[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/SpLsh9J.jpg[/img][/center] [hr] [i]H[/i]er name was Nana - the little jade-eyed Nyctari - and she prattled on inconsistently, fumbling often in her deluge of phrases, choppy sentences and sometimes clipped words when Maharet’s scrutiny would flicker away with flashes of silver. Films developed over the occulus of a predator, in the gloom their respective glances shined both silver and jade, barely hued and coloured, but just enough for distinction as Nana gestured with her immaculate hands. Immaculate nails and heavy-laden fingers with polished rings and metals to emphasize her embellishing style; she was describing and painting the scenery of last night - of what she had seen. Maharet listened vaguely, piecing together her erratic report until the edges were smoothed out and she deducted in silent musings when she mentally stitched together Nana’s recollections. [b]“I’ve dealt with Rot Faces before - gross name, by the way, I mean really? - but while I find them repulsive, I’ve never seen them do this.”[/b] [i]S[/i]he bit out, her voice was husky, the kind of an abused throat and a timbre that held a small, deep scratch when she slipped into a nervously induced dribble. Maharet mused on her previous life, once more, curious to how vampires were made to in this era and vaguely pondered if some of her old, worn companions were still milling about in this cesspool. She’d wager most had migrated elsewhere by now, probably back to Italy, where the oldest and ancient tended to linger, or scattered admits France, possibly into the Highlands - she remembered those days fondly. Alas, Maharet pondered on their states of existences when Nana suddenly came to a halt, indicated by the scuffed tread of her boots that echoed within their eclipsed surroundings. [i]T[/i]he building, from what she had deferred earlier, was plain on the exterior face - nothing but old, rust- hued brick - but within was a plethora of black and shadows, and lingering masses that lounged within the banks of darkness whilst watching their progressing venture down long halls. Up stair ways they went and then scoping down until the echoing, claustrophobia of a tomb determined that were, indeed, underground. Though Maharet kept her hood drawn up, a sort of tactic she decided and stood aside Nana as she braced her palms against the metal face, their predator eyes gleaming in reflection against the cool grey and there - her eyes narrowed - wards shimmered and conglomerated across the welded plates; transitioned to shapes that she recognized before diminishing with a flicker of azure and only then did the wall shift and move aside. Sounded by a screech and the clank of gear mechanics put into place. Nana merely bowed at the waist, sweeping Maharet within the secondary plot of darkness with a crook of her arm and her palm thrust up against her shoulder. She crossed that threshold without hesitation and no longer regarded her charged guide. [hr] [i]C[/i]erulean kaleidoscopes danced within the gloom, edged in violet, bruises on the light as the door shut behind her, disbanding the two vampires as the elder began descending into the depths of the hall. Sound vibrated through the walls, traveling slow, muddled; quiet, little cadences no mere mortal would be able to detect, but here, Maharet was introduced to a wealth of activity. The collection of timbres, voices hushed by the velvet blanket of wards and shadows, indicated to be a group of her kin; delicate murmurs accompanied them pleasantly like sparrows to the buzzing of garden workers. Her steps quickened, just enough, purposely, scuffing her tread against the carpeted concrete beneath - an announcement as any could suffice. The silence was heavily endowed as bare bulbs flickered to life, soft halos of subdued light creating deep, depressing shadows across their faces as Maharet greeted - with silence and impeccable indifference - those of the Nyctari family. [i]S[/i]ome were officials merely present for the social up-climb, surrounded by vassals and thralls: entourages of manipulated and mind-swept confusion addled by blood and lust. Others were bored, complacent individuals who immediately responded to Maharet’s presence with scowls and hisses that sounded like sand paper violating rough, hewn stone, and then there were the aristocrats. Signaled by their identical aesthetics: pale skin, almost translucent against their frozen marrow and blood, deadened tissue beneath a membrane like stone, tired, worn - old. Maharet regarded them with an expression that would have made Maman proud and like a lady addressing court, she bowed and if there was a mocking, deliberate embellishment to her modest curtsy, no one remarked on it - perhaps they were afraid to. [i]“I had no idea you’d be here, Mistress Mekare.”