Conspicuously clean as Volterra is, I’m probably more so; he had dragons, ones that didn’t care for neatness, if the squirrel incident is to be any evidence. Duir, however, is perhaps the most studiously put together being in the Basin, and had very much insisted that I douse myself with a good amount of water, and had forcibly drug a peculiarly comb-like stick through my tail hair. He’d even tried to disentangle my faintly golden mirror and chain from where its come to be one with my mane, to little avail, and had grumpily moved on to neatly arrange my forelock, instead. The result?

My gold patches are gleaming, and the fact that I am both distinctly brown and black, swirling, ebbing, kissing with shadow and cocoa, is more evident than not. My shoulder plate, normally filthy as I am, is burnished and gleams, the harness carefully washed in the lake by Duir while I’d buffed my hooves (also at his insistence), and each bit of jewelry or adornment I otherwise wear has been tended to, also. Eyeing myself in the sunset illuminated surface of the lake while the others meander in, and my equally scrubbed and orderly buck drumming in the distance, I can’t help but give the little deer credit for the idea. I look good, down-right Kingly.

Lifting my head with a sigh as the number of voices begins to grow, and my presence becomes required, I move through the crowd. Ampere, Ingrid, and Wessex are already hitting the booze, which makes my lips quirk up – Wessex, in particular, could use it. Not far from Wessex and Ampere is Volterra, who appears to be joining their group, but I pass Ingrid and Pip, first, and give them a happy smile of greeting.

"Don’t let him talk your ear off," I smile in passing, recalling that one of the primary character traits of the likeable pony had been chattiness. Not lingering to chat, however, I move towards the dance floor, where the majority of individuals are standing, including Amaris.

Stopping to stare at her (probably not very suavely), I lay eyes, for the first time, on one of the legendary dragon mares of my youth. I’d certainly herd stories of the mutated dragon-horses there in the mist, but had never seen one, and as I looked upon the image of a rather pretty woman, not a serpentine monster with wings and flames spewing from her lips, I find I’m, once again, let down by my mother’s tales. What in actuality was Mirage, if this smiling, cheerful face is a monster of old? Probably just an old, swag-backed, toothless nag with a stick.

Regardless, I pull my eyes away, looking from her to the rest, and their gathering groups. All but Beloved it seems stand with companionship, which I figure is fair; that woman seems to have enough company in her head, without help. So, with a contented sigh, I remain where I am, happy to watch the evening, so far, unfold without a hitch.

[ OOC: Rikyn probably makes eye contact with you and nods hello! Otherwise, he stares at Amaris a bit before standing by himself at the far edges of the dance-floor gathering to watch the people talk. :D ]