Lindon Masquerade | Spring Ball ~ Ended

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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Night has fallen upon the streets of Mithlond, and Elbereth's stars glimmer across a moonlit sky. Magnificence, rivaled only by the iridescent lantern that is the manor of Lord Círdan the Shipwright.

For many a resident and guest of the coastland realm has gathered for an evening of special magnificence, merriment, disguise, and exquisite mystery.

The refreshing spring air is thick with the melodious sounds of fair voices, golden harps, brass violins, and silver flutes.

As the hem of floor-length gowns sweep across the dance floor in time to the endless music, the tapping of myriad glass slippers flicker the flames of a grand fireplace.

Coastal flowers and foliage drape in the form of lengthy garlands across the walls of the Shipwright’s home, and rest in beautifully-adorned centerpieces on the numerous tables laden with all the food and drink one could ask for.


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Lit by the fire of a thousand candles, an enormous chandelier descends from the center of the ballroom’s arched ceiling.

Butterflies flutter about inside the mansion, resting on the shoulders of several guests.

Your hostess for the night, Annúnfalas, mingles among the attendees. Lord Círdan and his ambassador Galdor of the Havens, have also disguised themselves among the guests and joined in the celebration.

Will you find them tonight?


Those who attend the masque are sure to enjoy themselves and experience all the thrills a night like this can offer. After all, such occasions in the Grey Havens don’t happen often, and in an event such as this… anything can happen.

Welcome to the Lindon Masquerade!


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The Current Season Is: Spring
Ethuil” in Sindarin and “Tuilë” in Quenya


Tonight’s menu includes but is not limited to: various seafood dishes cooked by the finest culinary artists in Lindon, sweet confections such as cakes and candies, and fragrant seasonal wine poured in goblets of gold.


Places You Are Allowed To Roam During the Masque:

The Ballroom - while a number of long tables set with food and drink are available, the ballroom is best suited for those wishing to engage in public conversation and dancing.

The Grand Balcony - an ideal place to dine at the many decorated tables available, with a perfect view of the night sky; servers stand ready to take your order at all times.

The Gardens - take a stroll among the fruit trees and beach flowers, seat yourself at one of the many benches and fountains, and engage in more private conversations here.


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Guidelines For Costumes and The Secret of Your Identity:

Those attending the Lindon Masquerade are required to disguise themselves according to the theme of their choice and NOT use their real names.

For example, your hostess Annúnfalas will simply be known as “The Mother of Pearl” tonight. Please refer to your character(s) in accordance with the theme of their costume(s).

While darker themes are allowed for your disguises, please do not attend dressed as something appalling or hideous - e.g. Orcs, Balrogs, etc.

Keeping your identity a secret is a sacred masquerade tradition, however, you are allowed to reveal your identity and even remove your mask to those you wish - in private, out of sight of the other guests
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Please adhere to all general rules of the Plaza, maintain the spirit of Tolkien in your posts, and above all - have fun.

Remember, we are all friends here, so don’t be afraid to ask someone to dance. This is a fantastic way for your character(s) to meet and get to know new people.

You can dance in pairs or even in groups of three or more people.


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Last edited by Farewell on Tue Mar 02, 2021 3:02 am, edited 3 times in total.

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All was as he had foreseen, and more.

From the crowd gathered at the entrance of the manor, two figures arrived together, dressed in reverence of the Sea. Ulmo, Lord of Waters stepped into the ballroom and gazed upon the opulence before him.

He wore a helm of dark steel, crested with white horse-hair, and his robes were a gradient pattern, shimmering like ringmail. Their colors began silver at the collar and necklines, ending in a shade of deep green at their hem. A dark-colored mask, concealed the somewhat-aged features of his face, and his beard was painted a shade of royal blue.

“It’s far more richly-decorated than I was expecting. What do you make of this?” he said, turning to his companion.

The Gull wore a full-face mask of white color, painted gold at the bridge of his nose. His own robes were also snow-colored, except for the two immense gray-feathered wings that extended from his back.

As he walked abreast of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, the tips of their primary feathers dragged along the marble floor.

“She is known for her unique ability to host a good party,” he replied, bowing to Ulmo. “I shall find you, when the celebration is over, it is best that we are not seen together tonight if we wish to maintain our identities unknown. For your sake, you best hope no one believes your beard to be real.”

Ulmo, Lord of Waters smiled, stifling a laugh.

It was then that both gentlemen went their separate ways, and Ulmo found himself beside a table where a number of individuals had chosen to stand around and drink. He spotted a fair maiden speaking with them, clad in an ivory ball gown with lace trimmings. She wore a tall light-colored feather in her braided, silver hair and a mask beaded with pearls. Her attire was also dotted with these glistening stones. So many in fact, that to him it seemed that they outnumbered the stars of the night’s sky.

She clasped her hands together, adorned with floral lace gloves that ran up to meet her elbows.

Ulmo, Lord of Waters pondered for a moment. Should he ask her to dance, or satisfy his thirst for sweet fermented juice first? In the end, he chose the former, fearing it would be his only chance.

He walked up to her and bowed his head without saying so much as a word, lest his voice give away who he really was, and offered to walk them both to the dance floor. The Mother of Pearl smiled, and accepted his invitation.

As they stepped onto the very heart of the ballroom, space was made for them. The dancers around them stopped to encircle them and witness what was about to take place. With a nod from Ulmo, the musicians played a lively sailor’s jig called A Thousand Ships, a song the fishermen and shipwrights of Lindon knew very much by heart.

They jumped and tapped their feet, The Mother of Pearl and he, spinning on occasion when the dance demanded it; turning like gears in perfect coordination. As they did, those who watched them began to clap their hands in time to the music, and sing in unison.

Keep your eyes on the West horizon
Where the Sundering blue meets the Lhun
For I am sure that at that silver lining
I will find you soon
For I have sailed a thousand ships to you
But my messages don’t seem to have come through


When the song ended, so did their dance. Thunderous applause rang out throughout the ballroom and goblets of wine were raised in their honor. The Mother of Pearl took a step back and gave her dance partner a courtsy farewell, before disappearing into the crowd.

Ulmo, Lord of Waters watched as the train of her gown was lost to his immediate sight… and then it dawned on him. There was only one elleth who knew how to dance like that, in such effortless and jovial manner.

Now he knew whom he had danced with, but promised himself not to reveal her identity. It was only the beginning of the masquerade and there was wine waiting for him to enjoy.

Note From Your TR: Everyone may roleplay as Lord Círdan (Ulmo, Lord of Waters) and Galdor (The Gull) in their posts. I have simply posted as them first to establish the theme of their costumes and their descriptions. :)
OOC Note1: The lyrics above to the sailor's jig A Thousand Ships are from the actual song by Rachel Platten, I have simply changed some of the lyrics.
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The Sunflower In Bloom peered from beneath a table in the ballroom, as those on the dance floor clapped and sang for Ulmo, Lord of Waters and The Mother of Pearl. She watched as the dancing pair jerked their limbs and stomped their feet, before rising from underneath the table and turning her eyes in direction of the punch bowls.

While the attention of those in the ballroom were focused on Ulmo and The Mother of Pearl, The Sunflower In Bloom raced to the crystal bowls and removed a steel flask nestled in her bosom. Uncapping the container, she then proceeded to pour the translucent hard liquor into the various punches.

This should make the night far more interesting, she thought to herself, running away to hide again.

Along the way, she pinched the backside of a random elleth who, quite infuriated, went on to slap the face of the Elf-man behind her.

The Sunflower In Bloom snickered proudly, concealed by the shadow of a tablecloth. Crouched near one end, she threw her head back and drank the last droplets of alcohol in her flask.

Her mind weighed a number of possible pranks she could do, as the jester of Lord Círdan and his courtiers, it was her solemn duty. Why should her responsibilities cease to be met simply because of a masque? If anything it would be a crime not to make the spring party more memorable.

The Sunflower In Bloom poked her head out again; her blonde hair hidden beneath a black cap, that like her mask, was decorated with small onyxes that glittered in light of the ballroom candles.

Finely-pointed petals fanned around her neck, yellow in color. She also wore a bright green tunic and leggings embroidered with leaves. The Sunflower In Bloom had arrived on wooden stilts also painted green, but was forced by the servers to leave them outside; being told that they would not allow her to pass through the entrance.

Dropping to her flat stomach, The Sunflower In Bloom glided across the marble floor where she was met with the bottom of a curtain. Jumping to her feet swiftly, she grabbed hold of the velvet cloth and shimmied up a ten-meter-tall window.

She caught the hoop of a garland strung along the wall above the window, and used it to swing herself in direction of the nearest beam of the arched ceiling.

The Sunflower In Bloom planted her buttocks firmly on the beam before wrapping her limbs around it. Then, centimeter by centimeter, she pulled herself across.

Music rose and fell in the ballroom repeatedly, and the force emitted from all the dancing feet was so great that The Sunflower In Bloom was forced to pause several times to secure her grip. In one such instance, the pointed brown slipper on her left foot slipped away and was lost to her.

“Look out below!” she cried, watching it fall several meters to the crowd below.

The Sunflower In Bloom continued to pull herself along, slowly but surely. As she did so, she sang repeatedly to herself the same phrase-

“I’m going to swing from the chandelier… from the chandelier. Ah yes, from the chandelier!”
Last edited by Farewell on Fri Oct 02, 2020 6:08 am, edited 1 time in total.

Thain of The Mark
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She'd never been to anything quite this grand before, and though she hadn't intended to be in the area this long either, when the invitation to Lindon Spring Masquerade had arrived--though she was still certain it was by mistake, she was quite human after all--she'd decided this was a professional opportunity that she couldn't pass up.

Too bad she couldn't quite convince the fluttering nerves in her stomach of that. But they began to ease as she made her way into the party, surrounded by so many others in simply stunning costumes and masks, and she let her real self slide away to transform into The Moonless Night.

The Moonless Night was certain she heard a few whispers of admiration filter in from around her as she stepped into the ballroom, but she wasn't vain enough to seek them out. Her skills could speak for themselves.

The Moonless Night was clothed in a gown of sleeveless midnight blue velvet which draped over her shoulders and down and across her body in intricate, flowing folds until it fell to the floor and fanned out into train behind her. Across the folds of fabric small, sparkling stones were sewn in place in sweeping rivers and whorls. Most were white, but in true imitation of the night's stars--many only visible when the moon was hiding--several were various hues of reds and pinks or purples. The gown's neckline whispered across her collarbones, but the back plunged down to her waist, the straps only secured by a fine silver chain crafted of stars which spanned across her shoulders.

Her long, brown hair was curled and piled and pinned high atop her head, studded with the same sparkling stones which adorned the gown. The mask across her face was made of silver filigree, the edges of which were shaped like star points, and it tied behind her head with a ribbon the same color as her gown.

The Moonless Night walked slowly around the edges of the ballroom, perusing the guests to see who she might ask to dance if no one asked her first.

Black Númenórean
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A whorl of spring petals and warm wind clung to the heels of the lean nís as she trotted up the stairs to the entrance of manor house of Círdan the Shipwright, but flitted away at the flick of her skirts as she slipped through the door and into the warmth of the house. She was a golden vision: a barely-there latticework of lace-of-gold covered here bare shoulders, collar, and upper back, extending into a high collar around her neck and joined the bodice at her bust in the front, allowing a more serious degree of décolletage than was her wont. The bodice itself clung to her like a wet leaf, chased with shimmering threads and affixed here and there with glittering hints of amber before, at the hip, billowing out into a gored skirt of golden brilliance, and both were covered with scarcely visible, iridescent dapples of white that shimmered in the light. At the right front, this golden skirt was pulled up with a loop to reveal a dun-crimson underskirt, also gored, and when she spun both would flare out into fullness, revealing shining heeled slippers and well turned ankles. Above the dress, amber droplets fell from her ears, and her mask was golden as well, revealing the bottoms of high cheekbones and forehead, allowing a flash of mischievous periwinkle eye, and with wings that curved up over and behind her temples like ears, their insides each a white feather.

A great mass of wheaten hair was held back from her face by and intricate web of braids that looped and criss-crossed and hung with chips of amber and small, jade leaves. And up from the confection of braids rose a set of slender, delicate antlers, carved from dark sea-caught wood; hard as rock and light as a feather, held securely by means known only to the nís herself. One Who Runs With Deers had arrived in Mithlond, eager to enjoy the fête. At her side as they had approached the stairs, and then bounding ahead up their length, was
The Sunflower. The tall, lean ellon was garbed tonight in hose of hunter green, with slippers of black, and a tunic of the same hunter shade. His torso was wrapped in a close-fitting but supple and elaborately tooled jerkin of a deeper forest hue, laced with dark hide, and the sleeves of the tunic that protruded full from the armseyes of the sleeveless jerkin were artfully dagged, so that they swirled and flapped about his arms as he moved. The mask that covered the slightly swarthy skin of his face from the nose to just below the hairline was carved of mahogany, a deep shade that perfectly matched his hair.

A trio of combs held that hair back from his face, and served to secure the long cowl that fell down his back to cover it. This cowl was a bright, fluttering, yellow-gold confection of real sunflower petals, which he had pains-takingly sewed securely together, in such layers that they had plenty of movement, but would not miss a few of their fellows if they happened to fall out (or be plucked out) over the course of the evening. And here and there among the leaves, tinkled tiny golden bells. The Sunflower leapt up the stairs ahead of his companion, positively bursting with glee, and then paused at the doors, his dark eyes dancing as he allowed One Who Runs With Deers to sweep in before him. But as they entered the hall, a rollicking dance number was ending and he could not contain himself, and bounded ahead again. The Sunflower nearly cannoned into a serving elleth who was passing with a tray of full glasses, but recovered both their balances by catching her around the back with one arm and spinning with the energy of their near-collision to settle them both back onto their feet, and as his other hand released the tray he had helped to steady, snatched up a glass from its surface in the action. “My apologies, mistress!” The Sunflower tipped the contents of the glass down his throat in one smooth motion and returned it to the tray. The elleth giggled and nodded in return to the deep bow he gave her. “If only all fools were as polite as you!” she called over her shoulder as she moved away, and One Who Runs With Deers was laughing as she caught him up.
“Making conquests already, are we?”

The Sunflower returned her laughter and grinned broadly. “What is a ball for if not for conquests? Ah, yes!” He spun and with one long stride, seized two goblets of wine from the surface of a nearby table, handing one of them to One Who Runs With Deers. “Wine! Dance! Song! Make merry with me, arasedhel (deer-elf, S).” It was her turn to return mirth as she took the proffered glass and grinned. “This isn’t Mirkwood, mallos (golden flower, S), they aren’t used to tossing down wine at the rate you’re going.” The Sunflower was unassailed as he lifted his glass in toast of her. “We have all night, have we not?” One Who Runs With Deers raised her glass in turn, tapped it against his with a bright ping, and each downed in one the excellent seasonal vintage was no doubt intended to be drunk at a slower pace. No sooner had they deposited their empty goblets on a table intended for the purpose, than The Sunflower seized One Who Runs With Deers’ hand, dashing out with her onto the dance floor as another strident tune began. His hand found his way around her waist and hers to his shoulder, their free hands stretched out and clasped in the manner of country partner dances as the song struck its starting point for the dance and they whirled away among the throng of revelers in perfect time with the rest, the distinctive, silvery laughter of One Who Runs With Deers ringing out among the music.


((OOC ALL: if anyone would like to interact with One Who Runs With Deers or The Sunflower, feel free to say that the dance has ended and approach them!))
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
Arien
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The Snowy Owl

Not all of the feathers had been affixed quite as firmly as he might have wished. Fussily, the Snowy Owl gently patted the crown of his head, where his silver hair had been braided into a complex wreath, the white feathers interwoven with it; more feathers decorated his jerkin, sewn of white linen, broidered with silk, and fashionably padded and slashed (both to disguise his slight form, and to create the illusion of a pleasantly downy owl breast). His sleeves, flamboyantly long, were edged with huge white feathers, in fact the gifts of swans rather than owls; but given that the Snowy Owl was several times larger than even the largest owl, they would have to suffice.

