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!

 

[Apricity Prim]

Several days ago...

It was getting frustratingly difficult to hide it. Why now, of all times? Why not five months later, seven months later? Why not an invitation when she would be thin? When she would be one of those petite little jills who always got invited to stay overnights. How dare you... How dare you invite me now - when I am this?

Apricity Prim sank down on the fainting chair in her bedroom, arm draped across her brow, the other paw gently massaging her taut, bulbous abdomen. The little thing inside her kicked, the tiny thump rustling her insides. She had grieved the life she'd lost before she'd even found it, back on the BlackShip, and now there was just a weighted silence, muffling the loathing and adoration tearing each other apart in her mind, a sorrow that could not decide who or what to be sad for.

She arose and paced the room, glancing once in a while at the offending invitation. Lady Prim, it said. Baroness, it said. The titles felt as hollow as her marriage had been. She had not even been invited to Amarone yet - Giles' parents had forbid her to enter the estate until they had done their own research into her claims, despite all the evidence she had secured. A pittance of gilders for the would-be widow and a small manor in the Harbor, an unused vacation beach home, with a skeleton crew of servants keeping it warm, were all they would spare.

The invitation was mocking her. Daring her to show her face in public...

...or not.

The pine marten perked up, snatching the invitation from the desk and re-reading it again. Costumes. Mystery. And who was she, if not the newest, most mysterious mystery to grace this grace-forsaken town?

She was Apricity Lucia Priscilla Araminta Millicent Primavera Lunabelle Abstinence Prim!

She grabbed her sewing kit, threw it on the desk, stomped over to the closet, and threw the doors wide.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She was still marvelling at how she had gotten through the door. Physically. The costume she was wearing was wide - it seemed to be little more than simply a proper ballgown, extravagantly floofy, billowing out all around her in layered tiers like a wedding cake. It was pure black, silk and crepe ribbons trailing half a dozen feet in her wake. A large, floppy hat topped her head, nothing from the head down visible beneath a spacious black veil. The only dash of non-black was a white skull sewn over the front of the veil with scarlet ribbons streaming from the eye sockets. She swept across the manor's floors like the shadow of forbidden hilltop tower looming over a doomed village.

It was heavy, and it was taking all her strength to keep it afloat. She couldn't wait for the unveiling. But not yet. She had to build the suspense...

And gossip.

Her ears flicked restlessly as she scoured the party for mentions of herself. But all these foolish fops seemed to care about was their host.

"Did you hear?" said someone dressed as a Missertrosse Gull, "Galopin's parties always have a poker game going on in the attic. I've a mind to join later, once I've figured out who else is going... Mm, that Cizayo, he's a louse with his deeds, if he's playing we'll be sure to leave with a second apiary garden... I've always wanted his begonias..."

"Mm-hm, gambling with land is so 1764, my daaahling Gully. It's heirloom jewels this year, didn't you know? Worth twice as much as some property! What of you, Mr. Thundercloud, are you gambling later this eve?"

Somebeast in a garish purple thundercloud with what appeared to be a fishing hat dangling lightning bolts instead of flies spun around at the question.

"I've actually brought a number of yet-to-be archived blueprints, you know. New kinds of naval weaponry, that sort of thing. It's due to be processed tomorrow, but whose name is on the patent when it's stamped, now that's worth a little more than some shiny rocks or a private theatre, wouldn't you say? History, gentle beasts, is the future we write tonight! And I've a little something extra, designs not yet approved for public by the Ministry of Innovation - keep that hush for now, won't we, lads, lasses?"

Apricity caught herself staring. There was a little... thing, a rodent, swaddled in crimson, which suddenly had perked up and edged closer to the group. It would have been cute if its costume - if one could call it such - wasn't so mind-mindbogglingly drab.

She immediately decided to forget such a lazy attempt at fashion could exist, and paraded herself across the room to try and find somebeast bored enough to gossip about the new Baronness when... oh, Hellgates...

Such form. Such elegance. Such style. He was a master of his body, a marionette blessed by a bouyancy no true noblebeast would ever achieve. She could not tell his species, but she felt, in those aching moments where time stretched on with every keening note of music...

Apricity Lucia Priscilla Araminta Millicent Primavera Lunabelle Abstinence Prim was smitten.

And it was still not time to remove her costume and dance with him.

It was fair, she supposed. For the universe to gift her such a vision, it would have to deny her desires as well. Balanced like the perfect trigger, ready to snap the jaws shut if it should ever feel a mote of pressure on either side... such was life.

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Jean-Pascal Galopin, currently Agana Jocelin Lapps, was mingling with the crowd. He wasn't sure how the party would get started. Usually, he was the one to initiate it. Due to the disguise, however, he couldn't, and so the guests mingled aimlessly.

"Gates, this is a disaster!" He muttered to himself. "I should have thought this through better."

As he wandered and wondered, a commotion suddenly erupted. Agana saw somebeast dressed as a bee, dancing like a damned fool. It admittedly got a chuckle out of him. He walked out to join the costumed fellow and started clapping. "I say, lad, I want a bit of whatever it is you snorted before you got here!"

Agana tried, awkwardly, to dance in the same style as the bee, but he failed miserably, only making a fool of himself. He coughed loudly and excused himself, walking away quickly and ending up next to a jill in a beautiful Fyadorian kimono.

"I must say, I didn't expect to see anyone from beyond the lands of Vulpinisia here," Agana commented. "Other than Mr. Galopin, of course."

He studied the mask intently. "And your mask is quite the bold choice, if I do say so myself. I mean, it conveys much more of a real message than any of these... bizarre costumes. Not that I don't like costumes. It just seems that you're the only beast that seemed to understand the theme Mr. Galopin was going for."

--

Meanwhile, Jill AKA Beast had arrived at Jean-Pascal's mansion. It had been easier than expected to sneak through the garden and find a staff door. Slipping in, they managed to make their way to the ballroom. Every beast was in all manner of elaborate costume.

