Post written partially in collab with @Lady Selune

Lady Monica Wellington-Smythe had been quite pleased to receive her invitation to the masquerade, though her ego had received somewhat of a blow when she’d heard that her connection to the underworld of London, Renee Bellerose had received one just as well. Perhaps it was less of a recognition of her skill, rather than calling her and this other woman there as a subject to talk about? But then again, how would one recognise the duo if everyone was wearing masks? It was not quite like they would be acting affectionate with each other, despite what the rumourmongers might try to sell it off as.

Now on this night, the night of the masked ball, Monica had been hard pressed to leave her usual favourite, the colour of red, behind. She had even put on a wig to hide her hair, one of those really overshooting carnival kinds one could once have expected to see in the French court. Her dress was blue as well, with a couple small pillows at her hips to make the dress flow better. As she pressed the beaked mask onto her face, she asked a question from Renee, the shadowy individual enjoying her company much like she had the habit of doing. “Are you ready yourself? It is soon that we will need to leave if we want to arrive on time.”

“You underestimate how quickly I can get ready.” The French woman let out a soft little laugh, before standing up from her rather comfortable seat. In doing so, she revealed her outfit- a muted purple thing, that nonetheless managed to look quite fetching. Her corset was perhaps over tight, but she knew that her figure was not exactly a noble one, and anything that would help correct it, if even for the night, would be a great help.

The clothing itself was perhaps a little racy, but a masquerade was a chance to show off without being judged- and she had her mask to ensure that she would, indeed, not be judged. The top part of the dress was low cut, revealing more than just a hint of pale skin, a deep, copper-red gemstone clinging to her throat, settled as it was within her choker. Dusting the entire outfit down, she turned one way, then the next,before offering a little bow to Lady Monica. “All that is left is my mask, and I have that sorted out. How do I look?”

The Parasol-toting Poet picked up yet another one of the aforementioned accessories from her stores and twirled around, her dress barely rising enough to show a shoe. Truly, there was a somewhat sharp contrast in the modesty of their outfits, something one might not exactly have expected from a poet of the Nocturnal school of though. She let the midnight blue parasol open behind her back as she leaned it against her shoulder and raised her fingers to the top of her collar, that being at the point where her neck transitioned to her head. “It might be a bit on the side of my penmanship, dear. Quite fetching, I would say.”

Monica weaved onward from her little corner, dodging the coat rack and the edge of some painting with the open parasol behind her. She moved on to check her visage from the mirror she had on her table, happy with the result. For what she was considered, especially as she tapped on the small pocket between the whalebones that made up the creaky core of her corset. Her self-defence was just as present.

“Well, how can I disagree with m’lady?” Reaching down, behind where she had been sitting, she pulled out her mask. This, unlike the common style of birdlike or even in the operatic, had a button-like nose, painted in a deep purple, and then carefully crafted whiskers, which she had learnt were made from horsehair. A cat’s face would gaze out, Bellerose smoothing down the sides before reaching deep into a pocket. One click. The face of the pocketwatch sprung open. The little hands moved quickly. It was perhaps not as intricate as the ones that were crafted by the Rattus, but nonetheless it was still a fine piece of work. “Plenty of time as well.”

“Good. Best we be there early. You never know if we happen to run into some difficulties on the way. This is London after all”, Lady Monica responded and began making her way out. It would not take long for them to arrive to the streets before the Shuttered Palace. The two were lucky to catch the attention of a hansom cab nearly immediately after arrival. An address was given and the two settled in comfortably.

The venerable hansom would be a fine way to arrive, but, as did all methods of transport, it was not instantaneous. “So, will any of your… Associates from the society be here. Or are you not aware, m’lady.” It wasn’t phrased like a question, but yet, it was one. She lifted up her mask briefly to rub her nose, covering for the sniff that she had managed at the mention of the society. She had ruined quite a few good jackets having carried back bloody baggage.

“If you remember, I did not know you were attending until you told me to. Nobody else has mentioned anything of the sort to me either. But we may have a run in or two. They simply would not want to make it obvious, I’m sure”, Monica hypothesised. A casual observation to a casual not-question. She wasn’t one to use her resources on trying to find out who went to which parties and whatnot. She took a brief peek into the small purse that was hanging from her shoulder, an unusual choice of attire with a dress like hers. She had to carry her Echoes somewhere. It wouldn’t be on her person at the party either way. With not much more of importance being spoken, the poet was left gazing out of the window at the passing buildings. Thankfully the venue was not far.

Yet they would not be the first to arrive. After a while the carriage got stuck behind a sedan chair carried by two clay men. “Someone is trying to make an impression”, the poet commented dismissively. But once the chair stopped before their destination as well and a pair of figures, a male and female, climbed out of it, she did realise something. “Oh yes… we cannot exactly be seen leaving the same carriage. People would get the wrong idea.” She tapped the shutter the driver could use to talk with those in the cab and surely enough it opened a moment after.

“Ye?” the young man asked, to find a generous amount of pennies placed next to him.

“One of us exits. You go around a few blocks and return. Let the other off. That should cover the fare and more”, Monica instructed them with a stern tone. It was nothing spectacular for the driver though. These things happened often enough, in avoidance of scandal. They grunted affirmatively and once the spot was vacated by the clay men, the carriage moved in to let the poet out. And so the youngest of the Wellington-Smythe moved on to join the masquerade they had been invited to.

The, rather prudent decision made, the watchmaker crossing her legs rather daintily and waiting. And waiting. The hansom pulled out and clattered across the streets, and then had to rejoin the line. When, finally, they had arrived for the second time, she adjusted her choker and stepped out, giving her pocketwatch one last check. Still early, too. Excellente. Making sure her mask was neatly fitted, she took a few steps forward and vanished into the milling peoples, her mask being lost among all the rest.

The masquerade was held at a townhouse of sorts. An odd choice, if one assumed them to be anything of the scale of Mr. Wines's usual revels. But that was exactly the thing: This was a much smaller of a gathering. Naturally some of Lady Monica's masquing would be undone by how she refused to leave a parasol home, but who would suspect she would do such a move after changing so much else? Ah, there was a man with the face of a bespectacled clay man for a mask. Charming. The walls were covered with expensive tapestry and as she handed over her purse to the man manning the coat rack, she could just barely make out the flash of a special constable's badge under his coat. Oh? This could prove to be a very interesting event indeed, after all.

Hah, that man was wearing a mask from the festival of the exceptional rose. Cheap or poor, Monica could not tell. The faded suit the man wore might also be a simple disguise. Ah, if only she had the eyes of her agents. Wait, was that woman pouring a glass of the First Sporing... no, she only bore a close resemblance to the Swede. She was not the agent. A shame, that would have been most entertaining. Picking herself a plate and a few rubbery lumps imported straight from Mutton Island (according to the sign at least), Lady Monica wedged herself into a conversation with a few fellow masked individuals. Their subject, too, was to find out why? Why was this masquerade? Little did they know, that answer would be provided to them on a silver platter in just a short while.

