#69 [Thirteenth Night]

It was overwhelming to spend so much time with a woman who was not one of the many. Though they were mostly cordial and didn't speak of things that made Archon uncomfortable, he still was. This was not easy for him. Though he was a master when it came to act as if everything was fine, as if things actually went according to plan. The truth was that nothing had been like it should since she stepped into his life, telling him about the Sabbat message to the Prince. On their way to her apartment, Archon had met Roe's eyes, and without words he was told that everything hade been taken care of. That meant that Damian had gotten the message, and so had Valerian. When everything else failed, Roe did not. It was astounding that a Gangrel would choose to walk beside a Ventrue, especially a Ventrue like Archon DeWinter. He was as much a Ventrue as one could be, but not so much he could not see beyond his own clan. Otherwise he would not be suitable for Primogenship.
Most would probably argue that Roe did not walk beside Archon, but behind him, like a servant. When, in fact, Roe was free to go when ever he wanted to. The thing was, he did not want to. Archon had become the one thing he could depend on, ever since his own Sire had turned on him and everyone around them in a frenzy. Roe owed his life to Archon, and that was not something he took lightly. If you could choose a new Sire, Roe would have choosen Archon. Instead, they were loyal friends, brothers in arms.

It was only natural that Roe remained by Archon's side. He was his eyes and ears when the Primogen was occupied with something else. This way Archon could devote his attention to the matter at hand or the one he was talking to - fully convinced that Roe had everything under control. Like right now, when Archon stood in Vevila's apartment, taking in her art and listening to her voice. He did not have to worry, he could concentrate on the enchanted Toreador before him. He listened to her talking about her travels, seeing new cities. She talked about starting anew, but it seemed as if it was not entirely a postive memory.

"Lord DeWinter, I'm so sorry; I've been wasting your time, which I'm sure is very precious to you. If you need to go anywhere, I will stay out of the way, I promise..."

She could not waste his time even if she tried. Besides that, no one could force the Primogen to do something against his will - if it was not something that would pay off in the end, to his benefit. Then he could endure, pretend and act, waiting for what he wanted, and knew he would get in the end. Archon was nothing, if not a self serving man.

"Do not apologise", he said with a soft smile. "You are worth every minute, and I am sure your time is as precious to you as mine is to me."

Pleasantries. They were important to Archon, but right now they sounded as empty as they were regarded by some clans; coming from the mouth of a Ventrue. Sometimes they were nothing short of a diversion, just words to hide the real matter. He could make others loose themselves within the maze of his words, but mostly it was just the way of the Ventrue. Etiquette, the dance of every language and gesture. Not always appreciated or understood, but that did not stop a true Ventrue. It was a part of their power.

When they exited the building they noticed that the only one left was the chauffeur. The rest hade been made scarce, they were no longer needed. As far as Roe was concerned, since Archon had not asked for them to begin with them.
Archon took one last look at the surroundings before he got in the car. They headed for The Haven, through better parts of the city, much to his delight. He liked beautiful things, appreciated them for dressing up a dreary world that would otherwise look quite boring. It was no enigma why Vevila did all she could to fill her apartment with art. Without them, he guessed she would go mad. He knew he would, if he had lived in the same part of town.
The Haven never managed to surprise him. It was always filled to the brim with noise and people in questionable attire, the exact ingredients that Archon imagined would be sprinkled all over his worst nightmare.

Since Archon had some business to take care of and Vevila needed to get in touch with Valerian to let him know she was alright, they located Archon's usual table. As she went to find the proprietor, he started his laptop and made some calls. It was the starting off point, the phone never seemed to stop ringing and his inbox was teeming with unread messages. Now and then, Archon handed Roe the phone and let him do what he did best, as he himself answered mails and talked to the occasional Ventrue visiting his table.

Though Valerian was nowhere to be found, Vevila had left him a message before they left The Haven to return to Archon's mansion. It seemed to Archon as if the night had passed him by in a second, leaving him quite perplexed, sitting on his bed in is upstairs bedroom. One more night there, to pretend that he wasn't a Ventrue who slept best underground. He didn't know what would happen tomorrow night, but he guessed it was time for Vevila to leave. She might go alone, she might take one of his men with her. Time would tell. He didn't know how to feel about it.






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((( ooc: Trampled: I hope this wrap up works for you. )))

#31 [Night #13]

Dawn was close at hand, soon enough the night would come to an end. Noah could tell by the shape of the moon. Though he missed the sun, the warm rays that made his golden skin forget about the cold nights. He would have stayed to see it rise, if he could. It had turned into a god of death, much to Noah's regret. Being a part of the earth meant to live with it and not to be able to walk in the sunlight meant you were there, but at the same time you weren't. Noah was left out and it was just one of his many sorrows. One of these nights he hoped to be able to ease his pain, to feel like he was forgiven. Maybe not in the sense that what he had done was okay, but that he had been punished enough and would be set free. Though at the same time, he didn't believe that at all. He imagined his soul to be burning for eternity, without any hope of deliverance.

"What's safe?"

Aeode's words made him snap out of it. There he was again, thinking about his cursed past, when she was more important. She had to be. She was alive and if more of his kind found out about her, she might not be for very long. It didn't matter that he didn't know her, as long as she was not a hunter, she was an innocent. Of course, he didn't know Valerian that well either, so there was a risk he was walking on thin ice. Though there was always a risk for that. Eminent danger was always in the air, threatening them all, their very existance. Ironically, it was one of the things that made eternity bearable.

"But yes...", she continued. "I should be going, it will be morning soon. Guess I'll be seeing you around then."

All he thought to do was to nod and then she was gone. She disappeared between The Haven and the building next to it and it was like she had not been there at all. Noah felt sorry for her. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to know about vampires, when you were not supposed to be one of them. He himself had been shocked, but he never experienced a world of vampires where he was a human. She might be scared, but if she was it was hard to tell. Noah knew he would have been frightened, because he could be sometimes, when he learned things about his own kind. They had real monsters and many of them were dressed in nice clothes and looked like they never got blood on their hands. Much like in the human world, but so much more dreadful. A vampire answered to the Beast, a inner voice that didn't listen to reason or human morals. If the Camarilla was in danger, they could kill thousand of humans to save it. Noah might not like it, but that's the way it was. The end justified the means, because they could not afford to be known to the world. It would be chaos and either them or the humans had to perish.

Aeode was gone and as far as he knew it might be the last time he saw her. She had talked about leaving The Haven and he knew nothing of the path she was on. The following night he would return to see Valerian. If she happened to be there... It would only be strange to avoid her. As Noah's grandfather would have said; their paths were already entwined. If the universe wanted them to, they would meet again.

Noah headed back to Shandor's store, but halfway there he remembered something. The last time he had been in the city he had thought about the possibility of returning, thus leaving things behind if that ever happened. He turned his feet towards one of the oldest cemeteries and entered through the gates. It was evident that the graves were much too old to be visited very often, probably mostly taken care of by the church. He had heard the human saying, that it was alright to walk the cemetery at night, since everyone was already dead. Once you learned about the Kindred, you realized that dying was not always the end.
There was more than one mausoleum, but Noah was looking for one in particular. It had stood the test of time, being older than him, but still a magnificent contruction. He didn't like the thought of disturbing the peace, but he was one of the dead and he wasn't exactly a tomb raider. A city changed with the ages that passed, the only places that were left untouched for a long period of time were cemeteries and churches. When he found the right mausoleum, he knew in what direction to look next to find a certain tree. Around the tree there were large stones, placed there to make it beautiful. It also made for a great hiding place, protecting the ground and what was underneath it. Noah removed one of the bigger stones and started digging with his bare hands. His fingers turned into claws, making it easier to remove all the dirt and stones. It would have been nearly impossible, without supernatural strength.

When he returned to the store, he looked a little like he had when he came back to Los Angeles a few nights ago. His clothes was dirty from the mud and his hair was tangled. Under his arm he had a tin box that had seen better times. It remained closed until he had taken a shower, well aware that he would not be accepted in The Haven next night if he looked like a vagrant.
Then he got on his knees to open the lid. Everything was there, down to the ticket stub from a theatre production he had attended for some reason he couldn't remember. There was money, a lot of money, wrapped in a plastic bag. Necklaces, some of them acquired from Gypsies he kept in his heart and a tooth from a wolf that almost killed him when he was young. They had both left the fight bloody. He still had the scars too proove it.
Every single thing filled him with memories, both good and bad, but all worth remembering. Noah was cold when he fell asleep, due the water and the content in the box. He wished for a future that was strong enough to fight the past, or at least keep him from loosing himself in it.

Regardless of whether she was aware of it or not - considering her smarts and her blatantly manipulative streak, she most likely was - Chatterbox had given Adrien something to ponder. Odds were she didn't know exactly what she had given him to ponder, but nevertheless, she had given it, and it was more than just one thing. Indeed, it was quite a few, actually, and he had been mulling them over one by one since he had arrived back at the Museum the previous night, ceasing only as he had drifted off into dreamless slumber during the daylit hours, once again refusing the comfort of the bed in favour of the chair next to it, only to awaken to continue where he had left off, as though he was ticking off one item after another on a list of things to cover.

First and foremost, there had been the questionable likelihood that Chatterbox would keep her mouth shut about what she had seen him do the previous evening, which, if she was able to figure out at least part of what was on his mind, would probably be it. After all, it would be downright ignorant of him not to spend a while thinking about it, and going over her various options and reasons for them, as well as his own various options for dealing with what course of action she ended up taking. Though he had already covered a few in his mind as the situation had still been unfolding. It was why he had decided not to do anything about it all quite yet, but instead leave her to set the bar. He would be ready for it, come what may.

Then there was the actual discovery itself; that apparently, despite being lead to believe otherwise, he could still kill. All if's and but's aside, the sweetness of that thought alone would have been enough to keep a faint but smug smile on his lips from the moment it had dawned on him, until now, even in his sleep, had he not long ago perfected the inscrutable pokerface he now wore permanently, the one so devoid of emotion that it left no visible traces whatsoever of what was going through his mind. Unless, of course, he allowed it to. But, there were still a whole tangled mess of kinks attached to the whole thing, and they would need to be carefully considered and examined before he'd decide what to do with this newly acquired knowledge. Adrien wasn't once to just close his eyes and jump. Especially not now, since he knew he was being watched by some most cunning and vengeful Kindred, who were no doubt making plans of how to break him, slowly but surely, and as painfully as possible. He would not risk being lead to the slaughter just because of not thinking things through. He had bigger plans than that.

Finally, last but not least, and partly an extension of the above, there was Chatterbox herself, and what had seemed to be the dawning realization she had begun to experience just as he had started taking his leave of her the previous night. After having dealt with one another quite intensely over the past couple of nights, it seemed it had finally occured to her that maybe, just maybe, he could be of use to her. In other ways than as a mere puppet doing her bidding, which was something she had clearly tried to pull with him, and something which she had equally clearly failed at accomplishing. When it came to manipulation, Adrien was hardly an unsuspecting victim, a sitting duck. Quite the contrary. Manipulation was one of his own favorite weapons, and as far back as over a hundred years ago, it had already been strong enough to turn a handful of Kindred against not just one of their own, but a Methuselah, and kill him with their bare hands. All because a little manipulation on Adrien's part. He himself hadn't even had to raise as much as a single finger, he'd simply stood by and watched as the puppets tore one of their own apart, and then he'd dealt with them, one by one.
Ah yes. If he'd had to pick just one achievement during his long career as a hunter, that he prided himself with above all others, that would be the one. Despite it having ultimately resulted in his cover being blown, when just as he'd been about to kill Mina, another wretched Tremere had shown up, and forced him to retreat.

However, as much as he enjoyed taking that particular trip down memory lane, it was just that; memories. Right now, he needed to focus on the present, and the many possibilities it had just dropped in his lap. Because, if Chatterbox really had experienced a bit of an epiphany, there was a good chance he could start examining his "condition" sooner rather than later, while at the same time examining her.
Yes indeed. He'd thought of the perfect way to put them both to the test for real, and with neither him nor her having to risk too much in the process, but instead both of them getting something they wanted. Classic win-win situation.

Though there was one possible problem; it all depended on her level of curiousity in him, or possibly her determination to kill him after all. Either way, he needed for her to keep an eye on whatever surveillance equipment he was now certain she had set up around the various exits of the Museum, since they were his only way of getting in touch with her. For some reason, he couldn't help but to doubt that she would have taken them down already, even if she didn't plan on making a third attempt to kill him. Call it a hunch, but she just didn't seem the type to let go of something that just may end up proving useful to her somehow, even if it would be impossible to predict when and in what shape it would be presenting itself.

Rarely one to waste time, especially not when a decision had been made and all that remained was to put the plan into action, Adrien thus didn't take long after waking up to do just that. Having slept in the big chair by the bed, always keeping himself prepared for anything, especially in a place such as this - a so-called Haven practically crawling with enemies - the first thing he did was to venture into the small adjoining bathroom, discarding the now rather wrinkled silk shirt onto the bed in the process, and then moving on to undoing the leather belt fastened around his waist. His pale, toned body soon rid of all garments save for the two pendants in leather straps around his neck, he then stepped in under the many, tiny jets of steaming hot water for a quick five-minute shower, each tiny droplet seemingly searing his skin on impact and quickening his senses. Within twenty minutes of opening his eyes to greet the newborn night, he was done, the dark tendrils always stubbornly falling into his eyes towel dried, and his lean yet muscular figure now encased in the same black jeans from yesterday, a dark crimson shirt, and his usual long, black and worn leather coat, as he made his exit through the same back door he had used the last couple of nights. There he stopped, listening as the heavy door fell shut behind him, and quickly scanning the area for the most likely yet not blatantly obvious place for a possible camera. Eyes locking on a dark corner of a stone wall not far away, with leaved branches from a nearby tree hanging down to obscure the view for anyone looking in, yet granting a perfect one for anyone looking out if positioned correctly, he noted that it, or the area around it, had to probably be the most ideal place for a camera. Thus, it was in that direction he aimed his message; a series of rapid, discreet finger gestures. Gestures which one would need to know sign language in order to interpret, and be Chatterbox to even begin to understand.
"First alley", he'd spelled.
No one but her would know what place he was referring to, and no one but her would successfully follow him there. Adrien, with his eerie ability to simply vanish among the shadows, would see to that.

Now he'd just have to hope that she was still watching, that she was bright enough to figure out the message, and that she'd be curious enough to show up.



(((ooc: Everyone - I added another thing to the application templates; "7. Additional info". I figured it may be needed for stuff that did not fit into the bios, such as the things that made me think of it in the first place; Adrien's tattoo and necklaces. Though you are of course free to put whatever you like there (or nothing at all if you'd prefer), not just physical characteristics. )))

If getting the hair dye to look realistic was difficult, getting the damn thing off was a fricking chore. Now, Lena loved being brunette, for that cascade of chocolate silk was forever her signature hair colour and thus, when it came to the colouring of said hair, it was really more nonchalant transient thing. Though, you know, it’s hilarious when they do the whole “Wash in, wash out” gimmick, and look now, about 6 “Wash outs” later, she still looked like Britney.
Well, at least it was high quality.
After that, frankly, she was just exhausted and thus, it bedtime beckoned.
She really wasn’t thinking about much because there was simply so much to think about, to sort through, and she really just didn’t feel like doing it.

Thankfully, there was nothing but the light slumber that she usually resigned herself to, under the safety of the golden rays of the sun spreading their infiltration of the room to a point where she could see the dance of light and shadows they caused behind her closed eyes. To this, Lena simply responded by turning over to face the other side, voluntarily falling back into sleep until the faint sensation of plush fur brushed up against the smooth soles of her feet, sending an immediate jolt through her muscles, prompting her to almost kick out in retaliation until she realised exactly what had caused it. Sandler.
Honestly, what was that thing, a cat or a dog?
Well, that was the plan of just lazing around getting shot to hell, anyway and so she stretched in forgone leisure before gracefully pulling herself up to a sitting position, reaching out to caress the luscious fur of the Siberian cat that knew better than to dig its claws into the silk sheets and clearly knew how to appreciate her affection.
With that, she rose out of bed, making her way towards the bathroom, realising that she hadn’t fed him the previous night. She’d do that later.

Another shower followed – really, she deserved an award for being so hygienic… well, apart from the… liquid supplements to her diet – and she was soon dressed in jeans and a moss silk cami, weapons hidden wherever she felt like hiding them, but not really all that bothered. One thing she was rather bothered about was the case of payment – as much as Lena frankly got off on inflicting tremendous amounts of pain on bloodsuckers before killing them, she really did insist on getting paid for it. She was so good, she deserved to be paid anyway. Not that she expected Adrien to play games regarding that, and, delightfully, that seemed to be the case, as she checked the account number she’d given him, to discover that he indeed had paid her for the hit she carried out. Killing vampires and getting paid for it; revenge didn’t come better than this.

