#masquerades

Downy grey feathers formed the mask, glass gems lining the eye holes. Sirona Yisarre had tried it on, pleased it wasn't nearly so scratchy or itchy as she first suspected. She agreed to wear it for the night and tried to convince her mother she didn't also need to wear the small crystal crown with a half veil in her hair. Lady Miaralei Yisarre glanced at her daughter with a displeased expression, and said, "How will anyone know you're the swan queen without the crown?"

"Never mind," Sirona sighed. She had gotten her way with discarding the wretched feather collar of the ensemble and it seemed this would be her only say in her borrowed outfit for Duke Stelmane's masquerade that night. Sirona had to admit the dress was lovely: the same grey tulle as the veil, the many layers almost turning it to charcoal at the bodice. It had a low square cut, which pleased Sirona as she hated tight collars, and flared out from her hips in an elegant drape that faded to her ankles as the layers grew thinner. Clear glass gems and more grey feathers made swirling patterns on the outermost layer. As long as she didn't fully rest her arms at her sides, nothing scraped against her skin since the only sleeves were thin straps. She would have a single layer of the gauzy fabric as a shawl for modesty rather than warmth.

Sirona sat on the vanity stool while her mother pinned her brown curls into something resembling a stylish up-do, setting the veil and crown in place. She fiddled with the silver bangle bracelet her aunt had loaned her and Miaralei patted her hand down over Sirona's.

"Stop playing with that, you'll lose it," her mother scolded.

"I won't," Sirona bit back any more complaint, forcing herself to sit with her hands still in her lap. She could play doll for her mother, retreating into her thoughts as she stared at the chipped gilt frame around the vanity mirror. The practice held a certain comfort for her, decisions seceded to someone far more capable. Her eyes briefly flitted to the drawer of the vanity she had hidden a flask of whisky.

Sirona's attention went back to her reflection, dark circles under her green eyes hidden from her mother with makeup. Miaralei already had a husband that had recklessly taken out high interest loans for a slew of bad investments, Sirona didn't want her to worry that their move to the city had restarted her daughter's drinking. The surge in recollection from Sirona's past life in her nightly trances was merely unfortunate timing.

Sirona couldn't recall a time when she hadn't been haunted by the white-haired elf that killed her previous incarnation. So many nights she jerked awake, the scream that had been strangled in blood ripping from her throat. She hadn't even seen the knife, but the tear across her throat burned. Her murderer had the audacity to hold her as her limbs grew cold, his red eyes locked on hers.

She hadn't even touched the whisky, it was just in case Sirona needed a night of decent sleep rather than the trance her kind used in lieu of slumber. Their whole trip to Baldur's Gate was for her to secure a match--trade her title for her father's debt. Sirona doubted she could be blamed for wanting something that could aid her. If all went well, Sirona would be wed by the end of the season, despite only being 22.

"There, that looks acceptable," Miaralei said, stepping back and twisting her hands together. Sirona had no doubt which parent she picked up her nervous habits from. While Miaralei channeled the excess energy into her needlework, mastering delicate embroidery, Sirona spun skeins of yarn.

"Thank you," Sirona said, glancing in the mirror and plastering her best smile in place, "It's lovely, truly, Mama. Thank you."

"Tonight doesn't have to be perfect anyway," her mother said, failing to hear Sirona's compliment. "Remember this is just a practice run! You'll get to have a sense for society without the proper introductions. Try to match who you meet with your cards and see if anyone catches your eye."

"Yes, Mama," Sirona failed to restrain her sigh. Miaralei had brought up many times how the Stelmane masquerade would be a practice trial for Sirona before her introduction at Ravengard's dinner the following week. Then the festivities would be in full swing for the season with teas, social calls, picnics, promenades, and even more dinners and balls. Sirona wondered if she would be able to finish the current spool she was spinning. Her smallest spindle that she used for making thread fit in her purse and she had it tucked inside if the masquerade didn't go well. No one should begrudge a lady her delicate work in between dances, surely?

Miaralei picked up the feather mask and had Sirona hold it to her face while she tied the ribbons and pinned them to her hair. Sirona accepted her feather encased fate, absently fiddling with her silver bangle again. Miaralei proclaimed her daughter suitably ready and ushered her downstairs. More fawning over her dress from her "aunt" Liara Verno, who had loaned Sirona the outfit and opened her home for her friend's financial plight, and at last they were settled in the carriage to Stelmane's manor.

