𝓕innegan made a small hum of a thought, drawing his attention away from Lady Alyssana's moving physique taking towards what she was saying. There was more of a thought for him to try to recall the best smells of Lady Alyssana as she made her distinctions over the letter, “Perhaps, the murderer is not very shy at all. Most certainly, he is using petty poetry to entice his opponents into finding him. He must be bored...” His eyes adverted away from Lady Alyssana. He studied the window and the view outside.
There was still light out, and the steam powered city still seemed to be at a lucrative pace as far as his eyes could venture, “Moon is vague for a location, which could all the more give the murderer a shyer disposition, but I have not the time to go down that venue. Let us stay straight on yours. I happen to wonder if it is something about the night or --,” he looked back to her with shining eyes and a small smile under his carefully mustache. There was still a weakness from his recovery, but he knew well this might have been something, "Do you think the murders have to do with the moon phases?”
𝓦atching as Lady Alyssana did not take a seat, Finnegan admired the woman's bodice as she read the paper. There were things about her that he found absolutely ridiculous. By ridiculous he meant in all good-humour as the upper class would say when frowning upon the lower-class as, people who believe that one husband ought to live with the one wife whom he has lawfully married; that a girl should be innocent, a woman modest, and a man, manly, self-controlled... Ah, the great authors and their wisdom. They shamed him as he smiled uncontrollably at the woman. He would have more self-control if perhaps the two of his cherished friends had not dowsed him with one of his lovely potions.
Never he mind such thoughts, now. The woman spoke with a straight charm. It was not the kind that fancied with bells and chimed up and down the human instrument. It was the kind that was frank but still lovely with sound. It was low yet with the ability to maintain the ability to remain open for some sort of male attention, if perhaps, the man were sharp enough to hear through the eye of a needle. Finnegan yearned to be such a man, if not for the sake of the chase but out of self-control.
“Your sharp attention is every admirable,” he smiled at her, looking up to her with light eyes of a dark-needed yearning all too focused on her outer physique than anything, “As always,” he concluded his first line and continued, “A dance around the world takes me to either the Moon or some flying creature or contraption. Still, there is little lead from those three vague clues. You are quite correct about the jingle being to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Perhaps, though, if I may,” Finnegan shifted weight, uncurling his fingers as if secretly pushing some invisible script from his face before placing his attention on Lady Alyssana, “The actual tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star is not just similar to the ABCs or Baa Baa Black Sheep. Ah vous dirais-je, Maman by none other than Mozart himself. Again, we are left with three more vague leads. Whether they are true to the conclusion or not, I would only assume so much, anyhow.” His hand waved in the air again, and landed on the cushion of the chair. His head tilted back, curls a little damp, pressing into the rich fabric, “I wonder, which of these is the shyest?” Light, bright eyes still admiring the Lady through a boyish haze.
P E T E R L A P I N H e n r y ' s S u n s e t L o u n g e
Both the Kindred and Retainer sat next to each other at one of the tables around the luxurious pool. Peter’s right arm was lavishly draped around Melanie’s light frame, and his head was cradled shallowly on her shoulder. Her gentle, gold locks dipped against her dominator’s lucid, dusted ivory cheek as her own blushed cheek was softly rested on his head. A small smile tilted, pushing the skin of Peter’s cheek upwards. A blissful silence held his eyelids closed as the sweet scent of Chanel’s N°5 mercifully laced the skin of his retainer.
Someone of the waitstaff had already come to take their orders, and a single glass of chilled Valpolicella Classico for Melanie was in the making. The moments between the orally spoken request and the time it took for the waitress to show her tan, bare legs, again, the two specious customers exchanged nothing but a silent truce of awareness for each other’s chimerical company dwelling among the buzzing murmurs who spread short voices cautiously around the Lounge’s wiring. It was only a certain amount of time after the waitress dismissed herself to attend another customer’s affairs did Melanie extend a slender wrist and trace her lacy fingers down the stem of the glass before wrapping them delicately around the long, clear neck.
Melanie slowly raised and tilted the glass to study the pale purple liquid. She was not so keen on the formal etiquette of wine tasting, but the polite, outward appearance might as well have said otherwise. Her head lifted as the cool glass was brought to her lips. The shift of her weight stirred Peter’s seeming trance of faux-slumber, and his dark, cloy eyes winced open — only to twist his smile wider and cause his left hand to curve and wander his fingers playfully over the satiny fabric, tightly veiling her inner thigh. The Kindred rubbed his cheek against the warm, milky skin of Melanie’s shoulder and turned his head to embrace her neck with his cold lips. The slightest movement of her muscles trembled as the sip of her wine trickled down her throat, and Peter enjoyed the taut movement, as well as her wanting-stoic response to his teasing hand. Of course, her pulse was saying otherwise, and the heating of her skin against his lips was all so satisfying and lush.
