they got drinks in their hands and the room's a bust—
A SOCIAL PARTY
GOOD MUSIC -- REFRESHMENTS SERVED
The invitation in the shape of a playing card is rendered so artistically, a touch of old glamour here, a stroke of bold new money there—that for a moment Caine merely admires the feel of the card in his grasp, the grains of the paper, the artificially aged edges (or perhaps it was real—it didn't smell like tea, for one), the family crest heat-pressed into its back.
He does not often come across such fine artistry in the sand dunes of Solterra.
It reminds him, first achingly and then sharply painful, a viper sinking its fangs into him for his treachery, of Vectaeryn, and his room in the Selwyn manor, and the rolls of paper he had kept stacked beneath a glass paperweight to fold, two for every sleepless night, into cranes and bears and wolves and then an entire city, captured at a precise, thimble-sized scale.
He had kept his little city on his desk, and when it had outgrown that, had it spill across the black carpet until it climbed like ivy into his bed (that he so rarely slept in) and across his windowsill.
He wonders if it is still there.
The invitation had been left on the counter of Caine's favourite haunt, dropped, probably, from the pockets of a minor noble none of them had recognised. He'd paid the find no mind, sipping distractedly at his cup until it had been slid under his nose by Rudolph, one of the few spies he'd kept contact with after—everything.
They rubbed shoulders in the same leaky taverns, and for Caine that was enough to count as camaraderie.
Sometimes, when the mood struck him, Ru would toss a coin towards a particularly rowdy group of men (with women at their sides like feathered backdrops) and saunter towards them with a toast on his lips and malice seeded deep in his smile.
Caine joined Ru at his games because it amused him greatly, and because, as a former spy, there was no greater indulgence than a secret plied like spun sugar from drunken lips.
"This seems like the sort of thing you'd be good at," came Ru's chirpy voice at his ear. Pocketing a sigh, Caine held the card up to catch the filmy light.
"And why is that?" His cup, half emptied, clinked down on the grainy table. Various stains of various origins peppered across it like dapples; he'd given thought, once, to how quickly this whole place would burn down if one only put a match to alchohol-soaked wood, and his conclusion had been nearly sobering.
Slowly he arched a brow towards the spy to say and why not you?, though without the effort, and in return Rudolph swiped his glass over and emptied its contents down his throat.
"You're the only one of us pretty enough for it." The table exploded in a chorus of laughter. Caine moved a giggling girl's head from his shoulder and apologised with a smile that cut. "Bet you clean up well."
"You don't say," Caine drawled, pushing back the long, sleek lengths of his hair and frowning when he caught the smell of liquor tangled up in it. "I take it you won't be going." His gaze swept callously over the painted women—and men—with their heads tilted adoringly towards the spy draped in silks of red.
"Well, I'll think about it." Something to do, at least. He was losing his damned mind doing the same thing over and over again like his life ran on some sort of clockwork. Being drunk all the time, he thought, was rusting away its appeal.
He'd tossed his cloak over his shoulders without a goodbye and stepped back into shadow, and cold, and blessed emptiness.
* * *
Caine is not yet inside when he thinks he sees a flash of carmine red between the hedgerows, and stops to wonder why it is affecting him so.
A disgruntled noblemen jostles his shoulder and Caine wonders, this time sourly, why he is the one apologising. It seems like the sort of thing you'd be good at. Sometimes, Caine wants to sock Ru in the throat for the things he says. Mostly because, in some mutated way, they are always right.
He shakes his head before subjecting himself back to the pull of the crowd. He shows his invite at the door but the guard, dressed all in black, seems barely to care, grunting before waving him inside. Caine pockets the card, happy they hadn't taken it, and swivels left at the first bend he sees.
Isn't it some sort of irony, he thinks, as he cuts through the crowd nimbly—with the confidence of a sleepwalker in an endless dream—that it's taken me this long to attend a Solterran party? When he had been sent here in Isorath's wake. When attending parties was as much apart of his job description as keeping his blade edges sharp and gleaming on a diet of arterial blood.
There is red again at the edge of his vision, and this time Caine snaps his head around to follow after it.
He cannot shake the feeling that it is someone he knows, but they are but a dark head now bobbing in a blur of faces, swept along with as much ease as he cuts.
Caine swipes a wineglass off a passing tray—mostly for appearances—and scans the room again for red.
Tonight, in the sickle moonlight, Amaunet is not riding the wake of war. Her hunger is not for blood, or violence, or the dull many-lion roar of a wanting crowd. Tonight her need is deeper, slower, thick blood instead of thin and racing. Tonight she is oil instead of gasoline, moonlight instead of fire, mortal skin instead of molten gold.
She is wanting, that never changes, but she is need too tonight.
It gathers beneath her skin like a thundercloud in the places where the desert meets the tide and the belly of a dune the sun-warm peak of it. Blushes of dawn-gold gather between the dark creases of her ribs and her feathers. But her own glow, her own shining hunger that is too great to hold just in the cage of her body, is nothing more than another spot of wealth moving through the crowd and the oasis ferns rising up to tease the edges of her hips. She does not mind, not terribly, that she is almost softer, almost gentle in the chaos around her.
Amaunet imagines it makes her like a wolf in the snake den, or a lion slumbering in that ever present herd of sheep. Someone laughs and it is too loud for the oil-slow purr in her blood and the muted whisper of her feathers against the night-flowers in the garden. She turns away. It is not what she has come looking for.
She does not want brazen boldness or a body bloated and slow with liquor. Amaunet wants---
Oh, she wants the hunt and the feel of teeth at her throat begging her for the one thing she will never give willingly. Her eyes land on the almost-hunter, the man who has already promised that his knees will bleed and her skin will hum. Jasmine clings to her braids and her tail as she unfolds herself from the garden as she moves towards Corradh and his table of paints.
Amaunet moves towards the hunt, the kill, the promise of teeth and gold and prayer.
And maybe, oh maybe--
She wants learn what it is to be conquered.
Her wings unfurl and her teeth flash in a smile that is both hunger, and need, and full of as many promises as it is teeth. “If I let you touch me,” there is more purr than language in her voice, more want than air, “what would you make my body into with your paints?” And when she touches him it is with lips free of paint, and blood, and cruelty.
Give your heart and soul to charity
'Cause the rest of you, the best of you
Honey, belongs to me
H
e doesn’t want to go. Really, he doesn’t.
When the invitation arrives, it sits on his desk for three or four days. A SOCIAL PARTY GIVEN BY THE IESHANS it says, GOOD MUSIC - REFRESHMENTS SERVED. A dove drops it on his windowsill mid-afternoon, just as the first snow is starting to fall in Viride (though, most flakes are filtered out by the thick canopy): a carefully folded envelope neatly stamped with gold wax, first the big, black, blocky letters, and then–perhaps worse–a note scrawled on the back.
“If you come, you will be my guest. Isn't that only fair? You'll finally meet all of the family.
- Adonai”
He often sees it in the corner of his eye, wax glittering just enough in the cold winter light that it draws the attention. By the time he snatches it off of the desk he’s lost count of how many seconds he’s spent glaring at its place in his room.
Andras doesn’t want to go to the party. He can think of nothing worse than a crowd full of nobles with cheekbones like knives and decadence dripping off every back like they’re bathed in gold.
It’s just that, the more he looks at it, the more he thinks it must be Pilate’s doing, the more he thinks about Pilate– Andras knows he is going to the party.
Andras tries not to see the guards, taking stock of each attendee, exchange glances over his back as he passes, flickering faintly with static. He enters with a small group: two of his people that heard the word party and couldn’t resist, four nobles clad in fine, deep purple silk that waves as it catches the light of the lanterns placed in a row on the front lawn, and him– sparking, glowering down at the path before him as he walks.
It all feels more familiar than he likes as he follows the crowd first through the front door, then the foyer, then the main hall where each noble is introduced before him–Andras Demyan, Dawn Court Warden–then out through the courtyard to the kitchen. Every banister and inset shelf is rimmed with garlands of holly and outside it is just as light as in. From each angle he can hear music, and when one starts to fade there is another musician there to take its place.
He thinks, with a pang of warmth, that he could never dream something like this into being.
