A colorful celebration of life

Eularia's nights were no longer quiet and lonesome; less so since Magnus had come to the palace as one of her new advisors. She'd finally offed the old cabinet and instituted a new one. Men and women, people who knew the streets, knew the people, knew the Crows. But this did not mean that she did not have worries; and sometimes worry turned to denial. And denial, well, was stronger than most things. She had to have her clothing altered slightly, denied the reason why, and in a subconscious response, she maintained a glamour. As if that would make everything okay.

For the moment, though, her denial and all worries were forgotten, as she gazed out the window watching the festivities below them. Festivals were rarely one day, and Eularia had tasked Magnus with ensuring they'd have somewhere to stay. She was enjoying being away from the needs of the kingdom for the time. And she'd felt safe enough to leave the kingdom when she'd heard the First Talon was busy in Rivain. She had no doubts they'd run into him here today, but then, perhaps he'd be too busy to care.

Eularia stepped away from the window, as he tucked a flower behind of her ear. She grinned, mischievously upwards. Softie, she mumbled, glancing around — not as carefully as she should be but careful enough to determine there was no-one watching them — before she leaned for a quick kiss. No-one was watching them; their guards down. She was smiling, and there was a hint of smile in his eyes. 

Pity that Antiva never does anything like this. She mused, reaching for his hand. We're not staying inside all day, are we? She raised her eyebrows. She'd not danced in ages, but it had once been her lifeline, her favorite thing to do. And she'd dressed to dance, a loosely-laced white top, a yellow skirt with a few layers of differing colors, and a matching headband to keep her hair out of her face. Barefooted with no plans to find shoes, anytime soon. Her hair was wild, tangle-free and down past her shoulders.

You have to dance with me, Maggy. The nickname slipped off her tongue before she could shorten it. No waltzing, though. She was quick to inform him, as if she thought he'd ask her to waltz when the dances being done down below were more akin to what she'd done in taverns for coin. Easy-going, made up, fun. She tugged his hands, And... maybe we go down there to dance? In public?

She sounded uncertain about this particular ask; she was a widow and noble standards said that her grieving period was not over for another three or four months, when her husband had been 'dead' for a year. And she wasn't certain that she wanted to endure any ridicule sent her way for being seen with another man so soon—but then, that was just one of the many reasons she was in denial about her new clothing sizes. The seamstress was probably talking; gossip was the way of the world, after all. 

I'm queen of a nation. I can... handle not fitting the noble standard. Besides, I think Antiva needs new standards. Because she was not, and had never been noble. She was raised on the streets, an apostate mage and thief. She'd tried so hard for so long to be the queen born to nobility that the Antivan noble society craved; but she was starting to see that she'd never fit in nor be what they sought, purely because the noble biddies would never be happy for her role in the nation. Because it was not them. And jealousy was a dangerous thing. 

So, please? Dance with me. She tugged his hands again. She sounded more certain of the request.