Darkness wakes and stirs imagination

[Christine Daye]

... silently the senses .... abandon their defenses... helpless to resist the notes I write...

The Ceryneian Theatre is quiet in the small hours, its mortal staff and performers gone to their beds. The atmosphere is still thick with sensation, the wax of the grease paint, the scorched smell of the stage lights. Ghosts linger in the shadows, painted into the scenery flats, hanging from the flies, lurking in the jumble of props behind the scenes.

Christine leads everyone from the stage door to the room upstairs with the ease of someone totally at home. The room she invites them into would not be out of place as someone's parlour, complete as it is with bookcases, overstuffed armchairs and several couches, arrayed for conversation. But the observant can spot the theatrical touches, the play bills upon the walls, the sheet music spilling from the bookcases. Even the nicknacks are whimsical; a skull sits upon a shelf adorned with a paper party hat and a red nose, while an elephant's foot forms a receptacle for umbrellas, sticks and a couple of basket hilted rapiers.

"Come in... come in... please... be welcome!"

She ushers everyone in, the picture of a proper hostess, lights the lamps so that the room is suffused with a warm glow.

"Now... what were we talking about again....? oh botheration!"

[Jean-Jacques]

Jean-Jacques had been to that theatre on a couple of previous occasions, each at the Invitation of the prince, now with a degree of hesitation he followed Christine inside and through the workings of the stage to the private room

Sweet dreams are made of this....such a homely feel...is it the blood or the company eh

As his fellow guests arrange themselves in the room he turns to Christine

“An honour you do me in your welcome to such a place, truly it feels comfortable”

....what makes your soul sing”

Christine’s question had hung on his mind as they had walked, so as she attempted to recall it he responded

“Miss Daye, if I might be bold as to assist your recollection, you had offered the question of what makes your soul sing?. . An entrancing question if I may say so”

He looks around the kindred gathered

“Having had more time to consider a more rounded answer as respects your hospitality, I should say for myself it is the freedom of dreams, where the soul is unfettered by the vestiges of the mortal coil”

Go on then, you may as well blurt it all out now you’ve bloody well started!

He pauses

“For my consideration my soul is granted a release upon such a notion, and the waking hours only seek to reinforce the prison walls that restrain its full flight...dreams allow the souls to fledge the nest..and further more to sing the sweetest melodies of the dawn chorus whilst on the wing”

Open your eyes and see......I’m just a poor boy

[Bronwyn93]

The ultimatum had been placed and Angelina looked down with a silent, small shake of her head, keeping quiet.

She perked up at the idea of going to the theatre. She was excited to see it, having no memories of setting foot in one, but very keen to see inside. She followed, to the Ceryneian Theatre with a look of wonder on her face, while also trying to think on Christine's question.

The question left her mind however as they walked through the building, instead taking in the sights with the excitement of a child, and looked around with a smile, and took a moment to look around the parlour room. She didn't take a seat yet, but moved to stand near one, waiting for everyone else to get situated.

Jean-Jacques answer to the question made her tilt her head with interest, and she wondered again on what she could answer. She was young and had little experience of the grander things in life. Her answer would be small in comparison to any of the others, no matter what she chose.

[Lucius Servius]

Lucius scoffs at Jean-Jacks question. “Your soul sings when your dreaming? Really? Is your mundane life as Grace’s ward so utterly dull that torpor dreams are your only escape? How utterly pathetic.”

Lucius walks over to examine one of the rapiers up close, before turning to examine the other nic-naks squirreled away in different spots around the room.

“Jean-Jack, on reflection I feel I have done you a disservice. If I had to spend as much time with that Brujah I also would be fantasizing about the escape of day sleep, If only for the peace it offers from her self-aggrandizing prattle about mortals.”

“Angelina, you are the only one to have not answered the question? I would hazard a guess you don’t answer because you don’t know how to answer the question. You have lived such a sheltered life you haven’t yet had the opportunity to grow."

[Rhona]

Rhona listened to the other's little speeches with her full attention, even if she didn't fully understand or appreciate their words. In many ways she pitied Jean-Jacques - to live such an existence didn't sound much like it was worth 'living' at all. A night didn't go by where Rue didn't seek to try and expand her experiences of this new world, there was too much out there to cage yourself in such a way.

She decided to let the Elder continue his tirade of verbal barbs until he was quite finished - there was no need to get involved in his seemingly bottomless pit of scorn. Her only solace was that she hadn't been outwardly insulted on the basis of her own answer yet, so at least she had that much.

