[Game Thread] Act I: Masquerade

[Olivia Darkmagic]

"Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a dozen hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys....

It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his closest friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade."

Edgar Allen Poe, Masque of the Red Death

Already the plague has claimed many. Too many. Word from the capital suggests that even the finest physicians and the best medicines could not stave off the sticky end of those who came into contact with the Red Death. Yet the king still refuses to declare a state of emergency and the peoples of the outlying counties watch... and wait... in fear and trepidation. For the Red Death is no respecter of persons, claiming the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the wretched, the powerful and the impotent alike.

Into this atmosphere of utter hopelessness rides the libertine Prince Orville Prospero upon a stallion made of excess and luxury. And thus it happens that a series of nine silver-embossed invitations printed upon the finest vellum of the day are delivered into the hands of nine distinct and unrelated individuals for whom the good Prince harbors some unique affection. Within each wax-sealed envelope are writ the following words:

Invitation His Highness Orville Prospero, Prince of Drakland County, To his most esteemed friends, Greetings! You are hereby cordially invited to a masquerade ball in honor of the Prince's forty and ninth name day. To be held upon the 9th day of the fourth month of the 866th year of the Grand Empire. Cocktails to be served at dusk with dancing and entertainment to follow. Masquerade attire required. Your specially selected identity for the evening is...

It is now the night of the grand event. The Prospero estate has been bustling with activity for days in preparation for the celebration of the prince's birthday gala. The dining hall is set with a grand buffet and open bar and a receiving line of servants awaits the arrival of each guest, checking invitations and addressing each by the name found in their invitation before instructing them to gather in the dining hall for drinks and introductions.

"Thank you for coming," said Collinsworth to each new arrival. "The Prince will be along shortly. Please follow the footman to the dining hall where you will find cocktails and refreshments awaiting."

 

OOC This is the introductory segment of our story... some of you will recognize one another, others will be wholly unknown to you. Color assignments as mentioned on the invitation are below. You'll be using your Color Name during the masquerade. This akin to the code names found in the movie Clue. Later when the masks come off we might revert to real names. We'll see!!! Character Codename Player Bertrand Ignatius Wattlesbum Lord Violet MimeRifle Constantine Palandro Lieutenant Yellow Cedric Dastaf Del Rey Doctor Red zevonian Kirkforth Crierson Mister Orange Tongue Marcellus Esprit Auber Mister Gray Sassafrass Mirelinda Reyes Miss Green Ginthulu Niccolo Albericus Montevisti Mister Blue Weasel Whisperer Portia Von Grimmler Dame Black Olivia Darkmagic Sebastian Collinsworth - moozuba Sofia Ashdown Lady White blesse amie

Feel free to describe your character, give any sort of history you like and interact with others!

[zevonian]

Now the knight told the footy-man, "You've got to let that wrist-ah drop." Of course he was a knight, for he was resplendent in red dyed plate mail armor, with a peace-knotted and sheathed weapon at his side. He reached out a gauntlet covered hand towards the Prince's lackey. "Just an inch-ah closer to the floor. You'll be able to hold-ah trays and open doors as needed, but more strength to, and less pressure on ah, the hand. You are one of ah the men of the manor. You must show strength."

The knight's voice was truthfully authoritative and stern, accented and quiet, all at once. This was a man, presumably a man, who had either put upon a false voice for sake of masquerade, or else his helmet of a mask did something to the acoustics of his verbal bravado. Why did he speak in such a firm yet whispering manner to the footman, yet have no words for Collinsworth? Collinsworth didn't have a tell-tale heart of an arm injury under his sleeve that only the knight's trained eye could detect. Battle scars can occur in any variety of ways. Fellow must've played sparring partner for an upper months ago, got himself a hand break he's been nursing ever since.

"You ah there!" Attention turned to someone tending to a display of food. The knight's voice was louder now, loud enough for more than just the servant next to him to hear. "Sir John asks, what have ah you in the way of ah thin sliced meats and cheese?"

If there was a care in the world about the Red Death, the knight was clearly not its possessor in this moment. Perhaps in another hour, in another life, it consumed his thoughts. Or perhaps they'd been consumed and his coloration was now his method of mocking madness.

Or perhaps red is just a color.

[ItsaVerb]

Unlike the guest who came dressed for combat in crimson armor, the invitee with the moniker Lord Violet spoke immediately to Collinsworth, seeming to urgently require the servant's attention.

