disappearing act

Jason Malone

Fri 08:48PM CST
~Wow she moves fast. He shakes his head and steps over towards the other two~ Either of you two actually know... aside from the Prince and Seneschal, who the other court members are? I've not seen a Keeper, Sheriff or Harpy in my time here so far.

Nathan Hale

Fri 08:51PM CST
Who's the Prince?

Raziel Kevlar

Fri 08:51PM CST
He shook his head. " I have seen only the Malkavian Primogen once. Besides that I have seen no other court members. "

Jason Malone

Fri 08:53PM CST
Prince Henry... I met him my first night within the city... but I understand he's handling business more often than he's available to the members of the city... but I imagine that is the price of wearing the crown.

Marie-Hélène

Fri 08:57PM CST
"I met my primogen once." From the shadows of the garden: oh, the quiet ones. Pale in the darkness, the fickle thing surely cannot have been studying the plantings. Still, there is a half-inch of mud coating her dull black shit-kickers and coating the bottom two inches of her oversized BDUs. Although she is a tall thing, the pants are longer than her long legs and swim on her frame, held up only by a doubled-over belt slung haphazardly about her narrow hips. She smiles a thin little smile, a twist of her painted mouth, and rises from her casual crouch in the garden's shadows. "Once. At a salon which no others thought to attend. And there is M'sieur Vidale. But no Sheriff. No Scourge. No - " her shoulders are bare and curve upward in a frisson of expression. " - no one else."

Raziel Kevlar

Fri 08:58PM CST
He nodded. " Every princedom comes with its duties. Just a matter of how they are managed. " He shrugged. " A job I would never want." He chuckled.

Jason Malone

Fri 09:00PM CST
~He turns towards Marie and smiles~ Good evening, Little One. I was worried when you rushed out the other night. It's good to see you. Bailey says hi.

~His brow quirks as he considers what she said~ There is no sheriff... no scourge... Surely there must be a Harpy... as a Toreador, isn't that required knowledge for you?

Raziel Kevlar

Fri 09:04PM CST
He raised an eyebrow. " No Sheriff or Scourge." He only gave a rise of the eyebrows that. He instead looked to marie. " Good evening Ms. Marie-Helene. "

Marie-Hélène

Fri 09:07PM CST
"I'm afraid that I shall simply refuse to address you, M'sieur Malone, if you insist on calling me by that absurd nickname." Her customary arrogance underscores every word, each flavored by the faintest sure lilt of a continental accent. Something romantic, with vowels that vibrate high in the mouth, and consonants that must be precisely clipped off by a snap of teeth. "And if you think I am any more informed - " the faint flaring of her nostrils, as she does not so much walk as saunter closer to the patio, pale, golden hair falling precipitously from its uncertain moorings at the nape of her neck. "Harpy. I don't know; I don't care." She rubs her forefinger and thumb together and gives a little sniff of disdain. "I've never needed their direction."

When she gains the edge of the patio, she wraps her fingers around the wrought-iron railing that separates her from the rest of them and leans forward. The scrollwork digs into the spare flesh of her thighs. "Good evening M'sieur Kevlar." She tips him a faint nod, flavored with the distinct curve of her generous smile.

Nathan Hale

Fri 09:09PM CST
Nathan shivers and Recites all he knows. If there is no Harpy well shit what is he doing.

"I have met you all, I have met Teagan my clan Whip, Morden well he's is just Morden..doesnt like birds much. Thier is the Ugly one Marie Helene speaks of though I cant remember his name..."

He twitches, because he expects Marie to kill him for mispronouncing her name or because Sonatine scaries the hell out of him. After a pause he continues.


"Teagan works for Miss Edesa and she is.." He thinks. "..The Ventrue clan whip and The Venture clan Primogen.." He thinks aboit it but cant't remember.

".. The I mention that the ugly guys is the Brujah Primogen."

Jason Malone

Fri 09:14PM CST
~He laughs, amused.~ Oh please... you could no sooner stop talking to me for that than you could make it a night without the arrogant tinge in your voice.

~He smiles broadly at that before turning his attention back to the group at large~ So... we have some primogen... we have a Prince, a Seneschal... we have no gangrel I've been able to locate, other than myself... but given my clan's current insanity... it makes sense. We have no formal courts... no formal presentations... though mine was close. Wow. Interesting.

~He runs his fingers through his hair, slowly losing himself in thought at the situation and wondering inwardly if this is infact the Cam at all.~

Nathan Hale

Fri 09:20PM CST
Nathan remembers all of a sudden.

"Cassandra.. I think.. yeah. That's the Ventrue one. Um..."

He goes back to thinking.

Marie-Hélène

Fri 09:24PM CST
"I also met the Nosferatu primogen." Some musing note gilds her voice, so apparent that it must certainly be yet another post. She tightens her grip on the iron until the metal digs into the soft flesh of her palm, until the mucles and tendons of her forearm stand out in sharp relief against the pale flesh, flexed with the strain. "Of course, that was after he was attacked by three gentleman and a skylight and torpored, so I don't suppose I have officially made his acquaintance." Her dark eyes settle on Raziel, pale brows rising in fine concert, and flashes him another brilliant smile - pointedly avoiding even the most brief of glances at Jason. Perhaps she considers his quip a challenge. "And, I had a formal presentation. My Prince and my Primogen. I wore the red dress, and I do believe they appreciated my efforts. As for the Ventrue - " another fine twitch of her pale shoulders. "One must wonder, really, at the wisdom of having a Primogen and a Whip when there are only two members of the clan to be seen in Elysium's halls. Perhaps I should invent an office for myself and purchase a tiara, would you gentleman kneel to my authority?"

She releases the railing and shifts her stance, pivoting and turning in place. Mud squelches beneath her feet - the gardens are kept well-watered come summertime - but she leans back and watches the movement in the shadows - the wind in the trees, their shadow-reflections against the dark, still beds. "If I bought a sceptre to go with the tiara..."

Jason Malone

Fri 09:29PM CST
And what pray tell, would the position be? Queen B....Bee? ~He chuckles a bit before turning his gaze to her~ Did I mention you're kinda cute when you're being all stubborn. Heh... Anyway... I'm sure I'm overthinking all of this. ~His attention flits between the three~ I imagine that if the Prince or Seneschal need our assistance... they'd not be particularly shy about it.

Nathan Hale

Fri 09:32PM CST
Nathan claps and giggles.
"Only if I can be a Duke."

Marie-Hélène

Fri 09:39PM CST
"Princess." She announces, peculiarly straight-spined despite having parked herself in what appears to be an arrogant adolescent's peculiarly effective slouch. In contrast to her cheap BDUs, her camisole is black as the spaces between the stars, and made of something much finer - some high-quality synthetic or fine-spun silk. The straps slide with the vague movement of her shoulders, spilling down across her upper arms, while the body of the blouse ripples like black water. There is a narrow band of lace edging the top seam, front and back, but this is bent as if the garment has been long crumpled at the bottom of some container or other. "I would be princess, and I reply, gentleman, not to answer the query of one-who-shall remain nameless, but rather to enlighten the rest of you. If one were interested in determining whether there are other avenues through which to assist the security of the group, one might consider contacting Mr. Ashe Kincaid. He was investigating the incident with the Baron."

Her weight shifts, from hip to hip, and her arms cross. Only the edges of her elbows are visible to them, the faint change in the set of her shoulders. She glances across a bare shoulder then, skewering Nathan briefly with a dark blue gaze. "You may be jester, petit. No more."

Jason Malone

Fri 09:45PM CST
~He rolls his eyes at her and shakes his head before stepping in front of her and leaning back and into her a bit, turning his attention to Raz and Nathan~ Nathan, if it makes you feel better, you can be Duke while the princess here is sleeping on her matress and being bitchy about the pea underneath it.

Jason Malone

Fri 10:00PM CST
~He reaches up and pats her on the hand gently~ I make no mistakes about you, Marie-Helene. That much shall always be true. I may make mistakes about others... but never... ever... you. ~his voice isn't condescending in the least but it carries a predatorial tone to it. He lets his hand rest on hers for a moment as he tucks his other hand behind him, bracing himself against the fence. The other two may be hard pressed to see it, but Marie Helene definitely notices the claws that spring from his fingers and rest on the top of her hand. It's definitely not a threat... more so just a gangrel playing.~ And my dear, dear Marie-Helene... you are more human than I in most regards.

Nathan Hale

Fri 10:08PM CST
Nathan pulls on Raziels sleave.

Marie-Hélène

Fri 10:08PM CST
"You make assumptions, petit, which perhaps you should not make so thoroughly or so soon." Her voice is cool - cooler than mere moments earlier - underscored by the usual heady arrogance. The endearment is cool and sure, tossed off casually in the midst of the otherwise level statement. "But I don't believe I will disabuse you of those notions as yet."

Jason Malone

Fri 10:12PM CST
Oooh... abuse me, baby. ~He laughs and lets the claws retract before he shifts out of her way.~ Although I don't quake much... you may be scaring Nathan a bit, so perhaps you should put back on your happy face... ~his head turns to look at her.~ Oh... that _is_ your happy face, petit.

Nathan Hale

Fri 10:23PM CST
Nathan laughs.

"I'm not scared. My bet is on the lady. She just looks old."

Jason Malone

Fri 10:25PM CST
~he raises a brow at Nathan~ Wow.. and I thought I was brave... you just told a woman she looks old. ~he chuckles~

Marie-Hélène

Fri 10:26PM CST
"If we were still what we once were, M'sieur Malone." Straight-spined, now, arms cast back, hands splayed over the railing, pale fingers delicate and alien against the dark. Both straps have fallen (again) from her shoulders, dark parabolas against the pale flesh of her upper arms. She curls her right shoulder upward to tip the strap back into place, but the gesture is futile and it falls again, leaving her shoulder bare. The straight length of her collarbone - sharp, birdlike in its delicacy - and the concave curve of shadow in the hollow beneath. Her sharp features have stilled, pale lashes sweep lower over her dark eyes, but her mouth spreads in an unnameable expression - the beginnings of a smile, the ends of a stillborn smirk. " - then I might assume you are flirting with me, outrageously, to lure me into your bed. Since we are not what we once were, I must assume - " Her brows twitch and rise higher above her dark eyes. " - that you have nothing better to do."

