He rises unsteadily on his own talon-like feet and digitigrade legs, allowing himself to be tugged in the direction of the bar. As she sweeps him away from the table he spares one last longing look for the half empty wine glass he had sat down there with, wishing he could have finished its contents before being stolen away. Ah, well. There will be more glasses of wine. They are on their way to the bar, after all.

"I never got your name," is all he says. He's not sure if that's a breach of conduct, at a masked event like this, but frankly he doesn't really care what is or isn't a breach of conduct at this point.