06-25-2013, 09:48 AM
"Quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue?" Lucille's tone is inquisitive as she gives the idiom in its French incarnation: Speak of the wolf, one sees its tail. Is this what the Kindred believes? The Toreador seems to inquire with successive shifts in her visage, first amused, then light scoffing before her head turns a degree and an eyebrow rises. Surly not. It immediately transitions to one of further fret for the woman.
"Ma Chatte, they are a reality we must come to terms with," the accent of her English words hold the lightest of Francophonic accent. It is obvious she is practiced enough with the former language that the latter may simply be affectation, even as she oscillates between the two.
"To not use a name? To fear a word? Would give them more power than they have already taken. I ask for the car to be pulled around when I want to go to the theater – actually, I simply say I wish to go to the theater and the car is there," a clipped laugh as she finishes with the sidebar.
"And I invoke the Sabbat name when I want to reference the barbarians at the walls," saying that S word again. When she is through another light laugh that is as melodic as a violin solo and cuts through the interior of Richthofen with just as much power.
Of course, she has also entirely shifted their dialogue from one of Hell to a more temporal threat.
Lucille takes a few graceful strides from the front chamber to the next, and then turns back to look at Cat again. Her own facade of polite patience seems to be cracking at its corners. "Oh, we are talking about what is proper now, are we? You must accept my apology, Lady Cat. This conversation has taken so many turns, and I seem unable to follow it at your pace."
Cat minds her Ps and Qs, though. And Lucille looks down to the next room before glancing back again.
"But if you'll only follow me, Rasmussen awaits in the great hall," walking again.
And the Brujah Primogen does wait. Whether or not he is truly the interim Prince, is a topic of quiet debate outside of Elysium, though he has yet to actually invoke the praxis it entails. Yet to wonder publicly at the fate of Winthrop, as many others have, he instead consistently steers the topic of conversation toward more practical ones of weathering and winning the Siege. One might argue naming Elysium and its Keeper, enforcing the Traditions and governing the remaining forces of the Camarilla, is more than enough. Leave it to a Brujah to go about governing in such an unorthodox way.
Helmer is entirely different from Isaac. Where the former embraced the title and its trappings, he can now be found sitting in the great hall, in one of its high backed chair, a leg crossed over the other and a book held open before him with its spine pinched between his thumb and index finger. The layer of blue linen over its hard cover is emblazoned along the spine in silver gilding with the name of its author, Plutarch. He places a pencil into the book as Lucille approaches, setting it on the stout end table beside the chair and standing.
What Rasmussen doesn't possess in noble bearing most agree he makes up for in sheer force of presence. His eyes hold a baby blue brightness few Kindred of his age manage to retain. She might have expected him to be tall, but he is more than that word entails. Towering. Strapping. Hale. A nose with a slight crook to its lower three-quarters that says it has been broken at least once. A jaw and brow that disagree, no, far more than once.
At the outset of the Siege, many say, Rasmussen found his place in modern nights.
"Thank you, Lucille," not drawn out. In fact it's almost dismissive, as if the fact he could hear the length (if not the content) of the Toreador's exchange with Cat, and that was enough to try his own patience, and it wanes even more quickly. Where Richthofen's interior is at times cut with an uneasy tension that is difficult to imbibe, Rasmussen caries himself with the no-nonsense bearing of a Kindred focused on transforming that tension into something more useful. This is where the last part of Cat's statement 'I was meant to see Rasmussen. The Rabble,' may have missed the mark. His arms rest before him, his suit rumpling just a bit at its shoulders, as one hand grabs the other's wrist just below his waist.
The Brujah seems to be waiting for Cat to speak.
"Ma Chatte, they are a reality we must come to terms with," the accent of her English words hold the lightest of Francophonic accent. It is obvious she is practiced enough with the former language that the latter may simply be affectation, even as she oscillates between the two.
"To not use a name? To fear a word? Would give them more power than they have already taken. I ask for the car to be pulled around when I want to go to the theater – actually, I simply say I wish to go to the theater and the car is there," a clipped laugh as she finishes with the sidebar.
"And I invoke the Sabbat name when I want to reference the barbarians at the walls," saying that S word again. When she is through another light laugh that is as melodic as a violin solo and cuts through the interior of Richthofen with just as much power.
Of course, she has also entirely shifted their dialogue from one of Hell to a more temporal threat.
Lucille takes a few graceful strides from the front chamber to the next, and then turns back to look at Cat again. Her own facade of polite patience seems to be cracking at its corners. "Oh, we are talking about what is proper now, are we? You must accept my apology, Lady Cat. This conversation has taken so many turns, and I seem unable to follow it at your pace."
Cat minds her Ps and Qs, though. And Lucille looks down to the next room before glancing back again.
"But if you'll only follow me, Rasmussen awaits in the great hall," walking again.
And the Brujah Primogen does wait. Whether or not he is truly the interim Prince, is a topic of quiet debate outside of Elysium, though he has yet to actually invoke the praxis it entails. Yet to wonder publicly at the fate of Winthrop, as many others have, he instead consistently steers the topic of conversation toward more practical ones of weathering and winning the Siege. One might argue naming Elysium and its Keeper, enforcing the Traditions and governing the remaining forces of the Camarilla, is more than enough. Leave it to a Brujah to go about governing in such an unorthodox way.
Helmer is entirely different from Isaac. Where the former embraced the title and its trappings, he can now be found sitting in the great hall, in one of its high backed chair, a leg crossed over the other and a book held open before him with its spine pinched between his thumb and index finger. The layer of blue linen over its hard cover is emblazoned along the spine in silver gilding with the name of its author, Plutarch. He places a pencil into the book as Lucille approaches, setting it on the stout end table beside the chair and standing.
What Rasmussen doesn't possess in noble bearing most agree he makes up for in sheer force of presence. His eyes hold a baby blue brightness few Kindred of his age manage to retain. She might have expected him to be tall, but he is more than that word entails. Towering. Strapping. Hale. A nose with a slight crook to its lower three-quarters that says it has been broken at least once. A jaw and brow that disagree, no, far more than once.
At the outset of the Siege, many say, Rasmussen found his place in modern nights.
"Thank you, Lucille," not drawn out. In fact it's almost dismissive, as if the fact he could hear the length (if not the content) of the Toreador's exchange with Cat, and that was enough to try his own patience, and it wanes even more quickly. Where Richthofen's interior is at times cut with an uneasy tension that is difficult to imbibe, Rasmussen caries himself with the no-nonsense bearing of a Kindred focused on transforming that tension into something more useful. This is where the last part of Cat's statement 'I was meant to see Rasmussen. The Rabble,' may have missed the mark. His arms rest before him, his suit rumpling just a bit at its shoulders, as one hand grabs the other's wrist just below his waist.
The Brujah seems to be waiting for Cat to speak.