She casts a glance toward Nathan, fixing him with her dark stare. "Tell me, M'sieur Hale. What about me looks old?"

Nathan Hale

Fri 10:30PM CST
Nathan starts to clap and laugh his head off.

"Oh Snap, Nigel, she got you on that one. I would have back down."

Nathan steps back.

Jason Malone

Fri 10:30PM CST
~He says a bit under his breath though loud enough for all to hear~ Maybe I'm just hungry. And as for nothing better to do... as a Toreador, do you have something artistically better to do than be the equivalent of a newspaper movie critic?

Nathan Hale

Fri 10:30PM CST
Nathan starts to clap and laugh his head off.

"Oh Snap, Nigel, she got you on that one. I would have back down."

Nathan steps back.

Marie-Hélène

Fri 10:39PM CST
Her left arm drifts across her narrow torso. She wrists the delicate inner curve of her left rest on the faint curve of her right hip. Straightening, she slips her right hand into her right back pocket and pulls out a small pack of cheap little cigars. Strawberry flavor, foul-smelling, even unlit from a distance. "I'm a prickly dish, cher." Tapping the package against the straight line of her stomach until a cigar tips out so that she can snag it as she speaks. Her dark eyes flash with some remnant of reflected flame as she snags the end of the cigar between straight white teeth and lights the opposite end with a flameless lighter that hisses like a spitting snake. "I'm rather sure you wouldn't enjoy it. And - " she offers a cool, elegant little shrug, mouth twisting up at the corners. " - I have nothing better to do. I am a glorified newspaper movie critic. I am - in the eyes of most of my clan, a poseur."

Jason Malone

Fri 10:52PM CST
~He shakes his head a bit, all trace of his usual smile gone at the moment.~ You don't have any idea what I would enjoy. I've heard the slow exsanguination of one of our own is an extremely joyful experience... though I've not experienced it myself.

~He shrugs a bit and pushes off the fence~ Ya know... I may have actually been wrong about something with you. Interesting. For once I may have overestimated. Pity, that. When you drop the youthful bravado and can actually make an attempt at the role we spoke of before... give me a call. I've no illusions that you will, but if you decide you want to talk... without the bullshit and sniping... I'll be happy to. But, like I said... I have no illusions.

~He looks to Nathan and nods~ Have a good night Nathan. Nice, as always to see you. If you talk to Dr. Zeigler... send him my regards. ~He starts to walk back towards the parking area.~

Marie-Hélène

Fri 11:02PM CST
The creature watches Jason walk away, her dark eyes a cool weight upon his back. He is halfway to the parking lot before she rises, abruptly, casting aside the foul cigar and offering a negligant wave to Nathan in lieu of farewell. Jason will hear her footsteps shadowing his, - her great sweeping strides, her driving gait, her tiger cub's enthusiasm for the sheer delights of movement - and see her illuminated at the edge of the driveway - almost golden - in the whitening wash of his Jeep's headlights. Her long arms are crossed, emphasizing her narrow figure, the length of her limbs, and she seems almost locked in a pose, her weight settled into her right hip, her left foot planted a foot or two away. Her hair has fallen entirely from its moorings after the vigorous walk, and falls around her shoulders, down her back, tangled and curling from its imprisonment. Her eyes flash with reflected light, but her mouth is still and set. She says nothing; she simply watches him as he pulls out, backs down the driveway, and disappears into the street. She simply watches him disappear.

the library (again)

Jason Malone

Wed 07:55PM CST
~Jeep parked in the lot, Jason sat in the library, quietly reading. Black soulless eyes exposed in the safety of the elysium, his usual mirrored shades sat beside him on a table. Dressed casual, as always, he casually read through the story of Paolo and Francesca.~

~He sat reclined back, elbows resting on the arm of the chair, the book up before his face, shielding his view of the room. His legs were stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle, obviously fully relaxed.~

Marie-Hélène

Wed 08:19PM CST
There are often footsteps in the hall. The Estate is large, requires a staff of some size to keep it functioning, both to keep the fine wooden floors rich and clean and to keep the more sophisticated security systems running smoothly. But perhaps one can differentiate the reluctant footsteps of a bored functionary, some underservant, some fucking blood-addict, from the footsteps of a more self-important guard, from the footsteps of an even more self-important Kindred. Perhaps not: reading, one tends to drown out the rest of the world. The floorboards' groan is closed now, a subtle if wrenching sound as the tongue and groove flooring expands and settles beneath the hint of added weight.

If Jason looks up, he will see her, dressed down again - as usual - her pale hair wrapped into a complex, wild - oh, it can only be called a structure - that would be better kept to the catwalks than exhibited on the streets. The loops and whorls of pale golden hair are secured in place by an assortment of strange bits and pieces. Bereft of context, a washer or nut can come to be see as some sort of strange, industrial jewelry. Strange, as always. She crosses the library with her long-legged gait, a driving sort of step, as if she has - as if she always has - somewhere to go, and plants herself in one of her customary half-seated slouches on the arm of the chair beside his own. "Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate," she murmurs, a fey half-minute before curving her long fingers over the spine of the volume and attempting to tug the Gangrel's Dante from his grasp.

Jason Malone

Wed 08:28PM CST
~He lets the tome slip from his fingers and into hers as his usual amused smirk curls his lips. After the book is gone, his fingers lace together, steepled in front of him, his gaze turning to her~ I've long since abandoned hope. Comes with the territory.

~His smirk turns to a wry grin, something of a bit of truth in his words though it's masked in his sometimes dry humor. And how perfect does the night find you, Little One? Oh... I haven't told you... I got myself a new pet. You'll have to come see him some night.

Marie-Hélène

Wed 08:40PM CST
"Tch." She makes a reproving sound in the back of her throat, the dry cluck of her tongue against her hard palate. Her mobile mouth stills and her brows rises as she slides her thumb between the pages and relieves him of the book, then cups it with her usual carelessness in her left hand, studying the page he had been reading, or making a pretense of it. "I haven't abandoned hope, Jason-Malone who most definitively should not refer to me as Little One." She gives him a cool, lilting stare: dark eyes half-closed but rapt, attentive. "And I'm rather afraid to inquire as to the identity of your pet. But tell - "

Jason Malone

Wed 08:44PM CST
I never said _you_ had abandoned hope... I would never assign such a mundane thing to you. ~His grin returns to its usual aomewhat sarcastic but definitely entertained nature~ And just why _shouldn't I refer to you as Little One? You are certainly smaller than I.

~If he had pupils, one could actually see the eyeroll that accompanied his chuckle at her comment about his pet, but in this case, only the amused laugh gives him away.~ As for Bailey... he is a horse. A black Morgan with three white socks.

Marie-Hélène

Wed 08:53PM CST
Something streaks briefly across her sharp features: a livid awareness that settles into a bemused half-smile more appropriate to the setting. There's a twist to her fine pale brows, too, a lightness to her bearing as she leans back on the arm of the overstuffed chair and allows her body told fold backwards and fall into the massive thing's deep seat. She is tall enough - lean and long, willowy, even - that she is not entirely lost in the furniture, but it is a clear, close thing. "I could call you smelly, but I doubt you would like that." The upholstery sighs and suffers as she shifts backward against the arm until she is not comfortable (it matters little to her) but aesthetically draped across the chair. Toreador. "And - " she lifts the backcurve of her pale hand to until it is pressed against her red mouth, just beneath her nose. Inhales. " - I suspect I am smellier as well as smaller. Perhaps you should call me that instead." She stills, then, mouth flattening faintly. "You have - " Her voice does not lilt upward (such a thing is too uncertain, perhaps to girlish for the creature), but her brows draw together and her pale head swings to the side, threads of fine golden hair falling to sweep against the architectural structure of her jaw. " - fed him."

Jason Malone

Wed 08:59PM CST
Yeah... interesting thing trying to do that... harder than I'd have imagined with a horse. He's a smart one... that's for sure. Not much of a conversationalist though. ~He lets out another genuine chuckle~ I'm gonna let the whole smellier than thou part of the discussion go... it's no fair waging a verbal war against one who is unarmed. ~He winks playfully~

By the way... you got me thinking the other night and I realized I'm much more Paolo than I could ever be the pilgrim searching for Beatrice. I suppose my beast would be my brother in that story. It's more fitting.

Nathan Hale

Wed 09:07PM CST
Nathan sits on the patio transfixed by the moon and hidden by his own will from the site of most. What does one think out when in a state of insanity. Well mostly swimming pools and Robin Williams, but that story is for another night. Nathan pops his neck and looks around. After blinking repeatedly, he shakes his head and stands up.

Raziel Kevlar

Wed 09:10PM CST
The purring motorcycle engine eased slowly as he came up to the gate. Identify himself allowed him in and he rode up to the front, parking his rocket to the side and heading up to front doors to rap on once.

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:12PM CST
*her flip flops slap against her slender feet, her toes curling slightly, the straps of her emerald green thongs decorated with silk flowers. Her pale slender legs bare, the fringe of white strings from her jean cutoffs whisering softly against her thighs, a white over shirt over a pink tank top completes her outfit, her long reddish brown hair spilling over her slender shoulders, gleaming like silk, the same color as freshly ground cinnamon. Her overlong bangs falling into her eyes, her pale pink lips curling slightly as she flipflops down the steps to the library, humming softly under her breath as she pushes the door open*

Marie-Hélène

Wed 09:14PM CST
"That was quite unaccountably cruel of me," she replies, with her usual arrogance - so finely wrought, so understated. Her chin rises a fraction of a degree, and she fixes him with a look before her attention - drifts, as it often does, to some collection of shadows spilling across his arms, the arms of his chair, in a strange lover's knot, innumerable gradations of light and shadow cast by the supple recessed lighting in the room. "I don't think you should compare yourself to anyone, imagined or real." Her mouth flattens, her nostrils flare with a cool breath expelled. She inhabits space that another might simply take up. "I find the reality is ever more complex than any textual representation of it. The difference between living something and the memory of it. No narrative can capture the confusing force of pushing through those threads, and making and remaking yourself. Dwelling - " she glances up as Muira walks into the library, nods to the young Brujah with casual grace, but otherwise falls silent.

