Fantasy ´ 𝑷𝑨𝑿 𝑹𝑶𝒀𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑺 ` 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

[.V1LLAINISM._]

HWANG JUNG-HOON

T

here is no sacrilege on the ground he walks — no violence nor bloodshed. What lives is only meant to live and perhaps this is why he takes to it so often, so easily, once a man forced to stand taller than the redwoods now comfortably obsolete beneath their shade; Pine needles damp with sweet-smelling dew. It was something of a ritual, a routine, this quiet meeting with the morn, the first glimmers of dawn. Concealed within the vast expanse of greenery, patiently waiting he stands In the same garb, with the same weapon slung across his back. His eyes narrowed, cold and unmoving. Trained on a silhouette in the distance, it moves. He follows. Quiet as a mouse, stealthy as a tiger, just how he was taught.
After all, traditions were born in this forest, right underneath his boot, springing up from the misty earth like a sprout to greet every rise of the moon and every setting of the sun. And it was his duty as a general, as a warrior to keep them alive, breathing. Whether for Tsusaye or for himself,
he could hardly tell the difference anymore.


“-An isle where one must make conversation? Are you sure the invite is meant for you?”

The sudden apparition of a voice dove a knife through the atmosphere, so jubilant that even the song birds could not compare. Its ears pricked up in alarming realization, a realization that it was not alone. Jung-hoon sucked in a breath.
But it knew better. It knew better and it was already gone.

The general shot his accomplice a glare as the hunt scampered off, thick foliage crying, echoing after its presence. It was a prize to be collected- one he’d been chasing ever since he’d first laid eyes on it, curious as to its tawny colour, reminiscent of the confections he would’ve done anything to get his hands on as a child. A Memory so long ago and yet, so near that it was then when he’d decided, with his few possessions, that he must have it.

Shrinking back, the young soldier muttered a sheepish apology, expression as bashful as the day he’d first met him. Weak, small. And somehow Jung-hoon still preferred the boy over his more experienced comrades, whom he often considered as all fangs and no bite. Yes, he was a fine young man, this boy—- capable of becoming good- great even, another warrior Tsusaye could add to its roster, claim as her own. If only he kept his mouth shut.
He offered a low grunt, large frame doubling down to set up a snare. A trap.

“But who knows,” the boy-warrior continued “Maybe it’ll be fun sir.” And, as if to dig his grave deeper added:
“Perhaps you’ll even find love”

Jung-hoon paused, twine laced between his fingers.
Love? What about love?
He stared at the ground for a long time, eyebrows knitted curiously above a steely gaze. He hadn’t even considered it a possibility, not for a second. No, he’d only accepted the invitation with the intention of keeping his promise, his vow to protect the Tsusayen nobles, the empire and its people. To bring forth peace, to restore what once was. And now they wanted love?
He scoffed defensively
“That’s only for little girls and drunkards”

And then, flatly,
“Get back to work, soldier.”

It was the truth however, all he’d ever learned from love was sacrifice. Was that you could not rely on feeling and feeling alone. No, all he’d ever learned was that it was not enough, would never be enough. Jung-hoon frowned. And if there truly was love in a world like this, then surely it only took form in the shape of cruelty.

A thick silence fell onto them like a blanket of snow, cold and uninviting. The boy hummed mindlessly as he tended to the traps and Jung-hoon watched from a close proximity, searching the grounds for something- anything to bring back home. Bow clutched tightly in his hand.
And then he heard it. It. A piercing cry in the distance, a plea from something almost human. The two exchanged a hurried look before dashing through the forest, afraid to discover a somebody instead of a something.

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

“Release it.”

A fawn with her hoove caught in a noose, youth entrapped, soon to become erased, undone.

“But sir-“

“Do not make me repeat myself, Hiro.”

Jung-hoon watched as his young counterpart huffed, angrily undoing the rope that bound his one desire, his one hope. The prey he’d been after all morning. Symbolic of nothing more than time well-wasted and yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to reach for the arrow, strike the bow. It wasn’t a fair fight, or so he told himself, calf against man. Nothing he could have worked hard for, fought for. Earned. Still, it was almost as if Jung-hoon could hear his grandfather’s voice
low against his ear,
a reminder.

‘You’re not a killer Jung-hoon, you have to be a killer.’

His eyes followed as it ran off, taking with it a liberty he never thought he could grant.

And perhaps it’s true, perhaps he wasn’t a killer. But he was a warrior, a Tsusayen; Chasing after deer but never the fawn, killing only what is able to survive, killing what is only meant to be killed.
And should a piece of him die in his ache for glory,
then so be it.

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

The journey was of the uneventful kind, with wary sailors and an even warier General. He stood apprehensively on deck, hands clasped behind his back and strands of raven hair sparring with the wind. The waves were friendly this time around, greeting his men as it would the happy sea creatures, the corals and the seaweed, soft currents whispering a gentle hello. It was a pleasant sight to behold— this small piece of serenity, yet he still couldn’t contain his unease. After all, the Tsusayen empire hadn’t had the best of luck with its neighbours and a very large part of him worried that this little peace crusade was but another attack, another ploy to get his homeland to surrender, to fall into the control of lesser nations. Going as far to think about what he would do if his suspicions were proven correct, wracking his brain until it begged on its knees for mercy. That is what consumed the majority of his trip.

Who could he trust, who couldn’t he trust? It was a question that burned in his skull. Turning over and over, but seldom spoken aloud.
In the end the reality was this: he would do whatever it took to protect his kingdom, his men. In the end it would have to take the wrath of the gods to make one man yield, to make him kneel.

For his grace, for Tsusaye.

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

His voyage had been a vague one, yes, something akin to a passing thought, a moment of fogginess. But rest assured, Jung-hoon had come prepared. As he always does, a general who often takes the battle along with him. Carrying not an abundance of wardrobe but artillery, scrolls and of course, his pendant. Kept sheathed underneath his clothing; glinting ever so wickedly under the rays of the sun, he stalked through the manor- through the forest uneasily, ignorant to the implications of this century-old reunion. It all seemed so peculiar to him, from the foreboding letter penning his name and his designation which, just so happened to be outside of the manor. The general did not know whether to take it as an insult or an homage to his seclusion but even if it was the former, a good Tsusayen never complains, wouldn’t dare think of it.
Besides, it reminded him of home.

Sunlight poked through the doorway, casting a heavenly glow around his silhouette. He was grateful knowing now more than ever, that despite having no presence of his soldiers nor the promise of the empire, that he at least had the gods. Shigana who shielded him, Yunaye who encouraged him and Nichisu who lit the way. Deities he’d grown to worship, after brief glimpses of the afterlife and desperate nights alone. He, who was nothing more than a mortal man, had the guidance of the gods. Nichisu of all was with him, blazing a path toward his destiny. And, as if to express his gratitude, the general dipped his head, whispering a solemn
“Thank you.”
He wasn’t a religious man, not entirely at least. But in a place like this, faith was the only thing he had left.

Stepping further into his quarters, Jung-hoon was pleased to meet its simple and clean design, as the likes of beauty frankly seemed rather arbitrary to him. Showmanship even more so and thus this quaint, slightly dull room suited him rather well, he had to admit. After all, when everything is taken from you, luxury becomes nothing and survival, everything. He pressed a hand over the silky linens.
That is to say that he’d bid the night farewell in far worse, far colder conditions.

But it was not until Jung-hoon surveyed- really analyzed the details of the room, did he realize that the paintings adorning the walls were portrayals of battle. Odes to warriors, to legends he’d grown up idolizing and to the sheer potential of forging his own. He took a step back, in respect, in admiration. And with a calloused hand, reaching with his fingers, began to trace along every brushstroke, every curve and sharp edge as if transfixed by it all. The characters felt rough underneath his fingertips, hardened, real.
How he recognized their triumphs and their pain. How he knew what it meant to swallow his own for the sake of the greater good. Always for the greater good.
He once heard an old saying:
The army comes before the soldier and the empire, before the man. And there were times he wished it wasn’t true.

Large boots creaked heavily against the floorboards, pacing as if in pursuit of answers. It seemed as if the head council had learned everything of him and that in itself was alarming. He exhaled a heavy sigh. His grandfather was right, there would always be someone watching him. It was only for him to decide whether it was for better or for worse.
Reaching for an envelope that lay nearby, Jung-hoon’s eyebrows knitted together curiously, expecting a cordial welcome and earning so much more.
A masquerade? A gift?
Well, if there’d been more of these gatherings then surely the nations would have avoided a few wars themselves, he mused briefly. Though his amusement remained short-lived in the breadth of the moment, face contorting in between the avenues of discontentment and frustration. A game of deductions? What were they, children?

Dragging a tired hand over his face, Jung-hoon gently set the letter down, hardly paying mind to the hints, obscure as they were. If the council wanted to watch them make fools of themselves then surely they would succeed, only after forcing the representatives to interrogate one another through song and dance. He already regretted accepting his invitation. Reaching next for the box Jung-hoon expected but another disappointment and wasn’t terribly wrong… or was he?
In his palm laid a small wooden carving, a feline decoration, something meant for strangers and old women. He frowned. It moved.
It moved.

Eyes widening, Jung-hoon stood frozen as the warm little creature stretched its little body right in his hand, meowing sleepily as it stirred awake, staring right back at him. A blink and then another, a moment of registry before he realized that it was harmless, but an enchanted item. Magic was never unbeknownst to him, he knew that it existed, he also knew that he hadn’t been lucky enough to bear it.
And this - this would be as close as he would ever get to it.

The creature purred against his fingertips.
Well then, at least he had someone to bring with him to the ball.

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

‘A Tsusayen never complains. A Tsusayen never complains. A Tsusayen-‘


Never complains. And as much as the general honoured that sentiment, he was hardly the type to enjoy a ball either. A masquerade no less. Like an ill-fitting smock Jung-hoon entered the room, obsidian robes and obsidian hair trailing behind him, a whisper in the wind, adding just a touch of midnight to the ambiance. Dressed elegantly he stood upon the outskirts of the ballroom, still as a statue, quiet as a mouse. Hardly noticeable alongside the fixtures. Some would say he was hiding, he would say that he was simply maintaining the mystique of it all; but the truth was that he was deeply afraid. Once again he became the small child who was taught to say nothing, to keep quiet and do as he was told and now, bore the weight of its consequence- felt vulnerable under the eyes of scrutiny. Out of place despite his invitation, despite all the trouble. Though his mask did well to conceal more than his visage, acting as his armour and the hall, his enemy’s battleground.

Through narrowed eyes Jung-hoon watched as the other attendants piled in and began to flock together, some boldly expressing their clues -he’d heard something about insects- and others attempting to be more subtle, more coy about it. In other words it seemed like a breeding ground for competition, one the general wanted no part of, both because he had nothing to say nor did he know what to say. It was as if he was born without a tongue, unable to form words with any meaning at all. And so quietly he recalled his insinuations, unoccupied in the shadows. How peculiar the last one had been, sprawled out at the foot of the page, messily, as if its author were in grave danger. And at first he’d thought little of it, but now the general wondered which wandering spirit was subjected to such tragedy, which attendant, which accomplice. His mind was a funny thing, constantly fretting despite not wanting to. It was a blessing and a curse, this primal intellect of his.

The sounds of soft music whirred through the hall, gentle, like a mother’s loving caress against his ears. It was foreign to him, this distraction, something he’d gone without in the many years he’d devoted himself to his kingdom. Music and dancing he’d been taught, were things that could only be enjoyed by the privileged. By rich men with fat little fingers spewing commands, pointing down at those that broke their backs over a single meal. Music, he’d been taught, was a luxury. A luxury he was beginning to enjoy-

“Good evening,”

He’d spoken too soon.

“or perhaps not quite so?”

As if reading his mind (or perhaps his body language was far too telling?), the gentleman stood before him, bare-chested, a sprinkle of mischief bouncing off of well-practiced words. The general stiffened, refrained a sigh as the stranger decidedly breached his quiet silence. A taut man, adorned with flecks of gold and speaking with a confidence that only a figure of authority could muster.
Either a king-to-be or an entitled fool, one might consider them to be the same.
He stared at him for a long time, hoping it’d scare him off.

“I take it you don’t find much enjoyment,

in these sorts of things?”


And how could he have guessed that?
Despite Jung-boon’s irritated queries as to why this man was making conversation with someone who evidently did not want to converse, he felt compelled to respond. For there beyond the surface lay something much grander than boyish curiosity; in him he could see a man intelligent enough to tailor his approach from partygoer to partygoer, and he respected that. It was the mind of an army man, a soldier.

“Not particularly fond of soirées, no” …nor the company.

He replied curtly,
Somewhat surprised he’d parsed a response at all. There was just something about being seen, as a man who oft went unnoticed, that made him feel as if everything was pouring out of him, surely but slowly, little by little.

A loud crash and then a bang— and he was almost certain that the floors shook beneath them. Quick was his gaze to follow, expecting a tyrant but only meeting a very shiny and very uncoordinated young woman. He grimaced, irritated by the lack of grace- lack of shame present in the room. Were they not meant to be representatives? And what was she representing, if not a dumpster-fire of a nation? It was evidently not a place in which poise brought priority.
Though as much as this little show vexed him it also relaxed him greatly; As if to say that at the very least, he could walk on his own two feet without making introductions with the ballroom floors. And thusly, he would be alright.

“At least, it appears there is someone even less settled than you or I.”

He could almost hear the disdain in the stranger’s voice, nearly matching his own.

“And the music is good,”

An awkward hesitance,

“If you won't dance, maybe you sing?”

Jung-hoon gave him a side-long glance, as if it were answer enough. Did he look like he sang? Much less, sounded like it? Sure he was a man of many talents, but when it came to the arts Jung-hoon was proven as capable as a donkey, a child learning that it could make noise for the very first time. Yes he was graceful, but anywhere without his armour and he was sure to embarrass himself just as that girl had.

“Searching for your date I presume?”

