At some point, Sin does have to ask himself when exactly it was that he simply stopped caring.
He's heard a lot of stories over the course of the night: Students, professors, and even fellow Knights getting into shouting matches, physical brawls, and general revelry which range from "annoying" to "wildly inappropriate".
...Sin, by contract and association, is a Knight of Seiros. His duty here is to maintain order here. But how can he do so — And, indeed how should be expected to care about doing so — When the Knights seem to have lost all control on the ground?
So, at some point in the night, Sin supposes he was simply done with it all. In the end, he is but a mercenary, and he professes loyalty to the Silver Wolf alone — Not the Captain, not the Archbishop. Let the sworn Knights handle the mess they've made, unless they'd like to pay him to care on their behalf.
...That being said, somewhat quickly after the little outburst, Sin realizes that it does leave him bereft of anything to actually do with himself.
So, that is what led him to a quiet part of the estate, a drink clutched tightly in his hand, left paralyzed on the sand. He is vaguely aware of someone else here, someone Sin only knows as the absolute titan of a man he had seen weaving through crowds here and there, but he pays him little mind.
He... He won't be here for long. Only so he can collect himself.
Cormag hovers awkwardly. He sips, every now and then, at a glass that is rapidly emptying.
When the punch is gone, he will truly have nothing to do with himself.
But that hasn't happened quite yet. For the moment, he can hide behind the sparse cover of the dainty glass, and steal glances at the equally-stiff gent sitting in the sand.
There's a kind of kinship there, he thinks. That spurs him on--he approaches, smiles with his back teeth still grinding away.
And then he's within spitting distance, and he realizes he's got no idea what to say. He's never seen this man before: doesn't know if he's a student or a Knight or what-have-you. What they have in common, besides being stiff.
He hates these kinds of things.
He decides, at length, that it's best to be honest.
"I hate these kinds of things," he says, sinking to his knees in the sand. "I was a knight, back home, but not the... not the dancing kind. That was my brother."
He sighs, distant and wistful. Now he's fouled it up.
"I mean... it's tough. I get why you're hiding out here, I do."
