This Murder is a Mystery // [Gamemakers]

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Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]
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cameron stood in line for an hour for a stupid ride for me <3 best <3

This Murder is a Mystery // [Gamemakers] Jul 26, 2013 0:36:28 GMT -5

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Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Jul 26, 2013 0:36:28 GMT -5

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

Glamour was Annoyed, Capital A, with the delay in his dinner plans. An hour past his intended cocktail hour, he deigned to bestow his grace upon the staff of the Training Center. His butler had accompanied him from the luxury high rises in the Capitol, and he was the only one Glamour would hold responsible.

It can't be helped, his butler informed him. His lower lip twitched as he faced Glamour. The Games, they are the only clock we know.

Glamour sneered. "Was I not the god of time two years ago? Our guests are not going to tolerate such a disrespectful delay. You can be sure I'll find a way to return the favor, in time." He cackled at his own cruel joke, and waved his middle aged butler off to organize the details. He had more important matters to attend to. Namely, his guests, the true gods of Panem, the only men and women who ever won when the Games rolled around. He had already sent along a package of rare cured meats with a note of apology about the delayed start time for their evening. Glamour thought it was a modest gesture, and he had ordered twice the number of bottles of champagne to be sure that all quickly forgot the faux pas.

He allowed his own army of stylists to fuss and preen. Every so often he snapped and corrected, but mostly he reviewed the events of Day 2. It was obvious why there had been a delay; too many large muttations which had taken too long to bring down. Visually dynamic, but two of them had been unable to take down a quartet of tributes. He felt almost gleeful as the news anchor lambasted the muttation's design, saying that it had fallen an elephant's lengthy shy of its potential. Glamour ordered a glass of champagne for himself at that point, and even let his newest stylist weave a few streaks of electric blue into his flawless hair.

Despite the perfectly controlled temperature of the Training Center, Glamour snuggled into a cropped fur coat. Layers of obsidian and iron necklaces draped from his neck, down his bare and waxed chest. His pants, leather of course, squeaked with every movement. He stared at himself in the mirror, laughed at the dashing and fierce man in front of him. A sweep of his arm and a tilt of his glass, he clinked his flute against the mirror. "May the odds be ever in your favor, Glamourous,

[/color]" he purred, and then smashed the glass.

Bubbles floating through his system, Glamour made his entrance onto the balcony of the Training Center. It was only slightly disappointing that the crowd - entirely comprised of avoxes - clapped instead of cheering. He threw back the curtain and circled the dinner table. The stemware gleamed, the silverware shone. He had chosen a palette of pale rose and dark silver for the night. Nothing too significant. Tasteful. It was the entertainment that he wanted to steal the spotlight, even though he was known for his fashion and decor expertise. Everyone would expect his table to be outlandish, bright and obnoxious. Everyone would expect a dinner of Gamemakers to discuss the deaths of countless tributes.

But they would be talking about another death tonight.

The avoxes assembled themselves along the edge of the balcony, their backs to the grey training center. Glamour put his manicured fingers to his polished lips. His butler had finally done well; each of the avoxes, tongueless as they were, was bigger than the next. He cackled, just to hear the sound. It was his butler who interrupted him, with a nod to the door. His guests were just on the other side, offered champagne flutes on a red carpet, and each had been handed a different type of flower.

Glamour dabbled his fingers over the plates as he passed, dipping them into one of the pours of olive oil. He smeared it over his exposed abs, wiped his fingers on the wallpaper, and then plucked his flower from a vase. A moon flower, of deepest indigo, which he twirled despite the poison latent in its petals. He flirted with it, passing it under his nose, within a whisper of his lips, as the doors finally opened.

Glamour flung open his arms. "Finally! You cannot imagine my remorse at the delay. But here we are, and I can promise you, this night none of us will forget." He winked and smiled a snake's smile. He could hear their thoughts echoing inside his skull. Hadn't they all promised Panem the same thing over the last decade? And who was he to promise such a thing to the gods of Panem?

