PARTY PARTY PARTY

[decommission]

CHARACTERS: Everyone!
WHERE: The streets of Concordia
WHEN: Dusk til just before dawn on DAY 040
SUMMARY: IT'S A PARADE
WARNINGS: Add them to your top levels as necessary etc etc


As from the calendar:

Confetti! It's a parade! The annual Arista Parade, to be precise. Nominally a part of Aristana, the celebration of the ribbons of life, it's a holiday who's origins are nearly forgotten. Nowadays it's a big, raucous celebration pretty dedicated much entirely to drinking and partying. Almost all those in attendance will be wearing ribbons tied around their hair, their wrists, off of their belts and the edges of their sleeves. Pull one off, and you will be rewarded with a kiss - on the cheek, usually. The parade itself showcases a number of performers, costumes, and moving art pieces. It's route covers a number of the main streets of town (which will be closed, sorry traffic), and it lasts from dusk till nearly dawn on DAY :040. Have fun, if it's your kind of scene.

From the mods:

No notable NPCs are present at the parade - at least not in any official capacity. However if anyone wants to interact with a Concordian native, feel free to make up/interact with any randos you feel like!

Feel free to use this log for all of your parade day activities!


*moving art piece not included, original characters do not steal

Comments

open.

[unsea]

[ There are festivals, in Ravka. The most recent of which had been butter week - where the noble and wealthy rode out and foisted sweets and drink upon their townsfolk, feeding them and freeing them from their struggles. The celebration - the Maslyn'tsa - of which he had experienced his fair share, was much like this one. All too much drinking, all too much liveliness. The ribbons are different, to be honest. The thought of stealing them from one another's person in exchange for kisses - not so different, he thinks, than some of the revelry surrounding the lives and deaths of Ravka's beloved saints. He does not join the festivities idly. As always, there is something calculated by showing his face - easily identifiable now, from his distant fight with Kun-Kun, from his continued involvement with the BOUT IT OUT circuits. An image he has cultivated, and is now reaping the benefits and the continued complications of.

For the duration of the festival, he's to be found among the street and the ribbon thieves. In possession of his fair share of ribbons, he maintains them despite the wandering hands and bold admirers - some hidden in clever locations, most visible ( wound around his wrists, laced into dark hair ) are pinned to the sleeves of what has to pass as his idea of 'casual wear'. He's doing something that involves his hands and a strange number of wallets, identification cards and other things found in people's pockets, while they reach for his ribbons.

At some point, as he makes his way downtown, he takes a breather. A cafe becomes the site of a few rounds of masterful storytelling, and though those listening are too drunk or too young, he winds up weaving a few lovely tales and wild stories, metaphors and adages and folktales that - to Concordians - are simply too fanciful to be real. They're real, to him.

He drinks, in moderation. He eats, to what might be excess.

There is a fight, right there in the street. Someone wants more than a kiss, and they limp away holding a face that is soundly battered. Mouth oozing blood. Pride crippled.

Deeper into the night, he's at the center of the event - where the dancers are and the music is. It's easiest to become lost there; mind sharp, eyes hunting but body on autopilot.

Getting back to the Bearings is a fight, where he has to stop into a number of stores, shops, cafes along the way. Making his face known, promoting a persona and an image, an agenda he's been visibly pushing all evening long ( minus the bits where his hands have been picking through pockets, thank you ). He's still eating. There is so much food, where is he putting it all. ]

so i heard you were beating the shit out of randos again

[headinjuries]

[ It's not that Sam forgets what the Darkling is capable of, exactly.

But the times when he sees it are far between, and the times when all he sees is the Darkling being perfectly pleasant and civilized are a lot more frequent, and so it's enough to give him a start when he chances to head further down the street and see that smooth grace applied to utter brutality.

He watches the loser limp off, and it's not until they're almost gone that he glances back to the Darkling again.