Nathan Hale

Wed 09:16PM CST
He would yawn if he could, but those damn lungs, the doc told him, those cigarettes would kill him. What the fuck did that quack know? Bastard should of told Nathan to eat more garlic. Perhaps things would have been different, but alas here he was, staring at the moon, and missing the sun. Turning his head, Nathan notices a light on in the library. A smile spreads across his face, as he makes his way toward the double doors leading into the library. Turning the handle he opens the door, steps in, and closes it behind himself. Standing there wide eyed with a cheshire grin, Nathan runs a hand threw his dark mused hair. Tonight he is wearing the same outfit he will probably wear for the summer. Green hawaiian shirt with white orchid print, light brown cargo shorts and a pair of leather sandles, not flip flops though, they make noises like you are being followed. No good for paranoid people.

Jason Malone

Wed 09:20PM CST
Ah... but you forget the immortal words... those that do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Not to mention that too often stories are studied for their standing as a work of art or their fine literary quality and not judged on the most simple purpose of a book... to tell a story, and usually a story with a moral. Aesop didn't get famous for forgetting the past... he's famous for finding ways to remind people of it. Besides... the really good and the really bad are always in one's mind... or repressed... they never go away.

~His black soulless gaze turns first to Muira and his otherwise serious demeanor changes to a more lighthearted one.~ Speaking of the Past... Muira... you believe in that rule of three thing... don't ya? ~His gaze then turns to Nathan... good thing no expressions can be read in those black eyes... because DAMN... that's one fugly shirt. He nods to the man before looking back to Muira~

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:24PM CST
*she smiles brightly a she shakes her hair out of her bangs, nodding to Jasons words and quoting softly*

Mind the Three-fold Laws you should three times bad and three times good.

*her brow lifts then she looks to Marie, then back to Jason* An' why d'ye be askin, lad?

Nathan Hale

Wed 09:24PM CST
Nathan nodded sagely, back at the man. Recognizing Marie but not Jason, none the less agreeing with unknown wise man rather than the toreabore. Seeing Muira he smiles and half bows.

"Ms. Montgomery"

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:25PM CST
*she looks to Nathan*erm...m'last name is Stewart, sir.....I dinna know anyone named MOntgomery.....

Nathan Hale

Wed 09:27PM CST
Nathan wrinkles his nose at the comment.

"Not yet but one day if you brush your teeth and be a good girl, you might find your Mr. Montgomery"

Nathan smiles and looks for an open chair.

Jason Malone

Wed 09:28PM CST
We were just discussin' the past. I identify with a character in the story due to some shit in my past... Marie-Helene is of the opinion that one should not identify in such a way... that the past is the past. I look at it as a means to see that others have had similar problems and discover why their problems happened to perhaps gain insight on my own and perhaps prevent future incidents that might be similar. ~He shrugs a bit, his eyes darting to the odd man... wow... now he understands the shirt.~

Raziel Kevlar

Wed 09:28PM CST
Once he was in, he wandered the halls heading towards the library, wondering what kind of books were kept in the manor. But seeing the others gathered in, he looked to each in turn.

Jason Malone

Wed 09:29PM CST
~He looks to Raziel and nods~ Evening Raziel... how's the job hunt?

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:31PM CST
*She shakes her head*One shouldna' ferget their past....it helps us become what we are in the present...and will help us keep f'rm makin' the same mistakes in the future....*she murmur ssolumnly, slipping into the room, turning when Raziel comes in, her smile softening...almosy shy*Guid e'en Raziel....

Raziel Kevlar

Wed 09:35PM CST
He looked at Jason and nodded once. " Evening Jason. It seems to have gone good enough." He looked to Muira, smiling to her. " Good evening Muira. "

Nathan Hale

Wed 09:35PM CST
Nathan looks at each chair in turn, crossing his arms, he gives up and leans against one of the book cases that lines the wall.

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:39PM CST
*If she could blush she would be bright red by now, slapslapping over to a chair, her hands folding with almost maidenly shyness in her lap as she sits, her long bangs falling over her gaze like a silken curtain, her small whiet teeth nibbling at her lower lip*

Jason Malone

Wed 09:46PM CST
~Wow... Muira speechless... this was a first that he'd seen. Hmmm... he'd go back to reading his book, but that was in Marie-Helene's clutches at the moment. His black gaze turned to Nathan, for a moment trying to figure out who the kook might be.~

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:48PM CST
*she clears her throat, looking up, her bangs falling away and the light glinting off those gold flecks in her deepsea green eyes, her delicate borws arching but she maintains her silence....for after all...even a fool is considered wise when she says nothing....*

Raziel Kevlar

Wed 09:51PM CST
He followed after Muira, opting for a chair next to hers. He sat down facing her. " You look beautiful tonight Muira, how are you feeling tonight? "

Jason Malone

Wed 09:53PM CST
~His eyes shift back to Nathan~ For sitting or throwing? ~His grin takes on an almost impish aspect. His gaze slides slowly to Raz and Muira... ah... to be young and goofy again.~

Muira Stewart

Wed 09:54PM CST
*her gaze meets his, her smile brightening, flattered by his attention*Fine an'well, Raziel...the mildness o'the Summers here...enou' to boggle th' mind.....I coulda swore there was tale told of summer in Chicago being lethal.....*she looks at her foldedn hands*Ah....but summer as only just begun, aye?

Marie-Hélène

Wed 09:55PM CST
The creature's attention wandered to the book in her hand, or - specifically - to the indentations in the glossy paperback cover made by the tips of her long, delicate fingers, the splash of color blooming across the faint gloss from the light smearing from the wall sconces. "Jason." Abruptly spoken. Others have gathered in the library in the interim, but she has not perhaps bothered to notice them. Rising - undulating up from her seat - she finds her feet and holds out the well-worn volume. "I did not mean to sound either flippant or chastizing. It's just that I do not hold with hell." The Toreador glances around the room, almost abruptly, but then her gaze falls back to him. "Nor should you. But we can continue the conversation another night, I think. Good evening. M'selle Stewart. The rest of you."

the ugly one

Nathan Hale

Tue 07:23PM CST
Nathan sits at a chair on the patio, his car parked outside in the front of the Estate.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 07:24PM CST
The night is warm, the winds moderate. This evening, the Toreador eschews the library in favor of the patio. She leans against the railing at the edge, one narrow hip slung against the scrolled ironwork, one pale hand negligently dripping across the dark scrollwork, a cigarello - cheap and noxious - in her hand. Her pale hair is almost loose, bound into a thick tail at the nape of her neck with a pair of wire twist-ties usually employed to close garbage bags.

Nathan Hale

Tue 07:26PM CST
Nathan comes into view, pulling back his will which has kept him out of site until now. He lounges in the chair, dark hair mused as usual, green hawaiian shirt, cargo short and sandles. The night is clear the solistice is passed, Summer is on. Nathan tries to make it feel that way, though he missed the sun very much.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 07:35PM CST
The Toreador wears a pair of worn jeans, oversized, the waist cinched to her hips by virtue of a belt that is itself perhaps three to five sizes too big for the willowy creature. Someone has driven extra holes into the leather with something round and perhaps blunt - a screwdriver, or something similar - and the excess is doubled through the worn, straining beltloops. Above these, a cheap cotton jersey, sleeveless - perhaps even a men's undershirt - loose around the creature's narrow torso. She glances up sharply as Nathan appears within the range of her peripheral vision and fixes him with a dark-eyed, pale-lashed look.

Staring, she takes a drag from her cigarello. Inhales smoke, exhales the very same smoke. She says nothing at the moment, but the weight of her intense regard is difficult to ignore. Unblinking and unwavering, she studies him with a predator's close, patient cool.


Nathan Hale

Tue 07:37PM CST
Nathan stands slowly, moving toward the railing, pulling up his shorts as he goes. Sandles scrape over the deck of the patio. No grace in this one, he moves very much like the man he used to be. He still doesn't say a word until the mysterious woman speaks. Watching her with a slight frown on his face. As he gets within a few feet of her he offers his hand, not for a handshake but for the cigar.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 07:41PM CST
Her teeth close around the tip, lifting the black cigarello perhaps 5 degrees toward the sky, perhaps 15. The red mouth flattens around the thing, and the creature's eyes half-close as she changes the angle and subject of her study from his face to his hand. When he closes the distance, she plucks the noisome thing from her mouth, holds it delicately between her long fingers, and offers it to him, careful to keep the smouldering tip well away from either of them.

Nathan Hale

Tue 07:45PM CST
Taking the cigarello from the woman with a boyish cheshire grin. He holds it away from them as she had done. Bringing it to his lips, he takes a very small pull from it, the whole time keeping his eyes on the very unique kindred before him. Pulling the cigarello away from his lips, he mimicks her by tilting his head back at the right angle and exhaling offering it back to her.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 07:50PM CST
The tobacco is cheap and harsh, with a burning chemical undertone that lingers unpleasantly in the back of the throat. The creature's clothing is not much better: inexpensive, make-shift, at clear odds with the fineness of both her limbs and the cool confidence of her bearing. Her head swings to the side, the thick gathering of pale hair sweeping sidelong with the motion, curling tips grazing the elbow of her right arm, which supports her negligent lean. She accepts the cigarello back and lifts it to her mouth again, her chin rising in cool arrogance, her eyes slitting to study him closely.

"What did you say your name was, petit?"

Nathan Hale

Tue 07:53PM CST
Nathan turns and leans again the rail looking up at the moon as it drifts across the vast skyscape. As she speaks his gaze turns to her and then back to the moon.

"I am Nathan, I am a Lunatic."

He smiles to himself and again looks at her out of the corner of his eye.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 08:03PM CST
"Mmmm." Her fingers thread through the ironwork, broken nails working against the bare hint of rust in the narrow jointure of a particularly intricate bit of scrollwork. "Yes, a Lunatic. You told me that before. Do you remember that?" Pale brows draw in a rising upward arc, fine and narrow, just furrowed. "My name is Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais. You may call me Marie-Hélène or Mademoiselle Alette. You may not call me Marie. I am Toreador."

