Monochrome 1

As an honest opinion, anyone would have remarked that Lord Falsworth threw boring parties. But of course, no one voiced an honest opinion. And this time, Lord Falworth had at least made an effort to make it more interesting - a masquerade. Same old faces, but covered with elaborate masks. Same old debates, same old jokes...

The woman sitting alone at a table certainly was the same, though not old. "The Black Widow", as she was called, was idly observing time flow by as slowly as ever. The name, though oftest said sarcastically, was accurate. Lady Doria had been the wife of Lord Rupert Black, who had suddenly passed away two years earlier - in shady circumstances, it was whispered. Lady Doria had passed two years in mourning, as was proper, and still wore black. Some said a beautiful young lady such as herself should marry again - yet a persistent rumor claimed she had sent four husbands to their graves already. Most people dismissed such a rumor. She had been married to Lord Rupert for six years - there was only so much a woman her age had had time to do.

Widow Black had seen fit not to address any of the rumors. She was rather amused by them sometimes... at other times, she was worried. She had been a beautiful young woman for sixty years. A perfect lady. One day... someone would notice. But not today.

Holding the black, jewel-decorated mask in the shape of a bird's wings better to her face, Lady Doria turned to observe the other side of the room. It was the same - women in their fancy dresses and men in their fancy suits, all in the latest fashion... doing absolutely nothing of interest.

Wyldsong:

One person who certainly did not understand why he had been invited stood at the door, although nobody had let him in. He had no idea how he had even received the bloody invitation, but he was invited. Curiously enough.

He was someone who most people wouldn't have noticed because of something eerie about him. It may have been his existence, perhaps, or then the fact that anyone who did notice him would see that he certainly wasn't noticing everything. Rather he navigated through the ground like he was half-asleep and yet quite alert enough. Preoccupied.

The mask he wore was dark, as was most of his garb. What wasn't dark, was light, white or gray. His name, as far as it concerned anyone, was St. Croix and had been so for quite a while. He was known to some with a flair for the arcana, but was known to mind his own business and do whatever he did in private.

He was also quite interested in finding out what was so important that somebody had sent him an invitation that had traded hands often and been opened many a time before a brave soul had finally brought it to him. So, flickering through the night and appearing to the masquerade wearing slightly out-of-fashion clothes, he had come. He always came when called, leaving just as quickly if he wasn't pleased.

Right now, he didn't know.

Doria disentangled herself wearily from a conversation with Madam This-and-That and made her way closer to the wall, where the room to breathe at least seemed more plentiful. It was puzzling to her how much space the current fashion occupied per woman. The rigid crinolines were certainly to her taste and were beautiful to look at, but she was still not obligated to love wearing the damn things, no? She would live long enough to see practical fashion - she hoped.

Sighing quietly to herself, Doria unfolded the black fan she had been holding, rich with black lace and more of decorative than practical value, in an attempt to create a cool breeze to her face. She let the other hand holding the mask drop and stole a glance at an oval mirror hanging on the wall some distance away. Still perfect. If they didn't already know my face, I could just drop the mask and pretend I'm wearing a porcelain face, she mused with a slight tinge of amusement.

Movement at the door caught her eye. The Eternal - because that she was, something only little short of immortal - folded the fan with a snap and lifted the half-mask back to her face. She made sure to turn her head only slightly towards the man - if it was one.

Wyldsong:

He had been, once. Now he drifted around restlessly, for that was pretty much what he was - a restless soul with a bit too much power to make him popular among the other dead ones.

St. Croix was indeed quite dead, and had been in that state for a few centuries, never really waning except in memory. Unlike some others, however, he didn't really mind - or wouldn't have if he had known what the bloody hell (if there was one) he had done to deserve a gift like this.

The safest bet was that his brittle memory had totally cracked back when he had died, its shards concerning fallen down into the pit of amnesia where they were now waiting somewhere in the dark.

Waiting?

To be discovered.

He'd recovered some memories, this much he knew. But at some point, somehow... the bridge he had built over the gap with old pieces succumbed to entropy and rotted away again.

His attire and its brightness were mostly subconscious choices, not something he chose to represent this aspect of himself. Dark. And slowly, his dark head turned to regard something that caught his attention.

A woman, he thought in a numbly surprised manner, not reacting even in the form of a twitch.

IRC log, Wyldsong start:

Dark - black - eyes stared back in a display of utter blankness and lack of humanity. But the latter was more because of the inherent un-humanity of the man, or whatever an unknowing personage might mistake St. Croix for. He blinked, and slowly his head turned and tilted simultaneously to the right and downwards. An air of subtly shifting, changing agelessness hung upon him.

