Marie-Hélène Alette
Fri 11:09PM CST
Sometimes it is easier to escape notice when you are a thing apart. There is the crowd, young and wild and utterly banal. Someone is drinking shots from the glossy skin of a bombed out co-ed; or, rather, a series of someones, a moving circle of glassy-eyed young men (and women) half-dancing, half-drinking, half-chanting, the crowd-become-organism alive, vacant, thoughtless, always moving. Marie-Hélène steps delicately around one of the crowd's foremen - a squat young man, with broad shoulders and the clear beginnings of what may become a steel-belted radial version of the middle-aged tire, who holds two plastic tumblers of suspicious-looking eel-green liquid, and a hypodermic "shot" between his teeth.
In her own hand - the long fingers delicately jointed as a spider's spindly legs, the nails blunt and raw, unpainted except for the lingering remnants of some old job, the malignant colour fading to an unappealing brown - a finely blown martini glass spearing rainbows of color from the pulse of lights on the dance floor, red liquid sloshing up the sides as she moves, as she lifts the drink half an arm's length above her head to protect it from the crowd, a crescent of lemon pith floating in the dead center.
The crowd barely registers her presence: they are looking for others of their own kind, and she - pale, strangely reserved, apart, is sufficiently other that they ignore her and she shifts with the tides, sliding through them like oil through water.
When she reaches a still pool on the other side of the dance floor, she lowers the drink to shoulder level, leans over it, breaths over the tension-laced surface, sees the pale, strange reflection of her own sharp features distorted in the liquid and smiles. Her eyes flicker over the rim of her glass toward the large booths lost in patterned shadows and tick with brief recognition. The rim of the glass hides the sharp little smile as she approaches; only the curve of her lower lip is visible, and that only through the liquid distortion of the drink. "Jason." A moment, her gaze rising behind him to Sonatine. "M'sieur Vidale." Still cool as you please, to Brigitte, a flickering study of her features, bathed in the chromatic light. "Mme."
Jason Malone
Fri 11:14PM CST
~he smiles, looking down at the young torrie. False bravado is always amusing. At hearing his name, his head turns, his mouth opening slightly in surprise then curling into a smile~ Holy fucking shit... the dead have arisen. Nice of you to call me back... we were getting worried. Guess you got wrapped up in some project.
~his head shifts his gaze to Brigitte then back~ Good timing though... you should meet one of your own. Marie-Helene... this is Brigitte DeMourney, a relative of yours who is fairly new in town. ~looking to Brig~ This is Marie-Helene, she's the one that speaks for your family when Alinor's lips aren't moving.
Brigitte DeMourney
Fri 11:19PM CST
*She grins up at Jason and is just about to speak when Marie-Helene makes her appearance. Brigitte turns her eyes toward her and studies her as she makes her greetings to Jason and Sonatine and then to her.* "Bonjour Mme, a pleasure." *Brigitte looked young, almost too young to be in the bar, but what difference did that make when you had the resources to have identification made to state you were 21. Her soulful moss green eyes linger on Marie's face then, curious and wondering. Another of her clan. Good someone besides Alinore and the Prince to talk to perhaps.* "It is a pleasure to meet you."
Sonatine Vidale
Fri 11:21PM CST
Thoughts of extinguishing the burning cigar in his hand passed his morbid mind for only a second. As his eyes fell to it's glowing embers, he'd think twice of the realistic qualities it imposed. Sonatine had enough strength to actually light his own cigars, despite the dwindling fear in the back of his mind that the fire might actually come alive and eat him; but that courage wasn't enough to actually go through with self-mutilation in that sort.
With Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais' introduction to the small gathering, his eyes would rise as though questioning it's truth. Ashe Kincade told him about her before the detective left the city, but it was nothing Sonatine hadn't already realized for himself in dealing with the playgirl. An almost timid smile met his lips as he looked up at the Toreador. It was a bemused look that soon passed when he flicked the remaining ashes into the awaiting tray.
He said nothing in responce, figuring that Brigitte and Jason would assume the role of greeting her formerly. Whatever the reason was for the social black sheep of the Camarilla to lessen her presence in the city was her business. He had other things to worry about right now.
Marie-Hélène Alette
Fri 11:31PM CST
The creature's gaze rests fully on Jason's face for a full moment longer than necessary. Were they still alive, they might measure the glance in heartbeats, or the hollow moments between them. As it is, there is only the low, insistent pulse of some mindless dance remix that resonates through the martini glass in her hands to time it. "Returning your call was on my evening's agenda." A quick, sharp smile. "Forgive me, petit, but I only just received the message, on my return to town. Reception is so bad sometimes." She offers a vague wave of her left hand, sloshing the crimson drink over the wide mouth of the glass. Droplets cling to the rim, drip-drop down over her curved hand as her eyes shift back to Brigitte. Pale lashes flicker, brightly brushing the sharp curve of her cheek, and her wide mouth thins briefly, then curls about the edges, like paperwings catching flame.
"The pleasure's mine, of course." Her voice is clear enough, in all the noise, her accent almost swallowed by the echoing din. She flickers a mild glance (her lips press briefly together, swallowing the suggestions of further expression) at the silent Brujah, and then she leans half-forward, resting her left hip on the edge of the table, splaying her empty hand wide open on the wood surface. "This seems a lively party - " The song changes, abrutly blasting louder than the previous one. If she says anything else, it is lost in the noise.
Sonatine Vidale
Fri 11:38PM CST
The cigar finally burned out as he stamped it in the bottom of the tray. With eyes rising along pale and slender curves of a women's body, he'd meet Marie-Helene's gaze and snicker a bit. "It just started with your arrival, what can we say?" Settling back in the boothe, it would seem that he was trying to be funny. That, of coarse, wasn't really his specialty, so most wouldn't understand the words comuing from him as anything but a sarcastic remark toward a wittier opponent.
Jason Malone
Fri 11:38PM CST
~With a grin he shakes his head in amusement~ I'm sure returning the call was on the top of your list, Little One. It's good to see you again, none the less, especially with what's been going on around here of late... but that's a story for a different camp fire and night. For now, I've got some baddies to go look in on and some food to get... I'm feeling like.... italian. So, Marie ~said purposefully~ I hope to talk to you soon, ~he looks to Sonatine~ I'll let you know what else I come across. If you need anything... just call. ~he offers a nod before moving on to Brigitte~ Be careful, I don't want to have to deal with you know who if you don't make it home safely.
~he starts to walk off~
Brigitte DeMourney
Fri 11:41PM CST
*looking between Sonatine and Marie her courage fails her. she doesn't want to be left alone with them. not yet. she's not quite as ready for being on her own as she thought.* *she rises* "Jason wait ... I'll catch a ride with you." *she smiles to Sonatine and Marie* "Good night. Pleasure to have met you." *and she moves off with Jason*
Marie-Hélène Alette
Fri 11:49PM CST
"Of course - " the pale creature steps out of the direct path toward the door and watches as the pair of kindred disappear into the crowd. The faintest crease appears between her brows as she studies the space where they were, now filled once more. Nature abhors a vaccuum. Others might ask permission to join a crimelord in his particular booth, but the Toreador lacks either the insight or foresight to offer Sonatine even that basic courtesy. Abruptly, she turns and levers herself up to sit on the table, pausing only long enough to put her drink down between herself and the Brujah. More of the cosmopolitan sloshes out with her rough handling, and she flicks the droplets of the drink from her long fingers with an irritable fastidious, then gives it up and wipes her fingers, instead, on the worn thighs of her cargo pants.
"Do you have another of those?" Dropping her chin, she nods toward Sonatine's extinguished cigar, her absent expression dovetailing into a private, perhaps imperious half-smile.
Sonatine Vidale
Fri 11:56PM CST
"No.." He said. It was a lie of coarse, but why would he give her his last one? The only thought that made any sense to that question was maybe watching her burn herself in the act of lighting it. But then again, why would she ask him if she wasn't capable of lighting her own? Regardless, he wasn't inclined to do so..
Sitting in the most uncouthe of positions, Sonatine would look the socialite over some more and then glance down to her drink. Of coarse it was for show, but he still wondered what might be in the drink. Looking back at her casually, the brute would soon speak up again. "Ashe spoke very highly of you, before he left.." He mentioned, watching he reaction.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 12:22AM CST
The Toreador manages a moue of distaste, something sullen - spoiled, perhaps, or indulged - underlying the brief expression. She did not merely want a decent cigar, she coveted one, if only when the scent lingered in the air. Her eyes half-lid, nostrils flaring as she takes a breath necessary only to steal the heavy scent of charred tobacco from the air, and leans back, arching her body at the hip to slide her hand into her right front pocket. From within, she produces her usual crumpled pack of cheap, rank cigarellos and a flameless lighter decorated with - of all things - a weeping clown.
She glances down, sorting through the wreckage of the package in search of a half-decent smoke, and pale golden ropes of her fine hair slide over her shoulder, across her cheek. Her fingers still at Sonatine's comment, and she glances up - indeed, stares quite briefly but directly into his face, her own features strikingly neutral, her bare shoulders curving upward, emphasizing the hollows of her collarbones, an expression of Gallic indifference. "I hadn't heard that he had left, though of course, you would know." Now her mouth wicks wider - a twitch at the corner - as she picks, at last, a mostly intact cigarello from the crumpled package. "And I daresay I'm not sure I believe you, cher. Few people speak highly of me, as you say." The little smile remains, prescient, and she offers another small shrug. " - and I do believe I prefer it that way."
Sonatine Vidale
Sat 12:30AM CST
"I think his opinion was based on as far as your clan went.." He said, not bothering to look around himself. The Masquerade was still important in his eyes, but Sonatine had grown comfortable in his superiority. Should anyone call him on it, he'd no sooner beat them down or outsmart them int he debate than submit to the breach. Looking over her smoke of choice, he'd toss the idea of the weeping clown around in his head. Sonatine brought a curled arm up to his head as he rested it silently, still staring at her. "That could be why, there. You're the most non-conformist Toreador I think I've known.."
Marie-Hélène
Sat 12:44AM CST
"We're not all fluff and bunnies, you know - " she tucks the little cigar neatly into her mouth and cups her hand about the tip, talking briefly around the impediment. Her gaze dances from the tip of the smoke to the Brujah primogen, then back as she upcaps the lighter and depresses the mechanism with her thumb. There may be no flames, but there is heat, the supple swish-hiss of the gas and a wavering of the air. Her shoulders tense, the cipher-curve of her narrow body grows rigid as she allows the strange frisson of fear and want to flare somewhere deep in her dead body, then trickle shiveringly up her spine. She doesn't even register the first deep breath, the flare of the now-smoldering tip lending some illusion of colour to her pale digits. " - recent company and - " she is herself, entirely, again, her eyes rolling in mild exasperation. " - almost everyone else I've met here notwithstanding. I think the human stock is failing, some combination of television and genetically engineered corn has made the human race, generally, more sappy and banal than ever. It translates, of course, across the barrier. Or perhaps - " another draw, she lifts the smoke meditatively from her mouth, rolls it between her fingers as if it were a fine thing, which it is not, a foul, almost oily scent clings to the smoke as she burns the very dregs of the worst sort of tobacco, swept up from the floor and packaged for the lowest of society's low. "- perhaps it has always been this way, conventional lives, conventional minds, flowers and mint and I am so very pleased to meet you, Sire."
Sonatine Vidale
Sat 12:54AM CST
He was staring at her now, watching the flamless lighter ignite the cigarette and her tense up accordingly. He looked bored with her, for what it was worth. It was liek watching a NASCAR race; hoping to see a car wreck into the wall at 125MPH. He stared at her, intently imagining her own flesh catching light and peeling back within the blink of an eye. And yet, al lat once, he is brought back to reality when she goes into the fine details of the modern kine.
He said nothing in responce, however, just listened. Finally as she said she was pleased to meet him, he'd finally level with her. "Well, with Henry's wishes, you're part of the council. So I;d guess some manner of respect is required for you.." He said synnically.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 01:02AM CST
Her mouth twitches minutely in response, bemusement stirring beneath her changeable façade. She is the picture of repose, now, the trappings of that bone deep fear have curled up and peeled away much as he imagined her skin might do, were she to twitch her wrist backward rather than forward, or drop the ugly little cigarello in the middle of her lap. The pale creature opens her mouth to speak - undoubtedly some bright little barbed quip - but the expression cools and stills as her pale brows shoot up half-way to her hairline. The cigarello drops between her fore and middle fingers, drooping dangerously toward the table. " - I beg your pardon?"
Sonatine Vidale
Sat 01:07AM CST
Patience, wasn't a virtue Sonatine had.
Sighing almost unamused, he would wonder what the hell was going on. Apparently no one had bothered telling Marie-Helene that she was now the Toreador Primogen, since Simmon Ledeaux had left the city unannounced. Staring at her longer, he'd casually amuse the thought of rubbing it in her face, despite his complete lack of interest. "Henry released a formal letter in the Marlowe house of the new council's formation. Not that we've held a decent meeting of the Primogen since I've been here; but you're among them. Just as, Malone had announced to young Brigitte DeMourney.." His tone was level.
Sonatine Vidale
Sat 01:07AM CST
Patience, wasn't a virtue Sonatine had.
Sighing almost unamused, he would wonder what the hell was going on. Apparently no one had bothered telling Marie-Helene that she was now the Toreador Primogen, since Simmon Ledeaux had left the city unannounced. Staring at her longer, he'd casually amuse the thought of rubbing it in her face, despite his complete lack of interest. "Henry released a formal letter in the Marlowe house of the new council's formation. Not that we've held a decent meeting of the Primogen since I've been here; but you're among them. Just as, Malone had announced to young Brigitte DeMourney.." His tone was level.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 01:22AM CST
"I tend to ignore the convoluted family crap." The pale thing takes the news with a certain almost chilly aplomb. Her irritation bleeds out only in the subtle shift of her weight on the table, the drum of her fingertips against the surface of the table as she takes another deep breath of smoke. She glances up, toward the ceiling, and breathes out a foul smelling cloud of smoke, watching at it first coalesces - like seeking like - then dissipates, rising toward the dark ceiling high above. "Does that mean I get to call you by your first name?"
Her gaze slices back to Sonatine, her eyes made large in the darkness, some impression of his reflection floating in her corneas. But her mind - of course - is moving ridiculously quickly, following the absurd trails of irritated speculation like a dogged, loping hound. She doesn't hold the glance for long, and instead - animated by the rising tide of her own restlessness - slides easily from the tabletop, gaining her feet with a clatter of ankle-turning high heels. "Ridiculous - " half-muttered beneath her breath, half-offered as a concession to the Brujah - (doesn't everyone love to see the French en dishaibille?) - she repeats herself, with more force now, and an incisive shiv of righteous anger livening her tone. "Utterly ridiculous. Perhaps one of the most ridiculous things I have heard in my life. The possibilities are - " and now her mouth, which seems almost frozen in a flat, unattractive pout more appropriate to the pages of a fashion magazine - splits into a brief, ironic little smile. " - absurd. I do thank you for the information, M'sieur Vidale. I won't forget it."
Sonatine Vidale
Sat 01:29AM CST
Her comment almost made him smile. He rarily smiles anymore, that was betraying who he was in this modern age. Bleak and dissmal, he'd stare at her as she moved to stand. Leaning back some, Sonatine would glance toward the crowd of people dancing. He said nothing in her obvious disinterest in being the Toreador Primogen. While he couldn't understand why, him being who he was, afterall; he wouldn't say anything to discredit her. The less interest she was in being on the council, the better off he would be..
Marie-Hélène
Sat 01:38AM CST
Standing, the Toreador glances briefly at her cigarello, the smoldering tip, the long finger of ash hovering precariously at the end. She flickers the Brujah an irridescent smirk, then tips the cigarello into her Cosmopolitan, now half-empty thanks to all the strategic spilling across the dance floor. The ember spits, sizzles and hisses as it is doused in the liquid and the ashes spread out across the surface like befurred shroud. "Goodnight, Sonatine - " the creature quips, her mouth twitching narrowing, a plastic sort of humor in the set of her gaze. " - thank you for the - " another quickling smirk, tossed off with an elegant twitch of her bare shoulders as she turns and saunters off into the crowd.
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Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais
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samedi, juillet 17, 2004
humoring the Tremere
Marie-Hélène
Sat 11:11PM CST
The crowd drifts and swirls and moves from the theater doors through the lobby, murmuring appreciation for the production, or - in certain cases - disdain. Somehow, all the individual spectators, all the discrete, solid humans become part of this larger organism, which generates and regenerates itself like a starfish: thoughtless, purposeless, always growing, with some open, needy mouth. People are here for many reasons - to evaluate potential future spouses, to show off their latest gowns, to murmur - offhand, casual - some remark about the theater in the office on Monday morning or - in some cases - simply because they desperately wished to see a play.
It was the late show of Peter Pan. There is, of course, a family friendly production at 7:00 p.m., which begins while the sun is still burning in the sky, and ends somewhere in the middle twilight. On Saturdays, there is just enough time to empty and clean the lobby and theater before the pretty people begin arriving for the 10:00 p.m. show. "Such an odd time - " remarks one woman, in a nasal voice reminiscent of Minnesota or Wisconsin, the northern planes. " - so late." "A tradition - " a man, not her companion, simply a nosy bastard know-it-all. " - in the summer. Has been since the theater opened. Who knows how it began?"
The Toreador steps around the trio, her steps are delicately done, but sure and confident - as are most things about her. She has tamed her lovely pale gold hair into a coiffure that the general public might find acceptable, which will not obstruct patron's view of hte stage, for all that she found herself - last minute - with a well-placed box wholly to herself. Watching the stage and the restless crowd from above and without them was a delight, of course, even if she was only disposed to be delighted for the first ten minutes of the experience. Now that it is all over, she angling efficiently toward the doors. She needs a smoke.
Dr. Masterson
Sat 11:20PM CST
Dr. Masterson had been seated in his own, private box for the showing as well. He had read the book once or twice... several Tremere references, he thought. Needless to say, the play, though short, was a reasonable interpretation. Tinkerbell though, needed was a hack and needed some work.
He tightened his necktie, and straightened his glasses. With with cane in hand, he would patiently wait until most of the theatre was emptied before standing to make his way out. He did not like crowds. It wasn't a phobia by any means; he didn't like his personal space invaded. It would be then, as he walked beneath the monumental glass wall that made up the front of the theatre that he would spy Marie-Helen Alette. He was wearing a new suit tonight.
It was marvelously tailored, the edges far more defined than before... hand made to his dimensions, fitted perfectly. Of course, it was a deep, menacing shade of gray. "Good evening, Madamoiselle Alette," would be his introduction to the Torreador.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 11:31PM CST
"Dr. Masterson," the pale creature replies, not bothering to remove her cheap cigar from the slash of her red mouth. There is a moment of inattention as her eyes slide from his face to the crisp, tailored cut of his new suit. She lifts her chin, mouth spreading in a serene little - smirk would be the word, that cat-cream smile, and at last removes the smoldering cigar from the secure grip of her teeth and lips. " - beautiful suit. I recommend, however, trying a new color family sometime before the current millennium ends."
She should not be giving out fashion advice. He has dressed in a tailored new suit. She sports - oh, a pair of cheap twill cargo pants, two sizes too large, which swim about her hips and are secured by a wide leather belt - and a camisole in a metallic pale gold, the bodice and lower seam edged with lace. During waking hours, sun spills vibrantly through the glass-fronted façade. In the evening, light filters quite the other direction. The theater is magnificently lit, and the hundreds of lights spill through the glass, spatter the wide sidewalk in front of the theater in a thousand shades of shadow. The colour of her hair - a dozen shades of pale gold from wheat to sunlit snow - is highlighted, backlit by the massive theater. Except for her mouth, however, the rest of her features are obscured by deep shadows.
"Did you enjoy the play?"
Dr. Masterson
Sat 11:37PM CST
"The play was rather pleasant, though, I thought tinkerbell was rather... weak. I'm not much of a theatre-goer, but I do like to catch the occasional play from time to time. However, I have taken quite an interst in the Navy Pier here. It is phenomonal, in my humble opinion. -Nothing like it back in Charleston. New York has a few parklands, but this place is FAR cleaner... and so nice to be in our domain... well, save for this magnificent theatre house."
He nodded some, in acknowledgement of the Torreador's domain.
"How about you? Did you enjoy it?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:02PM CST
"For popular theater - " one dismissive curl of her elegantly bare shoulder sends the thin gold straps of her camisole slipping down the outter curves of her upper arms. "it was fine, neither extraordinary nor dull. Technically proficient, perhaps, without being inspired, but it is, after all, work for children. I would prefer to see a summer season with more serious fare - perhaps just the classics, Tartuffe and the Misanthrope." Her mouth curves into a fine, scathing little smirk on the words popular and entertainment, but then bleeds into something less savage, more refined - musing. "Contemporary American musical theater, however, has a certain energy that I quite admire, though I suspect the productions are quite expensive."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:07PM CST
The Doctor nods, "I wish I knew more about theatre to comment properly, but, I do not. WIth what I do know, I can say that it probably is an expensive task. The cost of living, especially here in Chicago, demands that everything is a bit more expensive. It was hard enough finding suitable housing within my assigned territory that didn't cost me an arm and a leg."
He paused a moment, leaning against the glass wall, "Granted, if you really wanted, I'm sure you could change the play listing into something that you'd prefer more... unless that isn't your kind of art..."
