Post written partially in collab with @Lady Selune
Lady Monica Wellington-Smythe had been quite pleased to receive her invitation to the masquerade, though her ego had received somewhat of a blow when she’d heard that her connection to the underworld of London, Renee Bellerose had received one just as well. Perhaps it was less of a recognition of her skill, rather than calling her and this other woman there as a subject to talk about? But then again, how would one recognise the duo if everyone was wearing masks? It was not quite like they would be acting affectionate with each other, despite what the rumourmongers might try to sell it off as.
Now on this night, the night of the masked ball, Monica had been hard pressed to leave her usual favourite, the colour of red, behind. She had even put on a wig to hide her hair, one of those really overshooting carnival kinds one could once have expected to see in the French court. Her dress was blue as well, with a couple small pillows at her hips to make the dress flow better. As she pressed the beaked mask onto her face, she asked a question from Renee, the shadowy individual enjoying her company much like she had the habit of doing. “Are you ready yourself? It is soon that we will need to leave if we want to arrive on time.”
“You underestimate how quickly I can get ready.” The French woman let out a soft little laugh, before standing up from her rather comfortable seat. In doing so, she revealed her outfit- a muted purple thing, that nonetheless managed to look quite fetching. Her corset was perhaps over tight, but she knew that her figure was not exactly a noble one, and anything that would help correct it, if even for the night, would be a great help.
The clothing itself was perhaps a little racy, but a masquerade was a chance to show off without being judged- and she had her mask to ensure that she would, indeed, not be judged. The top part of the dress was low cut, revealing more than just a hint of pale skin, a deep, copper-red gemstone clinging to her throat, settled as it was within her choker. Dusting the entire outfit down, she turned one way, then the next,before offering a little bow to Lady Monica. “All that is left is my mask, and I have that sorted out. How do I look?”
The Parasol-toting Poet picked up yet another one of the aforementioned accessories from her stores and twirled around, her dress barely rising enough to show a shoe. Truly, there was a somewhat sharp contrast in the modesty of their outfits, something one might not exactly have expected from a poet of the Nocturnal school of though. She let the midnight blue parasol open behind her back as she leaned it against her shoulder and raised her fingers to the top of her collar, that being at the point where her neck transitioned to her head. “It might be a bit on the side of my penmanship, dear. Quite fetching, I would say.”
Monica weaved onward from her little corner, dodging the coat rack and the edge of some painting with the open parasol behind her. She moved on to check her visage from the mirror she had on her table, happy with the result. For what she was considered, especially as she tapped on the small pocket between the whalebones that made up the creaky core of her corset. Her self-defence was just as present.
“Well, how can I disagree with m’lady?” Reaching down, behind where she had been sitting, she pulled out her mask. This, unlike the common style of birdlike or even in the operatic, had a button-like nose, painted in a deep purple, and then carefully crafted whiskers, which she had learnt were made from horsehair. A cat’s face would gaze out, Bellerose smoothing down the sides before reaching deep into a pocket. One click. The face of the pocketwatch sprung open. The little hands moved quickly. It was perhaps not as intricate as the ones that were crafted by the Rattus, but nonetheless it was still a fine piece of work. “Plenty of time as well.”
“Good. Best we be there early. You never know if we happen to run into some difficulties on the way. This is London after all”, Lady Monica responded and began making her way out. It would not take long for them to arrive to the streets before the Shuttered Palace. The two were lucky to catch the attention of a hansom cab nearly immediately after arrival. An address was given and the two settled in comfortably.
The venerable hansom would be a fine way to arrive, but, as did all methods of transport, it was not instantaneous. “So, will any of your… Associates from the society be here. Or are you not aware, m’lady.” It wasn’t phrased like a question, but yet, it was one. She lifted up her mask briefly to rub her nose, covering for the sniff that she had managed at the mention of the society. She had ruined quite a few good jackets having carried back bloody baggage.
“If you remember, I did not know you were attending until you told me to. Nobody else has mentioned anything of the sort to me either. But we may have a run in or two. They simply would not want to make it obvious, I’m sure”, Monica hypothesised. A casual observation to a casual not-question. She wasn’t one to use her resources on trying to find out who went to which parties and whatnot. She took a brief peek into the small purse that was hanging from her shoulder, an unusual choice of attire with a dress like hers. She had to carry her Echoes somewhere. It wouldn’t be on her person at the party either way. With not much more of importance being spoken, the poet was left gazing out of the window at the passing buildings. Thankfully the venue was not far.
