Eric had dashed over to another small table, and grabbed one of the champagne flutes (confirming first that it was, of course, Lirnavov; he wasn't stooping so low as to actually drink), before grabbing a plate and piling it with a pile of snacks. The attendant raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"I've got wings. My metabolism probably outruns the entire room."
He shrugged and turned around, pacing quickly after the restless girl who had already taken off. "Fine by me," he affirmed.
The two slipped across the dance floor, ducking around a few attendants and patrons. Eric took a fragile moment to examine the scattered people. He counted several fans and gladiators toddling around for various reasons. One was a man who stood out with brown skin, raven hair tied to one side in a ponytail. Two people scooted past with black hoods; one with a cloak, the other in a hooded suit. A female model flittered in and out of view, blazing out of the wider ruckus. Three other girls scattered around the room, standing by their seeming partners, all mostly devoid of content. And there were other persons of interest as well, some of which were talking to each other, hands in suited pockets. The atmosphere wasn't dull or flat... but it was surprisingly void of any real joy.
Maybe when the doors opened things would get brighter.
Ana and the nephilim reached the table, and Eric dashed around and pulled one of the chairs out. "After you," he proffered. 'I may be antisocial, but I'm not an asshole either,' he thought to himself, satisfyingly.
