ringing in the new year

[beastkeeper]

For the most part, the beginning of every new year on the block is the same. There's the party, held down in the common room (barely distinguishable from the lobby, but hey, who cares), and the reminders that go up in the week prior, telling people to bring food to share (not that everyone does — the witch provides more than enough, anyhow). There are, of course, smaller parties, held in the apartments upstairs or on the grounds, and the combinations of creatures always rotates (more or less), but the overall air remains the same. The end of one year and the ushering in of another is cause to celebrate.

Comments

CIRCE | common room

[beastkeeper]

[ Another thing that never changes: Circe never bothers to make the rotations. Instead, she lays claim to one of the couches, with a good view of the whole area, and a low coffee table, with more than enough space for the ashtray that she places upon it. She lets the inhabitants of the block (her children) come to her.

Although her features indicate a certain level of exhaustion, she still looks pleased. (There are precious few times she looks happier than when in the midst of her menagerie.) Tables have been brought in, from apartments and storage both, for food and drinks, there are folding chairs along with the furniture that usually graces the room, and decorations (a few simply left over from Christmas) to top things off.

It's not a bad night, overall. ]

[staunch]

[ Circe plays favorites, everybody knows. But there is no favorite seated higher than Dane, who was once-upon-a-time called Elliott, but that was a different life and he had a different mother then. Her favoritism does not come without a cost, however, and Dane has paid it fully with the forfeit of his life. Unlike others who flit around and beat their wings upon the bars of their shared cage, Dane had yielded to the leash and, instead, grew to love it, grew to embrace the dogged loyalty she'd imbued upon him and the power that came along with it.

He stands not too short of a distance away and off to one side, his expression taciturn and his arms barred thickly across his chest. Whenever Circe's cigarette runs low, he leans over and offers her a light for the next one. He speaks when spoken to in Circe's presence, save whenever someone is disrespectful or curt with her, and then he does not hesitate to bark.

He is, all in all, a good dog. And he is wholly Circe's for another year. ]

THEO | apartments

[wellmeant]

[ Sociable though he is, Theo isn't much of a party person when it comes down to the line. As such, having put in his dues at the party downstairs, he has retreated to his floor of the block, playing host to a sort of mini-party (most of the time, nobody stays anywhere long on New Year's Eve, he's learned, so there's no harm in it). The door to his apartment is open, allowing anyone to filter in and out, a modest array of cheeses and drinks laid out in the kitchen. (The spread isn't nearly as large or varied as the one downstairs, but still.) ]

[chinashop]

[ John tells himself that things are going to be good — new year, new life, not a fucking cop in sight — but that's what he tells himself every year and he's yet to catch a glimpse of good, better, best. But he hasn't seen bad or worse either so he can't complain.

There's this hinky feeling in his stomach though, the kind that doesn't go away. It's part of the reason he keeps getting into fights, even ones that he doesn't mean to start. He sees sideways glances wherever he goes, a look that says I'm onto you, I know that they want you and before John can help himself he's throwing the first punch and asking questions later. (Okay, he lied, that's bad to worse. Because a punch thrown once upon a time meant a swing and fight, maybe a dirty bar brawl. These days a swing means not even that scrawny kid with the fucked up way of talking could help them. A punch meant down and then out and never coming back. It wasn't a fight anymore, it was a massacre and John—)

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and finds himself staring into the open door of Theo's apartment. Theo's quality, as far as John can tell, and it's hard to swing at an old guy, especially one like Theo who tries to keep his head down. He looks down into his hands and he realizes he's carrying a bottle of cheap wine. (What does John know about wine? Nothing. He hopes Theo doesn't think it's shit.)

Knocking on the doorjam he steps inside. Ducks his head like he's entering a church. (Hospitality's a blessing, amen and all that.) ]

Hey, old man. Y'in?

[ It sounds disrespectful but it isn't. He means well. (He'd always meant well, even before Circe, even before—) ]

J. HADLEY | forever alone

[ex_dengue_145]

[ People get sick around J. Hadley and not just the sniffles or even the flu but properly terribly ill — the shits, the shakes, cold sweats and dizzy spells. If they're lucky it only lasts the week but if they're not, not even Jordan can fix them, no matter how many plants he kills to recharge his batteries and no matter how often he puts his hands on them. And so, even when his presence has been requested, J. Hadley stays at home.

