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On the fifteenth day of November, in the year of 1923, the night finally arrives. Arkham is a city of shadows, and as the sun sets, and those shadows lengthen, driving anyone with any sense for whatever shelter and sanctuary their homes can provide, it is those who thrive in the shadows that emerge. The date has been marked in the calendars of the rich and powerful of Arkham, and as it finally arrives, there seems to be a spark of electricity in the air. Anticipation? Excitement? Fear? Perhaps all three.

Dark carriages move through the winding streets of Arkham, carrying the old families and new money of the city towards where the city loses it's fight with the wilderness, towards the edge of the Wilde Woods. Deep within, Wilde Hall awaits. Some know the route well, or as well as anyone can know the shifting, inky depths of the Wilde Woods, while for some, it is the first time they have braved the darkness. Whatever the case, a strange silence settles over these dark carriages as they move through the trees, the twisting branches blotting out the dim light of the moon, high above. It is as if the shadows themselves absorb any noise, even the sound of a breath snatched away from the lips.

---

Tommy Bannerman reached the edge of the Wilde Woods a few minutes before the clock strikes six. Having done what he could to smarten up, in the hope that he would be able to blend in amongst the other guests making their way towards Wilde Hall, Tommy pulled out the invitation, holding it up towards the flickering glow of a nearby streetlight as he read the words printed upon it one more time. By now, he could practically recite it from memory, having poured over it a dozen times, but something about the words gave him a sense of confidence, quietened the voice of doubt that nagged at the back of his mind. Satisfied, he tucked it away into his pocket again, and glanced around the dimly lit street that he stood in. He was in the right place, or near enough. The invitation had included the details of half a dozen coaches, ferrying guests through the shadows of the Wilde Woods, and considering he hardly fancied the treacherous walk, Tommy had resolved himself to catch one of these carriages, even if it put his deception at risk.

As if on cue, the stifling silence of the fading evening light was broken by the rattle of wheels on stone, of hooves striking road, and a dark shape detached itself from the shadows at the end of the street, moving towards where Tommy stood. Squaring his jaw, and standing as tall as he can, Tommy did what he could to play the role of the pompous and the rich. What would Mister Script do? Almost without thinking, Tommy took a step out into the road, and held up his hand to flag the carriage down. The figure, hunched over the reins, turned it's head towards where the boy stood, and the carriage shifted slightly, turning towards him. Tommy allowed himself a smile, he had managed one small victory at least. Before he could feel too smug, another noise broke the silence, a yelp, then a crash of something clattering to the ground. Whirling around, Tommy's eyes strained against the shadows. An alley opening up behind him, leading away from the street, away from the carriage, and for a moment, he could make out nothing in the darkness, and then suddenly, a figure burst out onto the street, feet pounding. They barely seemed to see Tommy, barrelling towards him. He only had a moment to think, to act, or he would be sent sprawling!

---

Unaware of the commotion poised to take place across town, Debora White glanced at the clock in her office, grimacing slightly as she saw the hour hand teetering on the brink of six. The time seems to have moved too quickly, the hour coming to hand too fast. For a moment, she questioned herself. Was she ready? Would she ever be? But then something caught her eye, and she caught herself. She needed to be ready. With a silent promise, she pushed herself to her feet, paused only to check her outfit and mask in the reflection of the window, and crossed to the office door. Her hand had already reached the handle when she stopped. It had only been a moment, but she had heard it, clear as day. She knew the office like the back of her hand, it was like a second home to her, so she knew the third step from the bottom creaked. It was that creak that had shattered the silence, that creak that had stopped her in her tracks.

Debora wracked her brain for a moment. It was late, after hours, the building should be empty. This time of night, the streets were empty. Her ears straining, Debora's breathe caught in her throat. For a moment, there was nothing, and then the distinct creak again, as whoever was on the stairs lifted their foot. She stopped herself from adding 'or whatever' to that thought. The dreams had been getting to her, she knew that, and since... Gritting her teeth, Debora pushed the thought out of her mind. The steps were coming regularly now, and whoever was coming would be there in a matter of moments. Her eyes darted around her office. She had to move fast, if she was going to move. She had to do something.

---

While others may be caught up in the darkness that grips Arkham, Eugene Esposito was having no such misfortune. It had taken him a while to find the dingy speakeasy, but it was cosy enough, if in need of a lick of paint. The bartender was a stony-faced man, who had only offered Eugene a few words since he had sat down, but he had warmed up a little once he realised that Eugene paid promptly, and that he came back. Since then, Eugene had become somewhat of a regular, striking up an acquaintance with the barkeep, Thomas, one of the few people in Arkham that had given the New York journalist had arrived in the city. As Eugene finished his drink, he glanced up, and caught Thomas looking suspiciously at the mask that Eugene had donned for the evening.

"Say, what's with the get-up?"

Eugene hesitated at first. The invitation that was burning a hole in his pocket had stressed the theme of the masquerade ball, the idea of keeping your identity secret, but he had started to enjoy Thomas' company, despite himself. There was something about the wrinkled features, the dark, squinting eyes. Shrugging slightly, Eugene put down his empty glass, gesturing slightly to Thomas as he replied.

"I've got an invitation to Wilde Hall. One of their masquerade balls this evening."

The barkeepers face shifted, and the change took Eugene aback. He had grown so accustomed to the unflinching expression, that to see emotion there felt wrong, but there was emotion written across Thomas' face now. Eugene was so shocked that it took him a moment to even process what that emotion was, but when he did, he felt a shiver run down his spine. It was fear. The silence hung heavy in the air, before Thomas opened his mouth to speak, before catching himself, his mouth closing again. Without a word, Thomas simply reached out and poured Eugene another drink, not meeting the other man's questioning eyes.

---

Debora paused at the sound, one hand against the cool metal doorknob and the other poised to tug a seal coat off the rack beside the door. Around her, the office and its contents were shrouded in shadow. She had turned out the lights before donning her costume. It was her familiarity with the building that warned her of the intruder and this same familiarity gave her a sense of confidence. Unlike Wilde Hall, the office was Debora White’s domain.

In the moment she had to react, Debora opened the door slightly and stepped to the side. Pressing herself into the nook beside the oversized dark coat, she drew her small revolver from the pocket and waited. She held the gun low, hoping to shield the metallic surface from reflecting the scarce light.

Through the slit opening of the door, Debora could make out a figure mounting the stairs in the darkness. Torn fabric hung from them, lighter shadows clinging to the dark form. A hand grasp the banister, the other was held against them, nursing a wound more grievous than the limp in their leg? With her nerves so tightly strung, Debora had expected an apparition of evil or at the least the vengeful subject of an old case. This figure seemed to be neither. Yet why were they ascending the stairs towards her office in grim determination and not a doctor’s practice?

A flicker of apprehension mixed with hope caused Debora to push the door open further and lower her firearm yet more. She called a broken syllable before correcting. “Who’s there?” Carefully, Debora gauged their reaction.

The figure raised their head, features illuminating slightly in the weak light. Debora felt her stomach drop as her hopes were dashed and new worries built. She did not know the pale face looking back at her with red bloodshot eyes and wild dark hair.

"Mrs White?" The voice was rough and forced, as if each word, each breath was agony.

With her outfit of layered velvet and heavy silk hiding her form and her face obscured by both mask and veil, even those who knew her well might mistake Debora. “I am,” She answered as she dropped her arm to her side, the gun weighing her hand. She did not feel threatened by this obviously wounded figure, but the risk of the unknown remained.

“You’re injured. Come inside, I’ll phone a doctor.” How the figure answered would determine Debora’s action moving forward. Hidden in her brief wording, questions lay. I mean you no harm, do you intend me harm? Are you here under shadowed circumstances?

The man started forwards at Debora's suggestion of calling a doctor, his face twisting in anguish as he reached a hand towards her. "No. You can't..."

As he lifted his hand away from the banister, his legs gave way beneath him, his dragging feet catching on the top step, and he tumbled forwards. Sprawling to the ground, the man did nothing to stop his fall, landing hard with a pained grunt. His shoulder impacted with the ground at Debora's feet, his body twisting so that he was splayed on his back.

Debora winced as the figure slammed to the floor at her feet. Quickly, she took in his bloodied shirt and unfocused eyes. Her mind flashed to other forms on other nights. Debora slipped her handgun back into the coat’s pocket and loosened a thick white scarf from around the collar. Balling it in her hands, she knelt beside the wounded man.

“No doctor then, but you’ll have to let me tend you. What injured you?” And because of the glassy appearance in his eyes, she added, “Why were you seeking me?”

As she poised to open his shirt, Debora studied her long satin gloves and then ripped them off, being mindful only of the ring on her left hand and cast them back into the office. Every tick of the clock behind her was like a drumbeat in her ears. On this of all nights an injured man had to show up at her door- But of course it must be tonight, Debora thought. She did not put much faith into coincidence. Her plans and this man, somehow both were connected.

The wild eyes appeared to focus on Debora, or as much as they could focus, as she knelt beside the stranger. This close, she could smell the blood on his breath, see that is stained his lips. Even without her experience in first aid, she would know that that was not a good sign.

With obvious effort, the man managed to speak again, each word coming ragged and pained.

"Mary... I know... She said you were a friend. I need to..."

As Debora opened the man's shirt, his word descended into hacking, wet coughs, shaking his entire body. Blood was already pooling on the floor, thick and dark. As Debora peeled back the soaked shirt, the cause of the bleeding quickly became apparent. It was a wound the like of which she had never seen. The man's chest was sinewy and thin, the skin pulled tight across his ribs, and through the middle of his chest, there was a gaping wound. It took her a moment to realize that she could see the floor through it, that somehow, it was as if something had been driven through him. He was as good as dead. Debora knew that there was nothing that she could do to save him, only sheer willpower could have kept him alive long enough to reach her. Never one to be defeated, Debora's hands began to move instinctively, going through the motions of tending to the wound, but before she could, a hand caught her wrist in an iron grip.

Turning sharply, Debora found herself looking into the pale, haggard face of the man. For the first time, his eyes seem truly focused, and there is a burning intensity in them.

Haltingly, he issued a dire warning.

Then the intensity bled out of the eyes, and the head slumped back. Debora watched the man die, solemnly clinging to his loosening hand. She did not draw away from the corpse as his last breath rattled within his broken torso or as his blood seeped to the floor around her knees. Debora wondered at what series of events had sent him to die on her doorstep. His connection to Mary, the ghastly state of his body and clothing, his dreaded warning that even now rang in her ears. If only he had another moment to speak. Now she worked to gather as much information as possible from his appearance alone. His ragged clothing and the myriad nicks and cuts on his limbs and face told of a staggering run through thick brush, far from any beaten path. For Debora, little doubt remained about where he had ventured from.

She stared a moment longer at the gaping wound in his chest and laid his arm gently across it. As she stood, her hands moved quickly, spreading out the wide scarf. The white fabric illuminated faintly in the low light as it draped over the corpse, obscuring the features. A single breath caught in her throat.

Then Debora reentered her office, collecting her gloves as she paced to the phone at her desk. She drew them on while waiting for the operator to connect her. Briskly, she spoke to the man who answered in Yiddish, informing him of the body and refusing to provide any further explanation. She tracked the minute movements of the clock while shrugging on her coat. Her fingers brushed the revolver in her pocket as she locked up and slipped the key through the puddle of blood and beneath the door. From inside, the phone rang once and was silent.

Debora lowered her eyes as she started down the stairs, her gaze flicking over the gruesome trail left by the dead man.

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While other guests make their way through the heart of Arkham, Richard Joyce is not one for strolling through the streets. Perhaps it is the deeper dark, the longer shadows, or simply the relative peace and quiet, but Richards journey on the fateful night of the 23rd took him not through Arkham, but rather around her edges. The town has been haunted by dreams and nightmares, and Richard is no different, so the motivation of seeing the Wilde Woods himself, of hearing the wind howl through the twisted branches, smelling the dank earth on the air, may have driven him to walk beside the trees, towards where a carriage promises to take him deeper within still. And yet, perhaps the oppurtunity to venture within need not wait until the carriage.

At first, Richard thinks nothing of it. The Wilde Woods has long warred with the city for control of the land between the two, and the tree-line is broken and fractures, one more gap in the undergrowth is nothing out of sorts. As he draws nearer, it starts to demand more attention. A space, a parting of the thorns that seems to open up like some great maw, nothing but shadows beyond it. Crouching down on his haunches, Richard reaches a hand down, and feels a chill run through him. Footsteps, in the mud, leading into the forest. Glancing up, it is then that Richard truly hesitates. The undergrowth has been beaten back, whoever the footsteps belonging to practically wading through them, and on the thorns, Richard can make out blood, even in the dim light. For a brief moment, those thorns look all too familiar, their shape twisting into barbed wire in the mud, and then Richard catches himself. He can't go down that hole, not tonight. He needs to focus. Standing upright, and straightening out the uniform he wears, Richard looked around. Unsurprisingly, the path he is on is deserted, and there is certainly no sign of the stranger that left the boot prints behind in the mud. They may be long gone, but Richard suddenly finds himself looking more warily at the long shadows around him.

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Eugene Esposito

Eugene’s eyes squinted. The once stoic bartender now avoided his gaze, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. Eugene took out two dollars and placed it on the counter, tapping it. He wanted to get as much information as possible.

Thomas saw it and simply shook his head. “There’s nothing good in those woods.”

