Dre flagged the bartender down, requesting a whiskey on the rocks so that he could meander off to some corner to sip and show face to those who had watchful eyes and took mental tabs. All of the neon was almost giving him a headache already and he hoped the alcohol might soothe the throbbing if he had enough. Perhaps he would even leave early after he gave dribbles of niceties to familiar faces, and flashed smiles to those he wasn’t sure the names of in hopes of not being reeled into any idle small talk. His fingers curled around the cool glass, making his way to a more secluded area. There were many present, some dressed flamboyantly in a way that the creativity impressed him. So many bits and bobs, and perhaps if he had lived a different life he would have been drawn to that for himself as well, but he was more than content with the simple, black suit with embellishments that he hoped fit whatever criteria the Charbonneau’s had described.
That’s when he saw her, dark hair pinned up intricately and white dress with colorfully tasseled poms that bounced with the slightest of movements. Dilara. The pretty flower lady and it clicked in his brain, that had been what he was feeling. She was a familiar, everything suddenly made sense. Dre’s interactions with the other familiars were sparse, barely passing words and he had never truly focused on them or the energy they gave off. Dre made his way to her, fingers past the loose sleeves of the dress to touch her elbow gently.
“Flower lady?” he asked, in a teasing voice and a coy smile gracing his lips. “Fancy meeting you here.” @dilara-alpman-shaw
