Dún Scáith Presents: Lupercalia 2019

[Millicent Grim]

Phase 1: Rumors about a poetry slam

PHOTOS of Dún Scáith

[MorrighanCartier]

**Text to Morri:** HEY! ARE YOU ALIVE?!

**Text to Milli-Bean:** THIS WEEK. YES. WHY?!

**Text to Milli-Bean:** I DONT HAVE ANY PLANS ON DYING. BUT THAT CAN CHANGE. Srsly. My calendar is open. Sup?

**Text to Morri:** Don't just "sup" me! Hi!!! How are you! I love you! Play drums for me for Valentine's day at the Sac.

**Text to Milli-Bean:** I will ‘sup’ you all I want! HI! I’m alive today! I’m good. How are you?!
......
Who else is gonna be there? Is there a catch? i feel like there’s a catch. Do I have to wear electrical tape on my nipples again?

**Text to Morri:** Oh god. No. Well............ unless you want to. <_< But it would have to be red and white. We should all wear read and white. No catch. Well..I mean..other than, you know, a room... with heavy security... full of vampires. And my cousin's bar!

**Text to Milli-Bean:** Vampires AND your cousin’s bar. And I can just wear tape for a bra with no catch? I am in.

Srs. just give me date/time and when we need to have rehearsals. I’ll need to get my kit moved.

**Text to Morri:** Damn. That was easy. ...ok! Come over...Tomorrow. No drums yet! We should talk! Prepare! Pick out outfits!

**Text to Milli-Bean:** I have nothing but time on my hands these days.

Pick outfits....can you just do that? especially if you want us all to be match-y.

**Text to Morri:** You mean you don't *want* to pick outfits with me?

**Text to Milli-Bean:** That is exactly what I meant! You know I don’t shop alone unless it’s at home.

**Text to Morri:** Ugh but...let me at least show you like...5 options. I'll put them together.... and you just.. I mean, I barely know exactly what I'm wearing. (Ok, that's not exactly true. I'm doing a ghostly harajuku queen of hearts manga maid.) So....something like that? .

**Text to Milli-Bean:** Fine! Fine.
....I cannot play drums in something like that. Is that the theme though?
(Image)
**Text to Milli-Bean:** That is do-able. We can talk this over tomorrow. As long as I’m not wearing 18 layers.

**Text to Morri:** Honestly I think the less layers the better. Yay!!! I'll send you my location.

[Amelia Sinclair]

A Chemical Eden interpretation


Event 1 of 2: The Dún Scáith Lupercalia Event

Word of mouth was a useful method for rumor spreading, if the right mouths caught word. And so it was said that Dún Scáith will host a cocktail event for the first half of Lupercalia 2019. Attire is recommend to have at least a little red... somewhere. By 11:30pm all patrons will be urged to begin their way to The Sacrifice Club for a live performance and dance party with additional, curious experiences. There would be a one night only magical portal erected in DSL, forever solidifying the connection between the very private, very hush-hush Vampires that run The Sacrifice Club to the distant cousin's bar. This portal would leave from Dún Scáith to The Sacrifice Club (and back again) providing the perfectly efficient transportation between the two venues. So, no need to grab your coat when traveling between venues as long as there are no aversions to magical means. (Baaaa.)

Amelia Sinclair's vision for the evening has a bit of old world proper in it, of course. The hope is simply to provide... a great night at a posh cocktail bar. Not a cold, American bar or RhyDin bar where people ignore you unless you catch their eye. But something more like home, her home, like Europe. Where a good line or a good joke can pull the whole crowd together and set everyone awash in warm, mutual amusement. A bar where you don't need to know everyone to know everyone, and you've gathered together to celebrate ... each other. Whether that means intellectually, or carnally, it doesn't really matter-- because it's Lupercalia. And on this day, we write poetry. We write odes to those we adore.... mm... or just met. We celebrate the flesh we live in, and the minds we immortalize them with.

On this night, we write for each other.

This Lupercalia we recall the story of the priest in his cell, waiting to die, and writing a final note to a girl he had loved, even for a moment. The girl whose letter he signed, “Your Valentine.”

I loved you first: but afterwards your love
By Christina Rossetti

I loved you first: but afterwards your love
Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? my love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be—
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’
Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.



[[All are welcome! Descriptions of both Venues and confections and drinks will appear shortly. For those interested in the live play portion, we'd love to do something a little different to get everyone schmoozing together. Names of the Poetry Slam participants should be DMed to Amelia Sinclair by 8pm EST Thursday 2/14/2019 . These names will be assigned numbers, and a random number generator will pair participants. You will be messaged with your muse's name and have this time up until the live event to investigate the individual and write a short ode to them. Whether it be a surface level ode to a stranger (perhaps upon the colour of their hair..) or something more scandalous for those who know each other... it's all in good fun! This ode will be performed live in the Discord channel dedicated to the event. When you receive your muse's name by the end of 2/15/2019, you will also receive a number that will signify what order you will be called up in.

