Encore, mad'am moiselle. (Closed-RP)

[Dreskol Haethoven]

"Nothing like a funeral to make you feel alive."

"I love you, Jeremy..." The couple embraced themselves upon the dark, dimly illuminated sidewalk of the bustling historical city of Cologne. The man's hand found his way to the folds of her long brown hair as his fingers sunk into the depths of her wavey locks. "I love you too, Ste--"

*Splash*

The sounds of horses galloping throughout the brick-laid streets roared amidst the night air as the black carriage ran across a deep puddle upon the side of the road. The fire of the two youths extinguished as their forms from head to toe became doused with the street water, a fine way to begin a elegant night at the opera; truly.

The lively actions occurring outside were dulled to silence inside the black, metallic carriage. The curtains drawn to seal away all light from entering the mobile chamber, blacker than night inside, surely, if not for the soft flicker of a candle to light within. The sound-proofed carriage could not see, hear, or even care for the now washed away romantic feelings the couple had felt, as the master dwelling within had far greater tasks to fulfill.

"Mmn..." Sprawled within, the slowly shifting body of a curvaceous woman laid against the darkly clothed, masculine form of a man. Her body scantily clad, doing little to conceal the treasures fit for the eye as her hand rose to caress the man's cheek as she looked to him with willing, hazy eyes. "Yes... master.." Her hands musingly trailed to the side of their cushioned seat and plucked and instrument from atop the plush leather. The flicker of the candle light flashing against the blade of the stiletto as she raised the tip to her out-stretched neck. As if in a trance, she began to puncture her flawless skin, crimson liquid began to pour out from her growing wound. "Aa!-.. Aaah.. y-yesss..."

The controlled damsel began to take her own life before the man, who only looked on with dull eyes, an emotionless expression upon his features. As half of the ten inch blade found its way inside her neck, the bloodied woman pushed herself against the man and held her open wound close to him. With a slow, knowing movement, his lips parted and encompassed the gushing hole as he began to devour the woman whom was lost in pure ecstasy. Her face contorted and her brows raising with each hungry suckle of his lips, hands grasping against the underside of her neck and squeezing out a plethora of the red elixir.

The smooth treading of the carriage began to slow until finally pulling to a halt. A muffled voice echoed from outside the front of the carriage, the driver speaking to his dining passenger. "We're here, Count." Soft breaths came from his nostrils as slowly took his bloodied lips from the squirming woman, laying her near lifeless body against the seat as he wiped his mouth with a white cloth, as a proper gentlemen should. "Delicious."

Shattering the darkness inside of the metallic carriage, the door opened to shine in the street lights of the German city. There were tens of hundreds of men and women alike, all adorned in garments to make one's wealth known. Their insecurities concealed by the riches they proudly displayed to their 'friends' and companions, pounds of jewelry dangling off the necks and fingers of the women as they attempted to play the game of the wealthy: Who is worth more?

A dark-skinned man awaited outside the carriage as he held the door open for the Count to exit, his eyes hidden under black sunglasses which reflected the bright lights of the night. Stepping out of the portable chamber came none other than Dreskol Haethoven himself, his face remaining purely emotionless as the crowd of opera-goers looked on in utmost interest. "Is he... blue?" "What an expensive looking carriage!" "Oh my..." The rich swine spoke amongst themselves as if the man were a spectacle to behold, his dark aura laced with elegant attire, even captivating the hearts of a few of the more flimsy maidens as well.

"Clean up, Bertuccio." The driver standing beside the man who continued to look onward only bowed his form halfway, not bothering to look inside for he knew just what laid within. "Yes sir. The door found its way closed as the blue-skinned man walked towards the opera house doors, a golden-engraved cane held within his white-silkened grasp as all eyes focused to him.

Within, the rather nervous house-seater trembled with an unsightly stutter as the Count stood before him, silent. "R-r-r.. right this way, s-sir Haethoven." Yes, it seems the opera house was aware of his arrival and his prior arrangement for the ceiling box near the stage. After being lead into his own private quarter to view the opera which was to unfold, the door was locked and the Count found himself alone to look down to the currently barren stage, awaiting the performance which was to unfold.


Note: Nya~
Count: Eight-hundred and thirty-three.
Tag: Dees knees

[Anastasia Lacusta]

Please, you must help us! "Why should I?" A-ah . . . because, our main lady has fallen tragically ill and there is no one else we can find to replace her - you are our only hope. "My services never come cheap, I want something in return." Name the price and we'll pay it. Anything! "Money? Hahaha! Oh no no, I have plenty of that already - I want something else. Something that you hold dear." Wha - . . . I don't understand. One of the shadowed silhouette's moved swiftly to that of the male, seizing his neck in one gentle grip before pulling their figures close together. Rose stained lips curled into the most charming smile before brushing them against the shell of his ear, whispering only a few words before the captured male's face twisted in pure terror and amazement. Sweat dripped from his wrinkled brow and dark pupils widened in a visual sense of shock. A sudden wave of darkness overpowered their illuminated figures and fell into temporary silence, nothing but to the sounds of his unsteady breathing reaching to any unfortunate viewers ear.

W...what do you want?

"Your soul."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Final Act.