"Be a good man and alert the groundskeeper there's mud all about the front entrance. Look at my shoe!" The resonance of the voice almost unmistakably male - the tone and articulations of the words, as well as the costume projecting something much more ambiguous.

Pointing at his soiled suede calf-length boots, he continued. "He'll be glad for the opportunity to correct this, I'm sure. If I'm forced to share this absurd negligence with the Prince, he might order the price to replace these hand-made items be taken from the poor sod's wages, and knowing what they cost, he wouldn't have a copper piece left over for himself as long as he lives."

He extended both gloved hands, fingers down, toward the butler, then swung his his wrists up in a "shoo, fly" gesture. "I'd truly hate to see anyone lose their job on such an occasion. We are here to celebrate, after all! Just make sure this doesn't happen to any other guests so the Prince need not trifle with it on his special day, hmmm?"

The uppity visitor glided along the edge of the serving table, appraising the hors d'oeuvres, and finally using three fingers to lift a glass of wine from a tray held by another of the domestics, putting the glass to his lips to sample it, swishing the fine liquid around his mouth with dramatic flourish before cocking his head to one side and glancing toward the ceiling, perhaps formulating his opinion on the quality of the host's selected vintage.

The costume was bizarre. Mostly suede leather in purple tones. The prevailing tradition typically prohibited the wearing of purple clothing, reserving those only for royalty. This being a masquerade, the strange party-goer obviously felt such etiquette would be tossed out the window for the evening. But if anyone wants to gossip about it... let them be my guest.

The beard seemed artificial, but of high quality for a facade. The costume jangled with chains of gold sporting bright colored gemstones, and there were feathers - black feathers - stitched into various parts of the ensemble, including his black mask.

On his back were tied two artificial wings, made from the same feathers, and arranged and bound together to look like those of a bird... or an angel... or, something else. From his belt protruded the jewel-crusted handle of a decorative dagger.

He wrinkled his nose, making his mask bounce up and down. "Really... I'd have expected the Prince to go a bit deeper into his cellar." His mocking of their host's choice of wine notwithstanding, he took another drink and made his way toward the growing congregation of guests so he could mingle.

[Sassafrass]

"Well, you can't expect a man stuck behind a wall for an unspecified amount of time to know when to bring out the best of his wares. Otherwise we'd have had the best at the beginning and be stuck drinking strawberry wine and complaining he'd used up his best too quickly. It's about endurance, my violet friend, endurance."

The creature that speaks is vaguely humanoid behind the mask. Humming and tapping his finger against his hip in some ungodly beat only he hears, the man is a mouse as well. Tall, thin, and draped in grays from head to foot, almost a silver gloss, his mask resembles that of a common gray house mouse, complete with narrow, opened eyes and spectacles that sit on an overly long nose. The mouth beneath the mask, the only revelation of face to be seen, bears a cruel smirk, opening and closing as the melody of his mouth continues onward. Brown hair dives over the top of the mask, a mob of uncombed yet cleaned adornment cared for meticulously: left to its own devices, it would be matted and tangled and not fit for public viewing. The little mouse knows better.

His coat is silver, his tunic white, and his breeches some dark gray, with leather boots colored green. Hanging from his coat is an unopened and ancient tome, weathered not from age but use, containing God-knows-what. The scruffy chin beneath the overlong nose moved in rapid agreement that he had not come to the right party.

In truth, if he had a choice, he might not be here at all, Prospero's whim was stronger than his desire to be elsewhere. Today began late: too much wine the night before, too much revelry with two servants of both genders. They bored him halfway through the revelry, causing him to think: when he thought, he wrote down ideas, philosophical or scientific or artistic, and so, he composed their love-making well into the night. When dawn came, he kicked them out, literally, and slept, not realizing he had stolen their clothes as well. He awoke late, did his best to concoct a brew with allowance of freeing him from his headpain, and wandered the walls with his usual fare.

And then came the note. No amount of wine-fueled deviant antics would ignore Prospero's demands, the bastard.

And so, dressed as the little mouse, here tonight, he takes a bow before the red knight and violet man. "Mister Gray. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I'm glad to see that I'm not the only fool who determined it was All-Hallows'." He takes for himself a cup of not-the-best wine, then takes another, and drinks both. Liquid courage: that's what he needs. More liquid courage to face the fire.