He doesn't ask out loud, but Sam tends to think loud, and so really, he probably doesn't have to. It's clear enough that he's wondering - was that really necessary? ]

you definitely have a curfew miley cyrus

[unsea]

[ Fell an opponent with the appropriate force, and they'll leave you be. Judge as you like, Sam Alexander, but it was necessary. He skirts the issue with a delicate step; there's no need to get into reasons and explanations. The state of his mind indicates there was an action taken and so there was consequence to follow. ]

You seem to be quite successful with the young ladies tonight.

[ He's seen that Concordian girl after all. ]

he takes it back he's okay with being lil biscuit if he's not miley cyrus???

[headinjuries]

[ Sam hardly has a leg to stand on when it comes to just fighting, given how much of his school career has been spent in detention or suspended, but when he's amazed that guy is walking away...well. He's pretty sure that's farther than things needed to go to get him to back down.

Also, if he should be facing something worse, there's this thing called due process, and -

- and why did everybody see him kiss a girl isn't trying to survive puberty while hooked to a hivemind already bad enough?? ]

I, uh. I guess so.

[ screaming ]

but he's a wrecking ball

[unsea]

[ Fighting in a controlled setting ( which, this is DEFINITELY not one ) is a great thing. There's no improving without practice, and it's only because the Darkling has countless years of combat under his belt that he walks away from an ill-timed swing and makes it look effortless. Add in a hissed threat while he had the guy on the ropes, and of course he'll walk away! ]

Never kissed a young lady, have you?

[ CONFIRM/DENY!!!!!! ]

oh my god

[headinjuries]

Actually, I have.

[ ...one girl. ]

[unsea]

[ one girl besides that one or was she the one girl

wow that sentence ]

Well, don't let me stop you from becoming quite the heartbreaker.

[ he's just having fun with you now kiddo and also: go learn from steve rogers he's a real cassanova ]

[headinjuries]

[ He had a girlfriend back home!!1 At least until canon forgot she existed.

face. in. hands. ]

Don't you guys all have something better to do than watch.

[unsea]

[ :( why does canon want small biscuit boys to suffer like this ]

At an event like this? Celebrating life, lasciviousness and drink? Not at all.

[ Speaking of drink, someone's world doesn't have laws about "legal drinking age"




which means he just offered sam a cup of something boozy. no offense taken if he refuses!! ]

[snaphiss]

[Mara finds the festival interesting, but nothing to gasp over. It's technolocially primitive, and offers her little in the way of true entertainment. She's tired, and could use the opportunity to unwind, but she has little interest in the festivities provided. She's one of the few on the street unadorned by ribbons.]

[She sees the first street performer of any interest to her-- far from dancing or singing, this one is simply telling tall tales inside a cafe. She stops to listen to one while she rests at a nearby table, sipping a warm beverage. She's less interested in participating in the festival, more interested in observing it, learning the ways of the average Concordian.]

[Even more interesting, he seems to be a member of the Nest.]

[Later on the street, she comes across some sort of altercation, and notices the storyteller is involved. Mara needed a way to relax, and she's never seen one better than a fight. She joins in readily, providing one of the attackers with a swift punch to the gut. He goes down heavily.]

[Dryly,] Do I want to know what prompted this?

[unsea]

[ Where one moment, he has someone's arm in a hold and is quite prepared to snap the thing in two - ah, hold back, give it a bad wrench instead, keep street violence to a minimum, that's the wiser - when there is a woman involved. The electric-bright angle of her mind, the smooth transition from step into blow. She's a host, and she's a talented one. The tangle of limbs sorted, and the walking wounded driven off, he presses the heel of his foot to the one she's felled.

Gives him a nudge.

He groans. That's good enough. Over his prone body he steps, giving him another push to roll him off into the shadows to recover. Eventually. ]

He wanted a different kind of story.

[ That's it, really. Kind words, unkind hands, and a fuckton of free booze in his belly. ]

[snaphiss]

[Mara sniffs, somewhere between annoyed and impressed. An unfortunately common combination in her, especially lately.]

What a creative solution. [They both know the other is a host. Mara ties of the I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know game very quickly.] Jade. I think I've seen you around.

[She starts walking back out toward the festivities. It's as close to an invitation as he'll get.]

[unsea]

He didn't seem the type to heed a decent parable, [ a shame, really.

