Arianne, Bailey, Hannah, H'ris, K'ane, Kultir, Q'fex, Quentin, S'yn, Renalde, Xieli, Yules


Costume party in the Craft Complex!


It is late night of the sixteenth day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


arianne_default.jpg bailey_9.png hannah_default.jpg harisPB.jpg kane_au.png kultir_default.jpg fex_smarm.jpg quentin_default.jpg renalde_default.jpg s-yn_default.jpg yules_default.jpg xieli_1.jpg


Craft Complex

Expansive and airy, this space, now adorned and decorated with the pride of well over a hundred crafters. A vaulted cavern encompasses two levels, fit with clever skylights from innovative smithcrafters that illuminate tapestries displayed from the bannister of the second-floor: Healer purple, Harper blue, the yellow of the Farmcraft — all the colors and all the crafts are upon display, proudly. The lower level is given to tables and chairs and a hearth stocked with klah; it is brightly-illuminated and a place to study and congregate socially both. The upper level is given to residential rooms, lending the whole atmosphere a pleasant, if somewhat supervised, aura.

It is the seventy-sixth day of Summer and 105 degrees. The night is clear and humid.

It is indeed dark in Southern, the drenching summer heat hardly diminished by nightfall. A full moon rises over the weyr, but t'is candlelight and craftily-obscured glows that fill the craft complex with subtle, diffuse light — somehow mimicking the luminous glow out-of-doors, casting everything in shades of silver and grey. Beneath twinkling dots of bright glows speckled across the ceiling as an impression of stars, a Harper quartet brings forth an eerie strain of music, and the weyr knows not her residents, masqued as they are.

In sweeps a vision of darkness, into the darkness: through the faux-moonlight she steps silver and black, with hair of jet loosed to curl to her waist and a half-masque hardly more than a textured domino, adorned with feathers so black as to gleam iridescent blue lowlights. Mystery in Midnight she is, and she passes through the crowds effortlessly, the crowd passing wherever she wanders… which is to the drink cart at the very back, sleek form gliding with stalking precision.

Black and orange striped like the wild and dangerous felines that roam Southern's jungle, a glittered black masque obscures the identity of another woman that roams the party like a predator looking for her prey. A smile here or there are given to those costumed who surround her. But otherwise, she seems content to wait for people to filter in and the band to play on before heading to the oasis (ie - the BOOZE) for a drink.

Unable to match the elegance suggested by a masque, this one has opted to go the other way entirely. A badly-buttoned cream linen shirt is tucked loosely into and unbuttoned to the waist of a pair of tatty-looking cuffless blue trousers of a sturdy-looking cloth. A pair of suspenders that have clearly seen better days are attached to the pants, helping the rope belt keep them up. A bright red handkerchief has been cut with eyeholes and secured around his face as a makeshift mask, and a wide, floppy straw hat sits way too far back on his head. Yee haw. His bare feet slap the stone as he enters the twilighted room. He pauses on the threshhold, taking in the room as a whole before he pushes on into the room and through the crowd.

In the color of blood, it sweeps in black-red sisal tight to slender frame, dipping low in the front and up the length of leg to the side, edged in black lace. A feathered black mask covers the eyes, drifting in a dreamy cloud around the slick-backed hair that's pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck. The color is muted by the dusting of coal dust to dull the shine of what might have been, leaving only the bloody mystery behind. Only the hint of wicked black shoes peek from the long length of blood-red dress. A large red stone settles in the dip of her neckline, hung from an ornate, bronze chain. A heat clings to her with every shifting move of her hips, her walk.

Amongst the crash of dark leathers and rich fabrics dominating the crowd, the man who trespasses this crafthall behind the strawman stands out as a drafthorse amongst hotbloods, for he is exquisite in peerless white from head to toe. Crisp pants, a shirt open at the throat, an entire half of his face is covered in a white mask bound with the tiniest sprigs of white flowers, working into a spray that crests upwards, nothing more than a bird-of-prey's plumage done in icy tones. "Nice feet." Comes the commentary from the Arctic Falcon, to the suspender-wearing lad. Eyes follow the lady in red. "Would you look at that."

Fur and leather combine to create a primal shroud for the young form that prowls on the outskirts of the clearing, never quite entering the crowd. Dark eyes glitter from beneath the bared teeth of his snarling headdress, watching the goings on with curiosity and a touch of wariness. Thin leather boots make not a sound on the ground as he paces, torn between plunging into the party and remaining on the edge, to hunt his pleasure from the outriders.

Into that dusky expanse a lone wolf prowls, features obscured by an artfully sewn mask that elongates his nose into a canine feature, the jaw beneath forgotten in shadow as the dimness above steeps him in mystery. There is confidence in those roguish amber eyes as they stalk the scene, the gangly form moving with precision and grace, a shadow among shadows. On occasion a gleam of teeth can be scene from beneath that mask, a feral grin — though playful or hungry is hard to say — as the form slinks through the gathering crowd to play the scene. Garbed on onyx as he is the only thing that truly makes him stand out among the crowd is his gangly height, putting him a head above many though fortunately not all as he slinks through this sea of light, color and hedomism.

Mystery in Midnight seems to have made up her mind, slinking sideways towards the one dressed as a predatory feline. Her voice holds more than a slight touch of Fort, the only giveaway from her exquisite costume. "Do you see a more direct way to the liquor, then?" She has impatience for the taller men hogging ALL THE ALCOHOL.

What's an event without a firebird? It's like Pontiac without one. Just seems damned wrong. Sure enough, the woman who detaches from the wall is a fox reborn in mischief and fire, done in gold and ivory and black-burnt crimson, with a full mask in the likelihood of a fox-in-fire, snarling, that hides not only her face but her hair. She's a tall woman, moving deftly through the crowd. It is the wolf-cub that she pauses next to, the shorter one, and there is an impression of a twist of lips into a smile. "You seem to be lingering on the fringes," says the Phoenix Rising to the boy, teasing, a fox to a wolf: "Are you planning on having us for supper?"

Feline Fantasy (I'm going to hell for that, I know) smiles broadly at Mystery when she's approached. There's maybe, maybe a hint of High Reaches in there if one can get past the garble of someone who's lived a few diverse places. "Bet if we climb over Mr. Wolf there, it'd be a straight line right to it. Think we could take him?" She apparently does. Which might mean she's already had a few before arriving.

"I'll get his ankles," muses Mystery in Midnight to the fantastical feline (you are SO going to hell for that omfg), her voice as sharp as the smile that curves delicate lips. "You club him over the head." The short woman - she doesn't even try to wear heels to advance herself, knows that's just not happening, nope — gives the tall wolf a longer, critical assessment. "Maybe twice. He's," ah, pause, "Big."