You do not have to participate in the Odes to come to the parties! No pressure! Odes are welcome to be memorialized on the event posts here whether you attend or not! Posts in the Dun Scaith thread could be... your poems, what your character did at the live event, your character getting ready for the live event, or even if you didn't play the live event -- you can say you did. =D Just write us a little something! (Posts for the board only nightclub event could be as simple as what your character changed into to shake their bum on the dance floor. Whatever you want! )

To get the most bestest fun participation, please supply the following in a DM to Amelia Sinclair:

Your name:
Your profile link (wherever there is the most detailed physical description of your character):
Location of your writing (if applicable) for your poet to peruse:
Any additional preferences or concerns:

Thank you, and we look forward to hearing your work!]]

Discord event: Sunday 2/17/2019 at 8pm EST
PHOTOS OF THE BAR

Coming soon: The Sacrifice Club Lupercalia Bacchanal [[Board Posting Only Event]]

[Amelia Sinclair]

Dún Scáith



Couture Cocktails
Created by Amelia... with a little bit of constructive criticism from Julian. Because he's brilliant.
The night's specials are found on small foil menus made just for tonight.


Sacred Honey
For Hunter, with love.

40ml Esprit de Figues
20ml bourbon tobacco infused vodka
2 dashes bitters
10ml lovesick fairy heart infused Perrier
Honey to coat the glass

(No figs were harmed in the making of this libation, only fairies.)
(Cause figs can't hurt, silly.)


Blood & Wool
Each Lupercalia began with the sacrifice by the Luperci of goats and a dog, after which two of the Luperci were led to the altar, their foreheads were touched with a bloody knife, and the blood was wiped off with wool dipped in milk; the ritual required that the two young men laugh.

Benedictine
Marshmallow infused prosecco
Grey Goose
Brandy-soaked cherry juice
Poured over cotton candy floof.



The whole sky...

The story begins with the legend of King Lycaon ("The Wolfish One"). According to Ovid's Metamorphoses (translator A.S. Kline), Lycaon was a primitive lord of Arcadia in the earliest era in which humans walked the earth, "when the constellations that had been hidden for a long time in dark fog began to blaze out throughout the whole sky..." "The rituals and myths of this primitive rite of passage centered upon an ancient threat of cannibalism and the possibility of a werewolf transformation for the epheboi (adolescent males) who were the participants." Modern archeology has revealed that this mountain was a ritual site long before the name Zeus was even known in Greece: in 2008, it was announced that ritual activity dating from 3,000 B.C. was evident at the site. The wolf-rites of Mount Lykaion appear to have been the direct inspiration for the more famous Roman holiday of Lupercalia.

Also... for love on every plane. Under every sky. Always.

A gin based cocktail.
With herbs only found in RhyDin.

Amelia found something she liked in the RDI.


~~An exercise in figgery~~
The rites were confined to the Lupercal cave, the Palatine Hill, and the Forum, all of which were central locations in Rome's foundation myth. Near the cave stood a sanctuary of Rumina, goddess of breastfeeding; and the wild fig-tree (Ficus Ruminalis) to which Romulus and Remus were brought by the divine intervention of the river-god Tiberinus; some Roman sources name the wild fig tree caprificus, literally "goat fig". Like the cultivated fig, its fruit is pendulous, and the tree exudes a milky sap if cut.




coeur coupé en deux (CCD)

Heart-ache. Fuck it.

2 ounces Bourbon whiskey
1 tablespoon fig preserves
1/2 ounce honey simple syrup
1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice
Sprig of fresh thyme
Lemon slice



fil d'argent

… I find myself thinking of you – at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link – a thread exists between your heart and mine… And that, should that link be broken by distance or time… Well – I fear my heart would cease to beat and die… and you’d soon forget about me.

Inspired by the scent Amelia has decided to wear tonight.

1 1/2 ounces vodka
1/2 ounce Fig + Vanilla Bean Simple Syrup recipe above
2 Tablespoons lemon juice
2-4 ounces rose infused soda water
Ice
Fresh figs for garnish
Thyme sprigs for garnish



Virgin Suicide

Julian préfère to call this a Pickpocket sur les marches du sacré coeur. Because there was. And there's always a sacrifice.

2 fresh figs
1/2 ounce St-Germain elderflower liqueur
2 ounces grey goose
1 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/2 ounce agave nectar



Mor-Milk Gin Fizz

Milk from the fig tree- just like mother wolf.
Not quite Ramos. More like Romulus. Definitely will piss off Moriah if you have her go through the trouble of making you more than one. (Teehee.)

Based on (well, mostly) one of the most difficult drinks to mix, pour, and fizz.

1/4 cup (2 ounces) gin
1 dash (3 to 4 drops) orange and fig blossom water
1 large egg white
1 tablespoon (1/2 ounce) half-and-half
1 tablespoon (1/2 ounce) fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon (1/2 ounce) fresh lime juice
1 tablespoon (1/2 ounce) simple syrup
1 cup ice cubes
2 tablespoons (1 ounce) seltzer

==================================================================================
Confections - Sugar High



Amelia felt that mostly tonight would be suite. Around the bar were plates of Ladurée goodies. Heart boxes to take home. Macarons for the ages. But only her favorites: orange blossom, salted caramel, rose petal, vanilla, creme brulé, and Chocolate... hey wait..how did those WEIRD FLAVORS get in here?



Their were pastry puffs with creme and mousse fillings.


