Open Insanely Rich Area The Mysterious Costume Party

[Jill (The Beast)]

Jean-Pascal Galopin was simply the todd to know, and his luxurious manor was the place to be if you were some beast worth knowing in Bully Harbor. A ridiculously wealthy socialite, the eccentric bachelor was known to throw over-the-top parties where many an elite could come and truly let loose. Either that or simply enjoy the spectacle that the youths would inevitably put on. This party, however, would be different. For so long, Jean-Pascal had felt lonely. Why else would he host such grandiose events? He wanted to find true love. Of course, there was no shortage of vixens and jills that courted him. None of them felt genuine, in his mind. They didn't love him; they loved his wealth, his status, his connections. That's when the thought occurred to him. A costume party! If every beast were wearing a disguise, no one would know who they were talking to. He could finally find the jill that loved him for HIM.

It was another brisk winter evening as the first guests arrived at Jean-Pascal's mansion. Everybeast was immaculately dressed and wearing a mask. Another requirement Jean-Pascal had was that everybeast give themselves a pseudonym to further the mystery. Jean-Pascal himself was already mingling with the crowd, pretending to be just another faceless partygoer. He wore a black suit, and his mask was an ornate crescent moon, black and gold. He hoped that tonight, he would meet the jill that would make his life complete.

In the outskirts of the Insanely Rich Area, another masked beast was making their way across the rooftops. The Beast in The Iron Mask. They were on a mission. Jean-Pascal's parties were supposedly a meeting ground for many corrupt officials. At least, according to Mr. Morrey. His words still echoed in their head: "Do you want to make a real change?"

"Well, Beast? Do you?" Mask's question repeated in their mind alongside Peter's.

"Of course I want to make a difference! But... I don't think I can kill anybeast. I'm just going to do a bit of reconnaissance. We'll work from there."

"How do you intend to get into the party, Beast? You don't have an invitation."

"It's a costume party, Mask. All I need to do is sneak in, and then I'll be just another partygoer."

Beast was hopping from rooftop to rooftop, and they saw the manor in the distance. They took a deep breath. This was going to be by far their most dangerous mission yet.

 

[Cryle]

The last several days had been the stuff of nightmares. It all began with a letter... A letter containing an invitation.

Of course, she could simply not go. It was a masquerade; who would know any better? But then, with slowly creeping horror, she realized that he would know better. It would surely come up in conversation, and then she would have to lie. Lying was too much effort. The other choice was to dismiss the letter, to refuse. But that had a chance of repercussions. Was he the sort to have hurt feelings over it? To have this... gift, such as it was, thrown back in his face, metaphorically? ...was metaphorically the right word?

It was too hard to focus on anything. Easier, then, to just Get It Over With. After all, it was a masquerade... it's not like she had to go. The invitation even made it clear...

She had another character who could go. One she seldom got to play as... and long as the mask fit, and there was no need to actually engage with anybeast, she could simply attend. Her own little side-story, so much easier to keep track of than a lie. She'd faced hamsters, moles, Captain Jeshal, fox-wolf-things that were Entirely Too Tall; such things as she would have to live with. This was a one-time deal. She'd never see any of these beasts again, and they would certainly never see her.

So it was that she had to decide on a costume.

The hat would stay. She considered a black feather, then thought: What if no feather? Less conspicuous.

She had bought a greatcoat which the tailor had assured matched the crimson color of her hat and other accessories, with the money earned from the voyage, to wear in winter, and hadn't worn it yet; having not gone out since (Korya, her roommate, brought snow back indoors enough, and the weather hadn't been clear enough for stargazing for some time.) She added a crimson cape as well, made from bolts of fabric she had purchased for repairs to her coats and hat, and used another bolt for a scarf, leaving her usual white one behind just in case it was too familiar. She had also removed her tail bow.

"You should glue fuzz to your tail, you could be a squirrel!" had been Korya's suggestion. The thought of glue - let alone the fuzz of another beast - encasing her tail had caused her to curl up and shiver for an hour until the phantom feelings of the idea had faded enough to function again.

