The full seasonal event can be read here! Below are the main seasonal items for quick reference:
1. A thread reacting to the season's weather in some ways.
2. A thread in the part of the city your character doesn't live in!
3. A thread relating to your vocation.
Of The Season
Quote
"Tell Dr. Nate that Gale sent you, and he still owes me for the mushrooms. Except that it takes you a while to reach the clinic, and by the time you do your fever is spiking, and so instead of the requisite message you instead tell the poor soul who greets you that 'A gale'a m'shrooms sent me cus'a my hands.'" - Zephyr in Oh help me, please doctor, I'm damaged
Just because the city is in curfew doesn't mean anyone cares.
Certainly not the young woman who, though not exactly in the Drench willingly, isn't about to waste a trip. She isn't on duty after all, so why should it bother her that the smoky speakeasy is full of Drenchers who are probably packing and certainly going to be out long after 10:15? No, that's a problem for the Enforcers, and the woman at the table in the back of the club isn't one of those.
Not tonight, at least.
She's wearing clothes she would never sport in the Plates, a dark red blouse and dark leather pants, midriff bare between. Her legs are crossed, one foot raised, and the gold of her boots glitters in the changing lights. The slick trail of hair that falls in a sleek pony is held by a spiked clasp, and her face is a mask of perfectly composed neutrality behind smoky kohl and ruby lipstick unlike anything she'd wear at work.
Sure, she isn't unrecognizable - she's not an infiltrator, after all. But she's damn close, and besides, nobody here gives a fuck that she's actually a soldier, the fiancée of Sunjata, rising star in the Enforcers and favored pet of the Bravlets. And that's exactly what she wants, the reason why she's here in this small and sweaty club: the freedom afforded by anonymity, the precious chance to breathe, to sit and sip and be Savera and not have anyone give a shit.
You were born for these flashing lights You were born for these endless nights
Surprisingly, for all his love of vices, Adam wasn't that much of a club guy. He preferred bars, somewhere where you could easily talk - and listen to others talking. In clubs...well, he had a tendency to get caught up in the atmosphere, spend too much time dancing and doing whatever substance he could find; that was when things got messy.
A few drinks in now and displaying some of his dance moves, he was having a definite good time, if not a responsible one for a man meant to be anonymous. Really, the responsible thing to do would be to be inside by the curfew to make sure he avoided the enforcers, but he'd already fucked that one up, hadn't he?
Between his signature move the rotating arm flail and the daring dip and kick, he glanced towards the back of the room. Through crowds of people and a lot of cheap, tacky furniture, he saw a woman that immediately caught his eye and slowly put a stop to his dancing, Adam instead standing in the middle of the floor blinking as if he'd had some kind of spiritual realisation.
The realisation was: Fuck, she's hot.
Adam pushed through the crowds and to the back table, sliding into the seat next to Savera with a casualness that almost made it seem like he had just coincidentally ended up there, had it not been for his eyes on her the whole way over. Closer, he was even more impressed: they had practically matching eyes, and her style from the spiked clasp to the bare midriff was exactly his taste. There was something about her that he felt was familiar, a sense that he ought to know who she was, some recollection from his research into the current Plates higher ups...but if that was the case, what would she be doing here?
"Hey." He said, loud enough to be heard over the music as he leaned closer to her, his best charming smile on. "Haven't seen you around here before. Wanna dance?"
Messiness is exactly why Savera's here. Not her own - she's far too tightly wound for that - but there's something deeply satisfying about watching people's floodgates break, masks cracking beneath strobing lights and gleaming sweat until only the mess of their souls remains. Or something a little last poetic. Maybe she's had too much to drink.
She's thinking it might be time to make her exit when a tall, dark, lanky-ass man in the crowd catches her eye. Alas for Adam, Savera's first thought is not that he's hot, but that he looks like a malnourished mannequin who's been ironed out too thin. But under the goth-stick-figure aesthetic there's something there, like the black clothes and bright chains are there to distract from sharper edges. It's familiar, in a way she is not self-aware (or sober) enough to identify. Something that keeps drawing her attention, even as she tries to let her eyes slide back to the rest of the crowd.