[/i] One of a fair blonde murmured, speaking behind the slight gesture of her fingers perched upon the bow of her mouth, her pout perplexed and eyes gleaming within the soft, amber bask of the bulb dangling above her lavish tresses, twisted around oriental, lacquer sticks. Maharet straightened from her posture, immediately honing in on the woman, the epithet was old, discarded, bringing forth memories of when she swept about under that designation. [color=cb8f6d]“Maharet will suffice,”[/color] her voice coolly informed, hardening just so. [color=cb8f6d]“But if you must, Mistress Roquelaure.”[/color] [i]T[/i]he lady dipped her head, [i]“Of course.”[/i] [i]O[/i]thers followed suit, mimicking her inclined acceptance, only the thralls did not, staring numbly at her, her blood was more powerful than their masters - they could feel it. Their leashes, only hardened by regular indulgences, kept them from leaping upon her service, but Maharet did not acknowledge them. Her own vassals possessed a freedom these did not; more like glorified hounds at the ready, she deduced, and sniffed delicately at their drawn expressions. Puppets would have been more of a fitting label. [color=cb8f6d]“The riots last night,”[/color] she began, not hesitating in the least as she pushed back the thick, heavy fur of her hood and addressed them quickly. [color=cb8f6d]“I don’t care about the strips lost, or the clubs - tacky, really - but I know why you need them. Blending with the times, and - ”[/color] [i]“You’ve been asleep for a long time, Mistress Roquelaure, things have changed drastically from when you last reined with Maman.”[/i] The aforementioned blonde responded, murmurs following when she spoke upon the late vampire’s name. [i]“We’ve had to make changes, reduce our territory, vampirism is considered a glorified disease to those of Santa Somabra. A violation to the Vatican and fallen grace of those who believed and followed Chaerina -”[/i] [color=cb8f6d]“I’m not here for a history lesson,”[/color] Maharet interrupted with the silver reflection of her predatory gaze. [color=cb8f6d]“I’ve lived much longer than you, the origin of our affliction cannot be traced by the speculation that fallen Saints had anything to do with it. We’re not angels bidden to no longer fly who betrayed an Almighty.”[/color] She continued, sweeping aside her fingers to encompass the mass of them. [color=cb8f6d]“I’m here because of the sound last night, it has happened before. This is nothing new, and each time it happens there is this destruction and chaos. It’s almost like revenge, a reason beyond the madness - if you look hard enough - Maman knew the person behind it.”[/color] [i]E[/i]yes of a pack, she thought, watching as gazes flickered, wavered, gleaming each, respective colour of their eyes flashing like hunters when she spoke of her mother. Not akin to beasts, but monsters. There was a vast different between the two, a league of tradition, elegance, and seamlessly blending into manipulating humanity to their own cause and pull. Maharet, for a moment, felt almost proud to know these were her kith and kin and that Maman had been something to them. Though, it quickly vanished, she could become swept up into her deluge, her life was a fog of grey, nothing more. If Santa Somebra fell to her, would she really care? [i]Mahart found she couldn’t answer that. Not now.[/i] [i]T[/i]his is your fault, she thought, cursing upon her creator’s name. [i]This place was too precious to you, you had to die - here.[/i] [color=cb8f6d]“The first time I heard the song, Maman went back to Italy where the Nyctarius received her, and told us to never speak of it again. It was a taboo subject, to speak of the song. They called it a scorn, a horrible mistake, something that should not have been or should not be.”[/color] Maharet continued on, sweeping into the crowd and drawing their attention more so. Even the blonde woman had gone silent, contemplative, baited by her method of speech. Their vassals though lurched back, blending into the backdrop as the Nyctari reformed into a group around Maharet, lesser beings of chance either stepped aside or bridled up beside their elders - but all could not mistake or ignore the tone Maharet carried. It pinged with an echo of certain longing, but also with something that made her a daughter of Maman. [i]S[/i]ilver gleamed against amber halos and she said: [color=cb8f6d]“I know you’ve heard it before, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You’ve seen the madness, the destruction. Something needs to be done about it, or are you all so complacent in the shadows now that you merely have become by standers in Santa Somabra?”[/color] [i]F[/i]aces cringed, forming into lax offense as the assembled aristocrats murmured to one another. It was a silent discussion, tossing theories and protests, some glancing to Maharet as she resumed her expression of idle indifference and relaxed her posture, almost careless with interchanges of blue and silver within the depths of her observations. Her eyes were unrelenting pools, picking them apart as the buzz and rise of their voices carried into a crescendo of an uprising. It swelled, burning her ears, but she didn’t disturb against their debates and rage, she wanted to fuel it, make them spur into action before she spoke up again - voice hard. [color=cb8f6d]“I know some, here, fought with them last night. Where are they?”