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Post by margretleroux on Apr 13, 2008 20:35:25 GMT -5
As the Phantom released her to reach for his pocket Maggie felt her knees go weak under her and she feel to her knees. She finally allowed tears to stream down from her eyes as the Phantom wrapped something around her neck. Maggie strained her neck to see what it could be but failed terribly when he tightened it. Maggie let out a gasp and felt her throat. She could feel a rope, or something of the sort, worn and tiered with age. I am going to die. Maggie thought. She thought of her storybook heroes, who had always laughed in the face of danger- or death- which ever was closer. Now Maggie realized that this was completely irrational, death was certainly nothing to be laughed at, because you might just make it angry. Maggie failed to stifle a sob that she might never be able to recreate these heroes. What would Celestine, Jacob and Andrew think? Would anyone else notice her absence? She tugged at the rope slightly but nothing changed.
When Maggie felt the catwalk slip from beneath her she was sure she was falling through the air, but she wasn’t, she was still kneeling in the catwalk, supported only by a single pin-bolt. She wanted so desperately to speak, to yell, to scream but it was not possible. Maggie found she could hardly breath. So she consented herself to scribbling down her thoughts in the dust forming on the catwalk. Barely legible she wrote- Let me go- because, of course, that was the only thing a character would say to a phantom with their life in his hands.
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Post by Le Fantôme De l'Opéra on Apr 19, 2008 22:52:50 GMT -5
It was so sweet to hear the sob from the child's throat, it gave his body vigor to the task of frightening her out of her wits end. Erik would never know what it was like to fear, only to hurt, only to hide, only to be the most minuscule thing in another persons world. Yet he had given Christine her fame, her voice and she had repaid him as though he were nothing. Rushing away with the Vicomte at the time, now the Comte de Chagny. Married now, deflowered, and hating him in all aspects of the word. He almost tightened the rope even further to strangle the life from Maggie in his momentary lose of mind and time.
Instead Christine's swan like neck was in his noose, and he could kill her, he would kill her that way only she could belong to him. Forever in his mind so young and beautiful as this, that was how he wanted to remember Christine. His Christine. The pull and shifting of the cat-walk as it began to fall caught his attentions. His eyes spied the written words of 'Let me go' and he laughed at the scribbled mark. Using his gloved hand to swipe away the dust, drawing her back so he could growl in her ear.
"Let you go? Why would I? Should I?" Chuckling, he reached for another rope, and without much effort removed the last pin-bolt. Letting the walk fall from beneath them, to another creating a tangle of metal. An arm wrapped securely around Margaret's waist, they hung there, his strength the only thing keeping them from the fall. He would only hold for so long, and with a snarl, he his lasso. Using it to know the rope they currently hung, the weight-bags off.
"Hang on." He muttered, before they fell, in an almost free fall. Except they came about a meter from the stage itself, and he released his hand using his momentum, and then his back to pad her fall. Grunting in the process, the screams had grown up again, making it hard to hear him. Whispering into her ear. "Never chase a Ghost little Margaret it'll be your last. I don't allow second chances."
Shoving her off, he stood, staring down at her coldly. Looking up at the two cat-walks barely teetering on themselves, he looked back down at her.
"Be certain to inform your relatives, the managers. That I await my salary, and interest is also due. If they do not...a disaster beyond their imagination will occur." Pivoting on a dark shoe, Erik promptly took an exit stage left like a grand performer. Kicking the child's note-book to her, sending it skidding to a stop just beyond arms reach.
So it was that Margaret DePaul had encountered the famed Fantome de L'Opera.
[Open to anyone who would like to join now with Maggie]
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Apr 26, 2008 2:31:21 GMT -5
Riffael had just been doing his job. And that is saying a lot, considering he was still a little hung over. Yet he never missed a day, nay, a moment, if it meant pacing in the darkest and least beautiful places of the magnificent Opera House. She glowed beneath his fingertips, even where the wood was riddled with splinters and rot. There was such history there, and in every dilapidated catwalk echoed the voices of divas and acclaimed men of the arts. Of instruments. Of... screams. The backdrop that he had endeavored to lift into place this morning fell with a swoop and a crash to the stage. Girls shrieked and ran about in, and the murmurs of spooked musicians wafted up through the pit as it emptied. Riff himself lunged from the left wing onto the stage and looked up, seeing no one.
