Lady Boyle's Last Party

Dunwall. The sprawling capital city of Gristol, home to both royalty and industry alike. Naturally, I was more interested in the former. The Boyle family in particular.

Every year, the Boyle sisters held a lavish masquerade ball and invited everyone who’s someone to partake. Though, none but the most discerning can tell who exactly these “someones” are. The triplets have made this fact the main attraction; the guest who manages to identify each of the three by name before dawn is promised a king’s ransom. For ten years I’d been invited to this party, and for ten years I’d failed.

But that’s not why I'm telling you this story. If it were merely a tale of miserable failure, time and time again, I wouldn’t bother. No, there was much more to this tenth, final party than anyone could have suspected. For beyond the usual antics, there was a sinister force lurking in the Boyle abode. One of evil intent, and great power. More than any one man could hope to wield. And yet, he did.

The night began as expected; the ordinary lords and ladies, doctors and philosophers. They slowly trickled in just as the sun cast the shadow of Dunwall Tower across the lawn. Painted in amber-orange light, the guests’ costumes each exuded a quality of transience. As if any one of them could simply vanish in a gust of wind. The exterior of the mansion was white stone, pure as snow and smooth as porcelain. The grand entryway was preceded by a set of stairs, carved from similar stuff, and flanked by two guards. Each was armed with a shining sword and pristine pistol. The City Guardsmen stood tall and proud, even when relegated to such a menial task as checking partygoers’ invitations.

The manor’s interior was bright and vibrant, bursting with the pastel hues of carefree nobility. Lit by the flame of whale-oil lamps, the walls stood at least twenty feet tall, draped in fine banners of silk and linen. A vast table, feast-laden and springing with champagne, overtook the foyer. A hog, roasted whole, served as the centerpiece. Every delicacy one could imagine surrounded it; smoked hare, steamed eel, fillets of whale piled high on silver plates, bouquets of the freshest, most exotic fruit the city had seen. One table had a fisherman’s yearly wage laid out upon it, and that was only the start.

Guests pooled in the foyer and surrounding smoking-rooms, eager for the full roster to arrive. Men strode across the floor with command, concealing their faces with masks resembling wolves, ghouls, rats and the like. Ladies would glide with refined elegance, adorned with masks like dolls’ faces, or ornate tribal masks. Some were even crafted in the likenesses of insects. Each was unique, and most served to reflect the soul of its wearer.

As each guest arrived, the din grew in volume. Food was tactfully portioned, and consumed so as to not reveal the consumer. Wine was imbibed in great quantity, and later spilled in lesser amounts. The Boyles made their grand ritual entrance, coming down from the floor above in lockstep and then mingling with their esteemed guests. All standard fare for the occasion.

By the first hour, most identities had been determined by most others, aside from the Boyles themselves… and one other. I hadn’t noticed him come in with the rest, and he didn’t seem to be especially sociable. His mask was unlike any other there. Steel shone a dull silver, marred and dented. The face beneath it was wrapped with a coarse, dark cloth. The rest of him was kept under a hooded overcoat that looked as if it had been fished from the river. His entirety was threadbare and battered, and reeked of sweat and copper.

I ignored the man and engaged in yet another thrilling conversation with Doctor Ramsey, discussing the prevalence of whale oil in supposed cure-all ointments. To this day I don’t believe a word about it, but this was the time to humor him. We talked for ten minutes or so, then I politely excused myself to the foyer for a drink. That was where I met the waifish-yet-lovely Miss Ella Triss. She had dressed rather conservatively that night, having evidently fallen on hard times. I suspect she may have arrived only for the victuals, perhaps a valuable item that wouldn’t be missed by its owner. She had a shifty look about her, but I possessed neither the energy nor the courage to pry. Fortunately, or unfortunately, a commotion saved me from embarrassing myself.

As I moved to pour a glass, a gunshot rang from the courtyard. I peeked through a window to see that the steel-clad stranger had bested Lord Montgomery Shaw in a duel! I had never known a more skilled duellist than him, and yet the stranger delivered one sharp shot to Shaw’s midsection, killing him on the spot. Everyone on the grounds gathered around the fallen lord, whispering of both the stranger’s skill and their detest for the unfortunate who faced him.

Once the crowd thinned a bit, I searched for the stranger to deliver congratulations, for I had no more use for Shaw as I had for any pantry vermin. But he was nowhere to be found. Somehow he’d slipped by my vigil, and once again infiltrated the mansion. I thought nothing of it until late into the night, when it came to the majority’s attention that one of the Boyle triplets had vanished from the party.

There were theories of a tryst, set between the Boyle and a guest prior to the function. Or she had simply retired to her chambers before the night had officially reached its conclusion. Maybe something as mundane as a bad oyster, though unlikely at such an event as this. Yes, there were many theories making their way through the crowd that night, but one I was partial to was a spontaneous retreat by the Boyle with the stranger in tow. She was taken by his martial prowess and mystical air, and just had to have him to herself. A simple explanation with a scandal in the mix; the perfect solution to the mystery we were faced with. But as I would eventually find, every one of us was wrong.

The remaining sisters seemed to shrug this news off as if it were reports of heavy rain. Apparently this sort of thing wasn’t uncommon for that particular Boyle. At the time I took this as a clue, for one of the three was rumored to be something of a “romantic vagabond.” With only two sisters in the game, the bounty would be easy pickings. I only needed a clue, one small tell, to determine who was who. Even something so insignificant as which hand held the cup, or which leg was favored, could have been my ticket to untold wealth. Unfortunately, I would not get the chance at this wealth, for an even greater mystery presented itself soon afterward.

Not five minutes after the first of the Boyles had made her escape, the second followed suit. Again, there was no trace of her, nor of the stranger who had shot down Shaw. By now the inquisitive musings of the party had turned to concern. Less for the Boyles’ wellbeing, and more for the prize. Our chances of guessing correctly had just gone from a fifty-fifty shot to a third, which displeased many of those in attendance. The remaining Boyle triplet assured us that she would get to the bottom of these disappearances, and made for the basement kitchen to consult the staff.

The gala pressed on, though overshadowed somewhat by recent events. The guests who hadn’t yet succumbed to the sweet nothings of champagne were talking amongst themselves, spouting drivel of having been short-changed or otherwise duped. I was no exception, having provided my expanded explanation of one very lucky attendee. I had thought that the triplets’ absence was a momentary setback to an otherwise flawless event.

But some time passed, maybe another half hour, and the last Boyle still had yet to return from the basement. And the stranger had yet to show his mask once again. “Surely the better part of an hour was enough time to satisfy the three of them?” God, what a fool I was.

The party eventually petered out, and many guests departed before the sunrise. Having abandoned any hope of claiming the prize, they left in ones and twos. Soon I was the only remaining guest, and once the sun’s aura crested I, too, lost faith in the contest’s integrity. And so I left for my own home, defeated once again. The only difference being the nature of my defeat.

The following days were a flurry of death and woe, brought about by the hand of that stranger. Chaos spread across the city like wildfire. He quickly garnered a reputation, and a title to match: The Masked Felon. I don’t know what made him take interest in the Boyles, but I’m glad I lived to tell of his doings. A survivor of Lady Boyle’s last party.

I hope this story will serve as a warning to those who might cross paths with him, whether in a darkened corner of the harbor or the very lap of luxury. Stay vigilant, stay safe, and long live the Lord Regent.