station72 | PARTY PARTY PARTY

[It's not that Lexa's people are without celebrations. It's more that their celebrations come with a sense of solemnity. Even on Ascension Day, they gather with a sense of seriousness carrying in every step to celebrate the Flame and the progression of their people. They manage to survive so long that it's worth celebrating. Still: their songs are slower, more serious, their dispositions are darker, and they're unaccustomed to such things.

That doesn't mean they don't know about the lighter, more jovial versions. Within the villages, people are more likely to take to happier times. Lexa recalls some of them from youth. And she's read about some of them in books. Still, when this parade is announced and it seems that the other Hosts are interested in going, she has to take the time to research what is appropriate.

When she shows up, it does seem like she's worked it out: her hair is done up with black and silver ribbons, and the rest of the ribbons are worn as obvious accessories. She wears a long, slender and dark green dress, as well as a great deal of eye makeup, thick mascara, eyeshadow that extends beyond her eyes. It is the mesh of this world's culture and her own that is apparent, but she wears it proudly. In getting her braids done with ribbons, she did have to seek someone who would assist her in that and paid for it, but she has chosen not to turn her back on this luxury. (A shallower, simpler part of her wishes she could have always had this choice; it's not something she's bound to admit to other people, but it's obvious in how she carries herself.)

As the night goes on, the following will be happening:

a) she will be drinking, though careful to take what she imbibes. She is grateful that the symbiote curbs some of the heavier effects of alcohol, but she might be a little less inhibited as time goes on.

b) Her watching performers with keen interest.

c) There will be times in which she may be looking for suspicious people of interest, as it's not like her to let her guard down entirely. While her mind won't be thinking this way, any of the other Hosts will likely get the sense that she isn't relaxing as much as she probably should be.

d) There will be few who are able to take her ribbons, and any attempts will be met with her grabbing that person's wrist roughly and turning it back on them. She won't break any bones, but there will likely be some bruising left behind. Anyone might see her do this—or if it's a member of the Nest who thinks she's relaxing, they might be on the receiving end of it. Sorry, buds, she's not here to give out unwanted kisses.

or e) Wildcard options! Want to encourage Lexa to drink, dance, or live a little? Want to see Lexa when she's actually drunk? She's in her early twenties, but she probably hasn't had actual fun that didn't involve punching someone for a ... long time.]

[ Parades mean crowds, jostling and getting jostled for the best view. Every sidewalk and bar window on the route's got their empty spaces filled with bodies and the inescapable din of conversation shouted over conversation, shouted over music. It's loud, booming and almost incomprehensible at times, but Steve doesn't mind the noise so much. He's got a sketchbook tucked under one arm and his eye on the buildings.

It's the two beers (the approximation of beer) that he drank with his burger (the approximation of a burger) that gets him bold enough to shout up to the folks on their second floor balconies. He strikes out three times before a woman with neon blue hair ignores the protests of her balcony-mates and buzzes him up to their small house party. Squeezed into a corner, side pressed up against the metal bars, he gets to sketching the performers dancing on the street below, eyes open for the usual suspects and joining in the conversation around him when he's got something he can add, or when his hosts get philosophical with their growing inebriation. The woman with the bright blue hair takes to watching him draw, striking up a conversation and debate about the artistic integrity of the passing floats, about the merits of Aristana as performance art.

She ties a dark purple ribbon to his ribbonless wrist, and promptly slips it off again.

For most of the night, Steve can be located at the balcony, sketching and chatting away. Call up from the street and get an invite to the apartment.

Or he can be found moving through the street with purpose, stopping at the only convenience store still open on the block, picking up beer for his new acquaintances.

After dusk, when the crowds have cleared out, he takes the scenic route back to the Bearings. Anyone still hungry will smell those weird pancakes he's always cooking, and find Steve over a pan with a spatula in hand, busy. ]

[ She's unsure, when she first sees the sheer mass of people at the event. A teeming throng of music - movement - is too much - and it means she hangs back until eventually, curiosity gets the better of her when she sees people drinking something en masse from a nondescript cup. Curious, she goes to try it and - well it tastes good. Fizzing against her tongue - and she finishes it easily, especially as each mouthful makes her feel lighter and lighter.

