Spring Ball 2006 1

This was originally a Christmas masked ball but is now an Easter-Springtime one. (See below for what's changed.)

Weft liked to turn up early to things. A diplomat brother had taught him that it put you at an advantage by making you seem more official and making everyone else feel they were late, but this was not his reason. Weft wanted to reconnoitre the line of sight, cover, vantage points, defensibility, ambient weaponry, draperies and (because he had once spent some time working undercover as a junior cook) the quality of the catering.

His mask was dark red and covered the top half of his face. It was moulded to the curves of his nose and upper cheeks, and featured a few subdued stitched and tasselled embellishments that would probably cost him penance later. (It was also emphatically not cat-shaped.) His suit was also dark red with a short cape. In Weft's culture formalwear was always brightly coloured, but it had never suited him.

In deference to the neutral ground, he was only wearing about fifteen concealed edged weapons. It made him feel a little naked.

"Yule Ball, New Year's Ball; does it make a difference? It's all an excuse to get us dapper and throw us in a high-foodfight-risk environment for a few hours."

Suitov, who had reluctantly bought a mask and was now irritably determined not to waste the effort, held in one hand a glass of the house red and leaned against the mentalpiece.

The building's designer had included the facilities for a decent-sized fire to complement wintry days like this one, but didn't seem to rate any of the traditional styles of surround, opting instead for a bizarre but natural colour of pfilz stone carved into very many weird and possibly eldritch configurations. You could rest your glass on it, but that was the only point Weft could find in its favour. It scared the stuffing out of the monk; naturally, Suitov quite liked it.

In deference to the general idea of masquerades, Suitov had his shoulder-length black hair loose and was, very atypically, wearing a black evening suit in Earth style. It was not uncomfortable, though he still thought buttons were a strange idea. Wouldn't they be uncomfortable if you (or, of course, someone else) rolled onto them...?

"Well, it bothers me," Weft said as he stared into the fire and tried to ignore the impressionistic swirls of the mentalpiece.

"Do try not to kill anyone this time," ordered his friend. "Not anyone we might have a use for, anyway," he amended. "Even if they provoke you, are an angel, throw a ball of wool at you or call you a you-know-what," he added, since it was advisable to be very specific with Weft.

"Ah. But aren't the point of parties supposed to be to have fun?" Weft asked, blinking his green eyes in the firelight.

"Isn't; and I have no idea what gave you that idea."

Izzy had spent a lot of time on their costumes, and didn't much appreciate the way Micah was trying to wriggle into a bottle as if he weren't wearing his tweed jacket.

The masks were quite elaborate; hand woven brown and green woolen material surrounded their beady eyes and was framed in tiny gold beads and black sequins. The sides had little explosions of brown and pale grey down-feathers. From this, down their muzzles extended a long, black, pointed structure with a ridge down the centre. It's not sure how the ridge was put in, except that it took a lot of work, since on closer inspection the material the beak had been made from was hard. Really hard. Unfortunately, Micah's had fallen off after a particularly forceful sneeze.

The tweed jackets they wore contained extra padding half way down the body, into which were stuck short-ish feathers, which seemed to be from some sort of game bird, perhaps a grouse.

Izzy had thought the costumes quite clever when she made them, but now she wasn't sure anyone would get it.

"Excuse me? I do hope we're not late." Izzy called up to the man in red. She knew she wasn't late, considering noone else was here yet either, but she had to start with something.

Weft came out of his standing meditation, opened his mouth to reply, looked confused and finally looked down.

"Late? Oh no, I don't think so. Spring Ball, wasn't it? Yes, I'm pretty sure it is. Yes, nobody's here yet except..."

He blinked at the mentalpiece. Someone was missing, he was sure of it.

"...I think we're the first ones, anyway. I thought Suitov was here, maybe he's in the gardens."

He straightened his mask nervously, aware that he was talking too much.

Time froze, and a hellhoundish shape moved through the room and out through the gardens where Suitov had been paused in the middle of coaxing one of the trickle fountains into a water sculpture. (He was bored.)

Weft was now dressed in dark green, which would annoy him because it's not a colour males usually wear in his culture - but then again, it did suit him well. His mask had greenish white buds and shoots embroidered on it in place of the red berries.

A black suit, on the other hand, was a black suit, acceptable anywhere, and so the mysterious authorial presence didn't find anything to correct about Suitov's wardrobe. He was a much better dresser than the mysterious authorial presence.

The dark woods and rich reds in the decorations had also been replaced with lighter, seasonal colours and a good few jars of flowers around.

With a snuffle and a swish, time started itself again.

The Yule/New Year Ball is now a Spring/Easter Ball. The catering reflects the new theme: plenty of eggs, young and baby vegetables, lots of seasonal fruit from various worlds, lamb and young chicken for the meat-eaters, plus whatever other food you'd expect at parties. Chocolate will be forthcoming at some point, we expect.

Sylvie looked around, trying not to look lost, which was a bit of a trick. Were you supposed to find your way through the gardens (which were beautiful), or was there some sort of front door?

She had organized a ginger cat mask, and a tan shirt, leggins and shoes to go with it. A blue scarf worn as a belt had to do as badge, but she did not feel comfortable about it.
For a finishing touch she had applied one of her favourite spells, cat's eyes, but going easy on the night vision and pushing the shape and colour instead. Her eyes were bright green, and her pupils contracted like a cat's, too.

She approached Suitov. "Ah, good evening." She looked around quickly. "Not many people here yet... or are they all hiding?"

