Welcome to Gaia! ::

She was too elegant to be a servant; too smooth on her feet, too confident a personality, too... arrogant. She was agile, with a fighter's grace though to an untrained eye - most of the nobles present - she would just seem unnaturally graceful. Pale green eyes set in a paler face framed by chestnut-brown hair were uncommonly alert; they darted about, glancing to-and-fro and all the while she did her best not to betray the tenseness which gripped her muscles, the nervous apprehension which permeated the air around her.

Of all the people in the ballroom, she was perhaps one of the only who knew that The Resistance had an assassin here with a clarity which could not be refuted; she knew that someone was going to make an attempt on the Crown Princess's life - perhaps the monarchs, too (hopefully the monarchs, the romantic, we'd-do-better-without-them side of her wished). She knew it, and had prepared accordingly... after all, the King was paying her (and others, she assumed) to look out for the assassin, and to protect the Princess.

She was slender - too small to actually be useful in straight-up hand-to-hand combat, but that was why she knew all the useful little dirty tricks, and also why she worked to be faster with more endurance than everybody else. Besides - hand-to-hand combat was not her forte; the thin blades concealed beneath the black-and-red livery she wore were her profession. She had a good arm, could throw accurately and precisely, and her strength was only augmented by the sharp blades.

Carrying a tray with glasses of wine, she wended her way through the guests who harped about how they had received their invitation to the Masquerade two months in advance, and he or she only received theirs had only three weeks and she paused, watching a man who looked suspicious (she would have to keep an eye on him) as someone else waved her over for a drink.

"Your Grace," she addressed the young Duchess of Wilarn, resplendent in a pale green dress with a serpent's mask that did nothing to conceal her identity. Except for the fact that she carried the wine, the duchess all but ignored her; Isabel Laurent sighed with mixed relief and annoyance.

It was going to be a long night, she decided as she adjusted the plain black mask.

What was it about events like this that gave cause to spit if only to try and clear ones mouth of the bile building up from the sight? Rich moving and flowing about without a care in the world and with the additional flare to "try" and disguise themselves with trivial masks. Who would even host an elegant extravaganza like this where all in attendance were allowed to hide their faces when open rebellion was upon them. Even if he had not already been paid a fine sum Barrabus the Grey thought he might have killed the lot and been just fine being paid in the knowledge he had lessened the worlds count of idiots.

The dance floor was a mingle of faces and bodies coming in close contact with each other, sometimes by accident but other times by planned timing. The small amount of chaos within the gathered fold was an excellent place for a would be assassin to hide in almost open sight. Which was why Barrabus was nowhere near that awful crowd. Only a fool would have thought himself capable of getting away with such a ruse and farce. In all likelihood everyone knew everyone down there despite the masks, either by personal knowledge or their own network of informants. Up within the high rafters of the main attendance hall, deep within the shadows that he so much more called home than his place of birth, Barrabus the Grey waited and watched.

Down their he would have been only able to bring his favorite weapon, but only that. Up within the rafters he was armed as he always liked to be, saber, main-gosh, and his belt dagger. The saber and main-gosh were fine blades to be sure, and had they not been Barrabus would not be carrying them to defend his life. Years he had spent refining his trade within the back alleys and as private bodyguard to posh royalty far away where the sands flowed like the sea. It was that dagger though, that curious blade that was so easily concealed as his belt buckle that held the true flavor of his arsenal. The blade was hollow with the tip coming out a few inches more in a fine point but with an opening at the tip. Within the handle looked to be a clear jewel for the most part but looking closer one would see it was actually a viewing area for inside the handle. With a twist of the assassins' wrist the pommel of that dagger came off to show a syringe. Taking a vial from his belt pouch Barrabus held his dagger point down and inverted the corked vial as he stabbed it with the syringe. Slowly the odd liquid inside the vial filled into the viewing area of the handle and at the end Barrabus replaced the pommel which seal off liquid from that end.

It was a remarkable dagger. For only by applying pressure to the tip of the blade would the liquid inside be allowed to escape, and what a fine liquid it was. The one came from a odd little fish off the coast that when startled would swell up like a balloon. the fish also held inside itself a odd poison that went straight to the victims nerves and caused paralysis of the limbs, and then paralysis of the lungs and heart. The smaller the amount given the longer it would take for the victim to know they had been killed. Now Barrabus the Grey just had to wait for his targets to show themselves and he could begin his work and see if he could get them all to die within moments of each other.

Isabel's stiff smile went stiffer, and she froze when someone addressed her, reflexively reaching for her closest knife sheathe before her brain caught up with reflexes. She turned her reach for her knife into a reach for her skirts with only a fraction of a second's hesitation, and dipped as respectful a curtsey as she could while balancing a tray of wine in one hand.

Her smile was much more natural - equal parts relief and acting - when she straightened and murmured, "The wine does not suit my lady?"

That was a first. Usually, it was the young homely ladies that downed it first to smother inhibitions. They often ended up making fools of themselves and swearing not to do it next time around, but next time around Isabel was still playing the servant-bodyguard and the homely ladies were still drinking away their marriage-less woes.

