[ SPOTLIGHT ] - One of the lights in the main hall is mistakenly left operational—and its angle readily adjustable. Set up for an impromptu performance of your own, or play the world's most extra wing-man by making a friend the center of all attention.
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[ STEAL ] - Purposeful or not, it looks like you've gotten your hands on something that isn't yours. You may want to return that before anyone notices. Or you may want to start running.
"Who is he? He's amazing."
"Man, this guy knows how to sing!"
"Forget the singing. Look at how he's dancing!"
Mere member of a crowd, Rafal observed a face he judged both familiar and not.
So it was Pandreo centered in the glow of the spotlight, commanding attention and laughter. Well, for some, they might argue that this role could belong to none other than Pandreo. Meanwhile, the Solmic priest of Rafal's own world had commanded only the battlefield, caused only blood and screams to rain - never a smile.
So, for a moment, Rafal watched him - this strange Pandreo. Hesitant to intrude, to make waves in a life he'd once ruined, no matter the ignorance of its present vessel. Then, in the next, he approached the bouquet left temporarily abandoned on the sideline. Slipped a flower into it of his own accord, and took for his own another; a hyacinth for a hyacinth, varying only in their color.
Then, like a ghost, the Fell Dragon was gone.
It's a beautiful night, a positively sparkling dance floor. A lively and talented band; an energetic crowd that is just as happy to spectate as participate. They all move like a collective unit, their souls all burn singularly bright.
Pandreo has only seen the faintest sliver of the entire monastery, and he's already decided it's the loveliest place in the world. Sweat beads on his forehead; he's lost track of the floor, his eyes trained on the flickers of light dancing off the crystal chandeliers. He was made for this moment. He was born to dance this dance.
He doesn't know if people are watching him. It's statistically likely, but unimportant. He doesn't dance for the sake of their amusement, but for their salvation.
(Later that night, or perhaps with the pang of his head in the morning, he'll kick himself just a bit for his overzealousness. Pandreo is merely a messenger; he cannot save anyone. But for tonight, he will let himself believe.)
When he returns to his bouquet, one of his flowers seems a little off-color. Perhaps it is a trick of the light.