readings.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 06:48PM CST
The Emerald Bar is a classy little joint that sits on a corner, Downtown. It’s neither highly popular nor ever completely deserted. There is neon sign in the window that illuminates in bright green lettering its name, along with a rather misshapen Diamond outline tacked onto the end. One has to descend a small staircase to enter the bar, but once inside, it feels well worth the foray.

It’s furnished in typical bar fashion, but with slight touches of some old school jazz club. There are two levels, the one you enter on, and, slipping down three steps, the dance floor and tabled area. The tables are scattered in a somewhat haphazard fashion around the dance floor. Busboys and waitresses, all dressed in black suits with plain white on beneath, scurry back and forth among the crowd. Which can be minimal. But tonight, along with the regulars seated at the bar with their stench of failure and misery disguised by suits and flashy watches, there are a few unknowns floating around the place. A few admiring the band that’s set themselves up on the stage, playing softly as they have been for the past few hours.

A microphone and stool are set up to one side and a spotlight is flicked on and off at intervals whist Earl DalPinto, owner and heavy smoker, fiddles with the buttons, cigarette hanging from his lips, looking as if he’s tried to look presentable many times and finally given up, the suit a dark blue that looks like it’s beginning to fray. Still, with the ponytail and the half rim sunglasses, he does fit the stereotype of a poet.

Along the left-hand side, there sits the bar. It’s mirrored along the wall, but various bottles block any sort of use aside from adding to the air of old school sophistication of the joint. Two high set fans turn slowly when it’s hot, doing little to stifle the heat, but do succeed in spreading the smoke around. On either side of the small staircase separating the levels, are small assortments of fake plants. The vibrant greens and reds suppose to provide ambiance, but really just look like fake plants. There is a smoking side and a non-smoking side to the seating. But it really doesn’t matter where you sit in the place because you leave smelling like cigarettes anyway. Earl’s had various levels of complaint about this, but has so far succeeded in getting away with doing naught but installing useless overhead fans.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 06:49PM CST
The Emerald Bar is famous for its jazz to be sure, but it's more the atmosphere that will draw a crowd in, especially on the nights he throws open the floor to the poets and singers. He did it once on a dare and it proved such a hit, he decided to make it a weekly event. Sometimes a poet would strike his fancy and he’d let them “headline” a poetry evening. Enter Teagan O’Braonain, a cute English muffin who was definitely too young to be in his bar but damn it if DalPinto couldn’t say no to that face. Plus, she wasn’t half-bad when she read her stuff. Mostly dreary “Woe is me” poems, but he’d smack his hand on the table at the end and yell bravo all the same. Kid had a smile that broke his heart. Plus, he had a feeling she was sick or something. Too pale.

So tonight the joint is filling nicely, and as she pulls open the door and inhales the familiar scent of smoke and beer, Teagan can’t help but grin. She’s coming to love the place and tonight she’s made sure she’s fed up enough to give her a sort of glow so as not to arouse suspicion when the harsh light is upon her. Given she’s only reading one or two poems herself, but it’s still enough time to be noticed. Positively or negatively. She’s made an effort to look good too. The black dress is partially see through, exposing a large portion of her belly and upper thigh, but paired with the sheer black stockings and high heels; she manages to steer it clear of risqué. To keep things casual enough for the setting, the Malkavian has left her hair loose, though brushed into a shining halo around her fine features. The make up is light, mascara, smoky eyes, dark red lipstick, and hint of rouge. Slung over her shoulder is her bag, with all her books and pages etc.

She slips off her coat, a young girl appearing to hang it up for her and to just as quickly return past juggling a tray of empty glasses before the Vampire has even taken three steps. It’s that kind of place. You feel at ease but still maintain a certain degree of caution. Some of the eyes that watch you aren’t as naïve as they look.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 07:04PM CST
If she hasn't been here before, the creature has been someplace like it. There are a hundred someplaces like it, or at least a dozen, scattered throughout downtown, wheezing the last remnants of life out of the almost-long-dead jazz scene.

Marie-Hélène is there when Teagan arrives, sprawled - alone - at a corner table, doing her best to add to the pall of smoke drifting about the ceiling. Long fingers curled around the thick Cuban cigar - her second in three days, the Seneschal's parting gift - which smolders sullenly in the ash tray, idly stirring her drink, the creature studies the gathering crowd with the sullen langour of a sunning snake, the picture of fashionable ennui for which her clan is all-too-well-known.

Her mouth - painted crimson - is curved in the barest essence of a something that should not, in the end, ever be called a mere smile. The Malkavian is dressed up; the Toreador is dressed down. Some frayed suggestion of flared legged jeans, old and worn, snug at the bare curve of narrow hips, some insignificant tee, close to sleeveless, its color a pale but otherwise indeterminate smear of light in the darkness. When Teagan enters, the creature's hooded gaze shifts - just - and narrows, tracking the girl's winding path through the establishment, watching, and waiting.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 07:09PM CST
She walks to the banister, looking down over the dancefloor onto the second level and smiles, casting back the hair from her face. She spots a small table full of fellow poets, two women and a male, all smoking, and exclaiming softly with their hands, shaking ash all over the floor as they do. Teagan slides her eyes over them and hovers, slightly uncertain for a moment, before Gabrielle (the smaller of the two women, dressed in black from head to toe and obviously embracing the stereotype) notices the young creature and lifts a hand in greeting. Leaning down to whisper something in the other female's ear. She also looks up and Teagan finds herself the focus of three pairs of eyes as she stands there. The owner of the Bar, Earl, is up on the stage now, tapping the mic and being graced with annoyed looks from the band every time he says "testin'. Testin'." and causes feedback to echo across the room.

