Café de Nuit

A figure hooded in a silver cape walked abreast to Celeste, and might have been confused for her, too. The woman wore an empire-line dress so simple that it was surprising for a costumed party. The dress was a fine satin, subtle enough to shift from powder blue to silver in the candlelight.

Hands with fingerless lace gloves twisted a ring on the left ring finger. "I look ridiculous," the woman whispered to Celeste, despite what the others were wearing. "This neckline is senseless. I shall have to do penance!"

Indeed, for when she lowered her hood to the doorman, there was no mistake in recognizing Nerit. She wore no jewelry that wasn't her own, and had even been pressured to remove her Ezran pendant for better effect. Now, though, it was clear how much ashy hair she had been hiding under that veil. Bundles of it lay stacked at the back of her head behind a fashionable headband, some hanging in waves by her ears. Clearly, this was Celeste's doing.

She was careful to sidestep the puddle, much like a house cat would.

Once inside, however, Nerit lifted the hood over her hair and donned a ferociously decorated mask. Black, beaded, and feathered in midnight hues, the half mask also sported a white silk lily bursting from the right side. The cool tones adorning the nun was a stark contrast to her usual outfit and made her brown eyes blaze orange from behind the mask.

When she had the chance, she sidled up to Kerrian and complimented his attire. "I must admit, I have always wanted to meet the Green Man." A wry yet hesitant smile graced her lips.

Holy Mother of Mercy!
Arcana:
17
21
29
Edit - Insight: Mother of Mercy again!
19

The Tessier Gallery, Quartier Savant, Port-a-Lucine; March 11th, 770, 7:22 PM

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Nerit wrote:Hands with fingerless lace gloves twisted a ring on the left ring finger. "I look ridiculous," the woman whispered to Celeste, despite what the others were wearing. "This neckline is senseless. I shall have to do penance!"

"Surely we must be doing it already," Richard murmured to the side. The towering young man was decked out in black and silver, wearing a black coat and a cape that he was clearly uncomfortable in. A quick examination revealed that his decorator had not convinced him to remove the holy symbol around his neck, although he had tucked it under his vest, where it was hidden from the crowd. A silver lion mask covered his face, the mane reaching back to merge with his tousled black curls.

"Why, Richard, was that a disparaging remark I heard from you?" Alice teased. Even the grand ball opening wasn't enough to get the Mordentishwoman to abandon her high collared dresses, thought this one was covered in darkly attractive plum trim. Black and purple butterfly wings graced her face, highlighted by silver lattice work and a thin tiara. She smiled at Sister Doherty, her grey eyes twinkling to match her mask. "Hush, both of you, you look lovely. If you need already do the penance for your outfit, you may as well show it off."

Kerrian wrote:"But...I have to ask..does the gallery have problems with..otherworldly beings?" He gestured to the candles for emphasis, trying to ignore the quiescent water elemental, as much as the earlier experiences of the day suggested doing otherwise.

"Ooooh? Does it? Does it?" Cerise chimed in, and impish grin behind her impish mask. The green bat wings sweeping above her ears curled up into her chestnut hair.

"I should hope not!" Donatien said, slightly taken aback. "Still, Councilor LaGrange seems to believe in covering all bases."

"Aw." Cerise was quick to bounce back from the disappointment. "Oh well. C'mon, Cyrus, let's case this place for vampires." She properly presented her hand to Cyrus, though her inviting glance clearly indicated that anyone else that wanted to scamper around looking for fangs was welcome to join.

The Masque at the Tessier Gallery was one of the highlights of the Dementlieuse social season, and it showed. The Masque was held in the main gallery, a magnificent open chamber, but even this was packed to the bursting with the mass of humanity. It was chaos, a majestic chaos that slowly resolved itself into order. At least two hundred patrons of the arts walked a slow circuit around the perimeter of the gallery, gazing at the beauty that adorned the walls.

And what beauty it was! Upon the walls were the finest paintings that had passed through the hands of the Tessier Gallery over the past year, works from artists new and old. Young and fashionable artistes preened in front of their works, impressing possible patrons and flirting with the comely nobility. Elsewhere, the more established master painters regarded the entire business with a cynical eye, having weathered the fashions of the years to ascend to the impressive position of a cultural institution. It is amongst these that Evariste Lemercier spotted a few of his cronies.

