At The Gates

WHO: Dominic Munroe & Penemue.
WHAT: Some injuries, you just don't spring back from.
WHEN: Very, very late on Day One, after his beatdown here.
WHERE: Haven.

( His rusting skeleton was finally shaken to pieces. )

Who. Balthazar
What. It's a great day to be a demon
Where. Yours truly ends up in Haven
When. As the party gets going and chaos extends throughout London. A short while after this exchange.
Notes. Uhm, I didn't know how people wanted to go about doing this, SO if anyone looking to join in Nina's Bohemian Rhapsody of Doom wants, perhaps we can thread it here? idk idk

( It wouldn’t matter if he had been bowled over by the magic, because he’s going to live it up as though this really were his greatest, wettest fantasy. )

WHO: The whole lot. Catherine Gryffiths, Dominic Munroe, Talia Sullivan, Marion, Temeluchus, Edward Belville, the Corinthian, and Mr. White.
WHAT: Narrative collection -- how each of them ushered in the new year.
WHEN: December 31st, 2011.
WHERE: All over.

( For self-assigned penance; for problems with easy solutions. )

The Market was not a creature of blood and of salt today, not a slinking, shadowy thing that kept itself carefully to the demarked edges of where it ought be with wards and signs and sigils spilling along its skirts to tell people where they could and could not be (with the sly smile, the wink, the glint of gold almost-hidden that was the Merchants and the Market itself forever). It had thrown wide its doors (beyond of course, the careful delineation between London and this Other London, this parasitic presence deep below the innocent preparations going on above, the tired trudging of Christmas shoppers and the artificial buzz and hum and florescent glow of lights strung on wires across the streets). This place, sketched out across bared Market grounds was a delight, a poetry-in-motion of silks swung from erected arch to arch, of paper lanterns strung seemingly from nothing until they sent soft glow across the path with the delicate tinge and blush of soft jewels.

A vast tent (such as it could be called - such a thing was an artifice and construction beyond the notion of words and language) was main event; soft light and swelling music and the laughter and low-voiced flirtation of masked men and women circling one another within its depths. To the left, a staircase that wound up above to a platform cordoned off into sections more suited for intimacy, for quiet conversation amongst the numerous silk cushions, the low tables thoughtfully placed of a height to lean a glass on and gossamer-thin curtains to keep privacy at utmost. To the right and below, a table of all good things to eat spread out for all, clusters of tables and spindly chairs for diners to seat themselves at and still admire the whole. A bar (for all who came to these events in formal dress a little too unfamiliar to be comfortable sought out such places, such things) took up the back, a obtrusive but elegant creation served attentively by low-voiced, dark clad whisking things that were too quietly efficient to be anything but those low down on Market pecking order.

But of course, a Market is not a Market without a little magic. Those who stepped across the threshold, those hidden from clarity by the dominoes and masks of anonymity for the night had fresh flush of confidence. Those that did not identify themselves to their companions could not be identified - strangers within a party, mysterious and interesting both. For a night, all who attended were given ability to move as though they were unknown -- be the end result a flirtation heartily enjoyed but set aside by morning, or a flash of an argument forgotten by the time they left the dance.


[Open to all characters - Market is open to everyone for this. There will be areas in subject lines and comments below, so hop in and leave no one untagged!]

WHO: Dominic Munroe & Brianna O'Connell.
WHAT: Some commiseration over Dom's situation with the Merchants.
WHEN: After this conversation.
WHERE: A mundane pub called The Angel.

( the days are getting shorter. the air is getting colder. and as you sip your rum and coke, kid, you're just getting older. )

WHO: Dominic Munroe, erstwhile vendors, and a brief appearance by his Merchant employer.
WHAT: His work as hired muscle has gotten bloodier since he heard about his own expiration date. When he finally spots his chance to avoid the foretold job, however — the other shoe drops.
WHEN: A month or so after this, and only a few days after his encounter with Joss.
WHERE: Out and about London, Eddie’s apartment, Nic’s office.

( It’s dirty work and horrid. )

Who: Dominic Munroe & Joss Makepeace
What: Late-night run-in & reality warping
Where: London's back alleys. (Near a pub)
When: V recently!


( Both of them had been touched by the Circus, though one moreso than the other )

WHO: Dominic Munroe & Estelle Bennett, with eventual surprises.
WHAT: No cotton candy at this carnival: upon recommendation, Dom comes prowling for the Ringmaster and for answers regarding his impending talisman disaster.
WHEN: Nowish.
WHERE: At the Circus.
STATUS: In-progress.

( Haven’s wards tumbling down like a stack of misplaced cards seemed fitting and appropriate. )

WHO: Dominic Munroe & Eli Csontos.
WHAT: The scarecrow-man takes the seer out for a drink (or a dozen), then they head back to her place. But what was meant to be a pleasant night in turns nasty after her abilities catch a glimpse of his future.
WHEN: Recently.
WHERE: Number 9, then Kabuki, then Number 9 once more.
NOTE: This is the longest log I have ever, ever, ever had the pleasure of being a part of.

( There was laughter as he said the ridiculous things Dominic was wont to — half-covered mouth and thin wisps of amusement made into sound for what she laughed at was the world around him, reeling — stretching back and away, curving itself in silent horrified parting around him (tragic figure laughing til the world ended: it was madness, it was horrific — Eli leaned closer, gazed with clear green eyes, watched interestedly) rather than any of the half-practiced patter that Dom rattled out, chatter as quick and jittery as the pulse jumping against his throat. )

WHO: Anyone neutral or good!
WHAT: Dominic Munroe demands merriment and good food to celebrate some birthdays.
WHEN: Sunday, June 12th, during the day.
WHERE: Haven, the rundown old church in Westminster.

For all that their home is known as a sanctuary, Haven runs the risk of becoming too austere and monk-like at times. Its quiet risks being too quiet and sacred; its innate churchness sometimes seems inextricable and inescapable.

But today is a day for celebration and socialisation, in whatever form they can make it. Voices are raised in laughter, cracking what normally stands as silence around a sacrosanct churchyard. The makings of a summer party have been installed in Haven's overgrown garden; it was evidently well-tended in the past, but the plantlife has now grown shoddy, trailing rampant over its boundaries. A beaten, slightly-rusty barbeque grill has taken up residence at the corner of the garden -- the grill's seen better days, but by the beaming expression of the man tending it (bright-red 'KISS THE CHEF' apron and all), it seems to be doing its job well enough. The sound and smell of sizzling meat fills the air, and food has been laid out on a long wooden table. Chairs are scattered throughout the flattened grass. The organisation is a little makeshift and a little second-hand -- but that's only fitting for the venue, isn't it?

[Feel free to tag in below and start your own sub-threads with each other!]