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Through the Looking Glass (Realm ~ Rose and Renfield)
Rose: The tight-fisted malice that feeds so many poor slaves on tainted meat and clothes them in rags is absent in Rose's house - she is far more apt to surround her properties in opulence, and lavish them with luxuries, if only to keep them healthy enough that she may spend her malice in other ways. And so it is that the slave quarters beside her own private chamber have been converted to a single, large room. With a few steps down into the subterranean vault, one emerges into an arena of near warehouse proportions, of earth and wood, bereft of clutter, with clean lines and even cleaner surfaces. The niches carved into the walls, for beds, are still there, still laid out with cushioned pallets, and high on one wall is a tethering ring, a ghostly testament to this room's past uses. A few other furnishings remain - a solid oak tub, at the center of the room, and a set of shelves at the back, packed tightly with crisp, snowy white towels, the lower half left empty to store personal belongings. But there is a new ornament - a painting - framed in gilded rosewood carved with a messy array of seraphim and roses. The portrait itself is like a window into the past - it is a portrait of an 18th-century girl, her fichu torn and spotted with blood, a mob cap hanging askew over crisp, golden curls. She is so lifelike that she nearly quivers with breath, her cheeks flushed and feverish as she looks out across time, fingers splayed before her as though searching for a means of escape from behind the prison of canvas. And another curious object catches the light - a simple gold krugerrand, winking up from its place on the rim of the tub. Rose herself stands in the center of the room, hands cupped around the taper of her waist, and circling slowly, to assure herself that the chamber is, indeed, ready for its new occupant. A smug smile reveals her satisfaction, and as her eyes drift closed, she gives a passing thought to a silver chain collar, willing it to constrict with a mental squeeze, knowing that somewhere, wherever he is, Renfield will feel the summons. Renfield: The shadows in a corner of the room swell and writhe before soundlessly sloughing back to their former places, but leaving Renfield in their wake. He is clothed in his usual loose, black leather pants and white, long sleeved shirt. A cloak made completely of shadows. Over his shoudler a bag filled with his clothes and few possessions is slung and his one year old son, Greylin lays nestled in his arms. The light catches and shines off of the chain of silver wrapped around his throat as he shifts his weight. "You..." he pauses, as if the words leave a foul taste in his mouth, "called." The High Cost of Living Rose: "In a manner of speaking," she purrs, lifting one hand with a flourish and entwining those gloved fingers in cayenne locks, regarding him with a look of impish amusement. But amusement quickly turns to mild perturbance as she spies the child, and her voice takes on an eery chill. "I didn't realize this was a package deal..." "Well, nonetheless," waving to the side once more and gesturing to the room around them, "Do your worst, but I doubt that you'll be able to burn this place down..." At that, her fingers snap closed, balled into a gentle fist that falls at her waist as she angles towards him, hips swaying like a prowling jungle cat. "And perrrrhaps the little tyke will have his uses after all," she hisses, the gesture curling her lips back in wicked delight as she leans forward to peer at the bundle in his arms. It is only a momentary perusal, but long enough to speak significantly of the plans whirring like clockwork in her fiendish mind. "Just one thing," comes her cashmere murmur, feather-light and diabolical in its softness. "Mind the painting... be sure that the baby doesn't get too close to it..." Renfield: He looks up, his eyes blazing with impotent rage as his grip on his son tightens. "I've already... accepted being your slave, Rose," he said biterly. "But I ask that you do not touch my son. If anything happens to him while I stay here, or while I am away, I will hold the Consortium responsible." Rose: A flare of liquid temper cools instantly to stone and serenity as she rears back, dipping her chin and tucking it against her shoulder, her eyes narrowed in coquettish teasing. "Hold the Consortium accountable all you like... For all the good it will do you..." At that, she darts a hand out, to tickle just under Greylin's chin, favoring the little brat with a simpering smile and her most syrupy baby-talk. "Isn't that right, precious?" She snaps her hand away, and with a wink and a shrug, breezes past, tossing the spray of wild curls behind her and angling towards the painting. A lazy sashay carries her to the portrait's side, and she wheels about, propping her forearm against the top corner of the frame and bringing her other hand to rest at the shallow of her waist.. With one knee bent, one spindly steel heel braced against the earthen wall, she levels a gaze directly at him, and this time her eyes are nothing but cold, hard sobriety, and there is nothing of merriment in her voice. "Just be sure that you keep an eye on him..." As her hour-glass outlines slip into vapor and mist, she rescues one last silken commentary from the clutches of her transformation. "...after all, I'm not the only one with an appetite around here..." Renfield: Renfield's lipe curled in the faintest trace of a snarl as he watched his... master. He watched her turn into mist and memories came to mind at her words. Tyme, ripping him to pieces as he had tried to enter the lich's sanctuary and then putting him back together again as he was thrown back through the doorway. Tyme was always one of the more sadistic here. "Believe me," Renfield whispered, his eyes cold and hard, "I know this to be true." Special Delivery... Rose As though on cue, on the heels of her deliverance from the realm of the solid and tangible, a liveried servant appears at the door, gazing in silence as meager belongings are being filed away onto shelves, and offering only the acknowledgment of a curt nod as he watches the child at rest. This servant, even in his pigtailed wig, and the long, slim cut of his rich red velvet coat, carries something of familiarity about him, perhaps in the powdered alabaster of his skin, or the twinkling of emerald mischief in his eyes. But his stride is decidedly masculine, almost swaggering, as he steps down into the chamber and takes brisk, purposeful steps towards the room's newest occupants. In silence, too, he deposits his gift, peeling the new suit of clothes from the crook of his elbow and sliding the attire with practiced precision onto the bottom-most shelf, leaving not a crease disturbed, not a fold rustled, even as he drops a pair of worn leather shoes, with thick soles and heels, and fat brass buckles, onto the top of the pile. Peeking out from beneath those shoes are swatches of murky russet silk and ivory cambric, both broadcloth and finery, from the hem of a hip-length waistcoat to the understated ruffles of a lace jabot collar. "The Mistress thought you might find a use for these," come the servant's graveled, deliberately roughened tones. But he neglects to explain just what need the odd clothing might meet, and with that left unsaid, and with another curt nod, he spins on his heel and clips his way out of the room, leaving Renfield alone with his child, and his unanswered questions. Renfield: Curiously, Renfield moved to the dresser, eyeing the departing servant with disdain. He hesitantly touched the clothes, and when they did not do anything, he picked them up and looked them over. His eyes widened as he shouted, "SHE WANTS ME TO WEAR THIS?!" Fashion Statement. Rose "Whether you wear them or not is entirely up to you..." Has it been endless hours, or mere minutes, since the servant departed, leaving a satin and cambric conundrum in his wake? "...but I've never thought it wise to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak." Once again, Rose leans carelessly in the entrance, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe, one arm crossed over her abdomen, one knee tilted to the other... and dangling from her free hand is the one item that the servant apparently forgot - a single blood-red ribbon, narrow and woven of fine silk threads, cut to just the right length for tying his hair back into a ponytail... "And besides," she mutters, her whisper barely audible below the layers of insinuation, "...you might find that you need them..." Straightening, and winding the ribbon into the palm of one gloved hand, she pushes from the door and bounces down into the chamber, her supervixen sway as wicked as ever, her smile likewise... "Not so many slaves are as spoiled as to receive a fine, new suit of clothes such as those..." As each step brings her closer, her lids lower a little, until her eyes are emerald slivers of command, daring him to object. "...so I suggest that you try them on, at least..." The implication in her gentle words is punctuated by the fingertips thrumming idly at her bullwhip, and the ribbon, which falls from her palm and swings there before him, tangled in the shape of a noose. Renfield: Renfield scoffs at her as he watches her come. "Oh please, Rose," he says, his voice betraying his boredom, "the hints with the whip and the insinuations aren't lost on me, nor do they matter. I didn't get to be second of the Spooks for being affraid of very much. Whips don't aren't one of the things I'm scared of." Looks over the clothes again and then looks incredously back at her, "You mean for me to wear this ridicolous clown costume, don't you?" Rose: Not a word does she utter, just lifts a brow, as though to question the wisdom of his rebellion... Her forearm rises slowly higher, and her wrist curls forward, until the delicate gift of ribbon slips free of its perch and flutters