You awoke one dreary morning to find that someone had slipped a crisp white envelope underneath your door.

The fine parchment was unmistakably addressed to you by your full name, penned by an elegant and sweeping hand, and wax-sealed with a familiar symbol: the wings of the Fowle Estate.

Lord Roderick Fowle had not been seen in over a decade; he had locked himself away inside Toadmere Rookery, the mysterious estate that overlooked Pallhallow, and never emerged nor admitted guests of any kind. The only proof that he still lived was the fact that his self-named ambassador, Micawber, daily passed in and out of the estate and conducted business on behalf of Lord Fowle. Micawber, though entirely pleasant in conversation, would only say that Lord Fowle was occupied by more important affairs. Anything more was only speculation on the part of the citizens of Pallhallow.

Inside this most curious envelope was an invitation, which read thusly:

---

---

In the week that followed the discovery of these invitations, Micawber was nowhere to be seen. The gates of Toadmere Rookery remained shut tight, and the estate itself loomed dark as the grave.

The day of November twenty-fifth dimmed to twilight. At seven o'clock -- punctually -- the gates unlocked and swung open on their own. Streetlamps lit up along the cobbled path to the estate, where warm lights glowed through the windows for the first time in ten years. The faint sound of music could be heard from the lawn.

Micawber stood inside the door, dressed in the finest blue corded uniform of a foreign general. Micawber requested the production of each guest's invitation, asked to take coats, and ushered the way to the bright open doors of the ballroom, but answered all other questions with a silent and courteous smile -- except, any question regarding the Lord Fowle would receive the same reply: "Lord Roderick Fowle will present a speech with which to open the first dance."

The luxurious ballroom had been fitted with fine blue curtains on the vaulted windows, gold-trimmed columns, and a painted domed ceiling that offered a breathtaking view of the artist's night sky, rarely seen through the perpetual clouds of Pallhallow. A long, white-dressed table was filled with silver platters of small delicacies, bottles of wine and rows of fragile glasses. Music filled the room, but there was no chamber orchestra: instead, the job had been delegated to a polished phonograph at the far end of the room.

As the phonograph repeated the same waltz a second and third time, it became clear that fewer than a dozen invitations had been received. There were far too few guests present even to hold a proper dance; every step and sound echoed in the empty ballroom.

Luca had been standing in the shadows near the gates of the famous Toadmere Rookery when, presumably at seven exactly, the gates had swung open. Upon entering, he offered the grim caretaker only a smile alongside his invitation, having neither questions nor coat for the man. Indeed, Luca's garments were different from his usual garb only in that they were made of finer cloth and for once, entirely clean.

His outfit, such as it was, consisted of a loose and billowy white shirt with large brass buttons remaining undone along the collar. His legs were clad in simple black pants, the ends of which dissapeared into fine leather boots. He had forgone his usual "cloak," a thin red coat worn nearly to a rag, instead sporting a maroon vest with golden trim. A wide belt of leather held the shirt and pants to his waist, as well as a small knife at the small of his back, hidden by the vest. Two simple bands, one gold and one silver, adorned the third finger of his right hand. All of this was of course stolen, which showed in the way that they were all slightly too large, as though made for a taller man. He thought his mask to be comically simple, a piece of black leather over the top half of his face as highwaymen and thieves of stereotype are wont to wear, secured by a black ribbon.

At least the boots fit well... Luca thought as his swaggering strides took him into the ballroom. Standing in the doorway for a moment, he looks around slowly to take in the scene before him. A smile spreads across his lips as he beholds the table, and he saunters up to it casually. Selecting and opening a bottle of wine at random, he proceeds to pour himself a glass.

Sophia wore a full formal dress fitting for the occasion. It was mostly a crimson red with black accents. This was a masquerade after all and she was a noble woman. She wore a cat like mask that covered very little of her face. Anyone could probably still see who she was. The mask was basically a pair of glasses. Her driver pulled up to the front gates of the Toadmere Rookery and politely opened the door for Sophia. Very gracefully, she climbed out of her carriage and approached the gates.

