Masquarade: Hide, so no one will find you-IC

A voice Flutters over everyone's head, familiar, yet unfamiliar all at once. It quietly floats by your ear, like the whisper of a kiss, and mumbles to you:
"Awaken."

She opened her eyes, finding the world around her to be framed. She recognized stars, a balcony, and a drink in her hand that was most likely alcoholic in nature. The woman took a step back, hearing the click of high heel shoes, and feeling something heavy sway by her knees. The girl looked down, spying a dress of long chaffon, tulle, silk and a built in, ribbed corset around her torso. She put a hand just above strapless rim, feeling a black lace necklace wrapped around her ne ck, and catching a lock of her own hair. Red, but not intense, just a soft cherry ginger...

But something peculier was situated on her left breast, just below the collarbone. She tenatively touched it, feeling something akin to a sticker. The red-head rose brown eyes to the open space, looking for something reflective. The glass doors, leading outside, would suffice. She carefully shuffled over and placed herself in front of it.

The dark lines belonged to a mask on her face-sequined, stiff, and covered in black and red- that seemed to lack any strings. She made a quick feel of the mask and saw that it did come off, and came back on with just as much ease. But, above all, she glanced at the sticker to her chest. It was a name tag, and while it read backwards, she could make out in handwriting: Patience.

It wasn't her name, she knew that somehow. But, for the life of her, she couldn't recall what her name actually was. The idea that she may have been drunk, lost, and alone in a strange outfit made her jittery, and she felt her fingers, covered in black, arm-length gloves, tap rather impatiently against her arm. Why was she here? What was she supposed to do? Why did she have the strangest feeling of meeting someone here?

"Will you marry me?

Her memory sang to her, growing too soft and fuzzy to understand when it came to her name. It was all she had to go on, and all she would let herself recollect. Growing weary of this self-absorption process, she ventured inside the glittering ballroom. Perhaps someone inside could tell her where she was; maybe even who she was.

A man starts awake, instantly claustrophobic, struggling around in pitch black. Finding a lightswitch, he slightly calms down, fear replaced eith confusion, as his surroundings indicate that he is inside a Coat Closet. He realizes that there is a fur coat in his hands, though he has no idea whos. He hangs the coat up, and looks down at himself, a black tuxedo indicating his presence at a party, though he has no clue what kind of party, nor why he is even there. He notices a piece of paper, a nametag, upon his lapel. He finds himself unable to remove it, though reading it upside-down reveals one word. Solomon. "Hmm. That's not my name" he thinks "but then... what is my name? Christ, i don't know my name!" He thinks in fear, unable to express it physically. He steels his nerves, and decides, for now, Solomon will do. He notices a white opera mask laying on a shelf, presumably his, as it was the only mask around. He puts it on and begins to ponder. "Now just what am i doing here?" He thinks, when suddenly, it comes to him a lady... a black dress... a man.. serving .. champagne? A balcony.... hmm.. "well then" he says to himself, "a lady in a black dress on a balcony, not much, but it's something. Perhaps she can tell me more" he thinks solemnly, with a bit of hope. He opens the door, and finds a serving boy "excuse me lad, did you see me enter with anyone? Perhaps a lady in a black dress?"

Awaken.

This single word sent a chill through the air, as if a window had been left open, allowing the cold winter wind to permeate the room. The man woke, his eyes groggily peeling open in a manner that suggested a very deep slumber. Indeed, he felt as if he had been sleeping for an extended period of time. His hands were holding his head up, and his fingers felt something strange covering his face. A mask of sorts, made of some type of spandex material. He could breathe and see out of it, so it barely concerned the man. What did concern him though, was his lack of alcohol. The man sat his hands down on the table in front of him, and he realized he was standing at a bar. The dark granite counter suggested he was in a rather high class place, and this was further reinforced when he looked behind the bar to see what drinks were being offered. The top shelf liquor at most ritzy parties he had been to didn't even hold a candle to the bottom shelf. It was a drunkard's dream. Before he could even speak, he heard a drink being poured, and a glass was slid his way, directly into his open hand, with long slender fingers instantly encasing the drink, as if a reflex of sorts. Looking down, he was delighted to see that it was a lowball glass of whiskey. The man also noticed that he was garbed in very fine clothing, a grey tuxedo. This was not uncommon for him, but what caught his eye was a name tag on his breast, which identified him as Laron. The name was not his own, he knew this. He brushed this off, for it was insignificant. The man whose name was not truly Laron pulled his mask up to expose his lips, allowing him to drink the beverage he so desperately needed. The brown liquid scorched his parched throat, a sensation that was very familiar and dear to him.

