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May. 14th, 2025 09:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aristopire"Marguerite, what is is my my schedule for this evening?"
Valerian Ostell was someone who followed his schedule implicitly, he filled it with events and meetings, appointments and trips; and always with minutes and hours filled in til there was no room left within the spaces. Any haphazard overlaps were dealt in order of priority-- Valerian's own method of determination. He'd pencil someone in meant that Marguerite would find the suitable spot on his timetable and insert it, a casual 'we shall meet sometime' generally meant *when hell freezes over* in which case Marguerite never did.
It was quite pleasant to have a personal assistant who knew how to read the in between the lines part of his directives.
"You are to meet with Cassandra at 12AM sharp at Newbury & Boylston for shopping and brunch." to which point Valerian sat up in his bed where he had been lounging and preparing for the rigours of the 'day' (used in the loosest sense, a night was in essence his kind's day), his silk robe still remained impeccable from where he had donned it the morning before, never a crease out of place. His sharp grey eyes penetrated the Marguerite, as if attempting to ascertain if that was indeed the case.
"Nothing before then?"
"Nope." she knew a bubble with her gum which she snapped horrendously, he'd attempted to get her to stop it but it was a lesson in futility. He had found that in order to retain quality, one had to overlook certain annoying habits such as loudly chewing gum, even though it sent a sharp stab of annoyance down his spine. "You're free for the next two hours, Val." another cringe, this time for a completely different reason.
"Very well, just get out of my sight then." Val grumbled as he threw himself back down against the bed, his touseled amber waves as they melted into softness of pillows, and the pallor of his face as he stared up at his canopy; he was arguably the palest thing in this place by far. The closing of the door was the only indication that Marguerite had left, though he was certain she would be back to get him prepared for his excursion out. This unfortunately left him with time, time to think-- he hated time to think with a passion.
*"Rise and shine, Meine Liebling.."* a phantom whispered in his ear, a soft chuckling that felt more whimsical then anything. The voice held depth and softness all in one, and was the counterpoint to his dry acerbic tone of voice. It took nothing at all for the memory to overtake him so poignantly that he could feel the brush of fingertips against his shoulder, down his chest and then resting against palm flat against stomach. Musical hands, calloused hands-- they were hands that bore the pains of art.. but also the triumphs as well.
In his imaginings, the sun dappled through the garret where they had 'run away' together (run away being a very loose thing, being the only son of a wealthy russian noble this was only considered playing at being boheme.) and illuminated their faces-- or was it the afternoon, often times he could not recall. Time drew slow like honey when he was in the circle of his lover's arms. He was not a handsome sort and he was not fanciful enough to pretend that he was, but he'd been called mesmerizing and he would've taken that if it meant that his beautiful lover would continue to delight in their togetherness. As a child, he had been sharp--- he'd been just as brittle as a young man.. and yet-- *yet* the other man had seen something in him worthy of being love.
Peeling apart the layers gently to coax out something, a tenderness that softened him.. *somewhat*.
*"We have nowhere to be."* Valerian had protested even as he had felt lips rain down on his collarbone, the faintest tickle of chocolate brown hair that curled distractingly, invitingly against his own amber brown ones.
*"Oh, you do have somewhere to be.. somewhere very important, my Valérie."*
*"Hmmmm, where?"*
A space of breath, a heart beat and then a soft kiss against his ear, a husky laugh that was no less dear to him, *"Why, inside me of course."*
They both erupted into laughter, two grown men. All that was pent up released and then with slightly firmer hands did tug the other man atop him, so that he could straddle him, so that he could guide him. Forehead to forehead, staring into those dancing chestnut eyes before their mouths collided and then they made music together with the poetry of their bodies. He had never believed in poetry, appreciated music or art, until his heart. But suddenly all the music made sense, suddenly each painted leaf on landscapes called to something deep inside of him, and he believed for a fraction of a second that he was worthy of being loved, of passion and desire.
Broad strokes of reality brought him back, the awareness that atop his own body was nothing, the curl of hair against his neck that was solely his own. And then the emptiness set in, and the passage of time as the grandfather clock in his room intoned each second as if it was a subtle accusation. Gone was the chaotic scent of a perfumed morning, instead leather and whatever cleaning solvants that were used in the maintenance of his personal quarters.'
Realization of a yawning ache where a beating heart should've been.
