Elle Joyner
Fracturer of Fairytales
The Zodiac Echelon
LINCOLN & AMELIAWARWICK
6:30 PM: Here we go...
He had a tuxedo. In his closet. It wasn't a rental. It wasn't borrowed. It was an honest to God tuxedo... bought and paid for, and for no small fee, hanging there like a skinned Penguin, staring at him in judgment. Seventeen years of his life... and despite his best attempts, he had finally been forced to succumb to the snobbery. He should have seen it coming, really, when his mother and Charlie had gotten married. It was like gravity... unavoidable . He'd allowed himself to think, briefly, that he might escape - but the moment Amelia had received her letter, he knew it was inevitable.
He'd thrown them for a loop, the Echelon, when he had made contact and opted for a position. Only six times since the formation of the society had new members been accepted from non-freshman stock, but he had made a convincing argument. It helped, of course, that his new father was extremely influential... But to keep Amy safe from the predatory elect he would use whatever he had in his wheelhouse.
The initiation period had been, to put it mildly, hell... He had expected no less, but somehow they had managed to toss in a few surprises even he wasn't prepared for. It was little wonder why so many candidates dropped out. But he didn't have that option. Protecting Amy was his only thought, and if that meant sacrificing a little time, patience and energy, he would do what he needed. It had been worse, he knew, for Amy, but there was no chance she would give up her dream and if she wouldn't quit, he couldn't quit.
Rolling his eyes, he pulled the tuxedo out of the closet and tossed it on the bed, looking up to see Amy poking her head in. She looked admittedly beautiful, her blonde hair pulled up in a bun, her make-up soft and shimmering. She had found her gown in a thrift store downtown, a light blue silk shift covered in white lace, beaded fringe hanging from the hem, brushing her knees. No one would question if it was designer - It was exquisite and elegant, and looked like something pulled from the closets of Daisy Fay Buchanan. Immediately upon seeing her, Link wanted nothing more than to put the girl in a Burka.
"You aren't ready yet?" She asked, an air of exasperation in her tone.
"Sure I am. I'm just gonna put a tie on over my t-shirt. That's how these things work, right?"
"Oh my God, Link! Don't you dare! If you ruin this for me..." Hands on her hips, lips pursed tight, forehead creased with irritation, she made a spectacular impression of Charlotte Lévesque and Link felt suddenly and irrationally annoyed.
"Chill, Amy. I was just about to put on the monkey-suit when you walked in. I can't get dressed if you're gawking at me, can I ? I mean, I know you're weird, but... that's a little too d'Armagnac for me..."
"Gross, geek..." The Charlotte mask melted away as Amy stuck out her tongue and Link smirked.
"Nerd."
"Dork..."
"Go put on a sweater."
"Go put on a personality."
Link chucked a pillow from the head of his bed, which fell harmlessly to the floor as Amy backed out the door, laughing as she went, "Be ready in twenty, or I'm taking the town car without you!"
QUENTIN KINGSLEY
7:30 PM: Let the Games Begin...
Renting out a night club in a hotel for two-dozen high school students would have been a difficult task for the average man... Quentin Kingsley was no average man, and what a Kingsley wanted, they typically got. It took a little name dropping, a little monetary influence and more than a little flirtation, but ultimately, he'd gotten what he wanted and within a half-hour of the gala opening, the club looked phenomenal.
He'd opted for a 1920s theme, to fit the burlesque feel of the place - complete with a number of poker tables and roulette wheels. He had hired cigarette girls dressed as flappers, a jazz band with a gorgeous alto on the mic - a powerhouse woman who went by the name of "Gypsy" - and white-gloved wait staff. He'd spared no expense - bringing in an array of top shelf liquor, the best spread money could buy that a private chef could provide and all manner of extra... treats, for those whose proclivities ran in a more experimental vein.
To top off the decadence, he had completely overhauled the decor in the room. The walls had been draped in billowing fabric, a shear maroon, sconces and chandeliers, all gold and pearl and crystal hanging, glowing with incandescent candlelight. Around the room, round tables - chest height had been placed, topped with hurricane vases, filled to the brim with pearls... not the cheap plastic kind, either, and votive candles. There were authentic game tables, manned by Casino floor workers, flown in from Vegas, and luxurious furniture - benches and chaise lounges, couches and arm chairs, scattered here and there in comfortable, intimate pairings.
Reclining on a plush violet chaise, Quentin took a long, slow draw from a martini glass, giving the room one last once-over, before rising to his feet. Heading for the door, he paused to adjust the gift bags - filled to the brim with gourmet chocolates and coffee, ordered from Paris, full-sized bottles of champagne, cigars for the men and pearls, the ladies, and for those members newly joined, their packets for their prospective clubs including a leather bound copy of the rules and either their Zodiac pin or a piece of jewelry containing their designated birthstone.
Satisfied, he continued and as he reached the door, he unclipped the velvet rope from across the entrance, turning to the doorman. The burly, bald-headed man nodded to Quentin, who handed him a rolled up stack of bills, the cost of a man turning the other way, "Almost showtime, Renault... Let's give them a night to remember, hmm?"
