The First Age

If family was an empire, then marriage was the institution through which the Vasilievs boasted the iron strength of their blood. Few could claim such loyalty and longevity, a reminder publicly marked each year by the anniversary party thrown by Konstantin and Edita Vasiliev. It was a lavish and bold testament to wealth and power, and a clear reminder that the family wielded both, as well as being one of the most prestigious and anticipated events of the social calendar.

For this year's festivities, those on the exclusive guest list would be welcomed into the Kuskovo Estate, a country house casting its roots back to the 18th-century, one of the first great retreat residences of Russian nobility now subsumed into the eastern part of the city. Its extravagant riverside gardens and opulent interior would be open to guests’ exploration as the evening unfolded. Vasiliev affairs were never remiss on the entertainment, and this one lauded a mysterious air. The invitation described it as a masked ball.

Security was, of course, paramount. Paparazzi might catch glimpse of the cars which passed the grand gates, but not whom sat within them, unless by design or choice. Upon reaching the glittering reception hall, smartly attired servers circulated with champagne and canapés as the guests were greeted and welcomed by the Vasiliev children.

As the sleek state car glided through the city, Nikolai sat with a posture that bespoke both his comfort in power and practiced indifference. Across from him, Myshelov, his Patron of Dominance I, poured over the details of the evening with a meticulousness that Nikolai found both necessary and mildly amusing.

"You'll enter precisely at nine," Myshelov said, his voice a calm, modulated timbre. "The media are expecting your arrival, Ascendancy."

Nikolai nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. The routine was not unfamiliar, yet he couldn't deny the thrill that came with the anticipation of the attention he would command. "Of course."

Myshelov glanced up, his eyes sharp. "The Vasilievs have chosen a masked ball for their anniversary. A clever touch, don't you think? Particularly apropos, considering Mr. James will be there." A flicker of intrigue crossed Myshelov's face. 

“Confirmed?”

“Of course, Ascendancy. As you commanded, he will be there. He will even be in white.” He mused proudly. The metaphor wasn't lost on Nik, of course.

Nikolai's gaze drifted to the window, the lights of Moscow painting shadows on his face. He thought of Noemi, wondering how she would be swathed in the anonymity of a mask. 

The car slowed, signaling their imminent arrival. Nikolai reached for his mask, a simple yet elegant piece that complemented his tuxedo's understated sophistication. As he adjusted it, he couldn't help but observe Myshelov's more flamboyant choice.

"Your look makes quite the statement, Myshelov. The vibrancy suits you."

Myshelov gave a proud smile. "Thank you, Ascendancy, tis otherwise but a normal Saturday night in the Tarasovich estate." His joke was met with a knowing look on Nikolai’s part. He well recalled Myshelov’s parties.

The car came to a halt. Nikolai secured the literal mask on his face and emerged first whereupon straightening his shoulders, the metaphorical mask of composure settled upon him. A practiced, enigmatic smile graced his greeting while pausing to allow questions to pepper him.

Myshelov joined him, his flashy tuxedo was an exuberant contrast to Nikolai's clean, black lines. The Patron thrived under the scrutinizing attention of the media, a knowing glint in his eye, all the while perfectly redirecting attention and praise back toward his superior, the man to whom they all owed their prosperity.

Daniil Tarasovich stood near the grand staircase of Kuskovo’s Estate, position placing him as another figure woven into the tapestry of the party. His eyes, a pale and mesmerizing blue, scanned the room from behind an ornate mask that seemed to accentuate his otherworldly features. The mask was black and gold, and looked sharp positioned above an otherwise classic tuxedo, signifying his impeccable taste and the wealth that backed it.

Around him, the elite of Moscow mingled, their conversations blurring ambition, intrigue, and flounces of power.  Daniil, however, remained slightly aloof, his gaze fixed toward the entrance. His lips, full and perfectly shaped, curved into a knowing smile as he anticipated the arrival of his father, Myshelov, in the company of the Ascendancy.

