<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="floatright">(http://i238.photobucket.com/albums/ff218/DarlingMissD/bryce.jpg)</div><strong>Who:</strong>  Anasztaizia Szarka (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=233968.msg11548661#msg11548661)<br/><strong>Where:</strong> Inside the Linbergh Estate - Singapore<br/><strong>Thread Summary:</strong> Intro, jonesing, putting on a professional face <br/><strong>Tags:</strong> Open<br/><hr/>The room was at sea.  It rocked as if in the grasp of some terrible storm. The high gloss of the parquet floor reflected back every dimmed light as tiny incandescent spectres that were holding fast with far more grace than Anasztaizia could even conceive of mustering. Her small hands clutched the porcelain of the sink; her head was bowed into the basin and great convulsing retches possessed her small body to the sound of her pained cries. The symphony of a million voices of the dead was a chaotic cacophony that filled her head with a nuclear toxicity. The filter had corroded her maternal gift of harnessing her ability and slamming the door shut on all those voices that were usually unanswered, was in tatters as she was gripped in the throes of her biggest shame. <br/><br/>Her pale skin was sullen and waxy, fat drops of ocean brine dripped from her nose and chin into the sink in almost musical drops. Her swollen lips moved feverishly as if she were speaking in tongues to The Almighty Himself. Hair the colour of the dying rays of the sun hung in corded strands, slick with sweat and saliva. A bone rattling retch gripped her form to deliver nothing more than more long strings of spit. Her fingers drummed on the slick white surface as she rocked herself back and forth with a pathetic whimper breaching her throat. Her tissue thin lids fluttered and tears were added to the brew of her body fluids that were trickling down the drain.<br/><br/>The voices took on a conspiratorial tone; the odd word here and there could be caught from the maelstrom sound that filled her mind.  “Shame” was snarled. “Disgusting” was spat. “Addict” was barked.  Anasztaizia shook her head with a mirthless smile clinging to her lips, “Baszd meg...you..you ungrateful, invading, pieces of..”<br/><br/>The bilungual retort was cut short with a second convultion that wrapped crushing hands on her spine and savagely twisted. A splatter of spital threaded with the briliant red of fresh blood hit the sink with a wet fury. A groan was pulled from deep within in her gut and the medium rocked forward until her forehead rested on the cool chrome of the taps.  Ragged , shallow breaths blew desert scorching carbon dioxide over her raw lips. The brilliant chartruse of her red rimmed eyes was snuffed out by shadow darkened lids and her head begain a gentleroll from side to side to fully exploit the chilling effect of the faucet.<br/><br/>A frenzied knocking threatened to vibrate the suite’s door clear of its hinges and a panicked voice of a young man called from the other side of the portal, “Ms Szarka, Ms Szarka. I have it!”<br/><br/>“Jesus Christ! Come in! Come in”<br/><br/>The door rattled with opening and a long limbed youth burst into the room with dark eyes wide and a small package wrapped tightly in red paper. He headed straight to the source of the pained voice and stood goggle eyed at the dishevelled form of Anasztaizia pooled into the washbasin. Her head turned to look directly at him and her sallow face crumpled in frustration, “Don’t just stand there, <em>boy</em>. Money, the money is my…my” <br/><br/>One small hand vaguely waved back into the sitting area. “The coffee table…Jesus…”<br/><br/>She rose from her perch and the same hand was held out expectantly, “Just give it to me”<br/><br/>The youth took two steps and gingerly placed the small package in her hand fearfully as if he were to come in contact with her fevered skin he might contract her withdrawal. Her cunning fingers snatched the parcel and skinned the vermillion paper from the dark blue bottle it contained. With trembling fingertips the tiny cork was pried free, Anasztaizia let out an impatient moan and the mouth of the bottle was brought to her lips. She maneuvered herself slowly, tilting her head back precariously. The deep ambered liquid spilled into her mouth and down her throat like liquid fire. Permafrost froze everything in the wake of the bottled wildfire and the youth looked on horrified. “Ms Szarka, I don’t think...”<br/><br/>Her free hand shot up with a single forefinger extended to silence him. The half drained bottle was carefully placed on the vanity and Anasztaizia stood with a gentle sway to her form for several slowly passing seconds. Her breathing seemed to stabilise and her posture shifted as if she were fitted with strings being drawn taut by an expert puppeteer. The swell of voices blessedly diminished one by one as her barriers were restored brick by brick. A soft sigh of relief came with a smile and the acidic green of her eyes were revealed from behind bruise coloured lids.<br/><br/>“My clutch, on the coffee table, come boy.”<br/><br/>She gusted past the youth, her gait still staggered, but with some semblance of control. The beaded clutch glittered in her hand as it was retrieved from the table and her fingers delved into its belly. A single note folded into a perfect square was held between her fore and middle fingers to be waved in the youth’s direction. “Take it, there is extra for your discretion, boy.”