londoncallingmods: (spoops)
[personal profile] londoncallingmods
The press weren't talking about it, but there were whispers on Twitter- Chatter about strange events, odd happenings. Little pockets of London where seemingly impossible things were happening. ...Except no one seemed to be able to get photos of these 'strange occurrences', and as we all know, if there are no pictures, it didn't happen.

A girl near the Thames had tweeted about seeing what looked like tiny creatures dancing across the surface of the water. A man on the underground had reported his bag briefly floating a foot off the ground. A boy in Topshop had tweeted about his own reflection trying to have a chat with him. 

Those with magic in them could feel it. Little bubbles of playful power popping up all over the city, then vanishing again. Like a pot of water that never quite reached a boil. It was a gentle kind of magic though. Soft and playful- Not from the other side or any other part of the world, but right here in London. It was old and forgotten, and very keen to play with everyone- Magic and non-magic alike.

(Open all through next week and next weekend. Have the magic effect your character however you like, but keep in mind that this magic, whatever it is, is very pure and playful. It wouldn't cause harm- Though maybe inconvenience.)
wispofathing: (Riding the night wind)
[personal profile] wispofathing
Curnen stood on the roof of her building. She probably wasn’t supposed to be up here, but it wasn’t like anybody particularly noticed or cared and not like she couldn’t evade notice anyway. Her eyes had fallen closed and she let her body sway and swing with the whims of the night wind.

It had been hard to notice it through the heartbreak, but once Curnen had forced herself to get back to work so she could do little things like make her part of the rent, she realized that something had changed. Something in her mind had cleared and sharpened since her father died. She started stringing together a little melody, one all her own. Lyrics, too, though they may not be for this particular piece had started to come as well. There was not a song, not just yet, but when she managed to discipline her unused muscle, there would be one. A dozen. More, maybe, in time.

Now she hummed, and the sound of her humming blended perfectly with the breeze. She lifted her arms and raised her dry eyes to the sky, singing up into the black. The nearly full moon peeked through the cloud cover, and she smiled.

Oh time makes men grow sad
And rivers change their ways
But the night wind and her riders
Will ever stay the same


And the next moment she was gone from that rooftop, flying high above London on Tufa wings.

They, like her creative muscles, were not up to full strength yet. So she landed from time to time to rest, and the wings disappeared as though they’d never been.

Though she had a few deliberate stops to make tonight as well. Look, look! she wanted to tell everyone she knew I can fly!

(And Curnen's got her wings back! If your character know she's fae and she knows where they live, she's stopping by at their window because she can. If they also fly, meet her in the air! Otherwise, she can literally appear anywhere. She's not stupid, though, if you're not one of those people you're probably not catching her with her wings out.)
wispofathing: (Black Eyes)
[personal profile] wispofathing
How do you bear it?

Curnen had never heard Peggy Goins sound so tired and broken in her life. Miss Peggy had always been vivacious and cheerful, but she was taking the murder of her husband on top of all the other recent mayhem in the Tufa community about as well as could be expected. Which was to say, not at all. Tragic love stories were not new to their people, but the murder of a loved one… well. Curnen was the last to face that, which was why she supposed the now widowed Mrs. Goins was calling her. She couldn’t remember much if anything of the conversation, but that question had stuck with her.

How do you bear it?

It had banged around in her dreams by night, and by morning the barriers that Curnen had consciously or unconsciously put between herself and her past were in splinters and everything in her that wasn’t nailed down was shaking loose--her father and her mother and her husband and her birth and her curse. She tried to go about her day. She tried to put it all away again where it was supposed to be, but there was too much, too much too fast.

How do you bear it?

Her legs gave out in the middle of the sidewalk and she fell to her knees screaming. Not crying. Screaming. Screaming fit to tear her throat raw. Her hands tangled in her hair and tore at it almost hard enough to rip it out by the fistful, and yet the pain of this did nothing to soothe the storm inside. If anything, it seemed all the more determined to make itself known, the air temperature around her dropping sharply into freezing cold.

