Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳bal masqué

when he snuck into the governor's ball, Edward Kenway never accounted for you.

THE FROCK KINDLY borrowed from Commodore Walker's trunk aboard HMS Dartmouth in Kingston's harbor is ostentatious and itchy. Edward Kenway wears the wine-dark devoré embroidered with gold wire and thread open over a cream silk waistcoat fastened with gold buttons—a bit loose around the gut, though. The old commodore wasn't one to miss a meal, afternoon tea included. There's even a powdered wig to go with the ensemble, but he draws the line at that.

Edward pulls at the ruffled cravat around his neck and scratches at his chin, expecting the coarse hair of a close-cropped beard, not the faint rasp of stubble already returning after that morning's shave. Such whiskers are unfashionable amongst the upper echelons of society. He looks at himself in the mirror. Jaysus, he looks a fool. He's never been one to fancy all this peacocking about.

"Clean up well, cap'n," one of his mates says. Edward adjusts the lace at his cuffs with annoyance and situates the hidden blade under his sleeve—the one comfort he has for the evening.

The task at hand is simple—steal the governor's letter listing the Royal officers and cutthroats promised pardons for their crimes against the Maroons and root out the governor's Templar informant while he's at it. Still doesn't explain why Antó thinks the governor's masquerade ball is the right time to go about it. He could slip in any night and rob the place without donning silks and ruffles.

"Don't lose them," Edward tells him, passing off his usual robes and effects, "and keep her ready for a hasty exit, eh?" He cannot shake the feeling in his gut he'll be needing to disappear in a hurry. Leaving from the tavern, he ties his black domino mask in place, and Edward Kenway slips into the crowd making their way to the governor's mansion, feigning to be a respectable gentleman.

ANOTHER TEDIOUS AFFAIR—the stifling summer heat, the gowns, the dances, the false social pretense. You might think of it more favorably if it weren't the third ball of the season. One in Charles-Towne, another in Spanish Town, and now Kingston. It is, however, the first hosted by Peter Heywood, the new governor of Jamaica. An event grand enough to draw out every esteemed merchant, landowner, and politician loyal to Good King George.

A string quintet plays in the corner of the ballroom, loud enough to barely drown out the drone of politics. It is always the same: trade, taxes, the Spanish, the French. The ladies whispering behind feathered fans are no better. Rank and reputation are meant to disappear behind painted masks tonight, but everyone still insists on announcing exactly who they are.

The warm, humid air clings beneath your gown, gathers at the nape of your neck, and turns pinned curls into an uncomfortable crown. You've endured nearly an hour of this torture already, and the ball isn't like to end until the midmorning hours. Boredom is hidden behind a silver-and-ivory mask adorned with red gems. So too are the smiles offered to would-be suitors, concealed behind pineapple tarts and glasses of punch.

Your gaze drifts across the ballroom in search of something—anything—more interesting than the gentleman explaining sugar exports to the squat little woman wearing a Moretta mask pretending to listen. He catches your eye from across the room, and you cannot say why.

The burgundy coat is sleek enough, the gold cufflinks shining in the candlelight. The black mask is a simple complement for his blond hair—pulled back into a low ponytail and secured with a simple leather tie. Another merchant, perhaps, just finding his bearings. You take another drink and decide there's something out of place. Not the clothes, but the man wearing them and how he watches the room, disinterested in the company.