Lanterns illuminated the road and hinted at grand estates at the edge of the lights. Sirona suspected she would become familiar with the houses and roads of the Upper City soon enough. The carriage slowed in a sudden traffic jam before turning down a driveway. Sirona turned the silver bangle over her wrist as she waited, wishing she could take out her spindle but knew that would only fuel her mother's exasperation. As it was, as soon as they were let out from the carriage, Miaralei took up Sirona's arm with the bangle to escort her inside.

Sirona tried not to gawk at the giant manor which made her aunt Liara's already luxurious home a modest cottage in comparison. Her aunt walked a step ahead of her mother confidently, used to high society and their surroundings. Inside the foyer, servants offered to take any extraneous outerwear before directing them down a hallway to the ballroom.

A masked older woman, presumably Duke Stelmane herself, greeted people at the open doorway to the ballroom, smiling and chatting amicably. Liara cooed her hello and introduced her friend and niece. Miaralei finally released Sirona to shake the proffered hand with both of hers. Sirona gave a half bow of her head and slight curtsy which most people accepted as a polite greeting without her having to touch them. Duke Stelmane nodded and turned back to the two older women.

The ballroom had been decorated in sweeping indigo drapes and twinkling lights to give the illusion of the night sky. A string quartet played on a raised dais across the large room, their music carrying through the space perfectly. The dance floor already had costumed guests waltzing in an elegant parade of finery. Tables and comfy chairs lined the space along the walls for guests in between dances and those preferring to socialize over trays of sweets and wine.

Sirona sat at an open table with her aunt and mother, content to watch the dancers and admiring costumes. She grew relaxed enough to hang her purse off the back of her chair, thoughts of spinning tucked away amidst the beauty. Her enjoyment proved short-lived.

"I believe that gentleman near the wine is Mr. Gortash," Miaralei tapped Sirona's shoulder and nodded in the direction to look. Two men stood near the table of wine glasses chatting: a human and a pearlescent dragonborn.

"Oh yes," Liara agreed, "He never goes anywhere with out that distinctive bodyguard of his."

"Go say hello," Miaralei nudged her daughter from her seat. "Dance and be social! You aren't allowed to sit back here until you've had at least two dances."

"What happened to this being a trial run?" Sirona protested.

"That's why I've capped it at only two dances," her mother replied. "Going forward I expect an minimum of six."

A glance at her silently laughing aunt told Sirona she had no help to begot from that corner. She huffed out a breath and willed herself into a neutral expression before she turned around and sought out her target. Enver Gortash held most of the city's military contracts, an inventor of automaton guards and endless weaponry had made him incredibly wealthy. He lacked any title however, landing him towards the top of the list of matches Miaralei had compiled.

Sirona edged her way around the dance floor to the two men in conversation, wondering how she was meant to break in and win a dance. She idled once she reached them, still trying to think of something more pleasant and elegant than "hello," when a lull in their chatter indicated their attention had been turned to the unknown newcomer.

"Hello," Sirona squeaked in graceless greeting. "I, um, like your mask." Only Gortash wore a mask, made of shining welded metal. Close enough to examine the mask, she could see it was a collection of bejeweled daggers.

"Thank you," Gortash replied with a smile, laughter in his voice. Sirona blushed and looked down, feeling she had made a fool of herself. "You look lovely, swan maiden."

"Thank you," Sirona said, latching onto the hope given with the compliment. "Would you care to dance?"

"I would," the dragonborn said. Sirona looked up in surprise at him, accepting his offered hand. The talons that wrapped over her skin held her securely.

"Don't let Dirge scare you off," Gortash commented as the dragonborn pulled her away. "I'd like to take you on the floor later." Sirona gave a genuine smile at that, choosing to ignore his poor choice in wording over the delight she had secured her two dances.

The music flowed into a new waltz and the dragonborn drew her from his side to stand in front of her. Holding their joined hands up, he stepped into her space and wrapped his other over her waist. Sirona settled her free hand on his shoulders, leaning back to give herself more room. "So, your name is Dirge..?"

"Yes," he said simply, not giving her a full name as she expected. Sirona focused on following his lead, he was a sure dancer despite having such a bulky frame and tail to manage.