Teagan turns her head to the side and her eyes land upon the Toreador, who's sitting to one side of the dancefloor. She smiles a little. Pleased to see her and begins to move toward her, passing, as she does, beneath a worn out and obviously in need of replacement, skylight. Cobwebbed and almost invisable, it sits high up in the ceiling between the equally useless fans.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 07:16PM CST
The echo of feedback crawls through the creature's skull, nails and slate, flesh and fire. The wince is vague but visible, an animal curl of her fine mouth, the bristle of the beast beneath the pale flesh, accompanied by a dark, daggered glance toward the owner on stage. The Toreador's mouth flattens as she stops the expression from expanding into a full-on snarl, and then quirks back into the essential, half-shelled half-smile she has worn all night as Teagan crosses the room.

Marie-Hélène lifts her hand, gesturing to Teagan with the cigar in what must be a greeting - some vague fillip of expression, some twist of her slender wrist, and an accompanying shift in the creature's posture, itself evident but indefineable, little more.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 07:20PM CST
*Bryce Stevenson arives early to the gathering so that he may see whom all arives and who chooses to be absent from this gathering.
He is wearing a pair of blue dress pants and a dress jacket with a black t-shirt on underneath along with a pair of Italian lether loafers.
He stands 6'10" and 365lbs of muscle, a very intimidateing man indeed. As he steps into the club he looks around to see whom may have already arived, noticing Marie he walks over twards her*
How are you this evening Ms. Helene?

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 07:23PM CST
The Malkavian halts behind a chair at Marie's table, wrapping her small fingers around the back of it and pressing slightly forward on her heels. She looks over Marie and quirks a brow at the cigar.

"Still got that? I'm impressed."

Her head snakes around and she witnesses Earl decend the stage and beckon furiously at her. Tapping his watch and motioning again. Teagan turns the other way, spots Bryce and lifts a hand in slight greeting.

"Evenin' Sir. Glad you could come. Excuse me one minute."

She scurries to Earl's side and he places a greasy hand on her elbow, eyeing the others over her shoulder.

"Yer on in a few kid. I'm gonna do the whole intro bit, and then you and the others got the floor. You ready?"

Teagan nods, fighting a flutter in her stomach.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 07:26PM CST
*Pulling out one of his own cubans Bryce dose the ritual snip light and smoke of it* Might I join you?

Marie-Hélène

Sat 07:28PM CST
The creature's head curves to the side, darkling gaze sliding away from Teagan - across the girl's shoulder - and somehow the shift of attention feels physical, heavy as touch. As Bryce pushes through the small crowd (he need not push - somehow - of course - a path melts open before him), the Toreador rises, as if this were her home, as if she were a hostess.

Marie-Hélène is tall, and her height is augmented by the sharp, high heels of her strappy sandals, which - though once black - have been spraypainted a peculiarly brazen color of orange known (at least to hunters and army-navy store aficionados) as blaze orange.

"M'sieur Stevenson," she gestures to one of the chairs scattered around her table, his cigar smoking between her elegant fingers. "I believe Teagan is about to start. Please, do join me." Somehow, that sounds like both a request and a command, direction and invitation.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 07:31PM CST
*Thank you* Takeing a seat across from her so that he may make conversation untill Teagan starts* So, I see you are still enjoying the cigar. *A small smile comes across his face*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 07:34PM CST
The overweight owner waddles onto the stage as the band finishes their tune. He grabs the mic and waves his hand as several regulars call out inproper comments of "Hey Earl give us a tune!", "You gonna recite us a sonnet?". The owner scowls under the bright lights. He's made it too strong. He clears his throat, breathing out a rush of smoke.

"Alright, alright put a sock in it you guys. Ladies and gentleman. I welcome you to the Emerald. She's been kind to me all these years and I'm happy to see so many new faces." A pause. A cough. "So it's with pleasure I open the floor, once again to our audience. And to kick us off, a favourate of mine, Miss Teagan O'Braonain. Yer on muffin."

He reliquishes the mic to the scattered clapping of a few hands. The applause increases however, for Teagan and she herself recieves a few improper comments. She pulls the stool forward and begins rummaging for her pages, looks up and smiles (Winces) at the bright light.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 07:37PM CST
"Bien sûr, m'sieur." The vague, elegant curve of her mouth deepens, and her eyes sweep across his countenance. "It is one of the great pleasures in life, I think. Greedy I may be, but such a thing I will nevertheless save and savor. Your name has been on my lips - in thanksgiving - ever since you so generously - " the speech quiets, abruptly, as the owner's voice seethes over the speaker system. The Toreador's dark eyes flicker up and linger on the stage. Delicately, she joins in the applause, tapping her pale fingers against her opposite palm, leaving the cigar to smolder, for the moment, in the crimson ashtray in the center of the table.

