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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 12, 2008 15:40:12 GMT -5
Bells rang close by. Riff's back slipped further down the wall, relaxing as he realized that the traffic in the chapel was mostly null, even at times of prayer. Ah, well, he had seen the little crosses on the necks of ballerinas. He had also seen them make superstitious gestures to ward off the evil eye from a particularly menacing patron. The Opera was like a little world of its own, tumultuous, political, beautiful, frightening... All these people closed up together all the time, fighting for the limelight--and all performers, no less.
His head fell back and rested against the cold concrete of the wall. It was night, and none of the memorial candles were lit. There was complete darkness, just the way he liked it. The chill crept about like a sentient occupant of the room, clinging to his clothes and then seeping into his skin to raise bumps there. He clenched and unclenched his gloved hands, working a bit of blood into their frozen uncovered fingertips. He was not drunk, but almost wished that he was. Pay would not be for a while, thus he must make do with the comfort of darkness and quiet to calm his restlessness.
The bells, now sounding farther away, ceased their ringing.
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 13, 2008 21:47:26 GMT -5
Celeste was not superstitous by nature. Indeed, before recent times she only came down to the chapel on the occasional evening for some peace and quiet or for the appearances of prayer which tended to give on one a far more decent reputaiton that most of the ballet rats had. It was truely a wonder when one looked at how unconvinced of faith and supersitious Celeste was considering how silly the other ballet girls were if anything at all went wrong. It was always the fault of the opera ghost or a bad omen from God. It had always caused Celeste to roll her eyes up until the very minute she saw the opera ghost from behind the stage wings during Don Juan. Even then she had been one of those who thought he had died. But lately, she was becoming more and more skeptical of that fact thanks to the strange occurances around the opera house, the attack in the catwalks concerning the managers' charge, and of course, the strange man at the masquarade that she had met. It had, as of late caused her to be unsettled in her thoughts.
Not as unsettled as the brainless ballet girls were, but unsettled in her plans to gain patronage and training and become the next diva; to unhorse Christine and take her place centerstage while she was still young enough to do it. At first she had been planning to gain the patronage of the wealthy atendees of the opera, the patrons of the arts that clamoured for new talent. It would be easy enough to capture one of their hearts and use that pull to get herself what she needed to succeed, but after the ball, after the rumors of the phantom's return her thoughts had become plagued with silly far fetched ideas. The phantom would be looking for revenge after all; Christine had broken his heart it was rumored. The best way to get his revenge was to replace her, and of course, if he picked a new student she would have to be attractive for his sake, and Celeste was willing to bargin. He was a genious after all, a murdering genious, but murder was common these days. One druken brawl, one slipped rope and you had blood on your hands. Yes, murder was all too common here...they were called accidents.
If her far fetched dreams had any chance of succeeding however, she would have to put herself where she could be found. The ball was one and who knew if she had been taken up there and rumor had it that this chapel could be another. The stories that floated around the backstage of the opera insisted that this is where Christine was taken the first time by the Phantom, her 'angel of music' as she used to tell Meg. They had all teased her about that damned angel until he made her a star. Now, Celeste was willing to take up a little faith to gain an angel of her own.
The bells were ceasing their tones as the last of Celeste's blue skirts trailed down the final flight of stairs leading to the chapel. She did not see anyone in the room near the alter; a good sign. One that showed she would not be disturbed in her prayers to the Lord or any other spirit that resided her who she hoped to gain favor with. It was a long stretch of a girl's imagination, but trying was the only way to prove imagination wrong. With all this built up inside her mind, Celeste kneeled at the foot of the alter and clutched her medals containing the images of St. Cecilia and St Vitus, patron saints of music and dance alongside her cross as her eyes closed and her clear soprano voice rang free in the small chapel. It was untrained of course, the high notes in her prayers were hit well but could use cleaning up. Her lower soprano range however was pure as the bells that had rung only moments ago from the streets of Paris. All together, anyone could see that she had potential and that prayer of potential was the one she wanted truely answered wheter it be by the lord or the phantoms that resided here she cared not. Whoever answered, she would follow.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 13, 2008 22:36:30 GMT -5
Footsteps--dainty footsteps, and the swish of skirts. A foot stepped from behind the wall as Riff watched, and what an undeniably attractive foot it was--but it was his cue to disappear. He slipped back deeper shadow without a single sound, his dark eyes scanning the young beauty before him. He had seen her before; she was surely Celeste Gerras, with whom every stagehand seemed to be infatuated. Her entry upon the stage had turned most every male eye to the curve of her hip and graceful turn of her ankle, and even Riff couldn't say that he was an exception. She was the subject of many crude jokes among the men of the Opera Populaire, yet he knew that many of those same men worshiped her like an angel from heaven.
