beastkeeper | ringing in the new year

[ 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. ]

[ 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.) ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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.) ]

[ 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? ]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2012-01-02 01:07 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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.) ]

[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.)]

[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.]

[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.]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[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.]

[ 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?

[ 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.

[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.]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

CIRCE | common room

THEO | apartments

J. HADLEY | forever alone

SPRAGUE | courtyard

HALLAH | various

BETINA | front steps

"ASH BORER" (TAMORA) | common room

darla bayle (HUMMINGBIRD) | courtyard

duncan o'ceallaigh (PEREGRINE FALCON) | front steps

JACKSON | rooftop

EMILY | courtyard

JACK & CERBOS | study

JOSIAS | roof