BLK-OCT//VEILED_WAR [semi-open|ic]

by **Crni-okt** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:01 pm

The Society of Harmony and Liberty
LA SOCIÉTÉ DE L'HARMONIE ET LIBERTE
archives updated: december-25-2016

by **Crni-okt** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:16 pm

VEILED WAR | FIRST ACT:
Odes to Her Untimely Death

CAPITALE DE CLECIELLE, ROYAUME SOUVERAINE DE BAR

Bar, ah, Bar.

Clecielle was not the gateway to paradise as it would have probably expected by a Monsieur of its prime. Clecielle has changed, for good reason. This change isn’t sudden, isn’t based on anything. Clecielle merely stands in its own business as much as its inhabitants. In the midst of its baroque uniform buildings came the cars on streets and the extensions of a modern society. Stoplights, some billboards (rather scarce), waiting sheds for two-tiered buses, renovated and modernized sections.

How can you betray me so?

Schoolchildren both in uniform and street clothes walk and converse. People in various garments, from scarves to straight up cloaks walk along pavements for their daily business. Musicians play for change being dropped in their cans, outstanding each other with creativity and talent. Same case with painters, slam poets and some kooky preachers with at least one or two audiences.

My children weep and cry in mourning of your voice so pure.

Food and fashion abound, from the classical to the fusion and avant-garde. Tailors and houses abound the urban streets and plazas on a sunny spring noon, some couples of varying kinds preferring their times together within these places of calm talk and leisure as lovers, friends, acquaintances or simply compadres. The air smells lightly of cheese, tomatoes and bread. The accents heard are prim, if not proper or aristocratic even in the most vulgar of conversations.

I question every time my thoughts that I believe is true.

Churches for the Mother of Mercy and the Son of God. Shrines for the Trinity of Humanity, bearers of the Keys. Temples for the Lady of Reason. The Faith of Bar has continually removed itself from the Romulans, the Johannines, the Vaticans, Anglicans, and the Protestants. For some reason it just goes. Though, they can count as protestant if it wasn’t for the waning power of the One True God the Father, Lord of the World, Bearer of the Sins of Man, The Holy Spirit, and the waxing prominence of the Eternal God the Architect, the Overseer of Truth, the Supreme Being, the Shining Sovereign. “Pretentious!” the traditionalists say. “Valid!” reply the modernists.

In sacred art I dealt with thee as I wander cluelessly so.

The shining glass triangular-base pyramid over the vast terrace of the monumental and palace-like Altar of the Shining Sovereign stands firmly in industrial silence during the day. Underneath is a long gallery. One side shows the masterpieces of old, the other the thought-provoking works of the new. There’s a silent air within this air-conditioned space. People tend to be in scarves except in summer.

We remember moments seething pass like pictures in the waves.

Some people are photographers, budding artists who are sketching, some even go digital and create a straight up study of an extravagant painting. Some women hold hands affectionately, though some of those women do it for show (that peculiar trend that should have died in the thirties have been revived by nosy intellectuals apparently). Some quietly argue about anything. Sometimes in verse. Could you compare Foucault or Hargreave? Who is morally superior: Christ or Socrates? In what way is the noble savage of greater value than the enlightened spirit?

I care no more of people crying freedom, order or rage,

These debaters can be found anywhere, in podiums, streets, sometimes in dark alleyways where intellectuals and posing intellectuals battle their wits and knowledge in poetic fashion to win themselves their advocacy. Ones that end in name-calling and a battle of egos never end well, but as one debater say, “It was worth a shot”.

Nor books and writings littered with magnanimous pages

Bibliotheques are also prevalent. Most are public. If you want a high quality read, look out for the ones that have a baroque exterior. There you shall feel like a travel back in time where gentlemen go about and perform elaborate rituals for it is the fetish of nobility. Great minds have been produced in these libraries. Children also come and go for a good story or two. If you are clever enough, you can find yourself reading smut going back to two hundred years ago. Knowledge leads to liberation, as they always say.

Bar, a lady drenched in gold and black, keys so shining, gryphons so pure

Clecielle overall is a great place worthy of a visit. Especially today, where people are in a private party. Today is a day of anniversary. The birthday of a popular dilettante. Conglomerate performer, collector of the arts. Only daughter of a merchant peer, collector of vinyls, a mogul without opulence, a magnate of weapons, cars and records. Probably hotels. Everyone in high society is coming, for they are expected to come. Stars, artists, businessmen, nobles, probably rulers from another land. However her fame, she was secluded from them, an introvert and an avid reader. She once visited her favorite author incognito. Her profile was ever low, only her name bears weight.

The child of knowledge, the daughter of art, mother of prosperity and sister of gods

She wakes up every morning in the smell of civet coffee, in a breakfast of a sandwich, precisely wheat bread, chicken breast, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and the grooves of Out of Body Experiences, Gliss Riffers, Mind Bokehs and Ambivalence Avenues. She gets out to walk and contemplate and visit the bibliotheques, the museum in the Altar of the Shining Sovereign, a Temple of Humanity where she prays to reason, and returns to her home in her interests of modern fiction, inspirations, work and her Her life is known only to her closest circle.

Bar, o, Bar! A virgin no more, alone from the adamant yet found her solace in her sisters,

Most particularly, to her dearly beloved friend, business partner, and fiancee.

Bar, o, Bar, my sweet maiden so divine, I bid thee forgiveness in solace and pain.

by **Crni-okt** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:18 pm

IMPÉRIAL MUSÉE DES ARTS, OUVRE LA ÊTRE SUPRÊME

It slipped my mind, And for a time, I felt completely free

The second Tuesday of the month.

