- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
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PARRIS
Parris has never been one for stuffy upper-class parties, but when your boss, who pays you to kill people for him and has the power to make you disappear just as easily, invites you to a masquerade, you say yes.
"I am not inviting you out of the kindness of my heart," Lord Louis Bancroft had said rather unnecessarily. Although the man might appreciate Parris's lethality, they are hardly on friendly terms.
Besides, with no significant amount of property to his name beyond his small home in Forest Hill, no meaningful title, no wealthy heritage, and distinctly non-white skin, it's unlikely any rich twat would want him within twenty feet of their masquerade unless he were working in their kitchens. So, he'd grinned cheekily and proclaimed his surprise that the lord even had a heart.
He's meant to kill Mr. Fagean, a reserved gentleman and business partner to the lord, who has been stealing his money for approximately three months. While he could care less about Lord Bancroft's pockets being slightly less bountiful than they were and would never pass moral judgment on a fellow thief, a job is a job.
So, here he is, freezing his ass off outside Bancroft's ostentatiously large manor the evening of Christmas Day, waiting for dozens of tittering ladies and gentlemen dressed in their Sunday best to stop crowding the door and head inside so he can get out of the snow. Given the holiday season, holly and kissing boughs are wrapped around the fluted Greek columns, catching the warm light of the building's lanterns and casting shadows against white stucco and brick.
In their hands, the guests carry small wrapped gifts, each meant for a perfect stranger assigned by the lord. It's an odd tradition that had left Parris standing awkwardly in his house hours earlier, half-dressed, examining each of his belongings for something of value to trade. Ultimately, he'd selected a porcelain teapot decorated in gold and black paisley. Without the matching cups and saucers, he can't imagine any of the uppity partygoers will use it, but it's one of the most valuable things he owns and is keen to get rid of.
Initially, the teapot had belonged to his master, though it was used mainly by his mother pouring tea for brutes. After he'd killed the son of a bitch and his family, he stole the object on his way out. It was meant to be a trophy, but looking at it wound up dredging up memories he'd rather forget, so he'd stuffed it away in a box to collect dust. At least he's getting some use out of it now while disposing of evidence.
His hand tightens around the gift, wrinkling the brown paper protecting it, as he glides past couples and families into the garishly-decorated hall. He's never seen so many candles in his life nor so many small toys hanging from the branches of a fir tree. The music swelling through the house is at least a pleasant alternative to the fustian drivel of the guests. Gilded wall mirrors reflect blurs of velvet and silk in an assortment of colors as people come and go, only serving to make the place feel more crowded. He catches sight of himself in one, though he barely recognizes himself.
His usual muslin and wool have been swapped out for silk and velvet, his outfit consisting of white pantaloons, a black waistcoat, and a navy tailcoat. The cravat was the most challenging part of the ensemble, as he had to spend several minutes untying and retying it to achieve a decent-looking knot. Lord Bancroft gave him the golden mask covering half of his face, which feels like a sweaty prison against his skin.
Attached to his lapel is a small pin of a lily, also a gift from his patron. Each guest was provided one; each pin is meant to match only with one other person, a marker of your gift partner. Surprisingly, Lord Bancroft had refused to tell him the identity of his partner, claiming that his knowing would "spoil the fun." He doesn't imagine there's much fun to be had here, regardless of the mystery.
Surely, his partner must be Mr. Fagean? It would make his job much easier, especially with the man donning a mask like the rest of the room. He'll give him the teapot and then slip some arsenic into his champagne during tonight's feast. Two gifts in one night, neither what the man probably asked for.
"I am not inviting you out of the kindness of my heart," Lord Louis Bancroft had said rather unnecessarily. Although the man might appreciate Parris's lethality, they are hardly on friendly terms.
Besides, with no significant amount of property to his name beyond his small home in Forest Hill, no meaningful title, no wealthy heritage, and distinctly non-white skin, it's unlikely any rich twat would want him within twenty feet of their masquerade unless he were working in their kitchens. So, he'd grinned cheekily and proclaimed his surprise that the lord even had a heart.
He's meant to kill Mr. Fagean, a reserved gentleman and business partner to the lord, who has been stealing his money for approximately three months. While he could care less about Lord Bancroft's pockets being slightly less bountiful than they were and would never pass moral judgment on a fellow thief, a job is a job.
So, here he is, freezing his ass off outside Bancroft's ostentatiously large manor the evening of Christmas Day, waiting for dozens of tittering ladies and gentlemen dressed in their Sunday best to stop crowding the door and head inside so he can get out of the snow. Given the holiday season, holly and kissing boughs are wrapped around the fluted Greek columns, catching the warm light of the building's lanterns and casting shadows against white stucco and brick.
In their hands, the guests carry small wrapped gifts, each meant for a perfect stranger assigned by the lord. It's an odd tradition that had left Parris standing awkwardly in his house hours earlier, half-dressed, examining each of his belongings for something of value to trade. Ultimately, he'd selected a porcelain teapot decorated in gold and black paisley. Without the matching cups and saucers, he can't imagine any of the uppity partygoers will use it, but it's one of the most valuable things he owns and is keen to get rid of.
Initially, the teapot had belonged to his master, though it was used mainly by his mother pouring tea for brutes. After he'd killed the son of a bitch and his family, he stole the object on his way out. It was meant to be a trophy, but looking at it wound up dredging up memories he'd rather forget, so he'd stuffed it away in a box to collect dust. At least he's getting some use out of it now while disposing of evidence.
His hand tightens around the gift, wrinkling the brown paper protecting it, as he glides past couples and families into the garishly-decorated hall. He's never seen so many candles in his life nor so many small toys hanging from the branches of a fir tree. The music swelling through the house is at least a pleasant alternative to the fustian drivel of the guests. Gilded wall mirrors reflect blurs of velvet and silk in an assortment of colors as people come and go, only serving to make the place feel more crowded. He catches sight of himself in one, though he barely recognizes himself.
His usual muslin and wool have been swapped out for silk and velvet, his outfit consisting of white pantaloons, a black waistcoat, and a navy tailcoat. The cravat was the most challenging part of the ensemble, as he had to spend several minutes untying and retying it to achieve a decent-looking knot. Lord Bancroft gave him the golden mask covering half of his face, which feels like a sweaty prison against his skin.
Attached to his lapel is a small pin of a lily, also a gift from his patron. Each guest was provided one; each pin is meant to match only with one other person, a marker of your gift partner. Surprisingly, Lord Bancroft had refused to tell him the identity of his partner, claiming that his knowing would "spoil the fun." He doesn't imagine there's much fun to be had here, regardless of the mystery.
Surely, his partner must be Mr. Fagean? It would make his job much easier, especially with the man donning a mask like the rest of the room. He'll give him the teapot and then slip some arsenic into his champagne during tonight's feast. Two gifts in one night, neither what the man probably asked for.
code by wren.