~The Blackheart Masquerade 2020 ~ Closed
-:The Grim Reaper:-
He enter and greated the Hostess. He had on a large costume that was nothing but bone with a skull mask and a shroud. He had a hour glass around his neck. He let the bouncer take his sythe and he his glowed red under the shroud. He wondered around the room as he went to the bar and ordered a set of Zombie Slime Shooters and some Soul Cakes. He would wait for more to enter before heading to the dance floor.
The Ghost
Wearing a hooded grey robe with grey shoes, black clawed gloves and white tattered drapes layered over the robe, he made his way past the bouncer, who glanced at the chain link rope he was carrying. However, he was allowed to keep it and he drifted through the fog that obscured his feet, the black face covering on his robe hiding his real identity.
-Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde-
outwardly good, but sometimes shockingly evil
Her costume was not one of pure fright this year. Instead, she went for something a little more fitting to her inner thoughts. From toes up, she sported two different shoes, both individually unique pumps. One was a gorgeous white with a black stiletto and black over the toes. The other a shiny black. Her fishnet leggings made their way up to her knees showing a modern, but vintage dress black in color to match her left shoe. Her clothes were just as mixed matched as her shoes. The black dress the peaked through the left side looked tattered, as if she had been in a tussle. On the right was a white dr coat. It looked clean and well put, but had splaters that symbolized remints of failed science experiments. The two pieces fused so that it was practically one piece. To complete the look for the party her makeup was half wicked, gothic, cruel. While the other was subtle and pretty. Toping it off with a black top hat.
Feeling absolutely glorious in her get up, she was ready to mingle around the realm. After being greeted She made her way over to the bouncer showing that there were no weapons for him to take this time around. Though she did make him a promise she would be a good girl.
Upon her entry, she saw only a few people at the party but was ultimately glad she was not the first one to arrive. There was a grim reaper wicked, a ghost classic, and Wednesday that is cool.
The decorum was magnificent. Even though they were fake; the bats, that took flight at random intervals, paired with the ominous fog that covered her feet made the room.
Her heels clinking with each step, she made her way to the bar. Overhearing what the Grim Reaper had ordered.
“ill have one of those too please” for now Dr. Jekyll was out to play.
The Plague Doctor
Oh how appropose this costume is in 2020. But...is it a costume? Do I somehow bring forth death with me as I walk amongst the party goers? Perhaps I wish no ill will, only to engage in the sublime carnal side of life...or death.
Come dance with me.
Medusa Rhapsody on a raven's wing. Vehemently feathered she contorts, mutilated color born of pinions ripped from blackbirds and scales skinned from venomous snakes, her incandescence glitters and gleams grotesquely black black black down to her very bones. Feathered basilisk. Ah, no. She corrects. Adjusts. Mind spitting violent. The serpentine queen feathered as a means of amusement. To play at the Masquerade, she (dressed in death and madness) had to make due with what was on hand. Serpents set in rigor mortis (though not yet ripe with decay) are wound through her hair, twined a twisted crown upon her brow. Crooked bodies collapsing in on themselves, a vipers nest set to writhe together for all eternity. There is no escape. Nothing to chase the demons away. She, Madonna no more but instead Medusa, must practice her slide. The glide of her feat as the gown's train tails behind her, slithering across the ballroom floor. She cannot alter her gait into an elegant glissade of coordinated muscle and bone, her movements undulating, shifting between slow swaying and rapid, jerking stride. Unable to ride the winds, she must rip her feet from the gushing grip of the bloodied, gore ridden dream. Each step agonizing, peeling skin one layer at a time, until she is worn down to the bone. But only she knows. Only she can see what is really there. And she can see it all. Aegean blue eyes sunken, set in a ring of bleeding mascara that follows along cheeks and jaw, splinters up across her forehead and fissures down her neck, creating cracks and and broken glass in her starkly pale skin. Those withering irises dull looking, faded, but still alive enough to catch the raking of their reality through the haze. The beast sings, out from the dark underbelly where death awaits her, voice neither soft nor sweet. But a havoc haunting, hoarse scream of smoke and bone and bitter things. Creaking with disuse. “I'll play the viper who does the pretty dance if you play the wretched wolf who never had a chance~” Medusa dreams of hooks and strings stitching up the hedonists and the light as it leaves their eyes. She carries a violin held carelessly at her side in the indelicate curve of a clawed hand, clutched talons of a bird gripping lightly. The bow dreams to slice the neck, to sever the vocal chords and pull them retching from the throat, arteries all exposed in their most faithful form; some sadistic modern art exhibit. But she cannot do that here, not where the multitudes of eyes sear into her skin from the other side of the far reaching fog that wraps excruciatingly around her mind. Her skin twitches, blisters beneath those stares, blossoms into weeping wounds. The shadows stir in the mist, shuddering closer. Swirl, swish, miss her by just a hair as she dances dissonant steps to the side and sails towards the center of the flickering room. Not sails, skips, jitters like a junkie. Disgusting. Blood drips, smears and sticks to the floor, falling from the torn wings belonging to a murder of crows once. But no more. Now they are hers.