As he watched the seductive sway of her hips that was subtle enough not to be ridiculous and still present enough to be enticing, he found himself sincerely doubting her sainthood. Still... his eyes fell upon her graceful neck, dark flow of hair over her shoulders, and the regal way with which she carried herself... she was beautiful. There was no denying it. He was sure that she knew it just as well as anyone else; perhaps even better than anyone else. Riff would not hold that against her. It was merely honesty, after all. While modesty was a virtue, most beautiful women made a show of modesty by lying through their teeth: 'Oh! Little old me? Non, Monsieur, you are quite mistaken, I assure you.' It rather irked him, for while he disliked arrogance, such petty performances were as arrogant as anything.
He wondered why Mademoiselle Gerras was here, of all places. She had never struck him as the religious type. She did not coo and groan in true tragic Ballerina fashion at the mention of the Opera Ghost, either. So why--oh...
Riff's head fell back once again, now in ecstasy, as her voice flowed forth like a stream of sound let through its dam. The little room brought echoes around and around and back to him--the effect was surreal. He had heard better voices, it was true, but he was nearly helpless when a beautiful female voice entered into his consciousness. His face softened from its normal hard expression and he looked a bit angelic himself, in rapture at the vocal cloud that surrounded him. He did not notice that he had slowly stood, his hand braced against the wall behind him. Dark curls fell into his gleaming eyes, which were trained on Celeste's back. He was breathing deeply, entranced.
Bon Dieu, belle femme!
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 13, 2008 23:41:27 GMT -5
In her years as a ballet girl Celeste learned a great deal about men. She had seen the older ballet girls seduce stage hands to get at their drinks. She had seen them work their feminine wiles on managers and patrons. She had seen almost every type of seduction known to man and heard about even more than the ones she had seen. Beyond that she, from her own experience knew how to drive a man to insanity without a word. It had become so much of her life here at the Populaire that she had adopted a natural switch in her hips, and dancing caused her a great bit of poise and grace in her steps. She was wanted by everyone but the one she needed and she knew it.
Another lesson she had learned living in the opera house so long was care. She had to take care with her wiles. She couldn't control them all the time, but there had been many cases, not just stories, of a ballet girl who was not careful and paid for it. It was for this reason Celeste took such great care around most men. In fact, she took great care around most people. But when she was alone she did as she pleased, and believing she had been alone she had done just that and let her voice fly free and her body act as she pleased.
Still, she knew when a pair of eyes were on her most times, and right now, as she sang, she knew that someone was watching. A part of her heart prayed it was the Phantom, but the voice that she heard was not his. She would know it. In this case, her plans were detered for now. At least as far as she was aware. But, she had to maintain her grace for now with this stranger who watched her. She let her last notes hang in the air as she kissed the cross in her hand along with the two saints and then rose off her knees with the greatest of grace and ease before turning and fixing her cold green eyes on the man before her.
He was young, as she was. Handsome enough for a stage hand but she had no interest in such men. She had more important things on her mind than just a bit of romance. She had a career to think about, a future, a goal. this was not what she wanted. Besides, he was far more flustered by her than she was by him. Then again, that was usually the case with men in the opera house. It was to fluster her. Few had succeeded. She couldn't see this man doing so as she looked him over silently for a moment before meeting his gaze. "May I ask Monsieur who you are and why you did not identify yourself?"
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 14, 2008 0:16:17 GMT -5
He watched as she rose, still partly concealed in shadow. His hand slipped off of the cold wall and he felt the wonder drain from him. The last few echoes of song caressed him and then faded off, his cognizance returning. A brow lifted slightly, just a twitch, and then fell again into his stony countenance. His eyes swept over her face, studying it, even as she spoke. It would seem that she was discomfited by his appearance. He could tell upon her entrance that she had not been aware of his presence, but she seemed calm enough now. Still, any such woman had ought to be concerned with being caught alone and unawares by a young and virile stage hand.
