Masque of the Red Death: An Umbarean Masquerade

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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Balrog
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Masque of the Red Death: An Umbarean Masquerade

Come on, say it out loud with me: “And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.” Look at that sentence. Who says Edgar Allan Poe was a lousy stylist?
- John Langan “Technicolor”


It is time once again. It was forty years ago when Nilûbên Nûlukhô drowned in the bay and a fortnight after that the celebrations began. He was a cruel, stupid, and overbearing man who did not deserve to be celebrated in life. The only thing about him that ought to be celebrated was his ignominious death. This year was going to be a special event. Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, the Matron of Crows, had renovated and refurnished the Rookery, the ancestral home of her House. She made seven new rooms within the confines of her home, moving walls and ceilings and pillars to accommodate the new styles, irregularly shaped so that the rooms could not be seen one after another, a patron would have to make a sharp left or right turn upon entering to see into the next room. In each of the rooms was a single, massive stained glass window corresponding to the color pattern within the room.

The first room was blue, with vivid azure and cerulean tapestries along the walls depicting scenes of the glories of House Nûlukhô in the days of old. The second room was purple, shimmering lights hung suspended from an amethyst chandelier and cast a dozen different shades across the walls. Third, was the green room; a massive faux forest decorated the room with trees and flowers and a massive topiary in the shape of a crow. The fourth was orange and decorated with flames and torches. Fifth room was white, pristine and immaculate with a hundred variations and shades and marble statues of Númenórean heroes from ages past. Sixth was the violet room, with a great fountain in the middle and a statue carved from a single massive purple sapphire gemstone, it glittered and refracted a hundred different shades along the walls. The final room was decorated in black and scarlet with naught but a single torch in the middle to provide light and thick, heavy black curtains blocking out any outside light. Within the room, also, was a great ebony clock which chimed the hours with a deep, ominous tone.

The guests will soon be arriving, arrayed in outlandish and celebratory costumes and bedecked with masques both fantastique and grotesque. The hour is growing late and the sun is setting in the western sky, showering the Rookery in gold and vermillion. Torches line the property, blazing with soft, flickering light. From without the guests can hear the sounds of merriment, baroque orchestral music played on instruments foreign and unknown. At the doors, all the guests are greeted by a tall, thin figure who sways as though a strong breeze might blow them over, their hands thin and pale and their fingers unnaturally long and seem to have joints where joints ought not to be. They wear the livery of House Nûlukhô: the black crow emblazoned, on a crimson background. Their masque, too, is of a corvidae nature, resembling the masks worn by doctors in the days of plague. It is to them the guests must surrender their invitations and be announced at the entryway into the first of the rooms.

Once the patrons are inside the ancient manse they have an array of food, drinks, and other enjoyable distractions. The man, a creature of dark green skin and hair to color and texture of elmwood, behind the bar wears the livery of House Nûlukhô but instead of a crow or raven mask, he wears the visage of a ravening, fanged, bat. He's an expert in spirits and can even guess exactly what a patron needs or wants without having to look at their face. Beside him is a short man with shock white hair and ebony skin. His mask is blank and without eyeholes, yet he is as deft and dexterous as a man a third his age. He is assisted by a hummingbird that perches on his shoulder. His area of expertise are those imbibed to cultivate a different experience from food or drink, whatever sort of high or trip a patron seeks, he is their guide.

Enjoy yourselves, patrons, for soon there will be no ingress or egress from this soiree...



FOOD
Souvlaki: a selection of lamb, goat, chicken, beef, and vegetables, grilled and skewered with spices
Köfte: spiced and minced meat rolled and fried
Hamsi: fried anchovy
İmam bayıldı: eggplant stuffed with onion, garlic, and tomato
Zeytinyağlılar: aromatic vegetable stew filled aubergines traditionally served at room temperature
Karnıyarık: eggplant stuffed with lamb and rice
Mantı: dumplings filled with lamb or ground beef and topped with chili peppers, yoghurt, and tomato sauce
Moussaka: baked eggplant dish with ground lamb and béchamel sauce
Ktapodi stin Skara: grilled octopus with spices
Lokum: corn starch, sugar, and rose confection, quite addictive
Ortolan Bunting: a rare treat for the end of the night, songbird drown in Cognac and roasted
DRINKS
Wines:
Old Dorwinion: the famed wine of the elves, smuggled out of the Woodland realm
Old Castamir’s Private Stock: a sweet, deep purple port fortified with brandy
Lindon Blanc: a crisp, aromatized white with hints of candied oranges, honey, pine resin & exotic fruits
Sauternes d’Anfalas: a sweet, golden wine hailing from hills of Pinnath Gelin
Dol Amroth Retsina: an ancient drink made by infusing wine with pine sap for flavor
Beers:
Ethir Dunkel: a dark, heady beer brewed in the style of the Anduin folk
Rauchbier: a smoky beer made from flame dried malt and barley
The Pilsner: a beer originating from the Rhûn, snappy and golden with a hint of raisin and grape
Umbar Pale Ale: a wildly bitter beer with an overabundance of hops, a local favorite
Lon Daer Stout: a very dark, heady beer with a very high alcohol and caloric content, good for the coming winter months
Bière de Garde: a nimir beer, brewed in the remote regions of the Ered Luin, caramel sweetness and orange crispness
Liquors
Hypocras: a warm drink made from wine mixed with sugar and spices
Commandaria: a dessert wine from Khand
Soju: a very strong distilled wheat alcohol from the far east
Rakı: a local favorite, twice-distilled grapes and star anise
Whisky: high grade alcohol, aged in sherry barrels from Dale
•There is also an assortment of teas, ciders, and coffees for those not looking for something alcoholic
CHEMICALS
Blue Sand: a substance similar to fine sand found at the beach, but deep blue colored; consumed through the nose; addictive but grants user greater perception for a short time
Dream Flake: thin slivers of a dried, black fungus, when chewed, it induces hallucinations and euphoria; when smoked, the user enters an vivid waking dream
Sundrop: a bright yellow/orange liquid, naturally incandescent; originally used as a magically synthesized antidepressant, Sundrop when consumed tricks the user into believing that they are happy
Barb: a thorny stalk from the bramble of Mordor; you can pull off individual thorns and use them to scrape or pierce the skin, the effects are similar to marijuana
Ember Berries: faintly glowing black berries are used in coming-of-age rituals in certain druidic sects; drink a tea made from these, and you will become relaxed and calm
Sannish: a blue liquid distilled from a powdered desert plant; causes euphoria, very cheap, but also quite addictive; after three uses, your lips seem to be stained blue
Vladri: consists of psychedelic mushrooms dissolved in spider venom; when injected it causes euphoria and visions of eldritch horrors

