To A Thousand Warm Winters

[Tyranny]

Frost 12, Year 4621
Ardenserat, Night of the Wintry Accord

To Ellasir Dal'Fenharel, Jacques Perea, Arkash of Lorien, Midhir of the Kullu Monastery, and Amyas Dal'Morian,

Each of you, I have invited into my home. To each of you, I offer a gift: the visage of an unmasked Queen, intentions no longer obscured but by time and the opportunities it provides. Eyes observe every sheet of paper, even within my own realm. I will not elaborate further. If you wish to embark upon the journey I have offered you, then meet me at my estate amidst the Wintry Accord, and be well. Dress to display your devotion to Ulen, and by necessity, my own expectations.

On the night of the Accord, when the soiree draws to a close, I will ensure that all of you speak with me. Inquire of my words little at the ball, and share nothing with my... opulent guests. You will arrive when the lights begin to fade, when pleasantries become debaucheries, and moon and star co-mingle in the sky.

Fairly,
Lady Ash

As it was every year, the Wintry Accord was a compelling affair. The most vibrant of Entente clamored to the halls of Ardenserat, a structure with no equal in all the world's expanse. It was immaculate, and broad, consuming much of the core of Amoren's gilded Noble District. The palace was surrounded by a line of Halamire-Knights on all sides, regulating to whom and who could not enter. Entente would display their House Sigil, verified by magic. Bearers of unique invitation, such as by Lady Ash herself, would present her seal to be admitted much the same.

Every single soul was dressed well, with grandiose silks, their bodies covered head-to-toe and padded in thick regalia. Many presented their faces, but with embellishments both temporary and permanent. The ivory-gold structure of the palace, covered in undying autumn leaves draped like ivy, saw the passage of tens of souls filtering through as the night went on. Festivities endured inside and outside, though moreso within.

The interior of the palace was divine. The ball room alone held hundreds of souls, with floors that displayed stunning reflections, and a chandelier that twirled like a circular vortex. At the end of the ball room sat Brilan Ald, or Lady Ash, the Treveyn of Couronne and proprietor of the events that reigned within Ardenserat's exalted halls.

She wore a masque, a chalice of Etherwine attached to her lips through much of the night. Her dress was a rose-gold color with silver patterns and trimmings, her collar wrapping around her neck. Jewelry covered the layers of her dress, with the woman's feet shaped like sharp crystal-quartz heels, the result of an arcane mutation.

As the guests arrived - including those invited by Brilan directly - they would engage in the Candor ruthlessly, as a predator or unwilling prey. The Entente were all smiles, laughter and conversation, though within all of them was a discerning need for information. Their eyes twinkled and their smiles widened, but few were really fooled. This was a den of wolves.

Off Topic

All of you have until Dec. 10th to post, or the event will move on without you.
Amyas, Jack, Midhir, Arkash and Ellasir are the characters that have been allowed to join this event as-is. Inactivity may change this, so please keep on top of posting.

For your introductory post, you should write about your attire, what you're doing in the ball, who you're with (if you arrived with another one of the PCs invited), and any other information you deem necessary or important. If you arrived in Amoren specifically to partake in this event, write about that.

After the 10th, I will make my next post moving things forward. Depending on how things go, things may move along slowly or more quickly, but I will do my best to guide things at a reasonable pace. Thank you.

[Arkash]

"Well, it is addressed to Arkash, and not Derek..." The Veir began with a scratch of his chin. A long silence followed in the low light of the necromancer's lab while they both seemed to think on the circumstances. Raphael grinned as he set the letter on his study, and maintained that same smile as he turned to face the Rathor. "...I don't know about this," he admitted with a degree of uncertainty. "...You're going to be surrounded by extremely powerful mages; hundreds, by the looks of things. What's more is they're all nobility..."
"Smells like a trap," Arkash crossed his arms.
"It does," the Veir nodded with a hum. "She knows your real name, she no doubt knows about your drama in Lorien, too..."
"...So I'm not going, right?"
The Veir furrowed one brow with that smile that only seemed to pull at half his features, as if Arkash had said something wild and out of this world. "...You're DEFINITELY going," the Necromancer clarified with a brief laugh. "I'm dying to know what this is all about, and what she could possibly have planned for you. You'll act as my eyes and ears in this... Oh, and commit her face to memory, when she removes her mask."
Arkash's stomach tied itself in knots, he shouldn't have asked Raphael to read it, he should have thrown it away. "What if I say no?"
"No?" The Veir returned with a half squint, parted lips that spread in a smile that spoke volumes of his disbelief... Only to break when recognition and realization hit him. "Ah, right. I know you don't believe in Authority or whatever, fight the tyranny and such, deny the nobility etcetera, etcetera... But this is Lady Ash we're talking about. There is no refusing her summons."
Arkash's claws pressed his palms at the notion. He was not about being made to do things, especially by royalty.
"Don't give me that look, my reptilian friend. It will be fine! I'll have my tailor come around and adjust some of my clothes to fit that... Extended spine of yours, then you can be on your way. Just don't tell anyone anything- No, don't even speak to them. You'll just give yourself away, give me away... You're not prepared for the Candor. Trust no one, ESPECIALLY the friendly ones. They're all out for something, all wolves in sheep's clothing." The man paused then and leaned back in his chair. After a moment, he continued. "Promise me, lizard, you will not speak to any of the guests, especially not about the likes of me or our agreement. Understand?"
A shake of his head and a roll of his misty eyes relayed his disapproval, but a sigh saw him begrudgingly accept the binding words. He promised by word of mouth that he would not engage in the Candor.

