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Post by Le Fantôme De l'Opéra on May 23, 2008 22:13:11 GMT -5
Erik had been delighted in the moments just listening to the conversation or lack there of. The raven haired beauty so wielded a tongue of daggers so well it was not a surprise to understand why and now. That she had been so alone in the Masque, although dressed so finely, so beautiful as she was. Beauty would not break him now, oh no, not now, not ever. Her mind was a quick one, a wit that was worthy of compliment rather than a dullard of a man she now conversed with. How pitiful he thought, that she would waste her perfectly sweet breath, and voice on a low-life stage-hand. Pitiful indeed.
Compelled not to give in to anything other than the desire that he behold her wings in his hands as her song floated to the Heaven's. Erik could not keep himself from speaking, singing, enthralling her name in a caress that was most intimate, most passionate: Calling to her. And would this new found Angel of them all, her devilish tongue and sharp mind so answer to him? Would she? Was it possible, fathomable that he could gamble himself like this again? She'd most certainly be much worse than Christine or perhaps not. Christine he had let his madness turn to love, there was no love for a Monster as himself. It cut through his shattered soul like the thickest blade a smithy could ever construct.
"Celeste..." How could he help himself?
Her eyes closed in the rapture of hearing him, not so close to being enthralled to his bidding but aware, very aware that she had captured his interest. Ready to watch her racing skirts as she took flight, Erik was near to ecstasy that she did not run. Instead she stayed, remained there, planted like the most beautiful flower awaiting to bloom and blossom beneath his poisonous hand. What Fate had God thrust into his hands now? Silky locks of ebony twirled as his voice, her name began to disappear into the Gothic Arched walls, where it remained a constant whisper until the spell was broken by the stage-hand. He'd returned.
Bastard! Returned to kiss her, slamming her delicate body against the wall without so much as a care to her safety. To propriety to, anything other than his own disgusting need and Erik flamed. Seeing crimson, as the man sullied his new-found Song-Bird with his disgusting kiss, something that he: Erik. Could never do, could never touch her as that but he would not touch her thus. He was gentle, he was longing for that instantaneous moment where he could love and be loved in return. Evoked with his own idea that she, could give him some form of this, even through song. Erik snarled, and disappeared from his hiding place.
"Insolent Boy!" Erik tossed his voice, charging it right beside the man's head. A distraction enough, just the same as the fool moved his hand to caress HER face. Celeste Gerras wasted no time in removing the fowl animal from her person, a knee to the gullet, a print of a hand forming on his face. The girl made her flight to a wall where she was easily cornered, easily over-come if the man chose to have at her again. Erik would not permit it, and so was it so great a need to 'rescue' her from one monster and give her to another: Himself.
Finding his weapon of choice his constant cane, the smiling skull of the death's head grinning. The sound of her labored breathing as the silence stood between her and the man. Magic was now his forte and so Erik let himself through a panel that was unnoticed by all save the spiders. Stepping out into vision between the woman and the man his tall frame shrouding her, his back to her, presented as a ebony mass of oblivion to save her and damn her. Standing as he was, tall, real, cane in one hand, his head slightly bowed with the fedora hat obscuring his face entirely. The length of his cloak hanging at his shoulders, right down to his shiny black shoes, Erik was a black thread of darkness, imposing a war between himself and the stage hand.
"Fool." He said, finally. "How dare you sully such a young woman against her will. I bid you do the wisest thing Monsieur and turn your sorry, pathetic hide from this Holy place. As God would Damn you for this intolerable act, injustice to this 'Maid'. Pray God forgive you for I cannot." Raising his cane up, pointing it at Riffael directly with the skull head smiling at the man. The sockets that were wide, void, began to glow red like some freak-sort of magic or a demon possessed inside the skull. Erik remained stoic, still, the only thing that showed he lived was the slight expanding of his shoulders with each breath, and the way his cloak swayed only slightly in his position.