Rules and Guidelines
• All races are welcome but if you want to play a good aligned character, remember you are in their territory, not yours
• Keep any OOC comments to the Hall of Barad-dûr: Mordor OOC
• No excessive images and no gifs whatsoever
• Refrain from using overly bright colors
• Canon characters are for anyone to use, aside from Mairon (used by yours truly) there isn’t a list of who can play who and where
• Keep overt silliness down, have fun but remember this is not your house
• Feel free to GM both Mozran (the barkeep) and Bûrodâur (the apothecarist), normally they are my characters but to save everyone time (and myself from writing 3000 word replies) go ahead and use them, just don’t make them do something silly or stupid
• Double posting is cool, just don’t spam
• This is Zôrzimril’s home, even Morgoth himself does what she tells him; if the TR feels you are breaking the rules the right is reserved to have you removed IC from the masque and you will not be allowed back in
• There will be drugs and alcohol consumed in this thread, don’t pee in someone’s cheerios because you don’t like that sort of thing or think it goes again a “Tolkienesque atmosphere” you can ignore it or better yet not bother if you’re going to be offended by it

GM Note:Every “hour” the great ebony clock will toll and I will give out prompts to go with them. Feel free to ignore them if you like, except the last one. You know who shows up at the end of the story, right?
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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The Blood Soaked Swan, The Bull, The Roaring Lion, and The Sharp Dressed WoMan

They had sailed to the eastern city under a neutral flag, a rare thing for the ships of Bar-en Raveara, they'd not pillaged or pilfered or done anything untowards the entire trip there, to Gondorian ships or Corsairs probably something that most would find disappointing but for the time being they didn't want to have to try to defend the ship in port if they brought Gondor to theses docks or have an enraged bunch of Corsairs recognize the ship that despoiled them in dock when they came home.

The four of them got ready and and then the struggle began. Mostly because The Sharp Dressed WoMan had no idea how to get their entire dress and out fit neatly into the carriage that awaited them. And after a bit of struggling, The Blood Soaked Swan took charge, and got The Bull and the Roaring Lion out of the Carriage first and with their help gathered up the layers of tule and got them into the carriage, then the Bull slipped in, his own... costume if one could call it that was black leather pants trimmed in silver with black markings drawn on his bare chest and face, the top half of his face was covered by a partial bull skull with his long golden hair braided back. The Roaring Lion was suppose to get in the cart last, but was having none of it barging her way into the cart and sitting in the far corner with her arms crossed.

She'd not wanted to go to this event but when all three of them were going and were going to leave her behind, she'd caved and decided to go dressed as her wifes given title, though instead of red and gold she wore black and gold, the only red to be seen was her makeup staining her lips and eyelids. The Blood Soaked Swan for her part let out a sigh gathered her long lace dress the clung to her body like the hands of her lovers they layers of black and red lace covering the most important parts of her while leaving as much skin visible as possible except where she was purposely hiding her scars. She slipped into the carriage and The bull reached forward and held her dress up and out of the door while she shut it his hand squeezing her leg, he'd only seen her in a dress once before and he'd not overly gotten to enjoy it. He was going to enjoy it this time.

The Sharp Dressed WoMan was practically bouncing in his seat excited that he FINALLY was getting to wear a dress, he'd asked several times and finally his wife had gotten him one, well multiples but this was the first that he'd decided to wear and he was going to make the most out of it.

The Blood Soaked Swan had been here before, never inside the manor that they were going to she did know that the east had some interesting... party favours as she liked to call them and gave the Lion a smile.

