At The Gates

WHO: Marion {+ OPEN to anyone wanting some reality manipulation in their vicinity!}
WHAT: The djinni awakens to a dream and stretches its newfound powers.
WHEN: Day two; early morning.
WHERE: Her godforsaken apartment, then Market.

( On Thursday night, Marion went to bed early. On Friday morning, the ifrit awoke. )

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!]

To newcomers, it was a bright circus of a place, a twist of smells rich enough to clamp the throat tight with incense thick-layered over fresh blood, of cat-calls and music that thrummed deep and sung sour, growled against the air and belled out beautifully overhead until the heart beat along in sympathy with bass-line as the melody trickled through and without and drew you in. It was ribbon-bright colours and stall tops, of the patter of Vendors and the glimmer of wares for sale - and behind the curtains, in cordoned off corners and beyond what was the way of things, past chalked wards and sketched out sigils, there was the lifeblood and breath of the Market, the dark and the forbidden and the forever sold beneath the sleeve wealth of the Market. Angel's feathers torn from back of dying thing? To the left, ma'am. The still-beating heart of an infant born to dead mother? To the right, sir. The trinkets for summoning sat cheek by jowl with the knives used for sacrifices, the wine sold by the barrel by blood by the glass and the whole hollow mimicry of joyous thing rattled on ancient bones of bought-and-sold for week of soulless lack of care for what you might do with magic as weapon and magic as friend.

WHO: Marion and two hapless Market runners; the ones who found the Collector's latest victim.
WHAT: A djinni practices her abilities.
WHO: Shortly after she gets permission.
WHERE: A sound-insulated annex off Santoro’s office.

( and with the pages distressed that you held to your chest, they were mangled and dog-eared while the rest were just mangy and gory. )

WHO: Nicolas Santoro (natoarrogante) & Marion.
WHAT: A typical meeting between this employer & secretary: preparing for Market, setting affairs in order, testing and needling the barriers between them, crossing all boundaries of propriety.
WHEN: Last week, a few days before Market.
WHERE: His office.

( He knew she was watching; he kept eyes deliberately averted. )