» the city network

'kay, so........ i COULD have bothered with getting a nice setup to gather you guys because that seems to be the thing people do whenever stuff like this crops up but

✨⭐ i don't feel like it. ⭐✨

so say hi to the eyes watching. blow them a kiss while you're at it. we know they're there regardless.

but anyway, BECAUSE i promised to better communicate stuff, i found this thing and thought that maybe the people smarter than me would want to see it.

[ FILE ATTACHED ]

i dunno. chat amongst yourselves i guess. i'm kinda curious to see what you all think since now i just have even more questions. like here, i'll start:

( There is exposition here. )

[ Kaveh is definitely taking the phone at this point, but later on, Midnight will retrieve it and add a postscript. He is sitting in some sort of underground greenhouse this time, surrounded by mist, glass, flowers, and the glow of sun-tinted halogen lights. Regardless of the promo quality, the greenhouse itself is certainly an impressive feat of engineering. ]

Yes, this is one of several themed rooms here at Seventh Hell. You — yes, you — are personally invited to see it. When? Well, whenever you like, so long as the doors are open, but on the 31st of this month... Ahem.

[ He clears his throat, grins. ]

For the turn of the year, you are cordially invited to Seventh Hell's Grand Opening and New Year's Eve joint celebration. Or something like that, I'll come up with a grander name if necessary. There will be drinks, music, a tour of the premises, games, untold bliss, fantasies, beautiful women, beautiful men, myself among them, possibly fireworks if Kaveh can be convinced that I won't set the place ablaze... You won't want to miss out, I promise.

The doors will open at 6 pm, but come by anytime before then, from now until the New Year, if you'd like to enjoy the premises in relative solitude. Send a message to this account if you'd like to be assured of a bartender, or a friendly face to speak to. If I can't come personally, a host or hostess will be there, ready to welcome you to a night of merriment and pleasant conversation.

So, until then... Seventh Hell awaits you.

[ A wink, and the feed shuts off. ]

[ ooc: Along with normal network replies, current host club employees and staff are welcome and encouraged to reply to this post as though Midnight's included them in an impromptu promotion for the club! You can also use this post for post-promo, off camera conversations with him or anyone else in the host club. Go stupid, go wild, go crazy, threadjack, steal his phone and flush it down a toilet. Honestly, the sky is the limit. ]

[ when the video begins, dorothea is seated at what appears to be a dining room table. behind her is the familiar backdrop of one of the many empty apartments within the city, the stove in view and holding a pot of something simmering... but, hey, should smoke be purple??

nevermind that, though. dorothea's smiling into the camera, chin propped up on the lace of her fingers. ]

No work, no schools. [ no war. ] No other such obligations to keep a society functioning. How have you all not gone crazy yet? [ haha, about that— ] I don't know about the rest of you, but staying idle will just leave me grumpy at best.

[ she pouts for emphasis, letting the camera linger on her doe eyes and full lips for a second longer than necessary, before her expression shifts to one of enthusiasm. she even claps her hands. ]

And so! I propose this: a choir. Yes, of course, you're all free to organize a hobby club of your own choosing, but I'm not nearly as skilled with anything else, and frankly I miss the music.

[ back home, there hadn't been very many reasons to sing, as of late. ]

Well? [ there are those doe eyes again, complete with a flutter of heavy lashes. ] You'll participate, won't you?

[ who, "you"? anyone, really. everyone. ]

[ the video begins with badou wearing one of his usual tees, carefully setting his phone down so the camera angle can spot him sitting on his living room floor surrounded by an array of dresses. affixed to his wrist is a little cloth pumpkin, stuck full of needles and pins. he's without his usual cigarette, instead sucking on a lollipop that stains his lips bright red. last time he made a post on the network his neck was bruised and bandaged — this time it's the same thing, but the bruise is angrier, spreading across his neck and shoulder, disappearing under a bandage and gauze that looks about ready to get changed in an hour or two. ]

Evenin'.

[ he picks up the skirt of one of the dresses, flipping it inside-out to access the pocket he'd been working on attaching. ]

So I'm sittin' here, mendin' dresses — as you do — and I nicked myself pretty good and I'm thinkin', well, shit, that's another one I gotta wait on, y'know?

[ he lifts a forefinger, displaying a bandage that looks an awful like like dora the explorer, and wiggles it in the direction of the camera. ]

It got me thinkin'—

How many of us here are just regular ol' humans? Or whatever. I'm talkin' no magic, no special augmentations, no fancy shamcy abilities that got you doin' better than the average guy.

