Snippet #10417

In between scrutinizing his coat lapels, admiring the gathered locals, and having the most engrossing chats with crows—they were always so talkative, those crows—Skógursson had a rather difficult time with keeping his hand from straying to his head. No matter how in sync he had become with his visage, his native quirks never failed to taunt him, lingering in the dark roots of his human hair and pronouncing his not-so-human gait. O, Yggdrasil, came his prayer from yesterday, directed to the mighty tree that was so prominent in his home, please make me a good dancer.

He couldn’t have been more amiable, at least on a usual basis. Even in this guise, he remained taller than nearly every attendee—that worked wonders for surveying the location, yes, but he was a guest, not a lighthouse. And the ball itself! Great gods, how many times had his two left feet nearly ruined Miss Jocelyne’s ability to walk in preparation for this night? So used to the vigorous, tribal ceremonies that roared throughout his dwelling, he had tapped into his elegant side only to find that it he’d forgotten it alongside his common sense. Still, he chuckled, and his smile continued to broaden the as he felt the light squeeze on his arm. A night had rarely been so perfect. The Faux residence, with all its grandeur, had certainly awed him to no end, but it was not his main focus for the evening.

He had used all known adjectives to describe her beauty for this evening, but even those words seemed to be lacking. She was an angel—no, no, no, that wouldn’t do; angels, as captivating as they could be in person, were far too cliché (Cliché? That was the word?) to describe someone so dear. When she spoke, he stooped slightly to match her height, then covered his mouth with his palm to stifle a rather dainty giggle. Of course he would enjoy himself! Well, they would—the experience simply wouldn’t be the same without her… or even possible, for that matter, but never mind that. After the great war of cajoling, pleading, and threatening to sob before her, all for the sake of being present here, it seemed he had no option other than to make the best of the experience. And with Jocelyne by his side, he planned to do just that.

“Not to worry, ma’am,” he replied in his curious accent, his diction less faltering than it had once been. “Elation! It is good fortune for an evening to provide such elation.” Nodding at the words, he found that he was satisfied with their awkward structure, and he looked about proudly as they halted before the gate. With a succinct bow, he accepted the invitation from his Summoner, holding it closely as if guarding a treasure. “Takk…” was his traditional way of saying his thanks.

The queue moved along at a steady clip as card after card was acquired by the doorman. Skógursson observed the jovial pairings that stepped inside, the grace of their movements, how natural they appeared. His free hand grazed over his mask once again, fingers tracing absentmindedly over the navy blue ceramic. Finding little of the façades to his liking, he had opted to modify it his own with a personal touch: It now resembled the headdress of his true form, the feathers sprouting outward like tree branches. Did it border on gaudy? Most likely, and seeing the others’ more conservative choices, he hesitated to show the invitation at the concierge’s puzzled stare. It was the same set of unique habits that had prompted him, a sheep in man’s clothing, to swivel about his head while waiting in line, to sniff occasionally at the air, to detect the scents of smog and apples and exuberant perfume and—and fire, and to sense things that might have been out of place.

Although the doorman now wore his most polite smile, and although he stepped aside to let them through, Skógi wavered at the entrance. Turning to his close friend, he twiddled his thumbs, feeling an odd mixture of gaiety and shame. “I’m sorry to inform you, Miss Jocelyne,” he said, “but I’m scared. Elated still, of course! Yet… I sense something in there. Something grim.”