"My eagle-eyed Seiglinde, forgive my age and infirmity, but would that gentleman in the silver assembly be Edmond Nauveau?" Lemercier peered at a cadaverous man in his late forties, his mask a face-concealing arrangement of clockwork.

"It is." Prof. Petrik confirmed. She sniffed. "You knew that, Old Man."

"Perhaps I did, my enchanting Seiglinde, but it was a pleasure and an honor to recieve confirmation from your estimable self." Prof. Lemercier turned to the rest of you. "I fear you will have to pardon my abominable rudeness, but I haven't seen Edmond since he had the abominable gall of winning first place at the University Showing at midwinter over Policce Verso. If you will excuse us, my charming young proteges..."

"A fine proposition," Celeste heard murmured aside to her. A man in rich blue velvet had appeared behind her at some point, his mask a brilliant soleil of burnished gold. Though dressed in polar opposite to the simple and worn clothes he had always worn before, his sparkling blue eyes and the lingering smell of tobacco gave a clue to his identity. "If you are not otherwise engaged, mademoiselle, might I accompany you in your perusal of this fine gallery?"

Not all of the high society of Dementlieu was concerned solely with art, however. Here and there in the crowd the hurly-burly of social interaction continued, with greater or lesser success.

Proceeding on a stately procession around the Gallery were two men before whom the rest of the nobility gave way. The first man was of average height, clad in the dark uniform and silver trim of Falkovnia's formal dress, a jeweler's array of medals pinned upon his breast, with the iron hawk given pride of place. Marcos Vedarrak, for it could be no other, wore a hawk-mask that could only be described as somewhat gaudy, with gilt-brown feathers and a laughing beak. His companion was a man of late-middle age, stocky without being fat, dressed in a very sedate and sensible outfit that stood out amongst the peacocks of Dementlieu by virtue of its very plainness. His face was covered with a mask in the shape of a lunar crescent. Both these two worthies were followed at a safe distance by a pair of discreet but professional looking bodyguards wearing simpler falcon-masks, at least one of whom had the general size and shape of Lieutenant Jaeger from the Embassy.

Elsewhere, a less sedate conversation was going on. Near a handsome illustration of a particularly old Invidian myth, a very matronly woman was intimidating a significantly larger man. She was likewise stout and well-rounded, and dressed to the very dizzying height of fashion. Her mask was meant to be exotic and beautiful, a bird-of-paradise with genuine feathers, but somehow managed to only accentuate the motherly aspect of the woman. Of course, given that the woman was saying, "Such a beautiful painting, simply magnificent, though I do fear that it was of such a heathen character, but nevertheless I am quite simply enthralled by the oils..." there was very little doubt that it was Coralie Loiseau. The body language of her companion, a taller, muscular man in a dragon-mask, was revealing just a touch of desperation.

Off to the side, away from the dance of Dementlieuse society, was a group of Richemuloise expatriates gathered together and chatting, or more likely gossiping, about the gala about them. There were five of them, and it was obvious that they had designed their masks together. The smallest, a youth of no more than twenty with lustrous chestnut hair, was wearing the mask of a brown mouse. His companion, a beauty only a few years older than him, with raven locks, wore a mask of a black mouse. Not far from them, a taller, older couple in mirrored clothing wore matching white mouse-masks, to compliment their bleached, platinum-blond hair.

Overseeing this assortment of mice was a sleek black cat with brown hair and in a black academician's suit. Spotting you, the black cat waved his hand, and the entire assembly of cats and mice headed your way.

"Professor Lessard!" the white mice chorused in unison, entirely too eagerly. Lessard's mask, a plain white affair with no decoration whatsoever, betrayed no emotion; however, he did seem to twitch slightly.