Speaking of killing things, there was then the matter of Dirty Harry and his generous policy with immortality. Despite the fact that she really couldn’t care less about the actual person at the centre of this mess, Lena did care – she was furious – about the idea of it. It just wasn’t fair to pick someone off the streets and change them into something, and it was even more perverted that the reason Harold was being punished – if he was being punished – was because he threatened the others’ ability to go off and do the same. The problem was that she couldn’t personally see to it that he suffered, Adrien wouldn’t play ball, and thus she had to get someone else to do it. She’d get it done somehow; Lena always got what she wanted.

That mostly ate up most of her day… not that there was much of it to begin with given that she slept through most of it. No rest for the wicked, and therefore there was always more funfest in store for the hours that came forth; more specifically, a meeting with someone whom Lena really had to be careful with. The opportunity had come up and she really didn’t feel like refusing.
Thus, the day had eventually wound up with her sitting in her car, dressed perfectly for the occasion and looking a lot more like her normal self than the previous night, in a quiet suburban road, flicking through the file to drink up all the information she needed to know, wondering exactly how she ended up as such a Type A personality.

The truth was that ranting on about hair dye, toying with the cat, contemplating destruction and picking out what clothes to wear were all severely welcome distractions from the topic of Adrien de la Cour. She wasn’t quite unsettled by the events – most of which were her own doing – but rather vaguely edgy in regards to them, because she didn’t understand them. There wasn’t a lot that Lena didn’t understand and thus, when faced with something that led her to something she didn’t feel comfortable accepting, she did not like it. She knew it, she couldn’t ignore it, but she really, really did not like it.
It was guilt.
Well… not exactly. She didn’t feel in the slightest remorseful about everything she’d done to Adrien. He’d brought most of it on himself and the rest of it was just bad chance. She most certainly didn’t ask anyone to take a contract out on him and she didn’t invite the Sabbat to jump on the bandwagon.
None of it was her problem and she was absolutely devoid of guilt regarding that.

Things only got better, for she knew something that he really did not want her to know. She could tell, in that moment, his dejection at standing in that alley with possibly the last person – well, the last person with a heartbeat, anyway, given that the Merlin groupies having taken her place might just possibly make it worse – on Earth that he would have been inclined to share his gleeful secret with. Honestly, it was amusing at an exorbitant level; it was just priceless. The things she could do with what she knew! She could play with it all to no end… he’d be the most exquisite toy she’d ever had. It was just what she did with people; most passionately toy with them until she grew bored, or broke them, only to then discard them in cold blood.
The most disturbing thing was that was precisely what she didn’t want to do with Adrien. She didn’t want to toy with him, she didn’t want to abuse him, and she didn’t want to break him. He was more to her than a toy, more than something to play with and discard. All because he didn’t do what everyone else in her life had done.

Of course, there had to be a reason for it, she was perceptive enough to know that; no-one did anything without a reason. The only thing that truly drives us is the need to dominate attention, the need to be wanted and respected. It’s always selfishness and so, everything anyone does has some self-serving benefit. Maybe it was something to do with the uncertainty he must have been feeling, especially with what he discovered to still be capable of. Maybe he was still playing games, but no game was worth the risk of letting her go with the choice of telling every passing vampire about his secret; all she had to do was instigate reasonable doubt. No, it had to be something more than just some game, he was more careful than that. Then there was that his parting comment which was almost something like an invite and she instinctively knew it wasn’t one with a trap waiting behind it.

Thus, there it was, the question she contemplated as she relaxed down into the leather seat of the car, basking in the fading gold sunlight; how far should she take her curiosity? She had no intention of jeopardising his position by telling people about what he could do, but she was itching to know exactly what it was that he could do. It wasn’t just that, looking at him as a force against vampires, but also just him, as a person. He intrigued her, got through to her in a way that the vast majority of people couldn’t manage and she felt secured enough to give into it. Of course, he probably wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of having her find him again, and if she approached him, he’d have his guard up again – more than usual – so it’d be futile, save for just annoying him, which she getting rather bored of doing.
Fine. She’d just watch for a while… what he didn’t know couldn’t annoy him, could it?

Within the next half-hour, she was there in that safe distance from the museum where she was able to pick up the signals of the cameras she’d placed, enabling her to silently watch just the way she’d done for quite some time now, for once without the express intention of killing him. And finally, with the crimson sky melting into darkness by the minute, the man himself delivered, interestingly taking the exit at the back of the building again. What? He thought she was still watching, did he? Waiting to kill him? Was he baiting her? Well, in that case, the answers would be yes, no and fat chance. It was rather amusing though – wait, what?

“Oh, no, no, no, not the cameras…,” she found herself groaning in angry frustration, throwing herself back against the seat. He was going to remove them, wasn’t he? To make sure he couldn’t be watched…. Hardly fun! Did he even know how difficult those were to set up?! Besides, she could have made a fortune with vampiric Big Brother, but no… apparently de la Cour had something against reality TV.
But… no, he wasn’t removing the cameras…. She moved towards the monitor, using the zoom function to focus on the pixelated subtle movements of his hands, reading what they spelt out.
‘First alley’.
He was signalling to her, he knew she was watching? This, Lena was slightly indignant at; what, he thought she just spent her spare time stalking people?
Clearly yes, but this time, she had good reason, she wasn’t some sad loser who sat around watching people for no reason at all. Though, indignant or not and whether he was going to gloat or not, he was right, she was watching, her curiosity was enough to look past handing over that victory to him and still go ahead and meet him anyway.
Besides, she could look forward to another encounter – perhaps a dispassionate one this time – with her best friend the brick wall; how very considerate of Adrien to arrange that.

Firstly, she let him go on his own way, letting him shake off that idiot ghoul that clearly deserved to be fired. Secondly, she took her time. If he thought she was that much of a sad case to just stalk people, he could stand there waiting for a while. Then, at her own leisure, she calmly exited the car, smoothing down the suit and quite unhurriedly taking an alternative route to the alley in which she’d had that disastrous encounter with him. However, there was one problem; the ghoul was clearly getting slightly better – got to earn the little drops of blood, after all – was still loitering around the area and thus, she waited until he moved on, after repeatedly scanning the area and finding no sign of Adrien.
Then, satisfied, she made her own way into the alley and there he was, standing with the sort of confidence that, given his situation, she had to marvel at. Though, she did suppose the revelations of the previous night gave that demeanour of his considerable backing. Either way, it was becoming.

“Hey, you,” came the smooth call of her voice as she stopped making an effort to mask the sound of her heels, then coming to a graceful halt, that ever present invitingly teasing smile upon her lips as she continued, with an ever so slightly bashful demeanour; “C'est la prochaine fois?”
Then, she took further steps towards him, still figuring out why exactly he’d invited her to join him again, moving towards certain ideas and moving away from others and finally deciding to reciprocate for the chance he’d taken by offering him something that he’d requested the previous night.
“I’m Lena, by the way,” she finally introduced herself with slight impishness at doing that three nights after first making his acquaintance, holding out her hand in a gesture of peace and cordiality – assassin aside, she was raised with manners. And so was he, thus shaking her hand in acceptance, though the scrutinising look he gave her didn’t go unnoticed. Pausing for a moment as her hand dropped back to her side, eyes scanning the face sculpted of moonlit ivory skin and dark hair that drank in the light, there was that illusion that his statuesque form was nothing more than just that; stone cold. Yet, she just knew there was much more hidden away in the depths of his clandestine eyes, especially after the events of the previous night. Somewhere deep down inside, he was on fire.
Thus came the tentative question, partly because she was curious, partly because she felt like being polite and partly because she did care; “How are you?”

(((OOC: Sorry it's not great, but I hope it works )))

Wrapping up night 13... kelsa gave me permission to GM Che a bit


Grace isn't busty, but she more than makes up for it in legs and a size zero waist. She rides the tide of the yellow fever that's infected black, brown, and white men alike and flirts with insouciant ease. But this john she's thrown her lure at now, he makes Lola shudder in all the wrong ways... and the right ways too, which puts her even more on edge. Grace aint just casting for fish; she's a shark diver in a flimsy cage, flirting with a (wo)man-eater. And from the way she chats Scarface up blithely, she doesn't even notice.

He says his name is Che, which Lola softly hmphs at. Either it's a nickname or he's lying through his teeth. She keeps sketching with one eye to the paper and one eye to the pair cause she knows naked chicks like the back of her hand; she can draw bodies with both eyes closed if she needs to.

Che flirts back with Grace the way that men with raging erections flirt--badly. His eyes don't just linger on her; they stare, and they stare too long before flicking away. He chats grudgingly, like it's all just a segue to the main event. Normally, Lola finds this hilarious, but there's a rapacity in Che's murky eyes that sends shivers up her body and makes her imagination run wild with worst case scenarios.

When Lola finishes her additions to her sketch, she abruptly thrusts it towards Grace to exchange papers again. Grace is still flirting away with Che; she absentmindedly takes the pad, and ten seconds later her eyes finally float down to the picture Lola's put to the paper. Her sharp eyes widen like little Cheerios.

Lola's drawn a macabre tableau with Che relaxed in a chair in front of table that separates the top and bottom of the picture into two parts: a world above and a world below. The word above is unremarkable, but below the table two women stripped of all vestments fall and reach towards him as in supplication. Their bodies roil like the twisting pyramid of flesh in the Raft of the Medusa. One grabs a fistful of his shirt desperately, her knuckles barely showing over the edge of the table. The other has one hand wrapped around his knee with her tongue licking his boot. Their expressions are exquisitely horrible, frozen in death. Their smooth bodies are cut open like fish. And they're drawn with more gruesome accuracy to the real thing than a girl like Lola has any business knowing.

"Holy s***, Serial Killer!" Grace cries aghast and quickly flips the pad shut.

Lola stands up sharply and announces "I need to go powder my nose." But the way she throws a meaningful glare at Grace makes it obvious to her friend that what she really means is "You. Me. Bathroom. Talk. Alone. Now."

Grace gets the message, sighs in irritation, and slings her purse over her shoulder. She sends an apologetic look Che's way as she gets up and assures him, "We'll be right back."

Both girls leave their clunky sketchpads behind and head for the bathroom with purses tucked under elbows. As they hustle away, they exchange glances. Lola gives Grace a patronizing you're a f***ing moron look, and Grace looks at Lola like she's a total wet blanket. When they get there, Grace demands:

"What the hell was that?"

Lola's mouth drops. Grace was accusing her of indiscretions? "What the f***, Lee? Have you completely lost your f***ing mind, playing around with a guy like that?"

"God, you're so paranoid. Not everyone is as f***ed up as you, you know?"

"Hey, you wanna get murder-raped tonight or something? This guy is trouble, trust me."

"And how the hell do you know? What is it? You wanna f*** him?"

"I--" Lola hesitates and her cheeks flush lightly as her explicit daydream edges back into her mind.

"Omigod, you f***ing w****! You do, don't you?"

"NO!!! I mean, okay, maybe a little, but NO! Hey, wait--" Lola grabs Grace as she tries to leave. Her eyes cast downward and her voice subtly shifts to a serious tone. "You know my record... with guys I've wanted to f*** in the past. I really have a bad feeling about this, and you've seen all the s*** in the news lately...."

Grace's irritation softens visibly as the reality of what Lola's saying sinks in. Yeah, she's seen the news. A spate of gruesome killings has swept across LA over the past few days.

Lola sees her friend's stubbornness start to give way, and she goes for the ultimate appeal. She begs, "Please. Please don't go anywhere alone with him."

Grace sighs heavily and at length she concedes, "Fine." She turns to the mirror, touches up her lipstick, and presses her lips together. Then she casually remarks like she doesn't care anyway, "A**hole hasn't even bought me a drink."

Lola smirks and softly adds, "I wouldn't expect that much from guys you meet in a jiggle joint, Lee."

When the girls head back to their seats, Che is nowhere to be found. As they get closer, they notice one more thing that's missing--Lola's sketchpad.

Motherf***er.

"Hey, he didn't take mine." Grace notes with a hint of dejection.

"Told you he was f***ed up."




((OOC: Just got back from a big test, downed a glass of wine and then some on an empty stomach, and am seriously feeling it cause I'm all waifish and azn, so sorry if this post is a little choppy and jumbled and sheet. Also, kelsa, pls let me know ifyou want me to change anything. And OMG, find & replace function on "Che" doesn't work as well as other names!
))

[[ Sorry to spam and that I have been unable to post. Lots going on irl. robokitty the post looks fine to me. Thanks again for understanding.

I will, in time, add a post for Mieke to this so as to not clutter the board ]]

Someone once said that spiteful words can hurt your feelings, but silence breaks your heart.
How very true that was.

Valerian knew well the dangers of applying someone else's words to one's own feelings - how sometimes it would simplify them and alter them ever so slightly in order to fully fit the frame of the quote, and thus end up giving you a wrongful understanding of them and of yourself, because you did not see their whole spectra - but even so, he couldn't keep that particular quote from surfacing in his mind as he'd watched Claudia stalk out of his chambers the previous evening, after telling him they'd have to discuss it all another time. He couldn't help but to feel that there was so much truth in it, and that some of it called out to his feelings regarding what had just transpired. For while it had been a huge relief to him that Claudia had not torn into him the way he'd feared she would, it had been a most bittersweet one; discovering that the most prominent feeling in her had not been anger, but hurt, had cut into him like a knife and left his heart an unbeating mass of guilt and ache instead, for causing it. For causing the always strong and so very composed and indomitable Claudia to feel actual hurt. It had never been his intention, and it stung to know that she felt betrayed by him, as did it sting to know that little of what he had said had done anything to make it all better. But most of all, it stung to know that what he had done, had caused her enough hurt to actually withdraw from him, to leave in order to think things through, rather than staying and sorting it all out then and there, letting him assure her that he loved her as much as he always had, and that he was still loyal. Instead of choosing to spend the day with him, in his bed, like she often did after a quarrel, she chose to leave. And while it may not have broken his heart exactly, it did still pain him greatly, and bring those words someone had once spoken, to his mind.

But, no matter how much he would've liked to ask Claudia to stay, to plead even, he doubted it would have done much good. On the contrary, he believed it would have only angered her even more, because when Claudia requested solitude, it was for a reason, and her reasons were never anything less than firm and well founded. That, and he really had no right to ask anything more of her, since he knew perfectly well he had already tried her patience enough for one night. And probably for an entire month, if not more.
So, when after his full confession, she had told him they'd talk it over at a later time, and she had gotten ready to leave, Valerian hadn't objected. He had shot her a look that he knew would completely betray his feelings on such a tepid parting to her keen eyes, but as an actual response, he had only given a slow, somber nod to let her know that he understood - because he did - and then silently watched her walk out the door.

Alone with his thoughts, and above all his guilt, he had then remained sitting there, feebly slumped back against the plush cushions of the couch while his mind busied itself with thoughts of the mess he had unintentionally caused, even though he had only wanted to spare the life of someone he did not feel deserved death simply for having had others make of her a threat, of which she herself hadn't even been aware. He had entered into it all with only the best of intentions, and even though things had gotten far more complicated than he'd ever anticipated, and the chances of success had started crumbling around him, they had remained just that; the best of intentions. He'd never meant for anyone to get hurt.
But, he should have known; when it came to Kindred politics and affairs, an all-encompassing "happily ever after" just was not possible. Not even when handled by those with far more skill and experience than Valerian of the Toreador had to offer.
He really was so very far in over his head on this one.

Deeper and deeper into those thoughts he'd sunk, dark clouds gathering in his mind as he'd kept chiding himself for not having managed to somehow keep Aeode safe without inciting all the problems that were now circling him like vultures in a desert sky. Even though he honestly couldn't think of how else he could have handled it. For while he felt bad for having lied to Claudia in the first place, he knew that at the time, telling the truth would have been too great a threat to Aeode's well-being, for him to want to risk it. And he knew there were few other ways he could've handled it when she had first approached him to ask for help, and there were equally few ways of trying to keep her in the dark regarding what she had really stumbled upon. There wasn't much he could have done when she had shot him, except tell her the truth, and when Noah had been targeting her, he'd had to intervene, lest she'd really be spooked into running.
And when earlier that evening Moira had asked him what was the matter... Yes, perhaps he should have refrained from telling her as much as he had, but how could he? As brief and new as their acquaintance was, it had already grown more intense than any other he'd ever experienced, and the amount of trust they had shared, and the comfort she'd offered... His betrayal would have been an even greater one, had he not confided in her, for then he would have gone against his very own essence, part of what made him who he was. And to him, there was no greater betrayal than that of one's own nature.

