pillbox
Posts: 94
11/2/2016
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A space near the windows has been cleared of tables, and the loiterers are being shooed away by various impatient staff members. One guest's reptilian companion hisses, the waiter hisses back.
A nervous string quartet tune their instruments, before starting a stuttery rendition of pop-goes-the-weasel. A man with a glass harmonium lurks in the corner, glaring.
The view, at least, is beautiful. The city is alight with Hallowmas candles, glittering glim, and anarchists' bonfires.
(The dance floor will soon be open. Please refrain from harassing the musicians too much, as they've recently had the misfortune of performing at the Shuttered Palace and are still rather traumatized.)
edited by pillbox on 11/2/2016
edited by pillbox on 11/2/2016
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Greeting from the lady http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Pillbox !
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pillbox
Posts: 94
11/4/2016
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Friendly Gentleman Ryan wrote:
Ryan, never one to disappoint, immediately said "Let's dosado!"
A viola string snaps with a screech, and the violist has to be held back and escorted out by four burly looking clay men.
The glass harmonium player quickly steps in, and the music takes on a eerie tone. It sounds like a ho-down in hell might, if one considered such things.
edited by pillbox on 11/4/2016
edited by pillbox on 11/4/2016
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Greeting from the lady http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Pillbox !
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A Dimness
Posts: 613
11/10/2016
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The Mirthless Colonist returns late into the evening. He's changed suits; he now wears a magnificent surface-silk tailcoat, black as night and well-tailored. The ribbons and bells on his bandages are gone now, and the linen is decorated with patterns of white glim, scintillack, jade, and amber instead. A beautiful venom-ruby flower with a brass frame hangs on a chain from his neck and shines a deep crimson light. His boots are made of leathery scales, and have nevercold brass buckles. Finally, he wears gloves of Polyhtreme make: they feel like smooth skin.
Two young chaps shadow him into the room: One wears a dapper morning suit and neatly polished shoes, and blushes as two young ladies whisper excitedly about him. The other wears a ragged vest and grubby mittens, and stands out like a sore thumb among the pleasant scenery. Nonetheless, a more bohemian woman seems charmed by his ruthless demeanor.
The lady Pillbox hasn't noticed any of this- she has her back turned to the commotion as she leads the conversation at her table. Her peers point her to the Mirthless Colonist, who waits patiently behind her chair. As she stands up, he bows stiffly. "If I'm not mistaken, I owe you a dance yet. Apologies for my extended absence, arrangements took a bit longer to make than I'd have wanted." He takes her hand gallantly but sternly, and leads her to the dancefloor. "Wait a second while my arrangements... arrange themselves." At that moment, the chap in the morning suit presents the musicians with a sheaf of paper, and forces the pianist off his seat commensurate with the rogueish lad producing a consonant violin and taking position besides the cellist.
The music opens as a wailing and deep whispering of the Callow Abettor's violin. The piano picks up with low notes that resonate with the tiles themselves. The musicians clumsily follow. Tomb-Colony music is slow and melancholy, and comes from the heart, as the cellist quickly learns; he begins overtaking the Colonist's acquaintances with his own sombre tones. Now, for the dance:
Slow paces, dignified and gracious; the Colonist leads at first, to ease lady Pillbox into the steps. She learns quickly, and soon hers are the ones leading. They move around the dancefloor. Few in the audience are familiar, let alone comfortable, with Tomb-music, and thus they have the floor completely to themselves and eachother. She rests her head on his chest; close, close to the venom-ruby, close enough to feel the tingling on her skin, but he keeps her far enough. Then, he makes distance between them, and takes off his gloves. They hold eachother's hands, and his bandages uncoil and envelop their arms to the elbows. His skin is rough, but not worn- smooth enough to still feel human, but scarred enough to prove his long life. He looks into her eyes- his are tainted peligin, hers shine bright. The final notes of the song, and he embraces her.
The audience claps, though warily, and the Youthful Mediant -the chap in the morning suit- seems moved almost to tears. The Callow Abettor -the other one- doesn't seem particularly interested, however.
Then, the Mirthless Colonist pulls back, bows deeply, pushes his forehead against the palm of her hand once more, and takes a step backwards.
edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 11/10/2016
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A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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