The Fiend known as the Green Brass Poet is freshly cleaned, freshly pampered, freshly serviced, and freshly dressed. An alluring scent wafts from him, subtle and primally appealing, an odor forged from distilled neomah pheremones ground with rose petals. He has put his best foot forward, immaculate and beautiful, all for the sake of one thing and one thing only:

        Making the woman known as Azami uncomfortable.

        Fully aware of the influence he is having over her, he has chosen to quietly play against it, forcing her to stay relatively near him as they explore and he shows her around. The Conventicle Malfeasant is where they find themselves currently; Poet could have brought her to his own palace, but this place is somewhat nicer, and easier on the eyes for the Creation-born. He has brought her out on a date--ostensibly an information-gathering mission, or so Poet says, but in truth just an excuse to slowly worm his way ever closer. "These things take time, you may as well enjoy yourself," he says, or some variant of that, whenever questioned. The two have come to the Theatre Outre, the theater of the bizarre. It is a grand affair, decadent and the height of fashion, the building etched brass and black stone with high stained windows and the light of Ligier always on it. Tonight's performance is something Poet requested in private earlier: a tale of romance and intrigue, love and betrayal, and a stalwart woman's slow descent into madness and sin as she seeks greater and greater power for the sake of protecting those closest to her.

        The actors are all awesome demons!

This, in no way shape or form, could ever be called Aza's happy place. The efforts of Green Brass Poet are (in part at least) not going to waste. 

 With her arms crossed before her and her ink tipped velvety lynx ears laid back flat, Azami looks around the crowd of fashionable demons nervously. Dressed in a elegant, backless dress of deep plum-coloured silk, the little No Moon raises a pale hand to brush away the waves of her moonsilk bangs and lets her thick, heavy braid slip off of her bare shoulder and down her back. Garnets of the same burnished green as her eyes glow caught in her hair and in clasps about her pale arms and hands so that the slighest gesture sends flashes and winks under the light of the theatre. "I do not like being here," she murmurs to Poet, Old-Realm flowing more naturally from her lips than Rivertongue did, though still heavily accented by her native Skytongue. "Are you sure this is neccessary?" She glancess up at Poet, then with akward politeness attempts to wave away a wine of glass offered on a proferred silver tray by one of the well-dressed servants.

       And in the role of the stalwart woman in the play is... a young blonde Princess of the Green Sun. And while she's never been much of an actress, she drags the lost memories of a Solar to the fore. Ghostly images of a stage long past lie before her eyes, allowing her to take the role with aplomb and passion. And too, the dark hand that seized her for the Exaltation aids her as well, whispering direction in her ear. There is music in her motions as well as the backdrop, for the play is never truly without a rhythm. The tone that keeps the demon actors in constant motion, like a entire nest of snakes being charmed. Most of the demons are succubi and nearly human, but the occasional beautious wasp or spidery creature underlies the truth of their interaction with the woman.

        Many others would consider this a favor, to demand things of their fellows later. Forbidden Blossom does not care, and now that she is on stage, is perhaps just is entranced by the music and her memories. It is a play in two senses of the word, a story and a game. Nor does she seem to notice the audience terribly. And despite her dark inner self, her shadow is wrapped around her, bringing a mocking sort of innocence to a face that is clearly not.

"Enjoy yourself, I have seen to it that all will be handled," replies Poet. The peers of Malfeas are denied no luxury, no matter how decadent or distasteful to the Creation-born; the Fiend now holds a small shot glass, full of a florid pink liquid that stirs restlessly of its own accord, issuing a faint, indecipherable murmur. His other hand holds an identical one. Absently, he hands it to Azami, downing his own in one fell swoop. "Delicious," the man says with a sigh of pleasure. He purses his lips and looks forward, watching the blonde woman as she dances with the alien music, forwarding the story.

        "I love this play. The actress is particularly fine for this rendition." He turns to Azami and smiles, a warm smile designed to capitalize on what she should not feel and only further discomfort her. The ease with which he has gone from a snarky troll to gracious dilettante might startle weaker people. "Look at the passion she exudes--you can almost feel the inner turmoil as she struggles with herself. It's a perfect portrayal of so many people, confused as to where they should be in life."

