[MINGLE] Saints & Sinners Masquerade

[sixthiteration]

WHERE: Corn field next to the inn
WHEN: 31 October, all day and night
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE
WARNINGS: Please warn as appropriate in your subject lines
NOTES: Please make sure you have read and understand the event details! If you have questions, drop them here. RECOMMENDED BUT NOT REQUIRED: Put your SCRUBS COLOR in your OTA subject line for folks doing bingo. Time your OTA for the harvest feast, the masquerade, or both. Costume matches and details for folks who did not get matched are here.

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This morning, our intrepid villagers awoke to a surprise of the nicer kind: A bundle of clothing left at the foot of their bed, tied with a bow. There is also a note: Put on your new outfit and join the festivities in the corn field next to the inn.

You may be thinking, what corn field next to the inn? The one that sprung up fully-mature overnight, of course.

In the middle of the field, villagers will find an autumn feast: Tables piled with harvest time food and drink, warm and rustic decorations, the day's sunshine fending off any chill in the air.

Tuck in and enjoy, villagers, but take note: Things often look different in the dark, and you might be one of them.

Comments

Liv Moore | OTA; Masquerade | Navy Blue

[living_proof]

Today is, I think, the most perfect day for a weirdo magical soiree. You may be saying, of course it is, Liv, it's Halloween, but no. That's not what I mean— Okay, it is, but it isn't—

I have had, um. Five shots? I don't remember.

But the point, the POINT, is that I can. I can do shots. And that's what I need to do today, and thank you to our weirdo magical overlords for providing for us lowly peons down below. Amen.

Coulda done without the outfit switcheroo, though. In my opinion, it's a little on the nose, if you know what I mean. Because I'm a zombie, and I was in a sweater and now I'm reaping souls. Figuratively. The souls reaping part. Not the zombie part. I'm always a zombie.

Get it?

Ravi was a zombie, too, but he's gone. Just me and Major kickin' it zombie style, awwwww yeah. HOLLA.

"Hey," I say now, to whoever is happening by. "I kill people. Me. I do." I lift my glass of vodka in salute.

[freightcars]

"Me too," He returns flatly, calmly relieving her of her vodka and taking a drink himself. Part amused, part concerned, part wondering whether she means as the grim reaper or as a zombie but too polite to ask about it in the middle of a soiree. He sits, pressing the stethoscope to his chest to keep it from banging the table as he goes. People keep calling him House (which he gets) or McDreamy (which he does not get) but he's tempted to snatch up a permanent marker and write Kevorkian on the breast of his lab coat. He only refrains because he's holding out hope it'll change back to that hoodie he was wearing before this happened, and it'd be a damn shame to ruin it.

More important matters at hand, though.

Ravi.

Pressing his lips into a tight line, he searches her face to gauge just what level of drunk she is. Glassy eyed, but otherwise hard to say. Might as well ask, "How you holdin' up, sweetheart?"

[living_proof]

I was holding up that glass before he took it away from me, that's how I was holding up, and my brow pinches with a frown as I watch it go. "That—" I arc a finger in the general direction of the glass and pull in a deep breath. "Was mine. And you are a dirty thief. But also painfully attractive." I sit back in my chair with an abrupt, imperious wave of one arm. "I will allow it."

This, despite the fact that holding up is the opposite of what I'm looking to do, here. I would like, for once in my life, to not hold up. I would like to fall apart, please and thank you. Just a little, because life can be shitty.

"You know what's funny?" I ask, leaning my cheek on an upturned palm. "I'll tell you what's funny. I'm me," I say, and point to my chest, and then to his. "And you're also me. We're both me."

[freightcars]

She points closely enough in the direction of the glass that he figures she isn't about to keel over any time soon, but she's not quite on the mark. Getting called painfully attractive out of nowhere also isn't really that unusual, but her precarious relationship with sitting upright might be. He's pegging her at maybe a six or seven out of ten, not dangerous but definitely not a candidate for the rest of a glass of vodka.

He does what any good boyfriend would do and downs it for her, then sets it off to the side.

At this juncture he's still more amused than concerned, and he curls his palm around her free cheek to hold her in place while he ducks in to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Funny you say that, I'm pretty sure we traded places." Because if anyone in this town is the god damn grim reaper... "You want something to eat? I could get you something."

To soak up some of that booze.

[living_proof]

Narrowing my eyes, I lean slowly forward and point a vaguely-wavering finger Bucky's way. "If I was you, I would be a lumberjack and you know it," I imperiously reply, and then flop back into my chair.

"I know what you're doing. Oh yeah. I got your number." My nod turns into a disbelieving shake of my head. "You're a cruel master, Dr. Barnes. I know what you're doing." A wag of my finger. "First!" I pause, pull in a deep breath. "Do no harm. I took that oath, I know it."