He quickly countered, lips curling upward in slight amusement. This game the man was playing, it was rather interesting to say the least. He wondered just how many people he’d so desperately initiated the same conversation with, the same inquiry. Was he so curious to find his partner? Was he not afraid?


“Though, might I suggest a different strategy?”

Jung-hoon began warily, almost battling his own reluctance,

“..Perhaps in the form of an alliance?”

Who was he to let a stranger have all the fun? If he was going to play games then surely, Jung-hoon would too and, in the name of peace,
may the best man win.

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

MOOD

Nervous, agitated

OUTFIT

Discord :3

LOCATION

Peace hall

TAGS

triples @xayah.

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[iridescent.]

...

valen de malisio

The more he drank the champagne from the glass, the more Valen realized how nasty this stuff actually was. How did people enjoy drinking it? He was only drinking it for the appearance and because he figured it was the polite thing to do. But after taking another sip, his lips pursed and he decided enough was enough. There was to be no more of that. Making sure no one was looking, he placed the glass onto an empty tray of a passing waiter and then resumed his lean against the wall.

In the silence that followed, he began to think about why he disliked the drink so much. He’s had wine before and it wasn’t so bad, so why was this? Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to it. At home, the drink of choice was tea or coffee, not alcohol, and certainly not anything with bubbles. That was new. He was so lost inside his head trying to figure out why he was so anti-champagne that he didn’t see the approach of another. It was safe to say he was quite startled and jumped slightly, though tried his best to play it off and pretend as if it never happened.

Valen found himself reddening slightly at the comment. Was he that obvious about his discomfort? Do better, he told himself. ”Not really,” he began with a shrug. "This wall and I had a great conversation going.” Wow. Really? Of all the responses in the world at his fingertips and he says that? Feeling slightly abashed, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stared down at the floor. That didn’t last long.

“You look remarkable, by the way. I was worried that I would arrive underdressed and you proved me right.”

Valen’s eyes darted up, staring at the newcomer with slightly parted lips. Was the latter part a compliment? He couldn’t tell. But the way he was now blushing said it all was. Whatever. Should the blush be pointed out, he’d just blame it on the few sips of the nasty champagne that he’d had.

”Thanks,” he started awkwardly, reaching a hand up to ruffle the back of his hair. ”But it’s a little too extravagant for my liking, especially where the fabric is cut out on my hips and abdomen.” Surprisingly, he didn’t mind the jewels, but disliked the rest. He felt too exposed in it all and if given a choice, would have showed up in the most casual clothes possible. No choice was given and if he didn’t wear it, his personal assistant and favorite staff member at home would slit his throat. Bless her heart.

Now that the subject of outfits was brought up, Val took the time to look over what his newfound acquaintance was wearing, eyes lingering on the mask. ”You look pretty nice yourself,” he commented, speaking the truth. ”Is your mask the sun?” He hoped he wasn’t wrong because that would just be embarrassing. ”I should call you Apollo, then.”

Though Apollo was a nice nickname, the polite thing to do would be to exchange formal introductions. Except, instead of anything formal, all that came out of Valen’s mouth was “What’s your real name?” Way to go. Apparently the self suggestion to be formal was already out the window. ”Sorry,” he apologized, backtracking slightly. ”Let’s start over. I’m Valen and I’m from—“

”….Do either of you enjoy the pursuits of a hunt?”

For the second time in the span of a few minutes, Valen jumped at the voice of a newcomer. He hadn’t seen or heard her approach and was completely taken off guard. Turning his head to face her, he noticed she too was using the wall as a crutch. Guess they had that in common. ”Sorry, a hunt?” he questioned. ”No, not me. I’ve never been hunting in my life,” And he probably never would. The idea of hunting animals or anything living didn’t sit right with him. ”But if it’s a hunt for inanimate objects, well, I do often hunt down the best looking seashells on the beach to make necklaces for the village children with.” Somehow, he doubted that was the kind of hunt she was talking about.

The smell of smoke hit him before the other body came into his line of sight. Valen found his nose wrinkling at the smell before realizing what he was doing and schooling his expression into a neutral one. His eyes narrowed as an apology was mentioned but never given and raised a brow as if to say 'well, where is it?'. Without awareness of his body’s actions, he moved slightly closer to his Apollo.

There was something about this stranger that he wasn’t liking, wasn’t feeling comfortable with. But they’d never met, and realizing he was making assumptions about someone he didn’t know, forced the negativity out of his mind and answered the question about whether or not he disliked makeup. "Considering I’m wearing gray eyeliner, I’m afraid I do like makeup.” He didn’t often wear it apart from eyeliner every now and then.

Given the directness of the questions, it was obvious to Valen that these two were trying to find their dates. It was also obvious that he wasn’t either of their date. But it did make him wonder if he should start looking for his own date. He didn’t think he had the ability to just march up to someone and ask the questions, but he could ask them subtly. However, that meant actually leaving where he was and voluntarily going up to others. Plus, he was eager to resume conversation with Apollo and that couldn’t happen if he left.

So Valen remained where he was.

MOOD

i'm dumb

OUTFIT

on discord.

LOCATION

the wall

TAGS

aeneas. BELIAL. Sear

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[miyabi]

MAYARI DALISAY; BANDIAMA

T

he flaw of humanity; her flaw, one fatal, the one determinant of status, poise, the very teaching of which her mother had instilled. She forgets it, sputtles words that meet a gaze unfamiliar. And in this, there is the unforeseen action that, not once, would she have expected from such a figure; one tall, the carved statue, a sight to behold—it was no wonder she could not decipher whether or not they were real—the essence of a mere tale woven into the flesh. A bow, a sign of respect? A common formality? In it is warmth, the mix of gold and comfort that emanates, “important. One could say that.”

Mayari collects her poise, a straightened back to accompany the quick clear of the throat. Stand up straight, do not hunch. Ladies don’t slouch. Chin up. She’d clenched her jaw momentarily, glazing over pandering words of a mother more concerned by looks over comfort; grating. “To be fair. I didn’t scream because I was scared, if that is any consolation?”

Bugs. The thought of one brings a smile, not one wide, neither toothy nor big; it is subtle, the stark contrast to the sudden glimmer of the eye. Bugs, insects, pests; ladies don’t like bugs. They shouldn’t. But as it seems, any interest aside from courtship was not something a lady would like. And unlike her mother, bugs never judged; small creatures whose contributions are far more than meets the eye, an integral part of the terrestrial ecosystems retaining Mayari’s fascinations. Colorful, streams of vibrancy; unique, characteristics diversified within the same species; the strength and malleability of exoskeletons—her notes are filled with reams and reams of discovery, studies, observations.

A few torn pages. Far too many torn pages. Discovery was a dirty word, wasn’t it? How one’s discoveries lead to the impending obsession? Her mother’s ideologies, never her own. Obsession? It is a heavy word. If anything, it is an inexhaustible craving—and perhaps then, that is where the problem lies. The selfish thought of fulfillment that cannot be attained: how finding more can lead to the feeling of knowing lesser.

It is without realization that she has delved further into the confines of a mother’s word, as it encases her spirits within its cages; such cages cannot be broken, some refuse. Her deliverance begins here, a quick shrug off of thoughts formerly welded deep; the underlying entropy and chaos.

She leans in, glances left and right, a voice lowered—softened: “don’t tell anyone else. But I am guilty of such accusations.” Mayari beats the compulsion to swallow down a joke, a quiet snort to her own response, “maybe this is the time where I ask you—and this may be a bit intense for such occasions—but: have you killed any monsters?” A monster slayer, the type of warrior she has seldom crossed paths with. Inevitably, she’d been stuck in the proverbial gravitational field of her counterpart’s force, a selfish curiosity of their answer.

Mayari only hopes that they have. Be it the intrigue or the fact that “winning” brought her closer to honor. “Or, rather, if you’d prefer the easier one: do you keep twin swords?”

MOOD

GET ME OUTTA HERE IM SO EMBARRASSED

OUTFIT

discord.

LOCATION

peacehall

TAGS

demonology

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[aeneas.]

cesar ibarra.

W

hat gave a wallflower such a name? When did poets and scholars see the relation between flower and person? If a wallflower had the ability to move roots from the cracks in the wall for solitude to the soil beds to join the other flowers whenever it pleased, then Cesar would be happy to call himself such. Even back home, he spoke and engaged depending on his mood, sometimes he’d instead be cooped up in his study than dancing among colleagues and distinguished figures. And other times, he’d be the life of the party, his presence strong and his smile big. It truly depended on the odds. However, in times when his mood shifted, it was difficult to regain the energy that had been lost—like a waning candle, he’d turn to mush. Cesar had once feared that a night of melted wax was in his cards the moment he stepped foot into the ballroom.

How great it felt to be wrong.

Misery loved company yet it proved to be difficult to remain miserable when the sparkling man before him joked of conversations with the walls. Hm. Unless it wasn’t a joke. Yet the idea of someone legitimately engaging in chatter with a wall didn’t irk him either way.

There was something endearing about the other. In a sense, they both shared the same feeling of awkwardness. It was only that the former revolutionary knew how to hide it a little better. There was a small jump he noticed when he first approached but didn’t comment on, it was an occurrence that would happen more often than not. Cesar had his reputation to thank as it seemed that when one was known for opposing the idea of a monarchy, they possess a stance that others may find frightening. Perhaps even under the guise of masks, his history bled through.

”I should call you Apollo, then.” Or perhaps not. At least, not entirely.

The name itself wasn’t so far off from another familiar identity of his, yet the implications of it felt worlds different. An apollonian was meant to be the rational thinker. The one to be calm and collected; reasonable and structured, all traits Cesar had been honored and praised for beholding. One may argue that given that such a title is in homage to Apollo, the two are one of the same in meaning. Myth begged to differ with that opinion, as days would never come when the sun god’s heart ached; his passion was never controlled under the barriers of structure, it was free—he was free.

Cesar decided that Apollo was the nicest nickname given to him yet.

“I like the ring of Apollo, it does fit the sun mask. It wasn’t my idea either, though I’m glad it caught your attention at least.”

His hand met the tip of one of his mask’s coronas for added effect. Despite how the banter quickly lost any formality he previously intended; it lifted a weight off his person.

Valen.

Before he could go through the list of names in his mental library, a new addition arrived. Curiosity for identity wished to get the better of him as she too dressed in what Cesar would consider being one’s finest. But to others, it could just be another garment in their wardrobe. (Though the practicality of ballgowns every day created yet another question for the minister to put aside.)

Instead of allowing nosiness to win, he listened with interest piqued.

“A hunt…”

Almost unsure of his own interests, he ponders.

“I’ll have to admit, I don’t nearly go outside recreationally like I used to. Though I was more of a hiker than a hunter, I’m afraid.”

His time outside had long died when responsibilities grew taller than the trees that immersed his old hiking path. There possibly were times he had participated in hunts but none distinct enough to make him think it would be a defining characteristic.

It wasn’t a common occurrence for Cesar to have his head in the clouds, completely oblivious to the additional guest joining the growing bouquet of wallflowers but the response of the bejeweled man—Valen, caught his attention.

Creating seashells into necklaces?

School friends used to joke with him that a portion of his opportunities sprouted from luck, that he had somehow won the affections of a spirit and in return, he was given the life he had. Cesar didn’t quite believe that until now. Believe it or not, his pursuit for his date had been pushed to the side as the night was still young to save himself the stress of migrating between people for one single goal. However, it had seemed that he didn’t need to do any of that after all. What were the odds of finding one’s assigned date on the first try? Not that it was something to be cocky about, allowing hubris to get the better of him could leave him as a fool. Maybe the creation of seashell necklaces was a common hobby.

Wait. When did it start smelling of smoke? Had the man dressed in black always been with them? The knowing smile that had unknowingly grown on his face quickly faded into cluelessness. It was only through Valen’s mention of makeup did Cesar manage to contextualize the assumed question.

“I have never tried on makeup, and I don’t believe you can dislike something without knowing much about it.”

Did he assume right? He didn't quite know himself.

MOOD

giddy but also lost now

OUTFIT

check discord !!

LOCATION

peacehall ft. wall

TAGS

BELIAL. Sear iridescent.

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[blue-jay]

lusille of vexira

L

usille had never actually introduced herself to non-Vexirans before.

Before she became a Liumei, there was simply never an opportunity to. She was a Vexiran peasant girl, and international visitors had no reason to tour the slums and talk to indigent children. And after she became a Liumei, she opted to focus purely on invention. The negotiation, networking, and more business-y matters were left to her older siblings, who were well-suited for it. Especially Ran, with her arsenal of various languages. When the family met with foreign associates and investors, she did most of the heavy lifting.

Thus, this was Lusille’s first time dabbling in the curiosities of cross-cultural conversation, and she decided she quite liked it.

The woman in the sparkling lilac dress didn’t seem to heed Lusille’s suggestion as she intended. Instead, she simply gave her a look and blinked behind her bejeweled mask. At first, Lusille was a little disappointed, but when she glanced back at Ran she saw that the Crimson Daughter had already struck up a conversation with a figure adorned in blossoms. She narrowed her eyes at the detailing and accessories—the Inventor Princess knew bronze when she saw it.

Interesting.

Lusille picked up on the gasp from the lilac lady at the slip of a cuss word and met it with a quick look of mock surprise—wide eyes and a hand to her mouth—playing as if she too was shocked by her own language. However, she then relaxed into a light smile and let out a chuckle. She was teasing the stranger, though not maliciously. Only playfully! Lusille wanted to have fun with this.

Lusille turned her attention to the butterfly-clad stranger as she responded, meeting her widening smile with one of her own. Lusille wasn’t sure that she herself could pull off a ballgown like that, but it looked quite impressive on the stranger. “Praises of Vexiran gadgets spread far. My country often hears the gossip that you guys have brilliant minds.”

