A Midnight Masquerade

Lord Maxwell Hyperios III was bored; terribly terribly bored. He stood casually amongst a group of sycophants that typically followed him to most social events, nodding politely as they spoke and otherwise doing his utmost to pay them no heed.

The gala he was attending was supposedly in honor of the coming spring, and yet it had already been delayed twice due to inclement weather. As far as Maxwell was concerned, it could have been delayed indefinitely for all he cared. Though the weather had cleared up over Stormwind, it had done nothing to improve the quality of the guests that were in attendance as far as he was concerned.

Nodding again at some inane comment that one of his underlings murmured, his eyes scanned over the crowd lazily, looking at all of the other nobles in their finery. The gala was a masquerade, so most of the men and women in attendance were wearing masks. Even so, he was keenly aware of who almost everyone was, and his own rather slim mask would do little to disguise him. He wanted them to know he was here after all; he was that important.

As his gaze swept over the crowd, he paused, his eyes taking the sight of someone he'd not seen before. She was standing just within the ballroom, near one of the punch tables. Clad in a deep black velvet and silk dress that was bustled at her hips and decorated with silver embroidery, the woman cut a striking figure amongst those standing nearby. With her bright blonde hair tied up above her head and held in place by two elegant looking black hairpins, Maxwell could take in her slender neck and back as she politely shook her head to a servant that was offering her wine.

As she turned, he found himself gasping as he saw the stunning mask she wore. Unlike many of the other attendees, rather than a simple black or gold mask to cover her upper face the woman had on an amazingly detailed mask that looked almost like the eyes and snout of a wolf. Made of black velvet with silver and gray threading in it, it was even enchanted to give the 'wolf's' eyes a blue glow. It perfectly matched her dress and with a few pieces of her blonde hair artfully framing it, she looked stunning.

His mind whirling, Lord Hyperios looked about to see where the woman had come from. Surely her presence would have been announced by the Herald when she came in. He quickly spied that one of the garden doors was ajar, and given the time of year it was unlikely it had been left that way intentionally. He smirked as he realized she had crashed the party, sneaking in the back when no one was looking. Perhaps she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, playing at having a true title or perhaps of a family that was less wealthy and hadn't been invited; regardless, her boldness amused him and he found himself making polite excuses to those around him as he made his way towards her, glass in hand.

He came up behind her as she was again refusing another servant, this time with a platter of fine cheeses that were being given out. He moved to within inches of her, murmuring over her shoulder, “I do hope that you are enjoying the party m'Lady. You don't seem to enjoy the refreshments very much.”

She stiffened for a moment, whirling around to see who it was that addressed her. Maxwell caught the faint scent of her perfume, mixed with what his puzzled mind could only relate to the first biting cold inhalation one would get when walking outside in the winter. She regarded him for a moment as he looked on, her lips painted black and drawn into a wary smile. Finally she spoke, her tone and voice so low that he could barely hear her amongst the crowd. She had some sort of accent or undertone, but it was impossible for him to place what it was about her voice that was different, “No, my Lord, the party is quite lovely thank you. I simply have no hunger or thirst at the moment. It is kind of you to inquire however.”

He grinned, nodding to the woman and offering her a bow, “Now now, none of this 'my lord' this or that. We are at a party and should get to know one another. Well, as best as can be given our masks hmmm? You may call me Maxwell if you'd like. And I would be delighted to learn your name and, if I may be so bold, invite you to dance. You do dance, yes?”

The woman smiled, seeming to relax for the moment. In that same low tone she responded, “You can call me...Becky. And I would love to dance. I do so enjoy the music.”

Maxwell grinned, holding out his hand in invitation. The mysterious woman calling herself Becky reached out, placing a delicate, gloved hand in his. He admired the fact that her hands were not hot beneath the fabric; surely she was calm and relaxed even in such social settings. Combined with the boldness of crashing a party, Maxwell found himself intensely interested in the woman that was quickly in the running for his chosen conquest of the evening.

With that he lead Becky behind him as the two proceeded towards the dance floor. Other patrons moved out of his way as he walked, such was his reputation. A few whispered as the saw the woman he was leading, the rumors of the Lord's dalliances somewhat legendary. At that same moment, the musicians struck up another song, violins playing a popular tune for such an event.

