lcblanc

[lcblanc]

She hums, taking in the man before her, a sly grin on her lips as she moves her glass up to her lips. "I've been told you were a hunter." She murmurs back, a studying look in her eyes. There's something inside her, that prompts her to reach out into his chest, pierce through skin and bones and rip out a heart that's no longer beating. It'd be too easy, but entirely too messy for the evening.

"But yes, I am." Art had been one of the only constants in her life in all the nine hundred years and so she's been living. "I've opened many galleries through the years... opened one here recently, actually, sure you heard of it." A smirk on her lips as she finally took a sip of her wine.

It's a bit odd to shift allegiances from one extreme to another - if one could call Pretorius extreme, or if one could call his shift an allegiance. Much like his time in the Brotherhood, he's unsure if he'll start to feel an affection for whatever this clan holds for him. There's an eternity ahead of him to figure out what sort of thing he wants to be, though.

Part of figuring it out is being introduced to others within the clan who may have experiences to share, and now here with Narcisse, he finds that he's unsure if he wants to have these conversations. "I've been told you're an artist." He begins, feeling as though it might be better to start with common ground first. / @lcblanc

[lcblanc]

The voice was unexpected as it was unfamiliar, but Narcisse welcomed the interruption to a rather boring conversation. She barely excused herself with a well practiced smile, charming and friendly with a promise to reencounter that she didn't plan on fulfilling, and turned to the boy with an amused expression, eyebrow up and smile still on her lips.

"Everett Roy... have you not been taught it is rude to interrupt a conversation?." She asked teasingly, letting her eyes run up and down the boy with an appreciative hum for his style.

Looking back up, she let her smile grow on her face, taking a step closer to the boy. She needn't no introduction, that much was clear and the nervous edge to his voice spoke of how much he had waited for this. "An art student..." And a witch, if her nose didn't fail her, she could feel the light floral scent caressing her gently. "Well I can't say you're not bold or ambitious." And as she looked him over once more, there was the slight feeling of recognition washing over him

"I believe I've heard your name elsewhere." She commented lightly, inspecting the boy as her memory worked to make the connections. "Chicago, perhaps?."

Closed Starter for @lcblanc

Where: The Conclave

During his first few weeks at the Art Institute, Everett had used his uncanny ability to stay out of the way and under the radar to his advantage. He had spent as much time as he could during pre visit hours studying in different parts of the galleries. He had particularly liked the prints and drawings archive section. When his early morning habits had first been discovered by one of the archivists, she had indulged him. Allowed him, with the proper handling, to work and admire certain pieces that the other first years weren’t allowed to handle.

While she indulged him in all his hyper-fixations and questions, he had always particularly liked spending time with the Roy Lichtenstein collection.

Everett had of course been familiar with the artist, the Museum of Arts of Port Leiry had always featured Brushstrokes on its lawn. But, from studying the touring catalogue the Art Institute kept in order to know who to reach out to for certain shows, he knew the museum of his home town had a far more extensive collection. And while a high schooler could never dream of approaching the Director of a museum to look at her archives, Everett Roy wasn’t a little boy anymore.

So when his eye snagged on the impeccably dressed Narcisse Le Blanc, as he and Sammy made their entrance into the Conclave Gala, he knew his good friend wouldn’t mind if he excused himself for some networking.

“Mrs. Le Blanc,” he waited for a moment where she wasn’t occupied to introduce himself, with a reverent incline of his head and a hand out in greeting, “my name is Everett Roy. It is so nice to meet you.” He had networked before in the art world but the woman before him held an air of class and standard that pulled that little nervous smile forward on Everett’s lips. “I’m an art student ma’am, and if you aren’t busy I’d love to talk to you for a secound about maybe coming and touring the archives of your museum.” He just hoped he didn’t look as green behind the ears as he felt.

[lcblanc]

For: @ofaugury Where: The Gala

Having attended few of these in her long life, even Narcisse could admit that there were some interesting faces in this year's Gala. Perhaps it was the... most intriguing additions to her clan or the welcomed presence of some more wonderful witches. Perhaps it was the way her wife's eyes had looked before they arrive, burning with the intense determination she's known her to have for years. Narcisse did love seeing Aoife being so quietly intense. But for now, she delighted in the sight that was her friend, with a flirty smile on her lips barely hidden behind the rim of her glass, the complex scent of the red wine mixing deliciously with the flowery scent of magic reaching her nostrils. "Don't you look ravishing tonight, my chér."

