Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby & Darius Fallenstar]
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Exotic Solos =&gt; Topic started by: PearlRuby on 16-05-2011, 03:28:04</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby &amp; Darius Fallenstar]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>PearlRuby</strong> on <strong>16-05-2011, 03:28:04</strong>
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				<div align="center">(http://i332.photobucket.com/albums/m357/yuniebee/title2.jpg)</div><div align="center">(http://i332.photobucket.com/albums/m357/yuniebee/title1.jpg)</div><br><div align="center"><em>Give me then, ten thousand kisses,<br>Give me all thy blooming charms;<br>Give me heavenly, melting blisses,<br>Lying naked in my arms.</em></div><br><strong><span class="bbc_u">Themes &amp; Fetishes:</span></strong><br>- Revenge<br>- Seduction<br>- Romance<br>- Power Play<br>- Deflowering<br>- Victorian Erotica<br>- 'Glass Walker' werewolves<br>- Transformations (Sexual &amp; Character related)<br>- Voyeurism &amp; Exhibitionism<br>- Incest (Father / daughter / step-father triangle)<br><br><strong><span class="bbc_u">Setting &amp; Location:</span></strong><br>- Victorian England, May 1851<br>- Rural 'Château' on a coastal cliff, facing the Bristol Channel<br>- The year of the 'Great Expedition' at the Crystal Palace<br><br><div align="center">(http://i332.photobucket.com/albums/m357/yuniebee/settingimage1.jpg)</div><br><hr><br><strong><span class="bbc_u">Prologue</span></strong><br><br>The birthing of another Spring storm harrowed betwixt a pregnant coastal skyline of infertile greys and starkly sterile white. The south-eastern zephyrs from the French borders, whistled and creaked against the stone walls of the one lonesome, rural country house situated at the pointed edge of one jagged cliff. Awkwardly placed upon the 'Hartland Point' at the edge of Devon's Bideford Bay, the aptly named Bideford Château looked out with weary gaze towards the Bristol Channel. A distant stretch of land on the horizon was not quite France, but the secluded Celtic isle of Lundy instead. The residents both there and in the nearby, mainland Hartland Village (again, aptly named), often wondered why <strong>Lord Edmund Hewett-Dalton</strong> (http://i332.photobucket.com/albums/m357/yuniebee/edmund1.jpg) chose to reside in such an isolated manor. And when the calmer sea-breeze had carried the maturing melodies of the caged songbird within, they had pitied the poor girl deprived of a more normal life. <br><br>Yet despite the foreboding weather, behind the sand tinted exterior château walls, danced dim shadows courtesy of several golden candelabras. Lazily, they flickered across the more extravagant, albeit rather dark décor of the quaint drawing room. The highly fashionable 'eclectic' revival paid homage to Gothic and Rococo influences, while indulging in an excess of ornamental furnishings in wood, marble, glass and porcelain. Accompanying both the howling outside, and the gentle crackling of an open fire, was the occasional, crisp turn of a page. Seated in his favourite high back, Baroque armchair, Lord Hewett-Dalton absent-mindedly fanned through a slightly outdated copy of <em>The Times</em>, dated 1st May 1851. The front page boldly exalted the grand opening of The Great Exhibition in Hyde Park's Crystal Palace. Though London was full of far too many contrived idiots for Lord Hewett-Dalton to even consider visiting, not to mention the lengthy and time-consuming journey it would mostly entail back and forth. An expensive he no longer had the liberty of affording. Having scanned through the first three paragraphs, the forty-something man had grumbled to himself. Celebrating the industrial, military and economic superiority of Great Britain was all well and good, so long as one fit into that economic security. Once upon a time, his own exhibits of Alchemical worth might have graced the Crystal Palace, but instead, he vehemently flicked to the far more entertaining Political pages. Suffice to say, the copy of <em>The Financial Times</em> had already fed the fire.<br><br>Meanwhile, prim and proper on the beige upholstered Rococo chaise-lounge, was the calming countenance of Miss Hewett-Dalton in a most ravishing cream frock. Exquisite lace chemisette reached her swan neck, serving to conceal the modest swelling of cleavage granted by tightly corseted bodice. The width of her full skirt covered the entirety of the chair, while matching lace gathered around her bent elbows. Dark, auburn locks with hints of burnt umber, parted at the centre before being piled up high in an elaborate up-do with the adornments of pearls and a single, ivory comb to the left. The young accomplished woman, who did not look a day older than her eighteen years, married the English and French roses together. The creamy complexion featuring the benefits of a strawberry pout often pertly parted in secret longing for her first kiss. Her mother's French features seemed to be in abundance; including the dimple in her rounded chin, and the natural, inquisitive arching of brows over almond eyes. While golden-ochre irises occasionally lifted from the small book of literature upon her lap, to steal a longing glance towards the newspaper in her father's grasp: Her only link to the outside word. When he was finished with it, she hoped to feel the print upon her fingertips. Hopefully he wouldn't feed the fire again with all the wonderful details of a society Clara had never experienced, except for in the written tales in her precious books, or savoured from the lips of her Governess. Although, the dual position of frequent courtesan had not saved the Governess from being inevitably replaced by an elderly hag, as soon as the beloved daughter came of age. Desires changed with both the Southern winds and the sands of time. <br><br>Lord Edmund in particular, had felt their stirring effects upon him. Felt it now, in fact, as his icy gaze peered over the edge of the newspaper. His beloved daughter had matured to possess not an ounce of his genetics; she did not have his nose, nor his jaw, though they were certainly not quite her mother's either. What irked him more was how she sat so neatly opposite him; with her sweet fragrance of honey and primrose filling the room, and gentle, impatient sighs reaching his slightly over-sized ears. His eyes narrowed as he caught the