Who: Dasha and Ana What: Opening Night When: Prior to curtain up Where: Shreveport Rating: TBD, presumably low
There was something unbearably tacky about being in True Blood country. Dasha had never watched the show herself--realistically, she wasn't much for television even when she wasn't running for her life--but she'd heard enough to know that she probably didn't want to anyway. Vampire stereotypes, particularly angsty vampire stereotypes, had a way of making her want to vomit up what was left of her petrified insides (though she'd heard enough redeeming things about Pam and Eric to be moderately hopeful that anyone who did subject themselves to such drivel might not suffer quite the same test of their gag reflex), and performing in the location that had played host to the greatest beacon of undead moping since Louis de Pointe du Lac had left her in a foul mood.
To counter her unexpected ill humor, Dasha had fed well, slitting a junkie's throat in a ditch off the highway and glutting herself on his warm, tainted blood. With her skin still vibrating with sensation, and her brain abuzz with a glut of sensory input, she returned to the fair and, in a fit of still vaguely cantankerous whimsy, decided to walk the Midway, and see what there was to be seen. The lights, the music, and the smells were nearly overpowering, and yet she found herself drawn to them rather than driven away, her electric blue eyes aglow with the reflected radiance of it all. Just when she began to think she would lose herself in the jumble of restless, tumultuous energy permeating the carnival, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, and heard a distinctly musical sound. Laughter.
Hypnotized, she turned, and for the first time, set eyes on the living doll of the Carnivale Nocturne, Anastasia White.