Logs:Winter Masquerade Ball
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| RL Date: 23 April, 2008 |
| Who: Caitlyn, Derecho, Fraya, I'daur, L'vae, Leova, Lujayn, N'thei, Niena, Persie, Riahla, Riye, Satiet, Suireh, Viviana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 16, Month 2, Turn 16 (Interval 10) |
| [ Llama ] The llama stands about six feet tall, though it is a bit hard to tell with those large ears curving delicately up from the detailed mask. Expertly crafted and furred in dark brown hair, the mask completely covers the wearer's face. Down the back is a train of matching fleece, the mohawk-like strip of fur that would trail down the true animal's neck. Shiny black leather makes up the tall boots and long gloves, an allusion to hooves. Its trousers and coat are made of the same deep brown wool, woven into fine cloth and tailored neatly to the llama's athletic build. Beneath the coat is a soft sisal shirt dyed a lighter, creamy brown.
Rich, heavy waves of cool-toned brunette locks ripple and cascade thickly - woven into a thick braid who's tip snuggles home at mid-back. A wispy line of smooth bangs sweep across her high forehead from right to left, blending into the luxuriant mane. When the weather gets humid, her carefully groomed tresses can be seen to whorl and curl at both the top and ends, causing the woman a certain amount of annoyance when it dares to tickle high cheekbones or get in her eyes. An open, yet unconsciously seductive oval face is set with heavy-lidded, golden-brown eyes that seem to smile and laugh easily, arching dark brows swept up above them. Her nose is straight and strong, though not large at all, and her jaw is firm, and just a touch on the square side - though fitting very well into her features. Sensual lips of muted rose stand out against her moderately tanned skin, adding a southern tang to her good looks. The column of her throat is strong and arching, the pulse of her life thudding deeply within. Her figure is a study in voluptuous femininity, curves sculpted in a traditional 'hourglass' - wrapped in a breathtaking costume of multi-colored irridescence. Its design is intricate, the sisal just opaque enough to barely disguise the supple, toned body beneath. Her shoulders are well-formed and somewhat broad - the hollow of the woman's throat touching large-boned clavicle that pushes up gently along soft skin. A dipping, jewelled neckline coyly emphasizes generous cleavage pressed up into the peacock-toned material that shadows yet displays her so well - the bodice stitched with sequins which emulate the shining plumage of a tropical jungle avian - in hues of blue, deep green, violet, and flashes of silver and gold. The 'v' waist of the gown moulds perfectly to her form - and the be-sequined, sensual surprise of an elongated, diamond-shaped opening at the belly shows off an 'innie' navel. The lower part of the gown fits perfectly, too - the unadorned, multi-hued sisal gently hugging a round, firm rear - then skimming softly down over toned legs that are only noticed through the fabric when she is in motion. Peeking out from beneath the hem of the costume, the toes of peacock-blue dancing slippers blend flawlessly - their rounded toes again touched by those winking sequins. The armless gown is set off not only by modestly tanned skin, but also by long, partially sequined gloves that stretch from large hands up to firm, gently-defined biceps - the play of those graceful muscles evident only when in action. The silk follows her each and every line and curve - from small waist, shapely hips, and down across her round, firm backside. The highly intricate mask accompanying the costume is a delight to behold, fashioned in the shape of a jungle avian's crested head. More peacock-toned sequins adorn the upper and middle reaches of the near-full headpiece - their lavish tones of green, blue, and violet emphasizing a beak of starlight-glittered silver and gold. The beak arcs out over the dark eyes and nose of the sensual woman behind it, leaving only the lower third of her features visible. Upon the top of the mask, a feathered crest of irridescent blue sweeps back, to blend into a many-layered spill of multihued plumage, which drapes back over her shoulders to middle back - a breathtaking cape of indigo, dark azure, and deep malachite. Sensual lips colored dusty rose smile warmly out at others, and a firm jaw and chin hint at the honest presence behind the artful disguise.
A cream beaded and crimson feathered mask sits on the bridge over this woman's nose, so that only the pale, brilliance of her blue eyes rimmed in kohl are visible. Tied about her head, so the strings disappear beneath the upswept raven curls, the mask's glittering beads match the ones found in her hair, while a shot of crimson accents the mask's tips in a fan-spread of small feathers. Rose-touched lips and a touch of rouge bring further color to her otherwise winter-pale face. Creamy champagne lace lies flat over the golden sheath dress that clings to this woman's torso, collecting into a high waistline beneath her chest and free flowing in open layers to just beneath her ankles. The colors, muted as they are, offset the glossy hue of the woman's dark, raven hair, which is pinned up out of her face and beaded through with iridescent glass beads that reflect the glow lights. Long sleeves sweep down in swirls about her wrists, and the square exposure of her collar is filled by a simple gold chain of Mastersmith caliber with a teardrop ruby hung, glittering. Matching slippers are the final touch to her feminine elegance.
Although only 5'2, Fiesta's graceful posture gives an illusion of greater height. She considers her jet-black hair to be her one true beauty, but as a weyrling, has received a sympathetic hair cut. Carefully trimmed to collar length but with plenty left on top, she wears it braided in small sections, beginning at the crown of her head and weaving in a little here and a little there. The back is left loose, neatly turned under the braid. A few stubborn stray tendrils escape to frame her oval face, revealing a slight widows peak. Having deep-blue eyes and a paler complexion, Fiesta is prone to freckling if her duties keep her in the sun for long, Her facial features are pleasant, her nose being rather ordinary and her lips lean on the thin side. Her limbs are in proportion to her height and although she is by no means fat, she definitely has the usual feminine curves of a young woman in her midteens. Tonight, she wears a brilliantly decorated half mask, tastefully decorated with pretty little shells and sparkly crushed stone. Fiesta is clothed in a gown of vibrant turquoise. The neckline is wide, revealing just the tops of her creamy shoulders. The bodice continues down, fitting closely against her slender curves and revealing cleavage. A wide sash of a darker turquoise, much like the waves off of Nerat Deep, rings her tiny waist. Both the sleeves and the full skirt are composed of three overlapping layers, flaring out wider and wider as they move down. Each layer is edged with a band of turquoise identical in shade to that of the sash. Over these bands, in exquisite detail, are embroidered rings of alternating blue and green firelizards, nose to tail in their wild, endless chase. She wears the knot of weyrling, High Reaches Weyr which might be difficult to see under her matching warm wrap that she wears gracefully across her shoulders.
Dressed all in black, this man's solidly-built frame is an imposing six feet tall. He looks uncomfortable in the rather well-made clothes of the evening--the fine shirt with its silvery buttons and its sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the winter air; the pants tucked into black but unpolished boots. The creases around his dark blue eyes, visible through the eyeholes of his plain black mask, give away age as much as the shining steel-grey crop of his hair does. He limps on his left leg.
At 26 turns old, N'thei has settled into an appearance somewhere just short of handsome, just beyond easy-on-the-eyes. What's most notable about him overall is his sheer size, a big fellow standing a solid 6'4" with the muscle-mass to back it up, nothing lean or little about him-- even a touch of softness around his midsection, evidence of a full appreciation for leisure and luxury. From broad shoulders to big feet, he's every bit larger-than-life. His Gather finery is well-maintained in a cool compliment of burgundy and gray. Charcoal-colored trousers of fine wool are highlighted by dark red threadwork along the outer seams, held up by a black leather belt with a silver buckle. His shirt, long-sleeved and buttoned, is made of silvery gray sisal, with the collar left open, covered by a vest of burgundy-and-gray brocaded sisal and velvet. Polished boots and the knot of a High Reaches bronzerider finish off his attire. N'thei's got a nice-seeming face, a pleasant contrast to his potentially intimidating size, though it lacks a clean-cut wholesomeness with fighter's scars beneath his left eye, along the right side of his nose, and just off-center of his lower lip. His eyes are tranquil gray, too mild in color to be mistaken for blue; when revealed, his smile is the kind bright enough to light up his face, though his lips have a tendency to look grim in repose. Frequently, a five-o-clock shadow glances along a strong-looking jaw.
The woman's not tall, just under five and a half feet, dressed in gauzy layers of dark colors and smoothly but solidly muscled beneath them. Her mask isn't large either: traditional black with avian feathers that glisten olive and navy and deep brown, partially shadowing amber eyes into brown or even gray, and a veil that helps disguises her short hair as an updo. With it she wears garments nearly as concealing as ever, a blouse and vest and long skirt that might have belonged to three different people, united only in their near-black colors and thin material. The only other concession to the event is the borrowed bodice in a similar dark shade, and even that is laced to follow rather than dramatize the striking curves of her figure. There is no jewelry, not a fingerwidth of bared cleavage, and she wears boots. However, a length of sheer black cloth has been knotted to her left wrist, leaving her the other end to do with as she pleases. However, a length of sheer black cloth has been knotted to her left wrist, leaving her the other end to do with as she pleases.
Even with a pale blue mask across her eyes, there are plenty of clues to give away her identity: the skinny build, the fluid movement, the prominent nose poking out from beneath the mask's edge and, of course, the pale blonde hair now piled and knotted on top of her head. And in that blonde arrangement are a variety of little hair sticks with what appear to be stars and clouds fastened to them, sticking out around her head in all directions. And why? Well because she's masquerading as the heavens of course, wrapped in a dress of vibrant sky-blue. The long flared sleeves are slit from the shoulder down--more of a suggestion of sleeves in a sheer material. The light gauze that is also wrapped about her narrow waist with loose ends left to drift airily as she moves. The bodice is snug with a broad batteau neckline that accentuates her collarbones and peaking from beneath the draped hem of her skirt are a pair of rather brilliantly beaded pink shoes that don't seem to have anything to do with the sky at all. But they are very sparkly.