to the floor, pooling into a contorted "S" at his feet. She may as well be a statue, for the little that her expression changes... perhaps her eyes draw down a little more narrow, and her sentience might be betrayed by that tiny twitch at the corner of her smile... but for that, she poses in silence for a long moment, her gaze fascinated with him. ~~~~~~~~~~ Trapped in her nether existence, the young girl sobs, beating at bars in the lone window that allows light into her dank and dreary cage... the only reprieve that Monsieur Donatien will allow is that brief light... and she beats towards it until her hands are raw and bleeding pulp... ~~~~~~~~~~ At last, Rose breaks her silence, not with words, but with that hand upraised. The leather of her gloves creaks an eerie whisper, as her fingers close into a circle, and her gaze drifts down, to take in the delicious sight of silver links melting into one another like deadly mercury, tightening with agonizing languor, almost lazily, about Renfield's throat. ~~~~~~~~~~ At the distant edges of the girl's consciousness comes a creaking, of rusted hinges and worn leather soles, and her furious demands at the window come lurching to a halt... ~~~~~~~~~~ Closer and closer come the links of Renfield's collar, locking arms and joining in a malicious embrace that presses at his windpipe and digs into once-innocent flesh. "I am merely... suggesting... that it might be wise... to wear them..." ~~~~~~~~~~ A muffled groan, a doe-eyed glance over her shoulder, as moist footsteps sound in the shadows at the edge of her dungeon chamber... ~~~~~~~~~~ "Now you're a big grown-up boy, Renfield..." Finally, her gaze descends, taking in all the detail of his build with a lascivious, sweeping glance, to confirm the truth of her words. "Please don't tell me that I'm going to have to dress you myself..." And, still with that unnervingly patient smile, she continues to close her hand until it is nearly a fist... Renfield: Renfield fell to his knees and clawed at the collar, letting the clothes drop from his hands. It wasn't that he couldn't breathe, few Kindred did that, but that the blood wasn't getting anywhere. [[Rose, please,]] his mind gasped as he used his Auspex to communicate. [[Alright! Alright!]] His vision began to blur and he felt the cold stone rise up to strike his shoulder and slap him in the face. And for once, for once since she put that blasted collar around his throat, he began to feel a the ghost-like touch of fear brush his soul. Rose: His plea reverberates through her mind like a whisper in a wind tunnel. "Please....?" As her posture and hand relax, the word is drawn out to a teasing lilt, and one brow rises in a questioning curl. Slowly, slowly, the chain relaxes, allowing air and consciousness to flood back in at a torrential crawl. "Your wisdom astounds me more with each passing moment..." She fairly sings the comment, and like some ancient serpent, slithers down into a crouch at his side, hips and shoulders rolling, fingertips creeping with a spider's tenacity towards the bundle of clothing strewn between them. One leathern digit winds into the folds of crisp cambric, and she hooks the shirt, lifting it to brush his cheek in a tender, maternal caress. Tender, too, are her words, if not the meaning behind them. "Now I suggest that you change... I'd hate to have to immobilize you again... Poor little Greylin is depending on you..." Renfield: He gasped, inhaling at the first chance. Though he did not need air to survive, it was still a habit he still had, even after being Kindred for many months now. The blood thundered in his ears as it rushed back into him, giving him a dizzy, lightheaded feeling. Renfield jerked back away from the touch of the shirt as if an adder had just brushed against his cheek. He glared up at her as his mind spoke, not wanting to trust his voice, [[Funny, for someone who wishes me to cooperate, you have a strange way of trying to motivate me...]] He stood up and took the clothes from her as he said lowly, his voice a dry rasp, "Where do I... change?" Rose: "Oh, right here will be just fine..." Again comes that twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth, a sign of amusement held in check, but only barely, by polite restraint. "Of course, if you're bashful..." Slowly, she rises, the picture of fluid ease as she sways towards the corner of the room, and fixes her attention on the portrait... her fingertips betray her, however, as they twiddle with childlike anticipation at her side. "I promise..." And here she glances over her shoulder, purring the beginnings of an oath ready-made to crumble through the curve of a satisfied smirk. "...I won't look..." With a deliberate kiss to the air, and the significant taunt of brows lifted, she turns her attention back to the painting, and the screams whispering from behind it... Renfield: "Yeah, I'll believe that when I become mortal again," Renfield growled as he began to unbutton his shirt. He turned around and proceeded to undress. He quickly pulled on the shirt, leggings, over-pants and jacket. He'd rather eat the wig than wear it. "All done, now can I take this ridiculous looking thing off now?" Rose: True to her character, if not to her words, she turns to observe his haste, and the laughter that has been threatening just behind her lips all evening finally bubbles forth - not at his appearance, oh no... truth be told, the costume suits him, and his theatrical flair... but at his obvious reticence, and how well-fitted he is now for the games she has in store for him... "No, no, my pet..." she murmurs, pursing her lips and shaking a fingertip in a gesture of denial, as she settles back against the edge of the portrait's frame. "That which you call a 'ridiculous-looking thing' must stay... if only for a moment in time..." Her wrist turns, and the same finger crooks, to summon him forward... at the same time, one refined brow crooks upward in a sinister arch... "Come here, pet... I have something to show you..." Renfield: Feeling about as comfortable as a man in the middle of an ironmaiden, Renfield moved forward. The starched collar rubbed irritatingly against his neck and the underside of his chin. It felt to much like some was trying to put their hands around his throat to get at him. "What?" he asked as he tugged at the white collar. The painting was of a young woman, dressed in the style of the same time period as Renfield was. He looked from the painting to Rose with a questioning look. Rose: "Oh, a little closer, my dearrrr," she purrs, and that crooked finger waves him forward still, tugging at the links of the chain she controls. Whipsaw-quick, and with a sudden change in tempo, like the heartbeat quickening at the approach of a dearest amour, she is behind him, gloved hands cascading over his shoulders, leather murmuring over the purity of crisp cotton. But those hands don't stay there for long, oh no - before he knows it, they are riding up along the contours of his neck, until her palms are pressed flat against his cheeks and jaw, guiding him towards a forced view of the painting. Her body, too, propels him forward, molding against his and ushering him ahead with gentle, baby steps, and she leans across his shoulder, to whisper into his ear... "There's someone I want you to meet..." Renfield: Her sudden move catching him off guard, Renfield couldn't help but stumble forward, towards the painting. And for some reason... he thought he heard... crying. "Rose-wha- STOP!" he shouted as he began to fall forward, her weight adding to his forward momentum. Rose: Stop? Oh, but her momentum is already established, and there can be no stopping now, even if she wanted to forestall the delicious game that awaits on the other side - and she most definitely doesn't. Hips, limbs, and shoulders all conspire to rush ahead, and with feet planted firmly on the ground, she gives one final thrust at the center of his back, propelling him not just towards, but into, the painting... and instead of the diamonds-on-glass sound of shredding fabric, there is a moist, sucking , as the dimensional gate of canvas and oils senses a presence, a victim, or traveler, nearby, and opens its greedy fingers to pull him in, head to shoulder, arms to waist, and finally cannibalizing his legs and feet, until all that is left of him in the room is memory... Rose, herself, stops just short, catching herself and falling to her knees, gloved hands braced at the edge of the frame to hold herself just out of harm's way... and there, she sits, bosom heaving - not out of exhaustion, but a sort of nervous excitement - a grin of feline satisfaction teasing her lips, as she lifts a dreamy, emerald gaze to the portrait, and listens carefully for the sounds to follow...
¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤ Where the portrait would have been, at the point of his passage, is only a small window, blocked with thick iron bars... but no sunlight streams in through these slivers, as the air outside is inked with fallen night... And leaning over him, her cheeks stained with the scars of long-dried tears, sweet-faced and angelic as any maiden, despite the mire of dirt streaking her petticoats, and the layers of dust settled over once-golden curls... surely, if those curls were washed, and she properly clothed, there would be a princess beneath all that grime... but one obstacle prevents that - a heavy door of banded oak, at the other side of the room... Renfield: Landing hard on his chest and face, he grimaced as some dirt got into his mouth. He opened an eye and was pleased to see that the world had resumed its normal colors and had stopped spinning. And he also noticed he was no longer at the Consortium. If I ever get the chance, I'm going to strangle Rose, he grumbled to himself. He looked up and saw the maiden above him and, having nothing to really say, said, "Hello. And you are?" Rose: "Nannon," she whispered, her child's voice fraught with the coarseness of exhaustion. Dragging up a handful of skirt, and crouching down beside him, she reached across, but tentatively, like a frightened bird, testing her limits and brushing a fingertip across his cheek, to see if his mysterious appearance had caused him injury. Suddenly, the door behind them, the only door leading into the chamber, made a sound, and she darted back, as though burned by his skin, turning in time to see a shutter rising on the viewing hole. "Mai non!" Horror-stricken, she scrambled up against the door, as though she could it closed with her frail little body, and keep the wolves at bay. "Monsieur Donatien! Celui vient!" "You must hide!" A furtive glance around told her how futile that request was, but at least, in the tiny cell, there were some shadows in the corners, and she motioned frantically towards them. Moments later, the hinges squealed, and the door was thrust open, sending Nannon skittering several feet back to land in a heap in the mud and straw. In the crease of light that pierced into the room, and cut through its gloom, appeared the frayed shadow outlines of three men - two guards, in their hulking military attire, and looming behind them, the foreboding figure of the Master... Monsieur Donatien Alphonse François de Sade... Renfield: Renfield quickly got up, barely understanding her french. He knew he should've paid more attention when Lady Sam, Phant, and Tat had tried to teach him. He leapt into the shadow and found he could only merge with it, but for some reason his traveling ability was blocked. Content to watch the scenes play out, he stood there and watched. The girl, whoever she was, was obviously affraid of whoever was walking into the room. Renfield wound up behind the door as it opened, therefore being unable to see whoever was her agressor. But she was obviously frightened...terrorified. Rose: Seconds later, the shadows moved aside, and a veritable parade of servants teemed into the room, all stiff-lipped and with priggish, drawn looks to their faces… every stitch matched, from ostentatious lace cuffs, to awkwardly high velvet-covered heels, to oily flaxen wigs, and they entered with noses upturned, looking as though they smelled something bad - and perhaps they did - the room positively reeked of illness and human suffering. Each one carried a silver platter, covered of course, but the steam billowing out from each one carried the most delicious smells, of roast beef and gravy, of spiced sweetmeats and buttery pastries… Nannon, huddled in the corner opposite Renfield, eyed the other side of the room with growing apprehension. Clearly, she was afraid for his discovery, but whether that was for his sake, or for her own, was impossible to judge. But her fright soon found hearty competition in a look of longing, as the rich smell of food reached her senses… food she had so long been denied… and suddenly, her stomach felt empty and cavernous, and that emptiness was reflected in mournful, blank eyes. The servants were followed by a threesome of liveried footmen, two carrying a small parlor table, the other transporting a padded chair, which they set up in the center of the cell, and as they backed away, the men bearing platters marched past, in a queue, each depositing their burdens on the table and then filing out of the room. The Master himself stepped into the dungeon, then, to watch the feast laid out. He was a proud man, with aquiline countenance and dark eyes filled with a familiar madness. His other features were too much obscured by powder and shadow to distinguish, but he carried himself, with shoulders squared and hands clasped at the small of his back, like an aristocrat, and a man who was accustomed to being obeyed. When the platters were in place, the Marquis motioned to the two guards, who suddenly stormed into the chamber, grabbing Nannon roughly by the shoulders and throwing her into the chair. She managed a mewling of anguish, before her windpipe was choked by a length of hemp rope, looped around her throat and tied back behind her, through the rungs of the chair. The ends of the chord fastened her wrists in place behind her, and with a finishing slap to the cheek, the guards stepped out of the way. The Marquis came forward, but not to intercede… it was his intent to add another bruising slap, for polish, before gesturing with a delicate, gloved hand, and the guards came back into place, leaning over the table to remove each cover from each tray. Where the room had been teased with the scents of meat and pastry before, now those aromas fairly exploded into the air. As the banquet was slowly uncovered, and Nannon got her first glimpse - not just at food she had been denied for over a week, but at cuisine of such quality as she had never tasted in her life - she wailed aloud, only to be rewarded with another backhand slap. This one left her cheek glowing pink, even through grime. With the servants gone, the Marquis stood to the side of the table, flanked by his guards, gesturing for Nannon to lean forward, and eat, by curling the same hand that had just come from rough contact with her cheek. At first, Nannon glared at him, suspicion narrowing her eyes… but the feast was too sumptuous and succulent to resist for long, and whatever poison he had in store for her, she told herself, would be worth the luxury of one last fine meal. But as she leaned over the dishes, she found, to her dismay, that the rope at her throat kept her from getting her mouth more than an inch from the nearest plate. Before her sat a lavish meal, but to reach it she would have to strangle herself… otherwise she would eventually die of hunger. Renfield: Renfield was caught between that blasted rock and a hard place. His usual begrudged, knight-like behavior was definitely not helping him today. When the man came in, Ren could tell a few things about him. One, he put way to much emphasis into his own self-importance. Two, he trusted his guards way too much. Three, he was beyond arrogant. Four, his blood was probably aristocratic. Renfield's stomach growled at him, but not because of the smell of the foods. But the blood rushing in the guard's throats. But what could he do? Reveal himself only to die on two lances? He could not teleport, he wasn't sure if he would have his enhanced strength or speed so he was basically shagged. Ren suddenly grinned, did a little test, and if the guards had been able to see the shadows, they would've seen a cheshire grin hanging in the darkness. With a little concentration, a small, whispered phrase, and the girl's chair slid a few inches closer to the table, so slowly that they couldn't be perceived, but they let her at least be able to get at the top of the food. Rose: The chair's movement gave the Marquis pause... but not a long pause... his black magics and wicked celebrations were often wont to set unknown powers free and unleash them in sporadic fits throughout the chateau... perhaps it was a residual cry for notice from some spirit, summoned at the recent new moon... and rather than being unnerved, de Sade ballooned a little with pride, the curl of his smirk causing his beauty patch to twitch... For Nannon, however, the result was jubilation, and she made no effort to hide the joy in her expression... with just a little awkward tilt of pressure onto the chair's forelegs, she could lean down enough to loop her tongue around a strawberry... the chunk of fruit disappeared into her mouth, and soon she was chewing noisily, a tiny dribble of crimson juice making a river down the center of her chin... the rope was still tight against her throat, but not enough to prevent her swallowing... Rather than rebuke her, the Marquis watched this scene in depraved fascination. Crossing his arms over his chest, he flicked his fingertips, creating a flourish of lace at his cuff and gesturing the guards to retire, and leave him to his pretty toy... He had other games in mind for her, but for now, he would enjoy the animal sensuality of her feasting... In quick order, the guards turned on their heels and vacated the room, leaving the door wide, and taking up their places just outside... Renfield: Renfield grinned and then released himself into the shadow. He let go of his conscious form, becoming one with the darkness. He wasn't teleporting as usual, but was using the shadows to mask his movement. The girl, whoever she was, saw this and her eyes widened in fear. Though she couldn't see it, Renfield grinned like the madman many claimed him to be. The shadows crept behind the large man and then suddenly leapt on the man, instantly going from blackness to Renfield. "I do not know if you can understand me," Renfield hissed, his fangs sprouting out as he talked. "But I'm pretty sure you can at least get the meaning. You make a noise and you die, simple as that. Now, why in the gods' names do you have this woman locked up in here?" Rose: This chilling new development proved awkward for the Marquis... he was just about to reach to his inside breast pocket, for a snuffbox, and Renfield's sudden appearance at his back caused him to stagger forward, in a display of ungainliness that he was loathe to demonstrate, and he reached forward to catch himself on the edge of the table, jostling the platters and pitchers and setting up quite a considerable racket, in spite of the warning to be silent. Who was this interloper, who dared to invade his private apartments, and meddle in his affairs with the lovely Nannon? Who was this, speaking in so gutteral a language as English? Of course Donatien understood... he had been schooled in all the nuances of the speech of rustics... it was common enough fare, along with the studies of Greek and Latin, in a young man's private education... "Och... How dare you assault me in my home!" shrieked the Marquis, with little regard for the threat tendered... he craned around, struggling to make out the features of the man clinging to his back, and while he regarded the fangs as a curiosity of birth, he had no idea the true