St. Peter In Chains: The Collection. [OPEN!]

[meanwhileback]

Who: Penelope Lane, her models, her muses, her admirers, the curious and the critics. ANYONE. EVERYONE. GET IN HERE!!
What: Penelope's long-awaited runway show! Finally!
Where: St. Peter In Chains, abandoned cathedralish church.
When: Friday, June 29th! Eveningtime. Show starts at 7pm and goes... well. Until everyone isn't there anymore, I guess!! For whatever reason.
Notes: IMPORTANT: There's going to be a bunch of subthreads for different parts of the night. Feel free to tag around in them as you want! I'd like fabulous things to happen here, people. Fabulous. Things.
EDIT: NOW WITH ADDED TERROR!! SEE LINK BELOW!!
Warnings: Scary things, NPC death, injuries... horrors!!

The venue has been done up quite well for the occasion, all things considered. The old pews that were still salvageable have been repurposed and rearranged to face the aisle down the center of the enormous main room, where a raised runway has been set up. Lighting and temporary walls, and even an audio system have been brought in and installed for the occasion, and the impressive wreathed columns have been dramatically lit from below to emphasize the height of the room.

All told, it looks like it cost absolute scads of money to renovate an abandoned space to this level of elegance; whether this is actually true or not is largely immaterial. As with so much of society, it's the appearance of the thing that matters most, not the reality of it. Perhaps that's a statement Penelope Lane is making intentionally. Everyone knows the designer is one of the most outspoken members of her cohort, after all, and not one to misrepresent herself.

And she is, tonight, for one, brief, shining moment, entirely in control. Take plenty of pictures; it won't last long.

AND NOW: THE REAL SHOW BEGINS

Comments

Pre-Show

[meanwhileback]

The doors open an hour before the show, and almost immediately the seats begin to fill with journalists, critics, and the cultured multitude of Baedal, come to see exactly what's on offer. A low murmur permeates the vast, echoing space as the anticipatory crowd chatters among themselves. The front row is, as always, reserved for an exclusive few, selected by Ms. Lane herself. Wouldn't you like to be one of the few?

[rhinemaid]

As one of the aforementioned few, Ilde finds her seat in the front in a timely enough fashion - which is impressive, given that she'd changed outfits a half dozen times before settling on a lace and silk dress that had been on a short-list she and Penelope had gone over a while in advance. She's been anticipating the show since it was announced, confident in her friend's work and interested in seeing it on the runway like this; between that and the fact she knows a few of the models, she's sort of enjoying how close she feels to something that interests her so much.

Too little for modeling herself and more interested in wearing clothes than designing them, it is exactly where she'd like to be, and she's taking the opportunity before the show to see who else is here and interested.

[yeouiju]

So apparently there's this fashion show, and people are in it or attending it that Sunny knows. He and Jae arrive together, Sunny continuing to shadow him even as the crowd mingles before the show, which has nothing to do with shyness.

For those that know Sunny well, they'll recognise him better in hoodies and jeans and cool T-shirts, sometimes nicer jackets, better shoes ever since he's been able to accumulate money. But this is Culture, with a capital C, one revolving around fashion, and he somehow fits in. Jae is to thank, probably, but Sunny is perfectly comfortable in the nice black shirt that clings to his narrow torso, simple in comparison to black pants made gold at the front with metallic studding from waist to ankle. Silver hangs from his neck and wrists, a simple silver claw through the piercing in his ear. He has on sunglasses because he's always remembered people wearing them at runway shows, but they'll wind up with the purpose of giving him something to fidget with before long.

If only he could stop smiling like a dork at people he knows or even just makes eye contact with, he could trick people into thinking he belongs here remotely.

[boomvox]

If Sunny fidgets with his sunglasses that's fine, it's better than him picking apart any of the jewelry (or his pants) that Jae's wrangled him into. When it comes to his partner (!), he doesn't particularly care about rising to imaginary designer standards, but he'd like to show some respect and enthusiasm for Penelope. His own attire is formal and fashionable but not in the attention-grabbing way his work clothes are - tonight is not about his clothes.

Inwardly excited and outwardly cool, Jae eventually nicks Sunny's hand - ostensibly to prevent him from lurking behind him so much, and come socialize like a normal utterly charming dork versus looming.

