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Post by Death on May 4, 2007 10:56:17 GMT -5
*Death felt bad. He didn't know. He outstretched a bony hand to her.*
"I...I can take you...if you'd like. His name is Percy. He's..."
A bit quirky. Takes some getting used to.
"...a good man. He loves your mother very much. Please try to let that be enough of a place to start."
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Meg
- Ingenious Pilot -
Gone to Persia, BRB.
Posts: 175
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Post by Meg on May 4, 2007 11:00:02 GMT -5
*sighs uneasily*
What choice do I have?
*places her hand carefully in his, trying not to flinch as her fingers grasp naked bone, and steps up next to him without looking up at him*
Alright. Take me to him.
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Post by Death on May 4, 2007 11:03:18 GMT -5
*Death pulled her softly to him, wrapping his cloak around her in an inky embrace. He whispered gently in her ear.*
"It will be all right. Close your eyes."
*With that, they melted into a black puddle that shrank into the shadows of the room.*
((Going to Vianne's Wake.))
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Post by Vianne Giry on May 4, 2007 11:04:54 GMT -5
((You could go hang out with your baby half-brothers. They're cute. Lord knows how a dark elfin thing like Giry managed to birth a tribe of gargantuan golden-haired giants, but there ya go.))
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Post by Isa on Mar 28, 2008 0:14:33 GMT -5
**NEW DAY**
Isa was bored, she had just gotten off her 14 hour shift at the infirmary, and although she should be sleeping, she just couldn't. She came to the opera house, it was morning and the people were buzzing about like bee's, excited for some new opera that obviously needed every single dancer and singer in the house.
Isa missed New York, she missed everything, including the tiny little opera house they had there.
When she had arrived in Paris she had worked for a very short time in the opera, where they loved her so much they had given her full pass to every opera. She sat down in front of a mirror in a rehearsal room and sighed.
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Asia!Christine
- Masterful Virgin -
none other than the phantom's whore
Posts: 22
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Post by Asia!Christine on Apr 13, 2009 14:03:41 GMT -5
**NEW NIGHT**
This Christine Daae was not the first, nor would she be the last, to enter into one of these rooms and sing self-indulgently although with a goodly amount of self-discipline in front of the mirror. Ignorance, however, is bliss, and Christine hardly needed the additional identity crisis of learning her entire life was a much-used trope, name included, on top of the struggle to mature from child to woman, which, rather typically, although she was not entirely aware of it, was evident in every curve of her bodice and smile that she cast her reflection.
((Short post. Whatever. Tag Erik! For stuff.))
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Post by Erik on Apr 13, 2009 14:53:40 GMT -5
If Christine was unaware of her place in line, Erik was not. Not entirely, anyway, though it was a curious fact about his nature that he could blithely ignore reality if he was distracted enough or if it didn't immediately seem to matter. This might have been a side effect of living underground, with very little contact with the outside world for some years, now. Or he might just have been mad.
At any rate, his wanderings about the Opera were, of late, almost entirely perfunctory. He had not even felt the need to harass most of the newcomers, for they came and went so frequently these days that there was hardly any need to keep up. He was worried about Julian, of course, and about Mortimer, and chafed at the fact of Erik Destler and his prized tenor, but his routine was simple; he prowled the back passages of the Opera out of habit, for one never new.
One never knew when something like Christine would happen. Or happen again.
This one was wholly unlike the others, but he didn't know that at first. All Erik was conscious of was the Voice, which lured him from some dark recess to some other dark recess, the one behind the mirror the young lady gazed at all unknowing.
She looked entirely unfamiliar, and at the same time, entirely known to him. This was Christine. Erik knew this as he knew he was Erik, as he'd known Christian was Christine. It was not necessarily a conscious awareness of her Christineness, but the tug on his heart was the same. He stood, breathless, mere inches away from her, and let the purity of tone wash over him. It soothed and excited him at once, his heart singing and his body clenching and all other thought departing with the swiftness of the sun burning off the morning mist.
This one, he thought, did not even need lessons. No, she had been sent to him, fully-formed and perfect. At last. At last, something perfect.
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Asia!Christine
- Masterful Virgin -
none other than the phantom's whore
Posts: 22
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Post by Asia!Christine on Apr 14, 2009 13:35:23 GMT -5
Christine continued to sing in front of the mirror, confident enough in the song she was working on to add slight flourishes or variations to phrases, having spent so long out with her father - the classically-trained violinist turned folk fiddler - that she did not view written works themselves as sacred, and often made variations as she, gaily singing, went about her day. Although occasionally she adjusted her posture so that she could properly use her diaphragm, although there was something about the singers and their training at the opera that made it so that their chests heaved dramatically even despite their perfect singing techniques, she was, for the most part, quite ideal.
Why she hadn't gotten a part yet...
Well, she was still quite young. She'd have time, and luck, and maybe someday some sort of sign from her father in heaven that would encourage her to go ahead, not that she usually needed lots of encouraging, being a bright sort of person who, despite a sort of tendency towards introversion and gazing at the ceiling, had no difficulty being sociable.
Christine's ability was not due to a lack of rehearsal, as was evidenced by the fact that when her eyes fell upon the clock's reflection in the mirror she frowned and leaned forward to see it, and then her expression changed to alarm. How late she was! Not that Christine got a lot of sleep, finding herself more awake at nocturnal hours than daylight ones. She turned very quickly, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders despite its slipping down, and, picking up her lamp hastily, hurried out.