It's a good reprieve from everything serious they're doing, she decides, and - well, she takes just about any excuse when she can to throw herself into doing things she doesn't get to often. Besides - she finds, normally, that too often people can be too much but - after one cup of something that tastes sweet and - fruit, she knows now from Ilde's memories ( tingling, on her lips ) and it feels half as good as that as she has another that - she doesn't mind the people half as much as she usually does. Not the choking in the crowd, a -- connectedness that's not just her powers or the hive. She's humming, buzzing high in herself. It's the constant brush and push of people, where she's touched and is touched. Being amongst the moments she had only watched that she grips tightly with both her hands when someone asks her to dance and goes. Finds new textures, smells. The sweat of people, the mix of cocktail, that under smell of something fetid and dirty, damp with water. Feels it prickle on herself. There's just so much and she hits - over stimulation and stays at that peak. Refusing to reject it for once.

Drawn into an ebb and flow where the crowds are like tidal flows around events and - dancing is fun, evn if she's not good at it, she finds, and she gets enthralled in the shows as much as other people. A drink in hand as she settles in to watch a street performer breathe fire and she wants to - snatch it from him, swallow the flames into herself - but she settles for when he finishes to steal a ribbon from him and kiss him instead. Laughing into his cheek as he thanks her and makes his way away from her and - she forgets him except for the smoke smell on her fingers.

It goes, pulls and tugs and she likes it, she finds, and yes, the drinking makes it easier. The drinking makes it blur just the way she likes, even if she's not quite aware that is what it's doing. Marking the encounters with others as she steals ribbons, gets one only to lose another, temporal, incorporeal and she feels like for the first time ( and another two drinks in ) like she's floating again. So, so hard being grounded, she isn't sure she likes it some days. Her skin is heavy, her bones ache inside of herself, but right now, she's arched up on the balls of her feet, another drink hastily downed, as someone tugs a ribbon ( a red one, at her wrist, replacing a blue one that was tied to the strap of her dress ) to lead her into dancing, she thinks - that feels good to. Hand on her hip and she's laughing into whom so ever it is shoulder, gripping tightly to clothes and feels the same done to her. A kiss to her cheek, and then another and she pushes at them teasingly.

She picks up ribbons, as she goes, pulling through the crowds, sometimes to steal a kiss, sometimes it's cheekily done, she tugs one free from the wrist of someone that catches her eye and draws them in by it - other times, when someone snatches off her she makes like she sees some others do, and darts back a second as if to make them give chase.

Can be found at any point, in crowds, in the dancing, sometimes just sitting with a cup in hand with some - new found friends of hers. As likely to be perched in someone's lap as just standing and chatting with whoever she's found. ]

[ Eventually, expectedly, sometimes when she seeks and finds hive - ( and like this, she rolls towards them without being aware of it, because without any walls up she just draws close like it's natural, given into it, accepting them into herself ) - she has her skirts in hand, tightly snatched up to keep out of her way she doesn't trip over - she'll search for hand or ribbon to lead them by - ]

Hey, come here, you should see what I found -

[ It's light and no edges, no harshness, only light and her laughter that churns up.

And yes, she's definitely, definitely her fourth or fifth drink in by this point. ]

[ Anything that's not serious mission stuff is a welcome diversion, as far as Sam's concerned. And it reminds him of New Year's, kind of, which is enough of a hint of familiarity that he doesn't hesitate in heading out to watch the parade. He didn't actually wear any ribbons, but anyone who runs into him later rather than sooner might find he's acquired a couple, tied to his wrists by a friendly (maybe too friendly) Concordian girl around his own age who certainly didn't ask for permission first.

Mostly, he sticks to watching the parade and sampling the street food, but when the drinks start flowing nobody seems too interested in carding those in attendance, and a couple of times he accidentally winds up with a cup of something that he winds up spitting right back into the cup with a frown. There's got to be something to drink here that isn't booze, surely?

He's out until things wind down, even if by then he's swaying on his feet and clearly more than ready to crash. There's no curfew here so he's gonna do what he wants you're not his real mom. ]

open.

