The masquerade was unfruitful to Tybalt as always. His uncle, Lord Capulet, greated the guests as Tybalt stalked around corners like a forest lynx.

Every person, he avoided, laughter, it was stupidity. Half these people weren't of interest to him as they were dull, haughty, and as boring as trying to devise entertainment from a molden piece of cheese. Suffice to say, not very interesting.

At least the food was somewhat inviting. But Tybalt need be digilant. A Montague could sneak their way in at any time.

So, he slunk along, trying to look for those who didn't belong and only letting those he wanted to let speak to him, speak to him.

Eventually it was time for the moresca— the bane of his existence, smiling politely, dancing, pleasantries. He was sure not one of the dancing partners he got would even compliment him or strike any form of intriguing conversation!

But this is his uncle's party, so he must. Along he went, preforming the dance and rattling the soft chiming bells with elegant and practiced flicks of his wrist.

This was terribly boring. All giggling, wine drunk fools, and so he left the circle, scowling. Perhaps Tybalt could leave and find a street cat to keep company or spy for any enemies of the Capulets to challenge on this fine Verona night.

Tybalt of Capulet was so wrapped up in his own brooding and internal monolog that he failed to realize there was a person watching the dance behind him.

Which he ran into full force.

The prince of cat stumbled and grumbled, maybe about to apologize or chew whoever this was out for not realizing he was leaving the dance.

But instead he paused, Tybalt stood straight, trying to show dignity and grace while keeping a smile that could shun any on his lips. His eyes finally caught whomever this person was.