Valerian Ostell was someone who followed his schedule implicitly, he filled it with events and meetings, appointments and trips; and always with minutes and hours filled in til there was no room left within the spaces. Any haphazard overlaps were dealt in order of priority-- Valerian's own method of determination. He'd pencil someone in meant that Marguerite would find the suitable spot on his timetable and insert it, a casual 'we shall meet sometime' generally meant *when hell freezes over* in which case Marguerite never did.
It was quite pleasant to have a personal assistant who knew how to read the in between the lines part of his directives.
"You are to meet with Cassandra at 12AM sharp at Newbury & Boylston for shopping and brunch." to which point Valerian sat up in his bed where he had been lounging and preparing for the rigours of the 'day' (used in the loosest sense, a night was in essence his kind's day), his silk robe still remained impeccable from where he had donned it the morning before, never a crease out of place. His sharp grey eyes penetrated the Marguerite, as if attempting to ascertain if that was indeed the case.
"Nothing before then?"
"Nope." she knew a bubble with her gum which she snapped horrendously, he'd attempted to get her to stop it but it was a lesson in futility. He had found that in order to retain quality, one had to overlook certain annoying habits such as loudly chewing gum, even though it sent a sharp stab of annoyance down his spine. "You're free for the next two hours, Val." another cringe, this time for a completely different reason.
"Very well, just get out of my sight then." Val grumbled as he threw himself back down against the bed, his touseled amber waves as they melted into softness of pillows, and the pallor of his face as he stared up at his canopy; he was arguably the palest thing in this place by far. The closing of the door was the only indication that Marguerite had left, though he was certain she would be back to get him prepared for his excursion out. This unfortunately left him with time, time to think-- he hated time to think with a passion.
*"Rise and shine, Meine Liebling.."* a phantom whispered in his ear, a soft chuckling that felt more whimsical then anything. The voice held depth and softness all in one, and was the counterpoint to his dry acerbic tone of voice. It took nothing at all for the memory to overtake him so poignantly that he could feel the brush of fingertips against his shoulder, down his chest and then resting against palm flat against stomach. Musical hands, calloused hands-- they were hands that bore the pains of art.. but also the triumphs as well.
In his imaginings, the sun dappled through the garret where they had 'run away' together (run away being a very loose thing, being the only son of a wealthy russian noble this was only considered playing at being boheme.) and illuminated their faces-- or was it the afternoon, often times he could not recall. Time drew slow like honey when he was in the circle of his lover's arms. He was not a handsome sort and he was not fanciful enough to pretend that he was, but he'd been called mesmerizing and he would've taken that if it meant that his beautiful lover would continue to delight in their togetherness. As a child, he had been sharp--- he'd been just as brittle as a young man.. and yet-- *yet* the other man had seen something in him worthy of being love.
Peeling apart the layers gently to coax out something, a tenderness that softened him.. *somewhat*.
*"We have nowhere to be."* Valerian had protested even as he had felt lips rain down on his collarbone, the faintest tickle of chocolate brown hair that curled distractingly, invitingly against his own amber brown ones.
*"Oh, you do have somewhere to be.. somewhere very important, my Valérie."*
*"Hmmmm, where?"*
A space of breath, a heart beat and then a soft kiss against his ear, a husky laugh that was no less dear to him, *"Why, inside me of course."*
They both erupted into laughter, two grown men. All that was pent up released and then with slightly firmer hands did tug the other man atop him, so that he could straddle him, so that he could guide him. Forehead to forehead, staring into those dancing chestnut eyes before their mouths collided and then they made music together with the poetry of their bodies. He had never believed in poetry, appreciated music or art, until his heart. But suddenly all the music made sense, suddenly each painted leaf on landscapes called to something deep inside of him, and he believed for a fraction of a second that he was worthy of being loved, of passion and desire.
Broad strokes of reality brought him back, the awareness that atop his own body was nothing, the curl of hair against his neck that was solely his own. And then the emptiness set in, and the passage of time as the grandfather clock in his room intoned each second as if it was a subtle accusation. Gone was the chaotic scent of a perfumed morning, instead leather and whatever cleaning solvants that were used in the maintenance of his personal quarters.'
Realization of a yawning ache where a beating heart should've been.
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Date: 2025-05-19 12:35 pm (UTC)1. Get this creature (his Anton) to a safe place where he can be cleaned up, fed and perhaps rehabilitated, for potential questioning.
2. Get a sample of the kindred blood from the ground and take it to be analyzed for their cellular makeup, then dig up potential connections--
3. Start networking the web outward until a possible lead-in is found, then follow that lead.