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

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

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

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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.

As popular as Wolfgang is proving to be when he's mingling, Ilde waits obligingly for him to retreat before she joins him by the wall, taking the opportunity to set her own glass down beside herself and get a little practise in for the both of them--

Hello, you. You did beautifully.

And she likes his jacket.

He blushes instantly and ducks his head, not quite able to hide his smile (toothy, crooked teeth giving him the appearance of having small fangs) behind his cocktail glass, which he has to set down anyway to use his hands.

Thank you. He gets better at this every time; the frequent practise helps, in addition to motivating him to keep studying. His vocabulary improves all the time. Well, major disasters avoided, anyway.

I really liked the show. But that's not a surprise. She's wearing something Penelope made for her to it, and Penelope's couture makes up a fairly significant part of her wardrobe - there's a reason she was sitting in the front row, and that's mainly because Ilde is halfway between 'muse' and 'Penelope's own life-size self-portrait Barbie'. Were you nervous? I'd be nervous.

Photography - which he may recall her having absolutely no trouble with - is one thing.

Edited 2012-06-30 08:37 (UTC)

"Um." He could lie, but then he'd feel bad. Also, Ilde has known him for longer than twelve seconds, so she'd see right through it anyway. Yes. But it isn't — wasn't — so bad. Too many lights, could barely see anything. That's true, it had helped a lot to not have to look at anyone else's face.

He nods, indicating her dress. Is that one of hers?

Ilde decides, at the very last minute with an aborted finger-twitch that would have been an ill-advised bit of speculation, that it wouldn't be at all helpful to wax poetic about how alarming she'd find it to be aware of how many people must be watching and unable to see them for herself. If Penelope wants him to walk for her again, she's not going to be the one who gives him something to chew over until he can't get up there another time.

So. Instead: It is! She had a bit of say about what I wore tonight. A while in advance, though-- you know how busy she's been. In the lead up, with everything that's going into the show.

It's really for the best that nobody remind him how many people are staring at him at any given moment. At least here, he can hide behind someone else.

Oh, I like it, it's pretty. Then a pause, and his face is like... yep. Yep, he knows. He really can't complain about any of this considering she's paying him ridiculous amounts of money to wear clothes and walk, skills he mastered at about the age of two, so. It pays off, yeah? This, he gestures around them, is amazing kind of.

Ilde almost laughs, not unkindly, at the expression on his face; she at least is disinclined to look down on him for just about anything, though admittedly if she wanted to try something like that she'd need a fucking ladder.

I do love being here. It's odd, though, isn't it? Our cohort feels so small, and. Now it doesn't. Because it isn't just their cohort participating tonight - they feel sometimes like an island in the city, and it's an interesting reminder that they aren't. Odd context. Maybe the perfect sort of context, Ilde doesn't know.

I don't mind it being small — Wryly self-aware. If anything, at least it means whenever they're prompted to gather together in one space, be it by the gods or something else, it means it's not quite so overwhelming as this. It does feel... weird? He's not sure how else to word the vague discomfort he has lately with this separation between the cohort and the rest of the city.

It's something that he thinks about a lot when he's high.

That doesn't help.

We aren't an island, she signs, and she thinks she prefers that; her day to day life involves more than just the people who can easily reach her on their cohort network, and sometimes it's odd how they all seem to withdraw together. Not everyone here is even interested in being a part of the city, and for the most part Ilde understands that, doesn't judge it, but she is. She wants to be, she doesn't see a life for herself outside of it any more, and there's something comforting about feeling a little more smoothly connected.

It's one of the reasons she liked Penelope's introduction and concept for the show so much.

It's a nice reminder.

And he's not actually sure how he feels about it, the politics of this city. The people who want to be here, the people who don't, and the reasons why people become one or the other.

Mostly it makes him feel cynical.

And no one can complain because they don't have to come. Emphasis on the 'have to', but more amused than anything. He's noticed god-inspired events tend to inspire irritation more than the celebratory tone of tonight's party. (He'd be one of those, that's why.)

