open log :: time made me soft around the edges

[synergismus]

Who: Everyone.
What: The Harvest Festival!
Where: Howl Barrow outdoor park
When: Through the weekend.
Notes: The companion OOC post for this log is here if you have any questions or concerns!
Warnings: Please give me a head's up if a thread contains something that should be edited into this section.

Locations: COSTUME PARTY, COSTUME PARTY - VIP, MARKET STREET, CARNIVAL GAMES, THE PARK.

Comments

COSTUME PARTY

[synergismus]

Baedal doesn't do Halloween; it's far too much of a kitschy Earth thing, and the practice of luring children to one's home with candy is one that is frowned upon. Costume parties in the city's context are not about being frightening, but about entertaining each other – showing off, relaxing after a season of work and toil. Most of the people in the Howl Barrow outdoor park are working-class, wearing masks and altered everyday clothes, dancing to local musicians and sharing cocktails. Lights encircle the open area where the dance floor has been created, offering warmth in the chilly night as well as illumination. People who aren't costumed are allowed as well, of course, but the festivity encourages participation.

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan's ostensibly not working right now; he's off tonight, and he could stay home. But he's just waiting for the other (the third? the dozenth?) shoe to drop, and he's restless when he stays put too long. So he's here, at the lower class end of the costume party, in a nice shirt and trousers, with a plain black mask across his features.

Without the hat, it's almost like he's in costume. (He'd thought of getting glasses and saying he was Clark Kent, but he'd rather an evening not defending a lame joke that a great many Baedal residents won't get anyway.)

He's wandering through, keeping a sharper ear and eye out than his demeanor and the flask at his hip would suggest. But he can be drawn into conversation - after all. It's his night off.

[captaincocksure]

"I wath gonna caw you." The black-caped figure that's appeared at Raylan's elbow holds up a finger. "Ang on, thorry."

Jim classily (well, with as much class as one can muster for the act) spits out a set of fake plastic vampire fangs, tucking them into his pocket. If he knew Raylan had given some thought to having to explain his costume, he would've congratulated the man on his foresight; he's had to explain himself about a dozen times over now, and reassure one vampire that he means no insult and is only portraying a character from a book from his universe.

Who knew Dracula could be such a pain?

"I was going to call," he repeats, smiling, "but I wasn't sure we were on close enough terms that me calling wasn't going to be creepy." In other words: how's your shoulder?

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan smiles a bit himself. "No - it's fine. Glad to see you got yourself out in one piece." Since they'd gotten separated toward the end.

"I'm doing alright. How've you been?" Any reprisals?

[captaincocksure]

"Likewise--on both counts." He's glad Raylan also made it out, and he's been all right himself.

"Little bit of disapproval at work," he adds, but he's perfectly good-natured about it. He's a professional, he knows what has to happen.

He also knows the reprimand he got was all for show, between him and Integra. But he knows what the boundaries are, knows they have to be heeded, knows Hellsing needs plausible deniability as much as he's useful.

[eventheskylooksdifferent]

For about ten seconds there's a flash of rain, a brief downpour with an oddly small area just at the edges of the carnival, where the area claimed by the festivities gives way to the rest of the park. It's there and gone so fast that perhaps no one connects it to the girl who steps into the glow of the lights ringing the dance floor a few minutes later.

Here, among happy people, people dancing and singing and laughing and enjoying themselves, Lena lets herself revisit the thought that Ethan would like this.

He'd like her dress, too, reminiscent of one Macon got her somewhere in his travels--silver lace so fine it looks like spider silk woven again and again into a layer over a black shift, flowy at sleeves and hem. She conjured it up (literally) out of a thrift-store find.

There's a mask, too, a silver band of cloth just wide enough to cover her eyes and the bridge of her nose, a few gray and black feathers at the left side rising up into her dark hair, which falls loose around her shoulders.

And if the feathers are a bit damp at the top, her hair curling at the ends, well. She's sure she doesn't know anything about that.

She watches the dance floor wistfully as she weaves through the crowd; her attention is diverted a long moment and she crashes into someone standing when she should have dodged them.

"...I'm sorry."

COSTUME PARTY - VIP

[synergismus]

A short ways away, still in the park, a historic farmhouse-turned-museum is open as a VIP area for the costume party. Respectable costume wear is required, as well as a small donation to the local civic center (a shekel or two will do). The tone is less frenetic, though it still carries a distinct party feel – the dance music is more graceful, the indoor lighting offering a warm glow. Sharply dressed volunteers carry trays of treats made with the bounty of the harvest itself, and flutes of locally-bottled champagne. A few cheery people in old-fashioned Baedal formalwear hang around the sides of the ballroom-like dance floor, offering on-the-fly waltzing lessons.

It's not highly refined class, but its a bit of regal fun for one evening.