As the throng of mice descended upon Remy, another guest seemed attracted by your entrance. A beautiful, blond woman, dressed in a pale blue dress trimmed with white fur, glided toward your party. Her mask was gilded with silver veins, the white branches flowing out like snow-covered trees in winter. Behind the mask, ocean blue eyes sought out their target, her silver fan spread open and touched delicately to her lips.

"Why, how pleasant to see you again, Mlle. Viardot," she said, a beautiful smile forming on her lips. "Are you seeking to improve your art collection with the finest Dementlieu has to offer?"

Sister Doherty wrote:“I look ridiculous," the woman whispered to Celeste, despite what the others were wearing. "This neckline is senseless. I shall have to do penance!"

“Oh, I beg to differ, Sister Doherty: you look exceptionally becoming, that neckline is eminently well thought-of in the proper circles, and as for penance—ah, but that is between yourself and Our Lady.” Celeste smiled warmly at the nun. “But for tonight, simply drink deep of your surroundings! The twinned pleasures of Art and good company cannot fail to relax the mind and uplift the spirit—at least, so I have always believed!”

Celeste’s outfit…

Well, Celeste had access to a number of professional theater costumers. Helping to fund a number of well thought-of opera openings will do that. As such, she had disappeared into her room an hour before the coaches’ arrival, gushing something about a “lovely ensemble from the opening of ‘The Woodcutter’s Daughter’…an inestimable loss to let it remain closeted on such an occasion…and so harmoniously paired with the new fan! A triumph, simply a triumph…” and so forth.

The result would have put a Rokuma noblewoman to shame. A floor-length silk robe in gentle shades of grass-green, the dress was hand-dyed with a pattern of slender bamboo stalks extending upward from the hem, with gold trim and embroidery highlighting the neckline and flowing sleeves. A wide silk belt, tied in an elaborate bow at the back, brought the ensemble together—and while the comparatively high neckline may have been slightly at odds with the prevailing styles for Dementlieuse eveningwear, Celeste had refused to sacrifice her gloves. This hardly detracted from the overall effect.

“Oh, M. Tessier—what a singular pleasure to meet with you again! And under such august circumstances—why, without even having entered the gallery, I daresay that I am veritably tingling with anticipatory joy!” The gallery host was nearly bowled over with the effusive greeting. “Thank you ever so much for allowing our coterie into your aesthetic sanctuary—I am sure I speak for the prevailing opinion when I say that I am overcome with gratitude.”

She accepted the invitation with a curtsy and a smile, then walked forward to present herself to the guards, punctuating their investigation with a 360-degree twirl so that they could make sure all of her was non-suspicious. This accomplished, she donned her mask—a glittering porcelain crescent trimmed in gold leaf, sparkling like the moon in the candlelight—and made her entrance.

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M. Boucher wrote:"If you are not otherwise engaged, mademoiselle, might I accompany you in your perusal of this fine gallery?"

Celeste turned and smiled, curtsying knowingly at the magician. “Why, greetings, gallant stranger! What an unexpected pleasure to encounter such a mysterious fellow-spectator among this sea of unknown faces! I accept your kind invitation, on the condition that your conversation be engaging and your aesthetic appreciation be sincere…ah, but I perceive already that I can expect no less! Come: let us peruse.”

With a cheerful grin, she accompanied Boucher into the crowd.

Duchess von Auerbach wrote:"Why, how pleasant to see you again, Mlle. Viardot," she said, a beautiful smile forming on her lips. "Are you seeking to improve your art collection with the finest Dementlieu has to offer?"

Celeste had to turn around to see the source of the voice. All things considered, this was a regrettable decision.

Von Auerbach…

Nothing perceptible changed in her expression, but you could have sworn that you felt the prevailing temperature drop by around five degrees. With a series of short, economical movements, the setting-sun fan was folded out and held delicately in front of Celeste’s mouth. It was probably a good thing that the metal tines were retracted at the moment.

“Duchess von Auerbach! What a…singular pleasure.” The tone was unimpeachably friendly. Really. It did not at all sound like Celeste was gritting her teeth. “Alas, I am afraid that I devote tonight wholly to personal appreciation. And quite fulfilling it is!”

Pause.

“...What of yourself?”

