WoD: Brass and Smoke - London's Bloody Cry [IC, OPEN]

[Luminesa]

Confessions of a Drunk Saint
November 23rd, 1888, Morning
St. Peter’s, Bethnal Green, East London

Father McDougall sat on the other side of the confessional, leaning his broad shoulders back and clearing his throat as he had just finished hearing a confession. He stared at the screen, waiting for more footsteps to enter the tiny room. Early Sunday morning, he was all too familiar with his schedule and still slightly bleary-eyed. Nevertheless, he was dutiful and waiting.

Footsteps came, and he listened to the heaviness of the steps. Not too heavy, rather quick, he knew they were young. Then he heard a heavily-accented grunt as someone sat down, and he took a breath.

“Morning, Father,” the voice mumbled.

“Good morning, Vasily,” the priest answered, his eyes widening a little as he pulled his tall, rotund figure to sit more upright.

“I know I’m back a little soon, but luckily for you, I have less sins this time!”

“Oh?” Despite his need to be neutral in the confessional, the priest almost sounded surprised.

“Yup! I’ve been keeping myself out of trouble helping a woman paint her house.”

“Good. Well isn’t that lovely.” Father McDougall sounded pleased. “Staying productive is always a way to harvest virtue. What else have you been doing?”

“I’ve been decorating her house, babysitting, and she and my mother have been teaching me how to cook.”

“Good, good. All excellent life skills,” the priest noted. “When you’ve come here before, you’ve come drunk or hungover and slurring your words. I’m glad to hear this new sense of purpose and energy has changed you for the better.”

“Having more friends is helpful, I suppose,” Vasily conceded, “when I was in college I didn’t have very many.”

“Have you had anything to drink this week?”

The young Mage nodded. “Yes, Father, I haven’t entirely dropped the habit. Had some stress these last couple of weeks. Only smoked four cigarettes a day last week.”

“And you were smoking a pack before.”

“Progress!”

The priest nodded. “Have you visited any brothels recently?”

“Uhhhhhh yes, but for business. Not for…”

“Sex?”

“Yes.” Vasily blinked and smirked. He had always enjoyed this particular pastor’s frank manner of speaking. “Uh, investigation.”

“Of…?”

“Things going bump in the night near my house. Because the last time things went bump in the night by my house, someone died!”

The priest went quiet. “You’ve never mentioned that before, Vasily.”

“I can mention it because the bishop would wring your neck if you told anyone.”

Father McDougall chuckled and nodded. “Very well.”

Vasily nodded. “…I do miss Vinny.”

“Vinny?”

“The prostitute I was visiting for a while before my current relationship.”

The priest dropped his voice. “Why do you miss them, if I may ask?”

“I’m uh…having trouble with my current relationship.”

“How so?”

“Erm…” Vasily coughed. “Wayland is wonderful, and caring, but uh…he’s not…emotionally available all the time.”

“This is a relationship with another man?”

“Yes, Father, I’ve seen you since I was eighteen. You confirmed me. You know I am a homosexual.”

“I do.” Father McDougall nodded. He then cleared his throat once again and thought quietly. “Well…going back to Vinny would…” He stopped himself and rephrased. “Would you be able to simply be friends with him, if you spoke to him again?”

“Father, I have friends, three of them I would not have sex with because they’re women. One of them I would not have sex with because he’s heterosexual and is in a relationship. The one I’ve started a relationship with, if we ever lost each other…I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before! Would he want me if we didn’t want each other? I would hope so, I’ve known him since I was eighteen as well! But Vinny…would Vinny want me? That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“It seems it may be the questionable factor in that equation, yes.” Father McDougall stroked his chin.

After a long pause, Vasily asked. “Father, you’re not married, are you?”

“I am not, but some of my fellow priests are.”

“Can you be friends with someone you’ve slept with? Or can you sleep with someone you’re friends with? What happens if things fall apart?”

“Well…if they fall apart, Vasily,” the priest suggested, “then no, because when friendships fall apart, they fall apart. That is just the consequence. But if you can agree together on where you can be in your friendship, regardless of whether or not you are in a relationship, then you can always have them as a friend.” When he heard Vasily say nothing, he leaned further.

“You as a young man, just fresh in your youth, are still learning about making good decisions. Whether or not you succeed every time, that is why you come here, is it not? Do you think you could still be friends with Vinny?”

The young Russian man held a hand over his lips. “…I’m not sure. I’ve…never tried.”

“Then that is for you to see. If you approach him and know you are feeling…what you might feel…then you must determine what is right for your personal boundaries. Does that make more sense?”

“I am still learning to make boundaries, Father.”

“You will get there. You’re doing much better than usual,” the priest muttered, “and your penance is to pray and contemplate Psalm 139. Ask good St. Joseph for his assistance.”

“Yessir. Thank you.”

After praying the final prayers, Vasily left. When he looked up, he looked at Sigrid waiting for him outside the confessional. She was smiling, dressed in her pretty Sunday clothes, her parasol folded in her hands. People still did not know who was the beautiful woman in white who wandered among these poor strangers, but they knew the poor stranger with her. And his face was both weary and relieved as he fixed his tired brown suit.

“Are you going?” He asked her.

She paused, and then shook her head. “I’m not sure what to confess, or how to confess it yet.”

“The parson can’t tell anyone whatever you tell him, so just remember that.” He gave her an encouraging smile, which still looked older than his usual self. “I’ve got a lot to think about, though, so let’s go sit down.”

She nodded to him, and wrapped her arm under his elbow. “You don’t feel better?”

Vasily grunted. “I should. I almost do. But I’m not sure. I…need to talk to a couple of people first.”

Sigrid nodded. “Do you mind if I tell you a secret of my own later, when I come to see Wayland?”

“Sigrid, you could tell me anything, I might as well be your confessional. I just can’t give you a penance.”

She gave him a gentle, quiet smile, and they sat together in the pew. “My penance will come eventually. I’m sure it will be painful, but I will accept it.”

He did not quite know what she meant, but he had an idea. He took her hand and clenched it, and gave her a caring look. “Just for that, I won’t light a cigarette in the church this time.”

She looked back at him and nodded with a tiny giggle. “Thank you, Vasily.”

“Anything for a friend, love.”

[Luminesa]

Co-Write Between Oblivion2 and Lumi

A Lost Art and Stolen Treasure
November 24th, 1888, Evening
Melodious’s Estate, Kent

Several things were on Fortuna’s mind as she looked around the parlor early in the evening.

First of all, the parlor was decorated more to her lord’s tastes. Bright pink and gold roses along the mantle, crystal accents and chandeliers everywhere, and gold lighting in the living room. Special gold statues of Greek gods lined the hallway between the parlor and the dining room-and she and another Ghoul had to carry all twelve of them. And that was not even mentioning the dining room.

“Georg, you’re sweating.” She turned to the other Ghoul as he appeared with a bottle of polishing solution and a used rag.

“All the silverware. And an entirely new kitchen table. And a new centerpiece. All in two hours.” He took a breath. “I would drop the rag, but if I do the boss will rip my head off.”

“You think he’ll actually do it?”

“I don’t know, I would say no, but seeing what he did to that Neonate…” He gulped. “Not taking my chances.”

But Melodious was not out as quickly as he had been the first time. The two head Ghouls and their other associates continued to clean the manor according to his instructions, up to and including hanging new lanterns outside the building. But for four hours, almost until time for Etienne to arrive, nobody saw him.

“He’s gonna be late,” a Ghoul named Denís informed Fortuna.

“Mr. Saint-Francis or Lord Melodious?” she inquired.

“One? Both? I’m not sure at this point.” The Ghoul shrugged, and looked at the entrance.

Etienne would never be late unless it served his interests. Today, tardiness would do him no good in the slightest. His carriage pulled up just before the appointed hour and stepped down with the utmost casual grace he could manage- a great deal indeed. He was clad in black today, boots, pants, magical coat and hat. Only his silvery white shirt betrayed any other form of colour. It was a strategic choice to set off the colours of the paintings that were being borne for him in the back of the carriage.

He whistled, getting the attention of a wandering page. “Boy!” He called out. “Gather a few men and have my parcels brought inside- gifts for the Lord Melodious. There's three pennys in it for you if you're quick about it!”

A much younger Ghoul hurried inside the manor, and without much fanfare he gathered Georg, Denís, and a couple of others to come help bring the artwork indoors. They worked with fast, mechanical, careful attention to their work, nodding their acknowledgement to Etienne as they always focused toward the door. The only one who turned back to the Ventrue was Georg, and just for a split second. “In the parlor or the dining room, sir?”

“Parlour.” He says without a second thought. “And keep them covered. I want to reveal them my own self.”

“TIM! DENÍS!” He screamed into the room. “Keep them covered for the boss!”

They scrambled to follow orders, and Fortuna stood by the door watching them. At the same time, she turned and gave a bright, hospitable smile to Etienne as he approached the mansion. “Welcome, Mr. Saint-Francis. Good to have you back!”

Etienne put on his best smile for the ghoul, bowing deeply and flamboyantly for her. “Good evening my dear. A pleasure to see you once more. I believe I am just on time, has my host roused himself? Or has he sent you to keep me entertained awhile? Not that I'd mind. You seem a charming enough sort.”

