The Masquerade Pit
Location: Abyss / Layer 8—Skindjur / beneath Citadel Excorius
Content warning — this description of an Abyssal party is gruesome. If that’s not for you, please visit another plane.
I collected a story from an old Abyssal friend o’ mine, a cutter who asked to remain nameless, but who chin-wags with all the Abyssal bigwigs. Here’s what they had to say about the only time they received an invite from Volisupula to one of his notorious ballroom parties...
The Masquerade Pit, oh aye, it was a sight to make a basher’s dark heart flutter alright. I’ve seen me share of horrors in the Abyss—who hasn’t?—but this? This was somethin’ else. We’d had to queue for hours to get into the Ball, and the balor on the door was turning away as many guests as got in, even though they’d been invited. When it came to my turn, I did my best to act nonchalant like I didn’t really care or not whether they let me in, like I had other things I would rather be doing. Well strike me down with a vorpal sword, they only went and nodded me in! I barely held in an excited squeak of victory, and scurried past the doorman before they could change their mine and gate in any bouncers.
The ballroom stretched out below Citadel Excorius like the innards of some great beast, all sinew and bone strung tight between glass beams that glowed like embers in a dying fire. The chandeliers, made from flayed spines and ribs, dripped molten gold that hissed when it hit the bloody floor. A mist coiled through the air, alive with a will of its own it were, carryin’ the coppery taste of blood and the acrid stink of burnt flesh. Every surface gleamed sharp, reflections twistin’ and warpin’ into shapes that made me stomach churn—yes, I couldn’t look away, it was so gloriously dreadful.
The music was somethin’ else, too. It weren’t no mortal tune; it was a symphony of screams and strings, deep thrums that rattled me bones and high-pitched wails that scraped at me brainbox. It wrapped around me like a choking embrace—intimate, suffocatin’, impossible to escape. And the dancers! By the Lady’s blades, they were somethin’ else entirely. Each one wore a mask stitched from a flayed face—some smilin’, some screamin’, some still twitchin’. Their bodies were works of art, carved and scarred into patterns that glowed faintly under the light. One succubus spun past me, her ribs strung with sinew strings that twanged as she moved—a bloody harp in motion. Another berk had done away with arms entirely, replaced ’em with bladed tentacles that left trails of shimmerin’ ichor in the air. I couldn’t help but admire ’em; they were grotesque, aye, but that can be beautiful if you’ve got the stomach for it.
I joined the dance before I even realized it—how could I not? The floor called to me with every step, its slick surface reflectin’ what I could be too if I let Skindjur have its way with me: twisted shapes o’ muscle and bone carved into forms monstrous and beautiful. And as we danced the Skindjur Tarantella, I felt it happenin’. As the music became more frenzied with each round, me claws grew longer, sharper; scars bloomed across me arms like flowers in a graveyard; even me voice changed, takin’ on a harsh and booming sound. It didn’t hurt—not exactly—but there was somethin’ unsettling about feelin’ yerself unravel and reform all at once.
When the dance ended—maybe it was hours later, maybe days—and I staggered off the floor, I felt… different. Lighter, maybe. Sharper. But also hollow in a way I couldn’t quite put into words. Me reflection in the blood-slick floor didn’t look like me anymore—not entirely. There was somethin’ new there: somethin’ crueler, somethin’ colder. And yet… I couldn’t say I regretted it. The Masquerade Pit had shown me somethin’ beautiful in its own twisted way—a glimpse of perfection honed by pain and blood. But as I left the cursed place, I couldn’t shake the feelin’ that I’d left somethin’ behind: a piece o’ meself flensed away by that feverish Tarantella. And what scared me most? I wasn’t sure if I wanted it back…
Sources: Jon Winter-Holt. Partly inspired by the Masque of the Red Death and partly by Berghain. Which no, I’ve never got into—but one of my players did once…
