goneawayworld | From Dust to Dust

The dressing rooms are relatively plain, but the attire is not. To prepare for the ball, the Hires will be dressed to the nines in black-tie-at-a-minimum outfits of the local aesthetic, which means that they can’t just throw on their scrubby uniforms and go out there. Instead, they’ll have to help each other into gowns and suits, many of which are heavy to the point of cumbersome with embroidery and beading or require structured, restrictive undergarments to shape correctly. The dressing cubicles each have a few outfits in each hire’s size, but nothing offered in anything short of luxurious and expensive – and clearly not made for combat or mobility.

Some of the more fashion-forward hires may feel compelled to dress their daemons as well, as there are collars, ribbons, pins and jewelry available for a range of different sizes and shapes. There are tables set up with makeup and jewelry, and there seems to be the expectation that hires will partake in both no matter what their complexion, gender presentation or species.

The dressing cubicles are, thankfully, somewhat private, which means that those hires who’ve been waiting to have a moment to talk to each other without anyone else listening in may have a chance to make their move. They aren’t soundproofed, but no one’s checking who’s coming or going so long as shabbily-dressed hires go in and smartly-dressed hires come out.

The ballroom ceiling arcs high over the New Hires’ heads, chandeliers glittering like tiny galaxies. It’s a vast, polished space of wood and light, echoing with music and genteel laughter, conversations sparkling like diamonds. Skirts swirl and bootbuckles flash across the dance floor; everywhere you look, light and beauty triumph. The guards along the walls are almost ornamental.

Three tables groan along the wall under a banquet laid out à la française, or buffet-style if you’re a plebian. Each table has its own centerpiece: a spun-sugar unicorn kneeling in a marzipan grove, its horn the purest gold; a silver fountain of sparkling wine flowing from a dozen flowering spouts; and in the center, two roasted swans in their plumage arranged facing one another, wings spread out and beaks touching at the tips.

The dance floor takes up most of the space. The band sits in a raised alcove just off the floor, moving professional through waltz and minuet and quadrille. The dancers dip and bow, flirt and turn, coming together and parting in one long tireless stream. Couples join and depart, but the dancing carries on. It won’t stop until the sun rises.

Outside, partygoers wander a maze of low hedges or sit before fountains, sipping from glasses circulated by discreet butlers. Nearly all the men are smoking. Servants have come out to light the lanterns. It’s the gloaming, the brief time when the sun has slipped fully below the horizon, but night doesn’t yet rule the sky. Liminal space. A time of possibility - and danger.

One thing of notice: no matter where the hires go, at some point they'll be corralled in front of a photographer and have a portrait shot. The photographer doesn't seem particularly interested in making sure they're in a flattering light or smiling, and doesn't offer to share the photos with them.

Edited 2021-07-21 20:51 (UTC)

The ball is decadent, and the man you see seated nearby is clearly enjoying himself, eating a scrumptious hors d'ouevre and smiling. He doesn't seem to be imbibing any alcohol on top of this, but clearly this is enough to make him happy.

There's a few details to notice about this man—he's sitting near a vacant hallway, off to the side of the party. He's dressed like one of the servants that are serving up the hors d'ouevres, but he has a gold chain and pendant on that makes it clear he's set apart somehow, as if he's a manager or maybe even the person in charge of the festivities.

And this man seems to have taken notice of the person nearby, watching him. He smiles at them and stands, approaching.

"I see that you're enjoying yourself," he says. "That's good, very good. I was wondering, however, whether you are interested in knowing more about what's behind the curtain."

What South picks out is, going by its size and cut, probably sized with her brother, or one of the other male hires around his size, in mind. Suit pants and a jacket over a slightly more decorative shirt with a fancy bow rather than a tie that's a token effort at putting any more traditional, feminine touches on the outfit.

She'll do fancy, but like hell she's going to wear a dress again. The 1950s shit was bad enough, but an evening gown? Nope. Fuck that. If they want her to go to this, it's going to be in pants or not at all.

If the face she pulls at the jewelry and make-up tables is anything to go by, she's not exactly eager to engage with any of that, either.

"Who actually enjoys like, any of this stuff?"

The snake draped around her shoulders just replies, "People who aren't you," as South glares at her for being a smartass.

[For North]

Her hair's gotten too fucking long.

She keeps it short for a reason—well, a few, really. The closest to styling she gets is re-dying the front purple, otherwise, she barely touches it except to drag a comb through it. She has absolutely no idea how to make her hair look presentable and it shows.

"Maybe if you hold it up and I wrap myself around it before you let go I can keep it up for you," Anja says with dry humour and South rolls her eyes with a huff, still trying to fight her hair up into a— bun? That's probably a bun she's trying to make.

"Oh— shut the fuck up, I'm trying, okay? I'm not used to this girly shit."

