The Silver Dragon Sanctuary - All Hallows’ Eve

Sturm Broza felt naked without his armor, but the invitation clearly stated that a mask was required, and what was the point of a mask if the rest of him would definitely give away his identity? Then again, he has never been to this land before, and couldn't quite understand why he had been given an invitation in the first place.

On second thought, the invitation may have come from that wealthy nobleman who came to Sturm several weeks ago. The nobleman had requested an ornate, gilded sword and scabbard as a gift for his son, who was coming of age. Sturm took half of the payment up front to cover material cost, and the end product was quite possibly the most beautiful piece Sturm had ever created. The nobleman was so impressed that he blessed Sturm's name and paid more than his asking price. Weeks later, an invitation to this very party arrived at the Broza smithy.

And so here Sturm finds himself, standing before the Silver Dragon Sanctuary, invitation in hand, a completely blank, white mask on his face, a similarly white dress shirt, white pants, and white gloves covering his normally soot-stained body. His family was never one to celebrate All-Hallows Eve with costumes, but what would be better to masquerade as than a ghost? Steeling his nerves, the large man made his way inside.

There were few events that Foxgloves enjoyed more than masquerade parties, and so he seldom missed the opportunity to attend whenever one was held. It was nice to be surrounded by other people wearing masks, made him almost forget his envy of their faces. These sorts of parties let him pretend, at least for a night, that everyone was just like him. When everybody hid their faces, nobody would suspect that he hid nothing at all behind his painted white mask. Besides, tongues loosened with liquor and secure behind their disguises would surely let some secrets slip, and Foxgloves intended to be there to hear them. After all, there was nothing he loved more in the world than a good secret.

Not one of the invitations had found its way into his hands, but Foxgloves was of the mind that invitations were for boring people. Front doors, as well. He stepped out of a broom closet that had almost certainly been empty just a moment before, peering down the hall to make sure nobody had spotted him. Secure in the knowledge that he'd made his way inside unnoticed, he pulled off his right glove. Of course, there was no hand beneath, but that didn't bother him at all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender woman's hand with red-painted nails. The hand grasped at his glove and twisted in his grip, but he shoved it into the empty cuff of his sleeve and pulled out of its grip with a practiced ease. Retrieving curved silver needle and a length of purple thread from within his coat, he stitched the hand carefully to his sleeve and tied it off with a deft knot. Flexing the fingers of his new hand, he repeated the process with his left glove, this time using a much larger man's hand with long, narrow fingers. He held his new appendages in front of his face, carefully inspecting his handiwork and giving a satisfied nod. These were skilled hands indeed, much more so than his own, and would serve him well tonight. Reaching deep into his coat, he produced an ornately engraved lute and headed off to mingle with the first arriving guests, his new hands striking up a lively tune. Who could resist the stirring melody of The Wall of Wonders? Tonight would be a good night, he could already tell.

The bar was fully staffed with more then a few friendly faces, some of which weren’t masks. Drinks of every flavor, brew, color, and price were flowing like water, and the gold flowed with it. James was certainly making a happy face, even as his eyes flicked to one of the visitors... donations to the bar...

"I see you're a ghost, hmm I don't think I've ever seen anyone of your stature choosing to dress as a ghost" Olive remarks to the man before turning one of the staff behind the bar and ordering a glass of dry red wine.

Outside the bar is a chilly evening, the sun had set and the festivities were starting all over the country. Usually Helena found herself working on All Hallow's Eve, but she decided to take the night off, and instead enjoy herself. Usually she's the hardest working sergeant in the guard, but recently she's felt like she needed more fun in her life.

She even dressed up for the occasion! Using grey and blue dye, she's painted her skin in a cold shade, and wore her best horned helmet atop her head, coated with a layer itself. She wears mainly furs and leathers, covering her chest and legs, leaving her midriff exposed, completed with an armoured belt that drops down into a skirt around the side of her thighs. All tattered from the harsh northern weather, or in this case a knife and some tearing to get the right effect.

She's even gone as far as to paint what seems to be a handful of icey scales on the exposed parts of her torso. On her shoulders are a pair of painted pauldrons, and by her side her trusty axe.

With all the effort she put in, she could only hope that people recognized her as the cultural terror of the north, the feared Jotun, a frost giant. Considering her height and muscular form, coupled with the colouration of her skin, it would be hard not to see it. Even those who don't know a Jotun might find it a little unnerving!

She steps into the bar ans glances around. Quite the party brewing! Perhaps she'd enjoy herself afterall! The pretend Jotun heads straight for the bar to get a tankard of mead.

"A lich? Nice," she says to the barman. "Magic, right? I doubt a real Lich would be serving drinks. Then again, tonight of all nights…" she winks and plants a few copper and a silver or two on the bar. "Mug of mead, please."

James flashed her a grim smirk.

“It’s All Hallows’ Eve, oh fearsom jotun. Some put masks on, others take theirs off.” He rasped. “Who’s to say I’m not just another dead man walking.” He tapped the exposed cartilage of his nose and winked, the orb of light in the seemingly empty socket flickering before he turned to pull a robust pint for the lady.

Sturm looks back at Olive and smiles, "Not to worry, we'll all be drunk one and the same, regardless of your choice of poison!" He raises his stein in her direction, "And that is something I'll toast to!" He gives her that same big smile. His left arm almost goes out to slap her on the back, but he decides that it might be best not to indulge in the customs he's familiar with, at least until people are more inebriated.

“I almost feel like I should feel insulted Lady Fletcher.” James rasped dryly, pouring her her usual tea with a shot of bourbon. “But I’ll chalk it up to you being awake far too long.” He finished with a wry grimace as he handed it over.

“And blasted idea? Well. That is a bit rude, don’t you think.” Reginald drawled from behind the skull his mask was made of. Authentic wolf fur. Why did he even bother. “Figured you’d enjoy spending a night in a social environment. Please, correct me if I’m wrong though.” He gestured broadly with the lantern in his hand. Instead of candles it held a dozen sparks of light, each one a deadly spell ready to be unleashed but that wouldn’t be needed... hopefully.