House of Shahrizai

 

( Cut for potential disturbing.  )

Melisande is on a mission.

It may not be immediately apparent, but she is, her blue eyes intent as she wanders the Mansion, alert, watchful. She has a job to do, and she's going to see it done. And done well.

After all, her life and her revenge are counting on it.

Melisande is back again. And is not happy.

Most of the scars are covered, but there are thin white lines on her face, marring her otherwise flawless features. She's currently downstairs, briefly, shooting nervous glances over her shoulder and really, really wanting to find Hedda. Hopefully they're all too busy with the dying one to come and find her, as she has no real desire to die that way again. It took altogether too long.

Those sadistic bastards. She hates them, she really does, precious.

A quiet sound and she jumps, wheeling with a gasp. Nothing there.

Dammit. Stupid Elves. Not to mention the goddamn vampire and -

Melisande is not having a good few months. Come and make them worse!

Who: Melisande, Celegorm, Caranthir.
What: Don't mess with Texas? Nah. Don't mess with Feanorians. Caranthir takes his revenge, and is nice enough to share with the brother. Melisande does not enjoy it. Rated NC-17 for rape, torture, murder, and a lot of fucked up shit.

Who: Melisande, Caranthir
What: A lot of sexxings and Melisande does some wicked plotting on how she's going to set Cara up for a fall.

"Lord." In her low, husky voice, nails still on his shoulders and head upturned to his.

Melisande feels no real need to go looking for people. She's left her door open this evening, hoping that people will, instead, find her. And she smiles at the mirror, brushing through her blue-black hair slowly and patiently, eyes watching the doorway in the reflection, curiously intent and almost expectant. And maybe even hopeful. 

Melisande is gliding through the gardens outside, smiling almost genuinely, pausing now and then to sniff a flower delicately and smile at the sweet scent. However, under this pleasant picture Melisande's hands twist with impatient boredom. She longs for something new. Melisande is always looking for new prey. 

Melisande is sitting downstairs in a vibrantly red gown, lounging gracefully and looking supremely bored. In fact, however, she's feeling oddly nervous, a feeling this Shahrizai doesn't like in the least, and her hand, every so often, goes to her neck before she drags it away with a frown. With a sigh, she stands and fetches the glass of red wine she left on the mantle upon coming down here and sips it, gazing at the fire in what would be a moody fashion in any other woman. 

Melisande makes her way back to her rooms and settles in a chair at her desk, picks up a quill, and begins to write, thinking rapidly. Phedre is here. This means things will have to be adjusted, habits changed, things altered...there are many things to consider about the anguisette's arrival. She lifts her head and looks out the window, one hand lifting to her neck where there are two scars, spaced like fangs, and she frowns. Quickly rising to her feet, she goes over to the cabinet in the corner of her room and pulls out a bottle of wine - she's always kept some in her room - and pours herself a glass, swirling the ruby liquid and looking out at the glistening waters of the lake.

Melisande is humming to herself as she strolls through the gardens today, dressed warmly against the cold and strolling through at a rather more brisk pace than one usual for a walk through gardens. However, her eyes catch everything, and they are constantly moving, taking everything in, and sometimes brushing her fingers through a coating of frost so that it slips away before the warmth of her skin. 

She is kneeling by the fire, examining the flames, her eyes narrowed slightly, though not by much. After a time she breathes a sigh and rocks back on her heels, looking marginally annoyed. 

Melisande is a little pained this morning, actually, and hence is still in her room, holding a wet cloth to a somewhat sore head and looking more than a little put out - though put out is probably mild. She does not like being hungover, for more reasons than one. Facing the window, she breathes a sigh and then winces, just slightly, though only someone watching for the movement would notice. 

At her usual post again, Melisande is sprawled in a chair by the fire, holding a glass of red wine in one hand and a book loosely propped on her lap in the other, her face very still and quiet for the moment, almost pensive. 

Melisande is outside today, sitting in the gardens with one leg crossed delicately over the other, holding a pad and sketching. It's a peculiar pastime, but strangely enough she finds herself enjoying it - though she does have a book lying next to her, just in case she gets bored of sketching tree limbs. Wearing a high-necked, snug black dress made from satin with a fur trim around the collar, her hair is pinned up loosely and seemingly casually - a ruse, of course. Nearly everything is a ruse with Melisande. 

Typist: Please excuse that this took so long to post.

Melisande returns to her room and examines her large bed for several moments, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. She looks pleased, and is, in fact. She glides over to the mirror and picks up her brush, runs it through her silky hair, and stares at her reflection, and begins to laugh, a rich and low noise in her throat more than her mouth. Laughter fading to chuckles, she sets down the brush and sits down in the chair, picking up a book and opening it at random, staring at the pages and wondering how long it'll take Hedda to come.

Melisande is sitting in her room with the door wide open, sipping tea instead of wine for once and looking out the window. She's wondering how to find someone in particular, and is lost in thought. She'd welcome an interruption, though.

Melisande is standing at a window, holding her usual accessory (a glass of wine) and smiling slightly. She reminiscing about Phedre and Terre d'Ange, but it's nothing important, and she's actually waiting for someone very specific.

Her smile curves delicately as she surveys her new room. It will serve well enough. She settles herself on a chair and waits, watching the door, knowing that soon she will see if she has come to the right place. Phedre has never been able to stay away from her for long.

She takes a sip of wine and leans back, crossing her legs, her every motion a practiced dance that she hardly has to think about any more. She is the picture of arrogance. Melisande Shahrizai knows her beauty and does not fear to use it as mercilessly as any other weapon.