All is a Procession [Cosette]

[Jesse Fforde]

The evening is quiet, and Grey has gone to work. Jesse does not begrudge his fiancé her work life; in fact, it always reminds him that he ought to be doing work himself. Micah might be lenient on the hours Jesse can work, but that does not mean that Jesse should be slack. And he doesn’t always have to go in to the parlour to work. Sometimes the atmosphere in there can be stifling, at least as far as creativity is concerned. Normally, the Necromancer can draw anywhere. He’s always got paper and a pencil with him, somewhere, no matter where he goes. But sometimes, when he wants to draw something to completion, rather than just idle mundane sketches, he needs to go out. He needs the fresh air and the open world around him.

Dressed as he ought to be for the weather outside, Jesse collects his keys, phone, and wallet from the dresser by the front door. The hood is pulled up over his head, underneath which his hair is slick and combed to the side. Although he could take his bike – he has two to choose from, now, given the recent gift from Renee (who gives a man a bike for Christmas?! He’d been far too overwhelmed to thank her properly yet) – he instead chooses to walk. Walking is good for clearing the mind, and Jesse knows, subconsciously, that his mind is in dire need of some clearing.

There’s a certain weight that comes when someone cares about something. It settles around one’s shoulders like a shawl that can be both a comfortable warmth and a stifling irritant. Jesse’s psyche is usually settled more toward the warmth than the irritation, but right now it’s flip-flopping between the two like a fish out of water. Which is exactly what he feels like – he doesn’t know what to do with this new weight. He doesn’t know whether he’s strong enough to hold on to it, though he knows he has to be. And he does care, otherwise it wouldn’t be on his mind. The small things that are bothering him. The wonderment, at what else he could possibly do, or if there are some mistakes that just cannot ever be fixed.

The keys jangle as he shoves them into his pocket. The air is crisp outside, and he bows his head against the knife-like breeze. For all intents and purposes, he looks just like a human should. Except that he’s not human. And he has a family that he’s gathered around him. Many of whom are not around much; a couple who are around, and who seem keen to stick around. And then a couple who… well, he’s not too sure.

He shakes his head and lifts it, subjecting his skin to the ice in the atmosphere. The chill helps to numb him, as his feet carry him toward the museum. Over his shoulder is slung a messenger bag, and inside of it is his well-thumbed sketch book and an assortment of different sketching materials. Mainly charcoal, but some ink pens, too. The intention was to walk into the museum. To shed a layer of clothing and set up where he usually sets up – in front of one of the roving instalments. Normally something to do with history, some lost culture that he’d never heard of.

But he doesn’t make it past the front door. He loiters outside, smoking a cigarette, before settling on a cement bench. The snow had abated, for the moment; overhead, there’s a patch of clear sky, the stars hard as diamonds looking down upon him. The cold of the cement stabs through the denim of his jeans, but he ignores it. Instead, he crosses his legs and pulls out the sketch pad. It lays across his knees. Next he retrieves a tin full of pencils. Someone had constructed a Christmas themed installation all around the front doors; a carpet of lights, erected from the soft ground, baubles of illumination atop faintly glowing sticks. All connected by spaghetti wires of neon. In the middle is a large Christmas tree, not made of green leaves but of a variation of spheres – larger down the bottom, smaller up top. The spheres are constructed with fairy lights. It’s almost magical, if one has a sense of magic inside of them. Of innocence and happiness.

Jesse isn’t at all too sure about how happy he is. He isn’t aware of being depressed, either. But somewhere in between. Perhaps far too concerned about things that most men his age are not concerned about, who do not have the capacity for it. Jesse bows his head over his book. The pencil twirls in his hand, before the scratching begins; music to his ears.

Though, what appears on the page does not at all resemble the light show in front of him. Instead, he begins yet another sketch of Jormungandr. But this time, the snake is not robust and healthy; it is instead a scene symbolic of the hunt, of a baited serpent, bleeding and dripping poison. Jesse doesn’t pay much attention to his surroundings. He remains focused, a slight frown furrowed between his ice-blue eyes, a dimple in his cheek where he’s biting it, on the inside.

