exsiliumlogs | [open] welcome to the masquerade

Entry tags:

[open] welcome to the masquerade

Date & Time: Friday the 7th, 4pm to midnight.
Location: Palace of Versailles, France, 1772.
Characters: anyone! Even characters not yet accepted as of when this log goes up. 8)
Summary: It's just some fancy masquerade dance with spiked punch.
Warnings: here be pictures, slow connections beware.

Welcome to Versailles.

The decorations are arranged, the food is prepared and laid out, the music has been rehearsed, and... most people have their costumes and masks ready. At precisely 1600, the Transporter machine activates, and a full room of people and all of their decorations, food, musical instruments, and costumes are sent back to 1772. The Palace of Versailles is in the height of its splendor, the weather is perfect and cloudless, and the gardens are in full bloom for the spring.

➣ Explore the Palace

Holy shit look at this, you have the chance to get your grubby little fingers all over history before it even becomes properly history. Do you know how many famous butts sat in all these plush velvet chairs? Or are going to sit in these plush velvet chairs? And they were all probably just talking the hell out of French, too. Wow. Go invade some bedrooms, poke your head into the kitchens (but no more than that, or territorial cooking elves might take offense), just. Touch everything. Everything. Just know that where ever you are, there's no escaping that beautiful music your fellow Transports are inflicting on you, that shit's just echoing all over the place tonight.

➣ Admire the Gardens

Jeez look at this, these people just had way too much money. But you get to benefit from it! You can basically just get yourself lost for hours here, so try not to starve or anything. Meet all the statues, go streaking through the fountains (please don't, no one wants to see that), get lost and desperately burst through cute little trees in your increasingly frantic attempts to find the exit. There's all sorts of fun you can have!

Just don't wander too close to the edge of the grounds, or you'll encounter (run into?) the invisible forcefield set up to keep wandering guests from utterly ruining history. That's probably a good way to get yourself a bloody nose.

➣ Enjoy the Banquet

There's tables and tables of this finger-licking good finery here, and it's all for you. And can you believe how fancy it is? Oh my god, those sausages have adorable little spears through them. And those spoons gently cradling their cheesy goodness? Yeah. They're made of crackers. And don't even get me started on these desserts. This is amazing. You've never eaten this good. And naturally, each drink (some of which are spiked, you're welcome) has adorable little frozen flowers in the ice cubes. Who even comes up with this stuff? Elves, that's who.

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Even in the dark, it's easy to see how the color drains from Charlie's face when she bites back. It makes the bruising and scrapes on his cheek and temple from day before, blow back from beating the ever loving shit out of Talbot, stand out sharply. His hand wrapped around the scotch glass is busted all to hell; presumably the other is as well.

Maybe it's all the booze, but he feels sick.

Not that the recoil lasts long - not with Chloe's... whatever getting to his feet. Charlie gives him a brief once over: the suit, the sleaze, the bottle in his hand. Rather than acknowledge the rebuff, he looks to Chloe:

"Who the fuck's this?"

She doesn't regret it. The look on his face should stop her, should trigger some faint trace of her senses still lost beneath the heaviness of her temper, but it doesn't. Doesn't even come close.

Still, Harry's hand at her shoulder is steadying. Not owing to the motion itself, but the reminder of what his temper had led to in the past. She lets a little vitriol bleed out before she bothers to respond to Charlie's inquiry. Once he makes it clear he isn't budging.

"Jesus, Charlie. You're pissed and you look like shit. Go back inside and check on Elena, and let Harry and I finish our conversation."

Charlie's chin comes up and the hand holding the glass lowers. He studies her for a beat, then his gaze swings to-- "Harry Flynn." The sound of his voice is like sandpaper on gravel, tension crawling into his shoulders.

He doesn't know the whole story, won't ever. But he knows enough that given the current circumstances, the alcohol and the headache and the grating music from the party, given how bloody miserable this whole state of affairs is and Harry fucking Flynn's hand on her shoulder, that it's more than enough of an excuse to do something. Charlie undoes the buttons of his tuxedo jacket, thinks about setting the glass down then just throws it down the grassy slope. Fuck it. The heavy glass thuds somewhere in the dark.