Sister Doherty wrote:
When she had the chance, she sidled up to Kerrian and complimented his attire. "I must admit, I have always wanted to meet the Green Man." A wry yet hesitant smile graced her lips.

Kerrian smiled in return, glad his rather impromptu work on a costume was appreciated. "I'm glad you like it. I'll have to tell him if I speak with him." A strange comment for certian...but then again, Nerit had been there for Kerrian's rather unconventional religious vision. "Your costume is wonderful too, everything brings out your eyes, even with the mask."

For a moment, Kerrian looked rather uncomfortable. "I..feel kind of out of place here..but I THINK the Bird of Paradise critiquing Hala turns the seasons is someone I know. If you want, you can come and watch me potentially make a fool of myself in front of a complete stranger." A conspiratorial grin banished the discomfort, and he began to head over towards the Bird of Paradise and the Dragon, gesturing for Nerit to follow if she wished.
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Mme Loiseau wrote: "Such a beautiful painting, simply magnificent, though I do fear that it was of such a heathen character, but nevertheless I am quite simply enthralled by the oils..." .

"Does it matter if it's heathen?" Kerrian asked, making his way over to the Bird of Paradise and the Dragon. "It's Depicting...I think Hala Turns the Seasons " Kerrian paused a moment, trying to think if his recollection was accurate. After all, most of the stories he knew about Halans tended to end with them getting eaten by werewolves...but a bit of the myth had filtered down.

"Besides being a beautiful painting..and it really is... but what it makes you feel emotionally is the important thing. It always is. I mean, take Selene is a prisoner of herself by Bessette" Kerrian mentioned a painting known for being anything but beautiful, depicting a young woman being committed to a sanitarium, all the light gone from the piece, even her eyes.

"No one would call it beautiful...but you look at it, and you feel the desperation, the pain and the loneliness. That gives it more power than.." Kerrian suddenly looked about conspiratorially, as if to make sure certian parties were nowhere to be seen, though with all the masks, it was hard to be certian. "Anything by a certian someone who keeps doing the same painting of flowers in vases, only changing the colors up some, and calling it his next masterwork."

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is...yes, it's heathen to you..that's one thing. But what does it make you feel?"

"Oh, yes," Nerit inclined her feathered, hooded head and followed Kerrian. "It is quite relevant," she said from behind him.
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Kerrian wrote:"I suppose what I'm trying to say is...yes, it's heathen to you..that's one thing. But what does it make you feel?"

"If you only feel hatred, Mme," Nerit cut in, "think but this: it is a far overrated reaction to heathen sensibilities. Artists, perhaps, know it best when they depict what those with religious fervor would call blasphemous. There is something below the surface of every sentient mind, and it manifests there." She pointed unceremoniously to the painting. "So before you walk away in disgust, why do you call it heathen? What are you afraid of, Mme?"

For a stranger, it must have been an odd speech from the costumed figure before her. Like Nerit had said, the painting was quite relevant.

Tomas raises an eyebrow(sinisterly!), crossing his arms and shamelessly observing their little Celeste, all grown up and hating someone. Golly. Otherwise, Eisenwald is busy enjoying not having to wear his usual, restrictive clothing; no one would question this man having suspicious scars or mismatched bones...

The Tessier Gallery, Quartier Savant, Port-a-Lucine; March 11th, 770, 7:27 PM
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Kerrian wrote:"I suppose what I'm trying to say is...yes, it's heathen to you..that's one thing. But what does it make you feel?"

Sister Nerit wrote:"So before you walk away in disgust, why do you call it heathen? What are you afraid of, Mme?"

The matronly woman turned at these two newcomers, peering at them myopically through the bird-of-paradise mask. It was an extremely expensive mask, that much could be told at a glance, with bright feathers and little gems set into the painted porcelain. Mme. Loiseau's cheeks were rouged, and her lipstick was a particular shade of deep plum.

"Afraid of a painting? Oh my dear girl, what a silly idea! And you too, M. Mauganson! What a funny thought." Loiseau let loose a lady-like giggle. "Really, you two have some of the strangest thoughts. All I was saying to the nice gentleman here was that while this was a truly wonderful painting, I adore it unabashedly, but that it is really too bad that the artist decided to use such skill on a foreign story. I mean really, it's as though Dementlieu doesn't have any stories worth telling. It's... it's... it's disrespectful."

