The most cherished breakfast recipe from my youth is Flip's One Flip Pancakes recipe from The Beanie Baby Cookbook.
I N G R E D I E N T S
3/4 cup milk (can add up to 1 cup) 1 egg 2 tablespoon butter, melted 1 cup flour 2 teaspoons baking powder 2 tablespoons sugar 1/2 teaspoon salt
maple syrup; jam; raspberries, blueberries or chopped apple; chocolate chips; nuts
H O W T O M A K E ' E M
- In a medium sized bowl, add milk (start with 3/4 cup and add more depending on how thick you like them) - Melt butter either in a microwave, or on top of the stove, and add to the bowl. Mix lightly. - Break egg in a small bowl, then add to the milk mixture. - In another bowl, add flour, baking powder sugar, and salt, mix well. Now add these 2 mixtures together. - Beat mixture lightly with a spoon, do not over mix or this will toughen the pancakes. it is ok if the batter appears lumpy. - Lightly grease a skillet of griddle with butter and heat over medium heat. - Spoon batter onto skillet, into large or small pancakes. (Add chopped nuts, chocolate, or fruit if desired.) - When bubbles start to appear and burst, flip pancakes. - Cook other side of pancakes until lightly browned. - Serve immediately with butter and syrup, or jam and fresh fruits. - Serves four people "purrrfectly."
A F O O D T I P F R O M N I P & Z I P
Add blueberries, strawberries or chocolate chips. Top with whipped cream, maple and chocolate syrup. Delicately slice off one small perfect triangle and freeze the rest! From Zip: Someone's been eating too much catnip!
What is your most memorable and/or best museum experience?
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
An almost unnoticed black shadow laced towards the two kindred sitting at their newly acquired table. The dark presence carefully pulled an elegant, feminine length, like a dark tear having dropped from the setting day. She stood next to them, and with prestigious poise, dressed in a black ornamental garment, much too traditional for the Lounge's visage, she tapped a sheer black gloved hand against the evening sky with gentle fingers, "Zdrahvstvuyete." A small smile drew softly on her lips as she spoke, watering through the Western pompous night life.
Melanie gave a hesitant, closed, bitter expression with a reciprocated perking smile, while a sigh drearily escaped the scabbed lips of the Malkavian. His brown hair nestled on Melanie's bare shoulder as he mumbled, "Pust' vsegdah budet..." His attention drifted quietly back to the Kindred he had been wanting so badly to devour before this newer one had began making her most dreadful proposal, but the magpie had already vanished into the evening, "...niebo," he finally relinquished in an exasperate fashion. He was not so interested in the Ventrue standing before him.
Unfortunately, the Cobweb was pulling his mind elsewhere. The string of lights, tightroping their merry circustry around the open rooftop danced along the perimeter and through his ventris. He had the thought to milk his pale hands against his retainer's thigh and tenderly disjoint them from their seats to escape the annoyance, but he allowed them to stay, with cloy eyes more interested in something projecting through his labyrinth than anything so beautiful standing daintily in front of him.
"Mmm, pust' vsegdah budet mama." The graceful shadow courteously adverted the attention of her main audience by giving a small nod. The tight brown bun, held together by black ribbons, moved only a little upon this gesture. The curls of the satin fabric coupled with the breeze, "It is a pleasure to see you, Melanie, and of course, my dear Scott. May I have the honor to join the party?" The Elysium was nothing close to her taste, especially in the midsts of a battleground for artists. She found it almost insulting that her likeness be caught under such dreadfully inconsistent post-modernism, but she still found her manners to be in some sort of fancy.
"Pust' vsegdah budet yah," the Malkavian motioned with a small glance towards an empty spot at the table; he was distrusting all the same as the shadows made their motions. He could spot them most easily in the eyes of the black promise in front of him. Her black silhouette was purposefully castrating his reality and control over his retainer. A small sulk pouted on his dry lips, "You are a bad bat, Esther Puniceus."
Esther looked downwards, submitting to the bad taste coming from the Malkavian's mouth. Lashes hiding the acknowledgement, and with that, she took her seat, making no further comment towards his illness for pageantry for the time being. She had other matters to concern within herself as opposed to the madness of some ludacris Kindred. For instance, the chair was part plastic and seemed to need something better. She had been so spoiled with the Baroque hopes of the Western style, that anything after the 1900's snuffed everything she desired of and from this world. Of course, there were always the Churches;
O, Saint Sophia, such a beautiful Eastern blossom, like an olive tree, bringing forth such sweetness from the fruit of her womb.