shifting of her knees beneath linen fabrics, and the light bite of front teeth against her lower lip. She was always reading something; occupying her mind with radical thoughts and revolutionary ideals for all he knew. Getting inside her head was a feat he had never quite accomplished, but he could see that she hid her boredom behind her over-zealous interest in literature. Indeed, for two hours they had waited for the arrival of the esteemed guest, and Edmund had had it all planned out. They were going to take candlelit supper together, using the advantage of his pretty daughter to anticipate idle conversation. Then, with his guest well primed, he would replace innocent female attention with brandy to seal the business deal. But the plan had fallen flat, and the unlikely pair had dressed in their finest dinning garb to receive nothing but the storm brewing outside, and a cold meal. The cook had not been impressed, while Clara was quite frankly tired. Lifting a delicate hand covered by white, lace glove to the wrist, she placed her fingertips against her lips in an attempt to conceal the faux yawn. It was not missed by Edmund however, nor was her next glance towards the oval cloak face as it announced the hour with a tingling chime. In fact, he was still glaring at her, as she at last turned her sleepy gaze towards him.<br><br>“It is awfully late now father,” that sweet voice interjected, unaffected by the dreadfully serious line upon his pursed lips. “Please may I retire? Surely no one will arrive at such an hour. Why, it would be most rude.”<br><br>“You will speak of retiring when I say you may,” Edmund blandly retorted in monotone pomposity. Shuffling the paper, he found the general news articles and with it, the addition of further scolding. The assertion of authority puffed his chest with the necessary power trip he craved every now and then at her expense. “And you will not assume you know all there is to know about society. You will sit there and wait until I decide when the hour is too late.”<br><br>“Yes father.” Her dutiful response held a tone forlorn, as she returned her attention back to her book of sonnets. There was only one reason why she really wanted to retire; sleeping was not part of it. At least, not primarily. The intricacies of her father's business were kept secret from her, since finance and economics were unsuitable for a young lady's ears. But Clara was no fool. The volatile temper of her father as of late, and the more regular correspondence with the outside world told her that she was needed to be on her best behaviour. Guests were such a rarity; she could hardly remember the last time one had been permitted within the Château. On the contrary, Clara was more disappointed, than she was tired. The heiress had thought it exciting to be entertaining a gentleman, as her father had put it. She had all sorts of questions about London society to gauge him with, and had spent a great deal of time in front of her floor length mirror squeezing herself into the most fashionable of her gowns. <em>'How very selfish of him to be so late,'</em> she now thought to herself instead, and she was certain that if he did decide to ring the bell now, he was most certainly a hateful man unworthy of her precious attentions.<br><br><div align="center">(http://i332.photobucket.com/albums/m357/yuniebee/eleanor2.jpg)</div><br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby &amp; Darius Fallenstar]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dariusfallenstar</strong> on <strong>17-05-2011, 08:05:23</strong>
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				<div align="center">(http://i945.photobucket.com/albums/ad295/Dariusfallenstar/GibbousWaxing.jpg)</div><div align="center"><strong>Ten Days Until Full Moon. Current Phase: Gibbous Waxing</strong></div><br><div align="center"><em>I've tried the new moon tilted in the air<br>Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster<br>As you might try a jewel in your hair.<br>I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,<br>Alone, or in one ornament combining<br>With one first-water start almost shining.<br><br>I put it shining anywhere I please.<br>By walking slowly on some evening later,<br>I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,<br>And brought it over glossy water, greater,<br>And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,<br>The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.</em></div><br>She moved behind shadow, partially concealed; yet her face was visible to him. Her gaze, so perfect and pale lingered across him, spreading approving warmth. In her smile, he found redemption. In her touch, salvation. She sighed, a whisper of her warm breath caressing his face, brushing newly cropped hair away from his forehead. He could smell inclement anger, could sense it as surely as he knew his own body – better even. His love did not enjoy being revealed and as time passed, so would shadow, shortening, falling away, baring her for the unworthy to see. Her ire would scorch the world through him, and he would embrace it wholeheartedly. Already, he could feel the tingle of anticipation along his long, densely muscled limbs, could sense the forthcoming, irresistible lust in her siren’s call. Part of him, a part that had taken years to learn to control, wanted to force her hand, to push through anticipation and to give way to lust now. Thankfully, circumstances had afforded him many chances to learn self control. Now, the temptation barely touched his temples, manifesting in a slight bristling of his hairline. <br><br>“Why are you doing this?” A tremulous voice called from behind Nathaniel’s shoulder, distracting him from his contemplation of the horizon through the window. It was still light outside, but the moon was visible. More visible to him than others, for sure, but quite beautiful either way. Nathanial’s hand traveled around the border of the lightly stained glass; tinted just dark enough to enhance the effects of the lacy drapes that framed them, to offer the inhabitants of the room a reprieve from the harshness of the sun, sure to sign straight into the room during the hot summer days. <br><br>His voice was cultured, distinctly English with a hint of Scottish brogue. “To make you sign over your controlling interest in the business of producing talcum powder, of course.” Nathanial said the words casually, enunciated each with precise