The Rodents

The stone railing presses against her stomach as she leans over the balcony, eyes tracing the twirling figures below her feet. Vibrant skirts of every color swirl as women dance across the room, escorted by men in suits of every fashion. Joyous laughter rings through the halls, almost louder than the music playing from a small stage.

The effect is dampened on the second floor balcony, a little alcove flanked by imposing stone columns that restrict the passing of all that joy from down below. It traps the pair in, instead.

"It's such a shame you can't dance with them, my lady"

A prick of irritation heats the blood of the young noble lady in question, her hands folding over each other. Helena Ashcombe has served the Valemont family for generations and it always amazes Rosaline just how callous the woman can be without meaning it.

It's not that I can't dance, it's that I'm not allowed.

Rosaline bites her tongue. There's no use having that argument again. They have it before every ball, though the ones she's allowed to attend are few and far between. The plush, round-faced chaperone continues to make soft comments by Rosaline's side, pretending they're addressed to the noble woman when they're really just to herself.

"Oh, look at that. Oh that poor darling has two left feet, I do hope that poor young man she's dancing with..." A soft gasp "Oh darling look at that," A hand settles on Rosaline's arm, as Helena points at a gaggle of young ladies in the corner.

"Oh her dress is just horrible, that's from last season! Oh, she doesn't know that color drowns her complexion completely! How could her maid let her go out in that? Is it sabotage, do you think?"

There's a terrible little sparkle in Helena's eyes, and the younger woman sighs to herself. Helena always does this to cheer her up. Pretending to be a friend – a girl's friend – and talk about all the things young ladies "ought to talk about at balls".

Here it comes.

"Rosa!"

Rosaline cringes, she hates being called that, but nicknames are on Helena's list of "things young women must include in conversation".

That, and boys.

"He's here!" The sweet, naive chaperone is practically giddy with excitement, and Rosaline tries not to roll her eyes too hard.

"Helena, of course he's here. It's the Hawthorne ball, he's Percival Hawthorne. What, did you expect him to stay in his chambers for the night?"

Ignoring Rosaline's snide sarcasm, Helena squeezes the young woman's arm hard, practically shaking with excitement. Helena's fingers are going to leave bruises in her well meaning excitement, and Rosaline winces.

Rosaline's eyes drift to the young man in question, young Lord Percival Hawthorne. Her nose wrinkles as she studies him. He's perfectly fine, all things considered. A strong jawline, dark eyes, a fencer's frame, the heir to a great human estate, and a boat load of money to boot.

As the heir to the Hawthorne estates, Rosaline's chaperone and her father have not so subtly been encouraging the silly courting Percival has undertaken, despite the risks.

Rosaline's eyes flit away as the grinning noble man makes his way through the ballroom, greeting his fellows and kissing young maiden's hands.

He's really not a bad guy, She thinks to herself. It's just that he's a little... well.. He's just.. He's not...

And as her eyes are turning about the room, searching to look at anything interesting other than Lord Hawthorne, her eyes snag on a man lingering near the buffet, and her heart skips a beat.

He's handsome, there's no denying that, but that's not why the sight of him makes her stomach drop and the world falls away around her. Helena's whispers about how good and polite Hawthorne is fade to background noise as she studies the strange human man.

He's dark skinned and broad, the suit pressing around his shoulders is just a little too tight, as if it's a size or two too small.

And I bet it is. Not exactly tailored to fit his form, is it?

A quiet inside joke as she studies the easy grin crossing his features. Her eyes trace the jewelry hanging from every appendage, glimmering in the ballroom's lighting. She's never seen this man before in her life, but there's no mistaking that burn scar that runs over half of his face.

It's a bad scar, stretching from his hairline to his chin across the left of his face. It's a scar that would make some nobles ashamed. It's one that would make most warriors proud. It's the very same one, the same marking and pattern, that the man in the too small suit can never glamour away.

Right on queue, as if he knew she would be looking at him right then, his face tilts up and his gaze bores directly into the second floor balcony she's on.

Her stomach flips when his grin widens, his lips curling strangely in the way that always looks wrong on a foreign mouth. He winks, despite seeing how close her chaperone is. Luckily for them both, Helena's eyes are still locked on the parading noble across the ballroom, so Rosaline risks a response.

Her gaze lifts to the sky, and she turns her head a bit, rolling her eyes in a gesture that he can read across their distance.

When her attention returns to the strange man, he seems even more amused than before. His lips part in preparation to -- undoubtedly unsubtly -- respond, when suddenly a young maiden stumbles into the broad man who is still standing in the path to the buffet.