"It's a bun, not a French braid. This should not be hard."

"You don't even have fingers."

"...fuck you too."

South snickers, then curses vibrantly as she fails, yet again, to get her hair to actually stay up in a passable bun. As soon as she lets go, pieces of hair escape in all directions, and she makes a frustrated noise as she pulls it all loose again and barely resists the urge to slam her fist against something. She's meant to be at least trying to rein in her temper.

North's been neatening his suit and talking to Randi, but he starts to pass by South's station right when she's struggling with her hair and complaining—loudly. He slows, turning, and puts a hand on South's chair.

"Still can't do your own hair, can you?"

It's been a while, but he was used to being the one to deal with it whenever South needed it for special occasions.

South's back snaps ramrod straight again, not unlike it did when he caught her watching him when they arrived. Anja immediately seems to shrink in on herself, contracting her length into a tighter coil where she's settled.

"...wouldn't have to if it hadn't grown so long," she grumbles, not looking back at him. "Would just leave it down if I could."

Which is a no. No, she can't.

He has definitely noticed her stiffening with tension whenever he's nearby. He gives her a light pat on the shoulder, then tugs at the end of the tail of her hair.

"I can fix that up," he says. "And maybe we should talk. A little. I know it's not the best time...but, maybe we should."

Somehow she manages to get tenser, both at the touch and at the words. No, it's not the best time, but she's not been able to help thinking about it since he put the idea in her head before. The idea of waiting, especially when he keeps being so... so... him, threatens to drive her insane.

Maybe it's better to bite the bullet. Maybe if she has a mental fucking breakdown again she won't have to go to this stupid party at all.

"...yeah. Okay. Sure. Do my stupid hair then— then maybe we can talk in one of the cubicles."

Not that the idea of him standing there doing her hair like when they were kids without knowing where this is going is ideal, either, but who the fuck else is she going to ask to do it?

A: Robbie has gathered what he assumes makes an appropriate outfit: black shirt, black pants, a black and grey brocade vest that belongs on vintage MTV that he would gladly wear anyway, a top hat that he intends to do a Slash impression with if he can climb on top of a piano at some point, and a complete over-the-top cobalt blue velvet swallowtail coat. The coat, pants, and shirt are currently hanging on the front of a dressing cubicle to mark it as his, but he’s wearing the vest and hat already as he looks over the accessories more. The double-breasted vest is only half buttoned, and one side has a distinct round lump over his heart. “I can get away with not wearing a tie if I put a brooch where the bot would go, right?”

Phil peeks out from inside his vest. “I still think you should wear an ascot.”

Robbie hums at this - it’s not technically a tie, that’s true. “I think we need someone else’s opinion or else we’re going to look like Brendon Urie’s prom.”

“And we need to find someone to pierce my ears.”

B: Main clothes and accessories chosen, Robbie ducks into the cubicle. He closes it enough to be decency, not enough for it to look odd if anyone joins him to talk out of sight. It’s cracked like he’s waiting for them.

He hurriedly changes into the shirt and pants and then procrastinates on the rest, listening to everything going on outside. Phil is allowed to roam the cubicle freely, as he will be keeping his daemon on a tight leash at the gala later.

C: When it’s obvious that a few people are nearing fully dressed, Robbie will throw on the rest of the clothes and head over to the jewelry, makeup and hair section to look through the earrings and put a comb through his hair. The makeup he only glances at, at first, but then he starts reading the names aloud in earnest. “Merlot. Carmine. Noir - why is noir red? Who names these? Where are the saucy puns?”

Greg sighs.

"Is this a 'This is neat' look behind the curtain, or one of those ones where I'm probably gonna want to shoot someone when it's all over?"

Greg had been a vigilante too long to not be at least a little suspicious.

"In our line of work it tends to be mostly the latter, you understand," Patsy adds, the dun mare having been carefully moving around the ballroom.

Oh, how Dan loves a scheme, especially one where no one gets hurt but a little danger spices things up. Tonight, the idea is to pass Acacia off as the human with a wolf daemon, and Dan as her boyfriend, and while Dan's not a hundred percent on scheming with Stacia in spite of her apologies, this seems like a small, harmless way for everyone to have some fun with a caper together and prove that there are no lingering hard feelings over Planker.

Acacia is looking beautiful, and Dan cleans up nice, despite the fact that he bitched to no end in the dressing room about having to get this fancy. Dan considers dark slacks "dressing up" - a heavy embroidered coat with a cravat feels like cruelty, to him. He imagines this is what it feels like to be a small dog put into a Christmas sweater.

But it's hard to be in a bad mood. He'll be getting away with getting handsy with Bunny's soul right in front of their handlers, and no one will be the wiser.

"Bet I can get a crack at that piano," he says to Bunny, Stacia and their daemons, gesturing with his chin to the band. Virginia the ferret, who seems to have taken Dan's most distractible traits, paws at Acacia’s ankle to see if Acacia will pick her up.