[ Parker doesn't like crowds. Or, more so, Parker doesn't care for crowds, but she really does not like parties. Whatever Mardi Gras bullshit is going on, she doesn't like it at all. But she has grown tired of the Bearings and she needed to stretch her legs and now that she is outside, she might as well continue her walk. She has made her stubborn statement of not giving a rat's ass about any of the mission anymore. The Hive can go to hell and whatever conspiracy going on in this planet can go with it. She doesn't care. This isn't her fight and she will not make it hers. Considering absolutely everything has come back to no knowledge of what is going on (not the mission, but the aliens somewhere up above in space that snatched her up), her interest in helping is completely gone. As such, she has taken to doing nothing. Only the routine things that take her as far away as possible from everyone. Running, parkour. She doesn't even care to discover a completely new world. For someone as curious as her it should be unthinkable, but there she is - not caring to know. She finds that there is no will in her to take interest on anything. Just mind-numbing routine of free running, exercise, reading. Anything to take her mind away from thoughts. Anything at all.

It was a struggle, this evening. Which is why she decided to go out. She picked the wrong day to go out.

In the crowded streets, Parker tries to squeeze and dodge everyone, a difficult deat but if anyone can do it, she ought to be the person for the job. Someone tries to grab her wrist to wrap a ribbon on and Parker immediately leaps away like a cat that doesn't want to be touched (like, ever). She glares at them, tells them to leave her alone, and pushes on through. The only thing good from this mess is that at least there is street food. Someone resembling hot dogs, like back in New York. She decides to get one, and move away from the crowd to a quieter one (impossible to move away from people). She perches herself up on a railing, feet dangling as she watches the billboard lighting the district up ahead without any interest. Moves her eyes to the not-really-hot-dog and finds herself not wanting to try it, after all. What is she trying to do anyway? Kill the nostalgia? It won't work. Nothing does. It's an abyss of a hole in her chest if she lets her mind wander. New York. Her friends. Her fight. It's all far away.

Parker sets her jaw and pushes the food to her side, bringing her knees up to set her chin on them. Not really watching but her eyes on the city anyway. Confined to this, apparently. What a stupid waste of time. Waste of a life. She's not doing anything here. It's pointless. Christ. She lowers her face to hide it behind her knees, closing her eyes. It takes her a minute as she hears the footsteps. The buzz is fainter now, she has spent her time learning how to block everyone out. It'll get to silence, one day. Not yet.

Which is why she mutters. ]

Fuck off.

[ She doesn't curse much. Usually not foul-mouthed, which is incredible for a Yankee, but sometimes it's necessary to make her point across. ]

for angel.

[ Tired of a night that brought her nothing new, Parker has probably achieved peak irritability. Not even using rooftops to go back to the Bearings has made a difference. It's quiet when she reaches the place, odd hours. Made an effort to return as late as possible as to make sure when she gets there they're all asleep and when she wakes up much later they're all gone. Or most of them, at least.

The common room has one good thing: kettle and tea. Especially good when there's nobody around. Parker decides it's a good time to boil some water and so she does, sitting down in one of the many empty chairs. There's a book she found in some shop in what she understood it to be some cultural masterpiece of literature. Poetry, but odd-- it doesn't read like it, but it feels like so, which is really the way to go with poetry.

She's waiting for the kettle to click when she hears some shuffling. Her head snaps over the book to the figure coming into the light before frowning with a grimace of-- disgust? It's hard to tell, with her permanent ill temper. Her guard goes up as she looks at Angel, head to toe, before promptly ignoring her in favour of the book. Couldn't the kettle go any faster? ]

[ There are festivals, in Ravka. The most recent of which had been butter week - where the noble and wealthy rode out and foisted sweets and drink upon their townsfolk, feeding them and freeing them from their struggles. The celebration - the Maslyn'tsa - of which he had experienced his fair share, was much like this one. All too much drinking, all too much liveliness. The ribbons are different, to be honest. The thought of stealing them from one another's person in exchange for kisses - not so different, he thinks, than some of the revelry surrounding the lives and deaths of Ravka's beloved saints. He does not join the festivities idly. As always, there is something calculated by showing his face - easily identifiable now, from his distant fight with Kun-Kun, from his continued involvement with the BOUT IT OUT circuits. An image he has cultivated, and is now reaping the benefits and the continued complications of.

For the duration of the festival, he's to be found among the street and the ribbon thieves. In possession of his fair share of ribbons, he maintains them despite the wandering hands and bold admirers - some hidden in clever locations, most visible ( wound around his wrists, laced into dark hair ) are pinned to the sleeves of what has to pass as his idea of 'casual wear'. He's doing something that involves his hands and a strange number of wallets, identification cards and other things found in people's pockets, while they reach for his ribbons.

