Mascerata Regia [Open]

[Hilana Chenzira]

Some part of Hilana was curious about the who was who of the masquerade; but not so curious enough to even consider attempting to figure things out. She was perfectly content with her crew; she wanted to stay close to Lykos in the event anything at all went sour. The undercover Sentinels close by were there to get him out if there was a problem, and Hilana and Lia could certainly use Hilana's ring to get back to the Citadel if it was necessary. Of course, none of them wanted any such thing to happen; but it was best to be prepared. If one failed to plan, they planned to fail. Inasmuch as Hilana enjoyed being go-with-the-flow, she no longer had that luxury.

"We may be overdressed," Athalia murmured with a chuckle. The outfits and costumes did run the gamut, from being more covered like she was in a more exotic style, to larger gowns, to sleek styles like what her soror wore, to those that wore scant threads and pasties. Or in the case of a rather tall figure that loomed over numerous others, feathers and scales. That was a tall drink of water.

"I did tell you that," the younger sister was cheerful, snagging flutes of wine from one of the shining servii, passing one to Lykos and Athalia, and keeping the third one for herself. "Dum vivimus, vivamus," she raised the crystalline flute to her sister and Lykos, offering yet another Vastian toast for Lykos to add to his repertoire. She would touch her glass to her friends', smiling under her mask at them. She took a sip, letting the rich notes float across her tongue while she figured out the flavours and sensations. That was truly lovely, and she very much wanted to Semble the drink. Maybe she'd keep one to take it back with her if she couldn't figure it out before the end of the night.

"While we live, let us live," Athalia would give him a moment to puzzle it out himself as his grasp of their native tongue was improving in leaps and bounds, before providing the Common for him. She also sipped her drink, smiling at the way Hilana was starting to move to the music. Her own hips found the rhythm, and the beauty in navy and gold adjusted her sari. Athalia had already had Hilana pin it beyond her shoulder to ensure it stayed in place whilst they enjoyed the dance floor, and she offered Lykos her free hand while the sisters brought him into the crowd to enjoy the brilliantly-woven atmosphere.

[Arvælyn]

► Show Spoiler

"Am I?" The Sun Scion chuckled at being dubbed both grand and impressive in one breath by the Lunar Lad. It was refreshing to be anonymous. More so to be in a setting where he wasn't allowed to plumb for the veracity of the comments. For the first time in ages he was able to take a compliment at face value.

* * *

Meanwhile at another edge of the dance floor, the Chained Swain's kohl-wreathed eyes were perusing to the form of the Many-Faced Man. His eyes rose as their hands met, his own cool to the warm touch of the scantily clad stranger. Guiding him down onto the floor proper, he placed long fingers gingerly upon the bare flesh at his waist.

"Indeed we were..." He agreed, his voice more breath that phonation- an anonymous whisper. "Such a beautiful body, and how well it pairs with myriad visages. I feel as though I'm at a boutique with a rolling rack of pretty things for my perusal. Does the rolling ever pause, or shall I kiss one man and draw away from another?"

* * *

The Sun Scion blinked, momentarily bemused at the mention of magic that slipped free of the Lunar Lad's lips. Then he got it, and loosed an embarrassed snigger. One could only imagine he was blushing, though the red in his appearance was all fiery and the expression he wore looked passing strange on so austere a countenance as the one he wore today.

"Oh! I suppose on such a night as this it would be easy to take my poetical metaphor at face value. I..." He explained in his multi-pitched, self-harmonising voice as his pupilless eyes danced to the musicians. "I fear I should remain earthbound this eventide, lest I rob you of your province. The night sky has known enough of sunlight, lately, but come... Let us dance." And so the Solar Scion let the Lunar Lad onto the floor to join in the ongoing promenade.

* * *

By and by the first dance would conclude and a gong would sound, its leaden basso reverberating through the hall as a tall, red-caped member of the Aværyan Guard stepped forth, his gold and crimson armour gleaming in under the chandeliers. In a basso profundo he addressed the hall as the gong's bellow began to wane.

"Forgive the interruption, but I have an announcement! We have apprehended and identified the first fool to foul the fête. Bring them forth." At a gesture, two Golden Guardsmen in helms as obscuring as any mask worn by the partygoers, dragged a slight figure into the hall by the arms. The slender youth was fair of face, which made the blood and bruises worn upon their visage all the more stark. They no longer wore the costume they'd been carried out in, but a set of jester's patchwork motley- distressed with frayed patches and tears lined with fresh blood.

