The queen wears a mask of white, her face covered in pale porcelain. She paints it not, unlike her noble court-goers, her rich slaves. They all wear masks, but her mask is simple. There one woman wears a blue mask with tall, dropping feathers. It complements her dress. The general, his eyes behind a small red mask which rests above his nose, hides most of his face behind an elaborate beard. The queen wears a mask of white, a featureless mask of white, her face hidden completely behind the thin shell of clay.
She sits unmoving as a spider sits above its web. The hollow eyes of her mask reveal nothing but dark shadows; still she watches over her court where all her slaves wear masks. She hungers, not for the delicacies of a thousand worlds prepared for tonight’s banquet; she hungers for one excuse, one slight slip; she hungers for a soul.
So all her slaves wear masks and hide their faces from the faceless terror of their queen. But until she has sated herself, none will move to the table and the food will not be served. The ball and the dances go on into the night, into the early day, as she waits for some mistake, for some mask to fall or crack that she may feast.
Wearied dancers dance
and faceless corpses huddle.
Masks are worn tonight.