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A Beastly Affair (pt. 1)
a collab between @Kuno | @Red Thunder
The paltry lies Kindred told themselves to maintain some flimsy sense of humanity numbered amongst the millions of stars dotting the bleak, unpolluted sky. Their very appearance was a sham: a deadened husk of what they once were, a human skin worn to mask the monster that thrived within. Where was the humanity in bared fangs and granite skin? Where lay the beating heart's love for fellow man in the tearing of flesh for blood? There was none. The only separation between men and animals was the mind. The mind and its tenets: cognitive thought. Civility. A conscience. Emotions.
And what emotions did the Dame de la Sorcellerie feel now that she was alone with her thoughts?
Amélie did not look any more inhuman than she did standing there in the hallway mirror, the glow from the kitchen lights carving out her intently dour traits. Her pupils had rescinded back to their natural size; they stared, a bleak and darkened grey, back at the humanoid prop reflected through the mirror. Her movements resembled that of a doll: stiffly, her fingers curled about the chain link, bone carving necklace, and as the abnormality at her neck caught the barest rays of light from the hall, her eyes rose once more, empty.
Vitae had given her mind the clarity it sorely needed. No longer did the needling and mewling of hunger obstruct her focus. Time, for once, was on her side: with her blood having been restored and her guests having been attended to with needed clothes, the Tremere was left finally to complete her more monstrous affairs. And there was to be no dilly-dallying. After all, she strove to be a good hostess, and let it never be said she conducted her business amidst good company.
And so, Amélie and the reflection parted.
First there'd been the mess in her home to mind. She had indeed set the laundry to soak - the call to feed had been trumped by her own violent distaste of unfinished work, and she had not been able to drink a drop before setting aside her tub and washboard. Old habits before new; first a good soak and scrub for the soiled clothes, then a proper spin in the machines. She didn't trust the machine's efficiency at drawing out blood.
The next link in the chain required more than one habitual breath to fortify her nerves. There were any number of ways her following mission could end. The urge to sweep the entire matter under the rug was palpable; but she was who she was, and to be quite honest...
Well. As it was said. She did have a violent distaste of unfinished work.
Perhaps it was hubris to relegate Sigurd Erickson as a mere task. Business was more suitable, though that, too, carried the connotation that there'd be a continuation of the mission she'd set herself upon. There was no longevity for it. She would not allow it.
In the corner of her stately living room sat yet another aged edition to her estate: a high-backed, white leather armchair. Positioned next to it was a small, waist-high glass stand, and upon it lay a pearl white rotary dial phone.
Amélie set the logs in the fireplace aflame. The flames painted her skin in hues of orange and red as she turned the dial on the phone round and round, claws tapping against the metal as she settled slowly into the plush chair. She pressed the receiver against her ear and waited.
It rang. Once. Twice. Thrice. Finally- click. A voice like a bassoon answered.
"Mr. Erickson is not taking clients at this time. How may I direct your call?"
There was nothing in that voice: neither anger nor professionalism, nor impatience nor eagerness. It was utterly devoid, and one had the distinct impression of possibly falling into it.
Amélie stared ahead unblinking.
"Good evening. Please inform Mr. Erickson that this is Madame Amélie calling in regards to our earlier engagement. There have been developments made requiring his immediate attentions."
"Madame."
The voice echoed in the earpiece as the phone line clicked once more. There was no wait. Half a moment later, the familiar Scandinavian accent began to speak.
"Good evening, Amélie."
"Hello, Sigurd. Thank you for taking my call."
Where only hours earlier the same greeting had carried a distinct vein of anger and disdain, here only a simple respect was conveyed. Amélie straightened, her legs crossing and her head affixed to its position, as if the man was sitting across from her.
"This won't take long. Given your request earlier, I thought it best to keep you aware of what grounds I'm covering as I pursue Washburn's, mm, assignment. I am not yet familiar with…this city, so I am looking for some assistance. I've been directed to find Fannin and Gray. Are you familiar with these peoples?"
She paused. She was reminded rather abruptly of Isabel's and Wesley's ignorance of the names, and as the thought came and went, she tacked on, "Or am I to be looking for a building instead?"
"Mm," he hummed in reply, apparently pensive. "The name 'Fannin' is of historical significance to Texas, relating back to their war against Mexico in the early 19th century; he was one of their commanders. 'Gray', similarly, was the name of one of Houston's first District Attorneys. Both names of authority and influence a century and a half ago, but not in the current state of affairs.
"But places are often given historical figures' names. 'Fannin and Gray' are street names; it is likely your- contact was referring to an intersection."
"I see."
She distinctly remembered asking that useless old tramp who he was working for. Begrudgingly, she supposed it was a miracle that in his inebriated state he'd been able to be any sort of help at all. There was the scratch of pen on paper as Amélie made a note of it on the writing pad besides the phone.
"Thank you. Oh, and one last thing," She remarked, as if another thought had suddenly come to her. "You told me before that you are to support the lower levels of the Pyramid so that the top may find stability, yes? Is that correct?"