Laron placed his drink on the counter and looked up to thank the bartender who knew exactly what he had wanted, but there was nobody behind the counter. He did not find this strange, figuring that the barkeep had ran off to fetch more liquor. Laron turned from the bar, whiskey in hand, and observed the breathtaking view before him. It was a ballroom, mirroring those seen in the palaces of royalty. Large elegant columns lined the hall, with doors leading to other rooms, but there was no doubt this was the main area. The floor was purely white marble, and on the other side of the room were two sets of twirling staircases that led to the second floor, which overlooked the first. Laron noticed several people standing about, also seeming rather confused. It was then, with a drink finally in hand, that Laron realized he had absolutely no memory of this place. Had he passed out temporarily at the bar? No, he had been standing, and Laron knew that he hadn't been drinking, for he felt no effects of a hangover. Laron could barely remember anything either. He figured this was simply a temporary lapse he had, but knew this was too good to be true.

Laron finished his drink at the bar, and strode across the room with false confidence, his heels echoing through the almost silent room. As if on cue, music proceeded to flow through the air from some place he could not identify. The song being played was an orchestrated version of "Pavane for a Dead Princess," by the French composer Maurice Ravel. It was a charming, soothing piece, which greatly contrasted Laron's confused state. Laron was drawn towards the stairs for unknown reasons, but it was the only notable place to head to. He climbed the velvet red steps, one hand on the wooden railing, and was met with the sight of an entrancing young woman coming from what seemed to be a balcony. She wore an elegant red and black dress which complimented her flowing ginger hair, with eyes framed by a mask of sorts. He was at a masquerade, there was no doubt about this. But who was the host? Although slightly younger than him, Laron still figured that he would take his chances with this ravishing lady, who wore a name tag which revealed her as Patience. Laron hoped that she wouldn't be as clueless as he was. He approached the woman with confidence, and offered her his arm. "You look lost. Would you care to dance?" Laron asked, a small smirk visible on his lips. His voice was low, almost a growl, and sounded as if it had been soaked in a vat of bourbon and left in a smokehouse for several months. A charismatic feature, no doubt. He looked into the girl's eyes, although she would not be able to know this, for his were concealed by his mask.

A lady opens her eyes, as if just rising out of bed in the morning. She looked around the room with confusion and a slight panic. She didn't remember coming into this majestic place. SHe crossed the marble floor as her heels clicked against them. She squinted to see her reflection in the glass windows that were overlooking a beautiful green grass lawn. She gently reached her hand up and touched the soft embroidery surrounding her eyes. She pulled it off, so that she could see what was covering her face clearly. The woman looked down to see a beautiful pink mask with gold outlines and a dark pink feather. While holding the mask in her hands, she looked down and saw the elegant pink silk falling onto the floor. Looking back into the reflection of the glass she saw a piece of paper attached to the top of her strapless dress. She turned her head to read it better. Serenity. THat wasn't her name. She remembered what her name was, she just couldn't think of it at this exact moment.
The man's eyes shot open, as if he had been injected with adrenaline. His eyes quickly surveyed the ballroom, trying to see where he was. Just as he was about to take a step, he felt the pull of fabric at his legs. He looked down and saw himself in a tuxedo he didn't remember putting on. The man twisted his neck to read the label on his jacket. Andrew. A simple, yet timeless name. But something at the back of his mind told him that the name did not belong to him. He placed his hand on his head and leaned back against the wall. How did he get here without remembering a single thing? Andrew ran his fingers through his touseled hair and slid his hands down his face. He stopped and felt his way back up his face, feeling some strange patterns there. He tugged at it gently, afraid of the potential pain, and felt something slide off his skin. He turned the item and saw it was a mask. An elegant and subtle, black and gold mask. Andrew looked back up to the room and saw others with masks covering their faces. He placed his back on afraid to draw attention to himself unneccesarily.

