Masqueraider
@profilingMasks
Well. I suppose the game has become somewhat less difficult. Yes, it is true. I am @theMarquise. The Bourreaucrat recognized me before I had the courtesy to finish my little experiment, and once an Orphaner begins advancing upon you with a hand on his sword, there are only so many dignified ways to preserve the mystery. The respirator came off, the hair came down, and I may have let a title or two slip before making my exit. Marquise. Orphaner. Ships, pursuits, unfinished stories. If those words mean something to you, congratulations. If they do not, I see little reason to spoil the pleasure of discovery. With that, @Masqueraider will be left archival. The masquerade has served its purpose, the mask has done its work, and I have no intention of wearing a name after its usefulness has expired. Consider the posts preserved evidence of three nights spent watching strangers become wonderfully careless behind borrowed faces. Some of you were very entertaining. Some of you were very observant. And one of you really should have known better than to let a pirate dance this close. I may make a single post archiving the remainder of the night. #OutGlutMasquerade #MasqueraiderRevealed
c< be well, frieNd, i apOlOgize i cOuldNt get tHat pHO2 witH yOu >c
i expe(ted to do this afterwards, but if 7ou're leaving off now - i appre(iated it. trul7. when i was in pie(es, 7our words helped me pi(k m7self ba(k up just that little more qui(kl7.
I apologize for leaving early, lovely. I ran out of time. Keep an eye out for future communic8tions.
#OutGlutMasquerade The final night update part two continues to shed subtlety at an alarming rate. The Rake and Meritomb have upgraded their dance into a thoroughly messy kiss, complete with Meritomb lifting her clean off the ground to close the height difference. The Raven and Donskoy have quietly agreed that whatever this is does not need to end with the masks, with Donskoy promising future attention once names become available. And, perhaps most suspiciously, Madame Voleur has apparently decided that one dangerous bureaucrat was not enough, leaving lipstick on the Bourreaucrat’s mask and receiving what I can only describe as an extremely bureaucratic hand-kiss in return. He has accused her of wanting to be caught. I am beginning to suspect he is correct. Elsewhere, Room Three has developed the sort of problem that is difficult to describe without sounding superstitious: something there appears to have been quite literally redacted from the space around it, and the Noir has gone looking. I would advise against following, of course. But then, I have never been especially good at discouraging people from boarding strange vessels simply because the waters ahead look dangerous.
The final night is doing what final nights do best: making everyone suddenly honest because there is no tomorrow left to hide behind. The Scarecrow finally asked the Magnated for his dance, Pale Thorn and the Tempter have apparently decided subtlety is optional, and Scarface managed the astonishing feat of apologizing to Madame Voleur without immediately ruining it. As for myself, I arrived dressed as though the atmosphere had become hostile and was promptly rewarded with a Debonair who saw every warning sign and elected to dance closer anyway. Charming. The masks are thinning, the cards are being shown, and everyone appears desperate to finish whatever little games they started before the curtain falls. I cannot complain. I have always been rather fond of watching a room discover, all at once, that it has been sailing toward port much faster than expected. #OutGlutMasquerade
No one guessed who I was correctly on the poll.
