sing, o muse

Melpomene gazes out the window, watching her faint reflection.

"Sometimes I wonder about that. Whether, for example, things could have been better if the library of Alexandria hadn't been burned. But... that's why the idea of a time machine is terrifying. Because we can't know until things are already changed."

Arriving at the Visitor's Center, Melpomene takes a look around.

"Well, this is it. In all its touristic glory. "

They are outside the Blue Owl Bar. It's mid-morning, so there are cars rushing [so to speak] by, and people walking, biking, or rollerblading down the sidewalk nearby.

"Well, here we are,"  she says brightly, ponytail ruffled by a light breeze.

Yes, she'd been away for a long time-- or was it only a few days?-- and she didn't miss it. She didn't. New York City, with its flickering lights and smoky dark rooms, had everything. Things were gritty and gloomy, and she liked them that way. Yet--

-- there was something charming about a sentient bar, and the cheery chatter that was different. But she wouldn't admit she wanted to go back, not ever. She didn't keep a calendar, and she didn't go over to that bar she'd stepped through that one time into another world every Friday just to see if it would do that again.

But the one time she wasn't trying, it happened, and without even a breeze. She stepped through.

It's the most wonderful time of the year, sings Melpomene absently to herself, avoiding eye contact with the sky, which threatens to sleet on her at any moment. Afterwards she immediately wants to hit herself over the head with something heavy. She's feeling a distinct lack of cheer, and every Santa-hatted elf flashing her a quick smile grates on her nerves.

The windows she passes are filled with colorful lights and laughing families, putting ornaments on the Christmas tree together or cleaning up after their pot roast dinner, as if posing for a portrait. Outside, Melpomene shivers under her trenchcoat, hurrying home with a pack of cotton candy bubble gum from the drug store around the corner.

They don't remember, she thinks. It should be a smug thought, but it's mostly desperation. It's just gift certificates and satin ribbons to them, isn't it?

She's about to turn down the dark street which, after a few more twists and turns, will lead her home, when she decides instead to go to the bar. It's not a pastime she's particularly ashamed of, and a tequila might sooth the sharp sound of laughter echoing out onto the street...

So, tucking the pack of gum into her pocket, Melpomene reaches the door, which jangles with overflowing holiday cheer, and pulls it open. Inside is something she's not expecting - Ho, ho, ho.

Before her other foot is through, Melpomene feels the drip of cold rain running uncomfortably down her back. Her hair is plastered to her head. There's a wet sensation on her lashes-- she blinks-- runs a hasty hand across her face.

Outside, neon lights flicker, blurred to watercolor by the dirty rain-- small flyers and twigs fly against the window, battered by a belated gust of March. Taxis (actors trying to make it big on Broadway, they'll live fast and die unknown) greet her in a harsh, chaotic symphony.

Melpomene turns, and strolls to the bar, leaving splotchy mud-prints on the ground. "Tequila. Tall. On the rocks."

Suddenly, as if a great dam has been released, she can see them all-- the colorful thoughts streaming by as they pass, the rough edges of anger and the dark, dripping colors of depression. The bartender is worried that his wife is having an affair. She sees it behind her eyes, sees the sickly green panic rise--
and then it's gone again, tamped quietly down.

Melpomene turns her head, sharply, against the bright color that's been gone for so long. Takes the tequila, heading quietly to a table to dry. On the way, she leans over the shoulder of a young man garbed in faded black and sporting a lip ring. A glance at the page, and a whisper-- "Give up the bloody swan feathers, or it give up altogether."

Several minutes later, Gary's scribbled out every mention of swan feathers in his poem--the best part-- and he's damned if he knows why.

[ooc: please go first to the Through the Door thread. Thanks.]

 ETA: As of this thread, all new threads in the masquerade are now after midnight [the links below are now re-linked to after-midnight sub-threads]. React at your leisure.

The ballroom itself is a burst of dazzling light. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling are two gold-wrought chandeliers, both of which glow brightly over the occasion, and tall lanterns shine throughout the room.

 

The grand staircase descends with a flourish and opens onto the main ballroom. A balcony, which providing a clear view of the goings-on below, runs all the way around the edge of the room. It can be reached via any of the four spiral staircases in each corner of the ballroom.

 

Below, the wooden dance floor flickers gently in the light from above, and musicians in the side room play soft, classical music. Meg Giry, the dance mistress for tonight, is on the floor with a microphone in hand.

 

A low, wooden bar in the corner provides hors d’oeuvres and drinks to revelers; small tables for two sprinkle the area.

 

 

 

 

Melpomene sits in her room, cursing men, women, gods, mortals, Greeks, Americans, Mexicans and the world in general.

She has a bottle of tequila by her bed, and she's seeing how many cards out of 52 she can flip into a hat-- not because this relieves any of the stress, but because it's something to do. A force of habit.

Mel wonders, for the thousandth time  in this century alone, what is wrong with mortals. Why they always have to misinterpret things, skew things so that it's the fault of the  person who has to deal with it for a thousand years. It's no stone on their back. She growls, trying to ignore the pressing voice in her head that's going it wasn't his fault, you're the one that sounds like a whiny child. Continues flipping cards and sipping tequila.

After about a half an hour of this, she slams down the half-empty bottle and storms over to her desk. No choice.

Parker-- she begins to write, pen smudging on the page.


... then she goes down to the bar, hoping he won't be there.