"How am I supposed to find any beast like this?" Beast muttered.

"Well, just mingle for now. Eventually- perhaps with enough alcohol flowing, beasts will decide to reveal themselves in grandiose fashion. That's when you strike."

Beast's weapon, a recently acquired rapier, felt heavy on their waist. "I can't kill anyone here, are you insane?!"

"I ought to be asking you that question, Beast."

Beast growled and shook their head, trying to clear their thoughts.

"Did you even think this through, Beast. What if you're recognized? You've been doing your vigilante work for a while now."

"I doubt any of these rich snobs care about the happenings of the lower class." Beast replied, before going to mingle with the crowd.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano's upscale condo smelled of food, warm and savory, as the windows fogged against the cold night air. Standing apart from the bubbling pot and something halfway between sizzling oil and whatever Griblo had decided was edible tonight, Ruffano stood before the narrow mirror with his shoulders squared and his chin lifted, humming under his breath as the final pieces settled into place. The tune was light, aimless, and cheerful in a way that did not ask permission, threading through the room as if he were already backstage somewhere rather than in his own quarters. Meanwhile, beside the mirror, balancing perilously on a wobbly stool with uneven legs, was a sorely under-dressed and overstimulated ferret.

The Noble Fool stared back at him in fractured reflections of candlelight and gold leaf.

Deep reds and purples caught the glow as he shifted, glitter stitched into the seams winking with every movement, while the bells sewn discreetly along the edges of his costume answered with a restrained jingle, present but polite. The tailored lines of the jester’s attire sat perfectly on his frame, theatrical without ever tipping into excess, the short cape resting neatly at his shoulders, his well-groomed tail fluffed to perfection and flowing elegantly from beneath it. The curled toes of his boots gleamed with polish and glitter.

He reached up, tugging at the mask for the third time.

A sharp click of tongue answered him.

"Oi. Stop fussin’ with it. You’ll knock it crooked."

Griblo Jankweed was perched precariously, stretched to his full height as he fussed with the prongs of the jester’s hat. One foot wobbled as he leaned too far, his tail flicking for balance.

"'Ell's Teeth... hold still, would you?"

The stool wobbled harder. Griblo windmilled, recovered with a hissed curse, then glared down at Ruffano like the whole affair had somehow been engineered to spite him.

"You paid good coin for this getup. Least you can do is let it sit right."

Ruffano’s smile, already in place beneath the mask, softened but did not fade. He lowered his paw, letting Griblo make the final adjustment. The jester’s hat settled just right, bells weighted so they chimed only when he moved with intention.

Griblo’s eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary on the mask itself, on the way the inner rims were painted deep plum, swallowing the light and darkening Ruffano’s gaze. Beneath that, carefully worked makeup powders further blackened the skin around his eyes, smudged just enough to blur their edges and make it impossible to tell where expression ended and shadow began. What remained visible looked deeper, harder to read, a gaze that gave nothing away freely.

Griblo said nothing about it. Just gave the brim a final, approving tug.

Then, quieter, more grounded, without looking him in the eye:

"Look. Have your fun. Talk big. Laugh loud. Make whatever friends you’re gonna make."

He leapt down from his perch, the stool creaking a sigh of relief as he did.

"Just… don’t go gettin’ sweet on anyone. That never pays out the way you want."

Ruffano laughed softly, bells answering the sound as he turned toward the door.

"I’ll try not to make a spectacle of myself."

Griblo snorted, waved him off with a flick of his paw, and turned back toward the stove, watching from the corner of his eye as Ruffano gathered his cape, tail swaying with effortless confidence beneath it, and stepped out humming, jovial as if he were headed for an encore rather than an examination.

---

The ride across the city passed in a blur of lamplight and shifting stone, Ruffano seated comfortably in a hired rickshaw as the porterbeast guided them onward. He let the hum return, bells chiming faintly with each shift of his weight, the sound grounding him as the scenery changed around them.

The tidy streets near his condo gave way to the Slups, buildings crowding close and crooked, patched roofs and narrow alleys flashing past in quick succession. Then, just as gradually, the city opened again. Space returned. Lawns stretched wide and deliberate. Mansions rose back from the road behind elegant walls and manicured grounds, wealth no longer pressed together for survival but spread comfortably and confidently.

It had been nearly a year since the invitations had stopped entirely. Nearly a year since his name had slipped from polite conversation as if by mutual agreement. This one, folded neatly and delivered without ceremony, was the first that had not come with an asterisk attached.

A costume party.

A test, if only in his own mind.

The rickshaw slowed. Ruffano paid, stepped down, and adjusted his gloves once, deliberately, before letting his paws fall to his sides.

The mansion ahead was lit brilliantly. True beauty layered atop wealth with the casual ease of beasts accustomed to both. Music drifted through tall windows, laughter following in its wake, muffled and refined.

As Ruffano crossed the threshold, the bells chimed.

Conversation inside stumbled for half a breath, the rhythm of the room catching before smoothing itself over again. Masks turned. Some fully. Some with practiced subtlety. One or two paused a fraction too long, perhaps with recognition sparking behind painted eyes.

Ruffano let the moment settle around him. The weight of velvet and gold reminded him that he still knew how to stand, and how to be seen. Someone nearby laughed too brightly. Another guest mistook him for someone else entirely and offered a bold compliment without hesitation. Across the room, a familiar posture caught his eye, though the mask hid the face.

He simply smiled, bells answering softly as he took his first measured step into the crowd, confident and composed, cape and tail flowing neatly behind him, and very much aware that whatever this evening truly was, he had not forgotten how to play his part in circles like this.

