quiethumerus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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thecapitol2015-05-08 02:33 pm
quiethumerus) wrote in thecapitol2015-05-08 02:33 pm
Entry tags:
Doll-dagga buzz-buzz ziggety-zag, Godmod grotesque burlesque drag
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
She notes how he signals for an Avox, and glances over. At this distance, it's clear that those stitches...weren't some weird fashion mod. No, he actually had his lips sewn together. Holy shit. She would love to know the story behind that, but she knew better than to ask. Still, it seems strange. And how did he eat???
But she's not one to be rude, so she takes his hand, giving it a firm shake. "I'm Rochelle. I'm in District 3, so. Just below you."
no subject
Still, he doesn't let this show on his face. His smile remains bright as ever and he puts on a look of being pleasantly surprised as he shakes her hand for the moment, then releases to put it back on his knee. He can't help being a little amused with how she looks at his stitches. If they did one thing for him, they certainly made it so people didn't forget him. And wasn't that a Stylist's whole point?
He raises his chin high as she takes his hand and tells of herself, a silent Aaah, I see! How wonderful! He puts a little more enthusiasm into the shake than is needed of a non-mute, to further say just how good it is to meet her.
He draws back, hands going back to his lap. The avox isn't back yet so he makes sure to look around the room in a really obvious way, before looking back to her, asking how she likes the place.