Log:A Midsummer Masquerade

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A Midsummer Masquerade
Participants

November as host. Cardinal as King Oberon. CB as Queen Titania. Cassian as Puck/Robin Goodfellow. Czcibor as Lysander. Eckhart as Demetrius. Franklyn as Helena. Boyd and Ashe and Levi and Rozalia as guests.

20 October, 2017


November hosts a masquerade party themed after A Midsummer Night's Dream, by Shakespeare. Attendees are given parts to play, though some participants match their parts better than others!

Location

A faerie "hill" in ER03


The directions for the gathering bring guests together on the east bank of the Tam, down in the gently rolling meadow lands and groves of Mischance's foothills.

A single beribboned lantern stands on a hook thrust down into the soil to mark a lovely wicker arch, the masquerade evidently within.

Once one steps inside...

Were there this many trees, here, before? Did the meadows smell so very sweet?

There are, however, a swarm of silver butterflies eager to take your cloak and flutter away behind a tall and somehow too-lovely tree. Oh, its ancestors were undoubtedly mortal, as were those of its comrades, the holm oaks and Aleppo pines, olive, oleander and laurel, too, but there is something subtly off about them. They aren't perfect, no, they have scars, broken branches, but there's a certain artistry to how they are designed, fitting together as part of a whole. Where guests might wish to congregate, a clearing exists. Where guests might wish to settle quietly and speak soft words, soft bowers of fruited bushes and mosses are waiting to oblige.

Food and drink, too, is brought with nary a hint of its provenance -- guests have scarcely to express a need before a wild creature bounds toward them with their desire in hand. Or, rather, in teeth or paw. The wines are sweet or smooth, light or robust, and the water is crisp and cold, tasting of lazy Summer afternoons.

Scenes from the play are notably reproduced, appropriate scenery nestled into the forest in such a way that they only seem natural. Of course there is a stone floor there, trees giving the impression of a hall. Of course there are flowers with which to make a balm. Weapons, too, as illusory as the rest, are there should duels occur.


NOTE: much of this is done with Illusion 5. If your character would demand to resist the illusion instead of going along with the fun, +roll Resolve + Composure - 7 (penalty due to extra Glamour being spent on the Contract activation). Yes, Indomitable counts toward this if you have it. There are real foods and drinks, real furnishings and such, for a lot of the effects, but their appearances have been veiled in the semblance of lovelier things.


As for the hostess, November, she presently stands off to one side of the entrance, attired and cloaked in crushed velvets and silks in auroral hues of rose and gold, hair and flesh likewise.

She is not Masked.

She also appears to be speaking with a tiny fluttering faerie perched on a branch nearby. Those who can see through the illusion would be able to tell that it is her crow, Yrrh, looking disgruntled and holding a little chime in his beak.


Were cloaks expected? It's warm enough, barely, for the half-naked king to eschew such covering, having shamelessly made her way from wherever it is that rogue redbirds hide all the way to the enchanted grove in naught but her costume. Of which there isn't a whole lot. Oh, her skinny legs are warm, covered in such a way as to offer the illusion of bulk, thick leather boots stretching up to her knees and giving way to loose blue pants which hang low on her bony hips, but her belly is bare and her chest nearly so with only a terribly short and wide open vest in a similar blue-green shade keeping her little tits hidden from the faint chill. What make-up marks her body is meant to add both an air of whimsy and a suggestion of masculinity, to make the scrawny wizened seem more imposing and regal than her nature truly permits. The crown tangled in her too-red tresses helps, thick with bluish leaves and violet flowers, housing a wide rack of antlers, as does the square set of her shoulders and the way she holds her head high.

Though King Oberon does not need any butterflies to take the cloak or coat she is not wearing, she does accept a glass of plum red wine without any particular gratitude expressed to the critter which delivers it. After all, she's king ad such service is to be expected.


Oh this, this is... This is something else, right?

First off: who invited the actual Mortal? Because Franklyn -has- gotten an invitation, and indeed she is dressed for the occasion: in a very pale, very blush pink chiton of implausibly sheer textile, tied up with an earthy sage green cord and clasped at the shoulders with some glittery bronze clasp - oh the costume flounces, it bellows, it exposes her sandalled feet as she hurries along, oblivious to the cold because...

...because chances are Franklyn Garreau is already a little drunk, although not as drunk as her companion C.B. Alexander; "Oh please, /stoooop/ it, that's do ridiculous and--" the argumentative, banter comes to an abrupt halt as Franky turns, and finds herself in the entryway of...

Oh sweet Wyrd, what on Earth is going on here?

Franky may have a role to play, that includes a lot of running around being mesmerised and flush -- lucky for her? This will not at all be the slightest bit difficult: stunned and awed, once inside she just sort of stops talking and starts to drift... Yeah. Someone's a wee bit enchanted.


Yeah. C.B. Alexander is goddamn wasted. That's what he is. In fact, he's carrying a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand, which befits his...role....? Which is...what, exactly?

Well, whatever it may be, the curmudgeonly Wizenened /has/ dressed up. He's wearing an incredibly makeshift chiton of some sort, except...it appears to be made of brightly colored tie-dyed bedsheets, cinched at the waist by a red tassel that clearly comes from a set of curtains. There is a ratty rainbow colored wig of long hair askew on his head, atop which is perched a plastic tiara festooned with rainbow plastic jewels.

But on his feet? His usual dirty construction boots. He has standards, after all. And they show clearly, because his 'chiton' is on the shorter side. "Stop WHAT, Franklyn? Stop WHAT? I will NOT stop. I will -- " He takes a swig of whiskey and looks around, eyes narrowing, lips sneering. "Look at this parcel of illusions. Half of this stuff is phony!" He waves at it and glowers at Frank. "Can't you tell?! Phony!"


What does one do when one is trying to get one's feet back under them scant days after escaping the nightmare of their Durance and the tender mercies of the Hedge? If one is smart, the answer is probably not: Attend a party where the invitation is invisible to the mortal eye. Unfortunately, it seems that Boyd doesn't subscribe to the laws of wisdom overmuch. The newly-minted Lost is almost ludicrously mundane in a chiton and chlamys of rough cotton, unadorned white. It has the look of 'put together at the last moment' about it and matches his expression of 'what am I doing here' quite well. He's wearing leather sandals with the classic straps that wind 'round the ankles and lower calves. The Wyrd has made little mark upon him, and it would take a sharp eye to catch the faint eyeshines of a tapetum in his green eyes. Slightly more obvious is the faint and elfin tapering of his ears.

When he steps past the margin between reality and illusion, he stops dead. He doesn't goggle like a rube, but it's a very near thing. Plainly a fish out of water, he looks warily about the area. The sight of a woodland creature delivering wine to some sort of fairy royalty garners his attention first, followed one by one by the others in attendance. Gobsmacked Darkling is gobsmacked.


As befits one making the acquaintance of a King, November sinks into a graceful curtsey, the fact that she is presently almost a foot taller than 'he' is making the obeisance almost comical. "Welcome, your Majesty. I trust you fared well on your journey." Alien eyes all but twinkle, or..er, they look like they -would- be twinkling if they weren't transparent ice. Close enough!

Courtesy complete, she rises to welcome her other guests, accepting Franklyn and CB without a blip in her polite, smooth calm. Queerly liquid hair drifts in response to the turn of her head, strands catching the light, because of course there are faerie lights drifting about, and the Fairest welcomes them as well with a warm, "Come in, come in, and a pleasant evening to you as well, my Queen," this toward CB, of course, who gets a curtsey of his own, "and lovely Helena." This toward Franklyn.


The stranger entering behind the 'Queen' Titania and Helena-Franklyn is gazed at with a curious flicker of soft blues through November's roses, greenish if seen through a gold streak in that transparent flesh. Not that much of it is visible. Her attire does conceal a great deal of her form. Boyd receives a welcoming smile of his own, and a beckoning hand to suggest that he attend her.


Who costumed C.B. Alexander? NOT Franklyn Garreau -- or at least as artistic director she did not have the final say in the aesthetic choices which C.B's internal/infernal costume department came to. No. However, Franklyn maaaaay have something to do with the fact that the iconoclastic Wizened is looking a touch...

...shimmery.

Just around the edges; his cheeks and jaw and forehead an neck and wrists and actually all of his various boney protrusions -- of which there are, of course, many. It is not magic: it is makeup - the 'I Heart Makeup Unicorn Heart Rainbow Highlighter', to be specific - because a dream is a wish ones heart makes, and Franky's heart is... Presumably in the right place.

While C.B's rainbow highlighter is just about everywhere, set sparkling by any flash of lightning or errant will o' wisp that passes by.

