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Snippet #1544859

located in The Masquerade Ball, a part of Misguided Ghosts: A Promise, one of the many universes on RPG.

The Masquerade Ball

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He knew he was getting old when his bones began to ache before heā€™d even begun to dance the night away. Anymore, he felt like nothing but taught skin over dull, aching bones. Wasnā€™t this sort of thing reserved for the later years of life? His fifties perhaps, or even his sixties. True, he was very nearly there, but, at the same time, he wasnā€™t even close. Not now, when he still felt like he was in the prime of hisā€¦ whatever this was called; this thing that others called a life when his seemed like anything but, most days. Except for those glorious moments--few and far between--when he was filled with adrenaline and excitement; filled with life. But, moments like those only seemed to come when he was doing the one thing he loved. It was the long stretches of time in between--those moments, when he was simply going through the motions, transitioning from moment to moment with all the pretense of living but none of its execution--that really made him feel old. At times like these, he had all the enthusiasm of a zombie with no prey to hunger after.

Yet, he had the strangest feeling that tonight was going to be different.

The ache in his bones was nothing that several more martinis couldnā€™t fix. He finished the one in his hand, taking time to twirl the speared olive in between two fingers before clenching it in his teeth and pulling it off the pick. True to form, a server appeared with a replacement drink ready on her tray. She took the empty glass and placed the fresh vodka martini in Vanā€™s waiting hand before flitting away so quickly, so softly, that it seemed as if she were never there to begin with. As good as the service was, he couldnā€™t help but be alarmed, however slight the feeling was. That disquiet at the back of his mind came momentarily to the fore. No service was this good, unless the servers were crouched and hidden, watching their guestā€™s every movement in order to anticipate when they might be needed. That was highly improbable. No, this was something else. Van chose not to give it much thought, however, and he turned his attention back to his newly formed acquaintance. It was probably for the better. If one dwelt on such things for too long, one might not like the conclusions they came to.

The manā€™s handshake was an intriguing contradiction. It was gentle, and yet unyielding; quiet but firm. Van had always held the belief that a manā€™s handshake said a lot about him. ā€œThere is nothing more telling of a manā€™s character than the way he shakes your hand,ā€ he could still hear his father saying, back when he was still interested in teaching his son the ways of the world; back before heā€™d realized just how much of a disappointment Van would be to him. Just what LeBlancā€™s handshake said about the manā€™s character, Van wasnā€™t sure, but he could at least tell that this new acquaintance would keep him guessing. Predictable people were entirely too boring for Vanā€™s tastes, and he would never have wasted this much time on one. It was interesting people like LeBlanc whose friendship he pursued, if he ever did.

ā€œSo, what brought you here--fancy, curiosity, or that incredibly personal letter?ā€ What could Van say to that? To tell the truth--to say that he was here looking for his next conquest; the next, incredibly rich, and even more naĆÆve woman whom he could con out of her money--would mean giving away more of his character than he was comfortable with. It was a despicable side of himself which heā€™d learned to whole-heartedly embrace, if, indeed there were anything other than the despicable to make up a different side of his character. He couldnā€™t tell anymore, truth be told, heā€™d been doing this for so long. But, this side of himself which heā€™d embraced was not likely to be embraced by others, and it wasnā€™t something that he liked to spread around idly. ā€œHmmā€¦ all of the above, I guess,ā€ he answered, and it wasnā€™t quit a lie. His amused grin never left his face.

ā€œMust say, Iā€™ve never been to a masquerade before,ā€ he continued. This was not Vanā€™s first. Not to say that heā€™s been to an outrageous number of them, but heā€™d seen his share. It seemed a popular way to flaunt oneā€™s wealth in a showy display of the supposed ā€œfiner things of life.ā€ Needless to say, it was one of the go-to themes for the parties of the rich and famous with which Van was associated. Heā€™d always found such deliberate and calculated exhibitions rather vulgar. Van liked money; he lusted after it, but heā€™d never been too concerned with the fancy things it could by, nor had he found it tasteful to flaunt how much of it one had in others faces. What sick pleasure people got out of it, Van had never understood. He decided not to comment on the matter, however, and instead, he chuckled amusedly at the way LeBlanc flopped down in the seat next to him so unceremoniously.

ā€œWe should make a wager; a parlay between new acquaintances. Letā€™s see who can manage a dance, first. Awful habit, I know,ā€ he added, it seemed, as an afterthought. ā€œWhatā€™s that? Dancing with women? Or betting on them? Or betting about dancing with them?ā€ he responded jokingly, not bothering to mention that if betting was considered an ā€œawful habit,ā€ then the last 30 or more years of his life had been a long series of awful habits. As true as that might actually be, he wouldnā€™t admit it to himself. He could not hide the twinkle of delight which lit his eyes at LeBlancā€™s proposition. Who would have thought that all it took for him to find a kindred spirit was a masquerade ball? ā€œIā€™ll take that bet,ā€ he responded with a wide grin. If it were a serious wager, he never would have accepted without first discussing the stakes. ā€œWhat are we wagering, here? Bragging rights? Iā€™m in. In fact, if I had a hat Iā€™d- Ah! Will you permit me?ā€ he asked, reaching for the hat which sat rakishly on LeBlancā€™s head. He didnā€™t wait for an answer, he plucked the hat off and set it on his own head. ā€œI tip my hat to you, Sir,ā€ he joked, tipping the hat in an exaggerated way and laughing. When he was finished, he removed it, twirling it on his finger a few times before depositing it back on itā€™s rightful owner.

ā€œYouā€™ve got yourself a bet, LeBlanc. Now, if youā€™ll excuse me, I have a prior engagement with one of these gorgeous young ladies. They just donā€™t know it yet,ā€ he winked. He finished his second martini in a flourish, and didnā€™t even bother to blink as it was immediately taken out of his hand. Van rose, feeling the ache in his bones bull to nothing more than a simmer. Tonight, he felt young, and he wandered off in search of a pretty young thing with which to share the feeling.