Oct. 15th, 2009

[info]seaside_nymph

Modly: Event! Polaroids!

Dora sneaks into the pub, but not very successfully for her obvious attempt to sneak past everyone while wearing dark glasses and a button-down white shirt ("borrowed" from Jack's laundry basket) she's belted around like a trench coat. Her hair is slicked back and pitch black, and her lips are vivid red.

She glances about then drags a chair over to the cork board on the back wall. It doesn't take long before she's pinned up a whole series of Polaroid pictures, each labeled with a name (occasionally spelled right). She's made frequent to obsessive use of the camera Iago gave her in the last few months and these are only the tip of the photographic iceberg, but they're some of her favourites.

View Dora's... Handiwork? With Update. )

This month's event is Dora's brainchild. Your job is to take the picture (hotlinking is encouraged) and provide a post in which your character explains what they were doing when she snapped the picture. Since Dora took them, they must have occurred IN Margate at any point since this past Christmas. Feel free to post this as a Margate memory or an actual explanation to... someone? :P

We encourage everyone to play and to have fun with this distinctly silly event. However, for those who simply can't make it work or don't want to demonstrate their sense of humor or creativity, if you do not post about the picture, it does not exist. Come on, be brave! Have fun!

For those and only those characters who Dora has not yet met (including our two newest characters and Teddy), you may add in your own picture to the mix.

The tag for this is polaroids.

Credit to Mairelyn for Dumbledore's picture, jamew85 for Rincewind's, and DarkJediPrincess for Xellos'.

Aug. 14th, 2009

[info]sunnyshadow

Xellos: Topic: Forgetting

When he comes into the pub again for the first time in (Lady Bright, it must be) months, his smile is not a sociable one, but the serene little closed-eyed Metallium smile that isn't worried about how to fulfill any unexpected orders to kill (or worse, incapacitate) any given person. The pink glasses are not in evidence (they're in a pocket), and neither is the frilly apron with the chickie on it.

There's a minor ruffle in the kitchen when one of the new staff demands to know who he is and where the Dragon-Lady's gone. Only a few moments of being silently and blandly smiled at sees the man re-assigning himself to dishwashing duty, though, and Xellos spends the rest of the evening on the hibachi displays of knifework and blending across from the bar that the pub hasn't seen in a good, long time, during weeks of sandwiches and pastries and pub food, his face in a pleasant mask. He shouldn't be angry with Ivonka-san for letting the place forget what it ought to be, but by the third time one of the waiters asks him what today's specials are, the third time he says (snarls, by this point, however frozen in polite tones), whatever they ask for, he is.

Every so often, he pulls Iago away from the bar, click-clicking away on his new cast into secluded corners, and just folds himself into his arms, breathing him in with their fingers laced until he's steady enough to face all the eyes again, sliding his fingertips for reassurance into the pocket of Iago's apron, just big enough to snugly contain one little hiding cat, just in case. To keep from doing that every five minutes or so, he spends a lot of time with his weight all on his newly re-broken leg, occasionally bouncing gently on it. Sometimes he turns the night before, the night of breaking it, over meditatively in his mind as his hands fly (and, if the truth be known, his ethereal tendrils, because two hands alone, however fast, really can't whip together multiple dishes at once), and sometimes he just laps gently at the sweet, sustaining pain of it.

Jun. 4th, 2009


[info]il_valentino

Cesare Borgia: Topic: Mothers

He expects this will end any time soon. He expects it might as well... go on forever. Nothing in this place is right, and life has been restored to him, so why not youth, too? Because nothing lasts, you idiot. And while he likes his new un-heavyness, the gangly limbs and boundless energy, his elder self already sneers at him for taking such puppyish delight in things that will - will - pass again. How fleeting is youth. Take joy in today, for tomorrow remains... uncertain. Lorenzo de' Medici knew all about that, didn't he. Old before his time, and bent twice as fast.

Nervously, Cesare looks up, cradling the juice-and-something Dora sneaked between his hands. "My mother was a very enterprising woman," he says, half-proud, half-shy. "I hear you can still visit some of the places she owned in Rome. Not all of them, no. But a few. The Vacca - that was a tavern - at the corner of Campo de' Fiori; it's a bakery now. And on the other side of the market, there's the Albergo del Sole. That was hers, too. The walls were all wonky!" he laughs, and elder Cesare chokes with apoplexy that he's using such a stupid word. "Not a single beam at straight edges. That's because they built it into the ruins of Pompei's Theatre. Where Caesar was killed. Not me. I mean, Giulio Cesare. The Imperator. My mamma had an inn there. Funny, no? And she owned other places, too."

Then he falls silent for a moment, rubbing his hands before he has to sit on them to keep them still. The juice is quite. Strong, like. His elder self nearly dies of shame at his caterwauling thoughts - when I was your age I already had my doctorate, he tells himself, and blushes. "Anyway. After my youngest brother Jofré was born, our father took a new mistress, but he made sure mamma was well-appointed and lacked for nothing. He found her a husband of good repute and and. Then I had to move away from her, from her house on piazza Pizzo di Merlo, and live with Aunt Adriana. That wasn't... nice. So I guess I was happy when they sent me to school in Perugia."

"They say she - mamma, I mean - they say Vanozza de' Cattanei survived most of her children." He swallows, blinks, then quickly, hastily empties the glass.

