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."

there's seneschal in this here camarilla?

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 09:14PM CST
They allowed her inside tonight. My, how shocking, and with barely a wait, sheltered beneath the overhanging eaves of the guardhouse, twilight eyes flinging daggers into the unwholesome assortment of ghouled guards, wholesale, if only because she can.

And now, in Elysium she finds herself, pacing the fine parquet floors with a restless and relentless energy that drivers her throughout the public areas, ceaselessly, remorselessly, like a some solid, feral ghost.

Unaccountably, her flaxen hair is not twisted up into some accommodating, out of the way mess as it so often is. No, no indeed - tonight the whole length of it sweeps down her back like some reckless waterfall capturing moonlight. But for this aberration, her gard tonight is unremarkable. Corduroys, some dingy shade of deep burnt orange, so worn at the seat and seams they seem merely denim, a creamy black camisole whose straps keep slip-sliding off the elegantly rounded shoulders and a heavy pair of jackboots, incongruously inelegant at the end of the otherwise willowy frame.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 09:16PM CST
She enjoys the walk. It's quite a distance from the Church to the Estate, but the Malkavian enjoys the process. It gives her time to think. To ponder on certain issues. She's felt the strangest energy around her these last few days. Ever since her discussion with Marie. As if there is a very fine quiver to the air itself. As for the continuing dreams...well, she cannot seem to assertain what exactly they mean. How does one decide why the great Sire of all graces their dreams?

With a sigh, the Malkavian presses the buzzar and is quickly upon the doorstep. The door is opened and behold, there she stands. A small slender woman appearing to be in her late teens, if not deathly pale. Dressed in a bright pink coat and black leather pants. Gracious. What a sight. She smiles at Nino and slinks inside.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 09:20PM CST
*Sitting in his library like he so often is, he's reading a book that he had just aquired.*

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 09:24PM CST
"They're letting almost everyone in here tonight, aren't they?" Her voice cannot be startling to the Malkavian, who surely heard the retort of her booted feet on the fine floors, or caught the half-edge of her sharp, remorselessly lovely profile in her peripheral vision. The Toreador pauses, suddenly, wholly still, with her arms wrapped around her torso, her lean hands, her long fingers curved the elegant jut of her sharp elbows.

There's a smile on her face, too, sharp as a tack, sharp as a breath swallowed in the first throes of bright black pain. "There's a man in the library." Her chin just rises, vague indication in the vague direction, and she side-steps out of the Malkavian's immediate path to that self-same room. "Tell me who he is."

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 09:26PM CST
Teagan slips off her coat (almost radioactive in that shade of pink) and drapes her bag over it. Beneath the coat and over the leathers, she wears a small black T shirt with the word "Angel" written across it in sparkling gold. As she moves down the hall, the back of the shirt, partly obscured by brown hair, has two golden wings displayed upon it. How amusing. A fallen angel all in black.
She makes her way toward her favourate location, the soft scent of her cloying in the air as she moves. She halts as she hears the voice and turns, addressing the other Marie in her life. A small smile plays with her lips, decides to pull them upward in a little smirk.

"A man in the library? Well perhaps it is the Senechal. Mr Stevenson. It is his library after all M'selle."

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 09:34PM CST
"Well - " what a crafty smile, just returned, the sheerest edge of it, conspiratorial and conspiracy-minded at once. " - do find out for me, won't you, my dear Teagan? Two months in the city and I have not yet met this Seneschal of yours - I am thoroughly mortified."

Her eyes sparkle, but flatly, as if some specific dimension were lost to them. The fine, long fingers dance casually across the terminus of either bicep as if she were playing some instrument or other, woodwind, bagpipes.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 09:38PM CST
Teagan's own eyes sparkle with some private amusement and she inclines her head, moving again toward the library.

"Of course. I shall do that."

She moves into the library and hesitates by the door, one hand clinging to the doorframe as she dips her head almost bashfully and clears her throat.

"Evenin' Mr Stevenson."

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 09:41PM CST
*Finishing the sentance Bryce looks up, giving Teagan a slight smile* Good evening Ms. O'Braonain how are you this evening?
*Placeing a marker in his book and putting it on the table* Please do sit.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 09:43PM CST
She lifts a hand.

"Before I do Sir, I believe there is something who wishes to make your acquaintance."

She backs up a step and gestures for Marie to come to her side.

"May I present my friend M'selle Marie-Helene Alette."

She stands there, hoping that Marie will not make her look foolish before the Seneschal and not come forward.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 09:44PM CST
*Standing and ajusting his shirt to make himself presentable*

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 09:47PM CST
Without, the Toreador awaits. It is not an air of expectation that surrounds her, although it could indeed be mistaken for such. It is simply stillness - some stolid, impenetrable stillness at clear odds with her lean, languid style. Perhaps the creature toys with making Teagan look foolish - those are the games, this is the board, is it not?

Some beat passes, and soon the rose breaches the thresholds, pale hair falling around her shoulders, seething around her lean torso. Her generous mouth stretches into a wide and toothsome smile, and she tosses Teagan the edge of an offhand wink in acknowledgment of her fine introduction while holding out her hand to the Seneschal. "Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais, M'sieur Stevenson. I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance."