danger they represented. "I keep her because it is my will to do so..." he sputtered, twisting his spine in an effort to shake Renfield off, but gently, with an eye not to have the brocade of his suit torn in the process. Pride stiffened his bearing, even pinioned as he was, as he thought of the other women, in other cells, lining the perimeter of this dungeon... some dying of hunger, some eating all they liked, and being destroyed slowly from lack of drink... the ghosts of those he had flogged, or given repeated bloodlettings, or shut up in steaming bathhouses, all the results the same - death, in one delicious form or another... Unless confronted by a magistrate, he saw no reason to decorate the truth with excuses, and so his voice was filled with all the oily, underhanded charm of a corrupt priest, who believes so zealously in his own deviance that he will preach it until it brings him to the brink of madness. "One must do violence to the object of one's desire, my fellow; when it surrenders, the pleasure is greater." By this time, of course, the guards flanking the outside of the door had heard the small bit of commotion, and were shifting uncomfortably. Accustomed to hearing scuffles when Monsieur De Sade was at work on his playthings, they would not come in until called, or true evidence of a panic showed itself. Renfield: Renfield hissed low in his voice as his eyes began to glow. "You and your kind, you make me sick, SICK!" he hissed lowly. "Thinking that you can take what you wish simply because of your 'God-given' right. UP!" Pushes the large man out of the chair and slams his face against the wall. "I've fed off of better than you," Renfield said with a snarl of distaste. "And here I thought the French where into chivalry, but I guess that died a long time ago. Here's what we can do, you can let this young woman leave, along with the other women you have here, or I can rip out your heart and eat it while you die." Rose: The sound of de Sade's impact against the wall was enough to stir the guards from their posts, and as they flanked either side of the open door, and saw the Marquis pinned to the clay, a hue and cry arose from both at once, and they barreled into the room. Though perfectly matched in height and brawn, one of the sentries had legs slightly longer, and thus was able to reach Renfield seconds sooner than his comrade. That difference only served, however, to land one bayonet blade against the intruder's neck a second sooner than the other. With both of his men at the ready, and many more waiting to be called upon should the need arise, the Marquis managed a cool smile, in spite of the fact that his carefully powdered complexion was smudged beyond repair. "Perhaps you'd like to reconsider your demands," he sneered, craning around against the pressure of Renfield's pinioning to glance at the captive girl. "She doesn't seem so eager to leave, after all, you see." Nannon, meanwhile, oblivious to the commotion, and senseless to anything but her own hunger, was lapping at strawberries and gobbling up bits of gravy-slathered roast as quickly as the ropes binding her would allow. Renfield: "It seems you have me at a disadvantage, mon seiur," Renfield says, slipping into the slight french he does know. He takes a step back from the waste of skin before him and begins backing towards the shadows. "But you see, I have lived a life of disadvantages and-" As his foot touches the shadow of the table, the shadow wells up to begin to swallow him up. "I've learned to turn them into advantages. We will meet again, fleshling, and, should you see them, give my regards to my cousins the Nosferatu, they are somewhat rampant in this area." And with that the shadow fully engulfs him. And while he still, much to his displeasure, cannot teleport, he is hidden within the small amount of darkness beneath the table. Rose: Quite to the contrary, Renfield’s words were like a foreign language to the Marquis… fleshling?… Nosferatu?… but with typical, if forced, aplomb, he pulled himself away from the clay partition and dusted off the sleeve of his precious brocade coat. Nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment was spared to the guards, as they fell back in line at his wing, but if they felt any sore lack of gratitude, they didn’t show it in the symmetry of their blank expressions, apparently dismissing the scarcity of thanks as all good soldiers would… they were simply doing their job, after all. "I shall retire to my chamber now," he muttered, righting his wig and flicking a priggish fingertip across the mud on his cheek. Irritation was clearly eroding his composure, but bathing and powdering, and the gloss of aristocratic rouge, would set all to rights soon enough. "Have her brought along within a quarter of an hour." With that, the Marquis snapped his wrist, in a foppish gesture that produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief from just inside the cuff of his sleeve, and as he pranced out, he began to daub at the smear of dirt on his cheek once more, that he would not present such a horrific picture to his valet when he arrived abovestairs (his conceit apparently knowing no bounds). The guards, true to their tin-soldier automation, shouldered their bayonets and took up either side of the chair, and Nannon let out a wail of disappointment as she was lifted away from the platter of food so newly spread before her. She blinked repeatedly as the chair was carried into the air, it only just occurring to her that her champion had gone, and she swiveled around as best she could without giving herself rope burns, peering into the shadows and searching for him with frightened, narrowed eyes. "Where are you taking me?" she whimpered, as the tears began to spill over her cheeks, washing away the stains of raspberry jam and muddy dressing. "What is to become of me?" But swiftly as that, her sobs began to fade, as the whole party disappeared, lock, stock, and barrel, down the length of a poorly lit corridor, leaving the cell door ajar. Renfield: Renfield grinned and let go of the shadows, rematerializing in the now vacant cell. The sounds of fading footsteps echoed down the hall and Renfield smiled to himself. He tried to take a careful, soundless stepforward, but the shoes he was wearing clacked, the heel made of metal. //Well great,// he thought as he kicked them off and proceeded on foot, //at least I got rid of the ridiculous footwear.// He looked around the corner and nearly rammed his nose into the back of a stationed guard. Remembering his hunger earlier, a fiendish smile split his up. His arms snaked around he guard, smashing the small human against Renfield. "You probably don't understand me, but I don't care, you'll understand the meaning," Renfield whispered near the human's ear. Renfield's fangs glinted in the light and the guard began to shiver. "When you see the Marquis later, tell him I give him my regards." The guard didn't have time to scream before Renfield pierced him with his fangs and began to feed. Moments later, after hiding the body, Renfield crept along. With the feeding, his teleportation powers had come back, small distances only and returning to Rhy Din was impossible. However, he leapt from shadow to shadow, avoiding servants and guards like the stealthiest Wraith. He finally came to a stairwell, four guards posted around it, each looking as if they could crush a carriage between their pectorals alone. //I am guessing up there would be the Marquis private chambers, well, won't want to keep the dear boy waiting,// Renfield thought before silently gliding up the stairs. Rose: Throughout his journey down the dank passage, the walls had sighed their despair, and the very air was infused with thick layers of moaning, a sound so subtle, and yet so persistent, that it formed an undercurrent of anguish on the air, like the barely perceptible hum of electric lights left on in a room. But at the top of the staircase, hopelessness gave way to cheery torchlight, almost as though Renfield had stepped onto yet another plane. The plank trap door opened up into the center of a lavishly decorated corridor, a gallery of sorts, with portraits hung in pristine order along the walls, all of various ancestors, presumably, judging by the distinction of de Sade features on every one, and the timeline of garb each wore. Gas lamps hung in the corners, providing their warmth to light the way down each end of the hall, and dozens of doors - all neatly matched, and all closed, of course - lined the way. The air was hung with the sweet perfume of aristocracy, and the distant pianoforte twinkling of a minuet pranced around corners and over floorboards, so that by the time it reached this lonely stretch of passage, it was a mere echo, a happy gnat buzzing at the ears of any who would listen. But there was no one to listen. Here and there, in the distance, could be heard the clink of crystal, or a hearty burst of untamed, feminine laughter... the occasional gasp or sob undercut the sounds of faraway celebration, but on the whole, resonated from nowhere and everywhere at once. This being the case, that these noises would provide no clue as to the direction he should take - to the salon? to the kitchen? perhaps to one of the myriad jewel-box rooms and private chambers along the upper floors? - it was left to Renfield to decide which way to forge ahead... To the left? To the right? North? South? Maybe even up? Certainly not back down... Which way would he go? Which way, indeed... Renfield: The blasted scent was giving him a headache and made reading the trails of where the woman had gone extremely difficult. This place had so much background static that it would've given the most patient of Ventrue a headache. However, he did have her scent and when he came to it, it was to a room who's door was ringed with guards and a "noble" crest adorned the door. Though the inhabitant of the room was far from noble indeed. //I'm going to kill him, then find a way out of here,// Ren thought stubbornly. He grinned suddenly and thought, //Going to have to tell Jenks about this one, she'd like the story.// Rose: From behind said door came the sounds of a gala celebration... whatever this chamber, and the crest, represented, one thing was certain - it wasn't empty. The guards, too, seemed neither perturbed nor overly attentive. In fact, one of them had taken up the peculiar habit of listing to the side, in a drunken wobble, as though he were falling asleep at his post (when in fact, he was merely giving in to a bit of morbid curiosity, leaning towards the door in hopes of catching a taste of the debauchery taking place inside). Suddenly, the hinges creaked, the wooden panel swung wide, and the sounds of merrymaking billowed into the hall, along with another wiff of that lavendar and fruit perfume. A powder-puff of femininity emerged, with bangled and beaded hair piled so high that it nearly reached the top of the frame, and pannier skirts so wide that she was forced to turn sideways to make her way into the hall. A beauty mark in the shape of a heart was plastered just above her dimple, and her cheeks were rouged to the precise hue of springtime-blossoming apples. But for all that charm, there was something of an air of depravity in the wicked curve of her smile. That sloping guard stiffened instantly, clearing his throat and thrusting his chin proudly into the air. "Good evening, Mademoiselle Beauvoisin," he declared. Her reply was a snap of the lace-trimmed fan she held in one hand, and with a courtesan's wink, and a coquettish moue, she shrugged and turned on down the hall, destination unknown. Both guards watched after her, yearning clearly etched into their hang-dog expressions, but their attention was short-lived, for behind them, framed by the door that the Lady had left ajar, was the true spectacle - many other women, of similar grace, and gentlemen too, all in various stages of undress and lounging about on chaises and cushioned divans, some with drinks in their hands, some with others in their hands. And in the middle of it all hung poor little Nannon, chained by her wrists and suspended in the center of the room, her feet dangling helplessly as a pair of aristocratic fops made sport of tearing at her clothing with hunting knives. Renfield: Renfield growled deep in his throat, a reaction from back when he had been a Garou, and ghosted into the room through the open room. He slowly did a full circle turn and took in the debauchery around him, growing more and more sickened every second. He enjoyed a good party but this was disgusting, even by Toreador standards. High Ones, even by Malkavian standards. He drifted across to the middle of the floor and stood before Nannon and inbetween the two sadists. He tapped a finger against one of his fangs and suddenly grinned. Beginning with a small chant for concentration, he cast an illusion... Out of no where, a huge beast appeared between the two nobles and Nannon. It was made of pure shadows and it's eyes burned like fire. It snarled at the "party-goers", sending both men and women shrieking in fear. It backhanded one of the sadists away and the other fiented. "Who dares harm this girl? " the beast growled. Renfield grinned from the center of the illusion, Tatyana would be pleased with this performance. Rose: Ladies and champagne glasses went flying... high-pitched soprano squealing filled the air... and though a few of the gentlemen made brave gestures and dropped into defensive crouches, hands at their sidearms as though readying themselves to confront the strange beast, not a one of them dared to approach. The fellow whose cheek had been reddened by the monster's backhand was the lone mutineer. The power of the blow had driven him to his knees, but from there, from that disgraced vantage point, he found new courage - foolish courage, perhaps, given the disadvantages of his position, but when pride is at stake, the heart is often blinded to danger. His knife, the dainty pearl-handled lancet with which he had been cutting at clothing, now became a laughable weapon, puny and impotent against the considerable size of the beast. But he brandished it as though it were a broadsword, making threatening lunges towards the monster's legs as he crawled behind Nannon's suspended figure, clambered to his feet, and steadied himself behind her, using her body as a barrier. Renfield: The Beast saw this and laughed. "Funny, mortal," the beast growled. "That such a small, small knife could do any damage to me in the hands of such a small small man." And with that, the Beast disappeered. Renfield grinned as he traveled in the shadows behind the knife-weilder. He knew the Marquis hadn't believed his fangs, or his interesting disappeering act before Renfield had left from human sight. He would now, and he would also protect the girl. He shot out of the shadows in a blur, using up vitae with compulsion because he knew that he'd be getting more soon. The humans were almost completely still, but by their minutely slow reactions, he could tell that he had been seen. Leaping through the air, he landed on the man's back, using a trick of his to keep the man from falling. Stil moving faster than the simple humans' eyes could follow, he tore the knife, and several fingers, out of the man's hand. And then proceeded to feed. The man let out a scream as Renfield began drinking. Reality came back to normal speed and thuds resounded through the room as women, who formerly had been pretty decadent, fell to the floor in horror. Finally finishing his meal, he came up, his lips stained with blood. To finish the job, Renfield twisted the man's head, snapping his neck. "I told them to leave her alone," Renfield said as he stared right into the Marquis' eyes. "And I told you to let her go." Rose: A dusting of fresh crimson speckled Nannon’s cheek, in a trail that extended from the stains at the top of her torn fichu and ended with a splash of blood that had wound its way into one of her golden curls. On a healthy complexion, the light powdering might have resembled a blush, but the blood appeared unnaturally lurid against the stark white pallor of her fear. Her strange champion had suddenly become an object of alarm, and as she stared in horror at the few severed fingers littering the Marquis’ fine wool carpets, focusing her gaze there because the sight of dead bodies, drained of their animation at the hands of the Beast, was too ghastly a vision for her to face, all she could do was quiver in silence… sobs choked back by fear… muscles frozen in the catatonic grip of dread… As the crowd receded from the center of the room in its tidal wave of shock and panic, some lurching hurriedly for the exits, some simply staggering away in awe, unsure of what to make of the spectacle, the layers of bodies peeled back to reveal the Marquis himself, standing tall and proud, with a glimmer of avarice flashing in narrowed eyes. This was a man that some believed to be the Devil himself, and he had not garnered that reputation without cause. In some demented recess of his mind, he believed a few of the tales himself. Little frightened him, and whether that was out of stupid courage, or an abnormal taste for the degenerate and immoral, he approached with chin lifted, pushing back the Lady that had clung to his side and straightening the lace at his cuffs, as though he were striding forth to welcome a guest. "You and I, we seem to be creatures of the same mind, monsieur," he uttered, with a flourish to gesture towards those dead and dying. A smile of sinister tenderness curled his lips as he spared a glance for those former friends now transformed into a source of entertainment for his other libertine guests. "I would be more than honored to let you have the girl… but, I pray you, do tell us what you plan to do with her." With that, he reached for his breast pocket, and withdrew a single brass key on the end of a golden chain, lifting it high to allow its surface to catch the sparkle of candlelight. At that precise moment, Nannon, hearing of her fate and unable to decide which would be worse - remaining in the hands of the torturer she knew, or being handed over to the one who professed to want to rescue her, but who now salivated with the blood at his lips, as she had seen the Monsieur de Sade do so many times before - finally erupted into a blood-curdling wail of protest and began to thrash about in her chains. ***** Meanwhile, on some other plane, in a carriage traveling north from the forest outskirts of Rhy’Din towards the rocky upper coast, Rose sat in placid contemplation. Her flaming curls were obscured beneath a drape of silver lamé, and even in the most bitter dark of night, her eyes were shaded behind a pair of cat’s eye glasses, so that the greed ever-present there could not be seen. All that could be seen, in fact, was the sparkle of rhinestones at their corners, and the menacing curve of her smile. And the reason for her smile? Why, the baby nestled safely in the crook of her lap, of course, sleeping peacefully through all the jolts and jostling of the coach journey. "Ah, little Greylin," she cooed, tucking the folds of the blanket up around his cheeks to keep him warm. "What a fine new home you’ll have… I wonder if your Father is enjoying his travels." With that, she turned to gaze out the window at the passing treelines. And at her side, propped up against the upholstered seat, was a portrait, with a curiously familiar gilded frame… but the canvas inside displayed a new scene, that of a young French girl strung up in chains, blood streaming in lazy rivers down to the ends of her petticoats… Renfield: Renfield regarded the human with unbelieveing disdain. Like him? Like.... him? Renfield threw his head back and roared with laughter, fangs glinting redwhite in the lamp light. Like him?! This human was petty, conceited, arrogant, sloppy, too decadent, and lacked the class that Renfield felt he had. Even an insane Malkavian or