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

[mensrea]

For once, Stiles is not taken off guard by the werewolf’s approach. He even manages a nod of acknowledgment when he spots Derek walking toward him. The past few months have been insane, and the East End Pack alpha has been present through most of it. Stiles might even admit that he’s starting to warm up to the guy—the sleepwalking adventure certainly painted Derek in a more favorable light, at the least. Shoving both hands in his trouser pockets, he rocks back on his heels and offers the other man a pleased grin.

“Everyone wants London’s most eligible human at their house parties. I’m a success story all the supernatural types want to tell and show off.”

Hands still in his pockets, he shrugs.

“Or, y’know, I lifted an invite off some busybody witch. Tada!”

[viduation]

In decent humour as he is for the moment, he actually snorts a laugh, shaking his head. There's a sarcastic response in the twist of his mouth that goes unsaid, a yeah, no that he's not quite at ease enough to let slip. "Figured something along those lines," he sighs, wondering if Nancy is once again to blame. After their talk, the suspicion is not nearly as loaded with venom as it could have been. Stiles is, at least, playing the part, even if he is enjoying it a bit too much.

"What do you think?"

[mensrea]

The lingering tension elicited by Derek’s presence now begins to ease away. Stiles is surprised by the werewolf’s good humor tonight, but finds it agreeable. After all, it’s easier to get along with the man when they’re not at each other’s throats. With a small, crooked grin, he looks at Derek for a moment longer—soaking up the relatively friendly atmosphere—before turning his attention outward to the party itself.

“Seems like your typical high-class social event. Schmoozing, posturing, brown-nosing…”

Grin fading, Stiles narrows his eyes. His gaze is sharp, thoughtful.

“So obviously something’s going down. I mean, this is the first time in, like, ages that the Widdowsons have invited so many people here, right? And it’s in Enfield, of all places.”

The last bit is muttered to himself, low and wondering.

[viduation]

His mouth quirks up at Stiles' summary, because he's wholly in agreement. London soirees are hardly his scene, but appearances are important now and he's not so dissimilar from Stiles that he doesn't realize how much one can learn on a night like this. (It helps, as well, that he was given a personal invite, that Abigail thought of him specifically, and it helps that his pack are welcome here.)

He watches the shift in Stiles' expression with interest, however, gaze flicking off to follow his line of sight only for a second - he's quick to return his focus to Stiles, curious. He's not stupid, and it makes Derek wonder just how much he can put together.

"That's right. Pretty big mix of guests, don't you think?"

[mensrea]

“You’re not kidding. You got the usuals—” Maybe it should be odd, a human so new to the Underground pinpointing what constitutes usual. “—Sylvia and her ilk, buncha vamps, some high tier fae, you.”

He gives the other man a sly look.

“Guess our vulpine buddy isn’t the only one hoping to forge alliances.”

Though Stiles can't say what Abigail Widdowson would need said alliances for. Based on a series of text messages, he has his suspicions, but nothing concrete.

[viduation]

Maybe it should be odd, but Derek - folding his arms, not as a sign of hostility but as one of relative ease - merely listens with the beginnings of amusement on his face, one brow quirking when Stiles singles him out. Innocuously, he shrugs.

"I'm a social butterfly," he tells him, conversationally serious. His mouth twitches upwards, and then he continues, more thoughtfully. "Seems like she's just being inclusive."

Stiles has his suspicions, yes, but Derek isn't about to confirm them. Not yet.

[mensrea]

Both remarks earn Derek a dry, arch look that plainly conveys the unspoken really? Stiles is thinking. He fiddles absently with the shirt sleeve cuffs, eventually settling on having them rolled up to his elbows.

"Ah huh. Wonder what prompted her to be so inclusive all of a sudden."

[viduation]

Derek shoots him a smile. It's a sly kind of look - calculating in a way that Derek doesn't often reveal. This feels a little like a game now - a test, to see just how astute Stiles really is.

"You've got your suspicions."

[mensrea]

Though he may enjoy puzzles, he does not enjoy the feeling that someone is withholding information from him. Frowning, he scrutinizes Derek suspiciously and then pokes him with an accusatory finger.

“Are you in cahoots with her!?”

[viduation]

Derek's gaze flicks down momentarily to the site of that poke, but it lacks any real reprimand, lacks the threat it has certainly carried before. His eyebrows raise, mildly incredulous.

"Cahoots? What are you, ninety?"

[mensrea]

Arm falling back to his side, Stiles curls the fingers of that hand into a loose fist. Déjà vu trickles down his spine, invoking a ripple of goosebumps in its wake. Seemingly without a prompt, he thinks of the night he was sleepwalking. His curled fingers tingle with warmth, like they still retain sensory memory from when they grasped Derek’s shoulder. Stiles clears his throat.

“Don't try to change the subject, pal!”

[viduation]

Laughter is too generous a word for the sound Derek makes, but there's amusement threaded through the breath nonetheless, obvious only because of his usual dour silence. He fixes Stiles with that measuring look again. It's oddly challenging.

"What do you think is happening tonight, Stiles?"