<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/7nywiRN.jpg?1)</div>Feeling absolutely like a pigeon among peafowl, Mara notes the adornment and glamour of the guests on their way.  Of course, this is what she'd been expecting, but she doesn't glance down, doesn't blush or cringe at being so poorly dressed for the soiree.  This is the character she's portraying... the ruffian, the barbarian.  It's all part of the fantasy-- for them, not her.<br/><br/>She allows herself to be slightly distanced from Alizeh-- a simple gesture she doesn't intend as a slight, but more as a buffer so that, should her ruse go awry, the silver-maned woman should not have her own image marred by Mara's own 'Wild Gold' caricature.  She can follow little of what happens next, and is merely able to observe silently, fold her arms over her breasts rudely, and narrow her eyes as if Luciana's tantrum is far beyond her meager expectations of decorum.<i>what? even a barbarian can see how crass this woman is being!</i><br/><br/>And then, her bodyguard squares up.  Placing one's hand at one's sword is no simple threat... not for anyone past boyhood, anyway.  Doing so in the wrong time and place can get one arrested-- or, if in the wrong company-- sliced, stabbed, cudgeled, or outright shot-- crossbow through the eye-- before steel can even kiss its goodbye to leather.  The woman's poise and professionalism coupled with her recognition of Mara's carriage-- or was it her show, earlier?-- was enough to raise the hackles on her neck.<br/><br/><i>Sometimes you meet someone and just... know... 'I'm going to have to kill her.  I don't know how or when, but... one of these nights...'</i><br/><br/>She stares back, unflinching, and readies herself.<i>Don't let her draw steel.  Break her sword arm and stay back for the guards to take her--</i>but, then, it's over.<br/><br/>And she gives a brief glance back toward Alizeh, the girl she'd "escorted" to the event-- that made them partners, in a way.  A team... didn't it?  And she can see that Alizeh bears a mournful stare... or is it<em>wounded</em>?  Gods, this artists' life, who can even find the right words any more-- but Mara flinches, and preparing to turn, pull Alizeh aside and speak to her, she sees she's too late.  Two strange elves (honest to god elves, exotic dance-in-the-moonlight elves, and two of them at once) approach her, and Mara sees her immediately brighten.<br/><br/>Mara hesitates, then, and turns her gaze away, clearing her throat and straightening her shoulders-- and finds her gaze filled with a handsome, older, and well-seated-- man of means.  She makes a momentary show of puzzling over his words, then raises her eyebrows in apparent comprehension and smiles warmly, reflecting just enough uncertainty to show her discomfort with the language, but not enough to hint that she should find any fault at his presence.  "Construction, you say?  I see-- my father was builder.  He make fine houses and sheds for many villages around.  So good to meet you," she says with a widening smile.  "I am Mara-- you are, ah, the Lord of Whitburn, yes?  This is quite an honor."  Spreading her hands in a welcoming gesture, she inclines her head ever so slightly-- as if that is the closest she can give to a bow to<i>any</i>man... cue the dramatic music.<br/><br/>"I would be happy to hear more, Lord Whitburn.  I cannot speak for the other performers, but I will carry your message to them, talk on whatever you would like to say.  This much I can promise."