Before he is aware it’s happening he’s back in the kitchen, somehow even larger without sunlight streaming in through the open doors. Andras carefully shoulders his way through the crowd–a blend of newcomers claiming their drinks before wandering toward their partners to dance, persons starting their second or third rounds, and more than a few lounging in the heat of the room, watching candlelight sparkle in the shelves of glass bottles and (of course) watching Pilate, too–and takes his place at the bar.
He reads labels. He reads labels on green and blue bottles at the back of the bar. When he hazards a glance in Pilate’s direction he feels like he’s falling, and falling, and falling, except no one else looks and he never does hit the ground. Someone leans over the bar with hooded eyes and coos. There is a girl next to him, short and well dressed, that sees Andras watching her watch Pilate and looks away.
The more Andras watches the more he doesn’t quite care. It isn’t surprising. He can hardly blame them when his head is swimming, swimming, swimming– or drowning.
“Prince Pilate,” he waves, grinning that wolf’s grin, all teeth-- because even if Pilate expects him, Andras knows there is something worse than usual in serving him anything. "Is it a bother to ask what you'd recommend?”
This can go one of two ways, he thinks. Andras wonders which one.
Like an aneurysm, I only know it’s happening once I’m in the middle of it. I wake up from a nap, bleary-eyed, and look outside my window to check the time: but instead of just seeing the sun as it sets on the horizon, I see crowds of people in the eastern courtyard, and a band set up by the fig trees, and servants wearing the all-black outfits that mean we are having guests over.
I push open my window. A cold breeze rushes in, and it smells like money—the sharply alcoholic perfume I hate with a passion. It blows into my room hand in hand with the thin, reedy sound of a flute playing something unbearably cheerful; and for a moment I can only stare at them. All the laughing bodies, the rich cloaks, the lavish jewelry, the glitter of wine glasses in candlelight, the sound of the world turning without me, and not only that, turning with joy.
My mouth tastes like acid. I lick my teeth. I ring the bell by my bedside, and almost instantly Hadja pokes her head in, her dark eyes wide and expectant.
“What—“
My voice cracks. It is far rougher than I’d realized, still hoarse from sleep. It is the voice of someone unprepared—a voice shameful for a princess. My cheeks flash-burn. Hadja lowers her eyes, and finally I clear my throat and croak: “What is this?”
“Prince Pilate is throwing a winter’s eve party,” Hadja says; and still she does not look me in the eyes. Her voice wavers when she asks, “Would you like me to do your hair?”
I plod downstairs resentfully. Pilate has strung our spiral staircases with boughs of thickly-leafed holly; out of the corner of my eye their bright-red berries look like poison. Though this part of the mansion is empty, I can hear a soft, rich violin suite bleeding in from the courtyard. And in the foyer he’s set up tall, skeletally bare white oak trees, their boughs swathed in silver tinsel and decorated with glass baubles, which he’s filled with snow enchanted never to melt.
I have to hand it to him. I hate these damn parties, but they never fail to impress me.
A servant passes me with a tray of shots. Without stopping him, I snatch two, not bothering to figure out exactly what they are, and down one right after the other. A sharp, bitter heat flashes down my throat and through my chest: I cough and shake my head violently, just for a second, until the feeling subsides. The servant doesn’t even notice. I wonder for a moment whether I should chastise him for being so distracted, and then realize I don’t care at all.
It seems most of the attendees are in the kitchen—which has been turned into a bar, I realize as I pass it, and is crowded from wall to wall—or the courtyard, where the band has picked up pace and guests have begun to dance.
But when I duck my head into our hall of statues, I realize the gallery must have been opened up too. It’s not nearly as crowded as the other rooms, but a few strangers still loiter there, admiring the sculptures and, to a lesser extent—my brother.
I slink toward him. The alcohol is already starting to make me feel fuzzy and warm, and a smile even flashes over my face, briefly, as I drawl: “I thought parties were for when things are going well.”
All those dead things in the ground, all those bones and half-rotten bodies buried in unmarked graves. The field mice caught and left by the barn cats, the sick fox that crawled into its den to die, the unnamed man buried six feet deep in the garden. All of them groaning, turning over in their sleep when I pass by them.
I can hear them.