[nonstopnarcissist]

"Same." Tony taps his glass of cider against Liv's shotglass, angling his head to avoid knocking the cup against the bottom jaw of the alien skull strapped to the top of his own. On stilts and with a tail behind him sitting is probably not going to be done easily- but it's not impossible for him to lean a little and attempt to lightly pat the shoulder of someone pretty well tipsy. "Practically a dynamic duo over here. Where's your sulky shadow?"

Not that he expects Liv and Bucky to be attached at the hip but-

He kind of expects one to orbit the other.

[living_proof]

"Holy—" I rear back in my seat, lifting a hand like I might be seeking divine intervention. Or maybe trying to anoint the H.R. Giger horror show that just slid on over to my table.

"I thought we were friends, Tony," I manage, hand still lifted, because what he's got on is too damn much. "Why would you do that? Why— This is not cute. This ensemble." I wave my hand, palm out, in a gesture indicating the whole damn thing from the teeth to the tail. "Although I will give you props for realism. Those claws—" Nodding, deeply serious, I curl my thumb and forefinger into the OK sign. "Me, I'm generic. General killing. I don't have to pop out of a guy's chest and do a dance."

He'd asked me a question, hadn't he? Oh, right.

"He's off sulking, probably. He thinks I'm him and he's me, but jokes on him, HA!"

[nonstopnarcissist]

"Boo." He lifts a hand, flexing his talons with a solid replication of the guttural, scraping growl the Xenomorphs have in the films. Because what is a nerd to do to freak out his roomie and bestie if not learn scary sound effects to fuck with him? Not much, the habit stuck.

For some reason.

"Me? I didn't pick this." He's pretty sure it's Peter's fault, but he hasn't seen the kid yet to blame him properly. Sidling into the chair next to Liv takes a moment- navigating the tail's a bitch but- he manages. It's good to be off the stilts. "Good Spaceballs crack, Kavorkian."

Still. The Winter Sulker making an appearance? Boo. "It'd be worse if he was the reaper, you know that. He'd be introspecting all night about guilt and death and shit. This is marginally better. Probably."

[living_proof]

"Listen, listen," I say, motioning Tony closer with a flap of my hand, although I realize belatedly that he's a little restricted there what with the tail and claws and giant, scary face. I squint in disapproval at the getup before remembering what my point was.

"Listen," I repeat, leaning in instead. "One time, I was a stone-cold sniper, but he doesn't know, don't tell him. He'd probably freak out, okay. But like— I mean, there was no killing—" I pull a face. "Wellll, like this close." I hold up my thumb and forefinger. They're touching because holding them apart the appropriate distance is hard. "That was my first dead boyfriend, that one. He was British."

[unraisehell]

The price-tag purse and the buffet food Wynonna stuffed it with has disappeared at some point in the evening. This has lead to some creative re-interpretations of just what her costume is.

"I'm salad," Wynonna responds with a shrug, ducking in to the nearest available source of alcohol to refill her glass. And then she giggles. "Fitting, since I'll be tossing up in the bushes later, I'm sure."

[living_proof]

I watch Wynonna approach from my position leaned way back in the cradle of my seat, my face steadily screwing up in confusion until I'm squinting at her like an eighty-year-old using the internet for the first time. "Sometimes, I really do not understand this place," I declare, and knock back a swig from my glass.

The hurling in the bushes bit I am on board with, though, and I drag in a slow breath with a slow, sage nod. "Yes. That is what I am aiming for myself. Do you need someone to hold your hair— Nope, no, my bad. You don't have hair, you have leafs—" I frown. "That wrong. Leaves. Leaves." That's the right word, I know it's right word, but it doesn't sound like a real word.

cw marijuana humor

[unraisehell]

"I think leafs only applies when you're talking about epicly tragic hockey teams," says Wynonna. And then she giggles, looking down at herself.

"Okay, tell me if this is a good idea or the drink talking. But I could totally pin some fan leaves from Mark's weed plants on this thing and be the good kush instead of broccoli. Way more useful plant, and a little more worthy of dressing up as."

[living_proof]

"I dunno, I mean..." I shrug with an exaggerated, contemplative frown. "Broccoli's got potassium and vitamin C. It's a powerhouse vegetable, friend. You are a green badass." I pause, considering. "Plus, you should love you for you. You don't need cheese or dipping sauce. I like you like you are."

[3ofswords]

Kira's only a shot behind when she latches onto him, and who's to say, really, who grabbed whose arm? Somewhere between the alcohol and the heels, he's getting and losing his footing. Getting used to the heels, caring less about being upright.