He was tempted to nip through her flushed skin and breach their little immature charade under the dim light hanging above their table. There was only so much Peter could do to Melanie before Frank’s will began standing firmly against Peter’s own undead thoughts, and making Melanie’s heart thump like a timid rabbit’s without him barely touching her was one of them, "You’re being rather frisky today, Scott,” Melanie scoffed satirically. Her glass was placed gently on the white napkin resting lonely on the rich wood table. Her eyes glancing across the pool at several Kindred conversing.
Peter let out a docile, callow growl as his neck tilted forward and moved his cheeks lower on Melanie until he was now caressing the supple cups held jauntily underneath the black thin, clingy fabric adorning her chest. Before the command to move his hand inward on the Ghoul’s body shot from his thoughts to the muscles in his arm and hand, a thin, invisible string weaved effortlessly through the convoluted maze of his mind and pulled his head upwards in one sharp and sudden snap. His attention immediately curved around the network of the room in a panic. Small shadows dripped loud echo laughs from the shadowy corners of the entangled cobweb roped delicately throughout the building.
His mortal servant’s heart beat had changed paces into a further selfish and worried drum of muscle work. It was loud and obnoxious like some onset of misophonia. She was talking lowly at him in question, but her words were drowning in the ghostly echoes as one-by-one, Kindred-after-Kindred trickled slowly through the front door of the Lounge. He could feel his muscles flex and stiffen as his fingers gripped painfully into Melanie and caused her to squirm slightly into her Regnant until she exasperatedly submitted into the growing burn when the late reaction to the hallucinations crawled violently into her senses. Peter hesitantly closed the distance between his mouth and her ear, holding her motionlessly, “The night has come, and she has brought darkness with her — shhh … shhh,” he lulled her in a voice hardly above a whisper. His sickness watched as the infamous Eva made her way to the Kindred he had just been admiring.
Nervous, stiff movements proceeded to move Peter’s actions as black, horned translucent movements mirrored vibrations of the newly arrived guests making their way to the bar counter. The bass of the shadows quickly collapsed to the flooring and dispersed into nothing as reality flooded back into both Peter and Melanie’s visions. The pale, undead hand resting on Melanie’s thigh lifted and took hold of the wine glass, bringing it close to Melanie’s quivering lips, “Drink up, my little Solnyshkah,. The thieving magpie is not going to be giving us any porridge tonight, hmm?” his chin shifted to press his lips against her fearfully moist forehead as his grip on her loosened, “Drink up,” he coaxed her, again, but in a more syrupy voice. The clear glass tipped to her tainted lips, and the dry alcohol dribbled onto her tongue.
Peter was unnecessarily hungry, now. The morning bird got the worm, but what did this order of Strigiformes get for making it out of his usual prowling area? Uncomfortable clawing from the loosely shackled Beast was oozing with a nauseating lust for release, but the Malkavian gave it no such true satisfaction except a small bone to chew emitted in a shy, boyish laugh that caused his body to sink into the cushioned seat. So much was happening. So, so much.
And, if it were not for the ruckus outside spinning some new stimuli of distraction and sensory overload, the Kindred would have been able to more easily navigate through the pulling threads and weaves heavily veiling all the conversations with luscious amounts of comprehension, which upset Peter’s appetite — only because he could not fully grasp any of it but tiny straws that tickled his subconscious more than anything. He felt like he was suffocating here, drowning in the ooze of late night drama, but his mania would not let him leave the scene. The void was too empty, and he did not have anything to persuade it otherwise. Suffering through this madness was all that was left of the night. Such a monotonous repetition of the usual menu was driving him crazier. He was starving for something more stable, and his faux-family was turning more and more demented after each sip of his Vitae.
The glass was placed back on the table, and Peter tucked his head over Melanie’s light curls. He drew in a deep breath of perfume, differing in scent, now from the emotional shift. The distant human memory lingered briefly and then transformed back into the present lunacy of the present: cheshire smiles, dielectric coated glass, lokas, and the undying feeling of eternal torture. The Kindred and his retainer continued haunting Henry's Sunset Lounge’s poolside dining, embraced in the dimness of the vague refuge that the bar had to offer amidst the glittering lights and sharpened knives.