"Ohhh come now it's not that bad." She cooed to her as the shortest member of their family rolled her eyes.

"Honestly this is silly." The carriage rolled through the streets making its way through the narrow streets to the Rookery the Bull for his part hand one hand on the Swans leg and the other was hidden beneath the tumble of hair that fell down The Sharp Dressed WoMan's back.

"The three of you make me sick, you're bleeding oozing ..... " She motioned at them, indeed unlike her there was a lot of skin showing with each of them and The Swan smiled.

"You're just jealous little lion that you are wearing undergarments."

"WAIT you're not?" This brought a chuckle from the three of them and The Swan smiled and booped her on the nose of her mask.

"I'm glad you're getting so into character being the pragmatic one here. But do be careful, the Roaring Lions reputation does tend to precede her." Her pale lips tugged into a smirk coated with a gloss that made them look like they were covered in polished glass "Just remember no more than three of any of the party favours unless you talk to me about them first. I don't need blue stained addicts in the manor craving more of the drugs here." The Swan said running a polished nail down the center of the Bulls chest leaving a red line down it and a smirk on her face as they pulled up to the Rookery. Soon they would be inside the strange building that they had heard so much about.

Balrog
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The Crown of Madness and The Autumnal Reaper

The night was starting off just right. The Crown of Madness smiled from the top of the staircase. She didn’t want to be seen too early in the night, not the first at the very least, but she still had to be earlier than most. While she didn’t have the penchant for grand entrances like her daughter, she still knew how to make people stop and look. A few patrons had already arrived. She marked them quickly enough then went to knock on the door behind her. “How long does it take to adjust a kilt?” her voice had a hard sarcastic line to it, traceable to the curl of her lip. She heard a thump on the other side of the door. Her dark blue eyes sparkled with mischief. She did love flustering him whenever she got the chance.

The Autumnal Reaper appeared a moment later, seven feet of uruk glory. Most of his race were brutish, ugly, and squat. Not him. He was a rare breed. He was dressed in scarlet, black, and bronze, a color pattern she herself had picked out for him. He wore a kilt with embroidered ravens and a crisp, white shirt under a jacket similarly patterned after the kilt. He wore his massive falchion, nearly as tall as he, with a decorative tassel on the end and a scarlet wool beret to finish off the look. “Classic Rök!” The Crown of Madness said, smiling devilishly. “Come now, do a spin, let me see you.”

He sighed, behind his onyx mask she could see him rolling his eyes. “Must I?” his voice was deep and deeply annoyed.

“You don’t have, but I think you know you should.” She countered, crossing her arms over her chest. She tapped a heeled foot against the carpet in mock impatience. He sighed heavily again and did as he was bid. She giggled like a child and clapped. “Bravo good sir! You look… well you look like a nobleman.” She looked hard at him. There was something different about him. He wore this get up at every event he escorted her. There was something different this time though. She couldn’t quite… aha! She crossed the distance between them and touched the hair on his chin. He was an honored elder amongst his people, most of whom never lived long enough to grow a beard of such magnificence. His was long, oiled, and braided in an intricate pattern. “Even after forty years together, you can still surprise me. You look quite handsome my dear.”

Uruks don’t blush, but the Autumnal Reaper almost did. “I pale in comparison to your beauty, my lady.”

She stretched her arms out wide. She wore a dress of black mulberry silk that hugged and accentuated her curves. It had been a hassle to find a tailor willing to use such an expensive and rare fabric, but the man she’d chosen had done his work well. The fabric breathed and shaped itself to her like a second skin. Her mask was a single piece of carved onyx that glittered in the firelight. “You are took kind, you really must stop that.”

“Only to you am I kind, my lady.”

She smirked and took his proffered arm. “Good, you do have a reputation that we can’t have ruined.”

As they descended the staircase, making their entrance, the Crown of Madness made it plain why she’d chosen that name for the night. With each step down, a massive crown of razor-sharp, blade-like spines appeared on her head, wider than her shoulders and nearly as tall as her escort. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the full glory of the Black Crown appeared.

Without missing a beat, she crossed the floor, appearing as if by magic behind the leader of the newcomers (The Blood-Soaked Swan). “I’m so glad you were able to make it,” she intoned conspiratorially. “I wasn’t sure the invitation would reach you all the way up north. I see you brought your family with you. I’m so very glad.”

The Autumnal Reaper coughed hesitantly. “You lost my dear,” the Crown of Madness said. “I told you they’d all be here.” They’d made a bet earlier today; the Autumnal Reaper hadn’t believed that elves were capable of something as unconventional as polyamory. Normally they were so stiff and proper they’d cause a moral panic by holding hands in public. “You owe me that sword after all.” Again, the uruk sighed.


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The Broken Ouroboros

The air was heavy with anticipation and excitement. In the forty years her mother had been putting on these events, she'd always managed to miss it. Not this year! The Broken Ouroboros smiled into the mirror, finishing off the last of her makeup. That in and of itself was still somewhat new to her. She’d done it on occasion before the change in her fluidity but had never put this amount of thought into its application. There were details and procedures that left her marveling at how some women were able to do this every single day and still function. How Zôr managed it all was a marvel.

