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Moargen catches your eye as you lay out a costume on the floor.

Her eyes flick away immediately, as if they'd never met yours. You sigh. Perhaps the dancer will warm to you again after the day's events are done; then again, perhaps not.

The jingling of bells gives you time to stand before Timshel is before you, exuding more pathos than whimsy in his dark brown motley. From his demeanor it's entirely possible he's consumed a touch of liquid courage. "Ready for your first encounter with His Grace, Bandochel?" he says with artificial heartiness. "You understand your role full well?"