[/color] She inquired, not forgetting her original purpose to embarking beneath the stone of the city above. [b]“One of them died,”[/b] a voice pinged from a group of eerily similar peers, each of them symbolizing a union with their locks a dark, warm burgundy and their eyes a peering depth of merging green and brown. Hazel eyes, she thought, finding the colour fitting to their pale faces and summer-warmth hair, but, there was pain beneath their kinship beauty. [b]“He was our brother, Markus. He’s nothing but dust now.”[/b] A wealth of emotion bubbled up from the speaker, a delicate sort, but her firm mouth indicated a certain hardness despite the crease of her brow that indicated sorrow. She was trying to be brave, admirable. However, it didn’t distract from the silent surprise Maharet felt welling up inside, her ribs ached and her deadened, frozen heart would’ve squeezed within dread had she been mortal. Her fingers curled into fists as the circumstances lined up in parallel depths, for Maman too was spent into dust and now Markus - whoever he was, in life - had suffered her same fate. [color=cb8f6d]“And the others?”[/color] She resumed, sympathy could be spared, if the others were to be suffering against their immortality by an unknown force. [i]“They’re stable, but something about the blood of the rioters is taking effect on them. Black webbing around their mouths, eyes, spreading across their capillaries like a sickness.”[/i] The blonde woman from before stepped forward, her eyes pinched around their edges and intensified by the spiked cosmetic of her lashes. [i]“It rivals against our own venom and blood, seems to attack it and render them into a state of decomposition, it’s slow, but painful. I studied the effects of Markus closely.”[/i] [i]A[/i] hiss sounded off, but they ignored it, Maharet’s flashing eyes were enough to ward off the objection. [i]“It’s similar to the state of Maman, but more advanced in the way it progressed. I assume Maman’s ancient blood was harder to corrupt, but a lesser being, it’s not difficult to over come them.”[/i] She whispered, though the low tone did not keep away from the sweep of alarm that information caused. [i]M[/i]aharet raised her palm, fingers poised, and silence ensued. [color=cb8f6d]“What about your leader, what is he doing about this? Why is he not here, does he not wish to take action?”[/color] [i]“He’s away, visiting.. Someone about the riots. He’s trying to pool information together with other leaders.”[/i] She answered, eyes calm, cool. Maharet studied her for a long moment, then she blinked, slow; realization dawning upon her. [color=cb8f6d]“You’re his partner.”[/color] [i]A[/i] slow dip of her head was the only answer, before she spoke. [i]“I am Clarice, Mistress. I came here in his stead, since he’s away to attend business. I take charges of council when he’s not able to do so. While I advised him not to go, I cannot go against his word as he is also my creator.”[/i] [i]M[/i]aharet’s eyes narrowed, turning to slits of disapproval before she pulled her hood back over her visage, concealing her expressions once more when Clarice spoke to her again. [i]“There’s also something else you should know, Mistress, one of those infected with the blood said he saw something - someone - that night, before he came to the strip. A woman, he described, an undead being like us but something - else.”[/i] Her tone was clipped, hushed, meant to be for her only as she came forward, as if to embrace Maharet against her. Their arms slid against one another as she accepted Clarice, stone against stone, a sever coldness as Clarice continued to whisper to her, lips a mere brush of flesh against the shell of her ear. [i]S[/i]omething settled, like a stone, in the pit of her soul once again as she drew away from the blonde vampiress, staring deep into the coolness of her gaze as a subtle nod confirmed the information relayed to her once again and Maharet’s teeth came together in a snap. Clarice eyes burned with a hidden emotion of betrayal, as if she too could not believe the revelation given to them by the pained confessions from one of their own, but there was no mistake in the wealth of Clarice's self and conviction. She was the type of devotion and service no matter the bitter truth behind it. This was more than a simple riot of burning houses and murders, this was something that traveled into the depths of history and time, back to places and people Maharet had seen rise and fall - [i]why did you die, Maman[/i]. [i]S[/i]he didn't spare Clarice or the gathered family another moment of her time, turning on the tread of her boot, she then vanished back down the hall and exploded the runes flashing at her presence; silver burned against the blue; flaming into swirls of white as Maharet blended with the darkness once again and her body literally melted away into the velvet embrace. [i]S[/i]he had to confirm this for herself.