Within moments Maxwell had the woman dancing with her. He was amused to note that although she seemed quite skilled at dancing, she would often attempt to perform dance steps that were incredibly out of fashion with the times. At one point she actually began a dance with him to a tune that no one had done in over a decade. He gently guided her into the correct steps, ignoring for the moment the giggling that her missteps had caused amongst the other dancers. It didn't matter, the lovely young woman was still beautiful, and if she were not as well versed in the current fashions and trends of the nobles in attendance, it would just make it easier to conquer her later as far as he was concerned.

As the music began to wind down, he found himself growing tired. With a nod he paused the dance, offering Becky a polite bow before leading her away from the dance floor. To his mild surprise she didn't seem to be out of breath at all, the smile from earlier still plastered on her face. The two walked towards one of the refreshment tables, where he had a servant pour them both a glass of the most expensive wine available. He turned and handed it to her and she took it with a nod of thanks.

He began to make small talk with her, sipping at his wine as he did so. He told her of his estate and manor house, attempting to impress upon her the sheer volume of his wealth and worth. He told her of his late wife, and how she had passed in recent years, neglecting to mention the rather suspicious manner in which she had passed. He spoke with her of music and the arts, watching her as she responded with knowledge and wit and laughter.

As the two spoke, a growing irritation began to develop in Maxwell's mind. The woman barely even sipped at her wine. Although she spoke casually with him, she never moved closer than a foot or two. Certainly she was not intoxicated, and not hanging on his every word or on his arm as he preferred his women to be. In fact, the longer they spoke for, the more he began to realize that she was intentionally keeping a careful distance between them, both physically and romantically, gently coaxing him away from his wooing.

It was enraging of course. No one denied him! He had never before been challenged in such a way. After the momentary anger passed (carefully concealed from reaching his face of course), he began to relish the challenge she posed. How could he gather her interest? He clearly would not get her drunk as she didn't seem to wish to eat or drink at all, but surely there was some way he could entice her closer. All the while, he continued his polite banter with her, trying to see beneath the mask, to understand what had motivated the woman to come to the party, to figure out who she WAS.

The night progressed on, the bells tolling from nine o'clock until midnight finally approached. Although the evening had been filled with dancing, wine, and good talk, it was not what Maxwell had had in mind. He had NEVER left one of the galas without a conquest, and the challenge that this Becky gave him had driven him nearly to madness inside his own head.

Feeling like he should confront her more directly, he turned to speak to her, his mouth opening just as a loud banging could be heard. All eyes turned to see the host of the event holding a staff in his hand, smiling at his guests, “Come my friends! You have all had time to eat and drink and dance! Now it is time to reveal who your new friends are! Let us remove our masks at midnight, and celebrate in new friendships in a new season!”

The rest of the attendees cheered, all eyes turning to look at a rather large and ornate clock that hung from the wall at one end of the hall. It was only a minute till midnight, and the crowd seemed to wait with breath held, eager to see who they had been merrymaking with all evening.

At Maxwell's side, the woman who had called herself Becky stirred. She offered him a polite bow, carefully sliding her gloved hand from his grasp as she made some excuse about 'needing to use the powder room' and 'she didn't want him to see her face unless she had checked the mirror'.

He nodded, at first thinking nothing of it before his eyes widened. He turned, seeing at the corner of the room the last hint of a black dress as it slipped through the garden door. Even as the clock chimed for midnight and the crowd cheered and began removing their masks, Lord Maxwell Hyperios III pushed his way through them, hurrying through the garden door.

The door lead out into the black night, with only the moonlight to guide his steps. They were in the center of Stormwind, with the Cathedral nearby giving a warm glow from its open doors. Ahead of him, he could hear footsteps as Becky's heels contacted the cobblestones. She had used a side path to head from the garden and deeper into the city, seemingly towards the cemetery behind the Cathedral.

He dashed after her, intent on finding out who she was, enraged that she had slipped his grasp as no other woman had in years. His boots pounded the paving stones, eating up the distance between them as he plunged into the darkness of the cemetery. A cold mist had crept out, winter's grasp still clinging to the land despite the warmer weather. He hurried through the cold and misty dark, hearing the sound of her thick heels on the grass between the headstones. Finally he spotted her in the moonlight, her blonde hair the only color in the dim blackness.

“Where do you think you're going Becky?” he asked smugly, approaching her. “The party is hardly over yet.”

