<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fc/Olivier_Martinez_1.jpg)</div>Sylvan LeBlank (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1aSH-3XFwjzyYzh3346uz0-VDB_yxQWMAcVkzYzngWkE/edit)<br/><br/>Sylvan leaned back in his leather backed arm chair and gave a relaxed sigh.  The hawk nosed man lifted a frosty bottle of had cider too sensual lips and took a slow draw.  Where other men at the carnival were thoroughly sloshed today, roving the streets in lusty packs of party animals for good or ill, Sylvan had learned in college that his mother was right—a wizard had to be very careful about loosing control.<br/><br/>Didn't mean they couldn't have fun, though.  Sylvan took another draw on his cider, nursing his buzz.  Earlier that day, he'd roamed the streets like any young man—if somewhat more sober—dancing to the music, enjoying the spectacle, and savoring the exhibitionist beauties.  Now that he'd taken some time back home to relax with music and memories for company, he was not only reinvigorated.  Sylvan found himself craving a little lusty mischief himself.<br/><br/>For lusty, there was one girl it was hard to go wrong with.  And if he could get her, he had two favorite targets for mischief.  He rose from the comfotable chair, crossed the gass-light lit room, and picked up the land line phone.  He dialed Morgarne Earlich's number...<br/><br/>On rotary dial.<br/><br/>When the girl picked up, he'd begin, “Good evening, Mora.”  Between the nickname, the sensual voice, and the staticy connection, it was hard to mistake Sylvane LeBlank.  “I was wondering what it would take to entice you out for some dinner, dancing, and general depravity?”<br/><br/>A moment later, Sylvan's head jerked towards the window as gunshot's hammered out.  “Hellfire!” he bellowed.  “Hold that thought.  There's gunshots going off down the block.  Tell me we haven' fallen so far as to shoot handgun's into the air at Carnival.  This isn't Los Angeles!”<br/><br/>He quickly set down the phone and grabbed his leather jacket. After checking the wand he'd tucked into his boots, Sylvan strode out the door and glanced in the direction of the gunshots.  For the moment, the tingling in his spine was more excitement than fear.  There was a new evocation he was eager to try for depriving thugs of conventional weapons, and who would believe a drunken—and likely strung out—hoodlum ranting on marti gras about a man working magic on their sidearms.<br/><br/>Once he got a sight of the disturbance, Sylvan started in that direction at a confident stride, but doing what he could to subtly pass close to ready cover.