"Oh yes, it's quite special," the Khattan woman replies. "Programmable makeup, one of my House's specialties." She seems to be talking about her eye shadow makeup. "I like your feather effects," she notes, and taps her eyebrow. "Very striking design. Is it licensed or original?"
Tasha had hoped the woman wouldn't catch on, but she couldn't resist flippancy in the face of someone so obviously tainted. The taint makes Tasha suspicious, and suspicion raises all the thoughts of cunning and war in her mind. Since the situation has remained civil, the prefered result, she continues along that route. "It's very nice, the makeup," she offers, exchanging compliment for compliment. "And oh, I'm all original. The prototype design focused entirely on early Karnor and Vartan styling, but I am, you might say, the Mark II version."
"Well, you came out very well," the woman says. "Does your designer take commissions?"
"Oh, she's they're very secretive. Even I don't have the means to contact them regularly. Such high-minded persons prefer to be left to their own devices and not troubled overmuch by their hobbies." Tasha smile is a tad wry; it's not even a lie, though it's not exactly the truth either. "I may not even be finished. Such is the life of someone under continual development. But, aren't we all?" Her smile is sweeter, now.
"If only," the woman says slyly and winks. Then she perks up, and says, "Oh, it's old Fussbottom! He's number 3 at his House now, I have to go tease him! Pleasure to meet you, dearie." She then makes a gesture that appears to kissing the air towards Tasha, and flounces off again.
The hideous sculpture also continues on in its randomized orbit about the chamber.
Tasha resumes looking at the art, if only to appear to be engaged and not overwhelmed. This wasn't exactly something she trained for, more something she picked up from all the varied beings and cultures she's come across in her travels. The refinement offered by Katie, Mr. Invention, and Miss Necessity have helped, as gas her foray in to Galactic modern entertainments has helped, but she still feels out of her depth. Not as out of her depth as she would have a year ago, but out.
With the sculpture having moved off, she decides it's time she did the same, and so makes her own randomized orbit.
Another of the pieces has stopped. Only one of the other guests is looking at it though: an Eeee woman with grey fur, grey eyes, grey hair, a grey dress and a grey expression. The 'art' is a disturbingly twisted knot of translucent material, with a dark fluid cycling through it. The others around her are engaged in conversions, ignoring both the artwork and the woman.
Tasha wonders about this woman who would rather look at strange art than talk to people, if perhaps this Eeee can see more in it, as she can. Trying to be unobtrusive, she walks near the woman and in to the periphery of her vision, but does not face her, instead examining the art itself with her mortal and immortal eye.
It also has a fuzzy shadow presence, moving with the liquid, but not part of the odd crystal material. "Hypnotically repulsive," the Eeee woman comments, apparently to Tasha but without turnings towards her. "Like it's alive. Living things should not be pieces of art." She then glances towards Tasha, and after a moment says, "Forgive me, I meant no offense." Mezzode's are living pieces of art, technically.
"I suspect it's intended to disturb, rendering the process of life in a container for all to see, limited, circular, repeating the same actions over and over for an outside viewer to judge, like a god." Her head then shakes. "I've wondered the same myself, if living things should be art. If this statuary invokes such a feeling, I should too. I don't feel any malice in your words, and I wouldn't want to suppress an honest opinion." The 'Mezzode' turns now. "It's informative, honesty. How else can art know its worth to civilizations?"
"People have inherent worth," the Eeee claims. There's nothing shadowy about her. "Regardless of how they are created. Nothing should be made to question its own worth, nor should worth be imposed upon it."
The woman even speaks with a grey monotone.
This makes Tasha smile. Not a feigned or calculated smile, or even a half-truth of a smile, but a genuine smile. "That's nice to hear. It is an opinion that seems rare where-ever one goes, so much so it can be easy to forget there are those who believe it. I, for one, am grateful for them." And so she inclines her head respectfully.
"Oh," the Eeee replies. "Nobody ever cared about my opinion on such things before." Even this is said in a tone that seems like she doesn't care either. "Thank you."
"I am used to hearing diverse opinions, from diverse people. When you meant a broad enough array, it can become easy to see them all as having their own interesting points and values. Something about their powers, places, and influences lending a certain ... " Tasha does not say grey. "A sameness." She nods, then asks, "If often your opinion is unconsidered by others, does that mean you often give it?" She inclines her head to the party; in places like this to people such as this.