His eyes snapped open at a whispered word. He immediately scanned the room out of habit, habit formed from what he couldn’t say. He was tucked away in a corner of a wonderful ballroom. He felt disdain for the room the décor and everything else but the booze that might be at the bar. He brought a hand to his head and thought for a second trying to remember.
What he came up with was next to nothing and that bothered him. He took it he was not a man that liked unanswered questions. One thing did come back to him his rate which was $35.50 a day plus expenses. What did he charge for? One guess was as good as the other and right now he didn’t want to guess not enough information.
Looking left and right he made his way to a mirror seeing other people but keeping his distance for the moment. He found out he did not like this tux or any other he’s pretty sure. It was too stuffy and he couldn’t move if needed. He longed for a hat pulled over his face and a long coat for why he still couldn’t say. Standing in front of the mirror he saw a tag on his lapel and studied it.
It read Pinkerton and immediately thought it wasn’t his name and was a horrible name for anyone else. But, given the circumstances he was stuck with it. He saw his mask also and again was hit with the sheer stupidity of it. It was half white half black with crimson fringe eh it could work. He saw other people around him and slowly walked up nodding with his hands in his pockets.

A gasp escaped the young woman's lips as everything came into view. It felt as though something was on her face, and she had been holding her breath. Something was clipped to the left breast of her flowing black dress, and she felt confused.

"Where's my husband?!" she questioned, looking around frantically. She couldn't think of his name, but she knew she was married to a man. She looked down at her finger, decorated with a nice looking diamond ring. She did not know where she was, but knew that the entire room was decorated in wonderful, bright lights and the patrons were dressed in brilliant masks, clothes, in many colors, shapes, and length. She didn't remember this place, but it was all vaguely familiar. She held her hand to her breast, then felt the little tag on her breast, and looked down at it.

Carmen

"But, my name is not Carmen..." she muttered to herself. She frowned a bit, and touched her lips with her fingertips. "I'm a married woman... with a lover..." she whispered, hoping her husband wasn't near. Not being able to remember her name for the life of her, she settled on using the name Carmen until someone told her otherwise. Carmen then touched the mask on her face, feeling Italian lace and a rose with a feather.

Without knowing where to go, Carmen began to wander and search for her husband or her lover.
---------------
Hearing the softest whisper, a handsome violinist opened his eyes and felt the instrument in his hands. His beloved violin, he can feel. He doesn't know anything about the people around him, but he does know that he just finished preforming a composition of his, and that he was in a Masquerade, however, he doesn't remember anything about the composition, who he is, or how long he has been in the Masquerade. He coughed a bit and looked at the dark brown violin, with a beautifully sculpted scroll and softly curved bouts. The bow is made of fine, white horsehair and is of the same wood as the violin.

He felt a name pop into his head. Antonio he heard, knowing his name is something different, but not sure what. Antonio, as he reached up to rub his forehead, felt a stiff and solid material on his face. He lightly pulled it off, incase it was attached somehow, then looked at the gold mask with a few musical notes on the lower right side. He placed it back on his face, then looked around at the numerous people around him, dressed in strange, colorful ways with each of them sporting a unique mask.