Visitors come and go, some hold music in their ears. The smell of polished wood, a cold breeze from the air conditioning and the muffled murmurs of the curious throngs of observers and tourists permeate the halls. While not necessarily an occasion of any kind, the Imperial Museum of Art is fairly empty every year in this particular date that fell on this second tuesday, save for some onlookers, loyal connoisseurs, private couples and budding artists with their sketchpads. The same prevalent sound of people walking and murmuring of their comments are gone. It’s just relative silence. A safe haven.

World of trouble, silent double, a pawn into a queen

During this particular date one particular section of this particular museum in this particular city receives most activity: the hall of Modern Art, a cold, white hall with subtle lighting, gray tiled floors and the sound of an air conditioner’s hum. The hall is further divided into three sections based on their aesthetic motif: the dark and grotesque go on room 3, the light and conventional go on room 1, and the conceptual and pretentious on room 2. In room 2 there was an altar of sorts, surrounded by mirrors and a painting of the lady of humanity, a lady robed in white. It was ornamented heavily, with a wooden altar designed as if it was a real temple to humanity. The lady bore a mirror instead of a child, and looks down at the spectator, worryingly as if the spectator is a devil wrought on chaos upon the world. The mirror has a monster in it.

I'm still hanging on, Bird upon a wire, I fall between the waves

There I sat for a couple of hours, remembering a dream I once had, of a small cult upon an island within the Philippines.

Six years ago, in the island of Vergina, ten kilometers from the coast of Sariaya. Fifty kilometers south of Mount Banahaw. Mountainous and heavily forested, just like the Quezon mainland. The Philippine Church, Humanists, Iglesians have no presence there, the Catholics and successor churches were driven out by force during the olden days. Almost autonomous in itself, the people there live isolated from the rest of the province of Quezon. It was treated as its own state, an empty seat in congress.

I remember of seeing a temple, once a church, ridden with idols and statues that remind one of the Christian faith, yet are unrecognizable. In the nave there was an image of a lady, similar to that of the Lady of Humanity, albeit haloed with the red sun and in stands triumphant in heaven. Everyone was wearing red robes and crowns, all ornamented and embroidered like the clothes of the Child Jesus on Cebu. I could have sworn their bodies were covered in such cloth, from shoes to gloves. Upon the altar there was a woman priest, her robes more decorated and larger, akin to a pope, or rather to the Lady of Peace and Good Voyage (albeit red). Along with her are aides, lighting candles. There was sounds of the drum, everyone was bowing, their hands clasped in prayer. A company of children dressed in roman costume entered the stage, dancing and re-enacting a revisionist and gnostic retelling of the life of Christ. I think I saw the holy spirit come down in human form, floating above the air faceless and androgynous, putting this spiritual fire over their heads as it was told in the Pentecost.

As I remember the dream further I felt a hand touch my shoulder.

“Vince.” It said to me, a female voice with an accent native here.

“Carol.” I reply, looking up to her direction and seeing a young woman with short blonde hair, round face, in a light brown coat, orange knit cap and yellow scarf.

“What took you so long?”

“I have to do a detour.”

I sigh.

“What is it that you want to say to me?”

She nears to my ear, and whispers a phrase.

“My dearest stars, your son and righteous peace have rode heaven in pure glory.”

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I laugh now, But later's not so easy
I've gotta stop, The will is strong, But the flesh is weak
I guess that's it, I've made my bed, And I lie in it

He has lost control of the narration. We shall take the reins.

His eyes froze, his posture straightened, and closed his eyes. A couple of moments later he opens his eyes again, dilated and in a curious shade of bright gold. He removes his glasses and kept it on his coat, as if he doesn’t need it anymore (at this point, he really does not.)

Carol spoke softly to Vince.

“I bid you welcome, Parnassus.” she says. Her eyes now bear a similar tinge.

“I bid thee as well, Marianne.” he replies, in a small nod. He continues. “Why have I been summoned?”

"The Forehead and the Mazhlis Divan are sensing something. An unwanted guest is roving around Clecielle, right to our doorstep. Ready your compatriots and open your eyes.”

“What about you?”

“The Bhairava and I have a party to attend.”

"Much obliged then, Daughter of Philomena.”

And so he left as Parnassus, and her eyes returned to a shade of brown as Carol once more. Carol finds a bench within the installation, and sits, and ponders.

She then remembers a dream of her past, about her baptism (rather, presentation) within a Temple of Humanity. A tune she remembers from her induction as a child, held by the hand by her mother and father to the Temple, and being presented to the priestess well dressed. She remembers seeing her foster parents for the first time, meeting with her true mother and father, and she remembers her taking her third name.

Carolina, from a song in an old vinyl she listened to in her early years.

After all, nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the Morning.

by **Crni-okt** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:20 pm

QUARTIER DE MENULS LES SAINT CLOUD, CLECIELLE, BAR

Ten blocks away from the Île Charusine development zone. An urban manor, a three-story modernist-baroque building. The residence of Clotilde Guinevere.

A party is ongoing.

The invited audience are a mixed lot. There are up and up artists (musicians, designers, painters) with the lady's patronage, to perform in her home. Some journalists from a couple of magazines, particularly Belle Noveau, Velt-Aarde, and nora.cajan (presumably for them to be official sources for their coming of age, a new feat for the usually reclusive owner). And most populous among this merry throng are the high society. Fellow rich fellows, progressive politicians, close friends, rich eccentrics, and prominent individuals in the Triofan continent and abroad, which all tend to fit the bill o aforementioned fellows and individuals.

