06-24-2013, 11:25 PM
Maybe it's because they are playing for keeps. Maybe that's why they call this place a keep. And what is at stake reveals itself within the stone facade. On the other side of those heavy oak doors, opened by servants with faces that don't matter and no one that she sees even looks at, the interior drips with Old World history. Four walls, past more open doors to four walls, and onward to four more that seem to go on forever into the great hall on the main floor, each successive layer decked with this artifact and that piece of artwork, this handcrafted chair and that polished table.
All this despite the Toreador Primogen's effort to add an elegance and a contemporary flair to its overstuffed luxury.
There is something for everyone (but the minimalist) in this bastion of the Ivory Tower. And any who do not wish to lay their eyes on art have another stunning form that yearns to be appreciated. That Toreador, Lucille, stands in the antechamber on the other side of that front door, like a hostess awaiting her guests.
Strike that. Guest.
And yes, Lucille's presence is striking. Where Cat had wondered if they spend all their time cooped up in this stronghold, she certainly does seem to carry herself like the Lady of the Manor (Keeper of Elysium).
She had been promised Master Rasmussen and presented instead with this expatriate of Dampierre.
Cat would remember her as once standing at the periphery of Winthrop's court, perhaps in the shadow of her sire and Denver's Seneschal, Lourene. Now she takes center stage at the front door, a full smile spreading between her lips to greet of the other Kindred. The woman wears a dress of silvered silk, her skin tone brightened to hammered bronze by the fabric. It is one single sheet, the stuff of heavens structured in symmetric tailored lines to make her look garbed in clouded crystal and sterling depending on from what angle the lighting strikes the gown.
"Now, now, now. We have enough fire and brimstone from the Sabbat at our door, my dear. Let us sit and talk of what Hell has opened, and we'll see what sense can be made of your story," her words telling that she had heard all Cat had said before the Malkavian even crossed the threshold. Her hands do not hang idly at her side, but instead rise with flat palms to usher (without touching) the madwoman deeper into Elysium. Coddling, caretaking or patronizing depends on how Cat decides to take it.
All this despite the Toreador Primogen's effort to add an elegance and a contemporary flair to its overstuffed luxury.
There is something for everyone (but the minimalist) in this bastion of the Ivory Tower. And any who do not wish to lay their eyes on art have another stunning form that yearns to be appreciated. That Toreador, Lucille, stands in the antechamber on the other side of that front door, like a hostess awaiting her guests.
Strike that. Guest.
And yes, Lucille's presence is striking. Where Cat had wondered if they spend all their time cooped up in this stronghold, she certainly does seem to carry herself like the Lady of the Manor (Keeper of Elysium).
She had been promised Master Rasmussen and presented instead with this expatriate of Dampierre.
Cat would remember her as once standing at the periphery of Winthrop's court, perhaps in the shadow of her sire and Denver's Seneschal, Lourene. Now she takes center stage at the front door, a full smile spreading between her lips to greet of the other Kindred. The woman wears a dress of silvered silk, her skin tone brightened to hammered bronze by the fabric. It is one single sheet, the stuff of heavens structured in symmetric tailored lines to make her look garbed in clouded crystal and sterling depending on from what angle the lighting strikes the gown.
"Now, now, now. We have enough fire and brimstone from the Sabbat at our door, my dear. Let us sit and talk of what Hell has opened, and we'll see what sense can be made of your story," her words telling that she had heard all Cat had said before the Malkavian even crossed the threshold. Her hands do not hang idly at her side, but instead rise with flat palms to usher (without touching) the madwoman deeper into Elysium. Coddling, caretaking or patronizing depends on how Cat decides to take it.