Masque of the Red Death: An Umbarean Masquerade

[Baphởmet]

banner by @Marceline and @Baphởmet
Masque of the Red Death: An Umbarean Masquerade

Come on, say it out loud with me: “And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.” Look at that sentence. Who says Edgar Allan Poe was a lousy stylist?
- John Langan “Technicolor”

It is time once again. It was forty years ago when Nilûbên Nûlukhô drowned in the bay and a fortnight after that the celebrations began. He was a cruel, stupid, and overbearing man who did not deserve to be celebrated in life. The only thing about him that ought to be celebrated was his ignominious death. This year was going to be a special event. Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, the Matron of Crows, had renovated and refurnished the Rookery, the ancestral home of her House. She made seven new rooms within the confines of her home, moving walls and ceilings and pillars to accommodate the new styles, irregularly shaped so that the rooms could not be seen one after another, a patron would have to make a sharp left or right turn upon entering to see into the next room. In each of the rooms was a single, massive stained glass window corresponding to the color pattern within the room.

The first room was blue, with vivid azure and cerulean tapestries along the walls depicting scenes of the glories of House Nûlukhô in the days of old. The second room was purple, shimmering lights hung suspended from an amethyst chandelier and cast a dozen different shades across the walls. Third, was the green room; a massive faux forest decorated the room with trees and flowers and a massive topiary in the shape of a crow. The fourth was orange and decorated with flames and torches. Fifth room was white, pristine and immaculate with a hundred variations and shades and marble statues of Númenórean heroes from ages past. Sixth was the violet room, with a great fountain in the middle and a statue carved from a single massive purple sapphire gemstone, it glittered and refracted a hundred different shades along the walls. The final room was decorated in black and scarlet with naught but a single torch in the middle to provide light and thick, heavy black curtains blocking out any outside light. Within the room, also, was a great ebony clock which chimed the hours with a deep, ominous tone.

The guests will soon be arriving, arrayed in outlandish and celebratory costumes and bedecked with masques both fantastique and grotesque. The hour is growing late and the sun is setting in the western sky, showering the Rookery in gold and vermillion. Torches line the property, blazing with soft, flickering light. From without the guests can hear the sounds of merriment, baroque orchestral music played on instruments foreign and unknown. At the doors, all the guests are greeted by a tall, thin figure who sways as though a strong breeze might blow them over, their hands thin and pale and their fingers unnaturally long and seem to have joints where joints ought not to be. They wear the livery of House Nûlukhô: the black crow emblazoned, on a crimson background. Their masque, too, is of a corvidae nature, resembling the masks worn by doctors in the days of plague. It is to them the guests must surrender their invitations and be announced at the entryway into the first of the rooms.

Once the patrons are inside the ancient manse they have an array of food, drinks, and other enjoyable distractions. The man, a creature of dark green skin and hair to color and texture of elmwood, behind the bar wears the livery of House Nûlukhô but instead of a crow or raven mask, he wears the visage of a ravening, fanged, bat. He's an expert in spirits and can even guess exactly what a patron needs or wants without having to look at their face. Beside him is a short man with shock white hair and ebony skin. His mask is blank and without eyeholes, yet he is as deft and dexterous as a man a third his age. He is assisted by a hummingbird that perches on his shoulder. His area of expertise are those imbibed to cultivate a different experience from food or drink, whatever sort of high or trip a patron seeks, he is their guide.

Enjoy yourselves, patrons, for soon there will be no ingress or egress from this soiree...

FOOD

• Souvlaki: a selection of lamb, goat, chicken, beef, and vegetables, grilled and skewered with spices
• Köfte: spiced and minced meat rolled and fried
• Hamsi: fried anchovy
• İmam bayıldı: eggplant stuffed with onion, garlic, and tomato
• Zeytinyağlılar: aromatic vegetable stew filled aubergines traditionally served at room temperature
• Karnıyarık: eggplant stuffed with lamb and rice
• Mantı: dumplings filled with lamb or ground beef and topped with chili peppers, yoghurt, and tomato sauce
• Moussaka: baked eggplant dish with ground lamb and béchamel sauce
• Ktapodi stin Skara: grilled octopus with spices
• Lokum: corn starch, sugar, and rose confection, quite addictive
• Ortolan Bunting: a rare treat for the end of the night, songbird drown in Cognac and roasted