And chocolate mousse lips, with (pink) or without (red) a touch of tart pink raspberry puree dusting. A little gold leaf to make it royal court fancy.


There was hazelnut floof with artisanal sorbets and tarte jellie fruit cube candies. Elegantly plated.


And there were various pot du cremes of all sorts of exotic flavors on plates of rose petals.

[Hunter White]

[written with Amelia's player]

Amelia rounded the bar with the slick click-clack of her too-expensive Louboutins. She pushed her fingers through long, gun-metal coloured hair, fluffing it some and lifting it in a loose shake to add some volume to the weight of the day.

Julian raised a brow at her. “It’s all fine,” he sad, consolingly.

“Mm. I know, I know. I just have to give it one more look to be sure it’s not a garish nightmare.”

“Could you even *create* a garish nightmare?” he asked.

“Na. Probably not. Too brilliant,” she flashed him a smile, giving a little glimmer of her just slightly too long canines. Genetics, not fantasy fakes.

“Well, there you are,” he smiled at her and slid his thumb under his suspender strap (pink hearts today, over a salmon pink Cuban shirt). “When are we opening?”

“8pm. Sharp. Where are the little foil menus?”

“They’re still on your desk.”

Amelia halted to change directions, but Julian placed a hand on her bare forearm. “I got it, boss.”

“Right,” she said.

Julian tilted his head inquisitively. “Never seen you this nervous.”

“Well, I never opened a damn portal in my bar.”

Two pairs of dubiously curious eyes slid towards the gaping, spinning, roiling and churning abyss at the end of DSL’s main room. It swirled and slithered in oil-slick colours of deep violets and effervescent smog. They looked at each other at the same time, the scene was almost comedic.

“Hunter?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. Not needing more of an answer or a question. Then she pushed open the kitchen door half way down the bar and disappeared into the back rooms.

Ezra, wearing cherry-red leather high-top trainers matching a polo shirt with ash-grey jeans in between, emerged from what was ostensibly nowhere to side-step around her. He was wiping something from his forehead with the back of one arm, and carrying a black plastic rubbish liner knotted shut and half full of something else with the other arm hanging it cautiously away from his body. It rocked and sloshed indiscreetly on the way to the dumpster behind the bar. "Pardon -- oh, aye? Check the walk-ins 'fore ya order any meats, yeah?" He made a clicking noise with his mouth and tipped a nod at her deferentially before shoving a heavy door out of his way to get outside.

Amelia turned gracefully to let Ezra go by, following up his remark with a subtle angling of her chin as the instruction whet her curiosity. He was gone behind the door before she could inquire. She'd stop and compose herself a moment in the near privacy of her back room before going into the office.

The familiar smell of a unique brand of men's cologne was overpowering in the confines of the managerial office, freshly applied and liberally to diminish and dominate any lingering odor of livestock handling. The spiced scent in the office was amplified by ephemeral heat and energy which paced and prowled through the confined space, enticing and claustrophobic.

She looked at Hunter and smiled, half secretive and half bawdy, social commentary always playing on her lips. “It’s pretty,” she commented on his work as she leaned, touching the French seams of her stockings against the lip of her desk. Her deep, somehow metallic arterial-blood red art deco dress flashed its own bemused comments at him from the Swarovski crystals that made it a spectacle to behold. So, Valentine’s day could get her out of her customary black. What else could it get her out of?

"A touch of glamour," Hunter explained smoothly and off-handedly to Amelia's legs from an impudent seat in her desk chair, the line of his frost-blue gaze alone lifting before his head cocked up too. "To avoid any confusion for the uninformed, mainly. You remember Elliot," he casually re-introduced the pair, bringing her attention to the presence of the slightly younger man on the opposite, appropriate side of the desk with a lazy gesture of his hand in that direction. A couple sodden gobs of wool cotton were soaking, apparently discarded, in what appeared to be some kind of milk turned pale candy pink in a shallow bowl on the blotter calendar protecting the surface of the desk. It was accompanied by a knife that had been blooded, a couple of shaggy goat-skin straps and a bar rag used to recently to clean the blade. The instruments were equidistant between the two men, incriminating neither one more than the other.

Elliot stood up from the chair, a curved set of goat antlers inconspicuously attached to his head making him several inches taller than he was already. There was a stark, fresh authenticity about the dark spattering of blood on his buttoned-up vest (confirmed for the curious by the details of a few minuscule droplets on un-tucked shirt tails). A blend of sophistication and savage, he almost crackled with vitality and barely sublimated power -- any other day of the year it could have been blamed on an altered state from some substance he'd imbibed, but not this day. They shared a brief, loose embrace and the right cheek first kiss-less greeting dance. "Brilliant spot you've got here. And this dress... worth it," he offered compliments as they separated, his white suit setting off all the crystals dangling from the lush silk crepe of her dress. His grin deepened the farther down a plunging neckline his sloe, smoky blue regard traveled, undaunted about appreciating her bluntly even while Hunter looked on.

Amelia's features lit and softened with recognition and she raised a hand toward the untamed pomp of hair between Elliot's horns, as if doting on a younger sibling. A sharp, wet slap abruptly interrupted her as Hunter snapped a supple, shaggy thong of fresh goat skin just above her elbow. The chastisement left a smear of blood striped on her. Although he was lacking the horns, Hunter stretched from the office chair was decisively the devil of the two men, in a sharp and slim-tailored two-piece suit which was as understated as the vivid red cloth could suffer to be.