As the pair made their grand entrance, a ripple of excitement passed through those around them. Daniil observed the scene with a predator’s patience, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in every detail. Oh, the change in demeanor was subtle. Nobody wanted to be caught gawking, but they gawked nonetheless. He watched his father, noting the flamboyance of his attire, and then his gaze shifted to the Ascendancy, assessing the man’s understated power.

He spoke to his date as he watched others approach the two men. She was a vision of elegance, her dress a complement to her own ornate mask. "Elena,” he said, his voice smooth and confident, "do you see how they flock to the Ascendancy, like moths to a flame?”

Elena, her eyes following his gaze, nodded. "It's quite the spectacle, Daniil. But then, isn't that what we're all here for?"

He smiled, a gesture that seemed to light up his face, yet there was a calculative gleam in his eyes. “Some of us are more than mere spectators.” His gaze flickered back to the crowd, taking in every detail.

At that moment, a well-dressed gentleman approached, his eyes bright with recognition. "Daniil Tarasovich, you're as elusive as ever," he said, offering a handshake.

Daniil's grip was firm, his demeanor effortless. He greeted with a smile that never quite reached his eyes, his words carefully chosen. ”Alexei Mikhailovich, always a pleasure. Tell me, what's your take on tonight's... festivities?"

Alexei glanced towards Nikolai and Myshelov, a hint of awe in his tone. "It's an impressive gathering. The Ascendancy's presence has certainly elevated the evening."

Daniil's lips curved into a sly smile. "Elevated or complicated?” He paused, letting the question hang in the air. Each sipped their champagne and none answered.

An invitation to the event was unexpected but after having met the man himself, not so surprising now that he was on the payroll. On the fucking mob's payroll. It wasn't the best way to stay under the radar -- except they wanted to stay under the radar just as much as Xander did.

But it seemed Kristian was going to be a name he was going to have to get used to. It would be much more difficult flouncing around Moscow under a different name each time. But still possible, though the more people who knew his name and his face the more he needed to leave -- that wasn't happening now.

The attire was one of many he owned for such occasions, but Xander had selected the mask with care when he found out it was required attire. The mask spoke just as much about a person as did the costume, and the aura never lied -- and you can't hide it behind a mask. He wished he could see his own -- see what others might see in him. But that wasn't the case.

Xander opted for a black and bronze Roman style mask. It fit well with Kristian's antiquities persona. His job was to survey the crowd -- for himself, and for his patron. Mostly for his patron, but there was no reason he couldn't use the information for himself. They'd never know what he kept to himself and what he didn't.

The town car dropped him off and Kristian climbed out with a bright smile underneath the mask afixed to his face. His usual deterrents were still in place, but most of them hidden from the cameras by the mask were disappointing. He hated his picture being taken.

[[ooc: if you want to drop any foreshadowing hints about your characters in attendance that Xander might see, drop me a PM and I'll work it in. Xander's gonna see things -- I don't know what, if no one gives me anything good I might have to make something up and you'll have to figure out what it means lol ]]

“Look at this!” Carter hurried into the room where his cousin, Guillaume was sipping an espresso in his bathrobe, silk pants, and slippers. In contrast to Carter’s energy, Guillaume did not look up from what he was reading on the screen in front of him. He murmured a noise that indicated a half-hearted attempt at listening.

Carter pushed his own wallet screen in front of his nose. Guillaume glanced, but he was unsurprised by the image displayed there.

“Let me guess,” he began. His French accent was heavy. “You found another series of evidence that Colette is, as they say, ‘living it up’ in Moscow and you are following her breadcrumbs like a character in a folk story.”