DRINKS

Wines:
• Old Dorwinion: the famed wine of the elves, smuggled out of the Woodland realm
• Old Castamir’s Private Stock: a sweet, deep purple port fortified with brandy
• Lindon Blanc: a crisp, aromatized white with hints of candied oranges, honey, pine resin & exotic fruits
• Sauternes d’Anfalas: a sweet, golden wine hailing from hills of Pinnath Gelin
• Dol Amroth Retsina: an ancient drink made by infusing wine with pine sap for flavor
Beers:
• Ethir Dunkel: a dark, heady beer brewed in the style of the Anduin folk
• Rauchbier: a smoky beer made from flame dried malt and barley
• The Pilsner: a beer originating from the Rhûn, snappy and golden with a hint of raisin and grape
• Umbar Pale Ale: a wildly bitter beer with an overabundance of hops, a local favorite
• Lon Daer Stout: a very dark, heady beer with a very high alcohol and caloric content, good for the coming winter months
• Bière de Garde: a nimir beer, brewed in the remote regions of the Ered Luin, caramel sweetness and orange crispness
Liquors
• Hypocras: a warm drink made from wine mixed with sugar and spices
• Commandaria: a dessert wine from Khand
• Soju: a very strong distilled wheat alcohol from the far east
• Rakı: a local favorite, twice-distilled grapes and star anise
• Whisky: high grade alcohol, aged in sherry barrels from Dale
•There is also an assortment of teas, ciders, and coffees for those not looking for something alcoholic

CHEMICALS

• Blue Sand: a substance similar to fine sand found at the beach, but deep blue colored; consumed through the nose; addictive but grants user greater perception for a short time
• Dream Flake: thin slivers of a dried, black fungus, when chewed, it induces hallucinations and euphoria; when smoked, the user enters an vivid waking dream
• Sundrop: a bright yellow/orange liquid, naturally incandescent; originally used as a magically synthesized antidepressant, Sundrop when consumed tricks the user into believing that they are happy
• Barb: a thorny stalk from the bramble of Mordor; you can pull off individual thorns and use them to scrape or pierce the skin, the effects are similar to marijuana
• Ember Berries: faintly glowing black berries are used in coming-of-age rituals in certain druidic sects; drink a tea made from these, and you will become relaxed and calm
• Sannish: a blue liquid distilled from a powdered desert plant; causes euphoria, very cheap, but also quite addictive; after three uses, your lips seem to be stained blue
• Vladri: consists of psychedelic mushrooms dissolved in spider venom; when injected it causes euphoria and visions of eldritch horrors

Rules and Guidelines
• All races are welcome but if you want to play a good aligned character, remember you are in their territory, not yours
• Keep any OOC comments to the Hall of Barad-dûr: Mordor OOC
• No excessive images and no gifs whatsoever
• Refrain from using overly bright colors
• Canon characters are for anyone to use, aside from Mairon (used by yours truly) there isn’t a list of who can play who and where
• Keep overt silliness down, have fun but remember this is not your house
• Feel free to GM both Mozran (the barkeep) and Bûrodâur (the apothecarist), normally they are my characters but to save everyone time (and myself from writing 3000 word replies) go ahead and use them, just don’t make them do something silly or stupid
• Double posting is cool, just don’t spam
• This is Zôrzimril’s home, even Morgoth himself does what she tells him; if the TR feels you are breaking the rules the right is reserved to have you removed IC from the masque and you will not be allowed back in
• There will be drugs and alcohol consumed in this thread, don’t pee in someone’s cheerios because you don’t like that sort of thing or think it goes again a “Tolkienesque atmosphere” you can ignore it or better yet not bother if you’re going to be offended by it

GM Note:Every “hour” the great ebony clock will toll and I will give out prompts to go with them. Feel free to ignore them if you like, except the last one. You know who shows up at the end of the story, right?