She did like the dresses though. The Broken Ouroboros stood and admired herself (something she would have done if she was she or not). The dress, made from almost transparent silk and organza, was dyed a deep, deep blue with a plunging neckline. It felt exquisite. She was no stranger to dresses of course, but the feel of this fabric on her skin was downright sinful. Into the dress, to fit her name for this evening, she had sewn a massive serpent, much like the tattooed one that crawled across her shoulders, arms, and back. It wound around the dress with its massive head stylized as her left shoulder. It was a marvelous piece of work, the tailor had managed to make it look as though the serpent moved as the dress flowed, no matter the direction it went. She was quite proud of how she looked. Her masque was the last thing she applied. It was not quite so inventive as the lacquered wood masque she’d worn in Lindon, but also not so heavy. It was a standard gala masque but overlayed in glistening serpent scales and amethyst that changed color in the light. From what her mother had told her about the event, her masque was going to be quite a few different colors tonight. She licked her lips, conscious not to remove the lip paint Zôr had so graciously lent her for the occasion.

Speaking of her partner, the Broken Ouroboros went to the ornate door and tapped against it with her nail guarded fingers. “Don’t keep me in suspense too long darling, you know how impatient I can be when it comes to getting to see you.”

She inhaled and looked at herself in the mirror once more. She looked absolutely ravishing. Yes, this party was to celebrate the death of her buffoonishly inept progenitor, but after forty years, he was barely an afterthought in anything she did. This party was about celebrating a life continued. There would be no social mores, no taboo, no stigma, that would not be indulged here tonight. A life, to be lived, must be felt. And, of course, this dress felt amazing.

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Where the Black Stars Hang

This is not fair. You always get to go to these things and I’m left watching from the foyer.

Where the Black Stars Hang smiled and chuckled to herself. “That’s because you’re no fun at parties. I, on the other hand, am often the life of them.” She touched her dark purple lips, removing the tiniest smudge she found looking in the mirror. “There we go now. What do you think darling? Aren’t I to die for?”

I’m not dying for you, if that’s what your asking, you crazy witch.

“Oh don’t be jealous now,” she purred, “just because I’ll get to play with Frost and Zôr and who knows who else and all you can do is watch. I promise to let you out and play once the festivities are done. Besides, you look terrible in a suit. Rök is the only orc I’ve ever seen that can actually pull it off.”

She stood up, arms extended outward. Her dress was white, blinding white. In complete contrast to her name for the evening, she’d decided to go with a color she’d never tried before. She’d had it cut into a mermaid silhouette to fit her hourglass figure with a corset and white ermine stole.

If I didn’t know all the things you did all the thing you thought, in that dress I’d—

“Now, now,” she chided the voice in her head, “mustn’t be too vulgar tonight. Tonight I’m not a witch, I’m a lady.” She touched her shimmeringly white hair. Normally she wore her snowy white locks bound and braided, but tonight she let it down in flowing ringlets and over it wore a net fastened with white sapphires and opals. It had been a long time since she’d worn something so stunning. In her ears, each pierced a half dozen times, were white topaz and platinum earrings and studs. Finally, to top it all off, was a string of pristinely round pearls around her neck.

“Tonight, I am going to enjoy myself. If you behave, I promise we’ll find you something fun to do afterward. Deal?”

There was silence for a moment then You had better make it very fun for me.

She laughed wickedly. “Well then, it’s time to get going to the party.”

A rider and jinrikisha were waiting for her when she disembarked the Grand Conjuration. He smiled foolishly when she touched his chin, going slightly slack-jawed for a moment. “Where to m’lady?” He was handsome enough, with legs like a horse.

“The Rookery.”

Where the Black Stars Hang sat in the jinrikisha, stretching out luxuriously as the city of Umbar zipped past her. She barely paid attention until she saw the recognizable spire of the Rookery. She exited the jinrikisha and waved to the besotted driver. “Go have fun darling, drink and find a boy or two to occupy your time with until I’m ready.” She tossed him two gold coins. He beamed then looked at her confused.

“How will I –”

“Oh, you’ll know when I call you darling. You didn’t worry about that.”

She left him behind and came to the tall, thin guardsman in the plague doctor’s masque waiting by the door. “Don’t you look fetching this evening.”

They remained silent and motionless.

“Oh fine, no foreplay with you is there? I am Where the Black Stars Hang. Here’s my invitation.”

She looked up at the Rookery. She’d only been here a few times in the past, and each time made her uneasy. No matter how much Rök loved it and Frost extolled its virtues, there seemed to the dark elf an air of poisoned curse about it. But tonight was a party. There’d be enough drugs and alcohol to numb the feelings of unease. Not to mention the arms a few strangers she could lean on.

“This way, ma’am.” The guard’s voice was hard and toneless, she couldn’t tell whether it was the voice of a man or a woman, though perhaps that was the point. She followed them inside. There was music playing inside already. Good, she’d not arrived too early.

“May I present, Where the Black Stars Hang.” The voice was still cold, emotionless, and stolid.

“Thank you darling,” she whispered and moved passed them.

