ph_logs | Mid-September Catch-All: Grace Holloway

Mid-September Catch-All: Grace Holloway

Who: Grace Holloway (

deepbluerevue) & sundry (You)

What: Grace’s musical performances. Come listen!

When: September 10th to 19th

Where: Venues for live music gigs around town (restaurants, lounges, taverns)

Warning(s): Rapture in the late 1950s into the 1960s was a tough place to live, but Grace is unlikely to bring such things up of her own accord.

SHOW + POST-SHOW [Music venue, such as a restaurant, lounge, or the Oak & Iron]

The live entertainment over dinner is without much fanfare, but it’s no less polished for that.

You might notice a woman standing off to the side before the performance is scheduled to start, clad in a white linen blouse, a light brown waistcoat, and a long brown skirt, all with intricate floral embroidery adorning them, plus tidy women’s leather boots. (You may, in fact, recognize her from a few promotional posters hung up here and there around town, simply designed with gig dates and times and a simple but accurate sketch of the woman in question singing.) With her kinky hair pinned back into a dignified chignon and her face accented with red lipstick and black eyeliner, she looks very put-together.

There’s a smattering of applause as she seats herself on a tall stool in the performance area and introduces herself with a smile as Grace Holloway, their singer for the evening. She opens with a few up-tempo, attention-holding numbers, then moves easily into a set with plenty of gentler numbers that are easy to have a conversation over, perfect for dinner entertainment. Her voice is strong, well-supported, and smooth as whipped butter, never faltering through the entirety of the one-hour set.

She finishes with a joyful march and smiles at the crowd, rising from her seat and bowing to the applause with both hands balanced on the bird-shaped handle of her cane. As the clapping peters out, she disappears into the back halls.

Some fifteen minutes later, Miss Holloway reappears with a glass of water and sits at an empty table to the side, looking content and pleased with herself. A few people stop by for brief greetings, and she returns every one with a warm smile. It seems she’s settling in for some people-watching.

Performance note:

For Grace’s range and vocal tenor, think Sheryl Lee Ralph’s voice performing Bessie Smith’s oeuvre. You can find an example on Grace’s journal!

CLOSED TO SUBJECT DELTA: A Picnic Invitation, September 13th

It’s been a month, and Grace still isn’t used to this place.

Being on the surface would honestly be strange enough: seventeen years growing up seeing the sky still didn’t make the sight of the sun every day any less strange after more than twenty years without. But on top of that, she’s been hearing about new unlikely horrors near-daily, and personally been locked into town hall by some supernatural something, nearly attacked by a goat-beast, struck with a dancing plague, and then assailed by some bullshit bagpipe Pied Piper.

Performing again is nice, though. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed the routine. If she can keep that job, she can keep her sanity, no problem.

Can it be said that she’s gotten her feet under her? Maybe. Maybe. But whatever the case, for sure she still owes Subject Delta. Probably even more so now, after he helped drive off that dancing sickness. Damn embarrassing, that whole ordeal, top to bottom. She’s got to do something. But what in the hell is there? She’s asked around town about him with low enough frequency so as to hopefully avoid notice, and she might as well not have bothered, because nothing she hears helps a whit. Sounds like he goes to work out in the ocean, doing something, and then goes back home to that basement apartment. That’s nothing. That gives her nothing to work with.

At this point she owes him about as many favors as he’d like to call in, but this isn’t the Drop. This isn’t Rapture. She can’t do anything for him here, can’t send him security bots to watch his back, can’t delay the Family, can’t send him any supplies he couldn’t get elsewhere on his own. Unlike him, she’s friendly with a fair number of the locals from her performing and from being seen around town, sure, so maybe she could be a go-between —

— Hm. That’s a thought.

If Subject Delta is in the habit of checking his mailbox, he’ll find a tidily-folded sheet of stationery inside, with a message in carefully-inked cursive:

To Subject Delta,

Thank you again for your assistance with that plague. I know I wasn’t as helpful as I could have been, and your patience despite that is much appreciated.

