Event 01: L’Aperitif
Closed To: @rowanofwar Date: September 3, 2016 - 5:40 PM Location: Lucifer’s Mansion
Phoebe’s eyes darted as the eyes peering into her cell didn’t match those of Alastair’s: her betrayer, her companion. What rules had changed that someone else’s eyes should be peering at her? She couldn’t tell immediately if she was familiar with who was on the other side and the voice that followed was of little assistance: if she had met them before, she didn’t recall. The blonde shook her head, a small twitch, as if to shake her brain back into place, her mind slow-scanning for any memories that could be attached to those eyes or the sound of the words. Nothing came up, but that didn’t mean the blurry edges wouldn’t come up with something she’d forgotten in the moment—later, perhaps too late to matter. It mattered little: she was being escorted to the mansion and she had little and less say in the matter.
At least the offering of a dress was something that, if Phoebe was being honest with herself, perked her up—even the smell of fabrics like these called up memories of a happier time. The irony wasn’t lost on her: much of that time had been tragedy, and yet, from this vantage point, it took everything in the angel not to laugh. What folly, what freedom had the Courts been, compared to this. Despite herself, she enjoyed the gown, which she found fit her well—that was also a touch unsettling; had Alastair given her measurements, caught her sleeping curled cat-tight, vulnerabilities unexposed, and yet still found a way to violate her sleep? Phoebe pushed the thought from her head: like so many others, lately, it was irrelevant. Just another on the long list of reasons for her rich and recently morbid fantasy life.
Phoebe was walked by her escort into Lucifer’s mansion, and at this point, she couldn’t hold back a snicker. This was the sight she’d been waiting to see, this was the masterful architecture of the arch seducer, the prince of sin, the king of luxury and temptations? God, apparently Louis XIV had grown white wings somewhere along the line, for surely he had better taste than this and was unavailable to assist those with tar black wings. For a brief flash, Phoebe wondered if her sovereign had been killed—that, like the others, was an irrelevant question she tucked away for a later time. Even the room to which she was escorted rang of ‘opulence,’ but something about it stank of new establishment, of new money, and had none of the elegance or glamour of Versailles. Phoebe eyed the champagne warily; it would be in the nature of the Courts to spike it with something more shameful, if there was a sinister intent to the evening.
—But of course, what part of this brave new world held anything else but sinister intent? And so though she longed for champagne, ached for it, in a small way, wondering if she could have tasted it in heaven, had she thought to—she restrained and did not drink. Instead, Phoebe was more masterful, taking out a pin from her ornately arranged hair—she had some memory of how to do this, to be sure!—and headed for the door, uncaring about those angels who would prefer to stare at the pig’s wares hanging on the walls. Confusion wouldn’t serve, here, no: Phoebe began to pick the lock of the door, thinking of those times she snuck around the palace, all the ways she had learned to be seen and not heard, or to be unseen and far more quiet than silence. Even her breathing, monitored, slow, and low, never to give her away. And soon! The door released them into the halls, she and whomever had the gumption to follow.
Almost immediately, a human came into her sight: one with dark hair and a dark smile; she made note of him for another time, a later time if it came to it, if he could be valuable—but for now, no, she had to escape, if she could—find her wings, if she could—find weapons, if she could—for though she was little, she was fierce. She could tell from the magnetism and the growth in disgusting decorations which wing was Lucifer’s: she did not go there, that was not her goal today. She headed away from that and away from the other bodies, toward a quieter wing, where there would be less eyes to find her. A room guarded by one or two, she could work with that, if she had to—and rooms carefully guarded had things worth guarding. Lightfooted and swift, she wove through the corridors.
She came upon a room with a heavy door, one that had the smell of recently being manned, and if she listened closely, could still hear an echo of footsteps down the hall—it meant she had to be quick; that, or there were more coming. Given enough time, she could surely pick this lock, though she had no idea that the War Room was what was behind the door. Surely some of the noises of the attempted picking would have drawn the attention of a careful ear, were it to be honed, were it to be intent on the listening—many people never learned how to listen, and this was something Phoebe readily and frequently took advantage of. However, some still remained more keen than others, and it was possible there was never any way out of this mansion.