Non Sum Qualis Eram // Libertine Masquerade

[L△LIA]

[bg=F4E3AD][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i41.tinypic.com/aox4le.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-bottom:40px; border-left:1px solid #000000; border-right:1px solid #000000; border-bottom:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 25px; border-radius-bottomright: 25px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 25px; border-radius-bottomleft: 25px;opacity: 1;] Pausing to glance in an antiquated mirror propped up on shelving that may not be quite as sturdy as its job should require, I straighten the tiara encircling the paper mâché unicorn horn adorning my head. It gleams golden against my pale hair and the smile in my reflection is satisfied. Maybe even happy. That's the point of this evening, after all. For the first time in the days since I fell apart in Andros' arms on the beach, I don't feel like the past has absolute possession of me, the ghosts of my dead sisters and the Ripley boys deflected by the glitter that sparkles across every inch of my overly-exposed skin. Tonight I am royal — an unstoppably bedazzled princess unicorn — and any hint of tragedy I might still carry within me will stay hidden away behind my carefully constructed mask, because this is a night for celebration. A costume masquerade. I spent yesterday running through the streets throwing invitations around like confetti — Nessie, Kip, and I's careful hand-lettering fluttering through the air like a poetic declaration. A few people asked why and I just grinned, wondering if they knew me well enough to attend if they were asking such a silly question. Because we can. Because I don't want to wallow in my sadness. Because I'm tired of my awful little truths not staying hidden away. Because it's about time we Libertines reclaimed our lives for our own and had a little fun. There are people who think my family should lock up the doors of our pawn shop and go into mourning for all eternity, but they don't understand the way continuing to smile and laugh is a rebellion. I hope those people come. I'll be the first to ask them to dance with me. Inside these walls, no one will find our sorrows tonight. The shop's countertop has been cleared and set with food and drinks, while a scattering of tinsel was sprinkled over the shelves of unloved objects we sell until they began shining like new again. Cheap streamers twist across the ceiling and music drifts in the open windows and door from out front, where the street has been blocked off in favor of a dance floor big enough to accommodate all of District Four. Already, more people have come than what we see in our day-to-day business. No one flocked to us like this when Pen and Learna died and, now also, our visitors are not here to mourn. Neither are we.

-There is no posting order — people may come and go as they please.

-It's 100% acceptable to split off from this thread and make one-on-one threads in back rooms and such, if you would like. (The main floor of the building is the shop, the basement is a very large and messy storage room, there's a back alleyway, and I've always imagined the upper level to be the actual Libertine home with all of the living quarters.)

-All Libertines, illegitimate Libertines, Ripleys, and their associated plots/friends (Love Club, Finches, Sparrows, etc) are enthusiastically invited to attend. If you're not involved in any of these plots and are interested in joining this thread, just PM me or catch me in the cbox. If the thread isn't out-of-control busy then I'll allow a couple other people to join in or make additional threads or something. <3

[rook]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][bg=073255] k a p p a beware what lurks beneath the surface

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a crazed, perverted, manipulative murderer.

cold house, white light
yellow lamps and blackened skies
full holes in deep brown eyes
i sing you a song that i think you'll like

