@bloodforvlad from ✩
⋆ — Oh. Well. Ezreal supposes he should have figured that a few people he actually knew from Noxus would be here, but he didn't run into the whole name issue until he walked into the joint. He was technically invited as Jarro, but also as Ezreal. So... which should he be introducing himself by? Ezreal would be good, because it'd hype up his name even more (and maybe his parents would finally catch wind of his exploits), but Jarro could use a bit of attention in Noxus, too.
He's so busy thinking about it that he doesn't notice the man approaching him until he's standing plainly in front of Ezreal's nose. His blue eyes glance up and he startles, initially paling before all the blood seems to rush to his ears. Ezreal, then. As long as he can stick to it, his secret identity won't be unveiled against his will.
"Oh, hey!" Too cheerful — a couple heads turn towards him and Ezreal has to remind himself that he's in Noxus now. Clearing his throat, Ezreal drops his voice a little and tries to appear more casual than he feels. "Didn't expect to see anyone I knew here. You get an invite too, or...?"
Rooms full of people, a delicious and tedious distraction in equal measures. Heritage, disease, familial connections, heartrates... Vladimir has been Noxus' sole hemomancer for over two decades now, and the barrage of information is easy to tune out, or to reach out and manipulate as the need arises. He barely needs to recognise faces anymore, with how much someone's blood can sing from their veins.
But there's someone here who doesn't have the same muddy indolence or steel-sharpened hue. There's a Piltovian here, someone with magic both innate and grafted. Someone familiar. It only takes a glance across a crowded room to spot the interloper. That's a cute disguise, and for it to have worked on security and guests alike it must either be one people communally agree to ignore or it actually works. Hilarious.
Vladimir downs his glass of wine, then passes the empty to Marie. "Back in a moment, dear."
His maid bared her teeth in a mimicry of a smile. "My lord, please don't--" She sighed angrily at his back as he slipped through the crowd.
Vladimir knows he'll have to endure a nagging later, well-deserved. But for now, gods help him if he wasn't curious about if this party could actually be interesting for once. The young man looks exactly like he remembers - and doesn't that just whet the appetite? - but Vladimir opts to look mildly sullen, tired, not wanting to be here. Just another too-rich noble with nothing better to do than needle someone.
"Oh, no," he answers the question lazily, pausing to glance over the crowd. He looks bored out of his mind. "Why would I get an invitation?" He smirks, and raises an eyebrow at Ezreal. "But what are they going to do, tell me I can't come in?"
He wasn't lying: he didn't get an invitation. This was, after all, a party he was throwing. Why did he need an invite?
