(Untitled)

[i_am_your_host]

The Master of Ceremonies finds himself clad in a long, black leather coat with straps and silver buckles flying off its cuffs. Beneath it he wears a starched white shirt with a high collar under a fitted waistcoat -- black with delicate, pearl-gray pinstripes, pewter buttons cleverly moulded into the shape of theatre masks. His black trousers taper

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[reinedebayou]

Belle is looking at him. Today there's no reason he should stand out. But he does. And there's. . .something about him. She is glad, for once, that she's armed, though of course nothing can hurt her anymore, anyway.

"Nice whip. Bettin' that ain't an altered version of somethin' you were already carrying."

Like her having a sword instead of knives.

[i_am_your_host]

"Acutally..." he muses as he runs his fingertips along the crop, "it's significantly more real. The one I own is only a prop and the lash made of felt with a tassel of kidskin at the tip for weight. This looks as if it could...hurt someone."

He pauses with a quick glance at her weapons, his eyes narrowing slightly with a glint of bemusement and intrigue. "Speaking of which... Hello."

[reinedebayou]

She laughed. "Hi. I'm Belle." A calloused hand is extended.

[i_am_your_host]

Her hand is grasped with one that's probably smoother and far cooler to the touch than she expects. "Enchanté, Mademoiselle," he purrs, and he bends to plant a feather-light kiss on her middle knuckle. "I am the Master of Ceremonies, but you may call me Emcee."