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

[unsea]

All night.

[ Since the crowds began to truly fill the streets, he's been moving with the flow of people - deeper into the city, until coming across his hatchtwin all but boggling at the dancers. With deft fingers, he picks the tangle of hair and ribbon loose and tidies it up for him. Not that he asked. ]

Does that mean you've never danced?

[deployed]

[ Unconsciously, Bellamy's head tips into the Darkling's fingers. The gentle pulls on his hair as he reattaches the ribbon feels good. Bellamy's thoughts shift to another place, to Gina and how she'd eased her fingers into his hair, scratched her nails along his scalp. He's slow to shake that memory away, though considering it is painful even with the alcohol to numb it. ]

Not like this.

[ Once, youthful and inexpert, but he'd left that gathering so quickly. The Ark hadn't been much for this kind of expression, and Bellamy had always had something waiting for him. (Octavia, tucked beneath the floor panels.) He turns to find the Darkling's face, expression questioning. ]

Have you?

[ Maybe the Darkling came from somewhere that had dancers like this, and people did as they liked, celebrated as they liked. That concept still felt alien to Bellamy, but he was quicker to consider it now after so much time with the nest. ]

[unsea]

Often.

[ The ribbon properly secured, it is with great reluctance that he pulls his hands away from Bellamy's hair - even as his broodmate leans into them. He takes the opportunity, though, to brush them down the length of the other's neck, giving his shoulder a companionable squeeze as he turns Bellamy to face the dancers - lingering behind him as he directs his attention there instead. ]

At court, there was always dancing. Even before that, I lived in a number of other places - all shared a love for dance.

[ Part of life and part of tradition, to be certain. Whether in Ravka or Fjerda or Shu Han. ]

[deployed]

[ Court. Bellamy's only envisioning of what that might entail has been gleaned from books and from his brief exposure to Polis. The kind of luxury implied in the Darkling's statement feels as unreal as the tales he's read in his novels. He rides out a brief shiver of contentment at the slip of fingers, the squeeze of a shoulder, but he allows the break. He's trying to get better at separating the impulses that are his own need for contact and what's rooted in the bond between broodmates, but it's not always possible for him not to feel it. ]

It sounds...beautiful.

[ Is that the correct word? Bellamy feels like it's too humble, but simplicity is all he has to offer. ]

Why don't you join them?

[unsea]

That would mean leaving you.

[ Such a simple reason.

He stands behind Bellamy now, with both hands wrapped around his shoulders, directing him where to look with the nudge of his hands, the murmur of words - do you see? and there - and there - it's not so difficult. The whirl of figures in varicolored cloth, the beautiful, wizened dancer with her scarves and ribbons and boundless energy, the flirting slip of her fingers under Bellamy's chin and the draping of a scarf over his hair. The Darkling laughing, crisp and entertained, as his hands drop lower, fingers curling into Bellamy's.

He narrates a story, of a humble dancer who was beloved by fire. Her ankle broken in a bad tumble, she had woken one morning to find that her company had left her to the cold winter and its merciless nights. Unable to find shelter, she had crawled - gathering kindling into the folds of her dress, and lit a fire barely large enough to stave off the encroaching darkness. Fearful and cold, she had risen to her feet and danced despite the pain. To warm herself, to find her courage. As she danced, the fire grew - and grew - and grew, until the snow around it had melted and the dancer felt her spirits lifted. Day by day, she crawled through the woods and night by night, she danced through her pain, while the fire blazed for her efforts. Until one night, she could not rise to dance. The pain was too great for her to bear, and the fire did not rise to warm her. She pleaded, cold and weak, and stretched out her hand to the wood.

A night more, she asked of the fire, please, one night more -- ]

[deployed]

[ It's a simple answer, but it lands like a fist. Bellamy often feels worth leaving. Guilt makes it hard for him to consider any appeal in his company, even with drink and the lingering sense memory of kisses to dull the edge of it. The Darkling crowds in, winds his arms around Bellamy and the bond hums brightly through the contact.

This is perhaps something to be wary of. For all Bellamy's instinctive recoil away from the looming threat of the Hive, he trusts the Darkling. And he senses this is the least complicated outing they're going to have, whether on Concordia or wherever they went next. And easy, uncomplicated touching sates a need in Bellamy that he keeps so quietly to himself. His hands tighten on the Darkling's as he leans back, scarf slipping to puddle over his shoulders. ]

( What happened to her? ) [ It's instinct to project the question between their minds, rather than raise his voice, or turn and disturb the Darkling's mouth at his ear. ] ( Did she survive? Did the fire save her anyway? )

[ Not all myths have happy endings. Bellamy grew up reading myths and tragedies. He's anticipating sorrow, even if there's hope in the tight squeeze of his fingers in the Darkling's. ]

[unsea]

[ The Concordian people have been fed on his stories all night. Clever tales from a storyteller with a clever tongue, and they will only ever be able to remember them as that - parables and adages, where he remembers them in his memories and the collective history of his people, his country before it was ever a country.

