Everything Has A Price

Extreme(ly Elegant) Events

Extreme(ly Elegant) Events is a large building comprised of glass and stone. Light floods the room from the entrance, showing walls made entirely of translucent glass. It looks quite bland, and clean, but at night when the majority of their business seems to take place the room takes on an entirely different atmosphere. Golden lamps and crystalline chandeliers light up the room, giving it the feel of a Victorian mansion. Polished marble floor tiles reflect the light creating a soft glow all over the place. Rather than offering elevators, the building has two curved stairways on either side of the entrance, which lead up to the meeting rooms where people go to plan out the intricate details of their events.
Beyond the lobby is a hive of glass cubicles. There seems to be someone stationed at them at all hours, no matter how late or how early. The mode of dress of the employees generally lends toward one extreme or the other; the majority dressing like Ivy League executives, while other employees wear nothing more than a dressy t-shirt and slacks.

Night is upon the city of Dallas. A pale glow from the no longer full moon casts a swath of light through the buildings, and into some. Extreme(ly Elegant) Events is nothing more than a fancy office on a good day. Tonight is really no different. Party planners and executives mill back and forth between the cubicles. Portfolios of photographs are passed back and forth.

It has been months since Isobel has set foot in the building. Months since her last assignment could be taken. New responsibilities prevent her from being out and about in the supernatural society as much as she'd like to be. Still, there were some photos she managed to get at the Medieval Times soiree as well as the renaissance faire that should be added to her own particular portfolio here at the place of her business.

Leaving the hidden dark room with the photographs in question, binder under her arm, she makes her way to her very own glass cubicle. Camera bag set at her feet as she leans over the desk to begin setting the photos into their proper places.

It's not exactly by chance that Mischa has come here. He has a party to be planning, yes, a task set upon him by his parents. It was the only time of day he could get to the offices — thank goodness for the vampire population and after hours openings. He moves over to the nearest front desk and looks around for someone to give him some assistance.
"I..ah… have a party to plan." Thank you for that, Captain Obvious.

The receptionist points him in the direction of the cubicles, and holds out a list of those he should talk to. It's not as though she can detect he's anyone other than human.

Though several rows in, the vampire can hear all. It's not as though the twin-souled is whispering either. A glance is all he's given, and the game shall begin. Her photographs go forgotten for a moment. Knowing the general list that has been handed out, she slips into Marguerite's cubicle and takes up a seat in it. Loose hair is swiftly pulled up into a loose chignon held in place with a pen. Marguerite's glasses are taken and settled upon her nose, and she waits. Patiently. Like a spider waiting for a fly to walk into the web.

The list is taken and perused for a moment. He eyes the receptionist and then the list. "I have a strange feeling about this…" Mischa mutters to no one but himself before he starts in for the cubicles. Mischa makes his way through the cubicles, almost passing over Isobel completely.
Then he realizes that he's passed by someone. Someone very familiar. Mischa doubles back and steps over to the desk that Isobel has perched herself at, giving her a rather uncertain smile. "Hello, miss. It's been… a while." That's all he can say at the immediate moment — for his mouth grows dry with fear and a bit of anxiety. He didn't want to plan the stupid party anyway.

"Seat yourself, twin-souled." Isobel is full aware that she looks like one of those awful 'fantasy girls' from those movies. Yet she has not bothered to look at the man. Not until he seats himself.

"Your pulse is racing, so I suggest you calm yourself before I decide to feed." Nothing more than what she tells most breathers. "If you wish the party, I suggest heading upstairs. Take the third cubicle in and speak with Cromwell. He is the one responsible for most twin-souled events."

Who can deny such a simple request? Especially when Isobel is threatening to probably drain him to the last drop. He sits down in the seat before even hearing the rest of her words. Since he's already sat down and he's here, might as well stay a moment. "Well, yes. But I'd also wanted to speak with you for some time now. Especially after some rather troubling events that took place yesterday…" Mischa trails off there. He figures he'll give her a little bit of time to see how she responds. Or reacts, perhaps, is the more appropriate word.
He calms down a little bit after having been seated, but his pulse is still a little more fluttery than normal. It's probably the glasses.

"The heart is a very interesting organ," Isobel says, knowing full well that she could easily glamour this one into submission as well. "Should you not calm it immediately I will calm it for you, though not in any way you can appreciate." She can hear the blood rushing through his veins. See the pulse of it in his neck.

Icily, she eyes him. "Troubling events? What makes you believe that I am remotely interested in things that would trouble a twin-souled?"

