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jezebelinhellParis, France
Centre national d'art et de culture Georges Pompidou
Modern times with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyanguissette
Catherine de Volages tilted her head to the side, forcing some of the dark chocolate ringlets craftily piled on top of her head to spill down the left side of her face.
So this is what is passing for art these days. The acidic thoughts bounced around in her head as she sighed, feeling the necessity to fake having to drawn in breath in order to manifest her displeasure. If only she had gone to the Musée d'Orsay to view the exhibition on Probable and Improbable Paris: Architectural Drawings of the 19th century. Although her sharp mind could recall nearly every innovation, as it, indeed, enraptured both mortal and Kindred alike, she would rather spend her evening walking among real art instead of this heathen example of horse shite coloured paint smeared thickly on a white canvas. This thing masqueraded around as art so flagrantly, so brazen in its injustice, that Catherine was forced to ripe her eyes away before she accidentally set it on fire with only her glare, thus succeeding in ripping away her own masquerade. If only she actually had that ability to drew fire from her hands.
"Champagne?" The waiter wearing a freshly pressed tuxedo offered her a flute made of crystal. Odd coloured emerald eyes lazily walked over to the sound of the voice before they connected with the mortal's face. Blowing out a steady stream of cigarette smoke into his eyes, she watched them water as he coughed on the noxious fumes. A slick smile spread on her red lips. "Pardonnez-moi, Madame," cough, cough, "but there is no smoking in the gallery." As if she did not know. "Is there not?" Catherine feigned surprise, however, the sarcasm leeching into her voice like a corrosive poison as her brows lifted. "Oh, je suis désolé." The cigarette came down, missing the tray by half an inch and catching the man's thumb in an impromptu use of an ashtray. Catherine twisted and turned the butt into the flesh, grating out the end with a sizzling snuff. Skin singed in an angry cry of pain as the burnt blood wafted out, only slightly, through her nostrils. It enticed others of her predicament.
Gritting his teeth, the waiter threw a linen napkin over his thumb, pressing down on it as he balanced the tray and strode angrily through the doors. Even as he entered the men's room, she could hear him cursing at her. It made her smile wider.
"Catherine. Do you think that you might behave like someone who belongs here tonight?" Questioned Marc, her Sire. He was cold like the arctic wind with blue eyes that looked like they were chiseled from ice, yet that only made him, in the words of the modern street slang, 'hot'. He leaned in to whisper into her ear. "After all, it is rather unbecoming of you to act like a spoiled childe."
She scoffed under her breath lightly and turned to look at him with a syrupy sweet, fake, smile. "I am bored and it hardly seems as if my time is being utilized cleverly. Why have you brought me here?"
Appearing to sip on his champagne, Marc looked over to her with the tiniest of smirks. "Believe it or not, Catherine, you are here to enjoy yourself. Do you think that you can do that for me this evening?"
What? WHAT! This was punishment. By the look of the small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, he knew this was punishment, if clearly even torture, and he was enjoying it. "Goodbye Marc." She returned flatly, her smile having melted like a icing left in the sun. The black taffeta gown rustled around her as she turned to step away and leave, but he grabbed her elbow and drew her closer to him, to face him. "We are here in a show of support to our Toreador Camerilla allies."
With their support I will be made Prince of this city one night. You know how difficult it is for this to occur in a Toreador dominated city. He finished off without uttering a syllable from his mouth. So go do what you do best and find out if there is talk of any problems with my ascension. She could not understand why he bothered with talk of joining the ranks of the Camerilla. Was being the Lord of a swathe of France within the Tremere not enough? No. Even she would agree that the world was not enough. But why not ascend up the pyramid? What was he planning? Again.
You could have just said so and spared me the mental anguish. She answered, her gaze lingering on his as she walked away to do his bidding, loyally, and mingle with the crowd, to hear what they said, to query, investigate and fall back on the very reason that they turned her. A courtesan had always been the best spy, everyone knew this, but they were too charmed to remember why it mattered.
Finally, after endless conversations with the night coterie, she came to stand beside a woman. Mortal. After all, tonight's event was a mixed society. Some Kindred had to eat, after all. Catherine gazed up at the painting the woman might have been looking at and then back at her. "I'm afraid that no matter how long you look at it, it will not get any better. Malheureusement." The woman was much more pleasant to look at.
"Champagne?" she asked, holding out the flute that she did not take a sip from yet. "Renoir once said, 'the pain passes, but the beauty remains'. Somehow, I do not think that he had the foresight to imagine anything quite like this. Had he, I am sure he would have changed his mind. I am in pain each time that my eyes gaze upon this monstrosity. Perhaps the champagne will dull your own." Catherine finished dramatically, keeping her voice low enough to impart a greater disgust on the piece she tried not to look at.
