There was a distinct theme to the evening, and it was one that governed Euthalia Akakios’ every waking moment. Quite simply put, it was: Nothing is as it seems.

Of course, that was not what she had put on the invitations. In fact, the invitations had been severely lacking in details. It was a quest, a puzzle for the attendees to figure out for themselves. It gave the address of the warehouse and then simply said, “Find the door that belongs, and enter the world where you don’t.”

Last year, the Ishak had made a beautiful show of the masquerade. Flowers and stairs leading ever higher into the sky. This year was quite different. There was no up, there was only down. The small room that served as a foyer had only two choices: to return out the door or to descend into the darkness that was the stairs. They started out narrow, so that only one could descend at a time, but ever so slowly, they widened until four or more could walk abreast.

And then, at once, the stairs were plunged into a room filled dimly with the light cast by grand gas chandeliers. Only, perhaps room was not quite the right word. Perhaps the word that suitably described the space was somewhere between ballroom and cavern. Upon first glance, it was lovely, like something out of a dream. Huge pillars shaped like dead trees reached up and held the star-painted ceiling in place. There were men to either side of the stairs, dressed in the colours of gems and gold, their outfits from an age of decadence reminiscent of France. To the right were women, their hair long and loose, clothed in white, blindfolded, with ornate pitchers of blood in their hands. But arguably the pièce de resistance were the five thrones opposite the stairs – thrones that seemed to have been made from snow itself.

It was, in all truth, something out of a fairy tale.

Especially upon closer inspection.

Those pillars that were at first so beautiful in their morbidity? Look closer. See that the swirls in the bark are not just nature. There were beings – human beings – trapped forever in the wood, clawing, screaming, and writhing against their bonds. They reached out with hands of branches in silent supplication.

Those menservants, so wonderfully clothed, had faces of porcelain. They smiled out at guests with carved smiles, they wept with painted tears, and they will never say a word.

Those women, ready to serve until those drinking at fit to burst, were not so pure in their white as they first appeared. Their blindfolds were stained with blood – blood that left trails of tears down their faces as it dripped onto their white gowns.

And those thrones, set out for the leaders of the five covens, they were not made of snow. They were made of bones, bleached white with emeralds for eyes and rubies for teeth.

Stairs to the left of the room went deeper down. They led to a room with a roaring fire – a parlour, full of divans and chaises where those who no longer wished to dance might rest themselves. On the wall above the hearth was a painting of the Maenads painted in a romantic style. They are striking, until you notice the blood and limbs of poor Orpheus, only recently torn asunder.

This fairy tale was as the fairy tales of old were – where the Pied Piper stole the children and never gave them back, where the step sisters cut off bits of their feet to fit into the glass slipper, and where Rupunzel’s prince’s eyes were gouged out by the thorns that grew on her tower.

It was a place where anything might happen, where dreams and nightmares fused together to become something compelling and terrifying.

Welcome to the Masquerade.

The Spanish vampiress walked through the door of the warehouse that she got an invitation to. It was a masquerade hosted by the Tarepha, her second favorite coven, though it had the same problem as all of the Covens, men. She smiled flashing her fangs as she walked in wearing garb reminiscent of...what was that idiotic film about Mexico with the swordsman in black? Oh yes Zorro. A black mask studded with diamonds covered the upper half of her face, while her dress was a deep black, darker than night itself, with a skirt that was long in back but short in the front showing off her nicely formed legs. The dress had crimson designs of flowers on it. Black leather high heels graced her feet completing the garb she wore for this night. She was going to enjoy herself very much.

She'd heard from the other Ishak about the Masquerade the year before, and wasn't surprised that this one was totally different. Rosa would wait for Seraphina before going down the stairs where she didn't know what to expect. Whatever it was it was going to be a wonderful night for both of them.

