Milos
Approved Character
- Messages
- 22
- Race
- Æld'Norai
- Profession
- Dancer
- Location
- Ælheim
- Arcana
- Character Sheet
13th of Spring, year 125 of the third age
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The music flows through his veins like Saol, filling his body and guiding his movements. It's his own fluid of life, in a way, a Metaphor of his own that fulfill him in a way nothing else can. It's easy, effortless, to weave through the guests sitting on pillows on the floor, enjoying their meals as his performance goes on. He has spent hours getting used to the exact space between the pillow clusters, making sure his movements won't knock a tray or a head. By now, it's ingrained in him, a second nature that he doesn't even have to think about anymore. Sometimes, he'll even close his eyes, let the thrill of not seeing where his body goes flow through him, exhilirating. He's just that good.
Milos arches his back, bending as he opens his arms in half arcs, the bell around his wrists and ankles jingling in time with the harp notes filling the room. No light other the Saol lines fill up the environment, but they shine in vivid colors that seem to vibrate with his energy. He knows that it's mostly in his head, but, right now, it's true and makes a smile play on his lips.
He sees Væris leave the kitchen carrying a tray, and, as the harpist fingers pick up speed, he puts one foot in front of another and swirl towards her. With a sweep of his arms, he snatches the tray from her, grinning at the amused smile she tries to hide. Another swirl, and he steps towards the couple that ordered the food, bowing down as he carefully places the tray in front of them, holding their gaze with smolthering intensity before he's swirling back, stepping between the pillows, so quickly his feet barely touches the soft rug on the Söngr Nætur's floor.
The music picks up speed, and so does he, until he's near the open circle in the middle of the room. With a final swirl, he lowers himself to the ground, arching further back until his arms and head touch the floor just as the harp plays it last note.
He's breathing hard, his muscles are straining, and it all feels amazing. Thrilling.
He rolls up, bowing to the guests, smiling at them, his eyes searching for any gaze that looks interested in a more personal level. He holds a man's vivid green eyes, the Saol lines making it stand even more beautifully against his vivid red skin. He smiles, the man smiles back, and that's all the incentive he needs. Soon enough.
Milos extends a hand to Draya, the newest addition to their bunch, a tall æld'norai that can bend her body like a leaf, and she swirls into his arm, chuckling before he lets her go to start her performance and steps away. He goes to a corner, beyond the pillows, and Væris soon appears with a glass of water for him. "Good work," she says, as she always does when someone finishes their number, her pink hair pulled back with a net of sparkling gems.
"Thanks." Milos grins at her, sipping at the glass. "Now I—"
"Milos." Ástra calls, and his head snaps up to look at his approaching boss. "A word, please."
"You're in trouble." Væris teases, and, if he didn't know her so well, he might be worried. Over the few years he has been around, though, he has learned to know when she's joking with him. He rolls her eyes at her as she leaves, turning to Ástra.
He sees Væris leave the kitchen carrying a tray, and, as the harpist fingers pick up speed, he puts one foot in front of another and swirl towards her. With a sweep of his arms, he snatches the tray from her, grinning at the amused smile she tries to hide. Another swirl, and he steps towards the couple that ordered the food, bowing down as he carefully places the tray in front of them, holding their gaze with smolthering intensity before he's swirling back, stepping between the pillows, so quickly his feet barely touches the soft rug on the Söngr Nætur's floor.
The music picks up speed, and so does he, until he's near the open circle in the middle of the room. With a final swirl, he lowers himself to the ground, arching further back until his arms and head touch the floor just as the harp plays it last note.
He's breathing hard, his muscles are straining, and it all feels amazing. Thrilling.
He rolls up, bowing to the guests, smiling at them, his eyes searching for any gaze that looks interested in a more personal level. He holds a man's vivid green eyes, the Saol lines making it stand even more beautifully against his vivid red skin. He smiles, the man smiles back, and that's all the incentive he needs. Soon enough.
Milos extends a hand to Draya, the newest addition to their bunch, a tall æld'norai that can bend her body like a leaf, and she swirls into his arm, chuckling before he lets her go to start her performance and steps away. He goes to a corner, beyond the pillows, and Væris soon appears with a glass of water for him. "Good work," she says, as she always does when someone finishes their number, her pink hair pulled back with a net of sparkling gems.
"Thanks." Milos grins at her, sipping at the glass. "Now I—"
"Milos." Ástra calls, and his head snaps up to look at his approaching boss. "A word, please."
"You're in trouble." Væris teases, and, if he didn't know her so well, he might be worried. Over the few years he has been around, though, he has learned to know when she's joking with him. He rolls her eyes at her as she leaves, turning to Ástra.