Edited 2021-07-24 03:39 (UTC)

Stacia's always down for a scheme, and one that gives her an excuse to cuddle Bunny and be close enough to Dan that she can work on making up for the whole Planker debacle? On top of wearing nice clothes that fit for the first time in over a year? Oh yes, this is a good one. She's all pastels and doe-eyes and Benny, who's clearly having the time of his short independent life playing big tough Acacia's daemon, has rhinestones woven into his ruff like armor. Stacia has also accessorized with a scarf worn as a sling in case Bunny wants a little more independence than being cuddled like a stuffed toy would allow. But right now, he's absolutely getting the stuffed toy treatment.

"That would be fun," she agrees. "Especially if we need to draw attention from someone else."

Edited 2021-07-24 06:30 (UTC)

"I'm guessing that they're going for 'pinot noir'," Stacia says. She's skipped the dramatic reds in favor of pastel pinks and peaches, combining it with a dress that downplays her curves for a much more youthful look than she'd usually go for. There's a shenanigan afoot and it's going to be amazing.

...She still wants to play with the dramatic colors, though. She eyes Robbie thoughtfully for a moment.

"You know," she says slowly, "A touch of red would really make your eyes pop."

[costuming]
Stacia indulges herself and spends a couple minutes simply blissing out among all the luxury. The outfits may not be practical, but they look nice and the cloth feels nice to touch, and she's missed wearing clothes that actually fit and aren't the cheap crap provided by Jorgmund. It's nice, okay? Liking nice things doesn't mean that she's frivolous or stupid, it just means that she likes nice things!

She only takes a couple minutes for that though, and then she gets down to business. She goes for the silks, because silk does offer some protection in case of violence and there always seems to be the potential for violence. She sticks with the pastels though, and dress styles that deemphasize her curves. As much fun as it would be to go full glamor, she's going to play it younger tonight. While she's busy with the dresses, her wolf Benny goes to peruse the jewelry.

Stacia glances over at the nearest person and grins.

"Okay, I'm not the only one who's looking forward to a little dress up, right?"

[hair & makeup]
The thing about 'minimal' makeup looks is that they're actually way more of a pain in the ass than the more dramatic stuff, and Stacia finds it much less fun. But the specific look she's going for does call for 'minimal' makeup, so she tries not to pout at her reflection too much as she does it. But she still really wants to play with the more dramatic colors. But that's what the other people here are for, right? Right.

"Hey, want me to do your fancy facepaint for the night?"

1. Cammie disappears into one of the cubicles after picking something out and, after some comical fumbling noises as she works out how to dress herself without damaging something, emerges wearing a dress positively laden with bead detailing.

She's clearly trying to multi-task a little too much, going by the hair-tie between her teeth leaving hair spilling around her shoulders, the loose sash around her waist, and the way she's hopping trying to adjust the stockings bunching on her calf, all whilst wearing only one shoe.

At the same time, Fergie is bouncing around her feet trying to avoid being stepped on. It's... a sight.

"When I said I was small and very easily stepped on the idea wasn't for you to prove the theory!"

"I'm not gonna step on ye, calm down," Cammie retorts, only to immediately almost fall on her ass instead. "Whoa!"

2. Fergie escapes getting stepped on, but he doesn't escape being scooped up and placed on one of the tables so that Cammie can fuss over him. There's a minor squabble over whether he'll look silly with a bow around his ear before they compromise by using a nice pink bow as a collar, instead.

"There, what a braw wee lad," she says, adjusting the bow. "Look at us, all fancy like. Don't think I've even dressed up this nice in the Ether."

"And you still have to do makeup! And hair! Imagine how fancy you'll be then."

Cammie mock gasps, "What's wrong with ma hair? Ye can never go wrong with a ponytail. Though I guess since I don't need it up for the ears..." She pulls it down, and at least starts braiding it instead. "Okay, this? I can do. Accessories? I can probably do. But if I'm puttin' on makeup, I'm gonna need help, or I'm gonna look like a wee kiddie who got into her ma's things."

"I'd offer but. Only got paws," Fergie says with mock seriousness and lowered head. Cammie shakes her head at him with a laugh.

A: Dress up the person

Dressing elegantly never was Shelley's style, really. Costume parties? Fun! Casual style? Sure, let her do it. But it's not really often she dresses like she's going to a fancy party.

Perhaps that's why she looks like she's having a good time. To her credit Shelley Winters looks great! She's pretty, and looks like her taste in clothes for the occassion is good. Doesn't seem like she wants makeup, though.

"Okay, if I came to you and claimed I'm some old-time baroness from a faraway land looking for a suitor would you believe me?"

Not a question people would ask, as usual, but she's just trying to figure out if she looks good.

