pioneers of the last living heart ☆✮ stylist ball

Sardonyx had begun, finally, passing down that torch to Sampson. 

It was an honor in every right - even if bittersweet. Neither of them seemed quite ready for what it all meant; Sardonyx having to leave behind the prestige she built, and Sampson have to build their own, something all together different from their mother's. She had been hands off ever since it had been officiated, Sampson's first year would be the quell, and what better way to start if not with a bang. 

Something short of gunpowder, Sampson would be responsible for the planning of it all. The theme had been plastered in all of their private circles: Primal Formalities, look your best in your simplest tone. Sampson's was red, bathing in something ruby -- to stand out, sparkling in the way blood welled on knife under the sun. Her child had designed the room, the venue, everything down to the invites.

It would take place after the Verda's haunt, from elite to specialized and Sampson began to feel overwhelmed. No new feeling, they felt their pulse raise with all of these new comings in the new year- from meeting Ridley to designing for Opal and Katelyn, straight down to accepting Bambi's apprenticeship. They'd take that place behind the curtain, waiting for the second hour to begin and for the rest of the stylists to start getting wine drunk; no good party takes place sober and on time. 

That part was simple. 

Their mother, on the other hand, was anything but. Confident and complex, Sardonyx was drunk before the venue had even been completed. Sampson and the Fenwick's assistants beading each corner of every pillar in the room. It dripped in jewels, of gems and stoned and everything valuable -- Sardonyx didn't understand the theme. How uninspired monotone felt, but she wore blue regardless. 

She drank regardless, breaking her truce with Nico Thorne. The night has begun, and if you're not drinking, you don't have a personality, darling. Sardonyx had mingled around before the official announcement, wading through the other twenty three stylists as they slowly made their way. Each one of them wanted to be the entrance of the night, she clutched her necklace and reigned in that need to impress. 

After all, this wasn't her party anymore. 

This was a family event, from the Crowe's down to Janus, and whoever the stylists's each brought along. 

Sampson wondered how they would fit into the mix, grinning confidently as they took the microphone atop the room's catwalk, looking in on the assembly, Sardonyx standing behind them. This was an organization of the deities, bleeding hearts of extravagance- this was "the goddamn primal ball!" They swallowed every bit of that nerve, just as their mother felt the wine stick to her throat. 

"If you all do not know me yet, I am Sampson Crowe, your host for the evening," alone, singularity. Both of them were proud to grin in this moment, "the cat walk will open later tonight for each and every person still sober to strut something come midnight, and I do beg you- drink! We spent good money on that wine!" 

"We're all brought here tonight to the Fifteenth Quinquennial Stylist Ball- ain't that got a nice ring to it?" A word with too many q's and n's and Sampson wasn't bothering to look at their notes too much. Just be alive, relax, enjoy it, they'd convince themself. "But more than that- we're brought here for our talent, our pride, our extravagance, so please,"

"Get cocky!"

And that's what brought the stylists together, Sardonyx knew it best -- the desire to command the room. More is more and they had every single affiliated talent in that room; it would be terrifying if you weren't truly one of them. 

Her child was finding it out that the more they lived, the more they belonged to this room. 

Oh, how she would miss it. 

"If you're a guest, let there be no flash photography, please- half of you look better in the dark, but do post your photos! What's the point of looking this damn good if Ex Oh can't be jealous about it?!" They kicked their leg out, motioning to both themself and their mother.  

Sampson had placed the microphone back onto the stand, rooting themself center stage after trying to take up as much space as possible. They straightened the tails of their jacket, "and if you're not a guest," Sampson's voice trailed deeper, talking to their fellow stylists. 

"You better look damned good."