She wanted to know who he was. She had little chance of discovering that. Why did he not identify himself? She spoke as if he was a courtier remiss upon his attendance to a queen. It almost brought a scornful smile to his lips, and the ghost of it appeared upon his face, his eyes glinting. He took a step away from the wall and quickly swept a deep bow, with the grace of royalty. It was ironic, as he was in the ragged clothing of his profession; he had meant it to be just as ironic as the Ballerina Queen. Standing from his bow, he said softly, "Mademoiselle should take care wandering the darker places of the Opera alone. There are beasts and ghouls about." His voice was a deep purr, almost reminesent of a wildcat. His dark eyes shone in the way of a predator, as well, but they held no interest in devouring her. His tastes lay elsewhere.
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 14, 2008 0:34:42 GMT -5
The stagehands were a peculiar breed. Every ballet girl worth a thought would know how to handle them. One needed to be careful with them. Everyone knew that. There had been ballet girls that disappeared, where hurt, disgraced, many horrors because of stagehands and their desires. Some were dangerous and others were not. Those that were not were often put up the front of being a danger to keep the other girls on edge. It seemed that this one was one of those. He had made no move toward her, he spoke a big game, and warned her. It was not at all the right actions for a full attack. If it was, Celeste knew how to act from there. Until then, she would keep her poise and show him what a Lady she was despite how he mocked her.
Yes, he mocked her. That malicious grin that shadowed his face, that courtley bow in his ragged clothes. Celeste knew it was mocking, but she for one knew that he would bow like that before her some day. She had the potential to be powerful and he was the one that should take care with what he said and did in the darker places of the opera house with this particular ballerina. She knew how to handle this insult and she would do it as maliciously as he did. Celeste's rose red lips curled into a cold smile as she nodded her head as a queen might to a lesser servant as he rose, her eyes sparkling in amusement at his warning despite his hungry eyes. "Monsieur, everyone knows that beauty can tame a beast and that ghosts are afraid of light so why should they attack me? I should hope they would at least abstain from doing so in a place of the Lord such as this. Aren't we taught that every creature as some respect for their creator Monsieur?"
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 14, 2008 0:52:15 GMT -5
Riff merely trained her eyes upon hers again, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze seemed to become distant, as if he were staring through her at something else. He was listening, though. Intently. He searched for the little lists of speech and did not catch even the slightest bit of fear. This woman knew how to handle herself. If any here, she was the predator. For some strange reason, this pleased him. She was different. There were so many self-righteous little girls here, one could not tell one from another. Perhaps it was the intelligent way that her eyes examined him that made him almost proud of her. Brava, mademoiselle. He had no doubt that this one would make her way to the top. Though he might be forever on the bottom, he did not deal in levels.
He respected her wit and the practiced way with which she managed herself, but whether she reigned as queen or sucked dirt from the pavement, Riff could not care less. He had made lovers of prostitutes and duchesses alike. This woman was not his type. He could see that he was not hers. Funny, that, for if he had merely dressed richly he may just be invaluable to her. He wondered what kind of man would bring her to her knees. There was always one, he knew, for every king or queen or thief, who could capture the most guarded of hearts. He did not believe in soul mates, true love, or any of that, but he did know that there was always at least one out there who could control and hurt any person, however resilient. He couldn't imagine what type of devil could control the woman before him.
He didn't speak. He did not answer her questions, although he was obviously mulling them over. It wasn't that he did not have a rebuttal--he simply did not wish to speak. He was often that way. He thought very deeply before answering, and often came to the conclusion that it was not necessary to answer at all. He thought that she was wrong, however, and that was obvious in the way that he looked at her. He was without desire, without curiosity, even, just thought and doubt. It is beauty and light that make beasts of men, mademoiselle. He did not want to say that to her.
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 14, 2008 2:42:52 GMT -5
He would not hurt her, she was too strong for him. She knew his type. He was the romancer. The kind that perferred a challange but only if they were sweet and soft; easy to handle. She was not, nor would ever be easy to handle. If a man wanted her he would have to work for her and prove himself. Even then it was rare that he would be able to capture her heart, just her respect. No man had ever been able to bring her to her knees before and as far as she was concerned none ever would.