Amelia narrowed her eyes at Hunter, contemplating, for just an extra long moment what her reaction would be as she thumbed the blood from her forearm - her plush, pale skin swelling around the whiter imprint of her harsh cleanliness.

"Get your own," he warned Elliot with a languid smile.

Amelia decided then to lean, deeply, toward Hunter. As any cultivated woman should do, the deep V line of her dress, stretched all the way to her navel barely shifted with gravity as it was affixed with invisible clothier tape to the places that needed hiding. However, the effect was much the same, and the long, streamlined view of his immaculate girlfriend, her breastbone pale and spread by rib-wings, was his... Just as she was keenly aware that Elliot got a full and satisfying glimpse of the french stocking seams that revealed themselves slowly through the shimmying split of the already short skirt-hem of her dazzling ensemble. For all her planes and angles, Amelia had a few satisfying curves and she would display them as she pleased, even while kissing Hunter square on his forehead. Then the corner of his eye. Then the corner of his mouth. "Never sharing your nice things," she said simply. Her breathe was warm and Scotch-sweet, she'd stolen a nip or two. Naughty.

"Aye, I'm on my way to go pick up my date; catch up soon," was Elliot's honest alibi for peeling backward out of the office with a grin and everyone's dignity intact. Well, Amelia's dignity could take a few hits. South London and all...

In the main room, Moriah came to work. Her attire was black and red, a rockabilly conflagration of social commentary. It was metal and trashy punk rock all at once. But she had put scarlet and hot pink streaks in her already red hair. She lifted her brows at Julian as she surveyed the bar. There were decorations.. but not much. The lighting was different and inspired a more intimate experience of the reasonable-chicness of the cocktail bar. There were decorations here and there. Tasteful pieces of Roman history. Amelia had demanded it be more Roman than Hallmark. They had obliged. But Moriah always had to add a little kitsch to the place. She snuck a few hearts in the different nooks of the bar as she wandered through. She shrugged at Julian and he shrugged back.

“When’s show time?” she asked Julian.

“An hour. Anyone outside yet?”

“No, but there’s a few cars just …waiting. Tinting is so dark I can’t tell who or what is in them.”

“Oh, that’s her cousin. She thought they might show up first.”

“They?”

“They’re playing one of the private rooms in the club before the main Midnight concert. Amelia said they’d stop by here first to hang out and catch up.”

“Is the whole band coming?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll grab another bottle of Benedictine.”

“And chartreuse.”

“Right. Yellow *and* green. Got it,” and Moriah slipped into the back rooms to drop off her bag and stock up on the herbal elixirs the bar had come to be known by.

[Olivia Diogenes]

"Sooooo..." Amelia concluded. "That's why you haven't been here..." Amelia took Olivia's raised hand by her fingers and turned her knuckles towards her one more time. "Fuck," she said. Again.

Liv was aware that she was smiling so much she had to bite her lower lip to contain it.

"God that's gorgeous. And so...You ...I need the details. I want to know how he did it and where and what and... Do I even get to meet this guy? Jesus. Do you-- do... you don't really go out at all then, do you?" Amelia narrowed her dove grey eyes at Olivia as if she could read her features like a Celtic cross spread. "Take it off," she said point blankly.

Olivia frowned a little and squinted at her friend. "Pardon?"

"The jacket. I want to see this dress. I see that slit. I see what you're doing. It's Valentine's day. You're knocked up and engaged and not coming to my party so I am well aware that the man you probably don't let out of your bedroom is probably going to wine and dine you right out of that and back into said bedroom. So I want to see this. This image of a vibrant, glowing, sex-kitten creature he's made of you. Gimme."

Liv's mouth parted as though she would protest. Then she gave it a good try, "I'm not... he... We are going out for dinner and staying away from places that serve my favorite cocktails and trying to be *good*."

"Yeah, yeah. Trying," Amelia reached for her cigarettes on the bar and then stopped with a wiggle of fingers above the pack of Gitanes. "Right. Ehem. Off."

Olivia sighed. She didn't have many girlfriends. She didn't have many friends. She said softly, "It's... I just... I have this whole side of being... well.. an adult woman that I'm just trying on for size and..." she was slowly shouldering off the coat she was wearing that was only half length so didn't do all that well at keeping her warm to begin with. "He brings out things in me. I--"

"Yeah, like your tits. Damn." Amelia actually leaned her shoulders back and took her in with a broader view. Then Amelia actually stepped back. She waggled a finger towards Olivia's mid-section. "So like...if you pull that piece there it all just slides off, right?"'

Liv pursed her lips and picked her clutch off the bar. She almost tried to hide, but there was nothing to hide in. So, "Well, yes. I suppose that's the idea."

"Yes. Yes it is."

Olivia posed. Amelia was going to comment on just how well she knew her proportions, and how flattering the silhouette of her round breasts sitting high on her ribs and just barely peeking out of that devilish neckline...and the long runway of caramel skin looked... But she let her wandering eyes do it. She gave her a thrice over. At least. This Writ fellow was on complement duty today. Amelia knew when to keep her mouth shut. "Mm," Amelia said. Succinctly.