He handed me the invitation without even knowing who I was. My half-brother shoved the hand-written piece of paper into my shoulder bag as I walked along the docks, giving me a sideways glance as he did so. He didn't know me, he doesn't know me. But I know him. I've watched my siblings from afar. Mother punished me for it, hit me, yelled at me. Mother's gone now. Mother won't stop me from going to this masquerade. She stopped me so many times I had to put a stop to her.
I've been looking forward to it, truth be told. I enjoy the pleasantries, and I want to introduce myself to the Libertines - To try and get involved in their lives. I'm so lonely, you see, on my own. I need to be around people, talking to people. I enjoy that. It's been a while since I've talked to people. The last conversation I sustained was with those friendly Peacekeepers who came around for a chat. They were nice enough fellows, but they kept nagging about Mother and they soon became boring. So I got rid of them.
I am confident that tonight will be anything but boring. I make my way in the direction of the pawnbrokers now. I have fashioned myself a blue mask that covers the upper half of my face, leaving only my mouth and long, blonde hair. I wear a plain gray hoodie over a shirt and trousers - I contemplated dressing smart, but I didn't want to look overdressed in front of my new siblings. I want them to like me, not think me strange. The waterfront is peaceful at this time of night. Not many people come out at this hour - There are lunatics who wonder the streets, and speak of murders too. My Mother has disappeared, and one of these madmen must be behind it. Even now as I prepare myself for social activity I can spot a Missing poster with my Mother's face on it. I should know, I put it there. It's all a charade. I know exactly where she is.
There are a fair few people about in and around the Libertine Pawn Shop. The lights pick out the details in their intricate masks from afar. I make out someone in a rabbit mask, whilst another wears a patchwork wolf on their head. Most people are holding glasses filled with various colored liquids - Cloudy browns and fizzy golds, and of course ambiguous transparency. The most dangerous liquids are clear. I try not to drink. I find that I can socialize just fine without allowing my brain to be fogged. Nah, I prefer using other substances to stimulate myself.
As I head to the door I notice no one is there to collect invitations. Am I early, or are they lenient on who they let in? They should be more careful, they could have a murderer amongst them and never know. I make sure that I will keep an eye out for suspicious individuals as I head into the main floor of the shop. Tables have been arranged to give more floor space whilst also providing a place to put drinks. I notice my mask in quite bland in comparison to some of the others around. Harper is donning a rather suiting Unicorn mask, which I can't help but smile at. He looks fucking ridiculous. The freak needs to figure out his gender.
I pour myself a plastic cup of what I hope is non-alcoholic punch. I take sip and screw my face up in disappointment. My mind buzzes and I take a sigh, knowing that I will probably be drinking against my will tonight. Anything to fit in. Peer pressure, I believe they call it. As much as I don't want my head to go into a crazy version of auto-pilot, I also want my half-siblings to think I am cool. So, I take another sip and politely glance around for company. Where are all the chicks?

and we walk to places we always go
a million faces i don't know
i say the words i always hope
your heart is racing even though

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[✨ zozo.]

[presto] C A L Y P S O L E T O AND, AFTER ALL, WHAT IS A LIE? 'TIS BUT THE TRUTH IN A MASQUERADE. [/presto] TONIGHT I'm crashing a party. At least that's what Tags said we were doing as she came bounding up towards us with a piece of pretty paper clutched in her hands. A ticket for fun, glamour, a night out with my best friends - the only friends I've ever had and probably ever will. Calligraphy spilt onto the paper a request for our lovely selves to be cordially invited to attend the most extravagant ball District Four has ever seen. Recklessness screams in my veins, the hidden part of me that comes out to play whenever the trio comes forth. I twisted my mouth into a grin and played it back at my friends with cogs in my head already forming plans and ways around being caught. "Well then, girls. Let's put on a show." This evening's attire is as dark as my hair, silver linings hanging not only above my head in the clouds but across my neck, waist, chest, arms. Thread coils and spirals around me, embroidery that once hung up in my closest for a rainy day (thank goodness only the starlight falls from the darkness tonight) finally getting the spotlight it deserves. Curls fall from my head, glitter dotting my arms and legs, hours of work put into looking perfect from head to toe painted across my body. "Oh, sweetheart, you look wonderful" my Mom gushed a little too sweetly, and I scoffed back a brash "I know." She should know by now that I hate lies, especially those that drip from her mouth like sugar and make me sick to my stomach as I breathe in their overbearing fumes. The mask in my hands feels light, like the beginning of something wonderful. It's my ticket into the wonder show and my gateway out of it all at once - a means to get in and out without ever revealing who I am. Everybody's heard of the Libertines (and if you haven't, you're most likely dead - oh, too soon?) but they haven't heard of me. Perfected lies and pretty truths will fall from my mouth this evening, beginning with my identity. It fits my face nicely (Tags brought it over hours after the presented invitation, like she'd been planning this for months - it even matched my dress, the clever little mystery) and as I turn to look at the secluded version of myself I have painted for this evening the medal the Peacekeepers presented me for courage, loyalty and all things patriotic glints as it hangs next to my mirror, weighing me down without having to hand it around my neck. I don't need directions to find out where I'm going. That's the thing about Tags, Thea and I - we just sort of roam about, no set plans, and find each-other in the funniest of places. There is no destination, just the journey and the acts that come with it. The Libertine place sings of tragedy masked with petty streamers and flocks of people all with their own burdens to hide. Perhaps the Libertine kids were right in holding this lavish event. And perhaps it wasn't for them but for us: the sailors lost at sea, the shipwrecked, the lone fish blindly swimming deeper and deeper into the ocean. I part the sea carefully with a hand, pushing myself into the crowds. There are no familiar faces - and then I tsk to my own thoughts and remind myself why should their be? We are all hidden, strangers in the night ready to be opened up and discovered all over again. I scan the horizon of music, food and crazy hair-dos, looking for Taggerty's trademark explosion of curls or Thea's rhythmic dancing. And in a split-second I realise I am not part of the trio here. Nor am I a resented sister, a hero who's song has been sung a little too loudly, or even a terrible liar and an even uglier teller of truths. I'm an unknown figure, a blank canvas prettied up behind fabric and glitter, just a lone girl swimming in an ocean of foreign souls. I'd forgotten, whilst holding my breath and taking the plunge, caught up in the hustle and bustle of the dangerously secret night life, that I couldn't swim. I yell for their names against the crowd because no matter what, I know they'll always be there to haul me to shore again. template by chelsey

