Mascerata Regia [Open]

[Pharaoh]

His Serene Starlit Highness Arkænyn Princeps Platinum of House Sol’Aværys cordially invites you to a Mascerata Regia at the Palatium Furiarum on the eventide of 61 Ash 123 Annus Ferro.

To celebrate the harmony between our two realms with a bit of merriment, Gens Sol’Aværys doth mandate that all guests must don their most fashionable disguises for an evening of anonymity. While spells and enchantments are encouraged to create costumes, the use of magic to pierce the disguises of others is expressly forbidden. Mages with passive abilities of discernment will be provided with bracelets of suppression to offset their Craft. Any guest who defies this mandate will do so at the risk of defying a royal mandate set forth by the Luxian Crown and ratified by the Umbrian. Golden Guard and Silver Sentinel mages on duty will be permitted to use their Craft to keep our guests safe and to ensure that all guests are in compliance with the rules of the ball.

No guest will be admitted without an invitation. Your presence and participation are eagerly anticipated.

The Grand Ballroom of the Palatium Furiarum
Palatine District, Solunarian Luxium
The Evening of 61 Ash 123

► Show Spoiler

Arkænyn the Platinum, Prince Regent of the Luxium, had been more enthusiastic about this task than any of his prior exploits as a prince of the Solunarian divine dynasty. It would uphold the Solunarian æsthetic, ornate and magically enhanced, but would break from tradition in a few marked ways. For one thing, this was a royal ball to which members of lower castes were invited as guests. In addition to welcoming delegations from allied and non-hostile foreign realms, each royal house was encouraged to invite vassals and peasants alike. The Luxium held a lottery to select its lower born invitees at random, whilst the Umbrium chose to offer its lower caste invitations as awards to peasants who had earned prominence by their own merits.

The Grand Ballroom of the Blazing Palace was indeed ablaze on the night of the Mascerata Regia. The blinding lights of the layered arcane illusions overlaying the massive chamber dismissed the dim light still cast by the Sceptre as evening fell over the Luxium.

A royal daïs of black marble loomed high against the rear wall atop which two thrones of equal height towered. To the left was the golden Radiant Throne of the Luxium and to the right was the silver Argent Throne of the Umbrium. The daïs, which was surrounded by helmed guards in alternating gold and silver armour, was otherwise unoccupied as the guests began to arrive.

Royal and peasant alike, each guest was announced by the name they chose to suit their costume as they arrived. Sonically enhanced voices sang and enchanted instruments created tones hitherto unknown to the elven or human ear, all of which sounded as though they came from every direction- from the very air itself. To focus on the music was to amplify it to the ear of the listener, while it would quickly fade into the background when attention was turned to conversation or other diversions.

Meanwhile, scantily clad servi with toned and well-oiled bodies, sauntered through the arriving guests each with steady trays of spirits and hors d’oeuvres hovering around them like satellites. At a function where guests were mandated to don disguises the servants were naturally also masked, their faces obscured and their Auras and Symphonies shielded by the warded collars at their throats. There was an odd, anonymous symmetry to the staff- with a balance of masculine and feminine figures, each of similarly slender build and matching height of around 6 feet. Beyond those serving food, there were also dancers whose bodies glittered, unadorned by anything but jewelry and gemstones, already occupying the dance floor even as the first guests began to trickle into the ballroom.

[Finn]

The artist formerly known as Finn arrived early. Whether Vespera was behind his invitation to play, or the Prince-Regent was curious about his foil's amatus, or some other master of the revels or similar had put his name in the proverbial hat, here he was. Certainly, he had only spoken to the master of the revels. He was, they assured him, included in Arvaelyn's invitation as a guest, but gave him the option to perform for either a part or a whole of the proceedings. The bard had felt the pull of the stage, even if it would be anonymous, and it would be easier for Arvaelyn to go unnoticed if he didn't have Finn on his arm, masks and masquerades notwithstanding.

