Doll-dagga buzz-buzz ziggety-zag, Godmod grotesque burlesque drag

[quiethumerus]

Who| Kurloz and OPEN, special prompt for D4s.
What| The new stylist settles in.
Where| D4’s floor and the main commons
When| A day or so following his network post and on.
WARNINGS| Language?

The Office room, for D4 (and not)

He decides to dress down. Something simple, casual for the process involved with getting to know each Tribute. Comfortable.

Comfortable comes in the form of skull-cut shirt and dark shorts over golden patterned leggings matching his bear-trap epaulets. His makeup is set to match, filling out the open shirt collar, gold-brushed flower pieces tucked into his hair. Each curl has been duly attended to, nearly unrecognizable for sharing attribute of the disgusting mop of the Traitor’s rats nest, and to the ends he’s added the lightest dusting of yet more gold and some purple. He almost thought at one point to get the indigo of his eyes surgically removed, change it to a pitch black or back to it’s natural blue-grey-almost-purple, but having had it since his youth, it may as well have always been his and it worked so well. Yes, he thinks, this will do nicely for casual introduction. He keeps the masks off this time, letting his stitched mouth go exposed.

He’s got his pens and paper ready at his desk, a chair for himself there and a lounge piece for his guests to stretch out upon. He’s got his cloth pieces set out around in all textures, and colors for his use, his materials collect in neat rows and organized boxes. There is a faint shimmer to the place, like already he’s left a coat of glitter upon it all. He’s made his home here fast with partially melted candles of all hues and collected rows of animal skulls with tags stating their latin names in neatly written cursive. Books are stacked half-hazardly upon a shelf featuring the names of old plays, particularly the shakespearean, and some with names referencing to things “arcane” for whatever that amounts to in the Capitol. There are draping curtains and genetically modified flowers that glimmer in the light. The window projection has been changed from city scenery to some distant beach whose waves crash mutely upon the shore.

There is a bright terrarium in one corner where a small snake with iridescent scales lives. The creature while not much physically modified by genetic experimentation, has been modified for better behavioural attributes including higher proclivity for affection. It is the prize of the room, the only to beat out the worn picture of a young boy and his even younger brother, caught in the glare of sun wearing toothy grins. The picture is tucked into the desk corner, angled so that it’s non-visible to those who don’t look for it.

When all fussing is done, all that’s left is to wait. And thankfully it isn’t for long with the knock of what he hopes is one of his Tributes come for their appointment with him. He greets the door with a bright smile that pulls at his threads.

Commons - a

The wonder of it doesn’t cease. He’s in the Tribute tower. He works here. He’s not just a Stylist he’s going to be District four’s stylist. The head stylist to be exact, giving order to the underlings for the making of masterpieces upon his people. He doesn’t imagine it any kind of dream, but perhaps some cruel joke. He might awake tomorrow and find all of the tower gone.

There is much work to be done but he has to take a look around, a short one at the very least. He visits the different floors, steeling peeks at the Training Center he couldn't enter, where the killers prepared for the fight and the survivors for the run. Even the common room holds a sort of glory, brilliant marble fireplaces and shining chandeliers. There are magazines lain out, either forgotten by some Tribute or other, or left out for someone to read.

He dares a peek at the first one, seeing what gossip he may have missed in all the excitement of these last few weeks. It’s really a shame that traitor’s face features so prominently on the one beneath it. That just won’t do.

He drops his magazine and plucks up the garbage. With a smile still upon his face, he carts that magazine on towards the fireplace. Then, ever so pleased to do so, he drops it into the flame. Oops.

Commons - b

In soon enough time, he’s settled at the bar. One quick grind of a blender later and his meal has been served, a curly straw stuck in it and slipped through the stitches of his lips. He’s got wide eyes for cataloging every face he sees and ears listening close for the newest gossip as there was always something. He has an image to craft and so is not kicking his feet but keeping those heels firmly upon him, one leg folded finely over the other.

There is a fair bit of space around him, chairs entirely free despite the normal chaos of this lobby. This may or may not have to do with the visiting Capitolites going to any conceivable means to avoid the chairs located beside him.

Oddly, he doesn’t seem to mind.

Comments

Commons A

[crabmunicator]

Karkat only comes down briefly here, in a want not to be noticed by any media sorts and not to be mistaken for intending to sneak out. He dresses dark and plain, in blacks and greys like he used to before Panem, and he makes his path as quick as he can on a bum leg. The only place he sometimes lingers is the restaurant, but that has lessened as he's grown used to his limp and recovered from the exhaustion after his incarceration.