He locks himself up tight, like a timebomb set soon to tick tick boom and he feeds himself, using his can-opener to crack a few tins and his microwave to warm up the mess once he's dumped it all into a bowl. As it warms he pushes himself up on tiptoe to peer out the narrow, high-seated window that looks out into the courtyard below. It's empty, for the most part, but he can hear the low, muffled thump of music from a few floors down.

If he's lucky, someone will pity him and bring him something from the festivities, but it's unlikely and J. Hadley has learned his lessons in holding his breath for something that ultimately never comes. So he eats his bowl of beans and canned veggies with his ear pressed to the apartment door.

It sounds like a nice party. He imagines that, yes, it is. ]

[ecdysis]

[ The party — the thrall of people — draws Ada like lamplight draws a moth. She doesn't stay one place long, instead flitting from place to place (light source to light source) carrying a flute of champagne (hardly touched, although you'd never tell — but that's the way Ada is all of the time, with lazy lashes and soft tones) in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her footfall mimics that of her namesake: light and heavy at the same time, and it's this footfall that carries her to Hadley.

It isn't, it should be noted, something that happens on purpose. There's a thump on his door; the thump of a shoulder hitting the barrier, and a small oh to accompany it. (Her feet had crossed over each other as she walked and so —)

There's a pause, then, as she stays leaning against the door, eyes tracking up from the doorknob to the number plaque, another moment passing as she connects number to name. ]

Hadley?

[ She draws out the last y, tone creeping up, the name half to herself and half to the man she suspects is somewhere behind the door. (She never sees him at parties, anyway, and she doesn't think he's been eaten, yet.) ]

SPRAGUE | courtyard

[fleeing]

[ There's about an hour to go until midnight strikes, but Sprague's had enough of the festivities for one night. Say what you want about Circe and the company she keeps, but one thing they've never had to go without is alcohol. Each year Sprague's taken better advantage of their supplies and this year's no different. By the time she finds her way outside her face is flush and red with it ('it' being cheap red wine and mysteriously spiked tropical punch and whatever else she could get her hands on). Her balance is a little off too, but that doesn't stop her from taking out a squashed pack of cigarettes and clumsily lighting one. Trying to, anyway — her fingers don't feel much like cooperating and the lighter drops to the ground with a sharp clack.

(Do not drink and operate flame. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.) ]

[faunas]

[ It's late and it's dark and the courtyard is dimly lit by the thin light that manages to filter down from the windowed walls that rise on all four sides of the courtyard (forming the block, closing it in, keeping them). In one of those deep swatches of shadow a tiny orange speck hovers and then glows; it floats and bobs closer and then resolves itself to the end of a cigarette as Jordan shambles his way out of the darkness, fedora tilted on his head at an angle that threatens with looking ridiculous without ever arriving there. There's something always a little not there about Jordan, whether it's in the amble of his words or his walk, the way he talks even when he thinks no one's paying attention. If he's just helped someone out, it's doubly so, his eyes sleepy and unfocused, his knees threatening something like a faint.

Not now, though, now Jordan's all here. It's obvious in the way his mouth crooks to one side and he easily stoops to gather Sprague's lighter for her from the ground.

Ka-shik and a flame sparks to life between them. ]

No need for the pell-mell, sister gazelle. What's the story, morning glory, or is there no tale to tell?

HALLAH | various

[harken]

[ Parties mean crowds and crowds mean people and — following the equation all the way through to its conclusion — people mean pockets. So Hallah guesses that wherever the people (and their pockets) are tonight, that's where Sully (and his sticky fingers) will be too. It's not her job to look after him — arguably that's no one's job except Sully's himself — but that doesn't keep her from restlessly shuffling back and forth on her feet just inside the door of her apartment, considering it. Her heavy boots manage to avoid the stuff that's collected on the floor of her front hall (tiny piles, one great hoard in the corner) as proof of all of Sully's never-ending handiwork. It's that handiwork that's got Hallah worried, or at least bristling with very specific kind of annoyance — the kind of irritation that comes with knowing the inevitable is just that, and there's nothing in particular she can do to stop it.

But there's stopping it and then there's making sure not to help it along and while Sully's left to people and pockets and crowds 364 days out of the year, New Years in particular comes with the added bonus of cheap champagne and boxed wine. (All that booze? Fight fight fight.)

Agitatedly, she pulls out her phone from her pocket and types out a message to the number programmed as his mobile. ]

where are you

[ At her feet, one of the piles buzz with a digital sort of chime and Hallah curses colorfully as she yanks open the door to stalk outside to the block of flats beyond. She'll be cruising to the common room, but not before knocking on a couple doors first, the first and last word out of her mouth being always the same: ]

Sully.