Amusement coils at the corners of her mouth like smoke at the edges of the sky.

Nathan Hale

Tue 08:05PM CST
Laughs and scratches his head.
"Really I cant call you Marie?"

Marie-Hélène

Tue 08:07PM CST
Flatly, with a cold and narrow stare. "No." Her spine straightens, and the change in posture emphasizes the willowy lines of her model's figure. Smoke flares from her nostrils, and her left arm drifts to her side, cigarello held carefully between her fingers.

Nathan Hale

Tue 08:10PM CST
Nathan frowns and narrows his eyes at her, remember what Morden said and decides to apply the theory.

"In that case I want to be called Duke Nathan Cornellius of Luna."


Raziel Kevlar

Tue 08:14PM CST
The revving of the motorcycle eased slowly as it approached the gates. The suit reached up to slide the faceplate up and he leaned over to press the gate box button. After being let in, he idled his way up to the front and pulled his bike to the side before cutting it off and standing it up. Removing the plain black helmet, Raziel lifted himself off and stretched slowly. He wore the same dark navy blue suit that he was always seen in. A quick check to make sure it was straight and proper, he went to the door and rapped on it once. It was answered and he was ushered in, he headed straight for the garden.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 08:19PM CST
"Mmm." The creature's generous mouth shapes itself around the sound with the sort of precision usually exercised by great masters completing masterworks. The sound - like everything about her, it seems - is negligent and careless. Her dark eyes rise dismissively, drifting over the shape of the Elysium's brick structure, and then above it, to the dark sky. She is studying the spaces between the stars, the points of untouchable distance, or so one might guess from the narrow band of concentration clear on her face. "You're Nathan the Lunatic. Remember?"


Nathan Hale

Tue 08:22PM CST
Laughs and scratches the back of his neck. Looking up to the same stars.

"Well I guess I am. Hey Marie-Helene puff, puff, give."

Reaching for the stank cigarello.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 08:28PM CST
She doesn't look at him. She simply hands him the cigarello with the same strange combination of exaction and negligance that marks her lean pose against the ironwork. The sharp posts dig into the spare flesh of her right hip. When the French doors open onto the patio, she turns and glances sharply at them, dark eyes narrowed against the rainbow blur of the outdoor sconces, studying Raziel with the same intense attention she gave to Nathan when he first appeared on the patio.


Nathan Hale

Tue 08:32PM CST
Nathan takes the cigar, doing a little Groucho Marx pose, following Marie's gaze to Mr. Kevlar. Maintaining the Marx inpersonation.

"Well, what do we have here my Chickadee, Marie?"

Raziel Kevlar

Tue 08:38PM CST
He stood there for a long minute, letting his eyes drift lazily along the entire expanse of the garden and patio area. His dark hazel eyes slide over both of them, pausing only three seconds on each looking both evenly but with any hint of expression before they kept moving. He let his feet carry him in their direction. He was a good six feet and an inch, medium build and average looks. His fine black hair hanged loosely along his jaws and his dark hazel eyes seemed to miss nothing in sight.

Marie-Hélène

Tue 08:43PM CST
The Toreador seems thoroughly inclined to ignore Nathan's comment. Her dark blue eyes remain steady on Raziel as he enters, but do not so much as flicker in Nathan's direction.

Nathan Hale

Tue 08:45PM CST
Nathan hands the rank cigarello back to her. Bowing to Raziel.

"How pleasant to see you this evening."

Not remember the mans name he decided to give his own.

"I am Duke Nathan Cornellius of Luna and I forget your name Mr..?"

Marie-Hélène

Tue 08:43PM CST
The Toreador seems thoroughly inclined to ignore Nathan's comment. Her dark blue eyes remain steady on Raziel as he enters, but do not so much as flicker in Nathan's direction.

Nathan Hale

Tue 08:45PM CST
Nathan hands the rank cigarello back to her. Bowing to Raziel.

"How pleasant to see you this evening."

Not remember the mans name he decided to give his own.

"I am Duke Nathan Cornellius of Luna and I forget your name Mr..?"

Raziel Kevlar

Tue 08:51PM CST
He watched Marie steadily but looked at Nathan when he spoke. Giving him a bow in return. " Good evening Mr. Hale." He straightned up and held a leather gloved hand out. " I am Raziel Kevlar, of the Caitiff. "

Nathan Hale

Tue 08:55PM CST
Nathan blinks 3 times fast.

[He knows who we are]
{How?}
[You probably met him and forgot]
{Why don't you start keeping track of these things then.}

Blinky blink blink. And we're back folks. He looks to Marie Helene.

"Is Katif, like the Toribore or whatever?"

Marie-Hélène

Tue 09:00PM CST
She accepts the foul smoke with a hitch of awareness, long pale fingers curling over the cheap black paper. Some hint of ink - a nothing, a whisper of it - comes away on her fine skin as she rolls the smoldering cigarello lightly back and forth, savoring the smoke. Oh - the smoke. It coils upward like a jester's thing, two and then three separate strands pulling apart then twining together: double helix, trebled helix, something intricate and complex, something nearly organic. The pale creature stares at the smoke that rolls from the little cigar trapped between her precise, pale fingers with a cool, spartan rapture. Then she exhales a lungful of smoke she has been holding far too long and destroys the tableau that has managed to enthrall her. Her fine posture changes, her body sags from the center of her gravity - now somewhere near the small of her back, the delicate incurve of her lumbar spine - and then stands. The railing shakes with the force of her movement, she releases the wrought iron and - "No. The Caitiff are the pretty ones. The Toreador are ugly, remember?" - lies without qualm or care, then strides off to the parking area beside the driveway.

accustomed.

Marie-Hélène

Sun 09:41PM CST
There are a pair of volumes in the Seneschal's library which categorically do not belong there. The room is a haven of leatherbound books, first editions and the like, fine printings set by hand and bound in the softest of colourful leathers. The two extra volumes are cheap: cheap paper - pulp, with the peculiar scent that comes to old paperbacks, almost acid but deep and woody as well - cheap inks that wash off onto one's fingers much as newspaper ink, and cheap, lurid covers. Vintage pulps from the 1950s. In the ashtray beside them, the remains of a cheap cigar. The scent is still acrid in the air.

Little wonder, then, the scent returns, harsher. Footsteps down the hallway, a driving and assured gait, the clatter of heels sharp against the wooden floor. The door swings open, and Marie-Hélène - of the battered BDUs and old cargo pants, of the cheap, self-painted t-shirts - barges in wearing a drifting dress of red silk that bares much of her long legs and skims the lean curves of her model's figure. Her hair is twisted up in three complicated layers, and the pale colour takes some hint from the dress beneath, warming the silvery locks to something more roan and golden. She goes straight for the two paperbacks, looks up suddenly, sharply as she leans to take them from their perch, and fixes Jason with a strong, sure look. "M'sieur Malone."

Jason Malone

Sun 09:45PM CST
~Already watching the doors as she comes in, having anticipated an arrival from the footsteps, one thich brow raises in curiosity at her rather... unusual appearance. His lips curl into an appreciative smile which leads to a genuinely warm chuckle.~ Well good evening little one. You are looking... exquisite this perfect night. What's the special occasion? Hot date?

Marie-Hélène

Sun 09:56PM CST
"I might well be taller than you, Jason." The paperbacks hang negligently from her long fingers, skimming the line of her hip as she assumes a pose that is constructed of equal parts smolder and slouch. The pose emphasizes the long, narrow sweep of her body, the languid length of her limbs. After a moment, she wraps her left arm around her waist, curving her fingers around her right forearm. The paperback taptaptaps against her hip. She isn't smiling, not precisely, but there is a distant, almost bemused expression on her generous mouth that echoes in the quizzical pattern of her pale brows. At least in those heels - which verge on the illegal - she may be right. "Is there some reason you must persist in calling me little one?"

Her eyes narrow faintly, but a twitch of her mouth dismisses the expression from her clarified features. She drifts a glance down at her attire and waves a dismissive hand. "There isn't a special occasion, although I did attend the symphony. I'm surprised to find you here."

Jason Malone

Sun 10:02PM CST
Surprised to find me here? ~He offers a chuckle at that~ Why? because Gangrel aren't supposed to read and appreciate knowledge and fine literature? You haven't figured out I'm not your basic cookie-cutter gangrel? It's been years though since I've heard a good symphony.

~He closes the book and sets it carefully aside, running his hand along the leather cover appreciatively before turning his gaze back to her, starting low and working up to her eyes~ As for calling you Little One... it's not much different than you calling me petit... yes? Besides, why do you persist in calling me mister Malone? Aside from the world spinning off axis reason you gave before? ~One black eye is momentarily blocked as he offers a teasing wink~ And I've always liked tall women.

Marie-Hélène

Sun 10:11PM CST
"Tch. No," her mouth curves from a smile into a pure, prescient smirk that sparks the corners of her lips wide but thins the line to a crescent. "petit. When have I ever assigned some role to you, or another? I am surprised for other reasons, and if you cannot divine them, then - " Her shoulders curl upward, then plunge. The cut is almost fitted, but certainly modest in the front. Her shoulders are left almost bare, the line of her throat and the sharp wings of her collarbones exposed, but little more than that. She remains almost still as he looks at her, though supple, subtle movements - the level of her chin, perhaps, the causal swing of her curving arm - give her clear awareness away. " - I'll not reveal them. But perhaps we can come to an agreement regarding names, diminutive and otherwise, and keep the world wholly on its axis, while we're at it?"