"By order of His Serene Starlit Highness, Arkænyn the Platinum, I proclaim the shame of Drævos Val'Aværyan Vyxis! For the crime of defiling the Mascerata Regia with forbidden magic intended to identify our anonymous partygoers, they are hereby sentenced to the Lex Stulti: The Law of the Fool. For the duration of the ball, any partygoer who wishes to be amused may approach this fatuus and demand to be entertained. If they fail to make you laugh, a whip will be provided to punish the fool for yet another humiliating failure." As he finished his explanation, Vyxis' wailing sobs could be heard echoing in the pursuant silence.

"That concludes the announcement. Now, have fun! Strike up, musici, and let the Mascerata Regia resume!" With that, Vyxis was pulled upon a leash toward the two thrones that sat empty toward the rear of the room, as several eager revelers rushed over to take advantage of this new bit of diversion the Platinum Prince had cooked up.

* * *

The Chained Swain sniggered and looked to the Many-Faced Man.

"The Founders give us Lex Agni, and His Serene Starlit Highness, in his splendorous brilliance, gives us the Lex Stulti! What a time to be alive!"

The Sun Scion, for his part, appeared more taken aback by the proclamation and, when he found his words, they were:

"Well... they didn't put that caveat in the invitation..." And his eyes searched the bandstand to see whether Finn had taken that poorly. His inclination was to seek his Symphony, but... Well, he certainly knew better than to try that now.

[Talon]

T A L O N

Talon studied the form that stood before him in the mirror. He felt as though he were looking at a stranger but by all accounts, he was looking at an old friend. His moon-pale skin of a Siltori elf shimmered as though frosted by silvered diamonds. Violet-blue witchmarks glowed with aethereal essence, swirling with an almost eldritch brilliance. Midnight black hair hung down down the small of his back, bereft of his traditional warrior’s cut, his hair had been tenderly brushed and whispered to by the hand of his mother. Her hands had plied her mastery over necromancy to grow his typically shaved sides into a fully lush curtain of velvet black locks that were allowed to fall freely. He was bare-chested, wearing a set of silver bands decorated with onyx black gemstones around his biceps. At his wrists were a pair of silver cuffs also decorated with black gems. Around his neck hung a medallion at the heart of which shone a silvery gemstones that shone with celestial brilliance. A cursory glance at the gem would reveal a veritable avalanche of enchantments layered upon it, all of them woven by Talon’s own hand. At the surface of it however, the gemstone exuded an aura of consummate order.

A black skirt decorated with silver embroidery hung low on his waist, revealing the chiseled Adonis belt of his midsection. Beneath his skirt, Talon wore sandals that wrapped up his legs up to his knees. Eschewing the natural silver of his feathers, the wings that sprouted from his back were a dark black, the tips of which glowed a soft indigo, leaving trails of aethereal fire in their wake. On his face, Talon wore a simple domino mask accentuating the neon violet-blue witchfires that burned in his normally silver eyes.

“You look resplendent, beloved.” Aoren came up beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. His husband pressed a kiss to his cheek. It brought a smile to Talon’s face.

“As do you.” Talon turned and ran his fingers through Aoren’s hair. Aoren was dressed as his monochromatic opposite. Where Talon was all velvet blacks and silver, Aoren was marble white with gold. They formed two sides of the same coin, dressed identically with small variations in accessories. Aoren helped him add the final piece of the costume, a hood that would further conceal their features. As they both pulled their hoods up to complete the looks, they shared a brief moment of quiet with each other before setting out from the citadel to join the party.

---

They arrived just a hair fashionably late. The servi announcing each of them. Following that, the two of them joined each other for the first dance, losing themselves to the beautiful music of Finn’s masterful playing. When it was concluded, Talon summoned a servi with a gesture and retrieved a set of drinks for both himself and his husband. At the sound of the gong, Talon looked to the where everyone’s attention was called. He listened with a sense of petty satisfaction as Vyxis was dubbed the party’s fool for that evening. Sensing his satisfaction across the Bond, Aoren quirked his head.

“I am sensing a personal grudge.” Aoren stared at the fool curiously as Talon sipped his wine glass. The Demigod of Justice knew that logically he should not get a sense of gratification from the humiliation of another person but the part of him that was still mortal felt rewarded.

“Perhaps, beloved.” There was definitely something satisfying to see a spoiled brat brought to their knees for their arrogance.

“Mayhaps the Lord of Justice is showing his relation to his brother a bit tonight?” Aoren teased him. Talon blushed slightly and ducked his head. He took a deeper drink of his wine and cleared his throat.

“I know not of which you speak.” The twist of a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was all that it took to give him away. Aoren nudged him toward the Fool.

