multiversallogs | OPEN :: A golden bird was singing

Who: Everyone!
What: St Kelley's evening
Where: The Apache and surrounding environs.
When: Veerdi evening.
Notes:
(1) The topic threads are just suggestions; if you've got somewhere else that your characters simply must be, make your own thread.
(2) All mementos will appear overnight in some part of your character's apartment.
(3) Dance!

St Kelley's is one of the more sedate occasions in Baedal, at least as holidays go. It passes more or less unnoticed by the majority of the population as many of them feel it doesn't concern them. It's not their holiday; it's for the others. Those with severed ties and broken hearts. The temple and church preach that it's a time for reflection or for glorifying the generosity of the gods. It's one of the few days on which no one looks askance at first generation Citizens mourning their missing loved ones publicly.

As night rolls around and floating lanterns are set to sea, the Apache in Mog Hill prepares to accept guests from the newer cohorts. It's something that happens every year, making it a practical tradition. The alcohol will be cheaper for first timers, and the music will be kept at a reasonable level.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Excellent." He smiles -- tired, he's always tired -- and sits next to her, putting his drink down, holding his cigarette between his middle and ring fingers. His nails are painted grey, which must be recent because he does too much labour with his hands to keep them from chipping otherwise. "How are you doing?" He's not sure if she's better or worse than the last time he saw her -- it's not hard to pretend; he'd know.

“Working, writing.” The second word is almost shy-- there's only one person in the city who's seen her poetry, and it'll probably stay that way a while longer. (Her reflex is still to say I'm fine, but it's a tell - she knows that now - and it's a conversational pothole that gives little to respond to. It's easier if you can lead the conversation past the part you don't want to answer.) “I think I agreed to model for Penelope? I thought I was too short, but she says not for print.”

"You're a writer? I didn't know that." Well, duh, he doesn't... actually know much about Ilde, but he sounds duly impressed anyway. Anything creative is totally out of his reach. "Penelope -- oh, I know her, the cussing one?" Yes, that Penelope; he doesn't even actually have to elaborate on that anymore, everyone knows who you mean when you say 'the cussing one'. "She got you too, then, I see." Should he express condolences, he wonders.

“Poet,” she says, though the occasional short story does happen, and then: “You as well?”

...pictures of them are going to be taken together, it's just now become inevitable.

“It sounds like fun, I don't know. I really like her clothes-- she does delicates for me now, as well. And she gave me the most gorgeous night-gown for Catenrat.” You materialistic little thing, Ilde. (She doesn't pretend otherwise; she likes her pretty things.)

"Uh huh. I haven't actually seen her designs yet, I think -- does she only do women's wear?" This is not actually a problem for him. Gender's always been a bit of a blurred line for him more than other people and while he's not necessarily in the habit of running around in dresses and heels, it's not something he spends energy fighting anymore, either. Sometimes women's clothing just fits him better than men's, anyway, he's got that kind of build, and there is absolutely no way his look tonight isn't conscious and deliberate. A pause, then: "She seems... nice."

Oh, honey. Keep trying.

“No, she doesn't,” Ilde laughs, quietly, but it's affectionate; she likes Penelope, and she likes her exactly the way she is-- irascible and salty. “But I don't know, about menswear-- maybe? I mostly know her cat.”

This is just one of those things.

"Oh, well." He shrugs, smiles. He thinks everyone is nice even when they are actively yelling at him. "Well, she's got good style, anyway. There's no way it can be worse than what they've been trying to get me in in Howl Barrow." Has he not told this story yet, because -- yes, it's a thing. You do one life modeling session for money and suddenly everyone's all up on your junk. (So to speak.)

Ilde's eyebrow shoots up, accordingly. “What are they doing in Howl Barrow?”

She's partied there; she has some vivid images in her head, right about now.

"Did you know they have Bedazzlers here?" This is not actually a non sequitur, it is super relevant. "...and that someone thought it was a good idea to apply that to g-strings?"

At that point, is it even fashion design?

...she considers this for some time; it's a notion that needs to be properly weighed from all angles. (And there are-- so many angles involved in that notion.)

Finally, “Are you sure someone isn't just playing a terrible game of what they can talk you into?”

Wolfgang pulls a face because that is a sudden distinct and terrifying possibility. He knocks back what's left of his drink while he's at it before saying, "If they are, then they are a very bad person, because I am very gullible." Needs an adult, etc.

“I know,” which is not the kindest thing to say, no, but Wolfgang had struck her almost immediately as someone who probably needs a minder, and it would be fair to say that when Ilde (not exactly known for her skillful recognition of the needs of others) is the one raising her eyebrow, someone else would probably be already making sure they have emergency services on speed dial.

After a beat, “That didn't sound so terrible in my head.”

His quick smile comes close to being a laugh, but not quite -- it's more than a little self-conscious. "That's okay," he says, which... of course it is, he is impossible to offend. "But I should probably shut up before making this worse, yeah?"

“You're all right,” she says, smiling, ducking her head briefly and laughing out smoke, quiet and incongruous given the watery sound. “I don't think Penelope has a bedazzler, if that helps.”

"It does, thank you," he says with a touch of dryness, but it's still pretty sincere. Although imagine that, really. She'd be more likely to beat someone with it. With his cigarette dwindling down, he finishes it off and stubs out the remains, and then pauses, not sure where to go from here.

“Funny what you can get used to, though,” she says, a little vaguely, into that awkward silence; it's a bit more general, just the surreal realization of sitting here and having this easy, small-talk conversation about work and life at this particular event. Like this is normal. Like these are just their lives, now.

And they are. It is.

"Oh, well -- this in particular, it's terribly deliberate," he says, gesturing around them, indicating not just the event but the entirety of the city. "Dump a bunch of people into a sink-or-swim situation, force them to completely reinvent themselves, and then immediately force them into developing a sense of closure from their former lives, then make them all feel grateful for that little bit of compassion while dangling a carrot in front of them, that maybe they'll get their old lives back after all if they're just good enough. They should call this Stockholm Day."

He coughs into his hand, realising he just said all that out loud. "Um, sorry."

OPEN :: A golden bird was singing

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