A blush rose to Fortuna’s face, but she quickly pulled herself together. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Saint-Francis. We’re waiting for him now, we’ve not been sure where he’s gone.”

“Probably planning his entrance,” Georg commented as he continued to put cleaning finishes on the furniture. “He shouldn’t be terribly long.”

The noise of the men and women running, ordering, and cleaning only added to the incredible noise of the bright lights, glaring colors, and luxurious shine of a room decorated in the Toreador Elder’s vision. But in that pandemonium, Etienne’s sharp eyes would spot someone peering at him from behind a corner. Tall, gorgeous, and terrified, he could see Etoile’s eyes watching him as discreetly as she could manage.

Etienne took a moment to lock eyes with Etoile, nodding faintly in her direction and giving her as much of his reassuring presence as possible from a distance before returning his attention to the head ghoul, Fortuna.

“Well my dear, surely his Lordship has given you instruction on where he'd like me to wait, no?”

“Yes he has. Right this way, please.”

She turned and led him into the manor, and Etienne’s color-contrast with the rest of the furniture was not lost on her or any of her fellow Ghouls. The stark blackness was almost something out of a fairytale. A bringer of famine and death would not have worn so dark of a color. But they could not all pause for long, except for Etoile, who watched every move.

The colors whirled around Etienne as soon as he entered, and now pink, white, gold, and silver crystals poured all over the center of the room in a circle of shard-like light. The centerpiece of the room, on the table, was an enormous bouquet of flowers in those same colors. The curtains were a bright gold, and the tables and wooden accents had all been polished so as to shine for themselves. It was elegant and planned by a man in full possession of himself, but for Melodious and Etienne it was not enough for one but too much for the other.

In the meantime, Etoile-all dressed in a long, fabulous, gold gown-slipped a little closer to watch.

Etienne did his best to keep his expression impassive as he wandered along behind the Ghoul. The ostentatiousness of it all clashed with Etienne’s sense of taste. Certainly he appreciated art and style, but this? It was all too guady. As though it was compensation for something else that Melodious was lacking. Still, he occasionally made appreciative noises as he followed along. All part of the act. All part of the show. He was certain Melodious was watching him, or had someone watching his every move right now.

“Well, Melodious certainly knows how to get what he wants.” Etienne would finally speak something of substance, “And your staff knows how to execute on those desires.”

“Keep in mind, you did tell him to design this place the way he wanted last time.” Fortuna looked back at him with a reminder, but her eyes understood his opinion.

“We have been setting this all up for something along the lines of six hours,” Georg commented as he walked by, “you would have thought someone was getting married.”

The movement settled, except for Etoile creeping ever closer to the crowd in the parlor. Nobody seemed to mind her, but she was not who they were worried about.

Not even a couple of minutes after Georg had finished griping did the lights in the living room glow a little brighter. Unlike Sigrid’s own light, they were much more golden, almost like stagelights. The two eldest Ghouls looked at each other, and then looked down the hall as Melodious started over.

“My apologies! How dare I keep you waiting!”

Melodious arrived in all hot-pink, but not quite in the same way as he had at the party. He wore a crisp suit with a floor-length train behind it, and his shoes were still shined black. And this time, the feathers were gold and bright along the epaulets and brooch. He might have passed for a runway model if runways had existed.

His bright-red hair bounced over his shoulders with his walk, which was tall and confident, and he gave a bright, glittering smile to Etienne as he saw him. “My, my, Etienne, you look ravishing. It is an honor to have you once more! Shall you have something to drink?” His charm bubbled and popped, moderated so as to not make the colorfulness of his manor more cartoonish than classy.

“This old thing?” Etienne said mildly at the compliment, pulling lightly at his jacket with a smile. “Just something out of the closet. I didn't want to detract from the gifts I've brought you- so I thought black to be the most fitting. And as a point of fact, my lord, tis you're residence. I believe you're always on time.”

He considered the offer of drink before nodding. “A glass of whiskey. Just a small one, something to sip on whilst I smoke and talk.” He glanced around at their ostentatious setting, “Provided of course, you won't begrudge me a smoke in such opulent surroundings.”

“A smoke is fine by me, you are my guest!” Melodious waved his hand dramatically, both to give way for Etienne to smoke and for Denís to run and grab the whiskey. The Ghoul started, and then looked back, giving a glance at his master. The Toreador chuckled and then swiveled back to the Ventrue. “My dear boy knows that some of my guests are very particular about the brand of whiskey. One of the many reasons Thomas Valle and I never got along was because of alcoholic preferences. But ah…” He cocked his head to the side. “What would you like?”



“I'm willing to be surprised my lord.” Etienne tells the Toreador as he reaches into his coat for his pipe, beginning to pack it with fragrant smelling tobacco.

“I find one of the benefits of being comparatively young in the Courts of London is I am always afforded the opportunity to try something new. Be it something rare, before my time, or just interesting. Please, I am willing to try something new today. No need to dig out the King’s whiskey either. I've been well spoiled by you and your staff as is.”

“Fabulous. I do need to save the whiskey I do need for the king.” He flashed his eyes with a knowing look, before chuckling again and snapping his fingers again for Denís to go.

He reappeared a few seconds later, and he had a black glass bottle with Japanese script on it. He looked almost nervous to be holding the bottle, and his lord nodded for him to pour a glass for Etienne. “Not my most expensive whiskey, but people don’t always know that I’ve been able to get whiskey from Imperial Japan. It’s quite good, not too sweet and very classy.”

“Oh, how curious.” Etienne would say, his curiosity genuinely getting the better of him for once as he looked over the bottle a moment and then took the glass. He gave it a perfunctory sniff before lighting his pipe. He took a puff, sniffed again and then had a soft sip. “That, my lord… is a well balanced smoking whiskey. I thank you for such a treat.”

“Of course! You’re almost a regular guest, regular guests get better whiskey.” He winked, and then took a sip himself. Expending Vitae for a few drinks was nothing to him.

All the while, Etoile continued to stare from the hallway. The only difference now was that she had moved out of sight of Melodious, and she was almost trying to shrink herself.

“And aside from the artwork you’ve got for me, how have you been doing? Anything exciting in your life?”

Etienne did his best to keep the young noblewoman in his own eyeline, but spent the bulk of his attention on Melodious. “Mostly just attempting to solidify my position here in London. Spreading my legend, as it were. Deciding if I need to make new friends, you know how it is.”

“Ah, well, those are already worthwhile activities as you have described them,” Melodious suggested, while taking a sip of his drink. When he was done, he put his glass on the side once more. “And so I must know who you’ve befriended! I need to know if I know anyone else in your own growing little circle. Aside from Thomas Valle, and perhaps that young Mage you’ve got wrapped around your finger.”
He gave something of a smirk as he insinuated about Vasily, always wondering if there was more to that story.

“That's mostly the extent of it.” He admits with a soft shrug. “A few of the Ventrue Neonates. Some of the young and ambitious lads looking to make a name for themselves, but without half my talent.”

He gives Melodious a waggle of his eyebrows. “Why, feeling a little jealous you're not getting all of my time?”

“Oh goodness, no!” He laughed, shaking his curly hair all the same. “If I had all of your time, and nobody else got to see you, you’d find some way to be bored, I’m sure. Constantly being here in my house, listening to me planning another party or meeting, is not what you would be doing if you decided to be in my own care. I would keep you quite busy, and hopefully you’d meet quite a few new friends in the process.” He sipped his whiskey again, and winked from behind the glass.

“I prefer being busy. Keeping moving.” The Ventrue admits between soft sips of whiskey. “Perhaps it was how I was raised? Or perhaps I've always just had a sort of… restless energy. I find I cannot simply stop or it feels as though I'm drowning. Such a strange thought when one no longer needs to breathe.”

He shook that off and gestures to the wrapped up pieces that had been set here in the parlour. “Are you prepared to see what I have brought you? Would you rather do the opening, or shall I?”

“Drowning…” Melodious paused and gave a knowing snort. “You’ll know when you’re drowning, dearie. It will happen to you more than once in your life. But we don’t need to talk about that more than we need to. Show me what you’ve brought me!”

Etienne nodded, setting his glass aside with a soft clink. He stood up.and made a show of dusting himself off before walking to the small gathering of wrapped paintings. “All of these,” he began with a gesture, “Have been done by a little known painter by the name of Vincent Van Gogh. A Dutchman, if I'm recalling correctly. Anyhow, presently he resides in a convent in Southern France, painting like a mad man. His work seems to be… unpopular at the moment. I however disagree with this assessment and believe it to merely be ahead of his time. You, as the patron of the arts that you are, can be the proper judge of that.”

He held up one of the covered paintings and said, “And without further ado or any more gilding of the lily, I give to you Starry Night Over the Rhone.”

Etienne pulled the cover off the framed painting and revealed the art hidden underneath; a blue-black sky filled with starry orbs of yellow and white, reflecting down upon the brighter waters of the Rhone. In the distance shone a city, whose orange-red lights joined that of the purer yellow of the stars, all whilst a grey-brown bridge hidden in shadows spanned the river itself. “Note the usage of yellow.” Etienne explained. “I am told, our man Van Gogh, believes yellow to be the purest of colors and the closest to our LordGod.”.”

