( option A )
B. old bones don't sleep [Open]
( option B )
C. fire festival [Backdated to 5/9, Open]
( option C )
D. and the cat came back, the very next day [Closed to Willard, dated to 30/9]
( closed to Willard )
[ Or, choose your own adventure/ask me to write up a specific hook! I don't mind either way. Prose also available for any of the above hooks on request - hit me up at elimyx if you'd like to plot something out in particular. ]
Food, drinks, and music will be provided.
All are welcome, but individuals are to be aware that any hostilities during the evening's festivities will not be tolerated.
It is the first time in at least a generation that the doors of Geap Manor have been opened to the general population. Or, at least, as general as the supernatural community could be considered. Some invitiations were made personally, but most were formally sent to the higher ranking members of the various factions.
Dinner is announced precisely at 19:30. The small, intimate eating area for the family has been turned into a buffet room. The caterers Abigail hired have obviously been paid well to make sure there is something for everyone. Rich meat dishes, hearty vegetarian dishes, light fish dishes, plenty of accompaniments and finger food. There is also plenty of fairly fresh blood for vampires. For the others, there are wines, water, and tea available.
The grand dining room has had its large table removed, replaced, instead, by small tables that can comfortably hold four. They can, of course, be pushed together to allow for more room.
The ballroom is open to the guests, and the DJ has also been highly paid to make sure the music played is precisely to the hostess's tastes. There is plenty of modern music, good for dancing, as well as older classics. However, interspersed are classical pieces meant for waltzes and foxtrots and other such ballroom dances.
In the sitting room is a drink cart with wine, tea, water, and blood. Chairs and divans are available, as the room is a quiet place, a little away from the ballroom, so conversation can be had with ease. There is an unlit fireplace, and a portrait of Abigail a few years younger than she is now hangs above it.
Most of the rest of the house is locked. One can wander the hallways, but it may prove ultimately fruitless. One who simply walks up the stairways will find the walls of each lined with the Widdowson family portraits of every generation, starting with one of a ten-year-old Abby, her parents, and her six-year-old brother. As one takes in all the paintings, a pattern presents itself. Every Widdowson woman featured is pale, thin, and blonde.
The grounds are beautifully maintained and fenced in by wrought iron on top of stone. A very traditional look for such an imposing manor. On the path from the street to the house, there's little remarkable, save the knocker on the door. Behind the house, however, if one ventures away, one might get the keen sense of something from inside the house watching, waiting, and hungering. On the ground floor, the locked rooms are mostly unremarkable, save for the study at the back of the house. Linger too long near there, and one might hear a sound coming in a pattering set. It isn't a knock against the door, no. Instead, it is the sound of something hitting the wall. If someone were to force their way into the nursery on the second floor or the attic several stories up... Well. They likely won't be coming back to the party. Or to anything.
Wandering, of course, isn't a suggested enterprise. The old house doesn't like people poking around and trying to find its secrets.
(Everyone who has at least a familiarity with the supernatural is welcome, as the invitations were distributed widely. Mingle, make your own top comments, enjoy the food, etc!)
There are times that Clara isn't the brightest one in the box. She isn't dumb. Not by any means she likes to think. She's practical and patient but she isn't bright like Magra or clever like Willard. It takes time for her to connect the dots of some more obscure things, notice the clues to people or items that, to some, would be considered right in front of her face and yet she never realised it until the very lost moment.
Like right now. Just as she watches some of the kids play tag, something in her head just clicks as overheard snippets of others in Redbright to gossip from elsewhere finally falls into place and she recognises it as something coherent, solid, and being about what Aradia had done in regards to some lightbulbs. The people never said her name but she can extract enough hints and information that it was her.
It immediately causes some alarms in her head to ring, ever so faintly, as a sudden bubble of guilt and concern gets the best of her.
While the children need to be watched over, Clara thinks that they can have one day of their ghostly guardian not watching over them as they pal around in the park. This is an emergency. They'll understand. So she excuses herself on deaf ears and heads off in order to look for her fellow ghost.
It takes her a while to find Aradia, exploring more than she's ever explored before, but she finds her soon enough after enough false stars and dead ends that would frustrate some but not Clara. Not when it concerns someone she worries and cares for.
"Aradia?" It's her. Of course it's her. Not wanting to waste anymore time she quickly adds, "Can we talk?"
Kenzi and Jennifer weren't friends by any stretch of the word. Acquaintances was a closer definition but even then, they didn't run in the same circles. The only reason she even knew Jennifer was the girl found dead in Barnet was she might... be following police intel. For a friend.
It was weird for her to be doing something that wasn't outright for her own self interest but it was shockingly helpful. After all, once she heard the description of the Jane Doe it was only a matter of time before her research and connections (however small they might be) told her one thing.
Jennifer - a Circle Midnight witch - was dead, killed by someone invested in the Redbright takeover in Barnet. Kenzi hoped that nobody from Circle Daybreak, The Night Council, or any vampires would go where Jennifer lived and take things. She didn't think they'd be that stupid - or that smart.
