NEW FACES. Because apparently the ballroom had not reached capacity for mysterious weirdos yet. #OutGlutMasquerade THE DONSKOY: Late arrival in a catlike mask, carrying herself like somebody who knows perfectly well how to enter a room without demanding it notice. Already found Dr. Latency, accepted a dance, and demonstrated that she knows what she is doing on the floor. Quietly competent. Dangerous archetype. THE SPRITE: Arrived attached to the Spider's arm and radiating enough excitement for both of them. Has mostly spent the evening at the bar people-watching, drinking, and discovering that being energetic does not necessarily translate into knowing how to insert yourself into a ballroom conversation. Apparently here as the Spider's date. Adorable problem to have. IRA: A veiled princess whose face seems magically impossible to see. Entered cautiously alongside the Blue Lord, visibly overwhelmed by the number of unfamiliar people, attempted to socialize anyway, and eventually fled the ballroom like she had suddenly remembered what genre her costume belonged to. Someone please check whether she left a glass slipper. THE HOURGLASS: Did not so much enter as simply begin existing where there had previously been empty space. Carries a crystal hourglass full of black sand, drifts around the edges of the party, and has already begun using whatever horrible little powers they possess to interfere with the Lightning Lord's drinking. His grog has so far become lemonade and then something peppercorn-based. Excellent use of the supernatural. PHEONIX: Fashionably late, red-eyed, human-faced beneath the mask, birdlike enough that the Angel immediately found somebody to make “birds of a feather” jokes with. Soft-spoken, stylish, apparently dyed his hair specifically for the outfit, and claims his major objective tonight is simply to have a good time. Suspiciously reasonable. THE LIGHTNING LORD: Entered with an actual thunderclap and blinding flash, left a sigil on the floor, immediately demanded grog, and has since been drinking with enough enthusiasm to become the Hourglass's personal science experiment. Subtlety was apparently struck by lightning on the way in. THE HOUSE: Black and antique gold, severe formalwear, filigree mask, and the general bearing of a man who does not gamble because from his perspective everyone else is already playing against him. No cards. No dice. No obvious gimmick. Just the deeply unpleasant sensation that you have entered his establishment rather than the other way around. The Demoiselle has already elected to investigate. ERIC MANSEN: Has made the daring masquerade choice of apparently being Eric Mansen. He walked in, announced that this is a cool party, waddled toward the bar because his cloak is fighting his legs, and climbed onto a stool. Anonymity has suffered a catastrophic defeat. THE NAIAD: A very recent arrival in a customized green chiton, gold accents, and a leafy butterfly mask. Nervous enough that it shows in her breathing, delighted enough that it does not seem likely to stop her. She entered already searching the room for somebody in particular. We will see whether she finds them. THE CORONER: Apparently new. Apparently not new. Nobody seems entirely certain. The woman in mourning clothes and an antique wicker beekeeper's mask has spent most of the evening standing against the eastern wall with a ledger full of information she has no reasonable way of possessing. She has now finally closed the book and begun walking the perimeter of the ballroom, pausing periodically to inventory dances, drinks, injuries and changes in behavior. I recommend remaining alive if only to avoid the paperwork. The second night continues to collect people who look like side quests you should absolutely not accept.