I don’t know if you’ve spent any time at the festival green just yet, but when it’s not infested with dancers, it’s a lovely place to lunch, especially on sunnier days. I often eat there before I get ready for my evening performances. I’ll be indulging in a little picnic on the 13th, and if you’re available, you’re welcome to join me.

With gratitude,
Grace Holloway

-

When midday rolls around on the 13th, it’s overcast, which is just Grace’s luck. But, even so, she’s got a gingham blanket draped over a wide, flat rock, and a wicker basket borrowed from the grocer with an array of land-based tasties. And two packs of nicer cigarettes in her mesh bag. She knows he likes cigs, if nothing else.

While she sits there, skirt tucked around her legs and legs tucked to the side, she sips water from a canteen and lets the wind caress her face.

WILDCARD

[OOC: If you’ve got an idea, PM my journal! Grace can also be found running errands in town in the mornings, and is usually at her apartment downtown when the sun is down.]

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Subject Delta does not, in fact, tend to check his mailbox. He never gets mail and there's no point. It's only the sliver of white through the slot that makes him pause in his steps and backtrack, salvage rattling.

Keying open his mailbox, he pulls out the piece of paper, half expecting it to be some message from town hall that he'd have to toss. Instead, he stands in the hallway with the unfolded letter in his hand for a long while after he'd finished reading it.

-

With the townsfolk being so wary of him, Delta didn't particularly make it a point to spend much time in the center of things. He wakes, he organizes his equipment, he makes his way down to the beach and he spends most of the day under water with only a meal and cig break whenever he comes up to refill his tanks. At the end of the day, he carries his haul home to spend the evening sorting.

Festival Green he only sees glimpses of from a distance, never really having the mind to visit it, nor the interest. Until now, at least.

As he makes his way through downtown with a bottle of fine local wine in hand, he watches as the people on the street nervously sidle out of his way. It's not near as bad as the first few days, the sight of him now familiar enough that it's only a vague background discomfort. He still wonders if he'll regret this when a family anxiously scatters in his path.

The sight of Grace sitting atop the rock scatters any regret before it can manifest. Stopping a few meters away, he finds himself staring at her, the dark shape of her against the clouds and stone and grass, her hair shifting gently in the breeze.

Edited 2023-09-14 00:08 (UTC)

Muted sunlight glints off of brass, and Grace turns where she sits to see Subject Delta, standing on the green looking… shinier than usual?

“Mister Delta,” she greets. Her planned next sentence is derailed by the observation that he’s holding something. Is that… wine? “Did — sir, you really didn’t have to bring nothing,” she says, oddly off-kilter. She pats the basket, then feels a little silly. “I packed quite a bit in case you showed up.”

That shrug Delta offers is perhaps a mite too insouciant. The wine is here and he's not bringing it back. So.

Striding up to her chosen rock, Delta picks a corner of the blanket to settle down on and places the wine down between them. As if he wouldn't show up. Honestly, the gall.

Grace’s mouth twitches in a smile despite herself. “Well. Hard to argue with that, sir.”

It feels less awkward than she’d grimly assumed it might be to start pulling food out of the basket. Maybe the man doesn’t have a proper mouth under all that, who knows, but he did bring wine, so she’ll take that as implicit approval.

Out come the cutting board, loaf of bread, bread knife, plates, cutlery, and metal cups, followed by the bread accoutrements: a block of cheese, a jar of jam, and a stick of butter. It’s the sort of simple stuff that cost a fortune back in Rapture to get the goods that tasted halfway real, on account of lacking things like “sunlight” and “properly-sized cows”.

“Never did figure out how you were drinking all that booze,” she comments idly, digging through the basket. Is there a corkscrew in here?

There's a little metallic squeak of a hinge. Should Grace look up, she'll find Subject Delta's porthole is now sitting ajar and two, bright yellows eyes peering at her from the dark depths of the Big Daddy's helmet.

It's not quite the same shade of yellow as the Little Sisters, lacking in the gold-veined shine that crackles around their sunken eyes. Close enough though, and with the oddly metallic reflection of what might be skin around his eyes, it's even closer.

Does that answer your question, Grace?

If Delta is at all discomforted by his exposed face, he doesn't really give much indication of it. He pulls his diving knife out of its holster and picks up the wine bottle. He stabs the blade tip into the cork at an angle, and, with a well-practiced twisting motion, pops the cork out.

