entre act

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:09PM CST
Sometimes it is easier to escape notice when you are a thing apart. There is the crowd, young and wild and utterly banal. Someone is drinking shots from the glossy skin of a bombed out co-ed; or, rather, a series of someones, a moving circle of glassy-eyed young men (and women) half-dancing, half-drinking, half-chanting, the crowd-become-organism alive, vacant, thoughtless, always moving. Marie-Hélène steps delicately around one of the crowd's foremen - a squat young man, with broad shoulders and the clear beginnings of what may become a steel-belted radial version of the middle-aged tire, who holds two plastic tumblers of suspicious-looking eel-green liquid, and a hypodermic "shot" between his teeth.

In her own hand - the long fingers delicately jointed as a spider's spindly legs, the nails blunt and raw, unpainted except for the lingering remnants of some old job, the malignant colour fading to an unappealing brown - a finely blown martini glass spearing rainbows of color from the pulse of lights on the dance floor, red liquid sloshing up the sides as she moves, as she lifts the drink half an arm's length above her head to protect it from the crowd, a crescent of lemon pith floating in the dead center.

The crowd barely registers her presence: they are looking for others of their own kind, and she - pale, strangely reserved, apart, is sufficiently other that they ignore her and she shifts with the tides, sliding through them like oil through water.

When she reaches a still pool on the other side of the dance floor, she lowers the drink to shoulder level, leans over it, breaths over the tension-laced surface, sees the pale, strange reflection of her own sharp features distorted in the liquid and smiles. Her eyes flicker over the rim of her glass toward the large booths lost in patterned shadows and tick with brief recognition. The rim of the glass hides the sharp little smile as she approaches; only the curve of her lower lip is visible, and that only through the liquid distortion of the drink. "Jason." A moment, her gaze rising behind him to Sonatine. "M'sieur Vidale." Still cool as you please, to Brigitte, a flickering study of her features, bathed in the chromatic light. "Mme."

Jason Malone

Fri 11:14PM CST
~he smiles, looking down at the young torrie. False bravado is always amusing. At hearing his name, his head turns, his mouth opening slightly in surprise then curling into a smile~ Holy fucking shit... the dead have arisen. Nice of you to call me back... we were getting worried. Guess you got wrapped up in some project.

~his head shifts his gaze to Brigitte then back~ Good timing though... you should meet one of your own. Marie-Helene... this is Brigitte DeMourney, a relative of yours who is fairly new in town. ~looking to Brig~ This is Marie-Helene, she's the one that speaks for your family when Alinor's lips aren't moving.

Brigitte DeMourney

Fri 11:19PM CST
*She grins up at Jason and is just about to speak when Marie-Helene makes her appearance. Brigitte turns her eyes toward her and studies her as she makes her greetings to Jason and Sonatine and then to her.* "Bonjour Mme, a pleasure." *Brigitte looked young, almost too young to be in the bar, but what difference did that make when you had the resources to have identification made to state you were 21. Her soulful moss green eyes linger on Marie's face then, curious and wondering. Another of her clan. Good someone besides Alinore and the Prince to talk to perhaps.* "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Sonatine Vidale

Fri 11:21PM CST
Thoughts of extinguishing the burning cigar in his hand passed his morbid mind for only a second. As his eyes fell to it's glowing embers, he'd think twice of the realistic qualities it imposed. Sonatine had enough strength to actually light his own cigars, despite the dwindling fear in the back of his mind that the fire might actually come alive and eat him; but that courage wasn't enough to actually go through with self-mutilation in that sort.

With Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais' introduction to the small gathering, his eyes would rise as though questioning it's truth. Ashe Kincade told him about her before the detective left the city, but it was nothing Sonatine hadn't already realized for himself in dealing with the playgirl. An almost timid smile met his lips as he looked up at the Toreador. It was a bemused look that soon passed when he flicked the remaining ashes into the awaiting tray.

