open post | party like it's 1862

[meerkats]

" But she's still preoccupied with 1985 "

A HISTORICAL / LONG LIVED OPEN POST

→ POST WITH HISTORICAL OR LONG-LIVED CHARACTERS
→ NOTE THEIR POSSIBLE TIME PERIOD
→ PROFIT
→ A party is being had in any time period where your character can exist.  Mingle!
→ THE PARTY IS JUST A BASE SCENARIO, IF YOU HAVE ANOTHER SCENARIO, GO FOR IT.
 

Comments

Dorian Gray | The Confessions of Dorian Gray | c.1870-∞

[depicted]

~1893

[gettingon]

[Isadora may be too young to know Dorian's friends. She may be too innocent, too close to her own blooming from a girl to a young woman. This is a pit that she may simply not want to sink into, if she were anyone else. She is a Gray though, and the streak of rebellion is in her blood and in her face. A face not quite as lovely as Dorian's but almost, glowing with youth and excitement, molded from grand genes and future poor decisions.

Those bad decisions begin with her desire to meet the people who love her dear brother so much, to drink with them, to laugh with them, in the sitting room of some young Lord and his adventurous friends. Here she laughs and chats, occasionally meeting Dorian's eyes with mirth in her own from across the room.]

[depicted]

[Dorian doesn't worry about Dora as much as he should, very likely. She is a woman. She has more to guard than he does. Her prospects are more endangered. She won't have Selby to fall back on. And Dorian knows very well what a bad man's company can do to a woman's reputation. Sorry, Gwendolen.]

[But he always does indulge his baby sister. Though no older sibling in their right mind is entirely happy to have a younger sibling along anywhere with friends. Dorian detaches himself from where he is holding court with a few pretty young things, and he settles down beside his sister with a glass in hand.] Are we having fun, then?

[gettingon]

[Being a woman and being a Gray have cultivated in Isadora a sharp mind and a keen sense of self preservation. Beautiful she may be, innocent and unspoiled as of yet, but she knows she won't inherit. She knows more than she ever lets on in that smile.

Dorian's friends may be a dangerous bunch, but they are well off indeed, and well off is what she needs.

That's not quite her concern at the moment though, more happy to be having fun, being social rather than sitting at home with a book and needlepoint. 1893 is no year for a young girl to do needlepoint.]

Yes, I would say I am. And you, Dorian? If you've come to talk to me your friends must be beginning to bore you.

[depicted]

They always do eventually. [That brutally cold remark is one he seems to have no problem sharing with Dora, for whatever reason. Perhaps family is permitted the worst parts of oneself. Whatever it is, he drinks freely beside her.]

Though not yet in this case. Is it so suspicious for a big brother to check up on his baby sister? I don't want to have to end the whole thing because it's too much and you've fallen into a faint.

[He is smiling, of course. He doesn't think Isadora Gray could faint, except perhaps as a ruse.]

[gettingon]

[ Cold doesn't phase her, not when she is so often frigid herself. Maybe that is the problem with them, such ice in their veins to contrast their warm features.

Perhaps. She shrugs with a playful smile and a delicate sip of her grin. ]

Don't be silly Dorian. Should I chose to faint, I will be sure to do so into the arms of one who could tend to my sensibilities. What is the point of meeting your friends if I do not get to know them through whatever circumstances present themselves?

~ 1970s, stateside

[prizefight]

[There's nothing quite like cutoffs. Sage remembers with perfect clarity the years when if she showed an ankle it was a scandal. She never cared, of course, happy to wave her pretty ankle at all of the gentlemen. They were delicious when they were riled up like that, their blood pumping faster and hotter and anywhere but their brains.

It's easier, though, to be her as the 20th century progresses. The dresses are shorter, the boots taller, and so much skin exposed in dark rooms where everyone was drugged up made for easy pickings.

It's less fun, though, less fun indeed.

She's sitting at the bar, legs crossed and romper sliding as far up as it can, when she spots Dorian. The face is familiar, but she can't place it, so she just watches him, toying with the toothpick from her drink with the olives long gone.]

[depicted]

[Dorian likes his nights out and his trips abroad and, yes, it's getting harder every year to find real pleasure in it, to find excitement, to find life, but hell if he isn't going to try. Fashions change, humans stay the same, and that pretty woman watching him is, he decides, worth at least an approach. He is curious.]

[But not too obvious. He will give her an opportunity first. He merely approaches the bar and orders for himself his third drink of the night. If she approaches, then congratulations to the modern woman. If she does not, then he will make the effort himself.]

late? me? never.

[prizefight]

[She will approach, of course, if she needs to, but for now she calls the bartender over and tells him to put Dorian's most recent drink on her tab. Go over and tell him it's on me, she compels him, eye to eye and vampiric ability at its very best, but put it on his tab anyway if I don't leave with him. She releases him then, breaks the eye contact and toys with the toothpick some more, waiting, watching the beautiful boy at the other end of the bar. The pieces are moving, the challenge extended.]

~ 1930s

[compulsives]

[The clock ticks. tick tock, tick tock, ticking almost drowns out the mundane natterings of the night club he's wandered into. The Germans drop their bombs on London and yet here they are, humanity, listening to music and smiling with smoke in their lungs like their lives don't hang on a thread. Their lives always hang on a thread, always have and always will, and they continue to be none the wiser, with not a care in the world beyond their own tiny existences.

Sometimes Hal admires them. Sometimes he's just hungry.

Now is a time in between, as his shaking hand puts a cigarette to his mouth. It's a mediocre replacement for what he really wants against his lips, it simply wont do. He came to this club specifically to find a meal, but the cigarettes are in his possession for a reason. He's considering going back on the wagon, to quit.

Their little lives seem so pristine, who is he to slaughter them? Who is he to play god?

He's not there yet, though, not quite ready to quit, so he stands on the metaphorical fence, still in his soldier's uniform (royal navy, it serves its purpose), leaning against the wall and watching with painful disinterest. Or maybe it really is interest. Painful, either way.]

[depicted]

[A young man standing there on the sidelines? That's no fun. Having already decided he isn't too much interested in the rest at the party, Dorian stops by Hal, friendly but for the moment benign.]

Are you not going to join in the fun?

[compulsives]

[ Hal has seen many beautiful people in his many, many years, and this boy most definitely is beautiful. Perhaps if he wasn't toying with the idea of being decent, he would flirt and consider that an invitation, but the thought of it only makes him hungry and guilty at the same time.

It wouldn't do to kill someone so beautiful. He's done that enough for one endless lifetime. ]

It would seem that fun doesn't agree with me, nor I with it. You would do well to find it elsewhere.

[ A difficult thing to say when he could just as easily smooth talk him to death, and his hand shakes with a slight tremor while he takes a drag of his cigarette. ]