thecapitol | The Crowning of Tony Stark

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The Crowning of Tony Stark

Who| Everyone.
What| The Crowning of Tony Stark.
Where| The New Capitol Stark Expo!
When| Friday, late afternoon into the evening.
Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert, so no funny business.
WARNINGS| Alcoholism / References to Alcoholism.

The Capitol might be known for its extravagance, but Stark Expos have never skimped on a show. Combining the two together could only be a recipe for the most wild indulgences. The center theater takes styling after a arc reactor, with glass ceiling and glowing blue lights set right within the metal and putting a glow to the sky. Lightshows go off on the main stage, the stark logo overhead and a massive screen displaying the Panem flag and Tony Stark's image just behind the dancing Ironettes. A circle plattform going off from the stage, clearly reserved for the guest of honor, features a design Panem's bird in red, gold, and glowing blue.

A globe is featured in the outside gardens, showing off a map of Panem, and the park is filled with artistic statues of destroyed Iron Man amror. But there's no quiet here, not with the fireworks going off all night and the consistent playing of music that is not but sounds an awful lot like that of Daft Punk, Eifel 65, ACDC, and one other song that breaks them up.

Various shows can be found about the gardens, including display models of some of Tony Stark's old weapons and Iron Man suits. Further along guests may find the Avengers display, featuring large portraits of the Avengers and their allies, large red x's going over greyed out portraits of those deemed dead, including Phill Coulson, Natasha Romanoff, and Thor. Along with these portraits can be found the Stark family tree, featuring the Victor Tony Stark and all his relations including apparent son Dave Strider, and Arya Stark, Ancestor of the Stark family, not to mention the great Howard Stark who's accomplishments (and tragic lack of care for Anthony) are lovingly illustrated. One such accomplishment being a "flying car" just a short walk over.

There's plenty for guests to do besides just ogle the brilliant sights however! A bar has been set up with a whole variety of drinking games available from Sink The Battleship and Drink Roulette to an extravagent variation of the classic game, Beer Pong, and an ongoing run of the Games with rules of drinking for each emotional scene, funny incident, or death. Those under the age of eighteen will be served fizzing juice or soda instead and can participate in junior versions of the very same games. All the cups are made from the finest glass with Tony Stark images over them. Avoxes are on scene to clean every spill and break of glass that might come.

A cave has been crafted of artificial and real material, designed to look like the Cave in which Tony Stark became a real hero, but with a twist; it's been made into a fun-for-all maze! Guests can attempt to navigate their way to the labyrinth and reach the core, avoiding those nasty pop-out rebels along the way. Those who make it to the fire-lit center may receive a limited edition "Tony Stark Heart" miniature arc reactor in a beautiful glass case.

An indoor sky diving station is also available, large enough that many guests may enter at once and still find it spacious. Here, guests can don Iron Man themed sky-diving suits and experience the sensation of flight, just as Tony Stark once did. Of course, the party doesn't start until the Victor comes in; he'll be appearing by Capitol-controlled suit to make his entrance at center stage. It is here that his Throne shall be raised up through the stage and his crown gifted to him. Following the official Crowning Ceremony will also come a speech from the Capitol's very own, Cyrus Reagan.

Tributes are dressed in formal wear with robotic accents. Such as a full mask or metal armor. Capitolites can be seen with Tony stark styled hair, bearing tattoos in his image, and even with surgically implanted lights, in honor of the new Victor. Available for purchase are handcrafted Tony Stark dolls, Iron Man action figures, and models of beloved robot-pet "Dum-E" in both small and life-sized. The Iron Man light gloves come completely free for all guests.

The Crowning ends off with a bang, as in the center of the sky, a massive "wormhole" opens up showing a vast darkness full of sinister creatures just on the other side, sure to inspire some screams from fans. Guests near to the Iron Man suit displays are asked by peacekeepers to step back-- far back-- but may be the first to witness the incredible scene of all those suits launching into the sky and exploding around and "in" the wormhole. The wormhole shifts to a message stating the show to have been brought to you by the Hunger Game's skilled Sky-Display Designers before going into advertising for the rest of the night as the party dies down.

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This is Arwen's first crowning ceremony in Panem, and she is not impressed.