[lcblanc]

For: @photoaria Where: The Gala

Her wife was already doing what she does best, waving her connections and working the place to better benefit her. Narcisse had no doubt Aoife would do splendid in the meeting, with teeth sharp enough to take off the head of whoever challenged her. She wasn't worried, and she wasn't offended, as she was left to do her own work. With so many new faces, there were many new minds to pick, but for now, she settled on someone known, strangely so with a face so... familiar. "Looking for your inspirating still, dear? In a ballroom such as this, so full of new faces, new cultures, new mindsets." She murmured close to the young vampire, letting her eyes roam around the room and take in the many factions. Some faces she remembered from the last few galas thrown by The Conclave that she had attended, others were entirely new. "Has anything caught your attention?."

[lcblanc]

Narcisse Le Blanc at The Conclave Gala

Arriving hand in hand with her wife @hollowhearts-aoife, Narcisse hopes to make amends for the way their last night at an event ended. Showing nothing but support for all the work and effort her wife has put to reach where she is right now. She also attends as a member of Clan Pretorius, supporting just as well their representative Laure Stephen @laurestcphens

[lcblanc]

Child. It is almost laughable, the very idea of it. Narcisse has long since grown past that age, hasn't been a child in many centuries. It makes her wonder what Desdemona sees when she looks at her, perhaps the little girl too challenging to be a proper lady, but too cunning not to act the part. A perfect pupil for someone like the former witch, she presumes. Holding onto her skirts with hands that almost trembled from the despair born from the knowledge of a certain future in a marriage she didn't want. Narcisse didn't welcome the reminder, but Desdemona always came with a load of them.

"Well she didn't quite listened to you, did she? ---as I was still set to marry him and everything was still in motion by the time you parted... is how I became this, was it not? To get away from it all." Her mother... she cared for nothing else but a crown that was never going to be hers. She rolls her eyes again, turning back to the painting, arms still crossed, irritation breaking through the cracks of her perfectly composed appearance. Her mother and sister had a way of getting under her skin that rarely anyone else had. She loved them dearly, perhaps that's why she tolerated it. "I'm not playing anything, mother, I am perfectly happy with my wife... and must I remind you I'm almost a thousand years old?."

She turns once more, a raised eyebrow and a calculative look in her eyes as she tries to see past her mother's words. Past the walls behind her eyes, the very own she taught Narcisse how to build. "You can meet her anytime." She says carefully, the slight tone of warning in her voice. "So long as you can recall how to behave yourself, surely the time in the ground hadn't taken that from you." Nor the death that wasn't expected. "You're not going to disrespect my wife."

Children often grow wings and fly away from nests built on safety and comfort when they deem themselves old enough. Desdemona wasn't allowed the chance of growth, nor could she wean off her mother's arms; innocence and childhood were brutally beaten out of her and buried with what remained of her mother's corpse. Perhaps remnants of the child she buried calls to her, yearning for gentle arms, a warm embrace. She refuses sparing it a single thought, but it clouds some of her judgment, Desdemona admits. Particularly, her dumbfounded confusion as to why her children desperately want to grow up. Mother provides, mother protects, mother cannot love but mother will pretend for a moment. Isn't that enough? Must they go fornicating and playing house with strangers too old for them? — Narcisse's little toy is younger than her, the rational part of her brain knows.

But rationality has become a thing she barely hears, nowadays.

“A wife,” Desdemona scoffs in half-a-chuckle. “Please, Narcisse. Don't jest, now.” Crossed arms, raised brow, wrinkles forming between her eyes — She doesn’t find this amusing. “Child, you are far too young to marry. I've told this once, did I not? — When your mother offered you on a silver plate to that twat of a boy.” She moves closer, one step, all she ever allows herself, and sighs. “You have the infinite on the palm of your hands and waste it playing happy married couple?”

Truth be told, she has nothing against Narcisse's wife — she barely remembers the woman. But one who dares touch what belongs to Desdemona, has their name on the book of death. She knows, certainly, she doesn't possess the child; her daughter is simply a beautiful jewel on her magnificent crown. But the disrespect! Love or not, this is her little girl. She raised Narcisse with all tenderness she could muster — the girl is practically blood of her blood. “Marriage — Honestly, Narcisse. At this age? No.” A beat, another sigh. “And when will you introduce me to this wife of yours? I must have words with her. Immediately.”

[lcblanc]

The reassurance is endearing, if completely unnecessary. Never would had Narcisse dared to believe Nessa capable of abandoning Aoife or anything that had something to do with her. They were sisters, bonded the same way she and Frankie were if for entirely different reasons, different circumstances. She can only look back at her coffee, a soft smile on her lips at the thought behind it before forcing herself back into the conversation, the present. Away from tormented pasts and taken choices.

