Evette paid little attention to the latest slave put up for auction.  Though she did admit that it was a travesty what the slavers had done to her dress.  Such fine material shouldn’t be wasted with such purposeful tears.  The amount of cleavage displayed was obviously a sales pitch.<br/><br/>When the slaver bragged about the young woman’s virginal state, it merely proved Evette private assumption.<br/><br/>As the bets continue, Evette allows herself to be amused with the betting of men….and then the slave girl does something particularly unexpected.  She punched the slavemaster in the throat.  Before she can control it, Evette had let out a sharp ring of laughter.<br/><br/>What a surprise!<br/><br/>It had been far too long since she’d last found herself in such a state of shock.  She’d have to remember to attend more slave auctions.  If they offered this kind of entertainment, perhaps they were worth Evette’s attention.<br/><br/>Before the guards can even go about punishing the slave, the girl was off into a run, and the entertainment had ended.  Leaning back in the satin material of her seat, Evette lets out a sigh.  “That was lovely.” She complements no one, before frowning and rapping on the wood of her coach.  What was making her driver move so slow?<br/><br/>And then she spies it through her small window.  How surprising, to hear a man in Transylvania speak French! He rises? Who is he?  The prophesy that the old man gave sent shivers through Evette’s very soul, if she still had one anyway.  She wasn’t quite sure.  “Prosper and all shall prosper.” She echoes softly.  She liked that.  It had a certain ring to it.  She’d remember it.<br/><br/>And then her coach moves once more. Finally.<br/><br/>And then there he was.<br/><br/>She barely paid attention to the other men in the group, though she couldn’t help but notice the rich man from the auctions in attendance.<br/><br/>But who she truly focused on was her sire.  Her beloved Alphonse.<br/><br/>"Father!" She exclaims with delight, rushing out of her carriage; her colored skirts swishing around her rushing feet as she ignores propriety for the sake of meeting the man who had made her what she was.<br/><br/>Alphonse was a rather short man, though he made up for it with being made of pure muscle.  His hair was a long black, with an occasional wave; it was purposefully kept back in a low ponytail.  His clothing was of the latest fashions, and of the finest quality.  Of course the ugliest part of him were of course his hands.  Ignoring all sense of fashion, they were stained dark with ink.  He must have been painting again, the slightly dazed look in his eyes told her just where his mind truly was.  Back in his latest art studio, with his latest muse.<br/>