At first Brandy'd had absolutely no idea whatsoever what the bogus invitation was all about. Josh had figured it out right away for her, though, and now they were both showing up. Unlike Brandy's usual wardrobe, her near-shimmering, dark, gothic-style, blood-red dress was matched by red, high-heeled shoes that covered the tops of her feet with only thin straps, leaving her blood-red painted toenails wide open to the night air. Her fingers matched her toes, of course, and her dress cut off just below the shoulders, with only a very slight downward curve that showed what was beneath the dress was much more than most men bargained for. Her hair was done up in a tight bun, deep red lipstick covered her lush, full lips, and her eyes were decked out with deep purple lids and long, beautiful lashes. But Josh, who was good with make-up and all that from doing some theatre performances from time to time, had arranged her features so that the maske which covered only her eyes and the bridge of her nose did not hamper the time and effort spent on her eyes. When she removed the mask, which she would not do until the end of the night - or so Josh had informed her - their beauty would be revealed. Supposedly, she was more beautiful this way.

But she hadn't come here to flaunt her eyes and strut her stuff. She'd come for a party. The mask was dark blue and polished metal studded around the edges and around the edges of the eyes with tiny diamonds, and a single line of tiny emeralds dotted the nose of the mask. The blood-red veil that covered her mouth was only just transparent enough to see a round chin and full lips, but an identical veil acted as the other half of the mask, keeping it from falling from her face without making itself uncomfortable upon the back of her head. Several people complimented her on it and greeted Josh as well. When they finally got downstairs, all they could do was stare. Finally, though, Josh turned to her with a wink and a grin and gave her left butt cheek a good, firm squeeze.

"Have fun, Brandy."

With that, he disappeared into the crowd. She almost giggled. That guy...he was cute, handsome, charming - and all the girls loved him. To Brandy, he was a night of fun. But at least he was good-looking and charming to boot.

She headed over to the drinks and decided to see if she really liked the blood or was just into it because of her vampiric nature. She got a large glass of it.

"Well," she said to herself, "here goes."

She downed it. Sure enough, it hadn't just been the frenzy that enveloped her when she fed, for she had fed tonight already. The taste wasn't just an illusion cooked up by her mind as she fed. It was...wow. That was all she could think of, yet it was lame regardless. Already a vampire for a month now, and here she was tasting human blood like it was a completely new thing to her.

She did notice the blood coming from the eyes, but she figured that was just a part of the party. The post was a bit morbid, but she ignored it. The thrones, though...five of them. That had to be for the coven leaders. Hadn't Hale said there were five covens? The Amman, the Ishak, the Enashe, the Nephim, and the - Tarepha. Yes, they were the most violent of the bunch - or it had been alluded to her. Then again, she seemed to feed in much the same way that Hale did. Whom was she to judge? Actually, though, she kind of liked the look of things. It was almost enough to make her join the Tarepha right then and there. But for now, she would just enjoy the blood. Speaking of which, her glass was empty. Perhaps she'd enjoyed it more than she thought. She had her glass refilled, took a long drink, and then headed out into the party to see what she could see. She danced as she walked, even spun once, enjoying herself. She just loved a good party.

Dmitri entered the warehouse, he had known about the invitation. Last year he had gotten one too, but had no interest in going. This year and because he was alone, he decided to go, besides it was his coven that was sponsoring it. He had to at least made an appearance. For the night he had opted for a pair of dark pants and had matched it with a dark emerald green shirt. He was wearing a mask simply because that was what one did at a masquerade and he was wearing a simple black mask with a green design of plants. It was simple but he preferred it simple anyways.

He descended to the lower levels and let his eyes got over the decor. He was impressed, he had been very well done and he was very amazed. The decor was simply amazing and he approached the columns to look at them more closely. They were very nice and well done. He looked up at the five thrones and nodded, they might show up. It was very possible that Euthalia would show up, she was the one that was organizing the masquerade.

He took a glass of blood, ignoring the people who held it and his eyes fastened on a young vampiress in a shimmery dress. He was single and available, he could touch, but for now he was simply going to watch, you could learn a lot from a person, by watching.