The Tin Man entered the The Blackheart Masquerade at The Devil's Edge - VIP Lounge~. His costume was the traditional Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. His clanked in his tin suit as the bouncer glared at him. He didn't surrender his metal axe that was dull. He smirked at the bouncer as he slipped the man a sizeable amount to keep his axe. "Aint seeking trouble friend. NO trouble less some one else causes a stink." His tin arm squeaked a bit. "Do you have an oil can? I need to keep myself oiled up." The bounce growled as he handed him an oil can. The Tin Man handed over another sizeable tip and clankety-clinked himself past the moody bouncer who just looked at him and the pile of cash in his big meaty paws. "Good luck mate!" He lifted his axe in salute and headed to the bar. He wasn't a drinker but he ordered himself a non alocholic Death Punch. He eyed the sweets and the food. He choose for himself a soul cake and a halloween pie. He carried his drink and food to a table and chair. He sat down and sipped his drink. He glanced around the party goers. He saw a mime, a ghost and Grim Reaper. He smiled at Medusa and wondered if she would like to loose one of her heads. He nixed the idea but kept his axe close to his side. That plague doctor reminded him of how fleeting life was here in this place.
The High Priestess
She fidgeted a few moments outside the venue, double checking herself and considering on actually opening the door and entering, or just saying fuck it and going home to a pint of ice cream. The music drifted out of the venue and it seemed to pull her. She was alone this year to a point, her regular group not joining her as of yet. And then there was the fact that she was scantily clad. She had never been one to show so much skin. She liked it though, on some level. With her face and hair concealed behind the white and black paint of the skull make up on her face and her hair in a series of braids and dreads, she looked completely unrecognizable. The top hat fit perfectly.
And the outfit, what there was of it. Sheesh. A friend had given her the idea, and it sounded appealing, from the bare mid-drift and legs, to the fake body tattoos. Still…she was a bit self-conscience.
She steeled her gaze on the venue door and finally pushed herself forward, opening the door and entering with an air of confidence. She showed her animal skull topped staff to the bouncer to ensure that it posed no threat to anyone.
She was dressed a voodoo type High Priestess, but in truth, she knew nothing of any sort of magic. She had left all other weapons at home, and issue that didn’t sit well with her, but from past experience, for The Masquerade, it was worth it.
She strode across the floor, nodding to those already gathered. The feathers adoring her costumed danced slightly in the breeze of her steps, the back of her skirting dragging across the floor as well. Her shoeless feet made not a single noise.
She looked over the other costumed party goers, impressed with the vast array of creativity. It wasn’t really a surprise, however, as the citizens of the Realm, no matter their walk of life, were a vastly diverse group and never ceased to let her down this time of year.
The High Priestess moved to the bar and found a seat, ordering up several zombie slime shooters. They were always her favorite. She’d drink nearly a dozen before the night was out, mixing of course, with other drinks on a whim. Later she would partake in the snacks.
She did look back to the door longingly, as if hoping for a certain someone, but then shook herself and indulged in her first couple of shots, her skull painted face giving a smile to those also imbibing in the atmosphere and spirits.
Tonight would be a good night.