“Go.” Talon hesitated but Aoren pushed him a bit more insistently. “Let yourself be mortal. Just for tonight. If you deprive yourself of some mortal indulgences, beloved, you will be that more prone to fall prey to them when you least expect it.”

Talon relented and began making his way toward where Vyxis had been led to by his leash. He finished the rest of his wine in one swallow and handed off his glass to a servi. He moved past those revelers who had gathered, using some of his stature and the sheer aura of authority that he exuded to brush past them. When finally he reached Vyxis, Talon’s seven-foot frame loomed over the princeling.

“Draevos Danann-Sol’Avaerys Vyxis.” He spoke the name like a proclamation. He remembered how Vyxis had clearly taken pleasure in tormenting Mathias, had reveled in the superiority of his position. In that haughty attitude had rest the mind of someone who had delighted in the misfortune of other for their own amusement. Protected by rank and station as he was, Vyxis had briefly shown himself to be exactly the individual that Talon loathed.

“I would be entertained.”

[Aeros]

TIMESTAMP: -
NOTES: -

- - -

- - -

By and by as the first dance proceeded, the others present of Gens Sælyan kept themselves busy in one way or another, peppered amongst the crowd and as hidden as anyone else. Many had noted the initial disturbance, but none of them paid it any mind; skittish as they all were at this point, none would dare to violate the rules of the night– so whatever ill fate was to befall whomever it was that broke the rules wasn't their concern, or so they thought. Rather, the assumption was that such a punishment would be doled out behind closed doors, one way or another, or perhaps publicly at a later date. So when came the end of the first dance, at the sounding of a gong and when the fête's first fool was paraded out 'fore all, everyone, sans one, was taken aback.

Palæros' golden counterpart abruptly ceased what he had been occupied with, his mouth agape at the sight. Cicæro's reaction was somewhat delayed, initially not sure how he felt, but after a moment his soft, full lips would curl into something of a sneer. He didn't know Vyxis aside from their name, face, and station, it just struck him as patently bizarre that it would be royalty that would break the rules of the night first. Or was it fitting? The arrogance of their station making them blind to the potential consequences? Cicæro couldn't quite say. He didn't quite care. The visual merely amused him, but didn't keep his attentions, for they were, ultimately, pulled elsewhere once more.

However, there was another of Gens Sælyan whose gaze was kept by so unseemly an affair. To others, they would be totally unrecognizable; whatever enchantments they bore seeming to reflect and refract pieces of everything around them like they were a walking, fragmented array of magical mirrors. They were ephemeral, appearance changing in every passing moment as they moved, as things moved around them. A shift in light and they'd change, a shift in companions and they'd change further. This individual's goal was, ostensibly, to not be noticed; their entire intent was to blend in with the crowd around them, wholly faceless, wholly nameless, for the night.

But even so, they could not help themselves when they saw the face of the one who'd run afoul. They joined the flock of people that'd surrounded the foolish youth, though they would choose to play observer, to defer to the larger figure that appeared intent on making their will known.

They would, however, say one thing: "Oh, you poor, poor thing," voice unrecognizable, perfectly bland.

However, something they made no attempt to mask in their elaborate, consummate costuming was their emotions. Upon their ever shifting features did they bear the expression and in their voice did it hold the tone that they recalled the other having granted them the day that they, too, ran afoul of one Arkænyn princeps. Their mimicry, however, was not exact– because unlike the other, it sounded as if, at least to some degree, their words held some semblance of sincerity.

- - -

When Palæros saw the expression on the other's features– that of uncanny embarrassment– his lips would part as if in surprise, but then they would adjust in realization as his strange, sunlit companion spoke further.

"As you wish," he'd reply, moving along to follow his partner with ease.

"You've a point, though– for as much as I appreciate the sun's blazing majesty, 'tis a shame the sky lacks balance. I do so miss nights lit only by the moon's gentle gaze," he'd add, the soft musicality of his voice shifting to match the music which filled the room.

The first dance proceeded without incident, he and his partner moving in step with one another. There was something indescribably serene about not being perceived for who Palæros was. What they were.

But then, that serenity was interrupted by the loud, dissonant clang of a gong. For a moment, he'd grit his teeth, as if the sound made him wince, but then his attentions would be directed to the sorry state of the one who'd been presented before them all. Palæros would appear dumbfounded, expression, in large part, unreadable. His companion's words would pull him back to the present, and he'd chuckle, though awkwardly, at the comment.

"They certainly didn't! No, but I…" he'd click his tongue, "...I…can't actually say I'm as surprised as I'd like to be.

"At the punishment…or even the offender, all things in perspective." He kept his words vague, but he was nothing if not sincere.

