Lancelot du Lac (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
knightscode) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-10-16 08:26 pm
knightscode) wrote in undergrounds2016-10-16 08:26 pm
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[ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!
Date: 17th to 31st of October, inclusive!
Plot: Medium, Live!
Areas: Manchester for the pre-London show, then Greenwich
Worldwide phenomenon Sarah Silverton is coming to London. The British Born psychic, medium and all round lady of the supernatural is doing a special tour ending with a Halloween show in the enormous setting of the O2 arena.
She's booked out the placed, too, tickets are sold out. They weren't exactly cheap, either.
Silverton has plenty of critics, but nobody can deny that she does put on a good show. Some put it down to publicity stunts, but every time she takes over a stage there always seem to be mysterious problems. Lights flickering, sound problems, all sorts of spooky goings on while stage hands swear blind they didn't touch anything. There have even been some who quit because they couldn't take it any more, claiming members of Sarah's team must have been deliberating interfering to draw crowds.
It's no surprise, then, that the Night Council has taken any interest. With the reports of strange goings on escalating (including a falling piece of set in one show that caused injury to one unsuspecting audience member) they've launched a full investigation. While most believe Silverton to be a fraud simply putting together elaborate stunts to sell tickets, any chance that she's a real member of the community flagrantly breaking the Statute of Secrecy must be addressed. Lancelot is charged with putting together a team and investigating carefully. Sarah Silverton is a celebrity, and they can't risk drawing attention to themselves in the process or causing any kind of public scandal. They have just over two weeks until her live show in London, and a lot of work to get done....
[ ooc; Post for the medium, live! plot. Still time to sign up if you want! Spooky content likely, in the spirit of Halloween. ]
Plot: Medium, Live!
Areas: Manchester for the pre-London show, then Greenwich
Worldwide phenomenon Sarah Silverton is coming to London. The British Born psychic, medium and all round lady of the supernatural is doing a special tour ending with a Halloween show in the enormous setting of the O2 arena.
She's booked out the placed, too, tickets are sold out. They weren't exactly cheap, either.
Silverton has plenty of critics, but nobody can deny that she does put on a good show. Some put it down to publicity stunts, but every time she takes over a stage there always seem to be mysterious problems. Lights flickering, sound problems, all sorts of spooky goings on while stage hands swear blind they didn't touch anything. There have even been some who quit because they couldn't take it any more, claiming members of Sarah's team must have been deliberating interfering to draw crowds.
It's no surprise, then, that the Night Council has taken any interest. With the reports of strange goings on escalating (including a falling piece of set in one show that caused injury to one unsuspecting audience member) they've launched a full investigation. While most believe Silverton to be a fraud simply putting together elaborate stunts to sell tickets, any chance that she's a real member of the community flagrantly breaking the Statute of Secrecy must be addressed. Lancelot is charged with putting together a team and investigating carefully. Sarah Silverton is a celebrity, and they can't risk drawing attention to themselves in the process or causing any kind of public scandal. They have just over two weeks until her live show in London, and a lot of work to get done....
[ ooc; Post for the medium, live! plot. Still time to sign up if you want! Spooky content likely, in the spirit of Halloween. ]
MANCHESTER;
By the time everyone is ushered in the atmosphere is thick with anticipation, and there's an eruption of of applause as she finally comes on stage. Sarah Silverton is a woman in her 50s with wild dark hair and neatly lined eyes. Her dress glimmers in the stage lights and she moves with confidence, practised at being the focus of attention.
"My name is Sarah Silverton, and you -- all of you are my guests tonight. Some of you believe, some of you doubt. By the end of tonight you will all know the truth. You cannot deny what you see with your own eyes. My gift came to me at a young age. It made me different, it made me weird. I didn't understand it at first, understand why I had to be different. Standing here tonight, I know why. This gift was given to me so I could help all of you. I can feel your pain. I know that you have suffered. But you're here now. Let's start."
The show has the elements of any good psychic show -- sick people, people worried about dead relatives, emotional vamping by getting the audience to cheer and believe. Silverton is a good performer, she has a clear voice and certainly seems to believe in what she does.
Reading the show is a little harder. At least one or two people she calls up are plants, but not all of them are. There might be something else to it, they might have been feeding Silverton information in some way, but their emotions are real -- and there's something else.