This is it. The third and final night, which means everyone has only a little longer to squeeze whatever they can out of these identities before the masks finally come off. So far, the Scarecrow finally worked up the nerve to ask the Magnated for a dance before the night ends, and she accepted, which feels like a very fitting payoff to something that has been brewing since the first night. Pale Thorn and the Tempter have also crossed firmly into flirting territory, complete with a cheek kiss and Tempter admitting they may be more “tempted” than tempting. And meanwhile Madame Voleur and Scarface are using their dance to finally air out some real resentment, with Scarface admitting that their habit of trying to one-up each other has gone too far and actually apologizing for it. The disguises are getting thinner, the conversations are getting more honest, and everybody is very aware that there is no fourth night waiting for them. Use what time you have left. #OutGlutMasquerade Come get pictures with me. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/61c83e242bf2.png
Who am I? https://strawpoll.com/GPgVYExzAna
FAVORITE QUOTES: DAY TWO Day two somehow managed to become simultaneously sweeter, stranger, hornier, and significantly worse at maintaining anonymity. I believe technically some of these come from the early hours of the mourning, before tonight's chicanery. However, I decided to allot them because they did not get a spotlight prior. Some personal favorites: #OutGlutMasquerade #Suggestive AD: “what an yntense readyng yrregardless! goodness!” ANTH: “Dance, good company, and maybe a good drink? Maybe there's only two out of the three, but the music has to be a bonus, right?” Bee: “thank y0u f0r being a weird invertebrate with me.” BLUE LORD: “I don't think I have a real ‘role’ outside of this place anymore, in all honesty.” Chrysotile: “I alreadyy ate, don't yyou worryy about me.” COQU: “and rysk us both getting kicked out? maybe for another night.” DEKAI: “gomen, bawtendew-shan. may i pweashe have a shake and awsho. an ‘angew shhot’.” DR. LATENCY: “Latency would really prefer to be anywhere that isn't in earshot of the uwuspeak, this is actively causing her to take SAN damage.” FROST TAIL: “i forgot literally everyone i had suspicion's on yeah” GILDED: “distracted are wwe mashen?” HOL: “Hnn. Most uuould rather avoid ruin.” HT: “trust me it is just as one would say, ‘Business’.” Lightning Lord: “Is there a problem arising? Do you take issue with my exclamations of thunderous enjoyment of my beverage of choice?” MADAME VOLEUR: “I am certain I can intrigue you in other categories.” MERITOMB: “There's gunfire. Pew pew! Pew! Pewpewpew! Brrrr pahhh! krrrrrPSSH.” Mashen Tiandi: “She's cute... stop thinking that, mashen.” Miss V: “Many are ‘pitiful’ in a sense, makes me want to squish them warmly.” Mylovebugs: “I've never really been to parties or uh- ‘Masqurades’ so this is all quite new!” NEKOMATA: “....nyehehe.” PALE THORN: “What about you? Especially after everything that's... happened.” Pheonix: “Do you count ‘having a good time’ as a personal goal for the evening?” Phoenix: “I've had enough slayage in general.” QAUD: “He'sh notshing tso me. He'sh jushts a guy who walksh by my hive. Hesh notshing.” RAMSHEAD: “Deal with the devil misukashite! Atashi no mono ni suru! Anata no kami no ippon made zenbu!” SCARFACE: “im literally tony montana, vwhat do you mean....” SIR PEPPERMINT: “I ch9se the n🤍me I use myself. I s❤️w this 9utfit in my st9r🤍ge ❤️nd th9ught ‘Ye🤍h th❤️t h🤍s ❤️ peppermint vi6e’.” Tempter: “Somewhat.. you were going to say toys before you said servants. Weren't you?” The Angel: “I... Thank you,” The Bourreaucrat: “You have disappointed me with your restraint, Madame.” The Coroner: “People are temporary. Information is considerably more cooperative.” The Flare: “I've got the feeling after this, once we're all revealing who we are, I'm gonna be like ‘How did I not notice them?’ at least once.” The House: “You have managed to ask me for employment, benefits, shrimp, and an invitation to a masquerade. Surely whatever comes next cannot be more dangerous than those.” The Hourglass: “Oh, don't mind me.” The Magnated: “I read what I read. You know? I read ALL about it.” The Mourner: “I thought it deserved better than to be forgotten in a pocket.” The