<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/wmj18shm.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><strong>Name:</strong> <em>Imogen Payne</em><br/><strong>Location:</strong> <em>Ballroom</em><br/><strong>Tagging:</strong> <em>open</em></span><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">the ensemble</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://i.imgur.com/FBTFFV3.png)</div></div><hr/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><em><strong>W</strong></em></span>hether or not Imogen had been there from the beginning of the night or had arrived late was something few people would know. Her costume was dark, save for her pale skin, and she blended in well with the shadows amidst the eerie and elegant decor when she wasn't moving among the other attendees. Imogen would raise a hand in a slight gesture when various footmen would approach her with silver trays of beverages; sobriety might lend her certain advantages for this part of the evening.<br/><br/>Mostly, Imogen watched.<br/><br/>She watched others stalking about the ballroom like predators, carefully choosing their prey; she watched others drinking and exchanging chatter; she watched others gossiping, conspiring. She watched women, emboldened by the anonymity of their costumes and masks, approach men or other women for company and a dance; she watched men linger on the outskirts of the dance floor, considering their next move. Imogen even watched, with some amusement, couples and groups that had arrived together already disbanding in the spirit of the masked evening. Would they pretend to be strangers when they met up again later? This idea amused her, though Imogen's face didn't display it.<br/><br/>In fact, her face displayed very little. Past the mask, Imogen's eyes were painted with a charcoal-black smokey eye and her thick lashes batted against the eyelets of her mask; her lips, below and undeniably well-shaped, were colored the dark, black-red of venous blood - and for all this decoration, Imogen's visage was composed into an expression of impartial stoicism.<br/><br/>For a little while, Imogen danced.<br/><br/>Though, that may be a generous descriptor. She'd lent herself into the arms of several men for the length of a song and a half as they'd moved over and around the ballroom floor, until Imogen had grown weary of the activity or song or company and resigned herself to the shadows, blending in with the decor again. The woman watched for some time more from a languid recline on a chaise lounge she'd found in a corner of the ballroom, part of a small sitting area arranged there and thus far unused save for herself; Imogen remained observant and unmoved even as the Count and Countess announced the opening of the banquet hall and that the castle would then start opening to them sometime after that.<br/><br/>While Imogen did have some desire to explore the venue, she had already drawn the conclusion that it would be a wasted evening. She had accepted the invitation from the intrigue alone, but later had wondered... Imogen had very nearly not come at all - but that would have been deeply frowned upon, a slap in the face to her hosts - especially after she had already replied in the affirmative of her attendance. Her fingers darted through the silver tresses of her hair briefly and then returned to the velvet cushion of the chaise under her, fingers stroking the soft fabric. The cuts in the black silk chiffon skirt of her dress parted with how she lounged and exposed her extended legs; the fabric draped over the seat around her and pooled on the floor under the chaise.<br/><br/>Her detached expression remained and her eyes passively looked on the revelers who remained in the ballroom as the music started up again.