Eugene tried to produce more but the bartender made it clear he wanted to take no part in what was going to happen. Eugene knew that trust was hard to come by in speakeasies even more so in a place that doesn’t really welcome outsiders. Although what they had wasn’t trust it was better than nothing and he didn’t want to risk it. Eugene finished his drink and stood up, leaving the money on the counter.

"As thanks for accepting an outsider like me… and… for giving the silent warning. Have a goodnight Thomas, I’ll see you tomorrow."

Thomas pocketed the tip and started to wipe the table. He stared at the patron who had left it, not knowing whether he was brave, crazy, or completely clueless. Maybe a combination of all three. He watched Eugene open the door, about to leave.

“I hope so.”

Eugene exited the bar and entered a seedy looking alley that was in between two residential buildings. He put on his mask and made his way to the open street where he was met with a gust of cold wind. His coat fluttered for a while before calming down. The place he was going to was going to be filled with people in high places, legal or otherwise. That much he knew. So his outfit for the night was something that would make him seem like a man in power but the type of power he hated so much. It was one he was all too familiar with, the Mobs. He wore a black two piece suit with the blazer and trousers sporting a faint white pinstripe pattern. His white polo was fitted with a brown tie and his shoes looked shiny, albeit a tad worn. It was topped off with a white hat that had a brown band in the middle. The mask he used was a bit too gaudy for his tastes but it served its purpose. It covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose and was embroidered by a flowing gold pattern. The top half was black while the bottom was designed to look like sheet music, to add a little bit of extra flair.

Lighting up a cigarette, he made his way down the deserted sidewalk towards one of the pickup points mentioned in the invitation. As he was walking, he heard a series of footsteps behind him followed by a loud cheerful voice.

“Ahoy there old sport!” The greeting came from a well dressed man in a purple jacket with a broad smile on his face. The smile on his face remained the same as he approached Eugene. Now that they were close, he could see that they stand at around the same height though the stranger had broader shoulders. Sandy blonde hair, cut neat, and green eyes looking out from behind a simpler black and gold mask compared to the one he was wearing at the moment. The stranger is handsome, with eyes that match the expression on his face.

“I take it from your dandy attire that we’re headed for the same place?” He asks in a friendly tone.

"Well it depends, are you waiting for a pick-up?" Eugene returned the smile, replying with a question of his own. He attempted to study the stranger but was surprised to find out that his intentions seemed genuine. Either that or he works for Hollywood.

“I am indeed! I must say its good to meet someone else who is on their way. The name is…” He managed to catch himself before continuing. Laughing loudly he extends his hand. “Ha, I suppose names are out of favour for the evening. But we can't very well have a conversation without names... I shall be Mister Violet. It is good to meet you, old boy"

"That is indeed true Mister Violet. Genie, a pleasure to meet you." Eugene accepts the hand before gesturing towards the pick-up spot. "It’s almost time for the carriage to arrive. Shall we?"

“Genie, eh? Absolutely dandy, lead the way my friend.”

Along the way, Eugene decided to make a mental note of Mister Violet’s appearance, voice, and gait. Once his made eyes made their way down, he noticed that there was a layer of mud on his shoes as though he had been trekking through it in the last few hours. Eugene adds another point to his evaluation of the stranger. Possibly from out of town? No he would have taken the train. Perhaps he attempted to traverse the woods by himself and had chosen to come back. Nevertheless, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

Once they arrived at the aforementioned pick-up spot, Eugene produces a cigarette and offers it to Mister Violet. "To pass the time. And besides, I've made a lot of good friends through these flammable sticks here's to hoping I make one more tonight."

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There are many in Arkham who close their shutters and bolt their doors whenever night falls over the haunted city, but there are still those who refuse to allow the darkness to dampen their mood. The foolish, the mad, or the rich. The Excelsior Hotel, in the heart of Arkham, still spills golden light long into the night, frenetic jazz echoing along deserted streets. The foolish, the mad, or the rich, all of them find themselves drawn to the hotel, like moths to a flame, and Jayce Brennaman is no different. Perhaps looking to settle any late nerves with a glass of whiskey, or simply hoping to find some comfort in the familiarity of rubbing shoulders with the social elite, as the clock ticks towards the invitation burning in his pocket, and the shadows over Arkham lengthen, Jayce Brennaman, heir to the Silverhand Chemical empire, sits at the Excelsior Jazz bar, and looks down at his drink. He is not the only guest of the Wildes that is enjoying the light and the noise of the bar, and he has already spotted almost a dozen masked figures, men and women, making their way through the crowded room. From where he is sitting, he has even mused over whether he may know any of the figures, squinting at them through the haze of cigar smoke that hangs in the air, looking to pick up any distinctive features, but he has had no such luck, and no-one has approached him. In fact, the opposite seems to be true. The tide of people and laughter seems to break around Jayce, passers-by casting wary glances towards the mask he wears, their conversation faltering until they are past him. Arkham is a haunted city, and its ghosts seep into every corner. Even in the buzz of the Excelsior, the ghosts remain.

Jayce has his drink half-raised to his lips when he feels a change in their air. He hesitates, and for a brief moment, the superstition that clings to Arkham grips him, his blood running cold, but when he finally wills himself to turn, he does not find himself faced by a ghoul or an apparition, but a man. Dark clothed, broad shouldered, unflinching features, the dark eyes fix on Jayce, and a low voice, rough, almost a growl, reaches through the busy noise of the bar.

"Mister Brennaman?"

---

Beyond the light and noise of the Excelsior Hotel, the streets of Arkham are dark, a chill wind seeming to have crept into the city since night has fallen. Now, that wind howls through the streets, rattling shutters and causing the temperature to plummet. Those who are unfortunate enough to still be out and at the mercy of the elements pull their coats tighter around them, and hurry their pace. Alistair Truman is no different. The mask that he wears at least offers some protection from the chill, but then, a man such as Alistair is more out of sorts without a mask, than he is with one, physical or not. For that same reason, the shadows that surround him as he walks do not put the same fear into Alistair's heart as they do for other men. He understands that sometimes, shadows are welcome. Perhaps it is that experience with the shadows, or simply years of looking over his shoulder, but Alistair has been painfully aware of the footsteps behind him for several streets now.

At the start, Alistair didn't think too much of them. The streets of Arkham are quiet once night falls, but there are still those who brave the chill in the air, often driven by unsavoury purpose. And yet, with every turn he takes, every new street he walks down, every step he takes that the mysterious follower mirrors has put him more and more on edge. Some part of him hopes that it is still just a coincidence, but another part of him, a part that is increasingly growing, tells him that it is not. Whenever Alistair has turned back, peered through the gloom, he has seen nothing, the footsteps falling silent as quickly as his own, so that he almost believes that he has imagined them, until he starts forward once more, and they ring out behind him again. Attempting to lose this unseen tail, his route has become increasingly erratic, darting into side alleys, losing himself in the winding maze of Arkham's old town, but the footsteps have always stayed with him, so close that he constantly expects a hand to grasp his shoulder, a sharpened point to press against his back. He is almost lost now, but suddenly, he recognises the building on the corner ahead of him, the worn sign of Hutchinson's Goods. The invitation in his pocket lists a number of points that carriages will be available. One of those points is less than a few turns away. As if they can sense how close Alistair suddenly finds himself to be to salvation, or at least relative safety, the footsteps at his back suddenly pick up their pace.

The long day full of crunching numbers and apt negotiation had called for a celebration and Jayce found himself at the local watering hole enjoying a nice cool whiskey on the rocks at the bar in the hotel bar. As he sat and watched the people come and go he couldn't help conjure a life that each one had and their stories in his head. In a way he was comparing his life to the ones they had in his imagination and feeling himself superior because of it. As he was lifting his glass to take another sip of his drink the sound of a gruff almost growling noise behind him cause him to pause a moment, the momentary fear of the unknown gripped him as he turned around to gaze at the figure that called his name. This man seemed unnaturally broad with eyes that almost seemed to gaze through him as he gathered the nerve to respond to the menacing figure,

"Y-yes, may I help you?"

The figure will look Jayce up and down for a moment, as if sizing him up, the silence, the unanswered question, seeming to stretch out, before the low growl finally comes again.

"Lady Wilde sends her regards. There is a carriage waiting for you outside."

The tall figure will shift slightly, and one black-gloved hand will gesture towards the door.

"Lady Wilde you say? Well best not keep the lady waiting."

Jayce quickly downed the rest of his drink and gathered his things and walked towards the door. He had spent weeks trying to gain an audience with the elusive Wilde family to pitch to them, with the family in tow Silverhand could exponentially increase their earnings. Another victory to celebrate. As they walked towards the door Jayce couldn't resist probing the stone-faced attendant,

"So, what does the Lady want with me this late in the evening? Seems quite sudden to be calling on a gentleman?"

Looking at the figure, Jayce will notice the crest of the Wilde's on his breast pocket, the quality of the heavy jacket that he wears. The dark hair on the man's head, cut short and neat, half covers a pattern of scars that mark the left side of the man's face. Almost as if the man can sense Jayce's eyes on him, the figure will glance across, and for the first time, Jayce truly appreciates the size of the man. Broader at the shoulder, and standing several inches taller, he towers over Jayce, and the crowd quickly clears a path for them as they make their way across the room.

At Jayce's questions, the figure will turn again, his stern features giving nothing away. The silence that follows speaks volumes though, and for a brief moment, Jayce feels out of his depth. His family and his standing has seen him cross paths with dozem of servants, but this man is something different. There's an authority to him that almost catches Jayce's tongue, makes his usual jibes and wit feel empty and out of sorts.

As they leave the hotel, Jayce will see an impressively grand motor car sitting on the street, all black paint and silver metal. The presence of the towering figure at his back is motivation enough for Jayce to feel inclined to approach it. The deafening silence of the towering attending gave him everything that he needed to know everything, there was no digging any further with the walking vault of silence. His towering size dictated the sense of imposed silence Jayce needed to have. As the "lurch" of a servant gestured to the impressive motor car he couldn't help but be jealous. His car was nice, but his was on another level, being gestured into the back of the car he sat in demure stillness. The ride would be something else.

As Jayce steps towards the motor car, the door swings open, and a cloud of smoke flows out. As the smoke clears, Jayce would be able to make out the glow of a lit cigarette, somewhere within the car, before a shape steps out into the half-light of the street. The man is handsome, all sharp features and expensive suit, and he looks to be a few years younger than Jayce. His hair, snow white, is slicked back and neat, his eyes dark and wide, an ornate blue and gold mask sits on his face. The man tilts his head slightly as he looks Jayce up and down, before taking a slow drag from the cigarette in his hand. His voice sounds as expensive as the car looks, polished and carefully enunciated.

"Thank you for finding the gentleman, Adams."

The towering figure at Jayce's shoulder nods his head slightly, before moving across to the car, his hulking frame clambering into the driver's seat, the entire frame of the car rocking for a moment under his weight. The white-haired man in the doorway turned back to Jayce, and his thin lips part into a smile, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Good evening. Shall we?"

Staring into the hazy motor car cabin and gazing into the eye sockets of the obviously expensive Venetian that accentuated the rest of the ensemble Jayce knew that this was someone that he could relate to. This was another socialite, and better yet, he would even assume that this was a member of the Wilde family come to pick him up. Now he would be in his element. He turned and gave a hearty slap on the shoulder of the man-servant and gave a wide grin,

"Thanks for the escort Jeeves, I think the grownups can take it from here."

As soon as Jayce's palm hits the hulking figure's shoulder, he notices three things. The first, is how broad the shoulder beneath the jacket is, the second is how unnervingly cold the touch is, and the third, and the one that might begin to seep a little wariness beneath the easy confidence of the heir of Silverhand Chemical, is how quickly the man tenses at the slap.

His words are barely out of his mouth before the man, this Adams, turns to face Jayce. Or rather, to look down at Jayce. The stern features have darkened, the eyes burning into Jayce's own. Adams stands several inches taller than Jayce, and he is significantly broader. There is something behind those eyes, something dangerous, and the shadows around the two men suddenly seem to lengthen, to close in around them.

"That will be all, Adams!"

The voice of the white-haired stranger is abrupt, and Jayce can't help but notice that the authority that had echoed in it before faltered for a moment, and there was something worryingly like desperation, almost pleading, in it now. Adams doesn't move for a moment, as if he is deliberating over something, and then he takes a step back, although his shoulders do not relax. His voice is a growl now, rough and low.

"Of course. Sir."

The sound of the stranger shook the miniature battle of wills caused Jayce to turn to the sounds origin. He took a moment to clear his throat and gathered himself to deal with man in the car.

"Mhmm, that's quite a man you have there. Good help is hard to come by isn't it?"

He stuck his hand out in a gesture that held multiple meanings,

"The names Brennaman, Jayce Brennaman. What's yours?."

The stranger by the car smiles at Jayce's comment, taking another drag from his cigarette before he replies, glancing across at Adams.

"Oh believe me, you don't know the half of it."

At Jayce offering his hand, the man smiles again, composure entirely regained. Dropping his cigarette to the floor, grinding it into the pavement for a moment, the man steps forward and taking Jayce's hand in his own, shaking it firmly.

"I know who you are, Mister Brennaman, but for the sake of my... For the sake of Lady Wilde, perhaps we keep up the appearance of masquerade. We are dressed for the occasion after all."

Releasing Jayce's hand, the man takes a step back, looking Jayce up and down one more time before he speaks again.

"For tonight, call me Mister White. We can talk more in the car, unless you have any errands left to run?"