---

The rest was history. He was given fancy clothes, a mask that was custom-fit for the shape of his head, a pass for the hallway from his Master, and a warning that weighed heavily on his shoulders the day he passed through into Amoren.
It was a city he'd only visited once while taking a certain Veir home, a city he hadn't really thought to visit again. He briefly considered the trees while he adjusted the cuffs of his long brown coat, how they had yet to fall despite the season of Frost having started. If anything, they were just the same color as they had been when he was last there.
He checked his matte pants again, particularly around the rise of his heel, then looked up to spy the eyes of the Halamire that watched him from across the room, lined with curiosity and disgust. Their gazes did not falter as Arkash met them, as though they were fine with him knowing that they saw him, among the various degrees of harm they'd rain upon him at the drop of a hat.
His own gaze faltered, and he cleared his throat while adjusting the collar of his shirt to sit neatly over his tie, which lay mostly concealed by the grey vest he wore. Those angry stares continued to burn holes in the side of his head as he walked barefoot through to the cobbled roads, and he did his best to pay them no mind outside of what was necessary for his own safety.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to go in his true form? More looks of disgust followed him as he made his way through the city center. Even when he clung to the fringes, he could not evade them.
He knew not why their gazes unsettled him. Perhaps it reminded him too much of Nivenhain? Even if their city wasn't nearly as impressive, the people were just as shallow and bitter as the northern wanderers of the frozen wasteland. He hadn't been ready to accept such stares, neither was he prepared to weather the storm of hate that set upon him from the moment he stepped into the city proper.
So, at the first alley, he turned and proceeded deep into the cover of darkness before he made yet another turn, out of sight. It was a shallow thing, not nearly as impressive as the alleyways of sprawling Nivenhain. If anything it was more akin to a backroad beyond the homes of some wealthier denizens. He exhaled through his nose while he looked down at his attire, most of it would fit, he thought... But one thing stood out.
His feet were without shoes. If he was to back out and change his mind, he would be walking into the Soiree without shoes on... Which he didn't think would fly.

He pondered a moment longer, then wandered deeper into that back road. Occasionally, he looked over his shoulder and listened intently for anyone that might have followed him. It was some time before he heard the presence of another beyond one of the offshoot pathways. A flick of the pocket mirror given to him allowed him to see over the corner, where he found a beggar, digging through the trash of an estate's back alley. Perfect, he thought, then examined the man's shoes through that mirror. They weren't the best, of course, but he couldn't see that well from where he spied from.
With a quiet sigh, he pulled back his sleeve and bit into his wrist just enough to break his scales. Casting sway, he pulled just enough blood from the wound to fashion a dagger of midnight black, then hardened the blood at the cut to close the wound and prevent further blood loss.
Quickly and quietly, he rushed down the Alley, then sprung on the man the moment he became wise. Arkash roughly forced the man's head to the brick wall and brought the point of his blade to the man's side. "Gimme yaw FACKIN shoes, Betch!" he ordered in the thickest rien accent he could muster.
The homeless man, startled and confused, breathed quickly against the wall. His heart was like a rolling drum, thrumming in his chest. "M-mon shoes?" He asked with a thick Gentaverse accent. "O-oui, zey are yours, Monsieur!! Sil le plat, do not kill mois!"
Arkash nodded. Good, that was easy. As he looked down at the shoes, however, he realized they were not at all good enough. They were torn, broken at the front and raggedy just about everywhere else. The laces were missing and the soles were peeling at both the front and back. "Nevamind!" Arkash called in anger. "Keep yaw fackin shoes. Tell me where I can buy betta ones, an' I'll bring 'ew a pair, too!" He ordered again, roughly shoving the man again to add to his threat.
"Ah-! Monsieur! You would do zat for moi?!"
"Just tell me where they are!" Arkash snapped.
"A-h! Oui! Head down zis way," the man pointed down the alley they were on. "Keep going for trois blochs, zen you will see Ze Cobbler's Cabal, very eh... betta' shoes, non?"
Arkash furrowed his brow, then pushed hard against the homeless man as if to throw him against the wall, but it did little more than set him off balance, which was enough to give space for his withdraw. "Stay 'ere if 'ew want 'ew shoes," Arkash ordered as he turned and proceeded down the alley. "What size?" he called over his shoulder.
"Douze, mon ami!" The man called as he brushed himself off. Arkash didn't know what that meant, and he couldn't read, but he'd do his best regardless.

