romance sonámbulo (lunas) wrote in thedarkera, @ 2015-04-30 18:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | fletcher, z-chauntel |
inevitability
The royal purple cloak of midnight is well nigh.
Not a wink of the white face of the waxing moon peaks thru the saturating weight of the wet fog. Not the coquettish eye-bat of a dreamy constellation; the blue-smoke pollutes, it perpetuates. It becomes.
Mirthfully the creatures stir within, great and small, natural and supernatural, fermented in the delirious, slow-burning pleasance of the enchantments of Bacchus. Under the veil of the long hours of dark and secret, what is hidden is loose’d of its daylong masquerade. High-priced, curly women line the cherry wood and burgundy-themed with their silver limbs and floral perfumes; it is now when the red rose is alive, in the night’s slippery palm.
Along with that which stalks only in these lightless hours.
It is melodious, the hushed conversations behind ears or in the steeple of hands, the large smiles with pearly teeth, the boisterous torrents of wine-fueled laughter. The symposium of theories as to the eerie scenery, which had moved into their London, would they be clothed in the pervading wolf-gray fur of this fog for good? Is this a punishment for their wicked deeds?
Chauntel is aware of two guests who have returned many a time and never caused a clamber, not even a click, not a peep. Despite what they are known for, what they are here for...
Tonight her stomach turns; the delicate agreement she’s inherited with the demons burdens her the way any fragile concord would. The agreement the housecat has with the hunting dog.
“Would you like more wine?” she asks the dashing American, en route to fill her own empty glass across the room. It is well passed evening, yet she keeps her pale evening dress tightly wound about her.
Someone’s walking down the hall, outside her shut door…
[this will get graphic. also, if anyone would logically be traipsing around late in fog near a brothel, they may inevitably hear what's fated to happen.]