Yet they would not be the first to arrive. After a while the carriage got stuck behind a sedan chair carried by two clay men. “Someone is trying to make an impression”, the poet commented dismissively. But once the chair stopped before their destination as well and a pair of figures, a male and female, climbed out of it, she did realise something. “Oh yes… we cannot exactly be seen leaving the same carriage. People would get the wrong idea.” She tapped the shutter the driver could use to talk with those in the cab and surely enough it opened a moment after.
“Ye?” the young man asked, to find a generous amount of pennies placed next to him.
“One of us exits. You go around a few blocks and return. Let the other off. That should cover the fare and more”, Monica instructed them with a stern tone. It was nothing spectacular for the driver though. These things happened often enough, in avoidance of scandal. They grunted affirmatively and once the spot was vacated by the clay men, the carriage moved in to let the poet out. And so the youngest of the Wellington-Smythe moved on to join the masquerade they had been invited to.
The, rather prudent decision made, the watchmaker crossing her legs rather daintily and waiting. And waiting. The hansom pulled out and clattered across the streets, and then had to rejoin the line. When, finally, they had arrived for the second time, she adjusted her choker and stepped out, giving her pocketwatch one last check. Still early, too. Excellente. Making sure her mask was neatly fitted, she took a few steps forward and vanished into the milling peoples, her mask being lost among all the rest.
The masquerade was held at a townhouse of sorts. An odd choice, if one assumed them to be anything of the scale of Mr. Wines's usual revels. But that was exactly the thing: This was a much smaller of a gathering. Naturally some of Lady Monica's masquing would be undone by how she refused to leave a parasol home, but who would suspect she would do such a move after changing so much else? Ah, there was a man with the face of a bespectacled clay man for a mask. Charming. The walls were covered with expensive tapestry and as she handed over her purse to the man manning the coat rack, she could just barely make out the flash of a special constable's badge under his coat. Oh? This could prove to be a very interesting event indeed, after all.
Hah, that man was wearing a mask from the festival of the exceptional rose. Cheap or poor, Monica could not tell. The faded suit the man wore might also be a simple disguise. Ah, if only she had the eyes of her agents. Wait, was that woman pouring a glass of the First Sporing... no, she only bore a close resemblance to the Swede. She was not the agent. A shame, that would have been most entertaining. Picking herself a plate and a few rubbery lumps imported straight from Mutton Island (according to the sign at least), Lady Monica wedged herself into a conversation with a few fellow masked individuals. Their subject, too, was to find out why? Why was this masquerade? Little did they know, that answer would be provided to them on a silver platter in just a short while.
Lady Monica Wellington-Smythe had been quite pleased to receive her invitation to the masquerade, though her ego had received somewhat of a blow when she’d heard that her connection to the underworld of London, Renee Bellerose had received one just as well. Perhaps it was less of a recognition of her skill, rather than calling her and this other woman there as a subject to talk about? But then again, how would one recognise the duo if everyone was wearing masks? It was not quite like they would be acting affectionate with each other, despite what the rumourmongers might try to sell it off as.
Now on this night, the night of the masked ball, Monica had been hard pressed to leave her usual favourite, the colour of red, behind. She had even put on a wig to hide her hair, one of those really overshooting carnival kinds one could once have expected to see in the French court. Her dress was blue as well, with a couple small pillows at her hips to make the dress flow better. As she pressed the beaked mask onto her face, she asked a question from Renee, the shadowy individual enjoying her company much like she had the habit of doing. “Are you ready yourself? It is soon that we will need to leave if we want to arrive on time.”
“You underestimate how quickly I can get ready.” The French woman let out a soft little laugh, before standing up from her rather comfortable seat. In doing so, she revealed her outfit- a muted purple thing, that nonetheless managed to look quite fetching. Her corset was perhaps over tight, but she knew that her figure was not exactly a noble one, and anything that would help correct it, if even for the night, would be a great help.
The clothing itself was perhaps a little racy, but a masquerade was a chance to show off without being judged- and she had her mask to ensure that she would, indeed, not be judged. The top part of the dress was low cut, revealing more than just a hint of pale skin, a deep, copper-red gemstone clinging to her throat, settled as it was within her choker. Dusting the entire outfit down, she turned one way, then the next,before offering a little bow to Lady Monica. “All that is left is my mask, and I have that sorted out. How do I look?”
The Parasol-toting Poet picked up yet another one of the aforementioned accessories from her stores and twirled around, her dress barely rising enough to show a shoe. Truly, there was a somewhat sharp contrast in the modesty of their outfits, something one might not exactly have expected from a poet of the Nocturnal school of though. She let the midnight blue parasol open behind her back as she leaned it against her shoulder and raised her fingers to the top of her collar, that being at the point where her neck transitioned to her head. “It might be a bit on the side of my penmanship, dear. Quite fetching, I would say.”