The peredhel been to other such events before, watched several royals bestowed formally with the right to rule, with enough pomp and circumstance to sink a ship. This one is a mockery, with all of the glitz and glamour but none of the respect that should be accorded to such a momentous occasion. Perhaps it is the taint of her death that spoils much of the magic, knowing that all of the non-Tribute guests gather daily to watch those trapped in the arena for entertainment. If it were her choice, she would not have come at all.

But it is not, and here she is, garbed in a fitting tribute to the victor. The skirt is much too short (in her opinion) and only serves to draw attention to her legs, as do the three-inch heels a stylist helped her into. The crowning glory, however, is her hair: all of the hip length mass has been elaborately braided, shot through with pale gold thread accents and tiny red roses. As a final touch, the badge denoting District Four, for which she fights, is fixed to one shoulder.

Arwen moves carefully, but confidently. Still almost inhumanly graceful, tall even before the added inches with her shoes, and she has opted to wander the gala's outskirts; indoors with a glass of champagne or outside in the gardens inspecting some of the displays.

Edited 2015-03-28 01:48 (UTC)

Firo maintains that this is only further evidence that his Family's parties are far superior to anything the Capitol can throw. The music was better, the booze was better, and, of course, the company was better.

He strikes out looking for at least someone to talk to, though, and hurries over to the familiar face when he spots Arwen. It's hard not to, considering she's towering well over anyone who'd be at his eye level.

He immediately feels guilty about it, but it's hard not to notice her outfit. It's very far from anything that would be acceptable where he's from and he can't imagine it's at all nice to wear. As he catches up to her, he quickly averts his eyes and mumbles. "...Jesus, I'm sorry."

She must have a cruel Stylist.

If his family's parties involve being dressed decently, without so much skin, then Arwen would be very hard pressed not to agree with him on that point alone. She also appreciates learning about other cultures, listening to foreign music, and sometimes drinking wine. But even the raucous parties that the Mirkwood elves are famous for would look like sedate afternoon tea compared to all of this.

Arwen's expression shifts from wary politeness to something genuinely warm and friendly the moment Firo sidles into her line of sight.

"Firo!" And then shifts to confusion, however briefly. "What reason could bring an apology to your lips, my friend?"

"Oh, uh--" He doesn't want to embarrass her by pointing out how awful her outfit is, so he falters, eyes still fixed on the floor.

"I didn't mean to, you know..." Look. Yeah, he's going to let himself trail off there. He shakes his head roughly to try and pull it together. "Are you okay like that? I can give you my jacket."

It wouldn't help her legs at all, but the neckline itself is a bit daring by the standards of Firo's world. Or, well, the standards of people who aren't swingers.

It is a terrible outfit. Her people would have absolute fits if they ever saw it, and Arwen is grateful her father and grandfather are not in attendance tonight. The former would have very viscous words with the stylist, and the latter is known for his temper.

"I am well enough." There is a thread of acknowledgement in her tone, but little else. "May I inquire after your health this evening?"

She is uncomfortable enough, perhaps Firo will allow himself to be distracted with small talk.

The distraction is very welcome indeed and he jumps on it with some audible relief. "Better than I've been, that's for sure."

At their last meeting, he hadn't been doing that poorly yet, but he has to admit that he does feel a little better here. Physically, at least.

"How've you been adjustin'?" He imagines it's rough getting thrown into the middle of the Arena and then into this crazy place. He, at least, had a little time to adjust to the Capitol before he was sent in.

"Good." She nods, somewhat satisfied. "I would have words with your caretaker if the answer had been otherwise."

Sorry, Firo. You've quietly been elfdopted. Sort of.

"I am well enough, thank you. The assistants here are kind and have been explaining how much of the technology works." A pause. "I fear the loud spectacle will not ever be to my taste, though."

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foundafamily - 2015-05-12 14:47 (UTC) - Expand

Éowyn, too, is keeping largely to the outskirts of the celebration, overwhelmed by the noise and the light of it all. It is, in fact, that chaos that makes her doubt her own eyes when, beyond a cluster of excitedly-talking Capitolites gathered around one of the suits of armour, she sees her Queen.