Leaning closer, so that her breath is cool against his skin, so that her words do not detract from Teagan's triumphant ascension to the stage. "...you are a fan of the arts?"

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 07:39PM CST
*Giving a clap for Teagan as her name is mentioned, than his phone vibrates. An odd feeling on his wrist, looking over to Marie* I'm sorry, could you excuse me for a moment
*Bryce stands and walks over to a more private part of the club so that he may talk without disturbing others, as he gets there he answers* Hello.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 07:45PM CST
"Evenin' all." She begins in a soft, smooth voice. The anxiety is still clawing at her insides. Her Beast is unnerved by it all. But she betrays none of this even though her dreams still resound in her head. She lowers her eyes and looks to the page, then lifts them. The dark gaze is intense as she focuses on some point far beyond the audience and begins to speak in a accented, lilting tone. Some soft music accompanying her words. Do they have deeper meaning?

"Dark souls swept out far too far for saving.
Weep salt tears that only salt tears know.
For such souls there can be no safe haven.

Listen, you can catch their distant ravings
Drift in to shore, where the northerly blows,
These Dark souls are too far out for saving.

If we shut our eyes when they start waving,
Do we damn them all, drowning in their woes?
For such souls there can br no safe haven.

Fear the gull that, underneath is raven:
All hope is wretched as the sea salt knows
For those souls who do not have safe haven.

In the sea, their images are graven
Upon the black heart's mighty underdow:
May such souls swept out to far for saving,
Find love, find love, in their sailors heaven."

She finishes and pauses, sliding a hand back across her cheek. Brushing aside dark hair. Do they hear the unspoken meaning?

Marie-Hélène

Sat 07:45PM CST
The creature's chin rises in mild acknowledgment of M'sieur Stevenson and his apologies, but her eyes never leave the stage - rapt, or rapturous. The expressions are all too close to each other, and she manages both - or the facsimile of both - quite well, thank you.

As the applause dies away, the Toreador sits back once more, although she does not so much sit back as sprawl back, her lean body sketching a negligent arc, thoughtless and supple. Somewhere - somehow - in the middle of all this, she retrieves her cigar from the ashtray in the center of the table and lifts it to her painted mouth again, rolling it between her fingers as she takes a thoughtful mouthful of smoke.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 07:51PM CST
*Tapping his fingers together to end the call, Bryce walks back to the table and takes a seat to listen to Teagan*

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 07:46PM CST
*Looking up at the young poet that he is refering to* She is on right now but I think she shall be back on later as well, I will give her your message.

Camarilla NPC's

Sat 07:52PM CST
The crowd is deeply moved from her performance. Fingers snap, some clap their hands while others brush the sdtray tears she pulled from their feelings of remorse. Her poem headlines avidly, and grants her the attention she required. She nay certainly be young to their eyes, but it was obvious Teagan had the talent nessicary to be someone well known.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 07:52PM CST
The applause is more muted in response to the work itself; it always is. How does one applaud poetry, after all? With all the raucous delight of a heavymetal fanboy, or with the polite, meditative distance of an audience at an organ recital?

Applause ripples throughout the small club in strange and riveting patterns. Perhaps there is something natural to the movement, the way things catch and change with the mood of the crowd.

The Toreador applauds much as she did before: the tips of her fine, long fingers staccato against against the stretched palm of her hand. This time, the cigar remains tucked in her mouth, captured by her teeth and stablized by her lips. The creature smiles around it, and the smile - that smile has some strange unreadable edge to it, essentially lost in the darkness.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:03PM CST
She allows a slight curving of her lips to signal her pleasure at the applause. There is some discomfort as the pale light continues to stream down upon her form and she takes a moment to pick up a glass of water and make a point of sipping it delicately. One poem to go before she hands the stage over to some other hopeful artistes of the genre. She straightens and slips the next piece out from under her pages.

"I am only ashes, I am scattered to the wind in all dispersing in all four directions at once.

I can see the whole thing: oceans and deserts displaying their scars a frenzy of freeways,

freewheeling the planet a circle of cicada extending
its damp and delicate arms. I pick up Bach- a fugue of the spheres- and thousands of
sounds reach my ears as I fall into compound time.

There is no coming back from here.

Only a God could gather these ashes and make them one. Only a God- fresh from a heaven- could hope to find and fit it back
Together what has come so carefully undone."


Camarilla NPC's

Sat 08:09PM CST
Once more the crowd enjoys her peice. It was obvious to anyone who was going to be performing after her that they were going to have to work extra hard to get any such recognision. That was the price of fame perhaps, getting on the roster at all. Even then, you had to compete against others for fame.

Kind of like the Camarilla, you could say.

The crowd continues to applaud.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 08:12PM CST
As Teagan reads the second poem, the Toreador's posture shifts, clearly but minutely. It's all a matter of degree, and these are bare ones. Perhaps Bryce can sense it, sitting close to her, lost in the dark with her as he is. Her attention has sharpened, a brief and razored thing, the loosened sprawl of elegant limbs gathers in strange attenuation, shirred awareness -

- and then decompresses again, as the Malkavian falls silent. This time, Marie-Hélène does not join in the applause, but her dark eyes remain fiercely locked on Teagan, attentive. At last, she favors Bryce with the bare edge of a glance and bestows some cool approximation of a smile upon the world. "Pas mal, eh m'sieur? Did you hear both? Did you have a preferance?"

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 08:12PM CST
*Leaning back and smileing, enjoying the piece. Once Teagan relives the stage to someone else Bryce approches her, informing her that the Baron shall arive latter to watch her perform, than returns to his seat*

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 08:13PM CST
*Looking over to Marie* No, not really. They are both very nice *Giving a smile*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:14PM CST
She stands, takes a moment to gather up her belongings, bows a little as Earl hops back onto the stage, pats her on her lower back dangerously close to her ass and lets out a throaty chuckle at her startled expression.

"Ain't she just a muffin? Thanks Teagan. Well folks, keep the drinks coming and we'll take a short break before continuing with the readings."

As Teagan steps down off the stage carefully, the band starts up with a soft jazz number and the Malkavian is once again in the darkness and lets out a soft sigh. She sees Bryce approach and smiles, her expression clearly one of surprise that the Baron should want to come to see her perform. She follows him slowly, back toward the table, clearly at a loss as to why the Primogen she was repremanded by would want to watch her.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 08:23PM CST
The creature's features slacken - briefly blank - as Bryce expresses no preference, but the polite and dangerous mask returns, of course. "None at all, m'sieur Stevenson? I think you are - how do you say - putting me on. It is in our nature to have preferances, is it not?"

Then, lifting her right hand, fingers flatly extended but for the twist necessary to accommodate the fat body of the cigar, Marie-Hélène gestures to Teagan as the girl departs the stage and falls back into her careless sprawl as the Malkavian joins them at the table. "The first poem, Teagan - " once again, the Toreador's features are blank, a pale canvas - sharply defined, but somehow momentarily inanimate, just a mouth, sharp dark eyes, all the details but none of the particulars. " - I found it sentimental."

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:27PM CST
She sits, carefully, entirely aware that there are many sets of eyes still upon her form. It's hard to define precisely why this gives her pause- some inkling perhaps that not is all as it appears this night- but it does and she carefully folds her hands on the table, slipping one leg over the over. The dark eyes carefully considering each face before she returns her gaze to Marie at her words. Some figment of a smile curls the lips.

"Really? Yes, I suppose it is. But then, I'm an artist am I not supposed to be sentimental and morose?"

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 08:28PM CST
No, I liked them both. I assume that my experiances may have made my feelings of the poetry differ.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 08:32PM CST
to Marie-Hélène: ((The way it differs for him is that he dosn't really dig poetry that much, he's just being polite))

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:35PM CST
She gives her attention to the Senechal briefly as he speaks naught but positive words on her work. A gentler, less guarded smile.

"I'm glad you enjoyed them Sir. I-"

She breaks off abruptly, her brow furrowing slightly, the Voices suddenly so loud. She inclines her head to one side, the eyes darkening more so. Why the sudden disruption? No, not the Voices. Different again. Some undertone that she isn't sure she hears at all. Her eyes flicker to Marie's.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 08:36PM CST
"Tch. Definitions are confining, ma petite, they restrict one to the purely conventional. So, too, raw sentiment. I think of it as - " the whisper of bare shoulders beneath cotton so worn the weave has relaxed into something close to insubstantiality. " - emotional porn. It satisfies some base urge without burrowing into the urge, without hollowing it out, exposing nothing. You are better off staying away from sentiment or - if you must immerse yourself in sentiment, you should winnow through it, shred the sides, turn the convention on its head and back again. Perhaps we will allow Beethoven or Tchaikovsky cheap moments of soaring sentimentalism, but only because they have earned it."

Amused, now, a half-smile that turns cold as she lifts her chin and glances out, back over the crowd. Her dark eyes linger briefly on Teagan, shift over to Bryce. "Tch - you may like both. Still, any opinion - even if you don't believe it - must be better than none?" Her attention glides back to Teagan, sharpening substantially. "The second work, however - "

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 08:37PM CST
*An eyebrow raises* Is something the matter Ms. O'Braonain.


Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:40PM CST
She shifts. A hand brushes through the hair. She blinks slowly. Fights the urge to turn right around and search the room for the source of the noise. Looks to Bryce. Finds some manner of smile. Flashes the teeth.

"No. Just thought I heard something. I'm sure it was nothing."

Still, a slight frown marrs the lips. In the background, the band plays on, stray couples move around the small dancefloor. Glasses clink and soft laughter drifts up to join the circulating smoke. Teagan looks to Marie. The gaze sharper.

"Yes, the second poem is important. Or rather, I cherish it most of all. Did you like it then?"