The fact that he's staring at her doesn't help.
And then he's sitting next to her, and it's everything Savera can to do keep from going rigid. One hand slides idly to her thigh, where a knife is tucked against her skin; the other lingers on the edge of her glass, the picture of nonchalance. Does he recognize her from the tabloids? No, he only wants to dance. Relief floods through her, culminating in a smoky laugh. "With you?" The question is rhetorical, and her lips curl into an almost smirk. He's not unattractive at this distance, the angles and limb coalescing into someone's version of hot.
She makes a show of looking him over, giving nothing away. "Aren't you supposed to buy me a drink first?"
You were born for these flashing lights You were born for these endless nights
Adam raised an eyebrow at the intial response; had he known what Savera had thought of him on her first sighting he might have left there and then, but as it was he was undeterred, chuckling and nodding to her. He didn't notice the knife, though he would have understood if he had - it was a good instinct around here to be on the defensive.
Now that he was closer and heard her voice, he was sure she had to be someone from the Plates, that in the morning he'd probably smack himself for not recognising her. But right now, she was attractive and it was late.
"Thought you already had one." He nodded towards the glass she had her fingers on. Still, he could have done with a drink himself and when Adam looked over at the bar it was surprisingly empty for the moment, so he shrugged and stood up. "Okay, what do you drink?" Savera may not realise it, but this was a test. What was the right answer? Adam would only know when he'd heard the wrong one.
He's not wrong, but she won't tell him that, opting instead to down her glass in one fluid go. She immediatelt knows thay it's a terrible decision, but the burn of the alcohol through her belly and veins do wonders to dull her caution. "Tzavit," Savera answers, naming a local, heady whisky that is inexplicably her favorite, but that she can never find on the Plates. "On the rocks." It's literally undrinkable neat.
She sits back languidly as he stands, letting him walk a little ways, observing unabashed. But Savera is a restless thing, and it isnt more than a minute before she's rising in pursuit. Maybe absolutely she doesn't trust him, or perhaps she's simply curious to see how he orders.
Leaning against rhe bartop, Savera throws him a sidelong glance. "Pretty packed for a curfew night," the soldier comments wryly, a sly smile tugging at red lips.
You were born for these flashing lights You were born for these endless nights
"Oh. Wow." Adam was suitably impressed by the way Savera knocked back the drink and then asked for a notably strong one to follow. He always liked someone who knew how to party, so he took the drink order with a nod and obediently went over to the bar, thinking of trades he might be able to make with the bartender to make his meager Lasti stretch to two drinks.
He weaved through dancers, the music and lights in addition to the alcohol (and...other things) in his own system making it all feel a bit like a dream or a trance. Many nights were spent like this, floating in the corners of the Drench and trying to forget everything he usually remembered for his job.
He'd only just gotten leaned forward on the bar when Savera was suddenly next to him. Adam laughed at her comment, shaking his head and waving the bartender over with two fingers. As they approached, he replied: "Yeah, well, most people don't want the enforcers to give them a bedtime. I'm not letting it bother me, that's for fucking sure. When they treat us anything like, they can start giving out bullshit rules." Ordering her Tzavit and a small glass of whatever was cheapest for himself, promising it'd be on his tab to be paid soon, he turned to face Savera, leaning against the bar while sat on a stool, feet still touching the ground, like a lounging scarf. "I have a feeling you might be from up there though, ey?"
"Cheers to that," Savera replies, tapping her throat in a Drench salute. It's been a long time since the soldier lived among these people, but it hardly surprises her to hear that they're unimpressed by the curfew - so is she, after all. And though she would like to believe the line she has drawn between herself and the Drench is clear, nights like this leave it blurry. Blurry enough that with enough whiskey, she might even forget how hard she fought to leave this place behind.