The mask he wore was a half-mask: a beak jutted over his nose, and luminously golden false-eyes glossed to resemble a real owl’s fierce stare gleamed above high cheekbones.

Well pleased with himself, the Snowy Owl admired his visage in a small glass he had taken from a pouch before replacing it and swanning - or owling - into the party, light-footed and silver-shod. Steel spurs were his talons. His pouch - unfortunately, or was it a stroke of genius? was sewn in the shape of a dead mouse, an owl’s favoured prey...

His real eyes, blue as twilight, narrowed with sharp satisfaction as he saw a lovely woman, night-clad, hovering at the edges of the party (@Taethowen).Commandeering a couple of glasses brimming with bubbles, he strutted over to her, allowing his spurs to click dramatically on the dancing floor. Balancing the glasses expertly on the palm of his right hand, he bowed to her neatly before raising his head. The effect would be uncanny: two glowing, golden eyes peeping up in all their mesmeric glory.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” he declared confidently, using his free hand to gesture extravagantly at her gown, sewn with tiny gems that resembled stars shining against the dark velvet clinging to her form, “that you must be some form of the Night Sky: and whom should an Owl pay court to but the Night?”

He plucked one of the glasses from his palm and proffered it to her politely.
cave anserem
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Warrior of Imladris
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Lady Redback

It had been a long journey from her home, so she had been obliged to arrive in Lindon the night before and rent a room in a small house near the port. The obliging hostess, though not attending the masquerade herself, was invaluable in helping don her costume. After being securely pinned to cover her own hair, her black wig had been arrayed in a series of braids and pulled back into an elaborate twist at the nape of her neck. Her hostess had also insisted on decorating the style with ropes of red glass beads that she swore she had had lying around since the Elder Days.

The gown was a simple, black silk affair – rather more form-fitting than she was accustomed – with a slim skirt to the floor, a belt made of red and silver strands, and four strands of small black pearls draping around her upper arms in lieu of sleeves. But the piéce de resistance was the red lace cape that fixed to her shoulders with red ribbons and flowed out to trail behind her. Finally a wide, black lace mask covered her face from her brow to just above her painted red lips, and the black ribbons were hidden within her hair.

As she and her hostess surveyed their handiwork in the looking glass, they could not help but be proud of the transformation.

For tonight, she would be Lady Redback.

Her hostess was also kind enough to summon a carriage to convey her to Lord Cirdan’s manor, where she tried to school her giggling excitement into something more demure. After all, tonight was not the night to act like herself.

Upon entering the festooned manor, she was happy to see there were others there already, including an antlered maiden dancing with a sunflower. The costumes were inspired and she hoped that though her spider imagery was more subtle, her outfit would cause equal admiration.

She needed a drink. Not a wine, as she certainly didn’t want to lose her wits so early in the evening, so she poured herself a glass of punch. A few sips and she felt better, more relaxed.

She made her way over to a woman dressed as The Moonless Night was talking to a Snowy Owl. She tried to discern whether she had seen them before but ensconced as they were behind their own masks, who could be certain?

Mae govannen,” she greeted. “I am Lady Redback.” She took another sip of her punch.

OOC: In memory of the beasts that (until today) inhabited my garage. Also, I had fun designing Lady Redback's dress on Azalea Dolls. You can find it here
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
she / her

Master Torturer
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Lady of Shadows

Her body was lithe, agile and slender. The embodiment of elven gracefulness. The dress accentuated every curve and dip, the sheer lace fabric clinging to her like a second skin giving the illusion that the shadows were crawling up from the floor and slowly engulfing her in it's tendrily grasp. Her skin was pale as fresh snow, a stark contrast to her pitch black hair that cascaded down around her face and past her bare shoulders. When she moved her head, it was as if her hair absorbed the light, so black that it was like looking into the void itself. The hair was set in a way to show the tips of her ears, allowing all to see her heritage, one that she for once did not have to hide here. The inherent elven beauty of her face was hidden behind the stark black mask, its points sticking out above her head, her bright red eyes shining from within the holes with intense interest.

Entering, she paused in the doorway, ignoring that she was holding up the queue of people behind her, keen red eyes taking in the scene before her. Such overwhelming opulence. It was enough to take the breath away from many, the shining, shimmering gloriousness of the decor and the many fantastically made outfits gracing the rooms. The small almost imperceptible twitch of her upper lip betrayed her true feelings at seeing this, her interest definitely elsewhere.

Having thoroughly surveyed the room, she stepped inside much to those behind her relief and as she walked forward it was as if looking at a billowing shadow gliding across the floor. She had only made it in a short distance when the first servng girl swept past her offering drinks, though was quickly sent on her way with an indifferent wave of her slender hand. However it seemed as if not having a drink attracted even more, so when the second one accosted her, she took one of the tall fluted glasses with some kind of bubbly golden liquid inside and carried it around like a shield to ward off more interruptions.

As she glided across the room, easily maneuvering her way around people as they shifted, she suddenly stepped to one side, her whole body tensing as a slipper smacked down where she had been standing. Eyes alight with fire she lifted her gaze and fixed them on the culprit high above crawling across the beams, her red lips drawing back in a hiss thinking she was already under attack. Seeing it was nothing but a fool, she breathed out her tension and made her way over to one side of the room, also as a means to not get caught up in the surge of people as they moved into the middle to dance.

Deep enough inside of the room to be able to see most of it, she took up position next to a tall pedestal that had a huge vase filled with an humongous bouquet of flowers within it, some of the flowers quite rare for this region. Turning her gaze away from the flowers and moving on from thinking about how much that must have cost, she slowly slid her eyes over those already here. Her eyes caught several flamboyant outfits, some dressed as flowers, others as animals. However she did see there were more than just herself that had chosen to wear black, relieved as it would make it less likely that she would stand out among this bright display of wealth.

High Lord of Imladris
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Lady of Flames

There were non that likely would guess at the elleth that that stepped from the low sleek black carriage that was drawn by 2 prancing red horses without perhaps speaking to her and knowing her. Even her carriage, matched her name for the ball, something that most people would not have expected from her or that she could move with such grace for she was oft seen as crass or rough by elven standards, most did not think she owned a dress even at least not since the First Age. Her mother would be proud of her. The tiniest of smiles tugged at her lips her eyes glancing to several that gasped as she appeared stepping lightly as the shimmering mirage that rises above hot coals. In fact that was the only clue as to who it might be was if they knew her occupation.

Her dress was a soft black, cut tight around the body with deep red garnets that glittered like hot coals in the light as she moved, ever changing depending on where the light came from making the dress seem alive with fire, especially as it swirled about her legs as she moved, just long enough to hide her feet even should she spin, which were bare allowing her ease in movement. It was a stunning dress with full sleeves hiding much of her pale skin though it had a keyhole opening that aside from her face was the only glance of skin visible from this lady, the neck rose to under her though it was soft enough that she could easily move her head and look about and eat and drink, and her face, pale as well with crimson red lips, her eyes were lined darkly behind the mask that was black and glittered with more of the dark garnets that seemed to sparkle and pop alight with a bright red glow depending on the light, this was held in place by a fine black circlet woven in intricate patterns to look like flame that rested atop her hair, partially pulled up in gentle curls pinned with brighter red garnets, and tumbled low down her back with tiny glinting red and yellow gems that matched those the played across her chest. they looked suspended by magic but they were held in place by spidery fine chains attached to the circlet.

She moved across the room looking at those about, an owl, and others in black though their own takes on it beautifully different, Ulmo of course and flowers and many beautiful things. Yes this would be a grand time for her she figured as she headed to get a drink. She took a sip of the punch and frowned slight, it tasted. Off. Then she realized that whoever had spiked it had not put nearly enough in this particular bowl to make it worth while. She of course produced a black flask from her bodice and topped off her drink, until it was strong enough for her liking before hiding the flask away again once more before drifting around to mingle.

She spoke with The Gull, white and grey trimmed with gold a striking difference from her own apparel, they made small talk at best perhaps both knowing that if they got too into anything specific they would in fact give away who they were until they had finished their first drinks. Then they decided to dance to a tune the musicians were playing, black and white, swirling about on the dance floor. They were swift and agile spinning in time with the beat and the other dancers, both laughing merrily as the song played on avoiding wing and twirling gown from being caught on other dancers through nimble movements that kept both of them from harms way.

(OOC: You are welcome to interact with the Lady of Flames just state the dance ended with the two parting ways)

Balrog
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The Blue Bear

He was a blur of silver and blue as he entered the festivities. His brocade jacket shimmered blue and silver. The jacket was broad across the chest and shoulders, accommodating his large frame. Woven from silk, velveteen, and rare wool, the jacket had inlays of ursine figures along the sleeves and across the back, all in various postures. Beneath the jacket was what appeared to be a stark white shirt, however upon closer inspection, even the shirt, with lace ruffles at the wrist and collar, was also embroidered with bears of all sorts. He smiled as he surveyed the scene. While it was still early the hall was filled with sound and light and color. No one, of course, could see that smile as it was buried under a large mask of lacquered wood. Carved in the shape of a growling grizzly bear, the mask was painted a dozen shades of blue with silver outlining the mouth, eyes, and ears. The mask took up all his face and fastened around the back with a dyed blue leather cord. His hair, normally a natural shade, had been colored blue for the occasion and was wound in an intricate braid down his back. The Blue Bear was content to wade through the sounds of music and the delight of those around him. Dozens and dozens of masks and costumes were already on display this night.

“Masquerade, paper faces on parade,” he said softly to his date for the evening, leaning in close to her sable colored fox mask. “Tell me, darling, shall we dance, or did you have something else in mind?” She would not have needed to see his face to know the smile he had under his bear mask.


The Galedeep

Normally, the Galedeep did not go in for such frivolities. He was a simple man with simple needs. Parties, large gatherings, or auspicious events were not simple. Still, here he was. It was at the urging of his atar that he was here, the man was more insistent than a shark after a wounded whale. He relented, but he did not promise he would enjoy himself.

He took it upon himself to dress the way he would out on the water, a plain brown trench coat, heavy and leathern with crushed velvet lapels, golden thread, and a satin lining, but finely crafted and unworn until tonight. Beneath the jacket was a cotton twill vest with a double-breasted design. Five brass buttons lined the vest on either side. His shirt was plain and unadorned but had ruffles (his atar had been insistent on the ruffles) at the throat and the cuff. The Galedeep thought it was silly, but he acquiesced.At his side, were the scabbards for his axes, replaced tonight with blunt replicas, too ornate and festooned with pearls to be of any real use.

The fit of the jacket was perfect. His atar had insisted upon this, taking him to a tailor not once but twice to make sure the cut was to his exact specifications. The buttons were brass and shined like the noonday sun in the light and reflectivity of hundreds and hundreds of candles. He could feel the heat beneath his sea otter mask, complete with whiskers. He wore heavy boots made from sealskin wrung about with bells that jingled as he walked.

The masquerade thus far was a great whorl of music and perfume. The Galedeep’s nose itched and his head swam. Tonight, was going to be a trial, that was for sure. But he would not disappoint his father. He was going to make the most of the night, perhaps find a willing maiden or two for company, a bottle of rare and expensive wine. He smiled, green eyes twinkling with mischief; this night might not be such a bad thing after all.


The Fire of Motion

Lindon. It had been home once, a very, very long time ago. Be back here was exciting. The Fire of Motion would have settled for any occasion to be here. This was the last place in the world he had felt truly at home and at peace. That sense pervaded him tonight. A giddy feeling of hopefulness and lightheartedness. It was strange to feel so happy, the Fire of Motion thought. But he was not going to question it.

He had attended but a single masquerade in all his long years. Tonight was a night to pull out all the stops. His mask was made completely from glass, blown and shaped by him under the direction of a master craftsman. He wove a few cantrips into the making to give the mask a wild shine to it. The mask was a living conflagration of flames. He poured over a dozen shades of color into the glass as he shaped it: yellows, oranges, gold, blues, and reds. When he put it on, the only things visible were his mismatched eyes, brown and blue. When he moved, or the light shifted, new color patterns emerged, a result of the simple magic he imbued into the mask. The mask would catch the light and refract it into a hundred colors, giving the mask itself the illusion of movement.

His clothes were similar. He wore a deep, fiery red traveler’s cloak trimmed with shimmering gold fabric. Emblazoned on the thick but comfortable wool were more shimmering images of flames that shifted color as he moved. The hood was thrown back now, revealing his white hair streaked here and there with blue.

The Fire of Motion did not know what was in store for the night. Perhaps he would meet new people and learn new stories and songs, or perhaps he would find old acquiesces and renew the embers of friendship. He had been practicing his dancing for the last fortnight and, while he was still as clumsy as newborn foal, he would at least not make a fool of himself. Onward! He smiled behind his glass mask and began to mingle with the crowd.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Sep 27, 2020 3:42 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Among the guests approaching Círdan’s manor was what appeared to be a slender nís, dark and darker, the coal-black tresses of her hair cascading down the length of her back, stark against the snowy paleness of her complexion. She was clad in brightest white, the gown with its torso threaded with silver just clinging to her shoulders and the swell of her bosom, laying smoothly against her upper body until it reached her hips, where it flared into flowing elegance. Its sleeves were of gold, close-fitting to the elbow, where the top ceased, but the bottom continued to bell out in length and drop nearly to the floor when the wearer’s arms were at her sides. A delicate mask adorned her face, silver wire bent in curlicues and fanciful shapes echoing the form of a swan formed its frame and eyeholes, with the same white fabric of her gown stretched between the wires to give the mask its concealment, and a spray of white feathers curving up tall from her right temple, alike to the neck of a swan. From the beneath the mask danced a pair of startling cobalt eyes, which belied the smile on their owner’s face, even if her full lips had not been curved in merriment. The mask was tied with white ribbons, running above the sharp tips of her ears behind her head, to meet and secure halfway beneath the waving weight of her hair. A portion of the front of her hair had been pulled back and braided, to provide the base for the fluttering adornments of her hair: pinned into place were a series of miniature sails in cloth-of-silver, which would billow and flutter as the wearer danced. Vingilótë, known on Anadûnê as Rothinzil, had come to Mithlond.

It had been some time since Vingilótë had come north to Mithlond, for she was not resident here. In recent years she had reestablished a custom of appearing to occasional festivals and balls, after an absence that had been long and complete, but never staying too long. This was another such occasion, and she reveled in the anonymity that Lindon’s predilection for masked balls afforded. Beneath the radiant beams of Tilion’s vessel, she gazed upon the manor, its arches and towers standing strong and inviting against time and weather, now glowing with the gaiety of the night’s events. Among the rush of guests, Vingilótë was swept up the long sets of stairs towards the great manor door, and into the hall beyond. Not to be known was indeed a blessing, she reflected, following the others into the ballroom. True, there were those who remembered her year-by-year from her attendances to festivals and balls, but in all the country of Lindon there was but one resident who knew her truly, and even if he was here, he would be hard pressed to recognize her after all this time, and in this guise. There were others of her acquaintance who might appear of course, but those had only known her briefly, and were of little danger.

A warm smile crossed her face as she thought of Nyárener- Estelissiel, he had called her, and she missed his kind smile. But here, there were plenty of diversions. Vingilótë reveled in the freedom to move lightly and easily, upright and in clothes made not for traveling the wilds and for fighting, but for sailing gracefully across a marble floor in thin slippers, for drinking wine and engaging in cultured conversation, for singing and for laughter. The babel of voices rose around her as the guests marveled at the ballroom and broke off with one other to dance or explore or fetch refreshment; the words washed over Vingilótë and she allowed her eyes to briefly close; it had been long, so long since she had been able to let go and immerse herself in the tongues she loved. Most of the conversation of course was in Sindarin, but here and there she caught snatches of Quenya, the tongue of her mother, and the rich syllables and luxurious vowels caused a shudder of delight to run down her spine.