"C'mon then, you bastard," he snarls, shrugging out of his jacket. He's been spoiling for a fight all goddamn night and this? Is plenty good enough.

Harry doesn't expect Chloe's interference to do any good, not as keyed up as both she and this Charlie are, but he's not exactly expecting it to flash such a massive green light. Thanks for the name drop, Chloe.

He's in no rush to throw punches, takes his time to size up the situation; outmatched in weight, maybe, but sobriety and the bottle in hand easily balance that out. Well, maybe just the sobriety. This idiot's obviously important to Chloe, and though that wouldn't usually hold him back (not even with their recent unexpected truce, sadly), things are a bit different now. Considering Chloe's severe lack of friends at the moment, even Harry's clever enough to realize braining one of the remaining ones with a bottle isn't the way to go.

So while Charlie shrugs out of his jacket, Harry dismissively tosses the bottle to the ground before raising both hands in one last passive gesture.

"Word of advice - if I'm reluctant to take up an unfair advantage, you know you're in a state. Last chance to save us all some trouble."

It's said lightly, but there's a clear anchor of hostility beneath the surface - not unlike when he's mocking someone while holding a gun to their face, really. Chloe's probably intimately familiar with that tone.

"Seriously, don't."

The look she gives Charlie-- whether he sees it or not-- is about as hard a warning as she can offer without grabbing him by the collar and giving him the throttling of a lifetime. Chloe's already edged herself up off her elbows, head cocked with a level stare, hands dug into the grass as if she's considering just making the effort to get up and intervene. But that's as far as it goes; she's willing to see if his pride is willing to take a backseat for a change.

Edited 2013-01-12 08:25 (UTC)

The thunk of the bottle as it falls and the low swish of it rolling through the grass off down the slight incline; Harry's raised hands, that fucking tone -- but sure. Sure, maybe they've a point. It'll be trouble if he beats Harry Flynn's head in and that's enough to make Charlie pause. To consider himself for a moment as he gives the bastard a once over.

After a beat, Charlie nods. He shakes out his shoulders, shifts the tension in his arms: "Yeah?" It might almost be mistaken as agreeable if, a half second later, he didn't lunge after Harry in an attempt to tackle him straight down the hill.

Fooled by a drunk fake-out. He'd have to be ashamed of himself later. Needless to say, he's just slow enough on the uptake to realize Charlie's real intentions a second too late (and yes, okay, maybe his own wine intake isn't granting any favors).

His attempt to dodge doesn't accomplish much other than make it a less direct hit, but they both go down all the same. It's not a particularly large hill, and it's only a few rolls before they hit the bottom - not much time, but he's more focused than a drunk lout probably is, and he's quick to throw the fall to his advantage and wind up on top.

It's still a rushed and messy attempt when he pins Charlie down and throws the first punch at his already battered face, though. No time to waste getting his bearings, not unless he wants to lose the chance before Charlie regains his own.

Well there goes his nose. There's a sharp stab of pain and a gout of blood following Harry's fist. It's exactly the sort of thing to make him spitting mad if he weren't already. Still, knuckles to the face on top of a bit of vertigo means it takes Charlie some time to come back with blows of his own: wailing with only a general sense of direction at Harry's sides.

The booze in him makes it easier to ignore the throb of pain as he lurches straight up toward the crack of Harry's fists. Face be damned, so long as he can throw Harry's balance and get him the hell off him.

The flailing punches don't accomplish a great deal, though he'll probably feel a few of them in the morning; it's the reckless and frankly stupid neglect for his own safety that gets Charlie the upper hand, and if it doesn't quite knock Harry off, it costs him the advantage and leaves him open to more direct hits.

Which, thanks but no thanks - as soon as he's vulnerable he takes one more swing for diversion, then takes the initiative to try to put space between them. Because by some (massive) miracle, he hasn't forgotten about Chloe, and his interest in... well, showing off, let's be honest - it still outweighs the urge to beat this asshole to a bloody pulp.