It would be an audition, as well. The musician he had first heard over a year ago was very nearly his. The talented Lystreia acknowledged his skill and his power, even the gifts of Deus Avaerys. Still, she was Dryadalis Platinum, and a fundamental part of her rebelled at the idea of bending the knee to a human man, even one as illustrious as Finn Farstrider, fiancé of the crown prince of the Umbrium. At his suggestion to the master of revels, she was included here.

She stepped out of a white silk peignoir, unabashedly naked as servi oiled her skin reverently and twisted her starlit hair around long-stemmed stargazer lilies until she was crowned in them. The elven woman also watched unabashedly as Finn was waxed, oiled, and fitted with the tiniest of costume pieces as well as platinum paint and diamonds. His hair was greased with platinum, as well, and his face painted to frame the mask he would eventually don.

Finn warmed up his voice, moving up and down his range with different phonations. Eventually, they become words, and bits of song. At the high end, he began to harmonize with himself, a new trick he had mastered with his singing voice.

"Hear me! Can you hear me?
I am calling out to you for the last time."

He caught Lystreia staring at him again as he began to harmonize with himself on the lower register.

"Our hearts we have sold
For diamonds and gold
But hey, baby, look!
We have it all."

Rather than make her ask, he began from the beginning, knowing she could learn the song from one listen, and then she could harmonize with him when he sang the song during the actual party.

It was the song he and Arvaelyn had performed for Phocion back in Kalzasi. Arvaelyn knew all his songs. When he thought he saw Arvaelyn during the party later, he would signal him with such things. Even in the sea of anonymous beauty, he wanted to know where to find the man who held his heart. Barely clothed, he would still fly to Arvaelyn's side to protect him from danger.

Eventually, the party began. He was masked and anonymous. As the guests were announced and thence made anonymous as well, Lystreia followed him with a tambour as he plucked a lyre with butterfly picks adorning his fingers like rings. Aye, the Empyreal Lord led and even the starlit elf followed...

► Show Spoiler

[Raithen]

The costume donned by the least of the sons of Gens Phædryn was intended to reveal more than it concealed, at least as far as what little fabric it contained went. The chiton Raithen wore was first woven and then tailored for his form, and for the event specifically, being almost entirely sheer, hanging off him in places and clinging in others. It was a masterpiece intended to catch the light and the eye in ways that the simpler elegance of nudity would not have. But where his clothing his very little, magic hid a great deal. His wings, to start, were not in evidence. He wore no gemstones or other jewelry but had runes Scrivened temporarily onto his skin that would keep his aura and symphony silent for the course of the evening. The slim lines of the runes written in gold ink were hidden by the fact that his body was dusted entirely in gold dust, except for his face. Gold leaf had been laid around his eyes and brow to form the semblance of a mask and crown as was appropriate for his rank.

He wished to wear nothing else, but it would have been inappropriate for him to be immediately recognizable at a mascerata, so he had also had the Masquerade mage who had wrapped his wings in obfuscation weave him a face that changed, subtly, every time someone looked at it. Always it would be the face of a pretty, golden youth, but not Raithen's face, and never the same twice. There were enough golden boys in the court that while people might guess at his identity, none would be able to prove it. Not unless he chose to flash them a smile without any intention of concealing himself, then they would see him, if briefly. It was a lovely bit of magic, but not the grandest that would be on display by any stretch of the imagination. Raithen was, for all intents and purposes, there for the same purpose as the servants; to enhance the room with his appearance, and to get a job done.

The only difference between himself and them was that, unusually, his purpose was his own.

A year past, at a similar, though less extravagant gathering, he had met a man who had intrigued him in a way that few others ever had; none at all since he'd reached his majority. Sir Ayreon had caught Raithen's eye, and more than his eye, the moment he had seen him standing behind the man he was supposedly in service to. They had spent a night together sharing wine and touch and the bodies of others. Not nearly enough of each other's bodies to scratch the itch that had now made a home for itself in the Avialae's mind. He had fully intended to extend the connection as soon as it might be accomplished but then. But then Hyperion Vlahos-Sol'Aværys Arkænyn Princeps had happened.