<br/><br/>The youth nodded and gave a slight bow as he quickly snatched the offered payment. She turned and watched him scurry from her suite as fast as his feet would take him. “Boy! Remember, you say a single word of this to anyone and I will direct your dear, departed uncle to torment you as he did in life.”<br/><br/>He stopped dead in his tracks, his head slowly turned to look on Anasztaizia with an expression of undiluted terror, “Ms Szarka, I would never….how do you.”<br/><br/>A smirk sat on Anasztaizia’s pale lips and her head quirked slightly to the left, “He told me, boy. He told me all about the night time visits. Now go, quick before I summon him here to follow you all the way home.”<br/><br/><div align="center">-o0o-</div><br/> She could have been anyone: a starlet of the silver screen, a fashionable socialite, the wife of a high ranking politician or even secret agent brought in to keep an eye on the fabled artifacts that were the real stars of the event. She moved with a fluid ease around the estate, polite smiles and acknowledging nods,  all given with a never ending flute of champagne in her left hand. The dress she wore was the deep sensuous blue of midday shadows, the velvet plunged the length of her slender back exposing skin so pale that she looked kissed by snow. That tiny, copper topped, indigo humming bird flitted from cluster to cluster of V.I.P.s, sipping the nectar of conversation and atmosphere, blessing each group with the divine light of her presence then darting off to the next point of interest and nourishment.<br/><br/>Anasztaizia knew how to work a room, give each big player just that teasing, little taste of her company then quickly move on to the next to constantly leave everyone wanting more. She left a glowing path of contentment in her wake like a trail of glittering breadcrumbs for the ego.  If you were to go back to each group and ask for a description of the woman that had just left there would be vague adjectives and blissful smile, but not a single soul could pin down her appearance. They could wax lyrical for a day and half about how delightful she was or how charming she had been, but she was as much a spectre as the invisible entourage that followed.<br/><br/>It was in that traverse between two groups that Anasztaizia had suddenly paused.  Her graceful form was completely still as if she were nothing more than a startlingly realistic painting. The chartreuse of her eyes seemed to flicker with tiny tongues of flame and when she moved it was to touch fingertip first to the bone bracelet at her wrist and then the titanic moonstone on her finger. Her merlot lips were slightly parted and if one were to watch her for any length of time they would notice her waifish chest rise and fall with quickened shallow breaths. The gleaming copper of her head slowly moved from left to right, taking meticulous time to scan the room as if she were a dial on a wireless. Her gaze stopped at the entrance and she was in motion. Small feet were speedy to carry her to a large vase festooned with glorious chrysanthemums and exotic orchids. It was then she allowed the fox fire of her eyes to be snuffed by porcelain lids. Hidden beside the flora, in plain sight, she tilted her head and her brows creased in a frown of concentration. The voices of the deceased had whipped up into something of a frenzy and she could feel the vortex pull of a life surrounded by almost as many dead as she. <br/><br/>It was like a whisper of a melody from a distant youth: both familiar and slightly alien. The downy hair of her nape slowly rose and jewels of iced perspiration formed as first light dew about her shoulders and décolletage.  The filter between the horde of lost souls and her mind was slowly retracted, the voices slipped in: at first quiet and in harried tones, but slowly their collective voice grew in both numbers and tone.  Anasztaizia’s eyes had opened and she nodded with a grim expression cast on her delicate features, “I know…”<br/><br/>She had left the safety of the floral arrangement then and sauntered with what appeared to be a non-distinct purpose towards the grand doors that served as the entrance. The closer she got the more those which others could not see panicked. The division between her and them was gently pulled up to shield her from most of the phantasmal noise, just a sliver was left open so she could utilise the advantage that they could offer her in a potentially hazardous situation.<br/><br/>Then there he was: the source of all the chaos that had broken out around her. Masquerading as something dignified, something with the heart of a man. His striking figure in the fashionably cut suit may have the fooled rest of the attendees and perhaps even the statuesque woman who dangled on his arm like a pearl bracelet. Anasztaizia knew this man, knew his true face and the infernal blaze that surrounded him like a funeral pyre. She stopped in clear view of the doorway, champagne flute still floating in her left hand; there would be no avoiding her for any soul that came through that door. The ache of their first and previous meeting scrabbled in her chest as memories of a dark underground came to taunt her mind. She held firm, her glorious mystique glowing like an angelic corona. Her smile was open and inviting and a mask to conceal a mouth full of venomous daggers, she nodded acknowledging the voices’ warnings with the merest whisper, “He is here…the Soviet bastard.”<br/></div>