Lusille tucked a braid behind her ear in faux bashfulness. She noted the word “gossip,” recalling the clue from her letter that her date was a lover of gossip. When the butterfly-clad stranger confirmed her love for knife-throwing, Lusille considered the goal of finding her date complete. After all, how many knife-throwing gossips could be at one ball?

“You should definitely give it a try. If you build machines you must be good with your fingers—.” Lusille raised an eyebrow. “—which is useful for throwing knives, of course.”

The inventor smiled mischievously behind her mask. “Of course. I'll be sure to give it a try one day. Maybe, you could give me some tips?” Already, her date was proving to be interesting, but she didn't expect anything less based on the fun triad of clues from the letter.

The woman in lilac offered, “Knife throwing is quite dangerous,” and Lusille giggled softly at this, finding her to be properly adorable. She theorized in her head about the woman’s nationality—from this first impression, Lusille had gotten a heavy Aurichian vibe. She fit all of the conceptions most Vexirans had of Auriche: delicate, polite, too cultured for their own good.

Lusille offered up her hand to the butterfly-clad stranger cooperatively when she reached for it. For a second, she had the bizarre thought that the stranger would ask her to dance. She prepared to say yes, but the stranger was actually just looking at her watch. “Your watch is rather exquisite. I hear my date has one just like it.” Lusille resisted the urge to pout, assuring herself there would be time to dance later.

“Thank you!” she responded. “I made it myself.” She raised her left wrist and pointed at it demonstratively with her right index finger. “It’s made of one the finest alloys in our world—pure, Vexiran bronze. Of course, I mean ‘finest’ in terms of utility.” Lowering her wrist she added, “I suppose that means we’ve found each other! We’re good at this game, aren’t we? I was going to say that there should be a prize, but perhaps the prize comes in the form of new bonds.” In her head, she tried to theorize about her date’s country of origin. The poofy dress and dainty butterfly motif screamed stereotypical Auriche to Lusille, but she had trouble believing that an Aurichian woman would be anywhere near cool enough to throw knives. She noted the sea blue color of the dress—maybe En Malis? She was just guessing wildly now. She tried to get an idea of the features behind the winged mask, but it was hard to make out anything specific.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Lusille saw the other woman set her drink down and unfold a piece of paper, presumably a letter similar to one Lusille had received. Though, she had to do a double take, not remembering there being anywhere nearby to place a drink, and found that the drink was levitating. Magic. Lusille’s lips pursed momentarily. She wasn’t exactly a fan of magic, and she was perhaps a bit too prideful to admit that it may have been out of jealousy—the Inventor Princess was utterly void of any talent in magic herself. Whatever. Anything magic could do, a machine could do twice as efficiently. Lusille could make flying cups easily. Yes… Yes, she certainly could.

"Do you perchance happen to know anyone who is fond of smoking?"

Lusille blinked for a moment, and then it struck her. Her gaze crossed the room and landed on her older brother, who was conversing with a group of people a small distance away from Lusille’s trio. As if on cue with the lilac lady’s question, faint remnants of smoke were lingering around him.

Lusille couldn’t help but smile. Smoking at a ball likely seemed so brazen to many of these people, yet Renshu did it subtly as if it were no big deal. He was so cool sometimes. Often, cool… in multiple senses of the word. Hmph. She pushed the thought away for now.

Part of Lusille considered telling another mistruth in a gamble to keep the mild-mannered lady (who was proving to be funny to talk to) within her trio, but she decided against it. Best not to cause too much mischief—these strangers may not take kindly to it. “Oh! Silly me! I directed you to my sister earlier, but I was really thinking of my brother.” She made a gesture toward Ren. “There he is.”

Lusille’s face suddenly turned serious. “You know, in Vexira they call him ‘The Wicked One,’” she said ominously. She let the sentence hang severely in the air for a moment before releasing a hearty laugh. “Ah! Please don’t be intimidated, though. He’s a little eccentric, but ‘wicked’ makes him sound like a villain, doesn’t it?” She knew that she should've been cautious about teasing the woman too much, but she couldn't help it.

MOOD

having fun with this

OUTFIT

in discord

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

L3n draconicheart mentions of ran and ren

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[triples]

...

fae'an de malisio

Shimmering figures float past under shimmering lights, settling into small clusters like stars finding their constellation, and the low hum of conversation makes the air tremble a little more. The mask clung tight onto the skin of a prince, a perfect fit within the blurred white haze — but underneath it all, it was difficult to tell what Fae'an was truly thinking.

Maybe nothing much at all, for his stance was of one languid and unaffected even when his target revealed itself as a red herring. The reversal of the statue-like man being a crooning songster was, perhaps, too much to expect in the end. Yet, it seemed his approach might not be all in vain, when his companion began to speak.

"Though, might I suggest a different strategy?"

A reluctant offering, as though even the thought of speaking burdened this saturnine soul. Fae'an granted him a curious glance, a wordless encouragement to continue. And continue his new friend did:

“Perhaps in the form of an alliance?”

A fleeting pause passed between them, driven by a vague sense of surprise.

“An alliance?”

Fae'an laughed,

“How interesting.”

Another silent moment, this time in consideration.

“And how wise,"

he praised lightly, in a manner hovering on the edge of genuine,

"the game never does say we mustn't create a partner different from the one they've given.”

His eyes swept over the expanse of the hall, where netting an unknown figure in the ocean of silhouettes seemed imprudent to leave to a single man's fortune.

“You already know I'm searching for a songbird,"

he finally obliged, leaning slightly closer towards the man in black,

“what about you?"

“A thespian,"

comes the hesitant answer, as their gazes connect for the first time, dark shades meeting a pale gleam,

“a bringer of drama and flowers."

Fae'an captured the information and stored it away in a corner of his mind, If luck would have it that he meets a lover of theater, he would reap a favour by letting this man, his ally, know. And, if not... well, he could still claim to have tried his best. Wasn't their goal here to forge relations, after all? The game, while he aimed to win, was only an appendage.

"Then, my friend,"

he began his conclusion, quite pleased that his approach of this stranger hadn't been completely fruitless,

"I will find you again after the first dance, if I happen upon what you are looking for."

He flashed a final grin as he lifted his weight from the wall and took a step forward,

"May fortune smile on us tonight."

MOOD

still entertained

OUTFIT

[discord]

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

.V1LLAINISM._

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Wandering Owl]

alon magsino

H

er initial response drew a chuckle from Alon. They may not have seen any particular appeal in testing their skills alongside her, content to let the conversation thread drift to the floor, but the prospect of a further meeting was promising. In a place like this, filled with so many uncertainties, a potential ally was not something to be discarded lightly. He tried to commit the details of her form to memory, in case they parted without introduction, beyond the mask she wore to the intonation of her voice and the way she held herself, the subtle movements of her hands.

In the midst of such evaluation, the sudden shift in her demeanor rang as clear as a shout. The porcelain visage sat still and impassive as ever, but everything surrounding it seemed to alter. The tension in her shoulders, the halt in her speech, the discomfort in the words that followed. Alon couldn’t help a smile upon seeing it, the quirk at the corner of their mouth more genuine than the polite expression that had preceded it. Their eyes flashed, unseen behind the golden filigree. In a game like this, a moment of unintended honesty was like a flash of treasure to a hunter. It reminded him to keep their own defenses up.

“Exactly the answer I was hoping for, my lady.”

They had intended to mislead her, just a little. Not an unfamiliar path for their conversations to take. Keep your intentions shrouded, keep the person on the back foot, and the truth may just reveal itself to you. A little more mean-spirited than the previous teasing, perhaps, but with their hosts insisting on masked identities and traded secrets, were these not the games he was intended to play? Her response had all but confirmed that she was the one in his letter, and he wanted to keep her interest. The secret of hers that he held, the ever-present speculation of what she knew in return, had tied the two of them together, muddying the waters until it became impossible to see who had the upper hand.

My first time leaving my country.

He’d only been outside his homeland a few times. Not exactly sufficient to call himself a seasoned traveler either, but it felt like it drew a line between their experiences. He tried to imagine how it must feel, to have your first introduction be an event with so many moving parts and so much at stake.

Hell of an introduction to the world, huh?

Of course, she’d most likely come into contact with people from the other kingdoms before, such was the life of a royal, but there was a world of difference between a meeting on your home ground, and in the heart of an unknown land.

Alon felt a touch of something, lingering in the space between pity and temptation. He placed his drink down on the tray of a passing servant, and stepped a little closer to her. A gold-encrusted hand, claws kept carefully out of the way, reached for one of her own.

“I am told you know many stories.”

He took her hand and raised it between them, like a proposal, like an invitation to dance.

“Might I have the pleasure of hearing one?”

MOOD

interest piqued

OUTFIT

white-gold (discord)

LOCATION

the midst of the ball

TAGS

ravensunset

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[demonology]

mpiady tejara

W

hy did you then?"

Words were water with linseed oil coated from the sticky excrement of emotion. The surprise of her answer, I didn't scream because I was scared, undid the dam of carefully-wrapped ardor. The event, the Queen, the entire Menara Clan required them to tie the beast up with ropes and gag it with an apple.

They were supposed to eat it, consume the flesh of passion until only Tejara Nano, Mpiady of the Royal Sebaja league remained. This evening was the first step, of many, towards retribution and debts paid. They were failing miserably. Once more, Teja cleared their throat,

"Apologies, that was rather rude- curt, of me.

His bluntness did not sever the conversation's amicable procession. The young woman continued, and a wide, toothy smile took root and bloomed.

Perhaps I am not so miserable,

they thought.

Have you killed any monsters?

Eyes popped like fish flatus, like a bubble rising to the surface to break free methane. A joke. They were glad to have been the fool who can't hold a glass without breaking it. Their gaze grabbed their palms.

Nothing tender.

It all becomes shards in their wake, from champagne to a monster's skin.

Their date would begin to suspect they have a cold, as they cleared their throat, coughing at the question.

Thankfully, she saved him, asking about their swords.

Another grin, a chuckle in miniature to shrug off what went viral within.

"Yes, yes. I wield two swords. Makà's the bigger one that most people know me to wield. She's wide enough to be a shield. And there's Lithe, fitting for the name, as I've been told though not many live to tell her name."

Their final comment was meant to be a joke, with a wider smile that came on as they spoke about the only comfort they'd had all these years. The expression's brightness dimmed.

"I expect,"

they began to whisper, leaning down to mumble into her ear,

"that if I hold your affection for insects a secret, you won't judge me for saying that my answer is yes.

Uncrunching their body, they continued,

"I believe it would defy the evening's rules to reveal what I am known as, but yes, I am kin with monsters, yet I am a plague upon them."

In a hazy recollection, the Queen straightened their epaulettes as magistrates herded into the opulent corral. She nodded towards on such sheep, curls to deep in tone they were burgundy. She was a bloodbath.

"I'm told you've killed monsters that rise from the same sands you were born upon."

Tejara nodded. "Yes, but most of Sebaja is sand."

"You imply I do not know my country." She spoke freely and without thought. Tone biting because she had the privilege of being the only viper in the pit. Teajara eyed the grand doors and realized it was feeding time.

She did not wait for him to reply. "You believe I do not know my people. That I do not know you. Yet, I know you are both the behemota and the poizina."

She was done adjusting him for royal consumption. She was done feasting. Tejara only gave a slight nod, whispering as she slithered away, "Tsy biby koa ve ianao..."

Are you not also a beast?

"But anyways,"

Tejara said with a surprising jovial tune.

"I must ask if you're also prone to being restless when you're nervous?"

An awkward beam shone through his lips.

"I'm almost positive you're my date, so I must confess, I ask to see if we might have more in common than fearlessness."

MOOD

monstrous

OUTFIT

discord

LOCATION

The ball

TAGS

miyabi

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[draconicheart]

katherine toussaint

T

his situation was not entirely unfamiliar to Katherine. The two were conversing easily, leaving Katherine as the odd one out. The third in a pair.

Her father would be disappointed in her.

In a typical party, she would manage a fake smile and make a polite exit, maneuvering to corner where she could stay out of the way, a solitary statue to observe the rest of the night.

It's not that the companion she made at this gala has been stolen. Her bitter feelings are not pointed toward her former partner, whose unabashed smile shines brighter than her azure attire, nor the imp whose charisma pulls at one naturally like a center of gravity. Her instance of shock at her social faux pas which melted into a brazen grin and laugh made Katherine eat her prior thoughts so quickly she hoped her face didn't turn red. She was unapologetic. She was captivating.

Her fingers rub the paper in her hands in a way that feels unpleasant to her. The suspended glass shifts slightly in the corner of her view; her gaze briefly snaps to it, and back at the pair before her.

"Oh! Silly me! I directed you to my sister earlier, but I was really thinking of my brother."

This grounds her once more. Right. The party. The invitation. The letter. She follows the direction indicated, landing on the back of a figure dressed in white and gold. Despite the promising and not-unsettling appearance, Katherine could not muster the courage to be hopeful.

What if her date won't have her either?

Hold your tongue.

"You know,"

the imp's voice turned uncharacteristically ominous. Katherine looked back at her. A chill ran down her spine.

"In Vexira, they call him 'The Wicked One'."

Under her mask, her eyes widened and face paled. The tense silence was broken by another warm pall of laughter from the woman that eased the rough edge of her nerves. Katherine didn't join in, still feeling a solemn pull behind her diaphragm.

Her eyes drifted back over to the candidate for her assigned date. After a beat, she replied in an even tone:

"The names given to us can be tiresome."

Her attention returns back to the two partners, a well-practiced smile on her face. She carefully folds back up the letter, taking care to ensure the ink-stained portion is on the innermost part. She curtsies to the two,

"It is a fine night for intrigue, and I am afraid I must be off to find my date. I thank you for the gracious time spent with me this evening. I hope the rest of your night is spent in good humor."

She takes the champagne flute off of its invisible perch (she simply cannot leave it there, nor can she return it - and now it has rendered her both hands occupied once more. How troublesome) and turns away from the two.