Fraya's not a tall woman, nor is she small. She stands at about 5'5", give or take a few, with an average build and lightly tanned skin. There are no specific features on her body that makes her different, but on her face there is a small scar at the corner of her pale pink lips. Her hair is a light shade of brown, puffed out and thrown everywhere with no sense of control. Though, these locks of hair have been mutilated, cut short and no longer fly as freely as they once did. Only an inch away from her head this light brown fuzz has become straight and maintainable and actually looking neat for once. With nothing to do with this short cut hair, it is worn as is.. Poofing from Fraya's scalp. She is dawned with an oval face with high and round cheekbones, with her lean form they give her a bit of a "puffy" cheeked look. Her large, round eyes are an off shade of brown with hints of green and often appear droopy from not recieving quite enough sleep. With her form, she wears rather loose fitting clothing, nothing to stand out. She wears earthy shades, deep green to brown and tan. Wearing mostly pants and shirts, she doesn't seem to be one for skirts and dresses. She is a woman who appears to be 19 Turns, 6 months, and 27 days. Currently she wears a sweeping red dress, long and flattering for the tall woman. Her shoulders peek through on the sleeves. Her face is dawned with a mask that covers her eyes and cheeks, a blood red color to it. It seems molded to her face, but, blocking all facial expressions. On her arm she wears a knot of Weyrlinghood with a brown cord to signify her lifemate. The knot is of High Reaches Weyr as the colors of the Weyr are twined in.
She wears a simple sandy brown dress cinched at the waist with seashells. Her mask is simple, made from plaited seaweed, covering the upper part of her face but for the seashell-shaped holes cut for her eyes.
Fitted snugly over Lujayn's hair with the employment of a trailing black ribbon, a long, slender mask decorated with white fur represents the face of one weasel-like creature. Its entire appearance is inquisitive: a masklike streak of black rings both large eyeholes, clear bristles curve out from a short muzzle as whiskers, and small, rounded ears are set at the very top and cupped forwards. Tied about her waist with another slender black ribbon is a narrow white tail, long and tipped with black. The rest of Lu's outfit is more feminine. Her dress is deep crimson, falling to her ankles with a rustle of sisal, a darkly iridescent floral pattern evident on the fabric. A square-cut neckline, gathered slightly, dips just below her collarbones while bell sleeves are close-fitting from shoulders to elbows before they open and trail to her wrists. Just when it seems all else is normal, dainty soled slippers peek out from under the hem of her dress covered in the same white fuzz as her mustelidae mask.
Free-spirited ash blonde curls bobble about Riye's frank, tanned features; wide set cloudy grey-blue eyes seemingly incapable of deceit. A high-sloped forehead descends past thick brows, down a charming little nose to a mouth that's curled impishly more often than not. Lanky and athletically built, this blossoming teenager is clad in a loose, lime green tunic, fitted leather pants, and sturdy black boots.
He's 22, six-foot-three, but the best word for Derecho is still "boyish." It's there in his jaunty, long-legged strut; it's there in his crooked smile, dimpled on one side, with a small gap between his two front teeth. For all that, he's still handsome, with a wholesome face, square-jawed with warm brown eyes that often crinkle in laughter. While his fair skin has been slightly tanned by the sun, his dark brown hair stubbornly refuses to lighten any. Straight and fine, it flops rakishly about his ears and neck, a shaggy, lank mess. Today, those youthful features are half-hidden behind a flamboyant blue-and-green mask, silver piping around the outside of its harlequin pattern. His shirt is deep harper blue as well, with a faint shimmer to the material that makes it probably even more eye-catching. Black pants and shoes are a more traditionally elegant touch to round off his party-wear.
Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr The impressive living cavern is seemingly as large as the bowl that cradles the hatching sands. Rivers of polished wood tables and benches arrow towards a raised platform crowned with a compact version of their sturdy design. Rich swathes of fabric in shimmering blues, crisp white and velvety black have been carefully twisted together to form rivers of the Weyr's colors along the caverns walls. Bunching at intervals into rosettes formed and held in place by wrought iron brackets. Echoing the fabric along the walls, blue, black and white sisal have been cleverly draped from around various points high up on the cavern walls. Dipping lower along their paths to rise together again at a central meeting point high above the cavern, a floating canopy of elegance is created. Glows turned low and placed at strategic points add further to an atmosphere of style and subdued festive indulgence. The flickering light from wrought iron candlestick holders on the tables, lend further soft illumination that manages to provide an intimate dining and dancing atmosphere even amongst the press of masquerade revelers and cheerful laughter.
The living caverns are bustling with life, people coming in to find the decorations arduously worked on by the lower caverns staff. Midst this, even Jemah, the old fixture by the hearths, has gotten into the spirit, wearing a mask that does nothing but cover her eyes -- it's easy to see who the woman is. The buffets are filled with food, and kegs of ale are as free flowing as the uncorked bubbly as laughter and harper music rises in the air. Overseeing the finishing touches at the buffet, Satiet stands there by an assistant before low words are exchanged. "You should go and change now, if you want to enjoy the fruits of your labor," advises the weyrwoman, a rare seen smile curving her lips and once the mousy brunette is on her way, she too 'gets ready', having already donned a champagne and lace gown and adding to it the elegance of a beaded mask to cover the upper half of her face. Avian meanders into the cavern from the lower caverns. Avian has arrived. Lujayn is mincing as she enters the living cavern, shaking snow from her dress slippers and holding the hem of her dress away from trailing slush. She retreats to a shadowy corner to don her mask, fingers tying a neat little bow in the ribbon that will hold it in place. When she turns back to fully admire the decorations, it's no longer Lu's face but instead something pointed and furry that is somehow similar to the weyrling underneath. She moves lightly around the hall's edges, admiring as she goes. The short, but opulent form of Avian-woman hurries inside, her cape clutched tightly about her shivering form until she's well inside the warm cavern. Giving a sigh of relief to be warm again, she then looks around to the decorations festooning nearly every nook and cranny - the woman's lips smiling brightly beneath her concealing mask. A pudgy man from the lower caverns, once a handy man, tonight plays the part of a pirate. In lieu of a mask, he wears an eyepatch over one eye and a bright bandana over his hair; which apparently does the trick for a young woman pauses as he passes by on his way to the avian woman. He might be rotund, but a flirtatious smile takes over his face as he reaches over to try to be fresh with the opulently decked out bird's tail feathers. Fiesta sighs happily as she walks in from the bowl, her eyes glistening with excitement as she takes in the beauty of the cavern and the inhabitants within. Practically bouncing on her toes, she makes her way in further. Avian woman gives a loud, shrill 'squawk!' at havinng her plumage ruffled by the pudgy pirate, the woman dramatically swatting at his hands, then smirking at him. "Bad man!" she intones in a dulcet alto, swishing her ruffled feathers out of the way, then moving on. Her eyes wides as she takes in all the costumes around her, her mouth set into a definite grin of enjoyment. Fitted snugly over Lujayn's hair with the employment of a trailing black ribbon, a long, slender mask decorated with white fur represents the face of one weasel-like creature. Its entire appearance is inquisitive: a masklike streak of black rings both large eyeholes, clear bristles curve out from a short muzzle as whiskers, and small, rounded ears are set at the very top and cupped forwards. The rest of Lu's outfit is more feminine. Her dress is deep crimson, falling to her ankles with a rustle of sisal, a darkly iridescent floral pattern evident on the fabric. A square-cut neckline, gathered slightly, dips just below her collarbones while bell sleeves are close-fitting from shoulders to elbows before they open and trail to her wrists. Just when it seems all else is normal, dainty soled slippers peek out from under the hem of her dress covered in the same white fuzz as her mustelidae mask. Mask already in place, the Llama strides its way in from outdoors. A tilt of the head is exaggerated in the long ears, as if they were really taking in the sounds of the party that is getting started. Moving towards the hearths with slower steps so as to be able to take in the festooned cavern, the masked figure pauses for a time to exchange a few cheerful words with Jemah. Then it's on to the buffet tables, where the Llama seems to be checking out the costumes more then the spread of food or drink. And so it begins, the harpers' music striking up a rambunctious jig to start off the dancing night and the various revelers begin to pair off, some laughing, some uncertain of just who or what they might be dancing with, while drudges make their rounds with trays of snacks and foods to those who aren't indulging in the dance, and mist this, the raven-haired figure in Lace and Feathers nurses her own glass of bubbly, making her rounds with an oddly affable smile; it looks sort of out of place, that smile, and when paired with her pale eyes, seems even more so. Her rounds eventually draw her up near Fiesta and her shell mask. "Lovely gown." Fiesta smiles as she looks down at herself then across to the Lace and Feathered one. "Thank you, your mask is just .... incredible, almost makes a person want to have this as a new fashion trend." She sighs and does a little spin. "And to be dressed like a /girl/ for a change --- it's so freeing, don't you agree?" She reaches for a glass of wine from a passing server and a dainty little item to nibble for good measure. Weasel's attention is quickly drawn from the decorations and food when the music starts up, her paws taking her into the midst of the dancers with an energetic spring to each step. Alone for now but not particularly concerned, she twirls and laughs with the rest of the merrymakers, trading partners as they come for a quick turn or two. A narrow tail peeks out of crimson sisal, twisting along behind her as she dances. The bad man, the pirate, has found courage behind his costume and his rakish grin slants leeringly to the pretty tropical bird so far from home. But like all bad men, he must find other prey at some point and with a tip of his fingers to his patchy eye, he bids adieu to the Avian in order to flounce up the skirts of a woman dressed like an Istan. A very cold Istan. Somewhat late, with his mouth below the mask set into a frown, one man all in black arrives. The older woman on his arm is dressed to match in a stately black-and-white dress; she keeps fussing with her partner's clothes--straightening his mask, trying to unroll the sleeves he's pushed up--since he won't do it himself. The beautifications don't take well, and eventually she just sighs, parks him by the serving tables, and sighs again when he sneaks his silver flask out for a drink. "At least you're here while there's socializing go on," she rationalizes, with the long-suffering air of someone who knows to take what she can get. Two little girls, matched in opposite colors, the blonde in a black