Vingilótë was alone; she had come with no partner, but knew that one or more would soon find her. She had already caught sight of several ellyn with whom she had danced at the last ball she had attended, recognizing them despite their masks, for like they had chosen only the facial disguise rather than an elaborate costume. Two who stood together, one dark and one silver haired –cousins, she thought- glanced at each other and a few words were exchanged, though across the room, she could not hear them. Vingilótë graced them with a small smile and the slight inclination of her head in acknowledgement, but did not go to them; if one were brave enough to ask her for the pleasure, then she would dance with him. In the meantime, she moved through the growing crowd to one of the tables, where she retrieved a goblet containing several inches of deepest red wine. A quick sniff told her it was fine Dorwinion, and the first sip made her sigh with pleasure. Goblet in hand she surveyed the scene, and relished her moment of peace.
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The Moonless Night

She was pulled from her perusal of the ballroom--which had, in all honesty, turned into a perusal of the room itself and not just its occupants--by an odd clicking noise. A moment later, a person garbed as a Snowy Owl (@Sil) bowed before her. When he stood, the false eyes in the mask glowing as if he truly were an owl hunting in the night, she raised an eyebrow.

"I couldn't help but notice that you must be some form of the night sky: and whom should an Owl pay court to but the Night?"

Her eyes wandered over his intricate garment appreciatevely, the corners of her mouth quirking upward at sight of the mouse-shaped pouch. She reached for the glass he offered, and took a sip before she spoke.

"I am the Moonless Night," she answered. "For I find the vast beauty of the stars and galaxies far more mesmerizing when the light of the moon does not overcast them." She took another sip, then asked, curiously, with a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes, "Can an owl hunt without the moonlight?"

Before the Snowy Owl could answer, though, another approached them and introduced herself. "Mae govannen. I am Lady Redback."

"Mae govannen, Lady Redback (@Laintaen). I am the Moonless Night." She raised her glass in greeting then took another sip. "What exactly is a redback?"

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The Vixen

The Vixen inhaled deeply. She knew well the smell of the sea, yet there was something different about the evening breeze here in the haven of the elves. Perhaps it was simply that the air was clean and free of oil and smoke and sweat. Perhaps it was the floral fragrance which mingled with the salt spray of the ocean. Or perhaps it was some quality imbued in the very atmosphere by the immortal inhabitants themselves, reflected down on them by the stars burning bright in the night sky. Whatever it was, it afforded lightness and joy unlike anything she'd ever seen to the festivities already in full swing at the Lord of the Haven's manse.

She nodded to the attendants at the door as she and her companion passed over the threshold and into the vast building. A delicate mask of artfully shaped wires strung with tiny, glistening black beads was fastened behind her head with black satin ties; silver beads of varying shades added depth to the face of the fox she wore, and its ears were tipped with currant red. Thread-thin wires stood in where whiskers would sprout from the nose of a true fox, protruding from the beaded vulpine snout. Through this mask, grey eyes took in every detail of the ballroom: flowers, flickering candles, roaring fires, glittering masks, feathers, and jewels. Lively music echoed through the hall, the hum of voices rising and falling with laughter and merriment. Servers hurried here and there, and tables heavy with food and drink lined the great room. In short, the scene that met her eyes was all elegant opulence, which she couldn't help but appreciate.

Another thing The Vixen appreciated was the chance to float anonymously through the crowd - though her partner's vivid hair was sure to attract attention. Her own raven curls were braided over the crown of her head and gathered into a thick ponytail at the nape of her neck. She turned her head this way and that to observe the finely-dressed guests, rubies sparkling on her earlobes and in the eyes of the slender fox wrought of silver which curled around one pale upper arm. As they walked, the short train of her trumpet gown skimmed along the floor, the skirt hugging her hips; black lace depicting scenes from life in the woods lay over black matte satin. Minute onyx and scarlet beads were sewn into the lace, lending it dimension and shine in the flickering firelight. Her neck was unadorned to allow the bodice's plunging neckline and delicate, gem-studded straps to take center stage. She wore soft yet elegant sandals with low heels and still stood tall even among the elves, though not so tall as The Blue Bear.

She could sense his smile even from behind the wooden mask as he leaned in to speak to her. A mischievous grin crossed her own lips, painted deep red to match the jewels at her ears. The suggestion behind "something else" was tempting, but it could wait. "Let us not forget drinks," she said, lifting a flute of sparkling wine from a tray carried by a passing elf. The Vixen paused and took a sip. Sweet bubbles burst on her tongue, and she savored the slightly tart apple flavor that lingered in her mouth after she swallowed. "Drinks, then dancing, don't you think?" she murmured. "It is a ball, after all."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
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The Snowy Owl

The Night lady accepted the glass, her mouth tipping into a half-smile as she did so. Snowy Owl took a sip himself and tasted golden apricots, baked in sunshine and frothed into the lightest bubbles: but with a punchy warmth following that was a little stronger than he had anticipated so early on in the evening. Had someone been spiking the drinks?

“Ah, the Moonless Night - of course,” he responded with another admiring glance at her starry raiment. “As an Owl, of course Tilion is a dear friend of mine; but in truth I can see well enough by starlight... and who says tonight is a night for hunting, dear lady?”

He cocked his head, disturbingly like a real owl; the ruff of feathers at his shirt rustled. All four of his eyes were gleaming.

Another vision had joined them, gowned in black silk and draped with red glass. There was something slightly unsettling about the patterning, the Snowy Owl thought, but he turned with a click of his spurs to bow to her also. “My lady Redback! I am known only as the Snowy Owl. Correct me if I am wrong: are you perhaps a hunter of sorts as well?” The Owl placed his free hand on his hip and fiddled with the nose of his dead-mouse purse, wondering which of them would be a better dancer.
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It was an unusual sort of night for The Wolf. It was unusual fourfold at least: the location, the event he was to attend, the clothes he wore, and the company he kept. It had been quite a long time since the Dúnadan had visited the city of Mithlond: the last sojourn that brought him here had been with his father, who had been too- The Wolf hated to use the word frail, but it seemed the most apt- to travel this far for many years. When his father was a young man he had spent many years in and out of this city, sailing and learning the shipwright’s arts, and making acquaintance with Círdan himself, and he had made certain that his son was at least introduced to the place and its people. And so it had seemed appropriate to The Wolf when he had heard that a masked ball was to be held at the same time as he was due to travel to his Northern kin, that he attend.

Above tall black boots, his hard-muscled legs were clad in hose of mattest black, and this garment served to accentuate both his physique (an entirely unintentional effect that had caused him some serious consternation upon dressing), and the length of his legs- for long they were, The Wolf rising some five inches above six feet. His torso was covered with a long knight’s tunic of light-grey leather, embroidered all over with silver and various hues of grey, in swirling lupine abstracts. It fastened diagonally across the chest and stomach with several silver-buckled straps, and the flaps that were split up the front and back hung to just above his knees. Above the buckles, the tunic split sharply int a curved v-shape, leaving the uppermost portion of The Wolf’s chest and clavicles bare, but for the edges of the shirt that peeped from beneath, precisely the same width on each side. The shoulders of the tunic protruded slightly beyond the Dúnadan’s own, increasingly their already considerable width. From beneath the tunic issued full-gathered shirtsleeves of a deep cobalt hue that precisely matched The Wolf’s eyes, and their fullness was corralled into long, embroidered cuffs at the wrist.

And of course, there was the mask. From the cheeks up, his face was covered by a silver replica of a wolf’s face, its muzzle protruding over his nose, the carven fur that covered the mask flaring out over his cheekbones, up over his temples, and transforming into ears that added inches to his already great height. The shock of jet-black hair that normally fell around his face had been tamed, combed straight back over his head, and erratically painted with threads of silver, to emulate the ruff of a wolf. Unusual, indeed. At his side, stood the final piece of the unusual puzzle: the young woman who had joined him on his travels as he passed through Rohan. Young enough that he could have been her father- her grandfather, even, though he did not look it- though he was no such relation. She was.. perhaps his ward? Perhaps not. A young person, in need of help, companionship, support; but an adult person, who had begun to try making her own way when their paths collided. She was unusual, and extraordinary, in many ways, and The Wolf was glad to be able to introduce her to the delights that this evening was sure to bring. From where they had halted outside the hall, pausing to take a breath before plunging in, The Wolf looked down at The Huntress with an encouraging smile.

“Are you ready?”


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The energetic dance came to an end and One Who Runs With Deers dropped into a deep curtsy to meet The Sunflower’s bow, the cheered and applauded the musicians with the rest. As her gaze swept over the room, she spied a head she would know anywhere- they had not known each other long, but she would know that blue-streaked white mane through any disguise. “I see someone I must find!’ she gasped to her partner, still breathing heavily in the aftermath of dance and laughter, “I’m sure you can find some way to entertain yourself.” The Sunflower waggled his brows (an obvious gesture even beneath the mask) and gave her another florid bow. “You know me far too well, my Lady.” He skipped off, and One Who Runs With Deers threaded her way through the people, following the swirling, brilliant flame colors of the ellon’s costume as she chased him, and had quickly come within striking distance. Swiftly she stretched out a hand to tap him (The Fire of Motion) on his left shoulder form behind, before swirling around to his right. When he faced her she grinned broadly and inclined her head to him in greeting. “What a magnificent mask! You must surely be a fire-spirit of some sort? Tell me, do your flames dance?”

Meanwhile, The Sunflower had noticed a mixed group, in which the ladies outnumbered! Unacceptable. Moderating his pace to something less than a skip, but still a strident stroll, The Sunflower retrieved another goblet from the nearby table, and insinuated himself into the group, having been just in time to eavesdrop on the introductions of The Snowy Owl, The Moonless Night, and Lady Redback. “Good evening to you all!” he cried, raising his goblet in toast to the group, “I seem to have the advantage of all of you, as I couldn’t help but overhear your charming introductions just now. I seem to be the odd one out here, for you all are beings of the sky, whereas I am The Sunflower,” he bowed to all and sundry, “but I assure you, my roots are nimble upon the dancefloor.”
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The Moonless Night

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. If an owl isn't hunting, what is it doing?" she murmured in response to the Snowy Owl, raising the glass to her lips again as she waited for Lady Redback's answer. She'd known the punch was spiked from her first sip, but she was enjoying the warmth of the liquor burning at the back of her throat and curling through her from there.

Another joined them then, introducing himself as The Sunflower, and she lifted her glass in greeting before tipping it back and draining it the rest of the way before setting it on the tray of a passing server. She hadn't come to the ball to stand at the side and chit-chat. She would not be the best dancer there, but she'd taken it upon herself lately to learn more of the finer arts and graces throughout Arda, and she wanted to test her skills.

"Now then. Which of you gentleman would like to dance?" the Moonless Night asked.

Arien
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The Snowy Owl

“Well met, Sir Sunflower,” cried the Owl, bowing once more with his hand upon his hip, the feathers draping down to hide his wrists. He kept his other hand outstretched to avoid any spillage from his goblet, and took another sip as soon as he was back upright again.

“I shall dance,” he declared gladly to the group in general, draining his glass and depositing it on the silver tray of a passing server with a clink. In truth, the Snowy Owl was an indifferent dancer, but he was full of nervous energy, exacerbated by the frothing bubbles he had just consumed; his silver talon-spurs clacked on the marble floors as he shifted his gaze from person to person, bird-like.

He extended his now-free hand to The Moonless Night.


ETA OOC: Feel free to slightly godmode me if you wish to dance with Owl
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Revels of this sort were a highlight of existence for The Sundering Sea. He was a raucous rover, a mariner and shipwright extraordinaire, near as ancient as the younger stars, known far and wide as a rake and a scoundrel, and there was no joy in this world that he was willing to deny himself when it crossed his path. And so when his friend Círdan had let slip that the next masked ball was to be held at his own manner, he had begun planning immediately. The Sundering Sea had taken on many guises at these events over the years, but this was one of the best. Beneath his outer garb he wore tall, soft black boots and hose of deep blue-black, but these were largely concealed in stillness by the pièce de résistance. He was robed in a garment which was fitted close to his bulky, tapered torso, but at the hip fell abruptly into many layers of shifting, whispering, variegated skirts, split and dagged and altogether comprised of many strips and slices of fabrics that were all thin and light, but of differing colors and textures of blue, with a wisp of blue-green here and there, and a dash of white; all the colors of the seas, falling to his ankles.

The torso of the garment was also of blue, shifting smoothly from one hue to the next, scattered with pearls to represent the stars, and embroidered all over with an albatross motif, its threads perfectly matching the changing colors beneath. The robe was without sleeves, revealing The Sundering Sea’s bare arms, thick with heavy muscle and ropy tendon, scarred here and there by rope and flame and blade. He wore a half-mask, revealing the lower part of his angular, unfinished-looking face, and silver-stubbled cheeks, disrupted by the ends of the thick scars that marred his face when bare. The mask itself began at the bottom in deep blue, but as the eye traveled upwards, it faded into lighter blue, then blue green, light green, and finally into a seed pearl design of white seafoam as it curled higher on the right side than the left, in the shape of a cresting wave, and all over the mask was patterned with the ribbonlike pattern of shifting waters. Above the mask, The Sundering Sea wore his silver-grey hair as ever he did: the top portion caught up into one rough plait, a few smaller throughout, and each for this occasion augmented here and there by some charm, gem, or shell, a small tangle of shark’s teeth dangling from the end of the large braid, just below his shoulders. As the Nelya surveyed the room with shining grey eyes, The Sundering Sea thought that this, surely, must be the best of life.

Nearby, The Sundering Sea spotted the person for whom he had been keeping a lookout since entering: The Galedeep, looking as though he might rip off his finery at any moment and flee the scene- or perhaps it was simply because The Sundering Sea knew of his great disgruntlement that he saw this. Nevertheless, grinning like a shark, he strode over to the otter-masked nér and clapped him on the back. “How now, Galedeep!” The Sundering Sea cried heartily, seizing two goblets from the tray of a passing server, and handing one to his son. “Have a drink! It isn’t so bad, is it?” He looked The Galedeep up and down and nodded approvingly, noting the presence of the bells, which had not been his idea, and the mischief in the eyes peeping out from behind the sea otter’s face. “We’ll make a mummer of you yet! Have you chosen your first mark yet?” The Sundering Sea spun to face the room, shoulder to shoulder with The Galedeep, and scanned the crowd. “A challenge perhaps.” He nodded, gesturing with his chin in the direction of a female figure all in black, lurking outside the babel of people (Lady of Shadows). “That one? Or maybe you’d prefer to begin the evening with lighter fare.” The Sundering Sea repeated his gesture, this time in the direction of a nís clad in white and gold (Vingilótë), also standing a bit apart. “So many options.”



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The Sunflower appreciated The Moonless Night’s bold question, and the initiative was taken by The Snowy Owl, which seemed only fitting. He drained his goblet so to have both hands free, and turned with a wink to Lady Redback. “It seems the night and the owl are well suited to one another. I take it from your garb and your name that you represent something rather more dangerous- but beautiful nonetheless. Will you do this humble flower the honor, Lady Redback?” The Sunflower made a slightly bow from the waist, and extended his hand to Lady Redback.

((@Laintaen feel free to godmode The Sunflower out onto the dance floor if you take up his invitation!))
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A redback is a spider,Lady Redback explained to The Moonless Night, “quite common where I am from. Their black bodies are marked only by a red blaze along their back. Though quite small, usually no larger than a Man’s thumbnail, their bite can be deadly if treatment is not sought.” When The Snowy Owl questioned whether she was a hunter, she pondered her response a moment. “Not so much a hunter as one who sets a trap and is content to see what the day will bring.” Her lips curled into a smile as she glanced down at his purse. “Keep not a watch on that mouse and it may blunder into my web,” she teased, “leaving Owls absent spoils.

They were joined by The Sunflower, who gaily introduced himself. “Two of us may be of the sky,” she replied, “but you shall not find me willingly so aloft. I am ever near the ground, by rocks and wood, so you must take care where you step.[/i]”

Everyone was of a mood to dance and The Moonless Night quickly swirled away with The Snowy Owl, and Lady Redback gave full attention to The Sunflower. “I would take you up on your offer of a dance,” she said. “Let us see whether your nimble roots and my many legs move as one.

