flower of carnage [august 2nd, 3rd, 4th]
#1
August 2nd.

It was Edward -

she said it with certainty, each word edged. Absolutely no convincing her otherwise, not with her pupils that black and that large, not with her hair that loose, haloing that pale-fine face, not with that furious and lovely stillness.

- it was fucking Edward. I'm going to give him a call tomorrow night.

Then - and then - fingers curling into her palm, fists sharp -

or, no. But her voice had been become smoke-soft, a shadow on silk: Not tomorrow night. Tomorrow night Everett and I are going to see noblesse oblige wielding the sceptre. Johnny, I'll let you know who they install. Unless you're going? Tch. I don't blame you, but I must know.

--

August 3rd.

The gruesome truth is a malamute rent from -- the conventional phrase is 'limb from limb.' But it wasn't truly rent limb from limb. It was limb from torso, and head from throat (or nearly), and the dog's belly has been savaged. How flat the dog looks, dead and in pieces, its fur a pale slick among shadows and gore. The dog's nose points that-a-way, where Everett Stone met his Final End. Everett Stone. He doesn't look pretty now, perhaps because the quick dessication has begun to set in -- perhaps because nobody looks pretty with half their head blown off.

How it happened, whether it was a Nosferatu-antitribu who came from behind, whether it was a straying bullet from the battle-over-there, whether the malamute tried to attack the Nosferatu-antitribu and was rent apart for its trouble, or maybe it was a City Gangrel, or maybe

The gruesome truth
is the result.

How it happened doesn't matter. The rest is details and devils and the devils are busy elsewhere right now.

But not Lux. Lux returned once rötschreck [the red fear not because fire is red but because it is the color the mind becomes behind closed eyelids the color of the certain knowledge of devastation and destruction of the pain of becoming ash of the seraphim's swords licking flesh away to crack open the Cainites sweet marrow the red fear because it is red behind the eyelids and it is red at the heart because red is Day's bloodiest color] allowed her to. Not conquered, truly, not mastered, because her courage had failed, and she will not forgive it for giving in and obliterating her chance to fight [Rebellion] on her own terms [Rebellion], or to see what happened to her allies, or to see what happened to her enemies.

Lux was a loyal and [fun?] steadfast ally.
Lux was a devoted [fun?] and intractable enemy.
Subordination was where the trouble set in.

So. Lux returned though the Keep was ablaze, the Brujah Prince a-fighting, the Sabbat a relentless and careless and fuck them anyway enemy, and somewhere in that return, she discovered Wolf and followed the pieces of Wolf to Everett Stone who was Finally Dead, and see look. Lux sinks into a crouch next to the Brujah's remains, balancing so her heels aren't touching the ground. Pale profile, but blood-splattered, blood everywhere except the interior of her knife hand, the pale kiss of veins through a delicate wrist. Look, see, she how she closes her eyes, how her lashes lie dark against pale cheekbones, how the shadows they cast are beauty, beauty, and how grief doesn't need salt-tears, how it can be expressed [--and bind a heart, restrain a hand, compelling] like this. Lux has learned how to be sad without crying, and it is no less.

The sirens are wailing. They always wail in the city, in these modern nights. They've got no class, just grief, and grief, and grief. The red and blue lights flashing through the smoke and the smoke is in her hair.

"Stone. I hope you're happy. Idiot," she says, sadly, opening her eyes again, shifting the balance of her weight forward so she can pick through his pockets until she wins the keys to his 2008 Ford F-150, though not before she finds a pack of cigarettes, puts one between her lips and would pocket the rest but she doesn't have pockets, so just holds them loosely. There's no lighter, so she's left with a cold cigarette and nobody to light it for her like a femme fatale from a particularly bloody scene waiting for somebody with the wit to have a match and intentions good or bad doesn't matter. Do you want me to turn you into a martyr?

There aren't a lot of funerals held for kindred-who-are-killed. They're dead. When they're Finally dead, the reaction is generally 'oh shit' and 'look to your own survival.' But Lux is a Toreador. Lux is a Toreador and she is anything but dispassionate and a friend was just destroyed for bullshit and part of her is now thinking about all those original paintings and what fire does to oil and those brush-strokes that have been destroyed are gone that moment long ago when they were made vanished and who knows how many others are gone (Rasmussen, you better--), so she reaches for her clutch (which she no longer has) where she keeps her pens, and instead just says a line or two which will later

become a poem which will later
infiltrate the city, scrawled on bus stops and
traffic lights and where-ever there is space and
it will say things about humanity and dignity and stone
and fighting and laughter and liberty

Then: well, then. Who knows? That was the night of August 3rd. A dark and bloody-Valentine night, and nobody hears from her.

--

August 4th.

There are phone-calls. Her phone died a fiery death. This is a modern age, she has another. There will be a replacement.

--

August 6th.

Play the game.

--

OOC STUFF:

MEMORIAL POEM THERE HAPPY BE A MARTYR:
Tithe
[Intelligence + Expression, please!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )

Howl
[Witnessed! *stamp*]

Joey, totes expect an e-mail about phonecalls and 'game' though.
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