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:18PM CST
The pale creature is silent for a moment, her crimson mouth set into a crawling flat line, her lips pressed together, almost prim, almost pointed. She lifts her chin - such haughty elegance - and then allows her dark gaze to slide gracelessly down. Her eyes linger - quite pointedly - on his limbs. "You seem - " now she smiles, a strange, cool skim of a smile, an expression too remote to be human. " - quite intact, Dr. Masterson, and so I must assume that you managed your lodgings admireably. And I'm not interested in changing the program here. I prefer to see what humans will create, rather than meddle with their creations."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:22PM CST
He smiled some. It was forces, it was fake... but he smiled, offering a half-hearted shrug. "Of course I manage well, that is what is required of me. Now while it is always nice to see what the sheep are doing, I find that when I'm not content with something, I change it. That, actually, is why I'm so fond of these conversations we have; there is nothing that needs changing. Though, those cigs are not the safest things, you know. We burn up like dry paper..."
He cocked his head to the left some, watching her reaction, keeping his eyes focuses on hers.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:35PM CST
"You see - there - " her gesture is vigorous, almost forceful, abrupt, imbued with her usual long-limbed grace. The cigar rides between her fingers, an exclamation point, the smoldering tip, the thin stream of foul smoke rising in curliques from the delicate tips of her long fingers. " - there, petit, there is where we differ. You chose to see your position as exalted, and thus you accept a particular paradigm that I prefer to reject. Indeed, I think that that single term you used - sheep - well - " she smiles, quite suddenly, a vicious, full-bodied smile, white teeth, blood-red mouth, neither forced nor fake, but hardly for him. It is more for the night, or for the beast, or for the rising wind that is drenched with humidity and thick with the scent of the lake, that grabs at her smoothly appointed hair and steals long, fine strands to send them scattershot across her smooth, cool cheek. Animated though she is, her dark eyes remain hooded and distant: monster. "there it is."
Her eyes are beyond him now, tracking something across his shoulder, intent and thorough - animal intent, animal attention, somehow - the predatory drive. Headlights - pale and paired - scream across the two of them, illuminating her briefly, but for where her figure is scored by his shadow. Her sharp features are cast in harsh angles by the light - which scores and highlights her brow, but scours her left cheek, the left half of her mouth, all of it in deep shadow. The smile dissipates, then reappears, less intent, more distracted. She glances - mildly, but quite directly - at the tip of her cigar, going so far as to tip it upward so that she can see the heart of the crawling fire in the packed tobacco, the slow accumulation of ash at the tip, and then glances back at him, with that same mild look, the same direct, almost thoughtless query. " - but of course, cher. We burn up like dry paper. That's quite half the point, isn't it?" With that, she lifts the thick roll to her mouth and takes a shoulder-curving mouthful of thick smoke, savors it, rolling the cigar between her fingers, along her mouth, exhales a cloud like steam.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:38PM CST
"Well, if they aren't sheep, then... do tell, what are there?" comes the simple response.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:44PM CST
"You have me wrong, Dr. Masterson. Wrong entirely." Her distracted gaze sharpens in intensity. She lifts her sharp chin, and reflected light from the theater streams across her features, illuminating the dark blue of her tractable gaze. "The term tells me nothing about them," - a gesture, the straggling remnants streaming out of the theater, a slow-seeping-crawling crowd headed for their cars. " - but it illuminates, in an instant, so much about us."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:47PM CST
"Granted, it does let us know what our perceptions are of ourselves. At the same time, they are simply sheep. Some are smarter than others, and if they gang up, they can even take down wolves. I guess that is why we must wear wool, every night."
He smiles some, "But I do like your point... it is very insightful."
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:00PM CST
"I must - " the cigar rolls in her delicate fingers, the crude leaves flat and dark against the pale pads of her fingers. Her smile widens, grows stretched and thin, like wire - like molten glass played out too far from the furnace, stretched to almost invisible filaments, stretched to nothing, nothing at all. She pauses, hangs on the edge of an idea, her mouth half-open, her tongue balanced at the back of her incisors, the beginnings of a fricative, and her gaze narrows and sharpens on him once more. She presses her lips together, then flicks the cigar away - barely smoked. It flies end over heavy, sparking end to land in the gutter fifteen feet from them. Her eyes shear sharply to the side, following its path against the darkness, the sparks like a cheap fireworks display, a poor man's wheel of fire - and watches, further, as a mound of human trash and waste rises from the gutter and plucks the still smoldering cigar from the clogged sewer.
The pale creature looks back at the Tremere, and smiles a scintillating smile. "Your are right, of course, mon cher docteur - " she lies, easily and beautifully, straightening abruptly and stepping just forward, into his space. The curve of her mouth, illuminated briefly, as she leans to kiss the air six inches from either of his cheeks. So very chic. She drifts backward, and the smile remains, fixed, dilated, dialed up, lovely. " - as always. I'm sure we will continue this conversation another night. Until then - " a taxi cab, pale yellow against the swimming, pointillist darkness. She steps swiftly around him and gestures sharply to the driver, who slams on the breaks and grinds to a stop ten feet ahead of them.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:15PM CST
The humoring of the Tremere was, if anything, offensive. She stepped too close to him... didn't anyone ever tell her to not approach a Tremere like that? Evidently not. As she approached him to give the chic parting gesture he too leaned in and for a split second their cheeks barely graced each other's.
His pupils dialated, opening quickly. Within him, he felt three bars explode outward as the fang-toothed beast within him shake the entire structure of his being. He was frozen for a moment, only a moment, as she offered her parting comment.
"It was... a pleasure..." he commented as he watched her depart. As the crowds of people began to ebb, he pulled his wool on, and vanished into it.
Sat 11:11PM CST
The crowd drifts and swirls and moves from the theater doors through the lobby, murmuring appreciation for the production, or - in certain cases - disdain. Somehow, all the individual spectators, all the discrete, solid humans become part of this larger organism, which generates and regenerates itself like a starfish: thoughtless, purposeless, always growing, with some open, needy mouth. People are here for many reasons - to evaluate potential future spouses, to show off their latest gowns, to murmur - offhand, casual - some remark about the theater in the office on Monday morning or - in some cases - simply because they desperately wished to see a play.
It was the late show of Peter Pan. There is, of course, a family friendly production at 7:00 p.m., which begins while the sun is still burning in the sky, and ends somewhere in the middle twilight. On Saturdays, there is just enough time to empty and clean the lobby and theater before the pretty people begin arriving for the 10:00 p.m. show. "Such an odd time - " remarks one woman, in a nasal voice reminiscent of Minnesota or Wisconsin, the northern planes. " - so late." "A tradition - " a man, not her companion, simply a nosy bastard know-it-all. " - in the summer. Has been since the theater opened. Who knows how it began?"
The Toreador steps around the trio, her steps are delicately done, but sure and confident - as are most things about her. She has tamed her lovely pale gold hair into a coiffure that the general public might find acceptable, which will not obstruct patron's view of hte stage, for all that she found herself - last minute - with a well-placed box wholly to herself. Watching the stage and the restless crowd from above and without them was a delight, of course, even if she was only disposed to be delighted for the first ten minutes of the experience. Now that it is all over, she angling efficiently toward the doors. She needs a smoke.
Dr. Masterson
Sat 11:20PM CST
Dr. Masterson had been seated in his own, private box for the showing as well. He had read the book once or twice... several Tremere references, he thought. Needless to say, the play, though short, was a reasonable interpretation. Tinkerbell though, needed was a hack and needed some work.
He tightened his necktie, and straightened his glasses. With with cane in hand, he would patiently wait until most of the theatre was emptied before standing to make his way out. He did not like crowds. It wasn't a phobia by any means; he didn't like his personal space invaded. It would be then, as he walked beneath the monumental glass wall that made up the front of the theatre that he would spy Marie-Helen Alette. He was wearing a new suit tonight.
It was marvelously tailored, the edges far more defined than before... hand made to his dimensions, fitted perfectly. Of course, it was a deep, menacing shade of gray. "Good evening, Madamoiselle Alette," would be his introduction to the Torreador.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 11:31PM CST
"Dr. Masterson," the pale creature replies, not bothering to remove her cheap cigar from the slash of her red mouth. There is a moment of inattention as her eyes slide from his face to the crisp, tailored cut of his new suit. She lifts her chin, mouth spreading in a serene little - smirk would be the word, that cat-cream smile, and at last removes the smoldering cigar from the secure grip of her teeth and lips. " - beautiful suit. I recommend, however, trying a new color family sometime before the current millennium ends."
She should not be giving out fashion advice. He has dressed in a tailored new suit. She sports - oh, a pair of cheap twill cargo pants, two sizes too large, which swim about her hips and are secured by a wide leather belt - and a camisole in a metallic pale gold, the bodice and lower seam edged with lace. During waking hours, sun spills vibrantly through the glass-fronted façade. In the evening, light filters quite the other direction. The theater is magnificently lit, and the hundreds of lights spill through the glass, spatter the wide sidewalk in front of the theater in a thousand shades of shadow. The colour of her hair - a dozen shades of pale gold from wheat to sunlit snow - is highlighted, backlit by the massive theater. Except for her mouth, however, the rest of her features are obscured by deep shadows.
"Did you enjoy the play?"
Dr. Masterson
Sat 11:37PM CST
"The play was rather pleasant, though, I thought tinkerbell was rather... weak. I'm not much of a theatre-goer, but I do like to catch the occasional play from time to time. However, I have taken quite an interst in the Navy Pier here. It is phenomonal, in my humble opinion. -Nothing like it back in Charleston. New York has a few parklands, but this place is FAR cleaner... and so nice to be in our domain... well, save for this magnificent theatre house."
He nodded some, in acknowledgement of the Torreador's domain.
"How about you? Did you enjoy it?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:02PM CST
"For popular theater - " one dismissive curl of her elegantly bare shoulder sends the thin gold straps of her camisole slipping down the outter curves of her upper arms. "it was fine, neither extraordinary nor dull. Technically proficient, perhaps, without being inspired, but it is, after all, work for children. I would prefer to see a summer season with more serious fare - perhaps just the classics, Tartuffe and the Misanthrope." Her mouth curves into a fine, scathing little smirk on the words popular and entertainment, but then bleeds into something less savage, more refined - musing. "Contemporary American musical theater, however, has a certain energy that I quite admire, though I suspect the productions are quite expensive."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:07PM CST
The Doctor nods, "I wish I knew more about theatre to comment properly, but, I do not. WIth what I do know, I can say that it probably is an expensive task. The cost of living, especially here in Chicago, demands that everything is a bit more expensive. It was hard enough finding suitable housing within my assigned territory that didn't cost me an arm and a leg."
He paused a moment, leaning against the glass wall, "Granted, if you really wanted, I'm sure you could change the play listing into something that you'd prefer more... unless that isn't your kind of art..."
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:18PM CST
The pale creature is silent for a moment, her crimson mouth set into a crawling flat line, her lips pressed together, almost prim, almost pointed. She lifts her chin - such haughty elegance - and then allows her dark gaze to slide gracelessly down. Her eyes linger - quite pointedly - on his limbs. "You seem - " now she smiles, a strange, cool skim of a smile, an expression too remote to be human. " - quite intact, Dr. Masterson, and so I must assume that you managed your lodgings admireably. And I'm not interested in changing the program here. I prefer to see what humans will create, rather than meddle with their creations."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:22PM CST
He smiled some. It was forces, it was fake... but he smiled, offering a half-hearted shrug. "Of course I manage well, that is what is required of me. Now while it is always nice to see what the sheep are doing, I find that when I'm not content with something, I change it. That, actually, is why I'm so fond of these conversations we have; there is nothing that needs changing. Though, those cigs are not the safest things, you know. We burn up like dry paper..."
He cocked his head to the left some, watching her reaction, keeping his eyes focuses on hers.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:35PM CST
"You see - there - " her gesture is vigorous, almost forceful, abrupt, imbued with her usual long-limbed grace. The cigar rides between her fingers, an exclamation point, the smoldering tip, the thin stream of foul smoke rising in curliques from the delicate tips of her long fingers. " - there, petit, there is where we differ. You chose to see your position as exalted, and thus you accept a particular paradigm that I prefer to reject. Indeed, I think that that single term you used - sheep - well - " she smiles, quite suddenly, a vicious, full-bodied smile, white teeth, blood-red mouth, neither forced nor fake, but hardly for him. It is more for the night, or for the beast, or for the rising wind that is drenched with humidity and thick with the scent of the lake, that grabs at her smoothly appointed hair and steals long, fine strands to send them scattershot across her smooth, cool cheek. Animated though she is, her dark eyes remain hooded and distant: monster. "there it is."
Her eyes are beyond him now, tracking something across his shoulder, intent and thorough - animal intent, animal attention, somehow - the predatory drive. Headlights - pale and paired - scream across the two of them, illuminating her briefly, but for where her figure is scored by his shadow. Her sharp features are cast in harsh angles by the light - which scores and highlights her brow, but scours her left cheek, the left half of her mouth, all of it in deep shadow. The smile dissipates, then reappears, less intent, more distracted. She glances - mildly, but quite directly - at the tip of her cigar, going so far as to tip it upward so that she can see the heart of the crawling fire in the packed tobacco, the slow accumulation of ash at the tip, and then glances back at him, with that same mild look, the same direct, almost thoughtless query. " - but of course, cher. We burn up like dry paper. That's quite half the point, isn't it?" With that, she lifts the thick roll to her mouth and takes a shoulder-curving mouthful of thick smoke, savors it, rolling the cigar between her fingers, along her mouth, exhales a cloud like steam.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:38PM CST
"Well, if they aren't sheep, then... do tell, what are there?" comes the simple response.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:44PM CST
"You have me wrong, Dr. Masterson. Wrong entirely." Her distracted gaze sharpens in intensity. She lifts her sharp chin, and reflected light from the theater streams across her features, illuminating the dark blue of her tractable gaze. "The term tells me nothing about them," - a gesture, the straggling remnants streaming out of the theater, a slow-seeping-crawling crowd headed for their cars. " - but it illuminates, in an instant, so much about us."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:47PM CST
"Granted, it does let us know what our perceptions are of ourselves. At the same time, they are simply sheep. Some are smarter than others, and if they gang up, they can even take down wolves. I guess that is why we must wear wool, every night."
He smiles some, "But I do like your point... it is very insightful."
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:00PM CST
"I must - " the cigar rolls in her delicate fingers, the crude leaves flat and dark against the pale pads of her fingers. Her smile widens, grows stretched and thin, like wire - like molten glass played out too far from the furnace, stretched to almost invisible filaments, stretched to nothing, nothing at all. She pauses, hangs on the edge of an idea, her mouth half-open, her tongue balanced at the back of her incisors, the beginnings of a fricative, and her gaze narrows and sharpens on him once more. She presses her lips together, then flicks the cigar away - barely smoked. It flies end over heavy, sparking end to land in the gutter fifteen feet from them. Her eyes shear sharply to the side, following its path against the darkness, the sparks like a cheap fireworks display, a poor man's wheel of fire - and watches, further, as a mound of human trash and waste rises from the gutter and plucks the still smoldering cigar from the clogged sewer.
The pale creature looks back at the Tremere, and smiles a scintillating smile. "Your are right, of course, mon cher docteur - " she lies, easily and beautifully, straightening abruptly and stepping just forward, into his space. The curve of her mouth, illuminated briefly, as she leans to kiss the air six inches from either of his cheeks. So very chic. She drifts backward, and the smile remains, fixed, dilated, dialed up, lovely. " - as always. I'm sure we will continue this conversation another night. Until then - " a taxi cab, pale yellow against the swimming, pointillist darkness. She steps swiftly around him and gestures sharply to the driver, who slams on the breaks and grinds to a stop ten feet ahead of them.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:15PM CST
The humoring of the Tremere was, if anything, offensive. She stepped too close to him... didn't anyone ever tell her to not approach a Tremere like that? Evidently not. As she approached him to give the chic parting gesture he too leaned in and for a split second their cheeks barely graced each other's.
His pupils dialated, opening quickly. Within him, he felt three bars explode outward as the fang-toothed beast within him shake the entire structure of his being. He was frozen for a moment, only a moment, as she offered her parting comment.
"It was... a pleasure..." he commented as he watched her depart. As the crowds of people began to ebb, he pulled his wool on, and vanished into it.
mardi, juillet 13, 2004
sinister
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:21PM CST
Dr. Masterson sat in the reading area of the Border's Bookstore. It was a decent store, i his opinion. Granted, it had nothing of any true worth to him, but, from time to time, he liked to come to random book stores, just to, if anything, see what the kine was thinking about the kindred. The latest horror novel, role playing game series, or books on tape... he kept his eyes peeled for such hits of breaches in the masquerade.
Looking at a few novells, reading the backs, he nodded, placing the book back on the table. His cane was tucked up into his airmpit, allowing it to portrude a few feet behind him.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 10:32PM CST
Most of the women stick to the "Psychology" portion of non-fiction, wall upon bloody wall of self-help books by any number of the latest gurus, repackaging, essentially, all the advice your mother gave you while you were still in elementary school, or at least by the time you left home. The non-fiction area is a honeycomb of U-shaped enclosures, with books all the way to the high ceiling, and rolling ladders in each section. Psychology is crowded, but "History" "Criticism" "Sociology" "Cultural History" are less well traveled. As the Tremere sits, paging through the latest something-or-other, his attention could well be caught by a familiar glimmer: hair so pale a gold it seems either silver or near colorless, falling in a messy, half-undone knot down a long, slender neck. The shape of her jaw is visible, some sketchy portion of her face: a section of cheek, the outcurve of a fine pale brow, lashes at the declevity where her eyes would be visible, were they not hidden by her position. The figure is familiar as well: model-tall and model-thin, long narrow arms, pale and elegant and bare, long fine fingers curved over the polished wood as she clings to the topmost section of the ladder and leans and reaches for what must be one particular book, balancing another armful close to her chest. Her posture is so precarious that she should certain fall, but she does not - although, as she stands there, some of the books she cradles begin to drop from her arm like stones - heavy and quiet - to the floor far below.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:36PM CST
Eric looks up from his reading, blinks a moment, then begins to look around. He senses someone is present... then he sees her. Placing the book on the table, he adjusts his glasses, tightens his necktie, and makes his way over to Marie. Same grey suit, same pressed white shirt, same black tie. It never changes.
"Good evening, Madamoiselle Allette, how are you this even?" he opens, and rather politely a that.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 10:39PM CST
Perched at the top of her ladder - the very top - her high-heeled shoes (ridiculous affectation, lime green, bejeweled, with heels so slender and high they perhaps should qualify as weapons and be banned from airplanes) at close to the level of the Tremere's eyes - the pale creature sends a brief, almost startled glance down from on high. More of her hair comes undone, and a trio of books tumble from the cradle of the crooked arm. "Dr. Masterson - " her voice is cool and smart as ever, the hints of her Parisian accent flavoring only the extremities of her words. "I'm well. And you?"
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:46PM CST
The good doctor takes a few steps back. The heels ARE rather outlandish, in his eyes at least. But, before he is allowed to speak, a pimple-faced clerk quickly trots up Marie...
"Excuse me, miss? Please, the ladders are for store employ-"
Masterson cuts him off, "Silence boy..." he growls. The clerk, confused, looks now to the kindred. "But sir, she'-"
Piercing his soul with his vision, "Leave us, and do not come back." Then, with his cane in his left hand, he waves him off in a manner that nobility would dismiss a comoner, lacking all respect and thought of the subject. The boy blinks then replies, "Ok..," before quickly leaving the area.
Returning his attention to Marie then, "Could I offer you a hand, Madamoiselle?"
Marie-Hélène
Tue 10:52PM CST
Not simply the heels, but also the color of her toenails: some thoroughly ugly combination of orange and green, painted precisely over three toes of her right foot, leaving the smallest two toes bare. The colour is painted precisely opposite on the left, with color on the two smallest while the three larger toenails remain flat and ordinary. She flexes those toes and watches with such generous, cool amusement as the Tremere sends the staff running. To his question, she simply offers a brief skim of a smile and a raised index finger. "One moment," she murmurs, opening her arms and allowing the last of the books to fall, then making a final lunge for a volume sunk into the corner of the very topmost shelf. This, too, she drops to the pile below, before taking the first of several steps down, and at last offer her hand to the Tremere for assistance. "I'm reading now, Dr. Masterson, for the hand you offered."
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:55PM CST
Thank the fates that he had not enough fashion sense to wretch at the slapdash arangement of colors on her painted toes. Needless to say, he offeres her his hand for the final steps to the floor.
Looking down to the books, then to her eyes, "Besides the obvious, what brings you hear, this evening?"
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:06PM CST
The works are all technical: criticism, anthologies of recent writings on literature, architecture, the arts and cinema or scholarly, treatises on linguistics, generally, with two in regard to pidgins and creoles, and another devoted solely to lingala. Among these works, several recent chapbooks of poems and at least two popular novels, including one of the bodice-ripper variety. She has quite a bredth of taste.