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 09:54PM CST
Teagan shifts her weight from left to right in the anxious moments surrounding Marie's entrance. She lets out a tiny huff of relief when the Toreador finally appears and throws the wink. Cheeky minx of a creature! The Malkavian tries to hold her gaze in a slight scowl but loses out when she addresses the Seneschal. The contorted brow relaxes and the Malkavian steps deeper into the room, taking the offered seat finally.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 09:56PM CST
*As you walk into the room you see a man standing there, he is 6'11" and 365lbs of pure muscle. He is wearing a pair of blue dress pants and a black t-shirt.*
Good evening Ms. d'Allais, how are you this evening?
*Takeing your hand and kissing it*
Ladies, please do join me here in the library.

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:00PM CST
What a lovely gathering. **Her voice was smooth with a sulktry wisp to it, her french accent the full reason her words seemed a bit thick. Those dark green eyes seem to shimmer with an inner light of intrique as she peers about the room and land on Teagan, the one she knows better than the other two. Tonight, Edesna might seem a little out of place. Her hair is delicately pinned up, her dark blonde hair fashionably styled in an updo. The dark shimmering blue ball gown reaches to the floor nearly, the back dragging only slightly. The neckline plunges only enough to reveal a small peek of cleavage, though the back goes down nearly to show the dimples at her lower back.** Good evening everyone. **She was obviously dressed for a very important client party that was due to take place in an hour or two.** I do hope I'm not intruding. **Her eyes shift to Marie, the woman she met the other night and she gives a graceful nod of her head in recognition. Though looking now to Bryce, her eyes seem to brighten in the chance of meeting a new person within her kind again. It was always exciting getting to know your peers and their capabilities.** Pardon me, Monsieur, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. **that disarming smile is presented to all present**

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:04PM CST
*Giving a smile to Edesna* Good evening. My name is Bryce Alexander Stevenson, and may I inquire as to whom you may be?

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 10:04PM CST
The creature is tall - relentlessly so - particularly for a woman, and even more so for a woman of her generation. Her height is further augmented by the heavy boots she sports tonight, with their thick soled heels adding to her already substantial height. Nevertheless, she must look up - and up - and damnably up to cast her lambent gaze upon the Seneschal's features.

"Please, m'sieur," how changeable, almost demur, as she just bows over their clasped hands after he has kissed her knuckles, before he has released the tips of her cold, pale fingers from his grasp. "Marie-Hélène, or M'selle Alette. Either appellation would be satisfactory, whether you prefer formality or informality."

..and then she turns neatly, one might even say precisely at Edesna's entranced, the full curve of her mouth offered to the precise and so-well-dressed Ventrue, and steps out of the other creature's way, neatly finding a stance closer to Teagan. From somewhere within the worn pockets of her old corduroys (of course!) she produces a long, thin cigarello and a flameless lighter, dancing the toys across her knuckles, twirling them in her long, fine fingers, watching with a hooded gaze.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 10:08PM CST
Indeed quite a gathering. Teagan looks up and her features brighten significantly at the sight of her new employer and (possibly) closest acquaintence as of yet.

"Miss de Lorme!"

The accent fills the room, quite a change from French to English. She looks from Edesna, to Marie and wonders at the style of their greeting. Have they met previously?

She again feels the lack of decor on her own behalf whist regarding Edesna's dress.

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:09PM CST
**She inclines her head respectfully. She knows full well who he is. Stepping into the library more carefully, the sound of her skirts swishing rythmically at her perfect posture and precise steps she raises a hand to shake Bryce's.**Enchante Monsieur Stevenson. I am Edesna de Lorme. **She gives a slight bow, a subtle and simple little bend of her knees beneath all that fabric and smiles at him. Her hand sweeps away a stray strand of her blonde hair that rests against one of her high cheekbones, and in doing so she disturbs one of the glittering long earings. Turning her head she looks to both women before smiling to Teagan.** Good evening my dear. Mademouselle Alette, a pleasure to see you again.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:12PM CST
Well is this all that is comeing in or should we expect another *Giving a deep chuckle as he moves back over to his seat, pulling forth an ashtray and a box of fine cuban cigars, after cliping the tip of it he lights it with his silver plated zippo*
Again, ladies please do join me.

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:15PM CST
**Edesna moves to take a seat in one of the smaller chairs, carefully positioning herself so her dress does not wrinkle and then crossing her legs in a daintly and noble fashion. Yes, it is true...she can appear quite the snob, though she isn't quite one. The gold locket she wears about her neck ALWays, glints in the pale light.** I don't know of any others that may arrive, Monsieur Stevenson. I do believe you shall be surrounded by us women. Hope it is not too much of a bother. ** a slow smirk comes to her lips**

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 10:15PM CST
Given that she already has seated herself. The Malkavian gives thought to standing again only to sit with the other two women, but decides against the foolish notion and simply settles herself back into the cushions and grins playfully at Bryce.

"I think this is all of us. Your own little harem Mr Stevenson."

She lets loose a soft chuckle and toys with the arm of the couch.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:17PM CST
*Chuckeling at Teagan's coment* I am a lucky man to be surrounded by such a lovely group of ladies this evening.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 10:18PM CST
"Madame de Lorme." How precise and rare, the perfect tipped greeting of the flaxen head. "Such a pleasure." And, too, how rare the full measure of her smile, blooming across her generous mouth.

