DECEMBER 2020 EVENT - PART 1

CHAPTER ONE, PART 1: A HOLLY JOLLY HOLIDAY

Do you hear what I hear?

DECEMBER 5th | A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE | THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...

DECEMBER 5th

Don’t you hate to be the last to know? Out of the windows of your brand new homes, you spot families trotting along in their happy, nuclear units. Stores and restaurants have closed early—on main street, where jingle bells hang from every door, the only souls to be seen are heading toward the town hall, where wreaths hang around the stone lions’ necks. A stage, awash in string lighting, has been erected with three chairs sitting empty behind a podium. Policemen with their smiles and baby-blues stand guard before it; they too are not allowed beyond the velvet ropes. Twenty feet tall—near to reaching the tip-top of the clock tower—a mass is hidden by black tarps. This is the most guarded of all, ringed by no less than twelve junior policemen standing vigil around the clock. At sundown, you start to see what’s to come. As the crowd swells, bundled in their coats and scarves, the ladies with silk scarves drawn around their perfectly coiffed hairstyles, three figures take to the stage:
Chief of Police, Dale Harding, who must constantly slip away and bend his ear to listen to one of his boys, giving orders with long sighs, firm words, and grumbles as he takes his seat again. Occasionally one sees a flash of silver moving from his lapel up to his lips, but surely that must only be his policeman’s badge that he kisses, because he loves his town so very, very much! The Happy Homes Association—or at least, their junior representative. Her bright and shining pin of office sits hidden behind the tremendous fruit basket poised upon her lap, where green and scarlet cellophane cannot quite hide the fruitcake inside the way it does her name. How does she keep her teeth so white and her lipstick so clean and red? Subscribe to their newsletter and read Cathy’s Cosmetic Can-Dos! column to find out!
Mayor Phillip Clarke—well, Phil to his friends. He takes his place at the podium, his top hat inky black, leather gloves oiled and bright, and draws all the town’s breathless attention. He taps the microphone. Once—the crowd inhales—twice—their eyes shine as they look up—three times— “Gooooood evening, Santa Rosita!” The crowd goes wild as Clarke bellows. Eventually, he raises both arms and gestures for them to quiet down. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out, especially on a school night!” Like the admonishing parent, he wags a knowing finger at several teens in the crowd. “Believe you me, on a night like this, I know how tempting it is to stay home and curl up on the couch with a good book. And,” he adds with a wink to a woman in the front of the crowd, “maybe some of Margie's famous hot chocolate.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. Again, Clarke patiently waits until they’re finished before continuing, “But that's exactly what makes our little town so special. No matter the time, every day of the week there's always someone out there who will sacrifice something for the better of the community. Be it the energy to get this terrific tree set up—” he gestures to the tree, “—the patience to string twenty yards of lights up—which, I might add, have been generously donated by our pals at Honeybees—or even just time.” Clarke’s tone turns solemn, but his face remains fixed in a winning smile. “Santa Rosita isn't just a town. It's a family. Each and every one of you out here tonight is a valued member. Even all you new faces out there!” He points to several newcomers in the crowd in what might almost be an accusatory manner if not for the smile on his face. “Don't think I can't see you! Tonight, you have become part of that family. Santa Rosita is your home now. It's through our traditions that we endure, and it's my sincerest wish that you, all of you, will join together with us and help us keep them alive for years to come.” The crowd applauds, everyone turning to face the new families. As Harding takes a swig from a flask he pulls out of his pocket and the HHA representative continues to beam at the audience with her too-white smile, Clarke fully turns to the tree and pumps his fist in the air, riling the crowd back up. “And now, without further ado, let's RING. IN. THE HOLIDAYS!”

As his words come to a close, at last the tarp is pulled away—revealing twenty feet of pure, polished, brilliant...

...aluminium christmas tree.

Quick as the busy bees they are, the Happy Homes Association is there to announce that you can buy both table-sized and home-use duplicates for your own homes! The cost is $8 for the little ones and $18.50 for the big trees—get your wallets ready!

As the crowd stampedes toward their own tiny and/or six-foot silver replicas, the three figures on the stage are hurried away. The HHA representative presents their gift basket to the Mayor. He kisses her on both cheeks, rubbing his belly in anticipation of the deliciousness to come, and hurries on. Chief Harding takes the rear, casting back a sour look, and before you have a chance to see if the three could answer any questions, the stage is empty again.

