I'm really thinking about a revel today.
The guard's test, to prove your worth to the secret.
To let the others glimpse your method, calculate, and set it down.
Vampires, in resplendent period,
Watching hard for maidens in white:
the color of sacrifice, color of giving, purity.
They also need her seal on them:
a wave, with a circle around and through. Three lines to mark a human treat.
They'd better be careful:
White isn't just for taking.
Death-Fey, in their bitter white,
walk calmly through the revels here.
They are welcome, they are honored,
so is the fear in-wake they bring.
Suits and dresses, satin, lace
promises and bitter smiles;
gifts of food too good to eat.
The best kind of distraction has always been simplest. The best type of desire to have is that--
Or so they say.
Werewolves, in whichever color she concedes is best.
For the purposes of this - imaginary - revel, let us go with blood-drop red.
Tunics with leggings, striped with gold.
Sword and dagger, bow and poison, claw and tooth and fang and promise:
all with a moon along their throats.
This renegade group of mismatched warriors, seeking danger to their Queen
will stop trouble, will protect the danger that's so vivid here.
Angels, in a bleak pastel: pink or silver, gold or violet?
Impossible to know; I do not have the peace of heart they need to make their power.
Amazons in shining flesh; no flirting, glances, laughter, warmth:
they have a dagger at their side that's crooked as elfshot.
And to those bold who seek some token, their tongues are more crooked than that.
An Amazon would sooner carve a skin from bones than meet your lips with theirs.
Mostly.
Khajilt, they have renamed themselves, will dress to match a theme.
Their bright-won king, Timothi, has decided to give freedom tonight:
dizzying colors, fabrics too bright to see, flesh and claw and whiskers, tails
scents so lurid they sear your nose.
But they're too charming, too funny, to mind.
More than one young person here will change their minds about the allure of cats, at least by revel's end.
The service of the elements may have chosen to parley here:
some in beaten, metal flame tunics, others with flowers woven like velvet; still more that smell like lily or rain.
All beautiful, all marked as theirs: Fire, Water, Earth and Air.
If beauty is a promised token, you should see the Succubi
no theme or color to mark them is needed, only eyes and awe and want.
They will deal in promises if you let them see desire.
Witches wear velvet, soft as moss in blue and green and red and purple. Wands and spells strapped to their jackets, billowing skirts and bare, smooth feet.
Witches are as different each as stars in their Goddess' sky; I will not try to speak for all, but merely remember their power.
Warlocks are different. Half-daemon or half-fey, their promises can beat you into whatever shape they please. They exist only for instinct: desire, anger, fear. Instant gratification is a fact in this occasion:
they are led by Magnus Bane.
The names may change at random, but the people are the same. Shakespeare's scent of roses may apply to danger too: if a rose by any other name may smell as sweet, then a knife of poison, called a poppy, will still kill. Beware unearthly beauty while you dance beneath her seal.
Humans are the only ones who come for food and dancing alone.
They eat the food they know is safe, or have watched another sample: to be tempted by the Queen's table is foolish, not brave. The fare may prove not to your preference, might earn you servitude, or power, or death, or a boon. It is difficult to think through the threats on that table, harder still to earn their liking.
Most mortals take aught but water and crackers: they have been promised to be safe. Some prefer to take their chances with other humans who hawk wares: flesh or food (and sometimes, both).
The other races here don't care. Long cups from icicles, the famed soul-call, are in some hands; the blood of the ancient, in wine glasses, for others. For a Kingdom that sneers at the human world, there's a lot to share: whiskey, vodka, rum, mead, ale, champagne, wine, and more. Around a massive cauldron, there are vials for the daring: some are poison, others cure; some are power, some are pure. On and on this strange list goes: powdered bone, strawberries, honeyed lies, cheesecake, roasted duck with wild onion and pinenuts---whatever has taken her pleasure tonight, and even more than that.
None who have been taught will leave here hungry.
None who have been taught will leave here harmed.
The music, played by human fingers, is mortal, modern, repulsive: perfect. Tonight, they have been taking requests, a daring undertaking from so large and varied an audience. Rachmaninoff follows the Dresden girls, death metal after sweet ballet.
Balance: the Queen will be pleased.
A curtain of splendid blue, that shimmers, beckons. Those few who pay attention will find themselves passing another test: of wit, culture, music, or art, whatever the test-giver pleases. The price for failure is high; the price for victory, higher. To enter the Council's service is to win your place inside the Second Circle, the only place where artistry is allowed to be given to others. It is also one of the only places that will let humans into the folds.
If a noble approaches, as many as can fit will follow him or her through this circle. They want to get to the last, the inner-most, core of this revel: the Third Circle. The Council.
There are very few appropriate things happening here. To start, all the Council seats have a small tent behind them for debauchery galore. Because they can. An opera company is performing the Magic Flute to drown out the sound, now, even that is called to a halt by a clap of the Queen's hand. Business has begun. The opening words, long memorized and cherished, are given.
The Dark King is there, under trial. The Ordainment has sent envoys, and the Elemental masters are to give testament. The Councilmen and Councilwomen watch the processions....
The Queen's velvet tent opens. Out she comes. High green heels with gold, Victorian-style buttons go above her ankles. She's in an old, moss-green dress. Her silver hair is piled elegantly on her head, with long earrings that ring like bells.
The legendary pearls around her neck, she sinks to the throne of the Silver Leopards.
Court has begun.
I am not there.
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