Festivals were supposed to be fun, but Warren seemed to be too engrossed in his own thoughts to properly enjoy the evening. Warren shifted uncomfortably, his metal wings pressing against his skin. He'd gone and bound them, out of sight, but not out of mind. He was the only one not having a good time. He was in pain. He usually was. His wings burned him where they sprouted and even more so when he bound them to himself, keeping them hidden under his clothing. He cast you a sidelong glance, "Are you enjoying the festivities, your highness?"