Finding the Cobbler's cabal was a piece of cake, and opening the lock was even easier with his bloodshaping and talents in larceny, he just hat to wait in the alley for a few minutes, for the street to go quiet, then descended upon the closed shoe store, opened the lock, and let himself in. He was careful not to trip the bell at the entrance and slipped inside without a hassle.
Inside, he assumed Derek's form, and tried on a number of shoes he hoped to fit, and eventually found a tidy pair that both fit him and matched his outfit. Then there was the matter of finding the homeless man's pair. Arkash furrowed his brow, and off memory, he took a pair that looked similar to the beggar's raggedy set, then measured them against his own feet. The homeless man's shoes were bigger than his human forms, but that was to be expected.
A sigh saw him shake his head, and he re-assumed his true form before proceeding out the door, both pairs of shoes in his claws. A short tread down the street to the alley re-united him with the homeless man, who'd waited patiently.
"Mon ami! You have returned!" He called upon seeing the rath. "I did not know you were so scalie! Sil ti plait, never touch mon again, Monsieur!"
Arkash rolled his yellow eyes, then passed the man his shoes. "Shuddup an' taek 'ew shoes," Arkash spoke, unimpressed, then proceeded down the Alley a bit further.

He cast another glance over his shoulder and furrowed his brow before he began to assume his humanoid form again. As he turned a second time away from the homeless man that had seen his true form, he cast sway on his dagger to reduce it into its gaseous state and watched as it fell to the floor and dissipated. He began to don his shoes, stumbled, then brushed himself off before he stepped out into the busy moonlit street.
Finding the city-like palace was relatively easy, he just had to follow the expensive-looking carriages on their way there. When the city-like palace came into view, he marveled for a moment. He didn't recall seeing anything like that in Nivenhain, but he'd not been to the richest parts of the city. Hell, he'd rarely ventured beyond Outer Nivenhain. Perhaps the palace wasn't that impressive in the eyes of most Rien? He shrugged off his thoughts and donned his mask, which had been elongated to suit his true form's shape when he originally had it crafted, but still suited the general shape of his skull.
The mask itself was a pale bone-white, and was meant to somewhat resemble the skull of a dragon, which Raphael assured him was very stylish. Arkash hummed under the visage, then proceeded to the door, where he was stopped by Halamire. After presenting the invitation and the seal upon it, he was granted entry.

Into the wolve's den he wandered, wits about him, and senses ablur with all the sounds and smells. The rancid stink of human sweat, toxic chemical-laden perfume, food and drink of various kinds, the burn of filament and fresh woven silks. All such smells assaulted his sensitive nostrils and rendered him overwhelmed for the first few moments that he was in that room. Brown eyes traced the walls, examining the interior decor and the fanciful architecture of the grand hall.
His heart began to race.
He was surrounded by the nobility, the true evils of the world. He wouldn't so easily budge and did his best to avoid others, keeping far off and out of the way. His gaze settled on the paragon of the room, dressed in rose gold and embroidered with silver. He took note of her heels and idly wondered if those crystals were weaponized. He didn't doubt that she'd killed peasants with those things before. Nobles were like that, all snobby Hippocrates that trampled those born beneath their arbitrary sense of authority.
He furrowed his brow beneath his mask, and did his best to peel his gaze from the lady. Her status meant nothing to him, the nobles meant nothing to him. Their place in the world was exaggerated only by their inflated egos. That which bled would someday die, and everyone in that room was filled to the brim with rich red ichor. His teeth set on edge while he pressed his back to the furthest wall, watching with a scowl that warded against any that would approach him.

Image source.

