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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On drifting back to him again, she tucks her hand in at his elbow and leans up against the side of him to accuse, casually and affectionately, “Voyeur.” This isn't a new or revelatory observation she's making, and certainly not anything she objects to in him; she just enjoys pointing it out, now and again, what a terrible fucking cliché he can be.

"Always. You seem in your element," he adds. "I haven't been to this sort of thing in a long time."

In fairness, Daisy would have never had the patience.

“I went to a few with my godmother, when I was about fourteen, fifteen. Once I was old enough she was sure I wouldn't embarrass her in public.” And that had been a bit different to being personally invited by the designer, and she'd never got to go to any after-parties; still, she'd got new clothes out of the outings, and she'd liked spending time with Prisca that way. Shared interests. “When did you last go to one?”

"I suppose it depends strict definitions. But something like in..." He thought. "1987, perhaps? London."

“I didn't exist in 1987,” she says, noting it in an absently thoughtful sort of a way. Ivan is a good deal more than twice her age; she doesn't forget, per se, it just rarely strikes her as anything very relevant.

"You always laugh about me being a cliche, and there you go reminding me how ancient I am," he said with a small laugh. "Do you want to introduce me - or is there anyone I should avoid?"

“You are a cliché, and it is funny,” she says, in a tone all sweet reason; she's in a good mood tonight, pleased with the way that the show has gone for Penelope and more at home here with that particular goal of everything going well for Penelope's collection in mind when she moves through the party. It's easier than socializing for the sake of it, although she doesn't give a lot of thought to why - maybe just that she does better with other people when she feels as if she has a role to play.

(That's true of most things.)

“But I think you're an appropriate cliché to the aesthetic this evening, so I'm going to introduce you to Penelope, actually. You know her from the bills.” If Ivan ruins any item of her clothing, he fucking well pays for something new, thank you.

"Yes, I recall. I'd be delighted - I'm not an idle flatterer, and I do sometimes look at things while you're still wearing them." Despite her protestations to the contrary.

The first breather Penelope gets from being inundated with congratulations and breathless adoration from various transparent social climbers, she makes a beeline for the bar. Because of the situation, she's not allowed herself the eyerolls and vicious hateration she so desperately wants to let out, so booze is the only recourse.

Before she realizes it's Ilde, she seems a little nonplussed at being approached again already-- but it is Ilde, so she gets a much more genuine smile.

"So how much of what you saw on the runway is going to end up in your closet?"

“Most of it,” she says, pleased to catch Penelope - she'd paused at that initial...pause, but recovers pretty well at the advent of the 'thank god it's Ilde' smile, a relatively unique and particular expression that she takes as a cue to relax and enjoy Penelope's company. In that way, they are extraordinarily well suited. “So I thought I'd introduce you to someone who's probably going to end up paying for some of it--” lifting their joined hands as she speaks, where she's laced her fingers through Ivan's and is hanging onto him like a talisman against social anxiety. “This is Ivan. Ivan, Penelope Lane.”

"It's a pleasure, Ms. Lane - do you prefer Ms.?" he adds, polite. He's smiling but not overly familiar. Ilde likes Penelope, so Ivan is playing nice, but he sees no reason to lay it on falsely thick.

Prior to coming to Baedal, she'd always been either 'Penelope' or 'that bitch'. Being addressed somewhat more respectfully is still novel to her, and it's still enough to elicit a smirk.

"Ms. is fine," she says, offering her hand to shake, "for one of my best customers. Nice to finally put a face to the name on the checks."

Ilde might be the favorite client, but technically, Ivan's one of her best customers.

Ilde lets go of Ivan to make 'handshaking' something he can actually participate in, thumbing the knife-pleats of her dress absently before wrapping her free hand (the one not carrying a glass around) around the curve of her waist. “I thought you might enjoy that,” she says, a little self-satisfied.

"You do very good work," he says, "though my opinion is only an amateur's. And you certainly know how to dress Ilde to good effect." In addition to the show.

"Yeah, a lot of that's on her. What can I say, she's got flawless taste."

Yeah, Ivan is a vampire. Ilde is a mermaid, and this city is insane. Penelope is so beyond giving a shit anymore.

"I gotta say, I'm a little surprised how well this has all gone off. I mean, proud, and fucking thrilled, but. Fuck. I'm more popular than I thought I was, apparently." And Ilde is the ONLY one allowed to know that.

“The work speaks for itself,” Ilde says, reasonably. “Colourfully.” ...because it's Penelope's work, so presumably if it could talk, it would be extraordinarily profane. (She's always been inclined to view this as a feature and not a flaw, where Penelope is concerned; there's a reason they get along.)

"It does. And beyond that, I think a lot of people are looking for culture. The city has a lot by way of entertainment, but proper art is something else again." He shrugs, lithe. "And some people were almost certainly just curious."

Penelope laughs, because Ivan actually called what she does art, and she's. Penelope.

"I don't know about anything I do being proper anything, but." She shrugs. "I don't mind people wanting to be In With The In Crowd, if that means I'm the In Crowd now. Fuck I'm going to be busy now, though."

She loves it.

“Busy is better than not busy.” That's a little fervent of you, Ilde; work had dropped off for a while after the city siege, and she hadn't always realized before then what a valuable distraction it had been. So maybe she doesn't like her work very much-- there are worse things her mind could be tangled up in.

It must be even better again, she reasons, that Penelope's doing work she clearly loves.

"You certainly are," Ivan agrees. He has no opinion on work or business, because Ivan.

"And it will feed itself. The more you're sought after, the more it will be clear that you're worth seeking out." Even people who knew fuckall about couture would want to keep current with her as a status symbol.

"Until my inevitable fall out of fashion," she says, casting an eye around the room. Fickle hearts, all of them. She doesn't care; she's got plans.

“Well, you know; enjoy it while it lasts, planning for when it doesn't.” Which is what Ilde assumes Penelope is up to, if only because she's pretty sure her friend is too cynical to assume any success will be indefinite. It's not bad advice in most fields, she thinks, although there's only so far planning will take anyone.

(The apocalypse teaches you a lot of things. Few of them involve optimism.)

"You'll still have customers. I assume I will, at least, continue writing you checks indefinitely, as I've no reason to believe Ilde's tastes will flag."

He shrugs, then adds, "And the city could always be attacked by monsters again, so saving a nest egg is a good idea for everyone, hm?"

"Oh sure. The next time disaster comes, I can always just throw my enormous piles of money at it until it shits itself and runs away."

Well, we've gone that long in conversation without her talking about shit. It's about time.

“Extra money right after the crisis softens the fall,” Ilde says, noting it absently, that most recent crisis still not so very far from her mind. A moment later: “Provided you're alive.” Because nothing complements talking shit like a bit of coldly clinical pedantry and unnecessary point-making.

(They're nice girls.)

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deservesadaisy - 2012-07-04 14:25 (UTC) - Expand

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