[Ginthulu]

A small smile plays across the woman's dark red lips as she catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror walking in. Her dark hair stood straight back from her head and while it looked messy there was a sort of elegant chaos to it. As she passes beneath the lights the black fabric of her costume took on a dark green tint. She was quite proud of her outfit and she walks with an air of confidence; and why wouldn't she? She was invited to Prince Prospero's masquerade, being given a chance to mingle with the crème de la crème which is exactly where she belonged.

She casts a glance over the others in attendance briefly deciding exactly who was going to get the pleasure of her company. Her dark eyes look down the sharp beak of her mask and they land upon the two men conversing about the wine. She makes her way across the room, speaking soft greetings to each guest as she passes them though she was determined to reach her destination. Upon reaching the Knight, the man in Violet and the Mouse the bird-masked woman curtsies slightly and speaks, her voice rich and velvety. "Good evening gentlemen. This is quite a turnout is it not?" She smiles sweetly and as she stands she takes a moment to carefully scrutinize each of the men standing in front of her. Of the three of them Lord Violet seems to catch her gaze the most, her eyes lingering on the gemstones and gold chains of his outfit.

"The Prince sure knows how to throw a decadent party. This is more extravagant than his last little get together." It wasn't technically a lie, after all the last party the Prince had invited her to was a small one to discuss their little arrangement. Her hand reaches out to take a glass of the wine, the gloved fingers gripping the stem of the glass tightly, but she doesn't bring it up to her lips. "I'm Miss Green by the way and it is a pleasure to meet you all."

[ItsaVerb]

The nod offered as greeting by the flamboyant winged party-goer could hardly be confused for a bow, but seemed to him an appropriate degree of supplication - especially not knowing the other guests and how their stations arranged compared to his own.

"My name is Lord Violet. How gauche that we should have to announce ourselves, even if these aren't our real names. I fear our host may have lost his mind during his seclusion. He's certainly lost his sense of good taste - in whatever measure he possessed any to begin with."

Truly, the flavor of the wine did not meet the ostentatious Violet's expectation - the gravity, however, was fine enough to suit his medicinal purpose. He finished his glass of wine and took a second. Turning to Mister Gray, he offered retort. "I'd not be so sure this swill isn't from the best cask he's got, Gray. Who knows what self-destructive behavior he might have been engaged in these many months? He might have guzzled all the best himself! I know he had better." Raising his nose and looking down, he added "Interesting costume. What are you, a rat?"

[Cedric]

The Lynx enters the dining hall, pausing for a moment for his gaze to linger on the party. A slender man of average height who stands with one hand resting on a Lynx-headed cane, the other rests behind his back. He seems fit, that much can be easily seen from the tight fit costume which contains a golden yellow open coat reaching to his knees, decorated with light brown fur and matching boots that reach up to his thighs. At his side hangs a beautiful basket hilt broadsword, decorated with nautical motif. Yellow Lynx mask covers the upper half of his face, trimmed with topaz gemstones and golden threaded whiskers, the lower half is open to reveal a full but well groomed blonde beard. He doesn't smile, he seems the type that never does.

The man glides over to the gathered people, snatching a drink on his way but not drinking it "Evening." is all he says, bowing slightly towards the ladies.

[moozuba]

The footman assisting guests out of their carriages blinked in surprise at the red-armored knight's suggestions concerning the use of his bad arm. "Y-yes, of course me lord. Thank ye, me lord," he gushed in astonishment, looking at his right hand with wonderment and flexing the fingers as if to test the strength and mobility.

Collinsworth stood by, scowling after the footman, but dared not interrupt the guest. His deep, resonant voice rumbled out his supremely professional answer to Lord Violet's inquiry, sparing a glance at the boots. "Of course, milord. I shall attend to the mud personally. May I remind you, milord, that the Prince controls neither the weather nor the judgment of his subjects." In spite of the Lord's dismissal, the butler did not move in the slightest. Neither his posture nor his demeanor altered in the least and he most certainly did not go scurrying away at the command of his master's guest.

As Red and Violet entered the manse, they heard Collinsworth's strong voice chiding the young footman. "Carter! Whatever are you doing? Stop fiddling with your gloves and assist Lady Green from her carriage!"