With all these thoughts swirling in his head, and the only sound to permeate that stifling, heartwrenching silence that had ruled the room since Claudia's departure, being the muffled thumping beat of the music downstairs, Valerian had lost all track of time. He hadn't known how long he'd been sitting there, when all of a sudden another, sharper beat had roused him from his ponderings; a brisk yet somewhat tentative knock on the door. Almost like a godsend, Melody had then stepped into the room at his invite, and the mere sight of her had immediately started to slowly disperse the gloom in his heart. For even when he was sad or upset, it never failed to bring at the very least a faint smile to his lips to look at her, his cherished ghoul; the way her gemstone eyes seemed to light up with an inner glow of their own whenever she saw him, and her lasting eagerness to find herself in his loving embrace, where most he wanted her. The way their gazes would sometimes meet, and with little more than a mere glance hold an entire conversation without a single word being spoken, and the way that simply resting his eyes on her would warm his cold heart with the affection he held for her, for being who she was and for accepting him the way he was, for loving him regardless of what he did. Even if the years and his blood coursing through her veins had made it hard for her not to. He knew that had she not been ghouled all those years ago, her independence and her need for space and time alone would probably have been far more extensive than they were, and that she might not even have been with him anymore; that what ultimately made her stay with him, was for the most part the blood bond. But he still cherished it all nonetheless, for he knew it wasn't all artifical. There was much sincerity therein as well. Being as emotionally intuitive as he was, he would have known if there wasn't.

But, while he had greeted her as a most welcome distraction from his troubles, it had soon turned out that she was not. At least not at first. With Valerian not having gotten the chance to explain to her what had been going on the last couple of nights, and the previous one especially, when she had found him injured and bleeding in the storage room, she too was filled with questions and a desire to know what had happened, and why. And Valerian, feeling that he really did owe her an explanation but didn't want to get her any more involved than she already was, did his best to offer her one, telling her how 'Annie' had found herself in trouble, and how he had simply wanted to help, but that he in doing so had accidently scared her so badly that she'd shot him in self-defence. After that, he'd simply kissed away whatever questions Melody had had, while assuring her that everything was now fine, and that while it was most endearing, she needn't be concerned.

Thankfully, Melody had settled for that, and soon thereafter, the two of them had drifted off to sleep together; him with his arms around her petite frame, holding her close, and her with her cheek resting against his chest, spilling small gusts of hot breath against it's marbled surface.

Hours later, when once again the sun had made it's way across the sky and sunk below the flaming horizon, Valerian awoke to much the same pleasurable sensation, of Melody's warmth still by his side. Only now her head was resting on his arm, her blonde tresses spilling over it's curve and across the pillow in rivers of gold, and her angelic face was snuggled into the nook of his shoulder and neck, her skin, flushed with life, a rich contrast against his ivory one. Righ then, to him, she looked like serenity personified, so peacefully at rest where she lay, and even though he didn't want to disturb that image, he couldn't help but to pull her closer with what would have been a most content sigh, had his lungs still craved air, but now became merely the mimicry of one.


(((ooc: Sorry if it's crap. Was kind of struggling with it. Alot.
And Ghani, please let me know if it doesn't work/if you imagined it differently, or if you find it difficult to reply to. I just couldn't imagine lounging-loving Valerian talking her ear off before she's even awake. *s*)))

Adrien had always been partial to the dark. Always, even back when he'd still been human - or as human as the son of a thin-blooded Kindred could ever be. Despite the fact that it was the sun that was the most fool-proof protection against Kindred, Adrien still preferred the night, and the shadows that came along with it. To him, they were the perfect allies, working with him to keep him hidden when, if and for as long as he wanted them to, offering the perfect places to lurk in anticipation of a muderous plunge, as well as easily accessed escape routes for when the kill had been carried out, or in case something went wrong. For while it rarely did, as he had always been a careful planner, to say that it never did would have been an exaggeration, and besides, having at least three ways out of a situation was part of the planning in the first place.
Adrien was nothing, if not always prepared.

Though none of all this meant that he took to the shadows every single time he felt a threat closeby or, like now, sensed that someone was following him. He took pride in being able to dodge traps being set for him, and shaking off nosey ghouls who were tailing him at the order of their domitor, simply to find out just what he was up to. Letting the shadows swallow him and lead him to safety during such occasions would be much like casting pearls before swine, if you asked him, and so instead of ultimately throwing the ghoul off his scent by simply ducking into the shadows, thus killing it, he simply lead him in circles for a while, until the poor imbecile didn't know which way to go anymore, unable to figure out if Adrien had taken a left or a right or even continued straight ahead, in the fourway crossing he thought he'd followed the former hunter to. It was only through a pure stroke of good luck that he happened to pick the right path, and wander aimlessly around nearby, before admitting to himself that he'd lost his target, and deciding to check the places where Adrien sightings had actually been made over the past week. Or possibly just giving up. Either way, his presence faded from the area, and Adrien stepped out of the abandoned and frankly rather hazardous-looking building from where he had watched the ghoul's confusion and frustration reach new levels, and into the alley in which he'd first made Chatterbox's acquaintance.
All that was left to do now, was to wait.

And so wait, he did, casually leaning back ever so slightly against the railing of a rusty, rickety fire escape, and folding his arms across his chest, to the faint creaking sound of the worn leather coat. Though that was the last sign of life seen in him for the longest time, as the minutes began ticking by without him moving even an inch, almost as though he'd been frozen in time. Without the need to breathe, or even keep circulation going, there simply was no reason for him to move. Not even boredom. Being a most patient man, used to sometimes spending hours awaiting the opportune moment, he had no need to keep himself entertained, but rather spent the time plotting, planning, and testing his senses, closing his eyes to try and discern as many sounds as possible, tell them apart, and identify them, or scanning the area, trying to register as much as possible in as short a time as possible. Or, he might even decide to put his intuition and his ability to read people to the test, by watching those milling about around him (that is, when he had not picked a completely deserted spot to wait, such as this one), and guessing what their next course of action would be; would the lady who was just peering into her purse about to stop at the ATM a couple of yeard up ahead, or would she try and hail a cab? Take out her cell phone to make a call, or fish out the keys to one of the apartments across the street? Would the man who had been impatiently checking his watch ten times over the past two minutes wait around for another two, or would he be leaving in ten seconds?

However, as there were currently no people around to watch, Adrien settled for testing his hearing, and thus closed his eyes so that he may better pick up on the sounds around him. At first, it was only the usual symphony of common city sounds - the pulse of the city, the noise of cars passing by on the street, people talking, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance, and the muffled beat of music seeping through the walls of a nearby club, all blending together into the usual susurrus of L.A. night life - but after only a few moments he had picked them apart, and in doing so, was able to make out other sounds that had previously been drowned out. He could hear a rodent or possibly a cat creeping around behind a couple of trash cans he had spotted over to the left, the faint rustling of a black garbage bag telling tales of a search for food. Drifting into the alley from the street outside, were fragments from a conversation between what judging by the topic sounded like two college boys, and then the angry voice of a woman arguing with someone on the phone. There was screeching from the tires of a car, and the angry honking of a horn, as some other driver or a pedestrian managed to anger someone. And, there was footsteps, slowly but surely seperating themselves from the mass following along the crowded sidewalk. The faint sound of dirt grating against the asphalt under a pair of shoes coming his way. Closer and closer, yet so very quietly that had he not been completely focused, his hearing may have missed it, at least initially. She really was quite good, wasn't she? Had that not already been established before, it would have been now. Chatterbox had skill.

Opening his eyes to watch her emerge into his line of vision, his lips twitched slightly in amusement at finding that her hair color had once again changed, and that it was now back to being brown. Or was that back to being dyed brown? After all, just because she had been a brunette when he'd first met her, that hardly meant it was her natural hair color. For all he knew, she really was a blonde. Not that it really mattered, since he had no plans of trying to describe her to anyone anyway. But still, it was quite amusing that one obviously could never know just what she'd look like from one meeting to another, and even though he knew it was hardly an effort made for just him, he had to still appreciate the minor surprise it brought. It simply helped keep things a little interesting.

"Hey, you. C'est la prochaine fois?"

Her voice when greeting him, and finding herself the target of his calm, self-assured gaze, was soft and, not surprisingly, as coquettish as always, though perhaps missing that most annoying element of impish, attempted provocation, which was mainly what had made him tire of if so very fast during their previous encounters. Not that her flirtatious streak appealed to him any more this time around, but at least it didn't strike his as quite as annoying.
Consequently, he didn't find himself fighting the urge to roll his eyes, but simply inclined his head ever so slightly, in confirmation that indeed, it was now "next time", moving for the very first time in nearly twenty minutes.

"I'm Lena, by the way", Chatterbox then continued while stepping closer and offering her hand up for a handshake - or, knowing her, perhaps something more devious cast in the shape of a handshake - earning herself a pair of eyebrows raised in a look of mild surprise in the process.

My my, her tune really was changing, wasn't it? First the dropped pestering, and now a formal introduction? Or, at the very least, the illusion of one. Adrien still wasn't convinced of her good intentions, nor that 'Lena' was really her name, and he made it no secret, as before he finally accepted her hand and gave it a small but firm shake, he took his time to scrutinize it, as well as her eyes, in search of something that would tip him off, had she been trying to set him up for another one of her tricks. But, upon examination by his penetrating gaze, he had found her to seem honest and genuine, and thus briefly clasped his cool hand with her warm one in civil greeting.

After that, it was her turn to study him, apparently not yet sure of why on earth, after their less than smooth encounters, he had decided that he wanted another chat with her. And who could blame her? What he had in mind was rather... unconventional, he had to admit.
Although, when finally she spoke, what ended up spilling from her lips actually managed to earn her yet another look of slight surprise on his part, as it was in no way what he'd expected, even with her new, rather more pleasant demeanor taken into account;

"How are you?"

None of her usual probing as a way of trying to make him give something away, no mischief to tease him about her knowing what he'd rather she hadn't, and no gloating just to try and get him riled up. Just a simple and seemingly polite 'How are you?'. Of course, it could just be another, more subtle way of going about it, since it did inquire about his well-being and thus obviously his state of mind and his thoughts as well as his feelings on what had happened the previous evening, which wasn't a completely unlikely theory. Chatterbox - or, Lena, as she had now 'revealed' her name to be - ought to have notcied how she really didn't get anywhere with her previous methods, and being what she was, she also ought to know how to adapt and try new approaches.
So, as genuine as it all seemed, Adrien wasn't about to lower his guard. He would reciprocate her efforts to play nice, because he was all for genuine cordiality. But they still had a long way to go before he'd even think of confiding in her. For now, it was quite enough that she knew far more than he'd like her to.

"How am I?" he thus said, with a bit of amusement curving his lips into a slight but sincere smile. "Relieved. It would have been quite embarrassing, and an inexcusable waste of time to wait around here, had my hunch been incorrect."

After all, keeping one's guard up didn't necessarily mean one couldn't be friendly and responsive, able to indulge in a little self-irony. Though at the same time, the indication he had given about having things to do, thus this having been an "inexcusable waste of time" had she not shown up, was most sincere - he did have quite a few things on his list of what needed to be done - and so he didn't take long to move on to the reason why he had asked her to meet him here;

"I have a proposition for you", he said, though still paused for a few moments while his eyes traced her features, as though he was examining whether of not he had gotten her attention, and piqued her interest. Apparently, what he saw was to his liking, because before long, he continued; "That is, if you still wish to see Schumacher dead?"

Day:

The faceless man has a body of dazzling white like a Greek god--hard, cold, and cut of marble. His face is a smooth, gray smudge, the work of a fickle Creator who penciled in and erased it one too many times until all that was left was an indecipherable blur. Imperceptible features, yet they are undeniably there underneath the haze.

This majestic god sweeps Lola up in his sculpted arms and brushes his lips against hers in a delicate kiss. His firm lips glide across the layer of wetness in between them with tantalizing promise. And as her excitement grows, he kisses her harder, faster, fiercer. Taking her by surprise, his canines draw a long gash into his tongue, which he snakes into her mouth. Pools of blood fill the spaces in between them.

Her insides knot, and her mind rebels, but oh god, it was so good. Sickening and yet utterly intoxicating. She tries to pull away, but her lover wraps his hand around the back of her head and pins her in his deep kiss. And though she wants to scream, the only sound that escapes her is a pleasurable moan.

And in that instant, she knows that there's no fighting it. She surrenders fully, hungrily, drinking deeply of his wine. She twines her legs around his body--lovers connecting at the mouth and at the hips. Her eyes close as she gives herself to ecstasy, and a vision springs to life inside her mind.

Two brothers are side by side under a rich blanket of stars. One stands over the other, holding his brother's kneeling form up by a fist of hair. He slides a knife through his throat, and red curtains spill out of the wound. The body separates from the head. The first martyr. The first murderer. Their faces are twisted and horrible, and their eyes look towards God. They search for Him in the dark Heavens, in the void that stretches endlessly in every direction and promises nothing. Their eyes look towards God, and the uncaring Abyss echoes in return.

Her faceless lover pulls back from their kiss, and the vision disappears. One finger traces down the middle of her chest, in between her breasts, and opens her soft flesh like a book. There is no pain, only a peculiar sensation as something warm and wet tumbles into her hands. Confusion shining in her eyes, she tries in vain to press it back into her chest--a child jabbing a square-shaped peg into a heart-shaped hole.

Her lover, her faceless betrayer, takes the pulsing object from her hands. When his nails dig into the squirming muscle, it knocks the breath out of her paralyzed body. He brings her heart to his lips, and his tongue slithers over like it's savoring a woman's breast. After he laps at her juices, a long hissing breath passes over his lips. A whisper fills the air with malevolence that chills her soul.

I have you.
In every way imaginable.

Lola feels something precious break inside her.

---

A finger jabs into Lola's arm. A hand lightly shakes her shoulder. She stirs awake, looks up. In the dark room, she sees the whites of twenty eyes staring at her; like cockroaches when the lights switch on, they scurry back to the front of the room as soon as Lola spots them. At the front of the classroom, Mr. Taiha, the upper level biology teacher, is chattering about his Powerpoint presentation.

Carelessly thrown up on the wall is a light projection of a frog split from cloaca to collar. Its four legs are spread out and impaled by long pins, a martyr on the dissection platter. Someone has meticulously pulled back its thin layers of skin and muscle and pinned them back like pages in an open book to reveal the soft, chewy center inside, glistening red, pink, and purple. A mockery of what it once was, the frog bares its soul in blood and tissue for all to see.

"...as you can see, a vivisection of a freshly killed frog looks much different from the preserved specimens. Take a look at the thoracic cavity. You'll probably have to cut away..." the teacher callously explains all the gory details.

The hand shakes Lola's shoulder again. "Hey, are you awake?" Grace whispers.

Lola straightens her body up with a tired yawn. "Yeah, I'm up. Thanks."

"Sounded like some dream," Grace remarks slyly.

"Oh s***, was I moaning?" Lola's cheeks flush pink.

"Yeah, more like whimpering... and... and yeah. And moaning too. It wasn't that loud. I don't think the teacher heard."

Lola looks down at her class notes. She's filled out two lines on the sheet of paper compared to the other students' two pages.

"So, did you get lucky?" Grace teases with a quirked brow.

"Yeah, something like that," Lola replies distantly. Her eyes travel back to the mutilated frog. Splatters of roadkill on a highway have more dignity than this. She tries to imagine a greater violation of body sacrosanct and cannot.




((OOC: I've got a few solo posts coming up... just getting into character and vaguely foreshadowing stuff.))

Never tell people what you want.
The value of an object is directly proportional to the interest in it and thus, it is directly proportional to the difficulty that you will experience in getting it. Thus, directly asking someone for something you truly want is a bad idea if you hope to stand any chance at getting it. No, the trick was to reduce the value of it, make it worthless, or make it worthwhile to them, but never to yourself. Whenever you let people know that there’s something you want, more often than not for the power trip, they’ll use it against you, taunt you with it, and make you work for it… because really, everyone was twisted.

On a less emo level – and one that Lena, whilst clearly familiar with the other level, was more likely to pay attention to – was how to use that philosophy to get what she wanted. Or rather, how to make people give her exactly what she wanted, because she truly did not believe anyone ever would give her what she wanted if she just honestly asked for it. No, the trick was always manipulation, to make them want it, thus getting them to give her what she wanted, and therefore turn them all into her puppets, because she could.

So, when she’d mildly attempted to manipulate Adrien into doing things for her – mildly because she wasn’t liking her chances all too much – she’d taken a chance, a different approach, mainly because she was rather well aware of the fact that he wasn’t going to buy her usual methods, in revealing that it was indeed something that she wanted on a personal level. It was a gamble and it really didn’t pay off. It wasn’t much incentive to be straightforward when it never worked. See, she’d been anything but straightforward with him during their first encounter, and she’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted in getting him to actually pay her to kill some random guy literally off the streets.
Seriously, forget the idea of Lena having qualms about working for the guy she had just tried to kill; it was fricking fantastic… and all because she instigated him to think he was the one who wanted something from her.

