Murder on the Dancefloor (Luca)

[Bran Viola]

Bran readjusted the looking glass. This was an important night, and his job was a tricky one. It was just intel, as it usually was when he was anywhere near a full party, but the family was calling for more tact than usual. As they reevaluated the violently quick developments in the faewild’s political structure, it was becoming more and more reasonable to wait out events before showing their hand. He’d been seen by no less than the incumbent high queen during the blue moon revel. Sneaking around loaded to the teeth with iron wasn’t exactly subtle, and thus, bran was dressed simply as a mortal servant with a particularly lenient master. He hated it. It was worse that the necessity for cover was partially his fault. At least the Guinevere hadn’t seen him maskless. It’d been in the dark, and she was mortal. It was entirely possible she’d be completely unable to identify him like this. It was entirely possible that Bran was just making excuses.



He’d holed up within the canopy of a particularly large magnolia, strewn with twinkling wisps of light, overlooking the main promenade, and was using a blocky miniature telescope of sorts that he could conceal in his hand. He’d found very few people were interested in mortals, especially at a gathering of such high caliber. Mortals were often assumed to be servants, either willing and fawning over the paradise they’d run away to, or so severely glamoured that they were functionally braindead beyond anything asked with a Faeries ivory tongue. While either of these extremes were equally reprehensible to Bran, he didn’t stick out as much as he’d felt he would. He was leaning against a low branch now, his cheek resting in his hand. From behind, it would only look as though he was drunk or, god forbid, bored. The lashes of Bran’s right eye flicked about against the lens of the glass in his palm. Undersea royalty. A few of the enigma breed. He couldn’t see the wannabe queen yet. How damn long was this going to take?



Bran stood up and leaned against the trunk of the tree as his hand fell back to his pocket. What was that? Someone was moving closer. Closer than the others. A horrible feeling had alerted him to this just prior, a vile sensation that raked against his back like a wet claw, warmer than his own blood. It was like his spine had succumb to heat fatigue, overcome in its fever by an immense desire to flee his body in search of respite. Bran stretched his back. What an awful night for a premonition. It was unlikely he’d been found, right? He’d kept a wide birth from everyone who could identify him. Bran was distracted again by another overwhelming stimulus. What was that smell? Even fae didn’t use that much unfortunate perfume. Bran rubbed his nose with the back of his index finger.



Maybe this person was stumbling around, already drunk on the strange honeyed vitae of the fey folk. Maybe he’d just pass him by.

tags- Luca Oleander

[Luca Oleander]

murder on the dancefloor

[attr="class","box1a"] It was easy to laugh, easy to wander, to float through the crowd like a lovely crystal bubble. It kept Luca from having to think too hard. And if he only looked at his reflection in fountains and goblets, it was rippled and indistinct enough to not show any flaws anyway. Instead, Luca flashed smiles at the partygoers he passed and watched their expressions for assurance that he was still at his glittering best.  Even if he wasn't nearly drunk enough.  Still, he could improvise when it came to having fun, and with the game already beginning, all he needed was to gather more participants from the party's periphery. Surely there were some who hadn't heard his initial announcement. He strolled past the first border of shrubbery to the border of flowering trees and spotted a dark shape beneath the branches of a large, low-arched magnolia.  Just one—a shame. He might have caught a pair or more in the midst of taking their pleasure. Surely they would want to play along. Perhaps he should've checked the beach with its coves and tide pools first.  Luca ducked with an easy elegance and pushed a branch up and out of the way, revealing a boy somewhere near his own age. He looked bored—the perfect target, he hoped, for a delightful bit of mischief.  "Ah, hello!" Luca chimed. "I don't know that you've heard, but we're getting a bit of a game started in the tulip field. You ought to come join us." The boy looked mortal upon closer inspection—and Luca had indeed moved closer—but the more the merrier. It could be quite amusing to involve him in their fun. Luca tipped his shoulders at an inviting angle and grinned, his teeth white as the pearls clinging to his throat. He liked to think that the lights spangled in the branches were making him sparkle.  Bran Viola [newclass=.box1a]margin:0px auto; width:300px; height:425px; background: transparent; overflow:auto; padding:8px;[/newclass] [newclass=.box1a::-webkit-scrollbar]width:5px;[/newclass] [newclass=.box1a::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]background: #e8a72a;[/newclass]

Music Word count: Notes: 317

credit to Laura of Adox + SeaJem

[Bran Viola]

What.



He could feel the warmth of the youth’s skin even from a good three feet away. Bran prayed to whatever god would listen that he wouldn’t come closer. Bran was incredibly skilled at slipping about crowds but he was no debutant. Parlay was a different thing entirely. His words came haltingly.



“Uh. No thank you. Sorry, I’m waiting for my patron faerie. I can’t.”



