Perhaps she had not seen him among the veritable sea of faces, which was both a comedy and tragedy for the young actor as the thespian in him wished to showcase his talents before her – a true fowl preening his feathers, quite literally in his case, for the one he admired in the hopes of further gaining her fancy. On the other hand, he had worn a disguise for much the opposite reason – not only to complete his costume but also to attempt to insure that his actions did not reflect poorly upon the very generous Lord Von Emst, his family, or his interests, including the young red-haired ward that Aster cared so much for.
Aster’s migration had taken him then from the thinning herd of parade spectators and participants back to Lord Von Emst’s home where he had been greeted by a message that something had arisen and that he would not, as previously planned, be meeting with Mainy for their tide together on the 26th, but rather in the Morningtide of the 27th near the roses in the Gardens. The message had been delivered orally and his inquiries as to who had originally sponsored the bad news had gone unanswered. Hoping that it was, indeed, from either Mainy or Lord Von Emst, Aster had simply given thanks and gone about his business, albeit with his thin shoulders slumped for the rest of the day in mild defeat.
His arrival at the ‘roost’ had been, likewise, uneventful – strange faces greeting him without much conversation or care as he introduced himself and made his way to his new room – an apathy that he could only attribute to the weariness of the recent festivities and possibly the after-effects of the revelry which had presumably followed. He was unsure for, at least for this one Roque resident, some things were far more important than celebrating a stuffed bird being thrown into the sea.
His nerves had bothered him from parade to sleep, wondering what had made him take flight in such a way and he fell asleep fitfully, blaming Felicia’s meddling nature for making him suspect something was wrong just when it seemed to be too perfect.
Sleep had not come easily but, when it came, it managed to draw a thick curtain across the stage of his thoughts, bringing blissful intermission to his concerns.
Upon waking, the fears of the day before were but a passing unease as he cleaned off the sweat from occasional night-terrors, dressed in the finest clothing that he owned – which, for a humble bard, meant more ‘clean’ than ‘expensive – and brushed his half-braid/half-loose locks back into a mane that did not look like he had been tossing and turning all night.
With a red-haired sparkle in his eye, freshly-forming odes in his heart, and a definite spring in his step, Aster arrived at the gardens and awaited the arrival of his leading lady for their temporarily-postponed ‘language lesson’.
OOC: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dramatic_structure <- In case anyone was wondering who Freytag was.