Then, as Bryce pulls out the box of Cuban cigars, the creature's gaze alights quite precisely on the them, and a very different edge creeps into the curl of her smile. "M'sieur Stevenson - " a sigh, a flippant curl of her own fingers, emphasizing the now-suddenly-less-satisfying prospect of the cheap cigarello. " - when you invite us to join you..." She lifts both her chin and her brow, just saluting him with the tip of her unlit smoke, meaning clear.

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:20PM CST
Monsieur Stevenson, If I may be so bold to ask of you a question? **She leaned slightly forwards, though her back stayed as straight as a board, her french upbringing of proper posture quite stiffly embedded in her. A look of concern drapes over her once calm and collected features.**

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:23PM CST
*Giving Marie a smile as he slides the fine oak box of cubans twards her along with the tip cliper* Help yourself
*Looking over to Edesna with a raised eyebrow wondering what it is that she has on her mind* Please, feel free to ask me anything.

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:25PM CST
**A small flash of a smile tugged at her lips, though then fell back into her frown as she laced her fingertips together.** Might you have word where Monsieur Hawthorn is? He has me a bit worried and I was hoping you might know where I can contact him. His phone has been disconnected and his place vacated.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 10:25PM CST
"Indeed." Teagan's eyes move over the lovely form of Edesna. She meets her eyes and a lazy sort of smile crosses her lips. Enchanting creature. She thinks. But somewhat sad. The sable eyes catch the glimmer of the necklace and she stares at the heart. The Voices begin to shriek softly into her ear, demanding attention and the high pitch of the whine causes a wince to claim her features for a moment before she whispers some curse at their insolence. She looks to Edesna as she leans in and tries not to hear the static buzz of memory as the locket swings back and forth.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 10:28PM CST
With the singed edge of a flashing smile, the Toreador plucks one perfectly rolled Cuban cigar from the box. Her hair falls in a long pale current of light across her half-bare shoulder, over her cheek, sweeps the edge of the table as she takes her time, choosing, then holds it out to the Brujah to clip the thing so that she may smoke it. "Teagan? - " head tipped to the side, pale hair sweeping away from her features, body poised and curved above the box, some invitation in her voice, she looks to the Malkavian and indicates the Seneschal's prized stash of Cuban cigars. "Madame de Lorme?"

Otherwise, she does not interrupt the conversation. Can business - actual business other than her own amusement - be afoot in the Elysium tonight?

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:29PM CST
*Leaning back as she asks* Unfortunatly I am just as in the dark as you are, I had placed a call to him earlier and got the same thing as with when I went to his residance. I have recived no word from Mr. Henry either as to the location of Mr Hawthorne, it appears that he has just uprooted himself from our city. It is a very unlikely act of someone whom has made the name of Primogen for themselves.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:31PM CST
*Picking up the Cigar Cliper and cliping the tip of her cigar, holding out his zippo so that he may light it for her, waiting to see if the other two ladies are going to partake*

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:32PM CST
**She frowns, her face falling into a semblance of disturbed worry. Sighing she leans back her chair and nods her thanks anyways. Then looking to Marie, she shakes her head simply.** No thank you. **looking over to Teagan, she seems to frown deeper, leaning slightly toward her and speaking in a lowered voice, one that might seem soothing and motherly.** Mademouselle, are you feeling alright? **she was asking this of a Malkavian???**

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 10:35PM CST
Teagan shakes her head after a moment of apparent deep thought, her lips had been slightly parted, her head to one side as if she listened to a voice none else could hear.

"No, thank you."

She turns her attention instead to the news reaching her ears. Had Mr Hawthorne really simply left? How horrid for Edesna. The Malkavian supressed a shudder at the mere thought of losing the Sister. At Edesna's question she lifts her dark eyes to the woman again and makes some concentrated effort not to focus on the heart.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Just a bit...preoccupied."

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 10:36PM CST
The Toreador dares some flame, and does not seem to ever shy from the glowing tip of a cigarette or cigar, but the Zippo is another matter. Her dark eyes are grave and quiet as she accepts the cigar back from the Seneschal, and carefully - so precisely - she sweeps the long strands of her fine hair across her shoulder, well out of the way of either spark or flame. Then and only then does she slip the clipped tip of the cigar between her lips and accept the proferred light from the Seneschal.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:37PM CST
*Placeing the clipper back into the box and putting it back into it's place in the stand next to him as well as placeing the zippo on the stand as well*

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:37PM CST
It just seems odd. **she begins, speaking mostly to Stevenson as she peers down at her hands, obviously deep in thought of trying to understand Mr. Hawthornes disappearance.** He's a man of responsibility. He would not just...simply leave. With absolutely no direction or instruction left to his clan.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:42PM CST
to Marie-Hélène Alette: [NOTE: Marie-Hélène, a scholar, reads Latin. Ergo, she reads this: ]((Ok, than you might, if your looking around the room at all, see a pice of parchment above the fireplace. It reads...
"Throw of the Elder's Shackles of the mind, reach into thyself and see the truth revealed. The truth, as truth is seen, will illuminate your soul and heal your wounds. Know that you are my childer and I love you one and all. But know this, I would sooner shatter you myself like flawed pottery rather than have your weakness be that you are but a flawed copy from my own mold"
..I figured that this might catch her eye because it is so peculiar, not something that would normally be seen above a fireplace.))