At some point, as he makes his way downtown, he takes a breather. A cafe becomes the site of a few rounds of masterful storytelling, and though those listening are too drunk or too young, he winds up weaving a few lovely tales and wild stories, metaphors and adages and folktales that - to Concordians - are simply too fanciful to be real. They're real, to him.

He drinks, in moderation. He eats, to what might be excess.

There is a fight, right there in the street. Someone wants more than a kiss, and they limp away holding a face that is soundly battered. Mouth oozing blood. Pride crippled.

Deeper into the night, he's at the center of the event - where the dancers are and the music is. It's easiest to become lost there; mind sharp, eyes hunting but body on autopilot.

Getting back to the Bearings is a fight, where he has to stop into a number of stores, shops, cafes along the way. Making his face known, promoting a persona and an image, an agenda he's been visibly pushing all evening long ( minus the bits where his hands have been picking through pockets, thank you ). ~~He's still eating. There is so much food, where is he putting it all.~~ ]

[It's been a long, long time since he was around this many human beings. Or in close proximity to so many living things altogether. Honestly, he's here for a purpose -- he's supposed to be scoping out a way to obtain a vehicle. And like Bruce, he'd rather do it legally.]

[Of course, he's gotten swept up in the parade and festivities in the process. Someone wrapped ribbons around his arm. At least one other managed to get one around his waist while he was distracted. So at least now he looks like he's part of the party.]

[Despite that, he's trying to keep to the outskirts. Keep a fairly low profile. There were warnings in his head, of how people here might view his arm. And I don't need more problems right now. Best keep the long sleeves and gloves on. Keep his head down.]

[Or... if nothing else, just act like he was here for the fun.]

[All he drinks is water, or sodas. Disguised in a bottle. Occasionally someone will tug on a ribbon, and earn a startled look before he ducks back into the crowd. But if there's food, anything that isn't burned or made of green goo, that's where he'll inevitably wander.]

[Hopefully, someone will get him to unwind a little.]

OPEN.

[ 1. there are ribbons on his wrists and on his hair. every time someone unties them from him, he takes a bow and they are kissed lightly on the cheek. giorno can also be found dancing in the streets, although he's terrible at it and laughs awkwardly after a few tries.

somehow he still attracts a crowd, a couple of girls who shyly stick with him during the party. he can't remember their names, though he had the most difficult time ditching them after a while.

2. at a patio: drinking cappucino, eating sweets of all kinds. after that, he goes to the more crowded parts of the parade .... in order to pickpocket random strangers, though he doesn't seem to be targeting them for money. just whatever he finds interesting.

bored after the third or fourth victim, giorno moves on to watch the shows. on the way to the concert, he stops to admire a rather snazzy-looking car, and is weighing his options about joyriding the thing into the sunset.

3. late in the evening, giorno is having troubles carrying shopping bags back to the bearings. there are sequins in there, possibly velvet. pastel fabric in garish colours. he intends to wear them all, but the concordiabucks in his hand is making things difficult with regards to simple tasks like opening a door, and he's loath to summon his stand for something like that.

4. wildcard! ]

I.

[ What a terrible night to run out of coffee (or it's space equivalent) at Bearings. What an even more terrible decision to go out and try to get some. Well, it's not so terrible - Aoba does kind of want to see the floats, but he's not so keen on crowds. Especially big rowdy crowds moving to loud music and flashing lights. It reminds him too much of Rhyme sessions appearing in the streets, and the drugs and crime and police raids that would inevitably follow. Just remembering it is dizzying.

Actually being in the roads, in the thick of it, is even worse. And of course, of course every general store in the area is closed for the evening. He should've known, should've looked it up. Aoba decides to take an alley route to Bearings again, unafraid of the dark and narrow walkways. He's had to walk through plenty of shady places at home before.

And just like at home, he gets pulled aside by some rough looking, slightly buzzed, overconfident guy. There was a ribbon in your hair, he says, holding up his claim. A lie - Aoba would have felt it there. Even if it were true, he's not about to give this guy the prize he's after. I'm waiting for that kiss, cutie. When he tries to walk away, he's grabbed. ]

Let go.

[ He keeps his voice calm, level, and jerks his arm back. But this guy... he's got a strong grip, and he gets Aoba up against a wall. Somewhat unconsciously, a distress signal sounds in Aoba's mind and reaches out over the network to anyone nearby. Just in case. He's still pretty confident he can take this guy, if he can just get an angle on him to kick him in the face- ]

I said let me go!