Who could pass up the chance to meet the leaders of the five covens? As Ferox considered himself a creature with, among other things, a healthy curiosity, he certainly couldn't. He had not attended a Masquerade before, however, an error he passed off on a variety of reasons.

But that was neither here nor there.

The vampire was especially proud of his mask. After all, weren't masks important at a Masquerade? He had been tempted to go the egotistical (and simple) route and wear no mask; as all vampires, wasn't this benign human face mask enough? The notion had been swiftly discarded. Then he had been drawn towards a simple white mask, an elegant one not unlike that which the Phantom of the Opera typically wore. However, while Ferox enjoyed elegance, he was also a great fan of originality.

As he descended the great staircase, he was pleased with his outfit. His lean frame was, yes, elegantly clad in a well-tailored black suit with a longer than typical coat. It had a vaguely European air and gave his five-ten frame the illusion of height. (Ferox would admit to being slightly vain about his size in this day and age.) His shirt was the deep color of very dark wine, his tie was the black of his suit. And the mask, of course. The mask was a jet black that seemed to blend in with the rest of his attire. Yet was a complex, gruesome thing.

Ferox was quite pleased with it.

It molded well to his face, sleek rather than bulky. The eyepieces were a catlike green, catching the dim light when he turned his head. The mask didn't cover his entire face, only to the joint of his jaw. Above his upper lip, the mask was twisted into a snarl--or possibly a smile--beneath which long, tusklike fangs protruded. Over his face, it was warped and demonic. Once again, it was hard to tell if the expression was pain or perverted joy.

He paused at the bottom of the steps, the green eyepieces glinting a bit as he took in the decorations. The Ishak admitted it was more subtle than he had expected from the Tarepha, but plenty vicious. At the same time, that viciousness, the violence, was overt and unmistakable. The designer, he thought, was clever. Leisurely strolling from the base of the stairs, he paused appreciatively before one of the blindfolded women, touched a finger to a cheek. Anonymity and pain went well together.

As the blood would make him ill, he passed, resuming his lazy steps. Only a few others were here--though he expected that to change quickly.

To say the least Sergei was uncomfortable. Huh, on second thought, perhaps uncomfortable was too strong a word, one that seemed to hold too close an inkling of weakness. And weakness was the last thing Sergei knew he wanted to extrude in the presence of those of the other vampiric ilks.

Perhaps it was arrogance or perhaps the understanding that comes with a mortal life lived with intimidation and warfare as constants in a man’s mind, but for Sergei there was no place for weakness once he walked through that door into the warehouse. No place for doubt as he descended into the claustrophobic dark and unknown pregnant shadows.

The invitation he'd received was clutched in one hand, a thick shaft in the other. It had taken much thought to even bring canny thought at the puzzle that had been put to paper, to have an idea of its meaning.

A meaning that the ancient vampire even now could not fully attest to, but his dress for tonight was not so common, nor indeed uncommon, instead it was something that brought with it the memory of strength and duty, things he’d upheld in mortal life and clung to even now. It was something that let him walk easily into the unknown, something that allowed even as he walked, his features to harden.

Each step put a straightness in Sergei’s back and his steps gained in agility, in sureness and purpose until he’d reached the bottom of the stairs and there with a flippant grin that Sergei Bjarnarson had not had for more than a millennia and centuries past. It was the look of a warrior intent on enjoying the battle, the slaughter, the very look that had made his people famous among barbarian tribes and struck fear into their enemies. And so in every regard Sergei seemed the Norseman that he had been in mortal life.

There are many that attend masquerades as Vikings, but almost none that had been Vikings. That had worn the wolfshirt and tasted the berserker’s brew, felt the fire in his veins and the steel in his flesh. Perhaps for Sergei this was not so much a costume, but as a return. A return to whom and what he had been. And perhaps, just perhaps in this one instant the clothes did make the man. For Sergei Drago, businessman and technology mogul was gone suddenly replaced by a man dressed in seemingly battle hardened leather armor and wolf’s skin.