She attempts to make a graceful approach to the imp's brother. She counts, like a waltz - one, two, three. One, two, three. Her hesitation makes the third step always awkward, and the three-fourths time signature makes for an awkward pause that lets her anxiety float to the bottom of her stomach like silt settling at the bottom of a river; despite this, she stands behind the man who might be her date.

She wets her lips with her tongue, then wavers. Indistinct worries prick at her skin. The smell of smoke tickles her nose unpleasantly, and she consciously has to stop herself from wrinkling it. She taps her fingers against the letter. He's taller than her; her eyes are level with his shoulder blades.

She decides to observe the patterns on his suit jacket until he notices her.

MOOD

resigned

OUTFIT

here

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

L3n

blue-jay

Sear

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[mother of sorrows]

A shaky hand grips his and a small tug of power brings the lady back to her feet.

Hungry eyes watch them, masks leering and fans fluttering - a few chitters broke out at the shake in her knees, but they quiet down when their malice is not fed. One by one the wolves lose interest when the prey does not struggle and the woman stood straight now, a curtain of black hair sinking below her back. Mortified and flushed, but still she walks. Leksei releases his hold on her, the edge of ridicule melting into a small, genuine smile that turns his eyes softer. She will do just well without a hand to lean on, he thinks. A tone much gentler in his voice now;

''Go on, then.''

He gives her a friendly pat on the shoulder, perhaps not too refined, but unfeigned in its spirit.

''The dance is about to start.''

The notion to introduce himself appears when she has trudged half-way across the hall already, the great, glimmering red of her dress dissolving in other silk like a fish plunging into a murky stream. He is sure he will see her again before the night is done, but he would have liked a name to the fall. And like a prophecy the first waltz starts, the notes rising quicker - a few excited heads have already started to swivel in search of a partner, gloved hands meeting hands and heels clicking into the proper place. A chance to find a willing dancer has not left him yet, with lonely figures pacing impatiently on the outskirts of the dance floor - there is time, yes, to bow and ask for a dance. There is still time...

Leksei, for reasons best known to himself, does not. And there is suddenly no more time left.

Couples swivel up and down like boats on a restless sea, the fluttering dresses one giant, painted hull. The tempo rises from its slow dawn. The numerous couches in shadowy, secret corners have been abandoned in lieu of conversation and laughter, all lost in the perfumed air; Leksei perched on one languidly, mask flickering like a black halo under the cover of snarling statues. He threw an arm over the edge, the other one searching for his cigarettes. Half-lid eyes watched others pass with the lazy interest of a hunt dog, not interested in words but not denying them either.

Anita must be dancing by now. The prince would hope so, anyways; he did promise to take care of her, but he'll truly be cross if she does not try to enjoy the night at least a little. Imica will have him skinned and quartered if she is to find out Anita stood in a corner all night and had not an ounce of fun. Worry nags at the flesh of his brain, in quiet moments such as this - he cannot help it. But he'll find her when it really gets too late, and that is still hours away.

Leksei, on the other hand, was praying that no lady were to pass him now. He'd hate to put out his cigarette now before bad luck comes running.

Smoke like sandalwood drifted in gray, slithering snakes towards the ceiling, burning pleasantly in his lungs. Watching the dance was entertainment enough, even if it made his bad leg ache from the sight of turning. Ash poured steadily on the leather of his gloves, making the man curse below his breath; he searched nonchalantly for a tray on any of the nearby dark-wood tables, noting a crystalline shine beneath one of them. Leksei stood up briefly to grab hold of it, taking another drag -

"Ow! What in the -"

Sharp teeth dug into his exposed wrist, the pain snapping his hand back. A fat little - thing - made off with the ashtray, the gleam of black fur and nubby legs all he could make out of it. He rubbed away the pain in shock, staring after it as it carried the tray away like a proud sailor loading up a ship. What audacity. Is this what his life is now? Being robbed by rats? By fat rats when all he wants is a smoke? To his even greater surprise, the creature climbs right up the leg of another guest - Leksei follows it up a sparkling mask and a neck heavy with belief. Religious icons fill the holes where a human should be, unsettlingly holy. A man, he thinks, one that looks like he has sins he's hoping to pay for.

The prince observes the stranger in uncertain silence for a heartbeat, two. Then;

"Does your rat smoke, by any chance?"

the crown prince

leksei.

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

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  interact

  
  
  
  

  arthur morgan.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hello

  
  
  
  

  goodbye

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ravensunset]

anita illeva

A

nita’s hand found its place in fingers adorned with golden claws. She’d been watching the lower half of their face move, guessing at the intent behind his words. It felt significant. A first touch. Anita found herself wondering just what she had just agreed to.

It was a forward move. With the knowledge she’d been given, however, it was one she’d been expecting, even encouraged.

“It looks like we’re just on time,”

Anita’s eyes shone as she heard the music shift into a waltz,

“Care for a dance?”

She made her way towards the dance floor, hand in hand. The room was filled with colors, outfits that shone in the light, ones that began to spin. Anita took a glance around, registering only masks and silks, before honing back in on her partner. Her shoulders straightened at the opportunity to show off, just a little, and she began to speak.

​

Sometime ago, somewhere in vast Sevyershina, there lived an old couple. They were a fortunate family. They had land, a farm, sheeps and cows, and enough firewood to last many, many winters. They were kind, and their neighbors loved them. They had three sons and a daughter, and several grandchildren, most adults already.

One of their sons lived with them still, and he had a small girl, their grandchild Varya. She was a happy child, only six years of age, and the old couple’s joy. One year, however, they noticed something strange with the little girl. She would play in the yard all day, and go to bed often messy, hair tangled and dirt under her fingernails, but wake up clean and washed, her hair brushed and braided. They asked her about it, but she always claimed she slept soundly throughout the night. They stayed in her room to watch her sleep, but inevitably, they would themselves fall asleep, often waking up drooling and in positions that made their whole body sore.

The strangeness spread throughout the house. The old woman heard noises every night, and when she’d check her spindle in the morning, the yarn output on it would be doubled.

Varya began to dream of strange worlds, of beautiful sprawling gardens with flowers of every color, of birds that shimmered brighter than rainbows, of castles filled with fire. She saw, one afternoon, a large cat in her living room. It was larger in size than she was, and old, and had eyes as dull as coal, and two twisted horns grew from its head. It sat behind the stove, and did not move from it. She played with the cat all afternoon, and then, relayed the news to her parents.

Little Varya did not recognize the creature, but the adults, they had all heard the cautionary tales. Kikimora herself had settled inside their home. So far, she had done nothing but good, but they were a superstitious family, and knew her as an evil spirit, one of mischief and misfortune.

They prayed to the gods to banish her, left out all sorts of offerings, but the gods did not answer. So, in desperation, they turned to a young magician that settled in the village. He came to their home, confidently boasting that he could banish any spirits. He demanded a feast, and drank all their wine, and ate all their fruit. He sang, and shouted, and lit their fire and sprinkled sugar to burn in it. He demanded they throw out all their tablecloths and blankets, and burn them in a large fire, and Kikimora would leave with it.

They followed his instructions carefully, but the young magician was unpracticed and a fool, and his spell failed. Kikimora, however, sensed the attempt at banishment. What left the house instead was her kindness. Varya would now wake dirtier than ever, she would wake with her feet on the pillows and head at the foot of the bed, the old woman’s weaving would become unspun. The house creaked and shook, pots clanged at night and laughter rang through the home, not allowing restful sleep. The family would trip going up the stairs, and they could not carry drinks without them spilling. The family prayed, but they could not lessen their misfortune.

Many months later, a beggar passed through their village. Although, now, the family was far less fortunate than they once were, they were still kind, and invited her for dinner. As they ate, and talked, they revealed their predicament. She told them that she had a solution to their predicament. The family, desperate as ever, listened intently.

She gave them strange instructions. She told them to gather firewood on a warm day, and to harness one horse and one cow to their cart, but not two horses or two cows, to carry it. They were to leave a fur coat across the firewood, and use an old broom to sweep the house, back to front, saying a magical chant. Once it was all swept, the broom and all the dust were laid across the coat, and all this was to be carried away to the forest. Kikimora would be bound to follow it.

Kikimora heard this discussion, and she, knowing there was no stopping it, made her last week in the home the most disastrous one. The old couple would wake with scratches along their arms, not a task was completed without accident. And she, too, prepared for that day.

When the couple completed the ritual, Kikimora was banished away to the forest, but she took little Varya away with her. The couple’s home returned to normal, and their fortunes replenished, but they could never again find their grandchild. Varya’s laughter, always youthful despite the years passing, is heard by every traveler passing the forest by.

​

Anita disappeared into the story, the way she always did. It was somewhere between spontaneous and deeply well known, a spoken memory. When she finished, she allowed herself a moment to return to the ballroom, held by her date. The music swung around them. She blinked, considering her conclusion.

“I’ve been told this as a story about kindness. My mother, however, believes it to be one of strategy; about keeping enemies in your most favorable position. I believe,”

Anita allowed herself to consider the person- the stranger- in front of her,

“It is a story about trust.”

She allowed the last word to fall heavy, stressing it. It wasn’t an honest phrase; Anita tended to agree with her mother on the moral, but, she couldn’t quite help herself. That final clue on her letter tempted her, and she wondered whether this wording of it would provoke a reaction.

Anita stepped into the beat of the music. She was not much of a dancer, but she knew the basics; her closeness to the court required it. Her motions were light and floaty. Still, they spoke not of freedom, but of performance. She considered, briefly, the game she’d been asked to play,

“You know, my letter informed me of your hobbies, but very little of you, of what sorts of stories you may have to tell.”

MOOD

dancing!

OUTFIT

discord!

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

Wandering Owl

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[BELIAL.]

aline bellegarde

T

hough the night had just begun, and Aline ought to have held a little more hope out for herself with the variety of individuals within the peace hall, she felt rather annoyed so quickly that her date did not miraculously show up. Providence of a higher fate, or coincidence itself, did not seem to favour her. It was something that seemed to sting, perhaps made worse by her earlier blunder, and exacerbated still by the flute of champagne in her head that sang to be tipped back and emptied down her wide gullet. She continued to exercise said caution, not wanting to slip further into the slight stupor that was taking over her senses, but the temptation did remain. She would not lose her nerve so quickly, nor her resolve for the night’s game.

But even that, it appeared, was a temptation in itself.

Not wanting to huff per say, at each of the guest’s own response to her question, but she was inclined to voice some disgruntled sound that neither answer was to her liking. Part of her wondered how many others had already stumbled upon their partner; that maybe, the two that had peeled themselves away from her company were in fact each other’s-- a bitterness that said ‘how fortunate for you!’, and could only manage a bright smile forced to pinch cheeks and rub against gums.

It was a response that Aline knew quite well. Years spent in the shadow, fighting tooth and nail to be heard and seen in a sea of extravagant, marvellous Aurichian faces. Talents that would express themselves with more ease than she, as much as Aline exalted her own list of feats to be proud of. Theatre, then, was a welcome break from it all. A mask upon a mask, it was second nature to slip into another’s skin. While the one that she wore was painstakingly painted, with red lips and demure brows, something beneath stirred for the raw interest of many. Staged behind her siblings, young and old, she felt more akin to the marble statues outside the front doors of their grand estate. Then at least, from one marble creature to another, she felt at peace among the other grandstanding pretenders of Auriche. It was a mere fact. Husband pretended to the wife, who pretended to the daughter, who pretended to her sister, who pretended to her own husband. It was a stunning, spinning, magical cycle of veils and misguided intentions.

It was familiar. None of this, none of this forwardness, settled the twist in her stomach.

Pressing her lips against her teeth she nodded once to the two, not bothering to follow up with whatever disappointment she had. The smell of smoke reached her nostrils before her sight spied another approaching figure, something that half reminded her of her father’s study and another half that smelled foreign. While her father’s cigars burnt of rich smells, sweetened a little extra when they were from Auriche than anywhere else, these burnt harshly.

This one’s response, as forward as Aline’s own attempt, had a smirk crawling on her lips. There was some interest in this stranger, of hues that rivalled stolen light and that of her own magic’s brilliance, that differed from the pleasantness of the two next to her. They seemed well enough, and had she still had the audacity to take the higher ground that she had benevolently taken earlier, she would have stuck by the wall. Perhaps it was the bubbliness in the alcohol, or the fear of giving up, but she opted to take the chance given and ride with it.

Neither of the two fit the stranger’s question on makeup. Aline, in a similar fashion, adored what it could do. Brilliant jades, purples and blues were oft her favourite to wear on her eyes, and she relied on it heavily to obscure what little blemishes she had. A scar on her chin, the bane of her existence, she usually packed tightly with a layer of powder.

“It appears that the date that you are looking for, and it is your date I assume, is someone who despises hiding who they are. Here we are, then, in a hall of full masks and painted faces. You would have to hunt a little harder, then, though you do not strike me as someone so acquainted with the woods and their violent mysteries,” Aline said, pursing her lips against the rim of her glass. Throwing a gaze to the others, who seemed rather content to their conversation, she no longer wished to intrude. She now had a grander opportunity ahead.

Pushing off the wall and adjusting her posture, Aline extended a hand, fingers and palm pointing to the ground.

“With such judicious tactics as we, sparing not for the subtleties of intruding or weaving into conversation, perhaps we would find our dates while touring the dance floor. I hope you can dance, or that you can follow along, as I do not mind taking the lead… You are not my date and I am not yours, for makeup is my guise when it is not otherwise a mask I wear. I adore it so.”

Taking a moment, and sipping from her drink once more, she shook her head, releasing a breath she didn’t know she’d held.

“I mean to say-- you are different, yes? Your forwardness is refreshing among strangers of different cultures and manners. Would... Will you dance with me? If your date is looking for you by scent, spinning about may do the trick in bringing them your way, like a moth to a flame. And if me, by mine own favourite perfume, I should hope to inspire the very same reaction.”