care, as though he’d practiced for this very moment many times. Control; Nathanial was a creature of immaculate control. <br><br>Shifting away from the window, Nathanial was limned in fading light, light that reminded him that he was going to be late for a very important meeting, if his guest was not expeditious about his assignment. As he moved, Nathanial caught a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror affixed to the side of the room. He was still startled to see himself now; short cropped hair, angular features, intense, brooding eyes. All of that was, more or less the same as it always had been. Before, there had been laugh-lines beside his generous mouth and his hair had been lingered. Now, stern effort kept creases that might have indicated time spent frowning or horrible pain from the corners of his eyes. No, what made him so different was his size. Towering at six-foot four, his muscular bulk would have made any clothes he wore that weren’t specifically tailored burst at the seams, or look like a sack draped over a barrel. His clothes were tailored, of course. A black coat over a matching vest, smartly buttoned up to reveal the white shirt beneath, collar starched to iron crispness, folded over the edges of the vest. His sleeves were buttoned around his wrists and his boots polished to an oily sheen. He could have been going to a grand gala, and not a dinner meeting – but that was all part of the illusion. The wealth, the size differences, the changes in his hair, in the way he talked, those were all affects that he wore as surely as a skin. If he didn’t, the game would be ruined all too soon. <br><br>“I won’t do it,” the voice came again, quavering. A rotund man, grotesquely corpulent body sheathed in a nightgown, sat at a writing desk across from the mirror; the mahogany-cherry finished desk was old, hand crafted, and bore elaborate scroll working across the sides and footings. It looked…marvelous. On top of the desk, a series of parchments, documents carefully spelling out a transition of authority. The man’s hand, almost too fat to grip a pin, shook over the paper, next to the quill set out just so, for this precise moment. <br><br>Nathanial sighed, a soft, lonesome sound and paced over to his companion. Bending over, he looked the man in the face. Right in the eyes. And allowed his lover’s hate to fill him, just a bit. Nathanial’s irises exploded in size, filling his entire sclera with yellow-red wrath. Something primal within that gaze spoke to the fat man, said in very clear, concise tones that Nathanial, despite his appearance of civility, would not hesitate to eat him. Without spices or fire, should he continue to hesitate. <br><br>Fear won out. Several hastily scrawled signatures later, Nathanial was possession of yet another series of factories useful in the production of a number of chemical agents, not the least of which was talcum powder. Useful; he was close to his aim of utterly controlling all of the agencies in England and several in France. Expanding beyond this point would be a challenge, even with his nearly incalculable wealth. Ah, well, c'est la vie. <br><br>“This transaction could have taken place with a purchase. I made you a generous offer. You should not have made me come here.” Nathanial sounded almost sad as he rolled the parchment up and slipped it into a waterproof tube. <br><br>“I founded this business! I made it happen, I started it all. It was me and Edmund. We made a fortune..” <br><br>Her rage found his hand and, before he realized what he’d done, Nathanial had ripped Skiv Cabbot’s throat out and tossed it across the room. Ah, bother. Why had the man gone and mentioned Edmund? She did not like Edmund, not any more than Nathanial did. Shaking his head, Nathanial gently pushed her fury away until the furred claw that had become his hand reverted back to its well-tended, manicured, state – albeit tipped with blood and bits of flesh. <br><br>“Bother,” he said distinctly. The cleanup would take him some time to arrange. He had assistants waiting for the deed, of course, but none of his regular business partners who could handle corpses were alerted. It would take him at least an hour to arrange for Skiv’s departure from the city and subsequent disposal in one of the swamps bordering France. Still, perhaps he could make a coup out of it; any change to extend his influence in the political arena was something to be embraced. Yes. Making it look as though foul play was involved, especially right along the border, might facilitate what was to come quite well. While Nathanial was willing to risk his life to satisfy her need for vengeance, he was partial to the idea of enjoying the fruits of his investment long after she was sated. <br><br>Two hours later than he’d wanted, Nathanial Collins, formerly known as Simon Compte, rode up to the estate of his erstwhile confidante and once-business partner on a stallion as black as the growing night. Over his shoulder the moon whispered her song at him, singing that she would be revealed soon, serenading him with promises of power and anger and revenge. She was pleased with his handling of Skiv, he knew. Taking the fat man’s hand had been a bold maneuver, but he thought that it would add to the mystique, once his corpse was found. It would also give him a piece to work with later, when the pieces were all in place. <br>And here, before him, was one of the most crucial of all the pieces. The crux of the game. <br><br>His knock came precisely two and a half hours after the appointed dinner time. He used his knuckles, Nathanial did, and not the brass knocker on the outside of the large doors. The pain gave him focus. He was Nathanial. Collins. And this was the first day of the rest of his life.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br><div align="center">(http://i945.photobucket.com/albums/ad295/Dariusfallenstar/NathanialOlder.jpg)</div>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby &amp; Darius Fallenstar]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>PearlRuby</strong> on <strong>20-05-2011, 00:56:57</strong>
