undergrounds | [SEMI-OPEN] Written by the Victors

Date: 30th of October, pre-Samhain celebration!
Plot: Smug Victory Dinner, with political manoeuvring
Areas: Westminster

It may have been a struggle, but Lambeth has finally been won over. A week of hard work to drive out all the unspeakable sorts, and another week of trying to keep control and tidy up, and it's looking like things are slowly beginning to settle. Gilbert Norrell is very pleased by this. Now he has proven he can be a leader, can lead them to victory -- and over a difficult area too! Of course, there were difficulties. Were small problems and losses along the way, but that does not matter now.

A dinner is not normally his style, he refused to hold one himself, but Childermass persuaded someone else to hold this on his behalf and -- well, it would be rude to decline. So he attends, if reluctantly (he does not like parties) and smiles as people applaud him. It is a rush of success, of ego, and as people come to congratulate him and find ways to carefully bring up their own causes and beliefs Gilbert Norrell feels that finally he is beginning to be recognised.

The table is carefully laid with glittering crystal glasses, candles and flowers. Not too ostentatious but still elegant and respectable, suited to the style of Norrell himself. Waiters and waitresses silently move back and forth serving people and taking requests or preferences, and the food is plentiful. If people can suffer the small-talk and ego coming from the head of the table, it will at least be a good meal.

[ ooc; log for the Daybreak victory meal! You can give me a ping if you want to be involved and replied already! It's set on Friday night so people can get drunk and slouch home without having to worry about the following morning, and can still attend Samhain things later. Entry is free, food and drink is free! The meal is being held by a lackey of Norrell's who wants to suck up to him since he's on the way up, and Norrell is therefore the ~guest of honour~. Dress code is black tie, thread with each other and mingle! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Drinks:
Lancelot has dressed up for the occasion. He does not particularly know Gilbert Norrell, but he is a member of Daybreak and he would not wish to snub the celebration of a victory for his own faction -- especially when they have had a loss too. He's neatly turned out in a three piece suit, even if the bow tie feels a little silly on him, hair timed as best it can.

Lancelot, however, is not drinking. This feels like the perfect target for someone upset with Daybreak, and with Night Council members invited too he feels a little as if he might be on call. So he sips at ginger beer, smiles at people who approach him and leans in to make quiet observations about everyone around them or a light joke. Anyone in danger of being a nervous wallflower he'll approach to talk to, gently coax out if he can.

Meal:
Political conversation is not something Lancelot enjoys. It's all a little heavy for him, and especially with Gilbert Norrell's man -- very righteous and affronted. It's tiring, and he can't help jerking an eyebrow on occasion and shooting sideways glances at the people either side of him.

"The food's good," he says brightly, for something else to talk about, setting down his cutlery to take a sip of water for a moment. He's still not drinking. "How's yours?"

After:
A few people, Lancelot notices, have drunk more than a little too much. He's suppressing a smile as he watches them, still on the water himself -- moving to help one member carefully out of the building to their taxi and into it so they don't trip and land face first on the pavement.

At least they enjoyed themselves, he supposes.

Padding back inside he pauses to chat to a few people, bow-tie finally undone and left draped around his collar (much more comfortable) -- debating if he should join one of the card games. He's bound to lose money, he's sure of it.

Other:
[ Else, if nothing fits invent your own prompt! ]

Well, shit.

London is far smaller than Simon would care to admit.

He's surprised at the number of people he recognizes at the party--people he's run into during his day-to-day life that he thought had nothing to do with the supernatural world. Case in point: there is Lancelot, the man whose white dog had been just a little too interested in Simon a few days ago. He's in on this too?

Is everyone in London part of their supposedly secret world?

Typical.

Simon adopts an easy smile. "Lancelot, right? We met a few days ago." He sticks out a hand. "Simon O'Neill."

He blinks at the sound of his name, turns to Simon and his eyes light up in recognition. Of course! London is a very small place, it seems, and he matches Simon's easy smile with a bright one of his own -- reaches to take his hand.

"I remember. I'm afraid my lady friend isn't with me tonight, it seems even if she wore black tie she would not be appropriate."

One eyebrow jerk playfully, because Lancelot does not think some of the people here would react well to a dog threading about them at their fancy dinner -- even one as sweetly mannered as Lily. Gilbert Norrell's face would be a picture, to be sure.

Simon coughs slightly to hide a laugh. Oh, there's a dog at the party all right.

Just one with slightly more control than Lily.

"I don't think Mr. Norrell thinks much of anything is appropriate," Simon points out, looking in the older man's direction. He is talking to other people now, and Simon wishes them better luck than he had.

"So," he says, "I take it community policing isn't all you do. Were you with us in Lambeth, then?"

"Very true. Mr Norrell is a little more serious than perhaps the rest of us. I am sure it is simply because he is so busy taking care of Daybreak business, perhaps he has little enough time to enjoy himself."

Yet Lancelot's smile says he suspects that is not entirely true. He reaches for his drink, takes a sip for a moment before shaking his head.

"A little, but not too much. I had other business to take care of during the brunt of it, mostly helped secure things afterwards. Were you?"

Simon shrugs. "Or maybe he's an uptight prick with very little empathy," he points out to Lancelot, keeping his voice light. He grins, taking another swig of his drink. "Or a bit of both, really. I'm happy I'm not in Daybreak; the man is only really tolerable in small doses."

He's silent for a moment, watching the other partygoers. It's surprising how many faces he recognizes in the mix; he hadn't realized before how bizarrely well-connected he's become among this little corner of supernatural society.

"I was," he admits. "Though I'm not entirely sure how I got mixed up in it. Norrell wanted shifter bodyguards, I guess." He laughed. "Even now I still don't know how he ended up with me. I'm not exactly a fighter, human or otherwise."

Lancelot's eyebrows jump in surprise at the description Simon gives, furrow in disapproval a moment. He may not be the life and soul of the party, but he's still an elder and there's a difference between the gentle suggestion someone is not cheerful and calling them a prick.

"There is no need for that," he says more quietly, voice lowered just for Simon. "Gilbert Norrell may not be your best friend but take a look at everyone here. Three different factions, and some of the Night Council. Be careful what you say about someone whose influence spreads that far."

Matt is one of those that has had a bit too much, but thankfully, he knows how to handle walking without landing square on his face. He sees a man (rather handsome, too) with his bow-tie over his collar and the sight makes him laugh. He's not really certain why but it's the first time he's seen a man with a bowtie that wasn't some hipster wearing one "ironically".

"Hi," he said, approaching the man. "I love the bow tie. Even untied it makes you look... dashing."

That's because it's black tie dresscode, Matt, and Lancelot knows how to dress for it. Even if he resorted to loosening it toward the end of the night. He looks up and around as Matthew approaches, offers him a smile that turns somewhat bemused as he carries on. Dashing? He huffs at that, slides his eyes away.

"I'm not so sure about that," he demurs. "I feel a little out of place. I suppose if I look the part, though, that's one thing."

[SEMI-OPEN] Written by the Victors

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