Arkænyn was a wildcard and Vyxis was one of high hubris– neither party's role here was out of character for either of the young royals.

- - -

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Rickter]

The funny thing about senses was that when they were sharpened, one could barely argue whether or not it was simply bestial or even magical by nature. Where Lykos might've pondered the identities of those who attended tonight, he understood the formality involved with anonymity during tonight's event. Besides, both sound and scent were enough to determine information he would need from an individual, so if anything, the lupine demigod found this more an opportunity to refine his focus on the world. He was, after all, a divine entity, and although he had no idea for how long, the fact wasn't lost on him in attendance with all the mortals present.

If anything tonight could've been a reminder of what life was like in fleeting moments. Regardless, the wolf had to exercise his focus on the sisters accompanying him now that they had arrived. "Nonsense," he lightly objected to the remark of them being overdressed, "the both of you look fetching in those." Of course, he would've likely told them that even if they'd changed their attire entirely, because Lykos adored them in just about anything they wore.

It didn't take long before Hilana had collected them drinks without missing a beat, the ceremonious offer of a wine glass followed with a gracious nod as Lykos accepted. The proposed toast she made compelled familiarity with the words, if only due to how practiced he'd grown accustomed to the language over the past several months. "Dum vivimus, vivamus." He reiterated with a soft cheer in his tone, his lips curled into a grin when he raised the flute to sip from them. Though his vocabulary continued to grow, the articulation behind their words felt more natural; if not refined from practice. Already the bubbling liquid tickled his nostrils, filling them with the same aromatic flavor that soon danced across his tongue.

Lykos felt things then. Things he didn't expect a drink to make him feel, apart from what would've been a growing warmth in his core upon consumption. Alcohol was normally good at that, he'd notice, but this time the texture of sparks tickling down his throat piqued the better of him. Of course, he needed to bear in mind magic was undoubtedly involved here, in every aspect of the masquerade he could probably imagine too. The food he could smell had exotic and tantalizing smells, as well as the herbaceous sauces that coated the exquisite meats he traced as well. But of course, within all that was the overwhelming tones of perfumes and body oils used to cover the bodies decorating the ballroom.

And beneath those...

The call for attention snapped him out of his focus as he didn't realize, the beverage he'd shared with the sisters had hit him just now. Literally. Whether it was because he abstained a bit from indulging so much, or the potency was that strong, the alcohol had settled enough to dull his senses a bit. Well, shit. The fact that someone had been a fool to attempt magic prohibited by the event intrigued him. Curiosity often got the better of the cat, but even Lykos knew that the ever-watchful eye of the Vigil was present there. Perhaps that's why he felt comfortable, probably even more than he should've, at just attending and enjoying the event.

But still, from what little the lupine demigod could gather, the royalty tonight was up to making a spectacle from foul play. It partially interested him to see what may come about from the newly charged role the Platinum Prince inherited. "I'll admit, I would never have anticipated that." He admitted to the Vastiana sisters with a spirited look in his gaze. "Should we have a dance, ladies?" The wolf pondered with a nod to the figures swaying across the floor, a bit eager to try out the lessons that Athalia had given him within Arx Rubrum Petram. As his eyes glowed their gentle blue beneath his wolven mask, a lively smile shot to the both of them as he grew curious.

Which one would accompany him to the ballroom floor?

[Raithen]

The many-faced youth danced with the Starlit Scion, enjoying the physical closeness that was afforded him. The few times he had been able to arrange to be in the same place as the bright Princeps since their first, unofficial meeting had been as similar gatherings. Public, but what mattered that to such as they? Who would gainsay them whatever they did? In those meetings they had occasioned to dance together more than once, as they had the first night, and it was unlikely that Raithen's partner did not realize who it was that he was touching.

When the dance ended and they stepped to the side to enjoy a drink and a little more of the banter that seemed to amuse them both he cast his eyes over the array of costumed finery that littered the vast room. After a moment a sneer marred one of his pretty faces and he nodded to someone, and then someone else, both of whom were sporting disguises that afforded them platinum coloring.

"I don't seem to remember there being so many of your illustrious nature in our midst. I suppose, for the night, some might feel they are allowed to pretend. So long as they don't imagine themselves thus elsewhere."

He paused, took a long pull from the crystal flute he'd taken from the tray of a passing nude servus and then recalled something distasteful.

"Like that... family." He did not call them a House, because he did not consider them worthy of it. "Sælyan, I think they are called." This too came without the traditional honorific.

"Breed themselves with Fae'ethalan yet still claimed some of their number to be your equals." The expression that passed from one face to the next said he might have spat upon the floor had the evening been hosted by any one less magnificent. Returning his attention to his companion his flirtatious smile reappeared,

"As if there were any."