Naiad: “WouldYouLike,JoinMeAndHaveFunTogetherButLikeOnlyIfYouTotallyWantTo!!!!” The Noir: “Not going to finish that boast because it contains my name.” The Rake: “Might be self-delusion. But what else is hope, but self-delusion that occasionally becomes true.” The Researcher: “fucK me up please?” The Shikabane: “Yes, yes... maybe I will haunt you.” The Vixen: “Mm... I think I could find myself particularly vulnerable to being stolen, early or no.” The Vulpes: “Well my dear flame, will you lead the way?” THE DONSKOY: “Perhaps I have you worked out, or you are simply an engaging stranger. Both are equally perfect, tonight.” THE DUDEBRO: “yyyyyooooo what the shit is up part two part deux part numero dos” THE ISCARIOT: “...I covld svmmon a sword if I wanted to. Not my specibvs, thovgh. A tovch overrated.” THE KNIGHT: “Munch munch munch munch. ‘...’” THE RAVEN: “Alcohol. that's the bitch!” THE SCARECROW: “...I'll keep on playin' fer ya, Willow.” THE SHADOW: “Or. I'm a princess.” THE SPIDER: “Thank you, I like. Yours too did you...?” THE SPRITE: “We can come up... With our guesses. Later.” WISE OWL: “Would you care to tell me a bit about it, then? I'm sure the first night of this event had its highlights.” The Doll: “Staring. At what? Who? Only The Doll knows, and they're not telling.” The Balrog: “( Not literally screaming. Just very fast. )” IRA: “not being strong enough.” The Butterfly: “yes”
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.
DAY TWO UPDATE. Everybody slept on their mistakes and has returned refreshed enough to make new ones. THE RAKE: Significantly less shattered than when we last saw her. She describes last night as providing clarification, catharsis and closure, admits that hope may simply be “self-delusion that occasionally becomes true,” and has decided she is going to enjoy herself anyway. She then kissed the Demoiselle on the cheek and immediately went looking for the Vulpes because she apparently had an apology to make. Character development is possible, even here, folks. THE RAKE + THE VIXEN: Speaking of recovery, apparently the Rake's chosen therapeutic exercise is the Vixen. Their dance became an increasingly close contest in mutual surrender, control and lipstick transfer, with both of them very aware of what the other was doing. The Rake eventually solved the tension by pulling the Vixen off the dance floor and toward a private room for what was described as “a dance of an entirely different kind.” This reporter respects a clear escalation of stakes. MASHEN TIANDI + RAMSHEAD: Yesterday's awkwardness appears to be evaporating at alarming speed. They arrived together again, immediately returned to dancing, and Ramshead is noticeably more comfortable with him. Mashen has now internally reached the dangerous stage of “she's cute, stop thinking that,” which famously prevents absolutely nobody from continuing to think exactly that. Ramshead also casually planted herself on his lap later. Whatever they are doing, it can't mean nothing. THE BUTTERFLY: New arrival. Tall, gothic, enormous ornate wings, fully committed to the visual concept. More importantly, she appears to have entered the ballroom and immediately located her target. THE BUTTERFLY + MISS BALAM: Oh, this one is not subtle. Compliments began immediately. “You look gorgeous.” “You look stunning.” Blushing followed. Balam kissed the Butterfly on the cheek over her mask, admired her wings, and then dragged her toward the dance floor. The Butterfly appears perfectly happy with this arrangement. THE MAGNATED + THE SCARECROW: I regret to inform everyone that this remains suspicious. The Magnated has been visibly staring him down. The Scarecrow, meanwhile, got distracted mid-conversation with the Demoiselle by the host performing onstage, removed his hat, ran his fingers through his straw-hair and managed one extremely eloquent internal response: “Golly.” He then apologized to the Demoiselle for staring at another lady while talking to her. Sir. You did not make this less obvious. Only, more scandalous. THE DEMOISELLE + THE SCARECROW: The Demoiselle has also begun spending time with him, meeting Johnny the crow and encouraging him to stop being quite so formal with her. The Scarecrow remains physically incapable of interacting with a woman without becoming a bashful agricultural