[Attire]

[Cosette (DELETED 4759)]

****, ****, ****.

The redhead looked at her watch for the umpteenth time that night as she almost launched herself from the stopped train; class had run late and now she was running late for an evening shift at the museum. Panic was still present, even though she'd sent a text message to alert her boss and mentor; the woman despised being late for anything, especially work, even if it was a very laid-back sort of position. In many, many ways, it was quite a lot like interning at the school library, especially later in the evening in frigid December. You just weren't likely to see too many people coming in, except the odd weirdo looking through the stacks in the basement, or a student frantically trying to finish an assignment. Luckily, the library days were long behind her, she thought with a small smile. Grad school had launched her into a whole new kind of drudgery at times, though, and the weirdos still hung about, though with the presence of security, the likelihood of trouble was slim here. But nights like this... no matter how laid back the place was, it always set her night wrong when she found herself rushing - almost running, actually, in pretty though uncomfortable heels - to one of her favorite places, with an intent to work rather than get lost in each piece adorning the walls, or to absorb all of the information only to be found in the archaeology wing.

But, there was a certain kind of glory in those slower, quieter nights, too: once her tasks were complete and she was certain no one needed assistance, she could do just as she pleased - soak up all the art, culture, and old versions of science she could, trying to learn something new every night, or fathom a new discovery embedded in a beloved, well-known piece of art. In actuality, Cosette, with all of her wonder and excitement over her decided path in life, lived for these nights, once she relaxed enough to enjoy them.

She slowed her steps enough to not appear a crazy person, calming herself and smoothing her hands down her knee-length skirt in order to ensure all remained in place and she was as put together as she had been when she left the university. Bundled against the cold, she barely felt it, if her mad dash had had anything to do with it and instead of the usual shivering, she could feel her blood pumping, keeping her warm and moving with an unusual sort of ease. Excitement filled her, anticipation igniting every nerve; something was in the air and though she couldn't put her finger on it, something felt new. Different.

But as she strode up the walk to the front doors, something - or rather someone, caught her green gaze. The lingering scent of cigarette smoke curled through the air, phantom-like but present all the same - something that repelled her as much as it drew her in as that gaze moved lower to fall upon a man sitting in the frigid cold with a sketchbook upon his lap. Now that was interesting, even if she had seen many an artist so dedicated to his craft that even the elements couldn't dissuade him.

As she stepped closer to the door - something out of necessity to get inside and get to work as much as it was to sate a sudden rise of curiosity - she could almost feel a light pressure against her, pressing her back and away as the sensation of her skin crawling sent a slight shiver down her spine. Her brow furrowed slightly she ignored this; surely it was simply the intent of the artist trying to keep others from looking upon a piece that was not yet finished. Cosette could well understand that - it was a tactic, an attitude, she often employed herself when working on something she wasn't quite sure about, and she found it usually worked.

Her gaze traveled to the artfully rendered tree he was sitting before and back to the man himself as she made her way up the stairs. The artwork adorning what skin was visible was also intriguing. A friendly smile crossed her lips before she spoke, head tilted slight as fingers rested on the door handle already. She was almost compelled to say something and yet didn't want to give the impression that she would - or even could - stick around to pester the man.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Its was commissioned from a local artist last year..."

[Her Look]

[Jesse Fforde]

The charcoal blends into the page like soot in the snow. It blends and bleeds, especially when Jesse uses the random snow flake that falls onto his page – they are few and far between – to force the charcoal to smooth, and become liquid. Nature’s own paint. Jormungandr in the ocean, with the waves thrashing and violent around her, tail creating a whirling turbulence in the depths. A creature so seemingly large and deathless, and yet the men in the small boat above her have managed to capture her; have managed to send a sharp spear through her heart.

And yet the terror of the hunters is not because they may have awakened a monster that may yet kill them. But because, deep down, they’re afraid that they have killed her. Something so beautiful in her enormity and magnitude. Not a monster, but just a creature wanting to live in peace and quiet. Given the reputation that she does not believe she deserves. An obligation to be what it is that society has said she must be.

So deep in his musings, Jesse doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Or, maybe he does – but he doesn’t pay them any mind. It is the museum. It is open, for a few hours yet. Of course there are going to be people coming and going, and there’s no need to pay any attention to them. They are not a threat, and if they become a threat, then he will react accordingly. And when the footsteps stop, he assumes it is because the walker has carried them inside. He only realises otherwise when the voice breaks through the relative silence.

He lifts his eyes from his sketch and assesses the scene before him. Blue eyes narrow against the cold. At first, the scene isn’t beautiful. Not really. It is reality, rather than the fiction he is creating on the page. It is man-made. It is just plastic and wires, and electricity. Electricity could be magic, but it is so common, now, so taken for granted, that it isn’t magical. It is just ordinary. But when his eyes narrow, the scene blurs. And all the tiny little lights become floating stars in the inky darkness. They could be anywhere else, rather than on Earth. Jesse shrugs his shoulders, and finally turns to look at the speaker.