Liv couldn't stop the smile from creeping over her mouth. She reached up and pulled a strand of her frosted hair from the corner of her lips. The enormous diamond on her finger glittered like fire in the candle light of DSL.

"Lookit you, I know the heavens didn't make a body like that to be a book worm. A cat burglar yes. I can't say I haven't let my mind wander to that. Brilliant," she graded the black stalking sex kitten of her occasional fantasies right then and there. "But... you did find your stride, didn't you?"

"I--" She looked past Amelia as someone entered the not-yet-open DSL. The proprietor could feel when the door opened. "You can thank him yourself."

Amelia smirked like a different sort of cat with canary feathers still sticking out between her teeth. "Mm," she said again, giving Liv one last look over before turning towards the door.

Slowly Amelia's figure straightened. She was aware of the vision she herself was a part of. Two young women, dressed to the nines. She wouldn't have called it hypocrisy, the way her own dress had a similar set of lines, particularly that neck line, she would have called it ... lucky. Being in this crowd, tonight, made her feel part of something wonderful. Amelia's crystal coated dress was constructed of savage beauty and glittering to high hells. It had a guarded and dangerous silhouette with a vicious shape and much, much higher hem. Amelia sparkled like art deco and Alexander McQueen made the stars.

"Oh my," she began. "You are just *trouble," she assessed the slick, graceful and yet rugged specimen that entered her bar. "You just make the imagination run *wild*, don't you?" What a smile she had for Writ as she offered him her hand. "Amelia, ...I have heard *so* much about you."

..."You, and how you have taken my savage little friend away from me." "Even tonight. Of all nights."

[Writing the Bullet]

The way Liv explained the night's festivities should have given him a clue as to what would be awaiting him upon his arrival. He'd needed to tie up some loose ends on a job but didn't want to keep her from making her appearance and had agreed to pick her up when everything was settled. Now, standing amidst a gradient sea of red, avant-garde, high fashion, he felt slightly foolish to have not expected it, not to mention a little out of place in a simple black on black satin lapeled suit, sans tie or statement piece.

It took some convincing.

Apparently, I'm just here to pick someone up.. wasn't going over so well with the quickly forming throng of Lupercalia celebrants. After a bribe, a barter, and finally.. the right string of words, coupled with a description and a miming of Olivia's height to just the right person, Writ was allowed to pass the glaring line of people behind him and enter Dún Scáith more or less intact.

One hand exposed the red lining of his coat in a ripple of black iridescence as he parted the unbuttoned suit jacket and tucked it into the pocket of his slacks. Mid-stroll, he performed a deliberate spin on the heels of his shiny shoes and let out a low whistle. Hazel eyes were greeted by the three-sixty degree experience of the decked out bar and he nodded to himself appreciatively. As he about-faced, his gaze fell on the pair of dangerous creatures huddled together at the end of the room. He had a ready smile for both of them, languidly tipped in one corner as it was wont to do.

Amelia's hail not ignored but merely put on pause, Writ stooped and leaned down for a warmly murmured "You look lovely.." and a kiss that he pressed to Liv's jawline before further addressing the other woman. She looked vaguely familiar. He thought briefly he might have seen her pull a man into the back room of a bar on one of the rare occasions they'd actually made it out in public. He certainly knew of her as Olivia was quite fond and had said as much a number of times. He took her offered hand, giving it a good-gripped shake and laughed quietly at her assessment.

"Writ," he responded before stealing his hand back to the confines of his pocket. The tilt of his mouth rose to flash an equally leonine smile. "I don't know about any of that But it is an official pleasure to meet you, Amelia. The place looks incredible and by the queue forming outside, I'd wager that it'll be one hell of a party. You'll have to forgive us for missing it." And he did look genuinely apologetic until his lopsided grin blinked back into existence and he leaned conspiratorially towards her with a hand cupped to the hitched corner of his mouth.. "Our alone time is dwindling.. gotta take advantage while we can." he teased with a wink. Writ turned back to beam a disgustingly in love smile at Liv and curled his arm around the small of her back. "I'll do my best to bring her around more often after this. If she'll let me."

[KhaoticBliss]

"Hey Babe, what's a sonnet?" Saila was sprawled on her belly on the bed, trying to convince the internet to tell her what she wanted to know without showing her a dozen cats or naked people first.

"It's...a particular kind of poem that was popular a long time ago," answered the man who darkened the doorway, leaning his shoulder against its frame though he was careful not to touch anything with his grease stained hands. His golden eyes fell over the girl sprawled across their bed, a smirk hooking the corner of his mouth. "New work thing?"

"A poem... I signed up to write a poem?" The purple haired girl blinked, shrugged, and went back to wading through cats and naked people. "No," came the belated answer, "it's for a party..."

Convincing the Hellion to do anything for his birthday (anything that involved leaving the house anyway), much less the holiday that fell on the same day was a lost cause entirely, but a Lupercalia party? Now that was something he could get behind. The city had been quiet these last several days --a nice change from years prior-- and that, too, felt like a reason to go out and celebrate. There would be booze, and dancing, and live music, and more booze... and anyway Saila was pretty sure she actually knew the party's host.

