Starter
@feyrevelry liked for starter!
There were nights in the city where Baldur's Gate's finest came together and threw on the glitter. Nights where the upper echelons would, in all their revelry, call upon their distinguished guests to their great scintillating mansions, of which - one could readily boast - would've costed half the lower city's wealth to build its windows alone.
The glass ceiling held the view of the stars tonight. Underneath it, Marcellus stood out like a harsh nail that had not been beaten in. He had been bathed previously before arriving here. Much of his usual worn leathers had been switched out to something more befitting, but held unduly loyal to the theme of the war, of whom the guests would be blind to mistaken him for a noble.
Yet, these soirees were starting to become a frequent occurrence. The battle-worn face, the chiselled sculpture of a celebrated body beyond the spectacle of the arena, had visited the upper city enough to begin melding in with its gilded furniture.
Still, old habits died hard, and his footsteps laid heavy onto marble as he meandered haphazardly through masses of frailer bones and clinking wine glasses. Bodies that had not so much seen the world beyond the comforts of their study halls or lavish watering holes, cleaving a path for him lest they'd be accidentally crushed.
Nonetheless, his job here - simple, ornamented and without the blood - was the same as it always had been. Entertain.
"Master Selemchant," the butler who had cautiously escorted him from the front gates, with palpable relief that he hadn't yet broken any of the expensive ruby vases, proffered him to the party's host. "The gladiator you requested."
Marcellus, with his rusty, but practised etiquette, bowed his head.