"I haven't seen you in a while, Esther," Melanie spoke lowly of the situation. If Esther was making an appearance, it meant there was more to the situation. Peter was rarely ever syncretic, and Esther seemed to be a straight line perpetually connecting the Malkavian back to the Camarilla. She hardly enjoyed it but felt a dutiful need to endure whatever Peter was harvesting from her. It was a sick game, but she had an addiction to his tricks and treats. There was a discipline in the hallowness they both shared. It differed significantly from the one that she had with her own dear husband, "It's never a pleasure."
"Forever under your tender mercies," Esther began, but her apology was broken by a laughter in the dark, and Esther, being the sympathetic body allowed the lipstick grin on the younger woman's face to flourish under the telescopic memory of the evening's historic records, "Yes, life can be hard," Esther said pensively, and after a little pause, awaiting the comedown from the two Westernized kooks, she continued once more, "To tell the truth, you're one of the few kindred I trust in Los Angeles." This sentence altogether meant far too much for her company, and if her meeting with them were to continue, it should be kept even briefer than she had predicted, lest they make a scene and have three rag-dolls made of them, burning in the fiery furnace for eternity.
And thus, she continued, "I believe Annie has a ballet recital this Thursday, and I would care much to attend. However, if I am not mistaken, Melanie, you should probably stay home and mind the rest of your family. If not, I have taken proper precautions to keep night watch over him. Erstwhile, it is preferred that you be the one to take guard." Her dark eyes studied the faces of the Kindred and his retainer. Both stared back with a quiet, fascinating ugliness that neither agreed nor disagreed with any of the words she had just spoken.
She would have to make the decision for them tomorrow evening.
P e p p e r d i n e U n i v e r s i t y
Carefully tapping her slender fingers in the shadows, Esther stared at the milky skin beneath her silk, black lacework. No matter how modern the drama, it was always fundamentally the same thing. She preferred the classics for this reason. It dumbfounded her that Malkavians could get so lost in the unnecessary simplistic theatrics of this world. However, it also dumbfounded her that Malkavians could see the future in so helpful of a manner. There was mystery in all their weaves. However, she could not have been more more bored at watching the little girls sprinkle their ballerina toes on stage.
Not only was the theater less than spectacular in comparison to the baroque displays of Imperial Russia; nor, the arts being exasperated in comparison to this postmodern era of the Western World, lacking the ornate peasantry of elegant leaflets and delicate intricacies, but the sparkles of glitter reflecting from the girls' cheeks were all too posthumanist for Esther's interest. They would have to work harder to flourish at this rate. Their fundamentals were so bare and dry, and the fluidity of their limbs were wandering through the raspy air like stillicide and icicles, fighting the puritanical, straight tatting with their flounce and flamboyancy. There was more than a play birthing on the stage. There was a historical fight re-announcing itself under yet another veil.
O, drama. How depressing.
Her head tilted slightly, eyelashes brushing closed against her pale cheeks in the darkness of the room. A yawning thumb slid to gently touch the rim of a gold ring placed upon her middle finger. No matter the redundancy, there was a reason she had gilded herself to the more classical nature of theater arts, her time spent under Catherine the Great had made a complexly lasting presence in her. She could have been to blame for the travesty of the Third Rome’s abortion. However, she knew better than to scold such a figurehead. Perhaps, it was du Bois. Perhaps, it was Jean-Baptiste.
Esther opened her eyes and discreetly watched Peter’s reactions unfold. Each recital had shown her a different side of him. She was remarkably more interested in the Kindred’s childish reactions than the theatrical debacle performing a temper tantrum on stage. There was still respect to be made in obvious notes for their attendance, but such a compliment towards the nearly incomprehensible Malkavian, was as much passe as the late tsarina and her husband, Peter the Great.