Carter sank into a nearby seat, rubbing his hands on his face. “Look at that. She’s hardly been in the city any significant length of time, going to all these clubs, meeting all these people, and now read that caption:

Colette Wrote:Thrilled to attend my first Moscow Masquerade! In honor of this gurl’s amazing family. Can't wait to see the stunning masks and what everyone is wearing! Here’s a sneak peek! #MasqueradeMagic #NewAdventures”

Carter explored as much information as he could on Colette’s new friend, whose beautiful face was smiling seductively for the pose. It was obvious this masquerade party was exclusive even if it was going to be large.

Guillaume finally set his screen aside, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Cousin, when will you learn? Nothing is impossible for the resourceful."

"Resourceful? I'm desperate here, Gui.”

Guillaume mused. "There's a fine line, mon ami. Now, listen, I may have a way to get us into this masquerade. But it will require you to put your pride aside."

Carter leaned forward, interest piqued. "I'll do anything to see her.”

"Even manual labor?" Guillaume's smirk grew wider.

"If it gets me through the door, I'll perform as a court jester.”

"Ah, that might be less effective for wooing your lady love," Guillaume mused, tapping his chin theatrically. "But fear not, I know someone who owes me a favor. An artist who owes me a favor.”

”I don’t want to know how.”

Guillaume's eyes sparkled.

Carter leaned forward, a renewed sense of hope in his posture. "What's the plan?”

Guillaume rose, stretching leisurely. "First, we meet ma vieille. And Carter, remember, sometimes the mask reveals more than it hides.” He pat him on the shoulder as he walked by, already contacting this old friend of his.

Carter and Guillaume arrived at the party in the company of the musicians performing that night. Guillaume was flirting with the lead singer, a woman whom he’d met last year and shared an intense weekend before the tour took her elsewhere.

Carter felt like a fool unloading instrument cases in a full tuxedo and mask. Nearby, Guillaume was assisting his vieille with her belongings as if he was the world’s leading expert in musical paraphernalia. He rolled his eyes and hefted a heavy amplifier and placed it on a cart.

This of course functionally gained them entrance to the party after Carter’s honor to pay back this favor was balanced. He escaped to a bathroom after the work was done to make sure his look and hair was undisturbed. By the time he emerged, the party had begun. Guillaume was no where to be found, but Carter assumed that he’d already found someone to hook up with for the night.

Carter checked his Wallet, finding a cryptic message from his cousin waiting there. “Go get her.”

He smiled to himself, tucked the wallet back into his pocket, and procured a glass of champagne.

A powerful, high-end sports car pulled up to the front of the venue. The vehicle’s doors opened, and out stepped Zixin Kao, the notorious leader of the city's most feared organized crime group. He tossed the key card to the valet and ascended the steps to the party.

Zixin was the embodiment of dangerous charisma, clad in a perfectly tailored white on white tuxedo that accentuated the mounds of his muscular figure. His shoes, clearly hand-crafted, gleamed under the estate’s lights. The gold jewelry he wore was flashy and unmistakable in its value, complementing the red masquerade mask that covered his eyes. The mask was studded with rubies, a silent yet bold testament to the blood he had spilled across the city. 

He strode directly into the heart of the party while looks were exchanged in his wake. He assumed the whispers commented on his amazing physique and ruggedly handsome face.

The instructions that he received were clear. If they had arrived electronically, he might have doubted their legitimacy, but rather, they were delivered by a Facility representative from the Kremlin. A knock on the door was an unexpected surprise, given the building was locked down in the lobby for those who weren’t residents. Technically speaking, Jensen was only staying in the upscale loft as Doulou’s guest, but out of the graciousness of his heart, the welcome was indefinite.

He pulled open the door to find a official from the Kremlin standing there. He wore the same uniform that Jensen recognized as one associated with the Facility. In one arm was a datapad and the other held a garment bag.

“Can I help you?” He asked, curious and slightly apprehensive. They kept Iason’s disguise on site in the Facility for cleaning and security, so he wasn’t sure what this was about.

The messenger offered no helpful explanation, “I can’t stay, but your attendance is expected tonight.” The words were delivered with a finality that left little room for negotiation. “A car will pick you up at that time. Be ready.”