“…Wow…” Georg whispered, a few feet behind a stunned Fortuna.

The image was spectacular. At that time, few in the world had seen anything quite like these paintings, and those who had seemed Van Gogh insane or unimportant. But as Etienne had suggested, there was a certain divinity to the images which would not have been lost on anyone who had a sense of the celestial and the godly. While Melodious’s own philosophy was as twisted as it could be, he was never one to miss unique beauty. Yet while he had become almost hysterical at the sound of the singers in Relia’s mansion, he became silent and almost reverent now, as he looked with a studious eye at the work.

“The strokes of a Malkavian, one might almost say,” he mused, as he stared and thought to himself. Some sort of event crossed his mind, something deeply personal. “Have you ever watched the Thames at night and simply cried at the sight of its beauty? Or cried at the passage of time over the eternal waters?”

Etienne almost seems startled by the Toreador’s reaction. He knew the clan had a tendency for deep emotions but he wasn't quite expecting this. “The Thames?” He enquired, mostly rhetorically. “No my Lord, not the Thames. But the Saint Lawrence… Yes I'd spent many an evening watching her rushing currents. Wondering at the stars reflecting upon her surface. I was… younger then. More foolish. But perhaps wiser.”

“The Saint Lawrence…” He thought on the statement for a moment, and he gave a smile to the Ventrue. Half kind, half lost deep in his thoughts. “Quebec, yes?”

“Yes.” Etienne answers with a nod.

Melodious nodded in return. “Thomas was born in Fort Ville-Marie. Montreal. Only three people know that fact, and now you know as well. He’s lost his accent over time, as we tend to lose many of our personal traits to time. And to the expanse of such things as the Thames or the Saint-Lawrence or the Rhône.” He looked back to the painting, and continued to admire it. “Yes. This is a man who has cried much, who has suffered over much to demonstrate such beauty. Few mortals or immortals truly understand the agony that comes with creating true, lasting beauty. Perhaps a mother giving birth, or a father giving away his daughter in marriage.” He stopped himself, ignoring how Fortuna and Georg were both watching him with eyes almost as long as the crystals of the chandeliers.

“Perhaps then you may like my other offerings.” The Frenchman said with a slight dip of his head, wisely choosing not to comment about Sir Thomas. It wasn't for him to speak about.

He set down Starry Night and moved to his next painting. He unveiled it with a flourish and gestured. “This one is a simpler piece- Sunflowers, it is appropriately named. Van Gogh seems to adore these hardy flowers, perhaps for many of the same reasons he enjoys the colour yellow.”

He ran his fingers just above the canvas, gesturing to the petals of the flower. “A piece for a bedroom, I would think. Or some cozy den. Or a gift to charm some sweet girl out there somewhere whom you want to believe in your own sweetness.”

“Yes…” His eyes moved easily to this image, and his eyes sparkled with more light. “Such wild, untamed flowers. Freshly plucked out of a field, or out of a desperate mind. Desperate for the divine.” He kept his melancholy tone, but with a stronger warmth for this painting. “Sunflowers are such a magnificent symbol of life and resilience. I wonder why they are not featured in more bouquets. Why I have never suggested doing such.” He turned his head to Fortuna, but she merely shook hers. She could not have offered a good enough opinion at that moment, and the man simply laughed. “I must do so in the future! More sunflowers for the house! Especially this!”

Georg took a step back as the Toreador Elder seemed to find his step once again, but in the midst of the noise, the corner of Fortuna’s eye caught the movement of the pretty hiding Ghoul. Etoile had peered just a little further out from her hiding place, especially as the room had gotten quiet. She had tears falling down her cheeks, but still refused to make a sound.

“You'll note too,” Etienne pointed out, “That these sunflowers are all in various stages of their lives too. From budding, to full bloom, to wilting, and to dying. I am given to understand that this piece also uses new pigmentation that has only been made possible by advances in chemical science. Tis how there is just so many shades of yellow here.”

“Modernity truly can create fascinating things, can it not?” The Toreador was pleased, and he continued on the upswing in his mood. “We really do seek the glory of the ageless God, of ageless light, in such magnificent colors. Justinian himself sought to create such colors in the Hagia Sophia, and he almost succeeded. But did he? What has become of the Hagia Sophia now, 1500 years later?”

“She still stands. Though, perhaps lost to her intended purpose.” Etienne answers, shrugging his shoulders. “I have never been to see her. The Ottoman Empire was never really any place my Sire sought to do business, and so I've missed out on one of the wonders of the world.”

He waves that away, setting aside the painting to grab the third. “This one amuses me to a degree, because it's so… mundane yet so… moving to me on a personal level.” He pulls the covering off of the painting to reveal a man sitting in a chair, wearing the bright blue vestiments of a french postal worker- his beard bushy and slightly untamed. His eyes twinkling with amusement set into ruddy features that see plenty of sun.

“This, is the aptly titled portrait of a Postman. Imagine it, out and about on your business and some mad dutch painter has found his muse in you. He sees the rich colours of your outfit, the hale colour in your cheeks and he simply -must- paint you. You do not know why, but he has seen beauty and potential in you, an otherwise ordinary man. That, there? That speaks to me more than any other painting I've seen in the last half decade, perhaps longer. In it, I see what our relationship with our lessers can be- even perhaps our relationship with the Kine. We can see the beauty and potential in them, and with our experience and if I may be so bold, our artistry we can bring it out in them.”

“YES!” Melodious’s excitement reached a fever pitch, and he whirled around and smiled at Etienne. His eyes were almost as bright as his hair, and the Ventrue could have sworn he saw that his eyes had taken a vermillion tint. “Bringing beauty out of the mundane, seeing it in a way they do not see! Is that not the only way to live? The most glorious way to exist?”

He walked-no, strode-toward the young Ventrue, and only in a couple of steps did he grab the younger man’s shoulders. “You understand the heart of the matter, the heart of our existence. What are we outside of this pursuit of glory in the simple? We are beasts, starving for the very lifeblood we’ve lost! This is the reason I pulled my own corpse out of an alley in London, all those years ago! YOU understand.” He leaned much closer, almost with the madness of a Malkavian in his handsome visage. “Do you see how this wonder magnifies our existence? This is the purpose of the Camarilla, Etienne. THIS is our goal, our Eden toward which we march!”

The Ventrue hated how much he agreed with Melodious in this particular moment. He was a three-color bastard, and their ultimate view of the Camarilla and its duty to the world and the Kine that lived in it was probably very different in the end. But he was struck by just how difficult this betrayal would be. Melodious was a monster… he hurt people for his own amusement. But for just a moment, Etienne could see just how he and the man might be not so dissimilar. He vowed silently then, to remember this moment when real power was within his grasp. To remember it and to never, ever become a creature as cruel and capricious as Melodious. For once… before his power, he was probably just like Etienne was now.

He shivered at the sudden dose of self awareness, of what his future might look like if he strayed off the path and veered into selfishness. He continued, “I have one more for you, Lord. Are you prepared?”

The Toreador smiled for a second, pausing at the younger Kindred’s pensive visage. He was almost close enough to bite into him, to give into his own urges. And for a millisecond, Fortuna, Georg, and Denís all thought he would. But he stopped at stroking Etienne’s face with his index finger, and pulled away. “Show me,” he murmured, enraptured.

Etienne suppressed this shiver successfully. Presence too was a real bastard, and Melodious’ was probably stronger than Etienne’s. The man was a born seducer, and it took a good deal of willpower to turn supernatural attraction back into proper revulsion.

He slipped from the Elder’s embrace, keeping a faintly coy smile upon the mask his face was wearing, and made for the last painting. The largest of the four. “Given your current decorations, I think this one you could display proudly just about anywhere in this mighty hall of yours. Behold, Pink Peach Tree in blossom.”

He pulled the covering off with one final flourish to unveil the slender peach tree standing tall upon the hills. The leaves were various shades of green and yellow and pink, creating a cacophony of colour against the backdrop of the red cedar trees beginning to lose their leaves with a not-too-distant pond showing their mirrored reflection upon its surface.

“Well would you look at that,” Georg mumbled, as he filled the few split seconds of silence by eyeing the rest of the room. “We could have just put that up first and decorated the entire room around-GUH!”

Denís shoved him in the stomach, as if to make sure their lord did not hear the idea. But indeed, he did not, as he was marveling so much at the painting that he could not hear anything else.

“…I almost got married in the spring,” Melodious started, his eyes glimmering with joy as he seemed to become calm once more. “Yes, it was one of the happiest days of my life.” He wiped something from his eye, his non-beating heart still pulsing an illusion of a beat in his ears. “I remember. I remember how beautiful it was. The petals all spread around the churchyard, just like this. And this beautiful man, whoever he is. This unknown man. How does he know this feeling? Perhaps in another lifetime he experienced it. Perhaps in another lifetime, so did you. All of us! That is the sensation that travels with us from the other life to this one. Yes.” Upon closer inspection, the Ventrue could see that the tears were of blood.

“This is the only thing you will remember, Etienne. In two hundred years, this is the only thing that will remain. If you live long enough, you will understand. You will always need this feeling. Otherwise, your existence will become stale, and meaningless. Do you understand?”

