The decorations are up, the tables are sagging under the weight of the snacks, the music is playing, and the costumed guests are starting to arrive. What surprises lie in store this year?
The decorations are up, the tables are sagging under the weight of the snacks, the music is playing, and the costumed guests are starting to arrive. What surprises lie in store this year?
Er, hi. Am I the first one here?
((You seem to have forgotten your costume.))
((If I come as Bruce Dickenson do I have to change my name?))
((It’s not mandatory, but most people do come in disguise.))
Oh, alright.
Utterly unprepared for Halloween this year, I hobble into the ballroom in the guise of a Christmas tree. The costume itself was not at all difficult to create; I had merely duct-taped the branches of my Christmas tree (which I hadn’t had the time to remove from my living room after the last holiday season) to a green shirt and relocated all the ornaments in the house to my “branches.” I put a large fluorescent angel on my head like a cap, wrapped a few strings of lights around my “trunk” like some some over-sized belts, and tied several wrapped presents around my feet. As a masquerade courtesy, I tied a black bandanna (the sole piece remaining of my childhood ninja costume) around my face so that I could barely see anything through all the pine needles and candy canes. It was perfection.
Of course, the real challenge was in doing anything at all. It was ridiculously hard to have any sort of mobility. I had attempted to fasten myself on a skateboard with painful but comedic failure; I borrowed an electronic cargo-moving cart from a local store, then realized I couldn’t reach the controls or see where I was going anyways. In the end I took the traditional liberty of walking–if it could even be called walking. I hit a decorative plant as soon as I entered and entangled my own branches with its vines, and the little scuffle resulted in a loss for me with three shattered ornaments and one broken twisted branch.
I figure I can’t do much else but stand and wait for other guests to arrive.
I wish I could describe the scene a bit more, but it really is difficult to see what is around me.To conserve energy, I pick a corner somewhat close to the refreshments and stand still.Dressed in all black with a tail and ears, I slink into the room, stealthily observing my surroundings. Noting that there are only two others in the ballroom so far, I creep over to the refreshments table and pick out a few delicious-looking puffin puffs and wung buttons.
((The cats at Muse Academy always do wind up eating most of Helga Gunnarsdóttir’s puffin puffs. I can hardly bear to look at them myself, but I highly recommend the plate of warm pumpkin puffs that the Hare & Hedgepig has just delivered.))
*approaches Robert with a puffin puff and a devilish grin*
I’m dressed as Syme/Thursday in the last scene of G. K Chesterton’s novel The Man Who Was Thursday: in “a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents.”
I sip my butterbeer and listen contentedly to the band, delighted that Sigur Rós was in town and could make it tonight.
((Is there some kind of problem with Gravatar? My costume doesn’t seem to be appearing here.))
I waft into the ballroom rather than walk, and make my way directly to the food. Daedric princes may not technically need to eat, but they can still enjoy the taste of food. Since I particularly like pumpkin, I take a delicious-smelling pumpkin puff before stepping into the shadows to eat while I listen to the music.
((SFTDP. Never mind. I shouldn’t have trusted the preview button.))
I walk in, wrapped here and there in cloth, my crown rising gracefully erect above my head. My wands are just attached to my bracelets, but still look pretty cool.
I wasn’t sure where to go, so I just walked in and stood to the right of the door, a bit far away from the food.
My stomach growls. I groan and slink slowly towards the refreshments table.
“Presents, anyone?” I mutter to myself, indicating the shiny boxes tied around my feet. The bells on my branches twinkle very prettily to my undisguised annoyance. I can’t see if anyone is staring at me, and I can’t hear if there are any giggles. I can’t even assume anyone sees me, since I certainly don’t see anything.
I detect a speck of candlelight; it apparently is a candle on the refreshments stand. I slowly slide over to it and reach down. My hands close around something that feels completely covered with sugar. And then my arm battles its way towards my mouth so I may enjoy the treat. It is a sugar cookie.
After I finish eating the excellent pumpkin puff, I notice another ball-goer who – unless I miss my guess – is a god from some other pantheon. I make my way over to en (Osiris) to introduce myself. “Hello. I’m Lady Nocturnal. Might I ask who you are?”
I slide in, largely unnoticed, dressed as a Thing. Please don’t worry. I know what happened last time, but this is just me dressed as one.
“Osiris,” I answered Lady Noctournal, “pleased to meet you!”
I enter the elaborately decorated room alone and pause for a moment, taking in the atmosphere of the party. Upon spotting the refreshments, I make my way over to the drinks table and pour myself a Roy Rodgers. I don’t recognize anyone yet, so I lean up against a hyperrealistic haunted tree and sip my drink through the decorative straw, bobbing my head to the music.
I’m costumed as an upside-down scallion. I’ve got on a white ski cap with pipe-cleaner roots sprouting from the top, and I’m wearing a white shirt and green pants. It might be hard to tell I’m a scallion by just looking at me, but I’ve rubbed scallion juice all over my clothes and some dabs on my wrists too, so I’m hoping my aroma provides a sufficient clue.
Is it my imagination or is everyone edging away from me?
I waltz over to the refreshment table, sleeves and scarf trailing behind me. This may have been just an excuse to wear red lipstick, but I don’t regret it in the slightest. I tug on my dress to conceal the knives on my belt (propriety dictates I not display lethal weapons at a ball). Pouring myself a cup of pumpkin juice, I turn to Audrey Horne. “So,” I say. “What do you do for a living?”
“Daddy’s finally let me have a more permanent position as a concierge at the Great Northern Hotel. It was about time he let me have a real job at his hotel. I guess he finally got tired of me conning my way into jobs at other establishments he owned. Yourself?”
((I’m not actually done with Twin Peaks so this might not be canon? please don’t spoil anything for me. I probably should have thought about this before picking a costume))
“Not a prostitute,” I say by way of explanation. I realize I have eaten my way through three handfuls of candy corn and should probably stop. Too shy to ask you to dance, I turn to the nearest lamp, which is doing a jig by itself. “May I have this song?” I ask.
I smile, amused by Inara’s willingness to dance with furniture.
“Shall we?” I ask, extending my hand to a gently swaying hat rack. We dance around the refreshment table, humming along to the lyrics I cannot understand, although I have a feeling the hat rack can, and is fluent in many languages in addition to Icelandic.
((Oops. Looks like the last time I posted, I wasn’t in costume.))
“Pleased to meet you too, Osiris.” I say, then look around. “Seems a bit quiet this year, doesn’t it?”
“Sure,” I replied, looking around. “it was a lot busier the last time I was here. Of course, the last time I was here, I wasn’t there very long.”
I have begun to rotate, slowly. So far, no-one has noticed.
I look over, across Lady Nocturnal’s shoulder, “Who is that?” I asked, pointing at something moving around in the room. ((Paul))
I pad over to The Thing and examine it curiously, then yowl and dash out of the room as my sensitive nose catches the odor of scallions in the vicinity. I hate scallions!
Still enjoying my butterbeer, I admire the festivities. The students were too busy to form a decoration committee this year, so the faculty and staff took over. I suggested a “Man Who Was Thursday” theme, and I must say that the results are very much in the spirit of the last chapter of that book:
“They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress. Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume. There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures. Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself—the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens. There were a thousand other such objects, however. There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship. One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig. And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects—a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill—without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade.”
No wonder nobody has noticed yet that Paul is rotating.
I look in the direction Osiris is pointing. I can see a lone figure rotating not far away, but the flickering light of a nearby bonfire makes it difficult to pick out details. I see better in a constant state of darkness. “I’m not sure.” I reply to Osiris. “Maybe we should go introduce ourselves to en?”
I wonder who the girl with the armored polar bear is, and how many people are inside the bear.
Rosanne’s scallion costume is quirky and funny, just like her. When she first described it to me, I thought she said “scallop” and admit I was apprehensive. The scallion juice is pungent, but it could have been much worse.
Quirky? Funny? Maybe sometimes. But not tonight! I am a Spooky Scallion. Mwahahaha
Beyond the heavily decorated party room, past the edge of the torchlight and through an improbably sized archway, the sounds of the growing party reached my slumbering ears. Lazily, I open one golden eye. It seems the festivities have begun. I uncurl my tail from around my self and stretch my wings, before slowly rising and making my way towards the commotion. From the amount of concerned noises, someone apparently (and foolishly) actually tried to eat one of the puffin puffs. I slide into the light of the bonfires, sticking close to the edge so I don’t sweep anyone away with my tail… for now.
Frumiouser and frumiouser!
“Why not?” I replied, following LN over to the other side of the room.
I am rotating faster now. People are beginning to be vaguely aware of my presence. I am thinking of tendrils.
The band launches into a rousing song called “HoppÃpola.”
With Paul whirling like a dervish and a dragon on hand, I ponder whether it might be time to dive under the refreshment table. That moment always arrives sooner or later at Muse Academy events.
I move with Osiris over toward the rotating being. “Hello. I’m Lady Nocturnal, and this is Osiris. And who are you?”
The B-UNICEF party was a bit of a bust, so I make a last-minute swing by Muse Academy, wearing my Amelia Earhart costume (leather jacket, boots, scarf, pilot’s hat, and goggles), and grab a pumpkin puff.
I have a feeling this party will continue well past midnight.
I hope it will! I have eaten an incredible amount of candy corn and am seized by an unexpectedly social desire to make friends with the dragon near the fireplace. I approach with caution, holding out a pumpkin puff as a shield.
“Hi,” I say. “Do you like riddles?”