Reagan & Luke | After Sundown | Town Circle
Of course she had seen him. It had been all too difficult not to, tonight, when she had spent so much of her time twirling and spinning across the town circle to the beat of his music, indulging in the dances she knew so well by heart; Tonight, when he had spent so much of the day playing along and floating, actually floating above everyone else.
And that was reason to celebrate too, wasn't it? Certainly all of this was for Canwyn, in recognition of beauty and change and generosity, but to be free, to be unbound for the first time in so long... She could not deny that the previous night had seen her alternatively projecting and then catching herself in an exhilarating game of catch. That giddiness had only carried over into today. Between the look on Emmy's face when she'd first tried on her dress, to the speech made by Danu Llewellyn, to the music, to the flowers, to the unfettered force that rested in her hands, today was turning out to be a rather joyous day indeed, and Reagan had been celebrating accordingly.
Which was to say with several cups of ale and cider and much singing and dancing.
This was likely why, when she saw Lukas Fox again, once the sun had set and the lamps had been lit, she made the rather prompt decision that she was tired of avoiding him. Well, she had actually made that decision after their latest journal interaction, but it certainly felt impromptu and empowering over her final swig of cider. How long could she really hope to avoid him anyway? And besides, he really did play the fiddle remarkably well. She should, at the very least, compliment him on that. Right?
Right.
Now, it should be noted that, for such a small thing, Reagan was quite good at holding her drink. She did not slur. She did not sway. The only visible telltale sign were the bright shimmer of her eyes and the way her fingertips alighted with casual familiarity upon the shoulders and backs of those she passed by as she cut through the crowd toward him, dressed in a pale pink embroidered dress with the long, flowing skirt swirling around her legs in the evening breeze. Her hair had been decorated with flower buds, woven meticulously throughout her braid, but by that point in the evening the petals had begun to scatter and wilt, raining into the copper curls that had pulled free of her coif to halo her face more freely.
Rather brazenly she reached out to tap him on the shoulder without so much as a moments' consideration to what he (or she) might be doing in that moment.
"Lukas Fox," she greeted evenly, looking up into his face, “Happy turning to you.”