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!]
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