Aiden waits, seated upon a small couch that, despite its modest size, carries an air of authority simply by his presence. His posture is relaxed, but only in the way a cat might seem at ease before striking. The ballroom—an elegant term for a space that feels much too vast without a crowd—echoes faintly with the occasional shift of fabric or the distant footsteps of some unseen servant.
The childling, Noínín, stands before him, now cleaned up, fed, and dressed in fresh clothing. Aiden takes in the sight without reaction, his gaze momentarily flicking to the small, elegant piano tucked into one corner, the harp beside it. No other instruments have been provided.
His expression, composed and cool, perhaps bored. A pale green never flutters around him and his lady Nadeen seated along side him on the couch. Far too polite to swat at it, he ignores its presence with patience worthy of a troll being pestered by a pooka.
Seated cross-legged on the floor, Bluebell watches the scene with quiet amusement, her chin resting lightly on her hands.