Etienne thought of Sigrid. Of his mother. His sire. All of the relationships that had marked him and continued to mark him still. “I believe I do, your Lordship.” The Ventrue answered quietly.

“I take it then… my choices meet your approval?”

“Meet my approval?” Melodious gave a loud, jovial laugh. “My dear boy, they more than meet my approval! Say the price you want, and I shall pay post haste! Unless you are truly giving me these for free, which…given their price, their value, and my emotions, I would be quite surprised.” His smirk was understanding, knowing fully well how this game worked.

“I got these for a pittance, Lord Melodious.” Etienne admitted to him. ‘Our friend Vincent, as I said, is not especially popular. He's sold very, very few of his works at all and he's painted hundreds. Perhaps even thousands. They are my gift to you, freely given for the kindness you've shown me.”

Finally, the Toreador Elder had to give just slightly into his urges. Whether the Ventrue’s magnanimity had impressed him, or whether he was on a high from feeling an entire spectrum of emotions, he approached Etienne and pecked him on the cheek. “I thank you, then, dear,” he murmured, almost lovingly, leaning his tall figure close and tickling his ear with his long red hair. “And I’ll be sure to send a generous stipend to our dear artist-friend. In the meantime, I will take wonderful care of these paintings. But…”

He put a hand on the Ventrue’s shoulder, and Georg took a step forward. Fortuna stopped him, both for the sake of his own safety and for the sake of waiting to see how Etienne would respond.

“If you want me to speak to the Prince…I need you to take care of something for me. If you would continue to be so kind.”

Etienne grew hesitant now. He was well and truly in the jaws of the beast. He made his body language harden to show Melodious he knew just how dangerous a position this was for the young man. “And what might that be, my lord?” He asked, keeping his tone casual.

“You’ve been such a lamb for me, giving me these gifts. And I am so, so grateful. And now, I must have your services as a young…shall we say, detective. Hm? After all, we both appreciate and love the arts, and we both seem to understand just how valuable protecting that art is. I need you to find for me who has been inquiring after, and trying to take, my stained glass art.” Melodious’s tone was not low and dangerous toward the Ventrue himself, but toward the concept of the mission. “It is the last thing keeping me from being able to focus on seeing the Prince. I must have this thorn out of my side, as soon as possible. My dear Etienne, I am sure you can do this for me, can you not?”

He was hoping to avoid this particular thing. He could come up with a wild goose chase, of course. Or…

“I must confess my lord, but it was me.” He admits to the man. “Or rather, it was me through a middleman’s middle man. It was never intended to be a threat upon your treasures however, I was merely playing a hunch- to see how far you'd go for particularly unique and beautiful art. It helped me choose the gift for you, and really… Sometimes it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. I needed to be certain, and certain I became. If it eases your mind, perhaps I could bring you the head of the Kine in question. But I assure you, no threat to your collection was intended.”

Melodious raised his brows. He looked back at Georg and Fortuna, almost as if to ask if they had known. They did not move in the slightest. He turned back to Etienne, and blinked.

“…Is that correct? You are the Sieglinde König I heard about?” He was more stunned than angry, and listening curiously. Even Etoile had moved forward, her eyes baffled but hopeful.

“Well, I myself am not. But I am behind König. Their actions can be attributed to me, and thusly are my responsibility.” Etienne admitted, holding Melodious’ gaze in his own, he was confident in his actions.

“I hope I have not cost you too much sleep, my lord.” Etienne said apologetically. “But I learned much about what you valued in doing this. Hence…” He gestured to the paintings. “These.”

The Toreador had questions in his head. He certainly could see the many possibilities for who the true character might be. But at the same time, here was one of the players directly in front of him. And he had risked incredible anger, all to give him these glorious gifts. Melodious may have been a whirlwind and a monster, but he was not at all unintelligent.

“My darling Etienne.” A slow smile came to his face. “I must admit. When you become something far more than you are now, you will be a terror. You have indeed caused me many a sleepless day, but worse men have caused even more sleepless days. I might be…a little frazzled, my dear, but you have caused me so many emotions just in the last hour! Why, such is the experience of being a Toreador of my age. Some things simply drive you mad to discover. I could not possibly imagine the existence of a Malkavian in the same way.”

He shook his head at the thought. “But enough of that. I cannot remain enraged when your actions have brought me some of the finest art I’ve seen in years. If he has thousands of pieces, I want more. I would almost have him move into my home, but that could disturb the artistic process. You know how that is. A muse remains where a muse remains. I only hope that I have not frightened you any, have I?” He was not bashful, but he certainly played the doting lover well, whether or not Etienne reciprocated.

“Perhaps a little.” The Ventrue admitted. “I was prepared for it to come to swords if I had truly offended you. But alas, that is the risk one takes with playing a bold game rather than a safe one.”

“Indeed. I played worse games with my Sire. But we won’t go into details about those.” He nodded to Georg and Fortuna. “Hang this beautiful floral painting in the dining room. We will have wine to celebrate this beautiful artwork! And…”

He finally turned and saw her. Sweet Etoile, who was now unable to hide. Her eyes grew huge, but the Toreador’s gaze was strong enough to keep her from bolting. “Sweetheart? Did you want to come see the artwork as well? Come. See what gold has inspired me. Your own glittering visage may be a muse for such art yet.”

Nervously, she came forward. In a room still swimming with high emotions and danger, she moved with careful, ladylike steps. Her pretty blue eyes stayed down for a few seconds, but when she moved near Etienne, her eyes peered at his. Almost as if she was asking him for his permission.

A soft and careful nod is his response to Etoile. He would hide her in the shade of his wings if that was what she needed from him. Getting her closer was also for the best. He needed to be certain of her condition, Lord Valle was counting on this sort of information.

Etoile’s old wounds were healing. He could see the scars turning pink, ever so slowly, on the part of her shoulder that he could see. She did, however, have a set of bite-marks which were fresh and reddened. Perhaps a quick meal when her lord had awakened. When she saw his eyes looking at the wounds, she gave him a thoughtful glance, and then gazed at the paintings that were not being lifted off the floor. “The ‘Starry Night’…I can see why this one elicited such feelings from Lord Melodious,” she whispered, “it does look like a tearful view through a window.” She almost touched the painting, but instead settled for touching the frame. “But it is also a hopeful image, is it not?”

“I'm inclined to agree.” Etienne said with a soft nod before gesturing towards the paintings, “It's perhaps my second favourite piece amongst this burgeoning collection.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, he wanted a way to distract Melodious. To perhaps overwhelm him or otherwise ingratiate him to Etienne so that he might get Etoile alone.

“It rather reminds me of a song that a… well almost a Kindred friend of mine taught me during my brief stay in France before I came to England… Might the two of you be interested in hearing it?”

“Certainly! I did not know you could sing!” Melodious was immediately interested, and at the same time he ordered for the painting of the Postman to be put in the hallway near the entrance. At the same time, Etoile stood still and listened, not sure what would come next.

“I do not. Or rather, I do not with an incredible amount of skill. I play the piano.”

“There is a piano in the drawing room,” Etoile chimed in, looking around. She looked to her master and spoke softly. “May I show him to it?”

“Of course.” Melodious smiled at her, and at Etienne.

When she got his permission, she gently took the Ventrue’s hand and led him toward the drawing room. Just beyond the dining room, a different room for entertaining guests. Melodious stayed behind for just a few moments to direct traffic, and to make sure that nobody dropped the priceless paintings. Knowing that she had limited time for whatever he wanted, her footsteps had urgency, and her gold earrings swayed with her fast pace.

Finally in the drawing room, which had been decorated more sparsely with some smaller pink-and-gold bouquets, she turned to the young Ventrue. “You…need me for something, don’t you?” She was not at all accusing, but rather just knowing and quiet. All the while, she was listening for her master.

“I need you to tell me if he's hurt you beyond taking your blood.” Etienne said, his voice quiet yet urgent. “I may very well need you to show me. It may mean getting you alone tonight, in a matter that would seem like I am going to take advantage of you. I can assure you, that is the furthest thing from what is on my mind right now. I simply need proof that you have been abused as I suspect that you have been. If you have… It is my hope to deliver you from this place and into the care of someone else who will treat you better. I cannot promise you your old life. But escape? That I could grant.”

The woman listened, and then her eyes flickered around the room. She needed to think quickly to help him. “Very well,” she mumbled. Etoile thought for a moment longer, and then nodded. “Fortuna’s room. It is close to here.”

“It will be better if I ask him for you instead of sneaking around.” Etienne told her urgently. “He would not take kindly to the idea of me pulling you into a room for a romp or a snack without his permission. Let me play a few songs, lull him, so to speak. Think you could sit on the bench next to me? Look… Perhaps shyly attracted? It would help.”

She nodded, eager to follow his lead. “He is in a good mood. I have hope in that.”

“Me too. I dislike Toreador's when their mood sours. They get so pissy.” He hoped the sudden vulgarity would shock her into a soft laugh as they continued towards the drawing room..

She indeed gave a little laugh, and Melodious seemed to sweep behind them just as they made their way to the piano. He could not help but smirk. “You’re in a more romantic mood, then. Very well, the music should be much better. Please. Play me something to soothe my appetite, dear. And I’m sure sweet Etoile will enjoy it as well.”

