[WoD] Snow Angels

[Sansa]

Sansa coughed, her breath clouding up around her in the chill evening air. The house to her back was filling with people, gathering in for a New Years Eve party to rival Times Square. A couple of revelers drunkenly staggered against the girl, pressing her further into the shadows just to the side of the tiny rfront porch of the row house. She tugged at her gloves as they moved on, one finger poking through its woolen covering.

She sighed, stamped her feet in the snow, and then ventured onto the steps, peering down the street. Behind her someone erupted into off-key singing, to the delight of the others. The door muffled their excited voices only slightly.

Sansa was a nanny to the children of the Browns, the owners of the house and the ones throwing the party. She'd spent all day keeping their two children, Victoria and Peter, out from under the feet of their harried mother who was more concerned about the catering than she had ever been about her offspring. And now - she was going home.

Except that Emilie, her flatmate, wasn't there to pick her up, and it was a ten block walk to the flat. Traipsing through the snow on a London New Years Eve wasn't how Sansa had planned on spending the night. For one, there was the possibility of finally meeting that guy that Emilie was continually talking about setting her up with. The American. John?

Maybe it was Jake. Sansa looked at her watch, and sighed.

Drawing her coat in tighter around her thin frame, she stepped off the porch and into the night.

[Jude]

There is a fine art to rolling a snowball. A fine art. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, alright, because I have been perfecting this thing for years now and I still haven't got it down. You know, I'm no Michaelangelo- I'm no Praxiteles. I don't know the secrets of the snowball.

This tasty little nugget of ice is shaping up quite nicely, though. I rolled it twenty minutes ago and it still hasn't melted (duh). The thing is, I can't bring myself to throw it! It's my greatest masterpiece yet. If only you could see how smooth the surface is, how perfectly spherical! You wouldn't want to throw a snowball like this either. Not without the right target.

And there she is! Miss Right – or at least, Miss Right On Time. What better way to begin a friendship than with a high-velocity frozen missile. She's coming my way, wrapped up as tight in her thoughts as she is in that coat. What a frown on her face, though. No doubt because she just got ejected from that party. We'll soon cheer her up.

She doesn't notice that she passes me, but she does. I let her walk a while, give her a fair head start. There's no point in wasting this baby on a point-blank assault. No, we'll give her some space and then hit when she least expects!

She's not even that far away now, but I can't resist. Hey batter batter, hey batter batter swiiiiing. I wind up the shot, draw my arm back, take in a deep breath, narrow my eyes, tense my muscles, tense everything, waiting waiting for the right moment until release. It whistles off through the air – weeeeeeeee! – and I grin with delight, imagining it sore through the sky in glorious slow motion, like the flight of some magnificent bird of prey.

With bated breath, I watch as it makes its final descent – the suspense of not knowing whether it will hit is killing me!

[Sansa]

Lost in her thoughts, Sansa paused when a car drove by to make sure it wasn’t Emilie, and was startled back to the present when a snowball pfffed into the snow in front of her. She resisted the childish urge to duck, and cautiously turned around, wary of another icy missile.

A young man was standing behind her, his expression a mixture of glee and disappointment. Sansa brushed her long wavy hair out of her eyes, “You missed.” She smiled at him, although she really didn’t want to encourage any further attention.

[Jude]

Did I? Did I?! That's awfully presumptuous, isn't it? Don't be so self-centred. Perhaps I was aiming right there, right for that very spot on the pavement! That little patch of concrete that isn't covered by snow, maybe I wanted to make it feel not so left out.

Did you think about that, hmmm?

“Oops.”

My lips stretch away from my teeth. People call this a smile.

I start walking... and become momentarily fascinated by trying to fit my steps into the mushy footprints left by others.

“You going to a big party tonight?”

[Sansa]

"Going home," she answered, before she could stop herself. Sansa sighed, and hugged her arms around herself for warmth. He was walking the way she had to go, so she reluctantly followed along behind him.

"Well," she amended, "I might go out. It is New Years, after all." She didn't sound like the holiday was anything to be excited about.

[Jude]

“It's just another night, right?”