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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 24, 2008 3:25:41 GMT -5
Back against the wall, the echos of a man's voice bouncing furiously off the stone walls of the chapel like the condemning sound of wings belonging to some angel of death. The voice, the voice which had sounded so familiar to her in the way it held her attention and seemed to caress her very soul, had been furious at what this man had done to her. She knew it had to be the voice of the infamous Phantom that ruled this opera house. There was no other explantion that fit the eerieness of the dissembodied voice. There could be no other snesible explantion. Perhaps that was why Celeste was standing here backed against the wall, her eyes wide in terror instead of running like any sensible girl would: she finally understood the gravity of her situation.
In singing here Celeste had done what no sane woman who lived and worked under the roof of this temple of music had dared to do since the place had burned down: she had awoken the sleeping devil, the worst of the horrific creatures on this earth. Her voice had somehow managed to reach the deepest circles of hell and interested one of its most terrifying demons. She had not only put her life in danger, but that of this man before her. He after all had touched her, he had profaned the newest pet of this cursed man who called himself the Phantom.
If it had just been her life Celeste would have met the challange head on, but here, with him, the cold wall woke her to the harsh cold reality of the situation: if she did not do something, the Phantom might kill this man. After the way he said her name she doubted her own life was in danger at the moment, but he, this man who had dared touch her...well, it may have just been his last act. Of course she did not like him much, but death was not something Celeste would wish on any man no matter how much she disliked them. It was for this reason her lips parted to mouth one more to the stagehand before her: run.
It had been a good word of advice, a well meant word of advice, but it seemed, as a shadow leapt from the wall to seperate her from her attacker it was too late; he had arrived like some dark avenging angel to deal out justice to this man who dared touch her against her will. Celeste couldn't take it for one. She couldn't take the guilt of what could happen. Each word that dripped from the dark shadow's mouth made it even more clear what she had possibly done to this man. Even if she had purposely attracted this dark man's attention, she had meant to do it alone and now another was to pay for the simple fact that she wished to make a deal with this devil before her. That had not been her intentions.
There had to be something she could do to stop this man's death. She had to protect him. She knew that this devil was weak when it came to women. He had once fallen pray to Christine, if she was to tame him she had to test the waters, she had to begin now. She had to at least try. This man was not meant to be here when this happened. He couldn't die for his choice to be in the room, or even for his actions.
Stilling her whole body with some unknown strength Celeste started to walk toward that black void in front of her; that nameless shadow she felt she knew. She could not see his face or anything but the swirling ebony cape for that matter. Still, despite that she didn't know what, or who exactly she was facing, despite the fact that she felt her legs shaking slightly Celeste gently placed a tender hand on the arm that held the forboding cane with the eyes that showed red on the stagehand's shirt as it was raised hoping that perhaps this touch and a sweet word could dulcify the man before her.
Her heart pounded as she turned her eyes to look up into those of the legendary monster before her. He was just a man. She had to keep reminding herself that. He was just a man like any other. She had handled men before, this was just one more. Despite this the blood raged through her veins as she stared with her lips slightly parted, her eyes trying to give at least the semblence of calm, hiding all her nervousness and shock. At least her hand was steady on this phantom's arm. That at least she could be thankful for. That, and the soft steady tone of her voice as she whispered up to her saviour, hoping to appease his lust for this man's blood. "Please Monsieur, take your own words into your heart. If God is forgiving we should try to be so as well. Man is made in his image after all. Monsieur, I beg of you, let him go unharmed."
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 24, 2008 21:13:40 GMT -5
Riffael Dureau was young and reckless. Surely, that should be the introduction to the announcement of his death in the papers the next morning. Oh, but no, would anyone realise? Would there even be remains to tell by? Surely, for the Phantom was a man of the stage. No murder should be sullied by denial of the final curtain call.