One ear flicks at Poet while the other lilts to catch the strains of the beautiful actress' voice. "Well..." She settles into the seat a bit more and tells herself to relax. Accepting the drink she holds it in her hand and watches the play unfold, sighing quietly. 

 It is a singular quality of art that it can take one away from themselves. Aza has always loved music and writing for this reason, and threatre is no different. Soon she finds herself relaxing a bit and watching the play in a dreamy state of thoughtfulness. Half with the opera, half in the quieter, private realm of secret thought. "She is very good," she murmurs, watching Forbidden Blossom. Aza's quiet, pleasantly rough voice is smoky, low and her green eyes clouded. She turns the glass about in her hand, one finger idylly tracing the lip of it. "I thought Malfean opera would be more violent."

"There are things that cannot be done, in this world or the next.", protests Blossom as she turns about to the crying mask, standing on its wooden fingers.

        The thing speaks to her. "If you know of them, then they can be done, and one must have done them for you to know. It does not matter what you do, if it is done for love, then it is a thing of love."

        The girl looks broken as she slips away on tiptoes, saying, "But if they know what I have done, then they will never know why it was done, but simply hate me so."

        The mask weeps, a sigh escaping its wooden lips. "Do you love or not love? If you do not love, remain pure, if you love, come with us, and we shall do what we must do."

        Blossom turns to follow the mask with a brave expression, as the music whips into a fever pitch of song, more uncomfortable to mortal ears than anything else. But in it is undoubtedly a note of furious drama as Blossom moves into song, crying upon the precipice of a fateful choice.

"There is a certain beauty in violence," the man replies, setting his glass down. "But it is hardly the only kind. I find something is more beautiful the more it has struggled to free itself, to define itself separate from the judgments of others. You're rather beautiful, in that light--your willingness to ally with myself and wield the powers of death show an impressive dedication to your goals, and to hell with what others think about it." He grins, tipping his head once, eyes briefly fluttering closed. The chalcanth is heady, the pure essence of the neomah that went into it coursing through him. The psychedelic experience is immensely enjoyable, not least because of its source, and the energizing qualities it has thanks to the essence are appreciated.

        "It's why I find this play beautiful, too. Watch."

Azami doesn't reply to that, though she colours very slightly and raises the glass to her lips, returning her gaze to the play.

       The music dips low as Blossom dances with things, most of them with arms, sometimes a tentacle or stalk, turning from each to each in a dizzying dance between them as she sings. Demonic voices tempt and admonish her, as she calls out her devotion and love to those far away with greater emotion. They whisper to her and she copies them slightly, learning something new from each one. But still, she calls out her continued denial of corruption, though with each lesson, it rings more and more false.

        Everything begins to darken, as one can see her silhouette, mixing the motions with song, this time as the demons stand aside, letting her perform the same routine on her own. She comes to halt, falling still as she sobs a little, and then forces her weakness away, stepping back into the light.

Azami suddenly, subtly leans back in her chair and lofts a hand to cover her face. The cup is set down a little uncertainly. The rising chreschendo of music swells over her and sets a pounding in her ears. Horribly, for a moment, the two blur in her vision and she shudders, tensing and drawing in on herself in the plush seat as though retreating from what she sees. Discernable only to those right next to her, the air around the little No Moon grows suddenly icy cold as frost creeps over her skin and gathers in her hair and eyelashes. Play and chalcanth swirl together. To say it is heady is an understatement. Any other Lunar might let out a throaty laugh and relax into it. Azami on the other hand, coils more and more tensely like a sharpened silver spring.

        Poet does notice that Azami has quaffed the chalcanth. Hidden beneath his affectionate and polite veneer, he is laughing. The girl is so easily flustered in his presence just from a little thing like lust; he can only imagine how she'll respond to living through the experiences of a neomah, if only for a time. He has experienced the same thing many times before, but it never does get old. As she begins to respond, he can't help but watch with cruel amusement, disappointed, briefly, that he does not have the power to dip into her mind or senses and understand truly what is happening to her. Ah well. He will let the girl enjoy herself whether she likes it or not.