She smiled again now, feeling the courage bloom in her chest as the campagne raced down. Aline would thank the two for their brief moment, her narrowing down by three of who her date was, but she wished to seize the moment.

Feeling the sting of rejection would not do her well to bite twice.

mood

willing and able

OUTFIT

discord

LOCATION

masquerade wall

TAGS

aeneas. iridescent. Sear

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[L3n]

maharani archana

A

rchana’s eyes shimmered like precious gems from behind her mask. Lighting up as she watched Lusille swipe a braid behind her ear, pretending to be charmed. The conversation they were having dipped into The Maharani’s brain, making her feel inspired and restless. As if she has too much energy to be confined to just standing. She was simply having too much fun. Archana had never left Wankudur and now she was standing here, on a foreign island, surrounded by nobles from around the globe. If that didn’t spark the imagination what ever could?

“Of course. I'll be sure to give it a try one day. Maybe, you could give me some tips?”

Archana contained her smile, holding back her excitement. “I would love to,” she chimed, putting a hand up toward her chest. The Maharani had a habit of moving her hands around as she talked. It helped with emphasis, she’d say. The people of her home had learned to tune it out. Archana was an expressive person, just like her mother, through and through.

Archana tilted her gaze over to the Aurichian princess as Lusille giggled at her quip, trying to include the woman at least somewhat. She really liked the delicate royal with her floating cups and extravagant speech. If this had been a regular ball without any pairs to find Archana could see herself chatting in the corner with Katherine for quite some time.

Shifting back her attention to her date, she eyed the watch she pointed out. “It’s made of one the finest alloys in our world—pure, Vexiran bronze. Of course, I mean ‘finest’ in terms of utility.” Archana scanned over the Inventors creation, eyes fixated in wonder. She would never not be impressed how one could take bronze, tinker with it, and out came a working miniature clock. Part of Archana wanted to steal Lusille’s brain and pick at it for all the knowledge she had. Another side just wanted to listen to the Vexiran talk. Lusille lowered her wrist and Archana straightened back up.

“It looks very impressive, and it matches your attire perfectly,” she commented, looking at the others dress and imp-horned mask. It really did suit her, the bronze color tying the whole look together. “Perhaps one day we’d get the honor of seeing your other inventions,” Archana smiled, including Katherine in the we.

“I suppose that means we’ve found each other! We’re good at this game, aren’t we? I was going to say that there should be a prize, but perhaps the prize comes in the form of new bonds.”

They did it! Ignoring that it was mostly luck and the fate of Nashatra that had divined their early meeting, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride. “What a great team we make,” Archana agreed, placing a hand on her hip. She was slowly putting a stop to mimicking Katherine’s prim and proper way of speaking. While The Maharani would have liked a first-place prize the others wise words absolutely did ring correct. “Truly, meeting you both has been a gift in itself,” she looked between the both of them with a huge grin. “However, if they were to give out first place prizes I wouldn’t complain,” she added in case the peace hall had ears of its own.

As Katherine and Lusille began to chat Archana acquired a drink to keep herself busy. As she took careful sips she watched as others began to take to the dance floor. At home, they often held festivities where they’d all gather around and dance. The moves she knew were cultural, and the music was far from the beats they played in Wankudur. Not knowing had never stopped her before. If Archana didn’t understand something she threw herself into it, determined to learn it on the spot. It had a high success rate.

The royal was most definitely listening in on their conversation, ticking off information boxes in her head. Her date had a sister and a brother. Her brother sounded like a villain out of a fable. “The Wicked One” didn’t spell out roses and butterflies. Archana wondered for a moment how Katherine would fair talking to someone with such a reputation. It seemed she took the news gracefully, maybe Lusille’s joking nature had softened her nerves a little.

“Have a good evening! Hopefully we meet again,” Archana curtsied back. “Have fun with your date,” she called out, hoping they’d run into each other later once again. After the masked ball, it shouldn’t be too hard to find the noble once again. There would only be so many princesses from Auriche after all.

Now that they were alone Archana didn’t waste any time. “Now then," she turned to the stranger with mischievous eyes, "would you care for a dance?” It would have been rude to ask the lady before, leaving Katherine all on her own. Now that the floor had other pairs spinning about, and it was just the two of them, Archana decided to shoot her shot.

MOOD

happy dance

OUTFIT

(discord)

LOCATION

pretty peacehall

TAGS

draconicheart blue-jay

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[mother of sorrows]

Tales are not remembered to entertain. They're to warn. And when fathers want to lecture their daughters, they start the story like this;

In a kingdom where no grass grew and where farmers sunk knee-deep into cruel sand was a princess named Kalala. She was the youngest of her many sisters and of a royal clan whose gods drank blood. Her hair was the color of burning forts, her neck like a swan's, and her skin the color of beaten bronze; she loved figs and wine and she only left the palace at night to dance upon the beaten-dirt streets. When she grew of age, her father decided she was to marry.

The king was poor and so were his people; there would be no colorful entourage nor a week-long banquet. But in the humble royal garden grew an ancient tree with gnarled roots and heavy, blooming branches. Every year it would bear healthy, plump apples, no matter how the dust storms roared and how the earth gasps for water - and every year it would bear a single golden apple at the utmost top, above its siblings green with envy. When it was grown again, the king decreed:

'The princess is to throw the golden apple out a window. Whoever catches it will win her hand.'

Many men and women rode to the shining city to try her luck. For three days and three nights the people sang from their windows, and for three days and three nights they danced with strangers. When the day of the betrothal came, they gathered under her window and waited. When the maids went to fetch the princess, however, the golden apple was nowhere to be found.

''Princess Kalala,'' asked one, ''Where is the apple?''

There was a bout of silence. The princess' eyes widened into saucers and she flushed with embarrasment, voice uncertain.

"...Wait. Was I supposed to throw the one that was on the counter?"

The maids gaped. Kalala stared back, taking another discreet bite out of the golden apple. When the king found out, he only sighed and thought;

'Well, it can happen. Tomorrow, we will paint an apple gold and she surely won't repeat her mistake.'

Night passed in her cloudy gowns and next came the rooster's call. Like the day before, men and women gathered under her window and waited, expectant gazes sparkling in the harsh sunlight. And truly the princess came, gold sparkling in soft hands; she spread her wide sleeves and rose the apple high. But she did not throw it gently - she took the instructions to heart and launched it into the crowd. The apple hit one of the smiling, heavenly princes in the head and knocked him unconscious.

When the king found out, he hid his face in his hands with shame, but still he thought;

'Well, it can happen. Tomorrow, she will instead hand the apple and she surely won't repeat her mistake.'

Night slowly fell into her own slumber and the sky bleed bright once more. Like the day before, men and women gathered before the gates, impatient eyes meeting in the scorching heat. And truly the princess came, coal eyes hidden by a black veil and feet bare; in her hand the apple. Up came a horse and watched the treat intently, and the princess did not think before offering it to the beast. Only when it was eaten did she snap to realisation, mouth falling open.

When the king found out, he became enraged and thought;

'She is making a fool out of us. No, we will not have her try again.'

The men and women waited no longer. They found this all to be some elaborate joke on their expense and they hissed curses all the way back to their own palaces. To punish her, the king put Kalala in a tower seven houses tall and seven rivers wide; from the ground you could not see the roof and from above you could not see the earth. For a day the princess cried and lamented;

"Why must I be locked here? I'd do anything to see the birds fly again."

And for the night the princess cried and sobbed;

"Why must I be locked here? I'd do anything to lay on the sand and watch the stars.."

And when morning came the princess cried and weeped;

"Why must I be locked here? I'd do anything to sit and watch the sun rise."

And when the night came, the princess tried the door and found it was never locked in the first place, and she admitted that maybe she overracted just the tiniest bit. Her father was still angry when Kalala walked out and her mother shook her head when she passed. Her many sisters screamed with laughter and the servants sighed whenever the apple was gold again.

The letter came, anyways. If the other kingdoms did not hear of the accidents, they would hear it soon - Kalala's parents tried to offer any other child, any smart, beautiful, skilled girl. They had many and any would be better than Kalala, who would set the boat on fire while it was still on sea. But the letters demanded and they demanded still, and the king eventually gave in.

Hint: this is not the ending, nor the warning of this story. Not yet.

***​

A thousand people danced already, a thousand costumes turning like cloth caught in the river. The hall felt like a foreign land and Kalala the explorer; she weaved through the groups of people like a needle through dresses, dragging her own suffocating layers along. Laughter and voices mingled in her ears, deafening - it sent her heart beating with excitement and joy, the true dancer that she was. Kalala loved parties, when it was not too hot - and she has never met too many from outside Sebaja. A night of fun and drink and strangers to offer their company? Whyever did her parents try to keep her away?

The princess' costume might not have shined as brightly, or have such fine fabric; but it was a work of art in itself, every stitch thought out and every detail important. Scenes from classical poems sang themselves into oblivioun in the red of her skirts. Kingdoms ruined and built, heroes married and crowned, beasts slain and tamed; her own name danced in the dress, the figure of a woman whose feet never touch the ground. Kalala. The twisting of a beauty's waist. The stories came to her like familiar friends as she traced the beads and colors, veiled eyes watching carefully. Most of the hall was already involved in conversation or the waltz, and Kalala did not feel like intruding on a group trying to have a moment for themselves.

Kalala had hoped to catch glimpse of Tejara, of sparkling armor and furrowed brow - they would not dance unless she pleaded, but surely they are not so heartless to refuse her now. She craned her neck like a hopeful goose, right and left of the crowd that has gathered, but she saw no sight of them much to her disappointment. Perhaps they were already on the dance floor? Determined to find them, the princess set off towards the other side of the hall, open-wound-red dress dragging behind her. Her long sleeves fluttered in the air and the bronze on her headpiece chanted, a spring to each of her steps.

There was no Tejara to be found; but there was a man instead. A man of cold silver and eyes that gleamed so darkly, undercut by jewelry that could pay for a fleet and an open confidence that makes you crash the same ships upon the rocks. He did not seem to cast any attempt at conversations to the walls and he had a gait to him that Kalala decided she liked. Eager to make at least one friend or to gain a dance, she slowly made her way towards him, kneeling to a polite bow in greeting.

"Good evening."

Kalala's fan uncurled like a lazy cat under the sun, eyelashes fluttering in a way that could be either morse code or an attempt to be coy.

"May I ask for a dance?"

Kalala did not notice her fan almost poked out the eye of a nearby man, but in her reasonable defense - she was not truly paying attention to anything else.

the princess

kalala.

• aaaaaaaaa
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  triples

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hello

  
  
  
  

  goodbye

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[cavitea]

hisoki of tsusaye

A

h.

Such an easy transition from the tricky syllables of one language and he settled comfortably in his own beside her graciousness, a fading amusement hiding underneath filmed flowers as a hand was raised up to a bending form. With a gentle grace he pressed his forehead against cold knuckles, eyes fluttering close before he raised himself upwards again.

"It seems you've caught me with my sleeves up." A rare curl to his lips pulled into a gentle smile, a fortifying look that fluttered underneath flowered mask and reached quietly between them. "Though it may put my kingdom at a disadvantage to admit I have found myself taken with managing finances over the years. Money and numbers fall more easily together when there is a solid purpose driving them. Of course, you'll never find the likes of my brother stooping to admit one of our blood could lower themselves to something as a financial advisor so often I keep myself silenced."

Bronze reached to trail weary paths along a relaxing jaw, pressing indentions into pallor skin. "Under disguise however, I admit that it can be disheartening to see the lack of coin flowing in, a mountain of work only compared to our measly hills of gold. After all, the crown is so important, no?" Fingers lingered along the tips of her own, the disheartened stare blushing behind flowers before the beginning sounds of music became a saving grace.

The mysterious figure across him was a crimson anomaly, a reddened rose bent in a way that threatened the prick of thorns if you reached at her poorly. Their answers aligned enough that he was sure of her as his date, a thought he had already had long before with the imagery of a golden pin glinting himself towards him but ... her?

Slowly, precisely, he found himself falling to the curiosity of her, to the gold and elegance she carried; it was far in contrast from the poorly paved roads and crumbling stones he came from. It was almost a cruel joke for the hosts to have paired her him. Forget kingdoms, she was a different sphere from his own, an orbit that brushed just out of reach as lips turned upwards and quietly moved them towards the awaiting gilded floors.

"Shall we, then?"

Like doves they could trail over the floor, swishing fabric that lingered and swirled, kissing against marble and requesting more songs out of the air as they danced. Easy Hisoki found it to follow along despite a lacking of knowledge, flowing silks and robes providing the softest accompaniment between the two of them as hands settled themselves here and there and they danced.

Easily, though, was another story.

Quickly he found his mind wandering from the golden mask before him, the baited face that wanted just as many secrets as he was sure it was hiding. The way she spoke and dressed wasn't enough to convince him of a particular kingdom but she knew of his, of the culture enough to care for the language and why? Someone else from Tsusaye was surely here and he briefly wondered if he would know them, if he would care. Only a handful of those within the kingdom gave meaning and it wasn't those poised as vipers to take titles from the weaker willed. Instead leaves would fall and he could turn his head in circles as the child sent off for marriage, a dance far more complicated than the shuffling feet around them.

I'm truly sorry.

She simply was not the captivating bird he could allow himself to stare at for long, a cage beautifully crafted that he couldn't fathom being the key to. Someone like you deserves more than this. One of the opulent birds preening themselves arrogantly under jewels and metals could be the one to take her hand should it be her wish, a match fitted for those sitting higher on society than the dredge hiding below.

It disgusted him in a sickly, melancholic way.

There was no preventing the thinning of his mouth as thoughts took over the childish joy of spinning around, hands sliding against each other with the air of hesitation separating them. "You dance more comfortably than I imagine I could ever bring myself to, do you enjoy it?" A swallow took away the dryness of the question, sliding bronze down the length of red over and over as they moved and he stepped just enough to maintain what surely could be their last before a pause; before an escape from her stifling stance.