Bludgeoning someone in the face with one's fist is generally more "straightforward" and less "creative", opposed to a weaving of words. ]

Valiy. ( You've been busy, since you set foot here. ) [ You Force-users and your fights. ]

[snaphiss]

( That's what happens when there's work to do, ) [She answers. Someone has an obvious distaste for slackers.]

[But a cover is a cover, and Mara is committed to hers. And this man is... interesting.] Good, then, that you're not just a storyteller. What else are you?

[unsea]

What else must I be?

[ A little of this, a little of that. An elusive enough statement that indicates he's flexible enough an agent for the Nest to have in its pocket. ]

An old medic, trying my hand at the BOUT IT OUT circuit. It's a charming game, and I feel I'm doing well for myself.

[ Well enough to have some coverage, enough of a base to to stand on. A growing voice. ]

[snaphiss]

[This one, Mara decides, is someone to watch.]

A medic? [A question, long buried, rises slowly to the surface.] What sort of medic are you? Beyond the fighting kind.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Sam has also been lost in the crowd for most of the night, drinking and dancing and charming his way into groups of people to talk among them as though he'd been with them his whole life. He fades away when the conversation ends to start all over again, gaining and losing ribbons without much thought to them.

Aside from the times he meets up with other hosts, it's an act just as much as it is him easing up and being more himself. There'd been a time when he had to relearn how to be a normal person, to fake it until he made it, and though his time in an underwater prison hadn't set him back that far - well, it feels good that he still remembers how to do it.

Sometime during the night he's acquired a ribbon crown, braided and twined around each other, and he wears it without shame along with the others at his wrists, biceps, and belts.

He finds Darkling in time for the end of the fight, and he watches those defeated and bloodied retreating for a moment before he turns to Darkling with a small smirk. ]

Don't have to tell me the other guy got it worse, I saw for myself, but you get injured?

[unsea]

[ He cannot be the only host who's wound up in a physical altercation with one of the locals. In fact, he cannot be the only local who's wound up in a physical altercation with the locals. ( Somewhere in the distance, Petre is murdering a man and eating his corpse or something to that effect. Point made. ) And here is Sam Wilson, looking like a king crowned especially for this party. Ribbons. Everywhere. Someone has been having a very nice night for themselves.

And he's bleeding concern. How kind of him. ]

Of course not. I know my fights, [ how to turn a blow and how to break a jaw without breaking his knuckles, as well.

STOP BEING A MENACE, SAM WILSON!!! ] What's brought you my way, Sam? It can't be my battles.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ HE WILL BE A MENACE IF HE DAMN WELL PLEASES

He is having a very nice night, and he doesn't regret a second of it. He doesn't regret coming over here, either, even if it might not have been strictly necessary. Sam tilts his head in acknowledgement of that, not questioning the other man's skill - even if he knows sometimes all it takes is the other party getting in a lucky hit - and then shrugs one shoulder at the question, smiling a little. ]

And why not? Time was I fit right in with the back alley fighting crowd.

[ Still does, really, considering he hangs out with Steve and Clint and Barnes, only these days their battles are a little bigger. ]

[tropism]

[ there will be an equally deft hand plucking something from him, though it's more to pluck a ribbon from his hand than it is to steal one of the things that he's stolen. truth be told, giorno's just glad that someone else is enjoying the festivities in their own way. the kind of crowd that they attract there is kind of an unattractive, grumpy bunch and giorno never knows what to do with them.

violence and petty crime never really bothered giorno, insofar as nobody is doing it systematically; he never gets involved in personal grudges and fights. useless to convince some people otherwise. but the ribbon, he displays in full view of him, wrapping each edge around his fingers. ]

I believe I'm entitled to a gift. [ a rather dazzling smile. ]

GG PLS

[unsea]

[ There is a spark of acknowledgement, when one host recognizes another. He feels it, just before he is divested of a ribbon and a prize is demanded of him - for such a theft. With his own hands wrapped around the slim chit he's pried from the pocket of a stranger in the crowd, there at once, gone in a moment, he's sorely amused to find that it is another host who's managed to pilfer something in return. ]

That depends on the manner of gift you believe you're entitled to.