"I'm Sirona, daughter of Marquess Leocan and Miaralei Yisarre," she tried again. The dragonborn blinked, but otherwise gave no indication that he had even heard her. Sirona clamped her mouth shut and resolved herself to silence.

"I've always been fascinated by elf-kind," Dirge spoke up a moment later.

"Oh?" Sirona wasn't sure about this segue into conversation. Most people that were fascinated by elves liked to mention the sexual expertise a long-lived species gained. Or their ears.

"You reincarnate," Dirge said, catching Sirona off guard.

"Yes," Sirona said with a relieved smile. "Our god Corellon guides our souls back to the Material Plane until we reach perfection."

"I wonder..." Dirge trailed off, then noticing Sirona staring up at him curiously, he leaned his head closer to hers and whispered, "I wonder how long it would take to target one soul. I could slit your throat and track you in your next life and do it again."

Ice burned down Sirona's spine and she froze in the dragonborn's grasp. He stopped dancing, a reptilian laugh huffed against her face where he pressed against her still. Her voice stuck in her chest despite wanting to curse him.

"How many times would I need to render your flesh for your soul to succumb to another god?" Dirge asked.

Sirona wanted to scream, wrench herself free and never come back to Baldur's Gate. She could feel the blood in her throat, choking on it like always. A horrible wetness swiped along her jawbone and Sirona jerked back. He had licked her! She bolted away, almost tripping because he had released her so quickly.

She dashed pass other dancers, unknowing of the horror of her dance partner, and reached the boarder of chairs and tables. The ballroom felt too crowded, too hot. Sirona searched wildly for any escape, locking onto a doorway that seemed to lead to an outside terrace. She rushed towards the promise of fresh air and lonesome security.

The door seemed to fly open without her touch and Sirona ran through, slamming into something solid on the other side and crashing to the ground. "Gods below!" a masculine voice cursed under her and Sirona scrambled to her feet.

"Sorry!" Sirona gasped, hugging herself in attempt to keep her tears inside her body. They squirmed free traitorously, fueling her disgust. The man she had knocked over in her flight stood up and brushed himself off, a black mask with a large crow beak obscuring the top-half of his face but his grimace remained clear. "Sorry," Sirona choked out again, willing her body to run once more and escape her foolishness.

"It's only my best outfit," the man scoffed, crossing his arms. It was a fine outfit too, slim black trousers and a silky black blouse beneath a vest of silver brocade. Despite his clear upset, nothing appeared ruined.

The dour pout of his lips suddenly dropped, and he said, "I mean--it's fine. Are you alright, darling?" The mask had opalescent red glass over the eye holes so she couldn't see his eyes at all, but he must have focused enough on her to realize her own distress.

"I just needed--fresh air," Sirona threw her hands up to indicate the outside around them and looked down. She stepped around him so he could return indoors and scanned the area for refuge. Lanterns hung at the boarder of the terrace and showed a pathway into the gardens.

"I'm reluctant to go in considering how desperate you were to escape," the man said, "Is it truly so boring in there?" His quip startled a giggle from Sirona she quickly smothered.

"Boring isn't the right word for it," Sirona replied. "My dance partner..." Sirona swiped at her face, shivering in imagining it still felt wet.

"Too handsy?" the man guessed. "A mask makes some bolder."

"That might have been preferable," Sirona admitted, "He licked me. It was disgusting! And too quick for anyone to notice."

"Well I'm definitely not going in there now! That sounds horrid," the man exclaimed sympathetically. His mask tilted down as he searched his vest, pulling out a white hand kerchief and offering it to her.

Sirona rubbed the silky fabric against her cheek where the dragonborn had violated her skin, smelling bergamont and brandy perfume on the kerchief. The scent soothed her, pulling at something at the back of her mind in familiarity although she couldn't quite remember. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent, but any memory connected to it eluded her. She daubed away the wetness of her tears carefully through the mask's eye holes.

"Thank you," Sirona sighed, reluctantly pulling the kerchief away from her face.

"Keep it," the man said, his voice gone a bit gravelly. Sirona brought the fabric back beneath her nose, inhaling the lovely perfume again.

"Thank you," Sirona repeated, feeling calmer.