Seeing no other way to avoid spilling punch on The Sunflower’s stunning jerkin, she quickly finished her glass of punch. As they headed onto the dancefloor and began to move in time with the music, Lady Redback delighted to hear the tinkling bells that seemed to follow them. “Such marvellous effort you have put into your raiment to be forever followed by your own music!” she declared. “What other surprises does The Sunflower conceal?
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
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The Moonless Night


"Ah, I've seen similar spiders where I'm from," the Moonless Night nodded as Lady Redback explained her disguise. "We call them Black Widows. They have a red hourglass, though, instead of a red stripe, though it seems they are equally as venomous."


The Snowy Owl was the first to respond to her request for a dance, and the Moonless Night deftly gathered up the train of her gown as the Owl finished his drink, clipping the extra fabric to a hidden hook at her hip. The motion revealed, momentarily, a pair of black satin dancing heels, studded sparsely with matching sparkling stones as adorned her dress.

With a smile and a nod to Lady Redback and The Sunflower, The Moonless Night took the Snowy Owl's extended hand, and they spun onto the dance floor together.

It took her a moment to find her steps, but the Owl at least pretended not to notice and soon they were swept along in the music and the dancing throng.

"Are you a resident of Lindon?" she asked once they'd both fallen comfortably into the rhythm of the music. "Or do you hail from elsewhere in Arda and simply happened to be here for the ball?"

@Sil

Arien
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The Snowy Owl dances with @Taethowen

How efficient! The long flowing train pinned up neatly into a glittering sheaf at the back of the lady’s gown, revealing a trim set of ankles (not that the Owl would ever be so indecorous as to mention that) and a pretty pair of dancing slippers. “Ah yes, that will be much better for dancing,” he murmured; “I shall do the best I may not to tread upon your toes, but I should certainly have been mortified had I stepped upon your train!”

She set her hand confidently in his and immediately the Owl stepped in close and grazed his hand over her waist. Good gracious! The fantastic dress she was wearing actually plunged so low that his fingertips (and feather-tips, given the nature of his winged sleeves) met warm skin. The Owl flinched away momentarily before laughing to cover his nervousness. Beneath his beak, his mouth began to shape an apology before he snapped his jaw shut. No doubt the Moonless Night would only think him curmudgeonly and awkward if he were to comment on her daring attire. Instead, he smiled as confidently as if he had always expected to encounter bare flesh and whirled her out onto the dance floor as though he had every idea what he was doing.

Fortunately, the dance was not too complicated: shortly, the pair of them were whisking along merrily as though they had rehearsed it. She was almost of a height to look the Owl in the eyes - or she would have been, had he not been dancing mostly on his tip-toes, both for the added lightness it gave him and to avoid clashing his spurs too noisily against the ground.

“I don’t originate from Lindon, no,” he answered her, his eyes twinkling at her delicate probing. “Though I am greatly enjoying my visit. And what of you? You are - I dare say, a Mortal?”
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The Blue Bear

He took in the scene once more, observing with cold, ocean blue eyes; rhythmically tapping the silver tip of his bear-headed cane on the stone. Behind his mask of civility, not the wooden one he wore now, he’d been allowed entrance. Had he arrived in his fuller, darker glory he would have been turned away at the gates. He smiled at touched The Vixen’s hand lightly as it rested in the crook of his elbow. His gaze swung around, taking in all the colors and lights in a blur as he focused the entirety of his attention on her. He knew his charm, but he was still awed at times that she’d chosen him as a worthwhile companion. The green-eyed monster that existed between so many others, jealousy, did not exist between them. Each had been allowed their freedom to dance and cavort and drink with whomever they pleased.

He touched the sharp curve of the vulpine mask and traced its line slowly. With that same hand, he reached back to his own mask and adjusted the jaw of the growling beast. The wooden piece came away, revealing his sharp grin and white teeth. With feral agility, The Blue Bear grabbed at a passing flute of sparkling wine. “Drinking, then dancing, then… distractions. Do I have that in the right order? Or do I get to provide distraction a bit earlier?” his eyes sparkled with mischief and malice. He downed the flute and placed the empty vessel on another fast-moving tray. “What say you, shall we show everyone up, Vixen?”


The Galedeep

All the swirling colors and lights and smells were making The Galedeep's head spin. He longed for the simple twinkling of the stars, the guiding light of Tilion’s vessel, the smell of salt and the music of the waves. He hadn’t realized, but even as he had stepped through the entrance into the dance hall, he’d been moving his way around the edges of the floor, making careful note not to look too many people in the eye. His eagerness upon entering had waned somewhat and by the time he was nearly to the opposite end of the ballroom and nearly on his way to the garden he was ready to bolt. One thing stopped him. One man that is to say. The Sundering Sea. Better known to The Galedeep as father. He froze, guilt suddenly welling in his chest.

“Well, don’t you look fetching atar,” he said, rolling his eyes at his father's attire. “I wish I could have gone sleeveless as well. Too bad it would have ruined the illusion of mystery meant for this fête.” Beneath the heavy, decorated sleeves were thick corded muscles more easily identifiable with a dwarf than an elf. Tattoos, another mark more common among the naugrim, were woven about the seafarer’s arms like ribbons, spells of protection and swiftness enmeshed within the even script. Other than his diving exploits, those tattoos were what The Galedeep was most known for.

A twinkle began in his eye as The Sundering Sea pointed out the woman in black (Lady of Shadows) then a lady in white (Vingilótë) across the way, the twinkle of an idea. The twinkle curled his lips in a mischievous smile.

“So many options indeed atar. So many in fact, I think you and I should have a wager. Whoever dances with the most partners tonight wins a prize to be named later. What say you, eh?” He knew The Sundering Sea would not be able to resist such a wager, his father's appetite for companionship had not slackened in all the thousands of years they had known each other, he was also as competitive an ellon as anyone knew. The Galedeep took the proffered goblet and quaffed the entire contents in a single gulp. His smile was wide.

“For my first lady of the night I think I shall try my luck with…” he scanned the room and found the black-clad, shadow ensorcelled woman he'd seen earlier, standing apart from the crowd, “…her.” He squeezed his father's shoulder and disappeared into the sea of masks.

He came out on the other side and approached the lone woman. Forgoing silly, punny greetings, The Galedeep adjusted his otter mask and stepped forward. “Good evening. I cannot help but see you are alone; might I assume that I could have the honor of a dance? Or has that honor been stolen by my slow feet?”


The Fire of Motion

A deep crimson blush appeared under The Fire of Motion. He not expected to be asked for a dance this early, at all really. When he had been tapped on the shoulder he expected to be asked to move, not to dance, and by a woman of such subtle grace! The Fire of Motion could only make out parts of her face, but the periwinkle eyes were all he needed to see to know She was beautiful. He was so awestruck that someone like her would have even deign to speak with him that he seemed to all in that moment forget how to speak. For a heartbeat (though to him it felt much, much longer) the power of words was utterly lost to him. His mouth was sudden dry, and he couldn't swallow. He prayed to the stars he wouldn’t start babbling, he’d never be able to show his face in Lindon again if he did that. Imagine! A story gatherer so suddenly at a loss for words that he begins to babble like a stream. Gellam, if he heard about it, would likely compose an entire operetta around it.

He recovered quickly though, hoping the vibrant ever shifting colors of his mask hid his blush. “You flatter me, dear Lady. Were I a fire-spirit I would be a poor one indeed, next to the light your eyes. I fear my flames are far superior dancers than I, but should you allow me a dance, I shall endeavor to make my feet match yours. Might I be bold enough as to enquire as to your name for the evening?”


The Huntress

How could she be this nervous? The Huntress took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let that breath out slowly through her nose. There were more people in the ballroom than she had ever seen in one place in her life. It was staggering. And to top it all over, everyone was dressed as though they were royalty. Including herself! She looked down at her dress, subconsciously making sure she was dressed well enough to attend such a place.

She had been beside herself in tears when The Wolf had taken her to the tailor to get the dress made. She had never had something so fine crafted for her. Until now, she had been forced to stitch and sew her own clothes. Aside from her signature blue scarf, The Huntress had never owned something she or her mother had not made for her. She had protested and protested, but The Wolf would hear none of it. He was not a man overly given to fineries, but he had told her this event would be a once in a lifetime event. How could she refuse? The Wolf seemed nearly as uneasy as she did, but he hid it better and he knew how to handle himself. The Huntress was a bundle of nerves.

She looked at him through her mask, a stylized rabbit that covered the entire left half of her face and her forehead, and marveled at the circumstances that had brought them together. The whirlwind of inexplicable choices, confessions, and lots and lots of crying (all of it hers) and brought them into a weirdly unspoken equilibrium. What did she call him? Guardian? It seemed as likely as anything. The one thing she knew for sure was that he was not her father.

“I think I am,” she replied, looking down again at her dress. It truly was something to behold.

The dress was a mixture of dyed satin: deep purples, dark blues, and rich blacks. She’d never owned something with so many colors. The ballgown’s silhouette flowed over her waist with a floor length hemline and a court train. The bodice, sitting on the hips with a deep “V”, was embroidered with sapphires, something The Wolf had suggested since she could not wear the deep blue scarf she normally did. They shimmered in the light like the twinkling stars. The neckline sat off her shoulder and connected to long bell-shaped chiffon sleeves and ended in Chantilly style lace ruffles. She’d secretly asked a pocket or two could be sewn into the lining. The tailors, smiling conspiratorially, agreed. The skirt was a bustle-back, The Huntress wasn’t familiar with the term but had heard the tailors talking about as they poked and prodded and measured her. They made her try on a whale boned corset. She felt like it shoved her bust in her face, but her back felt suddenly straight. To top her costume off, she wore a black full grained leather quiver over her left hip filled with half a dozen white ceramic arrows.

The Huntress had no idea what tonight had in store, she could scarcely believe that she was even here, in Lindon of all places. A few months ago, she had thought Edoras was the largest city she would ever see. She had been so wrong. Lindon was vast, and it was beautiful. The architecture alone was wilder than anything she had read, had imagined. And the elves! She had never met an elf before, at least not within the heart of their realm. If not for The Wolf’s careful guidance and teaching, she would have truly felt like an uneducated country girl come to town. She had only made a few faux pas upon her arrival, the nervous energy causing her to shake hands with the first elf she’d met. She flushed momentarily as she remembered that.

“I’m definitely ready,” she said more confidently. “Would you be my first dance? I… have no idea what kind of dancing they’re doing.”
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The Forge-fire Flickering

The Forge-fire Flickering had not meant to arrive late, but here she was, stepping down from a carriage that was hers in name, if not in common usage. Wealth -- or rather, displays of wealth of this grandeur -- were somewhat foreign to the elleth who had spent much of the last four millennia in the forges beneath her keep. Not that the towers of the mansion were not splendid, not that it had failed to host its own share of balls, and not, of course, to suggest that The Forge-fire Flickering had not been the prime interest at a number of those balls, but --

Well, the forges make them all the same, the elf-princes rich with the treasures of lost ages and the short-lived mortal folk who scraped livings from the land alike. That was the thought behind the Forge-fire’s dress, an affair of charcoal gray and red so dark it put the garnets which hung from her neck and arms to shame.

Her mask was silver and steel, brought together so evenly that it was hard to tell where the one metal ended and the next began. It rose from her cheeks and climbed over her ears in long metal fingers -- fingers which might have put a viewer in mind of the wings of the swan ships of ancient days, if they had not so clearly been fingers of fire made dark, fire made hard. She wore a mask of fire trapped.

But it was not in her mask that the true fire-spirit dwelt, but in her hands -- there were rubies on her gloves, and they sparkled with cunning light as she moved her fingers -- it was only when the Forge-fire lifted her hands into the light, measuring the moon above the horizon to reckon the hour of her lateness, that the truth of these gems were revealed: They were not set into gloves at all, but set into rings: a fiery ring on every finger, with long strands of translucent red fabric woven among them and streaming up the length of her flesh to meet the arm-rings of gold that she wore above the elbow, so that it seemed that the whole of the Forge-fire’s forearms were aflame...

She lowered her hands, and the effect was diminished. She was very late indeed. She hurried inside, to where the dancing was long begun. Indeed, there were few left not clearly engrossed in their dance-partners or their conversation. She listened for a moment, and then strode -- not shy, but with a confidence that did not depend on involvement in such things -- to the long tables where the feast was laid.

There was little here to interest here, and soon she turned away to survey the gathering again. Perhaps she would walk alone in the gardens, to look at the moon. The Forge-fire had seen the moon plenty of times from her own towers and the high cliffs which surrounded her manse, and had no need to look on it again... But she knew the way of events like these. It was unwise to linger too long, too helplessly, in the shadows of the corner or the safety of the doorways. Someone might think you were something you were not.
If something was going to happen here tonight, it would happen here tonight. The hunt would begin when the hunt began.

(OOC: Sorry for turning up late! I read through the previous posts, but wasn’t sure who was still free -- if anyone is, and would like to dance with the Forge-fire, please come right up.)
Last edited by Androthelm on Tue Sep 29, 2020 2:48 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Lady Redback echoed his gesture in emptying her own glass, and The Sunflower grinned as she put her hand in his. “I believe we may find ourselves in harmony without too much trouble!” They moved out onto the dance floor, and took up the step to a song which was somewhat more restrained than that which he had danced with One Who Runs With Deers, and more comfortable for conversation. The Sunflower laughed as Lady Redback commented on the music of his bells, the motion of which caused them to ring out again. “Why, what bloom can be said to be more open than the sunflower? What could I have to hide?” he objected in a clear mockery of offense. “No, no, of course you are right, it wouldn’t do to attend an event such as this without concealing some surprises. In truth when I am not The Sunflower they called me the Fool, and music is my business. Let us see,” The Sunflower considered for the merest of moments before launching into song, an improved verse to the tune upon which they danced. As with most such ditties he composed, silliness and flattery ran side by side. “Lady Reback I see before me, a spider of infinite jest; her dark beauty shines far, but her crimson sheen tells, a death toll knells, for the man who dares cross her when pressed! But she may yet be wooed, and not call me food, if upon her attentions I dance.

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“A wager!” If it were possible. The Sundering Sea’s eyes grew even brighter, and his grin more ferociously pleased. “No matter the prize, I am certain I will be victorious, Galedeep. Who could resist me? And with any luck, the maidens who have sworn off my company will be deceived by the disguise!” His raucous laugh rang out, and he nodded approvingly at The Galedeep’s choice of prospective partner. “I wish you luck, may your return unharmed!” He watched his son’s retreating back for the merest moment before returning his gaze to the room at large: it wouldn’t do to fall behind before the game had even begun, and so The Sundering Sea set out on a quest for a partner. It happened that at that moment an elleth entered hall, a striking figure of deepest red and ashen grey, bedecked with the brighter reds of gems at her throat and hands, each arm seeming to be wrapped in flame (The Forge-fire Flickering). Without a second thought, The Sundering Sea set off toward the entrance of the hall, and intercepted her before she could disappear into the room’s masses, materializing before her out of the crowd. “A joyous evening to you, lady,” he greeted her, offering a small bow. From this distance, he could see that her mask had caught a fire in frozen time. “I am known as The Sundering Sea, and my currents are known to devour latecomers whole. But if you would consent to give me your name dance with me, I promise not to put out your flames.”
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The Moonless Night, dancing with the Snowy Owl (@Sil)

She hadn't missed the Owl's surprise when his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back, but she'd managed to hide her amusement at his... slight embarrassment. She'd forgotten that Elves often had a strange decorum about more... intimate matters. Or, well, she was assuming he was an elf.

The Snowy Owl rallied himself, though, and his hand settled in place along her back with a pleasant warmth.

"I am Mortal," the Moonless Night confirmed as their dance continued. "I was born... much further south of here, and I don't anticipate my stay in Lindon will last much longer. I came here on a search for knowledge, and while my stay has been most satisfactory in that regard, there are other things I seek which will soon call me away.

