Haunted Roads

Who: Drystan and Rei
Where: Le Chabanais
When: Monday Night



Oh he'd left a mess. Silly him, how could he do such a horrible thing for the well appointed staff to have to deal with. Drystan was just so ashamed of his actions. Of course he was... nevermind that this was done what one might call almost weekly. Granted the 'mess' was different each and every time because what was life without a little variety. But just the same, he did enjoy making his presence known in his business partners little venture.

And of course now he had to be even more conscious of the place with poor Isobel leaving a... well Drystan would reserve what he really thought of the thing in charge now for when he talked to him in person. He didn't like to waste his best material. But someone now needed to hang around and make sure things were run according to the level that Le Chabanais required and how could someone like Rei manage that.

Drystan was certain it was impossible because you could take the boy off the streets but you certainly can't take the street out of the boy. Or something to that extent. He knew very well who Rei was, Drystan hadn't lived for four hundred odd years without an ability to keep track of his business endeavors, not to mention that it did pay to have a large payroll that could verify whatever the fuck Drystan wished. Some days he liked to make them find stupid facts just for his own amusement. One had to find things to pass the time.

Like tonight. He'd left a very pleased little half fae in the currently messy room. She was mostly unconscious but she had begged him to keep going, he couldn't be blamed for perhaps over indulging slightly in her sweet blood. Nor could he be really held responsible for the fact that some of that blood had made it all over the furniture. She was the one who kept moving and kept insisting that she wouldn't break. Unfortunately she did. And was rather loud about it in the process. Her leg would be better in a few days... hopefully. No one wanted to fuck a gimp so she'd better hope that it healed, not that she was complaining at the moment.

Drystan was almost sorry that he wouldn't be telling Isobel about the current state of one of her women. She always got so... riled up when he did. That irritated little twitch of her eye. Oh Drystan would miss that so. Time to see what her little boy-servant would have to say about it. Not that Drystan truly cared, but he should talk with the boy regardless... for Liri's sake and all. Always thinking of those less fortunate than him.

Now where was the boy?

Where: Drystan's penthouse
When: Evening
Who: Isobel and Drystan

Isobel was bored. Rei had yet to bring her any information on Dorian and things around the brothel were relatively quiet. Of course there was always paperwork she could be doing but she was pretty much over that idea for the time being. No, right now she wanted to be entertained and there was only one person who would do. Yes, she was talking about everyone's least favorite vampire. Some verbal bantering with thorn in her side was just what she needed to get her out of her little funk and passing notes back and forth just would not do. Not tonight anyway.

It had been a while since she had last graced him with her presence so really it was like the stars were aligning for this to be happening. It wasn't very often that she became bored enough to go to Drystan of all people. Hopefully the act wouldn't go to his already over inflated head. Hmm, someone really did need to take a giant needle and deflate it for him. Oo, maybe that's what she could spend the evening doing? Oh yes, that would be amusing. Now where could she get a needle of that size? Oh, and holy tipped too for extra fun.

Sadly the needle idea fell through and she found herself heading up to his penthouse empty handed. Darn. Isobel didn't bother knocking once she reached his door and decided to let herself in. Hopefully she would be interrupting whatever it was he was doing or else she would be disappointed. Cool blue eyes glanced around his rather lavish home and her fingers walked across various pieces of furniture as she stepped further inside. Was the overly bleached vampire not home? Now that was just unacceptable.

Something told her that he would be home soon so she figured she might as well get comfortable. One of his finer bottles of wine was removed from the cabinet and she smirked to herself as she poured a fresh glass. Surely her business partner wouldn't mind her making herself at home. Drystan was known for being so hospitable after all. With a distinct sway in her hips and her wine glass in hand, she made her way over to his fireplace and stretched out in front it. She was the picture of perfection as she waited for him and if he didn't come home soon...well, she couldn't be held responsible for what she might do to pass the time.

Who: Drystan (Narrative)
When: Friday Night
Where: Théâtre du Macabre


Such a busy little boy he'd been. Though the word boy did rankle him even when used in his own thoughts. Well not rankle... that was such a rough term. He was no child, no matter how often his little business partner liked to tell him he looked like a pre-pubescent boy. He could quite handly assure her that he was far from such an individual.