"The signified is not the signifier, but we use one to feel the other - don't be so, like, /static/? If all there was is that which what there -is- than we would never get -ANYWHERE- would we? What about that crackling imagination, hmmm? What about, about, what, what about," ... So Franklyn is a /little/ more than a -little- drunk, "What about the =intangible=, right?! Who died and made -you- the definitive expert on phony and---"

OH THANK THE WYRD. November is here, and her presence has shut Franklyn -right- up. All the Mortal girl does? Just... Looks. Her expression this kind of stunned, hazy, flush-cheeked shell shock. Obviously she needs another drink.


Eckhart comes in along the narrow road.


Boyd's smile is jittery, like a fish on the end of a hook when almost its strength is spent on trying to escape. But he manfully attempts the gesture, at least. He approaches when November gestures to him, all too conscious of his quite mundane outfit in the face of fae splendor. Franklyn and C.B.'s appearances earn quick glances. They don't seem to intimidate him as much, and so he relegates them to the 'not likely to drag me off again' column. "Good evening, your majesty," he offers after clearing his throat.


"That's right. Bow and fucking scrape, peasant," C.B. scoffs at November. "/I'm/ your goddamn rainbow faerie queen tonight." He uptilts his chin in Cardinal's direction as he takes another swig. "Hail to you, O Symbol of the Patriarchy. Need I remind you again that that boy is mine?" Then he turns and adds to Franklyn, "Actually, I'm the fucking queen, so I'm the definitive expert on everything, mortal." He glances around as some of the others start to come in, such as Boyd, who he doesn't know. A little lightning sparks out of his fingertips as his gaze returns to November. Imperious. So imperious! "Alright, we getting this show on the road or what? I can't promise how much longer I'll stay sober. But as the Queen of the Goddamn Faeries, I don't /have/ to stay sober if I don't fucking /want/ to." And while he's at it, he'll dig a cigarette that was hiding in the little curtain rope of his belt and light it up, matchtip to boot.


No, Ashe is not actually in attendance in the crowd tonight. The Monarch is off in the darkness sitting in the branches of the trees dressed all in black. She's comfortable in this environment. And she's probably not going to make her presence known unless she has to. And no, she's not snooping on her Freeholders. The M4 assault rifle on her set out in front of her would prove otherwise. There's dangerous stuff out in the woods. Things that want to kill people. And she was going to blow a hole in something tonight if it tried.


Cardinal bows, albeit shallowly, at the gracious greeting from the crystalline hostess, her empty hand flicking through a few short gestures. Her crown doesn't so much as wobble when her head tips back as she downs that rather lovely wine all too quickly. It seems the sort of thing to be done tonight, what with her queen arriving with Wild Turkey in his hand. As November moves on, so too does she, handing off the empty glass to whatever bit of fuzz or feather happens to be scurrying dutifully past. Adopting her regal, kingly posture, she regards CB with exaggerated disdain, eyeroll and all. Her hands move while her mouth maintains its pursed, semi-smug smirk, something said to Rainbow Titania which... well, it would seem very few are likely to understand. Helena, though? Oh, she gets a look over from the blue-eyed King, a smile and upnod turned Franklyn's way. So, too, does Boyd get a hint of consideration. Might he be the pretty boy she's fighting over with her queen? What a fine henchman that near-mortal might make!


November's soft laughter is seen more than heard, though a subtle flick of her fingers sends an array of bobbing, dancing lights to crown CB's head in the pale, silvery gleam of the full moon. The full moon which won't -actually- be here for a good two weeks, mind. Having caught King Oberon's ASL in the tail of her eye, when Boyd approaches, she leans in to murmur something to the man, a slender, long-fingered hand lifting to indicate Cardinal.


      There he was: pressed into a corner as though holding pages like a bookmark, that knavish Elf, Cassian-as-Puck. A mail of woven leaves has formed over his already elf-like body, woven together to create a shirt of autumn leaves. Barefoot, with faux-horns pressing upward from the bed of hair atop his head. His eyes scan the crowd thoughtfully. They were the eyes of troublemaking.


Boyd inclines his head to listen to whatever it is that November speaks to him. His throat works once as he swallows. He takes a moment to compose whatever his response is going to be. Whatever it is, he's obviously couching it in respectful whisper. The near-mortal glances over at Cardinal, brows furrowing, before he looks back to November. His hands are digging in the fabric of his chiton, as though he's just desperate for pockets to shove them deeply within. When he's said his piece, he takes a single step back so he can drop into a bow. As one does to royalty. But his eyes never quite leave November. It's not from being enraptured, that much is clear. No, there's definite fear in his eyes, though kept under control.


Franklyn's mesmerised look on November is suddenly shook -- hold the fucking phone: did Queen C.B. just start signing the 1998 Brandy & Monica classic to Cardinal? The boy is mine, for sure Franklyn - good luck with that. The eternal struggle between Psyche and Eros may be unfolding inside that Mortal's twisted noggin, because she's looking... Totally incredulous as C.B. is speaking at her -- and yet? Yet... Yet she is grinning suddenly, laughing sharply, snorting even. Mirth! Amusement! Delight? Oh yes, but not exactly all sunshine and lollypops;

"Forgive me, your majesty - again, your divine right to be exactly the kind of asshole you want to be is hardly something /I/, not to even mention the top professionals in the country, could dare interfere with, let alone influence." Franky reaches out -- oh hey that's a cigarette and she wants it. Isn't there a role she's supposed to be playing, that doesn't include harassing a Queen?

Looks like some actresses need direction. Also a drink -- where's that sweet faerie wine, again? Totally logical to drink offered fare at a masquerade ball. Absolutely not a bad idea in the slightest. Of course Franky may not focus long -- the Mortal is caught up looking at November, but then... Boyd. Who's he? Better stare at him all wide eyed and curious like.


And that's when a stranger steps in, all in black, with dark grey metal skin and a dull silver scar visible all the way around his neck; the only bright spots about his person are his featureless silvered eyes and the Autumn Token pinned to the collar of his button-down shirt, a watch and a ring and a tie-pin, another pin on the lapel of his greatcoat...

...and the lush and verdant late-Spring mantle that surrounds him: a tangle of wild June roses and brambles, the scent of ozone and the nighttime bonfires of preparation for Summer's welcome. There's certainly something Other about him, a presence that fills rooms and demands attention... and the rolling power of a high Wyrd. It is likely only the autumn leaves on his collar that signify he is not, in fact, some curious baby Gentry that's come to participate in the festivities.

Well. That and his unutterably cheery voice, hollow and resonant, but inflected like a real person's, and with a noticeable mixed-up European accent: "Hi! I smell liquid courage. Thought I'd bring more, even if I haven't a costume prepared--"

He holds up a bottle of, unsurprising, vodka. At least it's good vodka.


Ashe watches from the distance, all commando like. Yes, the Monarch was playing security for the event it appeared. And unawares to the others. But she's a good Monarch, Bront!


C.B. stifles a burp and gestures to Cardinal with his bottle of whiskey. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever." He eyes the sudden moonlight above him skeptically, batting at the bobbing lights. "Get lost!" Isn't she lovely and gracious, your faerie queen? But she is. He goes to find a 'throne' and fall into it, oblivious to the glitteriness that Franklyn may or may not have smeared around him. The cigarette? Hell no, tonight, Franky's not getting it. "That's right. Exactly the kind of asshole I want. No consequences. That's what being a royal is aaaaaaall about." He puts his feet up on a bundle of moss and flowers, squinting at the newly arrived figures of Cassian and Czcibor. "Well, of course there's booze here. It's a goddamn party, what did you expect?" So imperious. So dignified. All hail Queen Titania.


The red-headed King all in blue-greens and golds, skin glittering and dimly it, is as much moon as the evening truly needs! Cardinal regards that lunar luminescence sent to Titania's head with suspicion-tinged jealousy. A single word is signed in a distracted November's direction, a faint grin tugging at her lips after the criticism is rendered, as she gestures to the way the queen gracelessly swats at so kind a gift. Looking to Franky, she signs something more, chin lifted, limbs moving with fluid grace through the words... which aren't likely to go understood. Does she care? Nope. She's going to say her peace all the same before setting her blue eyes on Boyd to answer his bow with a shallow one of her own--which, yes, flashes those bitty little tits of hers as the front of the vest answers gravity's call, but it's just a brief glimpse of nipples before she's upright and modest once more. As she steps in the near-mortal's direction to offer him an arm, should he desire an escort through all this oddity, she catches the hint of looming mischief not far off. A bright smile is turned toward the horned Cassian, his Puck easy to pick out. She beckons, calling him closer that the trouble might begin to be made all nice and proper-like.