A human, obviously, with her hair free over her shoulders, and her face flushed. Even from where he’s sitting, Jesse can feel the shift in the atmosphere. The heat radiating from her, and the steady thudthudthud of her heart, as if she’s been running. As if she is in a rush. Jesse’s mouth waters for the heat her blood would provide, if he were to drain her dry. He smirks, and shrugs.

“If you say so,” he says, glancing over the woman’s shoulder to the doors of the museum and back again. “It took the artist an entire year?” he asks, wondering what that would be like – working on Christmas, all year. Jesse wouldn’t like it.

[Cosette (DELETED 4759)]

Hm. Maybe it was a bad idea to engage the random guy sitting out in the cold with his sketchpad and charcoal, after all. And yet, Cosette was undeterred, even as she watched the blue gaze narrow in the good-looking face, taking in the sculpture as if he was seeing it for the first time, before it finally turned upon herself.

She couldn't say why, but she felt like a cornered deer under that gaze.

The girl swallowed lightly, ignoring the creeped out sensation even though it intrigued her - after all, there was nothing outwardly off about the guy. Drawing a deep breath of the cool air, he tried to steady a racing pulse and a thunderous heartbeat as snowflakes clung here and there to her mane of auburn hair as well as to clothes and such, as the snow began to pick up. Grateful she was already where she needed to be for the rest of the night, and close to home to boot, she figured she could dally for a few more moments, even if she didn't want to be any later. She resolutely kept her own gaze from straying down to the sketchpad, always respectful of an artist and his potential boundaries, and instead let it move between his face and the rendering of the tree across the way.

"No. Not the entire year, though he had other projects to work on, too. But the museum board will only display it during the season." The redhead gave a slight shrug, her disarming smile staying firm upon her lips. She couldn't help herself, not exactly. The guy had replied, even if he seemed slightly irritated with her and that same instinct to keep her distance settled upon her shoulders like a hefty little weight. "Makes sense, I guess," she said with a note of disdain in her tone. She thought local artists needed more exposure, and found it more than a little disappointing that the museum had made the decision to only bring this particular piece out once a year. "Anyway, sorry to bother you," she said, glancing at her watch. "If you decide to come inside to find warmer inspiration, I'm Cosette. I'll be behind the front desk if you need anything. Have a good night." And with another smile and a little wave, she slipped inside the front doors, ready to start her shift.

All the while, she secretly hoped the man would seek her out, after all. She wasn't interested in him, per se, but she found the artistic community to be endlessly fascinating. A deeper conversation with one of their number would surely break up the night...

[Jesse Fforde]

The smirk is hard to hide; the slow curling of his lips as he becomes entirely aware of the pace of the girl’s heart. It’s like a constant melody for Jesse – one that he can only escape when by himself, or when in the company only of vampires. Perhaps there is a far grander reason as to why he doesn’t keep human friends. Not only does he think its unethical, given his strict following of the tenets that keep the Masquerade in place – well, it’s unethical all around, isn’t it? It’s never going to end well for the human. Death, most like, in whatever form that it might come.

But the second reason would be his constant thirst. It’s a heavy thing, a constant boon buddy, riding around on Jesse’s back like a demonic monkey that he can never, ever shuck. To stand in the middle of a crowd is either torture or bliss, depending on his mood; to hear the tandem beating of each heart, joined together in a cacophony of delicious noise.

Now, looking at this woman, it’s as if he can see the blood pumping beneath her skin. But he focuses on the sound of her voice, instead, of the formation of words. The response to Jesse’s own comment. He nods, once, as she takes her leave. He doesn’t turn back to the Christmas installation, but instead to his own work. The charcoal bleeding across paper lasts only another five minutes, before the flurries of snow begin to thicken. Jesse glances up at the sky; the snow against the blackness is like white noise. The snow itself doesn’t bother him, but it’s going to wreck the drawing. And regardless of whether the cold affects him or not, it’s still a discomfort.

So he stands, and saunters up the steps. He stamps his feet to remove his boots of snow, and once inside removes the heavy jacket. Underneath, he’s wearing another long-sleeved shirt – plain, really, aside from its gradated colouring. Even though Cosette had said she was at the front counter, Jesse isn’t the kind of person to go making idle conversation out of boredom. There’s a hushed silence in the museum that he feels ought to be kept, so instead he begins to wander – to try to find some place inside to settle, and to find a warmer inspiration, as Cosette put it. Every now and again the rubber soles of his feet squeak against the marble flooring. He makes an attempt to be quieter.