The show is far from short of drama, but not all of it is just Silverton's preaching. The lights all flicker, dim brighten with her emotional displays. A few blow out at dramatic moments. It could be stage theatrics, but the air is thick with magic. The whole theatre feels alive with it. The lighting bars tremble and creak, the emergency exit lights flicker on and off, and they definitely shouldn't unless someone is flagrantly breaking the law for cheap drama. A few people look genuinely frightened and bolt from the theatre.
For those who stay, though, there's a VIP champagne meet and greet afterwards. Silverton turns up about five minutes in, and she's happy to chat. Some subtle security makes sure it stays just chatting.
OPEN;
He knows there are other people that Lancelot had sent to investigate from London somewhere in the audience but at this stage in the game the tickets for their seats were purchased individually, and he hasn't much of an idea who all they might be. Perhaps it's for the best. He will know if he runs into them at the after party, after all -- the tickets all do at least include a given invitation to that. With separate seats however, he sits in the midst of a sea of what seem to him to be a broad collection some of the most gullible, excitable people in the whole of England as the applause erupts and Silverton herself waltzes onto the stage.
He can't get much of a read on her as the show progresses. There's too much interference, too many people around him and between the two of them. He feels at least several 'others' in the crowd, but he's not so good as to be able to pinpoint their locations as that. He supposes, as he watches her preach to a woman whose deceased parents apparently need to reassure her of her parenting skills from the beyond, that he's going to have to actually secure a conversation with her at this VIP meet and greet. And that, more than the theatrical flickering of the lights and the following terrified running audience members, fills him with a quiet sense of dread.
Showing his VIP ticket to the man checking them, Faolan shuffles around on the edge of the meet and greet until he finds himself a glass of the promised champagne. He's pretty sure he's going to need it, if he's going to make it through any sort of conversation with the woman at all...
Re: OPEN;
The show itself is far too flashy for Liadan's tastes, though the people sitting nearby are enthralled. At one point when the lights begin to flash and she sighs, they even glare at her. It doesn't bother her though and she continues to do her best to focus on the substance of the show, rather than the style. If it is true powers, than this woman has far more control over the Sight than Liadan, for whom it has always been a tad unpredictable. This means, unfortunately, that Liadan isn't quite able to get a read on whether it is true or not. However, there are a few readings that feel different to her, though she is not sure why yet. She makes a mental note to try and speak with the audience members in question later, assuming they will be at the meet-and-greet.
She heads to the party afterwards and as she heads for the champagne, she notices Faolan. She hadn't realized he would be here but it is nice to see a familiar face. She picks up her glass and heads over to him.
"This has been quite the night."
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He raises his glass at her in greeting as she approaches. "It has," he replies, a bit more gruffly than he intended to, but he means well. "I take it that you saw the show as well?" Did Lancelot get her the tickets and send her along to investigate as well, he wonders? He hadn't known that they knew each other. For such a large city, the underground community seems a small world after all.
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"I did," she confirms, "though I cannot say that I enjoyed it much."
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He steps closer to her, so that they don't have to speak too loud to hear each other over the murmur of the crowd. But he has to ask, he has to know whether they are here for the same reason. "Forgive me, but. Do you know Lancelot du Lac?"
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"It would seem that we are here on the same orders, you and I," Faolan replies. Though Liadan's are perhaps less official in nature. Lancelot isn't her superior, after all.
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The drink in Gwen’s hand is her second of the night. The first she’d downed right away. This one she intends to nurse for a while. Not being much of a drinker, these bubbles could easily go to her head if she isn’t careful.
While scanning the crowd, Gwen recognizes one of the attendees: Faolan O’Neill, the newly crowned Head of Hillingdon. She doesn’t know him personally, but thanks to his election bid and the scandal that accompanied it, his face is a familiar one. Though, it is a bit odd to see him here. This doesn’t seem like it would be his sort of scene. Then again, what does she know? Perhaps it is.
Since Ms. Silverton is currently a no-show, Gwen decides to occupy her time by chatting with O’Neill, who is clearly an ambitious man and yet at the same time remains a bit of a reclusive enigma within the community despite his position.
“Mr. O’Neill. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She offers him her free hand. “I’m Guinevere Leodegrance, a member of the Redbright Institute,” she says by way of introduction. “I’m surprised to see you here tonight. Are you a fan of Ms. Silverton?”
