Amongst this gathering of nobility, dignitaries, and leadership, sat figures dressed in vestments of such grandiose and archaic design that they seemed to have come from an age long forgotten by most. Others within the crowd wore the regalia of the baroque and modern eras, carrying with them that empty hedonism of the gilded age. Despite such shocking transitions in terms of style, there was an air of horrific beauty to them that allowed the miasma of styles and fashions to seamlessly join together into one great pit of decayed glory. Such were the courtiers of the king in yellow, men and women drawn to a life of excess and nihilistic debauchery that could only be described as inhuman. Beautiful as they were, they were also terrible, donning masques to conceal their faces, or wearing tattered cowls to obscure any sort of distinguishing features. They sat, laughing and socializing as though they were at some formal affair, rather than a summit of world powers. Harlequins dressed in sickly yellow and vibrant silver danced and performed for them, and indeed for the entirety of the audience, while masked servants in tattered suits walked among the rows, offering each guest strange Hors d'oeuvre and glasses of sweet wine of foreign vintage. A symphony of horns and strings unknown to earthly men accompanied the dancers, leading and directing their every step with a gloriously cacophonous melody.

T'was customary for the people of Carcosa to conduct their politics in an atmosphere such as this, where gossip and guile were interwoven with affairs of state. These courtiers were by no means royalty of any sort, rather well connected or praised individuals in the eyes of the King in Yellow and his messenger. Among them were philosophers, artists, thespians, merchants, writers, producers, people dedicated entirely to some school of the arts, oration, or thought. At the very front of their socializing, was a figure clad in tattered yellow robes, so disgusting and vibrant, that they strained the eyes of any who looked too long. Around its neck hung a disk of white gold, the sign of their king proudly worked into the metal by a master craftsman. The figure sat there, wineglass in hand, looking out upon the growing crowd of dignitaries, the bright stars he called eyes burning brightly within a void of darkness. This was the Herald, chosen of the King in Yellow, his messenger and hand in the affairs of day to day life, while the King himself sat upon his conquered throne, working on whichever plans he saw fit to pursue at the moment.

Such was this things destiny, to no longer be person, for it had transcended such titles in favor for the great task of leading the flock. It was more than content to have such an existence, and to be thrown away when that existence had met its ultimate purpose, or at the very least no longer amused the King in Yellow. The Herald looked to its right, and regarded on of the more favored members of the court, Bernard DeChriste. A producer, writer, artist, and thespian, who in his former life on old earth lead a small flock of his own. He wore a dingy black suit, which accentuated the leanness of his form almost to the point of him looking like some grotesque caricature, his pale face hidden behind an equally alabaster mask depicting the dichotomy of comedy and tragedy. They talked for a few moments on a shared acquaintance of theirs, a man known to be a repairer of reputations, before moving on to the subjects of the American Monarchy and Carcossan theatre. Eventually this string of topics lead to the dignitaries that filled the room.

"Tell me, Bernard," inquired the Herald, "what do you think of our new allies from the Orient?"
The producer laughed for a moment before responding, "I find them amusing, such great things they've built since my time. When I came to own my theatre, that island was nothing but a radioactive stain on the world! Though it would seem that they only became increasingly tenacious as time went on. I always thought that they would resort to barbarism after the bombs, or at the very least topple over themselves. But alas, it seems our master has seen fit to sow change in other ways."

They both laughed at this, before Bernard continued onto the other powers who had come to this world.
"The Soviets are as intimidating as ever, order within, order without, always so high strung and grim faced... never were my kind of people anyhow. But now, they've gone into bed with this new power, oh what is it, Zion? They build great machines to do great works, expanding further still if i'm not mistaken, but as always their works will crumble and become changed by time or new hands. Then there is talk of Heroes and mercenary bands, how unseemly they are. Not to mention this, 'Order of the Raven'."

Bernard straightened his tie upon mentioning the group, a common insult amongst Carcossans, meant to imply you are not worth the attention one would give to dressing themselves. "They claim to have the grimoires of the Old Ones, and that they're used to power war machines. That's a bold faced lie if I ever heard one. Not to mention, they have the audacity to take Arkham! I spent the better half of a decade in the walls of Arkham's sanitarium, I learned what lied beneath the streets of that city... I know what waits, and they have the gall to try and claim it as their own."

The Herald found the producer's rambling to be amusing. More and more representatives entered, and so the dancers finished their performance, great applause was given from the Carcossans, as well as from the rest of the crowd. The strange music did not stop entirely though, it simply changed to a subtler sound. This made it smile, for just like the King in Yellow, just because the music was seldom heard or seen, did not mean it wasn't there.