And she screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

OTA

Jan. 30th, 2017 04:20 pm
whispersoflove: (otherworldly)
[personal profile] whispersoflove
Coby wasn't home, and hadn't left a note for him, so Anael was walking through the streets of London to get to Alcuin's home, enjoying the chill in the air, the way his breath fogged on the way out, the ebb and flow of love in the hearts around him. Hands in his jacket pockets, he paid no mind to the odd looks he occasionally received for wearing nothing but a denim jacket over a t-shirt in this weather.

It began as an itch in his back, a barely there scratch where his wings would be. He did not think much of it, only shifting his shoulders the way he normally did when the urge to let them out came over him. But then the itch burrowed deeper, and increasingly hotter, until it was more of a burn than anything else, and his lungs were alive with it.

He'd hurried into a side street with little foot traffic and leaned against a wall there, his breathing short and heavy. He tried to cloak himself, but he couldn't keep a hold on the miracle through the pain he was so unused to, and he collapsed to his knees as he heard words in a rough language that scraped against every fiber of his being, a language of Hell. His wings wouldn't come out and he folded to his side on the wet ground, seeing shadows on the other side of the street. They were all saying the words, out loud and right into his mind, and one of them came forward, a pair of boots stopping right in front of him. They pulled his t-shirt collar down and drew a symbol between his collarbones, their fingers red with - blood? The symbol felt like it was searing into his flesh. Anael cried out, physically as much as spiritually, praying out to God with all of his being.

The words ceased suddenly, pain abating slightly, and the dark figures dispersed as someone ran over to him.

OTA

Jan. 26th, 2017 01:00 am
miss_ives: (caught at my own game)
[personal profile] miss_ives
In the new year, Vanessa had found that she could actually approach life as a whole with less gravitas than she had in the last few months. She had not seen Prometheus again since the evening at that occult museum (nor had she read in the papers about the theft of a vase from there, but she had not gone back since, and it simply might not have made it into the papers), but while she was no more protected than she had been before his gift of the talisman, at least her home was warded now, courtesy of Felix Harrowgate. That was a welcome luxury.

But even more surprisingly, Vanessa Ives was making plans. Plans that would take her far from everything she knew, if only for a fortnight. And in good company, at that. Her initial misgivings about Yves had eased with time, and she was glad of her spontaneous decision to ask him whether he would like to accompany her. A trip abroad, somewhere neither of them had any ties, might well be what they both needed.

She had finished her inventory of Prometheus's shop, for all that a lot of items in it were described rather than identified. She still opened up the shop some evenings, as well as on the weekends, when she could, but as the time for the trip came closer, she found herself distracted both at work and in the shop. Distracted, and in a surprisingly elated mood.

She was just cleaning some items in the shop when the door bell jangled from someone coming in, and rather than turn around to face them straight away, she glanced at a mirror to her side. Her eyes widened at the figure she saw in it, and she turned around in a start. "Mina!"

Here was her beloved Mina, pushing back the hood of her white coat, as beautiful as she had ever been. She even had a smile for Vanessa, and Vanessa did not know what to make of that. Why would Mina smile at her?

"I do not blame you," Mina said. Unlike Vanessa's usual visions, she stayed, and spoke to her. Could it truly be her? Could Mina have found her? Why? "Any blame has been washed away in your suffering."

"I do not deserve that," Vanessa answered, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. "I cannot forgive myself."

"I am married now," Mina went on. "He's no soldier, but he is good to me. A lawyer. Jonathan."

"I am happy for you," Vanessa said, finding it to be true. Whatever had pushed her to seduce Mina's captain, it was nowhere to be seen now. She took a step closer, and then another, expecting Mina to vanish with proximity. Her visions of her never let her get close.

But here she still was. Was she real? Could this truly be her? Could it truly be Mina smiling at her now, sad though that smile was?

"Poor Peter," said Mina, and Vanessa frowned in remembrance. There had been three of them. She had loved him too. "If only you'd gone after him, that day, after you kissed him. If only you'd told him you loved him for his weakness..."

"How can you know that?" Vanessa asked, her frown more pronounced now, and a tightness in her chest that spoke of ill tidings.

Mina's eyes shifted, a red glow shining out, as her features darkened, and Vanessa could not move. "I know many things now. My Master has taught me them." There was a gust of wind through the shop, and then Mina's face was as beautiful as it had always been, even in her distress. "Things no one ought to know. Vanessa. Save me!"