[cass]

The idea of the store being turned into a room filled with streamers, lights and sweating bodies was one that left a bitter taste in my mouth. The shop was my home, my lively hood and the only thing that ever seemed to keep me entertained these days. Well that and the obsessive need to go outside and scour the streets like a drunken idiot for the next lovely lady to walk into my path. That was always a pleasing experience and one that left me lying in a new house, a new body pressed against me, with lips grazing my own, and fingers running through my hair. It was odd how I was still able to find a new girl for every adventure; I had not yet run into the mistake of hitting on a girl twice. Even though I found the colours, lights and party distasteful the idea of strolling around, pressed up against the bodies of a dozen or more girls was always pleasing. More so when they were all so closely packed together, and no one knew who was touching who and you could touch anyone, anywhere. Sometimes the sneaky flick of a hand, or movement of a wrist was caught and at other times it went by unnoticed. Either way it was simple enough in itself to disappear without a second glance, face and body morphing into the rest of the pushing, tugging ball of young bodies.

And this was the only reason why I had decided to tolerate the masquerade party. It was the only reason why I had gone to the trouble of stealing a black mask to cover half of my face. It slipped past my eyes and molded to the shape of my nose. It was dark, a pool of inky shadows, and one that resembled my hair as much as my eyes did. Brown ponds swept left and right, as though hunting for their next victim. It was a daily struggle of mine whether I touch and play with a girl or if I take her home and bed her. You had to be picky. You had to choose the right ones, there were ones that were strictly out of bounds, you could tell by a glance, they were too eager. That meant they would cling to you and if you were unlucky enough they could turn into stalkers. I’d had one of those once; she had been a problem to get rid of. Then there were the girls that looked desperate, they wore tight, short dresses, so that when they bent down or did any movement that involved revealing their legs you were struck with a flash of undies that could be hardly considered as such, or legs that had been shaven so smooth that they shone in the light.

No, it was an art. It was a form of art that took practice. Years and years of practice, guessing and checking. It had taken me almost five years to get the hang of it. And sometimes I still fell short, ruining my night by a misplaced hand, kiss or word. I had become sloppy since Penelope and Learna had died. My mind was unfocused, slipping and spiralling until it focused on anything, any girl of any type. I needed to pick my act up.

