Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Official Masquerade Topic - Winter 2020

Sleepy silver eyes continue to carefully consider those present. They do not linger long, seeming to flit away just before they are caught, simmering with intrigue. The matter of their arrival here was magical in and of itself. The variety of others lured from other lands- other worlds, even- is enough to sate even the wildest imaginations. His feathery head dipped in return to the Noble who called the cheer. Mute approval passed over the very helpful individual (Alyda) aiding the champion rhymer. Curiosity had his stare fixed, for a moment, on a pet dragon (Sarthelia's) picking at a plate. Then, something wonderfully small (Look) bolted by his boot. Adjusting the parcel he'd carried close, the falcon's focus was lost to the partygoers completely. He spent some time scouring the ground in search of the scurrying distraction. Only when he caught wind of the gift-giving did he return to the present, keeping to his comfortable sideline to gauge how the hostess received favors.

"Is a pretty rose," the Duchess corrected Alyda, with a gentle firmness. There's a sparkle in her eye that underscores the significance of this statement. Her lips part in delighted surprise as the mysterious royal presents her with a gift, but she raises her gloved hands, refusing to take the package. "My my, how generous and thoughtful! But I could never accept something in return for simple hospitality. Please, give it to our friend over there," she gestures to Serthelia who sits at a nearby table. "She was one of those who saved our refreshments from all being stolen by hungry spirits!"

The slight point of the Duchess' ears may hint at some fae heritage? In which case, accepting a gift would create a debt she'd be loathe to accept lightly.

It takes nearly being stepped on by one of the guests to break him out of his trance, but he does jump and run out of the way! It's just his bad luck that in doing so, he's also jumped into the nearest table leg, and small as he is, it's still enough to knock over a stray bowl. He barely has time to hope it doesn't break in the grass, before it swallows him completely.

At first, there is no reaction. Eventually the bowl begins to crawl its way through, weaving between the crowd and underneath the tables. There's the occasional pause and tapping though.

Some hours later, the Sword finally returned. His expression couldn't be seen under the mask, but his shoulders were slumped and his gait slow and shuffling. He rounded the side of the manorhouse and returned to the glade, where he paused and looked across the gathering. It seemed there had been some shenanigans in his absence, and there were some new masks in attendance. The Sword goes to stand in front of the glowing rose, gazing up at it.

There was something peculiar about the way the Duchess insisted to correct the statement about the rose. Perhaps even more peculiar was that she refused to take the gift and hand it over to the hero herself. After all, it wasn't the Princess who had to thank the hero and to her it seemed almost inappropriate. Then again, she knew better than to disagree with or to disobey the host and so she nodded, her lips that had formed a doubting line for a split second returning to their former smile.

"Very well then. It shall be given to her as you desire, Your Grace." She said, turning to the hero and walking towards her at her regular pace. In the back of her mind a memory tugged on her, reminding her of places and races where accepting things were reason for favors that had to be repaid. She didn't pay it any attention though, the knowledge not seeming important as she wouldn't speak on the subject in this situation.

As she reached the table and the woman, she handed over the wrapped gift by placing it on the table.

"Anything that it's told, it will remember. It will only repeat what it's told once it hears the voice of the person who spoke what was told first. If you want it to forget, you must command it to forget. Make sure to command, not tell as it will otherwise remember that it was told to forget without forgetting." She stated, as if those were the most simple and obvious rules in the world and there wasn't much more to anyone having such artifact in their possession.

The Duchess' attention turned to the bowl currently crawling and tapping its way across the yard. With an arched eyebrow, she takes a few steps to close the distance and stoops, her skirts billowing around her, to carefully lift the bowl. "Well, hello there..! And who might you be, little friend?"

Caught mid-tapping, he stumbles, only managing to avoid falling by using his paintbrush as an awkward cane. The panic of being discovered is only momentary, and he manages a shy wave of hello to the very pretty lady.

He’s about to try to mime the answer to the question when he remember that wait! He’s in disguise! He points to his paper lion mask, and tries to puff up his stance. A mighty beast!

Oh right! He holds out the missing invitation, waving it around in the air before smacking his own face with it. Then he holds it out to her, tilting his head questioningly.

Alfred had come in through the back entrance, from where he had taken his leave several hours earlier to eat, drink, and become increasingly merry. He was on the verge of losing his wits before and the fresh, frosted air and a belly full of good food was just what he needed to jump back into the fray.

And what a fray it turned out to be. Things seemed more.. Messy, more empty, than the last time he was inside. He had wondered what the clattering was. There had been nothing but absurdities since he arrived there earlier. He blended in perfectly well. It made him relax some, with help from the wine he had previously grabbed, and began admiring the different beings there. Until he noticed the rose and how it had seemed to shed it’s pedals.

He walked over to it, just behind The Sword, and after some gazing himself asked, “What do you think it means?”

"Ahhh, of course," breathes the Duchess, casting an eye over the invitation the little figurine proffers her. "The mighty beast that I summoned to pace at my side and guard me from wicked guests. Perhaps my little lion would like to ride on my shoulder in order to keep best watch?"

Her peace of mind had returned; a slow turn about the grounds had been just what she needed. Coming back into the light of the dancefloor and main gathering area, the Dragoness' countenance was once again calm and quiet, though she seemed a bit tired now, her pale blue eyes surveying the grounds. Things seemed quieter than they had been when she left, and several new faces had appeared.

As she'd done when she first arrived, the solitary figure lingered on the edge of the gathering, searching out a familiar mask or perhaps someone new.

Oh!! From the way he’s jumping up and down, he’s pretty excited! He even holds out his paintbrush like a sword—do lions have swords? This one does!

He does slow down a little though, a little sheepish. Is she sure? What about the invitation?

The Sword folded his hands behind his back and tried to stand a little straighter. It wouldn't do to sulk at this magical place. He heard a voice from behind him and glanced back towards Alfred. "'Tis a time-keeper, lord," he said, his green eyes returning to the softly glowing bloom. The enchantment still had a few hours left--there was still time left for him to find the Sun.

Upon witnessing the way their host graciously tried to redistribute a favor, the falcon carefully set aside his glass. That cobalt parcel was secured to a hip, bound by the golden rope which kept it drawn shut. He was inwardly grateful that the other's attempt enabled him to avoid any awkwardness. The stranger was still mulling over the matter of the soiree itself when another mystery resurfaced: that of the very tiny thing which had been bolting across the gala's ground. He was certain that was it, scooting beneath a bowl some ways away, though the hostess herself had already spied it. With the loose engagement of one reading an excellent book, he watched with a mesmerized mien. Of all things, it was a wonderfully small, perfectly charming puppet. It moved in a way unbefitting a mechanism; there was no stiffness to the smallest partygoer, but in fact something organic about the way it was smashing an invitation against its own face. It seemed to be asking the same question the falcon had been wondering for some time: how, and why, had the invites reached them? Perhaps some mysteries were best left unsolved, and the investigative bird would be left with this inexplicable memory, like a dream from one's childhood. One new tidbit he had discovered was among the few certainties- that he did not care for brandy. With many eyes upon the hostess, or directed at her most mysterious rose, the falcon deftly dumped the contents of his cup into a nearby potted plant. One trouble solved.