O, Peter. He had caused so much controversy in that long dream. And, here he was, playing thoughtlessly and helplessly again, right next to her. He was a thorn in her side. It would be such a shame if something happened to him. He had some good in him -- it was not great, but it was worth the chase. He adored his supposed niece. Her golden locks were cupped into a bun, and her leotard was flounced with Yuri’s expertise, “Your little kotik,” Esther hushed lowly at the Malkavian. He was nipping his bottom lip in hungry, patient anticipation, as if he expected something different from the performance.
His head moved slightly in the ambiance; brown hair skirting against Esther’s cheek as his frame balanced an elbow on the arm of his chair. he grinned softly back at the Ventrue, slightly uninterested in her melancholy whims, “Come to us and stay the night, to rock our little baby. I will pay you, kotu, for your work - I will give you a piece of piroga and da, a jug of moloka,” Peter’s words were contritely sarcastic sounding in his lullaby. The brim of his nose touched her cheek playfully, creepily.
Pulling her hand from the cloth of her lap, she brought her fingers to her neckline, adorned with several a small golden cross. The lacework caught the outlines of the trefoil, and scrolled the outline of its motif and buds. The rich, ornate feel was cold to the touch, just like her. A small breath concentrated under her, “Your little kotik,” she nodded stoically towards the stage. The dim reflections caught her pale skin, gently maneuvering Peter’s attention back to the spotlight, again. As she rested her head against his childish, irresponsible foibles. For the time being, this spectacle was less depressing than the drama ensuing in Los Angeles. Her complacency was less than obvious.
There had been ruffles of rumors and smoke emerging from the sewers; all likely to find their stench under her nose. It was why she held it so high and inclined her neck for very few. Peter was one of those few, him and his little toys. All three of them. She had stayed away from the primelight successfully for some time. It had been her role in her first life and now this one, it seemed. She was always passing herself as one thing or another, but rarely was she ever herself. For now, she was Uncle Scott’s friend, who introduced little Annie to the art of mastering the grand pas de deux.
Esther and Peter had to be somewhere later, after the suite — affectionate and loving. The Kindred has long forgotten what that entailed. It had been something that embroidered her past, and now, after so many centuries, there was evidence that there was some sort of brilliant insight, which tied the nous of all the happenings, surrounded by this mystical, redundant phenomenon. The romantic desire for something; anything; everything; nothing — all at once, like a choreography: the world was dancing to a dark tune, and her most comforting lead was her date with a schizophrenic rabbit.
She was being pulled into the mess one way or another. Getting spun in the puppeteer's web was not too terribly hard after centuries of life being granted. Getting untangled was in itself another mystery Esther had long since been pondering with various intervals of defeat. Unfortunately, her dismissive slumber had ended. She was being summoned, again, down into the grave hole of her duty. The dance would be over soon, and the curtain would be closing. Merci.
M i r a c l e M i l e
Beneath the evening sky, the colors draped beautifully and lovely, as always. The three were sitting at a small patio table outside of an gelato parlor. Weather had warn on the materials of the table to add an antique flavor of fashion. Annie's face was powdered with ladylike features. It made her appear older and more mature. One of her hands, small and supple, draped its fingers into a loose weave with Peter’s own hand. She was licking the top sugar of vanilla and bubblegum ice cream scooped like a unicorn into a waffle cone. The excitement of the recital seemed to have settled, and the Malkavian’s focus had seemingly calmed to a passable level of vocal sanity, “Why didn’t Melanie come?” Esther's voice questioned passively but with a sharp silibance, indicating the unfortunate impatience she was feeling between the two guests.
A pause was given for him to answer, but like most Malkavians, his obedience had left with his sire. His dark eyes were staring at her, begging a reason as to why she would ask such a question. The pondering thoughts were scattered amongst a dismal expression of carelessness. He seemed oblivious to the nature of what was happening; the course of his own knowledge had ridden him lethargic and incapable in the event of Los Angeles' perpetual tragedy. He was true to his essence. He did finally reply though, “I did not want her to get jealous,” his answer was spoken in a polite, gentile manner, and his grip on Annie rose, as his eyes stirred from Esther and back to the youth of the little girl. An dull smile crept onto his lips, “of Annie.” His smile continued whimsicall, now directed at the Ventrue.