Weaving my way expertly through the crowd I stopped by the edge. Breathing lightly I leaned back against the wall, eyes taking in the entire room. Looking left and right I kept a continuous eye on the girls that perked my interested, mentally scratching them off the list and adding on new ones as they played the game. My eyes flicker towards the figure of a girl that looked absolutely lost. Her mouth was wide open as though she was attempting to cry out for someone’s name, but it appeared to me that it was drowned in the noise around her. Nevertheless I grinned, teeth flashing in the pale lighting of the room. She was a very attractive girl, and one that seemed to be drowning in the mass of bodies. With mischief on mind I stroll over, easily pushing myself through the crowd until I am by her side. Without hesitating I bend town, putting my lips near her ear. Didn’t want to yell, besides this was much easier. Better way to get her attention. ”You look a little lost. Did you need a hand?” I almost purr. As ever, Kraken Libertine, the charming Samaritan.

It was always intriguing to watch how my mind worked, always thinking and doing for the wrong reasons.

OK now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you're an animal, baby, it's in your nature
Just let me liberate you
And that's why I'm gon' take a good girl
I know you want it

kraken libertine.

[florentine, d4b ❁]

[presto]

nessie libertine
fifteen
district four

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THE SEA MEETS THE LIGHT IN HIS SALT WATER EYES

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Little-girl Libertine looked into the mirror and did not shy away. Perhaps the confidence is a writhing beast that has grown in the past couple of years - instead, it might simply have stemmed from the mask she wore upon her face. It hid her from the world, and for this she was glad. Slender fingers tugged at unruly strands of crimson hair that refused to stay in place, and she eventually gave up fighting them. (It's been fifteen years and never once have they been compliant, a wild shadow of Nessie herself.) She was strangely calm; her fingers only shaking a little, the result of hours spent carefully penning invitations in smudged ink. Her costume had been discovered at the back of an ancient wardrobe, no doubt something that used to belong to Penelope or Ursula. Now, though, it would only fit the smallest of the sisters that remained. (It was better, of course, than trying to stitch something herself and finishing with bleeding fingers and a torn piece of fabric.) Her reflection promised a fierce-eyed child, her hair contrasting with the emerald glimmer of her dress. Perched upon her nose and tied with a ribbon was the mask itself, sewn in the same careful stitching as the pattern on her wings. A fairy. (At that, she was one who refused to grow up.) People stirred downstairs in the shop, an unwelcome reminder of the night to come. Fear rippled in her stomach like a restless sea, the tide unsteady. (There, faces would be hidden, and there would be nothing left to district from the soul.) Nessie swallowed, uttering stern reassurances in her mind. She would not be alone, and already she had demanded that the lighting be so dim photographs wouldn't be a problem. (Just whispers and stray glances and turned heads, but those kinds of things only followed the girl when she dared venture into the streets before nightfall - "Isn't the the Libertine girl? Poor little thing.") A glance at the clock sent a shiver down Nessie's spine - perhaps it was a little too early in the year for the dress without a jacket. Even so, she intended to be brave tonight; put aside the fears that usually plagued her, for when a costume hid her identity Little-girl Libertine could surely be anyone? She rose from the mirror without a second glance and crossed the bedroom she shared with one small brother. Still, nobody had taken away Learna's bed, despite the years that had passed since she rose for the last time. Because of the offending piece of furniture, the girl took the longer route to the door and sighed heavily. Again, she noticed, the blankets were crumpled. (Which member of the Libertines disheveled them so often?) Not bothering to set them straight, Nessie stepped out onto the landing. "Jude?" she asked, her voice a whisper. Already, the sound of footsteps was louder than her beating heart, and Nessie decided she liked it that way. Whatever could be better than a downright badly catalogued antique shop filled with wondrous wares other than one that had been decked up with tinsel and treats in order for people to spend the entire evening ignoring the people they were beneath their costumes? A slight smile lingered on rosy lips as the boy she had been waiting for appeared from the shadows, his own outfit matching hers. ("What shall we be, Jude?" "Peter and Tinkerbell, I think." And that was that.) It was with silent footfalls that Nessie made her way down the stairs, one quivering hand laced in Jude's and the other hanging slight awkwardly at her side. She carried no bag - she had told herself that she would need nothing tonight but her soul, and it was on full display in her wide, unblinking eyes. Her mind drifted to Penelope, and if she might have liked to spend a night spinning around in endless circles, dress billowing in a dainty circle of both dreams and nightmares. She would have outshone them all. Decisively, Nessie decided that it was better she was vacant. She prefered to pretend that nobody was themselves, and there could have been no denying that the most beautiful Libertine sister was there. As for Learna, Nessie did not mind. "Jude, do you think we're here because of them?" Nessie asked him, her fingers digging in a little. What she really meant was what, exactly, are we hiding from?