"I know, my dear, you don't need to worry about that." It never crossed her mind the way it'd never cross Aoife's. And even if Nessa does decide to get away for a while, she's sure her wife will always have a place for her to return to. She takes one more sip of her coffee, relishes in the rich taste of it mixed with blood and hums. Because maybe she is, Narcisse likes to be social. Know everything, be everywhere and nowhere at all. She's as much around as she is away. Never directly involved.

"There's not much to know... Pretorius is the oldest clan, we are... many, Kanemaru was born out of a pity revenge against the Lomidze, though I must admit Castillon has been doing wonderfully with it despite their rather permissive ways, all be it for getting under Svetlana's skin." She smiles cheekily over the rim of her cup, taking another sip before placing it down on the table. "Lomidze's a rather small clan, but with a lot of power, they're ancient even for me... which is why I presume they've managed to survive so long... and Reardon is... like Kanemaru two point zero, though I believe there's a new leader, I've not the pleasure to meet him yet."

She shrugs, looking at Nessa. "I guess I could introduce you to Laure, if you so wish, she's the current leader of Pretorius here."

If she had needed to breathe, Vanessa would have sighed in relief. It is one thing to trust that someone will meet you with open arms and let you back in their life, and another thing entirely to receive that invitation. With so much upheaval and change (not all of which was bad) it was comforting to have Narcisse back in her life as a constant. She tried to ignore the hurt and regret shining in the older vampire's eyes, there was nothing either of them could do about everything that had already happened, to pretend otherwise was pointless.

“I want to be clear, I’m not abandoning Karnstein. We are too small to lose anyone and I won’t leave Aoife after everything she has done for me” She doesn’t want Narcisse to misunderstand, she knows Narcisse’s ultimate loyalty is to Aoife, and she wouldn’t help if she thought Vanessa was going to hurt her wife. But Vanessa needed a backup plan, Aoife had Narcisse back, and now her little wide-eyed fledgling, and if there wasn’t going to be room for her in Aoife’s little family she needed to make sure she would land on her feet. She couldn’t even blame Aoife, not fully, she knew what Aoife saw every time she looked at Vanessa, because she saw the same thing when she looked at Aoife, centuries of abuse couldn’t be erased by a mere decade of freedom no matter how brave a face they put on.

“I want to be useful, but I don’t know enough about the other clans to do anything. You can help me fix that, you might not be as involved politically as Aoife, but you are socially. You can help with introductions, at least among Pretorius.” Getting to know the other clans was the first step, ingratiating herself to them would follow after. “And beyond that, you can tell me how they handle power, who holds it, who says they do when really it's all just for show. And how I can hold some of that power for myself.”

[lcblanc]

He is charming, in a... adorable and clumsy kind of way. Narcisse remembered his over excitable, and the way the words rush out of his mouth before he thinks them proves her memory right. The smile on her lips does nothing but grow, a little bit more entertained, a little less dangerous. But the spark in her eyes stays the same, full of promises she's aching to fulfill.

It does surprise her, though, pleasantly so. His enthusiasm for wine, and she can't help but give him another point in his favor. It makes her think back on France and a time where she had been so comfortable around the grapes, learning and trying even if everything tasted of nothing without a little blood. She's always seen vineyards at night, when she could walk them without burning to death. And wondered if maybe she could see it through his eyes, with the same warm reminiscence. Maybe his presence won't be such a headache inducing experience after all.

She hums, thinks of saying her name, thinks of messing with his mind to break through whatever compulsion that waste of a man had placed on him. But she can catch the faint scent of herbs that tell her it wouldn't work. Not now anyway. Maybe over due time. "We've met." brief as it was, during a night where she had her worries and mind elsewhere. "But don't feel bad, chérie, it was... a traumatic night, no? The Gallery Opening." She says, thinking of the dear girl that ended up one of her masterpieces. "It is expected of your mind to block memories of such night."

Moving besides him, she loops an arm around his shoulders, pushing him lightly to walk besides her to the Reserve's entrance. "Even still, if you can't remember, I still would very much love your company... I believe there's a new batch of wine that has been... freshly bottled, and I would love your input, since you're so big on wines."

