Landis made for a sober Opera-goer tonight, his finery subdued in comparison to some of the ornate choices made by other guests. Though the fabric and fit of his dove gray suit was very fine - his dark cloak cut with unusually dramatic flair, his cravat knotted closely all the way up his throat - next to some of the peacocks, he almost looked plain. Not given to flashiness, he instead wore his hair pulled back to bare the stark angles of his unforgiving face.

Likewise not given to mingling and idle chit-chat, he was the first to his box. Though he enjoyed classical music's ilk he had not been to the opera overmuch, and the look in his eyes as he assessed the space bore a dull spark of curiosity to temper the dispassionate judgement. Personally invited by Ira Almasy, he had great incentive to meticulously examine every inch of the box and what of the theatre he could see. There was no telling what would happen tonight. In fact, if nothing happened he'd be very disappointed. Landis noted the escape paths and the exits with equal care.

Having stepped to the rail to survey the crowd below, the general fluttering about, the finery, the drawn curtains on the stage, he eventually ran his gaze over the boxes opposite. Then to the one beside him - still empty, he'd arrived fairly early - and then to the one on his other side. That box had an occupant already, close enough to the rail for him to see, and Landis withdrew with a slight sneer when he realized he was next to Dolly St. James. He hoped someone would arrive soon in either her box or his - a distraction to keep her from stringing some choice words over to him. It would be difficult and impolite for her to attempt to converse with him past the three-quarters curved wall but difficulty and politeness had never stopped Dolly before. Especially when she'd been drinking or had something "important" to say.

Cynric Rascal Rosier came spinning into the private box, in the way he did most things in life- with unnecessary flair. The Hall had been delightful! Flutes of champagne to spill, headwear to pilfer, cheeks to kiss! But he had caught the harsh eye of a particularly tiresome editor and now thought it wiser to escape where she would not follow. Which is precisely how he found himself tripping into the room on the balls of his feet, wielding a large top hat in one hand and a pocket-watch in the other.

Alas! As the theatre whales would have it, there was already another occupant; and with a face so severe.

"Good evening," Rascal stepped forward and fell into an Elizabethan bow. "Rascal Rosier! Wordsmith at your service~" he snapped straight with a boyish grin, eyes running speculatively across the other wizard's general dress. Boring.

Yet... boring on the outside did not mean boring on the inside. He straightened his bow tie, angling himself backwards slightly to consider the fellow with the sharp features and sharper eyes.

"Undertaker?" he asked abruptly. "No, that's trite, hold on- Politician? Professor?"

The author's eyebrows rose suggestively. "Professional Lothario?"

His wish was granted, though perhaps not in the way Landis would quite like. Another came flouncing into the box shortly thereafter, and despite the exuberance this fellow's attire was even plainer than his own. In quality, that was, not pattern or color. Left with the choice of being impressed or disdainful at this operatic disregard, Landis naturally - and inevitably - chose disdainful. It was his only possible reaction to anyone who introduced themselves as a wordsmith. Making words do as they weren't meant (unless one was twisting them in necessary deception) was a very frivolous excuse for an occupation.  But then, Landis was Landis and not a librarian first.

Professional lothario. His eyebrows slowly rose. He did not see how that fit in with Rosier's list of others.

"Librarian," he said dryly. "So close, and yet so far." Though Rascal's bow was clearly of the same order as any trickster's, reminding him of Darian's, formality without respect, Landis returned the gesture with a short bow of his own. It was traditional. Impeccable. Dry as a good martini. And yet by acting in the letter of that very tradition, he managed to leave out all the respect too. "Landis Morgan, also Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts. I have your books stocked in my library, sir." His tone did not suggest that he'd read them or, if he had, that he approved.

The grin that crept at Rascal's lips grew wider as the other wizard introduced himself. A Librarian! Not a penguin then; more of a sombre giraffe. He leaned to the side, boney hip against the closest chair as the top hat came to rest primly on his head. A quick glance at the time before looking back up at Landis Morgan.

"You safeguard my stories by occupation!" he didn't pause to brush off the disdain- taking to it like butter on a frying pan. "I don't actually know very many Librarians. They used to scare the nail varnish right off my knees." Or something of the sort- none of those heartwarming tales of literary friendship when he frequented the libraries.

