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bloodsnack · 7 years

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"You should be seen at one of the Camarilla galas soon. They are horrendously out of your expertise, but you possess an Ophelia-like charm that will doubtless propel you through any social hurdles," said Violet, tapping his chin. He eyed Yharnam critically. "There's the Meridian Ball coming up next month. I'll be your chaperone, but I expect you to watch carefully and learn to ape my manner so you may independently monkey around on your own at future events."

Yharnam considered whether or not they would even go to any future events without Violet to force them, but they remembered the enticing call of the Primogens, and the room full of delicious-smelling 7th generation Cainites and quickly decided that yes, they would do anything to surround themself with such power again.

"Will we have to dance?" Yharnam asked excitedly.

"You won't have to, but I can see that you want to. I don't have the time to teach you myself, but I know someone who can. More importantly, there is the question of what to say. I believe, since the matter of the Ankaran Sarcophagus caused such an uproar," Violet paused to heave a great big sigh, "a ranking member of the Camarilla will doubtless be sent to investigate and report. Probably an archon." He waited for a reaction, of which Yharnam gave none. Their thoughts were still on waltzes and twirls.

"An archon," Violet started explaining even though Yharnam hadn't asked, "is an agent of the justicars. They're the schoolteachers who rap you on the knuckle when you misbehave. And if you fail to improve yourself, the justicars are the principals who, oh, what's a suitable metaphor, cut your head off. Do you understand?"

"We'd like to meet a justicar," Yharnam said, eyes glittering as they stretched their mouth wide and bared their fangs.

Violet promptly smacked them over the head. "Don't do that ever again. Do not challenge or provoke the justicars in any way; that extends to their agents. You think you're powerful because you defeated the Sabbat holing out in Los Angeles, but you've no idea what the world at large is like. You're still a fledgling, no matter how you'd like to cut it."

Yharnam gnashed their teeth and angrily pulled at their hair. "Touch us again, touch us again," they dared, ready and so so desperate to attack if Violet would only give them a reason.

"Do you want to learn to dance or not?" Violet snapped.

"Yes," Yharnam said meekly, and plunged immediately back into quietude.

Lily's wide, round face announced the metaphorical dawning of the ball. Yharnam quite literally jumped out of their coffin, eager to waltz for real after all this time. They'd been forced to bathe just last night, after Violet had dipped their head in black ink and rubbed it into their scalp, so there was no need to bathe today at least. Still, there was suffering to be had when Lily coaxed them into a chair and gently hand-combed the bugs and dirt and small broken-off twigs out of their hair.

"I would comb it out properly, but Violet said to keep that wild look about you. I don't blame him. You are a wild thing, aren't you," Lily said, grinning as she worked, and Yharnam nodded quick, excited nods.

Afterwards, they wiggled happily into their specially tailored suit. Violet had also requested some specifications in this instead of letting Yharnam pick it out themself, but they ended up looking so nice that Yharnam couldn't complain. The inside of their white dinner jacket was done up in a teal floral satin that could only be seen at certain angles or if they opened it up, so the most color anyone saw on them was their black tie and lapels, as dark as their gloves and as dark as their head now was. They could see now why Violet had done it: the tendrils of their hair spilled out over their shoulders like ink stains swirling in the creamy expanse of milk. The entire ensemble was one monochromatic Oreo, and Yharnam adored it.

Saint Adrienne of the Gulag turned out to have made it after all, because she came out to play and in a bold sweep of movements had Yharnam out onto the floor for their first dance. A dance turned out to last for much longer than Yharnam expected, which only made them all the happier that the good saint of lemons had promised them three.

"Again," Yharnam asked, arms flung around Saint Adrienne's shoulders, and she laughed giddily.

"My dear Yharnam, I couldn't possibly steal you from the rest of the court for that long."

"We want to be stolen," insisted Yharnam.

