[color=lightgray]
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Ys69OMJ.png[/img][/center]
[hr][center][color=Bisque]Time:[/color] Evening 
[color=Bisque]Location:[/color] Banquet Hall
[color=Bisque]Mention:[/color] [@princess] Edin & Alibeth 
[color=Bisque]Attire: A Suit Fit For A True Artist[/color][/center][hr]

[color=gold][b]“Now presenting… the esteemed guest of the royal court—renowned artist, Master Milo St. Claire!”[/b][/color]

It echoed across the banquet hall like the soft crash of a cymbal—formal, yes, but who deserved that more than Mr. Sunsine?

The announcement was met not with the polite applause typical of noble introductions, but with a pause.
A hush.
As if the very name had weight. As if they already knew the shape of it in their mouths.

And then—he entered.

Milo St. Claire, wrapped in shadow and gold, moved like someone stepping through a dream. His coat was long, black silk trimmed in a subtle pattern of gold-leaf thread—sunbursts and eyes, like secrets embroidered by candlelight. Beneath, a high-collared tunic of pearl white shimmered faintly in the chandelier’s glow.

A brooch sat at his breast: a stylized eye, rimmed in thorns. The same icon from his morning’s most talked-about piece—“The One Who Sees.”

His hair, golden and tousled as if it had been touched by gods, caught the light like brushed flax. His hazel eyes, warm and unreadable, swept across the hall with painter’s curiosity. He smiled—but only faintly, as if amused by something no one else could see.

When he reached the heart of the hall, Milo paused.

Not to bask.
Not to perform.

But to [i]let the room adjust to him.[/i]

And then, without fanfare, he moved again—silken, silent, sovereign in the space he occupied. He said nothing, but he smiled a captivating smile as his eyes met those of each and every person willing to match his gaze.

Eventually, he turned toward the dais, posture fluid, and offered the King a single, refined nod—just enough to be respectful. To Queen Alibeth, his gaze held a flicker longer. Not challenge. Not fear. Merely... observation. Like a man who once painted a crown and [i]knew how the paint cracked beneath it.[/i] He then addressed them. 

[color=Bisque]“Your Majesties,”[/color] he began, his voice a velvet hum that seemed to soften the very air, [color=Bisque]“I remain ever grateful for the warmth with which your court has welcomed me. Your hospitality is not merely generous—it is an art form in itself.”[/color]

He let the words linger, his gaze sweeping the hall as if admiring a canvas he had not painted but deeply admired.

[color=Bisque]“I am honored to be among such brilliance this evening… and I can only hope that my work, [i]humble as it may be[/i], has added some small light to the grandeur you’ve so effortlessly curated.”[/color]

A slow, reverent bow followed—performed not out of obligation, but with the grace of a man who gives beauty where he sees it.

[color=Bisque]“Thank you,”[/color] he added, quieter this time, [color=Bisque]“for making even a wanderer feel... at home in the glow of royalty.”[/color]

His eyes once again met the king’s as he rose from his bow, but like before, his gaze lingered a little longer on Alibeth as he smiled at them both. [/color]