ICY PICTURES OF THE WATER ARE CAPTURED IN HIS FRAME

[chelsey]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 55px solid ffffff; border-right: 55px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 390px;] IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE MASQUERADE, Roger Finch would be counting stars. Less of them seemed to be out, tonight, considering that the party's lights smothered the stars' own brightness. (Blinding white lights flooded the street in front of the Libertine pawn shop; light pollution seemed to be of no concern for this family.) But, the stars were still there, of course. They never really do leave, no matter how many times the world forgets about them. The sky, the sea, and land are really no different from each other, he thinks. They all shelter some sort of treasure - the sky with its stars, the sea for its waters, and the land with its. . . parties? He doesn't know much about the Libertines, apart from their two daughters who never made it home and the fact that their loss doesn't stop him from stealing from their shop time to time (for the love of god, he's a pirate), but, when a crisp sheet of paper with scrawled ink handwriting was shoved into his hands on the dock earlier today, cordially inviting him to the Libertine's Masquerade Party, well, his family was surely never one to turn down a party. His entire costume was composed out of items he stole, some maybe even from this shop. He wore a simple suit (because the damn thing just sits in the back of his closet and in what other occasion would he actually wear it?) and a painted mask that covered half his face. Yellow stars dotted the black surface of the mask, making him also blend into the canvas of the night. After all, Roger Finch was never one to leave behind the stars. "My grandpa used to wear a suit like that!" "Oh. . . did he?" "Yeah. The pocket even had a tear right down the middle, just like yours does." "Is he here tonight?" "He's dead now." "Oh, I didn't mean to -" "No, it's alright. I wasn't really close to him, anyway. It's crazy though, we buried him in that suit. I almost thought that you were actually wearing it, but the only way that's possible is if somebody dug him out of his coffin and stole it from his grave. Crazy thought, huh?" "I got the suit from here, actually. The pawn shop." "Maybe he walked out of his grave himself just so he could sell it to those damn Libertines. He did love money, even in his death. I wouldn't be surprised. And your mask? What are those, polka dots?" "Stars." "Ah. I see." "And your mask. . . It's, um, a, uh - " "It's a gas mask." Even if the stranger couldn't see her smile, Dorothea Day grinned widely at him. She could only see the squint of his eyes, and the twitch of his upper lip, but that was enough to make her feel all the more satisfied with her otherwise somber costume. "Yeah, that. I like it." "Thanks, me too." Thea wasn't much for talking to strangers (she wasn't much for talking at all, really) but the guy did make her question the whereabouts of her grandfather's corpse, but the mere idea of someone grave robbing him of a suit and selling it the Libertines was such a preposterous idea that she brushed it out of her mind. Besides, her friends, Caly and Tags, were as lost to her in this sea of masks as life was to her grandfather, and she might as well make some good with it, while she could. Parties weren't her usual way of passing the time, but when her father asked her to take the shift in the mortuary tonight, scheduling funerals and preparing corpses for their burials, she decided against her better judgment and followed the sound of heels clicking pavements, music trembling windows, and laughter cracking masks. Besides, how could she ever live with herself if she passed up a chance to wear an actual gas mask in public? "So, are you a friend of the Libertines?" "No, I choose not to associate myself with broken people. You?" "I'm not a friend, either, but probably not for the same reasons." "Fair enough. Speaking of friends, have you seen a Caly or Tags around here, lately?" "A, um. . . a what?" "Never mind, I've gotta go. It was nice conversing with ya, Mister Polka Dots." "It's Finch." "Like the bird?" "Yeah." "Well, Finch, it was nice. Enjoy those stars!" "Thanks, uh, -" "It's Thea. Just Thea."