Nov. 27th, 2008


[info]il_valentino

Cesare: Event: Storm

He stands there, getting wet and wetter, but instead of hurrying inside - fixing himself a caffè, now that he's learnt how to, instead of grabbing one of those lush towels, or better yet: lounging away the rest of the day, snug in a fauteuil, swirling Armagnac - he walks away from the door, back into the rain.

He doesn't look where he's going until he bumps into a bench, shin first. Cesare takes that for a sign - isn't the sky full of portents? - and sits, getting wet and wetter, the glasses clutched in his hand as if they were a saint's relic.

Looking heavenwards, all he sees are fleeing shapes, panicked and wheeling, twisted by an invisible force and trampled by the throng. The shapes in the clouds remind him of something. Something he's seen, somewhere. He vaguely remembers being angry then. )

Nov. 21st, 2008

[info]sunnyshadow

Xellos: Event: Storm

Xellos stands at the window, staring into the punishing grey skies, beating the pavement down and whipping the earth into submission, the drumroll of water elbowing other thoughts from his mind.

As though in a dream, he walks upstairs to the bedroom, takes off his boots, twitches back the curtains, and steps out into the nook below the roof. Instantly drenched, he turns his face up, hair plastered to his face and nearly black with water. Opening his mouth to drink down the heavens, he breathes in great gulps of fizzling, tangy ozone, guzzling down the air until he's lightheaded and it hums in his blood.

He climbs up onto the railing. Stands there a minute, arms spread wide. Then, in a whirling, gold-speckled explosion of purple-grey, he jumps.

When life gives you thunder, make love to the sky.



Nov. 8th, 2008

[info]make_it_new

Val: Event: Pumpkins

Val is very pleased with his pumpkin effort. Even though it didn't actually work to bite the design into the rind, it has a very nice effect now that Jack cautiously let him have a knife.



At first he sort of wished the fire were a different color, but since it's occurred to him that the pumpkin will perhaps catch alight, and will certainly eventually rot and shrivel, maybe that shade's all right after all. ^,^

[info]il_valentino

Cesare: Event: Pumpkins



Er. And this is, what exactly?

Sucking a bleeding thumb, Cesare glares over his shoulder. "Well, what does it look like?"

I don't know; you tell me. An ass on a pumpkin? Miquel straddles a chair, props his chin on the backrest.

"That's the Borgia bull, you git." Cesare squints. It does look a bit like an ass, true, but then carving the thing was a bitch. Really, as a cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, he should be above such heathen rites. Ridiculous; positively ridiculous. Not to mention the smell of pumpkin everywhere. He may need a grappa soon.

Which, historically speaking, used to be a peaceful, grazing ox... at least while your grand-uncle was alive. No es verdad?

"An ox. You are fucking mental."

And you are starting to sound like a native, Miquel beams. You never used to be that thick. Venga, venga. Why not show me whether it's a bull or an ox? )

Nov. 1st, 2008

[info]sunnyshadow

Xellos: Topic: Poetry: Partei!

The walls are decked in harvest leaves, mellow-bright gourds on the tables, nuts and dried fruits scattered in glass bowls. One table is loaded with mead, cider, wines, and sake, fruit and loam-tinged, another cozily cluttered with cups, dry tea and strainers, and an enormous, bubbling carafe of water. He steps out for a moment, leaving the others setting out plates of frosted gingerbread and pfeffernuesse, glowing-ripe fruit and cheese, pulling tables into a loose circle.

The largest tree in the area is an oak, and at this moment, a glorious vibrance. No Flagon tree-forest, spreading forever and smelling of holiness and spiced sap, but it will do. What he hangs on it, a cluster of dark berries and bright red on a small wreath of supple birch branches wrapped, for the first time, with coppery-bronze ribbons along with the gold, has no precise meaning, wasn't crafted for the look, and his prayer, as he secures it on a branch and rests his hand on it, is no paean or plea.

He opens his heart to the year, and to the gold.

And then, at an easy pace, he moves back to the restaurant, and hangs the sign up on the door.

POETRY EXCHANGE
Tell your favorite
Ad-lib your own
Play off each other
Be absurd
No holds barred

Aug. 10th, 2008


[info]il_valentino

Cesare Borgia: Topic: Bedrooms

Roma, Città Leonina, Vatican Palace, 18 August 1503 )

Jul. 21st, 2008

[info]ex_iago979

Event: Place Your Order

Pardon our dust, gentle sirs and good ladies, new friends and old, but we assure you that the sounds of your voices are more welcome than your boot-prints.

To begin with, let each of you order up his drink and meal! Tonight, the chef takes requests, and your fancy is limited only by what we find in our pantry. However, all who have recipes must bring them to him, and so we shall set our menu when the time comes.

Come, then, have a seat! Here by the bar I shall keep you amused with talk and good drink, and there by the fire the room is warm, and at every table you shall find good company, and should you choose a place by the half-height walls of the kitchen you may speak with Xellos as he cooks. Come, your order?

For this very simple first topic, everyone can comment to this post with their food and drink choice. Thread-crashing is highly encouraged as otherwise there's not much in the way of interesting conversation to be had. Although Iago can and has discoursed at extreme length on polenta, but whether or not that qualifies for interesting depends on the listener's profession.

Welcome to the Bear and Barnacle!

Oh, and he means it about the recipes.

October 2010

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