08-26-2013, 03:01 PM
The foremost ghoul that comes survived the siege with less in the way of visible wounds than the castle itself. The most noticeable corresponds in nature to a common Sabbat method of attack: Fire.
Burn scarring behind her ear. A patch that runs the length where wisps of hair that escaped her precise bun of red locks should be. White icing skin gives the hairline an unpredictably jagged border. It disappears down the nape of her neck and under the light off-white blouse she wears beneath a black tweed jacket and pencil skirt. That neck has a pulse and probably tells Grey most of what he needs to know about the woman, but she starts talking back anyway.
"Welcome to Richthofen Castle. My name is Estelle Burnhouse," looking down at the bat and shaking her head, "and that won't be necessary,"continuing where the now-silent gatehouse's attendant left off prior to her arrival.
When Gray asks for a pat down he is obliged by her less-vocal accompaniment. A tall and dark-skinned man with his wavy hair combed and greased back and a stout brunette woman with her hair buzzed short under a black beret.
Uniforms, check. They wear black and the cut and style are homogenous. Hidden weaponry, (maybe) check, and an unhidden armament as well. Sidearms in quick draw holsters and whatever hides in the buttoned leather pouches of their duty rigs. How aware they are of what guest they deal with is anyone's guess, but there are pieces in their ears and the gentleman guard is more polite in his pat down than Grey might be accustomed to when those wielding what they believe is power deal with those of his...
Socioeconomic status.
Or apparent socioeconomic status. Because he is polite about it, focusing on his chest and sides, his ankles and underarms, and their fingers are expert enough they do not need to grope. Know it is counterproductive to a proper search.
Following the search for contraband Estelle returns to his original statement of purpose.
"The throne?" As if she had been there when he first arrived. But she wasn't. Not physically. The black eye of a camera above must hear as well as it sees.
"That may well lighten Prince Rasmussen's mood, Sir Gray," she says with a finely tuned smile and a nod.
"Please, follow me," into the keep. At its foyer is where the two guards break off.
Past the clear plastic (coated with the dust of construction) obscuring the great hall, down a corridor (past a sitting room and library), and on deeper into the castle down fifteen or so steps (past the kitchen). What might have once been the entrance to a wine cellar is now outfitted with a vault door already swung open.
Past and to the side of this chamber's entrance there stands a wrought iron spike of a similar makeup and coloring to those outside the castle, atop the walls and comprising the gate. Embedded into the stone floor and with a skull on the business end still dripping with dissolving flesh from within and outside it. Something seems to be missing from the gruesome piece... Bugs. None in sight or upon it.
Estelle's pace doesn't slow as they pass what remains of a Nosferatu Elder turned antitribu so how much time Grey takes (or doesn't take) to notice it depends on how far behind he wishes to stray. The chamber is actually a mezzanine overlooking a large cavern cut out of rock.
Their destination sits suspended above. The war room is accessible through a glass-encased catwalk from the mezzanine.
There looks to be a table and chairs and a number of blank-black television screens with that underlying glow telling they are ready for use when prompted.
White painted metal stairways lead to the opening below, where (all similarly white painted) server farms, sealed units shaped like storage containers, lockers, and other structures of less-obvious nature are hung with works of art and laid out beside antique furniture in an eclectic fusion of the modern and far-from-it. Whatever color the Colorado stone should be, the treatment that wards off mildew and moisture leaves it a uniform (you guesses it) white, though the erratic shadows leave it seeming a swirl of muddled grays.
That catwalk is as far as Estelle gets to the war room, and as far as Gray will get without pushing onward. Which would be difficult when a gentleman in a deep navy denim jean shirt, sleeves rolled up, and light khaki trousers fills the walkway.
Estelle's Prince Rasmussen, the younger Brujah can probably guess, the way her stance suddenly becomes deferential. It isn't difficult to imagine many react to the man in such a way. Hale and well over six feet tall, strapping despite the pallor the age of his vampirism have brought to his form. Indeed his Dutch features seem to compliment it. A chiseled jaw, a light five-o'clock shadow, dirty blond hair pushed back with a little length to it. The centerpiece of his face might be its broad and crooked nose if it weren't for his eyes, a forehead thick like a leather catcher's mitt that casting them in a shadowy deep ocean blue thanks to the overhead lighting of the undercastle.
"Sir Gray, allow me to present Prince Helmer Rasmussen, Lord of Richthofen Castle," and then in a change of title, she turns to Helmer. "Master Rasmussen, Sir Gray has requested an audience."
"He has it," the Prince returns and something familiar in the tone must tells Estelle she can leave, because she does. The clack-click-clack of short heels on the smooth granite floor carrying her away as Rasmussen waits for Gray to begin talking to someone who can surely talk back.
