Sanctity & Sin [IC]

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OOC - IntChK

The weather in Vegas has been hot, a dry heat that made the air seem thick and stale, but this is as unchanging as the ages of those that rule this city; not the gangsters that followed the scents of sin or the investors that followed the dump trucks of money electronically wired in and out of this place or even the hookers that tended to follow both, but the people will real influence. The demigods that have made temporary home within the desserts little oasis and flourish beside the brightly lit up streets and buzzing humanity of the city of Sin. Each has their own reasons for choosing this particular location and some have no reason at all, but they can all agree that something is changing.

They don’t feel it. The mortals. The people who run around until their pockets are either empty or bursting. Even those that can feel the slight twinge in the air, even the immortals, are having a difficult time trying to put a finger on the change. It creates unease inside of them and ruffles them with a warning as if someone is watching them, and while these creatures are well aware that something is always watching, this something is different.

It came as no surprise when they each received a missive, perhaps a bit more forward than they had been expecting, but they had been expecting something. The letter was delicately written in the form of an invitation, but the curls of the letters that spelled out their true names was much more ominous than a simply invitation. It was a summons and it was from someone who truly knew them. The only reason this invitation would not hint towards conspiracy was the restlessness that had been drifting around them for days now, sometimes even riling up the nerves enough to interfere with their powers. At least once LaLaurie had felt the wave of turmoil and accidently injected a little too much wrath into one of her projects, ruining months time she’d put into it and requiring her to abandon that particular endeavor entirely. It had been decades since she had done something so careless.

Dearest __________,
An audience with yourself and your kindred is requested on the eve of this Friday in the south facing penthouse of the Venetian. While it should go unsaid, discretion is highly appreciated.
Always, O.

The letter had arrived on Thursday evening, most of them simply appearing by some means or another. Delphine had received hers while sitting on a large chase lounge, looking out at an encompassing view of the majestic chaos that scrambled around below the penthouse of the Venetian where she had been staying. Her brows had wrinkled in distaste as she read her name and then the location of this supposed meeting. While she wanted to be angry at the presumption that she would be willing to host she had little doubt about the identity of O. None of her fellow demigods would be as brash as the Oracles could be. And if an Oracle wanted an audience, you didn’t say no.

She sighed and her eyes swept around the room, there would have to be some arrangements made if she were to be having a party. Her delicate fingers wrapped about the classic phone that sat near her and she began on some phone calls.

Friday Evening
The penthouse appeared immaculate and well furnished, none of which where things that the woman who would greet you at the door could take credit for. In fact, she felt that she was exerting her niceties enough by answering the door herself and it was a rare occasion that the large door was pulled open by that coy smiling demon herself and you were ushered into the foyer with a sweeping gesture that extended from the exceedingly over priced dress that hung on her deceptively sweet looking frame. It was all part of her charm, the smile as she offered to take each guests elbow and lead them into the main room. Even as the demigods touched each other’s skin a sort of static would trickle between them, their “influences” attempting to over ride the others in what usually ended in a stale mate. Tesla was the only one who was not offered the elbow. A slight tsking sound emanating from her lips as she pressed a hand down along her hair. ”You do the worst things to a perfect coif, so excuse the rudeness. Follow me.”

As she led each of them separately into the large main room where this meeting would occur she would lean in close as if speaking to a best friend, a social habit from her extended experience as a socialite. She waved an arm down the hall leading to the right. ”The bathroom, the study.” And then she waved another arm down the hall to the left. ”Best you avoid that wing. I had to hide my things somewhere and the overly generous owner of this penthouse needed a place to rest his head.” Her words could have seemed normal, but that smile that flickered across that lips was something that shared the same sterility that the hall way had, something that was put there to hide the debauchery but really only hinted at it more. The Venetian’s penthouse would probably have to be burned to cover up the secrets behind those doors, something that she would enact with absolutely no remorse.

But then they were out of the hallway and stepping through two opened doors into the main area. There were couches and chairs placed around with interior decorators flair that spoke of organized chaos and in the center there was a large glass table. The table was spread with a lavish display of wealth, borrowed to be sure from the man whom was sequestered off in the secret wing. There were trays of food, catered in from the hotel’s five star restaurant, which filled this room with an enticing smell meant to relax the guests. The bar too was there to calm their nerves, fully stocked, though lacking a bartender in consideration of the secrecy of this entire meeting. It would be imprudent to place a mortal in a closed off space with this much influence even if they could be trusted to keep the secrets of the occupants.