That would have been a nice idea to believe, had it not been for the fact that she knew enough about him to know that he wouldn’t fall for that one, not that easily anyway. No, she knew that Adrien picked and chose what he believed very, very carefully and therefore, her getting through to him had more to do with persuading him to let her get through to him rather than actually directly getting through to him. It was such a subtle difference, but it was still an important one because it meant she didn’t have as much control over him as she would have liked to. But, as it turned out for the time being anyway, it wasn’t leading to anything catastrophic. Well, aside from her inability to get him to give her what she wanted; Harold Schumacher’s head on a silver platter. But what the hell, she had other alternatives of getting her way.

However, there is a problem with lying. Well, not a problem per se, but rather a pitfall that one should avoid; never get caught. A great liar – one such person being Lena Sayliss – not only knew what they could accomplish with lies but also what they could lose because of those very weapons. That was precisely why one should never be caught lying, not because of the guilt or punishment or anything but because being caught severely threatens one’s ability to get their way in the future. It was a double edged sword, but it was worth the risk.
Though, in a way – though it was frustrating that now that she was being honest, somewhat with things that didn’t matter as much, he still had justifiable hesitation in believing a word she said – it was a little amusing to blur the lines of distinction.
However, she couldn’t blame him for that spoilsport, yet healthy scepticism held within his demeanour at her introduction, clearly wondering whether that was indeed true or not. Thus, there was the question of whether it was actually true or not. ‘Lena’ was her name for now, and it was true. On the other hand, it was a lie, because clearly, Lena Sayliss was a recently adopted alias more than the name she’d been given at birth. No, no, ‘Lena’ would have to do, and really, she’d even been careful with that one, not giving a surname to accompany it and that very gesture making it more of a lived-in name rather than one she just thought up.
In all honesty, though, she was hardly likely to say something along the lines of “The name’s Alexis Ashcroft, please feel free to Facebook-stalk me.” Given the fact that her father was an eminent businessman with a fierce reputation, giving that name was hardly bright. Besides, it’d be even more of a lie really, when it came to names. Alexis Ashcroft was gone; she even had her own gravestone.
An empty coffin for what turned into an unfulfilled life – fitting, wasn’t it?

"How am I?" Adrien echoed her question, seemingly not too fussed about the name issue, thankfully, and still in that delicately engaging way he carried gave her the answer to the very same, with a sliver of a smile that drew it’s potency from not only it’s presence, but the previous absence of it; he really was in a good mood, wasn’t he? “Relieved.”
For a second she wondered whether that was in any way pertaining to what he’d discovered regarding his limitations, only then deciding that that wasn’t likely the case; he wasn’t the type to openly discuss it, let alone with her. Thus, she clarified it to herself before he continued;
“It would have been quite embarrassing, and an inexcusable waste of time to wait around here, had my hunch been incorrect.”
In reply to that, a simple yet amused laugh ventured out of her lips slightly in appreciation of his candidness regarding the chances involving this, and not just whether the other party was likely to turn up, but also what they’d done in the time during which they both had had to have been contemplating the opportunities given to them by the events of the previous night, and the uncertainty in their respective securities brought about by those contemplations. She could appreciate that, and she could understand it; after all, she had been sitting in a car for half-an-hour waiting for something she didn’t really know.
However, she’d venture a guess that had she not turned up, he’d have hardly felt embarrassed. Disappointed in her for her lack of interest in him, perhaps, or for not fulfilling his expectations of her, but hardly embarrassed. And she did have to wonder what else he planned on doing with his time to consider it an “inexcusable waste” had she not turned up.
Though, really, her curiosity was more devoted to why he’d been waiting in the first place and that he soon revealed, or rather, approached;

“I have a proposition for you,” he began, then arresting there without further explanation as his absorbing eyes drank in the inquisitiveness that was displayed over her features. Her first guess would have been that he wanted another vampire dusted, and that was fine, she could do that… and it’d be a chance to get to know him better. Perhaps it’ll even be one that he personally wanted killed rather than some random off the street. In which case, Lena was all for it, for a) she got to kill, b) she got to keep her acquaintance with him, c) she got paid, d) she had her fun and e) she got to figure out what the deal was with Adrien and the Tolkien gang – so, that was… 5 birds killed with one stone and she was hardly likely to pass that up. Alternatively, there was the possibility that it was to do with blood. He was a vampire, he needed sustenance and with the new influx of friends who wanted catching up for old times’ sake, he’d need more and better… and now he knew a person who knew how to get her hands on vitae and really, getting normal blood so won’t be a problem. Though, there was of course the whole idea of having to put more faith in her in order to get that ball rolling, and he was a little too guarded for that… really, she wasn’t sure why she’d been invited here and was open to pretty much anything, but he still managed to make it unexpected; “That is, if you still wish to see Schumacher dead?”

Well… hell, yes!
This is why you shouldn’t tell people exactly what you want, and exactly why you want it – it leaves you vulnerable. In all honesty, though, she did suppose she hadn’t told Adrien anything truly personal about why she wanted Dirty Harry dead, more just making it a universal problem to begin with until she just had to say something to make her interest in it less to do with screwing him over. Truthfully, when she’d asked him to kill Harry, she hadn’t exactly been looking to have him land in trouble; she just didn’t care if he did.
Now… she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to perpetrate events that made things difficult for him, but she wanted what she wanted and he could take care of himself. Besides, if he was offering something, it had to involve him directly, because she’d made it clear she didn’t want his associates on the bus; it wasn’t a fricking field trip.
Added to that, and more primarily, was why he was still thinking about it when he’d made it so clear the other night that he wasn’t interested. What exactly was this proposition? Also, if she accepted this proposition, it’d probably mean that she owed him something, and in that case, what exactly would be the favour that he’d be calling in?
Call it suicidal intuition, but she really didn’t think it was anything malevolent; he didn’t seem the type and he’d had far better opportunities up until now, especially two nights ago against the very wall that now lingered in the corner of her vision.

So, fine, she’d gather the information first and then decide what to do, for she really did want Harold to die by her doing – even if it wasn’t her physically inflicting the fatal blow, she wanted it to be by her word, her machinations, for her reasons – and if Adrien had a possibility for it, then she was receptive to the idea. And it wasn’t just that, she wanted him to be in on it, she wanted him to break the rules, their rules. Anarchy didn’t lose potency in subtlety.
And it wasn’t just that, she deep down wanted Adrien to break the chains holding him, to be free again, because they didn’t have the right to own him.
However much she wanted it, she kept her effortless cool, needing to hear the whole proposition before she jumped into it, simply seeming to consider the words as she leaned onto the railings, hands clasped and forearms pivoting languidly atop as her eyes surveyed him in quizzical amusement, biting the corner of her lower lip in contemplation.

“Yes,” she then exclaimed slightly, a slightly indulgent laugh betraying slivers of restrained delight with the up turn of her lips as she shifted her slender frame to fully face him, taking a moment to bask in the rareness of sincerity he offered, before she directly and yet politely questioned the origins of it; “And I’m interested in why you’re making such an offer.”

She was having some difficulty in ascertaining why he was doing this, especially given what he’d said the other night about why he was not only unable to get involved, but how he was also unwilling. Though, she could suppose that – given what she knew about him – it was simply a way of keeping her without reason to sell him out, but that was a little pointless given that killing her would accomplish the very same thing. Oh, wait; he did have morals, didn’t he… That might prove a little problematic in that scenario. Though, she did have to wonder how far he’d stretch his morals to accomplish his goals.
Alternatively, it could be the case that she’d managed to strike a chord with him over why she wanted Harold dead – not farfetched given that he was embraced against his will – or that he too wanted to test his restraints… in which case, she was all on board.
But first, let him explain himself… though she had to clarify it first, because she wasn’t suspecting him of a grand backstabbing plan;
She then continued, taking a few graceful steps towards him again as the fingers of the hand still on the railings walked their way on momentarily after she came to a halt; “A man like you doesn’t do things without purpose.”


(((OOC: Still not sure whether that’s coherent, but I hope it works )))

As is the case with most people, there was more than one side to Connor. And, due to the actual need for at least two of them, created by the pressure of growing fame, perhaps it was even more so in his case. When finding oneself in the limelight, with a good amount of curiousity and sometimes even downright obsession aimed in your direction, a need for a bit of a front will sooner or later turn inevitable, in order to protect what you may not want to share with the rest of the world; the things that you would like to keep private, between just yourself and your loved ones. Experiences, relationships, personal problems and tragedies, even causes for rejoicing.

Connor, being the fairly bright young man that he was, had realized this early on in his career, and from that realization had emerged two different personas; Connor Hale the celebrity, and Connor Hale the private person, with all the roles it entailed - son, friend, lover, young modern man, hard worker - wrapped into one. And, while those two personas weren't exactly as different as night and day, they were still different. As a performer and a public person, Connor had grown skilled in the art of bringing forth his sprightly and carefree nature, yet while keeping a firm grasp of the concept of privacy, rarely venturing into private matters such as his family and friends, and especially not his girlfriend. Always personal, with an air of openness and sincerity about him, but never compromising his privacy, and never appearing truly troubled.
In the public eye.

Among friends and family, or even just people working close to him, it was a different story. To them, he couldn't hide if or when something was the matter, nor did he usually try. Especially not with his family. With them, he would always be upfront if there was something troubling him, and he would seek comfort in their support. Family had always been important to him, and thus they were usually his first and only refuge whenever he found himself in need of one.
However, there had been a change in his demeanor since he'd grown famous; where before he'd shared pretty much all his troubles with his parents, there were now times when he no longer did. He'd still always be open about being troubled, but ever since his star had started it's ascent on the celebrity night sky, he was no longer always open about why. Or rather, ever since he'd met Moira, but since both things had happened around the same time, and no other girlfriend had ever had that effect on him, it made more sense for others to assume it was the fame, and not Moira that had caused it.

Consequently, with so much on his mind following him from the previous night, through the few hours of sleep and onto the new dawning day, it was no wonder that throughout the hours he'd spent away from Moira this afternoon, he'd been asked what was the matter, more than once. The previous night had brought with it so much that even though he had since calmed down and regained most of his usual composure, he was still overwhelmed by it all. By what Moira had told him in that cramped little room backstage at Club Envy, by what he had experienced when out in the club he'd set eyes on the two vampires that had practically ravaged him the night before, and by everything else he had learned once he and Moira had returned to her hotel room, and he'd been back to showering her with questions about pretty much everything she had told him; about the Camarilla, the Primogen, the Kindred influence on the human world, and Caine, once it had finally dawned on him that she'd meant the Caine in the Bible.

It was alot for a human mind to handle, even when one did have a supportive and attentive Domitor by one's side to lean on, and to help make one understand and fend off the most critical levels of frustration that one was bound to reach over and over again while struggling to take it all in. It had all taken it's toll on him, and along with trying to recover not only from the havoc those two women had wreaked on him, but also from months and months of touring, it had all finally overwhelmed him to the point where he could not longer seem to produce even a single coherent thought.
Yet, he had at first been unable to fall asleep, despite the fact that for hours his mind and body had been practically screaming for it. While Moira had fallen into that deep, coma-like sleep that her kind drifted off into during the days, Connor had laid there, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning along with the twists and turns of his bewildered thoughts for what had felt like an eternity, before at long last, slumber had embraced him as well. Though only in short intervals, for due to the turmoil still plaguing his mind, it was a restless sleep, anxiety and bad dreams jerking him awake several times during the few hours he'd spent in Moira's bed. Finally, once it was drawing close to noon, he had simply given up and instead climbed out of bed, deciding that if he wasn't going to get much rest, he might as well get up and face some of his obligations, as well as stopping by his parents, whom he hadn't seen since right before he'd left for the tour.
And thus had started the long string of concerned looks, and questions regarding what was clearly troubling him so.

Having not wanted to risk disturbing Moira, he had simply gotten dressed, figuring he'd shower and change once he got home, and, before exiting the hotel room, had left a note for Moira on the bedstand, saying he'd be back come nightfall. From there, he had then made his way to the nearest coffee shop - even though he didn't particularly care for the dark steaming liquid, but knowing caffeine was probably his best option of getting himself to function - picking up a Grande to finish on the way home. No more than an hour later, he had showered and dressed, talked to two of his friends on the phone, both of whom had told him he sounded 'tired' and 'distracted', and then gone out the door again. Destination; his voice coach. Who, hardly surprising, had also commented that Connor didn't seem his usual devoted and enthusiastic self, and even ended up calling it a day early, because it was obvious the young singer wasn't focused, that his mind was somewhere else completely.
After that, he had driven over to his childhood home - a quaint little white house in the suburbs, with rosebushes lining the driveway - where his parents still lived, and it had taken his mother all but two seconds to start fussing about the dark circles under his eyes and the dulled sparkle in them. She'd even insisted that he'd take a nap while she prepared dinner, and silenced all his objections with a stern "No but's, now go". Though truth be told, Connor hadn't minded. He'd actually welcomed the chance for a little bit more rest, because he truly was exhausted, and there was just something about being surrounded by an entire life of familiarity - and daylight - that brought much needed peace to his mind, and in only a matter of minutes had him falling alseep on the couch in what used to be his room, but was now a guest room.

Thus, with the miracles worked by two hours of actual, peaceful sleep, and a home-cooked meal, once he'd returned to Moira's hotel suite, he was no longer looking a pale shadow of how he usually did. Instead, his cheeks was once again sporting a healthy, rosey hue, and the sparkle was back in his eyes. More and more, he was starting to look like his usual enigmatic self. And the fact that another night in Moira's company awaited, didn't exactly make things worse.

He had returned to find her already awake and in the process of getting ready, and had himself sat down to watch her pad around the suite, finding it far more interesting than watching the TV or reading the newspaper, like most men tended to do when waiting for their wives or girlfriends to decide they were done primping; he still wasn't all that aware that there was far more to his devotion to Moira and everything she did, than "just" love, plain and simple.

"So...", he said, once it looked to him like she was almost ready. "Where do you want to go? I'm open for anything. Just... not 'Envy', okay?"

For regardless of the fact that the odds of running into those two women again were slim to none, Club Envy had proven to be a place where they might go. And Connor wasn't much itching for another run-in with either of them ever again. Not even with Moira's reassurance that they would not harm him.
After all, a burnt child does dread the fire.

As a hunter or as prey, and especially as both, one of the most dangerous things one could do, was to become predictable. A hunt was only a hunt for as long as hunter and prey did not know eachother very well, and as soon as one got to know the other, as soon as they had them figured out, it would all just turn into a waiting game, if you were the hunter, or an escape, if you were the prey. Having enough information and experience to be able to foretell what the enemy would do, you would use it to your advantage as soon as opportunity presented itself, and make of them the looser. If you were the hunter, you would either set a trap and drive the prey straight into it somehow, or you would lay in wait for them to appear where you knew they would, and strike when they least expected it. As prey, you would send the hunter on some wild goose chase, while you yourself simply slipped away, ending up far beyond the hunter's reach.

It was the age-old game of cat and mouse, with a little added finesse, and few were more familiar with it than Adrien de la Cour, whom for the last century or so had been a constant player of both parts. He had hunted Kindred, and, in their desire to seek revenge for what he had robbed them of and the "pain" that he had caused them, or simply to be rid of him, they had hunted him right back.
Well, they'd tried anyway.

So then, with these creatures and their arcane powers on both sides of him, just how did Adrien manage to stay equally efficent in both fields for so very long, successfully hunting and slaying Kindred, while at the same time evading those who came after him, with ease?
Why, he just made sure that he never, ever became predictable! Ever. As far as Adrien was concerned, that was the cardinal rule of survival: Never let them figure you out. The moment you did, it'd all be over. Though, all that did of course not mean that you should abandon all logic, just in order to keep the enemy guessing. Logic was still of utmost importance, because it would leave you with a plan, which in turn would offer back-up options for if said plan should fail. You needed to understand where you were going and why, in order to find an alternative route of getting there. Figuratively and literally speaking. Thus; always keep yourself somewhat erratic, but never irrational. Words to live by.
Again; literally.

As Adrien studied Lena's face for a reaction, it would seem that like most - well, everyone, actually - and much to his satisfaction, she didn't quite get him; why he was here, making an offer regarding something he himself had rejected no more than twentyfour hours ago. And, while he'd already established it before that she didn't, back then, it had been in regards to something he was inclined to want her to get, just in order for a few realizations to dawn on her - realizations that wouldn't be harmful to him, but rather quite the contrary - whereas now, he was quite content with the fact that he remained a mystery to her. Much like she was still a bit of a puzzle to him.

