[Closed]Room K - Gathering from Festivities

Kalika was right to assume there was a beast lurking within Yoko. It had taken years to accumulate and grow- centuries even. It fed off Yoko’s misery ever since she was a ‘child’. It’s first meal was when Yoko realized everyone around her was aging. Her friends grew and matured while she stayed a small girl. It was maddening. Though her physical form grew slowly, her mental growth was normal- perhaps even a tad bit faster because of the thing she had become. The second meal came when Vermis tore her away from familiar faces. Time and time again she’d make friends only to be snatched away. On rare occasions she’d sneak back to find her friends were married and had children… while she remained a child. She wanted so badly to go greet them, to hold their hand and reminisce about the past, but doing so would’ve been her death. She also wished to age as them… to have a simple life and die in peace with the belief that her miniscule life meant something.

Most of Yoko’s life was full of misery and anguish. The final string broken wasn’t until recently, making her the ‘delightful, innocent, and serene’ woman before everyone. It was something Yoko herself despised and was once fearful of. How could a being so innocent be so evil? She lured lovers into traps only to eat or torture them. She had slaughtered families for the sake of pleasure and out of bets with Mavrik. Her and Mavrik had waged battles with one another as commanders and soldiers which created some of the bloodies tragedies in history known to man. There was indeed a monster in her… slithering around in her being, feeding off her misery and misery caused by her, never rearing its head unless there was lunch just around the corner. It was so close to consuming her, but some pesky glimmer of ‘light’ stood in its way from achieving its goal. ‘Light’ that had been embedded in her by shamans and monks…. All of which was a story for another day.

Yoko half carried-half dragged the Puppeteer down the hall. Her ears listened to the clicking of Kalika’s heels. When that sound stop, so did she. Along the way, her eyes had been wandering around the halls in a feeble attempt to memorize where to go if she wanted to go somewhere. A poster had caught her attention, but she didn’t have much time to read it: “A Night Out… Down by the Lake”. Those violet orbs often looked to the Puppeteer as well. What was he doing to make him unconscious like this? A disapproving frown forced her lips to curl down. Poor thing. It never occurred to Yoko that this whole thing might’ve been a setup, but why would these people want to dispose of her so quickly? Surely they knew nothing of her.

Yoko waited in silence as Kalika worked to unlock the door. This Deathwish. Surely there was something to gain from her, but what would she do with it? Yoko had no enemies or villages to turn unleash this power ramped upon… Not yet, anyway.

“Grazie.” She purred in a delicious Italian accent as she walked past the Kalika and into her room. The red light that illuminated her room peaked her interest, but she kept quiet. Kalika had revealed a lot of secrets to her. It was best not to try her luck in prying for more. Casually she wandered into Kalika’s room and obediently dropped the Puppeteer on the bed before turning to Kalika. Her violet eyes inspected the fruit for a moment before her friendly smile spread across her face. “It was a pleasure, Kalika. I would advise you to do the same.” Yoko bowed before the woman before turning her back on the monster and heading for the door.

“And Kalika?” Yoko called from over her shoulder, not sparing the woman a second glance. “Do be careful.” With that said, the pyre opened the door and slipped out of Kalika’s grasp. Was Yoko’s final words a threat? A premonition of things to come? Or a simple gesture of concern?

Only time will tell.

[Exit]

The journey from ball room to the bedroom suite was one the Puppeteer would not recall. It would be no wonder if he could find his way back to the place where he had passed out from exertion. Slumped against Yoko as she hauled him through the halls, the Puppeteer never stirred and scarcely made a sound. Only on occasion, when she shifted him to keep his limp form from slipping from her grasp, did a soft groan leak from his lips. The final noise that escaped him was a groan as Yoko heaved him onto the bed. Sadly, due to his untimely faint, he would not even know the girl who had aided him by bringing him to Kalika’s room to rest.

After the door had swung shut behind Yoko, the Puppeteer still remained unconscious, but he had at least moved. The man no longer laid upon his back but had shifted onto his side, head lulled on a pillow. The cushion knocked his top hat further askew than usual, though it remained on his head despite the awkward slant. His cane though was gone, forgotten in the ball room, though it would be little trouble for him to summon it to himself again upon waking. Though actually waking seemed to be a challenge for the exhausted man.

The mirthful cackle that Kalika loosed elicited only a small groan from the resting Puppeteer, his dreaming disturbed by a sound he was unfamiliar with while in the presence of the Unseelie woman. The sound set him on edge, sleeping body tensing. Once her fit of laughter had subsided, so did the tautness in his muscles. Unaware of the devious plans developing in Kalika’s mind, the Puppeteer lay on the bed, sleeping soundly, the picture of vulnerability.

Just as before, the clicks of her heels upon the floor didn’t cause him to stir as she approached him. When she flicked his top hat though, his face scrunched from the disturbance. Her first attempt at wresting the hat from his head earned her no reward other than a soft, tortured groan leaking from his lips and a pained expression on his face as the hat, fastened by tiny strings wound into his hair, refused to budge. Upon ceasing, his face relaxed and he fell quiet again until she tried again. On her subsequent attempts though, the strands woven into his brown nest of hair detached themselves and freed the hat from his head. Even after the removal of his hat, he slept soundly—perhaps even better as he rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position.

It was a few hours before the man, still clad in his suit, though it was wrinkled from having slept in it, finally roused. A yawn split his lips and his eyes squeezed shut over his cavernous mouth. Afterwards, his lips smacked together and he opened one eye and then the other, blinking them in slowly until his vision cleared. “Ugh, what a headache,” he grumbled, lifting a hand to his temple. Nimble fingertips rubbed at the side of his head for a few seconds. “Would you fetch me a glass of water, Kalika?” he requested, his voice little more than a coarse, quiet croak.