"Not in this sort of company," the Eeee claims. "I don't know these people. I wasn't invited to this event."
"Oh, then how did you arrive here? The security isn't exactly lax," Tasha notes, glancing around as she wonders if this grey lady is someone's servant. "They are an interesting group, are they not?"
"There is something off about all of them, Tasha," the Eeee claims, without looking away. "I am Batty. A good assassin can get in anywhere, which is why Mr. Yves recruited me for your group."
"Oh." Tasha tries very hard to remain neural-faced about this, and must glance at the sombre reminder if life in art to do so. She processes the new information quickly, then moves straight to addressing the matter. "Yes," she agrees, nodding slowly, " ... there is something odd about them. An influence, though I know not whose, not yet. But an influence, more than politics and hierarchy." She frowns. "And if they have invited me here, someone among them may know that I know it."
"You do not seem to match their taste in art, however," Batty claims. "These people are harmless though, within this context. They are not even engaging in the sort of subtle competition this stratum of society is known for."
"I haven't spoken to enough of them to gauge why they're here, for my part. The one woman I did meet seemed to have startling insight in to my DNA, when that should not be, but was otherwise interested in simple conversation, but of course that could be a mask." She then turns to nod at the statue. "These are also more than they appear, the same influence that touches them may be within the guests. These are most likely artifacts, not simple art."
"Mr. Pharoah's art collection is entirely made up of ancient First Ones artifacts," Batty confirms. "Priceless, and borderline illegal. Wealth is a great insulator, however."
"It certainly is. These ones appear to be active, though whether they are dangerous I do not know." Tasha glances back at the crowd now, turning her third eye upon them to try and determine how many others might be under the same influence as the woman she met upon entering. "I wonder if her uncanny knowledge is tied to the influence present in these things. In her. Though, I'm uncertain if it is the same power."
The closet person within Tasha's range of special perception is a tall, handsome Human male. He's looks to be about the same physical age as Gabriel, and has a similar presence. He's laughing with an older Human woman, and appears to have some shadow presence that drapes across his shoulders and presses against his throat.
"Yes, another one. That male, tall, Human, like our Gabriel in build." Tasha turns to Batty now. "I'm going to go socialize now, see who -- and what -- I can see. Be ready for anything. This may be a power's attempt to reach me, or it may be something else. The method is new to me, and it doesn't appear to be explicitly directed at me, but we can't rule out an indirect attempt or some other plot." She takes a moment o frown at the art herself, then asks, "Any questions before we split off?"
"Do you need me to kill anyone here?" Batty asks.
Tasha considers that. Usually when there is killing to be done, it's her role to do it. She's never had anyone at her beck and call to do it for her. Her very own assassin; the novelty of her first offer of such a thing is not lost on her. "No," she says at length, in a drawn out, considering way. "Not yet at least. Whatever this is, it doesn't seem to be an immediate trap. There is something else going on here, something more. We have art and people, so am I meant to see them? Is this a display of wealth by someone who is themselves influenced? Is this some sort of impressing of peers, of which a influenced man might see me as such?" Her muzzle wrinkles. "Well, we don't know. Lets wait and see. For now, defend yourself and my person, but defensively. Act only if they do."
"I will go back into the background then," Batty says. "You may feel a moment of disorientation.." As soon as the last word is said, Tasha wonders if she was just talking to someone. She's pretty sure that she was, but nobody is there. It takes a few more moments to remember the Eeee.
That's a neat tricky. Tasha supposes Yue will be jealous yet again. Turning now, she approaches the Gabriel-sized man, not intruding in to their conversation but making herself available to speak to, close enough to address and engage without butting in. She doesn't need to create waves, not yet, and simple observation is teaching her much.
He's relating a story about some sort of race, with terms Tasha doesn't understand. The woman he's talking to has a dark presence on her back. The Belter woman wearing an exo-skeleton (and who has some sort of relationship with the man) has a dark halo around her head.
Tasha considers this. The first woman had tentacles around the eyes, the man something aimed at his neck, and the two women a halo and something upon her back. If she were to assume the first woman's ability to see her DNA is a product of the aura about her eyes, then these three might have some power related to the shame of their phantoms. Considering the man again, that it's aimed at his neck, and that he is speaking, suggests to her some vocal power. She studies the others' faces, to see if they are enraptured, then shifts to passersby to assess if they're momentarily drawn in.