Laughing again, more openly this time, November slips past the guests at the entrance to retrieve a piece of paper from behind a 'tree', a swift smile cast toward Franklyn's wide-eyed fascination as she does. CB, illusion-piercer that he is, can tell that the faerie Ancient is taking it off of a small folding TV table. Cloak swirling about as she pivots to return to Boyd's uneasy side, the invitation is offered, held between two transparent digits. She keeps her voice soft to avoid interrupting the others while they have their fun, but doesn't make any true effort to prevent them from overhearing what she is telling the stranger. "A masquerade. A party, themed after Shakespeare's play. Harmless in intent. I welcome newcomers to the area, when I am not playing Narrator. Please, eat, drink, be merry, and tomorrow -- well. Let tomorrow handle itself." With a wink and an unfinished quote left in her wake, she claps her hands and strides off toward the totally-not-there Ashe in the distance, calling forth appropriately fae music for A Midsummer Night's Dream, instrumental, sourceless.


Suprisingly enough? November's proferring of the invitation and the explanation seems to help Boyd. At least knowing that the party is -supposed to be- strange and otherwordly helps him put things in perspective. He manages another smile, this one more lively than the previous. "Thank you, your majesty." Getting his feet back under him, he can try to fall back into character. At least, back into the character of a nameless extra. "I think I will take your excellent advice and let tomorrow worry about itself." Not quite the same thing, but close enough. He takes a step back, dipping another nervous bow before clearing way to allow November hobnob with other guests. Thus escaping from the royal presence, he takes the opportunity to look around again. This time, without quite so much trepidation in his expression. Each of the partgoers gets a renewed glance.


No cigarette? No Franklyn -- as Kween C.B. overlooks noblesse oblige in favour of discussing the finer points of royal consequences, the Mortal girl gives him an exaggerated curtesy - and boy, can that strikingly expressive little piece of work make that curtsey look just like a full body middle finger - then she turns away from the Wizened Kween's mossy throne, observes the room with a wide eyed stare, and flounces off at once.

Oh hey look, there's an intimidating metallic stranger, who happens to be holding vodka. En route to Czcibor, Franky catches glimpse of Cardinal and just... Smiles at her -- this, this is a genuine look, real smile, no snark. What that smile to Cardinal does contain is a gentle sort of sadness, of longing: the Mortal does not understand ALS, and... The loss opportunity for conversation seems to sadden her.

But onwards Franky flounces, straight up to... Czcibor. When she gets there? The Mortal girl stops, stares, and probably drunkenly reconsiders her approach. "...So." Line. Line. Where's her fucking line?! "Your cohorts -- I don't see them, yet? Here you are, sheen of your brow shining like stars on the sea." Wrong text, Franky - that's not even Shakespeare! She continues. "How's that working out for you, eh?"


Demetrius né Eckhart reaches the party eventually, although he's fashionably. Despite the rather casual dress he's grown quite accustomed to he's arrived. His appearance is truer to his namesake than Shakespeare: his tunic is as much the stuff of thorn and thisle as his left hand, and the same is true of his trousers. His vest over his top looks to have been patched and sewn together from bits of the night sky, and twinkles with his every movement. His shoes, however, are his usual dirtied, white sneakers.

As the evening took him through the waking world he sports a pair of black, rounded shades that do little to hide the faint glow of light behind them. He does takethem off after seeing the other Lost, stowing them in his pocket while he offers a slight bow to those gathered. Before he can echo a proper greeting he finds his attention briefly focusing on their Seelie queen, and the brilliance of C.B.'s glimmering visage.


      Cassian's scanning eyes seem to pause for a moment, narrowing thoughtfully before he slips away from the wall. Though he doesn't seem to eye or seek out Cardinal, he ends up near his would-be King Oberon. Quiet and, well, mysterious, is Cassian-as-Puck. He seems all too interested in a few individuals. "My King," he says, low and quiet.


Drunkenness is one way to put a rose in the cheeks of the erstwhile faerie 'kween'... The illusory creatures oblige their creatrix's will, flocking to the two members of the 'royal' party while November continues until she reaches a position beneath Ashe's tree. She offers up a little fruity pocket pie pilfered from the back of a moon-pale stag on the way there. "Seen anything?"

See, deity she may be, but she isn't THAT foolish.


"Well then--" the tall Pole says genially. He heads toward C.B., since The Queeniest C.B. is the first person to have answered him, and his gaze is drawn to Franklyn and Boyd as he begins to pass. Then he stops in his tracks, blank silver eyes widening comically, as Franklyn beelines for him.

Letting out a startled laugh, the tin man flourishes a sweeping and courtly bow. "Captain Kowal der Landeswehr, at your service." He then straightens and presents the unopened bottle to the mortal girl. "Offered freely," he assures her cheerfully. "I haven't brushed up on my Shakespeare lately, I know there's something something identity crisis and playing tricks and some very revealing outfits involved, right?"

Then he leans in and asks worriedly, sotto voce, "Are there cohorts in this play? I'm afraid I've no idea what I'm doing." Weightless roses climb ephemerally up his back, creep along the ground around him, entwine gently around Franklyn's ankles-- and burst into nothing when she moves. He smells of gunmetal, roses, and aftershave, and his voice is a kind one, very gently amused.


Yep. C.B. shines like a shiny-ass shiny thing tonight. He smokes, drinks, and scowls when Franklyn flounces off, leaning his elbow on the mossy arm of the chair and shoving his cheek down onto his curled fist as he glares at the interaction between 'Helena' and Czcibor. "I'm not gonna last the night," he mutters to himself, sighing and stretching out his legs so that he can stare straight up at the sky.


The sky, of course, is as illusory as the rest, CB's eyes treated to an overlay of Mediterranean constellations over those he -should- be seeing, here in Vermont. A flight of moths flitterflutters through the interlacing branches overhead, their wings chiming sweet music with each flap.


The full weight of Oberon's attention settles upon Puck as the imp draws near. Of course, this is, truly, the attention of a wizened moonbeam and thus not particularly weighty despite Cardinal's best attempts to appear otherwise. She gestures gracefully in that voiceless language of hers... before turning to something a bit more improvisational. A purple flower plucked from her crown, she offers it out to Cassian with one hand while gesturing to CB... and then considering the rest of the crowd as if there might be more mischief to make. Czcibor, perhaps? Her brows arch as she points to the stranger then looks to Cassian. Is that one fit for enchanting as well? Of course, the flower she's offered is a facsimile and not quite so lovely as whatever the Narrator has cooked up in the illusions, just a bit of craft store plastic and hand-painted fabric, its violet edges delicately gilded. Oh! But look at those little tarts! Cardinal's distracted from any further instruction-giving of mischief as she plucks up a sweet treat that she might indulge.


Ashe pays attention to some of the goings on, and there's smiles to some of the roles. Some are spot on. Cassian as Puck makes her smirk. She isn't one to go break up the party unless there's signs of distress or danger. So she's going to stay in her spot for the time being with her rifle and Uvall.


Franklyn's expression, for all it's flush intoxication and obvious Delight - capital D for Delirious - starts to steel up a smidgen as Czcibor starts speaking to her, makes his introduction. Oh sure, it's just a little steeling; a tightening around her smile, a vague narrowing of those big Earthen green eyes of hers - but her voice, when she replies, is as light and airy as anything. Actresses got to act. Damnit, Franky...

"Helena -- and while the offer of service is kindly acknowledged, I cannot accept. My heart just wouldn't be in it." Wait, what's Franky doing? It's improv, don't worry about it; she's going all ad hoc with her lines now. "Although I'll accept the bottle, because while I doubt I'll find Demetrius at the bottom, I may find some solace instead. How happy some o'er other some can be!, eh?"

Assuming Czcibor doesn't refuse, the Mortal girl takes the bottle, uncorks, and takes a sip. Jesus, Franklyn! That's a faeries booze - who knows what it could be, really - where the hell is her chaperone!? The girl continues; "Do any of us, know what we're doing, really?"

Oh here we go... Deep breath, and Franklyn starts her monologue: "Love can make worthless things beautiful... When we're in love, we don't see with our eyes -- we see with our minds. You know? That's why paintings of Cupid, they always show him as blind. Love doesn't have good judgment either, yeah? Cupid, he has wings and no eyes -- so he's bound to be reckless and hasty. That's his fucking lot. That's why they say love is a child." Here she laughs - so bitter, so pained, so... Longing. A sigh, and she stares at the bottle as she continues. "Because it makes such bad choices. Just as boys like to play games by telling lies, Cupid breaks his promises all the time... Before Demetrius... Well... I'm sure don't wanna hear it."