She turned, her mouth open in surprise that someone had followed her. She wrung her hands together, her voice low. In the silence of the graveyard, there was a faint echo that Maxwell could not place, “I-I'm sorry my Lord! I-it was time for me to depart however. I-I...it was a lovely party...”

Her voice trailed off lamely as she finished, and he stepped within a foot of her, studying her. She appeared nervous, although even now her breath did not come from her in gasps as a frightened woman might. The idea that he did not frighten her irked him further.

“As I said, the party is far from over and it is hardly fair not to reveal yourself at midnight, as is the custom,” he said, his voice insistent.

She began to shake her head, her response cut short, “My Lord, I don't think I shou-”

He reached forward and yanked the mask from her face roughly, snapping the ties that held it in place. It tumbled to the ground behind him as he took in the sight of her. His eyes widened in horror at what he saw.

The glow of the wolf's eyes on the mask was no magic trick, they were her eyes! The dead glowing orbs started at him, a forlorn look on her face as she returned his gaze. Fury welled up within him as he realized he had been tricked. He'd been DANCING with a DEAD woman all evening! She'd let him believe she was just a simply party guest! She'd made a FOOL of him!

In a rage he reacted, his hand coming out to strike the woman across the face. Her head rocked to the side, a tear sliding from one eye. A brackish black tear full of diseased fluids. It enraged him further to see her staring down at her torn mask, as if what she'd done was excusable. He struck her again, harder this time. It would not be the first woman he'd beaten, and no one would see in the cemetery.

Her head rocked again and she remained motionless, staring endlessly at her mask as it lay in the grass. His arm came up a third time, lashing out at her face.

It was caught in an icy cold grip, immobile instantly.

His eyes widened as he looked at the woman. Gone was the demure and innocent expression on her face. Gone was the forlorn look of despair at his rejection. Instead there was something else there now, something that gazed on him with a cold malice the likes of which made his bowels quiver within him. She stared at him, a malicious smile on her face as she licked at a dab of blackened blood that oozed from her split lip.

“That's not very polite, Maxwell,” she purred. The sound was otherworldly now, and had such intense hatred in it that he would have recoiled if he could wrench his arm free from her horrible grasp.

She grinned at him now, stepping closer and putting her face inches from him, “And now you see me, my Lord. Tell me, were you going to bed me like all of the others you've dragged from those parties? Did you think I didn't understand what you were doing? Furthermore, do you think your dead wife can't find out about everything you've done? I can tell her if I'd like. It would be such fun, knowing that she was waiting for you on the other side, enraged.”

He nearly wet himself, and the fear on his face was like a fine wine to the death knight. With a sudden lurch her other hand came up and she shoved him with both hands, flinging him backwards with incredible strength. He flailed as he sailed away from her, his knees connecting with a low grave marker that he fell over. The stone fell over along with him, and he was left atop the cold, disturbed soil as she stood over him, staring down on him.

“I WAS having a lovely evening, Maxwell,” She said in a solemn tone. “Perhaps next time you will treat your friends with more respect hmmm? You never know when I might be watching.”

He shivered as she spoke and she turned, ignoring him. She walked past him, the creeping mist combined with her long dress concealing her shoes and making it appear that she was gliding across the grass. Given her unnaturally glowing eyes, she might as well have been for all he was concerned. He nearly fainted as he realized he was in a cemetery with a very annoyed dead creature.

She bent down, picking up her ruined mask and turning it over in her hands, a look of irritation on her face. He could not tell if it was from the loss of the object, or from the loss of her masquerade. After a moment she sighed and turned, her back to him. She spoke a few words in a language that he'd never heard before; one that almost instantly gave him a headache.

Before her a gaping black portal opened, a howling mournful wind flowing from it. Within was nothing but the coldest blackness of death, and he stared at it in abject horror. The woman who had called herself Becky, the woman who was really Beckyann Eastberg, Corporal of the 1113^th Reformed Scourge Legion ignored the quivering breather on the ground behind her. She gathered her skirts up and walked casually into the black of the portal, disappearing within as her black dress swirled around her in the wind.

And then she was gone.

For a moment the portal lingered, and Maxwell could almost imagine he saw his dead wife staring back at him from within. The woman he'd murdered to gain more wealth and power. This time he DID wet himself, mewling pathetically in the dark of the cemetery until he finally managed to garner the strength and wit to rise and run for his life. Behind him the black portal shrunk to nothing, and the cemetery was left in peace at last.