Each demigod is aware of the existence of the Oracles. It is not clear whether there is one oracle that takes many shapes or if there truly is more than one entity. If the power or influence of the Oracle could be questioned, watching the guarded respect that the Oracles require from even the Gods should abolish any doubt. They are ancient beings described in many religions as many different things. Their length of existence is impossible to surmise considering that there is nothing old enough to remember a time without the Oracles. In actual reception they are cryptic and puzzling, showing both concern and apathy towards most things.

Nietzsche stepped into the foyer of the Venetian hotel, and to his eternal embarrasment walked towards the elevators. He imagined many of his fellows would be arriving in style, but in absence of their modes of conveyance he had to make do. Some could fly, or appear in a cloud of acrid smoke, or beam themselves through the television. Admittedly though these where not exactly practical, in this heat flying was just more effort than it was worth and Nietzsche had always thought that acrid smoke would eventually get to even immortals. As for beaming through the television, no one needed reminding what had happened to the god of remote controls when he had tried this. Poor lamb hadn't considered that not everyone had a forty inch plasma. Well Nietzsche could have sneaked in, but that was hardly polite and being as his host was sort of the oracle. He consoled himself that an elevator was probably a good metaphor for ascension, well atleast it was when the music wasn't playing.
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"Ah, Delphine," he said upon entering, "Welcoming us at the door, you really shouldn't have put yourself to so much trouble." He rejected the proffered hand, knowing full well that he didn't want to know where it had been. If she'd been a mortal he may have felt pity for her, dismissed it on the strange games a mind plays with itself. But she wasn't, she was immortal and that meant she had a passion for it and as she said ”Best you avoid that wing. I had to hide my things somewhere and the overly generous owner of this penthouse needed a place to rest his head," it wasn't hard to guess the meaning. She was getting a kick out of it wasn't she? Knowing what was really going on, the contrast of the depraved and the delectable. He would have said it was a classic mentality of killers to get a thrill from getting away with, a century had certainly given him time to catch up on his reading and crimonology was somewhere on the list, but it wasn't just a classic mentality in her case, it was the classic mentality. He couldn't be the only one who knew their history and to see people exchange pleasantries with her drove him quite frankly mental.
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Still, he didn't let it register, people believed he didn't believe in anything and that or perhaps pride had shaped him. He had to appear to be indifferent to it all. "Bathroom and study," he waved off to the left, "Private rooms," he gesticulated at the right hand hallway. "Oh wait, that's the wrong way round. Wouldn't want to get them confused and wander into the wrong one," he laughed in a manner that suggested the worst he was worried about was not putting the seat down in the ensuite, but his fingers flickered in and out of visibility as he said it. Seemingly as though he was nervous because you should never read to much into such things he thought, no that'll only make you paranoid. "Are you taking these?" he continued thrusting out his coat towards her and looking around to see if there was a bar anywhere, because even the oracle would struggle to keep him here if there wasn't.

As per the usual Thursday morning, Vincent Willem van Gogh found himself sitting in a small café and brewery along the strip, enjoying a conversation with his usual person of choice. With nothing to distract him asides a coffee and a plate that was otherwise empty save for a piece of buttered toast that sat in the space that his small breakfast previously held, Vincent thought it no surprise that the only one who could stand his company in all of Las Vegas was a whore. Undoubtedly, he treated this prostitute much kinder than he did any of the other permanent residents and transient hell raisers, whether or not he did so merely because of his affinity towards cheap sex was another matter entirely. Having been inside for anywhere between thirty minutes to an hour, Vincent was itching for a cigar; he ignored this urge for a short while longer as his company was still midway through eating their breakfast and satisfied his oral fixation with his remaining drink, though it was now lukewarm and not nearly as satisfying as it had been twenty minutes earlier.

“It's not so much that I've been unwell lately as it is that I'm starting to get a tad delirious. I'm hoping I didn't pick up something strange from a client,” His company, who he knew only by his name of scandal, waved his fork carelessly as he spoke. Vincent couldn't help but to carefully watch the potentially harmful instrument as it came close to his nose, clearing his throat in the hope that the boy would take the hint and continue using his silverware as it should be used: properly. It only earned him a confused look and a well intended, “You're not getting sick too, are you Willem?”, to which Vincent responded with a simple shake of the head. Quite the opposite, he was the one causing his companion the distress he was worrying over.