For a time he had hoped that, knowing the truth of Arkænyn's rank and titles would have caused the desire for the knight that Raithen had met to wane and fade to naught. It had not been so, if anything, the Prince Regent's inaccessibility seemed to have swollen the want of him into something that could only be ignored for periods of time before it demanded indulgence. Knowing that said indulgence could not be the sort he craved he had chosen an avenue that was at least available. A romantic might have called it courting, but it more or less amounted to honestly flattering bribery.

The first time he had been in one of his favorite brothels seeking out company in an attempt to soothe his urges in what bodies were available to him, but his mind had been wrapped in the face and voice of the object of his true desire and thus everything he'd seen had somehow wrapped themselves back around into what he remembered of their encounter. Such that, when an exquisite beauty with pale skin dappled in purple patterns made him think of the bruises Ayreon had left on his own skin he had impulsively purchased her contract from the establishment. He did not want her, not for himself, instead (before he could convince himself of his own foolishness) he had placed a bottle of the same aetheric wine he had shared with Ayreon in her hands and sent her to Prince Arkænyn with a note that simply read;

"She reminded me of the marks your fingers left on my body".

This had been only a few weeks after the Prince's identity had been revealed and the note had been signed, his intention was not to be coy. He knew who Arkænyn was, and he would be known for himself.

Since then, every few weeks he would find something or someone (or both) that reminded him of their brief time together and send it along. Each of the gifts was one of pleasure; bodies or those with skills he himself had found particularly pleasing, substances that amplified couplings, alcohols that were as enhancing as they were enchanted. With each offering, for they were offerings, he sent with a few words of explanation as to how they had caused Raithen to want Arkænyn to have them, or why they made the Dux think of the Princeps.

Now, here he was, in the same room as the object of his minor obsession for the first time since they had shared sweat and skin and he intended to make of the chance what he could.

[Aeros]

TIMESTAMP: -
NOTES: -

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- - -

When it came to the decision regarding what they would wear to what they perceived as a thinly veiled excuse for decadence courtesy of one Arkænyn princeps– what he'd dubbed Mascerata Regia– the two souls residing within Palæmon struggled to reach an agreement. Æros wanted to wear not a thing sans magic and a few choice pieces of jewelry, an option his cousin categorically did not approve of. Tragically, Palæmon was not receptive to any amount of begging or praise, insisting that they wear something, even if the garment in question was small. Alas! Reluctantly, the ghost would acquiesce to this compromise.

Palæmon had, at least, become more comfortable with the general idea of showing more of his skin in the months since Æros had taken up residence within his corpus. Despite being housed in foreign flesh, the wayward spectre refused to give up his more athletic hobbies, insisting that he would train his cousin's body as he had his own. This was, of course, an awkward process, but it did proceed at a pace quicker than Æros had initially assumed. Perhaps possession helped translate the skills from one body to another, perhaps it was Æros' extensive foreknowledge; he couldn't quite say. And while there would always be fundamental physical differences between what skin the ghost wore in life and that which he now shared, he'd made remarkable progress adapting.

He'd always thought Palæmon was pretty and that the man's initial, softer figure was beautiful, but now? All that time he'd spent training built muscle on his cousin's lissome frame, granting him a figure which housed a dancer's alacrity and strength both. As such, Æros was ever eager to show it off– and eventually, he did manage to encourage Palæmon to do so.

Thus did Palæros arrive at His Serene Starlit Highness' coveted fête wearing markedly little. Æros had covered their figure with a thin patina of an oil mixed with an ample amount of crushed ætheryte; Palæmon's skin was naturally pale and opalescent, so when he was coated in this mixture, his body looked bewitching– truly ætherial. He was further adorned with a variety of platinum jewelry; bands on all four limbs; fine, clawed rings; a single, shimmering pauldron held in place by dainty, glimmering chains, all of which interlinked at the perfect places to form a harness accentuating his figure; and pointed ears were adorned with ornately carved cuffs. And finally, he did wear something small, silken, and midnight blue to honor Palæmon's insistence that they abide by some modicum of modesty.