Her feet sound lightly against the wooden ladders solid rungs, her hands pull away from the polish without a sound. Carefully, she picks her way down, and then crouches on her haunches once she has reached the ground, pulling her books into reasonable piles, stacking them on a shelf within arm's reach for person standing upright. "Oh, Dr. Masterson - " she casts a glance up at him now, her head thrown back, her hair falling down her spine, her sharp features in such different relief from above as from below. Her eyes are dark blue - how often do they meet someplace shadowed? how easy is that deep color to miss in such circumstances? - shaded by the palest of long lashes. Her smile is supple and subtle, perhaps even private. "Only the obvious brings me here. I am afraid - unlike you - I am quite transparent. No hidden motives, nothing of particular interest. But you - surely - ?" Her voice does not rise with the question, she simply implies its presence with a twitch of her pale brow.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:12PM CST
Masterson smiles, "Certainly, you are completely transparent. There isn't a shadow of a doubt that you lack hidden motives, or that you doing anything of interst. No, not at all." If it wasn't for the fact that he said the words in the most pale, drab and unemotional manner, one would percieve him as being sarcastic with ease.
"I am here for the same reason you are, it appears to be: simple looking for a good book. However, I understand you've met the latest of my bretheren... Mr. Whitaker, I believe."
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:19PM CST
"I'm glad we have all that settled, petit," she murmurs in reply, that private smile still curving finely across her generous mouth. She is still watching him - looking up - her gaze fixed and dark and unwavering. It could almost be thought coy - the posture, the look - but she is too direct, one would be forgiven for thinking, for all that. "And I must confess - " still piling the scholarly tomes, one after the other, atop each other, she plucks a pair of popular novels - a mystery and a romance - from the pile and flashes the covers, then slaps them together. "I'm not just looking for good books. And yes, I did meet Mr. Whitaker briefly. I wonder what he told you about me - " she glanced briefly down, outstretched hand reaching for a desired volume. " - or perhaps I should worry about what you've said to him, mmm?" Her red mouth is now pressed into a firm, closed-mouth smile.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:25PM CST
He did not turn down to face her, but rather, while speaking, he simply looked downward whiel speaking, remaining stoic the entire time." For someone who is transparent, and has no hidden motives, you certainly are concerned with factors that affect you not... cher. However, I have spoken to him, of course. And i have not warned him of you, yet. But, if you are intersted, I have told him you are quite social, intelligent, a pleasure to have conversation with, and simply... optically stunning."
Somehow, the sight of her beneath him rattled his beast some... somewhere in him, it brushed against the iron bars of its solid cage.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:32PM CST
"Curiousity, and only this, mon docteur sérieux, never to be taken seriously." She lifts the last of the books to the shelf and straightened the stack until each of the bindings of each of the many books were even, the glossy paperbacks, the jacketed hardcovers, all flashing in the light. Her arm falls back to her thighs, then, forearms resting briefly on the incurve as she studies the strange pattern of their shadows on the carpet beneath them. At last, she rises from her crouch easily, with a graceful athleticism that belongs not to dancers but to runners, boxers, football players. "Tell me, if you were to warn your brother against me - " arms curved around her narrow torso, bare shoulders twitched forward, body set into a negligent slouch, " - what would you say?"
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:37PM CST
With a step of entertainment in his voice, "Perhaps, and with all honesty, the exact same words. However, I do encourage you to spend time with Mr. Whitaker. You made quite the impression, after all. And besides, he is very friendly, always willing to talk..."
He winked to her, bearing a bright, white smile as he shifted his cane from his left hand to his right.
"Now, if you were to warn others about me, what would you say, pray tell?"
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:45PM CST
"Mmmph." She swallows the sound from somewhere in her mouth, leaning against the hard, looming shelves, her left hip against one shelf, left elbow against another. "Here I hoped to have a more sinister side, perhaps. Peut-étre, un petit chose dangéreux." She flashes another smile, this one accompanied by a brief vision of her white teeth behind her red lips. "Now, for you, petit? I would warn them that your fashion sense is atrocious, and that you own precisely two suits, and that you are two clever by half. Is that sufficient warning, or should I add something else to the mix?" Her pale brows twitch upward in such polite query, the curving mouth settles into a polite little smile.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:50PM CST
"Yes, I actually have five suits... not two. And they are all grey..." He returns the smile as he gazes down upon the creature. "However, why should I be so sinister when in the company of such a charming young belle? Surely you know you bring out the best in all of us?"
He mirrored her now, leaving against the bookshelf. Holding the head of the cane in his hand, he rubbed his thumb over the ornate silver carvings in its side.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:57PM CST
"Not you, cher. Me. I wish to be though sinister. Perhaps I should reduce my wardrode - " she lifts her bare shoulders, the rucked haltertop, a smeared redding rose color shot through with intricate if haphazard embroidery that hugs her torso, the oversized cargo pants that hang from her narrow hips, the outlandish and outrageously expensive sandals encasing her fine, delicate feet. " - to five gray suits, and a cane." She reaches out, taps her right index finger on the head of his cane, ragged nail on the ornate carvings. "Perhaps I will contact your tailor - " another flashfire grin, as she leans closer and offers the most airy of kiss-kisses to the air six inches to either side of either cheek. " - to dress me. For the moment, however, I am leaving. Goodnight, petit. Another time, it was a pleasure, as always." She leans back, stares briefly at him, and then steps quite carefully around the Tremere, abandoning her stack of books behind her. Even should he call her attention to it, she does not look back.
Dr. Masterson
Wed 12:03AM CST
Masterson remains motionless, as his personal space is violated. Those fangs were too close to his own face... but, the two were in public view: there was not much to be feared as it was. But, when she touched his cane, he withdrew it from her reach. Obviously, he did not like that.
"Should you wish to learn how to be more... sinister, please, do come knocking on my door. It is always open for a lady of your particular quality."
After she was two steps away, he turned back to his business, letting her leave as she wished. Tightening his necktie, cane back beneath his armpit... he continued flipping through the books.
Tue 10:21PM CST
Dr. Masterson sat in the reading area of the Border's Bookstore. It was a decent store, i his opinion. Granted, it had nothing of any true worth to him, but, from time to time, he liked to come to random book stores, just to, if anything, see what the kine was thinking about the kindred. The latest horror novel, role playing game series, or books on tape... he kept his eyes peeled for such hits of breaches in the masquerade.
Looking at a few novells, reading the backs, he nodded, placing the book back on the table. His cane was tucked up into his airmpit, allowing it to portrude a few feet behind him.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 10:32PM CST
Most of the women stick to the "Psychology" portion of non-fiction, wall upon bloody wall of self-help books by any number of the latest gurus, repackaging, essentially, all the advice your mother gave you while you were still in elementary school, or at least by the time you left home. The non-fiction area is a honeycomb of U-shaped enclosures, with books all the way to the high ceiling, and rolling ladders in each section. Psychology is crowded, but "History" "Criticism" "Sociology" "Cultural History" are less well traveled. As the Tremere sits, paging through the latest something-or-other, his attention could well be caught by a familiar glimmer: hair so pale a gold it seems either silver or near colorless, falling in a messy, half-undone knot down a long, slender neck. The shape of her jaw is visible, some sketchy portion of her face: a section of cheek, the outcurve of a fine pale brow, lashes at the declevity where her eyes would be visible, were they not hidden by her position. The figure is familiar as well: model-tall and model-thin, long narrow arms, pale and elegant and bare, long fine fingers curved over the polished wood as she clings to the topmost section of the ladder and leans and reaches for what must be one particular book, balancing another armful close to her chest. Her posture is so precarious that she should certain fall, but she does not - although, as she stands there, some of the books she cradles begin to drop from her arm like stones - heavy and quiet - to the floor far below.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:36PM CST
Eric looks up from his reading, blinks a moment, then begins to look around. He senses someone is present... then he sees her. Placing the book on the table, he adjusts his glasses, tightens his necktie, and makes his way over to Marie. Same grey suit, same pressed white shirt, same black tie. It never changes.
"Good evening, Madamoiselle Allette, how are you this even?" he opens, and rather politely a that.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 10:39PM CST
Perched at the top of her ladder - the very top - her high-heeled shoes (ridiculous affectation, lime green, bejeweled, with heels so slender and high they perhaps should qualify as weapons and be banned from airplanes) at close to the level of the Tremere's eyes - the pale creature sends a brief, almost startled glance down from on high. More of her hair comes undone, and a trio of books tumble from the cradle of the crooked arm. "Dr. Masterson - " her voice is cool and smart as ever, the hints of her Parisian accent flavoring only the extremities of her words. "I'm well. And you?"
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:46PM CST
The good doctor takes a few steps back. The heels ARE rather outlandish, in his eyes at least. But, before he is allowed to speak, a pimple-faced clerk quickly trots up Marie...
"Excuse me, miss? Please, the ladders are for store employ-"
Masterson cuts him off, "Silence boy..." he growls. The clerk, confused, looks now to the kindred. "But sir, she'-"
Piercing his soul with his vision, "Leave us, and do not come back." Then, with his cane in his left hand, he waves him off in a manner that nobility would dismiss a comoner, lacking all respect and thought of the subject. The boy blinks then replies, "Ok..," before quickly leaving the area.
Returning his attention to Marie then, "Could I offer you a hand, Madamoiselle?"
Marie-Hélène
Tue 10:52PM CST
Not simply the heels, but also the color of her toenails: some thoroughly ugly combination of orange and green, painted precisely over three toes of her right foot, leaving the smallest two toes bare. The colour is painted precisely opposite on the left, with color on the two smallest while the three larger toenails remain flat and ordinary. She flexes those toes and watches with such generous, cool amusement as the Tremere sends the staff running. To his question, she simply offers a brief skim of a smile and a raised index finger. "One moment," she murmurs, opening her arms and allowing the last of the books to fall, then making a final lunge for a volume sunk into the corner of the very topmost shelf. This, too, she drops to the pile below, before taking the first of several steps down, and at last offer her hand to the Tremere for assistance. "I'm reading now, Dr. Masterson, for the hand you offered."
Dr. Masterson
Tue 10:55PM CST
Thank the fates that he had not enough fashion sense to wretch at the slapdash arangement of colors on her painted toes. Needless to say, he offeres her his hand for the final steps to the floor.
Looking down to the books, then to her eyes, "Besides the obvious, what brings you hear, this evening?"
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:06PM CST
The works are all technical: criticism, anthologies of recent writings on literature, architecture, the arts and cinema or scholarly, treatises on linguistics, generally, with two in regard to pidgins and creoles, and another devoted solely to lingala. Among these works, several recent chapbooks of poems and at least two popular novels, including one of the bodice-ripper variety. She has quite a bredth of taste.
Her feet sound lightly against the wooden ladders solid rungs, her hands pull away from the polish without a sound. Carefully, she picks her way down, and then crouches on her haunches once she has reached the ground, pulling her books into reasonable piles, stacking them on a shelf within arm's reach for person standing upright. "Oh, Dr. Masterson - " she casts a glance up at him now, her head thrown back, her hair falling down her spine, her sharp features in such different relief from above as from below. Her eyes are dark blue - how often do they meet someplace shadowed? how easy is that deep color to miss in such circumstances? - shaded by the palest of long lashes. Her smile is supple and subtle, perhaps even private. "Only the obvious brings me here. I am afraid - unlike you - I am quite transparent. No hidden motives, nothing of particular interest. But you - surely - ?" Her voice does not rise with the question, she simply implies its presence with a twitch of her pale brow.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:12PM CST
Masterson smiles, "Certainly, you are completely transparent. There isn't a shadow of a doubt that you lack hidden motives, or that you doing anything of interst. No, not at all." If it wasn't for the fact that he said the words in the most pale, drab and unemotional manner, one would percieve him as being sarcastic with ease.
"I am here for the same reason you are, it appears to be: simple looking for a good book. However, I understand you've met the latest of my bretheren... Mr. Whitaker, I believe."
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:19PM CST
"I'm glad we have all that settled, petit," she murmurs in reply, that private smile still curving finely across her generous mouth. She is still watching him - looking up - her gaze fixed and dark and unwavering. It could almost be thought coy - the posture, the look - but she is too direct, one would be forgiven for thinking, for all that. "And I must confess - " still piling the scholarly tomes, one after the other, atop each other, she plucks a pair of popular novels - a mystery and a romance - from the pile and flashes the covers, then slaps them together. "I'm not just looking for good books. And yes, I did meet Mr. Whitaker briefly. I wonder what he told you about me - " she glanced briefly down, outstretched hand reaching for a desired volume. " - or perhaps I should worry about what you've said to him, mmm?" Her red mouth is now pressed into a firm, closed-mouth smile.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:25PM CST
He did not turn down to face her, but rather, while speaking, he simply looked downward whiel speaking, remaining stoic the entire time." For someone who is transparent, and has no hidden motives, you certainly are concerned with factors that affect you not... cher. However, I have spoken to him, of course. And i have not warned him of you, yet. But, if you are intersted, I have told him you are quite social, intelligent, a pleasure to have conversation with, and simply... optically stunning."
Somehow, the sight of her beneath him rattled his beast some... somewhere in him, it brushed against the iron bars of its solid cage.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:32PM CST
"Curiousity, and only this, mon docteur sérieux, never to be taken seriously." She lifts the last of the books to the shelf and straightened the stack until each of the bindings of each of the many books were even, the glossy paperbacks, the jacketed hardcovers, all flashing in the light. Her arm falls back to her thighs, then, forearms resting briefly on the incurve as she studies the strange pattern of their shadows on the carpet beneath them. At last, she rises from her crouch easily, with a graceful athleticism that belongs not to dancers but to runners, boxers, football players. "Tell me, if you were to warn your brother against me - " arms curved around her narrow torso, bare shoulders twitched forward, body set into a negligent slouch, " - what would you say?"
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:37PM CST
With a step of entertainment in his voice, "Perhaps, and with all honesty, the exact same words. However, I do encourage you to spend time with Mr. Whitaker. You made quite the impression, after all. And besides, he is very friendly, always willing to talk..."
He winked to her, bearing a bright, white smile as he shifted his cane from his left hand to his right.
"Now, if you were to warn others about me, what would you say, pray tell?"
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:45PM CST
"Mmmph." She swallows the sound from somewhere in her mouth, leaning against the hard, looming shelves, her left hip against one shelf, left elbow against another. "Here I hoped to have a more sinister side, perhaps. Peut-étre, un petit chose dangéreux." She flashes another smile, this one accompanied by a brief vision of her white teeth behind her red lips. "Now, for you, petit? I would warn them that your fashion sense is atrocious, and that you own precisely two suits, and that you are two clever by half. Is that sufficient warning, or should I add something else to the mix?" Her pale brows twitch upward in such polite query, the curving mouth settles into a polite little smile.
Dr. Masterson
Tue 11:50PM CST
"Yes, I actually have five suits... not two. And they are all grey..." He returns the smile as he gazes down upon the creature. "However, why should I be so sinister when in the company of such a charming young belle? Surely you know you bring out the best in all of us?"
He mirrored her now, leaving against the bookshelf. Holding the head of the cane in his hand, he rubbed his thumb over the ornate silver carvings in its side.
Marie-Hélène
Tue 11:57PM CST
"Not you, cher. Me. I wish to be though sinister. Perhaps I should reduce my wardrode - " she lifts her bare shoulders, the rucked haltertop, a smeared redding rose color shot through with intricate if haphazard embroidery that hugs her torso, the oversized cargo pants that hang from her narrow hips, the outlandish and outrageously expensive sandals encasing her fine, delicate feet. " - to five gray suits, and a cane." She reaches out, taps her right index finger on the head of his cane, ragged nail on the ornate carvings. "Perhaps I will contact your tailor - " another flashfire grin, as she leans closer and offers the most airy of kiss-kisses to the air six inches to either side of either cheek. " - to dress me. For the moment, however, I am leaving. Goodnight, petit. Another time, it was a pleasure, as always." She leans back, stares briefly at him, and then steps quite carefully around the Tremere, abandoning her stack of books behind her. Even should he call her attention to it, she does not look back.
Dr. Masterson
Wed 12:03AM CST
Masterson remains motionless, as his personal space is violated. Those fangs were too close to his own face... but, the two were in public view: there was not much to be feared as it was. But, when she touched his cane, he withdrew it from her reach. Obviously, he did not like that.
"Should you wish to learn how to be more... sinister, please, do come knocking on my door. It is always open for a lady of your particular quality."
After she was two steps away, he turned back to his business, letting her leave as she wished. Tightening his necktie, cane back beneath his armpit... he continued flipping through the books.
dimanche, juillet 11, 2004
the wrong idea.
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 09:53PM CST
The French doors sweep open, spilling a muted wedge of light onto the patio, scalloped at the edges by the door's pattern. The Toreador lingers there a moment, studying the pattern of light and shadow, the way her own figure interrupts and upends the geometry, the introduction of a moment of chaos. She smiles, absently, and forgets the moment entirely as she lifts her chin, stepping out onto the patio (the quiet woomp of her shit-kickers) following the thread of sound from the garden: voices. She slinks around the half-open door, then comes close to slamming it closed. Too much force, not enough care. The door is well-constructed, though, and the panes of glass simply rattle in their frames as she crosses the patio and steps - with exagerated delicacy, give the heavy weight of her boots - onto the rich thatched turf that lines the garden's paths. She circles the showy display of white roses and ignores the suggestive architecture of the rows of white calla lilies, following the murmurs of conversation which sound, from a distance, like the nonsense rhythms of rolling surf.
William Whitaker
Sun 10:03PM CST
"One of your kind. Roommate. I'm guessing he's Buddy? Just a wild guess, of course. We were told last night that we were both new faces." He waits to hear from Jason if he guess is correct, at the same times catching from the corner of his eye Marie's approach and remembering her from the previous night. Speak of the Devil. It had been Marie who had told both William and Buddy how 'welcome' new faces were in Chicago.
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:04PM CST
His steps carried him near silently towards the little group of people, coming from somewhere within the gardens.
Jason Malone
Sun 10:06PM CST
Yeah... couldn't have him hotel hopping when I had extra space. ~he nods then turns his black eyes towards Marie~ Evenin' Li... Marie-Helene. ~he corrects himself~
Muira Stewart
Sun 10:09PM CST
*She looks up from her reverie, her gaze going to Raziel and her thick dark lashes sweep over her eyes...if she could blush her cheeks would be bright pink, shifting nervously as she realizes JUST how very bad she must look*
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 10:14PM CST
The Toreador picks a convenient tree and props herself against it, her right hand high on the dark, rough trunk, her hips curve to almost graze across the bark. Her arms swings down along her side. "Jason." She glances at Muira, fidgeting, barefoot, and lifts both pale brows. The cool smile never leaves the creature's features. "Ms. Stewart. M'sieur - Whitaker, was it?" Her stance shifts subtly, and she casts a glance to the side, dark eyes skimming Raziel. "M'sieur Kevlar." Murmured, essentially - always - polite, with the merest hint of familiarity tinging her cool voice.
William Whitaker
Sun 10:16PM CST
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Alette,” giving her hand the same treatment that he’d given Muira’s earlier, instinctual for someone raised in the manner that William was. He nods at her questioning of his name.
Jason Malone
Sun 10:20PM CST
~he slips the mirrored shades back on to cover his solid black eyes then grins, his gaze shifting around the assembly~ Well... I've gotta go see a horse about a ride... Billy, good to meet ya. Raziel, good to see ya... briefly... again. Muira, drop me a line and we'll set up the whole blessing thing. ~he starts to walk towards the house, generally in Marie's direction.~ Marie-Helene, as always, you make the night perfect. ~he grins~ Bailey said he prefered you being around to Davidian... he seems to think you're less dangerous... I think he's a horse and not overly bright in recognizing predators. ~he flashes her a bright smile before pulling his keys from his pocket and heading off~ Drop me a line sometime. ~he starts whistling an old tune... from somewhere around the late 20's early 30's as he goes~
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:22PM CST
His eyes held Muira for a long moment, smiling to her softly while he walked up to her. " Good evening, Muira. How have you been? "
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 10:24PM CST
"Toujours, m'sieur. Toujours." She allows him, of course, to take her hand. The long fingers curve languidly, unmoving, unmoved, like an inert gas. Her dark eyes flicker over him - not so much with disinterest, as with a distant sort of interest - and the pale creature's mouth twitches into a subtly wider half-smile. "Moreover, you remembered my name. Impressive." As her arm falls back to her side, her brows lilt upward. "Unless you have it written on your hand, somewhere - though that would get unwieldy, I suspect." Her mouth thins, then, a strange small smile, which she tosses toward Jason as he takes his leave. "You can tell your horse that I prefer him to that - well - " she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. " - I won't say more for fear of insulting you, utterly, Jason, but I am certain that never is quite too soon for me to encounter your clanmate again."
Jason Malone
Sun 10:27PM CST
~he laughs~ You two have the same opinion of one another. I promise... next time... Cat-man and Wolfen won't be around. We need to finish that chat sometimes. Til then... ~he goes back to whistling and then disappears around the corner of the building.~
William Whitaker
Sun 10:30PM CST
He holds up his hands to Marie, and pulls up only one of his sleeves for a moment, looking with mock nervousness at the other before his grin returns.
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 10:41PM CST
"That hardly proves anything." The pale thing studies his hands, and then his sleeves, with the sort of intense interest that should be reserved for the finest works by the greatest of masters, and certainly not bestowed up a man's hands in the middle of a humid night in a wet garden in a well-crafted but essentially non-descript house in the ... the point stands. Her mouth stills, her pale brows draw together, and she does not even so much as blink. The shape of his hand, the structure of his wrist, the way flesh reveals the skeleton beneath. Her features are still solemn and still as she steps forward and reaches out, grasping his second shirt-sleeve and tugging determinedly at the fabric. "You could be using invisible ink, of course."
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:42PM CST
" I have been well Muira. I am pleased to hear you are well. " He smiled and looked down for a moment, then at her. " You seem a little different tonight Muira. " Was that a little grin?
