#-insert visual of Sleepy Sal in dress somewhere that I don't have please and thank you-

[asheanon]

❛  it was an accident ... simply an accident.  ❜

(what's the accident? The chandelier? Her ultimate abduction??? Did he spill his wine on Lorien??? Im gonna reply to our threads today bc this meme sparked potojoy)

From: 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺.

The light, though perhaps not as bright as it made itself out to be at that moment, was enough to create strain. A twinge of pain met her weary eyes as she opened them.

Coming into focus were the various shapes and forms of something… immaculate. Rows of gilded embellishments, elaborate and vaguely damask in design, stretched across a marbled ceiling. Crowning the room, at its center was the assailant to her waking vision - a golden chandelier of similar sublimity.

A chandelier…

. . .

“Would you share this dance with me, my dear?”

It was as if she had been in a daze, the gleam of crystalline dancing in the light was cast in the reflection of celadon irises. She glanced at him - her friend, Lorien, donning layers of alabaster, aptly ballroom-baroque - his hand extended for the taking. With a warm smile, she accepted.

Here’s to another dance. One more acquainted than the last.

A tragic misstep due in part to a lack of spatial awareness perhaps wounded his pride, but the stifled laughter that was shared in turn only enriched the experience. Fellowship at its finest.

With their song drawing to a close, she began to wonder who was next. Perhaps Mina or Branson? Beyond the violinist’s shoulder, briefly, the Burmecian caught her eye. He appeared to still be brooding in the corner. Emitting an insurmountable aura of withdrawal, it was as if he reflected any and all social advances by this power alone, hovering over a drink and an assortment of hors d'oeuvres. Well… if he was next, perhaps their round could be shared at the table instead of the dance floor.

As the wayfarer and the violinist came to a stop, they exchanged gentle words and additional chuckle before parting ways.

Amidst a delectable array of various bruschetta, canapé and other such appetizers, a recent addition of roasted blueberry ricotta crostini called out to her - it was truly delightful. It would seem the spirits were too, the way some attendees drunk themselves silly. Eager to partake of one himself, Branson reached for the platter before, suddenly, they saw Lorien come storming by.

Though a grin was classically plastered upon his face, it evidently forced - he did not acknowledge the two, marching along with the utmost haste. What had transpired was unclear; however, visually, as she trailed after him, she spied what looked to be but a glimpse of a “bloody” footprint left in his wake. For just a second, a beat; as if it was a matter of luck she had seen it. It was soon covered by the ruffles of an oblivious guest’s ball gown.

Had he been hurt somehow? In that instant, she excused herself. She stepped outside of the ballroom. Upon entering the empty neighboring hall, she realized her eyes had not deceived her; a line of red footprints stained the floor. Upon further inspection, it seemed a little darker and thinner than blood... but no matter. Pursuing them for a ways, it wasn't until she nearly made her way to a door leading outside before it happened…

She felt… tired. And faint. He was nowhere in sight. The room she found herself in was vacant, save for its furnishings. She steadied herself upon the arm of a chair before allowing herself to have a seat in it. Her consciousness was beyond her control. The revelry beyond the walls soon faded out.

. . .

It was coming back to her. Some of it, anyway.

She sat up slowly, taking note of the status of her own person; her ivory gown, still white as snow - her slippers and other layers to her attire remained, all unmarred. No marks upon what skin she could see (a perhaps unnecessary observation to make as an Ethereal, but even still.) The lengths of her hair were… they were fine, but oddly maintained. Even the folds of her dress were laid out with care. Whoever had placed her here was either mindful or… something else.

With movement registering in her peripherals soon after, her study strayed. It was then that she realized she was not alone.

Before her stood a familiar figure; the shape of the feathery crest upon his head was enough to identify him, though the debonair attire proved just as memorable. Immediately inquiring on her concerns over the matter at hand, she was given what may have been the most vague (an oddly suspicious) answer she could have likely ever been given:

❛ it was an accident … simply an accident. ❜

“An accident…” She echoed.

At odds with her addled mind, the nearly ever-present curve of her lips was lacking, if not outright absent. Her gaze made its way back up to what was now becoming an eerily recurring theme looming above them. Or a part of it.

Here she was yet again - a white dress, a chandelier and him… There was a pattern beginning to form.

An accident… Was this all really just an accident?