2024-09-06 Memento Mori - Beauty In Decay

Memento Mori - Beauty in Decay

Participants: Mark, Kian, Tristan, Andrey, Addison, with Pris hosting.

Location: Museum of Contemporary Art

Date and Time: September 6, 2024 8pm

Summary: Art exhibit exploring the mortality of all things through textiles and moving pictures.

───<Pris>───

Downtown LA hums with a quiet, anticipatory electricity. Cryptic projections and provocative visuals flicker across walls and streets outside as guests approach, whispering promises of a fleeting cultural moment: Memento Mori - Beauty in Decay. The show has already been lauded as "visceral", "transformative", and "pivotal", and tonight, the rumor mill suggests, only the city’s most fortunate will witness it firsthand.

Inside MOCA, the air is thick with heat and expectation. The space is packed --- guests jostle, some nervous, some reveling in the exclusivity --- all drawn here by the promise of Khyber Marchetti’s latest, long-anticipated work. 

Screens throughout the room pulse with slow-motion projections of her living statues, fabrics fluttering, fraying, and alive with subtle motion. Light spills across the audience unevenly, creating shadows that move of their own eery accord.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTvvf9rYgN4&list=RDhTvvf9rYgN4&start_radio=1

───<Pris>───

The artist herself is here tonight, but she is not alone --- Khyber Marchetti's infamous living statues drift among the crowd, alive and poised, so like statues yet undeniably warm and vibrant humans in beastly drag, appearing in sequence through the night. 

Currently Marchetti's ghoulish Choristae, chorus girls, are prancing about the crowd unevenly, their beautiful clothing seemingly thrown in, in haste, with frayed hair and looking tired enough to fall over where they stand. Fleeting eye contact --- a brush of a gloved hand, a tilt of the head --- sends small shivers down the spine, if one is open to it. Textures, colours, and gestures ripple in the peripheral vision, leaving guests questioning what is real, what is art, and what is, perhaps, a reflection of themselves. 

https://i.imgur.com/ktkJaNV.mp4

They have no herald, they are simply there, part of the background.

The scent of bloody iron and warm linen mingles with the heat and perfume of the attendees. Whispers, the rustle of fabrics, and subtle metallic sounds layer over the buzz of conversation and Classic Electronica soundtrack, creating an atmosphere simultaneously intimate and overwhelming. Every movement, every glance, every detail feels charged with life and decay, seduction and danger. 

For one night, the city is suspended in this rare, ephemeral nexus of beauty, mortality, and visceral art. This is a subsection of the elite of LA, and in their midst mingles a handful of vampires --- creatures who are intimately familiar with questioning the decay of their own beautiful souls. Those present may leave with questions, impressions, and sensations that refuse to fade --- a cultural echo of a moment that cannot be owned, only experienced.

───<Kian>───
The arrival of Mr. Argent is heralded by the quiet presence of his private security, a subtle ripple through the crowd that precedes him. Tonight, his expression is void of emotion; his mask betrays nothing of thought or intent. It is as though he has come only to be moved by action and art, and nothing else. He passes through the gathering like a phantom adrift in candlelight, his gaze cutting through the noise until he finds his place to stand apart, to observe what he hopes will be an echo of perfection that mirrors his own. To set ablaze that heart of cold logic. (New desc written for this event!)

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Kian

It isn't that he seems unnatural. It's that everything and everyone else seems like a thinner, paler, or less complete echo of him by comparison. The world itself seems to have grown to allow a new level of beauty by his existence alone, one that is almost too exquisite to make sense to the conscious mind, one that is practically painful to the eye that will eventually have to look upon something less perfect. All of the dozens of tiny cues that make up a person are flawless, giving truth to that ungodly perfection: the angle and cant of his head as he listens, or the soft-silk motion of his shaggy ebon locks drifting across the gaze of his impossible violet eyes. A matte black leather half-mask, fitted close to his face with seamless stitching and a faint parchment texture, covers the upper part of his face. A shadowed line frames his eyes, and a subtle iolite stone is embedded on the forehead like a third eye.

Tonight, his attire offers no distraction. He wears a fitted black dress shirt of near-weightless silk, collarless and fastened with jet clasps.

A long coat flows behind him, obsidian velvet lined in deep violet, the inner seams embroidered with constellations that shift subtly as if catching light from another sky. His trousers are tailored, his boots are polished, soft leather that whispers instead of clicking. ═══════════════════════════════════

───<Mark_Steele>───
Mark is already here (and doubtless that means Arthur is somewhere in the crowd, or just outside, uncomfortable in his fancier than usual clothes serving as Mark's driver). And owing to the nature of his association with Priscilla Albret, coterie-mate, he has probably already been here for quite some time. Eidolon Collective, a sort of corporate conglomerate that seems highly active but no one quite knows what it does, is a major sponsor of the event, their ghostly logo and name tastefully and discretely displayed on programs and certain other areas of the museum tonight.

The Brujah is also in costume (see current desc!) and currently fiddling with the cuffs of the bespoke suit he commissioned. The scent of bloody iron makes his nostrils flare from behind that ceramic half-mask, and currently his attention is on Khyber Marchetti herself, keeping an eye on the artist from a distance with an air of vague suspicion. Mortals mostly avoid him, no doubt due to his daunting aura but also because, few people actually know who he is and he is neither attractive enough nor wealthy looking enough to seem important in all liklihood.