dress with white mask, the brunette in a white dress with a black mask, race through the crowd, all four years of them. They make mad dashes through legs, their toddler giggles causing a few people to take notice and then look around for their nanny, or some child minder, until they come up near the Llama, only to stare straight up in wide-eyed fascination. Avian woman skirts the edges of the party, avoiding the dancers and those gathered in large groups. A swirl of bright plumage marks her ducking away from yet another playful grab at her pretty feathers, the one beneath the mask flashing a white-toothed smirk at her would-be assailant. Finding the serving table, she pours herself a glass of something inviting-looking, then continues her circut of the crowd - continuing to gaze at all those neat costumes. Dressed like a girl. Lace and Feather's smile freezes a moment, perhaps to agree, perhaps to laugh, but in the end, the frozen smile melts faintly, and a silvery laughter escapes. "Thank you. I've no artistic skills myself, so it cost a pretty mark." Well worth it, if the constant attention of her fingers adjusting the feathers at the ends means anything. The champagne flute lifts to her mouth briefly, her attention dancing through the crowd. "That. There," she nods towards the traveling bird. "Most striking costume I think while that," again the blue eyes move to find the arrival and depositing of a man in black, "Most dashing man here perhaps? Unless it's a woman dressed as a man." Mermaid smiles at the mention of being dressed like a girl, though she stays fairly shyly in the background. Fiesta shakes her head, laughing."I've no marks and no artistic skills but my --friend, she helped decorate me. She's got interesting tastes, she does." With a sip of her wine, she looks out at the crowd. "Once they walk, it's pretty easy to see the gender. Men don't do well in heels, women, well they'll but a wiggle in their hips despite their best efforts." Furred snout pointed out towards the twirling dancers, it takes a moment for the Llama to notice its audience. But they are spotted, and the figure crouches down to get an easier look at the two little girls. "Why, aren't you quite the pair," his warm voice echoes from inside the mask. "Don't tell me you're here to try and take my fleece." It's meant to be teasing, but the stoic llama's face does little to help convey the sentiment. The snout tips further down, ears angling towards the girls. N'thei strolls in from the tunnel to the bowl. N'thei has arrived. /That/ opens Lace and Feathers' eyes a bit, askance as well as confusion causing those pale eyes to blink twice. Discreetly, she attempts to look at her own bottom and hips, wiggling them faintly beneath their golden sheath, and the results set a sudden flush of color to her cheeks. "I never knew." Or realized. But parties mean mingling, and the champagne and crimson decorated woman makes to depart, "I should continue to make my rounds," says she, and as she walks, seems to take deliberate effort not to wiggle her hips. The daring blonde toddler giggles, a slightly chubby hand to match her cherubic cheeks, reaching forward to pet the snout that angles down at her. The brunette, however, lingers shyly behind the other girl, peering over her shoulder and around her sides to catch a glimpse of the Llama, but never close enough to touch. "You're funny looking." From the mouths of babes comes frank, unmitigated truth. "You look like her doll," the finger points to the darker-haired child, "But bigger." Her arms stretch out to indicate just how much bigger: Much, much bigger. "I want to talk you home!" decides Riahla. Mermaid seems to be drawn to the children like a moth to light, gliding up beside the Llama. "Oooh, you're in trouble now. Next she'll want to dress you up for tea." Fiesta watches Lace and Feather's departure with a clinical eye kept on her backside. "She can run but she can't hide.." With that, she skirts past the toddlers and the Llama, smiling at their reactions but not wanting to interfere. Oh, she's interested in the room in general including the Man In Black and she stares his way for a long moment. Persie has arrived. Avian woman strides in measured tempo alongside the crowds, sipping from her champagne and occasionally murmuring a complement to those costumed people that truly catch her eye. N'thei's costume is just that subtle. He comes in late, better than never as they say, with a hand scraping along his chin to test the severity of his close shave; from there, the hand busily smooths his lapels, turns his cuffs to align with his wrists, and makes himself look altogether presentable. Wonders never cease. Just inside the cavern, he stops to get the lay of the festive lands, looks dubious. The other girl nudges Riahla. "It's /take/. Take you home," she says in her young, quiet voice. "Talk is like talking, you know. Talk talk talk talk." And after babbling aloud, Suireh realizes belatedly that she's actually talking in front of the gigantic version of her stuffed doll and abruptly closes her mouth. Again, those big blue eyes widen up at the Llama and then to the Mermaid who arrives. "Take. Talk. Same thing," says Riahla brashly. "Oh, not for dress up," says the more talkative of the pair quite seriously to the Mermaid. "He looks like he'd be fun to ride." TheManInBlack isn't walking, maybe they still can't tell. But there's little enough disguising it's defininitely a man in black--fact is, there's relatively little done to disguise his identity, period. Still, he plays along with the game of the masque for now, though not with the woman he arrived with: while she's turned away to talk to another old friend, the black-clad man slinks away through the crowd, looking uncomfortable, the moreso when he notices himself being noticed by Fiesta. He winds up near the two young twins, glancing down and eyeing them and then the Llama and the Mermaid too. Smoke wanders into the cavern from the lower caverns. Smoke has arrived. Too aware that Fiesta is looking at her backside leaving, Lace and Feathers makes her steps even smaller and less hip wiggly, if that's possible, on her way to the Avian to find relief along the fringes of the crowd. Her own champagne glass tips towards the feathered woman. "Enjoying yourself?" The jig comes to an end, but the harpers' music just glides seamlessly into the next song, a slightly slower paced one that gives the dancers a breather. Smoke slips inside after a trio of men who would be identical in their skin-toned clothes, flower necklaces, and grass skirts if it weren't for one being a full foot taller than the others. And she has dubiousness of her own, for all that she's made at least an attempt at a costume. Mermaid certainly recognizes the man in black, and actually looks guilty for a moment. She asks uncertainly, given the scrutiny, "Weyrlings were allowed to this, weren't they, sir?" The Llama can't react much to the pet, but at the least he's allowing it. A quiet chuckle echoes for the brunette's words. "I don't know that you're mum would approve," he starts answering Riahla, voice thick with amusement. Mermaid's words have his snout angling upwards a moment before turning back towards the girls. "No pink ribbons for me," he says solemnly, but can't quite suppress another chuckle at that last serious observation. "Well..." in a voice trying for seriousness. "How about a ride around the dance floor?" Dropping a knee to the floor, the Llama twists his shoulders invitingly towards the little girl. The snout lifts again up towards the Mermaid and the Man in Black. "Don't know what I'm getting myself into, do I?" he asks, but happily. N'thei suffers the natural jibes of a few better-costumed men with good nature, with an ah-but-you-see smile and knowing brow-lift. In passing the grass-skirted trio, he flashes open the inner pocket of his vest, normally weighted with flask, and reveals it empty with an elaborately sweeping gesture of his fingers. "No mask but sobriety, you see," while he catches up an innocuous glass of juice off a tray and drinks like he could possibly be enjoying it, even remotely. Riahla, for all her courage in facing the Llama, just stares when offered this once in a lifetime chance. The cherubic blonde features look at the Llama-dressed man in awe before her little hands find something to clap about. "Oh, yes. Oh, yes." Clearly, she didn't expect to get this far on her first party ever. And with a very cute oversized stuffed animal at that. "Ow." She rubs awkwardly at her shoulder, but does remember to add a, "Please," after a nudge from the brunette skulking behind her. Well. Maybe he can play along with the masque even if he doesn't look it. "Don't know nothing about no weyrlings," he tells her, with a shrugh, a twitch of his mouth that's likely a smirk, though it's half-hidden when he leans over to the llama to mutter to him. "Doubt the mother'd care you stole 'em both. Leastways, one of them," he tells him, just a little lower, enough that maybe the toddlers won't hear. Maybe. Avian woman smiles quickly over at Lace and Feathers, the beak over her facial features nodding brightly. "Very much so! I love coming to these things to see the costumes, the decorations." A long look at the woman's costume, Avian staying in the spirit of the masque, then: "Your outfit is lovely. Wish I could wear champagne without it getting lost on me." Another sip of her bubbling wine, and she murmurs again to her companion, "And are *you* enjoying yourself?" Her eyes drift out to more arrivals, and it's then that golden-brown eyes catch the man in black and... "Well, I'll be sharded. The Weyrleader." Snort. The pirate-clad man makes his rounds, audible if not visible, as the yelps of a few girls followed by a smack sound about various parts of the room. Suave, he is not. Weasel comes away from the dance floor rather reluctantly, but the eyes behind the furry mask are gleaming happily even so. She gives the two children a little wave as she passes, any facial expression hidden by the long mask and its bristling whiskers. Realizing she won't be able to eat without removing her disguise, Weasel shies away from the food being laid out and drifts more slowly past everyone in fancy dress. Watching, nosy as ever. As people move to join the dancefloor, Persie moves to leave it, stumbling out of the crowd as she tries to avoid the pairs still cavorting about. She's been here all along, of course, and dancing. And that's why her cheeks have that bright pink flush. She reaches up to make sure all her little celestial hair sticks are in place, a star, a cloud, a moon, and then she's breezing off to the get herself a drink. There comes the pirate man, and Smoke makes tracks for the drinks table too, nearly fast enough to catch up with Persie. Except there's food along the way and she slows, grazing a nibble or two, looking out into the group. The weasel gets a sudden smile. The Avian's long look is met with a lift of Lace and Feathers' chin and the pale challenge of her blue eyes, but when the other woman decides to keep to the spirit of the masq, the raven-haired woman drops some of the defensive tension of her shoulders. She even manages another smile for the dazzling feathered creature, a nod for the compliment, a hand wave for the festivities at hand. "It's nice," notes the cool alto, "To let down your hair, so to speak, you know?" A beat skips, Avian's announcement of various arrivals causing her to turn and follow the bird's line of sight. "I wonder what his costume is. Respectable?" Fiesta smiles to herself, her inspection of the Man in Black complete. One more sip of wine and she makes a face, placing the glass to the side and reaches for ale. Nearly stumbling into Persie as she passes, she smile brightly."Oh, you look nice too. You don't mind me saying that being a girl is alright?" She lowers her tone. "I didnt' realize it was a bad thing to think you are around here?" Mermaid smiles delightedly at the llama's antics and watches the blonde girl's reaction fondly. As the pirate nears she begins radiating nearly palpable "don't touch me" vibes, though, her