Burn scarring behind her ear. A patch that runs the length where wisps of hair that escaped her precise bun of red locks should be. White icing skin gives the hairline an unpredictably jagged border. It disappears down the nape of her neck and under the light off-white blouse she wears beneath a black tweed jacket and pencil skirt. That neck has a pulse and probably tells Grey most of what he needs to know about the woman, but she starts talking back anyway.
"Welcome to Richthofen Castle. My name is Estelle Burnhouse," looking down at the bat and shaking her head, "and that won't be necessary,"continuing where the now-silent gatehouse's attendant left off prior to her arrival.
When Gray asks for a pat down he is obliged by her less-vocal accompaniment. A tall and dark-skinned man with his wavy hair combed and greased back and a stout brunette woman with her hair buzzed short under a black beret.
Uniforms, check. They wear black and the cut and style are homogenous. Hidden weaponry, (maybe) check, and an unhidden armament as well. Sidearms in quick draw holsters and whatever hides in the buttoned leather pouches of their duty rigs. How aware they are of what guest they deal with is anyone's guess, but there are pieces in their ears and the gentleman guard is more polite in his pat down than Grey might be accustomed to when those wielding what they believe is power deal with those of his...
Socioeconomic status.
Or apparent socioeconomic status. Because he is polite about it, focusing on his chest and sides, his ankles and underarms, and their fingers are expert enough they do not need to grope. Know it is counterproductive to a proper search.
Following the search for contraband Estelle returns to his original statement of purpose.
"The throne?" As if she had been there when he first arrived. But she wasn't. Not physically. The black eye of a camera above must hear as well as it sees.
"That may well lighten Prince Rasmussen's mood, Sir Gray," she says with a finely tuned smile and a nod.
"Please, follow me," into the keep. At its foyer is where the two guards break off.
Past the clear plastic (coated with the dust of construction) obscuring the great hall, down a corridor (past a sitting room and library), and on deeper into the castle down fifteen or so steps (past the kitchen). What might have once been the entrance to a wine cellar is now outfitted with a vault door already swung open.
Past and to the side of this chamber's entrance there stands a wrought iron spike of a similar makeup and coloring to those outside the castle, atop the walls and comprising the gate. Embedded into the stone floor and with a skull on the business end still dripping with dissolving flesh from within and outside it. Something seems to be missing from the gruesome piece... Bugs. None in sight or upon it.
Estelle's pace doesn't slow as they pass what remains of a Nosferatu Elder turned antitribu so how much time Grey takes (or doesn't take) to notice it depends on how far behind he wishes to stray. The chamber is actually a mezzanine overlooking a large cavern cut out of rock.
Their destination sits suspended above. The war room is accessible through a glass-encased catwalk from the mezzanine.
There looks to be a table and chairs and a number of blank-black television screens with that underlying glow telling they are ready for use when prompted.
White painted metal stairways lead to the opening below, where (all similarly white painted) server farms, sealed units shaped like storage containers, lockers, and other structures of less-obvious nature are hung with works of art and laid out beside antique furniture in an eclectic fusion of the modern and far-from-it. Whatever color the Colorado stone should be, the treatment that wards off mildew and moisture leaves it a uniform (you guesses it) white, though the erratic shadows leave it seeming a swirl of muddled grays.
That catwalk is as far as Estelle gets to the war room, and as far as Gray will get without pushing onward. Which would be difficult when a gentleman in a deep navy denim jean shirt, sleeves rolled up, and light khaki trousers fills the walkway.
Estelle's Prince Rasmussen, the younger Brujah can probably guess, the way her stance suddenly becomes deferential. It isn't difficult to imagine many react to the man in such a way. Hale and well over six feet tall, strapping despite the pallor the age of his vampirism have brought to his form. Indeed his Dutch features seem to compliment it. A chiseled jaw, a light five-o'clock shadow, dirty blond hair pushed back with a little length to it. The centerpiece of his face might be its broad and crooked nose if it weren't for his eyes, a forehead thick like a leather catcher's mitt that casting them in a shadowy deep ocean blue thanks to the overhead lighting of the undercastle.
"Sir Gray, allow me to present Prince Helmer Rasmussen, Lord of Richthofen Castle," and then in a change of title, she turns to Helmer. "Master Rasmussen, Sir Gray has requested an audience."
"He has it," the Prince returns and something familiar in the tone must tells Estelle she can leave, because she does. The clack-click-clack of short heels on the smooth granite floor carrying her away as Rasmussen waits for Gray to begin talking to someone who can surely talk back.