[h2][b][i][color=008000][center]In This Fine Town Of Arkham[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h2]
[h3][b][i][color=008000][center]A Night At Wilde Hall[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h3]
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[center][img]https://s3.eu-central-1.wasabisys.com/devonilx7/2020/04/forest_path_dark_150398_1920x1080-1536x864.jpg[/img][/center]
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[center][b]"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown"[/b] - [i]H. P. Lovecraft[/i][/center]
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[center][@Kazemitsu][/center]
	As the shadow of night falls over the city of Arkham, anyone with any sense flees for whatever respite their homes can provide. And yet, on this night, there are those who strike out into the darkness, whether by choice, or compelled by some greater purpose. Avery Wilde has issued her summons, and there are few that would ignore an invitation to a night at Wilde Hall. Whether through a meticulous sense of timing, or through sheer fluke, the first to set off for the ball is a figure that would not look out of place in the whispered rumours of the Wilde Woods. [b][color=red]Drachen Steinboden[/color][/b] is a hulking figure, heavily scarred not only from his work, but from those that are foolish enough to cross him. The invitation, dwarfed in his hand, instructs him to travel to the edge of Wilde Woods, the point where the city loses its fight against the twisting trees and the path to Wilde Hall itself winds into the shadows, and so it is to there that he walks. 

	The mere sight of him attracts glances from those still braving the streets of Arkham, but the glances are brief, not wanting to risk angering this giant. As he nears the edge of the woods, he sees a black carriage waiting, a lone lantern casting a flickering halo against the darkness closing in. The coachman says nothing, and Drachen's experience as a fighter means that he can't help but notice the stocky frame beneath the formal black attire, or the shotgun slung from the carriage itself. The stony faced servant holds out a hand, and Drachen takes the prompt, holding out his invitation. The coachman casts a cursory glance over the writing, before looking up, and handing it back to Drachen, no hint of expression on his face. 

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[center][@sassy1085][/center]
	The parties of Avery Wilde have long courted the rich and powerful of Arkham, and although the invitations have found their way into more and more eclectic hands with each passing month, the masquerade balls still hold an impressive reputation. Perhaps that is what has prevented [b][color=f49ac2]Rosanna Liang[/color][/b] from concentrating on her studies, or perhaps there is something more at work. Whatever the reason, Rosanna also makes her way through the dark streets of Arkham, leaving her lodgings at the Miskatonic University dressed for the occasion. Just as Drachen did, Rosanna attracts glances from those that she passes, although these glances are more wont to linger. After all, Arkham is a dangerous city even in the light of day, and a slim, young woman setting out into the night is more than likely to raise a few eyebrows. 

	Rosanna arrives at the edge of the woods just a moment after [b][color=red]Drachen[/color][/b] does, and she finds herself faced with a similar scene. She see's the carriage, the two dark horses waiting to be driven onwards, the coachman, and a silhouette that she almost took for a statue before she saw it move. The sheer size of the figure almost makes her falter, as he stands more than a foot taller than her, but Rosanna has never let her size stop her before, and she is not about to start now. Not when there is a party to go to. Striding up to the carriage, she holds out her own invitation, opening her mouth to greet the two men. One sullen glance from the coachman stops the words in their tracks, and as he stoops down to inspect her invitation, she decides that it may be better to bite her tongue for now. The coachman seems to be satisfied with the invitation, and straightens up, turning away from the pair as he takes up the reins, making it clear that he wants to be on his way.

	[b]"You're early. But that's not my problem."[/b]

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[center][@Prosaic][/center]
	Doing his best to smooth down the creases in his shirt, a third figure is travelling across Arkham. [b][color=7ea7d8]Simon Adam Hart[/color][/b] stands out less than the two that have come before him, but then, that's the way he's always liked it. It is curiosity that always seems to drag Simon out from the peace and quiet, and into the world, and what is more curious than an invitation to Wilde Hall? For much of the day, his eyes have been drawn to the clock, counting down the painfully long minutes until he could feasibly make his way to the edge of the woods. Finally deeming it to be socially acceptable, he still can't stop the quick pace of his strides. It is perhaps surprising then, when he catches sight of two figures, presumably other guests, that have already reached the carriage. 

	Something, some instinct at the back of his mind, causes Simon to hesitate, and as the coachman turns his gaze back towards Arkham, Simon ducks back into the shadow of an alley. He watches the carriage for a moment, trying to calm down and suppress whatever sense is stopping him from closing the final few dozen paces, and then he hears it. A footstep, muffled slightly and faint, but close behind him. Whirling round, Simon found himself face-to-face with a shadowy figure. Taking a hurried step backwards, back towards whatever safety the street might offer, the figure followed after him, and the light of the streetlamp fell onto a face, thin lips pulled into a snarl by a scar running across one cheek, and piercing blue eyes staring back at Simon. The voice was reedy and harsh, but the words were clear, even above the rush of blood in Simon's ears.

	[b]"You shouldn't go into the woods. Not the Wilde Woods."[/b]