Lady Doria stared back through the eyeholes in the black mask, slowly pursing up her lips. She was aware of all the eyes idly looking at her, and blissfully ignoring the man. What, and why was she to be the scandalous lady worth watching? ...of course.

Carefully, the Eternal started towards the other side of the room - not directly towards the odd man, and not away from him. The black fabric of her dress made a pleasant rustling sound. Too loud. Too loud for her.

The dead man wondered for a fleeting moment, but as fleeting moments usually, it was quickly gone. He directed his attention to watching everything else happening in the room, head turning slowly like that of a man with frozen joints or rusty cogs for joints. But clearly, judging by him, there was something hidden behind the almost painfully slow, or maybe patient, movement.

There was a rapid snap, and the black fan was unfolded in her hand. She had walked a large-ish curve around the room, stopping sideways a talking distance from St. Croix. Face still masked and moving smoother than the porcelain appearance suggested, she took another step towards him. "Very pleased to meet you, sir. You must be new around here. I would remember you."

The eyes - black - turned slowly, and again there was a stare directed at her. A slight tilt of the head and a very faint expression betraying curiosity crossed the man's pale and strong-featured face. No signs of aging were present, apart from the change in bone structure that defined him somewhere between twenty and thirty. He gave a wan, lifeless and mirthless smile. More proper than anything. "As it happens, I concur on the first two accounts." A pause, as if he was sorting something inside his head. "My name is St. Croix." Pause. "Madame."

For a moment, she just stared at him - making it seem as if she was looking down at him, instead of up, out of physical necessity. "As it happens, yes, sir... mister... saint Croix." She fumbled for the proper addressing for a while, but did not let it sway her. She curtsied almost unnoticeably. "Lady Doria Black. Wife of the late Lord Rupert."

Still he stared, not even minding her stare or then not even noticing it in the first place. "My apologies," St. Croix began without losing a beat and continuing in the same somehow too even, darkly stagnant tone, "and condolances." His eyes unfocused momentarily, but then the gaze reverted back into a sharp, analyzing stare.

She lowered the mask from her face and arched an eyebrow briefly. "Oh, lord Black passed away two years ago. Though, of course," she added calmly, "I am still in mourning for my husband." For the sake of political correctness and appearances, oh dear. "Thank you, sir." She created a little breath of wind from the fan, eyeing the floor.

Like a statue - one doing only the shallowest of breathing -, he stared before finally turning to direct his gaze at the rest of the masqueraders with a nod. "Of course." A brief and barely noticeable look flashed on his face when he glanced at her again, eyebrows wrinkling ever so slightly.

She sighed. "...lord Falsworth, rich and generous as he may be, has talent for throwing boring parties. I have yet to understand how lady Falsworth bears with him." She tilted her head slightly at him. "And, sir... Croix. You are French, no? Or just after a fancy name?"

A puzzled look replaced the patient listener's expression. "A mongrel, if you will. Spanish and French blood." So he thought, at times. "Not that I would remember either countries." Which, at least, was true. He let the truth speak for itself. "Is this not a slightly pointless, trivial occasion?"

"Slightly, sir? Where do you get the 'slightly' in this occasion?" She chuckled discreetly, but was left wondering. The fan was snapped shut again. "You travel a lot, then, sir Croix? Unlike the... high society. Otherwise." Stings, stings.

"In a fashion, but I still cannot claim to have any concrete memories of the continent," he replied without any hurry at all, having given the fan a very quick glance as it snapped shut. "High society," he repeated... and seemed distantly amused. "The word slightly... is basic politeness, right now."

She frowned, but hid it in a smile. "How very... interesting." She tapped her chin with the fan, glancing over to the other side of the hall, where there were doors leading to smaller chambers. "Basic politeness... bores me, frankly, sir Croix. But I do my best."

"St. Croix," he amended softly. "And we all do our best."

"Yes, I'm sure", she replied softly, and glanced over to the doors again. "What do you say, St... Croix. If we retire into a more private place for discussion? There is..." ...something strange about you. and I would love to know.

Blinking only casually as he thought, he nodded. "...too much noise here," the 'mongrel' replied and followed her glance. "I take it you know lord Falsworth's home better than I do, lady Black. Do lead the way."

"Agreed. Noise..." She started across the hall, walking by the walls, again lifting the mask to cover her face. "There are some rooms... for private conversations", she said in a soft voice. More or less private, in any case, she thought. "Here..." She pushed open the third door on the left, entering a luxuriously decorated, small chamber.

The shadow - dark, dark, black, dark - examined at the chamber with faintly visible disinterest toward the architecture. His stare was upon her again like a hungry predator, only less predatory and more quizzical. "Does lord Falseworth throw boring parties often?"

"...all the time. But money is importance, Saint Croix." Pause. With some effort, she arranged to sit in one of the few chairs around the round table. "Why not 'mister', pray tell?" she asked rather bluntly, looking at the mask she had laid on the table.