"My pleasure, dear swan queen," he bowed and Sirona could see his elven ears beneath the silvery white curls of his hair.

"My name is--"

"Better left a mystery," the man interrupted. "That's the joy in a masquerade, isn't it?"

"This is my first one," Sirona admitted, "I didn't realize the the anonymity was to be so prioritized."

"Well, my queen," his voice took on a teasing lilt, "thieving crow I might be, but I am still a member of your feathered court and so I insist upon teaching you the rules for a masquerade."

"Alright," Sirona replied, deciding to play along, "you may educate your queen."

"First, no names. Second, stabbing dance partners is acceptable when they take liberties," he said. Sirona slapped her hand over her mouth to stem the bark of laughter. "Third, find the most charming person there so you might delight one another. You were off to a rough start, but I can see you've corrected form."

"Awfully certain of yourself, aren't you?" Sirona smiled. He matched hers with a smirk.

"I'll prove it," he said. "Allow me a dance to sweep you off your feet." He held out a gloved hand to her.

"And I get to stab you if you take liberties?" Sirona asked.

"Of course," he readily agreed, his tone certain. Sirona realized that despite his teasing, there remained a sincerity in maintaining her comfort. She placed her hand in his and he led her back inside the ballroom.

Sirona blushed that the dance they had entered in was another waltz, but it meant it would not last as long. Her mystery partner lifted her hand and held her at a much more appropriate distance than the dragonborn had. He moved smoothly, leading her through the steps. Their conversation had naturally drifted to silence in the dance, each seeming to study the other.

His pale face was made up of severe angles, yet his lips were still plump, a glossy burnt red. Sirona found herself drawn closer, examining what she could see of him. She felt the hand on her back slide just a touch lower as they moved together. She wondered what color his eyes were beneath the mask. His thumb stroked her skin where they clasped hands and she wished he hadn't worn gloves. She wanted to feel his skin against hers.

The scandalous thought flushed Sirona's cheeks and the man tilted his head at her. The waltz ended and he slowed their pace but didn't withdraw from her. "We didn't have a full dance," he said, almost a question.

"We didn't," Sirona agreed. The next song was slower, meant for lovers known and unknown alike. Beat by beat, he held her closer, pulling her hand up behind his neck so he could wrap both over her waist.

Sirona braved more exploration with their new intimacy, feeling the softness of the edge of his curls with the tip of her fingers. He seemed to inhale deeply at that, resting his head to the side of hers. She could feel his cheek just barely against her ear. He turned his head and his lips felt so close against the sensitive skin of her ear.

"May I kiss you?" his voice already a silken caress.

"...Yes," Sirona whispered. She knew she shouldn't have agreed. They were dancing so closely where anyone could see, but she had stopped paying attention to the other guests since their first dance. He kissed the edge of her ear, lips and breath cool, yet sending a shiver of heat down to her core. She wanted to find some hidden alcove, some empty room and explore him with her own lips.

"I could devour you," he whispered, promise and threat intertwined. Sirona tightened her hands, pulling at the silk of his shirt collar. She unclenched one hand, fingers exploring the skin of his neck. He felt cold, and shivered at her delicate touch, a pleasing groan right at her ear. That she could coax such a sound from him made her head swim in heady desire.

The song ended and he released her, but grabbed her hand and led her off the dance floor. His head moved the mask back and forth as he scanned the ballroom before turning to face her. He stroked over the pulse point of her wrist as he held her hand.

"As much as I would love to steal you away, your guards are watching us," he said quietly. He tilted his head and the beak of his mask pointed towards the table where her mother and aunt were. Sirona took in a deep breath to clear her head, startled how wholly she had lost herself in a man she didn't know. She withdrew her hand from his.

"I shouldn't have..." Sirona trailed off. So far they hadn't done anything completely scandalous--he'd hardly given her an actual kiss! --yet she still felt as though they had just gotten up from a tumble in bed. His lips quirked in something like a smile, but it lacked any mirth.

"If either of us are at fault, it's me," he said, "Although I don't think your guardian should have let you attend a night such as this. You are too...tempting. The monsters in this city will eat you alive given the opportunity."

"I--" Sirona blushed horribly, wrapping her arms over herself. "I'm not some hapless maiden!"