P E T E R L A P I N H e n r y ' s S u n s e t L o u n g e
Sunless, avid eyes danced around the streets of Los Angeles, California. Pale, kindred ears rang with vibrations from various places, causing their owner’s concentration to become warily enamored by the brilliance and industrious mechanics mouthing loudly into the nightlife. As long as Peter had taken up some sort of residency in the unholy city, he had still, yet, to regain some sort of coherency over the strangeness elongating into his future of occupancy. A contemplative thought of using some sort of earbuds to asphyxiate the perpetual buzzing spurred every once in a while, but the recent establishments of drama had escalated quite tremendously. Even with the illogically delicate senses that the Malkavian had unfortunately procured upon his embrace, he had no desire to snuff them. Although, for several moments he had felt some sense of relief that the Prince was a fallen. Peter’s presence had been wearing dry around the Prince’s patience, but the Elder’s death held a notable close truth — it was more dangerous than usual.
That’s what the voices said, anyways.
The Malkavian found it also to be true, while tightly holding the soft, pale hand of his Retainer, Melanie, that he kind of enjoyed what was left of his humanity as much as his gluttonous desire to submit himself fully over to that perpetually growling beast itching at the back of his brain like an unquenchable parasitic worm wanted to be set free. Intuitively, he knew a well-lived survival was unlikely for a constantly frenzying vampire, or maybe it was something the fallen Prince had repeatedly reminded him. Either way, with responsiveness, Melanie’s dimwitted companionship offered a decent condolence for Peter’s concentration that clenched and grinded his teeth together silently.
Melanie was wearing a nice white dress. It clung to her subtly curvy body, which stood relatively close in height to Peter’s barely adult physique. He enjoyed her frame almost too much; it reminded him of someone comforting he knew before he was Embraced. Occasionally, he would come across the memory in the dreary, bat-ridden labyrinth of his mind. He did not have any time to unbalance his already shaken mood by contemplating his attraction to her, for tonight his mind was racing ceaselessly from one web of thought to the next as each musing sparkled like small pieces of gold with every passing streetlight. He needed to be somewhere; he needed to see through the silk, threads entangling his rapid mind. He needed the splendor more than the hazy drunkenness that always cooed and lulled him time-after-time into the Madness Network.
There was finally a thought that Melanie’s company was not enough as his muscles stiffened with anxious anticipation, and in a quick vain panic, his eyes automatically darted upwards and over the city lights where the sky was foreign, black, and misty — kind of like the eyes of Melanie’s daughter, Annie, when the dark circles, symmetrically implanted on her young, doll face would expand great lengths against the dusky amber gems containing those two black, interesting, mortal orbs of an existence. They would open wide when she wanted Peter to take something from her, and he was hardly opposed to nipping his teeth like large needles through her smooth skin and tasting her precious Vitae while her throat vibrated soft mewls of humanly pleasure.
At some irrational point, he wanted to take Annie instead of Melanie, if only because she was more compliant to his unorthodox whims. Unfortunately, it was true that she was just a child, and a Kiss would only serve so much during a botched time in the city if things became inconveniently rough. Peter also thought of taking Melanie’s husband, Frank, but he did not offer such nurturing movements with his masculine body. His eyes were needier with the passive gaze of Melanie’s desirable look. In fact, just the differing sounds of Melanie's kitten heals clicking against the concrete was more comforting than the brutish clomps of Frank’s shoes.
His eyes shrank lower and rested longingly at the black wires webbed around the city. Ravenish birds were perched along the electrical threads like Gothic ornaments about to remind Peter of something important, or maybe it was not important at all. All of his thoughts seemed important all of the time, and it often caused him to blindly retreat further into the unending maze of his insanity. It did not matter this time, anyhow, because the clicking of Melanie’s patent leather heels stopped making sounds. Peter’s left arm extended backwards until his muscle and shoulder pulled into an annoying sensation that caused Peter to stop walking and carefully crept his head around to study Melanie’s paused motions. A slight twitch to his upper lip curled gingerly into a timid half-smile, “Why do you stand — swaying — oh slender birch tree?” His head slowly titled to the side as the vampire’s undead eyes met the Retainer’s mortal stare.
Their eyes drifted from each other’s as Peter’s attention drifted toward’s the thin lines of his Retainer’s gloves. Melanie made such a better front, escort, companion. She attracted more attention than he did, which was a comforting thought when the understanding did pass his way. His smile began to complete itself, but the scene on his face quickly dissipated with the concerned sound of Melanie’s genteel voice, “We’re here, Scott,” there was a tad of lipstick on her front tooth that had smudged from such a heavy application of the rose cosmetic. It caught the Malkavian’s attention more than the words, but still, Peter’s engrossment flickered between the painted, perched lips and his surroundings until finally planting his eyes hungrily over The Sunset Lounge.
