|Elijah. (elius) wrote in ridgewayresort,|
@ 2011-04-03 23:04:00
|Entry tags:||dominique weasley, elijah|
WHO: Elijah and Dominique Weasley
WHAT: A private recital; featuring Rachmaninoff's Vocalise
WHERE: The Velvet Room
STATUS: In progress
Had Elijah not been one of the oldest and the most powerful vampires, it still would have taken a special kind of folly to overlook the flurry of activities in the cabin right next door. He may have been less likely to smell the fear in the air, or the blur that charged so gallantly at a speed reflecting its state of alarm. Had all this been the case, Staff Cabin 020 would not have been under the predatory gaze of a tall, slender silhouette standing in mute contemplation some distance away. In his hand was a fistful of gravel, which he sifted carelessly from one palm to another, and back again. Then he came to a decision. He stretched out his arm...and let the gravel fall back from whence they originated. Let them toil in their misery. Let them cry out in panic for deliverance that may never come. Let them run and hide, as they rightfully should. Fear, was a punishment in and of itself. And he was a patient man. If there was any truth to the packets, neither they nor he would be making travel plans any time soon. Dimensional displacement was beyond even his abilities.
This was how, for the remainder of the evening, Elijah did not waste his energy on the more obvious, graceless thing to do, that is, to seek retribution. Instead, he sauntered down to the Velvet Room, his purported place of employment—excuse him, but he did not seem to recall ever agreeing to such a contract—and discovered it quite abandoned, given the late hours. A velvet of darkness was its namesake, the few lighting dimmed tastefully against furnishings of dark mahogany. At the rear was a lounge with a raised platform and there waited his dark hearted lover: a black grand piano. He permitted himself a moment to regard it thoughtfully, then cautiously, with a tenderness that would not have been expected from someone of his repute, ran his fingers along its glossy frame. Shortly after he had perched himself on the bench and lifted the fallboard, a soft, melancholy melody built up to a furious crescendo that filled the empty restaurant and spilt out into the moonlit path.
The restaurant was no longer empty. A whiff was all he needed and he'd breathed them a mile away, but he said nothing for a good while that might hint at his view to having an audience. "Spying is a very unbecoming habit," he observed as the notes fell to a gentler tempo.