Jayce took a moment to pull a cigar out of his pocket and went through the steps to light it and discard the waste. So, if not a Wilde then someone close, this is just as good.

"Not at all Mr. White. This is what I've been waiting for. To Lady Wilde we go."

Taking the offer made, he sat down in the car and sat with an air of confidence foot resting on his knee as he exhaled his own billowing cloud of smoke into the car.

---

Richard stared at the mud and blood, gazing at the moonlit scene with a strange pit slowly forming in his stomach. Reaching for his cigarette case, he flicked the battered and worn metal open, retrieved a single, factory-rolled stick from it, and pressed it to his lip, a shudder easing its way down his spine. Snapping the case shut again, he reached for his lighter, as unusual as such a thing was, and struck at the flint.

The dim light did little to drive back the darkness. Cupping the infant flame with a slightly quaking hand, he brought it to the end of the paper, breathing in and drawing the flame towards him at the same time. The end of the cigarette glowed and curled and smoke filled his lung, the man finishing his deep inward breath and putting the lighter away in one smooth motion.

Exhaling, he turned away from the scene and began to walk onwards. It was none of his business. It was none of his concern. It was nothing to trouble himself with. The sentences wormed their way around his mind, utterly unconvincing in their rhetoric, and his fingers tightened around the metal of the lighter, the metal edge being slowly forced to bite into his fingers.

A few more minutes along the road, not nearly at where the coach was meant to pick him up, and he heard the clamour and clatter of a carriage. Turning, he watched the vehicle as it approached. A figure hunched tightly over the reins, driving the horses onwards quicker and quicker. If they noticed him, they certainly didn't act like it, driving themselves onwards without slowing, stopping, or even so much as a comment.

As the carriage passed him by, however, the ex-soldier was able to make out a blur of movement. A flash of light from within the coach, a splash of green and red, and then it was past him. Barely had it done so however, when there was the heavy knock of something striking the carriage roof. All at once, there is the frantic whinnying of the horse, the crack of its reins being pulled back, the grinding of the carriage wheels digging into the mud.

And then it all stops. A few dozen feet down the path it stood like a great black beast, steam rising up from the hard-worked haunches of the horse. It snorted a little in between its pants, but aside from this small thing, the carriage was still and silent. Standing behind it, now thoroughly confused, Richard's thoughts were only more disrupted when the door was thrown open with a clatter.

The figure that leaned out of the doorway was large, broad-shouldered and broad-waisted, all but blocking out the light from within. He wore a wide, cheerful face, topped with a mess of bright red hair that framed an ornate gold leaf mask, underneath which were a pair of red cheeks and a single beaming smile of carefully maintained teeth. The voice that traveled across the narrow gap was ooming.

"I say, I thought I was seeing things, but there you are! Well met, sir."

Richard, who had brought a hand to his chest to keep his greatcoat from unceremoniously fluttering about in the slipstream of the vehicle took a moment to slip his own mask on. In comparison to the complicated affair the stranger wore, his was a simple opera mask that obscured everything above his nose with plain, expressionless white bakelite. It served its purpose, and little more. Reluctantly, he responded to the figure. "Well met to you as well sir. Have we had cause to know each other?"

The stranger's smile only grew wider, and for a moment, Richard felt a little uncomfortable, as if the smile was too wide.

"I doubt it, although these confounded masks mean I'd barely recognise my own mother!"

A booming laugh rang out, the sound of it echoing around them.

"No, sir, it's your uniform I recognise. Did you serve in the war?"

Richard's stance adjusted without thinking. "Yes I did sir. Corporal in the 3rd Infantry. You as well?"

"I am afraid I did not have the privilege. I did what I could to help... in my own way." For the briefest of moments there was a flicker across the man's face, his smile faltering, but it was only for an instant.

"Ah." Richard frowned, face concealed by the darkness. One of those sorts. "Well then. I am Corporal Khaki." It was not a particularly inspired name, but then again, why draw further attention to yourself than needed? Speaking of which, travelling with this individual was a poor idea. Too many things could go wrong, and Professor Green hardly seemed like a trustworthy individual.

"But sharing old war stories can wait, I am sure. Professor Green, at your service. Are you bound for Wilde Hall?"

"Indeed I am. The walk has been good for the constitution." He hoped the subtle implication there would forestall the question that Green appeared to be leading up to.

If Professor Green had picked up on the subtle implication however, then he bore it no heed."Then it is fate that has brought us together! Jackson, bring the carriage round for my new friend!"

Cpl. Khaki sighed quietly to himself, then reluctantly resigned himself to travelling with this peculiar fellow. "Hold, hold, I'll catch up to you," he called, then began a stiff jog through the miserable gloom and towards the man. "It'll save us all some time in the long run." At his words, Professor Green leaned back, giving space for Richard to climb inside.

The serviceman hauled himself up and into the carriage, brushed a droplet of rain that had spilled down his uniform, then reluctantly took a seat, feeling thoroughly out of place.

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Mister White oozes the kind of privilege and arrogance that Jayce Brennaman is all too familiar with, and as the heir sits back in the plush leather of the automobile, absent-mindedly watching the darkness of the Wilde Woods as they race through the forest, he almost feels at home. After all, evening balls, even masquerade balls, are all just parts of life for the heir to a business empire, and yet, there is something dark, something unsettling, that Jayce just can't shake, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself with his conversation with Mister White. For Mister White's part, the other man seems all too happy to talk of business, of Boston, of grand theatres, lavish ballrooms, and the women who inhabit them. If Mister White feels any sense of unease, if he notices the way the coarse branches of the Wilde Woods seem to reach for the automobile like clutching hands, then he conceals it better than Jayce can hope to.

If Jayce was hoping to find some reassurance from the other occupant of the motorcar, the broad frame of the driver, Adams, then he is out of luck. Adams shares none of the friendly manner that Mister White seems blessed with, and he is silent throughout their journey through the Wilde Woods. Not only silent. Still. At first, Jayce thinks nothing of it, passing it off as the man simply focussing on the winding road ahead, but as he casts more glances towards the front of the motorcar, it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore. Other than the movements strictly necessary to keep the automobile on the road, Adamas is totally, unnervingly, still.

"Ah, finally."

Mister White's voice snapped Jayce's attention away from the unmoving frame of Adams, and as he followed Mister White's gaze, he had his first sight of Wilde Hall. The house was impressive, but then, you could expect little else from a family whose very name was carved into Arkham's foundations, but it was a far cry from the gothic castle that Jayce's imagination had conjured up. In fact, Wilde Hall appeared to be entirely welcoming. A handful of other coaches and automobiles were on the road ahead of them, making their own way towards the light spilling forth from the dozens of windows that made up Wilde Hall's face, and Jayce felt their own motorcar slow. Jayce allowed himself a smile as he took in the scene before him, the jazz music carrying on the air, the light against the darkness, but the sense of unease didn't leave him. It didn't leave him, and he could feel it, at the back of his mind, tugging. For a few brief moments, he tried to ignore it, tried to push it down, but eventually, he couldn't bear to fight it any longer. Inch by inch, his gaze was dragged away from Wilde Hall, until it settled on the darkness. Thornbank Lake.

Some part of Jayce knew that it was Thornbank Lake that he would see. Some part of him knew because he had seen it before, countless times, in his dreams. Ever since the Wilde Ball invitation had arrived at his door, dreams had haunted Jayce, and so often, those dreams had drawn him to the icy waters of the lake that he now saw through the automobile's window. The smile had long faded from Jayce's face, and he couldn't look away. The darkness. The depths...

"Are you ready, friend?"

It was like an echo, a half-remembered memory of another life, but Jayce couldn't look away. It was almost like it was calling to him, like the waters knew him, knew his name.

"I said, are you ready?"

Mister White's hand gripping his shoulder finally pulled Jayce back from the edge, and he turned, wildly, until he found himself looking into the dark eyes of the other man. Was there concern in those eyes, or simply curiosity? Jayce didn't have long enough to decide, the face already moving away. With an almost theatrical flourish, Mister White opened the motorcar door, and Jayce realised that they had arrived at Wilde Hall proper, the main doorway just a few metres beyond the confines of the motorcar. Jayce looked back to Mister White, and did what he could to fit the mark of the charming socialite, opening his mouth to speak.

---

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Many of those who make the treacherous journey through the Wilde Woods have the fortune, or perhaps the misfortune, of having company during their travel. Morgan Eisenhorn is not afforded that luxury. The invitation, burning a hole in his pocket, is already a mystery to him, and it leads him to wait on a street corner. The streetlight above his head offers some respite from the clawing darkness of the night, but it does nothing to ward off the biting chill in the air, and the diminutive figure pulls his jacket tight around him as he stares off into the shadows. Minutes seem to stretch into hours, Morgan having nothing to do but watch his breath cloud around him, and wait. Wait, and wait. Almost out of frustration, Morgan checks the invitation again, holding it up towards the dim light of the streetlamp, eyes straining. He barely needs to read the words. He has read them before, time and again, since the envelope was slipped under the door of his cramped office. He has committed them to memory, pored over every word, every syllable, every letter, imploring some hidden meaning to burst forth from the ink. He knows he is in the right place, at the right time, and yet, he is still waiting.

Morgan pushes the invitation back into his pocket, trying in vain to push the thought of it out of his mind. For a moment, he begins to question why he is even there, why he is in Arkham, why he followed a tenuous thread thousands of miles, why he endured the long, white-knuckle hours of the rattling cargo plane, and then he hears it. Since he reached the street corner, in fact, since he first stepped out from the ramshackle hotel that he had been staying in since he reached Arkham, the darkness and the chill seemed to muffle any noise, but now, he hears it as clear as day. Hoofbeats. Steel striking stone. Morgan turns, almost managing to forget the cold that is numbing his hands and face, straining against the darkness again, and finally, the shadows take shape. A horse, almost as dark as the night that it emerges from, comes first, then the silhouette of a figure, and then, a carriage, squat and dark. Slowly, painfully slowly, the carriage approaches the corner where Morgan waits, before finally, it slows, coming to a halt a few paces away from Morgan.

It is not just the invitation that Morgan Eisenhorn has pored over, and he recognises the crest that is emblazoned on the side of the carriage. The Wilde crest. It is only that that gives him any indication that the carriage is intended for him, as he is given no greeting from the coach driver, nor are any of his greetings met in turn. A stout figure, wide at the shoulder, face lost in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, the driver is still and silent. Taking a moment to glance around, perhaps hoping for some like-minded souls to join him, Morgan eventually summons the courage to step forward, clambering into the carriage, and pulling the door closed behind him with a thud. Within, the carriage is functional, if a little sparse, but it offers welcome shelter from the biting chill of the wind, and the lone gaslamp provides precious light. Morgan sits in silence before the carriage lurches forward, and he is on his way, alone, with nothing but his thoughts for company.

The journey through the Wilde Woods is eery, the light within the carriage transforming anything beyond the narrow windows into total darkness, the only sign of the outside world being the occasional twisted tree branch that scratches against the carriage side. The only break in the steady forward progress comes as they pass through heavy-wrought iron gates, and despite the relative shelter of the carriage, and the faint heat of the gaslamp, Morgan feels his blood run cold as he hears those same iron gates swing closed behind him as the continue onwards, deeper into the woods, further from what safety Arkham can offer. And yet, that chill is nothing compared to the ice that grips Morgan's heart as the road swings, and the forest falls away. The lake. For days, for weeks, he has woken in the night, slick with sweat, breathing ragged, haunted by nightmares, and in all of those nightmares, he has seen the lake. He has felt the water around his ankles, pulling at him. He has seen the shape that moves in the depths, black against inky black. He has heard it, whispering his name. And now, now he sees it, really sees it. All at once, pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place, some clues as to why he has come, and all at once, Morgan finds himself deeply, deeply regretting the journey that has brought him to Wilde Hall.

Before he can act, before he can make some desperate bid for escape, to put as much distance between himself and that lake as he can manage, the carriage slows to a halt once again, and Morgan finds himself before Wilde Hall itself, the golden light and jazz music standing in stark, alien contrast with the darkness beyond. Almost in a daze, Morgan pushes open the door, stepping out into the light, the carriage pulling away almost before his feet touch the ground. All at once, after so long in solitary silence, Morgan is surrounded by people, men and women in rich clothes and fanciful masks mill around him, talking and laughing as they make their way into Wilde Hall. In the crowd, Morgan finds his gaze finding an unusual pair. A man and a woman, although by the look of them, both are barely into adulthood. The boy has the lanky build of a teenager, his suit cheaply made and poorly fitted, but it is the girl on his arm that catches Morgan's eye. Petite, her dress royal blue and richly embroidered, but her mask. Her mask was white and gold, almost entirely covering her face, and from either side, there hung a ribbon, as blue as her dress. Almost as soon as Morgan catches sight of the pair, they are gone, stepping into Wilde Hall, and stepping out of view. The crowd continues to flow around Morgan like a river, and almost without realising, he finds himself swept up in it.

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Eugene Esposito

Arkham always seems to attract gloomy weather, so it has certainly rained in the last few days. In fact, it is fortunate that it is not raining now. Now that they were standing still, Eugene observes his companion. He doesn’t notice any irregular breathing, but Mister Violet appears to be a fit and healthy figure, so he likely would have recovered for exertion quickly. Not only that, but the mud on his shoes appears to be dried somewhat.