Hillbilly seems a bit…lost, actually, as he wanders the crowd. Maybe the masks are confusing him. Still, there are a lot of pretty costumes to look at, so he does that as he heads for the liquor himself. "Stick behind me," he says to Mystery and Feline, waving a meaty hand in a beckoning gesture. His voice carries a near-lack of accent; each word enunciated carefully. There might be the smallest of twangs there. "I'll carve you a path to the booze." He's definitely big enough to do it. As big as the Wolf, anyway.

Sanguine Macabre pauses only briefly to flash the flutter of coal-dusted eyelashes at the Arctic Falcon, casting a heated gaze — the color of her eyes hidden by the feathers of the black masque — over the brilliance in white, before moving onwards. Mingling through the crowd with a languid ease that gives a sense of loose muscles and a familiarity with the wicked heels worn. Others are noted, though the booze is also her place of choice, though the pathway through takes her (coincidentally) passing at least by, all the males.

Prowling Panther slinks stealthily into the shadows around the party in full swing. His steps as silent as his assumed identity when slipping through the deep jungle night while on the hunt. Was that a crunch of gravel beneath booted feet? Or was it the sound of razor-tipped talons gripping the bark of a huge tree before the deadly black feline pounces on its unsuspecting prey?

Primal Youth continues to stalk along the edges, hesitating only briefly as he nearly walks right into someone else's back. With a muttered "Excuse me" that's low enough not to divulge any giveaway accent, the boy takes a step or two back, slight form blending into the shadows as he lifts a hand to touch the top of his headdress. With a grimmace, he drops his hand again. As the convergance on the booze takes place, he takes the opportunity to slip deeper into the group, winding his way surefooted through the shadows cast by the taller participants towards where the musicians play.

The Arctic Falcon is dismissive of the looks he draws, pulling through the crowd with a confidence that makes each step graceful in a way wholly masculine. Except for that heated look from Sanguine Macabre, because Faranth, who couldn't feel THAT? "Fuck me." It's not a request, really, but a murmured comment to himself. "It's fucking hot in here." Maybe Primal Youth is close enough to hear the man in white comment this, pulling himself to considerable height to examine the lay of the crowd. Is he looking for something? Perhaps someone.

Fantastical Feline will save seats for her friends by the lake of fire. "I can totally do that." she agrees, beaming at Mystery and then giggling a little at the Hillbilly. "After you, then!" she agrees, making a playful clawing motion the way of wolf man over there before they might slink over to the alcohol. "Bigger they are, the harder they fall right?"

The array of colors all around the Lanky Lupine has the amber eyes darting to and from each lush and lewd costume as those booted feet click softly on the stone caldera beneath like the soft clacking of talons. There are morsels to be had, to be sure, but does he hunger for food or for flesh? Perhaps both? If there is to be an answer it seems not to yet be forthcoming for that ambling lope takes the tall canine to the drink trestles to help himself to cup and beverage of choice, which turns out to be the punch bowl, mystery of mysteries that are contained within. The crystalline goblet is filled with the ruby-fruit fluid and brought to lips for a long drink before a sigh purrs from that long throat, a sultry vibration in the night air. There are women about — this is noticed as the lean form turns about — and they are deferred to with a note of chivalry. "M'ladies." There is perhaps a faint trace of Telgar within that man's voice, a rumbling baritone of well pronounced syllables, coached and tutored. No backwater bumbler is he, though just who he is remains a mystery as it should on this night.

Mystery in Midnight doesn't deign to hide the fact that she's moving her ladies around in her top — she's got an ample bosum and is not afraid to show them off, pushing one boob and then the other in that eternal fidget of women wearing strapless bras everywhere. Then she's beaming up to Hillbilly, or maybe just craftily assessing how hard it would be for her and Fantasy Feline to knock him out and drag him back to some lair. "Definitely the harder they fall," she returns to Feline, her voice still Fort-cultured.

Phoenix Rising continues to skirt about the edges, her narrow shoulders bare and lovely, gleaming in the soft candle/glowlight. Her eyes catch once upon Sanguine Macabre, as if drawn by magnetic force, and the faintest shift of shadows could be construed as a smile for the feminine beauty displayed therein. Maybe she accidentally trips over her feet, or maybe it's all Prowling Panther's fault, since she was trying to move past him. "AUGH." Is she going to fall on her face? Let us all pray not. Bruises would NOT go with her costume.

Hillbilly is blissfully unaware of any plans that might be formulating, already pushing his way politely through the crowd. "Excuse me. Pardon. Oh, hey, sorry — big feet, you know…." Eventually, he makes it way to the booze, turning back to make sure his charges have successfully followed in his wake. It was a good wake to follow in. When he's satisfied they have, he offers a small bow. "Here we are ladies. Just as promised." Straightening, he waves a hand at the table, smiling wide. "Can I get you something?"

"That sticky tape the woodcrafters use." Fantasy Feline suggests, gesturing with a gloved hand towards Midnight's girls. "Some on the fabric, some on the ladies, and voila. No wardrobe malfunctions." she murmurs, attempting to be helpful. Once they're close enough to the m'ladying wolf, she'll smile nicely and wiggle fingers, and then look back at their rednescort. "Thank you kindly, sir. I'll take whatever has the most alc… okay, maybe not the most. That punch looks good?"

"You know what they say about big feet," heckles Mystery in Midnight to Feline, crowding in behind Hillbilly as he so-graciously clears them a path. "Do they have wine?" is more appropriately questioned to Hillbilly as she tries to crane to look past his elbow. Short people problems. He's too tall for his own good. Or maybe just hers. "Tape? Really. That works?" She is oblivious to the Lanky Lupine's graceful greeting — it's too loud in here.

Even the nails of her fingers have been painted a deep, red-black of drying blood, spotted when Sanguine Macabre drags one nail across the fullness of lower lip, eyeing the crowd as if they were her personal buffet. Beautiful darkness. Primal Youth catches her eye after he nearly knocks into the person next to her, the glitter of eyes reflecting the candlelight off the natural wetness of her eyes watch as he disappears into the crowd. Ah, but something catches her eye. With liquid movement, she targets Phoenix Rising, drawn by that stumble to lend a helping hand — if she still needs it; one that has those blood-red fingernails almost indecently splayed. So close does the feathered black masque come that perhaps the crowd of males might get a show, but alas. Almost, but no cigar. Feline Fantasy is given equal perusal, the heat of her eyes recognizing something even more inciting. Then, there is Mystery in Midnight. A small smile prevails.

Feline Fantasy brow-waggles at Sanguine Macabre. Oh yeah. She saw that look.