Sophia curtsied to Micawber as she presented him her invitation. When asked for her coat, She gave it up without trouble. It would have probably gotten in the way later if she kept it. She was then lead into the main ballroom. She was not impressed by the low turn out. She was honestly expecting more. This however did have all the hallmarks of a 'must go' event. It was exclusive and at an exclusive location and hosted by an mysterious man. She looked around the room to see that only two people were here already. Sophia made on attempt to greet these individuals. She wandered around the edges of the ballroom. She looked at the architecture of the vaulted ceiling, the arts pieces on the wall, and even the curtains over the windows.

Nothing felt right.

Lionel was, of course, no expert in the affairs of the gentlefolk. He was a simple man of simple means, hardly anyone to play at the delicacies of aristocracy. Thus, it had been utterly baffling when he received an invitation to Lord Fowle's gathering. The man had been gone so long that some people had just assumed that he had died without informing anybody. Now, suddenly, he was holding a Masquerade and inviting farmers and god-knows who else. It certainly couldn't come at a more awkward time, considering that November was harvest month. Still, he decided that an evening at Lord Fowle's manor couldn't do much harm. Lionel had dressed himself in his Sunday Best: a brown suit coat with a black-and-white vest underneath, just a little too large to fit comfortably. His mask was even less extravagant, crudely fashioned from whatever material was available, done only in the span of a week.

Nothing felt right.

Lionel couldn't escape the feeling that he wasn't meant to be here. Even when the caretaker took his coat and invitation without much question or remark, he still felt as though he was here by mistake, as though the invitation had come to him purely by accident. He didn't know the finer points of dining or dancing or dialogue. Not that it seemed to matter: the was hardly anyone around to begin with, and it didn't feel like there were going to be many more. Perhaps his ideas about what these balls entailed were simply incorrect? And yet...

Nothing felt right.

Even despite his simple birth, Lionel knew that something was off. He wasn't sure what, but there was a sort of disquiet that hung over everything like a cloud of miasma. He almost thought to leave before everything began, but decided against it. It would be rude to leave before anything had started, after all. He took to wandering aimlessly around, hoping to be as unnoticed as possible.

---

Max hurled obscenities at the crow perched on his mantle. His silver-tinged sideburns shivered with each curse and he managed to conjur up insults that surprised even him. The bird stared.

Max calmed himself. He debated. He weighed pros and cons. He decided.

"Very well Exegesis. You have persuaded me. I recant all of those foul words you forced me to utter-would you stop staring at me like that you cursed bird!" Max flung his teacup at the mantle; white and blue porcelain exploded above the fireplace. Exegesis took flight, screeching in delight.

"Toadmere Rookery..." mumbled Max. "At seven..." He looked at the Earl Grey dripping down the brick chimney. Maybe a party was just the thing he needed to clear his mind. He tried to recall who Lord Fowle was, where had he made the aquaintence? "I shall stuff you when I return Exegesis," cried Max gathering his cloak and cane. The bird had vacated the room.

---

In the dim twilight of the Pallhallow night, a man steps into the street. His silver-pommeled cane clicking and clacking over the slick cobblestone street, he makes his way through the quiet town and to the gates of Toadmere.

His attire is simple, but fine. Black cloak over dark grey vest and starched linen shirt. His velvet tophat covers a head of thick black hair, tied back with a red ribbon. On his lapel is a pin of the Magicians Circle-a silver raven and a willow tree. He wears a simple leather coat, with modest cuffs and a slim cut. Contained within are an assortment of wizardly accoutrement in various hidden pockets and pouches. His cane is actually a sword-cane, the pommel of which is a wild-looking gargoyle. The little beasts is smiling wildly, tongue out in cast silver relief. The blade within the wooden casing is fine Japanese tamahagene steel, a souvenir he picked up on his travels in the East.

As Max approaches the gates of Toadmere he is greeted by the caretaker-an androgynous giant in military regalia. With a flick of his wrist that is more habit than flourish he produces the invitation. "I'm afraid I shall have to keep my coat this evening. These old bones are not fit for this rainy English weather." The giant is looking at him strangely. It is then that Max realizes that the evenings event is a masquerade, and he without a mask at the gates.