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				<em>''Admired Miranda!<br>Indeed the top of admiration! worth<br>What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady<br>I have eyed with best regard and many a time<br>The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage<br>Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues<br>Have I liked several women; never any<br>With so fun soul, but some defect in her<br>Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed<br>And put it to the foil: but you, O you,<br>So perfect and so peerless, are created<br>Of every creature's best!''</em><br><br>A bated breath caught within the cage of Clara's bosom, fluttering like a songbird begging to be released as a longing sigh upon fluttering wings. The book of Sonnets had long been abandoned in favour for something far more agreeable to the cravings of her insatiable imagination; though she had flicked to her favourite scene having read the play in full, countless times before. Words very quickly formed the <em>somewhat</em> appropriate images in her mind, orchestrated to suit her own preferences for the scene. The shipwrecked Prince Ferdinand, spat from the Tempestuous ocean, now dressed in nought but his navy breeches. Attention drawn to the clear straining of material over his crotch area, failing to conceal the pointed edge of his arousal. Dark hair, unruly from salt tainted water, curled at the ends slightly, while the more prominent shadows of a beard seethed across a sharp jawline. He boasted a gentleman's physique trained only by the finesse of the fencing arts, and so he struggled to lift heavy logs upon his unaccommodating shoulders at the command of the great Sorcerer. A light sheen of perspiration licked at his completely hairless chest that heaved with wanton breaths, as he paused to woo his Miranda. She, was the spitting image of Clara herself, though far less refined. Lightly waving hair teased by the southern winds, as the pair stood upon the precipice... of Lundy Isle. <br><br><em>''Hear my soul speak:<br>The very instant that I saw you, did<br>My heart fly to your service; there resides,<br>To make me slave to it; and for your sake<br>Am I this patient log—man.''</em><br><br>The release of the impatient songbird at last, followed by the light fidgeting of her buttocks upon the chaise-lounge, caught the swift attention of Edmund. One heavy, fair brow, curling upwards at his daughter's curiously repetitive signs of restlessness. Front teeth were pulling her lower lip behind the upper, and cream lace could not hope to conceal the deep intake of breath she took, that forced her bosom to spill over the corseted bodice. Slightly. His eyes narrowed; what was the little vixen playing at? He may have to confiscate her book if this behaviour continued to stir his loins in such a manner. Quickly averting his stare, the shuffle of pages accompanied the way he cleared his throat hoarsely. Clara paid no notice; nor had she realised his eyes had been upon her. Instead, as she asked her Prince if he loved her, he had carelessly dropped the heavy log from his shoulders. In one, quick movement amidst the clattering of wood, he had caught her delicate hands within far larger mitts. <br><br><em>''O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound<br>And crown what I profess with kind event<br>If I speak true! if hollowly, invert<br>What best is boded me to mischief! I<br>Beyond all limit of what else i' the world<br>Do love, prize, honour you.''</em><br><br>Lips clashed together, mirroring the collision of waves against the great, Devon cliffs. Yet a loud, sudden thundering broke the true precipice, of their first, impatiently hungry kiss. With a startled gasp, Clara was torn away from her daydream, to the reality of the dim drawing room. Was it thunder rollicking across the pregnant skies? Her wide, golden-ochre eyes, looked to the ocean-facing window, expecting the flash of bright lightning to follow. But only the gentle pitter-patter of droplets fell upon the thin, glass pane. Staring immediately at her father, as though demanding an explanation, it seemed he too, had reached the same conclusion. Shrugging the storm aside, the newspaper was folded up, and tossed to the mercy of the fireplace. Poor Clara's shoulders dropped, while her lips pouted. Surely he had done that on purpose? Surely he knew she liked to read the Society pages! Her book abruptly snapped shut.<br><br>“<em>Really</em>, father -” she would start, but would not be permitted to finish. Instead, the opening creak of the drawing room door, interrupted the stagnant tension. First to appear, from behind the solid mahogany, was the gaunt and slightly hunchbacked butler. Whose trembling bones threatened to topple his stature with every slow, careful step he took. His hand clasped a blass candelabra, the same flickering orb of weak light, that had guided the guest yet to be announced. First, up the grand duel staircase covered in dark red, and then, down the foreboding and rather lonely corridor of the first floor. Bideford Château had never boasted the extravagance of overly employed staff; merely an adequate operation of the essential requirements. A butler here, a mere handful of maids there. A head cook and a stable boy or two: The bare minimum to ensure the capable day to day running of the ocean retreat. This particular butler; with his large, bulbous nose and weary, beady eyes, had served his Lord ever since Clara was nought but a twinkle in his eye. Though he was loyal to the bone in his old age, he no longer possessed the strength to combat all the gossip that circulated the Château, all the way to the local village. Everyone knew that, when a master begins to weed out the number of attending servants in his household, such a scandal can only mean the loss of his finances.<br><br>In a most unladylike manner, Clara's jaw dropped as she glared at the butler with impatient expectancy. As if to say 'well?' in the most demanding and pompous of tones. His presence could only mean one thing; either an important letter had been delivered, or a long awaited guest had <em>actually</em> arrived. Clara presumed the latter, of course, and so was soon to be put in her place when the elderly man at last cleared his throat to speak.<br><br>“Ahem.... Mr. Collins.”