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:43PM CST
I do not understand it myself and I find it slightly peculiar. I am going to get in touch with Henry latter on so that I may find out what it is that is going on.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 10:44PM CST
Straightening, the creature turns the cigar in fine narrow circles as she puffs with a certain careful precision, until the rolled tobacco is well and truly smoldering and not likely to go out. She does not take a seat, but rather drifts to some careful vantage point where she may somehow simply lounge, her body sketching a concave arch that might be interpreted as a mere slouch by the more formal Madame de Lorme. One arm curls negligently around her torso, supporting the opposite elbow, which in turns supports the hand holding the fine cigar.

"He left no such provision, Madame?" After a moment, breathed on a small cloud of smoke that soon resolves into a series of small smoke-rings. Her eyes roam across the Ventrue's features, then stray to the parchment about the fireplace, lingering there but a moment.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 10:45PM CST
Teagan sits forward abruptly and reaches across to lay a small palm over Edesna's folded hands. The dark eyes are intense and wide as they try to capture her gaze.

"It's alright Edesna. It will be alright. You'll see."

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:47PM CST
**A frustrated sigh leaves her lips and she nods once more to Bryce in a thankful nod.** I would appreciate that Monsieur Stevenson. **Looking to Marie and thinking on her question, she finally shakes her head 'no'.**I'm afraid not. Which is highly unlike him. He always keeps in touch with us. **at least that has been her experience while here. If he was gone....why...Edesna was the only Ventrue thus far. She has never even met Davingale yet, and most likely will not for some time. He's hardly ever in the city. She pats Teagans hand softly and nods, hiding her severe disappointment quite brilliantly.** Yes, I know my dear.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:47PM CST
Well, untill your clan has an offical representative you may come to me with any of your concerns and I will in turn attempt to solve them or forward them to the Prince so that they may be taken care of.

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 10:52PM CST
Teagan sits back and seems unconvinced by the Ventrue's assurances. A tight frown pulls her lips down and for a moment the eyes are shuttered, the lips pressed down into a tight line.
She looks to Bryce, an almost frightened light in her eyes now.

"Mr Stevenson, Sir, I know I have no real right to know but please, could you tell me if...have they found Krugan yet?"

Her expression is rueful. She cannot dispell this sense of shame at his actions.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 10:53PM CST
"Most frustrating for you, Madame, and most generous of you, M'sieur Stevenson." The cigar tip, held carefully away from the sweep of hair and the curl of her body, glows fitfully until she takes another meditative mouthful of its fragrant smoke, shoulders curling up and forward as her dead lungs expand with the smoke. "Though one certainly must wonder whether a clan should have an official representative, if its numbers are so few, its - ah, representatives so apt to depart so abruptly. Stability is so important for the governance of a stable city."

Pale lashes sweep downward, and the Toreador falls silent, then, watching the Malkavian as if she could see the frightened bird-beat of the creature's heart. "You have every right to know, I should say. Who else, mmm?"

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:54PM CST
*A frown comes over Bryces face* Unfortunatly we have yet to find him. He is very elusive.

Edesna de Lorme

Wed 10:55PM CST
**She raises her chin in that noble manner and once more gives that disarming smile to show her gratitude.** Thank you very much Monsieur. **Taking in an unneeded breath she slowly rises from her chair, gently releasing Teagans hand. All gloominess has seemed to washed free of her face as she stands to her full height and gives an air of regalness due to her apperal.** If you will all forgive me. I had only stopped by in hopes to bump into Monsieur Hawthorne. But I must be going now. Don't want to be too late for the client party. **Looking to Teagan she gives a reasuring smile at the look of shame on her face.** Mademouselle, what did I tell you? The man was purely out of line, nothing to have put you at fault. Understand? PLease don't make me repeat myself. **she made a mock sound of irritation, but smiled all the same before looking to Marie and Bryce.** Do talk to some sense into her Mademouselle Alette. poor dear thinks it's her fault. **Bowing her head to everyone she gives that slight and gracefull cursty.** I must be off now. Au revoir.

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 10:57PM CST
Well, regardless of the size of a clan I feel that each clan should have a voice to be heard, you would not have the rest of those in the city decide the events of your clan for you?

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 11:00PM CST
"I shall see you soon Miss de Lorme. At work."

Her lips twitch in a little smile. It shall be interesting indeed to work with the Ventrue and perhaps, peel away some of the layers?

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 11:01PM CST
*Giving a nod* Good evening Edesna.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 11:05PM CST
"But of course, Madame," with perfect, polite precision, the creature inclines her pale head to the Ventrue as she makes her excuses and takes her leave. "although I will not guarantee success. I suspect it would be easier to sell sand in the Sahara." Then, the Toreador's attention slides back to the Seneschal, and her mouth twitches into the semblance of a wide smile. "M'sieur Stevenson, my thoughts are hardly at issue, are they? I am not involved in the governance of the city, or the decisions related thereto. I suspect the other Primogen, perhaps, might have some comments on the matter, but on this I am silent. Still, it does seem strange to be the King of a country with a population of one, does it not? Or perhaps you are more of an idealist than your present position in the hierarchy would suggest?"

Her weight shifts from foot to foot, and with it, her attention shifts - a bare flicker of dark, shining eyes from the Seneschal to his parchment mounted above the fireplace, and back again. "That, however, is speculation for another evening. I'm afraid I must follow the poor, bereft Madame de Lorme out the door. The night calls. I must - " here, a smile, a small salute with the burning cigar, tucked just so between her slender fingers, " - thank you for this rare treat."

