07-02-2024, 09:03 PM
Gideon considered it a heartfelt duty to look out for family, and of course that was precisely why he decided to crash the super-secret, invite-only hacker party little cousin Liam was so excited about. Granted, a mask seemed an absolute crime against such a perfect face, but it was a sacrifice he made (oh bleeding heart). And in some small consolation of course the mask was a fucking work of art.
He was concealed in an elaborate white volto, complete with gold filigree and winged temples, and topped with an ivory plumed tricorn. A pale blue silk jacket draped his shoulders, open and sans shirt (too hot, especially with the mask), which left the nametag pasted against sunkissed skin. It simply said “Herald” though of course he had no legit invite to be here, nor an actual identity to hide, and the name plucked from the sky. Or, well, more accurately from the copious amounts of alcohol heralded in with his arrival, just in case the kind of house party a sixteen year old creamed himself over turned out to be lame.
He eyed the other guests with open curiosity and what would have been a rakish grin had it been visible. Most were yawnworthy in their efforts – he guessed they really did take the anonymity shit seriously. Though one desert-skinned woman played a little loose with the rules, hidden behind a small oval of black velvet that smoothed from brow to beneath her lower lip, with no opening for nose or mouth or any ribbon to suggest how it was fastened to her face. It was plain, featureless, and a little eerie, catching his attention only because he recognised it as a Moretta Muta. His eyes dipped naturally south, in anticipation of what a 16th century Venetian woman had traditionally worn beneath. She saw him looking, her large eyes sly in that void of a face, but he didn’t even catch her nametag before she’d disappeared.
As he wandered he kept an eye out for Liam, but he was a decent cousin, he wouldn’t cramp the kid’s style by letting on he was here. He also rifled a bit, but there was frankly little of personality dotted about to reveal exactly whose place this was. Maybe that was part of the weird MO. In the heart of Moscow it probably cost a pretty penny, but it didn’t scream the interesting sort of wealthy either. Content for now with the novelty of his surroundings, Gideon found himself staring in appreciation at two girls dancing with each other who’d donned not the requisite masks but full face prosthetics. At least he thought that the case – who the fuck even knew these days? It gave them an alien and ethereal quality, and when one glanced his way, he tipped his hat. Narcissus and Camellia, their tags read.
He was concealed in an elaborate white volto, complete with gold filigree and winged temples, and topped with an ivory plumed tricorn. A pale blue silk jacket draped his shoulders, open and sans shirt (too hot, especially with the mask), which left the nametag pasted against sunkissed skin. It simply said “Herald” though of course he had no legit invite to be here, nor an actual identity to hide, and the name plucked from the sky. Or, well, more accurately from the copious amounts of alcohol heralded in with his arrival, just in case the kind of house party a sixteen year old creamed himself over turned out to be lame.
He eyed the other guests with open curiosity and what would have been a rakish grin had it been visible. Most were yawnworthy in their efforts – he guessed they really did take the anonymity shit seriously. Though one desert-skinned woman played a little loose with the rules, hidden behind a small oval of black velvet that smoothed from brow to beneath her lower lip, with no opening for nose or mouth or any ribbon to suggest how it was fastened to her face. It was plain, featureless, and a little eerie, catching his attention only because he recognised it as a Moretta Muta. His eyes dipped naturally south, in anticipation of what a 16th century Venetian woman had traditionally worn beneath. She saw him looking, her large eyes sly in that void of a face, but he didn’t even catch her nametag before she’d disappeared.
As he wandered he kept an eye out for Liam, but he was a decent cousin, he wouldn’t cramp the kid’s style by letting on he was here. He also rifled a bit, but there was frankly little of personality dotted about to reveal exactly whose place this was. Maybe that was part of the weird MO. In the heart of Moscow it probably cost a pretty penny, but it didn’t scream the interesting sort of wealthy either. Content for now with the novelty of his surroundings, Gideon found himself staring in appreciation at two girls dancing with each other who’d donned not the requisite masks but full face prosthetics. At least he thought that the case – who the fuck even knew these days? It gave them an alien and ethereal quality, and when one glanced his way, he tipped his hat. Narcissus and Camellia, their tags read.