An envelope is carried to the digits of each silhouette by a creature dove-like: it smells of the flesh of a peach and leaves a sheen of gold to that which it comes in contact with, ivory parchment marred by an inky scrawl:
When darkness falls, descend to the Hall of Spring for an evening of long-deserved debauchery and merriment. All are invited, and all are to attend in nothing short of your finest.
A stretch of stairs coiled in flowers found native to the elevation of the High Court descend to a hall constructed of more pillars than walls, welcoming a tepid breeze pleasant to all, allowing the beams of the moon and it's stars to attend just the same. Manoeuvring through the collection of bodies are those with trays pressed to their palms, each adorning a differing liquor in slender flutes or broad chalices. The results of such and twinning vices indulged by the mouthful are evident: laughter and honeyed lilts are only interrupted by a melody played by a prodigy child sat perched to the birth of a piano; lithe silhouettes press close, little left between them as they twist to the tune; a mundane tips back wine until they're nearly choking, a trio of Fae stand nearby with grins twisted wolfish.
It's a night to signify union, to rebuild alliances new and old, though have they truly forgotten the taste of death to their mouths so soon?
Perhaps, with the High Court's residents collected to the expanse of a single room, it is the opportune night for something far more sinister.