OPEN SIGNUPS The Dionysian Enactment

[Orionis]

Fading sunlight cast long shadows across the city streets as a tall figure quietly made his way down the sidewalks, cursing every so often when his feet clumsily caught themselves on the cracks and edges of forgotten concrete. The once-thriving neighborhood had fallen into disrepair, with boarded-up storefronts and graffiti-adorned walls standing as silent witnesses to better days. The Elysian Playhouse loomed ahead, a relic of a bygone era, its weathered facade a testament to the passage of time.

Outside, the theater stood like a forgotten gem amidst the urban decay. Its grand architecture, adorned with intricate carvings and ornate detailing, hinted at its former glory. The marquee above the entrance displayed faded letters, barely visible in the twilight but still bearing the name that had drawn Nick's attention from the start. Hunger gnawed at Nick's stomach, a reminder that he had yet to eat. He brushed a hand through his tousled hair, trying to tame his ruffled appearance. The long hours of travel and the anticipation of what awaited had left little room for nourishment-- but his hunger paled against the fire that burned within him, an insatiable yearning to explore the depths of his artistry and confront the shadows lurking within his soul.

His phone rang, startling him, and he held it against his ear as he leaned against a nearby streetlamp.

"Yeah."

"Did you make it into the city okay?" Nick sighed. The caller was his manager checking in, already jumping to hold a tight leash on him. Victor Sinclair was a sniveling rat of a man, ready to snatch up any opportunity and to run when the risk was too high. If even Sinclair was willing to buy this dump, he thought, there must be something to it.

"Everyone's all settled at the hotel, save for one whose flight got delayed. I'll be picking them up at Midway later tonight." As he spoke, his eyes followed a stray pigeon chasing a piece of trash that floated down the street like a sad balloon. He shivered as the wind picked up, wishing he had thrown on his windbreaker.

"Good, good," Sinclair muttered. "Remember not to go into the theater until the workers are with you and the other actors tomorrow. You never know what could fall on top of you, what with the old and unstable support beams. We'll be completely remodeling the interior." Nick turned his attention back to the theater, its beauty apparent even under the sickly orange glow of the streetlights. "You'll stick with its theme?"

His manager chuckled. "Who wouldn't? Everyone adores neoclassical architecture." The conversation quickly stuttered to a stop after that, much to Nick's relief. Immediately ignoring Sinclair's orders, he approached the old theater. Excitement raced through him. Nick had to see the place in its former glory, and he cared not for potential danger. If it had been standing for this long, it was probably alright for him to take a quick look around.

Taking a deep breath, Nick pushed open the heavy wooden doors, their hinges creaking in protest after years of neglect. The scent of aged wood and musty velvet enveloped him as he stepped inside. The soft glow of twilight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting a mosaic of colors upon the worn floorboards. Nick's footsteps echoed through the empty foyer, the noise a reminder of a void waiting to be filled with life. He glanced around, taking in the faded elegance of the space. Tattered curtains hung limply on either side of the stage, their former grandeur reduced to mere remnants. Dust particles danced in the rays of light that streamed through cracks in the high ceiling, lending an ethereal quality to the scene.

His hand brushed against peeling wallpaper as he explored one of the backstage rooms. The room was cluttered with discarded props and dusty costumes, remnants of past productions. Nick's gaze fell upon an old trunk tucked away in a corner. Intrigued, he knelt and fumbled with the rusty lock until it finally yielded. Inside, a treasure trove of forgotten memories awaited Nick's discovery. Carefully, he lifted the lid, revealing a collection of faded photographs, playbills, and handwritten letters. Each artifact carried whispers of a bygone era when the Elysian Playhouse thrived with life and artistry. Nick ached to sift through them. Glancing at the time, however, he knew he had to make his way to the other side of the city to pick up the stray actor. Time had flown by without his notice, too engrossed in the theater's past to notice.

