Persephone, the Destroyer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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maskormenacelogs2017-02-05 04:38 pm
pummelgranite) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-02-05 04:38 pm
February Open Prompts/Catch-all
WHO: Persephone vs everyone
WHERE: various cities
WHEN: through February
WHAT: A few prompts, please poke me if you want something else
WARNINGS: discussion of violence/depression/disordered eating likely as always
A. Nona- A Strange Performance in a Tiny Jazz Club
[ It's not her typical venue, not by a long shot. It's a small space, with a simple stage. She even lets them use their own lights instead of miracling up herself something more impressive. There's no dance floor, and they hardly advertised for her at all. It's more a jazz club than anything else, too small for her sound, really. But that's alright. She's not here to perform her normal mass.
She isn't in high heels, or armor, or war paint. Rather, she comes out in a simple black dress and veil, ornamented with white flowers. What she sings is no persistent climax. The rage and defiance and violence usually typical of her songs is missing as well. Instead, it's something bittersweet and heart-wrenching. It's like an intimate aria sung in that same untranslatable language, but the message is clear: winter will always fade, spring will always come, but there are still so many things lost that can never return. Just because spring is coming, does not mean you will live to see it.
The piano and cello duet that follow her aren't bad either. After her performance, it might seem like anyone else would pale in comparison, but if anything the opposite is true- they, too, sound breathtakingly beautiful in the space that she's blessed. The goddess herself makes her way to the bar. Her normal companions seem absent, and most of the patrons don't dare to make eye contact, let alone approach. Do you? ]
B. The Hotel Castille lounge/lobby, evening
[ Persephone WAS at the bar. But now she's in the beautiful, glittering lobby. She is sprawled in a chair that looks like it cost several normal human's paychecks, in a way quite disrespectful to the quality of the upholstery. Her feet dangle over the back, and her head hangs towards the floor. There's a soft cloud of colorful hair beneath her. In her hands is a notebook, and in her mouth is a pen. Every once in a while she takes the pen out of her mouth to jot something into the notebook, but mostly she's just chewing on the pen.
C. Maurtia Falls Art Museum, reasonable business hours
[ If one were to happen into the museum that day, it would be hard not to miss her. She parks herself on a bench in front of a particular piece of art, and doesn't move for over an hour.
The art in question is probably no surprise- it's a Renaissance work by a not-so-terribly-famous artist, depicting Orpheus playing for Hades and his queen. There are headphones in her ears, and the only sign she gives that she's not a statue herself is pulling out her phone every so often to change her music. ]
D. South Maurtia Historic Cemetery - literally any time you'd like, day or night
[ What the fuck is she doing now? Is she sleeping on a grave? It's a single grave in a family plot, but the headstones are all so old that the names have long since faded. So... yeah. Sleeping on someone's grave. Cool, cool, cool, cool, normal. ]
WHERE: various cities
WHEN: through February
WHAT: A few prompts, please poke me if you want something else
WARNINGS: discussion of violence/depression/disordered eating likely as always
A. Nona- A Strange Performance in a Tiny Jazz Club
[ It's not her typical venue, not by a long shot. It's a small space, with a simple stage. She even lets them use their own lights instead of miracling up herself something more impressive. There's no dance floor, and they hardly advertised for her at all. It's more a jazz club than anything else, too small for her sound, really. But that's alright. She's not here to perform her normal mass.
She isn't in high heels, or armor, or war paint. Rather, she comes out in a simple black dress and veil, ornamented with white flowers. What she sings is no persistent climax. The rage and defiance and violence usually typical of her songs is missing as well. Instead, it's something bittersweet and heart-wrenching. It's like an intimate aria sung in that same untranslatable language, but the message is clear: winter will always fade, spring will always come, but there are still so many things lost that can never return. Just because spring is coming, does not mean you will live to see it.