Vanessa reached out to her, but the door to the shop had burst open, and she was too late, too slow to catch her friend's hand, and Mina was gone in an instant, in a scream, leaving Vanessa's breath short, reaching for someone who was not there, and terrified for her dearest friend.

OTA

Jan. 14th, 2017 10:33 pm
wispofathing: (Pigtails)
[personal profile] wispofathing
Ostensibly they were out busking, but the Overbay sisters were singing to and for as well as with each other.

Bliss was perhaps not a great beauty as her little sister made her sound, but there was something beautiful about her when she was in motion. About thirty in appearance with smile lines, she was taller and more solid than her pixie-like sister, her presence had a quiet, nurturing, steady calm to it that balanced out Curnen’s flitting energy. Her bone straight black hair was braided back, hanging to her waist. Her eyes were green (as one might expect of a fairy), but a normal green that looked blue sometimes depending on what she was wearing.

They passed an actually nice guitar back and forth between them—Curnen’s now, Willy was letting her keep it!—and while the case was open for anyone who cared to show their appreciation, they paid it no real mind even though the crowd was very generous today. This was a reunion and a healing and a prayer. They had not sung together properly since Lyndon Johnson was president.

Which wasn't to say that pragmatism wasn't telling them to turn it into a little something more.

Less often they brought out a violin, and only Curnen played that one. Bliss had brought it with her and it was her intention to leave it here. It had been their daddy's. Curnen was nervous about that, since the man who had raised her hadn’t been her father by blood… but Bliss made the poor thing sound like a dying cat.

But it was their voices that was most important and really entranced. The younger sister had a high, ethereal soprano, the older sister lower and smokier alto, and they knew how to blend these to best effect with a certainty that came from years of experience.

Curnen could keep this up all day, but practicalities had to be tended to. Practicalities like lunch. Bliss volunteered to go in search of something while Curnen continued to play on her own. She scratched inexpertly--which was by human standards still at least passably--at her daddy's violin, remembering how he'd been able to coax goddamn light and shadow from this instrument.
goodfellow: (Default)
[personal profile] goodfellow
It was exactly one year since the pre-opening of Saturnalia, and the club had become even more successful than its proprietor had anticipated. In celebration, he opened its doors again for a blow-out of a New Year's Eve party, bringing back the theme of Greek decadence from the year before. Now, mingled against the typical industrial decor of the club (smattered with graffiti style murals of Greek myths), there were decorations of white and gold and reproductions of famous artwork, including a replica of the David statue in the middle of the floor.

Many in London had received invitations, including anyone with even the most distant connection to Robin Goodfellow, along with extra invitations as well. There was also a line outside, and the bouncers had been instructed to allow people in with some amount of randomness. After all, what fun was there in a party only filled with the rich and beautiful?

Unlike last year there was no expectation of any particular dress code, though there were many dancers and employees in the crowd in the skimpiest of togas to admire.

Alcohol was for sale, bartenders were talented, and also those employees in skimpy togas made their way through the crowd with shots and glasses of champagne on a regular basis. There were many dark corners and private rooms, and the music even made for dancing was sexy. All in all, it was clear that the theme of the night was modern hedonism.
londoncallingmods: (calling)
[personal profile] londoncallingmods
Fin and Will had rented out the entirety of the theatre where Fin had gotten his big break, then brought in staff to deck the pace out in holiday cheer. The centrepiece was a grand looking tree that stood centre stage, with a DJ set up to the left, and Santa to the right, who was taking photos and handing out this year's goodie bags. Some of the seating had been removed to make room for dancing and food, but the balcony remained as it always was, for people to rest and get a good view of the celebrations below.

No expense had been spared, but it was, overall, a causal affair. Those who weren't competing in the ugly jumper contest were asked to dress tidy, but comfortably, so they could enjoy the festivities of the evening. From the music and food, to the affordable bar and little area set up to fill out cards and make donations for the local children's hospital.

Invites had been sent to their friends and loved ones, and inside each invite they'd tucked a few more so their friends could invite their friends also.

All and all, it was set to be a wonderful night.