[Underneath]

[Cosette (DELETED 4759)]

As Cosette made her way into the main entrance, her heels tapping against the marble with every carefully-placed step, a slight shiver ran down her spine even as she gave a friendly wave to the guard and clipped her I.D. to the edge of her sweater. It was warmer in the temperature-controlled museum, if still a bit chill, but that didn't usually bother her so much, especially after her hurried rush from the transit station. No, it wasn't the temperature at all... in fact, as she thought more about it, it seemed that the memory of the smirk on the artist's face had perpetuated the uneasy feeling she had first noticed in his presence. It was strange, almost the same sensation she'd gotten from that other guy, Axel, who had long since disappeared into seemingly thin air. This, after what she liked to call a "failure to launch" date, in that they hadn't seemed to click at all once outside of a club setting. But, she supposed, that was all well and good, not to mention expected. He gave her too strong a sense of the creeps and this little encounter only refreshed that same uncomfortable feeling.

Still, she did her best to shrug it off as she arrived at the long, sleek front desk. She hung her coat up in the small closet nearby and settled her bag and purse beneath the desk before swiping her I.D. in front of the scanner and clipping it back to her shirt. Going through the routines was helping to take away the momentary anxiety as she busied herself with booting up the computer and logging in, and going through the usual checklist of evening tasks.

Until she scanned down the regular list and found three detailed, handwritten notes at the bottom; with a sigh, she realized these would take her to a quiet corner of the museum where she had been tasked with rearranging an exhibit in the hopes it would draw more attention. Normally, this would be greeted with a flicker of complete excitement; being trusted to handle the pieces and arrange them in an eye-catching, informative, and educational way was something she lived for. But tonight... tonight she wanted to be closer to people, throwing herself into the more mundane clerical work, all in an effort to ease the strange discomfort that lingered on.

Even so, instead of stalling and taking her time, Cosette powered through the usual work, then locked up her computer and tucked her bags into the closet, which was also locked up, and grabbed a walkie-talkie. And then she made it a point to make her way over to Adam, the guard currently on duty.

"Hey Adam, I'm gonna be on channel five if anyone needs me. I'll be working on the exhibit in the second-floor modern wing."

"You got it, Miss LeMaire."

She watched him nod and adjust a radio set to her frequency before he flashed her a grin as she headed upstairs with a fresh sigh, though she at least returned the smile, small and tight as it might have been. Miss LeMaire. Ugh. She knew he did it to tease her, goodnaturedly, because she was usually easy-going and more informal than many of the employees, but for some reason it rankled her tonight rather than being amusing. She bit down on her lower lip as she turned right at the landing, headed for her first stop at the upstairs supply closet. She hoped she wouldn't need much, but figured a good start was to grab the basics, go over the exhibit in detail, and work from there.

After all, the quicker and more efficiently she worked, the sooner she could get back to the safety - false as it might actually be - of the front desk.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse expects, at any point, to be kicked out the museum. The place surely can’t be open for twenty-four hours – or at least any later than 9pm. But he’s not paying any attention to the time. He wanders through the exhibits – he sits down in front of some of them to get a few sketches into his book, but ultimately doesn’t find the inspiration he’s looking for, and gets up to continue to wander.

He’s on one of the higher levels, looking down, when he hears voices. The brunette from earlier in the evening, talking to a guard. He called her Miss LeMaire. Had she had an accent, or is her name a by-product of earlier generations?

Second level modern, she says, and Jesse slowly watches her movements; up the stairs, down a hall, and out of sight. The museum is large, and could be like a maze if it weren’t for the fact that he knows his way around. The layout is symmetrical. Square. Jesse wanders around the other way, in the opposite direction to Miss LeMaire. He takes his time, of course, and by the time he sees her, in the vast distance, she’s already deep into her work – whatever it is that she’s doing.

Jesse is quiet as he approaches. He makes sure to keep his feet up off the ground so that the rubber doesn’t squeak against the marble. When he reaches her, it’s as if her heartbeat echoes against the stone walls, rebounding back to them in a rhythmic bass, underlying the atmosphere. Jesse disrupts the rhythm with a clearing of his throat.

”I always wondered how these things were set up,” he says, admiring the half deconstructed exhibit. It’s almost like seeing an animal, wounded, its belly slashed open and its innards bared to the world – the roadkill version of a modern exhibit rather than a clean autopsy, like the rest of them looked.

The messenger bag is slung over Jesse’s shoulder, the strap tight over his chest, and the bulk of the bag resting against the small of his back. He held the sketchbook closed in his palm, against one thigh – his shoulder rested against a nearby wall. Languid and relaxed. There’s a smear of charcoal smudged over his cheekbone, the blackness smattered over his hands.

