Summary:Desperate for some time to herself, Roxy hits the clubs for a Halloween-themed danceathon. A charming, red-eyed stranger makes her acquaintance and plies her with mulled cider. Roxy meets a BOY! This has NEVER gone badly for her before. On the plus side, everybody talks about Lord of the Rings, and we learn what alliteration is. Most of us do, anyway. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Deep in the depths of the club the steady oontz-oontz-oontz that thumps heavily against the sound proofed walls prove that nothing can ever really be soundproof so long as you got big enough speakers. Outside in the chill Autumn air there are any number of costumed club-goers, several dozen all gathered outside. Some are there to smoke and talk, since inside as always the only words one can hear are the shouted ones.
Others are there to make out, various couples lost to the rest of the world as they writhe together lasciviously even while nearby another group of partiers are playing quarters and drinking with each failed throw. But mostly. /Mostly/ people are out there to get away from something.
Either it's a particular person, or friend, or acquaintance. Or something more meta and beyond with life sometimes sneaking up on someone when they're out and about. And the brisk fresh air outside in the open courtyard area, it's a relief. Even for the creatures of the night in their wild costumes.
THE OUTFIT: Black Little Black Dress, torn about the thighs, tight black sleeves ripped about the forearm. Black choker collar, prop broomstick that Roxy's either misplaced or about to. Witch's hat, a halfass attempt at gothy makeup and black lipstick.
Lately, Roxanne's been making late-night sneakouts an all-too-regular occurrence. Life was never great to begin with, but her recent reunion with Sarah Rainmaker and Caitlin Fairchild have had her feeling more and more like a bug under a magnifying glass. Koriand'r's good intentions haven't done much to divest her of private demons - what's worse than one Caitlin being obnoxiously ignorant about her perfect everything? A second one.
Some people think clubs are annoying, think that the autumn chill on (probably too much) exposed flesh is uncomfortable, especially combined with the frenetic, driving beat of X. Dean Asherr's latest club jams. Roxy *thrives* on the rhythm driving through her body - where there's bodies dancing, she's in the middle of it, a coquette vision of witchiness amidst the makeup and the sequins. She's ignoring *everybody* else, and through the sheer magic of comic book unreality hasn't been cornered or approached by anybody particularly handsy. It's sweaty, rhythmic, escapist *heaven*.
Observed from afar she is in her element. The heavy thumping, the rhythmic music that seems to hammer against a person's senses with each strong 'oontz' that lets one feel the sound and the rush of it as it roars past. Perhaps it's because of how she presents herself, the way she's lost in the beat and the rhythm, creating an aura of unapproachability that steals what courage the occasional costumed vampire kid can muster up, or that one zombie Chad kid who looks like he was about to make the run past… then turns off and away.
Out there there are no demands of life or time. There's just the the thumping rhythm and the rush of blood and exertion. But she's not lost. Even though there are some that see her without /seeing/ her. She might get the feeling of eyes on her, a brush of attention that feels like footsteps across a grave that if not hers then someone dear to her.
Just a moment, then it's gone. Timed right as the song ends with people cheering and shrieking and screaming as the Deejay bobs his head happily and hits another button on his laptop.
Maybe it's enough of a reprieve for the world to intrude again, to sweep across her vision. So many costumes. So much /nothing/. Memes. Walking Dead. Video game characters. A cool Beavis/Butthead guy.
But, to be fair, none of them quite fit the one guy who is across the way leaning against the bar and seemingly holding court. Staggeringly handsome with androgynous beautiful features, and an air of elegance that she might be able to get an angle on even from across the way. He's chatting, speaking, affectionately amiably with those near him. And for those around him it's as if they have no eyes for anyone else but him.
Ack! Bad crossfade. They happen - Roxy has to hand it to the DJ. She doesn't even know how much time she spent out there, just that she's covered in a sheen of perspiration and inundated with both endorphins and a _strong_ thirst. Our costumed pseudo-heroine slips and weaves through the crowd, moving ever bar-wards. The Zombie Chads and Vampire Boys are everywhere (It wasn't even a good movie! Zombie Chad vs. Vampire Boy 3: The Vampire-Chad was HORRIBLY directed. Flavor of the month BUNK.), but they never stood a chance in the first place.
Roxy's heart belongs to another, a wonderfully short and stout idiot with a heart of gold, a young man whose name she can't even bring herself to narrate. In thinking about this individual, Roxy's *just* happens to spy Slim, Fey, and Gorgeous over with the gaggle of clubgoers aound him. She looks (oh, how she looks!), but doesn't quite move in. What would her friends say?
"You've done this before, Roxy. You don't think it's weird that all those girls are *enraptured*?"
"Typical chauvanist man, trying to make sure he has his pick of the litter."