 

[Paphnutia "Nutty" Gowdie]

Nutty had been rather taken aback by the comment from the Golden Bee, as she had immediately labeled the guest who towered above them. Her mind had set to work cataloguing immediately, trying to sort out whether the costume was a particularly audacious invocation of a hither-to unaccounted-for Unknown One, or simply in atrociously bad taste. When he peeled away to dance as if shame rolled off his back like water, Nutty was no closer to an answer.

The next beast to arrive, however, was far easier to mark. That costume was extremely on the nose, especially for an event like this; Nutty was rather surprised that he wasn't causing more offense by his mere presence. Then again, what she knew of the Court of Chaos suggested that this was par for the course. They sidled up alongside the jester, her voice a murmur reverberating in her mask. "The King-in-Motley. A bold invocation for an event such as this," they noted, eyes peering over the lines and flows of the outfit. They looked up at the beast, studying intently. "Have you come here to begin the Pageantry of Paupers then? It it a bit late in Dunwinter, but I suppose it is better than waiting for Midsommar."

@Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont @Ruffano Quickwhistle

~~~

Mileya had rather been hoping that her mask and attire would be off-putting enough to spare her the attentions of the crowd and, especially, any todds at the event. She'd spent her first two years at court in Amarone cultivating a reputation as a sharp-tongued wench destined to end up an old maid, one whose only tolerance was for males who were more than happy to absorb all of the male attention that she so disdained. Now here, separated from the social group who acted as her buffer, she found herself once more alone, left to fend for herself.

She turned her head slightly as the todd who had just been dancing rather foppishly with that golden bee fellow came over to speak to her. She turned her head slightly, just enough to indicate her attention, as he complimented her outfit. This time she made no effort to mute her Southern Fyadorian accent, as she did so often at court; she let the musicality seep fully into her voice, amplified by the resonance of the painted wooden mask. "That is the problem with high society, is it not?" she conjectured. "They so often seek to please and entertain themselves at the expense of others. I would say that Mr. Galopin's instructions were followed to the letter: they have shown him precisely who they are by ignoring his request." She looked over the crowd, letting the simmering disdain color her eyes. "Then again, perhaps, as with all things these days, it was merely a pretense for a party. Amusement is at a premium, after all; why not obtain it at the cost of a few broken-hearted young waifs whose heads are too stuffed full of fancy to hold any sense? Let them come humiliate themselves with their ardent pleas of love, and make it the night's entertainment. Either way, he would win; he would have a new supplicant to bed, or their degradation would bolster his reputation in the eyes of his peers. The males win; the femmes lose; and thus it ever is."

She glanced sidelong at him to see his reaction. By now most of the courtiers in Amarone would be running, fearful that lingering would prove deleterious to the integrity of their favorite parts of their anatomy. If he hadn't fled quite yet, then perhaps he might even be worth speaking to.

@Jill (The Beast)

~~~

Aramaeus didn't understand dancing, really. Oh, he'd tried it a few times; he understood that there were steps and moves, and they were to be done in a specific order and to a certain rhythm. The actual how of it, though, continued to elude him. He eyes followed the example set by the rather garish bee that had taken center stage on the dance floor, the sheer carefree abandon of his motion registering in his mind. Was that what dancing was supposed to be? Aramaeus considered, attempting to formulate a set of moves that could compare, and managing only a few rather stilted motions.

Ah well. Better than nothing.

Setting aside his cocktail sauce, Aramaeus straightened his collar (inadvertently exposing the stain on his ascot once more) and strode onto the floor, setting himself opposite the dancing bee. He watched for a few moments; then, with the enthusiasm of a crab carried aloft by a seagull, he began to flail and thrash wildly, his arms dancing about, his footpaws stomping here and there in what almost seemed a pantomime of primitiveness. Worse yet, his mind mistook the laughter around him for approval, encouraging him to only make his motions more grand and magnifying his humiliation.

@Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont

 

[Cryle]

Several days ago...

If she was going to attend this atrocious event, she was going to have plans. Never again would she be trapped in a building without knowledge of every single exit, current or otherwise.

There was a certain bland kinship she felt with her contact, a scruffy-faced long-tailed weasel. He was a beast who seemed to understand that silence was not just there to be filled with mindless observations and vocal sounds. She would ask him via letter, later, as to how he procured the things he did; for now, she was simply grateful for the architectural documents that she had requested.

She brought them home and read them over and over, measuring, memorizing, and when she closed her eyes and walked through the hallways and peered into rooms devoid of furniture and souls, she knew it was time to return them before they were missed.

On the way back she detoured to the manor in question, and observed. All day long and well into the evening, from every angle she could comfortably and safely access, watching the way the shadows shrank and grew, noting the angles, adding them to the schematics filed away neatly in her mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Some party, huh? How about that punch fountain, eh? Fan-ceee…”

Right. Time to leave.

She'd been there for only a minute, and surely that was enough to satisfy any questions Kaii might have had about the event. She could safely say she had, indeed, attended for as long as she possibly could.

But she did look at the punch fountain, because... how could she not? And in doing so, she realized the things displayed on the long tables in the banquet hall were, in fact, edible foods, not pieces of contemplative art. Or perhaps they were both.

There was a pineapple. It was huge. It was made of marshmallows and some kind of yellow gelatin, and it was also a cake? And there was a cake that was just a cake, but had pineapples in it, real ones. And there was fruit juice. All kinds of fruit juice. Iced, mulled, in rainbows she couldn't identify. And there were glasses that were different shapes, some practically bowls on stems. And there were straws, which is how she found herself not leaving the party and trying to fit a straw into the wire-mesh mouth of her mask, which was filled with the scent of pineapple juice already.

And since she didn't leave, she overheard the words blueprints, designs, and Innovation.

She lingered a little more, catching the stray bolts of information that were fired off haphazardly by the drunken nobles. Poker game. Attic. Later. The designs would be there, in a lockbox, along with jewels, deeds, and myriad other items that were either incredibly valuable or represented incredible value.