“Now the fun begins,” she said to herself.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Death in Bloom

Death in Bloom slid from the shadows at the end of a lane which led to the Rookery. The same ritual which had delivered his invitation to him now delivered him to Umbar. Wisps of greenish mist receded from the place where he had appeared, and he paused to look around. He scowled a bit at the sight of low stone buildings, weak torches hanging on sconces, and cobblestones lining the streets.

“Hmm. How very . . . mundane.” It was cool here - much cooler than his ancestral home, where flames leapt and scorched the bone-dry earth day in and day out. He observed little in the way of bureaucratic time-wasting, which irked him. How would these humans ever perfect the art of torment if the lines for everything weren’t long and slow enough? He reserved his esteem for a few select humans; he counted Zorzimril Nulukho among them. It was rare to find a mortal capable of possessing such artifacts of ancient darkness which, if the rumors were true, she wielded so effortlessly. He hoped she might reveal at least one of her secrets to him if he paid her a call. When the invitation arrived in the hands of a terrified servant, Death in Bloom had smiled. A masque would be the perfect opportunity to slip into her company and see what he could see.

He was dressed all in white. White leather boots, white trousers, and a jacket which he had buttoned over a white collared shirt. Only the tan kerchief tied about his neck, a matching wide-brimmed hat, and the single, red rose which adorned his lapel gave color and dimension to his person. The bleached bone mask he wore was in the shape of a horse skull; its empty, staring eyes were more than enough to draw attention away from the natural blueish-grey tint of his skin.

With a confident swagger, he made his way to the Rookery and ascended the torch-lit steps. From within his jacket, he procured his invitation and presented it to the person standing at attention beside the door.

“Good evening,” he intoned in a deep, gravelly voice, his best imitation of the old acquaintance whose likeness he’d stolen for this party.

He followed the lanky, loping guard into the manse. He heard himself announced, and then he moved into the room filled with the murmurings of so very many souls. He made his way to an assortment of substances - liquid, solid, and otherwise - and breathed deeply. He stopped just short of the deep inhalation that would tear souls from their bodies, and instead settled for a rauchbier and some mantı - he would save the more adventurous items for later. He lifted the long mask away from his face to eat and drink, and tapped his toes gently in time with the music.

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The Last Temptation

The dress slid over her like a second skin, clinging to her every curve with its soft satin sheen. As ever, The Last Temptation was dressed all in black. This gown was a thing of such finery she had never dared to dream of it in her youth, though. It was an off-the-shoulder piece, with a plunging neckline and back and an artfully ruched bodice which allowed the fabric to stretch and flex with her every movement. The column silhouette was slashed with a slit practically up to her left hip, and the straps of the dress were an homage to a pastime which, when enjoyed with her, had indeed turned out to be many in Umbar’s last temptation. The dressmaker had wanted to accentuate the off-the-shoulder style with long, trailing ties; The Last Temptation had ensured the ties on her pale arms ended in tassels such that even the most innocent among the crowd would recognize for what they were.

A light knocking on her door told her that the Broken Ouroboros was waiting. Good, she thought. It comforted The Last Temptation to know that The Broken Ouroboros was in the next room, and that her formidable mother was somewhere in the great house, arranging and ordaining things as she always did in Umbar: however she wanted. The Last Temptation had found solace and desire and power in House Nûlukhô, and she enjoyed the attendant luxuries almost as much as she did the woman who had just called out to her through the door.

She donned a light wire mask stretched with fabric of black and gold; the prominent protrusions above the eyes might have been a dragon’s horns, or a devil’s. She twirled once before the floor-length mirror in her candle-lit room, and the fishtail hem of her gown rose from where it had formed a pool of fabric at her feet to flare out around her. Gold and yellow topaz earrings sparkled as she spun. It was a simple look, but she never had needed anything complicated to stand out in a crowd. She opened the door and instantly drew in her breath and bit her lip at the sight of her. The Broken Ouroboros slid into and out of femininity with ease, and tonight she had gone to an impressive extreme.

“My love,” she breathed, “you are more stunning than any man, woman, or mystical sea serpent could ever hope to be.” She stepped into the room and circled her, tracing her fingers lightly along all the twists and turns of the serpent which wound itself about her partner.

She paused behind the Broken Ouroborus and looked at the pair of them in the mirror and brushed away some stray powder from her lover’s cheek. Then she smiled at her in the mirror.

“A woman as glamorous as you must have a truly dramatic entrance in mind.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
Arien
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Lady Of Fright [narrator doesn’t know where the icon went from last time]

The Lady was famous for her Mirrors, but did not bother to check her appearance this time: she had an in-built, deep belief that she looked frighteningly stunning at all times; and she was, of course, correct.

Not even her windswept appearance and the fact that she appeared to be hovering slightly could detract from her chiselled beauty, or her notoriously fantastic hair, the shimmering, gold-green tresses of which appeared to be animated by their own private breeze, coiling serpentine behind the Lady as though she were underwater.

It is also a well-known fact that Eagles cannot be persuaded to fly into Mordor, but that their terms and conditions do not preclude them from flying to Umbar. It was thus a pleasantly swift journey for the Lady from her woodland residence, although it did produce the aforementioned windswept effect.