[ What will it be, then? There's a loose chit, waiting to be spent.

( Someone simply does not appreciate leaving a trail of clever purchases that could be traced back to one person. Why not a festival full? ) ]

[tropism]

One kiss; isn't that how it goes? You've been doing a lot with your fists lately, it's a bit scary.

[ scary, indeed. giorno pockets the ribbon after. ]

Otherwise, another one of your stories will do. I came in late in the cafe where you were telling something grand, I'd like to hear more, if you've got some up your sleeve. But if we're going for the latter, I'd like a special one for me. [ there are your choices, raven d'arkling dementia way ]

slinks over here

[cognitived]

[ Festivals are not entirely strange to Clint -- he's spent more than a few days wading through crowds, drinking and joking and using them as cover for apparently nefarious deeds. Hell, half the time one of the Avengers -- Stark, it was pretty much always Stark -- had thrown a party, it wound up more like a festival in and of itself. There was that one time Thor coerced Stark to throw an honest to god bacchanal fest, with roast boars and overflowing ale and everything.

Sometimes, Clint was pretty sure his life wouldn't be out of place in a comic book. Funny how it works like that.

But for now, Clint's spending time wandering through the crowd, trading ribbons with easy humor. His hair's too short for them to be braided in, but more than a few hands have tied colorful strips around his biceps, his wrists. By now, he's had maybe more than a few drinks -- especially after helping Bellamy win a few rounds of space beer pong -- and there's an easy buzz beneath his skin. Enough that Clint's not entirely holding back the buzz of his thoughts, especially when it comes to the threads of broodmates. He spots the Darkling, winding through the streets, hands quick and sure, and Clint's brows raise.

There's a casual press of minds, the push-pull image like the call of the Darkling's name, even as Clint slides up. He offers a grin in greeting, something reckless growing behind the blue of his gaze. ]

Gonna have to tie a bell on you, man.

[unsea]

[ A bacchanal fest wouldn't be too far from the festivities at Os Alta, to be honest. Food, drink, wild displays of power and life. When Ravkans celebrated, it was with a passion that was suddenly, violently untethered.

Clint's mind is exactly like that. Untethered, free-floating. Nakedly fuzzy, probably from drink and delight. He can follow their connection, winding its way from him to his broodmate, through the motion of body and the hum of the crowd, as voices blend one into another into another into another. In the end, he weighs the connection of host to host, and finds that in a moment such as this, it's a strength to be able locate one's allies without raising suspicion. Without having to look very hard at all. It's not hard, to tug on their connection, and to invite Clint to his side. ]

I am feeling loud enough as is, Clint.

[ This is far more color than he's worn in years. ]

You're enjoying yourself, I see. How many did you send home with their egos in tatters, playing that game of yours?

[ He did not know which game, only that he'd felt Bellamy and Clint's minds. Their victories. Their delight. As it hadn't waned too much, he figured they were rousingly successful. ]

[cognitived]

[ Asgardians go hard, Clint's learned. And somehow, it wouldn't be entirely surprising to learn that the Darkling is familiar with those sort of festivals. Strangely, it fits.

As it is, Clint's not drunk, not quite. Too many people, too many chances, Clint drinks but he doesn't toss himself over the edge. It's enough, when coupled with adolescent victory, for a sort of effervescence. Mind sparking, easily, a pleased sort of hum infused through him at the little invitation that tugs at the tether of their minds. Clint goes easily, laughing softly at the greeting he gets, eyeing the bright ribbons the Darkling's wearing. One hand lifts, thumbs at a richly purple colored one, faintly pleased, before his attention is caught again.

Clearly, he's in a good mood, because Clint huffs with laughter again, the blue of his gaze bright with humor. His mind sparks with a sufficing sense of smugness, of well deserved confidence. ]

I never miss.

[ A slice of a grin, all teeth, even as Clint shrugs his shoulders. How many? Well, he lost count, but Clint never misses a chance to show off. ]

Just wait until I find a dart board.