Gray fur lined all the joints of the armor, stuck out of the top of hard broken leather boots, and created a shirt and mantle across his torso. Leather encased both forearms, his shins and molded to him beneath the wolf shirt. It lined his trousers which slid into the boots. And coming together with the large war hammer in his grasp it went a long way to make Sergei look less like a man in a costume and a warrior ready for the field, a successful raider by the quality and cut of his garments.

Very successful indeed by the mask he wore, the emptied wolf’s skin, it shadowed his features, a cowl weighted by tooth and pieces of bone that obscured all but the bottom half of his face in shadow. There were those that believed such a man was more beast than man, and perhaps they had been right. Odin’s men had been savage in battle, the wolves of the god. They sacrificed flesh and blood to the all father, theirs and that of their enemies and that came with a smile and a joyous roar.
When finally he reached his destination, he looked out upon it with that same look, taking in both the fantastic and ghastly in equal measure. His grip did not shift upon the hammer in his grip, but it rested easily and comfortably across his left shoulder, ready for action, but restrained. Sergei began to investigate then, slowly, analytically, and even peaceably but without the doubts he had entertained before. But without dismay or discomfort.

Indeed he seemed at home, both with horror and beauty. A strange thing a man's state of mind can be.

Could it be said that Istar Indora wasn’t taking this whole masquerade thing too seriously? Well probably, after all lots of things can be said and everybody’s got an opinion, but the truth of it was that yes he was. He took it serious to the extent that he was going though he had absolutely no coven affiliation whatsoever, he was also attending when he could say for a fact that he wasn’t exactly trilled with the company of own kind, and then there was the obvious reasons. Despite the occasional bad time and string of all out weirdness, these things did tend to be fun despite themselves. Or would that be in spite of themselves? Eh, whatever. Same difference as the younger generations say, but really Istar would admit that he was hoping ‘Ria’ would make an appearance. They really hadn’t talked since that thing…

The thing being his past coming back to bite him in the unmentionables and his woman getting caught up in the middle of it, not a grand way to top off a relationship. And well since then they’d both been busy, real busy. The old man was a slave driver suddenly, wanting him to take over as head chef or some such nonsense, but at least it would pay better. Istar had money, but he was really tired of exposing Ria to danger and Kayrn to blood money, so yeah the salary he got was enough for now. And it getting bigger wasn’t a bad throw of the old die.

Still point was that they were seeing less and less of each other. He’d been coming home to a sleeping house well almost asleep a lot of the times, but really it was just time to do something different. So Istar hoped Ria made it. If not…well he could always get a bead on things in the old vampire community.

Besides with the invite and all, he just couldn’t help getting a costume, and what a costume it was.

Playing off of his usual look Istar was suited, or rather wearing a suit. However were most suits might have blended and softened with the décor, Istar’s was so bright that it was nearly laughable. But then again what other reason would a man buy a suit that is bright purple with black tiger stripes but for a laugh. And besides it went nicely with the equally purple fedora with cat ears atop and the long purple-black striped tail seemed to work just fine with that.

So all over Indora was purple and black striped, and if the ears hadn’t given it away, his mask was the top half of a cat’s face, the eye pieces large and yellow with a green slit. It reached just to his upper lip, obviously a cat’s face. But his grin no doubt gave away just what kind of cat he was.

And that alone was worth more than a good laugh. It was worth a smile, a rather Cheshire smile.

Making he way down the stairs and past a guy that was dressed as…it took Istar a minute. A Úlfhéðnar? A berserker? Well, wow. It looked realistic enough or at least the way that they’d been described in books he’d read. It made Indora smile a bit wider…

Looking around he guessed everyone was going all out. This might be quite the part, that was if he didn’t wet himself in horror first. He knew this was The Tarepha shindig this year. He wouldn’t be lying if he said those guys made him want to watch his back.