[ -but he's strong, persistent. This isn't Mizuki's turf, but hopefully there's another friend close by to help him out. ]

II.

[ No one is coming to the rescue. This time, (because there is no world in which Aoba is not targeted by many unsavory dudes) Aoba gets an idea to save himself that doesn't involve kicking jaws.

Because he has Scrap. He can use Scrap - should be using it.

He jerks his arm away one more time, but the man still grips him firmly. ]

G͈̩ẹt ͎̣ͅy̳̯̰ou͍͙̼̗̘r̪̝̺͓ ͖̩̰ha̲̠̹̜n̲̞d̥̦̹ͅs̯͓̲̠ ̭̻o̱̝̤̘f͎̳̠̟͎f̞̰̯ ̗m̮ḛ.͈

[ There's an echo to his voice, an odd technical-sounding playback that's off somehow. Two voices speaking as one. His eyes flash yellow and his stare holds, bright but cold.

A beat later, the man lets him go. Drops his arm, as instructed. Maybe it's the sudden change to Aoba's voice that's unsettling, making him back off, or maybe... it worked?

He takes it a step further. ]

D̯̻̰ͅo̮n'̙̗̞̣t͚̮̱̫ e̩̫̘v̬͇e̮̬͔n ̭͉̻̞̼t͔hi̩̲n͚̹̣̖͓͙k̜͇ ̘̖̮̟̯̱ͅo͍͉̗͙͔f͓̫̤̣̫̪ ͙̦̩̠̥ṯ̹̪̣o̮u̲͖̲͓c͚͚̘h̺̹̗̟̗̜̣ị̠n̪͓̹͚͇g̜̻ ̲̱̖̫͖̗̼a͈n̲̩̣͎̠͈̻y̫̠̟̜͎o̤͚̘̺̳ṉ̙̬̝̼̳̮e ͓̪̜̼̭͓͖e̻l͖ͅs͇̳̲e͔͖͚ ̘̞͓̪t͚̦̖͎h̪̟̭̣i̥͍̩̜̠s ̭̖̲̖͍w̝͔̳̭̫͙̭a̹͙̹̖͎ͅy̜̯̲̝ ̳̣̞̭͈̫f̻͎̯̟̬͍̜o̘r ̩̟͓̗̺͍t̲̯̮̙̼͖h̠̞̜̩͎̞e͖̖ ͕̠̳̩r̭͎e̙͎̹̲͍s̮̖̺̜t̹̳͖̮ ̥̝͎͖o̘f̳̘̥̼̤̱ ̳̳̪t̩͔͓̹h̝̪͙̟̬e̘̖̲͈̭̪ ̤n̪̰̞̮̻̮̘ig͈͍̳h̬̗̤͓͚͚t͙͖͕,͓͙̪͍̟̳̰

N̪̩͉̪͎̖o̬w̗̤̳̥͔͍ ̣̹̟g͇̭͇͇o̟̝ ͚͍a͓͈wa̯̳̺͔͖̮͖y͚̞̰̘.

[ He backs up and turns, walking away from Aoba with a confused look on his face as he mutters to himself in semi-reluctant agreement.

Huh. It worked.

And now Aoba looks ready to faint. Pale, swaying, supporting himself against the cold alley wall. He's feeling a fierce headache coming on. ]

S-shit...

Edited 2016-10-04 16:02 (UTC)

[The public eye will be privy to a different version of Bruce Wayne today.

On Concordian street level, intermingling with the locals, the best way to blend it was to remain amicable. To pretend to enjoy oneself to a degree — even if, like all things, Bruce is merely here to observe more than he is to be entertained. He can feign doing one while actually doing the other, to the point where the man makes it look easy. He’s polite and even charming, possessing a (gasp!) sharp sense of humor, occasionally shared with those who approach him, and equally to those who are eager to make conversation. Food and drink are unavoidable indulgences in festivities such as these, and Bruce will even partake in them, though he remains oddly discretionary where the latter is concerned, making each drink last as long as possible. He hadn’t arrived with ribbons, but some were quick to tie a few around his arm, or laced one carefully around a wrist. He hadn’t outwardly protested, though he does become more conscious of them, but keeps it mainly to himself.

