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ph_logs2023-09-13 05:22 pm
deepbluerevue) wrote in ph_logs2023-09-13 05:22 pm
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.
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.]
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.]
no subject
There are a few open chairs at her table, if Eddie wanted to ask.
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He doesn't mind standing, and wouldn't impose right off the bat. But if they continue conversing, he'll ask.
no subject
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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."
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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."
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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...)