She had his respect now. There was nothing he could do to hurt her after that. She knew it and he knew it. That was why he was responding so calmly and keeping eye contact. She smiled and laughed prettily at his retort and shook her head. "Indeed it does Monsiuer. But surely what is changed can be changed again for anything with a disposition to change will and can do so most willingly given the right incentive Monsieur."
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 14, 2008 23:11:38 GMT -5
A brow quirked just slightly again, and he had the urge to smile a little. His eyes glinted with laughter, but no sound emerged. She seemed to glow with confidence, but it was restrained. He wondered if possibly she might burst into flames if she decided to let loose. He wouldn't doubt that if she set her mind to it, flames would be out of reach. The image was amusing, to say the least. As he watched her speak--listened to that pretty little laugh, like a tinkling of bells--he wondered when it was that she had first become away of her power as a beautiful woman. Her story would no doubt prove to be an interesting one, but it was not likely that she freely flung it about.
He imagined her faced with beasts and ghosts. She would frighten them away weeping with a single quip, if they sought to challenge her. He imagined that this was the way with which she dealt with those who blocked her way.
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 15, 2008 2:37:58 GMT -5
And then there was silence from his lips. Once again Celeste had managed to silence a stage hand with no more than a few sentances. She had been right about him. He was harmless, just a bit full of himself if nothing else. He was attracted to her of course, but she was not his type. Just as she though he was attractive for a stagehand, but then again, he was not her type. He just had wanted to warn her, to frighten her a bit. He had his chance and had been shot down by herself. It was nothing shocking and certaintly nothing new for her. She was less than suprised by the whole thing, but perhaps his silence was suprise. Suprise or respect.
With a sly smile Celeste raised an eyebrow and looked the man once over and then met his eyes again. "And if beauty does not change them Monsieur, at least it can render them silent apparently." She raised an eyebrow and waited patiently for a response. If this was all the challenge she got from this stage hand she would be sorely disappointed.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 16, 2008 15:30:58 GMT -5
It was true, Riff didn't know quite what to make of her. She was savagely competitive and confrontational, as well as confident and intelligent. Yet he wondered if she knew that if she did not have that pretty face to hide behind, she would surely have come to great harm by now. Not by him--he was raised, although it did not appear so in his present condition, a gentleman. To some extent, at least. He had always been rather resistant to social graces, but he had never harmed a woman or taken her without her consent. His family was well-off. Even more so now than when he was a child. His father had become a very successful tradesman, last he heard. He supposed that if ever he decided to return home, he would find himself a rich man. It hardly fazed him, though, and did not affect his uncouth demeanor in the slightest. He loved the Opera Populaire and would stay here as long as he could manage it, even as the lowest of the rats among it.
His eyes flickered back into focus upon hers. Mademoiselle Gerras had the ability to drive a man mad, surely. His silence was not a result of her speech. If anything, it was an accomplishment to make him speak. She had won this time, for he opened his mouth and said dispassionately, "And yet when they become intoxicated with their own beauty, it seems that it makes them chatter."
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 20, 2008 3:35:24 GMT -5
So he hadn't given up then? He was not like the other stage hands. She knew he would try nothing. He would not harm her if he had not done so already. He was resistant to her usual ways and so he was not then interested in her in a way that she needed to be worried about. Strange that he should have so interrupted her prayers just to annoy her like this. He was strangest stage hand she had met yet and that was saying quite a bit. The Populaire, after all, housed a host of strange men. At least those men knew what they wanted. This one on the other hand was lost in a storm and insulting to boot. She raised an eyebrow calmly despite his retort and her annoyance and smiled prettily. "Not intoxicated Monsieur. That classification is reserved for men who speak out for attention when a woman is in prayer and then stays silent choosing to ignore that which he asked for when he gets it"
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Post by Le Fantôme De l'Opéra on May 22, 2008 21:01:12 GMT -5
Plagued like the Devil with inner demons, entirely cast aside from God, from the world he strove each day to live one fraction longer. But why? Where had it all gone, that spark, that will to carry on and live to listen to the music of angels that no longer sung for him? Was it so in his Fate that the angels closed their bell-towers, harps, and voices to him? None could proclaim over him what Christine Daae had cast, and so the same none could fathom his own madness in turning a girl into something she was not: A dive, an Angel of Music. Harlot! Comtess Witch! Erik spat with the recollection that Christine was no-longer to hold her name as Daae. But Comtess De Chagny! Oh the wickedness of it all, the pain of life itself, the irony of the game, the chase. A ring upon her finger, he could almost torture himself with the vision of her wedding day.