Zèklè

"Where am I?" came the confused murmurs of a 24 year old man with long, striking red hair as he glanced around a place far more elegant than any he had ever seen. After a few seconds, he realized two things: his hair was styled differently than it had ever been before, tied in an elegant fishtail braid, draped over his shoulder where it rested as if it had been there all its life. It looked odd to him though, suggesting it, in fact, didn't belong there. He carefully undid the braid, running his fingers through his silky smooth hair until it rested like it always had--tied back in a ponytail, which he promptly flung back over his shoulder so it rested on his back. The second thing he realized was that he was in a suit and, for some god-forsaken reason, it had a nametag on it. He scoffed and thought, Like I wouldn't know my own name!

He glanced down at the nametag, reading it upside down then blinked before his eyes stretched wide. "Holy crap, I don't know my own name!" He blurted out loud, jaw dropping in shock. He quickly recovered however and a smirk spread across his previously surprised features.

"...Zèklè..." he said softly, letting the word roll off his tongue. "Sounds sexy," he added, grinning, before swaggering off, feeling like something akin to a pimp in his fancy white suit. He'd be able to impress all the woman with this! Well, that and his dashing good looks.

After a few moments of aimless wandering, he found himself passing by some windows and couldn't help but turn to look at it, wanting to admire his dashing appearance one more time but from the way someone else would see it. For a second he didn't recognize himself and stared, reaching one hand gingerly up to his face and touching the strange mask laced with gold that rested on his face.

"What the hell?" he said softly, riveted to the appearance of the mask. It had to be worth a fortune! There was no way he could afford something like this nor would he! It was so impractical...but so stunning. It made him look even better than he already did. He smirked and strode away from the window into the party, his eyes peeled for all the sexy dames he was certain would be here.

It didn't take him long to find one, a lost looking young woman in a black dress with a huge diamond ring on her finger. He completely disregarded it, however, and approached her immediately, putting on his most charming smirk. He glanced down at her breasts, his gaze lingering much longer than it needed to as he read her name. "Hello, Carmen," he said, his voice oddly low and seductive.

Kuasa

Soft violet and ruby hair lightly brushed against her bare shoulders as she rested with her head against the cool marble of the bar's counter. Suddenly she jerked awake and glanced around a picture of pure confusion though her face glowed with a strange radiance. She looked up and around in wonder, taking in this strange place of beauty, elegance and mystery. She had to admit, she didn't feel uncomfortable, this sort of grandeur feeling familiar. But what didn't feel familiar was the looseness of her clothes and she glanced down, her eyes growing wide.

What kind of blasphemy was this?! Shad never worn a dress in her life nor had she planned to! Where was her...her what? Her other clothes, whatever they may be. Dismayed by her lack of memory, she glanced down at the dress for a while, a crooked half-hearted smile gracing her features. It was okay and eye-pleasing to look at it, just not on her. She turned back to the bar, staring at the wide selection of alcohol before her and immediately realized she was thirsty. When she heard the clinking of a glass being retrieved for her she murmured softly, "It's okay, I'm...pregnant..."

One of her rough hands immediately flew to her stomach and she felt the small telltale bump and gulped. She was pregnant...but for the life of her, the name of the father eluded her. "Oh god..." she muttered, her natural composure flying out the window as she snatched up the glass of water that she hadn't even realized was retrieved for her. She rushed off hurriedly, barely registering the soft click of kitten heels on the hard floor as she sought out the company of someone, anyone, who could make her feel sane.

Syre

Blood......rage......a dark haze that obscured his vision as he lay on the ground, remembering nothing...

As he awoke on the floor, curled up in a corner of an elegant room with two huge staircases, all he could hear was the loud roar of some terrible monster and glanced around groggily, unsure where he was or if he was about to be murdered by some terrible monster.

"Where am I?" he whispered as he sat up, feeling light-headed, hungry and thirsty. His stomach protested loudly, roaring for food, and he sighed, used to hearing it. He had never had much money or food as he grew up and often had to hunt for it, which proved difficult most of the time.