...well, get in line! You want those trees too, don’t you?

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A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE

The days are getting colder and the entire town seems to be getting into the holiday spirit, between the tree lighting ceremony and the decorations your neighbors are putting up. But something seems to want you to get into the Christmas spirit as well—you haven’t done anything out of the ordinary, but when you open the door, you’re met by a burst of frigid air carrying the scents of gingerbread and peppermint on it.

Stepping through the door, you are not in Santa Rosita any more.

Well, technically, you are; you’re just down by Rose Garden Park, before the Old Growth starts. But it’s not where you thought you were going, and it doesn’t resemble the normal streets of suburbia now. You’ve stepped into a charming Christmas village, packed with all sorts of fun winter activities and sights to see! The ground is covered in pure white snow that never seems to melt into slush, and the sounds of high, sweet jingle bells fill the air as a team of reindeer haul a sleigh past. Maybe that’s Santa’s sleigh they’re pulling?

As you walk into the village, a red pole demands your attention, placed in such a way that no one can miss it. A letter is attached to it:

’Twas the month before Christmas and all through the town
The people were smiling; there was nary a frown!
They entered my village, all brimming with cheer
And knew that quite soon, old St. Nick would be here
There's skating and snowmen and light shows galore
There's even a place to make wreaths for your door!
But somewhere inside there's a mailbox to find
And Santa may bring you what's most on your mind…
As the letter suggests, the village is full of hustle and bustle. Santa’s elves—Robbies decked out in red and green costumes with matching tights and jingle bell boots—are everywhere, making sure that there’s always plenty of holiday treats available for visitors to eat and drink. The nearby pond is iced over and the elf manning the ice skate exchange station seems to be able to guess your perfect size with a glance, while reindeer racing courses have been set up encircling the village. All of the buildings and many of the trees have been lined with lights, warm and bright, and there are stations set up where visitors can make garlands or wreaths to take back with them to the real world.

The real world? Yes, of course—that boring place with work and school and vacuuming! Though the door you initially walked through may have turned into a station for making gingerbread houses, you can hoof it back to your home in Shadyside at any time. The public library is just that way, past the baseball diamond! Any time you open a door, however, you run a risk of finding that it leads back to the village, where the elves are waiting to ensure you enjoy your visit. You can try to close the door and open it again, but who knows if your luck has changed?

The organizers of the village seem to be most insistent that you come and enjoy yourself—flyers are all around town, stuffed in your mailbox, and pinned on bulletin boards. Though some signs on lampposts seem as though they’ve been torn down in a huff, you still can spot them on Main Street: “Visit Santa Rosita’s Very Own Christmas Village!”

And visit it you will.

While the elves are happy to welcome visitors to their village, they also have to work. Christmas toys don’t build themselves, you know! The elves will point out Santa’s Workshop to you, where you can buy freshly made candy canes, charming ornaments for your new aluminum Christmas trees (you did buy one from the Happy Homes Association, didn’t you?), and other sundries and stocking stuffers. There’s even a German-style bar in the back serving hot chocolate and mulled wine—non-alcoholic, of course; this is a family event. Just outside of the workshop’s entrance is a mailbox, its post swirled red and white and wrapped in garlands. A small desk sits next to the mailbox with a stack of stationery, envelopes pre-addressed to Santa Claus at the North Pole, and pens on top.

At the top of the stationery, beside cutesy illustrations of hippos and children missing their front teeth, are the words, “What I want most for Christmas is…”

Why not write Santa a letter? What have you got to lose?

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THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...

...to the annual Christmas gala, beginning at 4:00 pm sharp at Santa Rosita’s stately town hall! The invitation appears in your mailbox with just enough time for you to gather all your family and go shopping, because you certainly want to look your best. You simply must. The who’s who of the town will be there, all wearing their finest velvet dresses and shined black shoes. Be warned that the dress code will be strictly enforced by the Happy Home Association—only red and green allowed, or else it simply isn’t festive. Men in bright red or green suits - women sporting taffeta skirts in complementing shades - pinned corsages and matching handbags - no detail left untouched!

You wouldn’t want to be caught standing out from the crowd, would you? In the Mayor’s presence?