In the spotlight someone is missing. There have been signs of presence of the host, only her companion and (confirmed) fiancee, Amelie Vaux. They met in 2003, kept the relationship in secret due to uptight family reasons (Dana’s family are pretty lax on the issue even though they have not officially met with the former executives of the Guinivere Group, you can complete the equation on that one). Openly dated six months after the burial of the late Leo Guinivere-Strauss (bless the old man’s soul). As the heir, she and her lover took the reins of the powerful business.

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I look towards them with facetious prejudice. Party-goers. Significants. Particulars. Familiars. Clumped within the confines of our home. I’m from Cistrano, it’s too itching for us to not nimble and nitpick at details so flowery to look sociopathic. It’s an exercise.

Alright. Let’s see here.

An acquaintance from Topkekkia. Last name is a Kurcatova or something. Met him in 2008 in a business trip. Obviously patriotic. An obvious 5’’8, dilettante of philosophy and esotericism, vaguely patriotic from her meetings with him. The Topkekkians are always diplomats whenever and wherever they go. Everyone outside is sent by their leader, obviously. It’s not like we have anything questionable here.

~~Maharlikan~~ Filipino. Santiago de los Santos. CEO of the Aguila Conglomerate, generally a more “heavy-handed” version of the Guiniveres. That one guy whom Clotilde didn’t really know. I think he’s the only one from the many Philippines that she didn’t know. As far as I know, her father and he was on good terms with each other. I think we saw him during Monsieur Guinivere’s funeral, but it’s not really noteworthy at this point because he’s friends with a lot of people. I heard he’s warming up to us for a good Aurel or two.

~~Asigna~~ Filipino noble, Mahjar Assat’llah. For some reason. The name sounds arabic, but I do not remember exactly the nature of that name. Fluent in Tamsienese, Malay and Tagalog. Practicing Sunni, though has made bouts with the Shia, Sufi and Ibadis. At this point apathetic over what happens at home. It’s a shithole and the hierarchs aren’t being the best within their own point of management.

~~Capuloan~~ Filipino musician. Joan Martinez. Fled that particular place two years ago, the outlook is too shabby, too much biblicalism, divinity and status quo, hierarchal and inequitable, chauvinistic, devlish, arrogant, despicable, humiliatingly edgy, shortsighted, egotistic, inconsistent and overly sentimental. Much less the NRP Philippine Republic. Too cultish in some places. Pretentious in some others, too radical and fluxed, time moving too fast that a serial hand fetishist would go nuts, too much parties in the city, too much quiet in the country, equitable but melodramatic in outlook, opinionated, accursive, implicative, judgemental. Not even god and gods can explain why both have to be insufferable. These sides of the pacific are always the devlish ones everywhere.

Natajan Girl. Naka Pemaung. Close friend of ours. Partner in communications and networking, fellow fashion enthusiast. Has disdain for Punch, Setsu and Wigle. I remember she joined some new-age thing one time, we met her during the Alternative Faith Conference in 2014. Good times. Her sister’s a member of their parliament, if my memory is correct.

An egghead. Slavic. Povezanost. Branko Matkovic. Unnecessarily robotic in movement. Been a mess, 7’’6, tall, male, blonde but not aryan, sycophant and cacophonic in interpersonal dealings. Cannot entrust such a man with anything, really. Bad haircut. He claims he’s from Serbia, or from Bosnia, or both. Cannot really tell, eh. He seems inconsistent and rambling, yet careful to prevent him from looking fully like an obvious mess.

Zhouranese, out of all people. John Ronghuan. Same as most of the rich people we’ve invited. Tall, quiet, a little weird, wears a turtleneck underneath a grey blazer, scruffy facial hair, the guy looks a little out of place for a wealthy Zhouranese man. Currently the chairman of the electronic-based state-owned collective enterprise called Baolei Solutions. I always thought their logo seemed out of place for an Acesio-Pacific enterprise. But hell, who am I kidding? It’s not like Heptapeiron made sense at this point. Plus, the Zhouranese are kinda out of place themselves. There’s a reason why the nation is called the “Europe of the Orient.”

Carolinian. Supervisor of some agricultural cooperatives bordering Bar. Been dealing business with us on behalf of the Founder’s Congress. Not much of a big venture, but it’s a big thing when dealing with a self-sufficient post-cybersolar quantum state or whatever it is they decided to call their country as. They want to go to Mars, though, and he’s the reason we have invested nicely over their fishing waters.

Acadian. Don’t even think about thinking about them. End of story.

Esgonian. A representative of a pharmaceutical company. She seems to be of Czech or Polish origin or something. Wants to join the group to help expand their company to international markets. She seems to be wearing something simplistic, a dress with a jacket to cover her upper body and a few earrings. Seems to have a serious personality, either that or she just feels uneasy here since this is her first time coming here, can’t blame her though.

Let’s see, I see also a man in a white shirt, translucent fabric with a black coat. Hair tied in a bun, beads in neck. He came and greeted potential acquaintances with a clasped bow. Buddhist, I assume, since his features are too Austronesian and his hair styled too specific to be deduced as Hindu. Wears a sash on his left, scholarly-businessman type. Tamsienese, obviously. Chloe has talked of collaborating with the Singha Raya enterprises for potential projects, particularly in communications.

A bred Victorialan couple as well. Visually contrasting. Victor Yong Banwamin and Caroline Harvent. One is slightly austronesian (I’d say Chinese, Natajan and ~~Katayuan~~ Filipino), wearing glasses, scarf (all in all he looks like a short and roundheaded Bendleprick Cucumberstash without the curly hair), kind of tall for his ethnic background, very laid back. The other, blonde, hair on a bob reaching down to her neck, wears subtle palette of yellows and blacks. Supposedly artists, invited to perform. There’s a pin on their lapels with the emblem of a university available both in Magdalensborg, Clecielle and Ville de Nocte. Victorialan High University? Ecole Barienne Superior? Sovereign Colleges? I don’t know. There’s also hearsay about them being nora.cajan correspondents. I’ve yet to know, since that magazine doesn't show pictures of their contributors.

Chloe should be here any minute. The crowd’s rowdiness is starting to fade slowly.

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High society is on a reeve. Lady Guinevere is turning twenty-six. Youngest magnate in the city. Her first “public” appearance. At least to the high society. Old people and millenials are coexisting in this rainforest of audiences.

It's like Christmas 1975 all over again.

by **Crni-okt** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:21 pm

LA SALLE DE MUSIQUE, GUINEVERE MAISON

:ELCRIC:

There’s a current set being played by a DJ right now. The turntables use actual vinyls. An MPC lies on the side, a set of drums for the other, both unused. No fancy lights, just a dim yet refreshing environment filled with bopping rich kids who asked for a vibe. The tracklist is diverse, from soul, funk, and midwestern and asian soft hip hop.

That was Alia Ashimori. Nomyokunese. Her tracklist is going to run out. Good thing Carol and Victor is up next.

“Yo fam, you ready for our set?” Victor spoke to her.

“Don’t you think it’s really weird that our obscure rich friend put someone of our demographic in a party filled with people with daily incomes a thousand more bucks than us?” She replied.

“Considering this place, not really.”

“Huh, for the almost two decades of my existence I always thought the new city has this really clear distinction between the ‘high’ and ‘low’.”

“Yo should’ve read Calvin and Hobbes then. Well, it can be justified, you lived on the country, yadda yadda, it’s a natural reaction. Besides, that’s the fun in the city right?”

“The fact that you know more about this place than me is fucking surreal, you know that?”

“Moral lesson: going to the same places outside everyday isn’t worth calling ‘going outside’, aight?”

“Whatever. So, what do you want to play first, then?”

“Burn the Witch.”

“Nice.”

“Once we’re done, make sure you take pictures of the birthday girl, alright?”

“As if I’m going to forget that.”

by **Crni-okt** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:22 pm

GRANDE SALLE, GUINEVERE MAISON

Stay in the shadows

I’m two minutes early for the reveal. It’s time.

Cheer in the gallows.

I fix my hair with my right hand and put my round, tinted glasses on. It’s like going to a big recital, except you’re not going to be the point of scrutiny, rather how the whole thing might go. Most of the people here haven’t even seen my face in full, or met me in direct, other than some close friends. I don’t think they have been aware at my hair.

This is a round up

Back when I was younger, when father was alive, he didn’t really show me over his peers. I was only introduced, given compliments over what I wore, or what I look like, like I was a puppy. He sometimes shows evidence of how I did well in piano recitals. And I guess that’s the extent of my past existence during that time.

This is a low flying panic attack

It’s welling up to me now. No, please, not today. Not this time. I cannot do this with you! No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! It’s not supposed to happen like this everytime I try to remember. Why, why???

I have to keep it, god, god, god, god, god.

Breathe in, breathe out.

In, out.

In, out.

Sing a song of the jukebox that goes

It’s time. I have to step out.

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Burn the witch, Burn the witch

The crowd looked up as the big reveal has been unveiled. From the curtains of the main hall she has emerged. The first song on the couple’s set, a haunting progression, has swelled to her first musical climax.

Clotilde Guinivere, the lady magnate of Victoriala. Victor thought she looked like her cousin.

She was magnificent, at least on how the modern Triofan views it. She seems pale (rather more because of her grandmother’s Caroline ancestry) She bore white hair (colored by her fiancee Amelie, out of her behest), straightened and styled in the belle diagonale style (which is basically almost-straightened hair which was cut diagonally in the bottom, making it look like one side is longer while the other seems shorter), a pretty round head, sporting purple tinted glasses. She bore an ocean-themed dress that is transparent at her upper body (no, it wasn’t revealing in the slightest), rather a bit informal, since she wore white sneakers and a medium-length khaki skirt. She sported a small pendant over her neck, inside bearing an icon of the Mother Humanity bearing the Child Destiny in her arms. A gift from her father’s friend.

We know where you live

The people greeted her with surprise and enthusiasm, this rather limited and select invited throng eager to meet the young woman. The few journalists she invited asked to take her photo, which she somewhat did, but it wasn’t long until she declined any further, telling the authorized snoops to “wait until she comes to them”.

It’s time to meet these particular persons of her new circle.

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Red crosses on wooden doors

I see Amelie come right at me.

“Chloe! J'ai attendu pendant des heures.” She said to me.
«Chloe! I’ve been waiting for you for hours.»

“Oh, s'il vous plaît, Amie. Il est à seulement vingt minutes. Ne pas exagérer.” I replied.
«Oh, please, Amie. It’s just twenty minutes. Don’t exaggerate.»

We laughed.

“Oh, oui, je l'ai recueilli votre petit «cercle d'amis». Pourquoi voulez-vous tous ici ensemble?”
«Oh, yeah, I have gathered your little ‘circle of friends’. Why do you want them all here together?»

“Pour déclarer notre dyarchie.”
«To declare our diarchy.»

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And if you float, you’ll burn

Chloe held her companion's hand and took her with her on the “new circle”. The new cats (she objects with the adjective of “fat”, because of its connotation), she prefers to call them. Some are acquaintances to her parents, some from their own accord, and some to the dealings they made through their secretaries. Some have questionable backgrounds, but she didn't really care. It was a declaration of a new order in the consortium of cash and the betterment of her land's sphere.