Teagan O'Braonain

Wed 11:06PM CST
Teagan looks back to Bryce after Edesna departs.

"I cannot help but feel slightly responsible. It was just so strange of him to act so. Destroying himself for what?"

She then looks to Marie and nods slowly, intently. And turns a smile upon Bryce.

"And I must follow M'selle Alette. I shall leave you to your reading Sir."

Bryce Stevenson

Wed 11:09PM CST
*Standing as the ladies leave* Well I will see the two of you later than.
And Teagan, do not hold yourself responsable for the actions of another, he has compleate control of his own actions.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Wed 11:13PM CST
"Then good evening, Seneschal, Teagan." She offers another smile, this one fey and slippery, barely touching the corners of her mouth before disappearing like the moon behind a cloud. Taking the farewell as equal parts dismissal, she turns and stalks from the library. Her steps are heavy - those weighted boots - and her strides is long, sweeping, determined. The retort of her footsteps echoes back through the estate. Somewhere a door opens, and then she is gone.

elysium is closed for the evening.

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 09:48PM CST
The day had been cloudy and the evening was feeling the bitter sting of the cold. Teagan was dressed only as one should be, given that most mortals are walking about with red noses and flushed cheeks. She's rocking slightly on her heels before the great gates to Dearborn Estate. The pink parka has a fur lined hood (fake of course) and the tiny hairs are rippled by the little wind present. Strands of dark brown hair are partially obscuring her sable eyes from view and a soft lullaby escapes her shining lips in husky tones. She's pressed the buzzar once already and is awaiting some response from Nino, the Ghoul.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 09:57PM CST
Vrooom.

The low rumble of an engine - a sweet freakin' engine, something that some car freak would adore, something some motorhead musclegeek must've sunk into the frame of the '70 'cuda the Toreador drives, because she soes not know much about engines, at all, beyond that she appreciates the low bass rumble and the responsive clutch in the midst of late-night joyrides.

Clink. The driver's side door swings open, and the willowy Toreador does not so much emerge from the car as she erupts from it, rising with a furious confidence just this side of grace, insufficiently ladylike but smooth-motioned and raw. In lieu of her trashy trappings of late, the creature sports something a little more appropriate for the open Elysium of a major American city: a shimmering red dress cut down to there, slit up to here, draped so scandalously low in back that one can see the outline of each and every single vertebra in the lovely S-curse of her spine. To complete the ensemble, a narrow rope of diamonds jealously hugs her throat, but is tossed back and swings down the line of her spine.

"What's going on, petite?" Heels on the sidewalk, and a smoked voice raw from the cold night. "They have not let you in, yet?"

Incredulous. Elysium.

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 10:04PM CST
She blinks at the creature. This vision in red and diamonds. Her own simple attire seems suddenly to cling in all the wrong places. The leather pants crass. Especially in red. The simple velvet green top obtuse and unbefitting. She stares and a hand rises and wipe at her cheek. Drifts of light rain smattering upon a cheek so pale and cold. The lips are vibrant in contrast.

"No. I don't understand it myself. Nino is usually so punctual about it."

The voice is husky, the cold weather corrupting its usual girlish tones and lowering it to the smoulder of a vixen. She smiles slightly. A flash of fang and tooth.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 10:13PM CST
"Ridiculous." Vibrant eyes narrow to dangerous, furious slits - reptilian, almost, so alien are then - and glance off Teagan before rising again to the door. Marie-Hélène stares hard at the door for another moment, as if she could open it by force of will alone. Someone particularly observant might notice the faint twitch of her mouth upward before she forces it into a dark, dangerous frown matched only by the outpouring of passionate outrage in her voice. "Incroyable."

There follows a string of curses so cosmopolitan and inconceiveable that it would take a committee of sociolinguists several weeks to track down every referant, spat with relish onto the cold stone walkway.

"Amateurs." The ultimate insult. The Rose rounds suddenly and wholly on Teagan, thrusting out an imperious hand, commanding attention. "Come. Now."

Quite the flare for the dramatic, no?

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 10:19PM CST
For her part the Malkavian adore any sort of dramatic outpouring as it sparks her own flare for outlandish behaviour. Had she not incured the wrath not two nights previous from an Elder for speaking things she ought not to say? The lips curve in a delighted sort of expression and she lifts one small pale hand from her pocket and slips it easily enough into the furious Toreador's. Shall they march upon Elysium together then? Draw swords with their fists and beat down their foes? She prays for it. Her hood slips down enough for her dark hair to be revealed, tied back in a loose plait, a ribbon adorning the end.

"But what will we do? We cannot impose ourselves unbidden. Can we?"

She breathes out in a fog of cold air, the white mist gone almost as soon as it is expelled from dried lungs. The dark eyes upturned to the taller woman.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 10:31PM CST
"Bien sûr, we may impose ourselves." The creature's frosty brow flattens, perfect counterpoint to her glittering, slitted gaze. Her body seems to hang in time - somewhere between motion and stop-motion - as if someone had slowed the passage of seconds and interposed him-or-herself into the endless yawning gap left thereby. "Impose?" After a moment's thought, Marie-Hélène casts the Malkavian a conspiratorial smile, all flash, fire, and subverted impish fury. "What fool makes his home in Elysium? I would as soon build my home in the midst of Genghis Khan's great army and dare him to pillage my wheatery."

