Open Log: Tambour Amoureux: Friday

[neverendingbeat.livejournal.com]

When; Friday, February 5
Rating; Pffff it's a brothel, idek. 'May get porny' What sort of rating is that?
Characters; The Master, ANY NUMBER OF EMPLOYEES, CUSTOMERS, ETC.
Summary; It's the Belle Epoque. The Master has a brothel cos he can.
Log; In the red light district, there are any number of bordeaux, catering to a vast array of clients. Tambour Amoureux, however, has a certain...something to it. The owner, a Monsieur Harold Saxon, has made sure of this. He may be a British import but his attention to style, to the quality of entertainment, to the health and well-being of his girls, is still impeccable, to say the least.

From the outside, it's not necessarily instantly obvious what sort of establishment it is. There is lighting, and a certain welcoming atmosphere, and the name on a large sign at the front but it really could be any number of cabarets. Of course, the connoisseur of such places would easily recognise the name.

Inside, there is a stage, for performances, as well as tables and chairs and several couches as well at certain points to the side. The room has a rich mahogany and deep red colour scheme. There is a staircase, more discreet, off to the side, leading to the upstairs, where there is a hallway, with lighting more dim than the lower levels; various doors leading into any number of bedrooms.

Most discreet of all, and a place that requires either longer patronage, or association with someone who knows the secret is a backroom, lavishly furnished with couches and carpets and drapery. Here, one may purchase opium, or bring one's own and relax in a comfortable surrounding.



[ooc:....okay, you guys, this is me trying my hardest. It's a curse so...accuracy...whatever, yeah? Also, apparently, waiting until the morning to post is TOO MUCH. I was going for....a bit more brothel-y than Moulin Rouge, you know, cos the brothel is the focus, rather than the cabaret. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, PLEASE INVENT THINGS. I kind of...bare-bones'd it so I'll be stalking over everyone's posts and if you add in a piece of scenery or a specific thing to the maison then I'll add it into the description.

Also, it's never too late to join the Master's....team. Just go to the post linked in the Character's section. Message me or something if you want to talk out stuff or ask questions or suggest things or whatever. Or work out character connections to the Master because I totally didn't do that at all... Also, I've got the log labelled as 'Friday' right now for...less confusion. I'm going to do a 'Saturday' post as well, making any amendments if some sort of plot happens today. Or anything. Again, if you think I should change this, tell me. I just....wanted it to be organised.

Oh, right, and the Master is Monsieur Saxon to everyone except his girls, to whom he is 'Maître' because he CAN BE. (Oh, Priestly, you can still call him 'Monsieur le Maître' only that's kind of 'Mister Master' which is acceptable silliness from Priestly but maybe not so much EVERYONE.)]

Comments

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

He was too damn hard to read, unfortunately. Not only did he sidestep answering directly, there was no twitch of telling expression.

Oh well, it didn't matter either way, really. "In that case, I'm very grateful for your concern, Mister Saxon." He nodded at the Master with appreciation, walking past the curtain and into the luxurious den.

[neverendingbeat.livejournal.com]

"You're quite welcome," said the Master, following him in and letting the curtain fall back into place. Reflecting the British obsession with the Orient, the Master has a few Asian women working on kneading the opium for those who don't understand the process, rolling the treacle-y substance into a pea-sized pill to be heated under the pipe.

"You will have to pay the ladies per pill," the Master explained. "I'm afraid I can't keep a tab, not for this. You understand, of course?" He directed Sylar to a couch. "You'll want to lie down for this. It makes it much easier." Already, one of the women advanced on them and the Master spoke to her briefly in Chinese. After a bit, she nodded and turned her attention to Sylar. "Any questions?" the Master asked, almost as an after-thought.

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

"Of course," he replies to the Master's note about the money. He pulls a pouch out of his inner pocket, filled to the brim with 5-franc coins. He figures it would be more than enough to pay for things- and he can always convert them into gold later, if needed. He pulls a few of the coins out and rolls them around in his hands idly.

He watches the process carefully as he sits on one of the couches, leaning back a bit. He's never smoked anything at all, but he thinks he can figure it out from here. After all, that's what he's good at. "None so far," he tells the Master. "Especially since it appears I'll be well taken care of."

[ooc: graa, apologies for the tense-shifting. D: ]

[neverendingbeat.livejournal.com]

"Good," says the Master. "Then I really should go back to work, M'sieur. Do enjoy yourself." He nods at Sylar, and starts to do a brief check-through of the people in the room. Meanwhile, the young woman sits beside Sylar's couch and prepares the opium, setting the pill in the bowl of the pipe as she lights the small fire. She holds out her hand, expecting the money for it before she will hand him the pipe to hold over the fire.

[ooc: I switch tense all the time, don't worry.]

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

"Thank you for your time," he replies, then turns his full attention to the woman helping him. He hands her both coins, imagining she'll ask if more is necessary. When she does not, he takes the pipe, holds it over the fire for a few moments until he can see the smoke, then breathes it in.

Having never done anything like this before, he does cough slightly at the smoke, but it doesn't smell or taste like what he'd been expecting. It smelled more like flowers than something foul. And there- there's a pleasant feeling emanating through him, something that would be dispelled quickly, no doubt.

However, that slight hint of pleasantness only increases, expands to completely overtake him. His eyes widen as he realizes this, his mind fighting it heavily for the span of a second or so. He hates to lose control, and this is not a good situation to lose control in. But it just becomes more and more pleasant, and within a few seconds, the panic fades entirely. He lets out a long breath and lets himself slide farther back onto the couch.

This is kind of nice, actually.