He rubbed his face with one hand and nearly yelped in surprise when he realized his skin was gone to be replaced with a strange substance that felt almost like scales. Had he mutated during his slumber?! He ripped off his face and blinked as he felt no pain. There was a mask of a blue dragon resting in his hand...why was he wearing a dragon mask? Hesitantly, he put it back on before glancing down at his body, feeling oddly uncomfortable. He immediately figured out why.

He was wearing an expensive but classic black suit that he had never seen before in his life with a silver tie skillfully tied around his neck. He eased his fingers in at the collar of his white shirt and tugged, trying to loosen it. He felt constricted by the clothing, his skin remembering the swish of clothes much looser than these. And those pants...they were horrid. They, too, were just as constricting as the top half of his outfit. For a brief moment he considered removing the pants but immediately realized there wasn't much underneath them. He blushed brightly, feeling like a complete and total moron for even thinking of such a thing.

Quietly he slunk off into the large room, hoping no one would notice him as he sought a different corner of it where he could be alone but not look like some drunk who had decided that it looked like a nice place to sleep off his hangover.

"Who am I?" he suddenly asked himself before glancing down at the suit again. He had seen something out of place on it and realized that it was a nametag that read 'Syre'.

"Syre? ...I guess that'll do...not like I can remember much else..." he whispered. Just then a tremor worked its way through his entire body, starting inside then working its way out. He groaned and doubled over, arms wrapping themselves around his stomach as he tried to get the feeling to pass. A few small beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead and before he even made it to another corner of the room he sat down hard in the middle of the ballroom, burying his face in his hands and closing his eyes as he tried to get the room to stop spinning.

Awaken

Her dark brown eyes opened as the words went through her head, like a whisper it was faint,but she knew she heard it. She shivered, feeling cold air hit her as a door opened. Her hands touched her bare shoulder and she looked down. She was wearing a dress, a beige ballroom dress with flowers decorating the slit's side. Underneath she could feel the tulle, it was what kept the dress so puffed out. On her right arm was a loose strap of the same flowers that were on the slit of the dress, it hung low exposing both her shoulders and arms. The dress was beautiful, gorgeous actually, something a princess would wear.
Am I a princess?
Her mind went blank. Was she a princess? No, she couldn't be. Than who was she? Her heart raced and her eyes widened. Touching her face she felt the mask.
Why am I wearing this? she thought and felt the cold material, almost like a smooth ceramic texture. Touching the mask she could feel indents and she wondered what it was. Looking around she searched for a mirror. The female began to walk, deciding to follow the music, laughter and voices. The closer she got to it, the louder it was until she looked in.
A masquerade.
It was breathtaking, the colors, the masks, the dresses the women wore. How they spun around the room as if they were little figures in a jewelry box.
The female was entranced, drawn to it, like a moth to a light. She walked around the dance floor, her eyes always flickering to the graceful dancers, or to the lovely painted walls, the high ceiling that had a gigantic chandelier to light the room, the marvelous pillars or classic paintings. Her hear swelled with all the beauty around her, a big excited smile upon her lips.
As she walked around she saw a bar, she wasn't one much for bars but there was a mirror, or at least something she could catch her reflection in. As she neared the bar, she also neared a man. Being silent, not to bug him she stood a little ways away and she faced her reflection. Her dark eyes peering through a mask looking back at herself. The indents in the masks were a series of music notes on a scale, she recognized all of those. She was of course a singer.
A singer. Yes, yes I am a singer
Her memory came back to her, and she focused. Her eyes closed and her hands were placed on the swirling carvings that framed the mask.
I was singing...to a husband and wife to be and there was a violin playing as I sung. Yes, yes I remember that part but... She opened her eyes to look at herself. How did I get here?
As her eyes looked around her figure, noting how her slim body look, how her boy-cut hair didn't look as awkward as she thought it would, she noticed a sticker with words written on the breast of her dress.
"Innocence." she touched the word.
What an odd name. But it is not my name though, I'm sure of it.
She looked at the crowd, her eyes searching the people around her.