Or, I think she stumbled. Rosaline frowns to herself as the dark skinned man turns, helping the young, delicate maiden up. She's sure blushing furiously. I'd bet anything he's saying something stupid right now.

She sniffs softly to herself, barely aware of Helena at her shoulder now.

I'd bet he's saying something stupid like "Careful, we wouldn't want a sweet little thing like you getting injured." Or... Or something.

The noble woman sighs to herself, still dreamily gazing onto the ballroom floor. Absent-mindedly, her hand drifts up to her dark tresses, and hooks onto a strand of hair, pushing it back towards her ear.

"Rosaline!"

She jumps as Helena calls her name, but she doesn't respond fast enough. The chaperone's hand swipes out as quick as a viper, striking her hand and forcing it away from her face. Nails graze her cheek, doing no damage but shocking her nonetheless.

Her mind is still on the man beneath her, and she's slow to understand what had just happened, pure betrayal lacing her features, but her mind comes around after a full five seconds of staring. Her eyes dart around the surrounding area, but luckily no one is really paying attention to them.

That's no excuse.

That doesn't mean that no one will ever look, and she'd been this close.

A stupid mistake, and one she can't entirely blame on the sighting of the burn scarred man. But, as with most mistakes, it is something she can use.

Tears fill Rosaline's eyes as she wilts, her shoulder slumping as she curls into herself. Helena doesn't even need to say anything, but her stern gaze softens as the young noble woman practically bursts into – false – tears right then and there.

She adds a slight tremble to her voice as she whispers "I need to go fix my hair. If, if that's alright, Miss Ashcombe."

Usually that's something that Rosaline has Helena do for her, but they both know that the bathrooms will be quite empty at the height of the party. No one would be caught dead missing the festivities just to powder her nose. That is of course, unless she were too "sick" to participate anyways.

Helena studies Rosaline's face for a moment, a frown tugging her soft lips and her hands folding under her bust. She's close, but not quite convinced. Rosaline has to pull off the delicate balancing act of not over acting this. She blinks hard and straightens her back, trying to look as if she's pulling herself together, and putting on a brave face as she blinks back tears.

That finally gets her chaperone to concede. Helena sighs and waves her hand at the young woman, sending her away with a guilty look in her eyes. Rosaline drops into a small curtsey, turning her back on the chaperone.

It's then that her flustered, brave expression drops back down. She moves quickly, heels clicking on the stone flooring as she darts out of Helena's sight and towards the spiraling staircase that will lead out onto the first floor.

She gets halfway down the staircase before she pauses, the flickering lanterns casting odd shadows across the spiraling stone steps. It's quiet here, the music and chatter of the party both muffled by thick stone and amplified by such a confined space. It feels as if she's in a stone box in the center of the ball, and the sensation is nearly disorienting.

She takes a breath, feeling the cold damp air soak into her lungs, filling her. She presses her back against the stone wall, praying that no one will be running up or down the stairs for the next few moments. Rosaline extends pale fingers before her, stretching her palms up. She's silently asking for assistance.

The shadows obey.

Dark tendrils stretch from the shadows cast by the lanterns, winding up the walls and slinking across the stairs to reach her. They crawl up her body, turning the soft green gown Helena had dressed her with into a dark, colorless black. The shadows are cold where they wind around her body, and it feels wonderful.

Rosaline is in no true hurry, so she lets the shadows take their time. She lets them wind around her, tickling her wrists and soaking over her offered hands, then crawling up her neck, soon kissing her jaw and cheeks with their cold, delicate touch.

It is not long before she is consumed entirely, a shadow in the staircase. Now, she may move again.

Her heels no longer make any sound against the stone staircase as she walks. Or, glides, rather. It's a sensation unlike any other. She is both moving her body and not, both traveling through space and not.

When she passes the young noble couple wound around each other next to the quiet stone staircase, neither look up from their activities. Rosaline passes so close to them that she can see the hair on the back of the noble man's neck rise, but to their sight, she is naught but a passing breeze.

She can move so much faster like this, passing in the space between nobles, in the shadows cast by their clothing and under the shadows of their lifting feet. It's no time at all before she's passed outside, and releases her grasp on the shadows coiled around her.

They slink back from her skin, letting her stand in the moonlight. It's a full moon tonight, and it hangs heavy over her head. Rosaline can feel herself almost glowing. Another danger to these balls, attending on a full moon's night. She's lucky that this was the Hawthorne's ball, it was the only way she'd managed to talk her father into releasing her for the night.