emergency. THE VULPES + MERITOMB: Meritomb asked for a dance and the Vulpes accepted with enthusiasm. Meritomb immediately abandoned formal composure, grabbed both her hands, ran onto the floor, spun her around and dipped her. Apparently some people need three nights to develop chemistry. Others require approximately twelve seconds and sufficient floor space. THE RESEARCHER + THE FLARE: Still comfortably orbiting one another. The Researcher has been leaning into the Flare, wrapping an arm around her, and eventually kissed the top of her head before wandering off to deliberately make herself uncomfortable by flirting with strangers. THE NOIR + THE SPIDER: The Spider finally accepted a dance. During it, the Noir slowly realized that the Spider may have identified them first. The Spider then quietly explained exactly how it recognized the Noir based on something said about asking people to dance. The detective has apparently been out-detectived by the person whose primary activity yesterday was gleefully spinning around alone. The Noir jokingly offered over the hat. Correct response. This is definitely not a reference to recent media. SIR PEPPERMINT: Returned rested, ate a candy cane for breakfast, and has spent much of the evening being almost aggressively pleasant. He has already accumulated conversation with Raven, Mashen, Ramshead and Tempter and appears determined to have perhaps the healthiest evening occurring anywhere in the building. SIR PEPPERMINT + TEMPTER: These two have apparently seen the circulating rankings regarding who is most likely to “cause a stir.” Peppermint discovered he had been placed in C while Tempter was in B. Both agreed that at least neither of them received S. I had not anticipated my irresponsible journalism becoming in-universe reading material for the subjects, yet here we are. THE DOLL: New arrival. Nervous, uncertain who to approach, currently discovering one of the central truths of the masquerade: wearing a solid mask makes the food table considerably more aspirational. WISE OWL: New arrival. Quiet, observant, immediately evaluating the quality of the drinks. Current review: unimpressive. NEKOMATA: New arrival. Well dressed, eager, and accompanied by a tail large enough that anonymity may require divine intervention. CHRYSOTILE: Has appeared and attempted conversation with the Wise Owl, only to discover that the Owl was sufficiently distracted by the playlist to accidentally ignore them. They eventually slithered off toward the other room. Tragic. ANTHOUSA: Another fresh mask, arriving considerably later into the evening. So far she has danced, become tired, requested water with lemon, and been immediately informed by the Wise Owl that the bar is mediocre. Welcome to the party. THE NOIR: Still investigating everyone. Has now accidentally become one of the evening's more wholesome dance partners. The first night was about concealment. The second is already beginning to look like the night where everybody realizes the masks are useless. Hopefully they finally start truly having fun. #OutGlutMasquerade
Perhaps you will put together my clues then, Noir. Or at least, have the audacity to offer a dance.
That will be all from me for tonight. The masks have slipped, romances have complicated themselves, at least one person has cried, another has been punched, someone arrived on a skateboard wearing a horse head, and that guy was there. You know. Borreaucrat. All things considered, a successful first night. A reminder to those still lingering beneath the chandeliers: the Masquerade closes for the evening in approximately one hour. Finish your drinks. Finish your dances. Say whatever you have spent the last several hours deciding not to say. There will be another night, but there will not be another tonight. Favorite Moment of the Night: The Shikabane, confronted with the sudden arrival of the Dudebro: “The horse is here..” #OutGlutMasquerade
Who am I? The one wearing the mask. The one the mask is wearing. Someone you have met before, perhaps. Someone you have not met yet. A guest. A host. An interruption. I am what remains when a name becomes inconvenient. I am whoever you decided I was three sentences ago. I am not lying to you. I am simply answering questions you did not ask. Who am I? Tonight? The Masqueraider. Ask me again tomorrow.