But that was it, wasn't it? Why the amiable guide and not the harrowing villain? Why not both? His eyes glimmered imaginatively at Landis- a line in his head had run away with the whim of such a protagonist and he let it, remaining mostly in their present situation.

"But you must tire of literature, being a gira-- a man in your position." Rascal cleared his throat with boyish inelegance. "So you escape through the stage? A reprieve in swooping arias and sinister overtones?" His smile was smug now, hovering the ethereal line between teasing and pure curiousity.

Joy arrived in the box after have only some alcohol, she didn't want to be too drunk for the performance. Whether that would be a decision she regretted or not was to be seen. She didn't stay for too much chatter before going up to her private box, something she rarely did but the morning's work had tired her out. Even though her appearance at aristocratic events were few, she made sure to dress the part, going as far as to wear her only dragon skin coat, a present from her brother from several years ago.

As she ascended the stairs, Joy could distinctly hear voice in her box. By the time she got to the top, she had made out the words of one of one man teasing another. The show hadn't started and people were getting on each other's nerves.

"Good evening, gentlemen." Joy asserted herself to break it up. "Landis, Cynric." She inclined her head slightly to them,  respectively. Joy knew Landis by his position and Cynric not by his books, but by his extensive amount of time in St. Mungo's. Most long term patients of the fourth floor got to know Joy as a human and doe during her visits.

Joy smiled warmly as she walked farther into the box. "How are you both this evening?"

Melanthe Grumman was attending the Opera dateless. She wasn't unaccustomed to being alone at social functions, but lately her lack of "other" was starting to feel like a bigger void in her life. Especially when her good friend, Liadán, was happily in a relationship. And everyone around her seemed to be heading to that course as well. Was she just not cut out for coupling? And would she really mind if that was the case?

No matter that, she could at least spend the evening with her good friend, Charlotte St. James. It had been too long since she had seen her fellow socialite. After arriving later than she planned, she grabbed a quick drink and then headed up to the box to hopefully join her friend.

She was momentarily disappointed not to see the St. James lady. Instead, there were two gentlemen she recognized and another woman she did not. She knew Landis Morgan as the less sociable relative to Darian and Rosier was an author she had met in passing at various functions. He seemed interesting enough and Melanthe briefly considered this might be a chance to get to know him better. And even if she had no idea who the woman was, she could certainly engage in pleasant conversation with just about anyone.

"Good evening all," she said breezily. "Everyone ready for this lovely artistic display?"

"They used to scare the nail varnish right off my knees."

"I am hard-pressed to believe that," he said honestly, meaning more the other man's claim to fear over something so simple as an occupational tendency to glare. He considered Rascal's question in a lengthy moment of stillness. As he'd long since learned from exposure to the mischievous and occasionally manic figure of his eldest cousin, there was little success in demanding serious replies from someone disinclined to give them. Likewise, rising to the bait only ensured a position as the evening's entertainment.

"As you say," he replied at last, his flat and methodical way of speaking immune to conventional teasing. He offered Rascal the bare curve of a smile, though it was an aseptic expression far removed from any warmth. "I find the opera most enjoyable for what it demands of its audience: their attention. And their silence."

His attention was diverted by the newest arrival, an older brunette witch who greeted him by name. Landis' eyes narrowed in mingled confusion and suspicion. He did not recognize her, nor remember offering her his name. "You are?" he asked. His phrasing was blunt, but his tone was mild enough to pass muster in any polite society circle. Quick on her heels was Melanthe Grumman, whom Landis knew only in passing from said polite pureblooding circle. He responded to her breezy comment with an incline of his head, silent acknowledgment or answer or both.

Landis Morgan was a brick wall- and not the fun sort you find at the end of enigmatic alleys, mind you.

Unfortunately there was no chance to tell the man as much. The other occupants of their box came trickling in and Rascal stepped aside, allowing for the two ladies to enter comfortably. Again there came the elaborate bows, the greetings and intrigued grins.