Franky turns, and glances at Czcibor side-on, eyes cautious and uncertain and more than a little bit curious. "...What about you? Who's stolen your eyes, clipped your wings and had you stumbling barefoot in the forest, trying to get back what was taken, eh? Where's your love lead you?"


      Cassian offers a sideyed glance towards C.B., stroking his bare chin for a moment. Then, those spindle-fingers pluck the purple flower away and Cassian slinks away carefully. He woupd need time to consider a scheme, but there was going to be mischief afoot!


Alas! November does not see Franklyn's excellent performance, for she is still speaking quietly with the guardian-batgirl up in a tree on the edge of the 'forest'.


Cardinal's fingers wiggle in appreciation for the dramatic performance, for how well--if not accurately, who needs accuracy, surely not anyone here!--Franklyn has taken to her role. The king's smile is wide and delighted--and entirely closed-lipped--and grows only brighter when Cassian slips off into the fray with the flower to get on with the scheming and mischief making. Ooh! More wine!


"Helena! Right, you're--" Come on, dude, you literally cosplayed at a Star Trek convention, you can do this 'in character' stuff. "Right. Ah--"

He hands the bottle over and tries to get into something resembling some kind of character, then has what's obviously a Brilliant Idea, face brightening for a second. The scent of guns and roses is stronger for a second as he ties glamour into his will, taking off his coat and folding it over one arm, and his dark grey skin shifts in a shimmering of Wyrd lights to a pale green, unearthly, inhuman and sharp beauty; his eyes turn a sparkling impossible multifaceted blue and his ears acquire delicate points, and his wiry hair is replaced by a soft mop of slightly overlong grass-green locks. He glows faintly, and his shirt abruptly doesn't fit quite right.

So poor Franklyn is ad-libbing and Czcibor is struggling uncomfortably with a mixture of foresight-lack and oxford shirt, unbuttoning in a hurry to release the smallish iridescent dragonfly wings suddenly attached to his shoulderblades. There's still roses everywhere, which is also distracting and annoying, so it's possible he might be forgiven for screwing up the masquerade further: "Your pardon, Lady Helena; my love loves me not, and I would fain forget his beautiful face and lose myself in the delights of a-- a-- kegger-- um-- sorry this goddamn tie clip is stuck--"

He gets his shirt off!! And breathes a tiny sigh of irritated relief. "Um. The emptiness in your heart, so cruelly created by Demetrius' absence, can indeed not be filled by the company of others; I laud thy choice to drown thy troubled heart in the-- vodka. (Can I have some too?)"


The faerie music continues, tempting, inviting, with the occasional trill of playful laughter from half-seen shapes whisking behind trees.


Franklyn is a pretty good actress, but even she can't mask the disturbed look which flashes across her face - just for a second, while she tries to figure out what to do with all this information. Because this is fine; no honestly, watching some giant metallic person with a complicated Polish name shift their body into something sharper and green and beautiful with grassy locks, no, no this is -fine- everything is /fine/ -- see?

And yet... As Czcibor's shirt is literally popping off of him, and Franklyn just stands there, stunned and gawking and yet, and /yet/, even in the midst of all that glamorous quick-change, there is something about Franky's flickering expression that is downright, well, critical. He may be sporting wings, but Czcibor is fumbling his lines.

Party foul, man.

"..." The bottle of vodka is lifted, sipped at, then accidentally withheld as Franklyn peers at the Spring while she watches him finally get that shirt off and sigh. "Don't worry about my love; he showered me with promises and swore he'd be mine forever. Soon as he got all hot and bothered? Well, like unexpected snow in April, those promises quickly meted away." Brief pause, then she ahems and glances over the newly dragonfly-ish form of the fellow. "...What a shame, that your own love is not here to guide you -- perhaps the omission of his presence is a sign, like trampled grass marks out a path, that it is time to move on to greener pastures."

Quick breath in, then Franklyn ahems and smiles - BEAM, although maybe a little mischievous - and starts to lead Czcibor on, luring him with the prospect of that vodka bottle as she glides on and ushers him towards the throne of one C.B. Alexander, Saboteur Kqween. "Allow me to introduce you to your..." Oh what's the word, what's the woooord. "Glorious leader."


      Cassian's eyes slide across some miserable creature in thought for a moment. Slipping away, Cassian tends to some matters in quiet, away from prying eyes.       Before long, someone looking suspiciously like Cassian-as-Puck reappears. A flowering of blue roses and twisted vines have formed over his face as a party mask, crowned with King Oberon's purple flower. In his right hand are a tray of treats, delectables. A tangerine-looking treat with a tasty-looking drizzle. And he begins to slip through the crowd, on the prowl to find his way towards, particularly, the tinman.


What the hell has Sasskween Titania Alexander been doing this whole time, anyway, besides drinking, smoking and sulking? Actually...it looks like he may have nodded off a bit, and given the fact that he's an insomniac, that's really saying something. Thanks, copious amounts of booze. Or maybe there's just something soporiffic in the air? Either way, he suddenly wakes up with a snort, rubbing at his sparkly face. Awakening to the world just in time to see Franklyn coming his way, maybe, with some dude in tow who...looks different than the dude she was talking to before he fell asleep. Huh. Scowl firmly in place, he reaches for that cheap whiskey bottle, drinks, and watches them approach. Does he have faerie servants? Well, he should, but he probably doesn't. He does have lightning, though. It crackles around him and makes all that moonlight and glitter sparkle in the loveliest of ways.


Why, of course Titania has faerie servants. Little pixies and wild creatures but await 'her' whim.


King Oberon mingles, peruses, enjoys the enchanting transformations and engaging verbosity of Helena and the accidental Lysander which Czcibor is well on his way to becoming. The king in blue and gold and purple considers all the lovely creatures in her domain, including the might-be-Puck in his approach of the bewinged captain talking up Franklyn, before her focus falls on the loveliest of the lot--by some measures, not accounting for taste and all that--and a smile is turned toward Titania. For all of a span of three seconds before Cardinal catches that others are approaching her wife, as it were, and stealing attention which ought rightfully to be his. Well, at least Cassian's up to trouble-making. A flicker of feigned jealousy crosses her features before she slinks closer to the converging crowd. To eavesdrop, it would seem, not to interact. Can't go having the queen thinking she cares for his attention at all.


GAME: Czcibor regain 3 Glamour with reason: Franky's Drowny Brand New Album For 1990 Flood of They Might Be Desire For CB


There's always a cure for too much casual magic: when he who weilds it is in some ways still a sixteen year old footballer with pronounced nerd traits.

The strength of his presence is really, really and truly, only a detriment at times like this. Captain Sir Czcibor Kowal der Landeswehr's got a guaranteed spot as biggest square at the party.

Honestly, even his chagrin is epic; he's flubbed both ad-lib lines (who even does that) and contract. He sort of sheepishly follows Franklyn along, squishing the inclination to get dangerously huffy about being Judged when he's in the wrong because really, who does that, True Fae do that is who. Also maybe he's following the vodka.

As he trails along behind and to one side of her, shirt and coat draped over his arm, and Cassian follows the two of them, he makes an impatient gesture back at his climbing roses and the scent of gunmetal threads through them once more, finally vanishing them in a petulant wisp of stranger magics.

An uneven step, graceless for even a toy soldier (nevermind some kind of weirdly beautiful bishounen Fairest Bug), causes him to stumble as he tries to catch up, and he clears his throat. "Mine own love is but a memory; I've had enough of winter's snows and fickle fancies to forswear all but the bonds of blood, be they of the body or the covenant. I roameth not for the sake of finding love anew, but for the sake of service to ideals--"

And then he catches his breath, and those faceted blue eyes turn to stare at Franklyn for a second, then shoot towards C.B. in shock. His coat-free hand flies to his mouth, and he's blushing, and oh god his eyes are getting all overbright-teary-shiny in appreciation. "Ohhhh. Ohhhh. How wonderful!" How awkward. Drunk on glamour before he's even gotten a sip of vodka. "Though I to love forsworn forever be / the love of others toward their souls' own mates / shall evermore its blessings to me free / blest be they whose love holds favored fate--" Because everyone's more expressive when drunk, right?



      Cassian isn't ashamed to use the crowd to his advantage, as he slips along the imagined pathways that lead him towards Czcibor. He wasn't much of a dancer, but he was lithe and seemed to move easily enough through the crowd. Of course, this strange man carrying a plate of treats and a few flutes of drinks, seemed to resemble the same Cassian-as-Puck as before--Only now, he clearly wore a masquerade, seemingly hiding his identity and certainly cementing his place at the party as someone responsible for refreshments.       He makes a show of passing out treats about himself, though the plate seems to move on before the right people can be allowed. As the Tinman speaks, Cassian pays attention and awaits. It wasn't until Czcibor was finished that Cassian approached to offer food and drink. Though, even as he bows in offering of the plate towards Czcibor, Cassian's eyes are seeking the next quarry: C.B.


