Kick The Dog

Medieval Times
Before even entering the building, one can leave the city behind.
Ivy-covered towers of the Dallas Castle give the locale some majesty. Along with the ivy covered walls is a large moat filled with schools of live Koi.
Once past the doors, the lobby, and the ticket booths, one can get their picture taken with a member of the King's court. Just beyond this is a small shopping area, accompanied with a bar, and a viewing area to see the livestock before the show.
Immense oak-wooden doors that sit on cast iron hinges open to a cavernous entryway, decorated with pennants, pinions and standards that hang upon the wall. Large bronze sconces are attached to the stonework walls, their fires lighting the path to the main dining area.
The dining area is decorated much the same, though tapestries sit on the walls rather than the heraldric pennons. Large rough oaken tables are set around the room, all ringing a large sand arena. Bronze candelabras sit on each table with beeswax candles set and lit when the restaurant is open for business.
The arena is covered with dark tan sand; something that will keep moisture for the proper footing of both horses at the joust and for soldiers at the sword. At either side of the arena are large iron gates that lead into the deeper recesses of the restaurant where the horses are housed and holding rooms are located. Only those with clearance may access those areas.

One of the later shows at Medieval Times has just ended and there are a few stragglers that are still buying food as the various vendors willingly accept money. Having been bored and unwilling to cook for himself, Mischa has found a compromise in coming to Medieval Times. Dinner and a show at it's very dorkiest. He's not as enthuasiastic about the whole thing as some of the other dorks and 'history buffs', though he does seem pleased enough with his choice of destination for the night. His hands in his pockets, he exits the restaurant part of the building.

Though things have changed in recent months and the shows have taken on a new note of historic accuracy, even the history buffs cannot say without a doubt that this is the way things were in any definitive manner.
There are few who can say that, actually. One of them is seated on a dais in the center of the 'showy' area. The dinner theater portion of the evening is over and now Isobel sits to await the presence of an entourage from Florida. Those who were hit by the blast from the tropical storm turned hurricane.
While the visitors do not include the Floridian King, they do include several Sheriff's from the various areas. It is those that the Sheriff of Area 9 is intending on meeting here this evening once the peons have left.

It's just one of those things. Mischa catches Isobel in the corner of his eye and almost starts to walk away real fast. Almost — before something clicks in his brain. And then he's striding toward Isobel at a quick pace. Before he even knows what's happening, he has dropped to his knees in front of her and holds his hands underneath his chin as he looks down at the ground. "Beautiful lady, please forgive me. I beg for your mercy and forgiveness. I have acted rashly in the past and I'm sorry for the things I've done to compromise your integrity."
You think the awkwardness would end there. Does it? Nope. Mischa's not about to get off the ground without Isobel's dismissal.

The Sheriff of Area 9 is used to supplications, honestly. Perhaps not so much as the King, but she is used to people begging for her forgiveness.
At first, she is ready to just dismiss it and order one of her workers to prepare the special table for the visiting contingent from Florida.
Instead, she eyes the librarian. Icy blue eyes narrowing upon him sharply.
"Excuse me?" Brow raised, she just stares down at him as though she's worried that next he will try to lick her boots. She is not wearing boots, and this would be rather worriesome to her Mahnolo Blahniks.

A little louder now. "Mistress, forgive me. I beg for your mercy and forgiveness. I was foolish and I acted rashly. You were very unhappy the last time we spoke. I merely beg you to have mercy on my soul for the wrongs I have committed." Mischa does not lick her high heels, though he does try to kiss them. Even he looks somewhat uncomfortable with the situation as he does, however. Perhaps it would be no large feat for Isobel to ascertain that he is acting out because of the effects of a glamour, though to onlookers…it probably looks like a sex thing or deviant LARP.

There are lips. On her extremely expensive shoes.
Isobel's eyes narrow all the more, and she nearly kicks him away from her.
The only thing keeping her from doing so is that there are plenty of humans making their way out of the area, trying to get one last strawberry daiquri before heading home.
"Ah," Isobel says finally, icy blues shifting to the wandering crowds of humans. "Rise, twin-souled. There are many that are watching you make an imbecile of yourself and I do not think these restaurants are known for having court jesters…"

Mischa stands after it's over, looking quite dazed. And embarassed. Oh so embarassed. He peers around and clears his throat, reaching up to wipe his lips with the back of his hand. "So…that was…" Awkward? Humiliating? Kind of gross? Take your pick. He sucks in a breath and coughs into his palm before shaking his head. "I guess saying sorry would be redundant. I have no idea what came over me. Should I go now? Can I go now?" He asks her permission first, assuming that just to walk away would be pretty rude and might find himself skating on thinner ice than he has been with the vampire community.

"You owe me a new pair of shoes," Isobel replies, pointing to the lip marks on the closed toes of her expensive white shoes.
"No, you may not go." Lucy, you have some 'splainin' to do.
"Please tell me why you are apologizing in such a manner, Mr. Alexandrov. It is unnecessary, and though you are a buffoon for speaking so freely at the events office I know not why you felt it was necessary to apologize."

"Um…I don't really know either." He pauses for a long moment as he thinks about it. Then he realizes. Oh, does he realizes. "The last time I saw Will. He must've…" Mischa's face turns a beet red, though he does not speak out of turn about Will. He knows exactly how stupid that would be in Isobel's presence. He keeps his mouth shut for a long moment. "As for the shoes, I didn't know that lip marks ruined fabric. It's not like I'm wearing lipstick…" He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly. "But fine. Whatever…" Mischa can't win for losing.

"Saliva. Mouth prints." Isobel can see the lip indents even if the twin-souled cannot. Foolish breather that he is.
"You will replace them, or else." Though the words may sound much like a threat, they're offered with a sort of 'I don't care what you do' neutrality.
"Watch your words, twin-souled. You will not speak ill of that man in front of me." These words are decidedly more pointed, much more force behind them. "He would not bother with what you are thinking of. That is so far beneath him it is not even remotely humorous."

Mischa just stands there for a long moment. "Well, someone had to have. Because I— well, I did feel bad about having spoken so freely, but not that bad." He says to her. "I've been avoiding all vampires mostly since the last time Will and I spoke. Anything is possible, I suppose." Though he's now completely convinced it was Will. Damn that Will Grant! Insert mental fist-shaking and everything. "Alright, you can have new shoes." Mischa's savings are scarce but mostly in tact after having purchased the house. He can probably afford a pair of Mahnolo Blahniks, whether he wants to or not.

The only somewhat evil side of Isobel is very tempted to have him fill out a form in triplicate indicating that new shoes will be obtained.
The more gentle side of her simply eyes him again. "Of course I can," she replies, knowing full well that he will either give her the money or show up one day with the shoes. She's able to put that sort of fear in someone by just being herself.
"You are avoiding all vampires that you are aware of, two-natured. Chances are you have interacted with our kind without realizing it."

That's what he just kind of said, isn't it? Mischa lets out the quietest of sighs, reaching up to run his fingers nervously through his hair. He looks at Isobel before stuffing his hands into his pockets again. "May I leave now? Please?" He asks her, almost as beggingly as previously. At least this time he makes no move to get on the ground and ruin her shoes further.

Isobel is about to say no. In fact it is on the tip of her tongue to force him to stay with her all evening and to ride out that embarrassment.
Just as the words are about to push past her lips, the Sheriff takes note of the visiting contingent and slams her face back into the icy mask of neutrality.
"You will leave now. Immediately. Do not linger. Do not tarry. Do not think to get another drink before you leave. Go if you value your life."
Statuesque in her manner she waits until Mischa departs before turning toward the approaching contingent.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License