With a groan, he stood and stretched, his joints creaking nearly as much as the floorboards. "You," he whispered as he began to yank the trunk across the floor, "are coming with me."

 

[rissa]

Daphne arrived painfully early.

Perhaps that smelled of desperation, of the need to prove oneself or the desire to be seen. In truth, Daphne wished for neither. Fact was she'd been between leases for the past two weeks, couch surfacing no more than three nights between the handful of friends she managed to procure in the past year since moving to Chicago. She hated to be a bother, to take up space where she wasn't meant to be. Daphne regretted selling her hatchback to get up here, at least then she'd have somewhere to sleep at the end of the night, but ah, life is life, and there was no way to foretell what would inevitably come to fruition. It still, well... sucked, but waitressing was getting her nowhere— in this life or the one she dreamed to live, nor was it enough to pay for her bills, regardless of how many she took on.

So when her manager called her, promising something fun and worth her while, Daphne said yes immediately.

At least tonight she'd have a place to sleep.

She gave her name to the concierge and received an expressionless greeting, a keycard, and directions to the elevator. Daphne nodded, gratefully and made her way upstairs, to the small suite with a few adjoining rooms. Too courteous for her own good, Daphne left her small bag of belongings and toiletries by the comfiest looking armchair in the private but shared expanse of the suite, waiting for everyone else.

 

[Nemopedia]

Lethe Sheridan

Coloured threads stretched out before her, meaningless for now, but crisscrossing and connecting names and characters to each other and to her, giving it meaning through emotion. Was it telling her to follow? Lethe wasn't sure, but she knew that this was a dream and soon she was to wake up in her room where outside the shared spaces with three other girls was, of which one was moving after landing a main role in a series she wasn't looking forward to, but which would allow her a steady income and the ability to rent an apartment for herself. A step in her career that Lethe envied, even if she didn't like the synopsis of the series herself. Work was work, and idealistic as they had all started out Lethe knew that one day they all had to wake up and face the music, for this was no life.

"Late night?" Cecile, the moving girl, asked, unapologetic about the mess and noise she made while moving her things out. Lethe nodded, not offering her help either with the move as she slumped into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, her eyes still thick with sleep as she tried to remember what she still had for breakfast. "I brought some leftovers from yesterday," Cecile exclaimed, popping the fridge open to reveal a box of fancy appetisers that Lethe had to miss out on because of work.

"Thanks," came out of the woman, a wry smile following as slender arms reached out to the leaving housemate, pulling the other into a hug, "and break a leg, you can do it," came her genuine wish, for despite all her envy she was still happy for Cecile to finally see a move in her career, "we will get a new roomie, one who won't occupy the bathroom for an hour," Lethe adds in jest, a giggle shared between the two women before they went on with their day. One in excitement and the other sluggish.

A morning routine later Lethe stepped out of the shared apartment like a new person. The puffiness gone and her expression open and friendly. With renewed energy the actress in making had plans to seek out her agency, ready to buckle down and even take on a dull regular position in a series like Cecile did for a shot at life.

 

[Lyrikai]

When he had first stepped into the hotel lobby, Atrea craned his head back to gaze up at the ceiling murals, the lights, the crown molding. Hotels were always quite gorgeous; the architecture and interior design just immaculate. It was stunning. Beautiful. If everything in this part of the city was just as lovely, he could only imagine how dazzling the theater must be on the other end of town. It hardly mattered the age nor how much of a state of disrepair it might be in, beauty was forever. It could be tarnished, but it could not be taken away. It could not be destroyed beyond repair. You just had to have the eye to see it. Atrea had that eye. He could see the beauty even in the deepest darkness. He knew where to look. He always had that gift.

