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?

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.

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.)

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.