Whomever said war was Hell was a damned liar. Nothing, in Merek Aubert's not-so-humble opinion, was worse than a damned Ball. The whole affair of dressing in frills and flounces, only to be paraded about a crowded room of dull nobility, drinking questionable spirits, and being forced to flee to the privacy of gardens to enjoy a spot of tobacco, was more than bloody dreadful.
Had one asked him why he bothered to attend, there wouldn't have been an answer. Having never been formally invited, it was a bit rude to perhaps enter as guest, swoop up the nearest glass of champagne and wander around the outskirts of the room. Nevermind that his state of dress was casual, to the say the least, having only that morning arrived at the docks, outfitted in riding trousers and boots, a waist coat, and a dusty shirt that left much to be desired.
Still, he was new to the area, curious as to the goings-on, and from all the excited whispers and giggles he heard while navigating the town, it seemed as if all those of Aristocracy were to attend.