His hold on Bellamy tightens, as he hears his earnest questions. There was a boy once, as eager as this, equally enthralled by a well-spun tale. Hanging on to his every word, small hands clutching the heavy fabric of his kefta - hopeful, fearful all at once. The memory is fond, but the emotions twist and sour, the longer he lingers upon it. It's best to pick the story up, before he ruins it between them. An idle thought will all to easily stain a connection. He moves then, releasing one of Bellamy's hands, stepping around him to stand to one side. The dancers are visible over his shoulder, but the manner of story changes with the positioning of his hands, the shift of his feet. He's dragging Bellamy into the dancers, with each slow step. ]

( She could not dance, and the fire would not come. This was how things were -- )

[ Fire does not have a heart to be swayed, nor a mind to be bargained with. Galina, humble dancer, promised every dance would belong to it if only it would warm her, for one more night. She pleaded until she could not speak, shivering in the night as it filled the world and brought the beasts of the depths howling through the trees. In silence and in darkness, she held herself. One last time, as the sounds of the wild crept down around her, she reached for the fire. She did not reach into the wood for it, she reached into the world. From the world and from within herself, she blazed. And she laughed, for she realized the fire did not love her and did not hear her calls and did not see her dances. It was her, all along, who was saving herself. ]

[deployed]

[ Even though Bellamy had circled back admiringly over and over, he'd never intended to join the dance. Even warmed through by the clutch of the Darkling's hands and the sweet liquor that he'd traded kisses for more than once, he hadn't ever considered mixing in with the dancers. He obligingly allows for the shift in the Darkling's position, relinquishes a hand, takes a few tripping steps forward. A wordless protest sparks between them, smothered as the Darkling trades back the end of the story. Images of a woman turning to flame remind Bellamy of a phoenix and then, inevitably, of Clarke. ]

( That's a happier ending than I expected. )

[ Bellamy was raised on myths. Nothing ever ended well in any of the stories Aurora had read him. Maybe that had been deliberate. His hand twists in the Darkling's, tightening as his thumb slips along the Darkling's knuckles. He has fragmented, secondhand memories of the Bout it Out parlor, but all of it had blurred into nonsensical blips in the wake of Bellamy's illness. What the Darkling's capable of is far off, secondary to the story he's woven and the thrum of the bond between them. ]

( Where are we going? )

[unsea]

[ A happier ending. He leaves the story there, for Bellamy's sake. ]

( You're just shy of coordinated, I think. )

[ Though he teases, he has Bellamy caught up in the tangle of dancers. His broodmate's mind is soft with alcohol, his limbs ungainly enough that physically manipulating him into the motion of the crowd was easy enough. Distract him with a silent tale, strung between their minds, and pull him in close. Deeper into the action he's been watching so admiringly throughout the night; this isn't a night to exist on the fringes, he feels. There is a certain brilliance to it, a reprieve from difficulties that he, personally, does not require, but thinks Bellamy might benefit from.

He takes up one of Bellamy's hands, the one being so pointedly touched - an echo of the night he'd tucked his hatchtwin into his bed and lulled him to a restless sleep. ]

( Did you ever think to dance with her? )

[ Clarke. The young lady at the forefront of Bellamy's mind. ]

[deployed]

[ There's a brief urge to turn and flee which the Darkling's touch staves off. This scene is far removed from the Unity Day dance so long ago, and Bellamy had never participated in those the way he should have. It hadn't felt fair, with Octavia tucked beneath the floor and unable to join him, and then—

Well, then it all fell apart.

But that falls away too at the renewed brush of the Darkling's mind. It's as if he lays fingers on the exact memory of Clarke. She glows, distracting, as Bellamy shakes his head. They never had time to dance. The world had been on fire from the moment they landed, even if it had regrettably taken them too long to notice. ]

( No opportunity, ) [ Which is truthfully, though followed inevitably by: ] ( I don't think I know how. )

[ Or he didn't when compared with the dancers around them or the impression he had of the Darkling's experiences. Bellamy was in no way expert. His fingers lace through the Darkling's absently, hanging on before the Darkling can abandon him in the middle of the floor. He feels a stray tug on the ribbon at his belt, but doesn't turn to assess whether or not he's lost anything. ]