((I just figured you should write a sentence or two to explain how Erik follows her, or if he does. If he doesn't, I can have her scream or something. It will be easy.))
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Post by Erik on Apr 14, 2009 13:44:00 GMT -5
She was exquisite. He hadn't words to describe her; perfect technique, married to spirit and vigor and why the devil wasn't she a star? Who was keeping her in the chorus? He was fairly certain it hadn't been a direct order from himself, though it was hard to keep track once he'd made his sometimes capricious demands. One had to keep those managers on their toes, after all.
When she left, Erik's decision to follow was entirely unconscious. Instinctual. He merely could not bear to be parted from her, yet. He had to know her, see her, hear her again.
But she would not detect him, not with the experience of many years of ghosting behind him. He could follow, unobserved, and watch as her slipped ever so gently down her rounded shoulder.
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Asia!Christine
- Masterful Virgin -
none other than the phantom's whore
Posts: 22
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Post by Asia!Christine on Apr 15, 2009 14:15:23 GMT -5
Christine walked away entirely innocent of any understanding of being watched, utterly unconscious as she went through the hallways with her own images of ghosties and spirits and angels and invisible heroes and heroines in her head, like a pageant unfolding in the shadows, exciting her as they might excite a child, despite the more adult tones to her imaginings.
And, unconscious as she was, she did not notice the terribly sinister-seaming whiskered man in a big yellow waistcoat when he approached as though he were really just a dear old uncle and took her by the arm - not really even roughly, except, perhaps, in that he was altogether too eager. And very strong.
Christine was at first merely startled and alarmed - such that the breath was knocked from her - but a moment later she gave a piercing scream as only a songbird really could and tried to pull back, scarf fluttering to the floor even as her hand pressed against her heart, fingers splayed as though to futilely cover her partially-exposed bosom, or to grasp the scarf before it fell and draw it closer.
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Post by Erik on Apr 15, 2009 15:43:20 GMT -5
Erik's first thought was that screaming was really rather bad for the voice. His second was translated immediately into deed, and the noose shot out of the shadows faster than the eye could track, arranging itself almost sinuously around the man's fleshy neck. It was his turn to scream, though the sound was cut off quickly by the a sharp tug that sent him toppling, lifeless, to the floor.
All this had occurred within the space of a single second, and Erik was already stepping out of the shadows, a lithe, skeletally debonair form in evening dress but for the black mask. He stepped quickly and silently towards Christine, his palm ready lest she scream again and alert anyone else nearby to his presence.
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Asia!Christine
- Masterful Virgin -
none other than the phantom's whore
Posts: 22
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Post by Asia!Christine on May 11, 2009 20:24:11 GMT -5
Christine stared, open-mouthed, too alarmed to even speak, let alone breathe properly. Her hand remained above her breast - near her heart - and her fingers tightened in the air as though to wrap the scarf closer, but of course they grasped nothing, and she seemed too fixated, struck entirely dumb, on the spectral figure before her. At the same time, he did not seem like a specter, and there seemed something very tangible about his silk attire; she could have reached out and touched it and delighted in the fabric easily, for Christine had the combined love of the texture and cut of fine clothes of a young opera debutante and an even younger little girl with a fondness for dress-up.
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Post by Erik on May 12, 2009 13:43:42 GMT -5
When she did not scream, Erik bent swiftly to the warm body, deft fingers finding no pulse. It was as he'd expected, but it was as well to be certain. He rose fluidly, eyes fixed on her though one would have to be uncommonly perceptive to see them in the dark holes of his mask.
He was not in the habit of allowing impressionable chorus girls to see him, but this had required swift action. And he had to be certain she would not speak of this further. And, though he did not think about it, perhaps some part of him was aware that he had begun his relationship with Christine Daae--the first one--with secrecy and subterfuge.
And look how that had turned out. At least this time, he was starting with murder. No, wait, rescue.
"You are unhurt," he said, and while it was not a question it allowed space for her to disagree. Indeed, it was a hopeful statement, couched in his velvety voice.
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Asia!Christine
- Masterful Virgin -
none other than the phantom's whore
Posts: 22
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Post by Asia!Christine on May 12, 2009 14:21:02 GMT -5
Christine shook her head, then, after a moment of failing to, she found her voice and spoke. "No," she said, eyes still quite wide. "Because of you."
Which wasn't quite a thanks to, but close. Her words had awe in them, but not necessarily strict respect or politeness. He had killed the whiskered man, after all, and she was still in shock. Death, however, wasn't exactly real to Christine; it was something that mostly existed in stories, in fairy tales, or in operas. And at the end of those everyone stood up again and bowed, didn't they, or they got the part of the butcher's daughter in the second act or something.
Around this time, however, the cogs in her brain had started, however cautiously, to turn again, and as they did they began to whisper: operaghostoperaghostoperaghost. Who hadn't heard of it? And this Christine's papa didn't tell her Swedish fairy tales, you know! He made Italian horror films about sex and violence and witches and shit! Oh, wait.
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Post by Erik on May 12, 2009 15:37:08 GMT -5
She was exquisite. Erik almost wished to hold his breath in her presence, a Madonna with eyes too deep. Christine's--the other Christine's--eyes had been blue as the sky, reflecting nothing and hiding nothing.
"You have had a shock," he said calmly, his voice eminently rational and very difficult to disagree with. "You ought to sit down and have someone bring you a drink." He would cart the bastard away when she was out of sight. Bad enough that she see this, that the man's bloated carcass imprint itself upon that innocent canvas.
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