The film reel rattled and over the hiss of the machine Bela Lugosi's now-
trademark awkwardly paused, foreign accent spoke: "Listen to them...
children of the night. What music they make!"
Radar tilted his head, shifted slightly on the back seat, and looked down to the empty coffee cup next to him, slightly rimmed with red. He tried to listen, his forehead furrowing.
Onscreen, Dracula continued, his words oddly striking Radar as if they were trying to tell him something: "A spider spinning his web for the unwary fly." Radar shivered, feeling strange, feeling trapped, feeling unable to move, and then, nothing. He tilted his head to try to look at Bantelhopp's face, to try to get some clue as to what had happened. The chimera shook his head.
"The blood...is the life, Mr. Renfield." Dracula finished explaining.
"Why, yes," Renfield admitted, much less acutely aware of the danger of his situation than Radar was of that which lurked outside the Mess Tent doors. Radar slid out of his seat, taking the bloody cup with him as he stepped nervously toward the door, wishing that Ban would tell him more about what was going on, and frightened at the chimera's silence. He felt like he had before the change, before he awoke, when all he could puzzle out of Bantelhopp's messages were vague intuitions that left him more often than not simply queasy with a feeling that something was about to go on.
Radar was about to head out the door when a motion along the side of the tent caught his attention. It was Sparky, pacing rather excitedly. He finally bent his figure double and went up along the side aisle to where the Seneschal was sitting.
Joles, for his part, was occupying part of his time trying to decide whether the movie was the work of one troublesome anarch who found a way to get a script to Hollywood past the Camarilla, or the work of millennia of tiny little breaches of the Masq all compiled into one. He'd never seen it before, in fact, and was surprised at the amount it seemed to have about right, despite all the obvious errors.
The other part of his time he spent fondly watching his wife abandon herself to the pleasant cinematography in that way only the Toreador can. He chuckled and found himself giving her a gentle squeeze around the waist and pulling himself close to her, thinking how much they must resemble Joe and Jane Teenage American on a date at the drive-in. Irene, of course, neither noticed nor responded, simply staring wide-eyed at the screen.
The Seneschal removed himself from his wife's waist, deciding to leave her to her enjoyment, and not being able to help cringing from the buildup of ice-cold air around her person.
'If I've told her once, I've told her a thousand times,' Joles complained inwardly, 'If she'd just take the effort to keep up a regular pulse, she wouldn't be so blessed cold all the time.'
He briefly rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, then, his eyes widening in terror, he gripped his wrist with his opposite hand and felt for his pulse. Yes, yes, there it was, but-- he counted, and counted, and tried to keep two sets of numbers straight in his head; this set for numbers of seconds, that for pulses. He'd gotten fairly good at such a method, but now, in his fright, he couldn't quite keep them straight, increasing his level of panic.
"Good God... seven times eight, the square root of seventy-two, God, THINK, Joly, THINK." He whispered to himself. His wife, of course, was completely enthralled by the film, and didn't hear a word he was saying.
He groped for his pulse again, "Too slow," he fretted, "Too cold." He felt his forehead, and stuck a finger under his tongue, probing at the undead flesh there.
He finally reached into his oblivious wife's pocket and pulled out a makeup compact, opening it quickly and using it to inspect the color of the insides of his eyelids, pulling them up and then down with a fingertip, then finally just peering into the mirror intently.
He re-focused his eyes carefully, letting the picture of himself in the mirror blur out and be replaced by a rushing wash of whirling color.
"Sit still," he growled at his hyperactive, fretting aura. He broke out in a blood-red sweat and started fidgeting as those damned voices started!
"And so he says to it, "Hey, you, are you an adverb or what?"" one voice said.
"Yeah," another replied, "And I can't help it if the milk went slightly bad. It's the condition of things."
"Hey, look who it is!"
"Out. Out of my head," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Look who it--" The Seneschal snapped the compact closed, and the voices snapped shut just as audibly into a silence vaguely marred by the clatter of the movie reels and the droning of the character's voices.
"Sir? Sir?" Sparky came to crouch by his Regnant's side, recognizing easily all the signs of one of the Malkavian's fits of madness coming on.
"Sir, you don't look well, should I--"
"Yes, Sparky, go get my bag. Go. Now." This last part was spoken loud enough to be heard and ignored by the bulk of the crowd. Colonel Potter, for his part, turned at the hubbub and was about to say something about it, but he frowned as he saw Sparky crouching in a most servile manner and bowing as he retreated at his Regnant's command.
"Yes, sir, yes, sir, I'll get it, sir," Sparky assured him humbly as Potter lifted his chin to look on.
Sparky ran back toward the back of the tent. Joles gritted his fangs and the blood sweat soaked back into his pores as he forced blood through his system, using it to warm his dead body and regulate his pulse, feeling his wrist obsessively.
Potter quirked a brow as he turned back to the screen in time to see the now hunched and wild-eyed Renfield creep down to open the Count's coffin in the hold of the Vesta.
"Master, the sun is gone." Renfield, obviously changed by whatever unspecified act Count Dracula had inflicted upon him at the end of the first scene, informed the audience.
Potter looked back toward the hastily retreating Sparky, his curiosity suddenly piqued by Renfield's slavish actions.
"You will keep your promise when we get to London, won't you, master? You will see that I get lives...not human lives but small ones...with blood in them. I'll be loyal to you, master. I'll be loyal." Renfield went on.