She liked to claim that she didn't want that little taste of evidence. Lies of course. The succubus doth protest too much.

Drstyan however wasn't one to linger over cold bitches who were one step away from old maid status, well other than to make certain she was repaid in full for the dastardly deeds done to his office. That he was waiting for the perfect opportunity for, not now when she was so obviously expecting something. Impatient as he could be, he hadn't reached his ripe old age without learning some semblance of patience.

Having things to distract him always helped and Drystan certainly didn't lack other things to focus on. Far more important things in all reality. Things like his little kitty. He had been kind enough to send her some flowers in appreciation. Not to set any tongues waggling... of course not. But really that was nothing and he only hoped that the little girl understood what fire she was playing with. Toy with flames and the only result she could look toward was a burn and that Drystan would enjoy giving her. Not to mention a few other things. He was such a giver after all.

Her little home had been found, a note would be slid under the door the next day. One that Drsystan was penning from the elaborate desk that took up a good portion of his office at the theater. The closing sounds of the late act could just be heard through the walls. And over the sound of the woman that was waiting oh so patiently in his lap for him to finish the note he was writing. She had graciously offered her blood for the penning as well. Now she was a truly giving soul.

There were few things with greater effect than a little blood written note. Said a message was coming straight from the heart... quite literally. Though in this case there was a lovely gash just above the swell of her breast that Drystan inked his quill from. There was an advantage to such old fashioned things. It would be a touch harder to complete this task with a ballpoint or god forbid an e-mail. She giggled as Drystan put the final flourishes on the letter and had her heat the wax for the seal. Stamped with his crest he let the wax fall on the pale expanse of her skin that was ripe for the plucking in front of him.

She was enjoying it too much. More than he was and if there was ever a party foul...

The show was finishing up and he had a few details to attend to, not one of which involved the buxom brunette who had joined him for the evening. Shame for her. Teeth tore into the gash that had been made earlier, her gasp was completely lost to the rush of her blood as Drystan pulled it swiftly from her form. Not a bad choice, good year... not too much cholesterol. That slight earthy tang of Eastern Europe. Not bad for the evening.

Her slumped form was left for others to take care of as it always was, a rosy youthful glow lit Drystan's cheeks as he headed out. Guests to greet and patrons to entertain. Business was good afterall.

Who: Lirije and Drystan
What: A reunion after the ballet
Where: The Pacific Northwest Ballet, and then who knows
When: Friday night
Rating: Well, I'm gonna go with probably gonna get up there. Be warned.



The stage lights were up out front and Lirije was waiting in the wing, pointing the tip of her toes in the resin box to avoid slipping before taking her place in line. She was going to be the first out, head of the line of dancers. She knew it was only because of her height (or lack thereof); it looked better if arranged with the shorter dancers on the end and taller dancers in the middle. She was the shortest of the entire corps. She listened carefully for her cue and led the other dancers out under the spotlight. It was always hot under the lights. The air conditioner blasted backstage to give the performers a break and cool them off before they went back out.

She'd rehearsed this dance so many times that it was second nature. No thought required. It was always less effort for her as well; she was stronger than the other ballerinas. Nothing was as much of a strain because her muscles could take more abuse. Pointe work was still brutal--toes weren't meant to be used that way--but it wasn't as hard on her as the others. She also had gotten a solo during the closing scene of this ballet due to her strength. Her extension and the elevation she got in her leaps was something the others couldn't always achieve. Right now, however, she was part of a unit. She and the other ten dancers moved in unison gracefully, everything rehearsed to look effortless. They were a living background for the two principal dancers downstage as a romance unfolded between them. This wasn't a continuous story; it was a series of scenes choreographed and directed by directing students at the company, so the curtains went down on one scene to give the dancers a few minutes to prepare for the next.

And then it was off to the wings again, to readjust pointe shoes and change costumes. Three more scenes, and it was time for Lirije's "starring role." While it wasn't woven into the storyline of a traditional ballet and while it was directed by students, it was bigger than anything she'd ever danced in front of an audience this size before. She stepped out onto the stage before the music started and took her starting position, lying on the stage floor, wooden surface heated by the stage lights above. Then she rose and began dancing, slowly with the music as she rose onto her toes, every movement slow and controlled. It started with gentle extensions and flowing movement, arms moving nearly as much as her legs. Then the true feel of the music started, beat speeding up, and so did her steps. She was alone in front of the audience, but the nerves had disappeared now, leaving only the feeling of dancing. It was as if she were acutely aware of each muscle movement, no matter how subtle, and she controlled it, even as she sped up more and more. From that gentle beginning, she was running across the stage, pirouetting, demonstrating her strength in the height and control of each grande jete, the amount of time she could hold an arabesque, and finally, at the finale, the number of fouettes she completed before ending the show just as she had started, lying on the stage floor.