expression turning icy enough to rival the usual expression worn by the lace and feathered woman. The pirate, whose cheeks are bright red but seeming to be loving the attention, does take the Mermaid's hint, however belatedly, and his steps that were aimed to scoot so surreptitiously behind her, veer -that- away, somewhere else, anywhere more welcoming. "All right, come on, then!" the Llama encourages the blonde child. The long ears sway away from the Man in Black - sign of a true ear tipping towards him. One hand sweeps the fleecy train of his mask more safely over a shoulder and then he reaches back to help the little girl get secure on his back. "Hold on," he warns her, even if that means he's about to get little arms wrapped tightly about his throat. Rising, he promises the others "we'll be right back." And then it's off to prance llama-like over towards the edge of the dance floor, dipping his shoulders a little this way and that with the music. N'thei explains away his supposed lack of participation a few more times, very few people seeming to get the joke, most just as happy to spend the time showing off their own costumes instead. "...good enough to eat, my dove, but that could just be my stomach talking." This is his parting comment to a chubby auntie from the kitchens who overflows in ruffles of pink; he chucks the woman under the chin, pauses only long enough to shine a clean-and-sober smile toward a cluster of onlookers to include one be-feathered woman, and makes for the food along with Persie and Smoke and whomever else. Straying closer to Smoke, head tilting this way and that to get a good look at the dark costume, Weasel claps her hands in soft approval. "Nice." The smile is hidden, but evident in her voice. There's plenty to distract her, face turning almost constantly to catch things as they go past to make up for the mask's restrictive eyeholes. "Who do you suppose is who?" Not that she has much clue who she's talking to just yet. Talk is talk. Oh, she knows, but Avian won't let that knowledge of Lace's identity touch the casualness of tonight's atmosphere. It *is* a masqued ball, after all. "Yeah, tell me. No need for pithy pleasantries or stumbling over formality and knots." Another soft snort of low humor when the other woman speaks of the weyrleader, and Avian quips back, "Either that, or, 'notice me.' Only reason I recognized him as such was from the knot." Sip. "I take it he's not one to enjoy such things as costumes?" The planetary bodies floating about Persie's head suddenly catch her eye, and Avian woman points to the greenrider. "That's a *neat* idea! She looks so cute!" Persie gets her glass and lifts her brows when she see Smoke heading her way. But of course, Smoke then gets distracted by the food and really, Persie can't blame her. She turns to Fiesta, blinking quickly behind her mask. "Huh?" Eloquent as ever. "What about being a girl?" She looks around at the varied masks, trying to guess to what Fiesta refers. TheManInBlack, for his part, sneaks another drink from his silver flask, watching as Llamaboy hauls off one of the two little girls. The remaining child, the old man eyes for a moment before asking, even if she's not the talky one, "Where is she anyway? Your mama." Meanwhile, the woman he arrived with turns back around from her conversation when her friend scoots off to mingle with someone else; the woman in black and white blinks to see her partner gone. Her brows furrow as she leans away, shuffling a few steps sideways to try to spot him through the crowd. It doesn't really work, and she gives up, shaking her head with a wry quirk of her lips. Something of what the other woman says jives with Lace and Feathers' 'for-the-evening' outlook on life, and she relaxes against the wall with her glass of champagne. "Likely, he didn't know what else to come as other than a respectable version of himself. It's-," the sharp-featured woman lets her mouth hook into the faintest smirk, "An unexpected change." But as Avian's attention drifts, so too does Satiet's, her gaze following the other woman's to find the heavens bobbling over Persie's blonde head. A once over that gets obscured by the crowd in the way drops from the cloud pin to find glimpses of the blue dress, and then those riveting shoes. And she stares. Somewhere more welcoming wouldn't be in Smoke's direction. At least, not when it comes to the pirate. For Weasel, yes, and her own smile even deepens. "Depends. Who do you want to find?" Her voice is a breath lower than usual, given a subtly musical lilt. Fiesta lifts one shoulder and smiles. "Never mind..." She finds it all a bit too much and she skirts past a few more people, finding a chair to perch upon. Definitely bemused, the shelled one sips at her ale and watches on. The girl on Llama's back squeals in delight, her chants of 'more more more' attracting the attention of the nanny -- a nanny who was half-way giving up trying to *find* two pint-sized children in the throng of adults. While Riahla has her kicks, Suireh's thumb finds her lips, resting there just as she's asked a question and the tiny shoulders shrug. As if recognizing a kindred spirit of sorts, the dark-haired child sidles behind the Mermaid's legs to peer out at the Man in Black. "I dunno, uncadaur." As Fiesta darts off, Persie is left still... blinking. And looking around with a 'did anyone else here that?' sort of expression, or as close to that as one can look with a mask on their face. And then she clears her throat, some self conscious attempt to return to her drink. She sucks down a mouthful of white wine and lifts the back of her hand to feel the heat still in her cheeks from her last dance. "I'm not looking for anyone," Weasel replies, fidgeting with her long slip of a tail as her focus shifts all around. That voice is familiar, if not a bit altered, and her head twitches - with those attentive ears always forward, as if very intrigued by Smoke and the rest of the masquerade all at once. Antsy, she paces a bit to one side, watching Persie pass with a squeaky affect in her amused laugh. "I'm just curious." Mermaid glances down at the dark-haired girl kindly. "Would you like to go back somehwere quieter, sweetie? I think I still find my way to the children's wing after all this time." Fiesta drains the last of her ale and slips out even further -- into the night. Fiesta wanders outside to the bowl. Fiesta has left. N'thei, passing Persie, "I can't believe how some people spend their hard-earned marks." The remark very likely wasn't meant for her ears specifically, more that he sounds mystified and talking to himself for sympathy while he passes with a plate balanced on his palm-- not even the most over-loaded platter in the room, a fine match for his juice. Avian lifts a concealed eyebrow at Lace's words, her own smirk growing as she listens. "What, is he usually wrapped in turn-old bedclothes that're being shredded by clouds of irate firelizards?" A soft giggle flows from her lips at the image in her head, and then a long look is given again to the towering form of N'thei. As her gaze moves back to her companion, Avian finds herself lifting up to her toes to try and see whatever it is, too. "What? What am I missing?" "Who the--?" says the man in black, watching with brows furrowing beneath his mask while Suireh hides behind the Mermain. His blue eyes narrow slightly, but he looks up, scanning the room probably for the twin's mother. The look, though, coincides with a gap in the crowd that lets his eyes meet with the woman looking for him. Like he didn't see her, even though it's totally obvious he did, he half-turns away, back toward the Mermaid and the girl hiding behind her. The Llama's semi-dancing finally sweeps Riahla and him close enough to that searching nanny. He stops by her for a moment, ears tipping back in the direction of the three they left behind. Bouncing the blond child up into a better position, his arms shifting slightly to give better support to her knees, the Llama sets off with a light step back towards Suireh, the Mermaid, and the Man in Black. Showing the nanny the way? Smoke takes a nibble from the tray, and takes her time with it, much as she does with Weasel's answer. "Could make up who's who," and that sort of reply might be a giveaway right there, voiced only a little more loudly as Weasel paces. "Who would never be seen with little children, for instance." On overhearing those words from N'thei, words not directed at her, Persie still blinks big eyes and draws a shoulder up toward ear. She lets him pass before drawing away, moving toward Smoke and Weasel and letting her posture resettle itself. Still, she slips beside them as if she might be a touch stealthy about it. "Hi guys." Either the disguises haven't fooled her or she doesn't really need to know the identity of her companions. "Her shoes," says Satiet to the Avian, continuing by stating the obvious, "They're. So. Pink." And then more feet obscure view of Persie's feet and that's enough for the Lace and Feathers woman to blink away from being hypnotized by such brightness, only to find a familiar face before hers, his hand stretched out in a silent request for a dance. The hesitation in the woman's pale eyes is transparent, but with an apologetic glance back to her feathered companion, she accepts, and soon weyrwoman and sandy blonde-haired man are out on the dance floor. Fraya walks into the cavern from the lower caverns. Fraya has arrived. Suireh shakes her head at the Mermaid, though a tiny smile escapes the taciturn facade. Her thumb finds her mouth squarely after a while, and signs of sleepiness find the toddler's face. Just in the nick of time too, as the nanny, given cues by Riahla's squealing, makes her way over and scoops the child up. "I'm so sorry," says the young nanny, worry knitting her brow. "They were only supposed to get a peek of the party." Not abscond with a Llama. Smoke nabs another nibble, offers it up to Persie even as she makes room. "People always stand around at these things, pretty much?" Her gaze roams the floor, veers up at the hangings, the canopy. "It's quite all right," the Llama says soothingly to the young woman even as he relinquishes Riahla. His ears bob with a nod on the tail of the Mermaid's words. "Truly," he agrees with warmth coloring his voice. "They were no trouble at all." Now sans child, the woolly train of his is set back into place and gloved hands reach up to be sure his llama-face isn't on crooked. N'thei, table, food. No worthwhile drink, not tonight, but costumed beggars can't be choosers. Overloaded, the nanny nonetheless takes charge of her two charges with a determination oft seen in contestants of food eating competitions: daunted, but hoping to overcome the odds. And with more words of apology and some scolding for the still overly-excited Riahla, the nanny steals away with the two girls, hoping not to catch sight of their mother or worse, vice versa. Avian finally sees a flash of those pink-pink-PINK shoes, and blinks a few times. "Jaaays, *I'll* say..." she comments wryly to Lace, then nodding affably at the woman as she is claimed by a dancing partner. Another sip of her champagne, and then Avian squares her shoulders some, seemingly determined to do something. Striking out on a path that wends its way around and between happy folk, her diaphanous, be-plumaged form makes its way towards aforementioned weyrleader - even as Persie moves away from him. Finally standing nearby the tall man, Avian woman peers up-up at him, and murmurs in that shadowy, dulcet alto, "Evenin'." Riye wanders into the cavern from the lower caverns. Riye has arrived. Boom! That's how she enters. No, not really. It's more like a squeak and a shuffle and an attempt at elegance as she attempts to hide in with others and not be notice. Who is this woman? Fraya, obviously. The tall lankiness that is the brownrider. She's shuffling to go unnoticed in her flaming red dress. Free-spirited ash blonde curls bobble about Riye's frank, tanned features; wide set cloudy grey-blue eyes seemingly incapable of deceit. A high-sloped forehead descends past thick brows, down a