<br><br>The introduction spurred Edmund immediately from his tall armchair; palms pushing him up onto his polished, buckled black shoes. Even age had graced his bones as of late, to render him not quite the healthy, moderately active man he used to be. His constitution verging on the sickly, though he always strived to keep his back upright despite the failings of his fair complexion. Stunned by brief stupor however, Clara was a little more hesitant to stand. Instead, her inquisitive almond stare accompanied by moderate gaping, watched the doorway to catch first sight of this 'Mr. Collins.' The floorboards creaking with the tell-tale sign of the stranger's movement upon them. Another breath catching in her throat, as he finally appeared. The sheer height of him alone, rendered her off balance, and she was glad she had not tried to stand else she may have found her rear upon the sofa once more. <br><br>Edmund was also a little off-balanced by the first impressions of his business partner to be, but eventually bow very sharply from the waist in polite greeting, before allowing his good graces to transfer to his fumbling tongue instead.<br><br>“Mr. Collins! It is... my honour to welcome you to my humble estate. Please, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to my daughter, Miss Clara.”&nbsp; <br><br>It took a great deal more effort when weighed down by layers of fabrics, but Miss Hewett-Dalton, as she was more appropriately known, managed to rise from her chaise-lounge in one lithe movement, following the extension of her father's hand towards her. If she was to be put on display like a work of art, she might as well play along to the fine etiquette required. So she inclined the dip of her head towards Nathaniel with a rigid little curtsey, and then rested her inquiring gaze upon him. Though her quaint greeting was completed by the adornment of a sweet smile upon strawberry lips, the gesture was in fact brief. It was merely the calm before the storm...<br><br>“You are exceedingly late, Mr. Collins.” She started, her sweetly youthful voice dripping with cheeky honey. Almost daring to provoke an aching, should its consumption be prolonged. “Is that the fashion in London, these days?”<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby &amp; Darius Fallenstar]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dariusfallenstar</strong> on <strong>23-05-2011, 03:41:36</strong>
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				<em>Five years have past; five summers, with the length<br>&nbsp;Of five long winters! and again I hear <br>These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs <br>With a sweet inland murmur.<br>—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, <br>Which on a wild secluded scene impress <br>Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect <br>The landscape with the quiet of the sky. <br>The day is come when I again repose <br>Here, under this dark sycamore, and view<br>These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, <br>Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, <br>Among the woods and copses lose themselves, <br>Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb <br>The wild green landscape. <br>Once again I see <br>These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines <br>Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, <br>Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke <br>Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, <br>With some uncertain notice, as might seem, <br>Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, <br>Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire <br>The hermit sits alone.<br></em><br>Passing through the halls of his enemy took Nathanial back. He remembered a time, years ago, when he, no another man who had worn his skin, had passed between these walls. Inhaling the vaguely rose-scented pine of the stairwell leading to the upper levels of the mansion, he could not help but see his reflection as a younger, smaller person passing beside that marvelously-constructed hidey-hole. He wondered whether or not all of Edmund's latest employees and daughter knew about the cubbies within the walls, the ones that he and Edmund had discovered when they were barely eighteen themselves. What was it that they had said, back then?<br><br>Oh yes…<br><br><em>~18 years ago~</em><br><br><div align="center">(http://i945.photobucket.com/albums/ad295/Dariusfallenstar/NathanialYoung.jpg)</div><br>“I will own this house,” Edmund declared in that snobbish, nasal tone he took whenever he declared something that he considered ‘to be true and factual, regardless of actual truth and facts.’ <br><br>Nathanial, then Simon Compte, snorted. He’d long since learned to tolerate Edmund’s flights of fancy. “Why? With all the money we stand to make, plus your inheritance, you’ll be able to build yourself a truly impressive mansion. Why buy this old thing?”<br><br>Built years ago by a powerful landowner, endowed by the king, on private land that the Jesuits had been the holders of, the mansion was decadent; a true marvel of its time, but expansively wasteful too. Renovations on the towering monument to human pride would take years, if not a solid decade, to implement, particularly if no detail was to be spared. <br><br>“Why not, Simon? It’s where we…,” a brief pause, “you discovered the books! It’s how we’ve made our fortune in what, a year’s time?” Edmund spun around one towering support column near the center of a domed room. High above, angels and the Lord stared down at them with beneficent looks on their cherubic features. Simon had always felt that the gazes of those supernatural creatures were somehow spiteful, as though the spirits of the priests who had inhabited the land had come to rest within the walls and scoured ungrateful malcontents who were impetuous enough to violate the now abandoned ruin. That he’d discovered treasures here meant nothing: as soon as he’d found the books, he’d fled the scene. <br><br>Simon followed Edmund’s spinning dance through the place. Despite the emotions that he should have been feeling, the joy of no longer being poor and having to work at the docks day in and day out, he found that he felt only one thing: trepidation. Aimee had told him of Edmund’s whispered words of interest, of his inappropriate touches. Edmund had long shown symptoms of unfulfilled jealousy when he’d sat in on conversations between Simon and Aimee. How could Simon have missed Edmund’s flighty gaze toward their hands when the two star-crossed lovers had touched, their mouths when they kissed, or the way their bodies hungered for one another when they danced? Simon could not. Yet Edmund was his friend; the two shared a love that surely qualified them for the term “lovers” though, of course, not in the sense that the term was evolving into. Neither man had ever looked at another in that way – yet they’d shared everything. <br><br>Before he'd met Aimee, Edmund had purchased the woman who had taken Simon’s virginity. After, when Edmund admitted paying the girl for her friend and Simon had been heart broken, he'd been all too happy to drink him into a drunken stupor.