That might be a bad idea.

But the holidays do get the better of us sometimes, don’t they? The HHA understands, and if on the day of the party you have found yourself without a red or green garment, they have some loaners to wear. If you’ll simply follow Mrs. Jones down to the coat room, she can show you some options.

For the ladies (and female-presenting), they offer up beautiful green or red dresses as loaner. ”It matches the metal trees!” the coat clerk brightly tells you, her own dress as shimmery as they come.
For the gentlemen(ly presenting among you), fresh off the rack at the local Sears Roebuck department store, these fetching blazers are available, complete with matching trousers.

In front of you in line is someone who very clearly does not have the Christmas spirit flowing through them, judging by how they wish to argue with the HHA about these “loaner garments.” How rude! But don’t worry—when you see the once-irascible individual later by the punch bowl, there’s a glassy smile on their face and they’re decked out in jolly green and poppy red, happy as—well, a kid on Christmas morning.

Tables are laid out with food and drink aplenty. Even the sandwich loaf has made its effort to match the decor, as red poinsettias and holly berries dot the windows (careful children—they’re poisonous) and rich green pines occupy every corner. Move outside of the room and you’ll find nothing more than locked and darkened offices, with the occasional policemen and night guards shaking their fingers at you to go back and enjoy the party. This is a night to be merry and drink some mocktails, not to go through the filing!

Up by the fine wood paneling and brilliant metal tree stands the mayor himself. Looking dashing as Santa Claus, a cluster of parents flock nearby beaming as their child gets their photo taken with Mayor Clarke! That’s certainly going in the Christmas newsletter! Each of them has a little present—perfectly wrapped, just see Grandma’s Gift Wrapping Guide in this month’s HHA newsletter—to give to the Mayor for all his hard work this year.

You didn’t think that stack of presents by Santa’s chair was for him to pass out, did you?

Between music sets (graciously played by the Frederick Loren High School marching band), the Mayor stands—the hall falls silent, all the little cups and plates still in jolly hands. He has a speech to give you all, you fine citizens, faces old and new:

“Ho-ho-hi there, Santa Rosita! And how are we enjoying ourselves tonight? I see some of our new families were able to make it out tonight—is that Richard O’Reilly and the missus?” Using a hand to shade his eyes, Clarke squints into the throng of townspeople. “And Jim Astin with Lucy and little Susie! Wow. Isn’t that something?”

In the back of the room, Chief Harding pours himself a glass of punch, takes a sip, then reaches into his suit jacket for his flask.

“Now, in my house,” Clarke continues, “we have a rule not to open any presents until Christmas Day, but with all the ones I've gotten tonight, it's just too darn tempting.” Reaching down, he takes a box from the pile of gifts at his feet. “I think this one's a tackle box, and I'm pretty sure this—” he reaches down for another smaller box, “—is that electric razor I’ve had my eye on.” He shakes the box, chuckling, as the rest of the crowd joins him.

“But let's get serious for a moment.” Clarke’s expression turns thoughtful. “Although getting a truckload of Christmas presents is swell, do you want to know what the greatest gift you've given me is?” He pauses performatively, waiting for an answer from the crowd that never comes.

“The greatest gift you've all given me... is letting me serve you.”

In the back, Harding ditches the punch cup and just drinks straight from the flask.

“I'm honored to be here with you all tonight,” Clarke continues proudly, “just I am honored to be able to wake up every morning, look in the mirror and tell myself that I... am your mayor. Which is why I want to give something back to you. How many of you have already visited Santa's little village?”

There’s a round of cheering in the front of the audience from the many children in attendance with their parents. Clarke opens his arms wide.

“My idea! I decided that if I can't bring Santa Rosita to the North Pole, I'm going to bring the North Pole to Santa Rosita. Enjoy yourselves! Saint Nick's got a lot of work to do before Christmas. So be good, don’t pout, and for goodness sake—have fun!”

The clapping threatens to take down the garlands hung from chandeliers. ”A fine orator!” “Reminds me of the war, when we heard Churchill over the radio. Why, Clarke gives him a run for his money, ha ha ha!”

A delightful HHA elf comes to replenish the pickle tree on the appetizer table, and the covers of Bing Crosby carry you away into the night.

