goodfellow: (chair)
[personal profile] goodfellow
One month ago, one of Soho's trendiest and yet least profitable dance clubs closed its doors. There were rumors for a while that the space was going to be turned into an upscaled gym, or perhaps gutted and chopped up into boutique shopping. But not much of anything seemed to be happening until just after Christmas, when the trucks were constantly parked by the service entrance and there seemed to be a flurry of activity.

Meanwhile, anyone who was anyone received a VIP invitation to the "pre-opening" of SATURNALIA, soon to be London's newest hot spot, but in the meantime hosting a huge party to ring in the new year. Togas optional but encouraged. Also receiving these invitations was anyone who even remotely knew Robin Goodfellow (or Rob Fellows), though his name wasn't on them.

The doors were also open to anyone, a line and bouncer required only because the space could only fit so many. But Robin had instructed the bouncer to be creative if not random with who he let in. As far as he was concerned, pulling in a street urchin or two over the hot starlets would not only improve the atmosphere but be good for business in the long run.

The doors opened at 9pm, and the place filled steadily as midnight approached. Inside, the club was clearly not finished, and there were many trappings from the previous space still in place - a large dance floor, several bars, private rooms, a couple of small stages for performances, an impressive elevated DJ table. For tonight, the theme was clearly one of the decadence of ancient Greek - decorations in gold and white and stone, replications (one would assume) of famous artwork of the time, including a number of statues. A copy of "David" cast in stone was a centerpiece, set up in an area that encouraged partygoers to take selfies.

The bars were not open, but prices were much cheaper than they should have been, coupled by the occasional appearance of Robin in his (somewhat skimpy) toga and gold-cast laureal wreath crown to hand out shots, mead, or wine to random partygoers. The point of the party was clearly not to make money but to build buzz, and from the length of the line outside after a couple of hours it was clearly working.
harrowgate: (Default)
[personal profile] harrowgate

The news had broken early that morning, an exclusive in a single newspaper that quickly became front and center in dozens of newsagents around the city. As soon as the story posted on the paper's web site, it filtered out in blog posts and linkbacks, spreading to celebrity gossip rags and social media in a matter of minutes. In the wake of the horrific Whitfordshire murder the day before, covered in the slime of underage pornography, the story caught quickly with writers and commenters hungry for more of the salacious tale.

Beneath the enormous headline on the front page of the tabloid was a color photo of Felix Harrowgate, sometime companion of the younger brother of Stephen Teverius, the Home Secretary. In the photo, Felix looked particularly terrible, caught in the middle of what looked like some scathing remark -- a famous trait of his among the society reporters who most often witnessed him at his worst.

Behind the front page, the news story spilled Felix's darkest secret in lurid detail: photos and videos found at the scene of the Whitfordshire murder proved that Felix had been for sale and featured in underage pornography around twelve to fifteen years ago, and that the murdered man had been a regular client. The shocking truth had been "independently confirmed," the article claimed, that Felix Harrowgate's identity had been falsified, but nothing about the truth of his past seemed to exist. Not outside of the images found in Whitfordshire's collection.

When Felix arrived at the Mirador Agency for work that day, Thaddeus De Lalage, a colleague and friend, met him at the door. "You can't be here," Thaddeus told him, pushing a copy of the paper into his hands. "And the Curia suggests you don't return to the House for the time being, either." Behind him in the public lobby, the other wizards and apprentices arriving for work had stopped cold, staring, whispering, and keeping their distance. Only Robert Hermione considered approaching, suggesting to Thaddeus with his poisonous viper's smirk that he might not wish to extend any further contact with Felix, lest depravity -- and whatever else Felix might be carrying -- were catching.

Felix ensured that Robert knew exactly what he thought of him before turning on the heel of his Italian leather shoe and storming from the premises.

He needed only a few seconds to scan the article, and tear the newspaper in half before shoving it violently into the nearest trash can. Only a minute later did Felix realize he was stranded on the sidewalk in downtown London, with nothing but his wallet, phone, and work satchel, and nowhere to go.

That was when he realized that the passers-by were not actually passing by, were in fact starting to surround him, and carried cameras, microphones, and a cacophony of shouted questions. And that everywhere he went that day -- and perhaps for many days to come -- he would be unable to escape them.

(OOC: more here about this plot! Find Felix anywhere that's convenient, as he'll be hounded by reporters all day long. HMU with any questions on the aforementioned info post!


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London Calling RPG

September 2017



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