spiritofwinter: (melancholy | emo kid)
[personal profile] spiritofwinter
The snowball fight with Greta and Iman has revitalized Jack. It's December, and by all rights this is his season. He just needs to get his head back in the game; he knows for a fact that Manhattan can be tons of fun in a snowstorm. Now's the time to start, too -- with a little luck and a little nudge to the clouds here and there he could stretch a Tuesday night flurry into a Wednesday snow day.

The few people who can see Jack might catch glimpses of him hurtling through the sky late in the afternoon of December 3, whooping up a storm. Literally whooping up a storm, it turns out; aside from all the joyous yelling there's a definite chill in the air as clouds form and snow starts to fall, slowly blanketing the city in fluffy white.

Or…not so slowly. Jack's standing atop a low-rise building, surveying his work, when he realizes that something isn't right. The gentle but steady snowfall is picking up now, and a harsh gust of wind makes him clutch at his cane as it nearly knocks him off the rooftop. It only gets worse from there: as the afternoon wears on the clouds continue to gather and darken, the wind goes from a few gusts to a constant howling force battering against the city, and the snowfall comes so thick and fast that one can't even see across the street. By morning the city will be at a standstill, buried under the snow.


[And thus starts the Snow Day event! Due to the severity of the weather, characters will be unable to completely ignore this event, but anyone with a decent stock of supplies can simply wait it out at home. Otherwise, feel free to have the power go out at your character's residence, strand them on the wrong side of the city, etc. The weather will warm up throughout December 4 (April 18-21 in real time), leaving tons of slush for the next several IC days.

Please feel free to use this post for threads or to make your own. All threads that take place during the event should be tagged "event: snow day".
]
boneshaker: (you precious piece of shit)
[personal profile] boneshaker
Waking up is still a strange affair. He's only been in this new city and this new (free???? he's still not over that part) apartment for, what, three days? Four? Finding himself in this amazingly clean, comfortable bed, seeing the stark white ceiling and the pristine furnishings and the light pouring in through the glorious windows is all very bizarre. It still takes him a minute to realize.

This morning his entire body hurts like hell, which is a helpful reminder. He remembers being out last night, and getting into a fight! A real fight! He got his ass kicked and it was amazing.

He stumbles out of the bed and makes his way over to the bathroom, checking himself in the mirror. He's a mess. Black eye, split lip, a couple minor cuts along his cheekbone. Bruises on his ribs too. Everything hurts. But that's okay. It reminds him he's alive. He's really here, this is really happening. This gorgeous rich-people apartment is his. He's still not really sure how he feels about that.

Well, it doesn't matter, he doesn't have to stay here. Spike gave him the address of his workplace and Castor has every intention of visiting him. It might be a little desperate and clingy to go visit him first thing after spending the night with him, but whatever. Friends are good. He needs friends.

He gets himself as clean as he deems necessary, gets dressed and heads out, following the directions his weird fancy rich-people phone gives him. It's not too long before he gets there, standing outside the anonymous little bookstore, which really looks closed, or like it should be condemned, tucked in next to a really nice-looking bakery. The bookshop is uninviting at best, and though that tends to be more his speed than the bakery's posh atmosphere, he finds himself getting cold feet. Besides, he skipped breakfast. He's still got some money, he should get some food, right? Yeah. Then he can visit Spike.

He steps into the bakery and feels immediately out of place, but marches bravely up to the counter anyway. The woman behind it flicks a blisteringly judgmental glance up and down his person before asking if she can help him. He politely requests a cinnamon roll. He's never had one before. They're huge.

He carries the giant pastry gingerly over to the coffee counter, where a young man whose nametag says 'Joel' stares at him.

"Hi," says Castor pleasantly.

"Are you okay?" blurts Joel.

"What? Oh. Yeah." Castor smiles as if proud that Joel has noticed. "Yeah, it was just a fight, you know. No big deal. You should see the other guy."

Joel seems both alarmed and impressed by this information, which Castor finds hopelessly endearing. Aw, this guy. He belatedly seems to remember what his actual job is and says, "Oh, uh, what can I get you?"

"I have no idea," confesses Castor. "I don't know what most of these options even are."

"Uh... really?" Joel looks up at the complexly chalked menu hanging on the wall behind him. "Well... do you just want like a regular house blend?"