Except that cannot possibly be the Queen. The thought is too painful to bear, fills her with too great a mixture of horror and relief. Finding the Halfling was more than conflicting enough, but if Arwen is here... No, it cannot be. Besides, the woman she sees is dressed in a way that no elf would ever consent to. Purposefully ignoring the fact that she herself is dressed in something that makes her skin crawl and her face hot, Éowyn manages to convince herself, for a couple of moments, that her eyes are playing tricks on her.

And then she sees the woman closer up a few minutes later, around one of the statues, and there's really no denying it any more. Éowyn swallows, takes a deep breath, and touches the elf's arm lightly. "Arwen? My queen?"

It is difficult for Arwen to be around so many people without the heightened senses of her kind. The hearing that tells her when others approach, the sight to see for miles, the sharpened sense of smell that could detect foul odors in connection with an infection. She feels uneasy and not entirely like herself, so when Éowyn simply materializes next to her, the half-elf is visibly taken by surprise. A shallowing of breath, limbs tensing in anticipation of conflict, and then her motions smooth out mere seconds later.

But there is no recognition in her gaze, no matter that it manages to be both reserved and friendly at the same time.

"I am Arwen indeed, my lady, but not a queen." She cannot even let herself hope for such a thing, so dangerous is the path her lord has gone to walk. "Perhaps you have mistook me for another?"

Éowyn lets her hand drop to her side, and although she schools her features carefully, her disappointment is visible. First Samwise, and now this. At least, though, her encounter with the Halfling did something to ready her for this. At least she knows it can be possible.

But even so, it smarts. "You know me not," she says flatly, and takes a deep breath. "Am I then so accursed, to walk among strangers whose faces I know so well? Éowyn I am, my lady. Wife to Gondor's steward, and so subject to Gondor's lord - and its lord's wife." She sighs, looking up at Arwen. "Or so it is in my time, in my place. Your own may differ. Yet this I shall say; that I know you, my lady, even if you know me not."

Arwen pales; nothing overt or immediately obvious, but the color slowly dissipates from her cheeks, leaving the mark of paint and artificial blush a more stark contrast against already far skin. For a moment she doubts her own ears. Gondor has not hosted a ruling king for nigh a thousand years, the realm is kept intact by its House of Stewards instead. Indeed, the heir of the current ruling steward has only recently left the safety of her father's home.

At length she blinks, extending a hand toward the Steward's wife. "Forgive me, Lady. Time flows strangely here, and what is past to you may be untold tales for another." She should not ask, it is dangerous to know the future. Her grandmother has cautioned her on this very subject, more than once. And yet --

"Are you Lord Boromir's wife?"

For who else would stand at the King of Gondor's side? She restrains herself from asking after his identity. The hope of success is too great a hope, and Arwen still fears knowing what will become of her heart's uttermost desire.

Éowyn takes Arwen's hand, dips a curtsey. The slippery fabric of her ridiculous suit creaks oddly when she does, and, with an effort, she ignores it, straightening back up.

"No, my lady. Nor did I ever know the man, to my grief. 'Tis his brother I wedded, the Lord Faramir, and he who now stands in his father's place."

... to her grief. Arwen frowns, grip strengthening to prevent Eowyn from falling over, and herself from doing the same.

"Lord Boromir died? But ... How? It has not been more than a fortnight since he and the other departed from my father's home."

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shieldofrohan - 2015-05-12 18:37 (UTC) - Expand

Persuading Rick to attend these galas was nearly as difficult as grooming him for them. His stylist had since given up the good fight, setting the bar somewhere around 'presentable'; his previous crowning had been enough to establish that the Capitol's usual ostentatious fashion trends weren't worth the blood that would be spilt. He'd managed to scrape by with a non-traditional style suit, reflective circuitry woven into the fabric itself, which had actually proven rather effective with the harsh lighting. His hair had been tamed and glued back, his beard trimmed shorter than it had ever been since his arrival. The ridiculous, 'futuristic' eyewear had since been ditched, leaving him slightly underdressed next to the majority of the tributes. He wasn't about to complain.

If anything, he wanted to fade into the background. The crowd was stifling, leaving him painfully tense; back home, the only time anyone saw a group of this size, they were dead, hungry and dangerous - finding yourself in the middle of that usually meant you were soon to join them. It felt as though the proximity was squeezing the very air from his lungs, pressing in on him like a vice, and it wasn't long before he was fleeing to the slightly more open space of the gardens.