Mister Violet takes the cigarette with a smile, holding it out to Eugene to be lit. "Thank you, old boy. I feel that where we are headed, friends will be a rare commodity" From further down the road, there comes the sound of hooves on stone, and both men will turn to see a horse-drawn carriage making its way towards them. "Looks like our ride"

Perhaps he was in a hurry and took the first pair of shoes he found? No? As far as he know only people with a certain amount of power can get into Wilde Hall. Maybe Mister Violet was like him, obtaining an invitation using a different method. He took a long drag as the carriage stopped in front of them. Eugene studied its driver. "Good evening sir, is this the carriage headed to the ball?"
The driver is a tall and wiry man. The first thing Eugene notices is that the driver is only wearing a dark shirt, and breeches, despite the chill in the air. If the man feels the cold, he doesn't show it, and his face barely shifts as he turns to look at Eugene. The driver is young, younger than Eugene, looking to be in his early twenties, or even his late teens. His voice is monotone, and disinterested. "If you have an invitation"

Eugene looks at Mister Violet with a raised eyebrow and digs through his coat pocket to retrieve his invitation. Mister Violet shrugged slightly, before pulling out his own invitation from a pocket within his suit jacket.

How strange, Eugene thinks to himself before handing out his own invitation to be inspected.

Eugene notices once again that the man's face barely moves, and there's no real reaction to the invitation as the driver scans it. Seemingly satisfied, he will hand it back, before doing the same with Mister Violet's. Returning Mister Violet's invitation, the driver straightened up slightly, hands moving to grip the reins again. "I'll be leaving in a few minutes. You'll find seats in the back"

Eugene takes the invitation back and boards the back of the carriage. It was surprisingly warm and comfortable on the inside, perfectly sheltered from the night chill. Once seated he'll look over to Mister Violet as he climbs and pretends that he is only now seeing the state of his shoes.

"Took a wrong step on the way here?"

Mister Violet clambers inside, closing the door behind him. At Eugene's words, Mister Violet glances down at his shoes, turning them slightly to get a better look at the mud as he shrugs slightly, smiling warmly. "I guess so. But then, you know how the streets are. Progress all around us, but still mud on the streets"

Eugene’s tried to see if there was a hidden meaning behind Mister Violet’s words but the man seemed quite truthful. Just like he himself had seen, some of the quieter roads that trace through Arkham are still little more than dirt paths. He decides to pass the time, engaging his companion in some idle chatter. After a few minutes, the carriage starts to move forward, but before it could gain distance there is a shout from the street, and it slows to a halt again. Through the window of the carriage, Eugene will be able to make out a muffled conversation.

Peering through, Eugene sees a figure talking to the carriage driver. With his eyes having grown accustomed to the light in the carriage, it is difficult to make out any details, but he notices the figure holding something out towards the coachman. Mister Violet who is sitting opposite Eugene, had his back to this scene, so as Eugene peers out, his companion will lean forward slightly, his voice low. "Another guest?"

“It seems so.” Eugene replies, trying listen in on the conversation. He makes out that the newcomer is offering his invitation and coach man with his monotone voice tells him to enter. The stranger makes their way to the door, pulling it open, and seeming to start slightly when he sees Eugene and Mister Violet inside. This gives Eugene a chance to get a good look at him. Dark hair, cut short and neat, an unremarkable face, a simple, black mask, resting a nose crooked from some long-healed break. It's the eyes that catch in the light, and that catch Eugene's attention. The right is dark, like the rest of the man's features, but the left is a brilliant blue. The stranger seems to be breathing a little heavy but considering how cold the night was getting, Eugene just pushes it to the back of his mind.

A booming voice rings out as Mister Violet breaks the silence. “Another guest! Wonderful!”

Eugene nods and does a much calmer greeting. “Good evening.” Looking closely he notices that their new companion had two different coloured eyes. A dark right, and a brilliant blue left.

The man gets over his initial startle and looks between Eugene and Mister Violet before forcing a smile. "I apologise, I didn't expect anyone... Good evening." His voice is a drawl, clearly from somewhere in the deep south.

"No need to apologise, we're all colleagues on our way to a grand party." Eugene extends a hand. "I am called Genie, and the happy fellow next to me is Mister Violet. Let's get along Mister.."

The stranger looks down at Eugene's hand, apparently still in shock at the presence of the two men in carriage. A beat passes, a moment that seems to stretch out, and then the man takes Eugene's hand in a firm grip, shaking it sharply. "Call me Red. Nice to meet you both." With that, he clambers inside the carriage, goes to close the door once he has taken his seat.

Eugene leans back into his seat but then quickly perks up when he hears someone call out to the carriage. Just as Red was about to close the door his hand shoots out, keeping it open. He peers outside and sees a woman in a lovely blue dress. He turns back to his companions in the carriage. “It seems like we’ve another guest joining us. The more the merrier isn’t that right Mister Violet?”

“Room for one more?” The woman inquired.

His attention returns to the newcomer outside. With an extended hand, he says. “Of course madam, come on in.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased I caught you. I thought for a moment I would have to make other arrangements and arrive late.” She smiled, taking his hand. “As to introductions, I’m Mrs. Copper this evening, a bit tarnished I’m afraid,” This was said with a sweep of her hand over her silk aqua harem trousers. “And you are?”

"Mrs. Copper? That's dandy, just dandy. Thank you for bringing some much needed grace to our rag-tag band, madam." Mr Violet says with a warm and jovial tone.

“Oh, how rude of me. Tonight, I am called Genie. Thank you for gracing us with your presence Mrs. Copper.” He complimented. Eugene knew that these rich folk loved it when you give them words of praise no matter how tacky. Still, her name sounded familiar. He was suddenly brought back to NYC. Memories of corrupt policemen working with the mob and the few just ones that tried to bring them down. They had a nickname for those type of people. The fuzz. Blues. Bulls. Buttons.Copper.

Eugene swallowed saliva, his heart pounding. “Well then, it seems like the carriage is practically full.” He said, trying to divert the topic. Poking his head out the door to call to the driver, the night wind cooled his face. “Excuse me driver, I think we’re just about ready to go.”
Mrs Copper leans back into her unclaimed seat and relaxes. “For all the grace it provides, I hope my presence does not strip the joviality from you fine men! Tonight, is for gaiety and I mean to make merry! Laughter led me to your coach. Do let me in on the joke, unless it dulls in the retelling, in which case do substitute another.”

Eugene notices that Mister Violet’s gaze remains on the newcomer and his already wide smile somehow…gets even wider when she requested a joke. How unsettling. "I am afraid there was no joke of note, but I am joyous to hear that we are kindred spirits in merriment!” Said Mister Violet. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I shall endeavour to ensure that we enjoy our night, or at the very least, this coach journey. Speaking of..."

He leans forwards lightly and joins Eugene in looking at the driver. If he heard Eugene’s request he didn’t show it but a flick of the wrist could be seen and the coach finally starts moving. Heading towards their destination.

"Quite a strange fellow that one." Eugene motions towards the driver. "Doesn't seem like the type of person to be hired by someone as influential as our host." He looked at the other three in the carriage. Mister Violet, Red, and Mrs. Copper. Out of all of them, Mister Violet seemed the most out of place. His loud and joyful demeanor freaked Eugene out a bit.

Leaning back into his seat comfortably Eugene spoke with a curious tone. “What an honor isn’t it? Being invited to the Wilde Hall after all those years of silence. I must say, I’m quite nervous and excited. Still I do wonder, what made them open the gates after all this time.”

Mister Violet cast’s a sideward glance at Eugene before speaking. “Perhaps the question is not why do they open their gates it’s why we choose to go in.”

The air in the carriage shifts for a moment as the question made Eugene and perhaps, the others, question their own motives. As he looked outside, Eugene could swear that the dark was getting darker. But it was a fleeting moment as Mister Violet continues. "I have to say, I am damn glad to have bumped into you all, if you'll pardon my language Mrs. Copper. I was worried that the evening was going to be a painfully boring affair, but I feel far brighter knowing I will have you fine folk at my side."

He notices that his jovial companion glance at Mr. Red before quickly averting his gaze. As if nothing happened, Mister Violet and Mrs. Copper engage in some back and forth conversation, the words going in one ear and out the other as Eugene chooses to look out the window instead. There wasn’t really anything to gleam from their talking, something about wild elephants or whatever. But what Mr. Violet says next caused a chill to run down Eugene’s back.

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing Wilde Hall with my own eyes, no. But I assure you, Mrs Copper, that I have a personal interest in the night that lies ahead. I imagine I am not alone in that."

---

As Debora left the office building, her thoughts grew apprehensive. The dying man’s warning seemed to echo after her and the image of him shrouded in white, red blood pooling around him, flashed in her mind’s eye, a macabre overexposure imposed upon the cold empty streets of Arkham.

Blood and Death. Debora tried to focus on the man’s warning, but those two words bobbed along in her thoughts, buoys bearing another dire omen. Blood and Death. Dom and Mace. Dalled Mem, Mem Tav. The cubed Hebrew letters joined the morass of her thoughts before fading to the numbers they represented, their Gematria. 4 and 40, 40 and 400. Forty-four, and again forty-four. A horrible omen for the task ahead.

A name came to her suddenly, relating to the dead man’s warning. She passed it through her mind, trying to dislodge any other useful information, but the name only tangled with the ill-omened numbers. Debora crossed the street, her steps slowing as she glanced up at the library. If there were more hours before her, she might spend them trying to dissect the full implications of the man’s warning. Now, she hurried along towards the location specified in her invitation.

It felt distinctly odd to be traversing the darkened city streets costumed as a Sheba straight from a fantastical Arabian Nights. In the light pooling around the streetlamps she passed, the teal and aqua coloring of the velvet and satin outfit showed. Accent pieces; jewelry, purse, her half mask, and the medallion on her turban were a contrasting reddish orange. These were easily discardable if necessary. The costume itself she had chosen to further obscure herself. Long gloves, a thin veil, full trousers and added ruffling that changed her usual silhouette. Debora was certain that in any other setting she would cut a ridiculous figure, but at the Wilde ball she would hopefully be one of many costumed attendees.

Laughter boomed, starkly out of place against the looming shadows of Arkham. Debora’s head whipped round, searching for the source of the sound, and then she spotted it. A horse drawn carriage, almost lost in the inky darkness of the night, if not for the lamplight spilling out from within. The door was open, and in the doorway, framed by the light, stood a figure.

Moving forward, Debora could discern more voices from within the carriage, as a trio of party guests made introductions. The man on the threshold of the vehicle was Red. Debora inhaled slightly when he spoke with a distinctive Texan drawl, an accent she had not counted on hearing so far from her birthplace, and one that conjured both familiarity and remoteness.

Red climbed inside, and the door seemed likely to close. Debora stepped forward quickly, raising a hand. “Room for one more?” She inquired, injecting levity into her voice. She must blend in with these rich guests and mirror their giddy attitude towards journeying to Wilde Hall.

One of the carriage’s occupants held the door open and offered a hand to Debora. It was not the Texan Red, or Mr. Violet, but the third. A dark half mask accented his blue eyes while contrasting with his white hat. The suit he wore was also dark, bearing faint white stripes. The uniform of a mobster, or at least the perfect likeness of one. For a heartbeat, Debora hesitated, and then she placed a gloved hand into the man’s and lifted herself into the carriage.

“Thank you. I’m pleased I caught you. I thought for a moment I would have to make other arrangements and arrive late.” She smiled, “As to introductions, I’m Mrs. Copper this evening, a bit tarnished I’m afraid,” This was said with a sweep of her hand over her aqua harem trousers. “And you are?”

Debora studied the man’s face. Closer, she could discern the notes at the bottom of his mask. Which was the costume, the pinstripes or the music notes? She lingered on the threshold, wanting to get her bearings of the lightened coach, and put faces to Mr. Violet and Red and a name to the third.

The man dressed in a well-tailored purple jacket greeted her first, smiling warmly. He did not introduce himself, but Debora had little trouble matching his title to Mr. Violet. She noted his sandy blond hair, green eyes and friendliness that seemed perfectly genuine. He was also a bit of a flatterer. "Mrs. Copper? That's dandy, just dandy. Thank you for bringing some much needed grace to our rag-tag band, madam."

As was Genie. ‘Oh, how rude of me. Tonight, I am called Genie. Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Mrs. Copper.’ The name stuck out from the color theme, and Debora wondered what had prompted him to select it. A gentle poke at her costume, perhaps? But no, the introduction had been too general. He had given her a once over to match her own as he helped her aboard. Simply curious, or was he too hoping to glean some detail more?

Debora made careful note of the third man, Red. He seemed nervous, with an air of tension to the set of his shoulders. Dark featured, with a crooked nose, it was his shifting eyes that were the most striking. A mismatched set, the right was dark and the left a brilliant blue. A detail like that would be hard to forget, and with relief, Debora felt confident she had never encountered this man before.

Genie called to the driver ‘Well then, it seems like the carriage is practically full. Excuse me driver, I think we’re just about ready to go.’

Debora lounged on the open seat, coat pooling around her. “For all the grace it provides, I hope my presence does not strip the joviality from you fine men! Tonight is for gaiety and I mean to make merry! Laughter led me to your coach. Do let me in on the joke, unless it dulls in the retelling, in which case do substitute another.”

Mister Violet answered her, his smile stretching further. "I am afraid there was no joke of note, but I am joyous to hear that we are kindred spirits in merriment! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I shall endeavour to ensure that we enjoy our night, or at the very least, this coach journey. Speaking of..." He too turned his attention to the driver.