A feather in her hat if she managed to stymie the efforts of an Innovation design being approved outside of the proper channels, wouldn't it? At the very least, it was an injustice; the beasts whose minds had worked on those schematics deserved to have their names on them, not whoever was able to claw them off a poker table.

She needed something valuable, something to give to the guards of the game, who would lead her to the lockbox, so she could make sure those documents were returned to their rightful owners.

She needed something that represented value...

The ratmaid rocked on her heels as she closed her eyes, ignoring the party around her, and walked her ghost up the grand staircase, down the hall to the right, up a more private staircase, three doors down to the left, which was marked "Private Study", which was surely where fancy papers and quills would be. She was no forger, but she had good paw-writing and vocabulary, and that was what was required for her plan.

Or she could wander the upper rooms and look for the lockbox while pretending to be a drunkard looking for the privy.

She sipped at her pineapple juice.

Luckily she knew where all thirteen privies were, although luck really had nothing to do with it.

 

[Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont]

The room was spinning, or maybe that was just Hazie. Did he look beautiful? Did his insect-eyes and wire-gossamer wings glitter in the myriad candlelight of the chandeliers overhead, the wall-sconces, the table-candelabras? Could he be in hiding, yet the centre of attention? Nameless, yet the lasting memory of this event? Adored for his style, his spirit, his lust for life alone?

Probably not. That was fine, he could be selfish too. Hazie wanted to be selfish in that moment. This wasn’t for the cowardly scoffers and sneerers, who skulked around the edges stuffing themselves with shellfish. They envied him. Owners of pleasure-yachts and personal fiefdoms, titans of commerce and industry, they could sign the deed and grasp their greedy claws around anything they desired, except this.

Unconditional pleasure. No strings attached.

As the music reached the coda, Hazie gave one more twirl, then called out to the string quartet, his accent giving pause to any native speaker of the Callisparian tongue. “Maestro! Allegro c-ahh-n fuoco, per favore!”

There had been only one beast willing to dance with him. A slender todd, Hazie guessed, the details shattered through his mask’s mosaic eye-orbs. Sunfur, he’d call him in his mind, obvious but easily remembered. The frantic energy of the fox’s dance drew the predictable ridicule from the peanut gallery. In the lull between the quartet’s playing, Hazie stepped in close, took one of Sunfur’s paws in his own, and wrapped the other around his waist.

“This next dahnce is for two!” Hazie said cheerfully, winking invisibly. “I like your style. Jest don’t go runnin’ outta breath awn me!”

The pine marten’s grip firmly led the fox into an aggressive, whirling dance, punctuated by primitive footpaw-stomping beats and wholly improper tipsy legato between notes. It required a level of dexterity and confidence through its rapid changes in mood, but most of all, it required passion. Hazie could tolerate being stepped on every now and then, as long as Sunfur wasn’t being fake about it. His antenna flailed as they moved, and his wings shimmered until they too appeared to be animated with life.

"Feel, don’t think!” Hazie called, a playful note in his voice. It was just as well that nobeast could see his face. The pine marten had something wild in his eyes, and his fur was becoming plastered by sweat and the moisture on his breath.

The dance ended on a dramatic, even discordant note, as though warning the listener that it might come back at any moment with a kitchen knife for an encore. Hazie swept Sunfur into his arms, where he held the todd for a moment, before letting him down. Sunfur had been… an interesting dance partner. Hazie would remember him beyond merely the bruises on his toes, at least.

“Woo-ee! Naht bad! I’m gawnna need a drink after that!” Hazie drawled with a laugh. As if he’d cast a magic spell, there was a stoat servant in neat uniform and gloves, with two narrow-stemmed, wide-bowled glasses filled to the brim with an opaque, bright yellow liquid, each garnished with slices of lemon. Hazie took both, and offered one to Sunfur. “Thank’ee! Watcha call this refreshment?”

“A shaken gin, lemon juice and honey, chilled specially with ice, my lord,” the stoat replied stiffly. “Our wine and spirits sommelier was inspired by your, ahem, bold showing, and suggests the name, The Bee’s Knees, sir.”

Hazie raised his glass in salute. The night had only started, and already he was a trend setter. He brought the stray up between his masks’s mandibles, where there was a hole designed specifically to aid him with drinking while masked. Try as he might through, he kept tapping the straw against the edges. Doing this without actually being able to see was proving to be… impractical.

 

[Apricity Prim]

Several days ago...

The room was a mess of black cloth. It was draped over everything, strips and tatters layering the floor. Clothespins lay in piles all around, holding various yardsticks in place. The idea was there, there was enough for every piece... now she just needed to put it together into a coherent whole. But to do that...

Apricity stormed down to the kitchen. The servants were huddled around the fireplace, wild-eyed and trembling.

"Out," she said, her voice hoarse. "Go home. Vait. You - fetch all coal, all vood, put in fire. Get hammer." She was already rummaging in a drawer for tongs. "If anvil in house, get it here. If not, buy it, take it here. You, go buy metal rods. You - find BlackShip navigator, Rascallo. Take her here. Now go."

They scattered to their tasks, tails bottlebrushed, some limping. What little of her voice was left, she had been practising her singing with; the rest had been spent berating them over every little thing they did which broke her focus or interrupted her practice. In her annoyance, she may have set out a few traps throughout the halls to teach them a lesson in treading carefully.

She lay out her trapping tools on the countertop in the centre of the room. The principles were simple enough, but this would require some finesse. There were too many moving parts, and not enough time. She would need the spastic little rodent's help. The rat had proven herself adept with such things before...

~ ~ ~

How peculiar. Was this garish garnish of a fox mocking, or attempting to learn and copy, the bee's dance? It was ungainly. No, his spine wasn't suited for it. The bee was a mustelid for certain, and there was the core beauty of the dance's grace. It was not merely a dance. It was a call to action, a display of reckless abandon, fearless, restrained rage, and calculated joy. Only the compacted energies of a body too long to stand upright all day could produce such a display. A warning and celebration in one.

