multiversallogs | party post ✶ now i'm ready for the last hurrah, dying like a shooting star

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party post ✶ now i'm ready for the last hurrah, dying like a shooting star

Who: EVERYONE.
What: A swanky party.
When: Sukkardi, 8 PM to the wee hours of the morning.
Where: Gibeah, Jack's new house in Syriac Well.
Warnings: None! Please place warnings in your subject lines as needed and I will edit them in.

Jack wasn't kidding about inviting half of Syriac Well. He may in fact have invited all of Syriac well but is only expecting half to show up. Still, it's his first chance to impress the people who will, with any luck, someday become his constituents. That goes for Syriac Well and the new cohort. (He doesn't plan to stop at city councilor, after all.) But, one step at a time. He hasn't even announced his candidacy yet; first, he has to meet the neighbors.

And so the house is done up with no expense spared, although care has been taken not to look too over the top. Syriac Well is upper middle class, and that means appreciating the finer things but perhaps not appreciating snobbery. There are servants, but not too many, and guests in fabulous gowns, but no shortage of cocktail-length dresses either. No one is turned away. The lights are hung, the food is served, and music wafts through the building. It's time for a party.

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Possibly the most impressive part of the house, the main entryway opens up to a grand staircase with inlaid marble floors and ornate paneling along the walls and vaulted ceilings. It makes for quite the picturesque entrance. This is where you'll find your host at the beginning of the evening, and it's a good place to catch anyone else you're expecting to show up.

Later in the evening, curiosity and a creative approach to 'quiet time' takes Ilde back to the foyer - they're smoking, outside, so she can't go there, and although it seems like an odd choice at first, the people who're in the foyer tend to be in the process of moving through it, not lingering indefinitely.

Except Ilde, who ends up sitting high on the stairs where she can watch latecomers and those on their way out again early, making absent-minded note of both because it's habitual, sliding her feet in and out of her shoes.

Quiet is something that never fails to attract the elder Holmes, particularly during social events. It's true that he's attended this one for his own amusement (“amusement”), but there always comes a point when he needs to step back, regardless of how much he might be enjoying himself or how interested he might be in his surroundings.

Although there's no real seating in the foyer, it is—as Ilde discovered before him—one of the only locales indoors that isn't perpetually clogged with people. Mycroft is free to go outside, of course, but truth be told the party is just as lively out there thanks to the pleasant weather and the beautiful location. He's been slowly wandering the mansion for a handful of minutes, in search of a resting place, when he comes across the young cellist as he's descending the stairs.

She's facing the other direction, focusing on the guests below. He can't greet her vocally and isn't one for casual touch (especially when the other party is unaware of him); instead, he just pauses on the opposite end of her step and waits for her to notice him. It shouldn't be long.

It isn't; she catches him in her periphery, first, in the awareness of another person nearer than they'd been before, and after a moment or two she looks up over her hand curled around her shoulder, not quite smiling. Her manner is both friendly and slightly removed, like she's still coming forward through her own smile and hasn't quite caught up with herself, and the slight rise of tension that came with the realization of company recedes a little (not entirely; rarely, if ever, entirely) now she knows who it is.

“I didn't know you were here,” she says, and she sounds pleased to be finding out. “Hello.”

Mycroft sees her tension (and its recession), her slightly submerged recognition; it carries echoes of that ever-strange familiarity that lingers around Ilde like a nostalgic perfume. She should be in sepia, he thinks. She should be a lullaby. She should be an alma mater. She should be written in Latin.

He shoos the thoughts away, unwanted birds on a wire, before greeting her back with a quiet good humor that shows in his eyes. “I've been told I can be elusive. Good evening, Miss Decima.”

Edited 2012-06-29 07:47 (UTC)

“Ivan and I were looking to see who came,” she says, sitting a little straighter, letting her hand fall down to her lap so she can fold it over her knees with the other one; she's slipped one foot out of her high heel, resting her toes on it, painted a pearl color that looks as if it's swirling, still liquid. Little things. “I thought it might be interesting.”

It hasn't been uninteresting.

“It seems we've attended with similar goals, then,” Mycroft replies, resting his side against the railing's bannister and the tip of his umbrella on the stair.

At a glance, it seems Ilde hasn't been up to much: a couple games of pool, nothing else noteworthy. It's the lack of activity that's meaningful. She's still not drinking and she hasn't been outside. At this distance he can't be completely certain, but the trace of men's cologne (Ivan's) that has followed Ilde lately seems to remain present. Her nail polish is behaving itself, though.

One could leap to conclusions, but that would be foolish.

“Curiosity.” Her laugh is watery as ever, that unusual sound that one becomes accustomed to; she presses her hand to her sternum, briefly, like she's reminding herself where the sound comes from. “Have you seen anyone interesting?” A beat. “Besides me.”

Which is a little more on-point playful. Yes; good.

That earns a subdued smile. It's good to hear a joke out of her. He does worry. (Lately he's begun to wonder if he might crave this kind of worry, the filial kind—an uncomfortable comfort zone.)

“There are a few noteworthy individuals present, yes,” he says. “Unfortunately, they're of interest primarily for business reasons, which I realize can be the most tedious kind of interest. Perhaps you've run into someone more worthy of our conversation?”

The long table that usually occupies the center of this room has been pushed to one side and made into a buffet, with chairs and small tables around the periphery of the room and the center open for mingling. The food is an even split between simple-but-classy and patently ridiculous, and a few of the dishes are labeled for particular xenian palates. Although not everything served is strictly kosher, all of the meat comes from Butcherie, and there is nothing made from blood, synthetic or otherwise. (Sorry, cruorvores.)