charming little nose to a mouth that's curled impishly more often than not. Lanky and athletically built, this blossoming teenager is clad in a loose, lime green tunic, fitted leather pants, and sturdy black boots. "Mm!" Persie's brows pop up and a smile finds her face again as she takes the offered morsel from Smoke. It -was- offered, right? Not just gestured? No matter, Perise's taking it anyway. "Did you sort anyone out? You spotted I'daur, right? He gives himself away." And she does a rather apt if not flattering impression of the weyrlingmaster's limp, shootting a little look toward the man in black just in case he sees it. "You can stand around," Persie admits to Smoke, but she bounces a brow to add, "Or you can dance." Weasel seems to take the 'standing around' comment as a sort of personal challenge, moving aside to make room for Persie when she arrives. "Let's all dance, then," She urges, the music in the background catching up to her fuzzy-slippered feet once again. Slipping away from the small group of ladies, she slinks through the crowd and eventually makes a bold approach to the man all in black. It's all in the signature silence of masquerade: An exaggerated curtsy, a polite nod of the narrow-muzzled mask, one hand holding her tail in proper fashion as the other extends hopefully with a playful quirk of fingers. Uncostumed, unless you count the fluttering scarves tied at her wrists, Riye saunters in. A casual glance sweeps across the room, unfazed by the decorations, the enormity of the celebrations, or the festive costumes others might wear. A passing drudge is waylaid for the wares he carries: two glasses plucked off his tray for herself. N'thei looks down-down at the bird-woman, studiously down as a matter of fact. His vantage point, her cleavage, not hard to figure out. But he's the very portrait of temperance tonight, and his smile is courteous and polite and not at all leering, though he has to swallow in haste before he can say anything. Evening; "So it is. I'm wondering how many poor birds are wandering around naked owing to this party." He looks not at her chest any more but at her mask, smile turned wry. Smoke gave that nibble up willingly, and now follows the other greenrider's look, and at least manages to not laugh until she's turned away again. "Persie! Hadn't. No." Another over the shoulder glance spots the Weasel, and she murmurs with more doubt, "Speaking of dancing. Maybe we should." Harlequin has arrived. Persie will pop that bit of food in her mouth and roll it to the side so she can grin again and chew hurriedly, brushing her fingers together to get rid of any crumbs. With a quick swallow, "Wanna dance with me?" And she offers Smoke one of those hands and cants her blonde head and assorted hair-bobs toward the dance floor. Mermaid notices people getting food and heads over to the table. Taking a small plate, she puts a few tidbits on it, then heads for the klah. At the last minute she changed her mind and instead pours herself a glass of wine. Avian is aware of the looks her cleavage can garner from 'lofty' admirers, but glosses the whole thing over as she peers up and out from be-beaked eyes at this 'paragon' of restraint. Smirk. "So, *are* you usually found wrapped in turn-old soiled linens, and set upon by clouds of irate firelizards?" Nothing like a non-sequiter to liven things up. A shrug of her shoulders at his wry query. "Afraid you'll have to talk to the Master that designed this beaut for me. I'm not often the casual plucking type." TheManInBlack just stares at the Weasel that approaches him now, expression blank albeit half-hidden by his mask. He leans sideways to eye the tail she holds, lifts a brow high enough to peek over the black mask. Then swipes another long drink. A glance past her takes in the dance floor, and then has his head shaking. Unlike the silent Weasel, he tells her, shuffling a step backward, "Go pick on somebody else." "Why not?" Smoke gives Persie her hand, conveniently already crumb-free, but there's the other end of the long black scarf in it. A few quick steps get her catching up but no further as she follows the other woman's lead, laughing. Somehow or another, one harlequin-masked young man has gotten himself pinned down by a couple of people at the drinks table, busy regaling them with exciting, only half-true tales of trader life. But eventually, he grows bored with entertaining that particular group, excusing himself and disappearing into the crowd fast enough that one of the slower girls is still blinking trying to figure out what just happened by the time he's gone, off into the crowd and sidling up to one really eye-catching feather mask. And the woman in it, of course. N'thei scrapes his teeth across his lower lip a moment, his smile held in check underneath that expression; "Can't say that I've had so many dealings with firelizards." He reaches a blunt forefinger toward the top of the avian's mask, like he'd land it on the prop and lower the thing to get a proper peek at who's hiding behind it. "Have we not met then?" Not-so-clever ploy. Weasel covers her face with her hands in a mimed moment of heartbreak, fingers moving to neaten her whiskers ever so carefully as the black-garbed man tries to shoo her off. She doesn't budge, though, taking another step forward. Good thing there's a mask to hide that devilish grin, otherwise she might be the first to scare /him/ away. Hands clasped together before her chest, head tilting. It's almost audible: Pleeeaaase? Riye takes her time in watching the room, bright eyes dancing from one festooned costume to another. Giddy excitement claims her young shoulders, the teenager now starting to let the excitement of the revelry to wash over her. Her blonde curls bobble charmingly, and with one last gulp down of her two glasses of wine, she sets a course for the center, no one in particular and begins to dance alone conspicuously. The pantomime has caught the Mermaid's attention, and she watches intently the exaggerated motions of the weasel. With her own dance coming to an end, due to breathlessness rather than the music's end, Satiet leans briefly into the blonde man's chest, forehead tipped there. But once she's caught her breather, the slender shoulders stiffen and the nod she affords R'hin is one of dismissal, leaving him to fend for himself on the dance floor as she makes her way towards the side where the Mermaid stands. The girls go with their nanny, and then the Mermaid slips away as well - leaving the Llama to turn his fuzzy snout to the Weasel's arrival and silent invitation to the Man in Black. A soft tsk may be just barely heard as he fades back a step to watch how things play out. "Surely you could manage at least a short turn for such a winsomely whiskered lady?" he says towards the other man, gesturing out a gloved hand towards the Weasel. Glower. Somebody is going to pay for this for the rest of weyrlinghood, however brief that might be. The man all in black just eyes the Weasel harassing him and sighs, loud enough without exaggerating it to the levels of the Weasel's pantomine. But, however reluctantly, he steels his shoulders and steals a drink, and then he offers the Weasel a hand. That lip scraping from the man in the Weyrleader disguise makes Avian woman stifle a rough laugh - the sound emerging from her as a rough cough. Jiggle. "I take it you've dealings with stained outerwear, though?" The touch to her elaborate headpiece is lightly ducked under, so no revelation of her identity is forthcoming. "No, don't believe we have." Pause. "I've heard quite alot about you, though." The slight challenge in her wryly humored tone offers N'thei an opening to talk of himself. Persie takes Smoke's hand and off toward the dancefloor they go. She pulls her companion out in front of her as they reach the edge of the dancing, already letting the music time her footsteps. With a once over of her partner, she observes, "You're all dark. And covered." Observant indeed. Mermaid moves slightly in case the lace and feathered woman wants any of the refreshments, but instead of shrinking as she might have once, she gives a polite nod. As she sees the man in black acquiese, she murmurs "Good thing I wasn't betting -- I would have wagered in favor of the weasel having to find another partner." Weasel nods emphatically to go along with Llama's coaxing, energy in every little motion. Her careful silence is broken with a laugh as she takes the hand of the man in black, sweeping out towards the dancers with an air not one ounce shy of triumphant. Never bet against a weasel. It hasn't been so long that Smoke's forgotten how to swirl when she's spun out, the long scarf looping from hand to hand behind her back, or maybe it's just that the Turnover dancing was a reminder. "Warmer," she says to Persie when they pass. "Though maybe that won't be a problem." Dancing, and all. N'thei leaves his finger suspended in mid-air, lets it tap against the emptiness where the birdie's mask was mere moments ago. Jiggling, no point in pretending he didn't glance, but his abbreviated laugh, a chuckle-cut-short, seems more in response to her challenging prompt than the display of goods. "Have you." Good-for-you tone. After juuuuust a second of watching red feathers parting ways with blond hair, he angles his chin to indicate the passing of a tray of champagne. "Imbibe?" Whether or not, he reaches to a procure a glass. "Nice costume," the unmasked Riye says to Persie as she passes, her own bout on the dancing floor ending. "Nice shoes." The smiling blonde slips up alongside a likely cluster of folk: a man in black, a weasel, and a cleverly dressed llama. She shakes her wrists in a wave, fluttering the scarves tied to them. "Hey," in an ever-eloquent greeting of the be-llama'd man. Tired from dancing, Satiet wrestles the mask off, perching it atop her head and slants the Mermaid a look, dry and more sardonic without the covering of beads and feathers. She might speak of wagers, sometime soon, but for now, the slender weyrwoman merely asks, "Do you have anything to drink?" The thin lips tug upwards as a glance takes in the seashell-decorated attire. "Ironically." TheManInBlack doesn't look happy about it, but he endures at any rate--with a Look for the Llama who encourages it all. Then he sets off after the Weasel, shuffling along as slow as he can manage, to delay all the longer the coming dance. "Hope you know what you're doing," he tells the girl as they arrive on the dance floor and he stops. "Because hell if I do." Persie lets out a bright laugh for flying length of that scarf. So much so that she has to spin her partner again. "What are you dressed as?" She doesn't bother to think she knows, nor does she seem to need to pay much attention to her pink feet as she bounces along to the music's tempo. Riye's comment gets a bright smile but there's little time for more as the dancing moves her across the floor. Again the Llama is restricted to a stoic look after the Man in Black and the Weasel as they move towards the dance floor. The glance back from the other man earns a happy little wave of fingers. And then the muzzle, and presumably his attention, turns towards the scarf-festooned girl. "Good evening," he greets Riye in return, tipping forward into a little bow. Unaccustomed to such long ears, they sweep rather close to the girl. "Tired already?" After straightening, the ears tip curiously out towards the dancing. "What I was able to borrow and..." Smoke's swirled, a backward glance hoping to make sure that she doesn't bump into Riye or anyone else on her way back. Under their arms she goes, and on the return trip when she gets nearer to Persie again, "And pretend into a costume. Smoke. I like your sleeves." "Yes please," responds Avian to the pretend N'thei's offer of a drink, her eyes watching him with intent as he snags both of them some bubbly - the woman passing him her empty flute in the meantime. "Yeah, I have," she brings the conversation 'round again, lips still smirking up at the tall man. "Heard you were the clutchda' at Fort not too long before you managed to get the big knot here." A casual