Basement ; stage
The wolf who was not a wolf had initially fought the compulsion which brought him here. Vague thoughts of anger and frustration swirled around the edges of his mind, but he could not focus on them, could not remember why he'd felt those things, and so he let them go. It was so very easy to give in, to submit to whatever strange pull this place held. The sheer volume of people intoxicated him; sight and sound and smell, so many different layers he could barely contain his excitement. He craved them, what they could give, things he'd never had before.
He craved, tonight. He wanted to be craved. If it was a foreign, even repulsive desire, the wolf did not dwell upon it.
Man, wolf, man, wolf; he could change shape at will. A feral, wild thing, no tame pet, yet he did not prowl the grounds to hunt (yet). Hulking, shaggy black and yellow-eyed when he was a wolf, much the same when he was a man, though with less fur and more human features, though his pointed ears and thick tail remained. He wandered through the ballroom, then down the stairs to the basement below, his hackles rising when he set his sights upon the stage before a shift occurred, something which soothed his raised fur and propelled him forward.
The wolf leapt nimbly onto the stage and took his place between the sacks of flesh wrapped in fine silks and gowns, tongue lolling and tail wagging. Wolf, first, and then a man, bare-chested and dark and still feral, anticipating whatever might come next.