Cruel Intentions
Dec. 22nd, 2008 12:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jezebelinhellChambord Anjou, France, 2000
Rien de sert de courrir, il faut partir à point
It is not worth running, one should leave at the right moment
The delicious notes of the piano are well behaved in their soulful and decidedly distinguished legato. They drowned out the throbbing notes of the dance music shaking the foundations of Château Challain. Our dear Catherine twirls with the notes, spinning 'round and 'round until the room swirls around her as she laughs with mirth, eyes opened in thin slits to watch the chandelier sparkle above her like a thousand stars bursting in crystalline glory. Her arms gracefully stretch above her head, hands reaching for something that she could only see in her minds eye.
Zamor laughs and hoots out in glee, slapping his black damask dressed knee as he watches his mistress in her divine reverie of herself. The dark blue gown looked like a sky of angry clouds wrapping itself around her waist in billows of night. Satin--colored like dusk chewing on the edge of a countryside mountain--spilled down every curve of the bodice like water, until it flowed like a gushing angry river out in every direction at her waist. Jagged pieces of fabric poked out from her neckline and petticoat, like shards of glass from a broken window, while silver frosted the hem of her gown in iciclic swirls. "Winter is hot again!" Chuckles Zamor, his French perpetually stained by an Bengali accent. Glittering blue Sapphires dripped off her neck--an unforgiving choker, given to her by her Sire at a time when her heart still beat with adoration when he entered the room. Things change. Not everything. Most things.
"Allez! Go! Go! Devious enchantress! My grand addiction, you will be late!" Zamour's eyes grew wide like tea plates as he spied the time. "You have but only eight minutes!" Catherine's laugh caressed the air, her dangerous heels barely touching the floor as she floated an inch off the ground. "Do not worry yourself, mon petite chou, that is plenty enough time to destroy heaven!" Still, as her feet touched the ground, she gathered the front folds of her dress in her hand and dashed out of the room, throwing open the french doors that were gilded with gold ornamentation around their borders and the colour of coffee cream.
I must not be late. He would not be pleased. Tick, tock, tick tock. Zut! Her dark blue-black tresses, half held up by a long transparent blue crystal pin, bounced against her shoulders as she ran down a set of marble stairs and up another. The eyes in the portrait paintings along the candle lit corridor followed her as she ran with a smile flourishing on her face. Less then five minutes to midnight. The ballroom doors seemed to recede further with each step she took. Plenty of time. After all, she had this down to the second. Perhaps. Pale filigree-like fingers pushed against the tall doors to the ballroom.
Catherine smiled to the thick throngs of party-goers, pushing passed them to get closer to the large crystal grandfather clock with steampunk metallic hands pointing out the time. Three minutes. Plucking the ornament out of her hair, she shakes her tresses out. The tip of the hair pin hides in her palm with only the smallest point peeking out--invisible, hidden in the folds of her dress that she clutched in her hand. "S'xuse-moi." Squeezing her frame between two Ventrue, she pushed passed a Toreador next, smiling back in apology as she accidentally stepped on the woman's train. Not something that would be quickly forgiven. If ever. "Pardon, excuse moi." Her hand squeezed the shoulder of a Brujah, whose burly frame moved to the side to let her pass. Her eyes sparkled like jems in their holiday awe, still locked on the impressive avant-guard clock. Brushing passed a man in a white suit, the tiniest movement thrust the tip of the hair pin forward for a second. Keep moving, don't look back. Do not move faster, and whatever you do, for the love of Caine, don't do anything that might make you stick out in someone's memory too much. Just enough, but never too much. She kept moving forward.
