His magic was indeed a subtle one, weak enough to be of suspicion of pure blooded nobles, and yet strong enough that none had ever proved the wiser. No fire tricks. No intricate displays of light or shadow, nor the ability to shape shift, or the power to appear and disappear. But there was no denying that his gift was useful.<br/><br/>In a way that proved similar to the god of wine, the dark haired man was capable of instilling a sort of madness upon his targets; able to pull the gauze over eyes, and the wool over minds that would otherwise remain stalwart and strong. More often than not, he had used the ability for simple, petty things; charming a barmaid into giving him another cup of alcohol for not even an extra coin, beguiling his way past officials of the law who seemed suspicious of his dress and belongings. Persuading the local tailor to provide him with a custom made costume for the Masquerade, complete with a deep green vest, and an absolutely gorgeous mask, adorned with grapes and vines. Talking his way into being able to use a carriage that should have been reserved for those of actual politic importance, as ways of transport to the gaudy party.<br/><br/>Which, incidentally, was exactly what he had done. Plus or minus some stops he'd made at local taverns and such for some 'liquid confidence'. By the time he had arrived at the Masquerade, the alcohol in his veins had him buzzing with energy, ready to go and meet and accomplish everything he had set out to do.<br/><br/>Hopefully, the food (read: wine) wouldn't distract him too much from the task at hand. But the women were gorgeous, and the men were dashing, so there may be distractions of the other kind awaiting him as well.<br/><br/>As the coachmen opened the carriage door for him, the green-eyed man dimly heard his false-title being announced to the other guests. Over the chaotic roar of different magically-enhanced voices, presenting all the lords and ladies of the land, one could almost make out the cry of 'Dionysus,' the rest of the proclamation drowned out as words overlapped, noises overwhelming.<br/><br/>And yet this was farther than he'd ever expected to come. He was not a coward by any means--not at all. But, as a self-proclaimed realist (Pessimist. Skeptic. Cynic. Negative pain in the arse.), it had been difficult to believe that he would even have forced up the energy in order to leave his country for this place.<br/><br/>It was not frowned upon to have commoners come and visit the Masquerade; he was sure that the King knew very well that hundreds of the guests that visited each and every year for this event were those of peasant-blood. If it had been such a concern, surely, there would have been laws enforced to prevent such outings. But it was a well-known fact that nobles had a better chance to mingle with other nobles, a better chance at being able to have political influence on those in certain positions of power--those that could, say, send help to a war-torn country in order to assist the oppressed people.<br/><br/>So that was why he must keep up the guise. With the sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't have taken to so many bars before his arrival, Dionysus steeled his nerves and stepped out of the carriage, allowing himself to be escorted to the front steps of the castle. So many people to meet. Impress. And maybe, maybe, he would even find out the answers he'd been searching for his entire twenty-five years of life.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>She was a contortionist. A grifter. The woman could be described as many things; stern. Disciplined. Cruel. The last of which was nothing but an outright lie; she may soon be forced to commit terrible acts in the name of her family, but the slight, dark skimmed lady was resolute in her belief that she loved too much.<br/><br/>She loved her father too much, and had pretended to be a boy for three months, just to be able to work on the docks of her homeland to make a living. She had loved her mother too much, and had sold away all her belongings in order to afford a ticket that would carry her all the way to Lorrim and back, as well as being able to purchase an elegant coral gown and pale, rose colored mask to hide her face. She loved her sister too much, and was willing to risk imprisonment, even death, if it came to it, in order to take the money she needed to keep her family and home safe.<br/><br/>She was too robust to pass for a perfect lady, and held too much dignity to pass for a simple commoner. In a world of extremes, she was the definition of average. Perhaps her one defining feature was her soft voice, clear and elegant in comparison to her rough mannerisms. And perhaps it was for this reason that she knew if anyone were to succeed in this mission, it was to be her.<br/><br/>A dove was, by nature, a peaceful creature. Delicate and lovely, beautiful and pure. By comparison, a lark was far more lively, with enough spirit and fire to make it difficult to tame, difficult to understand--even though the melody it sang was sweet and haunting.<br/><br/>By disguising herself as one of the lesser known lord's mistresses, the Lark had been able to blend in quite wonderfully with the crowd, passing off her pretty voice and flexible limbs as just a simple spell, easy enough to be recreate for magic users of low skill.<br/><br/>Following behind the man she was pretending to serve, the Lark tittered away with the rest of the women at his command, waiting for the perfect moment to slip away into the crowd of people.