The woman that he's talking to certainly seem focused by the deep voice. Other people milling or strolling in groups that come near enough also appear to have shadowy attachments, most of them internal. Except for the rather gaunt looking man that approaches Tasha directly. He looks as grey as Batty, but he's wearing an old fashioned tuxedo. "Miss Argentine?" the man asks in a rather hollow voice.
"Yes?" Tasha turns to face the man fully, not wishing to be seen staring at phantoms, and willing to continue to play the part so long as the party remains harmless. Her ears perk at her name.
"Mr. Pharaoh is waiting for you on the top platform," the man says. "Would you accompany me please?"
"Certainly," Tasha replies, nodding for the man to lead her there. She hopes Batty is listening, but suspects any assassin Mr. Ives would hire would be so reliable.
It's a bit of a trek to the uppermost shelf. Each level seems to more extravagant in terms of art and patrons. While some of it is alien and disturbing, others seem to be genuine art or artifacts of a less sinister nature. There are even paintings, often depicting scenes of ancient cultures from Terra. When they reach the top, however, there are very few people. Framed by the twisting branches is a literal golden throne, covered in hieroglyphics. A man lounges on it, leaning to one side with his head propped against his right fist, the elbow resting on the arm of the throne. He's wearing a golden wrap of sorts, which just seems to dangle from his left shoulder and spill across his lap onto the floor. He is otherwise unadorned, and has the classic space-black skin and height of a Belter, although he appears much more muscular if still lean. He has no hair at all, not even eyebrows, and his eyes are also very dark.
The people around him are also tall, but not Belter tall, and very fit. They also only wear elaborate head-covering masks. One, a stylized jackal, a woman with the head of a cow, and another man with that of a bird with a disk above his head. Horus, most likely.
Tasha's attendant leaves as soon as they're on the platform without making an introduction.
Tasha wonders what Horus would make of this. How many fave worn his face, their faces, made them their own, or poor facilities? She realizes the truism in Thoth's words now, that taking on a role has power. It's akin to stealing, she thinks, unless it is given. Robbery of selfhood, of deity. She suspects her Silent-Ones friends might even call is blasphemy.
Looking between the group, and making no effort to hide it, Tasha assesses that these may be other in-theme beings, other gods. She knows a few through her and others' research, such as what she suspects is Anubis or another funerary god -- a god that has seen resurgent popularity -- and she thinks the cow-headed woman is one of the deities of motherhood and fertility. Of them all, only Horus is one she knows to have truly existed.
"I received your card, and so I am here," she greets the man on the throne, assuming him to be Mr. Pharaoh by throne and posture. She knows that bored, weighted look of a ruler personally. "An interesting choice of styling and art." She leaves that last open to interpretation.
"Odd that you would call it a choice," the man says in a very rich voice. He then raises his left hand slightly and makes a come-hither gesture with it. "I don't bite," he promises, but his smile seems cruel.
"How many times have I heard that from dangerous men and women?" Tasha's laughs. There's something about standing before this strange council of beings that makes her feel more free to speak than down below, as if despite the masks, their faces are now more plain. Her shrug is as wry as it is indulgent as she steps forward; here you are, I hope you like it.
"I'd say the same, but well, I am a guest," she adds as she moves forward.
"Hmm, you look different," Mr. Pharaoh says. "And you smell of resurrection. There's usually something lost in that process, so I wonder what you are now missing?"
Still the masks, yet even less concealment. To pick up that she's not only died, but that he knew what she was before, suggests something more akin to a power. She turns her third eye on the guests first, saving the man for last, deciding what she might see may cause her to react and lose focus before she can assess them all. As she looks, she speaks, "Aside from my pride, sense of invincibility, reasonably impressive musculature?"
"And your flavor, no doubt," the man says. He then gestures to the woman wearing the Hathor mask, who picks up a stoppered crystal phial from a small sideboard and presents it to Tasha.
"Don't forget the ability to wear scarves," Tasha adds, turning to this would-be Hathor and raising an eyebrow at the vial. She takes it in hand and holds it to the light, assessing it with every sense.
It seems to filled with something very dense and white. It doesn't trigger any shadow sense, however. "For Samael," Mr. Pharaoh says.