And who should sweep in, but a Lady in Red? The woman appears in the doorway in a swirl of dark red skirts, trimmed with black lace. The off-the-shoulder top of that dress is a shade lighter, marbled with black criss-cross slashes that are occasionally hidden by a fan that swishes and flutters in the Lady in Red's hand. Her three-quarter mask is the same red as her skirts, trimmed again with lace and held 'round her head with a ribbon, turning with her head as she surveys the scene. Then, moving in close to a kitty and a wolf.

The panther's bright amber eyes — definitely animal eyes — scan the gathering as if assessing potential prey. The lithe form breaks away from the welcoming shadows as the black form steps into the light around the victual and drink tables. Black fingerless gloves cover the palms and backs of the large paws as he takes a small plate and some of the fingerfoods arrayed there before moving to the drinks table to take up a mug of chilled ale with a sly smile. Moving out of the way of the obviously feminine figures and the large Hillbilly, he nods a gracious greeting with a low rumbling in his deep chest. "Good eve, m'ladies … good sir." There is the vaguest hint of an accent in that deep baritone though it is very difficult to determine from where it comes.

"They do," Hillbilly says, nodding his head and smiling at Mystery. It's not clear whether it's feet or wine he's agreeing to, until he reaches for an open bottle and a goblet. "Good pressing, too, from the label." He's quite the bartender, apparently, as he pours out for Mystery before he gets Feline her punch. "Whew," he says, handing over the punch glass and grimacing below his mask. "Don't get near any open flame with that." Once the ladies are settled with their drinks, he searches the table until he finds a bottle of amber-colored liquid and pours out for himself. The Panther's greeting gets his attention, and his assessment of the other man is frank before he nods wordlessly, and raises his glass to his lips.

There is certainly a disgruntled glare that follows Panther after he fails to assist, but Phoenix fails to plot death threats (ain't nobody got time fo dat) with the heroic arrival of Sanguine Macabre. "Faranth, thank you." There's no hiding that unabashedly throaty voice, as the firefox rearranges herself. "You have a stunning costume," the woman can be heard directing at Sanguine through her mask, distracted only by the arrival of Lady in Red. Helllooooooo.

Cacophony and chaos may be the order of the night, but the Lanky Lupine is nonplussed at the miasma of sensory input around him, though those pert ears seem to pay attention to it all. "The punch thus far seems excellent, a marvelous aperitif to the evening." The syllables slide off that lithe tongue almost traceless were it not for that faint note of the northern territory. Another swallow of that punch is taken, fruity and pungent, sweet and quenching. "Try some," he suggests, offering his own glass of the fruit-laden wine punch, a sanguine treat to the senses. Those amber eyes slide through the gathering crowd elbowing about the table to procure their own refreshment but this youth, gangly though he man be, will hold his ground in defense of the womenfolk before him. Chivalry is not dead, after all. The Prowling Panther is noticed and those self-same amber eyes met with respect for the beast within. "Good eve," is offered softly, though still loud enough to be heard over the din of music and mayhem.

Was Renalde suppose to wear a mask? Perhaps he didn't get the memo. Or perhaps he got the memo and chose to utterly IGNORE it. Regardless of the message, Renalde is here, moving smoothly through the crowds. He has at least dressed up for the occasion, with a very smart suit and shiny shoes. Surely he doesn't wear that kind of outfit up in the freezing South.

"Wish I knew how to make an entrance like -that-" Feline gestures towards the Lady in Red when she makes her entrance, and gratefuly plucks the glass of punch from Lupine to try it first. "Ohhh, that is good. Dangerously so." she agrees, handing it back to him before her own glass somehow finds it's way into her hands. "Hello there." she adds, lifting her glass now in toast to Panther and Sanguine and .. omg there are so many people I am losing track of who to pose to… so whoever! Everyone! Everyon egets toasted.

Alas, Sanguine Macabre's outstretched hand was not noticed, and Primal Youth is already beyond her, hovering near the musicians and assessing them with dark eyes set in a sea of black beneath a snarling, toothy muzzle. Perhaps glances are darted towards the refreshment table, but no move is made in that direction. Too many hovering bodies the likely culpret for his disinclination. Tugging at the open-front, sleeveless vest of leather and fur that covers his bony chest, he edges closer, closer to the crowd, but still doesn't merge with it, lacking the assurance displayed by so many others, despite the apparent anonymity of the evening.

Mystery will raise on her VERY TIPPY TOES to give Hillbilly a kiss on the cheek, unless he actively avoids the gesture, carefully taking her wine thereafter. "My gracious thanks, o host," she solemnly intones. She's still plotting the downfall of Lanky Lupine, the man seen more as a threat than a help. Besides. They have Hillbilly. He's tall enough to do the job. Her eyes are dark behind her domino, the feathered mask gleaming as she examines the Panther's arrival. A quick shake of the head, and Mystery complains along with Feline, "Faranth, really." A wistful staring: "I wish I had those shoulders." Then. THEN. "Is that man," she hisses to Feline, "NOT WEARING A MASK?" She POINTS at Renalde.

"As do you," Sanguine Macabre purrs softly, the husky tone of voice a muted sound that's whispered between them. "Lovely, lovely." Then her eyes slip past to catch Fantastical Feline waggling her brows, which yields the feral slip of smile to show white teeth. Her masque dips as her head bows, coal-dusted hair absorbing the room's light. Lady in Red's arrival is spotted, in such similar colors to her own (she has good taste), and catches all of the predatory instincts suffused with heat. "Delicious." Renalde's arrival is tracked with the narrow-eyed focus of one to studiously avoid. Hillbilly is afforded the feathered dip of black masque, before she's winding her way back through the crowds with a promised little wave to Phoenix and Feline. Maybe she's set her eyes on Arctic Falcon, too pristine for his own good.

Can we call Renalde the Arctic Fox??

Renalde, aka, The Artic Fox, approves of this and will make it so.

Not unless he appropriates a mask durnit!!

Pristine indeed, holding court on an entire quarter of the craft complex, Arctic Falcon with his clean-cut jaw and laughing eyes behind the cresting white of his mask. He's telling a joke, unaware of Sanguine stalking him, his voice a lovely thing of carefully-articulate gravel. High Reaches' unique cadence marks his style of speech, and soon enough people are laughing from the punchline delivered.

A larger than average (WEARING A MASK MIND YOU) flutters over in a corner where Renalde takes his MASKLESS FACE. She holds in her hand a beautiful mask, with a long nose and white sequins. "Thank you my dear, I had not meant to be delayed so long." Taking the mask from her he slips it on and thus becomes The Arctic Fox. Bam.

