InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "I let the dogs out!"

Doors Verse (doorsverse) wrote in doorslogs,
@ 2013-10-18 21:51:00

Entry tags:

plot: halloween

Who: Everyone!
What: The Halloween plot
Where: Passages → The RMS Mauretania
Notes: This is a group log, so anything goes as far as adult content. Please provide locations and warnings, whenever appropriate, in subject lines. Characters may only be in one place at a time, not in multiple threads simultaneously, and you must post using the “doorsween” anon account. This post is anonymous; no names, accents, or defining fonts, please. Lastly, comment with "dibs" on threads you intend to hit, and feel free to exit your characters from threads at any time.

The Mauritania is a ghost ship.

Launched in 1938, it's been decades since she sailed the oceans, and yet the doors of Passages open onto the night-darkened deck of a ship that is barely afloat. She tilts, she lurches, and she is cobweb-lined from her deserted bridge to her silent deck. There is no land to be sighted from any railing, and no light save that from the stars overhead. The promenade winds around the upper level in ominous silence, and haunting music can be heard beyond the doors that lead into the ship's interior.

Promenade; Elevator: It's a curious thing, this ghost ship's elevator. Opulent and splendid, it takes up the entire center of the grand entrance, and it is meant to carry passengers down into the belly of the ship. But it doesn't work just right. Sometimes, the elevator drops impossible lengths. Sometimes, the elevator stops altogether for hours at a time. Yet somehow it's always empty and awaiting new passengers.

First Class; Baths: The upper-level, with its height and distance from the ocean, feels safe and bright. Classical music can be heard in these halls, though there is no orchestra and the ballroom is ominously dark. Laughter leads passengers to the one mostly-lit area in first class, where a swimming bath leads to smaller, more private Turkish bath. The lights here are quiet, flickering and barely there, and shadows dance elusively in the depths of the pool, while ghostly laughter can be heard in the private bath stalls.

Second Class; Theater: Down a level, the second-class floor is louder than the elite first-class floor. Here the air is thick with cigar smoke, and glasses can be heard clinking from the open doors to the smoking room. But it's the theater that draws passengers on this floor. It is cramped and entirely dark, save for the monochrome film on the screen, hauntingly devoid of sound, where a collection of terrifying collages and darkly sexual imagery fill the screen.

Third Class; Dining: Claustrophobic stairs lead down to the narrow passages of the cramped third-class rooms, where the air is heavy and thick, and where the lights flicker and cast the hall into windowless darkness. Here, the ghostly gears of the engine room can be heard sputtering dangerously, and the sensation of the ship's tilting is most pronounced. At the end of the hall, the dining area gives the illusion of windows where none exist. Chairs are pushed aside to allow for dancing to soulful and intimate music, while ocean water teases shoes and heels.

(Read comments) - (Post a new comment)

Re: Second Class; Theater - Smoking Room

doorsween
2013-10-19 01:49 am UTC (link)

He could have told her there was no thrill in banking up a fire, striking a match and watching it burn if you didn’t know how far the gasoline had spread and didn’t want to set yourself alight in the process, but he didn’t. These parties held plenty of surprises, he had a mind he’d been here sometime before or maybe he’d heard stories. The kind of thing you told when the night was dark and there were a couple of you sat close to a fire in the middle of nothing and the horses hitched up close. He looked at the glass as it rolled within her palm, and then when it came down and was set. He could have told her that was a stupid idea too, if it fell she’d have no drink at all and who knew when they’d shut up shop at the bar?

“You can keep a cat plenty,” he said comfortably, settling his shoulders against the cushions. The back of the brocade couch nudged at the edge of his hat and it tipped forward, the shadow cast long over his face and he swallowed hard at the glass in his hand, slow and appreciative. It was good and solid, the kind of glass you could throw if you had a mind. The gunslinger was used to people throwing things. He eyed Kitty, “You just feed them and they keep coming back.” Another grin, broad this time and easy as the first. It was covered up by the worn cotton of the scarf but it pulled at the muscles in his jaw, and tugged at his eyes and was somehow as present as the rest of him. He knew how to smile at a woman like he was planning on something but those smiles were folded up and put away.

Those claws were in when she tapped the slope of his jaw, bristles of an evening shadow sharp beneath the cotton. “Outlaw, ma’am,” and he pulled at the hat again and this time that smile beneath the hat brim. “Or do I call you Kitty?”