"I must compliment you on your choice of mask, madam," a warm baritone said from roughly the level of Renée's elbow as she ascended the steps. A black-furred feline sat statuesque upon the banister with his luxurious tail curled around his paws. "Not a standard choice, yet not as uncommon as some I've seen. I noticed one man with the visage of an elephant. A singular choice, to be sure, bold and a bit exotic, but overall I think the decision an unfortunate one. It did not flatter him. Quite the opposite in your case, I assure you." He blinked yellowy eyes -- no wait, were they green? -- up at her as he rose to his paws, extending his claws in a graceful stretch that just avoided leaving marks in the wood's finish.

"And if it is not too bold of me, perhaps you would permit me to accompany you for at least a little while. I assure you, I will not muss your garments nor leave fur upon them, I promise you." His whiskers angled gently upwards with the question, ears turning forward in anticipation of her response. If she aquiesced, a smooth leap brought him to her shoulder where he artfully draped himself like a warm, velvety shawl, face on one side and tail at the other.

In truth, Schrödinger had little need of assistance to find welcome. The Duchess had not been invited, but that hardly stopped him. Servant entrances made gaining access to many places a trifle, but in this case he's used the attention paid to the arriving guests to slip inside unseen -- and no one would eject a cat from this sort of thing. Cats were the secret-keepers of London; he'd glimpsed a few of his brethren padding silently through the noise, and what they overheard would bring status to some and scandal to others.

"I won't ask your name given the circumstances, dear lady, but I should like to know what you wish to be called for the evening. As for myself, I believe 'Ro' shall do nicely."

@shylarah

Renee was far more used to catching cats than she was cats catching her. Whilst she had seen the felines padding about, of course they would be hard to miss, and nobody would be shooing them away, she had not expected one to strike up a conversation with her. She listened carefully to his words. Cats were tricky creatures- that was half the reason she was wearing her mask, after all, and it would be prudent to avoid giving too much information away to the other... Attendee. Yes, attendee would be the right phrasing here. She had the odd feeling of wanting to pet him, but refrained from doing so, instead merely cocking her head ever-so-slightly until he was done stretching.

When he asked to accompany her, of course she could do nothing but comply. "I don't see any reason why not." A bobbed head and what could have been the start of a curtsy, stiffening as he leapt up onto her shoulder. He was certainly real, that much was certain, since she could feel his weight on her shoulders. Not to mention the warmth radiating off of his body. This was what those in high society must feel like when they donned their ermine.

"Ro?" She thought a minute. It didn't seem to be a coded phrase or expression- and even if it had been, she wasn't sure that she could understand a cat's code. It did get her thinking however. Ro. Suddenly, an odd little thing popped into her head. Do, ray, me, fa, so,
la, ti, do. It had been a long time since she had studied music, and yet that had stuck with her. How peculiar. Nonetheless, she could use it. "Well then Ro. You can call me..." She thought for just a second. "Call me Ray."

Gideon Zanhast, the Ruinous Captain, emerged out of the London streets like a tall and menacing shadow as he approached the address his invitation had given him to this strange Masquerade Ball. His black overcoat, worn leather Tricorn hat, and mask (a bird-mask emulating a Raven), made him quite literally almost a walking shadow.

It had taken him some time to walk from his apartment in the Wolfstack Docks to the location, but he preferred to save echoes while he wasn't tired, and he wasn't afraid of being accosted in the streets by any body, constable, thug, or urchin. Most knew better than to get in his way without good reason, or incredible foolishness. But for those who fell in the latter category, he had his fists, or a well-worn derringer in his coat pocket to deal with them. He'd be damned if he'd survived the Zee for so long only to be fleeced by some two-bit street scum and tossed into the Canals.

Though in truth the most troublesome part of his evening had been finding proper clothes, it had been a while since his last attendance at a formal event such as this, and Gideon could hardly remember where he had put any clothes remotely fitting for such an event away. But he'd managed to dust off a nice set of dress trousers and a dark suit vest. Not the height of fashion, but nothing entirely improper or unfitting of a Zee Captain of his reputation when coupled with his hat and coat. The mask was also a relic, he couldn't recall who had gifted it to him, one of the Masters as part of a repayment for a favour? A Noble as a disguise to slip into a similar ball to meet? A gentleman whose face he'd taken it off of after he'd laid him flat in the street after a punch, Or even one of the Urbane Devil's associates at the Embassy adding an ironic addition to a gift for services rendered? He couldn't remember, the memories were starting to meld into one another over time. The fact of the matter was that he had them, and could at least not walk in looking like a total salt-soaked bum.

Stalking his way into the townhouse their benefactor had obviously rented out for the night, Gideon showed the Doorman his invitation, and espied the venue as he was allowed in. Everything he'd expected, but yet not at the same time. Certainly too many odd characters here for the standard High Society affair, yet the place was decked out with enough valuable shit to make it seem like one, at least to his untrained eyes. He waved off the coat check, he would rather defy custom and be the odd man out with a coat on than to diminish his own imposing stature. Not that he had much information as to why he'd been invited here at all, but he figured he may as well take advantage of it and be himself, within the bounds of good taste for this affair.

Silently, he walked over to a wiry Bartender they had on hand, Gideon wagered they hired him off of Mr. Wines, the old Master would want a cut regardless of whether or not he was actually throwing this party or not. The gentleman poured the Captain a glass of Greyfields 1882, not Gideon's favored drink of choice, but definitely one of his go-to picks for Wines. The glass looking like blood in his hand as he strolled over to a a nice cushioned seat and relaxed his weary feet for a moment and calmly survey the attendees, not seeking anyone in particular, but moreso taking a view of the room.

Professor Benjamin Babbage was quite at odds with his mask. What had gotten a hold of him so tightly that he thought a masquerade would be a delightful experience? First, he had to contact his tailor and have something new and in season sewn for him. It involved a lot of measuring of his body, and then his tailor fervently discussing it with his new apprentice. “A lot of our more scholarly clients tend to be on the heavier side, and so we need to make certain adjustments with the waistcoat. Though, Professor Babbage is also afflicted by having a larger chest and shoulder width.” Benjamin had only been standing five feet away. Could they not have had this conversation at the tailor’s shop and far away from his sensibilities? That being said, the black sack coat and pants, with dove gray waistcoat, and golden cravat, did look quite nice on him. Yet the mask, a thing made of harsh golden shapes, was his problem this evening.