sadistic Brujah had more style than this fop. "You, you arrogant waist of skin, are nothing like me," Renfield said. "As to the woman, what I intend for her is something you would definitely find...wasteful, now leave us." Rose: "Nothing alike?" With a bemused expression, the Marquis flourished dainty, effeminate fingertips in the direction of the corpses littering his salon floor. "And yet, the evidence speaks otherwise." He paused a moment there, lifting his brows in a taunting salute, a silent question - a challenge, perhaps... With an aplomb borne of aristrocatic lineage (character flaws aside, the Marquis had been trained from birth to approach every situation with some measure of grace and civility), he dropped the key, and its twisted chain, into the Beast's hand. "But you must allow me the indulgence of making a correction... as it is my home upon which you have intruded, perhaps you would be so kind as to take the girl and leave us." Renfield: "You wouldn't understand my affliction, you are nothing but kine," Renfield said as he turns around to face the captive, who was futiley trying to get away, despite being chained to the ceiling. "And I plan on leaving your quiant little abode as soon as I've collected the girl." Renfield fixed his eyes with the struggling Nannon's and used one of his Discipline's to speak mind to mind, [[If you do not stop struggling, I can't free you. So coopperate and I'll let you go.]] Rose: The focus was all on her, now, and she knew it, and the realization hit her like the glare of a brilliant gas spotlight. Her scream had long since been stifled by a new kind of terror - that of the unknown. Was it better to be a pawn at the hands of a depravity with which she was, at least, familiar, or to go quietly into the care of someone who professed to want to save her, but had already left just as many dead bodies in his wake? When the voice entered her head, soothing though it may have been, the fact that it was there at all was enough to convince her that she had suddenly gone mad, probably driven to insanity by all the months of captivity in the Marquis' dungeons. She blinked, slow and lazy, awash in the dizziness of confusion, and with a look of acceptance that she had come to know so well, and the pallor of dead fright masking her features, she simply nodded to Renfield ... and hung limp in her chains. Renfield: Renfield unlocked the lock and removed the manacles from the girl's wrists. He caught her before she could fall and gently cradeled her in his arms. Turning to the Marquis he said, "We will be leaving now. I would suggest to your guards that they don't follow." He nodded to the bodies on the ground and said, "I can do as much with her carried in one arm as I did a few moments ago, so for everyone's sake, you'd better warn them." Rose: Nannon fell into a swoon, just then, her senses fading beneath a curtain of black, but even in the dead weight of unconsciousness, her body was sparrow-light, an indication that she was, for all her defilement, just a child. In this fitful sleep, her features took on an unearthly, angelic peace... In a time when people matured in haste, and the creases of old age and harsh life were all too quick to blemish the faces of the young, still she bore the countenance of a babe safe in her mother's arms... brow unfurrowed... skin dewy and fresh... lashes that fawned like butterfly wings at the tops of her cheeks... Like a babe in her mother's arms... And the Marquis, in typical grandiose style, extended his calf, and gestured towards the door with a broad sweep of his arm, and a smile that promised nothing, nor denied nothing... **** In the Camaieux Crypt, every surface was slicked with the gloss of newness, but the perfume of wild roses was still, somehow, pervaded by an undercurrent of stale, the withered and barren dust of the undead... One corner bore a sight familiar and yet not so, a Byzantine door of black walnut, with mariners' ropes and knots carved into its surface, buffed with lacquer and polish... but instead of introducing a chamber and a flight of spiral stairs, this door leads to a room within a room... Housed within is another sight, well-known to those with memory... a silk-lined bassinet, draped in shades of burgundy and wine... and Rose, with one gloved hand curled over its edge, leaning down and dangling a child's toy from the other... fairly glowing at the prospect of the fresh start that lies within... Renfield: Renfield unlocked the lock and removed the manacles from the girl's wrists. He caught her before she could fall and gently cradeled her in his arms. Turning to the Marquis he said, "We will be leaving now. I would suggest to your guards that they don't follow." He nodded to the bodies on the ground and said, "I can do as much with her carried in one arm as I did a few moments ago, so for everyone's sake, you'd better warn them." Rose: Nannon fell into a swoon, just then, her senses fading beneath a curtain of black, but even in the dead weight of unconsciousness, her body was sparrow-light, an indication that she was, for all her defilement, just a child. In this fitful sleep, her features took on an unearthly, angelic peace... In a time when people matured in haste, and the creases of old age and harsh life were all too quick to blemish the faces of the young, still she bore the countenance of a babe safe in her mother's arms... brow unfurrowed... skin dewy and fresh... lashes that fawned like butterfly wings at the tops of her cheeks... Like a babe in her mother's arms... And the Marquis, in typical grandiose style, extended his calf, and gestured towards the door with a broad sweep of his arm, and a smile that promised nothing, nor denied nothing... **** In the Camaieux Crypt, every surface was slicked with the gloss of newness, but the perfume of wild roses was still, somehow, pervaded by an undercurrent of stale, the withered and barren dust of the undead... One corner bore a sight familiar and yet not so, a Byzantine door of black walnut, with mariners' ropes and knots carved into its surface, buffed with lacquer and polish... but instead of introducing a chamber and a flight of spiral stairs, this door leads to a room within a room... Housed within is another sight, well-known to those with memory... a silk-lined bassinet, draped in shades of burgundy and wine... and Rose, with one gloved hand curled over its edge, leaning down and dangling a child's toy from the other... fairly glowing at the prospect of the fresh start that lies within... Renfield: Renfield unlocked the lock and removed the manacles from the girl's wrists. He caught her before she could fall and gently cradeled her in his arms. Turning to the Marquis he said, "We will be leaving now. I would suggest to your guards that they don't follow." He nodded to the bodies on the ground and said, "I can do as much with her carried in one arm as I did a few moments ago, so for everyone's sake, you'd better warn them."
Rose: True to his silence, the Marquis made no move to follow... nor did he make any gesture to summon help... not a call, not a whistle, not a clap of his manicured hands... The guards at the door parted easily, allowing him to pass, and behind him, the chatter in the salon began to resume with an uneasy sluggishness.Only silence followed Renfield's exit... an eerie, thick silence, heavy with foreboding... But if the quiet seemed strange, then at least the torturous twists and turns of the halls were familiar... undecipherable, but familiar. Which way would he turn, this time, now with a bundle in his arms for which to care? The distant clatter of horses' hooves announced that there was, in fact, an outside to this prettily-painted den of iniquity. And in the opposite direction, the first howls of alarm were arising... The body had been discovered in the dungeon, and the Marquis, occupied with the fustian of calming his guests, could hardly harness the hue and cry of soldiers, or the footfalls growing louder with every passing second... Renfield: Renfield growled and muttered, "Why is nothing ever easy." He heard the clank of mail and the shouts of men coming from down the hall. He looked down at Nannon and said, hoping she'd understand, "Look, I can't run from these guys with you in my arms, so how about a little trip? I'll try to get you out of here, but I need your consent to be able to do it." Rose: Nannon's return to consciousness was slow, a lumbering march through the bootheels and hoofbeats and outrage, helped along by the guidance of a friendly voice... the meaning of the words missed her by a mile, however - all she knew was the comfort they conveyed... tones of rich amber and liquid warmth that lifted her out of her fog on the wings of grey doves... "Mama...," she murmured, her eyes blinking like lazy shutters, her lips pursed in wonder (for, in truth, she still had no idea of her real whereabouts). "Mama... she cannot be so very far away... not far..." Her words must have sounded like the most incoherent babble, but she found some sense in them, and she gazed at him plaintively, as if expecting that he should, as well. Though her eyes had been covered when she had arrived at the Marquis' domicile all those weeks ago, she knew that she hadn't been taken far... she hadn't seen these front corridors, but she knew the sounds from the street, the clatter of daily travelers on cobblestone and the hum of the town's daily life... the smell of crude wine spilling out with the air expelled from a local tavern... the rich textures of baking bread... "This way... quickly..." she mumbled, loosing herself from his arms, but though she fought free of his embrace, she held onto his hand, as though she could be the one to lead him to freedom. "Liberté..." Renfield: "Now I know where that saying came from, 'The blind leading the blind'," Renfield mutters as he follows Nannon. The clanking was coming closer and he futiley searched the costume Rose had dressed himself for a weapon. Looking down at