Death Stalking Abroad - The Masquerade

[closeyourfist]

Dusk has barely arrived but the Upper City is alight with life and fervor. The glow of lanterns and candles, and the sparkle of dancing lights mingle with the shimmer of fine banners and hangings, all filling the square with color even as all but the natural light of the moon has begun to fade from the sky. All manner of coves and dark corners, alleyways, passages for the more adventurous and indulgent to sneak off and play in.

Tonight is about excess in a way only the especially wealthy could devise.

The guests, all dressed in opulent costumes and masks, each unique and many so intricate and many-layered as to completely obscure the identity of the wearers. Even those who might be easier to tell -- public figures and the like -- well unless they were conducting duties within the event themselves, the rule was that you don't TRULY know who they are until the unmasking. Workers from the lower city consider the yearly soiree a life-changer for one's business, positions here whether it is vending, serving, or performing, are highly coveted and sought-after, as well as sorely guarded. Falling out of favor one year meant being replaced the next.

At the start there is a murmur of excitement, discussions of the city's goings on of late, none so fervently and favorably mentioned as the unveiling of the first completed Steel Watchmen, designed by none other than tonight's Master of Ceremonies: Enver Gortash.

Truly an honor and a sign of one moving up in the world, celebrated here with greater zest owing to his more recent contributions to city security and a commendatory reputation among some of the elite -- rumors of why were known and kept track of with interest. However, there were still a few who only looked on the news with...polite acceptance. Blue bloods through and through, unsurprised at persisting whispers that a pretty face can get you far when you are useful.

Dressed in coppers and carnelians and a mask that obscures the top half of his face, he commands rapt attention as he declares the evening's festivities open, to thunderous applause. The rise in voices and the din of music overtakes the space as he descends to mingle.

Tonight is about establishing a calm. Things going right at a point that will elevate them before the more grisly aspects of the plot are to begin. Establishing trust. Comradery. Ownership.

And the people of the upper city play this game with ruthless precision. No one better to parry, really.

By the time he has made himself visible and available, he is settled into the evening, able to identify far more magisters and patriars by voice and body language than he is sure rules allow, but it allows him to know them, carve a place among them, and forget anything else he had been considering for the time being.

When he and the Dark Urge had more than just a meeting of the minds a couple weeks ago, he resolved that it need not have been more than that. It was deeply satisfying, sated a number of curiosities, and even if it said nothing of how a life of eventual rule might contain a few lively diversions? It was also fine as just a memory that would warm him on occasion.

He didn't expect the subject to suddenly come up again, or to leave it as angry as he was. Even if it concluded that it, apparently, WOULD be happening again.

Probably not for the better when it wound up not occurring at all. And Enver Gortash was not the sort to simply wait in the wings and pine.

Especially when the Dark Urge all but alluded he might as easily seek out the same ends with anyone else.

So perhaps the Black Hand's Chosen might follow suit. Already he's caught a few curious gazes. A few charming introductions. Even the offer of a drink of two (too early yet, at first). But why not? Everyone was here to have fun, after all.

Comments

[unspooling]

Every word is as eloquent as he's come to expect from Enver, especially when they're outside the realms of the type of carnal lust they engage in together. Hardly surprising given what he's learned about the man, even before they took a step to deepen their alliance in a way that had been less expected, and yet still of value. It's an uncomfortable feeling to realise how violently perspectives can shift from one moment to the next. The deeply unsettling feeling at keeping the true plan to himself, of feeling the guilt at allowing Enver to continue referring to it as if he understands what it truly is.

That in itself digs into his chest in a way that does take his breath away. He can feel his grip on reality starting to slip, as though he's in a death spiral, losing his sense of self and inevitably ceasing to exist before he's supposed to. His only anchor is the smaller man keeping hold of him. His vision evaporates into darkness as he closes his eyes, simply rests his forehead against Enver's for a moment before coming to a decision. Damage control. As much of it as he can convincingly muster.

"Yes. I should return to my duties. I-- thank you for reminding me."

[closeyourfist]

For the moment he allows himself to feel just that contact. Close. Such a small and innocuous thing, but it feels intimate in a way that is different from everything they have yet done. No expectation of anything else, which makes it sting less when the Dark Urge says what he does.

"You're certain."

He did offer further before. But something they found here already feels just as heavy on him, and he is feeling the hour more and more.

So it is to leave the door open for an answer. But also accepting if it stays as it is.

[unspooling]

The question almost haunts him before the other man has finished asking it. Is he certain? He doesn't feel certain of anything, much less about whether he would prefer to take his leave or not in favour of his duties. Part of him understands well enough that it isn't just duty driving him from this place, but to sift through everything else beneath that excuse would be to unseat him all the more abruptly from the tenuous balance he has as it is.

So his hands slip to Enver's shoulders where he rubs circles with his thumbs briefly rather than squeezing, yet another moment he takes another step away from Bhaal. The choice to not cause pain, to not leave marks.

And then he starts to stand.

"I must."

[closeyourfist]

Gortash took a careful step back to allow him room, his heels catching the edges of his robe waiting on the floor, an unseen signal to his position in the dim light. He does not argue. He has enough sense to know that whatever the Dark Urge is wrestling with, pressing the issue is likely to make things worse.

Perhaps more work is called for -- whether because it has already been too long, or perhaps this conclusion they have reached here has redoubled its potency early.

He cannot say, it is not his place to guess at this juncture.

"I'll look forward to hearing of your progress, then. However much is pertintent to share."

[unspooling]

I have already shared too much, hangs like a weight around his neck, the complication of still feeling as though he hasn't shared the most important part leaving him spinning momentarily.

It hadn't been his intention to seek the man out only to leave again before exchanging more of themselves physically. The desire had bubbled just beneath his skin until the cold light of reality had shone upon his confession.

He wants to stay but he needs to leave.

"Goodnight, Enver," he finally says and he should take the space and see himself out. Should put a stop to this evening's complexities to go and worship in the most simplistic way that he can. There's a moment he wants to find something else to give, another word to slot into place, to share just a touch more of himself before he takes himself away. But the word isn't one that he knows, and it's only the brief visual of Enver's lips that prompts him into further departure from what he knows. He leans in and presses a kiss to the smaller man's cheek, a novel thing and the inevitable nail in the coffin.

And with that he finally takes his leave.

[closeyourfist]

The kiss had been unexpected, but sweet. And a wordless confirmation, of sorts. He would be back. Everything was not ruined. He said goodnight, not goodbye.

The Dark Urge's last footsteps heard before fading from perception were a few minutes gone by the time Enver Gortash picked up and replaced his robe again, tying it at the waist and traveling out into the greater room to straighten his desk and douse the remaining candles. The fire would begin to die down, and in a few hours servants would be by to get the place lit and aired again.

He would hopefully sleep a little longer after that, but he expected he would probably only allow himself a little time to rest before he was up and back to work again, as much as his body would complain.

His bed felt a little cold when at last he found it again. Perhaps it could stand to be a little bigger.