"And you?" she returned, attempting to subtly glance at his ears, but they were hidden by the feathers in his braid. "You are... not Mortal, correct? And if Lindon is not your home, what has brought you here? I will confess that as a mortal, my curiosity is insatiable."

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The Forge-fire Flickering

She had to give the sea-scarred ellon (@Moriel) credit, he had drawn himself together well for this event. By the scarring on his well-muscled arms and what portion of his face could been seen beneath a mask that was everything her steel-and-garnet flames were not, the Forge-fire did not think that this was a man whose native form brought most to mind pearls and finery.
Still, he had charm after a fashion -- and who was she to fault an elf marked by their long-labor? Her own arms could tell stories, if it were not for her ribbons.

A joyous evening to you as well.” said the Forge-fire, with a little bow of her own. “Though it seems to me that those waters are not yours at all, but belong rather to our host. Perhaps I should seek his favor?” She laughed lightly, before the Sundering Sea could take any real offense to the jab. “At any rate, I think you will find my fires hard to douse, intentionally or no. But I will dance with you, and you may call me the Forge-fire Flickering, if in exchange you will tell me how an ellon comes to wear pearls so fine when--” Her eyes fell briefly on the rope-burns and blade-marks “--the Sea has so clearly paid him back for her gifts.
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The Vixen

Her eyes flicked to the entrance as several more guests swept into the ballroom: a wolf and a young woman slung with arrows (The Wolf and The Huntress), a silver-haired elf garbed in all the shades of the sea (The Sundering Sea), and a figure in coal-grey and deepest red who appeared aflame at the hands for all the rubies she wore (The Forge-fire Flickering). This last person was certainly someone to meet, thought The Vixen. She eyed them all appreciatively (and not solely for their well-wrought masks and elaborate costuming) over the rim of her glass as she continued to sip her wine. Their perfumes mingled with the harsh yet intoxicating scents of the floral arrangements, and as the wine's golden bubbles exploded once more on her tongue, she felt her head swim briefly in the swirl of sensory input. For someone accustomed to moving in more clandestine circles, it was all quite excessive. And yet . . . and yet. There was pleasure in the excess.

Her attention returned to The Blue Bear at the warm touch of his hand; The Vixen returned his gaze and his grin, turning to face him squarely. He was always a striking individual, tall and broad-shouldered with piercing eyes. She felt small and slight beside his imposing person, something which she had been surprised to find, not long into their entanglement, that she rather enjoyed. His appearance was even more arresting tonight, with his hair dyed to match one of the many shades of blue upon his mask. She drank in the sight of him with relish.

The Vixen drained the last drops of sweet wine from the flute grasped delicately between slender fingers, then unburdened herself of the glass as a servant passed, a tray laden with empty glasses in hand. "Drinks, done. At least, done for now," she said lightly, lifting a finger to trace The Blue Bear's now-exposed jawline in mimicry of his touch along her mask. She bit her lower lip and smiled. "Distractions - well, distractions are everywhere, darling. To play our part, I suppose dancing will have to do for now. But a trip into the gardens later does seem warranted." Her eyes glittered with mischief as she took his hand and led him, gliding smoothly backwards, onto the dance floor. As she moved, the candlelight caught the gems and beads sewn into her dress, and for a moment, the image of a fox stalking between trees stood out clearly in the lace overlay of her gown.

While far from an expert in formal dance, The Vixen had long ago learned to navigate any room by simply stepping into it with confidence, and she employed this strategy now. She reached with her left hand to lightly touch The Blue Bear's neck, draping her forearm onto his expansive shoulder and entwining the fingers of her right hand with his. "Well, love," she said as they turned in time with the music, "what do you think? Rather less sinister than the elven company you usually keep, no?"
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One Who Runs With Deers was delighted. He did not recognize her! She had been certain he would, but perhaps without reckoning with the frenetic environment, excitement, and such multitudes of disguised partygoers. His brief lapse of silent gave her more than enough time to decide that she would not give the game away; after all, if there were ever a night for mischief, was it not this? Her eyes danced into his mismatched ones, and when he recovered his speech it was as eloquent as one might expect from such a teller of stories. “Flattery,” she laughed, “a winning strategy on an occasion such as this. I have the honor to be on this night, and all nights under the moon, One Who Runs With Deers.” The nís sank into a deep curtsy, with an elaborate twisting gesture of right hand as she descended, and as she returned to full height, held out this hand to the ellon before her. “Now you must tell me your name of the evening, before we are swept away.”

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“Of course,” The Wolf replied to The Huntress without hesitation. Events such as this might not have been his forte, or even of particular comfort to him, but he had been to enough over his years to learn to enjoy them. And he would never have dared to simply push The Huntress through the door and wish her luck. “Come, a new song is starting! You’ll be just fine.” They walked into the hall like passing through some sort of invisible barrier, and the noise level palpably increased. As they made their way onto the floor, he murmured to her. “In the country dances, just do what everyone else is doing, and don’t worry if it isn’t perfect! And listen for a caller who may be there to help with the steps. And if you find yourself with a partner, remember,” they had practiced a little before tonight, to introduce The Huntress’s feet to the movements, but The Wolf well knew that it took more practice than that for the movements to become natural, “as you guide your horse with shifting pressure, allow your partner to guide you in the same way. Now,” the Dúnadan took up his young companion’s hand and sank his weight into his right leg, leaving the left straight as he bent at the hip, making her a courtly bow, “may I have the honor of this dance?” The Wolf straightened and drew The Huntress gently into frame, and in the barest of pauses before they swept into the mass of couples circling the floor to the music, held her gaze. “You deserve every moment of this. Never forget that.”

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The Sundering Sea met her jibe with a grin. “I should not blame you if you chose to pursue the Lord of Waters! For it is he I serve, but I think,” he gave the Forge-fire a broad wink from beneath the mask, “you would not find him so entertaining as I, and rather more apt to damp your flames with his mood.” The Sundering Sea turned her name over in his mouth, savoring its sibilance. “The Forge-fire Flickering, you say? I imagine you have your own stories to tell. As for me, the sea can be a fickle mistress, and Ossë a fair-weather friend. But the sea, she is my mistress, and when you have lived to long and dived so deep as I, it is no wonder that she surrenders some of her gifts to a faithful lover. And if the sea’s vengeance isn’t enough to scare you off,” the Nelya extended one arm and its calloused hand to the Forge-fire, with the edge of a dare, “come and let Fire dance with the Sea, and perhaps as they mingle, I might learn what finery you forge.”
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The Snowy Owl dances with @Taethowen

“Ah, yes, you’re right,” the Owl murmured. He felt a strange pang in his heart; what must it be like, to be Mortal, to know there was so much in the world, and yet so little time in which to experience it? Small wonder they were such curious beings, so eager to seek out knowledge; or at least, some of them were. Others, even more strangely to his mind, took small interest in anything beyond the tiny circle of their immediate lives, and woke and ate and worked and slept and died without going a mile or two from their villages. He supposed that The Gift might hold a recompense for such souls that was greater than this world might yield, but still, to disdain it...

The thought provoked a sort of melancholy in him and he absently stroked his thumb across her back, tilting his feathered head slightly towards the warmth of her neck, inhaling her fragile mortal fragrance as though he were indeed a true predator.

The Owl startled out of his brief reverie. Was that a scraping noise above him, in the rafters? He looked up. Butterflies, winging sleepily above; the glitter of the chandelier - was that a person up there? Something like a muffled giggle?

“Oh - I’m sorry,” he replied belatedly. “I was just thinking... and I had forgotten your question from earlier, as well.”

He lifted her arm to spin her at the crux of the dance. Her dress whirled out, fluid velvet flashing as bright as knives. The drum beat settled into his bones as the strings sang on.

“An owl hunts, but he does so silently,” he continued, drawing the Moonless Night back in to settle in the curve of his arms. “His wings beat without noise, so his prey will never hear him coming.”

The sharp beak of his mask just grazed her nose as he dipped her, dramatically, so the gleaming curls of her hair briefly touched the floor before he drew her up again, excruciatingly slowly, but effortlessly, until they were almost eye to eye once more.

Quite unexpectedly, he broke into a wide smile.

“But I came here to dance,” he answered.
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The Forge-fire Flickering

Despite herself, The Forge-fire could not help but smile softly at his twisting words. This ellon had a tongue, and the confidence to keep it moving. She inclined her head gently as she took his hand. “Very well. The Fire will dance with the Sea--or with her faithful lover, as the case may be. Let us hope that my heat does not dry you too quickly--though as for the product of that heat...The Forge-fire rolled her fingers gently, without shaking off his hand, to set the red stones on her silver rings glittering in the lights of the ballroom. She never missed an opportunity to display her craft -- even on a night when she was nominally incognito. “Do you like them?” she asked, drawing the Sundering Sea toward the dance as she spoke.
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Aule

He had found out his love was in Imladris, and that perhaps she would be at this ball in Lindon. He knowing what he knew of her decided to dress in a costume that he felt may work well with his. As long as he was right. He wore dark grey soft leather pants with a light grey shirt to match. The shirt had flames embroidered around the cuffs and neck. Over these he donned an apron, made of thick leather, a smiths apron though this one was gilded with gold and silver as were the cuffs of his long gloves that he had tucked into the strap holding the apron close to him. His pale blonde hair was pulled back and away from his face on he wore a a simple metal mask beautifully shaped and polished only enough to show the clear hammer strikes.

He arrived late, which he was fine with he walked in with a proud baring, after all he was playing at the embodiment of Aule. He could not help but smile at those that were there dressed, there were plenty that were dressed as flames, one he knew he could safely ignore entirely, The Fire of Motion, not that he was not handsome and likely good company, but Aule knew that he was not who he was looking for. Instead though he found that there were two elleths there dressed like a hot coal fire very similar yet very different. And his heart raced, would one of them be his beloved? He hoped so one however was on the dance floor for now, his sharp ears hearing her called The Forge-Fire Flickering. He would speak with her after her dance was done, there were plenty of people to dance with and talk with and he would despite being very young in terms of the elves about him, have plenty to talk with. No need to rush, after all it was possible that she was not even at this event, nor dressed as he would guess.

He walked about his hands behind his back as he strode about, like a king in a garden a smile staying on his lips, he saw many, The Moonless Night was stunning, in her robes as he watched her dance, there was also A lady dressed in all red and black (Lady Redback) but for now he saw a dark haired elleth standing alone dressed in white with silver in her hair and swan feathers at her temple. He made for her first and swept up to her (Vingilótë) with a low bow. "Excuse me, but would you grace me with a dance, for the night is young and it seems a crime to stand upon the sides." He said standing back up his smile catching to his eyes as he looked at the white clad woman trimmed with silver and gold. Her cobalt eyes told him this was not the elleth that he was looking for but he would enjoy dancing and talking with her no matter. "I am Aule." He said offering her a hand, not well calloused with work, for he was too young for that yet, but it was clear to see that indeed he had done much labour and the thick callouses were beginning to form.

@Moriel
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Lady of the Shadows

Her skin tingled, a horribly prickly sensation that put her on edge as her eyes kept scanning the busy room. The sheer noise of the music, the constant ebb and flow of the mass of fantastically dressed people was relentless, feeling her body tense as she stood there with the drink still in her hand and feeling completely out of place. Before he was even near her, she sensed him. Sensed his intention as he made his way over to her. For the last dozen of so yards she watched him openly and when he stopped in front of her and offered her a dance, she remained quiet for a long moment openly staring at him. Nothing was missed, her fiery red eyes scanned every inch of his costume, her brows twitching at the sight of the bells on his sealskin boots.

But, she was here for a reason and she could not afford to send him away as it would likely draw too much attention. At least he was dressed far more sensibly and less flamboyant than most here, albeit a bit flashy still when it came to the colours, ruffles and the bells. At least she had not been accosted by a bird. If she had to do this she guessed he was as good as it was going to get, though the otter mask was making her wince slightly.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she extended her free hand "Never assume dear, Sir. All the same, you may.." Though her voice was low, it was still clear enough to force it's way through the constant noise that surrounded them. Nimbly she placed her untouched drink on a passing servant's tray and without waiting for him to lead her onto the dance floor, she lead him.

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The Moonless Night dances with the Snowy Owl (@Sil)

"Ah yes, you're right," the Snowy Owl murmured when she asked about is own mortality, or rather lack thereof, and then he fell silent for nearly a turn of the dance floor, and the Moonless Night found she was curious what thoughts might be hiding behind behind the eyes of his mask, and his real eyes.

She shivered just a little, though, when he leaned in just a bit closer, and she felt the warmth of his breath whisper over her skin. He pulled away rather suddenly though, looking up at the ceiling. Curious, she followed his glance upward, and if there was anything to confirm he was elven and not human, it was this. Normally, she would be ashamed that she'd missed the sound of someone lurking in the rafters, but her ears could only pick out so much when there was the constant chatter of talking, the soft glide of feet over the ballroom floor, and the music reverberating around them.

When the Owl's attention returned to her, the Moonless Night was momentarily puzzled as he mentioned her earlier question, and then she recalled it: when she asked what an Owl might be doing if it wasn't hunting.

He lifted her arm then, and she let her other hand drop from his shoulder, enjoying the thrill as she spun, skirts whirling wide to display the full breadth of the sparkling embroidery she'd worked. Then in a moment his arms were settling around her again as he spoke, "An owl hunts, but he does so silently. His wings beat without noise, so his prey will never hear him coming."

Her stomach flipped as the Owl suddenly leaned her back, and then she relaxed into his hold, one hand splayed across her back. Her lower lip caught in her teeth as his 'beak' gently grazed the tip of her nose. So very, very slowly--and yet his arms didn't strain or tremble at all--he brought her back to standing, and the Moonless Night couldn't help but return his sudden, infectious grin.

"But I came here to dance," he finally finished with his answer, and the Moonless Night threw her head back and laughed with delight.

"Did you?" she countered. "Because I'm beginning to feel rather like you've decided I'm your prey."

Balrog
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The Blue Bear

As they danced, The Blue Bear's eyes wandered appreciatively over The Vixen's ball gown. It was gorgeous, nearly as gorgeous as she herself was. His smile never faded as they moved in rhythm to the music. Ballroom dancing was not one of The Blue Bear's strong suits but he had learned enough over the years of his mother incessantly pulling him into lessons (learning many more things than just dancing) that he could look competent at least. The Vixen, though, moved like her namesake, as fluid and graceful as a hunting fox. He marveled at her. She seemed utterly at ease in his arms, light as a feather and graceful as a lark. He felt like an amateur compared to her. “I clearly have much to learn from you, I hope you will be a willing tutor. I would be the most devoted pupil.”

He let the implication, unmasked and bold, hang in the air as he smiled salaciously. There were a great many things The Blue Bear wanted to learn from The Vixen, in the same manner there were many things he wanted to show her. She was a thousand faceted gem, endless depths and endless beauty. He would never dream of trying to hide her away though, such a thing would be a grave sin. She deserved the freedom of movement and choice and he would give it all to her.

Her comment about sinister elves brought an airy laugh to his lips. “Far less sinister, though nearly as decadent. Elves are ostentatious creatures, are they not?” He knew well to whom she was referring: an elf nigh as ancient as the stars themselves with power beyond his imagining. She, too, was a tutor of sorts. The disclosure of that relationship to The Vixen had not caused him any doubt or consternation, neither had the disclosure of her liaisons. They were creatures of appetite, hiding such a thing from one another would be foolhardy.

“So, my little fox , have you decided on who your next target will be? I have my eye on a few here that could prove entertaining.” As the dance ended he took her hand and kissed it softly with a flourish.


The Galedeep

Somehow, perhaps outside of reason, The Galedeep felt more at ease around his dance partner once he discerned her discomfiture as well. As she lead him, yes she was leading him in an amusing turning of the tables, he could tell by her abrupt, but not rude, nature that she was likely more uncomfortable here than he was. A brief moment of panic of feeling “I’m in over my head" came over him as they began to dance, but the feeling passed quickly and through his sea otter mask she was unlikely to notice the brief flash.