“I had been wondering where you'd gone off to these last few days,” Vincent said finally as he finished his toast. “I simply assumed you had found work elsewhere.” His tone was as bland as ever, but the young boy before him didn't seem to notice, let alone mind his attitude, so much as he took offense to his words. Regardless he didn't do much harm.

“No,” Andrej responded, putting down his cup with some extra force compared to usual, the only sign that anything was bothering him at all. “I always stay to the strip, just different parts of it.” Willem had never been entirely certain if his company minded talk of his work or not, or whether it was the rest of the conversation that occasionally irked him. He didn't have much time to wonder. “I'm done, mate. I'm guessing you want your smoke about now.”

“Your guess would be correct.” Van Gogh responded, already half way to the door. He wasted no time when it came to his guilty pleasures, that was one thing that Andrej had learned first hand.

Soon enough the pair were submitted to the heat of another summer in Vegas, Vincent attempting to distract himself by sucking a long drag from the end of his hand made Don Tomas. Those Hondurans knew what they were doing when it came to making his cigars. They stood in silence as Vincent nursed his tobacco craving, neither breaking the silence or the connection between his lips and his cigar until a nice-sized ash had accumulated at the end. “Get out of here.” Vincent said, assuming his androgynous conversational partner would be departing shortly. He was probably waiting just to be polite. His command – advice, depending on how you looked at it – was quickly shot down by the petite but exceptionally tall blonde.

“I don't mind.” Stubborn boy. Andrej busied himself by readjusting his ponytail, head bobbing as he fiddled with the tie. It really was a waste of his time to stand there with him in silence as he smoked, however Vincent didn't bother complaining. The two of them had a strange relationship and if he felt like making it stranger by spending his spare time with him even after their words to one another were used up for the day, he wouldn't stop him. Sooner or later he tossed the remaining tail of his cigar onto the equally hot pavement and stubbed it out with his boot. Exchanging departing gestures the two didn't bother with striking up another conversation.

“See you sometime!” Andrej said, his usual goodbye.

“Until then.” Vincent returned with a nod of his head, a makeshift replacement for a traditional wave, his tone serving more as his departing words than his vocabulary. The usual Thursday, he thought as he grabbed himself a paper from the news stand.


Having returned to his hotel room, his usual Thursday began its metamorphosis into a rather odd and extraordinary evening. While he would later find his nightlife to be a pleasurable, reckless and almost barbaric adventure in its own right, his evening would be a much more compulsory and a much more worrying exercise. Nonetheless he proceeded, albeit with caution.

It all started with his newspaper, which he often read over a cup of black coffee that was both far too hot and far too bitter for the common persons' pallet, after skimming the comic section with little hope of good humor. Still slightly disappointed, Vincent Willem van Gogh found himself perplexed when a letter fell from between the movie listings, a section that he most often avoided. Giving a grunt, Vincent found himself more aggravated by the fact that the parchment had landed in his coffee than dazzled by the fact that a letter addressed to himself had just fallen from a newspaper he had picked up off of the street. As a demigod, one got used to the unusual. That did not mean he had to be happy about it. Flicking the end of the envelope in order to prevent the excess coffee from dripping onto his lap, Vincent unceremoniously tore the paper with the butter knife left on the table from the night before, or perhaps from earlier that morning, he didn't care which. The previously clean letter, which had now been buttered and dunked in coffee, did not bear especially pleasant or horrible news – as such, it was nothing exciting:

“Dearest Vincent Willem van Gogh,
An audience with yourself and your kindred is requested on the eve of this Friday in the south facing penthouse of the Venetian. While it should go unsaid, discretion is highly appreciated.
Always, O.”

Willem offered another grunt after reading the small note, having only grown more aggravated with its content. What an inconvenience! Albeit a slightly ominous one. Indiscreetly he tossed the letter onto the empty chair besides him, stomped off to his dresser and grabbed himself a coat. With no more preparation asides from dragging his fingers through his facial hair, Vincent took off into the busy night of the Vegas strip. He didn't have the energy to think about such nonsense.


Already highly intoxicated by midnight-thirty, Vincent had spent a good portion of his pocket money on booze and the rest of it on strippers and gambling. Finding the straight forward manner of Vegas' indecency to suit him and the rest of the scum well, Vincent briefly let the question of just how long he would be staying there pass through his mind. Similarly, that sly little vixen popped into the back of his conscious thought despite him having no reason to think of Cosmo at that moment. Half stumbling, half striding out of a bar and extremely composed for just how drunk he was, Vincent caught glimpse of a leather clad blonde strutting past him. Coincidence? He thought not. Placing a hand on their hip, Vincent smirked as Cosmo turned to face him. A grin slid onto both of their faces before Cosmo began laughing openly.