MARKET STREET

[synergismus]

To showcase the results of the harvest, farmers and vendors have set up stalls along one of Howl Barrow's main pedestrian drags, selling food and fresh produce, offering demonstrations on how to make simple, fun dishes – one open tent teaches cooking classes every two hours, most of which result in hilarity. The cafes along the street are doing jumping business this evening, serving mostly drinks (from cocktails to milkshakes) and offering people places to sit and watch the festivities. Some thoughtful citizen at a point after nightfall helpfully released and entire jar of glowbugs, and their blue and yellow dot-of-light bodies hover cheerfully over the heads of the spectators. (Just don't let them land in your hair, they're kind of sticky.)

seoraj's forge

[serjeant]

Seoraj has a distinct space around his open-air area - probably because he's also got a small portable forge there, stripped to the waist over the heat of the forge-fire even in this brisk air. A selection of ready-made farming tools and a few weapons has been set up for those who want to peruse, and he's doing demonstrations and requests of his work for passers-by; those who want to buy, and those who just want to watch. It makes him memorable, he figures, and that's good for business later, even if he doesn't expect to do a roaring trade out here today.

He can afford a little investment in good impressions, and he's setting about to make them - chattering to and charming customers and his fellow vendors. He's made an arrangement with a fellow down the way for food orders later in the day, too, and he's got a thermos of tea. The whole thing is...well, it's a distraction, most of all. Keep himself busy. Make sure he doesn't look as if he's varied his routines too much since the riots. Keep smiling.

[emptychamber]

Emily has been wandering through the market. She's fairly certain that this is too elaborate to be an actual setup by the communists, so she's either been attacked with mind magic, actually gone mad, or it is what it appears to be. None of them are very comforting options, but on the other hand, she can't do much about any of them by sitting and lamenting her fate, either. For now, she's progressing as if it's door number three, because there's no help for the first two.

It's the forge that catches her eye first, the shirtless man second. She gives both him and his work appreciative looks, though the work gets a longer and closer inspection.

"I suppose custom work's damned expensive, isn't it?" she says, wistfully - it should be, if it's good work, but she hasn't found a job yet. Still, she'd like more ammunition than she has, and she'd dearly love a small grappling hook.

She's new to Baedal and looks it, but only a truly dull observer would mistake her for an innocent abroad.

[serjeant]

Seoraj is many things, but 'a dull observer' is not among them; he's the object lesson that the man who calls himself simple with that sort of open-handed ease never is. He favours her with a bit of friendliness, turning to speak to her and not in the vague direction of her, assessing her with more subtlety than he's generally credited with at a glance. “Can be,” he says, because he's worth the price and knows it, “'tisn't always. Did you have a thing in mind?”

Maybe he can give her a quote, and she'll come back another time. Work isn't hard to find in this city. (Something he's had occasion to wonder at, lately. Maybe it's nothing- maybe it isn't.)

[emptychamber]

She weighs her options, then says, "A small hook, but sturdy. For climbing, so it would need to bear a rope plus my weight." If he can quote her a price, at least she'll have it in mind for the future, and craftsmanship is good. She can see, but more, she can feel, the metal humming solid and well-forged. She resisted the urge to touch things she couldn't yet purchase.

Bullets are more disposable, and she's certain he can handle them if she gives him an original to cast off of. The hook would take a finer hand.

CARNIVAL GAMES

[synergismus]

No outdoor seasonal event is complete without the opportunity to dunk local clergy in water tanks via hurling blunt objects at them. Several higher ranking priests and priestess of Carme, and two or three TMU professors, are lined up to be dunked for charity. (One particularly famous professor has taken to enthusiastically heckling his students when they miss. He is making his charity a fortune.) Darts for stuffed toys, pie eating contests, and other standards line the canton's central courtyard. There's a small stage for artistic performances, as well – dancers, contortionists, and the like. A handful of wooden benches are strewn before it, occupied by wandering patrons, usually munching on snacks from the market.

Re: CARNIVAL GAMES

[deservesadaisy]

Though Ivan and Ilde are both more "dressed up" than properly in costume - though given Ilde's affinity for music, Ivan's half mask is probably the clever jab of someone who lived through several iterations of the opera ghost story and found at least one of them amusing. They look like they are either going to or coming from the VIP party, though they're neither of them in any great hurry.

Ivan pauses, as they pass a particular booth and says, "Wait a moment." He grins, lazily, like a man who is endlessly amused at his own cleverness. (He often is, though Ilde knows it's as much a mask as the Andrew Lloyd Webber knockoff he got god knows where.) "I've something to do, if you'll wait for me?"

[rhinemaid]

Ilde has a mask on a wand, green to match her dress, which she's spending more time using to poke at things with than actually attempting to wear - which is what she does with it now, giving Ivan a jab in the side on principle, seeing as how he probably deserves it for something. Even if she finds his cleverness nearly as amusing as he constantly seems to-

“What am I waiting for?”

