Snippet #2390916

Xander Harrowgrove

Flashing party lights. Music that shook and pounded at the very foundations of Earth. Litres of liquor that danced over the edges of wine glasses, beer glasses, mugs - anything that could hold the liquid fire. That was what Xander Harrowgrove was used to, not tailcoats and ballgowns and small-talk that polluted the air in great plumes, which was exactly what lay beyond the immense double doors thrust open to the Heartland Industries Fundraiser, where candlelight flickered on the walls, strained laughter poured into the night like artificially-scented perfume, and the chink and clink of champagne-flutes rattled in the way that the chains of a restrained convict would wear around their wrists.

What was worse than what lay within the ever-looming shadow of the ballroom was the already tight atmosphere held taught as stretched fabric around Xander, his father and the three women accompanying him: his date, whose name continued to evade him; Meora, busy hurrying ahead into the fray; and Emma. Something told him that tonight was not going to be easy; for starters, his father was breathing down his neck, constantly steering him in the direction of the nameless woman, pretty enough, beautiful even, but not...quite right. Then there was the fact that he wasn't looking at 'what's-her-name'; no, he was looking at Emma, and the shimmering blue-green dress, the colour of the crashing ocean, (he wanted to say he was mostly looking at Emma but that would be a lie - because the majority of the time he was, admittedly, looking at the dress). She looked stunning. He didn't dare to say more, just in case his thoughts ran out of control.

As the group of humans - and one doll - climbed the ivory stairs leading to the main hall, they found themselves splitting away at the seams: Meora had rushed on ahead, excited as a child, with her tired father storming off after, though not without shooting a watchful glance at Xander over his shoulder. Well. That wasn't obvious now, was it?

Forcing a smile, Xander turned to both of the girls, "Time to enter the war-zone, it seems." Quickly, they marched into the hall together, arm in arm in arm, still as uncomfortable as ever. As soon as they stepped one foot onto the tiled flooring, they were hit with the symphonic harmony of the orchestra; the difference to the kind of trash he normally listened to was a very stark one. All I need to do was get this over with, he reminded himself persistently, whilst leading the girls onto the dance-floor.