[hehaseatenthepancake]

Hellboy generally isn't much for fashion, being as huge as he is and a little too rough on his clothing to go for anything especially high-class. Still, he knows a few of the models, not least of whom is one of his bosses, so why not show a little solidarity. As a formal occasion involving someone from Hellsing, broken out the formal black-and-reds and made sure Excalibur and its scabbard and baldric are all clean and polished. The rest of his gear doesn't really fit in with the event, and so stays home, with the exception of his Colt pistol concealed under his jacket in a shoulder holster.

If his demonic appearance suggests he should be uncomfortable in a cathedral, even an abandoned one, he certainly doesn't show it as he stubs out his cigarette, buys his ticket, and makes his way inside. Indeed, having been in as many churches as he has over the years, he takes a moment to appraise the place and how it might've looked in its heyday. Given his size and an interest in keeping an eye on the venue just in case, he scopes out a seat near the back before venturing forth to mingle. Any other agents in attendance (and also Logan, although he's probably backstage with the Princess at the moment) get a nod; being ready to act if any trouble happens should probably go without saying beyond that.

The Vestry

[meanwhileback]

Staff, assistants, crew and models alike all run back and forth in a dizzying pre-show panic "backstage". Hairstylists and makeup artists hover around the heads of all the models spraying things and applying things and tutting and yelling for assistants. Tailoring assistants make last-minute alterations to the garments even as the models are squeezing into them; one girl is having a mild argument with a xenian assistant over a pair of shoes that were either too large for the model, or not for that model at all. In all the madness, Penelope Lane strolls through the crowd like a stern ruler surveying her kingdom, and the subjects behave as they should and part like the Red Sea as she comes past. Occasionally she barks an order, and someone runs off to make it happen.

She is sharp as a needle and five hundred percent focused, drinking the strongest coffee you can get in Baedal, because christ knows she's not going to smoke around all that couture. It's nearly time.

[cailisairgid]

The princess is an oasis of slightly unexpected serenity in the midst of it; she'd taken a very deep breath when Penelope had first shown her the dress, and decided that if it is for art (among other, more practical benefits to her participation) then she can certainly manage. The dress itself is a pretty thing, even if it's smaller than most of her nightgowns, a deconstructed mini in shredded chiffon; the shoes had taken her longer, high enough that she'd bought a similar pair of her own and taken to wearing them to work to grow accustomed.

(Watching some of her underlings struggling not to openly notice had been privately worth it, even if she'll never say so.)

So she's perfectly calm, and not at all self-conscious, and ... unintentionally exuding a small aura of similar serenity through the combination of bloodymindedness and psychic ability. Stand next to her for a few minutes, it'll help.

[gramarye]

Wolfgang is fine in a room surrounded by people, half-naked, being poked with needles and scrutinized in minute detail. (Apparently his feet are "a problem".) He is fine being photographed, although he always feels a little awkward, not sure what to do with his giant stork person body. He was even fine when he showed up for hair and makeup, sleepy and yawning.

Then he made the mistake of peeking outside.

Now he's in the middle of a panic attack, his knees up to his chest and trying to breathe through his hands over his face, and then just trying to breathe at all. He's freaking out and shaking and ruining his makeup, with one of the makeup artists hovering over him and trying to get him to stop, but awkwardly, not sure what to do.

For some reason it never occurred to him that people would come to watch.

[lupa]

GG's not nervous about the clothes, about walking. It reminds her, in a way, of staring someone down, of parading your strength, something which seems to fit with the theme of Penelope's show and the way GG lives her life. And she likes the clothes. She even feels curiously privileged to be here; the sense that she doesn't belong only makes that better. She enjoys feeling like a trespasser sometimes. It's like throwing up her middle fingers to those pervasive questions of identity which keep haunting her; maybe if you feel like you don't quite fit anywhere you eventually come to the conclusion that nowhere is really yours- but nowhere's really not.

It's the world which surrounds the clothes which bewilders and thus unnerves her, painted as it is in acrylic shades of perfume, hairspray droplets fanning through the air in acid clouds of scent, the smell of nervous sweat poorly covered by a variety of different deodorants, humans, xenians, strangers.