[Amyas]

“So, uh… what does that all actually mean?”

It was the most threatening letter Amyas had ever received, and the fact that half of the message was shrouded in metaphor, half-tellings and erudite words didn't help things one bit. "Opulent"? "Debaucheries"? The words soared clear over his head, and with them any small comforts they may have given — though perhaps "debaucheries" would have only made matters worse.

Above all others, the Entente were people Amyas avoided at every possible turn. In the circles the thief frequented, the ruling class had been elevated — perhaps even diminished — by the rumours and tales about them, making them almost a kind of folklore.

‘I heard… someone bumped into a noble once, and they vanished, like they were never there…’

‘I heard… that the stone tattles on you if you say the wrong things…’

‘I heard… if you look one of them in the eyes, they can take your immortal soul…’

There were no lies, in his eyes. Every story was unfounded, so they were all equally proven. There was no reason to doubt the power of the ruling class, so impressions had coalesced into a fear bordering on paranoia, eternally wary of the boundless power those high above him wielded.

But it's not paranoia when they're really out to get you. The letter from Lady Ash made that point abundantly clear.

“Well, my friend, looks like you're dealing with the bigwigs now. She's asked you to a ball. No idea why she wants you—no offence—but 'sall about something real secret-like.”

Another game Amyas didn't have the perspective to see. Nothing good would come of attending the ball… but would anything good come of not attending either? The most terrible part of earning the eye of the Entente was the powerlessness of it all. Play along or run away; either way, you are surely damned.

---

The Sil'Norai man's attire would undoubtedly be an abject disappointment. It didn't come close to falling short of the eloquence before him—it was in a new level all of its own, in the worst way. He had tried his best to look presentable, and perhaps in a context that wasn't so overwhelmingly wealthy, he would have succeeded. But in the world where even the silverware was worth more than his entire existence was (and dear God was he tempted to push his luck and take something), it amounted to little more than the fashion equivalent of a monkey doing a funny trick.

On the plus side, there was only a little bit of dirt on his face.

Amyas would play the game, in a manner of speaking. The nobility around him had the same wary eyes he wore, but they were of different shades entirely. They hungered for knowledge, for the scent of blood in the water. The thief stared unblinkingly, poised for fangs to gleam and hunters to pounce.

[Zaros]

♅ I couldn't help but read the letter over and over again as I ran my fingers over the opulent envelope that housed it. This Lady Ash knew of me and had extended an invitation to her home. I couldn't help but recall the things Haldir had warned me about when we first came to Daravin. The Candor was a game of life and death and this would be my first taste of it. Granted politics and parties were not my forte unless it was a party of the hedonistic kind. I nervously bit my lip as I paced my room.

I didnt want to attend, but I feared the consequences of my absence, no doubt this Lady Ash was a force not to trifle with. I could admit however that I was curious as to what I could possibly gleam from this woman. From what I gather she was a powerful figure in Daravin, a Sil'noria like myself, and a woman who took what she wanted, something I come to admire in people. After a long internal debate, I figured it wouldn't hurt to go and see what this Lady Ash had instore me, going to find my best Ulenist outfit for the event.

{Later that night}

Upon my arrival, I flashed the letter as my way into the elaborate palace, a marvel to behold and a true feast for the eyes. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, my astonishment obvious to those who had been here before. Remembering the instructions within the letter I kept my interactions with those who seemed interested in getting to know me short but polite. The less they knew the better, as any one of them could be in league with the one I had come to this country to kill.

Then the thought crossed my mind, what if this Lady Ash woman was in bed with the crimson-eyed Dranoch? More so what if she was one herself, bringing me here in order to kill me? My heart began to race as the thoughts began to swirl in my head. The beating in my chest was so profound I felt as if one could hear it if they were close enough, and just as I thought I was going to collapse and servant came with a tray of drinks.

Instinctively I took two and downed the first one, setting the glass back down before grabbing another, nodding to the human as I held both drinks in my hands. Downing the second one, I could only wish the alcohol kick in. I found a small space up on a balcony overlooking the extravagant ballroom. Leaning against the ledge of the balcony, I had the perfect view, able to see the comings and goings of Amoren's most promising elite from all over the city.

A calm yet intrigued smirk played on my face, my eyes darting from person to person, drinking in any hand gestures and body language, to the facial expressions of those I could manage to see. It was fun watching the interactions of such well-established men and women, all vying for the opportunity to impress the Lady of Ash and earn her favor. ♅

---

"Common Speech"
"Silvain Speech"
"Self-Thoughts"

[Midhir]

"But I don't even know anyone in Amoren except you," he protested.