She adjusted her mask. It was made of plain steel, two opposing crescent moons shaped to fit the curves of her skull; the horns of the one pointed down over her cheekbones to leave her pale lips free, whilst the other curved upwards, crowning her hair. It matched the steel breastplate she wore, from which flowed the seaweed silk strands of her dress. Barefoot she was, although this is nearly always a terrible idea at parties, and so she also had every girl’s necessity: flats, concealed in a pocket.

She drifted towards the door and gave her card to the guard. “Thank you,” she said sepulchrally, her voice a somehow distant-echo, and floated into the first Blue Room, already populated with a few guests.
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Balrog
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The Amateur Necromancer

He wasn’t sure he would be able to make it past the guards. Yet here he was, inside the legendary Rookery. There were so many distasteful rumors about the things that went on here. He hoped they were all true. The Amateur Necromancer had high hopes for this evening. He was not a wizard or a sorcerer or a warlock, but he hoped to be able to rub elbows with some of the ones that frequented this place. According to legend, a coven of witches lived in one of the sub-basements and practiced all sorts of inhuman rites to forgotten unpronounceable gods. It was just the sort of thing he liked to read about when he was given free time from Lady Bonnibel. He could not actually believe that he was here tonight! He was nervous, his palms were sweaty. For the umpteenth time he wiped them on his pant legs. His slate grey suit was looking a little closer to the color of damp ashes now. That was unfortunate. He checked under his arms. That too was getting a touch damn. He hurried to the bar and ordered a glass of Bière de Garde. He drained in a single gulp. The bartender looked as although he wanted to murder him. He winced behind his half skull mask. “May…” he coughed, his voice too high, “may I have another glass?” The Amateur Necromancer wanted to smack himself. He was not the help tonight! He was an honored guest! That’s what the invitation had said. It had been addressed the Lady Bonnibel and Guest, but he was the guest… right? He took the glass from the bartender and drained it slower. He could see the muscles under the servant livery tense then relax. Satisfied that he was not about to be mauled, the Amateur Necromancer moved off and began to try and discern if there was any famous warlock or demon lord here yet. Surely by the end of the night this place would be buzzing with dark auras! Right off the bat, he noticed a man dressed in white and tan (Death in Bloom) and there was no mistaking those eyes. It was…! The Amateur Necromancer tried not to let out a squee of excitement. One of his greatest idols was here, mere steps away! He breathed. “Relax, relax, relax. Play it cool PB, play it cool.” He touched the book in his breast pocket. His grimoire was woefully small and inadequate. Perhaps the great Lord would bless him with a spell? He took another drink. Later. He was too nervous and excited now. He looked at the woman that had walked in just before him (Lady of Fright), he couldn’t tell who she was, but he could tell how important she was by how quickly all the servants went about fawning over her and asking if there was anything she wanted or needed. Mentally, he added her to the list of people he was going to talk to. He took another drink of his beer. After he was done with his beer of course, and maybe some wine, and whisky.


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The Broken Ouroboros

“Avradî herself would be envious of you,” she purred as the Last Temptation presented herself. She’d seen her in a dozen states of dress and undress and yet each time she saw her, in whatever form either of them happen to take, she always took her breath away. “You should be careful. I hear when she’s jealous of a mortal she likes to throw stars down to the earth. We may have a few to catch before the night is over, I daresay.” The Broken Ouroboros took in the full width and breath of her lover’s costume. To call it magnificent would be calling the sea deep, technically true but woefully inadequate. She licked her lower lip. “We make quite a pair then, don’t we? Temptation…” she took her partner’s hand in hers and delicately wove her fingers together, “and it’s cost?” She brought the Last Temptation’s fingers to her dark blue lips and kissed each knuckle. If they would not be late for the party several floors down, she would have done much more than kiss those fingers. Last Temptation indeed! Her lover chosen her name perfectly, it suited her more perfect than this perfect dress she wanted to rip off her. She laughed softly. “I don’t think anyone will be able to resist you tonight. Love is mischief.”

Slowly, the Broken Ouroboros moved toward the door, pulling the Last Temptation along with her. They were on the fourth floor of the house, but she could still hear the hustle and bustle of the servants below them. She opened the door and pulled them into the hallway. This high up, the people below them looked like ants scurrying from one sugar cube to the next. She could feel that strange alien yet familiar voice in the back of her head telling her she could jump if she wanted to. Her hands tightened on the bannister. She felt like she very much wanted to jump.

“A dramatic entrance is putting it lightly.” She chuckled, taking the Last Temptation’s hand once more. “I have an entrance in mind that will have everyone talking for at least a month after.”

Without warning, the Broken Ouroboros stepped up, balancing in six-inch heels on the wood bannister. She pulled the Last Temptation up with her and for a brief, precarious moment, they stood teetering on the edge. “Come, my divine iconoclast, let us shake the earth and move the sun!”

