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| Room 916 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 16 2008, 09:38 PM (65 Views) | |
| Poirot | Apr 16 2008, 09:38 PM Post #1 |
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OOC NOTE: This is set before the roleplay "Lady in Red." As our scene opens up, we find ourselves in a hotel corridor. The building is a beautiful sight, all gleaming brass and inch thick shagpile. However, the man we can see on our screen serves as a stark contrast to the art-deco grandeur of his setting, that is apart from his hair, which even the biggest perfectionist of an architect would be pleased with as it stands blond and tall, inches off his cranium. The man of which I speak? Why, of course, it's your friend and mine, Mr. Blond. He is currently strutting his way through the halls of this building, looking for room 916, as the piece of paper which Blake Orange gave him instructed. Unable to find his target, he stops, glancing down at the paper, and curses as he realises he is holding it upside down. He then curses again, but louder and with more intensity, when he realises that 916 upside down is, in fact, 916. Still our intrepid soldier carries on, running his hand along the wall of the corridor as he begins to pick up the scent. Blond: Nahn-wun-too... Nahn-wun-four... gotcha, Nahn-wun-sux. Blond shoves the piece of paper in his pocket, fishing an envelope out of another. He then knocks on the door, and awaits a response. ????: 'Oo is it? Blond: Ah'm a... urrh... repreesenativ' o' Mistur Orange's. ????: Ah, d'accord. Entré. Blond places his hand on the handle, slowly pushing the door open with his shoulder. The room is sensually lit - the only illumination is provided by three large candles in corners of the room. As we see from Blond's PoV, we see a tall, shapely woman slinking towards the ensuite bathroom, her long mahogany red hair cascading down her back against the backdrop of a ruby red satin robe. ????: I'm about to 'ave a shower. 'Elp yourself to a drink. Blond looks over to the sideboard. He eyes a rather fine bottle of brandy, but thinks back to that bottle of moonshine he drank last week, which reminded him of one of the reasons why he doesn't drink. Plus, he he's heard enough about this woman to be wary. Instead, he opts for a glass of water, and pours himself one from the kitchenette tap, before stealing a grape from a large bunch on the sideboard. While Blond has been busy taking advantage of the free hospitality, the sound of a running shower has become apparent in the background, and he looks round to see an open doorway. Steam is pouring through it, extending its hot, wet tendrils about the room. What Blond is more interested in, however, is the fact that also through the doorway and a piece of lightly frosted glass he can make out the form of a rather attractive woman going about her ablutions. So 'interested' is he, in fact, he barely hears her speak. ????: So, what exactly does Monsieur Orange* want from me? Blond shakes himself awake, remembering the reason he is here and looking at the envelope in his hand. Blond: Weyull, Missy... The Boss seems tah figure that wit' him knowin' what he does know about you 'nd you bein'... well... you, that it ought t' be a good idea if some kahn o' amee-cable beezness ugreement wuz reached between the two y'all. ????: Bónne. I'd be most happy to help Monsieur Orange, in whatever way he, or indeed I, may deem suitable. Blond: Uh, ah don't qwaat feel too good.. All of a sudden, Blond's started to feel quite faint. His eyelids suddenly feel very heavy, his legs weightier than even the most loaded pair of boots he's ever worn to the ring. In fact, so tired is he, he passes out. --- All is black... A flash o' red. A thick creemsun bleeds slowleh inta th' obbsidieen black, as the red flashes glisten intoxicatin'ley against th' thick, seeruppy crimsun. Slowly, other colours drift inta mah veeyuw: The rich brahn o' th' rattin' beyurro in the conner. The deeyup emmer-ald guhreen of a potted plant. The yeller light thet burns atop th' candles, casting hallucinojunic o'ange shapes aroun' th' room, though th' wax is far mo' melted than ah remember. Hold yur horses, what do ah remembur? Whur am ah? --- Slowly, Blond begins to realise what's going on. He tries to move his arms and legs: No, not strong enough yet. The feel like they've been tied down. He blinks twice, thrice; trying to force both the room into focus and his memory into action. Like a child being coerced out of a hiding place, slowly a recollection of the events leading up to this moment slowly shuffle into Blond's mind, staring at its feet and kicking its heels as it comes. Feeling stronger now. Limbs still feel like they're tied down... Using every ounce of his physical strength, Blond manages to force his neck to look downwards, affording him a look at his extremities... Shit, they are tied down. Blond: Dah-yum. ...Where are mah clothes? Blond: Aw, shee-it. As our Cajun damsel in distress tries to work out what has happened to him, another one of his senses is invaded. He is suddenly aware of a heady stench of roses, but he can't work out where from. Then, it all comes flooding back. What he was doing, where he was going, why he's been tied up and where that delicate aroma is coming from; the answers to all these mysteries are revealed to him with just three words, spoken in a seductive, yet dangerous voice, like a Venus Fly Trap to a Bluebottle. ???? Enjoy ze grapes? Blond can't move his head, but he knows the voice belongs to. I bet your jealous, aren't you? Blond: Ugh... Ya... Yah mean...? ????: That's correct. And you can tell Monsieur Orange that 'ee is lucky 'ee didn't come here personally. A red gloved hand appears in Blond's PoV. In it is an envelope, the seal emblazoned with a deep crimson kiss. ????: Now, take this and get out. Before Blond even knows what's going on, he is out of the chair he was tied to, and is stood in the hallway once again, as naked as the day he was born, envelope in hand. His clothes fly through the doorway, and the door slams shut, leaving Blond, surrounded by his clothes, woozy, confused, and most importantly, completely nude. He leans down, and starts to gather up the sea of denim and leather that surrounds him. Blond: Goddamn, th' boss knows how t'pick 'em... Do we starwipe out? It's kind of a Blake Promo, so yeah, why not. Starwipe out. * [size0]It's worth pointing out that the word 'orange' is pronounced with an extremley heavy French lilt. |
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2:33 PM Jul 11