Ah, there he was. Of course. Catherine smiled at Aidan--her partner in crime--who looked delighted to see her there as he walked up to her. "Bonsoir, ma belle! Bonne Année!" She kissed him on the cheek-left, right, left, her hands skirting over his chest and down to the waistband of his pants where she tucked the hair pin between the material of his shirt and waistband. "Bonne Année, Aidan!" Her hands slid from under the open Tuxedo jacket. "We will have to catch up at the after party!" He nodded and waved back as he started across the room in the opposite direction. Another Tremere crossed his path and bumped against him as a woman dancing to the music 'accidentally' took a step back and pushed the Tremere into Aidan . "Woaw. Désolé." She yelled over the music. "Je vous en prie." He replied with an amicable smile as he stopped to speak with Gillian, a Toreador he recognized and did not realize would be attending. She had an annoying way of staring at his hair as the lights bounced off it. Something about the certain shimmer of brown in his hair. Ridiculous. "Gillian, as always, the grace and beauty you exude rivals the ability of even the best artist to properly capture." Well, she'd be a proper alibi, nonetheless.
The 'hair pin' was no longer in his waistband. It was being deposited into a glass standing on a waiters tray. Now, it looked like a harmless drink mixer. The "waiter" picked up the tray and walked into the kitchen, placing the 'hair pin' into a white handkerchief and down the garbage chute. Upon it's arrival to the refuse bin, another hand snatched it away, walking down the hallway quickly. He glances over his shoulder before slipping into the boiler room. By the time Catherine reached the clock, the pin was further than eight degrees of separation. Giddy with anticipation, she clapped her hands together once as she marveled at the crystal clock counting down the time. With another glance, she turned around and started swimming through the waves of Kindred to get to the side door, ignoring the commotion far behind her that was starting to grow louder than the music.
"Ten! Nine!" Something was happening. Catherine counted down with those around her. "Eight!" A tight circle started to form on the opposite side of the room. "What's happening to him!" Antoine Gautier, Toreador Primogen and counselor to the Prince of Paris, clutched at his chest with fingers that clawed at his skin like talons of a bird. His blood was turning black in his veins that stood against his pale skin. Falling to the ground, his screams rose above the thumping bass, but not quite above the din of the countdown. "Seven, six!" Catherine picked up a crystal glass off a tray and toasted to those around her before moving toward the door. Antoine's skin broke and the veins split open down the middle, spilling the black acidic blood over the floor. Splashing on the shoes of a curiosity seeker who stepped forward when everyone else stepped back, it burned right through the sole. My, she sure did scream loudly as the black oil-like blood seeped through her skin and into her bloodstream. The diva dropped to the ground and began shaking. "Five, four, three!" Slipping out the door, Catherine walked down the hallway, missing the festivities-pity. Her dress swished as she sashayed passed a set of doors in the east wing of the Château being held open for her by two ghouls.
A man sat calmly at a wood table whose legs were craved into lithe lions, eyeing through some papers in front of him and lost in concentration. Catherine set the crystal champage flute filled with vitae in front of him, having only moments ago dispensed with the holiday happiness bullshit. "Happy New Year, darling." Her smile curled her lip like a ribbon. His gaze shifted to the wall in front of him. "Were you successful?" He demanded calmly. She leaned over his shoulder to whisper into his ear. "Congratulations, I do believe you will be promoted this year." Catherine spied the Red Tiger's Eye runes--dotted with blood--placed in each corner of the room. Auspex blocker. Yes, that was elementary among this lot.
He did look back at her then, cold blue eyes softened by the satisfied smile on his face. "You've done well."
"And you will never believe what happened!" She began with insincere disbelief, as if she hadn't heard him. "Those wretched Assamites and their Nergali." Marc's smile stiffened. He asked her to take care of it. He did not want to know how. "Tell me no more." Yet her goal was achieved. Yes, Nergal. Let him wonder. Catherine sprawled out on the pale blue chaise while Marc's hands tightened over the wooden arm of his chair, a sudden look of concern on his sharp features as he rose out of it "Dammit Catherine, will it spread?" Sometimes he wondered if the hate in her would become so poisonous as to make her the mother of their mutual wanton destruction. Every act grew bigger, more nefarious and all encompassing. Gone was the assuredness that she would always act with measured, cold, restrained action. "Only if they are stupid enough to let it." That did not help and she noticed the growing displeasure on his face. "Relax, my dear. Relax. As we speak,Tristan is offering his services to get rid of the clever little plague. The warnings you have been giving our beloved and yet ever so paranoid Prince about an Assamite plot to end his unlife will only be reinforced by this. The rest, it is up to you." Catherine draped her hand over the side of the chaise. "I do believe that it is safe to say that I have set the domino's up to fall."
