jageskro: (the what now? (smoking))
[personal profile] jageskro
The crowd was a slim one today, and the hat Jag had left on the ground was probably feeling a little neglected. What did people need? He wasn't going to put on as great a show as he did with the circus. Under the tent, he could pretend that he had a lot of material for amazing pyrotechnics. But out here, busking for cash, nobody would believe it if he went too elaborate with his fire tricks.

Still, he finished off with a small fire bird flying one, two, three circles around him before it vanished into thin air, because nobody was paying attention, so… fuck them, yeah.

He picked up the hat, shoved it in his backpack and the few coins in his pocket. Maybe enough for a pint and a snap. It was a start, but it wouldn't do. Fortunately, this was a busy square; he walked as if he knew where he was going, in as much of a hurry as any other Londoner, but already looking out for a good pickpocketing target.


Feel free to say your character saw the little fire bird, or saw him pick somebody's pocket, or caught him trying to pick theirs... Anything goes!
offthebeatenpath: (yeah all right)
[personal profile] offthebeatenpath
Kendal Cassidy Gallery
presents

One Stray Step from the Habitual Path

by
Marie-Ange Colbert

Artist's Reception, Sunday, 16 November, 7pm


The day had gotten off to a somewhat rocky start, but you'd never know it now. Even the assistants hadn't been in yet, so Kendal was the only one who knew the artist - a complete unknown but with a flair for capturing the ephemeral, in a few years you'll be proud to say you've been collecting her for years, and you really must see this piece - had collapsed just after arriving at the gallery this morning, not that Kendal was about to share that little tidbit with anyone. It had been nerves most likely, over her first solo show, but the girl was doing much better now.

Watercolors and ink sketches lined the walls and sat on various pedestals scattered through the gallery, everything from landscapes to figure drawings working together almost like a travelogue, and there was always something new to see around the next turn.

One stray step, indeed.

The doors, and the bar, had opened promptly at seven, and cater-waiters now made their way unobtrusively through the gallery with trays of hors d'oeuvres. The usual mix was in attendance: collectors Kendal had made a point of inviting specifically because young Ms. Colbert's work would appeal to them, others who came to every opening whether they would buy or not, critics, local artists, and even a few people who simply passed by and were curious enough to drop in. Kendal made a point to welcome everyone, introducing some to the artist and letting others explore the gallery on their own. After twenty-three years in the business, they had a good feel for who needed to be handled in what way.

[[Gathering post and debut. Tag in, tag each other, tag later. It's all good. ETA: Oh, and feel free to mod Kendal (with "they" pronouns, please).]]
quartermaster_q: (clothes)
[personal profile] quartermaster_q
Q was not a double-o. He didn't fight like a double-o, he didn't run like a double-o. He was swift and spry, and those qualities served him well, but they didn't hold up against trained agents. It was for that reason that he was usually kept out of the field- But little could be done when fieldwork came looking for him.

He'd noticed them following him just as he'd stepped onto the train, ready to head home after another long day at the office. He knew what they were after, though he wondered how they knew he currently had a prototype for a new digital lock pick tucked away in his bag. He never advertised when he was taking something home to work on or test- Which meant this was either an inside job or they had a leak. Either way, he knew he had to think fast.

Casually he moved through the other passengers on the train, cutting through to the next carriage, then the next. He deliberately missed his stop, then changed trains twice, hopeful he'd lost them as he finally got off one station before his own.

He hadn't even made it through the turnstiles when he spotted them again, and he took off as fast as his feet would take him, hoping he could cut through the side alley the next block over and then head down to another station and train hop again- But he didn't get that far. He was halfway down the alley when one of the men caught up to him, throwing him against the brick wall and drawing a fist back to throw a punch.

Two options- Mace in his bag, or small knife in his pocket. Mace was the riskier choice- harder to locate and operate before the punch landed. 

It had to be the knife.

He freed the blade from it's sheath as he slipped it from his pocket, and drove it hard into his attacker's gut. There was no time to think, no time to calculate what kind of wound he'd inflict- Only action, and then the sound of the man's grunt and a groan as he slumped and hit the pavement.

Not an ideal solution, but very effective.

(OTA! Q just stabbed a dude. Feel free to find him as he is- standing over the dying man's body- Or after, splashed with blood and heading home.)
anamusebouche: (posh party)
[personal profile] anamusebouche
The London Gastronomic Society organized a large indoor festival every year. Three restaurants on the top two floors in the Shard in London hosted this year’s food festival. Connected by a large atrium in the middle, they offered guests a grand setting to feast their taste buds with fine flavours and rich textures.

This year’s theme was Venice and all courses, dishes and amuses were inspired by Italy and Venice, its City of Bridges in particular. Tickets were freely sold, but a VIP lounge was set up on the restaurant of the top floor, separating the rich and famous from the ordinary people. The restaurant's large balconies offered the esteemed guests views of the atrium floor and the rest of the party on one side and London’s skyline on the other.

The theme had inspired the decorators to create a Venetian Carnival atmosphere throughout the three floors and the invitations read a Carnivalesque attire was greatly encouraged. Many people had complied and were dressed up, varying between tasteful to plainly outrageous. Everyone who hadn’t come dressed up, was given a mask at the entrance.

Waiters – dressed thematically – walked back and forth carrying large plates with the most delicious small dishes and amuses. Wine flowed freely and music inspired many to venture a dance in the atrium's dance floor.


((Gathering style, timed to Friday evening/night. Tag now, tag later, do what you like. Great way to meet new people!))
show_me_something: (simple)
[personal profile] show_me_something
Occasionally Victoria missed her gardens at Eagle’s Nest. It had been so simple, bringing a bit of colour into the house when all she had to do was go outside with garden shears. Because, really, fresh flowers made such a difference in the feel of a room.

She could have called a florist, had arrangements delivered when she arrived home from the Caribbean, and in fact she had ordered a couple. But it wasn’t the same as choosing and arranging flowers herself, which was why she was browsing the stalls of the Columbia Road Market early Sunday morning.

The merchants’ patter blended with the bustle of the crowds, at least as many tourists as shoppers, as Victoria meandered from one stall to another. The basket under her arm was filling with blooms in a range of autumn colors: burgundy and violet, warm golds and creamy whites. She had only to find some greenery to act as a foil. And then perhaps some herbs in pots to brighten the kitchen and her cooking.

After thanking the lovely man who sold her some flame-colored gladiolus, Victoria turned to continue her shopping. She’d only gone a few steps when a boy, a teen, old enough to know better but young enough not to care, brushed past her hard enough she might have stumbled if she hadn’t caught hold of his arm hard. Shifting her grip just so allowed her to put pressure on a bundle of nerves that couldn’t be comfortable, and there was something hard in her eyes that contrasted with the softness of her voice when she said, “Now, we’ll have none of that.”

Whether it was the look in her eyes or the pain shooting up his arm that made him have second thoughts, the boy didn’t say. He merely stammered out an apology around the whimper he couldn’t completely hold back, and returned the wallet he’d lifted from Victoria’s bag. She nodded and let go, and he disappeared into the crowd muttering under his breath. After watching him leave, Victoria continued on her way as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

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