There was a brief huff of air into the receiver that might have been a restrained chuckle.
"I did, for if the foundation of a thing loses its integrity, how then should the pinnacle remain unaffected? To say nothing of the … levels in between." The phone fell silent. It was longer than might have been expected, and even as Amélie opened her mouth to fill the gap, Sigurd spoke again. "Our relationship is reciprocal, bear in mind. Now: what is it you want?"
"Very well. I won't waste either of our time with idle talk."
Much like her personality, the smile on her face was caustic.
"Reparations are what I want, Sigurd. For what I've deemed an egregious offense. On your orders, your lackeys breached my home and violated my person in a manner - to be quite frank - more akin to a hated enemy than a member of my own clan. I admit that perhaps it was my own lax attitude toward home security in my time living in Houston that has led to this unfortunate affair, but alas - I assumed one would want little to do with one so low on the totem pole as I am."
She waved her hand impatiently at her own tangent. Despite her request, Amélie maintained the same poise, the same grace as before. Even her tone remained subdued, though an edge had formed along her pointed words, quick and sleek as a dagger.
"I've tried and failed to understand the rationale behind it. It frankly makes no difference if I did understand. What matters is two ghouls are traipsing around with my blood and this...can not stand.
"I will take only what's been stolen from me. Blood for blood. And a humiliation of the same tier."
Hitherto, pleasant formality, such as one might retain while exchanging pleasantries with an elected official, had been the order of the conversation. It was, after all, appropriate: in a world of life and death politics between inhuman monsters who wished for nothing better than to rip the throats from any and all who might stand in their way, formality was the means by which you survived. You gave obeisance to those with greater power, political and physical, and you gave measured respect (if begrudgingly) to those beneath your own station. It was a thin veil, a fragile sheen of ice that, when broken, risked causing the fracture or even annihilation of everything you had ever built or sustained. Including one's Unlife.
"Perhaps," the Regent began, enunciating each syllable in a deliberate, excruciatingly slow manner, "you merely wish an answer, an explanation, as to my actions. For I cannot guess you would so risk alienating me in a vain effort to appease a misguided sense of vengeance. Particularly after I just assisted you."
There was obvious restraint in his voice, each word carefully chosen before being said. And they were cold, those words: detached and hateful. They dug into the ear like so many shards of ice, waiting only to be pressed further in.
"Or perhaps I misunderstand. Be so kind as to clarify for me, Ms. Dupuis."
It was not a request.
a collab between @Kuno | @Red Thunder
The paltry lies Kindred told themselves to maintain some flimsy sense of humanity numbered amongst the millions of stars dotting the bleak, unpolluted sky. Their very appearance was a sham: a deadened husk of what they once were, a human skin worn to mask the monster that thrived within. Where was the humanity in bared fangs and granite skin? Where lay the beating heart's love for fellow man in the tearing of flesh for blood? There was none. The only separation between men and animals was the mind. The mind and its tenets: cognitive thought. Civility. A conscience. Emotions.
And what emotions did the Dame de la Sorcellerie feel now that she was alone with her thoughts?
Amélie did not look any more inhuman than she did standing there in the hallway mirror, the glow from the kitchen lights carving out her intently dour traits. Her pupils had rescinded back to their natural size; they stared, a bleak and darkened grey, back at the humanoid prop reflected through the mirror. Her movements resembled that of a doll: stiffly, her fingers curled about the chain link, bone carving necklace, and as the abnormality at her neck caught the barest rays of light from the hall, her eyes rose once more, empty.
Vitae had given her mind the clarity it sorely needed. No longer did the needling and mewling of hunger obstruct her focus. Time, for once, was on her side: with her blood having been restored and her guests having been attended to with needed clothes, the Tremere was left finally to complete her more monstrous affairs. And there was to be no dilly-dallying. After all, she strove to be a good hostess, and let it never be said she conducted her business amidst good company.
And so, Amélie and the reflection parted.
First there'd been the mess in her home to mind. She had indeed set the laundry to soak - the call to feed had been trumped by her own violent distaste of unfinished work, and she had not been able to drink a drop before setting aside her tub and washboard. Old habits before new; first a good soak and scrub for the soiled clothes, then a proper spin in the machines. She didn't trust the machine's efficiency at drawing out blood.
The next link in the chain required more than one habitual breath to fortify her nerves. There were any number of ways her following mission could end. The urge to sweep the entire matter under the rug was palpable; but she was who she was, and to be quite honest...
Well. As it was said. She did have a violent distaste of unfinished work.
Perhaps it was hubris to relegate Sigurd Erickson as a mere task. Business was more suitable, though that, too, carried the connotation that there'd be a continuation of the mission she'd set herself upon. There was no longevity for it. She would not allow it.
In the corner of her stately living room sat yet another aged edition to her estate: a high-backed, white leather armchair. Positioned next to it was a small, waist-high glass stand, and upon it lay a pearl white rotary dial phone.
