it's time for a change of heart {arawn}

What was she doing at this party? Emily didn't go to parties. Especially not London parties, and furthermore, very especially not Prophet parties. She wrote for them on occasion, and the occasion seemed to be happening more frequently than not as of late, but it seemed a rather socially excruciating task to show up to a place where no-one knew her name (she preferred to write under a pseudonym for the Prophet) and where she had to look, act, and be a certain way. It was too rough on her mood and her shifting insecurities for her liking. Em much preferred to be under the cover of the safe harbor that was her flat in rainy, cloudy Scotland, where she could scribble away and luxuriate in the cozy comforts of the word written before she was even born. Austen was a favorite of hers as of late. As of ever, really, but she'd proven especially relevant and poignant the past few months. Emily wasn't really sure why, other than the sneaking suspicion it had something to do with another year coming to pass and having nothing to show for it in the way of an earth-shattering connection. Twenty-four. Nineteen and seventeen seemed like the day before last.

Wasn't it cliche to wish for a connection like the ones so abundantly covered in Austen novels? Perhaps it was. Was it also a pipe-dream unlikely to ever come to pass? Also likely. However, none of these realizations seemed to deter the newly twenty-four year old witch from her... longing. That wasn't really the right word; Emily was perfectly comfortable being alone, but everyone had a hankering to understand and be understood every once in awhile. Amidst her truly effortless (honestly, she didn't bother to even go out anymore) searching, she'd ended up here. Maybe all of that was something of what it was -- why she was at the party, anyway.

And she was getting paid to write for these people. Even if only the editors really knew who she was, they'd requested her presence and so she'd obliged, showing up in a knee-length grey sheath with an open back and neatly-knotted hair that showed off... what? Her jaw? Her shoulders? Her neck? All of the above, probably. Pretty much anything she threw on would be somewhat flattering in that it wouldn't be offensive looking. It was a little bit more difficult to find anything that really accentuated her features, but who was there to impress? Men with blindingly-white teeth and unnaturally orange skin and very, very drunk arm candy? I think not, her wit scoffed.

In order to make it through the night, she'd need something to drink. The open bar hadn't been a make-or-break sort of deal, but it had certainly been a plus. It had earned a surprised little face from the brunette witch upon opening her invitation, anyhow. Her black pumps clacked on the floor as she nudged and weaved through the little clumps of women hanging off buzz-cutted men, trying to smother the sour face she pulled every time one of them giggled in an alarming, extremely false sort of way. Tittering intern idiots. "Just a glass of sangiovese for now, please." Emily told the bartender and lingered around the stool she was standing next to, very unwilling to sit down in fear of the temptation to plant there for the rest of the night.

( @Arawn Davies )

Arawn was standing at the bar, waiting patiently for his turn to order another beer. He was probably being a little too patient, because several people had been served before him despite arriving after. Twice he’d opened his mouth to object, the first time he’d been thoroughly distracted by how beautiful the woman had been – momentarily flustered he’d forgotten his grievance and let her order first (a mistake, she’d proceeded to order a full tray of shots). The second time he reconsidered based on the fact the pusher-inner was a man half a foot taller and had a face like a smacked arse. 

Finally he thought he’d caught the eye of the barmaid and she swept straight past him to someone waving around a handful of galleons down the far end of the bar. Fortunately the Welshman wasn’t the type to get riled up easily – no, he’d just quietly let his anger simmer away beneath the surface. He didn’t even know why he’d come here – he should have known when Will had invited him to a “party” that it would be the kind where he didn’t fit in.

Not that he really blended in at other parties, for that matter. Except maybe with the wallpaper. Arawn certainly stood out here – all the men were exceptionally manicured, with slicked back hair, glowing tans and perfect teeth. Where they were wearing tailored suits Arawn had opted for dark jeans, a t-shirt and a blazer – a shade more casual than seemed the norm. His pale skin and product-free hair marked him as an outsider more than anything. The women were just as put-together; bright cocktail dresses and sky-high heels, falling over themselves to hang off the perma-tanned men.