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"It's nice to meet you," he replies, which is as polite as he can be, in the circumstances, shaking her hand before retracting his own. "I can't say that I am, though, no. I suppose you could say that I've been assigned here." His position as a Guardian in the Night Council is no secret at this point, even though it makes him wary to admit to it at certain times.
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Thankfully, his reason for being here tonight is interesting enough to temporarily distract Guinevere from the awkward height differential (and the growing pain in her feet from the unaccustomed heels).
“Assigned? Oh!”
She has been thinking of Faolan only in terms of Hillingdon. Being assigned here seems more in line with his role as a Night Council guardian, a position that had been exposed during the election. That realization makes Gwen immediately smarten (and straighten) up. A lifetime spent as part of a police family has left her with a deep sense of respect for anyone filling a similar role (at least until said person proves to be unworthy of it).
“Am I intruding? I don’t want to get in your way.”
Guinevere’s father would read her the riot act if she compromised an operation by being chatty.
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He glances up at her, flashing an awkward smile. "You'd be saving me conversation with another in the crowd here, so please. Don't let me scare you off." He knows that he has that effect on people, but he tries to be better, when he can. God, he really needs to get better at this whole business of talking to people, he thinks to himself, sighing inwardly.
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She knows who is on her guest list, of course, and has made sure she knows what they look like too.
When she can.
Some people don't come up, or when they do they come up suspiciously. It's for that reason that she approaches Faolan, who is signed up as Dubhan. Dubhan O'Neill is dead, and that means this person might be a private investigator here to get a story to sell. So either she needs to scare him enough he might write a good story or unveil his fraud and thus make a good story for herself.
She approaches casually, the cat cradled in her arms like a baby. Everything about her is old fashioned elegance, pearls around her neck and twinkling diamond earrings -- perfectly manicured long, red nails and neat lipstick.
"I've been curious about you," she opens with, "so many shadows surround you, Mr O'Neill, you have an air of mystery. I wonder at the truth of you. Did you enjoy the show?"
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"It was... Enlightening," Faolan replies. As is the fact that she knows his name. He doesn't feel any flaring of magic upon that reveal -- she must have looked up the guest list ahead of time. How she could have put his (fake) name to his face is another mystery entirely. He'd registered under Dubhan's name, after all. It had been something of a test, he supposes, although it had also been to make certain that she didn't know that Faolan O'Neill of the Guardians had attended her show either.
He glances at the cat in her arms, then back at Silverton herself. "I'm sorry, 'shadows'?" he has to ask.
The Performance & Intermission (open)
Now, here they both sit in the front row, almost close enough to touch Sarah Silverton. Normally, Agnes would have reserved a box, but that would keep her too far away from the medium, whom she wants to look straight in the eyes. On several occasions in the past, Agnes has tried to get a personal reading from Sarah, only to be rudely rebuffed by her staff. Because of that, the old woman intends to make damn sure she gets a public one tonight.
At first things go swimmingly. Agnes remains on the edge of her seat, enraptured by Sarah’s every move, hanging on her every word. When the medium looks in her direction and claims to feel the presence of a fallen hero whose loved one is in attendance, Agnes knows (just knows!) that it’s her beloved Wallace, who passed away nearly ten years ago. You see, Wallace had served in the RAF. Mind you, he’d never seen active duty and been discharged long before he died, but that was neither here nor there. He had served his country, and that made him a hero, full stop.
In response to Sarah’s proclamation, Agnes claps her hands together and whispers words of comfort to her dear Wallace, so grateful to know that he is looking out for her still. Meanwhile Gwen squirms in her seat, avoiding Silverton’s gaze and thinking of her late husband, Leontes, who had died in the line of duty back in January.
Unfortunately, as Guinevere had feared, the show does indeed take a turn for the terrifying. What is at first a fun albeit spooky spectacular, eventually becomes traumatic. Flickering lights give way to falling bits of scaffolding. Tales of the protective deceased give way to talk of dark spirits who foretell doom. During one particularly harrowing stretch of the show, Gwen feels compelled to use her power to sedate those within range. As a wave of fear sweeps through the crowd, those closest to her remain suspiciously sedate, serenely riding out the panic.
When intermission mercifully arrives, Guinevere breathes a sigh of relief and checks her watch, calculating how much time remains before the finale.
VIP After-Party (open)
She smiles and nods while passing by, stopping infrequently to make conversation. Dressed as she is in expensive boho chic with a crystal handing around her neck, she finds herself approached several times by strangers who assume her to be a member of Silverton’s entourage or a model paid to be here as a hostess of sorts. After the fifth time she’s accosted, her patient smile begins to falter.