She leapt, pulling the Last Temptation close her. They fell frighteningly fast. The world, for a brief moment, was a blur of sound and color and light. At the last possible moment, she stuck out a hand. Webbing, spider silk of the strongest variety, shot out from her fingers and attached railing on the stairs of the second floor. It slowed them down just enough. There were gasps and murmurs from the servants and partygoers already arrived. The Broken Ouroboros and the Last Temptation landed with a great crash against the marble floors, bringing all eyes to them.

“May I present,” came the voice of the guardsman, their eyes nearly invisible behind the masque. “The Broken Ouroboros and The Last Temptation.”

She unwound her arm from her partner then took her hand again and bowed, as if the whole thing had been planned.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Death in Bloom

He swallowed the last of his rauchbier and dropped the glass onto a nearby table. Then, he lowered his mask, obscuring his true features once more. He turned to the white-haired man at the table laden with substances and gestured widely at the spread.

“Recommendations as I proceed into the blue room?” he asked. “I’d like a bit of a body high, preferably light on hallucinatory side effects.”

“Of course, sir. You may like the barb, or perhaps some ember berries? Both will allow you to relax into your surroundings.” The apothecarist’s hummingbird flitted from his shoulder to perch first on the edge of a bowl of prickly stalks, then to a bowl of some luminous berries nearby. Death in Bloom was impressed by this: these two must share quite an intimate bond for the bird to understand the man’s intentions so clearly. He eyed the apothecarist and noted his milky eyes, which matched his hair in hue. That explained it! A blind but knowledgeable man aided by his pet.

“Hmm,” grumbled Death in Bloom, “The berries seem more my style. Glowy and dark, and such.”

The apothecarist nodded and scooped several berries into a tiny bowl, then passed it to Death in Bloom. “Excellent. Thank you.”

Death in Bloom lifted his mask once more to pop a berry into his mouth. The fruit’s juices burst cool and sweet on his tongue. He grimaced. Overly sweet things were not, as a rule, Death in Bloom’s favorites. Still, he wished to enjoy the side effects of these things, so he ate another and then another. A familiar figure (The Amateur Necromancer) caught his eye - was that his old pal and former golf caddy in the grey suit? He winked at the figure - who seemed to have noticed him, as well - and chewed slowly. He lowered his mask again, then made his way toward the blue room.

Upon entering the first room, he was taken by the vivid tapestries hung from the walls. He paused to admire one particular scene: a man submerged in water while a woman and a younger man watched. What was going on here? The idea of drowning was difficult for Death in Bloom to comprehend. In his domain, death usually came through disintegration or burning or simply having one’s soul sucked from one’s body. This last one was Death in Bloom’s speciality.

“Hmmm, how strange.” He ate another berry, and meandered nearer to a steel-clad woman (Lady of Fright) who looked as though she, too, had come from a world of demons. He removed his hat, slicked back his hair, then donned the hat once more.

“Excuse me,” he said, “But what do you make of this tapestry? What do you think is going on with the man in the water there?”

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The Last Temptation

The Last Temptation followed her partner into the hallway, a smile on her lips as she watched the Broken Ouroboros in that clever dress. The sewn serpent swayed as she walked, and her tattoo seemed alive and twisting with her every movement. It was an entrancing sight. She would soon get to share this sight with the crowd buzzing below. As the daughter of the house, the Broken Ouroboros ought to take center stage alongside her mother. This evening, the Last Temptation was simply along for the ride.

And what a ride it turned out to be. The Last Temptation grinned. “A whole month? What exactly did you -” But before she could finish the question, and before she’d fully registered what was happening, she and the Broken Ouroboros were perched - in already precarious heels, no less - upon the bannister. Then they were falling through the air.

The Last Temptation let out a shout of surprise and wrapped her arms tightly about her partner’s neck. She closed her eyes, but they were wrenched open when their fall was - quite suddenly - arrested. They slowed to a gentle, almost floating descent to the floor. She looked up and saw how this had happened: webs, and lots of them.

“Remind me to thank the next spider I see,” she murmured, releasing her grip upon the Broken Ouroboros and bowing alongside her to the waiting crowd. When they rose, she was laughing, the fear of a moment ago draining from her. “I need something to drink, darling. What’s the strongest substance your mother could have conjured up for this occasion?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
Arien
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LADY OF FRIGHT

“I sang of leaves, of leaves of blue, and leaves of blue there grew;
I sang of death, of frost and breath, and fallen soft they flew;
I breathed a-”

But what Lady of Fright might have breathed, none knew: her tiny sing-song had been interrupted by the tall dark (slightly blue) glass of water who had materialised by her. Blossomed, one might say.

“You fit in well here,” she commented, trailing her white hand up and down in an absent fashion. Her eyes travelled back to the décor as he remarked upon it. The Lady of Fright assessed it with a more critical eye.

“Quality is fair, although you need to use elf hair for a really fine tapestry,” she judged. It depicted a strange baptism, a young man caught between struggle and limpness, whilst on either side of a bridge, like scales, two other figures watched.

