The Socialite crossed sights briefly with the Pupil and halted, immediately turning back towards the front to avoid being seen casting glances. His heart hammered with something familiar and stinging and he gripped his quill tighter to release some of the growing tension. In their head, they swore. They could feel the eyes on them and knew in a moment what the gaze meant: the Pupil must be privy to the ruse. Opulent attire with not a stitch out of place that cast them in a stunning silhouette, a beautiful bird to perch with them in elegance and knowing silence, fabric in dyes not often found in the Neath, surely, and must be a task to maintain in the prime of their vibrancy, the Socialite's own pyrite appearance could never amount to it, not after everything. Worse than that, the gaze peered into him from both sets of eyes, making the Socialite feel seen, exposed, vulnerable to the eyes of someone who surely was closer to the shores of prosperity than he was. Here the Socialite was, in muted colors and his middling hat and with a companion no higher in propriety than an Araby fighting weasel in anything but ermine coat! Surely, this young Pupil must see through him entirely and know how low he had fallen, regardless of his confidence (a trait he felt rapidly dwindling).
The Stoat stared at the Macaw and laid down, eyes unblinking and staring into the bird just as much as the bird stared into the mustelid. The small predator, with dark eyes standing out clearly from white fur, turned quickly and sniffed, as if the Macaw was nothing to her, barely worth the moment of attention.
There was still time before the class was to begin, perhaps longer. The Socialite steeled his nerves and turned with a charming smile, their voice low so as not to interrupt the idle chatter of the rest of the class. "Pleasant morning," they purred, walls quickly going up around their fearful, envious heart. "And a pleasure to meet another at Benthic with more refined tastes."
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Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-06-12 12:43 am (UTC)The Stoat stared at the Macaw and laid down, eyes unblinking and staring into the bird just as much as the bird stared into the mustelid. The small predator, with dark eyes standing out clearly from white fur, turned quickly and sniffed, as if the Macaw was nothing to her, barely worth the moment of attention.
There was still time before the class was to begin, perhaps longer. The Socialite steeled his nerves and turned with a charming smile, their voice low so as not to interrupt the idle chatter of the rest of the class. "Pleasant morning," they purred, walls quickly going up around their fearful, envious heart. "And a pleasure to meet another at Benthic with more refined tastes."