He then surrendered the bag, and Jensen stood there for a moment, holding it awkwardly, a sense of unease settling over him. Jensen unzipped the bag to reveal a sleek tuxedo with a striking white dinner jacket – tailored to his size, no doubt, elegant and formal. It was clear this was no ordinary event he was being summoned to.

The mix of secrecy and the high-class nature of the attire suggested that this was something significant, possibly tied to the Ascendancy's intricate and often opaque machinations. Was it another ball?

A tinge of apprehension at the thought of being drawn deeper into the Kremlin’s machinations crept over him, especially after the revelations and emotional turmoil of the launch party. Yet, there was also a part of him that was intrigued, curious about what this event could entail and what role he was expected to play. The messenger departed.

With mixed feelings, he laid the tuxedo out, pondering the implications of this unexpected summons. Strangely, accompanying the attire was a beautiful white mask. He scratched the back of his neck… “Okay, then.” He said to himself.

He was ready at the appointed time, wearing the beautiful tuxedo and matching mask. He took care to style his hair and facial hair to match the level of event he anticipated he would be attending. The car eventually delivered him to the grounds of a grand estate, the likes of which may as well have been a palace.

There were paparazzi waiting outdoors, capturing his image as he ascended the steps. He was glad of the mask, but he couldn’t help but stand a little taller as he entered what was revealed to be a luxurious party.

The room tilted upon his axis the moment he entered.

Curiosity wasn’t hard to feign. In the moment when everyone looked, Nesrin was no different, though hers was a glimpse caught between shoulders. No one paid much mind to the servers weaving drinks amongst the guests. Ink dark hair was smoothed away from her face, and there was no mask shrouding the sharpness of her features. Or none visible anyway. All the staff wore the same. A bowtie hugged her throat, and a tailored waistcoat nipped in the crisp shirt and cigarette trousers. Her gaze travelled naturally amongst those gathered, but it only looked like attentiveness to the job as she moved amongst them. She watched reactions before she would indulge her own, though there was a strange feeling in her stomach she ignored even then. It was only the thrill of the con. That tease of unknown before hard work paid off in a symphony, or crashed apart in ruin. She had been waiting for this night for a long time.

Then one man in particular plucked a flute of champagne from her tray. She’d seen the guestlist, and could place names to most of the faces even behind the masks. A few anomalies existed, like rocks among the diamond, but nothing about this man’s demeanour suggested he was uncomfortable amidst the grandeur. She was barely sure what had captured her attention, but instinct was opportunity, and Nesrin was a master.

“Sir?” her voice was melodious, and raised in the kind of innocent inflection that suggested he might have just dropped something.

[[The man is Carter]]

Kristian Osterhagen was a nobody here. He knew no one, didn't matter. Xander didn't feel uncomfortable in fact he felt more himself as he walked through the crowd. They didn't need to know his name, but he belonged there. There would be no doubt. He could talk and walk like these fools is high dollar suits and masks. Not that he wasn't pretending to be one of them with the same insecurities and display of money. You had to spend it to make it -- otherwise what was the point of it all.

Xander snagged a flute of champagne from one of the servers with a fresh smile and a nod in thanks. The servers could be just as informative as the others. He took a sophisticated swallow. He wanted to gulp it down, drown the impending migraine that was about to explode when he let his gift unfurl. But that was the whole point of the night -- benefit his patron (and himself of course). Hiding behind the mask was only going to partially cut it. At least the pain would be hidden -- mostly. Xander was a good actor.

He closed his eyes as savoring the golden liquid that fizzed down his throat and let his personal shields down. It was like watching the curtains fall in a theater production revealing the colorful scenery behind it. Colors bloomed in his vision. Everyone's uniqueness haloing their bodies in a vast array of unicorn puke. Some were bright and fluffy, others were dark, and still others kept their auras to themselves -- Xander particularly liked those folks, but this wasn't that type of crowd. Most everyone flaunted their auras -- it was the nature of money and power. Few knew that they projected their shit to anyone who could see or feel it. It fucking sucked.

