Snippet #13496

There had been a fleeting moment where Jocelyne had been impressed by Skógursson’s reply, because they had been practising often to get his speech less distinct, as it seemed that not even a strong glamour could mask the fact that her friend was most certainly not from this region at all; or even from this country for that matter. Her attempts to cull his use of his world’s native language had ended in half-hearted failure because the young lady thought that it was wrong to try and change him. After all, everyone believed the fabricated tale, even if they were not fond of her Visitor, but those admissions of dislike had only served to shorten the list of people that Jocelyne would see of her own volition.

Similarly, as the other guests behind and in front of them pointed and whispered no doubt rude comments about Skógursson’s peculiar behaviour, the young woman paid them no heed, sharply challenging anyone who dared to look at her companion with her eyes. Odd he maybe, she reasoned in her mind, but I’ll be damned if anyone calls him that in front of me.

Normally, the intrepid Visitor cared not for the opinions of others so Jocelyne was quite puzzled when he hesitated at the entrance, looking over at her with a rather curious blend of excitement and something that she did not see often on his face, which when combined with his quiet speech made her just as uneasy as he. The exuberant young creature was hardly ever unnerved, almost as unshakeable as she.

Resolutely, the young lady squeezed once more on her friend’s arm, giving the doorman an apologetic smile as she coaxed her friend just inside the entrance to the hall, shaking her head at his use of her name – there wasn’t much use wearing a mask if he was going to do that now, was there?

The splendour of the guests’ clothing and the hall were magnificent; it was clear that the majority had put a great deal of effort into this evening. Ordinarily Jocelyne would have at least given them the discerning look of an appreciative guest but this was not an ordinary moment, the lady immediately diverting her full attention upon her friend, now frowning openly at his discomfort.

“You’ve been looking forward to this masquerade for over twenty days Skógi,” she reminded him in an incredulous voice, but her eyes were hesitant, looking at the negative emotions portrayed in his hand gestures and face with concern. “But you are rarely so unnerved, so we can leave if you wish to. After all, there will be other parties and I would be a poor friend indeed if I tried to force you to stay as you are.”

The herald call interrupted their conversation briefly, manners dictating that they both observed the introduction obediently, though Jocelyne did not release Skógursson, hopefully reassuring him with her mere presence. Vespasian’s efforts were not lost upon the lady; the impressive figures of Rembrandt Faux and his constant foreign companion were etched into her mind, though she couldn’t comprehend the significance of this. A more suspicious mind might have thought that these two were the source of her friend’s discomfort, but as it was, Jocelyne thought no such things, merely outwardly impressed by the spectacle, keeping her personal feelings just that; private.

With little difficulty, she turned bodily to face her Visitor, missing the path that the co-host seemed to take towards them, giving Skógursson a rare pleasant smile, though they seemed to be in abundance this evening, but she barely had time to get a word in edge-ways, noting the easily parting crowds out of the corner of her eye, a blaze of magically charmed flamboyance and pride interrupting them. Someone less schooled or younger might have made a direct comment about the clothing that the lord wore but Jocelyne was both well-schooled and of an age to know when to be silent.

Etiquette came naturally to Jocelyne, releasing her friend with a little reluctance before dipping low before Vespasian in an elegant curtsey, his words striking unfamiliar nervousness into her normally stoic stance. It took effort, but she kept a careful rein upon her features as she rose. “Of course, my lord,” she acquiesced politely, saying nothing of her dancing ability or her reluctance to even participate – neither was appropriate, as it was beyond rude to refuse the host of a ball, even if Skógursson and she ended up leaving before the request was fulfilled.

Subtly, Jocelyne turned her attention to her companion to hear his response to the fiery lord’s words, though her pale blue eyes never left Vespasian, set demurely away from eye contact. She was quite ready to make their excuses to eject her friend from the interaction should the need arise, though they had rehearsed this dance many a time; it was a popular one and one that Skógi greatly enjoyed watching and attempting to participate in.

An urge came upon her to nurse her feet, which were still a little sore from their practising but the lady resisted that urge firmly, instead carefully detaching the green stick from the side of her mask as deft hands lifted the green ribbon around the back of her head. Both of her hands would need to be free if she was to participate in dancing this evening.