Log:A Midsummer Masquerade
| 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.
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.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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.
...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.
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.
"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!
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?"
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.
"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?"
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'.
"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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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--"
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.
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.
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."
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!
"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.
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.
"'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.
"Um. Hey! CB! Franklyn! You two- uh. You guys doing okay?"
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-?"
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.
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.
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