He stood clutching his stomach, his face burning as the terrifying shadow swept out of nowhere and before him. Well, he deserved the kick and slap, and worse. Death? Perhaps not. He had hated himself when he had seen such a strong, however agravating, woman pressed trembling in panic against the opposite wall. She mouthed something, and it was the thing that he had been trying to convey to her with his rough, unwilling kiss. Yes, he now saw, the woman had called the monster to her. Did she fancy the predicament that had plagued Mademoiselle Daae? Perhaps certain parts of it. Fame, success, admiration. What of imprisonment? He wanted to save her. Apparently that was impossible. She had asked for this! Foolish girl! Perhaps she was realizing now as the skeleton ghoul lifted a peculiar cane to him that her fame would bring about murder and terror.
His face was trained on Mlle. Gerras as she touched the Phantom's arm, willing him to show mercy. Would he? Perhaps this time, at least in front of her. Anger had not kept him from nearly murdering the lover of Mlle. Daae, why not the attacker of his new interest? His face was stern, but soft. Turn away! Go! You don't really want this. You don't understand. At least, he hoped she didn't. If she did, she deserved what would come to her. He doubted it, though, by the earnest way for which she begged for his life. His eyes entreated her to go. There was no lust in them, no malice. Yes, he feared for his life. Damn, did he so! But it wasn't just his in danger now.
He purposefully avoided gazing at the unnerving eyes in the cane, unsure of his fate.
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Post by Le Fantôme De l'Opéra on May 25, 2008 22:33:17 GMT -5
Time lapsed into a leaking oblivion of slow ticking minutes that seemed like hours, or rather the seconds since his appearance seemed like hours. Internally the carnal rage commanding he sever the head of the youth before him with his lasso was unbearable. Sully the beauty of the young girl, the young woman whose tongue was as sharp as any dagger and Erik was furious. Staring at the man from the slight portion his lowered he head offered through the gap of his fedora and cane. The chapel was silent, except for the breathing, the heart-beats that were most certainly thundering away like a stampede of horses.
Erik was not afraid of adding another head to his list, no matter how young, this boy looked. Scowling at him that every other unworthy bastard in this world could have an unmarred face. Yet he: Genius, Madman, Murder, Musician, so much more could not have that simple pleasure, that luxury of being 'normal'. Of stepping out into public without having to care that the ivory of his mask was unnerving, that the deformed flesh of his face and bulging lower-lip so deformed as it slanted to the right could not be otherwise ignored. No. Erik had no such luxury and so he was intent on the murder of this foolish young man.
Until she touched him. Sending a shock through his body that almost forced him to keep his tight hold on the cane, the skull smiling the red growing brighter or it seemed to glow brighter. Whether because it became angry, or whether it's master's own enslavement almost passed over them both for the woman. Erik did not however look at her pointedly, instead she moved trying to look into his eyes and place a soothing balm on the situation. It burned worse, far-more than it helped, whispering to him, trying to make the rabid anger in him civil.
"Please Monsieur," Erik watched the young man and his eyes never left Celeste Gerras. "take your own words into your heart. If God is forgiving we should try to be so as well. Man is made in his image after all. Monsieur, I beg you, let him ho unharmed." She pleaded in the case of this man and Erik was not a man to be dulcified with pretty words, pretty women, or pretty voices anymore. Throwing her touch off his arm like it scalded, shoving the skulls head of the cane into the young man's abdomen with a blunt forced impact. Hopefully sending him doubling over on the floor, allowing Erik to stand at his full height, and grab Celeste's delicately boned wrist with a firm touch. Presenting the white of his masked face to her as his eyes burned down into her own.
"God is forgiving Mademoiselle, but I am not. If you think to sway me for the cause of your sweet man. Then you are no better than that Witch whom has left me no heart to take anything in. You call for something, you pray for so much more, and like her you take your Comte over the world. Only in your case Mademoiselle you take a groundling over your greatest desire." Releasing her then with a gentle but firm toss of her hand out of his own. Erik loomed over Riffael, death's shadow at his door.