Beyond this, however, Æros would weave additional magical accoutrements courtesy of his Masquerade mastery. The edges of his body would shimmer, blur and double as if he were a walking mirage; his dark hair was slicked back, magicked shadows rolling off the ends; and a layer of scintillant aether obfuscated his witchmarks. For his mask, he crafted a luminous, platinum crescent moon which covered only the upper portion of his face, the curve leaving his lips visible. Ambiently, the mask would create glittering stars, floating briefly into the air before quickly fading. Even keen observers, however, would struggle to recognize him from his exposed lower face, as any movement at all agitated the mirage effect, blurring his features.

With regards to magical warding, the pendant he wore blocked Semblance, and having known he'd be made to wear something that would temper his Mesmer, he'd had kin paint deep, blue runes down his spine to make sure his Symphony would remain well guarded.

Ostensibly, Palæros was here to indulge; to look and be looked at; to experience the height of epicurean pleasures. And while he was curious about where the night would lead him, he was happy simply to be present.

- - -

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Mirza]

.

Mirza was very close to not attending the Mascerata Regia at all; ideally, she would have sat by the River Vasta and listen to crickets and growling crocodiles. But she had received an invitation, and she could not find in her pamphlet if it would be insult not to attend — and Mirza still felt she was treading that delicate line. Bird could not attend, of course, it was a masked ball, and she was not a fan of falcon hoods. How embarrassing if someone recognized her!

Mirza was also exceptionally thrifty, and she did not want to spend her mother's hoard on a temporary costume. She barely liked the feeling of clothing against her skin, or shoes on her feet, even if one could find soft fabric in Solunarium among the flax linens. She had procrastinated this choice, and even if she could run out and buy something last minute, it would not feel appropriate. She stood in front of a mirror, her whole, undisguised body barely fitting in the frame unless she took steps back. Six feet tall in her guise, and with few Solunariuan clothes that fit her dragonborn form...

...

The green dragonborn arrived to the masquerade with what looked to be only half of a mask, adorning the unscaled half of her face. It was, in truth, feathers that she had grown from that portion of her face through Animus. Aside from her jewelry — two lip rings, round golden studs, a wire-wrapped dragonscale pendant, taken from her mother — she wore a pair of golden eagle wings that sprouted from her back. These wings were consciously bent over the front of her 7'4 frame to offer some fleeting modesty. Her horns, tail, and scaled, draconian feet remained unadorned, displayed like accessories themselves. Scales decorated the sides of her hips, her back, and her upper arms, and appeared shiny from the moisturizing oils she applied as a part of her usual routine to maintain her skin in the dry desert heat. Around her neck was her tattoo of a green dragon's great maw, which appeared to move as she looked up and down.

She was moderating her aura with Semblance to give the impression her appearance was all magical, from what she had observed of her own aura when disguised otherwise. She felt awkward, and did not yet attempt to speak to anyone even after her attempts at practicing her Vastian accent in the months since she had arrived. Yet she towered over no small number of patrons, and especially over the servii, who all seemed to be about the height she normally took. It was unsettling to be so tall around people, knowing how much of the season had been spent a foot and a half shorter.

[Hilana Chenzira]

Both Hilana and Lia had been surprised as anything when the three of them - Lia, Lana, and Lykos - were given invitations to the masked ball. The younger sister has heard about it; but she certainly hadn't figured she would merit an invitation. Much less Lia and Lykos, considering the way the Rathari demigod of Winter was kept hidden and secret from the Luxian crown. But perhaps with everything going on to ensure as much anonymity as possible, it was considered 'safe enough' what with everyone that was to be suppressed so that their Crafts wouldn't find anything remiss. But there would be Sentinels there as well, and they would be on hand to keep things dampened and hidden away. Either which way, the trio had gotten decked out for the night, and taken a cab with the pair of undercover Sentinels assigned to Lykos for the night.