Aimlessly wandering for a time, he had no direction in sight nor in mind. Halls seemed to stretch on forever, bright lights guiding the way along walls decorated in commercialized paintings. There was one of a family out on a prairie, another of a ship at see, one with the most adorable little puppy, and one that just appeared to be an abstract mash of color in no discernable pattern. There were all quite lovely, but nothing overly special that stood out to him. Yet, he had a knack for these, too. he could appreciate and respect the muted art that left a pleasant atmosphere to the building's long hallways but didn't scream for attention and force any particular theme that might appease one person's eye more than another. It was typical. Classic. Ordinary. It worked, but it wasn't as gorgeous and welcoming as the golden light of the front lobby.

The lobby was the life of this place, after all. It was the first thing one saw when they stepped inside. It had to be grand. It had to dazzle them and make them want to stay. If it was a turn off, they'd be turned away. It had to be a lure. It had to be alluring.

He smiled despite himself, leaving one hall behind to enter another. Once he smelled the chlorine in the air, he knew he'd strayed too far. Down this way was the public pool. The distant squeals of children were heard as they played with their families. It was time to stop his wandering. He didn't even know how much time he'd spent exploring, but his next path found him at an elevator, heading up several floors to go locate the room where he'd be spending his nights.

Keycard in the lock, the door clicked open and he stepped inside the room, a bag tossed unceremoniously to the floor where he could collect it later after he'd done his proper exploring of this space next.

 

[Orionis]

Nick leaned against his car as he smoked a joint, closing his eyes briefly in enjoyment. He remembered his younger self smoking weed for the first time. The high of breaking the law had mingled with the faint buzz of dirt weed and he'd thought it was the best thing in the world.

Thank fuck for legalization, he thought to himself with mild amusement. Nick glanced at his phone. Midnight had just passed. They should be here soon. He could've went in and met them at their gate, he supposed, but it was easier to stay outside and not worry about going through security checkpoints. The joint whose filter he tossed to the ground wasn't enough to get him stoned, but it softened his senses just enough for him to drop his shoulders and breathe a sigh of relief. The sign he dangled from his fingertips was barely legible, scrawled hastily on an old piece of cardboard. A few people looked at him funny as they walked by, clearly assuming he was a peddler despite the context clues.

"So a rumpled shirt and a cardboard sign is all it takes to become nearly invisible," he muttered to himself. The streetlights that cast a sickly yellow glow over him and his beat-up Subaru didn't help his image, either. He hated the thought of people staring at his unkempt appearance, but there wasn't anywhere else to wait. He and several others shivered to the tempo of the late-night chill, only just cold enough to cause irritation instead of frostbite; late spring in Chicago had a tendency to jump between boiling and freezing at a moment's notice.

Deep in his boredom, his fingers itched to go through the newly acquired trunk sitting in the back of his car, but he pushed the thought away. Nick wanted to wait until he was back with everyone else, figuring going through an old trunk together would be a good way to break the ice. A loud scraping noise broke the silence, causing Nick to wince and look towards the airport entrance. Perking up, he adjusted to hold the sign with both of his hands, smoothly sliding his phone into his back pocket. His exhaustion was finally catching up with him, and he hoped so badly that the straggling actor was the one that had walked through the door. I just have to drive them to the hotel. Then I'm home free.

 

[arden]

Bar chatter filled his ears, the words lacing in and out of his ears like spiders forming webs. Cobwebs for brains; that described him perfectly right now. Why else would he, a recent STEM graduate, be lounging in a hotel waiting for a thespian? He sighed and took a sip of the amaretto sour in front of him.

Here he was, the owner of a prestigious-sounding degree with nary a job lined up months later. "I'm still deciding if I want to get my Master's," he said to his mother, not quite lying but not quite telling the truth. It was a thought he had, sure, but the whole process of applications and acceptance and whatnot wasn't going to be decided within a summer. But entering the workforce at the ripe old age of twenty-three nagged a nerve in his mind he couldn't snip out. Hell, one of his roommates was married and trying for a kid. So no, Alex decided, he was going to be silly and young for one year more. That's why he found himself in a bar sipping on a drink he could make a dozen of for half the price and waiting for an actor (manager? talent agent? he couldn't quite remember) to show up and give him the script for whoever he was playing. Or however this worked. Music was more his wheelhouse, not acting, but he saw the poster half-ripped and with a few remaining tabs of the contact information and decided this was going to be how he dealt with the crisis of being a young adult.