"Ah," said Max tapping the grimacing gargoyle on the pommel of his cane. "No bother.." Max mutters a word or two under his breath as he begins walking to the large front door of the Manor. His face twists and shimmers, it melts and is, for a moment, completely gone. Then without pomp Maxs' face has become the spitting image of the Gargoyle, silver and scaly in a churlish grin. It is surprisingly lifelike...

Max enters the ballroom casually, noting the other handful of guests who have already arrived.
A scrappy fellow with ill-fitting clothes is already laying into the booze. Thief thinks Max absently. A gorgeous woman in evening attire and wearing a cats mask seemed to be inspecting the curtains..

He needed a hit. Lau had to stop himself drumming his fingers against the coach door for the umpteenth time. Yeesh, it had been...two weeks? Too long by far, somewhere out there was an empty bed in an opium den that cried out his name but instead here he was attending some ‘masquerade’, which had sinfully boring written all over it. Anything to take his mind off things, Lau began drumming his fingers again.

The relief he felt when the coach finally rolled to a halt in front of the gates was almost palpable. One of his attendants leapt down acrobatically in colourful attire and made a great show of opening the door then bowing almost to the floor. Lau Feng sauntered out garbed in deep crimson coloured robes with gold inlay, his hair tied back in a ponytail that fell almost to his waist and he wore a scowl on his face which managed to mix both impetuousness and boredom.

Flashing his invitation to the androgynous doorman Lau slipped on his mask, an ornate dragon design, and watched as his coach rolled away. If nothing else it would be nice to have an evening away from his father’s ‘baby-sitters’.

Early? Was the though that struck Lau as he entered the extravagant if rather empty ballroom. He shrugged it off and made a beeline for the food and drink swiftly munching down a couple of prawns. After satisfying his hunger he then set to satisfying his curiosity.

“What you know about Lord Fowle?” Lau asked quite abruptly, his heavy accent showing as he wiped his hands on a napkin and turned to a man near him wearing a highway mask and ill-fitting clothes.

Harvey walked down the street absentmindedly, fiddling with his apparel. It was very different from his usual attire. He wore a white dress shirt with a maroon vest that had black metallic buttons. A golden pocket watch chain hung from his vest pocket. His slacks were pin striped black with shined black shoes. A black tie and overcoat completed the outfit. His brown wild hair was combed back in a gentlemenly style and his face recently shaven. He would of been extremely attractive had it not been the lines in his face and hard stare. He pulled his gray trench coat tighter around him as a breeze chilled the slick English streets and a drizzle befell the city. He approached the Toadmere Estate and stared for a moment in awe at the size of it. The owner's assistant greeted him at the gate, a large man but pleasant enough it seemed. Harvey presented his invitation and took out his mask, a golden owl, and adorned it, effectively hiding his face save for the mouth and eyes. He nodded to the caretaker and made his way inside.

The ball music played eerily through the ballroom and Harvey found himself surprised to see the significant lack of people here. He immediately found this suspicious, Why would a reclusive lord invite so few people to a supposed masquerade. While they all wore masks, Harvey could tell the wealth of these people from the clothes they wore. Some people of obvious wealth, of course. But then a few who wore rather average or even poor attire, as if they were from the working class. What was this mysterious lord up to? The caretaker appeared as if out of nowhere to take his coat. "Thank you." he said, making his way deeper into the room. He spotted an older man with a top hat who still had his coat on. "Greetings." he approached, hands behind his back. "Some party this is, eh?"

This place was huge. And no, that wasn't a compliment.

Jael liked to think her job had its ups and downs. Right now, she was in the middle of a big down. She was walking the perimeter of the rookery. She had done this before, many times actually during her two month stay. She was refreshing her memory on places to hide, how far the tree line was from the mansion, any faults in the fence around the estate, anything she could use. More importantly she was seeing if Lord Fowle had increased his security for the party. To her shock, he hadn't, leaving the house guard at a staggering one man.