═══════════════════════════════════

Mark

Mark Steele gives off an aura of being more than capable of handling trouble. Because of that, trouble tends to take a wide berth around him. He possesses a rugged, weathered appearance of wrinkled and leathered skin from a hard life that ages him significantly. His face is lined with the unmistakable marks of a life filled with challenges and experiences. Standing att an average height, his build is solid and well-maintained, a testament to what must be healthy living and a disciplined lifestyle regimen. He sports a closely cropped beard that frames his jawline, lending an air of authority to his countenance. His salt and pepper hair, trimmed in a military style, is neat and well-kept, suggesting a penchant for order and precision.

But it's the scar that defines his visage. It begins above his left eye, slicing through it before extending down one side of his nose. His left eye, though functional, bears a disfigured appearance with a milky, slightly droopy gaze, revealing the toll of past hardships. He has a well-trimmed and carefully kept beard, though it's gone even more gray than the hair on his head. For the Momento Mori gala—a high-society affair blending art, mortality, and illusion—Mark dons a tailored three-piece suit in subtly marbled gray brocade, the texture invoking cracked stone and oxidized age. The lapels and cuffs are edged in dark silver thread, shaped into laurel and ivy motifs, barely noticeable in most lighting. Beneath, a charcoal silk shirt replaces his usual crisp cotton, paired with a soft black velvet neck drape held by a brooch in the shape of a broken hourglass. His half-mask, bone-white ceramic with deliberate cracks and worn edging, sits across the left half of his face—an artistic echo of his scar. It’s as much a shield as it is an invitation. His boots are black matte leather, paired with stitched gloves that recall old battlefield sutures.

His hands are calloused and gnarled like a lifetime boxer. He wears round wire-frame glasses, his eyes hold a depth of wisdom and resilience, a testament to the strength of character that defines him. His style balances timelessness with statement—tonight, he is the war monument with a pulse, standing silent among sculpture.

OOC: Flaw – Repulsive Feature (Scar and Eye), Appearance 3, Daunting Aura (Mark projects a supernatural aura of intimidation and capability. Subtly different from an aura of violence, it affects all characters who are not immune to mental influence) ═══════════════════════════════════

───<Pris>───
Pris Albret is here, moving quietly through the crowd, watching the event unfold with a mild expression. Tonight, she is a lovely and macabre creature --- her hair is swept back into a soft chignon, with minimal makeup --- only the barest suggestion of colour to remind the viewer she occupies the world of the living.

Tonight, she wears custom couture by their artistic hostess, Khyber Marchetti --- elegance invaded by quiet horror.

A blood-red dress, long-sleeved with a high collar, tailored to her frame with immaculate precision. The fabric is sleek and unblemished, but the details betray a darker artistry: embroidered motifs creep along the seams and cuffs --- roses unraveling into skulls, filigree spiralling into shapes reminiscent of teeth and bone.

The pencil skirt restricts her movement, each step controlled, poised, and deliberate. Beauty made still. Beauty restrained.

A thin black belt cinches her waist, a subtle line of contrast meant to hold the silhouette in disciplined perfection.

Crystal teardrop earrings catch the light at her ears with a mournful clarity, little drops of crystallized sorrow.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey emerges in the space fashionably or perhaps unfashionably late. But does time have any presence in such a timeless space? He moves about the crowd and doesn't seem to notice anyone he knows yet, but pauses a moment to take in the living art with what appears to be a spellbound fascination. He smiles a bit to himself, and looks to be taking pleasure from the immersion of the senses, of the sights, sounds and particularly the smells. He allows any fabric to move over him, and if it does, he reaches out gentle fingers to return the caress of fabric whether intended or not in his direction.

───<Pris>───

As the Choristae, the Chorus girls move with ghoulish grace, darting with their frayed energy through the crowd, the artist appears at on the raised, lit catwalk in the middle of the room.

Khyber Marchetti is a woman of sharp, quiet menace (https://i.imgur.com/DEtWDRI.png). At 5'7, she is present in heels, without looming. Her hair is black streaked with red, cut to frame a face marked by sharp olive features and dark, calculating eyes --- she is of Italian and Persian descent, her passion visible in her every movement, if it wasn't obvious in her art.

She is wearing an outfit of structured black canvas, layered and fitted over her curves in utilitarian fashion, accented by detailed skeletal remnants in stiff, sculpted fabric.

She walks confidently down the walkway toward the end, and prepares to begin the exhibit.

───<Tristan>───
Tristan's here, casually walking around (as his style) with a thoughtful look on his face and his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. He's made a /bit/ of an effort to match the autumnal theme, dressing in slightly darker colours than he'd usually pick. His modern-fit Italian wool suit is a deep autumnal brown, his cotton dress shirt is dark sage green, and his silk tie with a herrinbone print is black-bronze.

He's with his personal assistant, Clementine Something-Something, who is as immaculate as always in a skirt-suit of dark taupe wool and a deeper-hued silk blouse. Walking in with her arm hooked through Tristan's, she gracefully click-click-clicks her way in on high-poised heels, a COACH bag over her shoulder. A bronze autumn leaf glints at her lapel.

The pair's eyes don't turn towards Kian as Tristan and Clementine circulate, which is probably for the best -- the woman is only human, after all! Instead, the ghoul holds onto Tristan's arm as one of the choir girls moves too close to Tristan's proximity for her liking.

With a smile to the choir girl, somewhat air-headed, the conveniently autumn-haired Ventrue totally misses his PA's reaction. "Quite nice this, isn't it Clemmie?" he asks with typical British understatement. Clementine just glares frostily ahead.

