Owen Alford arrives at the party, late. And bruised. At least I have pants now. He thinks to himself. It looks like people have already paired off. "Oh well..." He mutters.
Love could wait. It was for... well, people better at it than he. Messy red hair from his Scottish heritage and a freckled face, he wasn't the center of all fashion and beauty. And the bruises... well, they wouldn't help either. It wasn't his fault he'd been attacked though.
Either way, he was here now. He immediately found his way to an empty table and had the servants bring him a brothy soup and some bread. He sighed, eating it slowly. No one loved him. No one would love him. At least it would end when the star finally came.