She has one of those faces that he feels like he's seen before, on a postage stamp, or a billboard. Classic, and easily imagined in front of an array of picturesque images; stand-out in a neo-noir —

He knows her. And he isn't sure why her face settles a little bit of dread inside him. He recalls a nice conversation in Nouveau, in heated flashes. It provokes sweat at his collar. Maybe one of the few kinder interactions, when he thinks back to November and what kind of mind infection had made jelly of his brain. Oh. Did he interview her? Tomás' memories remains a little foggy of that time, but he's pushing through the unease in favour of excitement; she walks like grace reincarnated in physical form. He knows what that could mean.

"I'm actually really big on my wines, yeah." His grandfather had a vineyard in Castellgalí, an hour from Barcelona; the Priestley's spent summers in there, hearing about the grapes and their flavour profiles. Hernàn was always very particular about the perfect time to germinate, and attend, talked about the ideal moon cycles and the angle of the sun. Çahera vineyard had been magnificent, in his abuelo's time.

He hadn't even noticed he'd stopped outside the Reserve, glazing over Tempranillo's and Rioja's like it were reminiscent. For the first time, Tomás wonders if he'd ever be like his abuelo. Perhaps Enzo had been right and he should find something else to take up his time; the vineyard, the winery. But Castellgalí is not here. He's doing important work, making waves across the city. Informing them of the world beneath the known. The juju and the nightchildren, fighting for moonshifter rights to clear their bad rep. He can't leave. What would Riven say?

"Are you taking a tour? Maybe I will, if you need some company. That's kinda cool." he beams, as though, at the later hour, it's okay. "... It's going to sound odd, but we've met right? I'm usually really great with faces, but, you have a nice one — I mean of course it's nice, I mean you've got a real familiar one..." There's an awkward rub on the back of his neck with his hand, where he tries not to make a fool of himself. "If I had my notes..." Not all his stuff survived; washed away in the camper because of the storm. "— I might even remember your name!"

[lcblanc]

"Just gone?." She questions curiously, raising an eyebrow as she moves closer to the other. 'Just gone' wasn't something that was common with vampires, where they healed so fast and perfectly, a memory becoming almost as sharp as their fangs. So the phrasing catches her interest and Narcisse can't help stepping just a bit closer to study the girl's face with an almost clinic eye. As if she'd get an answer just by looking into her eyes.

"It is not ridiculous, we all find inspiration where we can." She tilts her head, and thinks of her very own inspiration, sitting away on her desk probably, rushing through thousands of books as if she didn't have forever at her feet. "You just have to find yours again."

She turns back to the painting, one she restored. "If I may be so bold, I find it quite difficult that you'd find it here, but perhaps I could help."

Aria does have to laugh a little - she knows. It's not at all intellectual, really. Art does have a certain bit of analysis to it, but it's about feeling. About heart. She heaves out a little sigh after the laugh, turning to look at the painting with soft eyes - filled with a longing in them. "No, I know." It doesn't feel appropriate to say why that's such an issue, but.. Maybe it's the only thing she has to explain her behavior somewhat.

"I have talent, innate. I have the eye for photography. It's.. not really a block, it's more so the skills and the things I've learned over the years are just.. gone."

She turns back to Narcisse, soft smile. "I thought maybe writing down what I've liked about paintings might help me figure out what I like in my own work. That's a little ridiculous, I know."

[lcblanc]

It is always a delight. The Ballet. Narcisse loved the precision it takes for every step, every movement. So different from the kind of art that she prefers, where she can lose herself in the strokes of her brush and find new worlds and realities behind every new color covering her canvas. But the end result, she finds, it's still the same. Evoking emotions in whoever admires it, and in whoever delivers.

Selene, in all her poised control, was not too different to any other artist. But Narcisse enjoyed even more to see nothing in her face, and everything in her eyes.

She catches her scent before she even crosses her path, the unmistakable fragance of flowers and something richer, magical. Blue eyes catch the bouquet before the ballerina, and a cheeky grin reaches her lips. Nothing more fitting, she presumes, nothing more on theme. Something to always be remembered by. And her eyes find Selene's with the same clear amusement. "Madame Calder." She says, her voice charming as ever as she blatantly appraises the other.

"I figured you wouldn't need a card to know who sent them." She offers an elegant shrug, and she listens with attention, thinks she can afford a couple of minutes of her time to wait for the dancer.

Reaching out for the hand, she offers but a cheeky raise of her eyebrow, before bringing the hand to her lips. A Gentle kiss on the back of it, and a smirk full of mischief. "It should be my pleasure, darling, I shall meet you there."

