by Morgan Landry 10/31/2014, 9:26 am
When Cleo arrived at the party, it was around 9:30 pm -- yeah, because arriving early at parties is bogus. She was dressed up as a 1800s doll: mid-thigh-long Victorian era inspired dress, white stockings and pastel orange high heels trimmed with lace and embroidered with floral motives. She had sprayed some pale red glitter dust on her cheekbones to complete the porcelain puppet look, not that her makeup didn't take care of that. Light caramel color spread on her forehead, cheekbones and nose, eyebrows retraced to give her a slightly surprised look, lush fake lashes meant to have her eyes seem round and lipstick coloring the middle of her lips.
Cleo had been unable to stop admiring herself in the mirror for forty-five minutes, appreciating how bubbly her ringlets looked (she had spent ten minutes on them, they better look bubbly) and twirling around to see herself from behind. She already looked very innocent with her huge glittering green irises, symmetric face and full lips, but dressed up and done as a doll, she had an almost angelic hue.
When she arrived on the dance floor with the populars, the party was in full swing. Austin and Kayla, the usual DJs, were rocking it at the turn tables, a couple of Hephaestus kids took care of the light effects (Cleopatra could only make out the huge, grotesquely ugly girl, Sawyer -- seriously, she was a pain to her eyes), the Demeter's being busy at the buffet while some Dionysus's mixed cocktails. Yes, this would prove to be a very interesting party, Cleo thought as she walked between the crooked crosses and tombstones the dance committee people had set up earlier in the afternoon. A vapor ghost puffed up right in front of her but she walked through it, giggling with one of her sisters.
There were some broken mirrors here and there and she couldn't help but stop in front of one to marvel at her reflection. Her dress moved most prettily around her thighs, as the skirt was wide and done exactly like in the Victorian era: the petticoat, the bustle, the underskirt then the skirt. The dress was done in orange, pink and white, the corset embroidered with flower motives and set with a golden brooch. She even had two bead-and-velvet bracelets around her wrists which looked extremely bubbly as they matched the trail of orange and white silk flowers on the left side of her hair. She knew there wasn't any African/Egyptian porcelain dolls back in the Victorian era -- at least not that she knew of -- but she didn't care. Her outfit just looked so bubbly, she was fangirling over herself.
If there was one thing Falko could do really good, it was the Joker laugh. So what did she decide to dress up as for tonight? Take a wild guess.
The Asian daughter of Deimos had arrived with the popular clique dressed in a white blouse under a yellow silk waistcoat with a purple skirt, green bowtie, tights and knee-high black socks. Her normally black hair fell in wild green curls over her shoulder and a daughter of Dionysus had given her such a realistic Glasgow smile with stage make up she had thought she was actually bleeding. While the populars slowly clogged off into groups of four or five, Falko went to the bar to get a virgin cocktail. As a starter, there would be plenty of time to drink alcohol later.
She saw two guys at one end of the dance floor, one having a very convincing corpse costume: grey skin, red eyes, everything, and the other one dressed up as some kind of assassin from Assassin's Creed. Right next to them stood Cleo -- well, Esmeralda, but everybody called her Cleo -- who was as hopelessly drawn to mirrors as flies are drawn to honey. She was twirling around on her high heels, checking her hairdo, striking poses and smiling prettily. Falko knew she was a model, but did she really need to do that during a party?
Last edited by Morgan Landry on 11/1/2014, 3:55 pm; edited 3 times in total