D
Draeven
Guest
Original poster
Chicago, 1923.
Down an alleyway off one of Chicago's main shopping streets stands a man with a dead gaze and a pixie hidden in his clothes. His only weapon is an iron poker, leaning against the crumbling wall beside him. Behind him is a curtain, moth bitten, a dark green velvet; and behind that is the oddest, most infamous Speakeasy in town.
The lights are dimmed, releasing a dull, beetle-like green that shines off the varnished wood of tables, and reflects through the glassy wings of several patrons. Icy curls up over each of the ornate pillars, spreading out in fans of grasping, tender roots onto the ceiling, and stray fireflies or moths flit about the room ponderously. It's an odd amalgamation of two worlds, combining the raw, primal feel Dańann are accustomed to with the decadence and despotism of human wealth. Most ears here end in sharp points; most drinks are spiked with cream, and the music, though in the general style of Jazz, is played by fingers much too nimble and precise to be human.
Vivienne, the club owner, presides over this regally; draped in a long dress made of what appears to be living birdwing butterflies, her hair wrapped up in an artfully messy auburn bun, she leaves the more menial tasks of collecting and fulfilling drink orders to her nephew, an overly enthusiastic satyr who, by contrast, doesn't appear to be wearing much at all.
A Leanan sídhe is currently providing entertainment, standing on the low, varnished stage and singing an alluring, faintly carnal song with an amused glint in her dark eyes. A choker of glittering rubies surrounds her throat, glistening oddly in the green light. She is accompanied by a human pianist, presumably her lover, who plays with unnatural flair. His expression is taught, slightly sickly. He's shaking faintly, but his eyes are absolutely fixed on the singer, and his fingers are steady.
Every so often, a patron exhales a breath of smoke, listlessly dangling one of the Club's own Green Fairy cigarettes from their fingers, and the vaporous nimbus takes the shape of a tiny, fluttering sprite, or a howling human face, or a Kelpie galloping over tables and fading to a wispy curl.
The club had only just opened for the night, and yet there were quite a few patrons already occupying chairs and tables. Some were alluring, others repulsive; some combined both traits, delicate and bizarre, fascinating and terrifying. There was, as always, a faint tang in the air; a thick, seething tension. The tension of combining Seelie and Unseelie, of combining Faerie and human, the tension of opposites forced to cooperate and cohabitate. It hung low in the lamplight, like the cloying warmth before a storm, almost sexual in its irrepressible, obsessive presence.
Watch your step, it said. Welcome to the club.
Down an alleyway off one of Chicago's main shopping streets stands a man with a dead gaze and a pixie hidden in his clothes. His only weapon is an iron poker, leaning against the crumbling wall beside him. Behind him is a curtain, moth bitten, a dark green velvet; and behind that is the oddest, most infamous Speakeasy in town.
The lights are dimmed, releasing a dull, beetle-like green that shines off the varnished wood of tables, and reflects through the glassy wings of several patrons. Icy curls up over each of the ornate pillars, spreading out in fans of grasping, tender roots onto the ceiling, and stray fireflies or moths flit about the room ponderously. It's an odd amalgamation of two worlds, combining the raw, primal feel Dańann are accustomed to with the decadence and despotism of human wealth. Most ears here end in sharp points; most drinks are spiked with cream, and the music, though in the general style of Jazz, is played by fingers much too nimble and precise to be human.
Vivienne, the club owner, presides over this regally; draped in a long dress made of what appears to be living birdwing butterflies, her hair wrapped up in an artfully messy auburn bun, she leaves the more menial tasks of collecting and fulfilling drink orders to her nephew, an overly enthusiastic satyr who, by contrast, doesn't appear to be wearing much at all.
A Leanan sídhe is currently providing entertainment, standing on the low, varnished stage and singing an alluring, faintly carnal song with an amused glint in her dark eyes. A choker of glittering rubies surrounds her throat, glistening oddly in the green light. She is accompanied by a human pianist, presumably her lover, who plays with unnatural flair. His expression is taught, slightly sickly. He's shaking faintly, but his eyes are absolutely fixed on the singer, and his fingers are steady.
Every so often, a patron exhales a breath of smoke, listlessly dangling one of the Club's own Green Fairy cigarettes from their fingers, and the vaporous nimbus takes the shape of a tiny, fluttering sprite, or a howling human face, or a Kelpie galloping over tables and fading to a wispy curl.
The club had only just opened for the night, and yet there were quite a few patrons already occupying chairs and tables. Some were alluring, others repulsive; some combined both traits, delicate and bizarre, fascinating and terrifying. There was, as always, a faint tang in the air; a thick, seething tension. The tension of combining Seelie and Unseelie, of combining Faerie and human, the tension of opposites forced to cooperate and cohabitate. It hung low in the lamplight, like the cloying warmth before a storm, almost sexual in its irrepressible, obsessive presence.
Watch your step, it said. Welcome to the club.