Today he's taken something 'to go', a sandwich packaged in an iridescent cellophane bag. He's warming up to bread again with the passage of time, helped by the fact that the kind here is better than the stale pieces he got in jail. He means go head up to the roof and eat there.

Thing is, he spots someone. And normally this someone wouldn't matter, for all the glitz and shine Capitol people normally put on, but it's the stitches. Mouth stitches. His mind flashes back to another painted face, but the different style worn on this one doesn't stop the raw features from clicking into place. The indigo left stubbornly in his eyes only helps.

"What are you doing?" he snaps as he strides over. It's enough to see him on the network, but here in person burning a magazine draws his attention in spite of sense.

[quiethumerus]

As the flames lick up, over, and through that old familiar face, he feels lighter already. Freer and certainly happier with it gone.

He has done the Presidents work in this small little way. He takes that small pride in himself and thinks little of letting it go when he's greeted by Karkat who still speaks in no way kind.

At first he lifts his eyebrows. What ever could you mean? Then puts on a show of his realisation.

He gestures like a showgirl at the fireplace. Behold, they are burning. He does the same toward the table. Behold, a table free of filth. If body language could be sarcastic, he might have managed it-- but then again, he did like to keep his meanings ambiguous.

[crabmunicator]

Karkat can pick out the sarcasm fine enough, probably because he's expecting a sort of animosity from him. Or if not that, then a sort of at-odds disposition that's hard to quite put to words. The end result either way is that he's not surprised.

This does not mean that understanding is what's taking place.

"So what? You... burn magazines? In between mimicking a traitor?" he asks. He never did see the image clear on the magazine, and now that it's burning it's not going to help. "What's the point of that? I could chalk it up to 'you're fucking weird' but anyone with eyes can tell that much."

[quiethumerus]

Karkat thinks he is mimicking the traitor? Purposefully? Troll child couldn't have gotten it more wrong if he'd done so deliberately.

But to Karkat's credit, the effort to bother is effective enough that the idea of trying to explain is suddenly unappealing. He doesn't need to explain himself to Karkat. He doesn't need to prove to him.

Instead he takes the opposing route. He smiles at Karkat and shakes his head sadly. Condescendingly. Poor troll child, so very misguided in his ways. At least partly the traitor's fault.

D4 Office!

[shiftingurbulls]

For as long as Ellis had been in Panem, he'd never seen or met with a Stylist outside of the Crowning Event. So District 4 had a new staff? Well boy howdy, he grabbed the nearest flannel shirt and jeans, got his ass dressed and headed out. Maybe he could help out with the whole settling in with Capitolite culture! Or at least not look like an ignorant hick, the man was optimistic to say the least.

"Top o' the mornin', Mister!" he said with his usual cheer and Southern Hospitality. "Hope I ain't interruptin' ya?"

[quiethumerus]

Being greeted with such cheer and charm used to be a rare thing. He has to admit, he's liking this change. Sure he can and is used to sticking it out on his own, but it's nice to not have to.

It is just one of many things giving high hopes for the future in a neat little ribbon to him.

He beams on the greeting and opens the door wider. He holds up the flat of his hand and shakes his head quick to say, No, no interruption. Then he does a slight bow, gesturing for Ellis to come on in.

[shiftingurbulls]

El steps inside and whistles for a bit, taking in the room one item at the time. He smiled at some of the skulls, "Man, some o' th' bucks here get huge, my granddaddy woulda had himself a real party with th' neighborhood." Talking about family was always a treat and hunting had been a part of the mechanic's life when he was little. He once boasted that he could fire a gun at age 5, which is not true...it was at age nine but that's neither here or there.

"Name's Ellis, sir," Staff get seniority treatment, and more so when they were so cordial, along with taking off his hat to reveal a mop of slightly longer curls of hair, "I gotta ask, how're ya likin' this here place?" It may not be his home per se but El strove to make every person he came across with feel welcome.

[quiethumerus]

He watches Ellis for his reactions and listens rapt to the tale told. The offworlder has an accent he's never really heard much before, and it makes it all the more interesting. What a buck had to do with neighbourhood parties was beyond him but it certainly sounded miraculous.

When the conversation turns back on him-- with cap removed and everything!-- Kurloz finds himself all the more charmed.

Upon the question, he makes wide sweeping gestures with both hands, looking towards the ceiling but thinking of the whole of the building. Then he brings them both to his heart, smiling. He is very much liking it here. Mostly because it's here.

He then gestures out to Ellis, looking questioning. And you?

Office!