"Yeah, that sounds easy enough," says Castor. "Uh... dark roast, I guess?"

"Coming right up!" says Joel cheerfully. He manages only a few steps of the process before the bell on the door rings and he looks up and stops short, staring at whomever's just walked in with an expression that can only be described as deep longing.
andhiswife: (baroo)
[personal profile] andhiswife
It's getting colder. Snuggling beneath a blanket with Iman used to feel like something they could just get away with as summer's heat subsided. Now, it's more or less the default. Not that she's complaining - far from it, and she shifts a bit closer to Iman as if in defiance of that entirely hypothetical accusation - but it does serve as a reminder that winter is well on its way, and Greta's fairly certain her current wardrobe is not going to suffice. It's already dipped below freezing a few times. Before too long, it'll start properly snowing. She'll need a heavier coat, and boots - things she can't just knit for herself.

She also might be toying with the idea of trying jeans.

Thusfar, it's been an internal debate. Part of her is mortified by the thought of wearing something so unladylike, but she's less and less inclined to listen to any part of her that still measures things against the yardstick of her own universe. She won't be going back, so why should she trouble herself over what the villagers would think? Women in Manhattan can wear whatever they like. She could wear whatever she likes. She could start dressing for the century she's in, not the one she came from.

Well. She could, if she had the first clue where to begin.

Greta pauses her current knitting project - a scarf for the Balladeer - then glances sidelong at Iman. "How are you for winter clothes?" she asks, her tone as casual as she can make it.
erratic_hematic: (talk to the hand)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike needs to let off some steam. The problem is that nobody is taking him up on his instigations, and he's been drinking too slowly for it too make much of an impact. He's been bar hopping for a little while now, but by the time he swaggers into Wilmot's, he's willing to take things up a notch. He doesn't want this to devolve into a round of drunkenly worrying about Sunshine's health even more than he already is. He doesn't want to worry more. He wants action.

He orders a bottle of whisky, pours out a full glass and downs it, then looks out across at the rest of the patrons while he refills his glass. There's got to be someone here who'll fight back.

He prods the first person to walk by him in the shoulder to get their attention. "Oi, you. You've got stupid hair."



[ooc: You can either let spike instigate or assume that it's a bit later in the evening]
boneshaker: (yeah whatever)
[personal profile] boneshaker
A young man stands by the fountain at Bethesda Terrace and smokes a cigarette. He has only just arrived, appearing several feet off the ground and falling flat on his back with a pronounced yelp. Apparently, one harried passerby tells him, this kind of thing happens all the time. Apparently there's a whole community of 'people like you'. He refuses to stick around and provide any more salient details.

Castor blows smoke into the crisp autumnal air. He's not entirely certain what to make of his predicament, except that it has saved him the trouble of the backalley scrap he'd just gotten himself into, so that's something.

Whatever city this is--New York? Chicago?--it's clean. Well, cleaner. Well, this bit is. And on top of that it's a park. Parks are the sort of luxury not afforded to his kind back home. That might be a good thing. It might also be a problem. Well, probably not a big problem. He's never far from garbage. Not really.

He finishes his cigarette and flicks it to the ground, crushing it gently under his shoe and absorbing the energy back from it. Cigarette butts are everywhere. There's not much life in them but he can make do. Every bit counts. He stuffs his hands deep into his coat pockets and pivots on his heel, studying his surroundings. What's he supposed to do here, wait around until someone comes to pick him up? Wander and hope he runs into somebody he can talk to? It's not a great plan, but he doesn't have another one. It occurs to him he might be in shock.

Whatever. Be like a shark. Keep moving.

As he wanders through the startling greenery, he casts his awareness about idly, trying to feel... something he can relate to. This is not an exact science. It's linguistics, and the vowels shift every damn day. He adjusts the parameters in his head. A weak excuse for a thought experiment: let's say this new place is a dumpster, and you've been discarded from your previous dumpster and tossed into this one. And let's say there are others like you. So find them.

Ridiculously, it works. As he moves through the park, there is some vague sensation of familiarity tugging him in an increasingly focused direction. It says 'this thing is in the same language group as you'. This thing is a person. He walks up to it. Them. "Hi," he says with a friendly grin. "This, uh, this might be a weird question, but when you came here did you do it by like... appearing out of thin air?"

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