The last word was completely manufactured, but the Toreador pronounces it with the same firm fire as the rest of her utterance, and so somehow, it carries the weight of authority as much as any other.

"However - " after another moment spent staring at the Elysium gates - as if she could push them open with sheer force of will, set them afire with her outrage - she turns and pulls the Malkavian abruptly away with her. "I have a better idea."

And also: no way to open the gate.

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 10:38PM CST
Teagan steps after the Toreador- indeed she has little choice unless she wishes to be tripped- and a tinkling little laugh is pulled from her chest. The words incite her humour and her brow is raised as they march together, women with a mission indeed. Away from the gates though?

Teagan twists her neck around and stares back at the gates longingly, thinking for a moment only of the warmth of the library. Of her books. Yes. She desires nothing more than that room. Damn the fools! She allows the tugging to draw her away. Excitement floods her senses. The dark eyes glow.

"Shall we march upon Elysium Miss Marie? Or better still, find some secret entry?"

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 10:44PM CST
"Tch - " the small corrective sound is bright at the edge of the creature's tongue, and glides easily into the strange edge of another smile. This one is proprietary, studied, perhaps a bit mysterious. " - m'selle. It is so much more sophisticated and - how you say - less southern. No Scarlett O'Hara's we, eh?

"But no - " here, the Toreador stops and flings open the passenger-side door to her musclecar, and gestures impatiently inside. "We will do so much better, m'selle O'Braonain." The art of improvisation: Marie-Hélène hangs on the edge of the thought, the way the dawn hangs on the verge of a day. She has no fucking idea what she's going to do. "We will, ah," another smile, no less brilliant than the diamonds skimming down her back, " - learn the art and meaning of revenge, and the subtle intricacies of the insult. Come. I will show you."

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 10:51PM CST
Teagan skims her gaze over the figure before her. The eyes linger but for a moment on the sharp features of the face before she slips easily into the vehicle. The eyes immediantly dart about the interior as if plotting out a possible route of escape incase...what exactly? The petite woman did not know but some kind of delighted anxiety gripped her as she burrowed against the lining and slipped her fingers onto the seat, just resting them there and watching.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:01PM CST
Some bare few long strides carry the Toreador around the long, arrogant nose of the old 'cuda, and after a few anxious moments, she has taken her place in the driver's seat: high-heeled feet on the clutch and gas pedal, narrow, capable hands on the wheel and gearshift. There's a moment of silence before the stereo roars to wretched life - a raw wall of noise - which the Toreador changes to something driven and Baroque with two quick clicks of her index finger, with its ragged, blunt nail.

"Where do you think we are going, petite?" The impression of her pale face swimming against the darkness beyond, reflected but just in the glass, a strange etching of a second self. The creature's eyes blazed with something (hunger, malice, humor - all so interrelated - ) and flashed with the reflection of someone else's headlights, before she at last turned her attention to the road. "And where would you like to go?"

The 'cuda shot to sudden life, Toreador riding the clutch and guiding the gearshift like an old pro, or at least with all the attendant confidence of one.

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 11:07PM CST
Her fingers play with buckling her seatbelt. An old memory whisps its way through her mind. Another voice asking her the same question. His eyes alight with some desire for her. The youth. ("Where do ye wish to go, my little poet?") She frowns as she pushes the hood down and fingers wind through the hair, pushing it away. She turns big eyes, with the lids dusted gold and red upon the creature beside her. The sweep of artificial lights playing on the face. The voice is soft. A gentle murmur.

"I don't know. Where do you wish to take me?"

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:16PM CST
"Is that all, then, cherie? " a raucous, sidelong glance, the long sweep of pale lashes, the sharp raw edge of something close to a sneer before the shadows change and her face is lost to darkness. Only the ghostly reflections of the instrument panel dusting her with vague green light, the mirrored gloss of reflections from the streetlight, the dance of her hands on the wheel and gearshift. The revolutions of the enginge climb steadily higher and are then undercut by the low roar as she shifts gears. They're steadily gathering speed - tearing through the quiet pedestrian streets. Soon the trees have given way to something more assertive, more industrial - the raw hulks of brownbrick apartment buildings interspersed by the remains of old warehouses and what may have been stockyards. Past them, through.

Marie-Hélène does not speak again until a red light has imposed itself between her and - well - the rest of the street, ending the rich slow poetry of her continual acceleration. Then - idling again - she casts another pointed glance toward the Malkavian beside her, pale brows rising high about her glittering gaze in fine critical repose. "You want only what I want. Only what another wants? You are a vessel waiting to be filled?"

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 11:23PM CST
There is a flash of the eyes. The lips twist in some sort of angry pout. She looks like some cornered creature for a moment. Unsure of its footing and a soft growl creeping along her throat. She snaps her gaze away after a moment. The brow furrowed as the Beast's rumbling resonates around her chest.

"Of course not! I want many things Miss Marie. Sometimes however it is necessicary to bow to the others around you. I have no power to make others listen to me yet. I am but a fawn stumbling around to find its feet. On any occasion some great hunter could finish me off. I want...I seek only to survive."

She quietens now. Looks down at her fingers, steepled together. The outburst seeming to echo in the car's small interior. Her hackles raised just so.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:37PM CST
"Bow not to me." The raw curve of a smile, rich and certain, riding high above the fine slippery fabric of the creature's red dress. "...m'selle."

