Log:Forgotten Library

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Forgotten Library
Two scholars meet at a forgotten library on the University's campus.
IC Date July 8, 2014
IC Time Night
Players Lotte, Blackwell
Location Forgotten Library (RP ROOM)
Spheres
Camarilla.png
, Nosferatu


Evening. A heavy fog has set itself as a blanket over the city - one of those nights were the world seems full of possibilities and mystery. Here, in this forgotten library on an unused corner the campus of the University, the pale figure of Lord Blackwell has come to enjoy the antique finery of this beautifully restored room. Full of richly appointed, century-old finery, the warm wood and thick carpeting is accented by over-stuffed chairs, carved side-tables and a hint of an old Victrola playing in the background.

Lotte was already there. A large book pressed against her modest chest. She was planning to read it, perhaps, but for now, she was staring down at the needle that read against the grooves of the disc that sang out the classic melody. She was simply entranced by it, perhaps reading into it more than what was being taken by others that would hear it.

Blackwell returns to the room, having stepped out to answer a call. Handing the contraption back to his personal guard, he wipes his pale hand with a quick flick from his handkerchief and asks that the man remain outside. Spying Lotte upon his return he greets, "Sister..." his tone warm and still with that unmistakable British accent, "...how are you doing this evening?"

The French woman finally pulls her pale gaze away from the simple crank machine and rests them upon the Nossie's visage. That smile, so warm and tender, tugs at her full lips. "Brother." She greets smoothly and turns in her spot, still standing and cradling the tome as one might a precious child. "I am doing well enough. How are you since last we spoke?"

Blackwell nods, "Quite well. I believe that my dwelling is finally suitable to receive company - should the occasion ever present itself." With the usual click-drag of his walking stick to accompany his steps, he takes his ease in an overstuffed chair by the fireplace, glancing to the empty hearth and remembering. "Oh...and I may have secured sufficient means to continue my research." The signet ring upon the index finger of his right hand flashes in the light just slightly as he rests his hand upon the arm of the chair and strokes the carved, wooden lion's head fixture that extends a few inches from the end. "It is so difficult to find supplies in this town. You'd swear that no one writes by hand these days."

"I'm glad to her of this." The smile remains and she eyes a place to sit. Without a second thought, however, she plops down against the carpet of the room and finally sets the book down. It seems to be some old stories regarding past mother figure goddesses and Lilith in particular. "Well, I suppose you could get a book and then have it rewritten by hand. I suppose you're looking for originals, though." She considers this. "Perhaps, hmm...perhaps I may look into starting a business that obtains just that. Originals and the odd. Specialty items."


Blackwell hrms and offers, "If you have the connections to find such a thing - I would be an avid client." With that he withdraws a thin, palm-sized notebook from the brest pocket of his jacket and opens the dark green cover with a faint rub of the edge of his thumb. The thin leather cover is well-worn but not overly damaged. It has seen a lot of use but not disrespect. "I favor the hand-written accounts of one's personal research far more than the printed copies put forth by these so-called 'publishing houses'. Where's the flourid text? Where's the illustration? Where's the splatter upon the page?" His notebook fascination starts to show as he withdraws a small sheet of paper from the back of the notebook and hands it to the girl, "These are some titles that I would be interested in. I'll finance your inquiries, of course, and compensate you well should you find me a quality edition." The titles are a veritable who's who of occult literature and research. Dictionaire Infernal. Documentaire du Secrete. Livre du Sange. Serious books for serious collectors.

Lotte eyes the note and reads it over. Her eyes flutter a bit, blinking with confusion as to where she may just find these marvelous things. "I'll see what I can do. I'll admit now that I...well, I do very little with contacts. That, however, can change." Offering a warm smile, she slips the paper away into a small pocket on her side bag. "Brother Blackwell," she murmurs gently, gaining his attention with the goal of asking him something. "What do you think of those like us and love?"

The old, pale-skinned man, raises an eyebrow at the question but takes a moment to consider it. Should he have had a glass or a goblet in his hand, this would have been the perfect time to take one of those those long, contimplative, sips. "Love of knowledge, of things or of people, my dear?" The question, obviously couched to provide him more time to understand the woman's motives, is politely phrased and yet firmly spoken. His near-professorial tone brings out his Oxford educated accent.

"Love of a person." She clarifies, the very idea of loving knowledge is rather apparent between the pair. "If you would call us people anymore. Love of one of our own in a way that the Children of Seth love one another." She clarifies all the more so. Those blue orbs lift up, looking at the stately Nos attentively and with eager anticipation.

