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

Previous Entry  Add to memories!  Tell a Friend!  Next Entry
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.



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Re: The Promenade
[info]doorsween
2013-10-27 12:22 am UTC (link)
He looked over a muscled shoulder stained the color of new walnut by the jungle sun, and his wild beast's stare was utterly without comprehension. Safe to assume that the jungle man did not tease. When he was feeling amorous he might let everyone within ten miles know, and it was better to preserve everyone's eardrums if such could be avoided. Tarzan was fully capable of strutting his stuff and would happily do so at the slightest provocation.

"Tarzan not know any magic," he scowled, unhappy that she would so willfully point it out. He was having trouble with the words that weren't nouns, and he tended to just skip over anything she said he didn't find interesting. "Mermaid kill sailors," he said, to demonstrate his understanding as they strode down another set of stairs into the lower decks. "Snake bite and shed. Snakes very dangerous. Better to avoid or kill dead soon."

He rotated his tangled head like a wallowing creature in the shallows, then chose a direction based upon old lingering scents. "Boat smell dead," he announced. "Tarzan does not like dead things. Likes alive." He pounded one fist to his chest. Hard.

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Re: The Promenade
[info]doorsween
2013-10-27 03:34 am UTC (link)
His stare was simply met with the same grin, amused and flung wide. Oh she didn't expect any reaction other than that. It didn't matter that he didn't quite get her meaning, she probably wasn't going to stop. A girl had to get her kicks somewhere.

She merely tut-tutted in the face of his scowling. "Getting lost in that jungle translator again." She did, however, nod along as he pared down her words to their core meanings, roll her eyes as he completely ignored her request for something about him. She couldn't have much mystique but he could keep all his secrets close to the chest. Typical. "Are you sure you don't want to be avoiding me?" The woman was no snake herself, at least not then. But she felt a little dangerous sometimes, and she clamped her teeth down in a dramatic bite for emphasis.

He pounded his chest and she raised a hand, palm patting the firm muscles of his chest beside the thumping fist. "I'm going to have to take your word for it, big guy." Oh the boat smelled off all right, but she wasn't going to call it dead. Even if there was a high chance it was a literal ghost ship. "Let's hope the food's not alive." She shook her head as she continued to follow him down the steps, each step a soft thud of her heels. "You might be into killing for dinner but I'm hoping for something that doesn't move. If anything squawks at me, I'm not going after it with a fork and knife."

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Re: The Promenade
[info]doorsween
2013-10-28 12:16 am UTC (link)
He had told her something about himself; something quite vital, in fact, about life itself. To a creature with moving skin, perhaps the idea that life and living was of more importance than anything else seemed obvious to the point of idiocy, but not to him. Being Tarzan had nothing to do with it. It was all about perspective. He did not trouble himself that she hadn't understood his little moment of sharing; Tarzan hid very little, and wore things on his (nonexistent, metaphorical) sleeve. "Tarzan not avoid jungle. Jungle avoid Tarzan. Tarzan king." This was said in a very pointed tone, a if she was being foolish on purpose.

Tarzan's large pointed nose lifted up toward the ceiling and he gave a mighty sniff, attempting to navigate toward the scent of sustenance. It was growing fainter and mustier, and his stomach was giving angry growling noises, not unlike a large tiger caught by the tail. "Good food taste better if runs slow," Tarzan said wisely, repeating a proverb he found in the memories leafed in dark jungles. "...And cooked good," he added, grudgingly, finding that particular proverb much closer to the surface.

The stairway grew dark, and he let go of her hand after his eyes adjusted (rapid). He caught hold of a pipe overhead and, intent on searching ahead for more food, started swinging away, unaware she might not have his night-sight. "Run slow, good food," he was muttering to himself as he swung away into the darkness, not aware she wasn't keeping up, and too far once he realized she was not behind him.

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