There were, however, a few things he had still managed to figure out about her, such as the fact that she was hardly likely to settle with not being given an explanation for this apparently unexpected turn of events. Analytical and inquisitve by nature, questions were bound to arise in her mind, and while he wouldn't bet that she'd be upfront about it, rather than resort to what so far had been her usual modus operandi - manipulation and provocation - he was willing to bet that she'd find a way of digging for a little more information.
And sure enough, she didn't fail to deliver, because following her initial response of a rather enthusiastic 'yes', confirming that she still wanted Harold Schumacher dead, there it was, and lo and behold, it was actually perfectly straightforward too, for once!

"And I'm interested in why you're making such an offer", she confessed as she turned to face him, in response to which he actually gave a look of slight approval, at her new, direct approach.

He liked it, and in comparison with her previous demeanor of constantly teasing and flirting, it was downright refreshing. Finally they may actually be able to get somewhere without first having to dance around the various subjects for the majority of the night.

"A man like you doesn't do things without purpose", Lena then added, while playfully gliding closer to him, because even though mischief and coquetry were no longer the most prominent elements in her behaviour, they were still present, but on a scale that Adrien didn't find nearly as annoying.

And she was right. Adrien didn't do anything whatsoever without purpose. Everything he did, he did in order to achieve something or other, regardless of the size and importance of said something. It could be as major as setting up a kill, or something as minute as simple study of the world around him. But there was always a purpose. Of that, this time was no exception.

The thing was that regardless of how Lena percieved it, and what was going through her mind - the possibility not being lost to him that she might currently be patting herself on the shoulder for "manipulating" him into taking an interest in something he had at first refused to have anything to do with - it was a purpose that didn't really have anything to do with her or her desires. Or even Harold Schumacher. It had only to do with Adrien and his own desire to find out where exactly the line for his newfound ability had been drawn. Lena had simply just offered him the perfect opportunity to do so. She already knew his "secret", and so why not use that to his own advantage, instead of pretending she didn't know? She already had enough information to cause him harm, should she want to, and so letting her discover a little more about the same matter wouldn't really make a difference in that regard. However, by showing a little trust in her - no matter how irrational it might seem for him to do so - there was a chance that she'd actually feel honored by it, and thus decide not to share what she knew with anyone. Kind of like how the most hardened of men might not be able to harm a child who naively seeks comfort in their presence. Not that Adrien was anything even remotely like a naive child, nor was he seeking comfort, but he offered the illusion of entrusting Lena with if not his life, then at least his safety, in order to get her to safeguard it.
Furthermore, she had proven to be a skilled assassin, and so if it should turn out that Adrien could kill only in self defence, or only those of the wretched Sabbat, meaning he wouldn't be able to kill Harold, then she, with her desire to see Harold dead, would be the perfect back-up, there to take care of the situation, should Adrien discover that he could not. And at the same time, Lena got what she wanted as well. She got Harold's death served to her, and would even get to inflict whatever pain and torment on him that she seemed so eager for him to experience. Adrien would make sure of that.

Ah yes, it was all simply beautiful.

Though the only visible reaction he gave to her statement this time, was tilting his head slightly where he stood, with his back still against the railing and his side to her, and peering at her through the dark tendrils that seemed so very insistent on falling into his face, with a look of amusement in his eyes. Mostly because he was actually about to be candid enough regarding his reasons for changing his mind, for her to realize that it was not a matter of him giving in to her attempts at manipulating him, but rather a matter of him using her for his own purposes, and in return, offering up his own help for her to use for her own purposes. The two did intermingle so very nicely after all, so why should either of them not seize the opportunity?

"True", he said firstly in response to her observation that he always had a purpose with what he said and did. "But, I haven't yet told you what the offer is."

After all, at this point, he had only indicated that it had to do with Harold Schumacher. He hadn't said he'd changed his mind, or somehow implied that he would go after Harold himself. And he wouldn't.

"Last night brough to light circumstances of which I was not previously aware", he thus elaborated, now turning to face her directly as well. "And it has left me with a need to examine the mechanics of it. So, what I'm proposing is this; you and me, in a joint effort in dealing with Schumacher. You torture, I kill. Or, should it turn out to be the case that I cannot; you torture and kill, and I cover your hide. Malkavians are tricky fighters, and if what you say is true, we may not be the only ones coming after this particular one."

Indeed, if a blood hunt was to be called, there were certain little Cainites that would come running in their desperation to lick the Prince's boot heels and prove themselves worthy of his recognition, and so any of Harold's known hang-outs might end up crawling with Kindred.
Futhermore, Adrien hadn't been exaggerating when calling the Malkavians tricky fighters, because there simply was no telling, no way of knowing, if they'd fight fair or not. With insanity chipping away at every known concept in their minds, often not even they themselves would know what seperated the one from the other.

"That said, and should you accept, I would still insist that a bloodhunt is called before we act. Just in case."

For that too was something he needed to put to the test; if falling from grace with the Camarilla was enough to make Kindred possible targets to him, targets he could kill. Because it was already clear that those who were still protected by the Camarilla laws, he could not. He knew that from experience, for several times during the nights following his embrace, he'd tried. And failed.


(((ooc: Hope it makes sense. Hard for me to tell, I'm dead tired. *s*)))

(((ooc: Ghani - I'm sorry I did Adrien before Valerian, since Valerian was first in line. It's just that Adrien has a really busy night ahead of him, as does Lena, I think, and so we wanted to get their encounter done as soon as possible. Hope you don't mind too much.)))


Unlike so many of his peers in so many aspects of life and unlife, the matter of ghouls was just another one that set Valerian apart from the majority of his kind. To most Kindred, ghouls were a commodity, personal servants, slaves even. Puppets to be used and abused in the everlasting race for power and control. Or, at the very least, a simple source of entertainment. Rarely did Kindred invest any more feelings in them than they did in just any other wordly possession. Granted, sometimes as a possession of great value, but still a possession nonetheless; one that might be regretful to loose, but not impossible to replace. They were expendable pawns, and if one was lost, another would be there to take it's place.

To Valerian, however, it was quite a different matter. He genuinely and deeply cared for Melody, and not just, as one may think, because she adored him and willingly lavished him with all the affection he could possibly want. There was far more to it than simple appreciation based on her devotion to him and the pleasures of having her around to worship him and put him in a good, content mood with her attentions and her eagerness to please. He truly did care for her. As a Domitor, a fellow artist, a lover, a protector even, but most of all as someone who could relate to her, and to whom she could relate in return. The blood bond and the world of Kindred aside, what tied the two of them together was love, art and a past so similar on some levels that it had inevitably sparked a bond between the two of them, completely independent of Kindred blood, and even predating it. Melody too was a skilled artist, which was enough reason all on it's own for Valerian to appreciate her company, but what was more, much like had been the history with Valerian and his family, Melody too was the child of parents who simply did not value nor believe in her passion for drawing, and tried to steer her away from pursuing it as anything but a hobby. It had struck such a chord in him, to find her crying upon that park bench all those years ago, tears of anger and most of all hopelessness trickling down her cheeks, such a vivid image of frailty and of the same torment he himself had suffered when the most important people in his life had critized him and eventually cast him aside, simply for not being what they wanted him to be. He had felt her pain, even shared in it, and had wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to offer her the support and recognition she yearned for and - as had been his assesment from gathering the drawings she had scattered around herself, and seeing the talent of the creator - so deserved.
In a way, it had been as though with their similar experiences, their relationship became a source of comfort to them both, against the lacking tolerance of their families. Even though both experiences and families were distanced in time by an entire century.

Yes, Valerian of the Toreador did love his ghoul, for everything that she was and for everything that she was not, and he wanted her to be happy.
Happy.
A concept so very fragile to a ghoul that to most, even to those well looked after by their Domitors, it sooner or later appeared to be nothing but an illusion. For while they might indeed convince themselves that they were perfectly happy with the way things were, it was in their very nature to slip from that extreme to the very opposite one, their happiness rapidly deteriorating to the feeling of being completely miserable, as soon as when away from their dormitors for too long, their paranoid minds would seek reasons to worry, and most of the time end up finding them as well. By nature, they weren't designed to be patient. Submissive, but devoted to the point of obssession, and thus so easily nudged off balance.

Valerian knew this, and he mourned it, for it had never been his intention to throw Melody in such shackles, and so he consequently tried his best to give her no reason to experience that deep dark pit of emotional darkness. Which in turn was why he felt so guilty whenever other obligations and commitments took him away from her for too long, and made him fail. The "commitments" especially, for even though she appeared understanding of his need and his desire to love uninhibitedly, he knew it was torture for her when he did.
Thus, with the previous night having proven a testament to yet another such failure of giving her no reason to doubt his affection for her, as her questions about the past couple of nights had made it clear to him that she'd felt neglected, he awoke this evening, determined to try and make it up to her somehow. He didn't much care that others of his kind thought he spoiled her rotten. She was his to spoil, wasn't she?

"Evening", she greeted him with a soft whisper, before inching further into his embrace and murmuring against his chest with an almost shamelessly content smile on her lips; "Mmm, how I've missed this!"

Snaking his arms tightly around her torso and pulling her even closer, he wordlessly greeted her back by gently pressing his lips against her forehead in a fleeting kiss, while his fingertips brushed gently across the warm skin of her back, following down along the hip and the thigh, enjoying the valleys and ridges of her curves; a journey made a thousand times before, yet one of which he had yet to tire. He could have been so very easily persuaded to stay right there for hours yet, possibly even the entire night, revelling in the intimacy he shared with Melody, had he not had an obligation as the host of the club, to make himself available to whoever among his peers that might be seeking the chance to see him for one reason or another, as well as been acutely aware that neglecting his duties would hardly appeal to Claudia's inclination to soften in her apparent disappointment and displeasure with him any time soon.

Still, just a few more minutes wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

"Agreed...", Valerian murmured lazily in the young woman's ear as his eyes drifted closed again for a few seconds, to savor the moment of perfect serenity and harmony between them, before it was time to prepare leaving the snug cocoon that was currently his chambers.

Then, once there no longer remained any valid excuse to still loiter about in bed, he gave her final, gentle squeeze, before unwrapping his arms from around her frame and languidly stretching his limbs with another pleasurable smile gracing his lips.

"What did you get up to last night?" he then asked. "There was so much to tell you about the whole thing with Annie, that I forgot to ask. What did you think about Club Envy?"



(((ooc: Apologies for all the lovey-doveyness. *s* I know it isn't very Kindred-like, but Valerian is one of those characters that's pretty much gotten a life of it's own. "It's beyond my control", as one of my favorite characters in movies/literature once said. )))

#70 [Fourteenth Night]

Suprisingly, the day had been calm. Though the sleep had not been as deep as Archon needed it to be, it had been sufficient. It was a silent dusk; silent in his mind. No excessive mulling over his businesses or other things that he cared about. At least until he had had a shower, he would not think about his guest. He cleansed his pale skin, washed his long dark hair and dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and gray tie.
When he looked at himself in the mirror, he could not help but see her instead of himself, thus he turned away. He could understand his own fascination, but not grasp why she was still there, under his roof. She could have asked to join her own clan, no one would refuse her, least of all someone as pleasant to be around as Vevila. It had become apparent that it was imperative that she left his mansion tonight. Of course, he would gladly let her stay even during the next day, but he needed to be away from her for a while. Unless he wanted to loose himself.

In the hallway outside his room, Roe waited to take on another night with his Ventrue friend. Though Archon wondered if it was not time for the Gangrel as well to go and be with his own. There was something strange about this night, something that made Archon want to be alone, even if he knew that would not happen. The night before might have been a void businesswise, but this one would keep him busy. He had a meeting early this night with someone he had never met, one Elle Archer that had been suggested to take a meeting with him to discuss a possible investment in a conglomerate that had a subsidary company with a promising future in producing oil for airplanes. Archon owned many companies, but he himself was buried in stacks of paper by owning companies that owned companies and so on and so forth. He mainly owned planes and ships, having his own fleet and anything that would help make his immortal existance both possible to continue in the same fashion and keep him a very wealthy man.

He rarely took meetings with the common man, but every now and then he decided to do just that. It might be with an actual intent or it could just be because he was curious in some way that was not always easy to explain. Though that was not the case this time around. They had asked him to take a meeting, not with just anyone but the largest share holder in the conglomerate. And when she actually called him herself, instead of going through a secretary, he had to be curious about who she was. However, if her backstory had not cleared, he would not have taken the meeting. Though he still had his concerns. 26 was a fairly young age, even if humans were all extremly young in comparison, and she felt almost too agreeable during the phone call. She seemed to come from a wealthy family, having an investment banker for a father, experience from Wall Street and a respectable education. Though she seemed to have invested in the conglomerate using a trust fund, which meant she was not flying solo just yet. All in all, Archon had decided to meet with her and see for himself if she was as good at her job as his contact at the company had said. Though he could not help but wonder who had wanted him to met with her, his contact or the woman herself. It could all be very innocent, but probably not. Everyone wanted something and if anyone claimed they did not, it was time to be cautious.

Talking to Vevila, listening to her voice, looking into her eyes, it was all very hard to shield oneself from. But if anyone could do it, it would be Archon. Though he did not lie to himself, it did require her leaving his side. She needed to go and do what she wanted to do, meet her own clan and anyone that would want to know she was alright. Archon did not send her of on her own, he asked one of his most trusted Ventrue men to go with her. Of course, she did not want to be a burden, but he insisted that it would ease his mind to know she was safe. Now, who could argue with that?
It was hard for him to see her go, but it was just another testament to how vital it was for him to be free from the spell that was Vevila van Roemer. The most dangerous spell of them all, the natural enchantment, without any magic at all.

Not much would get in the way of Archon's plans, but one thing always came first; their Prince. Camarilla and the Masquerade were always a priority. When ever the call came for them to protect it, they had to answer. And it called tonight. A slender Ventrue woman, someone who often had come to Archon through the years with vital information, came to his home just before he was ready to leave. He could tell by the look of her that this was not something he would like. She told him that the Prince had sent for him, for all Primogen, to participate in an urgent Council meeting. There was no reason to ask why, since she would not know. Instead she went with him in the car to wait outside the "V", hoping to learn the outcome of the meeting as soon as it was over.
They were all there, leaders of all the clans, exchanging looks that wanted to know what was going on. Prince Damian Alexander III was not a happy man, he had nothing pleasant to tell them. Archon could tell, since they were close friends. Damian had the look of a man who did what he had to do and that to spite him would be an ill choice. They all soon learned about Harold Schumacher, a Malkavian who had comitted a crime against the Masquerade when he Sired a human named Melissa Harper without the consent of their Prince. Upon hearing this, Archon thought that a vote would be a formal procedure rather than necessary. If they did not decide to kill Schumacher, they would all be just as mad as he was. It would also be a way of saying that it was acceptable to openly defy their Prince.
How Archon would cast his vote would not surprise their Prince. Yes, they were friends, but they were first and foremost Ventrue and it was a higher calling. Archon believed in upholding the law, because it would be chaos without it. He looked around to see everyone's reaction to the news, especially Seraphina - though she already knew of course. Archon wanted to see how she handled it all, since it inevitable came back to haunt her. Even if she was not to blame personally, it was still a member of her clan who had broken the laws. Malkavian or not, everyone knew what that entailed. When the Council had voted, it was clear that a Bloodhunt had to be called - and Prince Alexander did not waste a minute in doing so.
Seraphina had voted to have Schumacher killed, a fact that pleased the Ventrue Primogen. Though he was not entirely satisfied, he also wanted to know what would become of this Melissa Harper. Archon was not a stranger to have both the Sire and the unsuspecting Neonate hunted down. But it was not necessarily a must, it depended on the circumstances regarding the Neonate. Before he had a chance to ask, Seraphina took it upon herself to inform them all. Words like "our Prince's magnanimity", "suffer" and "sins of her Sire" together in a larger sentence made it as clear as it could be in Malkavian tounge that Damian had granted Melissa Harper clemency. She would be given the chance to make an unlife in their Kindred society. Archon did not object, he had every reason to trust the will of their ruler. When the meeting was over and done, he met the Ventrue woman outside and informed her about the Bloodhunt, asking her to spread the word among their clan.

Heading off to Algernon, Roe went him from the "V". Roe had no interest in joining the hunt, he knew others would be more eager. As did the Primogen, he was confident that it would be a fairly easy task that did not aquire his help. If the nights went by without any results, then he might step in to take action, but for now he would trust that the Kindred sealed the deal. Though he could not help but bear with him a feeling of anger towards yet another crime against them all. It was, after all, the second Bloodhunt since his return.