---

Within, an attending servant hastened to provide Mister Red with a platter of fine coldcuts and directed him also to a platter boasting an array of a dozen rare and expensive cheeses. Hardly any of the food -- if any at all -- was local. The Red Death had spread not only to the citizenry, but also to the livestock, thinning the herds of the kingdom by a third if not more.

The same servant, a tall, black-haired lad with a frozen half-smile and a nervous look about him, answered Lord Violet's speculations as though it had been a question directed at him. "Oh no, me lord. Not at all. The best casks is kept in the sub-sub basement. There's an Amontillado Red from as far back as 744! Rare stuff and supposed to be among the very very best." The footman beamed at his knowledge of wine and vintage. "What you lot are drinking is a very special selection bottled in the same year as the birth of the Prince! It's his birthday wine, you might say, so that's why it's been set out tonight, you see?"

[Tongue]

As the carriage door opened, the footman was greeted by a giant goldfish head. The orange fish, complete with watery glass eyes regarded him with a tired doleful expression. Descending the elegant silver step, the fish nodded it's head in thanks to the footman and proceeded up the short walk to Collingsworth. A frilled fin like glove flourished the invitation to the man. Of course like most of the guests who knew the prince well the fish was familiar with Collingsworth to a degree.

"Nice to see you again." He muffled through the comically large orange fish lips.

He scratched his arm and fidgeted with his flowing leg tassels unable to stand still. Finally succeeding in scratching some itch behind his knee awkwardly, he straightens and heads to the refreshment table. He pours himself a stiff drink and regards the other guests with his unfocused fish eyes.

[zevonian]

Within seconds of being shown all the fine makings of a grand snack, other costumed citizens appeared. Drinks were had, but not by the red knight. No, no wine for him, but for others who seemed as interested in the products of vineyards as he was in the cheeses of the world. By the time the good servant had been properly informed by the knight exactly how to prepare what could be the world's most expensive sandwich, one the reddened man he would thoroughly enjoy, several souls had bowed and nodded and given their colorful names. He knew that it would take a couple of minutes to have the right bread found and lightly toasted, so the crimsoned guard knew he had time to partake in a fair bit of introductory etiquette.

"Sir John, the Red. Good ah to meet ah you all." He pressed one gauntleted fist into an open gauntleted hand in some sort of grand salute to them all.

More words were had, not just from the polychromatic spree of invitees in the room, but from a footman as well. And well, suddenly the red knight had to speak out once more. "Knave, there is ah Lady present. You do ah not address a proper Lady under ah the grouping of...You Lot."

[blesse amie]

As my carriage draws alongside the abbey, I brace myself while being rolled jarringly over cobbled stone. Judging from the circling promenade of shuffling pages and other transports, I seem to have arrived at roughly the same time as most of the other guests. This was planned, however; contrary to usual tendencies towards deliberate tardiness (as is expected of Ladies of my standing), when one attends a masquerade it is oft appropriate to make one’s arrival as timely as possible so that the interactions and reactions to costumes are fresh; and thus the masked are more prone to emotional inflection. This is a key strategy for obtaining essential early impressions that may spell the difference between knowing whom you are addressing and being utterly, hopelessly lost to the whims of charade. Enterprising or mischievous persons tend to disguise their voices at such soirées, and though it is yet possible to discern subtle, individual tonalities, one cannot assume they will be familiar enough with every guest to be able to make definite distinctions – even when attending rather more exclusive functions such as this one.

Despite my admittedly giddy anticipation of almost certain debauchery (during which I shall no doubt uncover all manner of glorious gossip!), a corner of my mind remains burdened with trepidation. A question lingers: For what purpose was I invited? Certainly, I’m an obvious choice that any upper-caste host would make with regard to the selection of engaging prospects for mingle-fodder. But with this particular host…

Dear Prince Prospero, hid away from civilization these past several months, insulated by the stately halls of his robust, if dreadfully angular manse. I’ve had many occasions to visit recently, and am familiar enough with the structure (though usually I’m ushered in through another door). It is oft said that his Highness is wise, though such propaganda is perhaps the most sagacious accomplishment. In reality, he is just like any other male; when rendered down to subconscious impulse, they are ultimately capable of only two ultimatums: sex and death. -Still these thoughts, girl! We cannot allow ourselves to be weakened by indignation before we’ve even begun the evening!-

Right, then... Gathering my nerve, I allow the homely porters to assist me from the carriage’s plush seat. Sadly, my ire is tempered further while I wait for one of the wretches to realize his overcoat is not on the mud-caked ground before me, as it should be. Once the mistake of ill-breeding has corrected his folly, I continue, making sure to passionately grind an ivory heel into the horribly woven fabric as I pass through the threshold and into the corridor that leads to the dining hall.