Centre national d'art et de culture Georges Pompidou
Modern times with
ladyanguissette Catherine de Volages tilted her head to the side, forcing some of the dark chocolate ringlets craftily piled on top of her head to spill down the left side of her face.
So this is what is passing for art these days. The acidic thoughts bounced around in her head as she sighed, feeling the necessity to fake having to drawn in breath in order to manifest her displeasure. If only she had gone to the Musée d'Orsay to view the exhibition on Probable and Improbable Paris: Architectural Drawings of the 19th century. Although her sharp mind could recall nearly every innovation, as it, indeed, enraptured both mortal and Kindred alike, she would rather spend her evening walking among real art instead of this heathen example of horse shite coloured paint smeared thickly on a white canvas. This thing masqueraded around as art so flagrantly, so brazen in its injustice, that Catherine was forced to ripe her eyes away before she accidentally set it on fire with only her glare, thus succeeding in ripping away her own masquerade. If only she actually had that ability to drew fire from her hands.
"Champagne?" The waiter wearing a freshly pressed tuxedo offered her a flute made of crystal. Odd coloured emerald eyes lazily walked over to the sound of the voice before they connected with the mortal's face. Blowing out a steady stream of cigarette smoke into his eyes, she watched them water as he coughed on the noxious fumes. A slick smile spread on her red lips. "Pardonnez-moi, Madame," cough, cough, "but there is no smoking in the gallery." As if she did not know. "Is there not?" Catherine feigned surprise, however, the sarcasm leeching into her voice like a corrosive poison as her brows lifted. "Oh, je suis désolé." The cigarette came down, missing the tray by half an inch and catching the man's thumb in an impromptu use of an ashtray. Catherine twisted and turned the butt into the flesh, grating out the end with a sizzling snuff. Skin singed in an angry cry of pain as the burnt blood wafted out, only slightly, through her nostrils. It enticed others of her predicament.
Gritting his teeth, the waiter threw a linen napkin over his thumb, pressing down on it as he balanced the tray and strode angrily through the doors. Even as he entered the men's room, she could hear him cursing at her. It made her smile wider.
"Catherine. Do you think that you might behave like someone who belongs here tonight?" Questioned Marc, her Sire. He was cold like the arctic wind with blue eyes that looked like they were chiseled from ice, yet that only made him, in the words of the modern street slang, 'hot'. He leaned in to whisper into her ear. "After all, it is rather unbecoming of you to act like a spoiled childe."
She scoffed under her breath lightly and turned to look at him with a syrupy sweet, fake, smile. "I am bored and it hardly seems as if my time is being utilized cleverly. Why have you brought me here?"
Appearing to sip on his champagne, Marc looked over to her with the tiniest of smirks. "Believe it or not, Catherine, you are here to enjoy yourself. Do you think that you can do that for me this evening?"
What? WHAT! This was punishment. By the look of the small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, he knew this was punishment, if clearly even torture, and he was enjoying it. "Goodbye Marc." She returned flatly, her smile having melted like a icing left in the sun. The black taffeta gown rustled around her as she turned to step away and leave, but he grabbed her elbow and drew her closer to him, to face him. "We are here in a show of support to our Toreador Camerilla allies."
With their support I will be made Prince of this city one night. You know how difficult it is for this to occur in a Toreador dominated city. He finished off without uttering a syllable from his mouth. So go do what you do best and find out if there is talk of any problems with my ascension. She could not understand why he bothered with talk of joining the ranks of the Camerilla. Was being the Lord of a swathe of France within the Tremere not enough? No. Even she would agree that the world was not enough. But why not ascend up the pyramid? What was he planning? Again.
You could have just said so and spared me the mental anguish. She answered, her gaze lingering on his as she walked away to do his bidding, loyally, and mingle with the crowd, to hear what they said, to query, investigate and fall back on the very reason that they turned her. A courtesan had always been the best spy, everyone knew this, but they were too charmed to remember why it mattered.
Finally, after endless conversations with the night coterie, she came to stand beside a woman. Mortal. After all, tonight's event was a mixed society. Some Kindred had to eat, after all. Catherine gazed up at the painting the woman might have been looking at and then back at her. "I'm afraid that no matter how long you look at it, it will not get any better. Malheureusement." The woman was much more pleasant to look at.
"Champagne?" she asked, holding out the flute that she did not take a sip from yet. "Renoir once said, 'the pain passes, but the beauty remains'. Somehow, I do not think that he had the foresight to imagine anything quite like this. Had he, I am sure he would have changed his mind. I am in pain each time that my eyes gaze upon this monstrosity. Perhaps the champagne will dull your own." Catherine finished dramatically, keeping her voice low enough to impart a greater disgust on the piece she tried not to look at.