Brandy was just settling into a slight 'twist', moving to her own music created in her head instead of trying to dance to the gothically-inspired sad drone that filled the room, when she noticed someone else coming down the long steps. It wasn't that people weren't arriving regularly now. They were. The night had deepened quite nicely by the time that Brandy had arrived; otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to come. She didn't like even diffuse sunlight, as it tended to make her extremely drowsy. But this man: he was completely different than most of the rest. The hammer was particularly odd, but Brandy took it more for a scepter-like accessory than anything else. The wolven look to the man, the rough look, was one she'd seen before, but usually only in dumb fictional or factually historic movies about pirates on the open sea - before pirates had actually existed. No, this man was dressed as a viking. That was odd. A mask was one thing - even a costume. But this? Well...it was a masquerade. But he was certainly odd-looking.

Brandy rolled her eyes. Most of the others had costumes as well, but none so bold as a viking. Then again, Brandy had to remind herself that she was dealing with other vampires. Perhaps the man had really been a viking centuries ago. Perhaps this was like a reminiscence, a memory come back to life for this one special night. Which was kind of cool, actually. Brandy dropped the matter from her brain after that point. It wasn't any of her business, anyway. Instead, she checked out some of the other vampires in the room...

The band had trickled in sometime after the first few guests had arrived. They were seated in a far, dark corner, clothed in Victorian suits and waistcoats. They would have been ordinary looking people, save that – through prosthetics or some other means – they were completely devoid of faces. No eyes, no noses, no mouths. The conductor was set apart only in that he wore white gloves and carried a baton, but to the casual observer, there was absolutely no way that the musicians should have been able to see him, or his conducting.

Along with the band came the vocals, each dressed in black to blend in with the shadows. They where shackled to each other, the jangle of the chains echoing through the cavernous room. Their eyes were completely white, and they had to be led forward to their place. There they stood, utterly still, like statues sculpted for the sole purpose of being lovely.

There was a pause – a moment of reflection, if you will – before they started playing their music. It was not Mozart or Vivaldi. It was not opera. It was instrumental, yes, but it was dark and haunting and lovely. It started off so soft that if the musicians were not moving their hands, moving their breath, it would have been impossible to tell there was music at all. Slowly, so slowly it picked up with sweeping melodies, and just slight undertones of menace. It embodied all the nightmares where you fell in love with the monsters that was chasing you, devouring you.

A side door opened, the click of the latch barely heard over the melodies. One gently clad foot came out, followed by the white lace of petticoats. Though usually quite childlike looking, there was something about this particular outfit that made her seem all the more sinister in her innocence.

The dress was, unlike many in current fashion, an actual ball gown and was composed of several layers. First were the petticoats of white late, forming a circle around her. The white was also down her arms, sweeping in bell sleeves below her elbow. Next came the overdress of green satin, a green so dark it looked black in the shadows. Soft leafy designs were embroidered onto it. This was followed by what could only loosely be called an apron of golden silk, tied in a bow about her back so that it draped beautifully in the back. The last, and final piece of the outfit, was a purple velvet corset, done up at the front, over the green.

But that wasn’t what made the outfit. No, that was the mask’s job.

It was decorated like she had just come from a candy shop. Liquorice and mints; bon bons and jube jubes. Where her outfit had been four distinct colours, her mask was a rainbow, a child’s dream feast. It clashed with the gown, yet it matched as well.

Euthalia walked around the room, clinging to the shadows as she moved with her strange, graceful glide. When she came to the front of the thrones, she stopped, and in the light it was possible to see that she had what looked like sweeties smeared over her mouth. Anyone who knew her, however, knew it was probably blood.

The music slowed and silenced, and Euthalia spoke.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice soft, “to the Masquerade. This is a world you’ve not seen before, where there are surprises – both good and deadly – lying in wait just beyond the edges of your vision. Were I you, I would be careful not to blink. The world may change from one moment to the next. You have entered the realm of the lovely and the macabre, where the Pied Piper stole away the children for his own, and where Hansel, and Gretel,” – Here she made a small curtsey – “did not just push the witch into the oven, they tortured and ate her as well.” Her pink tongue darted out of her mouth to lick at the red on her mouth. “Sample my offerings, if you choose, but be careful not to forget yourself. It might be the last thing you ever do.” A sinister sort of smile spread itself across her face.