”I suppose there’s some kind of theory behind it?” he asks, genuinely curious about what goes in to curating a museum exhibit.

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--


<Cosette> Cosette's back was turned as she sketched and numbered where each piece was before she took it down and settled it carefully on tarp and that infuriating bubble wrap - something, she knew, that many people loved to pop and play with, but for herself found rather obnoxious. She did find herself grateful that all of the pieces seemed manageable enough for her to handle without assistance, which was the likely reason she'd been asked to handle this not-usual-enough task. Also fortunate was that she had already spent a good amount of time in this place, getting to know it and memorize the layout, figure out what she liked and what she didn't.

She'd made the proposal to change it up two weeks prior, for a class project, and her professor had liked it so much he'd sent it off to the head curator. A thought that made her almost glow with pride for a moment, lost in thought and work as she was, until she remembered where she was again and that odd discomfort crawled over her skin once more. It was then that she head his voice again - gravely, as if it wasn't used very often, but deep - and she sucked in a sharp breath, trying to conceal her initial surprise and keep her gloved hands wrapped confidently around the piece she was currently handling.

She blinked away the initial case of nerves and settled the heavier framed work onto the prepared tarp before she turned around with a smile and lifted her sketch pad once more. "There is. Its a bit dependent on what you're dealing with. But the main idea is to make it as eye-catching as possible, by attempting to create a dialogue with the pieces. For instance, these all have to do with some sort of violence taking place in the world. The artist wants to convey how chaotic and reckless we are, how far off-course humanity has moved from what God supposedly intended. So the idea here is to make the pieces flow with some sort of logic, while posing interesting questions for the audience to draw."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse stares at the woman. Not because he’s attracted to her—not like that, anyway. Not because she has said anything worthy of surprise or disgust. Mainly, it’s curiosity. Jesse has a curiosity that cannot be sated, much like that of a cat who has no care at all for their own life. Not that he feels that this woman poses any threat to his life.

No, the staring has more to do with the topic she has just introduced; any question about how the exhibit is set up and why falls out of his head. Instead, his mind circles more around the topic of the exhibit itself. Sure, his curiosity could be focused upon the artefacts that Ms Lemaire has been removing. But instead, he wants to know what she thinks.

It takes a good twenty seconds, before he asks his question. “And what do you think?” he asks, gaze shifting just briefly to take in the different artefacts. “About what the artist is trying to say? Do you believe humanity is inherently violent, or do you think they have a saving grace?” he asks. They, he says. Because he is no longer a part of them. A slip of the tongue, as he now considers himself so far apart that he could never be included amongst their number.


<Cosette> Cosette cleared her throat when he'd fallen silent once more, slightly and gently, as she considered his question, her gaze moving from the piercing gaze to the slight smudge of charcoal on his cheek, to the smattering of it on his strong hands. Had that crawling sensation not still been present, she might have even found it endearing, she thought vaguely, as her green-hued gaze moved back to his. Artists were held in some of her highest esteem, of course they were, no matter whether it was a beloved old Master, or the local guy sketching scenes on the sidewalk.

She dusted off her gloved hands after setting the book back down on a nearby stool and thought a bit more. While the initial task hadn't necessarily been based upon her own opinions on the subject, or the subject matter, she had, of course, developed a few of her own, regardless. It was only natural. And like any individual seeking to make a more personal mark on a project, she could freely admit some of the pairings and the flow she had proposed was based on conclusions she herself, from a viewer's perspective, had drawn already.

But part of the job was to mostly keep herself out of the curation, to let the audience find influence amongst the exhibit all on its own. She pursed her lips slightly, finding herself unable to lie under that gaze. "Well... I like to think its more of a... person-to-person basis, rather than the entirety of humanity. I don't believe in God, exactly. But I think there are good people who have the potential to do some horrible things, and bad people, who have the potential to do real, true good in the world. Some bad are beyond saving grace. And some good can't be touched by evil."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse nods. He’d never been to this particular exhibit before—preferring instead the more deeply historical scenes rather than the philosophical ones—so he couldn’t draw the same kind of conclusions Ms Lemaire had. Even now, he doesn’t let his gaze wander. It’s not a topic that he needs help identifying. Violence is something that he knows very intimately. Something he indulges in on a whim, often and without care. It’s all about bias, and how one views the world and the things living in it. For example: he never understood vegetarians. Meat is supposed to be something humans eat. It’s how it’s always been. Why go against evolution? Just like humans are, in the end, supposed to be eaten by vampires.