Mini GP

Nov. 30th, 2016 07:41 pm
hollow_moon: (blue shade)
[personal profile] hollow_moon
It was that time of the year, a time that used to fill Valentine with joy. Christmas was so wonderful usually, after all, but not so much this year. He simply wasn't in the holiday spirit. However, he'd planned this charity event months ago, and there was no cancelling it now. 

It wasn't as flash as ones he'd held in prior years, his museum open to the public with collection buckets all over for people to give what they could to ensure a better holiday for those in need. Music filled the space, and there were performers all throughout the space. Yes, he'd had to up security for the evening to keep his many occult related items safe, but- Well, it was worth it, he supposed. If nothing else, it seemed to be enough to stop his mother from worrying so much about him for a bit.

All were welcome and admission was free. The bar was reasonably priced, and there were a few free nibbles donated by a local restaurant. All and all, not a bad night for the bored and the generously inclined.

(Use this like you'd use any GP! OTA)
drfeelbad: (Default)
[personal profile] drfeelbad
"You are American!" the barmaid exclaimed in delight when House sat down and asked for a scotch. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

House arched a brow at her enthusiasm, but then again, one of the reasons he'd come inside was that he'd seen the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade playing on the television above the bar. "Just like home," he said, nodding up at the television. "The crass commercialization designed as holiday spirit just gives me warm fuzzies."

She laughed. "I have pumpkin pie."

"You're shitting me. Really?"

She shrugged. "Used to be married to one of you. He was from Wisconsin. Liked pie."

House pulled out his wallet and took out a fifty pound bill, set it on the bar. "I'm going to sit here and watch the parade. Bring me whatever you like."

She was clearly thrilled about the challenge, because in addition to the pumpkin pie, she started whipping up experimental Thanksgiving-themed cocktails. It was amazing what could be made with cranberry and apple cider. An hour and a half later, House was drinking what she described as a cranberry orange margherita, and on his second piece of pie.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" he yelled to whoever walked in, hearing the tingling of the bells there.
londoncallingmods: (spoops)
[personal profile] londoncallingmods
The weather today had been fairly pleasant, a mostly sunny day wedged between fairly grey ones. It wasn't warm, but the chill was minimal for this time of year, and there wasn't a drop of rain in sight. As night crept in, however, the streets slowly faded from sun kissed and painted in autumnal colours, to foggy and damp. An odd thing, really, since the forecast had predicted a clear and pleasant night.

It wasn't normal fog either, it was denser, thicker, and it carried an distinct scent, like cinnamon sugar and chestnuts. It was so thick it seemed to drain the streets of their colour, leaving the wold desaturated and grey. More importantly, anyone with a bit of magic in them would sense, quite quickly, that it wasn't of this world. It crackled quietly with power, dark and heavy. Unfriendly.

It was around nine pm that the local police stations began to receive calls, things they assumed were pranks at first, but soon began rolling in so quickly and frequently that it seemed something more was afoot. The evening news spoke of mass hysteria, warning people to stay indoors. Conspiracy blogs were lit up with chatter of chemical warfare, and some 'airborne drug'. There were reports of people seeing everything from long dead loved ones, to killer clowns.

Though despite the nervous chattering of talking heads and twitter addicts, most people were paying the supposed danger no mind. Clubs and bars on every block were blasting music and throwing costume parties, people were out with friends, wandering the streets and looking for a fun time. It may have been Monday, but that didn't seem to be stopping many people from enjoying the holiday.  

For the most part, everything seemed fine. ...The crowds and groups remained oblivious to the danger of the fog. ...It was only those who slipped off on their own, to have a quick smoke, to get some air or head home early. They were the ones in danger, they were the ones who's darkest fears seemed to emerge from the thick fog. 

Around 10pm, reports started to come in regarding a body found in Whitechapel, cut open wide and left to bleed out. No prints at the scene, no signs that anyone else had even been there. The CCTV footage had somehow been rendered useless, glitched out and blurred. A trouble echoed by every other security camera on the street. It was enough to set twitter and the internet off all over again, with talk of how the things seen in the fog might, somehow, be real.

