Mordred. The young baron caught the thought through the static of the crowd. It was not a loud thought, not the kind that meant that he was the primary objective of someone’s focus, but enough to make him curious. One of the nobles who had been edged out of conversation with Arthur approached Mordred and leant down in order to whisper into his ear. The boy picked up his wine goblet, his head turned slightly towards his companion as the young man’s words prompted a smile. All the while the baron’s eyes discretely searched through the crowd. Everyone thought differently, and that made it easier to distinguish one mind from another when there were so many people around. It did not take him long to find her. It helped too that her mind was also racing with thoughts of the prince. Interesting.
Placing his goblet back down on the tabletop with a clunk, Mordred raised himself from his chair, excused himself politely from the company that had gathered about him, and descended the stairs. He was a far more elegant figure than his elder brother, slim and long-limbed with a natural grace that made each movement seem to flow effortlessly into the next. He had grown tall as his late teens had progressed and exuded a natural charisma that ensured that the crowd parted a little to let him past. His chain of office hung from his shoulders, the silver links stood out strikingly against their blue background and the buckles of his boots clinked a little as he walked. Mordred walked past her at first, weaving casually through the cavorting dancers, before adjusting his course in order to approach her from the bottom of the hall. He was too far away to speak to her as the glass plummeted to the floor...but he was close enough to help.
His telekinesis brought the goblet to a halt in mid-air, and the golden liquid swirled flamboyantly through the air before returning itself with a splash into its rightful place. Mordred quickened his face, closing his long white fingers around the glass without breaking stride. He smiled charmingly, gripping the stem of the goblet between his forefinger and thumb, before raising it and offering it to the girl before him. Mordred collected one of his own from a passing waiter, delivering his thanks in honeyed tones. He had seen his nephew with Alethea before. They were close, it didn’t take a genius to see that much, closer since the incident in the cove, but Mordred fancied that the little lady had read more into it than the prince. Children came of age early in Shaman, but for all that they were still children.
Mordred awkward and tumbled encounter with the wild-girl on the beach a year or so previously had provided him with something of a wake-up call. It had revealed that his not-insignificant repertoire was lacking a weapon or two. The boy knew how to be charming, and so he had swallowed his own distaste. He had been playing the game ever since, and with greater and greater frequency it had been working. Taking a sip from the glass in his hands, the baron turned his penetrating blue eyes upon Alethea. He offered her his hand as he set his empty goblet down on the nearest table, “would you care to dance, my lady?” he asked her, each word lovingly formed, as if each sound needed to be caressed before he could release it, “your dress is not the kind made for standing on the sidelines.” Mordred made his subsequent skimming admiration of her obvious as he waited for her to accept, “and neither are you.”
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