<br><br>What better friend could one ask for? <br><br>Yet Aimee’s concerns, the fact that Edmund had dared touch her derriere during polite conversation…<br><br><em>“Mr. Collins! It is….my honour to welcome you to my humble estate. Please, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to my daughter, Miss Clara.” </em><br><br>Edmund’s voice, whiney and so centered in his nostrils that he might have been playing a wind instrument, drew Nathanial from his troublesome thoughts, reminded him of why he’d come and how far he’d traveled for this very moment. Turning to face Clara, Nathanial could not help but wait and wonder whether or not Edmund would recognize him. He was a full foot and a half taller than when he’d gone away and physicality practically radiated from the man in an aura of sensuous decadence, so unlike the soft-bellied lords of the day, yet he was not all that changed, was he? Was his face so different, cultivated with hair in carefully coifed locks, shorn short around the base of his neck? Was he so different, wearing the black of a man of wealth above shoes as immaculate as mirrors? Surely Edmund could see the old friendship, the old rivalry, in his eyes? Had the two not been soul mates before?<br><br>Horribly, impossibly, Edmund did not. The weak man could not keep Nathanial’s gaze; he looked everywhere but at his fiercely handsome features. Eventually, Edmund was simply staring at Clara, aghast at her sentiments, spoken with such bold carelessness. <br><br>“Clara, you will restrain yourself this instant! This man is an important guest!” Edmund lashed out in low, but fervent tones. There was desperation in his manner; desperation that fed Si…Nathanial’s private glee. His nemesis did not notice him at all. <br><br>Looking at Clara, Nathanial saw everything that he’d loved about Aimee; her delicate features, her frame – so flexible and fragile, yet strong and lithe and graceful. How he’d loved to see Aimee dance and sway in the gypsy firelight down by the docks, to music so raucous and loud that it had bordered on the scandalous. He could see in Clara’s doe-like steps, graceful yet unrefined, the stamina he’d loved in her mother, how she’d taken hold of him at the root and never let go. And all he could taste was the ashes of hate at the memory of it. Distaste roared in a rush of bile into the back of his throat. <br><br>How long after he’d been taken had Aimee waited to give the toad what he’d wanted? A week? A month? And in his bed right away, he guessed, based on what he’d learned of Clara’s age. His love – a whore – manifest directly before his eyes in living detail, writ large enough to smite his heart anew. It brought the beast to the edge of his vision, russet hued and threatening. A bristling of hair across the nape of his neck reminded him to be careful: each transformation left him thickly furred and grooming would take time. If he allowed his ire to rise, he’d walk out with more than a simple five o’clock shadow and that could raise questions.<br><br>“Miss Clara, a pleasure,” Nathanial managed an instant after her uncouth pronouncement. When he looked at her, his eyes shone with distant mirth, as though she were but a cheap reflection of a real woman. And, in his mind, she was; dross, a cast-off from the beauty that had been his memory of Aimee. More, his challenging gaze showed no signs of distress at how she’d addressed him, only the amusement one sees when looking at a child in need of temperance. There was fierceness there too; a vague and uncertain threat. A hunger that had nothing to do with polite conversation and human affairs. The animal within rose up to meet Clara, sniffing at the air as though to catch a hint of her perfume – or, perhaps, of her recent arousal. <br><br>Stepping to Clara, Nathanial bent at the waist in a motion too graceful for a man of his Adonis-like stature, then captured her hand. He kissed the backs of her fingertips gently, just once, before standing and settling back, at equal distance from both of his hosts.<br><br>“I bring much word from London. Including some of the most recent news. In my saddlebags, I’ve brought the last week’s worth of newspapers. I’m sure it’s difficult to receive any word quickly out here,” Nathanial said smoothly, both reminding Edmund of his inclement and ever-increasing poverty and gambling debts, and hinting at the friendship that could grow between the two of them. <br><br>“I also have word of interest in your most recent alchemical process. Polishing pearls to a new luster, I believe?” Nathanial added quickly.<br><br>Edmund, taken aback slightly by Nathanial’s assertive manner, paused to take a drink from his tumbler. He offered Nathanial some of the same with a gesture, to which Nathanial nodded, smiled and accepted – pouring a heavy amount of the expensive stuff. As much to continue asserting his control as anything else. <br><br>“Yes, you’ve heard correctly. We’ve discovered a process that makes them really…shine. Among other things. New things. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to invest right away,” Edmund said, voice sickeningly hopeful. <br><br>“It is late, as Clara mentioned,” Nathanial raised his glass in her direction. “Let us speak privately in the morning. For now, do you have a bed and bathing area that I might enjoy? I’ve ridden hard from the Inn that I’ve taken over and need refreshments.”<br><br>Edmund paused, wincing. He needed more than empty words, but he could not besmirch his guest. “Yes, yes, of course…bright and early tomorrow.” <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby &amp; Darius Fallenstar]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>PearlRuby</strong> on <strong>06-06-2011, 22:04:37</strong>