Muira Stewart
Sun 10:44PM CST
*Her hands rub over the damp bottom of her shorts, her bare toes curling in the wet grass and earth as she nibbles her lower lip, flustered beyond thought, swallowing and taking a deep and unncessary breath*I...I dinna ken wh't yer talkin' aboot, Raziel....
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:48PM CST
" I am only teasing you, Muira. I enjoy your company regardless. " Dark hazel eyes watched her steadily, the hint of a grin turning into a smile.
Muira Stewart
Sun 10:54PM CST
*she shifts softly on her feet, her fingers slipping into her back jeans pocket*Uhm....thank y' Raziel...*her gaze lowers bashfully*
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 11:00PM CST
He smiled and eased closer to her. " So tell me, what have you been up to? " A hand came up to gently but deflty slip her bangs from her face.
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 11:01PM CST
"Oh, I don't believe I'm interested in searching." She drops his sleeve quite precipitously, and flickers a cool, drifting half-smile in his direction. "I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea, M'sieur Whitaker." The dark eyes, flicker briefly toward Muira and Raziel. The pale brows twitch upward, her mouth and fine, sharp jaw set firmly. Her attention remains there - she's staring - absorbed in the interplay, and she offers William a sort of offhand remark - one that a spectator at a tennis game would offer a companion, just that casual, her voice so disinterested it seems almost detached. " - or, if you're going to get the wrong idea, I'd rather it be over something more substantial than a strip search for crib notes with my name on them. M'sieur Whitaker - " now she glances at him, away from the flirting pair, the unstable structure of her pale hair wobbling uncertainly, oddly, on the back of her head. The structure is already beginning to crumble - not charmingly, but messily. " - the pleasure was mine, as always. Good evening."
With that, she simply turns and saunters away.
Sun 09:53PM CST
The French doors sweep open, spilling a muted wedge of light onto the patio, scalloped at the edges by the door's pattern. The Toreador lingers there a moment, studying the pattern of light and shadow, the way her own figure interrupts and upends the geometry, the introduction of a moment of chaos. She smiles, absently, and forgets the moment entirely as she lifts her chin, stepping out onto the patio (the quiet woomp of her shit-kickers) following the thread of sound from the garden: voices. She slinks around the half-open door, then comes close to slamming it closed. Too much force, not enough care. The door is well-constructed, though, and the panes of glass simply rattle in their frames as she crosses the patio and steps - with exagerated delicacy, give the heavy weight of her boots - onto the rich thatched turf that lines the garden's paths. She circles the showy display of white roses and ignores the suggestive architecture of the rows of white calla lilies, following the murmurs of conversation which sound, from a distance, like the nonsense rhythms of rolling surf.
William Whitaker
Sun 10:03PM CST
"One of your kind. Roommate. I'm guessing he's Buddy? Just a wild guess, of course. We were told last night that we were both new faces." He waits to hear from Jason if he guess is correct, at the same times catching from the corner of his eye Marie's approach and remembering her from the previous night. Speak of the Devil. It had been Marie who had told both William and Buddy how 'welcome' new faces were in Chicago.
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:04PM CST
His steps carried him near silently towards the little group of people, coming from somewhere within the gardens.
Jason Malone
Sun 10:06PM CST
Yeah... couldn't have him hotel hopping when I had extra space. ~he nods then turns his black eyes towards Marie~ Evenin' Li... Marie-Helene. ~he corrects himself~
Muira Stewart
Sun 10:09PM CST
*She looks up from her reverie, her gaze going to Raziel and her thick dark lashes sweep over her eyes...if she could blush her cheeks would be bright pink, shifting nervously as she realizes JUST how very bad she must look*
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 10:14PM CST
The Toreador picks a convenient tree and props herself against it, her right hand high on the dark, rough trunk, her hips curve to almost graze across the bark. Her arms swings down along her side. "Jason." She glances at Muira, fidgeting, barefoot, and lifts both pale brows. The cool smile never leaves the creature's features. "Ms. Stewart. M'sieur - Whitaker, was it?" Her stance shifts subtly, and she casts a glance to the side, dark eyes skimming Raziel. "M'sieur Kevlar." Murmured, essentially - always - polite, with the merest hint of familiarity tinging her cool voice.
William Whitaker
Sun 10:16PM CST
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Alette,” giving her hand the same treatment that he’d given Muira’s earlier, instinctual for someone raised in the manner that William was. He nods at her questioning of his name.
Jason Malone
Sun 10:20PM CST
~he slips the mirrored shades back on to cover his solid black eyes then grins, his gaze shifting around the assembly~ Well... I've gotta go see a horse about a ride... Billy, good to meet ya. Raziel, good to see ya... briefly... again. Muira, drop me a line and we'll set up the whole blessing thing. ~he starts to walk towards the house, generally in Marie's direction.~ Marie-Helene, as always, you make the night perfect. ~he grins~ Bailey said he prefered you being around to Davidian... he seems to think you're less dangerous... I think he's a horse and not overly bright in recognizing predators. ~he flashes her a bright smile before pulling his keys from his pocket and heading off~ Drop me a line sometime. ~he starts whistling an old tune... from somewhere around the late 20's early 30's as he goes~
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:22PM CST
His eyes held Muira for a long moment, smiling to her softly while he walked up to her. " Good evening, Muira. How have you been? "
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 10:24PM CST
"Toujours, m'sieur. Toujours." She allows him, of course, to take her hand. The long fingers curve languidly, unmoving, unmoved, like an inert gas. Her dark eyes flicker over him - not so much with disinterest, as with a distant sort of interest - and the pale creature's mouth twitches into a subtly wider half-smile. "Moreover, you remembered my name. Impressive." As her arm falls back to her side, her brows lilt upward. "Unless you have it written on your hand, somewhere - though that would get unwieldy, I suspect." Her mouth thins, then, a strange small smile, which she tosses toward Jason as he takes his leave. "You can tell your horse that I prefer him to that - well - " she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. " - I won't say more for fear of insulting you, utterly, Jason, but I am certain that never is quite too soon for me to encounter your clanmate again."
Jason Malone
Sun 10:27PM CST
~he laughs~ You two have the same opinion of one another. I promise... next time... Cat-man and Wolfen won't be around. We need to finish that chat sometimes. Til then... ~he goes back to whistling and then disappears around the corner of the building.~
William Whitaker
Sun 10:30PM CST
He holds up his hands to Marie, and pulls up only one of his sleeves for a moment, looking with mock nervousness at the other before his grin returns.
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 10:41PM CST
"That hardly proves anything." The pale thing studies his hands, and then his sleeves, with the sort of intense interest that should be reserved for the finest works by the greatest of masters, and certainly not bestowed up a man's hands in the middle of a humid night in a wet garden in a well-crafted but essentially non-descript house in the ... the point stands. Her mouth stills, her pale brows draw together, and she does not even so much as blink. The shape of his hand, the structure of his wrist, the way flesh reveals the skeleton beneath. Her features are still solemn and still as she steps forward and reaches out, grasping his second shirt-sleeve and tugging determinedly at the fabric. "You could be using invisible ink, of course."
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:42PM CST
" I have been well Muira. I am pleased to hear you are well. " He smiled and looked down for a moment, then at her. " You seem a little different tonight Muira. " Was that a little grin?
Muira Stewart
Sun 10:44PM CST
*Her hands rub over the damp bottom of her shorts, her bare toes curling in the wet grass and earth as she nibbles her lower lip, flustered beyond thought, swallowing and taking a deep and unncessary breath*I...I dinna ken wh't yer talkin' aboot, Raziel....
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 10:48PM CST
" I am only teasing you, Muira. I enjoy your company regardless. " Dark hazel eyes watched her steadily, the hint of a grin turning into a smile.
Muira Stewart
Sun 10:54PM CST
*she shifts softly on her feet, her fingers slipping into her back jeans pocket*Uhm....thank y' Raziel...*her gaze lowers bashfully*
Raziel Kevlar
Sun 11:00PM CST
He smiled and eased closer to her. " So tell me, what have you been up to? " A hand came up to gently but deflty slip her bangs from her face.
Marie-Hélène Alette
Sun 11:01PM CST
"Oh, I don't believe I'm interested in searching." She drops his sleeve quite precipitously, and flickers a cool, drifting half-smile in his direction. "I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea, M'sieur Whitaker." The dark eyes, flicker briefly toward Muira and Raziel. The pale brows twitch upward, her mouth and fine, sharp jaw set firmly. Her attention remains there - she's staring - absorbed in the interplay, and she offers William a sort of offhand remark - one that a spectator at a tennis game would offer a companion, just that casual, her voice so disinterested it seems almost detached. " - or, if you're going to get the wrong idea, I'd rather it be over something more substantial than a strip search for crib notes with my name on them. M'sieur Whitaker - " now she glances at him, away from the flirting pair, the unstable structure of her pale hair wobbling uncertainly, oddly, on the back of her head. The structure is already beginning to crumble - not charmingly, but messily. " - the pleasure was mine, as always. Good evening."
With that, she simply turns and saunters away.
samedi, juillet 10, 2004
new arrivals
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:05AM CST
Nathan looks up from the book and smiles at the gathering of folks from outside.
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:06AM CST
Samuel stands looking at a painting on the wall and tilting his hooded and masked head.
William Whitaker
Sat 02:07AM CST
"Not yet. Soon, though. Hopefully very soon. I've been sending him and the Prince letters to let them know that I would be arriving in the city." Body mannerisms, a shake of his head, the impatience evident as he begins to drum his fingers upon the arm of the chair, all make it very obvious that he isn't happy about that fact. Still, he had corresponded with his Regent, so hopefully Wolfgang had made things right. The Pyramid took care of its own, when necessary.
Buddy
Sat 02:09AM CST
*Notices his frustration*
"You'll get your chance, just hope it goes better than Sam's first impression"
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:14AM CST
Shutting the book and throwing it into the fire. Nathan looks at those gathered in the library.
((whoever that mihgt be I am unsure))
"Art of War my ass. I thought a chinese dude wrote that. Not Machywhatshisfuck. Stupid Ass Italians."
William Whitaker
Sat 02:14AM CST
"Do you mind enlightening me as to what his first impression with the Senechal was?" He leans forward, the muscles along his neck shifting beneath the thin Tremere's skin as he does so. He was hardly impressive physically, if you discounted the strange attractiveness and charm he radiated, but that was indeed a difficult thing to do. As is wrists creep out from the tunnels of the suit's jacket, a silver chain peaks out, its links etched with Hermetic sigils. The other wrist has a simple leather cuff round it, from the looks of it.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:15AM CST
"Who is this Sam - " another has entered the room, a pale, lovely creature, tall and long-limbed, with a supple slouch to her posture. Long pale arms bare, silk shell skimming the shape of her torso rather than revealing it, worn jeans - oversized - sinking from a tightly cinched belt slung around her narrow hips. Pale hair, some near-unknown color of faint gold, crowns her head, twisted into a desultory knot secured by such oddments as a broken chopstick and a length of broken pipe, an old washer and a portion of a television antenna, broken, of course. " - and how did he manage to fail at the rather easy task of impression Mr. Stevenson?"
Sharp features, dark blue eyes, pale brows and lashes, a cool, red-mouthed smile. Her gaze drifts from Buddy to William, back again. She falls silent a half-moment later, her generous mouth stilling, her dark eyes focused carelessly on Buddy. Gossip-monger.
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:18AM CST
Same was very easy to spot, Large man over 7 feet tall and well over 400 pounds in mass large muscled and broad shouldered no matter how he slouched to hide it, his face was hidden by a hood over a black mask and his body was hidden in the shadowy folds of a large brown trenchcoat
Buddy
Sat 02:18AM CST
"Best to ask the man yourself. Samuel has a problem with his looks and takes steps to conceal himself. Mr. Stevenson asked him to remove his mask and things got tense."
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:22AM CST
Nathan raises an eyebrow, looking over at the very same painting Sam is studying. Walking toward his clanmate he stays quiet and just takes in the painting.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:23AM CST
"Oh, - " a half-muttered word, lingering in her throat. A glance, tossed over her elegant shoulder, dark eyes settling briefly on Samuel, taking in the ensemble expressionlessly. " - the old black mask, brown trenchcoat on the walking mountain. Very inconspicuous. Bravo. Fine choice." Her voice is low, in both pitch and volume. Her eyes rise from Samuel, her posture shifts subtly as she turns back and offers a faint, drifting smile to Buddy, then William. "I'm afraid we have not met, m'sieurs. I would love to remedy that."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:24AM CST
Sam just turns to look at marie with a blank expression "Huh?"
Buddy
Sat 02:24AM CST
*Looks to the Tremere*
"And you were worried about me. I can keep my mouth shut around humans."
Buddy
Sat 02:27AM CST
"Hey, we haven't met, I'm Buddy."
*He is obviously Gangrel, dripping wet, red glowing eyes, fangs, and claws retracting as she apporaches. In a early ska "rude boy" suit. Skinny tie, white shirt, black pants and sports coat and black and white Doc. Martin shoes with flames on the side.* ((App3))
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:30AM CST
Sam belatedly notices nathan "Hi..."
William Whitaker
Sat 02:31AM CST
The charcoal suit that fits like a glove around the Tremere’s body shifts as he pulls himself forward and out of the chair as Marie makes her presence known. Gossip-monger or not, etiquette was so deeply ingrained in his psyche that he couldn’t stay seated at a woman’s arrival.
He smiles gently, the charm rippling around him as strongly as his cousins in other clans like the Brujah might radiate intimidation or the Gangrel their animalism. "William Whitaker." He moves to take the woman's hand, as he had Alinor's earlier, and if she will permit to touch his cool lips to that ivory flesh.
He wears a dark purple shirt under the suit's jacket, with a black glossy tie, the arms and legs accented with lines of safety pins that make it seem almost a piece of modern art. Another column of the chrome pins run down its spine.
Buddy
Sat 02:32AM CST
*It is unfortunate that Buddy is so Goshe.....but lucky for him people expect it from his clan.*
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:34AM CST
Nathan mearily nods to Sam and again looks to the painting.
"Why do they do it?"
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:36AM CST
"Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais." The pale creature studies Buddy with a curious intensity: the details of his dress, the claws, sliding back into the flesh of his fingertips as she approaches, and then back to his face. She lifts her chin then, turning to the Tremere as he introduces himself, and holds out a pale hand. Her fingers are long, delicate, elegant, but the nails are short and ragged, a thin scrim of motoroil beneath either thumbnail, flakes of old nailpolish shredding off the index and middle fingers of her rigvht hand. "Toreador. It is quite the pleasure to make your acquantainces, M'sieur Buddy, M'sieur Whitaker. New faces - " a faint, coiled sigh then, long-suffering, world-weary. " - are more welcome than you can know."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:40AM CST
Sam looks at nathan "You see it too?"
Buddy
Sat 02:40AM CST
*Raises his eyebrows and looks around him. He doesn't even notice that his eyes are still glowing.*
"Cool to meet you. How's it going?"
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:42AM CST
Nathan scratchs his head, cocking it to one side. Squinting his eyes.
"Ofcourse I do."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:43AM CST
Sam nods "Good... I was wondering if there was really a painting here or if i was going crazy..." He then walks over to sit his large, dripping, damp, form on one of the couches.
Buddy
Sat 02:45AM CST
*Buddy chuckles mid stretch at that.*
"Are you sure the painting is the best thing to judge that suspicion on?"
William Whitaker
Sat 02:47AM CST
He speaks in French to the woman. His accent far from perfect, but it’s certainly close enough to be considered fluent. “I am of the Clan and House Tremere. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mme. d’Allais. It‘s also my pleasure to be a new face in this city. Perhaps we could talk at another time as to why the arrival of... Reserves? Why that is so welcome.”
Buddy
Sat 02:48AM CST
*also in perfect French*
"Yes, Madam....or is it Madmoiselle? Why are new faces needed."
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:48AM CST
Nathan turns to Buddy and just barks loudly.
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:50AM CST
Sam then lays down on the couch in a fetal position his long arms tucked straight out between his knees, he stares straight across from couch "Hey... Where's the T.V...."
Buddy
Sat 02:51AM CST
*A look from Buddy crosses the room as he gives him the very Un Politically Correct "retard" hand gesture.*
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:53AM CST
Nathan smiles and nods to Buddy, understanding eachother a very primitive level. Nathan then walks over and sits down in a chair near Sam.
"I think he might have some books about T.V."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:55AM CST
Sam sighs "Oh..." he tilts his head to look up at nathan "Thanks for the T.V."
Buddy
Sat 02:56AM CST
*Returns his gaze to Marie*
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:56AM CST
"Mademoiselle, s'il vous plaît. And - to be sure - " she continues in French. Her accent - if they are sensitive to such things - is Parisian rather than Provençal or even - always a possibility - Canadian. Her smile is little more than a cool twitch of her generous mouth, as she curves both of her long arms negligently around her lean torso. "You see, society leaves something to be desired. There are too many - " The creature straightens perceptibly and shifts her hips in a subtle gesture toward the center of the room: Samuel in a fetal position, Nathan barking. "There are some nights where I would almost prefer silence to the inane chatter." She offers another faint, charming little smile. "Of course, that is the worst of untruths. I would never prefer silence to discourse. And I must insist that you refer to me either as Marie-Hélène or Mmselle Alette. The rest is taken from my Sire's name, but so far from home, I prefer to make my own name."
Bryce Stevenson
Sat 02:57AM CST
*Comeing down from his personal office Bryce is in a pair of dress pants and a white "wife beater" on. He steps into the library as he hears Samuel* The TV isn't in this room and I would thank you kindly to show some respect for my home and get your damp ass off of my Carinthian Lether Couch and sit somewere that your dampness will not destroy. And you Mr. Hale, I hope the church gives you a big paycheck because that book that you just threw into the fire is an origonal.
*Loooking to Buddy and Marie* Good evening Marie, Buddy.
*Than over to William* I do not think I have seen you around here before.
Buddy
Sat 02:59AM CST
*Buddy stiffens slightly as the sound of a large man comes close. Once he realizes that it is the man who intimidated him the night before, he slowly walks to the entrance rug to dry off as best he can.*
"Good evening Sir."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:59AM CST
Sam shrugs and sits up, then stands leaving the couch covered with moisture, he moves to look at the bookshelf.
Nathan Hale
Sat 03:01AM CST
Nathan eyes widen and then he looks to the fire, then shrugs.
William Whitaker
Sat 03:07AM CST
William‘s quick enough to put two and two together, figuring out that as owner of the house it must be Bryce the Senechal that was before him. He quickly moves forward, bowing as station would dictate before speaking. “William Whitaker, Neonate of the House Tremere. I was hoping to make your acquaintance tonight, honorable Senechal, but I also did not wish to disturb you. I was recently asked by my clan to join the Chantry of Chicago, and after corresponding with my new Regent, here I am. I hope you received my letter to notify you that I would be present in your domain and wished to make my presentation, as the Traditions would expect of me.”
Nathan Hale
Sat 03:11AM CST
Nathan grows suddenly very anxious to be out of the library mostly because a language is being spoken he does not know it makes him very paranoid. Infact he runs off.
"Sam run they are plotting."
Is the last thing anyone hears from Nathan.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 03:12AM CST
The Toreador offers the Seneschal a brief, charming little smile. It doesn't extend to her dark eyes, but few things do. She is unreadable. Some moments after Nathan has disappeared, in fear of plots, she too turns and saunters down the hall to the foyer, and then out the front door.
Sat 02:05AM CST
Nathan looks up from the book and smiles at the gathering of folks from outside.
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:06AM CST
Samuel stands looking at a painting on the wall and tilting his hooded and masked head.
William Whitaker
Sat 02:07AM CST
"Not yet. Soon, though. Hopefully very soon. I've been sending him and the Prince letters to let them know that I would be arriving in the city." Body mannerisms, a shake of his head, the impatience evident as he begins to drum his fingers upon the arm of the chair, all make it very obvious that he isn't happy about that fact. Still, he had corresponded with his Regent, so hopefully Wolfgang had made things right. The Pyramid took care of its own, when necessary.
Buddy
Sat 02:09AM CST
*Notices his frustration*
"You'll get your chance, just hope it goes better than Sam's first impression"
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:14AM CST
Shutting the book and throwing it into the fire. Nathan looks at those gathered in the library.
((whoever that mihgt be I am unsure))
"Art of War my ass. I thought a chinese dude wrote that. Not Machywhatshisfuck. Stupid Ass Italians."
William Whitaker
Sat 02:14AM CST
"Do you mind enlightening me as to what his first impression with the Senechal was?" He leans forward, the muscles along his neck shifting beneath the thin Tremere's skin as he does so. He was hardly impressive physically, if you discounted the strange attractiveness and charm he radiated, but that was indeed a difficult thing to do. As is wrists creep out from the tunnels of the suit's jacket, a silver chain peaks out, its links etched with Hermetic sigils. The other wrist has a simple leather cuff round it, from the looks of it.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:15AM CST
"Who is this Sam - " another has entered the room, a pale, lovely creature, tall and long-limbed, with a supple slouch to her posture. Long pale arms bare, silk shell skimming the shape of her torso rather than revealing it, worn jeans - oversized - sinking from a tightly cinched belt slung around her narrow hips. Pale hair, some near-unknown color of faint gold, crowns her head, twisted into a desultory knot secured by such oddments as a broken chopstick and a length of broken pipe, an old washer and a portion of a television antenna, broken, of course. " - and how did he manage to fail at the rather easy task of impression Mr. Stevenson?"