It still graced her face even as she curtseyed lower, and her face was lost as it turned to the ground.

The music was kind of creepy, actually - not at all Brandy's style - but she didn't complain. The blood was plentiful, and tasty as living blood of course, and some of the costumes were pretty cool. But then the music slowly, but surely, began to die - almost as though it had never been to begin with. Had Brandy been paying a little less attention, she might never have noticed that there had been music at all.

As a voice spoke, Brandy looked around to see whom it might be. It sounded like a child's voice, yet so mature at the same time. She didn't immediately spot Euthalia, her mind at once thinking it was some vampire girl whose voice hadn't acquired a strong enough tone to match her body. And then she saw her: Euthalia, leader of the Tarepha coven and hostess of the Masquerade. She blinked.

"This is our hostess? A kid?"

At first, her mind didn't register that she'd spoken. Though Euthalia could probably have heard her halfway across town, Brandy was actually standing just a short distance from her when she'd spoken. As soon as she'd spoken, though, her eyes widened beneath her mask and she gasped slightly, immediately clapping a hand to her veiled mouth. That probably didn't do much for the beauty of the veil, but she didn't particularly care at the moment. She had more important (and dangerous) things to worry about.

Brandy didn't apologize immediately, but one might assume that her actions upon realization that she had spoken her thought aloud could very well be apology enough. Or not. Perhaps Euthalia would be merciful. She might have been turned by a very powerful vampire, but she doubted she could do anywhere near what her sire could. And who knew how powerful Euthalia was. She held her breath, waiting for Euthalia to lash out, to glare at her, to do something to kill her. Only a month as a vampire, and she already might have signed her death sentence...

Even alive, Oliver Grey had been little but a shadow. A shadow of a child, dark of eye and dark of hair, all together dark of circumstance and class. He and his had been seen and yet unseen. After all who cared for the poor? What had they to contribute to society? What were they but stout backs and sturdy thighs? Indeed, they were nothing. The unseen and unwashed masses, the unimportant, and so the shadows, shadows of the world proper, and so it had also been for him moving into eternity…the shadow of man that would have an heir, indeed his body itself a shadow of what could have been. So yes, in all fairness Oliver was a shadow and so perhaps it was because of this that he seemed as at home as he was following Euthalia’s path from the side door. Seeming nothing more than a shadow, a warped reflection of his female counter part…he moved with an almost ethereal grace.

Of course Oliver followed at a respectful distance. He had no hunger for the spotlight at the moment, indeed he seemed totally indifferent. Or at rather that was until a single hand rose from his side and there was a sudden flash of light, almost dizzying, but most assuredly dazzling.

The knife in his hand seemed to glow, did it so devour and throw back the light. It was light and delicate in construction, thin even at the hilt and guard less base and tapering into a form that looked down right fragile. But then again the glint of light off the edges was nearly savage, even more so in appearance as they were dulled by the bright crimson of fresh blood. The knife’s light easily revealed the color, even as it seemed to mute others, accentuate the shadows as it were.

If one got closer, the blades were engraved with the visual of creeping vines. Nature at its most free, and yet also most deadly. Oliver could remember watching those vines squeeze the life out of a tree he had once seen. So unassuming a plant, it had devoured the life it coveted with all the zeal of the fiercest of predators and so it was those vines that inspired these blades of steel and silver alloyed. Alloyed just perfectly, to shine and yet how surprisingly strong they were on the kill. A beautiful sight, truly. They seemed so much more beautiful covered in blood.

Raising the blade, he seemed to take an almost sensual glee, in running the sudden pink of his tongue along its deadly edge. It tasted so much sweeter from the blade.