"Then allow me," said a voice Yharnam didn't recognize from a face they didn't recognize, and that was how they were stolen from the saint. After that it was a chain of dances with people who were not the good saint, but a few minutes was all it took before they found themselves minding less. Unlike with the saint, however, Yharnam refused to be lead by anyone but themselves, and in the manner of lemons swept all their partners along in a lively jaunt around the room with each dance, and couldn't stop smiling because the people they danced with were so cheerful and kind. Yharnam liked them better like this, too occupied with dancing to trade perfumed words or maintain any curtains.

After bowing and thanking perhaps their fifth partner for only the third dance that night, Yharnam looked up and found her there, a beautiful sparkling cloud, magnetized and electric. Clove had been a yearning at the back of their mind since they'd first seen her that night, and though their eyes had sought her out between breaths, they knew better than to seek her out with their flesh body.

She was talking to two somebodies, but this time it must not have been important because she noticed Yharnam's attention immediately, as if her eyes were already wandering, and when she held their eyes over the distance it was as irresistible a call as if she'd crooked a finger at them.

As soon as they took their first purposeful strides towards her, Clove's eyes returned to the somebodies, but the message had been clear enough. Surely she of all people knew how inexorable Yharnam could be when they decided to undertake a task.

"Panther," Yharnam called, approaching from behind the backs of her companions, and as soon as they saw who it was they parted naturally, like a curtain of weak-willed leaves to grant the Hound access to their Queen. Yharnam extended a hand in wordless invitation.

Clove looked down at it, and then at them. "You, lead me?" she asked, but she was smirking. "Interesting."

The weight of her hand slipped into Yharnam's grasp, and it felt like they were being entrusted with something much more than a dance. With more measured preciseness than they'd treated anyone thus far, they lead the panther out onto the floor, and she moved as gracefully as if they were already dancing.

"I must thank you for rescuing me from that," Clove said to them. Her voice was completely level even as she stepped one-two-three, one-two-three. "There's a time for work and there's a time for play, and I've never liked the ones who confuse the twos."

Yharnam didn't know how Clove could manage to speak so eloquently; they were utterly preoccupied with giving her a good dance. But now she also wanted conversation, so Yharnam rifled around in their little brain as they took her along the turning steps into the center of the room and then just decided to pull out the thing that'd been on their mind all night.

"Why do you smell so tasty," they asked, demonstratively leaning in for a big whiff of the goodness.

Clove picked up the momentary slack they'd left in their step, but was otherwise unfazed. "That would be my glamour, probably, or you're being strange again. Most Tremere have it. I usually try to keep it constrained, but not tonight," she said.

"It's good you don't do it more," said Yharnam. "You're our biggest weakness."

Clove said nothing, but she was looking off to the side with a small, secret smile.

"You clean up well. Violet did an excellent job with your suit," she said, briefly touching two fingers to the inside of Yharnam's coat where the flowers peeked out.

"Ophelia," Yharnam quipped, and Clove murmured a soft, quiet agreement.

The final dance of the night was the galop, done in an improvised rotating quadrille so that by the end nearly everyone had danced with each other, and those who insisted not to partake in the buffoonery were dragged in anyways. One of these was Violet, of course, and Yharnam didn't know who'd been brave enough to pull him in but they were glad of it, even if Violet's face was writ in exasperation and only grew moreso when Yharnam swept in to take his hands.

"Stop enjoying this so much," he said, scowling.

Yharnam couldn't help the giddy laugh that bubbled out of them, because even when Le Petit Prince was complaining he couldn't do anything in half measure and was still giving the dance his mightiest effort. As a bit of payback for earlier, they took him along in extravagant circles around the other dancers and received his barked grousing up until they had to switch partners, and by then Yharnam was so completely happy they bounded all their other partners up in their happiness. Sometime amidst the haze they saw Violet and Clove dancing together, and Violet looked like he was trying hard not to smile.

#oc yharnam #oc violet #oc clove #writings #THERE!!!!

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