As stray rain drops pattered down on her leather hood, Jael let out a shiver. English weather was always bloody horrible, but when the good old fall temperatures started rolling in you could always count on a nice added chill to the bone. While things would be even more stressful inside she couldn't wait for the warmth the mansion offered.

As she finished her patrol and came back around to the gate Jael noticed one of the party goers making his way up. She stood in the tree line until the man was inside, no need to try an explain why she was prowling in the woods.

On the path to the house she began to adjust her black cloak and jacket, unwrinkle her leather gloves, shake her boot to try and jog loose that pebble that was lodged in it, and pat herself over to make sure none of her 'contraband' was in plain view. First appearances were everything. Make them think you're lazy or a slob and they'll never shake that feeling.

She gave the warmest smile you'd ever see and handed her invitation to the servant. When he asked for her coat she gave a small shake of her head and said, "I'm still freezing from the rain and cold. But uh-" She took the cloak she had over top off and handed it over. "You can take this, I suppose.." She paused. "If that's okay.." She asked meekly. Always make them think you're harmless, small.

While she was cold, the reality was she wasn't keen on handing over her coat filled with knives, poison, piano wire, and even more things she didn't care to get into.

Man didn't seem to care all to much. So she smiled and walked in. Donning her mask, which really was just a ripped piece of fabric with some string on it and two eye holes.

She was an assassin, not a seamstress!

As she walked in Jael let out a small gasp in wonder.. Well she pretended to anyway, at this point in her job she had seen more ballrooms and fancy dining rooms than she cared to talk about. They had lost that whimsical effect after the first dozen or so.

She didn't notice any sort of organization to the party. People were milling about, some talking to each other, some hopelessly trying to blend in with the walls, one man was getting piss drunk off wine already, and one lady was faffing about with the curtains. Right.

More importantly she didn't notice anyone resembling the Lord Fowle. Granted the only picture she had seen of him was ten years old, she was doubtful of any of these people turning out to be him.

Jael debated whether or not to question people to see if they had any new information. But she knew that the odds of that were slim. She had already questioned half the people in town under the guise of a census taker. All the stories were pretty much the same. The old man kept locked up and his servant came to town for food. Everyone had a different idea on why Fowle stayed in the rookery but Jael wasn't interested in speculation. Plus all the guesses were fairy tales at best and ignorant lies at worst.

What she really needed to do was snoop around the house before the party actually started. But she would need a distraction for her to slip by unnoticed.

So she decided to head to the banquet table and piss off the drunk guy.

---

Max was regretting his decision to attend. He tugged at the polymer mask on his face.Childish tricks he thought. A hose tucked in his sleeve had 'conjured' the mask. It had taken Max ten hours to design and craft the thing from a weird polymer he had discovered in his travels. Of course he had always planned to attend the masquerade, it was just more fun to yell at his birds, but it was a dreadfully dull affair as of yet. Maybe he should antagonize the thief...Max began stepping towards the banquet table only to be approached by a studious looking gentleman.

"Some party this is eh?" said the man.

Don't I know him? thought Max, extending his hand in greeting. "Quite the party," said Max smiling behind his mask. He realized his gargoyle visage was smiling as well and this made the real Max smile even wider.

"Max Fuchs. How do you do? Let's get a drink!"

“What you know about Lord Fowle?”

"Not a damn thing," Luca replies smoothly to the abruptly asked question, not even looking up as he pours his third glass of wine for the evening. Deciding that the mild buzzing in his brain was enough for now, he replaced the cork and settled the bottle among its many companions. Instead of just downing this glass like he had the previous two he sipped at it and made a small pleased sound.

"Anyway, isn't it polite to introduce yourself before asking questions of a body? Name's Luca, if you care to know." Taking another sip of wine, he turns to the man asking such questions, not surprised to find that it was a foreigner who had such a heavy accent. The same twisted smirk that had lit Luca's face when he first saw the wine was still fully in evidence. It only widened as he looked past the Asian man to note a raven-haired woman apparently approaching them.