Or had met her once, anyway.

So it was that the distinctive pair arrived in style, pulling up to the bar in Hex's sleek, custom painted hearse. Saila had dressed up for the occasion, wearing a brand new floor length black dress that Sabine had helped her pick out. With its long sleeves, longer skirt and high neckline, the elegant dress could almost have been considered modest, but for the way the studded detailing along the midriff cutouts and up the spinal column accentuated, exaggerated what curves there were to her lanky frame.

Arm in arm, they sauntered into Dun Scaith together, partaking of virtually all of the cocktails on offer, even the ones that were sure to give her a headache, though they forwent all of the confections. Mingling with friends and strangers alike, the mercurial teen took a moment to introduce Hex to Amelia, and couldn't quite stop herself from snickering when she discovered another familiar face beside the proprietress. Amused for reasons she wouldn't specify, she introduced Hex to (the) Hunter as well --there was a story there she would surely share with him sometime later --before the two of them disappeared through the portal into the Sacrifice Club.

And yeah. Ever the actress, for better or for worse, Saila rocked that sonnet, too.

[Amelia Sinclair]

A little more sparkly, a little less train...but perhaps this was just right....

[Conner Reid]

"You're doing what again?" Sheila drew the rag along the bartop, polishing it to a midday shine, save for the portion that Conner took up with his notebook, his pint glass, his cigarette case, and a half-smoked cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

"Writing a poem, lass." Conner reached for his glass again, maybe searching for some inspiration at the bottom of it.

"About someone you don't know?"

He looked up sharply and pointed at her around the glass, "Oy, I know her plenty." Then he looked down at a ragged stack of bar napkins full of scratched notes. "Least as much as Shorty picked up in the Arena and Annex."

Sheila sniffed, "Don't get hissy at me."

"--" He opened his mouth to say something but all that come out was air until he grunted his concession.

She plucked up his pint glass and took it to the tap, topping it up with the dark ale he favored. Once the glass was delivered, she moved downbar to the audio system and restarted the music. John Coltrane.

Conner picked up his cigarette and smiled, "Thank you, lass." He winked at her, then picked up his pen, sank himself into the proper beat poetry mindset, and he started scribbling again.

[MorrighanCartier]

The butterflies were real. It had been years since she been on stage. She drummed her fingertips against her thigh, then against the edge of the vanity. Her reflection was almost a stranger. This Morrighan hadn't been here in awhile. She'd been on the other side of white lines and cell doors.

But, here she was. The pale pink of her lips was a stark contrast to the white of her face. The wig made her head itch. She could anything for finite amount of time. They had practiced and it was just like falling into a comfortable recliner. It was home. All the same songs. All the same sounds. It was.

She adjusted the hearts one last time.

"If I perish, I perish."

[Rekah Illyriana]

Rekah Illyriana SIlverblades had not made an official public appearances in six years. She stood in front of the mirror adjusting the top hat that Sal had left for her. It made the pain in her heart a little less. Every day it was a little less. But, it was still there. She often felt like a ghost living between worlds, falling from ceilings and between floors. It was like she was always falling.

She twirled in the pink dress. It was pretty. Her hair was neatly braided. She felt like she was on *this* side of the Veil tonight.
All ten fingers and all ten toes were here. She blinked owlishly and watched her reflection. The silvery plane of the mirror rippled.

*I miss you, too. Ever and always.*

A smile fixed itself on her faced as she fixed the rings on her finger and turned to go wax poetic about a stranger in a club she had never been to.

[Max Lager]

Max was super excited about attending the event, even if she wasn't quite completely sure what to expect. But that was the point of it all, wasn't it? Or so it was what she was telling Alasdair, that they were there exploring the unknown and that even if she ended up not being good at making up poetry on the spot, she was going to try and see what it was like. As soon as she stepped inside there was a less than subtle radiant glow about her, but whether it was from the brightness of her smile or the stars glittering in her eyes, who could say. If asked, Max could just explain that she was terribly excited and happy to be there with her very favorite Valentine, Alasdair Galloway.

[Aurora Exley]

(written with Elliot Ripley)

A crown jewel in the city's center, the ballet theater was an extravagant, exquisitely constructed monument to the arts. With inlaid Travertine marble floors and gold leaf ceilings more than forty feet high, dramatic spiral staircases and balconies overlooking the lavish fountains of the Plaza were but a few of its extraordinary features. The stage itself boasted an elegant proscenium arch, seating more than 2500 seats in six levels studded with dazzling lights. The lobby space was equally lavish, featuring large, wide windows and that same lustrous gold leaf ceiling.

It had been a packed house, the applause thunderous to the point of deafening given the auditorium's ultra high-end acoustics. Something about this holiday in particular seemed to draw the clamoring masses to this darkest of gothic love stories, and by the time the curtain fell for good -- some six encores later-- the emptying stage was all but covered in a velvet blanket of single stem roses.

