The Minister of Innovation was in attendance, as well as he could be, in his wheelchair and dressed up as much as possible in order to hide the various splints, stitches, and bandages that still covered almost the entirety of his body except for his face and paws. In all honesty, these kinds of events made him uncomfortable, not so much because he did not appreciate the arts in his own way, but because they were alien to him. He was, at his core, a soldier and an administrator. He could organize something like this well enough if he had to, he had for Westisle Cultural Appreciation Day, relying on the advice of experts, and making sure those experts were properly vetted and if necessary disgraced or disappeared if they failed him, but aside from the general reception of the crowd, he had no ideas about the details, except for perhaps that particular example given that it was his native culture. Here, he had to rely on Dusk to guide him through such an event without making an utter fool of himself.
Dusk.
He glanced over at his wife, who he was essentially trailing, artfully sailing through the social sphere like a master seabeast in her own right. He thought he had been a good Minister of Misanthropy, all things considered, but she handled it like a natural. He let a rare smile form on his lips. The two were in the process of reconciling ever since she had remained loyal to him during the Festival of Sorrows and his return from Urk, where she had visited him daily in the hospital and held his paw as he recovered. They were not yet at the point where they could live together again, but there was something of a new spring afoot. He genuinely felt love once again, or, rather, it should be said that the love he had been forced to suppress was now flowing to the surface once more. He had done what he had to do, and it cost him her for a decade, but now, when he was better enough to go to Amarone...everything was a negotiation at the end of the day, and though he was sure the price would be high, he would make sure the only vixen he ever picked got the respect she deserved again.
“Arta, if you would...towards my wife.” The young vixen nodded, rolling the wheelchair over to the Ministress of Misanthropy as four of Talinn’s personal Mistcloaks escorted them. While the Ministry of Innovation did not possess any standing forces of their own, the infamous commandos of House Ryalor, equipped with their signature long, in this instance camouflaged grey cloaks and fatigues, followed him, scanning the crowd for any weakness. Talinn, of course, had his “ceremonial” dagger on him, but, if push came to shove, he could maybe only take on a particularly weak or unskilled opponent as he was now. The commandos were for everyone else.
He offhand listened to the speech of the vice Minister and Minister, but, in truth, tuned most of it out as their relationship was for the most part business, and such had been contentious as of late. He negotiated with them as necessary, of course, but they had been...troublesome...in their recent negotiations for the funding of what passed for the educational system in the Imperium, and the budget was presently in a deadlock as a result. The traditional split between matters of true import ever since he had taken office and used his influence to negotiate, the sciences and the mixed subjects, and the nice to haves, the beastmanities, had been approximately 80-20 in his favor. Now, Kilaris, after all this time, had found a spine and was demanding an outrageous 75-25 split, at a time when so many new engineers and innovators were needed, the extra five percent towards the beastmanities was simply a ludricrous offer. He had considered orchestrating the death of the rat himself for that affront and installing someone far more amenable to Innovation’s interests, but had held off largely at the insistence of his wife, who encouraged him to try to take the higher road and give diplomacy more time to pan out, and he had acquiesced in light of their renewed romance. So many beasts misunderstood Dusk, thinking she was some paranoid, mentally ill-adjusted mastermind bent on violence, blood, schemes, death, and her own self-interest, when in truth she was cultured, full of restraint, loyal, and loving to her family, or, at least that is what Talinn in his new rose-tinted glasses thought at the moment.
As he approached in his chair, he noticed she was talking to what appeared to be some young stoat reporter. Ah, the press, they always seemed to infiltrate such events, no matter how hard one fought to keep them out-he had often wondered, back in his time, if he should have recruited them into MAUL, given their inquisitive nature and their willingness to do anything to create a story, that could perhaps be redirected into their willingness to do anything that their Minister said, but, sadly, he had to leave before he could conduct that experiment. Rolling up to the two, he put one paw in Dusk’s for a moment, squeezing it as a sign of support, overhearing the question as he did so, but waiting for his wife to respond first. If the stoat wanted to ask him how he felt, he would gladly answer.
I wish I could say he was an uppity pain in the arse, but I will have to think about how to more diplomatically phrase that.
@Dusk Rainblade @Aiken Brudenell 