Opposite him in temperament was Red, who quietly peered out the window as the carriage rolled along. He had yet to utter a word in her presence, and Debora wondered if his window gazing was a further symptom of a solitary attitude or something more.

Genie mused about the driver and the opening of Wilde Hall. "Quite a strange fellow that one. Doesn't seem like the type of person to be hired by someone as influential as our host. What an honor isn’t it? Being invited to the Wilde Hall after all those years of silence. I must say, I’m quite nervous and excited. Still I do wonder, what made them open the gates after all this time.”

“Perhaps the question is not why do they open their gates, perhaps it is why we choose to go in.” Mister Violet redirected the scrutiny to their own motives in attending the ball. The mood shifted instantly, the very air seeming to chill. Mister Violet’s smile flickered and then he was himself again. “I have to say, I am damn glad to have bumped into you all, if you'll pardon my language Mrs. Copper. I was worried that the evening was going to be a painfully boring affair, but I feel far brighter knowing I will have you fine folk at my side.”

Debora pulled her coat a little closer as she waved away Mister Violet’s concern. She peered at the others in the carriage as they traded glances, redefining the first impression of her fellow guests like an artist would their sketches. Laughter had led her to the coach, but it only seemed a veneer covering an anticipatory dread that was not wholly unlike Debora’s own emotions.

“Boring, a Wilde Ball? And painfully so at that,” Debora offered a wry smile, “Mister Violet, I am afraid that you are shattering my anticipation for a mirthful evening. Have you- That is, do you speak from a place of experience?” She fidgeted with the edge of her turban, hoping to appear uncomfortable in her admission of being one of the newly rich.

Mr. Violet’s gaze darted briefly towards Red when he answered, ‘I have often found, Mrs Copper, that even the most lavish events live and die by the company you keep.’ Did the two men have a history attending such functions? The mention of death was not a welcome addition to the carriage, coupled with the dark atmosphere the words seemed to hint at more than a ball’s social scene.

“But you are, of course, correct. After all, these Wilde Balls seem to be the talk of the town, and their reputation certainly precedes them, although I admit some of the more far-fetched stories are likely fiction. From what I have heard, I should expect to be greeted by a herd of wild elephants”

Mr. Violet sought to dispel rumors, but the one he cited brought more questions to Debora. The blond-haired man then laughed. It was a mocking sound given their current surroundings and extremely unsettling. He again called attention to their personal motivations in attending the ball, “I have not had the pleasure of seeing Wilde Hall with my own eyes, no. But I assure you, Mrs Copper, that I have a personal interest in the night that lies ahead. I imagine I am not alone in that.”

And he looked at them each searchingly.

To say the veritable change of atmosphere from a dreadfully quiet carriage ride, to the bustling halls of the Wilde's manse had the Canadian looking this way and that. Overwhelmed by the buzz of conversation, the lilt of music and laughter the likes of the mild-mannered investigator was not used to after journeying thousands of miles without a moment to spare in repose.

Morgan found himself 'spat' from the flow of the crowd milling about the grand main hall, quite unceremoniously as well. However it gave the man a chance to regain his composure, finding himself in an eerie bubble of calm in a hall bare of any decor or pictures hung upon it's walls. Morgan's gaze snapped towards movement that he swore was the young couple he spotted earlier, a blue ribbon.

However upon momentarily reflecting Morgan wondered why he was so interested in the two 'Indeed, I am wasting my time following a couple youths?' the investigator chided himself, shaking his head before turning to return down the hall where the sound of the festivities lightly drifted from busy mulling over the thought of the youths Morgan failed to notice another guest as they briefly collided, the shorter of them being the Northerner himself luckily only stumbling backwards slightly before righting himself. Indeed he had not seen the guest, had he then Morgan likely would have offered a better greeting than to rudely knock a refined lady onto the floor.

"Oh my sincerest apologies madam, I didn't see you there! I had yet to gain my bearings!" abruptly apologizing to the woman, Morgan assisted the lady to her feet. Initially she was quite miffed yet she seemed to understand his reasoning enough to accept his apology.

Introducing herself as Madam Scarlett, the lady seemed to warm-up offering her hand to him in greeting. Morgan smiled beneath the silvery mask he wore, he accepted her hand "Mister Shade, pleasure to make your acquaintance despite our abrupt meeting." he chuckled amicably good-naturedly joking about their brief collision. Unexpectedly she laughed brightly and warmly, his words charming to Madam Scarlett she offering him a smile and a look that made Morgan feel as tall as a giant. She was noticeably taller than he himself but it made little difference to him, her words and smile made him forget about stature as they ended up accompanying one another back to the party.

---

---

Eugene Esposito

The sudden shift in mood caused the temperature to drop. What Mister Violet said held many implications. Questions were running through Eugene’s mind. Did he know the purpose for their reopening? Does he personally know the host? Was Mrs. Copper a fucking cop? Too many queries too little answers. He’d have to be even more vigilant now.

Everyone in the carriage was studying each other. Sizing up potential allies or enemies. Thankfully he was good at keeping his exterior relaxed and unassuming, and it seemed as though the others do too. Eugene stayed quiet as Mrs. Copper and Mr. Violet conversed, opting instead to look out the window like Red.

He watched as the the cobblestone streets turned to soil and the man-made architecture turned into nature’s own. In an attempt to change the mood he spoke up.“The Wilde Woods. Ancient, old, and unforgiving. That’s what the rumors say at least. Do you think the woods were named after the family or the family after the woods?”

“I’d image the Wildes themselves were first,” Mrs. Copper said, though she was not sure. “If they drew their name from their surroundings, we might very well be attending Thornbank Hall, would we not?” She looked to Mr. Violet, attempting to gauge any answer he might offer.

Mister Violet himself seemed lost in thought at Eugene’s query, his eyes moving to meet Mrs. Copper’s after she answers. "Very true, Mrs Copper. It sounds as if you know something of what lies ahead of us at least." He gestures slightly towards the darkness beyond the carriage windows, before his attention seemed to shift, his gaze settling on the silent figure of Mister Red. "What about the most reserved member of our party? Have you graced Wilde Hall before, Mister Red?"

The man was so quiet that Eugene actually forgot that he was with them. He barely reacted to to Mister Violet’s question that it seemed like he didn’t hear it at all, but a single word escapes his mouth. “No.”

Mister Violet, being the friendly and outgoing person he was, paid no heed and continued pressing. "Come now, old boy. A party is a social event, why not warm up with new friends?"

"Not. Interested." The answer was accompanied by a glare as Mister Red was facing Mister Violet now, eyes blazing. For a moment, the two men faced each other, the tension thick in the air, before he turned back to the window.

Mister Violet appeared to be genuinely taken aback, glancing across at Mrs Copper and Genie. Looking for reassurance perhaps? Or maybe simply understanding.

"Perhaps Mr. Red is not interested in our direct company, Mr. Violet.” She spoke calmly,“But he is interested in our chatter. I noticed his covert glances while we discussed the Wildes." Debora stroked the edge of her coat, "One must wonder what rumor concerning our hosts has reached all the way to Texas."

Mister Red's gaze flashed across to Debora as she mentioned his name, and there was something dangerous in those eyes. Something like an animal, backed into a corner. As she continued, he turned fully towards her, leaning forwards. His voice was low when he spoke, almost a growl. "You don't know anything about me, lady."

Before Debora had a chance to respond, Mister Violet was quick to interject. "Now steady on, old boy. I think you should show Mrs. Copper a little more respect..." Mister Violets hand seemed to move in slow motion, reaching forwards to rest on Mister Red's shoulder.

As soon as it touched, it was like a spark. Mister Red moved quickly, like a snake that had been coiled, lashing out. He turned, knocking Mister Violet's hand away, catching the other man's wrist in an iron grip. His voice wasn't low now, it was harsh and loud, the words practically spat out in Mister Violet's face. "Touch me again, and you lose your hand."

Hearing the answers of his companions confirmed something. Mrs. Copper knew of the place and its history whereas Mr. Violet seemed to have an idea of the reason for its reopening and an idea of the party’s agenda. Before he could speak up, Mr. Red suddenly lashed out. Mrs. Copper had asked him a question which seemed to spark some agitation and when Mr. Violet tried to calm him down, Mr. Red suddenly became violent. Grabbing the jolly man’s wrist with a threat of injury soon after. “Now now, take it easy.” Eugene said, trying to defuse the situation. “We’re here for a party not a fight.”

As if to back up his words, the carriage stopped.

A sharp cry came from beyond the carriage, and the carriage slowed to a halt. For a moment, there was nothing. Still and silent. Mister Red's grip on Mister Violet's wrist fell away, the Texan looking around, looking for a cause, an explanation, but nothing came. Almost as one, all four of the guests in the carriage moved to the window, and looked out into the night.

It was quickly apparent why they had drawn to a halt. The heavy, iron fence cut through the twisted undergrowth of the forest around them, stretching away into the darkness in both directions. The trees had wound themselves around the metal, so that both came together to form a thick barrier, as if nature and man had come together to seal off whatever lay beyond. Peeking outside, Eugene could see a large iron fence with a single name written on it. Wilde. They had arrived. The sound of the gates opening naturally eased the tension as curiosity overtook anger. Slowly the carriage moved as if feeding its passengers to a hungry beast.

Before any of them could speak, a low grinding broke the silence, and the gates slowly began to swung open, opening like the maw of some great beast.

Once the opening was wide enough, there was the crack of reins, and the carriage lurched forward again. As they entered, Eugene felt the atmosphere change. It wasn’t the hot, blood boiling moment they had a few seconds ago. This felt more…cold. As if a weight was suddenly placed upon his shoulders that just got heavier and heavier. Pulling him in, telling him that it was time for a well deserved rest. Despite the obvious chill in the air, Eugene could feel a cold sweat forming.

As they moved through the gates, dark figures could be made out in the gloom, barely visible before the grinding rang out again, and the gates began to close behind them, sealing the path back to Arkham. As if to tell them that there was no more escape. The air around them was different. It was ancient, stale. As if they were treading on a place where no man was allowed to. Eugene had felt this many times. Whenever he was called to do a scoop on gang murders, violence, interviews. Swallowing his saliva he turned to look at Mr. Violet.

Mister Red crossed himself, his lips moving in silent prayer, but Mister Violet, as ever, did what he could to put on a more jovial appearance. "Clearly our hosts have a taste for the theatrical."

“Well, it certainly seems so.” Eugene said with a smile. “After all, what’s a party without a little drama.”

“If you value drama at your parties, Genie, tonight should not disappoint,” Mrs Copper murmured, a subtle warning.

As if on cue, the road they were travelling on turned sharply, and the trees that had been looming around them since they first entered the Wilde Woods fell away. Somehow, the emptiness was worse, for in the shadows of the night, there was an expanse of true darkness. Black, as black as ink, the waters of Thornbank Lake were eerily still, stretching away into the gloom. Silence tightened it's steely grip on the carriage once again.

Passing through the large iron gates, Eugene found his naturally drawn to the Thornbank Lake. Under the darkened sky the waters of the lake seemed to stretch endlessly, like a void where a sleeping beast lay. He recalled the dreams he had, floating aimlessly among the pitch black. The sight and memory caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand.

He found himself sitting upright, breath stuck in his throat. Upon stretching his back he remembered that he was not alone. Never alone. The painting on his skin was a constant reminder of that and he took a deep breath.

Dreams are just dreams. I can’t make a report using just dreams.

He had little time to shake off the uneasiness before the road bent as the eerie darkness of the path and the lake slowly shifted to warmer tones, Wilde Hall came into view. Despite its grandeur, Eugene couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. He had expected gargoyles and looming towers and buildings overrun with thick roots or vines with loud organ music playing.

Light and sound began drift over from the Manor ahead. Still, it seemed like evidence of life and civilization were being muted by the lake. It was a sight for sore eyes.

Mister Violet broke the silence once again. “Perhaps we are in for an enjoyable night after all."

Mrs. Copper drew her coat tightly around herself. “I hope they’ve a good vintage waiting.”

Muffled music could be heard and several other carriages releasing figures could be seen. This is it. The Wilde Halls. A speck of humanity in such a feral and primal location. He looked around the carriage and readied himself. Making sure his mask was on, Eugene waited for the doors of their transport to open.

---

Debora scrutinized Mr. Violet in turn. What was his goal in the present moment? Was he seeking a co-conspirator for some plot? Or were secrets merely his currency of choice? Perhaps he hoped to mine a few before reaching the Hall. Whatever his reasoning, if learning their hidden motivations was his goal, Mr. Violet had not proceeded at all cautiously.

Genie asked about the naming of the Wood. ‘The Wilde Woods. Ancient, old, and unforgiving. That’s what the rumors say at least. Do you think the woods were named after the family or the family after the woods?’ He had been glancing out the window, but for all his appearance of nonchalance, he wanted the topic shifted badly enough to propose another. Debora had no objections.

“I’d image the Wildes themselves were first,” Debora said, though she was not sure. “If they drew their name from their surroundings, we might very well be attending Thornbank Hall, would we not?” She looked to Mr. Violet, attempting to gauge any answer he might offer.

Debora moved her securitizing gaze away from Mr. Violet after he responded. ‘Very true, Mrs Copper. It sounds as if you know something of what lies ahead of us at least.’ No one else ventured a guess about the Wildes. She looked to Genie, wondering if he knew despite his raising the question in the first place. Again, she wondered about his choice of costume and then further to his reason in attending the Ball.

"What about the most reserved member of our party? Have you graced Wilde Hall before, Mister Red?" Mr. Violet spoke again, directing himself to Red.

