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KingofSerpents |  Attire: The costume Date and Time: Sola 23rd, Night Location: Calbert Damien's Ballroom Mention(s): Interaction(s): |
The soft susurration of feathers brushing against each other, rustling faintly with the tiniest shifts of his body. They were conversing with the winds, the gentle caress of the evening breeze reciprocated by their indecipherable murmurs.
A short yet ominous scrape, as if an unseen blade were being sharpened. Was it ready to slice, tear, pierce?
A near silent clack of a scabbard, and a strangely metallic tap-tapping as he made one final check of his weapons.
The muffled rattling of chains as they swayed through the air, half-hidden within the outer layer of his attire. Here and there, a chain would faintly clang against another, or a pair would briefly twist into a serpentine embrace. If he felt particularly dramatic, he could unspool a couple to let them drag against the floor. He didn’t, but even so, one could easily imagine those long loose steel bonds trailing behind him.
There was a swoosh as his cloak was lifted by a stronger gust. For a moment, he seemed a mere hop away from taking to the sky, on the verge of a liftoff.
Though he gave the appearance of an ethereal shadow gliding by – perhaps he was treading upon the air rather than the earth? – he remained down below.
His was an image too dark to fully blend into the penumbral gloom. As he strode into lighter areas, illuminated by the moon, the stars, and the city lights, it was as if a void manifested, sucking in any glow attempting to suffuse it.
Yet, no mystical power was at work there, so his outline did in fact gain clarity and focus.
The phantom visage, revealed.
A magnificent raven, the costume so finely crafted it evoked the imagery of something far grander than a mere animal.
A large steel mask covered his face, narrow and elegant, the beak angling into a sleek downwards curve towards a razor-sharp point. Its dull gray surface gleamed in the moonlight, finely engraved lines spreading across its surface. The eyes were mere slits, but his sight was by no means hindered. Only when viewed in profile, could glimpses of skin – the jawline, chin, neck – be seen.
Attached to the back of the mask was a cascade of black feathers, obscuring his hair, and falling down to visually merge with his cloak. A long mantle stretched from nape to heel, enveloping him. Long strips of cloth and silk were sewn together, giving his whole form a slightly shaggy outline. Numerous feathers were stitched into it, so both from afar and upon closer inspection, his veil was thoroughly reminiscent of a bird’s plumage.
Underneath the cloak was a robe of dark grays and blacks, accentuated by tasteful touches of silver. While thicker steel chains were attached to the shroud, a few thin, lighter silver chains adorned the robe. It was a high-collared garment, as long as the cloak, yet it was only partially visible through his outer layer.
If he rose his arm, there would be more feathers still, wrapping his appendages to the wrists. His hands bore black leather gloves, tipped with sharp steel claws.
He was covered from head to toe, a majestic being ready to enter into the realms of lessers.
Or, as the case was, into Calber Damien’s mansion, to attend a masquerade.
A sense of unease spread at his approach. His was admittedly an imposing figure; the striking likeness of a creature which was attributed a variety of superstitions by cultures across the world. But it wasn’t only that. There was something effortlessly powerful about his very presence. It drew in gazes, which seemed to be compelled to linger.
As menacing as he was enthralling.
“W-who?” one guard stammered, then coughed awkwardly to hide his nervousness. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. This was a public event, the walkway was well-lit, and all guests were welcome. Yes, yes, of course.
“Welcome, esteemed guest,” another greeted, poised and scripted. “May I please request to record your attendance?” He was handed a pen and a roll of parchment, which was opened at the last entries, a column of blank lines underneath.
A beat later, a tap of pen against paper. “Your name, please?”
How kind of the servant to repeat. Unseen beneath the mask, a smile alighted upon the guest's lips.
“Guess.”
Eyes widened, mouth opening a tad too wide. “O-oh, of course.” Now this, the recognition of his identity, did frazzle the previously unruffled employee. He was the sensible sort who gave more credence to titles than he did to myths, after all. “Please, be welcome,” he repeated with a bow, and motioned the prince inside.
His whimsical desire for mystique and dramatics appeased, Wulfric headed indoors.
Time to mingle.
