Whispers and rumors, murmurs and will-o-wisps, these were the things that had led the lorekeeper back into the Woods once more, his gift wrapped in cloth and his hair brushed to a river of silken silver down his back, reflecting the moon from its tresses. Two had been pulled aside and braided with a pair of white raven feathers that had been painted in light and dark blues, then brushed with glittering silver dust and sealed in place against wet and weather.
For this celebration he wore white, as he had when performing at Bastien's Masquerade, half a year or more ago. The cut of the tunic was simple but elegant, the fabric lightweight and this time with little under it as he sought relief from the heat rather than protection from the cold. The pants were looser as well, more flowing before they tucked into the tops of his boots. Though he had debated long and hard, he had left his sword behind, the celebration no place for a weapon. He brought only himself, a fragment of the moon brought down to earth, and his gift for whoever would accept it.
Well. Gifts, plural, but those more private tokens might wait until after the party was over, depending on who else arrived.
He stood out among the diminutive fey like a beacon, tall and pale and wingless as he moved into the midst, smiling and bowing and light on his feet as he danced with those who would allow him to twirl through a few steps before he moved on again. His flute hung in a case at his hip, and he considered joining the musicians later, as he so often did. For now, though, he was content to mingle and dance and laugh, waiting for the chance to offer his gift.
And, perhaps, to be offered one in return!
For this celebration he wore white, as he had when performing at Bastien's Masquerade, half a year or more ago. The cut of the tunic was simple but elegant, the fabric lightweight and this time with little under it as he sought relief from the heat rather than protection from the cold. The pants were looser as well, more flowing before they tucked into the tops of his boots. Though he had debated long and hard, he had left his sword behind, the celebration no place for a weapon. He brought only himself, a fragment of the moon brought down to earth, and his gift for whoever would accept it.
Well. Gifts, plural, but those more private tokens might wait until after the party was over, depending on who else arrived.
He stood out among the diminutive fey like a beacon, tall and pale and wingless as he moved into the midst, smiling and bowing and light on his feet as he danced with those who would allow him to twirl through a few steps before he moved on again. His flute hung in a case at his hip, and he considered joining the musicians later, as he so often did. For now, though, he was content to mingle and dance and laugh, waiting for the chance to offer his gift.
And, perhaps, to be offered one in return!