Grace pauses in the middle of slicing the bread. Anything at all could have been under there — she’d seen some of the schematics for the standard series Big Daddies — and here she’s looking at a Little Sister’s eyes in what might be a man’s face. Not that she can see his face — just those juiced, jaundiced eyes.

She realizes she’s staring outrageously and pins her chin to her chest so she can’t look up.

By the time the cork pops out of the bottle, Grace has cut them each a slice of bread and her facial expression is back under control. “Here,” she says, fishing out a cup for each of them.

Edited 2023-09-20 00:31 (UTC)

The moment Grace tips her head down, the yellow eyes narrow. There's a little pause, just a moment. It comes and goes, easy as a wave cresting over a beach and Delta pops the cork off his knife's tip, letting it fall onto the blanket.

There's an odd undercurrent to the tension between them though, something obstinate and edged as he holsters his knife. He pours the wine into the proffered cups with a practiced motion but it's colored with something just a little like challenge.

Given that Grace already has less than no idea how to approach Mister Delta, all that his change of demeanor provokes is a slight stiffening in her shoulders as she hands him his cup. Almost unnoticeable.

She lifts her own, looking right at his lambent eyes without a flinch. “To your health,” she toasts, a wry grin tugging at her lips. “Such as it is, in this place.”

Edited (thx autocorrect) 2023-09-22 14:06 (UTC)

A pause, an odd skip of the beat. Then, a pale sliver of teeth, just barely visible in the black against the brightness of his eyes. The sound Delta makes when he lifts his own cup to match her is oddly human: a chuckle, split at the edges but soft enough that the mangled vocalizations don't catch and warp it, laden with dry irony.

He presses the cup to his lips and takes a hearty sip.

Grace swallows. Presses her tongue between her teeth. Forces her way past the moment and brings the cup to her mouth for a refined sip of her own, sucking the liquid over her palate. It’s good wine.

[Internal thoughts]

Don’t make this odd, she tells herself. She really doesn’t know enough about Mister Delta to tell if he’d prefer open, curious staring over a polite amount of eye contact. Best to err on the side of decorum, she figures.

“You were popping your helmet open on the regular down there to chug all that whiskey?” she jokes.

A vague gesture, followed with a tap to the airline connector on the side of his mantle. Liquids at least were a 50/50 on whether or not he'd bother popping the hatch: even with relatively short-necked bottles, Delta could still crane his neck enough to suck it through the hole.

Lazy? Perhaps. He also didn't particularly fancy being snuck up on by a Splicer and getting a faceful of bullets. Opening the porthole was saved for food proper.

To say that Mo'rtajha is nervous is truly saying something. A natural performer she hardly has stage jitters, but since she awoke in a tree with her last memories being the crunching of her own bones as the Pine Devil feasted upon her the miqo'te has had plenty to be jittery about.

Namely, how to speak with poor Grace.

The woman had tried to help her, only to end up with a front row seat of the gruesome aftermath of the Pine Devil catching his prey. And then? Grace left a wonderful bouquet of flowers upon her doorstep with a sweet note attached; Miss Mo’rtajha, I’m very sorry I couldn’t help more. I hope we can catch up another time.

Somehow that rattled her even more, so it took nearly a sennight to gather her courage and find the venue the woman is performing at. With a handful of flowers in return, the miqo'te waits outside the building until Grace takes her leave. Mort's tail whips around behind her with a mind all its own, an outlet for the nerves she's still feeling right up to the moment she calls out, "Ah, Miss Grace! A moment...if you would?"

Who knew that Pumpkin Hollow had a nightlife? Certainly not Eddie... not until he noticed one of those gig posters advertising an appearance by Grace Holloway at a music lounge in town. So he decided to make an evening of it -- a treat to himself for getting his crops planted in time (and a bit of normalcy following his first death on the island, if he was inclined to be honest with himself). He plans to stay in town for the night, so there's less worry about running across an unpleasant beastie in the dark.