Settling on a particularly squashy looking couch and lounging in that languid fashion she could never help but do, she took in the details of the room - admiring every unique little knick-knack and object, wondering where each item may have come from. So many worlds and times apart from this one, all collected in this cosy little space - places she would probably never lay eyes on. Some of them would probably make for fine inspiration, but thankfully she was no thief. At least certainly not in a place of such propriety.

It occurred to her she had no idea how old Angelina really was. If she had only been released in the last few years, there was a chance she could be very similar in age to Rue herself. That probably meant that - like most of her blood- she came from a far more high born background than Rue had - there was no way she wasn't from privilege, with such a naive outlook.

She looked back to Christine, wondering if she would answer her own question before another was posed.

[Christine Daye]

The rapier that Lucious examines is definitely a stage prop, originating perhaps from a flea market somewhere. It's dusty, but not rusted, and though the point has been ground down to make it slightly safer, in the right hands and with the right disciplines, it could easily skewer some poor unfortunate soul.

There is a bewildering array of things to catch Rhona's eye. A battered tin cup sits next to an ornate trophy, which in turn sits next to a broken crown, which is missing some jewels, the spaces like gaps for lost teeth. There is a teapot without a lid that now holds paintbrushes, pencils and an assortment of sticks that might double as magic wands, given the right lighting. There are biscuit tins, the lids bulging, boxes of thread, a massive collection of mismatched candle sticks. Half a broken serving plate is propped up on the mantelpiece, next to a carriage clock that is running seven minutes fast. Books are stacked higgeldy piggeldy on the bookcases, piles teetering on side tables. A music stand in the corner has lost its grip on the loose sheets, and they have formed a puddle of paper at its feet.

... some of them want to use you... some of them want to be used by you... some of them want to abuse you... some of them want to be abused...

They're all looking at Christine expectantly. It takes her a long minute before she realises they're expecting her to answer her own question.

"... oh, silly me! What makes my heart sing? My heart is always singing... but the moment of purity... the moment of perfection... the moment when I am lost and part of something greater than myself... that..."

[Jean-Jacques]

Jean-Jacques had chosen a careworn chair and taken his seat as the group settle into the room and watched with amusement hidden entirely by his expression the various glances around at the objects

Quite the little old curiosity shoppe, sister, one could get lost amongst the white elephants

He follows the gazes around what appears to be a collection of trinkets, the music sheets however hold his gaze a moment longer, lingering on the pattern the pile of sheets make in their collection under the stand.

Then Christine gives her answer and Jean-Jacques smiles as she does so.

“perfection, indeed that is a noble pursuit Miss Daye”

He glances to the others

“I have a question should you wish to answer..”

He glances toward Angelina, a smile, almost in apology.... almost

“If you had the chance of a private audience with anyone, living, dead or..unliving from history, who would you choose”

He pauses for a brief moment

“We shall assume for the purposes of the game, that the audience shall come with no repercussions”

[Christine Daye]

Christine's answer is immediate and unhesitating.

"Turlough O'Carolan."

Then she just hums a melody quietly, unobtrusively. It's beautiful, but slightly melancholy.

[Bronwyn93]

Angelina winced slightly at the Elder's comment, though she opened her mouth to respond, there was little she could say to protest his statement. "You are correct. I have no answer, because I have not had any experience that has made my soul fly." She said honestly. "I am sure when I have experienced more of the world, I will be able to come back with an answer." She shrugged slightly.

Once a few others had sat, she sat carefully on a couch, and looked around, picking up a small nick-nack and fiddling with it, chewing her lip as she looked at Jean-jacques with his question. "Oh, that I certainly have an answer for. One of the Brothers Grimm." She said lightly.

[Rhona]

Rue leans back as she thinks, reminding herself it would probably be rude to put her feet up on the furniture here...better to behave like a model little neonate for now. The answer comes fairly quickly, as her mind travels back to her student days - fleeting as they were.

"Francisco Goya, without much preamble. His mastery of light, darkness and the soul was something I didn't see in countless other masters I studied. It was as if he could see something no-one else could, a vision that cut through the veil that people chose to pull across the world. The older masters might exemplify the beauty or divinity of a subject, but Goya could always pierce through that to capture something more upon a canvas."

She fell quiet, back into her thoughts as she looked between the assembled kindred. She didn't particularly know if any of them had any sort of interest in visual art - aside from music and theatre of course.

"Of course...I am sure there are countless other individuals I could pick, but I am limited by my upbringing as to such awareness." She added, not wanting to seem as if she had closed her mind to other possibilities.