(Happy Halloween! The fog is bringing fears and spoops to life! You can make the creatures and fabrications of the fog as personal or general as you like. Whatever works best to spook your pup. If, for any reason, you don't want your pup to see any spooks, that's totally fine too. It's not a required plot. Unlike last year, this time around the creepy things your pup might see can harm them and do real damage. Though they will vanish in the morning. If your pup is sensitive to magic in any way, they might sense that this magic is distinctly fae. If you have questions about what you can or can't do, just ask in slack! Though really, the only limit here is your imagination. Remember to check with other players before doing anything that might seriously hurt their pup, ect, ect, and have fun!)

OTA

Oct. 23rd, 2016 04:47 pm
jageskro: (a little lost)
[personal profile] jageskro
Sundays were good days to be out working the passers by, especially when it wasn't raining. The sun wasn't out, but that didn't bother Jag; cloudy fit his state of mind much better. Not that he let that show as he performed, of course; anyone who didn't know him well enough would think nothing of it, although his smiles weren't quite genuine as he played with fire, drawing ooohs and aaahs from a rapidly milling crowd.

He still had no idea how to be himself, felt like skin didn't fit right, but going through the motions sounded like a plan. His only plan. Fake it 'til you make it.

So after work, he headed over to a nearby pub to treat himself to a pint, settling on a bar stool with his bag of gear by his feet. Going through the motions. He fiddled with his mobile for a while, then texted Val with a simple, 'I'm so sorry.' He debated whether to add more, but nothing seemed quite right, so he sent it before he might change his mind. He didn't expect an answer, but Val deserved an apology, and who knew. Maybe it would even help Jag.

On the other hand, maybe Val would be better off never hearing from him again. Should he really have sent that text? Ah, fuck it. It wasn't as if he could take it back, and he'd been going back and forth about it ever since his mind had cleared.

"Shot of whisky," he ordered from the bartender, on the tone of someone who direly needed a shot of something strong.
prodigalflame: (shocked by the level of your stupid)
[personal profile] prodigalflame
The Tavern, as it was called, brought to mind images of faded Tudor quaintness: of whitewashed exterior, black beams, windows barred with cast iron, mulled mead and a fireplace in every room.

In truth, the pub was anything but. Located in one of the gentrifying suburbs, it was a modern bulwark of concrete, iron and glass. The first two stories were the pub proper, and the next ten were apartments. The owners had called it 'The Tavern' in a display of hipster pride, as if it was the only pub that mattered. Snaking through the two levels were a series of pipes, as small-scale brewing took place on site.

It was usually a lively sort of pub, populated mostly by the fussy, the well-off, the well-educated and those that aspired to be, although situated near a tube station meant it also got a lot of randoms peering in to grab a pint. The alcohol menu was diverse, the food menu was dominated by various pulled meats and a cheese board (if anyone cared) and there were probably far too many male graduate students with neckbeards who nodded enthusiastically at each other as they discussed Kant.

Still, on Saturday night it was even more bustling than usual. People stood on the stairs, beers in hand, and chatted. Every seat was taken. The wait staff had their hands full (literally), and moved with ease and grace through the throng to deliver food to tables, and collect numbers and plates.

Tonight there would be music. Tonight there would be bands. Tonight was Singles' Night, a guarantee of no sappy love songs, no heart break, no angst. Two local bands were playing: first there would be a set from The Flamethrowers, with a mix of classic rock and pop standards, and then after a break, there would be an electro-synth duo to allow for dancing well past midnight.

So at about 9pm, patrons were treated to the sight of the first band tuning up. There wasn't really a performance space, so much as a corner on the ground floor of the pub that was currently unoccupied by tables. It was a four-piece band: some shaggy-haired cross between hobo and hipster on rhythm guitar and vocals, a slightly older british caribbean guy in glasses with goatee on double bass, a short-haired woman in her mid-20s on percussion and vocals and a tendency to beat the ever-living fuck out of the drum set, and another woman, more long-haired and willowy, on keyboards and vocals. Mr Hobo-Hipster of the shaggy hair and blond tips sang lead most of the time, but he gave it up for each of the women through their eleven song set, and there were duets. The keyboard was set to produce a more honky-tonk piano sound, and combined with the double bass, most of the covers had a dirty feel to them, all loose chords and guitar slaps. Clearly they'd played together for long enough to have a good feel for each other, which just added to the looseness, the occasional digression or ad hoc solo.

