account."

"Why would I make trouble?" Nylarria asks, "She's not a threat if she's like me."

Velrin smiles faintly at Celaven. She must be Syarra's sister that she helped him look for a couple years ago.

"Just so," Celaven says, something a little guarded in his eyes. "We may simply relax and enjoy the company."

Nylarria speaks up right away, “You can relax here. I want to find this Aszera.” Nylarria hobbles off toward Aze without another word.

Velrin sighs and shakes her head a bit, but she’s smiling, “Should we dance while we wait?”

Celaven turns to offer her his hands. "Yes, I would love to."

In the meantime, Aze is standing by the edge of the room, with an air like she's watching all the mingling people. She probably isn't, in the usual sense, because of the whole missing eyes situation.

Nylarria, Aze

Nylarria slowly makes her way over, the tap of her cane audible on the floor, but perhaps more noticeably her aura of fel energy. It’s much fainter than Aszera’s, but it’s still definitely there.

Aze definitely notices. She shifts from one foot to the other, like she might leave. She doesn't though, she stays where she is.

“Are you Azsera Sunstrike?” Nylarria asks calmly.

"Who's asking?" Aze answers, raising her chin slightly, and then she sighs. "I mean, yes, that's my name."

Nylarria is a bit taken aback by her response, “I am. I’m asking.” Her brow furrows as she tries to sense if there is someone else near her who she didn’t notice, “My name is Nylarria Felkiss.”

"Pleasure to meet you, then," Aze says, crossing her arms over her torso. "Anything I can help you with?"

“Are you one of the Illidari?” Nylarria asks. She doesn’t sound malicious. Maybe she’s just curious.

"I was, once," Aze says, with the slight ripple of a shrug in her shoulders. "No one is, anymore. Illidan's dead, and as far as I know so are the rest." Great party conversation, Aze. "Anyway, I'm loyal to the Alliance now."

“I see…” Nylarria stands awkwardly, “So you help the Alliance hunt demons now…” Nylarria tries to put the pieces together.

"Mm," Aze says, which isn't exactly a yes or a no. "Is that what you do?"

“I don’t fight for the Alliance, but I do hunt demons.” Nylarria adjusts her leg, “My master taught me that to use my powers against the people of Azeroth undermines our very purpose.”

"I take it your master wasn't Illidan Stormrage," Aze says, inclining her head. "I don't know you, but that wouldn't necessarily mean you weren't at Shadowmoon."

“I was not. My master followed in Illidan’s footsteps after he was imprisoned. I’ve been this way for centuries now.” Nylarria explains, “We planned to go to Shadowmoon and join him, but were unable to.”

"Probably for the best," Aze says, but doesn't explain further. "It's been about… three years, for me. Long enough to learn the ropes."

“I see.” Nylarria is silent as she thinks of what to say, “I am glad to have spoken with you. I didn’t expect to find someone else like me.”

"Yeah, there's not many," Aze says with a nod. "And that's probably for the best, too. Good hunting."

Nylarria walks away back to Ven and Vel without another word.

Aze seems to focus on Nylarria's departure, her expression blank, as the other woman makes her way back to the other two kaldorei. Then she puts her smile back on and refocuses on the room in general.

Nylarria, Celaven, Velrin

As Nylarria returns, Celaven looks over. "I hope it went well."

“I think it did. She was one of the Illidari but now she isn’t. She fights demons for the Alliance apparently.” Nylarria states.

Velrin smiles at her, glad to see she’s trying to talk to other people.

"Well, that is good to hear," Celaven says, smiling a little reassuringly. "My experience with her is that… she can be a little prickly."

“If you say so.” Nylarria says a bit dismissively.

Velrin looks between Ven and Nylarria, “Did you want to dance some too?” She seems to be asking Nylarria.

"If you two would like to, I can check the refreshments," Celaven offers.

“I was talking about you, silly.” Velrin pulls Ven over to Nylarria, “It’s ok. I can share.”

Celaven holds out a hand to Nylarria. "Would you like to dance?"

“I’m… not sure I know how…” She tenses up a bit as Velrin grabs her hand too and pairs her and Ven up together.

“Have fun! I’ll go get us something to eat.” Velrin disappears before either can protest.

Nylarria holds Ven’s hand lightly and freezes.

"Think of it like combat, except we're on the same side," Celaven suggests. "It's mostly a matter of matching footwork."

"If you do, I'll catch you," Celaven says, moving with her out to the dance floor. "We're on the same side, after all. Helping each other."

“Right…” Nylarria’s veil hides her face but she’s getting rather nervous. She holds onto Ven a bit tighter and inches closer to keep her balance. She holds her right leg back so it doesn’t bump into him.

Kaerix, Nesselos, Arthur

Waiting at the buffet are Kaerix and Nesselos. Kaerix lights up as she spots Art. "Arthur Reeves!" she says brightly. Burgundy silk roses adorn her pigtails; they match her elegant dress. "I don't know if you remember me. Kaerix, the shaman. I helped you retrieve some artifacts from Uldaman, and the Scarlet Monastery."

"Oh yes, I do remember! It's wonderful to see you!" Art smiles brightly. "I'm afraid my hands are full of cheese, I'm nearly faint. How are you? Tell me everything."

Arthur contentedly chats with Kaerix while he hovers by the food like a vulture.

Kaerix does indeed tell him everything. It's a lot of shamany stuff, including a project she's been working on trying to find friendly human ghosts to bind themselves to totems to teach foreigners fluent Common in a matter of hours.

"I love your suit," she says when she's finished talking shop. "Who is your tailor?"

Nesselos looks enchanted by the whole Arthur situation. "Your hair is an unusual color, isn't it? And yet somehow it suits you. So does your suit, like Kae says."

Kaerix nods, studying Art warmly. "His hair looks almost draenei!"