“I have a weakness for hearing pretty women laugh. I've not been able to shake it, even after all these years.” He admitted with a boyish grin for both to see. He stepped into the drawing room and saw the instrument with which he would make his music. He seemed to fall in love, just a little as he gazed upon her beautifully varnished surface.

“Ah, ma chérie, j'ai traversé un océan de temps pour être avec toi.” He murmured sweet nothings in his mother tongue before he sat down at the bench and pulled the cover up over the keys. He gently teases sound from a few, listening for pitch and tune. Of course, the Toreador kept everything in perfect working order.

“Make yourselves comfortable, my friends.” Etienne advised. “This shall be lovely, I assure you.”

Etoile settled herself beside him, glad not only for the fact that his plan seemed to be working smoothly, but also for the fact that his presence beside her meant that Melodious would keep a few feet away. Indeed, he was glad to lean against the wall and listen. This was his own home, after all, and he was already enraptured, frustrated, and tickled by the young Ventrue all the same. Another Ghoul came and brought him wine without his spoken command, and he was ready to listen.

Etienne cleared his throat, a reflexive habit from his mortal days as a pianist for the church choir. Then… he began to play. The song is lovely, with trilling combinations of notes on his right hand and chords upon his left, set in a playful G Major. It sounds like walking along the bridge to an evening cafe, playfully teasing your lover. Buying her a coffee, dancing with her along the square. Maybe taking her to the fairground where you delight in the sights together.

The trilling and happy notes continue but the register goes lower… Perhaps a little slower. You're exploring romance under the stars, heads pushed together as you lay upon a grass knoll, telling one another of the constellations. Then you're kissing. Up on your feet again, skipping and chasing after one another. And then it ends, one catching the other in sweet embrace.

Etoile would have been lying if she had tried to say the song had not caught her solidly in her own chest. She listened, and she found herself searching for an experience she had not felt in some time. Crushes and lost, feathery loves, things her family had never allowed to last. She leaned her head on Etienne’s shoulder, almost trying to look closer to the keyboard to search for that feeling. And yet she also knew she had the act to keep, so she stayed there and looked as enchanted as her subtle, porcelain face would allow.

Melodious enjoyed the song as well, and he kept his eyes on the sweet gesture from his pretty Ghoul. The other Ghouls were still working on the paintings, and so the show was just for the three of them. He would have very much liked to have been in the position Etoile was in now, but he stopped himself. He had already put himself in a precarious situation twice. The evening needed to continue in this same smooth, soothing pattern, the way both Kindred needed. “Excellent! Please continue, dear!”

“What are we in the mood for?” He asked the pair, a genuine smile pulling at his features. He loved playing the piano for people. “A certain mood? A song? Come, come, do not be shy.”

“Something to match the beautiful golden art you’ve given me, of course!” The Toreador Elder suggested. “Something glittering and divine!”

“Or something from your own heart,” Etoile murmured, lower than Melodious could hear.
“A song that brings you joy. Something that reminds you of love.”

There was only one answer to any of that. Etienne huffed softly and set his fingers to the keys. He starts slowly, quietly playing a piece perhaps known to both: Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9, No. 2. The Ventrue never got the chance to tell her before his ascension to a member of the midnight aristocracy, but the Polishman’s stately waltz always reminded him of his mother. As she had a slow grace to her, so too did the song when performed under Etienne’s finger tips. The chords and occasional trills told a story of a woman far wiser than someone from such humble stock could ever have been otherwise.

A woman who would play and sing with her child upon the banks of the Saint Lawrence. Who taught him to always do something his best, and to never give up. As the chords became a little more grander, just as he had, his heart ached for her. For her knowledge. For what she might think of all that he has done. For the simple way she used to brush the unruly hair out of his eyes before telling him to go play or do his lessons.

It is as much a slow lament for what is lost as it is a joyful exaltation of a beautiful life. Perhaps it was not what the renowned Polish composer had intended when he dedicated his Nocturnes to the nearly equally famous pianist, Madame Marie Pleyel, but it's what the second of the three has come to mean to Etienne.

The music made for two very different images in the minds of the two primary listeners. Melodious almost frowned, caught in a faraway image of something somber in his own mind. Etoile closed her eyes and continued to lean on the Ventrue’s shoulder, her presence light enough to not hinder his playing. The pretty Ghoul specifically thought of her father calling to her in the rain, asking her where she had gone. She wondered if he was doing that now, if he thought of her at all. While a look of golden contentment slowly came back to Melodious’s face as Etienne finished his song, the Ghoul wiped her eyes and gave a soft smile up at the Ventrue.

Etienne took a moment and physically clutched his chest, smiling in a bittersweet fashion. “That one is… always hard for me. Even blunted as I am from my mortal experiences. My mother taught me to play, though she never got the chance to hear me play something like this.”

“Your mother would be proud.” Melodious murmured, wanting to preserve the quiet reverence of the moment. “You play with respect and with dignity, such is the best honor you could do onto her.”

In the meantime, Etoile beside him wiped another tear from her eye, as she sat more upright and gazed at him.

“And she seems to feel the same way, hm?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the Ventrue’s own. “And what would you play for me?” She asked in a whisper, keeping up the narrative.

“I know just the tune.” Etienne told her, lifting the hand from his chest to run a finger down her cheek. He set his hands back upon the keys and gave Melodious a silent wink.

No one who claimed to appreciate music could miss the opening chords to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor. They were supple sounds, tunes of gossamer thread. He played steadily, pulling his audience of two in, spinning them up into a web of song with his fingers and his presence alike.

Fantasia was moody. Deep. Passionate. It told of desires that one could drown in, the weight of love and attraction so heavy upon the chest that it almost became impossible to breathe. All while stealing you away into an impossible dream. Etienne played his part as the dreamer, showing ghoul and kindred alike a world that they could hardly have experienced before this moment; or so Etienne’s playing seemed to assure them.

Alas, as all good things must, Mozart’s masterpiece would come to a slow, crawling end: leaving the drawing room in utter silence for the span of three long heartbeats..

Melodious was impressed, not only by Etienne’s playing but by the seriousness on his face. He knew the weight was heavy, but the way he expressed it was with grace beyond his years. He kept a smile as he listened, almost forgetting where he was or that Georg was giving orders from a few yards away. All of that noise seemed to vanish in the dark, supple dance of Mozart’s masterpiece.

Etoile had been to many balls and dances herself, but she could not quite see herself dancing in such crystalline halls with this song in her mind. No, she was dancing in a garden, or a wild field, or some forbidden place with a forbidden lover. She kept her head upright and watched the young Ventrue’s face. He felt the keys, he felt their sound in their bones. He wanted to drown in love, in anything to make him feel safer in the shape he was in. But alas, most of the time he was too strong to drown. Her only response when he was done was to wrap a hand around his elbow and to gaze at him lovingly.

“I wonder how you were not made a Toreador,” the Toreador Elder mused behind them, “some poor fool missed their chance. And look how sweetly Etoile is watching you. Quite the gift she is making of herself, hm?”

The Ghoul never lost her poise, even with Melodious’s unsavory comments. She could not. Her mask could not slip, not yet. Instead, she made her smile clearer and sweeter, a message that she was ready to follow the younger Kindred’s next steps.

Etienne allowed himself a soft chuckle, a bit of genuine mirth showing through his mask. “Your words are kind, my lord but a poor excuse for a Toreador I would be. I only play the piano, I make no other arts despite my appreciation for them. I haven't even composed anything of my own.” He shook his head, causing the dark blonde locks upon it to shift. “No. I will leave the true artistry to the virtuosos. I was made to fight and to scheme and perhaps some day… to lead. Or do my Sire seemed to think.”

He looked up at the Toreador elder and gave a wan smile, “My lord, I hate to impose but I am feeling a little… stretched. A little weary. Do you think it would be appropriate for me to… to borrow your dear little gift for perhaps an hour?”

He gave Etoile a knowing look, “You wouldn't mind terribly either, would you?”

“Not at all,” came her soft reply.

Melodious almost wondered for a split second, as he had known she had been so hesitant some days ago. Etienne had also been worried for her. But he still summed it to perhaps the music bringing them closer together. And what the Ventrue seemed to want was something more agreeable, something less worrisome on his conscience. The Toreador could only shrug. “Excellent! I’ll go direct the Ghouls then, please. Have at her. I think we can both agree that she is delightful.” He winked, and marched toward Denís on the other side of the curtain.

Etienne waited a few long moments before he leaned in to murmur into the girl’s ear. If they were being observed, it would appear as though he was whispering sweet nothings into her ear. “Now is the time to show me where he's hurt you. You'll need to do it slowly, in case we are being observed. Can you make it look as though it's part of our dance we've been dancing this last little while?”

“I can.” She leaned in as Melodious left, pretending to kiss Etienne behind his ear. Her eyes shifted left and right, and she turned and let him see her already-scarred shoulder. “Undo the buttons on the back,” she whispered.

Etienne nods and does as he's instructed, his chilly fingers lingering upon the flesh of her shoulder. “Sorry.” He apologized for not having spent the vitae..

“Don’t worry about it,” she waved away, her eyes flicking around to make sure nobody was checking on them.

