[right][h3][b][i][color=B100de]Master Plum[/color][/i][/b][/h3][color=B100de]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color]
[color=B100de][i][b]Location: [/b][/i][/color]Shadowell Forest: Front Gate
[color=B100de][i][b]Skills:[/b][/i][/color] Intelligience
[color=B100de][i][b]Hit Points:[/b][/i][/color]  6
[color=B100de]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color][/right]

[i]
Once upon a winter dreary, while I wander, weak and weary...
[/i]

There was something in the air about the forest. Something wicked, something weird, something wondrous. Not just the nip of frost biting at one's ears, nor the forgotten twigs snapping at one's heels. It was the deafening silence, yes the eerie lack of sound muffled by the breathing mists, beckoning the lone traveler deeper into the mesmer. Deeper into the Shadowell, like a siren's call, or a banshee's wail, muted by the rolling fog. This was the white darkness, for not all blindness is black, a bleak miasma breathed over the woods. And alas what one would give to feel a single beam of sunlight filtered through the overhanging canopy to feed the light carried within the soul, to cast off the withered leaves of doubt, duck below the clawing branches of despair, and weave through the gnarled roots of desiccation. Yet even the gloom of the forest seemed to fade away against the curse of winter. The ominous undergrowth wilting along the cold earth, the wheels of carriages and hoof prints of horses making their stamp across the unpaved road. Perhaps the lucky few would find themselves pause to turn around. For only fools would so willingly enter the gates of Hell.

And yet there he stood before the iron gates, ancient and worn as they were, the gates to the House of Ambesire. Dressed in the shabby elegance of his attire, parading in panache and pantaloons, cursing his lack of a winter's cloak for the bitter journey. It was cold, indeed, but cold had not yet stopped him thus far, nor had it his bird. Though the winter air had chilled them, still they survived their trek. The raven claws delicately perched upon his left shoulder away from the fabric of his draping cape, a shiver of black feathers and a reciprocated shudder of shared suffering. A man who looked like a scarecrow dressed quite like a clown and aptly bearing a raven. His hair kept well despite the subtle marks of wear on his clothes, and the mud caked on his soles. The man kept his head cocked towards his bird, watching all who watched him from perhaps a corner of his eye. And to the eyes that watched them, perchance they looked like brothers, both brandishing their beaks. 

A grim gaze glazed over the gates, guardsmen, guns, and the gathered guest. Quite a menagerie indeed, judgments to be passed, and verdicts to be given, who amongst the flock would be the devil in guise? Was she a woman of wiles? Was he a demon of a man? A glance at all their faces and figures, afforded as none had accosted him quite yet, perhaps it was the comrade on his shoulder that made them stray, a hidden blessing perhaps? Allowing him to ogle the ladies who had the numbers, in their gorgeous gowns they came, a medley of colors from greens and blues to reds and blacks. Perhaps they came to be gandered at as lovely brides to be, and the men here gathered had other business to confess to the noblesse. And yet all of this security, the intensity of it all, to ensure no stowaway slip into the forest depths for the sake of a single ball? What shall become of these mysterious strangers and their masks? What plot would bind their fates together? To spend a night brushing arms surely ought to glean who they were behind the mask, and beneath their mask of flesh as well.

Five had already acted out, their actions mixed with words. The bodacious-dressed harlot boldly offered her invitation first, her salacious bodice revealing what her mask dare not. And then there was the mounted devil dressed in his overcoat, who pushed the envelope, carried himself about in dismounting but still riding his high airs. Between these two some others fair produced their ticket in, but it was difficult keeping an eye on everyone at once. The commotion came when a man in black fell black and dead, did the journey already claim one for the cold? No evidence of injury, as the bird-skull walker dared assess in his swiftness to act and reveal perhaps a superior craft he commanded by the waggle of his tongue. And finally came the brute, who barged in and flexed his muscles to impress the boy or lady held against his chest, he must have thought the vulturous doctor weak or was he merely cleverer sneak who thought he could get a glimpsing peek?

And with his eye cast at the dogs and men, the hounds first as their tempers flared beyond their masters, certainly of the two the dogs gave chase faster. But a bullet was the fastest of the three, and thus spied he their arms before their arms. And finally then to the unmasked faces, the staff of the House Ambesire came in all manners of size and shape. The commonality between them all, tied together as silver thread, was their vigilance as easily read. Too uptight, too secure, the Shadowell Manor, what secrets do the watchmen keep? For what would a man dare endure the forest, dark and cold? Those watching eyes like burning coals with eager dogs that drool, waiting for an impostor revealed amongst them, but who waits for the fool? The game begins, the thrill of it all, the deception with a mask worn upon a masked mask. Nameless names and faceless faces, amongst the visitants, the mind ponders the question of who shall be the first to ask, and who would be the first to tell?

[color=B100de]
Thrice cursed, and twice blessed, 
Rich in masque, but poor in dress,
Invited the perverse, this cold Mid-Winter
And by this pass, I beg to Enter.
[/color]

Presented his golden ticket, past the dreadful gates, a finger poised beneath his nose, curled like a question against his lips. For there the tracks, and with no turning back from this point on in here. And what awaited as was fated, to be a night to remember and celebrated for what purposes to be made clear. The grinning jester turned his head for a hand to preen against the chilled feathers of his fiendish friend. A comfort perhaps as he would spend a night in manor and manners strange, a familiar face of beady eyes, and a voice of mocking caws that soothes. Then in turn the bird did nuzzle closely, and with what a could appear to be to be a whisper into his ear, perhaps one could think if a ravens tongue could speak?