swipe at a bit of something clinging to her skirts. "Heard alot of people weren't too happy about either one of those events." Beat. "What do *you* have to say about such things?" The curiosity in her low tones is near palpable. "Pick your poison?" the mermaid asks, glancing at the table full of drinks. She adds helpfully "The white is really good, though I'm not enough of a critic to know if it's Benden or not." And that's just fine with her. Rather than waiting for the man in black to prove he knows nothing, the Weasel gives another reassuring nod. Hands /here/: she moves them for the reluctant man, settling into her own position and leading them off in an easy swaying to the music's tempo. "Sure," Safely on the dance floor with her weaseled partner, she speaks up at last. "It's easy to dance." Ear-swept Riye laughs, a bubbling sound that rises above the din of conversation nearby. Unthinkingly, the young woman reaches out towards those ears, ostensibly to tug playfully, openly flirty if the Llama allows. "Oh, no. We just got here." Where we is indicated by this idle scarf-ridden hand wave towards the crowd: she and the entire rest of the party. "Riye of the Vijays," she introduces herself with a charming turn of a smile. "Should I call you Mr. Donkey or...?" A few moments of listening in, eavesdropping on the conversation of N'thei and his Avian, and the Harlequin then steps up to insert himself on in it. "Someone," he says then, with a broad grin for N'thei, "was saying something about /some/body daring to come as sober. Doesn't that ruin the costume?" An airy wave of a hand takes in some of those people whispering about N'thei's participation or lack thereof, while the harlequin's eyes settle on the glass the Weyrleader picks up, but only a moment. There's an Avian to greet after all, and the Harlequin does so with a sweeping, melodramatic bow. "Don't mind my intrusion, but I had to complement you on your mask. That's not one of ours, is it? --No, I'd remember if one of our Vijays made something like /that/," he answers his own question. Is she that tired, to not notice a table spread of drinks available to her? Apparently, for Satiet turns from the Mermaid to the full table and considers a beat too long, a touch surprised, and when the weyrwoman finds her cool voice, it's to say, "The white will be fine," even as she reaches for the glass herself. "Are you enjoying yourself? Not wanting to place bets on whether you get a dance or not?" "Thanks," Persie chirps back. "I had the dress. It's a little cold for winter but I figured that as long as I'm dancing..." Which she is, yes. "I'm the sky. I'm all blue?" Just in case that part isn't obvious. "With stars and stuff." She tips her head from side to side, showing off her weird crowd of heavenly shapes. "Faranth," says the man in black, tucking his flask away just before the Weasel repositions his hands. He frowns more deeply, but true to form, the swaying's pretty easy even with a bum leg. The man keeps up, mostly. Unusually self-consciously, maybe. "Sound like Anouka," he remarks. "Ain't never going to get her off my back, she finds out somebody roped me into this already." N'thei, to be precise, only takes one glass. He still has his juice at hand, sitting in all its non-alcoholic glory on the edge of the table by his discarded plate. Just managed to give the procured glass to the birdie, he gestures his empty hands in a by-all-means way to the interloper, timely enough that he never answers her blatant curiosity. The only thing he has to say to either of them is clipped, smothered by a laugh and feigned interest in looking around the revelry. He mutters to Harlequin, "All... cleavage,..." "In your hair," Smoke agrees, and plays at extravagantly batting her lashes with a voice that's gone up a full octave, "And in your eyes!" She gives Persie's hands a light tug and to the side, back to smoky alto once again, "Your turn." Spin! Mermaid says "I like watching -- it's fascinating. I wouldn't bet on getting a dance, though -- I pity anyone who would ask. And the Healer who had to deal with their feet on the morrow." The Llama doesn't recoil from the ear tugging, a quiet chuckle echoing inside the muzzle. It turns to follow the fluttering gesture. "Riye," he starts warmly, looking back to the girl, but her following question has a gloved hand lifting to his chest. "Donkey! Is my nose that big?" Feigned self-conscious dismay as the hand lifts to trace lightly along the snout of his mask. "I, ma'am, am a llama." As if it's a fact to be proud of. Avian woman looks taken aback, but only for a second, as Harlequin sweeps in on the conversation. Her mouth adopts a more wide smile-smirk as she listens to the tall trader talk to the weyrleader, her eyes flashing beneath that crested masque. "So, does that mean you're *both* daring to be sober?" she murmurs brightly to the two men, then accepting her champagne from N'thei with a low, "Thank you." Sip. She notes the bronzerider sticking to his untasted juice, then settles in to ignoring the overheard quip about her chest. Staring boldly at the Harlequin, she offers, "Don't break your back over me, lad. Take alot more than suave ways to impress this bl...er, woman. Ahh, unfortunately, no. My costume was fashioned by a certain retired Master crafter, in exchange for a pearl necklace I traded him." The carriage of the Avian becomes more and more erect as the conversation continues, perhaps even a touch stiff, but her interest never wanes. Persie giggles brightly. "Oh you do say the sweetest things," she returns, just as dramtic, trying to bat her eyes but not doing quite so expert a job of it. Perhaps the dancing gets in the way. But tugged, she obeys, following Smoke's lead and giving a spin that lets her gauzey blue attire float out around her. It spawns a whole new round of giggling. "The spinning is the best part." Weasel's energy is more prone to the spinning and flouncing that some other dancers are doing - maybe it's her own small part to help the man in black with a bum leg keep up, maybe not, but her energy is shunted off into talking. "I'm not Anouka, but you can keep guessing," She shakes her head with a laugh, turning slightly. "If you keep dancing, she'll have a hard time finding you in these crowds." "A llama!" Maybe she really didn't know, the wide fascination of her pretty grey-blue eyes sparkling to life as the Llama corrects her. "Why of course, a donkey can't compare to a llama." Riye's fingers curl, the backs of them exploring the fabric of the man's costume. "And please, call me Riye. I'm too young to be called ma'am. You say that, and I look for Derecho." The sweet smile belies her tease, or idle gossip mongering. "He's like an old auntie sometime, the way he noses about." Satiet considers her own feet at the Mermaid's words, the tips of the kid heels curling with how her toes hide themselves from potentially being stepped on. Rather than a sip, a gulp drains the wine, a second glass claimed and emptied just as quickly. "When you watch, you see a lot more than the people who are involved," notes the goldrider, her fingers returning to the mask to pull it over her eyes once more. Breather done. Adjusting it, just so, Lace and Feathers flashes the shell-decorated woman an atypically, becoming little smile, "Make sure you have as much fun as you'd like." "Then let's spin!" Spin spin spin, there goes Persie, and when she gets back the momentum transfers to laughing Smoke, whose skirt billows out as she whirls before swinging back and yielding to Persie all over again. Harlequin's mouth twists into a lopsided grin, all smugness for N'thei's words. He tilts his head toward the Weyrleader, voice lowered when he replies, though his eyes are tracking the Avian still. He mutters to N'thei, "... a... look,... I?" There's a reason for bowing down, after all. To the Avian herself, his grin is perhaps not quite so smirky, his dark brows lifting when she mentions the origin of her costume. Despite smart comments to N'thei, he does seem interested still in the attire as much as what it covers. Or doesn't cover, whatever. "A pearl necklace?" the harlequin repeats, surprised. "Not one of Grandma's heirlooms, I hope." It's a tease, laughter underlining his voice, the amused cock of his head. He adds, "I suppose she couldn't fault it, at any rate--certainly got your money's worth, didn't you?" "S'what you think," mutters the man in black, with a twist of his neck around for the black-and-white-dressed woman he arrived with. She's still hovering around somewhere, to be sure, but seems to have given up him as a lost cause. Continuing, the man and black glances back down at his current partner, mouth twisting wryly. "Ain't never avoided that woman yet, but. What you doing out here anyway?" Mermaid nods appreciatively, smiling back to the lacy and feathered woman. She turns to watch the llama now, cocking her head curiously. The ears bob again as the Llama gives a stately nod to Riye. Her touch to the fabric is accepted without a flinch. A gloved hand slides up to rest easily on his hip. "Of course. Riye." And now more casual cheer colors his voice. "Old auntie Derecho? Is he your brother?" Ears tip sideways in curiosity. "Nosing into all your fun, is he?" N'thei smiles with a touch of grimness to answer the Avian, takes a deep breath that steels; "Sobriety and costumes and--" Breasts. They're right there, can he really be blamed if he drops one last look? "Don't mix." That's his version of farewell, ended with a nod of concession to harlequin's grin. Leaving feathers to jesters, he detaches from the duo to say a few rounds of goodnight on his way toward the exit. Back and forth, Persie's nimble little dance steps get a bit sloppy as the vertigo kicks in. It makes her laugh harder though. "I'm getting dizzy. Do you think we'll get in trouble if I throw up on someone?" Not that she's looking green, mind, just playful. "I think I could use more wine." Because nothing says 'good idea' like dizziness and alcohol. Coincidentally, Lace and Feathers' departure of the Mermaid overlaps with dubiously Respectable and Sober's gradual exit, and she waits, in the shadows of the tunnel leading to the bowl to offer a slim, upturned hand to the cleaned up version of High Reaches' Weyrleader. Avian quirks half a smirk to Harlequin, the expression composed of as much challengeas it is humor. "Yes, a pearl necklace," she explains patiently. "And *he* accepted it for his wife. I found the pearl in a shell turns ago, and I crafted the necklace myself. A perfect, handmade trade for both of us." Sip. "He went all out on what he said was his last piece." A suddenly, swift spin on a toe has the woman twirling about once, skirts flaring for just a second to show her strong legs. "It fits perfectly. I adore it." A curious look up to the towering bronzerider, and Avian lifts her free hand in farewell. "Fair skies..." she calls automatically to him, then shaking her head a bit dubiously at the remaining Harlequin. "You two buddies, or something?" "Depends on who it is," Smoke says as their steps slow, her bright gaze managing not to track anyone else as they head for the bowl. "I might have suggestions," she says to Persie, but one more twirl, just one more at least. "Oh," opines Riye, her shrug careless, her laughter merry. "He only wishes he could be my brother. Or maybe," the teen rethinks that a moment, head tilting to one side before she shrugs that thought off. Better left unsaid, indeed. "He's someone we picked up years ago, not really family, I think he'd like to be. If only to belong, but belonging's sometimes so hard. Isn't it? Especially when you don't." There's a pause, a watchful wait for a reaction of any kind, before she trips along more lightly, "But the Reaches' has been incredibly welcoming of my daddy's family." "That's a funny question," Weasel remarks, not at all concerned about avoiding this Anouka as she bobs happily along with the dance. "There's no reason not to be here, is there?" She quirks her head, whiskers catching the light in an inquisitive fan. "Enjoying the festivities, mostly. Taking a break from it