[andrastian]

Rather new to things himself, Sebastian has yet to really meet any of the staff for his district, so he is curious to say the least, an eyebrow raising as he enters the room and gets a look at what the man is wearing, then slowly, he's nodding somewhat appreciatively. It's exotic, but...it works for him. .

"I like your breeches." He comments, by way of a greeting. The man's makeup looks rather Dalish in nature, so that he is more at home with it than someone not of Thedas might be.

"So you are going to help us look our best." It's not quite a question. "I am not certain there is much I might manage to...what is the phrase you use here? 'pull off'?"

[quiethumerus]

No matter how much he may claim he is used to all the scorn and isolation the world had to offer, that he was just as happy alone and facing it down, it is actually kind of nice to be greeted kindly and with respect for once.

And to be complimented on his work on top of it all? Already this position is offering gift and wonder.

He start with hands over his heart and a nod to show his gratitude. Then his nods go faster for the non-question, as so to say he intended to do exactly that. This is followed up by a quick waving off his hand, don't be silly, there is plenty here to work with. At the very least, even if there weren't, he would make it so there was.

He gestures out at the couch, inviting his guest to take a seat.

[andrastian]

Sebastian has assumed that, as strange as things seem for him just now, it is no good to isolate the people who are there to help the tributes after all. He's not certain he can manage the looks of the Capitol, but perhaps there is hope for how he might show up yet.

He smiles as he takes the seat, nodding to the Stylist in question. "Ah, then I must put myself into your hands. I've been a brother in the...a priest for several years." He explains. "It can be rather a life of simplicity. I'd not grown out of those habits yet at home, even after I left that life." He explains.

Sebastian's aware he'll find most looks over the top for himself, but then, he probably does not know much better here, himself. "I am willing to learn."

If nothing else, it can make him marketable.

[quiethumerus]

Sebastian listens well, respectfully. Even better is his starting to tell of himself before Kurloz has even gotten the chance to ask. He's surprised by the word 'priest' and is listening rapt all after.

He nods clear, just to say he understands. But then he is quick to follow up with writing.

THERE IS A GRIEVOUS LACK OF FAITH IN THIS CITY AND THE WHOLE OF THIS WORLD. I HAVE NEVER TRULY KNOWN ITS GIFTS, THOUGH I HAVE STUDIED OFTEN. I MIGHT ASK TO HEAR MORE OF THIS, IF A BROTHER WOULD SO BE WILLING TO IMPART.

And it's harmless then right? He's learning of his Tributes and that subverts it's illegality.

THE EAGER HEART IS MORE INCLINED TO LEARN TRULY. THUSLY I GIVE MINE EXPLANATION TO THEE, AS I SHARE SUCH EAGERNESS IN LEARNING OF THINE OWNSELF.

Commons A

[somegrimshit]

She watches the new person out of the corner of her eye. Even as long as she's been here, it's hard to lose the wariness she picked up in her own world. He seems friendly enough, though, and she leaves him be, while she flips through another magazine--Just some idle fashion magazine, with pictures of the latest trends splashed across it. The whole mech stuff is pretty hilarious, really.

But when the magazine goes up in flames, she slowly lowers her own magazine, and raises an eyebrow. Well.

"If you want more wood, you can ask the servants around here. They're pretty obliging." She offers helpfully. The silent servants--She's got no idea what's up with them, but if you ask them something, they'll usually get it done, or whisk you off to someone who can do it.

[quiethumerus]

There's a pep in his step, even with the glittering heels, as he turns back around. He does a dusting off of his hands, for all there isn't really any dust to speak of. He's not to bothered by the rise of her brow, but she does give him pause for what she says.

She makes a good point. It would be better for the persona he wished and needed to craft to have an Avox deal with such things. Far better than doing it himself when he already appears all too sympathetic to criminals with his stitches. He lives here. He should know this!

He taps his head and bounces the hand off quick. A clear, 'oh silly me, of course, how could I forget'. Then he folds his hands together and gives a small grateful bow. A thank you for the reminder.

[somegrimshit]

Well. This was different. Different was usually bad, different meant zombie hordes and near death, getting kidnapped to foreign worlds, different had yet to do her any good, and the only comforts were things that were familiar.

But, well. He seemed harmless enough.

She blinked at him for a moment, waiting to see if he had anything else to add. Once it was apparent that that was a no, she shifted position on the chair, and bobbed her head back to him. "I don't think anyone is really worried about the environment around here...but it's not a very efficient way to burn things."

What magazine had that been, anyway? She'd scanned them before picking this one. But she hadn't memorized them, and hadn't gotten a good look at the one he threw away. Well. It didn't matter, really.

"Are you new here--Oh! You're the District 4 stylist. I saw your video." She hadn't commented on it, it had been...odd, at best. And she tried to stay away from odd things, here. That was the plan. Keep your head down until the arena. But he seemed...a little more personable, in person. Maybe it was the weird cards. "I have a friend in your District. His name is Ellis." She paused. She hasn't spoken to many Capitolites, just yet, but she's already figured out quick that you need to be polite, and friendly. They didn't take kindly otherwise.

"You know, he looks great in plaid. Button up plaid? Like a little cowboy." She said, with a small smile on her face. A little joke, just to test the waters.

[quiethumerus]

An efficient way to burn things? Beyond simply... burning them? This was news to him. Was probably an Avox's job. Next time he would really have to think to call one over. Nothing better to cement his separation of them than avoiding doing their duties. He is a person, not a criminal, and he need not make their punishment easier.

That she's seen his video already is a great thing. One less person he must establish himself with. One less explanation of who he is and is not. He should hope to be recognized more as District four's stylist over the boy who throws in with Avoxes. His hands go up in a gesture of delight and hope. And again he shows recognition, surprise with it, as she tells of her having a friend in his District. That meant she could be an ally to his Tribute. This was good.

He laughs at her joke, even for all he doesn't make much sound, it shows in his movements and expression. It is fond one already.

He starts over to her, settling into the seat beside her and crossing his legs. He extends his hand to her in greeting, then turns his head and snaps his fingers with the other hand, calling the nearest Avox and doing a writing gesture, then pointing at himself. The Avox darts off to get him a pen and he turns his smile back on her.

commons - B

[tucky]

Tiffany, still settling in and pretty overwhelmed by the process, is relieved to see a familiar face - even one that she's only seen once before, on the network, and even one from another district. She makes a beeline over to the bar, sliding onto one of the stools next to him and giving an awkward, hopeful little wave.

"Hey! Don't know if you remember me, but..."

[quiethumerus]

With all those around actively avoiding him and bringing on their waves of hostility, the rare face eager to see him and get nearby to him is an instant drawing of his attention. His eyes go wide and his brows go up. The straw slips from between the threads and he sets his smoothie down, returning her wave with a smile bright enough to show he does in fact recognize her. The threads on his lips pull when he does so.

[tucky]

Oh good, he's not glaring or looking at her like she's insane. She breaks into an easy smile of her own, big and relieved and very genuine.

"You got your paper to write with today?"

idk why this is so long, apologies since most of my replies def aren't going to be anywhere near

[ka_sera_sera]

The most urgent matter - that of whether this newest stylist is going to intentionally make it harder for Signless to bear visiting the fourth floor - has been settled already, but there is still work to do. Doing that work here with this Capitolite is easier than it is with Sigma, in a way, because Roland holds this Capitolite responsible for no part of the Initiate's situation. That is due to Sigma, and the Gamemakers, and in some way to Initiate himself.

But if the Initiate's twinner is anything like the man himself, he has the potential to be very dangerous, and more, will be sleeping and living very near where Roland - and so most anyone Roland cares about - sleeps and spends a good deal of his time. He bears keeping an eye on, and a polite relationship with.

In the interests of that latter, Roland has forgone his favorite outfit - the one he made himself, as shapeless and colorless and sack-like as he could sew it - in favor of one of the others. Since trying to feign an interest in fashion would be a miserable failure even were he interested, Roland hadn't paid much attention to the outfit in which he'd ended up. Something brownish, with lots of fringe hanging off its various parts.

In any case, there's few better ways to set a man at ease than to put him in a situation where he can show off his most prized skill. If Roland looks as if he needs a little fixing up, well, maybe that's for the best. No matter how little the idea of being 'fixed up' happens to appeal.

His knocks on the door are brief and businesslike, but the smile he returns the stylist's with is friendly. Small, a little distant, but friendly. Roland spares little attention for the stitching pulled through that smile, partly assuming it's another fashion statement and partly not rating it as a quarter so important as all the other aspects of this situation with which he ought to be concerning himself. Best not to get distracted by those sorts of details, especially as he is shortly going to be inundated by them.

"Well met, sir. I'm assuming you wanted to meet for some reason other than retaking my measurements?" Reasons like, among other things, comparing the tributes he'll be working with to their reputations. Don't listen to the other stylists, Kurloz. Roland's never stolen bits of his other stylists' supplies when they're being especially annoying, and he certainly didn't spend one Crowning a couple arenas ago having torn pieces off what'd been meant to be a prisoner's outfit and spent a big part of the night leading one stylist on a very slow chase through through the crowds as a result.

He isn't planning on doing any of that here, anyway. When he'd started all that it'd been impossible to think it would ever actually matter, or come to maybe bite him in the ass later. Besides, every prisoner needs to find some kind of stress relief somewhere.

Don't worry I enjoy tag novels!

[quiethumerus]

The rumor mill runs fast. It just so happens, Kurloz pays very close attention to gossip. Of course he doesn't believe it all true, but there was always a secret that could be pulled out even from falsehoods. Or so, that was his belief. The infuriated mutterings of his team and of the former stylist could not be missed. He will not have thieves in his District if he does say so.

But perhaps more dreadful is what Roland wears. This man scoffed help with fashion and yet dresses like a knock-off cowboy imitation from the tenth District. He is not surprised and yet still somehow disappointed in his Tribute and the former staff.

All the same, he would change this. Things were going to be made better. That was what he was here for.

The greeting is a little less than enthusiastic, but still good enough. It is nice to receive respect. He nods in reply then gestures for Roland to enter the room. He'll be able to explain the moment they're both settled. He hopes Roland will help himself to a seat, as Kurloz takes his own, plucking up pen and paper.

WHAT BE THY GRASP UPON THE REASON OF THE GAMES AND DISTRICT WHOM YOU HOLD MOTHER FUCKIN REPRESENTATIONAL FOR?

The message is turned over for Roland to see.

:D

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland follows the gesture and enters, his spine itching as it always does when he turns his back to one of these Capitolites before he turns back again, sitting on the lounge chair. He does not lounge. Leans back against it, sure, keeps relaxed, but there is only so far Roland's version of the 'friendly, pro-capitol' act can stretch. His rule for this longest act - years long, perhaps many of them - is simple: keep as close to the truth of him as possible. Hence, Roland's obvious deep appreciation for what Panem calls fashion. Hence the lack of lounging.

The machines in the tribute's brains mean Roland knows the language before him better than he ever has. They do not, however, change the process of Roland's reading of it, which is slow. Always has been, in his days grinding through lessons slower than all his mates, and his days paging through the Capitol's magazines now. The way this stylist writes eases things, though, the large letters more distinct than their smaller counterparts and coming a little easier for it.

This is a little like those old lessons, isn't it? Remember and recite. After his time reading the message he looks up at the familiar color of those eyes and replies, unhesitating. "Glory. Honor to the districts, food and supplies to 'em. Honor to Panem."

There's a little danger in that last sounding too fawning, too much what he is clearly supposed to say, so Roland takes care to mention Panem's honor very casually. Almost an afterthought. Of course honor for Panem, who could think otherwise? There's a faint urge in him afterward to ask this stylist to get to the point, because it's clear whatever answer he'd wanted here is leading in to something. He doesn't. Witness Roland Deschain, being polite.

Commons B

[pythianjudgment]

Terezi has taken to wandering, now that her amount of free time alone has been significantly increased--since she's not spending it with the Initiate. There are others that she could visit, but there are points in time where it feels more like she's being babysat and taken care of. And that's almost more painful to handle.

So for the moment, Terezi is alone when she enters the commons. She sniffs around for anything (or anyone) interesting, or even just a quieter place to get away from all of the people that she doesn't want to interact with. Her attention eventually is drawn to the new Kurloz and the empty space around him. How convenient.

She slides onto a stool next to him at the bar, ordering herself a fruit juice from the barista. Then she puts her elbows on the table and leans her chin on her hands while she waits for her drink. "You're really not a popular kind of guy, are you?"

[quiethumerus]

He's surprised, pleasantly so, when he finds someone willing to take a seat by him. Of course, it isn't a Capitolite, a Tribute rather and one who won't do much for boosting his reputation. Oh well.

He does his typical silent laugh at her words, really more statement than actual question. It was painfully obvious, but he shakes his head in answer anyway.

With a swing of his legs, he turns to face inward toward the bar, matching her position. She is the one talking to her after all. He reaches for a napkin and with long nails, carves into its material.

NOT YET

[pythianjudgment]

Not yet, he says. She's not sure if he's naive, hopeful, or determined; but he seems to think that he can win the Capitol's favor with such a heavy opinion against him... Though, she managed it, so maybe it isn't impossible.

"Well, I know one person you're not going to impress if you accidentally scratch his counter with your manicure," she points out with an amused sort of smirk. She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a marker--green today--and offers it to him. "It writes better than fake nails ever will."