When he looked, he saw them. Long, thin claw-marks down her back. They looked somewhat fresh. She also had large purple bruises on her upper back, either like a heavy slap or a slam into some furniture. He could also see bruises along her hips, as he went further down.

“Do you want me to turn around?” she inquired after a moment.

“This is probably enough for my needs.” He admits to her. “The choice is yours however, if you feel there is more you need to show me.”

Etoile decided to not turn around. She was holding the dress up carefully, not wanting it to hit the floor. “He already was angry at me for getting the dress wrinkled earlier. I’m not sure what I did. Fortuna has bruises as well.” She paused for a second, letting him examine the marks for as long as he needed. “You play beautifully, Etienne. I’m not sure who you play for when you’re away from here…but they’re quite lucky to have you.”

Etienne sighed, trying not to let the emotion bubble up underneath his mask. To keep his composure. “Thank you. I am afraid I have to inflict one more indignity upon you… I will have to leave a mark of my own upon your neck. I will do my very best not to drink, but… we have to make this look proper. I promise you… it won't hurt.”

She nodded to him. “I won’t be angry if you do.”

“Well… I shall still endeavour to not to. Still, it is difficult to resist the call of the blood. Yours smells beautiful to me, even from here.”

He took a moment to steel himself before making eye contact with her, using Presence to relax her as much as he could before leaning in and biting into her neck with all of the gentleness he could manage. His fangs sank into her porcelain flesh and without meaning to he suckled faintly, taking in some of her noble blood. It was exactly as nourishing as he imagined it would be. Exactly as euphoric. Still, with thoughts of Sigrid freshly in his mind he found the strength to resist taking more than a sip. He retreats, gently running his tongue along her wounds to help close them in the way a careful eater does.

“Forgive me… That's always harder than it seems.” He murmurs apologetically, wiping the blood from his mouth.

She braced herself at first, given Etienne’s fair warning. But Presence was strong, and given what she had seen she trusted him. Even so, her body was new to Ghouldom, and she squeezed her eyes shut in the split second before his fangs found her neck. When he did bite, just faintly, she exhaled and knew it was almost done. Yet she could still feel something like comfort shoot into her chest. A quickening of her heartbeat, which she had forgotten to feel during the night. When she opened her eyes again, however, he was done and had closed the wound properly.

“There is no need to be forgiven. You’re trying to help me.” She caught her breath from the hint of the Kiss, and then leaned forward and whispered in Etienne’s ear. “The young vampire who was at the party you attended, the rumors about his death, they are true. Melodious killed him, drank his blood, and ate him. And he was not the only one he has eaten.” In case Melodious’s footsteps sounded, she leaned over and kissed his cheek to play along. “Do with that what you will.”

“You've been very helpful.” Etienne says, taking her hands in his own single one, patting fondly with the other. “I am going to do my very best to make certain you are well taken care of… As I said, knowing what you know you cannot really return to your old life. But I am certain I can arrange for something much better than this… Alas it is a poor reward, but it is the best I can offer you.”

Etoile continued to hold her dress up, this time over her elbows so as to hide her fair chest. But she looked mesmerizing to behold, even while pale, beaten, and sad. “…You mentioned your mother in the second song you played,” she whispered. “You should play it for her. When you are alone. When you are afraid. My mother may not have wanted me anymore, but yours is always with you.”

“I think my mother would be ashamed of some of the things I've done.” He tells her, leaving no uncertainty about how he feels about it. He reaches in behind her and helps her button her dress back up, so she doesn't have to hide from anything anymore.

“I’m sure she is proud of you for trying to save me.” She gave a small, reassuring smile as her dress settled back over her shoulders once more. “I hope you find success, and perhaps we will meet again.”

“I think we will.” Etienne said to her with a knowing nod. “You may be summoned to court to report what has happened to you. It's possible he may try to convince you not to tell your story… It's imperative that you do.”

He frowned and looked thoughtful. “I can… Try to imprint a compulsion upon you to speak the truth to those who might question you, if you think it would help.”

The woman looked at his hands as he drew them away from her dress. She pondered long and hard, wondering about the effects. She then shook her head. “No. I’m sure they can trace your power on me, if you do. And if I must stand before the Prince, I was in his possession before. He will be angry at Melodious. But I think I will do my best.” Her eyes glinted with quiet determination as her eyes met his once again.

He grunts, not having thought of that. “You're a clever girl.” He admits after a moment. “I could see someone petitioning to Embrace you at some point in your future. You'll have to play your cards cleverly if that's something you do not want.”

“I will. Simply…pray for me.” She did not admit to the weakness and fear in her heart, but the Ventrue believed in her enough to try and save her. She did not want to let him down. “Pray for me, that I will live and be well.”

“I can try.” He tells her hesitantly. “Though I am not certain that God wants to hear anything I have to say anymore.” He gets to his feet and offers her an arm to lean on. “Come. Let us go find our host. I should give him a few more hours of my time and attention. Tis only gentlemanly.”

[Luminesa]

Thomas Valle’s Confession
November 23rd, 1888, Night
Marianne’s Home, Docks, Undisclosed

The carriage needed to be plain, and the horses needed to remain in the darkness. They trod quietly, steadily, and without ceremony. Their speed, or any symbols on them, would have drawn attention. The night was calm, drizzling outdoors, and otherwise uneventful. Just the way Thomas Valle would have liked it.

“You do look lovely this evening, my Lord.” Ella perked from her position across from him, as she worked on some knitting. When she looked up, she could see the nerves behind his eyes.

“Thank you, Ella.” Her lord responded in his quiet, polite manner, before he pulled his pipe and started to smoke it. He did not like how often he had been smoking, due to his stress. He was not usually a man to feel negative stress.

“I’m sure she will be quite glad to see you.”

“Poor Marianne would be happy to see anyone at this current time.”

“Are you doubting yourself, my Lord?”

“No, no. Just…” He puffed the smoke, wiping it away from Ella’s face as he looked out the window. “Honest, hardworking women, even when they are grieving, are the most terrifying, in the mind of any man who has his senses about him.”

“And you do have your senses about you, my Lord.”

“I would certainly hope so.”

The wheels kept rolling, creaking and squeaking against the soft mud as the horses trot along.

“I do owe Saint-Francis a favor, whether or not this goes well.”

“Would you like for me to send him a message?”

“No, no, let’s let the night’s events happen as they may first. It will give me time to consider what sort of favor he might want.”

“The favor is dependent on him, my Lord.”

When Lord Valle looked at her again, she gave a cute, knowing smile.

“Are you suggesting something mischievous, my little hummingbird?”

“No, but I imagine Mr. Saint-Francis has mischievous intentions.”

“Of course he does, I remember being his age. I was an imp. You can be the occasional imp, too.” He wagged a finger at her, his spirits lifting just slightly.

“Well his favor may be mischievous! Perhaps not evil or dangerous, but quite devilish!”

“As I said, my dear girl, I am sure of that.”

In Marianne’s own residence, Innocence had fallen asleep in her crib. In the meantime, the infant’s mother had time to bathe, to dress herself, and to prepare tea or wine. After all, Thomas needed something as a refreshment that was not the most obvious solution, as the mortal Mage woman was the hostess. Then again, she also expected for him to act sophisticated and in control of himself.

At just about the scheduled time, she could hear horses trotting outside the door. She nodded to herself, and turned down the heat in the kitchen. After all, too big of a fire would frighten him even more. She herself was enough.

Out of the shadowy carriage, Thomas emerged, and Ella faithfully hopped to his side and opened her umbrella to keep the rain off his clothes. She had dressed well herself, in a pretty dress of petal-pink, with white baby’s breath woven into the brim of her hat. Meanwhile, her master wore a long coat over his clothes, and a Naval captain’s hat over his head, which dripped every now and again with the rainwater that Ella’s umbrella could not catch.

He knocked on the door, and she answered. Their eyes met, and they both stood still. In the light of her own home, she could see his full stature. Though not a Primogen, he carried himself with the fullness of stature and grace that came with being one. She, likewise, stood as calm and composed as ever.

“Lord Valle?”

“A good evening to you, Miss Marianne.” he responded in kind, tipping his hat to her.

She had to pause, as she looked him up and down without moving her head. “It’s been quite some time.”

“It has.” His smile took a more gracious form, as he settled into the moment of why he was here. He was before her, in the pouring rain, his heavy coat making him look like a spectre of the night before this brave woman.

Marianne turned from him, and then also acknowledged the sweet, short young woman beside him. “And good evening to you as well, dear.”

“Yes.” Lord Valle nodded to her, and motioned to the young Ghoul. “Miss Marianne, this is my servant, Ella. I hope you do not mind her presence with us this evening.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Marianne.” Ella gave a proper curtsy, all while still holding the umbrella.

“And a pleasure to you as well. Please, both of you, come in out of the rain.”

With the invitation given, they followed suit and entered.

“I have wine and tea, if you would like. You are welcome to…”

Ella helped her master out of his coat, and as Thomas turned back to face Marianne, he caught her staring at him, her sentence trailing away. Her eyes were wide with surprise, strong enough that she was unable to hide it.

“Thomas?” She used his real name, and no titles. “Are you in your dress blues?”