First Semester
Date: 9/21/15
Time: Evening
Event: Companion Ceremony
Weather: Brisk and cloudy - 60°
Time: Evening
Event: Companion Ceremony
Weather: Brisk and cloudy - 60°
ALL
Aries
8:00 PM. Carlyle Hotel. 35 E 76th St
New York, NY 10021. Theme: 1920s - black tie. New members will be given their packets. Companion bidding will begin at 9:00 PM. Starting bids will be $100. Do NOT be late.
There are no secrets that time does not reveal... Jean Racine |
LINCOLN & AMELIAWARWICK
6:30 PM: Here we go...
He had a tuxedo. In his closet. It wasn't a rental. It wasn't borrowed. It was an honest to God tuxedo... bought and paid for, and for no small fee, hanging there like a skinned Penguin, staring at him in judgment. Seventeen years of his life... and despite his best attempts, he had finally been forced to succumb to the snobbery. He should have seen it coming, really, when his mother and Charlie had gotten married. It was like gravity... unavoidable . He'd allowed himself to think, briefly, that he might escape - but the moment Amelia had received her letter, he knew it was inevitable.
He'd thrown them for a loop, the Echelon, when he had made contact and opted for a position. Only six times since the formation of the society had new members been accepted from non-freshman stock, but he had made a convincing argument. It helped, of course, that his new father was extremely influential... But to keep Amy safe from the predatory elect he would use whatever he had in his wheelhouse.
The initiation period had been, to put it mildly, hell... He had expected no less, but somehow they had managed to toss in a few surprises even he wasn't prepared for. It was little wonder why so many candidates dropped out. But he didn't have that option. Protecting Amy was his only thought, and if that meant sacrificing a little time, patience and energy, he would do what he needed. It had been worse, he knew, for Amy, but there was no chance she would give up her dream and if she wouldn't quit, he couldn't quit.
Rolling his eyes, he pulled the tuxedo out of the closet and tossed it on the bed, looking up to see Amy poking her head in. She looked admittedly beautiful, her blonde hair pulled up in a bun, her make-up soft and shimmering. She had found her gown in a thrift store downtown, a light blue silk shift covered in white lace, beaded fringe hanging from the hem, brushing her knees. No one would question if it was designer - It was exquisite and elegant, and looked like something pulled from the closets of Daisy Fay Buchanan. Immediately upon seeing her, Link wanted nothing more than to put the girl in a Burka.
"You aren't ready yet?" She asked, an air of exasperation in her tone.
"Sure I am. I'm just gonna put a tie on over my t-shirt. That's how these things work, right?"
"Oh my God, Link! Don't you dare! If you ruin this for me..." Hands on her hips, lips pursed tight, forehead creased with irritation, she made a spectacular impression of Charlotte Lévesque and Link felt suddenly and irrationally annoyed.
"Chill, Amy. I was just about to put on the monkey-suit when you walked in. I can't get dressed if you're gawking at me, can I ? I mean, I know you're weird, but... that's a little too d'Armagnac for me..."
"Gross, geek..." The Charlotte mask melted away as Amy stuck out her tongue and Link smirked.
"Nerd."
"Dork..."
"Go put on a sweater."
"Go put on a personality."
Link chucked a pillow from the head of his bed, which fell harmlessly to the floor as Amy backed out the door, laughing as she went, "Be ready in twenty, or I'm taking the town car without you!"
QUENTIN KINGSLEY
7:30 PM: Let the Games Begin...
Renting out a night club in a hotel for two-dozen high school students would have been a difficult task for the average man... Quentin Kingsley was no average man, and what a Kingsley wanted, they typically got. It took a little name dropping, a little monetary influence and more than a little flirtation, but ultimately, he'd gotten what he wanted and within a half-hour of the gala opening, the club looked phenomenal.
He'd opted for a 1920s theme, to fit the burlesque feel of the place - complete with a number of poker tables and roulette wheels. He had hired cigarette girls dressed as flappers, a jazz band with a gorgeous alto on the mic - a powerhouse woman who went by the name of "Gypsy" - and white-gloved wait staff. He'd spared no expense - bringing in an array of top shelf liquor, the best spread money could buy that a private chef could provide and all manner of extra... treats, for those whose proclivities ran in a more experimental vein.
To top off the decadence, he had completely overhauled the decor in the room. The walls had been draped in billowing fabric, a shear maroon, sconces and chandeliers, all gold and pearl and crystal hanging, glowing with incandescent candlelight. Around the room, round tables - chest height had been placed, topped with hurricane vases, filled to the brim with pearls... not the cheap plastic kind, either, and votive candles. There were authentic game tables, manned by Casino floor workers, flown in from Vegas, and luxurious furniture - benches and chaise lounges, couches and arm chairs, scattered here and there in comfortable, intimate pairings.
Reclining on a plush violet chaise, Quentin took a long, slow draw from a martini glass, giving the room one last once-over, before rising to his feet. Heading for the door, he paused to adjust the gift bags - filled to the brim with gourmet chocolates and coffee, ordered from Paris, full-sized bottles of champagne, cigars for the men and pearls, the ladies, and for those members newly joined, their packets for their prospective clubs including a leather bound copy of the rules and either their Zodiac pin or a piece of jewelry containing their designated birthstone.
Satisfied, he continued and as he reached the door, he unclipped the velvet rope from across the entrance, turning to the doorman. The burly, bald-headed man nodded to Quentin, who handed him a rolled up stack of bills, the cost of a man turning the other way, "Almost showtime, Renault... Let's give them a night to remember, hmm?"
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