The dancers having retreated to their dressing rooms to decompress, the buzzing crowd still lingered in the lobbies, finishing drinks, talking in excited whispers about this pas de deux or that arabesque, a happy hum of alcohol and future plans echoing in the high plated ceilings as the crowd milled and drifted. Only gradually did groups break off, heading out into the night to whatever plans they had next, late dinners and later parties, or plans interrupted by an urgent and impulsive need for privacy. First in twos and threes, then in progressively larger clumps and throngs, they took their leave under the polite encouragement of elegantly tuxedoed ushers.

Elliot avoided the dispersing flock of attendees exiting from under the avenue marquee, and flashed one of several plastic slips vouching that he was an important enough person to be allowed back-stage access. The personnel thought nothing whatsoever of the horns sprouting from the dark and wild tousle of hair crowning his head, nor for that matter either the blood spattered on his vest. This was another place where reality and well-crafted illusion were indistinct and sometimes interchangeable.

Down in the belly of the theatre, in an exaggerated closet that smelled like time and sweat and strange powders and solvents, and freshly-dying floral arrangements, Elliot’s hand dropped immediately from knocking at the door to the handle. He announced himself with an appropriate braying noise, and let himself in with a likewise impertinence.

“Are your legs both broken? Are you ready?” The questions were rapid-fire greetings, shot out before he could assess the situation with a gaze as blue and vast and vacant as a perfect afternoon sky. The tell-tale whiff of roses was a full-on assault once he got into the closed quarters of the dressing room. “And what the bloody hell d’ya do with all these at the end of a night?” He wasn’t quite satyrical enough to even play at chomping any of the blossoms or stems, or just as yet too sober and satisfied to dine on the approval and affections of her audience.

The blue eyes that met his in the mirror's reflected image were darker, deeper; the true indigo of tanzanite, and nearly as well faceted. The woman they belonged to was deeply involved in her present task, both hands pressed along the left side of the slender column of her throat, a small mound of wadded up, white cloths stained in every shade of pink and red making a sad, crumpled little heap on the vanity in front of her. The dress she'd intended to put on was still on its hanger, swaying gently where it hung from the door he'd only just come through, and in its place she wore a robe made of soft pink satin. There was a single letter embroidered on its back, an X: she was a treasure map, a target.

Dropping her latest defeated wet wipe unceremoniously onto the pile, she snatched blindly for another one from the box while her eyes moved over Elliot's reflection. Her lips pursed as she took in the details -- the horns, the blood on his chest -- and there was a small lift in her brows underneath dark bangs, but a smile graced the curve of her mouth all the same. "What sort of monster is this, come to claim me next?" She joked, and it was as much a greeting as his rapidfire bluster of questions had been. "Come to make me drink your blood, too?"

Tilting her head, she lifted her chin to show him her present predicament. The whole left side of her throat was stained a deep, dark red-- the red of currant wine, of ritual sacrifice-- the red of stage blood. "The effects people are very proud of their latest mix," she intoned dryly, lifting a fresh wipe to work anew at removing the evidence. The scrubbing had left a reddish pink tinge to her skin, making it that much more difficult to tell where the stains ended and actual blush-hued bruising began. "I dry the nicest of them. The rest we give away, or toss out, or whatever. Hi?"

“H'lo. Why would I make you drink my blood?” It didn't take him long to imagine the flowers being repurposed at some kind of hospital, but wondering what kind of plot involved force- feeding blood wrinkled his brow as he dropped down into the single empty seat in the room. He was also beginning to wonder about the robe, but could only tolerate so much educating. His attention drifted naturally anyway, to the purpose and unlabeled shapes below the pink robe's belt.

"It's the plot. The 'good guys' take Dracula's toy away, so he retaliates by feeding on me and then making me drink his blood to enslave me." The light in her eyes spoke of a certain kind of deep-rooted amusement as she followed his movements in the mirror, her gaze snapping back to her own reflection a moment later to assess her latest progress in the removal of a stain that was now more cherry than carmine. "Whatever, close enough," she said suddenly, admitting defeat as she threw down her latest mangled towelette. "At least we'll be of a theme."

Turning away from the mirror, she crossed the small space to the door, untying the sash on the dressing gown as she went. The two halves fell open in a silken whisper, revealing coquettish glimpses of what unlabeled shapes lay below--narrow hips, mostly, and a hint of pale panties in the same slippery pink shade-- as she reached to remove her dress carefully from its hanger. Trading the one for the other, she gently peeled the teeth of the garment's delicate zipper apart, stepping into it and then gingerly pulling the lacey red peekaboo fabric into place. Lifting it onto and then across her svelte little frame, she moved to stand in front of him, meeting his gaze in earnest once before she boldly turned her back. "Zip it for me, please?"

“But I’m not…” The confusion slipped from between his brows to the bridge of his nose. “Do you think I look like a Chupacabra? Is that what you mean?” A pause, and then he corrected one or both of them. “It can’t be; they eat goats, they aren’t goats.” Elliot didn’t push for any further literal or literary translations, confusion and consternation melting off his features the longer that he considered the exposed splay of skin while she waited for him to assist her with the zipper. The hum didn’t exactly agree, but he made his hands obedient pinching the dress away from her skin before running the slider up.

Rory's giggle was a quiet thing, its effusiveness tempered by the relatively close quarters of the dressing room, by thin walls and the proximity of more than a dozen other dancers. "No, you don't... Nevermind. It was funny in my head, hm?"