all." "Suggestions for who to throw up on?" Persie seems just a bit aghast that Smoke would think of such things. But of course, she can't help herself. "Who?" Nor can she resist another spin or to swirl Smoke around for another as well. Sober doesn't necessarily have to equate to clean, but Smoke doesn't go that far. Quite. Instead she whispers a name to Persie, and then another each time they swing around, each one more outrageous than the last. The image of temperate decorum, N'thei plucks Satiet's offered hand in his own mitt and leads her from the party, an ever so stately pair they make. "Never met him before in my life," the Harlequin avows, a hand held up as if he's about to swear as much. He grins again, leaning back slightly to take in the full of the Avian's attire. "You made it yourself," he repeats with a low whistle. "Color me quite impressed. Smith? Or just a hobby of yours, making necklaces? Must be smith, if you're, well. Talented enough to bribe something like this out of a man. It suits you, you know, though." A nod to the clothes. If he's sneaking another peek at her neckline, he's a good bit more subtle about it than N'thei. N'thei strides outside to the bowl. N'thei has left. You stroll outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> "With me," corrects the man in black. He's not moving so much, just a little sway every once in a while for the pretense of dancing, thoug he's quite content to let the girl go on however she likes around him. "Figured the rest of it already." He's also still half-watching the rest of the crowds past the Weasel, but he flicks another glance down at her then. HRW-LC> Avian actually laughs out loud this time, the sound almost a bark. "Runner crap..." is her comment to Harlequin's never having met N'thei. "Mhm. Jewelry smith. There was no need to bribe anything, once he saw the piece." Pride there. Another deep draught of the champagne, and the woman presses fingers over a tiny burp. "This stuff's good." A look out to those gallavanting about, and she peers up at the tall young man again. "Feel like dancing?" HRW-LC> If the Llama catches the hitch in what Riye says his reaction is completely hidden by the mask. Her pause is met by a soft (llama-like?) hmmm. "I suppose it can be," he grants gently to the girl. But as she lightens, so does he - his posture straightening as the muzzle bobs in a short little nod. "I'm glad you feel that way. A hard place to be out in the cold up here, anyway." The furred snout glances out towards the dancing. "And speaking of hospitality," a hand opens out towards the girl. "Can I offer you a dance? Or perhaps you'd prefer something to drink?" HRW-LC> "Sure. It works." No reason to object to the amendment, since it's true: Weasel dances with Man In Black. "What made you show up?" She asks curiously, lifting her hand for a little twirl. Whee! It doesn't matter so much that her partner is a stick in the mud, so long as he doesn't stand there like a statue. HRW-LC> Persie is half-gasping, half-laughing, spinning and dancing about the floor with Smoke. "You're terrible! I wouldn't throw up on him. He can't help it that he's always making that face, you know. It's just what he looks like." Poor whomever they're talking about. But finally Persie starts to stumble again and this time she aims those uneven steps off the dancefloor, tugging Smoke along with her. HRW-LC> "No, no, it's true," says Harlequin, eyes widening behind his mask, the best impression of innocence he can do. "So a jewelry smith. I bet you do do good business, too. If I ever find myself a girl I'll have to look you up--not that I could probably afford it, anything like this." Another glance for her dress, before he's offering her his hand. "I thought you'd never ask," he notes, with an affectation of shyness not convincing at all. "Shall we?" HRW-LC> The youthful face lights up, her bright smile splitting her features suddenly and into the gloved hand her own drops. "With such a handsome llama as yourself? I'm afraid you'll outshine me by far," lilts Riye, but for all her protests, she's the one that's taking those first steps to the dance floor, tugging lightly at the llama's limbs. "Have you been out to see our encampment? Come check out our goods. Perhaps a gift? For a friend?" HRW-LC> Avian snorts her humored and continued disbelief of Harlequin's protestations, settling her gloved hand lightly upon his as they stroll out to the dance floor. "Yes, I guess I do..." she notes of his talk of business. "But I do lots of different pieces, big, small, expensive, and not so. Shells make lovely accents in some jewelry." The interest in her craft shows in the excitement latent in her voice. "And, pray tell, what do *you* do?" HRW-LC> "But if he wouldn't..." Smoke begins, but then Persie's tugging her off and she goes, too. Still laughing. Waving the end of her sheer scarf at this or that dancer they pass by, eyes widening just once along the way. "Water. Must have water. None of the bubbly stuff, we'll have hiccups all night." HRW-LC> "'Nouka," admits the black-clad man, ducking his head in rather sheepish fashion. "Figured I needed some socializing, pulled me out here. Got the damn mask and everything." He reaches up to twitch one edge of said mask, snorting. "Kids seem t'like it, though," observes the old man. HRW-LC> Harlequin leads the way, the Avian's hand in his as they head onto the floor. "Do you," he queries. "Perhaps I could check out your wares sometime after all--shells, now. I don't have anything with shells, what with being a Reaches boy myself. It's more a, a tropical thing, isn't it?" He cocks his head slightly, slides his hands into place just a little forwardly when they arrive on the dance floor. Then, he laughs. "Me? I'm a trader, a Vijay trader. We're camped outside the Weyr for winter; maybe you'd like to stop by, see if there's something /you'd/ like to pick up for yourself? Now," and he turns suddenly serious, fixing his Avian with a mock-solemn look, "you aren't going to strut about like a bird out here and embarrass me, are you?" HRW-LC> Weasel is still young herself, at least nowhere near the age of the man in black. "We're all just overgrown kids," She observes a little more dryly, though it's followed with a chuckle. "Dressing in silly clothes for a fancy party." The grin is still lost underneath a mustelidae's muzzle, but even the mask carries a laughing face. HRW-LC> Mermaid quietly slips out at some point in the masquerade, murmuring goodbyes to those around her but drawing no other attention to herself. HRW-LC> Mermaid strolls outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> Mermaid has left. HRW-LC> Fingers close snugly about Riye's hand as it's placed in his. The Llama chuckles again, louder this time, as he lets her lead him out onto the floor. "I've not done more then fly over," he admits with an apologetic note. Once they're on the floor he takes a little more initiative, tugging her gently into the proper position for the current song. His grip gentle, but also firm and sure. Llamas are apparently no strangers to dancing. "I could perhaps find a gift or two - any suggestions of what I should look for?" HRW-LC> "Water for you then," Persie allows for Smoke. "But I want wine." And so as they drift off the dancefloor the assistant weyrlingmaster finally releases her companion's hand to hunt out her drink. HRW-LC> Persie has left. HRW-LC> "Yes, maybe you could..." Avian woman smirks a little at Harlequin, then eyeing his hands placed so forwardly on her. "You dare alot..." she smirks roughly up at him, jaw thrust outward a little. "Shells can be had if you know the right people, and trade around. Ahhh...and a Trader would know, wouldn't he?" she replies archly to her dance mate, then peering up more brusquely at him. "Huh? Oh...like a bird. Nah, I'm afraid it's up to you to do the leading. I'm only a semi-competent dancer." Smirk. HRW-LC> Smoke tilts a laughing smile after Persie and leans against the nearest wall once she's got her water, fanning herself with the end of her scarf before thinking to roll up her sleeves. And drink, and drink some more. HRW-LC> The blonde curls bounce, light as air, as Riye's blue-grey eyes seek to suss something out from behind the llama's mask. She then laughs again, a low, intimate sort of sound now that they're dancing and she's ascertained that the llama can, indeed, dance. "If I could see your face, perhaps know your name, I might be able to offer a suggestion, but it's unfair to try and test my skill as a trader without anything more than your costume to speak for you." Well-versed in the dance and light on her feet, Riye fits into the Llama's gentle grip and follows his lead. And yet, she tries, "For a lady friend, perhaps a scarf, something useful and yet fashionably decorative." HRW-LC> TheManInBlack snorts. "'Splains a lot," he drawls to the Weasel, his voice colored with dry bemusement. "Kids." He just shakes his head, continues the 'dance' a little more, before he tells her, letting her go and stepping back from her, "Should go. Find somebody your own age." HRW-LC> Fraya leaves, quietly, just as quietly as she entered. But, not empty handed. There's a glass in her hand. And, she's just as lonely leaving as when she entered. HRW-LC> Fraya strides outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> Fraya has left. HRW-LC> Innocent again, Harlequin just blinks placidly at the grounded Avian as he sets up a dance, a nice slow one for introductory purposes. "Okay, maybe not a trader by birth," he concedes with a laugh. He doesn't move his hands. "But I am now, for oh, turns. Rajiv's--our head's--his adopted son, practically. And don't worry," the reassurance added as he does take the lead, guiding the dance with a fair skill. "I knew this woman back at Nabol, taunt me all sorts of things, dances." HRW-LC> Weasel shakes her head at first, but doesn't chase after the man in black any longer. "Thank you, then." A much neater curtsy than the one she pantomimed earlier, turning on her fuzzy toe as they part ways. Weaving around the other dancers, finding herself on the fringes once more. She lingers around the edges for a few moments, mask lifting briefly to enjoy some of the treats laid out for the masqueraders, but soon enough disappears into the winter night. HRW-LC> Weasel strides outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> Weasel has left. HRW-LC> After he weasels out on his Weasel, the man in black loiters a little longer, grabs himself another swig from his flask, and discovers it nearly empty. While he limps up to the serving tables to get another drink, though, Anouka--the woman in black-and-white--finds him, captures his arm again. They leave together. HRW-LC> TheManInBlack strolls outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> TheManInBlack has left. HRW-LC> Avian sways easily into the slower dance, her rhythm impeccable, her footwork rather basic - though her dress hides part of that. "And what were you before you became a Trader?" she inquires conversationally, looking between Harlequin's masque and her own footwork. Another snort of humor, and Avian replies with a smirk, "I just bet you *did*..." to the young man's words of being taught. HRW-LC> The screened sections of the Llama's mask are opaque enough that there's really nothing clearly visible of the face behind it. A soft tsk escapes, though. "That's hardly in the mood of the evening's theme," he chides lightly at her trying to extract his name. "And it would ruin my opportunity to come by your encampment and puzzle you with my familiarity." As it becomes obvious she's comfortable with the dance, he works in a few more complex variants of the steps, giving Riye a bit more opportunity to spin. "Useful and decorative. Alright." He laughs. "And do you have much in the way of furnishings?" HRW-LC> Smoke dips her finger in the last of her water, then loosens her mask just enough to slip it along her forehead, then the back of her neck. Cooler, now. Her gaze roves the tables but doesn't wind up lingering for more than a moment on this snack or that. The dance floor, next, but