So instead of laying into Charlie again and trying to keep him on the ground, he makes a valiant effort at shifting to the side and getting to his feet. Probably dumb, but hey, the guy's got a split nose; hopefully it's a distraction.

It's as good a try as any, but Charlie's quicker than he looks split nose or no; he catches after Harry's ankle as the other man tries to flee. There's blood in Charlie's mouth and throat and his head is ringing from the blows and the booze, but he's got enough in him to try yanking Harry straight off his feet -- or at least trip him enough to get a better grip on him. So long as he keeps Harry within arm's reach...

He let one greasy bastard worm from out between his fingers; he's not going to make the same mistake twice.

He's nearly clear when Charlie gets his ankle, and he ends up hitting the ground a second time. He'd barely managed to get on his feet, though, so it's not enough to knock the wind out of him again. What he does lose is his patience with this entire bullshit affair and, without further ado, he shifts slightly to one side to free up his other leg and aim a kick squarely at Charlie's face.

He could've just kicked at the restraining hand, but he's feeling a bit petty at this point.

The crunch to his face leaves him blind and reeling, stunned from the jolt radiating down his neck into his collarbones. Makes his fingertips go all numb and leaves a tacky feeling in his mouth that's all inhaled blood and shock.

What it doesn't do is make him give up his hold on Harry's leg. Instead Charlie roars, the sound of it bubbling in his throat as he drags Harry down by the leg of his pants hand over fist. Just one shot, that's all he fucking needs-- Charlie gets a knee under himself at the same time his fist closes on Harry's belt. It gives him just leverage to rear up, to drag Harry down. Just enough momentum to swing a punch at Harry's mouth with all his weight behind it.

There's no chance of regaining any kind of traction when Charlie keeps his grip and then proceeds to more or less climb up his leg, so there isn't really anywhere for Harry to go to evade the punch.

And it is, needless to say, a hell of a punch. It's enough to slam his head back into the dirt and cause him to lose a few seconds, come back disoriented - and he'd have a hard time remembering what he was doing if Charlie weren't such an obvious reminder.

He can't actually feel his face after the shock of the impact, but now he's got a split lip to match Charlie's battered face, can feel the blood in his mouth even if he hasn't caught up to the pain just yet. There's no quick recovery from that, though he throws a punch right back - sloppy and without much force behind it, but hopefully enough to distract from another hit while he's trying to regain his bearings.

Pissed and pissed off as she is, getting up and chasing after the pair of them seems like the last thing in the world Chloe cares to do. It's not far, it's not even that difficult to make it down the damp, grassy slope without the burden of high heels, but by the time she reaches the foot of it, her temper is at its limit. There's not even a split second of thought before she reaches up under the slit of her dress, finds the .45 tucked away against her thigh, and fires off two shots at the ground no more than a few feet off from where they're busy spattering each other with blood.

And while it might seem a touch extreme, knowing Charlie, knowing how far gone he is once rage takes over, the shattering crack of a gunshot is probably the only thing capable of grabbing his attention.

His hands are groping for Harry's collar. Charlie has every intention of dragging him up to slam him down again. Or pull Harry to where he can land a headbutt, to hell with his own ruined face. He gets so far as hoisting Harry a few inches out of the dirt and grass when the crack of the gun makes him flinch, head jerking away from the sound and his grip loosening on Harry's lapels.

It's the sudden awareness of pain more than it is the threat of the gun or the look on Chloe's face (which he can barely see, vision swimming and eyes watering), but he does pause: rocking back up onto his knees and spitting blood, breathing rattling through his mouth and blood soaking into front of his dress shirt.

Harry's hands have shifted to Charlie's, defensively trying to get him to let go, and at the crack of the gunshot he turns a startled look towards Chloe. Well, mostly startled. There's a fogginess to the expression that tends to come with getting your brain jostled.

