What makes you so sure?

Orchestrated from afar, they are. But by whom? We shall soon find out, I do fear.

"The torment of precautions often exceeds the dangers to be avoided. It is sometimes better to abandon one's self to destiny." -Bonaparte

Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit

LORD. I did.

*She is the chill in the wind which raises the hair of those who mill about the gala, whispering secrets and buying respect.*

*A shadow, a ghost, a whisper -- discrete and unknown to the untrained eye. She watches for her prey, eyes piercing and cold.*

*For each second she has to wait, a new plot of torture and vengeance hatches -- each more diabolical and convoluted than the last.*

That could stand up his parallel,

We were dissuaded by our wicked queen,

*Silent footfalls, a twist of fabric, incoherent whispers.*

*Death, rebirth, vengeance, horror, calamity, love, sweat, secrets, money -- the gala is submerged, overflowing with sin.*

*The woman descends upon the crowd, silent and stealthy.*

*Eyes piercing and steps sure, she causes a shudder to run though those who catch her ghastly visage.*

*Young and beautiful, horrible and wonderful -- she is one of Death's most faithful servants, and many feel it.*

*She holds a desire -- singular and consuming. The music fades and the dancers around her blur into the background.*

Show yourself, demon.

Where, oh where. *Slips between men and woman, all stuffy and boring, ignoring looks and passing sentiments.*

*A hushed murmuring.*