There were many other things about the family in question that had fueled Raithen's dislike upon discovery, but the spark of his displeasure with them had come from something deeply personal. No recommendation was going to quell his ire, but it helped that the whole family seemed to generally be a collection of ill-grace and mistakes.

[Pharaoh]

Vyxis looked up, their eyes weary and their head lolling weakly against their chest. Spitting a bit of blood from full lips, they regarded the statuesque figure who was first to take advantage of their terribly recent disgrace. This humiliation was all the more frustrating for the anonymity of those inclined to seize upon this chance to belittle them. They certainly weren’t going to exploit discerning magic again, given the results of their first such incursion. So they sighed, licking the blood gathering on their lips and trying to recall the last joke that had made them laugh.

“What does an Orkhan do right after they suck a cock?” Vyxis paused, the bruising on their face creating a pronounced lisp, “They spit out the feathers.” Given the circumstances, one had to credit Vyxis for their sharp delivery. Even in distress, they had solid comic timing and managed to deliver the punchline with a scarlet grin, which turned next to beam weakly toward the smaller creature with the pitying tone.

“Joke for you too, ballgoer?” They would rasp, as down upon the dance floor the Sun Scion was escorting the Lunar Lad back toward those who haunted closer to the walls.

“You do dance divinely, as befits your raiments.” He offered, “I shall look forward to learning, at evening’s end, whether or not we are acquainted… a drink?” His eyes sought out a servant with a tray of red, but first found the familiar form of his counterpart. Long, lithe and little-dressed, the Platinum Prince appeared to have dressed either to honour or to mock the Umbrium, like a glorified slave: A Chained Swain. Was he displaying submission or rattling the chains he felt the Draconic Court had fastened to his limber limbs? A question better pondered with that drink he’d turned this direction to seek. He fetched two glasses, and passed one to the Lunar Lad.

“Ah, the much-embattled Sælyans…” The Chained Swain chortled at the Many-Faced Man’s dismissive attitude toward that controversial Gens. “Lately I’ve found myself in close quarters quite often with one… or is it two of their number? Hard to say, and such muddy waters are not like to clean laundry as dirty as theirs. Alas…” A demure smirk spread, barely obstructed by the thin wire of that revealing mask, “Our sacred Starlit prince, who need not append his glory with the ornaments of these celestial pretenders, has seen fit to confer his largesse unto them. At least for now. We shall see how they fare in due course...” He trailed off, suddenly struck by a chill as if a cold breeze wafted across his neck and stirred goosepimples on the pale flesh there.

► Show Spoiler

One of the sentinels assigned to hold vigil who flowered the ornate walls, turned their veiled head sharply toward a slender figure clad all in black who donned the mask and feathers of a raven, which shone with a stunning, polychrome lustre. Behind the mask, within his mind, the Raven heard a voice.

“Attend your brother. Something is amiss…”

Processing the command, the Raven sharply pivoted to seek out the Sun Scion and move toward him apace. Before he reached him, the air began to warp in three vectors of the great hall: Beside the Sun Scion, behind the Chained Swain and at the direct center of the dance floor.

All would know that the palace proper was warded against even the highest tiers of Traversion, aside from a very select few mages who had been accorded bypasses. Sentinels and Golden Guard alike sprung to attention, as arcane and mundane senses observed these queer anomalies. The attending guards charged with security had a layered task: To keep safe a population with a flair for pageantry. Though they brandished arms (Some unsheathed, others conjured from the very æther), the soldiers charged with securing the venue initiated no further advances, lest they spoil some surprise concocted by the capricious Platinum Prince or his counterpart who had been, vexingly enough, raised in the theatre with all the spontaneity and showmanship that implied.

Three figures phased into existence, the one in the middle of the ballroom shorter than the other two. The smaller, central figure who'd appeared on the dancefloor donned a broad, hooded cloak white as snow with platinum patterns arrayed across the fabric. This could easily have been a particularly dramatic reveal, though security was on high alert because even they, who were permitted to use assessing magicks and some of whom were exceedingly potent in their Crafts, could not get a read on the Symphony or Aura of the cloaked figure. The other two, however, were, at first glance at least, easy to identify. Willowy tall, witchmarked and platinum, each was identical to Arkænyn who, for all appearances, hadn’t put much effort into concealing his identity behind his own very revealing Chained Swain look. That rounded the room out to three identical Arkænyns, or simulacra thereof. Particularly observant parties, or those intimately familiar with Arkænyn’s body, would note that their witchmarks were disparate to a man. But there wasn’t much time to deliberate over such curiosities, as the two newest Arkænyns sprung to action.