The Lady in Red is confident, suave, even occasionally ladylike as she scans the room. Eyes alight briefly on Sanguine and the half of her lips that can be seen (the other three quarters of her face covered) are pinched briefly, but oh well. Who could have known? she nods regally to all, but especially to her cousin Sanguine and Phoenix. An attentive drinks-purveyor passes by and has at least one glass liberated from his car, turning to eye the un-hidden Renalde with fluttering fan and the long eye Oh hello. Oh. And now he is.

The sizing-up the prowling Panther receives is met with equal frankness though there is a glitter of amusement flickering in those amber depths. When Hillbilly turns away, his eyes meet their twin gaze with a wry smile twitching at the full lips beneath that black mask as he nods briefly in return. "And to you." Feline-like hearing picking up the low-voiced greeting — or maybe he just read the other's lips. The toast is met with a lifting of his own mug and a deep draft of the malty-bitter brew before a tiny meat tidbit is popped into his mouth and chewed slowly as his eyes scan the crowd.

Hillbilly is chivalrous enough to bend down for Mystery's kiss, although he colors deeply at the gesture as he nods a greeting to Lupine. "It was my pleasure, my lady," he says, his voice a bit gruff as he ducks his head. The attempt to cover up his sudden shyness is a scan of the room, and those moving nearby. Sanguine gets a return nod, the big man watching the woman with a small, confused frown as she moves on. He shakes it off, though, and turns back to his companions, and the source of the current consternation. "Looks like he's got it covered," he murmurs.

When Feline hears High-Reaches male voice, her head turns in that direction and she studies the bearer for a moment. But then continues speaking with her fellow costumes cat-like companion. "The shoulders. Indeed." Equally wistful. But, one must be satisfied with what they have, so she shrugs and drinks some more punch. "Look at it this way - you've definitely got a rack. Who doesn't love a good pair of ladies. Definitely no man I've ever come across." Being masked makes her a little less… polite. Yeah.

Mystery curls a smile upwards at Hillbilly's coloring, and may even pat his shoulder, but she simply can't let this stand. She air-kisses at Feline as if they were old friends, one to each cheek, before cutting her way through the crowd towards the Arctic Fox. Dark-clad with ebon curls that stream down her back, her dress is simple and strapless, revealing a cleavage most would have to pay good money for. Her mask is a half one, leaving the delicate slope of chin and cheek and lips exposed, naked for everyone to see. "You," comes the Fort-touched words, accusing, "You were not WEARING a MASK." She'll even poke him unless he dodges. That's right, Arctic Fox.

As his punch is plundered a wolfish grin lolls across the Lanky Lupine's features, watching as the Feline partakes and passes it back, helping herself to her own before he can be a proper gentleman about it. The goblet is accepted back with grace despite the haste with which it is returned, and a languid sip enjoyed of the fruit-laden beverage. Mystery may be plotting to off him, but either he cares not for his future fate or is oblivious to it as a small commotion draws his attention first to the Lady in Red and then to Renalde, the maskless musketeer. Fortunately someone provides him with a suitable covering, earning a sly grin for that as he turns back to his punch briefly — it is just so hot out that not drinking is simply not an option — but in time his attention returns to one recognized as a brother in heart, if not in breed. Talk of bosoms and their bounty earn a brief glazing of those golden orbs, a faint flush appearing on the bared chest though it's probably just the heat. Either way, that masked canine is off in search of nourishment to fill out his gawky frame.

The firefox of Phoenix watches with somewhat exasperation as Sanguine drifts off. She shakes her head, offers a laugh when he-who-shall-remain-nameless turns into her ice-clad compatriot in vulpine costuming, and then maneuvers back towards the food tables. Maybe she bumps into Lanky Lupine on her way, or the person just next to him, but it is to the Lanky lad that she lifts her attention to. Her voice is frigid in contrast to her fiery attire: "Excuse me." Even though it was *obviously* her fault, the woman could possibly freeze over the entire floor by just those two bit-off words.

The Arctic Fox isn't totally mind, and he catches the Lady in Red looking at him. He actually is just about to step in her direction when Mystery is IN HIS FACE. "My dear," It totally sounds patronizing. Whatever stick he may have lost up there in the north seems to have CREPT BACK IN, as he does totally dodge that finger. "My responsibilities come before vice." That's right, he just called this party vice. "As I was asked to attend however, I am here, and with a mask as now has been requested. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a Lady to go make the acquaintance of." He steps around Mystery and glides across the room to the Lady in Red and offers her a hand. "My dear? Would you care to dance?"

And that, children, means that nine months from now, there will be little Red Fox kits running amok…

Blood meets snow, Sanguine Macabre finally making it to her prey, though her eyes stray once more to Lady in Red. Something deeper calling in her blood. Her purpose is hidden, masked behind the darkest, night-colored feathers that cover most of her face. "Bawdy jokes, is it?" The soft purr is a low sound, masking cadence of husky tones as she finally hooks an arm through her prey's — or tries to, anyway. "Or are you the entertainment, gussied up in pristine clarity?" This, tilted up to Arctic Falcon, though the length of her dress hardly marks her as short. Middling in height, at least. Okay, maybe just barely middling. Her shoes are wicked, shiny. (Thanks Donatien.)

The crowd is circulating, and the eddies of movement have carried the bulk of it away from the refreshment tables - at least, perhaps, for a short time. Long enough, perhaps, for Primal Youth to slip his way through the ever-growing population of the clearing and obtain one goblet of fruit punch. The food is ignored, but the alcohol is eyed thoughtfully - as are those partygoers nearby. Cupping his beverage in one hand, he inches closer towards that collection of liquors. Don't mind him. He's just a fur-vested shadow.

"Vice," calls Mystery after the Arctic Fox, her voice skeptic and loud, even over the crowd: "As if you disdain it, yet you draw to her like a moth to the flame." Her eyes gleam for Lady in Red's behest: "Claim it vice but you are prey to the addiction as the rest of us, maskless!" With a huff, Mystery mayhap half-stomps off. Towards the door. She's leaving and taking all of her wine with her.

Lanky Lupine's flush is noted by Prowling Panther who offers his brother in heart if not breed or blood a rueful quirk of the lips though he too moves off in search of something since the large night-prowling beast has already procured provender.

Feline watches Mystery stalk off, her mouth twisting into a moue of confusion at some of the things being said. Somehow, it seems safer to indulge in the alcohol than to get involved in the staring matching and purring or growling voices.

Hillbilly is unmoved by talk of bosoms, and he sips his whiskey mildly as he watches the crowd. Which comes with the added entertainment of the Arctic Fox's scolding. He can't hear every word, but he knows what a wagging finger means. He snorts a laugh as he turns back to those still near him. "I kind of wish my costume was more…" Massive shoulders roll, and his smile is boyishly sheepish. "Fancy."

