“Right, ten sickles if you can guess who i’m dressed as.” Rosencrantz scuffs at the gravel-covered ground with the toe of his boot, an unfamiliar thread of anxiety preventing him from entering the party just yet. It was probably nothing. He just wanted to make a grand entrance, didn’t he? That was probably it.
“And don’t try to tell me we’re not supposed to dress up as things, you’re not wrestling the joy of Second Halloween away from me.” The strange feeling settling in his gut aside, the catapult chaser was quite proud of his attire for the evening, simple though it was–– a simple mask, a black suit, his normally dark curls lightened to a more honeyed shade. . . . . Then again, he did dress up as Benvolio every single year.
