Be it The Theatre Royal, The Ceryneian Theatre, or any of the smaller establishments serving to entertain the good people of Bath, here lies the feeling of sanctuary - of focus - and a tremble in the ether as the curtains rise, the music begins. Women touch themselves up - cosmetically - and their features glow and gleam: mouths like scimitars in claret, plum, sienna, smokily shadowed eyes with diamond hints and sapphire glints. Candle flames paint flickering reflections across the crystal chandeliers. Inside a Theatre is something pure, something beyond the Beast, immortalised in story and dance, the hard-won result of all the satirically polite personas, the rehearsals, the strict agents, the money and fame, the spotlights, the sweat, the pain and the blisters, the heartache and a final real catch-of-breath victory. Here is the playground of the performers.
by Christine Daye » Tue Nov 28, 2017 10:47 am
"Along the river. The park is quite gloomy and depressing this time of year. All the fallen leaves turning to mud and mush... I suppose there is an analogy there... if we care to find it... alas the autumn colours are mostly gone with the winds and the rain... but soon we will have the brightness of the starry midwinter skies... in the bleak midwinter... frosty wind made moan... earth stood hard as iron... water like a stone... snow had fallen, snow on snow... snow on snow... in the bleak midwinter... long ago..."
She refocuses.
"Oh, but I shall need to fetch my coat and hat. Give me just a moment!"
Christine Daye - Malkavian neonate, harper and mezzo-soprano
Courteous, Acclaimed
Favoured by Antigone, Ashwin Major
Last night she came to me, my dead love came in((OOC - Sarah Callaghan,
sorcha.ni@gmail.com))
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Christine Daye
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