pixiesweat: (angle face)
[personal profile] pixiesweat
It was a regular day for Manuel. In other words, he had nowhere to be, nothing to do, and no motivation to do anything other than wander around aimlessly.

The anniversary of his sister’s death had come and gone. The emotional turmoil had faded away, but he felt curiously flat, like it had taken the rest of his emotions with it.

He’d had a quick breakfast before he left his flat, but hadn’t even thought about eating anything since then. He didn’t know how long it had been. He wasn’t keeping track of time. He barely felt hungry, and more importantly, he didn’t care.

He walked around, considered stealing something from a convenience store he passed, just because he could, but there wasn’t anything appealing enough to be stolen even for no reason. Eventually he came to a bench, sat, and watched traffic passing by until it was making him feel irritable instead of just empty.

He stood, and that was when the lack of food finally caught up with him. The sudden change in position made his head swim, and he staggered just enough to put himself in the path of someone who’d been about to walk by.

“Sorry,” he said, once his head had cleared enough for him to realise what had happened.
lcrpg_npc: (night)
[personal profile] lcrpg_npc
The repurposed railway arches that housed Beagle's bar and restaurant were decked in shades of black: black christmas trees glittering with sparkly and satiny black ornaments, black wreaths with perfectly tied bows, black garlands draping along the walls and bar, ribbons edging the long banquet benches in the restaurant dining room. A gentle snow seemed to fall from the ceiling, a specially designed lighting effect much more pleasant than the cold and wet that would've accompanied real snow. Christmas music played over hidden speakers, setting the mood without interfering with conversation.

The Kraken Black Christmas feast was a different spin on the holiday than you'd find most places, and yet, a christmas feast all the same. All the flavors of the season were there, both in the bar's specialty cocktails and in the feast itself, served banquet-style to those fortunate enough to get tickets - mulled wine, egg nog, roasts and stuffing and puddings, and so much more. Yet the food and drinks all shared the same theme as the decor, shades of black augmented with squid ink, charcoal, or black sesame seeds.

Guests had been encouraged to continue the theme with black festive attire, but it wasn't required, and spots of color could be found here and there along the table or mingling in the bar. There was one thing everyone could agree on, though. No matter how black the theme, the mood was anything but dark.
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.
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!)
toujours_impur: (happy puppy)
[personal profile] toujours_impur
The past few days have been rather traumatic for Sirius, but he was doing his best not to dwell on it, because he had a whole new London to get on with getting used to, a new life to start. Thank God Remus had been here and had somehow been the one to find him, because he wasn't sure what would have happened otherwise. He likely would have been arrested by the muggle police and probably even been declared insane, for he would have insisted it was 1981, not 2016.

Instead, he'd been taken to Moony's flat and been taken care of as well as caught up on this new reality he found himself in. A trip to the Ministry had gotten him further sorted, and while there was one more meeting he would need to undertake soon, he wasn't quite ready to meet the adult version of the infant he'd seen just a few nights ago in Hagrid's arms.

But at least he now had money in his pocket, and he knew just where he wanted to spend it. He'd always enjoyed muggle toys (which reminded him, he'd have to find a way to get a new motorbike, as he had no idea where his old one might be by now, and at any rate it was decades old even if he could locate it), and from what he'd seen so far of Remus' mobile phone, he knew he absolutely had to get one of his own.

Finding a shop to purchase one hadn't been difficult; he'd simply asked the first person he saw peering at their little screen where they'd got it and gone there. The problem now was that there were an awful lot of models and varieties to choose from, and he had no bloody clue what he was looking for, what made one version more or less desirable than the next. He wandered around the shop peering at the little cards that announced each phone's features (which may as well have been in Bulgarian for all the sense he could make of them), fighting the urge to just buy the most expensive one in the shop and be done with it, as he no longer had unlimited funds available, at least for the moment. "Which one do you like?" he asked a nearby person with a flash of his charming smile, not bothering to check if they were an employee or if he was simply hassling a random customer.

[Welcome to modern-day London, Padfoot! If your pup wouldn't have a reason to be inside a mobile phone store, feel free to run into him outside trying to figure out how to work his shiny new smartphone. :D)
toujours_impur: (Default)
[personal profile] toujours_impur
Set to May 3rd, 2016

Sirius finds Peter Pettigrew shortly after the death of James and Lily. Unfortunately, the spell Peter casts has an unexpected side effect. Luckily, Remus finds the newly-displaced Padfoot and takes him home to catch him up on the situation he now finds himself in.
[link|rated PG|complete]

Profile

londoncallingrpg: (Default)
London Calling RPG

September 2017

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920 212223
24252627282930

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 18th, 2017 05:47 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios