(Crocker Art Mueseum) Death by Mozart

[Tuesday]

gather self up. breathe self out.

A Mantra breathed at home.

Consider what made 'you' and discard those things unnecessary in order to become the person you needed to be to achieve your objective.

This, like Fight Club, was just practice. Though like everything else, the green Guardian needed practice.

She wasn't Tuesday, or Willow or Robin. Not even Prudence.

No, she was someone she'd been before, and someone she should prefect.

(even if there wasn't a Lance on her arm)

Ryan Ashalle walks into the Crocker Art Museum. Blue hair slick back and styled neatly, dangling silver earrings gleam in the light, matching her loosely draped silk halter top. Black skinny jeans hug her curves while she steps with death defying stiletto spikes.

Serves flit around the space, choreographed as they make their rounds, when offered Ryan, takes a champagne flute and sips, absently she realizes once more she needs Life. Just so she could flush her system if or more probably when she'd need.

Hazels that really needed color contacts trace over some of the racier ceramic pieces.

[Seraphina]

An art gallery! While most wouldn’t peg the Fairest as someone who appreciated art, they would be wrong. She knew the basic that one gathers in school and what they hear from others. But for her it wasn’t about the art, it was a plus, but not her reason for attending tonight. Nope, for her it was about networking and meeting new people. You never knew who you could run into at events like this, and the Nix was counting on that.

It also meant she had to dress it up a bit, look a little more classy and cultured. So she found a royal purple pencil skirt in a second hand shop which fit her perfectly! Paired with a lacy top, which had a flesh colored screen under the lace to keep thing hidden and a simple pair of black heels. Her long hair flowed loosely around her shoulders and down her back and her makeup was kept minimal.

Walking into the gallery, her sapphire eyes first notice the blue hair. While it wasn’t anything she’d ever do, the woman pulled it off.

The guy was noticed second, seeming more decorative in his looks.

Long fingers pick a glass of water off a tray as it made its rounds. As she brought the glass to her lips, she eyed her two prospects for the night, which to talk to? Or maybe both if she was lucky, which bought a sly smile to her lips.

For now? The Treasured approaches a piece of art, taking it in as she decides her next move.

[Campanella]

Campanella moves between the exhibits. Dressed in a comfortable dark blue suit with a claret coloured tie, he represents one of the more conservatively dressed guests who have come for the art, culture, and the satisfaction of supporting a worthwhile cause.

He had been - pretending to be - engrossed in some the ceramics. Working contacts; being seen. The titillation of some people... The Moros was actually glad when one of the staff passed by with a drinks tray. His mouth was dry from useless but necessary chatter and the staff's arrival broke the conversation before it sank too deeply into the mire. Better yet, his conversation partner was seen by one of their rivals, who promptly dragged them off. Names were exchanged and Campanella happily ceded the field.

He had a champagne flute in his possession now and parlayed it into a position on the edge of the milling company. He hadn't mastered the art of hiding behind it but he could use it to block of unwanted conversation - especially if he kept moving.

Campanella noticed the magnetic Angel in her figure figure hugging purple attire Seraphina Orianna . For all the eye drawing power of her looks, however, the Moros is currently looking at Tuesday Saber Sloth Tuesday on her dizzying heels. He has known the Acanthus to have an eccentric sense of taste but this...?

  

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2017-04-27 05:22:20		Campy to save face rolls 4 to Composure + Subterfuge (10 Again)		5, 3, 3, 9		1 success

Hiding his surprise by drinking from his glass, he turns and looks for the nearest object of interest, which conveniently happens to be An Outdoor Portrait of Miss Weir Macavity Peter Byrne

[Star]

"Oh, dear, do I even want to ask what you're imagining doing with those?"

Nobody expects the Ceramic Insinuation.

The titter comes from Tuesday Ryan's side via a v-neck, scarf, and ragin' faux-hawk. Who says metrosexual is dead? These skinny jeans probably do. Was he following her? Whaaaaaaat. Guardian checking up on fledgling Guardian? As if. Ray-Bans slide down a nose and greenish eyes study the blue hair. That is not Lance'sLook of Approval. Glasses go back and it's all good. Rose-colored. Fun fact? Most people would probably be disturbed at the unusual muscles magicians developed, like using their ears to slide glasses up and down their nose.