[ he pauses to finish off a stitch, making a knot with his thread and cutting the excess with his teeth. ]

See, where I'm from, that ain't the norm. But that doesn't seem to be the case around here.

[ oh, one more thing— ]

And if you are one of the special ones, go ahead and tell us what you can do. Why not, right? What else do any of us got to hide at this point?

( the camera is pointing at the right thing this time, at least. everyone please clap at the crossing of the easiest hurdle in the world.

on the screen is the faun herself, of course, and her little garden of questionable blooms in her hair. she's at the dreary new lake, seated at its edge, and the splashing off camera means either someone's drowning or she's kicking at the water. knowing her, it could very well be both. )

So! ( a clap of her hands, one that fits the rest of her and the other clawed and steeped black, smile bright and easy. ) I've been thinking... what is it that everyone does for fun? Because even when there's not that many of us compared to most other places I've been, there are also those with faaaaar less people and they still manage to pass the time somehow!

( granted, they're like farmers and stuff with JOBS to do but, whatever. )

Tell me about games you enjoy and used to play back wherever you're from? Maybe we can play a few! Or maybe just things you wish were here? Not-game things you like doing? Hobbies?

As for me, I miss taverns. The live music and the fights or competitiveness over silly things and the people just gathered around gossiping... I also miss traveling and seeing all sorts of little guys.

( ... )

......... I'll also take gossip if nothing else! Oh, and also, if you know anything about building houses. Please let me know!

So on account of being mildly inconvenienced for a whole three seconds, I have quite magnanimously taken it upon myself to rectify this little problem.

That is to say, the streets need names.

There's a lot to get through, so I'm open to suggestions. Shoot me your best or worst or funniest ideas and if there's a particular road you want to call it by.

Except for the road I live on, already decided that one's going to be Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis Lane.

[She appears on the network wearing a pair of white cat ears, brandishing a sort of princess wand, which she uses for emphasis as she talks]

Hey. Name's Miu, I'm an actress, and I'm here to tell you that if I see a single one of you wearing a spooky monster costume that ends up stuck in said costume and/or acting more and more like the monster come Halloween, I will beat you with this princess wand.

Don't do it. Stick to cute or easy costumes and stay away from those stupid ugly masks! I've seen enough movies to know that's a stupid idea and if you do it anyway I get the exclusive right to say 'I told you so!' super mockingly next month.

[She clears her throat and sits back] Now then, the important question:

Sexy angel, or sexy cat? I can't decide if I like the idea of having wings more, or a cute tail and ears.

[She looks between two generic costumes like it's the most important and confounding decision of her life.]

[ He's making this post while he's also featuring on a livestream against his will, so naturally he's on perma-text. He's also managed to make this post visible for everyone except Louis, or at least he hopes?? As long as the tech advice he got was sound, and he'd got it from Armand so it's really a 50/50 on that. ]

( Read more... )

( The feed starts in a dimly-lit room, dust motes drifting through the nearby window which looks surprisingly new compared to the other brick around it. The camera shifts a little, as if someone is adjusting the phone to make sure it's going to stay this time... and then Angela's voice starts.

She also flicks on one of the overhead lights, not as bright as the fluorescents in the office buildings--more moody--and sits in a very comfy-looking chair in the center of the shot. )

Good morning. I am Angela, the proprietor of The Bookstore, a shop located at the edge of District 1 and 2. Our goal is to record the stories of this city and its unwilling inhabitants; these books, small or large, are able to be lent out to anyone who stops by and trades a story of their own for it, thus continually giving The Bookstore a source of "income", as it were. Feel free to stop by any time, and I or one of my recordkeepers will assist you.

( Does that just sound like a weird-ass library? Sure. Anyway, her shilling done--

but not the shilling of The Bookstore's number one employee (self-proclaimed)-- )

Forsooth!!! And that is not all -- there are many empty books one may use to pen their own story if they should like, and our recordkeepers are all helpful indeed!!! There is myself, the magnificent Don Quixote, who ardently seeks to record every valiant tale no matter how big or small it may seem, how important or trivial, for every one is worth the words spoken! There is Yesod, who's keen eye for detail shall leave no stone unturned as he asks question after question in order to best refine thy tale to a story that shall resound across the ages to come! Of course, there are those who seem difficult to speak to, such as Mistress Gebura, but I can assure thee--

( YEAH OKAY WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THAT Angela is shoving Don Quixote out of frame with her foot, where did she come from... from behind one of the bookshelves?? Get back there.