The dark-haired man responded with surprising hostility. ‘No’

"Come now, old boy. A party is a social event, why not warm up with new friends?"

"Not. Interested.”

Tension raised between the two, but Red returned to the window and the moment passed. Mr. Violet looked to her and Genie.

Red had seemed reclusive before, but now Debora realized he was in a horrible temper. Debora uncrossed and recrossed her ankles. If she had to hazard a guess at his motivation, premeditated violence seemed likely. With the delicate nature of her purpose that night, a loose cannon of such degree posed an awful risk.

“Perhaps Mr. Red is not interested in our direct company, Mr. Violet.” She spoke calmly, “But he is interested in our chatter. I noticed his covert glances while we discussed the Wildes." Debora stroked the edge of her coat, "One must wonder what rumor concerning our hosts has reached all the way to Texas."

Her comment elicited a further show of anger from Red, and seemingly equally fierce desperation. He locked Debora squarely in his mismatched sights and leaned towards her to deliver his rebuke. "You don't know anything about me, lady."

Before Debora had a chance to respond, Mister Violet was quick to interject.

"Now steady on, old boy. I think you should show Mrs. Copper a little more respect..."

Debora’s eyebrows rose as Mister Violet instantly took up for her. He moved to touch Red, and the wild man struck, knocking his hand away before twisting his wrist. Red yelled a threat which he seemed more than willing to follow through on: "Touch me again, and you lose your hand." Debora drew her left hand to her mouth as if in shock, while her right inched towards her coat pocket.

Genie tried to calm things, ‘Now now, take it easy. We’re here for a party not a fight.’ and then a shout sounded from outside and the carriage stopped.

A moment of ripe tension elapsed. Red dropped his hold and peered around. Perhaps he anticipated what Debora did, the coachman -described by Genie as a strange fellow out of place for his position- stepping down to drag him out. But the door remained shut.

Cautiously, Debora shifted her attention with the others to the windows and what lay beyond.

A dark gate, and the gnarled trees marked the boundary of the Wilde’s estates. Slowly, it was opened, and the carriage was admitted into the nightmarish landscape beyond. Dark figures moved about, swinging the gate shut. Debora peered at these as the carriage drew away, bearing its passengers ever closer to their destination. She shifted in her seat but did not sit back again. A cold tension began to coil within her stomach. Her heel tapped against the carriage floor twice.

Red crossed himself and murmured a prayer. It seemed there was Someone to whom he would address himself readily after all, Debora thought dryly, though perhaps the one-sided nature of those talks was the appeal.

Mister Violet made a chipper remark, "Clearly our hosts have a taste for the theatrical." and Genie smiled and agreed ‘Well, it certainly seems so. After all, what’s a party without a little drama.’

The two were eager to move past the tension filled situation of mere moments ago. Did they think the matter would settle if they did so? That they could distance themselves from Red at the Hall and avoid further complications? Of course, Debora thought, they probably were not aware of the violence his very presence promised.

Trying to draw Red out and his following antagonism had provided Debora with a cobbled together theory of his motivation. ‘You don’t know anything about me, lady’ - Perhaps another Lady knew too much. ‘Touch me again, and you lose your hand.’ The finality of that threat implied he had a weapon and would not be shy to use it on anything that could impede his goal.

And then most telling of all, the name he had chosen for himself: ‘Red’. In Hebrew; ‘Ah-Dome’ only two letters off from Dom, blood, and a mere value of seven removed from 4 and 40.

Perhaps she would be pitted against Red before the night was finished, but that remained to be seen. Nothing could be gained from antagonizing him further.

“If you value drama at your parties, Genie, tonight should not disappoint,” Debora murmured the warning, and carefully angled herself as far away from Red as possible.

So near to her destination, Debora’s attention was pulled to the window again. The Wood ended, and beyond it stretched the Lake. Thornbank Lake… Debora stared out at the inky black expanse and immediately lost her sense of self. Vaguely, she could feel the carriage moving beneath her, and knew that it was crowded with other guests. But at the same time, she felt the water undulating at her feet, so cold it went straight to her bones and made her gasp. And though such a shocking chill should prove a deterrent towards advancing further, Debora felt the draw towards its shadowy depths. Shadowy depths… What was concealed…. Within….

“In the carriage, not a dream,” Debora murmured to herself, and she gripped the edge of the seat fiercely to keep from slipping into the water.

Another figure was likewise tensing near her, and the realization allowed Debora to draw her focus back to the carriage. She blinked owlishly, trying to recover her breath and her bearings. The carriage moved along and the scene outside shifted.

Now they were at the Hall and Debora knew she was not dreaming. Because a nightmare mansion Wilde Hall was not. At least on the outside. Other guests were arriving, lively music filled the air, and a warm glow spilled from the main door.

Debora drew her coat tightly around herself, and found she desperately wanted a drink. “I hope they’ve a good vintage waiting.”

The ride through the woods was a rather long and uneventful one, Mr. White and Jayce traded amusing stories about the wealthy condition and it seemed much like life as usual. In between breaths of conversation Jayce gazed out the window and into the inky depths of Wilde Wood. The overwhelming darkness seemed held at bay only by the strength of the cars frame containing the dank smell of smoke and liquor.

Through his musing White's exclamation brought his attention to the massive entrance and the pouring in of other socialites made Jayce feel right at home. Carriages and motorcars all filing in one by one to take part filled him with joy, however the creeping feeling coming in the back of his mind as he turned his gaze to Thornbank Lake put damper on his spirits. Who knows what foul monstrosities lay at the bottom of the lake.

"I said, are you ready?"

"Of course I'm ready, I've got a Lady to wine and dine."

The roguish smirk belittled the unease growing in Jayce's belly.

Mister White smiled in turn, although his gaze didn't leave Jayce for a moment.
"Quite."

The gaze finally leaving him, Mister White clambered out of the motorcar, hesitating for a moment in the doorway, seeming to breathe in the nights air, before turning, and beckoning Jayce to follow him. The air was crisp and cool as Jayce stepped out of the car and followed White's lead. As before at the hotel, he could feel the eyes of those around him as he proudly strutted past in Mr. White's escort. The whispers he heard, however, were not that if jealous men but something that felt darker and more distant. It was as if someone or something was speaking just out of reach of his ears in the peripheral of his mind. Jayce tried to shake these sounds from his head as he approached the door of the Wilde's manor, he had a job to do. A dozen or so other guests milled around Jayce as he made his way towards the door of Wilde Hall. Some moving in the same direction as him, some breaking off into smaller groups, hushed conversations, and stifled laughter, but all of them wore masks. The effect was almost surreal. Dozens of others, men and women, young and old, and yet all of them hidden. For a moment, Jayce wondered if he knew anyone else at the Ball. Would he recognise even his closest friend if they were to pass him by?

As he reached the impressive doors of the house itself, Mister White hesitated in his stride, turning back towards Jayce. He beckoned Jayce closer to him, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial tone, although none of the other guests moving past them seemed to even notice their presence.

“I’m afraid this is the point I leave you, my friend. For now at least. But know that we have a common cause, you and I. I hope that you find your evening… a success.”

With that, Mister White turned, and in a moment, was lost in the shifting crowd. Jayce suddenly found himself alone, despite being surrounded by other guests. The door to Wilde Hall was ahead of him though, and beyond that? Who knows. Jayce's eyebrows raised and White's statement, a common cause? This is an interesting turn of events and another piece was placed on the board just for him. Before he could respond to him, White vanished from sight in the sea of bodies pouring into the Hall. As he turned and faced the door he had to steel himself for what was to come, this was not like any other party he had want to this was going to be the next evolution of Silverhand Chemical and this was something that he would not let slip, creeping feeling or not. As Jayce moved closer to the doorway, the crowd continued to flow around him, masked faces moving all around him, few even seeming to notice him.

"A little overwhelming, don't you think?"

Jayce turns quickly at the voice in his ear, and sees that a figure has fallen into step beside him, although Jayce did not notice him emerging from the crowd.

Tall, a few inches taller than even Jayce, and well-built, the man was undeniably handsome beneath the simple black mask that he wore. In fact, black was the word that sprung to mind when Jayce took in his appearance. A carefully pressed black suit, black hair, long but pulled back into a tight knot, even the man's skin was heavily tanned. The voice was light though, the thin lips smiling, the dark eyes sparkling with some inherent humour.

As Jayce looked into those eyes, he suddenly realised that the man was waiting on an answer.

"Hmm, possibly. To a lesser individual I suppose, although you have to wonder; what are they compensating for? Seems a bit ostentatious to me."

The man's laugh rang out like the tolling of a bell, attracting more than a few glances from the other guests, although if he cared about the attention, he showed no sign.

Composing himself, the man nodded earnestly.

"I knew I was going to like you. Mister Black, for the evening at least."

One hand was confidently thrust in Jayce's direction, and Jayce noticed, with little surprise, that the man wore gloves. Black gloves.Jayce eyed the man for a moment taking in his frame and all things about Mr. Black just to take it in.

"How interesting, first White and now Black. Curiouser and curiouser?"

He took the mans hand as confidently as it was given and gave it a hefty shake,

"Call me, Mr. Silver. A pleasure Black. So are these events always so extravagant or is there something special going on tonight?"

Mister Black’s handshake was firm, but not in the style of overcompensation that Jayce has become familiar with among men attempting to fill shoes too large for them. The smile on his face didn’t falter.

“If the White you speak of is the same White that I am familiar with, I do not envy you, Mister Silver. He and I are… regulars to these evenings, shall we say. I assure you, you are in better company now.”

Almost without Jayce realising, the two men reach the doors of Wilde Hall, and in an instant, they are inside. The chill of the night air is snuffed out, the long shadows fading away, to be replaced by bright lights, the murmur of lively conversation, and the intoxicating sound of jazz from further within the house. The corridor that Jayce now finds himself standing in stretches away, and he finds himself not only brushing shoulders with the same masked strangers, but also under the intense scrutiny of a dozen dark eyes.

Wildes from ages past line the corridors walls, their portraits capturing stern faces and lavish outfits. When Jayce manages to tear his gaze away from the paintings, he found that Mister Black was watching him, the ghost of a smile dancing across his face.

“I hope you have an appetite for the extravagant, Mister Silver. Lady Wilde has… interesting tastes.”

With more than a slight sense of unease, Jayce couldn’t help but notice that Mister Black had not entirely answered his question.

The one overwhelming feeling that grips Jayce when he watches Mister Black’s face is a deep sense of unease. He cannot entirely explain it, but something about the man’s face, about the way it moves and shifts as he talks, the way his lips shape around the words, is wrong. Every time Jayce attempts to focus on it, to pin it down, it flits away, but every instinctive part of him, every primal fibre, is suddenly screaming at him to get away from this ‘Mister Black’. Taking a moment to compose himself Jayce fought against his very instinct and stared Black directly in his eyes and give a cheeky grin,

"Isn't it the duty of the rich and powerful to have extravagant tastes? Tonight I plan on taking in everything that Lady Wilde has to offer, and hopefully contribute some...'interesting tastes' myself. So Mr. Black where should we begin?"

The dark eyes of Mister Black did not leave Jayce’s face for a moment, before the other man’s expression broke into a wide smile, and the laugh rang out again.

“Very good, Mister Silver!”

The two men had continued along the corridor, other guests flowing around them, and as they moved further into the house, the sound of jazz music swelled. All at once, Mister Black’s stride paused, and Jayce found himself standing before one of the grand portraits that lined the corridor, the corridor itself bending away to the left.

The woman captured in the portrait is striking, dark eyes seeming to burn out from the painting, midnight black hair spilling down to her shoulders. She is the picture of grace and hidden strength. Jayce's gaze moves down to the name plaque, but in truth, some part of him already knows what he is going to find.

Avery Wilde.

Jayce will be suitably impressed by the portrait, although he has seen the like of it hanging in his own family hall. The women captured in the painting matches the reputation that precedes Avery Wilde.

After a brief pause, Mister Black broke the lull, leaning in slightly.

"Our hostess for the evening. Quite the women, I assure you."

"So I've been told. Someone of her renown is known even in the lowest of circles. Between you and me Black, what's her secret? I've read up on the Wildes' and Avery's ascension to matriarchy but something like that can't be something that comes quickly or easily?"

Mister Black seemed lost in the portrait before them for a moment. When he did turn back towards Jayce, he first cast a quick glance over his shoulder, towards the masked guests that continued to flow past them.

With all the theatricality of a showman, Mister Black raised one slender, black gloved finger to his thin lips, his voice hushed.

“Not here, my curious friend. These walls have ears.”

Another quick glance over his shoulder, his hand dropping to his side, Mister Black spoke again, his voice louder now.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mister Silver.”

An exaggerated wink from behind the simple mask followed, before Mister Black turned on his heel, apparently losing interest in the grand portrait, and instead moving along the corridor, and towards the depths of the house. The invitation for Jayce to follow was unspoken, but still, it hung in the air all the same. A raised eyebrow under his mask piqued Jayce's curiosity. There was something under the table happening with Avery Wilde. The game was afoot now to discover the greater mystery. As the pair walked deeper into the house the guests quickly became a sea of darkened shadowed masses as he followed Black's lead where ever it was he was leading. As he traversed the halls Jayce quickly grabbed a drink from one of the servers and leisurely sipped it as they moved through the crowd,

"So my monochromatic friend, show me one of the great attractions of a Wilde ball! I'm dying to know what pleasures are in store!"