If it were not for the whispering earth, the garden might have been silent tonight. Isolt might still have been still been sleeping, tangled up leg to leg with her sister, with the hollow curls of their blood-red horns locked tightly together. But in the black night when the moon disappears over the sea, she comes awake with a sigh.
At first she hears only the creak of the winter-bare trees overhead, wringing their branches together like hands and turning restlessly. She lies there and she listens, while they groan and shiver and tap, tap, tap against each other’s trunks like a song without words. The sound of it makes her teeth begin to ache, makes the frost in the air begin to taste like iron and blood. And it is only in the silence filling the spaces between the trees that she thinks to wonder at the way they move when there is no wind to guide them.
She turns and drags the curl of her horn down her sister’s neck like a prayer whispered on the lips of a sinner.
Come awake, she prays with each line she draws into Danaë’s skin. Come awake with me. And she does not stop twisting until she feels that other body begin to stir, until the heart beating just below the surface speeds up as if to say yes, yes, I’m here, yes. Her lips trace the path her horn had cut almost-tenderly, the only apology she’ll ever know how to form. But it doesn't stop the way the bones in the earth are grinding, and the way the bones in her body are snarling.
There is no wonder or joy in her voice when she speaks, only the bottomless pit of her hunger coming awake in the night. “I can’t sleep.” She presses the words into her sister’s skin, presses them hard enough that she might feel the way her teeth are aching for something to sink into.
She breathes in slowly, holds the taste of the young winter night on her tongue. In it she can feel the snow in the air, the rot waiting for her just below the half-frozen earth. It sings to her, for her, makes her lungs tremble like a flower trapped somewhere between rotting and rooting. And it is the song that makes her decide she can’t go back to sleep, not now, not when the dead things have already been sleeping for far too long.
“Let’s go.”
And when she moves, when Isolt untwists their bodies grown together like roots and takes off down the narrow garden path like something wild and furious and unleashed — she does not even notice the way the dry leaves crumble to dust beneath her hooves. She only thinks that the bones and the dead things are quieter when she runs, when her blood is rushing in her ears and drowning out the groans of the earth.
And as she runs, death runs with her in all the places where her hooves cut edges into the soil, spreading black and brittle like disease.
Tales of your beauty and talent have traveled as far as the sand dunes of Solterra—and while I have never personally had the honor, I wish to change that.
My family is hosting a party at our estate very soon, and we are in need of someone like you. I hope that you will consider attending, along with anyone you so wish to bring. You will be free to entertain at your own discretion—above all, you will be a guest, and an honored one at that.
It goes without saying that you will be handsomely compensated.
If I do not greet you at the door, then you will find me in the hall of statues.
The hawk's name is Abaddon. I raised him from a tiny hatchling to the majestic thing he is today—careful, for he bites. Tie your reply very gently to his leg and he may just spare you. Or, if it is more your style, skip the reply and simply show up.
I hope parties are your thing. Parties are certainly an Ieshan thing, and, if anything, ours are always well attended. Perhaps you will find the ones you seek in attendance.
What have you come here for, Torix? I am curious. Consider that your motivation for obliging: to relieve a prince of his curiosity.
my lover's got humour
she's the giggle at a funeral
it's a full moon. one bright and hungry, as a lunar spell glints bone-white reflections along the horizon. tonight, even the stars do not shine as bright as the moon, and euryale calantha drinks it all in; the moon, the stars, the hushed darkness that settles like a blanket over the earth, summoning the evening in a swift kiss of velvet. she watches the snowflakes drop one by one from heaven. they spin like angels lost to the wind. she feels a shiver dance upon her spine and yet she welcomes it, with a languid hiss. everything from the stillness of the river to the deep, dark shadows unfurling into a wicked forest, bewitches her. euryale loves her evening strolls, the silence and the desolation, of one's own company. everything like this makes her feel at peace, and it's a feeling she rarely enjoys. this peace. she wants it. tonight, she welcomes the solace, despite how much chaos her heart screams FOR.