It hid the majority of his face except for his mouth. The woman who made it wanted to make sure his identity couldn’t be so easily discerned with spectacles and his wonderous mustache. So, it contorted the grooves of his face, only allowing for the light to catch the boring gray of his eyes, and his mouth to remain unmuffled as he was not a boisterous speaker. His hair was still in its tousled fashion. His maid had tried to tend to it and gave up after five minutes. It was the best that this mystery host could get.

Benjamin deduced that Mister Wine had to have something to do with this, but in this cramped townhouse, it was hard to say what for. Benjamin had been archeological dig sites larger than this place. But he wouldn’t dare say that out loud. He was a man of refinement and—oh was that cheese?

A few vittles and two glasses of wine later, and Benjamin was less upset with his mask. He hadn’t flourished into some charismatic swan. No. He was still his same, ole stuffy self. He was just fiddling with his mask less and enjoying the party more. Though, he still had to squint because he couldn’t see faces that well. His spectacles were in his pocket, but they refused to fit over the shiny monstrosity that dominated the berth of his face.

Eventually, the professor made it over to a group of people. They were all eagerly chatting about why they’d been invited here and what this party was truly about. Benjamin, not really one to play The Game, had no suggestions. He didn’t know how pawns, like himself, were moved these days. He just accepted the tides of change and road them with a soured grimace.

His eyes narrowed, being unable to discern concrete shapes, on a woman with a rather ostentatious wig and a blue dress that seemed oddly—disproportionate. He didn’t know how long she’d been there, but considering those that had gathered and were fervently discussing the reason for the party—he assumed she was quite curious as well. He looked her square in the eyes (he at least assumed so) and asked: “what do you think?” Belatedly, he realized he could have complimented her. Then he realized that it would be hard considering they were all supposed to be hiding their identities. Wonderful faux hair and odd dress you are wearing this evening. Benjamin Babbage was not the most socially graceful of people and so offered an awkward smile afterward.
@Hekazu

Two sheepish Cambridge graduates, separated only by a decade in experience and their personal taste in red and white wines, corralled into the 79 degree Fahrenheit den of Alf Zorkybski.

“You wanted to see us, sir,” Dave muttered.

Fred, with legs crossed, hatless, was savoring some dilapidated quinine, in the form of a gin and tonic, attempting to prevent the technocratic malaria from accruing any higher on his desk. Pivoting, away from the panorama of a series of windows, before the duo, he took a finalizing swig, sucked on a sliced lemon, patted the invitation bearing his moniker, licked his bitter lips and motioned a leprous, slender sleeve towards the hearth.

“Bruce. Dave. Each of you, please take a seat by the fire.”

Both junior accountants plopped upon a recliner, in succession. Bruce took to the closest throne by the exit, whilst the slower Dave, wedged himself between the desk of his novel boss and his ghastly body guard, unfortunately still within the firing range of any saliva darting from the clean shaven forty-three year old. The occasional ember offered an eerie glow beneath the lintel as Alfred slithered into position.

“What’s this about?” Bruce hissed, impatiently interrupting Parlé's methodical stride.

Alfred hissed back. “Damn, I miss Paris.” A scoff followed. “If Galois was alive today… Well, he would be in his seventies.”

“What?” Bruce and David garbled reflexively, as afterthoughts.

“Well, for as long as I have been able to prosper and recall here in the casinos of the English empire, our survival has mandated a necessity to deliver our secrets safely and efficiently. Under lock and key, so to speak. To prevent important, costly information, obviously…” He rubbed his palms feverishly, blew an exhaled breath on his Reynaud tainted fingertips, and continued his sigh. “…from falling into the wrong hands, our predecessors developed intriguing ways of disguising the classified contents of our propaganda. Not unlike the Spartans.” His right palm’s inked digits clasped a ribbon of enumerated paper while the left, unawares, seized and encircled the nearby bottle of liqueur.

“Their army’s leaders, for instance, over two and half thousand years ago, by way of sender and recipient, possessed, each, a cylinder of exactly the same dimensions, called a scytale. To encode a note, a commander would first wrap a narrow strip of parchment around the baton so that it coiled down the tube.” Likewise the woody charade, in hand, spiraled around the spirit, in synergy with his pedagogical diatribe. “He would then write his letter on the papyrus, along the length of the rod. Once the message was unwound, the text looked meaningless. It was only when it was spiraled around another identical canister that the communiqué would reappear. Do you know what I’m hinting at, Bruce?”

“I have no clue.” Bruce’s eyes dilated further to accommodate for the darkness of his superior’s inquisition.

“On the contrary, I think you just might. Before your birth, anyone who wanted to transmit a cipher faced an inherent problem. Even with Charles Babbage’s new fangled machines riddling polyalphabetical substitutions, the players of the Crimean War still required to dispatch agents to deliver actual ledgers detailing the settings for encoding each day’s communications. Even Friedrich Kasiski’s dog understood the potential tremendous loss if an enemy got their grubby thumbs on the code book, that the proverbial jig would be up.” A golden grin widened. “I digress. Imagine the logistics of using such a weak system to do our business!?! But you anticipated that, didn’t you, Dave?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Zorkybski?” The nervous newbie stuttered a retort.

Alfred could not arbitrate the guilty party fully, just yet. He knew the odds but wanted the reveal to be worth its mettle.

“Hmm… please, call me Parlé.” The middle aged suit bowed slightly, to his unappreciative audience. "Where was I?" He suddenly sensed his pushy parables were wasting precious time in light of the impending ball.

However, business first. Pleasure later.

“Ah, yes. Remarkably, the mathematics that goes into making possible such a scheme of cryptography harks back to the anachronistic clock calculators of Gauss. Fucking ancient merde!”

At the dénouement of this explicative, Al angrily swiped his littered desk onto the floor, searching hastily for des cartes. The guard remained stoic, unphased. “Encrypting every transaction is something like the beginning of this card trick. But this is no ordinary deck. The number of cards in this pack are so huge, I would need over a hundred numerals to even scribe it; let’s call this variable N, in honor of Newton. Ah, found them!”

After reuniting with his favorite pile of 52 backs, Alfred lifted the Ace of Spades to each person in the room. “Envision one of our customer’s accounts is one of these playing cards. The system places the tally on the top of the bunch, shuffles the packet so that the location of the customer’s card seems to have been completely lost.” While spitting his rant, he illustrates the aforementioned chaos with the stage props, ending with a fanned flurry upon the table, catty-corner to Marc’s perspective. “Any snitch is faced with the impossible task of extracting that single card from the scrambled horde. However, one of you has already cracked the solution to this cunning ploy. I’m referring to the artifice of the Faro.” He seeks out the charcoal Ace once again, chairs it on the pinnacle of the deck, and with mechanical precision, Alfred preserves its foremost position after eight more perfect weaves. “Thanks to a little theorem by Fermat, the card can also be forced to resurrect at the crown of the mob after another very specific sequence of shuffles.”