Remember to stay until 9:00 pm, when the Santa Rosita Children’s Choir will start caroling!

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OOC INFO

Welcome to the first part of the event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to use the log and network communities as well.

A few things to keep in mind: Firstly, there is no return portal back into town once your character is teleported into the Christmas village. They will have to walk back on foot or get lucky and catch a ride from a helpful citizen.

Secondly, please be mindful of how your character interacts with the setting. While characters are welcome to explore the town and ask questions, Santa Rosita is still a happy little suburb in the 1960s, where appearances matter and acting too out of line from commonly accepted societal norms can come with their own unique consequences. We do not intend to punish players for their curiosity, but be aware that the townsfolk may not be so understanding of wanton disrespect for their ways!

And thirdly, the NPCs will not be available for interactions. At the party, Harding will leave early and Clarke will leave to handle other business. Santa does have a schedule to keep, after all.

Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.

Remember--Part 2 of this event is coming December 15th!

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OOC INFO	premise \| rules \| faq \| taken \| applications \| hiatus/drop/canon updates \| activity check \| reserves \| mod contact
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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm from 2039 and modern people can still be assholes.

[Looking at you, Jackson's Resident Homophobe: Seth. She snorts and shrugs at the compliment.]

It's not really my style either. [But there's a twitch on her lips at the mention of a dress.] That's what I thought when I saw the shoes. How does anyone move in those?

[That pulls him up for a second, the mention of the year, and he nearly opens his mouth to ask about it, the fact the world is still around, before remembering that would give too much away about who and what he is.]

Bit easier to give 'em a kick in the teeth, though.

[Or, well, people tend to fuss somewhat less about it in the 21st century than they did in other years. Although he's speaking more metaphorically here, since he was more likely to curse someone than to bother actually picking a fight, but same difference.]

Practice and a high pain tolerance. [He stuck with a lower heel, not wanting to tower over Aziraphale too much, while also not wanting to end up tripping over his own damned feet. They're comfortable enough, even if he'd prefer boots.] And you get used to 'em, I suppose, used to be all the fashion for everyone to wear heels.

[In like the seventeenth century. Don't worry about it.]

Longer range.

[Can't argue and there's the barest ghost of a smile on her face for the first time. But at that fact she raises her eyebrows.]

Probably for only for the people who didn't spend their time hunting in the woods. I get chewed out if I wear boots and not sneakers.

Nobility, mostly, so you'd be right there.

[He remembers all the nonsense about red heels in Louis' court, which was always a fun bit of drama to stir up. Nobility is always an easy mark.]

What sort of things are you hunting, back home?

[Just making conversation, since it probably offers her a decent distraction from whatever drove her out here.]

Deer, mostly. Sometimes wild boar. Rabbit.

[She inhales shakily on the cigarette before exhaling.]

So, one of the nobility? Hence the experience? [She gestures down towards her own feet to indicate the shoes.] Or just into fashion?

[He makes a sound that could almost be described as wistful, at the mention of boar. Now there's a meat he doesn't see much of these days, for understandable reasons, but he will admit to missing it, especially now that he's forced to actually consume food for sustenance.]

That's me, a proper noble. [He flashes a grin, something about the way he says it making it seems as if it's some inside joke he's letting her in on, when really he's just being ridiculous.

If he were to get technical about it, he did have a lordship a few centuries ago, but he conned his way into it, so it might not count.] Suppose I'm into fashion, never really thought of it like that, though. S'just interesting to see what — people come up with, all the rules they make up, how they can use clothes to tell you about themselves.

[He nearly slipped up on humans there, but caught himself in time.]

I mean, you clean up like one.

[It's... a weak attempt at a joke. She's not really out to insult anyone over their attire.

Then she shrugs, like she concedes the point.]

We mostly made do with what we can back home. But even then... it's not like we all end up dressing the same.

Aw, shucks.

[The one good thing about not wearing sunglasses 24/7 anymore is that he can wink at people, which he proceeds to do. It was a weak joke, but he'll let her have it.]

Exactly, you've still got to put a bit of yourself into it. And don't even get me started on things like lace. Hours and hours of work for a bit of frippery, just 'cause it looks nice. That's — that's people right there. S'brilliant.

[Crowley why are you so FUCKING weird.]

Lace seems like a lot of itchy bullshit.