She looks at the gathered circle in the middle of light social commotion. She proceeds to subtly breathe, step forward and smile, with the intention of greeting and further acquaintance.

“Good evening, friends and accomplices.”

Loose talk around tables...

by **Topkekkia** » Sat May 28, 2016 9:34 pm

tagged

by **Victoriala** » Sun May 29, 2016 8:37 pm

Grande Salle, Guinivere Maison
about three songs after this

Hold, that, light
Smoke, that, fire

Holy fuck, this set's longer than we thought. Rad. We're going to play with a lot of fellow fucks in their best clothing tonight. More time to buy. Now, Marianne said there's a lot of vultures buzzing around to this party. Who is (maybe are?) our mystery asshole for tonight?

I browse and jam. Let's see if our set of vinyls keep them chill enough for that cunt to pop his head up.

[instrumental]

The immediate audience gradually bops slower. I get my eyes towards them. I look at the rich people over the back. Someone's going around. That face, I swore I saw a LinkedIn of him somewhere. The name's Slavic or something. Wasn't that guy supposed to be with Chloe? He's stalling. Alright. Keep the air up. Don't let them dance too much. Keep the music easy.

"Hey Carol." I said to her ear.

"What?"

"Trash our dance lineup. Let's keep it chill."

"Why?"

"I'm tracking the Topkek dude."

"Aight fam."

:VORDSHOBN:

Alright, Kekker. What the fuck are you doing now? This guy's erratic. He's trying to find something. But what? Look at his tux. See him walk nervous over hipsters and fancy old money. A small bump over that coat. Most probably a gun hidden in it. Let's see, let's remember what was in that LinkedIn. Get that Benedick Cumbercunt brain running.

Hmmm, Kurchatov. Computer Guy. We're talking like, big computers. ~~Like, ENIAC and shit. No, wait. ENIAC's too old. Let's scratch that.~~ Like the Computer that won Jeopardy. Or the IBM Z9. Or MOÐR.

That's weird. Guinivere doesn't have any fancy computers in this house. Probably something smaller. Macbooks? Notebooks? Chromebooks, Desktops, whatever it is. Shit. What are the odds?

Let's see. Societe Archives. Don't fail me, Bamalam Cucumberdush brain. Come on. Oil Pipeline issue in West Africa. Topkekkian involvement. Mainframe issue. This man wants to do a Liberia 2: Electric Boogaloo. I need to backhand this guy.

was it not for us to claim
win the game
rivaled adversary weight
the give and take

"Carol." I do that lick my ear thing again.

"What?"

"Ascend me, Lady Berothed. Your presence is needed as a daughter of the faithful martyr."

He froze a bit and did the eye thing. She went from Bucky to WInter Soldier quick. Her eyes are like sclera contacts for cosplayers for a while.

"Daughter of Philomena."

"Ave."

"I'm going to tail some cunt. Keep them occupied, keep the playlist chill."

Her eyes went back to normal. She nodded.

I stepped down the stage. Alright, cunt. What do you got for us.

by **Topkekkia** » Sun May 29, 2016 9:20 pm

Clecielle, Victoriala
Guinevere Maison

The soiree was alive without a doubt, people milling about with little purpose, discussing facets of life from their home nations, general party behavior when the objective isn't to get so drunk you can't walk straight for more than a couple meters. Casimir Kurchatov kind of liked it. There was an atmosphere of controlled chaos, like the erratic wanderings of the assorted guests were somehow planned long in advance. They were all used to this life to the point where they had derived an almost formulaic sense of where to go and who to chat up. Casimir certainly hadn't.

He found experiences like this a nice change of pace from his usual line of work. Not too long ago, he was in west Africa destroying oil pipelines for the sake of creating markets by force. It was a staple of Topkekkian state economics that he didn't really understand, but it put money in his pocket and food on his table, so he didn't complain.

He complained about having to show up to a black tie event even less. He got to eat fancy food, drink fancy drinks, and wear fancy clothes that hid his plastic P226 (He found metal detectors to be quite a drag in his line of work. Plastic weapons didn't have the right heft as far as he was concerned.) beneath his tuxedo fairly well. But it wasn't all fun and games, as he well knew. Though he was glad to have been invited, his employers in the Order were a far sight more glad at the opportunity to break into Victorialan computer banks, something which they'd had trouble getting at in the past. Though nothing that put them in the painful stare of the public eye was revealed, it was still too close for their comfort.

That was where Casimir came in. Since they hadn't yet figured out how to use computers to do all their dirty work, the opportunity to put a gun toting instrument of foreign policy and his nifty cell phone (The lab geeks from the Unconventional Warfare Center had said something to him before leaving about "revolutionary encryption breaking", "custom OS", and "no, you can't install Snapchat on it, it's a delicate tool, not a toy.") right next to Victorialan computers was a godsend. The only problem for him was that he didn't know where the computers in question were. Perhaps those back at command in Sevick did. No, that was a silly thought. They'd always informed him well before missions in the past, why change now?

But for now, he was left to bumble about the room, sipping martinis, eating crackers, and discussing pleasantries in his less than perfect French with the other guests.

"Je pense que l'amende de la météo."
<I think the weather's fine.>
It doesn't matter you stupid shit, we're inside. Nope, no computers over there. Damn.

"Vraiment? Comment intéressant. Faites-moi dire plus."
<Really? How interesting. Do tell me more.>
What was she talking about? Who even was she? Pemanga or something? How could she manage to block the way to the basement so efficiently?