@lcblanc

the titan, 10:00pm

Velvet curtains hush together behind her, pocketing the ovation, but Selene is already elsewhere—inside the hush of her own probability bloom. Futures rise around her like a winter rose opening in accelerated time: translucent petals of next-seconds, each holding its own scent of consequence. One gust of stage-door air nudges them; she adjusts, breath even, spine a straight pin in satin. A petal shows a donor intercepting her with a champagne flute; another, Narcisse turning away toward a board member; a third, perfect, places the vampire squarely in Selene’s path before anyone else can claim her.

Petals overlap and Selene plucks the desired layer—thought-quick, dancer-sure—and the blossom reshapes itself around the vacancy in time. A small sidestep here, two seconds’ feather-slow tightening of her ribbon knots there; the future obeys, corridors clearing as though choreographed. She does not bend time so much as persuade it, the way a conductor coaxes silence from an orchestra.

When the curtain pullers click the fly lock, she steps off the marley and into that newly chosen petal. Fluorescents replace footlights; applause fades behind cinderblock. Selene smooths her tutu’s edge, aligns the stems of the flowers in her arms until every cut looks measured, and advances with the calm of a solved equation.

As predicted, Narcisse Le Blanc emerges from the patron knot precisely when the dancer rounds the corner. One more micro-gesture—a half pivot that stalls a hovering assistant—seals the outcome. The remaining petals of time close, futures settling like pressed flowers under glass.

“Madame Le Blanc.” The greeting is clean, unhurried. Selene inclines her head; not a strand escapes its pins. “Your bouquet was exquisitely on theme. Thank you.”

Narcissus. A cheeky nod. But Selene keeps her tone porcelain-smooth, neither coy nor distant, simply correct. “I am due in the green-room shortly. If your schedule allows, I would value your thoughts on the Degas studies we’ve acquired. The reception is quieter.” Purpose, not intrigue.

Her free hand extends—palm level, fingers poised as though offering a carefully catalogued artifact. Rosin dust glints along her wrist like frost. Behind her eyes, the rose of possibility quivers: four petals, none edged with danger, though one tastes faintly of iron and champagne. Acceptable. She lets the futures settle, a blossom folded against her ribs, and waits—prim, composed—for Narcisse to choose which petal they will step upon next.

[lcblanc]

For: @tomaspriestley Where: Close to Sanguine Reserve

She caught him with ease, Narcisse had always been most sensitive to smells and scents, picking up things that were always so particular to one person or the other and he was no different. She could almost catch the smell of ink from his printings, the sweat from the adrenaline brought from a new story. She could almost get the excitement even, at the prospect of something new. She wondered if he just knew how in over himself he was here.

She approached slowly, like a predator would to its prey. Something dangerous in her eyes and a charming smile in her lips. She wonders if he'd remember her, from their brief talk during the Gallery, or if he'd know it was her who he had written about so awfully in his ridiculous paper. It didn't matter, she was happy to remind him, and maybe work something else in her favor.

"Are you a wine lover, my dear?." The question leaves her as soon as she's well within hearing range, he looks just as excitable as he did that night. Adorable even, if she could push past her offense. "Or are you here just to watch? Most of the people that come here do so for the tour and tasting." Others come for more delicate palates, is he going to do the tasting, or be part of it is yet to be decided.

[lcblanc]

Was she? Or had the adding of her figure to the painting a trick of Narcisse's mind to compensate for the lack of her presence?. Narcisse wasn't sure anymore, time seemed to blend together whenever she tried to look back, too many memories, too many lives that she's lived. And even though Desdemona had been around for a big part of it, she had missed almost just as much. Had it been just the ghost of her presence that Narcisse had caught when she finished the painting? No... she was sure she had been there, that the nights spent by her side hadn't been part of her imagination.

"I believe so, just as I quite recall her being exceptionally obsessed with you." She comments dryly. She had had a way of doing that, wave herself so intricately into people's life with no desire to stay, to remain. Except for her, the daughter she didn't ask for but cared for anyway.

She hums, something like a scoff on her throat. "They all believed they would get so much more than what they did." She remembered their blood on her mouth and their bodies in her bed long after her sire had disappeared. Long before Aoife had come into her life. She remembered them whispering and gossiping, and giggling whenever her mother would walk by. Like Desdemona could give them the world, like Narcisse could give them her love.

Nodding, she moves to pace just enough to stand closer to the painting, raising a hand to let her fingers ghost of over the fine material of her canvas. Almost feeling the texture of the painting beneath her fingertips. "I wouldn't expect anything else." But the words are soon followed by a sigh and a roll of her eyes, turning almost exasperatedly to the other vampire. Only Desdemona could make her feel young again. "Must we do this every time you come back, mother? My wife has a name, and she's doing wonderfully. Why you and Francoise are so determined to dislike her will never make any sense for me." She crosses her arms, hating the way she's feeling almost like an angry teenager. "Aoife's perfectly fine, she's more than that."

“Was I even there?” Memories begin blurring around the edges once a century has passed, and Desdemona knows Narcisse can understand confusion — but not hers, perhaps. The ground distorts reality more than time could hope for; past becomes hallucinations lingering at the edge of her waking hours. The soil remembers differently — Cold, heavy, suffocating; a pressure that never lifts, even in stillness. She did not sleep, as manh believes — she waited. Watched. Thoughts in slow spirals, dreams unraveling like threads in water. It pressed against her skin, her ribs, filled her mouth with the taste of iron and rot and dirt. She felt every season pass through her bones, heard the dead speak, over and over — nonsense and lullabies, complaints and prayers. 

Time stops making sense when pain changes its shape — sharp in the beginning, then dull, then constant; not the kind that screams, but the kind that hums low in the body, a thread pulled taut beneath the skin, chewing on dark marrow. Her only companion. 

She forgets the sound of her own name, at times; forgets the warmth of tears against cold damp cheeks. When her mind cannot will a mere toe to move, it loses itself in the labyrinth of madness. Of grief. Memories are left behind among the fog and mist — pieces of a puzzle she assembles when she wakes. Try, at least. It's only natural to get it wrong when everything looks so grey. 

“Now that you mention, I certainly don’t miss chamber pots.” Thank goddesses for plumbing. “I do miss the maidens. They were all so eager to please, were they not?” She chuckles, looking at her daughter. Narcisse is a woman grown, but Desdemona still sees a child clinging to her skirts, melting half the walls around her heart. She is not capable of seeing anything else; maternal love doesn't exist in her rotten heart, yes — but something does. And that something adored Narcisse viciously. She despises the many times she couldn't protect her little girl. “Of course they are,” she says simply — as if Narcisse asked her a most daft question. “I watched them burn before I became — this.” Her lips snarl, faintly, dripping of poison. “How long has it been, my darling? A century? Two?” Desdemona shakes her head with a chuckle. “By the end, the last few years — There was no warmth left in my body. — Enough of me. How is that — wife of yours?” Oh, if only words could burn.

[lcblanc]

Narcisse had to resist the urge to roll the eyes. Not at the girl, unsuspecting as she was, but at Laure and all the predictability of her interest. The resemblance, and an artist. The girl was but the hate child of a wounded marriage. She smiles instead, because despite everything that's behind this girl and her turning, she's a lost artist that Narcisse would like to know.

"Narcisse." She answers, a charming tone in her voice where her accent caresses every syllable correctly. Her hand wrapping around the other's in a firm hold, moving herself a step closer.

"That all sounds extraordinarily lovely and all my dear, but if I have come to learn something in my years as an artist." More than the girl could even imagine, more than she could dare count. Narcisse has lost track of time many years ago. "Is that you do not overcome any block by technicalities and notes." Tilting her head, she studies the other for a short moment. "Art doesn't come from the brain."

Her smile is shy, and she turns back towards the painting, flicking her gaze over it and the others around - "It's beautiful." She points towards brushstrokes that are visible only if one pays attention, "These here, there's purpose in them. It's really grabbed me, and.." Aria laughs, looking back to the woman. "I'm a photographer, and I've sort of lost my.. eye, I guess?"

It's the best way she can describe it without dumping all that's happened over the last few months.

"So, I thought maybe entrench myself in other artistic ventures. See if I can look critically at them, and take notes on what I've noticed." She opens the notebook and hands it over. There are three dedicated sections: what she likes about the art, what the art makes her feel, and what she thinks the artist's intent is.

She waits a beat - "Sorry, I'm Aria." A shift to hold her out for for a handshake, "Nice to meet you."

[lcblanc]

She couldn't help but study her, let her eyes run around the girl's face and compare every detail to what she already had in her memory. Like place two pictures one next to the other and trying to find the differences. She couldn't seen any more than the sliver of freedom shining through the cracks left by a man that was exactly the kind of monsters humans liked to paint them as.

She didn't know much about him, not more than what little Aoife told her about him. A small mercy, she presumed, to keep hidden beneath her lovely smiles and loving poems all the horrors he liked to put them through. But she knew enough, from the fear on her wife's eyes at the mere idea of her being close to him. Of having him know of her existence. Aoife wasn't a woman who liked to show fear, Narcisse knew her to be proud, but she could had never hid that from her.