The adrenaline was rushing as she stood to cursty before walking back off and into the dressing room. The show was over now, and she washed the stage makeup off her face but didn't bother changing out of the tights and leotard she had worn in the last scene. Instead, she just pulled a pair of sweatpants over the tights on her legs, switched her ballet flats for tennis shoes (after bandaging her blistered toes, of course) and pulled a zippered sweatshirt over her shoulders to protect her from the Seattle chill.

But she lingered after the show was over, when the rest had gone to the cast party dressed up in evening gowns and heels instead of tutus and pointe shoes. She didn't like the parties. There were too many people all vying for attention, all fighting to move higher up in the company by schmoozing with the art director and the patrons. Lirije liked the silence better; it felt safer than being in the midst of a crowd. So while the rest were in the lobby sipping cocktails, Lirije stepped out the stage door to the dark back parking lot and lit a cigarette, leaning against the cold brick wall as she smoked. It was dark and the freezing rain fell just beyond the overhang, but she wasn't as sensitive to the cold as humans were. She could stand it long enough to spare her car the smell of smoke sinking into the upholstery. Besides, there was something peaceful about the snow that was beginning to drift down, dancing in and out of the glow of the single street light in the employee parking lot.

[she doesn't look like this, but this is the dance I had in mind http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYPQHrBNnfw in case you need a visual ]

Who: Drystan (Narrative)
Where: His Offices
When: Friday Early Evening


Business per usual and business was good. When wasn't it though? It wasn't as if Drystan put his hard earned money into anything that wasn't bound to be more than lucrative. At some point in the past each and every penny had been hard earned and for one as jaded as he was, he never failed to appreciate what a few coins could do for a person.

That whole money can't buy you happiness was a load of rubbish. Unless you had a heart then in theory there could be a problem but Drystan had never encountered that particular dilemma. Money had bought him all the happiness, pain and torture in the world and really he couldn't ask for anything more.

Except for perhaps some obedience. He'd almost forgotten about her. Foolish little chit... what was her name again? He'd call her child for the time being. He knew exactly what her name was, those that managed to slip past his carefully crafted walls were not about to be forgotten though he would be the last one to let the child know she was a piteous little thorn in his side. He did hate that he'd been momentarily bested.

Those that had helped her were long dead. Though their deaths hadn't been quick or simple. That was far too kind a favor on his part for such a betrayal. The girl would be next.

At least according to the paper sitting on his desk she would be. A cruel smile curved over his face as he read the carefully scripted words. He really did hate the plain face of text and those that worked for him indulged in his love of hand written correspondence. While Drystan did enjoy a good hunt he was a busy a man... in this case an employee had been charged with finding the girls location once he had relocated to the United States... that was where her trail had led. And it was time for the chase to pick up again.

Of course she made it easy for him... she was in Seattle.

A dancer. Now wasn't that sweet. It was just about time to see how entertaining she could truly be.

Who: Drystan and Abigail
Where: Theatre du Macabre
When: Thursday, Late



It had been a successful night, but that was often the case. Drystan didn't give his time to ventures that didn't turn out profitable. Either it was the luck of his draw or just the fact that he had several centuries on his side to help discern what would be a success and what wouldn't be... He was far shaper than his laziness often let on. Or maybe that was part of it, he was successful in spite of his laziness. Who knew... that kind of self-analysis was certainly not something Drystan took much part in.

Instead, he spent his valuable time corrupting the innocent and wallowing in sin. It was Thursday afterall. Tomorrow would be rolling around in money and gorging on blood.

This Thursday however was not just an ordinary Thursday it was that holiday that humans seemed so prone to spend far too much time and money indulging in.... St. Valentine's day it was. Love. Wasn't it disgustingly well... just disgusting. That particular emotion had no place in Drystan's life. Well no place personally. If anyone wanted to love him.... he was more than willing to use that to his advantage. But when it came to mutual avowals of love on Valentines day... he was far more keen on focusing on the Martyrs that had given their name to the day. Blood of holy men always made his day.