[Baphởmet]

The Crown and Glory and The Eye of the Storm

“Well, are you ready yet? Honestly, how long does it take to put on a kilt?” The Crown and Glory tapped her foot, waiting on her escort to exit his changing room. She heard muffled curses that could peel the paint off the wall and smiled. The Eye of the Storm was not a creature to be rushed, but she was not a creature to be trifled. That’s what had made them such a great pair all these years. Odd that an uruk would be more reliable than her late husband, but then again, a toad sewn to a mushroom would have been more reliable. The door swung up and there, in all his seven-foot glory, was the Eye of the Storm. He never dressed differently for these parties, he was fond of his classic style, but somehow, he looked different. She looked him over, nodding at the scarlet jacket with five bronze crows embroidered throughout the pattern that shimmered in the light of the lanterns. Along with it, he wore a matching kilt and scarlet and bronze beret. His massive falchion was, as always, at his side, with a ceremonial scabbard and tassel he’d commissioned from bronzesmith early that month.

What was different about him? She looked him over again, determined to find what it was. His masque was dark grey and fashioned to look like a thundercloud. Dare she say, he looked dashing, for an uruk. It was his beard! Most orcs and uruks didn’t have facial hair, but the Eye of the Storm was an honored elder, far older than the ruffians in the army ever got. His beard was braided intricately and tied together with bronze crows. They were bright against his coarse black hair. “Well done!” she said with a hint joviality and clapped.

He crossed his arms and sighed. “Must you?” his voice was thick and deep with a rumble in the back that sounded like the beginnings of an avalanche. “Every time?”

“Every time,” she confirmed. “You do look dashing. I think you might find a blushing maiden tonight with a get up like that. Classical Rök style. I assume you even sharpened your teeth for this?”

“I think you’re the one that looks dashing,” he said, ignoring the comment about his teeth. She touched his arm and laughed.

“Dashing, eh? I was hoping for something a little more… evocative.” She took a step back from her uruk companion and did a turn to show him her full-length black chiffon dress, matching herringbone corset (set with a hundred amethysts, sapphires, and black diamonds). Her masque was a single piece of shaped obsidian, sharp and bright.

“Well, then,” he stuttered, “you look resplendent and incandescent.” She bowed. “However,” he said after a moment, “you are ‘Crown’ and Glory, are you not? I think you are missing part of your name.”

Her eyes shimmered menacingly. “Well then, I will just have to show you.” She smoothed back her hair and as she did, a massive black crown materialized out of nothing. It was massive and sharp, a thing more glorious and terrifying than anything this mansion had to offer. It older than everything here as well, it was older than Umbar and Númenor. She folded her hands together as the crown stretched out to its full size, sharp blade-like protrusions extending in either direction a foot from the crown itself. It shimmered in the light as if it had a life of its own.

“fredegar…” was all he could say. She laughed darkly.

“That’s more like it. Shall we see how things are proceeding downstairs? The guests will be arriving any moment.”

The Broken Ouroboros

The air was heavy with anticipation and excitement. In the forty years her mother had been putting on these events, she'd always managed to miss it. Not this year! The Broken Ouroboros smiled into the mirror, finishing off the last of her makeup. That in and of itself was still somewhat new to her. She’d done it on occasion before the change in her fluidity but had never put this amount of thought into its application. There were details and procedures that left her marveling at how some women were able to do this every single day and still function. How Zôr managed it all was a marvel.

She did like the dresses though. The Broken Ouroboros stood and admired herself (something she would have done if she was she or not). The dress, made from almost transparent silk and organza, was dyed a deep, deep blue with a plunging neckline. It felt exquisite. She was no stranger to dresses of course, but the feel of this fabric on her skin was downright sinful. Into the dress, to fit her name for this evening, she had sewn a massive serpent, much like the tattooed one that crawled across her shoulders, arms, and back. It wound around the dress with its massive head stylized as her left shoulder. It was a marvelous piece of work, the tailor had managed to make it look as though the serpent moved as the dress flowed, no matter the direction it went. She was quite proud of how she looked. Her masque was the last thing she applied. It was not quite so inventive as the lacquered wood masque she’d worn in Lindon, but also not so heavy. It was a standard gala masque but overlayed in glistening serpent scales and amethyst that changed color in the light. From what her mother had told her about the event, her masque was going to be quite a few different colors tonight. She licked her lips, conscious not to remove the lip paint Zôr had so graciously lent her for the occasion.