Something about this is natural in a way that those events lack; it's difficult to feel friendly under the implicit threat of a right smiting if you aren't, and the obligation so often seems to result in a group of people inclined to get in and out as smoothly as they can. Maybe not everyone here this evening is here because they want to be, but moreso than other times.

Ilde is pleased to be here, which isn't even true of all the parties she attends without obligation.

If we did have to be a little island, who would you be on it with? I'd have trouble deciding. Personality clashes. That's the politest way of saying 'most of my friends are arseholes'.

"Oh dear." He has to pause to think about this. From here, or in general? He could go on for hours about which historical figures he would like to be trapped on an island with, but — no, he's not going to start nerding out. And from Baedal, well. He likes most of the cohort, but even his friends outside of it are largely not, actually, his friends. He's always holding people at arm's length.

And no one he knows has a namesign except the one they made up for Penelope, which is. Not polite, to say the least.

I think I'd pick five strangers and hope for a Gilligan's Island.

There aren't a lot of people here whom she knows. A lot of the time, Benji can be found with a hand clutching Mermaid's arm as they sort of peanut gallery the event and explain to people who try to talk to him that they're here because of one of the models, Wolfgang, he lives with us! She feels less conscious of her own out of placeness when she has a partner in crime to be out of place with.

Which is why when she sees an opportunity to say 'hi' to her friend, she takes it rather swiftly, mincing her way through the crowd. Wolfgang is easy to find, being almost a foot taller than she is, it seems, and in decadent gold. She sneaks over, gripping a drink.

Once, someone told that black is Benji's colour, and she's clung to this. It sort of is. It makes her look paler than usual, and slightly frightening, but she'll take it. She's kept her hair loose but properly combed, glossy instead of greasy, and she wears a dressy black jacket over a dress of easier fabric. She is no master of heels, except when unconscious and dreaming, and so they are low and demure. Little jewellery, save for a simple silver pendant, and only the barest dusting of makeup, her nails blunt and unpainted. But she didn't rock up in the usual jeans and cardigan, so that's nice.

Featherlight, she touches Wolfgang's sleeve to get his attention, offers a smile when he turns.

He turns when touched, and his expression immediately breaks into one of intense, naked relief. Oh, thank God; someone I actually know. If he's considering actually hiding behind her, it's a plan he has to abandon given the dramatic height difference. He should have worn flats, he thinks for the millionth time, like it would make any difference.

"Oh, hi," he says, unable to keep said relief out of his voice. Evidently this was not a wise career decision, given how he reacts to parties and being stared at by desperately desiring to crawl under a table and hide, but it's too late to do anything about it but grit his teeth and deal. Still, it's nice to talk to someone he doesn't feel so awkward around. "You look pretty."

"Thank you," is a) sincere, because it's good to know; she'd stared into the wardrobe like trying to scry the future until deciding that she'd feel at least five times more ridiculous in a suit, and b) mildly amused; but giant godlike attractive people are allowed to call people pretty, she supposes. Benji's smile softens a little at the visible relief she's met with-- she knows this feel-- and knows the following won't do much to alleviate it, but it has to be said; "You look amazing."

It's a crime Wolfgang often commits, so fortunately!! she can carry out an undistracted conversation, inured after living in the same space for the last few weeks to not be ridiculously intimidated. She will sneak in a small hug, one armed, drink held away. "Did you have fun?"

His reaction is the same it always is when complimented from someone he knows versus a stranger whose motivations are unknown, and therefore make him nervous. Embarrassed/pleased, he pulls a face, self-conscious. He can't do anything about blushing. "Thank you."

Touching he tolerates much better from her than from strangers, although like always his gestures are fleeting, anxious. "Umm." He would go on to say something stupid but hopefully supportive that would make his employer look good, here, but apparently does not feel obligated this time. Fun is not what he would call it but he doesn't want to give the impression that he hates being here, either. "Well, I survived? So there's that."

That gets a laugh, almost voiceless and a little sympathetic, and about as light as the hug she'd briefly subjected him to before withdrawing again, both hands coming to hold her champagne. "So far so good," she says, raising glass to sip from, only very lightly pecking at the things available, including the people. "You'll be more optimistic when it's over, maybe."