And Mr Hobo-Hipster didn't so much as introduce the band members as say "Hey. We're the Flamethrowers" and then let his guitar speak for itself as they launched into a funked-up version of Money. His voice was a little rough, almost a growl, and his stage presence was contained but not muted. Even without posturing, John made it very clear that he was the driving force behind the band: he didn't preen or strut, he didn't need to, and only the hint of a smirk could be seen around his eyes. There was no grinning, not now: now he was controlled and contained and came off a little bit contemptuous of having to perform. He sang, sure, and he played, and played pretty well, but his focus were the frets of his guitar, the lyrics of the songs. That night, he was sleek and dangerous and full of pride. That night, he had no reasons to smile or grin or show how happy he was: he'd lost those along the way. He was pared back to his disdainful core. Overall, the band was good but not great, and with John being Intense, the performance probably came off somewhere between 'bluesy rock band' and 'satanic death cult'.

Grooving through the set-list for roughly 45 minutes, the Flamethrowers played a series of stripped-back, funked-up covers. Rock the Casbah. a slowed-down take on Time after Time. Versions of Dangerous and Sweet Dreams (are made of this) that were dominated by the keyboards and a sparse double bass. Everybody Wants to Rule the World. John's wry grin came out for a guitar driven, lazy run on Carole King's "It's Too Late", before he paused to finally introduce the band, have some water, and explain that the point was to avoid the melancholic and romantic: to not make anyone feel bad for being single.

Four more songs, and they then closed with Mama Told Me Not To Come, having meandered their way past some INXS, Living End and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

In the end, John thanked the band (again), thanked everyone for showing up, and hoped they passed the audition. As a nicety, he promised there would now be some 'music you can dance to' after a little break, and then disappeared to pack up his guitar and amp and find himself a drink and a quiet corner.

The night went on without him, and that was just fine.

[OOC: Saturday night at an upmarket pub and destination of note. Feel free to show up before, during or after the band. Complain about the noise, the locally brewed artisan beer, the hipster food, the even more hipster band, or just dance the night away.]
wispofathing: (Guitar)
[personal profile] wispofathing
Curnen couldn’t hear everything people were saying around her, but she could guess well enough what they were on about. Probably given her torn jeans and spaghetti-strap tank top, they were wondering who this ratty little girl was in the midst of a city that was all shine, polish, and culture. Probably wondering what she was, since she was pretty sure she heard someone say "gypsy." Maybe someone who knew a thing or two about music was pointing out that her guitar was on the cheap end of the spectrum.

Maybe it was just her hands. She saw more than a couple of people point at them.

She ignored them, and it didn’t take much to see that it wasn’t her ability to give no fucks that let her do this. Quite the opposite. If she started paying attention to the derision, she was going to crumble and flee the scene. Rather, she threw herself into the tuning of her guitar, doing her best imitation of Bliss, who wouldn’t’ve let any of them rattle her. Who probably really wouldn’t notice. Bliss would have shut them all up with a joke and a beatific smile or something. But...

She didn’t look at anybody, instead turning her face up to the sky and at first allowing her voice to come out in high, mournful keening. Bliss’s voice was low and rough, all grit and smoke on the water. Curnen... well. Her voice didn’t have that kind of obvious sex appeal. When she was little, her family had always said she had a voice like an angel, and that was what it sounded like. The effortless notes rising from her throat were clear and ethereal, the song something she’d picked up from the ren faire circuit.

Abroad as I was walking one evening in the spring
I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing
Her chains she rattled on her hands, and thus replied she
"I love my love because I know my love loves me."


The atmosphere changed at once, disdain changing to awe, admiration, and even tears, though Curnen paid no attention to that either. even as the money started making its way into her guitar case. It wasn’t until she took an instrumental break between verses that she allowed herself to look around her and offer a little smile from under her lashes as someone approached to drop a bank note into the pile.