“So where’s the candy? You’re in a lot of trouble if you conveniently ‘forgot’ it.” This time, the threat wasn’t playful or idle, although its only consequence would be his disappointment.

Her makeup, wrought vividly brilliant under competition from the glare of stage lighting, had been toned down only minimally in the name of celebration. Her blue eyes ever more strikingly blue under smoky greys with heavy black lining, her mouth as brilliantly blood red as the spill of its facsimile still staining her throat. Her hair was gathered up off her neck mostly to expose it, drawing the eye into the valley of her throat and on across finely wrought clavicles.

"Right there," she pointed. The rest of the requisite items for their evening were on display on the vanity: the delicate black heels she intended to wear, a small purse, a slinky wrap in case her shoulders got cold. She was mere moments from being ready, really, but for one big, unanswered question. The box of sugared grapefruit slices he'd given her the day before lay among them, as of yet untouched, but open. Her gaze fell over them, lips pursing in a mix of anticipation and dread as she contemplated the consequences of their contents, the promise she'd given him only a few short hours prior.

She stepped away from him then, adjusting the fit of the dress where it conformed snugly to her frame. Balancing herself thoughtlessly on first one spindly leg and then the other, she fastened the thin, strappy buckles on her shoes, their heels as she stood on them only marginally cutting into the vast height differential between them. Glancing back as she gathered first her small purse and then the box, her piercing eyes were expectant where she met his gaze. "So... What, I just eat one and see what happens?"

“Precisely. That's the point of a surprise.” Elliot followed the point of her gaze to the candy, quite intentionally disregarding how well the dress flattered her with a negligence that only an established relationship could afford and not simply because he was stingy with compliments. He picked a sugar-coated wedge out of the box, as ignorant about which of several effects she'd spend a significant duration of the evening under, and lobbed the remainder of the candies into a travel bag with the rest of her personal belongings.

“Open your mouth,” he managed to say with a straight face although it was quickly devolving into a smirk the longer that he stood beside the woman and the dressing chair with the candy pinched between his fingers. And after a thought about punctuality: “The dress is fantastic. I'm very intrigued how you'll manage that in a club.” He lingered in the curiosity as a means of preoccupation. “A lot of skirt, but very nice.”

Trepidation squirming like spider legs in her belly, a sort of pleased surprise painted itself into the edges of her expression. She smiled to cover the curious way her heart fluttered nervously in her chest, she smiled because the compliment was unexpected. "To be fair, all skirts are 'a lot of skirt' on me. Believe me, it could have been much worse." Her smile spread; once he'd taken the box (both literally and figuratively) out of her hands, she lifted newly freed finespun digits to smooth lightly over his chest, up to curl over his shoulders. "Thank you, lovah," she couldn't quite resist the little needle--her nose crinkling, kittenish, in jest--but she made up for it in the next pass. "You look positively dangerous."

With a little last minute mental coaxing and a final deep breath, her full lips fell open, accepting the sugared fruit from his fingertips.


***

The drug snuck up on her, slow and subtle, by almost imperceptible degrees, until all at once it was all over her.

Sitting beside him in the backseat of a hired car, one moment she was just watching the oncoming traffic streak past the windows, and the next she felt disoriented, her senses overwhelmed by the swarm of constant blurring motion. Looking away from it to stop the sudden swimming sensation, she swallowed, and in the next breath she became acutely aware of Elliot's hand where it was laced with her own. His skin, ever warm in even the most frigid of circumstances, felt hot in the sensitive spots between her fingers, her mind filling in such vivid details surrounding blood and circulation that Rory imagined she could actively feel his pulse, feel the squeeze and release in the individual veins.

Experimental, she stretched and flared her fingers without dislodging or disentangling them, and the ensuing friction was electric, extraordinary, like nothing else she'd ever experienced. Her eyes widened, and even the way she swallowed felt exquisite, like she could feel each individual muscle fiber contract in rippling succession. Her voice was thick with new experience as she whispered a hushed "...Wow."

By the time they arrived at their destination, a strange kind of energy had overtaken her, a curious restlessness that made her anxious to get out of the car. She wanted to move, to feel the way her body responded when she moved, but it wasn't like any other restlessness she'd ever felt. It was warm, enthused and eager without the itinerant jitters, the frenzied, teeth chattering mania that could often be company to too much caffeine. She was excited but not insistent, overstimulated without irritation.

She smiled, and wondered as an afterthought whether she might ever again stop smiling.

Following him out onto the street and then into the establishment, Rory held onto Elliot with both hands clasped over the one of his, anchoring herself to him when it felt like every part of her might otherwise fly away. This whole night was about to get interesting.

[Veil]

With a pop and an unmeasured flail from the other side.. Veil slid into the bar.. gracelessly. His bottomless pits for eyes, round and wide upon entrance, quickly contracted to normal proportions, adjusting to what his ears couldn't seem to.. a thus far lack of flurry in comparison to the riotous club he'd just toppled out of. Smoothing a hand over a bunched up piece of tape laid out across his navel.. he crept as casually as a creeper could creep around the outer edge of the room in a mannerism that tried, but desperately failed, to make it seem like he'd entirely ended up there on purpose.