Mysterious. Unsettling. Unexplained.
Everywhere Laslow went, a heavy weight like a stone would bear down upon his shoulders. A sharp poke of eyes would drill into him from afar with insidious and demonic pressure. Though there was no fog to be found, a smog of death-dealing miasma was imaginable nonetheless, bogging the air with thickness and cold as if a ghost full of vengeance had attached itself to the young man without hope of exorcism.
And a ghost would be right. Every time Laslow should turn, these same forces would be nowhere seen or felt, only to resume in full force the moment he swiveled around anew. Every time he spoke to Nel, all paranormal energy would flare as if with the fury of a thousand curses and spirits.
The source? But a single Fell Dragon glaring absolute death at him from behind a pillar. Seeming not to want for flowers but for a sacrifice to sate his bloodlust.
A sacrifice named Laslow.
Laslow first notices a prickling on the back of his neck after emerging from one of the moving picture rooms. He thinks it's a side effect, at first; seeing something real, something tangible, but not quite.
Yet the feeling persists long after he's left the room. A quiet dread builds; the anticipation of danger burns just underneath his skin. It's an instinct he's learned to never ignore after a lifetime of fighting. But when he turns around, there's no evidence of a threat. Just an invisible, mounting fear that makes his hair stand on end and his fingers itch for a sword hilt.
He sets aside his cup of tea, appetite ruined in the face of these unexplainable nerves. He should check on Soleil. Make sure she's okay, that no harm has befallen her. Then all his loved ones--in fact, he should patrol the entire ballroom, see if he can discover the source of this unease.
"Nel," he says, voice a touch shaky. "Excuse me a moment? I think I need to, ah, freshen up."
Or find a weapon.