How To Make A Toreador Hide Under Her Bed

The candlelit area of the lobby of Hotel California is almost completely empty, except for the eye-catching shock of silver silk and lace that trails down over the edge of the grand piano from the long train of dress attached to the woman ontop of it. The lithe beauty is hardly masquerading, and her pallid skin contrasts in sharp alabaster next to the ebony hue of the instrument beneath her. A long, rather elegant dress of shimmering silver satin and silk hugs her small features, and her eyes are painted in dramatic tones of gold, silver, and black. Her legs are exposed from the weight of the skirt, and one knee is slightly up even as she lays against the lid of the piano, looking to be completely asleep. Her cherry-red lips are parted enough that delicate fangs can be seen, and the only sound in the room comes from the Appassionata playing quietly from a small radio at her side.

The doors of the hotel suddenly swing open with great force, accompanied by a faint gust of freezing (and dramatic) wind from outside, revealing the sillouette of a figure in the doorway. Clad in a long black duster jacket, and it's accompanying wide-brimmed leather hat is an image out of the nightmares of the barely sane, a man of pale flesh but somehow strange, his eyes glowing yellow pits surrounded by sunken sockets, his fingers on his right hand clawed and grotesque, clutching the hilt of an antique broadsword. His right hand is obscured by the heavy black gauntlet that he wears, the fingers of the horrible looking glove long and sharp. The most horrible thing, however, is the grotesque smile he wears on his lips, the sick, perverse smile of a pedophile who just stumbled onto a troupe of boy-scouts.

With the in-swing of the door, and the frigid wind that creeps over the room, the slender brunette against the piano doesn't even shift. Her small chest is completely still, as can be expected from the absence of any care to warm her skin, and only the absence of decay that's replaced with soft, powdery perfume holds the cue of her vampiric existance. "Is it raining?" The Toreador's voice is whispered and almost smokey, deeper than a female's is usually but no less patterened with a woman's tone. Clearly, she's expecting someone she's familiar with, and doesn't bother to shift her attention towards the door at all. The swell of Appassionata stills fills silence before and after her words.

A harsh chuckle errupts from the figure at the door as the creature tilts his head back, the leather hat falling from the crown of his head to the floor, though he hardly seems to notice. "It is. But it rains blood, not the life-giving water of the heavens. Heathens have died in their dozens at the hands of a god tonight, and the sky cries out in joy." he says, a thick accent warping his words. The creature takes a few steps into the poorly lit hotel lobby, the light revealing the blood that coats his weapon and his flesh. "What is your name, creature of the underworld?"

With a sharp twist of her eyes to the door, the milky skinned woman keeps eye contact with the new figure of all of a second before her motions completely blur. A half a breath heralds the shift of her body from the top of the piano, to under it in a flash of silvered satin, and the radio is knocked over harshly to shatter against the carpetted floor into an outpouring of electronic bits and pieces. A short hiss accompanies the dart away from her previous position, and she's pressed against the wall behind the piano in a protective gesture with her fangs bared with a rather unattactive sneer.

The sickening smile spreads across the features of the beast again as his brow furrows slightly, glowing yellow orbs peering out from underneath his heavy brow. Taking another step forward, the figure tosses his sword aside, letting it clatter against the wall as he begins to pull off his heavy jacket. Within a moment, he tosses that aside aswell, in the opposite direction of the sword, leaving him naked from the waist up. "Do you feel fear, demon? You needn't. I've had my fill for one evening, and it would be a shame to destroy such beauty so shortly after witnessing it." he says gently, his croaky voice reverberating off the walls as he speaks loudly. Raising his ungauntleted hand, he presses it against his forehead and slowly drags it across his features, wiping much of the blood from his lips and nose. He looks like a messy eater.

The pale woman continues to sneer for a moment, though at the first slips of compliment, her expression softens. "Fear is healthy in these times of announced guests, and languid nerves," she retorts, moving foward just slightly to rest her fingers over the edge of the piano, her large, pale green eyes all that can be seen of her as she peeks over the top of it at Barrabus. "It would be a task, and a heinous crime for you to assume that my beauty would fade in such a senario. Stay back from me, or introduce yourself." Her words still hiss against the lisp of her fangs, and the absences of recent meals is clear in the almost translucent quality of her marbled skin and the dead impact of emotion from her voice.