Blackwell seems a bit cold on the topic, "I've never seen it come to any success, not amongst my own kind." The slender fingers of his steeple together before his chest, the long, yellowed nails starting to show from behind his veiled mask of illusions. The chitenous needles flick together in an annoying 'clickity-click' sound as he brushes them past each other while thinking. "We have a respect for the accomplishments of another; perhaps even admiration..." he pauses to lean forward a bit to add, "...but how can the Damned truely love the Damned?"

Lotte continues to watch the creature as he thinks, considers, answers. She notices that shift in his hands, her eyes tracing him all the while, and as he leans forward, she looks up from her seat on the floor and asks a new question. "Who did you lose?"

"More than I care to recall at this time, m'dear," he says, the point accented by a flash of his golden eyes. As the light ripples back to that of a flickering candle the veil he once wore vanishes completely. The long golden hair has now bleached to a pale, bleached yellow. The skin now the color of bleached bones, complete with the etchings and pits of wood grain. Long fingers each capped by an inch-long, dirty-yellow nail, click together as he watches the girl curiously. "Why do you ask?"

"You're showing me yourself." She explains then, not reacting negatively to the scene what so ever. "So lose one's mask in such a way, to avoid offering a piece of your mind and concentration on that, which for someone of your age, would be simple...means your mind and emotions are else where." She offers out, her voice soft and genuine, even empathetic in a way. "I asked about this because I feel myself falling to love. I believe I rule it as something that is not beyond us. Caine loved. Lilith loved, so we, too, may do the same."

Blackwell grows colder as the conversation seems a bit more emotionally charged, at least on the surface. "And with whom do you find yourself in love?" The question is icy, sharp like a poisoned icicle, his glowing eyes, however, remain open and without a hint of malice

Lotte doesn't shrink away from the inquiry.Instead, she answers and with a slow smile. "Mister Arec." He knew him, right? Of course he did, or at least she thought he did. She eyes his face all the while and at length, and a growing silence, the girl then says, "I'm sorry for anything I've said that has made you unhappy."

"No, my dear..." the old scholar replies in a calm voice, "...but you do know the dangers of such a romance, yes?" The revelation is akin to hearing that another of one's circle is determined on a course that will take them through hardship and ruin. You can almost see it in his body language, he would say something as a warning but what would be the point. "Respect their accomplishments. Enjoy in their revels and even take pleasure from their perception of the world, but do not forget that we are not what we once were."

Lotte nods and finally lowers her eyes to the fibers of the floor below. She seems to trace them out, much like she had with the musical machine earlier. She's looking for something, or nothing, perhaps even both. "I was rubbish at this when I was alive," she explains smoothly. "Perhaps, in this life, I will be better at it. Perhaps, I'll be allowed this as I do not wish to hide it. I feel young, and stupid, and warm without needing the slightest hint of blood to solidify my growing feelings." Looking to Blackwell once more, she links eyes as before; glowing light against chilly ice. "Tell me of the dangers you see in this?"

The scholar rises from his chair and slides the walking stick into his hand reflexively. There's something, perhaps in the conversation or what it may represent to him, that is a topic he would rather not discuss. "You will know the dangers, my dear. You will know them only once you are unable to escape them." With each step around the room, the veil he once wore to conceal his...unique features crawls back over his form until, as he turns, the last vestige is erased leaving the pleasant face one wears in public. "You would do well to silence your heart...before it leads you into harms way."

Lotte follows after the man, even standing as he does and brushing down her dress' skirt neatly. That slip of flesh that tricks the mind into seeing something else entirely. She, too, had that gift, but no where near the level that Lord Blackwell had, obviously. "It is too late for that. I've never been a girl to say 'no' to something I wish to have." Hugging the book against herself, she takes a few steps forward and reaches out. Should he allow it and not draw away, her hand would soon rest upon the man's lower arm in a comforting manner. "If you ever wish to speak of this, I will listen. I understand I am asking you of your thoughts, but I would like you to know I may offers opinions as well. If need be, I can simply be silent. A blank page for your ink and quill."

Blackwell does not stop the woman from touching him, though the contact is met with a near alien glance. This...thing, called a hand, just touched me. What is it? It is not a hurtful glance, nor is it a menacing one. It is one simply unfamiliar or unaccustomed to such a thing. Pausing there for a moment before sliding his arm away from the 'thing' that made contact with him, he looks up to the girl and then has to smile, thinly, "You forget yourself, my dear - that, or you forget me. I do not...share...such information. Ever." With that he turns to leave and walks from the room without another word.

Lotte allows her hand to sweep down against her side. She did forget because she didn't know. She didn't know him, not yet, even if their connection of blood and study seemed to be rather strong already. "I'll look for your books." She comes back around to something he might actually find enjoyable. "Maybe next time, we may speak of stories and the past. I would love to know your favorite parts of history, both of the world and of our kind. Be well, Brother."