again, not lingering long. HRW-LC> "A callow youth, a mere slip of a boy, ignorant in the ways of the world," says the Harlequin in grandiose tones. He can't keep up that lofty air, however, his boyish grin slipping out again. Cocking that gap-toothed smile at the Avian, he lifts his shoulders faintly and admits, "But seriously. Odds and ends, mostly--a jack of all trades, if I do say so myself. Trading suits me, always something new at the next hold. Or Weyr, whichever, though this is my first real trip to one of those." HRW-LC> "Hmmmmmm," expels the throaty sound of thoughtful musing, finding nothing more to betray the Llama despite Riye's best attempts to *look* for something. But all her efforts go to waste as she's spun out from the safety of the costumed man's arms, to return to only find herself spun out once more. When she returns, she's grinning, "You name what you need, I'm sure we'll procure it, or something." And that seems to be that, for she tippytoes up on her boots to pucker lips to the tip of the llama's mask, a sly little stolen kiss if he doesn't move, before she steps out of his reach and into the crowd with another of her merry laughs. HRW-LC> Avian can't resist that grin and laugh, joining Harlequin in a chuckle. "Ahh, there always seems to be a woman able to do such 'callow youth' a favor. Though, more often than not, when it's the other way around, the 'teacher' is seen as a 'dirty old man,' more often than not." Grin. "I'd be nervous out in the open *all* the time, what with Thread being back again." Shudder. "How does your group deal with that? I mean, now that you're at a Weyr, there's not really much of a problem, but when the Vijays are on the road..." HRW-LC> The Llama starts nodding at Riye's offer, but the motion is stopped short as the girl goes up on tiptoe. He stands flat footed for the kiss and for a minute afterward as he watches the trader girl disappear into the crowd. The gaze sweeps out afterward, taking in the dancers nearby before falling on that smoky and unmasked figure by the edge of the floor. Careful of the dancers, the Llama makes his way out from the floor and up to her side. "Mmm. Somewhat matronly, aren't we?" he teases, the snout tracing across the lack of skin showing. HRW-LC> "True, true," concedes Harlequin, ducking his head to hide his smile. But it's a subject he doesn't take further, instead repeating, "How do we manage?" It requires a moment of contemplation as his feet move in the steps of the well-practiced dance automatically. "Oh, Rajiv's a smart man, knows all the routes, mostly. With them being able to, mostly I think, predict it now, and him knowing how far we can get, where to hide out, it seems to work out. I confess, I don't know all the details of it--I just sell pretty girls pretty things," his bemused modesty somewhat removed from earlier boasting. HRW-LC> Riye wanders through the archway, into the lower caverns. HRW-LC> Riye has left. HRW-LC> Smoke starts, and it's a good thing her glass is almost empty now, because she turns and gives the Llama an incredulous look. "Nose off my dress, please." Not that it's a dress exactly except for how it's put together. But then, not that she isn't laughing again, reaching up to try and loop the scarf around his neck. "Had a good evening? How does it compare to your other galas?" HRW-LC> Avian knows that duck of head - has seen many do it before - and so she simply lilts light laughter, then looking down at his feet doing those steps. Nuh-uh, too much for her level of dancing. Back up to Harlequin's masque again she addresses herself, "Well, as long as the system works and everyone's safe..." A small shrug substitutes for the rest of her words, until he mentions his trade. Grin. "Not only pretty girls want pretty things. So do plain, even honely girls. And pretty boys." HRW-LC> The pinching hand has the Harlequin starting, taking a surprised step away from those fingers. Conveniently, it makes him just that much closer to the Avian he's dancing with. He doesn't really move back, either, when Riye's disappeared and he's left to tell his partner gamely, "They're all pretty in my business." HRW-LC> The Llama complies, laughing himself. He even ducks his ears, letting himself more easily be lassoed by the scarf. "Not bad, not bad," he says lightly to Smoke's question. "I love how the hangings look in here." His gaze turns away to peer up at the sisal strung from the cavern's ceiling. "The music is decent. Some really great costumes" and now his snout lingers towards the dance floor before swinging back. "Haven't tried the drinks yet." A gloved finger taps towards her glass. "I would sort of expect them to be good, here. If strong?" HRW-LC> Avian is in the dark as to pinching fingers, but, as stated, finds Harlequin that much closer to her form. A rich smirk touches her lips, and she murmurs up to him with an odd little intonation, "Are you that desperate that you need to throw yourself at me? After all, you don't know if I'm dangerous or not." A slow nod to him as they continue dancing. "Sounds like business as usual." HRW-LC> "Desperate? Oh, no," says Harlequin, wide-eyed again. "I have women copping feels as we speak." Which is actually, for once, kind of true. Beat. "Do you /want/ me to be that desperate?" he asks a second later, all questions of dangerousness sidestepped. HRW-LC> Avian snorks loudly, unable to keep from laughing at Harlequin's first words, golden-brown eyes behind her masque also laughing just as bawdily. LIps twist into a wry litte smirk, and the woman takes a little gamble, moving closer to the young man's form, and mouthing something near his ear. HRW-LC> Smoke takes both ends in the wrist-knotted hand, giving it a light, lightly familiar tug just because, and looks up as well. "Don't want to think of just how much fabric that is," she admits, gaze scanning the dance floor and those that remain on it before returning to the Llama. "Least they don't have to keep the swags ironed, all twisted together like that. But this?" She tilts the glass his way. "Water. Though I was tempted to try just one, to go home with." HRW-LC> Harlequin's mouth twitches with bemusement, quirking crookedly up at a corner at that whisper. "Oh, I am," he replies to those quieter words, utterly confident about it. "Rather offended you'd have to ask, if fact." Not that he looks it. HRW-LC> The Llama's chin drops at that tug. Can llamas be bashful? But then there were the hangings of fabric to look at, and he hums soft assent to her observations on those. "Well that's not very exciting." The Llama's face is unsurprisingly impassive as it tilts towards the glass. "What do you fancy trying? I think I'm ready for a bit of a drink, myself." And before he can forget to mention it, a hand reaches out to slide gloved fingers softly along the bodice-hugged curve of Smoke's waist. "I was teasing, you know? You look very lovely tonight." HRW-LC> "Funny, you don't look offended..." Avian woman smirks back at Harlequin, subconsciously tossing her chin up a little. "And how am I to know if your words are nothing BUT that, hmm? There're so many who boast just as you do..." Another sweep of their feet in the dance, and the plumaged head bobs as if the woman within is laughing to herself. HRW-LC> "It's all inside." Harlequin lifts one hand to clap to his chest. "I keep my hurts buried deep, you see. Put on a merry face for the world" He nods, with an affected sad expression that lingers not long as all. Instead, it morphs fluidly into a impish smirk, a quirked brow just peeking out over his mask and under that flop of hair. "Test me?" he suggests, with a half-shrug. HRW-LC> Avian raps her knuckles lightly against Harlequin's harper blue chest, chuckling at his display. "It seems you chose the right masque, oh one of many faces and trades." She manages to hold a dubious expression for a few moments at his question, then smirks richly back at him, again - murmuring in his ear as they dance. HRW-LC> "Pick something for me?" Smoke leans into his touch, eyes half-closing but distant, unseeing. Until the moment passes, and she refocuses without straightening. "Thank you. Got to dance with Persie, even. Maybe not one of the people I thought I wanted to dance with, walking in, but you know? So much fun. Almost like flying, that dizzy." HRW-LC> "Didn't I!" says Harlequin, preening peacock-like even when she raps him. To the once more whispered words, he just offers a wistful, "Like a bird into the night. But I'll risk it, all the same. Shall we?" HRW-LC> "I can do that," the Llama agrees readily to the request. His hand stays at her waist, ears tipping ever so slightly as he gazes at Smoke. "Yes?" he voices with eager cheer. "That does sound fun. Persie's so sweet." There's a pause, though the mask obscures the expression behind it. "Seems to me dancing can be more enjoyable, when you're not worried about impressing your partner with your charms." And though there's predominantly light humor in his voice, there's a depth of more subtle thoughts lingering behind his tone. His fingers press a little squeeze at Smoke's waist before falling away. "I'll go get those drinks." HRW-LC> Avian nods her crested head in doubled affirmation to Harlequin, her lips smirking fit to beat the band...or the Harpers, who wind down their long, slow dance tune to the applause of all. "You don't know just how much you risk..." she teases the 'buffoon', then slipping her arm through his. "Lead on, oh trickster." HRW-LC> "I like her," Smoke says simply, glancing up at his ears. "Want to find her sometimes, after. Moll..." But whatever she might have said turns into a quieter murmur of agreement as she leans back against the table, watching him choose for her, letting the scarf slide free as he goes. HRW-LC> Harlequin hesitates at that, craning his neck to look around at the slowly dwindling crowd and then the dark caverns that lead further in to the Weyr's caverns. "Forgive me if I don't know quite where I'm going yet," he tells the Avian then, with a grin back at her. "I'm still learning--get lost in the darnedest places." But it won't stop him now from stepping back and turning to saunter toward one of those dark passageways, reaching to try to slide a hand in his partner's and tug her along, too. HRW-LC> Avian chortles softly, shaking her head in humor at Harlequin, and deftly redirecting him to the exit towards the Bowl. "I'm used to the complexity of Weyrs after all these turns." And out towards a certain destination she guides them. HRW-LC> Avian meanders outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> Avian has left. HRW-LC> Harlequin goes home. HRW-LC> Harlequin has left. HRW-LC> The Llama nods even as he moves away, nudging carefully into a place at the drink table. He takes his time perusing the offerings, and then a little more to track down a pair of clean mugs. It's a steaming tureen that he serves from, a beverage that the unlucky kitchen workers who've pulled duty for the night have been keeping hot. In the process of securing the drinks, he's pushed his mask up so the muzzle now tips oddly out from his forehead. This has the benefit of letting him sip from his mug as he walks back towards his smoky companion. "Mmm. They did a good job with this. Wassail." The second mug is held out in offering. "Have you had it before?" HRW-LC> "Maybe. if I remember." Smoke takes the mug when the Llama offers it to her, lifting it to her nose to sniff. Then, "Yes. Don't think the same spices," confirmed with a smile once she's ventured a trial sip. And she doesn't move to take his arm with the mugs and all, though her sidelong glance is as good as. "It is good. Let's go cool down, hm?" Though on the way to the bowl, she does stop in one place: the very center of the emptying cavern, to tip her head up at the ceiling and turn slowly with her mug, around and around and around with the dimming sights and sounds all around, until it's off to the cool night at last. HRW-LC> Smoke wanders outside to the bowl. HRW-LC> Smoke has left. HRW-LC> L'vae goes home. HRW-LC> L'vae has left. |
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