"What would my lady prefer instead?"

To say the assassin was irritated was an understatement. He could only spot about five of the nobles on his list and they seemed more than willing to just stay away from the shadows and talk up everyone in sight. Why couldn't he have gotten the nobles who grab the first man or woman they see and sneak off to the shadows? Then he could kill the mark and blame it on the un-expecting one-night lover. He could still do his job, oh there was no worry about that but he would have to change his role and his approach some. He would have to...mingle.

Moving across the rafters and down to a deep shadow Barrabus moved like death himself. With a quick adjustment of his cloak to hide his other weapons, still in easy reach of his buckle dagger, and finding a forgotten mask the assassin to a deep breath and walked into the light. He really did hate just about everything there was about this place, and the people too. It wasn't hard to figure out why Barrabus the Grey did what he did. Still there were days that work was simply just not worth the coin.

Passing by a mirror placed elegantly within the main hall the assassin caught a glimpse of the mask he had borrowed. Something odd came out of his throat at the sight, it was something not often heard and anyone around him likely found it just as odd. Some would have called it a chuckle but then some would have been dead before they told Barrabus what they called it. The mask was only covering his eyes and nose but was of a skull will a black jewel in the forehead. With a flip of his wrist he placed his hood just enough on his head to help sell the look.

His targets were moving about with sluggish pace and with another sigh the assassin looked about for a possible avenue of death. It was then he spotted one of the serving girls holding wine on her tray. His fun little poison would work just as well if swallowed as it would being injected, and might even make for a more entertaining show. Moving to the girl he overheard the conversation she was somewhat engaged in with a young woman. She was trimmed head to toe in soft whites and pearl pinks, truly a well arranged outfit but the woman did not appear to carry it well. The accompanying comment about 'over-indulgence' spoke of someone who was not used to the life, and a possible accomplice either knowing or not.

"Oh I would say some of them might be bored to death over the whole thing really. They only come here to flaunt their wealth and status. The most exciting thing that will happen here is someone drinks a bit too much wine and becomes the gossip for the next few months. Someone really should do something about it...don't you think?"

'Oh, I wouldn't--' Was the silent thought that never flowered, replaced quickly by a tightening of her throat at the title 'His Grace' hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

At least, that was how young Caleigh felt at the approach of the dark figure, tall and sleek, and not immediately recognizable to the poorly educated girl. Had it not been for the impromtu introduction from the serving girl, she likely would have struggled to refrain from embarrassing herself when he, on queue, introduced himself.

In turn, Caleigh reciprocated with her best courtsie; a poor comparison to the delicate movements of the other ladies in the hall, she was sure. "Caleigh Vandeviere, my.. Grace." She managed with only the slightest of hesitations (and a swell of gratitude towards the serving girl to whom she owed her proper address.) Then, "My Lord." was added, with another poor courtsie to the gentleman who had arrived just moments before the duke.

Faced with the prospects of holding her own in conversation with two noblemen, one of whom was one of the most powerful men in the realm, Caleigh felt her stomach growing cold and the wine turning bitter in her mouth. Subtly and subconsciously, she took a small step closer to the serving girl while painting her most lady like and demure smile over her face.

"It's very generous of you to make an acquaintance."

Isabel takes pity on Caleigh - from peasantry to nobility, the poor thing - and under the pretense of offering the tray for Caleigh to place her empty glass on, she whispers in the young woman's other ear. "It's Your Grace, my lady."

Court greetings can be terrible confusing at times, but frankly Isabel's shocked that whoever is in charge of bringing Caleigh to court didn't teach her the basics- and on top of that, make her memorize the names, titles, and faces of the most important court players. It's almost as if someone wants Caleigh to blunder around and unwittingly insult everyone.

The duke scarcely spares a look for the errant not-lord, knowing very well what the serving woman's function is. After all, it's the duke that hired her (though he'd been using the king's name when he bought her services as an all-around bodyguard.) It's Caleigh Vandeviere's fortune he's after.

Taking the young lady's hand, he brushes his lips against her knuckles and says, "Please, 'Grace' makes me feel..."

Mazi shrugs, trailing off as if he can't find the word for it. "Just Mazi will do, my lady. And truly, the pleasure is mine."

The girls quickly flushing face seemed like a small victory for the assassin as she seemed to be stumbling in her mind for a proper response. Given the situation she held her own well and even managed to turn the subject away from her and allow the Duke to swell his chest and show his pride about himself. The subject of the nobles sword had Barrabus all but smiling at the ways such a gesture could be taken. Giving in to his indulgences of humor and mirth the assassin disguised as a nobleman moved just a bit closer to the serving girl but made no means of actually dropping his voice. He wanted the Duke to think he overheard the remark and see how he reacted. If things went well he might be able to strike one target of his list in public and take no punishment.

"I wonder if it is a long sword or a short sword? I bet he polishes it every night, or finds some pretty face to help him. They say the way a man handles his sword shows more about a man than how many baubles are on it."