"Ah, Samael." Tasha nods to the attendant lowers her hand, keeping the vial in her possession, then turning back to Mr. Pharaoh. She takes this moment to study him now with the same senses, strongly suspecting she's dealing with, if not a power, than the servant of one. Yet, the powers who have interacted with her have rarely used servants, so she braces for that moment when she once again stands before the deific. "And what was for those beings downstairs? Mortals, surely, but with gifts?"
Mr. Pharaoh looks.. the same. Extremely black. "Gifts are given freely," the dark man says. "So they are not gifts. Some where stolen, at first. But there is always a price. Nothing is free. But.. that does not mean prices cannot be met. Lukthu is gone, yes? Completely? And the mess cleaned up?"
"Annihilated," Tasha answers, still processing the fact this man seems perfectly normal to her vision. She realizes now that it may not be perfect, or else the man really is a mouth-piece. She doubts the latter, given her history with powers, and that he knows of and is gifting things to Samael suggests Thotep's involvement. She knows that entity can be anywhere, any time, so why not now? The art does seem like something he'd like, as do the gifts. "In two steps. If not the first, than the second. Was that your fleet, then? We saw the signs." A test.
"Sometimes you need to purpose-build a civilization," Mr. Pharaoh says. "Sometimes it pans out, other times it gets dull. Eqypt was fun for a time. But humans were a bit limited back then. What with their lack of parental supervision."
"Wolflings develop slowly, having to re-invent everything," Tasha agrees. She's seen it on her home world, even if her home world had help much that was, is lost. "Inconvenient for us, too, but there are benefits. It must be difficult to predict, even for beings like yourself." A comfort to think even powers can't figure people out. "You met the others, then? In Egypt." She gestures to the masked figures as example.
"These are just servants," Mr. Pharaoh says. "I have a theme to maintain. A brand. They can't actually hear us."
"A brand?" Tasha smiles a little. "It's a common theme with powers, though not all. I've considered taking it up myself, but I am hardly a power. The power, then, is in the mask." She nods to the servants again. "Even deaf to us, they project something. A brand, to help another." She studies the cow for a long moment, wondering if she ought to do the same -- wear a mask. Her Hermes mask. Hermes is a male god, after all. Something to consider later, she decides. Looking back, she asks, "What is your impression of Lukthu-hem's destruction? Productive, I assume. Not a target the Dagger was of help with, but we worked it out in the end."
"I wasn't paying close attention," Mr. Pharaoh says. "But you returned, so I assumed the outcome. It wasn't the one I expected. But that is the advantage of chaos. It is always surprising."
"I am surprised I returned, so lets hear it for chaos." This makes Tasha chuckle, then more so for realizing here she is toasting chaos to what is possibly one of the universe's most powerful manifestations there-of. It ought to be a painting, she thinks, given the absurdity of it all. When the chuckling dies down she asks, "I'm curious now, what outcome did you expect?"
"The destruction of the universe was one possibility," Mr. Pharaoh says. "Or that you might be corrupted and sent back at me in some attempt at revenge. Or that you would have simply been eaten."
Tasha nods to these, all except being corrupted were possibilities she knew then or later, and corruption was one she assumed before the battle began. "I admit that having nearly destroyed the universe without realizing it stunning, even with everything else that happened. You are correct about the having been eaten part. Thankfully, I got better." She shrugs with her hands, also indicating herself. "What a being she was, Luk'thu-hem. Terror and death aside, it was an exciting time, and interesting. Maybe I pity you a little, to not feel the enormous shift in existence from mortality to nothingness to shaking a reality. But, maybe I'm assuming too much?"
"I exist across infinite realities," Mr. Pharaoh says. "And I have experienced infinite lives. There isn't much I have not felt, including death. And sometimes, I am driven off, or bound or banished - to keep things interesting."
Tasha considers this, too. She has seen enough in to immortals and and vast beings whose mortality buffers the infinite, and many lesser beings aside, to have an opinion. Not a guess-at-the-universe opinion, or a decide-what-the-universe-is opinion, but an opinion based on experience and the interpersonal, however flawed and limited her understanding of both.
