Jig

Wolf Manor

It's all about mixed drinks. If I make a Blue Lagoon (with orange juice, apple juice and midori) or a 'Ginger nuts' (Amaretto, Kings Ginger, Bailleys, Chocolate Liqueur), you'll put your wine down and leave it to ferment.

Wolf Manor

I feel like I'm being poorly represented in this RP. So far, I've been referred to as 'The Jiggernaut' and it's been suggested that my catchphrase should be:

Wolf Manor

Oh, Ginger, get better soon. :)

Wolf Manor

Thursday drunk is one of my favorite drunks. Then again, purposefully making bad decisions makes me feel alive. True freedom is the freedom to get trashed, make the later awkward mistake of making out with one of your friends, and take a quiz the next morning worth 10% of your final grade (and ace it anyways)...

@Callthecops

The drunkest I ever got on a Thursday was the only time I've been sick at uni, and I did it properly, head out of the window on a busy, touristy street, and threw up in the most glorious fashion, watching the passers-by watching me. It was a beautiful moment of human connection.

Wolf Manor

You have a very attentive Félix at your disposal for precisely this purpose. There isn't a bar in the ballroom, and the house's bar is locked.

Wolf Manor

I got so high I literally couldn't see any more. Thursday is a perfect night for sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll to me.

Wolf Manor

<Snipped quote by Jig>

Literally me... Like all the time.

@Callthecops

What might be a tad different is that my dad was in town visiting, dragging me round, on a blindingly sunny day, to a variety of different pubs in London, with, you know, the expectation that I drink more today, with nothing I could do about it apart from smile and engage in intellectual, academic conversation about art*.

* (I don't like art, but made the mistake of seeing an academic conversation on which I could speak with a small authority and jumping on it, despite not being interested or remotely equipped to deal with it)

Wolf Manor

Plot progressed, character tab updated, PM's sent. Have at it.

The more you can talk to each other and sort of give me an indication of what you're planning to do in your posts, the better. The only things I'm sending via PM are the most important things or the things that I can explicitly control without forcing decisions upon your characters. But if I have something up my sleeve, I'm constantly keeping an eye on what you guys are doing to see where I can throw it in: the more I know, the easier my life is (and we all like easy lives).

Jig Can't Count #2 (or 4)

Apparently, the plot details on the character tab go in the following order: 1, 2, 4, and 5. Apparently I have a problem with the number 3. I'm gonna assume that I had a perfectly good reason for not being able to count at the time (apart from not being able to count more generally) and any questioning of my authority will be met with harsh vengeance.

Wolf Manor

Plot Details #5
Oh, Balls

Oh god. You poor fuckers: once you’ve entered the ballroom, you go along with it and hope that a black hole opens up and swallows you whole, because, apart from doing a Cinderella and running away from the ball (past Klara and Félix, who would inevitably stop you), there’s absolutely nothing to be done. Then again, the drunk, playful, or egotistical among the group might positively love it. There’s no accounting for taste.

When you hit the dance floor, you suddenly find yourselves quite popular. The other guests were leaving you alone before, but they’re all over you now. They want to chat with you, they want to drink with you, and they want to dance with you.

Apart from each other, you’re basically stranded, too: for the time being, there’s absolutely no hope trying to talk to Sol or whichever twin it is because they’re totally cutting a rug. Speaking of the twins, not only are they dressed identically, but they’re actually taking it in turns to dance with their brother, so you can’t even keep track of which one is which geographically. Gertrud is no use, obviously, and Klara is rushed off her feet (without ever losing her composure, because Klara is a total boss). Félix is always at hand, though, of course: you’ve probably worked out by now that, beyond taking champagne from the waiters’ silver platters, it’s probably easier just to ask Félix. That said, if you do particularly want to interact with the Wolfs or their entourage, let me know and I’ll arrange accordingly.

All hope is not lost. At Woll Manor, the previous RP, Bliss locked us in (, the bitch). I wouldn’t do that to you (because I have your best interests at heart <3). While the downstairs rooms are locked, the ballroom, the ballroom’s balcony, the entrance hall, the grounds, and all your own rooms are totally open to you. You could even go up to the third storey, while the Wolfs are occupied, to snoop around, but, predictably, their rooms are all locked.

Changelog

*fingers crossed*

Wolf Manor

9:00PM

“Sorry about this, ladies and gentlemen,” says Klara, whose face betrays a flash of amusement underneath her cool professionalism. The houseguests have been assembled in the once more empty and echoing entrance hall, “Herr Wolf has a certain love of theatrics.”

“Are you talking about me?”