So Kenzi went in the morning, when everyone was headed to work and acted as if she knew exactly what she was doing. Confidence would get you access to more things than fake badges. But she had one of those too just in case.
It would be a tough sell, though. Considering she was wearing stiletto leather boots that went all the way up to her thighs, and had green threaded through her very black hair. Not a cop, by any stretch.
But that didn't stop her from breaking the seal of tape and touching her little wooden key-chain to the door. There was the tell-tale click of locks being undone, by the sound of how many there were - it seemed like Jennifer either had something pretty valuable inside or was super paranoid.
Well, she did get murdered after all. Maybe she wasn't so paranoid.
Kenzi spends a good portion of her time frame that she allowed herself roaming around the apartment and stuffing things she wants into her backpack. Hey, Jennifer wasn't going to be using them anymore. Might as well make sure they stayed out of Redbright's hands in the meantime. A few books for magic, almost all her jewelry and her little black contact book that had all the phone numbers a witch could ask for.
Maybe there was something important in there?
Kenzi is leaving the apartment with her backpack filled to the brim and going straight for her car.
B: Portobello Road - Friday
It was a cheap gimmick, and something that usually only got the stupid people and tourists interested - but that was what she wanted. It was easy to fleece someone who was too busy listening to what she was saying about how fascinating their life line was to notice her lifting their watch or hand jewelry. And it didn't hurt that she asked for 16 quid before even speaking to them.
"Ladies and gentlemen, don't be shy. Come, see what the future has in store for you and your loved ones!"
She had a little stall on the market road, something her cousin had hooked her up with. It was all decked out in exactly what you would expect from a Russian fortune teller, except she was about fifty years too young to make it especially hokey.
Kenzi was dressed like a hippy. Not a scrap of black on her, and her make-up was done so as to look as natural and flower-child-y as possible. To top it off, she was wearing an ashy blonde wig with some stuff woven into the hair.
She might also be selling knockoff charms to normal people. They're in the approximation of the real charms that she makes, but they're completely useless. Still, a witch or someone who knows her work might recognize them.
C: Late Night Munchies
There was a plus to living in London. There was always something open and ready to serve you greasy, disgusting food. Which was exactly what Kenzi wanted late at night after working in her shop all day long. She might just be making Day and Moonlight Jewelry and other little charms and sundry items that she sells to people who want them, but she is only one witch. And that means constantly flexing her magical muscles for a whole day makes her exhausted, and starving too.
She's sitting inside a little pizza place, whose front of house is so small they only have room for a counter to order at and chairs along the walls and front windows to sit at while you wait for your food.
Kenzi is dicking around on her phone when suddenly, her nose starts to bleed. Yet another lovely side affect of not having a coven.
Make your own up if you feel up to it!
[ creature of the night he may be, Derek's life is far from nocturnal. admittedly, this is partially because he sleeps less than he probably ought to, especially these days. however, it's also because even in London, there are places that aren't 24/7. yet. a bank. a decent mechanic. somewhere that sells smores flavoured pop tarts. combined with his own restlessness, and a sense that he still doesn't quite belong, Derek is unable to hang around at the den all day.B. NIGHT:
when he's out, he's watchful. even on the streets of the city centre, Derek has come to learn that he can't afford to overlook anything. perhaps it's an inhuman kind of scent that has his gaze catching, lingering, or perhaps a face he recognizes from the Redbright ball has him staring in heavy, curious scrutiny. maybe he simply has to squeeze past the same PETA collector on the street, muttering something about no goddamn escape. ]
[ after the sun sets, Derek retreats to his own territory. generally speaking, he's not looking for a fight, and lurking around other areas of London at night is sometimes as much a provocation as is necessary. he keeps to the east end, hemming along every county line like a sentry, watching - waiting, maybe - for any suggestion that things are not as they should be on his turf. his. he'd never considered it in those terms when he'd been following Laura's lead, when there had been another alpha running things. aside from an inherent wolfish sense of territory, he'd felt little investment. now, his position has changed, but the disconnect here lingers. in the wake of his own hasty decision making, he still feels like he's standing in. that only makes him all the more tense.C. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!
and all the more eager to work. he covers a surprising amount of distance on foot, keeps his ear to the ground to keep track of what's going on. maybe it's quiet. maybe it's not. but he stays out late.
if, on his unofficial patrol, he comes across something or someone that seems like they shouldn't be here - well, Derek follows. ]
( catch all! feel free to tag in with your own starter - just give me a heads up if you're looking for anything in particular - or let me know if you'd like a specific heading! 8] )
Sadly, this is not one of those people. Instead a door is unlocked at just shy of four in the morning, opened to a pitch black room lit up by a single computer screen. The lights are flicked on - all bulbs still intact, good news, she's getting better - but the room remains dead and abandoned otherwise. Better news.
"Ghost Girl, get out of my computer." Punctuated by tossing his bag right on the couch where the laptop is. It's probably only dumb luck that keeps it from falling off. Or dead teenagers. Details, details.