It’s Tuesday night and the Monsters' Ball has begun at Kroovy. The lighting is low with a slight red tint to it, the stage has a smattering of instruments, and four mortals all in tuxedos. The band is versed in a multitude of songs. Anything you'd like them to play, they will. Only a select portion of the club’s wait staff is on hand, including the seemingly ever-present bartender, Floyd; blood from the wrist as well as from the glass is offered, . Various ghouls mill about, no doubt preparing the way for their masters and a few local luminaries are already present. The club seems so much larger without the pulsing, gyrating throng which usually packs the dance floor wall to wall.
Seating is copious with the exception of one booth, which is surrounded by a velvet rope. There, the table is adorned with a single, red, long stemmed rose. The booth is reserved for the Toreador and only the socially suicidal should sit there if they are not invited by the Clan of the Rose.
There's a new table, off in the corner. A comfortable booth, an indigo starlight velvet tablecloth covers it. On the wall above the booth hangs a theater tragedy mask. A single chair on the outside for those that want to visit the clan's table.
An Elysium for the hip and stylish
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