A Valerian… here, Gravon did not move, refusing to let his body betray his thoughts. His eyes however, his eyes cut through the crowd, focusing quick and moving on, looking for the other member of the night court. His inspection was interrupted with a hand on his shoulder. A woman’s grip that seemed to burn through the cloak that he wore.<br/><br/>“Let them see you for what you are,” came the hushed voice of his patron. He simply nodded before gliding forward, at the edge of the peers his let his cloak drop and then he all much stalked to the middle of the room. The shirt hung loose from a muscled upper body, the flogger swung behind him like some animal’s anxious tail. The gold and silver baubles and trinkets made a tinkling chime sound as he looked about the room. He dared anyone to approach him, dared anyone to question his skill and dedicate to his art, his God.<br/><br/>He turned about slowly, The black leather of the boot rising from the floor like to pillars to frame the soft gray velvet of the breeches. There was nothing hidden from view, and he had no modest as he fixed more than one patron with a look as they watched his display. More than one set of eyes could not have told you what mask he wore, never having made it about his waist.<br/><br/>He forced his gloved hands up and then out, turning slowly, a pinwheel exhibition that was as much theatrical as it was real. They had wanted a display, his patron had consigned him, He would complete his marque with this last assignment, he would be accorded the rites and the ability as an adept.<br/>