Sharp features, dark blue eyes, pale brows and lashes, a cool, red-mouthed smile. Her gaze drifts from Buddy to William, back again. She falls silent a half-moment later, her generous mouth stilling, her dark eyes focused carelessly on Buddy. Gossip-monger.
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:18AM CST
Same was very easy to spot, Large man over 7 feet tall and well over 400 pounds in mass large muscled and broad shouldered no matter how he slouched to hide it, his face was hidden by a hood over a black mask and his body was hidden in the shadowy folds of a large brown trenchcoat
Buddy
Sat 02:18AM CST
"Best to ask the man yourself. Samuel has a problem with his looks and takes steps to conceal himself. Mr. Stevenson asked him to remove his mask and things got tense."
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:22AM CST
Nathan raises an eyebrow, looking over at the very same painting Sam is studying. Walking toward his clanmate he stays quiet and just takes in the painting.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:23AM CST
"Oh, - " a half-muttered word, lingering in her throat. A glance, tossed over her elegant shoulder, dark eyes settling briefly on Samuel, taking in the ensemble expressionlessly. " - the old black mask, brown trenchcoat on the walking mountain. Very inconspicuous. Bravo. Fine choice." Her voice is low, in both pitch and volume. Her eyes rise from Samuel, her posture shifts subtly as she turns back and offers a faint, drifting smile to Buddy, then William. "I'm afraid we have not met, m'sieurs. I would love to remedy that."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:24AM CST
Sam just turns to look at marie with a blank expression "Huh?"
Buddy
Sat 02:24AM CST
*Looks to the Tremere*
"And you were worried about me. I can keep my mouth shut around humans."
Buddy
Sat 02:27AM CST
"Hey, we haven't met, I'm Buddy."
*He is obviously Gangrel, dripping wet, red glowing eyes, fangs, and claws retracting as she apporaches. In a early ska "rude boy" suit. Skinny tie, white shirt, black pants and sports coat and black and white Doc. Martin shoes with flames on the side.* ((App3))
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:30AM CST
Sam belatedly notices nathan "Hi..."
William Whitaker
Sat 02:31AM CST
The charcoal suit that fits like a glove around the Tremere’s body shifts as he pulls himself forward and out of the chair as Marie makes her presence known. Gossip-monger or not, etiquette was so deeply ingrained in his psyche that he couldn’t stay seated at a woman’s arrival.
He smiles gently, the charm rippling around him as strongly as his cousins in other clans like the Brujah might radiate intimidation or the Gangrel their animalism. "William Whitaker." He moves to take the woman's hand, as he had Alinor's earlier, and if she will permit to touch his cool lips to that ivory flesh.
He wears a dark purple shirt under the suit's jacket, with a black glossy tie, the arms and legs accented with lines of safety pins that make it seem almost a piece of modern art. Another column of the chrome pins run down its spine.
Buddy
Sat 02:32AM CST
*It is unfortunate that Buddy is so Goshe.....but lucky for him people expect it from his clan.*
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:34AM CST
Nathan mearily nods to Sam and again looks to the painting.
"Why do they do it?"
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:36AM CST
"Marie-Hélène Alette de Sausanne d'Allais." The pale creature studies Buddy with a curious intensity: the details of his dress, the claws, sliding back into the flesh of his fingertips as she approaches, and then back to his face. She lifts her chin then, turning to the Tremere as he introduces himself, and holds out a pale hand. Her fingers are long, delicate, elegant, but the nails are short and ragged, a thin scrim of motoroil beneath either thumbnail, flakes of old nailpolish shredding off the index and middle fingers of her rigvht hand. "Toreador. It is quite the pleasure to make your acquantainces, M'sieur Buddy, M'sieur Whitaker. New faces - " a faint, coiled sigh then, long-suffering, world-weary. " - are more welcome than you can know."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:40AM CST
Sam looks at nathan "You see it too?"
Buddy
Sat 02:40AM CST
*Raises his eyebrows and looks around him. He doesn't even notice that his eyes are still glowing.*
"Cool to meet you. How's it going?"
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:42AM CST
Nathan scratchs his head, cocking it to one side. Squinting his eyes.
"Ofcourse I do."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:43AM CST
Sam nods "Good... I was wondering if there was really a painting here or if i was going crazy..." He then walks over to sit his large, dripping, damp, form on one of the couches.
Buddy
Sat 02:45AM CST
*Buddy chuckles mid stretch at that.*
"Are you sure the painting is the best thing to judge that suspicion on?"
William Whitaker
Sat 02:47AM CST
He speaks in French to the woman. His accent far from perfect, but it’s certainly close enough to be considered fluent. “I am of the Clan and House Tremere. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mme. d’Allais. It‘s also my pleasure to be a new face in this city. Perhaps we could talk at another time as to why the arrival of... Reserves? Why that is so welcome.”
Buddy
Sat 02:48AM CST
*also in perfect French*
"Yes, Madam....or is it Madmoiselle? Why are new faces needed."
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:48AM CST
Nathan turns to Buddy and just barks loudly.
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:50AM CST
Sam then lays down on the couch in a fetal position his long arms tucked straight out between his knees, he stares straight across from couch "Hey... Where's the T.V...."
Buddy
Sat 02:51AM CST
*A look from Buddy crosses the room as he gives him the very Un Politically Correct "retard" hand gesture.*
Nathan Hale
Sat 02:53AM CST
Nathan smiles and nods to Buddy, understanding eachother a very primitive level. Nathan then walks over and sits down in a chair near Sam.
"I think he might have some books about T.V."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:55AM CST
Sam sighs "Oh..." he tilts his head to look up at nathan "Thanks for the T.V."
Buddy
Sat 02:56AM CST
*Returns his gaze to Marie*
Marie-Hélène
Sat 02:56AM CST
"Mademoiselle, s'il vous plaît. And - to be sure - " she continues in French. Her accent - if they are sensitive to such things - is Parisian rather than Provençal or even - always a possibility - Canadian. Her smile is little more than a cool twitch of her generous mouth, as she curves both of her long arms negligently around her lean torso. "You see, society leaves something to be desired. There are too many - " The creature straightens perceptibly and shifts her hips in a subtle gesture toward the center of the room: Samuel in a fetal position, Nathan barking. "There are some nights where I would almost prefer silence to the inane chatter." She offers another faint, charming little smile. "Of course, that is the worst of untruths. I would never prefer silence to discourse. And I must insist that you refer to me either as Marie-Hélène or Mmselle Alette. The rest is taken from my Sire's name, but so far from home, I prefer to make my own name."
Bryce Stevenson
Sat 02:57AM CST
*Comeing down from his personal office Bryce is in a pair of dress pants and a white "wife beater" on. He steps into the library as he hears Samuel* The TV isn't in this room and I would thank you kindly to show some respect for my home and get your damp ass off of my Carinthian Lether Couch and sit somewere that your dampness will not destroy. And you Mr. Hale, I hope the church gives you a big paycheck because that book that you just threw into the fire is an origonal.
*Loooking to Buddy and Marie* Good evening Marie, Buddy.
*Than over to William* I do not think I have seen you around here before.
Buddy
Sat 02:59AM CST
*Buddy stiffens slightly as the sound of a large man comes close. Once he realizes that it is the man who intimidated him the night before, he slowly walks to the entrance rug to dry off as best he can.*
"Good evening Sir."
Samuel Glimmers
Sat 02:59AM CST
Sam shrugs and sits up, then stands leaving the couch covered with moisture, he moves to look at the bookshelf.
Nathan Hale
Sat 03:01AM CST
Nathan eyes widen and then he looks to the fire, then shrugs.
William Whitaker
Sat 03:07AM CST
William‘s quick enough to put two and two together, figuring out that as owner of the house it must be Bryce the Senechal that was before him. He quickly moves forward, bowing as station would dictate before speaking. “William Whitaker, Neonate of the House Tremere. I was hoping to make your acquaintance tonight, honorable Senechal, but I also did not wish to disturb you. I was recently asked by my clan to join the Chantry of Chicago, and after corresponding with my new Regent, here I am. I hope you received my letter to notify you that I would be present in your domain and wished to make my presentation, as the Traditions would expect of me.”
Nathan Hale
Sat 03:11AM CST
Nathan grows suddenly very anxious to be out of the library mostly because a language is being spoken he does not know it makes him very paranoid. Infact he runs off.
"Sam run they are plotting."
Is the last thing anyone hears from Nathan.
Marie-Hélène
Sat 03:12AM CST
The Toreador offers the Seneschal a brief, charming little smile. It doesn't extend to her dark eyes, but few things do. She is unreadable. Some moments after Nathan has disappeared, in fear of plots, she too turns and saunters down the hall to the foyer, and then out the front door.
jeudi, juillet 08, 2004
power and treason
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:11PM CST
Dr. Masterson pulled up the drive way in is S80. It was a fine machine, and everything he needed in a vehicle. It had been a long night thus far, quite busy. Lily was failing him in general, so her time was nigh. With a quick trip to the Elysium ahead of him, in hopes of finding solice within some interaction of his own kind, he made his way through the main entrance, passing the library, and making his way to the back lawn.
It was a cloudy night, rather cool, but no rain as of yet.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:16PM CST
Late evening. Marie-Hélène is reclining on one of the patio chaises, set almost wholly back, so that she can peer at the underbellies of the riot of orange clouds flooding the vault of the sky, and imagine the stars beyond them, if that is what she is doing. Sconces line the patio, lighting the flagstones closest to the building, leaving the far edge in deep, drifting bouts of shadow relieved only by the softer glow of small, generously spaced laterns at the edge of the lawn. A thin coil of smoke drifts from the pale creature's mouth, like an unheaded, undulating dragon, she breathes out so slowly and so carefully that the spiral thins to the proportions of fine gauge wire several feet above her head, then dissipates in the wind.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:22PM CST
It is a different shade of grey, most of a deep smoke than the previous night's shale color, that his suit is this evening. His traditional black tie and white shirt are, as always, pressed, and his trademark cane now, polished black lacquer with spitshined silver head and neck, his held in his left hand as he step-step-clacks across the concrete floor. Spying Marie-Helen in chaise, he moves to sit in an adjacent one, with posture perfect, before speaking.
"Fancy meeting you hear, Madamoiselle Alette," he opens.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:30PM CST
"Monsieur le docteur," the creature murmurs by way of acknowledgment, her red mouth barely moving to shape the words. Each is accompanied by another puff of smoke, although the smoke is thinner than ever, stretched to almost nothing, almost clean, just a strange translucency in the night air, which catches the remnants of light and reflects some filmy opacity back to the eye.
She casts him a half-smile. Her mouth curves to one corner, and her dark eyes crawl lazily from the sky to the Tremere seated so precisely at her side, counterpoint to her languid sprawl. Oversized BDUs sink, outlining the shape of her legs beneath. In contrast to the ripped, dirty pants, she wears a silk shell that sifts across the shape of her torso, suggesting rather than revealing the long, lean body beneath. Her long arms are bare, though, and one rises now, a smouldering cigar in hand. In contrast to her usual cheap, foul black cigarellos, this one is finely made, highly aromatic: Cuban, perhaps, or a well-made Dominican at the least. "What a delightful surprise. What brings you out tonight, mmm? Or are the details too occult for us mere - " her shoulders rise and fall in winsome expression, " - mortals to know?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:36PM CST
Dr. Masterson responded a bit slowly, "The details of my evening are rather... complicated. While I'm not implying that you aren't intelligent enough to understand... I simply imply that there is bliss in ignorance... a bliss that, from time to time, I long for."
He remained sitting, noting the form and figure of the militant torreador before him. Was it a dress sytle, or was she once affilitated with an armed service branch? Even the term, "armed service," was a misnomer he was rather entertained with. He remembered when the Department of Defense was called the Department of War... how entertaining it is how these things change over time.
"Still, I am glad that I am a delightful suprise this evening."
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:49PM CST
"If you don't wish to tell me - " there is a certain sharpness to her voice, a distinct vinager.
" - or if you feel that it is not an appropriate subject for polite conversation, cher, you should tell me. I am not likely to take offense, as it was more a conversational gambit - a trope - rather than deep curiousity." Her smile deepens, becomes matched, and she turns her head, hair spread out beneath her like the sun's rays, catching the shifting light, shining with reflected light. "If you were to ask me how I spent my evening, Dr. Masterson, I would most likely lie to you. Or, - " musing now, her fine, generous mouth pressed together, holding in a reserve of smoke drawn from the cigar, which she twirls round and round and round between her fine, long fingers. " - I might brush you off. We are what we are."
Her dark eyes flash. Movement ripples through her body, or at least the promise of it, some tenseness that presages movement, but she merely shifts, sidelong, and taps the delicate heel of her finely made shoes - leather straps dark against her skin, inset with diamonds all around, encircling the delicate structures of her feet - against the bottom rung of the well-made chaise. "But you are always a delightful surprise." Her eyes half-hood. She watches him, sidelong, and takes another thoughtful mouthful of smoke from the cigar. " - didn't you know that?" Her voice is light, but her regard is uncomfortably close and - for a brief moment - her generous mouth stills to an expressionless line before twitching charmingly wider, again.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:54PM CST
"I always know I am a suprise... whether I am delightful or not is a solid subject of debate," came the reply. Granted, he knew that they were what they were, and he did accept this one unfortunate truth, but, by his nature, him being what he was... he was not social, and therefore, somewhat bothered by her statements.
"Tell me though, if you please. Beyond waiting for the morning's rays, what is there to do in this burg? I have not seen a trace of the Sabbat, there is no ongoing strife against them. The Camarilla is fairly stable here too, and most of our kind stick to small cliques."
Remaining sitting up, watching the attractive husk sprawl out before him, "Beyond self improvement, what is there anything to do here?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:01PM CST
"You could always make a grab for power," she quips, her half-smile deepening. "Primogen. Prince. Whatever it is that you call your leaders." Her left hand rests on the arm of the chaise, the tip of the cigar turned carefully away from both of them. Her right arm rises to curl above her head. For a moment, she reaches into a long, elegant stretch, fingers splayed wide above the end of the chaise, sketching delicate shadows against the mottled flagstone pavers, but then her arm curves back down, fine fingers stretching through her pale hair, lifting long strands to the side, sifting and sorting through them, pulling out any lingering or new-made knots. " -- regent, is it? Something like that. Do you fancy being a dauphin, my good doctor? Rising to new stations?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:07PM CST
He smiles, "While those words are practically treason, I will find a way to forget them. But, for a brief while, I was the Seneschal of Charleston, Regent and Primogen, all at once. I was the Prince for about three days before I realized that the city was not worth keeping. The members of the Camarilla there would not be educated, and the Sabbat outnumbered us, three to one. Though, I, like any of my breed, not clan mind you, but breed, am attracted to power in all shapes and forms. But Chicago is, as comforting as it may seem, a far larger pond than the backwater hole in the swamp of Charleston, South Carolina."
He chuckled in disgust at the thoughts of that city. "Needless to say, what about you. What are your thoughts? Or do I have to worry about you... misleading me?"
His grin grew, lips remaining together though, as his head lowered so he could peer through the tops of his glasses.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:19PM CST
"You have a strange definition of treason, Dr. Masterson. Certainly, I have spent far too many hours in Elysium, and have yet to even hear the name of your Primogen or Regent spoken in these halls. But - having experienced such a vaccuum of power in Charleston - I suppose you are better suited to take the true measure of a city like this than I ever could be."
Her right hand rises, she makes some dismissive gesture, pale threads of her hair sliding over the delicate fingers as she does so. "Are you asking my thoughts on the city, or how to pass the nights? Either way, you certainly have to worry about me misleading you. I have quite a slippery - perhaps even forked - tongue, and am perfectly happy to utter half- or un-truths - " she takes another mouthful of smoke. And smiles, a cheshire grin, then exhales the mouthful of smoke through her flared nostrils and continues, " - should it suit me. I'll tell you this, however. I have no desire for any position, whatsoever. Were someone to offer me such a position on a chased silver platter, I would run immediately and quickly the other direction. I find power to be a - " her mouth presses together, her smile turns almost secretive, almost sly. " - a hollow comfort, at best, and an ill-guided illusion at worst."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:26PM CST
"I tend to agree with you in that regard," he smiles. "Is the Prince the slave or the master? Do we need him, or does he need us? All a very esoteric concept, one surely not worth the time spent discussing it. Though, in regards to Treason... we are not afforded the same rights as the cattle that walks around us."
Dr. Masterson seemed rather disgusted, but, on the other hand, he was somewhat relaxed. Standing now, he slammed his cane into the concrete, letting a loud crack sound off in the night air. "Have you seen Sonatine recently?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:33PM CST
The pale creature studies him, her fine, sharp features impassive, her mouth drawn into a narrow little smirk. She says nothing - stirs to say nothing, chooses to say nothing - until he inquires about Sonatine. Her shoulders curl against the plastic webbing on the chaise. "Last week. Possibly the week before. In either case, I saw him quite recently. I believe he was walking around scaring the lunatics and his newest clanmate, to boot. Why?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:35PM CST
His eyes shifted in understanding, "Yes. I simply understood that a member of the Camarilla had fallen recently. I do not know who, but I wanted to make sure it was not him."
Dismissivly, "So, he has a new clanmate. Do tell?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:41PM CST
"A Ms. Muira Stewart. Given, apparently, to chattering in one of the Celtic language - brythonic, I believe, although I would not stake my evening's entertainment upon it - and sticking her tongue out at people. Also, something of a happy-go-lucky but easily frightened little miss." Her eyes flicker casually across his face. " - have you not met her? I believe she is living with Mr. Stevenson, although she may have since obtained lodgings of her own. Generous of him - " and the way she says that word, generous, is sufficiently dismissively that she could have said foolish instead. " - isn't it?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:44PM CST
Shaking his head. "I would say so." obviusly not, but what did it matter
"But, who is Mr. Stevenson? Is that the Seneschal?" he bore a ligitimate, inquisitive look.
Marie-Hélène
Fri 12:00AM CST
"The Seneschal, yes - " she responds, her dark eyes flickering over him curiously. " - you've never met him." It isn't a question, it is a statement, utterly flatly, with the sort of deadpan lack of expression to which Toreador give the best expression. There is an undergirding of irony in the statement, in the tipping weight of her gaze. "Shame." She lifts the Cuban in her left hand - shifts her fore and middle fingers so that the cigar rises above the level of the chaise's arm. The smoldering cherry dances in the darkness. "He has fine taste in cigars, if nothing else."
The pale creature rises abruptly from her sprawl, and her hair - undone by her fidgeting fingers - spills around her lean body like light made momentarily solid. Almost colourless, the pale strands catch and refract all the colours of the evening, swim with colour. Hands planted on the arms, feet planted on the ground on either side, she levers herself to an ungainly stance, then delicately steps over the chaise with a sweeping, graceful motion. "Dr. Masterson - " she stands over him, such a tall creature, made that much taller by her elegant heels. Despite the strange juxtaposition of army fatigues and silk and fine shoes, she carries herself as if it all were the height of fashion, sinking into an attractive half-slouch made popular by any number of women's magazines. The posture suits the lean lines of her body, the long arms and legs, the negligent (learned) grace with which she moves. " - someday we should discuss the nature of power. You dismiss it as an unworthy topic, but I believe it would prove endlessly amusing."
Her hair swims around her shoulders, down her back. Still holding the cigar carefully away from the both of them in her outstretched left hand, she reaches up with her right hand and pulls the errant threads of her pale hair together, lifting them off her long neck, away from her cheek. Then she leans forward, a cool skim of a smile twitching across her mouth, and brushes the air above the Tremere's either cheek in a common continental farewell. "But it will have to wait for another evening, cher." Stepping back, she allows her hair to fall back to her neck. "I have plans tonight. Good evening."
Dr. Masterson
Fri 12:07AM CST
Eric smiled, "I hope you truely do not believe that I dismiss it so simply. That would be a shame. Perhaps ou simply have not warmed me to the subject."
Still he kept his eye on the creature, wearing the BDUs, as she made her exit.
Speaking in flawless French, "It has been fun... good evening, Madmoiselle Allette."
Marie-Hélène
Fri 12:11AM CST
As she saunters away, the elegant thing casts a brief, dark glance back - over her shoulder. Her mouth is red, her chin a pale, definitionless reflection in the sheen of her silk shell. "Bien sûr, monsieur le docteur. Un plaisir, toujours."
Thu 10:11PM CST
Dr. Masterson pulled up the drive way in is S80. It was a fine machine, and everything he needed in a vehicle. It had been a long night thus far, quite busy. Lily was failing him in general, so her time was nigh. With a quick trip to the Elysium ahead of him, in hopes of finding solice within some interaction of his own kind, he made his way through the main entrance, passing the library, and making his way to the back lawn.
It was a cloudy night, rather cool, but no rain as of yet.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:16PM CST
Late evening. Marie-Hélène is reclining on one of the patio chaises, set almost wholly back, so that she can peer at the underbellies of the riot of orange clouds flooding the vault of the sky, and imagine the stars beyond them, if that is what she is doing. Sconces line the patio, lighting the flagstones closest to the building, leaving the far edge in deep, drifting bouts of shadow relieved only by the softer glow of small, generously spaced laterns at the edge of the lawn. A thin coil of smoke drifts from the pale creature's mouth, like an unheaded, undulating dragon, she breathes out so slowly and so carefully that the spiral thins to the proportions of fine gauge wire several feet above her head, then dissipates in the wind.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:22PM CST
It is a different shade of grey, most of a deep smoke than the previous night's shale color, that his suit is this evening. His traditional black tie and white shirt are, as always, pressed, and his trademark cane now, polished black lacquer with spitshined silver head and neck, his held in his left hand as he step-step-clacks across the concrete floor. Spying Marie-Helen in chaise, he moves to sit in an adjacent one, with posture perfect, before speaking.