He was indeed wearing his naval uniform underneath his heavy wool coat. When he revealed it, he felt a silent breath escape his nose, and he did not answer her for a few moments as he saw her expression. “…Yes,” he finally answered, as he removed his hat in a swift, solemn sweep. “I have only ever given my best efforts to any mission I have encountered.” His words were serious, but their inflection suggested just the smallest flavor of humor. A gentleman’s subtle charm. He used no Presence, as he was sure that Marianne might even scold him for trying.

She herself was in a long, emerald-colored dress, modest but still elegant, with a high lacy collar and crisp bishop’s sleeves. Her hair was down, wavy and silver over her shoulders. The dress reflected the light of her eyes, and he could have sworn he had never seen anything so verdant in his life. Captured in this moment, he felt himself reminded of a concept he had not pondered in a very long time.

Mortality.

“Goodness, Thomas, one would have thought you were visiting the King at his palace.” She was not sure which tone was leaking from her mouth, either shock or amazement.

He had to release a chuckle at her shock, all while hiding his own awe at her appearance. “When I had discovered that you had accepted my invitation, Miss Marianne, I knew that I needed to dress properly for the occasion. I have met many royal dignitaries in my life, but none of them have mattered to me as much as you have mattered to me.”

She stepped toward him, but only after giving her brain a chance to catch his words. She then examined his naval uniform. Cinched waist, navy-blue, gold epaulets glimmering from the shoulders, shining black boots. and his hat was in his hand. “How long have you been attempting to see me?”

He considered her question seriously. “I remember when John first told me about you. About how you were so difficult to persuade, how intelligent and steady you were. He had never seen or met anyone like you, and honestly, neither had I.” He took a step forward, as Ella listened and wrung the rain from her umbrella. “But when you had become engaged, and then had married Jack Wilcox, I had to take a step back and merely admire the both of you from a distance.”

“So…you have been waiting for three decades for this day?” She cocked her head to the side, not sure what to think about that insinuation.

“No. I never actually thought this day would come. When you had chosen him, I knew better than to think further about the matter.” He paused as he looked away from her, and looked out the nearby window. “But you were a spectacular bride. One of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

“I had the dress somewhere in the old house,” she murmured, caught in the fog of recalling her wedding day now in a new light. “And he seemed to think he had won a game, not my undying love for him.”

“Hence why I wonder if you view my presence here as a curse, Miss Marianne.”

She did not answer for a minute or two. The rain continued to pour, and by now Ella had moved ever so slightly back to her master’s side. She did not directly interrupt him, however, as she knew that he and Marianne needed their space. “No. I do not see it as a curse.”

“That is a relief.” Something seemed to heave itself off the Ventrue’s shoulders, and he reminded himself that he was not mortal. He had nothing to fear, he told himself. Then again, none of Lord Burke’s lessons could have prepared him for the way his stomach was knotting in front of this woman.

“You are a peculiar man, Thomas.” Marianne quipped, as she watched his slight expressions. “You are almost old enough to remember the English Civil War, if what Jack had once told me was correct. But here you are, with all the nervous energy of a young sailor calling to his young sweetheart from the deck of his ship. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and I doubt I will ever see it again.”

“Perhaps you are correct, Miss Marianne.” Thomas could hardly bring himself to say anything else to such a statement. She was more than honest-she saw right through him.

Taking a breath he did not need, he looked at Ella, who was standing by the tea table, and then seemed to remember that he had technically come for dinner. “…But I would be incredibly rude to not take your offer for tea, before we speak any further.”

Marianne blinked, and her eyes moved down to his hands as he let hers go. “You have not been rude at all. Come, sit. Sit. You are my guest.”

Releasing himself from the tension he himself had made, Thomas Valle decided to sit at the tea table, giving a short grunt as he adjusted himself. Ella was about to hop to bring tea to both of them, but the older woman lifted a hand.

“Miss Marianne, do you not wish for me to serve you?” The young Ghoul looked concerned.

“My dear, you are also a guest.” The silver-haired woman gave the girl a kind smile. “Please sit, do not wear yourself out over me. How do you like your tea?”

Ella blinked with shock, and then looked back at her master. His eyes were still heavy and pensive, but when he saw the girl’s confused expression he gave her an encouraging nod.

“Tell her what you would like, my little hummingbird.”

The Ghoul turned back around, and she stammered her answer. “C-Cream and sugar, please. If you have those.”

“I do. I have some fresh cream that I got today, just for the occasion. Would you also like a sandwich? I made some to go with the tea.”

“Y-Yes, please!”

“Splendid, Ella. Do not be afraid to say ‘yes’. You are not in a prison.” Her master had to chuckle at his servant’s timidity. He then turned to Marianne, who brought tea for the girl first. “She is only about 23, Miss Marianne. A splendid little maid, but she is not always aware that she can request things for herself.”

“Always request things for yourself, my dear,” the older woman advised as she stirred the tea for the girl, “and learn to build it yourself if people refuse to give it to you. You are a strong girl to work in such a household, I have no doubt you can learn many more skills.”

“The quickest of all of my servants,” her master continued to praise.

Ella hardly knew what to say. As her eyes sparkled with emotion, she gave a meek smile back to Marianne, and then accepted her food.

The older woman turned away again to focus on the next drink. “How do you like your tea?”

“Sugar and lemon, please. Ginger, if you have any,” came his soft reply.

“I believe so.” She put together his drink, and watched him out the corner of her eye. He kept his hands in his lap as he examined the rest of the living room. He clearly had expected an escalation of events when he had stepped toward Marianne so quickly, and he was still surprised that he had the self-control to pull himself away from that cliff. “And your trip this evening was a safe one?”

“Yes. No problems there. The ride was so smooth, Ella spent her time sewing.”

“Excellent.” She brought him his cup of tea, and she watched how his gaze fell over hers. He did not look away when she approached. “And your business is going well?”

“It is. I would have brought a bottle of wine to share with you this evening, but alas, my mind was quite on other things.”

“Indeed.” She smiled and poured herself her own cup of tea.

“You’ve managed quite well in this home I see.”

“I have. I do not understand why people are afraid that I cannot handle myself.”

“I hardly think anyone believes that you are helpless, Miss Marianne,” Lord Valle corrected her, “if anything, anyone who knows you well enough would be worried that you work too much and too hard.”

“Nobody has tried to stop me, not yet,” she fired back, still even and polite.

“One day they will try.”

“Will you?”

Thomas cleared his throat as the tea went down, and he looked from Ella to the silver-haired woman who was watching him like a hawk. “I would have better luck stopping wild horses from trampling the countryside. To say that I might try is more of a courtesy, if nothing else.”

“A courtesy?” She raised a brow.

“Yes, a courtesy for a woman whom I still see with long brown hair, bright-green eyes, and boots which used to shake the docks outside of the shipyard.”

“And why do you think I would need that courtesy, Thomas?”

As this line of conversation continued, Lord Valle could see now, up-close-and-personal, why his dear friend had asked him for advice. And Jack Wilcox had not found himself befuddled by many things in his life, up to that point. He had to smile, otherwise he would be beside himself with something resembling terror.

“Because unlike me, Marianne,” he finally continued, “you can experience sickness, unwellness, weakness, and death. And while you are a capable Mage and can keep yourself in good health for…quite the substantial amount of time, even the most powerful God rested on the seventh day.”

“As a courtesy for all mankind.”

“Yes. Which includes you and I, even in my undeath.”

“What if I choose to rest on the eighth day? What if work must be done?”

“Then you can let me take care of it.”

His conviction was a little stronger than either of them had expected, and Marianne drew back just slightly. “…How so?”

“My dear woman, I was raised to chop logs and to carry water for people hunting and building all day, I ran away at 19 to be a sailor, and I refurbished the home I now own. And everything in-between. I have cared for much. And for those things, a fraction of what I would be willing to do for you.”

She continued to gaze at him, her eyes firm but thoughtful. The picture of him in her mind shifted more to match the image she saw before her, and she registered his words from behind her cup of hot tea. When she lowered her cup again, she gave a breath. “Thomas Valle, is this a proposal?”

Something like thunder filled the man’s bones. He was good enough at controlling his Beast by now, and knew it would not get away from him. But something between instinct and desire pushed him forward, and when she put her cup on the table, he took her hands in his. “If I may seem so untoward, I do apologize. But with the admiration I have had for you, I always feared that Jack would find some way to squander your goodness. He always loved you, I’m sure of it. But he never quite understood ‘love’ beyond his own selfish interpretation. And so his love for you never bloomed as it should have, and your Magic was squandered for decades. Now…”

He turned his eyes up and looked around her home. At the beautiful foliage and plants she had nurtured with her own hands. He then turned his eyes back down and looked at her hands. At the ugly scars on her left hand, which had never quite healed. He leaned down and kissed it. “Your incredible Magic has bloomed, and it is because you have finally come to understand your worth.”

Marianne shuddered as the man took her hands, and even more when he kissed her scars. Sensitive to the power of Life in herself and another being, she could tell that he had expended Vitae to not feel so cold. Yet she could feel no pulse in his hands, and his kiss was ghostlike and gentle, as if he might vanish if his lips pressed too hard against her hand. She waited for him to straighten himself, and quickly drew herself together. “I never lost sight of what I was worth, Thomas. I simply recognized what my husband had not seen. That I was a faithful woman, and that I would have loved him until I died.”