───<Mark_Steele>───
With a low grunt, Mark starts to move through the crowd. Ponderous and heavy-steps, the careful footfalls of an old man worried about bumping into someone and perhaps losing his balance. He moves quietly, navigating through the living art pieces and video installation. Occasionally he is stopped by someone. A city councilman here, someone from the arts board there, shaking hands but never lingering for long. It's inevitable, in these sorts of situations, that Kindred tend to eventually find each other in little knots, to share their secrets. The Brujah appears to be making his way in the direction of Pris to find her in the crowd. But he stops when Khyber moves from the side of the stage to the raised lit catwalk and moves towards the end with confident heel-clicking steps - the move an obvious prelude to an announcement, "Artists." He says simply, a muttered rasp to himself.

───<Andrey>───
If there happens to be a plant nearby, Andrey gives it a gentle caress. Did it just move with his touch? Maybe. He pauses to note Khyber Marchetti with an appreciative glance and he beams a smile. He's not trying to catch her attention, as if he could, but he just smiles at the joy he's already feeling just being in the space here and now. He doesn't really get out much these days. He notices Mark moving toward Pris and begins to move in their direction as well. He pauses nearby, and watches the display of beauty in decay. He says, softly, perhaps above a whisper, not intending to be creepy but just keeping a low profile. "Mr. Steele. Ms. Albrecht. Nice to see you this evening. How marvelous this is." as he smiles to glance around. He notices Tristan glancing his way and offers him a polite nod in return. He also notices at this time, Kian, and he ahs softly and raises a hand to give him a glance of greeting if he happens to be looking his way.

───<Kian>───
A soft smirk slips across Kians face, carrying a trace of ghostly amusement, almost smug, as he surveys the room. His towering height sets him apart, a subtle beacon threading through the throng of guests and whispers. He offers a polite, respectful nod to the members of the Eidolon Collective, acknowledging their presence with inhuman grace. Pris and Mark are difficult to miss, even in the swirl of movement and conversation, As does Andrey. Yet, despite the ebb and flow of the crowd, it is the lady of the hour who has completely seized his attention. Every other detail fades, and for a moment, the world seems to bend toward her, as if the air itself has shifted to mark her significance.

───<Pris>───

The music shifts, strings hushed. Khyber gives Andrey a quick grin --- showing a mischievous streak in her gnome-like persona. Before she starts to speak, her first living work of art begins streaming on the electric columns around the venue, and on the large LCD panels on the walls. At this moment, she is struck by Kian in the crowd and, against the sound of restrained and sorrowful strings, is caught by his otherworldy perfection. Luckily, Mr. Argent is far enough away that she is able to tear free and continue the show.

After this brief interruption, she speaks in a low and deliberate voice, imbuing her narration with the passion and love that she feels for her work.

"To start the night, I bring you 'Floris Mortalis - Death/Rebirth'."

The words scroll on the all, and the videos stream, showing what she describes with cinematic impact: https://i.imgur.com/SUb7ZOd.mp4

"Ensconced in a luxurious fur coat and white silk and adorned with a gluttony of jewels, the world seems to ripple around her as she stands, uneven, hesitant --- each moment a tentative exploration of a power she barely understands. She is in bloom --- flushed and radiant, confused and trembling with the thrill and terror of new potential. A subtle hum of presence follows her, as if the world itself leans closer to observe her awakening."

───<Tristan>───
Tristan, bless his heart, is perhaps (at least by first impressions) one of the dreamier, breezier representatives of his clan. That said, he's aware enough to retain courtesy, so when he catches himself incidentally looking in Andrey's direction, he offers a polite, airy nod-smile combo that seems genuine enough. He also might have just given his ghoul's arm a very, very subtle jog, but it's hard to tell aside from the fact that her frosty localised glare cracks into a subdued and similar gesture of greeting. With that, the Ventrue -- and by extension, his PA -- turn to look over to Khyber up there on the stage. Tristan watches, head turning faintly to one side as he and his ghoul listen to Khyber's speech on death and decay. He nods, vaguely. A kind of 'right, right' nod, like he's a'ruminating.

───<Mark_Steele>───
"Andrey." Mark inclines his head to the younger (appearance-wise anyway) man, giving a slight smile, "It's been a long time. I hope you're well." Then he turns back agin in time to see the videos streaming on all the many large screens all over the museum, a cacophony of images of the Floris Mortalis'. Mark issues a quiet rumbly 'hmmmm' in his throat, considering the words of the artist in describing the video.

To be clear, though Andrey may have greeted Pris in the crowd, Mark is not actually near her yet, and so it leaves him and the Tremere alone in the crowd, though there are other Beasts nearby to be sensed, uneasy recognition between predators. He nods his head towards Tristan, lifting a hand to point him out in the crowd, "Have you met Mr...." Mark pauses, caught up short. He's forgotten Tristan's name, or at least part of it, before finally saying, "Montague!" There it is. Call it a senior moment.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey also takes in the scene unfolding with all of his senses. He inhales deeply, blinks and has the all the mannerisms of a vibrant living individual in both behavior and appearance. He inclines his head to Mark. "It has been quite some time. What is that expression some folks have these days? Out touching grass? Well, I've been doing that for quite some time now. Almost too much." He says with a chuckle. "I'm still trying to keep Griffith Park as beautiful as possible, all things considered." He pauses to take in the moments as they are going by, savoring them with his senses. He notices Khyber's quick grin and he gasps softly. His eyes and expression: She noticed me. Almost as if he was a fan for forever. He looks pleased.