He lets his grip drop when Charlie pulls away, and the pain's more a creeping factor for him as the numbness wears off. It'll be worse tomorrow, but it's just a headache at this point, really - though admittedly one that feels a bit like a train rattling around in his skull.

"Nice of you to join us."

Goading the angry woman with the gun, the obvious choice. It's meant entirely as a joke, though, and maybe a sly thanks.

She doesn't respond. She also doesn't bother putting her gun away-- or down, for that matter.

"Come on. Up on your feet."

Considering Chloe's not looking at either of them directly, it's hard to tell if she's talking to one or both of them. Either way, there's no mistaking the fact that she's absolutely done with this shit show.

Charlie lifts his chin, clears his throat. Standing is a tall order when he can barely see straight, but he does it: shoves a hand square center on Flynn's chest and uses him as leverage to shove himself up to his feet.

Staggering on the uneven ground, Charlie spits blood into the grass. Checks for loose teeth with his tongue and shakes the ache of socking Harry out of his hand. God only knows if that's his or Harry's blood on his knuckles and his face hurts too much to tell if those are split along with his lip and nose and whatever else is causing the pounding thud in his head. The roar of it in his ears is too loud for him to decide if he's satisfied or not.

He's ready to do as she says when he's unceremoniously shoved back into the dirt by Charlie's hand; it'd normally earn him a few colourful words, but with Chloe in the state she's in, he knows well enough to keep any hostile commentary to himself.

At least he's free to stand, then, and he does it easily enough. There's very little staggering, though that's only on account of some effort. He runs a hand over his mouth to clear blood away, but it's a pointless maneuver; same for checking for teeth with the numbness still hanging on. He's fairly certain they're all there.

He avoids spitting to keep it classy (it's the little details), resumes his placating approach. Calling it uncharacteristic would be correct - he wants nothing more than to borrow that gun from Chloe and put a bullet in Charlie's head, but keeping up appearances and all that, right?

"Look, no harm done. Let's all just lower our weapons, shall we?"

... that means you, Chloe.

Edited 2013-01-13 08:54 (UTC)

Listening to Harry isn't all that hard: he's right about her gun being unnecessary, now that Charlie's put himself back on the leash and doesn't seem to be focused on anything other than the side effects of the state he's in. But it's not done without a sharp glance, a quick, knowing look as her fingertips fasten the straps of her thigh holster. Harry's damn good at bullshitting; Chloe's damn good at sniffing it out. Particularly when her patience is already well beyond its limit.

Which is more of a warning that he's riding the high a bit too hard for his own good. Not that she's docking him any points for it. Yet.

"Go back inside, Charlie. It's over."

That bloody tone in Harry's voice like he's talking to someone half his age and intelligence -- Charlie spits again, wipes his mouth and is on the verge of saying something ("How about fuck you?") when Chloe holsters her gun.

Fixing her with a look, he tries to steady his footing. Look he knows he's a mess, more than half drunk to begin with even before the blows to the face. He's not an idiot, yeah? Self aware enough to know he hasn't exactly won himself any points here. "Yeah. Fine."

Not that it means he won't push it though: "Why don't you come with me, darling?"

Edited 2013-01-13 09:41 (UTC)

Surprising that he can even speak with his face so out of sorts, with his skin and the white of his tuxedo thoroughly painted red from free flowing blood. In the past she'd admired that determination when it was put to use protecting friends and allies, but right now, between smarmy words from split, gruesome lips, it just looks ugly.

Doesn't even seem like Charlie anymore.

"Not on your life, mate."

If he were still laying it on heavy, this would be his cue to move and stand next to Chloe; rub it in Charlie's face that Harry's the one leaving with her, show him just how thoroughly he's mucked this whole thing up. But the message Chloe's sending is clear enough. He'll ease off the dramatics.

So instead he stays where he is, doesn't throw any more quips in. Chloe's got it handled, and there's hardly any lower for Charlie to go at this point. Might as well sit back and enjoy the finale in silence.

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[open] welcome to the masquerade

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