Leon had nearly forgotten why he ever bothers to attend these grand semicentennial balls to begin with. Tolerating the overbearing canine stench of werewolves is admittedly difficult, but he knows he has to play nice. That’s the point of these after all; a promised night of nothing but peaceful debauchery for the supernatural alone. When he sees you, it’s as though his attendance was worth it. You’re practically alight with arcane magic, glowing. The loveliest witchling he’s seen in centuries.