He takes a moment as well to return the greetings of Tristan and his assistant. He pauses a moment. I don't have an assistant, he realizes. Probably for the better. He notices that he is not yet near Pris and he oops to himself. He mistook her distance perhaps and chuckles to himself. "I heard there was a...gathering recently. Political business and what not." He says in casual conversation to Mark.

───<Kian>───
Kian slowly make his way over to the others with a polite and respectful smile. All the while taking in the view of the art in motion, "Good Evening to you all, quite the show you have going here." His gaze dances between Pris and Mark. He smiles once at Andrey, "Slipping away from your study for the evening for a truly unique experience this evening?"

He finally takes sight of Tristan, "Good Evening, I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting. I am Kian Argent." A gloved hand extends toward him, yet those violet eyes keep focus on the performer.

───<Pris>───
"Good evening to everyone." Pris has appeared at some point, next to Mark, how tricky. She smiles back to Kian, and nods to Andrey, but otherwise lets the loquacious Mr. Steele lead the conversation.

───<Pris>───

Khyber Marchetti, the artist and hostess, stands by while her model, the woman in fur from the video snips, proceeds down the runway toward her. Continuing to explain her vision, Khyber speaks as the model walks in tall black boots. And with each step the woman's confusion recedes and her footing becomes more secure.

"Her lips remain soft, her eyes gentle; yet the totality of her presence evokes a pressed flower in an ancient tome --- delicate, stunning, touched by death. Beauty caught in the moment before it withers. Every glance, every hesitant movement suggests both vulnerability and the first stirrings of something eternal, a self she has yet to fully inhabit."

"The air around her feels charged, alive. Each flutter of fabric, each tremor of breath, hints at her unseen strength and the beginning of a long, unending journey. She is fragile, luminous, and forever changed --- caught between the fleeting bloom of life and the unyielding pull of forever." 

───<Tristan>───
Tristan points a casual single-finger finger-gun to Mark, along with a simple, casual wink. "That's the one, Mr. Steele."

He doesn't bother introducing his ghoul. She keeps holding onto Tristan's arm in the same manner that her COACH handbag she wears: functional yet expensive, classy and subtly decorative.

The Ventrue meanwhile offers Andrey an upnod of the aristotic kind. "Andrey -- I think I've heard that name in our circles. Botanical enthusiast, I gather? How nice to put a face to the name, if I've got it right."

Meanwhile, Clementine clocks Kian first, her head turning to look up at the tall and unnaturally striking gent. She's got one of those marble poker-faces, but even she can't stop her eyes widening in confusion. Her expression looks milfly shocked.

Tristan turns around when he feels his ghoul stiffen. A blink, and then: "Tristan Montague. Pleasure to meet you, Mr.. Argent."

Tristan does not return the handshake immediately. He looks faintly, faintly bamboozled, eyebrows drawing togther fractionally. Then catwalk is forgotten.

───<Mark_Steele>───
"There was a Salon, yes, it was fairly well attended." Mark's tone is tight, even as the majority of the people he knows start to naturally gravitate together from different corners of the museum into their little knot at a medium distance from the stage. The words are snipped, clipped with military precision into an edge that suggests it's not a topic he's especially fond of. And yet, there's a slight sinking of his shoulders, the old man displaying a weary resignation - he knows the reality is he won't get out of it.

Or maybe he will, however momentarily, Kian arriving, and Mark looks at a spot somewhere just south of Kian's chin where neck meets chest, avoiding taking in the direct view. "Mr. Argent, rare to see you taken away from your books." Now that the others are addressing each other, like Pris he falls quiet, hands moving into his suit pockets and seeming content to let them talk among themselves without contribution from himself for a minute.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey takes a note of Mark's reaction to the Salon with interest. It appears that he has not been apprised by anything with regard to anything, and he merely reflects a fleeting yet earnest curiosity before it fades as everyone gathers to the area. He smiles then to Pris. "Nice to see you again, Pris." He inclines his head to Kian as he approaaches and chuckles. "Indeed, yes. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. It's always wonderful to see this form of artistic expression on so salient a topic these days. I'm loving it." He says as if he's a superfan already. He then glances to Tristan and lets out a gentle laugh. "I didn't realize my exploits in the gardens had reached anyone's ears. Nice to meet you. Please, just call me Andrey."

───<Andrey>───
Andrey also takes a moment to glance toward Khyber in deep appreciation and he smiles. There is also something else there. A hunger in his eyes. Of what type, it is as yet uncertain. But there is a bit of eagerness there, a moth to a flame. A yearning. He blinks and sighs gently.

───<Pris>───

The show continues. Our fledgling woman in bloom descends the stage and enters the crowd. Remaining in character, she engages with guests with a shy but undeniable interest, unable to stop herself, in spite of her trepidation. As Khyber continues on, the living statue approaches the group, and makes eye contact with Andrey.. Maybe it's that hunger in his eyes. 

"You feel... different from the others. Like the air changes when you look at me. Is that... something you do? Or something you are?" Floris seems quite serious about this question, and very interested in Andrey's response. But maybe it as as Mark said. Artists!

Khyber’s voice carries the art show forward: https://i.imgur.com/vvrigp4.mp4

"She has lived long enough to know the cost of survival, and wears it close to her heart."

"Her hair burns like the last light of a dying sun --- a sheaf of red and ember-orange pinned with messy precision. Striped linen wraps her form --- modest, proper --- a bodice and belled skirt stiffened by crinoline, cinched by a wide belt that speaks of structure and restraint."

"And yet, at her chest, beauty breaks."