MOOD

imposter syndrome

OUTFIT

discord.

LOCATION

a ballroom of light

TAGS

xiaoran neon reverie

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Sear]

Renshu Faelen

H

ow fleeting were his thoughts - not only time. The rest of the world threatens to fall away, the notes of music that begin to pull partners into the dance floor for twirling interactions spreading throughout the room. A partner he had yet to find, and would not find in the midst he’d maneuvered into.

There’s a shift from one of the men, moving closer to the other and on instinct Ren takes a step closer. Curiosity piqued by the subtle avoidance expressed toward him, feeds into ruthless ambition that dwells beneath pure white fabrics and golden accessories. Avoidance, a familiar friend, echoes scenes from a past time in his home city. With promises of a more favorable hunt at his fingertips, the game of finding his date fades to the background, tamed by curiosity. Unfavorable responses to his question bring him back, easing unnoticeable tension in the lines of his shoulders and back.

“Shame,”

Ren murmurs, a slow glance cast between all three of them. It was no surprise to the man that his question didn’t yield results, only testing his patience in a game he was less than willing to play. Making circles around the ballroom didn’t appeal to him; a waste of his time. Time that he didn’t have to spare - on a trivial game.

Was his night about to take a more pleasant turn? Beneath a mask of woven snakes and gears, flashes of amusement make their way across his face from the comment on his acquaintance, or lack of, with the woods.

“I’m more acquainted with the violent mysteries teeming within walls,”

comes the steady response,

“With the fucking bastards that lay in wait. You’re not wrong. I’d say that the hints offered to me, oh so graciously,”

the undercurrent of dancing amusement in his tone reveals itself,

“do little to tell me the manner of my date. Bloody hell, a trait of talking much about their interests could be applied to anyone in this ball with a loose tongue. Not a fucking good trait, I’d say.”

Makeup was the only hint he could grasp onto, that and the secret. A secret which he conceals in his sleeve - a figurative weapon he’d wield with utmost skill when the situation called for it. It brings to mind the fleeting thoughts of which skeleton had been dragged from his closet, and how much the hosts tempted fate. For the skeletons buried six feet deep - would stay there. At any cost.

There’s a hand extended to him, bringing forth surprise in a subtle part of his lips. He conceals it with the glass of champagne, unwilling to reveal that he'd been thrown off, the invitation to dance spun around him in artistic words that fall on deaf ears. They urge forward disdain, and a rejection hovers on the tip of his tongue, seconds from falling from his lips, only momentarily fought back by the sensed presence of another.

Vigilance spreads its claws throughout his mind at awareness of someone's gaze on him, a sensation he doesn’t care to grace with his attention. The grip of his fingers tightens around the champagne glass, acidic taste of melancholy in the back of his throat brought forward by the stubborn stare he feels. Heat spreads throughout his shoulder blades, taking flight as if the dancing creatures on them are coming alive from the stare, black ink peeling off to join the dancing fray. There is an indecipherable prickle sent skittering across his spine, and he seeks comfort in the familiar burn in his lungs from the cigarette in his hand. It brings no solace, only bitterness joining the acid in his throat, sharp and burning and he chases it down with alcohol. The tastes blend together, a dissonant tune playing across taste buds in a dance of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Then another sip that sends the melancholy far below the surface.

It was born of the wandering eyes that cloaked him in a mantle he could not shake, instead becoming accustomed to the prying eyes in turn. Privacy is a thing of the past - preceded by hushed whispers from dark corners, from cowards hiding behind riches and reputation. Even in a ball of masked figures with concealed identities, privacy is a privilege he can't afford. No amount of riches will clear the tarnished name of a lord walking in the shadows, even if it settles heavy on his shoulders. How long can one carry the weight? Morbid thoughts, chased once again away by alcohol. Curiosity tugs at his patience, wearing down its walls, and he can feel his focus waning from the masked figures in front of him, temptation to turn and meet the stare. It takes strength he does not have to remain focused on the manifestation of an emerald shining in front.

“Oh fucking hell,”

a soft sigh escapes at the long-winded invitation to dance, halfway through which he felt the urge to depart the conversation, distracted by the vigilance that demands his attention. There’s a momentary pause, and he stays rooted, exercising fraying strands of patience to give space for the women to speak.

A compliment on his forwardness, yet she didn’t extend the same to him, albeit this may be her method of it. Forwardness, a breath of fresh air, that he craves to chase away the heavy smoke imprisoned within a cage of bones within him. Another drag that only sends smoke spiraling away from him in pungent strands, dispersed with another wave of his hand. He leans forward, the cigarette snubbed out against the wall. The crude action done nearby the body of the figure wreathed gray, conversing with the one in gold - sun and sea he muses, scrutinizing them. Two forces crashing together, waves lapping at waning rays of gold and meeting at the horizon. His gaze is heavy on the figure of the sea, a moment too long as the cigarette crumples under his pressure - a streak left on the wall as a reminder. A dance with the sea is in order he considers in the depths of his mind. To see how unbridled waves would dance in the palm of his hand, played to his entertainment. Yet, another calls, one of dashing greens and brimming courage and he puts that off for later.

“Next time,”

a gloved hand takes hers with a small bow from him,

“A ‘shall we dance?’ is satisfactory. Any more lengthy and I’d be bored out of my mind, fucking hell.”

He leads her, the champagne deserted on a passing tray, sparing the women who had prompted his vigilance a fleeting glance in the process. A figure of shifting delicate lilac fabrics, tugged from the pages of a storybook, placed in the midst of snakes. Then his attention is tugged to the dance at hand, his fingers curling around her shoulder blade with a soft touch. Habit deeply ingrained within his body is drawn out in the music that washes over the two of them. Flowy, smooth, movements that lead his partner with a skill reminiscent of a lord of better days. A reminder of dances spent twirling in the halls of a home in Vexira, locked in embraces till the moon was high in the sky, blissfully unaware of treacherous intentions lurking. A safety that no longer persisted, neither there nor here.

The dance is brought to a startling halt by a fan that clips exposed skin revealed around his mask with a fleeting sting. It catches on the metal with a pitiful note and saves him from an unfortunate loss in the form of an eye. The avoidance of a painful fate does little to soothe his temper. He spins, hands leaving his partner’s, and catches sight of the assailant. A figure clad in fabrics that weave stories he pays no attention to, waving a fan carelessly as she converses in a man of silver and monochrome. A man who speaks to him of the moon, shining from a distance with scorching rays that bring with them no heat, chilling Renshu’s blood even further.

“Fuck. Are you blind, or are you merely dimwitted?”

Cold words are thrown out carelessly at the wielder of the fan, carrying with them the brute force of a personality confined by stifling formalities of a ball.

“I’d reckon a princess needs to know how to wield a fucking fan. It's not that damn hard.”

mood

wtf

outfit

discord

location

here

tags

BELIAL.
aeneas.
iridescent.
draconicheart
mother of sorrows

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[triples]

...

fae'an de malisio

They creep in from beyond the even tides, dark hues streaked with brilliant colour. One never knows when they will come and never knows how they will go, yet one must brave them all the same. Deceptively quiet they often were — and, in that quiet, fascinating — but only ever until the commencing roar. Such familiar guests they had become, as a man with far too much affinity for these creatures, that no distance nor beauty could fool Fae'an now on what they were.

And so he halted, when she flitted into his vision with dancing steps, and he watched. Here one comes, he thought, somewhere between lament and laughter.

A storm.

"Good evening,"

she greeted with a lifted voice, the snap of her fan like the first strike of lightning. Her handling of the ornament was... flawed, one might say, a fact that could have gone well-ignored had its edge not struck a passing figure in what appeared to be the face. A disgruntled noise arose from the victim. Fae'an blinked. The girl did not seem to notice. Instead, she continued with unfaltering flair, a gleam in her eyes,

"May I ask for a dance?"

"Of course,"

he obliged, though his focus was being divided by an approaching irate figure. He weighted his interest in speaking to this princess against his lack of interest in a petty quarrel. As the smell of smoke and the sound of venom breached their vicinity, Fae'an felt this stranger, too, wasn't so far from a tempest.

Fuck. Are you blind, or are you merely dimwitted?

Diction he must admit he hadn't expected in this pristine hall. Fae'an arched a brow, wary and amused in equal measure.

I’d reckon a princess needs to know how to wield a fucking fan. It's not that damn hard.

Very true. But — his iron gaze skimmed over the man — a smoker seemed unlikely to be his partner, so, of course, Fae'an would much rather side with the girl. His glance flickered downward again to his petite companion.

Offense then, plain on her face - the mask blunts some of the edge, but her eyes flash with seething steel. She turned on her heel like a lion whose tail has been stomped on, fan closing back into itself; a glare settled on the intruder to their conversation, every inch as irritated as what he gave.

Perhaps she did not hear well, perhaps she simply misunderstood, but she glanced at another lady warmly, obviously mistaking her for the one that is reprimanded. Informing her otherwise seemed redundant, and so he observed her in silence.

"Excuse me?"

Her voice that was like song turned louder in defense,

"I don't know what she did, but surely she doesn't deserve to be yelled at so. If you are going to be so rude, it would be better to stand in a corner by yourself."

She huffed, as if to prove her point, and with a raise of her chin — a clear challenge — and a dismissive sniff, she shifted back toward Fae'an, looking to him less lion and more a cross cat.

A chuckle left his lips, directed at neither and both. A slight pivot placed him between her and the man of smoke, and he finally inserted his voice into the mix as he asked,

"Well, then, will you excuse us?"

A pause as if to allow for a reply, but he continued before the man could even really finish taking his second breath,

"I'm sure you will. I'd reckon a prince suffers too little from a tap with a fan, after all, to delay his own night."

Wordlessly, he offered the princess a hand, and she took it with no argument. Humor slipped into his words a touch more strongly as, before leaving the intruder behind, he concluded,

"Heal well, my friend."

If the man had more to say, Fae'an didn't quite listen as he swiftly led her away from the scene, steering them smoothly through two spinning couples and out of sight.

"I must say you are among the most valiant princesses I've met yet,"

he laughed, his hands finding their place with ease as they finally slip into the dance.

A few beats passed as he let the melody carry them across marble tiles. As they twirled, he leaned in closer, almost out of habit, letting their conversation float beneath the music as he told her,

"And, I dare bet, also one of the loveliest."

Another step. Her dress brushes the floor, his mask glimmers.

"Do you enjoy this often? Dance,"

he probed, the purpose that had blurred amidst their escape coming back into focus, though his tone remained unfailingly casual,

"song?"

MOOD

very varied

OUTFIT

[discord]

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

Sear mother of sorrows

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[iridescent.]

...

valen de malisio

Etiquette was something that had been ground into Valen’s head the moment he could speak and walk. He was to always speak politely, treat others with respect, know his place and stand his ground. The lessons weren’t coming in handy right now, at least not the standing ground part.

See, someone who stands their ground wouldn’t hide behind another person when they felt slightly intimidated, wouldn’t use another body as a shield. No, their feet would remain firmly planted and they would stare down the opposition. With that thought in mind, Valen swallowed down whatever trepidation he felt and moved back to where he once was, trying to make himself appear braver than he felt.

He didn’t miss the way the man across from him had moved closer when he’d stepped behind Apollo the pungent smell of smoke invading his nostrils further. This time, he managed to keep his nose from wrinkling, though his mask failed to hide the way his eyes narrowed at the crass language that was used. Was using the word “fuck” in pretty much every single sentence really necessary?

Valen let out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding when the smoke-scented man was invited to dance, and figuring they’d be gone in seconds, turned his attention back to his sun. It was then that he recalled some of the things that Apollo had just mentioned to the newcomers.

”I was more of a hiker than a hunter.”

Loves nature and hiking. Loves nature and hiking. Loves nature and hiking. The words he’d once repeated like a mantra an hour earlier came back to the forefront of his mind, flashing like a neon sign. Could this be? Could Apollo really be his date? Talk about luck. All of these people having to go around and around in circles trying to find their dates and Valen and his date just stumbling upon each other without even meaning to. Must be destiny.

”I think—“ he started but his attention was grabbed by a cigarette being put out on the wall and the words died in his throat. Who does such a thing? He was about to ask just that when smoker’s unwavering gaze came to rest on him, making him feel like a lamb trapped in a lion’s den. As the speed of his heart increased, he could feel a clammy sweat break out on his palms and shoved them into the pockets of his pants to prevent anyone from seeing them.

He didn’t understand why he was so nervous. Sure, the gaze of this man was staring into him as if he knew all of his secrets, but he didn’t! He didn’t know anything about Valen! So there was no need for Val to be nervous. But he was. And he figured he always would be.

When it was finally just the two of them, Valen turned back to Apollo. ”Sorry,” he apologized for the interruption. ”I um. . . I think you might be my date,” he mumbled shyly, warm brown eyes now staring intently at the floor. ”I’m not positive, but one of the clues I received said my date used to love hiking and I couldn’t help but overhear you just mention how you were a hiker. I may be wrong, but I do really think we’re dates.”

It would be the biggest embarrassment of his entire life if he were to be wrong about them being dates, but he didn’t think he was wrong. Call it a gut feeling, call it intuition, call it whatever you please, but he just had a feeling Apollo was his fated date.

And now it was time to bite the bullet.

Summoning all of the courage he didn’t knew he possessed, he looked up. ”So um. . .” Valen began, playing with his fingers as his toes turned in. ”Would you—“ Why was this so hard? They were just words. Say them! ”Would you be willing to dance with me?” The words came out as a squeak and his cheeks turned bright red, gaze on the floor once again as he awaited an answer.

MOOD

am i dinner

OUTFIT

on discord.