Like a panther caged for eternity, Erik paced the hidden passage-ways, the walks, the world of Le Opera Populaire, the Palais Garnier could not hold his rage for much longer. It had to be sated, diverted in a direction that he would be fulfilled. That he could behold an Angel atop a pedestal and so call her his own without the doubt that he was Le Fantome De L'lOpera. That she would be there as willing as a puppy to be molded in his hands for the world to come see her, for never could she leave him. It was like making a pact with the Devil, to state Erik's desire for song, he demanded much and if given little the consequences were dire.
Oh a whim, oh a need to see something quite familiar, he found himself to the chapel in the darkness where none could ever see him. Always hidden, always away from the world of the living, venturing up to their pretty painted gowns, perfumes, laughter and chitter-chatter when the rodents did little to stave his insanity. Weak like a beaten Dog, Erik rested bodily against a wall, looking through the stained glass casting the body inside the chapel between verdes, and reds. A cross making the creature golden with her ebony locks spilling back in spirals of a Raven's wing.
Struck that it could be...could it...be.....She began to sing, a prayer of her own a gift to God and Erik was bathed in a soothing balm. His wounds quivering in delight, that abyss of his soul finding solidity to capture the sound of her inside him. Resisting the urge to caress her face, watching the tantalizing way her lips parted to make each word so crystalline clear it was magnificent. Inside his body his passion raged, desiring her, needing her, wanting her, In that instant he quite simply had to have her. That is...Until another male, with a beautiful face stole her attentions from God...from him, from singing and making him whole again. Slamming his fist against the stone, not feeling as the hard surface broke the skin of his flesh atop his knuckles.
The Panther had his prey, had his sights set. No pretty boy would stand between that now, he'd made a mistake with the Vicomte de Chagny, now the Comte de Chagny. He'd not so do the same thing twice. Hidden, his breathing stilled inside his breast in short spurts as he fought to over-come the sudden longings she'd evoked in him. Celeste. He recalled her name, celestial as the stars, the universe that he could create could not be without her.
Patiently, eavesdropping, listening, her fight was one of words of intellect that the young Stage-Hand surely lacked. It amused Erik, for she did not portray as Christine, willingly drawing men to her with her meekness. Oh no. Not this one, her eyes were sharp as daggers, knowing what to say, when to, and the biting sting beneath each hidden return was beatific. At her last he chuckled darkly to himself, for such her venom was delicious. As she continued to threaten the stage hand with superior intellect or rather selection of words. Erik laughed, letting the echo of his laughter carry eerily into the chapel, followed by the slightest, melodious tune, to her name.
Ethereal the sound of her name upon the walls, never knowing where it generated.
"Celeste....."
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 22, 2008 22:00:54 GMT -5
Riff shook his head blandly, surprised at her slip. It had not been he to intrude. He had been there first, after all, and it was she that had first challenged him. "All very well, dear lady, though I wonder how you came to a conclusion of intrusion on my part?" His expression darkened a little bit. She was maddeningly trying. With a few fancy words and flourishes and an air of superiority, she both created a game where there wasn't one and made accusations better suited to be made against her. What an overzealous, impertinent little whisp of a girl. What did she plan, he wondered, for when she became wrinkled and fat and had nothing but her barbarous personality and a form no longer enticing? Become meek? He highly doubted that; and furthermore, she had given him a splitting headache.
Edging to make his exit, he began a small bow to finalize the end of their meeting--and then he heard it. A whisper that echoed, a masculine voice of unmatched beauty, a name--her name. Celeste. He became instantly stony, not betraying that he had heard the voice at all. He knew, of course, who it must be. A surge of jealousy surged through him. Not for the woman. Goodness, no! For the powerful, beautiful voice that the ghost possessed. A murderer, madman--or at least, perhaps the spirit of one--had the voice of an angel. His mind flew to the sorry state of the poor young girl who had been accosted by the man in the catwalks not too long ago. Although she surely deserved every bit of what she got, he feared for the sharp-tongued woman in front of him.
