She keeps her little hand on my back, bunched in my thick fur, all the way down the street, up the wide, cobbled drive, and to the door. There's a moment of hesitation at the door proper, but her fingers tighten and then we go in.

Oh, quite the spectacle. Glittering costumes and brilliant colours, the smells of food and wine and sex and opium. I catch the scent of one of my Verdandi's brews...in the punch bowl, perhaps?...and it reeks of sex-musk. And it certainly seems to be having an effect on folks. Even the little ninia notices, "No one's wearing hardly anything, Mr. Doggie. And the whole world's gone red, no other colors shining bright at all." she says, and laughs, "Matches my cape!"

My tail waves. I wonder if anyone recognizes the irony of me being in the form of a dog traditionally used to hunt wolves rather than that of a wolf proper...but no matter. I'm large enough and black enough that it shouldn't be hard to grasp. My body thrums, my mind already prickling with a sensation akin to that of alcohol. Despite the light and the colours and the brilliance, this here is one of the night's truest aspects; the hidden face, the actions never to be spoken of again, the dancing, the sex, the music. Oh, I am so very glad we came.

The ninia tugs my fur, "There is a table. And there is cake on it. I think... I think we should go look and see... The cake."

Cake it is, then. And when she offers me some, I take it from her fingers, gentle as any housepet. I even lick them clean.