He sips a whiskey -- not exactly up to his standards for the price, but there's scarcity at play here, of course -- and listens to Grace's singing with a slight nostalgic smile on his face. He might not recognize all the songs, but the style (and her obvious skill) is pleasantly familiar.

Eddie sees other people coming up to her when she reappears after her set, and he leaves her be for a while. Once she's had some time to herself, he walks over.

"Hello, Miss Holloway. I just wanted to thank you for providing the entertainment tonight. I really enjoyed listening to you."

Grace looks up and — with a lightning-quick glance over his newcomer linens — gives the man a warm smile. “Sir, you flatter me. It’s a gift to perform to such a grateful audience, Mister…?”

There are a few open chairs at her table, if Eddie wanted to ask.

"Kaspbrak," He supplies. "Most people here use my first name -- it's Eddie. Feel free."

He doesn't mind standing, and wouldn't impose right off the bat. But if they continue conversing, he'll ask.

“Well, Mister Eddie,” Grace amends, with a humorous twist of her mouth, “I hope you’ve been settling in alright. I know I felt like a fish out of water for at least a month.”

"So I've got a few weeks before I'm behind the curve. Good to know." He toasts her with his half-full glass and a small smile. "I volunteered as a farmer without much experience, so I threw myself into the learning and doing for that. But folks have been real friendly whenever I feel like being social."

“Good for you, sir.” Grace toasts him right back with her water glass. “We’d all be in a bind without the farms. Me, I’m doing exactly what I’ve always done,” she chuckles. “And I have to agree about the friendliness,” she adds thoughtfully. “Suppose there’s enough trouble going around that folks try not to cause more grief.”

"It's a nice change from my hometown. People wouldn't acknowledge the troubles there, and often made it worse." He smiles. "And you're doing something good, too. Keeping morale up."

He gestures to one of the empty seats, and asks, "Do you mind if I sit? Unless this is a short conversation, I don't want to stand over you."

“Please do, sir,” Grace gestures at the seat as well. “Especially if you’re planning to swap more compliments,” she jokes, her grin widening.

"Well, I heard a compliment to pass on," Eddie comments, as he takes a seat. "That you were the person to talk to about working around supply issues, given your expertise."

He takes another sip from his glass. "And since I'm going to be a supplier in some fashion, maybe I should get your ideas for what we'll need. Doesn't have to be here, but you could come out to my farm or I could meet you in town to speak on it some other time."

For a moment, Grace blinks, evidently not expecting that comment. Her expression shifts to chagrin for a second before landing on amusement. “Huh. Can I guess that a certain ‘Agent Jean’ may’ve talked to you?”

"That's the one," Eddie says with a nod. "Enthusiastic person. Were they... more effusive than they should have been? I don't want to put undue pressure on you if that's the case."

It's not that Eddie disbelieves that Grace can also be experienced at coordination, just that he's a cautious sort. (He might have said it wrong, and caused offense anyway...)

Shino finds himself looking to distract himself from his usual problems, wandering into the Oak & Iron today. Settling in, he watches Grace take to the stage. The music is good. Even pretty. Shino thinks it's even pleasant, and how he'd listen to these sorts of things back home - an odd person doing a talented performance, and someone who clearly has a story to tell. It's enough of a curiosity that, when he sees Grace take a seat with her water, he wanders over to her.

"Hey. Can I sit here?"

Normally, if he wanted to, he'd just sit wherever he wanted. But he wants to talk with Grace. So, he knows enough to show basic respect.

Grace looks up from her water glass at the young man and smiles, friendly. “You may indeed, sir. Make yourself comfortable.” He looks vaguely familiar from around town, but she doesn’t fully recall seeing him at a performance before. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Here's Jean again, just as enraptured by the music as last time. At first it seems like they might have brought work with them - there's a notebook and something they're taking notes on - but a closer look at the subject of their study reveals a penny dreadful adventure novel; the heroine on the cover is wearing an improbable amount of knives, odd considering the rapier she's holding. Someone should really take the artist to task.

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Mid-September Catch-All: Grace Holloway

A Picnic Invitation

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A word of thanks [set a week after the Pine Devil attack] CW: allusions to gore and death

Post-Show

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Post Show

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Post-Show | Short tag-in between customers but we ball