Monica weaved onward from her little corner, dodging the coat rack and the edge of some painting with the open parasol behind her. She moved on to check her visage from the mirror she had on her table, happy with the result. For what she was considered, especially as she tapped on the small pocket between the whalebones that made up the creaky core of her corset. Her self-defence was just as present.
“Well, how can I disagree with m’lady?” Reaching down, behind where she had been sitting, she pulled out her mask. This, unlike the common style of birdlike or even in the operatic, had a button-like nose, painted in a deep purple, and then carefully crafted whiskers, which she had learnt were made from horsehair. A cat’s face would gaze out, Bellerose smoothing down the sides before reaching deep into a pocket. One click. The face of the pocketwatch sprung open. The little hands moved quickly. It was perhaps not as intricate as the ones that were crafted by the Rattus, but nonetheless it was still a fine piece of work. “Plenty of time as well.”
“Good. Best we be there early. You never know if we happen to run into some difficulties on the way. This is London after all”, Lady Monica responded and began making her way out. It would not take long for them to arrive to the streets before the Shuttered Palace. The two were lucky to catch the attention of a hansom cab nearly immediately after arrival. An address was given and the two settled in comfortably.
The venerable hansom would be a fine way to arrive, but, as did all methods of transport, it was not instantaneous. “So, will any of your… Associates from the society be here. Or are you not aware, m’lady.” It wasn’t phrased like a question, but yet, it was one. She lifted up her mask briefly to rub her nose, covering for the sniff that she had managed at the mention of the society. She had ruined quite a few good jackets having carried back bloody baggage.
“If you remember, I did not know you were attending until you told me to. Nobody else has mentioned anything of the sort to me either. But we may have a run in or two. They simply would not want to make it obvious, I’m sure”, Monica hypothesised. A casual observation to a casual not-question. She wasn’t one to use her resources on trying to find out who went to which parties and whatnot. She took a brief peek into the small purse that was hanging from her shoulder, an unusual choice of attire with a dress like hers. She had to carry her Echoes somewhere. It wouldn’t be on her person at the party either way. With not much more of importance being spoken, the poet was left gazing out of the window at the passing buildings. Thankfully the venue was not far.
Yet they would not be the first to arrive. After a while the carriage got stuck behind a sedan chair carried by two clay men. “Someone is trying to make an impression”, the poet commented dismissively. But once the chair stopped before their destination as well and a pair of figures, a male and female, climbed out of it, she did realise something. “Oh yes… we cannot exactly be seen leaving the same carriage. People would get the wrong idea.” She tapped the shutter the driver could use to talk with those in the cab and surely enough it opened a moment after.
“Ye?” the young man asked, to find a generous amount of pennies placed next to him.
“One of us exits. You go around a few blocks and return. Let the other off. That should cover the fare and more”, Monica instructed them with a stern tone. It was nothing spectacular for the driver though. These things happened often enough, in avoidance of scandal. They grunted affirmatively and once the spot was vacated by the clay men, the carriage moved in to let the poet out. And so the youngest of the Wellington-Smythe moved on to join the masquerade they had been invited to.
The, rather prudent decision made, the watchmaker crossing her legs rather daintily and waiting. And waiting. The hansom pulled out and clattered across the streets, and then had to rejoin the line. When, finally, they had arrived for the second time, she adjusted her choker and stepped out, giving her pocketwatch one last check. Still early, too. Excellente. Making sure her mask was neatly fitted, she took a few steps forward and vanished into the milling peoples, her mask being lost among all the rest.
The masquerade was held at a townhouse of sorts. An odd choice, if one assumed them to be anything of the scale of Mr. Wines's usual revels. But that was exactly the thing: This was a much smaller of a gathering. Naturally some of Lady Monica's masquing would be undone by how she refused to leave a parasol home, but who would suspect she would do such a move after changing so much else? Ah, there was a man with the face of a bespectacled clay man for a mask. Charming. The walls were covered with expensive tapestry and as she handed over her purse to the man manning the coat rack, she could just barely make out the flash of a special constable's badge under his coat. Oh? This could prove to be a very interesting event indeed, after all.
Hah, that man was wearing a mask from the festival of the exceptional rose. Cheap or poor, Monica could not tell. The faded suit the man wore might also be a simple disguise. Ah, if only she had the eyes of her agents. Wait, was that woman pouring a glass of the First Sporing... no, she only bore a close resemblance to the Swede. She was not the agent. A shame, that would have been most entertaining. Picking herself a plate and a few rubbery lumps imported straight from Mutton Island (according to the sign at least), Lady Monica wedged herself into a conversation with a few fellow masked individuals. Their subject, too, was to find out why? Why was this masquerade? Little did they know, that answer would be provided to them on a silver platter in just a short while.