After a couple hours, still no luck with those computers. Not that it was a major loss in Casimir's eyes. The night was still young, the drinks were still flowing, and aside from the fact that this was technically work, he didn't find it altogether unpleasant. Perhaps this wouldn't turn out as horribly as usual.

by **Esgonia** » Sun May 29, 2016 9:53 pm

Guinivere Maison
Victoriala
Polina Brunhardt

"Stay calm. Just stay calm"

Polina repeated this to herself as she entered the Maison, wearing her best clothes for the event, although it was not as elegant compared to the others, it was the best appropriate attire she had. The soiree was alive, as she'd expected; Dozens of guests mingling with each other, though conversing, dining, or dancing. This was something quite different from her usual experience in meetings like this, as she is usually accustomed to meetings around office buildings or conference centers for talks like this, so this made her extremely anxious. She only engaged in minor conversation with the other guests near the entrances, but only to those who had greeted her at first, speaking French with a slightly Czech accent.

To her, she wanted to talk with the Guiniveres, then leave. And she wanted to do it urgently, but decided to stay for a while anyway, as the party had seemed lively, and it would be considered rude if she just left abruptly. Besides, this is a rare opportunity for her to experience something like this.

Walking towards the Grand Salle, she could hear the conversations next to her, one of them speaking about being a head of a computer company, from the nation of Topkekkia, from what she gathered from her research, was part of the Guiniveres, along with several others. This made her more anxious, as her behavior around the Maison could spell disaster for her and the company she represented if she doesn't keep it in check. "These are large people I'm with right now, better hope I do not mess this one up, else I would not hear the end from the heads back home." She said in her head.

by **Whiteshore** » Sun May 29, 2016 9:54 pm

Placeholder

by **Victoriala** » Fri Jun 03, 2016 3:12 am

Grande Salle
Amelie Vaux

Powder your nose, love, Smoke if you want to
Put your feet in the water, The city belongs to you girl

The Circle is half-complete. Guinivere looks at her in sudden wonder. Amelie looks quite confused as well.

"Amie, où sont les autres?"
«Amie, where are the others?»

"Ô, ouais, ouais. J'aurais juré que je suis tous ensemble."
«Oh, yeah, yeah. I could have sworn that I got all of them together.»

Chloe sighed.

"Apparemment non. Disons simplement continuer pour que nous puissions chercher à ce que nous avons." She said with a smile to Amie.
«Apperently not. Let's just continue so we can pick up from where we started.»

Amie replied with a "oui".

The Conversation then proceeds with caramaderous haste. All the while, she sees two people. Victor Banwamin and Kurcatova (she's yet to look at the guestbook again). One looking and the other following.

"Что ебать?", she muttered.
«What the fuck?»

Clotilde Guinivere

Oh, God. This might not fare well for any of us, was it.

Anyway, it's at least slightly great that we banded the new cats altogether (albeit in some way, somehow). I could understand some for not being in this circle currently (well, the two of them are on the stage-- wait, where's the m. Victor? Why is m'lle. Caroline the only one at the set? I could have sworn they were together just now. Vicky doesn't go to the bathroom all of a sudden. Weird). Alas, some interaction can still be done, and the nouvellearchie can be put in place.

I proceeded to converse with someone who seems eager yet nervous to talk to me.

"Ah, hi! Madamoiselle Brunhardt, was it?" I said in my most fluent register of English (which still I cannot remove the accent from, damn it).

A memory of the young Guinivere

A private School not far from the Maison Guinivere. 1993 CE.

<Alright, Chloe. Let's run through it all again. "My name is Chloe." Come on, say it.> The mistress spoke to the sitting girl.

"Me nem i Chloo." She replied.

<no, no, no. "My name is Chloe.">

"Mai nem i Chloo."

<Alright, let's try this. "My...">

"Mei..."

<no, no, no, "My..."

"Mai..."

<"Name...">

"Naem..."

<"Is...">

"Iss..."

<"Chloe.">

"Chlooi."

<no, no, no, "Chloe".>

"Chlooe"

<no, it's pronounced /Khlowee/.>

"Kloo."

<"Chloe.">

"Clue?"

<no, "Chloe.">

"Kloooi".

<come on, just bear with me here: "Chloooouie.">

"Kloie."

<"Chloe.">

"Kleee."

<oh my god.>

She had to quit that class some days later.

by **Zhouran** » Fri Jun 03, 2016 6:11 am

GUINEVERE MAISON
CLECIELLE
VICTORIALA
John Ronghuan - Baolei Solutions

Originally John was supposed to be golfing with other Zhouranese businessmen in some resort in Hainan, however he ended up being in some party in a foreign land. He knew where he was, who the Guinaveres were (partially), but he couldn't remember how he got into the party. All he knew that someone told him, while he was drunk, that he was invited to a party. That's it.

John was just standing there, taking a sip of his martini one by one. Although he had been to many parties, especially during his playboy times at university in Australia, John felt a little alone, but then again he would spend most of his spare times either reading, taking a walk outside, or go swimming. Since the night was still young, he decided to stand up and simply mingle with the guests.

Multilingual, John can speak not only Putonghua, but also English, Tagalog and partially Russian and German. When speaking Putonghua, he would always have that thick monotone Zhouranese dialect, but when it comes to speaking English, he had the Aussie accent. Not the very strong stereotypical "crocodile-hunter" accent as seen in movies, but rather the more casual accent where "no" is pronounced as "no'r", "write" as "wroite", and "hat" as "heht". As he wandered around for a bit before walking towards some guest, John knew that he was representing Baolei, and that there are guests in the party who too are also rich and famous.

by **Victoriala** » Fri Jun 03, 2016 9:45 am

Victor Yong

What else should I say, baby,
What else should I say, baby?

