miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion,
rhys, miles, thomas | early evening
Rhys was under the impression that he was looking rather good that night. Then again, he was under the impression that he always looked good. It was his blessing and his curse. More of a blessing if he was honest with himself. The night was young. There was much to be done and he’d only rubbed a few elbows so far in the common mix. Soon, he’d ascend to the noble’s room. By the the time he’d make it through, he doubted anyone there would be in any condition to know that he wasn’t supposed to be. With all the intermingling foreign dignitaries, it wouldn’t be hard to mesh in.
For now, he had a drink in his hand, a smile on his face, and no lady on his arm. The last part was only meant he had to remedy that. Things would fall easily into place in time. Now he saw two of his closest associates. One arm found itself around Miles’ neck and the other around Tom’s as he pulled them close. “Amigos.”
“Have you been drinking?” Miles asked immediately and mock-suspiciously as their three heads bumped together, leaning in as if exchanging conspirational secrets. “Fie. Shame on you, Rhys. Hedonist, lech.”
The first of the two mimes had obviously been drinking quite a bit himself, wavering as he rolled his eyes at Rhys and Tom alike. He was wearing his own skin again tonight—as far as he was concerned, the king’s fete was no place to risk blowing his cover and losing his fake identities, the poor hapless ‘Basil Norwood’ eviscerated by too-eager Kingsguard. “You know, the Palace of Lions is quite all right and everything,” Miles said, with the air of a posh art curator assessing a curious painting, nose upturned, “but I think I do still prefer our dives.”
To that, Tom could not disagree. No matter the splendor, no matter how beautiful and well-dressed and perfumed the women, Tom would always prefer the leaky, stench-filled taverns and pubs which littered the great city like freckles upon the exposed swell of a milkmaid's breasts. And speaking of which…
Tom canted his head to the side, indicating that the two gentlemen (if such a word could be used to describe present company) ought to look that way. Beyond stood a redhaired woman, wearing what appeared to be the best of her wardrobe, though it lacked any such flair that might suggest a plenitude of wealth to her name. She was pretty in a plain way, though it was most assuredly the vibrant hair color which earned her much attention. When she cracked a smile to her present company, a gap between her teeth was became visible, and it only granted her more charm, in Tom's opinion.
"Our dives may be more comfortable, but there aren't many like that there," Tom remarked. "I'd wager someone will be taking her home tonight. Have you made a mark yet, Rhys?"
Rhys made a face. While he did enjoy the ambience of a dive, he would not compare it to the palace. The thought of living in a place this nice wasn’t unappealing. It was easier to disappear in a dive, though. “You two are mad,” he said as he made a face at each of them in turn as if to make a point.
Thankfully there was a lovely subject change when Tom nodded over toward the woman with red hair. It was so rare to see it that vibrant, and he couldn’t help but smile until she did. Then he stifled a pained expression. “Ah, no. I have not just yet. Mine will probably be plucked from the upper hall,” he admitted confidently. “That one is all yours, unless Miles would like to contest your claim,” he said looking over to the man on the other side of him.
Miles arched an eyebrow at the bard: going upstairs? he mouthed, before shaking his head. “It’s a new year, gents,” he said dryly, “and we’re already getting started on competing in the breeches? Bloody ambitious, you are.” (Not that he wasn’t — naked ambition was, in fact, Baines’ hallmark.)
He could tell she was watching them watching her, the attention of three handsome bards like a trio of hawks surveying a particularly juicy mouse. Miles seemed to consider the idea, weighing his options on a set of scales, shrugging into Rhys’ arm. A beat, then: “No, she’s all yours, Thomas. I prefer blondes.”