Arctic Falcon of course acquiests to a lady's prompting, extending his elbow just so to Sanguine Macabre. "Mmm," he comments. "How do you know it was bawdy?" Such a lovely voice, that. "Perhaps it was…" there is a pause here as if he searches for the correct word, "…a witty repartee." It sounds much nicer, doesn't it? "The only entertainment I provide is when I'm not gussied up, my lady. Not, I expect, that you would know anything of the sort. Much too untoward, for such a dignified kind… as yourself."

Anonymity makes all beings bold, but it seems that the Lanky Lupine understands that discretion is the better part of valor. Or maybe he is simply listening to baser instincts that tell him when he should heel to an Alpha. Regardless the reason, when Phoenix jars into him and jostles him away with that icy rebuke he bows slightly in deference to her flaming authority, saving his cup from spilling. "M'lady, my most humble and sincere apologies. I seem to have missed your magnificence in my wandering." He straightens and sweeps his hand toward the table of finger foods in a grand gesture, that trace Telgar accent fluting his syllables. "Can I get you anything for your trouble?" He does not cow to her force and fire, but instead meets it with grace and refinement, a mask perhaps as carefully polished as the one he wears in flesh.

She seems mollified enough, Phoenix, to nod gracefully with her snarl'd fox mask nose-diving with the inclination of her chin. "At least you are a half-mannered sort." Do eyes assess Lupine's height with a thoughtfulness? It is so hard to see in the dimness of light, the press of bodies. "No, I think not." She lifts a hand to aim to tap a single finger to his bottom lip, however; if it contacts, the gesture is as slow and as thoughtful and as invasive as the previous draw of eyes in assesment. "Watch your step, wolf." It's lightly enough stated, for a warning, before she breezes onwards, but not towards the food… towards the Fantasy Feline. "AH! There you are." As if there aren't any masks here at all.

"An assumption," Sanguine Macabre laughs, a low sound, "Or a hope." Maybe she's declassed herself from the loftier heights to roll with the gutter talk. "… a witty repartee. Careful. You might actually get a reputation for being civilized," she warns, the red stone at her throat glinting in the candlelight. Up close, black stones dangle from petite ears. "Of course not. I have never participated in… " She pauses, crafty smile tilting her lips, "… that." Her eyes pull away from Arctic Falcon to espy the rest of the masque'd members, eyes alighting on the interplay between the Panther and the Lanky Lupine. "What I need," she murmurs, watching Pheonix and Feline, "is a whole bottle." Maybe that's Arctic Falcon's queue. "Next thing you know," this is a non-sequitur, "he," Renalde, "is going to be eating penguin."

10 points for Sanguine Macabre.

I hate her.

Of course you do.

Fantasy Feline may or may not have a perpetually bemused smile on her face now, and she dips her head in acknowledgement of Phoenix' approach and greeting. "Here I am, and there you are!" she replies, in apparent good humor. "Enjoying the party, I take it? Making men shake in their boots?" is joked, and accompanied by a giggle. "I've now discovered why women don't wear hooker boots like this very often. It's stifling." she decides, in what might perhaps be slightly drunken rambling.

Ah, whiskey. The perfect companion at a party. His companions all wandered away, Hillbilly's drink remains faithful, even traveling along with him as he leaves the table to do a little crowd-wandering of his own.

So many people, so much conversation that just goes right over Primal Youth's head. Definitely not the crowd for him. So he'll take his leave, draining his juice and placing the cup on the table, then slipping past the refreshment table and back into the bowels of the Weyr. And if his vest seems oddly shaped? Just a trick of shadows and glows. Of course.

There is a polite inclination of the head for the comment of manners, the long nose and pert ears dipping in acknowledgement. When the Lanky Lupine finds his personal space invaded somewhat abruptly and that fingers traces over his lips he stills, eyes moving to meet those of that fiery vulpine. He is certainly tall enough to be a man, though whether he is beneath all that fur and finery remains to be seen, or perhaps not. "Advice well given, m'lady." A soft deference sussurates through his tone, as if the wolf is sensing that he is a hair's breadth away from being devoured and got away very lucky. There is relief when that intense aura locomotes elsewhere and he is able to forage meaty sustenance from the table, long fingers grazing idly across the platters spread so decadently. The punch is used to wash the succulent treats down but all too soon that goblet is empty and the roaming canine must venture forth for a refill, braving the vicinity of the Phoenix for more of that sweet drink before slinking off again, drifting idly toward those haunting strains of music.

"Hope." Arctic Falcon to Sanguine Macabre, a laugh in his voice. He steers them towards the rest of the party, actually headed more or less in the direction of Hillbilly, another lofty-heighted man. "A whole bottle of what? It can be arranged." His lofty tone deepens in the desire to honor Sanguine's current desires… whatever they may be. His eyes don't linger overmuch on the tops of her breasts, but they don't linger undermuch, either. "Oh, they have penguin?" The man's hopeful tone in terms of what is available for the eating is positively… sinful.

A taller individual decked in the trappings of the shadows of a draconic form: all dark shades of every color of male dragon. Browns, blues, and bronze twine together, wrapped around an all black evening attire that cloaks him from head to foot. The mask is full of teeth and shaped in midnight blue that allows only a hint to hazel eyes. With predatory grace, he slips through the crowd, circling. With grace, he snatches a flute of alcohol, content to observe.

Perhaps a hum of approval as Phoenix goes for Lupine's graceful yielding, but all is forgotten in lieu of bumping up closer to Feline. They are much of a height, after all, both well-made and similar in more ways than one. Her voice lowers in complaint: "I wish I had boots. These stilletos are making my toes cramp. I didn't even know toes could cramp. But they can." She has a glass in her hand, acquired somewhere, but peers over into Feline's cup: "What are you drinking?" Curiosity. "Did someone say penguin?"

"It's either penguin or rat," Sanguine Macabre comments, her tone matching his for sinful. "A bottle of something red. Deep, deep red." Of course. Would the pristine Arctic Falcon expect anything less? The arrival of the dragon-bedecked male has the glitter of eyes tracing those steps although, she's got a roving eye. If her feet hurt, she gives not a clue, but with the lazy way she walks, a peek of wicked length of heels might be able to be seen. Assuming one is looking at one's footwear. Phoenix and Lupine draw her eyes, but she comments to her companion, "The lady in red looks luscious enough to eat." Did that slip out?

Golf clap. Penguin or rat. GOOD JOB.

Apparently Arctic Fox would like to eat her. Or dance. Something like that.