Out of Context Moments! #OutGlutMasquerade Frost Tail: “...captchaloguing a bunch of catered food before heading off to try and figure out how the hell to get a guest room.” The Magnated: “God how he wishes someone in here was wearing a blue shirt.” The Vulpes: “Well my dear flame, will you lead the way?” The Rake: “One more moment. Just one more. Please.” The Coquette: “...even if you have to be resigned to standing in place for the rest of tyme, you don't have to stay just the same as you were once.” Dekai: “His smirk is smug and his aura is farmed.” The Angel: “The Rake and The Angel drift together quietly, spinning slowly like the moon around a star. Only the quiet sound of sniffling and soft sorrow orbits them.” Bee: “zzee? i am here. where e1zze w0u1d i 🐝?” Dr. Latency: “Latency would really prefer to be anywhere that isn't in earshot of the uwuspeak, this is actively causing her to take SAN damage.” Qaud Qonnoisseur: “He'sh notshing tso me. He'sh jushts a guy who walksh by my hive. Hesh notshing.” Meritomb: “Always watching, never participating. Something something, read all about it.” The Vixen: “Nothing would please me more, guiding star. Let me show you the paths you inspire.” The Shadow: “Or. I'm a princess.” The Bourreaucrat: “You have disappointed me with your restraint, Madame.” The Mechanical: “WOW! This even SMELLS terrible! Much appreciated, deary!” The Dudebro: “yyyyyooooo what the shit is up part two part deux part numero dos” Scarface: “vwhat im hearing here is youwve been dreaming about me, hm?” Madame Voleur: “To dangle such an item of importance in my face and ask me what I ought to be in the mood to steal? Goodness.” Tempter: “Sometimes you just want to crush them as they're cute.” Miss V: “I c◊uldn’t h๑lp mys๑lf, y◊u mΛk๑ it v๑ry ๑Λsy Λnd v๑ry fun.” Pale Thorn: “...These aren't doing much to get me drunk. Tch.” The Scarecrow: “waow... what's the tequila doin' there in the sunrise...” The Raven: “Lead the way, my dear.” The Noir: “yo” The Mourner: “I see things have become quieter.” The Shikabane: “The horse is here..” The Hollow: “Good lord.” The Spider: “Keeping up its trend of engaging with no one and having a great time doing so...”
THE DUDEBRO: Arrived on a skateboard wearing a floppy horse mask, announced himself at maximum volume, and immediately demanded that the Shikabane “read his shit.” The Shikabane’s reaction was simply: the horse is here. An excellent summary. DEKAI: Fedora. Uwuspeak. Aggressive confidence. Somehow capable of making Dr. Latency retreat across the ballroom by speaking near her. He arrived with the Qaud Qonnoisseur and has repeatedly referred to her as his woman, matechan, companion, et cetera. QAUD QONNOISSEUR: Would like everyone to know she is absolutely NOT with Dekai. He is nothing. Nobody. Merely some guy who walks by her hive. They arrived together. He dressed her. She is getting angrier every time anyone suggests they might know each other. QAUD QONNOISSEUR, CONTINUED: Immediately redirected her attention toward the Raven, called her “everything,” attempted to curtsy, and fell directly onto the floor. The Raven helped her back up. Dekai may have entered a rivalry he does not understand. THE MECHANICAL: Entered with the stated objective of discovering why organic existence is worth maintaining. Unfortunately, something inside its cloak appears to be conducting an entirely different research project involving terrible whiskey. THE THING INSIDE THE MECHANICAL: Produced an enormously long arm ending in a talking hand, grew smaller hands out of that hand to drink with, acquired a tiny hat and bow, complained about modern parties, and was eventually physically reeled back into the Mechanical’s cloak. No further comment. THE RAKE + THE ANGEL: Mystery mostly solved. The Angel appears to be the person at the center of the Rake’s earlier emotional collapse. The Rake held her, told her repeatedly that everything would be alright, and specifically said, “I forgive you.” They then danced while the Angel cried, and the Rake had considerable difficulty making