Cinsel detested parties.  He arrived late, as usual, grateful to whatever clever bastard made lateness fashionable instead of a snub.  He came without attendant or valet, and without announcement; his appearance was its own announcement.  Faces turned toward him as flowers toward the sun, and he was buffeted with 'So glad you could attend's and 'Such a joy to see you's and all the other damnable pleasantries.  And then the worst of all, the mingling.<br/><br/>Mingling was deathly dull.  In a proper social meeting, Cinsel could talk and act just so, say all the right things, put on a particular smile, and wear a twinkle in his eyes that would form a genuine bond with someone.  He could put them off their guard and at his disposal, and so further his own power and his own ends at their expense.  But at a party, everyone had their masks on and their empty platitudes and nothing was sincere.  And Cinsel so hated to waste his time at a party, milling with masked mannequins, when he could be making someone love him.<br/><br/>Oh, there was the host of the party, of course, but she was inaccessible.  The party and the mob of invitees isolated her from private contact better than any armed guards or iron bars could.  Cinsel brought a gift, of course, as had everyone else.  It wasn't the sort of gift he liked, a token of true friendship and sincerity, but just an obligation, a platitude given shape.  So he offered shoes.  Exceptional shoes to be sure, but shoes.  'Trod upon this gift', he would think as he gave it to her, 'as it and all the offal so richly deserve.'