One had the feeling that in Mme. Coralie Loiseau's private dictionary, being disrespectful was a crime that was equalled only by mass murder and high treason to the state.

"But really, to hate it? When it's such a sweet little painting, and I suppose the Invidians do need all the comfort they can get, poor dears." Loiseau fanned herself with a broad, brightly colored fan like a bird-of-paradise's tail, though given the mask it was uncertain how much cooling off was provided. "But it would be better to focus on Dementlieuse culture, just like M. Mauganson's idea of a charity ball would. Oooh, M'sieur! Have I told you about this absolutely wonderful new idea M. Mauganson has had?"

"You haven't yet." The man in the dragon-mask said, only barely suppressing a sigh. And he'd been edging away from the conversation so successfully until now. He turned towards Mme. Loiseau and nodded lightly, the gleaming, red-painted mask holding onto his head only by virtue of strings in the back. It was a rather large, and rather impressive mask, probably made of ceramic or maybe even light steel. "But you will now."

"Of course! M. Mauganson, please forgive me, I had not thought to mention it before. Really, I have been thinking about your charity ball, and I think it is an absolutely wondrous idea, one which we should do as soon as possible. In early May, I think, would be the ideal time." Loiseau beamed towards Kerrian. "M. Mauganson, please tell the gentleman just what this wondrous scheme of yours will do!"

Mlle Viardot wrote:“Duchess von Auerbach! What a…singular pleasure.” The tone was unimpeachably friendly. Really. It did not at all sound like Celeste was gritting her teeth. “Alas, I am afraid that I devote tonight wholly to personal appreciation. And quite fulfilling it is!”

Pause.

“...What of yourself?”

"But of course," the Duchess replied, running her delicately filed nails across her fan. "One must not ignore the simple pleasures of merely viewing. Perhaps I could show you some of my favorite selections? I hope to be adding them to my collection before the night is out."

M. Boucher gave a sly smile as he glanced between the two women, not having failed to notice the interesting subtext flying in between them. "A duchess, mademoiselle?" he asked, undoubtedly raising an eyebrow behind his golden mask. "Ah, you have been holding out on us. The mysterious debutant in our apartment is in secret a baron's daughter, or heiress to a Vaasi count."

The ocean blue eyes fell on the stocky young man standing next to Celeste. "Ah, this young gentleman is a new acquaintance of yours? From you new apartment, I gather. Perhaps you would do me the honor of introducing us?"

"Ah, come now, your Ladyship, this is a masquerade," the young man replied, eyes twinkling. "Names would ruin the fun."

Mme Loiseau wrote: "Afraid of a painting? Oh my dear girl, what a silly idea! And you too, M. Mauganson! What a funny thought." Loiseau let loose a lady-like giggle. "Really, you two have some of the strangest thoughts. All I was saying to the nice gentleman here was that while this was a truly wonderful painting, I adore it unabashedly, but that it is really too bad that the artist decided to use such skill on a foreign story. I mean really, it's as though Dementlieu doesn't have any stories worth telling. It's... it's... it's disrespectful."

"Really?" Kerrian said, pausing a moment, and regarding the painting closer. "If anything, doesn't using their skill on a foreign story show the height of the Dementlieuse character?" Kerrian gestured towards the face of the representation of the goddess Hala.

"In most versions of the story, once she sets to work putting the seasons to turning, she's presented as a crone. But here, the artist shows her still young, but the brushstrokes show ever so subtly imply the beginnings of age lining her face. No longer Hala the Maiden, but not yet Hala the Crone. instead Hala the Mother her child born, but still there to watch it grow and prosper." Kerrian paused, looking towards Mme Loiseau.

"I don't think anyone but an artist from Dementlieu would think to depict her in such a way. Though the story may be Invidian, this painting...this way of seeing things..is Dementlieu. A poorer culture...wouldn't think to even attempt to do such a thing. But Dementlieu has the clarity of vision to see the beauty in what's outside itself, and in doing so, bring it within."

