Flin was enjoying himself. The sunset was beautiful, the bard's music was incredible, and while Flin had no sweetheart himself, the sight of young couples dancing cheered him. He sipped on a glass of fruit juice purchased from a vendor, and the flavor seemed somehow sweeter and more sour at the same time. It was hard to find something not alcoholic to drink other than water or milk, so he saved it for special occasions. He ooh'd with the crowd as fireworks shot into the air, and ahh'd when they burst into spectacular colors and shapes. He wondered how it was done, and the child in him fantasized that it was magic. Flin laughed and shook his head at the idea. No mage would waste their power on something so trivial as entertaining peasants. The skills granted a mage ranked them above the most skilled blacksmith or brewmaster; they had nearly as much standing as a nobleman, or mayor. As if summoned by his thought, who else but Vizlin appeared nearby. Flin stayed where he was this time. No pompous fool would chase him on this day, if the mayor wanted to pick a fight, let him. Flin wasn't going anywhere.