Lithe and graceful as his namesake the prowling Panther slinks through the crowd, his empty plate set upon a table for clearing away so that he can nurse the remainder of that mug of chilled ale. Bright amber eyes light upon the more feminine contingent as the black beast seeks out his prey, a low rumbling growl purring from the deep chest as he takes in the lovely forms so perfectly displayed by those exotic costumes.

"Toes can cramp?" See, Feline and Phoenix are rather too much alike. And the striped costume-goer peks down at the stilletos to boggle at them. "I almost wonder if whoever designed stilletos is secretly a sadist. How are you even walking in those?" But, then, showing her cup to Phoenix she offers the other woman a chance to sip at it. "Some kind of fruit punch. But I think there's a loooooooooot more alcohol in it then I first thought. I'mma be puking off the side of my ledge in the morning." Sigh. "So, found anyone you want to drag back to your lair? These masque's gotta be good for something right?"

Hillbilly is, seemingly, blissfully unaware of people heading towards him, until his scan of the crowd brings his attention around in that direction. Arctic Falcon's height is easily noted, as is the sultry sin that is Sanguine Macabre. He offers a small smile, and a lift of his glass in greeting. "There's lots of good eating here," he drawls, one eyelid fluttering behind his bandana mask in a wink for Falcon. "If you're hungry enough."

"A bottle of deep red? I don't think I can just whisk her away for you," Arctic Falcon drawls out for Sanguine, jutting his chin towards the striking figure of Lady in Red. "Hullo there," he greets Hillbilly with a cultured lilt, the one half of his lips visible twisting into a fuller smile: "I'm sure." Eyes behind the mask seem to be lighter than dark. "Excellent costume." He doesn't seem to be exactly joking, either. It's not fancy but it's spot-on? "One moment, my dear," he murmurs to Sanguine before striding off with deliberate step to gather up a bottle of red, as the lady requests. Well. A bottle of red wine.

Having rather ignored anyone and everyone successfully for a wee while, the Lady in Red is making a successful reappearance! No one puts baby in Red in the Corner! Not even her player! The drink in hand is refreshed, and the Lady strolls back into prominence, taking elegant slurps of the pale gold beverage in hand. Goes remarkably well with her dress, for one. One hand with fan checks to make sure the mask is in place, the other goes to point out to a drinks-server who she wants an assortment served to. Sanguine, Hillbilly, Feline, Phoenix, Foxy, Falcon, and le Loup all are recipients of her favours. Hellw boys and girls.

Alas. Arctic Fox is TOTALLY IGNORED.

Somewhere, Mystery is LAUGHING.

Hey, Fox got a drink too, man. Stop sulking.


You're the one with a stick up your…

Mystery gets one too. A Lady doesn't forget her… callers…

Having been TOTALLY SHOT DOWN By the Lady in Red, as in, Arctic Fox is going to bear the BURNS on that one, and he's probably never going to RECOVER FROMI T. Where the hell is Mystery so he can pay up?

Late? Is there such a thing as too-fashionably late? Because if so, it would make sense for it to apply to the man who makes a modest entrance. He's sleek in charcoal and a dark-smudged half-mask, leaving the smirking line of lips bare for the looking. With a luxurious head of salt-and-pepper hair, the Most Interesting Man on Pern is here with bare feet.. and a glass of milk. (What do you mean this was supposed to be a "mystery".)

Mystery in Midnight is long gone. With her wine. And her righteous indignation. Arctic Fox is on his OWN.

Arctic Fox is going to go FIND HER. Watch it. Because after THAT, he is soooooo gone. Stupid Lady in Red.

Stupid Fox-face.

Stupid Time-of-month.

Oh snap.

Like the moons, something in the melody calls to the Lanky Lupine, drawing him in like a moth to the flame. Hips sway as the beat becomes something experienced rather than simply heard, the tail affixed behind him swaying with that subtle motion. Somehow that second glass is drained faster than the first and set aside, though whether on tray or table is unimportant to the mesmerized man. The beat of that tune seems to call others to it, the dancing near the center of the clearing a whirling carousel of color and charisma. As the canine draws nearer he is suddenly claimed by a partner and drawn into that swirling sea, lost among the tossed waves of bodies as he becomes one with the rhythm of the night.

Phoenix peers this way and that. "Is that…" there is mutter to Feline. "I always thought whoever designed them must be a guard. These things are weapons, and not just to my *feet*." Er, in regards to stilettos. Phoenix does indeed taste-test that alcohol, makes a face and gives it back: "Too sweet for me." Like most things in life. She sighs at the last question, though. "Maybe her." She crooks a finger after Lady in Red. "I'd tap that."

Hillbilly's smile turns shy when Falcon compliments his costume, and he reaches up to tug at his hat self-consciously. "Thanks. I think the hat is a bit much, maybe." He says this as if it might give something away about his identity beneath the mask. His gaze follows Falcon as he moves away, and then drops to Sanguine. "You see anything that tempts your appetite, my lady?"

Like she heard Phoenix's comment, the Lady in Red swings her hips as she sashays across the room. The hand with the fan waves in the air and another round of drinks is served in that direction. That, or the Lady's taking credit where it isn't due, but if the glove fits, right? The one half of her mouth that's visible twists a little, curving into a smile as she sips her own glass awkwardly and follows her own wave. Anonymity is hard, yo.

Feline can't help but smile when Phoenix points out Lady in Red. "Definitely tappable." she agrees, sipping from her regained alcohol. "I like my liquor sweet; can't help it." She knows, Phoenix. She's a wuss! Ok!? "And you could definitely put an eye out with those shoes. But I won't speculate about how in public." See the dimple in her smile? Still pretending to be all innocent after years of association with the people of Southern. HAH. "Go get 'er; she was totally lookin' at you. I've got to slip away. I'm avoiding someone." She points.. somewhere. Someone she recognized. Because the player is about to keel over.

Sanguine Macabre lets a slight smile loose for Arctic Falcon's comments on apprehending the Lady in Red for her, but she lets it go when he promises to procure something red. Her eyes stray to the Most Interesting Man on Pern, bare feet and all. It's not the predatory look that this male gets, one that's warmer. Complete with the wiggle of blood-tipped fingernails in greeting. Mystery, indeed. "Evening," she purrs to the Hillbilly, tilting her eyes upwards to take in the other man's costume. Surreptitiously, she lifts one foot and shifts her weight after a moment to the other.

Oh, Feline. Leaving Phoenix all by herSELF. Except not, because the lady in the cream-and-red-and-ivory is deciding to follow Feline off to greet whoever-that-is, a purr to her low alto. They are a dangerous pair. Maybe they'll light some shit on fire, but for now, they fade into the background.

