Stroke of Midnight [OPEN]

[acrookedchild]

Miss Abigail Widdowson cordially invites you to Geap Manor on Wednesday, July 1st at 19:00.

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!)

Comments

sitting room | ota

[damnyank]

Jackson had a purpose in coming here, but whatever it was, it's lost in the final sips of his last drink. Something about coming here to survey the magical make-up of this city. A chance to get a better sense of what he's dealing with supernaturally, now that his policy of isolation's been rendered defunct, 'cause once you're in you're in.

He's a peculiar fella. Greasy hair, old cigarette smoke sticking to his skin, a 7 'o clock shadow darkening his cheeks, and yet, Captain Homer Jackson is a sartorial success in his patterned dress shirt, vest and green suit jacket, as if he were plucked out from another time. And if that doesn't call attention to you, then it's the fact that Jackson's staring at your character-- watching them pass by as he plays that game of guess what he or she is. His face seems permanently fixed in a look that's somewhere between judgmental and skeptical.

Or perhaps you catch Jackson as he approaches the drink cart in the center of the room. He's reaching over to take a glass of whiskey from the tray, but the tips of his fingers pause against the rim of a blood-filled cup. A beat. Jackson appears to be considering something, before not-so-absentmindedly, tipping the glass over.

What? He's petty and petulant, and really, vampires? Who invited them? They were like flies; always another one of them, wherever you looked. Hopefully, none of them will look at him and recognize that wanted face.

Pulling a cigarette from his back pocket, Jackson lights it with a spell-- and for that moment, he admits that it feels good to be free to cast magic. He takes a long drag, not expect anyone to address him.

[falsify]

Eames has been eyeing the drinks cart, debating on whether or not to get another - not that he's worried about getting drunk and making a tit of himself, but some people find it unseemly for someone to be putting that much away - so it's hard to miss when Jackson tips over the glass of blood.

He laughs at that, finally electing to pour himself another glass of wine, and raises an eyebrow at the mess on the tray. "Not quite your taste, I take it?"

[damnyank]

Jackson bristles upon Eames' entrance, as though anticipating him to be the very sort of creature that would've taken offense at his gesture. However, the laughter's enough to clear air, allowing him to relax his shoulders and hold back his suspicion, for the time being.

Cocking a crooked grin, Jackson throws back his glass of whiskey in its entirety-- see, Eames, he's just set a precedent. There's nothing unseemly at all about enjoying yourself.

"Not particularly." He looks to Eames, raising his eyebrows as he pauses to let out a cloud of smoke. "A chicken wouldn't invite a human to a dinner party, would it? "

[falsify]

"I think the metaphor works better with a fox," how many humans do you know who just go about chowing down on live chickens?

Eames glances around the room before he speaks, but he feels fairly certain he'd know by now if there were any vampires in the immediate area. "Personally I find them to be more like bedbugs," a wrinkle of his nose in distaste to illustrate his point, "bloodsucking vermin that's frustratingly hard to get rid of."

[damnyank]

"Humans don't eat foxes. They eat chickens. And besides, once I put in the part about cooking and killing, I've gone and killed my own joke," he gives a little mock-whine, side-eying Eames. "I ain't one to agree with stereotypes, but that's one thing that's been proved true to me time and time again. No sense of humor."

At this point, Jackson doesn't care, let them hear. Though that may be the drink talking, as he makes a habit of saying things he regrets in the morning.

"Not a fan, either?" There's a beat, before Jackson gets up close to Eames, snaking a hand over his shoulder, chummy as can be. All past ills over ruining his joke forgiven. "Actually, I think I like you."

[falsify]

Eames looks down at the hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't move it away like he wants to. Instead he smiles at his new drunk friend and pats him on the back, a reflection of Jackson's own friendliness. "Is it always this easy to get into your good graces, or am I special?"

[detectiveofthewest]

Heiji approached from across the room as Jackson took his first drag; he'd been thinking about offering the guy a light, but then the Captain sort took away that little pretext.

"Homer Jackson, right? Forensics? Didn't expect to see you here. You think you've seen the last of them exploding bookcases?"

[damnyank]

Jackson chokes on a breath of smoke upon hearing his name. By the time he hears, forensics, he's coughing. Heiji catches him off guard. Not just to be recognized, but also to witness the two realms of his life-- normal human job and after-hours supernatural mayhem-- collide.