It was the ghost, of course.
Even amid the screams a whisper pulsed, spoken by so many that it prevailed in subtlety above all else: Ghost!
Riff sighed in annoyance, darting ahead of a group of men that were charging up to the catwalks to see what was wrong. He, of course, already knew what was wrong--he knew that the limp way in which the rope that had given way hung upon its ring indicated that the rope was no longer a complete line. A sandbag flew down from above and a few men stumbled backward to avoid it, sending the men in the back (including Riff) tumbling backward down the steps and the rest to be hit by the hulking thing. All fell, and at the bottom Riff found himself piled beneath some rather heavy men and with a great deal of bruising to show for it. A few men had knocked their heads and passed out. Still everyone raced about, screaming all the more for it, and offering no assistance.
After a long while Riff and three other who had gone relatively unhurt climbed up, and upon a ghastly sight: a falling catwalk. More screaming. Riffael's heart seemed to drop into his stomach, and churn there in anger. This would take such a great deal of time to fix. Damned ghost. A shadow flew above, and many gasped. Even more screaming. It was really getting to him. He turned heel and instead raced up the ladder that led to the catwalk opposite, and upon doing so saw a young woman laying upon the boards. His brows drawn together in consternation, he started toward her.
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Post by margretleroux on May 5, 2008 17:36:56 GMT -5
Maggie couldn’t move, she rocked back and forth on the floor of the stage recalling only the Phantom’s last words and replaying them over and over in her head. "Be certain to inform your relatives, the managers. That I await my salary, and interest is also due. If they do not...a disaster beyond their imagination will occur." She shivered at his words. Now knowing exactly what he was capable of, Maggie shuddered to think of what he might do to her cousins if they angered him. But… what if they didn’t know? What if the Phantom knew they didn’t know? But they did know, and the Phantom knew that, and Maggie knew that they would never pay the salary- even if they knew that the Phantom had built the opera house. She went over several ideas in her head, none of them turning out to be very bright seeing as she had just experienced a near-death encounter that several of her stories and been built off of. Maggie hoped that there was some way around all of this, some way to just forget all of this salary business, there always was, but she just couldn’t see it!
Maggie waited in the same spot hardly moving a muscle until she saw a figure moving towards her. Timidly she moved her hand to her neck. She winced, Maggie could almost still feel the rope. Finally she looked up at the man, she had never seen him before and this bothered her. She liked to know everyone in the opera house, but she was still in to much shock to introduce herself s she waited for the man to approach her.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 8, 2008 21:13:34 GMT -5
Riff paced slowly toward the girl, and a strange awareness crept up his spine. He recognized the feeling and let it continue to creep until the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end, remaining calm as he approached the unfortunate young woman. The feeling was caused by the sight of her, so shaken, and he couldn't help but feel that he was stepping through a silent barricade into a dark and terrible realm where a bloody sentinel waited.
He continued on without a single faulty step and finally reached her, kneeling and letting his elbows rest upon his knees as he looked into her flustered gaze. His expression was without comfort, without any particular warmth. It was blank, the handsomely carved face of a statue with two dark gleaming eyes seeming at once human and glass. They suddenly flickered into life as if fires had been set behind them, and he stared at her as if trying to dig the last moments from her memory. Partly to spare her the discomfort and partly out of fascination. She was a very pretty girl, but too young, he thought, to have captured the desires of the renowned Phantom. So what had the devastating ghost to do with her? She was alive, but seemed grief-stricken. What could this mean? Who was she?
Finally he glanced away, into the shadows, and stood. He held out his hand to her as his face fell back into placidity. Riff said nothing as he waited, now looking back at her but seeming to look through her instead of into her eyes.
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