Speaking of her partner, the Broken Ouroboros went to the ornate door and tapped against it with her nail guarded fingers. “Don’t keep me in suspense too long darling, you know how impatient I can be when it comes to getting to see you.”

She inhaled and looked at herself in the mirror once more. She looked absolutely ravishing. Yes, this party was to celebrate the death of her buffoonishly inept progenitor, but after forty years, he was barely an afterthought in anything she did. This party was about celebrating a life continued. There would be no social mores, no taboo, no stigma, that would not be indulged here tonight. A life, to be lived, must be felt. And, of course, this dress felt amazing.

Where the Black Stars Hang

This is not fair. You always get to go to these things and I’m left watching from the foyer.

Where the Black Stars Hang smiled and chuckled to herself. “That’s because you’re no fun at parties. I, on the other hand, am often the life of them.” She touched her dark purple lips, removing the tiniest smudge she found looking in the mirror. “There we go now. What do you think darling? Aren’t I to die for?”

I’m not dying for you, if that’s what your asking, you crazy witch.

“Oh don’t be jealous now,” she purred, “just because I’ll get to play with Frost and Zôr and who knows who else and all you can do is watch. I promise to let you out and play once the festivities are done. Besides, you look terrible in a suit. Rök is the only orc I’ve ever seen that can actually pull it off.”

She stood up, arms extended outward. Her dress was white, blinding white. In complete contrast to her name for the evening, she’d decided to go with a color she’d never tried before. She’d had it cut into a mermaid silhouette to fit her hourglass figure with a corset and white ermine stole.

If I didn’t know all the things you did all the thing you thought, in that dress I’d—

“Now, now,” she chided the voice in her head, “mustn’t be too vulgar tonight. Tonight I’m not a witch, I’m a lady.” She touched her shimmeringly white hair. Normally she wore her snowy white locks bound and braided, but tonight she let it down in flowing ringlets and over it wore a net fastened with white sapphires and opals. It had been a long time since she’d worn something so stunning. In her ears, each pierced a half dozen times, were white topaz and platinum earrings and studs. Finally, to top it all off, was a string of pristinely round pearls around her neck.

“Tonight, I am going to enjoy myself. If you behave, I promise we’ll find you something fun to do afterward. Deal?”

There was silence for a moment then You had better make it very fun for me.

She laughed wickedly. “Well then, it’s time to get going to the party.”

A rider and jinrikisha were waiting for her when she disembarked the Grand Conjuration. He smiled foolishly when she touched his chin, going slightly slack-jawed for a moment. “Where to m’lady?” He was handsome enough, with legs like a horse.

“The Rookery.”

Where the Black Stars Hang sat in the jinrikisha, stretching out luxuriously as the city of Umbar zipped past her. She barely paid attention until she saw the recognizable spire of the Rookery. She exited the jinrikisha and waved to the besotted driver. “Go have fun darling, drink and find a boy or two to occupy your time with until I’m ready.” She tossed him two gold coins. He beamed then looked at her confused.

“How will I –”

“Oh, you’ll know when I call you darling. You didn’t worry about that.”

She left him behind and came to the tall, thin guardsman in the plague doctor’s masque waiting by the door. “Don’t you look fetching this evening.”

They remained silent and motionless.

“Oh fine, no foreplay with you is there? I am Where the Black Stars Hang. Here’s my invitation.”

She looked up at the Rookery. She’d only been here a few times in the past, and each time made her uneasy. No matter how much Rök loved it and Frost extolled its virtues, there seemed to the dark elf an air of poisoned curse about it. But tonight was a party. There’d be enough drugs and alcohol to numb the feelings of unease. Not to mention the arms a few strangers she could lean on.

“This way, ma’am.” The guard’s voice was hard and toneless, she couldn’t tell whether it was the voice of a man or a woman, though perhaps that was the point. She followed them inside. There was music playing inside already. Good, she’d not arrived too early.