From behind the Chained Swain, a Pactblade pierced forward, impaling the unwitting target whose hand darter out to grab at the shoulder of the Many-Faced Man, eyes wide in reflexive shock that preceded the impending pain. As one Arkænyn slumped and fell to his knees before the Many-Faced Man, he looked up at his erstwhile dancing partner with pleading eyes, as his mirror image withdrew the blade and left his apparent twin to gush blood from both front and back.

Simultaneous to that assault the Raven doffed his mask, and bare-faced, Phocion extended his hand just in time to conjure a Kinetic barrier that blocked the blow that was about to be dealt against the Sun Scion. Startled by the attempt, Arvælyn instinctively expelled a burst of his own Kinetic energy that sent the offending Arkænyn, his recent Lunar dancing partner and the servus who’d been holding their would-be drinks hurdling away from him as he took a battle stance and reached his senses toward his attacker’s Symphony, only to find them rebuffed by a Craft that counterbalanced his own formidable gifts.

At this point, the array of guards lining the walls sprung to action, descending onto the ballroom floor as Vyxis lifted their head, grinning.

“It looks as though the joke wasn’t on me, after all…”

[Aurin]

The man in the jackal mask might have been the one to travel farthest to get to this party: Kalzasi to Zeraphesh. Zeraphesh to Aur'arnis. Aur'arnis to Cathena City. Cathena City to Tertium. Tertium to Solunarium. The slipspace allowed a man to step from one city to the next, but he had taken it piecemeal, using old, rusty memories, and recovering in between as that uncertainty drained him. If he had learned anything about magic tricks, it was that will was more important than skill. If he believed a thing strongly enough, he could make it so. It was easier to believe that he could step from his front door to his lover's back door than from a Tertian inn to the Luxium of Solunarium, especially when he hadn't been to the Luxium. That last leg had been through a portal opened by someone else, but now he knew he could retrace his steps, magically speaking.

He didn't like this place. In Kalzasi, nobody could see through his glamours. Here, his hackles were always raised. Someone was always looking—if not for him, then for anomalies that would point to him. While he had meant to surprise Arry, he hadn't surprised his bleeding mother. But at least she had sent him an invitation. He was no longer playing at the foreign-raised son of Solunarium, Proteus the Re'hyæan. No, the Bronze Fox of certain Atherian dreams was now the Jackal. His form was elvenoid enough, but he had the laquered head of a jackal, eyes glowing red. That might have been offputting, or it might have seemed warm; that depended upon what was projected upon him by those who saw him.

The name he had supplied the herald had been supplied by the Vigilia Magna, and when it was called out, nobody truly looked in his direction, and nobody recognized him. In any case, the foundations of his costume had been laid, and they obscured his face well enough. The rest was layered on by his own glamours. He looked like one of those strange gods that predated Dragon God and Mistlord, the ones lost to the sands of time. As covered, obscured, and armored as his head and shoulders were, the rest of him was rather bare. Ink-black skin was tight over long, lean muscles. He glittered with arm bands of gold, heavy with jewels. A short, pleated kilt of white linen spanned his hips, overlaid with a fringe of beads. He wore an impressive gorgerine, and his sandals of coiled papyrus. Everything clicked and clattered, caught the light and shone: carnelian and lapis lazuli, amethyst and japser, turquoise and silver.

Some of him was real, and some of him was not. Only he and the Sentinels knew for sure.

He stalked the fête as if he were a jackal in truth, waiting for carrion upon which to feed. He daren't break the rules of his hosts. There were hints of strangeness from as far away as Auris, but if he knew anything, it was that he didn't know enough. And so he observed the illusions and tried to suss out the minds that had created them. Was one of the singers Arry's paramour, Finneas? Finian? But when his eyes found Arry, they knew him beyond the shadow of a doubt. Perhaps someone else had the gall to look so similar to him, but he doubted they would know him as well as Aurin did—how he playacted, how he dissembled. Aurin knew all his tricks. Aurin had taught him some of them.

But was that the so-called platinum elf who was regent of the Luxium now or...?

Later, there were many versions of him and Aurin moved. The hairs had risen on the back of his neck and he moved. He couldn't vault to Arry's side; he sensed the interdict. That didn't matter. He was fast and agile. He was deadly with his bare hands. And when the suspect Arry startled Aurin by flinging a blast of telekinetic force, it managed to send him just slightly back into Aurin's arms as he rapidly decelerated.

"The fuck, Arry," he muttered near the Sun Scion's ear. "How have you survived so long without me?"