As they danced, The Galedeep wasn’t an expert in dance but assumed it was some sort of waltz, the elf began to take in his partner’s appearance. He looked beyond the black dress that clung to her and the mask that accentuated her cheekbones. He looked at her eyes. They were… red? The Galedeep's own shining amber eyes blinked and did a double take. No, they were definitely red. Something within him told him to be careful, but that voice was growing softer and softer within every passing swing and swirl.

“If my lady would pardon such a bold observation and question. You seem to be more uncomfortable at this fête than I am. I’m bound here by my father's indomitable charisma, yet I do not see such strings holding you in place. Pray lady, what brings you to a gather of foppish overindulgence such as this?” He noted that earlier she had left her drink untouched. Was that because of the dance, or was it all merely a prop? The voice of warning was very quiet now, replaced by a much louder, much more insistent voice of curiosity.


The Fire of Motion

One Who Runs With Deer. Why did that name sound so walked familiar? It was certainly an apt name. By the powers! The way the nís moved as they started the dance was incredible. It was that The Fire of Motion could do to keep up with her. There was a savage grace in the way she moved through the dances motions. She had the natural inclinations of a warrior. The Fire of Motion had seen enough of them and heard enough stories to spot one through the fineries of silk and jewels. As they danced though, the nimir could not help but feel as though he ought know her. There was a familiarity about her, a joviality was not patronizing but genuine.

The mask glittered with light as they moved, changing from golden flames to red to white to orange. His clothes too, with all the flourishes he made blazed with a hundred different colors. “Tonight, I am The Fire of Motion. Flame given form to dance and glitter away as the music permits. You come by your name honestly,” he said with a gasp for air in between movements. “I daresay you would outrun all the deer I know. And mind you, as a wanderer, I know many a deer. The stories they can tell!” The Fire of Motion laughed, a odd sound coming from his normally somber throat. “Even we elves would learn a thing or two if we stopped and listened to the beasts of the field or the birds of the sky every once in a while.”


The Huntress

She took The Wolf's hand, hers dwarfed inside his and followed to the dance floor. She was still processing what he'd told her and tried to remain fluid as they moved. The Huntress found that, with him leading her, the steps were not so difficult to manage. After a few rounds she even began to anticipate the steps enough to move in time with him. She followed his advice, tried to remember the proper steps and, even when she missed a step or two, still enjoyed herself.

She felt a thrill in her chest, a wild exhilaration. As she moved and twirled and dipped she felt utterly free and unbound. She had never felt like this before. The dances back home (if it even was still home now) never brought her this much joy. Dances had always been a source of anxiety and fear. This was the utter opposite. Her ocean blue eyes sparkled and her midnight black hair cascaded over her shoulders, bouncing freely as she whirled about.

She glanced about at all the gowns and all the colors. Everyone here was beautiful and for once, she felt as though she belonged in that category too. It was more than the dress and the dancing. There was a growing sense of pride welling within her. The Wolf was right, she did deserve this. She deserved happiness and light, after everything she’d been through. With each pass she and The Wolf made, she made a mental note to herself of all the ladies she wanted to dance with. What was coming over her! She’d never been so bold before. She’d never been so filled with joy either.

“Thank you for this,” she said with sudden seriousness. “Thank you for taking pity on an odd, sad girl and her skunks. No matter what happens now, where my path eventually leads, I will remain in your debt. Tell me though, what exactly are we doing here? I know we've only been traveling together for a few weeks but a masquerade ball seems hardly your chosen venue of relaxation.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Master Torturer
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Lady of the Shadows

Her movements were as easy and free as the smoke that swirled above a fire, her dress and her nimble movements making it seem like she was barely touching the floor as she glided across it in her new partner's arms. She had not danced for thousands of years, yet it all came back to her easily enough as they swirled and dipped across the floor that was polished to such an extent that they could see themselves in it. It was quite unnerving, almost making the room spin uncomfortably, forcing her to keep her eyes level or up at her partner.

She had noted the double take he had done when he saw her eyes, relying on the fact that surely he would be thinking it was part of the costume, at least that would be what she would tell him should he be bold enough to ask. However it seemed as if his interest lay elsewhere.

"Not all strings can be seen.." Or cut, she mused to herself. "Some are tied to your soul and far outweigh a father's wishes.."

As the dance called for a twirl, she allowed him to set her spinning and expertly finished it as he brought her in and grasped his hand again. As for his question, it seemed she considered it answered, stepping back as the music wound down and finished and lowered herself into the accustomed deep courtsey that all the women were doing now in front of the men as they bowed.

Rising back up, she allowed for a small smile, one eyebrow rising. "Don't let me keep you, wouldn't want to let your father win.." As the smile turned into a knowing smirk, she turned and headed towards the bowl of punch, her dress billowing almost ominously around her compared to all the other brightly adorned dresses.

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The White Flame

He had three possible places to make his entrance, but only one would offer the suitable surroundings. The choice was obvious to the point it was hardly a choice at all. “You, herald!” he barked at a nearby servant. “Announce me!”

“There’s no heralds or announcing people,” came the confused reply.

“Did I ask for reasons why this event is already failing my expectations? Announce me, fool!”

“But – I don’t know who you are.”

He stared with wild eyes at this insolent fop. “Impossible! I am known from Forodwaith to Harad! In fact, warrants for my arrest are out in – well, never mind.” No need to bring up that since his cooking adventures and failed attempt to coup Elrond, no doubt he was a wanted man in Imladris. Thank all eleven herbs and spices they did not have an extradition treaty with Lothlórien.

“But sir,” the poor man stammered, “you are wearing a mask.”

Behind that very mask, his eyes grew only more intense. “I knew that!” He cleared his throat. “I was simply making sure that my disguise is flawless. Simpleton you might be, but if my identity is concealed from you, I dare say it will be from all others.”

“Please, sir, may I go?”

“I agree, my costume is exquisite. Which is why the entrance must match. Now enter the ballroom, close the doors behind you, and announce my arrival.”

The servant gave a bewildered look. “I don’t understand… I still don’t know who you are, milord.”

He threw back his head, dramatically. “I am – no wait, I shall whisper it in your ear. The spoken reveal must match the visual reveal.” He leaned forward to speak into the frightened man’s ear. “Do you understand my instructions?”

“Yes,” the servant replied, managing to convey the complete opposite impression in the single word.

“Now go. The brotherhood – or sisterhood, for we are equal opportunity Elves – thanks you.” He flourished his cape, dramatically.

With sunken head and a haunted expression, the servant did as told. He entered the ballroom and closed the doors, causing a few heads to turn in confusion. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke in dejected fashion. “May I present, the White Flame.”

The doors burst open with such force, one of them threatened to abandon its hinges. They revealed an Elf, dressed in a long flowing robe. The colour seemed to be white interlaced with fiery red; yet as he moved, the colours shifted, and perhaps the robe was red with streaks of snow white. His cape was black as the night, yet dotted with little bright specks, resembling the patterns of the stars. As for his mask, it was frost blue, shaped and twisted like the icy landscape of Helcaraxë to cover his eyes, though little more of his face.

“I have arrived.” With long steps, the White Flame entered the ballroom. Dramatically.

Balrog
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The Galedeep

And just like that, the dance was over. The Galedeep could not help but feel a little let down. He could have sworn that particular dance was supposed last longer. Perhaps she was simply that enthralling, he mused. He watched The Lady of Shadows go, watched her billowing black dress with a sense of regret. Regret?! He guffawed. The Sundering Sea would have laughed himself into a muscle strain if The Galedeep had admitted that to him. Still, the sense of mystery, the seed of unknowing, had been planted. Who was she? Those eyes… he should have sensed danger but instead he felt intrigue. He was going to try and find her again, if she deigned to be found at all. He shook himself and clapped his hands together, ridding himself of that train of thought.

“That still counts as one!” He shouted with levity to no one in particular.

He took a deep breath and looked around. There were still plenty of ladies about, each outfit more outlandish and exquisite than the last. He smiled wolfishly, potentially an odd sight in combination with his sea otter mask. Several caught his eye that he knew he would fund his way to eventually, a lady dressed as a spider, one dressed in reds and greys dancing with his father, a sunflower, a girl with a quiver of arrows, and of course his old friend bedecked in all the hues and variations of gold, he saw through her outfit instantly, he chuckled softly. He would have to surprise her later, if he could manage to stay hidden from her.

Thusly, he swung his gaze about and found his newest target (Vingilótë). She was dressed in what verily looked like woven snow. Her mask, a swan, would match perfectly with his otter, he decided. There was the minor issue of her already being engaged with a potential dance partner, but The Galedeep was up to the challenge of competing for her attentions. The great brawny looking man looked impressive with his ornate blacksmith’s attire, but he would be no match for the sea captain.

He staggered to them, his jingling boots devouring the distance between them. He dramatically bowed low, crisis g his left hand to his right shoulder. As he stood, he brushed his fingers alongside the shaven portions of his head to the golden brown mane that tumbled down his back in a thick, intricate braid.

“I do beg your pardon, my lady, but I think it only fitting that an elleth as lovely as you has a choice between her partners. The Smith or the Pirate?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Vixen

Others' full skirts swirled out dramatically as the dancers turned, but The Vixen's dress clung tightly to her form through the upper thighs, flaring out only subtly as her partner spun her gently, the lace lifting briefly away from the layer beneath. The silhouette was an unusual choice among shy or simply modest masqueraders, she knew, but she was not one to fit neatly into the box of decorum. And she had certainly never been shy.

When she returned to The Blue Bear's arms, she stood briefly on her toes to whisper in his ear, "I will take you to heights you did not know you could reach. In return, all I ask is that you show me the deepest depths there are."

She drew back, smirking, eyes and mask sparkling, and idly traced a finger along his neck. At the sound of the doors flying open and a proclamation ringing out, her head turned toward the newcomer (The White Flame). "Speaking of ostentatious," she murmured. The music ended on a final quavering note, and The Blue Bear's lips grazed her hand. She sank into an ironic curtsey - an empty gesture which she knew he would recognize as such, for they were evenly matched - then straightened and smiled once more. “A part of me wishes your mother was here to see you dancing in such civilized company.”

At the inquiry about her next partner, she took in the room once more. "My darling, there are so many, many possibilities for both of us tonight. For you? There is a fetching girl in a rabbit mask, sparkling with sapphires. Or a lithe elf crusted with rubies," she gestured to The Huntress and The Forge-Fire Flickering. "I may have to dance with that one myself." She would not hesitate to ask later in the evening, elven tradition or not. "Or perhaps you'd like someone to take the edge off this lightheartedness?" Her eyes fixed on the delicious figure of an elf standing alone near a punch bowl. Now that was a dress, thought The Vixen. "She looks like she would be up to the challenge of a tangle with you.

"As for myself," she went on, reaching up to brush a stray silver thread from The Blue Bear's shoulder, "My next partner has just arrived." She winked and turned away without a thought. It was how they worked: bound together by choice and free to explore, to enrich themselves, and to share what they'd gained. And so she did not turn back to watch where he went or with whom, but plunged into the crowd and emerged before The White Flame with two flutes of sparkling wine in hand.

"And what an arrival it was," she said in reference to his announcement, offering him one glass as she sipped from the other and swallowed. She took in the flamboyant and shimmering robe, white blending with red and back again, yet shrouded in a cape which imitated the night sky. She smiled. "I am intrigued. Tell me, how is it that such a bright flame beneath starry skies comes to be tipped with ice?"
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
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The Snowy Owl and the Moonless Night @Kathryn

His smile broadened, delightedly, as the woman in his arms tipped back her head and laughed in a way that animated her face - at least, what of it he could see. The Owl’s grin turned into an impish smirk and he said not a word as the dance picked up its pace; he simply flung his feathered arm out wide and danced faster and faster, no longer picking up his heels so that his spurs clattered on the dancing ground to make a music of their own. When they had spun and danced themselves breathless they paused during a lull in the music and the Owl smirked beneath his beak.

“Prey? Nay, my lady,” he teased. “An Owl’s prey are things like mice... squirrels... rats and voles and rabbits - little timid creatures who dare not raise their heads when I am about. I would not say such a thing of you.”

He quirked an eyebrow; but as it was hidden underneath his mask, this was, perhaps, less than effective.

“But you say you seek knowledge,” continued the Owl, sweeping them both out into a slightly more leisurely circuit which allowed her to display her pinned train - and his own tail, peeping neatly beneath his waistcoat in a spray of glossy feathers. “Perhaps I might assist with that: being an Owl, I’m supposedly very old and wise.”

His dimples were just about visible beneath his mask as he smirked again.
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Vingilótë had nearly finished her wine, observing the comings and goings of the room and its dancers. There were several others whom she was certain she had identified- in particular, as The Sunflower swept by, singing a ditty of praise to his partner, she had had to laugh. There was no mistaking that voice, or the follies it frequently sang. With a final swallow, she drained her glass and turned to set it on a nearby table for the servers to collect. When she turned back, a person she had not yet seen had approached her and was asking her for a dance. Vingilótë’s eyes skimmed his garb as he spoke, taking in the finery’s interpretation of a smith, and her lips pursed their approval when he introduced himself as Aulë. “Truly the Smith himself stands before me!” she offered in complement, but before Vingilótë could reply to his inquiry as to whether she would dance, or return the gesture of his proferred hand, another approached, his arrival heralded by the ringing of bells. This one (The Galedeep) appeared in the guise of an otter of the sea, offering a bow even lower than Aulë’s, and a rakish confidence that well suited his appellation of the pirate. “Well, well!” Vingilótë said with a throaty laugh, folding her arms and tapping her lips with two fingers of her right hand. “Such a predicament! But of course you are right sir, why should I not have my fair choice?” She considered them for a long moment, making no pretense of her admiration of their physical forms, the hint of wickedness curling her smile as she made her decision. “But, as I too am a being of the sea, I feel I must allow the pirate to board my decks. I am Vingilótë,” she said, turning to the otter-masked elf, sinking into a brief curtsy, and offering him her hand.


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“The Fire of Motion.” One Who Runs With Deers repeated, appreciating the richness of the words in her mouth, and its suitable poetry. She could feel her partner’s slight hesitancy as they danced; a natural physical inclination of one who was not used to such actions, but his movements were enthusiastic and swift enough to make up for any such inexperience. The light of the room refracted in infinite sparkles off the surface of his mask, and as his garments swirled about her, it was as though they were a single form, a leaping deer caught up unburnt in a blazing fire of joy. “You speak truly!” She replied as they whirled, the tilt of her head in agreement bringing one of the lower tines of her antlers nearly into contact with the flames of his mask. “Many and many a year I have spent watching and listening to the creatures of this world, and the world beyond. Though of course Nessa’s ilk are my particular friends,” One Who Runs With Deers grinned, spinning under The Fire of Motion’s arms as he lifted it to turn her. “And as they cannot speak, we must tell their stories for them, must we not?”


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The Wolf could feel The Huntress’s tension recede as they danced, and the cobalt eyes behind his silver mask crinkled with happiness as they swept around the floor and her face relaxed into smiles, hair flying and skirts whirling with the movement of their passage. His feet and spirits too were light in the dance, and he found himself immediately enjoying the ball much more than he generally did those at home. Perhaps it was because of The Huntress and her newfound joy. Perhaps it was because of the change of venue and the company of elves; in Minas Tirith, even balls were full of his colleagues and comrades of the army which, while there were many whose informal company he enjoyed and considered friends, still brought the echo of military life with them into the festive room. His career was both pride and joy, but The Wolf had not quite realized until this moment how it permeated such occasions. Here, there was no such echo, merely light and delight and the unrestrained merrymaking of those for whom life was endless. Where among men The Wolf tended to tower above any room, here among the elves his stature was common; absent the weight of the massive longsword his back normally bore, the innate grace that habitually occupied The Wolf’s movement flourished fully, and it was only his exposed ears which would allow the casual observer to perceive that he was not of elvenkind.