The greatcoat's pockets had room for her usual tools, plus her telescope. She thought about leaving the rapier behind, but was not comfortable enough with the town to go without just yet, and so kept it on her belt. Her grappling rope was wrapped about beneath the coat, the end with the hook tucked into another pocket; bulky, but not too awkward. That, too, was a matter of emotional well-being. And since the pockets were so spacious, she added in the little device she had been working on, made from a discarded light crossbow stock - she had hollowed it further and added a spring, a little lever, and a latch. Lacking the bow components and having a larger indentation, it was useless for a bolt... but it fired the grappling hook wonderfully, if a little chaotically.

She only had the one pair of boots, so that was that.

And though she hated wearing Sensory Deprivation Mittens, it was far too cold out for her furless paws, and so she had slipped on some fancy ones Korya had bought her; soft and fuzzy inside with a thin layer of wool outside and something akin to silk or velvet for a glossy, sleek finish. They were comfortable enough, but she still couldn't quite figure out what she was touching when she tried to touch things.

That left the mask.

It was a horrid thing, burlap and leathers, madly stitched together at the last minute. A little black netting in front served as a means to breathe through the thicker parts while still hiding the muzzle and maw from view. The eyes were goggles, the glass rounded outward in hemispheres rather than flat lenses, fire-darkened and boggling out haphazardly. Inside, she had placed smaller versions of her spectacle lenses, so she could still see. The straps tugged at the back of her head and around her ears and it was a horrible sensation, but it was ready.

"How do I look?" she asked, too anxious to realize who she was asking.

"Fabulous," said Korya, not looking up from where she was tinkering with her kalimba. The blind leopard cat had no need to. "Marvelous. Astute. Sincere. Brave. Regal. Beige. Orderly. Beautiful. Pine-scented. Loud. Incongruent. Tufted. Weatherly. Knitted."

"Thanks," said Cryle. "Bye."

And then she left their apartment and headed out across town.

She returned a little while later to pick up the invitation she'd left behind on her bed. Korya had already fallen asleep in hers, with an armful of snow piled across her naked torso, and was drooling.

 

[Paphnutia "Nutty" Gowdie]

Wearing masks, Nutty knew, was a dangerous game. The right masks could channel things from beyond the veil of normality; plenty of Unknown Ones infused vessels with their spirits specifically through the donning of masks, hence why so many cults that Occult Division spent their time stopping tended to wear the ornamentations. As for a party? Well, with so many different masks invoking so many different beings, chaos was bound to result. For that reason, Nutty had decided to go in, properly incognito.

The costume was plain and nondescript, a simple robe white as snow. Their mask had been deliberately chosen: A blank, smooth porcelain, almost like a large half of an egg shell with two eye holes in it, that expressed and betrayed nothing. When it came to parties, The Faceless Guest was the safest of the Unknown Ones to invoke, the best protection she could muster against the extremes expressed by the other guests. At a glance they spotted the vestiges of two dozen Unknown Ones and half a dozen she didn't recognize at all, which troubled them the most. The Unknown Ones she knew, at least, they could account for and work around; most were harmless enough if invoked properly, satisfying themselves through their vessels' debauchery. The truly unknown among them, though, could be anything. They could be dangerous; they could be murderous; they could be...

On a roof.