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[gamemaker kelsier]

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[/left]His breath comes shuddering and slow, uncertainly yet permanently there. Are you now, Judy boy? He thinks he is, that he might be finely alright. It’s taken some time, a lot of running away, and a lot of running back. He’s felt a bit abandoned, see. Like, a lighthouse that has been left to be eaten by the tide. His brothers have all left him behind, even Nino, who hates him now. Nino, who once was a chubby little three year old with sticky fingers and the biggest grin on his face one might ever see. Now his most often expression was a scowl, and most often it was directed at Jude. Jude had succeeded in causing more damage. Soon, hopefully, the Ripley name would wash away with the tide and they'd become a ghost story. If he had known what was to become of them all, he might have laid himself down in the waters and let the waves take him away. He'd haunt the waves, and use them as stepping stones.

He’d wanted to, it was evident enough by the scars still thick on his wrists, made by one quick tug of the knife each. Fitfully, he tugs at the vines that now wrap around his wrists, up his arms. Nessie, once they had decided their costumes had insisted on the leaves and the pointed hat, a feather of an albatross long and thin and sticking out. He doesn’t like how bare he feels in the clothes of a boy who never grew up. He knew the costumes had been his idea, but now it seemed almost morbid. His brothers were just boys after all. They’d never grow up either. He tries to imagine Nino in the corner of the Libertine’s room that he changes in, and fails. He thinks of Fitz instead. They haunt him tonight, just as they do every night, as they always have done since they left him. It should be me in the ground, we all know that. Every time he dug up a grave now, he thought the next face he would see would be one of theirs, staring back at him, an accusatory look on their faces.

He didn't know what he could offer them as an explanation. What does one say to the corpses of his dead brothers? Jude had become tongue tied every time he even looked at the headstones. His fingers skittered, looking for a surface to escape onto, but he didn't carry a pen anymore. He didn't allow himself to draw. He had a pocket full of plain paper bags, and maybe that was one of the things that was slowly managing to kill him. If it was, he was glad for it because over these last three years he'd become tired. He was tired of pretending that he was all alright all the time, tired of pretending to be something he hadn't been for years now. He'd begun to argue with the voices inside his head more often, more openly. He could be found talking to himself, walking along the beach, looking gaunt and horrifyingly old.

He'd been offered a passage twice now by the man who dealt in death, and the only reason he hadn't accepted was because Nessie Libertine had her small hand wrapped up in his. He didn't know if she had ever noticed the bandages that had wrapped themselves around his wrists, he wondered if she did and chose to ignore them. Either way he couldn't blame her. He was not ashamed of them, he did not feel the pain of them, they were just there in the most matter of fact way, and now they were healing.

With a soft sigh, he placed a small, bird shaped mask upon his face, the nose a slightly pointed beak. He stared for a moment at his hunched expression, and tried to carefully straighten his back. Tonight he did not look like Jude Ripley, but like any other youth that had found their way to this party. In that sense he held a sort of freedom in his grasp. As if it took great amounts of effort, the tiniest playful grin lifted up the corners of Jude's mouth. He tried to make it reach his eyes, but he wasn't sure if they would ever get there again. Turning away, he moved out onto the landing, waiting for his Tinkerbell to emerge as well so they could go down together. Their age difference had stopped bothering him ages back. She was younger yes, and he was older. He could wait for one hundred years for her to be ready for him, until then, she would be his anchor.

"Jude?"

He drinks her in, and cannot help comparing her to his best friend that died what seems like eons ago. Pen was beautiful in so many ways, but he can see it in the rosy cheeks and the tumbling hair. Nessie Libertine will grow up to be even more beautiful, her growth stimulated by grief. Without speaking, he took her hand, folding his much larger one around her smaller one, as if to protect her, although she'd been the one taking care of him in her unnoticing, small ways. At her question, he hummed softly, low notes sifting in the air before his thoughts finally settled. They stared at the top of the crowd, and it occurred to him that his brothers, Learna, Pen, they could all be here. If he shut his eyes, he could almost pick their laughter up from the crowd. Opening them, he smiled that soft, playful smile again, "I think so Nessie. They'd be upset if we didn't come." Shall we go find them?

