[When he wakes, Woljif is sure he’s having a nightmare. It’d hardly be new for him, after all, too much time spent with the smell of smoke and sound of screams lingering in his senses for his dreams to stay free of them. He squeezes his eyes shut, insists to himself that he’ll wake soon for real, and it will be over.

But, if this is a nightmare, it’s a new one. He’s not trapped, pacing his tiny jail cell like a caged animal while he listens to his city burn. He’s not crouched, small as he can make himself, watching gargoyles fly off with the soldiers he’d been making camp with. He can’t hear the raucous cackling of any demons. Most notably, though, he can actually feel the ash in his throat, and when he finally gets up, it’s with a jolt as he starts to cough.]

Okay! Okay. Not sleepin’. Great.

[He picks himself up, brushes the gathered ash off of his leather armor - glad to see he could keep that, at least. The thought prompts him to check the rest of his belongings, and while he’s glad to find his daggers where he left them, he’d be much happier with the rest of his equipment on hand.]


Now, what in the Hells have you gotten into?

[He’s barely managed a few steps when he feels his footing slip and the ground underneath him give way. Luckily, Woljif, among many things, prides himself on his quick reflexes, and while the startled sound that escapes him might not be the most dignified, he bounds backwards, landing alert and ready, spade-tipped tail lashing behind him. He straightens up, looking around, nervous, to be sure nobody witnessed him nearly fall.]

[Tieflings in Mendev don’t get invited to fancy parties. Or, at least, Thieflings sure don’t. Woljif’s experience with anything like a masquerade is limited in scope, and mostly consists of hiding somewhere outside the event, where he might pick some drunk, rich pockets as they make their way out.

It’s clear from a glance that he’s uncomfortable, posture stiff, movements fidgety, and his tail agitated behind him. Still, the skeletons dressed him well, in simple black and grey, letting the purple of his skin be all the more vibrant. Every so often, a hand comes up to fiddle with the edges of a mask he’s much less happy with - reminiscent of a goat’s skull, and even made to sit right against the base of his own curling horns, as if they were growing out of it directly.

He spends most of his time at the Maskerade being a wallflower, standing awkwardly at the edges of the room, or sitting in the lounge, but he certainly gives in to some old habits here and there, if he thinks he can slip something interesting out of any pockets.]