With this (what appears to be) sudden shift in personality, it’s only natural that Bruce has gathered a group of female admirers, flitting around him, all attempting to chat him up, and to pull at the ribbons tied around his arm. Some are even successful, and it’s odder still that their attempts are not met with a frown, but rather an obliging smile and a kiss on the cheek. (Those who more forward and wanting a bit more than just a peck on the cheek are exceedingly less successful. Yet Bruce still doesn’t turn them completely away.)

As night begins to settle, and the festivities are coming to an end, it’s only then that Bruce has managed to detach himself from people fully. It would have been a more tiring experience if he were unused to large social gatherings — perhaps not on the scale of a parade, but the nuances of niceties were similar enough. It’s an odd contrast, if someone runs into him while he’s by himself, watching the crowd slowly dissipate; he has only one ribbon remaining, the one tied around his wrist. His collar is loose and has a lipstick stain on it, and his shoes are scuffed a little from all the walking.

What a night. Somewhat of a... frivolous one, too.

Ah, there’s that usual serious look of his, slowly returning.]

[ The bustle of Concordia is a far cry from the last celebration Bellamy attended. He's reminded of Unity Day on the ground, his people dirty but happy, blissful with the promise of safety and reunions. There had been no ribbons, and Monty's moonshine had been disgusting, but the euphoria is the same even if nothing else is. This is the most palatable Bellamy's found the city since he arrived, even if at times the staggering number of people packed into the streets unsettles him.

There's a slew of ribbons wound into his curls, laced loosely around his wrists and upper arms courtesy of a sweet-faced pair of Concordians that he traded a kiss apiece for the favor. He's been sipping his drink slowly, unwilling to risk outright drunkenness but happy to indulge the slow-growing buzz as he observes the festivity. His thoughts flicker, unguarded, through memories of the ground and Arkadia but never lingering too long.

Over the course of the evening, Bellamy can be found:

- watching the performers with a drink in his hand; he'll be circling back to watch the dancing multiple times throughout the night.

- engaging in any kind of ridiculous drinking games he comes across. it's all good-natured competition, and bellamy's less concerned about winning anything than he is with the familiar ritual of drinking games.

- indulging ribbon-thieves. not everyone who tries to tug a ribbon from him gets his attention, but the odds are overall good that stealing a ribbon off him nets a kiss.

- [ insert wildcard option here if nothing above strikes your fancy. ]

THE FESTIVAL
[Murphy hadn't intended to be involved in any kind of party. He'd left the Bearings earlier in the day, looking at continuing his exploration of the city, his collection of items necessary to really blend in. It's when he's heading back that he's swept up in it - literally, turning one corner and getting caught in the crowd, the press of people on all sides, noise and talk and laughter.

Fear is an immediate response. Worse than that, panic, a tight knot of it blossoming in his gut and unfurling with each burst of noise or push of hands. He'd been getting used to the city, enough to feel confident on the streets, but this--

He catches sight of a side alley, pushes free roughly, ignoring protests from the people he shoves, steps on to get out. They'll be gone in less than a moment, following the parade, and it's better than making more of a scene. In the alley, he leans back against the wall and slowly slumps down to rest on his haunches.

It had just been the surprise of it. He just needs a minute.]

A BIT LATER, THE BEARINGS
[Even as the festivities become bearable, the bag slung across his shoulders is heavy, full of purchases that-- well, he could buy them again, but he still doesn't like the idea of being stolen from. He takes a detour back to the Bearings to drop it off, a there-and-gone kind of trip that means he leaves his door open for the few minutes it should take to empty things out.

It's clothes, mostly. A lot of clothes, and they're being dropped on top of what's already a few piles growing on the floor. Mixed in with some other items, boxed long life food and drink, it looks like he's starting some kind of hoard.]

LATER AGAIN, THE FESTIVAL
[When he heads back into the crowd this time, he knows what to expect. The noise is still way more than he's used to, but he adapts, steadies. Gets used to it.

It's not long after that ribbons have been tied around his wrists, tucked into his belt and buckles of his jacket by some of the people he's encountered in the crowd. He's moving through the festivities, never staying in one place too long, engaging with people easily for short bites of time before moving on.

Watching the performers takes up some of his attention, but mostly he's trying all the food on offer. Some of the more unusual fare he has to ask how to eat, good and bad reactions drawing laughs from whoever his companions are at the time.]

ota

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