"I can see how it would be a difficult existence without chaos," she decides at length, feeling such an existence out in her mind through everyone she has met before. "Stasis is akin to death, though I don't know if you can chose it willingly. Some gods are what they are, their borders defined by their concepts, by their expressions of base reality. Like a shadow cast by a light, it may cover much, but it's defined by what casts it." She nods a little to her own thoughts. "And the role of a god is immense. The pressure, the endless problems. Whether you chose them or not. Even inaction is a choice when you can make a difference. To put it insufficiently, is sounds difficult. Maybe even sad."
"I'm hardly a god," Mr. Pharaoh claims. "Granted, I have been worshipped and appeased, but I act as I will for my own whims. And I do repeat myself, many times over, so that I can keep playing against alternate version of favorite opponents."
"It sounds fun in that regard. There are beings I wouldn't mind fighting again, trying new ways to beat them, learning from what I couldn't, seeing what happened some other way. Luk'thu-hem is one. It sounds like a game, the stakes seem different when you are immortal, or, maybe, when mortality doesn't apply to you and you can continue to return." She considers it a moment longer, looking at the ceiling, thinking back. "Since we're speaking of opponents, do you know what Mr. Yellow wants? Ultimately? From me? I know that ruins the surprise, but I feel as though I ought to ask while I have the chance."
"I can guess," Mr. Pharaoh says, and grins his cruel grin. "And you should be able to as well, if you think about it. But I'm sure he's given you a task."
"I have suspicions," Tasha agrees, misliking that grin of Mr. Pharaohs. "And yes, a task. Your kind are ever providing those, nothing being free as you said. But he isn't quite as ... " She gestures between them, "Elaborative as you are."
"I'm the only one that truly appreciates the living," Mr. Pharaoh claims. "The others lack imagination."
"So it seems," Tasha neither confirms nor denies, not having met all of the others. It does suggest something else Tasha has suspected about Mr. Yellow: a lack of imagination, a one tract mind. That might be useful. Realizing her time may be growing short and not wanting a small army to rush in and face this level of threat, she then asks, "Was there anything else? I've taken measures, but you know that, and I fear you're not an opponent they can handle with the scale of weapons they might bring. It'd be so much easier if that were the case, but then people like me wouldn't be needed." She shrugs her shoulders; what can you do.
"Hmmmm, that might be amusing," Mr. Pharaoh says. He really hasn't changed his pose this entire time. "There's someone else at the party here to see you, I think. I feel they've just arrived. Not someone who would associate with me. A local, you could say. Why don't you see if you can find them?"
"A masquerade?" Tasha always wanted to attend one of those, ever since she knew they existed. "Oh, why not? It is a party. Coming here purely for business is a bit dull." She glances behind her, then in an old move, also thumbs that way. "I'll be off then."
"Yes you will," Mr. Pharaoh says. "Give my love to Samael."
"I'll be sure to make his life interesting," Tasha promises. She nods to the nigh-infinite being she suspects she's dealing with, then shows herself out.
Or down, as the case may be, since this was top platform. The people on the next one (and the one past that) all seem to be part of Mr. Pharaoh's.. collection? They all look wealthy and powerful, and all have shadows attached to them. So the person of interest may be on the main floor.
Still, Tasha shows her newfound caution in life by at least skimming each tier to ensure this newcomer hasn't made their way upward to meet her. She further assumes Batty -- or Ms. Grey as she now thinks of her -- is following, though she can only speculate at what she might have made of her conversation with Mr. Pharaoh. Eventually she makes her way to the main floor.
There's no sign of the Eeee, but there's a flash of color that seems to slip behind a tree-trunk sized support branch near the base of the wall, just as Tasha is turning her head in that direction. Something about it seems to specifically catch her interest, but she couldn't say just what it was.
Tasha's first guess is that her recently acquired Kavi has decided to follow her against all sense and caution, which is a decidedly Kavi choice in her mind. Even if Reeka knew whose lair she had crept in to, Tasha isn't entirely certain she would abstain, she might even attack Mr. Pharaoh or steal from him -- both entertaining concepts. Not entertaining enough to Tasha she'd want Reeka to risk her very exist, however.
With that in mind, Tasha meanders closer to where the motion had flashed, trying not to appear to have noticed anything at all.
There's a shape in the shadow of the pillar, and it's not small. Someone taller than Tasha is leaning against it. There is motion near the ground though: a flash of a purple, spade-tipped tail.