Of course people like Adam are always there, ready to remind her how fucked her lines are. Tension slices her like a knife as the accusation is lain, smooth and unassuming as whiskey but still a jolt to her. Has she made it so obvious? Savera struggles to maintain her composure even as she laughs, a derisive thing accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head.
Below the counter, her fingers tremble.
"Drench born and raised," Savera answers, letting a little of her old accent slip in and sharpen her words. It isn't a lie, not at all- but it isn't the truth, either. She throws Adam a sardonic smile, turning to face him fully, hip against the bar. She glances at him through lowered lashes, desperate to draw his mind away from where she does and does not belong. "Go up for work sometimes, though. What about you? Man like you - feels like you might itch for more." Her eyes rake up and down his figure, more to distract him than anything else. Thank the Saints he can't hear her heartbeat, or it would fully give her away.
You were born for these flashing lights You were born for these endless nights
Adam blinked upon seeing the Drench salute, not something he often did or saw, but to be far he didn't have many conversations that called for it. Returning the gesture then taking a hefty swig of his drink (don't think about it don't think about it - his dad did that salute right before he - damnit) he was too busy in his own mind to notice much of Savera's anxiety, especially with her practiced masking of it.
Once he'd put the glass down empty, he shrugged, accepting her answer, too lazy (and a little too depressed) to question it much. Whatever thoughts he had went away as she continued to talk anyway - her eyes, in combination with the words, made Adam feel he might be making the right moves here. With a grin, he looked out towards the dancefloor, resting his head on one hand. "I mean, sure. Who doesn't? But I can tell you that there isn't anything more they can offer me up there. The more I want starts here and moves up there, but it isn't given to me."
It was dangerous talk, but it was late, he was a bit drunk and the place was loud enough that he could play it off as her hearing him wrong if she objected. "What kinda work do you do up there?"
They're both too caught up in their own shit to notice the other's, for better or worse. Savera has moved from panic to calculation, taking in the empty glass as she sips her own drink, wondering how much it would take to make him forget her face. But his next words startle her out of her reviere; "Oh?" she questions slyly, almond eyes bright with a sudden, real interest. "A revolutionary, then?" Her tone of voice is playful, buy behind it her mind is busy.
She lets the conversation slip back to her, but damn, he's suddenly interesting. "I do security," Savera answers easily, the well-prepared not-quite-a-lie sliding off her tongue. She takes another sip of whiskey, signaling the bartender to bring Adam another round. "Air-heads love having a pet Drencher to parade around and get her hands dirty for them, y'know?" She says it derisively, rolling her eyes, as if it were the truth - as if she hadn't scraped and bled and begged to get to where she is.
You were born for these flashing lights You were born for these endless nights
As much as he liked the sound of 'revolutionary' very much, Adam played it cool, loosely shrugging and tilting his head to the side as if it were one of many things one might apply to his infinitely intelligent and oh-so-sexy-and-cool worldview. "Yeah, I guess. Difficult to drum up the right kind of passion for it though. The Plates...they've got so much more shit than us. Most people just wanna lay down." There was disappointment on his features, but not too much: he understood it. In the face of overwhelming odds and years of beating down, it was tempting to simply let oneself be concerned with the everyday and not raise your head.
Security was a word that left a lot to the imagination and Adam let his eyes drift back to Savera, looking her over for any kind of hint of her actual work. Some scars, perhaps, or a tattoo or maybe even just a look in her eyes that might speak to a personality type. The only thing he could see from the first study was that she was armed (but so was everyone in the Drench) and had a few small scars on her arms and legs. Could have been from fighting, but also could have been from having a pet rabbit as a kid.
"Right - and uh, where is it they parade you around? Get to see anything interesting? Some of those famous Plates sex cult parties I've heard so much about?" The laugh gets cut short by the bartender placing down another drink, which he took into his hand and sipped slowly this time, eyes still focused on his company.
