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.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh