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(no subject)

Characters: EVERYONE!
Date/Time: Yule
Location: La Theâtre Jeu Ancien
Rating: Probably nothing too bad... PG-13 at worst?
Warnings: Possibly language
Summary: The godlings give their performance!

The theatre was dark for now. Though it was a fairly good-sized audience chamber, only two figures were seated there, both in shadow. Their features could not be determined, but one seemed decidedly feminine, and the other decidedly masculine--with a certain aura of malevolence. Both watched the stage with interest, which was set to show the office of the counting house at the moment, the characters of Scrooge and Bob Cratchit already in place.

As the lights began to come up, Nigel's voice boomed over the theatre:

"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"

But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Screw the play. Astarte is all about the clues as she struts onto the stage -- man, is it hot in here, or is it just Tara's bitching lacy costume?

Still, she keeps her eyes trained on the scenery, except for a happy nod at her sister.

Seth walks in wearing the clothes of the time. He had to say, he thought he looked rather decent. They were in public, so he couldn't be too blatant, but he spared Astarte a brief admiring look.

Tyr on the other hand felt awkward in his suit. He had to be helped by invisible assistants in getting his clothes on. Still, he smiles fondly to his fiance.

It was Aphrodite's turn to enter. Her presence could be felt well before she swept onto the stage in an elaborate red gown, her hair done in flowers and ringlets. Her powers were in full force, radiating around her, suffusing the area, and easily synergizing with those of Lilith, Dionysus and Erato.

She smiled brightly, and saw young Triton there. Her would-be love interest for this part of the play. All at once, though some still bled through the area around her, she turned the full weight of her powers onto the sea prince.

Triton didn't miss Aphrodite's entrance, but when he felt her turn the focus of her powers onto him, it took every bit of his iron willpower not to literally crumple under the weight of her gaze. He gritted his teeth, and fought to keep his knees from buckling.

"That's a dirty trick, Aphrodite," he murmured in a low voice when she came close enough to hear him.

"Come now, pet. Scrooge is supposed to be madly in love with Belle for this part--how else would I get you to act as such?" she whispered back, though otherwise acting as if she hadn't yet noticed hm.

Out in the audience, the male figure's eyes gleamed in the shadows. He could feel the pulsing of the lusty powers coming together. He especially gloated at the image of the shy little Muse in between her sisters.

Yes... That's right... You can all feel that, can't you? Go ahead... give in... he urged wordlessly from where he sat.

Mel could feel the powers on stage mixing together and trying to invade. And she had the distinct feeling that this was no coincidence.

Melpomene did not like being manipulated. She held on to that, and tightened her hold on Erato's waist. Though she wasn't sure if it was to keep Erato in check, or herself.

"Something screwy is going on here." She whispered it for Erato and Urania's ears only, even though she felt she was stating the obvious.

Erato's cheeks began to turn pink, and she squirmed a little under the charge of emotion beginning to rise in the air, biting her lower lip. Unbidden, images from dreams she'd nearly forgotten about rose so vividly in her mind, she could almost feel the touch on her again.

"It... it's him," she murmured breathlessly.

Something was going on here.

Something decidedly unfair

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