Abruptly, Riff surged forward, and grasped Celeste violently. With an animal growl that bespoke of the deep, rough desire of pure lust, Riff attacked her mouth with his, pinning her arms and using his body to slam her into the wall and hold her there. If she were smart, which despite his qualms he believed she was, she would seek injure him in some way and get away as soon as the opportunity was presented. She needed to get away from here before the true monster could get to her. In a seemingly unmeditated movement, he had let one of her arms become loose as he lifted a hand to stroke her face gently as he kissed her.
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on May 23, 2008 0:57:44 GMT -5
This stagehand was out of line. She knew she was nothing but a chorus girl, but she was meant for bigger and better things. She had the potential, she just needed to actualize it. That is what she was here to do and he was the one in her way. She didn't know what he had been doing in here when she walked in, but she had been using the room for it's real purpose: praying. She had been praying and he had interrupted her. If he had done it for a decent reason she would have forgiven him, but to sit here and tease her, pretend to converse...that was not a good reason at all in her opinion.
In any case, it seemed by some good force of nature or God in her favor she had upset him and was about to be rid of this man, whoever he was. He bowed and she delievered a curt curtsy in return. She deserved that bow though. He owed her that respect at least after his rude actions. It was clear he didn't like her very much despite the parting courtesy though. This man probably thought her a shrew, a pretty shrew, as most men did. He was probably laughing internally at an image of her as a fat old frail woman who only had her sharp tongue to keep her warm as most men did when she outwitted them. It did not bother her. Obviously if she could upset them that easily they were less then men and therefore not for her. This stagehand was obviously not for her if he wasn't up to her challange. He was walking away after all. Not that he was any sort of threat to begin with. Handsome, but not a threat; there was a difference. As far as she was concerned no man would ever hold her heart. It was too much of a risk, and too much trouble. She had more important things to deal with as the sudden echo of a laugh filling the room reminded her.
The sound echoed off the walls, bouncing around the room like a terror reverbrating through the night. A name followed; her name in a sweet, pure, entrancing voice. It was a familiar voice. A voice she had only heard once or twice, but somehow she was all too familiar with it. Enraptured with the sound, Celeste closed her eyes, rising from the short curtsy she had given the man before her, and let the final whispers of the sound rush over her body and enter her mind. Had she really done it? Had it been that easy? Celeste had assumed getting the attentions of a ghost would be a challange, apparently she was wrong.
He certaintly had her attention. Celeste just stood in the center of the small chaple, the fluttering of a few strands of her raven hair the only movement her body made. She could just stand there forever listening to the echos of that single entrancing whisper, but something far more real, far more shocking than this angelic voice brought her out of her trace: a rude, rough kiss.
Reality crashed down on her as he lips were crushed. Her eyes shot open quickly, wide with the force of the pair of unwanted lips against her own. The kiss was not gentle. In fact, it was rough and hard and needy. Celeste had never been treated like this before despite her behaviour so she of course screamed, the sound useless, stifled under the lips of her attacker; the man from before. She could not believe he would do this to her! No man ever had the gaul! Not even his fellow stagehands and she knew those men were more than willing to. They had probably thought about it, done it to other girls, but none the less, here, now, it was this stagehand who had brought her body slamming into a wall, pinned beneath his own. All Celeste could do was struggle against the kiss and keep her lips pursed tightly so he couldn't try to deepen it. To think she hadn't thought this one a threat! Perhaps he was just trying to prove something to her. She wouldn't let him. She may not be able to move her arms, but her legs were free.
Using the flexibiltiy aquired by years in the ballet, Celeste kneed the man in the stomach just as he loosed her arm and brought his hand to her face. She slapped him as her knee hit, running from him, eyeing the man in case he chased her. In her panic and shear recklessness Celeste ended up backing into a wall. She stood there for a moment, trying to ease her breathing while staring at the man in shock. Her eyes were wide and her lips slightly parted in fear. It was perhaps best that she kept silent. Perhaps he would think her shocked and go away in victory. Then again, perhaps he would try again and then where would she be. Never had Celeste felt this weak, this helpless. She knew she should run, but finally faced with the reality of pitting herself against one physically stronger she was frozen with fear; a feeling she both resented and was helpless against all at once despite her usual strong armour. A feeling that made her red with shame.
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