Leaning forward, the figure squints slightly as he continues to smile, his eyes moving over her appraisingly. "The children of the south called me Bara, but the christians who slaughtered us called me Barrabus in some strange homage to the bastard Christ. Either will suffice, for it is not for mortals to know the true name of those they worship." he says, that same strange accent pouring with every syllable. Standing up straight again, the figure does not seem overly concerned with the woman anymore, his eyes exploring his new surrounding and he raises his unarmored hand. Holding his fingertips close to his face, a long tongue extends from its confines and explores the gaps between his fingers, removing every ounce of blood from his pale flesh.

As though collecting every bit of courage that she has, Macha raises back to her feet with a bit of a shiver. She smooths the front of her dress with both hands, lifting one of the straps back in place with a fairly demure pout of her darkened lips. "Your manners make me uncomfortable. My name is Macha Lucilacu, stemmed from the blood of Toreador." She shifts her eyes away from him again, lacing her fingers infront of her stomach. She's still pointedly hiding behind the piano.

Tilting his head to the side as he continues to examine the woman, the creatures perverse smile never faulters. If anything, his amusement increases as he takes another step forward, his long, black kilt dragging along the lobby floor behind. "You cower from me, why? Is it my visage?" he asks curiously, his hand falling to his side as his long tongue sucks absently at one of his horribly mishapen fangs. His smile fades after a moment, his expression turning quizical. "Toreador?" he asks in faint confusion.

"Toreador," the woman repeats with a soft upnod, her voice steadying from it's recent shiver. Her large, painted eyes dart back to him with a flutter of false lashes with his step forward, and though her weight shifts backwards, she seems to control herself enough not to take a step back. "It's many things, and none so trivial as… you're appearance." Her eyes fall to the pile of radio parts against the carpet, and she openly whimpers while dropping to her knees beside it in a concerned gesture, though only manages to poke a few of the pieces with her fingers as though it would magically turn back into a working radio.

The smile returns after a moment and the creature raises his ungauntleted hand again, running it over his scalp. "You'll find there is nothing trivial about me, Macha Lucilacu of Toreador. I was bathing in the blood of heretics when you were still a glimmer in your father's eye. Although, I'll admit it has been some time since I walked amongst the living, and I am somewhat… out of touch." he says, his eyes moving to the ancient broadsword that lies discarded by the lobby wall. His gaze returning to the young woman, the creature chews his lips slightly, exposing over-large fangs. "Do I frighten you, Macha? Be honest."

"You know you do, Barrabus. I've no secrets with your kind, nor would I lie about it." The girl sighs softly down at the broken radio and comes back to her feet in a graceful shift of silk, satin and lace. "As far as I know, I'm the youngest of the city's children, so your models of age mean nothing to me." The Toreador keeps her gaze on the electronic mess before another soft sigh is issued and she steps around the side of the piano to take a heavy, almost depression soaked, seat on the piano's bench. Her thin hands rest in her lap, the long trail of her skirt being gathered between her fingers. "These are horrible times. You've no fear of mortals in this area that remain alive for more than a moment out there."

Letting his smile fade into a frown, the nosferatu seems no-longer entertained by the young woman's conversation. "You bore me with your talk of trials and tribulations. I care not for your impotent thrashing against the hand the gods dealt you." he says quietly, moving to the wall where his sword had fallen. Leaning down, the creature swiftly collects his possession and slides it into his belt. "I will return for you, my demon that reminds me of an angel's song. I hope you wait for me, everything will be much swifter."

The thin brunette just stares at him, her lips parting slightly in a gaping gesture that can only be concidered somewhere between fear and terror, and it does nothing to hide the wide shock of her eyes and the nervous retraction of her small cainines. Her pretty words completely escape her, and she slowly stands from her resting position and takes a careful step backwards towards the stairs. Again, the same blurred motion of her moonlight colored dress initiates her exit, and her small figure flees up the main stairs of the hotel with unnatural grace in a sobbing mess of delicate female stature.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License