He then turned to the poor man in the dragon mask, who likely thought he was going to be able to make a quick egress from Mme Loiseau's ever so charming company.

"My idea...it's simple really.I think a Ball should be held...maybe even regularly, with attendance requiring a donation from each individual. The proceeds of the evening would then go towards funding aid and assistance for the poor. A night of culture to be enjoyed...while at the same time showing that the aristocracy is willing to contribute towards the less fortunate." Kerrian distinctly left out the part about his probably being considered part of that second group, but he suspected it probably showed.

"Though I doubt it'll do much to stop the Anarchists from making things worse...it might do some good for those who are just starting to listen to their message, because it's the only one they have a chance to listen to."

Lia glides over to Remy, staff twirling slightly in her fingers as she goes. "Now now," she chides the mice as she stops next to the beleaguered professor, "this is a bal masqué. It really does not do to cry out everyone's true identity to all gathered, now does it?"

After inclining her head slightly to the man in the cat mask, Lia turns to Remy. "That being said ... Should we all be introduced, my friend?"

"I will not remove my glasses," Cyrus stared down his nose at the doorman, "If you wish to identify me, my tattoos will suffice. How many other exotic, shaven foreigners do you see in this party?"

The Hazlani and the doorman argued over his shaded glasses for several minutes before Cyrus persuaded his adversary to relent. The dommer scowled at the doorman when he was finally let in, but pulled his hood up and relaxed visibly once he and Cerise were inside.

To many Dementlieuse, Cyrus dressed down for the occasion. Indeed, some nobles might call the display scandalous. For a Hazlani, however, his outfit was par for the course. He wore a long, dark green silk zarong decorated and trimmed in subdued gold tones. The dark fabric shimmered sinuously as it caught the light, resembling fine, serpentine scales. The zarong was cinched and tied off by a tight gold-colored band. Above that, Cyrus wore only a matching green stole and a hood designed to resemble a cobra snake.

Between hood and zarong, the stole barely hid a work of art worthy of visiting the gallery. Cyrus's figure was extremely well-defined, the sort of frame one gets from intense, disciplined training and practice. Not only was his physique well-formed, but his flesh presented an intricate tapestry of stylized, exotic tattoo work. The twin oroborous serpentson his back curled around each other in a precise and exquisitely detailed knotwork. Greenish flames surrounded the circluar serpents and a pair of viper eyes stared out from the center of their ring. Two other snakes coiled around each arm, slithering toward his hands. Around the snakes, symbols, shapes, and runes spilled over his shoulders and down his arms. The spear of the Lawgiver was emblazoned on his chest. All of the pieces fit together well to create one whole image rather than several separate pictures.

"Vampires?" Cyrus asked, bemused, as he took Cerise's hand in an excellent imitation of a Dementlieuse nobleman, "Do you truly think they'd come to this party?"

He let the woman lead him off around the gallery. Cyrus never saw much in the kind of art presented here. Like any good Mulan, he had a firm appreciation for tattoo art. However, he felt less inclined to care about paintings. Sculpture intrigued him, but few other visual arts did. Still, when one had a woman on his arm, it was much easier to appreciate the finer things of life.

"Do you know who many of these people are?" Cyrus asked his date, "I had hoped to see some of the Dementlieuse elite here."

Well, that was a fun five minutes, Tomas considers, contemplating the LAST time he was with Boucher around women. Not wanting to be publicly humiliated twice in one day, Tomas heads towards whatever looks like a buffet, deciding to grab something to eat and get out of the party as soon as its politely possible.

Regretting coming back to the city and trying life among civilized people again, Eisenwald shakes his head, trying to keep his earlier moodiness at bay.

The Tessier Gallery, Quartier Savant, Port-a-Lucine; March 11th, 770, 7:27 PM
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Lia glides over to Remy, staff twirling slightly in her fingers as she goes. "Now now," she chides the mice as she stops next to the beleaguered professor, "this is a bal masqué. It really does not do to cry out everyone's true identity to all gathered, now does it?"

