don't be so shy, we are living and we're dying
Who: Undertaker and YOU!
When: From morning sirens to evening sirens, Saturday August 20
Where: Cinnagrad Cemetery
Summary: It's a Tea Party! Stumble on in for tea, pastries, mingling, and a dash of insanity.
Warnings: Creepertaker, kidnapping, tea in a cemetery, and a corpse at the table. Will add more if anything comes up.
[It's a beautiful day for a funeral. A beautiful day for a gala. A beautiful day for a party.
It's a whisper that Undertaker has had quite a bit of trouble purging from his mind over the last few days; one that has only increased in volume. So it seemed it would not leave him alone until something was done about it, something that he didn't consciously decide on or set into action. There had hardly been a passing thought against it when he'd backed his funeral coach to the basement access door right at the break of dawn and filled it to the brim with all the things needed for a tea party. It is the song he still hums through a grin of tight lips and teeth while he sets the tables properly now. Or rather, how he sees proper. To any onlooker, it's quite the mess.
The party is placed in the lower section of Cinnagrad Cemetery, just paces inside. Adjacent to the towering iron gates alongside a little grove of trees, the grass has been left to grow without the strict control of a frequent cutting blade. Where the stones are flat and barely visible, the dirt scuffed over their engraved names. The ground is uneven, the sinkholes of the neglected graves giving the earth a dejected look. The trees that shade the setup groan in the breeze, their trunks clothed for the occasion with ball gowns of vines, as green and vibrant as their top hats. His funeral coach is nestled comfortably in the shade nearby, the beautiful black horses grazing as they please on the cemetery grass.
There are long tables, quite a few of them, put end to end in the image of a banquet with their metal and wooden feet biting into the dirt of the cemetery grounds. One stands higher than the rest and another sitting lower, leaving uneven ledges covered with cloth. Tables clothes of varying colors, black, white, off-white, even one with the most curious of faded orange spots on it, flutter their draperies off the edges, held into place by a motley off chipped and faded tableware. Tea pots of varying sizes, styles, and conditions, dot the spread, spouts sighing steam in wispy trails. His favorite, one in a cream with pink Victorian roses and a broken spout, sits near the head. Assortments of plates to match, and mis-match, lay both in teetering stacks and in sets with water-spotted silverware and stained white napkins. Larger, serving plates are placed down the very center of the tables are filled with freshly baked parties and bread. Some are tipping along the fault lines of the table and tipping their contents onto the table itself. Spreads and condiments of all kinds are available in overabundant amounts. Cups and saucers litter every other available space, some half-filled with tea (Undertaker had been quenched after all this work), and most without. He had felt when packing that there had been a disturbing lack of cups, and so there are laboratory beakers sitting among their more formal brethren (it also seemed like quite a shame to leave them alone at home). Chairs are erected with the same amount of uniformity as everything else, placed perfectly before each complete setting, though not exactly spaced evenly around the tables. It has only been an hour or two to his knowledge since the siren's screamed their shrill and relieved 'good morning' to the sun and the island itself, when Undertaker is finally pleased with his work.
Without music and in such a setting, the curious and childlike tea party has a unsettling atmosphere. Neither bother the Undertaker in the least, as he circles the table to push and pick to make the disheveled table settings just perfect. The trill of his laughter and the hum of the song that repeats inside his mind bubble in his chest, and he takes to not even letting his feet touch the ground. Instead, he takes the option of striding from one chair seat to another, or on the table itself. To disturb those left behind and forgotten that rest beneath the ground with his hurried, early-morning trampings would be quite rude now wouldn't it?
In something like an awkward dance, he takes himself to the head of the table, his boots finding the little spaces between the porcelain dishes to walk. Lee is there, or rather his body, sitting in the chair just to the right of the head. The slumped corpse is dressed smashingly in a white shirt and black slacks, with a vest of dark damask. There's a chained watch that peeks out of his breast pocket. Undertaker himself is in something to match, though a coat with tails trailing down the backs of his legs, his boots strapped up past his knees beneath his trousers, and a top hat cresting his head to complete his party attire. Plopping himself into a sit on the table edge before Lee, his legs dangling on either side, he addresses him directly, though the spirit is likely to be wandering somewhere close by. It would be a shame to leave him trapped in that house. Lee could always use more sunlight, after all. He knows it's unlikely for the body to answer him, but that means little as he cradles the man's face in his hands, fingers enjoying the stark chill of his skin in contrast to the warmth of the sun. His smile grows fond.]
heeeeeheheheheeee I believe we're ready for guests, aren't you?