Before Esther could respond, supressed by her own lack of assumption and judgement to have even troubled with entertaining his response, Peter continued, “And of you, of course, my kotu.” His eyes played with both Annie and Esther in his mind; an obvious disorder was spinning in his thoughts, “I did promise you hoarfrost.” His spare finger dipped into the vanilla of Annie’s dessert and glistened the treat into the tip. Quickly, he tapped his finger on Esther’s nose, “White-Nose Syndrome has murdered millions of bats across America.” Annie giggled at her uncle's silly display, matching his Cheshire grin. The Ventrue swiftly tapped the cream from her skin, giving the reaction as if an itch had bothered her and caught Peter's hand as he was withdrawing it. Esther's silence continued in her silhouette of movements, and her palm guided the Malkavian’s own hand closer to himself, “It’s a good thing you’re a cat and not a bat,” he spoke smugly, as his personality resided back into the depths of his own uncharted imagines. His mind had already changed subjects; turned phases.
Esther released his hand, like a nurse to a patient slipping back into a therapeutic coma. She pitied the Vampire, sometimes. He was mad; his happiness was lost. His unyielding amusement with woman was to show. Unfortunately, tonight was not a night for a dispense in emotion. They would have to leave soon, and there was little room for the Malkavian’s nursery rhymes and idiosyncratic dialogue to interefere with age old conversations. Perhaps, there would be excuse the poor White Russian’s slurred alveolar ridge. No, Annie was older than a young girl, even if she retained many attributes of one. Peter and Annie had this in likeness, and Esther was not bothered enough to pry. The girl, however, smelled less innocent than her appearance — much like the tsarina and her pet unicorn with its broken glass horn.
“I also have a hat,” Esther leaned forward. Keeping Peter focused would be a good deal of business. Her elbow assumed on the table, and her cheek rested atop of her hand. Peter was already lost in the nightlight and the noise buzzing around them. Esther shifted her gaze to the Ghoul, “How old are you again, Annie?” Her eyes pondered over the young girl. Annie was fourteen, now, about the same age of when Esther had met Rodericus. Peter had no similarities to the altar server other than his mutual regurgitation of: O samaya svyataya ledi Bogoroditsy, svet moyey temnoy dushi, moya nadezhda, moya zashchita, moye pribezhishche, moy otdykh i moya radost'. His parents would be so ashamed of him, now. Tsk tsk. Not that he remembered much of his life before his embrace.
“I am eight,” Annie chimed in a youthful disposition. Her automatic response seemed like it had taken years to master. The girl smiled, revealing a flawed character of an eight year old. The shimmer in her eyes was older and more thirsty for knowledge than an ordinary juvenile. She had a dark corruption that an eight year old could only know from something outstanding such as abuse or force. To Esther, it was obvious the girl was an addict. The child enjoyed his kiss and her temporal immortality; she had even lost her youth before reaching the age of contemplation. Her types generally interested Esther. However, as a retainer to a Malkavian, she had a lack of reason that kept Esther from furthering her inquiry on the girl's state of affairs. The Kindred knew much better than to dabble with that. Her sire had taught her well. Losing dignity, especially in the face of madness was not one of the Truths of the Ventrue.
They would be leaving soon. The travel and small stop by Milk Jar Cookies was enough to passify the girl and the time while they waited for Saint Sophia Cathedral's Great Vespers to end. Esther was looking forward to the golden pomp and brilliant display of light fixtures. Peter hardly favored under the site; and often times he reunited with memories that left him haunted for days. For this reason, she had given him several gifts in hopes that he would mind himself. This was evidence enough that both were always nursing on a small mad hope, artistically caged to immortal imagery to which they had no real freedom; and no free man needs God.
S a i n t S o p h i a ' s G r e e k O r t h o d o x C h u r c h
“Don’t forget to cross yourself before entering…”
Upon opening the intricately wooden, adorned doors, the scene was written like a memory of the Dream; as if Esther had closed her eyes and awaken in the lavish pageantry of militant mercy amongst the Divine. Chandeliers dripped in golden, pearly tears from the ceiling of the Cathedral, draped in decadent and ornately rich and flaxen engravings. The smell of candles and incense graced the dimly lit atmosphere, arising like smoke in the ambiance of a low echo chanting the psalter. A velvet red carpet lead the back of the Church to the Royal Doors, closed with protective wings of the illuminated icons, painted firmly on the iconostas with headdress of sculpted twilight and articulate halos.
