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

[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.