Jesse, too, clears his throat. He readjusts his hold on his belongings. Soon, he’ll probably tuck his sketch book away in favour of conversation—unless Ms Lemaire doesn’t care if he just sits nearby to keep sketching. He shakes his head. “I suppose that’s not what I’m asking,” he says, clearly even through the husky nature of his voice. Perhaps he himself is the evil she has referred to. The evil with the potential and the ability to do good, as those in his own bloodline have told him he has done. He agrees, and believes no one can ever be entirely good or entirely bad. But that’s not what he wants to know.

“Violence is how we were created, if we’re sticking to the non-belief in God. We were violent as a young race. And war is… well, it’s a fact of life. Humans will always have war. I think violence is in all of us. It’s not something we can escape. Somehow society has tried to breed it out of us. Which only makes it more volatile in the end,” he says, slowly, slowly eking out the opinion slowly forming in his mind.


<Cosette> Ahh, now this was interesting. A philosophical conversation was not at all what she'd been expecting from this guy, though many in the artistic community were extremely deep thinkers. It wasn't the tattoos, or the general demeanor - because he came off as nice, personable even - but more likely that lingering sensation that she was in the presence of a hunter of some sort. A predator. Still, her logical mind couldn't reconcile that odd feeling that likely hailed back to the early days he had only just spoken of, with what she could actually see before her, so she leaned back against the wall and considered for a moment.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I'm not sure I can lump all of humanity into one all-encompassing group like that. There are too many variables. Too many individuals. I'm not comfortable painting every single person on Earth with one broad brushstroke. On the whole, yes. War is a part of life. We were and have been and still are a violent race. But I don't think its that way for everyone. Not every soldier is willing and able to kill, nor is every saint without blood on their hands. Just about every person has the potential to be violent - yes. I agree with that. But not all."

She shook her head slightly, refusing to see the human race as purely violent. "Take this one last piece of art, for example. Not even the artist, who chronicled so much horror in the world - murder, war, rape, slavery, abuse, torture - could walk away from this body of work without acknowledging the good that is also there." She gestured to the largest piece of all, still perched on a sleek, modern, minamalist pillar. It was a diorama of sorts, with the walls papered in news clippings.

The largest headline read 'No Hope for the Human Race' with a large, thick red 'x' drawn over the word 'no.' Inside the box were several plaster sculptures, each detailing some act of good - humans helping humans, or animals. Something about each minimalistic design conveyed hope, somehow brightened up the rest of the bleak, dark exhibit. Truth be told, it was one of Cosette's favorite pieces in the entirety of the museum.

[Cosette (DELETED 4759)]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> It all comes down to experience, Jesse knows. Some people are subjected to fucked up lives, and they can’t possibly harbour any kind of optimism or goodwill toward the rest of their race. Some people are brought up in loving homes, however, and are taught to be good, and of course wouldn’t know any better. One would be taught to believe that humans are inherently good; that wars are fought for good causes, and that there’s always an enemy. But every single time Jesse was forced to sit through a history class, he never made it to the end. He always walked out. Without the vocal ability to contradict the teacher, he couldn’t stand it. Germans are not the enemy. To the Germans, everyone else was the enemy. It comes down to perspective, and whoever controls the history books.

Jesse wanders over to the exhibit that the woman has gestured to. Finally, she is given a reprieve from his relentless gaze as he assesses the work in front of him. It’s almost sickeningly sweet, and his expression even twists, as if there’s something sour on his tongue. He’d always believed that kindness and fondness for others was a weakness. And now he hates it all the more, because he feels kindness and fondness for others. He does kind things, because he wants what’s best for a specific few. And the more he does it, the more those people make him vulnerable. The more they are weapons against him.

“Think of evolution, though,” he says, finally turning his attention back to Ms Lemaire. “Think of animals with ancestral memory. They know how to do things without being taught, because it’s in their DNA. It’s engrained into their very being. What’s to say humans are any different?” he asks. “As much as they try to mould their future into something manmade, it will never be the case. Mankind is made by the Earth and by the elements, by nature. And soon I think they’ll all return to that nature. Regress. Entropy – it’ll all be chaos, in the end.”


<Cosette> Chaos. She shrugged slightly though her brows rose slightly; she had to. She couldn't know his thoughts - not even close. But perhaps it was the brightness of the work in the midst of the darkness that had her so enthralled. It was the contrast, the sweet versus the bitter. And the reason she had redesigned the exhibit so the work in question would be at the center of the worst of the worst. The eye of the proverbial storm. She had been raised in a happy home, certainly, but Cosette was a realist if somewhat naive at times - something that could be chalked up to her relative youth and inexperience.