"Fancy meeting you hear, Madamoiselle Alette," he opens.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:30PM CST
"Monsieur le docteur," the creature murmurs by way of acknowledgment, her red mouth barely moving to shape the words. Each is accompanied by another puff of smoke, although the smoke is thinner than ever, stretched to almost nothing, almost clean, just a strange translucency in the night air, which catches the remnants of light and reflects some filmy opacity back to the eye.
She casts him a half-smile. Her mouth curves to one corner, and her dark eyes crawl lazily from the sky to the Tremere seated so precisely at her side, counterpoint to her languid sprawl. Oversized BDUs sink, outlining the shape of her legs beneath. In contrast to the ripped, dirty pants, she wears a silk shell that sifts across the shape of her torso, suggesting rather than revealing the long, lean body beneath. Her long arms are bare, though, and one rises now, a smouldering cigar in hand. In contrast to her usual cheap, foul black cigarellos, this one is finely made, highly aromatic: Cuban, perhaps, or a well-made Dominican at the least. "What a delightful surprise. What brings you out tonight, mmm? Or are the details too occult for us mere - " her shoulders rise and fall in winsome expression, " - mortals to know?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:36PM CST
Dr. Masterson responded a bit slowly, "The details of my evening are rather... complicated. While I'm not implying that you aren't intelligent enough to understand... I simply imply that there is bliss in ignorance... a bliss that, from time to time, I long for."
He remained sitting, noting the form and figure of the militant torreador before him. Was it a dress sytle, or was she once affilitated with an armed service branch? Even the term, "armed service," was a misnomer he was rather entertained with. He remembered when the Department of Defense was called the Department of War... how entertaining it is how these things change over time.
"Still, I am glad that I am a delightful suprise this evening."
Marie-Hélène
Thu 10:49PM CST
"If you don't wish to tell me - " there is a certain sharpness to her voice, a distinct vinager.
" - or if you feel that it is not an appropriate subject for polite conversation, cher, you should tell me. I am not likely to take offense, as it was more a conversational gambit - a trope - rather than deep curiousity." Her smile deepens, becomes matched, and she turns her head, hair spread out beneath her like the sun's rays, catching the shifting light, shining with reflected light. "If you were to ask me how I spent my evening, Dr. Masterson, I would most likely lie to you. Or, - " musing now, her fine, generous mouth pressed together, holding in a reserve of smoke drawn from the cigar, which she twirls round and round and round between her fine, long fingers. " - I might brush you off. We are what we are."
Her dark eyes flash. Movement ripples through her body, or at least the promise of it, some tenseness that presages movement, but she merely shifts, sidelong, and taps the delicate heel of her finely made shoes - leather straps dark against her skin, inset with diamonds all around, encircling the delicate structures of her feet - against the bottom rung of the well-made chaise. "But you are always a delightful surprise." Her eyes half-hood. She watches him, sidelong, and takes another thoughtful mouthful of smoke from the cigar. " - didn't you know that?" Her voice is light, but her regard is uncomfortably close and - for a brief moment - her generous mouth stills to an expressionless line before twitching charmingly wider, again.
Dr. Masterson
Thu 10:54PM CST
"I always know I am a suprise... whether I am delightful or not is a solid subject of debate," came the reply. Granted, he knew that they were what they were, and he did accept this one unfortunate truth, but, by his nature, him being what he was... he was not social, and therefore, somewhat bothered by her statements.
"Tell me though, if you please. Beyond waiting for the morning's rays, what is there to do in this burg? I have not seen a trace of the Sabbat, there is no ongoing strife against them. The Camarilla is fairly stable here too, and most of our kind stick to small cliques."
Remaining sitting up, watching the attractive husk sprawl out before him, "Beyond self improvement, what is there anything to do here?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:01PM CST
"You could always make a grab for power," she quips, her half-smile deepening. "Primogen. Prince. Whatever it is that you call your leaders." Her left hand rests on the arm of the chaise, the tip of the cigar turned carefully away from both of them. Her right arm rises to curl above her head. For a moment, she reaches into a long, elegant stretch, fingers splayed wide above the end of the chaise, sketching delicate shadows against the mottled flagstone pavers, but then her arm curves back down, fine fingers stretching through her pale hair, lifting long strands to the side, sifting and sorting through them, pulling out any lingering or new-made knots. " -- regent, is it? Something like that. Do you fancy being a dauphin, my good doctor? Rising to new stations?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:07PM CST
He smiles, "While those words are practically treason, I will find a way to forget them. But, for a brief while, I was the Seneschal of Charleston, Regent and Primogen, all at once. I was the Prince for about three days before I realized that the city was not worth keeping. The members of the Camarilla there would not be educated, and the Sabbat outnumbered us, three to one. Though, I, like any of my breed, not clan mind you, but breed, am attracted to power in all shapes and forms. But Chicago is, as comforting as it may seem, a far larger pond than the backwater hole in the swamp of Charleston, South Carolina."
He chuckled in disgust at the thoughts of that city. "Needless to say, what about you. What are your thoughts? Or do I have to worry about you... misleading me?"
His grin grew, lips remaining together though, as his head lowered so he could peer through the tops of his glasses.
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:19PM CST
"You have a strange definition of treason, Dr. Masterson. Certainly, I have spent far too many hours in Elysium, and have yet to even hear the name of your Primogen or Regent spoken in these halls. But - having experienced such a vaccuum of power in Charleston - I suppose you are better suited to take the true measure of a city like this than I ever could be."
Her right hand rises, she makes some dismissive gesture, pale threads of her hair sliding over the delicate fingers as she does so. "Are you asking my thoughts on the city, or how to pass the nights? Either way, you certainly have to worry about me misleading you. I have quite a slippery - perhaps even forked - tongue, and am perfectly happy to utter half- or un-truths - " she takes another mouthful of smoke. And smiles, a cheshire grin, then exhales the mouthful of smoke through her flared nostrils and continues, " - should it suit me. I'll tell you this, however. I have no desire for any position, whatsoever. Were someone to offer me such a position on a chased silver platter, I would run immediately and quickly the other direction. I find power to be a - " her mouth presses together, her smile turns almost secretive, almost sly. " - a hollow comfort, at best, and an ill-guided illusion at worst."
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:26PM CST
"I tend to agree with you in that regard," he smiles. "Is the Prince the slave or the master? Do we need him, or does he need us? All a very esoteric concept, one surely not worth the time spent discussing it. Though, in regards to Treason... we are not afforded the same rights as the cattle that walks around us."
Dr. Masterson seemed rather disgusted, but, on the other hand, he was somewhat relaxed. Standing now, he slammed his cane into the concrete, letting a loud crack sound off in the night air. "Have you seen Sonatine recently?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:33PM CST
The pale creature studies him, her fine, sharp features impassive, her mouth drawn into a narrow little smirk. She says nothing - stirs to say nothing, chooses to say nothing - until he inquires about Sonatine. Her shoulders curl against the plastic webbing on the chaise. "Last week. Possibly the week before. In either case, I saw him quite recently. I believe he was walking around scaring the lunatics and his newest clanmate, to boot. Why?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:35PM CST
His eyes shifted in understanding, "Yes. I simply understood that a member of the Camarilla had fallen recently. I do not know who, but I wanted to make sure it was not him."
Dismissivly, "So, he has a new clanmate. Do tell?"
Marie-Hélène
Thu 11:41PM CST
"A Ms. Muira Stewart. Given, apparently, to chattering in one of the Celtic language - brythonic, I believe, although I would not stake my evening's entertainment upon it - and sticking her tongue out at people. Also, something of a happy-go-lucky but easily frightened little miss." Her eyes flicker casually across his face. " - have you not met her? I believe she is living with Mr. Stevenson, although she may have since obtained lodgings of her own. Generous of him - " and the way she says that word, generous, is sufficiently dismissively that she could have said foolish instead. " - isn't it?"
Dr. Masterson
Thu 11:44PM CST
Shaking his head. "I would say so." obviusly not, but what did it matter
"But, who is Mr. Stevenson? Is that the Seneschal?" he bore a ligitimate, inquisitive look.
Marie-Hélène
Fri 12:00AM CST
"The Seneschal, yes - " she responds, her dark eyes flickering over him curiously. " - you've never met him." It isn't a question, it is a statement, utterly flatly, with the sort of deadpan lack of expression to which Toreador give the best expression. There is an undergirding of irony in the statement, in the tipping weight of her gaze. "Shame." She lifts the Cuban in her left hand - shifts her fore and middle fingers so that the cigar rises above the level of the chaise's arm. The smoldering cherry dances in the darkness. "He has fine taste in cigars, if nothing else."
The pale creature rises abruptly from her sprawl, and her hair - undone by her fidgeting fingers - spills around her lean body like light made momentarily solid. Almost colourless, the pale strands catch and refract all the colours of the evening, swim with colour. Hands planted on the arms, feet planted on the ground on either side, she levers herself to an ungainly stance, then delicately steps over the chaise with a sweeping, graceful motion. "Dr. Masterson - " she stands over him, such a tall creature, made that much taller by her elegant heels. Despite the strange juxtaposition of army fatigues and silk and fine shoes, she carries herself as if it all were the height of fashion, sinking into an attractive half-slouch made popular by any number of women's magazines. The posture suits the lean lines of her body, the long arms and legs, the negligent (learned) grace with which she moves. " - someday we should discuss the nature of power. You dismiss it as an unworthy topic, but I believe it would prove endlessly amusing."
Her hair swims around her shoulders, down her back. Still holding the cigar carefully away from the both of them in her outstretched left hand, she reaches up with her right hand and pulls the errant threads of her pale hair together, lifting them off her long neck, away from her cheek. Then she leans forward, a cool skim of a smile twitching across her mouth, and brushes the air above the Tremere's either cheek in a common continental farewell. "But it will have to wait for another evening, cher." Stepping back, she allows her hair to fall back to her neck. "I have plans tonight. Good evening."
Dr. Masterson
Fri 12:07AM CST
Eric smiled, "I hope you truely do not believe that I dismiss it so simply. That would be a shame. Perhaps ou simply have not warmed me to the subject."
Still he kept his eye on the creature, wearing the BDUs, as she made her exit.
Speaking in flawless French, "It has been fun... good evening, Madmoiselle Allette."
Marie-Hélène
Fri 12:11AM CST
As she saunters away, the elegant thing casts a brief, dark glance back - over her shoulder. Her mouth is red, her chin a pale, definitionless reflection in the sheen of her silk shell. "Bien sûr, monsieur le docteur. Un plaisir, toujours."
mercredi, juillet 07, 2004
bookworms
Dr. Masterson
Wed 08:38PM CST
Dr. Masterson was in the Blind Eye, a dusty, fairly unknown bookstore of darker reputations than others would prefer, but far fairer than he'd enjoy. No less, he was here, flipping through the books on the shelves with his cane tucked in between his left arm and torso, snug at the armpit. His suit was a darker shade of gray than normal, thus ending the rumor that he only owned a single suit.
Picking up a book, opening it carefully and flipping through the pages, he waited for Marie.
Marie-Hélène
Wed 08:48PM CST
Her hair is wet. The white t-shirt is dusted with damp, at the shoulders, down the line of her spine where she hunched over - forward looking - and ran through the rain on her (as usual) impossibly high heels. Inside, she dusts the raindrops from her shoulder and shakes her hair down from its haphazard upsweep, damp pale strands streaming around her shoulders. Except for the messy array of her hair and the cheap cotton t-shirt, she is almost presentable, in a fitted (if unseasonal) suede skirt that hits her a modest half-inch above the knees. We will say nothing of the immodest slit in the back of the garment. Only the people behind her are likely to see it, anyway. "Dr. Masterson." Hair swimming gold around her face, a light creature in this dusty, dark place. She smiles one of her impeccably polite, winsome smiles and navigates through the narrow aisles with her usual long-legged gait, leans at the edge of his aisle, hand planted on the third shelf from the ceiling, for leverage. "I've missed you."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 08:52PM CST
Considering the last encounter that Dr. Masterson had with the ice queen, the warming greeting was rather unexpected. He placed the book back on its spot on the shelf to turn and afford the kindred spirit with her appropriate respects. Nodding and offering a courteous smile, "Thank you, Madamoiselle Alette. Or, should I address you as Marie-Helen this evening? Which would you prefer?"
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:03PM CST
He shifts his arm to let the cane fall from its nestled spot, only to catch it with his hand. Quickly scanning the creature before him, he approaches her, standing straight and tall, almost monolithic. Easily within a breath's distance, he straighten's his necktie and offers a reply.
"Yes, but the last time we spoke, you seemed very upset, and, almost not yourself. I would an inquired then, but I have learned through the years that it is best to leave us to our own devices. However, I am glad to see you appear to be in better spirits." He smiled and offered a casual wink before turning back to the shelf.
The moderate delight died down in his voice, "But I believe you are mostly correct, I have been out of social life, and what few times I have frequented, I have not encountered you. Rather, I have had unpleasant encounters with all sorts of confusing children of our good friend Malkav."
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:10PM CST
"Unfortunate," she quips back, her head tipping sidelong to rest against the incurve of her long, outstretched arm. Some faint, disdainful sound - a distinct, yes, a distinct sniff - as her mouth stills and curdles into a moue of distaste. "They are like cockroaches. They seem to devour each other and pop up like breeding guppies. One night, there are a pair. Turn around, and soon you're swimming in them. They lack manners, and their conversational skills are abysmal, and then - " he steps close, she does not step away. Instead, she watches him a predator's rapt and wary attention: dark eyes half-hooded, swept by pale lashes, but unblinking, the glance has all the intense wash of an artist's sure, critical gaze. " - you know as well as I." Her shoulders curl in casual, distinterested expression.
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:14PM CST
"Of course," he replies.
"Why, just the other night, I was explaining to a little loon what I was, or at least, what my lineage was. I wouldn't have had to have done so if Edesna had not introduced me by my family name. So, I entertained their questions with responses that not even they could have imagined. Right now, one of them is under the impression that the leader of all kindred is an figment of my imagination, by the name of Bobo the Alien."
He shrugged, not caring any further, but notcing how she did not step back. She would notice from this distance that he was perfectly dry. He had been in the store for hours, it would seem.
"But beyond that, what have you been up to?"
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:23PM CST
"I recommend a campaign of misinformation, m'sieur le docteur. Lie to them, what does it matter? If they cannot see fit to educate the whelps in the least of the rules of etiquette, if they insist on sending them to the club without even a basic knowledge of our social networks, surely they can expect nothing less." Her chin rises another haughty half-inch, the damp strands of her pale hair darker with moisture, lashing and coiling about her shoulders like snakes of pale winter sunlight. Her dark eyes slide from the structure of his face to the cut of his suit - the dark shoulders, the maniacally straightened tie. Her mouth widens, a smile, a generous expression tinged with lingering disdain, and she lifts her hand from the shelf above and shifts as if she is going to touch him - the shoulder, perhaps, near the collar, some stray puff of dust from the shelves. Instead, she simply resettles her hand on a lower shelf and lifts her gaze back to his face, raising both brows in some cool, insouciant expression. " - me, doctor? I'm afraid that I have been wasting my time on nothings, passing fancies, as is usual. Certainly, nothing practical. I dare not further elaborate, as I am quite certain you would not approve."
Masterson
Wed 09:27PM CST
He smiled. The tension was thick enough here that if he had a blade, he could stick it in the air, and let it hang without any difficulty. "Then, dear Marie-Helen, why don't you test me, since I feel I would be the best judge to determine what I would or would not approve of? After all, I just offered you a tidbit of my encounters, surely you would do the same?"
His posture was unwaivering, though he did slide his cane from his left hand to his right.
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:34PM CST
"Oh - " her mouth flattens with suppressed amusement, the corners deepening before her lips curl forward in a private little - oh, neither a laugh nor a sneer, but something present, something ever-present, so delicately repressed, or the clear facsimile of it. Gossip: delightful. " - I misunderstood. I thought you were asking for an account of the rest of my time. Mmm. I have given some instruction to an unfortunate creature as to the nature of our clubs. The ugly ones, the pretty ones, the girly ones, that sort of thing. I've met some others - " her shoulders curl again, dismissive. " - outlanders, orphans and the like. More lunatics, the most unfortunately cheerful and shy - " - she has such a fine sneer, so faint, just brushed with expression and girded with her elegant superiority, when she so wishes. Even in her cool slouch, she still seems to be standing upright, forthright, with posture a Victorian headmistress would envy. " - alleged rabble I have ever seen in the whole of my life. And so on."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:37PM CST
Nodding in reply. "What do you think of the new caitiff? Raziel? While it does disgust me, personally, that one of our kind would lack the responsiblity to take care of their own... he does seem to be a hard worker..."
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:42PM CST
"Our acquaintance is only passing. He is hardly a scintillating conversationalist, but - " her fingers curl and tap against the shelf. Bare nails, the edges ragged, unpolished, the half-moons almost lost against the pallor of her fine skin. Her attention flashes to her fingers, or - rather - the fingertips, four precise pale points against the polished wooden bookshelf and their faint reflections in the glossy veneer. Just that easily she becomes lost in the most minor of visual stimuli. She breathes out, and then back in - as if the process were still necessary - and then expells another breath, sharp and hard, which punctures the bubble of her inattention and draws her dark eyes back to the Tremere's face. His face, but never more than a brush of a glance across his eyes. " - if he is a worker, I suppose he need not rely on his conversational skills to maintain some sort of standing within the organization."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:48PM CST
"FIFTEEN MINUTES till closing!!" Comes the call from the back room.
"Very true."
He steps in just an inch closer, clearly an invasion of personal space, looking deep into her eyes. Grabbign the side of his frames, he sets his glasses in their proper position, higher up on the bridge of his nose. Then, slowly, his left hand starts to raise, almost tracing the outside line of Marie's body in an incredibly subtle motion: past her hip, slender waist, around the outside curvature of her breast and over her shoulder. He looks up and slides some to the left as he reaches past her and retrieves an old book from the shelf.
"I've been looking for this for quite some while now," he says, now focusing on the aged text.
Marie-Hélène
Wed 10:00PM CST
Her eyes flicker over his own; she was not looking, somehow, and was drawn into the brief staring contest. She stares back, boldly back, for a brief, shearing moment, but then her focus changes. Not him but her, her concave reflection a strange, imperfect shape outlined in miniature in his lenses. The creature's focus changes again, her head curves to the side, her eyes narrow, a thin line appears between her narrowed brows, and her generous mouth stills - neither flat nor full - as she watches his hand with the sort of flat distance common to desert landscapes, or the wide sargasso sea - flat, unrelenting, endless until the horizon.
"Have you, Dr. Masterson?" A scholar's inborn habit, her eyes flicker over the spine, prising out the title, assessing the basic condition of the volume thoughtlessly. Her mouth twists into a cool, ethereal smile, matched by the halo of her pale hair, swimming with reflected color in these lights. "I'm so glad you found it. And - " her chin rises, the white length of her throat elegant as the rest of her, unadorned. " - just in time for closing. I'll leave you to make the purchase. I look forward to our next meeting, Dr. Masterson."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 10:02PM CST
Dr. Masterson nodded. "It has been fun, yes. Do take care."
With that, he headed to the front register to pay for his book.
Wed 08:38PM CST
Dr. Masterson was in the Blind Eye, a dusty, fairly unknown bookstore of darker reputations than others would prefer, but far fairer than he'd enjoy. No less, he was here, flipping through the books on the shelves with his cane tucked in between his left arm and torso, snug at the armpit. His suit was a darker shade of gray than normal, thus ending the rumor that he only owned a single suit.
Picking up a book, opening it carefully and flipping through the pages, he waited for Marie.
Marie-Hélène
Wed 08:48PM CST
Her hair is wet. The white t-shirt is dusted with damp, at the shoulders, down the line of her spine where she hunched over - forward looking - and ran through the rain on her (as usual) impossibly high heels. Inside, she dusts the raindrops from her shoulder and shakes her hair down from its haphazard upsweep, damp pale strands streaming around her shoulders. Except for the messy array of her hair and the cheap cotton t-shirt, she is almost presentable, in a fitted (if unseasonal) suede skirt that hits her a modest half-inch above the knees. We will say nothing of the immodest slit in the back of the garment. Only the people behind her are likely to see it, anyway. "Dr. Masterson." Hair swimming gold around her face, a light creature in this dusty, dark place. She smiles one of her impeccably polite, winsome smiles and navigates through the narrow aisles with her usual long-legged gait, leans at the edge of his aisle, hand planted on the third shelf from the ceiling, for leverage. "I've missed you."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 08:52PM CST
Considering the last encounter that Dr. Masterson had with the ice queen, the warming greeting was rather unexpected. He placed the book back on its spot on the shelf to turn and afford the kindred spirit with her appropriate respects. Nodding and offering a courteous smile, "Thank you, Madamoiselle Alette. Or, should I address you as Marie-Helen this evening? Which would you prefer?"