For a while, it did help. He leaned his weight against the edge of one of the displays, staring at the intricate red and gold armour panels without really seeing them. Only a few more hours of this before they could leave. A few more hours and-

Suddenly, he felt as though he was suffocating all over again.

From the corner of his eye, she could have been Lori. Later, he might have blamed the Jabberjays for stirring her voice from his memories, but with the dark hair, that bizarre, ethereal beauty... She looked every bit the ghost of his wife for that brief moment, and in it, he swore his heart had stopped.

No. Lori was dead. She was gone, and she wasn't here.

It took far too long for his mind to decipher those minor differences between them, and longer still to realize he was staring at the apparent stranger. Damn. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, the picture of subtlety in his flustered embarrassment. He mumbled something that sounded like a 'sorry', desperately scrambling for something else to say; small talk wasn't much of a thing in his world now.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to these things," he settled on, still avoiding fully looking at her. Christ, how had things become uncomfortable so quickly?

Arwen envies those who are not 'decked out to the nines', as one of the assistants put it; wrangled into ill-fitting clothing, determined to bear out the humiliation for the sake of her district. From the little she's found out, this particular tribute is convinced that if she steps out of line, the people on whose behalf she fights will be punished for it. So she behaves -- wears the outfit, allows strangers break elven tradition and touch her hair, teeters around in ridiculous shoes -- for them.

It is for them she is still in attendance as well, else already fled back to the Tribute suites for solitude and tears.

Perhaps it is an inability to remain impressed by all the technology if it is not used for the benefit of all Panem's citizens that allows her to realize Rick is staring before he speaks up. She flushes, at first assuming that he finds the display of skin as distasteful ... but the look in his eyes, for that oh-so-brief second, reminds her of another man. Who, as fate would have it, is currently unrevived.

"I think, my lord, it would be a terrible thing if you did accustom yourself to them." It is a crowning for someone who just won a 'last man standing' arena. "Are you alright?"

She gives Rick her full attention, looking for any hint of distress or physical ailment that might be eased with a word or touch.

Eventually, as the evening droned on further, the pirate abandoned his spot at the bar and decided to roam the grounds. He didn't entirely mind the clutter of people clustered everywhere, or the conversations that grew more frequent and louder in volume as the night marched onward and alcohol loosened more tongues. He was in his element with that.

It was more the jarring light shows, all blended in with the intermittent crackle of fireworks overhead and grating alien music that blared, that made him want to escape to the (somewhat) quieter sanctuary of the gardens for at least a short while.

He's smartly dressed for the event, with his dark hair pulled up, away from his face, and decorated with a variety of weird little mechanical and metallic pieces. The gloves had been lost sometime earlier during the celebrations, Jack didn't know where, of course, but it didn't matter much to him in the grand scheme of things.

He'd noticed Arwen a few minutes after he'd entered the gardens, all willowy and elegant and delicately drifting from one display to the next. Her presence easily drew the eye despite the garish outfit, and once he's finished off the booze in his hand and stared at a few of the displays himself, Jack approaches the woman, his steps unsteady as ever, to stand next to her and take in the same display.

"Quite the spectacle the lot of 'em have put on, eh?" His flashes a smile, glinting full of gold and silver.

By the time Jack approaches, the willowy elegance has had enough of her shoes, and has taken to walking barefoot, with the heels dangling from her fingers. She stands in front of an Iron Man suit replica, the explanation of what it is capable of and what materials were used in its making partially failing to register. What she does understand is that everything is terribly technical and it shoots beams from each hand, with enough force to hurt a lot of people.

"Yes," there's faint disapproval still in her tone, but it is otherwise polite. As if she does not want to burden others with her feels, but is unable to conceal them completely. "A successful spectacle, else it would not be so noisy."

Much of it is beyond him as well, the descriptions all tangled up in fancy technology that the pirate had no name for and unfamiliar terminology that held no meaning to him. The red suit looks like some sort of shiny full-body armor to him, but what it's able to do beyond protect a man from attack escapes him.

"I'd imagine the abundance of alcoholic drink, so generously supplied by our benevolent benefactors, as it happens, helps in that success." The words are said dryly.

Another song switches on overhead, just as jarringly loud and discordant as the rest, and Jack's upper lip twitches some. "For all that, it could do with a bit more proper music than this."