Hilana wore a long, flowing dress that may have bucked Solunarian expectations in terms of how much fabric there actually was, but the way it was draped allowed for slits up her legs all the way to her thighs. As was her preference, her toned arms were exposed - no sleeves for that Vastiana. It was deep, deep black that smoothly blended and mixed with dark purple to invoke the colours of dusk, with high-heeled sandals that laced up along her calves. Her cleavage wasn't completely exposed, though the keyhole formed by the straps of the halter style of the dress did show her off. Her 'mask' was a blend of lace in the same colours that had been shaped to her face, and did not seem to have any holes for the eyes, though that was simply an illusion - she could see through the fabric just fine, and only the bottom quarter of her face was uncovered. Her impossibly long, thick hair was left down to flow past her hips, though bits of scented oil had been worked through her curls to give them definition and shine. Playing with her plants and alchemy had allowed her to produce a shimmering powder that was brushed in, giving her ebon locks an iridescent shimmer where the powder was applied. Under the lights, it would change colours depending on what was around her.

Lia, on the other hand, had gone with a navy and gold sari that draped easily, and a golden blouse with gauzy sleeves that ended just past her shoulders. The rich blue silk was hemmed with golden colours, and where it draped across her chest, golden vines blended almost seamlessly with those upon her blouse. She showed far less skin than her sister, despite Hilana's encouragement to show herself off, but she was confident in her choices. Her own long, dark hair was oiled and twisted up into a chignon, secured with combs and pins of gold and pearl. Her chandelier-esque earrings matched the adornments in her hair, and her brocade mask matched the blues and golds of her dress, though more of her face was revealed than her sister's. Like Hilana, though, she wore high-heeled sandals, and she smiled up at Lykos. "Shall we?" she asked her sister, who nodded with a bright smile at them, before leading the way to the entrance with their invitations. They would stick together as much as they could, at least. This would be Lykos' first foray into the Luxium, and compared to the Umbrian visits, this was going to be a shocker.

[Pharaoh]

The long, lithe form of Arkænyn, pale and arrayed with complex patterns of witchmarks, was easy to spot. Particularly since he seemed to have done so little to disguise himself. Without the use of discerning magic forbidden to the evening, it would appear that the Platinum Prince was only manipulating enough æther to keep his natural witchmarks aglow. Beyond that his willowy body was adorned in naught but jewelry and a skirt of platinum chainmail. He wore a mask, but it was hewn of wire that accented far more than it concealed. His eyes were rounded with broad rings of blue-black kohl that contrasted starkly with his all-too-fair hair. The biggest statement piece, and one which would likely stir a great many theories as to how it should be interpreted, was a chainlink collar taut about his throat. It was a clear nod to She of the Scourge, and yet given the split between the realms, it was loaded with far more than that. Barefoot, the young elf glided down a set of steps to no fanfare, and drew up to collect a cup of sparkling scorpion wine from a nearby servus who was dressed not terribly dissimilar from himself.

Another figure entered whose appearance was such an intricate blend of mundane and arcane illusions it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. This person might have been walking nude through the Grand Ballroom of the Palatium Furiarum, or they might have been covered from head-to-toe in armour. Without breaking the Prince Regent's edict, one would never know.

Arvælyn had collaborated with an artist to design the concept, which was executed primarily through his own Craft of Masquerade arrayed over a base costume that had been commissioned. His costume would be less controversial than that of his rival prince in that it was easier to interpret. A replica of the Sceptre of Aværys loomed at his crown like a Divine Nimbus and his entire figure was wreathed in radiant flame. His wings and horns were unseen and he simplified his features so that those who could brave the blinding light he emitted at length would still struggle to ascertain the identity of the Sun Scion.

The Sun Scion would make his way closer to the musicians, resisting the urge to contribute to their soaring harmonies, lest he give away his identity. Meanwhile, the Chained Swain had finished his first drink and was approaching the golden youth with the phasing face.

