Page 57 of The Ballad of a Bard

“I did.” He said with a tone of regret. “I’m sorry for how I left. I shouldn’t have- I don’t know what Ishouldhave done, but it certainly wasn’t leaving you like that.”

“Abruptly, you mean?”

West groaned, “Among other things.”

“You’re forgiven.”

He slapped his chest, dramatically. “Well thank the Saints for that.” He hoisted the ivory shirt over his bare shoulders, but left it untied.

Her lips formed a thin line as they reached the top of the stairs and turned into the hallway that would take them to their chambers. “You can’t just go around thankingyourself.”

“Watch me.”

She stuck her foot out.

West yelped as she kicked his shin. Not hard, but hard enough to hurt. “Attacking a Saint, now that’s a serious offence here.”

Her mouth turned upwards into a wry, cunning thing. “Does it count if you started it?”

Twenty Three

Muse was a Saint, that was never in question. And her skills solely lay in the wonderment of art, the style that made most fall hopelessly in love over and over again, to find themselves and then lose themselves in any forms of art. But when it came to throwing balls, revels, fetes, she always outdid herself.

Which was hard to do, considering the amount of rich opulence she surrounded herself with on the daily.

As West stood in the massive room, surrounded by beautiful people, beautiful things and beautiful music, he couldn’t help but let a slip of awe take him over. The entire event was planned to resemble the sea that surrounded the continent that was Tazali.

The four walls that made up the ballroom had been painstakingly painted with ceruleans, corals, ivories and everything needed to make them seem as if they were at the bottom of the ocean. The gargantuan chandelier looked to be made of dappled sea foam, with floating bubbles that passed through people and popped once they hit the chequered floor.The tables were decorated with vibrant forms of food, from all over Hisaith.

Scarlet lobster, floating in pools of creamy butter.

Tender lamb, roasted in garlic and parsley.

Squash, strung into an orange mix, sprinkled with brown sugar and salt. Even the drinks seemed to be from all over, ordered in finery to add to the spectacular event in any way, shape or form possible.

Muse herself was resplendent in a soft, shell pink gown that left nothing to the imagination. It hugged her every generous curve and made her look as if she’d been plucked from the sea itself, instead of the heavens above. Pearls dangled from her neck, on one of the thinnest strings possible. She wore a crown for once, atop her golden head that reminded him of the waves. Gems of the purest clarity crashed into others, with stunning viciousness and beauty.

Two things that went hand in hand.

“You look absolutely wretched, dear North.” She tsked, sighing at his expense. “Is it the clothes?”

He gestured down at himself, at the metallic yellow jacket that she selected for him and basically shoved him into on pain of death. Or whatever the counterpart for Muse was. She could never take a life, it wasn’t her style.

Blue twined about his shoulders, the buttons, making him out to be a living, breathing star. “I can lay part of the blame on your ridiculous selection for tonight. Did youwantfor all to know who we were?”

Because they were all there.

Except for one, who would never show.

If Heartache made an appearance, then he would have aheart attack. But Muse informed him before the ball, pulling him asideto let him know that even though she sent out an invitation to all his known hideaways, that no response came.

Which left him to believe that Heartache wasn’t going to be easy to find. Not that he’d suspected that in the first place, of course.

Imp was over in the corner, teasing a rather unpleasant looking Satori with their jester’s wand. They wiggled and jiggled it in her face, cackling with mad delight when she tried to swat it away from them. They were dressed in their colour scheme as well, with purples and greens on half their form. Imp’s face wasn’t painted like all of the portraits portrayed them to be, but anyone with eyes could tell who they were.

Dream was by the food table, in a gown of periwinkle that shimmered with each turn of her hips. A high slit rose up from the rough hewn hem and she wore moon earrings that dropped down, almost reaching her lovely neck. Stars and clouds embedded into her grey hair, the colour shining under the candles that danced with the tempting music.

Even War was here, but he didn’t follow the dress code it seemed. Because he wore his fighting leathers, a sword attacked on his hip alongside his two fighting axes. And yet he still looked as though he belonged with them all.

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