Some people flitted in and out of the lobby. Some harried, some graceful, no one he recognized. No one that held the air of theatrics. He rechecked his phone. The cryptic text said to meet at the hotel, but gave scant few other details. His apartment was a ten minute drive down the road, whoever was organizing this was out of his mind if they thought he'd pay however many hundreds of dollars a night to sleep in a bed that wasn't going to be nearly as comfortable. He finished off his drink and wandered up to the concierge. "Hello, I'm supposed to meet with a..." He checked his phone again. "Victor Sinclair? My name is Alexandre Levesque."
She chirped out a response and handed him a key card. Oh. No asking for a credit card or any sort of leverage.

He walked down the hall to meet this odd man. Or his agent. Again, he had no idea how this worked and even less of an idea of why this man opted to choose a prickly asshole like himself that had near-zero acting experience. Maybe playing Ebenezer Scrooge once in the elementary school Christmas play was more telling of his skills than he previously thought. The keycard made a pleasant click and he opened the door to see a few people waiting. Pensive faces all around, it seemed. "Oh, hello. Is this the actor meeting place? With that Sinclair fellow?" He swallowed.

 

[Orionis]

Nick sauntered into the hotel lobby, annoyance twisting his mouth to the side. He had gone out to fucking Garfield Ridge for nothing; the actor that was supposed to have flown in never showed, leaving him to stand alone with his shitty cardboard sign and aching legs from standing in one place for too long.

"Fucking Sinclair," he muttered to himself. It was nearly 1:00 am, but instead of getting to go to his new apartment and sleep, he was dragged back to the hotel to participate in the meeting their agent had called, now that everyone had been accounted for. Sinclair had convinced him to move into the city from the suburbs to help manage the new theater and the gaggle of actors who were now slowly filing into the meeting room that he had just wandered into, shooting Sinclair a glare that was promptly ignored as he sat next to him.

Nick looked up at the younger man who had nervously slid into the room, a cascade of brown curls framing eyes that looked just as exhausted as he felt. "Yeah, man," he replied before Sinclair could say anything. "Pop a squat." He looked around the room, counting under his breath. He could see why Sinclair chose these actors to create their little group from how they looked and held themselves; thinking about how he could whip them into shape perked him up. One actor caught his eye in particular; a man with long, blonde hair and an effortlessly gorgeous appearance who sat opposite him. Nick could tell that he was no stranger to art or acting.

Sinclair clapped his hands together, managing to startle everyone into looking at him. "Welcome to the windy city, my friends," he said warmly. Sinclair was a small man with slicked-back hair and comically large spectacles, peering at the group with an air of possessiveness as he spoke. Nick suppressed a grimace, already bored. He reached down into the shoulder bag he had carried into the hotel to pull out a large bundle of papers held together haphazardly with a small paperclip. The pages were old and yellowed, and the text had long since faded from black to an ashy gray. Sinclair was in the middle of speaking to the group about their accommodations in the coming months-- the renovation of the theater would include lodgings for them; a four-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms and a kitchenette, as well as a small area to dine and chat.

"Visions of the Unbound" was scrawled across the top of the first page in cursive; much to his relief, the rest of the content seemed to be written with an old typewriter. He had found it hidden at the bottom of the trunk he'd stolen from The Elysian Playhouse, piquing his curiosity. As he thumbed through the pages, Nick felt Sinclair's breath hit the side of his neck. "I see our prodigy has found us a play," Sinclair announced to the group, yanking the script out of Nick's hands and ignoring his protests.

"Let's see..." Sinclair muttered. His eyes widened as he skimmed through the play, a strange expression flashing across his face that Nick couldn't quite place. "This is amazing," he breathed. "Well done, Nicholas. Well done, indeed." There was a stretch of silence as Sinclair got caught up in reading through the play. Someone loudly cleared their throat, startling the man back into reality. He promptly handed the script back to Nick. "Nicholas will assign your parts and make copies of the script by the end of the week. Right, Nicholas?" Nick just grunted in response.

"I won't keep you, kids, any longer. Go off and get some rest. I'll let you know when the apartment is finished." Finally. Nick sprung out of his seat, only for Sinclair to put a heavy arm around his shoulder. "Not you," he muttered. "We need to talk."

 

[Lyrikai]

Getting settled in to meet his fellow actors was probably one of the most important things, that Atrea had... almost entirely forgotten. It wasn't that he forget they existed as, of course he'd be sharing the same space with others, but it just simply hadn't quite occurred that they should gather around until they were being welcomed by their oh so gracious host. Truly, he had gotten so caught up in exploring the décor of the hotel and the room that he'd almost almost let himself get distracted away from social interactions.

He smiled in response to the welcome, giving a low bow of his head. "Thank you," he replied, "It's quite an honor to be here." It truly was an honor to be included in such an exciting opportunity and Atrea was already itching to see the theater. He could imagine that it was beautiful. It had to be. All theaters were, in their own ways. New and modern or old and rustic. They each had their own individual charm and beauty. Between ornate chandeliers, murals painted across the ceilings, or carvings out in front, there was always just something so grand and extraordinary.

Getting a good look at this Sinclair, Atrea listened with glee while he went over their arrangements. Lodgings included right in there with the renovation with the theater? It sounded almost too good to be true. Were it ever so possible, Atrea would live in such grandeur in a dazzling gothic theater. He'd be so much more at home there than in the cramped little hole in the wall he already lived in.

"I can't wait," he mused, "Sounds like quite the dream come true." He was antsy already, not too keen on having to sit tight and wait out these accommodations. The end of the week. Well, at the very least, it would give him some down time to relax and maybe see some of the sights. Or he could just curl up in a cozy corner with one of many many books he'd been meaning to get around to. Inching forward just a little in his seat, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't dying to see this script. Hopefully he didn't die of boredom before the week was out. "You let me know if you need an extra pair of hands or another set of eyes," he offered, really trying not to let his anticipation show too much. The end of the week. Ugh. He was going to go crazy, he just knew it.

 

[Nemopedia]

Lethe Sheridan

Everyone had gathered already, it seemed, chatting alongside each other and getting to know one another by the time Lethe entered. There was a lingering smell of weed hanging around, the smell of relaxation and the warmth of being welcome alongside the newness of something novel and uncertain.

"Male only cast?" Lethe tries to joke as she walks in, hoping that she isn't to be the only woman in the production. Not that she didn't trust her colleagues, but a feminine touch strengthened the team, she found, if only to counter the common dangers. "I'm Lethe," she introduces herself to the group, eyes gliding over the cast to see if she recognised anyone. The world of theatre wasn't that big after all, nor was the world of fame. Yet, the only one she recognised, rather through fame than anything else, was Atrea, for no one in Chicago failed to mention how handsome he was, which Lethe now could confirm for herself.

 

[Orionis]

Renovating the apartments, as it turned out, took a little longer than a week. The trees swayed in the cooling winds, shedding their leaves like auburn raindrops for passersby to pick out of their hats and coats in annoyance. November had painted the city in frost, slicking sidewalks and car windows in the eagerness to stretch its legs. Nicholas shuffled his way to the theater, a cigarillo hanging haphazardly out of his mouth as he squinted around the haze of his hangover. "Already late," he muttered to himself, trying and failing to will himself to walk faster. His car had shit out on him yet again in response to the rapidly cooling temperatures, forcing him to waste money on taxis and scrunch his nose on train cars that often reeked of stale tobacco and beer. Today, it had been the latter.

