The Carnival [November 2017 Human GM Event]

[Grey Weston]

Dusk falls over the city like a child’s watercolor. The light softens, the colors of the sunset bleeding into each other. The skyline of the city is briefly haloed, starkly outlined in vein-fine traceries of gold. In that instant before the sun sinks out of sight, Harper Rock’s skyline seems to crouch, as all over the city, office parks close up shop for the night, their lights gradually fading, until the buildings themselves resemble the gap-toothed rictus of grinning skulls. But those thoughts are perfectly macabre, and in poor taste for this evening. As the day draws to a close and the temperature drops, the streets come alive.


The Carnival spans several blocks, and seems to have sprung up overnight. The turret-like tops of striped tents can be glimpsed between buildings, ranging in various shades of color, from candy stripped reds and whites to sky blues and golds and nearly every shade between. The neon glow of rides and game tents is a stark contrast to the inkwell darkness of the surrounding night, the confusion of color seeming to hold it at bay with its cheerful warmth.


The air is heavy with the scent of food, ranging from the airy sweetness of cotton candy to the heavier undercurrents of charcoal, the smoke from the grills rising to curl and twist like silver-blue ribbons above the heads of revelers. Fairy lights hang suspended above the tents, as if in defiance of gravity. Spent confetti litters the pavement, the glint of it bright and brief, like dying stars. Thousands of them, kicked up by the feet of passerby. It is a feast for the senses. There is a dizzying amount of sights and sounds; for example, the woman nearest the blue tent.

She carries a wicker basket of flowers, the perfume of them enticing to some, overwhelming to others. Sickly sweet, like candy melted in the heat. Or like a corpse left to languish, forgotten, for one month too many. Her hair spills down her back like oil, not a strand out of place. And her skin...there is something about her skin. It shimmers. No. Squirms. Her smile could be either invitation or a warning.

Choose quickly. Choose wisely. The fog is rising.

_______________________________

Welcome to November’s GM event! Below, you’ll find a brief overview of the attractions available to your character, and their corresponding rules, if any. Please be advised that this thread will have moderate GM involvement.


Thread Mechanics



[*]Dice rolls. These will determine a character’s success at various carnival games, heightening the theme of “a game of chance” usually associated with them. Dice roll results must be made public in grid, in order to verify/avoid the need for an honor system.

[*]On grid stats determine/have some influence over a character's success during a game or struggle during a random event. For example: the higher your dexterity, the better you'll fare at precision games/evading potential danger.

[*]Randomized events. At certain times, the GM may post a short prompt regarding sights of the carnival, such as a palm reading/fortune teller tent or an encounter/optional task. Characters can follow or ignore the prompts for branching mini storylines. Characters will be tagged for random events. You are not obligated to respond. Be aware that a GM may choose to tag more than one character for the same event.

[*]Randomized IGC/prizes will be dispensed by the GM as seen fit at the conclusion of the thread.

[*] There is no word count maximum. However, use proper judgment. In the interest of being courteous to other players and moving things along, try to post a minimum of 300 words.





Attractions


[*]Fortune teller tent - Characters can enter for tarot/palm readings. Depending on their response to five or so questions/the cards they draw, their luck/proficiency can increase or decrease.

[*]Game booths - Characters can compete based on skills they posses on grid for a chance to collect tickets for IGC or a grid item from the gift shop at the thread's conclusion.
Coconut Shy
Test Your Strength
Balloon Pop
Horse Racing (water guns)
Clown Mouth (Ball game)
Dunking Booth
Bottle Toss
Ring Toss

[*]Food stalls - Fairly self-explanatory. Standard carnival fare - from popcorn to funnel cakes, cotton candy, fried oreos, etc. Some, however, seem to be loaded with strangely pacifying effects that leave the consumer strangely disoriented and prone to hallucinations.


[*]Rides - Ferris wheels/etc. Go karts. Pop up escape rooms/laser tag areas. Anything you can think of! Basically an excuse to mingle/interact. Photo booth ops are in the same area.

[Lincoln King]

[for_peace][/for_peace]

"Thanks, Jules. You're the wind beneath my wings, man." He heard his assistant chuckle, could almost see the man rolling his eyes at his boss. He'd been a huge help in getting organised for this grand Carnival, Monarch Media and Bitr having access to advertising opportunities, in exchange for promoting the event. They'd held up their end of the bargain, helping to design and print posters and flyers, the company logos on it beside other sponsors. Everything had gone smoothly in the lead up and the Carnival had popped up overnight like a weed after a summer shower, bringing a vibrancy surreal setting to the middle of town.

The streets felt strangely empty, hollowed out of life in the surrounding areas as he approached. A bubble of silence seemed to surround the city, popping suddenly as he approached the outskirts of the event. Carnival music rose up into the early evening, eery as the sun set low behind it and the scent of sticky sweet caramel, fresh popcorn and other delicious treats filled the air. He could hear the faint laughter of others arriving in the distance, confusing his senses after the seemingly empty surroundings. Something about it didn't sit quite right, but Lincoln figured he was just being prematurely paranoid, a bad habit he'd held onto. It didn't help that the bad news bear, Kingsley, took up residence in his head and liked to remind him of the potential dangers on a regular basis. Two was certainly not better than one when it came to personalities, as far as Linc was concerned.