The performance put on by his cast of supernatural actors had been specifically driven to fit the holiday. Star crossed lovers, torn apart, quite literally by their families. Symbolism at it's most literal best. If that were truly a possible thing. The current director had put together a story that contained the sort of love that could only be fulfilled in death. Which was exactly the kind of happy ending that Drystan enjoyed. A Romeo and Juliet type story that had fulfilled every horrific fantasy that William Shakespeare could have possibly intended and a great deal more no doubt. What set this theater apart from all the previous steps into the macabre world... was simply the fact that his actors didn't suffer from the limitations of most humans. The blood shed was all too often real, no need for stage effects. Pain, lust and anguish that people felt on a normal basis was always blown up to epic proportions on his stage. A connection that often appealed to people despite their better judgments.

Such as it was tonight, the lovers meeting their end in a wash of blood that pricked Drystan's nose from where he sat in his personal balcony. For a romance which was rarely to his tastes... it had been done well. Never say that Drystan didn't know how to cater to his customers. But he couldn't say that he'd been watching the entire thing. No, a red dress had caught his eye. He had purchased it after all. The human was curious, endearingly curious. Though likely it would only lead her to trouble. But that was a lesson best learned the hard way.

As the curtain fell and the applause began, Drystan made his way from balcony, leaving strict instructions for the guard at the door to go and collect his guest and bring her to his... office. A red rose that matched the color of her dress was plucked from an arrangement decorating his balcony and passed off. Yes, that was to be given as well. If he had her pegged as he thought he did... she wouldn't be able to stop herself from taking that next step. How well could he read people after all these years.

Clad in an all black ensemble Drystan took the path through the corridors that led from the ground floor of the stage to a level just below. Not so far down as to touch the establishment below but far from the prying eyes of theater goer's. He had a touch for the dramatic, it was well known. Lights along the way were lit with a more natural form of light, gas flames. A touch of the old too, he didn't think that would surprise his little guest when she arrived.

Now just to see how curious the girl was...

WHO: Adian, Chloe, and Drystan
WHEN: Wednesday Night (Approaching midnight.)
WHERE: Dimitriou's Jazz Alley
WHAT: Adian decides to do a bit of performing.



"Good evening." Her voice rang out over the club's sound system, as she spoke into the microphone. Adian stood back, smiling softly, as a few of the regulars broke out in applause. This establishment, had been one of the first she visited, after they made to move to Seattle. When she wasn't baby sitting Vallis, or having a drink at one of the smaller pubs, or bars, she was here. Singing, and performing for any one who would listen. Or simply enjoying the other musicians who frequented the stage. One group in particular, she'd made a deal with. They would back her, while she sang, and any money earned, would go to them.

Now that Vallis was claiming her as his pet, she didn't have to work. He was disgustingly well off, and she was reaping the benefits of that wealth. If having fine clothing, and luxurious living arrangements, meant that she had to put up with his bullshit on occasion... she could handle it. It made sense, that they stuck together. After all, they were both seeking the same woman, and that search bound them together. They were family in a way, tied together through Roslin. There was also a comfort, in having someone to turn to, even if he was bastard.

"I'm Adian, an Britain native, if you can't tell. These gentlemen behind me, are Second Sight, they are Seattle natives. We could like to play a few songs for you this night, if that suits you." When the applause broke once more, she turned to look towards the band. "On three then." The lights dimmed over the stage, before the drummer began to count them off. The house was still, when the begging rift of the song started. A repeating mix of drums, and guitar, sounding in seven. When the music silenced once more, she began. "Cry baby.... I know she told ya, I know she told ya that she loved you. Much more than I do...." The old blues song, made famous by Janis Joplin. A personal favorite of hers. It was one that always seemed to get the crowd going, which was an excellent way to start off a set.