"Fresh, glistening material like flesh --- raw, tender, still red with warmth --- pressed against her breast like a borrowed heartbeat. Bound to her by butcher’s twine in a hasty net."

"It is not mere ornament. It is an offering, a boon. And a reminder. A price paid."

"Her blue eyes miss nothing. They hold the weight of nights survived and futures calculated. She stands poised between hunger and hope --- wise enough to recognize danger, ruthless enough to wait for the moment when the world holds still, and opportunity breathes in."

"She does not ask for sympathy. She endures, more or less, a slow descent into the twilight of her decay."

───<Kian>───
Kian nods before speaking again to Tristan, "It is a pleasure to meet you, MR. Montague. perhaps we will have more time another night to get to know each other." He turns to the others, "I just wanted to show support for your Organization before making my way home this evening, this is truly a one of a kind event, it is a shame that I have such limited time this evening." he smiles one more at the lovely lady that is performing, the tome and the flower do catch his eyes. He sigh before nodding once more to Pris. "Thank you both for such a lovely event." At which point him and his body guard do make for the exit.

───<Pris>───
Pris inclines her head warmly to Kian. "Understandable, Mr. Argent. I am grateful you came out tonight, considering your penchant for staying in. It means so very much."

───<Tristan>───
Tristan dips his head twice in a vague response to Andrey's words, but he's still looking at Kian like he's trying to work out which actual demon performed the tall man's plastic surgery.

He replies airily, so casually: "Yes, of course. That would be just delightful, Mr. Argent."

Meanwhile, Clementine is wearing an expression on her face that conveys a look of profound unease. She holds her bag tightly, paling, like she's considering pulling it off her shoulder and opening it.

Tristan turns to his ghoul as Kian departs, and the Ventrue gives her a taken-aback look. "Have you been a glutton for the mint imperials again? God, good thing you're not carrying the Birkin. I don't mind you chundering in the COACH, but still..."

With a quick look around, Tristan pulls a hand from his pocket and points to where he imagines the bathroom might be. "Off to the loo, Clems. Chop chop." The ghoul click-clicks away as Tristan shoos her off.

With that done, tension released, Tristan brings his head back around to watch the catwalk with a huff of amiable laughter. "What a choice ensemble. Very raw. A cut above the rest, one might even say."

He's being a silly boy.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey appears genuinely surprised when Floris speaks with himself. He takes a soft breath and lets it out slowly. He says in a gentle, melodic, soft voice. "My desire is awakened by such beauty. I stand arrested unable to comprehend, but yet realize that I don't need to understand my desire,...I need to feel it. And feel it I do..." He says with a restrained yearning. He allows a shudder to go through him. It's as if he's immersed in ASMR and he has opened his senses to reach out and grasp with his sight, hearing, smell, touch...taste? Oh, I bet the taste would be sweet. He blinks now as he's lost, then found, then lost again. He appears slightly embarrassed at his expressions, but not apologetic.

───<Mark_Steele>───
The curmudgeon, Mark, is in full grumpy force tonight. He's standing near to Pris, who are collectively (Eidolon Collectively) sponsors of the event, and a little knot of Kian, Tristan (and Clementine hanger-on), and Andrey have all gathered around them. One can only assume due to the magnetic draw of Pris beauty and Mark's sparkling personality. A personality demonstrated when, as Khyber speaks from the end of the run-away explaining the next living statute, flares his nostril with a small snort, "Endures a slow descent into the twilight of decay." A brief pause and he grumbles, "So does literally everything in the universe that's not special."

However, Argent is saying hello and goodbye, and Mark softens his tone diplomatically, clearing his throat and offering, "I'll drop by soon Mr. Argent, your support is very much appreciated."

───<Andrey>───
Andrey also turns to note Kian departing and offers him a polite nod and a wave.

───<Pris>───

While the red-haired living statue walks the runway, quite sure of herself, Khyber continues her narration, naming the living statue.

"I bring you, Ancilla Potentiae, Maid of Power. Red/Harvest." The crowd remains wow'ed in silence, very little movement now, as attention is focused on the runway show. With the strings swelling into a crescendo, Khyber watches as her 'Ancilla' poses at the end of the runway, next to Khyber, and the venue erupts into hushed applause.

'Floris' is captivated by Andrey being captivated by her. If allowed, she will lean up to give him a soft peck on the cheek, smiling softly before moving away, and being absorbed into the crowd.

───<Addison>───
Amidst the crowd stands one observer among many.

He’s dressed in a sleek black turtleneck layered beneath a billowy navy shirt patterned with a pale gold moon-and-stars motif. The satiny fabric gives his movements a strange floating quality. He's paired the shirt with roomy, wide-leg slacks in deep oak brown, the fabric draping with airy volume around his long frame. His storm-gray boots add an inch of height, their pointed toes gleaming faintly under the runway lights. A pair of suede leather wraps dangle from his wrist, each adorned with a pewter censer-shaped charm that swings lightly near his scarred palm. A matching five-pointed star stud glints from the lobe of one ear. A black bolero hat crowns his head, casting his sharp, freckled features into half-shadow against his dark tan skin.

In one hand he holds a glass of wine, assessing the show, the model, and the artist with a passive, perhaps thoughtful smirk. The round, full-moon glasses on his nose catch glints of blood-red and moonglow-silver light from the interactive displays and the model's garments.

When the room erupts into applause, he merely tilts his head and takes a slow sip of wine. His nose wrinkles a moment later, lips pulling suddenly taut—an expression somewhere between amusement and mild disdain, as if tasting something just a touch too sweet for his liking.