Beyond the portrait of the Wilde matriarch, the corridor opened up into a grand room. Two doorways to Jayce’s right were wide open, guests flowing through as fluidly as water. More doorways opened in the far wall, ahead of Jayce, more guests, more noise, but two things dominated the room, and drew Jayce’s gaze. The first was the source of the greatest noise, the lively, almost frantic music that had seeped out into the night.

Tall windows broke the wall on the left, nothing but darkness beyond them, but at the foot of the windows were ten musicians, all wearing simple black masks. Ahead of these ten men, the sea of guests moved in rhythm, a dozen men and women, maybe more, dancing to the pulsating jazz.

The staircase was the second thing that caught Jayce’s attention. It was wide, dark wood and rich red carpeting climbing upwards one way, and descending down the other. Grand decorations lined the bannisters, but it was the promise of it that intrigued Jayce. What lay above them? What below?

So caught up in his thoughts, Jayce almost collided with the suddenly halted shape of Mister Black. The tall man had stopped in his stride, a golden pocket watch appearing in one gloved hand. Glancing at the watch, and then back towards Jayce, there was an obvious sparkle in his eye, thin lips breaking into a wide smile.

“You may be in luck, Mister Silver. Here comes the greatest attraction of the Wilde Ball herself!”

Mister Black’s gaze left Jayce, and Jayce followed it back towards the top of the staircase. As the band struck up a new tune, a figure began to descend.

There she was. Midnight hair, dark eyes, dark red dress that seemed to flow over her like water. Jayce’s breath caught in his chest, but he couldn’t be sure why. She was certainly striking, beautiful even, but there was something more, some presence. He had felt it even from her portrait, but now, in the flesh, it was almost overwhelming.

Avery Wilde looked little older than thirty, her dress clinging to her, and it was quickly clear that it was not only on Jayce that she had an effect. The band fell silent, the conversation died away just as quickly, and Jayce did not need to turn to know that every eye was turned towards the top of the grand staircase. If anything, Avery Wilde’s presence seemed to only intensify under the attention, one porcelain pale hand reaching out, stark contrast against the dark wood of the bannister. When the woman spoke, her voice was soft, and yet somehow all-consuming.

“Thank you all for coming. It warms my heart to see so many of you here tonight.”

Those dark eyes moved across the room, and Jayce could have sworn they settled on his face, met his own gaze. It was only fleeting, little more than a flicker, but Jayce felt it still, shooting through him.

“Dinner will be served at the strike of eight, but until then, please, drink and be merry! Michael?”

Somehow, Jayce managed to tear his gaze away from her for long enough to see one of the smartly dressed musicians straighten up, almost snapping to attention.

“Yes, Lady Wilde?”

“Let’s keep this party going, shall we?”

“Yes, Lady Wilde.”
-
The musician, Michael, practically fell over himself in his rush to follow Avery’s instruction, but sure enough, the music sprung up once again, the attention seeming to shift away from Avery, the conversation in the room coming to life. For Jayce though, she still held his gaze. He struggled to believe that the woman at the top of the stairs was Avery Wilde. The Avery Wilde. The matriarch of the Wilde empire. The spider, with Wilde Hall as the heart of her web. Before Jayce could spend any longer watching the figure of Avery Wilde descending the staircase, he felt a gentle nudge against his arm, and turned to see that Mister Black was watching him, thin lips pulled back into a wide, almost unnerving, smile.

“She is quite something, is she not?”

"Indeed she is. I don't think that I've actually seen her in person. The closest that I've ever come is probably the painting in the hallway. I do not believe that there are even pictures of her in the outside world. So to see her physically here...is truly something to behold."

Mister Black’s smile widened, somehow, too-white teeth catching in the golden light. The dark eyes didn’t leave Jayce’s face, and for a moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being seen. Truly seen. As if those dark eyes could see beyond Jayce’s mask. As if they knew him. Jayce couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. And then, finally, Mister Black looked away, and the spell broke.

“You are in esteemed company, my friend! This - “

Black gloved hands gestured expressively around the bustling room, Mister Black becoming once more the accomplished showman.

“This is the beating heart of Arkham.”

Avery Wilde was coming down the stairs now, blood red dress flowing around her as she moved. Mister Black glanced upwards, towards her, before turning back to Jayce. His voice was low when he spoke, almost conspiratorial as he leant in closer to the other man.

“Would you like to meet her?”

Jayce's heart caught in his chest, the thought of meeting Avery Wilde had stirred something in him that he didn't think or want to occur happened. His heart sank like a star-struck schoolgirl and for a moment he forgot his nobility and stature. He couldn't help the twinge of excitement in his voice,
"Y...yes I would."

Mister Black barely seemed to wait for Jayce’s reply before he was turning away, as if he already knew what the answer would be. The tall thin figure of the man moved quickly through the crowd, leaving Jayce having to react, or be left behind. The crowd, dense and shifting as it was, seemed to part before Mister Black, men and women stepping aside, often without even seeming to know that the man in black was behind them. Jayce was not so fortunate, having to dip and weave his way through tightly packed bodies. Despite the movement of the dancing crowd, Jayce managed to avoid any collisions, although he certainly lacked the apparent presence of the man he was following. In a moment, they were at the foot of the stairs, and there she was. Avery Wilde. One pale hand still rested on the dark wood of the bannister, but the woman did not look like she needed support as she descended. Sharp, defined features softened into a smile as dark eyes settled on Mister Black. The hand left the bannister, and Mister Black theatrically took it in his own black gloved hand, stooping to kiss it, his voice like velvet.

“You are a vision, as ever, Lady Wilde.”

“And you are as charming.”

Dark eyes turned to Jayce now as he reached Mister Black’s side, one eyebrow raising slightly, a look of curiosity, or amusement, crossing Avery Wilde’s face as she looked him up and down.

“You, I do not know.”

Still effortlessly playing the role of the showman, Mister Black’s gloved hand fell onto Jayce’s shoulder.

“This is my adopted companion for the evening. The charming Mister Silver.”

The dark eyes of Avery Wilde fixed on Jayce Brennaman. This close, the woman was truly striking, porcelain skin unblemished, midnight hair framing her face. Before he could turn his nose up at the cliche, the rest of the busy room seemed to fall away. Even Mister Black’s hand on Jayce’s shoulder seemed to fade. There was only her. Only this woman. Only Avery. When she spoke, her voice was like the soft tolling of a bell.

“It is a pleasure to meet you then, Mister Silver.”

"T...the pleasure is all mine Lady Wilde."

For the first time in his life Jayce was awe struck, the incomparable beauty that was Avery Wilde was something that he had not expected when he began to concoct his schemes for the evening. Every fiber of his person was screaming for more of the inspiring matron but he had to contain his giddy demeanor, protocol is important after all.

"I look forward to a magical evening attending you illustrious souriee, Lady Wilde."

Saying with a graceful bow.

---

Mr. Violet exited the carriage first and called back, “It looks like we should get moving. I’d hate for the party to start without us!”

Genie was second and disagreed, “Now, now Mister Violet. Now that we’re here there’s no need to rush. Seems like we arrived just in time though, a couple minutes of tardiness shouldn’t bother anyone.”

Debora, third, took the hand Genie offered as she descended from the carriage. Her gaze was immediately drawn to Wilde Hall, but she took a moment to feel the ground beneath her feet before letting go of Genie’s hand. Both were solid evidence of reality, and she strived to further shed the eerie feeling that glimpse of the lake had offered her.

The Hall loomed before them, and for all its party atmosphere, Debora could not help but feel the open door was not all too dissimilar to the twisted iron gates they had passed through. Was Genie rendezvousing with someone here, Debora wondered. Was Mr. Violet? Would they each split in their own directions as they entered the Hall? Debora found she did not relish the thought of parting with their company yet.

She knew very little about these men, but they were the only familiar touchstones in the wild costumed throng.

“One should not bolt into a party, but let’s do get a drink,” Debora urged. She cast a glance back at the coach, wondering where Red would go.

Red met Debora’s gaze as she glanced back into the carriage. Debora watched him disembark like a long-time prairie dweller would a wall cloud settling on the horizon. Trouble would surface from Mr. Red tonight, his name promised as much.

She faced forward when Mr. Violet gestured to the hall, wrestling with the urge to check her watch.

Then Red called out ‘Adams!’ and Debora turned, skin prickling in alarm. Not yet! No more than a dozen feet ahead of where their carriage had come to a halt on the drive, there sat an automobile. All sleek silver paint and polished metal, it was an impressive vehicle, Red was rapidly closing distance towards the hulking man standing beside it. He didn’t turn at Mister Red’s call, but that fact seemed to do little to dissuade Mister Red.

“Adams!”

The lanky figure of the coachman started to move too, long arms seeming to reach for Mister Red, but the movements were too slow, too stilted, and Mister Red was already past. A few more strides, and he reached the hulking figure by the motorcar.

“Adams! What the hell are you doing here?”

For the first time, the other man seemed to notice Mister Red, heavy head turning to look down. The voice that emerged from the figure was rough. Emotionless. “I don’t know you.”

“Like hell you don’t, Adams! It’s me. It’s Ashton.”

The voice was more determined now, giving little room for a response. “I said, I don’t know you.”

Two of the carriage drivers struggled to tug the larger man away from the scene and other servants converged on the area in a response shockingly disproportionate to any perceived offense. Mr. Violet seemed in a similar state, as he looked between her and Genie.

At first, Debora felt a release of tension. She had known Red’s future would involve some violence, and now his implied threat was being removed. Her own mission could be completed all the better without a loose cannon blundering around the hall.

Then she remembered the body of the man at her office, his tattered uniform, the dark forms closing the gates behind them… Her own mission… Debora looked at the hulking ‘Adams’ impassive face, and the corners of her eyes tightened in resolve.

“Gracious! What’s all this?” Debora questioned. She stepped towards the confrontation, acutely aware that she was distancing herself from her fellow traveling companions. “What rights have you to put hands on a guest for simply asking a question of a servant?” She demanded of the coachmen

Debora stood alone and exposed, flanked by only the cold bulk of emptying motorcars and carriages. Then things shifted, the coachman reeled and there was a flash of some emotion on his face, though it was impossible to pin down. Unsurprisingly, Red chose that moment to move in for an attack. Debora gritted her teeth behind her veil. His strike was lightning quick and unrestrained. The blow caught the other coachman square on, forcing him backward and dislodging his hat. The face revealed was sickly white, oddly without a speck of blood or bruising. Red recovered nearly as quickly drawing up one hand while the other disappeared into a coat pocket. Once again, servants began to swarm closer.

Here was the violence. Debora’s intervention had merely been a finger stuck in a soon to be broken dam. She took a step back, frustration turning to anxiety. She should have entered the Hall immediately. Now she might have lost her window of opportunity.

Suddenly, a sharp voice shouted from behind. “Gentlemen! Control yourselves!”

In all the chaos, no one had noticed the new carriage arriving behind them. No one had noticed the man that stepped down, and now stood, half-lit by the light streaming from the windows of Wilde Hall, but everyone noticed him now. The man was large, broad-shouldered, and broad-waisted. A mess of red hair framed an ornate gold leaf mask, red cheeks marking a face that promised a certain jolliness, but there was no mirth in the fierce green eyes. Nor in the tight grip that one large hand had on the handle of the cane at the man's side. It had been this man's voice, his bellow, that had sounded above the noise of the struggle, but he was not alone. Another man came from within the carriage, shorter than the green eyes man, but leanly built, and wearing the uniform of a soldier. This soldier did not have the same fierceness as the first man, but he was clearly on edge, eyes moving from Mister Red to the coachmen, to Mister Violet, and back to the green-eyed man as the other newcomer spoke again.

"Morgan? Josiah? What is the meaning of this?"

The two coachmen that had been restraining Mister Red just moments before seemed to straighten up, almost snapping to attention at the man's call. In the brief instant that had passed, the shorter of the two black-coated servants had managed to rescue his wide-brimmed hat from the floor at his feet, and return it to its place, his face once again shrouded in shadow. Neither of the coachmen said a word, but it seemingly did nothing to deter the green-eyed man.

"This man is a guest. If you have a problem with him, then you raise it with Lady Wilde, understand?”

The green-eyed man was moving now, cane tapping on the drive with every second step. He passed where Eugene, Debora, and Mister Violet still stood and reached Mister Red. The two servants stepped back, heads dipping, and the green-eyed man seemed to be taking in the sight of Mister Red for a moment. For his part, the southern man still looked just as on edge, one hand still reaching into his jacket, and he flinched as the green-eyed man thrust his own hand towards him.

"I apologize a hundred times over for the... actions of these servants, sir. It is clear there has been some terrible misunderstanding. My name is Professor Green, and I assure you that these men will be properly disciplined."

This newcomer was obviously involved in Wilde Hall’s operation. Debora felt a wave of profound unease to be so near to an integral member of Wilde Hall Hierarchy. She could understand Red’s reluctance to shake hands. When he did accept, Green pulled him close and seemed to say something to him before turning towards her and the others.

"I can only extend that apology to the three of you. As I said, clearly there has been some misunderstanding. You have my personal assurance that this unsavory moment will not spoil your evening! From this moment onwards, please allow me to consider all of you my companions."

While open violence had been postponed, this outcome was anything but favorable. As Debora had feared, her interference had linked her, and possibly the group, to Red and any caution shown towards him would be liberally spread. Now they would have a Wilde aligned chaperone.