“Willem! At first I thought you were some man from a bar that had tried to follow me earlier,” What a comical cast they had on the strip. “You are much more relieving to see.” Andrej said in his usual carefree manner, Vincent giving him a short chuckle in response as he lit himself a cigar.

“It seems fate wants us to meet again today,” Vincent responded drunkenly, his cheeks warm from the alcohol in his system. “Client gone mad?”

“Ha? Well I guess half of them already are.”

“Mmm,” He hummed, smoke escaping in large hoops. “And the other half are on something.” That earned him a laugh from Andrej, who took to leaning against the wall besides him. What a day. Oracles, strippers, poker and now a familiar prostitute. Vincent couldn't suppress a grin at the thought.

“Someone is drunk!” Cosmo exclaimed, noticing the unusually jolly expression on Vincent’s mug. “How much did you spend in there?”

“Too much to be decent, probably.” He had always been better at conversation once he got a few (hundred) drinks in him. “Enough for me to head back early.”

“Already? Unusual of you.” Small talk, small talk. Vincent indulged in it when it came to Cosmo; he would admit he had a soft spot for the boy. “Mind if I join you?” Andrej added lightly, brushing some of that hair back from his face. When he was all dolled up like that it reminded Vincent of when they had first met. He had always liked brunettes but there was something alluring about his effeminate figure that even most women would not master. Vincent appreciated the effort, to say the least.

“Go ahead. Though I can't guarantee you a good time.”

“I don't need one.” Andrej responded smoothly. The boy knew how to use his words and his figure, combined with his sexuality and profession it made for a dangerous combination. He was enticing.


Friday morning (afternoon, if you wanted to get technical) came about all too suddenly. Hungover and not looking forward to the days events, Vincent groggily pushed himself out of his stiff position on the chair in the lounge, back slightly sore from such a bad sleeping position, and carelessly looked over the half-naked figure still out cold on the couch. What a sultry state he was in. Last night had been an interesting one. His scandalous company had spent far too much time with him in the recent weeks and he witnessed first hand the “poisoning” he was getting due to his exposure. Not guilty or remorseful in the least, but still a decent man towards the boy he had taken a liking to, Vincent had allowed him to spend the night on his couch as he began feeling unwell. Not bothering to dwell, Vincent sauntered over to the letter casually discarded on the extra chair and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He needed a cup of coffee.

With his morning dose of coffee, tobacco and bread, van Gogh assumed his promiscuous friend would take to scavenging his fridge for breakfast without him having to tell him to. In conclusion, he wouldn't be bothering to leave a note of any sort. Instead he washed his face, threw on a new set of clothes and headed out of his door. Still one hundred years too early to even bother heading over to his destination, Vincent wasted his day as ordinarily as he did all of his others before reluctantly turning himself in the right direction. His destination wasn't terribly far or terrible close, just an inconvenient distance much like everything else involved in this event. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the company of his fellow influential figures. Nevertheless he arrived at the location, with numerous glances to the address he didn't care to remember, and upon making it to his destination he lit himself a cigar in an attempt to get the sour taste out of his mouth. He didn't care to be there. Lighting the parchment on fire as he smoked, he had more interest in watching it singe and flake away into nothingness than he had curiosity in why he was summoned there. Eventually, and only after taking far too long to savor the taste of his cigar, Vincent slithered into the abode discreetly and with an expression of utter boredom. It was spot on. In respect for that, van Gogh held that expression throughout his welcoming merely twisting and altering it ways to be somewhat suitable, not that he cared to be suitable. The smile, the elbow, the brief flicker of static. The little socialite worked her charm as she introduced him to his surroundings unnecessarily.

”The bathroom, the study.” His eyes followed where she indicated, asides from that he gave no response asides from a low, occasional grunt. ”Best you avoid that wing. I had to hide my things somewhere and the overly generous owner of this penthouse needed a place to rest his head.”

“What a destructive little crab you are,” Perhaps she would be a better host dipped in butter and eaten. “Careful to keep those claws of yours hidden.” He offered a chuckle in order to keep things lighthearted though he slithered off towards the bar before any addition conversation could commence. A shot was necessary to start off the stale event, he believed, and wasted no time in serving himself one.