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[aashniarven]

✧ SCORPIUS

     A reluctant mask was thrust upon his face with little care of how long he would wear it, playing the part of a respectful friend to the king. Scorpius weaved in and out of his favorite crowds of silvers to show he was back with warm greetings he knew would flood him. It wasn’t until he was given a few moments to breathe that he spotted her across the room. He wished to reveal himself from beneath his mask, but there was something about being recognized regardless that ignited him.

     With a surprise bow, he watches as Prisha is the one asking him for a dance with the gestures of a man that he finds appealing when coming from her. The touch of her lips being desired upon different areas than the one they are now touching. He twists his hand to cup her chin between lightly clasped fingers before pulling her towards him. He dares to accidently brush their lips against each other as he presses their cheeks together to allow whispered words to only be heard by her.

     “ With you? ” Scorpius reached forward with his opposing hand to brush the tips of his fingers against the delicate flesh of her arm. “ Lady Arven, I expected you of all people to recognize the man, who stands before you. ” He was not one to follow the rules of the party with his mask lifting from his face, revealing himself to her. Her face had already been revealed to the crowd, and he ached to place them on common ground “ Not even a kiss hello? ”

     She knows him from the moment she raises her head, but it’s enjoyable, to play dumb and watch his pride react in turn. She cannot forget the set of his mouth, the curve of it as he finds himself pleased and the stiffness when he does not get his way. It seems he has not gotten it now, but he is pleased anyway, and the zing of pleasure that sends through her is really quite enough. Prisha certainly knows better than to hang her hat on such a lothario as Scorpius Merandus, and yet. There is always a yet to them.

     He holds her face in hand with delicate practice, knowing that the mere push is enough to bring her where he wants her. Scorpius, of course, knows this better than most. The gesture is one she readily complies with, responding to the brushing of his lips against hers with a slightly lilting smile. Perhaps she will coax a longer entreaty from him as the evening goes on, but in this moment, the brush of his breath against her throat, the slide of his rough cheek against the fine-china skin of hers, sets her blood humming. 

     Scorpius knows his strengths, knows that the monster in Prisha is hungry for touch and feeds her just the same. Oh, he is good, but she is just as if not better, and she curls her hand around his wrist and tugs it to her waist. The skin is entirely bared, and his hands are hot, but she does not show any inclination of taking notice. They mimic the position of a dance, though it feels more intimate than it should, the surprise at him being back warring with the pleasure nearness brings. Yet she makes him wait, for the recognition he so clearly craves, before giving it in a brush of her fingers against the thick column of his neck. This is enough for her, but clearly not for him as he tugs the mask from his face.

     Contrary to what she’s sure he was hoping for, she laughs. ❝ I knew you by this alone, ❞ she says, and presses her thumb to the fullness of his lower lip. ❝ But after making me wait so long for our next kiss, perhaps you deserved the suspense. ❞ She kisses him anyway, because she is indulgent tonight, like a cat who has decided to come close and be pet. It is not a thing of tenderness, but it touches languid and falls into decadence before she is done. Prisha decides when to pull away, for it is her turn to play. With slow motions, she slides the mask from her brow, revealing her own face, eyes touched by startling white to match her attire. ❝ Hello, then, ❞ she offers, beginning to move to the rhythm of the dance until he decides to play his role and lead. ❝ Have you only just arrived, or did you lie in wait, hoping for the perfect moment to strike at all these --- ❞ her eyes trail the room, a faint humor in them, ❝ --- unsuspecting little morsels? ❞

[aashniarven]

✧ RAHUL

Rahul does not expect to be picked out from the crowd in the ballroom, though they are by far the most obvious standout of any attendee they have within their sights. They could hardly dress everyone else in their absolute best without showing up to outshine them all, after all. Lush purple velvet and richness in every other aspect of their attire did the trick perfectly, not to mention a grand entrance gracing everyone with their presence beside a fallen angel clad in earthly silks. Their mask was rendered useless; no one in the room with any concept of the Silver Elite could lay eyes on them and not know who they were. No matter–they hardly needed to wear one mask over another.

Now that they have made the necessary impression, they can avoid the full force of the crowd and keep to the sides instead, venturing into various rooms out of curiosity and always ending up with another drink in hand. That is the only way to survive the inevitable mundane conversations that waft through the air all around them–avoid and remedy. They did enjoy the event itself, though. As usual, they have outdone themself; everyone looks nearly divine, Red or Silver or whatever in between, and the spectacles of the ball fought hard to win attention over the sheer beauty of each guest attending. That is enough to content them, at least for now.