November, having no particular part, drifts toward the gathering to focus on controlling the illusions more purposefully, an aid to Cassian's Puck. Tricksters unite! A flock of bluebirds flitters toward Franklyn to bestow upon her yet more booze, somehow carrying the glass of sparkling wine in their itty bitty claws, while yet more beasts deposit beverages of varying strengths near other participants, should they seem even slightly inclined toward indulging.

Some of them taste of Summer's ending, others of the cool silvery moon, and yet more of the honeyed golden light warming a languorous afternoon, sweet with the unrealised dreams of day.


C.B. glowers over at Cardinal-Oberon, but that's about as far as he goes. His enthusiasm for the role seems to only go so far. Is it waning as he gets drunker, or is he just drunker as he gets drunker? At least the little sprites and such that flitter around him are keeping his cigarette in his fingers upright and the bottle from slipping from his hand. So considerate.

Czcibor, though? He gets an even deeper scowl from the 'queen.' "Who's this clown?" Shakesperean-like. Never you mind that C.B. probably knows Shakespeare better than a lot of people; he just doesn't much care for acting. Well...maybe a little. "Speak, peasant cur." Paranoid as ever, his blue-silver eyes trail over to Cassian as he seems to be looking his way, and they immediately narrow. But he doesn't take any of the party-offered beverages. Not yet.


Franklyn flounces onwards - oblivious to the faux-jealousy of King Cardinal, and outright Ignoring the near-on unbearable weight of Czcibor's sheepish chagrin and huffy, graceless steps to fall in line as Franky leads him to Queen C.B. - because lets face it, not even Cassian's Puckish masquerade can capture the Mortal's attention right now. Nope. Franklyn's only got eyes for that Glorious Leader, and all his drunken, scowling, sparkling, whiskey-and-cigarette breathy loveliness.

She did say Cupid was blind, right? Oh Helena...

"Hmmm?" Franklyn glances over to Czci as he stumbles over his lines, agaaain - but when he starts getting all, uh, all... All suddenly drunk and poetic? Blushing and in shock? Franky stands up a little straighter, pink skirts of her Grecian robe bellowing around her, looking all, well, uncertain and then downright puzzled as the fellow breaks into poetry.

Why does that always happen to her?! Or more to the fact... Why is she not being handed any delicious treats? Faeries are so goddamned confusing. Franky peers at Cassian briefly, then clears her throat and looks back at C.B., totally not jealous that he gets treats or anything. Nope. "...Your /majesty/," O', those eyes sparkle as she speaks - it's not all sweetness and rainbows, but hey, neither is C.B, "Allow me to present..." Oh lord, Czci's name is too much, so Franklyn merely smiles; "A poet, for your consideration. Charming, no? I was lead to believe..."

And C.B. is talking, because of -course- he is, and Franklyn merely /stops/, and steps to the side immediately; covering her outlandish and not altogether nice grin with that bottle of booze. Who needs faerie food? Polish vodka will do in a pinch. Where's November? What's going on over there? Franky scans the crowd, to keep from... Well, corpsing really.


Oberon may well miss the Titania who loved dancing, who loved people so very much that she--the king, feminine creature that she is this evening--was jealous of all the attention he--for the queen's very much a he tonight--paid to everyone else. Cardinal, the antlered king, heaves a voiceless sigh at the scowling CB before plucking up yet another glass of wine and turning her attention decidedly elsewhere. Let others engage in their mischief and nonsense. She'll not be joining whatever unplesant court the queen is holding, and her enthusiasm for watching it play out so weirdly, so utterly lacking in authenticity or enthusiasm, has fully waned.


This'll probably be the first accidental Lysander who's more likely to become enamoured of a coffee pot than anyone here who doesn't look exactly like Dr. Julian Bashir, but there is legit a first time for everything. This clown, AKA Captain 'Normally Possessing At Least a Modicum of Dignity' Kowal der Landeswehr, is in the process of wiping his eyes on his woolen greatcoat while graciously accepting a flute of honeyed tea from Cassian while C.B. demands who he is.

By the time he gets around to answering, he's had some of it and obviously relished its intoxicating flavour. Obviously. Very. A lot. Many appreciate.

"Nazywam sie Kapitan Czcibor Kowal, i weile moze wiedza prosze Wasza Krolewska Mosc," he tells C.B. quite gravely, sketching a faintly unsteady bow. And then he seems to realize that that Wasn't English. He gives Franklyn an uncertain blink, then finishes off his tea and doesn't know what to do with the flute, so hands it to one of the illusory sprites. Hopefully there's actually substance to that one. "Uh. My-- apologies-- I-- hope... oathmate, to come here in a time-- soon... Kowal, Captain Kowal? Is me..."

Glamour before beer, you're in the clear. Beer before glamour, so damn hammered.


Franklyn - Helena - looks around the glorious 'room', but she does not see the stand-in for beloved Demetrius nor adored Hermia, no. All she's left with is her accidental Lysander -- drunkenly stumbling and subverting his own dignity as he tries to speak to a Tatiana who's love for her people has been entirely subverted, cast away like it was an illusion all along.

And ain't that the rub? Because it's all an Illusion - a masquerade, a pantomime, and play just as messily handled as Midsummer's Mortal's bogus interpretation of Pyramus and Thisbe. The King is feminine - the Queen so masculine - the faerie tinman uncertain and drunk by the scene, the Mortal girl cool and amused and all together a touch aloof as she stares off, still, at all the splendour around them.

What kind of play is this? It's a perfect play - because it reflects the imperfectness all have, in the roles they've been told to play, not chosen to take on.

"Oh Kapitan..." Franklyn turns and gives Czci a belated look, half sympathetic and half... Well it's not half condescending, but it is a little pained. "I suspect you would be better off without your, ah, oathmate - as you should probably find yourself before relying on the direction of others." She steps closer, and barring being cast away, she pets Czci on the arm. There, there. "Do you need to sit down for a bit?" Sotto voice, quieter -- like she was an usher, a chaperone, not some girl in artificial limelight. "There's probably a side nook, I'm sure it will be saf--..." Lies. She reconsiders, and merely smiles. "Quiet. I'm sure it will be quiet, and beautiful."

Who says Franky has to be mean, /all/ the time? Nobody. She does what she likes.


      Cassian-as-Puck, the all-too-elven chap, seems pleased when at last Czcibor seems to take one of the treats. Though his eyes remain fixed on C.B., Cassian doesn't yet seem overly phased that treats weren't taken. Rather, the Masquerade Elf flows the plate of treats towards the coming-and-going Franklyn, to offer the same treats to her as well. All while watching C.B. with a pair of calculating eyes.



Indeed. This Titania is certainly no purist. Away from the charade, he's a writer of darkly cynical, surreal narratives inspired by too much Kafka and Vonnegut. No sacred cows here. "A poet, huh?" A smirk cracks his face and he rubs his chin. Yes, there's a little stubble there. "A poet. I'm very critical of poets, Kapitan." This said after said poet introduces himself. "I'm actually thinking of dismantling this monarchy in favor of complete freedom and anarchy. What do you think. Would my life partner over there go for it?" He gives the disinterested Cardinal the side-eye, a little bit of mirth twinkling /somewhere/ in his bloodshot eyes, although it actually dims a little at the sight of Cassian staring at him again, turning a bit more guarded. He can't help it. A masquerade might be a masquerade, but a paranoiac is forever.


Oh! Franklyn's unexpected consideration towards Czcibor's wellbeing is interrupted - the Mortal has Integrity, but not the best attention span, especially not for the wondrous and novel. Those big Earthly green eyes light up at the offer of a treats - her hand hesitating for nary a moment, before it daintily reaches out; the not-so-costume-appropriate beetle-shell green manicure glinting, before some strange tangerine slice is lifted. For his troubles, the Puckish Cassian is given a sly smile and a little nod of gratitude.

It looks like a tangerine. What's the harm in having a little taste?

Fruit lifted to her mouth, Franky nibbles daintily -- eyes shifting back to bounce between C.B., Czci and Cardinal over yonder. Thank the (dark) Lords she has a front row seat to this; maybe it'll get all kinds of dramatic.


Life partner? Was CB referring to Cardinal? The antlered redhead, no longer burdened with wine glass as her constitution is instead beset with more wine, turns to face the queen on his throne to smile a not beneficent smile his way as she signs something he won't understand. All while maintaining her regal posture, head held high despite the weight of her crown and the consumption of such lovely intoxicants. Whatever it is, it's lengthy, a monolog in a language only one present--hiding, lurking somewhere?--might understand. When she's done, she bows low to her make-believe wife, the antlers atop her head remarkably secure, her hair woven right into that crown, then rights herself to her full and noble--if not especially impressive or imposing or... noticable--height as she gestures for CB to go on and do as he will, deferring to his judgment on the rule of their kingdom.


