Post by InsanePenman on Jan 16, 2005 4:29:45 GMT -5
Damien Nikodemus didn't bother to resist the urge to let his hand clench tightly on his glass, nor did he withhold the soft growl that came from deep in his throat and past his fangs as the scent of blood interrupted his relaxed enjoyment of the carefully laid scene around him.
He sat comfortably in a fine chair, cradling a glass of immense aesthetic value filled with wine equally pleasing to the eye, and moreso to the tongue. The notes of near-perfectly performed Beethoven wafted from the orchestra, set a wonderfully comfortable distance in front of him, each member the perfect image of a fine artist and performer. They had to be, after all...he paid enough to the owners of the place for his room and his wine and his music...it wasn't too much to bloody ask that the performers look as fine as they play.
Nor was it too much to ask that, if they could manage the intake of all the other sense, the proprietors manage to keep the element of scent pure as well...which was why the unwelcome, unintended aroma of someone's blood being spilt aggravated him so. He should've suspected it when the place had lowered its prices...the service inevitably falls with it.
It was an insult to all that the place stood for...which was, of course, an age where every man (or, at least, every man with the money) could have his every fantasy fulfilled. It was a tribute to science that one no longer needed to sigh sadly as the ultimate luxury, pleasure, or even mundane enjoyment was denied simply by circumstance or nature...and he hardly required so much...in this endeavor, at least. In others, such as the alterations to his body, which had leant him the certain animalistic qualities to his form that allowed him to growl, he was overbearing and a admittedly damnable perfectionist, but, in this case, he asked only to hear an orchestra play and drink fine wine, in a calm setting!
That wasn't so much to ask. It certainly was a great deal less to ask than whatever the nut in the nearest room, whose fantasy apparently required blood to be spilled, wanted. And, whether he asked enough or not...the world outside was troubling enough, and his bank account made lighter enough by his excursions here for everything to be perfect.
Another, more pronounced growl heralded the throw that sent his wine glass into the orchestra, shattering into fragments as he stalked out into the main hall of the place, throwing open one of the heavy, ornate doors of the room. Nikodemus was already in a perfectly, coldly irate mood...ready to figuratively tear the head off the nearest employee...and, if he didn't bow and scrape enough, he would do it literally.
Unforunately for him, the nearest employee was slumped to the floor, and it was his blood that was pooling the carpet and interrupting Nikodemus' session.
"Damn..." the millionaire sighed softly, murmuring to himself, "Political assassination gone bad, or an attack from one of the damned rebel groups that filled the streets these dates..."
Nearby, another heavy door flew off its hinges from the force of an explosion. The flickering of flames and the shouts of frantics and commanding voices came from within, drawing a shake of the head from Nikodemus as he rubbed one ear...the changes to his body were recent enough that he hadn't adjusted to the enhanced hearing they brought.
"Ah...the latter, then. Damn it again...third time this month..." And, so saying, he moved towards the exit, hoping he could get out of the place before the maniacs noticed him or the proper authorities arrived...conflicts with the former always ended in blood, which he had learned quite recently made his fur uncomfortable, and the latter always made him want to scream.
...Policemen can be so crude...
He sat comfortably in a fine chair, cradling a glass of immense aesthetic value filled with wine equally pleasing to the eye, and moreso to the tongue. The notes of near-perfectly performed Beethoven wafted from the orchestra, set a wonderfully comfortable distance in front of him, each member the perfect image of a fine artist and performer. They had to be, after all...he paid enough to the owners of the place for his room and his wine and his music...it wasn't too much to bloody ask that the performers look as fine as they play.
Nor was it too much to ask that, if they could manage the intake of all the other sense, the proprietors manage to keep the element of scent pure as well...which was why the unwelcome, unintended aroma of someone's blood being spilt aggravated him so. He should've suspected it when the place had lowered its prices...the service inevitably falls with it.
It was an insult to all that the place stood for...which was, of course, an age where every man (or, at least, every man with the money) could have his every fantasy fulfilled. It was a tribute to science that one no longer needed to sigh sadly as the ultimate luxury, pleasure, or even mundane enjoyment was denied simply by circumstance or nature...and he hardly required so much...in this endeavor, at least. In others, such as the alterations to his body, which had leant him the certain animalistic qualities to his form that allowed him to growl, he was overbearing and a admittedly damnable perfectionist, but, in this case, he asked only to hear an orchestra play and drink fine wine, in a calm setting!
That wasn't so much to ask. It certainly was a great deal less to ask than whatever the nut in the nearest room, whose fantasy apparently required blood to be spilled, wanted. And, whether he asked enough or not...the world outside was troubling enough, and his bank account made lighter enough by his excursions here for everything to be perfect.
Another, more pronounced growl heralded the throw that sent his wine glass into the orchestra, shattering into fragments as he stalked out into the main hall of the place, throwing open one of the heavy, ornate doors of the room. Nikodemus was already in a perfectly, coldly irate mood...ready to figuratively tear the head off the nearest employee...and, if he didn't bow and scrape enough, he would do it literally.
Unforunately for him, the nearest employee was slumped to the floor, and it was his blood that was pooling the carpet and interrupting Nikodemus' session.
"Damn..." the millionaire sighed softly, murmuring to himself, "Political assassination gone bad, or an attack from one of the damned rebel groups that filled the streets these dates..."
Nearby, another heavy door flew off its hinges from the force of an explosion. The flickering of flames and the shouts of frantics and commanding voices came from within, drawing a shake of the head from Nikodemus as he rubbed one ear...the changes to his body were recent enough that he hadn't adjusted to the enhanced hearing they brought.
"Ah...the latter, then. Damn it again...third time this month..." And, so saying, he moved towards the exit, hoping he could get out of the place before the maniacs noticed him or the proper authorities arrived...conflicts with the former always ended in blood, which he had learned quite recently made his fur uncomfortable, and the latter always made him want to scream.
...Policemen can be so crude...