My attire, in fitting with the assumed animal theme (which was not mentioned on the invitation, but easily discerned by guests familiar with local tradition), resembles a white feline. The fine silk gown has been meticulously tailored to hug my shapely frame as closely as possible, while allowing for playful swishy-ness in certain parts. At the shoulders, bust, hips and lower hemming are adornments of soft, snowy fur, with diamonds flashing from lithe patterns carefully sewn over my thighs and waist. Billowing from the small of my back, just above my rear is a long, arching tail of the same color, supported by a thin metal curvature within its furry fabrics. Then lastly, the most crucial piece of my costume: A half-mask of carved and polished, solid ivory; complete with pointed ears and intricately carved whiskers. I specifically refused to allow it to be painted, preferring the stark, sculpted white facade in juxtaposition to my fair skin (and full lips, which I have coloured with a dyed, black wax-balm as a finishing touch). My hair has also been accentuated, pulled up into a tail as well, which arcs up and back down to embrace my bare shoulders, while curled strands casually frame my face.

With heels clacking over marble, I reach the dining hall, where I’m unsurprised to find all manner of opulence and succulence entwined in a feast for the eyes and the palate. First to meet my disguised acquaintance, an easily identified personage, the ever-doting, ever-dull-eyed Collingsworth. I infuse my voice with a subtle purring, as practiced.

“Good eve, castlehand. Care to have one of your lot fetch a Lady her first taste of the day’s vine?”
-…And good heavens. Who is that bearing the obnoxious fish head!- Taking note of the other arrivals, I can scarcely contain a charmed smile. This is going to be a night to remember! “It would seem a fair amount of creatures have already claimed territory in this precinct. Do excuse a cat while she plots her own domain. Tarry not with the wine!”

With that, I swoop gracefully past him into the grand chamber, where I begin to make my way around the room, exchanging pleasantries and admiring the wild and festive décor.

[Sassafrass]

A glass raised to Green; he stares at her lips, intrigued by the contrasting hues.

"Our host was only ever improvising the illusion of taste: thus his eclectic nature." Marcellus Esprit Auber does not like this, Violet, or whoever he is. There is nothing to like here. Bitter, uptight, and frankly, rude. He's stuck behind a wall, with countless other uppidy idiots. If anyone here has bad taste, it's Violet. He should have considered where else and with whom he would rather spend waiting out this accursed plague if not with the Prince himself. The gray mouse takes another drink. "Not a rat. A mouse. Biologically and anatomically they are different. Similar, but the two are different. Mind the difference. It could save your life one day."

But then, that voice: a single word, and he knows that voice. Looking suddenly at the yellow cat, he feels something more for his namesake mouse. Familiarity does not breed intimate knowledge. There are too many things to remember here, too many faces he doesn't recall. The distraction of the new wine setting does little to assuage him. But he shakes it off. He prays the mask is enough.

"Knaves?" he notes, picking up the conversation. "Oh my, knaves. I hadn't realize Prospero had unleashed the hounds just yet." He steps back, as if offended or scared. And in reality, he begins to take note. A bird, a cat, a fish? And now, a new arrival in the form of a cat?

How many predators can there be, and how few prey? An ecosystem cannot sustain itself when there are more predators than there are prey. It's a simple law of the jungle.

Perhaps that's not sweat from the environment growing on his brow.

More wine is in order.

[Cedric]

The Lynx stands to the side, glass in one hand - other behind his back clutching the gilded cane Decadents, all of them. Acting above their blood, playing at being nobles. Fools. his piercing blue eyes linger for a moment on the white feline, teeth clench - Frustration? He shifts his attention to the Red Knight and from there over to the Violet Lord and finally resting on the Orange Fish "Dagon's Teeth..." a sailors curse whispered into his glass as he drinks it up in one go.

He's not here because he wants to, that's for sure. Duty perhaps? Or something else, maybe he wasn't able to refuse the invitation. Who knows.