Thank you, Percival Hawthorne, Rosaline grins to herself as she thinks with no small amount of sarcasm.

He'll be here soon, if he isn't here already.

The Hawthorne's garden features a large hedge maze that is often the feature of major "day after" scandals around society, and already Rosaline can hear whispers and gasps from behind the barriers of plants. She winds her way through the darkness, half seeking and half being sought.

Either she'll find him, or he'll find her. They always do.

And though she's expecting it, those large hands winding around the bodice of her gown just over her waist, still manages to make her jump half a foot in the air. He's caught her in a small clearing, perhaps having waited for her.

Rosaline half turns and half is turned to see the familiarly unfamiliar dark skinned man she had spotted from the balcony. She can't help the smile crawling across her lips.

"You brute."

"Princess."

Rosaline laughs, her heart fluttering. He pulls her closer and she puts her hands against his chest. Though she shoves, neither of them are going anywhere. The warmth of his hands around her waist is comfortable, and she can feel his heartbeat under his shirt. He moves his face closer.

Far too close, actually. He's wearing that stupid, wrong-looking grin as he whispers, low and seductive.

"What? Sneaking off to see your mysterious lover in the hedge maze, and you aren't even going to kiss him, Rat?"

Rosaline's world slows for a moment, breathless in its surprise. It's not only the threat of his proximity that catches her breath, but that name, spoken in a place like this, when she's dressed like this. She stares at him a little too long, feeling a flush curl up her pale cheeks as tension zaps the air between them. She's very aware of those too few inches between their lips.

That is, until he laughs.

And as always, it makes her heart sink as it pops the bubble of tension between their faces.

He probably said something similar to that girl on the dance floor.

That helps bring her out of the strange spell he'd cast on her. He releases his grip and she rolls her eyes as she finally pushes herself away, folding her arms over her chest now that she's a foot away. She hisses at him, her cheeks a brilliant red. "You're an asshole."

Absently, she reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and that causes the dark skinned man to gasp and wheel back, clutching at his chest as if he were so startled, he can feel an oncoming heart attack.

"Quick!

His voice is a little too loud, and Rosaline jolts, flushing a deep red. He's caught her off guard at first, but her mind quickly races to catch up with his thoughts.

He's so much taller than her, but she closes that distance between them again, leaning up on the tips of her toes to press her hands over his mouth. He's laughing, and she's giggling too, knowing what's to come.

"Quick! Someone call the guards!"

"Shut up!"

"Quick, there's a half elf mongrel disguised as a princess! Please, someone, oh please come quick!"

She can't help it, Rosaline's giggles develop into full blown laughs, interrupted only by her soft swearing and shushing as she presses her body against his.

She repeats "Shut up!" But the message has less impact when she's giggling through it "You're actually going to summon the guards, you dolt!"

And neither of them would want that, not when her long, slender ear is exposed. It's not nearly long enough to mark her as a full blooded elf, but any variation of that gentle curving human's ear is a mark of treason.

She understands logically that her hair has to be pulled over her ears the entire night, even when she must make her appearances in society.

That doesn't mean it's any more comfortable, or itches any less dreadfully. She removes a hand from the burned man's face to scratch absently at the irritated skin that's been rubbing against her hair the entire night.

"I'm not a princess, idiot. But as long as we're calling for the guards..."

She's still on the tip of her toes and pressed against his chest, so it takes little effort to reach up and flick one of his earrings. He's absolutely covered in jewelry – all assuredly just as "borrowed" as his suit – but this one is different.

It glimmers with a pearlescent coating, and a golden rune is carved into the tear drop shape. When Rosaline taps it, the man's glamour flickers between the handsome, dark skinned human, and the beast.

A green orc hides behind the glamour, his awkward grin made natural by the tusks protruding from his lower lips. The burn scar remains, forever mangling the left half of his face, stretching strangely as his grin broadens. The orc is clearly amused by her as she finishes her murmured sentence.

"We better call some for the orc thief amongst our midsts too. I assume the rest are here?"

The glamoured orc shrugs nonchalantly as the swinging charm stills and settles itself again, returning his visage to the handsome human man.

"What, can't I come visit my favorite little princess?"

Rosaline hates the way those words make her heart skip a beat. She shakes her head again, her hand swatting out to tap his side in a gesture that is meant to be admonishing.

So the rest of his gang is here, running around, robbing nobles blind and drinking them dry.