Any excuse to party. Someone is born? Party. Someone dies? Party. Travel once around the sun? Party. Even if we have no reason, we'll make one up! It'll be a crazy party.

“I'm thinking of going to the gallery,” I confess, the words spilling out before I've got a chance to catch them.

“They're having this big, big all-nighter. Big money, celebrities, charity, luminaries, buffet, fireworks, charity...”

Already said that one. Damn. I turn so that I'm walking backwards, no small feat when crossing treacherously icy paths. I'm getting a look, a look that says go away, but I only half notice it when so much of my focus is invested in avoiding stepping on the cracks and lines in the pavement.

“It's open invitation,” I lie, but for the time being no one has to know or worry.

[Sansa]

She can’t help but grin at his ridiculous antics. “The gallery? You talk like there’s only one in the city.” Sansa adjusted her scarf, pulling it higher on her neck against the cold. Snow started falling again, big fluffy flakes that got stuck in her hair.

Sticking out her tongue to catch one before it could be sullied by London grime, she thought about the invitation. Emilie, petite, blond, and French, was always telling her she needed to get out more, to ‘put yourself out there!’ She usually followed such admonitions up with a string of sentences in rapid-fire French, leaving Sansa struggling to translate.

“We-ell…” She held out a hand, letting the snowflakes settle in the palm of her woolen glove as she walked. “Maybe. I’m not dressed for a party though.”

[Jude]

“There's plenty of time to change!”

Put on something pretty, to impress. Something Mademoiselle Emilie would approve of.

I can hear the petite mademoiselle cheering her, pushing her, on. It feels like she's almost there, almost over the edge into conceding defeat. I've almost won this one, I think – but not quite yet! One last push, mademoiselle - one, two, three:

“You can bring a friend, if you want to.”

Indecision still. Work with me, Emilie.

“Come along to the Barbican. Tell them Jude sent you and you'll get the VIP treatment,” I joke, as a wayward snowflake comes to rest on the tip of my nose, weary from its windy flight.

[Sansa]

Emilie would jump at the chance to mingle with celebrities at the Barbican, one of the most well respected art galleries in London. Sansa preferred curling up with a book on her bed to talking with people she didn't know. Which was part of the reason she was a nanny - or a governess as she might have been called in the old days, except she rarely stayed the night at the Brown's. Children had few expectations of their friends except loyalty.

"My flatmate might want to go..." she said reluctantly. "I'll have to ask her when I get home." Sansa stopped at a street corner and looked down to the left toward her flat. If Emilie was even home. Why hadn't she picked her up?

[Jude]

We reach a junction. To the left is the warmth of her home and the petite mademoiselle. To the right is the dark and inviting sprawl of an empty park. For now, at least, our paths diverge.

“I might see you both later on, then.”

My eyes meet with hers for a moment, it's all that's necessary. Humans are like stringless puppets in the presence of the children of Caine – the blood in me works like magic on her, planting subconscious suggestions, gently warming her to my will. It wouldn't be right to force her – and there's no fun in that – but this will at least make the game somewhat easier.

[Sansa]

"Maybe." She smiled as a farewell, and turned down her street. There were still long blocks to walk in the falling snow, but she felt a bit lighter as she made her way to her home.

Stamping up the steps into the building, Sansa waited impatiently for the creaky elevator to spool it's way down to the ground floor. She had a dress she could wear - she'd bought it a year ago but had never worn it outside of the flat. Emilie had borrowed it more than once, but it was just a little too long on her.

Wait, was she actually considering going? She entered the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. Standing very carefully in the middle of the elevator so as not to touch the sides Sansa decided that she would go. If Emilie wanted to. Not alone - no she wouldn't go alone.

But the flat was empty when she arrived, with a quickly scrawled note explaining that Emilie had been invited to a last minute party with Jack Brewer. Ah, that's his name. The American. Apparently she was apologetic that she hadn't been able to pick up Sansa, but the fact that she'd been gushing about setting up Jack and Sansa for the last two weeks seemed to have slipped her mind.