“How many men recognize such a love before it is too late?” Valle inquired.

“Not many,” the silver-haired woman admitted. “…I only loved one man.”

“I know.” He continued to hold both of her hands, and he knelt on one knee before her. Ella kept his cap in her lap. “And you are not a woman for fancy words or promises above my standing. And knowing fully that you have no need for me, I still desire to give you my home. My home, and my utmost devotion.”

Here was Thomas Valle, kneeling before her in his naval uniform, his voice as somber and heartfelt as any man going away to war. Except his war was here, and this war was less of a war and more of a waltz. One would pull the other to them, or they would pull away and not return here again. Nobody would die, and perhaps that made the moment all the more delicate. Marianne had hardly believed what she had been seeing and hearing before, and now she was unable to keep that emotion from her face. “And you…do not fear losing me, if I keep my humanity?”

“For however many years you live, my dear Marianne, I will watch the flame of your salvation as closely as I would watch the hearth in my own home. I will protect you, lay you to rest among the flowers of our garden, and offer Masses for you until the Lord asks of my own life.”

Lord Valle reached forward and held her cheek, as she struggled to find the words for his response. The rain filled their silence, and the silver-haired woman could feel her heart about to beat through her chest. She had never quite found herself unable to answer to someone, and her inability to think of an action to fill the space was further proof that she was truly vulnerable.

“I cannot endure what I endured with John again.”

“If I ever did what he did to you, Marianne, I would walk into sunlight and there would be no more word of it.” Thomas spoke without a hint of humor.

After a minute longer, Marianne took to her feet, and Thomas Valle followed her. When he saw her eyes longing for…something, he came closer. He leaned over just a little closer, until their noses touched.

“I love you, Marianne.”

He murmured the words, and she swallowed hard. Sensibility usually won, but today she wondered if she wanted sensibility more than she wanted to be loved. Her usual compass was cracked, or perhaps it had pointed her in a direction she was not expecting. Either way, when he leaned down to kiss her, she closed her eyes and reciprocated. Her hands were shaking, and tears fell down her cheeks.

“There’s no shame in crying. Cry if you must. Whatever you feel.”

She had no words to express all of the things she was feeling. All of the things she had felt. She was confused, but her heart tugged hard toward this man, and she felt she would be foolish no matter what choice she made. But for once, maybe she could allow herself to be foolish. She embraced him, and he embraced her. The rain enveloped them both from outside the room, and let them ponder their soft future between each other’s arms.

[Luminesa]

Without a Shadow of a Doubt
November 24th/25th, 1888, Twilight
Saint-Francis Residence, London

The ceiling was bright, almost too bright for a mortal, and never mind a Promethean. It almost was brighter than the ballroom at the Savoy, and then decked with so many crystals and paintings. When she looked down, she could see shadows. The shadows of items being moved around corridors, of curtains being shifted and moved, and of someone at the piano. The music sounded muffled, but she could feel all of the emotions in the room. Pain, loss, fear, catharsis, tension, wicked desire, and longing, a tumbling ocean of sensations that never stopped.

Then the tallest individual, the one with flaming red hair, shifted out of view. When he did, the two shorter beings stood, with one checking the scars on the other’s back. Horrid, awful marks, almost bright-glowing red.

Hanael was right. She could see.

When she awakened the next morning, and rolled out of her bed, the dreams were still fresh. In fact, they were so fresh that she knew they could not simply be dreams.

“You could smell the smoke when Jack Wilcox died, could you not?”

“Yes, but…the feeling is stronger now.” Sigrid went up to her own room and examined the dress on the mannequin, almost as though she had never left the room. She was up earlier than Porter, earlier than the coffee he usually put on the stove. Once she had realized what she had seen, her body was electric. “Why are my powers getting stronger if I am supposed to be becoming more human?”

“Because progress is not a linear formula, dear,” the Angel reminded her, “and I am regaining my strength. Slowly, but surely.”

The Promethean woman was not sure how to feel about that statement. The Angel was healing, and she was supposed to be healing. But what that meant for the fragile balance that was her own existence, she was not sure.

“Am I becoming less of myself, Hanael?”

She felt a soft breeze, and her senses told her to look toward the wall. She could see a shadow of her Angel shaking her head. “That is entirely up to you.”

“But if you are getting stronger, won’t you one day simply go back to Heaven?” Sigrid felt some fear in her voice, as she was pulled from examining the organza of her dress. Her words shivered on her lips. “What will happen to me? What…what will happen to you?”

“I will always be bound to you. We are part of the same ‘person’. ‘Space’ and ‘being’ are not the same for me as they are for you. It is part of the reason why you can see what I see, and I can see what you see, but we are not separated. I cannot separate from you. Unless…”

“Unless?…Oh!”

Sigrid turned around again, and now, she saw Hanael once again in the flesh. She jumped back in a shock. Since she had not seen her in almost a month, and only that one time, she had to remind herself that she was not looking at a clone of herself.

What helped her to understand was the appearance of the Angel as she approached her. Unlike the first time, she looked much more tired, with lines under her eyes. Her hair was down, draped elegantly over her shoulders, and her long, empire-style dress was silver instead of ivory. She reached for the Promethean woman’s cheek, and smiled warmly. “Unless you regain your humanity.”

The woman caught her breath, listening to the sweet, uncanny voice that reminded her of what Etienne wanted from her. For her to have her freedom. For her to live as a human. It was the better choice, from a rational standpoint, not just for her but for the Angel.

“Are you recalling more of your memories? Of your family? Of who you loved, of who you were before you died?”

Sigrid nodded, and she felt her eyes watering. They were like jars, already waiting to spill over the brim.

“That is your humanity, sweet Sigrid. And why would you give those away again? A chance to know yourself, to be yourself fully? That is what memories are. They are your humanity. They connect you to the space around you, to others, to your emotions and why you keep them so close to your heart.”

“But I don’t want to give those away. I never said I wanted that. I want to remember, and to have a family. I want to live fully, my own spirit and body and soul,” the woman protested softly.

“And what is this?” Hanael walked, or moreso glided, to the dress on the mannequin. She ran her long, translucent fingers along the fabric, and gazed at it with wonder. “It is not a wedding dress, is it?”

Sigrid shook her head, still holding her tears. “I wanted to recapture…to recapture the joy of being me, before I died. The joy of…what I had felt in that ballroom.”

The Angel seemed to know that she had more to say, and she tilted her head quizzically as she waited.

“And…I felt that, when Etienne and I went dancing in the Savoy. I felt that, if only for a few minutes. I felt at peace, away from everything for the first time in…an amount of time I can’t even put into words.” The tears started to fall, and she wiped them as quickly as they appeared. “It doesn’t make sense. Do…do you feel what I feel, when I’m in those moments? When I’ve almost grasped it, but I’m not quite there? When…when I’m in love, and I don’t want to let go?”

Hanael watched her as the tears fell down, and she continued to stroke the dress that was her creation. The last time she had spoken like this to either her or her partner, it had not ended as she had intended, and so she let her cry for a few moments. “No, I don’t feel your attraction. As I said, I am my own being. But I feel your care. The care that is a part of you. And I feel your hurts. When your soul is healing, so is mine. When your soul is broken, so is mine. It is part of this strange process we are in.”

“I don’t want to lose it, Hanael,” Sigrid pleaded, “And…Vasily, and Tabitha, and Myra, Marianne, and Wayland…I don’t want to lose them either! Especially not dear Tabitha! Why must I lose one world to gain another? Why? Why can my puzzle not have a cruel solution?”

Hanael gazed at her for a moment longer, and then moved back toward her. She gently took her charge in her arms, and folded her wings around her back. She then rocked her for a few moments, her own gold eyes closed.

“Wear your dress. Wear it, and see what you feel when he sees you.”

“I can’t! He’ll think it’s for a wedding!” She whispered into the Angel’s shoulder, which felt oddly warm and almost fluid-like. “And then he’ll have me leave…I can’t.”

“Finish it, and wear it. Let grace answer your frightened questions. Tell him what it is. What is on your heart. What you have come to understand. Let yourself heal. Do not let your perception of what he fears keep you from healing. Do you know the future?”

Sigrid lifted her head and stared at her.

“Then let time heal your wounds. You have a mighty struggle left to go.”

The woman paused, gritting her teeth behind her pursed lips before taking a sharp breath. “…To be honest, Hanael, I’m tired of struggling. I want to simply have, to simply be, to be happy. And what will that look like? What will that be, if not here? If not with the people who have helped me to heal? Will I be tossed at sea again to understand? Would Wayland know?”

“Perhaps. It’s been some time since you’ve seen him.”

“…Then maybe I will question him. Maybe he will know.”

“Good. So now you have goals in front of you. Finish the dress, go teach Tabitha, and go talk to Wayland.”

Hanael gave her an encouraging smile, but Sigrid did not smile back. She instead nodded, keeping a soldier’s brave face. She would, not just for Etienne, but for herself. She knew what a Promethean’s fate was, but something in her nature told her that there had to be a way. Maybe not anything written in Wayland’s books, or maybe so. But to hope against hope, she would push the sea of terror that rose against her once again.

And as the Angel would stand and watch over her for the next couple of hours, as the sun rose, she would push against that terror with a single sewing needle.