[Tayseri Ward] Dance of Winter Spirits (Semi-Open)

It was one of those days where any man in his right mind knew damn well he had to look his absolute best. The nearly month-long Winter Holiday Festival was starting tonight with a traditional (read: cliched) Masquerade-style ball for all the rich people and those with rich friends -Jacob had since forgotten what he'd done for the season before breaking into this tax bracket-, and would be ending whenever the majority of partyers got over their collective hangover after New Year's. More importantly, since a proposed business meeting for the event had flopped, he now had ample time to spend the night dining and dancing with his girlfriend, and stars willing, soon-to-be fiance. Especially since he hadn't seen her in months due to time consumed by their diverging career paths. Aya... the mere thought of her lit his face with a smile.

However, while fate may or may not have been on his side in the romance department, his employer most certainly wasn't. An asari so obscenely wealthy that he seemed a part-timer by comparison, with a growing penchant for "human head fur", an established penchant for fucking with people's genetic codes, and more control over his life than anyone should have over any sapient being's; she opted to play 'dress up' with him as though she were the one under 30 and he was a life-size doll. The results were... not pretty. At least not in his opinion. If there were any question on the part of uninitiated observers regarding his gender identity and preference before, well they were certainly even more of a question now. He looked like someone who couldn't decide between 'hot bodyguard' and 'princess' for overall looks. To wit:

His shiny black hair had been lengthened out with body mod tech that bordered on sorcery. Some combination of nanotechnology, protein/oil boosts, follicle manipulation, etc... whatever it was, it brought the length out to his shoulder blades. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, it had been woven together with some platinum and white gold artificial tresses into a "French braid" style.

The mercy of what had been done to his head was granted by a rather dapper military-style cap with a semi-transparent bill that could be extended over his eyes like a visor. This would be taking the place of the mask that most other patrons of the ball would be wearing.

His suit was made after a couple of rather old Asian styles, comprised of modernized versions of the changshan and hakamas. He wasn't entirely sure where the silk came from, but he was fairly certain its origins lay outside of Earth. The cloth seemed to have a mind of its own, clinging to him in ways and at times that normal or even fitted clothing did not. While it was somehow not exactly a direct hindrance, it was certainly distracting and annoying.

Polishing off the outfit were a pair of black deerskin moccasins, just in case the ancient cultures from the Western half of his species' homeworld were starting to feel left out when it came to his employer's light rape of their traditional attire in the pursuit of what she believed would be a fitting style for him. These were, incidentally, the only things he was wearing that were not a color generally associated with ice and snow. At least not the pleasant sort.

On the bright side, he wouldn't be walking to this event, since his employer wanted him to "get back to the old days" (of maybe 5-7 years ago) and chauffer for her. Which would have been all well and good, but even that white, fluffy cloud had a dark lining: she was making him drive her... in his UMW Throne, despite the fact that she had a few dozen other drivers at her beck and call, three times as many vehicles commissioned specifically for her by both those manufacturers she owned and those she didn't, and the fact that she could if she so chose take nearly any person off the street and coerce them to drive for her. Most especially if that person happened to be an asari.

Jacob Frost sighed as he leaned against the driver's door of his skycar, remembering once again why he resented Matriarch Arlessa.

Sarah Thompson stared at her reflection in the mirror, some six hours before. Pressing her hands against her face, the woman paced back to the rear wall of her bathroom, taking in a deep sigh. She activated her omnitool and slid a finger across her wrist, activating a message application, and she shook her head, trying to collect her thoughts.
The woman turned to look into the mirror again, noting her own exasperated expression. She glanced out the bathroom door; a dress lay on the side of her bed, alongside a pair of high heeled shoes casually discarded on the bedroom carpet. Sarah ran her fingers through her hair and psyched herself up. The omnitool was opened again, and the message was written.


Sarah smirked, wringing her hands together with a slight bounce to her heels. A realization dawned. Reading the message over again, the woman's face went pale. "Out of the blue. A pun. God, damn it." She grasped at her temples, pacing out of the bathroom. "God damn it." She sat on the edge of her bed and collapsed backwards, covering her eyes with her palms. Now, the waiting game.