"Hey, Rox, can we stay out for one more song? Somma these girls are wearin' REALLY thin costumes and I think I can get my bump n' grind on—-"
A wistful smile turns into a hard little frown, and Roxanne finds her mind made up. It's her night, anyway. Screw him, he's not even here!
Roxanne makes her way towards the bar, navigates towards Handsome and his Harem. Once there, she stretches -out- ove the bartop, fingers clasped and arms outstretched, back arched in a way that forces light to hit *all* the right spots. Lavender eyes peer up at Handsome, and her voice happens to be pitched enough to pierce the conversation around him.
"Buy me a drink?" Roxanne didn't bring her wallet. She normally doesn't.
To be fair there are a handful of young men who seem taken with the tall slim fellow with those too handsome features, and as she wanders closer she might well see him pulling one of them close for a brief hug and a laugh that carries. And of /course/ he has a melodic laugh since it entirely fits his elfin visage. Which, goes further than the norm since the aspects that complete his elfin visage are a pair of pointed ears.
A good costume all told.
She offers her conversation foray, age old approach. Normally with her appearance and pushing herself into a position of prominence that would earn her some negative looks, a scowl, maybe even a comment. But she might well get the feeling she is welcome there, even as the elvish young man with the red eyes meets her gaze.
"Certainly," He offers as he leans back and grabs a glass from behind the counter, flipping it up on the countertop. They have a pitcher of something that if she gets close enough to steal a sniff of smells entirely like mulled cider. Not quite the time of the year, but fitting with the chill of the night. And, of course, with the way some of those at the bar are smiling and so easy-going she might get the feeling that the pitcher isn't just that mulled cider.
"Will you buy me one later?" He asks, meeting her gaze with brilliant red eyes that likely tell her he knows she won't. But he enjoys the asking.
Yep. That was her one card. The second our Mystery Man (Legolas? Is he going to Halloween as Legolas? That movie's so old!), fixes his eyes on her and starts working on that drink, Roxanne drops the affectations and pivots on her heel, back to the bar, elbows perched on its edge, hands left to dangle. She — can't quite take her eyes off of his, though. Are those cosmetic contacts? Where'd he find them?
Roxy does eventually find her attention once more hers to command, and turns it out onto the rest of the club. The music's started up once again, but with her on the outside. It leaves her a precious moment to feel the bite of the chill air, to reach up to tuck one pink-dyed bang behind an ear, and to feel a little… what is it. Dumb? Lonely? Directionless?
Legolas and that cider provide Roxanne with a rapid reintroduction to her current predicament, and her startlement has one hand lifting to her lips - intercepting the glass the elfin man is offering her. She takes it with a quick bob of her head, and sips, hesitantly.
"—L-later? I mean, uh." Those eyes again. Looks like he sorta gets the drift… what's wrong with using somebody for drinks for a night? She's had a rough day, but she might just dance with you if you don't mind her being gone by the time the night's over. Body language can say a lot. Tenuous eye-contact and brittle smiles say more.
"Don't normally see elves out at the club. Something going on back in Rivendell?"
"Oh well, you know how it is." The pale crimson-eyed elf replies with such an ease as he looks at her, expression calm and curious and friendly. His voice is loud enough to carry, but not holding that heavy impact that has to be affected in a club to /shout/ across the foot or two when you just want to have a conversation. Instead it might seem like things are muffled around, but not horribly so.
Even the others at the bar seem content to enjoy the drinks, to move with the music without actually dancing, to just sway a bit and converse and laugh while the courtly one focuses fully upon Roxy.
"Most of the night you're grumpy and hate the whole idea of celebrating such a goofy holiday. And then last minute your friends are all, 'ohmigod come out and play.' and you finally /reluctantly/ wander on out. But no costume. So I had these." He motions to the ears, "But maybe too Legolas, or Elrond or whatever?"
There's a brief moment when his smile brightens as if looking for affirmation from her, "But you don't wanna be all nice nice, need to be more edge. So boom, I'm a dark elf." A pause ad he smiles, "Neat huh? But not as cool as a glitter witch." What'd he just call her?
Roxanne focuses on the cider she's holding, warm and mulled and sort of bizarrely Christmassey, but in a good way. There's a centering comfort in the heat of a drink - and provided this is chilled cider, the smell offers a fine substitute. Roxy lets her attention follow a pair of teenagers dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Unbelievable from that one CG movie. Her lips quirk into a halfhearted… something… and she obliterates the train of thought with a pull from her cup.
Back to Legolas. Did she get his name yet? He's charming, and has her laughing by the time he finishes up about the grumpiness, the ears, the last-minute nature of everything. Spaulding's eyes wander towards the elf's entourage for a moment. Why'd they all drift off like unwanted extras? Doubt tickles at the edge of her perception, but it only manifests as a furrow in her pale brow, one quickly swept away by—
'Glitter Witch'.
