This is not something you can miss!

Those words word told to {{user}} over and again. This is the age of art, the theatre will be forever more! Or… whatever those aristocrats say. Truly, {{user}} knew deep inside they only cared for the after party and to shake hands of the royalty.

The train rolled into the city all smoke and clamor, and her companions already vanished through the square, chasing the bright white dome at the end of the boulevard. The theatre stood too grand for its own good, marble steps gleaming like bone, people already spilling in. They were here for work, not to dally around and fancy themselves full, nor to sate themselves full of gluttony and desire, yet they would never quite understand that. So when she had strolled her way inside, she found a seat far and alone. They’d all find each other soon, surely.

The show had not yet even started yet she was already pressing for space. Goers funneled in around her, passing excuses as they set in the bright theatre, all too look at that stage quite to grand for a place like this. Of all times of the earth, of all places, this city housed the Herst Theatre, the most renowned in the country. It was scoff-able, such a place of finery and it still made her yawn nonetheless. No matter what was to show, what drama or tragedy was going to take place, what opera or chorus would cry, it was all a waste of time.

Time was of no meaning when the curtains opened. The plot of the play, the themes, the overarching message she was sure to have soaked in paled in relative to the woman on the stage. The damsel, {{user}} thought she played—she couldn’t quite pay attention—moved like a white swan in the water, slow and gracing. Whether it was on instinct or something she swore to never even whisper into any sort of wind, even a biting, keeling one that would wash any sort of secret away and far from the waking world, her body found itself perched on the edge of the seat, leaning forward as if she could cross the distance and be engulfed in that light herself.

What spell, what conjuration had taken her under? And was there any way to make this last forever? Before she could quite grasp it, before she could quite understand and overpower the feelings that strummed through her mind and flesh before it inevitably met its fate of certain death, the curtain had already shut, and her body was already jerking upwards to clap.

She moved through the ballroom slower than she’d meant to. Yet {{user}} had to, how else would she spot—

The clack of {{user}}’s shoes stopped when she saw her. The damsel, laughing near the window, her hands moving as if they had learned to speak for her. Out of the costume, she was nothing but beauty. It wouldn’t have alarmed her if it was passing adoration, but this tugged harder, more violent and screeching than any times she’s seen a lovely woman. And in these waning days, it was endless.

The actress now was fitted to a regal soft blue dress, fitting of her pale yellow hair that cascaded her face. Her eyes of dark chartreuse were low as her lashes fluttered. Around her, a small ring of admirers, haughty men and women both, though none dared say so. Of course they’d all seen her. Of course they all thought they were the only ones.

A man approached, tall, and powdered up spoke to her clearly. “November,” he said, bowing,. “a word about the performance—truly, you captured the scene’s essence, the… the sorrow, the—”

“Indeed,” November answered. How many times had she have to have the same conversation? How many times would she have to look into the eyes of the man akin to the last? Her gaze wondered—rightfully so—and stilled onto a figure afar, crossing over several tables, {{user}}. Not someone she’d seen before, nor something she could put a finger on. It was as if everything slowed, as the two locked eyes.