The Malkavian responded to the backdrop and glass stained history with stiff arms and wandering eyes. Memories were floating around, and he was not sure which one he should choose. Each held their own world of mystery. A silent flame was standing firmly in a small puddle of trophic sand. The fire was like a desert rose, wandering through a scorched wilderness that was enclosed with aurelian leaves that were cold to touch, like Annie’s cheeks in the winter. His thoughts were pushed by the sound of a male, rich in vocals.
“O, Esther,” Father Bill stepped out from the corners of the Nave. His heavy black gown moved the sounds of the incense through the tiny kingdom. He seemed pleased with a closed smile of allurement and attraction to the visitors, “You’ve brought friends, family, are they inquirers, as well?” His body glided patiently through pews. Automatically, lifting a wrist, with fingers bent and curved. Unabatangly, he crossed the air with minimal effort before letting his palm rest in the cups of Esther’s extended palms. His eyes looked to Peter, as he felt the Ventrue’s soft lips press reverently against his skin.
Esther spoke quietly, “Yes, Father. Uncle Scott.” Her gentle breath whispered quietly against the priest’s flesh. She paused before straightening her and then turned towards the Malkavian. His dark eyes were wandering over the Church, as they tended to do. Excitement was setting them to life, and his lower lip, nibbled with nervous blood, was moving slightly, mumbling inaudibly to himself about something that minded nothing with Annie who appeared enchanted and bored all at once, “this is Father Bill,” she relaxed her shoulders. Silk threads gently touched against her pale skin as she moved. There was pity in her voice as watched the Kindred lose his mind in the details.
“Th-the chandeliers are flickering, sh-shaking,” Peter finally noted in response to Esther, locking eyes with her and then tracing the weave of her black dress as it fitted and flounced over her body. They wrapped around the fabric-covered buttons that held her blouse over her neck, bosom, and waste. She was like charcoal, burning like a spinneret in the midst of a radiant, dead dream. The lace on her dress began smoking and evaporating into the air, stringing each of its threads from every corner of the room until all he could see was a web and three trapped flies. A darkness messaged and crawled over the back of his head, massaging its body tenderly into his mind; claws and tarsi appendaging his ears as its pincers began cutting the threads of his mind open.
There were muffled voices that he could not quite makeout. They came and went through cups of sounds. It was the flies, squirming in their voices. They made him thirsty, and he could feel the dryness of his tongue swiping over his cracked, bloody lips trembling with the beast re-awakening in him. Sweet sickness dripped down his throat as he tried to hold back, but the domineering command, “Eat him, Peter” vibrated in warped pochette echoes from the cobweb’s silk strings, like bells notifying the beginning of the Creed.
A bestial growl rumbled over the Malkavian, hungry with madness and lust. This was his favorite part of him. He remembered now as his strong frame tingled with sensation and compulsion while it moved forward. His shackles of insanity had been unlocked from his flesh, and snarls were foaming through his teeth, sharp to the point, overly excited to devour in the imagined Network placed in front of him. The feeling was strong and starving. He had not succumb to his beast in a long while, but he was drunk on this long sought after fever of hysteria, now, famished for satisfying her command and his appetite.
Esther watched as the two Kindred’s veins flexed and entwined together, each ripping for each other’s lives. She placed her hopes on Peter winning, if not because she decided he was the stronger of the two, but she was also penanced with the duty of caring for him. A girl of Annie’s age should not have to witness this. However, the Ventrue had little interest in securing the sanity of a child who had already lost her reason for living to Malkav. She was but a snuffed flame in the loins as a potential Childe.
“Uncle Scott might not kiss you goodnight, Annie,” Esther miffed. Her slender fingers extended and combed through the child’s long, golden locks. They were soft to the touch, still mended from a bun holding the human warmth of a beating heart despite being the deadest thing on her. The Ventrue let out a lofty sigh as the Toreador antitribu crumbled under the pressure of the frenzying Malkavian. Humiliation by surprise had brought the beast out of the Toreador, as well. However, by the trembles and groans rummaging through the cathedral, it was fair to believe there was and enjoyment of agony from both parties. So complicated dying had to be.