Unless Reeka has gotten really creative, Tasha takes this newcomer as a sign of danger and as nonchalantly as she is able in a dress, makes to move away from it, dodging if necessary. Should it come down to it she's not against bloodying Mr. Pharaoh's floor, something she suspects he'd appreciate, anyway.
Except that now the room is empty, and the color seems duller. There are things like wraiths or afterimages that flicker in and out however where the guests might have been.
There's a sound behind Tasha as well. It sounds like a deck of cards being shuffled.
Tasha's first thought is frustration, thinking she might die again. To have made it this far and die again to some assassin, while not beyond her thoughts ore predictions, is beyond her patience and tolerance. She spins, trying to track the wraiths while following the sound, hands out and pretense of civility dropped in the face of perceived necessity, evading away from the noise.
There is a man leaning against the branch, in full view. He's purple, with curled rams horns and dark curly hair, glowing red eyes and a friendly smile. A tattoo of an ivy with flowers rises up the right side of his neck, and parts are visible through is open shirt. His horns have golden caps on them, along with gold and silver bands and chains and rings attached to actual holes drilled through the horn. He's wearing a wide-collared coat that reminds Tasha of a magician's robe. It has crescent moons in a blue liner, while the outside is red and green and other colors, like it was made from a stained glass window or tapestry. He's got trousers and leather boots that look decidedly out of place for the time. And he has a deck of cards in his right hand, which he fans out with his left, and holds faces down towards Tasha. "So darlin', pick a card won't you?" he says in an odd accent.
Tasha arches a brow at this. As possibly-Thotep says, "Chaos keeps things interesting," and so she is reminded once again in less than an hour.
As something of a deck builder herself, the offer is tempting. Something about the unknown, anything could happen. It's pulled at her since Nora' showed her the stars, and more so since civilization stole her innocence and thus her crusade to help everyone. Still, she's suspicious, and more so for her death. "Not going to tell me what this is about?" She eyes him, three eyes to be exact.
Either her eye doesn't work on him, or there's nothing shadowy about him. "Well, I came to see you," the man says, and performs a fancy bow, like a troubadour or performer. "Call me Mollymauk, the Purple Devil," he offers. "Reader of fortunes, maker of some." He then smiles and offers the fan of cards again.
"Charmed," Tasha replies, with caution. "And you must know who I am to have come here, especially here." She studies the cards, then cocks her head in that universal gesture of here we go, stepping forward. She pulls the card slightly off to the left of the middle, the first one that comes to mind in spread of unknowns.
The card is bordered in gold, and has a hand-painted picture of Tasha's blue Marker. The title of the card is 'The Key', written in gold as well.
"Huh," goes Tasha, who looks it over, then turns it in her hand, inspecting both sides. "The Key." She looks up, expecting some explanation to be forthcoming.
"Oh my, quite the fortune indeed," Mollymauk claims, shuffling his deck again. "It means you should come to the Cathedral. At midnight, seek the door beneath the second moon."
"Prophecies, I do enjoy prophecies." Tasha looks at the card again, making a mental note. "Two invitations in a single day, I'm feeling popular." But she then must ask, "What Catherdal is this, or is it locally self-evident?"
"Oh, there should only be one," the devilish man says. "But that won't be the tricky bit. There's always a tricky bit you know. But I'm sure you'll figure it out, when the time comes. You seem a bright spark, and you have a good tail on you too."
Tasha is sure one of those things is true, at least. "There's always a tricky bit," she agrees, glancing again at the card. Lots of tricky bits. "Well, I suppose I'll be there."
"I hope to see you again, then," Mollymauk claims. "Also, mind the trolley." And then the crowd is back, and one of the wandering art displays is about to run right into Tasha.
Tasha's yelps, by habit and reflex, when she might otherwise not in the presence of the fearsome and the ineffable. That this piece of art could sneak up on her is outside her expectations, alarming in its harmlessness. She rubs her side and eyes the offending art piece, having the urge to smack it, but falling to civilized behavior. "Well that was ... something," she murmmurs of her evening thusfar.
At least she still has the card as proof that she wasn't just hallucinating.
Tasha looks the card over once more, gives a little shrug, then turns for he exit. As she walks, she turns the card over in her hand, between her fingers. All in all an interesting party, she decides, one that has left her invigorated and excited for what lays ahead.