And such grace wasn't constrained to the dance. Whatever the fox's reason for joining, he was welcomed by the bee. No pity, no judgment, just the divine offering of companionship in the moment.

Her two mismatched fingers ached. The rest trembled.

Then it was over.

She strode forward, the shadow of her tower falling over the dance floor as she passed in front of the main fireplace.

"Bee's Knees for everybeast," she declared, ordered, one black gloved paw reaching out from beneath her veil to gesture at the stoat servant. "May such purity of soul be shared to all undeservink. The hive vill feed from vork of von. And add some orange to mine, vould you?"

She turned away from the waiter, swirls of black spinning about her. The red-weeping eyesockets of her veil's skull fixated on Hazie. Her paw reached out, gently grasping his straw for him, slotting it into his mask.

"Even a qveen needs help feedink... A prince must not be ashamed. He needs strength for the task ahead, for life is very short, and he vill never live to be kink." She coughed, very gently, and stressed, "King."

There was a smell. She realized it was him, and that for the first time that night, she had thought about somebeast other than herself. And, in fact, it was becoming quite difficult to.

How peculiar.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano did not startle at the title, nor did he laugh it off. If anything, the bells at his collar chimed softly as he turned, a controlled sound, deliberate rather than accidental. The jester’s mask inclined just enough to acknowledge the weight of the words, and for a breath he studied the faceless porcelain opposite him.

"It seemed impolite to arrive pretending I did not know how I am regarded now," he said at last, voice even, unhurried. "This is my first invitation back into rooms such as this. I assumed I would be received as a jest, and thought it best to arrive prepared."

He shifted slightly, cape whispering behind him, bells answering with a faint, almost courteous jingle.

"If I am to be thought a fool, I prefer to choose the bells myself."

There was no bitterness in it. There was just acceptance that he wore like a sash of honor.

"A jester may be laughed at," Ruffano continued, "but he is also listened to. I thought that was a reasonable place to stand, given the circumstances."

The party pressed on around them, laughter cresting suddenly from across the room in a bright, unruly swell before dissolving back into music and conversation. Somewhere beyond the circle they occupied, joy tipped briefly into excess. Ruffano did not turn his head. His attention remained where it was, steady and open.

"You read the language of masks fluently," he added, not as flattery, but as simple observation. "I thought it only polite to answer in kind."

Around them, the masquerade continued in its overlapping currents, guests drifting, circling, colliding and parting again beneath candlelight and color. Ruffano simply stood where he had chosen to stand, and waited to see whether the room, or Nutty herself, wished to listen further.

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Now, Jean-Pascal Galopin did not see himself as a beast of intellect. There was no shame in admitting when someone else was smarter than him, and frankly, this jill seemed to be much smarter than him. The way she spoke confused and frightened him, but he composed himself.

"My Dear Jill, do forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but I believe there has been some confusion," Jean-Pascal started. He took her paw in his own, without asking, and led her out onto the ballroom floor. He started a slow waltz, and many other partygoers tried to follow suit- though some of them found it awkward or impossible to do so because of their extravagant costumes.

"This is no contest or competition. It's merely a party, and parties are meant to be enjoyed. Admittedly, I think our gracious host has realized by now that there's a difference between a costume party and a masquerade party." He chuckled as he swept across the ballroom floor with her in his arms, though of course his face was unreadable from behind the crescent moon mask, only soft cerulean blue eyes that seemed to glimmer in the candlelight.

"Are there... social contracts that must be fulfilled..? Of course, there are, but I believe that's exactly why we were asked to remain anonymous. Toss away all the obligations and just be who we truly are. By donning these masks, we are free from those contracts... if only for one night."

Jean-Pascal dipped her low. "The way I see it, Mr. Galopin only loses tonight if he doesn't find what he's looking for."

---

Jill was not having a good time at this party. Sure, she was well dressed, but Mask was drawing too much attention.

"Good heavens, it's hideous!" One partygoer commented.

"Surely you could have found something else to wear?" Another asked almost empathetically, but with a veneer of hidden malice.

Jill growled, her voice amplified from beneath Mask's metal covering.

"Focus, Beast. You're on a mission, remember?" Mask's voice spoke soothingly within her mind.

Jill huffed, and with a dramatic flourish of her cape, she walked away from the conversation. She was still trying to discern which costumed beast was Jean-Pascal Galopin.

There was the beast in the bee costume... no, too garish, too obvious. Jill tried looking around, but there were too many beasts about. How to get a better vantage point? Jill's eyes wandered to the rafters. Surely, if she could climb up there unnoticed, she'd be able to view the whole party. Problem was there seemed to be no viable way of doing that, no hidden corner she could just disappear into. Shaking off that idea, she looked around again, and that's when she noticed it, Two or three beasts not wearing the same costume, but similar enough in design that it caught her eye. They were all wearing black suits. One, who seemed to be a rat given their diminutive size, wore a square mask with a line split down the middle, half black and half white. The second beast, presumably a mustelid from their tall lany stature, wore a strange triangular mask with four more triangles within it; the outer triangles were black, white, and gray, and the inner triangle gold. The third beast, a fox, undoubtedly because of his bushy tail, wore a circular mask that looked more like a moon on closer inspection. Jill decided to abandon her plan and observe these three beasts. They just gave her a strange feeling,

 

[Mileya Ryalor]

In dancing with her mysterious counterpart, Mileya found that he was not nearly so clever or devious as she had thought him to be. In a way, this was refreshing. She was used to the back-biting of Amaronian high society, where no one's true intentions were ever shown. In a way, it was much like this masquerade, except in reverse; here, it seemed, with the protection of anonymity, everybeast felt free to show their truest self. Mileya had certain shown hers.