"Finally," Sinclair grumbled as he threw open the theater doors. He stood in the middle of the lobby, tapping his foot impatiently on the gleaming tile floors like a cartoon villain. Nick jerked his chin up at him in response. Sinclair blew air out of his nose, a half-hearted attempt at a half-hearted sigh. "Everyone's here and nearly settled in. We-" Nick glared at him from the corner of his eye. Sinclair, who had fallen into step next to him, balked, slowing to avoid Nick's wrath. "You have finished assigning their parts, yes?"

"Yes. I printed off copies of the play and highlighted their parts for them." Nicholas's head throbbed. Sinclair continued to ramble as they climbed a gleaming oak staircase backstage. Sinclair slipped past him, his stomach grazing the handrail as he desperately avoided physical contact. Two knocks and they were inside, standing in the entryway of a very large apartment. Nicholas paused for a second, gaping at the high ceilings and clearly expensive appliances. "Why didn't I get this?" Sunlight kissed mahogany floors and caressed marbled walls. The apartment was heated to perfection; not cold enough to need a sweater, yet not warm enough to feel stuffy.

"Because the play, not you, funded this." Nicholas rolled his eyes in lieu of a response. He clapped his hands together firmly. Sinclair flinched. Nick smirked.

"Yo," he called, catching everyone's eye he could physically meet. "Come hither. I have your parts and your lines. Thank you for being somewhat put together during the readings. That little sprinkle of chaos y'all dashed in there made them enjoyable." That got a smile or two as everyone moved to take their scripts from his hands.
Sinclair swallowed nervously and stepped forward. "I'll be sitting in today. I like to...keep my finger on the pulse." Nick snorted, moving to flop on one of the two couches that sat facing themselves across the apartment. "The open floorplan is nice," He noted to no one in particular, gesturing for the others to join him. Sinclair instead chose to drag over a stool from the kitchen island, perching daintily as if he were a pigeon.

Nicholas cleared his throat, using his script to fan himself as the cast members settled in around him. "Here comes the fun part." He flipped open his script to the first scene. As his eyes glided over the page, the room around him seemed to fade into the background. Nicholas's ears twitched at the imagined sound of birdsong serenading a grove...

[A moonlit grove bathed in an otherworldly glow. Dionysus, and Eros, dressed in lavish purple chitons, stand shoulder-to-shoulder as they watch an ongoing party from afar. The air is thick with the scent of flowers and the distant sound of music and laughter. Near-empty goblets of wine rest in their hands.]

Dionysus: Tonight, brother, even the stars themselves gather to witness our revelry.

[He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his goblet, his gaze shifting between Eros and the edge of the grove. Dionysus waves his hand and the two take a sip of their now-filled goblets.]

Dionysus: I have prepared a small gift in honor of the mortals creating Greater Dionysia in my name. I played the part of Euripides, you see, and chose a few to dance to my tune. You, Eros, and Apollo will be two of my muses. The others...

[Dionysus trails off, returning his attention to the party. Raising an arm, he points to the far edge of his grove.]

Dionysus: Move forth, Eros. Dance to the tunes that mortals sing, and tear their lives asunder.

Nicholas blinked and looked up from the script to see everyone staring at him with wide eyes.

"That was..." Sinclair swallowed again. Nick hated the sound of it, wet and raspy like sliding parchment paper. "I've never seen you act like that before. Amazing. Simply amazing," Sinclair repeated. Someone groaned.

"All right, all right. We have one more scene to go over between Eros and Apollo. Don't rush your lines and take a breath. I'll give you the read-in."

[Eros catches Apollo as he's standing near a fountain of nectar, clearly wasted. Eros helps himself to several glasses, clearly disturbed. Apollo raises his eyebrows, but Eros shakes his head and looks offstage before leading him to a quieter spot to talk.]