Gideon Zanhast, the Ruinous Captain, emerged out of the London streets like a tall and menacing shadow as he approached the address his invitation had given him to this strange Masquerade Ball. His black overcoat, worn leather Tricorn hat, and mask (a bird-mask emulating a Raven), made him quite literally almost a walking shadow.  

It had taken him some time to walk from his apartment in the Wolfstack Docks to the location, but he preferred to save echoes while he wasn't tired, and he wasn't afraid of being accosted in the streets by any body, constable, thug, or urchin. Most knew better than to get in his way without good reason, or incredible foolishness. But for those who fell in the latter category, he had his fists, or a well-worn derringer in his coat pocket to deal with them. He'd be damned if he'd survived the Zee for so long only to be fleeced by some two-bit street scum and tossed into the Canals. 

Though in truth the most troublesome part of his evening had been finding proper clothes, it had been a while since his last attendance at a formal event such as this, and Gideon could hardly remember where he had put any clothes remotely fitting for such an event away. But he'd managed to dust off a nice set of dress trousers and a dark suit vest. Not the height of fashion, but nothing entirely improper or unfitting of a Zee Captain of his reputation when coupled with his hat and coat. The mask was also a relic, he couldn't recall who had gifted it to him, one of the Masters as part of a repayment for a favour? A Noble as a disguise to slip into a similar ball to meet? A gentleman whose face he'd taken it off of after he'd laid him flat in the street after a punch, Or even one of the Urbane Devil's associates at the Embassy adding an ironic addition to a gift for services rendered? He couldn't remember, the memories were starting to meld into one another over time. The fact of the matter was that he had them, and could at least not walk in looking like a total salt-soaked bum.

Stalking his way into the townhouse their benefactor had obviously rented out for the night, Gideon showed the Doorman his invitation, and  espied the venue as he was allowed in. Everything he'd expected, but yet not at the same time. Certainly too many odd characters here for the standard High Society affair, yet the place was decked out with enough valuable shit to make it seem like one, at least to his untrained eyes. He waved off the coat check, he would rather defy custom and be the odd man out with a coat on than to diminish his own imposing stature. Not that he had much information as to why he'd been invited here at all, but he figured he may as well take advantage of it and be himself, within the bounds of good taste for this affair.

Silently, he walked over to a wiry Bartender they had on hand, Gideon wagered they hired him off of Mr. Wines, the old Master would want a cut regardless of whether or not he was actually throwing this party or not. The gentleman poured the Captain a glass of Greyfields 1882, not Gideon's favored drink of choice, but definitely one of his go-to picks for Wines. The glass looking like blood in his hand as he strolled over to a a nice cushioned seat and relaxed his weary feet for a moment and calmly survey the attendees, not seeking anyone in particular, but moreso taking a view of the room.