"Miss, those… words aren't really conducive to our common goal of me calming down," Mischa says as he reaches up to tug his collar away from his neck a little bit. He looks around for a few moments before refocusing his attention on her. He seems to be calming bit by bit. "Yes, well… I thought you might say something like that, miss. And I can hardly blame you. But it does relate to Mister Grant. And he can be exceedingly hard to get a hold of at times."
Mischa glances around the office again before settling his attention on Isobel. He figures it best not to stray too much from her; it's more than likely something the woman won't tolerate. Mischa waits once more for Isobel's judgment of the situation. Should she turn him away with several less holes in his body, he supposes he can live with that. Should she begrudgingly listen? All the better.

"Quiet your voice."

There are other vampires that work in the events department. Not all are as keen on royalty as some. "You wish to speak with Mr. Grant then. This can be arranged." Isobel smirks, an amused look tickling at her eyes. "For a price, of course." Her tongue runs slowly over her upper lip, and she starts to remove the glasses. "If you can speak quietly, I shall listen. If you cannot take the pad of paper in front of you and write down your request."

Right. Vampires have sensitive ears. More sensitive than his, even. The man licks his lips before he drops his voice a few notches, not bothering to lean forward. Isobel will be able to hear him from where he sits. And he doesn't want to get closer to her than he has to.
"The woman… that hurt him. I've seen a girl that looks exactly like her. I'm going to wager that Mister Grant has too. She's accused us all of being crazy serial killers and stalkers." Mischa pauses and shakes his head, letting out a quiet sigh when he realizes that Isobel isn't really going to care about the fine print in the whole situation. "Anyways. I guess I just… I hoped that Mister Grant could tell me something about that woman." He won't go into how much he'd tried to forget her and the nominal lack of sleep he incurred last night because of his upset. Mischa simply sits and waits — either to be threatened a little more in Isobel's oddly playful way, or exsanguinated in a cubicle. "Price?"

Teeth set to the arm of the glasses, making it look like she's interested in his party planning. Every so often she offers a 'hmm' and a 'I see'. All to keep up the illusion that she is Marguerite.

"Who looked exactly like the one whom was responsible for his torture?" There is a hint of freeze to her voice. Enough to chill a normal person to the bone. "A price. Should I arrange a meeting for you, you will owe me a favor." This may be blood. It may be something else entirely. She has yet to decide.

Owing Isobel a favor? Definitely probably not high on Mischa's to-do-list, but an acceptable if not predictable price nonetheless. The man lets out the quietest of sighs once more before he nods his ascent once. "Very well then, I will meet the conditions of your favor." Mischa nods. "Exactly like her. And what's more is that… she seems to have powers. Psychic. Though she referred to it as her 'poltergeist'… She doesn't seem to think she's doing it — but that she's haunted." Mischa reaches up to rub at the side of the head. "She almost hurled a glass bottle at my head."

"There are more things on this earth than even your lot is privy to, twin-souled. It could very well be a phantom of sorts." Isobel would not be surprised were that the case. "Making accusations wherein you have little proof is not conducive to living a long life." Sound advice? A threat? Maybe a little of both.

"The meeting will be arranged then. I should warn you that you may wind up owing a favor or service to Mr. Grant as well." It is simply the way that vampires do business.

"Then if I see her again, I'll let her know. I don't find it particularly conducive that she accused myself and Mister Grant of being serial killers." Mischa reaches up to run his fingers through his hair in that nervous manner of his before he starts to ease forward in the chair. He hasn't been dismissed yet, but he figures it's coming soon. Isobel will only be able to listen to his prattling for so long before the fangs really do come out, after all. "I'm beginning to wonder about my circle of colleagues and acquaintances. We all seem to owe each other so much favors and yet we don't know each other that well. Such is life, I suppose." The prospect of more favors does little to quell the terrible pain in the ulcer that has torn Mischa's stomach asunder in the past few months, and he winces. But it's the price he has to pay.

"You have developed an attitude, twin-souled. It is unbecoming. Use that tone with me again and you will find yourself without a voice." The snark may not have been meant for Isobel, but that doesn't mean she's going to put up with it. Especially when her anger has been piqued. "You have been told that a meeting will be arranged. Now you may go. Cromwell for your party. Upstairs. Third cubicle in." It is more than a dismissal by the Sheriff. It is an order that he go.

If there's one emotion that Mischa feels frequently and feels quiet well, it's anger. Suddenly he too is angry. It is a lucky thing that he reins in this anger in front of the Sheriff, lest he become something from a Grimm fairy tale in more ways than one. "Thank you." Mischa says, a bit stiffly before he stands up and moves off toward the stairwell.

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