Member
Estylwen
Foxy13
Sir Lurksalot
Snowdrops
Ithradine
Red Schuhart
Irradiant
Izurich
KawaiiOtakuGirlFionn MacKerracher
It was fortuitous that Fionn, in his early days after being raised to knighthood and with a rare spark of common sense, had chosen to obtain clothing that would be fitting for social events he might be obligated to attend. As much as the idea of mingling with the non-martial nobility filled him with dread, it would at some point prove an inevitability; when it came to pass, it wouldn't do well for him to embarrass either himself or the order showing up in nothing more than his nicest regular wear. A decision he came to find was absolutely the most correct one he could make, the more he got to know the likes of Renar, Fleuri, and Serenity.
Once the initial shock of being invited to accompany the captain to the ball passed, he'd quickly set his fine clothes out. Inspecting them for any possible damage from moths or their ilk, in the event that he needed to pester one of the true spellcasters of the group for some impromptu seamless mending should they prove capable of such; but also, ensuring that when the moment came to actually prepare to leave, he wouldn't be nervously rumpling and creasing them in a mad, time-pressed dash to find all his proper clothes.
Once he joined his fellows in the courtyard of Candaeln, before making their way to the Crown of Thaln, it became clear to everybody else that despite his attempts to be prepared for such eventualities, he would be at least as out-of-place as he always was. Even though he'd left it voluntarily, to seek out challenge and honour elsewhere, Fionn remained fiercely proud of his home and heritage, and his concept of fine dress reflected as much. Soft leather shoes, grey linen trousers with wraps around the calves, a short, off-white tunic; and over the top of it, a short blue woolen coat, trimmed with a slightly lighter grey than his trousers, and held closed with the same belt that he hung his dagger and utility knife from. Rather than relying on show of heraldry or extravagance of decoration, the garments showed their worth in simple quality—of both the fabric used and in the immaculate cut.
But quality aside, the figure struck by the knight from the far north of Velt unsurprisingly had more in common with the fashions of provincial Estival, perhaps even Barukstead, than with anything that was popular among Thaln's high society. Not that Fionn, proud of his home as he was, would have it any other way. Other than the colouration, and the fact that he also wore his sword belt, he had one final marker of his allegiance and invitation—a small silver rose badge, pinned to the left breast of the coat, as he'd foregone any show of the personal coat of arms that had been granted to him.
As they all marched to the royal ball, any disapproving glances he might have earned from some of the knights that didn't know him well or how he worked went entirely unnoticed; Fionn had far more important things to be concerned about. Things such as how to behave around the nobility he'd likely have to interact with, who he might need to watch, who he might need to stick by for his own sake, and second most concerning of all: How best to avoid too much attention even with a herald announcing his presence.
Most concerning, however, was the way that many of his fellows seemed to scatter throughout the ball nearly as soon as they'd arrived. "Wait—" he said to none of them in particular, as by the time he'd really noticed they'd all spread far thinner than he'd have liked, his own feet unconsciously carrying him deeper into the room just so that he didn't end up standing by the entrance looking like a fool.
Off in one direction, Renar and Fleuri standing together amidst a group of young nobles, Gerard and Sergio not too far apart from them. In another, Cecilia interacting with—
Fionn blinked. Spider-centaurs were not something he'd ever expected to see in his life.
Off in another direction, Tyaethe and Lucas seemed to be talking. And in the last, the captain, being accosted by...a Hundi noblewoman, apparently. He resisted the urge to start grasping at one of his blades; the captain, at least, had combat training herself, multiple of the knights came bearing weaponry, and there were crown knights and others guarding the grounds—and whoever the noblewoman was, she seemed to be wrapped so tight in a corset and Mayon-only-knew what other layers of clothes that she'd struggle to have enough mobility to find any quick way to attack Fanilly if she was some sort of assassin.
This was not the sort of battlefield, at least, where he had to worry so much about the safety of his fellows, and to imagine it as such wouldn't do him any good. He could save his dread for more important things, like when the mingling inevitably reached him, or when he'd be incapable of politely excusing himself from any dancing or the like that was sure to happen. A relatively young knight in prime health couldn't really claim any sort of exemption from such social niceties without giving insult, he figured.
"Would that the parade had been enough, eh?" he muttered to himself, ceasing his ambling next to one of the empty tables. He grabbed one of the glasses of wine from it, swirling the deep red drink around as he concentrated for a moment, trying to make his fingertips glow through the liquid. Partially just to assure himself that he hadn't imagined the events of yesterday in a light-headed, blood-deprived haze, and partially as a way to make himself think of anything other than the event he was attending. When the soft viridian glow started to shine through the wine, he nodded to himself, relaxing his focus and taking a sip as the nimbus of light faded away.
At least he had something to look forward to once he was free from the social obligation.