Goddamn it, I lost the cunt. I have no time to check the whole place. I need to survey my immediate surroundings. Let's see. Second floor indoor balcony. None. First floor hall and the dj room. Impossible. The third floor is off limits. He can't get in there any sooner. Let's see. Bathroom, none. Basement? Off limits. I need to put this one on hold. Alright, Cassy. You're not here. Lucky ass. Some people slightly dance to the rhythm of the music. Alright. I need to get back on the sesh. I'll be on the set at this point.

Heavy to move but slowly...
Burned in his gaze

I walk back to the party, the music changes. She knows I didn't find it. Looks like I have to check on the ass later once we're over. The people begins to dance more, gradually from their bopping. It fully descends to the non-patricians dancing upon the crescendo. The song was a moodsetter. The lights went dim, the strobelights a bit more pronounced. As I walk towards the forest of some raised hands I find someone from the circle.

The man's kinda alone. I find him in a martini. His eyes seem a bit disjointed from reality (also known as my wednesday mood). Damn it, let Carol have the rest of the set. She seems having fun there jaded as fuck.

I came to his rear and tapped his shoulder. He notices and turns to me.

"Oi, I saw your face from the vip guestbook. Name's Victor Yong, Illustrator for nora.cajan and part-time sound design. You?" I say with my natural accent (which doesn't really mean anything, it just makes me sound like some generic American who ate classic pastrami.

I hand him my card. Orange, overly minimalist, and mostly composed of my contact details in white Roboto font and white round dots superimposed over some grayscale mountain studies that I did. A Bowen's Cross is embellished on the inverse with a similar orange background.

by **Zhouran** » Sun Jun 05, 2016 6:58 am

End Ya Whole Sh*t - Lil Ugly Mane (Lewd Theme, PG-13)

"Oi, I saw your face from the vip guestbook."

As soon as John heard a voice from behind and felt a finger tapping his shoulder, he (metaphorically) shat himself.

"Name's Victor Yong, Illustrator for nora.cajan and part-time sound design. You?"

Sweating and shaking slightly, he slowly turned around before receiving an orange card from the man. He looked at the card for a few seconds and was impressed by the design, before putting it in his pocket for safekeeping. He then looked at the man and smiled at him.

"Uh, the names John. John Fitzgerald Ronghuan. Chairman of Baolei Solutions. You can call me Fitzy if you like."

He then slowly placed his left hand at a hand-shake position, waiting for a handshake from Victor. Inside, John felt like a total mess who might have embarrassed the company.

by **Victoriala** » Sun Jun 05, 2016 7:51 am

Victor Yong

An awkward eye contact was prolonged between the two. A moment later and Victor burst into laughter. He felt someone bump on his back. Just another guy dancing his ass off over some weird song Carol put over the set (it had a Spooky Black/Yung Lean vibe without the respective suicidal lyrics and lifeless rapping). Fitzy felt uncomfortable.

His laughter slowly fades and taps his shoulder, his own way to express that "he comes in peace".

"Ayyy, don't be scared sight? I'm just fucking with you. Lighten up for a while, aight?" He smiles in sincerity and shakes his hand.

"I'm one of the people the birthday girl invited in the same list as you. Crazy, right?" He chuckles. He then proceeds to get himself a glass of Lean from a tray by a server in a tux.

"So, Fitz, tell me about yourself."

by **Zhouran** » Sun Jun 05, 2016 7:59 am

"Well, uh... uhm, I was supposed to be golfing, but I got told about this party and how I was invited. That's all I could remember from drinking too much whishkey. Other than that, I don't really go partying. Well, back at the days when I was at uni in Australia, used to."

As he slowly sips his martini, John broke eye contact awkwardly but looked back at Victor and proceeds to ask him a question.

"So, can I ask you something? How and why were you invited to this party? I asked this to myself and I don't have a clue to be honest fam. I could sense that the party girl invited rich and famous people.

Oh and by the way, Nora.cajan looks pretty cool. While I'm no artistic person myself, I might actually by a copy of the next issue."

by **Victoriala** » Sun Jun 05, 2016 9:27 am

Victor Yong

Wow, this guy is really fucking jaded right now. All the while to kill some time.

"Hmmmm, your guess is as good as mine. One thing, though: I met Chloe Guinivere back in the university." I point towards the girl (no, she's not Arielle, Frank) jamming her ass off on the DJ set, even more jaded by the music. "Me and my girl Carol was on our third year on our courses. Chloe saw us vibing to some sick beats in the street. She somehow recognized our faces from social studies. After that, she found I draw and make pretty pictures, Carol makes sick beats, and voilà, we're friends with a rich girl."

He complemented about Nora.cajan. Great. Hope he doesn't see our article deriding FKA Twigs while simultaneously praising her album covers. Or those weird Metal Hurlant-era smut. Oh, man. Those were some really wild shit.

"Oh, really? That's pretty good, good, good. Yeah. I actually got our most recent issue at the back. I'll cop you one, free. Aaaafter Carol's done with the set, that is. I'm not one to interrupt people's trances."

by **Singaporean Transhumans** » Wed Jun 08, 2016 5:57 pm

Branko Matković

"Degenerates." the blue-uniformed man remarked unimpressed at the music of the scene. He had not engaged into any activities of the party for the time being except chatting with others now and then on international politics and probably getting his own drink which he scorned the lack of respect or taste the Vickies had for 'ljudi-piće'. The music playing in his head was from another peiron entirely, him filtering out what he thought as no better than radio interference from his mind and replacing that with classic Roki Vulović or Behar 505. Viteška tracks. Now and then Električni Orgazam would pop up. He looked at the dancing ones with contempt.