She tilted her head, considering her dance partner carefully. He was, it seemed, a romantic; he truly believed in the stated reason for the party, which was to provide an opportunity for true love. Mileya, despite the pain of her own experience, wanted to believe that such was still possible. She recalled the way that her mother and Mister Bridger had looked at each other, the softness of their gazes that seemed to caress each other from across a room. As she'd grown up, she'd wanted for someone to look at her in that same way, like they missed her as ardently when she was present as when they were apart. She'd thought she'd found it once. The devastation of learning how wrong she'd been had destroyed her ability to trust in any male.

"Let us say for a moment that Galopin succeeds," she allowed, moving effortlessly with her partner in the waltz. "He will know nothing about her. She could be the daughter of his most staunch enemy, or even a pauper snuck into the ball beneath his snout. Attraction is one thing; it comes and goes as fleetingly as the next pretty face. Love? That is something rare, something which transcends all boundaries only when those boundaries have been tested. I think that Galopin wants love, certainly," she assessed. "What I cannot say is if, once having it, he will be able to keep it."

She hated to admit it, but she was starting to have fun talking with this unknown male. He wasn't a bad dancer, it seemed, and his conversation was far from unintelligent. He might be a bit optimistic to the point of naivete, but such was refreshing rather than annoying. She wished she could believe in beasts as he did.

@Jill (The Beast)

~~~

Nutty glanced up at the King-in-Motley, surprised at his words. Truly this beast was channeling the spirit of the King-in-Motley, exile from the Court of Chaos, who arrived uninvited and unwelcome to his own party. So, it seemed the Pagentry of Paupers was upon them. It was hardly the worst rite; the inversion of social norms tended to result in a few months of social upheaval, but such was hardly the worst thing in the Third Manse.

Nutty nodded in respectful acknowledgement of the King-in-Motley's comment. "In such an assembly, the Faceless Guest must be on paw as witness to the antics of the Court of Chaos," she remarked. "After all, no performance is complete without its audience." They tilted her head in curiosity. "Such an interesting vessel you have chosen for this occasion. That voice... Did he ever perform in a one-beast production of The Tragedee of Tarquin Superbus on a dingy stage on Fleet Street? His monologue was quite superb. An excellent choice of host if so." The King-in-Motley, the Unwritten Histories said, was easily swayed by flattery, most particularly that which was at least somewhat true. Nutty could certainly admit to having enjoyed the performance, especially the scene in which the actor had raced to portray every one of Tarquin's victims in the Massacre of the Conspirators, plus the aforementioned massacrer.

~~~

Aramaeus had, until that moment, been quite certain that he was inclined solely toward female vixen femmes of the vulpine species, commonly known as foxy ladies. Hence it was to his surprise and mild discomfort that he found himself dancing paw-in-paw with what he presumed to be a male mustelid, albeit in the accoutrement of an anthophilid. What disturbed him far more greatly was that he was enjoying himself. That level of self-reflection regarding aspects of his personality and desires he had left long-buried was certainly an unexpected and somewhat unwelcome development. He'd certainly come expecting, indeed hoping for, some level of debauchery; now he found himself getting cold footpaws at the first dip of his toe into anything outside the extremely narrow window of his lived experience.

"Yes, well," he attempted to recover from his unexpected turn about the dance floor and hide the evidence of his very confusing reaction to the sudden proximity to another todd, "that was quite, ah... invigorating. Good show," he remarked, trying to salvage what little dignity could he had. As a quite attractive marten jill (he could say that without it being outside the norm, couldn't he? Admiring the appearance of someone outside one's species was simple appreciation for beauty, not anything untoward) helped his recent dance partner with his straw, Aramaeus found himself drawn into lingering a bit longer. Maybe he'd just arrived a bit early for the debauchery. "Well," he remarked, "I suppose I could be persuaded to try this 'Bee's Knees' myself, since everybeast is doing so."

 

[Cryle]

"Good heavens, it's hideous!"

Cryle's tail wriggled nervously. Should she dare look? Frankly, all these outfits seemed rather hideous to her. Which meant, if someone wearing one thought something else was hideous, there was a fifty-fifty chance it either wasn't, or was much, much worse.

She at least stopped drinking her pineapple juice before turning around.

It wasn't hideous at all. It was... plain? Angular, smoothed metal, a little rough, perhaps, but compared to her sad attempt at a facial covering, it seemed to truly fit the vixen's facial structure. And that cape swish!

Cryle felt behind her, gripping the edge of her cape. She gave it a little tug and half-spun, for the first time trying to calculate the weight of it, the angular momentum needed for such a haughty and stylish departure. She knocked over a vase of flowers instead, and instincts kicked in: she dove under the banquet table, hiding behind the tablecloth before anybeast could scold her. She couldn't crawl with her drink; she set it down and scampered to the other end of the table, exiting the corner and slowly raising herself to her full height with every quick step away from the scene of the crime. This was, admittedly, not a whole lot of height.

Might as well properly exit the party entirely, then, after that little fiasco...

Except there was a dessert cart on the way to the grand, sweeping staircase. And now she had a plate full of things she actually wanted to eat. Tiny little cups of puddings and pastries. They were adorable and didn't appear to have anything weird in them, at least as decoration. One could never be too careful when it came to baked goods. One moment chewing into a delicious slice of buttered pumpkin bread, and the next, picking out a walnut from one's incisors and trying to get over the shock of unexpected crunch hidden inside expected savoury softness.

Truly, the most heinous crimes were committed in the kitchen.

"And where are you off to, Lady Crimson...?"

She froze at the top of the stairs, and turned slowly to put a weasel servant into view in her left eye. Curse these tiny pastries, she hadn't noticed anybeast up here when she'd started her ascent... But all these flowerpots everywhere, banners and drapes, they were not part of the mental map she'd made of the manor.

"If you are looking for the game, it is not until later," the servant continued. "Although I would be quite pleased to fortify your biddings."