Those in the audience might not know it, but she'd been performing on stage, for almost seventy years now. Having played all through out England, and in the places she, and Vallis moved to, before finally settling here. She was a pro, Adian knew how to work the stage, how to appease the audience. A true entertainer, if there ever was. Her voice carried such soul, and strength, it was surprising that such power came from such a delicate form. It had been surprising people her entire life. Even as a child, when she stood before the congregation, and sang hems from the bible, people were often left with their jaws, resting upon the floor. The talent had been nurtured, and encouraged by her mother. Allowed to blossom to it's full potential, to what it was now.

When the final drum beat seized, the gathered crowd erupted. It gave her a true rush, but her smile was kept at a moderate. She didn't want to draw attention to her fangs. "Thank you..." She said, before returning the mic to it's stand. "This next song, is one of my own. It's called Tender." It was immediately obvious, that the tone of the song would be drastically different from their first. The beat was much heavier, and slower. The guitar began the intro, joined some time later by the drums. Gripping the sides of the mic, Adian stepped forward, placing her lips a few inches from it. "I run, I fall, I drift away. Check my body now, was it body or soul? The darkness fades, fades to the light. Disappearing now, disappears from the night. And all these nightmares I once had as a child. The morning always came, it came too late. What did my mind forget, forget to hide? Could the nightmare be awake? I don't know..."

WHO: ABIGAIL and DRYSTAN
WHERE: A few blocks from the Towers
WHAT: Abigail walks home alone, and contemplates whether or not she might be insane.
RATING: TBA


It had been late, when she'd woken up. If it hadn't have been for the suppressed giggles of other students, she might have continued to doze, drooling on her copy of Plato's Republic all night. She knew she'd been too tired to head to the library after her lecture finished. She was always too tired, these days. But an evening of pumping her small body full of caffeine and pouring over Ancient Greek philosophy had seemed preferable, to her, than another sleepless night (or worse: another sleepful night) in her apartment.

She hadn't dreamed, in the library. She didn't even really feel like she'd slept, at all - one moment she was reading, glanced at the clock - ten past seven - and the next she jolted awake, and it was eight thirty, and the kids were laughing at her. They stopped, when she snapped her head around to stare at them, expressionless, her eyes still cloudy with sleep. They pretended to be talking about Kafka. As if. Nobody talked about Kafka of their own free will. Certainly not students.

The bus jolted to a stop, pulling her out of her thoughts, for a moment, as she scrambled to find her bag. She thanked the driver, absently, not even sure if she'd made a sound, and stepped out in to the night.

Fuck, it was freezing. Two moments in the cold and already she felt as though her fingers might be turning blue. She wrapped the ends of her coat around them, like she used to do when she was a child, reminding herself for the thousandth time that she really ought to buy some mittens, and set off down the darkened sidewalk. It was probably wasn't safe to walk home alone. Not in a big city like this. But she found herself curiously ambivalent about it all...after all, what was the worst that could happen? Somehow, even the most gruesome scenarios didn't seem to bother her...though she knew that at the first sign of footsteps behind her she'd be wetting herself, praying to God that whoever it was walked on past, without a word.

Recklessness, her father would have called it. If he'd known. Or noticed. But she barely spoke to her Father. At least they both had an excuse for that, now that he was living in New York.

She shrugged her coat in closer to her body as a gust of wind found its way to her neck, sending a light shiver down her spine. Something about it...the feeling, or the way she'd moved, reminded her of last nights assault from her subconscious. She didn't remember it, entirely. She'd fallen asleep watching television, and woken up in a cold sweat, in her bed, confused and dazed. She'd been sleepwalking again, perhaps. She'd have to make an appointment with Doctor Clark, tomorrow - get another prescription. But it wasn't her change in location that bothered her. She shivered again, involuntarily, as she thought back to the dream. Flashes of red that made her throat tighten. A shadowy hand running white fingers down her chest.

Maybe she ought to have studied psychology, instead of philosophy. It bothered her that she was even entertaining the fact that these nightmares (if that's what you'd call them. She wondered, sometimes...because it was only after the fact that they perturbed her. She tried her best not to admit it to herself, but occasionally she almost...enjoyed them) might be caused by something other than her own damaged mind. Everyone had nightmares, surely? And the sleepwalking...well, that wasn't so peculiar, either.

She chewed on her bottom lip, absently, pouring over what she could remember of the dream. She couldn't help but feel that there was some important detail that she was forgetting. Something that was evading her. She rounded the corner, barely looking where she was going, lost inside the dark passageways of her own mind.