blueprints_bloodstains | Death Stalking Abroad

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.

Threaded | Flat

The excitement is palpable even for those not necessarily invited to the grand and very prestigious event. Ripples of energy are easy enough to feel in the air, and while he's incredibly aware of the importance of these types of statement, Bhaal's Chosen had been glad that staying away was imperative. That he and Gortash shouldn't be spied in the same place with any kind of regularity with the sheer volume of eyes in the vicinity.

At least, he had understood and seen the need in not attending. It's not entirely simple to tease apart the driving force behind the change in heart. Perhaps the fact it likely has something to do with his heart at all means it's currently outside of his grasp. He can still know with clarity that it's a risk and choose this path anyway.

He doesn't inspect the departure from the plan too much beyond noting it's different, sets the thought aside to look at later before describing the items he'll need to one of his cultists. There isn't time to wait around for her to return, his last order to Sceleritas is to let him know once the items are ready.

There's blood to let to cure his victims of life and, without really naming it so, intends to sacrifice twice as much as usual to his Father by way of apology. A simple sorry for what he plans to do.

The day passes and he returns to Sceleritas, sated and calm, like a man without the twitchy reactions of needing anything at all. Fresh from the warmth of blood cascading, slippery through his fingers, the cloying iron still on the tips of his senses.

The butler bows and scrapes and thanks him for the blade the bhaalspawn chooses to store in the space between ribs. He doesn't have time for anything more elaborate and has the manners to look apologetic about that.

By the time he reaches the heart of the celebrations, he's fully dressed for the part. Head to toe in black with only a few hints of red, the wolf mask sits perfectly on his face. He cuts a formidable figure, fabrics rich and form fitted, impressively complimenting his broad shoulders and the ribbons of muscle woven and bunched beneath his skin in delicious curves and swells. Heads turn as he stands surveying the room, titters of whispers starting to rustle like leaves in a breeze as the partygoers take in the sight, some more openly lewd than others.

And he basks in the attention as though he hasn't just come from a mass murder, as though the fact he's so incredibly steady, powerful, has nothing to do with how deeply he's satisfied the urge in his unholy blood.

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