[Raithen]

Raithen, as the Sentinels and other partygoers alike, was not sure, in those vital moments when he could have done something, whether what was happening was something intended by the planners of the party or not. So rarely did things not go to plan as events so such as this that he could only assume, even when he saw the near-copy of his one-time lover step forth from the odd vortex, that it was one of the platinum prince's surprises.

If he had known that the one rapidly moving Sentinel had been Phocion, had he received a similar warning from their mother, had he noticed the look of confusion on Arkænyn's barely masked face...

But the least of House Phaedryn had none of these advantages, so he did nothing to stop the doppelganger Princeps from pushing his blade through the real one's unprotected body.

(Later Raithen would wonder what he would have done if the man he'd been dancing with had been the copy and the real one had been the attacker, if somehow the whole thing had been another ruse. It was one of the many, many scenarios that would plague and worry at his mind in the nights that followed.)

The moment he saw the sharp tip of the sword, slicked in dark red blood, poke out from white flesh his social shock was burned away by his battle instincts. He could not vault away, not from within the palace, but Traversion was his newest rune and his least practiced, he had an older and his instincts were far more used to its uses. Wrapping the Chained, and now stabbed, Swain in aether, Raithen shoved them both up as high, and as far from the vortex and the seeming assassin as he could manage. Without a thought he used Kinetics to brute force punched his way through the lovely glass of the ceiling. Shards of it fell around them but were pushed away without a thought spared for them as all of Raithen's conscious attention narrowed to the body ascending alongside his own.

He was no doctor, but he had been trained in battle medicine and survival at the same time he had been learning to master his first rune and, as such, had learned to use it in ways that most others might not consider. He wrapped a bandage of force, not around the outside of the wound, but through Arkænyn's insides, stoppering the loss of blood by carefully sealing each severed vessel and organ. He could hold the Princeps thus, so long as his concentration was not required for anything complicated, until help arrived.

Only once this was done did he even look at the face of the wounded Starlit elf to gauge his reaction. It took a moment longer for him to remember that his own was still changing by the moment and dismissed the carefully crafted illusion.

"Forgive me, Dominus" He murmured, "for revealing myself, but it seems uninvited guests have spoiled your evening."

It was a stupid thing to say, he knew, and sounded doubly odd for the fact that while the substance was inane the tone implied all the serious concern the situation warranted.

As soon as he felt the slipstream of aether gape open around him as the pair rose above the protective magic emanating from the building below he vaulted them, thoughtlessly, to the first safe, neutral place his instincts found.

It was an empty, long abandoned garden atop a building in the Umbrium. They hovered above the tiled surface even there, because the Avialae was afraid to set the Princeps down, afraid it would pull at the wound that he was so carefully holding closed. Though no one would know to look for them there it was no safety when Arkænyn might be dying, bleeding into his body instead of out.

"Where should I take you?" The healers Raithen knew well were all bound to his house and that would not be appropriate nor, he imagined, wanted by any of the parties involved. The one healer he knew who was not bound to his house was back in the ballroom.

Damn. He could hope that Hilana was unimportant enough not to warrant attack, she was certainly canny enough to protect herself and (he hoped) her companions. As soon as he knew the Solar regent was safe he would check on her. No fear for any members of his family who might be attending entered his mind, they were pillars of unshakable reality; nothing could harm them.

The Avialae's mind was as open and clear as the cloudless sky, his intention was razor sharp and guileless, if he could keep the man wrapped in his aether safe, he would do so.

[Aeros]

TIMESTAMP: -
NOTES: -

- - -

- - -

The man, unremarkable and ever changing, exhaled a breath that almost sounded like the start of a laugh to Vyxis’ delivery of that joke. It wasn't the meaning of their words but more the fact that even like this, Vyxis was capable of grinning.

The ballgoer, when addressed, smiled– their expression genuine and unfettered; it felt nice to not reign everything back in beneath their usual veil of stoicism.

“You've moxie– admirable,” they responded at first, voice poised and perfectly pleasant but at the same time, utterly forgettable.

The sentiment was a sincere one, though spoken lightly. Vyxis’ spirit not being extinguished in this predicament was almost inspiring, in a bizarre sort of way.

“But yes, do go on– demonstrate to us more of that sparkling wit of yours,” the ephemeral figure continued.

They didn't know why, but they got the impression from the tall, imposing figure who had approached first that whoever it was, he held ire towards Vyxis. Admittedly, they were curious both about why and then how else they intended to further toy with the fête’s fool. They themselves had no interest in milking the little gremlin for entertainment, but at the same time, didn't want to stray too far; they couldn't even place why. It wasn't as if they could protect Vyxis, nor was there even a real reason for them to want to do so, but all the same, they would linger.

