floating above; open
In whatever form, in whatever personage, possessed by whatever character from theater, he did like a party. He liked a party even better when he could hover well above the proceedings and decide when to dive in.
He wasn't even concerned about being the person on a broom forty feet overhead. It didn't cross his mind to be worried. Maybe it was possession - maybe it was not giving a single fuck about anything, a singular pride in the power of magic and its capabilities against naysayers and the cruel. Maybe it was just the freedom that flight provided, the glittering view of the crest of Repose and the expanse of black beyond, the strip of lights at the highway, the distant glimmer of the Capital beyond them. He wore a pointed hat and a crop top, and his skin was green as the flesh of a poison apple, the faint light of the street below skimming translucent across his flesh.
He wasn't paying attention to the street. He did carry a drink in his hand (don't drink and fly). He hovered, eyes fixed on the distant, decadent icon of the capital limned in lights. He breathed in the night air, cooler up here than down there, and felt himself outside himself, somewhere better. He felt his veins swell with magic, and the wind above the buildings teased through his long, long dark hair.