Still, she'd never been one to shy away from the basest of human nature, or cover her eyes when bad things were happening, no. Instead, she bore witness to it all, whether splashed across the news, or happening right before her eyes like some of those fights in the City, or chronicled and expressed in artistic form. Modern art could be more graphic about the reality of human life, of course, but it was represented throughout the ages, even in the classics that she favored most. She pursed her lips slightly though she found the doomsday sort of thinking a bit... drastic.

"But isn't that the very nature of being human? Yes, we're animals. Our DNA hails back to the very beginning and like all animals, we, too, likely inherited ancestral memories. Manmade or not, though, free will... having the ability to think, reason, debate, philosophize... aren't these the very reason we should try to be better? Why should we not try to do anything we can to keep from descending into chaos? And what of those who do try? You truly believe that their efforts are futile?"

She tipped her head slightly, purely curious now as she gave voice to the thoughts his words had inspired; passionate speech, yes, but even-toned and calm, as she always was on the surface. What had he experienced that gave him such a bleak outlook on the future of mankind?


<Jesse Fforde> The smile that Jesse gives is not a comforting one. The way his eyes are sharp and perhaps a little too bright in the lights of the museum; the way his skin is perhaps too pale, though at least not as garish as the corpse it had once resembled. The way she says we, as if he too should be included in her explanation. His smile speaks of the things that he knows that she could not. And perhaps, within it, she could read the anarchy that he craves. Sometimes, he wants the world to descend into chaos. He wants there to be fire and brimstone. He wants the rivers to run red with blood—fountains of the stuff, hot and warm and sticky. He could drink from those rivers until they ran dry.

That, of course, is not an image that often occupies Jesse’s mind. He has his distractions; he has those that he does care about, and those that he loves. If their blood were to be spilled, he’d tear off the offender’s head. And he’s not sure he’d be able to live in his anarchic paradise without them. And, if it were to come to pass, he would be living in it without them, as he highly doubted they would like it as much as he would.

Jesse shrugs. “It’s not something I’ve really thought about – whether their efforts are futile or not. I suppose… I don’t really care about their efforts,” he says with blunt honesty. He’d never had the urge to be better or to do good. Never had he wanted to change the world. He’d wanted just to be him, and just to have fun. To do what he enjoys. “Honestly I’m more interested myth,” he says, shifting the conversation. “I’m more interested in the kind of chaos the human brain can create; the stories it, collectively, concocts. It’s more fascinating to me that there’s a whole other world that can only be accessed through art. What people see rather than what they do.”


<Cosette> She noted, all at once, his use of 'they' and 'their' rather than 'we' and wondered if that meant he didn't consider himself one of those who would rather see the world and humankind for its potential, and work to make it so. That was interesting, if unnerving. She bore witness, but she also quietly rooted for the success of mankind, that they would one day find a way to be peaceful without sacrificing free will and things that made each person unique. It also could explain why she didn't feel, well... right, she supposed, in his presence.

And then she finally placed her finger upon the pulse of what that unsettling feeling seemed to be. He was dangerous. There was something about the man before her, there in his too-knowing smile, his idle, uncaring shrug. And then he changed the subject... sort of. The switch snapped her out of the very beginnings of a slight feeling of panic, moving her thoughts back toward the subjects at hand.

"Myth... have you seen the classical wing yet? You seem like you know the place well enough," she said with a soft grin. "...so you probably know we have a few old Masters there that painted some of the classic Greek and Roman myths...for a start," she trailed off before actually getting down to the nitty gritty of what he had said. "But yes. I know what you mean... or at least, I think I do. And I suppose that's one part of human nature that I can't help but admire, no matter what it ends up creating. I'm not the biggest fan of modern art, but I guess that's part of why I like this exhibit so much - there's all this... well... ****, for lack of a better word, out there. That's what the artist sees and portrays. But then there's the contrast, too. It goes beyond the basic good versus evil and presents many contrasts and contradictions. What artists see is fascinating... its like... a peek into someone else's head. New perspectives, I guess..."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse nods. This is a topic he can speak on with some kind of confidence. It’s one that he knows well, being an artist himself. “Beauty isn’t always in rainbows and flowers. Beauty is in blood. It’s in… roadkill. It’s in a village torn apart by a tornado. It’s in the tornado itself,” Jesse says. There’s nothing he loves more than the power of nature; the way the earth can take away everything the humankind builds. Perhaps that’s what he’s rooting for, in the end. Maybe, deep down, he’s an environmentalist. Humankind feels the need to keep growing and expanding and ruining everything that it touches. His own hut in the Eyrie is overrun with vines, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He hopes, in the end, that nature will reclaim its rightful place, and that humanity will slink back to its former heritage. Return to simpler things. But then, who is he to try to dictate what humanity should and should not do? It would come as no surprise, perhaps, to those who know Jesse well, that he might consider himself and vampire-kind to be above the cut. God-like, even. They keep the masquerade so that humankind doesn’t rise up and cause another holocaust. But in the end, Jesse would be all for abolishing any ability they might have at such destruction, and bend them all to vampiric will.