"Take my advice boy and stay yourself from the Mademoiselle, or I can promise you. A necklace of red-pearls shall drip from your neck, and when I am done none will be able to mark your pretty face and so your head-stone shall have no name. And you..." He turned his attention back to Celeste, towering over her at his height. "Are not worthy of the gift my distorted soul could give you. Fame, fortune, the Populaire, France, you are not worthy. Show me that you are and I might forgive you for this injustice of taunting such a pathetic fool as him to your arms."
{Soooo...all my posts suck today so I'm just not going to post until I get better musage. T.T }
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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 25, 2008 23:31:08 GMT -5
Anyone who had ever met Celeste had said she was too bold. She always spoke when it was wiser to stay silent. She had always said the things she did to shock people into giving her attention. For the most part, Celeste didn't care what kind of attention it was as long as it was attention. Right now however, she should have stayed silent. If she had stayed silent there would be blood on her hands, however, she would have the world in her pocket if she had stayed silent. Still, it was better that her concious stayed clear; that no one died today on her behalf. She would prefer that to having fame. She may be self interested, but she still had a few morals left.
Apparently, the man before her, the phantom did not. It was no suprise to her. He had killed before. Very often men were like animals in this sense. Once they killed they always wanted to kill again. He obviously thought she was in love with this riff raff before her to get jealous and banish her from perhaps becoming his student after such an incident as this. She had not been teasing him of course, she had been staunchly and harshly rejecting him. Of course, he was a man like any other did not see that, only that she was with another man and defending his life. Apparently, defending a life meant love to him. Still, despite the firm grasp on her wrist, the slight twist on her soft skin that cause slight bouts of pain in her arm, Celeste stared evenly, without either anger or fear in to the dark man's eyes. He was just that after all: a man. Christine had not understood that, she would not make that same mistake. Men got angry. She had to tolerate that, and not fear it.
Celeste sighed and closed her eyes, trying to reign in her temper for a moment before speaking as he finished and released her wrist. He was still there. She could try to interest him, at least dissuade him from ruling her out as his new student completely. She had to at least try. Use sense to reach him since pretty words had not. He had not ruled her out. He said she needed to prove herself. Well, she knew that meant stop flirting. That would be easy enough. Now she just had to try here to show him why she did such a thing.
To start this Celeste did not move, did not even glance toward the other man who had been knocked to the ground. That he was alive was enough. Men enough in this opera house had recovered from such a hit with a cane to the stomach from the patrons, the stagehand could survive one from the cane of a phantom. He was alive so her sacrifice had been worth it. Celeste raised her head and looked calmly up at the darker man before her, so full of anger and raised an eyebrow. "Monsieur, you misinterperate me. I only said those things in your best interest. Surprise is and will always be your element. If you wish to have full control over your domain again, why announce yourself so early on with a murder? Wait Monsieur, bide your time. I merely dissuaded you for that reason. That, and I already believe I punished the man myself and would have done so again. Forgive my sharp tongue and my boldness in saying these things Monsieur, but I speak truthfully when I say you judged me wrong. I have no man in my life and this stagehand certaintly has never and will never be mine nor do I desire him to be. I made that very clear before."
Perhaps that would hurt her more than it helped her. She knew she was no sweet meek Christine. She knew she must be crazy to talk back to the Phantom of the Opera. She knew she must be insane for even trying to dissuade him from leaving her. She would be smarter to just let this whole thing go now, but she had never been the smartest, only the boldest. Besides, perhaps being unlike the sweeter girls in the Populaire would be attractive, obviously sweet didn't work for this dark devil.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 26, 2008 15:31:13 GMT -5
Riffael continued to avoid looking at the red eyes, but instinct and nervousness kept them within his peripheral vision. Even there, they seemed to burn into him. His head felt light and his concentration wavered just in the act of avoiding their gaze, and he almost found it difficult to understand just what was happening before him. The Phantom threw Celeste's hand from him, and in the next moment the whole chapel seemed to lift up and twirl around as a sharp pain entered his stomach area and he went downwards to smack painfully onto the cold cement of the floor. Usually he had the reflexes of a cat, but the movement had been so quick, and surprisingly forceful.