For Godric’s sake. He’d missed his moment again – too busy people watching and not enough paying attention to his place at the bar. Arawn turned to his left and his icy gaze locked onto a girl (woman? Young lady? He was at that stage of not really knowing what term best applied) who stood out in much the same way he did. She was wearing a plain sort of dress: grey, understated and immediately much more interesting than the candy-coloured cocktail abominations many of the other women here were wearing. Her face was vaguely familiar, but he didn’t know her – he wanted to, though.

“Hi.” Shit. Hi? What kind of intro was that? “Um, sorry – could you, would you mind ordering me a beer? Any kind.” Realising how presumptuous he sounded he quickly followed up his request with “I’ll pay! I can get yours too,” Smooth, so smooth. “They keep skipping me,” He finished, by way of an explanation, the back of his neck on fire as he flushed.

Em sucked in a silent gasp of surprise at being addressed. How embarrassing to be startled by such a simple greeting, but more than that, how had she managed to show up in an ensemble deliberately manufactured to fly under the radar and still been spoken to? Elaine would be nudging her inappropriately toward him about now. No point looking like a frigid bitch now. His voice sounded warm and even a little shaky if she was going to really step out on a limb. "Hello there," Emily said politely, speaking neutrally in her poshy Scottish accent. The corner of her lip quirked slightly until he mentioned her ordering him a beer, and then her hint of a smile dropped, quickly being replaced by quizzical arched brows. The witch wasn't known for being quick to speak and would let him finish, of course. He'd certainly captured her attention.

When he finished explaining, the smile returned, much larger than the first. And more amused. She didn't really want him to think she was condescending him. It was only funny because she'd been in exactly that place. He must not have gotten out much. "Sure," Em nodded at him and flicked her fingers toward her chest the next time she saw the person attending the bar. "One of your house brews on tap, too, please. Go ahead and just start a tab, I suppose." The witch had to shout a little bit over the top of the music. She didn't like shouting. This kind of shouting was different than the normal emotion-laden shouting that invited all sorts of unwanted vulnerability, she supposed, but raising her voice hadn't ever been something that Emily had done lightly.

The bartender eventually swung back around and Emily handed the man his beer straight afterward, unwilling to be responsible for the frothing yellowish liquid that was quivering and sloshing around at the top of the very, very full glass. "There you are. I'm Emily." She was quick to introduce herself and just as quick not to include any pertinent information. Her yellow-green eyes sized him up and she arched another perfectly-groomed brow again, leaning just a little on the marble of the countertop. "Forgive me for saying so, but you look just a little out of your element. What brings you here tonight?"

A beat later, she gestured toward her own outfit with her free hand and spoke after a long drink of wine. "I hope you're not offended. It's not really my first choice, either."

Oh thank Godric she said something. For half a moment Arawn thought she was going to just ignore him – he wouldn’t have been surprised. Disappointed and hugely embarrassed, but not surprised. Relief washed over his features, followed by a small smile as she ordered his drink. A tab? Did that mean she was intending to get more than one drink with him? Or just, charge it to him? Either way, he wasn’t going to object. He was far too much of a pushover for that.

“Thank you.” The Welshman took the glass as she offered it to him, lifting it to his lips to take a sip – at last. “Arawn,” he replied by way of an introduction, lowering his drink. His face fell a little as she commented on his appearance, but he quickly recovered as she elaborated, apparently apologising. “Oh, I, no – you look fine.” Merlin help him. Fine? Hardly a compliment. “I came with a friend.” He added quickly, taking another drink of his beer and averting his gaze awkwardly, as if she were sat there in something much more revealing.

He really didn’t want to explain to Emily why Will had wanted Arawn to come with him; Will was loved up at the moment and seemed to think that Arawn should be too – however, there was a key flaw in Will’s plan to simply thrust him into a room full of women (and men) and that was Arawn’s crippling shyness. He was still somewhat amazed that he’d managed to string more than two words together with Emily, but he supposed there was always a chance that his streak wouldn’t last long. Perhaps it was because he didn’t seriously think she’d be remotely interested in him. “He’s a writer, not for the Prophet though.” He blurted out, then realised that she might very well work for the very paper it sounded like he was dismissing. “Not that there’s anything wrong with.. the Prophet.” He inhaled deeply, “What about you?”