He pulled her into the crowd.

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[✨ zozo.]

[presto] C A L Y P S O L E T O THE BOISTEROUS SEA OF LIBERTY IS NEVER WITHOUT A WAVE. [/presto] I AM PANICKING. Which is stupid, and silly, and not the right thing to do at all in a situation like this. Weaknesses are what get you killed. I am strong and independent and logical, I think things through. I do not run into things with a battle cry, guns blazing with a big red target painted into my chest. No, I plan things ahead, think things through, scoop my friends out of danger with quick words and even quicker intellect. People swarm around me and I am caught up in their currents, tossed around by the music and foreign faces (or rather, hidden faces) and am out of control. Until somebody grabs my hand. They've found me. Without a doubt, without a second thought, I whirl around and beam at my saviours. My friends, my best friends, three girls I love with all my heart whom I have dragged out of the deep end and saved from trouble so many times - they are finally here to return the favour. Although I am not greeted with Thea's mischievous smile or Tag's mane of electric curls. I am caught off-guard, swept from underneath my feet by my wary consciousness like a lone sailor in a storm. The hidden face I am presented with is half-covered, holding my hand a little too tightly, burning my skin. It hurts. My face falls at the stranger's touch, barely able to wrench it away, freezing as his breath find my ear and whispers into my skeleton. ”You look a little lost. Did you need a hand?” Libertine. Trouble in the form of a family. They are dangerous folk, dabbling in the shallows of crime. Or at least so I've been told by whisperings and rumour around the District. (Rumours are stupid and silly but I thrive off any points of note that Peacekeepers nudge my way.) Either way, the Libertines are most utterly unlucky, perishing one by one in fate's terrible hand. Nobody dares to associate themselves with them - save for the Ripley boys - in fear of being swallowed by the tidal wave that hangs over them too. I wonder then, after that thought, why so many people are here. Perhaps the Libertines wish to loose themselves in a sea of people so large that they too are swept away from - what clever folk they are. Tragically unlucky, of course, but clever nonetheless. But this Libertine has his own sense of danger, one that makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand rigid, on-edge. My blood freezes in my veins, air catching in my throat, caught unaware by this sinister being. And it makes me furious. It takes only a moment, a blink of my eyes, a slight stutter in my voice to regain my composure, to remind myself who I was (strong, independent, fierce, brave) and yank back my hand in disgust, slapping the bare side of his face with a force so strong it cracks and sends ripples through the crowd. "I'm just fine - pity you couldn't lend a hand to your poor baby sister, right Libertine?" Now my whole arm is on fire from the force of my blow and my palm screeches from the friction, and my pulse races like I am caught in a dream with no safe way out of my slumbers. I hope my words of warning scorch his heart more than my hand against his cheek did - and then I flee, desperate to be rid of the monster deep within the ocean that tried to steal me away, feet as fast as my pounding heartbeats. template by chelsey

[L△LIA]