[ As in: have you seen him? ]

[glint]

[ As far as the inevitable goes, Sully has never really been surprised when the metaphorical hammer has come down on his head, but that doesn't mean he's used to it (he complains about each bruise as much as the first) or that he can quit cold turkey. The forever-changing sizes of the piles of loot that Sully leaves in Hallah's apartment are evidence enough. Some of it's simply Church's, moved from one spot in the flat to another, but nevertheless. It's New Years, and there's no place to go "accidentally" bumping into people like a party.

It's with a paper crown on his head (a leftover from Christmas) and a few baubles tucked away into his pockets that one bird runs into the other that's been chasing him, a bright smile immediately spreading over his features as he realizes who he's bumped into (and as he sticks both hands behind his back — no he wasn't going for her wallet). ]

Hallo, lovely! Happy new year, eh?

BETINA | front steps

[hysterics]

[ Out with the old, in with the new — that's what New Years is meant to be about, isn't it? About turning over new leaves, about starting again; about resolutions and I'll do better this year; about self-improvement. Betina understands the necessity of celebrations like this, just like she understands how things like god and superstition and deep-rooted, near-delusional hope are a necessity too. They create loopholes through which the human psyche can slip through in order to salvage itself, maintain spaces where one can hope to regroup. Betina herself doesn't subscribe to any of this of course because Betina knows better.

As she stands on the front steps, fiddling with her unlit cigarette, she contemplates that this new year will hold for her. She's long since abandoned any prospect of new beginnings though she hasn't given up on the possibility of endings yet.

The steps are here, right beneath her feet, all she needs to do is take them. Beyond the stairs is the sidewalk and beyond that is the street—

There is no greater self-sabotage than welcoming Circe's rage down onto her own head.

Perhaps this year will be her year. ]

[howlings]

[ There are a million different possibilities when it comes to endings. It's something that Hollis understands all too well. (His namesake here, after all, comes along with a certain amount of baggage. A telling and a re-telling and a cycle that goes on and on but has distinct entries within it, nonetheless.) The party's just a party, to him; as for the new year, he doesn't particularly care. It's just another year on the block, and if the months and years blend together, then there's nothing doing. Leave, and die. Stay, and live.

It's with purposefully heavy footfall that he announces his presence upon the front steps, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the other hand fumbling in one of his pockets for a moment before he produces a lighter.

(He and Betina aren't a good combination under any circumstances. But that's the fun part, isn't it?

There's no way he'd rather start the year, anyway.) ]

Need a light, gingersnap?

"ASH BORER" (TAMORA) | common room

[ex_batesian_831]

[ She calls herself Ash, after the animal that Circe had given her, if only because Ash sounds tougher than Tamora and it lends an air of mystery and impenetrability to her besides. At the fair she'd been known as 'Zamora the Great' but Ash had never really liked it much since it just sounded like people were mispronouncing her name all the time, 'Great' or not.

It's not her job to entertain Circe's party guests and nobody had asked her to set up shop in the middle of a small circle of chairs, but Ash is doing it anyway because she likes the attention, she likes the amazed faces people make at her, she likes playing the part of 'the Great' since being 'Great' is so much better than ever being Tamora. ]

Nothing in my hands— [ she says, displaying one open palm and then another. ] Nothing up my sleeves, but—

[ A flourish, a ha, a trick of the light and a flick of the fingers and suddenly the air produces a marble that falls into the palm of her hand. The children clap; one in the back actually squeals as her father bounces her on his arm. The adults give a laughing cheer. It's like alchemy, really — like something out of a fairystory.

Something out of nothing; somebody out of nobody. (Thank you, Circe.)

Alakazam. ]

[brightandclear]

[At the end of Ash's show, there's Roxana, giving snaps as if for a poet.

Unlike Ash, Roxana cares little for what name people choose to call her, though more often than to she thinks of herself as Roxana. She won't forget where she came from.]