The letter was addressed to him, acknowledged the monastery, which he had been careful not to mention since Jack had informed him that nobody would care that he paid all due respect to Ulen. Acknowledging another path was the sin, and he could not acknowledge his monastic lineage without offending—or blaspheming as the case might be. However she had discovered him, he was on the hook now, it seemed. If Jack was going, Midhir was going. That is, unless Jack warned him otherwise. It seemed as though he was a lamb being led to the slaughter, but he didn't have the stature to decline such an invitation. He didn't have any stature in Daravin.

Perhaps they would see him as some servant of Jack's—Jacques Perea. He liked the sound of the man's name, though he would always be Jack to him—a simple name for a complex fellow.

He hadn't wanted to think how much of his savings were spent on the finery for this party that he would likely never wear again. The lineage taught not to hold tightly to material things, but that was easy to say from the safety and abundance of the monastery. But Midhir let it go and let himself be done up in form-fitting clothes of the local style in shades of cream and gold that Jack said suited him.

"Am I supposed to wear a mask?"

Later, he arrived according to Jack's plans, trying to play the part as was assigned to him. Though he felt rather a fraud, the letter he presented was accepted and he was welcomed into the greatest show of opulence he had ever seen in his short years. It was glorious, but he had a reaction similar to that of the wolf that had quit his company when they neared Amoren: hackles raised. He was in danger here. He could sense it.

But he had agreed to trust in Jack and so here he was trusting in Jack.

All the same, his Mark itched to be activated, to shield him from unseen perils.

[Jack]

"...Ah, yes, the young Lord Perea - tidings and such, my dear."

A small, smiling face peered up towards the woman, the left side of her complexion obscured by ornate masque. The young Lord, donning a strapping black soiree suit, nodding his head not once but thrice.

"It's good to meet ya, Lady Verone!"

"Jacques!" his mother protested. "That's it IS good to meet YOU, Your Grace. Ulen, please forgive my boy, he's... adjusting."

The older woman laughed, pulling away her masque, clutching it within her hands before tucking it into a jeweled satchel the maidens of the court were calling 'a purse'. She leaned to tap his cheek, before stroking his hair momentarily. "Do not fret, Lady Perea. My boy was just like him at this age. I do recommend, though, that you beat him adequately when you return home -- further misspeaking may invite less-than-friendly discussion of you in the Candor." Her eyes moved to meet Jack's mothers, "...Am I clear?"

"Yes," the woman frowned, peering away. "You've never been moreso."

- - -

His nerves were tighter than could be; his body felt wound in a spiral, like a twisted tree-trunk. The man looked... adequate. He'd managed to get hold of an old family friend in the city, who had equipped him with adequate soiree attire for the night, sufficient at least to be present and seen. Jack knew no soul would recognize him; it had been too long. For that reason, he chose not to wear a masque. Eyes speculating as to who he was would be a worse fate than him merely being an unknown face in a sea of many.

Jack wore a midnight blue colored, velvety suit, one that clung to his form. Above it, on his chest, was an ornate breastplate of silvery shade, with epaulettes on each shoulder that followed into vine-like, ivory-colored tendrils, culminating at his fine gloves. The outfit was perfect for the Wintry Accord. He felt... fancy. It was unlike anything he had experienced in the Badlands; unlike anything he could even wholly remember. All he could see of Ardenserat now was the scowling face of his mother, and failure. And shame.

"It doesn't matter; wear one, or don't," he merely said to Midhir, peering down. He was obviously... uneasy, and that manifested in his obvious displeasure. While he wasn't cruel to his lover, he was neither kind. He had receded to that of a stony, callous demeanor, barely making eye contact or anything beyond the same contemplative expression.

Why was Brilan Ald inviting him, of all people? How did she even know he was in the city? How did she know he was even alive?

"It's time to get going," he said, exhaling harshly. Gesturing that Midhir follow him, the man led the two from their temporary lodging, deep into the heart of the city.

It was boisterous, and loud. Bright. Colors were everywhere -- the Valran and their apprentices put on shows of magic, energy swirling about. Brilliant globes, eyes as luminous as the sun if one stared over-long... attire colored in accents of ethereal beauty. That was just outside of the ball -- entertainment for those not yet admitted. As the man received clearance to enter from the Korrivant-Halamire, Midhir admitted immediately after, the two would be greeted by an eminent display of Imperial power and wealth.

It was almost sickening. But he couldn't deny its beauty.