OTA

Jul. 20th, 2016 03:13 pm
akatawitch: (Have to go through me)
[personal profile] akatawitch
The best part of summer was reading things because you wanted to and not because you had an assignment, and Sunny had a lot of catching up to do. Oh, she read a few trashy romance novels during the school year, but that was about all her brain could take. Now she had the time and space for things that required quite a bit more concentration as Greer Gilman's work did.

Even so, it was too easy to lock yourself indoors when it came to books, so she made a point of reading out in public whenever possible. Which was nice. She claimed a spot reading under a tree in the park and let the utter contrast of winter tales carry her away into flights of fancy. So it was too bad when she overheard a piece of conversation between two elderly women shuffling by along the nearby path. She hadn't been trying to listen or anything, it had just floated into awareness.

"The only people I do have problems with are Negros. And I don't know why."

Huh. Usually people were more subtly awful than that. They must be really good friends to say that kind of thing without fear of judgment.

Sunny slipped a hand into her purse and gave her knife a surreptitious twist. "Bring music of my heart," she murmured.

Her heart at the moment seemed to be full of California love. Positively blaring "California Love."

The song seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and Sunny watched as people looked around for a source that they would not find. Anybody with magic would know at once that no such source would be found, and probably wouldn't have to work that hard to discern that it was her doing.

Sunny however only raised an eyebrow at the proceedings ­­and went back to her book. No one was going to die from five minutes of rap.

Though those women appeared to be trying to shuffle away as fast as they could, and that was a thing of beauty.

OTA

Jun. 29th, 2016 03:55 pm
jageskro: (Default)
[personal profile] jageskro
Jag had all but forgotten about the box. When they'd got back from the countryside, Val had been mostly out of it, and they hadn't stopped by the museum to drop it off. It had ended up in the pocket of Jag's jacket, and he'd only noticed once he was back at the squat. He'd taken it out and put in his room, meaning to bring it back whenever, but he'd never got around to it. At first, he'd been oddly reluctant, and then he'd forgotten about it.

For some reason, today, his gaze landed on it, and he reached out to pick it up. He was supposed to meet Val in an hour, and had only just come back from busking. He sat on the edge of his bed, fingertips tracing the carvings on its wooden sides. Cursed, Val had said, but there would be no harm in taking a look? Whatever was inside, Jag wouldn't put it on or even touch it. He only wanted a peek. No harm there, surely.

The small lock popped open before he realised he'd been toying with it, hoping to open it. His breath caught in his throat, and he lifted the lid, frowning slightly at the small, ornate mirror that lay inside. Jag caught his reflection in it, and his frown deepened. For a beat, he didn't move, just stared.

Then he shut the lid down with a small snap, and shook his head. This was all bullshit, wasn't it? A cursed mirror. What next? The truth was, he needed a pint, and some time to himself. He was so fucking tired of being in caretaking mode. Maybe he'd still swing by Val's later, he'd see. But for now, he left the box on his bed, grabbed his light jacket, today's earnings, and headed out of the squat.

He found a pub still showing football, and ordered a whisky. It didn't take long to rile up English supporters still upset over the Iceland match, but the bartender was too on top of things and Jag was thrown out before he could start a fight.

He sighed, and pulled a cigarette out of his pack, lighting it up with a thought. "Better luck next pub," he hoped, and got walking.



Find him in that pub, in the next one, in the street, whatever!
lcrpg_npc: (night)
[personal profile] lcrpg_npc
While every week is a good week to love yourself and be proud, no week was better time to shout that pride from the rooftops than, well, London Pride. 

From Pride Ride, an epic group cycle through London, to parades, lunches, parties, massive club nights, and even comedy shows and concerts, there was no way anyone could be bored this week. There were ample opportunities to dress up in flashy clothes, reach out and meet other members of the LGBT community, and even just blow off some steam.

Some events of note to look forward to were the Natural History Museum June Lates, the already mentioned Pride RideSecret Soho Saucy Tours, and dozens of other events and fun times.

Something for everyone, and not  dull day in sight.
goodfellow: (dark)
[personal profile] goodfellow
It had taken considerably longer than Robin anticipated, thanks to some building code issues that had pushed back his renovations by months, but following the thrown together "preview" on New Year's Eve (that had gone very well if he did say so himself), Saturnalia was finally officially open for business.