“May I present, Where the Black Stars Hang.” The voice was still cold, emotionless, and stolid.

“Thank you darling,” she whispered and moved passed them.

“Now the fun begins,” she said to herself.

[Raisins]

The Blood Soaked Swan, The Bull, the Roaring Lion and A Sharp Dressed WoMan

There had been some snickering as they had all attempted to get into the carriage that took them into the Rookery, from port where they'd sailed into on the swiftest of The Blood Soaked Swans fleet - flying neutral signal and the banner of her house to announce who it was something that she rarely did in this port - A Golden Lion on a red banner. Mostly because one of them was not use to wearing a dress at all despite having clambering to wear one for the last several months. Eventually it boiled down to the Blood Soaked Swan directing the lot of them, first the Bull and the Roaring Lion wot in and then a Sharp Dressed Woman with the Swan gathering up the massive amount of tulle and fabric so that they could actually get into the carriage. She got him seated and tucked his dress about his legs making sure it was inside properly and getting the Bull to hold it out of her way so she could get in as well. With that they were off.

Upon arrival The Blood Soaked Swan was the first out, a graceful cascade of red and black lace layered so that it covered enough flesh that she wasn't.... exposed for her bodice the skirt itself was full and a draping curtain below her mid thigh which is where the dress stopped clinging to her body like the needy hands of a lover. The cut also hid the worst of her scars something she was always careful to do in her hand she held all their invitations she looked over the impressive Manor, she'd seen it a few times from the outside only, tonight would be her first time going into it. She turned her head the black and red swan feathers danced in the gentle breeze as she held out her hand to A Sharp Dressed WoMan.

"Careful with the step from the carriage make sure to hold your dress up or you'll trip." She said calmly this of course was met with the other gown wearing member of the party showing off more than half of his unshaven legs, and brought a small giggle from the Swan. "Not quite that high, unless you want to announce to everyone here that you're not wearing any undergarments."

"Was I s'pose ta wear underbits?" Came the deep voice and a cascade of silver and pink glitter made its way down his front as he spoke as it fell from his long beard.

"I've a feeling no." Came the answer from The Bull who followed after him, he had a mask made from part of the skull of a bull engraved on the front with runes his long blond hair braided back and he had black makeup under it. Unlike the rest of them he had no shirt on exposing his strong chest his pants were black leather and adorned with silver and hung low on his waist a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at his husband and wife who both stood regally. Well his wife did, his husband... He stood more like a bar wench in a fancy dress. Beautiful but not quite right.

"Did any of you three actually wear underbits? Because I"m betting no." Came the answer from The Roaring Lion as she shoved The Bull down the carriage steps tired of waiting for him to make his grand exit out of the carriage. Blessedly for him A Sharp Dressed WoMan caught him and planted a glittery kiss on his cheek.

The Blood Soaked Swan snorted. "I'm glad to see you're taking getting into character seriously. One of us needs to be the pragmatic one. Try not to get stabbed. The Roaring Lions reputation precedes her most places." As she held out a hand to help The Roaring Lion - adorned in Black leather pants that hugged her hips tightly and a loose black linen shirt embroidered with gold and red at the cuffs and the neck out of the carriage. "You look fantastic even if you didn't want to come."

"I swear if I get stabbed tonight I'll beat you with this stupid cat mask." Came the growled response. The Swan laughed merrily at that and flicked the golden nose of the mask.

"You'll behave yourself kitten." With that she turned "I might even let you try some of the promised... party favors here since I know you've not tried their likes before." She looped an arm with A Sharp Dressed WoMan and with The Roaring Lion. The Bull for his part slipped in and took A Sharp Dressed WoMans other arm, to make sure he did not trip in the shoes he'd demanded he be allowed to wear which put him a another three inches up into the air so that he towered over both The Bull, The Blood Soaked Swan had her own heels on and towered over him still as she was far more use to the sharp stillettos that pushed her height even further than his. A Sharp Dressed WoMan let out an excited giggle which sounded strange coming from him clearly far to excited about actually getting to wear a dress out.

"Lion if ye wanna hide ye can always slip under me skirt." He said with a wink that made his massive feather lashes flutter which brought another growl from the shortest member of their party.