I like your stuff.

darla bayle (HUMMINGBIRD) | courtyard

[flutterings]

[ darla doesn't like crowds.

it feels like everyone is pressing in on her, too many bodies and voices and people she doesn't know. so she slips through the crowd, quick as a flash, and out into the courtyard. there are people here, of course, but at least there is room to breathe, to move if necessary. darla is ever flitting away, fast as her namesake, when she feels overwhelmed.

she sits down on a low bench with her glass--some unspecified alcohol that smells sickly sweet--and watches the people move through the courtyard, judging who is safe and who is not, and closing her eyes against the snippets of visions that she could have, if she let herself. ]

[faunas]

[ Jordan doesn't mind crowds. He doesn't mind solitude either, having had healthy doses of each on the commune back home — 125 acres of fields bordered with trees and hills and clustered at the foot of the biggest hill of them all, 36 people living in a house originally meant for a dozen at best. It's a juxtaposition he misses sometimes — big world, little world. Microcosm macrocosm. Here, in the projects with Circe, there isn't large and small, there's small and smaller. But Jordan's not the time to look a gifthorse in the mouth, even when the horse comes with the kind of fine print that Circe and her offered meal had (he knew the allusion).

He's sauntering around the perimeter of the courtyard when she settles down onto her bench. It takes him a while to reach her in his latest circuit, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his slacks and his head bobbing lazily from side to side as if listening to unheard music. ]

What's the word, hummingbird? [ he asks on approach, lifting up to pull the fedora off the top of his head in something of a nod of acknowledgment. ]

duncan o'ceallaigh (PEREGRINE FALCON) | front steps

[altitudes]

[ duncan is too new to this place to be comfortable. there's not enough to keep him occupied, so he sits on the front steps with a flask and thinks about walking into town to buy some cigarettes even though the ones he wants are never in stock. he's not had them since he arrived, and he misses the taste of them in his mouth.

to compensate, he takes a swig for him flask. it's harsh and stinging and burns on the way down, but it gets the job done. he licks his lips and starts singing softly to himself under his breath. an eala bhan is a touch more melancholy than he'd like, but it suits the occasion better than auld lang syne. he's willing to be someone will start warbling that later in the evening; no need to be the first to resort to it.

eventually he'll head back inside, to mingle and talk, for duncan is a social creature, when the mood strikes him right. but for the moment, he's content on his own. ]

[fleeing]

[ For Sprague, New Years Eve had always meant a bottle of wine and three glasses of whatever else was on offer — which always meant that, come New Years, she'd be nursing a headache in the proper welcoming fashion. It's no surprise that Sprague disappears briefly at some point in the evening, out the doors and for a walkaround — running is always easier when there's space. (Not that she'd ever run from Circe, not really; Sprague's scared shitless and not afraid to admit as much.) It's also a lot easier when you're sober, it turns out.

By the time she makes her way back to the complex she sporting a bruise on her knee, a scrape on her shin and a fresh ladder up the side of her stockings. The black heels she'd been wearing are now in her right hand, swinging on the hooks of her index and middle fingers, one of them sans the heel.

She hears Duncan before she sees him. It's a good thing — she hasn't been here long but she's been here long enough to recognize a new face. Her bare feet come to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and Sprague's face twists into something resembling a smile. Tipping her head, she gestures to the doors lying innocently ahead. ]

I'd say get out while you can, but. Well.

JACKSON | rooftop

[hardened]

[ It's late — well-past midnight when Jackson finds his way to the rooftop, fingers curled around a half-empty bottle of beer. Whatever the New Year is supposed to bring or hold, the only thing Jackson can think about and hope for is not-here. Not freedom, not rescue, not safety or harbor but simply not here. He doesn't understand a lot of things his wife says (or hell, what anyone says) but he understands her when she says I don't want to be here anymore.

(He doesn't — can't — understand how desperate she is. That's something Circe took from him, something he didn't freely give and maybe that makes him angry but maybe that doesn't matter. Being angry at the witch is a fool's move.)

It's not much of a view up here, but it's quiet and the air is cool. Circe left behind enough to let him appreciate that, at the very least. ]

[flutterings]

[ the click of a door is the only thing that announces darla's presence, for the woman herself is silent as a grave. she pulls up short when she see jackson though, stopping in her tracks.

darla hadn't expected anyone else to be up here.

she came up to the roof because the celebration had hit it's peak, gotten too loud and too much for darla to abide, even behind the closed door of her apartment. she skitters to a stop, unsure of whether she is intruding upon him, or if she even wishes to stay upon the roof just yet, with him there as well. ]

EMILY | courtyard

[pretext]

[ The ball has dropped and the new year has arrived. It doesn't mean much to Emily anymore, not when her world is so small (and always has been, and always will be, right up until she dies), but there are parties, and so she attends, putting on her best dress and polite smile and making sure she's still relevant in some way — that people know she exists, that at least the people in this little world know that she's been upon this earth — before slipping out, earlier or later in the night, to take a smoke.