“This isn’t new, Mr. Z. Euler showed that the pattern repeats itself ages ago...” Adopting and drawing on one of the cocktail napkins on the bubble wrapped floor, the much younger Dave tautly crucified the binomial equation, as if holding the chauffeur sign at a luggage claim in a busy train station. "...after (p-1) x (q-1) + 1, where p and q are the prime factorization of that gigantic N, you mentioned earlier.”

“Exactly, and acquisition of these two primes therefore becomes the koan to unlocking the secrets to the House’s edge here in London,” applauded Alfred.

“But you said it yourself, that’s impossible! No one would ever be able to discriminate p and q, that fast.” Bruce sneered.

“Not unless one was sneaking a peak, noting the desired N before-hand. Similar to having a confederate in the crowd, you cherry pick the same innocent participant, over and over again, to always go along with the magic show. The games below us have been blindly and purposely funneling different N-sized packets, as bait, with the embedded transactions until the desired N is finally received and processed by the, of course, intercepting wolf.”

An awkward silence fiercely impregnated the room, only to be cock-blocked by a musical chime, à la cuckoo clock.

He was going to be a little late.

And, the gabby gambler hated making wagers once tardy to a new dealer.

The golden grin slowly disappeared, as the thunder was stolen with a mask of a Joker that quickly overcast his visage. "You're both worth more alive, after all, but I have more pressing matters, and one of you has much further to fall. Let's find out why. Marc, would you do the honors?”

The grizzly-clad elephant in the darkest elbow of the room jarred from its statuesque hibernation; his syncytial gaze riddled with the light of oblivion, an Egyptian herald to the young accountants, of ten plagues to come towards a briefer lifespan. The objective was torture, slow and beautiful, to demolish the intent of the pawns in order to checkmate the larcenous king. His four hundred pound existence entitled itself to job security by delivering a pyramid of pain to others and eventually ending the very universe of suffering he created. A saucy Bentham in the field. Classy, popular, and well doted by all, but above most, by Fred.

Slothfully unraveling his crimson scarf from his neck, he gritted, “Who sent you?” Nothing stirred. “One Thames.” He paused once more without hesitation, as neither provided an answer. “Two Thames.” No answer. “Three.”

“Wait!” Bruce squeaked.

Swathing the cherry helix around his right fist, Marc tested the mute closest to him.



David failed the quiz; his face kissed knuckle.

A rapacious nova tumbled the tax collector downward into a Gehenna of his own gore. Quickly interrupted by the edge of the Acacian desk, his contorted carcass suspended momentarily on its now bloodied corner, only to slide into a lateral decubitus position, with its left orbit oozing several red fractals onto an entangled plastic-laden floor, pooling, rippling, and drowning a human sarcophagus.

Taking full advantage of the one-sided squabble, the older of the two younger accountants did not ferry a wasted moment for the Stygian exit, but darted straight at Parlé, while his pet behemoth was occupied. Feet up, he bubbled over the middle of the wooden mesa, into Zorkybski's torso, while simultaneously palming a gilded letter opener. Taken aback by the agility and strength of his opponent, Alfred's chest consumed the full force of two viscous heels, sending him retroflexed, shoulder first, fortunately into a beam that separated a set of windows overseeing the roulette tables.

He weeped and gnashed his teeth, “Who the...”

Directing, now, his attention to the Memnon shadow looming over his fallen comrade, Bruce hazardly speared the colossus, below the xyphoid, while ducking underneath another right hook, perforating his pylorus. Then, with a twist of the wrist, he drove the duodenum further away from its ligament of treitz, into the left hemidiaphragm, desiring to puncture through the pericardial fat guarding the vascular bosom of the beast. Before further damage progressed, Marc grabbed the aggressor's stained hand and handle, while headbutting his antagonist, crippling Bruce's grip from the make-shift dagger. Releasing tension, but placing torsion on the shank, Bruce caused more and more Vesuvian bile to erupt around the blade, while toggling the forward momentum of the giant's gait, leading him astray, to trip and fall over David's body, all the way through the fireplace's grate into the lift out ash tray near the chimney, descending further upon his already embedded Nietzschean sword.

Turning about face to the altar of Fred, Bruce the traitor, with terror, paralyzed, responded, to the angered and armed employer “Wait! Cyrus sent me.” Not heeding the hindrance, a hammer no longer cocked added to a loud reagant, resulted in a pierced Brutus, limping, then a graveyard swiveling awkwardly to his sovereign demise, laying haphazardly upon the punic bodyguard.

“Was not expecting that!?! I thought it was David, all this time. Not Bruce.” Taken aback by his miscalculation, he combed over his greasy hair, peaking over the mask with his firearm before holstering it. “You win some. You lose some. And, who the fuck is Cyrus? Chiant; ça me fait chier!”

The windows quickly received two raps on each glass, easily audible, like a gavel, to everyone below. Soon, men with bags and knives later filled the room. The mechanical boldness of the Alfred returned once more.

“Bury David. Feed Bruce to Linda. I will be back tomorrow. Run the craps all night, if you can. We have to make up for this shit storm.”

---

Upon entering the ball, the jester visage inherited the scenery, as if casing his first casino when he was a pimpled pubescent. Silence would be his guise, since his incessant loquaciousness paraded his entity like a worn flag briskly flapping full mast in the British wind. The dull brown wreathes surrounding his devoid pupils eventually became entranced on the façade of the Raven shadowed by the black overcoat, topped off by a Tricorn hat. It seemed the fowl enjoyed similar tastes.

Greyfields 1882, by the looks of it.

For now, the parlay would be a wall flower, postponing his blossom until pinned or approached.

@Templar Knight@Hekazu

Theories had been shared in the ring, the people in it decidedly more invested in the discussion they were having than the potential for dancing. While the question of 'why?' still remained most popular, some observations about other guests were still being made as an attempt to aid the deduction. That man bore a curious resemblance to the Heartless Bishop, didn't he? The gait was definitely very, very reminiscent of his. Light as a dancer, yet carrying a sense of importance nobody could deny. If he was here, there probably would not be devils. And if that was copying, the man was doing a damn good job. So if Hell was out... but so were also the most prominent of London. Worst case scenario, this was a trap. But the players were always alert.

The group made space as a new person approached, a man Monica did not need to take a long look at to notice this was not exactly his element. Pudgy, though said quality had no emphasis on his actual status in the society. It did hint at the man being more well-off though. Coupled with him being uncomfortable... the lady would almost place her money on university. But he could just as well be from the Medusa's head, if she was to believe in the descriptions she had heard from Renee. And the positively crude behaviour and set of the question did tilt her opinion slightly more in that direction.