The inside of the club looked somewhat different than it had in January: more polished now, better decorations, furniture, lighting. There was still Greek inspiration, particularly in the murals on the walls - modern, graffiti-inspired versions of Greek art and myths, bright colors splashed amidst chrome industrial decor. Most of the employees (bartenders, dancers) were wearing togas.

The grand opening was a hot ticket, but Robin had sent out invitations generously, and instructed the bouncers at the door to let in the beautiful people as usual, yes, but to be rather random about it as well. After all, what was the fun in only the rich and beautiful?

Alcohol was free flowing, and the music was hot, spun by a DJ on a stage who seemed to have the perfect sense of the crowd. He may have even had a little help by magic. Because why leave these things to chance?

OTA

May. 15th, 2016 09:15 pm
finlay_flynn: (dawn)
[personal profile] finlay_flynn
Since the incident, Fin had taken to self medicating. More so than usual- Much more. Fin often seemed to have the lingering scent of high end cannabis woven into his clothes, but lately he was hitting the harder stuff again as well. though he'd always been very high functioning for a user- Enough so that anyone who didn't know him well might not even know he was high.

It was slowly taking a toll though, in subtle ways. His temper, which had already been a bit unpredictable of late, was shorter now, and his inhibitions- Which had become more and more minimal over time- were nearly non-existent.

So tonight on his way into the club when several paparazzi began harassing him, Fin didn't respond the way he'd been taught to. ...No, quite the opposite. 

They shouted questions about his sexuality, about the sex tape, about his mysterious partner- Sometimes politely, but often crude and almost taunting. Like they wanted to provoke.

Little did they know, they really didn't need to put that much effort in.

Rather than answer, Fin caught the first person to approach him around the middle, dipping them low- Not unlike he had in a recent film of his, in a scene that had been called quite 'swoon-worthy' by his dedicated tumblr fans.

"What do you think?" he asked his surprise partner. "Should I tell them about us, lover?"

(OTA Even strangers! I thought Fin could use something a bit light hearted, so here you go. If your pup tags in, he'll prolly snog them. (The only exception I can think of is Sunny, because that would be kinda incesty imo :P) Though if you'd rather he didn't, just give me a poke on slack or email me, and instead of giving them a kiss, he'll just escort them into the club or something. XD The club can be any kind you like!)
pecked_by_birds: (eyes shut)
[personal profile] pecked_by_birds
He had been back in London for seventy-three hours, twenty-six minutes, and fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... Seconds. He knew that for certain, and there was no need for clocks. No, Prometheus could feel the seconds ticking inside of him.  

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine...

Upon his return home, he'd locked himself away in his flat, pulling out his paints and canvases and filling them with dark shadows and heavy lines. This form was not like the last he'd worn. It felt wrong and right all at once-  It was all angles and odd lines, sharp bones and pale flesh, highlighted with ginger hair and pale green eyes- Eyes that weren't so different from other forms he'd worn. 

However, when he closed these eyes he could hear waves crashing, and feel the weight of the chains that had once forced him to remain still and suffer.  With his eyes shut, every moment that ticked by sent him spiralling deeper into the darkness he'd spent so long running from. 

The titan's madness had known all kinds of forms. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud- Often angry, but sometimes... Sometimes it was like a fog. That's how it was now, it seemed. In this form it didn't bring rage, only pain, moments of confusion, and a lingering sadness that weighed him down and made him wish for the one thing he would never have.
 
Eternal rest.

He couldn't stay in the flat forever though, and today he'd finally ventured out, daring to go shopping for supplies before finally returning to the small second hand shop he called his own. With no fanfare at all, he set about opening the shutters and flipping the sign from closed to open for the first time in months.

Inside the stock was mostly unchanged, the same paintings and books, the same oddities and trinkets. Some very old, some only from a few decades back. The difference this time being the man himself, his looks, and the way he loitered in his own shop. He didn't sit behind the counter reading now, that required a stillness he was struggling with today. Instead he stood with a paintbrush in hand, and a fresh canvas before him that he slowly began to mark in time to the drab, and slightly melancholy, sound of Radiohead.

He didn't look up when he heard someone come in, but he did point his brush at them. 

"I know what you want, but do you?" he asked.

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