The night finds her out in the courtyard, perched on one of the swings in the children's playground. Her toes serve as her only anchor to the ground as the rest of her sways back and forth in the air, one arm wrapped about one of the chains of the swing, the other held over her chest, a cigarette held right by her lips. Both her breath and the cigarette send up trails of smoke into the air, and although the night is chilly, she doesn't particularly seem to mind. (She never does.) ]

[hideandseek]

[Elwood comes out for a bit of fresh air some time after midnight, loose-limbed and very slightly swaying, still humming the tune to Auld Lang Syne. For all that he'd never throw a party himself, he sure enjoys attending them, and when the atmosphere is right, he can have a hell of a time.

He makes his way over to the swing set and leans on the frame, shoulders hunched against the cold. He breathes in the chill, lets it sober him up just a touch, and sends a smile over to Emily.]

It's a new year.

[Somehow he knows not to say 'Happy New Year.']

JACK & CERBOS | study

[insides]

[Jack isn't the most pleasant of presences -- Cerbos even less so -- so he's taken the liberty of excusing himself from the party and withdrawn to the study room where he and others are allowed (or expected) to build up a little culture. He does enjoy a good read from time to time but life in the collection has turned him into a very successful chronic smoker, so he's sticking to clear priorities and making his way to open the window and let some of that accusing stench out.

Jack really couldn't care less about the New Year. He doesn't need reminders that there are things out there he will never get to see or experience worth celebrating.

(That would only be welcoming him to toy around in the back of his mind, wouldn't it.)]

[hysterics]

[ Someone's come to say hello, Jack, and she hasn't quite decided if she'd rather you be vaguely pleasant or downright awful to her when she does. When Betina comes calling, it's with that bright wintery smell of evening air on her, draped over with the haze of already smoked cigarettes and the very faintest trace of something tannic like whiskey.

In her hand is a wine glass with a modest pouring of merlot (from her own kitchen, not the party downstairs; pleasant or unpleasant she's loathe to offer Jack something as detestable as box wine). When she saunters over, she offers it to him silently, the corners of her mouth turning upwards and her eyebrow raised as if challenging him to refuse her first olive branch of the year. ]

JOSIAS | roof

[striping]

[He's spent the majority of the evening involved in any new year's party he can - starting out in the town, the various pubs, then back to the block, the party in the common room and up through the building. It's coming on midnight when he leaves the company of others entirely, heads up to the roof.

It would be easy to say that he liked the solitude, or perhaps being above everyone else, but really, he's gone up there to look at the sky. Midnight on new year's, and they might not have set up a firework display, but it was likely someone else nearby had.]

[wishrot]

[ She does what she wants and goes where she likes and there is no one, nowhere that Ladybird likes more than Josias St. John. He's not a particularly nice boy — save when he wants to be and that comes and goes — but he is a rather pretty one, always, and Ladybird has always had an appreciation for pretty things. Much like the animal that Circe had given him, he is rather the temperamental sort, but so is she. Which means there are times when they get along very much like a house on fire and there are other times when it's nothing but bared claws and unpleasantness — but such were the particular comings and goings of her life.

She makes sure to close the door behind her softly, the latch given but the faintest click. Despite the cold she steals over in a sundress and bare feet; her teeth chatter unpleasantly but Ladybird doesn't mind. Perhaps if she's lucky and he's feeling generous, he'll warm her. Perhaps not. ]

So this is where you've skulked off to, tiger, [ she says, her voice sugarsweet. A tiny hand creeps along his shoulder, curling over the heavy fabric of his jacket. ]

ELWOOD | common room

[hideandseek]

[Technically this is Elwood's second New Year's Eve on the block, but it's first where he's felt like he belongs. Last year he was a skittish, mumbling wallflower, still working out where he fit in the social strata of the menagerie. Now he's got more of an idea. This time, he can relax.

And he likes people. Likes having neighbors. Likes to keep an ear to the ground, to know what's going on, to be in the loop. With the right people, he displays an affable, warm nature. The gray fox is a burrower and a clever spy - but also social, even playful, especially among his adoptive family.

He moves easily through the room, greeting those he knows, celebrating with them. In the times in-between he goes to refresh his drink, or merely hangs on the edge of the crowd, observing.]

[gilt]

[ This time, before Elwood manages to make another circuit back to the bar to refresh his drink, his top-up seems to come to him instead. Iseult is a seemingly nice girl and (again, the word 'seemingly' still applies) always seems to be willing to help her fellow tenants in both the largest and smallest of things. In truth, she does the things she does to garner favor among them, and in favor, safety. But very few of the block's residents know that the girl called Starling is hiding at all; and only Circe herself knows what it is that she is hiding from.