Nutty blinked, tilting her head as she stood at the edge of the party, looking out at the rooftops across the street. They could have sworn she'd seen a masked beast partially silhouetted against the dim twilight. Clearing their eyes and slipping a paw beneath her mask, they adjusted her glasses and looked again. This time there was nothing there, just more of the flat, ugly roofs that dominated in this Manse. Shrugging, Nutty turned away and back to the party. It seemed quite likely that things would get very lively - most likely just before they started to get very deathly in turn.

~~~

Mileya Ryalor wandered among the party, her pale blue Fyadorian kimono, layered extra thick for the winter chill, only one part of her ensemble. This masquerade was, ostensibly, in honor of a popular (and quite chronic) bachelor. Apparently he was a noble of some note, because the Empress herself had directed that Mileya attend the party. The Ryalor girl could pretend, of course, that this was Amelie trying to be supportive or perhaps attempting to arrange a happy meeting by which Mileya might find the todd of her dreams. She knew, of course, what this was really about. Here I am, a Ryalor, the ambassador for my house, and still just the Empress's little puppet. She pulls on my strings, and I dance for the amusement of the crowd, mimicking emotions I cannot feel.

The mask she wore was her one small act of rebellion, an assertion of herself as other than the simpering courtier (or, perhaps, courtesan) that the Empress wanted her to be. In Fyadorian theater, she would wear an omma mask for this role, typically that of the Ōmi-onna, the lovestruck maiden. Mileya had sent a letter ahead of her, though, and her aunt had provided her with a different mask, this one from Dusk's personal collection. The Shiro-shakumi was the mask of the careworn woman, the one who wore the grief of her life in the downturn of her eyes, the resoluteness of her dark lips. Life's cares had worn at her, carving themselves into her face; her beauty was in her stoicism, the dignity that carried her through the injustices of the world. That was the face that Mileya chose to don as she moved through the party, giving small dips and curtseys, murmuring greetings and apologies and all the pleasantries demanded of her. She would attend this party, yes - but she would not make herself the Empress's little doll for it. Let them see me as I am.

~~~

Aramaeus was, to put it mildly, quite disappointed so far. The parties of the elite were rumored to be salacious, scandalous affairs, places where dark indulgences were satisfied, where forbidden desires ran rampant, where hedonism was lauded and prudishness was gauche. In short, he'd come with the secret desire of seeing, and perhaps throwing himself into, the world of debauchery he'd only heard hinted about in paperback novels of dubious quality.

So far he'd been quite let down. There had been passingly few glimpses of ruffles, and most of those were in places where ruffles were entirely expected to be. There'd been no beds of red velvet large enough to hold a dozen beasts, and the closest thing to undergarments being torn asunder was one vixen whose corset had been tied too tight and had fainted on a couch, where a half-dozen of her friends attended to her, waving fans while she recovered from her spell. Dunking one of the shrimp adorning the rim of his glass in the red sauce therein, Aramaeus observed the entire scene through his gold-painted mask (the color unfortunately clashing with the maize of his own fur) and wondered when the party was going to get good, and if perhaps he should be sneaking off to look for a hidden dungeon where the truly unspeakable pleasures were hidden. He brushed at a daub of sauce that landed on his checkered black-and-gold ascot, which only managed to smear the liquid even further, and he desperately tried to shift it to hide the stain beneath the collar of his ostentatious maroon suit-jacket.

Aramaeus dunked another crustacean in his sauce before eating it, looking over the party and privately musing over his dilemma. At least the shrimp is quite good.

 

[Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont]

Hazie too had heard rumours of the expected behaviour of a young aristocrat attending a masked party. In amongst the ever-refilling bowls of punch, the consumption of too much food, the behind-closed-doors indulgences of certain substances, and the elaborate disguises, who could really say, the head-pounding day after, who had committed what moral outrage?

The pine marten loved a good party. He was expected to make a good showing for the Freemont family, and integrate himself into the social life of the Vulpinsulan elite. He’d been given an eye-watering budget for his costume, and the address of a specialist costumier. How hard could it be to fit in?

Hazie’s costume was a scandal, every detail absurd in its decadence. The eye was immediately drawn to the almond-shaped mask of black ebony, which was dominated by two glittering half-orbs made of a thousand shards of coloured glass. Two long swaying feathers - supposedly taken from some mythical bird called an ‘ostrich’ - made for antennae, and two prongs of gold made mandibles at the end of the mask’s snout. The effect was that of the head of a giant bee, with its strange, bulging, fractal eyes and waving frond-like antennae.