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:03PM CST
He shifts his arm to let the cane fall from its nestled spot, only to catch it with his hand. Quickly scanning the creature before him, he approaches her, standing straight and tall, almost monolithic. Easily within a breath's distance, he straighten's his necktie and offers a reply.
"Yes, but the last time we spoke, you seemed very upset, and, almost not yourself. I would an inquired then, but I have learned through the years that it is best to leave us to our own devices. However, I am glad to see you appear to be in better spirits." He smiled and offered a casual wink before turning back to the shelf.
The moderate delight died down in his voice, "But I believe you are mostly correct, I have been out of social life, and what few times I have frequented, I have not encountered you. Rather, I have had unpleasant encounters with all sorts of confusing children of our good friend Malkav."
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:10PM CST
"Unfortunate," she quips back, her head tipping sidelong to rest against the incurve of her long, outstretched arm. Some faint, disdainful sound - a distinct, yes, a distinct sniff - as her mouth stills and curdles into a moue of distaste. "They are like cockroaches. They seem to devour each other and pop up like breeding guppies. One night, there are a pair. Turn around, and soon you're swimming in them. They lack manners, and their conversational skills are abysmal, and then - " he steps close, she does not step away. Instead, she watches him a predator's rapt and wary attention: dark eyes half-hooded, swept by pale lashes, but unblinking, the glance has all the intense wash of an artist's sure, critical gaze. " - you know as well as I." Her shoulders curl in casual, distinterested expression.
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:14PM CST
"Of course," he replies.
"Why, just the other night, I was explaining to a little loon what I was, or at least, what my lineage was. I wouldn't have had to have done so if Edesna had not introduced me by my family name. So, I entertained their questions with responses that not even they could have imagined. Right now, one of them is under the impression that the leader of all kindred is an figment of my imagination, by the name of Bobo the Alien."
He shrugged, not caring any further, but notcing how she did not step back. She would notice from this distance that he was perfectly dry. He had been in the store for hours, it would seem.
"But beyond that, what have you been up to?"
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:23PM CST
"I recommend a campaign of misinformation, m'sieur le docteur. Lie to them, what does it matter? If they cannot see fit to educate the whelps in the least of the rules of etiquette, if they insist on sending them to the club without even a basic knowledge of our social networks, surely they can expect nothing less." Her chin rises another haughty half-inch, the damp strands of her pale hair darker with moisture, lashing and coiling about her shoulders like snakes of pale winter sunlight. Her dark eyes slide from the structure of his face to the cut of his suit - the dark shoulders, the maniacally straightened tie. Her mouth widens, a smile, a generous expression tinged with lingering disdain, and she lifts her hand from the shelf above and shifts as if she is going to touch him - the shoulder, perhaps, near the collar, some stray puff of dust from the shelves. Instead, she simply resettles her hand on a lower shelf and lifts her gaze back to his face, raising both brows in some cool, insouciant expression. " - me, doctor? I'm afraid that I have been wasting my time on nothings, passing fancies, as is usual. Certainly, nothing practical. I dare not further elaborate, as I am quite certain you would not approve."
Masterson
Wed 09:27PM CST
He smiled. The tension was thick enough here that if he had a blade, he could stick it in the air, and let it hang without any difficulty. "Then, dear Marie-Helen, why don't you test me, since I feel I would be the best judge to determine what I would or would not approve of? After all, I just offered you a tidbit of my encounters, surely you would do the same?"
His posture was unwaivering, though he did slide his cane from his left hand to his right.
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:34PM CST
"Oh - " her mouth flattens with suppressed amusement, the corners deepening before her lips curl forward in a private little - oh, neither a laugh nor a sneer, but something present, something ever-present, so delicately repressed, or the clear facsimile of it. Gossip: delightful. " - I misunderstood. I thought you were asking for an account of the rest of my time. Mmm. I have given some instruction to an unfortunate creature as to the nature of our clubs. The ugly ones, the pretty ones, the girly ones, that sort of thing. I've met some others - " her shoulders curl again, dismissive. " - outlanders, orphans and the like. More lunatics, the most unfortunately cheerful and shy - " - she has such a fine sneer, so faint, just brushed with expression and girded with her elegant superiority, when she so wishes. Even in her cool slouch, she still seems to be standing upright, forthright, with posture a Victorian headmistress would envy. " - alleged rabble I have ever seen in the whole of my life. And so on."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:37PM CST
Nodding in reply. "What do you think of the new caitiff? Raziel? While it does disgust me, personally, that one of our kind would lack the responsiblity to take care of their own... he does seem to be a hard worker..."
Marie-Hélène
Wed 09:42PM CST
"Our acquaintance is only passing. He is hardly a scintillating conversationalist, but - " her fingers curl and tap against the shelf. Bare nails, the edges ragged, unpolished, the half-moons almost lost against the pallor of her fine skin. Her attention flashes to her fingers, or - rather - the fingertips, four precise pale points against the polished wooden bookshelf and their faint reflections in the glossy veneer. Just that easily she becomes lost in the most minor of visual stimuli. She breathes out, and then back in - as if the process were still necessary - and then expells another breath, sharp and hard, which punctures the bubble of her inattention and draws her dark eyes back to the Tremere's face. His face, but never more than a brush of a glance across his eyes. " - if he is a worker, I suppose he need not rely on his conversational skills to maintain some sort of standing within the organization."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 09:48PM CST
"FIFTEEN MINUTES till closing!!" Comes the call from the back room.
"Very true."
He steps in just an inch closer, clearly an invasion of personal space, looking deep into her eyes. Grabbign the side of his frames, he sets his glasses in their proper position, higher up on the bridge of his nose. Then, slowly, his left hand starts to raise, almost tracing the outside line of Marie's body in an incredibly subtle motion: past her hip, slender waist, around the outside curvature of her breast and over her shoulder. He looks up and slides some to the left as he reaches past her and retrieves an old book from the shelf.
"I've been looking for this for quite some while now," he says, now focusing on the aged text.
Marie-Hélène
Wed 10:00PM CST
Her eyes flicker over his own; she was not looking, somehow, and was drawn into the brief staring contest. She stares back, boldly back, for a brief, shearing moment, but then her focus changes. Not him but her, her concave reflection a strange, imperfect shape outlined in miniature in his lenses. The creature's focus changes again, her head curves to the side, her eyes narrow, a thin line appears between her narrowed brows, and her generous mouth stills - neither flat nor full - as she watches his hand with the sort of flat distance common to desert landscapes, or the wide sargasso sea - flat, unrelenting, endless until the horizon.
"Have you, Dr. Masterson?" A scholar's inborn habit, her eyes flicker over the spine, prising out the title, assessing the basic condition of the volume thoughtlessly. Her mouth twists into a cool, ethereal smile, matched by the halo of her pale hair, swimming with reflected color in these lights. "I'm so glad you found it. And - " her chin rises, the white length of her throat elegant as the rest of her, unadorned. " - just in time for closing. I'll leave you to make the purchase. I look forward to our next meeting, Dr. Masterson."
Dr. Masterson
Wed 10:02PM CST
Dr. Masterson nodded. "It has been fun, yes. Do take care."
With that, he headed to the front register to pay for his book.
mardi, juillet 06, 2004
morning's message
{Emails}
[Patrick]
~Just before dawn, a message is left for Marie. Jason sounds more calm than he has in a while~
Hey, it's Jason... sorry things went weird tonight. I have no idea how he tracked me there. I wanted to apologize for acting a bit nuts lately... Late June and Early July are always a bit tough for me. It signifies my embrace and the death of my wife. I tend to take it out on others. For that... I'm sorry. Though you were still acting like a flaming bitch...but it's one of your more endearing qualities. Thanks for coming out to talk. I'll catch ya soon... and stay safe. I really have become accustomed to you.
[Marie-Hélène]
His voice disappears into the ether, the sound stored somehow on the narrowest portion of the tinest chip in the central computer of some faceless conglomerate which owns a Kenyan brewing company, a French foundry, three strip minutes in Anaheim, California, the concessions at the national parks of Canada, 50% interest in a gas pipeline snaking through the deserts of Kazakstan, and a New York-area cellular company. Her roaming charges must be outrageous.
She must not care.
His voice emerges again, the following night, in the cool blue of the last shreds of gloaming, into the shell-curve of her ear. The cinder-covered roof is still hot with the remembered heat of the sun. Roofing tar glugs like congealed oil and smells of burning rock, sticks to the soles of her fine shoes and pulls like taffy as she walks (-stalks-) among the bristling forest of strange roof-outcroppings, metal vents and jutting flues, skylights and gasexchangers, all long-undone, unused, useless. Her foot taps against the aluminum profile of one of the vents, which looks like an anthropomorphized inchworm, or the crooked top inch of a periscope. The wind begins to rise, some storm-laced promise underscenting - saturating - the air. She listens to his message.
And she smiles.
[Patrick]
~Just before dawn, a message is left for Marie. Jason sounds more calm than he has in a while~
Hey, it's Jason... sorry things went weird tonight. I have no idea how he tracked me there. I wanted to apologize for acting a bit nuts lately... Late June and Early July are always a bit tough for me. It signifies my embrace and the death of my wife. I tend to take it out on others. For that... I'm sorry. Though
[Marie-Hélène]
His voice disappears into the ether, the sound stored somehow on the narrowest portion of the tinest chip in the central computer of some faceless conglomerate which owns a Kenyan brewing company, a French foundry, three strip minutes in Anaheim, California, the concessions at the national parks of Canada, 50% interest in a gas pipeline snaking through the deserts of Kazakstan, and a New York-area cellular company. Her roaming charges must be outrageous.
She must not care.
His voice emerges again, the following night, in the cool blue of the last shreds of gloaming, into the shell-curve of her ear. The cinder-covered roof is still hot with the remembered heat of the sun. Roofing tar glugs like congealed oil and smells of burning rock, sticks to the soles of her fine shoes and pulls like taffy as she walks (-stalks-) among the bristling forest of strange roof-outcroppings, metal vents and jutting flues, skylights and gasexchangers, all long-undone, unused, useless. Her foot taps against the aluminum profile of one of the vents, which looks like an anthropomorphized inchworm, or the crooked top inch of a periscope. The wind begins to rise, some storm-laced promise underscenting - saturating - the air. She listens to his message.
And she smiles.
lundi, juillet 05, 2004
a walk in the park.
Jason Malone
Mon 07:49PM CST
~Driving to a park where he can ride after dark Jason carried Bailey, his horse, along behind the jeep in the trailer. Upon arriving, Jason untrailered Bailey and slipped on his bridle. With an easy motion he swung up and onto the horse, deciding to ride bareback tonight.~
~He leaned down and whispered to his friend which spurred Bailey to take off, first at a cantor, and
then to a full out gallop. He raced around the clearing adjacent to the parking lot before narrowing Bailey's route down to a figure "8" circling the two 50-gallon trash barrels. He concentrated on his riding, figuring it best to not worry whether or not a certain person showed up. Hell, if she even came, it was likely to tell him he was being stupid or human or something like that. Although he cherished his humanity... he knew he was far from human. That part of him died the night he killed his wife... but that was something that no one would likely ever understand.~
Marie-Hélène
Mon 07:59PM CST
She drives an old muscle car, fully and lovingly restored by someone with a better head for such things that she could ever have, or so it seems. Deep blue, like the desert twilight, the 1970 Barracuda is sleek and distinctive, with some sort of powerful, rebuilt engine she is not likely to ever use to capacity, which she is more likely to destroy through neglect. At night, the dirt is harder to see, but as she parks the 'cuda beneath the uncertain glare of one of the streetlights, it is clear just how filthy the car is. Bug bodies smeared across the windshield, a coat of grime on the rear end so thick that one could write substantial graffiti in it.
The driver's door opens and she emerges, dressed inappropriately for the setting as ever, having paired see-through blouse, sleeveless in burned out velvet with bell bottom jeans and a pair of extraordinarily high heels with glittering stones hand-glued onto the black leather straps. They look like - but certainly could not be - cut diamonds. Jackboots for elysium, the finest (ruined) stylish heels to meet his horse. The car door slams closed and she leans back, curving her hip against the frame to settle into her usual slouch. Her dark eyes are fixed on the circuit of horse and rider in the clearing. When Jason appears to be facing her, she lifts a casual hand and waves a greeting.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:04PM CST
~He heard the car, his shielded black eyes watching as BAiley runs his course. After she exits the car, and motions, he draws Bailey to a halt and slips off, whispering something to the horse. Bailey heads over to some lush grass and after a moment, Jason walks towards the car. As he nears, he finally speaks~ G'd evenin, Marie-Helene. How goes it? ~His tone is a bit cooler than usual, but not cold or unfeeling.~
Marie-Hélène
Mon 08:11PM CST
Her arms are cross casually, low across her lean torso. Right wrist on her left hip, left arm on her right forearm: she looks like someone readying for a fashion shoot, like someone always on the verge of being photographed. Unmoving, she studies him as he approaches. The light sweeps heavily across the crown of her pale hair, the unwieldly weight of it, the bright color almost blinding in the light, but the rest of her body is lost in the shadows. As he steps closer, she lifts her chin so that the light spreads across her sharp features, creating strange, hollow pockets of shadow beneath her nose, browbones and cheekbones. "Perfect," she smiles, a wide and easy, generous smile. " - as always. And you Jason?" She doesn't blink, but her gaze flickers from his glasses, down, and back.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:17PM CST
~His lips curl into a slight smile, perhaps a smirk as she speaks. He shrugs his shoulders in response as he too leans against her car~ I'm alright. I've found that riding is a good way to center myself. It's been years... since before embrace, since I've been on a horse. It's a nice advantage being able to talk to him... this way he doesn't try anything crazy. Last time was sometime in the 20's or so. It's kinda what they say about riding a bike.
~His eyes run down her and back up once more~ So what brings you out tonight? I must admit... I'm surprised after the other night.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 08:28PM CST
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jason." The smile evaporates like so much mist on a sunny summer morning. Left behind: the architectural lines of her features - the sharp cheekbones, the wide mouth still but for the movements necessary for speech. Her eyes are large, wideset, and open, shadowed in the darkness. The pale brows and lashes recede into the general pallor of her face, lit by the harsh fountain of light from above, washed to a dull, ugly yellow by the sodium vapour bulbs. "Really - " she repeats, her eyes narrowing faintly, her mouth flattening, her ragged nails digging into the pale flesh of her forearm. There is something alien about the intensity of her concentration, her lack of expression. " - I have no idea what I said to offend you." Her shoulders curl, the blouse - patches of dark and patches of mesh in some obscure fleur-de-lis pattern - whispers against her flesh. A seamstress could tell that the burnt velvet has been burnt not professionally, but by a barely skilled amateur. Tufts of fabric here and there mar the effect of the dark mesh against her pale skin. "I would like to know, but I don't think I can apologize for saying it." The edge of a supple smile twists the corner of her mouth. "I don't apologize for anything outside that space."
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 08:34PM CST
The shaded branches of ferns and evergreen's calmly speckled his clothing with the playing shadows of the night. Step by step, he made his way throguh the shrubbery, his eyes squinting slightly as he discerned the path he would choose to take. His coat shifted slightly with each movement, his path coming close to the riding trails parallel. Each step was timid and precise, eyes falling to the earth before each foot was placed. Casually, the figure would slowly drop to the earth beneath him, hands moved to brace himself. Eyes caught themselves upon the treeline ahead of him, the parking lot not too far away.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:36PM CST
~He lets out a cynical laugh as his shakes his head, fully having expected this basic stance of hers. She would never understand her own hypocritical nature.~ You have a lot of growing to do little one. If you can't understand where the problem lies... where you can say, or do anything you like and expect people just to just suck it up and yet when someone gives you the same crap back... you don't know how to handle it. You were acting like a spoiled primadonna, showing off for the kids. I expect that from the normal elysium pixies... I won't tolerate that from anyone I choose to call friend.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 08:48PM CST
"We were in Elysium," the creature replies, shrugging with a casual Gallic disinterest. Her center of balance shifts from hip to hip as she changes her stance to face him more fully. Chin rising, lids falling, she studies him from behind the pale scrim of her golden lashes - which are, perhaps, a suggestion of light gilding the dark colour of her irises, no more. " - and in Elysium, I am a creature of Elysium. I - " the word hangs, falls to some musing thread of sound that lingers in the back of her throat, insectile, indifferent. "I don't change myself, Jason, for anyone but myself. And even then, I - " She shakes her head. The light chases gold through her piled hair. Her arms tighten around her torso, elbows drawing inward until she unfolds one arm to dig through her pockets for a little cigar and lighter. "I am sorry if you can't accept it. If you want to tell me what you didn't like, specifically, I'll think about it. If not - " she offers another Gallic shrug, careful and casual in its indifference. "I am not going to try to change you, either."
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 08:57PM CST
Distant eyes held their gaze upon the shadowed figures. The horse caught his eyes first, the creature almost calling to him and his own nature. Lips peeled back before he could even think of what was going through his mind. Thoughts became instinct, even as the pattern of dominance and control coarsed through his mind. Supressing certain urges wasn't exactly easy, especially in these modern nights. Moistening his lips, he pressed forward on all fours.
It wasn't exactly odd moving on his hunches, instinct played a key role in guiding his movements. After-all, it was instinct that aided in his survival over the centuries. Rising to his feet, he forced himself to become civilized once more. As he stalked forward, he could see more of them, finally recognizing them for what they were.
Centering his eyes upon the girl, the predator had just become the prey. Motion stopped as a listening ear took control.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:58PM CST
~He shakes his head, forcing a frustrated sigh. One hand runs through his hair, trying to think of the words to get his point across.~ Marie-Helene... I ask no one to change who they are, not for me and not for anyone. I also know that the vast majority of us are three different people... there is the person we are to those we know yet do not perhaps have reason to be friends with. There is the person we are to our friends... where the bullshit stops and we are genuine, and there is the person we are when we are alone or with someone... special... for those that still harbor such things.
~His gaze turns to Bailey for a moment, ensuring he's alright before looking back to Marie.~ I had hoped... perhaps foolishly... that you had that friendship level within you. I see enough in your public face that leads me to believe there is a person underneath that whom I wish to discover and call friend. If you're telling me you do not contain that depth... that's one thing. If you're telling me that you are not interested in showing that genuine part of you, so be it. But if all there is to you is the stereotypical aloofness, shallow guarded conversation, and an overly inflated superiority complex... that's another matter all together. I wouldn't mind getting to know the person underneath... but fuck, if that isn't possible... I'd rather know that up front.
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 09:13PM CST
The notion they spoke of was far beyond his mentality could comprehend anymore. Friendship was a complicated affect that the mind of the Vampire no longer felt was nessicary for his own survival. Allies were one thing, friendship was another. Sneering slightly, he'd press forward again until he was roughly five feet from the treeline. Eyes shifted as the natural noises might grace their keen ears to alert them of a new arrival. If anything, the horses attention might have been caught.
With his eyes focusing upon them sharply, he'd push the branches from his path and step forward into the open. His arrival might come as a shock to them, but it made little difference. The man was pale, a sickly translucent parlor with the context of marble. His hair was lengthened, pupils of a golden yellow. Feline, predatorial, he had his own notion of grace that might remind someone of a cat. Centering his gaze upon Jason, something of familiarity came to his mind as he remembered the discriptions given. Marie-Helene, however, was another story.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 09:19PM CST
"I'm here, aren't I?" She taps her foot against the parking lot's broken pavement. The stones glued to the leather straps of her heels catch the dirty light and shine with prismatic effect, facets enhancing and echoing the light throughout the body of each individual stone. Her toenails are painted a dull green, the colour of old watermelon rind, and the enamel, too, swims with light as she taps her foot. "I have five or ten inside me, Jason. People, different ones, and not in the manner of the nutjobs who are so unfortunately overpopulating our social club these days. I'm free to have five or ten - or more, or anyone - inside me. One of them is casual, indifferent, careless and thoughtless, and she thrives in Elysium. I - " she shifts again, her hip sliding against the filthy car. Her dark eyes flicker away from him, to the wall of the woods, the darkness between the trees, which seem to seethe with threat. " - I'm afraid it isn't something I am willing to verbalize, as such. This isn't a lesson. If you want - " her mouth flattens again, her nostrils flare with the forced exhalation of a frustrated breath. " - I tend to think I'm worth whatever work is necessary, but of course, I'm self-involved and utterly biased. Imagine that you are the first man who thinks to eat an artichoke." Her chin rises, in a gesture suffuse with her customary arrogance, but the gesture is undercut by the strange, wry twist of her mouth. " - I can't say what I mean, you see. The words have no meaning, and in any case, they are unutterably arrogant. You see this as a choice for me to make, I think. I see it as one for you to make. There is more, but whether it is worth your time to struggle to find it - and - " her gaze swims from the trees to his face once more, " - it is a struggle, arrogant as that may be, it is also necessary. Would you have me give away my only armor so easily?"
Her left hand is still in her front pocket, manipulating the pack of cigars in there minutely as she speaks. Her right hand rises to her brow, and then the pale, delicate fingers threat into the taut weave of her piled hair. She is briefly lost in her own ramblings - the ordinary vacancy slips across her fine features - before focus returns in a slow quizzical pattern across her face.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 09:25PM CST
The creature's feature sharpen suddenly and completely. Her mouth flattens, her body stills. She glances sharply from Davidian to Jason and back again, mutters something foul under her breath in a language neither are likely to know. Keys rattle delicately in her pocket as she abandons the delicate work of extracting a cigar from the package in her pocket and grabs them, instead. Her heels clatter - the sound is almost too loud - as she takes two steps backward, right hand tracing along the lines of the muscle car.