He chuckled as The Huntress’s words, and shook his head slightly. “You mustn’t leave out little Brocktree!” The odd collection of baby animals the young woman had brought with her had been a surprise to say the least, but The Wolf had found himself a favorite of the badger. “As for debt, my greatest reward is to see you find your way, whatever that may be. You are right,” he continued with a nod, glancing briefly around at the room, “This sort of thing is generally not how I choose to spend my time. But just as it was a duty and a pleasure to convey arms and teachings to my Northern kin, it is a duty and a pleasure to come here. I have told you my father’s surname is Balakân, which means ‘of the ships’ in the tongue of our fathers. He spent quite a number of years in this city off and on, as a young man, learning the trades of sailor and shipwright. Lord Círdan was kind enough to offer his wisdom to my father on more than one occasion, and in turn to receive me when my father introduced me to the city, many years ago. I have been here several times since then, and now that my father cannot travel as he likes, see it as my privilege to maintain that connection.”


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The Sundering Sea took bent his hand and in turn The Forge-fire’s as she rolled her fingers, displaying the rings upon them. He took in their glittering beauty as he raised the hand to his lips and pressed the ghost of a kiss to the knuckles above them. “They are simply stunning,” he replied, using that same hand then to draw The Forge-fire closer to him, his free hand settling about her waist as they began to dance. “Much like their mistress. Skill and beauty both How could anyone resist the heat of such a fire? You are fortunate indeed that your ribbons secure these fine trinkets,” The Sundering Sea released her hand briefly and allowed his fingertips to caress her scarlet-bound forearm, before returning to its former position, “for much like a jackdaw, the sea is known to steal such things from the unwary.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

New Soul
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She had taken the risk of drawing far too much attention to herself earlier in the ballroom, dancing with Ulmo the way she had. Yet she could not be so unforgiving to herself, it would be rather difficult for any one person to remain completely and utterly unnoticed by others in the presence of so many.

The Mother of Pearl spent most of her time walking about the ballroom with gloved hands clasped behind her back, and engaging in brief discussion with guests that lingered in the corners of the dance floor. She asked them if they were enjoying the ball thus far, and if they found the decor of the manor to their liking.

She was pleased to see so many of the attendees pairing up and waltzing together upon the marble floor, as she was with the level of detail and creativity executed in the various gowns and garments they had put together for themselves on this occasion, likely by the skill of their own hands.

Stepping a pearlescent foot forward, The Mother of Pearl raised the bottom of her left slipper to find that the shoe of another had been abandoned in the ballroom. She raised it and scrutinized the brown footwear.

It was rather small for an adult mortal or Elf, but much too large as to belong to a young child. Hmmm, she thought to herself. It was not the first oddity she had come across that night in the manse.

Earlier, she had sipped a glass of sparkling strawberry punch only to find it had been tainted with liquor.

The Mother of Pearl shrugged to herself, and placed the shoe back where she had found it. Perhaps its owner would return to find it where they had left it, later into the night.

As she continued to stroll about the ballroom, she overheard two gentlemen (Aule, The Galedeep) ask the same beautiful maiden (Vingilótë) for a dance. This was not at all surprising to The Mother of Pearl, as she had seen similar situations occur all night, and this woman was very beautiful indeed, dressed in all the majesty of Eärendil and Elwing’s vessel of legend.

@CHAOS

She watched as the pair made their way to the dance floor and approached Aule, standing beside him. “It seems the swan ship and the pirate have set sail to the dance floor. I should have you know, as The Mother of Pearl, this mineral is no stranger to a smith’s hands. For they are both strong and resilient, and his superior skill would surely transform her into a thing of great magnificence,” she said, offering him her hand.

*

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Lifting the skirts of her ball gown, The Grapevine entered the manor of Lord Círdan hurriedly with a companion in tow.

Her mask had been sculpted of emerald wire and encrusted with amethysts to conceal her face from brow line to cheekbone. Her rich, dark-brown hair had been curled and pinned in an upward fashion, allowing its excess length to descend down to the nape of her neck. Her torso had been laced tightly from behind and adorned at the front with a number of smooth and rounded purple orbs, descending to a sharp point where her waist began. A sheer, verdant neck wrap draped across her collarbone and rested on the shoulders of her sleeveless gown. The ivory skin of her arms glistened in light of the ballroom, and fingerless chiffon gloves, also the color of grass blades, concealed the back and palms of her smooth hands. The folds of her ballgown glinted with a polished shine, allowing the full brilliance of their emerald color to truly resemble grape leaves in the sun’s light.

The Grapevine allowed the hem of her skirts to meet the floor once again, and the green color of her eyes sparkled at the scenery before her. It was even better than she had expected.

She turned to her companion who stood at the level of her knees, The Cloud With a Silver Lining. He was likely to be the only one in attendance tonight, walking on all fours, unless the celebration would become so wild that he wouldn’t.

“I don’t want you to get into any trouble tonight,” she whispered to him sweetly, adjusting the white-velvet mask on his canine face that had been dotted with clusters of cotton and fastened with translucent ribbons.

His vest had been made from sheep’s wool, lined with white cotton fabric, and fastened with silver buttons along the seam that lined his belly.

“Go on then, have fun, but be a good boy for your emel,” she said, patting him on the head.

The Cloud With a Silver Lining gave her a small lick before bounding away.

*

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Sniffling along the marble floor as he cleaved through a sea of skirts and boots, The Cloud With a Silver Lining picked up on an innumerable amount of scents. Some pleasant, like perfume and plucked flowers, and others less so, like sweat beaded on the skin of mortals. He had tasted sweat once and had found it much too salty.

He barked and wagged his tail at the sight of other beasts: The Blue Bear, The Vixen, The Snowy Owl; but failed to communicate successfully with them in the animal-tongue. Their scents were quite off as well. They seemed more clumsy and hideous in appearance than usual and spoke in the language of his emel. Perhaps they had been cursed by some dreadful spirit of evil, poor sods.

The Cloud With a Silver Lining trailed a new scent, one he very much recognized this time. Food.

He bounded over to the grand balcony, where Ulmo, Lord of Waters had sat to dine alone.

*

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Ulmo had drank the wine he had desired at the start of the masque in the ballroom, and spoken to various disguised individuals, before deciding to eat dinner at last. He had remained anonymous thus far, but noticed wary looks from the servers and watched as they whispered to one another when they thought he couldn’t see them.

Had his identity been unveiled already? Was it the beard as The Gull had forewarned him?

The servers had brought him a rather generous portion of bread and chowder in the first course. Almost as if, they feared to be thought of as tightfisted with their employer. But who could have leaked the theme of his disguise to them? Or to those whom they might have heard it from? Galdor, not likely. He was much too formal about these things. It had to have been someone else, just as close to him but far more talkative. Perhaps, Davos? he thought, dismissing the notion as quickly as it had come to him.

As Ulmo, Lord of Waters returned his focus to his meal, The Cloud With a Silver Lining approached him and barked.

Ulmo was quite amused at the sight of him. Not because a dog was present at the celebration, but rather the fact that its owner had taken the time to fashion him a mask of his own.

“Would you like some?” he asked, breaking a leg of the steamed crab before him and pulling the meat from its limb. He offered it to his new canine friend, and The Cloud With a Silver Lining accepted it gladly.

“You know, I saw Aule earlier,” said Ulmo, breaking another leg, “Perhaps I shall speak to him tonight and compliment his attire. It would be a shame for two of the Valar not to become acquainted.”

The Cloud With a Silver Lining barked. “Of course,” said Ulmo, “you can speak with him too.”

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The White Flame

A creature appeared before him. Judging by the appearance, somewhere between canine and feline, no doubt more cunning than either. The White Flame narrowed his eyes in suspicion but accepted the proffered glass. An attempt to poison him? They – for surely this was a larger conspiracy involving many people – would be disappointed; he had spent a long time building up tolerance to all known toxins (and even some suspicious plant extracts he just did not like the look of), and it had only nearly killed him a dozen times. He inclined his head in both greeting and acknowledgement of the drink, taking a sip.

Grapes grown in slightly acidic soil, in danger of erosion. Trampled by Hobbit feet, meaning it did not come from the original Gondorian district and could only be sold as sparkling wine. Kept in beech casket. One of the Hobbits had arthritis in his knee. No taste of poison, which meant they were definitely trying to kill him – why else spring for the expensive type of toxin that was tasteless?

“A pertinent question.” And exactly what he would expect from an assassin. Her approach served the purpose of coaxing information from him about his vulnerabilities while also distracting him with this vision of tight-clad beauty. “Surely my lady is aware that when the fire burns hottest, the flame turns white. And while such would be wasted under the pale imitation of the sun’s yellow light, the night with only distant stars remains the only tapestry worthy of such fire.” He extended one hand and let go of his glass without looking, forcing certain set-upon servant to jump and catch it before it shattered against the floor.

“Let us dance.” He meant, of course, let us duel to the death while causing massive property damage. Only too late did he realise he was in a ballroom, and his invitation could be misconstrued as enticement for actual dancing – also involving feet and movement, but fewer daggers. Vexing, but he had none to blame but himself. He was an Elf of his word, whether it was taking a lady for a twirl or using only a teaspoon to dig a tunnel underneath the Anduin allowing for the easy smuggling of Dorwinion wine in avoidance of Thranduil’s draconian tariffs. Another time, he would be less drunk and also make sure better digging tools lay within easy reach when making such vows. A tablespoon, perhaps.

He blinked, focusing his thoughts back from being lost in the fog of memories – and the hefty dose of mushrooms he had consumed prior to arriving. Back to the present. The White Flame extended one hand towards The Vixen in a silent repeat of his previous, verbal statement.

Thain of The Mark
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The Moonless Night with the Snowy Owl @Sil

The Snowy Owl grinned as the Moonless Night laughed, and then suddenly they were twirling and twirling as the music picked up, and when the dance finally slowed, she found herself breathless and face flushed. She hadn't had this much fun in a very long time, if she was honest.

She smiled at his teasing, and her eyes crinkled at the corners--she was not so young or so carefree that subtle marks of age weren't evident on her face--as the Owl spoke of prey. "...little timid creatures who dare not raise their heads when I am about. I would not say such a thing of you."

If only he knew. That she was only really just learning to not hide herself away. She'd always put up a confident front, and had considered herself strong and independent, but her mettle had been tested and she'd found herself wanting. No more, though. She deserved to be her true self, even if she was still discovering who that might be.

He guided her to the outer edge of the dance floor then, where the pace was slower, and it was easier to talk.

"But you say you seek knowledge," the Owl said. "Perhaps I might assist with that: being an Owl, I'm supposedly very old and wise."

Even as he smirked again, the Moonless Night found herself suddenly shy, eyes glancing away for just a moment as she she nervously bit her lip, contemplating the words she should choose.

"While I do seek knowledge of various kinds to quell my curiosity," she spoke softly a few moments later, "there are three specific things which led me on my travels. For above all else, I seek the knowledge of how to mend a shattered heart, how to restore a broken mind, and how to find my own home within myself."

High Lord of Imladris
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Aule with The Mother of Pearl


He have a slight bow of his head and a smirk to Galedeep. "It does not surprise me that the ship (Vingilote) would choose a mariner over one such as myself." He said and watched them take the dance floor, the night was young there were plenty of others to dance with though the trick of finding one that was not busy swirling about the dance floor was perhaps the hardest task of all at this event.

As luck would have it though a beautiful woman approached him instead and he smiled and laughed. Giving the Mother of Pearl a bow and taking her hand brushing his lips against it with a polite kiss as she offered him kind praise.

"Indeed they have but I find myself graced with a far more marvelous gift." He said raising his head and giving her a smile. " I would be a poor smith indeed if I could not increase the magnificence of an item when gifted with such beauty as yours. Shall we dance and show all of Lindon the beauty that can be wrought by Smith for while my hands are strong and resilient, they also can be gentle and precise when the need arises." With that he nodded to the dance floor awaiting his partners decision on if she would dance with her second Valar of the night, for she was perhaps one of the few that had danced with Ulmo his 'brethren' as it were.


The Lady of Flame with Ulmo and The Cloud With a Silver Lining


She parted ways with The Gull the strange pairing of Flame and Seabird with a kind word and a smile slipping away to get herself another drink and to enjoy the cool air that was outside upon the Grand Balcony. She glanced over her shoulder and saw many a possible dance partner but her outfit was warm and she had only so much tolerance for such noise. She passed a server who was whispering quietly about someone attending the masquerade, she did not hear who but such gossip was rude unless the attendee gave leave to share who they were and in the darkness of the evening she looked like a fell dark flame ready to burst alight and the servant quickly ran away back inside where there were not such dangerous looking women though she had said nothing at all to her just cast her eyes on her her chin raised and her continence that of a destroyer rather than of a creator.

She came upon instead though Ulmo and a dog who barked at the Valar and she laughed seeing the four-legged beast dressed very much like a cloud. "The night seems fair and cool, and the hall is warm and alive with the merriment of many. I hope you are not seeking the solitude of the deeps out here my lord? I would not wish to overly disturb you if that is the case, but I would know-for I had not seen your brother Manwe here," She said with a bow, "Only Aule in passing, but I see Manwe sends fair clouds to you with tidings perhaps?" She said with a smile, "Tell me are they as fair as their messenger?" She asked heading towards Ulmo and bending slightly offering The Cloud With a Silver Lining her hand to sniff, before she moved to give him a good scratch behind his ear if he so wished for it.

@Sur Vanar Utírieste

Black Númenórean
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The Vixen

She blinked back at The White Flame as he wordlessly accepted the wine and tasted it. There was a pause. Which continued. For quite a while. She tilted her head inquisitively, then repressed a twinge of irritation as she realized that, while he was considering the body and the finish, they were the wine’s and not hers.

It was not the first time she had encountered this attitude. Like her namesake, she was skilled at finding and stalking her prey by the light of the moon. She was not infallible, though. There had been times when, like a kit just learning to pounce, she had misaimed and bonked her head against an iron-clad will or sheer obliviousness. Nonetheless, this interaction unnerved her. Had she underestimated elves? Or was this one merely strange? Probably, she mused, given his entrance. The only way to find out for sure was to forge ahead.

And so she smiled her usual smile at his florid remarks about fire under the night sky. “The night sky is indeed most fitting for your magnificence. We cannot have it outshone,” she purred. “It is also the fox’s preferred backdrop for a hunt.” Under the guise of sidling closer to him, she masked a little jump of surprise as he let fall his glass. She was saved the need to stab him for ruining her gown by a deft passing servant who caught the glass and veered away with a concerned look at the elf.

“Let us dance.”

The words were edged with the steel of a challenge. The Vixen was close enough to him now to watch as his eyes slid out of and back into focus as he blinked. There was most definitely something fascinatingly off about this elf. In spite of herself, she laughed as he flung forward a hand (for all the world as though brandishing a rapier), then took it delicately as they walked onto the dance floor.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Master Torturer
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The Lady of the Shadows

For the longest moment she stared at the bowl containing what was likely some kind of fruity punch. A brief flicker of disgust flitted across her lips as she examined the bowl. It had been several thousands of years since she had even seen one, though back then she had not given them a second thought and gladly shared from them. She eyed the ladle that was meant to be used for scooping up a cupful, the crystal glasses set in neat rows next to the bowls.

Where she came from, sharing food equaled either horrific stomach pains or sometimes even death, depending on whom you were sharing with. Sharing drinks would not even be considered, it was just not done. It was honestly quite disgusting, the bowl had no covering, no one watching it to ensure that nothing got dropped into it. Not that anyone would trust that person overseeing it, it just gave you a suspect if there was anything added to it.

Her fiery red eyes wandered further along the table, seeing the mountains of food all laid out on shining silver platters. There was likely enough food here to feed a village for a week. Some of the dishes she recognised immediately, as well it was not hard to see that the pigs head stuffed with an apple stood above the platter filled with thick slices of ham. Other dishes she would likely have guessed if she could smell them, though she restrained herself and was content enough to be left in the dark for now. It was not like she was hungry anyway, more feeling the need to make it look like she belonged here, that she was "enjoying" herself. Even as her eyes scanned each dish, they also flitted across the room as she sought him out, knowing he had to have arrived by now.