Her voice is gentle, both not wanting to be heard, and preserving this quiet closeness they share. "You're going to get yourself caught, at this rate."

He grins at her in that easy, effortless way, like it doesn't matter if they get caught or not. She huffs at him again, only then realizing her body is still pressed against his, and one of her hands is still pressed to his face.

Silence passes. It's comfortable, and not in the least bit awkward. An unspoken heat lingers between them.

A heat that isn't helped when the glamoured orc raises his hand.

His fingers are warm and soft against her face, caressing her skin with the gentlest of touches, despite his size. He hooks a strand of hair between his fingers, and pushes it back and up, tucking the dark curl behind her ear for her.

She tries to convince herself that she's imagining the way he's looking at her, but her mind isn't entirely convinced. Forget skipping, her heart is full on racing now, and it leaves her feeling a little queasy.

It's difficult, but Rosaline forces herself to swallow and take a step backwards, her body peeling off of his. Her hands glide down her bodice and skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles that his hands had left on her dress.

She looks at the garment as she talks, finding it difficult to raise her face to him.

"My chaperone will be expecting me back. Don't do anything stupider than usual, you rodent."

She doesn't give him a chance to respond, spinning on her heel and flaring the dark green skirt as she disappears back into the hedges. She'd already spent far too long out here, when she should've been pretending to cry alone in the bathroom.

Rosaline can still feel him back there, watching her retreating back. It feels like defeat, somehow, like she's running away from him.

That's silly. She shakes her head as her hands drift to her thighs, scooping skirts up in her hands as she moves back towards the bright lights of the ballroom. I'm not running away. I have to return, that's all.

There's a grand stone staircase – simply what is with the Hawthornes and their adoration of stone staircases? – that she travels up, delicate heels tapping.

That was an unnecessary risk. Why had I traveled out to see him? I knew he was here already, what else could seeing him have done? It's not like I learned anything new.

Uncertainty roils inside her, her mind distracted and far away. It lingers on the green, tusked man with the easy grin.

She almost doesn't notice her own reflection when she's passing the large glass windows outside the ballroom. Almost doesn't notice that her hair is still tucked away, and that the slim, elongated ears are still showing.

Her heart leaps into her throat, and she mutters a quick prayer of thanks that she does notice the mistake before returning indoors. At once she stops, bending over and hastily untucking her hair, checking her reflection in the glass to make sure everything is covered.

Rosaline lingers there for a moment, frowning at her reflection. Makeup always makes her look odd. Makes her look human, she supposes. Her face has been shaped slightly to make her eyes appear smaller, to make her cheeks appear a little more full.

There's no getting rid of that ethereal glow that the moonlight sends skittering across her skin, other than not going outside without a shawl. Which, of course, she is now doing.

*I ought to return. Before someone decides to take a peek out the window at the glowing girl in the gardens.*

But she takes another moment there, studying herself in the window as if it were a mirror. Her mind is far from her body, still lingering with the orc in the hedge maze's clearing.

Had his heart been beating a little fast under her hands when she was pressed against him, or had she imagined that?

She wonders if he smiles at everyone like the way he smiles at her, lips curving around those little tusks protruding from his lower lip. And briefly, just for a moment, she wonders what would've happened if instead of laughing, he had braved to lean closer.

If he had kissed her.

The thought startles her so badly that she jolts, her heart jumping into her throat and kicking wildly, her pulse throbbing against her neck. It does that a lot, and Rosaline has the passing thought that she ought to see a doctor if it keeps up.

Maybe that's what's giving me those unnatural thoughts. My traitorous heart. I wonder if they make a medicine for that.

A throat clears behind her back, and Rosaline jumps. She hadn't seen the shadow approaching her form in the window she's using as a mirror, but she knows at once that it's not who she wants it to be.

Wants it to be?

The figure is trim and short, and dread coils inside her. She has a dreadfully sinking feeling that she knows who this is.

The noble woman composes herself and turns, blinking innocently at Lord Percival Hawthorne, the king of this little party.

Now is no time to be distracted, and Rosaline pulls a suitably distracted, airheaded expression onto her face as Percival addresses her.

"Lady Valemont, good evening."

The noble woman drops into a curtsey, lowering her head. "My lord, good evening."

They're alone out here. Everyone has retreated inside to get something to eat, or to find more booze, or to find a quieter corner to have a tryst in. They're utterly alone.

And Rosaline had only just fixed her hair to conceal the sins of her parents.

The question is ; How much had Lord Percival Hawthorne just seen?

The moon glitters high above their head, watching impassively.