Chapter Text
“Go on,” Seelah says, bumping Lann’s shoulder. “Ask her.”
He chuckles. “Ask her what?”
“To dance! Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you two are like together.”
Is he that obvious? Lann tries to drain his tankard and finds it already empty. He fills it with whatever is nearby. This is a bad idea, but like a kid going from cave gruel to sweet cinnamon baked apples he can’t bring himself to stop.
The alcohol actually tastes like apples…? “What is this?”
Seelah ignores that question. “Ask,” she insists.
For a tipsy second Lann considers it. Then he remembers. “I’m not going to ask her to dance; I barely know how. That’s not a joke. I’m better off asking her to spar. That’s something we do a whole lot of in the caves.”
“You want to spar with the Commander in the middle of Count Arendae’s haunted mansion party?”
He drinks. “Sure. Why not? I think Daeran may even appreciate it.”
“That boy has more than enough excitement in his life. I don’t think he needs any more,” Seelah snarks. A dancer wearing almost nothing does a backflip off the long table.
After a few drinks any frustrations Lann might’ve had file down to smooth-brained peace. Music resonates off the mansion’s vaulted ceiling, tambourine mixing with the jangle of dancers’ outfits. Unlike Neathholm where movement and chatter stretch long shadows by the fire, this party is bright, loud, and savory with the scent of roast pork.
He’s lost track of Arcadia. She doesn’t stay put. One minute she’ll be on the balcony and the next she’ll be strolling through the archway to the eastern wing. He’s not sure she’s eaten anything. At the same time he’s trying to keep tabs on Arueshalae (currently hiding in the bushes), Ember (stopped pouting when the music began), and Woljif (stealing an urn off the mantlepiece).
Woljif knows he’s been caught and carefully eases the vessel back into place with an innocent I was just looking expression.
Lann’s new favorite drink is called cider. There’s a hot mulled version with spices but they don’t serve it until winter so he better cling to life long enough to find out what it’s like.
Wine? No good. It’s all sour. Red, white, pink, whatever color: ‘s all vinegar. Worse than vinegar. He’d rather drink vinegar. Seelah rolls her eyes and says it’s an acquired taste.
Lann practices acquiring this taste. It’s probably working. He’s got zero worries right now. Maybe he should… something. Something about a dance. Arcadia!
He whips his head to the side and regrets it. The tall ceiling makes everything far away and swirly. He misses the Commander, but she’s fine. Doesn’t need him. She’s not shy. If she needs him she’ll ask.
“Hypothetical,” Lann tells Seelah. “The dance thing. If an uplander doesn’t ask you to dance… does that mean anything?”
“Not that I know of. That sounds like a Daeran question. Daeran!”
“Yes, my radiant and amusing suit of armor?”
“Lann wants to know about dancing.”
Lann says, “Teach me your weird uplander courting rituals.”
Daeran claps his hands with new, unnerving light in his eyes. “First, let’s do something about your terrible taste in costume.”
“Not a costume. I can’t take it off.”
“He means your rags, Lann,” Seelah says.
He looks down. Folds his arms. “Ehh, I’ve heard enough about all that. I’m not changing them. They’re comfortable. And they smell like me. Which is good.”
Daeran arches a brow. “Is it?”
“Yes. If I can’t be proud of my looks I gotta be proud of something. Nice smell. Check.” He warns Daeran with a stern “no” when the man leans suspiciously close. Or it might be Lann’s unsteady posture. His head is drowned enough it’s not immediately noticeable that Daeran has snatched his hand and pulled him toward the music.
“Fine,” Daeran is saying. “We’ll broach this topic another time. For now: music. I can’t be expected to teach without something to drown out your incessant jabs, of which I’m sure there are to be many.”
“I’ll make sure to start with your feet.”
Daeran acts like he can’t hear.
So: uplander dancing. There’s footwork involved. It’s like sparring except with no adrenaline and hardly any touching. Lann laughs, feeling like a ridiculous mongrel. If he weren’t so spinnily inebriated he might be paying better attention.
At one point it’s a group dance with a bunch of folks holding hands in a circle, Daeran on Lann’s one side, Ember on the other. Step step spin. Peppy music travels the circle in one direction. At intervals that make no sense the direction changes and Lann’s gaily pulled along. Ember giggles. This has to be the silliest thing he’s ever done. It’s fun.
Another round of liquid courage and Daeran makes him hop around more, declaring Lann will be the pride of the peasantry. A ring of light bobs through the guests and brings Arcadia around to watch, astonishment flighting her features. It settles into a bemused smile.
“Perfect,” she says. “If the two of you are drunk enough to be getting along this well, go spend some time in the courtyard after.”
Daeran shines with glee. “Commander. Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
“A whole bottle of it. 4630 vintage.” Arcadia lifts up a corked wine. Surprise stutters Daeran’s expression. “Also,” she says, “I gave Nenio a crate of black powder. I wondered if she knew anything about pyrotechnics.”
BAM! SNAP!
Noises patter the sky outside and startled partygoers mill towards the courtyard. Arcadia wiggles the bottle. “I’ll pour for you on the balcony, if you’re interested. Bring Lann and the musicians. Or… I can just tuck this back in its hidden nook.”
“And here I thought you’d make me choose: my companion, or the wine.”
“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” Lann asks.
“It’s my birthday,” Daeran answers brightly. Lann groans. He’s herded out of the mansion into the thankfully fresh night air. Colorful sizzles zooming around the darkness must be the pyrotechnics. Nenio’s gotten into mixing them with illusions. Tiny sparkly demons flit across the balcony railing before exploding into chunks with cute squeeing sounds.
The band reorganizes themselves on the walkway that spans the mansion’s outer walls. Arcadia sets a clean wine glass on the balcony railing and pours.
“Ah, served by the only steady hand left in Heaven’s Edge. I fear the party’s gone amiss if the Commander herself is not enjoying it.”
“Pssh,” she waves Daeran off. “I’d have never found this if I were drunk. And I usually get more enjoyment out of food over alcohol. Strange, I know.”
Lann adds, “Where I come from the alcohol is what makes the food edible.”
“But Lann,” Arcadia says, “if you’re too drunk to tell the difference between a regular rat and a poisonous three-eyed rat, how is it safe to eat anything at all?”
“See, that’s the fun part. After the morning gong we find out who has a hangover and who needs antipoison.”
“Better make sure the count here doesn’t need antipoison by the end of the night.” Arcadia’s voice lowers. “Thanks for keeping him company.”
Lann lightly shakes his head as if it’ll knock the confusion swimming around his skull. Was he keeping Daeran company?...
Arcadia seems to be missing, all of a sudden. She’s been missing most of the night. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. Standing around the wine barrels with the rest of the gang Lann puts down his cup. “Ooo-kay. That’s enough for me,” he says.
Seelah agrees. “Yeah? Me too. I’m not used to the amount of stuff Daeran’s got here. Let’s just… sit tight for a while.”
Oof.
It’s a long walk back to the encampment. For future note, he should be a bit more careful around the uplander booze, unless… unless he wants to forget. Which is a lot.
Ah well. That’s future Lann’s problem.