“A gentlemanly gesture, Professor Green.” Debora said, bringing a hand to her collar bone, “-Mrs. Copper, if you please- And quite the tonic for any ‘unsavory moment’ as you say. Which brings to mind, we were just on our way to refreshment if you would be so kind as to direct us. We dare not claim any of your valuable time.”

Professor Green’s gaze quickly settled on Debora as she spoke, his smile unfaltering. At her introduction, he dipped his head. Now that she was able to get a better look at him, she took in his ornate, gold leaf mask, the frailty of it looking starkly out of place against his broad features. “Mrs Copper. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, and of your companions.”

Mister Violet had clearly recovered from his moment of shock, the easy-going smile flashing across his face again as he confidently stepped towards Professor Green, seizing the other man’s hand and shaking it firmly.

“Well met, old boy. I am Mister Violet for the evening.”

Professor Green returned the handshake in kind, but Mister Violet was speaking again before he could reply.

“I dare say Mrs Copper makes an excellent suggestion. A stiff drink would do us all the world of good!” Professor Green smiled again, clearly amused by the exuberance of Mister Violet.

“Well put, my friend. Please, go on ahead. I merely need a moment to ensure that these men fully understand the severity of their actions, and then I will join you shortly.”

Genie seemed to want to move on quickly as well. ““Much obliged Mr. Green. I am called Genie.Mrs. Copper, that’s an excellent idea. It’s a party after all, why don’t we go and experience the beauty of Wilde Hall.”

Debora turned her attention to Wilde Hall for a brief instant, catching a flicker of movement. “Hold there!” Professor Green shouted. Debora’s pulse quickened as she faced him again. The red headed man smiled the same mirthless smile, still flanked by the servants and Red. Debora wondered at this last. What had Green said to the Texan to retain his attention?

The professor introduced his other companion. “Forgive me, in all this excitement, I quite forgot my manners. This strapping young man is Corporal Khaki. I assure you that he will make a fine addition to your party, if you’ll have him,”

One large hand clapped down on the shoulder of the uniformed man, but the soldier barely seemed to react to the movement, simply watching on from behind the simple white opera mask that he wore. He was oddly silent, almost like the servants.

Debora eyed the coachmen. Professor Green was going to discipline them. Why when they were so obedient? Her mind flashed to the man’s body left in her office. He had come from these woods. He might have been a servant. And his horrible wound, had he too been disciplined?

“Corporal Khaki, by all means.” Debora gestured toward the Hall. There was no way to decline without raising suspicion, and the man might be just another guest.

Her morbid curiosity and a building worry made Debora look over her shoulder back at Professor Green and try to catch a glimpse of the reprimand. Instead, she only found herself looking into a pair of green eyes. Professor Green was watching her.

He had not moved towards the coachmen, he was simply standing there. Watching her. Professor Green smiled widely, holding his cane up theatrically as he nodded towards Debora, waiting for her to turn back.

“Well? Shall we?” It was Genie’s enthusiastic voice that made her break her gaze and Debora turned fully to face the hall. What the following hours held for her, she could not say, but any lingering hope of a smooth night was quickly fading.

---

---

Eugene Esposito

Eugene exits the carriage and takes a deep breath, it felt good to be in the open. The atmosphere in there was quite restricting these past few minutes. He saw the other invitees with their fancy outfits and masks, an air of pompousness radiating from majority of them. Now it’s time to act like one of them. He didn’t have to be all stuck up, just show enough bravado to make them think he wasn’t a stranger to such events. Straightening his collar he looked to Mister Violet.

“Now, now Mister Violet. Now that we’re here there’s no need to rush. Seems like we arrived just in time though, a couple minutes of tardiness shouldn’t bother anyone.” He said, his voice exuding confidence.

Eugene turns back towards the carriage and raises a hand for Mrs Copper which she takes. Turning around he is greeted with the magnificent sight of Wilde Hall. Fixing the coat he wore, Eugene was about to head towards their venue but was stopped by a commotion.

Just as the tension from the carriage seemed to die down, the peace was broken once again Mr. Red. The southern man walked up to, who he assumed, was a chaperone of another group. The man Mr. Red was talking to was massive, looming over the car he was standing next to. Despite this, Mr. Red walked up fearlessly, even throwing his real name out into the wind for all to hear. Eugene looked around and noticed the stares of the other attendees, eagerly watching to obtain some material for some late night gossip.

Even though the man supposedly called Adams kept denying Mr. Red, that didn’t deter the southern man. In fact it motivated him more. He carefully watched Adams, vying for any reaction but there was none. Blank as a slate. No hint of recognition, no movement apart from his mouth and the occasional blink, hell, it seems like he doesn’t even notice Mr. Red. The situation escalated to the point where two servants grabbed Mr. Red and attempted to drag him off.

Gracious! What’s all this?” Mrs. Copper said. She walked up towards the servants grabbing Mr. Red and sternly rebuked them. “What rights have you to put hands on a guest for simply asking a question of a servant?”

It seems her voice held some power as the emotionless servants actually flinched. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out in anyone’s favor as Mr. Red broke free and punched the servants. There was a dull crack and Eugene subconsciously winced. The hit sent the servant towards the light which arose some confusion in the reporter. No moan of pain, no blood dripping from the wound, pale, and taut skin. If they weren’t moving out and about he’d have thought they were long dead corpses.

A few, slow seconds passed. The tension in the air was palpable. Mr. Red stayed in a hostile stance, one hand up using it as a guard and the other…slowly moving into jacket. Eugene’s eyes widened. He had a gun. Just as he was about to open his mouth to yell that Mr. Red was armed, a voice rang out from behind him.

Eugene spun around and was met with two figures. A larger, broad shouldered man with fierce green eyes, no doubt he was the source of the voice. He exuded an aura of power that none of the other attendees had. The second man, wearing the uniform of a shoulder, had just left the carriage behind the green eyed man and was shorter though more fit. However his body language lacked the confidence that his companion had just showcased.

The green eyed man called out to the coachmen and sternly reprimanded them. The coachmen quickly stood at attention and kept their heads low. Eugene watched as the man who called himself Professor Green apologize to Mr. Red on behalf of the servants. Seemed like they had just met one of the top dogs of Wilde Hall. Being able to command those strangely lifeless coachmen and apologizing on behalf of them. As Mr. Red reached a hand out to shake Mr. Green’s he was pulled in and the two exchanged some words before quickly pulling apart.

"I can only extend that apology to the three of you. As I said, clearly there has been some misunderstanding. You have my personal assurance that this unsavory moment will not spoil your evening! From this moment onwards, please allow me to consider all of you my companions." Mr Green said to Eugene’s group. Looks like they had gained a powerful ally. Still, despite the friendly disposition, Eugene did not let his guard down.

Eugene bowed slightly and said. “Much obliged Mr. Green. I am called Genie.” He said, thanking the patron that stopped the commotion from escalating. “Mrs. Copper that’s an excellent idea. It’s a party after all, why don’t we go and experience the beauty of Wilde Hall.”

As Eugene turned to leave, Professor Green called out and mentioned that one of his men would join them. It was the one in a soldier’s outfit wearing a white opera mask, Corporal Khaki was his name. “Oh, of course. I’m sure my companions would agree with me when I say, we’d be delighted to have him.”

While he was still facing them, Eugene glanced over at Mr. Red. A wave of confusion washed over him when he did so. Mr. Red was…still. The tension in his body which was ready to lash out at any given time was gone. In fact it seemed like he was now withdrawn, a cornered beast with no way out except death. What the hell did Professor Green say to him?

“Well?” Eugene asked, enthusiasm in his voice. “Shall we?” He made a sweeping motion with his hand before turning around and walking towards Wilde Hall.

---

Debora passed the threshold into Wilde Hall. The evening’s festivities had started without them. Music flowed on the air, and the few other guests present were moving quickly towards its source. Debora’s own ears strained slightly, but she kept the more tempered pace of her companions.

There were portraits lining the walls of the corridor and her gaze trailed over them. Among their imposing faces, she caught a sudden quick movement! Debora glanced at Lucy Wilde’s face again, and her eyes locked onto another set not drawn by any artists’ hand. Debora’s breath caught in her throat, her thoughts, still lingering on the dark effects of the lake, turning to the sinister and the otherworldly, before realizing that what she was actually looking at was a peephole.

Immediately, she was reminded of the previous flicker of movement she had glimpsed outside the hall, a silhouette at a window. Whom among the mansion’s occupants was shunning the more active party scene for mere stolen glimpses at guests?

A narrow branch left the corridor here. Towards the right was the mysterious peeper.

Forward would be drinks… and music.

She noted the branch but did not stray. Yet.

Her gaze flicked over her companions, settling on the soldier. “Captain Khaki, isn’t it? Do you often attend these functions?” She purposely botched his title and posed an open-ended question, in hopes to gauge if he was truly as mute as the Hall’s servants.

Corporal Khaki started, seemingly caught off guard by her questions, was he looking at the peephole as well? The movement was too quick to tell. After clearing his throat, he answered readily enough, and articulately enough to shed any doubt of him being mute.

“I’m afraid it is Corporal Khaki, ma,am. I…”

The man hesitated, seeming to catch himself, before pressing on again, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“I confess that this is not entirely ‘my scene’, so to speak. The three of you seem far more at -home”

Debora pursed her lips as she nodded along to his assumptions. “Corporal Khaki, of course, my apologies.”

Perhaps the solider was simply another guest, but his traveling companion was anything but. Debora resisted the urged to peer back at the entrance. How long would it take the professor to finish reprimanding his charges?

“I speak for myself but while I do enjoy a good party, something as…” Genie said, snapping of his fingers, “Something as grand and formal as this event is new to me. I’m actually quite parched. Shall we hurry along? After all what better way to meet and mingle with new friends than over food and drink.” He smiled.

Debora grinned in turn. “I feel you have read my thoughts, Genie. Yes, let’s have that drink!” And she pressed onward, hoping to put distance between herself and Green, and perhaps camouflage among the other guests. Part of her felt that such precautions would prove ineffective against someone so ingrained to the running of the Hall.

Mister Violet laughed and clapped a hand on Corporal Khaki’s shoulder, the soldier flinching slightly at the contact. “Whatever the case, you’re in better company now, my friend!”

He led the way forward as the corridor itself turned to the left. Nearing the pulsing heart of the party, the music grew louder, and the atmosphere seemed normal for what Debora had expected at such an event. Then the group passed the last portrait, and their progress was arrested by the dark headed subject’s painted gaze.

Avery Wilde. Debora read.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Mister Violet that found his voice first, although the joviality of it seemed a touch more strained than usual. “Our host for the evening looks like quite the woman.”

Eugene agreed. “Certainly does and we’d best not keep her waiting.”

There was something about Avery and not just the burning behind her eyes, or the set of her features. All the festivities of the evening, the running of the Hall, all of it revolved around this woman. Debora locked eyes with the painting and adjusted the fur coat on her own shoulders. “I doubt anyone keeps her waiting,” She murmured.

Mr. Violet commanded them onward, and Debora snapped her eyes away from the painting. She looked towards the hallway ahead and strained her ears to the music.

They entered a large room where the main party seemed to be taking place. Though party goers disappearing through other doorways hinted that the Wilde ball was not confined to one room. Confined to one floor would be a better guess, because those present seemed to shun the wide staircase to their right.

Debora’s eyes tracked over the high windows and the masked musicians grouped beneath them. Revelers danced before them, interrupting her view.

“Now this I could get used to!” Mr. Violet remarked brightly. Debora noted that perhaps this was his first ball as well. Genie asked after drinks, reminding her that securing one had been of great importance to her after the dark turn at the lake.

At that moment, a maid detached herself from the crowd and moved towards them, drinks tray in hand. “Sirs? Ma’am?” she spoke, unlike the servants outside, and Debora glanced at Khaki. Mr. Violet was first to take a glass with another jovial laugh ‘Excellent timing!’. The maid however kept her attention elsewhere. Debora followed her flickering gaze across the room to a tall dark figure.

The man stood with dark hair long tied back, dark suit perfectly fitted, and skin tanned by some foreign sun. A small group had formed around him, and as he talked, he turned, his face properly coming into view for the first time. Though halfway across the room, his voice lost in the maelstrom of conversation and music, his face still caught her attention.

Handsome, but there is something about the man’s mouth, the way the thin lips seemed to pull a little too far back, the perfect white teeth catching the light a little too much. Debora felt a shudder build along her spine but pressed it down, turning her focus back to her immediate surroundings.

Another figure well known to the running of Wilde Hall from the maid’s reaction. Debora was slightly surprised to find her mouth set in a tight line beneath her veil. Something wrong was happening at Wilde Hall. Even if one overlooked the… the dreams… People were being served ill.

Genie took a champagne flute and Debora followed suit. Though he seemed at ease, his gaze lingered on hers before he complimented the drink. “Exquisite drink, don’t you all think so?”

Debora arched an eyebrow beneath her mask, wondering at the meaning. She had been so vocal about receiving a drink before, he likely thought it odd she had not been the first to partake.

Perhaps her other mask was slipping. Debora took the glass in a light touch and dipped it beneath her veil to take a long sip. Warmth flamed in the stomach, and it was a good, grounded feeling. Yet for all the warmth, she did feel a measure of annoyance. This was where in part, forces like the Wilde’s solidified their fortunes, while common folk where hindered. “Quite exquisite,” She agreed and stilled her thumb from reaching to rub out the lipstick mark on the rim, an action that would stain her gloves. “Though one must pace oneself.”