"What! I spent WAY too much time workin' the rips in at just the right place! I'm a cool post-gothic fantasy apocalypse survivor. The glitter's just, uh. Collateral damage. Glitter zombies. You know what it's like, in the fantasy apocalypse." Roxanne finishes doing a bad job at explaining herself by taking a *longer* drink of her cider.
"Seriously though, dark elf is alright. You have a name, Dark Elf? I'm gonna keep calling you Legolas if you don't give me somethin'."
"Glitter zombies?" His nose crinkles at her as if not entirely buying her narrative but his smile steals the meanness from it. "What diseased mind could come up with something so evil like glitter zombies?"
Oh the extras are there, but they seem so content and pleased. Though there's a brief moment when one of the others reaches to touch him and then seems to think better of it, as those red eyes are only focused on the young woman before him.
"Like really real name, or one night of dark gothic halloween craziness name?" There's a smile as he asks that, almost the devil's own in a way what with that rakish tilt of his head though he's making no effort to flirt, showing none of those oh so easy to discern signs. Yet he's engaged, curious. "If it's the latter I'm…" He lifts his head and looks distant for a moment, one crimson eye scrunching up, "Elric? Was he a dark elf or just really pale? Other than being an adolescent's power fantasy. You could call me Ric for short."
He then tilts the glass back and drains the last of the cider before he reaches for the pitcher to refill it. There's a hint of colour to his cheeks at the drinking, but it fades fairly quickly leaving him with that same pale visage.
"Ooh or something even more edgy. Like Kurse."
"GACK. Not Kurse." Roxy doesn't quite finish swallowing her drink before a need to object overtakes her. It's OK - Elric or whoever isn't looking at her while she wipes her mouth with the back of a hand. The extras should be freaking her out; they're really acting like more an entourage than a group of friends. Anybody with half a brain and Roxy's particular history would be *way* past the exit by now.
She's so busy flutter-lashing up at 'Elric''s eyes that she doesn't notice the flush draining away from his cheeks.
"We'll go ahead and call you Ric, since Elric's a little too anime for the getup, and Kurse makes me think of turbo-goth superheroes makin' deals with Saturday Morning Cartoon villains." Roxy lifts from where she's reclining against the bar, finishes her drink and sets it down beside her. She pauses after righting herself, adjusting her dress here and there, and…
"You can call me Roxy. Glitter witches don't really HAVE Halloween Spooktacular names, and my fanfic isn't far enough along that I got any sorta -rich lore- to pull from." That pixie nose wriggles, those pinkish eyes oscillate between 'Ric' and the party.
"…So, you come here to dance? Or are you just holding the bar up while everybody else works up a sweat?"
"Or Malcolm." He volunteers that after she voices her thoughts, "But maybe we're a little too close to the real there and I'll just go with Ric." The elvish youth smiles then as he offers up that on social sacrificial altar of meeting The Glitter Witch of the West Roxy.
"So Ric and Roxy," His red eyes lift, the irises slipping upward as if pondering it, "I like it. Alliteration is always good. If we get into the tabloids the headlines will write themselves."
As he says this he pushes off and away from the bar, leaving the pitcher and the entourage behind, his dark hair is pushed back and he ties it back into a pony tail though a loose one. "C'mon." That said he extends a hand toward her as he steps out onto the edge of that dance floor, giving her that wicked half-smile she saw the first time when she introduced herself.
"Malcolm's cuter than Kurse, but Ric and Roxy just…" begins Roxy - currently melting into her new Halloween boo (pronounced 'beau')'s side en-route to the dancefloor. She's already moving her hips to the beat of the music, tap-tap-tapping fingers against Ric's arm in a helpful attempt to give the guy some help finding the rhythm. Poor girl must be used to dates who can't dance. Or take hints. Or remember her birthday.
"They just sound -right- together, you know?" Yes, Roxy. Ric DOES know. He called it alliteration. Do you not know? "Let's rip it up out there and show all these *ZOMBIE-CHUDS* what happens when last-minute dark elves get their grind on with a zombie apocalypse witch." Malcolm's going to feel fingers tighten on his arm, painted nails painful pinpricks against his bicep, but just ignore that! Roxy's conflicted. A confident step onto the dancefloor, a sway of her hips, and a marked, firm closure of her eyelids marks a conscious decision she's making.
Sure, history can repeat itself. Sure, she knows better. Sure, she's got… promises, obligations, and moals, even if they're foolish.
Ric's just got those dreamy eyes, you know? A girl deserves to spend a night with that kinda attention. It's nice.