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				The verbal lashings from her father, may have temporarily stilled Miss Clara's tongue, but it did not nearly quell the fire of her spirit. Keenly attentive eyes remained transfixed on the important guest, far beyond a dutifully polite nod or smile. Hardly put off by his larger stature, her bold gaze lifted to devour each chiselled inch of his complexion admired by candlelight, while craving further inspection of those features that preferred to cling to the wavering shadows. He seemed matured, more than enough to be in his male prime and yet, he seemed far too handsome to match her father's age. Suffice to say, those vital first impressions had piqued her intrigue beyond the initial allure of actually receiving such an esteemed and therefore, a rare guest. The intrigue however, seemed mutual. Those bright eyes lifted to see how the guest observed her, and she wished, oh she wished, that she knew what type of assessment he was making. Was he comparing her to the more preferred tastes of London? Or was it an Ode to a summer's day that elicited his more approving thoughts?<br><br>Pursing her smooth lips together at the challenge of his unaffected, dark brogue, a light smile found her pert pout in clear approval of what she saw. Even as he stepped forwards, bringing the finer hairs at the back of her neck to stand frazzled and erect, she remained stubborn. Chin lifting slightly to greet his closer presence, until he managed to capture her hand, and her breath, in one fell swoop. Lower lip parting to complete the serene quality of her dreamy gaze, Clara was sure she felt the cliché of her heart skipping a beat the moment she felt a foreign kiss upon her fingers. No, it was not a skipped beat! Her heart had somehow sunk past the sudden knotting in her gut, to cast two, tight beats between her thighs instead. Fluttering lashes registered the melting sensation that threatened to buckle her knees, while that hung lip quivered with the need to utter a witty response. But she had none save for the quick, much needed intake of a new breath. <br><br>When Nathaniel stepped away, she in turn brought her tainted hand to rest over her stunned bosom. The shift in conversation permitted her descent upon the chaise-lounge, and though she at first perked to the mention of newspapers, the more business-like chatter that followed definitely threatened to bore her all over again. Fortunately, it seemed the guest possessed not only an Adonis physique, but also, a great deal of admirable good sense.<br><br>“Mason,” her sweet voice called to the door, and without fail, the frail butler crept from behind the solid mahogany. “See that Mr. Collins is shown to a guest suite in the West Wing – the white door, on the second floor. Yes, that room is perfect. And, have Giles prepare a hot bath for him immediately... Please.” <br><br>“Yes Miss,” said Mason. Still holding the flat, brass candelabra, he briefly moved aside, knowing polite farewells would grant him enough time to put those requests into motion. With a smile that would surely melt butter, the young woman fluidly rose to her feet then, smoothing her pretty skirts out in a fan of lace and linen. Stepping forwards slightly, she paused briefly in the centre of the room, expecting all eyes to be upon her. She, on the other hand, only had eyes for the guest.<br><br>“The sunset, and the night sky over the ocean scape, is a most admirable view from there.” She knew first hand, after all, since her own chambers would not be far off. Edmund always preferred the East facing chambers, but he wasn't about to argue or jump to conclusions when it clearly pleased his daughter to be managing the household in a more ladylike manner. <br><br>“Quite so,” he nodded more submissively. “Well done, very well done.”<br><br>“Thank you father,” she began her conclusion with a pleased little dip of her head. “And now, I fear I must bid you good night. As fascinating as your pearls may be, to me, subjects of a more financial matter, are like counting sheep.” Her coyly smiling gaze, full of proud wit, fell upon Nathaniel at that moment. Or was it a daring smirk upon her pretty pout? A promise to provide far more mischief once the sun replaced the moon? Her tone was certainly far too sweet to be wholly innocent, as she slowly dipped at the knees into a perfectly balanced curtsey. “Mr. Collins.” <br><br>Then, she was off, in a whispering whirl of skirts and petticoats kissing the swift gait of her thighs, as the crossed the remainder of the room. The more stagnant mist of honeyed perfume, and a far more illicit fragrance, lingering behind in her more immediate wake. <br><br>The storm outside was barely even worthy of such a name; rainfall pattered against the window panes of the grand main hallway, while strong winds shook the glass and outdoor shutters. But there was no rolling thunder or flashes of light to accompany Clara to the West Wing, to the double, ornamental doors painted pastel turquoise and gold, that led through to her lavish chambers. There was no maid to help her undress behind the modest screen, or to fill her own bathtub with boiled water. Tonight, all starved attention would be on the guest, while the master and mistress of the house suffered. Her own fingers therefore frantically picked at the tight lace that held her corset so tightly together, to eventually grant her constrained lungs freedom to inhale deeper, much needed breaths. Still wearing her gown, though it hung closely from her heaving bosom, the dismayed woman rushed to the far window, hastily lifted the latch, and pushed both panes apart to welcome the cold, tempestuous air in prickles against her porcelain skin. There, she more or less panted; wantonly heaving to fill her lungs in a delayed reaction to her first encounter, with a real, gentleman. Oh! If she were Miranda, then Edmund was surely her Prospero and Mr. Collins, her Ferdinand, come to rescue her from her tower! What's more, she thought, as she lifted her tainted hand to her lowered gaze. A hand where no lips had touched before, except for a parental graze. If this was the effect of just one, gentle and very quick kiss, then how would others make her feel? A stolen touch, or an accidental brush... would it really be so naughty, to try?