Reserving himself a spot there, standing, he gave her a long look of some sorts, but a stare it wasn't. "My name is St. Croix," the man said in a stubbornly typical foreign manner, although he clearly spoke very fluent and locally accented English. The colloquialisms just hadn't sunk in entirely.

"There certainly is very little..." she began, but let the words die down. Tapping on the table with her finger, she rephrased, turning to regard him. "There are very few... saints in this world. Why are you one of them? Or - are you just not a... mister?"

"...doubt of that. Lady Black," he said with a weak smile that looked startlingly rare on his face, "my name is St. Croix, and the 'saint' is or isn't a title." Then he thought about it. "What do _you_ know about saints?"

"That I'm not one?" she replied very quickly, in an amused tone.

He blinked, clearly a bit surprised, but that was all. "Beg your pardon?"

She blinked, surprised as well, though more confused. "That I'm not a saint. Why should that be a surprise to anyone?" Chuckle. "I am, if you will, the black sheep of the high society here in London."

"I couldn't say, lady Black," he said honestly. "Why this interest in saints?" St. Croix paced a few steps toward a cupboard, still very uninterested in the architecture.

"No special interest", she replied. "Merely commenting on your... unique choice of name. Saint." She said it as a title, in place of a simple 'sir' - and was not able to entirely hide her condescending tone.

"Yes," St. Croix said, apparently quite confused by this. He also seemed oblivious to her tone. "Name."

"Yes, name." She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then sighed and quirked an eyebrow. "Names, St. Croix, are something generally given to... men. How is it you came to be given one?" In what world, she wanted to ask, but was content to point out what she considered, at this point, the bleeding obvious.

Further looks of confusion from St. Croix's part slowly disappeared, like mists floating away. "I was born; every man is given a name not long after birth." He was, of course, pointing out the obvious. But again, he looked confused. He was born? Was that his given name? Family name?

Doria frowned slightly, as if doubting his words. "You were born?" A surprise, if any... or not. "It is common practice, I believe, for a man to die before being proclaimed Saint", she pointed out matter-of-factly.

Comprehension dawned. "It is a name," St. Croix replied evenly, with a sudden curiosity. "Not a title. You do not know?" There seemed to be a reason for this question. "How?"

The confusion was a spreading kind. "How what?" the eternal asked, slightly irritated. She spread the fan open again with a sharp snapping sound.

The creature of death tilted its head to the side, producing a few sickly loud snaps. "How come? Everyone else has known who and what they have summoned."

The eternal feigned indifference and waved the fan with a lazy wrist motion. "Summoned? What, if I may ask, Saint Croix, are you talking about?"

Snap. The fan was laid on the table and she laid her hands on the arms of the chair, squeezing them very slightly. "I summoned no one. Why, Saint - were you not invited?"

"Pardon," the mongrel said and acquired a blank look. Blanker still, at least. "I mistook your identity, as you seemed to gravitate to me. You," it continued, eyes blindly staring through her, "who... who are strange. But if you did not summon me, I have a word or two for our host."

Lady Black did not bother to stifle a girlish giggle. "Lord Falsworth? And what, pray tell, would you tell him, Saint Croix? The man can barely tell a cross from a David's Star, and a David's star from the triquetra... I highly doubt he has anything to do with, well, anything requiring intelligence beyond that of a dog, much less advanced literacy. Which", she added, "I assume would be needed in your case. Whatever you are."

The eternal adjusted her position. "But no, I did not summon you, Saint. I merely noticed how easily you stand out in such a crowd."

"It must be mutual," St. Croix said monotonously. "And, if you please, it is St. Croix or sir St. Croix." Though it did beg the question, what did it matter? It was a name... for... well. Him. It. Who?

"David's Star or cross, no matter. It is his name on my invitation..." A frown. "Falsworth," the stagnant, slow-moving death mumbled, tasting the name and something else as well.

"It does not matter," the dead man said finally. "He has no hold over me."

"Who does, then?" Her tone turned sharp. "What are you?"

St. Croix had already taken a few steps toward the door when the two questions stopped him. The dark-eyed man turned to analyse lady Black briefly before one of the out-of-place smiles appeared. "I don't know," he said. "Will you excuse me?"

"No", the lady Black snapped in a manner very unfit for a woman of her standing. She stood up too fast and almost became tangled in the horror of the en vogue skirts. Regaining her composure, she took a few steps forward. "Where, exactly, and what to do, would you have me excuse you, Saint?"

The simple statement was enough to confuse the man further. The man stopped, turning to stare at the woman with dark, reflective eyes. "The call wanes, good lady, and with it, my purpose. No one holds me here. Thus, I would leave."