Thus, it is a surprise to be tugged forward, but a familiar ensemble quickly sweetens the shock of being chosen by a masked stranger. In actuality, she is no stranger at all–she is the closest thing they have to a true friend, one who understands them for more than what they project. They are two sharp minds paired with two hearts that beat in time.

“I am pleased. I believe I am being swept off my feet,” they quip, amusement plain in their voice though the smile beneath their mask is small, barely noticeable. “You and you alone shall get a dance tonight, it seems.” As always, Prisha had all but demanded to stand out in the crowd even when her features would be rendered inconsequential–they had complied and now they are unable not to admire their handiwork. She has always been something starkly otherworldly. They have always been ready for her. “Lead me away to the floor, Casanova.”

      She has rolled the dice and chosen well, for the person second only to her brother in her dearest heart stands before her. They are dressed impeccably of course, for how could they not be? And it is thanks to Rahul that Prisha, too, is decked in finery. More than that, however, they are the reason for the smile creasing her cheeks and allowing the edges of her mask to press small lines into her skin. It’s the most comfortable thing in the world to slide her hand into theirs and entreat them into a dance. They’ve even done so before in the middle of their workspace, just to gauge how a dress will move. 

      Prisha pretends to be awestruck even as she knows they don’t prefer to dance tonight. It’s been obvious ever since she witnessed their twin heading for the door, not quite dressed for an event. Conspicuous, even, but she won’t badger about it. That’s the thing about her and Rahul --- she allows them the space they need and comes in for the kill when the emptiness gets too much. The last thing on earth they’d need in a friend is someone oppressive. Possessive, yes, she can be. If they deigned to call another their best friend, she may yet need to kill that person. But the day has not come.

      ❝ A dance with my favorite partner is worth thrice with any other, ❞ she teases, twirling in an elegant little spin. Apart, they are fanciful and perhaps alien, but when they come together? They are a whirlwind of fantasy, a dream that those around them could only hope to match. Prisha lives for feelings like this, being caught up in the world and spiraling back out again. And if it brings a small star to eyes that were previously dejected? She can’t help but admire that as well. ❝ Consider yourself swept, my liege. ❞

      They move in a graceful tandem, her footsteps complimenting theirs, yet the routine is rote, with none of their usual flare. ❝ The theatrics are more personal tonight, it seems. ❞ In a move that is designed to leave others guessing, Prisha brushes her fingertips against the cut of their jaw, a reassurance without being an overbearing or lingering one. ❝ Did you see what the eldest Lady Laris was wearing? No possibility that came from you. Or anyone with any sort of eye for angles. ❞

[aashniarven]

DATE ✧ april 15th. TIME ✧ after sundown. LOCALE ✧ near the dance floor. AVAILABILITY ✧ anyone. 

     Even as she hides her identity between a three-quarter mask, there is an elegance to her walk that belies the delicacy of her bones --- she stalks the room with the sensuous grace of a hunting cat. Elegance and luxury trail from her neck to her toes, dressed in something bold and flattering. The attentive but curious looks she receives from guests send pleasant tingles down her spine, an affirmation of what she already knows --- she is beautiful, and more than that, she is bright. Prisha Arven was meant for the eyes of others as much as her own.

     In all honesty, after the first hour with her mask off, attending to the visitors to her room, she’s grown bored and ventured into warmer waters. There’s something terrifying about being stripped of your natural defenses, and Prisha knows this about those who avoid the room. She takes note of their names nonetheless, filtering them into the back of her mind as people who refuse to face the unknown. How would they feel, she muses, if she were to take it from them anyway? It would be so easy, in this crowd full of people, to avoid detection.

     She slams the lid shut on that thought not for fear of retribution, but for her devotion to doing this right. Crownstrial is a means to an end, but more than that, it is a means to her people. Those she’s killed for, fought for, bled for. Prisha mustn’t pluck the roses before they’ve bloomed. Instead she will need to nurture them, to grow them and prune them of each individual thorn, until they are ripe and soft for the taking. She sets her sights on a new goal, something with a little more charm: finding a playmate.

     There are so many delicious options to choose from, and the night is yet young. Selecting at random, she extends a hand, all fine bones and arching grace. Her neck is held high as a swan, her mask all cream and feathers. ❝ A dance? ❞ she asks, before falling into a gentleman’s bow. Whomever is on the other end, it matters not; the hand she takes is raised to her lips, a chaste gesture of charm and civility. ❝ If it pleases you, of course. ❞