For Milady [Suicune]
Nov 6, 2013 3:30:23 GMT -5
Post by Keldeo "Keenan Valero" on Nov 6, 2013 3:30:23 GMT -5
The man had been to many galas in his prime. He had dined with kings, queens, and “divine” rulers”. Bread had been broken over the words of chivalry, false promises, grandiose ideas, and talking of war. The red-haired man enjoyed many of these events. The ones brimming with razor-sharp wit, tension, and stinking of battle, even held worth. When he had heard of this particular event, through fliers plastered all throughout the city, Keldeo had found himself vaguely intrigued. Sadly, for nearly the entirety of the masquerade, he was assigned to peace-keeping duties. Terrorists, or freedom-fighters depending on whose side a person was stationed, event, had a habit of crashing these events. He had spent most of his time watching the door.
A simple question, posed by his beloved, had changed that matter. While he truly had little understanding of modern Halloween, grasping the basics and its origins, the god of chivalry could not resist a fair lady’s curiosity. What he did not tell her, as he led her towards the hall, was his sacrifice for this night: he had lost his only night of rest for the next two weeks. Keenan hoped, deep inside, that seeing her face would be worth it; costumes at these sorts of gatherings were often beyond compare.
The man’s two halves did not seem to mesh too well.
Chosen for the sake of irony, as he and those beasts were meant to be enemies, he had chosen a mask of a Mightenya. Jewels, many dark in color, had replaced its brows. The teeth, which hung above the man’s lips, gently pressed into his upper-chin. Tufts of feather, fur, and hair tipped both ears. Whiskers, shimmering with iridescence, hung down past his cheeks. His eyes, gleaming in their teal, seemed to contain some hint of mirth; he spent most of his time in a state of mild displeasure.
His hair flowed behind him like a true mane. It actually seemed to have a tight curl at its tips; he would claim it was quite accidental. To be honest, with make-up made to enhance the lines of his mask, Keenan hid a slight flair for the dramatic. While nowhere near as pronounced in it some of his acquantices, such as Celebi,Keldeo had been taught to appreciate a good show.
Below the mask, gleaming as polished metal would, was a suit of armor. It was authenthic. To be honest, without god-born strength, Keldeo would have found moving in the thing to be a chore. An ancient crest was painted on the left breast. Greaves had been forgone for a pair of dark gloves; the wrist was rimmed by dark black ‘fur’. The contrast between knight, thought to be chivalrous and good-of-deeds, and wolf, often seen as sneaky, had been interesting. Many of those who rode under the banner of ‘good knight’ were far more mercenary than saint.
Silent, prodding through the room with just the slightest shifting of metal, he offered a glass to a particular woman. He quite enjoyed her costume—it was a fitting contrast to her formerly ‘wild’ attitude. The drink was nothing more than fruit punch.
“I hope, my dove, that you find All-Hallow’s-Eve pleasant? We can leave whenever you wish.”
To be honest, hidden by the black of his mask, the water-type was a bit tired. He would not rob her of a night like this over such simple matters.
The Feraligatr, who looked quite familiar beside the door, kept offering up obnoxious waves. Keldeo’s brow, invisible beneath the head of the wolf, lowered considerably.
“Mayhaps Jean could have come as something more intelligent.”
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