Sansa crumpled up the note and threw it away.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

Since it's grand-opening in 1982, the Barbican Arts Centre had become a popular haunt for a number of Kindred – namely the Toreadors. It was only fitting, then, that the Prince of London – a Toreador himself – should host his New Years party within the walls of the gallery. It had become tradition for the city Camarilla to meet in the Barbican at the end of each year. There were so few other times that such a vast number of Kindred amassed together, that the party became almost a necessity to attend. Though it was thrown on the premise of a friendly get-together in celebration of another year of prosperity, the party was as steeped in dirty politics and game-playing as the rest of Kindred society.

The Arts Centre had been declared an Elysium, a haven in which no act of violence or attack was permitted, but even this could not deter some. Though the invitation to the party was open, it was an unspoken rule that only members of the Camarilla – vampires with the ability to act with respect for the laws of the Masquerade – should attend. Of course, some Anarch upstart or Sabbat troublemaker would crash the evening, inevitably - but when the time came, they would be more than ready. At the doors, guards stood on watch, whilst in the surrounding area Nosferatu scouts kept an eye and ear out for anything suspicious. Although it seemed almost over the top and paranoid, it was always better to be safe than sorry...

[Sansa]

Underneath her plain woolen coat, Sansa tried to feel adventurous. Her boots pinched her toes a little - she'd snatched them out of Emilie's closet. Despite their height difference they both wore the same size shoes, but she didn't wear high heels very often. She walked up the steps from the Underground, took a deep breath, and headed towards the Barbican Arts Centre.

Sansa stopped on the Barbican's steps, looking up at the entrance to the Centre. It was almost ten p.m. and people were passing her on their way up the steps and into the building. She was instantly conscious of her plain coat - it looked positively shabby next to some of the leather and fur ensembles that walked by her. She took another step up, then paused and turned to go before anyone saw her.

[Jude]

It looks as if she was just about to leave. Lucky for me I catch her with one foot out of the door. There's no sign of mademoiselle Emilie.

“Hey! You made it.”

I side-step to avoid a clove-cigarette wielding poseur, one more of the crushed-velvet Tory crowd. We two stick out like sore thumbs and the entourage passing by looks our way sidelong, offended.

I offer out a crooked arm to my new friend and guide her seamlessly towards the guarded doorway.

“...Where's your flatmate?”

[Sansa]

"Ah, she -" Sansa narrowly avoided having her eye jabbed out by a cigarette. "She was already at another party." She clutched at her wool coat as her escort whisked her inside the doors.

"I'm Sansa, by the way." It was hard to believe she'd shown up to a party after being invited by a stranger on the street who's name she didn't even know. She shrugged out of her coat, revealing the sleeveless burgandy dress underneath. It was knee length with an asymetrical hemline that dipped to mid calf. Emilie's boots kept her legs warm up to her knees, and she wore no jewelry except for two tiny studs in her earlobes.

[Jude]

“Jude,” I introduce myself once again and smile, forgiving of the sieve-like nature of human memory.

Just over the threshold, past the wary eyes of the guards, is the main reception. It's all but empty and quiet, voices barely drifting through from the main party. A ghoul steps forward and explains that there is a cloak room to the left. He takes Sansa's coat and my own heavy duster and scurries away, happy to be of service.

I'm wearing black, suprisingly - dress shirt and pants. Depending on who you compare us too, we will be either hilarious over or under dressed. We move on through the empty foyer and towards a small staircase which is signposted by a single, imposing black arrow – who would dare defy such an arrow?!

As we ascend, I can hear the sound of strings, the clink of glasses. When we come into view of the hall, we view it through frosted glasses. Amorphous shapes dotted here and there, drifting and gliding between one another. A tall man in a suit exits the room, spilling light out into the hallway. He babbles angrily on a cellphone and glares at us, no doubt expecting some privacy. I allow him the small luxury.

“It looks like we're a little early,” I observe. Though the crowd in attendance is fairly large, it seems dwarfed by the cavernous size of the room. Up above, four tiers of walkways run the perimeter of the rectangular room. A colour piece of modern art is hanging from the ceiling, drawing many eyes upwards.

It doesn't look like our entrance was noted- but it was. I can hear thoughts of kine among the poseurs, appalled that a lowly human has been allowed access into their secret little club. They watch us out of the corners of their eyes, all the while maintaining the illusion of conversation.

