[center] [img] https://meigakuglobalchallenges.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/2-la-at-night.jpg [/img] [/center] [center] [i]Tanto tempo fa Un uccello fatale di nome Chromaggia Incrociò in volo la freccia di un Arciere Lungo le coste di lava Per anni, pensando di essere Inseguita.[/i] [/center] Lothaire Loynoia sat comfortably in his chair within the Ahmanson theatre, surrounded by a sea of well-dressed richings and socialites -whilst he himself wore a dark hand-tailored tux, and bow tie-. Up on the stage, beneath a swelling of bright stage lights, a lone female performer sung vigorously for the audience; her shapely figure hugged by a snug black dress. [center] [i]Scappò dalla freccia Chromaggia, chromaggia Perché non affronti il pericolo? La freccia era legata all'ala E lei volava per liberarsene. [/i] [/center] Although his posture was strong and firm, Lothaire allowed himself to relax as the music washed over him; reveling in the silky twinge of the harpsichord, and the rhythmical bellowing of the opera singer. [center] [i]Tirando la freccia Altri son ferriti per mia colpa Mia colpa Giú! verso la bocca del diavolo La sua freccia, i miei occhi. [/i] [/center] As the final performance of the evening reached its euphonious conclusion, the audience replied with a warm and hearty round of applause, before a steady stream of the crowd slowly started to file out of the concert hall; making their way into the lobby. Stalwart pillars of light cream stone stood in the entrance hall, surrounded by walls of crisp white, but Lothaire was more interested in sampling whatever wines were on offer than admiring the architecture, so he politely glided his way through the crowd, until he reached the bar. Once he’d acquired himself a glass of red, Lothaire cooly made his way into the shadows, when a familiar voice summoned his attention. “Doctor Cervantes!” His ears pricking up at the use of one of his many aliases, Lothaire turned to see a woman and a man, both smartly dressed, slipping out of the throng of audience members to approach him. The man was fairly unremarkable in Lothaire’s eyes, but the long golden hair of the female figure elicited a slight flutter from the vampire, as it flowed like tresses of honey down her slight shoulders. “Miss Rousseau,” Lothaire greeted the woman with a calm smile as she walked over to him, sipping ever-so-gently at his glass of wine “it is always a pleasure to chance upon your presence.” “Elijah,” the woman said, turning to her male companion “this is Doctor Cervantes; one of the artists featured in my last exhibition.” The two men exchanged a firm handshake; Elijah’s own skin being a fair deal rougher than Lothaire’s. “That was quite the splendid collection of work,” Elijah chirped excitedly “which painting was yours, Doctor?” “The Arc-Traitor, frozen at the heart of treachery,” Lothaire explained “I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed the exhibition, Elijah.” “Ah, that fucking creepy one,” Elijah said with a laugh, prompting a soft chuckle from the others “it certainly stuck in my head.” Lothaire gave a sharp smirk. “That emperor, who sways the realm of sorrow, at mid breast from the ice stood forth; upon his head three faces, as six eyes wept tears of bloody foam.” He recited, swirling his wine in one hand. “The Doctor always did have something of a morbid fascination with hell, Elijah.” Rachelle Rousseau teased, shooting Lothaire a playful grin. “Not morbid so much as it is...merry.” Lothaire reasoned, taking another sip from his wine. “Right, well, I’m off for a smoke, but I’ll leave you two to your...merry fascinations. Nice to meet you, Doctor Cervantes.” Elijah slipped away with a slight bow of his head, vanishing into the crowd. “You’ve become such a cliché of yourself, [i]Lothaire[/i],” Rachelle laughed, “Oh-so-dark-and-sulky.” “I pride myself on my passions,” Lothaire countered “a man should enjoy his vices.” “As should a [i]monster[/i].” “You call me a monster, but are we not [i]all[/i] cursed to walk until Gehenna? To spread like a plague across this earth?” “Perhaps,” Rachelle said, with a slight air of sourness “I suppose we’ll see, in the nights to come.” “Indeed we shall, Toreador. Indeed we shall.”