Everyone had Etherwine in their cups, and surrounding the chandelier had grown a tree of white leaves. What appeared to be snow rained down on the ball, only to be evaporated and emitted again. Despite that, the ball was warm, summery. It was strange; an amalgamation of all of these magics, and all for show.

"We're here," he breathed in. The scents were rich; powerful fragrances filled his nostrils. Already, delirium set in... voices twisting, whispers from the corridors connecting to the other wings. He felt something deeper, more wretched, but in truth he knew it was his imagination. Fears of days long past followed him now. It was best to let go.

He inexplicably broke into a smile, turned to face Midhir, and offered to take his hand.

"¿Bailamos?" he asked. Shall we dance?

[Tyranny]

As the guests engaged in their diction, the night continued onward. Minutes, then hours - time upon time, and with each passing turn of the clock, another rumor:

Have you heard news of the Borderlands war? They say that Veir Julien has taken a commanding position, and is making gains on the Rien.

It is being said that la Montese de Ciseperant has increased surveillance from within Bardona; she is clamping down on the rising rhetoric to oust her, it seems...

It was always difficult to discern truth from lie in a soiree; a product of the very elusive Candor, though the Candor was also that problem's solution. A wise mind surveyed the lips of many, coming across many stories; many little tales, forming into one tidal wave of a concept. Only when that wave truly landed on a ballroom's shared 'shoreline' did it become real.

Some rumors present, that night, were very real.

Do you see that disgusting peasant? The Sil'norai -- invited by the Treveyn, I have heard. Of course, they referred to Amyas, who would receive many hateful looks as the soiree continued on. His lack of adequate attire attracted much attention -- the poor kind.

Many of the other... unusual guests had largely gone unnoticed, or if they had been noticed, it would be difficult for them to tell. As the night strayed forward, attentions shifted to pleasures; to drinks, to stories of less poignant things, to passions and the handsome faces of Valran, and all of the crude wanderings of the mortal mind. All of this, however, was rectified when Lady Ash stood from her throne, and called upon waiting ears to attend her coming speech.

Stepping from her seat, she descended the steps, the chandelier above her twisting to project the image of both moon and sun, the shape of it contorting as cogs and gears swirled. As she approached the center of the ball, the crowd moving to the fringes of the room, the sun and moon met in a dim eclipse.

"Courtiers," she called, lifting one hand, "...and great Lords alike. On this eve, I am reminded of the symbols of our national heritage: the Sun and Moon, Ulen's first eyes. The Surveying Eye, his third; the one that will open when he prepares to herald the end of known time. Time. It is something that has fascinated me so, for a long while. All of the few... short years I have been alive. It is time for you all to leave." The woman smiled. Darkness filled the edges of the room, the pillars went black, and the edges of light that brimmed from the eclipse vanished until all was empty. A spark of energy appeared at the edges of the room, and before anyone knew it, all of the guests were gone. All but the chosen five.

The sun and moon separated again, and a warm light shone through the room. The ashen-haired woman stood at the center with a gentle smile.

"Do not worry; you are all alive," she said, lifting her chalice of Etherwine to her lips. "I merely wished for privacy. The court here is... accustomed to my tricks. Some even celebrate them. What is this realm if not an exercise in vanity, after all?"

Darkness remained at the edges of the room. A ward, perhaps, so that none could enter. It was difficult to say.

"I am Brilan Ald," the woman introduced herself, beckoning her five guests to appear before her. "I would introduce myself fully, this once. For the first time in... some years." She breathed through her nostrils, taking in the summery air of the room, her chest still as if filled with tension. "I am... Ald'Norai, and I have been this realm's caretaker from the time of Silor's fall. I have brought you here -- all of you -- for one purpose, one that will require transparency between us, and utmost loyalty. I have brought you here to help me uncover the location of Atharen's greatest magic -- the art of Chronomancy."

[Midhir]

Jack taught him to dance.

He was graceful enough, his training having taught his body a certain vocabulary. Midhir just didn't know the steps, but his body was used to moving in response to Jack's. It was delightful, in any case—another little learning adventure with his mercurial lover. There were a few slights spoken within his hearing, but he ignored those. There were more people who commented upon them with more of a sense of indulgence, as though Jack was training a pet to do new tricks. That didn't matter to Midhir either. He just hoped everything went well and that eventually, they could return to their room and he could make Jack's body respond to his lead.

