The church’s bell rings one final time, signaling for the night’s events to begin. The clans’ divine leaders glide up the red carpeted stairs, each taking a seat upon their respective throne. They all watched as their people mingled, making minute conversation with each other as they surveyed the crowds. Myskia sat back in his black and blood red throne, his hands finding the armrests instantly as he crossed one leg over the other. The chair itself was decorated with withered roses and blackened thorns... charming, even for the wolves. His hooded eyes scanned the room carefully for the members of his flock, fledgling or not, they were idiots and he wasn’t about to let such an important eve start with a brawl. Aegaeon looked at Myskia and smiled a sharp toothed grin, his throne of furs creating just as much of a drink as he himself did, “So, doll, how’re the vampires?” “They’re childish and unwieldy as per usual. I tell you the same every time, Aegaeon, which reminds me of how I repeatedly request for you not to use insignificant and unnecessary pet names for people who don’t care for you in the slightest,” “You like me. Besides, your goons best be statin’ on their best behavior, I got a halfbreed pup runnin’ around and stirring up trouble like her father.” “Again?” He raised an eyebrow at the werewolf, finally turning his attention begrudgingly from the crowded marble floors. There didn’t seem to be anyone out of the ordinary when he’d been picking his people from the crowd. Aegaeon pointed with a hairy finger to the crowd, seeming to not point out anyone in particular, “she’s a damn troublemaker, might have to cage her up soon.” The werewolf leader then turned to Myskia, “anyways, I gave you some gossip, so you should give me some in return. An eye for an eye, as the Fey say.” The representative of the Fey scoffed in offense. “My people don’t say that, you flea bitten bag of bones.” He replied, accent thick as he spoke, muddling some elegant speech, “And you should know better than to try and spark up trouble with Myrddin.” “A little mutt should know his place,” Myrdinn said icily, looking at Aegaeon through slitted eyes, “a mutt that took his fathers place instead of earning it.” “Now, now, Myrdinn, now is not the time for petty squabbles.” A soft voice responded to his harsh words, “Even if we all believe your words to be true.” “We cannot lie, and it is as he said,” Myrdinn’s unmarred face scrunched up as he spat the next words out like venom, “an eye for an eye.” “Then I’ll cut out your tongues and shut you both up.” Another spoke up, off to the woman’s right. “And use them for what spells, sweetheart?” Aegaeon asked the warlock. “Do not confuse me with a sorcerer, you sad excuse of a mutt.” Vexian smirked, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back against the soft navy blue silk that made the seat of their throne. “Mutt?” The werewolf leader growled, shooting to his feet, the growl resounded in the high ceilinged hall, causing many to glance over, concern and fear flashing over their features.
“Shhh now,” Myrdinn hummed, his voice like a soothing melody, “not here, not now, preferably not ever. The sooner you shut up the better.” “I could settle for not ever if you’d let me follow through with my previous offer.” “What previous offer?” Aegaeon asked, eyes snapping to them. “Keep your nose where it belongs,” Myrdinn replied calmly. Myskia’s attention slowly turned back toward the ballroom’s floor as they argued and jabbed at each other, he took his time to look around, admiring the room itself in its older design, the floor to ceiling windows peering out into a starry night, wine red curtains trailing down their sides, the pristine white marble of the floor, the crystal and gold chandeliers twinkling in the light of the candles within the candelabras lining the walls. Thousands of different creatures danced on the floor. Even though the leaders try to make it so everyone can freely mingle, the rumors are too strong. The werewolves stuck to their pack, the Centaurs, Fey, and Satyrs stayed in their forested group, and the warlocks stayed together. He watched on, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, these things needed to be fixed. Myrdinn looked at Arabella, offering his hand to her, “I say we continue our discussion with a waltz.” The leader of the merfolk smiled and took the Fey leader's hand, following him to the floor. The warlock stood next, “They need to dance, I need to drink.” And then they were gone. Aegaeon cursed, eyes narrowing as he looked in the direction a small fire was started. He darted over and a few minutes later a girl was dragged out of the ball kicking and screaming. The Undead’s ghoulish leader, Zindik, a ghastly looking man with sunken cheeks and unnerving eyes, frowned disapprovingly, “Cruelty of one’s own, disgusting.” “Remember when his father dragged him out like that?” The Dragonborn’s leader chuckled, though the laughter didn’t quite reach their eyes. The leader of the dwarfs, Mineral, stood up and excused themself, no doubt seeing their partner on the dance floor. “Of course we remember, Uroqrin.” Myskia replied, rising to his feet, “Fifty years was not all that long ago, after all.” The Fey and Merfolk bands changed the song to a haunting melody, a shadow of an old waltz, slowly more of the crowd filtered out onto the dance floor, starting up a slow, delicate dance. He moved on, walking by the growing group, ignoring his own people’s greetings as the haunting music drifted through the room. He made it to the balcony’s tall doors and cracked one open, stepping through into the night. It was cold, though to him the cold wasn’t unwelcoming like it had been so many years before, it was almost peaceful now having lived with it for as long as he had. He stared out into the seemingly endless night before him, however, unlike him, the night would end and they would be back to the useless cycle of fighting the clans wrought up. The loud crash of glass sent him snapping upright, turning to face the noise in less than a second, only to be met with a wave of burning hot air that forced him back against the balcony rail, nails elongating into sharpened claws as he dug them into the concrete, almost failing to catch himself at the edge. When he looked up again he could see bodies scattered across the broken tile and pieces of shattered glass lining the once shining floors, a singular figure standing over them all, red hair burning into the depths of his brain, it looked as though blood was cascading down the man’s back. The figure turned to him, face covered entirely in a porcelain mask, cracks marring the clay, not a sliver of skin in sight to even hint at who the hell he could be. As Myskia rose to his feet they started to move towards him, breaking into a blurring line.
