Mole — Roleplayer Guild

A N D R E    B E R R Y                        T a y l o r ' s    S t e a k h o u s e

	Gray clouds, hung like ghosts, spread the nighttime masquerade of a final night's scream. Silently, tucked under the sky, the black car was parked walking distance from Taylor's Steakhouse. Peter's swollen ego was groaning for something to alleviate the pain of his inclinations as he hunched himself in the backseat. His little ghoul played with the small stickiness combed through his dark hair. When he was ready, he would join the others in a party room at the back of the restaurant, but for now, his nursing body was calming down. The subtle breaths that escaped from his bruised lips quivered with the delicate tips of the tulle that draped over Annie's lap, "He shall sit by my side. And I'll give him some food; And pussy will love me. Because I am good."

	There had been a long silence before Esther broke the insincerity between the two parties. The stakes were high, and a trifle, wooden table separated them from each other. Their own falsities and truths were held close to their chests. It was always cut throat, but for now, the charade had made itself more apparent. The choking words not being spoken were only killing time.

	"Are you still chasing the same white hare, Andre?" Esther's words were spoken clearly and concisely. There was no accent. Her English was beautiful and articulate. She was watching him through amber eyes, and he watched as the words became lost in their gold. She was fixated on him and studying every detail of his being, as if the charcoal of her irises had contrived and drawn him themselves. The beauty of the human nature that was outlined around his body was elegantly being memorized like the main attraction in an exhibit of an art museum.

	"I think it is more of a word, Mademoiselle or is it Madame?" The Kindred asked dismissively. An ebony hand would have waved if it were not already preoccupied with something of less pensive nature. His mind had already wandered to something else; and He meant to be more polite; but something was stopping him and holding him back with her six inch stiletto heels. Her hands were tracing the threads of his skin, gently holding and intertwining her fingers with his. She whispered a voice into his ear, Don't lie to her. She whispered through thirsty, glossy lips. 

	"Mademoiselle," she made a simple but pensive smile, batting her lashes downwards, a new habit she learned from a younger ballet student. There was no hiding the piety that had guarded her existence before her embrace, and she owed it to the first bashful glance. No one deserved such attention, no scepter of passion had forgone such a staff to the beginning of a song. O, not even dear Saint Augustine.

	"I did not mean to hurt you if I did. Prostiy Menyah. Forgive me."

	"You did not fail to attract any attention. I took no offense at all," there was a small pause in her pursuit, "Although, I wish it had." The small, polite smile remained firm, "Please," she turned a cheek to the exposé. Her milk skin blushed at the onset of the drama. At times, she believed some of Andre's drama was far too modern for her grievances and indulgences. It was something she contemplated as simply another horrid Westernized scheme. Even the brothels in Holy Rus had their taste. Their offense offered a warmth that reminded this new post-modern era that it would never be good enough. 

	There was a silence between them. Either could have said something, but both remained in submission to the silent confessions between each other. It was warranted, and Andre enjoyed watching the other Kindred suffer between not knowing if he was actually paining her or not. It served the Ventrue on the silver platter she deserved, with the head of a man she would never know. The kindred caused more commotion than the Camarilla or her would ever give herself, and ever since the Curtain that draped her skirt across the Russian Empire, he felt she was a traitor, caught in her own web lies. He felt nothing for her.

	As for himself, he was a truth seeker. The word was rattling around the whispers of his counseling entertainment. He had his business, though and not much time. "Are we not both chasing the same dream, Esther?" He felt a twisted jest on his body like something other than his company's own nature. She was working for something, he was not willing to give her, yet. He preferred something more marionette for the stage, but Los Angeles, the City of Angels really did have a way of demonizing her guests. 

	"Sometimes, it is hard to believe, we are when I see the behavior you uphold," Esther turned her attention towards the third being present.

	And, Like a hinge popping loose, the twisting of a broken doll, a Malkavian's mind perked another grin at the table. The smile was swirling with black and plum impulses. She was willingly letting a callousness cage her, and it looked painful. Its fingers were crawling around her chest and plucking at the buttons of her coat. It slithered inside the cavity of her existence and rested with more cobwebs, ready to spawn more monstrous desires, "I..." Her frail, shaky voice stretched for something but was quickly taken away, "The Camarilla's not interested in any of this." Her hands placed the letter on the table. It was sealed with a waxed stamp.

	There was an attempt for the Malkavian, with painted nails, to have some youthfulness to the Camarilla roulette, but it was stolen by a slight tremor that twitched with the simplest of thoughts that had carefully crafted and sewn themselves through her pores during her embrace, "I have no desire to make the delivery." She already had a gun to her head; and anything unnecessary was considered unworthy.

