The annual masquerade ball was always a highlight of the social calendar. Partygoers
coalesced from across the seven kingdoms to rub shoulders in the taboo excitement of
not knowing who one another truly were. The disguises at the gala extended well
beyond facial coverings, with glamours and costumes that concealed, covered, faked,
glowed, and shone incandescantly.
The Sleet Queen bucked the trend and wore the same getup every year, a
figure-hugging grey dress with a slit from floor to hip, with a blizzard localised
entirely around her shoulders and head. She didn’t go in for concealing her identity,
to her there was nothign less than pretending to be someone else, except for
pretending to be no one. A strong opinion, unsurprising from one accustomed
to the solid walls of glaciers and the rock-hard permafrost of the Farthest
North.
At least one trickster everyt year attempted to copy the Sleet Queen, but none
had the practice at conjuring such self-contained storms,. most either managed
nought but an insufficient, soft, and revealing snow fall or were taken ill from the
chilling effects of their sub-par portable enchantments.
Two arrivals, announced only as ”The Twins”, flowed into the room, thei rbodies
looking like quicksilver automatons, but where one would expect the visage of a
machination, there was only a plain, featureless mastk of polished reflection. By a
trick of refraction and sorcery the masks didn’t warp the reflection of those staring
into them, so you ended up with the distinct impression of talking to a self that you
were constantly interrupting.
You couldn’t trust a being wearing a normal half-face mask to be who you
suspected either, even those who opted to blend into the crowd wore glamours to
change their body shape, the color of their hair and skin, or even their entire
history.
One reveller arrived in nothing but a crystal veil. While differing levels of
nudity were not unusual and often encouraged, onlookers quickly realised
every facet of the mask reflected not just the eventgoers’ true faces, but
stripped them of their social pretences too. With naked emotions and raw auras
on such vivid display the newcomer was politely but firmly told to exeunt
until they could divest themselves of their mask and find a more suitable
replacement.
Once all the partygoers had arrived (a strict, doors closed after the thirteenth
stroke of midnight curfew was in effect), games and dancing and more flew into full
swing. The bacchants at this affair didn’t go in for modesty or half-hearted attempts
at restraint, and the actions behind those locked doors are of legend, never spoken of
afterwards, and never committed to paper or parchment, not even here by your
sated, content narrator.
If you wish to attend one year, you’ll need two coins, not yet minted, and five corvid feathers, willingly given. Sleep with them under your pillow and if you’re lucky, on the third night you’ll be gifted a dream, a dream of a night you will never forget.