trinkett | First Dispatch. How Utterly Dreadful. Voice.

First Dispatch. How Utterly Dreadful. Voice.

[Anyone who meets Effie in this post will meet her in full Capitol fashion and makeup. She landed in the shop, you see. A stiff turquoise-blue structured gown, fortunately, landed beside her.

And the wig -- thank the Senate! There were plenty of wigs and there was HER wig, tight and blond and curled and fabulous -- and the new violet wings sprouting from her shoulders were quite irregular but one never drew attention to one's irregularities. If anyone asked, they were Fashion. With any luck everyone who was anyone in the Capitol would be wearing similar ones, soon.

The makeup took a bit longer. Effie finally settled on green because green is one of her Power Colors and it IS almost spring, after all. She drew her lips in a pursed bow to reflect her dissatisfaction with everything.

It had only taken a quick readthrough of the Guide for Effie to grasp somewhat what was going on. It wasn't terribly shocking, but it was highly disappointing. She'd wanted to be in the Capitol for Katniss and Peeta, not transferred to a new post just at the height of a possible professional and personal triumph. Her charges were brilliant! Cinna had shown their fire to everyone. The sensation had been rampant and her promotion near-assured. Effie Trinket's star had been rising in the Capitol, the heart of Panem and civilization.

And then Someone had Bumped her. It was the only explanation for all of this business of waking up in a clothing store in what was obviously a cheap, outlying serfdom of Panem. A lesser woman would have called that Bumping Someone a dirty word, but Effie had dignity and would find other ways to trample that usurper into dust once she got back on her feet and back to the Capitol.]

Attention, Attention:

[Her usual rather chirpy voice is a bit tempered by the fact that she has only recently awakened in a clothing shop in a strange town.]

Would any available Peacekeepers in District Luceti please report to the Clothing Emporium? I repeat: any available Peacekeepers. The Diplomatic Escort for the Tributes requires a full compliment of Security. [Yes: she was still clinging to what she assumed was her now-stripped title and position.]

Thank you.

[[[[IMPORTANT NOTE: While Effie WILL be in full Capitol couture clothing and makeup for this post, some of my icons are simply those of her PB, Elizabeth Banks. I will probably try to MOSTLY use the icons from the Hunger Games movie but just assume she's all made up and dressed to the very weird nines even if you get a plain Elizabeth Banks icon! THANKS.]]]]]

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If a Midgardian mates with cotton candy...you might be the result. It is truly fascinating.

[He keeps on walking circles around the woman.]

Is this fashion sense?

[Derek stays as he is for several minutes, holding that crouched position while he waits, and listens. There's no further movement, of course, but he knows.

It's just a question of how to get the little bastard down on his level.

Finally, he'll allow himself to relax, uncurl from the hunter's crouch he'd been in. He'll stretch his neck, rubbing it as he nods his head side to side. Yep, nothing here, his stance says. All clear. He turns to head for the stairs.

And that's when the vampire tears the floor out, dropping through the hole in one swift, nearly invisible from the speed, movement. A slap of clawed feet against the second story floor as it leaps for Derek's head--

And has its own head shorn from its shoulders as Derek turns in the same second, swinging his sword around in a precise arc.

The hunter doesn't hesitate, landing hard on the still flailing corpse to place a stake at it's heart, brutally driving it in with the weight of his own body. Once it's still for a moment, he'll haul body and head to a nearby window, tossing them out to burn in the sun.]

[Great Dragon, what is this nonsense he's hearing?]

The Malnosso have taken me for experimentation purposes. You are a new arrival and so you make many inaccurate assumptions about the Malnosso. That is potentially dangerous. Who knows, you may be under Malnosso influence yourself and are unaware.

[It would make sense, given her behavior.]

[Hmm. Not bad.]

You are GOING to bring them down upon us. Upon me -- I who am perfectly well-behaved and innocent in this matter!

It is fashion for the senses. [Finally, someone who seems to have a bit of imagination about clothing.] Though....hm. Mating with cotton candy?

[That part was admittedly a little weird.]

My DEAR Mr. Saleh! Of course I am under their influence! [She gives a light laugh.] I am here to serve, after all!