Jason Malone

Sun 10:17PM CST
I suppose that would be acceptable. ~he rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers together in front of him~

But please, enlighten me as to your surprise at my being here? It's truly one of my more unusual quirks... I like packs and I view the Camarilla as my pack... so I will often go to places where I am likely to run into my packmates, either ones I haven't met yet or those to whom I have become accustomed to having near. ~Fortunately, or unfortunately the empty blackness of his eyes swallows most of what can usually be read in someone's eyes leaving his statement at face value or open to interpretation.~

Marie-Hélène

Sun 10:26PM CST
"That was easy." Her red mouth narrows and flattens. The expression could be narrow and hard, but her brows have not drawn together and her mouth remains wide. Instead, it appears simply private. Her eyes flicker to follow the movement of his hands, then rise to his face again. "I'm surprised at that, too. But, packs?" The fingers on her left hand open, flutter expressively as she asks the question. Her center of gravity shifts, and her body follows moments later, liquid shift. " - as in, wolves and the like?" The almost-smirk becomes a strange, rarified smile as she studies him. If this were a vaccuum. "Or something else?"

Jason Malone

Sun 10:29PM CST
~He nods a bit, his smile taking on a more pensive air to it~ Like as in animal packs... nothing more. Call it packs, family, extended family... whatever. I'm not a terrible fan of solitude. I like contact with others, mental, social, physical... all of it.

Hmmm... so I surprise you? Now that surprises me. I've always felt myself very open-bookish, almost to a dangerous degree.

Marie-Hélène

Sun 10:37PM CST
She remains as she is for a long moment, still in a pose that is near repose. His response breaks against her like waves against a sandbar, she absorbs it with her usual intensity, completely focused on his features - and then on something beyond his shoulder, some structured gathering of shadows caused by the numerous diffuse lights in the library.

"I have to go." Abruptly, the more so because there is immediate urgency to her voice, but she has not bothered to look at one. Indeed, she isn't wearing one, just a dripping strange of diamonds set in platinum that slides over her fine wrist like ice-wrought fire. "Walk with me?"

Jason Malone

Sun 10:40PM CST
~As she states that she must go he momentarily looks puzzled, as if he said something wrong but doesn't know what. When she adds the offer, the puzzlement leaves and he slips to his feet with an animal grace.~ Of course. ~with almost soundless strides, he is by her side~ Is everything alright?

Marie-Hélène

Sun 10:49PM CST
The creature turns as he rises, and for the moment before he draws abreast of her, he has the vision of her slender spine, revealed from the small of her back to the last twinned structure of her last cervical vertebra by the cut of the dress. Another chain of diamonds spills, a straight ghost of the line beneath it. The faint shadow of the platinum chain is a darker shade of pale against her flesh. "No, petit." Her mouth slips wider with that, and her pale brows rise expressively above her dark eyes. "Have I just broken our bargain, and so soon?" Her own footsteps are loud - clattering toe-heel affairs, the delicate shoes she plants with care when she remembers to do so, which she forgets when she wishes to go somewhere, now. "Nothing is wrong. I only returned for these." Lifting her right hand, to display the pulp novels. "I was already late for the next stop this evening, or I would stay and - " Her mouth narrows, her eyes flicker across his profile, and then up and away. Her chin follows suit, a keen but understated arrogance to the gesture. " - discuss packs and such things. Or - " she tosses a glance over her shoulder, keen dark eyes narrowing on the volume he had been reading. " - Dante. Who is your Beatrice" - the Italian pronounciation, scholar that she is. Her eyes are on his profile, again. The shape of his jaw. The shadows beneath it. "Jason Malone?"

Jason Malone

Sun 10:56PM CST
~And it's his turn to suddenly seem a bit off as she asks the Beatrice question... so much so that his step falters, the toe scraping across the floor before he catches himself.~ I am preparing something for you... when it is ready, then I will tell you a tale. I had a Beatrice once, and now she awaits me in hell... with only vengeance on her mind. But... that is a tale for someplace more private where the walls and occasional servants don't have ears. ~His eyes focus straight ahead as they walk, trying to regain his normal calm~ If you would permit me to retain that reflection of my inner self until then, and for that matter, if you care to know or care to participate in a special evening with someone like me... a pilgrim lost on a journey.

Marie-Hélène

Sun 11:08PM CST
His step falters; she is almost two steps ahead before she turns - raptor - and fixes him once more with the dark weight of her gaze. She looks like something caught between points of motion, an unfinished symphony, transitional, like a bird stretching its wings for flight, the moment the wind catches them, before its feet have left the ground. The creature stares with her usual abstract intensity. In the shadows of the hallway, caught betweentimes, never has she looked less human.

"Petit." It is a word that she tosses off without thought, normally, her manner so uncaring as to verge on the contemptuous. Now it is closer to an intimacy, spoken with care and and a proprietary flavor, as if she were hearing the syllables roll from her tongue (again) for the first time. She holds out a hand - her left hand, long arm across her body, for the right hand still bears the two volumes - but the straightforward invitation in the gesture, the almost-human instinct does little to soften the stark, pale lines of her sharp still features. "Retain what you will. I will not intrude. And I would be honored to join you, but you should know something."

Jason Malone

Sun 11:13PM CST
~He returns to her side, his hand clasping hers and giving it a squeeze, gently~ There are things I will not discuss in public is all. ~his black eyes look to her curiously~ What should I know?

Marie-Hélène

Sun 11:19PM CST
Her eyes drop to his hand as he takes her, squeezes the cool fingers gently. She does not return the gesture. Her hand is soft, the fingers long and stained (he can see, or perhaps fell the subtle change in texture) with ink or some similar substance. There is a tracery of rust beneath her short nails, but the green polish of earlier nights has been entirely erased. Her eyes flash up from his hand, to his eyes. She is there, her reflection, misshapen in the swimming darkness, but there.

As always, she is near captivated by herself. If nothing else, her reflection stirs her fingers in his hand. She flashes him a smile, wide and sure. "I am not likely to ever be what you think I am." That said, she releases his hand and allows her arm to slip back to her side. The red dress - which twisted with the movement - slipslides back into place as well. "If the invitation is still open, I accept."

Jason Malone

Sun 11:23PM CST
~He lets out a loud laugh, after she speaks, as if he was expecting something FAR worse than that and has had the weight of the world lifted.~ Dearest Little One... that would mean you believe I have some grand ulterior motive. Answer this... As much as our kind can be trusted friends, do you feel you could be that? If so, then I wouldn't ever be disappointed.

~He gets his usual grin back before continuing~ Besides... part of my appreciation for your company is unravelling exactly who you are... or as close to it as you will allow.

Marie-Hélène

Sun 11:35PM CST
"Will I betray you for some scrap of advantage in the long running nights? Sink my claws into your back in order to improve my standing in the Prince's eyes, or another?" She flashes him another dark-eyed glance, a supple movement of her gaze flickering away (from her reflection, and the fascination of vanity) to focus again on him. Her smile edges wide and strange. "No, never. Not because I will be a great friend, petit, but because I have no care for their games, and never will. Except - " another tender curl of her shoulders, forward, some gallic expressiveness enlivening the movement beyond a mere shrug. " - for the games I want to play, and those are entirely my own."

They are close to the door, and she stops there, her pale fingers wrapped around the handle. She casts a staying glance to the ghoul who comes to open the door for her, as if she were not entirely capable of such complex tasks herself, and turns her full attention back to Jason. The weight of the pale, complex crown of her woven hair collides with the wooden door, her hip brushes against the handle as she turns. The dress ripples, the diamonds sparkling down her back flash with captured, repressed fire. There are eyes and ears everywhere. "When you unravel the threads, let me know." She flashes another brimming smile and carefully depresses the latch. The door opens behind her, spilling her almost stumbling into the cool night. She watches him for another moment, for any reply that he might give, half-supported by the heavy weight of the door, and then regains her footing, turns and walks away.

Jason Malone

Sun 11:41PM CST
~He nods gently as he watches her go, his thoughts hidden in the soulless eyes~ Little one... I give almost anyone the chance to betray me once... after that, they lose the ability, so I do not fear. Play your games, my dear... I'm sure they will be as entertaining and captivating as you.

~He follows her out the door, he himself heading for his jeep, his hands slipping in the front pockets of his jeans.~ There are VERY few things cut in stone about the future. We do not know what will be found in our journey... nor who we will become. When I unravel your tapestry, perhaps even you will be surprised. Be safe, Marie-Helene... I have become accustomed to you. ~He turns and heads off towards his jeep.~

more fun than others

[Missed early posts. Just greetings and such. They're in the library.]

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:01PM CST
Looks from woman to woman, shivers for a second.

{Dude I dont think we should be here.}
[Listen just stay calm I will get us threw this]
{Okay this is your rodeo}
[No problem]


Nathan walks to the walk, as if looking at one of the volumes of books, mumbling to himself under his breath, then popping his neck.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 12:14PM CST
The Toreador stares quite flatly at Nathan as he mumbles underneath his breath, and generally stumbles into the room, betraying an inordinate amount of nervousness. Her generous mouth sets itself into a flat line, and the creature's nostrils flare with an unnecessary but absolutely expressive snort. "Tell me something interesting, Mme Hough."

Cassandra Hough

Sat 12:18PM CST
She looks at Marie and arches a brow, "Interesting in what way? Are you not more inclined towards the artistic and interesting than I? Us Ventrue are very stuffy I've heard." Traces of a smile on her lips

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:20PM CST
Nathan doesnt even know the word Ventrue, but realizes the woman is givig him a hint, his dominate side of him kicks in. He turns oh how rude of me.

"I am of the Clan Malkavian."

He just blurts it out. Then bows like a stage actor.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 12:24PM CST
"Something you consider interesting, madame. I'm not given to stereotyping. Perhaps you have something to say worth the time I'll spend listening to it." Marie-Hélène spares a sliver of a glance for Cassandra, dark eyes stark in her pale face, sharp features nearly unstructured with the lack of conventional definition. Her brows and lashes are the same pale, nearly colorless blonde as the untidy mass of her hair. At Nathan's outburst, she glances sharply up. Her mouth spreads in a spare expression that flashes white teeth beneath painted lips, but cannot really be termed a smile. "Yes, petit. We've already quite figured that part out." The spoiled creature rolls her eyes precipitously, then refocuses on the next nail, peeling off another layer of old paint.

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:26PM CST
Nathan scratches his head and looks from woman to woman again.

"And you evil things are?"

