The quartet starts up a new song, this one slightly faster. Dancers move from the floor, the new music not to their taste, and mingle with the others gathered in the ballroom. Other changelings flow onto the dance floor to lose themselves in the beat of the music. A server approaches the group. "May I offer you a drink?"

Landen casts Miller a unreadable look. "Is that what you think? Why does any venture into the lion's den? Because if the lion invites you, you do your best to stay on the lion's good side in hopes that it won't eat you."

Miller sniffs a bit, then turns to address Landen. "I believe you will find, sir, that if you walk into the lion's den with a reasonable prospect of being eaten, then you are being prevented from attending - either from withdrawing due to the reasonable caution one has towards being eaten, or by missing the denouement of the gleeful hypocrisy the onlookers will deploy about how sad they feel at your demise. I believe my theory still stands intact. At occasions such as these, many silently dream of being called away by some obligation that the host and crowd respect. Such an errand provides full credit for appearing, but eliminates the risk of participation."

Miller turns to coldly survey the server, but still speaks to Martin and Jess. "See? Remember, one of the primary duties of a host is to offer such 'liquid courage'. This duty is a quiet admission of the predominantly fearful state of the audience." He cants his head slightly sideways, as if to inspect the quality of the server's garb. "Vodka, neat."

"you don't seem so happy about aurora, " Deirdre says, giving Balor a bright smile and taking a long drag.

The server gives a nod to Miller, uncaring or used to similar comments, and turns away heading for the bar.

"True enough, I suppose. But this evening is ripe with so much more than fear. Gossip certainly brings out the worst in people, don't you agree?" Landen inquires with a smile.

Outside Balor drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes the butt beneath the heel of his shoe. "Aurora? Shallow little slut. White deserves her," he grumbles before sipping on the ground.

"Yeah. So much more than fear. There's fear and chicken. Which is a preposition and a city away from being a Hunter S. Thompson novel, I guess."

Martin wanders through the party some, checking back in with his friends more and more often.

As Martin walks away, the server returns with Miller's drink. He hands it over with a napkin and a nod before moving on to another cluster of changelings. Landen glances over at Jess. "Chicken, huh?" he asks. "Yeah, I think you're right." He lets out a chuckle of amusement.

In his wanderings, Martin catches bits of conversation. Most are busy gossiping about the up coming wedding, and of course the politics of the Courts. "That Parsimon guy? Creepy old hermit. Seriously," a young Manikin is telling his friends. "No one trusts him. He and Aeolian hate each other. Not sure why she lets him hang around, but she never talks to him, or he to her." His comments gets a few nods of agreement.

Jess swallows his last bite of chicken and wipes his hands on a napkin.

"So, Landen. What's your feeling about arranged political marriages?"

Deirdre raises an eyebrow at Balor. "I don't understand what you mean."

Miller approves of Jess' perhaps-unintended wordplay. "Fear and chicken. There must be a banquet somewhere serving complaints and beef, and another one offering suspicion and fish." He swirls the vodka in his glass, then takes a slight sip.

He turns again to look at the crowd, and his eyes sag slightly. He murmurs, to nobody in particular, "You know, I believe the humor in the delay in the start of official events here has crossed the line from funny to not-funny, and it will be at least a half hour longer before it crosses back into funny-again territory." As a way to pass the time, Miller starts performing an inventory of Freehold members present in the room. Besides Deirdre, Balor and Mother Night, it would be interesting and politically useful to see if anyone else was exercising the better part of valor. He moves softly to the first step of the closest staircase to get a better vantage point.