The monster said something in a scalding tone. It took a moment for him to grasp it, but he finally realized that Celeste was under suspicion for having feelings for him, or something of the sort, punishable by divine rejection. Ha. Right. Riff began to try to pull himself up, which was inevitably painful and slower than he would like.
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Post by Le Fantôme De l'Opéra on May 29, 2008 1:34:51 GMT -5
Her inhalation to any other man would've brought his eyes down to her breasts that would rise invitingly. But not he: Erik was not easily won by the body of Goddesses, it was voice, song that could bring him to his knees. Making him feel unworthy when the song was so beautiful, the voice so rich he could take that thrill of vibration on a note that was sustained far more seriously than breasts rising and falling with the act of breath. This woman held her temper, her flesh soft beneath his gloved hands, warming through the fabric. Seeping into his hand, but that did not distract him, he was angry, furious, not sure to be angry at him, or her. The Princess or the Pauper. Which should pay? Who should pay?
Her words would allow him to be judge and jury.
"Monsieur, you misinterpret me.I only said those things in your best interest. Surprise is and will always be your element. If you wish to have full control over your domain again, why announce yourself so early on with a murder? Wait Monsieur, bide your time. I merely dissuaded you for that reason. That, and I already believe I punished the man myself and would have done so again. Forgive my sharp tongue and my boldness in saying these things Monsieur, but I speak truthfully when I say you judged me wrong. I have no man in my life and this stagehand certainly has never and will never be mine nor do I desire him to be. I made that very clear before."
Said she, and Erik weighed every word, watched her lips, looked down into her eyes to find the conniving brain he knew was in there. A woman such as Gerras was not to be mistaken for some meek maid, but for a creature seeking to set herself farther in life. Which made him alert, for once she sampled the lime-light, she would not turn from him, she would be his forever. Signing a pact with the Devil's Spawn, her life away. Turning his back to the stagehand, Erik brought his gloved hand to gently caress the jawline of her face. Keeping it upturned as he looked down at her.
"You speak in your best benefit Mademoiselle, and so your words pretty, saucy, or tempered as they can get shall not bring me to heel. I am no dog to be commanded, and if so I desire to kill and kill again as you seem to know me so well. Then you must know, that once chosen you are mine. No man within this world is to be in your life, only me, only music. Yet you have neither, leave my elements to me Mademoiselle, speak not of things you do not know." Erik said with a tenderness but a wicked cold tone beneath all his words. Warning her now, that she best tread easily, he'd not make the same mistakes he'd made with Christine. He was now: Educated in a way with women.
Turning slightly to glare down as the stagehand began to push himself up, Erik chuckled. His eyes returning to Celeste.
"You must prove yourself Mademoiselle Gerras, you have a month. For I wish to see, and hear you as Juliette in the revival production. Do what YOU must to get yourself ready, and I shall make it come-true so long as I see you are working diligently. But mark my words...Betray me now, and your blood I have no troubles with bathing my hands in. Yours and your new little friend.
Remember.....one-month Gerras...Do not disappoint me. I may be a hard man, a murderer, but your rewards shall be.....magnificent." Erik released her wrist then, and using his cane he strode past the staggering young man. As he'd surely gotten to his feet by now, taking time to whisper to Riffael one thing.
"Keep your hand at the level of your eyes..." And then he tossed back his head and laughed as manically as ever. Yes Le Fantome had been reborn, awoken by Celeste Gerras, and he would not rest, would not stop until his new song-bird sung prettily for HIM, in her cage. In a cloud of red-smoke an explosion of his magic. Erik was gone, his laughter seeming to linger long after he'd disappeared.
He had much work to do.