Peter was not dressed as nicely as Melanie was, but he did not see any logistically sound reasoning to assume such an aesthetic identity for himself despite the oddity of his plain, colorless t-shirt and dark jeans, “A clumsy little bear was walking through the forest, hmm, my little solnyshkah?” He stepped his body closer to Melanie and looked towards the sky cautiously, as if he expected something to fall from it. He finally settled his agitated muscles as the realization that nothing would attack him convinced him thoroughly. His grip tightened and lead Melanie beyond the opened door and into the bar.
They both stood quietly upon entering as the vampire’s perception hopped around the glass backdrop and change of pace from the outside world, before eventually, gradually twisting his head to face his Retainer to quietly muse the words, “You don’t look your age, solnyshkah.” Peter’s eyes lingered on Melanie’s face until her rosy lips produced less seriousness to mouth some sort of Thank you to him. And, with a gentle flex of his muscle, he continued to pull her deeper and higher into The Sunset. Alas, the silk threads were becoming lucid, again, and his concentration was crawling back into the light.
Although most Malkavians tend to be loners willingly, Peter seemed to stray from that path as someone who was just a loner simply because he had no idea how to make friends under the state of which he was. Through the years, the failed attempts mounted some more insanity as he forces himself through the hopelessness and becomes even more awkward to be around. He has managed to procure three retainers over the course of things. On occasion he requests at least one to accompany him while he rests during the day as some sort of comfort object, which he generally cherishes quite obsessively. And, like all Malkavians he is a jokester. It could be his jokes that actually make him the most off-putting (one does not joke about eating vampires, and Peter becomes excruciatingly frustrated trying to contain such manic jesting), but from Peter’s point of view, his jokes are really just there to help the outside world understand the truth.
𝓑iography
Peter Lapin was only a small child when his family immigrated from the over turned Imperial Russian regime. Bloodshed and starvation had slaughtered the country in waves of anarchy and chaos. However, Peter has no concrete recollection of this hectic event as he was shuffled by his father, a high standing military General Major in the Russian Calvary, and his mother, a Petersburg Society Princess, by boat from Russia to America. As “White Russians,” his family was welcomed by the United States government. However, the older and significantly less wealthy generation of Russian immigrants were not at all as welcoming towards the influx of displaced Russian aristocracy planting new roots into the American soil. There was a defeatist mindset that set the tone in the Lapin household as his father took up low-wage manual labor and toiled amongst Russians that had nothing but disdain for his class’s attitude when under the Imperial Russian regime.
It was years into the settling of the Lapin family into the vineyard fields of California when Peter’s parents started noticing Peter was behaving in an abnormal manner. It seemed like something that had happened over night, or perhaps, it had been gradual and had somehow gone unnoticed until just yesterday. He as in his later adolescent years, which did warrant some kind of excuse—a cutting of apron strings, so to speak, but both felt something deeper was causing the sudden shift in behavior. They also had no particular way of confronting the situation as the guilt of their distinguishable reputation had caused much rejection placed on the family, and the need for Peter to uphold his behavior was rather unbending in a chilling way. Nonetheless, his parents ignorantly decided on working towards begging for their son’s forgiveness, hoping that an open heart would bring back the young man they thought they had raised. It was one thing to begin holding the burden of the death of their very own Divinely Crowned Emperor, but to see the distaste in their son as their respect continued to be stripped away from them was another thing. Of course, they didn’t have an abundance of time (due to the growth in the family and long hours worked) to make any huge or lasting alterations to how Peter was reared, and so, the behavior preceded until one day, they never heard from him, again.
Behind the veil of what was tempting Peter to act out started off as a small bribe of rebelliousness that slowly formed into the meeting of 11th Generation Malkavian, Major Russell Bell. Perhaps it was the odd intelligence and stereotypical light-hearted dark humor weaved into the Russian culture of his family that made the Malkavian take notice of their sturdy, young boy, peddling his feet through the dark farm roads one night—naively looking for non permitted adventure or something otherwise known as trouble. He didn’t find any such thing before making his disappointedly relieved way back home, but the trouble definitely found him. Russell spent several years off-handedly studying the boy before making any decision to make himself known to the mortal, and when he did become known, he simply made the boy his ghoul. He was roughly the age of sixteen or seventeen when it happened. Peter can’t really remember how old he was when the first drop of vitae touched his tongue. He also does not remember the taste as he’s more concerned with the taste of mortal vitae, particularly of the human variety.