Cassandra Hough

Sat 12:26PM CST
Her tone drops a couple of degrees in temperature, "Oh, I doubt I have anything interesting to say to you, nothing that could be worth your obviously precious time." The polite smile stays on her face and she turns her attention to Nathan, gesturing to him to come closer. "Indeed you are. You seem quite ill at ease, is there a way to remedy that?"

Cassandra Hough

Sat 12:28PM CST
Cassandra seems surprised and amused as he says this, "I am not evil, in fact, I have once upon a time been described as delightful, I cannot speak for Miss Alette. Are you evil?" Her amused eyes bore into Nathan.

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:29PM CST
Nathan raises an eyebrow, this woman looked to antique to mess with, the sparks between the two woman scared him, so he sought a seat where he could watch them both.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 12:33PM CST
"You see?" Her blunt thumbnail at last undercuts the ragged patch of paint on her index finger. The flake pops off the nail, and the creature turns her complete, undivided attention to the next nail. "That was extraordinarily interesting, Mme." The spare almost-smile has fallen from her mouth, and the creature is nearly expressionless once more. She taps a glance from Cassandra to Nathan and back again, at his question and her answer. "I eschew conventional definitions of good and evil. They're tiresome, and I'm afraid rather restricting. However, unlike Madame Hough, I confess that I have never been considered delightful."

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:43PM CST
"I myself am a Humanitarian."

Cassandra Hough

Sat 12:44PM CST
"So, now that we have that settled, what troubles you, young man?"

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:47PM CST
"I came here after being called by Mr. Stevenson. But I come here often of late. "

Cassandra Hough

Sat 12:50PM CST
"Well, it is a shame then that he is not available at the moment. Please do sit. You are making me nervous." She smiles in an amiable fashion.

Nathan Hale

Sat 12:52PM CST
He sits in one of the leather bound chair crossing his legs, placing his hands on his laps.

"So you know lot about me and I know nothing really about either of you ladies. What is a Ventrue?"

Marie-Hélène

Sat 12:56PM CST
Marie-Hélène has finished with her fingers. Only the index finger has been freed of its unfortunate affliction (and, for that matter, affectation) of green paint, and so it remains. In lieu of further grooming activities, she instead curls her right leg beneath her body and half-rises, swinging a long arm over the chair's arm, reaching to the floor for her small black bag. From the black leather bag: a spiral-bound book, whose metal binding digs into the flesh of her left hand as she cups it carefully and slides a pen from inside the metal rings. The pen is cheap, a Bic stolen from a Motel 6 in Lima, Ohio, the plastic heavily marked with the dull incisions of human teeth. She rests the pen in her mouth - between her teeth - as if it were a cigarette, and watches the pair of them with an animal's extraordinary intensity. Perhaps she is simply given to dramatics.

Cassandra Hough

Sat 12:59PM CST
"Nothing too important." She smiles calmly. Do you have one that you would call a parent or sire? Someone who made you?

Nathan Hale

Sat 01:07PM CST
((no worries))

"I actually do not know. I have been mentored by Teagan but only on our clan. Not yours. I am interested."

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:13PM CST
"And has she schooled you, yet - " Her pen is still perched between her teeth. She speaks around it, and the obstruction highlights both her faint accent and the clear, pedantic precision of her pronunciation. "In the importance of throwing dramatic fits at inopportune times? I find that to be an important and underestimated skill." The creature offers another - oh, it is not a smile - baring of white teeth, and unfolds her body, snapping the journal closed and stetching her arms luxuriously above her head. She holds the pose for a long moment before collapsing almost bonelessly in upon herself. Her shoulders coil in a bare, indifferent shrug. "If not, you should ask her to begin such instruction, petit. It would not do for your to fall behind in your lessons."

Cassandra Hough

Sat 01:14PM CST
She smiles, "Teagan is a lovely girl. Ventrues are the traditional leaders of our organization. Miss Allete's clan has a flair for the dramatic, and," she pauses and a hint of a smirk, "it would appear that perhaps your mentor does as well."

Nathan Hale

Sat 01:17PM CST
Nathan scratches his head listening to them both, watching Marie pull of the catty stretch pose. He raises an eyebrow.

"Yes.. right. Well it is all very new to me you see so. I guess I will be learning about outbursts and drama and what not."

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:25PM CST
The pen shifts position; Marie-Helene rolls it between her teeth like a cigar. The already buckled plastic cracks further, a faint, almost wet sound shirring as the barrell collapses and distends beneath the pressure of her teeth. "You shouldn't listen to madame," the creature mutters, almost sullenly, after a moment. She removes the pen and considers the now oval barrell, studying the pattern of breakage in the cheap plastic, the manner in which the gold ink marking the address and phone number of the hotel has been chipped away over time. Her eyes - which are dark and blue, some twilight color, shaded by pale lashes - half-lid as she considers the patterns and - perhaps - becomes lost in such considerations. Rousing herself, she flickers a glance at Cassandra and then back to Nathan. "I quite despise dramatics, and would not ever engage in anything like them. Whatever you learn about the clans will be wrong when it comes to any single individual. You'll be easily misled if you incorporate the stereotypes into your worldview. And you should probably not seek instruction around creatures such as me. I will delight in leading you astray."

Cassandra Hough

Sat 01:28PM CST
Cassandra chuckles softly as she watches Marie speak.

Nathan Hale

Sat 01:32PM CST
Nathan takes this into account. Feeling the leather arms of the chair. Taking in what was said. His cherubic face forms into a cheshire grin.

"What are the ugly ones called again?"

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:33PM CST
Expressionlessly: "Toreador."


Nathan Hale

Sat 01:35PM CST
"Oh okay Toreador are the ugly ones."

Nathan makes a mental note of it.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:41PM CST
"The pretty ones are Brujah. The Gangrel are crazed, skulking monsters." Off-handedly, the creature curls her shoulders in negligent expression and twirls the broken pen between her fingers. Glimpses of the journal reveal only script, no sketches, nothing of the sort. Pages and pages of dense, heavy handed script running together as if actual words had been melted, unformed and refused in a broken amalgam. "Shouldn't you get to work on the hysterics?" Her pale brows rise, the both of them, widening her dark eyes and lending a quizzical expression to her sharp features. "I recommend beginning with a traditional tantrum before you branch out into the more difficult variations."

Nathan Hale

Sat 01:44PM CST
"Tantrum..huh?"

Nathan sits confused.


"You mean like a child? Nah I'm cool."

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:49PM CST
"Suit yourself, petit." The Toreador twirls the pen about, and slides it back into her mouth, broken barrel and all. She finds the apex of failure with her right canine tooth - still dull and human - and her jaw sinks closed. The cracks widen, splinter, the sound is some small, lesser cousin of the sound an ice floe makes as it begins to break apart.

Nathan Hale

Sat 01:53PM CST
"I have been learning lots of history about the great wars and some of the clans, but I mean this is now-a-days what do vampires do?"

Nathan stratches the back of this neck and pops it.

Cassandra Hough

Sat 01:55PM CST
"We seem to sit around old libraries while we toy with others." She smirks.

Nathan Hale

Sat 01:56PM CST
Nathan laughs out loud.
"We need special hand shakes."

Marie-Hélène

Sat 01:58PM CST
"We produce drag shows, generally. Occasionally, the Camarilla branches out and backs some up and coming young musical, but often as not, the whole overstructured apparatus makes everything grind to a complete halt, the promising young musical becomes little more than a series of boring vignettes, nothing more than pastiche, and no one is interested. The bureaucracy backs up, takes stock, pulls out, and returns to the drag show business. My - " crack. The barrel splits deeply, now, no longer oval but flat, with three sharp spikes of plastic at the stressed corner. " - personal job is to fluff the - oh, Madame Hough - what does one call it? The glittering little bits of foil through which the performers march onto stage."

Marie-Hélène removes the pen from her mouth, and tips the broken thing in the Ventrue's direction. "Or, yes. There is that, too."

Nathan Hale

Sat 02:00PM CST
Nathan shakes his head lost.

Cassandra Hough

Sat 02:01PM CST
"Some of us have a lot more fun than others though, obviously," she chuckles.

Marie-Hélène

Sat 02:07PM CST
"Yes, if they try to toss off the fluffing glitter job on you, petit, you should refuse categorically. There's nothing to recommend it, and it's terribly hard on the knees. Moreover, have you any idea how hard it is to get glitter out of your mouth and eyes after a show? The schedule is punishing." The Toreador tosses her broken pen onto the table beside her, abandoning it there. She takes up her journal and rises with a precipitous almost-grace, some confident undertone clear in the movement. Her hair swings heavily on the back of her head, a creditable mass of pale colour, barely kept in place by the most make-shift of fastenings. "And I have more glitter to fluff. Madame." She tosses a glance and a faint nod toward Cassandra. "Monsieur." And a similar nod toward Nathan, then bends, scooping her bag from the floor and striding toward the door.

Boundaries

Jason Malone

Thu 07:21PM CST
~Much like the night before, the evening started at the Park and then continued, after changing, over to the club. He arrived, dressed more civilized than usual with gray pleated slacks and a black silk banded collar shirt. His eyes, as always, hidden behind sunglasses... this night, they are black instead of the usual mirrored. Black python-skinned cowboy boots clicked along the floor as he walked. Once inside, he stepped to the side and let his eyes adjust as he surveyed those in attendance.~

Jason Malone

Thu 07:29PM CST
~Slowly he began moving through the crowd, brushing against people ever-so-lightly, but enough to feel them, to smell them and to feed off their life and energy. Despite being gangrel, he loved the pure animal nature that people practically oozed at places like this. It was often the best hunting grounds and a true gift to those like him. His movements merged with the underlying beat in the music as he stalked through the field of prey, his every move, every step one of predatory grace.~

Marie-Hélène

Thu 07:32PM CST
She is seated at the bar; but seated is not the proper word for the negligent manner in which she inhabits her barstool or casts her pale elbows casually back, both resting against the bar. She must certainly own finer things than she usually deigns to wear - isn't it the price of admission to her particular club? - but tonight as usual, she is downwardly mobile. Oversized cargo pants, an ugly olive color with coarse fabric hang suspiciously from her narrow hips. The pants are ridiculously oversized, in a way that cannot even be supported on her willowy frame, and come close to swallowing her entirely. Oversized, fraying pockets on either thigh, the hint of jackboots at the feet - just a gleam of dull polish, perhaps, at the toes, nearly swallowed by the frayed bottom hem. Atop this, she wears an ordinary black cotton jersey, a wifebeater that fits to the lines of her narrow torso in such a way as to emphasize only her thinness, the near straight, narrow line of her body, the length of her long arms, which can seem either elegant or merely storklike.