When they were finished with the dancing, he stayed in Jack's orbit and mostly only spoke to him. They were in the middle of a chessboard, but he didn't know the rules or the players or anything, so he just tried not to mess up. He tried a few hors d'oeuvres and nursed a flute of sparkling wine, but didn't overdo anything. Everything seemed to be predicated on overindulgence, but moderation was one of his guiding principles. At least he wouldn't be a drunken mess if things got as serious as Jack had warned they might.

So much magic had been worked that night, it was truly something when Lady Ash managed to top it all with her monologue and her magical prowess. He supposed her magic might have been how she knew of his existence, though that might have merely been a spy network. In any case, when the others disappeared, he found himself stepping closer to Jack, though whether for protection or to protect him was anyone's guess. He didn't know how long his shields would hold against a magus of her power, but it probably wasn't long. Then again, she could have snuffed out their lives with some ease if she was that powerful. Perhaps she actually wanted what she said she wanted, though it was likely not so simple.

She spoke of transparency, but she hadn't shared much of anything yet. She spoke of loyalty, but hadn't earned it yet. He didn't frown. Midhir was curious what would come of all this, of course, and he wondered if Jack would be able to withstand the temptation. Chronomancy, if it were real, might help him with his problem.

Or it could just make matters worse.

In any case, he took Jack's hand in his own, just to remind him that he was there and there for him.

[Jack]

The night hadn't been all that sour - not as bad as he thought it might have been, at least. Dancing with Midhir had been a joy. At some point in their dance, he told him not to think of anyone else... not to look at anyone else. To just imagine that they were alone in that room, beneath the chandelier, dancing with no other people. In his own mind, perhaps the product of his fantastical worldview, the walls of the ballroom disappeared and the only thing around them was the night sky, filled with stars.

Of course, like everyone else, he cleared out of the dancing area as Brilan descended from her steps. The somewhat frantic movements around him, and all the puzzled faces were enough to snap him from his focus. Jack took his lover's hand and guided him to the edge of the room, lingering by one of the pillars. As the woman's speech began and shortly ended, he couldn't help but admire the encompassing darkness that filled in the pillars' marble shape. There was something so enthralling about true arcane power. He had heard that Brilan Ald was the most powerful mage in the world, and now, he believed those words. She was elegant, her voice was austere... and she was brimming with danger.

Going from hunks of rusted metal in the Badlands to something like this -- it was otherworldly. It was strange.

Time. That word echoed in his mind, as the darkness continued towards the center of the ballroom, and as the people around them disappeared like vestiges of memory. It reminded him of his dreams of the desert, all of those black dunes, the people within them disappearing into umbral grains of sand. His eyes flickered with delight, as real and unreal converged so seamlessly. The voice in his mind fixated on her: what are her intentions? it wondered. What might she desire?

Power, obviously. That was the answer. But within her quest for power came deeply fascinating words.

Ald'Norai.

"No way," he stammered, brows raising as he gripped Midhir's hand more tightly. She beckoned them closer, but he did not want to move. A caretaker since the fall of Silor? That was madness; Silor fell thousands of years ago.

He cleared his throat, and then, spoke properly. He remembered the verbiage his mother taught him to use; the propriety with which a Noble would speak. Claim your birthright, she would always begin, one sharp word at a time. He had let those words fall to the wayside, but the years that they were instilled were not gone. Only dormant.

"With due respect, Your Grace... there are no Ald'Norai left," he said. It was difficult for him to entirely conceal his scowl. "And Silor fell over a thousand years ago. What you're sayin'... err, saying, doesn't seem... reasonable. How are any of us meant to believe you? And... why would you even bring us here? I'm a dyin'--dying-- man, Midhir's from a monastery. Chuckles over there is dressed like shit, one of us looks like they haven't bathed in two weeks, and the other... I don' know. I don' get it. Why?"

His more 'regal' veneer didn't last long, quickly slipping. That was fine. He decided, half-way through, that he didn't give a damn about presenting well. She expected loyalty and transparency, so he would give her the truth. He was a dying man, anyway, in the end.

[Arkash]

Rumors and tall tales, stories delivered in such a way to garner reaction, to discern the thoughts beneath the masks of those in attendance. "Glorified fishwives, all of them." That, the manipulations and spreading of falsehoods, that was what the nobility of the country spent their time doing?
With the blood they took from the peasantry, they formed parties and shit talked each other night after night? It made his blood boil, to stare into the crowd of smiling bigwigs who did naught but abuse their power generation after generation.
What was more? They looked down on the people who funded their parties. Namely, the dirty one that had entered the room. They spoke their beratement in whispers as if they even cared to hide their hatred of the lowborn that they leeched. Arkash curled his nose. He couldn't stew in his anger any longer, he'd say something that everyone would regret sooner or later.