"Game," she said, "yes, that... later. Later."

A slight nod from the weasel, then: "Ah, I see Lady Crimson has a fine selection, and... some trouble, perhaps, in experiencing the finest Lord Galopin's Estate has to offer her. We have set some private dining quarters aside, if you would follow me."

Phew.

She followed, and was left alone in a large sitting room with her plate. The door clicked shut behind her, the servant no doubt standing just outside in case she needed help.

She wrestled her head out of her mask, stuffed her face with one of each of everything she'd filled the plate with as fast as possible, and fixed the mask back over her head. And then she opened the window overlooking the gardens, and climbed out onto the trellis and up to the third storey, where the window was thankfully unlocked and easily nudged open. She brushed snow from her hat, cape, boots, and gloves, and was quite pleased that this was exactly the room she'd been wanting to find. There was a desk, and there was an inkwell, quill, and all the fancy gold-leafed paper she could desire.

She quickly set about designing and writing a deed proclaiming one Cleyra Moonshadow as sole proprietor of Shadow Shipping Co., estimated worth... one hundred million gilders, yes, that sounded rich enough... She bit her lip in thought, then added an extra zero. Most of her information came from Korya, who apparently was heiress to a shipping fortune, but Korya tended not to truly be aware of the full value of things. She also did tend to over-exaggerate things. Hm.

Cryle added two more zeroes to her fake deed. A neat million gilders, cubed. A perfectly regular amount of gilders.

She let the ink dry, rolled up the fake deed, and tied a neat little ribbon on it with some blue lace she'd just noticed hanging off the back of the desk's chair.

She climbed back out the window, and vaguely wondered why it didn't have any curtains.

From the corner of the room, there was a release of several breaths.

"How odd," the naked-yet-still-masked vixen said, adjusting a window curtain around her self more comfortably. "Do you think it saw us?"

"Shame it didn't join in, if it did," said the naked-yed-still-masked ferret who was adjusting his curtain into a kind of toga. "Took your garter, though."

"The little scamp!"

 

[Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont]

Hazie had just been about to give up and use his drink as a nice bee-themed prop instead, when she made herself known.

The Black Fortress, Hazie named her in his mind. She was wider around than even Madame Battleship had been, all tiered layers and streaming dark ribbons fluttering off her, as though she were a smoking ruined heap.

Hazie decided not to voice this comparison aloud.

Her veil was so long and concealing, the soldier in Hazie couldn’t help be reminded of the bedframe-mounted nets they had back on the Cahntinent, useful for evading blood-sucking insects that most Vulpinsulans would never have seen outside the creative illustrations of a book. He could make out the veil’s only decoration, a musteline skull, leaking red ichor ribbons from its eye sockets. It was a grand costume, despite its restrained colour scheme. Was she Death? The Spirit of the BlackShip? A widow’s ghost?!

Her voice set the bee’s fronds swinging to the left, exaggerating the slight tilt of Hazie’s head. She was self-assured, commanding, even flirtatious? The pine marten sipped at the delicious drink, which tingled on his tongue. Very flirtatious, he decided. Her accent rang completely unfamiliar in his ear - he neither had met her before, nor could he say where she had come from.

Hazie found he was pleased that there was some genuine mystery to be had at this costume party. He found himself intrigued by her forwardness.

“I seem fated to a short life,” Hazie murmured. The bee-marten’s voice was a contented hum compared to his loud buzzing earlier. “It’s been longer than expected already.”

Sunfur was speaking, but his words sounded as flimsy as wilting petals to Hazie. The marten was disappointed. When he’d seen the todd dance, he had seemed lively and carefree, never mind how he struggled to mimic a mustelid’s spine-flexing movements. They had gyred together in defiance of gravity, and shared perhaps a precious flicker of genuine joy, in amongst a crowd just looking to guffaw at gossip and empty the wine cellar.

It had been fleeting, Hazie thought. Now Sunfur was being all stiff-backed and insincere and boring. What had changed? Had the Black Fortress unnerved him? Did he fear he’d been recognised?

“Yeah. It was a good show,” Hazie muttered, his voice hoarse and tinged with something bitter. “Enjoy the drink… everybeast else seems to be too.”

Hazie sucked on the straw - he had to finish the drink before he could put the glass down, or else he’d have to get the Black Fortress to help him again. Or… would he? Hazie took the straw gently in his teeth, and pulled it from the lemony liquid. Now he had a straw as his proboscis.

“Usuawwy id’s der bee drawn to der fwwower, not d’odder way ‘round” Hazie enunciated past the straw in his teeth. “Den again… I have heard o’ mo’zz wid skuwws painted on deir backs. Are you a dewwicate fwwower, wady, or some’din’ ewwse entirewwy?”

Provocative? Comprehensible? Flirtatious, or ridiculous? Hazie knew not. He plunged his proboscis back into his drink.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano’s bells gave a soft, deliberate answer as the Faceless Guest spoke, the sound measured and intentional. The jester’s head inclined, just enough to suggest a bow without fully committing to one, the gold-leafed mask catching candlelight along its edges.

“Your memory honors him,” he said gently, the words chosen with care. “And your ear is as sharp as your eye. The one you speak of would be… sincerely flattered.”

There was the faintest pause, a breath held and released, nostalgia brushing the cadence of his voice without weighing it down.
“It does feel like a lifetime ago.”

At Nutty’s invocation of the Court of Chaos, Ruffano’s posture eased further, as though the diagnosis of the evening had confirmed something he’d already felt humming beneath the music. His gaze drifted outward at last, sweeping the ballroom in a slow, appreciative arc.

“If this is the Court, then it has convened in excellent form,” he murmured. “The showing did not disappoint.”

