Maddy and Phi Dance

[Philomel]

Never in her whole entire life did she imagine that she would be stood up.

She was Philomel van der Aart for bloodiness' sake! She could turn into a massive goat and storm the hell-gates of the citadel of Barad-dur! She could summon a mighty dragon on will whose jaws could break through wood iron and stone and crush her enemies from beneath the ground they stood upon. She was the princess of the seas, the storm-faun who many feared, the matriarch who was and who now was so powerful that she could delegate most of her duties to the great sea-god mage Vaeron, and yet she still had no question over her authority. Such was her state, her name known that she wa in fact one of the most expenses whores to those who knew where to search, she was a name to every ear that cared, a once assassion who was now more of a dark paladin, plotting the demise of all those who befouled her goddess' great nature every waking moment of her existence.

So it was unheard of to even think that someone would ever stand her up. It was madness to even consider that someone would give her half the pay for the pleasure of her company for a single night, and then not turn up to the agreed place and time.

Or so it was thought. Apparently it was heard of, at least today. At least this night, this time. Philomel was so bemused, so lost, that she could do nothing but take a seat at the bar and stare into the endless swirls of colour and movement, to watch the dancers sway and dance underneath the bright chandeliers and the gilded rafters that bore the mighty hall's tall roof. The barman came and asked her if he could help her in a gruff voice, but she did not answer, and thusly he left to go serve another. Intrigued eyes kept floating back to her from him and a few others of the party-goers who, like her, were not of the dancing type this night, yet for the most part she ignored them.

There she was, dressed in her finest low-cut bodice and waterfall skirt, both of bold crimson, exentuating her curves, with only herself for company. All she could hear were the few words that the small squire had said when he had rushed to her, as she had stood there waiting for her date, and they rang in her ears, dumbing out the echoing music, the questions of the barkeep, the musings of the drunk man.

"Miss, Lord Faran told me to tell you he cannot make it tonight, that is all."

And then he had bowed and run off.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Hyperion leaned around the corner, her masked head tilted at an angle to express her confusion of the whole situation. "Are you sure you don't want to try on one of my robes?"

"No, I'm fine, I swear. I just need to--" I gripped the sleeve of my jacket and yanked it, trying to shift the heavy fabric around in a futile effort to give my shoulders more room against the hemlines. Instead, I ended up tearing the damn thing.

"Gods-fucking-dammit!" I quickly removed the useless thing, crumpled it up into a ball, and hurled it clear across the room. It unfurled in midair and landed on the edge of a beaten leather chair, half of it hanging over the side. Ever since I had my little "rebirth" and ascension to the title of Archivist by the demon Maladim, I have been having problems with my entire wardrobe. As it turns out, the Madison Freebird corpse that I picked to be transferred into? The dimensions were all off. She was a few inches taller, her hips just a smidge wider, her shoulders a bit more blocky, her waist a little thicker.

Basically nothing I owned fit me anymore, despite my best efforts to make them fit.

I took one look around the room at the scattered piles of discarded dressware. Each piece had been torn, tight, tiny, or otherwise uncomfortable to try on. I sighed deeply, pressed my forefingers against my temples, and closed my eyes.

I'm already late to this soiree as it is, and I'm out of options.

"Alright, Hype. Let's see what you got that could fit me."


-----

I smelled like a forest as I walked through the manor doors. Hyperion had chosen for me her favorite dress, a plain old thing that was very modest in construction, with long sleeves and a hemline that kissed the floor with each step I took. The dark green fabric was unadorned, save for a matching shawl around the neckline that could double as a hood. It was well worn to be sure, but the briarbane had kept it in good condition while I was away for several months in Lornius. Whether or not she washed it was whole different thing--but, given the earthy fumes that wafted from the fabric, I'm guessing that she didn't.

Okay, it's not like it was a bad odor or anything; because it wasn't. The dress just smelled like a walk through the woods after it had rained.

It was weird, and I hoped that my own perfume would hide the smell.

As the tall, painted doors closed behind me, I scanned the crowd for any signs of my contact. Maladim had sent me a notice that there was a book on Haidian biology that he required for his aetherial library, and I reached out to the scholar who was in possession of it in order to secure the acquisition of the tome. He suggested that we meet at this party--someplace busy, someplace public, where he claimed that we would not be noticed within the throngs of people. Suspicious sort of person, this man. But this wouldn't be the strangest place I've conducted business. Nor would it be the first time I've done so at a party.

But as it stood, I could not spot the scholar. So, I decided that I would get a drink instead and simply wait for him to show up.

As I wove through the crowd of dancing party-goers, I spotted an all-too-familiar site at the bar. She was alone, which was very odd for her. She was seated on one of the stools, nursing an amber-filled glass. A pair of thick horns curled out from her purple braids. She was seconds away from bursting out of her corset, which I'm sure she wouldn't have minded.

I took a seat next to the faun. "Philomel," I said to her with a smile. "Good to see you again."

[Philomel]

The drink dribbled rather unartfully from her mouth, spilling from the corner as she forgot how to swallow in the shock. The grey eyes widened and she almost spluttered in a very unladylike way. Not that she had ever been much of a lady.

"Maddison ... Freebird?" she gasped, very slightly.

Almost fearfully her eyes glanced around.

"Are you - are you alone?"

Philomel was looking for other members of the secretive assassins guild, the Crimson Hand, whom Philomel was technically a part of ... but also an enemy of. A year or two had passed now since Philomel set up the Gilded Lily, the informants guild dedicated to raising women out of patriarchal worlds and also creating the brothels and pubs of Althanas into a network of secrets. The birth of it had spawned a new life for the faun, who was now called Matriarch and Captain on a daily basis, yet also a problem when it came to also being the Master of Secrets in the Crimson Hand itself. Sometimes, or, rather, often, there were differences of opinion and loyalty and already it had led to one full war between the two factions. It had ended in a rather riotous showdown between the shadow queen of the Crimson Hand, this very same Maddison Freebird and the Matriarch of the Gilded Lily, Philomel herself. It was the last time they had seen each other, as far as Philomel remembered, and that, was in no way, pleasant.

Oh no, wait. There had been times after that. And they had been worse.

Philomel faked a smile, thinking that if there were Crimson Hand operatives all over this room and they were here to finally take her down - well. She could feel the mighty dragon Delath beneath her, snaking his way through the rocky earth thirty metres below. At any moment she could call and he would ravenously rip through the floorboards and foundations, ready to take revenge for whomsoever threatened his mistress.

And Philomel continued, telling him and the hiding Veridian to be ready.

"What do you want?"