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undergrounds2017-09-02 11:36 pm
melancolique) wrote in undergrounds2017-09-02 11:36 pm
Eponine - September
A catch all for Eponine
Bus Shelter
Free charge points are a lifesaver. Eponine has trudged right across London: she had walked and walked to find somewhere to charge her newly acquired mobile. The rose gold iPhone had been a pleasant surprise when Eponine had come down from her drug-induced haze. She had absolutely no recollection of taking it, but she guesses it must be from the fae she drank from. Who knew fae were cool enough to have phones like that?
She'd played with the phone as she recovered from the blood, scrolling through Imogen's contacts, her photos, her videos. She'd even dared to send a couple of texts to some of the numbers on the phone - just because she could. Just for the novelty of it. And then she finds him. Him. He is so gorgeous; long, floppy hair, soulful eyes. She sends him a message. Will he reply?
Eponine had spent the day playing with the phone: playing music, going on the internet, waiting in increasing agony for the boy to text back. She can imagine the conversations they'd have when he finds out she's not the blonde girl. What a life they could have. Unfortunately though, iPhones have rubbish batteries and the phone is soon dead. Eponine thinks about chucking it, or pawning it, but the thought of the boy's text going unread is too much, so she decides to charge it.
All of which is how Eponine finds herself curled up in a bus shelter, clutching the phone to a charge point and willing it to turn on again. It's quiet in the bus shelter, dark, but Eponine's not worried. She's strong, she can defend herself. Even still, footsteps echoing on the concrete have her stiffening, and she stands quickly.
"Who's there?" she calls.
Flower Child
What Eponine hates most about being a vampire is the fact that she can't go out in the sun. It feels like ages since Montparnasse relieved her of the necklace that protected her from the light and condemned her to the dark. She misses the warmth of the sun. She misses watching people laughing in the park. She misses the flowers.
London is a city of stone, but Eponine is quick to notice the flowers that spout from hanging baskets all around the major tourist traps. There's a pub she really likes on Long Acre: there's a piano outside spouting flowers, and boots, old chimneys - even a bicycle.
Alone one night, long after the tourists have gone, Eponine finds herself drifting towards the pub, and sinking down outside. But, as intoxicated as she is, from hunting drunks and drinking their vodka-spiced blood, mere looking is no longer enough. She finds herself reaching out with her skeletal fingers, stroking the petals.
And then - then one is broken off, and in her hand. And another. Another. Another, another, another until she has almost a bouquet of pansies and ferns and baby's breath and irises. Eponine barely realises what she's done, but the destroyed displays, the soil trailing over the cobbles.
Still clutching the muddy flowers, she turns to run, and ends up smacking into a very human sized someone blocking her way.
"Move!" She says, urgently. "Get out of the way!"
Street Rat
Eponine's last hit of fae blood had been days ago. She's feeling it properly now: her head is spinning, her hands are beginning to shake and her concentration is gone. The problem is, though, that the cash that Montparnasse had given her had run out, and the gang she had found had told her not to come back without money. They didn't trust a skank to pay her debts. In fairness, that was probably a shrewd move.
Eponine knew she had to make money, and quickly, or find and attack a fae alone.
Once night fell, she dressed herself in her skimpiest clothes: the tatty skirt, fishnets, her battered t-shirt. She left her hoodie and jacket in the grave she had claimed as her bed, and made her way to the streets near the night clubs, finding a spot on the pavement.
She leaned back against the lamp post: it was going to be a long night of begging, an activity she despised anyway.
As people begin to walk past, she calls out for coins "-Enough for a cup of tea, Sir?" "Just a pound, please, Madame," but it doesn't earn her much.
It doesn't bother Eponine: her targets are the drunks on the way home. She spends her time, waiting for 3am, with the other homeless that team the streets. She bums a few cigarettes off some of them, promising to pay them back later. Her hunger burns her throat, but she doesn't attack. These people are her comrades. But for the grace of God, they could be her. They're not food, they're friends.