Archon's concerns about meeting this Elle Archer had become Roe's too, as all of Archon's concerns did eventually. It was new blood, young and fresh. Archon was interested to see what a young woman would have to say about airplane oil and his possible investment. Would she be straight forward; unafraid - or would she get intimidated and disappoint him? Anything was possible and he had learnt to stay open, because closed minds would compromise the outcome.
Julia, the Tremere, stood behind the counter as usual. She greeted him with one of her many smiles; most of them told him she knew something he did not. Very well, Archon expected no less from her, which was why there was one of his own men on the premises at all times. He had hired Julia for a reason and he knew the games her clan played. He stopped infront of her, she took her time to finish what she was doing, before she stood up straight and met his gaze. It was all good, since it would only be unsettling to the Primogen if she was trying too hard to stay on his good side. After a quick exchange of words, nothing seemingly important, Archon went upstairs to his office to prepare for the meeting with Elle Archer. Since she was the one pitching an idea to him, he did not really need to do much more than go over the papers he had on the company. When he was satisfied, he took his briefcase and went downstairs.

Of course, they could not meet at Algernon. Humans were only welcome on the first floor. Archon would never intentionally bring a human into a world intended for the undead, as his second and third floor were. Algernon was for Kindred business and anything that could not stand the light. He had to meet this woman on neutral grounds, thus they had agreed to meet in a conference room in a hotel. As expected, it was a luxurious facility that guaranteed the privacy of their clients. The room was on the fourth floor, forcing Archon and Roe to take the elevator. They could of course take the stairs, but it could also be something people noticed and rememberd. Archon choose when to be remembered and when to be a vanishing thought. He found that it was easier to be forgotten when you walked in the open. Elevators always carried with them a sense of imprisonment. Though if it would stop, it would not be enough to cage a Kindred.
When Archon entered the conference room, he did it on his own. Roe remained in the hotel, but he was not to be seen. Having a man with him that could be mistaken for some sort of bodyguard or henchmen could give the wrong impression. Even if Roe could do some dirty work, it was not his purpose in general and certainly not why he came with Archon to business meetings.
Archon took his seat at the round table, where he had been before, and it always made him think of King Arthur's Round Table where everyone were supposed to be equal. It took more than the shape of a table to get the upper hand, but Arhcon did think it was a brilliant idea in theory, that could work on some. Though your position in regards of the door either strengthened or reduced your power. Archon was of course seated opposite the door. He put the briefcase next to him and let his gaze wander the round walls in a dark smooth type of wood. He was ready for anything.










______________________________________________

ETA - :doh I added the Council meeting in the middle of the post. (Hope it works for Atropa & Alissa.)
Plus, I changed a little regarding Archon's thoughts about Lena (Elle Archer),
and the fact that she practially owns the company he wants to invest in.
______________________________________________

((( ooc: Not approchable. Waiting for Alissa.

Conference room - except for the people (Alissa got us the picture.)

ETA - The last paragraph, moving Archon to a hotel.

Trampled - I hope this works for you, otherwise let me know.

Everyone - I thought I should go over my NPC's that I use in my posts, to avoid confusion for new players.
NPC Roe is Archon's Gangrel friend/bodyguard. He is mentioned in the bio.
NPC Julia is a Tremere Archon hired to manage Algernon.
NPC Shandor is a Gypsy that owns a store and my other character Noah lives in the basement.
None of the NPC's are up for grabs, but you are very welcome to PM me if you have any questions concerning them or anything for that matter.

"Elle Archer" is in bold because it's a name that Lena (Alissa's character) use when meeting with Archon.

Algernon is a location owned by Archon, check under the list of locations or in my signature. )))

If there's anything worse than living in overcrowded, gray-skied City of Angels in the first place, then it's taking the god-forsaken public transit system. LA isn't a proper city like New York city, which lives, breathes, and shudders the subway. LA's got a piddly little one-liner sub "system" hooked up to some above-ground light rails that aren't much better than taking buses. If you're lucky enough to live along the main line, then sure--it's convenient as hell to use. But the other 99% of the city drives.

That is, the other 99% except for the poor shmucks who don't have a car--people like Lola. She barely has her driver's permit and is completely s*** out of luck on getting that car for her 16th unless she plans on footing the bill herself. It's a distant goal, but she's working on it. Dressed in a punk rock school girl fetish outfit with five inch pumps and her hair in barely-legal pigtails, she's working on it. (pic)

She covers herself up in a hybrid zippered trench/hoodie and hustles out of the subway station to the sound of her clicking heels. She makes a quick stop by The Underworld to pick up some reading material and see a friend before her shift starts.

The Underworld is a complete dweeb-trap. If any depraved, homicidal rapists had a fetish for nerds, then this is where they'd come to stalk their prey. The socially maladjusted gather here in large numbers, wildebeests to a watering hole, attracted by the store's vast library of gaming, anime, and comic related merchandise.

Irasshaimase! a cutesy, electronic voice chirps as she opens the door and strides inside. She f***ing hates that Jap thing.

"Hey babe," the guy behind the counter smiles playfully. Cristo, the only decent guy she ever went out with--a guy who made her laugh and actually gave a damn about her. He works at the nerd shop to take the bite off his student loans, but he looks like he should be working the catwalk instead. Cristo's a monochromatic stud with brown skin, brown hair, and brown eyes. Also gay, super gay.

"Hey," Lola greets back automatically and digs into her purse, pulling out a tupperware filled with rotini pasta and homemade roasted red pepper and tomato sauce. It's leftovers from yesterday's dinner, but Lola cooks like an artist and wields spice like splashes of paint, so it's still tasty and tempting as hell. She hands it to Cristo, and his eyes light up. He tucks it away behind the counter as Lola asks: "Got my pull?"

"Sweet! Yeah, one sec... lemme show you this new one we got in...." Something about the twist in Cristo's lips tells Lola that she really doesn't want to see this.

"If this is more of that tentacle s***..." she starts, raising a thin eyebrow in warning.

"C'mon, what kind of perv do you think I am?" Cristo feigns innocence. He is all dimples and smiles, but Lola isn't buying it.

And in five seconds her skepticism is justified as Cristo conspiratorially flashes her a comic with x-rated Christmas cover art. It's Santa in the raw with rippling muscles and what looks like three legs. He's got a child molester grin on his face and towers with arms akimbo over some terrified little worker elves. Lola's eyes widen. Wow.

"Oh daddy, please!" Cristo wails plaintively.

"I hate you." She laughs in shock. "I so hate you."

"Whatever, Serial Killer." He rolls his eyes and puts away the comic. Lola's seen worse, and he knows it.

"Hey, screw you! Photographic memory, remember?" She blinks like it'll squeegee the image off her eyes. Instead, it's been imprinted in all its smutty glory on the back of her lids, and closing them only helps her see it more clearly.

"Oh, right. Sorry." He apologizes sheepishly.

"S***. I can still see every d*** vein." Lola takes off her fake glasses and carefully presses her eyes, not wanting to smudge her makeup.

"Really?" Cristo's interest is piqued. He pulls out the comic again, hides it from her, and quizzes, "How many?"

She shuts her eyes and wrinkles her nose. "Ew. Nine."

"Nice!" Cristo's face lights up, thoroughly impressed. He puts the erotic comic away once again and starts the small talk. "Soo... do anything fun last night?"

"Just hung out with Grace. You know, the usual."

"Ooooh! Scissorfight!" He squeals.

At that, Lola purses her lips to restrain her mirth, but it escapes in snickers through her nose anyway. She bends over the counter and punches him in the shoulder with an audible thud. "Dumba**," she chides before straightening her body out again. As she does all this, she notices Cristo's eyes jump down, linger, linger, linger, and up. It's a move she'd recognize a mile away. She rails at him in mock indignance. "What the f***? Quit staring at my boobs!"

"I can't help it! They're ridiculous! Geez! Are you--like, about to go on the rag or something?"

Lola responds by leveling an icy glare at him. She tilts her head up so she can zip her trench up as high as it'll go without snagging her chin in the zipper, and she pretends his last question is rhetorical. "Why are you even looking? You're gay, remember?"

"So what? Gay guys like looking at boobs too!" He protests with more sass than Lola remembers him ever having before. That can only mean one thing: he's been spending more time hanging out with the gays, learning their ways, picking up their mannerisms.

"Christ..." Lola mutters.

"Yes?"

"You are such a little b****." She finishes dryly.

A whiff of body grease, armpit, and old pizza box alerts Lola that a customer's about to approach the counter, so she sidesteps and lets the nerd creature pass by. He's a man-boy with the beginnings of a beer gut, about mid-twenties, wears a ratty Joker t-shirt with potato chip stains on the front. He has the limp, blubbery lips of a bad kisser, and his hair is tied back in a long ponytail.

"Just these," he tells Cristo in a voice that clearly isn't used to social interaction. The kind of voice that immediately betrays years of being stuffed into high school lockers and getting your head swirled in the toilet. In his hands, he has the predictable man-child mix of Wolverine comics and hentai smut. After Cristo finishes ringing up the customer, his warm brown eyes meet Lola's cold gray ones. They exchange a look like can you believe the sick, sad losers who come in here? and snigger softly because they're elitist like that.

"So, where's my pull?" Lola asks again.

"Oh, right." Cristo's eyebrows jump as he remembers he still hadn't given them to her yet.

While he's busy rummaging under the counter, she casually inquires. "So, how're things with that Gaysian? Got him wrapped up in your tortilla yet?"

Cristo giggles sheepishly from behind the counter. Even though his eyes are averted and searching for her pull, Lola can see they're full of sparks, and he's positively giddy. "Oh, Kevin? Yeah, he totally loves my a**. It's pretty awesome." A thread of jealousy tugs at her heart and disappears as he finally emerges with her stack of comics. "Here. Nice round this time."

"Thanks." Curiously, Lola flips through them, checking the cover art, before sliding them into her purse. She halts in thought before a wistful smile touches her face. "And... I'm glad. You deserve it."

"Awww, thanks." Cristo presses one hand against his heart, genuinely touched.

"Yeah. Gotta get to work though. See ya."

"Later ho."

"F**."

She heads out the door with the sound of the automatic greeter's vacuous squeak trailing behind her:

"Arigato gozaimashita!"

She's going to break that damn thing some day.






((OOC: not approachable... more solo posts to come. Will try not to set a precedent of apologizing for them cause then I'll just start sounding like a broken record!))

For the majority of the day so far, and to everyone who had spoken to him, Connor had seemed to be far, far away, as though off somewhere in a little world all of his own. He'd been so very distant, appearing distracted and absentminded at best. It had been so very obvious that he'd had something on his mind, and that it was both important and a rather big deal. Yet he had insisted on keeping it to himself, sending those who showed concern for him a smile of recognition and gratitude, but telling them it was something he simply needed to deal with on his own.
Thankfully, they had all respected his wishes, and left it at that. Though had they known about the distressed call he'd made to Alric the other night, after his attack, and the state in which Alric had then found him, they most certainly wouldn't have. And so in the midst of all the thoughts whirling in his head, concerning everything that he had learned over the past two nights, there had been one of gratitude. Gratitude towards Alric, since apparently, he too had respected Connor's at the time rather frantic and delirious wishes to keep it all just between the two of them and Moira. For that, Connor was eternally grateful, and couldn't help but to have the saying that "a friend in need is a friend indeed" surfacing in his mind every time his thoughts touched on the subject.

However, as much as he had to ponder and try and figure out, the past couple of hours had been a great relief in that they had offered him a little bit of a breather. Peaceful sleep in the form of a nap had released his frazzled mind out of the iron clutches that had seized it the previous night, and refused to let go until now. Then the comfort of being around the two people that had always excuded safety and warmth - his parents - had done it's part in granting him a little while of distraction from it all as well.
And lastly, ever since having set foot in Moira's hotel suite about ten minutes ago, he had actually still managed to keep all those troubling thoughts at bay, despite her currently being the one who was perhaps the most likely to start up that whole myriad of questions and ponderings in him again.
But no. He actually managed to focus himself on her, just her, and not all those unbelievable details of Kindred existence that she had delivered to him last night.

That is, until his own mention of Club Envy - the place where only hours ago he had been subjected to one such horribly mindblowing truth after another, only to then end up almost face to face with the two people that since the night before last, had become the ones he probably feared the most - brought his thoughts right back to one thing that even though it had been microscopic in comparison with any of the other things he'd experienced, had stuck in his mind, and kept replaying every time his mind touched on the subject; the look that one of his assailants had shot him while she was being escorted towards the exit by the other. That desperate, mournful look, which he just couldn't understand, no matter how hard he tried. It simply didn't make sense. He had formed his opinion about those two women based on the sheer horror and the panic they had sparked in him, the things they had done to him, and in that picture, such visible regret just didn't fit in. It just didn't.

Much to his relief, however, those thoughts were halted before they got their full hold of him back, by Moira, who as she started crossing the floor towards him, offered a smile filled with understanding of why he wasn't all too eager to see the inside - or the outside - of Club Envy anytime soon, but didn't comment on it. Instead, she brought the focus of the conversation back to his actual question;

"I know just the place", she said. "I've been there before and found it quite refreshing from the usual club scene, though possibly a little darker than what you're used to. A friend of mine is the owner."

Nodding slowly at first, in acceptance of the suggestion and quite liking the idea of a slightly different club experience, her last couple of words saw the motion suddenly die, and his eyes snap back to meet with hers.
A friend of hers? What friend? Kindred, or human?

In a flash, the thoughts where once again whirling in his mind, the cogs turning rapidly, as all of a sudden he found himself staring at what might be pieces of a puzzle he'd been trying to solve since his return to Los Angeles. Her description of the club, while before he'd only noted it and figured it sounded interesting, now jumped out at him as he tried to make the pieces fit. The place she had suggested was 'a little darker', she'd said, and then gone on to mention that friend of hers...
In mere moments, Connor had taken the few things he knew and had seen, and tried to connect the dots. That stranger he had seen her with, the one with the long, dark hair, and the dark clothes... and a dark-themed club... Could this club owner be him? That friend?
He didn't much like that theory. And it was a most hasty and sketchy one, since all it was based on were two things that while they were similar, also fit nicely with Moira's own gothic vein, and thus one didn't necessarily have to have anything to do with the other. So, maybe he was wrong?

Still, he had been looking for a way to ask Moira about that stranger, and so perhaps now was his chance? She had just provided him with the perfect opportunity.

"Oh?" he said curiously, having decided that while the theory might be incorrect, a question about it wouldn't be entirely unreasonable. "Wouldn't happen to be that guy you were talking to last night? Who was that, anyway?"


(((ooc: Sorry it's not that great. Hard day at work drained my inspiration.)))

When she was four years old, Lena Sayliss, rather counter intuitively one could suppose, was the picture of perfection; adorable, approachable, clever, ingeniously chatty and completely uninhibited. She had a multitude of friends at practically all ages, befriending them with the ease of breathing, she was absolutely charming to almost literally everyone she met. Just as expected of children of that age, except her capacity truly raised the bar, and the rather surprising truth was, it wasn’t an act. At all.

When she was four years old and at preschool, one lunch time, events transpired such that the established bully took it upon himself to dump a bowl full of custard over Lena’s friend, Francesca. Of course, Francesca was the type of girl who seemed to possess lacrimal glands with the capacity of the fricking Niagara Falls and instantaneously let the dam burst, running off in tears, hotly pursued by the young Lena simply because she didn’t want her friend to be upset and alone, especially both at the same time. Finding Francesca hiding away in a corner somewhere and discovering that, once the two girls had washed off the custard out of the redheaded girl’s hair, Francesca was still too upset to put herself in her offender’s company again, so Lena chose to stay with her out of amity, and continued to stay with her when the lunch time ended, unaware that pandemonium had ensued over the seeming disappearances of the two children. The parents or carers of the two girls had been summoned, only to discover that their whereabouts had been unknown for a while now, leading to the general panic that everyone threw themselves into over the situation – one of them being Lena’s mother.
Of course, eventually, the two girls were located – mainly because they were hungry – and faced with either relieved or infuriated, or a healthy mixture, of parents.
Lena still remembered her mother’s enraged words with numbly resounding clarity; “You think she’d do it for you? She wouldn’t, because she doesn’t care. No-one cares about you and they’d all easily stab you in the back.”
She was four years old. And those words were never taken back, never apologised for, but rather further reiterated over the years.

And then there were many more affectionate, social words of wisdom from Mummy Dearest, usually along the vein of “You’re always a disappointment and this is why”, cementing more and more a mentality that was centred on the idea that nice guys finish last. It was nothing short of tragic to have a healthy young child turn into something that was so poorly socialised despite her remarkable demonstration of social skills. Regardless of how her parents truly saw her – a pawn, a minion, a weapon – she was human, and like every the child, she’d needed affection and love, only to have the entire mirage cruelly obliterated at such a tender age. Yet, what she wanted, she got, and so in a desperate bid some reserve of affection and seeming unconditional love, her behaviour soon became covertly controlling and manipulative where Daddy was concerned, and spread slowly to all the other aspects of her life, and no-one noticed it in time to correct it, because they either didn’t care, or they found a use for it.
There born was another perverted belief; if you don’t manipulate, you don’t get… and really, she had absolute entitlement to everything she wanted. So, she always got what she wanted, just never what she needed.