Her eyes narrowed a bit at Marc as she got up and slowly walked to him. "So this what you really wanted? Or shall I prepare myself to help overthrow the Toreador regime in Paris?" She quipped with a smile, before something clicked and her lips slightly parted. "That's what you are planning, isn't it? Why else would you be so concerned with Camerilla politics?"
Marc said nothing, but shook his head and awarded her a wisp of a smile, while walking to the closed door. "Shall we? There is still much to do." Oh, the bastard was good at stringing her along. Catherine smiled back but her voice was as sharp as a razors edge. "Not so fast. Are you forgetting something?" He considered a moment, pretending not to know what she was referring to. "No, I don't think so? Why?" Her face grew tempestuous. It was fun to watch. "Oh, you mean the trifle matter we had discussed?"
Catherine raised a brow. He was screwing with her. Yes, this was familiar. "Yes, that." His ghouls entered the room and collected the runes from the corners. Marc began walking out, leaving Catherine brooding angrily with her nails digging into her palms. Stopping, he turned back, freezing her in the arctic beam of his eyes. "Congratulations, I do believe that you will be promoted this year." He repeated her words while considering others carefully. "Catherine," he began slowly. "This...promotion...it behooves me to warn you: bibere venenum in auro."
It is like drinking poison from a golden chalice.
Catherine smiled. Of course he would think so. "Nihil aliud scit necessitas quam vincere." She answered, leaving him to ponder what she could possibly mean by necessity knows nothing else but victory and yet, not currently interested enough to figure it out.
Rien de sert de courrir, il faut partir à point
It is not worth running, one should leave at the right moment
The delicious notes of the piano are well behaved in their soulful and decidedly distinguished legato. They drowned out the throbbing notes of the dance music shaking the foundations of Château Challain. Our dear Catherine twirls with the notes, spinning 'round and 'round until the room swirls around her as she laughs with mirth, eyes opened in thin slits to watch the chandelier sparkle above her like a thousand stars bursting in crystalline glory. Her arms gracefully stretch above her head, hands reaching for something that she could only see in her minds eye.
Zamor laughs and hoots out in glee, slapping his black damask dressed knee as he watches his mistress in her divine reverie of herself. The dark blue gown looked like a sky of angry clouds wrapping itself around her waist in billows of night. Satin--colored like dusk chewing on the edge of a countryside mountain--spilled down every curve of the bodice like water, until it flowed like a gushing angry river out in every direction at her waist. Jagged pieces of fabric poked out from her neckline and petticoat, like shards of glass from a broken window, while silver frosted the hem of her gown in iciclic swirls. "Winter is hot again!" Chuckles Zamor, his French perpetually stained by an Bengali accent. Glittering blue Sapphires dripped off her neck--an unforgiving choker, given to her by her Sire at a time when her heart still beat with adoration when he entered the room. Things change. Not everything. Most things.
"Allez! Go! Go! Devious enchantress! My grand addiction, you will be late!" Zamour's eyes grew wide like tea plates as he spied the time. "You have but only eight minutes!" Catherine's laugh caressed the air, her dangerous heels barely touching the floor as she floated an inch off the ground. "Do not worry yourself, mon petite chou, that is plenty enough time to destroy heaven!" Still, as her feet touched the ground, she gathered the front folds of her dress in her hand and dashed out of the room, throwing open the french doors that were gilded with gold ornamentation around their borders and the colour of coffee cream.
I must not be late. He would not be pleased. Tick, tock, tick tock. Zut! Her dark blue-black tresses, half held up by a long transparent blue crystal pin, bounced against her shoulders as she ran down a set of marble stairs and up another. The eyes in the portrait paintings along the candle lit corridor followed her as she ran with a smile flourishing on her face. Less then five minutes to midnight. The ballroom doors seemed to recede further with each step she took. Plenty of time. After all, she had this down to the second. Perhaps. Pale filigree-like fingers pushed against the tall doors to the ballroom.
Catherine smiled to the thick throngs of party-goers, pushing passed them to get closer to the large crystal grandfather clock with steampunk metallic hands pointing out the time. Three minutes. Plucking the ornament out of her hair, she shakes her tresses out. The tip of the hair pin hides in her palm with only the smallest point peeking out--invisible, hidden in the folds of her dress that she clutched in her hand. "S'xuse-moi." Squeezing her frame between two Ventrue, she pushed passed a Toreador next, smiling back in apology as she accidentally stepped on the woman's train. Not something that would be quickly forgiven. If ever. "Pardon, excuse moi." Her hand squeezed the shoulder of a Brujah, whose burly frame moved to the side to let her pass. Her eyes sparkled like jems in their holiday awe, still locked on the impressive avant-guard clock. Brushing passed a man in a white suit, the tiniest movement thrust the tip of the hair pin forward for a second. Keep moving, don't look back. Do not move faster, and whatever you do, for the love of Caine, don't do anything that might make you stick out in someone's memory too much. Just enough, but never too much. She kept moving forward.
Ah, there he was. Of course. Catherine smiled at Aidan--her partner in crime--who looked delighted to see her there as he walked up to her. "Bonsoir, ma belle! Bonne Année!" She kissed him on the cheek-left, right, left, her hands skirting over his chest and down to the waistband of his pants where she tucked the hair pin between the material of his shirt and waistband. "Bonne Année, Aidan!" Her hands slid from under the open Tuxedo jacket. "We will have to catch up at the after party!" He nodded and waved back as he started across the room in the opposite direction. Another Tremere crossed his path and bumped against him as a woman dancing to the music 'accidentally' took a step back and pushed the Tremere into Aidan . "Woaw. Désolé." She yelled over the music. "Je vous en prie." He replied with an amicable smile as he stopped to speak with Gillian, a Toreador he recognized and did not realize would be attending. She had an annoying way of staring at his hair as the lights bounced off it. Something about the certain shimmer of brown in his hair. Ridiculous. "Gillian, as always, the grace and beauty you exude rivals the ability of even the best artist to properly capture." Well, she'd be a proper alibi, nonetheless.
The 'hair pin' was no longer in his waistband. It was being deposited into a glass standing on a waiters tray. Now, it looked like a harmless drink mixer. The "waiter" picked up the tray and walked into the kitchen, placing the 'hair pin' into a white handkerchief and down the garbage chute. Upon it's arrival to the refuse bin, another hand snatched it away, walking down the hallway quickly. He glances over his shoulder before slipping into the boiler room. By the time Catherine reached the clock, the pin was further than eight degrees of separation. Giddy with anticipation, she clapped her hands together once as she marveled at the crystal clock counting down the time. With another glance, she turned around and started swimming through the waves of Kindred to get to the side door, ignoring the commotion far behind her that was starting to grow louder than the music.
"Ten! Nine!" Something was happening. Catherine counted down with those around her. "Eight!" A tight circle started to form on the opposite side of the room. "What's happening to him!" Antoine Gautier, Toreador Primogen and counselor to the Prince of Paris, clutched at his chest with fingers that clawed at his skin like talons of a bird. His blood was turning black in his veins that stood against his pale skin. Falling to the ground, his screams rose above the thumping bass, but not quite above the din of the countdown. "Seven, six!" Catherine picked up a crystal glass off a tray and toasted to those around her before moving toward the door. Antoine's skin broke and the veins split open down the middle, spilling the black acidic blood over the floor. Splashing on the shoes of a curiosity seeker who stepped forward when everyone else stepped back, it burned right through the sole. My, she sure did scream loudly as the black oil-like blood seeped through her skin and into her bloodstream. The diva dropped to the ground and began shaking. "Five, four, three!" Slipping out the door, Catherine walked down the hallway, missing the festivities-pity. Her dress swished as she sashayed passed a set of doors in the east wing of the Château being held open for her by two ghouls.
A man sat calmly at a wood table whose legs were craved into lithe lions, eyeing through some papers in front of him and lost in concentration. Catherine set the crystal champage flute filled with vitae in front of him, having only moments ago dispensed with the holiday happiness bullshit. "Happy New Year, darling." Her smile curled her lip like a ribbon. His gaze shifted to the wall in front of him. "Were you successful?" He demanded calmly. She leaned over his shoulder to whisper into his ear. "Congratulations, I do believe you will be promoted this year." Catherine spied the Red Tiger's Eye runes--dotted with blood--placed in each corner of the room. Auspex blocker. Yes, that was elementary among this lot.