"Me? Oh, to single out a woman quite like that...", she took a half-step back and raised her free hand onto the bottom of her neck, pressing her splayed fingers against her dress in a faux display of shock, "With so many masks about, we cannot be quite sure and with so many prominent figures missing to boot, let it not be said that I would place any money on it, but in the case of it being so...", she went on for a while, inconclusively on the surface, babbling in the cant of the players. Anyone who was anything beyond a simple courier or one-off knife-in-the-dark in the game could discern an additional message from the words, perhaps it could be said that the true meaning of them: She believed it to be the Masters, for she had seen the badge of a special constable here at the door. A brave statement to be made nonetheless, some of the group visibly raising their eyebrows at such a remark. Did she have no finesse? But naturally, none of them dared say anything back to her, lest they'd expose themselves as someone who understood. And that could be trouble.

"How about you, fine gentleman in the golden mask? I suppose with me having shared my thoughts, it would only be fair for you to follow suit?" Monica tossed the ball back to the disguised professor and even took a curious step closer, inciting the ring to move after her. There were still gaps, but one would be hard pressed to try to fit in at this point if they were not already a part of the ring. The poet tilted her head slightly to the side and awaited a reply. In the meantime, the musicians present finally finished tuning their instruments and the first song began to play. Not one to dance to quite yet, but soon that time would come. For those that desired it.

@Sofaking Fancy

The tail was distracting, even for the gambler.

Parlé relied always and ever upon his stoic countenance in such a high stakes circumstance, perpetually perusing the players whilst always paying attention to what the proverbial dealer possessed in their grasp. However, the to and fro of the tip, similar to an incessant metronome, irked the curiosity of the bookie.

Now, wholeheartedly gawking at Renée and her shouldered pet provoked a paradoxial inquisition within Alf.

All the wonder was, how this maiden, with her lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable, as that of bringing an actual feline, but yet be invited to such a culpable chorale. A wardrobe decision both deliciously fatal but also lively, if the cards were played right. Was this woman's intent to obscure not only identity but alignment?

While the unmoving masks of immersed British people gabbed, Fred yearned to seep into the glow of such a chosen madness, for he adored all things cats. From the tapestry of Bastet, these animals were worshiped, offered often the same mummification as humans of import. Praised once for controlling plagues of snakes and rats, the domesticated mouser has now been forgotten as a symbol of grace and poise.

To only be resurrected here, behind another veneer. Intriguing. This guest bandaged herself within this indistinguishable archetype while simultaneously hoisting a smaller icon, to foster, what message, pray-tell.

The ball, solemnized itself according to an anti-Episcopalian fashions and standards, in a closed venue, with a degree of possible publicity that would have attracted many spectators, due to the clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches still mounting the overt exterior, if it were not for the heavily guarded front.

Zorkybski who occupied the front seats of the galleries, decided to brush past the drinking Raven and the other pews of people. The mob, except the principal figure, seemed to be constructed mostly up of youth and gayety, opposing his impending fifth decade of experience. As he streamed up the broad aisle, pillars, entrenched intermittently into the wall, appeared to decay, with time, on either side. His steps became less buoyant and more cautious as if he suddenly mistook the ball-room for a church, ready to court a daughter in hand to the altar.

Still was so brilliant was the costumed spectacle, to the parlay, that few took notice of his singular bee-like phenomenon, until he marked its entrance to the closest circle gathering around Schrödinger and his ostensible master. At the moment when the gambler's foot breached the threshold, the musical vibrations swung heavily in the foyer, sending forth its deepest knell to entreat all to bend the elbow and dance.

This was a perfect opportunity to corner the likely disguised mistress, with a thick French accent.

"Enchanté! Care to dance, mademoiselle?"
@Lady Selune@shylarah@Hekazu

^If she does not, I could perhaps be convinced,^ Schroedinger replied, using perfect French. He'd taken it upon himself to answer after spotting the beaked mask heading their way. "Not many black ravens in London," he added, switching back to English as he adjusted the position of his paws on his gracious companion's shoulder, whiskers tilting forward as he tried to get a better whiff of the man's scent. In this he had an unseemly advantage over the other guests, but the cat had no intention of sharing whatever details he might glean from a sense humans so often neglected. Unless someone he knew well turned up -- or someone for whom he had a particular dislike -- there was no reason at all to spoil the fun. "Interesting that you should prefer to remember the surface. Or perhaps you, like me, are simply fond of the color. What do you think, Miss? He is a bold bird, to approach a pair of cats."

All these people speaking French. How wonderful. "I don't think that he quite knows who he happens to be dealing with, dearest Ro." The French flowed off her tongue easily. How she addressed the cat was perhaps overly familiar, but she wanted to butter this cat up. Secrets were something that she, just as everyone else in the 'neath, did more than dabble with, and felines had a voracious appetite for them. The french flowed off of her tongue easily, and she pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. Walking forward carefully, she offered her hand out towards the avain-masked fellow, deliberately declining to offer a curtsy at the same time.

"I don't think that I could decline such an offer." She smirked behind her mask, but still made no effort to step forward. "But tell me." She said, switching back into the tongue of Gaul. "How much French do you speak?"

@shylarah@Gordian Nought

Having rested his weary feet and indulged in some of Mr. Wines' signature product, Gideon took the opportunity to have a more serious look at his surroundings. The Ruinous Captain had no love for gossip or courtesy, but this 'soiree' was at least more palpable than many he had seen. He'd still prefer to be enjoying harder liquor and listening to the bawdy songs of the Dockers and Zailor down at the Medusa's Head, the kind of lifestyle that would make the Presbyterians fume, but he found the atmosphere tolerable.

Besides, when not engaging in any particular streak of ambition, it often paid to remain a more silent observer of these sorts of affairs. Tittering sycophants and scheming spiders could often cause one trouble if one wasn't careful, which many weren't. Hence why the population of pests in London is booming, both real and figurative.

Not intending to look like he'd noticed, Gideon espied a particular gentleman who'd taken an interest in him and where he sat, before the man's interest evidently shifted elsewhere as he moved to chat with some of the ladies. Gideon suspected him to be a man of some means, but not necessarily one to get his hands dirty, and one who's mind was constantly in motion. Likely a Bookie or some kind of High-Roller. He lacked the well-rehearsed grace of a Noble.

All the same, he didn't fully appreciate being appraised like a piece of meat by a buyer he wasn't familiar with. So, quickly downing the rest of his glass in a bitter swig, The Ruinous Captain got out of his comfy seat and carefully approached, stepping past various party-goers. Not too close though, he leaned against a nearby wall and crossed his arms with in an expression of amusement beneath his mask . . . towering, dour, and almost fiendish amusement as he watched the gentleman exchange pleasantries with two ladies and a Cat.

With any luck, he wouldn't frighten or intimidate the man too badly whenever he realized he'd moved.