"You didn't stab either of your dance partners," he replied. Sirona did her best to glare but her own mask ruined any devastating effect. The man gently pried one of her hands free, and lifted it to his lips.

"No more masquerades, my queen," he said, brushing a soft kiss over her hand. The touch of his lips made her mind hazy all over again. Something about him tangled within her, a sense of belonging so definite and startling. "And avoid the Crimson Palace."

"Wait!" Sirona started when he dropped her hand and turned away. He didn't stop, moving seamlessly within the crowd of other masked guests. The finality with which he had determinedly walked away from her hurt, a stabbing pain deep in her chest that ached like an old wound. He does not want you, Sirona thought, and she knew the words from nightmare after nightmare.

Sirona was back in the alley, her skull pounding from where he had slammed her against the wall.

"Are you okay?" a half-elven woman in a black lace mask stood in front of Sirona. She quickly blinked away her tears, swallowing before she spoke with a hollow voice and nodding.

"I'm fine," Sirona insisted. The woman pressed a glass of wine into her hands, one for herself already half drunk. Sirona took it if only to have something in her hands.

The woman's dress was a shimmering black silk with hints of purple glints. It had a plunging neckline that went to her navel. Her black hair was tied back in a twisting braid studded with purple gems. Everything about the woman radiated beauty and carnal desire.

If Sirona hadn't already felt out of place at the masquerade, she keenly felt it now. Her previous companion was right. She should have left after that first horrid encounter with the dragonborn. Sirona raised the wine glass to her lips and knocked back the entire amount in several gulps.

"Oh, that kind of night requires another, and a friendly ear," the woman easily took Sirona's arm in her own and led her towards the wine table. Sirona hesitated, knowing she ought to return to aunt and mother and ask to leave. She had fulfilled her requirement of two dances for as wretchedly as they had ended.

The woman picked out a full bottle and steered Sirona to a mostly clear table and refilled their glasses. Sirona downed her second glass just as quickly as the first. "Try to savor this one, it's a decent vintage," the woman said, refilling her glass. "So, lovers' quarrel?"

"No," Sirona replied. "It's nothing really. I'm just not used to--all this." She threw up her hand to indicate everything in the grand ballroom.

"Your drinking says otherwise," the woman replied, a kind smile dancing over her lips. "There are other ways of dealing with intense sorrows that won't leave you hung over and regretting decisions in the morning..."

"Oh?" Sirona drank her third glass slower, but couldn't taste anything beside her own self-pity.

"It's just outside the main gate of the Upper City," the woman explained, "but don't worry it's still a very respectable area. It's called the House of Grief, we help people there."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sirona replied. She reluctantly set the third glass down though it still held some wine, considering the woman might refill it again if she emptied it before she could escape what promised to be more bad decisions. "I appreciate you pausing your night to check on me, but I think it's best I go back to my guardians and leave for the night."

"Very well," the woman pursed her lips, turning her own wine glass in her hands, "Good night."

Sirona navigated the much more crowded ballroom back to her aunt and mother's table. The two women had caught sight of her as she made her way to them but didn't pause their conversation until she was within hearing distance. She picked up her purse without bothering to sit down. Her aunt and mother both rose up from their seats.

"You got your dances in, and I saw you drinking," her mother said in a neutral tone that belied her disapproval. Sirona wondered how much of the dances had been observed. She kept quiet until they were settled in the carriage on their way to her aunt's home.

"You can remove Enver Gortash from the list," Sirona said.

"What did his bodyguard say to you?" Miaralei asked. Sirona guessed his actions hadn't been noticed.

"He's a heretic," Sirona replied. Both woman raised their eyebrows but she didn't offer anything more.

"You've never been pious," Miaralei countered, adding with finality, "Mr. Gortash stays on the list."

Sirona let her silence stand for acceptance rather than complain she wouldn't try for Gortash for all he stayed on their damned list.

"Oh!" Miaralei grabbed Sirona's hand, which she now realized was bereft of the silver bangle. "I told you not to fiddle with your bracelet! I'm so sorry, Liara!"

"It's alright," Liara said, "it was an old piece anyway."

Thieving crow! Sirona frowned as she thought of her second dance partner of the night. She asked, "What's the Crimson Palace?"

"That's the Szarr estate," Liara replied. "It's not really a palace, but don't tell that to Lord Cazador."