"Good evening!" Suitov let the suspended water fall back into its bowl and smiled. "I think we're some of the first. My friend and I arrived a little early by mistake."

The hall building stood a little way behind him, its terrace doors wide open. You could get in from the gardens or the road side.

"Well, just as well." She smiled nervousy and tucked her hair back behind her ears. "See, I've never been to a... party like this. Are there any traditions I should better be aware of?"

"I hope not. If there are, at least we will be ignorant of them together. You can put all the blame on me." He was trying to relax her a bit.

"Right."
Sylvie grinned. "I'll remind you in case, oh, I find a peanut in my pudding and therefore people want to fertilize their fields with my blood," she explained with an axpansive gesture.

She'd never been in a place where things got that bad, but she had heard stories... and there had a few places back home you avoided at certain times of the year, for maybe less grave, but in principle similar reason.

"Mine is the responsibility for all peanut-related incidents! Oh well, I suppose we'd better go indoors, then."

He didn't dislike socialising, but playing with magic was just as much fun. The two combined was best.

What Sylvie did not say was "And how about something like being set up to drown when the tide comes in for offending a sailor? Or being stranded on the top of a high shelf for forgetting to bring a gift for a librarian or archivar?"

She kept up with Suitov for now.
"You mentioned a firend? The one who occasionally is a dog?"

"Ha, no. This one's name is Weft. He's an alien monk."

The personage in question didn't seem altogether thrilled to see either of them, though he may not have recognised Sylvie; it was hard to tell just what, or if, Weft was thinking.

In fact, he was comparing Sylvie favourably to the crazed redheaded woman Suitov normally associated with.

What he said was "Hi, mysterious masked lady. And hello, idiot in black suit."

She greeted him with a slight bow. "My name is Sylvie. Pleased to meet you." Insults were usually best ignored, and anyway friends of ten had their ways.

Her grin had faded to a more usual smile. She was still a bit nervous underneath, but it was mostly the excitement of being in a new place now.

"I'm afraid I'm a stranger here, and very curious to see how the evening will turn out. Do you enjoy masked balls often?"

Izzy shifted her weight nervously, aware that after all the hard work she'd put into her costume it had, rather suddenly, gone out of date. That didn't seem to matter too much for Micah since he'd abandoned the whole lot at the entrance of the tin of hard-boiled quail's eggs. At least it wasn't getting ripped to shreds on the metal sides, though, she noted.

"Ah, excuse me?" she called up to Sylvie "Did you mention something about peanuts? She saw Micah's head turn ever so slightly as he heard the words Only I'm afraid that my broth--"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATCHIIIIIIIUUUUUUU!! Oh no! My sinuses! Izzy! Quick, get my smelling salts! Fetch the antihistamines. Oh, I feel all faint and weak. Look at my knees! I can't feel the tip of my tail..."

Izzy sighed, and wore that long-suffering look on her face.

"Do excuse me. It was nice to meet you anyway" she said as she slumped off wearily.

"Oh my vision's gone all blurry! What's that bright light up ahead?! Oh, peanuts always do this to me!" Micah continued to wail, but still found the energy to reach out for a quail's egg and swallow it whole when he though noone was looking.

"I've never been to one before," Weft confessed, lifting a foot to avoid one of the scurrying lizards. "So I don't know what goes on at them. Hope there's no dancing; I'm wearing the wrong shoes. I'm Weft, by the way." He grinned, a little bit manic... er, we mean nervous. He'd been good at meeting new people once, but after all the insane aliens and angels and so forth he had become more guarded around people he didn't know and like.

Weft doesn't like many people, but he still hopes.

Most of Suitov's attention was now on the lizards. "So sorry! Entirely my fault!" he called cheerfully.

"I haven't seen any peanuts. Or smelled any or anything. Greetings!"

She grinned, a little bit manic, but mostly amused, and turned to Weft again. "I guess we can be clueless together, then. One more than the other. The last dance I learned was..." she waved a hand in a circular motion, looking for a word. "Ring-a-ring-a-roses?"

"Well of course you wouldn't, you silly person with your inferior nose!" Micah wailed, and continued dramatically, "If there were no peanuts around, would my scales be turning this odd colour? Would I be feeling such spasms in my side and achings in my head and flutterings in my tail and would my sinuses be under such pressure?! Oooooh..."

He continued whimpering for a little while, whilst Izzy stayed silent. She desperately wanted to add i)he'd claimed to have permanently lost his sense of smell after a particularly bad reaction to kiwi, ii)the odd colour on his scales was bits of fabric from the costume he'd been wearing and iii)that she was getting rather sick of all this. In fact, she desperately wanted to smack him hard round the head. Instead, she just sighed.

Weft nodded. "The last one I learned was the Dance of the Three Silks. It's - er - normally you'd only perform it if you're trying to find a wife. And I'm not up to performance standard anyway... you have to have a license to dance publically, in my home city."

Weft certainly looked lithe enough to make a decent dancer. Though he secretly thought his feet were too big.

"I was taught most of the traditional steps as a child," Suitov offered. "Brahnyan waltz, quadrille, isis squares and so on. We lived in a little hinterlands village and it was What One Did. I haven't tried it in a while, though."

He neglected to mention he'd been more interested in climbing trees and reading things. He was also having difficulty not cracking a broad grin at the lizards' antics.

"The things you need licenses for... I've heard of a town were you need to buy a license if you want to put a lock on the door."

The whining lizard seemed to be only finish for attention, judging from the other one's reaction, and those people are best ignored.

And Sylvie did not want to give people ideas to make dancing part of the evening, if it wasn't already.