Whispers. Secrets. Hushed conversations held between closed curtains, forever hiding in darkness from anyone oh so curious enough to find them; long within the theater while many of unexpected viewers waited patiently from behind. Wondering. Waiting. When will the second intermission start? I heard the star suddenly fell ill after the first intermission and couldn't finish the rest of this performance. Who shall stand in her place? I hear it's someone they snatched from this very audience! Questions of doubt fluttered delicately above the opera house in travels as soft whispers, moving from one aristocrat to the next while minutes counted down for the big opening. The theater towered several houses high, a fine building made from the most prestigious amounts of marble and capable workers who made this dream of a building come true. Only those descendants of high maintenance families and those high in power were allowed to witness such a spectacular visage; the price for tickets and private booths were worth more than a middle class family made within a year of hard work.

Finally, as the minutes drew close and the performance was only seconds away - the dim lighting surrounding the theater began to soften to a dull ember before going out completely. Felt burgundy curtains withdrew to reveal its secrets hiding just beneath only to reveal another column of darkness; the sounds of vibrations, putter patter of feet, and last minute vocals ringing through before they also fell into an eerie silence. Suddenly bright rays of light emerged from the shadows to fall upon the stage floor to reveal only one woman standing; ragged clothes hanging from her delicate curves and smears of dirt staining such soft cocoa flesh. Violet hair mangled in a series of tangles and heaps of filth, her all over appearance related to, what they call, peasants. Despite her put off appearance the expression on her face was high and proud yet very confined as there were chains wrapped about her wrists and ankles. Everyone paused in their small conversations with one another and gazed to look upon the new star of the show, realizing she appeared very different from their latter woman. Before they became adjusted to a woman with long blond hair full of curls, bright blue eyes and pale white skin. Now there was another. Chocolate shaded soft flesh, long tresses of violet hair flowing to the ground and deep golden hues that held such defiance for all mankind. Already everyone felt doubtful for this new girls' appearance and wondered if she had the skill to over match that of the sick starlet.

“I would rather die than do something which I know to be a sin, or to be against God's will.” A strong vibrant voice rang through the silence over thousands of onlookers, studying the bound woman closely that was to portray one of the most influential women in all of history. Joan of Arc. Strong, brave, loyal to God, a woman who knew no feat and led thousands of men to victory through the art of war and love for Him; despite her physical appearance - she had won the trust and hearts over many. It was only after a few years that she soon would be captured and tried for heresy, as portrayed from the last intermission, and now came the final moments of Joan of Arc. Where she was kept within a very small cage of imprisonment and forced to wear a dress, something torn and ripped from the many men who attempted to sexually molest her. Despite the pain, the suffering - she never faltered; when friends gathered to coax her suffering or warn her of what was to come. To be burned alive at Rouen, where many would watch and witness. Anastasia feigned the beautiful replica of sorrow and disgust, throwing her dirtied head from the side as to not look at them. "Alas! Am I to be so horribly and cruelly treated? Alas! That my body, clean and whole, which has never been corrupted, should this day be consumed and burned to ashes! Ah! I would far rather have my head chopped off seven times over, than to be burned!"

Many figures surrounded the actress and began to threaten the young woman in tatters with many promises of torture if she didn't plead her guilt. Anastasia Joan of Arc threw her head back and laughed, shaking her head in a quiet dismissal before throwing herself against the ground to rest against such disgusting pieces of wheat. "Truly, if you were to tear me limb from limb and separate my soul from my body, I would not say anything more. If I did say anything, after wards I would always declare that you made me say it by force!" The men grew disgusted and soon left after having their play by "sexual abuse" scene, everyone upon the stage disappearing to only appear again one last time. The final cut. "Rouen! Rouen! Must I die here? Ah, Rouen, I fear you will have to suffer for my death!" Anastasia's voice cried through muffled voices of hatred and order, the lights brightening to reveal the young Joan of Arc become tied to a post; many people standing in silence while the rest screamed heresies for her so called "crimes". Soldiers tied her straight and made sure plenty of flammable weeds covered the bridge of her legs; wearing nothing but the rags she'd been wearing so many days ago and skin already blistered and crackled from dry embraces with dirt.

Decorated priests surfaced from the crowd to open a large book before them, muttering several prayers and her final sentence while many people attended the gathering to bear witness Joan's death. Muttering incoherent babbles of her being a witch and throwing objects at her face, that of which she casually dismissed - such defiance and longevity still existing within those golden eyes. Someone, a small figure, ran through the crowd to meet with the soon to die soldier of God - revealing a small wooden crucifix that had been made for her just for this occasion; the small boy didn't have to utter a word of explanation for she knew that such a act of kindness wouldn't go overlooked. The actress wore a saddened smile towards the young one and nodded, "Hold the crucifix before my eyes, so that I may see it until I die." As the young one did so - it was only moments before the flames began to lick the very weeds collecting underneath her legs, soon drawing up to engulf the young woman alive. Several cries of pain escaped the actress' throat as she revealed physical signs of pain, behaving as anyone would when they felt the spread of fire slowly eat her young body alive. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" Everyone stood in silence as the image of Joan of Arch soon disappeared, even the crowd was unable to voice their opinions of awe and immediate fondness for the new actress. They were unable to look away as they gasped in horror, suddenly drawn into the play with such emotion that they couldn't help but feel the pain of Joan. Knowing she was innocent all this time and yet punished in the most horrible of ways.

tag; my dear count deskol~!
words; 1433, omai.
music; gankutsuou - kaisho.