Marie-Hélène

Sat 08:47PM CST
The creature steeples her fingers lightly, shunting the stream of smoke from the tip of her cigar away from her face, and drops her mouth to her tipped fingers doubly careful of the glowing tobacco, now. This is Teagan's only response for the moment, this quiet gathering of consideration. Possibilities flit through her mine - some more pleasureable than others, some quip that shapes itself to the movement of her mouth, something at once dismissive and somehow approving. These are her weapons - words - and she can wield them with a certain deadly accuracy, a certain flagrant, thoughtless force.

And does not. "Yes - " a moment later, the curved, cool smile shearing sardonic now, deepening at the corners of her mouth. Pale lashes sweep across her dark eyes, some mirroring, shadowed gesture to accompany her words. " - I thought it was quite remarkable."

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 08:50PM CST
*Looking around the crowed* It is sad to see that so few have arived to see your performance this evening...it is a loss for them *Bryce looks to her with a slight smile as he takes another puff from his cigar*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:53PM CST
Praise, indeed, extracted from this creature is something the Malkavian knows will be a rare occurance. So she graps at the whisps of the words and pulls them within herself, holding them close. Her hand makes some foray toward her chest, then lowers once more to the table top. Her eyes stay upon Marie as a careful smile forms.

"Then that is all the praise I shall ever require."

Her expression drops, darkens somewhat as she lets her eyes scan the crowd. She cannot see the door but knows it is opened and shut at regular intervals. She lifts her shoulders in a light shrug. Cast of the shackles of woe! She shall not allow the misery to take hold with its razor sharp talons. So what if none of her kin came save two. She does not need their praise. (Lies, lies.)

"Yes, well. I don't suppose some unknown poet deserves a large crowd."

Marie-Hélène

Sat 08:56PM CST
"Indeed." A sharp glance, pale brows rising in full concert, at odds with the characteristic ease of her posture. Her mouth hooks sidelong, perhaps sly, and the creature's head drifts as her eyes follow the sweep of the Brujah's before her. "It is quite a shame, but not entirely unexpected. Do not take it personally, petite - " the last word just mouthed as the creature's gaze settles back on Teagan. "Their loss, yes? And their loss alone. Moi, je t'adore." The last phrase tossed off with the same negligent ease as the rest of them. Such meaningless ease.

"And - " another shrug, the whisper of fabric against skin, the vague flag of movement. " - despise all praise, petite. Remember the tale of the pied -" pie-ed, she pronounces it, with a scholar's clear precision. " - piper?"

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 08:59PM CST
A barely noticable flinch of her eyes. Something coiling within. It is the echo of the dream, the nameless fear is gathering her into its clutches. Words, unbidden, in her mind. Her lips part, soundlessly. The two before her seem to be shimmering slightly. Do the Voices mean to send her into some madness right here?

She struggles through the weight of her internal panic, warring with her blood. No, I shall not pay attention. No.

"The Piper? Yes. I remember."
((Remember...blood...pain...black feathers...))

Marie-Hélène

Sat 09:07PM CST
"There are variations on the tale - as there are on all such tales - but consider his pipe, the sounds sweet, deceptive - " another mouthful of smoke, drawn and swallowed with a private sort of indulgence, an internalized pleasure marked by the hooding of her gaze and the supple laziness of her expression and figure. " - deceptive sounds, misleading, willful and blinding. This is praise, and it is the enemy of all great art. The critics, they praised Melville for Typee - one of the most execreble excuses for a travelogue published in the nineteenth century - and such, but despised his great work. If you are to be an artist, you should not seek praise. And you should not trust any who praise you, petite. We are all pi-ed pipers."

System Admin

Sat 09:08PM CST
The crowd was few if really much at all. The next poet was already up and performing, his words where well spoken. While he wasn't as good as Teagan, the poet did have a certain flare for the dramatics. The mood in the club was lifting from Teagan's sombre respects. The small candles set a passionate glow among the jazz nightclub. It wasn't well kept, but the atmosphere spoke volumes of it's charimsa. The location of the Emerald Bar was deep within the city, near the very heart of the city's source; the Chicago River.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 09:14PM CST
Teagan's eyes follow the path of the smoke, leaving her lips. She turns her eyes upon the stage, watching the young man (Luc? Was that his name? She cannot remember..) preform with his usual flare. She looks back to Marie, then to Bryce. Do they not feel it? There is some presence here. It is not her Voices, no indeed those Ghosts are quiet tonight. This is no soft buzzing in her ears. This is a resounding roar. Deafening her. Teagan's eyes follow the path of a waitress, scurrying to the kitchen with a tray of drinks. She swivels, her fingers digging into the tabletop slightly. She still appears somewhat at ease, but tiny actions are beginning to fray at this demeanor.

((Oh where is the Sister? I need her now. What is this thing haunting me?))

Marie-Hélène

Sat 09:20PM CST
Impassive, the Toreador watches as conversation falls silent and the Malkavian begins to -- fray -- about the edges. She curves her left hand around the edge of her chair, shifting her posture to follow the trace of the girl's glance, then gives up the effort as futile.

Instead, she changes attitudes as easily and sparely as one might change gears, sitting up briefly, sharply, and leaning forward across the narrow width of the table, intent as a bird of prey. "Mademoiselle." Cool distance, like a bracing winter wind. "I am not ordinarily a determinist, but your heritage is beginning to show. I suggest that we leave before you have - " she pauses, searching for the appropriate word, " - a fit, or whatever it is to which you are ordinarily prone."