his feet, "Maybe I can bludgeon them to death with the really big heels..." Rose: "Come, then," Nannon implored, tugging at his shirt cuff and urging him towards the door. "We mustn't wait here any longer... Monsieur Donatien will never let us go if he catches us now..." As she lifted her palm, to lay it flat against the paneling, the cuff of her homespun chemise fell away, revealing a series of raw, reddened loops, like bracelets, around her wrist and forearm... and her hand, slender and demure like a doll's hand, was so stained with filth that it appeared nearly as brown as the wood upon which it rested. A quick thrust, and the door swung wide, opening like a theater curtain, a window onto the grand world before them... behind them, the bells of a clock began to toll evening, its echoing alarm ringing through the house... and before them, the winding streets of the village lay sprawled like a giant buffet, a feast of corners in which to hide and shadows in which to play... De Sade's chateau sat at the crown of a hill, and below, La Coste was a labyrinth of cobbled streets and tiled roofs, but for all its crude wattle and daub, and thatch and mean plaster, it shone like a field of diamonds on black velvet. The candles twinkling in every provincial window seemed to light the way and mark a path towards the countryside... But with a full ten feet from the front portico to the gates, and with guards coming around the house, from either side of the yard, to converge in the center, it didn't look as though they could possibly make it across the lawn and walkway in time... but Nannon took the plunge anyway, an act of mad desperation, and with one hand still locked into Renfield's, began to leap down the steps, towards the waiting guards, perhaps hoping to force her way through... Renfield: Renfield gripped her arm and halted her in mid footfall. "Now, you probably know I'm not exactly what you would call human," Ren said as he looked in her eyes. "But even I have limits, and I'm reaching them quickly with the way I've been running. So let's take another approach to running head on to lots of guards with swords, shall we. I have a... more direct way of traveling, but I need your consent first." Rose: Jerked back against him, just as the guards were skidding on the grass in their unwieldy boots and making a break towards the pair, Nannon could only cling to his arm and nod mutely... her lips seemed pursed to form the word 'please', but the only sound that came out vaguely resembled a 'meep'. In her mind, they were already doomed... the gate, with its high iron bars and spiked top, seemed so near, and yet it was an eternity away... if only they could get out, and down below, into the town... but alas... unless this man/creature at her side could perform miracles... alas... Renfield: "'Meep' works for me," Renfield said as he grabbed her and grinned, unfortunately flashing her a look of his fangs. "Hold on tight and don't let go." And with that they stepped back into the shadows and out of reality. Or into another, if you wished to look at it that way. All around them was blackness, darkness. Renfield didn't have to look down to know a platform of a rock-like substance had formed the minute they had stepped into this shadow realm. Things resembling windows floated around them, silently drifting in the endless night. Each window, mirror, whatever word you use to describe it held a different ever changing scene. Some places were foreign, even to Renfield because he was only a traveler, a borrower of this place. The window they had just left, for example, was the shadow they had just entered, and showed the amazed guards pausing in front of the shadow and look within, but to them it was only a normal shadow. Renfield laughed and looked down at his passenger, "How are you doing? Not affraid I hope." Rose: This was too much... just too much... The guards she could accept. Her desperation to escape and seemingly inevitable capture were situations so familiar as to be second nature - a wretched way to live, but she had lived so nearly all of her life. But this... This was enough to make her want to go back... almost... Unable to voice her concerns, her throat constricted, the sounds that would otherwise come out muffled by the choking of fear, Nannon began to tremble and weep. It started with the tiny quivering of her lower lip... and then her eyes began to shimmer with moisture, a tide of tears washing over cerulean blue... Even her curls shook, framing her sweet features in ripples of gold. On unsteady footing, and afraid to move much, lest she fall through this veil of witchcraft and find herself transported directly to hell, she clung to Renfield's arm. Her grip was alarmingly vise-like, for such a frail girl... the product of fear, no doubt. And slowly, slowly, a moan began to well up from deep within her throat, a moan low and gutteral... "I... just want... to... go... hooooome..." Renfield: He made a soothing noise and kissed her brow. "Only moments now, little one," he said. Renfield expected as much. Not many could take their first time in this otherplace, and she seemed weaker than the others he had taken here on occassion, understandably considering where she had been living these past few years. The platform floated quickly towards a window and came to a smooth halt and Ren picked up Nannon again and said with a grin, "Last stop, all off." before leaping back through and into the real world. Well, one of them anyway. They were now posistioned just outside of the gates, and behind the waiting guards. Renfield had to stifle a grin, it had worked. For once in this blasted place, it had finally worked. He whispered, "Come on, while they're still trying to get it through their thick heads that we're not there anymore." Rose: Nannon could only gape... and though she was unaware of it, her hand refused to release its lock on his forearm... as she turned her head, to gaze behind her, distant eyes filled with nothing but blank surprise stared past the gates, to the guards, just at the moment when momentum and direction came together in that great cosmic calamity called collision. Call her simple, if you like... It would be true. Nannon has never known much of life outside of the village of La Coste, and known far more inside the great house that stood at the top of the hill. So, while she was phased by the experience of traveling through shadow, her shock dissipated quickly under an explosion of laughter, as the guards fell together in a tangle of limbs and grunts. Bicorn hats went flying, and one of the men actually stabbed the other in the thigh with his bayonet tip in the ensuing struggle to free himself. Feeling much like spring had come early this year, she slipped her hand down to Renfield's, and swung it freely, already beginning to skip towards the lane that would lead them into the village. "Come on," she chirped, bubbling with newfound exuberance. "Just a few minutes' run and we can be home... Mama will be so surprised.. " Renfield: Well, this was a pleasant surprise. Gone was the huddling, frightened girl, but she was replaced by this... giddy young woman, albiet in a torn dress, scarred hands, and dirty skin. Content with her knowledge of knowing the way, Renfield simply walked beside and partially behind her as she led him through the city. Rose: Feeling every bit the princess, in spite of her rags and soil (no doubt because of the new, sweet taste of freedom), Nannon wasted not a moment more on watching the Keystone Guards, but skittered down the lane with Renfield in tow. La Coste at night was nearly as alive as by day... though the streets were still - so still that the clatter of their footfalls resounded an eerie ricochet echo between cobbled stones and brick walls - the shadows were lively enough, with the sobbing of hungry babes, and the click of the occasional horse's hooves carrying men back from long nights at the tavern... or more frequent still, the sluggish, irregular footfalls of a drunkard staggering for home under his own power, still croaking some half-remembered bawdy song, off key and barely keeping to the tune... The streets were a maze, of that there could be no doubt, but Nannon led him through turn after dizzying turn as though it were second nature... Truth be told, she'd known these streets since her birth and could probably travel them blindfolded, so the cover of night was more ally than enemy... de Sade's guards might follow, after a time, but they could never hope to unravel the mystery of the lanes as Nannon could, and by morning, they would reach the countryside - not necessarily out of the Marquis' reach, but certainly out from under his scrutiny. And what a sight Nannon was, through it all - cheeks flushed with pride, eyes lucid and glowing, even in the darkness... curls trailing out behind her like golden streamers... like a bird in flight, a bird whose broken wing had been mended and was relearning the skies... Renfield: Renfield followed close behind, mostly because of her grip on the sleeve of his coat. Content in the fact she knew where she was going, Ren let himself be lead by her hand, scanning the shadows for any possible pursuers/snacks that would be foolish enough to take them for an easy mark. Rose: Be it an 18th-century farming village, or the downtown area of the most metropolitan modern city, the perils of a town under the cover of night are timeless... Nannon blundered blithely ahead... she was a product of her era, blissfully unaware of the dangers that could lurk in every shadow, and thinking only of the comforts of home that lay just behind the town's perimeter. Her steps did slow, after a time, mainly due to her own fatigue, and it was then that she dropped back from a full run to a gentle amble, turning to Renfield and sheepishly releasing her grip on his sleeve. "Pardon," she panted through an embarrassed smile, her cheeks flushed to a deeper shade of red. "It is only..." She shook out her curls, and turned a