Governor's Ball
On the edge, or just skirting the outskirts. Hard to tell. The scents came from everywhere. The sounds from nowhere. A hatter's ball needed at least a hat, right? So he wore one, black as night, and tilted downward to conceal most of his face. The scar still drew angry and febrile, but the grin was even a quarter of the false face he normally wore. Dress shoes instead of boots. Black slacks held aloft by black suspenders over a midnight velvet shirt. The black leather trench he wore partially open, but it clung to his shoulders, and hung down, swaying with his movements, just like that cloak he favored.
The light played funny tricks. One moment he was at the edge just coming free from all that shadow. The next he was amongst the crowd, moving shadow loud even in thick heeled shoes, with all the gusto of a ghost. It was a wonder he could see with the position of that hat.
The waves of sound rolled over him. Conversations. Movement. Music. Surging everywhere infectious. He needed more to drink to enjoy them. He pulled out a flask while he stood at the punch bowls, and poured its contents into it. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the punch was already properly spiked. And he served himself a very large glass of the punch. Very large. A creature of the night. A creature for the night. When shadows fell sometimes the darkness under that hat made his face, at times, concealed in shadow.
Down the Rabbit Hole, disguise in place, Rayvinn swayed through the crowd, winding with a lazy meandering gait. A silk gloved hand held one side of her black, ground trailing skirt to prevent herself from tripping over the small heeled Victorian boot that peeked from beneath with each dancing step she took. Ruby red silk top hat, trimmed in black lace, was perched ever so slightly askew over hip length inky hair which curled into ringlets, left to hang freely. A feather trimmed masquerade mask was in place upon the upper half of a white powdered face; the only color present being the vivid green eyes and red painted lips. A hint of glamour could be detected, if one had the ability, and this magic further disguised the elf so that the points of her ears and the angle of her jaw were softened and slightly rounded.
The first sip on the punch didn't have him surprised. He was expecting the strength and bite from what he poured in it. The taste was bitter at the same time it was sweet as punch. Making his way through the crowd he gave Rekah a grin from beneath the hat and shadows.
There was no easy focus. People dancing. People talking. A mime. A man with floppy ears DJing. Jewell and Baker's conversation, which is a blast from the past. The first spiked punch was finished and he refilled it quickly. In that bit of black and velvet, with only the occasional shock of bronze skin, he wasn't easy to pick out from the crowd or the shadow. Let's not forget the woman who wore the baseball bat as a blade. He eyed the way she wore it more than a few times behind another sip. An errant card made its way from the table into the fabric surrounding his hat.
Barward, she seemed to float upon the toes of those boots, dancing along to the tune that drifted along the breeze. There was a cup of punch calling her name and a bottle of rum wishing to be mixed; she relented and soon began to further her enjoyment of the party. She gazed from behind that mask, taking in all of the other party goers, looking each over slowly before moving to the next. It had been so long since she had been out, so long since she had attended any party such as this; every detail was soaked in.
Had he taken another glass of spiked punch to pound town already? Yes. Now the music became the focus although he could still hear the conversations. The rhythm forced a sway at his hips, sifting the trench's low hanging fabric through all the shadow of the Glen. He turned and refilled the cup a third time. People dancing in time with the tune. This was an interesting one. But he didn't really like the beat. He stepped back and leaned predatory against the bar to watch behind the pulled low brim of his hat.
Rayvinn's gaze had traveled back to those near the bar where she stood swaying and her head tilted ever-so-slightly as she noted the side profile of a familiar face. He looked so very much unlike what she had seen of him in their recent adventures, missing the color changing cloak and ranger's gear. But the strong jaw and hard planes of his face were the same. She stared for a full minute, trying to see past that hat, trying to see if he possessed a scar over his eye.
He did. It just so happened. Even the shadows couldn't cover that febrile scar, streaking angry until his upper lip. Third glass of spiked punch down. He wore that grin so easy and lazy it was hard to tell it was him.
He was a man of his word. Nostrils flared, there were the familiar ones he knew, and then the not so familiar ones. But one he picked up easy amidst the others. But it was a night for false faces and masks. And thats what he wore. Gone was that stone statue of a face for all that mischief. He sipped slow now.
He did indeed wear that scar but he also wore a lazy grin that nearly made the disguised elf cackle in shocked glee. She had the upper hand because she could recognize him but she was disguised by makeup and magic both. Time to have some fun. That cup of rum spiked punch was tipped up for a long drink before being lowered. What should she say now that she had the opportunity to harass the normally stoic ranger?
But the punch was still delicious. So he drank it with big gulps and found that his hips betrayed his ability to resist the music. The rhythm had got him. He went first when she got close enough. "That dress has too much fabric." Just enough of a tilt of his square jaw upward to show the wink from beneath his hat.
