"Black," Rastaban groaned, marching into Ildon's bedroom.

Ildon looked over irritably from contemplating the misery that was his existence. "Excuse me?"

Rastaban stalked over to Ildon's closet with catlike grace and began flipping through various doublets. "Black, black, black, black, oh, for MERCY's sake, Ildon-"

Ildon glared. A crow flew in the window to land on his shoulder simply to accent the affect. "What's wrong with black? I LIKE black."

"Black is the old, well, black. It's boring."

Eyes narrowed, Ildon glanced over Rastaban's shiny orange waistcoat. "...right."

"Boring, and also, it's black. Just, some variety. ANYTHING. OH GOD, GIVE ME A REASON TO LOOK AT YOU HERE!"

Ildon blinked.

"Also," Rastaban pronounced, pointing a wavery finger at Ildon, "you wear stupid boots. All the time. Indoors."

"They're useful."

"Our floors are made of glass! Your stupid boots scratch the floor, Ildon! Stupidly! With scratches!"

Angry, because, dammit, he LIKED his boots, Ildon glared. "At least I don't wear fruity shoes."

Rastaban turned. He was, Ildon noticed, standing in the third basic ballet stance. "Screw you!" Rastaban declared. "I'm a fairy princess!"

Ildon rolled his eyes. "You're a fairy," he said. "But you're not a princess."

"I'm not a fairy, I'm a mystic. I'm a mystic princess!"

"You've been at the mages' blood again, haven't you?"

Before Rastaban could think up a suitably drugged retort, Ciato stumbled in. He was blushing from head to toe and - apparently had thrown on one of Rastaban's old jackets. And not much else. "Have you seen my pants?" he demanded. "Have you seen my pants?!"

"...No."

"Yes. I mean, no."

Ciato fled. "I WANT SOME PANTS! IT IS COLD, AND YET DRAFTY IN THIS CASTLE!"

Rastaban watched him go, appreciatively. "Now, there's a man who can wear fruity shoes with style."

Ildon looked at Rastaban with a desperate longing for boredom. "I hate you," he said. "I just thought you should know."

"I know, dear. I know."