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 09:23PM CST
*Leaning back and listening on* If you wish, we may retire to my estate were it is safe for you to...express yourself however you feel that you may need, without the watchful eyes of others upon you *Glancing around to the mortals in the room whom might not be all too comfotable with a wigg out*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 09:26PM CST
Gritting her teeth, the Malkavian sits back against her seat, closing her eyes a moment. No. It is gone. There is no static now. Save that from what is echoing from the stage where Luc is finishing some dramatic line with a flourish of arms and an ill timed burst of feedback.

She opens them, pressing her hands to her cheeks and shaking her head back and forth, as if she burnt with fever.

"No, no. It shall be fine. I shan't...express myself. It was just..." She lowers her hands, folds them in her lap. Ignores the tickling of her senses. "It is passed. But I do think drinks are needed."

She gestures to a waitress, hoping the slight tremble to her wrists fades.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 09:39PM CST
She looks to the stage. Then to Marie. Then back toward the stage. Her shoulders slump just slightly, the dark hair falls into her eyes and as she brushes it back and sits back against her seat, she looks far too young once again. The delicate flower about to be crushed beneath some uncaring boot.

"Perhaps you are right. I don't want to risk upsetting this place.."

She uncurls her limbs, stands slowly, turning her body around so she can finally look back toward the doorway. Searching for the sounds that disturbed her so much. But there is...nothing? It seems impossible. She heard it. She knows she did.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 09:42PM CST
*Standing with the two ladies* If you two would like we may take my limo.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 09:47PM CST
*Shock sets in as the Baron falls in trough the skylight, looking around and up throught the skylight to see what may have caused him to do so. Quickly going over to the Baron and acting as though he was checking his pulse than placeing the coat over him so as to cover his face and at the same time getting a beter vantage point of the skylight*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 09:48PM CST
((Shattering...blood...))

Teagan's mouth opens in a silent 'O' of horror. She watches, limbs frozen as the Primogen falls from the roof and lands in a crimson mass upon the floor. Screams, cries of pain. The sounds of chairs scraping across the floor. The muted thud of the microphone as its dropped. Teagan's expression alters just enough for her to whisper some curse in Gaelic.

"My God.." She whispers, hand against her lips as Bryce moves. The Malkavian's eyes slowly shift to his point of entry. As if searching for the perpertrator.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 09:51PM CST
"No indeed, petite. M'sieur Stevenson - " rising in mirror of the Malkavaian's movement, the Toreador unfolds her lean figure with more of her usual careless ease. Her free hand drifts across her torso and then slides into a narrow front pocket, fingers straining against the taut denim as she fishes for her keys. And then -

- shards of glass, falling like bitter, solid rain from the skylight, the wet, broken sound of an empty body. Bryce covers the body. The Toreador's first instinct is to clap in that vague, disapproving manner given to her clan and claim it all a piece of performance art.

Instead, she turns and weaves her way through the (now no-doubt panicked crowd), searching for a fire alarm, or an emergency exit.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 09:55PM CST
Teagan feels a hand clamp down on her elbow, she turns, her limbs thawing as the pale face of the owner stares down at her. Earl is babbling. Senseless. Teagan grabs hold of him and places her palms on either side of his face. Her eyes nailing his own in place. She says in a soothing voice.

"Earl. Listen carefully. This man is sick. He has a disfigurement. That is what you saw. Go fetch an ambulance. Go on. It's okay."

As he stumbles slightly and looks at the now covered body, Teagan gestures again with her hands. Turning to see Marie on the move already. The Malkavian slides down beside the body and looks to Bryce.

"We have to get him out of here quickly."

Camarilla NPC's

Sat 09:57PM CST
Three figures stand against the backdrop of the moonlight. A sickening grin spread upon their faces as one had the nerve to hold up his middle finger to Bryce Stevenson. Recognision of who was staring at them? It was a possability. Slightly hunched, the surprising thing was that the figures weren't exactly big. Sure there was three of them, but the Baron was known for his strength, in a lot of different aspects. Still holding his finger up at the man, the other two clapped their hands together like they had just scored a pair of tickets to see the Chicago Bulls play the Lakers. Spitting down at Bryce, the one lowers his hand and walks away; the other two follow.

Marie Helene's first instinct was to flee, it seemed. Survival was periodically number one on any Vampires mind; regardless of Alliance, Friendship, or even in some cases; the all mighty blood bond. The panicked patrons are simply stunned, rather than screaming for shear terror. Some begin to voomit as they see the blood building a larger puddle beneath both Bryce and the Baron. Others, well others are more courageous than the rest. Hero's call to arms as two men decide to come and help Bryce Stevenson with the body. "Someone call an ambulance!!" Is screamed, a few cellphones are dug out of their respective places and 911 is dialed. The emergency is put in as others try calming each other, turning loved ones eyes from the dead body, and seek to help in any way they can. The call for a doctor in the house is no doubt sounded as well.

