Of Perilous Princesses
31th of October 2006 A.D.
Perhaps unsurprisingly Lydia is up for meeting the lady of the White Court and Thomas' sister, curious as to the ones her father called 'perilous-clever phages'. To Arwan the White Court are upstarts that might almost be amusing in their vainglory had it not been by their hands that countless elders of the Black Court had fallen. It was in his own words relayed by his giggling daughter 'as though moths had slain a mountain lion'. When you share in confidence that the woman you are to meet is the leader in fact if not in name of the White Court that only makes her more excited and mischievously secretive in a way that remind one that she is only fifteen.
Exactly what she had been planning is clear the moment you lay eyes on you, garbed in a grey Elizabethan dress, its high laced color like moth's wings that legends tell bear up the souls of the dead and on her head a delicate tiara, silver and pearls, glowing with an inner sheen as though alive in the morning light. It all seems very ren-fair-y... except that is not costume jewelry, none of it it. Judging by the tinny marks of age that only the hand of time can leave upon a thing, be it ever so well cared, it must be old indeed, hopefully not seventeenth-century-old that would might get you ambushed by angry museum curators which make the vampires look tame, but there is no way yo know.
"What do you think?" Lydia twirls in place, dress flying an inch of so off the pavement.
"A bit early to be dressing up," you point out. Dropping the smile you add. "We might have to fight you know."
"Oh don't worry, the sleeves and the hem are specially stitched to tear off easily." So probably not an original, thankfully. "Dad did say to dress in accordance to my station when talking to the White Court."
"Well not you're making me feel
under-dressed," you grimace, sounding more serious than you had meant to.
"Go with the chainmail," your friend shrugs. When she sees you hesitate she adds: "Come on its Halloween, when else are you going to be able to show up without anyone batting an eye."
Is that why people still dress up for the day, you wonder suddenly. Did some power of the supernatural craft the season, from lawn skeletons to neon candy specifically so that on this day when eternal becomes transient the mundane masses of humanity should have a ready made excuse for seeing strange folk abroad. The thought is not a pleasant one, unlike Lydia's revelry in the freedom of the hour you cannot take your mind off what it means to engineer such a thing, how easily men are made puppets of that which they cannot see, that which is hidden from them.
It is one such puppetmaster and predator you are to meet today. Ensconced in one of the colorful couches of Thomas' Salon, still empty the better to accommodate the meeting, Lara Raith looks like nothing so much as the centerfold of a fashion magazine incarnate among the plebeians, all the more remarkable since no one would call her beauty conventional, her face has just the right about of asymmetry to lend character and will and she fills out the dark blue dress
unfairly well in your opinion, but it is the eyes under perfectly arched eyebrows that arrest one in place, grey with specks of violet like twilight in a cemetery.
It's hard to say what you had expected out of such a figure, but it is
not professional handshakes her respectful greetings that seem at once unphased by you wearing night-black chain-mail or Lydia being dressed for the court of Queen Elizabeth... the Previous. "I'm pleased to see could make the time to see me on such short notice." Her smile is at once warm and apologetic, not so much as to strain belief, but enough to disarm the worst of your annoyance at being summarily summoned. "And glad I am to greet the daughter of Arwan's line as befits one of royal blood and mien on a day so portentous."
Lydia smiles in response, but as she sits down she looks, distracted, or thoughtful. Catching your curious gaze she shakes her head. Net yet... or perhaps not here you guess from her look.
"So on the matter of the tonic you have developed," Lara begins, turning back yo you. "There are of course among those who have guessed at its existence concerns with regards to quality and safety. Personally having observed one of those to whom it has been given I do not hold with either." She tips her head towards Thomas who looks... long suffering would be the best description, though more in the familial exasperation sense than the more serious. After the glimpse you caught of Isabela's interaction with her family you are relieved to see it, even though it means you might not be able to trust Thomas as much as you might at other times.
"I know your time is short so let me be blunt. Magic has a price even though it is often a subtle one. weakness, alienation, addiction or sundry other imbalances of the body mind and soul. I would like to know which one my brother is currently laboring under to maintain his... lifestyle. Rest assured I do not shock easily and I will not hold it against you..." She pauses. "I might under certain circumstances, but given who your father is and what he bears the price is most unlikely to fall within the scope of mys displeasure."
"Lara..." Thomas starts before you can react, his tone a warning.
The vampire in question just rolls her not-quite-human eyes. "They might be young, they are
not children."
"You sound like a pre-Imperial relic," Thomas grouses, but settles back. From context you guess he's comparing Lara to the elders neither of them have much liking to
"Already reduced to insults
little brother?" The tone is teasing but only just, as a cat playfully unsheathing her claws.
How do you describe Mercy in Servitude?
[] Deceptively, try to continue the perception that it is a potion, though one you will not sell only share with friends
[] Bluntly, all those who serve you are granted control of aspects of inner darkness that would be otherwhise outside their control
[] Vaguely, it is not sustenance, but control and only something you will share with vampires willing to work with you
[] Fully, as much as you can recount the feeling of pale flame under your own unlight
[] Write in
OOC: As long as her father is not technically deposed Lara is technically a princess which makes for three very non-Disney princesses present. 