When the clubs start to let out, her tactics change. She poses at the lamp post, one foot resting on the base of the post, and one hand firmly wrapped round. The women get the same calls as before, but the men - well, for them, she sings bawdy songs in French and English. With one, she disappears into a dark alleyway, and reappears, minutes later, her skirt pockets distinctly heavier, and wearing his blood on her nose and her mouth. Some people are concerned now, that she's been attacked. Some are more interested in her songs. Whatever it is, it's earning her coins and attention, and Eponine calls all the more,
"Won't you give me a coin? Just one or two is all I ask. Just enough for bed! Give me one!"
Bus Shelter
Free charge points are a lifesaver. Eponine has trudged right across London: she had walked and walked to find somewhere to charge her newly acquired mobile. The rose gold iPhone had been a pleasant surprise when Eponine had come down from her drug-induced haze. She had absolutely no recollection of taking it, but she guesses it must be from the fae she drank from. Who knew fae were cool enough to have phones like that?
She'd played with the phone as she recovered from the blood, scrolling through Imogen's contacts, her photos, her videos. She'd even dared to send a couple of texts to some of the numbers on the phone - just because she could. Just for the novelty of it. And then she finds him. Him. He is so gorgeous; long, floppy hair, soulful eyes. She sends him a message. Will he reply?
Eponine had spent the day playing with the phone: playing music, going on the internet, waiting in increasing agony for the boy to text back. She can imagine the conversations they'd have when he finds out she's not the blonde girl. What a life they could have. Unfortunately though, iPhones have rubbish batteries and the phone is soon dead. Eponine thinks about chucking it, or pawning it, but the thought of the boy's text going unread is too much, so she decides to charge it.
All of which is how Eponine finds herself curled up in a bus shelter, clutching the phone to a charge point and willing it to turn on again. It's quiet in the bus shelter, dark, but Eponine's not worried. She's strong, she can defend herself. Even still, footsteps echoing on the concrete have her stiffening, and she stands quickly.
"Who's there?" she calls.
Flower Child
What Eponine hates most about being a vampire is the fact that she can't go out in the sun. It feels like ages since Montparnasse relieved her of the necklace that protected her from the light and condemned her to the dark. She misses the warmth of the sun. She misses watching people laughing in the park. She misses the flowers.
London is a city of stone, but Eponine is quick to notice the flowers that spout from hanging baskets all around the major tourist traps. There's a pub she really likes on Long Acre: there's a piano outside spouting flowers, and boots, old chimneys - even a bicycle.
Alone one night, long after the tourists have gone, Eponine finds herself drifting towards the pub, and sinking down outside. But, as intoxicated as she is, from hunting drunks and drinking their vodka-spiced blood, mere looking is no longer enough. She finds herself reaching out with her skeletal fingers, stroking the petals.
And then - then one is broken off, and in her hand. And another. Another. Another, another, another until she has almost a bouquet of pansies and ferns and baby's breath and irises. Eponine barely realises what she's done, but the destroyed displays, the soil trailing over the cobbles.
Still clutching the muddy flowers, she turns to run, and ends up smacking into a very human sized someone blocking her way.
"Move!" She says, urgently. "Get out of the way!"
Street Rat
Eponine's last hit of fae blood had been days ago. She's feeling it properly now: her head is spinning, her hands are beginning to shake and her concentration is gone. The problem is, though, that the cash that Montparnasse had given her had run out, and the gang she had found had told her not to come back without money. They didn't trust a skank to pay her debts. In fairness, that was probably a shrewd move.
Eponine knew she had to make money, and quickly, or find and attack a fae alone.
Once night fell, she dressed herself in her skimpiest clothes: the tatty skirt, fishnets, her battered t-shirt. She left her hoodie and jacket in the grave she had claimed as her bed, and made her way to the streets near the night clubs, finding a spot on the pavement.
She leaned back against the lamp post: it was going to be a long night of begging, an activity she despised anyway.
As people begin to walk past, she calls out for coins "-Enough for a cup of tea, Sir?" "Just a pound, please, Madame," but it doesn't earn her much.