Jason Malone
Mon 09:27PM CST
~A sudden motion my Bailey turns Jason's attention towards the woods. From behind mirrored sunglasses, his black eyes focus on the form which has emerged from the trees. A low growl comes from him, followed by several deep breaths in, forcing air into his lungs through his nose as he tries to pick up the scents clinging to the stranger. Once he sees the eyes though, he quickly realizes who this visitor must be.~
~His eyes remain on the visitor, though his voice is meant for Marie.~ Good... I would not have you give up the armor... I just wanted to make sure the suit wasn't hollow. But... that is a conversation for another time.
~His voice raises to the new arrival though his posture doesn't relax~ Davidian LaCoste... at last we meet.
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 09:38PM CST
The scents assault Jason's sensative nostrils. Sewage water stained his clothing, mildew and damp earth marking him for eternity. (Flaw: Smell of the Grave) His eyes held a distinct look of vigilance as he looked Jason over. It was like he was challenging his opwn posture to straighten up to his own. Stern, vigilante, and highly instinctual, Davidian had the look of a hunter. Jason's words came to his mind as though arrogance was a prime benefactor in it's existence. Shading his eyes slightly, he returned the soft snarl from within.
"You speak as though you've awaited my arrival. So tell me, what have you been expecting?" He asked, taunting him somewhat. Davidian wasn't a legend, and he wasn't overly known within the Clan. He does have minor prestige as being a hunter, and someone who knows how to survive. Earning most of his merit from the civil war up, he has been recognized as a noble savage; and held by the name "Eyes of Yellow".
His shoulders were set with a slight straightness to them. A broad chest became covered as arms crossed themselves upon it. A posture was upheld through the introduction, superiority and dominance remaining in his mind.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 09:44PM CST
"Why don't I leave you gentlemen to your business, mmm?" Her accent - never overpowering - nonetheless returns, shading each syllable in the brief statement. She offers Jason a lovely, polite little twist of her generous mouth and bestows the same expression upon Davidian. Dark eyes sweep over him and away. Keys jingle in her left hand as she extracts them from her left pocket, allowing them to dangle from her half-cupped palm. Circling back around the car to the driver's side - stepping backwards to keep the both of them in the clear sweep of her sight, her footsteps a constant clatter. "Another time, Mr. Malone."
Jason Malone
Mon 09:46PM CST
~Almost on instinct, he moves around the car, placing himself between Davidian and Marie. It wasn't so much protecting _her_ as it was protecting one that (in his opinion) could never defend herself should Davidian turn violent... not that Jason held ANY belief that he could stop the man. His words carry less of a challenge with them. His suspicion confirmed, he could now concentrate that this man was his elder... but among gangrel it was always a careful balance of arrogance and submission with one that was your elder.~ I expect nothing from you brother. I have met Draven, and it was he that talked to me about you.
~Hearing Marie, he shifts his gaze partially over to her~ Yes... another time. Thank you. ~He appreciated that she understood this situation... a point in her favor. He took a few steps away from the car and towards Davidian.~ I was also hoping you received the message I left in the park.
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 10:01PM CST
"I received it.." He said.
Davidian eyes followed Jason around the car slowly, carefully. His eyes had a playful look to them, like a cat that had just noticed a fluttering butterfly. His tongue slightly graced the ever present canines. (Flaw: Permenant Fangs) Taunting his own sences, he'd moisten his lips and dart his eyes toward Marie-Helene. Looking from the top of his eyes, he'd question her relationship with the Gangrel Draven had spoken of. Kindred, through blood, was more important than some harlot looking for a new bodygaurd. With an intake of breathe, it suddenly became evident that it was a softened purr.
Inhuman was a word that defined the look of someone, or something. While this word had some meaning in Davidian's immortality, it was nothing compared to what described him. Many found the word to be inhumane, it meaning that he was little in resemblance to what one might think of when it came to humans. It was just another step in Davidian's ever evolving relationship with immortality. The lengthened canines that reminded someone of a feline, the certain behavioral patterns he upheld; it was all a part of his rite, his association with the Beast.
He was no more a man than a Vampire was mortal.
Eyes gazed at her intently, boldly meeting her eyes as though silently challenging her to meet his own. Davidian knew his place among this world, and he was not about to lose face in it's society. Patience was a virtue he actually had, and it was displayed with his reverance in waiting for her to depart.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 10:08PM CST
"M'sieur LaCoste." She meets his eyes, so briefly, and glances almost immediately away. It is a glance peculiar to the intimacies of Elysium, where a stray glance into the wrong pair of eyes could be dangerous. Her manner is immaculate, the faint sweep of her head forward, pale hair falling across her cheek, as if she were not fumbling for the handle of the driver's side door, as if a certain sharp spike of primitive fear had not bloomed sudden and bitter cold in her chest. "M'sieur Malone." Another nod to the back of Jason's head, before the creature disappears into the driver's seat of the Barracuda. The engine turns over abruptly a moment later, growls a powerful hum as she feeds the gas, and then the car is abruptly in motion, pulling away. She takes the turn-out inexpertly and much too fast, and is gone.
Mon 07:49PM CST
~Driving to a park where he can ride after dark Jason carried Bailey, his horse, along behind the jeep in the trailer. Upon arriving, Jason untrailered Bailey and slipped on his bridle. With an easy motion he swung up and onto the horse, deciding to ride bareback tonight.~
~He leaned down and whispered to his friend which spurred Bailey to take off, first at a cantor, and
then to a full out gallop. He raced around the clearing adjacent to the parking lot before narrowing Bailey's route down to a figure "8" circling the two 50-gallon trash barrels. He concentrated on his riding, figuring it best to not worry whether or not a certain person showed up. Hell, if she even came, it was likely to tell him he was being stupid or human or something like that. Although he cherished his humanity... he knew he was far from human. That part of him died the night he killed his wife... but that was something that no one would likely ever understand.~
Marie-Hélène
Mon 07:59PM CST
She drives an old muscle car, fully and lovingly restored by someone with a better head for such things that she could ever have, or so it seems. Deep blue, like the desert twilight, the 1970 Barracuda is sleek and distinctive, with some sort of powerful, rebuilt engine she is not likely to ever use to capacity, which she is more likely to destroy through neglect. At night, the dirt is harder to see, but as she parks the 'cuda beneath the uncertain glare of one of the streetlights, it is clear just how filthy the car is. Bug bodies smeared across the windshield, a coat of grime on the rear end so thick that one could write substantial graffiti in it.
The driver's door opens and she emerges, dressed inappropriately for the setting as ever, having paired see-through blouse, sleeveless in burned out velvet with bell bottom jeans and a pair of extraordinarily high heels with glittering stones hand-glued onto the black leather straps. They look like - but certainly could not be - cut diamonds. Jackboots for elysium, the finest (ruined) stylish heels to meet his horse. The car door slams closed and she leans back, curving her hip against the frame to settle into her usual slouch. Her dark eyes are fixed on the circuit of horse and rider in the clearing. When Jason appears to be facing her, she lifts a casual hand and waves a greeting.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:04PM CST
~He heard the car, his shielded black eyes watching as BAiley runs his course. After she exits the car, and motions, he draws Bailey to a halt and slips off, whispering something to the horse. Bailey heads over to some lush grass and after a moment, Jason walks towards the car. As he nears, he finally speaks~ G'd evenin, Marie-Helene. How goes it? ~His tone is a bit cooler than usual, but not cold or unfeeling.~
Marie-Hélène
Mon 08:11PM CST
Her arms are cross casually, low across her lean torso. Right wrist on her left hip, left arm on her right forearm: she looks like someone readying for a fashion shoot, like someone always on the verge of being photographed. Unmoving, she studies him as he approaches. The light sweeps heavily across the crown of her pale hair, the unwieldly weight of it, the bright color almost blinding in the light, but the rest of her body is lost in the shadows. As he steps closer, she lifts her chin so that the light spreads across her sharp features, creating strange, hollow pockets of shadow beneath her nose, browbones and cheekbones. "Perfect," she smiles, a wide and easy, generous smile. " - as always. And you Jason?" She doesn't blink, but her gaze flickers from his glasses, down, and back.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:17PM CST
~His lips curl into a slight smile, perhaps a smirk as she speaks. He shrugs his shoulders in response as he too leans against her car~ I'm alright. I've found that riding is a good way to center myself. It's been years... since before embrace, since I've been on a horse. It's a nice advantage being able to talk to him... this way he doesn't try anything crazy. Last time was sometime in the 20's or so. It's kinda what they say about riding a bike.
~His eyes run down her and back up once more~ So what brings you out tonight? I must admit... I'm surprised after the other night.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 08:28PM CST
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jason." The smile evaporates like so much mist on a sunny summer morning. Left behind: the architectural lines of her features - the sharp cheekbones, the wide mouth still but for the movements necessary for speech. Her eyes are large, wideset, and open, shadowed in the darkness. The pale brows and lashes recede into the general pallor of her face, lit by the harsh fountain of light from above, washed to a dull, ugly yellow by the sodium vapour bulbs. "Really - " she repeats, her eyes narrowing faintly, her mouth flattening, her ragged nails digging into the pale flesh of her forearm. There is something alien about the intensity of her concentration, her lack of expression. " - I have no idea what I said to offend you." Her shoulders curl, the blouse - patches of dark and patches of mesh in some obscure fleur-de-lis pattern - whispers against her flesh. A seamstress could tell that the burnt velvet has been burnt not professionally, but by a barely skilled amateur. Tufts of fabric here and there mar the effect of the dark mesh against her pale skin. "I would like to know, but I don't think I can apologize for saying it." The edge of a supple smile twists the corner of her mouth. "I don't apologize for anything outside that space."
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 08:34PM CST
The shaded branches of ferns and evergreen's calmly speckled his clothing with the playing shadows of the night. Step by step, he made his way throguh the shrubbery, his eyes squinting slightly as he discerned the path he would choose to take. His coat shifted slightly with each movement, his path coming close to the riding trails parallel. Each step was timid and precise, eyes falling to the earth before each foot was placed. Casually, the figure would slowly drop to the earth beneath him, hands moved to brace himself. Eyes caught themselves upon the treeline ahead of him, the parking lot not too far away.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:36PM CST
~He lets out a cynical laugh as his shakes his head, fully having expected this basic stance of hers. She would never understand her own hypocritical nature.~ You have a lot of growing to do little one. If you can't understand where the problem lies... where you can say, or do anything you like and expect people just to just suck it up and yet when someone gives you the same crap back... you don't know how to handle it. You were acting like a spoiled primadonna, showing off for the kids. I expect that from the normal elysium pixies... I won't tolerate that from anyone I choose to call friend.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 08:48PM CST
"We were in Elysium," the creature replies, shrugging with a casual Gallic disinterest. Her center of balance shifts from hip to hip as she changes her stance to face him more fully. Chin rising, lids falling, she studies him from behind the pale scrim of her golden lashes - which are, perhaps, a suggestion of light gilding the dark colour of her irises, no more. " - and in Elysium, I am a creature of Elysium. I - " the word hangs, falls to some musing thread of sound that lingers in the back of her throat, insectile, indifferent. "I don't change myself, Jason, for anyone but myself. And even then, I - " She shakes her head. The light chases gold through her piled hair. Her arms tighten around her torso, elbows drawing inward until she unfolds one arm to dig through her pockets for a little cigar and lighter. "I am sorry if you can't accept it. If you want to tell me what you didn't like, specifically, I'll think about it. If not - " she offers another Gallic shrug, careful and casual in its indifference. "I am not going to try to change you, either."
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 08:57PM CST
Distant eyes held their gaze upon the shadowed figures. The horse caught his eyes first, the creature almost calling to him and his own nature. Lips peeled back before he could even think of what was going through his mind. Thoughts became instinct, even as the pattern of dominance and control coarsed through his mind. Supressing certain urges wasn't exactly easy, especially in these modern nights. Moistening his lips, he pressed forward on all fours.
It wasn't exactly odd moving on his hunches, instinct played a key role in guiding his movements. After-all, it was instinct that aided in his survival over the centuries. Rising to his feet, he forced himself to become civilized once more. As he stalked forward, he could see more of them, finally recognizing them for what they were.
Centering his eyes upon the girl, the predator had just become the prey. Motion stopped as a listening ear took control.
Jason Malone
Mon 08:58PM CST
~He shakes his head, forcing a frustrated sigh. One hand runs through his hair, trying to think of the words to get his point across.~ Marie-Helene... I ask no one to change who they are, not for me and not for anyone. I also know that the vast majority of us are three different people... there is the person we are to those we know yet do not perhaps have reason to be friends with. There is the person we are to our friends... where the bullshit stops and we are genuine, and there is the person we are when we are alone or with someone... special... for those that still harbor such things.
~His gaze turns to Bailey for a moment, ensuring he's alright before looking back to Marie.~ I had hoped... perhaps foolishly... that you had that friendship level within you. I see enough in your public face that leads me to believe there is a person underneath that whom I wish to discover and call friend. If you're telling me you do not contain that depth... that's one thing. If you're telling me that you are not interested in showing that genuine part of you, so be it. But if all there is to you is the stereotypical aloofness, shallow guarded conversation, and an overly inflated superiority complex... that's another matter all together. I wouldn't mind getting to know the person underneath... but fuck, if that isn't possible... I'd rather know that up front.
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 09:13PM CST
The notion they spoke of was far beyond his mentality could comprehend anymore. Friendship was a complicated affect that the mind of the Vampire no longer felt was nessicary for his own survival. Allies were one thing, friendship was another. Sneering slightly, he'd press forward again until he was roughly five feet from the treeline. Eyes shifted as the natural noises might grace their keen ears to alert them of a new arrival. If anything, the horses attention might have been caught.
With his eyes focusing upon them sharply, he'd push the branches from his path and step forward into the open. His arrival might come as a shock to them, but it made little difference. The man was pale, a sickly translucent parlor with the context of marble. His hair was lengthened, pupils of a golden yellow. Feline, predatorial, he had his own notion of grace that might remind someone of a cat. Centering his gaze upon Jason, something of familiarity came to his mind as he remembered the discriptions given. Marie-Helene, however, was another story.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 09:19PM CST
"I'm here, aren't I?" She taps her foot against the parking lot's broken pavement. The stones glued to the leather straps of her heels catch the dirty light and shine with prismatic effect, facets enhancing and echoing the light throughout the body of each individual stone. Her toenails are painted a dull green, the colour of old watermelon rind, and the enamel, too, swims with light as she taps her foot. "I have five or ten inside me, Jason. People, different ones, and not in the manner of the nutjobs who are so unfortunately overpopulating our social club these days. I'm free to have five or ten - or more, or anyone - inside me. One of them is casual, indifferent, careless and thoughtless, and she thrives in Elysium. I - " she shifts again, her hip sliding against the filthy car. Her dark eyes flicker away from him, to the wall of the woods, the darkness between the trees, which seem to seethe with threat. " - I'm afraid it isn't something I am willing to verbalize, as such. This isn't a lesson. If you want - " her mouth flattens again, her nostrils flare with the forced exhalation of a frustrated breath. " - I tend to think I'm worth whatever work is necessary, but of course, I'm self-involved and utterly biased. Imagine that you are the first man who thinks to eat an artichoke." Her chin rises, in a gesture suffuse with her customary arrogance, but the gesture is undercut by the strange, wry twist of her mouth. " - I can't say what I mean, you see. The words have no meaning, and in any case, they are unutterably arrogant. You see this as a choice for me to make, I think. I see it as one for you to make. There is more, but whether it is worth your time to struggle to find it - and - " her gaze swims from the trees to his face once more, " - it is a struggle, arrogant as that may be, it is also necessary. Would you have me give away my only armor so easily?"
Her left hand is still in her front pocket, manipulating the pack of cigars in there minutely as she speaks. Her right hand rises to her brow, and then the pale, delicate fingers threat into the taut weave of her piled hair. She is briefly lost in her own ramblings - the ordinary vacancy slips across her fine features - before focus returns in a slow quizzical pattern across her face.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 09:25PM CST
The creature's feature sharpen suddenly and completely. Her mouth flattens, her body stills. She glances sharply from Davidian to Jason and back again, mutters something foul under her breath in a language neither are likely to know. Keys rattle delicately in her pocket as she abandons the delicate work of extracting a cigar from the package in her pocket and grabs them, instead. Her heels clatter - the sound is almost too loud - as she takes two steps backward, right hand tracing along the lines of the muscle car.
Jason Malone
Mon 09:27PM CST
~A sudden motion my Bailey turns Jason's attention towards the woods. From behind mirrored sunglasses, his black eyes focus on the form which has emerged from the trees. A low growl comes from him, followed by several deep breaths in, forcing air into his lungs through his nose as he tries to pick up the scents clinging to the stranger. Once he sees the eyes though, he quickly realizes who this visitor must be.~
~His eyes remain on the visitor, though his voice is meant for Marie.~ Good... I would not have you give up the armor... I just wanted to make sure the suit wasn't hollow. But... that is a conversation for another time.
~His voice raises to the new arrival though his posture doesn't relax~ Davidian LaCoste... at last we meet.
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 09:38PM CST
The scents assault Jason's sensative nostrils. Sewage water stained his clothing, mildew and damp earth marking him for eternity. (Flaw: Smell of the Grave) His eyes held a distinct look of vigilance as he looked Jason over. It was like he was challenging his opwn posture to straighten up to his own. Stern, vigilante, and highly instinctual, Davidian had the look of a hunter. Jason's words came to his mind as though arrogance was a prime benefactor in it's existence. Shading his eyes slightly, he returned the soft snarl from within.
"You speak as though you've awaited my arrival. So tell me, what have you been expecting?" He asked, taunting him somewhat. Davidian wasn't a legend, and he wasn't overly known within the Clan. He does have minor prestige as being a hunter, and someone who knows how to survive. Earning most of his merit from the civil war up, he has been recognized as a noble savage; and held by the name "Eyes of Yellow".
His shoulders were set with a slight straightness to them. A broad chest became covered as arms crossed themselves upon it. A posture was upheld through the introduction, superiority and dominance remaining in his mind.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 09:44PM CST
"Why don't I leave you gentlemen to your business, mmm?" Her accent - never overpowering - nonetheless returns, shading each syllable in the brief statement. She offers Jason a lovely, polite little twist of her generous mouth and bestows the same expression upon Davidian. Dark eyes sweep over him and away. Keys jingle in her left hand as she extracts them from her left pocket, allowing them to dangle from her half-cupped palm. Circling back around the car to the driver's side - stepping backwards to keep the both of them in the clear sweep of her sight, her footsteps a constant clatter. "Another time, Mr. Malone."
Jason Malone
Mon 09:46PM CST
~Almost on instinct, he moves around the car, placing himself between Davidian and Marie. It wasn't so much protecting _her_ as it was protecting one that (in his opinion) could never defend herself should Davidian turn violent... not that Jason held ANY belief that he could stop the man. His words carry less of a challenge with them. His suspicion confirmed, he could now concentrate that this man was his elder... but among gangrel it was always a careful balance of arrogance and submission with one that was your elder.~ I expect nothing from you brother. I have met Draven, and it was he that talked to me about you.
~Hearing Marie, he shifts his gaze partially over to her~ Yes... another time. Thank you. ~He appreciated that she understood this situation... a point in her favor. He took a few steps away from the car and towards Davidian.~ I was also hoping you received the message I left in the park.
Davidian LaCoste
Mon 10:01PM CST
"I received it.." He said.
Davidian eyes followed Jason around the car slowly, carefully. His eyes had a playful look to them, like a cat that had just noticed a fluttering butterfly. His tongue slightly graced the ever present canines. (Flaw: Permenant Fangs) Taunting his own sences, he'd moisten his lips and dart his eyes toward Marie-Helene. Looking from the top of his eyes, he'd question her relationship with the Gangrel Draven had spoken of. Kindred, through blood, was more important than some harlot looking for a new bodygaurd. With an intake of breathe, it suddenly became evident that it was a softened purr.
Inhuman was a word that defined the look of someone, or something. While this word had some meaning in Davidian's immortality, it was nothing compared to what described him. Many found the word to be inhumane, it meaning that he was little in resemblance to what one might think of when it came to humans. It was just another step in Davidian's ever evolving relationship with immortality. The lengthened canines that reminded someone of a feline, the certain behavioral patterns he upheld; it was all a part of his rite, his association with the Beast.
He was no more a man than a Vampire was mortal.
Eyes gazed at her intently, boldly meeting her eyes as though silently challenging her to meet his own. Davidian knew his place among this world, and he was not about to lose face in it's society. Patience was a virtue he actually had, and it was displayed with his reverance in waiting for her to depart.
Marie-Hélène
Mon 10:08PM CST
"M'sieur LaCoste." She meets his eyes, so briefly, and glances almost immediately away. It is a glance peculiar to the intimacies of Elysium, where a stray glance into the wrong pair of eyes could be dangerous. Her manner is immaculate, the faint sweep of her head forward, pale hair falling across her cheek, as if she were not fumbling for the handle of the driver's side door, as if a certain sharp spike of primitive fear had not bloomed sudden and bitter cold in her chest. "M'sieur Malone." Another nod to the back of Jason's head, before the creature disappears into the driver's seat of the Barracuda. The engine turns over abruptly a moment later, growls a powerful hum as she feeds the gas, and then the car is abruptly in motion, pulling away. She takes the turn-out inexpertly and much too fast, and is gone.
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