However, he does remember something about a Sabbat attack that left him injured to such an extent, Russell decided to Embrace him, become his sire. It was definitely one thing to be drinking a monthly drop or two of Malkavian vitae every month, but it was a whole different animal (if that is what one would call it) to become one let alone live as one for eternity. Peter made it through the Embrace. “Crazy Jane” maybe helped him, or maybe it was Russell’s nursing him for a while before the Embrace, but whatever it was—nothing was the same. There was no trying to look through the world from a different angle to make things seem normal or close to normal or even remotely normal. Normal wasn’t even a concept he could grasp. There had been maybe a smidgen of hope that he’d get used to this state, but he quickly forgot what he was even hoping for as time went on. Everything just was, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.
The beginning of being a Malkavian was like being in a strange cage of deranged voices that were sometimes quiet, sometimes whispers, sometimes hums, sometimes coherent words and sometimes just static They seemed to come and go and effected his mood and changed the way the wind blew. As disturbing as everything as the incoherent blob of reality smothered in front of him was, he managed to hold onto some “humanity” through this random reoccurring and comforting thought of how he could now see that everything was connected in a way no one had expected and therefore, he was granted the opportunity to be living a rare truth that not very many could see or respect. The Embrace also had left him further mentally crippled with what was then known as Melancholia, but in modern day, it is commonly known as Bipolar Disorder. He may have lost his humanity and succumb to the beast had Russell been an irresponsible Sire as many Malkavian are, but Russell managed to teach Peter for ten years before releasing him to the Prince as a member of the Camarilla. During those ten years, amongst other things, Russell helped Peter fight the beast, especially during the depressive episodes that halted his feeding until the Beast began to notice. He also helped Peter learn to cap the Beast during the highs as emotions and passions would easily excite him and rules stopped abiding to that pridefulness networking through his brain.
Another derangement that had befallen him had occurred through the realization that he was now trapped outside of the reality he once knew. The odd humanly memories of how Goddamn awful he had been to his parents and siblings and friends, and the part where he wouldn’t be able to see them, again. His mind circled around this prospect for months until something finally snapped. It snapped during some ambush of hunters trailing on Russell on him when the stress and fear and hostility of the situation just triggered a sudden regression in his behavior. His mind caved for some childish state of thinking, frozen by fear as his hands cupped his ears and body hunched into an eye shut fit of toddler-esque mental shut down. This wasn’t a permanent regression, but the major part of the disorder that would flair up under stressful situations. On its average utility, Peter found himself retentively anal about being clean, only to find himself in some complete mess (example: the obsessive need for having fingernails that do not have dirt underneath them are cleaned until he was bleeding and there was no hope for making them actually clean).
Peter generally tries to stay out of the drama of the Masquerade, which isn't always easy as a Malkavian. However, as push comes to shove, maybe Russell did do Peter some good because with all the chaos running amuck, the strangest sensation for duty has Peter's attention. The attention is, of course, an incoherent mess of wonderment and terror, but it is there. And, Peter has no will power to fight against nor ignore it.
➺Major Bell, Russell was a soldier in the Continental Army and consequently Embraced on the battlefield after falling to enemy in the Battle of Monmouth during the American Revolution. As vampires (especially in this Malkavian’s case) sometimes do, they migrate to different locations for one reason or another. However, prior to Russell’s journey from the East Coast to the West Coast, Russell had the unofficial title as the clan’s whip. He also had the honor of getting revenge over the murderer of his Primogen shortly after he was elected into the position as Primogen. It was for this act, the Prince granted him Right of Creation.
➺Big Joe is a mortal drug dealer who has bribed a policeman or two or three or more and also has access to some other nifty gigs, like that one time he helped Peter get rid of a dead person without the Prince knowing.
➺Deliroe, Victor - '41' year old technician ➺Deliroe, Melanie - '39' year old stay-at-home wife and mother ➺Deliroe, Annie - '8' year old elementary school student and daughter.
Domain - Deliroe House
𝓔sther 𝓟uniceus
☨
Kindred │ Ventrue │ 8th Generation │ 800+
Dominate │ Fortitude │ Presence
𝓟ersonality
Cradled with the pompous peasantry of the Dream and clothed with the woven tapestry's of the truth's beautiful antiquities, Esther aligns her instrumental tune to the otherworldly harmonies with a gracefully pensive and distant ease of derision. Esther is steadfast in her beliefs and passive amongst conversations that try to sway her objective thoughts from her own knowledge of seeking. She prefers filling herself with the golden riches of history, and the past becomes ever more favorable in Esther's eyes as the secular lenses of modern society continuously kaleidoscopes into a crumbling entropy of foul smells and post-modern chaos.