[deservesadaisy]

"Well, come along if you like, it's not a mystery." He makes his way over to one of the dart games, a row of giant stuffed... well, they could be pandas, if you'd only heard of pandas and never seen one - along the back of the booth.

"I used to beat Mitchell at darts, back home, now and then," he commented, offhand, and he paid his coins to play.

And what are carnival games for, if not showing off for your date a little.

[rhinemaid]

“I don't fail to notice that you only tell me about this once he isn't around to disagree,” she observes, following him to stand a little ways back, where she's not going to accidentally take an elbow while he's demonstrating the might of the modern vampire vs a probably rigged carnival game. “I suppose that's just happy coincidence?”

[scotlandyardjackinoffice]

"It's not a cheat!" protests a voice, rising from a minor verbal skirmish at one of the dart games. Sherlock Holmes scowls at his accuser.

"You must be, how do you throw perfectly eight times in a row?"

"I calculate the trajectory," he explains, with no small amount of exasperation--honestly, can't everyone do this?

It seems they can't, and his talent for doing so is further deemed an unfair advantage. He's ejected.

He pauses as he moves away, turning up the collar of his wool coat. He's here watching tonight, getting the lay of the land and some sense for how people interact, the culture, the traditions. But he can't sit and openly watch, that could be suspicious. He's got to look like he's taking part.

Perhaps the professors next, he thinks. Surely no one will protest his accuracy when it comes to money for charity?

[emptychamber]

After the market, Emily has wandered over to the games. She say the end of the overly successful game and comments, "It's the same everywhere - no one likes it when you're good enough it looks easy for you."

[scotlandyardjackinoffice]

It's a sharp insight, direct and accurate, and it gets his attention. "Indeed," he agrees, giving her a pretty blatant once-over, but not in any prurient kind of way. She speaks from experience, he decides; there's a confidence both in her bearing and in the easy way she approaches a stranger to strike up conversation with such a remark.

"You can't win. We celebrate success, but not too much success." There's a shift in his expression that's something approaching a smile, not quite there. "Pretending you're not as talented as you are is disingenuous and more work than it's worth. But you know that already."

[emptychamber]

"Do I?" she asks, with a grin and a wicked glint in her eye. "I could just be an acute observer of human nature with no talent at all to speak of."

...probably not. She's not sure what his line is, but he's sharp in ways other than his talent for spatial relations, which makes him both intriguing and potentially dangerous. For Emily, there's often a great deal of overlap.

THE PARK

[synergismus]

The far reaches of the park in Howl Barrow are always a little sketchy – it's edged with Joyland, and past that, the Spatters, and the fog likes to send tendrils creeping, from time to time. But when it's a clear night, it's perfectly lovely – dark sky, bright stars, the light and noise from the festival offering a warm backdrop, and the silhouette of the sometimes-functional theme park seems beautiful, albeit in a sometimes haunting way. There are trails and benches, trees and expanses of open grass, and it's a nice place to get some air, or just wander.

[nastypieceofwork]

The sky's all wrong.

It's his first, visceral impression, gazing up at the stars above as he smokes. Sure, it could be chalked up to the sky being unfamiliar, the sky not matching the one he's accustomed to back home, but he can't shake the sense that it's just off.

But so is everything else. He's still getting his bearings, still attuning to the currents here. Still figuring out how everything works.

And what his place will be. How his ambition will reward him.

He starts heading back toward the celebration, a slow meander, still mostly lost in his own thoughts, but not so much so that he'd miss anyone approaching.

[kecharitomene]

It'd be tough to miss Lourdes at the best of times - not for her height, but the hot pink wool-crepe coat she's wearing as a dress, flared out from the waist with a cape detail at the shoulders. She looks to have been exploring sort of aimlessly, detouring when she'd caught sight of the bloke over there with the lazy line of smoke rising. It's probably the cigarettes she's presently most interested in - borne out by her gamely cheerful greeting: “You wouldn't let a girl bum one of those off of you, huh, mister?”

A Londoner by her accent - not the kind that matches the price-tag of that outfit - but who can tell, around here? Maybe she's actually from space. A lot of people in space speak with British accents, she's learned, mostly because one of her uni mates has the kind of extensive collection that probably could do with serious psychological intervention.

[nastypieceofwork]

Oh, a Londoner. A proper one, not a transplant like John. He rolls his shoulders, half a shrug, addressing her from around his cigarette.

"I would, at that," he says, reaching into his coat for the pack, tapping one out. "Suppose you need a light as well, luv?" Though one never knows--she could have a lighter tucked into one of the pockets of that attention-getting coat. Still, he's got an odd sense of being-a-gentleman at times, the least he can do is offer.