“Shall we get a drink?” I ask, hoping they have more than red wine on tap.

[Sansa]

Sansa resisted the urge to slap herself on the forehead. Tell them Jude sent you. That's right, he had told her his name earlier. But her coat was taken away and Jude was gently tugging her in the direction of a staircase, so she allowed herself to be led.

When they entered the hall Sansa took it all in silently, her blue eyes scanning the crowd and the enormous room. "Shall we get a drink?" Jude nodded with his head of carefully mussed hair (or perhaps just messy) towards a refreshment table.

She was acutely aware of the scrutiny of the people closest to them, and unconsciously moved closer to the side of her escort. "Sure, that'd be nice." Sansa blinked as a woman much taller than she was brushed by them, resplendent in blood red silk and enough diamonds and rubies to ransom the Queen, God save her. She snapped her mouth shut, mortified that she'd allowed it to pop open at the sight.

[Jude]

The refreshment table is woefully understocked. I smirk and made an offhand comment about the others having drunk all the free wine. In truth, it's mostly for show. I'd be surprised if anyone is drinking the wine – they're too busy drinking each other. We loiter by the table a while, until-

“Judas... I'm rather surprised to see you here.”

I knew it wouldn't be long before some bloodhound came snooping. This one has the drooping eyes and all – a doddering old Ventrue, up way past his bed time. I've seen his secrets, the things he wouldn't like the Prince and his chums to know about, so he regards me with an air of uncertainty and wary respect. I, on the other hand, regard him with a complete lack of respect and slight amusement.

“This is my good friend Sansa. Sansa, this is...”

I wave at the air, then pluck the name out of nowhere: “Cedric Helmsworth.”

“Sansa- charmed,” he lies. Enchanté, old man. He hands Sansa a flute of champagne and smiles, thin-lipped. I take one for myself and raise it, toasty like, to the old codger.

“Cedric is one of the gallery's benefactors. Without his generosity, we wouldn't have giant multi-coloured monstrosities like that,” I say, jokingly, and motion my glass up to the precariously positioned sculpture, hanging over us all like the swaying Sword of Damocles.

[Sansa]

Cedric? Sir Helmsworth? Mr. Helmsworth? What should she call him?

You're in way over your head, Sansa. If only Emilie were here - she was at home in any company. She was usually the center of attention when they went out, and Sansa was content in the role of the quiet friend.

"Likewise," she demurred, offering a pretty smile in exchange for his that seemed rather forced. "The Barbican is very impressive. I haven't had a chance to see much of the newest collection as of yet, but I plan to before the new year." Sansa tipped her glass up and tried not to gulp the champagne as she glanced at the hanging sculpture above the hall. It was strangely erotic, despite it's myriad colors and odd position.

[Jude]

“Judas hasn't given you the tour yet? How terrible of him.”

My eyes just about roll out of their sockets.

“I'm afraid we only arrived moments ago. I thought we'd take in some of the social scenery before moving on to the art work. It looks like a lot of the pieces are pretty crowded right now... not the best time for a viewing.”

I'm right. People are using exhibits as points to gather, huddling tightly around them.

“Maybe you could give us a grand tour later on, eh, Ceds?”

Helmsworth restrains himself. That Ventrue superiority complex doesn't deal very well with being talked down to by a moony. Still, he smiles all demure and refuses to let it get the better of him.

“Perhaps. I have so many others to see, though, that I'm not sure I'll have the time. I'm sure you understand.”

I'm sure I do. Old Ceds knows I can pull on his strings and push his buttons til the cows come home and there's diddly-squat he can do in return.

“On that note, I must leave you two to yourselves. I think I hear the Countess calling...”

Helmsworth makes a quick departure into the safe and inviting arms of a gaggle of blue-bloods, ready and waiting to spit vitriol in my name. I turn to my guest, who looks like a deer in the headlights of the Camarilla. I offer a lop-sided smile.

“Do you want to go for a wander? I'm sure the party will liven up later... not all of the invited guests are like crusty old Helmsworth.”