It doesn't bother Eponine: her targets are the drunks on the way home. She spends her time, waiting for 3am, with the other homeless that team the streets. She bums a few cigarettes off some of them, promising to pay them back later. Her hunger burns her throat, but she doesn't attack. These people are her comrades. But for the grace of God, they could be her. They're not food, they're friends.
When the clubs start to let out, her tactics change. She poses at the lamp post, one foot resting on the base of the post, and one hand firmly wrapped round. The women get the same calls as before, but the men - well, for them, she sings bawdy songs in French and English. With one, she disappears into a dark alleyway, and reappears, minutes later, her skirt pockets distinctly heavier, and wearing his blood on her nose and her mouth. Some people are concerned now, that she's been attacked. Some are more interested in her songs. Whatever it is, it's earning her coins and attention, and Eponine calls all the more,
"Won't you give me a coin? Just one or two is all I ask. Just enough for bed! Give me one!"
Street Rat
It hadn't taken much to get Eponine away from her audience. A few tears, a little terrified pleading--in French, of course; Eponine's English is appalling and Joscelin couldn't hide his posh accent if he tried--and he managed to pull her away, back to the sick mother who doesn't exist. As soon as he got her out of sight the desperate little brother vanished and he pushed her roughly against the side of a building, a wooden stake pressed just hard enough against her rib cage that there's no mistaking his intent. He's awfully strong and fast for someone so small.
She's not even bothered to cover her tracks. Three dead, several more attacked--while it's been hushed up a bit (Cesare Borgia would see to that; a rogue vampire on the loose is bad for his image), Eponine's little bender across London hasn't exactly been subtle. So now Joscelin is here to clean up the mess.
"Do you remember what I said when we met? That I would kill you if you stepped out of line? Give me a reason not to."
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Eponine had started to reply, but Joscelin's sudden surge of violence had caught her off guard. For a minute, she struggled against him, but his superior strength meant that she was going nowhere, despite his shorter stature.
With the stake against her chest, Eponine freezes. It is like home, after all. She laughs, leaning her head back against the rough brick. She laughs, and it sounds a bit like a goose honking, or nails on a board.
"Out of line, mon petit monsieur? No, I do not believe I have crossed a line, or fallen from it. I ain't done a thing."
She struggles again to get away. "Now leave me be, or I won't get any money tonight."
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Then the pressure lets up, slightly. Joscelin sighs. If it's money she wants...
"How much can I pay you to leave London? Forever."
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"Bastard!" She spits in Joscelin's face, hoping that it will make him let go so she can run for it.
"I don't care. They are drunks, criminals. No one knows. No one cares. Let them look for me. I am dead." Eponine laughs again. The pain, the burn stings like hell, but it's good. It means that she's still here.
"You think I want to be in London? In this stinking pit? PAH!" She spits again, aiming at the floor this time. "You tell Montparnasse to have me back, and I can leave. Until he agrees, I am trapped here, Monsieur, and I shall do as I please."
no subject
Joscelin jabs the stake in even harder. If he just puts a little more pressure into it he will kill her, but he wants her to suffer first.
"I tried to help you," he hisses. "I fed you, took you into my home. You think I didn't notice you stealing from me? I don't give a damn what your Montparnasse says or does. I don't know who he is; no one does. Your sire is an unimportant little shit, just like you. You had your chance."
no subject
"Stop! Please!" She gasps out. No one is coming to her aid. No one cares enough to be bothered.
"Monsieur - Sir -" damn, she can't remember his name! "Kill me if you must. Please, just end it."
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He turns to walk away.
"I expect to see you at my flat tomorrow night, 9 p.m. sharp. If you need money and blood, you will work for them. Understood?"
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Bus Shelter
"You've made a lot of mistakes these part few days, Eponine." He's been doing his research and so he deliberately uses her name. A power move, if you will. "Do you know what the punishment is for drinking people so haphazardly like that? Leaving them half dead or worse in the street?"
Re: Bus Shelter
She comes closer, peering curiously into the darkness.
"How do you know me? Has 'Parnasse been in touch? Has -"
No, she won't ask after him. She's not supposed to care about Montparnasse any more. He doesn't care about her.