LOCATION

ballroom

TAGS

aeneas. Sear

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Wandering Owl]

alon magsino

A

lon accepted her offer graciously. Whatever convoluted challenges their hosts may have set them, this was, at its core, a ball. It would be a shame not to take the opportunity. They were out of practice with this dance, though, fumbling through the first few steps before the forms teased out some faint memory from the back of their mind. They relied on the steady rhythm of the music, and allowed her to lead, seeing the knowledge - if not spontaneity - in her movements.

As she began her tale, he noted its Sevyershinan origins, and wondered if she too hailed from there. It would certainly fit with the cold tones draped around her, and the rime that coated her mask.
His letter had certainly been correct on her storytelling skills. Despite themselves, Alon found themselves drawn into the narrative she wove. It reminded them of stories they had heard as a child, stories of spirits and the mortals who encountered them, the fortunate and unfortunate. It lingered in his mind as she wrapped up, melting away slowly like morning frost, and they were still blinking away the remnants when she made her push.

Trust.

They could not mistake the emphasis she placed on the word. Claws tightened, digging into her where they rested against her skin. A step in the dance, not just fumbled but missed entirely, enough to throw them momentarily off-balance. And their expression, even the sliver uncovered by the mask, was all of a sudden very blank.

The music dipped, a brief lull in between phrases. When it lifted once more, so did Alon, leaning once more into the waltz as if nothing had happened.

“My lady, if I had any doubts as to whether you were truly my date, you have just chased them away. What makes you think trust must be a concern?”

He had done nothing egregious so far, in their brief encounter. Her letter - that damned unknown - was the only possible culprit.

They ran back through her story in their mind, considering how to weave their own sentiments beneath its skin.

“If it is a story about trust, as you say, then it is about not forming hasty impressions based only on what you have been told. Not when the real thing is right in front of you.”

Once more, he bowed his head to her.

“Unlike you, I am no storyteller. I couldn't hope to sum myself up in a way that would free you of any doubts. But ask me what you will, and I will answer as best I can.”

It felt uncomfortably vulnerable, opening himself up to her like this, even behind the safety of masks and formalities. A specific question felt far easier to deal with than a vacant space, though. And perhaps, her choice in questions would reveal a little in exchange.

“This is a chance to uncover truth, little Varya. I'm sure you know better than to be swayed by second-hand superstitions.”

MOOD

a nerve has been hit

OUTFIT

white-gold (discord)

LOCATION

the midst of the ball

TAGS

ravensunset

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[mother of sorrows]

A man - shadowy with smoke and the gleaming eyes of an executioner's axe, mean like one and yet with the straight spine of the to-be-beheaded. A prince or a duke or a queen's favorite courier, she doesn't not know, but by judgement those words she'd take him for a sailor put into a fuss by cards. He seemed to be angered by the unknown actions of another lady, though Kalala did not turn back quickly enough to see what had happened. She never was quite able to keep her nose out of business that begged to be left alone, a protective sort of feeling demanding harsh words in her chest. The poor girl he was yelling at so savagely was small, quiet-looking and half a cloud in her dress, pretty and soft alike. Whoever this man is, surely he cannot go around insulting every other soul he meets and possibly for an insult even a sullen toddler would forgive.

Sharp as Kalala's tongue was, she offered the unspeaking girl (probably too struck by sadness to defend herself) a warm, smiling squeeze of the hand. The princess jotted down a mental note to talk to her later - and to avoid the man that glared like somebody grievously hurt.

"Don't let it ruin your night."

Just like that she follows after the promise of dance, taking her partner's hand with an excited spring to her step, glad to join the bustling crowd. Years of practice make Kalala snap into place with ease, following the cold clearness of a lake-surface mask. Kalala gave a delighted noise at his words, beaming as much as her veil allowed her. She took it as no more than ballroom dalliance, but she was still pleased at his charm; dancing is only as fun as your conversation partner, and Kalala has a hunch she found a man of the hour. Like the sickening drop of a ship hauling stock the dancers move around them, but his movement is fluid like the song of a siren or maybe the drowning hands of one.

She gave a genuine nod at the question, the figures on her dress dancing with her.

"Yes! I trained since I was young."

Not every song goes past her throat well, but she is great at the classics and her feet have always been easier to move, anyhow. Like a late croak of a rooster the letter pops up in her mind and Kalala tries not to be too obvious what she is looking for.

"What about you, if I may ask? Do you play any instruments?"

A thought that came too fast, added;

"A violin, perhaps?"

Belatedly she realises that it might be a tad too obvious, giving a shrewd look of her eyes to avert suspicion. Kalala gives a small sniffle as she did not quite care if the answer is no or yes, or that the question only came out of pure curiosity. She was confident he would be extremely convinced - but her shoulders did give a small slump at the prospect of not finding her date so easily.

the princess

kalala.

• aaaaaaaaa
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  draconicheart Sear triples

  
  
  
  

  goodbye

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[neon reverie]

xiaoran liumei

A

n enchanting riverbank of words comes as the answer to her question; family relations bleed through the waters shown — something Xiaoran notes silently, alongside the droplet of — was that ruefulness?— with one’s monetary possessions. A lagoon of information it was, gifted more freely than Xiaoran feels like she was deserving of receiving upon a first conversation between strangers. Those lips — were they churning proof of true-hearted, cerulean souls existing? Or was it a siren song she was listening to, meant to pull her into a false sense of security..

Something slithers in then, a sixth sense that bleeds from the soul and sinks within, its weight like stone and its fall far. It is loud like this; like lightning and thunder across sapphire skies, waves crashing into the cliff side, glass shards shattering. Loud like whispers, words struggling to escape their prison, hissing in her ears like a cursed oracle’s omen.

L I E S

Xiaoran knows exactly what it means and is not too surprised by it; having lived her life, there comes a knowledge that a lie exists in many words and many more faces. A business smile here, a mother’s gaze there — they do not care if you are friend or family, do not blink at a woman’s stare or a child’s tear. Lie, humans will ; for fortune, for harmony, out of greed, out of fear. What else is there to do, when the truth can silence men and hurt love. Do you even wish to face it? Knowing what ghosts would come to scream from the crypt, remembering what has been lost and what you have still to lose. Everyone lies — even pretty moonflowers— and Xiaoran accepts this, hands cold and heart distant.

Still, there exists no glory in catching these lies. Objectively, it played in her favor; the inked secret having manifested right before her, lips upwards and blossoms striking. But any form of delight too distant of a star to be touched, the only light against her fingertips a burn of duty. An apology that dies before it can take its first breath. These lives are not a game but Xiaoran plays anyways.

Maybe in another life this information would not become her weapon, her scheme abandoned in favour of weaving genuine connections. Perhaps, in another universe, she and her date could shed these masks of psyche and parade around their hidden shades and thorns.

What else are we, but wild fragments of space? Let us be pretty unpretty, show what tints our hungers are made of and not run away.

,

A genuine smile in exchange for a truth poem.

And who knows, maybe it could’ve just been a man meeting a woman during a golden gala, hearts whole and alive, selfless and seeking.

It could have been nice, it maybe even could have been pure...

But Xiaoran is neither.

“Managing the finances you say? Tsusaye must be lucky then, to have one of your esteem and enumerative passion be the one handling the numbers.“

A hand slips into his, accepting of the invitation of a dance. A talk that continues all the way to the dance floor.

“Tsusaye has indeed endured a lot, that I know. Still, you are of a warrior spirits, are you not? I have faith that you and your people can find brighter futures ahead, as diligent as you have proven yourselves to be..“

bronze glints while scarlet curves.

“May it be gold you seek.. or something else….?”

A tilt of the head, smile light but inquisitive. If Xiaoran expected an answer, she did not mind not getting one now, her focus settling on the dance instead as she gave him a slight bow, before finding her position, almost chest to chest, in his arms.

A waltz of moonveil fabrics and maroon manners; light touches of skin that produce as much warmth as it does cold. Mask to mask, a mix of air and breath brushing against cheeks; despite their faces being close to one another, Xiaoran kept her gaze elsewhere. Not out of a bashful nature perse, but nonetheless out of a need to retain at least some psychological distance between each other.

I can’t gaze into his eyes anyway,

her excuse.

"You dance more comfortably than I imagine I could ever bring myself to, do you enjoy it?"

A muffled noise of semi amusement escapes her at his question. Eyes turn, meeting the blurred haze of her date’s visage, the corner of a mouth lifting.

“I can’t say I do. But I am well relieved that it might seem so, makes all those bloody — I mean, difficult— dance practices pay off.”

Following the string of conversation, she continues, allowing him a few snippets of information.

“Truth to be told, dances like these are not common in my country. There are, as others put it back home, a fuck load of better things to do. Like striking deals, playing card games, blowing off money at gambling houses, fighting a bunch of drunk blokes—”

While listing off examples of some general Vexiran activities, Xiaoran realizes the impression she could be giving off right now. She promptly clears her throat.

“— that is not to say I, myself, do all those things. My hobbies are far more boring, I’m afraid.”

Lips close, a pause before anything else slips past. She did not come here to speak and he does not need to know more.

Inhale. Exhale. Smile.

“What about you? Besides not dancing and engrossing yourself in mathematics, is there anything else you pursue in your free time?”

MOOD

enough about me

OUTFIT

[discord]

LOCATION

Peacehall

TAGS

cavitea

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

HWANG JUNG-HOON

M

ay fortune smile on us tonight."

And it shall.

A dip in his cheek, a flame reignited. A promise made. A promise kept.

Jung-hoon could almost feel the soldier in him wake, stretching his ghostly body like a wolf rising from its den at the birth of intrigue. Claws glinting in the light, fangs bared. To find his date was a trivial thing,
but the thought of finding another’s - of delivering was something he could seldom reject. It seemed to him a test of skill, of strength, an opportunity to portray himself just as he was: a strategist, an intellectual, a hunter.
His lips curled into a smirk.
After all, what is a warrior in a ballroom, if not a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

He bowed his head, bidding his accomplice a wordless farewell before retreating into the shadows once more.

And, as he walked one with the night, eyes gazing hungrily upon every dazzling creature, he’d since decided that he would not feast on the carcass of an animal, but on the ecstasy of success.

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

It was not mere moments after his peculiar conversation (should he even call it that) that a symphony struck his ears. A tune made for celebrations, warm and enthusiastic, akin to a jovial pup. The melody was not of the sombre kind, not harrowing like the ballads he was used to but the general found himself enjoying it nonetheless, eliciting a small hum under masked lips. No song unsung and yet, it strangely reminded him much of the familiar lightness of his youth, glimpses of towering palace walls and echoing laughter flashing behind narrowed eyes. A reprise, almost.
How simple everything was back then, and how little of that simplicity remained inside of him.

He steeled himself.

Reminiscing was something the general never appreciated, a form of poetry he found to be a distraction from more pressing matters. Quite like the proposition he’d only briefly imposed, the vow he’d made to a foreign ally. Whatever foul temptations, weak feelings and ne'er-do-wells could hardly come in the way of his ambitions, only because he’d wouldn’t let them. Discipline was always his most prominent virtue.
And so, onward Jung-hoon stalked, awkwardly parting through the sea of tailored suits and gowns- which, unluckily for him, had begun to unite under the ritual of performance.
Seven hells.

Though perhaps it had been naive to hope for minimal dancing at a masquerade, entirely foolish to believe that somehow, like him, the other attendants would rather sip from their own vomit than waltz with former enemies. And for a moment he thought this to be true, had watched from afar as some fell into petty disputes, witnessed how cautiously the others spoke as if war were to break out at any given moment.
He frowned.
Well then, his superior had always joked that if strategy should not work, prayers would.
But tonight it seemed that the Gods wanted not to spare him, but to spite him; and the distinguished militant found himself hopelessly alone, a mirage that grew closer and closer with each reluctant step. He needed some ale, what’s more, he needed this damn party to be over and done with already.

Jung-hoon cursed under his breath, huffing ever so quietly as he plucked a goblet -and suddenly a second off of a nearby tray. For there under the umbra of it all stood another unoccupied soul and he, despite his consistent bad luck and horrid temper, remained determined.
He straightened his gait, broadened his posture and began to walk with conviction, approaching with the confidence he was taught. And, as nearer as he appeared the more he realised that the young lady was of importance- the kind that had wealth attached to it. Like a ray of Heaven she was dressed, adorned in sheets of lilac, with soft tulles and glittering embellishments. She seemed to inherit the kind of gentle elegance that one cannot possess so easily, a poise that is worked and welded until it becomes natural, like muscle memory.

Could it be…?

Jung-hoon made it a point to stare in her direction, to make his intentions clear despite how unclear his strategy remained. It was true- he’d never intended to be found, but perhaps now it was his duty to be the one to search, to find.

Only, it’s never truly that simple is it?

A flurry of miscalculated movement and a sour retort, Jung-hoon furrowed his brow as he paused in his tracks, interrupted by an incident so bizarre that it was almost funny. Almost.
For a moment he stood in a ripple of vacancy, of uncertainty, unsure of how to proceed. But when he looked down at his hands, at the fingers laced around the two blood-red vices, he took one final, courageous stride forth.

Although perhaps too prematurely, seeing that his attempts at words were currently futile.
He opened his mouth to speak —- and then closed it.
How was it that he was the same young man who’d once revelled in the attention of fretting young women? The same young man who once over-dramatised every store just to make them smile? Blush?
Times have changed for Jung-hoon it seems, and with it, his once capable vernacular.

So much that all he could blurt out was…

“-Wine?”

Internally, Jung-hoon wanted very much to end his own life. Why, after making such an effort- such a show of crossing the ballroom, one would think that he would at least have his greetings down but tonight he was a fish out of water, far from his element and desperately clawing for a way back in.

The general cleared his throat with an air of awkwardness, attempting to regain a single ounce of dignity.

“Forgive my intrusion, I only ask because you seem bored without company”

His gaze flickered pointedly to the side

“Normal company, at least.”