Regaining his breath, he nods, saying nothing as he tries to remember this guy's name. What is it? Something Japanese. Hatoki? Hatachi? Wait, he's got it, he's got it."Hatori, right?" He offers a cool smile, "Everybody at the station knows I got special hobbies, but they've got a different idea of special."

But more importantly--

"Exploding bookcases?"

[detectiveofthewest]

"Heiji Hasegawa," Heiji said, offering Jackson a handshake. "Nice to meetcha. And yeah, I heard it on the grapevine. Homicide attempt in a shop for rare books. People these days."

He laughed. "The way you say it makes ya sound so sinister, though. I hope no one's casting aspersions!"

[damnyank]

Jackson takes his hand, giving it a firm shake. "I'm not so surprised. Given the right book, it'd be worth its value in blood." And it's not a joke; a rare spell could be worth more than a handful of diamonds, depending on the interested party. The fact that he'd admit to it, well...

A low laugh rumbles in his chest. Sinister. Yeah, Jackson likes that.

"Magic. Werewolves. Fae. This world ain't for the faint of heart, even for coppers used to ripped up tarts and shot-up corpses."

[detectiveofthewest]

"Only blood?" Heiji asked. There was a bit of a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I s'ppose not. That why you're here, for business?" By which Heiji meant are you here on a case? "Personally, I was curious to see if the DJ for this party was any better than the one at Redbright's."

[acrookedchild]

"Please try to be more careful," Abigail murmurs as she picks up the tipped glass and sacrifices a napkin to put around the edge of the tray. "I'd rather not have blood on the floor. It's rather difficult to clean up."

This is, she knows, the difficulty of sending such open invitations. There's little assurance that people who come will actually know how to behave. She'd promised no hostilities, but something like that, however small, indicated ill will. So, Abigail knew to be on guard but still polite.

[damnyank]

"Sorry." Jackson shrugs his shoulders in a obviously insincere apology. Slipping a handkerchief out of his pocket, he sops up the rest of the blood.

"Try hydrogen peroxide and cold water. Promise it'll do the trick." And it's true; Jackson gets blood on his clothes on a near-daily basis.

"And if not for this mess--" He quiets, substituting a sly sort of smile for words. "For the future, once you commence your activities."

[acrookedchild]

"I'll keep that in mind, sir." And she will, though getting blood out of floors or clothing is a minor concern for future activities.

Though... Well. Subtle as it is, she can suspect why the glass fell in the first place and the reason for the lack of sincerity on his part. It's not uncommon. Not even unwise. To dislike vampires, but.

"I hope, sir, you understand that I expect all my guests to be treated with respect. Otherwise, the offending parties will be asked to leave."

Formal and proud talk from a girl who's barely old enough to drink.

[damnyank]

A minor concern... that's what they all say. If Jackson considers all the blood he's had to clean up at the Tenter St. Brothel unexpectedly, well, you just never know.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about, I've been as amicable as can be." He follows his words with winks, tilting his hat in a gesture of mock courtesy.

Jackson takes another drink from a tray, and gives the glass as swirl before he takes a drink. Subtlety is an art that gets increasingly difficult the more sips the takes.

"It's a prudent thing-- being careful, as you are. I'd still say you're not being careful enough. Inviting the leader of Daybreak to your party?" Jackson makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "One might take that as a challenge. A declaration, even."

[acrookedchild]

"She made the declaration just over a month ago," Abigail responded, though her head bowed with acknowledgement to his point. It was a challenge, in a way. Not entirely, but it wasn't just empty either. "This is simply the response."

Because what happened in Barnet (and what had happened in other places before, but Barnet was the catalyst for her) was a threat to every witch who wouldn't fall in line with what Daybreak wanted. The girl killed in Barnet had been the final straw.

[iceolationqueen]

The guy on the other end of the couch from Elsa is a little weird. And this is coming from a woman who can shoot ice out of her fingers. And while he may be playing the "what are they?" game, Elsa is playing it too, about him at least. He's dressed in a style that either says hipster or immortal. She can't quite tell which. Being immortal would place him in either the fae, werewolf or vampire camps. Despite the shag on his face, Elsa doesn't get a werewolf vibe off of him.

Then she sees him light his cigarette with his hand and vampire is off the table. Fae is still on though, and now witch can be added to it. And meta-human. Maybe he can do fire with his hands like she can do ice.

Basically she has no idea. But he's not a normal human.