Prowling Panther drains his mug and sets it aside, on a roaming tray as servers thread their way through the rambling crowd or the corner of a table as he passes, he doesn't really notice. The lovely ladies have been admired, the males sized up and measured against himself and their feminine companions if they have them. One last sweep of the gathering is given before the lithe night-hunting feline prowls off into the shadows, that low rumble following him as he stalks out of the courtyard and into the mysterious distance.

Most Interesting Man on Pern wanders towards Lady in Red. Maybe he had an eye for that Artic Fox fellow huffing away, but he's got more attention for the red-garbed woman. "Hey." He waves with his glass of milk to Sanguine, but seems to take this all in stride, as if it's just a huge normal gathering than a nighttime affair full with hidden features and mystery. "How are you, my de…ar?" He catches himself just right, his amused expression turning to Lady in Red.

Artic Falcon's coming back, seriously. Look. Here he is. With a whole skin of red wine, which he's pouring a glass of for Sanguine and handing it over carefully. To Hillbilly: "Want a glass?" is asked, even though he's already put his eyes on the … whiskey? … the other man is drinking. Noticeably, Falcon is not indulging, himself. "Set any fires since I stepped away?" he questions Sanguine instead, falling back in line with the woman of blood-and-black.

"Better not mix," Hillbilly rumbles at Falcon when he returns, his grin suddenly loose and lazy. And maybe inviting. Just a bit. "Wine after whiskey's a bit risky, after all." He seems a bit pleased with his joke, and he looks to Sanguine like she will BACK HIM UP. Hilarious, right? He gestures with his glass at Falcon's costume, and nods. "You ran off before I could return the compliment earlier, but thank you."

The Lady in Red looks over in slight surprise and is fascinated by the Most Interesting Man in the World. Just rapt for a moment. Her voice takes a moment to catch up: "Fine! Thank you." The fan waves. "La, good sir." La indeed, "And you?" The fan flutters. "Are you just recently arrived?" Maybe it's the fan's movement, but her eyes haven't spotted the glass of milk just yet. So, the Lady in Red is flirting shamelessly.

"One should never sully the taste of fine wine that settles on the tongue with whiskey," Sanguine Macabre's heated purr does, indeed, back up the Hillbilly whilst shooting glances to them both beneath the fringe of the dark feathers of her mask. Coal-dusted hair has trickled to the fairness of skin, aiding in her seeming ability to absorb light. "I don't know. Do you see anyone burning?" Eyes track Phoenix, before settling back on Arctic Falcon. She leans into Hillbilly, the languid flirtation a part of her bones: heated, yet deadly. "Perhaps you?" The drink, of course, is taken from the pristine falcon and raised in toast before brought to her lips for the daintiest of sips. "Faranth." It must be good.

A strange look passes over the set of Most Interesting Man on Pern's face at the way Lady in Red is acting, but he goes with it. "Recently arrived? I suppose you could… say so. For the party, at least." Elegant fingers twist upwards to encompass the entirety of this gathering. "Not, perhaps, arrived in length of… tenure." His smile is touched with laughter.

"Risky whiskey," Artic Falcon seems to be getting more amusement out of that than Sanguine, or so it would appear. His grin is open - or so it would seem, hard to tell the minutiae of expression with more than half of his covered and obscured. There is the feeling of an eyebrow tilted. "Thank you." Regarding his own clothes, surely. "I think she's about to eat you," he comments to Hillbilly, his voice struggling to contain a laugh.

The Lady in Red nods llike this is exactly what she was referring to, and ahhs, "Yes, yes, exactly…" Who needs names tonight? Lady sips at her glass and lets the other hand wave the fan over the Most Interesting Man's shoulder. Dust. "A fascinating night," she murmurs and suddenly spots the milky drink before shrugging off the idea. White Russian, right? "Have you the urge to dance?" This red-begarbed lady is almost swishing her skirts while standing still. Perhaps she knows her ass looks fab in this dress.

The Lady in Red's gonna have to change her name to That Little Red Tart.

Hillbilly doesn't seem to mind the lean, although he seems a bit reluctant to return it. "I…would make a poor meal, my lady," he says, with hopefully enough charm to take the sting out. "But, while I enjoy exotic delicacies in the throes of dragonlust, my tastes tend to run more towards…" he pauses, turning his smile on Falcon and lifting his chin. "Meat and tubers." He offers an apologetic sort of twist to his mouth underneath his mask, and tips his head. "Not that you don't make a fine-looking meal. I'm sure you'll find no end of men willing to…" his mouth twists again, into a mischevious sort of grin. "Have a taste."

That strange set to Most Interesting Man's broad shoulders hasn't relieved itself, except to shrug. Well, then. This isn't FULL CIRCLE at ALL, excepting that was Igen — wasn't it Igen? — and this is Southern. He settles his milk down to the side and extends an arm to Lady in Red after a grand, stately half-bow. "Shall we, then?"

"No," Sanguine Macabre leans back, expression flushed. "Not I." She employs a Do Not Touch policy. Mostly, anyway. The glass is tilted back for a deeper dip into the wine, until she tosses it all back and holds the glass out expectantly for Arctic Falcon. "More." She shoots a look to Hillbilly, coquettish smile twitching her lips. "Never you no mind. You lack a certain ingredient for my tastes at the moment." She can sense it — not his sexual preference, but something deeper. As if someone else is choosing. "Meat and tubers," she whirls on Arctic Falcon, the enigmatic dark mask hiding her expression. "It should go well with the rat, won't it?" Significant is the look she shoots between the two men. Maybe she's meddling.

Arctic Falcon offers a laconic shrug of broad shoulder for Hillbilly's declaration of poor-meal-making, a snort of amusement for declaration of tastes. He doesn't rebuff the man or urge him on, a hint of neutrality - and humor - to the only comment he offers: "There a…isn't anything wrong with a hearty meal, now and again." He slips Sanguine a pointed look, for some reason, about that time. As if there's an inner joke there, exploited. He pours her another glass, stoppers the wineskin, leans up against the nearest table looking like Pern's version of GQ. "Don't you have your own meat to find, lovely? Or do you have a fine steak waiting for you back at hearth and home?" A GLEAM; it's only halfway hectic, shared then with Hillbilly in a roguish lift of lopsided smirk.

Accepting the Most Interesting Man's arm, the Lady in Red places her glass somewhere overt, and her fan somewhere… discreet. "Yes, we shall," she replies with grandeur. Except when she gets to the dancing position, the Lady is slightly less at ease, a little stiffer. And blushing close to the temples. Still, she's not totally oblivious, wondering, "You seem tense." Hypocrite.

Pish tosh, tense. "I could have used a drink," Most Interesting Man comments, but do not fear, because he's sweeping Lady in Red up in an easy, graceful arrangement against him as he steps forwards into the dance, leading her around the easy turns and twists and one very exclusive little twirl. Things feel familiar yet, there, Lady Tart?