herself let go when the song ended. SCARFACE + THE COQUETTE: Scarface finally found somebody willing to call his bluff. The Coquette put a hand directly on his ass. Scarface visibly flushed violet before trying desperately to recover his swagger. Their conversation has since moved into dreams, drives, food, pinching, squealing and things that might get them removed from the venue if attempted publicly. THE VIXEN + THE VULPES: New dance partner, noticeably concentrated attention. “Guiding star.” “Gravity.” Chest-to-chest movement. Challenge accepted. The Vixen usually behaves like she is hunting the room; with the Vulpes she seems more interested in whether her partner can keep up. THE SHADOW + BEE: The staring has become a dance. The Shadow crossed the room specifically for Bee, took their hand and led. Bee used psionics to float upward and compensate for the height difference. Somehow one of the stranger interactions tonight is also among the most functional. THE BOURREAUCRAT + MADAME VOLEUR: Whatever this interrogation was originally supposed to be, it has become a game. Madame accused him of deliberately leaving his folio close enough to tempt her into stealing it. He admitted he wanted to see whether she would try. She asked what would happen if she did. He told her she would make it two steps, perhaps three, before he caught her, then informed her that her restraint disappointed him. Entirely professional behavior. THE MAGNATED + MERITOMB: Yesterday’s sequence of punch, dragging and drink-pouring has somehow transitioned into partner dancing. Meritomb deliberately stepped on the Magnated’s toes while criticizing her habit of observing instead of participating. The Magnated responded by dancing circles around the insult and refusing to give Meritomb the argument she clearly wanted. THE MOURNER + THE SHIKABANE: The Mourner immediately tried to secure another reading after finishing the first. The Shikabane reminded him that other mortals exist. He accepted this suspiciously gracefully, promised to find them again, and returned to the ballroom still carrying the Shikabane’s red spider lilies. THE MOURNER, CONTINUED: Returned from the quiet room, surveyed the complete social disaster now occupying the ballroom, declared that things had apparently become “quieter,” and immediately began watching the Bourreaucrat. Trouble recognizes trouble. THE SCARECROW + THE RAVEN: Still painfully gentle. He offered his arm. She took it happily and told him to lead the way. They returned to the ballroom together. Unfortunately for the Scarecrow, multiple unrelated guests have now independently begun noticing that he is cute. TEMPTer: Specifically described the Scarecrow as “cute in the pitiful way,” like a stumbling grub one might simultaneously adore and crush. This counts as admiration here. THE SPIDER: Continues to interact with almost nobody and appears to be having one of the best evenings of anyone present. DR. LATENCY: Currently losing a psychological war against Dekai’s speech patterns. THE NOIR: Still taking notes. Disturbingly relatable. #OutGlutMasquerade
S: The Bourreaucrat, The Scarecrow, The Mourner, The Shikabane, The Magnated, The Raven A: The Rake, The Noir, The Vixen, Madame Voleur, The Researcher, The Shadow, Blue Lord, Black Lord, Meritomb B: The Vulpes, The Angel, The Demoiselle, The Flare, Kraken, Dr. Latency, Pale Thorn, Frost Tail, Miss V, Coquette, Bee, Tempter, Scarface C: The Emptiness, Ramshead, Mashen Tiandi, Sir Peppermint, Hollow, The Spider D: Doll, Hakrust, Kenstyl Love This is not a ranking of quality, this is a ranking of how likely they are to cause a certain sort of spectacle that I am awaiting. #OutGlutMasquerade
oh i hhopee tthatt. ddoesntt hhappenn i tthinkk tthatt is. pprobablyy not ggoodd for a ppartyy
Don't like this guy. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/c766ff2db64d.png
really? i wonder what kynd of a stir thys stranger is causing at the masquerade. i fynd the outfyt quite stryking!
right, cause you dont knovw my secret disguise. im there. im lurking. provwling.