At the entry booth he bought a stack of ride tickets, shoving them into his pockets with every intention of using them. He'd play the games if the mood struck him but not for the prizes, after all he'd contributed to the funding for the prizes. No, Linc was just there to enjoy the atmosphere, to embrace the community at large. He wanted to bring a feeling of harmony after so much upset and this carnival was a perfect way to promote that sense of goodwill. He'd done his best to speak of peace, to seek out likeminded individuals and show them they could work together for a common good regardless of their labels or which group they belonged to. Tonight he wanted everyone to have fun, to laugh and play, to be reminded that this city could be a peaceful place if that was what they all worked for.

He hoped.

[Ember March (DELETED 10015)]

The carnival itself holds little allure, nor do the denizens of Harper Rock who crowd the area eager to forget the monotony and drudgery of their everyday lives in order to engage in overpriced escapism.

Ember purchased no tickets; however, she'd cash on hand should she later decide to brave one of the rickety rides of dubious construction for a transitory thrill. The scent of cotton candy and funnel cakes in the air bring with them a bittersweet nostalgia... and are pressed aside. Her countenance darkens and her red-glossed lips form a pouting moue.

Was life ever truly simplistic? When exactly did the lenses of the rose-colored glasses with which she'd once viewed her environs darken to ashen gray? When did the innocence of childhood become marred by the accountability that comes with an existential maturation of understanding regarding life's harsher realities?

Far, too early.

A huff of air escapes her flaring nostrils, and her fingers tighten around the strap of the designer, satchel-style handbag she carries. A quick knife through the straps and a yank... and it might quickly be stolen. A glance was cast over her shoulder, sweeping the area and pausing to linger on random faces in the crowd. In a discreet manner, she analyzes them in an attempt to discern who might be capable of culpable malice. Oh, she was street-versed. She knew the tricks of the trade and had employed them more than once in a mercenary manner for profit or survival.

The flower peddler does not escape her scrutiny. She slows her gait and schools her features into one more pleasant to look upon. Her command of manipulating her facial expressions in order to conceal her inner-most thoughts was nearly an art-form. For those seasoned in reading microexpression, or possessing the gift of telepathy, a mixture of ennui and general apathy remain in her flashing eyes - not quite gray. Instead, they bore the blue-green color of a murky sea just before a tenebrous storm.

She was inappropriately dressed for such an event despite representing Rockabilly fashion. Red, wedge-heeled sandals were paired with a tightly fitted gray skirt cinched with a wide, patent-leather belt of the same cherry hue. Her sleeves of her white blouse with its tiny buttons and red polka-dots held a slight puff, not quite obscured by an open swing coat of charcoal gray. The loose belt that dangles could easily be secured to cover her clothing should the need arise to blend into a shadowed alcove.

[Grey Weston]

The woman, with her woven basket, feels the weight of Ember's gaze. Her head tilts, the gesture a mockery of a schoolgirl's innocent. Or the head tilt of a raptor, perhaps. It depends on one's perspective. She smiles, hiking the wicker handle higher, so that it rests in the crook of her arm as she approaches. There's something curiously graceful about her steps; a sort of skipping gait that's better suited to a girl ten years her junior.

"Flower, ma'am?" The words are earnest, but there's something...off, about them. Something a bit like the sigh and rustle of tree boughs caught in a high wind. Or maybe that's only the skitter of dry leaves rasping over asphalt. There's a flash of color on her shoulder; a tattoo of an Eyelash viper's head, shaded like cotton candy, soft lilacs and dramatic reds. The longer one looks, the more it seems to move, suddenly disappearing beneath the cuff of her sleeve.

Her smile is winning. In her basket, three flowers are nearest to the surface:

a larkspur, an orange spider flower, and a tiny spray of forget-me-nots.The woman is patient, but expectant.

Of course, you could always refuse?

[Ember March (DELETED 10015)]

One thing that most learn in a mercantile-minded society ruled by capitalism and fueled by commercialism... little comes freely. The more jaded might add that even what is freely given often comes with a weighted price. Behind the honey-sweet smile flashed at the flower-merchant was a gleam of milky teeth and a flashing of her eyes that are indicative of a stubborn, resilient nature.

Ember meant to be no-one's easy mark. Despite, of course, being rather disposable in the grand scheme of things. Mortality was encased in its own fragility, despite the advantages the Fates had bestowed. Was Destiny watching? Did he see the flicker of uncertainty in Ember's eyes as she studied the basket and the woman in front of her? It was time to choose.

"How much?" She asks, buying time. "I'd like the Forget-Me-Nots if you please. They'd make a beautiful boutonniere." While one hand holds tight to the strap of her purse and she tries to make sense of the anomaly she thought she'd glimpsed in the woman's tattoo, the opposite grasps the lapel of her coat, pulling it forward as if she expects the peddler to inspect the slotted holes slit through the wool material in order for the buttons to pass through.