On the edge, or just skirting the outskirts. Hard to tell. The scents came from everywhere. The sounds from nowhere. A hatter's ball needed at least a hat, right? So he wore one, black as night, and tilted downward to conceal most of his face. The scar still drew angry and febrile, but the grin was even a quarter of the false face he normally wore. Dress shoes instead of boots. Black slacks held aloft by black suspenders over a midnight velvet shirt. The black leather trench he wore partially open, but it clung to his shoulders, and hung down, swaying with his movements, just like that cloak he favored.
The light played funny tricks. One moment he was at the edge just coming free from all that shadow. The next he was amongst the crowd, moving shadow loud even in thick heeled shoes, with all the gusto of a ghost. It was a wonder he could see with the position of that hat.
The waves of sound rolled over him. Conversations. Movement. Music. Surging everywhere infectious. He needed more to drink to enjoy them. He pulled out a flask while he stood at the punch bowls, and poured its contents into it. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the punch was already properly spiked. And he served himself a very large glass of the punch. Very large. A creature of the night. A creature for the night. When shadows fell sometimes the darkness under that hat made his face, at times, concealed in shadow.
Down the Rabbit Hole, disguise in place, Rayvinn swayed through the crowd, winding with a lazy meandering gait. A silk gloved hand held one side of her black, ground trailing skirt to prevent herself from tripping over the small heeled Victorian boot that peeked from beneath with each dancing step she took. Ruby red silk top hat, trimmed in black lace, was perched ever so slightly askew over hip length inky hair which curled into ringlets, left to hang freely. A feather trimmed masquerade mask was in place upon the upper half of a white powdered face; the only color present being the vivid green eyes and red painted lips. A hint of glamour could be detected, if one had the ability, and this magic further disguised the elf so that the points of her ears and the angle of her jaw were softened and slightly rounded.
The first sip on the punch didn't have him surprised. He was expecting the strength and bite from what he poured in it. The taste was bitter at the same time it was sweet as punch. Making his way through the crowd he gave Rekah a grin from beneath the hat and shadows.
There was no easy focus. People dancing. People talking. A mime. A man with floppy ears DJing. Jewell and Baker's conversation, which is a blast from the past. The first spiked punch was finished and he refilled it quickly. In that bit of black and velvet, with only the occasional shock of bronze skin, he wasn't easy to pick out from the crowd or the shadow. Let's not forget the woman who wore the baseball bat as a blade. He eyed the way she wore it more than a few times behind another sip. An errant card made its way from the table into the fabric surrounding his hat.
Barward, she seemed to float upon the toes of those boots, dancing along to the tune that drifted along the breeze. There was a cup of punch calling her name and a bottle of rum wishing to be mixed; she relented and soon began to further her enjoyment of the party. She gazed from behind that mask, taking in all of the other party goers, looking each over slowly before moving to the next. It had been so long since she had been out, so long since she had attended any party such as this; every detail was soaked in.
Had he taken another glass of spiked punch to pound town already? Yes. Now the music became the focus although he could still hear the conversations. The rhythm forced a sway at his hips, sifting the trench's low hanging fabric through all the shadow of the Glen. He turned and refilled the cup a third time. People dancing in time with the tune. This was an interesting one. But he didn't really like the beat. He stepped back and leaned predatory against the bar to watch behind the pulled low brim of his hat.
Rayvinn's gaze had traveled back to those near the bar where she stood swaying and her head tilted ever-so-slightly as she noted the side profile of a familiar face. He looked so very much unlike what she had seen of him in their recent adventures, missing the color changing cloak and ranger's gear. But the strong jaw and hard planes of his face were the same. She stared for a full minute, trying to see past that hat, trying to see if he possessed a scar over his eye.
He did. It just so happened. Even the shadows couldn't cover that febrile scar, streaking angry until his upper lip. Third glass of spiked punch down. He wore that grin so easy and lazy it was hard to tell it was him.
He was a man of his word. Nostrils flared, there were the familiar ones he knew, and then the not so familiar ones. But one he picked up easy amidst the others. But it was a night for false faces and masks. And thats what he wore. Gone was that stone statue of a face for all that mischief. He sipped slow now.
He did indeed wear that scar but he also wore a lazy grin that nearly made the disguised elf cackle in shocked glee. She had the upper hand because she could recognize him but she was disguised by makeup and magic both. Time to have some fun. That cup of rum spiked punch was tipped up for a long drink before being lowered. What should she say now that she had the opportunity to harass the normally stoic ranger?
But the punch was still delicious. So he drank it with big gulps and found that his hips betrayed his ability to resist the music. The rhythm had got him. He went first when she got close enough. "That dress has too much fabric." Just enough of a tilt of his square jaw upward to show the wink from beneath his hat.