Private Tales The Leonine High of Summers Gone

[Casio Cassienda]

Casio sucked in the midnight air: autumnal smoke from hearthfires spread across the residences, oil and murk of mudflats about the scattered canals, hints of sweat and laborers' toils. It smelled of Alliria. The simple pleasures of home.

A matter of weeks had separated him from the city. Several tasks at the behest of lesser Councilors culminating in a skirmish at the bank of the Sayve led to him chasing false lead upon barren trail. These politicians played at most unsubtle games.

Casio arrived back in his gardenside estates with the sun meeting its twilit peak on the heels of a missive dictating his presence in the city proper. They gave him barely the breath to rinse the dust from his greaves before siccing their loyal hound out on the hunt once more.

The hour disgusted him, an expression hid in the cowl of his silk and velvet finery. Golden curls laid precisely about his shoulders, combed from his eyes and set to leave the pointed tips of his ears in prominence. Several bands of jeweled silver shone there, the centerpiece of his courtly accoutrement. He walked with a decorative cane, hip lighter for the lack of its customary sheath.

Carrying the weight of exhaustion, he made leisure toward a shaded veranda sequestered between a number of the city's villas. A niche was carved for it there, fashioning a theme after the western bazaars. Aglow in laternlight that filtered from an encirclement of carriages, a number of lavish figures made patronage of the locale. They left drivers and body servants to linger off to the side, favoring an affect of laughter and wine from behind a hedge drawn partition.

Should he believe the missive tucked into a pocket of his overcoat, a lead to the relics he sought attended this gathering.

He entered the area, the leather of his shoes clicking soft against marbled walkways.

A pair of wringing hands, each digit ringed, approached him.

"My lord," the man said, all saccharine obsequiousness and bobbing bows. A stooped back swathed in off-white linens pressed fresh for the occasion. The man's chin was drawn to reveal pouches of sagging flesh, perfumed to a point that it almost disguised the froth of fear radiating from its bearer.

"The theme tonight is masks, my lord. If it pleases you."

Casio nodded, absent the contempt that otherwise itched at his tongue.

"Fetch one for me," he said, continuing past to join the gathering. He offered a survey of them, picking out groups and noting those whose gazes lingered back.

 

[Keres]

In the heart of the opulent masquerade, Keres moved with an alluring grace, a dark aura draped in a black bodice dress that clung to her form like shadows. An intricate lace mask framed her glistening dark eyes and disguised the swollen bruise on her cheekbone. Raven hair was pulled up with some rebellious tresses left to fray around her pale face and tickle at her bare shoulders, and a bold stroke of red lipstick served the only stark flash of colour against the monochromatic elegance.

The soirée was not merely a spectacle of mystic arts for Keres; it was a golden opportunity to transform curiosity into distraction, a chance to weave a tapestry of illusion and thievery. Her nimble fingers traced patterns in the air as she moved, anticipation coursing through her veins like a dark melody, reveling in the dance of both the living and the dead.

The patrons, oblivious to the shadow moving among them, were engrossed in their own games of intrigue and deception—perfect conditions for Keres to work her dual performance. The stolen loot accumulated, a silent tribute to Keres's adept skills. As she continued to navigate the dance of shadows and deception, she left behind a trail of empty spaces where once glittering jewels had held court. Entertainment, indeed. For Keres, the masquerade was a stage, and the stolen treasures were the applause that echoed in the recesses of her shadow-laden existence.

She sensed his eyes on her, the noble scoundrel who had hired her for to be here after having witnessed her display of extraordinary gifts three nights prior. He’d saw in her, and opportunity. One that came with a rather handsome reward, in that he would not hand her over to the authorities after discovering his pocket clock gone following their discussion..

Lord Bartholemew Brannus was her target, a superstitious man enamored by the unusual.

She was busy entertaining a small group of women who had surrounded her like a clutch of babbling hens around breakfast. Keres skillfully entertained their questions, 'Can you speak to my mother, does she watch over me?...' 'My sister, what news has she for me?' ...'Tell me of my late husband, and where he's hidden his.. assets'... Keres didn't always feel the need to lie, especially when there was entertainment enough in the truth. The spirits truly did speak through her, and they were always there. Always. She could not always see them, but there was always that cold chill on the back of her neck, slipping down her spine like ice as the voices of dead strangers whispered through her mind.

News spread of her talents, and soon Lord Brannus came to her, hooked on the line she had cast. "Lord Brannus," she greeted him with a small smile.

'Ah, Barty, my son. How proud I am of your accomplishments.' The dead man spoke to her..

"Have we met?" his brow furrowed.