        "Oh, we're nearing the climax," the Infernal says huskily, waving to the stage. "She stands on the edge--she needs but one push, and she is forever changed, lost in a new life. Watch, Azami, and see her transformation." Almost idly, he lifts one hand to the Lunar's chin, his fingers caressing the skin there--or do they? It's so hard to tell--and points her face forward. "Watch." His hand falls away.

Azami lifts her eyes to the play, absurdly determined not to let the effects of the drink show. Its foolish; it shows in the colour in her cheeks and the wavering of her focus. But Azami is stubborn, and so watches the play, nails digging viciously into the arm of the theatre chair. She'll be damned if some stupid Malfean drink get the better of her!

The demons turn in on her, sliding into the light, ready to consume her. She has come too far, and found too much, and now she is to be consumed, the devils hungering for the soul she has offered. One neomah comes behind her, her jaw distending as if to consume the girl. The music sways in pitch, bells shimmering just before the angyalkae begin to strum unseen harps. Their music peels away moments of the listener's lives, bringing their content into beauty or regret into stark relief. Then, the creature's shadow falls over her, and Blossom falls into silhouette for a moment.

        Then, suddenly, there's a twisting of the two figures, and a spray of fragrant, indigo blood enters the air as Blossom sinks her teeth into the creature's face. It's not a thing of elegant violence, but a clumsy, cruel act. The demons look for a moment as if this were /not/ in the script, starting to look very uncertain, and the music goes suddenly off-key, the harmony broken. The neomah collapses, and one can see as the actress pulls something free, raising it over her head before letting it fall into her mouth in a slow, sticky chunk.

 The male Infernal smiles as the music suddenly breaks into harsh discord, his eyes tracking the spray of indigo as it ascends and then falls. For a brief moment, the blood of this neomah before him blends with one of the hallucinations he is experiencing, and his hand rises, unconciously, to his face, smearing something that isn't there. It fades in a moment and his hand falls, likely unseen. "There is beauty in violence," he repeats softly. "But there is so much more in the achievement of freedom."

"Hh..." Azami murmurs, delirious, not even fully aware she's spoken, focusing on the dark chunk in Blossom's hand "...Heart-- No," she demurrs. "Not in violence. Just... in ending..." The frost spreading over her sparkles like diamond dust. She exhales. It mists before her lips ever so slightly and gathers in the snowy curls of her hair like flowers of hoarsfrost gathered from her breath. But she watches still the performance, wanting now to know how it ends. Was that a heart? What will the demons do?

        The woman laughs at the creatures, a mocking sound that echoes, for she is stronger than them. There is another tearing and biting sound, and the neomah's venom burns her, but she stands heedless, gesturing out. A wet spatter flies from her fingertips and and dances across the glittering scales of agatae, reflecting indigo shadows across the playhouse.

        She walks towards them, gesturing widely. "I know love, and I can love however I like. You cannot have my love. You are too weak to hold it." She licks her lips, picking up a plate-sized spider of a demon to begin plucking off its legs as it shrieks with barely human words, things of one or three letters. "You have taught me how to be as you are, and I thank you, for now I know my love can be returned to my friends in so many ways, for my heart flies free. You taught me to be as you are, and I am simply better at it." The creature is flung away carelessly, and darkness falls. There are screams and wet, ugly sounds, and the woman's laughter before it steady dies down to purest silence.

"Beauty in ending?" Poet muses over that for a time. It certainly explains Azami's tendency toward necromancy; deep down, is there a destructive, power-hungry beast there, like he suspects? He will certainly find out, if so. "Yes, that's a good way to put it," he agrees casually, watching as Blossom brings ruin and agony to the demon actors, asserting her right as the strong to use the weak for whatever purpose she wants. "Power is the law of the material world," the man explains to the Lunar. "The strong rise and the weak submit."

As the curtains close and the terrible noises fade away Azami raises a shaky hand to cover her eyes. Finally, the strongest of the visions pass, and she combs her bangs back from her eyes with her fingers. Miserably, she wipes her eyes, brushing frost from her skin. "Is that what you say?" she asks. "I want to believe that the weak become stronger." Still shaken by the drink, she speaks without thinking it through. "No-one submits when they believe they can fight."