	A jingle interrupted the conversation, and a frown drew itself over the Malkavian's two-toned lips; black and dark plum. The text on the screen glew through the ambient lighting, "It appears, I shalln't be here for Peter. My daughter needs tending. She has awoken, again."

	Andre looked up from his pale beauty. Gentle, long threads were splashed over his suit, and he could feel the smoothness of her muscles. She was very toned. Not just any touch would ripple through her veins, but she was still wanting in all her movements. She reminded him of an ocean, and the part of him that enjoyed it, did not want to draw his attention away from her, "Since when did she have a daughter?"

	"She doesn't have a daughter," Esther stroked with a finger the pattern of her gloves, searching for some lost string that needed clipping.

	"How dare you, Esther Puniceus," Lena's dark hazel eyes pierced at the the Ventrue, "Make those words into an apology, now. I will rip your pr-ecious eyes from your sockets and feed them to you. Right in front of everyone." Her shaky voice shook with breaths of thirst for the kindred's death. The sweet syrupy scent was already clouding her mind, and to feel her teeth gliding into the velvet silk of Kindred skin was tempting her appetite. No one was to speak of her daughter in such a manner. 

	"She is a liar, and lying is what liars do. Is that not the truth, Madamoiselle?" Andre smiled. His hand stroked the golden hair of the women sitting on him. He watched as the Malkavian choked back tears. An obvious conflict biting through her bottom lip as she attempted to control the beast trembling through her, a sincerity that spoke louder than any words Andre had ever seen.

	"This meeting is over," Esther's eyes quickly shifted between the two Kindred, "The Camarilla will not care for your commentary, Lena, whether made in light or not." Her body swiftly removed itself from her wooden seat. Her gloves dusted her long black skirt and adjusted the mesh headpiece propped over her brunette style.

	"You both ought to be killed, this very moment. Instead, I shall deliver the letter." The Malkavian corrected herself as she placed her cellphone inside of her purse. Her youth and innocence showed through her mask much more visibly in comparison to the other two Kindreds' spirits, but the Camarilla's puppeteering had much stronger pulls on her movements. Neither would dare touch her status, even as the Malkavian excused herself from the table and took her leave. Both agreed that the dark presence that flowed throughout the room had left with her exit. However, whether she took a left or a right from the restaurant was debatable between the two Kindred, as one stayed to enjoy his company, and the other made her way back to the black car parked a little ways down the busy streets, where the tiny hums continued in the most dangerous of manners.

	"I'll pat pretty pussy, and then he will purr; and thus show his thanks, for my kindness to him."

. . . 𝓨es, I suppose I grabbed,

				𝓐t Spring. 𝓐nd you set your hopes much too high. . .

	𝓛ady Alyssana's manners were impeccable. He wished sometimes to hang them upon the sky, but alas, that was too much, just like her crystal attitude being clean to a fault. She wore it as some sort of fresh fragrance that he really had no time to cusp on his cheeks for comfort post his afternoon shave. He admired this about her. There were other women he knew who treated his servants with dignity and respect, and to single her out would be too easy. He understood far too well for her to not be an easy woman.  She deserved more than some imaginary flight of words that made up florally lines of poetry. She deserved the truth.

	Ah, but the truth was much too hard to say, and when the right words formed for him to say it, the time was not quite right. He knew this far too well, as well. It haunted him his whole life. It was something like staring through a glass fixture. His boyish nature eventually admitted defeat with the other more easily attainable ones.

	He watched as Lady Alysanna was moving through his manor, speaking to his servant. She already owned the place. She commanded herself with a gentle nature, “Thank you, Franklin,” he assured the man with a smile. It was quiet and sharp, but there hinted some tinge of jealousy underneath the feeling even if the servant operated in a more clumsy manner, “Ah!” he echoed out of some hollow version of himself, “It appears as if we are onto something, what good luck we are having,” his arm gently cusped Lady Alyssana's outfit, guiding a small nudge as a couple would when sharing a dance. The moment was brief like and left with a bitterness, he knew he would wear for the rest of the afternoon, “What discovery do you think we should make of this?”

Drawing his arm, again, it entered back into the measure,
guessing back into pricking 
a word -- a date -- anything marked by a printing press
with the tip of his finger.

Just a prick of the hem . . .
					. . . For the ages.

. . . 𝓘 set my love upon you much too high.

					𝓐nd in the sky arranged my burial. . . .

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