There's a shake of the disguised tinman's head at Titania, and his free hand comes up to rub at his temple, and he's clearly puzzled his hair is soft and fluffy. Unnerved, even. Did he forget? "Politics no," he says, then squeezes his eyes shut. "I am a captain," he adds firmly, eyes still closed, "soldier, not poet. And-- healing. Healer. Anarchy jest zla-- this freehold-- no, Ashe Whelan is..."

He's so godawfully drunk. SO DRUNK. Like an angel of divine mercy, Franklyn steps in with concern and caretaking, and the elemental-who-looks-Fairest turns those blue eyes to her, radiating gratitude and a faint, confused worry. "No, we-- zdrowie psychiczne... roszadek-- sense, keep each other to sense--" Czcibor tries to explain to Franklyn earnestly, "she is sane-ness check, yes? To remain persons, real..."

And thank god even more, she's directing him away from the social catastrophe... and then she's interrupted in her endeavour by the introduction of exactly that which just finished blasting off the Captain's mental alcohol level like Team Rocket. His eyes widen. He's already started away in the direction she pointed; he's too far to do anything, and would probably just spill and mush stuff anyway, or maybe his leg would fall off and wow maybe he shouldn't have come to this party, or maybe started his vodka himself. "Kurwa--"


"...A soldier can be a poet..." Franky says, the last of that 'tangerine' nibbled down and causing the Mortal girl to pull a deliciously-sour face, nose wrinkled like she was transforming into a little bunny. Only she isn't! She's not a bunny, she's a girl! A human girl! A... A human girl who's cheeks are flushing pink, as her hands are lifted and she pushes back her hair, again and again, sighing like she was coming up on some kind of wave of... Oh dear. Something. "There were -many- warrior poets, they wrote the most marvellous of texts -- didn't I tell you, Kapitan, about the glint on your brow like the stars on the sea?..."

Here we go. Franklyn is getting all... Expressive again.

"As Amergin chanted when their lands were being invaded: I am the wind which breathes upon the ocean, I am the murmur of the billowing waves of the sea, I am the breakers of threatening doom..." Deeeep sigh - oh man, what was in that tangerine? Franklyn is laughing - her voice growing ever louder, "I am the lure from beyond the world's end, I am the point of the lance that hungers for battle, I am the one who created in the head the fire..."

Damnit. Franklyn is flouncing again -- marching in and out and around Queen C.B's throne and Czci's march towards some quiet nook; entirely ruining that chance for respite. "Who but I knows the secret of the unhewn dolmen? Who announces the foretold ages of the moon Who reaches the place where sleeps the sun? Who, if not I?" Laughter! She is straight up /laughing/, like a woman possessed.

"Break it! Dismantle it! Tear it all -down-, it's just something bogus; you don't need to obey, you can be free outside of the weight of all that pomp and splendour and be /raw/ and /real/." Who is Franklyn even -speaking- to? Cassian? Cardinal? C.B. or Czcibor? Because she's pointing at Czci as she echoes, laughing; "You're -REAL-, goddamnit!"

...Seriously, where is her chaperone?


      Cassian had been given a task. Although the fruits had been handed out, he still needed to do more. He had a job to do, and King Oberon would have his due! Cassian's eyes rose to meet Franklyn's, offering her a gentle and wicked grin before he begins to slip about her, even as she moves herself.       The lithe movements of Cassian's dance start with a subtle air, as he slips about Franklyn and begins to offer what Cassian will later refer to as an Elfen quickstep. As a whole, it was a sort of interpretive dance that cemented his place as Puck, despite the super-functional masquerade mask of blue roses. The dance was intended to draw people in, but also attempt the seduction of CB with treats. More importantly, when the dance has ended, Cassian-as-Puck hs bowed himself before C.B., and the purple flower that crowned his mask now serves as a crown for an offered flute of drink.


Quiet Romanians tend to stay on the edges of the fray when they had other plans that night. Rozalia's dance competition had ended sooner than she expected so she'd hiked her way up the way the East Bank unaccompanied. Because once you've lived in the Carpathians or Arcadia nothing really scares you. She stands quietly to the outskirts of the tree line with her glowing eyes and those ever moving symbols on her skin. Lord Sages observed a little eerily sometimes. Then her eyes are drawn over to Puck and his dance. The purple haired woman quirks an eyebrow.


C.B. rubs his face, then just...keeps it in his hand, when Czcibot starts spouting more. See, C.B.'s drunk, but all things considered, he's a very sober drunk. That's what happens when you have a tolerance from hell. He finally moves his hand away, also catching the tail end of whatever Cardinal's signing at him. He signs back. Oh, wait, no he doesn't -- those look like baseball signs, in fact. The kind given from the dugout or behind the plate. Then he makes another motion: a circle around one eye, pulled off again. Curious gesture. Where was that cigarette? Yeah, he's still smoking it. How crazy is it that when he's finished, one of those little sprites has found him a new one, and is lighting it for him? Pretty crazy.

Speaking of crazy, the wild-and-free Franklyn is reciting poetry from far-off aisles. He was probably just about to, like, cast off the chains of monarchy or some shit when Cassian is there: there and playing his role. Now, C.B. might be a curmudgeonly asshole who enjoys ruining people's fun (does he?), but for whatever reason...he decides to play along. "I really shouldn't," he says, staring right into Puck's eyes as he takes the offered flute. Doesn't look. Doesn't smell. Just says, "Welp, down the hatch." And drinks it all in one long gulp.


Cardinal might think she and CB are engaged in conversation for the way she signs back to his gesturing as if he'd actually said something intelligible with all that signalling. Of course, her words aren't given until after dances have been danced and drinks have been drunk, so she may well be narrating her own interpretation of the play as it's played out instead. Who's to say. No one present, clearly. Once she's done her gesturing, the king starts off toward the exit, wholly intent on leaving her kingdom behind. And snagging a few more morsels on her way out.


A cardinal, illusory to be sure, flits about the real Cardinal's head, briefly brushing her with its wing before disappearing behind a tree.


Rozalia is the most unDusky of the Dusk. Who knows how she's paired with the most Dusky of the Dusks. The glowing eyed woman watches the knife eared Darkling do his thing his thing and there's a smile that curls her lips up into a smile and then she pulls her hood up over her head and turns to head back down the trail that brought her up the way she came. He'd be home eventually.


This is-- actually legitimately too much. Franklyn's laughing, and Czcibor's just staring; he laughs a little uncertainly, and his eyes flicker even more uneasily toward Cassian and C.B., and he backs up a few paces, and that's a mistake too. One of his heels catches on something, and his momentum is carrying him backwards; he almost recovers, but overcompensates due to Super Drunk and ends up falling right on his metal ass with a sound that doesn't at all resemble Fairest Impact.

There he sits, on the floor, and god knows what Cassian is doing to the confusing angry guy Franklyn loves, and the half-naked girl is making more arcane gestures, and Franklyn is laughing and speaking like a book of poetry lives in her head and heart, and then she's declaring with all the force of a category five hurricane that he is real.

That he's real.

The captain can't actually take it. He tries. But he's too drunk, and he's too tired, and he's alone, and everything's in English which is usually fine but at the moment it's just another dividing line, like his leg is like his heart is like his lost brothers are like his cats he can't even have another cat because they always die eventually and-- and with this face, they can see it if he cries. Time to be real, then. 'Real'.

Like a sigh, a breeze of nothing takes the gunmetal glamour of Czcibor's disguise away with it, and a battered and dented toy soldier with a spectacular cornucopia of actually distressingly ugly and not-cool scars, visible because the idiot took his shirt off before getting drunk, sits mantle-less in the illusory grass and fixes his attention on Franklyn. There are only shreds and scraps of his verdant mantle; a petal here, a thorn there, a wispy suggestion of a vine; the strange contract in use won't let go so easily.

His face is disquietingly intent as he weaves glamour into his reality once more, bringing his insulted and huffy Court's magics in-- in an attempt to sober himself up some. It is equally disquietingly intent as he addresses Franklyn in carefully enunciated Sober Drunklish. "Sometimes real is worse. And that is why, sloneczka, I must endeavour to stay so. Not because it is better, not because it is glorious, not because it is freeing, but because it is life. I-- should--"

His face is impassive, but his voice wavers, and he starts to get up, wobbling and unsteady. "I should go."