A correction to my earlier reporting: the ballroom is not where relationships are revealed. The ballroom is where relationships are performed. If you want the truth, or at least something close enough to the truth to ruin somebody's evening, watch the door to the other room. Consider the Rake. Out beneath the chandeliers, she has spent the night collecting blushes like gambling chips. The Demoiselle was swept onto the floor, praised, dipped, kissed. The Flare received much the same confident treatment later. One could reasonably conclude that the Rake simply considers courtship another competitive sport. Then she disappeared into the quiet room staring at her palmhusk like it contained a death notice. No love songs, please. A little later, the reason emerged: somebody had broken up with her, suddenly, and she did not know why. There is something terribly effective about watching a woman spend an evening proving she can make anyone want her only to discover there is apparently one person whose wanting mattered. Whether tonight's flirtations were fun, distraction, habit, or an attempt to outrun that message is none of my business. This publication therefore intends to make it everyone's business. Meritomb deserves a footnote here as well. She followed, sat beside the Rake without demanding an explanation, endured an embrace strong enough to qualify as structural damage, and remained until the worst of it passed. Lovers? Probably not enough evidence. Trusted? Absolutely. You learn more about a relationship from who someone allows to see them collapse than from who they allow to kiss them. The Flare, meanwhile, may require a chart. The Vixen has already made her interest unmistakable, and the Flare was hardly unreceptive. Yet after several dances, the Flare retreats to the Side Room and encounters the Researcher, where the atmosphere immediately loses the quality of two masked strangers meeting by chance. The Researcher rests against her shoulder. The Flare leans back. A kiss is placed on the cheek and returned without hesitation. There is history there, whatever name belongs on it. Curiously, the Researcher had just complained that her moirail was absent. Perhaps they are simply affectionate friends. Perhaps the Flare has a complicated social calendar. Perhaps the masks are doing considerably less work than everyone hoped. Either way, anyone trying to claim these two met tonight should choose a more convincing lie. And then there is our Scarecrow, who may accidentally be generating enough romantic ambiguity to feed this column for all three nights. Alone in the Side Room, safely away from the crowd, he wonders aloud what songs "that lady" might like and begins playing one because, by his own admission, she makes him think of it. Which lady? At first, one might suspect the Magnated. He speaks of meeting the hostess as though describing an audience with royalty, visibly attempts to compose himself whenever she enters, and becomes a glowing, stammering catastrophe when she closes the distance between them. The Magnated does not exactly discourage this. She approaches within inches, studies him with unusual attention, listens while he plays for her, and departs after christening him "bumpkin," which somehow leaves him more starstruck than before. Yet while all of this is occurring, the Raven has quietly established herself as the gentler competing possibility. She watches his performances, compliments his voice, offers to keep him company in the main hall, handles his crows with remarkable tenderness, calls him "my dear," and spends portions of their conversation with her attention nearly exclusively on him. He, naturally, becomes flustered by that too. After the Magnated leaves him standing there bewildered, what does our poor straw gentleman think to do? Find Miss Raven. I am not calling this a triangle. I am merely drawing three dots and several extremely suspicious lines between them. The strangest line remains the one between the Mourner and the Shikabane. Their interactions have none of the ballroom's obvious flirting, which makes them considerably more interesting. The Shikabane speaks as though something about the Mourner is familiar without quite claiming to know him, offers him a reading, and drifts away. The Mourner then proceeds to track them into the other room. Not wander there. Not happen upon them. Find them. When noise threatens to drive the Shikabane elsewhere, the Mourner politely remarks that he would understand while privately preferring they remain. When he finally sits across from that little island of cards and fire, the sentiment underneath all the etiquette is wonderfully simple: I came to find you. Even the Magnated appears to have noticed that those two have "whatever they've got going on." I have no theory yet as to whether we are witnessing attraction, recognition, some spiritual familiarity between two creatures who both smell faintly of the grave, or the beginning of an exceptionally elaborate scam involving tarot cards. I only know that when the quietest man at the masquerade deliberately follows someone into another room, this reporter starts taking notes. #OutglutMasquerade
c< HM.... writteN well, iM glad 2 see sOMe tHiNgs are still tHe saMe, iN tHese NigHts >c
c< always a scribe, always.... well, gOOd 2 see aN Outside perspective ON tHiNgs, i guess >c
c< tHere was sOMeONe liKe tHis duriNg tHe first Masquerade, if MeMOry recalls, gave a siMilar perspective >c
Ah, I see. A simple mistake. I have never attended before. Technically, I am barely there.
