#wb.start

The gallery takes the form of a thirteenth-century chapel, its tall windows decorated with Austrian stained glass. The tomb effigy of crusader Jean d'Alluye lies in the center of the space, flanked by fourteenth-century Catalan tombs of the counts of Urgell.

It's the sort of architecture he can appreciate. Gothic, and so desaturated it's nearly monochrome. He hadn't seen anything like it since — well, since England.

Without supervision, Lee rests his wine glass on top of one of the tombs. Not disrespect for the dead — much more the feeling that they shouldn't be left out. Besides, it's merely a display piece, anyway.

There is always some small fear, at events such as these, that if Audra disappears out of the door, she will not be let back in. It's a fear that comes from days of being a plus one. Never having been completely on the outside, but skirting the edge enough to worry.

Fiddling with a metal lighter and no cigarette to speak of, she glances at the door now. Wind ruffles her hair very slightly. A shiver passes through her. Whether the masks make the whole thing more or less of a concern, she's unsure. "Sorry," she murmurs, catching a figure next to her. "You don't have a spare? I've got the light but-"

At events like these, the bar is where you'll find him. A professional schmoozer in his most natural of habitats.

With a whiskey in hand, Hans studies the crowd — mentally making notes of worst, to best, and Must-Talk-To's. There' no question that the room exists under a cloud of mystery, tonight.

"Yeah, are we sure this isn't some Eyes Wide Shut thing?" He asks his — masked, of course — companion. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Is it rude to not wear the ring my student made and gifted to me? Well truthfully, it was made out of three pieces of macaroni and some Elmers. Feel like it should be preserved somewhere safe. Perhaps mounted and framed, hung in the MET... not worn on my pesky little hand."

A laugh. "I dunno, would macaroni look good on me?"

Zig-zagging his way past auction items, Tristan stops in front of one of the most peculiar ones. A letter from Abraham Lincoln, to his wife. Valued at one hundred thousand dollars — to start.

"This piece of paper could buy someone's whole life," he comments. "A lot of someones, even." Beat, as Tristan turns to the person next to him. "Ain't that the most revolting thing you ever heard?"

It's too nice for Oz not to park his wheelchair on the little stone patio space out in the courtyard. Grass, a light breeze. He's been self-sequestered in his own apartment to catch up on paperwork and book restoration, and maybe it shows. He feels even less talkative than his usual self, but holds a glass of white wine in his hands and eyes the person beside him, finally realizing they're looking out at the area too.

"How much money do you think they sink into landscaping this place? And do you think they'd get pissed if I just... rolled my wheelchair over that nice fresh grass?"

"Hm?" Asa sits up from the leather chair that's near some fake fireplace in a faux-cozy coffeeshop, hearing someone talking to him. He's barely registered the person or looked up. "Sorry, sorry, is my stuff in the way...?" Art supplies and his bag had been tossed on the little coffee table when he'd arrived. He'd promptly dissociated, or fallen asleep, he's not sure, and forgotten to actually do anything with them. The half-finished drawing gets moved to his lap, his bag to the floor. "Got busy in here, didn't it?"

It's blueprint after blueprint. The screen of the tablet sitting on his crossed leg is wearing on his eyes as he taps a few times to go back. Watches white lines on a blue backdrop delete themselves as he starts over on the zoomed in portion of this huge draft. The schematic is exhausting to look at. He's been staring for so long he doesn't even realize someone's been standing there. "Ay- sorry, didn't even see you there." He smiles a bit tiredly. "You can grab a seat, if you like. Been busy in here."