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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 29, 2008 2:27:51 GMT -5
It was funny; Celeste, before this very moment in time, standing face to face with Le Fantome del Opera arguing with him, openly defending herself before him, never knew how quickly blood could course through one's veins. She had been nervous before....excited even, but never afraid. For the first time in her life, she truely was. She knew he would not hurt her or this man before her today. She knew they were both safe today and probably as long as they did not talk to each other they were safe, but she had managed to bring forth a sleeping devil on her purest whim. She had not realized the extent. She thought she could control him, but now, finding herself pleading for her life and indirectly the stagehand's she realized her mistake and also realized it was too late. She must prove herself and resign to her cage, or have her blood be shed on the stage of the Populaire. Neither option was particularly pleasing but she would much rather keep her neck.
The fears however, the pure terror at her actions, did not show as she stood still before this crazed devil. She stood, head high, proud in her positioning and watched him carefully as he ran his gloved hand across her jaw. It felt like he was examining her as if she were something he had bought at an opera house auction rather than a girl. She kept this same stillness as he pronounced her fate coldly and clearly before her: she was his now. There would be no patronage but his for her. There would be no more flirting, no more speaking to other men. She was his now. She would live on music. She would sleep and hear music. She would become music even as she was his.
And yet, Celeste felt that she was his and would never truely be his. She was a girl he would keep for his own and yet, he would never really understand her, or hold her heart, or her true loyalty. Those she kept to herself. She doubted the cold heartlest beast before her would win those things of her. No man had as of yet. She couldn't imagine what kind of a man would. This one certaintly wasn't going to get it from her by scaring her to death and threatening her. That was no way to a lady's heart. He should have known that after last time.
Still, she doubted he could ever love or try to obtain it. She would be dead if she did not comply. It was one way to obtain fame but she thought it would be a fantasy. She thought it would be a fairytale. This was a nightmare. This and the image of her dangling, torn from limb to limb from the rafters of the Populaire. That would haunt her for weeks. Every day she practiced here. Every day in silence and concentration that image would haunt her. If she did not succeed now after all, she would not have another chance. Le Fantome would not forgive her if she failed. She would begin learning tonight after the strain of this had left her.
But the strain would not be given into now. No. She stayed proud, even as her wrist ached from his grip. She did not even go to hold in when he let go. Celeste merely stood as he disappeared. She knew he was not truely gone so she waited in silence and shock. The fear coursed through her as she looked about the room for a moment and then the fear flooded her body. Her legs gave out first. She dropped to the ground sobbing for air before crossing herself. She had not thought it would happen. She had not though it would actually happen. God help her for she had no one else to now; she was the devil's bride.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 30, 2008 14:13:19 GMT -5
Riff had finally managed to stand to his full height, tensed and ready to move as quickly as he could possibly manage if need be. Le Fantôme stared calculatingly at Celeste, his white mask seeming to glow in the darkness of the chapel. Mlle. Gerras stood proud still, but he saw the wildness in her eyes. Beneath that calm exterior, there was a raging storm. What was it? Fear? Anger? Excitement? Wounded pride? Or just a great deal of clever acting? He doubted it. If anything, this was a time for turmoil for her. He felt a flash of sympathy, and endeavored to throw it aside. She was ruthless, ambitious. Now the devil had her soul, her voice, the shapely little legs on which she danced so becomingly. He eyed that devil with unconcealed disgust and anger as he drew near, but there was no suppressing the stab of fear that pierced into his heart. In complete stillness Riff heard the whispered warning: Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!
An involuntary shiver ran down Riff's spine as the Phantom's crazed laugh echoed around and off the walls, infecting the air around them with its malice. It suddenly felt difficult to breathe. A tongue of flame burst from the ground to consume the ghost whole, and with a startling leap Riff was facing the now empty place where he had stood, his back protectively to Celeste. He heard a ruffle behind him and turned to see her crumpled in disbelief upon the ground. He caught the last movements of religious penitence.
"My deepest sympathies, Mademoiselle." He whispered, giving the tiniest of bows and moving quickly toward the exit. There was nothing that could be done for her now. She was strong. He hoped that she was strong enough.
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