The lord of the manor appears at the top of the staircases, leaning over the balustrade that joins them above the doors to the ballroom and in front of a second set of double-doors completely parallel with those downstairs. If he looked excited upon their arrival, he is positively gushing at this point, grinning so hard that his cheeks must hurt. He has also changed, apparently deciding against any subtlety and opting for full white tie, accentuated by the chic subtlety of two of deep emerald green cocktail dresses joining him on the landing: Lena and Maria, or is it Maria and Lena? They’re utterly indistinguishable so there’s no way to know for sure. Gertrud, in a handsome black dress, can be seen bringing up the rear, though her frailty makes her descent a rickety, slightly sluggish affair.

“By god, you all look incredible,” says Sol, beckoning the guests up the stairs to join him. He looks a little tipsy, but it does nothing but exaggerate his enthusiasm and lending him an extra shine, and, given that a couple of beads of sweat can be seen framing his hairline, literally so, “So glad you all could make it. Now, follow me!”

He puts a finger to his lips in a mischievous bid for silence, and creeps toward the doors behind him before opening them, heading through, and gesturing for the guests and the rest of his family to follow in a similar manner: one of the twins turns to the guests and rolls her eyes in her brother’s direction. They’re on a rounded balcony above the ballroom that circles it completely, and, though the guests haven’t clocked them, the ballroom is finally visible in its full splendour, with its arched ceiling and stone walls. The lighting is all-natural, and deliciously gothic, with torches in wall-brackets and chandeliers with what can only be real candles. The ground is covered with sprung floorboards, polished to within an inch of their lives, so that, looking down from the balcony, the guests can all but see themselves staring back up. The bulk of the floor is uncovered, and it’s perhaps only now that the fairy-tale nature of the ball is dawning on everybody the group: it can only be for dancing. There are, mercifully, a few tastefully-decorated tables toward the entrance of the room, but not many. At the very end of the room, against the rounded wall with beautiful stained-glass windows like a secular European cathedral, is a stage, upon which plays the orchestra and a spiral staircase leading up to their balcony. It becomes apparent where this is going. The ironic grimaces of the twins and the epic struggle of both Klara and even Félix to wrestle mirth from their lips foretells what is to come.

“Klara and Félix know what to do, okay?” says Sol, as he straightens his bow tie in a moment of surprising calm, concentrating his boundless energy in one foot, which taps so violently to the music it threatens to trip him over. As the band crescendos, he suddenly turns tail and dashes along the left side of the balcony to the far end of the ballroom: the audience spots him and begins to laugh. It’s a well-timed spectacle – he reaches the very end of the balcony with a great leap, landing on one final sting from the string section with even a slight flourish with the hands, as if to say ta-daa. Rapturous applause, of course, explodes upwards at him.

“Grüß Gott, grüß Gott, meine Damen und Herren! And welcome, once again, to Wolf Manor!” More applause. The twins and Gertrud also begin to walk along the circular balcony, with a more graceful approach than Sol’s characteristic mania, so as to join him, “To those of you who are new, we say ‘wilkommen’! And to those familiar faces, we say ‘wilkommen’!” Judging by the crowd, the joke is hilarious, and there is a literal ba-dum tish from a percussionist, “Now, as you probably know, this ball is a very important part of Wolf history, and on behalf of my family,” The ladies have just joined him and gather around him. He straightens his face, and they genuinely do look like a nice, normal family, “I’d like to remind you to respect one of our most valued family traditions: drink the fucking champagne!” There is a roar of appreciation.

“Now, apart from drinking us dry, I know you’re here for one main reason – to meet our wonderful guests of honour! Come on over!”

He beckons the group, and Félix and Klara give the nod, directing the girls around the right side of the balcony, and the gentlemen to the left: on their way, Sol bellows each of their names, voice just carried over the ecstatic applause. All in all, there’s something a little bit gameshow about it all, particularly when they finally join the Wolfs at the far end and have nothing to do but stand there awkwardly, though Klara’s theatrical look of sympathetic despair from across the balcony indicates she at least feels their plight. Félix has apparently come down with an acute but silent cough that gives him the convenient opportunity to cover his mouth with his hand and turn away.

“Well, I’m not going to stand up here boring you all night, when my alcohol, my dance floor, and my band are all the way down there! Maestro, if - you - please!”

The band starts up again, with a spritely waltz, as the Wolfs and their guests of honour begin to troop down the spiral staircase. The exception is Gertrud, who steps back: it would take her about half an hour to make it down the stairs. Predictably, Sol leads the pack, practically running down the stairs, with his sisters hot on his heels, for all that they bemoan his hyperactivity. The three of them reach the dance floor in fifteen seconds flat, where one of the twins peels off to a glass of champagne and to mingle: Sol, meanwhile, invites the other to dance with a mockingly formal extension of his hand. Trying not to laugh, she plays along. They are, predictably, excellent dancers, missing no beats: Lena (or is it Maria?) twirls sublimely, while Sol is a surprisingly graceful lead.

The champagne is flowing. The band is swinging. The ball is alive.