"Oh, a fine meal is definitely worth it, now and again," Hillbilly agrees with Falcon, offering him a toothy grin. "Like I said, I've been known to indulge from time to time. I just…" he rolls his shoulders, snickering at Falcon's question for the lady. "It doesn't sound like she's in the mood for steak," he informs Falcon, unsuccessfully trying to school his expression into something more serious. The grey eyes dancing behind the bandana mask give him away, though. Particularly when he lands them on Falcon again, the GLEAM reflected with perhaps a bit more intention than it was received.

Blood-and-death is a fickle creature, taking the full glass from Arctic Falcon, Sanguine Macabre raises it to her lips. "Touche." She glances between the pair of them, and affords a secret smile before her eyes slip to the dance floor to watch the Most Interesting Man on Pern step onto the dance floor with the Lady in Red. "It is not the meat, but what the meat is paired to," she murmurs, voice strained. Enough that she's affecting a wiggle of her fingers, and taking her leave. "Enjoy your meat and potatoes," with full glass in hand, she's moving with a liquid grace towards the alcohol table. Maybe she'll just down the whole table to calm the heat that flushes skin.

Yup, that's puzzlement - "I thought you had…" The Lady in Red's eyes flicker uncertainly but OKAY, she's choosing to ignore this bit of intel. The half-smile reasserts itself! "Mmm, you're a very good dancer," she announces (to everyone) breathlessly. Familiar? "The last time I danced like this, he…" Nope, still not making connections out of possibly sheer perversity. So the Lady's enjoying herself maybe a little too much, but she offers demurely, "Why, you're such a treasure, I simply can't keep myself all the fun to myself tonight…" A nod to where lovely bemasqued ladies are sighing while she twirls past.

She's STILL got the Most Interesting Man in her arms. For the moment.

Falcon rolls his eyes and states DIRECTLY to Hillbilly, "Goldriders," as if that explains it all. THE GIG IS UP SANGUINE. Maybe he should call that out to her back, but he doesn't, watching her sway off and shaking his head. "I feel… entirely sorry for whatever creature she puts her claws into tonight," Falcon comments to Hillbilly, shifting to check a hip up on that table and watch the slowly-winding-down festitivites.

"Why, thank you," Most Interesting Man to Lady in Red, his voice a stifled laugh. "I think you could keep me all night and the only important person wouldn't mind. He's an understanding soul." Matter-of-fact. Twist, twirl, a particularly risque dip that he holds longer than is entirely necessary before drawing her upright — there's a bit of a flinch at the end of it, his left hand spasming against hers. He doesn't comment on it. "I certainly don't feel indebted to the ladies of the hour." A chin-nod towards bemasqued ladies. And curiously, "Do you?"

Hillbilly snorts as Sanguine makes her leave, saluting her with his glass before turning his attention back to Falcon. "She's definitely going to make someone…" he frowns, and and tugs at his chin thoughtfully. "Well, maybe not /sorry/. Happy, maybe." He looks back after Sanguine, and his frown deepens. "Maybe not." He settles against the table, perhaps unaware as he edges into Falcon's space. "Guess it depends on who she's got ready to ride itinerant." He grins, winking again at Falcon before he turns to watch those that are left, including the couple on the floor. "What about you?" he asks, finally. "You got your meal seen to, yet?"

Sanguine Macabre is ignoring Falcon and his Hillbilly friend, investing in taking a skin with her before sashaying her way out of the festivities with her chin up and a half-smile gracing her lips. Perhaps she hooks an arm through someone or other — the dragon-themed male, maybe — before escaping to take a walk, and return home under the moon's full light. Either way, she takes her exit, stage left. There's a real good chance she's going to rid herself of those shoes somewhere along the way to, especially since the gig is up and height is no longer a requirement.

"Sore was the word I was thinking of," Falcon comments, waving fingers after Sanguine in the case she does look back. He gives a truly regretful sigh: "She has one of the nicest asses I have ever seen on a woman." Well. It's true. He watched it waltz right out the damn door. The whole way. He doesn't shift off as his space is invaded, instead glancing over with something very much weighing. "I was thinking of fasting tonight. It's been… an interesting day." Does he seem to gain an accent at the end, there, dropping 'g's off where they should be crisply enunciated? He looks back over the crowd and hides the half of his smile into his glass of water: "No telling what I may want for breakfast."

Lady in Red to Most Interesting Man: "Oh!" If the clues aren't falling into place, the Lady's dumber than she looks. Which is possible. "Well, ooooooh!" she gasps as she's dipped, and yup, that off-the-shoulder dress does nothing to hide cleavage or the fan: "If you're not preoccupied with… the ladies," what the hell is she doing there? Lady in Red recovers, though: "If he is agreeable, I don't mind… taking some time." A flirt? Maybe? If the Lady knows who she's dancing with, at least she hasn't frozen in shock.

Something strange happens when Most Interesting Man puts Lady in Red arights; he glances off towards the exit, seeming torn, distracted. "I am so very sorry, my dear," he gently states, "But I fear I must make my exit. It was a lovely dance." He'll even take a step back, drawing out her hand and placing a kiss on the back of it before turning and making his sure-footed way to the exit, a Cinderella leaving the ball — except he has no shoe to leave behind, just the whisper of his bare feet against stone.


"Well, as long as you're eatin'," Hillbilly rumbles, his gaze behind the mask equally weighing, if a bit flirty. "I'd lief as not see a man starve when he doesn't have to." The clip of accent seems to be contagious, as Hillbilly's ancient twang seems to exert itself in response. He's quiet as he watches that smile into the glass, and lifts a shoulder. "Mayhap you could have a third watch snack, and whet your appetite for a more…hearty breakfast at sunup." His lips twitch as he mimicks Falcon's glass-smile. "I mean, if you can manage more than one meal a night." It might be a CHALLENGE.

The Lady in Red is righted, head swirling with drink and amusement, only to find herself dancing with herself. It was fun while it lasted, so the Red Lady moves gracefully out of the way of other dancers, towards those ringing around with a huff. Just like a man.

A gleam returned for that challenge, and Falcon straightens, taking an unusually vain moment to put his clothing in order. He opens his mouth to say something… and then seems to change his mind. "Aw, fuck it," with that accent deepening: "C'mon, then." The gig will be up (har har) soon enough, but for now he remains the Arctic Falcon, gesturing with his chin off to the bowl, an eyebrow lifted as he moves off towards the door. Maybe he even has a sympathetic look for poor Lady in Red. "M'place or yours?" is the question that can be overheard, directed at Hillbilly, as he slips through the entrance into the night beyond.

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