"Healer~" he smiled at Torret warmly but underneath the fond gaze, an uneasiness. He had been certifiably insane once, yes, and took some pleasure in broaching the fact in casual conversation. What he didn't appreciate was an unexpected reminder.

It was not without ease that Rascal turned his attentions to Grumman- who he had gotten to know under a less medical scenario.

"And to you..." he leaned back, falling lankily into one of the velvet seats. "I'm plagued by curiousity and, much like our Librarian Morgan here, look forward to this reprieve from literature. In fact-" Rascal glanced over his shoulder at the stage that the balcony overlooked. "I think it's due to begin at any moment soon."

Melanthe eagerly returned the greetings and smiles of her box companions and stepped further inside so as to glance down at the stage below. People looked to be finding their seats and since Rosier seemed to be the most willing to engage in good natured conversation, she swept over to where he sat and assumed the seat beside him.

"So, Cynric...or would you prefer that I call you Rascal?" she smirked as she set about slowly removing her gloves before putting them away into the purse that she carried and then setting it aside. Her dark gaze lingered intently on his face. "Shall we have a glorious running commentary of this performance this evening? I feel as though I shall enjoy this all the more if I had a co-conspirator to banter with."

"Ah, my apologizes." Bah, she'd done it, again. With so many connections to people, Joy tended to assume that, if she knew someone's name and could pin it to them by seeing them, they knew her. Joy stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Joy Torret. I'm a Healer-in-Charge at St. Mungo's. I'm sure you know my daughter, Zoe, she attends Hogwarts."

As soon as she had finished introducing herself, another woman arrived, one that Joy knew she'd never met. "Good evening," she replied and, after the newcomer didn't introduce herself, and went off to Cynric, Joy assumed she wouldn't need her name for a while.

Joy settled into her seat and removed her coat, draping it over the seat back. Cynric certainly seemed friendly with this woman. "I do hope you are kidding," she replied to the woman's question without being at all a part of the conversation. Joy hadn't been to an opera in years, she'd make sure that members of her private box didn't ruin it for her.

The lights rose as intermission started, and not particularly wanting a drink or to stretch his legs Landis did not move from his seat. Instead he sat musingly watching the stage and the people milling below, the fingers of one hand curled just touching his chin. It had been ages since he'd been to the Opera. Doubtless were it not for Ira Almasy's personal invitation he would not be here now. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it, but it did rate as something of an expensive frivolity in which Landis normally would not indulge.

It made him wonder when the main event would occur. Though he had followed the plot and onstage action contentedly, ignoring the commentary and presence of others in his box, there was an underlying expectation which colored his opinion of the evening. Almasy's invitation had intimated some aspect which he would find particularly enjoyable, and given her warning against bringing a date he had not thought it would be a part of the play.

Without any particular warmth or invitation in his eyes he glanced back at his box mates. They were no real hardship to share space with, which was about the most complimentary thought from Landis they were likely to receive. The author was the sole exception, but at this point in his life Landis had come to expect a certain amount of transgression upon his existence by loud-mouthed fools and so could not even grace Rascal with more than the mildest sense of resigned irritation.

There was a touch of the trite about this Opera plot but it was, he reckoned, as original as one could be when drawing on Shakespeare. At least Grumman was an excellent co-conspirator; to the disdain of some in their box, they had roused a witty commentary.

"... and I can't imagine how they're going to get away with this gender swap business when- oh, what's this?" Rascal was remarking to the dark haired socialite over intermission when he spotted a movement in the corner of his eye. He laughed, exchanging a glance with Melanthe. "Backstage mix-up, I wager."

For a centipede's second, it appeared that he was correct as several unprepared stagehands turned around in surprise to see the audience. But then the crack, but then the bodies that fell like stones from frail strings. He stood immediately with his hands on the back of Morgan's seat. What was this? What was this? Someone in the audience screamed.

Real, a hiss let loose inside the author's head and he felt the blood drain from his face. Rascal's gaze tore itself away from the stage to the boxes across- Ira Almasy was also stood; she was the very picture of astonishment. The red haired creature next to her was already leaving.

"This isn't a macabre hoax," he muttered darkly. "Those people are dead."