....Loud trashy rock and roll blasted from her room as she set about reassembling it to a more pleasing aesthetic. Crochet just was not her thing. The room was bare, but for a simple black cupboard (spray painted so) and inside lined with her personal lore, grand piano polished and not a day old in appearance, her hammock which served as a great bed, and a tall Art Nouveau inspired lamp in the left handside corner to the window. She smiled, pleased with her effort, and leant against the windowframe to look out over WestEnd.


A sigh, and she buttoned up her jacket, the cold chilling to the bone. Perhaps even Vampires were prone to the odd human sensibility? We could bonk, we could laugh, we could kill, we could still get drunk. Life wasn't Un-anything. It was only coloured.

She set about lighting up, watching as streaks of dark feathered birds raged against the dying light at the hour. An odd smile cast across her face, and in that apeture, that colomn of shadow and broken white light, all glare and sleet-snow exposure, she was older and more beautiful, than young and deadly. She was reserved. But still she had fangs and a blood lust, it was all self control.

She turned then as she exhaled and looked at the door to her room, inclining her head and yelling out a "HEY, WHO GOES THERE?"

She got chills or gusts of warmth at different people, and this she didn't recognise. The lines surrounding her mouth, from her overly expressive mouth in younger days, stretching as she peeled back the door, expecting her employer, in a bad mood.

Only, it was someone she didn't know.


Was this Bastian?

Alain?


She arched a brow, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

"Yo", came her slow drawl, and she side stepped to let them through.