The tall imposing figure, of pale skin and moonlit silver eyes and variously lengthened black hair, stood hunched over the glass box that was suspended by thin durable steel wires at the four-corners of the transparent chassis, securely bolted to the bedroom's wooden panelled ceiling. It hung just beside a king size bed both curtained and quadre-posted, with drapes of white silk.
Dressed in an aristocratic fashion of a poet's shirt with frilled cotton cuffs and collar, his lower body exhibited a pair of tight pin-striped black trousers and constrictive black riding shoes that seemed too small for him to wear, adding to the overall indication that he was of noble or well-off Lordling birth.
White satin gloves gently travelled across the smooth surface, shifting the white petals that was picked haphazardly and strewn upon it, his low, rumbling voice cracking with scars of despair and yearning that reopened, and bled anew. "My sweet, Lumina?" The whisper of her name brought the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up on end, to send shivers down his spine, "You look" Beautiful, as always?" Softly, he laid a hand upon the glass, above the image of her face.
The waist long wavy brown haired woman that laid silently in her windowed coffin was perhaps at best mildly attractive. Although, she was entirely enhanced with the endowed attire of her wedding dress, now turned funeral gown. She looked alive, with full colour to the skin; looking to be lost in a deep, entrancing sleep that could not simply be disturbed. However, Lumina, was dead.
Half lidded feline silver ovals slid past her face, and onto her hands resting intertwined upon her stomach, and upon the plain silver ring around her bridal finger. "Eighty and four years may have passed my love, but everyday, I think of you." He leant closer to the glass, his breath misting the sight of his dead beloved. "I have slept for twenty years" And still, my lifeless heart beats for you-"
There was a sudden unwelcome hard rap upon the heavy oaken door, with a female voice of a monotonous nature with the tonal qualities of someone that served, that came through half muffled by the wood of the door. "Count Augastine, your guests have arrived, and are awaiting your presence in the Drawing Room. Allow me to dress you in your afternoon clo-"
The Count swung towards the door, satin gloves clenched at his sides. "Leave me be, Helga!" His voice and dominance shuddered the very room he occupied, the floral vase on the bedside cabinet tipping, spilling the flowers and water onto the dark red carpet. "Send my guests away this instant! I am in no mood to deal with complying with the Masquerade and entertain the folly and fop of mortal society!"
"It is unbecoming of your position, Count Augastine, to talk in such an uncouth manner. I shall go prepare your suit, and tend to the guests."
Dressed in an aristocratic fashion of a poet's shirt with frilled cotton cuffs and collar, his lower body exhibited a pair of tight pin-striped black trousers and constrictive black riding shoes that seemed too small for him to wear, adding to the overall indication that he was of noble or well-off Lordling birth.
White satin gloves gently travelled across the smooth surface, shifting the white petals that was picked haphazardly and strewn upon it, his low, rumbling voice cracking with scars of despair and yearning that reopened, and bled anew. "My sweet, Lumina?" The whisper of her name brought the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up on end, to send shivers down his spine, "You look" Beautiful, as always?" Softly, he laid a hand upon the glass, above the image of her face.
The waist long wavy brown haired woman that laid silently in her windowed coffin was perhaps at best mildly attractive. Although, she was entirely enhanced with the endowed attire of her wedding dress, now turned funeral gown. She looked alive, with full colour to the skin; looking to be lost in a deep, entrancing sleep that could not simply be disturbed. However, Lumina, was dead.
Half lidded feline silver ovals slid past her face, and onto her hands resting intertwined upon her stomach, and upon the plain silver ring around her bridal finger. "Eighty and four years may have passed my love, but everyday, I think of you." He leant closer to the glass, his breath misting the sight of his dead beloved. "I have slept for twenty years" And still, my lifeless heart beats for you-"
There was a sudden unwelcome hard rap upon the heavy oaken door, with a female voice of a monotonous nature with the tonal qualities of someone that served, that came through half muffled by the wood of the door. "Count Augastine, your guests have arrived, and are awaiting your presence in the Drawing Room. Allow me to dress you in your afternoon clo-"
The Count swung towards the door, satin gloves clenched at his sides. "Leave me be, Helga!" His voice and dominance shuddered the very room he occupied, the floral vase on the bedside cabinet tipping, spilling the flowers and water onto the dark red carpet. "Send my guests away this instant! I am in no mood to deal with complying with the Masquerade and entertain the folly and fop of mortal society!"
"It is unbecoming of your position, Count Augastine, to talk in such an uncouth manner. I shall go prepare your suit, and tend to the guests."