      Victorious, Puck is proud and as C.B. drinks of the flower-crowned flute, he stands and offers a spin towards a fake audience. Because he was Puck, and he could mess up a Fourth Wall like nobody's business. A graceful hand whips the mask from his face to reveal it WAS he, all along! Shocked murmurs and gasps are expected! And ... not received, because the audience was fake, or existing solely in Cassian's mind. A sidelong glance is offered, briefly, towards Czcibor. THE SHOW MUST GO ON!


Wild and free and totally human, Franklyn's intoxication of poetry and Goblin Fruit has her already marching around in that flounce - but as Cassian falls into step with her? Fuck yeah, she'll try the elfin quickstep with the Puckish fellow. And lo, Franky dances - and the Mortal lass was merry, because the inordinate amount of money that drained from her trust fund and into the coffers of multiple performing arts schools returned dividends on the investment. Ya girl can dance.

Sure the choreography informal and much more Exceptionally Expressive(tm) than classical, but whatever. Franky's serving up Dionysiac realness at this ball, no doubt.

Will Franky be distracted by stuff? Yes, eventually - she'll probably fall back into rambling half remembered poetry or feverish rants about monarchy or tirades about the ridiculousness of the faeries who are really being quite generous with her in this moment. Perhaps too generous... But hey. That's a problem for future Franky. Present Franky is just dancing.

No. No she -was- dancing, because while Franklyn misses the impact of Czcibor's fall, she catches on to the fact that the dude has very much so transformed into some kind of Hot Metal Mess(tm). Aw shit. The spinning, whirling, dancing slows and she flounces over in his direction, coming to a stop so she can put her hands to her knees and lean over him. "Heeeey there, Kaptain... That's alright. You want a hand?" One is offered. As if she has the strength to pull him up - pfft! The Mortal girl chatters on; "Because life is what? Because real life is /what/? I don't follow - can you explain? C'mon now..."

...Okay, sure, she's lending a helping hand and a sympathetic ear -- but Franky is also... Prying. Just a little. She stopped dancing for this -- she wants answers!


Well now. C.B. drank the puckish liquid, and he starts to feel pretty good. In fact, he's actually smiling. Too bad Czicibor is both getting Super Real and distracting Franky with his Realness. Maybe this is the perfect time to go and...be happy and drunk elsewhere? It very well may be. C.B. stands and tears the wig and the tiara from his head, arms outstretched in a V overhead. "I'm free! Free of the constraints of rainbow faerie queen. The kingdom is abolished. Halle-fucking-lujah." Rainbow chiton? Torn off, revealing a pair of army shorts and a white tank top beneath. Throne? Stepped away from -- well, until he falls straight off his feet and onto his knees and then, ya know, with his face in the grass, laughing more than he usually laughs in a week.


Cardinal heads down through the meadows toward the river, following the meandering dirt road.


"No," whispers Czcibor to Franky, confidential and as solid as he is; he takes her hand, but instead of letting her pull him up, he relies on her presence -- briefly -- as a steadying thing, keeping him from tipping over in the process. "I need to go to bed. See to the one you love, sweetheart, this is something that can only be slept off. I am staying at the Wayhouse if you wish to speak to me. When I am sober."

The last is said with a small, self-deprecating laugh, and then Czcibor is very carefully pulling his shirt back on, and buttoning one or two of the buttons, and then pulling his coat on over that. "Enjoy the rest of the vodka, and the party; please, do, give my compliments to the hostess."

The Captain -- the Kapitan -- is quite firm about this, if mildly apologetic, and he walks unevenly off. It's not until he's past the exit, actually, that he stops to bend and straighten his foot.


Levi comes in along the narrow road.


Franklyn helps pull Czci up -- teetering on those Grecian sandals, even if she's making zero actual impact on the fellow standing, not really. When he speaks to here, she doesn't try to hide that disappointment in the lack of Real Talk - or the sudden, guarded look of wary discontent at 'sweetheart'. Guess who doesn't like that nickname -- only... Only it's all in good fun, right? And that Chu Chu Culm is pretty potent... Franky ends up laughing, wrinkling her nose. "Wayhouse? I have no idea what that is!"

Because Franklyn -doesn't-. How is she here again? Where's her sponsor?

The Mortal girl merely laughs, and claps Cz on the forearm all chummy like, before immediately flouncing off - vodka bottle scooped off en transit. "Give 'em yourself, big man! Because no, nuh-huh, nope: I'm not opening myself up to misinterpret the messages of you fine fair fucked-up folk -- have fun sleeping it off! Catch you in reality!" More laughter, then she's off...

Because Somebody is face down in the dirt, and guess who's gonna get a sandalled toe to the ribcage? C.B. is, as Franky whirls around him in a flurry of billowy pink Grecian skirts. "Hey! What lightning through yonder dirtnap breaks?" Nudge, nudge. "What's so funny, I want to knoooow!" Prod, prod, slight kick. Oh goodness, she's just stepping on C.B's shoulder now.


      After the big reveal that he had been the one to pass out the treats, the Cassian-as-Puck takes a moment to glance around. Others were slipping away, and just as many were now floor-bound. Amateurs! Well, so he thought, anyway. And since none were interested in the fact he totally just poisoned them, he begins to slowly move for a shadow in the corner. Because that was phase one of his plan of causing more mischief.


Levi arrives on foot, terribly late to the party but unwilling to pass up the chance to at least stop by. She's dressed awfully boring- not a scrap of Hedgespun on the young woman. Just a mid-thigh denim skirt, a black leather jacket that is magnitudes nicer than the rest of her clothing, and a ratty band tank- black, with a skullish face in white on the front- and a white sports bra beneath. Plain old hiking boots round out the ensemble, such as it is, as the stony Lost wanders into the grouping of fairies and Frankies, looking about silently as the faint tinkly of distant icicles heralds the young Winter's arrival.


Levi also sports a fancy as shit scarf that'd look more at home around Franklyn's neck than hers. It's super outta place! Weirdo.


C.B. just laughs more when Franky nudges him, and then he yells. "OW! Ow. Franky, you're hurting me," but when he rolls over again, his face is bright red from laughter, and lightning is sparking out from the top of his head and his fingers. Sparkin' it up in the dirt! "Turns out that booze plus poison, or whatever that was -- I don't know my Hedgefruit well enough -- makes me feel pretty goddamn good. Fuck, is this stupid party over yet?" Words are slurrin' all over the place, but he's still intelligible. Hardy sort that he is. A hand is raised to Franky -- to get lifted up? Pull her down? Anyone's guess.


November heads in through the door in the hillside.


Is this how Midsummers Night's Dream ends? Everyone laughing and joyful and frolicking?

"'Oooow, Franky you're hurting me!"

Okay, maybe not mocking one another in playful-not-playful ways. Isn't the Mortal girl supposed to be nice tonight!? Maybe this is Franky being nice -- because she's immediately stoping her (pretty spot on) impersonation of C.B., stepping off of him with a grin -- laughing even! And it's so -joyous- sounding, if not a little filthy with intoxication around the edges.

"Darling, a party is over whenever you wish it to be -- you're the Queen of your own domain." Teasing, so teasing - but Franklyn doesn't have much time to keep needling C.B., because she's abandoning that vodka bottle, just literally throwing it over there, so her hands are free to reach down and grasp C.B's and pull him up -- right? She is going to remain /standing/, correct? Maybe. Possibly. Because the girl is -not- Hardy, and she is not strong, and she is not particularly powerful...

...Franky is just particularly drunk. Drunk, happy, and beaming at the slurrin' misanthropic Wizened who's still glittery with rainbow highlighter. Oblivious to all else that shimmers in the marvellous arena.


Holy, shit, but those two seem -wasted.- Levi slows as she approaches the remnants of the party to find Franklyn laughing herself silly as she tries to help CB up, who is laughing himself silly right there on the ground. She doesn't KNOW what's going on, but it LOOKS like it's the drunkest afterparty she's ever heard of. Which... is just this one, but she doesn't make that known.

"Um. Hey! CB! Franklyn! You two- uh. You guys doing okay?"


"Shaddup, you!" C.B. drunkenly bellows, but he can't stop laughing and that's just /weird/. And yeah, he does manage to get to his feet, and not pull her down with him...for now. "Then I say the party is goddamn over! Because parties -- " He squints over at Levi, white sparks jolting from his ears. "Who the fuck's that? Oh, it's that Levi chick." He gives Franky a light push, grinning. "You talk to her. I should drink more. Then probably go soon. I don't want November to capture me and cook me in her goddamn...basement oven, or whatever." He stumbles about, searching for his lost bourbon bottle.