───<Mark_Steele>───
Mark turns his attention away, a deep breath that he then lets go slowly. One can almost hear him saying 'Serenity Now' inside his head. He reaches and briefly touches Pris elbow, a moment of casual contact that doesn't linger, but shares a glance with her before stepping back a little bit and taking the opportunity to glance around the place. A slow sweeping gaze ensues, the kind of person who likes to keep an eye on the exits, and on that slow occular crawl of the crowd he notes a glint among the other glitz and glam of the high-fashion evening, "A pentagram, huh." Mild curiosity in his tone, a small gleam in his eye - Mark loves picking at such details and now watches Addison from across the room, perhaps coming up with his own mental story for the individual.

───<Tristan>───
Tristan turns his head a little to send Andrey what might be an arch eyebrow waggle. Actually, no: it's definitely an eyebrow waggle. But very restrained. Very appropriate, at least as much as approving eye waggles can ever be.

With a brief glance to Addision -- interesting and creative fit given a once-up and once-up -- Tristan then turns back to watch the show, hands resting in his trouser pockets once again. His gaze does subtly drift towards the direction to which his ghoul trotted off, however. He may be considering going after her.

───<Pris>───

Khyber continues the show, meanwhile. The venue will close before long, and there is still much fun to be had, in mingling, and admiration of the art. So Khyber begins her prelude to the end of this part of the evening, her smile wide, eyes lit with glee to be here, in this moment. It's probably a dream come true for her.

"While there are many more works in my exhibit, I have chosen my favourite three to showcase, on the runway. I now bring you 'Passio Solida, Potence/Solidifying."

And on cue, the elder appears: https://i.imgur.com/CpMGVRm.mp4

"Her skin is stark white, resembling marble, complementing the sculpted crop of reddish hair on her statuesque head. Each element of her visage is precisely placed, echoing the sharp geometry of her gaze. She wears a dress studded with rosebuds and jagged red spikes that jut outward like lethal spires --- a barrier, both literal and symbolic. Approach too closely, and you might prick your fingers or eyes. But admire from a distance, and the danger becomes part of her allure."

"The gown itself is almost criminally old-fashioned, rigid, and ostentatious, yet she carries it with effortless authority. Her posture is impeccable, her movements precise --- every step, every tilt of her head, a silent assertion of command. There is power in her stillness, danger in her elegance, and a hint of defiance toward the modern world that dares not understand her."

"The air around her hums with a subtle tension; faint metallic echoes from her attire blend with the murmurs of the crowd. Her presence is a reminder: beauty can be intimidating, arresting, and untouchable, and some figures are best admired from afar."

As the model walks, Khyber adds an energetic farewall. "I hope you are all enjoying the evening, as well as my work, and the hard work of each of these beautiful and talented women who have helped bring my passion to life."

And, as one would expect, the crowd erupts again into applause, this time with much more vigour, bringing the runway show to an end.

ROLL> Mark: Wits + Style vs. 6 -> 1 success. (8 7 1) ROLL> Tristan: Wits + Style vs. 6 -> 4 successes.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey allows, no invites, Floris's soft peck on the cheek and he smiles gently, standing before he in awe. He watches her recede back into the crowd and sighs softly. He reaches up a hand to touch his cheek momentarily. He clearly appears to be enchanted for a moment, before turning his attention back to Hyber and Ancilla Potentiae, Maid of Power. He also joins the applause as well, pleased by the show. Not wanting it to end. How funny is it for him to be so spellbound. He chuckles to himself. He turns to Tristan and lets out a gentle laugh. "Beauty is often so fleeting..." He comments softly. He chuckles a bit over to Mark at his comments, then hmms softly when he mentions pentagrams. "I like pentagrams..." he says quietly with amusement.

───<Mark_Steele>───
"So Mr. Montague." Mark turns his attention back to the group he's gathreed with, though he nods at Andrey's amusement to the pentagram and suggests sotto voce, "Perhaps you should introduce yourself." Since Andrey seems to be on a kick of experiencing new things. Turning his attention back towards Tristan though, Mark asks quite amiably in that charmingly (one hopes!) direct way of his, "I hope you don't mind my saying Mr. Montague, but you seem.... notably less ambitious than many of your cousins."

───<Tristan>───
After Tristan applauds very politely, then looks back at Mark with a white-toothed grin. "I'm delighted I come across that way, Mr. Steele. I rather think ambition's like fragrance, isn't it? Wear too much of it in public and everyone starts to choke."He looks up at the ceiling with a crinkle of his nose, then back at Mark. "Or maybe that's just my story and I'm sticking to it to appear more dynamic that I really am."

A look then to Andrey. "Actually, thinking of it, I didn't get your surname, did I? Rather to be expected, I imagine, when we're surrounded by so much distracting finery."

───<Mark_Steele>───
"It's actually Andrey Andrey, odd family." Mark interjects before Andrey can give an actual surname. Because this is the sort of thing that passes for humor to the old man.

───<Pris>───
Pris gives Mark a look --- but, perhaps she is used to her coterie-mate hand his old-fashioned sense of humour, because she looks mildly amused and then looks warmly to Tristan. Inclining her head to him, and adding, "Mr. Steele seems particularly hard on our cousins lately, I can't imagine why." That is clearly well-appointed sarcasm.

───<Addison>───
Whether he’s enjoying the show more than the wine is hard to say. His attention drifts toward the next model as Khyber announces their entrance, the faintest curl of amusement tugging one corner of his mouth. He makes no real effort to join the surrounding conversation; content instead to linger like a ghost at the edge of things, present but not imposing, watching the room unfold around him.