It's a show of strength, she reminds herself, and she bristles, tossing her shoulders back and lifting her chin, spreading out in her chair with every muscle tensed as her hair is combed up and pinned into a fauxhawk (something which she was originally fairly sure wasn't possible).

She snaps once, just once, when she finally gets her hands on a cup of coffee and raises it to her lips before it's literally snatched from her hand with cries of not your lipstick. Suddenly her teeth are bared and a growl's rippling from her throat, and then her hands are flying in Italian gestures as she demands in French, "Are you fucking serious?"

The outburst lasts for a split second, and then she's reining herself in, taking a deep breath and wordlessly holding up her hands; sorry, sorry, I'm fine, just stressed. She goes back to being stony-calm and hardened on the outside, goes back to focusing on her physical presence, on making herself bigger. On controlling herself. She cannot will not must not let herself slip.

The moon is waxing, she can feel it in her chest, under her fingernails. Penelope would probably call it a good thing; she looks less human in a way that's hard to define, looks somehow like this skin is too small for her. She makes the hair on the backs of human necks stand up like this. She takes a deep breath; right. Strength. It's not a bad thing that the moon is waxing. She can use this, this thing that makes normal peo- this thing that makes humans recoil from her and stare at her simultaneously. And she can use it not to assert dominance over other animals or move in xenian circles but to survive in this human world full of its bright and artificial smells, can stride into their sacred places and make them nervous and get paid for it.

It's a thought she keeps in mind, and she doesn't snap again.

The Runway

[meanwhileback]

At seven o'clock, the lights in the cathedral dim, and the crowd quiets. At least until Penelope Lane, the woman of the hour, strolls out from behind a section of curtain set up at the sanctuary, where the church's service was once conducted, and where tonight the models would soon emerge from.

The place, for a moment, goes wild. The designer holds up her hand, and they gradually quiet.

“Thank you, Baedal, and welcome to my first show in the city.” There's another cheer, and Penelope allows a small, slightly triumphant smirk as she nods acknowledgement. “Yeah, exciting, I know. So this is my new collection, which I'm really proud of, and I hope you'll like it as much as I do.

“This collection, for me, represents strength. I don't just mean physically, although I guess there's an element of that too, but I mean more of a concept; Inner Strength. The strength it takes to live in a city like this is... yeah, not insignificant. So I wanted to create a collection for the people who have to kick ass and take names on a daily basis just to survive. Sometimes when you see it it's totally obvious, and sometimes it's more quiet, more personal. But no matter how different everyone in this city is, it's the one thing that we all have in common; the strength to be Baedalites. So this is from me to you. Thank you so much. Enjoy.”

Applause. Ms. Lane leaves the stage. Music with a thick bass beat begins to strum through the air. The lights shift to point solely at the stage.

And the show begins.

The Afterparty

[meanwhileback]

Tickets are taken for the post-show reception at the entrance to the Crypt beneath St. Peter In Chains.

The crypt itself has been decorated even more impressively than the runway itself-- Penelope felt the cathedral had enough “character” as it was, but the crypt was just an old abandoned crypt, and that wouldn't do at all. Polished floors, beautiful lighting, sumptuously elegant furnishings and floor-to-ceiling prints from the brand-new Penelope Lane print campaign give it almost a penthouse feel, despite the chill in the air betraying the truth of it being underground.

There is a fully stocked bar with more than one bartender on duty, a lavishly stocked table heaped with nibbles of just about every kind you can get in Baedal without poisoning half the guests, and staff dressed in stark black-and-white uniforms ready to cater to the event's guests' every need. (Well, not every need. There are some things that just aren't in their contracts, so don't try. Vampire populace, I'm looking at you.)

[meanwhileback]

After ten minutes, the woman of the hour arrives (in an appropriately Penelope-like gown, naturally), looking more exhausted than exhilerated, but dutifully begins the real task of the evening-- making nice with the city's biggest and best, and being The Most Professional Penelope She Can Be. Which, given what her personality is usually like, requires a hell of a lot of effort. But we all wear masks, especially Penelope, and the importance of this night going down without a hitch is not lost on her.