her obsidian lashes slowly flutter open, to soak in the dim-lit ambience. she feels her heart pulsing, shifting like swan-wings beneath her porcelain breast. if it's excitement she feels, she does not show it; euryale is perfectly made to express little, outwardly. instead, she is an image of statuesque aesthetic and stormy calm. her crimson bodice, gleaming in all its feminine exoticism, as the rest of her, ripples over the water's surface like a red dragon. her curves seem to glow in the moonlight. the deepest of scarlet, the splashes of ivory, that highlight her slender angles like a dress made of fire and ice. when she looks down at her own reflection, however, she feels a timeless sort of emptiness. like she's lived too long in this world, and parts of her wished nothing more than a deathless death. there is a secret part of her that wants to rest beneath the earth. euryale sighs, and drinks deeply from the frost-bound river. tonight, her soul feels black and thirsty. tonight, she wants to drink the whole world and fill her emptiness with sin.
Like many of Novus’ noble families, the Ieshans are proprietors of a variety of fine art. And in the rare event that the house is opened up to the public—as it has been just for tonight—they take pride, too, in showing off their collection.
On the ground floor is the family’s gallery, and perhaps the most awe-inspiring part of it all is the Hall of Statues, a long corridor which is lined on both sides with a collection of Novus’ finest sculptures. Some of them are rumored to be products of Elliot de Clare himself: it almost looks as though his family crest might be carved into a marble hoof here, or an opal horn there. (But of course the guards would never let you close enough to know for sure.)
Then there is that Ieshan who seems as though he might be a statue himself. For most of the night, the First Prince of House Ieshan, the Cleric of Virtue himself, Adonai, can be found wandering (albeit quite slowly) through the hall. And it seems as though he is not the only living statue: upon closer inspection, one can find three hired performers acting as sculptures at various points of the room.
They are quite dedicated to their jobs, and it is impossible to goad them away from their posts. But they catch wind of more gossip than anyone, and if you ask oh-so-nicely—or if you have something to offer in return—they might just let you in on the news of the night.
Instructions: The Hall of Statues has been opened to the public as part of the Ieshan’s winter party. The Hall may be used as a setting for any festival thread; just beware the soldiers that guard these valuable artworks, and certainly be careful of touching anything you aren’t meant to touch. @Adonai (rallidae) is the most likely of the Ieshan siblings to be found at this event. There are also three “living statues” scattered around the hall who may or may not be willing to give your character the latest gossip. If you would like a living statue interaction, please make an OOC note in your post and DM Arby the link to the thread on Discord, and she’ll whip up some scandal for you (;
TRUTH OR DARE
Out in the courtyard, the second oldest princess, Hagar, has set up her own booth. Though it is a quiet corner compared to the hustle and bustle of the rest of the party, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to it. Perhaps it is Hagar herself who catches your attention, clothed in a translucent robe of finest silk, whose warm amber eyes seem to track every attendee at once; or perhaps it is the fact that everyone who comes up to meet her leaves, whether minutes or moments later, looking thoroughly shaken. The booth itself is simply decorated. Its wooden surface is covered in a thick velvet cloth dyed to match the deep wine of her cloak, and candles burn at each corner. In a corner of the yard that has been tastefully overgrown by vines, it looks almost like part of the scenery, grown up from the ground itself rather than being placed there.
If you are not drawn in quick enough, Hagar is not above coming to find you herself and dragging you back with her. She smells like money; she is both stronger and more persuasive than she seemed at first glance, and hard to refuse once she sets her sights on you. But whether you come of your own volition or not, her question is the same: truth or dare?
Instructions: Out in the courtyard, one of the princesses has generously donated her intuitive talents to organizing an extensive game of truth or dare. @Hagar (cannon) is the most likely of the Ieshan siblings to be found at this event. She will enthusiastically encourage all passersby to play, with other attendees as well as with herself. If you would like to have Hagar play with your character, please DM Cannon and/or RB; otherwise, feel free to set general party threads in this area, or have your characters play the game with each other!
OPEN BAR
The Ieshan’s exorbitantly large dining room has been converted to serve as a buffet of sorts. But unlike most buffets, the breadth of drinks offered almost matches the extravagant variety of food that has been laid out. On a long stone table covered by a gold-filigreed white cloth, tray after tray of ales, wines, absinthes, and drinks so rare they have no name have already been poured into one of a hundred identical cups; and if there is anyone meant to keep track of whether young attendees have snuck in, they left long ago.