"Yes, I would imagine supplying every ... guest," her tone still holds that trace of disapproval, sharpened slightly on the stressed word, but eases considerably thereafter, "with enough spirits to keep them happy is a time honored tradition here."

Time honored and, no doubt, time tested. Arwen suspects the high quantity of alcohol is meant to keep everyone from thinking too hard about why they are all here.

"Ah, music. My people are quite fond of music, both in the creating and enjoyment of. May I ask what you consider proper?"

"No doubt. Wouldn't find me complain' about it, with that said."

Being at the Capitol had allowed Jack indulge much more than he'd ever been able to back home, and he actually welcomed the distraction it gave him from this entire situation. He was already quite a few drinks in by this time tonight -- not that it would be particularly easy to tell with the way the pirate usually carried himself.

"Proper music." He waves his hand a little. "I'd be sure that the well-bred and genteel wig-wearin' type would argue different, but proper music, to me, would be some manner of lively shanty being sung, accompanied by a lute or the like. Nothing beats it." And he'd rather have that, over what the Capitol apparently considered catchy music. "Yourself?"

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theevenstar - 2015-05-11 20:05 (UTC) - Expand

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drinkupmehearties - 2015-05-16 05:49 (UTC) - Expand

Shepard has met immortal beings before-- or supposedly immortal, at least. Many of them would have considered even the long span of an Elf's life to be a pittance. More directly, she'd met Asari Matriarchs, women of the highest station, women who'd watched lives flicker, brighten, and fade at their feet enough times to have almost forgotten that the world moved at more than glacial speeds. Looking at Arwen, the careful way she moved, light upon the world-- most of them had moved like that.

She moved like grace was something genetically inherited, intrinsic to every cell. It was familiar, and it was beautiful, and almost immediately Shepard wanted to see that composure damaged.

"Your first arena, yeah?" That's a terrible way to greet someone, and she knows it, but of there's an easier way to approach a stranger, Shepard hasn't yet found it.

Arwen is shy of three thousand years by a couple of centuries, and the youngest member of her family. Grace, for her kind, is something of an inherited trait, perfected only by the passage of many years. Yet, though heralded the Evenstar by her people, her grace is eclipsed many times over by that of her grandmother Galadriel - a woman that perhaps even the Matriarchs would think first before they crossed. But Arwen is not the Lady of the Golden Wood, or a feared and wise sorceress. She is only a maiden caught in events far from her home, and doing her utmost not to disgrace the honor of her parents' respective Houses.

"Yes, my lady, it is." As terrible and curt as the greeting may be, it is also a break from the insincere fawning and chitchat that the citizens of the Capitol have been indulging in all night. "Is it yours?"

She suspects the answer is 'no', but good manners are also a long practiced art, and Arwen is curious to see what else the woman says.

my lady.

Shepard chokes on her laugh, both at the question and the honorific. She was a woman, sure, but it had been a long damn time since anyone had mistaken her for a lady. Shepard was the consummate soldier, a warrior down to her bones, and manners rarely played into her life where protocol could substitute.

"No, I've been here longer than-- a while. I'm Commander Shepard."

A name not entirely unknown, here.

"Commander Shepard."

She bows her head again, still respectful, but without the awareness that might be expected. To her, at least, Shepard is unknown, though that can clearly be rectified.

As to the other, a woman can be both a lady and a force of nature at the same time. Her grandmother, Galadriel, is such a woman - capable of temporarily banishing dark lords and making dwarves fall in love with her. Or something akin to love anyway, as Gimli will find out in the future. Also, her father is a great believer in manners.

"I am Arwen of Rivendell. How lovely to meet you. What do you command? If such a question is not too invasive."

Shepard would hardly know what to do with that kind of dichotomy-- in her world, one does not lightly mix the two. Both realms are their own battlefield, and the weapons for each, ever more specialized.

"I command the SSV Normandy-- or, I did, back home. A stealth frigate, and everyone aboard. Maybe a hundred people?"

Maybe that didn't sound impressive enough to someone used to land combat. Shepard offered Arwen a one-shouldered shrug.

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theevenstar - 2015-05-11 19:58 (UTC) - Expand

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earthborn - 2015-06-04 00:45 (UTC) - Expand

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