insertmeathere | beauty & the beast montage

One moment, your character was minding their own business, and the next? Perhaps they opened the wrong door, appeared out of nowhere, or maybe, in a decidedly rare occurrence, they were actually escorted. The choice is yours. Either way, they seem to have found themselves at a formal party.

Spread out before them is a large ballroom. The decorations look like something from a fairy tale; high ceilings supported by stone pillars, walls adorned with gold trimmings and white silk curtains, and a high balcony overlooking an ornate marble dance floor. To the far end, a special stage has been set up, where a small orchestra fills the room with classical waltzes. Overhead, a large crystal chandelier illuminates everything with droplets of rainbow light.

To the sides and on the balcony small clusters of people make leisurely conversation and sip champagne. Several busboys carrying silver trays can be seen taking and delivering drink orders, regardless of age. Several couples choose instead to dance; the most graceful tend towards the middle, while the more inexperienced do their best to stay in the places they will be the most unobtrusive.

Should your character choose to go outside, they will be met with clear, starlit skies, a cool breeze, and a lavish rose garden. Several small tables are set up, lit by candles, where waiters take orders for a full-course dinner. Some of course, choose instead to gather near the ever-present Cod Fountain. Several pieces of strange currency can be seen at the bottom of the fountain; it seems that it's a popular place to wish for happiness.

THE RULES:
-Your characters' clothing with be replaced with formal wear, though the degree of formality is entirely up to you.
-Don't go having epic duels and destroying the building and what have you.
-If you please, you can use NPCs, but you will have to write them yourself.
-Standard "DON'T BE DOUCHEBAGS TO OTHER PLAYERS" disclaimers apply.
-????
-PROFIT!
(stolen with so much love from

fountainofcod)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A regular frequenter of such gatherings, Bruce Wayne comfortably fills his dynamic yet terrifically expensive Italian two-piece as he leans arms-folded over the balcony, tipping a fresh flute of champagne into the shrubbery below. It's not a particularly necessary maneouvre given the context, but he's a creature of habit and most of his pretenses have become automatic.

Edited 2010-08-01 23:40 (UTC)

Motoko herself is wearing a fabulously low-cut white gown in the best traditions of those who are to be seen and discarded as useless arm-candy and nothing else. It's camouflage, but she wears it with all the grace of someone born to power and money.

And she noticed that little tip-and-splash, Bruce. Wise enough to curl a smile along her lips where she stands along the balcony's wide marble balustrade some ways along. It's a beautiful night.

Bruce catches the flash of purple hair out of the corner of his eye, looks briefly at the Major and then at his glass. A mildly sheepish look crosses his face as he sets it on the cool marble wth a delicate chink.

"Something amusing you, Major?"

"Not at all," and it's an easy lie because she knows to begin with that he won't believe it, "It's not poisoned, you know."

Then again, maybe he doesn't. Not everyone can carry around a particle analysis kit in their gut.

"It's just not to my tastes, is all," a thin-lipped smile crosses his face as he leans heavily on the balustrade.

Full-replacement cyborgs can't be acoholics, and the Major has been repeating that to herself for so many years that she's practically deleted the thought of a psychological half to the problem from her mind. She kills whomever she's told to, for a living; if that doesn't entitle one to drink, then what does?

"And any of this is?"

Knowing he's rich and seeing the facade of it pulled out from under the cowl doesn't make it any less jarring to reconcile the genteel with the brutal. Motoko knows which she prefers.

"At least I know how to be rid of the champagne," he replies, teasing the knot of his tie away from his neck. It doesn't chafe any less.

"Perhaps I should be asking you the same question. I wouldn't have expected pomp and circumstance to be your style."

Her attire was as much a surprise to him as his was to her. He knew her very much as the Major and while she was emminently capable of delicacy, it was always made abundantly clear that she could just as easily separate your head from your shoulders as waltz.

"I used to work in the nude," She informed him loftily, and meant it both ways, as well as to mock him, "It's not much different, really."

She turned away, as if to leave, or perhaps to stroll, and took three of those delicate, mincing little walking-paces that women in Bruce's tax-bracket so-often seemed bred into. Too casual to be genuine, but the swing of her hips was too perfect to ignore. The open back went all to way down in a way that bordered on the obscene. Behind her, the golden ballroom glow painted her dress with the faint tint of white wine.

He answers with an exasperated hiss, glancing critically at her fine-tuned charade. He'd seen better-- Catwoman carried the lie better than even he did, and she'd worn sheerer, too.

"Practical reasons, I'm sure."

"The pay's good," She agreed, amicably. She had had the champagne, and it was making her reactions more relaxed, "And thermoptic systems weren't always cheap or sophisticated enough to extend the curtain far enough to obscure clothing."

Everyone else was either drunk, dancing or both, but now. The Major turned to watch with what seemed an idle curiosity, "Very practical."

Bruce turns back to the party, the light from inside picking out the bleached white of his shirt. His eyes follow the Major's line of sight, and the corner of his mouth flickers ever so slightly, "Not really, but entertaining for some."

"Is it?" She really should have been so much more sarcastic. Motoko is older than Bruce, but still younger, in ways, remembering with perfect vividness unclouded by time or nostalgia the days when she smiled at a boy and asked him to walk with her— and was declined.

The memory made her shut away her expressions, and grow only that little more distant and cold. It was the only way she knew to feel it.

"I can't really picture you finding this kind of entertainment diverting."

"I never said I did." There's nothing in his world that he finds diverting. It's always there. His best friend, the phantom limb.

He tucks his closed hand against his flank, forming a loop with his arm to walk her into the ballroom, if she would assent, "What can you picture me finding diverting?"

She considered him for a long moment, then demurely looped her arm around his. It's a light touch, and unnaturally warm, even through the satin opera glove. The heatsink requirements of a military shell are not trivial concerns. She was smiling.

"I have some idea, but I doubt it's legal."

beauty & the beast montage

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