The head of house himself mans this station (though “mans” might be giving him too much credit). Prince Pilate, ever the gracious host, is careful to greet everyone who enters the room with a charming smile and an inquiry into whether they’re enjoying themselves. As the night goes on and more drinks are poured, perhaps he becomes a little friendlier than usual, or slurs his words a little more; but never enough to warrant concern from attendees or a warning from his siblings.
And he never loses his ability to answer questions about this or that particular drink. The only uncertainty is whether that quick answer might be a lie.
Instructions: The Ieshans’ private dining hall has been converted into an open bar, accessible to all party attendees. @Pilate (RB) is the most likely of the Ieshan siblings to be found at this event. You are welcome to come up with whatever drink you’d like, but Pilate has whipped up a set of five specialty cocktails that he will encourage any and all partygoers to try, each with their own secret short-term effect attached to it. If you would like to participate in this event, please make an OOC note of which drink your character is taking (numbered 1-5 below) and DM RB the link to your thread. Cheers!
Pale gold with pink swirls; smells spicy and tastes sweet.
Sea green with brown swirls and a slice of strange fruit on the edge of the glass; smells and tastes like anise.
Amber, carbonated, with red swirls and served over ice; smells and tastes like mint, though the aftertaste is faintly of charcoal.
Sapphire with a smooth, thick texture, served warm; tastes like rum with a violently spicy finish.
Emerald liquor carefully layered on a base of denser silver liquid; smells brightly cold & minty, tastes closer to lemon.
BODY ART
It would hardly be a Solterran party without some kind of body art; and the Ieshans have splashed out on their hired artists, just as they seem to have thrown money everywhere else. In the wide courtyard, across from Princess Hagar, three native Solterran artists are taking requests. They are said to be capable of completing almost any request, from large pieces done in washable berry paints down to the most intricate of mehndi designs meant to stain the skin for weeks. (These artists are such native Solterrans, though, that their accent can be almost too thick to interpret. Be prepared for some length of conversation before they fully understand your request... if they ever do.)
The youngest Prince, Corradh, spends most of the night here. Between flirting with all three of the artists, he’s gotten himself roped into becoming both their canvas, a living body painted to showcase original designs, and their apprentice, learning their techniques hour by hour. If you’re willing (and though he would never be uncouth enough to say it out loud, if you’re pretty), he might even ask to practice on you.
Instructions: The second activity held in the courtyard is a professional body art station. There are three native Solterran artists here, who are more than happy to paint whatever design your character desires on any part of their body; but they aren’t the chattiest, and at times might be hard to understand. @Corradh (syndicate) is the most likely of the Ieshan siblings to be found at this event. He seems to alternate between letting the artists practice on him and asking strangers whether they might let him practice on them. If you’d like a thread with Corradh, please DM Syn; otherwise, feel free to play out the hired artists as NPCs and use this as a setup for other threads!
SCAVENGER HUNT
It’s been said that Ruth wouldn’t be recognizable as an Ieshan, if you found her out on the street. But in the glitz and glamour of the mansion her royal blood seems undoubtable, due far less to her looks than the ease with which she walks the property; ducking in and out of rooms and corridors, shouldering her way through rows of guards to open apparently unlocked doors. Yet there is also something frantic in the way she does it. At the very least she seems annoyed. When she sees you, she hesitates—maybe deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence at all—but eventually trudges over to meet you.
And perhaps she is the plainest of her siblings, physically; but up close you are suddenly entranced by her eyes, not only their odd color, but the sheer coldness of them. “I’ve lost something,” the princess tells you flatly. “Important. Have you seen it?”
Instructions: Far removed from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the party, a “scavenger hunt” of sorts has been unwittingly organized. @Ruth (Jeanne) is the most likely of the Ieshan siblings to be found at this event. She will ask your character to help her find a lost item that is apparently of value to her family, and if your character accepts, they will have to search the party for clues related to its disappearance—but there might be a reward for whoever’s first to find it. If you would like to participate in this event, please DM Jeanne and RB! (And we politely ask you do not use this event as a a setup/background for other threads, just to keep things clean.)