After inclining her head slightly to the man in the cat mask, Lia turns to Remy. "That being said ... Should we all be introduced, my friend?"

"A very good idea." Marchand-Renier's voice was touched with a dry amusement as the two white mice flocked around Remy. "Lia, let me introduce you to the Renier-in-Dementlieu family, or such of it as isn't staying home and nursing a cup of tea. The young gentleman in the brown mask is my step-nephew, Christophe Renier."

"Hullo." The young fellow said, waving amiably at the rest of you. Upon close inspection, he was almost amazingly well-built, a stocky, muscular shape. "Nice to meet you."

"The two enthusiasts are Betram and Bertriz Renier, who are mercifully unrelated to me." Marchand-Renier continued, favoring the two white mice with a resigned look.

"Liar." The female of the pair said, twirling a lock of white hair around a finger. "We're related, we're---"

"Fourth-cousins, once-removed." The deeper-voice male said, putting an arm around Remy's shoulder. "But you'd never know it---"

"Because we actually laugh sometimes." Betriz continued. "Still, we're charmed---"

"And charming---" Bertram added.

"To meet you." Betriz finished. She favored Remy with a smile, revealing a dimple in the process. The two were without a doubt very handsome, tall and aristocratic and with startlingly pale hair. But they were just a little overwhelming.

"That joke died with Great-Grandfather." The last member of the group rolled her eyes. She wasn't as pretty as her two distant cousins, nor as muscular as Christophe, but world-weary good sense all but radiated off her. "My name is Felise Dupont-Renier. There's also Uncle Quentin, but he's staying home tonight. Something he ate disagreed with him."

"The Viscount Quentin Renier, the Richemuloise Ambassador to Port-a-Lucine." Prof. Marchand-Renier explained. "Which is why as the only other Renier in Port-a-Lucine, I've been drafted into playing unofficial chaperone and patriarch for the clan."

"He enjoys it, he really does." Christophe commented to no one in particular. "He just complains about it a lot."

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Tomas wrote:Well, that was a fun five minutes, Tomas considers, contemplating the LAST time he was with Boucher around women. Not wanting to be publicly humiliated twice in one day, Tomas heads towards whatever looks like a buffet, deciding to grab something to eat and get out of the party as soon as its politely possible.

Regretting coming back to the city and trying life among civilized people again, Eisenwald shakes his head, trying to keep his earlier moodiness at bay.

As Tomas helped himself to the buffet table, he saw that he was not the only person trying to avoid the press of the crowd. Katja Zweibach, was likewise hanging back by the food and avoiding the rest of the group, though she wasn't eating. Instead, she watched Vedarrak and his companion with a hawk-like eye, so much that for a moment it seemed that she hadn't even noticed Tomas.

Katja could be best described at the moment as a particularly discordant vision. She wore the men's style riding-outfit, having refused to don a dress after Celeste's gushing compliments and Alice's levelheaded comment that who would know anyway. Katja had also refused to part with the rose cloth about her head. Instead, it had been layered beneath a delicate mask that could only be described as "pink" and "lacy". Her general expression leaned towards the murderous.

"If this is some sort of very specific Dementlieuse torture," Katja said as Tomas approached. "Then the reputation of this country for decadence is greatly undeserved."

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Cyrus wrote:"Vampires?" Cyrus asked, bemused, as he took Cerise's hand in an excellent imitation of a Dementlieuse nobleman, "Do you truly think they'd come to this party?"

"Of course!" Cerise grinned. "It's all the pale makeup the nobles wear, they fit right in. That's why I don't wear the stuff."

Cyrus wrote:"Do you know who many of these people are?" Cyrus asked his date, "I had hoped to see some of the Dementlieuse elite here."

"Hmm, I probably do, but the masks make it a little hard, let me see," Cerise paused, looking around. "Ooh! There, that guy!" She pointed at the gentleman walking around with Ambassador Veddarak. "It's Councillor Claude LaGrange," she whispered. "I've seen him around the University a whole bunch. They say he's the one handling all the grain negotiations from Falkovnia, which is why everyone else on the council treats him like a pariah. He certainly seems to get along with the Ambassador well enough. Thought you know... I hear some people in Richemulot are offering food imports."