Across the room, movement caught the light: a towering figure draped in layers of pale waxen fabric, contours shaped like a candle that had been melted and reformed countless times, crowned with a frozen ring of fire wrought in gold and silver. The flames gleamed richly in the lantern light, immaculate and intentional. Elsewhere, a riot of color and motion drew laughter in bright bursts, the unmistakable silhouette of a bee flitting and spinning through the crowd with unrestrained joy.

“Some arrive to dazzle,” Ruffano continued, eyes lingering a moment longer on the spectacle, “some to unsettle. Some to remind us what still burns, and what risks inevitable extinguishment.”

The bells of his jester's hat chimed again as he turned his attention back to Nutty, softer now, conspiratorial rather than performative.

“And yet,” he went on, “for all the splendor, the expense, the artistry… we remain remarkably in the dark as to why we are truly here. A masquerade rarely gathers this much intent without a reason,”

He paused briefly before continuing. “But perhaps that, too, is part of the performance.”

The room swelled again with laughter and music, chaos blooming and receding like a living thing. Ruffano shared the view with the Faceless Guest, waiting to see which thread the night would tug next.

 

[Apricity Prim]

Several days ago...

"...and these here, quite novel specimens, they're used for medicinal - "

"Purple... is nice color. Alvays like purple... But never matches my fur, purple, orange, brown... Maybe someday, I hide brown? Purple match someday..."

"Erm, yes... the purple ones, they're... special, from the southern continent... Not native to Vulpinsula at all, although... very little is, these days. Hence the greenhouse, with the stoves warming water pipes running below the soil, everything is kept lively and healthy through the winter, much like a vegetable garden."

"And here... little vons? Lookin...gk... Looking how are sparklin...gk... sparkling."

"Quite the novel strain, yes, notice how they're almost metallic looking? It's from a rich diet in the soil, quite alchemical, really..."

"Orange vons? Yellow? I must have orange and yellow."

"Oh, yes, certainly, we have... those colors? Er, these over here are rather orange, the yellows are kept... well, for very special circumstances, study, mostly..."

"I vill buy all colors. I come back in a few days, collect vhen I have my boxes ready."

"All... all of them, my lady? Surely, you don't plan on... er, eating them, then?"

Apricity barked a short, grating laugh.

"Isn't vhy are grown? No, not for eatink, not... For else plans. For great moment."

~ ~ ~

Behind her veil, Apricity's muzzle crinkled with amusement.

"Not delicate," she assured the Bee. "Maybe a flower. Hmm... Some... else, yes. I am else."

Something. She knew the word. She just hated saying it. It came out so... coarse. She hated feeling shame for her accent. It marked her as barbaric, she imagined. The smoothness of proper Vulpinsulan, how quaint it was. Yet there was something about the Bee's drawl that took smoothness and ruffled it, made smoothness glower and sulk like a petulant kit. There was smooth, and there was suave. And then there was talking through a straw, which was neither - but it was delightful.

"A little of dark, a little of light," she continued. "A little of decay, a little of beauty. It is not right for a lady to claim it, but right and wronk, if here tonight, would ve recognize?"

Her drink arrived then, and a black glove slipped out and drew it in, and she nudged the straw aside with her tongue and guzzled furiously, unseen, quickly and quietly, as if drinking was a distasteful job to get done. Considering what she had had to drink to survive this far...

She caught herself, though, and lowered the glass. She let the straw slip between her incisors, pursed her lips tight, and suckled until the rattling gurgle of an empty container drew several annoyed looks. The empty glass shot out from under her veil and the waiter took it without batting an eye.

Something else around Apricity rattled. Buzzed. Her tail swished beneath the heavy poof of her skirts, yearning, like so many yearned, to be free. Soon.

"Is a good drink," she said softly, sidling aside to nudge the once-dancing fox with the hem of her gown - it felt like metal wire bending gently against his shin. Her words surprised herself. It was a good drink. And the orange she'd requested sat well in her aching stomach, reminding her that some would not be free quite soon enough.

She gave Aramaeus a studious look for a moment, taking in his costume properly. It was not much of a costume... but the checkered ascot was stained. Stained was good. There was no life in sterility.

"You dance vell, for fox. Maybe, ve can dance... all of us?"

She spun gently back to face Hazie The Bee. The smell of the dance still clung to him like pollen. A lilting growl seeped into her voice.

"Or vould a prince like to find a flower for his task? A little beauty, a little decay?" A black-glove beckoned to Aramaeus as well. "Maybe... all of us?"

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

"My dear, my dear." Galopin tutted and shook his head. "It matters not if they are princess or paupette. A face is just a face. What's important is that they connected on an emotional level. Regardless of how they would be seen, the fact is that they can face societal expectations together. Shield each other from the scorn... together." There was a deep sadness in the todd's voice, if only for a moment, before he quickly tried to switch the topic. "Regardless, it's a- uh- wonderful party." He motioned with his paw to the musicians to play something a bit faster, and picked up the pace of the dance as he did so. Upon closer inspection, this todd was tall and lean, not unlike their host. "I can see why Mr. Galopin holds them so often. It would be awful to be in this luxurious mansion by oneself, don't you agree?"

-------

Jill was tracking the three partygoers who seemed to know each other, exchanging glances and occasionally nodding, as if silently communicating. They seemed to be focused on the fellow in the garish bee outfit and his current conversation partner, which Jill could only describe as perhaps an extra-large Grim Reaper. The Bee and The Reaper, then. Jill wasn't sure why they were the targets of these potential ne'er-do-wells, but regardless, she was determined to stop whatever it was they had planned. Still, she couldn't just go and make a scene. She had to wait for them to strike first, lest her assumptions be wildly incorrect. Still, there was the issue of finding the host... maybe it was The Bee. The way he was acting, no one would have suspected it was actually Mr. Galopin.

"And what will you do when you find Mr. Jean-Pascal Galopin? Will you kill him?" Mask asked within Jill's mind.

I don't know yet, and quit talking to me. I'm trying to focus. Jill clenched her paws in frustration.