"Sadly not, but your father announced your presence."

The mention of his father caught Lord Brannus off guard, and he took her arm, leading her to a seat, intrigued and uneasy. Keres, adept in the art of deception, whispered the pet name "Barty," as she sat, causing him to stiffen—good, it was an uncommon address for him.

"Your father bids you warning, My Lord," she spoke in hushed tones, her dark eyes filled with apparent concern. The chill in the air grew colder as she conveyed a foreboding message. The atmosphere shifted.

'Liar. Wretched little liar..'

"There is an artefact, one that you recently added to your collection, a trinket with dark spirits bound to it. Death comes for whomever possesses it," she continued, feigning distress as she examined his hand, gasping as if seeing an unseen mark. Lord Brannus paled, his anxiety mounting.

"What do you see? Tell me, girl."

'Witch! Deceitful, loathsome lying witch..' Keres didn't need to fake the shudder that ran through her, nor how short her breaths had become, now visible as silvery plumes on the frigid air that enveloped her.

"I'm afraid it may be too late," she whispered.

"I'll destroy it as a matter of urgen--" he started.

"No..No, destroying it will only make your death certain." Death was always certain. "You must bury it, the great elm, by the river. You must bury it within the roots where the spirits cannot escape." she told him with urgency. "You must do so tonight, before the moon reaches its apex." What a lot of absolute nonsense.
'Rotten, blackhearted, foul little witch. They should have burned you.'

Keres wanted to roll her eyes, but feigned panic and rose to her feet, stepping away from Barty. The deceitful warning played on his fears, leaving him bewildered and vulnerable. As Keres turned away, she paused, looking back over her shoulder with a small frown.

"And, you should know that your father is proud of the man you've become, Lord Brannus." she nodded, and hurried away. Her gaze snagged on the man in the fox mask and the sly smile to match as he gave her a sharp dip of his chin as a job well done.

It was as she moved toward the door that she felt another set of eyes, and met them, her head tilting with intrigue despite the unease she felt. There was something most definitely strange about the man with the golden hair, and she was nothing if not curious of mystery. Perhaps, she could stay a while longer..

 

[Casio Cassienda]

Another step set Casio over the threshold and into the halls of grace. The noise which previously assailed him grew rapturous here: echoed peels of laughter broke conversation, doubling refrains of introduction and social scripts that flaunted propriety. Wore it, bared as a blade so bright in the midnight masquerade.

Those gathered made little effort in their aversion to him. His face was known, and he carried a militant writ about his brow. They shied from him, coalescing in tidy groups with shoulders hunched in mockery of battle rendered palisades.

Small amusements. He could find pleasure in those. They laid bare their proclivities to him, faces crouched in shadow as though he might know them from but the slope of their spines. Clever. Almost. He read much from their posture, noted man whose names christened the list that lay crumpled in his breast pocket. Those in the cloth cut of noble stock he bequeathed a second glance toward. A promise to divine whether they merited such scrutiny.

More, he counted the rings. Jeweled bands saw favor in the Allir Court's disposition, and those who sought to curry the attention of their betters wore them atop laced gloves. Mostly silver here, with the occasional gilt glistering through the dross. Sapphires, emeralds, stones native to the Nordenfir mines; imports all.

A hunched spine chittered near, head bowed to avoid meeting Casio's gaze. Flinching arms held a tray atop which sat a velvet pillow that beheld his requestioned goods.

Begloved fingers plucked the mask from its proffered tray. A wire-wrought thing woven of fine silver and gold, it left wide gaps for the eyes and room for flesh to peek through. Gaudy, yet lacking in ornamentation about its facade, it played a fine joke. Where others strutted in befeathered masks and flowing, cowled neckwear, they had fetched him instead a piece yet unfinished. A piece approaching insult tactfully, lacking only in follow-through.

He slid it onto his face, letting the fans of his hair pull against the frame and rest in plumes atop his forehead. His lips drew a thin line, ghosting near a smile that curled from beneath the wires; several managed to cloy at his skin, set negligent barbs that spoke to the artisanry of the thing.

It was there he felt the pull of another's eyes, line cast out to tug at the periphery of his attention. He allowed it to catch him, turned his chin to follow and lock his gaze upon its owner. On this particular eve, in the heart of the garden district, few dared so bold an address.

Succumbing to curiosity, he made direct his approach, lifting a pair of errant goblets from a passing tray.

"You are no stranger to such attentions," he said, offering one of the goblets. He looked to their contents; decanted wine of a vintage he held no providence over. Fitting, then.

As an afterthought, he added, "You may address me 'Casio' and forgo overtures of formality. I would have yours in return."


Keres