Bran bit his tongue. He’d taken too long in his surprise. This creature might take it as an invitation to convince him. Bran felt something akin to revulsion in his stomach and fought desperately to keep it from climbing to his face. When he succeeded in this with unexpected grace his stomach dropped again.

No! He’ll advance!

what was he supposed to do? Refusal to acquiesce to the hallmark promiscuity of the fae could draw attention, but so could being drawn into whatever this unholy ‘game’ was intended to be. He’d seen fae play games from rooftops before. The first time, he’d forced himself to vomit so that he could continue the hunt without bile writhing in his throat. Never again in his life since had bran seen mangoes and candle wax used so liberally. Feigning casual conversation as his back tried to sink into the tree, Bran continued, regretting every word that left his mouth.



“What sort of game?”



NO! Who cares about cover! I don’t want to know!



The beautiful curl of the faeries lips looked to bran like a rusted meathook.

tags- Luca Oleander,

[Luca Oleander]

murder on the dancefloor

[attr="class","box1a"]Luca giggled, putting a hand over his mouth. The poor boy looked so frightened! Mortals could be curiously charming without meaning to. He supposed that at least some of them really were as quaint as he'd heard. The High Queen didn't seem inclined to such delicate sensibilities, but maybe he needed to get to know her better. That wasn't such a bad prospect, Luca mused; she had that consort who was always glowering at her shoulder, but she was rather lovely.  He ducked all the way under the branches and straightened up, seeing now that he wasn't likely to come to any harm. "Your patron can play with us too, if they like—Who is it?" Luca said to the mortal boy. "And I'm sure they would like. The more the merrier, after all, and I at least intend to be very merry indeed. " He laughed again, bright as a bell, and propped one hand on his hip. "What do you look so afraid for? I'm sorry, I don't mean to frighten you. Is it that I'm a prince? Or are you a newcomer to Faerie, is that what's made your nerves so sharp?" He tilted his head as if looking at the boy from a different angle would help him make sense of it. It didn't, of course, but it was rather fun.  Delighted to be questioned about the game, Luca grinned. "Wonderful of you to ask. It should be tame enough even for your liking. It's a game of blind romance, of a sort—exciting but still the sort of thing we can play with the queen about, you know." He smirked. "But you really ought to attend one of my parties. We have much more fun there." The one with the mangoes would likely take some warming up to, unfortunately. "Say, what is your name?" He was careful not to ask for the boy's name, not in that phrasing—he would truly be stepping on the patron's toes then.  Bran Viola [newclass=.box1a]margin:0px auto; width:300px; height:425px; background: transparent; overflow:auto; padding:8px;[/newclass] [newclass=.box1a::-webkit-scrollbar]width:5px;[/newclass] [newclass=.box1a::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]background: #e8a72a;[/newclass]

Music Word count: 337 Notes:

credit to Laura of Adox + SeaJem

[Bran Viola]


“I highly doubt they’d be interested. They’re busy with more important manners, though from what I’ve seen the current politicking isn’t all that dissimilar.”



There was a slight wrinkle in brans nose that creased upwards as he finished his sentence. He’d let his disdain slip onto his tongue. He didn’t expect the faerie would detect it, or rather, that, as long as bran entertained him, he’d care. Despite his loathing for it there was still plenty of reason to be careful. Having this gleaming little butterfly flapping about him was a problem. Piercing laughter rang in brans ears, momentarily causing him to wonder if he was developing early tinnitus.



“You’re a prince? I wouldn’t have known. It’s like you said. Im rather new here.”


A Merry indeed. What a farce. Bran would need to be careful. Bran doubted the wayward prince had much political sway, nor would he have the space in his mind to focus on it. It was obvious enough what he spent his time on. Still, if bran misstepped he ran the risk of making ripples in an estuary he preferred to leave untouched. What a terrible situation. He was essentially being told to choose how he wanted to die. There were no good options here.



“Blind? I don’t catch your meaning.”



Bran suppressed a shudder at the mention of this boy’s personal parties. Surely with mother’s money he had plenty of space to waste. Bran gave pause before he continued, a pause that might have seemed abashed to a fool, but in reality, was taken as a remedial measure so that Bran didn’t sneeze. The excessive perfume was accompanied by a cloying warmth. It didn’t really matter what court he was from, but if it did, Bran already had a fair guess.



“I was bade to stay here, unfortunately.”



Why was the noble even attempting to recruit him? Was a young mortal that tantalizing? No, he thought, don’t be egocentric, he’s as interested by you as by anyone else at this party who will listen to him prattle. Or perhaps more so by virtue of exoticism. He’d dodged his own name as well as his ‘patron’s.’ This, the faerie would likely notice. The fae were good at conversation. How he wished this one would end.


tags-Luca Oleander,