His torso was covered by black leather armour, which had a special fitting around his chest to carry the two elegantly twisted sculptures of golden wire and sparkling green jewels that sprouted from his shoulderblades - the wings of the insect. A thick, bright yellow sash was cinched tight around his waist, fringed with gold and adorned with patterns of bees, flowers and hives.

His sleeves and pantaloons were billowing and striped with black and yellow, but his knee-length black shiny boots and elbow-length shark-leather gloves were form fitting, to exaggerate and emphasise the narrowness of an insect’s limbs. His long marten tail had been difficult to disguise - in the end the tail-armour looked more like a scorpion’s, complete with a rounded-off stinging tailtip capped in gold.

Hazie had brought flowers to complete the effect of the pollen-loving bee - a massive bouquet, a riot of colourful petals and anthers that would have made a botanist weep to think they had been plucked just to be a party decoration.

A rat servant was posted at the gates of the opulent mansion of Jean-Pascal Galopin. The guard’s jaw went slack as an oversized insect monster strode towards him out of the dark winter evening.

“M-may I see your invitation, m-my… lord?” The rat stammered. Wordlessly, Hazie produced the letter from the bouquet with a flourish. The guard’s eyes began to water, and he waved the monster through before sneezing into his sleeve.

“Welcome to - ah-choo! - this night of wonders - Ah…Achoo! - my master offers his - pssshooh! - warmest salutations…” The rat attempted, his twitching nose going red, tears streaking down his face.

The menacing insect-beast held out something white and lacy. It was a pawkerchief, embroidered with the letters; HF. The rat gratefully took it and blew his nose. By the time he squinted his eyes open again, the guest was gone. The rat stared dully down at the pawkerchief in confusion.

Under the mask, Hazie could barely see a thing. He nearly tripped on the stairs, then almost bowled over the doorbeast that was in the middle of opening the grand front doors for him. He regained his composure, and shifted the heavy bouquet to rest further back on his shoulder. Unbeknownst to the party-eager marten, he was now holding it at an angle where, one-by-one, the beautiful flowers were falling out and leaving a fragrant, petal-lined trail in his wake.

Whether it was meant to be a ball or a garden party or a parlour-room gathering, it seemed that there were costumed beasts occupying the mansion from one end to the other, and an army of servants scurrying about to clean up spills and attend to petty demands for drinks and appetisers. At first, Hazie was happy just wandering and beast-watching, admiring the various costumes and giving a theatrical bow whenever somebeast inevitably turned and spilled their drink in shock at the sight of a giant bee looming over them.

“Some party, huh?” Hazie mumbled through his mask, his voice low, gruff, and absent his usual affected Amaronian accent. “How about that punch fountain, eh? Fan-ceee…”

The fractured, false-coloured image of a blank eggshell mask that Hazie saw through his eye-orbs gave him no clues as to how well his small-talk was being received. He winced in embarrassment, and politely excused himself. He wandered a bit more, then tried it on another guest, a little red-coated-and-caped rat judging by the tail, with a mask almost as bug-eyed as his own.

“Did you see that jill dressed as a ship?” He tried. “The wooden skirts with little cannon barrels sticking out was a nice touch. Quite a do, eh? Um… gosh, is that the Duke of Monte Castallo?”

Hazie spun around with his antenna waggling madly, desperate to abort another ridiculous attempt at conversation. Unknowingly, this motion also deposited a good chunk of his flower bouquet around the unfortunate doe.

That was when the string quartet struck up their next tune, and Hazie breathed a sigh of relief. Music! At least that was something he understood at a party. Tossing the ragged remains of his bouquet onto a nearby table (and failing to notice he’d dunked them in a bowl of punch), Hazie strode out into the middle of the ballroom, and started to dance like a stoat with a fire under his tail.

"Ye-haah! Play it fortissimo lads, and let's have more frahm the bass!" Hazie crowed, the twang he'd picked up in the Mahsterious Sahthern Cahntinent obvious and discordant. He danced on, oblivious to the bafflement of the double-bass player, who began sawing at his instrument harder at the noble's request.

This was the kind of fun that Hazie had been looking forward to!