Promptly, she arrives with another glass, untouched and its contents swirling. Iseult offers it to him with a smile and the tiniest bob of her head. ]

Hello, Elwood, [ she says, all politeness and sweetness. ] I saved you the trouble this time. I hope dearly that you don't mind.

ROXANA | various

[brightandclear]

[Roxana makes her rounds. Hits up the common room party, of course, and if there's a party particularly for the birds, she'll be found there for a significant portion of the night.

She stays up long past midnight. In the dusky pre-dawn hours, she's sitting on the roof with her guitar, bundled up in layers and a scarf and fingerless gloves. A half-drunk glass of red wine forgotten at her side as she plucks out an improvised melody.

She appears peaceful, as she often does when nothing particular has happened to ruffle her feathers. Relaxed. Content.]

[flutterings]

[ darla can never sleep after parties, too keyed up from the commotion to lay still and breathe and relax. parties set her on edge, always have and always will, so she ventures up to the roof, which at least has space and room to breathe. perched there, above the occupants of the house, always brings her some measure of peace.

she doesn't mind finding roxana there, appreciates the presence of the guitar. it takes a few minutes, but darla eventually approaches, hovering at roxana's side. ]

KLARA or NEWT | apartments

[hewn]

[ In the end, it's up for Julian to decide just how and when they celebrate the New Year. Whether that means another holiday holed up in the apartment, the door shut and double-bolted behind them to keep her away from slurred come-ons and drunken leers, then so be it. (He was only trying to protect her, wasn't he? She's a gentle woman with bones that break far too easily and too much revelry meant fights and—)

She busies herself with making the apartment festive, just in case it is meant to be only the two of them. There is a bottle of wine on the counter and paper hats hung on the backs of their chairs in the dining room and even little cardboard noisemakers - the kind that make a kazoo-like noise at the end of an inflated paper tongue. It's all very quaint, really, and Klara thinks that good because quaint means quiet and quiet means that, hopefully, Julian will be happy with her. (Oh, please, not angry, not today, I've tried—)

At about nine o'clock she disconnects the phone, pulling the cable out of the wall so that it doesn't ring and make him demand who is that, who's calling you. Not as though there's anyone left to call. Klara left that all behind when she came looking for Circle (had meant to leave Julian behind too, but that hadn't worked out right).

Ten o'clock and she's doing her make-up. She tries to make herself look pretty, but in a way only he would like.

Julian wouldn't appreciate it, otherwise. Oh no, Julian would be mad. ]

[hewed]

[ And in the end, Julian decides they stay in, because this New Year's Eve (every New Year's Eve), there's only one person he wants to spend the holiday with, and that's Klara — darling Klara, dear Klara, lovely Klara. (Even with those scars on her face, she's the most goddamn beautiful woman he's ever seen, and ever will see.

And, oh, he's sorry about those scars. Never leave me again, baby, please, goddammit, please, I'm sorry — I said I'm sorry. I'll kill you if you go.)

Five after, and he finds her. (Five after, and he's still in a good mood.) ]

Two hours left in year, baby.

SIAHNA | common room

[nocturnalized]

[ siahna is here but does not look particularly happy about it. it's not that she dislikes parties, exactly, but since receiving her power she's been pretty wary about being around people, even more than she previously was. it's never very pleasant to suddenly have your mind flooded with someone else's memories, whether they're good or bad, so she's standing in the corner of the common room, holding a beer that she occasionally sips from and being very careful not to touch anything.

she's only here at all because she doesn't want to draw attention to herself; she's already drawn enough as someone who's still new to the block and her ability makes her even more conspicuous when the memory she picks up on is strong enough to take over her mind. she doesn't intend to stay long, just long enough to appear ordinary.

well. as ordinary as one can be in this place. ]

[fluffiest]

[ barring some of the more interesting residents, Sylvia would like to point out that most of them are normal (abilities notwithstanding, of course). she knows who Siahna is, because she knows who everyone is (they're her family, she has to have a list), and it makes her a bit sad to think of her not being able to be friendly with anyone purely because of that obnoxious power of hers.

it's why Sylvia slides up next to her, making sure she doesn't touch anything, or make Siahna bump into anything. ]

I promise that none of us bite. And even when we do...it's, well, it cold be worse.