Her hand left Annie’s hair and tipped her fingers against her lips. Peter really had no manners. Lulling him out of a frenzy would be difficult. He was enjoying himself so much, right now. However, for the sake of time — her fingers intertwined with the lines and shadows and pulled the scene into a soothing display of debauched memories. Heavenly aromas budded like roses from the ground. The fields of incense blossomed and sprouted, vines twisted its leaves and sprouts over the cobweb, turning the weave gold, again.
Rich tapestry and iconography provided gentle siloques into reality. Breaths pressed through the Malkavian’s fangs, guilty in blood and gray skin. As the room swayed in soothing motions, he lifted his gaze from the mess and found himself, again, lost in the dark trances of the Ventrue’s eyes. His undead heart could feel her state beating through him, now, changing the rhythm of the night. His lower jaw stuttered as drool and Vitae collapsed and spilled from it.
The Ventrue’s features started to appear more abstract, as the vision dominated him. Her face started to resemble something more pure and holy. Her voice chimed his name, and his body relaxed, drawn to her presence like a moth to a flame. Panting he spoke questionably, “Ma-ma?” his voice was weak and withdrawn with a lock fastened around his madness. There were no longer spiders; and they were no longer in a web. Flowers were dressing a California field; and the sun was glowing all over the sky. He wanted to touch the image of the woman in front of him and feel her cheeks — they looked soft like petals that had grown like wings on the back of a butterfly.
He could feel against his own cheeks a breeze brushing against his cold skin. It had a warmth, like a mother’s embrace, against the fold of her chest. She looked like an angel, and she made him think, he was in heaven, with the hilt of her arms spread open. His body moved towards hers, magnetized by her presence. “Mamuschka. Matuschka…” his voice twisted for tenderness and piety, as he fell at her feet. Saliva and Vitae drooled as he made small laughs, giddy and sad all the same.
Esther knelt down, bending her knees and softly tipping his chin upward to look at her. His grin had closed in his hazy stare, lost to mortal memories he would soon forget, “Thank you. You’re such a good little boy.” Her neck declined, and she placed a small butterfly kiss upon his forehead, pressing her matted lips against his dark, duey hair. Several strands pulled with her mouth, as her body and attention rose. She smiled politely at Annie before turning her attention to the undead corpse.
Her body stepped around the awakening Malkavian and approached the antitribu. Her smile paused for a solemn moment, feigning pity upon the poor, stupid priest. He was almost nothing, now. “Memory Eternal, Father.” Esther bent her knees, again, tucking the frou-frou of her skirt beneath her. Her body leaned over the limp and pathetic ruins of a Kindred. She drew her right hand to her mouth and nipped the tips of her glove from her fingers, removing the lace gauntlet from her hand. Her fingers tiptoed quickly through the mess, and untwisted the gold cross from the black cloth. The ornament was relished inside a hanky and tucked into her purse thereafter.
Standing and turning towards the Malkavian, again, Esther lightly commanded in a petite manner, “Uncle Scott, you should call Big Joe,” she watched as the Kindred stirred to her voice, as he began returning to his reality, “I am under the impression that he has some cleaning to do.” Her eyes fell on Annie again and quickly dismissed the swollen eyed doll. She was a waste of innocence, as they all were. She was also a waste of time. This whole scenario was had its own vessel of a story; and this was merely the prologue. A small sigh escaped her.
How depressing.
The Ventrue fitted her hand into her glove, again, and began making her way to the Narthex of the Cathedral. There were several more stops the three would have to make. Each foot was placed carefully in front of the other, minimizing the bustles of her flouncing attire. There was much to do in preparation before he arrived.
“Don’t forget to cross yourself before leaving…”
Peter’s body moaned silently as it dragged itself through the corridors of the Church. His darkened eyes faltered, landing cowardly on the three lit candles, like withering irises. Their flames were burning pollen, melting the stems into the finely grounded rocks, Raz, dva, tri... Umirayet zaychik moy...