~
Radar tilted his head, shifted slightly on the back seat, and looked down to the empty coffee cup next to him, slightly rimmed with red. He tried to listen, his forehead furrowing.
Onscreen, Dracula continued, his words oddly striking Radar as if they were trying to tell him something: "A spider spinning his web for the unwary fly." Radar shivered, feeling strange, feeling trapped, feeling unable to move, and then, nothing. He tilted his head to try to look at Bantelhopp's face, to try to get some clue as to what had happened. The chimera shook his head.
"The blood...is the life, Mr. Renfield." Dracula finished explaining.
"Why, yes," Renfield admitted, much less acutely aware of the danger of his situation than Radar was of that which lurked outside the Mess Tent doors. Radar slid out of his seat, taking the bloody cup with him as he stepped nervously toward the door, wishing that Ban would tell him more about what was going on, and frightened at the chimera's silence. He felt like he had before the change, before he awoke, when all he could puzzle out of Bantelhopp's messages were vague intuitions that left him more often than not simply queasy with a feeling that something was about to go on.
Radar was about to head out the door when a motion along the side of the tent caught his attention. It was Sparky, pacing rather excitedly. He finally bent his figure double and went up along the side aisle to where the Seneschal was sitting.
Joles, for his part, was occupying part of his time trying to decide whether the movie was the work of one troublesome anarch who found a way to get a script to Hollywood past the Camarilla, or the work of millennia of tiny little breaches of the Masq all compiled into one. He'd never seen it before, in fact, and was surprised at the amount it seemed to have about right, despite all the obvious errors.
The other part of his time he spent fondly watching his wife abandon herself to the pleasant cinematography in that way only the Toreador can. He chuckled and found himself giving her a gentle squeeze around the waist and pulling himself close to her, thinking how much they must resemble Joe and Jane Teenage American on a date at the drive-in. Irene, of course, neither noticed nor responded, simply staring wide-eyed at the screen.
The Seneschal removed himself from his wife's waist, deciding to leave her to her enjoyment, and not being able to help cringing from the buildup of ice-cold air around her person.
'If I've told her once, I've told her a thousand times,' Joles complained inwardly, 'If she'd just take the effort to keep up a regular pulse, she wouldn't be so blessed cold all the time.'
He briefly rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, then, his eyes widening in terror, he gripped his wrist with his opposite hand and felt for his pulse. Yes, yes, there it was, but-- he counted, and counted, and tried to keep two sets of numbers straight in his head; this set for numbers of seconds, that for pulses. He'd gotten fairly good at such a method, but now, in his fright, he couldn't quite keep them straight, increasing his level of panic.
"Good God... seven times eight, the square root of seventy-two, God, THINK, Joly, THINK." He whispered to himself. His wife, of course, was completely enthralled by the film, and didn't hear a word he was saying.
He groped for his pulse again, "Too slow," he fretted, "Too cold." He felt his forehead, and stuck a finger under his tongue, probing at the undead flesh there.
He finally reached into his oblivious wife's pocket and pulled out a makeup compact, opening it quickly and using it to inspect the color of the insides of his eyelids, pulling them up and then down with a fingertip, then finally just peering into the mirror intently.
He re-focused his eyes carefully, letting the picture of himself in the mirror blur out and be replaced by a rushing wash of whirling color.
"Sit still," he growled at his hyperactive, fretting aura. He broke out in a blood-red sweat and started fidgeting as those damned voices started!
"And so he says to it, "Hey, you, are you an adverb or what?"" one voice said.
"Yeah," another replied, "And I can't help it if the milk went slightly bad. It's the condition of things."
"Hey, look who it is!"
"Out. Out of my head," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Look who it--" The Seneschal snapped the compact closed, and the voices snapped shut just as audibly into a silence vaguely marred by the clatter of the movie reels and the droning of the character's voices.
"Sir? Sir?" Sparky came to crouch by his Regnant's side, recognizing easily all the signs of one of the Malkavian's fits of madness coming on.
"Sir, you don't look well, should I--"
"Yes, Sparky, go get my bag. Go. Now." This last part was spoken loud enough to be heard and ignored by the bulk of the crowd. Colonel Potter, for his part, turned at the hubbub and was about to say something about it, but he frowned as he saw Sparky crouching in a most servile manner and bowing as he retreated at his Regnant's command.
"Yes, sir, yes, sir, I'll get it, sir," Sparky assured him humbly as Potter lifted his chin to look on.
Sparky ran back toward the back of the tent. Joles gritted his fangs and the blood sweat soaked back into his pores as he forced blood through his system, using it to warm his dead body and regulate his pulse, feeling his wrist obsessively.
Potter quirked a brow as he turned back to the screen in time to see the now hunched and wild-eyed Renfield creep down to open the Count's coffin in the hold of the Vesta.
"Master, the sun is gone." Renfield, obviously changed by whatever unspecified act Count Dracula had inflicted upon him at the end of the first scene, informed the audience.
Potter looked back toward the hastily retreating Sparky, his curiosity suddenly piqued by Renfield's slavish actions.
"You will keep your promise when we get to London, won't you, master? You will see that I get lives...not human lives but small ones...with blood in them. I'll be loyal to you, master. I'll be loyal." Renfield went on.
~