She has little use for the workings of society and has given-up caring for coherence since the Romantic period, which was not as highly as elaborate or decadent as the lovely Baroque period. The intelligence of the World had dimmed its path in the likeness of the Enlightenment, and here she was, too pristine in her reflection to make small gossip about the dying world that the Camarilla was trying to preserve. However, it was true, this life was precious, each with its very own internal universe. Unfortunately, Esther can barely read the map of her own universal existence, lost to the soulless winds of the Embrace.
The Kindred's own journey has trained Esther to keep her nose nobly where it belongs, proven to be a much more efficient time spent of immortality, and thus, her dismissive, uninterested state could also be described as carelessly snobby, which is not too terribly far from the truth. In fact, it has been very well proven, she will not hesitate to bite when duty calls, as is tradition of her nature. For such reasons, she is seen with respect as an eloquently trusted keeper of secrets in certain parts of the Camarilla. However, playing puppeteer has never fancied this Ventrue. She prefers to be the one who purchased tickets to the show, sitting quietly in the shadows of the audience with her evening purse and date — judging the act.
𝓑iography
During the wake of the Long Night, the Sun was gleaming behind the triumphal arch of New Rome, offering a warm entrance of refuge from the setting Sun of the West as the Dream prospered in the haven of the smokey incense and reflective grandiose splendor like a golden halo in the midst of the Dark Ages. It was the end of the 11th Century when the illuminating manuscriptured Monastery of Studius was sliding from the centre of Byzantine religious poetry. However, despite the disposition, during this ending era of glorious hymnography, Esther Poniceus was born to a noble family, graced with prosperous wealth and an abundance of lavish privileges. Her parents raised her with great strictness through private tutors for education and the arts, grooming her in hopes of a more prominent future than the one they inherited from their ancestors. The same treatment was granted to her other siblings, dressed in the same vestments of honor and truth. Above all, the Poniceus family was taught the importance of upholding the beautiful, and in such a time, it was hard to miss the ancient beauty that embellished their furnishings and lifestyle.
The crude of their living was received as a merciful gift of Confession and the ever-flowing miracle of the Eucharist. There were threads of hope, sewn into silk garments that held true to Esther's heart that one day she might be chosen to be Empress if her prayerful life could be magnified. However, as time seemed to pass, fleetingly in perspective amongst aristocrats, there seemed to be no significant worth in holding her material riches so close to her heart. The fine scents and soft weaves were illusions of what was yet to come, as taught by the scholars of the Roman Empire. The only warmth she could find was from the burning flames that flickered on the Holy Table and the skip in her heartbeat when the taper-bearer Rodericus Terzi illumned the Divine Litrugy on the path walked by the hypodeacon. No riches in the world could express the burn of her rosy emotions flushed inside the embroidery of her head covering when she watched him light the candles.
Esther's prayers were not unnoticed by Rodericus. Perhaps it was her patterned attire, richly dyed and fitted for regalia, binding her to the costumes of the mosaic saints depicted on the walls of the Church. While mutual matrimonial love existed during he Dream, Esther's privileged lifestyle condoned any sort of romance between the two neighboring parties involved. For the Poniceus' family, Rodercius was not as wealthy of afamily and sharing Holy Matrimony with him was the antithesis of how Esther was raised. For the Terzi family, a covenant had been made that Rodercius would denounce the world and wear the monastic vows of a new name while abiding his remaining time inside the teachings of the Monastery of Studius. The two disciples were adamant not to part from each other but also determined not to be disobedient to the will of their parents, most often associated with that of the Divine Will. Both conjured a plan for Esther to cross-dress and join the Monastery. And that is what they did. At the age of sixteen, Esther disappeared from her home to took up living as a monk, side-by-side former Robericus for three years.
In 1204, the Crusaders destroyed the Monastery. She watched as the murals and pillars holding the city together were pillaged, alongside many of her brothers and elders that dwelled in the monastic family. The Esther was not spared during the Lasombra attack. She tried to find Rodericus before making her way to the Cathedral for protection. However, she failed broken-heartedly in both attempts and was capture, and for the first time during her monastic struggle, it was discovered that there was a female living abreast the monks, untouched and unsoiled.