This is not the attention they need.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 10:02PM CST
*Bryce looks to the two men who come to the aid, looking them, get everyone outside, there were some men on the roof and they may try to do something again that may harm more people...this statment more a comand than a request.*

Marie-Hélène

Sat 10:04PM CST
Never scream -

"fire"

- in a crowded theater. Someone did - the edges of the crowd, a half-second before the Toreador pulls down hard on the fire alarm, unleashing its unholy shriek on the milling crowd.

The creature wasn't fleeing; she was searching for a way to clear the scene.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 10:06PM CST
She feels the blood soaking through her stockings, dampening her knees. Her hands trembling furiously now. She lifts them up, staring aghast at the blood coating them. She begins to whimper, the sound soft at first, but building from deep within. It is her dream. It is. She can practically feel it ringing true. She is naked. They are exposed. There is no hiding this from them. The sounds of feet thundering around her, she falls backward, her feet snagging on her dress. She sits, hair drifting in her eyes, staring down at her hands.

"No, no, no!!" She shrieks. The trembling overwhelming her. The Beast snarls within and she relinquishes power. Tipping over, her head hitting the floor as her back arches. The blood. Cannot escape the blood.

System Admin

Sat 10:20PM CST
As the alarm rang out into the once peaceful jazz club, panick finally took it's affect. The exits were used while others trampled the ones trying to stay and help. Already the room was half that of what it was; and it originally wasn't very full to begin with. People swarmed arounf Marie-Helene as she stood against the rising of the tide. The two men that Bryce commanded to go get help finally did without a second thought. Once outside, they waited for the ambulance to arrive and from their they would help what they could.

By now, the exits left only the owner, shaken and worried about insurance, Teagana dealing with her past, Bryce to take control of the situation, and Marie-Helene to do as she pleased. But were the attackers truelly gone?

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 10:23PM CST
*Looking to Teagan and grabbing her up in on one sholder and the Baron on the other sholder looking to Marie and yelling* Get out there and tell my driver to get to the allyway entrance...and for god sake make him forget about us *Jesturing with his head twards the owner as he looks for a back exit*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 10:24PM CST
She falls back onto the floor. The eyes wide open but unseeing. The lips curled back in a growl. She bucks up once again and flips over onto her hands and knees, tearing holes into the stockings, blood smearing over her arms and as she reaches a table and pulls herself to her feet, hair stuck to her cheeks, it is smeared over her face as well. She is among those few still heading toward the door. The alarm ringing in her ears and she lifts her hands to her ears, shoving aside patrons left and right as she struggles to exit, the full force of her Hysteria in motion. She's wailing now as she finds the door and barges her way through it, knocking over scrambling patrons and taking off in a stumbling run toward the Church.

System Admin

Sat 10:25PM CST
Teagan would have only made it as far as Bryce Stevenson's arm allowed her too. From there, she was caught by him.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 10:32PM CST
The Toreador glances from the Seneschal to the worried owner, to the Seneschal again, mouth tightening into a flatly stitched line. Then she swings into her easy gait, crossing the dancefloor and delicately avoiding the congealed blood with a certain inherent distaste (such a waste, so messy) and - her elegant arm around the sweaty owner's shoulders - pulls him in her charming wake. "Fire - c'mon - " or something like it, some expression of alarm and fear, some hatchett acting job, but in the middle of a crisis, who is likely to notice? If she cannot erase the memories of the evening from his mind (and she cannot; the skill is wholly lost to the creature), she can at least further obfuscate them. " - can't you smell it?"

Up the stairs, out the door, spilling into the cool night amidst all the milling, shrieking, confuzzled and confounded patrons, she abandons the owner to the night and stalks down the sidewalk to the Seneschal's limosine. There, she raps on the window and demands entrance in a clear, cold manner, the trappings of authority. "We are to meet Mr. Stevenson in the alley behind the bar. Hurry up."

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 10:35PM CST
*Running out the back with the Baron and Teagan on his sholders he heads down the allyway and awaits the limo*

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 10:36PM CST
Teagan, still in the throws of Hysteria would not being making a quick getaway for the Seneschal simple. She's bucking her arms and legs in the air like some child throwing a fit. Which, really, isn't so far off. Her nails clawing at the air, a high pitched whine issuing from the small creature's form as she rages. As they move from the club she continues to fight to be free, the urge to run and hide overwhelming all other senses.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 10:37PM CST
*Clenching tightly as she trys to free herself, if he could hold down an elder in a blood frenzy than a young malkavina such as this shouldn't be that hard.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 10:47PM CST
She screams again, her teeth bared and her mouth comes down to sink into the arm holding her down. She must be free. She kicks out with her feet, her hands nothing more than claws at the moment. The nails going to straight for the face. Gouging, scratching, tearing. This is the Beast at its most basic level, and she does NOT wish to be held down. In fact, she'd be struggling so much, it might prove impossible to him to restrain her with only one arm. She's small, but she's determined.

"Canthidefromtheblood..mustgo..must...bloodblood...canthide...must..GO!"

