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Dr. Faustus at the Theater; Attn: Emile and Agatha; open to others
Topic Started: Mar 21 2015, 01:42 PM (201 Views)
Eli Kinealy Ternan
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Fledgling
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This wicked heart sings love songs in a crowd of people. They are dressed richly, ladies in silk gowns and tight frock tops that accentuate the curve of hip and the swell of breasts beneath, in secret like two evil thoughts. The men hide beneath starched shirts their salty skin, the sweat of man, the taste of the river let loose to flood through the gates and seed the saplings. Beneath the gas lamps and Greek-revival architecture, lit like put on the stage we are soon to visit inside. It is a half hour before the curtain rises. The public mingles in the lobby, sipping red wine and making small talk like polite ladies and gentlemen.

There is a grin on my face. This is how I get when we come to a new city. Call me the eternal optimist, but how can one not brim with the opportunity that walks past, lost in their own oblivion and small, sinful lives. We float among them like two devils through an orchard of souls awaiting their fall, to have salvation plucked from them like the too-thin layer of their clothing. Hell is only as far as your next breath and heaven unimaginably distant. Gate after gate stands between you and God, so why not meet the devil instead?

My hand rests on Emile’s shoulder to steady myself, a grounding force. But my hand is there as much to keep him rooted close instead of wandering away. We look like a father and son, the young father bringing his boy out among society. I dressed the part in a suit with tails and a cane in one hand. Emile was stuffed into a jacket and white shirt without the cravat. It was enough to get him dressed this much. Thomas is with us too, dressed in his finest. Thomas knows how to fit in, a boy with such promise. Immediately upon entry into the theater's lobby, he announced he wanted a drink, then left my side to wade through the crowd and earn his wage for the night with his nimble fingers. He is more like me than Emile. Still flesh-and-blood mortal, and already the boy knows his place is above the Kine.

“Come Emile, look lively,” I say as I guide him toward the center of the room. I smile at a gentleman with a much younger woman on his arm. He watches her, but she watches me, and my tongue wets my lip to make her blush. “This is the theater, a night of frolic and fun. Try to fit in.”
Edited by Eli Kinealy Ternan, Mar 21 2015, 01:45 PM.
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Emile Avaant
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Neonate
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"Frolic and fun?" Emile parroted with a quiet snort and something akin to a cruel smirk as he looked up at his Childe. "Before night's end you will return to my side reeking of sex. I can hardly see the fun in such a place as this for me." - and there was no small amount of a lack of understanding (and perhaps a touch of disgust) in Emile's tone.

No, when he looked upon those curved hips and shuddering chests he imagined nothing but the blood beneath the rosy skin - however much he would be incapable of drinking it. No, it would turn to ash in his mouth if he tried. It had been a very long time since such a thing had happened, but it was not something one forgets.

"I detest this suit." He growled quietly and glanced around, pressed in amongst the throng of humanity. He hated crowds. In his minds eye he saw them all in bloody ruin upon the ground.

Oh if only.
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Agatha Hall
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Elder
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Agatha skipped the cobbled street. Eager to see the people gathering at the theater.

She hoped to listen to the cultured talk of her social betters.

To listen to what was occupying their thoughts and provoking anxieties.

Faustus and the bargain.

Faustus and his Pride.

Faustus and his Fall.


Listening to the words of wisdom and the analysis offered by patrons, Agatha smiled and quietly hobbled around the elaborate foyer. The gas lamps flickered and the cloak room attendants were busy gathering garments.

Keen to make a good impression and fit in, Agatha was sporting her new lavender colored parasol across her shoulder with cheery aplomb. She'd added a dash of lavender scent too.

Small and lithe, Agatha has startling porcelain skin, fair hair and excited, eager eyes. With her hair tied into two long plaited braids tied with dark purple ribbon bows. She's dressed a little younger than her years might suggest - the coding of the plaits and hair worn down indicates she wishes to be seen as youthful.

Agatha's dressed in a shawl, a little bonnet matching her parasol and embroidered money purse. The hem of her skirt is short enough to match the style of youthfulness and shows her single stockinged leg to mid calf. She's wearing a single laced boot and that once more, it's clear from her aroma, her wooden leg is neatly polished with beeswax.