It's a party, he's the less celebrated half of the Thriller video, and if Mark and his ex don't babysit him, they'll reap their own harvest of--

Of person they are already used to seeing drunk, honestly. No one puts baby in a corner, mostly because no one cares.

"Is that a threat," he asks, already laughing. "Is it because I'm infringing on your usual IP?"

[living_proof]

"Wow," I say, eyes rounding as I rear back to take Kira in from head to tow. "That is a heckuva outfit, I gotta say. Not everybody can pull off leopard in the first place, but demin— Denin—" My face screws up with irritation. "Jeans. Jeans leopard." I kiss my fingers with a loud smack. "Bellisima."

I don't know what he means by my IP, so I'm gonna ignore that.

"What do I have to do to get you to give me those shoes? They say, I would like you to go down on me sir, gently. I need them."

[3ofswords]

"Gently," is the part Kira latches onto, takes issue with. Of course he can pull off denim, of course he can pull off leopard--the only debate he'll entertain is the wig, for the crimes of being a wig, and in a style desperately out of fashion by his, Liv's and probably current times.

"You look at a pair of pointed toe, red stilettos and you get gently? I can't rehome them with you, I'm sorry, you wouldn't use them right."

Giving her a similar once-over, though, he has to admit, "They would be a great addition to your getup, though. The grim reaper needs an update for the times and our wacky circumstances."

[living_proof]

I scoff, loudly, and wave off Kira's clearly uneducated remarks. "Look, okay. I have a man. And he likes to treat it like a delicate flower. It's a thing. He used to kill people and now he's like... figuring out his karma or something. There's no roughhousing down there. It's all very above board. No metal fingers." I level Kira with a look that I'm sure implies all he needs to know about that, but probably is just kind of wobbly.

[notsoangry]

By this point in the night, Bruce has given up on caring about the ridiculousness of his costume. It helps that he's learned how to move the cape as best as he can over the clothing. He could go home, and he should, but he is going to drink this wine first. He hasn't had much alcohol since getting absolutely drunk his first day. No time like the present to try it out again.

"Your costume, uh, yeah looks creepy. Let's try not to reap any souls tonight though." This is good wine. He is on his third glass. It's going to be fine. He's less concerned about the skirt this way. "I'm Little Red Riding Hood. I feel like I should be singing some Into the Woods."

[living_proof]

Look, everybody's got their thing. Maybe it's feet, or stuffed animals, or hairy men in corsets. I'm a zombie who can only get finger-banged; who am I to judge?

"Oh, I don't think there's any mistaking who you are, Red," I reply with a soft snort. I take a slow sip from my glass, considering the vision in front of me, and then lean forward, licking the vodka from my lips as I sing, "Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good..."

[notsoangry]

Bruce sighs and then chuckles, because she's absolutely right. This may be a risque version of the costume, but the cape is a dead giveaway. He smiles, drinking some wine before replying. "You're everything a big bad wolf could want." He isn't an amazing singer, but he's not a terrible one, solid enough not to hurt any ears and stay on tune.

"The 60s had some weird energy." To say the least. "Someone matched up the song with this video from the 30s of Betty Boop and it goes surprisingly well."

[living_proof]

"I wasn't there. In the Sixties," I clarify, because in this place, that is actually a thing that requires elaboration. I squint up at Bruce in his silky red cape. "Were you?"

I know he's from Bucky and Tony's universe, but that apparently means nothing when it comes to how old you are. Better to just ask.

[tevinteraltus]

Dorian is a bit more traditional for a masquerade, but he's on his third glass of whiskey himself, rather nonplussed with things at large, and rather struck by her costume. He has a...thing for death, after all.

He lifts his own glass, smiling.

"Bravo! So do I!"

[living_proof]

"Yesss!" I immediately lift my hand for a high-five. Apparently there are actually a lot of people who were doing some killing back home, and not of squirrels, if you know what I mean, but still. Murder solidarity.

"You are very fancy, sir, and I do not know you," I declare with a sweeping appraisal of his outfit. "You have a very impressive moustache and I like it."

[tevinteraltus]

"Yes, indeed." Dorian smiles along with her. "There are far too many men and women in need of a good smiting, and far too few to see to the nasty business."

He inclines his head at her assessment, a slightly over-the-top acceptance of her compliment. "Both myself and my well-groomed moustache kindly accept your compliment, dear. I am Dorian of House Pavus, though there's really no call or formalities, is there?"

[living_proof]

"I am Liv of a house down the street," I reply with a vague motion in the general direction of where I live. Probably. "And hell no, sit down," I flap a hand at the adjacent chair. "Pour yourself a drink. We do not do formal in the House of Olivia. We do shots."