HUNTER | common room/bar

[stamina]

[his role is an easy one because he's so used to it, when this time of year rolls around. and so hunter-the-bartender is lounging behind the counter showcasing everything from tonic to absinthe and offering a smile and nod to anyone who seems interested.

he's got the customer service to cater to anyone, even if they're seriously unimpressed with being at the gala. working at the local pub, he's just as used to the stoic and caustic as he is the bubbly and cheerful.

he'll be stuck there all night, though, so feel free to greet the kid cleaning the glasses and flaring the vodka bottles.]

COLTON | common room

[paresthesia]

[ It's not his first year here — ringing in his third, actually — but it's easy to mistake him for a new kid on the block. Colton's not drinking because he never drinks (well, that's not strictly true. Sully's a bad influence and yeah, that's Colton's story and he's sticking to it.) He tried for the first few months here to just wear gloves and shoes and hoodies all the time, but over the years Colton's just developed a system of avoidance. Kind of annoying when it comes to parties, being the last one to wander over to the table with all the food, but a lot better than the alternative.

It's been a good twenty minutes for the first rush of people to die down. Long enough, Colton thinks, which might explain why he doesn't bother to look both ways before reaching for one of those cubes of cheese skewered by a toothpick. The back of his hand brushes against something warm— it takes him a beat to realize that he's brushed his hand against someone else's (and not, say, a tub of fondue).

After that, the words come tumbling out of his mouth in a hurry. ]

I am so sorry, that was all me, I'm so— Are you okay? How bad is it? Do I need to go find Jordan?

[gilt]

[ It hurts, of course. (It always hurts.) But Iseult wouldn't be where she is now, living the life that she has, if she didn't have at least some considerable tolerance to things like pain. What would easily have sent someone else reeling simply delivers a sharp jolt up the length of her arm as her nerve endings all suddenly stand at attention, the electrical spark of pain, abort still dancing along her neurological pathways.

Her whole arm twitches and the small dish of assorted odds and ends clatters to the face of the table as she gathers her hand to herself, wincing only faintly. When she sees who it is, though, and hears his ready apology, Iseult's expression changes — goes soft and kind and forgiving when she looks at him. She gives a small shake of her head, her hair shivering down the length of her back and over her shoulders in thick red waves. Her voice, when she speaks, is sweet and calming — Circe's gift lulling him — not completely, but just enough to get him to stop apologizing. ]

Hello, Colton, [ she says with her smile. ] You needn't worry. I'm alright, look.

[ Carefully, Iseult extends her hand. The skin where his fingers had brushed hers is red and irate as if recently slapped, but otherwise without blemish. ]

LAURIE | common room (the stroke of midnight)

[paralyzer]

[ It's easy to get lost when the ball drops at midnight. There's a loud Happy New Year! and kisses too, some chaste and some not, and maybe there are looks and sentiments exchanged but in the end Laurie doesn't give a fuck about any of these things.

A back-turned is all the opportunity she needs. Her hand drifts through the air, in and out through open spaces and bodies that don't belong to who she's looking for. Finally, her fingers wriggle and curl to clutch tight around the offending wrist— the other hand circles around to cup tight around their eyes. The force behind her touch is hard not numbing, forceful the way a predator means to keep their newest friend in place.

On tip-toe Laurie leans in, whispering into their ear with a tenderness she isn't capable of replicating in touch. ]

Happy New Year.

[insides]

[The reaction is instinctive -- first an uncomfortable shiver, then his shoulders relax to give room to something else. That something is Cerbos, and he produces a pleasant smile with an amused exhale, wrinkling his eyes.]

Happy New Year, Laurie.

[It's a dangerous wish when spoken with his tone. He could leave anyone in this party unsatisfied with the New Year if he had the chance (maybe they don't like the number, maybe they didn't make the right resolutions, maybe they don't want to go through with it, maybe--), but Jack didn't quite allow him to come out and play until he felt her touch.]

RAK | apartments

[bioluminescent]

[Rak, unsurprisingly, is hosting a poker game in his kitchen. There's an open invite written in big black letters taped to his door, which is sitting on the latch, and a chair free at the table for anyone who'd choose to join.

Rak is four games in, the room smoky from too many cigarettes, bright spots dotting his skin from too much alcohol. It's been a good night so far, and he has a nice pile of money and IOY's at his elbow, but he'll be happy to take more.]

AMELIA | courtyard

[crypsis]

[It's early evening, barely even night, but already parties have started up around the block, the wind bringing vague snatches of music and voices. Amelia would like to join one, truly she would, but she's having a hard time building up the courage. Uncertain on where she should go, how she should do it, she sits in the courtyard, thinking out various scenarios instead of simply getting up to find out how things would really go.]