The heavy close of the wooden doors veiled the masquerade and revealed the day having clothed herself into a maddening darkness with dusty clouds and blankets of sunless sky. The contrast between the dim lights of the Church were still noticeable. Annie’s small body was trembling, kept at a distance that was weary of her Uncle Scott and shunned by the Ventrue. Her small lips made no sound, pressed together in a supple manner of confused innocence. The Malkavian cracked a smile, uncurling his posture to her vulnerable attired emotions and bare neck, uncurtained by her golden locks dressed once in a bun, and while closing the gap between the girl and him, Peter toyed with his voice, “One, two, three, four, five. Zaychik came out to play.” His hand extended and crawled through the air swiftly as it took hold of the scruff of her neck, petting the nymphette’s nape lightly.
“Privezli yego domoy Okazalsya on zhivoy,” Esther finished the rhyme, “You tease her too much, Uncle Scott,” she gently scolded as her steps slowed to allow the two others the ability to retain the same pace as she was traveling. The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the gray pavement, carefully judging the wrinkles in the cement as they landed. Esther’s back was arched straight, holding her head high with an authoritative air. Perhaps, she had overstepped her conversation. It so much appeared patience and time were not on her side tonight, “Ivan is a bit away down the road,” her chin nodded towards. A black sedan that was parked a little ways from the cathedral, “He’ll be able to help us with your attire.”
Esther had not been the least bit amused with the Malkavians outfit, especially in reference to his attending a ballet recital at Pepperdine University, so eloquently adjusted in Malibu. The pretentious disposition, which rested on her face, smiled in regards to her comment. Although, there was a shrug of hope that his performance would give his new outfit any true longevity, she was calloused towards crushed dreams and was rich enough to not mind a short lived suit, so long as it served its purpose.
The Malkavian made no reply to her nipping commentary. His mind was long gone, tangled with the flocculent flesh running over Annie's mortal parts. Esther took note of his lack of response and continued in her walk towards the Rolls Royce, parked under the dusky covers of trees, hiding the streetlights and any attention that might be watching or listening. It might have been well that there had been only an ignorant reply to Esther's commentary.
As the three approached closer, it was made out that inside the dark car, there was a shadow of a driver who was propped in his seat with an arm relaxed on the sill of the window. His clothed elbow was leaning against the pain, and his cheek was pushed into a closed knuckle. A solemn emotion was drawn on his face, even with his eyes watching intently and brutally as he watched the three figures emerge from the large temple. His body did not stiffen or relax at their sight; and it was not until Esther opened the door, did the man stir, brustling his skin against coarse hair.
“Dear Ivan, oh were, oh where did your manners go? Tsk. Tsk.” A quiet glare pierced over the driver. His body tensed at the sound of her voice snipping through his strings of lull. A moment of silence passed through him as he tried to find means of attention and begs for mercy in a pious manner. Her demeanor was offering less of a threat than the internal flame raging inside of her. He was sure of it as klutzy movements or large hands pushed open the driver door to help the two others inside of the sedan, forfeiting his intelligence.
“Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?” Peter mocked the driver. His smile wired up his face as he studied Ivan, “Why, she's been to London to visit the queen, and all the bridges are falling, falling, falling down.” His hand left Annie’s neck and crept towards Ivan’s tan, masculine features. Excitement was dripping from his movements as his upper body leaned forward, giving the escort several kisses upon both of his clean shaven cheeks. A laugh was bubbling inside of Peter, but for unbeknownst reasons it refused to truly surface and merely swayed the Kindred into the car, bloated with a saturated memory of the father’s taste. He would gladly dine again with Esther's permission.
The little ghoul crept after her master, tiptoeing around the brunt card driver, as if he was a large monster, ready to erupt at any moment, even if he, too, was also on his toes, afraid to cause any stir in his mistress’ temperament. The ghoul, void of emotions and moving in frames of kindred instinct, snuggled up close to her master, and her head limped like a doll against his side. The leather seating was stiff and made their own sounds with the movements of the two, but soon after, with the presence of Esther fuming with a heavy pretense of despondency that drowned out any curses from the Cobweb, quietness appeared from both of the backseat passengers.
Ivan closed the door and swept his own huge body into the car, once more — Esther was already settled, sitting upright and patiently agitated, wandering memories of her own undead life, “We are going to San Francisco, my dear Ivan. If you could please, pozhalyoostah.” She spoke politely and grimly to him, turning her cheek slightly to face him. His obedience stirred stiff muscles to start the car, and after the car started with a low rumbling purr, her last words spoken before entering San Francisco were, “Thank you. Spasibo.”
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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