She shakes her head at the apology. Realizes, looking at her, that whatever had transpired with her wife the night they parted, shouldn't had extended to the girl. And her pain, her anger, shouldn't had kept her from reaching out to her. Nessa had never looked younger than she did right now, unsure of herself, almost shy in her insecurities. "Don't be, my love... I should had been there for you." To help her get back on her feet after being kept down for so long. Her blue eyes reflecting nothing but regret and the love she has for her. "The masquerade was a ridiculous show of power." And almost every event that followed. "Hardly something that should be considered an example for you to follow."

She took a sip of her coffee, smiling at the scents caressing her nostrils and reviving memories of a time where she could appreciate the taste a lot better. "Ah, are you sure you shouldn't be having this conversation with my wife?." She teases, feeling warmth spread through her chest at the possibility of using that title with her. "She's a lot more involved in the politics of it all than I am." Is why she's back trying to make sure her latest endeavor don't end in nothing but a simple mistake, not to be repeated. But she sits back, a knowing smirk on her lips as she looks at the girl. "What do you want to know, love?."

The younger vampire didn’t fight the soft smile that graced her lips at the compliment, the blonde was radiant as ever, and to be given a compliment by one so beautiful was an honor. Vanessa had hated her blond hair for over a century, Alexei’s comments running through her head each time the light hit her golden tresses. He had loved her blond hair, “his Russian Goldilocks” he had called her, and he had forbidden her from changing it, dictating every inch of her appearance so she fit his vision perfectly in all things. But the French woman made it feel beautiful in a way that wasn’t quite so tainted in old memories, and when she complimented her it felt different than any compliment she had ever gotten from Alexei or a patron at the Cabaret. She knew she was beautiful, she wouldn’t keep attention so well if she wasn’t, but there was something different about getting complimented by someone who wanted nothing from you. Who wasn’t looking to hurt you, or sleep with you, someone who genuinely cared for her, Nessa, and not just the pretty face swinging her ass on a dimly lit stage. 

“I shouldn’t have waited so long, I’m sorry. I lost myself for a long time there once the leash was cut and finding a way back from that, trying to find who I am without that collar around my neck.” Even all these years later she could still feel the weight of Alexei’s control around her neck, whether it was the invisible leash of compulsion or a physical collar he liked to lock around her neck when he wanted to embarrass her, he had always manifested control over her in one way or another. The apology was genuine, and she hoped the older woman could see that, hear the sincerity in her voice even as she kept her tone light. “It’s been 10 years and I still don’t think I have found my place, don’t know how I fit or who I want to be. I thought I had found it at the Cabaret, but after the last owner and that Masquerade…” She shrugged, it felt foolish to be so lost, Vampire’s didn’t feel uncertainty, they were creatures of action and instinct, and it made her feel lesserthan in the worst ways. “I want to make a change, is what I am trying to say. I want to learn more about clans, functional ones that is. And I want to do something that isn’t just dancing for others pleasure. And I may not know what exactly I want or need to do, but I know you. I know my sisters wife knows far more about our clans and how to find a place within them. And I am hoping you would be willing to do your little sister this kindness and give me a hand?” her hope she fought to conceal, and the small sliver of doubt telling her this was a terrible idea. Showing weakness of any kind felt like a massive liability, but Narcisse was different, and if she was going to be weak in front of anyone she wanted it to be someone she trusted. Someone she loved, and someone she knew loved her, even if they hadn't spent any time of note together in years. Because that was what family was, showing your weakness and then allowing the others to shore you up and be your strength, at least thats what she liked to think.

[lcblanc]

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[lcblanc]

She knew the moment Aoife closed in on herself that this night could turn nothing but sour from then on. Denying her of something that was rightfully hers. A touch, an embrace. Like ten years hadn't been enough distance to now retract from her and leave nothing but an empty space. She doesn't even care about the unceremoniously way the body drops to the floor, like a sack of bones and nothing else. The sound of the snapping would had even been satisfactory wouldn't her wife be directing the same angered stare towards her as well.

She looks back at her, unsurprised and just a bit unimpressed by the distance, arms crossing over her chest and a raised eyebrow showing her discontent before she looked down at the girl, nothing in her eyes showing remorse or even guilt for the girl. Even if this was all for her, apparently. Her sister really should know better.

Turning back to her, Narcisse directs the same unimpressed look at her and she has to resist the urge to do the same her wife had just done and break the neck of each and every girl left still standing. If she knew Frankie, then this wasn't going to stop during the night at all.