A single word, fluttering through her mind and embedding itself to memory, made her jerk with a silent gasp falling from her parted lips. Awaken. it had whispered and she had. She was propped on a step to a large, elegant staircase, her shoulder leaning against the golden railing, her head had just been leaning with it. Slowly, she gazed around, confusion and panic filling her features. Where was she and why was she here? She leaned up more, her green eyes flickering all about. A worse question came to her mind then: Who am I? her breath caught in her throat as the panic grew inside of her. She grabbed onto the railing, pulling herself to her feet. The weight of her clothing surprised her and with wide eyes, she looked down. The beautiful and large, red, lacy dress she was in felt a hundred pounds and the high heels she wore made her feel as if she may fall any second. She kept hold of the railing, her heart a heavy thudding. She was alerted to the feel of something on her face and slowly, she reached up, her fingertips tentatively touching the object in question. It felt soft, with fabric and beads bushing from one corner, and what felt like little, plastic circles on the top. She grabbed the edge of it and slowly pulled, slightly afraid it wouldn't come off. But it came easily, the red ribbon it was tied with coming undone and spilling forth. She turned the mask over in her hand, staring at it in wonderment, before gazing around again. Slowly, she returned the mask to its original place, tying it back and softly brushing against her blonde hair that flowed around her shoulders. She picked up a strand of blonde hair, studying it and slowly laid it back down. She felt a tiny weight on her neck and her fingertips brushed over what felt a necklace that hung to the valley of her breasts. She followed the necklace before her fingertips brushed against something on her chest.

She jerked slightly and her eyes moved downward, her head craning to see a sticker on her chest. On it, in neat handwriting, was a name. Faige. it read. "Faige." she repeated out loud softly, to herself, as she traced the letters upside down. But her name wasn't Faige. She knew that. Her eyes drifted to the red of her dress as she tried to recall her name, something that was there but out of reach in her mind. Faige was certainly not her name, she felt like her name started with a different letter. So, what was it? Suddenly, she remembered something. In the depths of her mind, she could feel the soft petals of a rose, the red of her dress, the feel of a breeze pushing her hair from her face, and the crisp smell of the ocean, something she's only smelt a couple times in her lifetime. The memory rung out through her head, playing over and over like a movie. She closed her eyes, trying to recall anything else: her surroundings, the person who had given her the rose, the beach she was bound to be at because of the ocean, but nothing else came to mind. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared at the red of her dress. The same as the rose. Her fingertips grazed her dress, the silk soft and soothing in a way, before she looked up. She knew she had to get to the bottom of all this. Maybe there was a reason she remembered that one memory. Or maybe there wasn't. Either way, she knew she had to figure out why she was here and why she didn't know her own name, or worse, why she couldn't even remember herself. She began to walk down the stairs, still gripping the railing, cautious of the heels. She's worn plenty of heels in her life but even then, she was always careful in them, and it didn't help she felt heady, the confusion and memory swirling through her head and making it hard to think straight.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by ShiverShiver

Awaken.

This single word sent a chill through the air, as if a window had been left open, allowing the cold winter wind to permeate the room. The man woke, his eyes groggily peeling open in a manner that suggested a very deep slumber. Indeed, he felt as if he had been sleeping for an extended period of time. His hands were holding his head up, and his fingers felt something strange covering his face. A mask of sorts, made of some type of spandex material. He could breathe and see out of it, so it barely concerned the man. What did concern him though, was his lack of alcohol. The man sat his hands down on the table in front of him, and he realized he was standing at a bar. The dark granite counter suggested he was in a rather high class place, and this was further reinforced when he looked behind the bar to see what drinks were being offered. The top shelf liquor at most ritzy parties he had been to didn't even hold a candle to the bottom shelf. It was a drunkard's dream. Before he could even speak, he heard a drink being poured, and a glass was slid his way, directly into his open hand, with long slender fingers instantly encasing the drink, as if a reflex of sorts. Looking down, he was delighted to see that it was a lowball glass of whiskey. The man also noticed that he was garbed in very fine clothing, a grey tuxedo. This was not uncommon for him, but what caught his eye was a name tag on his breast, which identified him as Laron. The name was not his own, he knew this. He brushed this off, for it was insignificant. The man whose name was not truly Laron pulled his mask up to expose his lips, allowing him to drink the beverage he so desperately needed. The brown liquid scorched his parched throat, a sensation that was very familiar and dear to him.

