SIR MARCOS/SQUIRE DEIRGARD, complete. | mid-evening.
In her head, the chatter of the crowd became the pitter-patter of rain. There was no language in the susurrus, yet such was not needed for her to understand. (Why do you resist when you are already damned—) A hand moved for her hip, for a hilt. Dark eyes swept the ballroom—
—only to fix upon the most mundane peculiarity. At once, with an unbidden softening at the corners of her mouth, the reverie was dispelled. Her feet began to move. Conan froze at the sight of the approaching woman. He knew her face as one of his guildmates and more relevant to him, as one of Lady Gale Kapur’s murderous friends. And she was headed right for him. The squire was defenseless without his dagger, but his hands flew instinctively to where it would’ve rested. (This was saying much as instinct for Conan usually meant to flee.) Cornered by adults at every turn, he saw no other option than to bite the bullet and face his dragon head on.
"Your arm, Deirgard," said Divina, reaching his side. When he nervously raised it, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Despite the pose, she took the lead, bringing the squire toward a nearby alcove. She was leading him to his death, he suspected, following her command.
But he did not find her grasp to resemble claws, not as the whispers and gossip warned him; so when Conan spoke, his voice did not shake with as much fear as he anticipated. “W-what did I do?” What are you going to do to me? was the unasked question.
“Hold still.”
The boy was around her height, so there was no difficulty in raising her hands to his collar. Divina’s fingers were long and tapered, nails cut short, skin ridden with callouses: indeed not claws but the curious meeting of warrior and woman. Meticulously, these hands arranged loose ends of fabric into a perfect bow.
Dumbstruck, Conan exhaled a sigh he did not realize he had been holding. “T-thank you,” he stammered out in surprise. He bowed his head, mildly embarrassed that his expectations of her had been so incorrect. Perhaps if Lady Marcos was not as frightening as he thought, then her best friend could be manageable as well.