A press of his hands against the wall saw him make his way through the crowd. He tried, somewhat, to evade the shoulders of those that stood in his way but did put a slight more weight into any step he was certain would barge one of the prat nobles that had been shit-talking all evening. A brief, half-hearted "aw, sorry" was all he said in passing as he made his way to the peasant.
From the side, he swept in, and reached around to take the taller man's far shoulder. "Pay them no mind," Arkash spoke with a polite smile that showed under the visage of a dragon's death. Fetid breath might have stung the eyes of the peasant while he spoke. "These puffed-up pricks are just jealous of how real you are." Arkash maintained that grin until he let the elf go and straightened his back. "Derek Egon is my name, an alien in these parts. I thought I'd welcome you to the ball since no one else was going to."
Arkash had always found a fascination with the outliers, the odds-and-ends that didn't quite fit into place. The more jagged the shape, the more interested he became. Amyas didn't seem to have anywhere else to fit in the Soiree, so why not let it be his own company?
He furrowed his brow, then. Arkash had been worried about his shoes when he considered trying to enter and had to steal an expensive pair just to get through the door. But there was the elf, dressed in little more than rags. "How did you get in here, friend...?" He asked with a sort of half squint.

The queen went on to address the room, but Arkash changed his posture and pose none. He stared a side-eye at the birth-appointed ruler and scowled under his mask. What made her voice any more prominent or important than the voices of those in attendance? His hatred was blind, aimed at any that would disturb him from a higher seat. Sure, she'd invited him there, but he hadn't wanted to go in the first place.
Then, the room began to fill with darkness. It was no natural darkness, nothing his night eye could pierce. His nose curled and he stepped back with a widened stance. Mentally, he prepared for a fight, but even as the room went black, he wasn't harmed. He held still in uncertainty and listened to his surroundings. There was nothing, no movement to speak of or any sort of indication that he was to be attacked. When he looked about his surroundings, he found that he could see... Four others, excluding the queen. Ellasir was among them! Arkash grinned and offered a wave to the man upon the balcony.
The peasant he'd spoken to was there, too. Arkash rose a brow as his fists unfurled, then straightened his back a little and brought in his stance.
The queen had made the others... Disappear? Were they dead? He did not care for their wellbeing, but he wished to gauge the power of the nation's figurehead. Could she really kill an entire room of people with such ease and discretion? He saw, heard, and smelled no trace of them.

The queen went on to introduce herself, and Arkash began to commit things to memory. She was an Ald'Norai, some kind of elf? Norai was the signifier for elves, Ald'Elf? he furrowed his brow under his mask and brought a finger to his chin in thought.
Chronomancy? Some sort of magic, but which? Arkash didn't know all the marks of control. What he did know was that the ask for transparency and loyalty was far too much to ask. She would ask his loyalty while drinking her free wine, bought with the blood and sweat of the lower class.
Already, he hated her.

His anger found a catalyst in the form of the man that spoke up, but he did offer some useful information. Ald'Norai were extinct, so the queen was the last of her kind? Good.
"Oi!" Arkash called with a snap, baring his yellowed teeth beneath the dragon's visage. "Just cuz 'ew mommy an' daddy bought 'ew some fancy cloe's dun mean yewa' betta than 'im!" Arkash called with a snarl, clenching his fists. "An' stop smellin' me if 'ew haet my stink so much, 'ew janky twat!" He put one foot forward, raising a bony fist in threat. "Chirp up again, wanka', see wot 'appens!"
"Fackin' blue bluds," he cursed under his breath as he stood up straight, but kept one foot pointed toward his declared adversary. Try as he might to compose himself and let up his anger, it was hard when he was made to talk with the very symbol of oppression he sought to destroy.
"Miss Ash, I dun' even kno' wot a chronomancy is. I's a mark, right? Not like Necromancy?" He kept his hands ready, sheathed his thumbs in the rim of his belt if he suddenly needed his fists for whatever reason. "You wan' us to fetch it faw yew, right?" He cleared his throat a bit, then removed his mask as he looked about the others in the room.
"There seems t' be sum sorta disconnect, Miss Ash. See, wine ain't free for us lot in the slums. We gotta work for our bread, dun' got time for chasin' magics. So how's about some talk of uh... compensation?" he offered with a pinch of his finger and thumb, rubbing them together to indicate notions of wealth.
Arkash didn't care for money, he'd thrown it all away time and time again. What he did care about was taking from the elite, which in itself was payment enough for him.

Image source.