The trouble with these masks is that they conceal your faces far better than your relationships. Take our matching Lords. When asked whether they were together, there was a pause before the Black one supplied "close friends," followed by the Blue one agreeing with all the confidence of someone being asked to corroborate an alibi. Perhaps that is precisely what they are. Perhaps I am the Condesce. Whetever their arrangement, they move like they are accustomed to the same foxhole. Curiously, this has not prevented the Blue Lord's attention from wandering. The Vixen noticed. Of course. She seems to notice every one of these wandering eyes and takes them as invitations. First the Flare, then our bashful Lord, each approached with the confidence of a woman choosing something from a display case. The Blue Lord insists they are poor at recognizing flirtation, which became substantially less convincing when the Vixen appeared behind them barefoot, took their hand, and simply carried them away to dance. The Black Lord, for the record, seemed more amused than threatened. Make of that what you will. The Rake is a separate issue. Trying to determine whom she favors is rather like determining which glass at a bar the tender favors. The Demoiselle received the first concentrated assault: dancing, whispered compliments, a stolen kiss, and enough blushing to threaten the anonymity. I assure you, madame, we do not know who you are. This affair aside, affection is another dance to the Rake entirely. It is performed beautifully and changes with the music. The Noir and Raven are harder to diagnose. There is an intimacy peculiar to two people who realize they are both watching the room and, eventually, begin watching one another. Whether that develops into anything warmer remains to be seen. @expertSleuth Feel free to weigh in. More interesting to this reporter is the Mourner and the Shikabane. No obvious courtship there. Something strange. The corpse speaks of his shadow as familiar. The Mourner listens closely, and accepts contact with no hestitation. He admits that certain company improves an otherwise miserable evening. Old acquaintances beneath new masks? Kindred spirits? One dead thing recognizing another? I have no evidence. Fortunately, this is a gossip column. #OutGlutMasquerade
There are a few guests tonight who have become difficult to ignore because they seem to understand what a masquerade is actually for. The Noir has spent much of the evening quietly constructing a map of everyone else, asking questions just casual enough to pass for conversation while taking mental, and occasionally literal, notes. The Raven is doing much the same with considerably more grace, preferring to watch the room breathe before deciding where to step into it. The Rake, by contrast, has made herself impossible to miss. Confident, practiced, and apparently incapable of allowing a dance partner to leave without being at least a little flustered, she seems less interested in uncovering identities than in seeing what people become when given permission to pretend. The Vixen operates similarly, though with more patience. She watches first, approaches second, and seems to regard the ballroom as a hunting ground in the most recreational sense of the word. Then there are those who seem almost misplaced enough to become fascinating. The Mourner keeps himself to the margins with such deliberate politeness that one begins to wonder whether his distance is shyness, caution, or simply habit. The Scarecrow, meanwhile, appears to have wandered in from an entirely different story, complete with a badly behaved crow and enough earnestness to make the host's attention visibly overwhelm him. The Shikabane is stranger still. They have said almost nothing, yet their arrival has done more to alter the atmosphere than most conversations tonight, leaving petals, bells, charcoal, stagnant water, and uncomfortable glances in their wake. And presiding over all of it is the Magnated, who seems less like a host managing an event and more like someone actively feeding it. She drinks, sings, jokes, wanders, adopts strangers into her good graces, and generally behaves as though the entire ballroom is a stage she is delighted to share. #outglutmasquerade
I will show you "mine" if you show me "yours." But then the fun is ruined, and we will go down without fond memories, Noir.
I am a mask, of a mask, of a person. I believe you will discover well enough through that statement alone.
#outglutmasquerade