“I’m no art critic,” she continued dreamily, “we have had quite enough of artisans in the family after a certain red-headed uncle - Anyway. But it seems to me as though to be, or not to be, is the question: whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the waves and buffets of outrageous oceans, or to take arms against a sea of troubles - and by opposing, end them. To die - to sleep, no more; and by a sleep to say we end… But anyway, I wouldn’t know anything about it. Nice hat, by the way.”
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Balrog
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The Vampire’s Daughter

Her aunt really knew how to do things in style! She’d not seen the house in a decade at least, being couped up in the White City most of the time with her mother (who sadly refused to attend the masque on the grounds of being too busy with her new business). The place was utterly fantastic! It looked like something out of a gothic novel! The Vampire’s Daughter loved gothic novels. Twisted, beautiful heroines bent on revenge, moody landowners who dispensed with the peasantry on the grey moors, wicked creatures like werewolves and, well, vampires haunting castles and awaiting offerings of pacification and submission, what was not to love? Her visage and persona this evening was even based on her favorite book: the Vampire’s Daughter.

She had powered her face as white and ghostly as possible, with the reddest, most vibrant lip paint she could find, some stage blood to dribble down the left side of her cheek. The dress was a mockery of a bridal gown, a white gown with lace so thin she might be arrested in Minas Tirith for indecency and images stitched into it that might make a corsair blush if they looked close enough at them. It hugged her figure in the most lurid and ribald way possible. In a word, it was perfect for tonight! Maybe she’d find that cousin of hers and the new arm candy she’d mentioned having in their last letter. It wasn’t fair that she always got the most beautiful creatures to hang around her. Minas Tirith was too full of puritanical do-gooders. She was doing her damnedest to corrupt everyone around her (and was doing quite a good job if the string of lovers she’d had in the last few years was any estimation).

Once inside the house, the Vampire's Daughter armed herself with a snifter of Old Castamir’s Private Stock and began to sidle through to the Blue Room. She recognized no one. Under an alabaster mask, she grinned, she was going to have a feast tonight and no mistake.


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The Amateur Necromancer

Keep it cool, PB, keep it cool! It was going to be a long, sweaty night for the Amateur Necromancer. Was it his imagination or had the tan besuited man winked at him? Oh wow! The Dark Demon Lord had noticed him here and winked! The young alchemist and personal assistant felt faint. His heroes and idols were walking these halls as if it was nothing special that they were all here; just wandering about, discussing art and philosophy and history like breakfast subjects? Never in his life would he have dreamed of this. Never in his freaking life!

He took another sip of the Bière de Garde. Wow was this stuff strong! Bonnibel never had such strong liquors stored in her dungeons. He was going to have to find a way to procure some of this for his secret stash! Maybe Huns… Death in Bloom, would be willing to help him out? The Amateur Necromancer adjusted his mask and wiped a sweat palm on his pants again. Breath! he reminded himself. Breath!.

He inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs as long as he could before he thought he might burst. He had odd ways of stealing up his courage, but they worked for him. He followed Death in Bloom and the Lady of Fright into the Blue Room. Wow, this place was very blue! His eyesight seemed to fuzz and blur at the edges. He looked at his glass of beer. Had it been spiked? He felt his head. He was a bit woozy, but he was already on his second glass without food so there was that.

“I think,” he said, breaking into the conversation as smooth as a peppermint martini, “that the scene itself is interesting. The figure you see there at the top is Aglarân, the man who supposedly founded the House back in the heyday of Númenor. However, he was no warrior as this aquatic battle scene might suggest. He was a fisherman who happened to find a rare and expensive fish and give it to a lord in exchange for a title.” He beamed, proud of himself for this little nugget of history. “Or so some of the rumors go…” he added hastily in case the hostess was anywhere within earshot.


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The Broken Ouroboros

“Strongest drink here?” the Broken Ouroboros purred. “Well, I know she has several bottles of soju, I brought them myself with the intent to… entice you.” She winked and leaned in to kiss the Last Temptation’s uncovered cheek. “And I’m quite sure we can talk to Old Bûrodâur and see what he’s gathered for the evening if that’s not strong enough for us?”

A tiny jumping spider crawled out from under her nail guard and skittered onto the Last Temptation’s shoulder, gave a seemingly friendly gesture, then bounded away to hunt for more appropriate prey. “I think she likes you.” She winked. She took her partner by the waist and pulled her along to the bar.

“Two glasses of soju, Mozran,” she said, leaning over the marble counter.

He nodded wordlessly and with deft fingers and wrist, produced two crystal glasses and pour the clear liquid to the top. “Here you are.” He said with a gruff please-don’t-talk-to-me voice.

“Enjoying yourself so far, darling?” The Broken Ouroboros asked, hearing the voice tone and ignoring it.

The orc sighed behind the mask and waited a moment before responding. “I like it better than Minas Morgul. I like your mother, she pays well and lets me make the menu. And it’s not a fredegar jungle.”

The Broken Ouroboros raised an eyebrow. “A jungle?”

“Don’t ask. Please…”

She smirked and took a sip. “Mmmmm, good choice on the soju.”

She turned her gaze back to the Last Temptation (how could she ever take her eyes off something so radiantly sinful?) and leaned in, whispering, “shall we see what the apothecarist has? And I think I spied my cousin just now. Shall I introduce you?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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