[Wow, she admitted it. And frankly, it throws him off.]

...I see. Then tell me, what exactly are we expected to do "correctly" and "properly?" What exactly did you mean by "everything?"

[Max rolled his eyes, managing to look thoroughly bored.]

If they're the type of people who'd come down like a tonne of bricks on someone innocent, then they really are the type of people who deserve all the names I can come up with.

The Malnosso are not your friends. They don't care about behaviour when they choose people to torture.

I think that is an excellent deduction and it applies to your garments as well. Fashion for the senses. For instance, all my senses are unable to ignore such an outfit, you see?

[That's when the shrieking starts from the basement as the last three decide that they're done with the waiting game.

Derek hears them, glancing beneath him as he sheathes the sword. He knows he is not in the best position here. One vampire, one goon? He can handle on their terms. Three, with one of them possibly a master? Time to get back to the safety of the sun.

It's when he's climbing out of the second story window and onto the porch roof when he catches sight of something in the sky. Something bright and not quite matching with the clouds and blue and...

He makes it out, slides down the singles, and lands solidly on both feet as the first of the remaining vampires attempts to burst through the front door. But the sun is still up, although starting it's evening arc, and the creature, all teeth and howls and burning flesh, retreats into the house once more.

Derek only gives it a cursory glance before he starts to brush dust off of himself, returning his gaze to the sky.

Where Effy was standing.]

End simulation. Save at point twelve, five thirty P.M.

[He's still staring at her when the holographic images fade away.]

Very well then.

[Tanchico? Or...Illian? That accent is strange.

Regardless, she'll head towards the shop.]

"I know it," he was practically petulant, "because I know things. Can know things. And do know things. Many things. This among'em."

Sharpe stepped aside until he felt his rifle-brown wings press against a shelf of assorted sweatshirts. Presumably, it was to be less of an imposing figure in the middle of the shop's aisle.

"And you've made it clear enough where you're from. Ain't hard to put two and two together."

Because they're the ones who captured ya' right outta your world--and all the rest of us, too. They don't care what the heck happens to you here. Miss. [look i was polite]

[Effie returns her attention to the socks, selecting a sparkly gold pair along with the original pink and white ones.]

I find your casual discussion of torture to be highly distasteful, Mister Woodville.

[And he'd done all that without any sponsors at all. Highly interesting.

Effie pulls her hands away from the glass, leaving behind two slender prints which quickly evaporate. She simply nods down at him.]

[In the shop is a woman holding a 1980s Earth record album.

A Cyndi Lauper album, to be precise.

She's So Unusual, to be precise-er.

The album cover strikes her as something very Capitol-ish. This Cyndi Lauper person truly knows how to dress.]

"You have met Miss Everdeen."

Katniss had, after all, signaled her over the journals.

[But Effie is rather used to having an organization dictate her every move. Watch her every motion. Record her every thought and word.

This is old potatoes. One can adapt.]

Which is why I plan on making myself uncompromisingly useful.

[is the smooth reply.]

[She gives a coy touch to her wig.] THAT, my dear boy, is the point. Our culture prides itself on spectacle. On being the most stunning. I am glad to succeed even here, in an outlying borderland of a place.

I mentioned it once. I'm just telling it like it is.

...and technically it's Sir, not Mister. [Since she seems hung up on position and all.]

[Moiraine approaches, watching the incredibly strangely dressed woman with the ridiculous makeup. She catches herself from swearing outloud and the outlandish clothing, but inwardly...Blood and bloody ashes. She's like someone from Shara...

It takes her a moment, but she does speak up.]

Greetings.

[She's proud of it. She wants EVERYONE TO KNOW IT, FRANKLY. There can be no question of whose side she is on.

That of the strongest, controlling power.]

Why, whatever their directives are, of course! Their directives must be approached willingly and, more importantly, with a pleasant and pleasing attitude.

It's you! {She recognizes the woman's voice from over the journals. Effie waves the album about.] Such interesting things in this shop, aren't there!

Sir Woodville. [She'll transition smoothly right into that title. Her estimation of him grows.] Torture is not polite conversation.

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First Dispatch. How Utterly Dreadful. Voice.

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