"I don't care about punishment. You won't kill me. That would be too nice, Monsieur. And it is, perhaps, that these people are not from me. Have you thought, it might be your English gangs causing the mess? I have not been here long."
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"I know you haven't been here long. In fact, you only arrived on Thursday, which just so happens to be when the attacks began. Well, the attacks that you committed at least. Perhaps you should be more careful about doing them so publicly, where people and cameras can see?"
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"You ain't answered my question, Monsieur." She whines. "You know 'Parnasse?"
To his accusations, she merely shrugs. "They are drunks, louts. They are the men what come for girls like me." She smiles. "I make them happy, they make me full. You know how it is, Sir. Or, perhaps no. I bet you have the girls all willing for such a handsome man to feed from them. It is harder when you look like me. The drunks are better."
no subject
Her flattery won't get her very far either. She's absolutely right. He is used to people falling over for him. So why should he react to surprised when she herself flatters him?
"I believe I know who you hurt more than you yourself do," he says with a roll of his eyes. "You did not harm mere drunks."
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"It is good they learn it from me. I take blood, nowt else. I wouldn't do that."
Well, maybe their valuables.
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Flower Child
"Hey, ouch." She's a little grumpy from the late hour, frown pulling on her face before she even catches a whiff of the scent in the air. She stands on her tip toes to see over the woman who barreled into her, half expecting a bouncer to be giving chase or some other drunk ruckus. "What's goin' on?"
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"Now, move or the beaks will be on us and I ain't doing a night in there for a few flowers."
no subject
Right. The woman is holding a small bouquet in hand. "Why would someone be after you for flowers?"
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"Now, I should move, wolf. You ain't where you are supposed to be, and neither am I, so I suppose it means no one would care if it came to it, you know?" Eponine tries to look tough, sound like she means business, but quite honestly, she doesn't see Girl as a remote threat. She swaps the flowers from one hand to the other, and wipes her muddy fingers on her ripped jeans, before doing the same with the other hand. Mostly clean, nobody could swear that she had just wrecked the pub's display.
no subject
It's a stupid thing for anyone to care about, as far as she's concerned. But she's loose about her adherence to rules as it is. If it's not hurting anyone, it can't be a big deal.
"I could be supposed to be here, for all you know." The older wolves have only warned her away from the territory of the vampires and witches. For Girl that made everything else fair game. Despite that, her bluster is only just that. She only looks to fights when it's pack business and Girl wants no part of another grudge with the vampires. She takes another half step to the side, nods her head down the street. "I ain't stoppin' you from leavin'."
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"So you want to be bitten? You wanna be a vampire?" Eponine chuckles. But Girl moves, and Eponine shrugs.
"You ain't gonna tell anyone you saw me, yes?"
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Bus Shelter
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"Why are you here? You ought not be here on a night? Don't you know it's when the wicked come out, Ma'mzelle?" She hugs her arms about her thin frame, studying the girl before her. She's as pale as Eponine herself, almost vampiric looking. But this girl is no vampire. There is no stench of death from her.
"I should go, Ma'mzelle, for you don't want trouble tonight."
Eponine daren't go closer. The hunger that always tickles her belly is already flaring. She daren't tempt herself any more.
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"The wicked are always out, the time of day means nothing to them," she said. She was very annoyed by this continued belief in night-time being the time of evil. So much evil happened by the bright light of day, after all.
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Her shoulders hunch, and her long, black, tangled hair swings into her face. She doesn't want Wednesday to be here. She doesn't particularly want to be seen here. Not with a stolen phone.
"Not so many can walk the streets in the light, Ma'am. The shadows hide us, let us move freely so we might make our mischief. The night time is safer for us, more dangerous for them what ain't me. More dangerous for you, Ma'mzelle. You should go, Ma'mzelle, before you are caught in it all."
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She's hungry, but she's also excited about her precious phone. She wants to disappear into the shadows and figure out how to work it.
"Now, please, Miss, go. Don't come back here tonight."
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