[bg=454545][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i41.tinypic.com/aox4le.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border-left:1px solid #000000; border-right:1px solid #000000; border-top:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-topright: 25px; border-radius-topright: 25px; -moz-border-radius-topleft: 25px; border-radius-topleft: 25px;opacity: 1;] The cracking echo of a slap splits the air like a gunshot and — just as violently — it becomes the trigger for my own laughter. I can't help it. Most days my older brother is so sickeningly smooth, an oil spill of lascivious intentions staining the District, that it's gratifying to see him rejected for once and with such entertaining grandiose! I believe the word for my smile right now is schadenfreude. A fit of giggling tumbling out my lungs at his expense, I stumble in distraction and collide with the nearest guest of our little soiree, reaching up to hold onto his shoulder for support as I absolutely lose it. What I don't hear doesn't hurt me, her cruel retort drowned out by my own cackling, ignorant that Kraken wasn't the only Libertine she attacked just now. "Did you —" Gasping for breath between words, I turn to the blue-masked stranger I'm leaning into as I point shamelessly at the aftermath of my brother's simultaneous humiliation and abandonment. "— see that?" My voice arcs in amusement, despite the way this party was originally intended for my family's enjoyment. Harmless, petty details. It's easy to forget such a small thing when witnessing your sibling getting his greasy touch thrown back into his face in a spectacularly unexpected moment of karma. "Darling!" Jumping up onto my toes, I attempt to wave over the crowd at the departing girl before she slips away completely, yelling after her as though we're best friends and always have been. Maybe we can have tea together tomorrow. "You're my hero!" Bringing my hands together in a slow clap, I applaud the moment and redirect my words to her victim. "You have such fabulous taste, Kraken. I like her already! When are you bringing her over for dinner? She should meet the family immediately." My tone takes on an air of frivolous sarcasm, casually floating past my lips to turn a dance in time with the music, as though choreographed. "Don't you just think —" Conversationally, I turn back the masked blonde beside me, as though we are also suddenly close friends. "— those two are perfect for each other? I couldn't have matched them better myself."

[rook]

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What a fucking prick.
He barges into me without so much as an apology and I'm forced to lean into him to keep myself upright. His laughter is high-pitched and hysterical.
"I'm so sorry, are you okay?" I steady him. I want to punch him.
His laughter continues, a finger points towards a couple who are both red faced and at the center of attention. I take the opportunity to see who the stranger is. I almost smile when I realize. Who else but the fucking gender bender?
We came from similar gene pools, that much is obvious. The same blonde hair, the same lips, same height. My unmistakable doppelgänger isn't fooling me with his mask. I know my half-brother when I see him, but does he know me? He's never met me before. Harper Libertine has no idea that a whole group of his illegitimate brothers and sisters are creeping into his life. I am here in peace, but others are lurking beneath black masks and false smiles. I know them, I know their game, but I say and do nothing. Who am I to interfere? Harper's enthusiasm highlights his oblivion. This isn't to say that I can't get to know him a little better. Mother always told me not to talk to the Libertines, especially Harper. I have that freedom now. Yeah, now that she's dead in the water.
I have to say, the incident between my dear half-brother Kraken and the mystery masked girl wasn't one I got a great view of. I was politely pushing my way through to the punch bowl to get a small glass of punch. The alcohol is minimal and the tiny amount I've had does very little to cloud my brain. I'm happy with staying sober - I can be awfully rude when I'm drunk, and that's not how I like to seem. It's just who I really am. Alcohol unleashes me.
Kraken's face is red, and not just because he's been slapped, I suspect. Harper shouts something out to the mystery girl and makes more of a fool of himself than he gives credit for. I have to admire his confidence, and seeing him close up like this is really giving me a new insight into what branch of the family tree I come from. I'm certainly not flamboyant like Harper, nor am I particularly confident, but we definitely look similar. I purse my lips as Harper's rude shouting continues and my right hand tightens around my plastic cup ever so slightly, so that my fingers make indents in it. Disrespectful little shit.
I almost miss his question, but when I turn to face him I wear no expression of confusion - my face lights up with a friendly smile. My aqua blue eyes shimmer through the darker blue of my mask. "I'm afraid I'm not acquainted with them. They do seem to be airing their dirty laundry in public, though." I realize that Kraken could have been hitting on this mystery girl, "Or aren't they a couple?". They could be fuck buddies for all I care.
It comes to my attention that I am being rude. I've not quite introduced myself to Harper, and neither he to I. Hesitantly I hold out my hand to shake. I am careful not to use my real name, either. This is a mystery masquerade, after all.
"I'm Kappa. I take it you're one of the Libertine children?" I ask, knowing full well the answer. It is common courtesy to ask, and not to assume.

i thought i found a way to enter
it’s just a reflektor
i thought i found the connector
it’s just a reflektor

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