"Let's... play a game." The words were a soft whisper. "It's called Keep Away. We keep the two pretties from talking to one another."

His neck rolled, like stretching, pausing to 'point' at Peter and Seraphina.

[Tuesday]

Somehow she wasn't surprised.

Mostly because half of her was expecting something like this.

Because Star, and Veils.

Hazels flick up, she sips her bubbly.

Ray-bands. Faux-hawk. Skinny jeans.

"Lance." tone needed work, but the rasp is drawn out. "Honey, you know where my mind likes to travel. You really shouldn't be surprised." a wink.

Oh yes, I see that look. Sorry the only other wig this not a unicorn owned was the mousy brown one used for the Geology Nerd. Besides, Ryan was fabulous. "Whaat? You don't like it?" hand to hair, "Like I liked the layers. But I thought I'd like, do something different. But should I like do something different-different. Like-ah!-oh my god, like blond? But like not blond. Because. Duh, but like long and blond-but like not. Like platinum? I could totally rock platinum." the words that should have been a fast babble were slow, drawn out, rasp cracking.

Whispered words, hazels sparkle. A grin paired with an agreeing nod. Rules were not declared. Anything goes.

Pretty boy's chatting up Campy, because why wouldn't the Mystagogue be here.

Wishing she could flip her hair - something to think on, maybe Ryan should have long hair, she offers the not-angel a finger wave, she makes her ways over to the sinfully gorgeous brunette Seraphina . Let Lance deal with Campy and the pretty boy. Or not. He could join her in keeping purple skirt away from pretty boy.

"I came here for the art, but like. Whoa. The lace. That skirt, your curves. Perfection. Do you like have a stylist?" Like for serials. Ryan's totes interested.

[Campanella]

Campanella stopped to regard the painting with a critical air.

"Perhaps. There is - yes - something in her manner. But I would caution against such a thing, myself. The subject was the daughter of an artist; she must have been used to the process. I'd also note the angle of the painter to the subject, which may have something to do with it. That and the way she is sitting."

A sudden smile creased his lips.

"Perhaps that was the artist's intent to spark just such a debate. Or else he was more interested in the shimmering effect of the light on her white summer dress. As I understand it Childe Hassam was very interested in the effect of light. And Miss Weir certain gleams in her bower."

He gestured vaguely to the painting.

"Hmmm. 1909. Childe Hassam would have been on the threshold of his late career. Possibly at his peak. His interest in the cityscape was on the wane in favour of the pastoral. This painting certainly has the feeling of the rural to it. Look at all that rich green and flowers."

[Seraphina]

Her attention is pulled away from the painting she was looking at as the chick with the blue hair approaches.

Sapphire eyes leave the painting and look at her, not quite sure what to make of her. She seemed nice enough, though the raspy voice throws her off. It doesn't seem to fit with her looks.

“A stylist?” comes the angelic voice with a laugh, “Don’t I wish, that would make picking out clothes so much easier!” true story, having someone else pick her clothes would kick ass.

Then came a shake of her head, “But I don’t, I found the skirt at a store and happened to
have a shirt that went with it. A little luck on my part.” She’d never used her Contracts for finding clothes, but it was still a lucky find.

“Have to say, you pull that blue off well, I’d never dare try wearing a color like that.” Wouldn’t dare and would never were kinda similar. To her. She loved the rich color of her hair too much to change it.

[Star]

"Maybe it tells a different story entirely."

Lance floated up by the two men, arms folded and one gesturing at the painting.

"Most of Hassam's work features the subject, even in focus, as a quarter or less of the content. Miss Weir here is nearly two thirds. Add in the rather... rigid... posture and the near total covering by a white dress in contrast with his other work which features women in flesh tones or," he tittered, "Flesh and more, ah, relaxed, poses..." Long fingers pointed at other paintings. "The formal title, singular choice of subject, but absolute focus on the subject yet peculiar insistence of depicting her as a pristine object..."

Lashes over blue-green eyes fluttered at each man. Sometime the Truth is the sum of the Lies.

"Why, one might thing Hassam was quite taken with Miss Weir, either from a distance or quite intimately -- and loathe to let the world, their artistic community or heaven forfend her very own father know."

Oh dear, the scandal.