Blast, bloody cigarettes, Elsa hates them. Young people think they're so posh. Obviously her condition prevents her from any activity that would involve her literally inhaling smoke, but the very smell of cigarettes bothers her too. She coughs, not obnoxiously, and sips her tea.

"Do you need an ashtray?"

There's one sitting on the table next to her end of the couch.

[damnyank]

With all that hair, Jackson's gotten that whole, you're a werewolf, aren't you, more than he'd like to admit. But the Captain wouldn't be who he is without his anachronistic facial hair, for reasons neither hipster nor immortal. However, to explain how you were raised in a crazy isolated coven stuck in the 19th century by choice? Not a good icebreaker, not even for a conversation with a woman who can shoot ice out of her fingers. Of course, Jackson can't read her mind, and is thus deaf to her ponderings.

What he isn't deaf to is that cough. Couple that with her too courteous offer an ashtray, and the unconscious facial twitch that accompanies any reaction to a bad smell, Jackson gets her subtext.

"If you want me to put out my cigarette, just say it."

[iceolationqueen]

Elsa shrugs. "It's not my house. And I could get up if I wanted to." She passes him the ash tray. Really, so long as the smoke stays on his side of the couch she should be fine. It won't kill her, anyway. Not in ten minutes at least. "I saw you," she continues. "I saw you light it. Are you a witch?"

[damnyank]

Jackson accepts the ash tray, but keeps the cigarette between his lips, puffing away, taking a moment to find the right response.

"The name's Homer Jackson," he explains. "I'm a surgeon, a forensic scientist, a human, and yes, a witch."

Jackson is being pedantic, but you've got to understand. He's sensitive about semantics, at least in the case of the supernatural. There seems to be an either/or trend in this world. You're either a supernatural being-- a witch, a special human, a vampire-- or you're just a human. A mundane.

Okay, maybe he is being too particular, but it's a touchy subject, because Jackson's not just a witch. He's more than that-- something he's been trying to make a point of since running away all those years ago.

[iceolationqueen]

"Elsa Arendelle. Graduate student, teacher assistant and meta-human."

She gets it, actually. Most of her life she's been thought of as a freak or a monster. People have gone so far as to actually be afraid of her, which she thinks is kind of ridiculous because she would never intentionally hurt anyone. Thankfully now she has more control over her powers and incidents of accidentally hurting people have gone way down.

[kleptofaeniac]

Kenzi is going through bottles of champagne like they're going out of style, and is currently pouring herself another glass when she feels someone staring at her. She looks around, trying to catch whoever it is in the act and her gaze lands squarely on Jackson.

There's a momentary lapse in any response from her. Usually when jerks get caught, they immediately back down. But sometimes more drastic measures must be taken.

"What?"

Kenzi snaps quietly, not wanting to cause a scene but also not wanting to let someone creep on her without getting an earful.

[damnyank]

"What?" Jackson parrots back casually, as if he hadn't been caught staring. In reality, he'd fixed on Kenzi with an exceptionally judgmental stare, the arithmetic in his head making quick calculations based on shallow observations. Eye liner, dyed-dark hair, the clothes, a ~dark magic party~ -- it all added up to what must be the college goth girl who'd snuck into what she believed to be a cool wicca party.

Not a fair assumption. No real evidence for it either, but Homer Jackson finds himself more critical the grouchier he gets.

When Kenzi snaps at him, well, the temptation's too much to resist.

"You walked into my field of vision," he explains. Jackson continues being a dick, words muffled by the cigarette pinned between his teeth. "So don't flatter yourself."

[kleptofaeniac]

Kenzi's glare narrowed considerably, and yet if she knew his assumption of her she'd be pleased. Kenzi did enjoy the fashion, it was true - but part of the reason she still dressed like this post teen years was because people constantly underestimated her.

However, since she isn't a mind reader, Kenzi just thinks Jackson's a douchebag - end of story.

She scoffs and flaps a hand dismissively at him with as much disdain as her little heart can muster.

"Whatever, just direct your toolitosis in another direction, buddy."

[damnyank]

"Hey, I'm not the one who started this."

That's not the response of a grown ass man. Even though he may be dressed his age, Jackson sure knows a thing or two about acting petulant and juvenile. The smile that's pulling at the edges of his mouth? That just says how much he's enjoying this all.

"Toolitosis, huh?" He fakes an impressed look. "At least you got your suffix right."