She'll just have to grin and bear it, and make the city hers.

[rhinemaid]

At the afterparty, Ilde can be found moving through the crowd with a virgin cocktail - apricot gingerini, a recently acquired preference - looking for people she knows and people she'd like to know this evening. Socializing is easier when it feels like there's a purpose to it and what better purpose than a friend's advancement? Everybody wins.

[cailisairgid]

Once she's off-stage and her obligations there are complete, the first thing Nuala does is step into the gown she'd set aside for the post-show; there's a good deal more fabric involved in her gown than anything she'd worn earlier for Penelope, and it is a slight relief as she's fastened into something a little more her own style.

By the time she's in the crypt with Logan at her elbow, she has a polite smile in place and she's ready to enthuse to anyone who'd care to hear her opinion about Penelope Lane's style and inclusive philosophies.

[gramarye]

Black is not Wolfgang's colour — he thinks it washes him out, and feels like an impostor in Penelope's clothes — so he shows up to the afterparty dressed in head to toe gold. Four and a half inch heels make him closer to seven feet tall than he isn't, but no one's said anything stupid about it yet, so.

Having managed not to trip over his own giant stupid feet or burst into tears in the middle of the runway, he thinks he did pretty well.

He makes the rounds, says hello to a lot of people he knows — and a lot of people he doesn't but who would like to know him — and kisses on the cheek more people in one night than he usually does all year. He really is making an effort. But he's shy; most of the time he can be found pressed against a wall, trying to ply his own self with liquor to be able to not feel awkward and stupid for longer than thirty seconds at a time.

[greydawn]

Coming here was not actually Nuray's idea so much as the fellow she's been seen around town with over the past few weeks, but neither is she objecting — she had, in fact, rather been looking forward to it, and it certainly hadn't disappointed.

She's dressed more or less how she always is, maybe a little more done-up than usual; she can't actually get away with wearing fur every day, that's part of why she was looking forward to this. Her hair's done up in victory rolls, eyes lengthened with cateye liner, and her nails are matte black.

After extracting herself from her gentleman's side, she sidles around the room, casually inserting herself into conversations she thinks are interesting. She's fairly good at this mingling thing.

[controlledvariable]

The dress she'd changed into at the end of the show isn't quite her usual style, but she figured she might as well go all out and enjoy herself. She still likes it, quite a lot, but there's always a practical part of her mind that points out how difficult it would be to fight in all that lace. She's hoping there won't be any need for that tonight, though. It's also part of the reason she even bothered sticking around for the after party. Originally, her and Babs had planned to do this part together, and Steph had even managed to drag her dress shopping. With Babs gone, Steph had been reluctant, but eventually between not wanting the dress to go to waste and a sense that it'd be rude to leave straight away, she decided to stay.

When she gets down to the crypt, her first stop is to the bar, ordering a glass of champagne in her own personal little celebration for making it through the show without doing anything horribly embarrassing. Then she's content to mingle, searching the crowd for people who are familiar, or who might be interesting to talk to.

[caoineadh]

Getting dressed up isn't really Clio's thing. She's always preferred rougher looks, softened with some floral print or bright colors, and she's never been able to quite master turning that into the sort of outfit appropriate for, say, an after party for a fashion show. Still, she makes an effort.

She'd enjoyed the show, not just because one of her friend's was up on the runway, and is looking forward to seeing what other people thought of the whole thing. When it's over, she considers going straight to find GG, but decides it might be nice to give her a bit of space after all that, and heads down to the crypt instead.

[andyoullmissit]

Clarice considered not going to the afterparty at all; she doesn't really know much of anyone who hasn't been on at least one foghunting trip, and she's bad at small talk. But she figures Penelope would like her to at least show her face for a bit. Most of what she's wearing is borrowed or rented except her boots; there aren't a lot of fancy parties in Clarice's life, here or before.

She feels, now, strangely more exposed, but it's the designer's show. She was just an easel. The show went well, after all. This is supposed to be the easy part.

[hehaseatenthepancake]

Given the lavishness of the venue and the glamor of the event just concluded upstairs, the natural inclination would be to grab up a glass of champagne, and Hellboy nearly does before stopping himself and getting a soda instead. He wishes he'd thought to step out for a smoke before coming back not only indoors but underground, but it's too late now, so he loads up a plate of munchies to snack on as he wanders into the crowd.