It took Benjamin a beat to realize that she was toying with him. Her shock had been pretended and a jab at his poor manners. She was correct about that. In a different situation, perhaps one without masks, a strange benefactor, and cramped quarters, he’d had more tact. Instead, he’d called her out. Honestly, she looked like she could hold her own in this sort of setting. Her costume was elaborate and seemed skewed to what she looked like underneath—again, he assumed, he was at a disadvantage without his spectacles. While, all he wore was a mask and a tasteful suit. Well, not that he had the sort of presence that could easily be discerned. Unless one lurked about the scholarly circles, his identity would be hard pressed to be discovered.

All that said, she graciously expelled her thoughts on the evening. He nodded in cadence with her statement. Some of those names he was familiar with, public people with public faces, and some of them caused him to pause. He’d either not thought them the sort to host a party of this style, or he’d never heard of them. There was a dance with words she was playing here, and on his mother’s assured lack of a grave, he had no idea the point she was stabbing at. Yet, who she didn’t say was the thought that rattled in his head. It had to be at least one of the Masters. Or… he paused at her words and the intentness of which others listened… was she truly saying that? Oh. Benjamin thought himself a prodigy of the scholarly arts, but he knew himself to be a dunce at the Great Game.

It was then that she drew all attention to him. The circle of people tightened around him. Immediately, his collar became suffocating, and his breath hitched in his lungs. Breathe, he told himself. He’d given dozens upon dozens of speeches to a group far larger than this. He’d educated the upper echelon on the Fourth City. He’d traveled across the zee. He’d interviewed Tomb Colonists. One time he even gotten into a scholarly debate with a higher-ranking professor than himself and fluently argued his case. Being surrounded by people who were an enigma on both sides, he didn’t know them and they didn’t know who he was, shouldn’t have provided a complication. Yet, being put on the spot by a woman—who he assumed from the aesthetically pleasing curve of her amorphous form—was handsome, and more importantly well learned, shouldn’t have been something to seize him like it did. He'd always presented himself as shrewd and calculating, why should he suddenly turn into a pile of idiotic babbling?

He cleared his throat. Feeling suddenly parched, he took a sip of his drink only to be reminded it was a cutting liquor. He choked a bit before attempting to recoup his dignity. “Well, Madame,” he said, trying to take the safe title, “I feel as if it is overly obvious who is one of the benefactors of this—” he trailed off, waving his free hand around him. The circle of people around the woman leaned in closer. They wanted him to say it. He could feel that pressure build all around him just like drowning in the zee. Music, dancing music to be precise, cut the air. Benjamin was a horrible dancer, unskilled and unpracticed. You’re distracting yourself, he thought. Yet, he couldn’t quite tastefully get around his opinion like those around him had managed. So, he committed what he viewed a social sin. “Without a fragment of a doubt, given the evidence and the obvious ambiance, it is a Master.” He didn’t give a pause. “Obviously, Mister Wine has something to do with this unless one is daft enough to assume such a soirée was thrown without his hand. That's my opinion, anyway.” Was it too early to leave and still seem grateful?

@Hekazu

The man was put on an awkward position, Monica was sure of it. If it was so, that told her at least something about the man, the fact being that he was no player. And how he choked momentarily on the drink, probably no bruiser at Medusa's head either. Those people, she assumed, handled their liquor much more elegantly, if there could be elegance in the act of the common crook. But when he finally began addressing the issue, something was made clear as smuggled sunlight. That being, his way of speaking dressed him as someone of the University, no doubt, but you never know when your mirror-catch box had been laced with a bit of moonlight in-between. It might just be a really, really good act. But anything else in him didn't hint at them being a particularly good liar. University, definitely. Probably closer to Summerset too, with that belly. They could prove an ally one day...

Nope.

This man had just blurted out the supposedly obvious for everyone to hear. There were a few legitimate shocked gasps from the people around, not as much at what he said but how he said it. One of the young man of the circle looked particularly offended and tossed his hands in the air, turning around on his heel and walking away, hands still raised. Probably off to find a dance partner, Lady Monica would bet. But this whole thing, the directness of the reply, the reaction it had on everybody... she was pretty much the only person who had not been taken aback enough to take the actual step backwards and now that somebody even left the circle... she couldn't help herself any more.

Monica brought her free hand before her mouth as her neck tilted slightly forwards and she began laughing. At first she managed to contain it in part, but it didn't take long for her to throw her head back and share her amusement quite vocally. Truly, there were few people in London with quite as powerful a laugh as His Amused Lordship and despite Lady Monica not being one of them, she still recognised how showing her glee was, very likely inappropriate. The rest of the people who remained seemed almost as offended at the genuine reaction, where they could hold their faces in the expression, that was. The Parasol-toting Poet managed to collect herself after a long few moments, though by then it might already be too late to see the man who had simply expressed his opinion upon request to so. She just... hadn't been ready.

Were he still around, she might choose her next words more carefully. Something along the lines of... oh dear, she didn't even know what to say! Of course she suspected the Masters and she had even said so out loud, but... she couldn't say it to him again, if he hadn't caught on the Player's cant bit. There needed be something to be said... but unlike Lady Monica, somebody else in the circle was quick to catch up on the situation.

"Masters. But of course, the spires of the Bazaar do lay their shadow over all of London. It might simply be a bit far fetched to assume just any gathering to be hosted by Mr Wines... after all, is it not known for weaving along the guests at its revels? I do not see a hooded presence among us at the present moment. But it will have to be conceded, few would be in the wealth to host such an elaborate gathering otherwise. The small amount of guests is bound to help, however", the stranger allowed everyone willing to flow back into the conversation. Many moved away, wanting nothing to do with such an open discussion of those who held power in the Neath. But Lady Monica? She would stay. And she dared secretly hope she hadn't offended the pudgy (assumed) professor to the point of them rushing off. But that was unlikely.

"Now that the cat has been placed upon the table, or the elephant in the room has been addressed as they also say of the animals, one could presume that-", she began, only to be interrupted by another guest entering the room. Or, their host more likely. A hooded figure stepped over the doorstep, accompanied by several gentlemen in black with tall hats emblazoned by the mark of the London's constabulary. They all looked quite like the same, but the way this one carried itself... Wines? No, it had too many constables and it avoided the partygoers just a bit too intently on its way towards the musicants. And they were followed by another, much more jovial figure. Two Masters? The latter was undoubtedly Mr Wines. But... who was the former? And as soon as they had entered, two constables took position at the door. It seemed people were not let leave just yet. A trap after all? No, they would not bring in Masters for that. Lady Monica had to admit: The situation had her quite confused.

@Sofaking Fancy

The cat flawlessly interjected, "Si elle ne le fait pas, je pourrais peut-être être convaincu." The bait was laid; the morsel tasty and tidy for the other to now bite...