The piano and cello duet that follow her aren't bad either. After her performance, it might seem like anyone else would pale in comparison, but if anything the opposite is true- they, too, sound breathtakingly beautiful in the space that she's blessed. The goddess herself makes her way to the bar. Her normal companions seem absent, and most of the patrons don't dare to make eye contact, let alone approach. Do you? ]
B. The Hotel Castille lounge/lobby, evening
[ Persephone WAS at the bar. But now she's in the beautiful, glittering lobby. She is sprawled in a chair that looks like it cost several normal human's paychecks, in a way quite disrespectful to the quality of the upholstery. Her feet dangle over the back, and her head hangs towards the floor. There's a soft cloud of colorful hair beneath her. In her hands is a notebook, and in her mouth is a pen. Every once in a while she takes the pen out of her mouth to jot something into the notebook, but mostly she's just chewing on the pen.
C. Maurtia Falls Art Museum, reasonable business hours
[ If one were to happen into the museum that day, it would be hard not to miss her. She parks herself on a bench in front of a particular piece of art, and doesn't move for over an hour.
The art in question is probably no surprise- it's a Renaissance work by a not-so-terribly-famous artist, depicting Orpheus playing for Hades and his queen. There are headphones in her ears, and the only sign she gives that she's not a statue herself is pulling out her phone every so often to change her music. ]
D. South Maurtia Historic Cemetery - literally any time you'd like, day or night
[ What the fuck is she doing now? Is she sleeping on a grave? It's a single grave in a family plot, but the headstones are all so old that the names have long since faded. So... yeah. Sleeping on someone's grave. Cool, cool, cool, cool, normal. ]
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[ Only mildly chagrined, he stuffs the veil in an unoccupied pocket. ]
Drink's on me? I owed you one in the first place. Pretty sure it's at least two now.
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Fine.
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He flags the bartender and orders straight gin for himself and something slushy and colourful with an umbrella and fruity garnishes for her, since he never actually said what kind of drink he'd get her. He leaves an extra tip for bleeding on the bar, while he's at it. And since he's taking the piss anyway: ]
Sparky got in touch with you again, I take it?
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Uh huh.
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[ Dead languages for spellcasting are one thing, but grumpy teen speak is still a little rough for him to translate. ]
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It's fine, we're fine. What are you doing here?
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Me job, mostly. No offense love, but yer' mostly unpredictable to the masses of adoring mortals who don't really know ya. We should send a drink to the sound guy, though. Dunno how 'e kept up.
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[ She huffs and pushes back her hair- a little tell he's likely familiar with by now. ]
I wasn't trying to screw you, or anything. If you need your cut it's yours.
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Wouldnt know what to do with more than what pays rent and booze, truth be told. I'm the zookeeper, not yer' dad.
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S'that a challenge?
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This is a jazz club.
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At least wait until yer face stops bleeding.
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[ He casually plucks a shaker of salt from the bartender's side of the countertop, pours some out into his hand and promptly snorts it while muttering something or other in tongues. Sure enough, the red dripping out of his nose begins to dry up. ]
'Way I see it, I can either fly solo and most certainly embarrass ye', or y'can give these people an encore, savvy?
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Constantine . . .
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Not gonna make you do anything, mind.
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Play if you want. I'm done for tonight.
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The sound guy busies himself talking to a few stage hands, and they look at John quizzically from across the lounge before shrugging as well, and setting up a stool, mic and guitar with the speedy professionalism typical of a jazz club. ]
Suit yourself, love.
[ He leaves his coat with her, suddenly feeling as though it's ill-fitting. It's a part of his look that he adopted long after the punk phase of his life, anyway. The sleeves of his shirt get rolled up as he perches on the stool and picks up the guitar.
John is surprisingly devoid of his usual snappy remarks as he starts into a few chords on the strings, wavering at first until he remembers how to play. He clears his throat, and goes into a song that, like her, is from the heart and speaks to life experience. But rather than the philosophical, cerebral trips she sends people on, it is about the ugly things that people do to each other - hatred, poverty, and violence. But there is a certain defiance to it, to people's ability to endure and overcome and make the world less awful. His voice is undisciplined, but not terrible to listen to, and he's making an effort since he's got people's attention anyway. ]
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Still embarrassing, though. ]