"It appears we had similarly scanty notions. Care for a dance?" He showed no signs of recognising Raithen, as he extended his hand. He winced as a light from above flooded down onto a singular, startled guest, as a Golden Guardsman and a Silver Sentinel marched from their stations to drag them from the ballroom floor.

"Alas, it looks like the first rulerbreaker has been rooted out. Tsk tsk. Now, then, where we we?" The Chained Swain, gestured once more toward the dance floor, as elsewhere in the chamber the Sun Scion glanced beside him to find a Moonchild to compliment his sun.

"How fortuitous." His vague face donned a vaguer smile. "Shall we mount the sky... or at least the dance floor, for a revolution my celestial sibling?" He offered his hand to Palæros.

[Aeros]

TIMESTAMP: -
NOTES: -

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- - -

Palæros, barefoot and as close to naked as was permitted per Palæmon, stepped slowly through the room, his gaze, hidden behind his mask, drifting from figure to figure. There was so much to see…and he was so very curious about some of the more creative costumes. Many of his own kin were here, too; the vast majority of which he would not recognize. Most of them thought it would be infinitely more fun that way if they kept one another ignorant. The sole exception was Cicæro, who wore, effectively, an inverse of what he did; the platinum jewelry was gold, the moonlit mask was a brilliant, golden star, his hair lit afire instead of drenched in shadow, and what small bit of silk he wore was a pale, shimmering gold. They’d arrived together, but quickly split apart, agreeing to tell one another of their escapades come the next day.

Parting from Cicæro, however, did not leave Palæros alone for very long. A figure, burning with the blazing brilliance of the sun, approached him– perhaps this one was drawn to the duality of the possessed man’s attire, drenched in aetheric moonlight as he was. It was difficult to tear his disguised gaze off of the conflagrating figure, but briefly, a flash of magic and scrambling of guards pulled his attention for a few seconds until he realized what had happened. He’d grimace; what a fool to have tried something like that.

As quickly as that expression came, however, it would dissipate when the sunlit stranger spoke. Palæros made no attempt to hide his wandering eyes as they drifted over the other from head to toe; he could tell with naked sight that the other was alight with magic only a master of Masquerade could make. Whoever this was must be important– or at the very least, particularly talented, he thought. Regardless, he was flattered that he’d drawn the attention of such a majestic being.

The moonlit man’s lips would form a mischievous grin at the suggestion of taking to the air. “My, aren’t you grand? Very impressive.” He’d say, followed by a giggle that gave way just how much the other’s proposition enchanted him.

Not many would recognize Palæmon’s voice on its own, but Masquerade can do much more than just visuals– he’d speak with a musical lilt, his voice pitched a bit higher and enchanted to be particularly alluring.

“I’d love nothing more; though my magic will be more windswept than kinetic– is that alright?” He’d ask, extending out his own hand in acceptance of that which was offered to him.

Should the other accept his caveat, he’d happily take to the air with the stranger, playing leader or follower per point of his partner’s preference. To make this easier, Palæmon would whisper a call to a minor wind spirit he’d long since befriended, forming a zephyr at his feet and making him feel nigh weightless. With the spirit’s aid, Æros would shift back into control of their body, falling into whatever role his partner had wanted of him with all the grace and apparent ease of a professional dancer. If needed, Æros could call more wind with his own Elementalism, but weak as that was, he’d avoid it.

- - -

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Rickter]

Mascerata Regia
Ash 61st, 123rd Year, A.o.S.

If he were to reflect on the things that had happened since his first day in Arx Rubrum Petram, then Lykos would certainly say he had come a long way since the moment he arrived. Not once did he imagine he would be visiting the Blazing Palace for such an occasion, even so, the fact the lupine demigod was also invited hadn't been lost on him. His time in Solunarium it seems was paying off, and enough to allow him to visit places in the Luxium. He of course wasn't oblivious to the entourage that would be escorting them, in fact, Lykos very much welcomed the support of Sentinels and their vigilance with him.