A darting, bright eyed glance around at all these people. Who are even all these people! Benji is one of them and thus shares none of Wolfgang's horror, but it's certainly surprising.

"Mm, until Penelope gets another amazing idea." At least her ideas are artistic and tasteful and don't involve nudity?

After a pause where he gazes over the room, largely to make sure no one's coming his way he'd rather avoid, he inclines his head across the room, at a group of people — men, women, other — milling about, dressed expensively and a little outlandishly because they are in Baedal and, well. "That's Firoz," he says, a name he's mentioned absently before as one of his eccentric quote-unquote friends. Wolfgang is not proud of having managed to acquire a reputation as a gold-digger, because it's not true, exactly, or else he would have actually slept with any of them by now, but —

Anyway. "Next to him, that's Armen Basurto. Politician. He ran a couple times with True Unity, but retired two years ago. He said he wanted to move on, but apparently he got bumped out because of an incident with a horse and a cake. It's probably true, given that his wife is — oh, there she is."

Leading him around like a naughty child, yes.

It took a little time to get comfortable, here. She did, more or less, throw herself into a deep end with regard to dressing up at all, but at least she feels like she blends in, absolutely not the fanciest person here; even standing next to Wolfgang with his eyecatching height and colours is a reassurance. The worst had been the journey between Badside and here, frankly, and will be again when they leave, even if she remains attached to Shrieky's side the whole way. Benji sips champagne, birdish, and listens and looks.

"A horse and a cake," she repeats, with her own emphasis. "Oh, that sure is his wife, isn't it. Rest assured that Mermaid and I have definitely improved your reputation while you were backstage." This is a little wry, self-deprecating; these people seem important!

He finishes off his drink, looks mournfully at the empty glass for a bit, and thinks very seriously if he's up for braving the crowd for another. No. Maybe in another few minutes. "Oh, I'm not worried, then." Shrieky does tend to make An Impression on people, although he's definitely noticed that people who dislike him seem to be talked into confused misdirection instead. Anyway, at worst, 'weird ghost with great hair and weird friends' is accurate.

Pause. "Should I be?"

"Oh, I don't think so." This is sincere, because Wolfgang is no better than any of them save for also being from planet supermodel. Benji still looks faintly apologetic, like maybe she should have read up on Small Talk In Society for Post-Apocalyptic Immigrants or perhaps Wolfgang expected them both to sit in the corner and make no eye contact so as not to embarrass him when he invited them along. None of these things are true, but still; "We just accidentally got into conversations."

But more amused than apologetic. She is enjoying herself. All of this is different and interesting.

"Right, conversations. I forget that happens when you don't spend the whole time hiding under a table."

Not that he's thought about it.

(He thought about it.)

(His conclusion is that hiding in the bathroom is probably more practical.)

(And that if he could sit in a corner and say nothing and make no eye contact while other people socialised for him, that would be ideal.)

(Fuck.)

"Do you want another?" He indicates her drink.

Heh.

Benji sort of side-glances the nearest table like how it is understandably tempting, with their long table cloths, and the fact that she would prefer to enjoy herself because it is different and interesting through a pane glass barrier of objective observation, and the propensity for hide and seek to break out at any moment at home all sort of make it not a totally impossible daydream.

She finishes her champagne, the half-inch that was left.

"Yes," she says. "And you can tell me more about your weird friends. Um. The rich ones."

They'll just sidle their way back towards the bar, then, which is better, actually, than him having to try to make it on his own. Less likelihood of being approached. He indicates people with his head, never pointing, because that's rude and also draws attention. "That's, um... Brechtje..." He isn't quite pronouncing that right and the apologetic pull at the corner of his mouth indicates he knows. He tries, but when you get a name like that and an accent like his — Middle Eastern rather than the German his name would suggest — it's just asking for a disaster. "...and Cadwgan Ulysses." Same.

"Ah, they live together and they're getting married but they get very mad if you think they are dating. Or marrying. They're, um, sapio... something queerplatonic. They explained what that means to me? But I forgot. Anyway, they do this thing called 'glamping'."

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

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