(no subject)

[southswordsman.livejournal.com]

Who: King Edgar Figaro
What: Throwing a bash for his guests
When: Right now, suckers
Where: Figaro Castle, duh
Interaction: Celes, Rachel, Zack, and Sabin.
Warnings: I dunno? None, I suppose.



Edgar had left Celes to her own devices after a brief conversation concerning the nature of magic in their world, and the way it seemed to be working for others. He sighed when leaving her, to go and wash up and otherwise prepare for the feast he had ordered put on for his brother's sake. His brother could have eaten a fresh horse, after all, and likely had enough room left over for ice cream afterwards. Sabin was, quite literally, some kind of food-devouring black hole, who reputedly had even partaken of the repast offered by the dead aboard the Ghost Train, or Phantom Train, or whatever it was called.

As the day wore on, cooking-food smells inundated the desert castle, and likely by now Sabin had been forcefully rebuffed from the kitchens by the stout women who dominated the overheated space within. He had dressed in an outfit of crisp white linen, thinly woven but quite opaque, the cape to go with it was a sandier colour, and gathered at his shoulder with a golden clasp bearing a large, blue-green gemstone. As it was, he had descended to the gathering hall, where the staff would join them all in the festivities, as was expected in such a situation.

Zack had taken the time to bathe and get cleaned up, shaving with a razor-sharp blade kept by the mirror and basin in the room that had been provided for him and Rachel. The ex-SOLDIER had found that water was at something of a premium in the desert kingdom, and had bemusedly allowed himself to be instructed on how to scrub himself with what they had, and use a very small amount of water to clear his body of the resulting grit. Ultimately, he found himself clean and refreshed, though not as refreshed as he would have been with a shower, or a long soak in way too much water. Maybe a dip in a stream. He smiled to himself, gathering his hair behind his head and tying it loosely with a scrap of leather from the harness he'd made for his sword. He didn't have anything beyond Locke's old clothes, the shirt ripped and torn in the chest, so he eschewed the shirt, and simply wore the pants, jacket, and underclothes. Zack also found that, like that, it was much more bearable in the heat.