With that they headed in. The Blood Soaked Swan handed the invitations to the doorman, who looked them over before announcing them all in their dull monotoned voice. With that they swept into the first room the music playing and they could see that they were not the first to arrive.

"Remember to play nice with others. We are in their territory tonight, and no more than two of any party favors unless you get the okay from me." The Swan reminded the others were were far less aware of what the various drugs did or how addicting they were. With that she let go of their arms and they were free to do as they would for the time being.

[Marceline]

Death in Bloom

Death in Bloom slid from the shadows at the end of a lane which led to the Rookery. The same ritual which had delivered his invitation to him now delivered him to Umbar. Wisps of greenish mist receded from the place where he had appeared, and he paused to look around. He scowled a bit at the sight of low stone buildings, weak torches hanging on sconces, and cobblestones lining the streets.

“Hmm. How very . . . mundane.” It was cool here - much cooler than his ancestral home, where flames leapt and scorched the bone-dry earth day in and day out. To his disappointment, he saw little in the way of bureaucratic time-wasting, which irked him. How would these humans ever perfect the art of torment if the lines for everything weren’t long and tortuously slow? He reserved his esteem for a select few humans; he counted Zôrzimril Nûlukhô among them. It was rare to find a mortal capable of possessing such artifacts of ancient darkness which, if the rumors were true, she wielded so effortlessly. He hoped she might reveal at least one of her secrets to him if he paid her a call. When the invitation arrived in the hands of a terrified servant, Death in Bloom had smiled. A masque would be the perfect opportunity to slip into her company and see what he could see.

He was dressed all in white. White leather boots, white trousers, and a long jacket which he had buttoned over a white collared shirt. Only the tan kerchief tied about his neck, a matching wide-brimmed hat, and the single red rose which adorned his lapel gave color and dimension to his person. The bleached bone mask he wore was in the shape of a horse skull; its empty, staring eyes were more than enough to draw attention away from the natural blueish-grey tint of his skin.

With a confident swagger, he made his way to the Rookery and ascended the torch-lit steps. From within his jacket, he procured his invitation and presented it to the person standing at attention beside the door.

“Good evening,” he intoned in a deep, gravelly voice, his best imitation of the old acquaintance whose likeness he’d stolen for this party.

Death in Bloom followed the lanky, loping guard into the manse. He heard himself announced, and then he moved into the room filled with the murmurings of so very many souls. He made his way to an assortment of substances - solid, liquid, and otherwise - and breathed deeply. He stopped just short of the sort of inhalation that would rip terrified spirits from their bodies, and instead settled for a rauchbier and some mantı - he would save the more adventurous items on the table for later. He lifted the long mask away from his face to eat and drink, and tapped his toes gently in time with the music.

The Last Temptation

The dress slid over her like a second skin, clinging to her every curve with its soft satin sheen. As ever, the Last Temptation was dressed all in black. It was an off-the-shoulder piece, with a plunging neckline and back; its artful ruching allowed the fabric to stretch and flex with her every movement. The column silhouette was slashed with a slit practically up to her left hip, and the straps of the dress were an homage to a pastime which, when enjoyed with her, had indeed turned out to be many in Umbar’s last temptation. The dressmaker had wanted to accentuate the off-the-shoulder style with long, trailing ties; the Last Temptation had insisted that the ties on her pale arms end in stinging tassels such that even the most innocent among the crowd would recognize them for what they were.

A light knocking on her door told her that the Broken Ouroboros was waiting. Good, she thought. The Last Temptation flushed with pleasure to know that the Broken Ouroboros was in the next room, and that her formidable mother was somewhere in the great house, arranging and ordaining things as she always did in Umbar: however she wanted. The Last Temptation had found solace and desire and power in House Nûlukhô, and she enjoyed the attendant luxuries almost as much as she enjoyed the woman who had just called out to her through the door.

