It was easier to recognize him now that he sat next to her, the stark color of his hair noticeable even in the dark of the lush forest that surrounded them. Time and a lack of practice had dulled her senses in many ways, but Alarice still noted (with a touch of guilt) the spasm that accompanied his movements. His demeanor was so unlike his in the Kendo room that she’d hesitated to believe it was the same person. But “Zeke Constantine”, his name at least, had been known to her for far longer than the hours that had passed since their initial encounter.
“I would say you are doing perfectly well, Mr. Constantine, given the circumstances. But then I’m sure there is some obscure protocol in the Lician books for encounters in dark forests after …what would they call it? Excusing oneself impromptly from a ball?” Alarice assured, either coy or playful – she was not sure. Nor was she sure why or how her sudden exclusion of herself from the term “they” – Licians – happened so naturally. Perhaps because he made her think of another strangely-locked youth, with a sword in hand and an easy disposition. “You are not accustomed to court wear? I’ll have you know you’re dressed quite casually. One would usually be required to wear cufflinks…” Easy, practiced, she reached over and folded the doubtlessly itchy ends of the embroidered sleeve over and up to his elbows. Her gown shifted as she did, releasing the scent of roses into the air. A leaf dislodged itself from her traditionally long hair and settled on the sateen softness of the skirts. “Then again – I am not precisely a measure of proper dress myself at the moment, but I shall overlook your indiscretion if you shall overlook mine.”