Herding animals were easy, if everyone was familiar with the linguistic litter box. His object of veneration slightly flourished with every additional liaison and metaphorical accent ague, vantaged by Renée's slender and glossed muscle, waltzing by mouthed diacritics, incurring envy from even his memorized rote of Latin and Cyrillic scripts. The watchmaker splayed her hand, and she was no novice. Her vernacular kept pace and precision with the exchanged pleasantries, not missing one trumpet beat.

"Je ne pense pas que je pourrais refuser une telle offre."

Parfait...

With music blaring and his choir glaring, the amalgamated jester masque bequeathed another avian ruse, interjecting a gaze through the ocular slits, signaling both comprehension mingled with a brazen cognizance. "L'histoire parle pour moi, jeune chat." He continued in the shared Gaul, now replying to the Mademoiselle's query. "Combien? L'avenir n'aura plus qu'à suivre."

With a grasp of her vacant hand, Alfy pivoted with a popped hip, but stopped abruptly mid-stride, to fully peruse and realize that the Raven had seamlessly flocked nearby to scavenge his previous admirer, with arms now crossed instead of once armed with a unconsumed liqueur. Serendipitously, Parlé's dread and trepidation were camouflaged by the porcelain veil and ever tight vise-grip. Taking advantage of the hesitation, Fred twirled Bellerose into a jig square step, swirling the scarlet and bruised colors of her garb, against the mingled viridian of the male lead. The gabby gambler finally scavenged the liquid courage stemming from the hour prior gin and tonic, and confronted the Captain in English, with a jest, poking to discern his sycophantic reaction as they swayed clockwise onto the ballroom floor.

"Dancers must often parade in silence in order to lurk in the applause of the rhythm."

@Hekazu@Templar Knight@Lady Selune@shylarah

Benjamin had done it—knowingly. He’d probably burned bridges he wasn’t even aware existed. This was why he rarely ever participated in circles outside what he was familiar with. Library, university, and the occasional salon where intellectual conversations seemed to be more fashionable than the clothes on their body. He knew he should have just stayed home and buried himself in books—now he wished that would happen quite literally.

A gentleman seemed as if he’d been wounded to the very core of his soul as he backed away from the loosened circle that surrounded the professor. Benjamin didn’t quite know who the fellow was, but that probably had less to do with his vision and the masks and more to do with the fact that he never sought to know other people of import in Fallen London. Assured that the shunning would happen in the same coy way these people conducted themselves, Benjamin smoothed down the length of his coat in hopes of seeming to own his rudeness. That being said he was quite nonplussed. It was just like those dreams that he’d have at night where he would show up to a lecture in the buff. And then there was one time it had actually happened—he’d been young and a student and boyish dares were the only way to earn clout. Now he’d never dream of it.

The lady he had been speaking to previously began to laugh. Snide chortles were a thing of society, were they not? Yet, this began to escalate. Her laughter struck out like loud, indelicate chimes. Benjamin could feel the circle become more nervous and judgmental. He had the exact opposite reaction, he smirked. Maybe this entire ordeal wasn’t so bad, after all. It’d been a long time since he’d made someone laugh, and even longer since it had been a lady.

Another voice entered the conversation and, like a hand of a gentle matron, smoothed the fur of the bristled cat. Honestly, Benjamin didn’t know how certain people of renowned, especially not the Masters, acted in situations like these. He knew them from brief interactions at the Bazaar or from stories. Maybe his parents were right, perhaps he’d spent far too long befriending stuffy intellectuals and pages on a book and not enough with other people—any other people, really.

With the man’s declaration, people went back to their previous conversations and the noose of bodies loosened and allowed Benjamin to breathe. He thought of removing himself as well. There were bound to be unoccupied dark corners for him to silently melt into. Actually. This was the Neath, so perhaps not. He’d already made a fool of himself in this singular spot in the party, he best not spread it around like an unwanted infection. He tilted his head towards the lady as she began to speak, realizing that he hadn’t truly looked away. His focus had just shifted slightly. Her words died away, and immediately her gaze drifted elsewhere. He followed it.

Oh good, more blobby shapes. Assured that his spectacles wouldn’t give him entirely away, he fished them out of his pocket and held the lenses near to his eyes. Two hooded figures entered the room about that time. They drew attention to themselves, but while one tended to it, another did not. He had to assume the former was Wines. So, he had been correct. Now is not the time to be smug, he thought, noting the enforcement.

“I promise,” he said to the laughing lady, “I do not have the power to make my words real. Though, there looks to be more than one that I accounted for. Shame I’m not better at—” he almost said something telling of himself. Not that it really mattered. He’s said many things telling of himself. So, who cared. “Knowing who people are or attending parties in general.” He pocketed his spectacles. “So, if I may be so bold. What does this foretell? And—“ not breaking cadence, “do you have a name in which I may address you this evening? You may call me Arthur if you wish. I’ve always been fond of taking swords from beautiful women in lakes.” He smirked. “Metaphorically.” He probably should learn the art of a compliment.

@Hekazu

Gideon's look of amusement faded when the gentleman, now dancing with the presumably more French of the two ladies -like such things mattered much down here in the Neath- spoke to him. The Ruinous Captain moved one of his hands in a light dismissive gesture gesture in response to the jest. His voice resounding like a deep Zee tremor, for while he didn't speak loudly, his voice carried.

"Nay, don't mind me, sir. She's far fairer on the eyes than I, and thus I can see why you asked to dance with her. Though I'll admit I'm not well-versed in eloquence of words, so I'll stick to plain-speaking. If you're worried about your life here, fret not, I didn't come here to give the vermin a free dinner tonight. I'm merely trying to figure out why and to what purpose I, among many of our fellows here, was invited, and doing so in my own fashion."

He grabbed a passing appetizer off of a waiter's tray, some kind of antipasto they may have called it above so long ago, something far more fancy and refined than he'd find over at the docks, albeit not as filling.

"Please, don't stop on my account, I'm in no rush."

And though he relaxed his form where he was leaning, Gideon did not move from his position, watching the dancing pair and enjoying the provided fare of the party. A dark voyeur of sorts, or a black gadfly on the wall of the events. He was starting to think that the Raven mask very well may have been an ironic joke a Devil pulled on him by giving it to him, if he even was remembering the circumstances as that. Though that mattered little to him if it were the case, ironic jokes for them, were often terrifying to others.

@Gordian Nought@Lady Selune

Yes, that had to confirm it. Lady Monica tilted her head to the side with an amused smile when the man, who now was wearing spectacles on his mask to boot, suggested that he didn't have the power to make his words real. Few had, but if something confirmed the fact that this gentleperson had no idea of what had been spoken between the lines just a bit earlier, this was it. The poet turned continued to judge the movement of the two new arrivals, but just as he followed the brief moment where a constable brought a platter of assorted food to Wines, a name was given and asked for.