- - -

Æros, as well, found himself enjoying the anonymity. He and Palæmon were an anomaly far past the point of simple peculiarity and people's responses to such a strange situation varied heavily. So for him, and his cousin as well, existing as one anonymous man was…liberating, in a fashion.

The ghost was quick to grasp the rhythm rolling through the room, guiding the three of them across the dance floor with a consummate sort of ease. In the company of this stranger, Æros felt more at ease and home than he had at any other point since he'd been ferried back from the edge of existence. So when the song drew to a close and the Sun Scion drew him towards the ballroom's edges, he couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed– though he did not at all show it.

To his companion's compliment, he smiled broadly. The latter comment unnerved him slightly, however, as he'd done his best to disallow himself from wondering overmuch about the other's identity– but now, he couldn't help but to do so. Myriad faces flit across his mind's eye, wondering if, in fact, what lay beneath that sunlit mask were a visage he'd recognize.

“My thanks,” Palæros began along with a shallow, appreciative bow of his head, voice mellifluous and warm. “You are not so bad yourself,” he added, followed by an impish sort of giggle.

The Lunar Lad would, however, nod to the notion of a drink.

“Ought I be flattered I've made an impression enough to evoke such curiosities in one as magnificent as yourself?” He responded rhetorically, words delivered equally as playful as his prior comment.

“Still, I can't help but to find myself wondering the same,” this comment tacked on as he accepted the offered drink.

As he sipped from it, he found his gaze following the other's and then set his own upon a visage he did recognize. Perhaps the only one in the room that was so…obvious– His Serene Starlit Highness, Arkænyn princeps. His costume, though not as ostentatious as some, was certainly an interesting choice. He couldn't say if he was meant to read a message of unity or mockery from it, but frankly, the conflicting message was more than likely the point.

However, neither soul housed within Palæros would have much time to ponder this subject as the atmosphere behind his blazing companion flickered– it warped in the unnatural fashion he'd come to expect of magics such as Traversion; a shifting in the Slipspace. Immediately, he felt a panic begin rise in his throat like bile; Solunarium boasted some of the world's most potent mages, and to his understanding, they had warded against intrusion. He didn't know what was happening. Should he react? Should he wait?

And then, in his peripherals, he spotted the rapid ingress of a raven and several things at once clicked in Æros’ mind. In the moments it took for the simulacrums of Arkænyn to make manifest, Palæmon did as he'd been told, pitched to the side and extended both of his hands, calling upon the spirits of water– and his Aidolon– to conjure a heavy, cylindrical blast of of water at the intruding figure and, quarters being close as they were, it'd hit the simulacrum's sternum with all the force a master arched to water could muster and then some more by way of the water spirit to which he was bound through Summoning. The strike was woven with consummate, concentrated precision, careful not to hit anyone else.

(and Æros, who found Arkænyn’s true witchmarks to be beautiful, had, if he were going to be honest with himself, perhaps spent too much time gawking at them, immediately noted prior to his cousin's strike that the ones on this figure were...wrong; such a thing, however, must needs be addressed later)

In the ensuing moments, Palæros was relieved to see that his elemental offense had been matched by a kinetic defense courtesy of the raven– Phocion– but their interceptions did not stop the sunlit prince from reacting. Æros had assumed control again and did not expect to be blasted back by the boy he was trying to protect, but as soon as he felt his feet lift from the ground, he fed the air spirits ‘round him enough aether to conjure a gale of wind to serve as counter to the kinetic blast. Though he was certainly rattled, Palæros managed to maintain some poise, landing gracefully a few feet back.

When next he laid eyes on the Sun Scion, however, he'd been knocked back into the arms of a jackal he'd not seen approach. Palæros, still bearing partial abjurations but with face unmasked, rushed forward to whom he could now say with certainty was Arvælyn.

With his heart pounding in his ears and his gaze torn between those in front of him, the attacking Arkænyn, and the strange figure that had appeared in the middle, stupidly, the only thing he could think to say was: “Faex! What is happening!?”

As if any of those present would know.

- - -

The ballgoer back by Vyxis watched the next events play out with a wide-eyed expression, and when Vyxis spoke, it took every fibre of their self control not to laugh at the absurdity of what had just happened. This almost didn't feel real.

And though they knew they ought to, they didn't feel an ounce of sadness when Arkænyn was struck– that part they were okay with.

“Would that we continue to play observer,” they spoke, sounding baffled.

- - -

"Vallenor"

"Vastien"

"Valasren"

"Common"