Balrog
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The Blue Bear

The tall Númenórean watched his partner go, savoring each step she took. Even walking away, she was an entrancing vision. He stroked his chin and chuckled lightly at her choice of partners. Hadn’t they just spoken of ostentatious? Verily, she had chosen the most ostentatious elf to ever walk through those doors. She had a type, The Vixen did. As soon as she began dancing though, he turned his attention to the rest of the ballroom. There were at least a dozen beautiful souls he planned on dancing with tonight, men and women. The Blue Bear moved off the dance floor, taking another flute of sparkling wine, he watched all the lithe and limber forms dance and spin and twirl in a dizzying array of colors. His mind drifted for a moment. His mother would indeed have something to say about he and his partner being here at such a fabulous event. She would be pleased indeed. Though whether she would have been more pleased with The Vixen or himself was up for debate. In her, his mother had told him he finally found someone who could outmatch him, and someone that could handle the twists and turns of Umbarian politics with the feral grace that she herself did.

He shook his head, clearing the intrusive thoughts of his mother from his mind. He had better things to think about than her plans. He scanned the room, more purposefully this time. Several ladies caught his attention. The two that The Vixen had pointed out were prime candidates, the hare-masked lady and her tall partner bedecked in a wolf mask, either would make an interesting stir. Perhaps later though. He filed their appearance in the back of his mind and continued scanning until he found the ruby festooned woman. The forge theme was quite interesting, he could only assume she worked in the forges themselves. There was a story there and he hoped to extract it before the night was over. But she seemed fairly occupied with her partner, an elf enrobed in the colors of the roaring sea. He approved.

Finally, The Blue Bear’s eyes found the woman he wanted next (Lady of Shadow). She stood apart from everyone else, positioning herself by the punch bowl. There was a flicker of recognition when he saw her eyes. Those eyes. If this was who he thought it could be, this was a rare treat indeed. “Maybe there are a few sinister elves here after all,” he mused to himself as he drained the sparkling wine. The bubbles flittered across his tongue with a sharp, sweet taste.

Was this her? What was she doing here of all places? How could he benefit from it all? Questions poured through his mind as he hardened his resolve. He’d heard so many stories dripping with terror that were centered around her. Even in the depths of the Black Lands, were horror and terror reigned dominant, they only dared say her name as a whisper.

With a quick, graceful step, the Blue Bear moved across the floor, closing the distance between himself and the elf.

“What’s a killer like you gonna do here?” he asked, his tone smoky and filled with malicious glee.


The Galedeep

Naturally, the elleth chose him. The cocksure elf bowed and took her small, delicate hand in his, finding that it was not nearly as small and delicate as he thought it might have been. A chuckle escaped his lips at her words: “I must allow the pirate to board my decks” indeed! The Galedeep was not sure whether she had meant the innuendo or not, but he decided the imagery was far too delightful to pass up. His amber eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. This night was turning out better than he’d thought. So many new faces (despite all of them being hidden behind a mask), so many new opportunities for entertainment and adventure.

He could sense the musculature of his partner as they moved to the dance floor. She was lithe and graceful, but those qualities belied the hidden current of strength and agility within her. “Regale me, dear Vingilótë, of the stories you must surely have. A craft as famous and powerful as you must have half a hundred tales of awe and amazement. I’ll share some of mine in payment.” He squeezed her hand and pulled her quickly into position as the music picked up and the dance began, putting a hand on her waist.


The Fire of Motion

“You are right,” the nimir said as he pulled his partner in then spun her back out, maintaining gentle hand contact. “The creatures have of forest, especially the delight of Nessa, don’t have the same voice that we do. We must tell their stories far and wide in order to preserve them. Though, I think, they do speak to us in way most here would not comprehend. Though, One Who Runs with Deers, I have a feeling you are very well versed in the way they communicate.” A mischievous, knowing grin crept over The Fire of Motion’s features. He could feel himself relaxing, bit by bit, as the dance went on. His steps became more and more sure and his movements better mirrored and mimicked his partner’s.

“As one that doesn’t really attend large gatherings of people,” he said as he dipped his partner, “I have to say, this soiree is quite entertaining. The music is almost as lively as the music nature makes herself.”

The Fire of Motion’s mind wandered, even as he continued to move in step. He wandered back to his time on Westernesse, nigh on four thousand years ago. He remembered disguising himself, hiding his elven heritage, and making his way through the many Númenóreans until he found the man, the lordling, he’d sought. He’d been too afraid to ask him for a dance that night, but he had finally been able to see him up close. He managed to dance with quite a few ladies, none of whom knew who (or what) he was, and made enough of an impression to warrant an intimate garden conversation.

He came back to the present and smiled, his bicolored eyes twinkling. It was not likely that this night would play in a similar fashion, but he still planned on enjoying himself just as much as he had.


The Huntress

“My goodness you are an industrious man,” she giggled as she listened to The Wolf recount his activities, “and a dutiful son.” She flushed a little in private embarrassment. She had tried to live a life such as he had, one filled with honor and duty, but everything seemed to fit together wrong, like she was trying to put a puzzle together with pieces from half a dozen other puzzles. He was much older than her, she knew that, and had had time to find all the pieces of his puzzle and fit them together. But would she be able to do the same? He was a Dúnedain and had a much longer lifespan, he had time. Could she find all her pieces? She still wanted to live a life of honor and duty and purpose but discovering exactly how she could do that was still something outside her grasp. She took a deep breath, steadying her thoughts and movements. “I truly can’t wait to meet your father. He seems like a wonder, wonderful man. I bet he has some amazing stories to tell. I want to write them all down!” She beamed, her blue eyes shining with a sudden surge of happiness as an idea formed in her mind.

“Little Brocktree! No one could forget that little goof. He is such a dear, the leader of that little troupe. I can’t believe how they took to you. I was afraid he’d try and bite you, I kept hearing about how the badgers in Rohan are aggressive and mean but Brocktree has been the sweetest, most even-tempered creature I’ve ever seen. And I daresay, I think he like you more than he likes me!”

They finished the dance and The Huntress was breathless with excitement and exertion. She bowed to her partner then began to look about at all the others dancing and spinning and laughing. “Thank you so much, dear Wolf, I think I shall let you leave you be and cease my hunting tonight. I have a few other quarries I should like to try my hand at.”


OOC: The Huntress is open and willing to dancing with anyone, though the lads will find it harder to convince her than the ladies.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Oct 04, 2020 6:13 am, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Master Torturer
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The Lady of Shadows

Ahh.. finally. Keeping her eyes in front of her even though she wanted to look, she picked up the ladle with delicate fingers while the other picked a shining clear crystal cup. He had quite the aura, feeling him long before he sidled up next to her. Her skin prickled with him so close, delicate fingers tightening a little bit too tightly around the crystal cup.

“What’s a killer like you gonna do here?”

"Kill." Her melodic voice did not match the malevolent fire in her eyes as she turned her head just enough to look at him, handing him the cup filled with punch, her eyebrow rising at the choice of his costume. Subtle.

She wanted to scan the room for Zôrzimril, knowing the woman could not be far away, though managed to delay it long enough for her to slowly fill her cup and then turn towards him. Even then she resisted the urge to scan the room keeping her eyes on him, though every other sense was focused on her immediate surroundings in case the woman was closer than she thought. It paid to be careful. Especially around these two.

Cradling the crystal cup in her hands before her chest, she leaned casually against the massive table, tilting her head slightly as she looked at him. She let her bright red eyes rove shamelessly over him, taking in every single detail of his elaborate costume before ending at his eyes.

"Nice touch with the blue hair.."

Loremaster of the Herd
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The Forge Fire Flickering

The Sundering Sea’s comment evoked a laugh in the elleth of flame-and-steel. It was a sharp sound -- full of fire. “Better, perhaps, to say that the rings hold still the ribbons. But--you speak figuratively, and anyway, the discussions of the finer points of craft are meant for the furnace-hall, not the dance-floor.” She paused, reflectively, as the movement of the ball swept them along. “But then, what else is there to discuss? It is hardly a night for the asking of names, and you speak so sweetly that it seems to me that any compliment I could pay would sound sour in comparison. So tell me (and keep me from boring us both with talk of these trinkets) how the Sea -- a faithful lover, as someone once told me -- comes to pour kindnesses on the head of an elleth he's barely met? Surely there are finer flames on which to douse yourself? Or have you dampened them all already?


***
The Moon His Ill Reminder

He swept into the hall as though the night wind blew him -- and indeed, his cloak was long enough to be used as a sail. But this ellon had no smell of the salt around him: He was twilight and foredawn, the midnight blue of a sea under stars and the strange, darkling shapes of the clouds which hide the moon. Yet when the cloak shifted and the vest was revealed, it was woven through with silver lines, the faint aftersighs of twinkling stars.
He commanded a presence as he moved into the room, halting only just shy of the floor and scanning the room with a careful eye. Then, after a moment, he laughed -- and the laughter was like the lost voices of those vanishing stars.
He would wait here, and watch. At worst, he would delight in the simple act of witnessing the gala here tonight.


(OOC: The Moon His Ill Reminder is also open for dance or conversation with anyone and everyone -- ellon or elleth alike!)
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

Black Númenórean
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Vingilótë allowed the burly otter-masked pirate to lead her onto the dance floor, his strength, much more obvious than her own, reverberating with every tread of the belled boots. She suspected he would be lighter on his feet dance than his stature belied, given how he deftly pulled her into position, but one never knew. Her free hand fell to his shoulder, leather smooth beneath her palm, as they began to dance. “Half a hundred and a hundred more again! Or as many as the stars in the sky, perhaps.” Vingilótë replied airily to her partner. “Let us see.. shall I tell you, perhaps, of the Shadowy Seas, and the monsters that lay beneath its waves? Or the fairness beyond fair of my mistress Elwing, when she rises on white wings to greet us? Ah, or perhaps you seek to uncover the truth behind Vingilótë, by baiting me into revealing something of myself. Do I know you, pirate? Surely I would remember such a one as you,” With a toss of her inky wealth of hair as they turned, Vingilótë allowed her eyes to return to head, mischief snapping in their depths. “Though you have not yet told me your name.”


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One Who Runs With Deers hooked her hand over her partner’s shoulder as he dipped her, allowing her body to sink deeply into the motion and trusting the sureness of the arm beneath her- a sureness the ellon had not had when first she had approached him, and her delight was compounded by his boldness. “Sometimes I think I communicate better with creatures than people,” she returned wryly as The Fire of Motion pulled her out of the dip and back into step with the rest. “But people are not without their rewards.” She turned her antlered head as they danced to take in the room again, an ever-changing spectacle, and feral joy radiated from her. “Though I was privileged to attend a ball in Imladris in more recent years, it has been a long, long time since I cavorted at such a fête as this. I think, Fire of Motion, you will find them to your liking forever if you take a lesson from we creatures of the forest,” again as they spun her gaze came back to his, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards, “and abandon both pretense and shame. What cares the deer if it makes a misstep, so long as it flies with the herd? Take The Sunflower,” One Who Runs With Deers continued more lightly, tipping her antlers in the direction of the lean, petal-cowled ellon dancing with an elleth garbed in black and red, “he has never known a moment of either, and nowhere will you find a happier fool!”


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“He will be thrilled to meet you,” The Wolf laughed, shaking his head at the sudden vision of his father beset with The Huntress’s band of small creatures, “and I daresay we are both in danger of losing your troupe’s favor to him. A man both gentle and wily, is my father.” They spun to a halt and The Wolf released his young partner’s hand, offering her a deep bow in salute. His grin was accompanied by the hint of a wink as he arose and nodded to The Huntress. “I daresay you have other game to hunt, much prettier than I. Enjoy you evening, Huntres!” They parted ways, and The Wolf found himself next to a table arrayed with a truly staggering variety of food and drink. Though he was more well off than many in that he had the means to access a decent variety of foodstuffs when at home, The Wolf was a simple man of generally simple pleasures- but this was too much to resist. He availed himself of several small pieces of bright fruits, delicate frosted-looking squares that turned out to be cakes and confections, and the most extraordinary thing that shook and quivered like congealed fat, but when he popped it resolutely into his mouth turned out to be a burst of sweet and almost tingly gel-like substance that slipped ad slithered, not unpleasantly, down his throat. Appetite sated for the moment, The Wolf lifted a goblet of some dark wine and took a deep draft as he turned to gaze on the room. Much like he was not usually one for extravagant food, so too with drink, but the occasion seemed right to indulge here also. The liquid was smooth and not too sweet, with a tang of something he could not quite identify, but appreciated greatly. The Dúnadan reflected to himself that he had never felt so out of his element, and yet so at home at once.

((OOC ALL: The Wolf is also free and available!))


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Her laughter rang sharply in his ears, and The Sundering Sea found himself grinning in response. “Do I speak figuratively? Both the sea herself and I, the Sea, have been known to make off with things which do not belong to us. One never knows who- or what- lies beneath a mask, and as you say, it is hardly a night for the asking of names.” They swirled around a corner with the rest, flame mingling with foam as their respective skirts intertwined briefly. “One may be a faithful lover to the sea, and also a faithful lover of wit and beauty. Why, you will find I am a faithful lover of any number of things!” His barking laugh rang out, and he lifted his hand to allow The Forge-Fire to turn beneath it and escape the snare of his waves. “Why should I restrain my praise simply because our acquaintance is new? Water and flame may never meet again after this night, or even after this dance, so why save myself for other fires?” The Sundering Sea spun his partner back to him, his hand on her waist pulling her closer than before- but not so firmly that she could not escape if she wished; he might have been a scoundrel, but not a complete one. “A Sea such as I may cover much ground in the course of an evening, but the hiss of steam never fades in excitement.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
Arien
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The Snowy Owl and the Moonless Night @Sally

He watched the other couples waltzing by, the music threading its magical spell around their intertwined limbs, the light gleaming on their hair and jewels. But his attention was focused on the woman beside him, her elbow still lightly cupped in his palm, although they had ceased to dance for a moment.

Well... nearly entirely focused. The Owl snitched a couple of shrimp pastries from a silver serving tray as it passed, borne at shoulder-height from a smiling waiter, and offered one to the Moonless Night. The pastry was almost translucently thin and crisp, the pink flesh of the shrimp glowing through it.

He listened attentively as he nibbled, his true eyes softening with sympathy beneath the great golden false-eyes of his mask.

“I sense there’s a story behind there,” he said to the Night gently, “although I won’t press you on that. Truth be told, the nature of the healing depends on the nature of the hurt; but I’ll tell you a few things I believe to be true.

“Firstly, nothing that is broken is mended in exactly the same way; but that is as it should be. We are shaped and changed by our griefs, but they can bring us new strengths and insights as well. There is a craft among us that some follow: when a piece of pottery or porcelain is broken, rather than crush it into fresh clay for reshaping, or simply gluing, molten silver or gold is poured into the cracks, so the fault lines are not only shown in the new piece, but presented as part of its integral beauty.

But this, like all things, takes time.” The Owl put a finger thoughtfully to his lips, unable to hide his uncertainty. Mortals had so much less time than did the Eldar - and yet he had heard tell that, correspondingly, they were able to let go of hurts of this sort a little quicker than Elves; it was probably a blessing, given some of the hatreds and vendettas that had festered for hundreds of years in immortal hearts, most notoriously amongst the Noldor. Men were swifter in all regards, and their souls, bright and brief, were resilient and strong.

“As to making your own heart your home,” he whispered, bringing his hand up to hover over her own heart, fingertips just shy of her warm skin, “that is something only you can do: we all must make our own happiness. What’s lost may not be replaced, but we must have hope that there will be new and different joys. I believe you have the capacity to taste such: there is much beauty in the world, my Moonless Night, many new pleasures and friends and delights to be found; and you clearly carry your own strength within you.”

Suddenly he laughed again and adjusted his mask, slightly self-consciously. “I do hope you don’t think I’m being patronising,” he confessed.
cave anserem
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