thankful gaze to the heavens. "Is it only... that I am so anxious to be home." A skittering sound, like a pebble being tossed across cobblestones, issued from a nearby corridor between two buildings, but Nannon appeared not to notice it, and just kept on smiling as she dropped her back against a wall to rest. "But you, monsieur..." she continued, chest still heaving beneath her shawl. "Where is your home?" At that, her lashes lowered bashfully over eyes of crystal blue, and her voice dropped to a hush. "I do not suppose that... that you... will consider coming to my home?" And her eyes rose to him again, this time filled with pleading. Renfield: "My.. my home is far from here," Renfield said, how far he had no idea. But far away enough. He knew she would like him to stay for longer than he could, if he didn't have his son or a fiance it would have been tempting, but he couldn't forget them, "And I have people there waiting for me. But I will come with you now to your home, but I can't stay." Rose: You could have flavored your tea with the crestfallen look she gave him, so bittersweet was it, and honey-coated all the more with a single drop forming in those eyes of crystal blue. "I suppose you're right," she murmured, lifting her chin bravely and presenting him with her most delicate smile. "I shouldn't keep you.. else, I'd be no better than Monsieur Donatien." Extending her hand, and taking his, she drew herself forward, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She lingered there for a long moment, her lashes fluttering against his skin, as she struggled to blink back the tears. Renfield: Renfield's empathy was a chaotic random thing. After the mental and psychological trauma he had received in a battle with Daemon's Den, it hadn't been reliable, sometimes working, sometimes not, and sometimes forcing other people's emotions on him to such a degree that they hurt. It did so now. He kept his face neutral but inside he winced. He hadn't meant to hurt the girl. Renfield gently pushed her away from him and said, "Come, I will walk you to your home, then I must go." Rose: At his words, Nannon nodded and swept the tears away, lifting her chin bravely, but still not quite able to meet his eyes. Clinging to his hand, she turned and started down the lane once more. "You must promise, then, to tell me where you come from, chere, and where you're going," came her tiny voice, pealing like the bells of a whispering wind chime. Suddenly, the sound of wood striking brick cracked the air, and a few brief footsteps with an awkward cadence - as though one foot clapped to the cobblestones while the other shuffled along lazily in its wake. Appearing directly in their path was a man, if one give that name to such a creature. He was tall, scarecrow thin, and dressed all in rags, and for every one of the few teeth that remained in his hideous smile, he had exactly one stringy grey hair on his head to match... and clutched in his bony right hand was a rough-hewn cudgel. Renfield: What's with this bloody place? Renfield thought angrily. There's always someone here to kill, beat, and/or rob you. Jeez, haven't had this much trouble since I went to that place called... New York with Tatyana. "Go away, old one," Renfield growled as his body tensed. If he fed much more tonight, he'd go into a Fury, which wouldn't be pleasant for the young girl. "You don't want my kind of trouble this night." Rose: "Pa-PA!" Nannon was far too consumed by girlish exuberance to remember that she still had a hold on Renfield's hand, and so when she went dashing past him, she pulled him along for a few paces. Before she could jerk his arm right out of its socket, though, she let go and flung herself into the embrace of the old hollow-eyed codger. They couldn't have been more different... like night and day, this father and daughter... but as has been pointed out before, they were living in times that hardened souls and caused hairs to grey early on... The great Revolution was yet several years away, but it's prelude was here, in the decrepit features of one of France's common folk... Renfield: Daddy dearest? That's her father? Renfield thought. And I just threatened him. Smooth move, idiot. Hello, sir, I just rescued your daughter from the most extreme pervert from the depths of Hell, I'm a vampire, and oh, I just was about to rip out your throat. Wonderful. Ren smiled as he stood back and watched the scene, allowing the girl some personal time. Rose: Even as he held his daughter close, the old man made threatening gestures, wrapping his ragged arms around Nannon and bearing what few teeth he had at Renfield. The girl nestled in oblivion, until she heard the first gutteral growl coming from her Papa's throat, and then she looked up, her golden curls shaking frantically. "Non... no... Papa... he is the one who saved me... he has brought me from Monsieur Donatien's home..." Any other man of La Coste might have been grateful upon hearing such a declaration, or might at least have shown some gratitude in the softening of his expression, but as we've already discussed, Nannon's father was hardened by a lifetime of poverty. All that mattered to him was protecting the one thing still precious in his life - that golden-haired girl. And so all he could do was lay aside the cudgel, which he did with some reluctance yet. Truth be told, he had been on his way up to the estate on the hill that very night, to pursue a futile course most likely, in challenging the Marquis for the return of his daughter. He'd known it would likely end in his death on the garden steps, or in a dark dungeon - he was no match for an army of the aristocrat's guards - but the fear that kept the rest of the town cowering in the Marquis' shadow had grown to reckless abandon, spawned by a sense of hopelessness, in him. So perhaps he could be forgiven his gruff expression, and the weapon he'd brandished, and even the words of thanks that refused to be drawn from him. "I'll see her the rest of the way home," was all he said, and that with a curl of his thin lips. So it would seem that the ordeal was over, at least for Nannon... "But...," she whispered, turning slowly, still clinging to her father's waist like the frightened child that she was. "...What about you?" Baby blues flickered nervously... "Where will you go?" Her mouth formed a tiny rosebud "o", and she suddenly began scrabbling at the front of her shawl, pushing past the tattered lace and reaching into the front of her bodice. "You must take this, wherever you go... It is the only gift I have... and it will bring you luck..." Slowly, slowly, she began to withdraw a ribbon - a soiled ribbon, with frayed edges, that might once have been the color of lilacs. Hanging at the end of the ribbon, dangling from her fingertips and winking with the light of the moon on its surface, was a tiny hand mirror in a wooden frame... Renfield: Renfield smiled, careful to keep the grin tight-lipped to keep from frightening the father. Even vampires tired of killing at one time or another, and he didn't wish to add Nannon's father to the list of those dead at his hand. Skeletons in the closet, Renfield thought as he gently took the mirror from her hands. "I will go where I must," he said cryptically as he looked in the mirror. The costume was definitely not him. He longed for soft cotton or silk shirts, his leather duster, and comfortable shoes instead of the stiff linen shirt, harsh coat, overtly large shoes, and... tights. "People need me, people I care for. I can't let them down...for any reason." He turned from the reunion before him, holding the mirror in the palm of his hand as he walked away, offering a silent prayer of protection over the two behind him. Rose: Nannon's eyes were pensive, the color of dusk, as she watched him turn away, still clinging to the crone, her father, with one arm wrapped about his waist, and a sudden breeze nipping at the hem of her skirt. It might have been a trick of the moonlight, or the fault of that capricious wind, but as she stood there, Nannon's outline began to blur... Golden curls seemed to take on the cast of vibrant flame, and cerulean blue deepened to emerald... Yes, it might have been a trick of the light... The ghost of greed in her doll's smile, and the fine pinpoints of pearl curling out over her lips... A trick of the light, indeed... But to look at her dead-on, one would only have seen a child, a mere poppet, nestled in her daddy's arms. The wind that had been hurtling down the cobbled lane began to grow more insistent, picking up bits of leaves and debris as it went, and on the surface of the hand mirror, a cyclone was brewing, as though it were the center of all the commotion on the air, drawing in the reality upon which Renfield thought he stood and siphoning it into a funnel whose storm's eye was the center of time itself. And somewhere distant, the cries of an infant could be heard... Renfield: Renfield held the mirror. From the first breath of the wind he knew what it was, that it was the gateway home. Finally. He continued walking, not looking back. That was his way, he left the past where it belonged, in the past. In his time, this girl, her father, they were dust in the ground. She was safe now, that was what mattered to him. Her tomorrow did not coincide with his in the least. The wind picked up, biting and cutting at him. The wig was ripped off of his head, mercifully so, freeing his hair and he grinned as he looked at the costume. It had a noticable bloodstain on the front, the tights were ripped, shoes scuffed, and now wig was gone. She'd be displeased. That made his grin all the wider. It was when the sound of a baby's cry reached his ears when Renfield looked up into the maelstrom. He could recognize that cry anywhere, even if he had been in Hell itself he would've known his own son. I'm coming Grey, he thought. And if she has done anything to you, no amount of trickery, magic, or otherwise will save her and her precious Morkai Consortium. |