Her wooden leg taps as she closes in on the crowd, eager to hear what's to be said.

She began to wonder about just how far Faustus was the true architect of his downfall. What if he'd used his great powers more shrewdly?

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Eli Kinealy Ternan
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Fledgling
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“Well we couldn’t very well come to the theater with you in your bloody bed clothes.” He is older, yet he acts so much younger. It is his defense. Society makes him uncomfortable. “And what have we said of our topics of conversation. We are among polite people who believe in polite culture. What I come home smelling of is not among our preferred subjects while out in public.” I pat him on his shoulder and move the hair from his face. “We really should have tied your hair.”

I’ve kept my attention on the young woman with her older suitor, and she has turned an eye my direction more than once. Rich color glows in her cheeks and lips, with the coil of dark hair in the nape of her neck studded with pearls and blush-tipped daisies. Her dress is a bustle of ruby satin trimmed with gold and cream lace. They stop at another couple, a stout older woman in midnight blue standing with her hand at the elbow of a graying man in a black frock with tails. I think to leave them to it, to their banal pleasantries, but the woman beckons with yet another glance, and I follow.

“Let us mingle before the curtain call,” I say to Emile, and I go to stand near the woman, stopping far enough away so as to include myself when the time is right and to listen for the opportune moment to enter the conversation.

“…and to think that we are getting ourselves involved in yet another war,” the man coupled with the stout woman says.

The stout woman flips out a silk fan with a snap and waves it before her. “Harold, must you involve yourself in yet another discussion?”

The young woman spoke. “I believe that General Roberts should have appointed himself military governor. Better that a learned man rule over the savagery in the desert than the savages themselves.”

“Elizabeth, really.” The old woman fans herself. “Such a lady to speak of politics.”

“And is it so wrong for a woman to have an opinion in politics, grandmother?”

And I step forward. “The good lady Elizabeth speaks well,” I say to them all. “If we are to protect our interests in India from the Russians, it is best that we do so from a position of power in Kabul, don’t you agree? Where would we be if Russia takes over Afghanistan?” I spoke while studying up close the features of the young Elizabeth.

The old woman harumpfs and fans herself some more. “Honestly! What has society come to that we speak of such things among polite people? Harold, I believe I shall need another sherry before curtain,” the old woman said. “Let us.” She leads her husband off by his elbow.

Elizabeth’s older suitor lifts a chin toward me and steps slightly forward. “I don’t believe we have had the pleasure,” he says.

“Eli Ternan. And my companion here is Emile.” Emile stands a little behind me, and I step aside so they can see him. They both offer greetings then introduce themselves and Lord Bradford and the Lady Elizabeth Bradford. “I apologize if we are intruding on your conversation,” I say after introductions. “I did not mean to shoo off your friends.”

“Grandparents,” she corrects. “And on the contrary, Mr. Ternan,” the young Elizabeth says. She smiles a smile that puts a twinkle in her blue eyes. “My grandmother is a product of a bygone era, one in which we are only to speak of the weather and how good the food tastes. And women are to have no opinion at all.”

“Nonsense,” I say with a slight dip of my chin. “Women often have the most enlightened of opinions.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth says with an arch to her trimmed and sculptured brow. She pokes an elbow into the side of her husband. “Patrick, you and Mr. Ternan should become fast friends. Perhaps something will rub off.” There is polite laughter, but he husband's steely glance follows. And then Elizabeth turns her attention to Emile, bending down so as to be closer to him. “And how are you finding the opera this evening?”

I brace for his reply, flipping through the mental volume of responses I have used over the years to smooth over any sort of mishap in conversation Emile may cause.

But I’m distracted, if only briefly, by the sound of wood on marble, the clack-clack too heavy to be a man’s wooden cane on the hard floors. Then I see her, the woman with the wooden leg, dressed like a girl in her teen years. It is the difference between her fashion and her age more than the sound coming from her footsteps. A woman dressing so young, she is either trying to relive the years of her youthful glory, or she is hoping to attract a particular type of suitor. A suitor with specific tastes and who has the wealth to back it up, and I can’t help but wonder if that type was among this crowd. It speaks to depravity, and with that thought, I realize that I must be in the right place.

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