And then, instead of the echo of Teagan's voice, only the raw roar of the engine vibrating through the cabin. Again and again, the engine's scream increases, undercut as the Toreador changes gears. The creature plays the gears to the outter limits, waiting too long to shift, taking some apparent delight in the strain on the massive engine. Factories speed by, now, half of them abandoned, one of them, at least, the elegant creature's excuse for a haven: darkness, the looming rusting carcasses of machinery, the rought burnt-oil scent that permeated everything. Among them, doubtless, too, the homes of their enemies.

The endless march of factories at last gives way to something more familiar, something more comfortingly human than that endless blasted cityscape. Instead, a series of nondescript houses, both attached and detached, businesses and apartments: some lower-middle class residential area. Five minutes on the deserted streets brings them to a large cubist building - obviously constructed in the 1970s - with rectangles of concrete and rectangles of glass intersecting at intervals. The car slows - the creature is more cautious now - and at last Marie-Hélène pulls up behind the library, parking in the alley. Or rather, double-parking in the alley, just behind a trio of dumpsters serving both the building and Nick's Roast Beef beside it.

In spite of her elegant attire - the too-low-cut dress, the sweep of diamonds hanging like a glittering shadow of her spine - the Toreador sweeps out of the car and approaches the foremost dumpster, motion Teagan to come and give her a hand.

"Top-most window's open, but I need to climb to get there. Gimme a boost."

Another flashing smile sparks across her mouth, like heat-lightening splitting the vault of the night. "Hurry. We don't have all night, cherie."


Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 11:43PM CST
There is caution in her movements as she steps from the car across from Marie and tilts her head to one side, looking beyond her at the dumpster, then lifting her eyes to the window that is indeed, ajar. A slash of red lips and she slips across around the car. The engine ticking from the drive, heat wafting in invisable waves from the bonnet. The Malkavian's hands come to rest on a hip each as she again looks upward and then leans over, making a step with her hands, hair falling like a silken rope over a shoulder. The eyes burning some mixture of sable and amber.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:49PM CST
Marie-Hélène steps out of the strapped arch of her high-heeled shoes and into the curved step of the Malkavian's paired hands. Pushing off the ground, reaching high, scraping the knuckles of her elegant hands against then rough concrete and scrambling for purchase, she at last gains the ledge requested.

It's a narrow thing, no more than a foot across, with an equally narrow smoked glass window barring the further way. The lightest touch sends the window opening, and - with a curving, wretched half-grin - the Toreador slips inside.

Perhaps another minute later, the Toreador swings the back door open and beckons Teagan in. "...and don't forget my shoes."

Teagan O'Braonain

Fri 11:53PM CST
Delightful creature. So naughty. Teagan sweeps up the shoes and with almost a prancing quality to her steps, hastens to follow her kindred inside. The scent of the library. Books and ink. The faint cloying scent of some mortal's aftershave or librarians perfume makes her nostrils flare and she feels the enticing sensation of anxious anticipation once more as she murmurs softly.

"Wonderful."

Marie-Hélène Alette

Fri 11:56PM CST
"When were you embraced?" A casual question, though one that is perhaps a bit outré for the usual Elysium crowd, uttered as the Toreador sweeps her way through the hushed library, bare feet falling quietly on the carpeted floor. She carries her heels dangling from her fingers, now, with a certain disinterest in the whole project - as if she had, now, given up whatever impulse drove her to dress in such high style, as if she had given it up utterly. As if she would never - ever - again be taken by another such desire, though to be certain one would come, fickle, the next night, or the night after that. "Do you know anything about computers?"

There's one already on, glowing and humming as it boots up. The light from the monitor swims in the hushed darkness, smears the edges of the screen as if they were bleeding light into the room.

"I can put - " a pregnant pause, fine mouth pressed together in a vague haze of puzzled irritation, " - the words on the screen and onto the paper, but not pictures. I think we will need pictures for this invitation. Perhaps you know more than I?"

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 12:02AM CST
The sight of the computer screen fills her with pride. Here is something she excells at. Indeed it is a necessary evil for her writings,though she does prefer the notepad and pencil whenever possible. She makes a soft sound of delight as her fingertips trace over the keys and she immediantly lets them slip into their positions. Index fingers hovering over the 'F' and 'J' keys. She casts a slightly smug smile Marie's way before she begins to locate the proper programs.

"Indeed I do Miss. I pride myself on being rather skilled with them in fact. A writer cannot be without such a device."

The pale light of the screen washes over her face. She lets her gaze flicker back to the creature.

"1952. I was embraced."

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 12:09AM CST
"Mademoiselle, I say. I am not some American woman, to be address with this wholly unsatisfying appellation "Miss," which simpers its way through conversations like a rotten banana peel or one of the puff-balls the cheering girls giggle about and toss around," - and this, this is wholly, delightfully affected, another game within a game, as outraged and outrageous as possible.

During the fussy speech, the Toreador arranges herself behind Teagan, peering over the other creature's shoulder at the glowing screen. The chain of diamonds slides across the Toreador's back, colliding quietly with the left arm of the chair, and the silk dress whispers against her thighs as she sits and draws herself closer and begins, "at the top, very very big so even the stupidest can read it, put "Girls Girls Girls." You know, the way they do for burlesque shows."