He nods. He has seen the exhibits that Ms Lemaire refers to. Several times over. He’d come tonight to try to find something different. He’s found it not in an exhibit, but in this human’s mind. “You have it right though, I suppose. We like to see things from the perspective of others simply because everyone thinks and reasons differently. Humankind aren’t really just cattle. Even though they act like it sometimes,” he says with that same smile. He takes a step back.

“You have work to do, Ms Lemaire, and I have interrupted. But I’ll keep sketching, if you don’t mind?” he asks, gesturing to the wall nearby. It’s across the hall, out of her way, but close enough if she decides to continue with the conversation, too.

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Cosette> Cosette could only nod her head in agreement; it was true. Beauty was all around, and there was perhaps nothing quite like art to draw it out in even the most unlikely of situations. Blood, nature, death, life... the most peaceful scene could be outdone by the most violent. She still didn't feel comfortable with his proximity, but that was lessening more and more, the longer he lingered. Perhaps it was just something to do with herself, with the shock of feeling cornered despite the wide expanse of space and the walkie talkie within arm's reach, and it was something she was happy to feel wearing off.

She liked this guy, with his strange, sometimes extreme ideas. They were refreshing, and refreshing was simply not an everyday sort of thing. A smile crossed her lips at his concession that humans weren't cattle at all.

Until the next moment. The one where he called her Ms. LeMaire. She raised a brow and felt herself go very, very still. Her security badge only provided her first name, the museum's effort to make the staff seem more approachable for any with questions or commentary on any of the pieces they exhibited. And she certainly hadn't told him, had she? Her mind raced in an effort to recall... but no. No, she had not. "I... didn't give you my last name," she said lamely, trying to mask the startle.

Surely there was some perfectly reasonable explanation, though she fought to think of one, considering she and Adam had been quite alone when he'd quietly, playfully called her Ms. LeMaire.

She cleared her throat once again, lifting the sketch pad to notate the piece she'd set in tarp and bubble wrap, the one she had already sketched out so as to recall exactly where it had once been hung before. "But, uh... no. Sketch away," she said, trying to recover with a smile as her gaze lifted from the page to meet his own.


<Jesse Fforde> There is a very easy explanation for Jesse’s knowledge of the woman’s last name—Cosette, her name badge calls her. A normal person might laugh and explain; might say yeah sorry, I overheard you talking to the security guy downstairs. Jesse isn’t normal, however, and the slight hitch in Cosette’s demeanour is absolutely delicious. Maybe that’s one of the things he likes best about being what he is. It’s easier to inject the fear of God into the hearts of the unwary. Jesse Fforde has an ego, no doubt about it, and when people are afraid of him, it only feeds his ego. It’s a different kind of thirst.

He simply gives Cosette one of those knowing smiles and a light shrug of his shoulders as she mentions never having given him her last name. He takes up position against the wall, sliding down to sit. The sketch pad rests on his knee, and he pulls the charcoal from his bag. It’s a rather comfortable position, and one that he had taken up many times in the past – either here, or in the Art Museum.

He doesn’t continue what he had been sketching outside. Instead, he opens to a new, blank page. The vast whiteness of it is a blank slate that he stares at for a good long time. At least, it feels like a long time to him. Scenes of chaos fill his mind, but they’re all too much, too scattered. Instead, on a whim, he glances up at Cosette, his friendly museum curator. Instead of any other scene, he begins to sketch her. Live models are always the best kind. Bright eyes glance from the page and up, over and over, narrowing and staring every once in a while as his hand moves hastily across the now-marred white page.


<Cosette> She kept working, pleased that the walkie talkie remained near to hand. She didn't think the guy would out and out do anything to harm her, but better safe than sorry. That creeped out feeling wasn't going anywhere now, and it was probably time to listen to it, though she worried it might be far too late. She was intrigued and that alone was a bad thing in these kinds of situations. Idly, her thoughts moved back to Axel once more - the same sort of feeling, but exacerbated. This guy mainly seemed... well. She didn't quite know, but maybe he was more introverted and unused to social interactions.

Or maybe he was just a creep.