Amélie set the logs in the fireplace aflame. The flames painted her skin in hues of orange and red as she turned the dial on the phone round and round, claws tapping against the metal as she settled slowly into the plush chair. She pressed the receiver against her ear and waited.
It rang. Once. Twice. Thrice. Finally- click. A voice like a bassoon answered.
"Mr. Erickson is not taking clients at this time. How may I direct your call?"
There was nothing in that voice: neither anger nor professionalism, nor impatience nor eagerness. It was utterly devoid, and one had the distinct impression of possibly falling into it.
Amélie stared ahead unblinking.
"Good evening. Please inform Mr. Erickson that this is Madame Amélie calling in regards to our earlier engagement. There have been developments made requiring his immediate attentions."
"Madame."
The voice echoed in the earpiece as the phone line clicked once more. There was no wait. Half a moment later, the familiar Scandinavian accent began to speak.
"Good evening, Amélie."
"Hello, Sigurd. Thank you for taking my call."
Where only hours earlier the same greeting had carried a distinct vein of anger and disdain, here only a simple respect was conveyed. Amélie straightened, her legs crossing and her head affixed to its position, as if the man was sitting across from her.
"This won't take long. Given your request earlier, I thought it best to keep you aware of what grounds I'm covering as I pursue Washburn's, mm, assignment. I am not yet familiar with…this city, so I am looking for some assistance. I've been directed to find Fannin and Gray. Are you familiar with these peoples?"
She paused. She was reminded rather abruptly of Isabel's and Wesley's ignorance of the names, and as the thought came and went, she tacked on, "Or am I to be looking for a building instead?"
"Mm," he hummed in reply, apparently pensive. "The name 'Fannin' is of historical significance to Texas, relating back to their war against Mexico in the early 19th century; he was one of their commanders. 'Gray', similarly, was the name of one of Houston's first District Attorneys. Both names of authority and influence a century and a half ago, but not in the current state of affairs.
"But places are often given historical figures' names. 'Fannin and Gray' are street names; it is likely your- contact was referring to an intersection."
"I see."
She distinctly remembered asking that useless old tramp who he was working for. Begrudgingly, she supposed it was a miracle that in his inebriated state he'd been able to be any sort of help at all. There was the scratch of pen on paper as Amélie made a note of it on the writing pad besides the phone.
"Thank you. Oh, and one last thing," She remarked, as if another thought had suddenly come to her. "You told me before that you are to support the lower levels of the Pyramid so that the top may find stability, yes? Is that correct?"
There was a brief huff of air into the receiver that might have been a restrained chuckle.
"I did, for if the foundation of a thing loses its integrity, how then should the pinnacle remain unaffected? To say nothing of the … levels in between." The phone fell silent. It was longer than might have been expected, and even as Amélie opened her mouth to fill the gap, Sigurd spoke again. "Our relationship is reciprocal, bear in mind. Now: what is it you want?"
"Very well. I won't waste either of our time with idle talk."
Much like her personality, the smile on her face was caustic.
"Reparations are what I want, Sigurd. For what I've deemed an egregious offense. On your orders, your lackeys breached my home and violated my person in a manner - to be quite frank - more akin to a hated enemy than a member of my own clan. I admit that perhaps it was my own lax attitude toward home security in my time living in Houston that has led to this unfortunate affair, but alas - I assumed one would want little to do with one so low on the totem pole as I am."
She waved her hand impatiently at her own tangent. Despite her request, Amélie maintained the same poise, the same grace as before. Even her tone remained subdued, though an edge had formed along her pointed words, quick and sleek as a dagger.
"I've tried and failed to understand the rationale behind it. It frankly makes no difference if I did understand. What matters is two ghouls are traipsing around with my blood and this...can not stand.
"I will take only what's been stolen from me. Blood for blood. And a humiliation of the same tier."
Hitherto, pleasant formality, such as one might retain while exchanging pleasantries with an elected official, had been the order of the conversation. It was, after all, appropriate: in a world of life and death politics between inhuman monsters who wished for nothing better than to rip the throats from any and all who might stand in their way, formality was the means by which you survived. You gave obeisance to those with greater power, political and physical, and you gave measured respect (if begrudgingly) to those beneath your own station. It was a thin veil, a fragile sheen of ice that, when broken, risked causing the fracture or even annihilation of everything you had ever built or sustained. Including one's Unlife.
"Perhaps," the Regent began, enunciating each syllable in a deliberate, excruciatingly slow manner, "you merely wish an answer, an explanation, as to my actions. For I cannot guess you would so risk alienating me in a vain effort to appease a misguided sense of vengeance. Particularly after I just assisted you."
There was obvious restraint in his voice, each word carefully chosen before being said. And they were cold, those words: detached and hateful. They dug into the ear like so many shards of ice, waiting only to be pressed further in.
"Or perhaps I misunderstand. Be so kind as to clarify for me, Ms. Dupuis."
It was not a request.