"Then why on earth would you have a parade of..." She looks back to the women, her eyes still cold and harsh. She could even smell the fear creeping out of them through the cracks of her sister's compulsion. "Ladies... waiting to be picked like a pig for slaughter?." Turning back to her sister, she softens just the bit. "I don't need a new spouse and we would be sooner celebrating your show if you weren't making it about this."

She turns back to her wife, can tell from the anger in her eyes that she's close to snapping neck number two. And as much as she loves the jealous streak of her wife, this went beyond just jealousy and leaning on something she wasn't sure she wanted to deal with. "I would love it if we weren't the ones to cause a scene here." It was more of the Lomidze style than her own.

@hollowhearts-aoife @frnoialles

A sense of foreboding had been sitting on Aoife's chest for the better portion of day and leading into the start of the evening. The feeling annoyed Aoife to no end. She had determined that this evening was supposed to be fun, a night to wash away all the business of hunters and council backroom dealings. Aoife had tried to put the turbulent history of her and Frankie aside and just be happy for her sister in-law. The opening of this club was the most effort Aoife had ever witness from her sister in law. Maybe it was the start of something that resembled growing up for Frankie and that meant they could put the past behind them. Aoife had never been so wrong.

The gentle squeeze on her hand the only lifeline Aoife had as she felt the floor fall underneath her.

The Irish women eyed the line of women behind Frankie sharply, her left eye twitching as she caught the snippets of conversation. Each women behind the new proprietor of the club was a shining gem. Aoife could never fault Frankie eye for beauty, perhaps it ran in the family. "Has she ever known better?" Aoife cut into the conversation. Choosing to speak in French reminding the other two that she also spoke the language and she refused to be left out of the conversion about her replacement. Aoife folded her arms over her chest, denying Narcisse the ability to take her hand. She had not glossed over the detail her wife had known this was coming.

Aoife smiled sharply at the fluttering line of women behind Frankie. There was none of her usual charm in the look. Rather is the look of a predator choosing where to start in its feast. She strode forward, taking her time as she stalked down the line of women, inspecting each one before pausing at a black haired individual. A poor intimidation of Aoife herself. "Did you have high hopes for this one?" The Irish women mused, sharp eyes cutting back to Frankie, before using all of her vampire speed to snap the women's neck, letting her body fall to the ground with an unceremonious thump. There was nothing Aoife hated more than feeling like the butt of a joke.

@frnoialles // @lcblanc

[lcblanc]

Her smile grows even more, large and sharper around the edges. Like the annoyance is nothing but a source of amusement for her. At least the puppy had teeth, something she could appreciate. She never was one to underestimate Nessa, but it was relieves knowing there was someone else capable of fighting by her side. "Oh darling, I wasn't really asking." She answers softly, a music quality to her voice as she takes a step closer, her arm wrapping around a muscular one as she pushes for them to start walking. Not like she ever expected them to be the life of the party. Wolves seemed more adept at sulking most of the time.

"You seem to mean quite a lot to Nessa." She starts, walking the empty streets with a strong hand secure around their arm. "So I figured, now that I have a bit of a... free time, that you and I should get to have a little chat." Her voice is soft, charming and calm. Passing for friendly to anyone who didn't know her. Aoife would probably be giving her the most approving look just now. "Just to know each other, both being part of her life... I would really love to hear about where your interests lie."

The hours of work hung heavy on Remi's shoulders, even the commodore of the squad wasn't enough to loosen the tension that hung in their shoulders. All they wanted to do was drive home, eat some questionable leftovers with reruns on and pass-out on the couch with Rusty on their lap. Their large frame nearly ran over the blonde women who appeared in their path. Their exhausted mind taking several long moments to process who the other was. It was some french bullshit. Sissy? No that wasn't right. Narcisse? Remi had heard Nessa mention her, an affection in her voice that spoke to a bond deeper than blood. Suddenly it clicked into place, This was about the auction all the way back in February.

Remi twitched upon hearing their government name, tension twisting in their gut. It wasn't a dead name per say, their family still used it, a sign of deep affection that came from backyard BBQ's and the freedom of the full moon, won in twisted bones and blood seeping into the soil. It felt wrong coming from the lips of a stranger. She had not heard the right to that name yet. "It's Remi" they spoke, the normally cheerful voice, flat and monotone. The hint of annoyance seeping into the interruption.

"I know your kind of folks are nocturnal, but I just got done working a twenty-four hour shift so I would probably be a pretty sour date" It wasn't a direct refusal. It teetered on the precipices of something else. A growl rumbling in the back of their chest. Remi was trying to be polite, this women was important to Nessa. However a wolf cornered was infinitely more dangerous.