Those vines were however also present upon Oliver’s vest. Gold, they strangled at his torso, and the purple of his vest. A vest that sat comfortably over a green as dark as to be ebony as it was touched by the clinging dark. The green took the from of lederhosen, trimmed and edged with immaculate gold thread, the veins played here as well, clinging, killing. And yet within the lederhosen there was a splash of white and frills at cuff and collar. Frills that worked well at hiding the other silver blade at the child vampire’s right wrist and would do the same for left when finally he slid it home within the confines of his wrist sheathes.

Of course this was far from the end of the costume and Oliver had topped it off so to speak, with well shone boots of soft black leather and drastic white socks that rose to above the knee, but the true crowing jewel was not the hat, thought it was something, not the wood cutters hat that one might remember from bed time tales, but something of a much older sort. It held a taste of the renaissance, large and floppy. Green with touches of royal purple, but was accented with three great feathers of the purest white. No, the crown jewel was the mask.

Like she before him, it seemed somehow random. A mask of rainbow and whimsy, a child’s delight with jaw breakers and gum drops, sweet tarts, and butterscotch, and yet it fit so surprisingly well, baring only eyes like rain cloud prepared for lightning and a whimsical kind of smirk, ambiguous, yet decidedly sinister if only for the drops of blood that trailed along ivory lips upturned in no readable joy or distress.

Oliver followed as was his commission of late, his whim, and means of survival. There was no doubt in his mind that Euthalia frightened him. But then it was hardly fear alone that drew him to her side. And that was where he stood, carefully, silently as she spoke, taking not only the sound of her voice, but the vicious splendor that was the Masquerade. A part of him realize how very appropriate it was. Indeed, how much it reflected the ball’s hostess.

He smiled then. Gave a bow, with her curtsy, he even put his considerable hat into the gesture, pulling it from his midnight tresses to sweep with the bow. His smile became a little more amused then, a little bit more roguish and wicket.

Coming out of the gesture he listened then as she finished. And it would not have been wrong to say he felt a sliver of delight and fear in the same instance. Indeed there was perhaps nothing better that the “governess” of The Tarepha was better at. A force to be feared and revered…

Then she was done, but it seemed someone else wasn’t quite that lucky. And how much more lucky silence might have been. A kid. Very few would be so bold or was it stupidity? Oliver, a gambling man, would most assuredly bet on the latter. But of course he was silent, thought his grin was perhaps that much more biting, more sardonic as he looked at she that had spoken.

“This is our hostess? A kid?”

The air suddenly went very still around Euthalia. Had she not been seen moving, it would have been entirely possible for her to be a statue. There was some quality about the stillness, though, something other that made it seem entirely more menacing than if Euthalia had come snarling up. She was paused in position for a beat or two, before slowly righting herself. Her stance was as tall as she could make it, and dignified, but the emotion had leaked away from her face.

Such a blank face was something rarely seen on a human face. Slowly, Euthalia pushed her mask up over onto her curled hair, and simply looked at the woman who had spoken. The woman apparently realized she had made some sort of faux pas but couldn’t be bothered to take it any farther. Throwing out her senses, she let her power trickle around the vampire, feeling her age, feeling her power. What she found was less surprising than she would have thought: the girl had not even half a century under her belt.

Her steps were still graceful as she walked forward, and she looked older than her six years. It was like the face she wore was her real mask, and the real Euthalia Akakios was hidden underneath.

Stopping before the woman, Euthalia looked up and smiled softly.

“You’d think,” she said slowly, “that someone would have taught you manners. If there is a child in this room, it is most certainly not I. Where is your sire, little girl? If you make such senseless remarks – especially after I have just expressly warned you to watch your back – there should be someone that can at least make a feeble attempt to protect you.”

The smile grew, and it would have been warm had it reached Euthalia’s eyes. “I do not appreciate being insulted in my own domain. If I were as you seem to believe, do you really think that I could have become the leader of the Tarepha?” Her face shifted for a moment, the skin becoming taut and making her look more like a monster. It was only there a second, before the smiling face of the six year old was back.