      Cassian was content to slink towards the corner and eventually out of the area altogether, back into the night. He stops cold, however, when he hears the name Levi. It wasn't that there weren't plenty of 'Levi's' in the world, but, that wasn't exactly how things went when your entire world was tied entirely to the Wyrd. Cassian-as-Puck pauses, looking over his shoulder to scan for 'Levi Chick'. His usual fare is replaced with a hauberk of woven leaves and vines that spill over his body in Autumn colors. Atop his head is a small set of faux-antlers that spiral away from his bed of hair.


Is all that laughter weird?! Franklyn is laughing too - all this delight and wonderment and /feeling/ crackling around her with invisible energy, as she pulls C.B. up with an 'ooph!' and leans on him -- to help him stay propped up, sure, totally for his own benefit and not hers. She's /fine/. Look at her! Only wavering like a quaking ash caught in a spring breeze. Franky can even speak, still! But she cannot lower her voice; what she thinks is a soft sotto tone is much to converatonal; "Oh no, darling, I'm so tired of talking to other people, I've been doing it all night - I want to talk with =you=, I want..."

Oh Levi is calling out! Franklyn turns, raises a hand in the air in an exaggerated greeting, and chimes excitedly, "Levi! Oh -look- at you!" There's a smile on Franky's face, her eyes are bright and wide as they look the Elemental's regular every-day clothes over and linger on that scarf, and yet... How does that twinkling tone and mirthful look not feel exactly nice? It has all the hallmarks of kindness! And yet... "You are a /sight/. Did you hear us from the other side of the river, or did you invitation come late?"

Franky side-glances as C.B. stumbles off - then does a quick visual patdown of the immediate area; the crowds are dispersing, and Cassian is looking over with his Puckish Wyrdness. Hmm. The Mortal girl smiles wider, and draws her arms up around herself; cradling her elbows as she chatters on to Levi, "You must've had a busy day! What's happening? What's the story? What's going -on-?"


Levi braces herself for CB's welcome, but- hm! Pleasantly neutral. Maybe she misjudged how much the fellow actually cared about her ducking out. And- more's the fortune for Levi- she's possessed of an elemental's utter lack of guile. What should come off as just a touch insincere and off-putting instead presents exactly as warm and welcoming as one could hope! She smiles at Franky from behind the fall of her hair, a little thing, but sincere for all its size. "I heard awful late. Nathania mentioned it in passing, so... I came to check things out." She looks about in open wonderment, starting to answer Franky's questions- "Oh, I'm getting used to working at Majesty. Vinnie says I have a knack for giving people what they want. She's really-" But then she follows Franky's gaze. To Cassian. Puckish garb, sure- faux antlers, yeah- but...

She goes dead rigid. It's reflex. In the heat of the moment? She's only got one reason to imagine him being here, and that one ain't pleasant.

After that moment? Maybe she'll come to her senses, but for such a prominent figure in the Stormqueen's Domain to be here?? COINCIDENCE?! I THINK NOT. Every line of Levi screams "fight or flight" just now.


"Shoulda thought of that before you left me to talk to that tinman," C.B. shouts back over his shoulder, ambling over to the bourbon bottle and scooping it up. Leaving all the remnants of his rainbow costume scattered around the place, he keeps swigging as he heads for the exit -- though he pauses when he hears some of Levi's words. Something about the bit about Majesty. Stops right in front of her. Snorts. Then lets out a full-on belly laugh. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs 'til tears come out from his eyes, then heads towards the exit, still laughing. "Have fun with that, Frank. Don't linger too long." And he's gone.


"Mmhmm, that sounds lovely sweetheart - I'm sure Vinnie has a lot to teach in terms of giving up what others want when she feels the need; you're going to have a lot of fun, remember to wear a raincoat." What? Franklyn laughs - all mirthful and crystalline and totally fucking wasted. She opens her mouth to say something else, but then Franky catches C.B's shout.

Oh. Oh no he didn't. The Mortal girl snorts and rolls her eyes incredulously, "Oh don't be like -that-, you heel. Are you even listening? Excuse me--..." Franklyn is midway through following after C.B. when she catches sight of Levi's reaction to Cassian and...

...and that does not feel like Franklyn's problem now, does it? Because there are still other fae moving around, undoubtedly -- and what is Franky, but one very, very drunk and very, very human girl? What business could she possibly have, interrupting inter-fae communications?

None right now.

Franklyn turns away and flounces off after C.B., her pink Grecian skirts bellowing as sandalled feet beat against the ground in an addempt to keep up with the part-Levinquick. "You have fun with this, you cad! You've been nothing but trouble all night -- I swear, you're beyond the pale -- don't you care, /at all/, about what's -really- going on? Let me tell you..."

Out fades Franky, laughing and rambling on, as she exits stage left.


      Of course, that was exactly how the Wyrd worked. Confronted with another of the Stormqueen's ... kept, Cassian is drawn almost out of the mind of Puck long enough to consider the last time he had seen Levi at all. Suddenly, he seems to wonder if it had not been such a great meeting. But, then, there they were. Cas has his hands crossed over his wood-garbed chest. He even appears to be weaponless.


Levi bears no weapons- but then, she never has. She glances away just once- to ascertain that Franky is well on her way after the cackling CB, both headed outwards. Then her eyes lock back onto Cassian. She looks him over a moment. No bow. That... is encouraging.

"Why. Are you here. Are you still hers?! Are you free?!" Levi's hands curl into open talons, ready to grab, clutch, strangle if necessary. She doesn't give him time to answer. She's sort of shit at this. "ANSWER ME!"

Levi's the best at parties.


      Cassian hadn't spoken a word the entire night. When he does finally speak, it's a little more firm than his usually soft tone. It's one of much darker times. "If I was ever truly hers, would I have left?" He muses quietly, meeting her emotional words with a kind of logic to help draw her back down. At least long enough to talk.


"Don't- don't play games!!!" Levi wields her anger like a bludgeon against her fear. She'd rather be mad than scared, and it shows- /both/ show, at war on her face. "Who else would she send after me?! The trees?! The waves, the FISH?! No! It'd be YOU! -ARE YOU HERS?!-"

Words are a flimsy bridge to trust- but without them, how does one build it in the first place?


      "I am not -hers-," Cassian says, plainly, "As much as I would like to lie--The glamour would taste amazing from that lie, I don't think it will do me any good." He relaxes his stance some and rolls his shoulders. "Even at the end, I wasn't -hers-," he adds, "And I could ask the same of you. What are you doing here?"


The plain answer helps. There was a pulsing sense of impending -size- that relaxes when Levi calms down a little, like the creaking of a dam pushed to bursting falling quiet. "... I ran. I broke myself into the waves and fled. I saw- something. Someone. Reminded me. I have a family. I followed them. Back here. Back home."

"... I- I didn't know you got out." A quiet moment, pregnant with tension. "... sorry."


      "Neither did she, until the end. It was ... close. But, I didn't come out here. Upstate New York was where I washed up. A river that lead out of the forest brought me there. Then, things got weirder from there, and eventually I came here on assignment. Decided to stay," he offers. He gives Levi another lookover before considering his words. "I hope you found your family in good shape," he says.


Levi puts her lips together for a moment before looking away. "They're doing fine. They never knew I was gone. It's been- five years. Not that long. For them. Lot longer for me." She looks back, chewing the inside of her lip for a moment. "... glad you're okay. And out. Like I said- sorry. Really. I- wasn't... expecting to see you."


      "I don't know that we ever look forward to seeing each other again," Cassian says with a hint of a smirk. "Usually seeing each other again means something far different than happening across each other after a meeting," he explains. "But, in any case, it is what it is. I don't really concern myself with matters of pride such as that. I ... remember part of what happened. I wouldn't trust me, either," he says mournfully.


Levi nods a little in agreement- with most sentiments offered. "... I- don't know much about what to expect normally, but no- hard to imagine a happy reunion with... the Warden. But here it is." Levi fidgets a little- strange for such a solid-looking person. Then she fishes out a spiral-bound pocket notebook and scribbles in it. "Here. This- is my number. I dunno how newly returned you are. But that number calls me. I- don't think I'm ready to talk tonight. But maybe I will be later. So... call, when you're ready. Okay?"


      "I think Rozalia has a cell phone," he offers in response. He didn't use them very often, and usually it was when he was on the job. And, well, he'd taken a vacation from his work in the mundane world. That meant a less than steady stream of burner phones needing to be purchased. "I'll figure something out," he adds, then.


Levi nods. "... okay. I-" She cuts herself off. An awkward smile gets flashed Cassian's way, then Levi turns and makes her way back towards town. That wasn't how she saw the evening going- but it could have been way worse, that's for sure.


Cassian heads down through the meadows toward the river, following the meandering dirt road.