She tries to wiggle out from under his arm. Biting down on any part of his body she can find. Mindless rage.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 10:51PM CST
*Continueing to hold on to her regardless of how much it might hurt, her actioins are those of the beast and the beast must not be let loose on the people, once the limo pulls around he waits for Marie to open the door, he trys to toss the Baron in as nicely as posible but under the cercumstances he'll understand, than getting in the limo with Teagan in hand. Setting down and trying to restrain her with both hands now, laying her on one of the sideways faceing seats wile he kneels on the floor, putting his weight on her*

Marie-Hélène

Sat 10:53PM CST
The driver is taken aback, but he has seen the Toreador at the Elysium, and - moreover - recognizes the raw edge of her cold authority. The milling crowds of people, the not-so-subtle shrief of the fire alarm, tend to support her right to such authority, as well.

The creature settles into the passenger's seat, beside the driver, and casts a cool glance at her ghostly reflection, eyes narrowed against the glare of lights, skimming over the rooftop as the limosine lurches into motion. The driver takes the corner quickly, and it isn't long before they're in the alley where the Seneschal and Elder waits with his pair of bodies, one under either arm.

In the alley, the creature jumps out and squeezes past the bar's dumpster, flinging open the main door for Stevenson's convenience. The alarm continues to pulse and shred the eardrums with its incessant noise, but the Toreador climbs back into the front seat - well away from the hysterical Malkavian, the clotted and mottled body of the Nosferatu primogen.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 10:56PM CST
She does not make the journey easy. The driver had better have nerves of steel to drive with a thrashing creature in the backseat. Even held down as she is. She'd continue to struggle, mindless in her determination to be free. Howling. Screaming. Whining. Even crying at intervals. Why do they hold It down? Blood beneath her nails as she kicks out, connecting with seats, her nails snapping against the door as she tries to pry the very door open.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 11:05PM CST
As the limo arrives at the gates, even as it pulls up before the doors of the Estate, the screaming would be heard. Faint, perhaps. But there all the same. Teagan is still thrashing around in the backseat, held down by Bryce, who would by this time, perhaps resemble confetti. The blood drying to Teagan a mixture of the Baron's, Bryce's and maybe some of her own.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 11:05PM CST
*Seeing as the door opens for the garage Bryce looks up front* Marie, get the door I need both hands for Teagan*

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 11:12PM CST
During the ride back, Marie-Helene played with the controls under she determined how to raise the soundproof barrier between the front and back seats. The screams, or perhaps the blood, or some combination of the two were sufficiently problematic. Beyond this, she remained essentially impassive, her mouth a flat line, her glittering eyes dark and baleful, staring at the silent passage of the city's streets.

Once the driver parks the vehicle in the garage, she swings out and casts a mute, blank gaze at the Seneschal and his burden. Some thoughts bubble vaguely to the surface of her mind, inform a cool half-smile as she swings the door from the garage to the house open and holds it there, until the other pair are inside.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 11:14PM CST
*Walking through with Teagan in hands to the library, leaving the Baron there momentarily*

Dr. Masterson

Sat 11:15PM CST
Dr. Masterson noted the incoming persona. He had his cane leaning against his leg as he sat there. -Intersting- he thought.

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 11:17PM CST
Teagan has not calmed. In fact, if anything, the process of being transported from the scene against her will has increased the Beast's wrath. She continues to throw her weight around, keening loudly into the shoulder of the Seneschal. It is only when the familiar walls of the Estate close around her, when the scent of the library, it's books, the familiar smell of the sofa, hits her nostrils that the Hysteria begins to abait. The high pitched whines lesson, the eyes don't flash such a golden hue. She struggles now in more a lathargic fashion, the Beast's hold is beginning to fade. The dark hair a tangled web around her face. The teeth still bared as she's carried into the room. The eyes flash. The limbs twich. The entire body shudders.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 11:21PM CST
The Toreador doesn't fully enter the Elysium library. She remains at the doorway, her arms crossed, her fine features a pale mask, essentially impassive. The dark eyes flicker over the Tremere, then back to the Brujah and Malkavian.

"I'm not able to erase memories, m'sieur Stevenson. If that's to be done, someone else is to do it." Clarifying, after his earlier direction, as her arms drift across her torso, hands tucked against the worn cotton of her t-shirt.

Another glance toward the Tremere, then back to the Brujah.

Dr. Masterson

Sat 11:21PM CST
At the clear sight of a vampire in the final throws of frenzy, he stand from his seat, and moves out of the way, giving those that aid her plenty of space. His cane held in his left hand, with his right holding his glasses in place, he slides to one side. He remains silent, just watching.

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 11:25PM CST
*Looking up to Dr. Masterson* Good evening, I will be with you shortly *Looking down while Teagan is calming down* Are you ok now dear?

Bryce Stevenson

Sat 11:27PM CST
*Hearing Marie's statment Bryce shakes his head* God I hope that he's confused enough to not get shit strait.


Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 11:30PM CST
Brows rise faintly, a twitch of emotion or awareness or judgment. The creature's hip skims the frame of the door to the room, as if she were going to rest there. But soon enough the ethereal creature collects herself and offers a faint curl of her shoulders. "I wouldn't leave it to chance, but I haven't the knack for such things. In any case - " a nod, pale hair come undone in the chaos, drifting against her slender spine. Farewell, of sorts, to the room. "I've to retrieve my own car. Good evening."