Although not big enough to be a proper ballroom, the larger of the lower level sitting rooms has been cleared out to create enough room for a small ensemble and a little dance floor. The music is instrumental, but the style varies from your usual sedate background music earlier in the evening to more lively swing, jazz, and whatever more danceable music the group feels like playing (or the guests feel like hearing) as the evening goes on. Get your groove on in here, folks.

Hasibe is a gown person, and she prefers them room-stopping, thus the red, strapless number she's turned up in. She's eminently sociable, as always, and makes a point of dancing with whomever asks, but right now she is primarily looking for their charming host.

It here that Jaime chooses to land for a time, and listen to the band playing and watch people dance. He has never appreciated, much, the finer things in life - music and dancing are well and good, but he'd attended such things either as a guard or a visiting nobleman who preferred to shark around and bother the people he didn't like. Here, he has no enemies, nor friends that extend far past the host himself, who is predictably busy swanning around.

He also, for this rare occasion, fits in with the decor. Hasibe was not someone he expected to arrive as his residence, but he went along with it and thus wears a formal, nicely fitted suit of sharkish grey, a splash of colour in his tie, the shirt beneath jacket and waistcoat crisply white.

For now, he is content to lean, and nurse a glass of the darkest red he could find.

The rooms up here are smaller, offering a break from the chaos downstairs. But that doesn't mean there's less to do: a home theater, a billiards room, and a lounge with an excellent stereo and a minibar are amongst the available options.

Two guest rooms are also open on the second level if you would like some actual privacy. The third is a bit of a climb into the attic, but hey if you're feeling that adventurous...

Ivan does enough gambling in Baedal that the sight of him with a pool cue in hand is not unusual for some - especially Mafaton residents. But he isn't working tonight. He's here mainly as Ilde's date, but that doesn't mean he won't keep his eyes open for himself. Large gatherings of the cohort sometimes yield interesting results.

One of those who'd opted for a cocktail dress in lieu of a gown, Ilde is more decorative than useful in the billiards room; she can play, she's just not nearly as good at it as certain cardsharps who will remain nameless (Ivan), and she's taking a lazy approach to losing to him. It's quieter up here than it was downstairs, and as much as she likes to socialize...she also likes not being surrounded by crowds of people bumping into everything.

"I'd say it's a nice party," he observes, laconically, "but it's mainly because there's enough space for us to spread out and not see anyone else so far. Do you know our host? I don't think I ever asked."

“I've spoken to him once or twice? Hasi knows him.” Ilde knows enough about him to be slightly wary - there's nothing concrete, there, he's just been connected to some interesting things, politically - but she trusts Hasi's judgement and he doesn't seem like an awful person... and Ilde just likes an opportunity to put on a pretty dress and breeze around a party, now and then.

"It seems like she knows half the cohort," he observes, amused and mildly admiring as he takes a corner shot. "I haven't seen her yet tonight, though."

“I'm sure she'll be here,” she says, complacently, leaning against the edge of the table, swinging her pool cue out beside her. “I'm sort of interested to see who does come.”

"This sort of thing always does bring people out of the woodwork," he says, thoughtfully. "It's interesting to see who is still around."

“And who shows up new,” she adds to the end of that, casually speculative.

There is a full bar down here, which is currently staffed, and one of the tables has been set up for poker. Because why not, really.

Nobody fall in the wine well.

Here sits Jim Kirk, playing a friendly game of poker. He's enjoying himself, probably for the first time since Bones left the city--the tumbler of whiskey at his elbow is probably helping that along nicely. He sits, considering his cards.

There's room for more in the game, if anyone's interested.

Since the weather is warm enough for it, there are a few tables set up outside for sitting and taking in the night air. Or grabbing a cigarette, as you do.

Most people probably wait until the party's been going for a while before they sneak outside for a cigarette. It's been a long day, though, so Kalinda's getting that out of the way first.

Actually, what she's doing is looking for someone who can give her a cigarette, because she isn't carrying her own. Asking for a smoke and a light is a convenient way to start up a conversation with someone who may not otherwise be as inclined to approach, or be approached. Sharing cigarettes gives a commonality off the bat.

So, really, it's a trick. Even if she doesn't find someone who pings on her radar enough to decide to talk to them, she's got a glass of champagne in hand, and that's a good start to any party.

Don's dressed for an occasion, though not a party. In his suit, with cufflinks studding his wrists and a gleam on his shoes, he has the direct elegance of a beam of light. There's no room for excess.

One hand's slipped into his breast pocket as he strolls outside. His steps break off, clean, then resume. His approach is steady: he's walking right again.

He stops beside her to offer the pack. Takes a cigarette for himself. The flame from his lighter strains for the tip of her cigarette, chews into it.

"Did I keep you waiting?" he asks, looking out over the lawn and easing into a smile.

After spending quite a bit of time making sure things were running smoothly, that Jack didn't need anything more, and meeting people, Rachel needs a break. She needs some quiet and some fresh air.

She steps out onto the terrace, reaching down and grasping a bit of her dark gray silk dress in the fingertips of her left hand. She pulls a little, to raise her hem just enough to clear the ground as she walks down the steps and then onto the grass. A glass of wine dangles from her other hand, and she's momentarily distracted by the sky above as she heads for an empty table. There aren't as many bright lights out here as there are in her neighborhood; the stars are a little more visible.

She settles at the table, a second seat free for company she certainly wouldn't refuse.

Any other room in the house is fair game. Except of course Jack's room, which has an actual guard at the door.

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party post ✶ now i'm ready for the last hurrah, dying like a shooting star

FOYER

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DINING ROOM

BALLROOM

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UPSTAIRS

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CELLAR

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BACK YARD

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MISC.