The man’s fingers fell away from his head as he sat up and looked around the room. In an instant, he knew where he was, but how he had returned to their suite was still a mystery to him. The man knew nothing of a young vampiress’s intervention. With a glance down his body, he sneer at the wrinkles that dared to mar his perfectly tailored suit. Exerting his powers once more, he banished the unwelcome creases. An instant after the task was finished, he groaned and fell back on the bed, clutching at his forehead once more. “…Perhaps, that wasn’t such a good idea,” he complained.

By the time that Kalika had returned with the requested glass of water in hand, the Puppeteer had sat up and propped his back against the headboard. “Thank you,” he murmured as he accepted the refreshment. Already, his headache was beginning to dissipate and luckily for him, only a ghost of the former pain lingered. Closing his fingers tightly around the glass, the beads of condensation on its surface tickled his skin with a gentle chill. The Puppeteer lifted the beverage and took a few slow sips. A soft sigh passed through his lips afterwards. “Much better.”

He turned to Kalika, a small smile splitting his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I would have thought you were concerned about my well being. But surely, you must just have more tasks for me to complete and you were worried about having to do them yourself instead.” One corner of his lips twitched further in a smirk as he looked up at her. The expression was quickly concealed behind the foggy rim of the glass as the Puppeteer took another drink.

For a few minutes, the Puppeteer sat on the bed in silence, sipping at his water, watching Kalika as the curved edge of the glass eclipsed her. Finally, he had drained the contents of the vessel and he set it down on the nightstand or whatever manner of furnishing waited beside the bed for just such a use. “Well, I suppose you’re going to want some manner of a costume, hm? Something a little more substantial then that glamour you keep using to fool everyone.” As he spoke, the tailor’s gaze traveled the room, seeking something he’d lost. When his hat finally came into view, he snapped his fingers and it leapt into the air, crossing whatever chasm it needed to, to land, slightly askew, atop his head. Another snap, and his cane disappeared from the ball room floor where it had fallen when he had collapsed—though he did not yet summon it to himself.

An amused chuckle slipped from the Puppeteer’s lips when he heard her response. “Of course not, silly me,” he added with a light shake of his head as he pressed a hand, fingers splayed, to his chest. “I’m just a tool to you, after all, aren’t I? And I doubt you’re the kind of woman to let me outlive my usefulness.” Even though he hinted at his own death, his usual impish mirth remained carved into his features.

“Hardly a Masquerade at all!” he laughed. Despite all her devious plans, he delighted in conversation with her. Such a deliciously evil creature she was, with an underlying affection that almost bordered compassion though it could have just been possessiveness. The Puppeteer devoured every detail of her character while in her presence, wondering just what it was that made the Unseelie tick. One of the man’s thin, dark eyebrows arched into the shadows cast by the brim of his top hat as she stood and approached him, carried by the cacophony of clicks created by her heels. The other eyebrow leapt upward to join its mate when her hand whipped towards his face, only to give yet another tender touch.

“Oh, you have, have you? I hope it is simple because something tells me that your gown will border extravagant.” His gaze flicked to the side, watching as she pulled away from her lips being beside his ear. “Well, I suppose I have rested enough and could resume working.” Turning, the Puppeteer swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor with a soft thud of hard leather soles. He stood, strength having returned to his limbs, without any trouble.

The Puppeteer watched Kalika, his eyes gleaming red from the light cast by the lamp draped with crimson cloth as they peered out from the shadows of his top hat’s brim. “Oh my, compassion and a possible compliment both in one day?” he laughed, raising a hand to cover his chest. “Be still my beating heart, it must be nothing more than a clever ruse to get me to do even more work.” The corners of the Puppeteer’s lips tugged to the sides in an impish grin.

The Puppeteer’s façade faltered when the fruit tumbled from Kalika’s hand into the waste basket, only partially eaten. Sometimes, the cravings gnawed at the back of his mind and he was forced to grit his teeth to overcome them. The sight of such wasted fruit, the fragrant flesh splattering in a juicy mess at the bottom of the bin, briefly unnerved him. A second more though and he wrenched his gaze from the morsel and met her gaze.

“Yes, yes, we should be on our way. A devil’s work is never done,” he mused, clapping his hands together. His deft digits danced a moment before entwining and folding over his knuckles. Tearing his hands apart, he revealed a cats cradle of thread looped between his fingers. The netting stretched as he spread his hands further apart. The man gave a small smirk, entertained once again by his own abilities, before bringing his hands together with another clap. When his hands separated again, the threads were gone. “To the library, you said?”

As Kalika’s hand, fresh with tiny glistening crimson crescents on her palm, extended towards the Puppeteer, he cocked his head to the side. Despite the motion and the craning angle of his neck, his top hat remained perched atop his head like an ebon owl that refused to be dislodged. Within the shadows cast by its brim, the Puppeteer’s eyes twinkled. He gave her a wink from the eye that was lower from the tilt of his head.

Before her fingertips could reach him, his clothing erupted from his flesh in a cloud of strands. As dense as sooty smoke, the charcoal cloth revealed none of his pale flesh before it constricted. When the threads snapped taut, they wound themselves into a tiny ball, the man lost inside the orb, and then it shrank and vanished. The Puppeteer left Kalika to her own devices, most likely her own feet dressed in the sharp stilettos, to find her way to the library.

[Exits]