She donned a light wire mask stretched with fabric of black and gold; the prominent protrusions above the eyes might have been a dragon’s horns, or a devil’s. She twirled once before the floor-length mirror in her candle-lit room, and the fishtail hem of her gown rose from where it had formed a pool of fabric at her feet to flare out around her. Gold and yellow topaz earrings sparkled as she spun. It was a simple look, but she had never needed anything complicated to stand out in a crowd. She opened the door and instantly drew in her breath and bit her lip at the sight of her partner. The Broken Ouroboros slid into and out of femininity with ease, and tonight she had gone to an impressive extreme.

“My love,” she breathed, “you are more stunning than any man, woman, or mythical sea snake could ever hope to be.” She stepped into the room and circled her, tracing her fingers lightly along all the twists and turns of the serpent which wound itself about her partner.

She paused behind the Broken Ouroborus, one hand caressing the other woman’s shoulder, and looked at the pair of them in the mirror. She grinned.

“So. A woman as glamorous as you must have a truly dramatic entrance in mind.”

[Galadrihell]

Lady Of Fright

She wears white - or something approximating white; a fluid, ghostly shade that takes on the hue of whatever light falls on her. Perhaps there is a very faint green, emitted by the phosphorescent of a handful of trapped fireflies flickering dimly in her veil. Her bodice is more of a breastplate, a steely corset from which her long, ragged sleeves and train proceed.

As ever, she has the most fabulous hair. It’s like moonlight and sunshine and stargleam woven together in thick, shining threads. You can imagine any psychotic artisan selling his first wife to get his hands on some of it. It floats behind her in a breeze that doesn’t quite seem to touch anyone else or keep pace with the actual murmur of the wind.

How did she get here, and why? It’s hard to say. She’ll tell her husband, afterwards, that she’s exploring a different side of herself. A powerful side.

Her eyes glow faintly as she crosses the threshold of the Rookery…

[Baphởmet]

The Amateur Necromancer

He wasn’t sure he would be able to make it past the guards. Yet here he was, inside the legendary Rookery. There were so many distasteful rumors about the things that went on here. He hoped they were all true. The Amateur Necromancer had high hopes for this evening. He was not a wizard or a sorcerer or a warlock, but he hoped to be able to rub elbows with some of the ones that frequented this place. According to legend, a coven of witches lived in one of the sub-basements and practiced all sorts of inhuman rites to forgotten unpronounceable gods. It was just the sort of thing he liked to read about when he was given free time from Lady Bonnibel. He could not actually believe that he was here tonight! He was nervous, his palms were sweaty. For the umpteenth time he wiped them on his pant legs. His slate grey suit was looking a little closer to the color of damp ashes now. That was unfortunate. He checked under his arms. That too was getting a touch damn. He hurried to the bar and ordered a glass of Bière de Garde. He drained in a single gulp. The bartender looked as although he wanted to murder him. He winced behind his half skull mask. “May…” he coughed, his voice too high, “may I have another glass?” The Amateur Necromancer wanted to smack himself. He was not the help tonight! He was an honored guest! That’s what the invitation had said. It had been addressed the Lady Bonnibel and Guest, but he was the guest… right? He took the glass from the bartender and drained it slower. He could see the muscles under the servant livery tense then relax. Satisfied that he was not about to be mauled, the Amateur Necromancer moved off and began to try and discern if there was any famous warlock or demon lord here yet. Surely by the end of the night this place would be buzzing with dark auras! Right off the bat, he noticed a man dressed in white and tan (Death in Bloom) and there was no mistaking those eyes. It was…! The Amateur Necromancer tried not to let out a squee of excitement. One of his greatest idols was here, mere steps away! He breathed. “Relax, relax, relax. Play it cool PB, play it cool.” He touched the book in his breast pocket. His grimoire was woefully small and inadequate. Perhaps the great Lord would bless him with a spell? He took another drink. Later. He was too nervous and excited now. He looked at the woman that had walked in just before him (Lady of Fright), he couldn’t tell who she was, but he could tell how important she was by how quickly all the servants went about fawning over her and asking if there was anything she wanted or needed. Mentally, he added her to the list of people he was going to talk to. He took another drink of his beer. After he was done with his beer of course, and maybe some wine, and whisky.