𓆙𓆙𓆙​

MOOD

Nervous, agitated

OUTFIT

Discord :3

LOCATION

Peace hall

TAGS

triples
draconicheart

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[ravensunset]

anita illeva

A

nita’s parents were not meant to fall in love. Their union was a shared ambition, bringing two of the largest merchant families into one. With it came wealth, status. They controlled most of the trade in Sevyershina- it wasn’t the crown, but it was power.

They liked each other. They respected each other. For them, that was enough.

That is, until, it wasn’t. Until they would stay up together a touch too late, discussing not business but everything else about themselves, until their lips tasted of sweet wine and each other. He would braid her hair in the light of the fireplace as she would spin tales out of thin air, she would accompany him on hunting outings and their laughter would stain the ice cold air.

They thought the snarling gods had heard their prayers, drank their offerings. That they could have something good. And Mother Sevyershina blessed them, as she realized she was expecting a child.

It was a storming night, one where windows showed only the white of snow, she was back home, and he, unreachable, a trip away. He woke from dreams of blood, and knew he had to return. He was told not to go, to wait for the winds to die down, he knew better than to travel.

They had always been both cautious people. But they had been too good, for too long, and the memory of why had slipped from them.

On the night of Anita’s birth, he rode back through the cold, and Mother Sevyershina’s icy hands claimed him. One life for another, an end fitting any of their land’s love stories. Anita's parents were not meant to fall in love, and Anita's mother never forgave herself for doing so anyways.

Anita knew well that love was powerful. It was beautiful. It was deadly.

Anita had long realized she’d rather be alive than powerful.

​

Their grasp tightened around her, reminding Anita of the golden claws that adorned them. She noticed he’d allowed her to lead the dance, though whether it was discomfort or politeness, she could not tell. In either case, Anita hardly minded; it allowed her to be led by the music, not anyone else.

Anita did not much doubt her storytelling, but feeling his eyes on her, not simply allowing the words to pass but truly listening to them, filled her chest with warmth. For the Sevyershina native, the sensation was survival.

With her conclusion, however, his stumble was unignorable. His pull on her almost caused her to trip on her gown, but even as they both regained balance, the difference in his smile, stillness in his tone caused Anita to wince.

Oops. Note: Be more careful with this one.

Her words had clearly landed with a severity not meant of them, and Anita could only hope they hadn’t taken it as too much of an insult.

“My apologies, you’re entirely correct. I have no concerns here. If this is a game, or test of some sort, I can only assume your letter about me contained some sort of warning as well?” Anita found herself suddenly on the defensive, their positions swapped. The music swelled, and they spun, facing opposite sides of the ballroom but always each other.

“I meant nothing by it. I’m sure you understand my curiosity, but you’ve been so kind in listening to me and I’d like to do the same for you.”

His words were painfully clever; he’d read right through the story and the way to use its metaphor for his purposes. He’d read through her, and maybe her heart was beating from the motions of the dance, but maybe it was the excitement of the game. Her eyes flashed at the nickname, the part of the story they’d correctly found she lived in.

“I find,” Anita started slowly, allowing pauses between their words for just the dance, as her mind raced to try to see what best to ask, “Superstitions don’t come from nowhere. Or do you consider yourself more of the skeptical sort?” Anita settled on a ruleset; three hints, three questions, the number all things come in. Her eyes met theirs, “The shapes on your mask, do they represent your home? What there do you think most misses you?” She settled on, hoping merely it was not too much an ask.

MOOD

excited, curious

OUTFIT

discord!

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

Wandering Owl

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[BELIAL.]

aline bellegarde

T

here was always a lesson to be learned on the dance floor. Be it a partner’s fumbling ability to step in time, or their noxious breath, or their captivating glance that never leaves one’s sightlines. Dancing is, in every variation of form, an intimate activity. To know one’s partner beyond their looks, to be able to talk so privately without the lingering ears, or to test their mettle in holding conversation whilst spinning across a dance floor. Learning how to dance, so many years ago, had been trial and error for young Aline. Becoming graceful and the form that she has become was no feat taken overnight, as much as she would like to believe so. It was smacked hands and bruised knees, of stubbed toes and aching arms. Hours would be spent spinning until she felt sick, truly and terribly sure that dancing was itself a punishment for only the most inept. Becoming proficient in most forms, from the most interlaced to the most complicated of steps, had been her goal so that she would never be considered inept; to never be the stubbed toe or the bad breath, but to be the captivating glance that could steal a breath.

The stranger who smelled so strongly of cigarettes, and who spoke so crass, was a lesson to be learned. Obviously different from most of Auriche, and yet it was the way that he used his words that seemed to give Aline an inkling of where the stranger hailed from, as well as the prolific amount of swear words. The arrogance, be it pure brashness or significant ego, however, was something that could exist anywhere.

“Next time a ‘shall we dance?’ is satisfactory. Any more lengthy and I’d be bored out of my mind, fucking hell.”

It was enough to make her want to grate her smile into a fine spiced, possibly poisonous, pile of passive anger. He’d had a point, based on her prior experiences this evening, but it did not make the revelation any softer to the blow. Oh how she wished to dish her own level of condescending, but it was better to offer a prim and proper expression of someone who had far more tolerance than she.

It was in their movement, fleeting in a flash, that she recognized a girl that had been standing quite close to the stranger, one in a gown so similar she could swear it was what she believed to have been Princess Katherine when she’d first arrived into the hall. Preferring not to linger on said thought, and hoping to delude herself into innocence, Aline simply raised her chin as the two carried onto the dance floor.

For someone who stunk like a lord’s den, he danced proficiently. It was skilled enough that she was able to worry less on keeping her bodily limbs intact, and could at the very least enjoy something this evening. Had it been appropriate she would have thanked the stranger.

In a moment all that was well, and that Aline could relax into, was abruptly put to an end. She near jumped back when the fan hit the man’s mask and face, stumbling a bit as their dance came to a staggering halt. Behind her mask her eyes went wide, and if she could she’d have eyebrows shooting to the crown of her head. Her stomach dropped straight into her shoes, and while a small blunder would no doubt rather be passed over by anyone else, it was the grave attention to them that was being called that made her feel a light sweat bead at the back of her neck.

It could be said that there was no bad attention; that any direct call to one’s self, in a movement bold and passionate, is worthy of the eyes that would look upon it. Yet the negativity in the stranger’s voice, so clearly weaponized at the other woman and her partner, made Aline want to grind her teeth into salt.

Could things be ruined anymore?

Though, in a dash, her worries were twisted with confusion, as the woman seemed to… regard another as the object of the stranger’s anger. Had she missed something? Aline was not one to miss things, especially not near misses to one’s eye with a fan, but she felt strongly that someone here was… misled, perhaps. Misguided. The man who had been there offered some choice words as well, enough to truly make Aline wonder what had just happened. And she had been misconstrued as inflammatory for what she had said to the first two strangers that evening?

Opening her mouth to speak, wishing to summon a waterfall of words to remedy the situation and how the music seemed so discordant, turned quickly back to her partner.

“Let us continue. Please,” Her lips twisted into a grimace. “Let us keep dancing. I will ask you questions, you will evade my answers, but we will have more merriment there than verbally accosting a princess with such foul words. It is a remedy, though not as fulfilling, for now. If you will allow me.”

To return to the dance floor and the throes of bodies was near a relief. Finding the rhythm was easy, and she hoped that her partner would as well. A silence settled for only a moment, enough for Aline to find her angle.

“Your date, yes? You were searching for them, no? Other than makeup, surely there would be more to them. I cannot say it is a very forthcoming hint. Not even my own, who likes to hunt, and has a strict schedule, and comes from a military clan. They sound terribly uptight, and will be quite the contrast to someone as…”

Her eyes raked the stranger’s masked face, and her lips settled into a purse.

“Loud.”

mood

cheeky dancing

OUTFIT

discord

LOCATION

masquerade (dance floor)

TAGS

Sear

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[draconicheart]

katherine toussaint

S

he kept her head down as she felt her potential date's hard gaze fall upon her. She mentally chastised herself - of course, it's rude to stare, and she had been staring at his back with a strange intensity that she hadn't realized seeped out of her, and now the roles had changed. He strode past her, and Katherine could see a glimpse of his pants and shoes out of the corner of her eye as she rooted her stare firmly at a space on the ground somewhere just past where he was standing. The glint of a deep green dress with gold embroidery of eerie familiarity silhouetted his intensely radiant form. His sharp gaze iced her to her core, and she felt goosebumps rush up her arms.

Only when she did not feel the gaze at her back any longer did she manage to lift her eyeline and watched the candidate for her assigned partner get swept away by - oh. Of course. Their arcane masks may hide their identity or any identifying features from immediate recognition, but the familial crest on her dress was one she had already identified earlier.

Her eyes fixed on Lady Bellegarde, she missed whatever accident may have befallen the pair. A sharp series of words and curses thrown over his shoulder - Katherine winced and turned her head away momentarily from the scene. Her eyes caught the ashen stub he had left of his cigarette on the pristine column.

How embarrassing, to be paired with someone so careless. It makes her wonder how she might be described on his card. Perhaps he is lamenting how boring his date for tonight will be. It surely must be difficult to make Katherine sound fascinating when she is so... uninspiring. Perhaps one of the points simply states that she is from Auriche, which would explain how Lady Bellegarde had agreed to dance with him. Although sometimes she doesn't feel like she's from Auriche. Perhaps she's from an entirely other world, so unintentionally aloof of how things in Auriche should go. Perhaps this disgrace is how she ended up with a partner who shows no regard for his surroundings. Or perhaps they are too similar in their destruction, her tearing herself down to remake it into something else, and him lashing out at everything else in order to protect himself.

The juxtaposition of the sharp black streak of ash against white wall stood out in her eye. Now, she thinks, she could stand anywhere in the room and be unable to see anything else except that small black streak. Like a fact that, once it's known, you cannot help but think of it. Like how a flamingo has to eat upside down, or a shrimp's heart is in its head. Or how her partner is fond of cursing and smoking.

Katherine places her champagne flute and letter back on the invisible pedestal. She raises her hand, reaches for the cool marble -

Someone grabs her hand.

"Don't let it ruin your night."

Katherine stares back at the woman blankly. Blinks at her. Her eyebrows knit together with confusion before she can register that she should probably mask her emotions on her face (thankfully, her actual mask was there; she usually forgets to hide her expressions anyways, albeit it is a bad habit of hers).

The strange woman's hand lets up, lightens its grip, and she drifts away. Soft as a feather.

Katherine is utterly perplexed.

She stands for a moment and gets her bearings, before recalling what it was she wanted to do prior to the... New acquaintance being made. Ah, right. The stain.

She turns again to regard the mark left by her partner, and lets out a sigh. What a troublesome partner she has been given for this party.

Well, it certainly is not fair to the hosts, or at least whatever servants may be delegated to cleaning the halls after the festivities. Katherine supposes that perhaps, for this evening, she must be responsible for cleaning up after her partner. She'll lecture him about it later.

Katherine licks the pad of her right index finger and scrubs away at the wall. After a moment, when her finger protests from the vigorous worrying, she pulls back to admire her progress. The ash is not... completely gone. If anything, her ministrations have spread it to be wider by a few inches on either side. However, it is several shades lighter, fading to a dull grey as opposed to the black scratch it was previously.

It's not perfect, but she supposes it is acceptable for now.

Katherine instinctively wipes her finger on her dress, then flushes with anxiety. She dips her head and finds that what she worried about is true - she left a black ashen streak across her light garment. There's still the remnant of a black streak across her finger as well.

... Would anyone really notice, though? It's probably fine. Still though, her heartbeat returns to pounding heavily in her ears, and she rubs the fabric of one of the ruffles of her gown between her fingers. It's coarse and not very pleasant.

"Wine?"

Katherine did not realize how deep in her thoughts she was until the stranger yanked her out of them. She jumped at the sudden approach, her eyes snapping to the stranger. He was tall, broad, almost foreboding in his stature, shadow-like in his quiet approach and (apparent) demeanor as well as his attire. In his hands, he held two glasses of red wine. One was outstretched in invitation.

Despite his dark exterior, he somehow appeared less foreboding than her partner clad in angelic white. The thought made the corners of her mouth turn up in a reckless smile. Her shoulders visibly relaxed, and with this newfound comfort she let out a peal of unrestrained laughter for the first time in a long time - at herself, the current situation she found herself in, the sheer forwardness of the stranger, the absurdity of her partner.

She gained control of herself once more, laughter fading out into a warm smile, as her new companion cleared his throat.

"Forgive my intrusion, I only ask because you seem bored without company..."

He looked to the side,

"... Normal company, at least."

Katherine cocked her head to the side and followed his gaze out onto the dancefloor - ah. Her partner. While her mood flattened to a realistic degree, it did not decline. She tilted her head the other way, thinking for a moment, before turning back to the man with a sense of finality,

"I am not sure we will find normal company here. After all, everyone was brought here due to their extraordinary circumstances."

Katherine turns her gaze back to the ballroom,

"We are in a room full of people handpicked to be the representatives of their countries, for one reason or another, in a once-in-a-lifetime event on a mystical island with mysterious hosts."

Katherine turns back to her new partner, a gleam in her eyes and a crooked smile.

"If you are able to define what normalcy would be in this event, please enlighten me,"

her voice dances with the playful challenge, although the confidence at the finality of her statement was there.

She reached out and took the glass offered to her, looking down into its contents for a moment. Her mood shifts, and the

"Oh,"

that seems to fall out of her is small and uncertain. Her fingers flex against the glass in her hand, and she shifts awkwardly, until she finally admits,

"I... Have another. And I would rather... Not... Have either of them."

She steps to the side to reveal the floating glass of champagne and letter, still folded neatly, and appearing as though supported by an invisible table. She reaches over and grabs the champagne flute in her free hand, and while she holds them out to her companion, her face reddens with an embarrassed blush.

MOOD

actually comfy

OUTFIT

here

LOCATION

the peacehall

TAGS

Sear mother of sorrows
.V1LLAINISM._

coded by xayah.ღ