Floating over the floor in a filmy white dress,arched castle ceilings, the dance winding amongst the slender pillars supporting the groined ceiling. His hair nearly gleams as white as her dress.
" My lady, the dance closes. May I beg a kiss of the flower?" His voice trembles at the bottom of tenor, light and genteel. Large grey eyes draw her in; he is handsome, and the delegation will only be here another day. What harm…?
As he kisses you, you have to admit it’s nice. He’s good at this. And he’s polite; doesn’t hold you in or anything. A quiet contained passion. A distinct warmth flows into your face as he lets you go. *Thapatabump* If this were a Marvel comic, I’d say your spider sense was tingling. As it is, your delta power – isn’t. Have you ever had just enough alcohol where your body doesn’t quite feel like you own it? That’s where you’re at, almost distanced and not in much control of your own action, just enough to stay on your feet. And that little buzz in the back of your head that’s your link to the Delta Force isn’t there.
He clasps the lady closer to his heart, his other hand cradling her head as the kiss is parted. Genteely he assists her off the floor as other dancers change in for the next set, his arm wrapped about her waist. At the side of the floor, his man-at-arms steps forward to receive and assist the lady, who appears faint from the heat of the hall and of her companion. Her white gown drifts soft as rose petals about her as she changes partners. Briefly the gentleman lays his hand on the brow of his man.
"Tyrel!"
Glancing back over his shoulder, the gentleman – Tyrel – shivies his man-at-arms closer to the gaping door of the hall. For now the dancers are between him and his pursuers. The trio slips beneath the overhanging balcony that rings the hall.
"Tyrel!"
The dancers on the floor part, almost as if the voice were a bolt of energy lashing out. Tyrel turns, his man one step behind and to his right still cradling the white lady rose. The tension strung between him and his caller hangs nearly visible in the suddenly thick air. It is the Ruagh in his fine military dress of white and red, light glinting from the medals and fringe due a galactic warrior. Clearly he commands this floor as bystanders shift, leaving him alone the pool of light from the windows above. He is poised as if to spring, hand clutching at his weaponless belt. Frozen in the same timeless moment that grips the rest of the room are the other three, their eyes intent on the wilting rose and the two that hold her – the green and yellow in stages of panic, the black as unreadable as the deep garden well. Tyrel smiles, an expression that does not light his face at all.
"I warn you, do not prevent me from escorting this lady away. I am fond of her, and would not wish her other than the best." Tyrel shifts aside oh-so-slightly, and behind him a long glint of sharp metal ties the lady’s life to the hand of her captor shielded behind her petals. A collective gasp and murmur amongst the guests are punctuation to the blaze of fire in Ruagh’s eyes and muffle the shift of the king’s archers as they poise, arrows trained on the clear breast of Tyrel’s robe. "I assure you, should I fall the lady shall be only an instant behind. And my man is shielded from you," as a golden glow flares briefly around both heads. If other Mind mages are in the room, they cannot hope to break such a shield and impose control quickly. Tyrel is an admitted master at his craft. The glow fades again. The archers relax not at all, but the air thickens more with the helplessness they feel. Tyrel enjoys a smile at their expense.
A painful impassioned silence. "Ruagh, if you would your lady back, you will come to Flier’s Field at first light. Your friends are welcome to second you and observe. This is the Code Duello. All is forfeit if attempts are made on me and mine before that time. " With an easy contempt Tyrel turns his back on the room and strides toward the door, sweeping his henchman ahead of him. None stand in his way, almost repelled by his aura as he sweeps from the room. His unprotected back mocks those left behind, even as their hands are stayed by the image of blooded steel.