She was miraculously saved by an Elder Monk who having gone to protect the Library of Saint Jean Studius, Elder Thaddeus, a Ventrue, bestowed some sort of mercy upon her as a young virgin, attempting to fend off the hungry Crusaders who had maimed and heavily wounded the nun before attempting to deflower her. Elder Thaddeus was willing to die protecting the Library, but it must have been Esther's astonishing rendition of expose that turned his attention to save the rarity from perishing. The obedient Kindred, having willed her mortal life as a nun for a romantic relationship that would never blossom in the likeness of Marriage was righteous in purity and blood. There was no doubt in his mind that she would make a worthy Ventrue, full of dignitas and noble respect for the etiquette of the Clan:
Elder Thaddeus instilled in her the knowledge that she had saved him the night of her Embrace; yet he had also died that night in Face for having withdrawn his aid from the Library of Saint Jean Studius. She was not to disrespect him in any way, shape, or form. He was her Sire even after Final Death. Thus, her training was founded on the obedient hierarchy of which granted her First Death. He taught her the Truth and opened her eyes to the powers of the Undead. Elder Thaddeus thickened her knowledge and skin with trials and tribulations, all to be expected of him as a Ventrue Sire. He unveiled the lies she had been living as a human and stripped her cassock for more worldly beauties that resounded trinkets of delicate lace and frou-frou intricacies of the historical ordination that was paving the carpets in the World of Darkness. However, underneath her feminine assuage, a masculine boldness was pressed under her thumb: For the love of Rodericus, under the dearest Obedience of Elder Thaddeus, she would honor the Dark Father, through Enoch the Wise.
After her acceptance as a Ventrue, Esther made her way to the Empire of Nicea to live under Anna Comnena and made herself useful with the calligraphic education from the Monastery of Studius, by corresponding and helping transcribe the traditional manuscripts sought forth by John III. This skill later resurrected itself for her after the shattering death of the Marble Emperor John Paleologus Constantine in 1453 and the awakening from the Dream, when Esther continued pursuing the dead Cainite Dream, theorized as a Third Rome gloriously under Moscow’s gold, shining forth like the halos of New Rome during the Darkness Ages and helped the Kindred against the Lupine. The Ventrue traced her works with the literary genre of hagiography in pleasure to the Toreador (as her secret honor to Mi-ka-il's desertion of Western Rome) and preserved the art through the Enlightenment and sacredly scribing her political career eventually with the Russian's new found love of ballet and then as the Russian-American Company recorder who covered the details of the Camarilla's workings in North America on Kodiak Island (infamously known for Abbot Symeon Ivanovich Yanovsky's misinterpretation of the hagiography of Saint Herman of Alaska spread by of Valaam Monastery).
A year after the War of 1812 fueled between The United States of America and the British Empire and the end of the Russo-Persian War, she was captured by the Society of Leopold, under the guise of Inquisition of the Jesuit Order, imposing themselves on the heretics of the Russian Orthodox Church — as Esther reported incorrectly. There were many others taken captive and imprisoned Mission Dolores, California and eventually martyred. Esther escaped with several others by an acquaintance of her sire. The Kindred's alternate identity was "Ivan Kiglay." The Ventrue is still unsure of what his real name is, but there was something unquestionably stern about the Malkavian's presence that made inquiring further on his truth would be disrespectful and thus a strike against Elder Thaddeus.
Ivan and Esther took refuse in Fort Ross for some years. Ivan claimed that there would be a Rebellion that would oust the Kindred Princes in Russia; the golden opportunity would be snuffed by an iron shadow. His presence was needed in the conducting of political affairs in Fort Ross as the Russian presence became more influential. When Don Sebastian became Prince in 1870 of San Pedro, Los Angeles, Esther parted ways with Ivan, finding more dignity in the artistic developments conspiring south of For Ross. It was in Los Angeles that Esther resided under the Camarilla with anthological literacy and helped flourish the City of Angel's poetry scene through her Ancient hymnography skills. She has weaved herself through the music culture, keeping strictly to the fundamental classics that have helped pave the foundation for several celebrities in the pop light. Esther also has a strong hold in connecting the past to the present and operates several museums in Los Angeles. Despite the Civil Wars and political upheavals, Esther has kept to the shadows as opposed to exercising her Ventrue lust for power. There is a time and a place for everything, and as an Kindred, Esther has found that doing everything at once takes way too much time for such a short immortality.
➺ Grigoriev, Alexandra - Esther's Retainer, Ghoul, and daylight operator of her Domain. She is carrying on Yuri Grigoriev School of Ballet (see below) legacy.
➺ Grigoriev, Yuri - Esther's Childe. Esther embraced him several years ago. His whereabouts are currently off the scene of the Yuri Grigoriev School of Ballet. He is in communication with the Federation of Russia through the Russian Orthodox Church, holding ties with Patriarch Kirill.
➺Hanks, Tom - Esther's Ally. He is a famous American actor and filmmaker and is known for his comedic and dramatic roles. He attends the same church that Chester Charles Bennington and Chris Cornell attended.
➺ Kiglay, Ivan - Kindred friend to Major Russell Bell, the Malkavian Clan Whip and also, Sire of Peter Lapin (see below).
