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.
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…”
