Shinon occupies the margins of the great event, imagining treading on dress-hems and spilling on lacy cravats. He drinks the cloying-sweet punch, regrettably, and horfs down a truly indecorous number of tiny sausages. A perverse little joy, to avail himself of such decadence...
Still, he is restless. His gaze darts about, his weight shifts in the damnable sand. He fiddles with the charms at his wrist, and then--!
A kindred spirit, perhaps. Someone who doesn't belong here, who blundered into all this fol-de-rol the same way Shinon did. Look at the way he holds his hands--and hell, look at the breadth of his chest!
Shinon sidles over. There is nothing else worth doing. He takes up a little plate, starts loading it with fine aperitifs. "Here," he mutters, offering it up. "They let us in here, might as well take 'em for all they're worth."
It is a gracious offer, he thinks. There are even some of those little sausages on there... He could have eaten them all himself, but such is his admiration for this great gorgeous bastard.
He smiles, vulpine.
"I'd say 'what's a fine-lookin' man like you doin' in the corner,'" he murmurs, "but I can't stand all this fuss, either."
Heath really isn't suited for this sort of thing. He'd hardly managed to get a suit for it to begin with, if one could call it that. It's a fancy military uniform at best, and still more awkward to navigate in than his armor. The cape could easily get caught on things, the belt is too tight and not tight enough...sometimes, Heath wonders if he should have just scheduled a mission that happened to coincide with the ball.
At least the sweet alcohol is appealing, though he sips at it slowly. Best not to drink too much too fast and have a repeat of the last monastery event he'd attended.
Still, it is all too loud, all too crowded. He fidgets with the glass, drawing lines in the sand with his boots. He only prays that the grains do not find their way inside; he already pities the poor souls who came to this event in open-toed footwear.
His musings are interrupted by a man who has less reservations than Heath about alcohol consumption this early, if his reddened face rivaling his long hair is anything to judge by. He wears nothing fancy at all, and offers a platter of tempting appetizers. A man after Heath's own heart.
"Oh. Um. Thank you." The sausages are especially good, both in anticipation and actual taste. With the way the man's gaze pierces Heath, maybe that joking thought is more accurate than he thought. "I'm not one for parties like this, but the food is impressive."
And then he says that, and any notion of mere generosity is put to bed. Heath flushes; the punch already in his belly makes it difficult not to; and he shakes his head, trying to make sense of it all. He's never been one to attract much attention (don't think about it), and when he has it's gone past his head, only for his companions to tease him about it later (don't even consider it).
"Ah...that is kind of you." This man isn't bad-looking, that is sure. A long, lithe frame, with muscles and a garb that Heath hazards marks him as an archer. His perfume is overwhelming, but his hair is impressive, long and tied back, though it isn't as well-cared for as some others Heath can think of (don't think about it!). "I am called Heath. I serve the church here as a knight. May I ask your name?"
Even if Heath doesn't particularly intend on continuing the line this man has extended to him, he seems a conversational partner Heath would like better than most at this event. And, while he's here...
"Are you playing the charm game tonight?" Heath unbuckles a seashell-shaped charm from his bracelet, offering it forth. The starfish on the other man's band are obviously absent on his own. "I'm curious about what we'll get by completing it."