Mi smo sila Nebeska

Who was Matković, again?

Even for a Povezanosnik, he was quite confusing of a nationality.

Probably an attempt by the Bosnians to make their dream of a stronk kebabland across oceans true, he held only a 'Bosnian' identity without even specifying which one. He was born in Brdo Malina, that's for sure.

Anyway, the radar engineer found little purpose in coming here. They had just told him without any aims or goals delegated to this man. He thought he'd just chill, eh.

Vojnik Sreće

He'd try to find some Clavestvans to talk to, them being of common Slavic heritage, but he'd rather finish off this shot first before progressing on. Oh also his haircut looks like something straight out of 1992 which didn't do exactly well if he was attending such an event.

by **Victoriala** » Wed Jun 08, 2016 6:24 pm

Naja Pemaung

Jaya Adhi Jinasakka Raja Svahamuni Jaya.

The mood was set aflame by the uneasy joining of high class and high crass. The anathema of contrasts made unified by way of aesthetic design. For a modern woman born into a priestly world, the sound was a slight breather of moral uprightness of home. There is freedom, but her stature gives her obligation to retain her inhibitions and reservation.

She walks around to find solace in company, to find comfort in Chloe and the others.

Jaya Maya Jinasakka Rani Padmadewi Jaya.

Carol Harvent

Almost Free

Alright, whatever. It's done. This is the last song on the list. I'm fucking tired. The other guy on the back is waiting on his hands on the rig.

I took the boxes of vinyls and our parts of the rig (which is the ones that aren't the turntables and the mixer)

"Aight, I'm out. Peace."

Up next is Frances Park. Whatever. I'm done. I want a drink.

by **Victoriala** » Thu Jun 09, 2016 7:01 am

june 2016 NORA.CAJAN
neo-dadaism // gamer cultures // concept cars // deco-gothic // Neapolitan "Pizzawave" scene // COMIC: Rosy Cheeks by kaoling and Variation Fourty-Five by seedrinkr // FICTION: The Sky is an Eternal Sea by Mei Zhou // POETRY: Letters to God by closingheavens // ALBUM REVIEW: Teen Dream by Beach House

by **Victoriala** » Thu Jun 09, 2016 8:05 am

"Hello my name is Kendrick," she said "No, you're handsome"
Whispered in my ear, disappeared then found her dancing

Carol Harvent

Frank literally started with good kid, M.A.A.D. City out there, holy shit.

That's a bad fucking move to leave me there on the fucking rig. Goddamn it, Vicky. The fuck is with you and "killing time"? Don't get me wrong, me on the turntables alone was pretty fuckin' wild, but fuck you, man. You don't leave me out there to fuck around. Unless it's about your mom again. I was too jaded on that tsikuni you left on the table to even notice what you were fucking doing. This better not be you just fucking around again, I swear to fucking Christ. Where are you even? Godfuckingdamn it, we were supposed to fucking get with Amie to talk about that fucking portfolio thing soon after.

There he is, in the atmosphere of postmodern degeneracy* and K-Dot verses I find him in a glass of tsikuni talking with some Asian guy on a martini who's off it. That guy, handing him an early copy of nora.cajan. The fuck you on, man?

I waved and gestured to him the idea of "Vape, hey, you fucking Vape, I'm here." He notices, gesturing "hang on there a sec" and talks to that quasi-mong on the fancy glass. He turns back to my direction, whistles and snaps his fingers --

.
.
.

Whoa, oh, god. What the fuck was that? Felt a bit faded out there. Oh, great. He's talking to that Zhouranese guy. What's his name again? Jian Longhua? Neh, I'd know when I get to him.

I came to them to get to know about this assbag.

"Oh, cool. You're here." Vicks said to me, smiling. "This is the Zhouranese guy, John Ronghuan. John, this is Carol Harvent. Partner, Sound Designer and Musician."

"Hi, fancy meeting you, John." I shake his hand.

*used ironically, she ain't fucking with them blackshirts or crownlickers aight
also she's french don't forgetto

by **Esgonia** » Fri Jun 10, 2016 10:53 pm

Guinivere Maison
Victoriala
Polina Brunhardt

A few drinks in and she finally manages to ease up a bit, reducing her 'first time here' anxiety she had earlier. She felt more relaxed and finally began enjoying herself as she looked around. Despite that, her priorities came first. After all, she didn't want to get carried away and probably do something regrettable.

She gazed around a bit and looked at the circle, looking slightly envious at some of the women who looked more elegant than her, she then gazed at her dress, seeing at the simplistic style of it that regular business women usually wear to formal occasions, compared to what the other women were wearing, and said to herself.

"I knew I should had bough a nicer dress to this occasion. But eh, it's too late anyways."

Moments later, she was approached by a woman who had greeted her, speaking in English with a slightly French accent. She then realized that she was greeted and approached by the Magnate herself, Clotilde Guinivere. Being approached by the woman herself was a surprising thing herself, since she usually is greeted by the heads last. But seeing as she was now here with her, she took it as an opportunity to establish relations with her.

"Alright, Polly. Don't screw this up."

"Ah, hello. And yes, I am Madamoiselle Brunhardt, You must be Madamoiselle Guinivere, yes?"
"It's an honor to meet you."

by **Victoriala** » Thu Jun 30, 2016 11:29 pm

Chloe Guinevere

There's still an air of unease over her. Should I?

yeah

Fine, then.

"Of course, did the hair made it too obvious?" I laugh. There's a slight smell of churros and mulberry in the air.

I give my hand to her. "I am quite grateful to meet you."

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