Gravon saw her near, saw her as Genevieve moved through the crowd. The most delicate flower of the room, a stark contrast to his stem of thorns, she was the yielding grace to his aggressive stance.  Moving to meet him in the cleared space of the floor he could see her delicacy from where he stood. In that moment his want and need spiked in his body. He had never had an assignment with a woman or a man who knew the fullness of tormented pleasure. He had never had a patron who knew the complete and utter surrender of suffering. Gravon’s eyes locked with hers, and in that moment they spoke.<br/><br/>He knew, in that conversation, that there was something more, that neither of them had been told of their true assignment. That they were to bear the lust of the crowd, that they would enact a ritualistic release so that the peers and voyeurs could incite their own passions in safe reflection. There was something more, something that itched at the back of his mind. The crier broken the hushed silence that had existed in the room.<br/><br/>“Bare the Mandrake for the flower of Valerian.” The man announced in a commanding tone. Gravon did not move, his patron had not commanded him to do so, and he felt something hold him to his spot. From the crowd two people approached, a man and a woman bearing shears that glinted in the lamplight. Without fear he turned to face them, to almost challenge them to their task. For a moment they faltered and a thin lipped smile appeared on Gravon’s lips. He would not aid them in their duty save to offer his arms to them.<br/><br/>They did not remove his gloves, instead using the shears to rend his shirt sleeves, cutting through the fabric with a tearing sound. Up his arms and over his shoulders closer to his neck. The sharp points of the shears growing closer until the garment was split. The woman removed his shirt, passing her hands across his torso in appreciation. His eyes, which had been on Genevieve moved to the woman for a moment and a cruel smile formed. “This is not for you tonight, for you would surely wilt before me,” he said softly, a challenge and a dare in the words. Beneath the mask the woman blossomed into a rose hued blush. She removed her hands after one last longing touch.<br/><br/>She and the man stood to Gravon’s side, looking to the crier for instructions and the man regarded them for a moment. “He is not yet bare for us,” the man intoned. At that the two bowed slightly and the woman began to undo Gravon’s belt. He stopped her, taking her hands from the buckle and placing them on his hips. He undid the buckle, and retrieved the heavy flogger before the leather belt felt to the ground. With deft fingers she unlaced his breaches and let them hang. Then both she and the man resumed their work with the shears. Straight down the sides of his legs and to the boot tops.<br/><br/>Gravon felt the bite of the shears in his right hip, the nick and drag of the point from the side of the man. He had been marked, and in that moment his anger grew. He however, did not respond with even a hiss. He turned to the man, taking stock of his features. He would not let this pass unmentioned. The shears, having completed their assignments let his breaches fall to the hands of his attendants. With two great tugs and the sounds of tearing fabric the pants were torn from him. A collective sigh ran through the crowd, and it fed his lust.<br/><br/>He stood there, leather knee boots, gloves and mask, exposed for the patrons of the fete. He stood there, crimson scar sending a trail of blood down one of his legs, heaviness between his legs as the exposure heightened his arousal. He held the flogger to his side, the tines almost reaching the floor. He took a moment, stepping away from those who had attended him. He turned, giving all who were there a moment to look, to gaze upon a member of the Night Court.<br/><br/>His eyes stayed steady, challenging others to meet his gaze. Few did, the affect of his baring evident on their faces. He turned a full circuit before coming back to rest his gaze on Genevieve. He bared his almost finished marque for all to see, the stylized tree made of chain and leather. The motes of blood as the leaves of the tree, all but the top branches complete. His marque announced his knowledge of pain, the strength which he drew from it. He brought his eyes back to Genevieve, he looked at her, letting his face convey what his words would not. They would perform, that would sate needs that no others would truly understand, and in this one night, they would be free.<br/>