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[baedalites]

Who: EVERYONE.
What: Swap meet.
Where: The Apache and surrounding environs.
When: Sukkardi the 14th of Haneden
Notes:

• Swap Meet Spreadsheet: Pre-chosen swaps are green. Assigned are blue. There were a few characters that were selected more than once, so objects were assigned on a first-come first-serve basis. If you have any issues or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact the mod team.
• For objects that might not be immediately apparent as belonging to their owners, there may be a picture or name attached, or players are welcome to have their characters ~just know~ it's for them. Drr drr drr, bb.
• Party post nights are a great time to come join the chatroom.
• The topic threads are just suggestions; if you've got somewhere else that your characters simply must be, make your own thread.

Warnings: None yet. Please put warnings up on individual threads.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap.

Comments

[fuckin_thirsty]

He doesn't approach her because of what she's carrying; Ilde is just a handy port of call in the sea of people that Deacon recognises from the network but does not especially care for. His shoulder tends to knock people out of the way if they brush too closely, which happens; pale and toothy and black-clad though he may be, he is not the most physical presence in the room, and tends to cut his own path when one does not present itself.

Deacon isn't interested in patiently introducing alcohol to his system, tonight, and he's already had his cigarette, the smell of smoke and cologne clinging to him as he approaches, hands empty.

"Kind of wish they'd schedule these things during daylight. I'd rather cry discrimination than actually show up, you know?"

[rhinemaid]

Ilde considers him for a moment, faintly amused, and then - shifting on the sofa so he can join her without sitting down on her dress if he so desires - declares, placidly, “Rachel promised to get her tits out if I came.”

--that is a generous interpretation of that conversation, young lady.

[fuckin_thirsty]

"I need to brush up on my negotiation skills."

Clearly.

Deacon does take a seat, after a glance around, hooking an ankle up onto his knee. "Did she make good?" he asks, in absent interest, glancing to her and then the item she's carrying around with her. Recognition doesn't actually immediately hit, or anything, because he wasn't expecting much in the way of getting things.

[rhinemaid]

“I haven't seen her yet,” she admits, curving slightly into the corner of the sofa so she can at least partially sit facing him. (Side-by-side is always a bit of a pain in the ass for conversation, but as long as she can make 'lounging on a sofa' look something like ladylike, she's fine.) “I haven't managed to off-load this, either, so I guess I'm here for a bit longer.”

It is definitely not hers.

[fuckin_thirsty]

He's about to say 'just leave it somewhere' or similar-- truly, the only reason he is here at all for any length of time is that he's curious about who cares to know about the history of vampires-- but pauses. Then-- "Fuck." Deacon curses like it's punctuation, and so there is nothing particularly angry or surprised in the single syllable; it's an expression of realisation, tinged amused.

"May I?" His hands go out to take the disc album from her.

[rhinemaid]

She proffers it forward, intrigued if only because-- really, how could she not find that sort of entertaining, she was essentially designed to find vampires completely hilarious in most contexts. “Go ahead.” After a beat, conversationally, “Ivan's arrival object was a Kate Bush album. The Kick Inside, I think.”

Just saying.

[fuckin_thirsty]

The raise of an eyebrow is meant to indicate that that is completely different and way more hilarious than Deacon's personal collection of 90s electronica, and he unzips it to confirm. Everything is familiar, from the varying patterned discs in their plastic sleeves to their order, flicking through as one might let the pages of a book flying by against the edge of their thumb.

"I don't know what I expected." He doesn't sound unhappy.

[rhinemaid]

You'd better not be insinuating anything about Kate Bush, Deacon, because Ilde is pretty sure that's a quick way to realizing her fantasy of Deacon and Ivan wrestling on the floor.

--not that that's a bad thing, come to think of it. Hm.

“I don't think I've heard half of these,” she notes, peering over at it in his hands without a hint of shame.

[fuckin_thirsty]

"If I keep seeing you around Gutters from here on out, you'll hear half of 'em eventually," is confirmation that Deacon did not totally get punked by the gods this swap meet. And that his club is getting a slight makeover, music-wise, at least for as long as it takes for him to get bored. "Don't tell me the nineties was that before your time."

He's had this conversation with Hamilton, a little. It's weird to think that he's a decade out of step with most of those that come from contemporary Earth.

[rhinemaid]

“Six year olds don't get to choose their own music,” she says, dryly, “and everything I was listening to was French, anyway.” For about half of the nineties, her stepfather was still picking out her clothes every morning and wishing he could put her on a leash when they were out walking in the city, enjoy that.

[fuckin_thirsty]

He makes a non-committal sound at that, as if caught up refamiliarising himself with the titles the gods saw fit to hand back to him, as opposed to anything very useful or valuable. From the anti-vampire serum through to Karen's mythical cure, or even the stuff Blade got hooked on. No, music, some possibly unique to his own world.

Deacon hasn't decided how he felt about the fact that the collective contemporary world has apparently kept rolling on without him. He's dead. Deader than most vampires.

He zips the case up again, and sets about ferreting out a cigarette and lighter instead.