Agnes--who had pressured Gwen to come and dictated her attire (including the necklace, which is supposed to help keep her Chakras balanced or some such)--should be at her side now, acting as a buffer to the attention. But the show had been too much for the poor, old dear. Emotionally taxed by the eerie goings-on, she had bowed out early. Naturally, before leaving she had insisted that Gwen go on without her.
As much as Guinevere would love to go home, she feels compelled to stay given how much money had been spent on her ticket. Besides, she must admit to a small bit of curiosity about Sarah Silverton. Hopefully, a face-to-face would prove interesting and thus worth her time. So, she waits with the rest of the milling crowd for the guest of honour to arrive.
Re: VIP After-Party (open)
While she keeps an eye out for Ms Silverton, she is also listening to the conversation. From what she can tell, most of the audience is very enamoured of the medium and believes every word she said.
Liadan shakes her head sadly. She is still not sure if they are right to believe but she suspects that they would be taken in by anyone who had enough special effects.
She spots a woman who appears to be part of the show and walks over to her. "Do you know when we should be expecting the guest of honour?" she asks.
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“No, sorry, I don’t.”
She checks her watch, grateful to have worn one tonight, which she so rarely does these days.
“I do hope it will be soon.”
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The words come out in an uncensored rush, and she regrets them immediately. Most people here, she assumes, are devotees of Ms. Silverton and probably wouldn’t take kindly to Gwen’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Not that it didn’t meet my expectations,” she adds hastily. “It was definitely…memorable.”
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“She is quite the performer. It’s almost convincing, really. I’ll give her that.”
She raises her glass briefly in a mock toast.
“I’m Gwen, by the way. It’s nice to meet someone else who isn’t completely enraptured by our host.”
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There's a smattering of applause as she walks in, having changed into a black dress that glitters in a way that suits her. She looks like an old fashioned model who has aged gracefully, right down to the slightly wild hair and carefully manicured nails. The black cat she carries seems as much a prop as a companion, and unconcerned by the crowd. Presumably it has suffered this indignity many a time before.
"Thank you," she says in answer to the applause. "You're all too kind. Some water for lunar, please?"
Presumably the cat. One of the attendants circling with a tray of champagne nods and vanishes away, while Sarah begins to mingle in with crowds -- chatting to people politely. She seems to have a tendency to touch people by the hand, something that -- with how long her red nails are -- almost feels like being secured in place by her claws if you're unwilling.
Part of being a professional psychic, of course, is being able to read people. Guinevere's discomfort is readable a mile off as he begins to tire. Sarah approaches after a moment, lunar cradled in her arm like a tired child, and offers her a thoughtful frown of concern. She knows the names of everyone on her guest list, obviously, as much to add to the magic of her knowing as so she can make sure they're not investigative reporters out to cause her trouble.
"Guinevere, you seem tired. I hope tonight was not too draining for you?"
Shows can be a little emotionally taxing, after all. She knows, because they're meant to be.
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"Um, tired?"
Yes, she is tired. Tonight has been draining. This entire day has been draining: the long (oh so long) train ride up with Agnes, followed by keeping a vigilant watch over the old women during the show, and then feeling forced to use her power to calm the crowd. All of that, plus enduring this drawn-out VIP party, has taken a toll on her.
"Yes... Er, no. Well...I did find the show to be a very powerful experience." That's a flattering interpretation of the truth. "But it's also simply been a long day. I do appreciate your concern, though."
She smiles politely, while refraining from making eye contact. Only minutes ago, while talking to another skeptic, it was easy to laugh off their host's supposed psychic gifts as pure nonsense. Now, being face-to-face with the celebrity medium, Gwen finds that she wants to avoid her gaze, afraid perhaps to see a glimmer of actual power, which would force her to give serious consideration to the content of the show.
So, instead of looking at Sarah, Guinevere focuses on her cat.
"And it looks like I might not be the only one who's feeling a little tired."
She nods in the direction of Lunar.
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"Oh, it's definitely past his nap time. He likes a little attention, though. So many people to fuss over him. Where is your friend, though? Agnes?"
Sarah looks around as if she might see her, since a pair of tickets had been booked together by Ms Crutcher. That meant Guinevere should be with her, surely, but here she is standing all alone.