B: Dress up the bat

Lepakko needs to be dressed up too. Shelley has Lepakko standing on the nearest surface, looking over at him with critical eye while Lepakko whispers suggestions. Judging by Shelley's face, none of them are good.

"I'm not letting you choose anything. Clearly that'd be a disaster waiting to happen"

Ugh. Shelley turns to the nearest person.

"How do you make a bat look dashing and elegant? I'm at a bit of a loss here"

Oh, the spicy happenings. Shelley doesn't doubt to approach. She has been having a good time, being the sociable woman she is, and someone sketchy isn't somebody she'd stay away from. She's not observant enough to figure out anything other than 'hey this guy is a little away from everyone'.

The offer, though, that definitely gets her attention. She exchanges a look with Lepakko.

"Will I regret the knowledge?"

"Aw, it's not so bad! People usually don't get to doll up and play socialite -- if you're a social butterfly you have fun, I guess"

Like Shelley, really. She'd try to get along with everyone, including the daemons.

"Not that I have been in parties that aren't really casual or costume parties. I hope this won't be as stiff as it sounds like"

Edited 2021-07-24 21:25 (UTC)

Curious soul that she is, Cammie wanders around the glitzy party seemingly aimlessly for a while, checking out the tables of food, the sea of dancing people, the gathering outside. She doesn't stay anywhere long, but she wants to get a good sense of the event, observe the people here the same way she's sure anyone who knows who they are is observing them.

So many daemons, so little time. Or— some shite.

Eventually, though, she ends up standing off at the edge of the dance floor. Fergie is tucked into a fancy, beaded bag that's just big enough to fit his little bunny self in, so he's not running around all underfoot.

It's really not the kind of party she's used to. She can't say she really knows how she's meant to act.

"Do they expect us to dance or somethin'? How are people even dancin' when they've got a bit of their soul tethered to 'em that can't go all that far? Guess you could sit 'em on the sidelines, but what if you accidentally drift too far?"

It takes South a second to place Shelley's face, but then the dots connect. Right, she was in her head during that memory bullshit—wonderful. Though, far as she can remember (and her memory of that whole thing is a bit blurred by later events) this one wasn't nosey about it, so, there's that.

So she just snorts quietly. "Probably gonna be stiff as a board. My kinda party's a lot more... well, I'll do bars and clubs and shit. Not this fancy-pants stuff. If they were the sorta riffraff you get at military bars I could chat 'em up easy, but I'm pretty sure all I'm gonna get here is weird fuckin' looks."

"The key is to not care at all what other people think. So what if they give you weird looks? If you focus on enjoying yourself somehow then what other people care doesn't matter at all"

Shelley certainly wouldn't do not even half of the bullshit she has been known for if she was self-conscious about what other people thought of her.

South actually chuckles at that. "Not giving a shit about what people think is pretty much my whole thing, so, yeah, that's the plan."

If she cared, she'd probably just wear the damn dress to avoid it, but nah. Fuck that. It might actually be kind of funny to see the looks on the faces of the most traditional of the people here.

"There's gotta be a way to at least make this shit bearable." Maybe she and Brand can prop up a wall somewhere and just talk shit about the pompous fuckheads that are probably going to make up the party goers. "You the socialising type?"

"Usually yes, especially if there's some drinks involved. When they say alcohol is liquid courage they mean it"

And thankfully, she has enough selfcontrol to not embarrass herself even when totally wasted. Now that she has Lepakko, though...she gives her bat the good ol' fingerguns. Took no time at all for her to grow attached to that daemon.

"But now that this guy is in the equation I don't think how that's going to go. He's like a me with zero inhibitions. At least you probably won't have to worry about yours causing havoc the moment you're not looking"

South looks at the bat, then looks down at Anja, whose long body is wrapped and draped comfortably around South's shoulders. "Probably not havoc, no."

Get weirdly friendly with people she likes but won't necessarily admit she likes, or likes that much? That's another problem entirely. Anja knows exactly what she's thinking, and responds only by looking about as smug as a snake can.

"Guess you better not look away," Anja jokes. South's not sure if its directed entirely at Shelley, or partially at her.

She shakes her head. "...that actually makes me wonder how these guys act if we do drink and get drunk."

He waits through her deliberations, and once she's decided, he nods at her in the mirror, then begins gathering her hair into a low tail, intending to twist it into a French twist afterwards. He keeps his touch firm but gentle, not meaning to pull her hair or tighten it too much as he gathers it.

Once it's twisted up he nods at the bobby pins on the dressing table in front of her. "Can you hand me some of those? One at a time."

From Dust to Dust - Plot Point 2

Dressing Up

The Party

Sketchy Doings Afoot

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Re: Sketchy Doings Afoot

Dan, Bunny and Stacia (plus daemons)

Re: Dan, Bunny and Stacia (plus daemons)

C

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