It also helped that he would not be alone at all, thanks to the presence of his packmates. With them present to be his guide, the wolf knew he would remain in good hands and in good spirits. Despite all this, he intended to ensure the vigil's watch tonight would go over smoothly, therefore, Lykos instilled a combination of wards with Negation and Semblance to tamper down his own aura; muting the presence of his divinity completely to ensure he'd pass as an ordinary mage for tonight's event.

From his understanding, the ball was going to be a formal occasion with anonymity in mind. He had noted the tasteful attire that the Vastiana sisters had chosen, the older sibling sticking with a more traditional look as the younger one stuck with her usual candor. While the clothes they wore were absolutely fitting, and dare he say stunning enough that he adored them both, his attire in particular might've also proven similar in fashion. While he only wore a silken sleeve on his right shoulder, the blue suede pants he wore accentuated the design as well as the markings across his upper body. Covering the upper half of his face was a masquerader's mask designed with the muzzle of a wolf, preserving his physical identity as he maintained his spiritual one consciously.

As the Lord of Frost he was oft known to stick to lighter clothing, airy material that allowed his skin to breathe and reveal the markings which glowed across his skin. Tonight though even those witchmarks remained stagnate, hardly glowing save for the faint sparkles of northern lights across them. Ideally, he only narrowed it down for show, since he had heard a lot of masquerade would be at play tonight, with that in mind though the witchmarks themselves looked more like tattoos than actual magic. Entering the Grand Ballroom where the Mascerata Regia was being held, it didn't take long before the wolf's deep blue eyes widened with sheer awe.

Part of him felt as though he had entered a viper's pit, even so, he felt secured by both the Vigil and his packmates that were present. There it stood to reason that he had little to worry about, and if anything, now was the perfect opportunity to test his Vastian he'd been refining over the past several months. It became obvious to the sisters, at least, as to what his reaction was as he followed the pair closely. So many people and smells crossed his senses that he hadn't the faintest idea where to begin, almost all of it was an alarming amount for him to process at once. Regardless, he lingered close to Hilana and Athalia, and took note of the various figures that already stood out among everyone that attended.

Tonight was going to be an interesting night for the lupine demigod.

[Raithen]

The least of House Phædryn never felt lesser, even as he easily acknowledged that in importance it was so. He felt right in his own skin, in his own mind. This showed in the way he moved; graceful and perhaps dangerous but above all, at his ease. When the object of his desire singled him out he did not hide his pleasure, a guileless smile curving over several faces.

He had seen Hilana and her party enter and knew it was she for he had seen her dress before hand, to say nothing of the fact that he knew her form far and away well enough to recognize her without the benefit of her face. He imagined he also noted Lykos' presence, though he knew the man's form far less that he did the foreigner's hostess', he did arrive with said hostess, which was a clue. There were others, but Raithen was satisfied to guess and not know the answer unless it was presented to him.

Outside of that group he had interest in only the man who was approaching him, and so significantly greater was the latter interest that Raithen immediately released any intention of going to greet his friends. The bow he offered Arkænyn was exactly middling, the same as he had offered to anyone else who had gotten close enough to offer a greeting through the evening. He wanted to tell the Regent that he was beautiful, but the movement of his eyes would have to do it for him. He wanted to tell the Regent that he would happily couple with him where they stood with not a thought to any other creature, living or dead, but the language of his body would have to do it for him.

He took the hand that was offered, his own skin the warmer of the two, enjoying the contrast. Before he could say anything a brief disturbance distracted them both. When the annoyance had passed and Arkænyn's eyes returned to him Raithen stepped close, into the first position of the dance being heralded by the musicians and answered,

"Here." In response to what had likely been intended as a rhetorical question. The nearness of their bodies was not the polite sort, nor was the way they moved. For Raithen's part, the demeanor quite clearly stated that only one person existed in the room so far as he was concerned and so long as he was allowed to continue, it would remain so.