Putting down her mask, Euthalia curtseyed at her. “Have a wonderfully fun time!”

Everyone seemed to stir, as though they had also been collectively holding their breath, and turned away to enjoy the party - possibly even to shake off, or laugh at, the incident. But the laughter was strained, not light, and mostly directed at the foolishness of a young vampire and what Euthalia might have done to her. Though the moment had passed, however, and no one was watching her any longer, Brandy didn't feel at all relieved. Even if this woman didn't kill her, she'd already gotten off on a very wrong foot.

"I-I'm sorry, Miss Euthalia...I really am. It was just a first impression...I didn't even realize I'd spoken. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to...I mean, I...I'm sorry..."

She trailed off, quieting and looking very much like a girl that had broken her mother's vase and had been scolded for it. She was so embarrassed that she couldn't even bring herself to give a real apology. Wonderful.

The thought of being late had appalled the man who had set so much on being ordered, but as his last experience with one of these events had not turned out in a manner to which he wished to repeat, Tristan had opted to take some precautions in ensuring that nothing went so horribly this time. However, with great regret it did require him to be slightly on the late side and as he strode down the steps into what seemed to be some nightmare brought up by to many sweets he began to rethink coming to this event in the first place.

It was true that the man wasn't truly worried about getting into any real danger and that the simple that was that he had no real friends in this burned out husk of a city. It was not as if he did not try to go out into the city on occasion, but it was more or less a failed attempt to try and regain some sort of his past, all done by a socially inept man who tended to simply make matters worse.

As the steps lessened and a floor appeared before him all the ancient vampire could think about was in how many ways he could, and most likely would, make matters worse for himself. More so, this ball was being hosted by a vampire who he had very pointedly called a demon child on their last encounter....overall it was not the way to make a good impression on your host.

His mind went to his costume then, which eventually led to him checking the mental note which seemed to make edges of the many sashes which seemed to stream from the thin robe which he wore. It's color was tarnished and blurred with tones of brown mixing and falling into each other, all without any real type of order to it. The material itself would have to be nearly transparent had it not been for the many layers of it, each of which seemed to blow slightly by an unseen wind. It was no suit, but rather the cut of what a shepherd might wear while tending his flock. Tristan's face was tanner, something done with fresh feeding's and careful makeup, and grains of sand speckled through his hair and on his face. His hair itself was undone, allowing it to hang loose around his face blowing with the same unseen gusts as his robe. It had taken quite some time for the man to decide on his costume for this evening, but the heart of the desert seemed to be just for where he had spent most of his immortal life, for what was more ever changing then a sandstorm?

The true matter at hand though was solved as he had already made the trip to come to this event, and thus Tristan knew that he would forever feel even more rude to not even at least look at the decorations. Though the more that the man saw, the deeper the scowl on his face grew. It was such waste of life, such abandon for pure amusement, it was truly a sickening sight, the pillars alone made Tristan wish to rip the building done simply to spare those poor souls trapped inside of them. He could feel their agony, feel them writhing about as they desperately seemed to seek a death which would not come to them. All around him were atrocities so dark that it made the vampire's skin begin to crawl, which brought back long dead memories of similar horrific acts done by men and women through the ages, and with each passing moment his expression sought to brake it's well maintained bland expression, one which was harder then any mask which he might have worn.

However, Tristan worked hard to maintain his expression as he moved deeper into what he saw as the main room and the vampire was glad to see that he had arrived in time to see the young looking host greet her guests, and then scowled a nearly turned vampire. Overall the sight was something between that of dull and amusing, but not really enough to catch his interest for more then a moment, and not even near enough to dull his disgust at the decorations of this...place. Surely it was that of a child's nightmare, and thus must have been paradise for the demon known as Euthalia. As for Tristan though, he found the room's overall lack of respect for life to be a disgrace to his kind, and thus to all life.