Despite the unlikely get-up, someone is chatting her up. At the least, he is attempting to do so, leaning across the bar with a bottle of beer in his hand, apparently speaking in a low voice. Now and again, the pale creature shoots the man next to her a sharp and narrow glance that bleeds into the merely bemused. She makes not one word of reply, and insteads studies the crowd, its riot of movement near organic, a larger organism that throbs like a great fat heart riddled with worms.

There is a shark among the sheep. After some time, her dark gaze fixes on him to the exclusion of all else.

Jason Malone

Thu 07:39PM CST
~Moving up behind one mortal woman or another as he crosses the floor, he moves up behind her, moving still with the music. Under his sunglasses his eyes close as he forces breath into his lungs through his nose, his keen senses taking in the scent of the woman... down to the alcohol in her blood which peeks out in the perspiration as she dances. His lips curl upward, his hands tracing her form without ever touching her before he lets out a low growl, swallowed by the din of the place and moves away from this particular sheep.~

His eyes constantly scan the area and eventually feel the weight of Marie-Helene's gaze, his shielded gaze going to her as he moves up behind another potential meal, mimicking his previous actions.~

Marie-Hélène

Thu 07:48PM CST
The Toreador watches him steadily, but makes no move to rise. She simply reclines there against the bar. There is a highball glass beside her right elbow half-full with amberish liquid, sweating slowly, leaching a deep, ragged wet stain into the napkin surrounding the glass.

He moves from woman to woman on the dance floor - predator, in time to the beat of the music - and she shifts position minutely to follow his path. Her sharp features are half framed by the loose halo of her pale hair, which catches the wild, shifting colors spilling over the crowd and reflects them back, reds and blues, yellows and oranges, the colors of the spectrum. Her mouth is the only other colorful thing about her, the generous width painted a deep red, but the color is mostly lost, for her lips are pressed together in a strange, flat smile that just tilts upward at the corners, a bare impression.

Jason Malone

Thu 07:56PM CST
~As he leaves the next potential victim, he again snakes through the crowd, stopping behind one mortal or another, then looking to Marie-Helene the way one would asking whether their friend would prefer this shirt or that, or more appropriately, this steak or that one.~

~It's always amused him, moving among them. He prefered smaller clubs, less frequented by his own kind, where he could feed almost openly without concern as to whether his peers saw the momentary flash of fang. Fangs, oh how his ached at the moment, so wanting to sink in and feast... but he must refrain... at least for the moment. Again, his dead lungs took in the scents of those nearest him, reveling in their life energies.~

Marie-Hélène

Thu 08:07PM CST
Marie-Hélène remains almost utterly still. The man with the beer beside her has long since given up his attempted banner, and the empty space beside her is soon filled as the crowd of drinkers senses an open place at the bar. The small crowd grows - 2 or 3 deep - people squeezing in for a drink, then fighting their way back through the narrow knot about them. She seems utterly unaffected by the scene: by the nearness of the humans, by the heat, by the tangle of smoke spilling up to the ceiling, by any of the women he has offered.

...smoke, she moves at last. Leans forward enough to tip her right arm behind her and retrieve a fat, ugly cigar that has been smoldering in an ashtray six inches to her right. She puffs slowly on the cigar, with a near-meditative focus, a precise care given over to the casual action, still watching. At last, she opens her mouth, a cloud of smoke roils out from between her red lips and she nods, surely. Mouths the words that one before returning to the cigar. That one is no one special or spectacular, but she is close to toppled from some combination of alcohol and exhaustion. Her eyes are nearly crossed, her dancing is wild and jerky, without rhythm, closer to series of involuntary muscle spasms than a dance.

Jason Malone

Thu 08:19PM CST
~He grins a bit as she indicates the one that's completely sloshed. No challenge tonight... that's for sure, but he slips around in front of her, amid her and her friends and leans in talking to her as she dances and he maintains his same predatory dance. He leans in even further after she responds to him and kisses her neck gently before starting to back away, making sure the woman hears his last words. She nods and he spins around, making his way over towards Marie-Helene.~

~As he approaches her, he ceases his baser instinct of taking in others' scents, realizing the cigar would drown out most things. He smiles, much like he did with the women on the dancefloor, as if she too is prey. Inserting himself between Marie-Helene and the small crowd, he places both hands on the bar, trapping her in place before he leans close, his chin at her shoulder as he forces another breath in, this one running from the base of her neck up into her hair. When he finishes, he pulls back to look at her once more~ "That one was too easy tonight... but I've made arrangements to ensure she's more of a challenge when the time is right."

~His lips curl into an almost sadistic, or perhaps just devlish smile~ "I'm glad you could make it. I trust, as always, you're night is perfect"

Marie-Hélène

Thu 08:36PM CST
She is half-perched, half-slouched across the stool at the bar, her feet planted forward from the lean length of her body, her shoulders thrust back, hovering a few inches above and in front of the bar. He does not simply trap her against the bar: he must lean across and above the lean, coiled length of her long body to place his chin above her shoulder, to breath a breath across the pale sweep of her bare neck. She lifts her smoldering cigar out of his way as he steps near, holding it back, away from her body and his, over the bar. Her eyes move as he sweeps in, tracking his hidden eyes until he is too close. Then, she tracks the hollow at the jointure of neck and jaw, watching the movement of sinew, bone and muscle as he speaks.

He can feel the faint curve of her cheek deepening. It is not a touch, so much as a sensation of air displaced close to his skin. Before he draws back, to look at her, she tips her head to the side and brushes her cool mouth across his cheek. One-half of a continental greeting.

"Always, petit." His glasses are not mirrored, but the dark lenses are still subtly reflective. She is there - a pale smear of near colorless blond hair and porcelain skin, an impression of light without detail. Her dark blue eyes shift over this reflection, but no clear expression surfaces on her generous mouth. Moments pass like this. She makes a show of breathing, and the movement feels charged. She exhales, and stares at him with the same curious opacity. At last, her body compacts through the torso and she leans forward, brushing her cheek against his mouth, her mouth against his opposite cheek. The second half of a continental greeting, into which she murmurs, "Perhaps I do not like challenges."

Jason Malone

Thu 08:44PM CST
~As she gifts him with the continental greeting, she can more feel than hear the low growling rumble... perhaps less a growl than a purr. In either case, the sound is not one of annoyance or anger, perhaps one of contentment. No question there are a finite number of people that could get that close to him without feeling his fangs, angrilly. In a slightly animalistic fashion, the tip of his tongue grazes against her cheek as she completes the greeting... perhaps his own version of the continental greeting...perhaps just curiosity.~

"Not liking challenges? We will have to work on that then... We'll have to broaden your horizons. Besides, what fun is victory when the battle is assured?"

Marie-Hélène

Thu 08:52PM CST
Her skin tastes sharp: not with the tang of human sweat, but with the sharp ashen promise of good tobacco. The scent suffuses her skin, mingles with the cheap noxiousness of the grainy pink soap common to convenience store bathrooms. Beneath these paired scents, other residue: chemical and organic, vinegar and rot so faint no human and few predators could sense them. "My horizons are more broad than you might know, cher. I don't even recognize the existance of horizons. That there is some limit to the world is rather - " as she leans back, she returns the cigar to the ashtray on the bar. Her long right arm - the bare skin awash in runnels of multicolored light - lilts downward to settle atop his own, where it cages her in. Her fingers spread wide over his forearm, the nails short and brittle, remnants of old green polish lingering just above the pale half-moons of the nailbed. " - limiting." One corner of her mouth quirks wider. "But tell me, how will you expand them if I admit to their existence?"

Jason Malone

Thu 09:07PM CST
~His eyes, from the safety of the sunglasses watch her every move, every detail of her being at this range. 'This one has potential' he thinks to himself... but in the back of his mind, the warning... she is Toreador... like all Toreador, she can't be trusted. That small voice is followed by the mocking laughter at the thought of a Toreador ever being a threat to him... as long as he remained alert~

"You are ever the enigma... aren't you, little one?" ~He grins before reaching over and taking her cigar and bringing it to his lips, taking a puff off of it, letting the smoke move off to the side before replacing the cigar in the ashtray~ "You don't like challenges... or rather may not like challenges, and recognize no boundaries... well, we shall test both of these things then in the near future. There are certainly limits though, self imposed as they may be. We are not free to do as we choose, even in this life. Rules... traditions of society guard against that... for better or worse."

Marie-Hélène

Thu 09:22PM CST
Something in her gaze sharpens. Pale lashes flatten, and her dark eyes narrow as she lifts her chin in a kind of studied defiance, provoked by the diminutive that she bestows so freely upon all others. She stares hard at him, her features sharp in the 3/4 profile, her hand light upon his arm, her mouth twisted into a mild, contemplative frown. "I'm not an enigma," she replies at last. Her nostrils flare against the scent of the tobacco as the cigar drifts in front of her. "I understand myself quite perfectly. With the whole picture, it all makes sense. Or something like it. Language is a thin vessel in which to embed understanding, however. It shatters."

She offers a momentary shrug, the black cotton against her pale skin, the knotwork of muscle, the sharp emptiness beneath the flat curve of her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her through. And smiles again. "Or perhaps I shatter it. Do you chafe against the boundaries of society?"

Jason Malone

Thu 09:33PM CST
~Aha...something finally seems to have gotten to her. He takes a mental note, hiding it in the predatory grin. He stands up, freeing her to move about, but slowly slides his arm along under her hand, reminding one of how a dog will pet itself under someone's hand~ "Enigma is not an insult, little one... it's a term of respect. It's never good to be THAT open of a book."

