Stage 3 | Wine Cellar

The blue, intricately decorated mask covered the majority of his face, save his eyes, making him look like some sort of freak. His brows were shiny with sweat, the heat of the cellar causing him to squirm in his tight and uncomfortable suit. Canis self-consciously re-adjusted his tie, his dull eyes peering through the swell of people, trying to tune out the buzz of conversation. Fat, pompous men bellowed out laughter, the stink alcohol on their breath. Canis grimaced as he nearly came into contact with a chubby lady, swiftly stepping around the tub of lard with strange grace.

He’d originally wandered the gargantuan mansion to avoid contact with his family members until it was time to go home, but considering his luck, it was to be expected that he’d stumble into the wine cellar. Once he’d realized where he was, the door back outside seemed like a journey away, the swarms of people rendering escape almost impossible.

The brown-haired child heatedly fiddled with his party mask, a frown playing at his lips at the fact that he wasn’t allowed to take it off. A finger traced the sides of the mask, running over little bumps that were the golden balls of sparkly goodness that made his mask all the more flamboyant. A handspun, lapis-coloured thread of silk ran down the side of the mask, tickling the base of his neck. Canis found himself swatting at it occasionally, but it always managed to find its way back to its original position. He soon gave up, muttering a curse under his breath every now and then when it whipped his cheek every time he turned his head.

He resigned himself to the wall, standing with his hands crammed into his trouser pockets, attempting a certain nonchalance that didn’t look too well on adolescents. He wanted this party to end.

Canis had expected for the night to pass quietly, with him wasting his time in some place where he didn’t have to speak to anybody in a cordial fashion or fake a bright, youthful smile under the scrutiny of his mother’s hawk-like gaze. He dreamed of the time when he could collapse onto his bed and go straight asleep, wrapping himself in the thick comforter that smelt of cold, fresh laundry detergent.

It was a short-lived dream. He eyed at the police officer wearily, the sight of her uniform evoking an ugly frown to appear on his face.

God damn it.

His face wrinkled, a muscle working in his jaw. He was not in the mood to deal with a police officer, because that would just mean his parents would get involved, and from there, all hell would break loose. He’d have to sort out the problem before it got to that stage, unless he wanted to suffer the consequences.

“Uh . . . not drinking?” he answered, trying in vain to keep the bitter tone out of his voice and working to keep his face passive—a miserable failure. His hands were clenched in his pockets, his posture erect and standing up straight. Standing at attention, maybe? No. Not Canis. Kissing up to the woman’s posterior to get away without much trouble? Yes.

His peripheral vision caught white hair. Oh, good lord. Please, no—

Incoming.

He sucked in breath, rubbing the back of his neck and fighting the urge to let the colourful language fly loose. “Your timing is as wonderful as ever, Sheryl,” he hissed, still trying to remain civil. His patience was wearing thin, however, and it wouldn’t hold much longer. Thank you, white-haired goody-goody. “I didn’t do anything. Yet.”

Another police officer appeared, with curly brown hair that bounced with her step. It was Canis’ lucky day.

“Nope. Not lost. I was just getting out of here. While you guys are here, though, why don’t you escort me through that party of fat-cats over there?” He nodded his head savagely in the direction of the crowd, with their beer bellies and poorly stained attire. They were already drunk, the barbarians.

(OOC: Folks, we've gone past the boiling point.)

Canis grunted in reply to the short-haired police officer. His face wrinkled in vexation at the police officer. Does she think we’ll be just fine and dandy? No! We’re being attacked by giant, disgusting rats! Amidst the chaos, the young brunet had the time to shake his head disapprovingly.

“We all want to leave,” spat Canis, kicking a relatively small rat that had scurried over to his feet, fangs bared. It was hurled across the stone floor, its ugly squeals lost in the deafening blanket of confusion and hysteria. Sheryl latched herself onto Canis’ arm, much to his surprise. He considered the thought of throwing her off, but there were other things to think about, and throwing a girl into a swarm of rats was a low that even he could not achieve. Instead, he desperately looked towards the two police officer, seeking guidance.

The horror that bubbled in the pit of his stomach reminded him of the event that occurred on that bleak, rainy day. He couldn’t bear to bring up the memories, but they all came back to him anyway—a white-haired horror, the woman whose skull was cracked open in a grotesque display, her limp body hitting the ground with a muffled thud. He wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for the orange-haired muscle man.

He shook his head, relishing in the safety of a wall behind his back. “Way ahead of you there.” Canis glanced nervously at Sheryl, who was still holding onto his arm like a terrified dog. He was reminded of his little sister, and a feeling of responsibility awoke inside of him. He suddenly felt like he had a duty to protect her, no matter how downright annoying she may be.

“Get behind me, you fool,” he hissed, stepping away from the wall to shove her behind him, kicking another stray rat across the floor. He reveled in his newfound strength, but the satisfaction was short-lived. As the rats seemingly retreated to the largest rats blocking the exit, the biggest one stood on his hind legs to reach a disturbing height and looked straight at him. A cold shiver ran up and down his spine, rendering him paralyzed for a few moments.

Canis watched in horror as the giant rat began to speak, and bit his lower lip to keep him silent. A young woman with long, curly hair that bounced with each step bolted for the door shrieking like a banshee. Canis made sure to direct a torrent of silent profanity in her direction for being an idiot, but he froze in fear as wine leaked from out of the barrels and into her body, effectively drowning the woman in the cruellest way possible.

That. Is. Not. Possible.

He gritted his teeth, one hand straying to keep Sheryl behind him as he turned to face the giant rat. The options were simple: Pledge allegiance or die. When they were laid out so simply, he knew what he was going to do. He struggled to bite back whatever snarky comments that threatened to arise as he stepped forward, a hand over his heart. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and he could almost barely cough up the words.

“I, Canis, pledge allegiance to—to,” he choked, “your . . . magnificent master.” It was only a few words that he didn’t mean. What was the harm?