Though he seems to notice Tristran glancing his way and responds with a keen wink, the passive smirk on his lips pulling into a tighter, razor-line for a brief moment. He lifts the glass in his hand a scant few inches.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey is about to give his surname, then pauses and laughs with amusement. "Oh, Mr. Steele. I love it. I wish I could introduce myself that way to everyone, actually." He says with a smile. He turns to Tristan and says, "Laurent." He says briefly, as if his surname means nothing, but notes the expectation of decorum. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Montague." He says in a pleasant tone. He then looks again to Mark and ahs softly and nods. "Excellent idea, Mr. Steele." He glances to Pris and smiles. "Ms. Albret. Always a pleasure to see you. I hope things have been going well." He glances over to where Khyber Marchetti is now with some interest on her whereabouts. He appears to be looking for a good moment to approach her. He looks eager, earnest.

ROLL> Mark: Self-control vs. 5 -> 2 successes. (8 6 3 3)

───<Mark_Steele>───
"I meant to the guy with the pentagram." Mark mutters, though seems unsurprised to see Andrey wandering off to the distant object of his cool affections, Khyber, instead. Pris' sarcasm is well-appointed indeed, and Mark turns to her and Tristan and opens his mouth to say something, and then seems to think better of it and simply shuts his mouth instead. He gives a small shrug of one shoulder and merely remarks a cryptic and low-humming 'mmhmm' sound instead, non-committal on the subject, "I've noticed you have a talent with fragrances Tristan, everyone comments on it."

───<Pris>───

The 'Ancilla' finds her way around the crowd, approaching the direction of Addison, and his moon and stars, maybe drawn to him like a celestial force, with his fetching bolero and five-pointed star studs. Or the disdain, sometimes people like to troll a potential troll.

The red-haired, likewise freckled beautiful young statue/model/improv artist engages Addison in a murmured chat, if amenable. "Pretty stars on your sleeves. Pretty secrets in your eyes. I've been told everything beautiful here bleeds."

Meanwhile, Khyber who has stepped down and is working the crowd, seems quite approachable. It's something in her energy. She has very welcoming energy.

───<Pris>───

And, 'Floris' is sauntering about, growing bolder as the hour grows late. Her fur coat has slipped down her arms, exposing bare shoulders that belies a casual coquettish confidence that, like Addison's bolero, is admittedly fetching.

───<Tristan>───

"Laurent," Tristan tastes the word subtly, then looks to Andrey with a gracious nod of his head. "And to you too. A pleasure."

A brief glance back at Addison sees Tristan giving the splendidly-garbed man the secondary smile, equally courteous, very pleasant. it lingers a moment, then drifts off. Another tip of the head, then, before attention goes back to Pris and Mark. A flash of a grin sparkles after as the Ventrue idly notes the bee that is Andrey flitting to the last flower of summer, so to speak. Without any further symbolism or metaphor, he places his hand on his chest. "Gosh, that's very kind of them to say. Can't go wrong with a bit of bergamot, in my opinion. Ties everything so nicely together."

But then! A more direct look Pris, smile curving amiably. "I must say, this has been such a delightful event, hasn't it? Wonderful." Then, metaphor, or simile, or analogy back on, or whatever, and Tristan offers benignly: "And about being hard on our cousins? Well, one can't blame the whetstone for being unyielding."

ROLL> Andrey: Intelligence + Occult vs. 6 -> 3 successes. (7 7 6 6 5 3 1)

───<Addison>───
Addison’s smirk broadens faintly at Tristan’s reply.

The guy with the "pentagram earring" (it’s not quite a pentagram—at least not the typical Wiccan invocation of it; it lacks the ring around the outside, and the design isn’t knot-woven into itself, shaped instead from a single solid piece) seems to notice that Mark is speaking to him. Perhaps he really is immersed in the spectacle of the show, contrary to his disposition, which seems to walk that razor-thin line between bored and amused. (Or maybe his pilot is just a tad rusty.)

His brows lift as he turns his attention to Mark, the silvery show lights glinting across the rims of his spectacles. "I suppose it could be."

There’s something scholarly about the way he speaks, even in those few words—someone who could easily hold the attention of a lecture hall, even when covering a bland topic. "If that’s what you see."

───<Mark_Steele>───
Mark's gaze swivels to Addison. For someone as old as he is, his hearing seems exceptionally keen. He pauses a moment, and then lifts his voice, raising it slightly across the distance and wonders, "What could be what now?" A pause, curious eyebrow raised and seeming genuinely deeply interested in the response.

───<Pris>───
Pris inclines her head again to Tristan, for his kind words, and a quiet smile for his buffering metaphor. A bit conspiratorially, she adds, "Bergamot is like a secret weapon, isn't it?" Indeed, there are notes of it wafting from her corporeal sheath and apparel.

And to Andrey, she offers a quiet but pleasant regard for his pleasantries, before his attention goes to the dynamic artiste.

───<Andrey>───
Andrey smiles and says to those gathered. "Please excuse me for a moment. I must meet Ms. Marchetti, and will return momentarily." He removes a beautiful red rose out of his pocket. He's a gardener, after all, isn't he? Always has beautiful flowers with him apparently. He used to carry them around all the time. He pauses at a respectful distance from Khyber, but does approach. "A beautiful performance, Ms. Marchetti! Thank you for the wonderful experience. From decay to beauty." and he extends the rose to her.