Anyway, once again, shilling done. )

With that out of the way, I had a few questions to ask.

( Angela crosses her legs at the ankles, back straight... so very serious...!! Ignore the put-out mumblings of one of her employees just out of sight, thank you. )

One: What are some hobbies or activities you enjoy, and what do you like about them? Two: What is your favorite ice cream flavor, and why? And three: If you could change one thing about your own story, what would it be?

( ...okay! )

[ooc: don quixote icanfixer will probably jump into conversations too, as a warning, but frankly any of the bookstore's employees can do so if they're around and feel like it... what's she going to do, fire you? that's all the notes here tho happy october everyone]

...The spirits that inhabit this settlement are not happy. Are we- does anyone know of Samhain?

[Said while digging into a tub of ice cream.]

The time when the doors between the world of the living, and the dead, are left open.

I'm sure a few of you have heard about our friend in the pool by now.

Someone told me about an incident with the mannequins at the mall too.

Has anything else like that happened here? Any encounters with monsters, spirits, or whatever else you want to call them?

I'm going to do some investigating around different places if anyone has any suggestions. I'm going to start with the mall.

( ooc: feel free to bother him in person at the mall! )

( hope you enjoy the view of.. absolutely nothing.

the video feed is dark with the occasional flash of light. sometimes, there's a peek of green and pink fabrics. other times, it's oleander and foxgloves or larkspur - a veritable garden buried in seafoam green hair. just peeks, nothing more. this continues for quite some time!

if there's sound, it's mostly the rustling of fabric and miscellany of bits and bobs. someone is getting into things again like a nosy little rodent. for anyone who might know her, she's oddly quiet. probably sneaking.

and for those guessing: yes she absolutely started the feed by accident when she tucked her phone... wherever it is on her person currently. you wouldn't scare a poor girl witless by making it sound like you're trapped in her pocket, would you? )

[Given the fantastic angle staring up the stem of a half-full glass of wine accompanied by a fat green bottle with a pair of gangly, denim-clad legs only partially in view, it's very clear this was probably meant to be an audio post. Crowley is outside somewhere - likely the park or graveyard given what little scenery is in focus, and the reason for his mistake becomes more apparent when he speaks with an evident, wine-drunk slur.]

Right. Summer is infinitely better when there aren't dozens of insects trying to eat you alive at any given time. Point in favour to the city. Well done. No idea how you're going to get any of these plants pollinated but I'm assuming it's the same way you get all the food here. Magic, probably, or something like it.

Still, nothing like going out and it's just you, the sun, and nice bottle of Tempranillo and an afternoon basking. There's a nice flat boulder in the park; catches the morning sun brilliantly, lovely and warm, 10/10, if that's anyone's particular vice.

[A hand comes into view and lifts the glass out of frame. There's a pause, and when it's returned, it's nearly empty.]

Of course there are still a boatload of points not in favour of the city; no art. No music. No shows. No actual nightlife to speak of. Not even books or programs on the telly! All those tubs of icecream for the taking and no re-runs of the Golden Girls to eat them to. Terrible.

[There's a rapid series of clicks that sounds like he's fiddling with a ballpoint pen.]

Anyway, those of you familiar with old Billiam the Bard; got a question. Taming of the Shrew -- is it 'methinks the lady doth protest too much' orrrrr 'the lady doth protest too much, methinks'? Sss'been a while and I'm a bit too squiffy to remember properly right now.

( cw; cannabis )

[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.

In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]

Old Yew which graspeth at the stones...that name the under-lying dead; Thy fibres net the dreamless head, thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

[ To that, a pause that looms with omen. ]

The seasons bring the flower again, and bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock beats out the little lives of men.

[ Now, a strange yearning nearly begins to dissipate the smoke that seems to scorch her throat.

Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]

O not for thee the glow, the bloom...who changest not in any gale, nor branding summer suns avail, to touch thy thousand years of gloom.

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, sick for thy stubborn hardihood; I seem to fail from out my blood...and grow incorporate into thee.

[ For a time, it seems that may be all. Then, in the same hush she speaks with a more particular address: ]

I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.

[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]

We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.

[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]

...The graves lie empty.