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Kerrian wrote:"My idea...it's simple really.I think a Ball should be held...maybe even regularly, with attendance requiring a donation from each individual. The proceeds of the evening would then go towards funding aid and assistance for the poor. A night of culture to be enjoyed...while at the same time showing that the aristocracy is willing to contribute towards the less fortunate."

"I'm not sure that's what it will look like to many," the man in the dragon mask said.

"Oh! My dear man! What a silly thought!" Loiseau objected, fluffing up. "Of course the little dearies will be grateful! These are such trying times, you know, that any assistance must be welcomed. And who could possibly hate the thought of a ball? I shall make certain no expense is spared! Don't you worry about attendance, my dear boy. It will be the event of the season! Everyone will want to come. And I am certain that no one who wants to attend could be so stingy as to begrudge the money spent to get in. Oh, and I shall have to ask my boy about turtles for the soup, you know, such an event can hardly be expected to go with mock turtle-"

The man in the dragon mask folded his arms, in a way that suggested that Loiseau was proving his point better than he could. "It's a nice thought," he grudgingly replied.

"Well of course it is!" Loisaeu exclaimed. "Oh, you must help us out! We have so many preperations we need to do! I must find a suitable lodging - Chateaux Montfoyer is tolerable, but the windows are far to small, you know - and the curtains! Linen simply will not do. I must speak to the docksmerchant about the finest of Rokushiman silks, but they are so hard to find in decent lengths for balls. And we must make sure there is a decent dancing area, and decent dancing music, of course. Too often the staircases are too large, which is quite proper most of the time, but when it comes to dancing it is quite vexing. And I will have to make sure all the chairs match the decor-"

"I'm not good with balls," the man said. The dragon-mask tilted slightly to the side, as he considered something. "I'll get people to come to it," he told Kerrian. "I hope your ball does some good."

"If this is some sort of very specific Dementlieuse torture," Katja said as Tomas approached. "Then the reputation of this country for decadence is greatly undeserved."

Tomas's cheeks puff up and he bites his tongue, which is the only way he keeps from laughing out loud at the bizarre little pastel picture Katja paints. He's sure his more melodramatic choice isn't exactly any classier, but at least he can enjoy it, right? "No, their torture chambers are much less formal. More of a low key affair; a couple of friends, a bottle of wine, an iron maiden..."

Tomas then offers the young woman(It is hard not to think 'Little Girl'.) some sort of pastry on a stick. "These are good." He confides, "Just mutton sausage meat, I think. If we are going to endure torments, frauline, we might as well be fed for our trouble, nicht war?"

"Good evening, Renier scions," Lia says in a smooth tone of voice, and she sketches a polite gesture. "I should like to say what a pleasure it is to meet you all. I have been indebted to our mutual acquaintance here for quite a while now."

The Mage indicates the 'mutual acquaintance', professor Marchand-Renier, while maintaining the proper form of a Bal Masqué by not mentioning his name.

"Tell me," she says as she casually hooks her arm through Remy's, "have any of you availed yourselves of your 'borrowed patriarch' to learn new languages? I can personally testify that he is an excellent teacher."

The Dragon Masked gent wrote: "I'm not good with balls," the man said. The dragon-mask tilted slightly to the side, as he considered something. "I'll get people to come to it," he told Kerrian. "I hope your ball does some good."

"I'm not particularly skilled with them either." Admitted Kerrian, although skilled with them at all would be a better assessment. "At best, it's a start. Something has to be done to break the cycle that we're stuck in though. Common folk think the Nobility doesn't care, some anarchist starts calling for blood..the common folk listen a little. Anarchist does something stupid, the Nobles increase pressure out of fear for their lives...which the anarchists seize upon as another example of Noble callousness, and play up to get more people to listen to their cause." Kerrian sighed sadly, and shook his head.

"Things can't keep going like this. Something has to be found that can get everyone to a common good, Noble or Common. Otherwise, things are only going to get worse." A shrug, then a moment of realization. "I don't believe we've been introduced.."