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 12:13AM CST
The presence so close behind her, Teagan shifts in her boots, her legs brushing against Marie as she bends closer to the screen, searching for the correct button to click upon. The sound of her little fingers upon the keys a constant as she smiles, an amused expression as she obediently casts the words in bold font over the screen. The color splashing over the white page. She experiments with colors. Red, Gold, Bright pink. Before settling back with Red. She inhales the other creature's scent now.

"What are we creating these for, Mademoiselle?"

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 12:21AM CST
"Much better - " and that scent, is not merely blood (though blood there is, blood there always is for Kindred, beneath and above it all) but is also acrid, acid - oil and smoke and the faint reek of the dying river, the remnants of the city streaming into the cesspool of a lake. Rough, metallic, industrial - all overlaid with the crimson saltsheen of blood and the distinctive scent of Chanel No. 5. If anything, the combination is distinctive. " - though you may shorten to m'selle, which is also perfectly acceptably cosmopolitan, and will mark you as a frenchified Kindred should you wish to work it into the regular pattern of your speech. And that is also lovely."

Some approving sound in the back of her throat, as Marie-Hélène leans forward and taps the screen lightly with her index finger. "Now put Free Free Free beneath it, in even larger letters, and somewhere put Beer Beer Beer."

Pausing, chin dropping to consider the finer points of the composition, the Toreador smiles again - the flash of her teeth, white, against her pallid face - and snaps that smile closed. "And add pictures - " a sweep of her hand, desultory and suggestive, toward the screen, " - and then the Elysium address. If they do not want us, perhaps they will prefer another crowd, yes?"

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 12:27AM CST
She works swiftly, her movements with the mouse and the keyboard demonstrating her ability with the device. She opens a seperate window and carefully manipulates images from a website onto the flyer. Pasting wording around the female holding a beer bottle and wearing little but a floral bikini. A soft chuckle cuts through the brief silence that had fallen and with another sound of approval, the Malkavian takes a step back from the screen. Displaying her work and turning a sparkling eye upon the French woman. Experimenting with this new term, enjoying the way it plays on her accented tongue.

"There, M'selle. Is it all you desired?"

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 12:34AM CST
How fine and cool is the creature's profile, distant in a thoroughly contemporary way, as if she could absent herself from her skin. Glittering eyes focused on the screen, Marie-Hélène leans closer and closer to Teagan's handiwork until she came close to skimming the screen with her nose, then drew back sharply. "Parfait, darling." A raking grin, cast sidelong, as she captures Teagan's chin between her thumb and forefinger and turned the girl's face toward her own.

"Parfait." The brief flutter of the Toreador's mouth against either cheek, a perfect and perfectly executed kiss-kiss, so common abroad, so woefully lost to the American public. Then, abruptly, the creature releases the girls chin and rises with more of that restless, prowling energy - something long-legged and fierce, something low-slinking and vicious. "You are my saviour. Print it, and we can copy and drop it off in a few select places in the city."

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 12:39AM CST
She would perhaps, blush at that intimate brush of cool lips against either cheek, had she the circulation for such a reaction. As it is she simply allows a brief smile to curl her lips before a finger clicks down upon the mouse button and nearby the printer whirrs into action. As she waits for it to spit out its bounty, she leans her body against the desk upon which the computer rests and crosses her arms over her chest. Dark eyes following the cut of the figure stalking the room.

"Tell me, have you too heard of the actions of Mr Krugan?"

There is an underlying tension in her voice as she speaks that name again.

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 12:43AM CST
"The Tremere physician-who-is-decidedly-not-a-physician is here to investigate this man." The Toreador's stalk stops short and she rounds, quickly coming to something like a halt. The potential for motion is still raw in the long lines of the lean figure, but the action absent. " - but I know no more than that. Tell me."

Teagan O'Braonain

Sat 01:03AM CST
"No. I did nothing to him. But something, something must have begun his rage. If not my presence then what?"

She shakes her head, the braid swinging against the curve of her spine violently as she looks to the other female.

"My Primogen holds the same view as you do M'selle but I cannot help but feel like some whore who tempted him. Perhaps it was the lure of the blood. Did he wish to sup on the blood of Malkav? Surely not."

Marie-Hélène Alette

Sat 01:12AM CST
"Is the object to blame for the framing cast of the subject's eye?" Some musing distance has entered the Toreador's voice now, as she retrieves at last the colored paper from the printer. If she knows not how to use a computer, she at least knows how to use that fabled tool of every armchair revolutionary from here to Saigon (or at least Northwestern), the copier. "Or is the subject to blame for the way he frames the picture? Or something else? Circumstance, the alignment of the stars or the sky, some burned memory surfacing wild - " Marie-Hélène shrugs as she feeds a crumpled twenty into the vending machine, which spits out a small copy card. This she inserts into the color copier and - covering the tips of her fingers now - presses a few buttons to begin the printing process.

"Is this part of your - " the Toreador's finger sketches spiraling circles in the air beside her ear. " - curse, or do you genuinely believe that? Guilt is not particularly contemporary, especially if you do not even know what you accuse yourself of doing. If this is part and parcel of your curse - " the machine hums, the Toreador turns, backlit, leaning back against the warm copy machine as it works. " - then I pity you. If not, petite, you should blame yourself only if it turns you on."

The penetrating look, narrow-eyed, arrow-laced, flashing. Meanwhile, the copier whirs and hums.

[Teagan's player poofed. Fade. Assuming distribution of fliers and addressing them in forums post.]