The biggest downside to being in Moscow was the number of special cases with their plethora of images radiating from them without having to look hard or even at all. And like the city itself there was a number of people here that made Xander turn away quickly as he scanned the room. He had a target he had to read, the rest would be icing on the cake. But first he had to acquaint himself with the mass of sensory input. He sipped again at his drink with a bright smile. No this wasn't overwhelming at all. He was perfectly fine. He could hold a conversation. Now to find one...

The gown she had purchased from the GUM was perhaps the most expensive and elegant thing Noémi had ever owned. It was soft as the distant heavens against her curves, detailed with small vines and flowers, and complemented by a graceful mask as delicate and mysterious as the features that lay beneath it. Her hair lay in simple gold-brown curls against her shoulders, pinned behind one ear to display a tasteful earring. Those were her own, passed down through her mother, but they were sentimental, not precious. A reminder and touchstone amidst the finery.

Inside, her heart was fluttering.

Raffe was quiet in the car beside her, watching the scenery pass the window. He’d been hesitant when she’d assured she could cover the cost of his outfit, but did not pry into where she got the money for such extravagance. Used to thrift, neither of them had been inclined to spend much beyond what they thought might be expected for such an evening.

She’d picked the suit, and he’d picked the mask, a pale polished wooden one fashioned into leaves. If he seemed nervous, and she couldn’t imagine he wasn’t, it did not show. Tucked inside the curve of his hands was a potted rose, bright in ruby bloom despite the season. It was with nervous realisation of how out of their depths they both were when she confided she did not think it was the kind of party to which one was expected to bring gifts. He’d chuckled in half-amusement, but only shrugged, and said that everyone liked flowers.

The starlight snap of paparazzi did little to settle her composure, though she ascended the steps to the estate with aplomb. She was used to being behind the camera, not in front of it. Inside she tried not to stare at the luxury, or the people. Not from awe so much as the dreadful feeling of being an impostor among them. The mask felt like a thin veil. She was not usually so anxious, but the balance of heart and head was precariously off-kilter, and she did not want the scene she was afraid might unravel should Dima misinterpret her presence. A sensible woman might have pleaded illness and avoided the possibility. But her heart longed to glimpse Nikolai.

From the low buzz she was sure he was already here, though she could not yet see him. It felt like a weight of gravity. One she had to resist for the sake of discretion.

Fortunately it was Grisha who spotted their arrival, and not his brother. He gave a curious double take before coming over to welcome them. The youngest Vasiliev son was perhaps the only man here aside from Raffe who was not in a formal tuxedo, and he meandered the crowd as though it were the casino floor and not the height of formal refinement. He was in black on black, no jacket at all, the silk shirt open low to display the top of his tattoos, with hands slung in his pockets when he was not patting arms or reaching to kiss cheeks. His mask covered only half his face, in swirls of black and silver. He grinned, brows aloft as he rounded on them. Noémi saw the moment he recognised her for sure, for a surreptitious glance marked Dima’s direction. She caught the edges of a horned mask in the crowd, but he was turned away. She discreetly turned her own shoulder.

Grisha’s greeting was generic and warm. He’d never cared much for airs and graces. Neither did he betray the scandal of their familiarity, beyond a whisper in her ear as he kissed her cheek. “Best not let Sofia see you,” he warned.

Neither of them had noticed Raffe was still carrying the rose until Grisha pointed it out with no small amusement. Raffe declared it an anniversary gift – a traditional one, apparently, but Grisha waved away the detail and offered to take it from him with assurances that he was sure his mother would adore it, though it was actually his father who was the avid gardener these days. He said it all with an entertained grin but did nothing to make Raffe feel foolish. Then he made a gesture for one of the waiters to bring them drinks, and added with a wink that he hoped they enjoyed the evening before he departed to see to other guests.