"And hello to you as well, lovely lady. Might I interest you in a glass of wine?" Luca's greeting was accompanied by an attempt to gently take her hand and kiss the back of it. He was only really there to have a good time, after all, what event could truly be called fun without a beautiful woman?

Harvey smiled himself, something he had not done in a while. "Dr. Harvey Hudson, formerly of Oxford University." He joined the man at the table, taking a bottle of red wine and uncapping it, looking around the ballroom. "I find it quite odd that a Lord host a party with no servants but his peculiar grounds keeper." He grabbed two glasses, pouring one for him and Mr. Fuchs. Setting the bottle down, he offered the glass to the gentleman. His gargoyle mask was quite unnerving and it was no doubt a custom job. Harvey wondered if the man made it himself. Then it hit him. "You're that illusionist, aren't you?" he asked, sticking a hand in his pocket. Ever since he was a boy he was a fan of magic and fantasy and the like. Which had drawn him to science, so he could create his own magic and fantasy in a way. "Yes, I believe I've seen your posters around town. You're quite popular these days." Harvey took a sip of his wine, which he imagined was a strange image with his ornate golden owl mask on.

---

Max took the glass of wine offered him by the doctor and regarded it through the eye-holes of his mask.

"You're that illusionist, aren't you?" asked the Doctor.

Max nodded removing his mask. "And you must be the Doctor that lives in that enormous house on the hill. Well met sir. Any interesting discoveries lately? Experiments? I find science a close relative of illusion, two sides of a coin I dare say!" He imagined they might strike up a friendship at some point, Max's work was based on various sciences after all; although not the deep, hard science this man clearly practiced. Perhaps there is something I could learn from this man..

He took a long sip of his wine. It was good-a table blend. Mellow. Low-acid. Max surveyed the room idly chatting with the Doctor. Another woman approached the bar. She looks...out of place thought Max. "Do you know the Lord of Toadmere Doctor Hudson? I'm afraid I've never met the man myself. Rather mysterious."

"And you must be the Doctor that lives in that enormous house on the hill. Well met sir. Any interesting discoveries lately? Experiments? I find science a close relative of illusion, two sides of a coin I dare say!"

Harvey was beginning to like this fellow. He leaned in close and looked around, saying quietly "Well, I do much research and I think I've found something that can be an interest to someone like you. You see, I recently did a study on light and how it interacts with interfaces around it. And I daresay, I've found a way to bend it to my will." He said proudly, an exciting light in his eyes. "I won't reveal all the details, but I'm working on a device that will manipulate the light to where you can appear invisible. Come to think of it, I believe many of my studies could prove useful to you. Perhaps I can give you a tour of the laboratory." He took another sip of the wine. While he enjoyed the pure discovery of science, Mr. Fuchs was very popular and the revenue from his shows could fund future experiments. He frowned a bit at his next question and shook his head. "Never met the man, honestly until today I thought of him as a bit of an urban legend."

She looked at the architecture of the vaulted ceiling, the arts pieces on the wall, and even the curtains over the windows.

The high ceiling was ribbed with sturdy metal beams, painted blue and black and violet to match the starry mural. These same metal beams extended into the thick pillars that lined the walls. The walls themselves were unusually thick and solid -- this was masked by the expert arrangement of the curtains around deep windowframes, the delicate gold patterns on the columns, and the polished short hallway that the guests had walked through in order to enter the ballroom. Even the windows were sealed, made of thick glass and reinforced by an ornate web of metal. One might suppose, with some thought, that this room had originally been built to withstand disaster before it had been converted into a ballroom.

There were no framed artworks on the walls; instead, murals of stylized, life-size deer had been painted throughout the room. They were captured mid-leap, or with their heads bent to feed, or staring with golden eyes into the distance.

---

The fourth repetition of the waltz ended; there was a brief pause of crackling silence before the pompous tuba filled the room again -- the same song, a fifth time, began again.