To be fair, when she took a half-step back this time, it was genuine. Monica was well and truly surprised, flabbergasted, baffled, astonished and at a loss in general when it came to this request. "You truly are singling a lady out, aren't you?" she asked after a second with a tone that was a mixture of sheer confusion and the barest hint of the teasing her voice had carried when she had put up her act just a moment ago. She stepped closer, tapping the man's mask with her forefinger and bringing her face a bit closer, just to see if it would provoke a reaction. "Well Arthur...", she began, withdrawing and flicking her wrist once after a couple seconds, "you may call me... Isolde." Really now, could he have made the reference to literature any more obvious? It was almost insulting in a way.

She turned about a bit, taking a brief look around. Why, yes, Renee had found herself something to do just as well, though her dance partner had quite probably seen better years. He was no octogenarian at the very least, though speaking of which she couldn't tell right away if there were any of the sort around. It was rather close to none if not that exactly, as far as she could tell. Well, Mr Wines didn't often invite that sort in any case. Well, if she was busy then Monica needn't go looking after her at least!

Returning to following the movements of the Masters proved to show that the one who was expecting less of the party itself had sat down at a hookah. Wait, had that pipe always been there? She hadn't noted it earlier. Mr Wines was being its joyous self and indulging in what the masquerade had to offer. But with that identity clear as day, she couldn't help but wonder who this remaining one was. "But penny for your thoughts Arthur... who do we have the honour of seeing before us? Mr Wines is a given. But the other?" She had her own suspicions of course. But given the man was more eager to share his opinion openly, she wanted to try her luck.

@Sofaking Fancy

Ro watched the two humans exchange further words, though he was amused that Ray could not tell the man was a native French speaker. Perhaps she didn't have the ear to determine such things. His gaze drifted about the room, coming to rest briefly on another bird showing particular interest in their little trio. The Frenchman noticed the observer as well, and commented. The cat decided to do more.

"A dance is better enjoyed in pairs. If you will excuse me, Ray~"

With that he gathered himself and leapt from her shoulder, vanishing past a swirl of skirts to resurface on a convenient ledge near the fellow with the tricorn hat. "Another raven, and just as black as the first. And as curious about our hosts as everyone else here, if a bit rougher in his manner." Schroedinger ducked his head to hold back a sneeze as the sharp scent of salt filled his nostrils -- yes, very definitely a zailor, this one. As if the voice hadn't been indication enough. But perhaps he could be lured into spilling a few tidbits of what he knew.

Ro took in the confident manner, the clothing, and made an educated guess. The party did not seem to have anyone that was merely incidental: most likely this man owned a ship. And if he was wrong, he could pass it off as a convenient nickname. "So, Captain. You wonder who has brought all these people together? Would you care to hazard a guess? I'll say that this is not quite like Society's usual games. Perhaps it is a new one, or perhaps something else altogether. What do you think?"

It wasn’t his intention to be so bold, as Benjamin was not a bold man. Yet, the laughing lady before him kept, again and again, calling him out on it. Truly he didn’t think he was this bad with courtly mannerisms. She dubbed herself Isolde. He was not so knowledgeable in old topside British Folktales as to dig deep for his name, and he found it rather soothing that hers wasn’t at all very cryptic. Though, it was very tragic.

Yet, his thought process was immediately interrupted by her proximity. Her finger tapped his mask, and he pulled his chin down and in, wreathing it in the softness of his weight, which really didn’t curve around his face except in moments like this. It was almost as if trying to escape her, but at the same time not to show he was disgusted. He very intrigued, but he was also very well aware of how she’d entered his personal space with the grace of a—well—dancer? Honestly, could his mind not think of a better comparison? He was smarter than this. When she pulled away, he straightened up, attempting to jut his chin out and draw his shoulders back. Did it look as if he was trying to seem a little less paunchy? My, my, what an effect a brief conversation, and an even briefer moment of contact, had on him. Good thing his mask hid a slight blush.

“Isolde it is then,” he said. He wanted to thank her for taking it easy on him, but she’d already pointed out how easily he showed his hand. He had to ask himself who she was. Had she also taken the name because she was not fond of reaching literature? Was she parrying his overly-simplified name with her own? Or was she a romantic? Honestly, it could be any of those or none of them. Considering it made his head hurt.

It was then her attention turned back to the cloaked figures. Right. They were terribly more entrancing than stuffy ole him. She pried for his thoughts on this one. This one was obviously—tougher. Honestly, Mr. Wines had been a terribly easy guess. A party. The type of crowd. The nature of the ambiance. This one seemed less fluid in this setting and not at all preening at the attention. Benjamin shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest. It’s obvious, though, that social graces are not their strong suit. As if I have room to talk,” he said that last little bit under his breath. “But someone not at odds with Mr. Wines. Dangerous, perhaps?” Her brow knitted. “My, what have we—I mean I, I shan’t speak for you—gotten myself into?”

He cleared his throat. “Though I haven’t seen much of the other patronage here, I did catch glimpses of a few masks. They were not… well produced. A mixed crowd, perhaps? Meaning… mixed purpose?”

@Hekazu

Gideon turned his head idly to the cat, cunning and insightful beyond its appearance as many of his ilk. Small wonder The Duchess was said to have "employed" many of them. If such a term was even suitable for such a relationship, Gideon himself was not familiar Though admittedly, he wasn't really trying to hide his background, so he shouldn't give the cat too much credit. All the same, the Cat was likely among the more tolerable company he'd find at the moment, some of his fonder memories were of their isle.

He finished the last morsels of his bite to eat before responding to the query the feline had posed. He could afford to offend the odd party-goer, Cats not so much, he had to at least show some respect, lest word get back to his mouser cousins.

"Any Docker could tell you this isn't standard fare, even if they were drunk off their arses they'd probably still notice."

He hazarded a glance around the active room again, not so much in paranoia but moreso in watchfulness, before turning again.

"But . . . if you wanted my guess? My wager is on somebody upstairs, but one who's not too privy to Society's 'standards'. Doubtful its a Master, but you can never rule it out. Wines would be the likely one, but had this been his, he'd have his name plastered all over it like he's known for, and it'd be over the moon for beings like you and I. Well, maybe not you, but I for sure . . . No. Whoever it is, its someone with some power and standing, perhaps not outstanding, but considerable. But also someone who can get away with being a little more . . . risque than the average noble."

He sighed as he shook his head, taking another opportunity to glance around.

"I hope its not some tromped up artist playing at potential scandal for the Dailies over in Veilgarden. But then one of them likely couldn't even afford this building unless it was handed to them, let alone walk over here, the lazy sods."
@shylarah