Laron placed his drink on the counter and looked up to thank the bartender who knew exactly what he had wanted, but there was nobody behind the counter. He did not find this strange, figuring that the barkeep had ran off to fetch more liquor. Laron turned from the bar, whiskey in hand, and observed the breathtaking view before him. It was a ballroom, mirroring those seen in the palaces of royalty. Large elegant columns lined the hall, with doors leading to other rooms, but there was no doubt this was the main area. The floor was purely white marble, and on the other side of the room were two sets of twirling staircases that led to the second floor, which overlooked the first. Laron noticed several people standing about, also seeming rather confused. It was then, with a drink finally in hand, that Laron realized he had absolutely no memory of this place. Had he passed out temporarily at the bar? No, he had been standing, and Laron knew that he hadn't been drinking, for he felt no effects of a hangover. Laron could barely remember anything either. He figured this was simply a temporary lapse he had, but knew this was too good to be true.

Laron finished his drink at the bar, and strode across the room with false confidence, his heels echoing through the almost silent room. As if on cue, music proceeded to flow through the air from some place he could not identify. The song being played was an orchestrated version of "Pavane for a Dead Princess," by the French composer Maurice Ravel. It was a charming, soothing piece, which greatly contrasted Laron's confused state. Laron was drawn towards the stairs for unknown reasons, but it was the only notable place to head to. He climbed the velvet red steps, one hand on the wooden railing, and was met with the sight of an entrancing young woman coming from what seemed to be a balcony. She wore an elegant red and black dress which complimented her flowing ginger hair, with eyes framed by a mask of sorts. He was at a masquerade, there was no doubt about this. But who was the host? Although slightly younger than him, Laron still figured that he would take his chances with this ravishing lady, who wore a name tag which revealed her as Patience. Laron hoped that she wouldn't be as clueless as he was. He approached the woman with confidence, and offered her his arm. "You look lost. Would you care to dance?" Laron asked, a small smirk visible on his lips. His voice was low, almost a growl, and sounded as if it had been soaked in a vat of bourbon and left in a smokehouse for several months. A charismatic feature, no doubt. He looked into the girl's eyes, although she would not be able to know this, for his were concealed by his mask.

---

Another voice startled her into consciousness, breaking the initial torpor of entering the room. The gold, glittering halls were enormous and glamorous, mimicking the look and feel of some fairytale castle. Patience knew she should have known this place, and something in the back of her mind recognized it. She had been here at one time, a very familiar time, and had quite the time here. But, once again, her memory clouded over when she tried to place why. She only remembered, again, those words hanging around her like a tulle shawl.

Will you Marry me?

Who are you? She thought to herself impatiently, tapping the railing of the stairs. And why do I feel the compulsion to say yes?

But, as mentioned, her thoughts were gently brought back to her present situation, and the man approaching her on the stairs. He looked strapping in the tux, a frame that was both tall and well built. The off-putting trait came, ironically, from the mask on his face. She could see nothing of his face, and felt strangley uneasy about that. There was so much he could have been, and, as lost as she was, it could have been dangerous.

And yet, she felt that wondering around like a lost child was a lost cause. So, feeling brave tonight, she reached out and accepted the arm of the stranger.

"I'd ask for your name, but it seems unfair since I can't remember mine." she said. Still, she did catch the name on the tag. Laron.