He did look back at her then, cold blue eyes softened by the satisfied smile on his face. "You've done well."
"And you will never believe what happened!" She began with insincere disbelief, as if she hadn't heard him. "Those wretched Assamites and their Nergali." Marc's smile stiffened. He asked her to take care of it. He did not want to know how. "Tell me no more." Yet her goal was achieved. Yes, Nergal. Let him wonder. Catherine sprawled out on the pale blue chaise while Marc's hands tightened over the wooden arm of his chair, a sudden look of concern on his sharp features as he rose out of it "Dammit Catherine, will it spread?" Sometimes he wondered if the hate in her would become so poisonous as to make her the mother of their mutual wanton destruction. Every act grew bigger, more nefarious and all encompassing. Gone was the assuredness that she would always act with measured, cold, restrained action. "Only if they are stupid enough to let it." That did not help and she noticed the growing displeasure on his face. "Relax, my dear. Relax. As we speak,Tristan is offering his services to get rid of the clever little plague. The warnings you have been giving our beloved and yet ever so paranoid Prince about an Assamite plot to end his unlife will only be reinforced by this. The rest, it is up to you." Catherine draped her hand over the side of the chaise. "I do believe that it is safe to say that I have set the domino's up to fall."
Her eyes narrowed a bit at Marc as she got up and slowly walked to him. "So this what you really wanted? Or shall I prepare myself to help overthrow the Toreador regime in Paris?" She quipped with a smile, before something clicked and her lips slightly parted. "That's what you are planning, isn't it? Why else would you be so concerned with Camerilla politics?"
Marc said nothing, but shook his head and awarded her a wisp of a smile, while walking to the closed door. "Shall we? There is still much to do." Oh, the bastard was good at stringing her along. Catherine smiled back but her voice was as sharp as a razors edge. "Not so fast. Are you forgetting something?" He considered a moment, pretending not to know what she was referring to. "No, I don't think so? Why?" Her face grew tempestuous. It was fun to watch. "Oh, you mean the trifle matter we had discussed?"
Catherine raised a brow. He was screwing with her. Yes, this was familiar. "Yes, that." His ghouls entered the room and collected the runes from the corners. Marc began walking out, leaving Catherine brooding angrily with her nails digging into her palms. Stopping, he turned back, freezing her in the arctic beam of his eyes. "Congratulations, I do believe that you will be promoted this year." He repeated her words while considering others carefully. "Catherine," he began slowly. "This...promotion...it behooves me to warn you: bibere venenum in auro."
It is like drinking poison from a golden chalice.
Catherine smiled. Of course he would think so. "Nihil aliud scit necessitas quam vincere." She answered, leaving him to ponder what she could possibly mean by necessity knows nothing else but victory and yet, not currently interested enough to figure it out.
"Catherine!" Yelled out Amanda Gilles, rushing toward her with the shirt of her gown bunched up in her hand. Her eyes were filled with fear. Disgusting. "Amanda? What is it?" Catherine allowed herself to be pulled through the hallway. "Did you not hear? Antoine Gautier was killed. " She whispered through clenched teeth as if to say it out loud meant that one was guilty. "What?" Catherine feigned surprise. "Here?" Amanda nodded. "You must come. It was some sort of...I don't even know. I've never seen anything like it, but we must go! We have to get out of here!" Catherine ran with Amanda. Other Kindred had started for the doors too, their eyes round with fear and eying each other with suspicion.
Catherine looked over her shoulder to the crowded halls. They were all trying to get out. Her eyes met Aidan's over the waves of Kindred. There was a spark of exhilaration in them. They had done it! Catherine realized that the real danger would follow.
"Monstrous." Declared Amanda about the incident. Catherine nodded, without even a wisp of a smile to give the game away. "Come, quickly, we must keep moving and you must tell me <i>everything</i> that you saw."
