I passed the rest of the banquet on the stand, trying not to draw any more attention. The other heroes wandered about, returning frequently for more wine or a brief reprieve from the intense social climate, but soon departed again. Occasionally, someone approached and engaged me in conversation, but they left soon after making a veiled jab or observation of my race. It was painfully obvious I was little more than an object of curiosity.
As the night wound down, Soltair returned, collapsing in the seat next to me. Although he carried himself well, his collar was moist with sweat and I could see a slight slump in his shoulders.
A few minutes later, the Pope rose and gave some final words, thanking the attendees and formally beginning the festival. There were cheers, claps, and some final toasts, and then guests began to file away. I shivered as more than a few guests clung to whatever maid happened to take their fancy, no doubt intending to take the celebration to their bed chambers.