Micawber appeared at the double-doors through which they all had entered. Instead of stepping into the room, Micawber respectfully pulled the doors closed, as if to give the partygoers their privacy.

The waltz, in the middle of the melody, suddenly stopped. The record kept turning on the phonograph.


A man's voice spoke through the phonograph.


The room began to vibrate ever so slightly; it might not have been noticeable, except the wine glasses rang against one another.

The doors of the ballroom were locked.



The room was quite definitely vibrating now. The wine bottles clattered. From under the floor came the faint but distinct sound of steam hissing.



CLACK

CLACK

CLACK

CLACK

Something huge, metallic and ominous resounded behind each of the walls of the room, like an enormous lock being turned. The room was shaking violently now; chairs toppled, glasses shattered, plates of food clattered messily to the floor. The lights on the walls flickered.

Suddenly, the floor dropped a few inches and then stopped. A quieter, faster clanking noise resounded throughout the room from behind the walls. Should one look out the reinforced window, one might see the ground rising up past the windowpanes.

Like an elevator, the entire ballroom was being lowered into the ground.


The room jolted, and the phonograph's needle scratched and bounced out of place. When it began to play again, the pompous waltz started up in the middle of the blaring chorus, louder among the shaking and clanking and clattering and rumbling of the room.

Metal and rock rose up past the windows, faster and faster, as the ballroom left the surface world behind.

The music being replaced so abruptly prompted Luca to turn in the direction of the phonograph. He hadn't really been paying attention to it to begin with, but he certainly noticed when it stopped. The crystalline ringing of wine glasses so near to him kept him from noticing when the doors were locked. He was sad to see that the party, such as it was, seemed to be over. It appeared to him, however, that the festivities may also be just beginning.

When the vibrating of the room began to increase in magnitude, it gave Luca some idea of where things were going. Retaining his mostly-full glass in one hand, the thief picks up an unopened bottle in the other before moving to the nearest wall. On his way, he nearly laughed at the idea that anyone at all trusted him, let alone the reclusive Fowle. That Micawber had been watching did not come as too much of a shock though, as the lord would have to have some way of obtaining information and supplies. He made it to the wall just as the loud clacking started to commence. Leaning against it, he looks warily at the floor.

Bottles and glasses crash to the ground, and the lights flicker around them all. It felt like his heart jumped into his throat when the room dropped, and his wine sloshed over the edge of the glass to stain the end of his sleeve. Cursing, Luca drained the glass before depositing it upside-down atop the bottle in his other hand, his forefinger holding it in place. He glares across the room at the phonograph, imagining that this is all some twisted prank for a moment. Glancing around, he catches one last glimpse at the sky beyond the windows before the room is swallowed whole by the earth.

The clacking sped up until a terrible, resonant whirr roared behind the walls; stone and cogs flung past the windows. Paint chips and bits of plaster rained down from the crumbling mural on the ceiling. Fissures cracked and split up the walls.

A high-pitched, metallic SCREECH caught their descent in a lurching, nauseous stop. The last of the glasses and tableware crashed to the floor; wine pooled and dripped into spreading puddles. The phonograph and its table had toppled and twisted. For a suspended moment, the absence of sound rang in their ears -- then the room dropped the last six inches and slammed into the ground below.

Everything had stopped, silent. Bits of dust and plaster floated in pools of wine and spilled food. The locks on the doors clicked open. The phonograph made broken whirring and clicking noises, on its side on the floor. The gas lights on the walls had stopped flickering and shone brightly once again.

There was only darkness and stone outside the windows.

Should the doors be opened, the partygoers would be hit with the musty smell of old pine needles, damp stone and rotten meat. Outside the doors was a clear sight to the wide mouth of a cavern and the bluish glow beyond it, like shining moonlight.

Between the doors and the way out of the cavern, something was breathing.

It was scaly, clawed and sharp-toothed, and it was curled in an elephant-sized sleeping ball just outside the ballroom doors. Broken branches and old bones littered the floor.

Somehow, the crash and racket of the ballroom's descent had failed to wake the tyrannosaurus.