Thus, in such a reality, she did realise that there were some people who she either couldn’t or couldn’t be bothered to manipulate. With those people, she either outright forced them into doing something – sometimes it just got so tedious playing nice when someone’s just annoying – or struck up a straightforward deal with them. However, Lena’s skill – one that was in use all the time for it formed her nature – was at such an extent that most people didn’t even realise they were being manipulated, so often, when they thought they were getting something out of it, it was just what she was letting them think they were getting.
See, using people wasn’t wrong – if you could outsmart them, it’s fair game – you just need to be careful not to let yourself be used with no benefit.
Other times, she really did play it straight and it seemed that so did Adrien de la Cour.
Though, she’d wager a bet that he was more likely to play fair than she was. Not with Kindred, no… he thought them to be lesser, unworthy of consideration… not with ghouls – Adrien and Lena probably saw eye to eye on that one; bound ghouls were usually morons – but with people. Of course, Adrien was rather picky in categorising things as ‘people’ and thus, his inclusion of Lena into said category should be somewhat of a compliment, she supposed.

"True,” he conceded to her proclamation that he really had to have something in it for him to make an offer – regardless of what that offer was – just like she maintained that he had something to gain from hiring her to kill the good Sheriff Valenti. "But, I haven't yet told you what the offer is."

Well, it’s elementary, dear Watson, she silently commented at his apparent lack of belief that whatever he was suggesting involved killing Harold and getting something out of it and when it came to that, there wasn’t much scope for plans and offers given that Adrien was hardly likely to come out with “We’ll just keep him as a pet” – though, admittedly, he was a rather unusual specimen and so, she, as always, really, kept an open mind.

"Last night brought to light circumstances of which I was not previously aware,” he then revealed, shifting to lock gazes with her in a way that meant he didn’t have to stare at her out of the corner of his eyes. "And it has left me with a need to examine the mechanics of it.” A small smile spread to the corner of Lena’s lips in appreciation of that. Oh, good, he still had the need to fight quite urgently instilled in him. Always a good sign.
And onto the proposition;
“So, what I'm proposing is this; you and me, in a joint effort in dealing with Schumacher,” he explained simply, yet the words leading to the slightest parting of her plush lips in the faintest display of disbelieving pleasure, yet that look in her golden green eyes remaining inscrutable. Now he wanted her to help him kill Schumacher? Why? The question was still unanswered whether Adrien felt anything regarding what Harold did, or whether he just wanted to kill him because he was a vampire. She figured that one was in the shadow of the other in his mind; vampires were the ultimate evil to him and that was all there was – anything they they did was classified in the archives carrying the acts of atrocities he’d probably encountered over the years. He no longer cared much about the details of their actions; it was the bigger picture that counted, getting rid of them all rather than punishing each individual crime.
The only crime that would ever truly matter to Adrien de la Cour was whatever it was that they did to him and whatever it was had made them all criminals in his eyes. It still hurt him, she could tell.
Anyway….Why should she get involved? Yes, she wanted Dirty Harry powdered, but why should she get physically involved, especially with all the reasons not to?
“You torture, I kill,” he offered with even more candidness – well, what do you know, it seemed that the fortune cookie era was a thing of the past. Though, Lena did appreciate it; she liked playing games – oh, all she did was play games if left to her own devices – but when it came to business and deals, especially involving killing things – you needed to know exactly what was going on, or else, chances are, you’re screwed.
However, what did show over her face was just the smallest tinge of mischievous amusement – after refusing to do it himself, he was all for handing over Schumacher to be tortured by someone else.
It was a good sign; he wasn’t Mother Theresa, and it showed that somewhere, he did realise those like Harry deserved more special treatment than just death.

“Or, should it turn out to be the case that I cannot; you torture and kill, and I cover your hide,” came the final failsafe of the plan while she just listened, keeping her eyes well focused on his features to read all that showed therein as he continued; “Malkavians are tricky fighters, and if what you say is true, we may not be the only ones coming after this particular one."
And that was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to get involved in the first place. He was absolutely right – hunting down a nutcase when the other suckers were homing in on the place was hardly a good idea… well, admittedly, some hunters did thrive off such situations and predicaments, but thrill seeker though she may be, Lena wasn’t an idiot. You can’t have fun if you’re dead.

Lena had considered all of this when she’d deemed hunting Harold unfit for her – it wasn’t just dangerous, it was crazy – and instead asked Adrien to do it. She hadn’t made it out to be some happy little picnic; if he couldn’t look after himself, it was really his problem. In fact, if the roles were reversed, he’d probably do the very same – he pretty much did, anyway. But this, what he was offering, really was tempting because first off, it was Adrien. Okay, she tried to kill him and it was all really funny for about ten minutes before the tables turned, but she really did admire him, on possibly the most impersonal way possible, before she’d met him. And here he was, offering the chance to work with him, study him, figure him out, and giving her something else that she wanted in the process, and she couldn’t resist. Well, she could… only, the deal got even better.
Adrien de la Cour was one of the most proficient hunters in known history and the fact that he was slightly immortal to begin with didn’t hurt things either. Thus, in the aforementioned situation, if Lena was going to go ahead and do it – which she most certainly wanted to – having Adrien on her side seriously evened out the odds.
Why the hell not?
Oh course, there was the question as to why he was resigning himself to more of her “charming” company, and also why he was taking this risk given the fact that this just gave her even more information regarding the loopholes in the shackles that had him bound…. The thing was, forcing Adrien to do anything was a sure fire way to ensure that he didn’t do it, and so, demanding answers now might just blow the whole thing. Well, fine, she’d let this play out. She’d just be careful. Any cause for anxiety was hardly likely to keep her from getting what she wanted.

"That said, and should you accept, I would still insist that a bloodhunt is called before we act,” he clarified, echoing the uncertainty in the other that had been weaving it’s smoky tendrils through her mind. “Just in case."

Sure, tune into Fang FM for all I care. She wasn’t particularly concerned as to how he was going to ascertain said information, but given that he too clearly wanted this, she entrusted that he’d find a way. Though kudos to him, he made it all polite enough to pass off as a case of “let’s do this under the guise of a bloodhunt” rather than “you could be lying to me and there is no bloodhunt, so I want to make sure there is”… gentlemanly and in such a situation where it’d have been rather understandable for him to flat out say “I think you’re about to shove a knife in my back”, it was most definitely appreciated.
Though, given the fact that he’d been so very straightforward about everything else that he offered – right down to torture – maybe he didn’t think that she was looking to sell him out? Given his paranoia, it was slightly unlikely, but… he would have been right, she wasn’t about to sell him out.

Thus, she remained still for a few moments, assessing it all in her mind before she finally gave an answer, simply tilting her head, the slightest of knowing smiles upon her lips as the faintest shrug accompanied her acceptance; “Game.”
With that, the smile grew, blossoming into the natural mischief, eyes still locked onto his as she produced a pen, her seductive grace infused as she moved close enough for the warmth from her slender figure to fuse with the coldness in his, forms almost brushing, her hand gently caressing his palm before pushing the creaking leather coat and the crimson shirt underneath upwards, her soft touch sliding over the toned muscles of his forearms, then the fingers of her hand interlacing gently with his, flexing the arm, and therein breaking the gripping eye contact, gaze momentarily flowing down to his lips fefore she turned to her side, writing down a phone number on the inside of his forearm.
She had to wonder, when was the last time Adrien got a girl’s number?
Turning back to lock gazes with him, without a hint of flirtation in her demeanour as she let go of his arm, she gave yet another thing she – well, both of them – wanted from the planned excursion;
“I hope you’re able to kill him,” she said simply, eyes penetrating into his to let him know that she really did want him to break his shackles, almost as much as he did, that it was something she cared about; “They don’t have the right to control you.”

With that, impish smile back on her face, lighting up her unnatural eyes, she backed off, turning around and taking her leave with a playful parting of “Later, alligator”, the slim frame almost dissolving into the shadows soon, leaving him alone again in the alley.
She had no idea when the Head Honchos of the Fang Gang would deem it prudent to set the dogs – everyone in their society, really – on Harry, and so it just turned into a waiting game. Fair enough, because right now, she had things to get to, work to do.
While she was an assassin, the basic nature of Lena Sayliss was that she was born and raised in the entrepreneurial world, with all the glitz of the aristocratic British society, all the backstabbing and all the ways to deal with it. She was very impressive at what she did.

However, the current meeting that she had scheduled was with someone who was proficient enough to judge even her capability, given that he was a centuries old Ventrue Primogen and her task in the meeting was to convince him to invest in the fuel branch of the conglomerate that Lena had bought out a while ago. No pressure, Sayliss.
However, the truth was, Lena had wanted it, she’d wanted to take the task because it was a challenge – it was a refinement of a skill. Stagnation, complacency and immobility were things she feared – she needed to live, to better herself, to constantly reinvent and this was the perfect opportunity to test all that she’d been raised to do. She’d never been raised to kill vampires; it was always to be the impeccable socialite, a lady, always beautifully presented, disarmingly smart and enviably successful and there was a need in her to be just what she was, something that made her stick to her own rules regarding her behaviour. She flirted, but she was never vulgar, she played around, but she had her boundaries, and she was a little too… unrestrained, but she remained well mannered and always charming.
Well, that was unless she was playing a character, in which case, she supposed one must suffer for their art – within limits, of course.

In this case, the character she was playing wasn’t as alien as some of the others – one such event being playing a crude gangster girl that really resulted in situation where she had difficulty deciphering what the hell they were saying for a while – but more of just an alias. Elle Archer.
Now, Elle Archer happened to be 26 years old while Lena was 23 and thus make-up and hairstyle came to the rescue in adding a bit more maturity to her youthful features. Elle was from Boston, and she’d graduated from LSE and therefore, Lena’s natural English accent was permissible. Her father was an investment banker, she’d had an internship at Wall Street, and she had bought into the company using a trust fund. The paperwork was such that the inevitable search on it would clear it. As far as everything went, Elle existed.
And Lena truly brought her to life. It was just brilliant, really.
Archon DeWinter was the Ventrue Primogen and thus, cause for concern in the situation given that the man was a force to be reckoned with. First off, he probably would be best suited to the professional aspect of her nature, which was just as well, given that she didn’t plan on flirting with or teasing him. Secondly, he wouldn’t like being told what to do or think and therefore, she’d have to be careful not to use any definitive statements save for when explaining things. Thirdly, the use of manners was a must.
And all that had gone through Lena’s mind whilst sitting in her car, reading through the files, ensuring she had everything, waiting for the opportune time to go to the meeting; you can’t be too eager, but you can’t be too late. The window for perfect timing was a narrow one indeed and this time, Lena chose to be prompt rather than eager or flippant.
Thus, just a few minutes before the time, she was at the lobby of the lavishly decorated hotel, approaching the desk assuredly.
“Excuse me,” she first got the receptionist’s attention – her tone of voice clearly not excusing herself in any way, but rather just politely gaining attention – before proceeded; “I believe I have a meeting here with Lord DeWinter in the Gonville Room?”
Pretty blonde thing managed to do her job and figure out what exactly Lena was referring to without many problems and arranged an escort to show her to and into the room – well, good going.

Opening the door to the luxuriously decorated conference room, the first thing that caught Lena’s attention was not the beautifully polished darkwood furniture, or the way the softened lighting made the whole thing look almost golden, though her eyes certainly did drink in the sight, but rather on the man at the centre of it all, seated directly opposite the door who further caught her attentions, rising from his seat as she entered the room.
A true gentleman, that was exactly how she sized him up as. It was in every fibre of his being, from the sculpted aristocratic features to the expensive origins of his suit, even in the way his hair was neatly tied back. He oddly reminded her of her childhood, of Daddy’s associates, who, regardless of whether it was a nine year old who ran abruptly into her father’s study or a nineteen year old who politely made her excuses from the dinner table, always rose to make their greetings or partings. It was in no way a sign of inferiority – as if the suckers, especially the Eton boys would ever make a demonstration of that – but more just an understanding of manners and their refined upbringing. Gentlemen were seldom “gentlemen” – they were just good at being atrocious with style. And that was a best way to be; crime with suavity. It was just a game of charades; everyone pretends to be impeccable when they’re all just snakes underneath waiting to eat each other up. Lena played along because she liked games.
Suddenly she found herself thinking of Adrien in Archon’s shoes, appreciating more the fact that despite his situation and her actions towards him, Adrien still somehow managed to play the games… but to him, it probably wasn’t just a game, it was the identity he hung unto.

In any case, staying true to form in greeting aristocracy, even if the current specimen was a little outdated by a few centuries or so, she did a graceful semi-curtsey, with a cordial smile, before verbally greeting him.
“Lord DeWinter, please allow me to introduce myself; I’m Elle Archer," then, eyes focusing on him with a charming smile over her lips; "It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Then, moving towards the round table – at the centre of which was a hole with a plant stuck in it, making her wonder how exactly it was maintained without someone walking all over the table, what a stupid place to put a plant – as the escort then followed to pull out one of the lush cream leather seats for her, she finished her greeting, moving to take her seat, though not actually doing so until after Archon had replied;
“I hope you are well?”

(((OOC: I really hope that makes sense, I had to keep restarting to find an angle that fit the whole post
Atropa and Psyche – I hope that works for you guys

Just to explain, Lena goes by a variety of names and as Psyche kindly mentioned, Elle Archer is one of them
ETA: Wasn't clear on something, she didn't sit down yet, she just moved towards the seat )))

The Sexy Java stand is a shack barely larger than a gas station bathroom, meant only for drive through caffeine fixes. Stupid name, Lola thinks.

But it gets the job done. It's not subtle. It hits you over the head. It's obvious. And the types of guys who frequent this place need obvious. These are guys too degenerate to be considered human. They're apes, proto-human d***weeds whose major pastime is watching free net porn and lighting their own farts on fire. Anything less obvious would leave these primitive man-slugs scratching their own sloping foreheads in confusion.

“A medium red eye,” the man-ape requests. The customer's rolled up to the Sexy Java’s drive through window in a sleek black BMW. By the looks of him, he’s in his late thirties, has a couple of kids at home, and if he asks, Lola’s telling him she’s twenty-two.

"Coming right up," Lola's words roll out suggestively. She gives him a naughty look, winks, and slips a lollipop into her mouth.

She punches a few buttons in the register and pops up the price. Turning to the espresso machine, she chugs on a lever and fills a cup with grinds, locks it into place, and hits a button. The machine hisses noisily and spits searing water through the grinds.

She reaches up to grab a disposable cup from the shelf above her head, lifting her heels off the ground and revealing a little more skin. With her back facing the customer, she bends over to grab the sugar and cream packets. Her miniskirt hikes up. Lola feels a slight draft where her thighs meet. The man's eyes widen.

By the time Lola’s turned around, he’s got a smug look plastered on his face and the memory of her white cotton panties still dancing in his brain. She leans out the drive through window to hand him his drink, and his eyes dive straight into her cleavage.

Slipping the lollipop out of her mouth, she says, “That’ll be $2.47.” Then she slides it back inside and absentmindedly rolls its slick head across her plump, inviting lips. The man-ape shifts in his seat like his pants suddenly feel tighter around his crotch. Lola notices and pretends not to.

He hands her a fresh five dollar bill. “Keep the change,” the guy leers. His eyes are helping themselves to her body like the extra $2.53 just bought it.

“Oh,” Lola bites her full lips innocently. “Thanks.” This cutesy flirting makes her want to gag. The customer drives away with his sixteen ounce red eye and a thick wad of sexual tension that his wife will have to deal with later.

After he speeds off, Lola removes the lollipop from her mouth and places it on the counter. She'll wait for the next customer to arrive before she fellates it again. She punches the extra change out of the register and adds it to her generously growing tip pile. Then, Lola slides onto a stool and flips a comic book open with a weary sigh.

Men were so predictable.

---
Later...

There's this guy who comes by Sexy Java just past the a**crack of nine. Total freakin' creep, and the weird thing is that he doesn't roll up to the shack in a car. He just kinda strolls along to the drive-thru window like he's out on a walk in the fresh LA night and says:

"Small coffee."

He speaks with an accent, which is usually a big turn-on for Lola, but there's something menacing about him that she can't put her finger on. It's a British accent, which, to Lola, encompasses the multifarious accents all across England. She doesn't know the difference between them all. She is, after all, an American.

He has a head full of curly platinum blond hair, big rockstar lips, and a spray of freckles across his thin nose. Most strikingly, he has the most intense eyes Lola's ever seen in her life--as bright as the sky, as deep as the sea, a surreal technicolor blue. They're the kind of sensual lover's eyes you'd want to wake up to every morning. But when he smiles, that grin he flashes splits his face clear in half and bares brilliant rows of whites like shark's teeth. So when he comes up to her with that miles-wide smile across his face, it unnerves the s*** outta her.