[And impractical. She cocks her head.]

"Frippery"? Now that's a word.

It's only itchy if it's shite quality.

[Well made lace is soft and comfortable, in his experience. Actually, he has no experience with poorly made lace, but he dabbled enough in the fashion industry that he knows how much people hate the cheap, itchy stuff.

The real proof that humans are worse than demons is that humans invented uncomfortable bras.]

S'like, ostentatious, you know? Useless, but pretty. Like a lot of the people around here.

[He thinks he's funny.]

Yeah. Yeah. 'Frippery' definitely describes most of the people back in that fucking party.

[She gives a little shrug.]

I've never worn lace before. Not really my style.

[Crowley snorts in amusement; Ellie has made her opinions clear already on the idea of fancy dress.]

Let me guess, you're a plaid shirt and jeans sort of lass?

[He isn't really going out on a limb with that assumption.]

How'd you ever guess?

[YEAH. She's got a type and she's prepared to own at at least.]

I spent my twenties hanging out in lesbian bars. You learn a thing or two.

[The accurate version of that statement would be the twenties, but Ellie doesn't need to know that.]

We had our own bars? Holy shit!

[Yeah, so. Apparently this is news to her.]

[Something in his expression softens slightly, something empathetic and a little sad.]

Oh, you've no idea. The ones in Paris were my favourite. Those women certainly knew how to dress, you'd have liked their tuxedos, I think. We had to be a bit hush-hush, back then, but once you were inside it was another world.

[If he sounds a little nostalgic for it, hopefully no one will blame him.]

...When I was a kid I used to dream of going to places like Paris. Seeing it how it was in the books I read though. Not thinking about how it was probably just as fucked up as Boston.

[She shrugs.]

Born in the wrong time I guess.

[He wonders what her world is like, but he knows an open wound when he sees one and she's just a kid, there's no need to dig his fingers in just to sate his curiosity.]

You want to know a secret? That's how just about everyone feels.

[On principle, he would've hated Nazis, but it was more personal than that, after the occupation of France. He doesn't think those women were born in the right time, either.]

It's all the same, in the end. There's always shit you'll miss out on, but there's things you'll have that no one else will. [After letting that hang in the air for a second, Crowley laughs, flicking ash off his cigarette.] Fucking Hell, I sound like a tosser. Sorry.

Yeah, well. Most people who thought that probably weren't born after the death of most of the human race.

[She inhales and then exhales, cracking a smile at the self accusation of being a tosser.]

I guess with nearly everyone dead, it's easy to find some fucking peace and quiet. ...Until the infected find you.

[Well that explains some things while also raising more questions. He has to tell himself it can't be the Armageddon he's trying to prevent, not if there are even a smattering of people left alive, but he still feels a little sick.

He pushes it down and gives her a slightly sardonic grin; Ellie doesn't strike him as the type to want sympathy, so he goes another route.]

Fair point, but then, you could've been born in the fourteenth century, would've had to deal with the Black Death while wearing several layers of dresses. And you'd have had to marry a man, so...

[The world always kind of sucks, is the thing.]

...Yeah, alright. You got me there. I'd hate to die in a dress. Especially one with several layers.

[She inhales, exhales the smoke, trying to imagine what a world like that is like. So like and yet unlike hers.]

Or marry a man.

There you are, and don't even get me started on corsets.

[Honestly half the reason he stick with presenting as a man come AD was because women's clothing got progressively more and more complicated.]

All that marriage business is a scam, if you ask me.

Yeah... I guess so.

[She glances down at her hands. She and Dina had joked about it sometimes. Dina had said she'd even wear one of those dresses if she'd be able to get her hands on one.

Ellie was never into marriage but she would have done a lot to see Dina in a dress like that. Maybe Dina was more serious than she'd thought.]

[What's left of his cigarette is burning his fingertips, and Crowley flicks it away into the dark, resisting the urge to light up another one. He can hear that uncertainty for what it is, knows it as well as he knows himself.]

It's like that, hm?

[She's in love. Rough situation, that. Always tends to be a bit of a tragedy.]

What's her name?

...Dina.

[She doesn't know why she feels like she can tell him. But she can. It seems like he can read her like a book.]

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demonicmiracle - 2020-12-14 19:58 (UTC) - Expand

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