When: From morning sirens to evening sirens, Saturday August 20
Where: Cinnagrad Cemetery
Summary: It's a Tea Party! Stumble on in for tea, pastries, mingling, and a dash of insanity.
Warnings: Creepertaker, kidnapping, tea in a cemetery, and a corpse at the table. Will add more if anything comes up.
[It's a beautiful day for a funeral. A beautiful day for a gala. A beautiful day for a party.
It's a whisper that Undertaker has had quite a bit of trouble purging from his mind over the last few days; one that has only increased in volume. So it seemed it would not leave him alone until something was done about it, something that he didn't consciously decide on or set into action. There had hardly been a passing thought against it when he'd backed his funeral coach to the basement access door right at the break of dawn and filled it to the brim with all the things needed for a tea party. It is the song he still hums through a grin of tight lips and teeth while he sets the tables properly now. Or rather, how he sees proper. To any onlooker, it's quite the mess.
The party is placed in the lower section of Cinnagrad Cemetery, just paces inside. Adjacent to the towering iron gates alongside a little grove of trees, the grass has been left to grow without the strict control of a frequent cutting blade. Where the stones are flat and barely visible, the dirt scuffed over their engraved names. The ground is uneven, the sinkholes of the neglected graves giving the earth a dejected look. The trees that shade the setup groan in the breeze, their trunks clothed for the occasion with ball gowns of vines, as green and vibrant as their top hats. His funeral coach is nestled comfortably in the shade nearby, the beautiful black horses grazing as they please on the cemetery grass.
There are long tables, quite a few of them, put end to end in the image of a banquet with their metal and wooden feet biting into the dirt of the cemetery grounds. One stands higher than the rest and another sitting lower, leaving uneven ledges covered with cloth. Tables clothes of varying colors, black, white, off-white, even one with the most curious of faded orange spots on it, flutter their draperies off the edges, held into place by a motley off chipped and faded tableware. Tea pots of varying sizes, styles, and conditions, dot the spread, spouts sighing steam in wispy trails. His favorite, one in a cream with pink Victorian roses and a broken spout, sits near the head. Assortments of plates to match, and mis-match, lay both in teetering stacks and in sets with water-spotted silverware and stained white napkins. Larger, serving plates are placed down the very center of the tables are filled with freshly baked parties and bread. Some are tipping along the fault lines of the table and tipping their contents onto the table itself. Spreads and condiments of all kinds are available in overabundant amounts. Cups and saucers litter every other available space, some half-filled with tea (Undertaker had been quenched after all this work), and most without. He had felt when packing that there had been a disturbing lack of cups, and so there are laboratory beakers sitting among their more formal brethren (it also seemed like quite a shame to leave them alone at home). Chairs are erected with the same amount of uniformity as everything else, placed perfectly before each complete setting, though not exactly spaced evenly around the tables. It has only been an hour or two to his knowledge since the siren's screamed their shrill and relieved 'good morning' to the sun and the island itself, when Undertaker is finally pleased with his work.
Without music and in such a setting, the curious and childlike tea party has a unsettling atmosphere. Neither bother the Undertaker in the least, as he circles the table to push and pick to make the disheveled table settings just perfect. The trill of his laughter and the hum of the song that repeats inside his mind bubble in his chest, and he takes to not even letting his feet touch the ground. Instead, he takes the option of striding from one chair seat to another, or on the table itself. To disturb those left behind and forgotten that rest beneath the ground with his hurried, early-morning trampings would be quite rude now wouldn't it?
In something like an awkward dance, he takes himself to the head of the table, his boots finding the little spaces between the porcelain dishes to walk. Lee is there, or rather his body, sitting in the chair just to the right of the head. The slumped corpse is dressed smashingly in a white shirt and black slacks, with a vest of dark damask. There's a chained watch that peeks out of his breast pocket. Undertaker himself is in something to match, though a coat with tails trailing down the backs of his legs, his boots strapped up past his knees beneath his trousers, and a top hat cresting his head to complete his party attire. Plopping himself into a sit on the table edge before Lee, his legs dangling on either side, he addresses him directly, though the spirit is likely to be wandering somewhere close by. It would be a shame to leave him trapped in that house. Lee could always use more sunlight, after all. He knows it's unlikely for the body to answer him, but that means little as he cradles the man's face in his hands, fingers enjoying the stark chill of his skin in contrast to the warmth of the sun. His smile grows fond.]
heeeeeheheheheeee I believe we're ready for guests, aren't you?