~His hand reaches out and brushes against her cheek for a moment as if swiping an errant piece of hair from her cheek.~ "and yes... I chafe against the boundaries of society. I'm certain you'll learn that about me soon. But for now... I must go and get a bite to eat... and that is something I do in solitude... at least for now. All of this play has made me exceedingly hungry." ~Was it the play on the dancefloor with the mortals or the wordplay with her?~

"I will see you soon little one... for something a bit more liberating... if you're up for it. I truly enjoy testing boundaries... It'll be an interesting challenge to find yours."

~From behind the dark glasses, black eyes glimmer with mischief.~

Marie-Hélène

Thu 09:48PM CST
Marie-Hélène's features remain nearly still. Her dark eyes flash down to his arm and her hand as he releases her; she watches her fingers slide over his arm with an expression so abstracted it appears quizzical. The pale wedges of her fine fingers, the black silk beneath them, the shape of his arm defined by the shape of her hand, the shape of the sleeve, the sheen of light pooling on the fabric. So easily is her attention captured. Rapt, she stares at the absent space where his arm was for several moments after it is gone. Her fingers flex and stretch to the limits of their motion. She does not look up until he brushes his hand across her cheek - a stray lock of her haphazardly arrayed hair, or merely a stray touch. Her eyes narrow minutely, but her mouth twists in supple, ambivalent response.

"I wonder what you will find, petit." She flickers a glance back to his eyes; or at least, to her reflection in the dark glasses. Expressionless again, she simply tips her pale head as he steps further away, begins to melt into the crowd. There is a sudden, sharp, inhuman smile before she loses sight of him. "Enjoy your meal."

correspondences. - by return of post

[By return of post: a cardboard box of moderate size. The address was printed by a computer on a sticky label, some mail-packaging facility. Inside, an inordinate amount of popcorn, styrofoam peanuts, and bubblewrap surround a smaller package. The second box is acid-free, museum-archival quality. Within this box, a letter on fine linen paper, so very rich that would could, perhaps, weave clothing from it, did one have the drive and skill. The ink, however, is watery and cheap - a ball point pen, of all things, and not a fine one. Her handwriting begins in a neat, contemplative fashion. She was paying close attention to the nib of the pen against the paper, the shapes that she constructed as she wrote, the nap of the paper beneath her pen. As the letter continues, however, the script grows hurried, slanting, reckless as usual.

The packing material inside the second box is also archival quality, and it surrounds, eventually, a much-corroded but still intact leather-bound journal, the account of one Silas Krieger covering perhaps ten years from 1813 to 1823 in the Old Northwest Territory (Ohio, or Michigan. Closer inspection might reveal which.). Krieger was a farmer, and the journal is largely an account of his holdings, his plantings, the life of his farm and county. In the middle is an extended dissertation on the state of the world shortly after the war of 1812, with discussions of US-Canada relations, US-Europe relations, the state of the European states, European history, political economy, and so on. It is quite out of keeping with the rest of the terse accounts, passionate and insightful - an intelligent man's creation - but it is - frankly - nothing new. There are no great revelations about the state of the world, and the thinking is - though sweeping - often cliched, if intelligently so. The account that caught her attention has some interest, but the real historical value of the journal lies in the daily accounts the Toreador has scorned. A genuine scholar of the age could reconstruct the political and agricultural history of the community and learn much about life on one of the early American frontiers, the state of relations with the natives, could - perhaps - fill in the blanks about several now-extinct tribes, and so on.]

From the forum post:

Ignoring rather than placating the wanton, violent black thing that lives inside her cool, pale shell, she closes the journal and takes up the least of weapons: a pen. The paper below is thick and rich, almost creamy, appropriate for correspondence, but the pen is cheap, plastic, breakable. He writes with old-fashioned ink. She writes with whatever is handy at the moment, caring for the appearance of the thing only when she wishes to trouble herself to do so. She is momentarily stymied by the blankness before her, not simply by the possibilites, but also by the challenge it presents. Her head tips to the side, and the long, wretched tangle of her golden hair spills over her left shoulder. Irritated, by the bulk she brushes it away and returns to the blank page before her, wonders, idly, whether any other will read her own insignificant words long after she is dead, words written in the shell of dead building, on the banks of a dead river, beneath the facsimile of a dead night's sky.

Under such circumstances, it is so easy to begin. She smiles a generous, treacherous, predator's smile, and writes:

Dear Sir,

"The struggle between good sense and power, has continued with daily increasing violence, since the invention of printing. How this contest is to terminate, it is now difficult to predict; but such is the powerful aid given to reason by the press, that the best result may be hoped."

You will find this passage in the enclosed volume, surrounded by accounts of the peculiar diseases to which cattle were apparently subjected 200 years ago. We share the same interest in cattle, and so I believed that you would quite enjoy the enclosed volume. You will excuse me if I am not the best of correspondents, but I have roused my shadow with indelicate thoughts and have not yet appeased it. I will not appease it, of course, not when it bawls so. Hunger is one thing; savagery another. I am not opposed to savagery within reason, but will not favor it without cause. I do not know if I sound precious when I write that. I suspect that I do, but you - I think - know me well enough by now to know that I am not a sentimental creature and do not cry and bemoan my current state and appetites. But cruelty, sadism, delight in mere destruction, power - yes? over others, not the self - is merely another form of decadence, another braided thread of self-delusion. I think it would be the beginning of the end, to succumb -

- oh, but you know this. As ever. What am I? Some recording forever pitched into an endless loop, the same ethical considerations, the same temptation to stray, the same restraint. I construct myself in our correspondence so that I may remember. The fight is eternal, the battle one of attrition. It is easy to lose, I think, but I will be wholly Greek. Balance is all in such things.

And so, my farmer. Our farmer, now, I suppose. I do not believe that there is anything unique in this account - although, I am no expert in the area, my knowledge confined to a quite narrow peninsula in the whole continent of human knowledge, and perhaps you will find more of interest in the dry accounts of surveys and haying - but I was quite taken with the passion of his analysis of the political imperatives of the day, not simply those of his home or county, but of the world. I have always considered such consciousness of the world, or one's place in it as an active participant, a thing peculiar to the aristocracy (political, moral, intellectual) at least through the mid-nineteenth century. To find such insight, such passionate force in the writings of a nameless man from the middle of nowhere, with no influence and little stake, well, I do not know whether this is a lovely thing or a tragedy, but I have breathed this man's passion for four nights now, and suspect you will find at least some diversion in the contents of the volume. Never apologize to me for your scholarly discourses. Lecture me at length: I am an apt and rapt pupil, you see.

I welcome the gossip; of course, they tear themselves apart. They have nothing else to do. Here, I am afraid, that there is nothing so cohesive that it may be torn apart. The elders have the collective brain power of - oh, a muddle-headed cow - and the younger crowd contains so many pallid specimens that I despair of finding any worthwhile companionship in social circles. Perhaps I will be driven away out of sheer boredom, rather than simply "sauntering vaguely downward" as is my wont. I do like sauntering, however. I think it suits my figure.

Oh, I have found a few who are not entirely, irredeemably boring, but I do worry that, within a century or so, the standards will have fallen so far that the vaunted institution of which I am a member and from which you are - how shall I put it delicately, petit? - voluntarily exiled will fall not from the treacherous weight of all the irrelevant scheming, but from the sheer, mind-numbing stupidity of its members. What is it that happens to cows in London these days? With the sponges in the brain? One wonders if such a disease affects all portions of the food chain equally, both downward and again upward. I apologize for my extended (and trite) contemplation of my society. I know you cannot find such petty complaints amusing, who have broken all ties, and perhaps you find my continued adherance almost perverse. I suspect it is. As to how they find me, I believe one or two are quite taken with me, others are easily offended, but a few pale words soothe their tempers, and the rest - oh, the rest put me in a narrow box that best approximates what they think I should be, and then simply ignore it when I walk outside the box. Much as - I think? - they did you, before you broke ties and confounded your brethern.

You know - or do you? - that I quite share your opinion of humans, individually and en masse. I find their innovation and constant - how to express it - drive. Drive! utterly compelling. New York is a thing of such beauty, but so too is Cleveland or Pittsburgh, Paris or Tokyo. I hope, I think, to find myself in Tokyo someday, to immerse myself in strangeness, although I will have to expand my knowledge of languages, as I'm afraid none of the languages at my disposal would see me through Tokyo. I could go on, and will - no doubt - someday soon, but tonight I feel dawn gathering at the edges of the world. I must send this off to you, and seek my refuge.

yours,

ellie mae (now that I am decidedly midwestern)

P.S. - I note that you did not respond to my offer of play-by-mail Monopoly. I assume silence means assent, and therefore offer you an update. You are now the limousine - you see how I esteem you? - and you have ended up in jail. In the meantime, I have gathered the railroads to my tender breast, and am eyeing the utilities with a certain calculting lust.

P.P.S. - You cannot know how much receipt of your letter enlivened my night. The thought of you always brings a smile to my lips.

P.P.P.S. - My love to Lady Delinore, although I am not sure that she will return the sentiment. Has she forgiven me the incident with the - well - she will know the incident, if you do not.

P.P.P.P.S. - I have raided the alphabet for my ps tonight. I find my funds growing short - perhaps another few months before I am destitute, and so I am brokering a deal with the usual suspects. If you are interested in joining me, do tell. As usual, it will be a one-time deal.


[Additions: I have no idea what incident she's referring to. Heh. Make it up, or pretend he's never heard about it, or is too much a gentleman to mention it. As for the "deal," M-H funds her unlife by maintaining certain connections first cultivated during her student days. She brokers "conflict diamonds" for certain Sierra Leonian (and other) rebels - brutal, stupid men all. There is nothing noble in this - through diamond cutters in Amsterdam willing to inscribe these contraband diamonds with the serial numbers that all non-conflict diamonds have to have in order to be sold in the US and Europe, and then brokers the diamonds at the diamond exchange in NYC, or directly in some cases. Boring business, but necessary. This also explains her rather extensive collection of diamond bracelets, chains, etc. I'm assuming she's invited him to participate in the past? Maybe to invest money, only, maybe to broker some? I don't know. So. Yeah. ;) Whatever works, and if it doesn't, ignore the last PPPPS. :grins:]