The Crown and Glory and The Eye of the Storm

“I see you brought the whole family.” Despite being the center of attention (it was her mansion after all), the Crown and Glory had ways of moving furtive and unseen. She appeared behind the Blood-Soaked Swan, snifter of Old Castamir’s Private Stock in hand. She’d watched them arrive with more than bit of interest; she’d invited them more to see if they would actually brave the journey and the city than for any specific purpose. Like her daughter, she was very much interesting in seeing “what will happen” when fire and oil meet. She always did like to see a good blaze. “I’m glad you were able to slip away from the Hidden Valley and find something better do to with your time. I do hope the journey wasn’t too fraught?” Beneath her masque, she smiled wickedly. “I am curious about the route you took. I can’t imagine you were so brazen as to demand a ship sail from Pelargir to Umbar without a stir?”

The Eye of the Storm, behind her, scoffed. She could tell he was only barely paying attention to the conversation. He would be more interested in all those that came with the Swan. When she told him about the rumors and whispers about the four of them he found it hard to believe. “Elves are so prudish.” He’d said. “Either sex can barely look at one another without causing some sort moralistic uproar.” In a teasing mood, the Crown and Glory had tricked him in a wager. If they braved the straights and the streets, she would win his sword. If they did not, she would owe him her… well that would be indecent to bring up in conversation now. She did turn to him and tapped the hilt of his great falchion. “You are going to have to pay up darling.” He grunted and sighed. “Oh not now in front of guests. Can’t have anyone think that you’re part of the entertainment now, can we?”

“I must thank you,” she said turning back to the Blood-Soaked Swan. “I’ve been trying to get that sword from him for ages.”

The Broken Ouroboros

“Avradî herself would be envious of you,” she purred as the Last Temptation presented herself. She’d seen her in a dozen states of dress and undress and yet each time she saw her, in whatever form either of them happen to take, she always took her breath away. “You should be careful. I hear when she’s jealous of a mortal she likes to throw stars down to the earth. We may have a few to catch before the night is over, I daresay.” The Broken Ouroboros took in the full width and breath of her lover’s costume. To call it magnificent would be calling the sea deep, technically true but woefully inadequate. She licked her lower lip. “We make quite a pair then, don’t we? Temptation…” she took her partner’s hand in hers and delicately wove her fingers together, “and it’s cost?” She brought The Last Temptation’s fingers to her dark blue lips and kissed each knuckle. If they would not be late for the party several floors down, she would have done much more than kiss those fingers. Last Temptation indeed! Her lover chosen her name perfectly, it suited her more perfect than this perfect dress she wanted to rip off her. She laughed softly. “I don’t think anyone will be able to resist you tonight. Love is mischief.”

Slowly, the Broken Ouroboros moved toward the door, pulling the Last Temptation along with her. They were on the fourth floor of the house, but she could still hear the hustle and bustle of the servants below them. She opened the door and pulled them into the hallway. This high up, the people below them looked like ants scurrying from one sugar cube to the next. She could feel that strange alien yet familiar voice in the back of her head telling her she could jump if she wanted to. Her hands tightened on the bannister. She felt like she very much wanted to jump.

“A dramatic entrance is putting it lightly.” She chuckled, taking the Last Temptation’s hand once more. “I have an entrance in mind that will have everyone talking for at least a month after.”

Without warning, the Broken Ouroboros stepped up, balancing in six-inch heels on the wood bannister. She pulled the Last Temptation up with her and for a brief, precarious moment, they stood teetering on the edge. “Come, my divine iconoclast, let us shake the earth and move the sun!”

She leapt, pulling the Last Temptation close her. They fell frighteningly fast. The world, for a brief moment, was a blur of sound and color and light. At the last possible moment, she stuck out a hand. Webbing, spider silk of the strongest variety, shot out from her fingers and attached railing on the stairs of the second floor. It slowed them down just enough. There were gasps and murmurs from the servants and partygoers already arrived. The Broken Ouroboros and the Last Temptation landed with a great crash against the marble floors, bringing all eyes to them.

“May I present,” came the voice of the guardsman, their eyes nearly invisible behind the masque. “The Broken Ouroboros and The Last Temptation.”

She unwound her arm from her partner then took her hand again and bowed, as if the whole thing had been planned.