➺ Lapin, Peter - A Malkavian she has been bound with duty to protect in respect to "Ivan Kiglay."
➺ Miracle Mile - After the opening of Disneyland, Esther acquired the Neighborhood. Miracle Mile offers Esther a hand in shadowing her Ventrue powers as part of her domain.
➺ Rosu, Skander - A Toreador with a liking for business with Esther.
➺Yuri Grigoriev School of Ballet - The Domain operated by her Retainer and Ghouls who teach. (see above).
𝓞ren𝓐ndre𝓑erry
☨
Kindred │ Brujah │ 8th Generation │ 400+
Celerity │ Potency │ Presence
𝓟ersonality
As a definitive being, his life revolves around one word. That word is wit. It comes to the Kindred naturally, and quite frankly, he enjoys every moment of it. Unlike many of his species, turning to their elaborate backstories of power and gain, the dark skinned villain prefers to keep it simple for the stupid folk out there. Yes, he could brag about all his conquests and admirers and the dark glories won within the Masquerade. However, he has always patiently endured the long-suffering struggle of giving a positive spin to the world of darkness and stylized his being not around murder and madness but the simple word, wit. It is perhaps for this reason, his maybe great-grandson became one of Russia's most famous authors -- Alexander Pushkin.
𝓑iography
When the proliferation of arts and sciences attempted to brightened and adorn the already magnificently enlightened Russian Empire, Oren "Andre" Berry found his way from Africa to the land of the Golden Onion Domes and raised under the roof of the Emperor's household as his Godson. At the time, his name was known as Abram Petrovich Gannibal. However, he had not been a kidnapped orphan from Africa by any means. He had been a newly turned Kindred from the Horn of Africa by the hands of a Brujah named Josiah Abede, and Russia was his first demand under his sire. Andre's prosperous admiration under the nobility helped spearhead the Brujah Council as the centuries progressed. When the Revolution of 1917 failed to allow the Brujah the proper lead, Andre found himself backhanding many other Brujah during the quarrel, including his Coterie Pyotr Andreyevich Tolstoy.
The Iron Curtain unveiling the stage for the Communist regime over Russia offered a new proposal for the Brujah's relations within the Soviet Union and the Masquerade, to leave the Giant Bear and head to the coast of California, where he helped spark the Speak Easies of the Roaring 20's during the Prohibition. The shift proved to be unusual for him, coming from a more pompous background to a suddenly relaxed but rigid Western style of living. The booze proved itself lucrative in expanding his palate of underground workings with the Union as a continued Anarch.
During World War II, he helped bring Kindred from the Old World to the New World. Domains were strained because of this process, and he fought in the Second Anarch Revolt in 1944 after Jeremy MacNeil arrived in California. Andre refuses to admit anything in regards to the death of Don Sebastian and might mention having shaken the hand of Jeremy MacNeil once or twice. In reality, he helped whip the Free State and acted as one of the secure fronts. Unfortunately, that front was invaded by none other than Salvador Garcia. He fled with the rest of the Anarch Baron's entourage, and has recently just come back into town. He has raised a Kindred ears, but it's not like he really knows what happened to the infamous Brujah. He only shook his hand once or twice, and face it, looking at his track record, it's really just his wit that anyone needs to mention and perhaps, his love interest in someone a little closer to the Kid than he will ever be -- Eva.
➺ Popov, Kisa - Originally a young girl in the USSR who was raped by her father and put into a psyche ward after being forced to get an abortion. After the abortion, she carried around a doll, convinced it is her daughter. She was embraced by a Doctor in the psyche ward and later abandoned to a Tzimisce who later escaped to the United States to work on experiments involving and not limited to MK-Ultra and Project Artichokee. They came to Houston for business with the University of Texas Psychiatric System and the Houston Space Center, where Kisa became the Malkavian Whip, after they took her doll and use it was hostage to control the Kindred. She also met Andre during her time in Houston, and he witnessed her rising through the ranks of the Camarilla. She has little to do with the Anarch kindred, but finds that she inattentively gets pulled into his own world of darkness from time-to-time due to her Russian lineage. He loves pulling on her leash and mocks her every time for cooperating as a messenger for him.
➺ Puniceus, Esther - Esther helped rewrite Andre's background history as Abram Petrovich Gannibal.
➺ Tolstoy, Pyotr Andreyevich - Andre's Coterie and writing comrade. Both helped with the Brujah Council and are still keeping up to-date as long time penpals, slipping through every loophole of the Anarch and Camarilla.
➺ Lapin, Peter - A Malkavian he has started putting under his wing after making contact with Esther Puniceus upon returning to Los Angeles.
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