He said nothing in responce, figuring that Brigitte and Jason would assume the role of greeting her formerly. Whatever the reason was for the social black sheep of the Camarilla to lessen her presence in the city was her business. He had other things to worry about right now.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:31PM CST
The creature's gaze rests fully on Jason's face for a full moment longer than necessary. Were they still alive, they might measure the glance in heartbeats, or the hollow moments between them. As it is, there is only the low, insistent pulse of some mindless dance remix that resonates through the martini glass in her hands to time it. "Returning your call was on my evening's agenda." A quick, sharp smile. "Forgive me, petit, but I only just received the message, on my return to town. Reception is so bad sometimes." She offers a vague wave of her left hand, sloshing the crimson drink over the wide mouth of the glass. Droplets cling to the rim, drip-drop down over her curved hand as her eyes shift back to Brigitte. Pale lashes flicker, brightly brushing the sharp curve of her cheek, and her wide mouth thins briefly, then curls about the edges, like paperwings catching flame.

"The pleasure's mine, of course." Her voice is clear enough, in all the noise, her accent almost swallowed by the echoing din. She flickers a mild glance (her lips press briefly together, swallowing the suggestions of further expression) at the silent Brujah, and then she leans half-forward, resting her left hip on the edge of the table, splaying her empty hand wide open on the wood surface. "This seems a lively party - " The song changes, abrutly blasting louder than the previous one. If she says anything else, it is lost in the noise.

Sonatine Vidale

Fri 11:38PM CST
The cigar finally burned out as he stamped it in the bottom of the tray. With eyes rising along pale and slender curves of a women's body, he'd meet Marie-Helene's gaze and snicker a bit. "It just started with your arrival, what can we say?" Settling back in the boothe, it would seem that he was trying to be funny. That, of coarse, wasn't really his specialty, so most wouldn't understand the words comuing from him as anything but a sarcastic remark toward a wittier opponent.

Jason Malone

Fri 11:38PM CST
~With a grin he shakes his head in amusement~ I'm sure returning the call was on the top of your list, Little One. It's good to see you again, none the less, especially with what's been going on around here of late... but that's a story for a different camp fire and night. For now, I've got some baddies to go look in on and some food to get... I'm feeling like.... italian. So, Marie ~said purposefully~ I hope to talk to you soon, ~he looks to Sonatine~ I'll let you know what else I come across. If you need anything... just call. ~he offers a nod before moving on to Brigitte~ Be careful, I don't want to have to deal with you know who if you don't make it home safely.

~he starts to walk off~

Brigitte DeMourney

Fri 11:41PM CST
*looking between Sonatine and Marie her courage fails her. she doesn't want to be left alone with them. not yet. she's not quite as ready for being on her own as she thought.* *she rises* "Jason wait ... I'll catch a ride with you." *she smiles to Sonatine and Marie* "Good night. Pleasure to have met you." *and she moves off with Jason*

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:49PM CST
"Of course - " the pale creature steps out of the direct path toward the door and watches as the pair of kindred disappear into the crowd. The faintest crease appears between her brows as she studies the space where they were, now filled once more. Nature abhors a vaccuum. Others might ask permission to join a crimelord in his particular booth, but the Toreador lacks either the insight or foresight to offer Sonatine even that basic courtesy. Abruptly, she turns and levers herself up to sit on the table, pausing only long enough to put her drink down between herself and the Brujah. More of the cosmopolitan sloshes out with her rough handling, and she flicks the droplets of the drink from her long fingers with an irritable fastidious, then gives it up and wipes her fingers, instead, on the worn thighs of her cargo pants.

"Do you have another of those?" Dropping her chin, she nods toward Sonatine's extinguished cigar, her absent expression dovetailing into a private, perhaps imperious half-smile.

Sonatine Vidale

Fri 11:56PM CST
"No.." He said. It was a lie of coarse, but why would he give her his last one? The only thought that made any sense to that question was maybe watching her burn herself in the act of lighting it. But then again, why would she ask him if she wasn't capable of lighting her own? Regardless, he wasn't inclined to do so..