The Afterparty: At Midnight

[meanwhileback]

The party is a success. Everyone, even the people with clear agendas for being there, are enjoying themselves immensely. The models are charming, the higher-ups are congratulatory, and Penelope Lane is practically glowing with a sense of smug accomplishment.

And then, at precisely Midnight, the lights go out. There's some awkward silence, a chuckle or two, and murmuring to the effect of 'someone get the lights back on, please?'. When it doesn't happen within a handful of minutes, the tension seems at the breaking point--

But the light comes on again, and things are back to normal.

Except they aren't.

The air in the cathedral is ice-cold, so cold that everyone still in attendance can see their breath. A moment of adjustment to the light later, and it's clear that some people who were in the crypt moments ago are no longer where they used to be. Some attendees will find themselves in entirely different parts of the Cathedral itself, some familiar, some totally unfamiliar. Some which seem like a dream. All of which are freezing, teeth-clattering, goosebump-raising, shiver-down-the-back-of-the-spine cold.

The message is clear. This place does not belong to you. Any of you. And you should probably leave, or else.

The Crypt

[meanwhileback]

For those still inside the crypt, aside from the sudden temperature shift, there appears to be shifting of another kind taking place in the swanky room.

Slow at first, small things, doors opening and closing, furniture scooting away from those about to lean on it, drawers slamming shut immediately after being pulled out. The general attitude is bewilderment, followed by consternation and mild fear.

The terror sets in when (due to heavy objects and sharp cutlery being thrown through the air, plates shattering against walls, furniture lifted into midair and shredded violently) people start getting hurt. Seriously hurt.

The Vestry

[meanwhileback]

For those suddenly finding themselves in the makeshift dressing room-and-backstage area, the same awful cold permeates the space. Most of the lights are out (and can't be turned back on), and the room, now dimly lit, plays tricks on the mind with all the drycleaning-type suit bags hanging around, looking like people.

Or maybe it's not. Maybe there is someone there. Lurking in the dark. Watching.

Or maybe it's not someone at all. Surely not even in Baedal are there anything that could be termed "people" that look the way this... creature does. Eight feet tall or taller, it has the shape of a human torso, its four limbs grotesquely elongated, scuttling on all fours. It has no skin to speak of; instead, it's coated in a sticky substance of a liquid-smooth, inky blackness. It has no eyes. No head.

But it's watching you.

The Runway

[meanwhileback]

Those that find themselves back in the main chamber of the Cathedral after midnight will discover a room transformed. No more is it full of modern conveniences like lighting and music; the runway and stage themselves are gone entirely. The pews are once again arranged facing toward the podium, where once was preached the Word of God. Presumably.

The only light in the room trickles in through the great stained-glass windows high up on the walls, forming pools of blue light on the floor and broken, dusty furniture in the room nearly as cold as the atmosphere. It's silent, except for one thing.

Softly, floating in the air so tenuously that you have to strain to hear it, but unmistakeably there, is the sound of a woman, gently, quietly, weeping. She can be found hiding in a pew, her face in her hands. She is alone in the room. Maybe someone should try to comfort her in her pain.

Or maybe she should be left alone. Maybe she's alone for a reason.

The Tower Rooms

[meanwhileback]

This is not a place that partygoers ought to be familiar with. Mostly because these rooms, high up in the cathedral's decrepit, condemned towers, were not in the least bit safe for human (or Xenian) habitation. The floorboards are rotting away, there are great holes in the roof, and bats and rats and insects, vermin of all kinds, have taken roost there.

You'd think, with all the holes in the structure, it wouldn't be so unbearably cold.

But those that find themselves here are at the very top of the Tower; the only way down is one rickety, extremely unsafe stairway, broken and collapsed away in parts. And they are not alone.

A flicker of a lady in grey out of the corner of your eye, descending the stair. No one else saw her. Was she really there? A figment of your own, hyperactive imagination? A chemical overload of the brain? Maybe. But everyone agrees they can hear, amidst the flap of bat wings from above, very faintly:

Laughter.