Well, that one's easy. I'm Glamour Kinkade, bitch.[/size][/blockquote]

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This Murder is a Mystery // [Gamemakers] Jul 30, 2013 22:08:40 GMT -5

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Post by ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ on Jul 30, 2013 22:08:40 GMT -5

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There was a memo on his desk that had one corner folded to remind him that it was the latest update. With a long sigh, Benson rubbed his face with his hands, the dark circles under his eyes still visible. He was so happy that he was not the Head Gamemaker for these Games, but it was still stressful to follow the movements of all the tributes and just watch them. Scattered around his desks were drawings that had come up in his mind in the middle of the night, and in the spaces the drawings did not occupy were stacks of paper held together by particularly strong paper clips. Benson really needed a long vacation.

But first he had to attend this dinner that was thrown by one of the Gamemakers, a Glamour Kinkade. Benson had watched Glamour’s work in the 62nd Games, and was a particular fan of Cerberus. He had particularly liked the theme that Glamour had picked, and would have been a fan of the Gamemaker himself if there wasn’t something so off-putting about that man. He was no more than ten years younger than Benson, yet Benson always felt like he was talking to a child caught in some odd imagination.

He had contemplated not attending the dinner—it was probably going to be some show anyway—but once he received the other package with the apology, Benson knew he couldn’t refuse. He would be courteous, make polite talk throughout the dinner, and bow out when appropriate. It was simple, structured, unburdened by crazy thoughts that would spring into his mind as he planned out the rest of the evening. “Mr. Tiero, wouldn’t you say it’s about time to leave?” Benson glanced at the clock on his desk and looked out of the window in his study. Yes, he would have to leave soon, but he needed a few minutes to prepare himself for whatever debacle Glamour Kinkade had planned. “Not yet, Mr. Kinkade sent a note saying the dinner would be delayed. Have the dinner treats been prepared?” “Yes, sir, they are wrapped up and I left them in the car.” Benson nodded to his assistant. Always on top of matters.

His assistant left without another word, and Benson walked back to his desk, scanning at all of the papers. He would have to deal with them after the dinner. The sheet sitting at the center of his desk was bothering him, though, the lines not making much sense as the boxes didn’t quite fit. Well, I suppose they won’t mind if I bring this with me, he thought to himself as he rolled up the sheet and tucked it into his jacket’s inside pocket. He could always add more scribbles on the way to the dinner. With a final glance at the memo to confirm that the dinner would be at the Training Center—how weird to pick that place to host a dinner—he knocked on his desk two times and left the room.

The trip was short and within a few minutes, he was at the Training Center. He was welcomed with a champagne glass and a flower. He examined the flower that he was holding and suspected it was a geum, but he couldn’t be too certain. After all, weren’t some of the Capitol researchers working on breeding yet another type of flower? The other Gamemakers were not there yet, so he stood there silently, drinking from his glass every now and then. He didn’t understand why he had been handed a flower, but he held on to it, certain it would come to play some time in the evening. That was how a Gamemaker thought anyway.

Benson didn’t have much time to think about the flower, though, when the doors opened and one Glamour came into view. True to what Benson remembered about the Head Gamemaker of the 62nd Games, Glamour dressed as any Capitolite would—outlandish yet totally part of the “fashion”. It made Benson feel a little weak in his knees, as he wore a simple-colored dress shirt with dark slacks; there wasn’t going to be a fashion show was there? His attention rested on the last part of Glamour’s greeting, a promise that it would be a dinner that “none of us will forget”; it made Benson even more nervous. No, there would be nothing drastic happening that night—surely Glamour was not that insane—but that was a high promise for him to make, that he also wouldn’t have been surprised if Glamour pulled out some elaborate scheme.

Looking around to make sure there were no visible traps or cameras around, Benson shrugged his shoulders and held his flower in one hand and the small gift in the other. I would be wrong to say I am not curious at all for what Glamour has planned. That crazy boy could be up to anything. Benson stared at Glamour before giving him a smile, and he sat down in one of the seats at the table. "I can't wait to see what you have prepared."