The Devil and
A Floozy.
The Devil's mask was grotesque; was monstrous. The horns curved like a satyr's; like lust's. His hair was dark. His jaw, angular. His mouth, cruel. The froth at his throat was frothier, more flamboyant. Black gloves. Black lace at his throat. Black silk shirt beneath the red and black vest. Black boots. Black pants, tailored into sleek lines, the better to show off his assets. As sinnishly black as possible. And
A Floozy was quite pretty, with teak-colored skin and dark glossy curls, costumed like a whore from Moulin Rouge, all pink feathers and glistering sequins. They did not appear to have any problems with Public Displays of Affection; the Floozy clung, just like Floozies do in stories.
The Medusa and
A Film Noir Detective.
The Medusa's dress was pure 1930s, silver seed pearls at the waist; at the edge of each strap; at the edge of each skirt's layer; a tulip bodice that clung with a sort've desperate amour to her torso. The skirt flared out at her hips; fell. The lowest layer was sheer enough that one could see
The Medusa's ankles, the lace-up sandals. The mask was a headdress as well; snakes crowned the mask; coiled down, open-mouthed, to frame her jawline; to fall down her shoulders in an Art Nouveau
fantasia. Her date,
A Film Noir Detective, seemed to be maintaining a cool distance, while at the same time being utterly attentive. He sported a London fog trench, gray-as-pavement; a gray-as-pavement fedora. Beneath the trench, he wore the kind've thing Humphrey Boggart wore in his early movies. He had a bottle of scotch sticking out of a pocket. He frequently offered a pull to The Medusa and called her a dame.
The Owl Mage was mostly dressed in tattoos: whorls and whirls, woad-like and arcane, up and down his arms; over his naked chest. Hello, naked chest. You're nice. He wore a torc; his wings were of ghost-gray, spectral-white; they lined his arms in the manner of Aztec dancers' wings for the Eagle dance. Whenever he gestured, they added a surprisingly predatory grace to the gesture -- and were just as surprisingly silent. There was a torc around his neck; a wrap in his hair, fell over his shoulder, ended in an owl's true feather and quartz. He had on trousers, too. They were belted in ivy. No shoes. There was just no way of telling who Bastet was, because she wore another full-face mask; it hid everything, the cat-thing, with its eternal cat-smile, earring in the cat-ears. An indecently transparent shift of Egyptian linen -- which didn't leave much to the imagination, by the by -- completed that outfit. That, and some jewelry of ivory and lapis lazuli, of carnelian and agate.
The Batman didn't show much skin.
He was The Batman. Skin was weakness! It was a really, really good Batman costume; possibly one of the best on the market! His utility belt comes with toys. Fun toys. To the good cheer of all who saw her, Poison Ivy clearly took a leaf (ha, ha) from the Uma Thurman book of Poison Ivy, and was about as sexy as one could get and still be dressed up as a woman who called herself after a plant that madeja itch like crazy. Not good connotations when speaking of sexy, but it worked for her. They
appeared to be having a good time. Looking down on people, if nothing else.
The Cowboy's duster was very, very dramatic and also very, very dusty; maybe he'd rolled in the desert for authenticity. Less authentic were the jeans, clearly of the Target variety, with some not so artfully faded holes at the knees; some thinning at the back pockets (not that those are visible, but still). He had a sheriff's star pinned to his lapel, bright and silver; also, hip holsters, complete with Civil War Era replica pistols. Pretty, pretty pistols. Pistols so pretty they should be shot. As in, used to shoot. Because they're pretty. They look wickedly dangerous. Yeah, he had on a cowboy hat. He was a cowboy. There was no cowboy without the hat. His mask, however, was the mask of a wolf. Leather, black. Wolfish snout. Big Bad Wolf, Cowboy Version. There was an Awkward Rapport between
The Cowboy and the
Slutty!Marie Antoinette, who was in a very lavish dress indeed, whose cleavage was very, very Grand Canyonesque. The back of her gown trailed, but the front? The front stopped WAY above her knees, as more then evident by the tops of her thigh-high stockings.
The Unicorn's dress was a study in contradiction (chaste/unchaste). The sleeves opened at the elbow; the skin of her inner wrist was unadorned; radiant. No jewelry at all, except for a ribbon wound 'round her throat. There was a buckle in the ribbon; from the buckle, another ribbon trailed like a leash. They were as gold as those bridles in story. The skirt was long; all complicated layers; all dramatic gathers. The waistline was a v to match the neckline, both in the front and the back; her hair was completely hidden beneath an oldfashioned headpiece. The dress was white, or would've been, except -- the hem was a bloody red, the underskirt a bloodier red, and the red streaked up until it reached her right hip
(flank?), where she'd apparently been pierced by an arrow. The arrow was still there, piercing fabric.
The trailing end of the bright-as-shine ribbon was wrapped around
The Prince's fist.
The Prince's hair was dark honey blonde, longish, and bound by a circlet of the very same color. His boots were tall; his trousers, the color of gray doves, but warm. His tunic, his jacket, were Tudor in style, for those who were around back then and could recognize such things. At his hip, he'd buckled a hunting knife; also, a pewter goblet dangled, High Gothika, with vampire bats featuring. The collar of his jacket/shirt'd been left open. He also sported a Belgian-style crossbow-pistol, with the wooden holster as tawny as his mask where the shadows touched it; the metal "bow" part was quite lovely, without being too ornate. They?
Went straight to the dancing portion of the night. Easy familiarty; nothing more, nothing less.
)) are invited to attend
)) are invited to attend
