The Mask Of Perfection

Each hunter narrates the last time they danced. What was perfect in those moments?

It has been a few days since Hargrave House infiltrated Sally's grand exhibit and removed her piece from the board.

There is none of the chaos here - the House's ballroom is empty, blessedly silent. The familiar but heavy smell of blood does not linger in the air, nor does the chemical stench of formaldehyde - only dead flowers and dust in the dark. He doesn't bother with the lights as he takes his preferred folding knife from his vest pocket and flips the blade open. He is always the offering and his blood is always the catalyst - even if the rite is simple, it remains the truth.

He speaks a name as he pulls the blade across the heartline of his palm and lifts it to the empty air. The hand that takes his is barely solid enough to clasp, and the other that settles high on his ribs is the same - cold and insubstantial. But it is more human than most other entities, even if it is difficult to see it here - just a smudge of a deeper black against the already lightless room.

"Hello again, my dear," Jonah murmurs to the dark, putting his own free hand on the entity's shoulder. His hand sinks into it, but he keeps his touch light as it moves to lead - dancing to something only it can hear.

It's easy to lose himself in the muscle memory of a familiar dance, eyes closed to the dark. It is perfect just for the simple peace it provides - something familiar to guard against the horrors that both the past and the future hold.