Post by Duke Lucian Briscoe on Sept 22, 2007 16:04:51 GMT -5
The night air was like a lover's touch. Cloaked in mystery, beckoning with promise, sweet at times but quickly cloying. And underneath it all, rotten to the very core. Above the Gothic towers and glooms of this rather cryptic, Victorian manor, the moon was but a mere silver whisker, enshrouded by the billowing heaps of slate clouds as they wept their dismal way across the otherwise desolate expanse of heaven and space.
There was no fitful company of the stars tonight. No constellations to gaze and decipher at. No eerie calling of the night owl to summon the little forest animals to fright. Absolutely no sounds of the alive and living. Only nocturnal silence: still, sweet, deep and complete. This is how everyday life should be. Melancholy and dim, dark and deprived, dull and mundane. Just a perpetual life of black and white, and shades of gray.
He was but a lone, tall figure, standing still, at the end of a high balcony; it's structure so visually artistic, so aristocratically chiseled, that the crawling limbs of rose vines, some wilted and some caught in half bloom, only added to its dark beauty. His back was towards you, so all that you could make of him was broad firm shoulders and the raven tail of his black-coat. And just as the night was dreary and sinister, such was the aura that surrounded this peculiar man. And in his hand, so delicately held by its elegant crystalline neck, a glass of wine so dark and rich a red it was nearly black.
Looking down with those cool grey eyes of his, he would see one by one, as those fancy open carriages strolled in, accommodating high Lords and rich Ladies, drawn by even fancier beasts of burden; horses they were called. Lots of them. Some bearing long feathery plumes that curled rather daintily over their noble heads, and most with their bridles set so tight and high, as if to achieve that desirable proud neck; the owners were silently showing-off its good breeding, no doubt.
It was only upon the arrival of guests in their parade of sophistication and splendor that the Duke of Brant was disdainfully reminded of what a foul sleeper the London night was. And especially, how vain its people could be. Here they are now —in long sweeping gowns of cream lace and pastel blue and flashy suits so handsomely fitted, their skins silky like the glow of pearls, pampered by the life of luxury— but surely, they were no better than the soil they stepped on. No better than the stench of the dark, dank earth below, or the insects that writhe, crawl and feast upon the dead and decayed.
Beauty is harsh, never forever; give it time, and the years will not be so kind to you. No matter how much you try to preserve your youth, or delay your aging through selfish acts of vanity, you will, in the end, succumb to the ground and be rich food to Mother Earth.
"Lovely night, isn't it, Sir?" The old, kindly-faced butler stood within a respectable distance of his Lord, knowing all to well how the man cherished his own company and solitude. Often, he would stop and wonder, what goes on in that mind of yours, Lucian, sir? Why are you so quiet? So silently withdrawn? But of course, such questions —as modest and as innocent as they may seem— would only punctuate at rudeness, and when you're around the company of the rich and the beautiful, it is best to keep those lips neatly sealed. No matter how curious to death you were.
But it was only a thin line of a smile that greeted him, as the man in debonair black did so little to turn around, so little to appear friendly; his chin hardly akin to his shoulders, and eyes held at a lazy slant, with the mysterious spill of shadows pooling into half the contours of his handsome, high-cheek boned face. Yes, looking at him alone and holding it there was a challenge; those eyes were challenging. Grey, dashed in blue and flecked with black, he had the most electrifying gaze, so when he looks at /you/ directly, you are reminded of the cool stare of a cat's.
Yeah, he also didn't really look like he gave a flying f**k. But he responded nevertheless, rolling off the very tip of his tongue, a sarcastic and cynical: "Yes. Quite lovely indeed." And it was only then did the benevolent butler had enough decency to pick up his cue.
And it was to leave.
What a lovely birthday party this was going to be.
Turning on his heel, Lucian left the balcony and decided to go within the depths of his ballroom; people already swirling in a mix of colored gowns and coats--music playing from a orchestra in the corner..God bless his sister, the lovely party planner.
[/color][/sup]There was no fitful company of the stars tonight. No constellations to gaze and decipher at. No eerie calling of the night owl to summon the little forest animals to fright. Absolutely no sounds of the alive and living. Only nocturnal silence: still, sweet, deep and complete. This is how everyday life should be. Melancholy and dim, dark and deprived, dull and mundane. Just a perpetual life of black and white, and shades of gray.
He was but a lone, tall figure, standing still, at the end of a high balcony; it's structure so visually artistic, so aristocratically chiseled, that the crawling limbs of rose vines, some wilted and some caught in half bloom, only added to its dark beauty. His back was towards you, so all that you could make of him was broad firm shoulders and the raven tail of his black-coat. And just as the night was dreary and sinister, such was the aura that surrounded this peculiar man. And in his hand, so delicately held by its elegant crystalline neck, a glass of wine so dark and rich a red it was nearly black.
Looking down with those cool grey eyes of his, he would see one by one, as those fancy open carriages strolled in, accommodating high Lords and rich Ladies, drawn by even fancier beasts of burden; horses they were called. Lots of them. Some bearing long feathery plumes that curled rather daintily over their noble heads, and most with their bridles set so tight and high, as if to achieve that desirable proud neck; the owners were silently showing-off its good breeding, no doubt.
It was only upon the arrival of guests in their parade of sophistication and splendor that the Duke of Brant was disdainfully reminded of what a foul sleeper the London night was. And especially, how vain its people could be. Here they are now —in long sweeping gowns of cream lace and pastel blue and flashy suits so handsomely fitted, their skins silky like the glow of pearls, pampered by the life of luxury— but surely, they were no better than the soil they stepped on. No better than the stench of the dark, dank earth below, or the insects that writhe, crawl and feast upon the dead and decayed.
Beauty is harsh, never forever; give it time, and the years will not be so kind to you. No matter how much you try to preserve your youth, or delay your aging through selfish acts of vanity, you will, in the end, succumb to the ground and be rich food to Mother Earth.
"Lovely night, isn't it, Sir?" The old, kindly-faced butler stood within a respectable distance of his Lord, knowing all to well how the man cherished his own company and solitude. Often, he would stop and wonder, what goes on in that mind of yours, Lucian, sir? Why are you so quiet? So silently withdrawn? But of course, such questions —as modest and as innocent as they may seem— would only punctuate at rudeness, and when you're around the company of the rich and the beautiful, it is best to keep those lips neatly sealed. No matter how curious to death you were.
But it was only a thin line of a smile that greeted him, as the man in debonair black did so little to turn around, so little to appear friendly; his chin hardly akin to his shoulders, and eyes held at a lazy slant, with the mysterious spill of shadows pooling into half the contours of his handsome, high-cheek boned face. Yes, looking at him alone and holding it there was a challenge; those eyes were challenging. Grey, dashed in blue and flecked with black, he had the most electrifying gaze, so when he looks at /you/ directly, you are reminded of the cool stare of a cat's.
Yeah, he also didn't really look like he gave a flying f**k. But he responded nevertheless, rolling off the very tip of his tongue, a sarcastic and cynical: "Yes. Quite lovely indeed." And it was only then did the benevolent butler had enough decency to pick up his cue.
And it was to leave.
What a lovely birthday party this was going to be.
Turning on his heel, Lucian left the balcony and decided to go within the depths of his ballroom; people already swirling in a mix of colored gowns and coats--music playing from a orchestra in the corner..God bless his sister, the lovely party planner.