[Grey Weston]

Ember's suspicion only seems to make the woman's smile widen, though whether it's amusement or mockery, it's hard to tell. The question, however, seems to genuinely cause her to draw a blank, and she blinks - perhaps a bit too slowly. She seems to recover, however, instead nodding at the response, a broad, genuine smile settling into place. She seems pleased by the response, as if Ember's chosen well.

"No charge. This one is a gift." She reaches into her basket, reaching for the spray of delicate blue flowers with sunshine yellow centers. She pauses just long enough to cast an admiring eye over the wool of the other woman's jacket, before extending the flowers.

For the rest of the evening, Ember will be safe from the stranger occurrences at the carnival, possessed with a curious insight that will steer her from the worst of tricky situations. Oddly, she also finds herself plagued by a lingering sense of wistfulness the longer the flowers stay on her person.

[Lincoln King]

The weather was beautiful, almost strangely so for this time of year and Lincoln found himself comfortable in his light jacket. His heavy coat had been left in his car nearby, finding the evening surprising mild. There was still the crisp, freshness of fall but the bone-deep chill that would normally settle in around this time of day was suprisingly absent and he swore the breeze almost felt... Warm. On it he could smell hints of freshly sliced apples, the hay from the bales that sat around as seating or filled pumpkin-headed scarecrows and something floral. He turned around to identify each scent as it hit him, searching for the caramel, fried scents that meant food, his stomach rumbling lightly at the prospect after a long and busy day.

The floral scent became stronger as he moved beyond the tickets booth, spotting a woman with a basket of flowers. He hesitated near her, considering asking where the best, and majority, of the food and drink stands could be found.

[Grey Weston]

The fog is patchy and low. It glides along the ground, easily dispersed by the brisk steps of passerby, eddying like smoke. A tendril of it seems to hesitate, like a hound that's abruptly lost the scent of its quarry, forced to circle aimlessly. It sways towards Lincoln's ankle, twisting around it for a moment, docile as a cat rubbing against the leg of a favored person.

When it subsides again, the shimmer of confetti seems to glow brighter, the colors more vivid as it snakes towards a stall hawking everything from funnel cakes to kettle popcorn and gyros. More curiously, however, is a young man who stands slightly aloof, his hands in his pockets. There is darker pigment on his wrists; elegant curlicues of ink. He shoots him a lopsided grin, shrugging lightly. It may be a trick of the light, but his expression seems almost hopeful.

He steps deliberately to the right, lifting the flap of a tent, glancing over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow before ducking inside.

The choice is his. Partake of food or Follow the darkly jacketed youth.

[Ember March (DELETED 10015)]

The shock that registers so briefly on her countenance is quickly replaced by a look of near chagrin. "Oh, really, they're beautiful. I... suppose I owe you one. Thank You."

Her hand loosens its grip on the purse strap, and Ember begins to rifle inside. Her fingers slide across a makeup bag, keys, a package of gum... and then her wallet. She removes it, and a twenty dollar bill that she offers the woman. After all, one kind gesture deserves another - even in a dog-eat-dog world. Favors came around. Karma came full circle. Ember believed this wholeheartedly.

Maybe that's why she was such a petty criminal... and struggling for table scraps in an unforgiving town. As Lincoln steps near, she busies herself placing forget-me-nots through the buttonhole of her coat, and moves aside. Her fingers brush the cheery, fragile petals and she gave a glance toward the rides.

For a moment, she hesitates. Perhaps she ought to have bought a few tickets, after all.

[Lincoln King]

The fog curling around his ankles seemed to beckon him, almost to summon him towards... Something. As he turned to look in the direction that called for him the colours seemed to brighten as if he were watching a TV screen and someone was messing with the contrast and brightness. A woman stood nearby, her hair a riot of gorgeous reds that caught his eye, smiling at her as she adjusted a spray of delicate blooms to make them sit in her buttonhole. The world suddenly seemed more magical and as his eyes fell on the food stands he was dazzled. Everything looked incredible, the variety of foods that glistened in the early evening light with caramel coatings and layers of golden, crunchy batter from being deep fried.

His stomach growled.

It was all so fascinating, so enticing that he almost missed the young man. Almost. Compared to the brightness he was a spot of dark, seeming to absorb the light and became a solid object. Lincoln had a memory designed for cataloging the smallest of details and as he shrugged the jacket he wore shifted, showing a flash of black ink circling his wrists. Not unusual in this day and age, tattoos, but something about them had his mind ticking over. It reminded him of others he'd met with black ink that marked their skin, marked them as something else. He smiled back, though tentatively, curiously as the obvious attempt at getting him to follow. At the back of his mind, his protector personality seemed to awaken, Kingsley stirring, judging the scene. Something not right. Still he didn't stop Lincoln from lifting the tent flap and ducking inside after the youth because curiousity had gotten the better of them both. If it came to a fight, Kings would handle it.