Never was it a peculiar thing to find the spice of Andelusian opera pressed languorously at the hip against a grand piano. The case was especially true when drink was involved, and even more so when it was the drink of celebration poured from the ever flowing cup of newly crowned royalty. Naevala, swirling warm brown liquid gently in crystal cup between song, certainly was not the type of woman to miss the chance of spectacle. Rarely did anything pale Adelusia’s opera house’s splendor. But this castle… oh, this castle held more that evening after evening of dry stares from the pompous elite and overly affectionate women latched at their arms. This castle held than an ominous tower of red velvet stage curtains behind the slender shadow of a woman whose voice rang with eerily beautiful melodies that proclaimed her fear that one day the stage might consume her. No, this castle was alive. Light and music from every room, laughter and debauchery—the classiest of course. Naevala’s presence in the lounge was not for performance this night, but for observance.
Still, she found her way to the piano cornered against the furthest wall from the grand room, where its composition might have a chance to reach ears though the commotion from the largest. A small, nameless man sat at the bench, fingers working diligently to play tunes fitting to the heritage of the castle’s masters. Hymns long lost to the memory of most in Ursa Madeum, but familiar to Naevala’s childhood. And thus, she could not resist.
The long, pale fingers of her pale hand not occupied by as glass of dark rum traced the fine wood of the grand piano as the she idly swayed to the notes playing, if only for her ears. From her lips, the softest high-pitched hums of songs of old danced outwardly into the air, interrupted only by the occasional eruption of cheer or disappointment from the dwarves very near. She did not mind. The arm wrestling was amusing to watch. Waddling, stout men huddled along every edge of a stunted table in the room’s center were so focused in their game, they barely noticed the entertainment. The dense contact of hand to back in a victory pat and frequent, baritone roar of victory as each man took their turn of strength against the other somehow welcomed a bass pleasantly matched to the beat of her song.
Naevala’s green gown reached trailed along the floor behind her, shifting ever so lightly with each waver of body. Lips curled at the corners at the sight of such merriment surrounding her, and she continually sang. Her eyes closed behind her mask at the depth of feeling for the ancient songs emitted from her mouth,.. for the love she had for the lyrics consumed her, sometimes entirely. She drifted, lost into their story, pulled back to present by her boisterous, distantly present company each time.
She had chosen to attend the ball selfishly. Of course, primarily out of fealty to the crown. But to her own satisfaction, for the comfort of being alone, even surrounded by many. Above all, Naevala attended for the secrets the night held yet to be exposed; for the opportunity of the new and unknown to whisper to her its existence. It had been long since she’d felt the presence of its company.