( there's enough that's familiar to will for the differences to feel that much more stark, a much more present and persistent reminder that he's not home — neither london nor dolgellau, and though he'd willingly followed the fairies (they'd looked different enough to how they ought that his curiosity had got the better of him—), it's an action he, now, finds himself regretting. (he can hear jem's reproach in his head, something about impulsiveness and a lack of thought, and though, he thinks, it'd be tempered by a sort of wry acceptance, there'd be that pull to his lips and a slight frown accompanying it all that'd be just enough to make will, inwardly, feel a touch — momentarily — embarrassed by his actions. (no-one was supposed to care, after all.) )

at the feast — it's impressive in appearance, when all is said and done, when regrets are reconsidered and one adopts a more detached approach — he makes a great show of pretending to wine and dine, of picking up food and talking and conversing and refilling his plate and glass when it seems fit, of being careful to not consume only the slightest amount and disposing of it as and when he can.

it's not difficult, not after a while — the feast has been going on for long enough that mess and a lack of care are to be expected, particularly by humans — or so he imagines. the fey and their associates take great pride in cunning and in cruelty, in manipulation and the besting of humans, and this, he thinks — the feast — is a simple, easy way to achieve that end. mundanes especially—

—although, he's noted, that of the humans present, there are certainly more than mundanes. a few have caught his eye, but there's one, a girl about his age (or so he'd guess), being as equally careful as him not to eat or drink. he's not always quite able to catch what it is she does with the offending items, and it's begun to throw him, to eat away at his resolute desire not to ask too many questions of anyone present. she's not, he thinks, a shadowhunter, and that's the bit that has him sauntering over — if sauntering is indeed the word for it. his movements are a touch hurried and unsteady (deliberately so, though he hopes it's entirely unevident — he's had years of practice at perfecting the appearance of false intoxication), and the pleasant, if cocky, curl of his lips shifts into a broad grin as he reaches her (dodges an imp, stumbles, and throws an arm round her shoulders).

the contents of his goblet spill to the floor as he engages in all of this, and he looks — dejectedly, forlornly — at the waste, before cursing emphatically and pointedly and — )

Not very elegant of me. ( in contrast to his previous expression and utterance, it's dismissive and cheerful, and there's barely a breath of a pause before he continues, voice dropping to little more than a whisper and he speaks straight into her ear: ) You see, I couldn't help but notice that you're doing a remarkable job of making your food and drink—

( he gestures loosely with his free arm, the one not slung over her shoulder. ) —Vanish, I suppose, would be the word, but that's quite odd, don't you think? ( he makes a point of only glancing at her quickly as he utters this, attention otherwise fixed on the feast at large. after a moment, he straightens himself before turning to face her, his eyebrows knitting together in a quick frown. )

My, but you are short, aren't you? I wouldn't be able to do that for very long. ( a beat, musingly and entirely offhand in tone and manner, though he watches her reaction carefully. ) Perhaps you're part Fair Folk.