This grand, ornate hall of shimmering crimson should feel warm and inviting. A joyous masquerade, a night of drink and high spirits.

But there's nothing... nothing but a deep, entrenching sorrow, hanging palpable and heavy in the still air. Shadowy silhouettes linger at the edges of your vision, yet when you turn, they vanish. A mere facsimile of a king's loyal retinue.

At the end of the hall... the bound king raises his hand. Wordless, languid, a motion as weary as the pervasive feeling of sadness in this space.

He points to the platform nearest to you, and you follow the gesture there to see a spread of carved masks displaying various emotions.

The king does not speak - cannot speak, though you can feel it. His expectations for you to comply, yet also... a sort of earnest longing. For you to enjoy yourself in his presence, as long as the night lasts.

What face shall be worn in this audience with the king?