───<Tristan>───
With his hand still elegantly splayed over his heart, Tristan makes a approving face -- bit of an agreeing mini-frown -- and replies to Pris. "It does. And I must say, your perfume is gorgeous. What is that? It has a suggestion of a /very/ elevated Mon Guerlain minus the iris notes. Bespoke or niche, I'm guessing?"

ROLL> Mark: Manipulation + Subterfuge vs. 4 -> 5 successes. (8 7 7 5 5 2)

───<Mark_Steele>───
Mark glances briefly in the direction of Pris and Tristan's conversation, the sort of absent-mindedly bored glance of someone keeping tabs on something not particularly interesting, folding his hands behind his back and then turning back towards Addison whom he had addressed to see if the man answers the question he called across the short distance.

───<Pris>───

Ms. Marchetti is the woman of the hour, minute and second. She is receiving and thanking patrons like an absolute pro, but these are the run of the mill patrons of Los Angeles. Among them, Andrey stands out like a vibrant red rose in a world of dying flowers and well-dressed skulls. Khyber is drawn to the flower, her glad-handing halted for the moment, genuine smile frozen in all it's exuberant joy as her eyes move, quietly, from the flower to the earnest young man. "You are too kind... Even if it shall wither. What a moment of beauty."

───<Pris>───
Pris replies with flawless French, interspersed with flawless English. "M. Montague, you got it straight away. Mon Guerlain of course, and... bespoke. Of course. Very impressive."

───<Andrey>───
Andrey smiles as she accepts the rose. "The moments are sometimes all we have. I look forward to the next moment. Andrey Laurent." He says by simple introduction before offering a polite bow and fading back into the crowd.

───<Tristan>───
What's that? A little tiny fist pump from the posh-boy Ventrue? Yes it is! Then his hand goes back in his pocket as he smiles at Pris contently. "Apparently I've still got it. You wear it extremely well."

───<Addison>───
Addison lets out a single, soft laugh at Mark’s response, unraveling and assessing the confusion quickly; then dismissing it. He lifts his shoulders easily, as if to say, it doesn’t really matter.

And perhaps, in the grand scope of the universe... it didn’t.

In contrast to his composed, easy-to-listen-to voice--occasionally interjected with wry wit--his eyes hold an almost dissonant intensity. Dark brown, nearly tar-black in certain light, they seem to drink in everything they observe. The panes of glass in his round frames sometimes seem as if they're the only barrier keeping that stare from burning through flesh and thought alike—or perhaps dragging a person down into tar-black depths.

Those eyes linger on Mark for a few uncomfortable seconds before Addison tilts his bolero-crowned head toward the models and asks, "So what did you think?" Of the show, of course. He wonders towards Mark, his demeanor and tone of voice again teetering between bored and amused.

───<Mark_Steele>───
Mark shrugs his shoulder, taking a step forward to sort of meet Addison a step or two away from Pris and Tristan's French chat, who can tell whether he understands it or not. The man is nigh unreadable. "I'm not sure that I'm really the artistic type, it was certainly interesting." His tone is mild, making it impossible to tell if he really thinks this, is just being modest, or something else. "But I think there's a lot to be said for the idea that what makes life precious is that it ends."

ROLL> Pris: Perception + Empathy vs. 6 -> 4 successes.

───<Tristan>───
With a subtle glance at his watch, and then a glance around, Tristan frowns a bit lightly. "Oh." He licks the back of his teeth. "Do excuse me for a moment. My friend's been gone for a bloody age. I hope she hasn't fallen down the loo. I'd better see if I can get someone to check up on her for me." A nod to all. "I'll be right back. If any of you fine people have drifted off by the time I return, do have a lovely rest of your night."

And then Tristan's offfffffff. To nag some poor woman to go into the bathroom for him.

───<Addison>───
Another soft laugh slips out of Addison, almost like a sigh, as Mark claims he’s "not really an art guy." "Well," Addison says, drawing his tongue over his thin lips. "Meaning is variable. If you’re looking for it. It depends on how much the artist—or designer—wants you to see." A gentle pause follows, and he glances toward Khyber with a smirk. "—Or doesn’t want you to see." As if he infers it might be on-brand for her to be the sort of artist who relishes watching people anguish over figuring it out.

Or maybe she just relishes /anguish/. "Though something can be said for the immense amount of labor and technical craftsmanship that goes into every level of a project like this. Those garments aren’t easy to make." Not by any means. "While you might not be artistically inclined, at least by your own admission, you do strike me as a man who appreciates... diligence." A soft pause follows as Addison lifts his brows. "Or am I wrong?"

───<Pris>───
Pris stands by, watching the two men discuss. She is clearly a patron --- in her ready-to-wear MARCHETTI attire, with a considering eye for the movement of the pieces on display.

───<Mark_Steele>───
"Mostly, I appreciate whatever I want to appreciate, and I make my own meaning." For someone who is 'not an art guy', Mark certainly seems ready to debate it, "The intent of the author is relatively meaningless in the end, things are what they are. It's only our decision to think of them as something else that creates the art."

───<Addison>───
Addison continues to smile—passive, nearly serpentine—as if inviting Mark to say exactly what he thinks. Encouraging, even. And... perhaps amused.

"I’m sure it can be both," Addison replies, as though those few words are all that remain to be said—or all that need to be.

───<Pris>───

So many words to say what they all know...

Memento Mori...

Remember that you are, and everything else, like this moment, is ephemeral. And so too does this night of beauty eventually fade, leaving behind feelings and fond memories... and maybe a little hope for more good things to come.

FIN