<br><br>Leaning out slightly, the drizzle of rain marring her flushed cheeks, Clara gaped to the dark oceans knowing with great pleasure that her chosen conquest shared these same, magnificent views. So close to her, and yet so far. Blocked by mere walls and closed doors. How was she to sleep when he possessed tales from London? Newspapers carrying the most recent news, and forbidden knowledge that her father kept secret from her ears. What it was exactly, she did not know, but there had to be <em>something</em>. In fact, she smirked to herself, finally withdrawing from the window. It was Mr. Collins himself, who was the real enigma to be unravelled. <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Walking on Glass ~ [PearlRuby &amp; Darius Fallenstar]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dariusfallenstar</strong> on <strong>09-06-2011, 08:55:59</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				Nathanial considered the girl as she commanded the wait staff and her father, bossing each around so casually. Her presumptuousness amused him, the not-quite-obscure offer for a clandestine meeting intriguing him not for its potentiality as much as her extreme arrogance in assuming that he would be interested in such collusion. It wasn’t that Nathaniel didn’t find the girl stunning, vulnerable – a ripe flower, fit to be plucked from beneath his enemy’s eye, rather he knew what his plans were, knew what machinations he’d set in motion already. Some, no doubt, would come to fruition soon and others, much later. Should he allow himself to grow close to this intoxicating and bemusing young woman, he might be stung by his own thorns. And that idea was repugnant to him. Edmund was his enemy and Clara, his by-blow, was unfortunate collateral damage as far as he was concerned. <br><br>“A bath sounds lovely,” Nathaniel said, announcing in that crisp, rolling accent of his. He nodded his head to Edmund, “I bid you good evening sir. I will be up quite early, but do not let it disturb your slumber, I enjoy horseback riding in the mornings and may not return until near noon.” Nathaniel’s smile was sincere without a hint of tick that might give away his lies.<br><br>Edmund nodded, still looking cowed by his daughter. He wanted things done, overseen, signed, straightened out as soon as possible. Seated there in his chair, the thin man’s fingers twitched to hold the dice again, to have the funds to live the life that he so craved, to touch a whore’s flesh again. To be the gentleman he was born to be! Privately, Edmund despised himself for his addictions, for his actions in the past, yet he could not conceive of a world in which they did not exist. If allowing Clara an opportunity to take control or even, and this made him feel truly sour, tempt Nathaniel into assisting his…their…futures with an endowment of capital, well, so be it. She knew better these days. Edmund’s face twitched between surly to a truly deep frown to something approaching lust as quickly as the storm outside had come and gone, hinting at the truly emotional nature of the man. In the end, however, perhaps most telling, his eyes lit on Clara with something like desire in them, a possessiveness that somehow wove through everything he thought or did toward his little girl. She was just…so pristine. <br><br>Nathaniel watched Edmund’s flickering display only briefly. The scents wafting from the man were sickening; even the beast-killer inside his breast was repulsed by the emotional queues the man’s body odor signaled. He turned to Clara and smiled, expressive lips turning upward in a truly sensuous display of indulgent flattery, “M’lady, I look forward to seeing you again.” With that, he turned to follow Mason up the stairs and to the west wing, where his bath would be waiting.<br><br>Down the long halls that he and Edmund had explored as children, Nathaniel found himself astonished at the degree of skill, the elaborate scroll work and the masterful craft that had been employed to restore the old mansion to even a shadow of its former glory. Edmund must have spent a fortune after sending Nathaniel away, rebuilding their dream. Edmund, Nathaniel realized, was living on the ghost of their childhood, the sin of his youth still haunting him everywhere he turned. It was but a shadow of the punishment that the man deserved. Even seeing the gutted sconces along the walls, vacant of candles, indicating just how poor Edmund had grown, did not bestir any sense of righteousness in Nathaniel’s breast: Edmund must not simply fall to his doom, he must be ground into powder, his humanity stripped. <br><br>The bathing chamber was, as expected, opulent and well-lit. New tapers adorned guilt candelabras on stands around the porcelain tub, filled to the brim with scalding water. Chests of drawers along one wall, along with a full body mirror, offered fresh linens and scents to add to the mixture should he want, all of which Mason pointed out (much to the joy of the exhausted Giles who stood in a corner, body soaked with sweat at having worked so hard to prepare the room ahead of his arrival), along with Nathaniel’s room across the hall.<br><br>“Anything else, sir?” Mason asked at the end, something wry in his shrewd old eyes.<br><br>“No. That’ll be all,” Nathaniel replied. Mason (and Giles, finally catching his breath) seemed surprised and a little relieved (Giles more relieved than Mason). <br><br>A few seconds later both Mason and Giles vacated the room, Giles holding his back in one hand and a large steely bucket in the other. Nathaniel shook his head. He couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten hot water up as quickly as he had without sprinting the entire way, unless there was a water room in the west wing. Frowning, Nathaniel thought back. Perhaps there had been foundations for plumbing there before, but he doubted it. Interesting that Edmund would have expanded the mansion’s facilities during the remodeling. <br><br>Shrugging out of his clothes, Nathaniel finally allowed the grip of the night to overcome him yet again. Keeping the curse at bay for so long…it was an abomination. Half an hour later Nathaniel slipped, hairless and naked, skin pink from scalding hot bath water, and another recent transformation, from the bathroom and into his bedroom. The saddlebags from his horse were already there, and he changed quickly. On the other side of the well-furnished room he could see a balcony shielded from view by thin drapes, through which the light of the recently set sun was evident; tones of sepia and orange still lingered on the horizon, contrasting with the glowing pale light of the moon working diligently toward fullness, high in the sky. From where he stood, near the four post bed with canopy, he could hear the roar of the ocean as clearly as if he’d been standing next to it. A scenic view indeed. <br>
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