Sitting in the most uncouthe of positions, Sonatine would look the socialite over some more and then glance down to her drink. Of coarse it was for show, but he still wondered what might be in the drink. Looking back at her casually, the brute would soon speak up again. "Ashe spoke very highly of you, before he left.." He mentioned, watching he reaction.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 12:22AM CST
The Toreador manages a moue of distaste, something sullen - spoiled, perhaps, or indulged - underlying the brief expression. She did not merely want a decent cigar, she coveted one, if only when the scent lingered in the air. Her eyes half-lid, nostrils flaring as she takes a breath necessary only to steal the heavy scent of charred tobacco from the air, and leans back, arching her body at the hip to slide her hand into her right front pocket. From within, she produces her usual crumpled pack of cheap, rank cigarellos and a flameless lighter decorated with - of all things - a weeping clown.

She glances down, sorting through the wreckage of the package in search of a half-decent smoke, and pale golden ropes of her fine hair slide over her shoulder, across her cheek. Her fingers still at Sonatine's comment, and she glances up - indeed, stares quite briefly but directly into his face, her own features strikingly neutral, her bare shoulders curving upward, emphasizing the hollows of her collarbones, an expression of Gallic indifference. "I hadn't heard that he had left, though of course, you would know." Now her mouth wicks wider - a twitch at the corner - as she picks, at last, a mostly intact cigarello from the crumpled package. "And I daresay I'm not sure I believe you, cher. Few people speak highly of me, as you say." The little smile remains, prescient, and she offers another small shrug. " - and I do believe I prefer it that way."

Sonatine Vidale

Sat 12:30AM CST
"I think his opinion was based on as far as your clan went.." He said, not bothering to look around himself. The Masquerade was still important in his eyes, but Sonatine had grown comfortable in his superiority. Should anyone call him on it, he'd no sooner beat them down or outsmart them int he debate than submit to the breach. Looking over her smoke of choice, he'd toss the idea of the weeping clown around in his head. Sonatine brought a curled arm up to his head as he rested it silently, still staring at her. "That could be why, there. You're the most non-conformist Toreador I think I've known.."

Marie-Hélène

Sat 12:44AM CST
"We're not all fluff and bunnies, you know - " she tucks the little cigar neatly into her mouth and cups her hand about the tip, talking briefly around the impediment. Her gaze dances from the tip of the smoke to the Brujah primogen, then back as she upcaps the lighter and depresses the mechanism with her thumb. There may be no flames, but there is heat, the supple swish-hiss of the gas and a wavering of the air. Her shoulders tense, the cipher-curve of her narrow body grows rigid as she allows the strange frisson of fear and want to flare somewhere deep in her dead body, then trickle shiveringly up her spine. She doesn't even register the first deep breath, the flare of the now-smoldering tip lending some illusion of colour to her pale digits. " - recent company and - " she is herself, entirely, again, her eyes rolling in mild exasperation. " - almost everyone else I've met here notwithstanding. I think the human stock is failing, some combination of television and genetically engineered corn has made the human race, generally, more sappy and banal than ever. It translates, of course, across the barrier. Or perhaps - " another draw, she lifts the smoke meditatively from her mouth, rolls it between her fingers as if it were a fine thing, which it is not, a foul, almost oily scent clings to the smoke as she burns the very dregs of the worst sort of tobacco, swept up from the floor and packaged for the lowest of society's low. "- perhaps it has always been this way, conventional lives, conventional minds, flowers and mint and I am so very pleased to meet you, Sire."

Sonatine Vidale

Sat 12:54AM CST
He was staring at her now, watching the flamless lighter ignite the cigarette and her tense up accordingly. He looked bored with her, for what it was worth. It was liek watching a NASCAR race; hoping to see a car wreck into the wall at 125MPH. He stared at her, intently imagining her own flesh catching light and peeling back within the blink of an eye. And yet, al lat once, he is brought back to reality when she goes into the fine details of the modern kine.

He said nothing in responce, however, just listened. Finally as she said she was pleased to meet him, he'd finally level with her. "Well, with Henry's wishes, you're part of the council. So I;d guess some manner of respect is required for you.." He said synnically.


Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:02AM CST
Her mouth twitches minutely in response, bemusement stirring beneath her changeable façade. She is the picture of repose, now, the trappings of that bone deep fear have curled up and peeled away much as he imagined her skin might do, were she to twitch her wrist backward rather than forward, or drop the ugly little cigarello in the middle of her lap. The pale creature opens her mouth to speak - undoubtedly some bright little barbed quip - but the expression cools and stills as her pale brows shoot up half-way to her hairline. The cigarello drops between her fore and middle fingers, drooping dangerously toward the table. " - I beg your pardon?"

Sonatine Vidale

Sat 01:07AM CST
Patience, wasn't a virtue Sonatine had.

Sighing almost unamused, he would wonder what the hell was going on. Apparently no one had bothered telling Marie-Helene that she was now the Toreador Primogen, since Simmon Ledeaux had left the city unannounced. Staring at her longer, he'd casually amuse the thought of rubbing it in her face, despite his complete lack of interest. "Henry released a formal letter in the Marlowe house of the new council's formation. Not that we've held a decent meeting of the Primogen since I've been here; but you're among them. Just as, Malone had announced to young Brigitte DeMourney.." His tone was level.

Sonatine Vidale

Sat 01:07AM CST
Patience, wasn't a virtue Sonatine had.

Sighing almost unamused, he would wonder what the hell was going on. Apparently no one had bothered telling Marie-Helene that she was now the Toreador Primogen, since Simmon Ledeaux had left the city unannounced. Staring at her longer, he'd casually amuse the thought of rubbing it in her face, despite his complete lack of interest. "Henry released a formal letter in the Marlowe house of the new council's formation. Not that we've held a decent meeting of the Primogen since I've been here; but you're among them. Just as, Malone had announced to young Brigitte DeMourney.." His tone was level.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:22AM CST
"I tend to ignore the convoluted family crap." The pale thing takes the news with a certain almost chilly aplomb. Her irritation bleeds out only in the subtle shift of her weight on the table, the drum of her fingertips against the surface of the table as she takes another deep breath of smoke. She glances up, toward the ceiling, and breathes out a foul smelling cloud of smoke, watching at it first coalesces - like seeking like - then dissipates, rising toward the dark ceiling high above. "Does that mean I get to call you by your first name?"

Her gaze slices back to Sonatine, her eyes made large in the darkness, some impression of his reflection floating in her corneas. But her mind - of course - is moving ridiculously quickly, following the absurd trails of irritated speculation like a dogged, loping hound. She doesn't hold the glance for long, and instead - animated by the rising tide of her own restlessness - slides easily from the tabletop, gaining her feet with a clatter of ankle-turning high heels. "Ridiculous - " half-muttered beneath her breath, half-offered as a concession to the Brujah - (doesn't everyone love to see the French en dishaibille?) - she repeats herself, with more force now, and an incisive shiv of righteous anger livening her tone. "Utterly ridiculous. Perhaps one of the most ridiculous things I have heard in my life. The possibilities are - " and now her mouth, which seems almost frozen in a flat, unattractive pout more appropriate to the pages of a fashion magazine - splits into a brief, ironic little smile. " - absurd. I do thank you for the information, M'sieur Vidale. I won't forget it."

Sonatine Vidale

Sat 01:29AM CST
Her comment almost made him smile. He rarily smiles anymore, that was betraying who he was in this modern age. Bleak and dissmal, he'd stare at her as she moved to stand. Leaning back some, Sonatine would glance toward the crowd of people dancing. He said nothing in her obvious disinterest in being the Toreador Primogen. While he couldn't understand why, him being who he was, afterall; he wouldn't say anything to discredit her. The less interest she was in being on the council, the better off he would be..

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:38AM CST
Standing, the Toreador glances briefly at her cigarello, the smoldering tip, the long finger of ash hovering precariously at the end. She flickers the Brujah an irridescent smirk, then tips the cigarello into her Cosmopolitan, now half-empty thanks to all the strategic spilling across the dance floor. The ember spits, sizzles and hisses as it is doused in the liquid and the ashes spread out across the surface like befurred shroud. "Goodnight, Sonatine - " the creature quips, her mouth twitching narrowing, a plastic sort of humor in the set of her gaze. " - thank you for the - " another quickling smirk, tossed off with an elegant twitch of her bare shoulders as she turns and saunters off into the crowd.