This guy, the Smiler, he f***ing gives her the chills. She forgets the flirty act and turns around to fix his cup of joe. Just before grabbing the cream and sugar, she hesitates. S***, there was no avoiding it, was there? She quickly bends over, exposing the curve where her thighs meet her a** for an instant, then hurriedly straightens up again and covers herself.

When she faces the Smiler again, he has this sly look across his face. She knows he's thinking about what he'd like to do her if he got her alone. Right, you and every other a**hole who's been through here, buddy. As she sets his drink in the window, he smugly teases her:

"One more cream."

Lola's eyes fill with venom and narrow at him, exchanging imaginary blows with his piercing blue gaze. She wasn't going to squirm in front of this creep. He wants to see her a** again? Fine. Doesn't bother her. She dives at the cream & sugar this time, taking her sweet, slow time to bend over and let him know that she doesn't give a flying f*** that he's staring at her s*****. She grabs a handful of cream, a handful of sugar, and shoves them at the Smiler.

"One fifty-nine, pal." She demands with vitriol.

The Smiler pulls out a twenty. When he hands it to Lola, he over-reaches at the last instant and strokes his cold fingers against hers. She pulls her hand away quickly.

"Keep the change, beautiful," he smirks before disappearing into the night. After he turns the corner and is out of her sight, he dumps the drink into the nearest trash bin.



((OOC: One more solo post coming up, then we'll be in business!))

((OOC: Very long and very dark post coming up.))



After work

It's one of those nights when that fifteen minute walk to the subway feels like it stretches on forever. The shadows cast longer, the cats cry like Hell's come out to play, and after her first few steps into the alley, the five minutes Lola saves by cutting through it suddenly doesn't seem worth it. She pushes on anyway. Momentum.

A few things bring her comfort in the desolate LA night--make her feel safe. Her trench wraps around her body like protective armor, hiding her fetish outfit underneath, and her purse is tucked tightly under her arm with her nine millimeter inside. She can feel its hardness through the fabric of her purse, and that puts her at ease.

What pisses her off is high heels. They're stupid. Fantastically stupid. She is stupid for wearing them. They make it hard to run and move quietly. As she walks, her stripper-height heels send out sharp echoes into the alleyway, advertising her vulnerability across every brick wall and busted out window. They clop along the ground like tap-dancing deer hooves when wolves could be lurking in the shadows. For a moment, she considers taking them off, but she changes her mind when she looks at the cigarette butts, dried gray gum wads, and mystery stains on the alley floor. So instead, she hurries briskly with her shoes clicking out Morse code in an argot that only villians understand: Come and get me, boys.

"Hey Lola!" A voice calls out from behind her. An English accent. The Smiler. S***. How the hell did he know her name? She has a stalker; this is bad.

As she cautiously turns to face him, Lola slips one hand into her purse. Her fingers rest on the cold metal of the gun, ready to pull it out in a pinch if she needs to. There's another man with the Smiler. He's clean cut with tidy black hair. Except for a nasty scar across his throat, he reminds her of a picture she saw of Prince Charming from her childhood book of Grimm's fairy tales. She used to dream of a guy like this carrying her away on a white horse, and now here he was. Stalking her down in an alley. Creepy.

And like before, she can't help but instantly be drawn into the Smiler's cold, penetrating blue eyes, and there's something about the way they burn into her that tears up her insides and makes her feel completely naked. And as soon as her eyes meet his, the Smiler orders coolly:

"Freeze."

His utterance rides across the wind and hits her with the force of a semi. Every muscle in her body clenches. She tries to react, but her she's petrified like stone and her feet are planted like roots into the 'crete. Her mind screams move!, but nothing in her body obeys. Even her fingers can only manage to tremble over the cool metal of her gun, so close yet so far from her grasp. S***, if she could just pull it out....

Her heart pounds like a hummingbird trapped inside her chest, her breath comes out hard, and she can't tear her eyes away from the Smiler's intense gaze. He leisurely strolls towards Lola, and Prince Charming follows in tow. With his wide, toothy grin shining down at her like a half moon in the night, he flicks out a knife that reflects the same viciousness in his smile. A deep, smooth voice rolls off his tongue lasciviously:

"Hey beautiful. Let's play doctor."

Oh god, what the f*** was going on? Why couldn't she move? She's still staring into the Smiler's piercing blue eyes, and it's like this creep is already inside her. He's inside her brain and holding her screaming and flailing under water. She grits her teeth and with enormous effort, tears her mind away from him. She shakes him off. Her hand grabs the gun and whips it at him defiantly.

The Smiler halts his approach with a shadow of alarm flickering across his face. Then, he chuckles with amusement. "Willful little b****, aren't you?."

"Stay back! Or I'll f***ing fill you full of lead, I swear!" She growls, sounding brave despite the fact that she's a fifteen year old girl who's scared s***less.

"Cute," the Smiler smirks menacingly and takes a few steps forward, completely unconcerned. He lowers his voice suggestively, his knife glinting cruel secrets. "Wanna see what I'm gonna fill you with?"

"I mean it!" Lola insists as she thrusts the gun at him.

The Smiler stops again. For a moment, his eyes drift thoughtfully before his voice drops dead cold. "When I'm making you squeal like a pig, I want you to remember it's because you didn't drop the gun."

The color blanches from her skin; she feels ten degrees colder all over. She squeezes the trigger, and she doesn't stop shooting. The two men explode into slithering, evasive movements, dodging her aim. It all happens so fast. Two squibs of blood impact against the Smiler's chest, and he stumbles for a moment. She nails Prince Charming in the shoulder. But oh s***, oh s***, oh s***! Why weren't these PCP f***ers staying down?

Prince Charming reaches her first and wrenches the gun from her hand, and it clatters to the ground. As soon as he touches her, she shrieks as loudly as she can. He throws her against the brick wall nearby, and the impact knocks the breath out of her, silencing her. Her head whips back and hits the wall with a loud crack that blurs her vision.

Brains swimming in her skull, the back of her head feels wet. Prince Charming grapples her disoriented body like a ragdoll and pins her arms behind her back. He violently forces her to the ground, and when she falls to her knees, they bust open from the impact and make her cry out in pain. Prince Charming pulls her back so she's lying nearly flat on her back. Frantically, she struggles against his grip, but he's even stronger than she ever day-dreamed.

She can only watch as her vision refocuses on the Smiler who's looming above her and licking his own blood off his hands. She starts screaming, and he drills into her again with his excruciatingly blue eyes, voice edged in irritation.

"Shut up."

And just like that, he whammies her. Her voice is knocked out of her throat. Her screams turn into long, raspy breaths. Oh god, this was a dream, a f***ing dream. One where she keeps trying to scream but they come out silent and she was really in bed somewhere safe moaning and trying to wake up. Oh god, please let it be a dream.

She kicks at the Smiler as he maneuvers above her, but he grabs her ankles, manages to straddle her thighs, and pins her legs down underneath him. With the knife menacing her in one hand, he brings his other hand to playfully stroke one of her pigtails. Then, he caresses her cheek tenderly.

"Tsk, tsk. You should've dropped the gun," he chastens, his fingers cold against her skin. He pulls his hand back and slaps her across the cheek. The shock of pain turns her head sideways and sends her fake glasses flying off. It acutely snaps her back to reality. She tries to cuss at him, but the words catch in her throat. She snaps her head back to glare at him, only to be slapped again. Smarting from the pain, she keeps her head averted to the side this time.

She looks down the alley, to the light filtering in from the street, hoping someone will pass by. The Smiler notices and warns her smugly, "Don't get your hopes up, love." And as soon as the words leave his mouth, the shadows in the alleyway come alive and close off the outside like dark velvet curtains. This is their stage, and it's just them--him, her, Prince Charming, and all the time in the world.

The Smiler grabs at her zipper and pulls it down eagerly. He exposes her and parts the sides of the coat to reveal her fetish outfit and smooth flesh underneath. The cool night air invades against her warm skin, and she squirms under his hungry, violent gaze. After his eyes feast over her body, he chuckles perversely:

"Can't say I see the resemblance."

What?

He touches the knife along her windpipe, down to her clavicle, and she flinches pathetically. Teasingly, he traces it down the center of her chest and in between her breasts without breaking her skin. Her heart beats wildly underneath its razor tip, with visceral memory of a past dream.

But the Smiler isn't interested in carving her heart out--at least not yet. He skips the knife down over the fabric where her midriff ties. He places it underneath her breasts and presses it into her skin. She feels her flesh give way to cold steel, and her skin parts underneath the knife's edge. Agonizingly slow, he carves a vertical slit down her middle that ends at her pelvis. Deep enough to cut through her layers of skin, and scrape her muscles but not far enough to break into her abdominal cavity.

S***, it hurts. A long, searing line blazes down the middle of her body, and she can't stop the tears from pooling in her eyes. And it hits her, what he's planning to do to her. Her breath quickens in panic. He was going to peel her open like a frog, layer by layer. Vivisection.

She shuts her eyes and whimpers as she feels his tongue wriggle into the long cut in her belly. The Smiler was sucking at her blood, lapping it up with carnal hunger. His tongue worms up and down her slit, savoring her every drop, and her scream is lost in a gust of air from her throat. When she finally looks down at him in horror, she's met with his sensual lover's eyes--soulful and deep, peering up and scrutinizing her features for every indelible expression of agony.

Lola's face twists in hate as she understands this beast, the Smiler. The sadistic f***er wants her to tremble, to cry, to beg for her life, wants to reduce her to a whimpering, abject bloodied mess. No f***ing way. She's not giving him that satisfaction. She grits her teeth and defiantly looks away, up at the night sky. She hides her pain behind an impassive mask and casts her mind elsewhere.

The moment she understands she is going to die washes over her like an incredible soporific, bringing with it calmness and clarity. She floods with sorrow, and she resigns to it. Accepting the knowledge of her fate, powerless to change it.

Choice. Control. Those are things she never seemed to have. This body was never hers. She didn't choose to bleed painfully, embarrassingly, every month. She didn't choose to develop faster than the rest of the girls in school, to be a walking practice target for boys. She didn't choose to have the nightmares that violated her mind and filled it with visions that could only be expelled with pen to paper. She didn't choose. She never did.

She's not even sure if she truly chose to lose her virginity that first night by the water. He was so much older and stronger and had such a temper, but he said he loved her, and she was terrified and alone, so when his eyes burned into hers with unstoppable heat, what else could she have done? She said yes. And for forty seven long minutes he showed her how aching pleasure mixed with shame and power and pain. He taught her what it meant to be a woman, and what it meant to be man--and he was not gentle. She was eleven years old, and back at home she still had three magical ponies in purple, pink, and gold watching over her cold, empty bed. Some lessons you learn the hard way.

Was it really so different? Lack of control, and a man on top of her again. In a bizarre way it makes sense. It f***ing figures.

The Smiler crosses his "T" by carving a horizontal line under her breasts, and in her sullen gray eyes all she sees are her regrets. From the morass of unfulfilled dreams and all the things she wishes she could take back, three emerge saliently in her mind. In that moment, she regrets that she's never seen a waterfall, that she's never been in love, and that she has to die in this ridiculous f***ing outfit.

And there's one question boiling in her mind.

"Why me?" She chokes out in a whisper, somehow breaking through the whammy he'd laid on her earlier.

"Stubborn girl," the Smiler muses. He looks up at her with interest in his eyes and violent lips red with her blood. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because you want me to know." She blurts. It's a wild guess, a shot in the dark. But he knew her name, and there was what he had said earlier... about resembling someone. "Because it's personal, isn't it"

"Not as stupid as you look, hmm? Let's just say your daddy pissed off the wrong people."

"You know him?" She follows up with sudden urgency; the words were coming easier to her now. Her eyes widen as soon as he mentions her father, a man she's never known.

"I wouldn't use the present tense when speaking about him anymore." The Smiler replies coldly, his eyes lighting up with intense hatred.

"Does the other guy talk?" She changes the subject.

"Not since your dear old dad cut his tongue out."

"S***."

Her stomach feels hot and wet with blood, and the Smiler leans in again to devour it with his cool tongue.

Lola winces. "What are you?"

"Hmm, maybe you are as stupid as you look." He says in between the suckling sounds he's making against her abdomen. "What do you think?"

Blood fetish. Cold skin. Heals quickly. Bullets do jack s***. Strong. Fast. Nocturnal. She's read the trashy books, seen the s***ty movies, but it sounds too crazy, too unbelievable.

"You know Lola, I always imagined you'd be stronger than this. But you're so utterly... banal. So vulnerable." He pushes his fingertip into her cut, dragging it inside her and making her stifle a gasp.

"Yeah? Well, I always imagined all you f***ers would look like Brad Pitt. Disappointing world, huh?" She retorts with pain straining her voice.

He chuckles and licks her blood off his fingers.

How long he going to toy with her? She huffs rebelliously with acid dripping from her words, "Why don't you just f***ing bite me and get it over with?"

"Tsk, you modern girls. Always wanting to rush in." He leans in close to whisper into her ear. His lips brush against the sensitive skin of her earlobe, and his voice is an amorously low growl. "I like to take it slow. Besides, you've got at least eight more hours in you, love."

Eight more hours? She feels tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Bitterly, she spits back, "Hn! You men! Can't ever tell the difference between sex and violence, can you?"

The Smiler smirks and pulls away from her. With his knife, he draws another long gash from hip to hip. It makes an "I" shape with the previous lacerations, tracing two doors that will swing open to reveal her insides. He was getting ready to pull her skin off.

"You're f***ing sick, you know that?"

"You have no idea."

An overgrown child sat sulking on the polished floor of the foyer of the Malkavian mansion. A child, a fly, a maggot, a spider in the making. All one person, and all parts focused intently on one thing... her maggots. The humans maggots that brought her into the world in the first place and damned her to a world of suffering and humiliation.

It was a mystery as to why she'd reacted to the prior night's events with a vicious anger towards her parents. In a way, it was a sort of empathy born in her from seeing the fear, pain, and shame in the Blond Dolly's eyes as they beheld her the night before. She hated seeing that kind of expression directed at her, and even more knowing that she had earned it.

Her flies buzzed angrily inside her skull, throwing themselves at its walls and threatening to shatter it with the sheer force of their anger. They didn't like it when she disparaged what she was, what she did to survive. The ambrosia is heaven, they said, to be taken from the mortal cattle as she would. She was weak, they told her, for being afraid of that which was her lesser, the prey to her Beast, lower than she on the infernal food chain that perpetuated their mockery of life.

She let out a muffled scream of rage and threw a tiny white domino across the room, chipping away at the plaster door frame in front of her. Her lips curled back from her ivory-white fangs and she covered her head in her arms as she fell face down on the floor that was as cold as her dead skin. The folds of her beautiful dress billowed comfortingly around her tear-streaked face, and it was a relief that the garment was red enough to hide the bloody tears that seeped into the fabric.

Dolly.

She'd hurt him, scared him, and now she was being punished. She should be punished. The flies were doing a good job of it too. She'd seen reflected in the Dolly's eyes the same fear she'd felt at the hands of her maggots. Anyone that tortured others like that should be punished. Yes, they too should know real fear.

Melissa stood and walked slowly over to a nearby wall which bore a magnificent ornate mirror. If she looked hard enough into it, she could see their faces- Mother, Father, and Dolly. Dolly's face was the one that floated just under the surface, the clearest of all the images there, and she watched as a swirl of red hair whipped gently around his face, changing his expression from one of terror to one that hinted of a deep and abiding affection. As he began to sing, this fly knew she was not the one being sung to... the voice behind the scarlet locks was, but she took comfort in his song nevertheless. It meant he didn't have to stay broken.

If only she could say the same for herself. She'd been informed earlier that night that her spider was to be dealt with most harshly for what he'd done to her, but what of her dear maggots? As she watched their familiar faces float to the forefront of the mirror, her eyes narrowed in shame and disgust. Perhaps if they'd not squished her first, she would not have been such easy prey for the spider. She herself was not going unpunished for the sins she'd committed, so why should they. Yes, something needed to be done about them.

Her pale fingers reached up to her face and came away painted with the red of her tears. Looking back at the mirror, she placed a fingertip against it and began drawing jagged lines across it. The image resembled nothing so much as a series of cracks running along the surface of the glass, a broken mirror that symbolized her mind as well as those of her new kinfolk. It suited her maggots, she decided, arching a dark brow at their faces, and watching gleefully as they began to wail, eyes wide and maddened by their guilt. The Gilded Prince might not allow her to destroy them, but another plan grew inside the wreckage of her mind, one that was far more fitting and protected the secrets of her sovereign and her Kindred.

"Nasty maggots, won't you come,
You will dance to the beat of my drum.
Scamper, whimper, little beasts,
On your minds, this one feasts."

The guilty must suffer.