[faunas]

[ It seems as though all of the pretty girl with nervous and quickening hearts are finding their way to the courtyard tonight, not that Jordan judges them for it and not that he particularly minds. He himself has foregone most of the parties beyond the perfunctory ones (Circe and the like). Instead, he saunters and smokes, smokes and saunters, stopping occasionally to greet whatever souls make it to the small stretch of dried out grass and pathways and benches, the odd child's playground and jungle gym, all of which make up the complex's courtyard.

When he catches sight of Amelia, he makes his way over, easy as anything. His limbs are lank and loose and there's a cigarette (the third of many yet to come) dangling from his bottom lip, collecting ash at the tip. When he's within earshot, he stops and lifts the fedora that sits slantedly on his head. A little tip, a little nod. ]

Creeping, creeping, but no mouse; I spy with my little eye, an Amelia out of the house.

IAN | various

[authoritatively]

[ it's odd, realizing that this is his third new years on the block. it's not necessarily a bad thing, but it still makes his head buzz a bit with notions of "why are you still here?" (because he can't leave, none of them can.) it's not that he minds that much because he has nothing to go home to, but he knows that some do. alas, despite the random notions that are crossing his head, he decides to be a presence in all the places (he spends far too much time on the rooftop, but that's neither here nor there), staying at least thirty minutes in each one before settling into the common room with a book (he's only half reading it, unfortunately) as the clock ticks closer to midnight.

when it finally does, however, he finds it acceptable to go up to his room for some sleep. he's not old, per se, but his body finds that unlike some of the block's inhabitants, he needs his "cat naps" to fully function as a charming (mostly) person. feel to knock if it's after that time, however, it'll take him a bit, but he'll answer and say hello at the very least. ]

[harken]

[ They cross paths on the rooftop, or rather he comes across her. Finding Sully, securing Sully, and then steering Sully back to the apartment had been an easy enough task. Keeping Sully home had proven a completely different matter and, in the end, Hallah had no choice but to relinquish in back onto the block again, this time with something of a chaperone in Jordan — the weird kid with the slanty hat and nothing better to do but to babysit thieving magpies for owls in need of a smoke break.

She's seated on one of the concrete ledges, her legs pulled up to her chest in an attempt to retain bodyheat. Despite the cold weather and the chilly breeze up here, she's not wearing a jacket, just a sweatshirt with its hood pulled up over her head. Although he can't see the cigarette between her fingers clearly, she's most likely got one — if the steam and smoke pluming upwards over her head is any indication. When the rooftop door opens and then closes again behind Ian with a soft scrape and click, she glances over her shoulder, staring out from beneath the shadow of her hood, before turning back wordlessly to the city skyline. ]

DARIUS | courtyard

[ex_virtude251]

[Darius doesn't like smoke, couldn't care less about alcohol and is driven away by loud crowds, preferring to keep to the quiet cold outside the apartments. But can anyone blame him? He looks so young.

He sits on a bench, legs folded up against his chest, long and frail arms beneath an oversized jacket reaching around to play with a little trinket he took from the party, face hidden by strands of hair falling over his eyes.]

[faunas]

[ Darius doesn't like smoke so Jordan — always mindful of other people, their likes and dislikes, how his presence affects them — quickly takes one last drag from his cigarette and then extinguishes the end with his dampened fingertips. Carefully he tucks the remains in a tiny mint tin he carries around in his jacket and then saunters over to where Darius is sitting, his hands held loosely in his pockets.

Upon approach, Jordan says quietly with a nod: ] Got company on the mind, dear, deer brother. If you don't mind the company, that is.

SHANNON | various

[opportunities]

[ at these parties, shannon is always in attendance, always moving just along the fringe of the crowd, ever observing. there is always a smile playing upon her lips, as if she's just heard something incredibly amusing, and always an untouched drink in her hand. the conversations she chooses to take part in are always seemingly chosen upon a whim. she is always lovely, always engaging, always striking just the right note with her contributions. and then, always so quickly, so quietly, she'd vanish into the shadows and be gone. shannon slipped away in the blink of an eye, in search of something better, something more exciting, perhaps.

she'd been here four years, and the pattern still hadn't changed. she somtimes wondered if there were any point in keeping up the pretense anymore, if she should simply change her habit all together and stay hidden away up in her room, only inviting up those she chose to speak with. but this was more her style, she thought. like hunting, even if it were only fish in a barrel, so to speak. ]