Logs:Who We Are And Shall Become

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Content Warning

Blood, blood letting, self-harm (self-cutting for blood), dissociation, oppressed/endangered minorities needing to be 'the good one' to be unassailable

Cast

The Trio:Artje Berenyi-Winthrope, Jean-Louis Visigny-Winthrope. Also, Apocalycious as Saagochque

Setting

Bellevue Hotel Elysium

Log

This suite is one of those ridiculous hotel suites that's basically a large apartment, with multiple bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. It's the room where the Sakima has made herself available for members of the new coterie in town, if they wish to call on her tonight, and she's currently seated on a loveseat within that suite with her skeletally thin frame dressed in a dark navy maxi dress covered in white polka dots. Her hair is in a braid hanging over one shoulder, and her feet are bare.

Visigny and Artje are lead to that suite and let in by a member of the hotel security, a ghoul who approaches the entire situation with the tired air of someone who is coming to the end of his shift and ready to go home soon.

Visigny arranged the meeting, but not the venue or the seating. With full confidence in his ability to butter people up with the written word, he exhibits no great anxiety about meeting the Sakima. And really, after traveling the world and making pleasantries with the leaders of far less progressive praxes, he is probably well justified in feeling this meeting can only go well for them.

Their driver drops them off near the subway entrance, and after a bit of a walk along the maintenance ramp, they reach the entrance proper. Visigny holds the door for Artje, quite naturally, and passes through himself, starting the ascent up to the Elysium itself.

He's dressed to the nines in one of his tuxedos, his leather long coat worn over the top, all festooned with his regalia and medals. His saber dangles from his left hip from two lengths of fine chain. His main-gauche hangs at his back in a stylish black leather and silver accented frog. A perfectly useless .40 caliber pistol also hangs at his hip, likewise, should custom demand he lose his steel. The Spina are notoriously stubborn about being unarmed, and for good cause.

Once they're in the presence of the Sakima, Visigny reaches up to sweep the cap from his head and enters into an elaborate, deep and flourishing bow which he holds once he's down there, until such a time as he's told to rise.

You can take the Spina out of the Invictus, it seems, but the reverse is more difficult.

Quite naturally, the door is held for Artje, who leaves Hans behind in the car with a to-do list for the night which includes a hearty steak meal and the rest of the night off. Warm and pink, she delicately wipes the corner of her mouth with the pad of her thumb, licks it, and wrinkles up her nose in a little smile aside at him in thanks for the door held.

She's dressed to compliment him, in a smooth and delicate red silk dress with splashes of embroidery accentuating her waist and hips -- the dress is cut to display her true figure in all its tight-corseted glory. When she appears in non-Kindred settings, she pads out her waist so it isn't obvious that her domitor during Victorian years had a Thing for tiny waists. Artje's exaggerated hips sway courtesy of her ridiculous heels, the ones that make her only six inches shorter than Visigny rather than nearly a full foot. She pauses just to his right, precisely next to him, and executes the sort of deep curtsey that would make a finishing school madam swoon with delight.

Saagochque looks up at the sound of the door opening, and she stands up when the two other kindred enter. She starts smiling, and then they drop into deep and/or elaborate bows and she rolls her eyes slightly. "Oh come now, I'm an elected public servant, not a divinely appointed absolute ruler. I don't need people bowing to me. As long as we can address each other with respect, that's enough for me."

Her dark eyes shift in her gaunt face, going from one vampire to the other. "I'm guessing that you're Jean-Louis Visigny-Winthrope, and you're Artje Berenyi-Winthrope?" she asks, with a motion of her head and a brief pointing with her lips at the respective bearers of those names. "I'm Saagochque, as you seem to have guessed. Welcome to Philadelphia."

As Visigny rises, he's already wearing a wry smile, "I have found in my travels, madame, that it is often best to err on the side of genuflection, elected ruler or no. We are what we were made to be, after all, are we not?" Visigny lifts Artje's hand slightly in indication, "You are correct, madame. May I present to you, Artje Berenyi-Winthrope, Toreador of the Carthian Movement. And you are likewise correct. It is I, Visigny." He touches his left hand to his breast briefly before it returns to rest its wrist upon the pommel of his saber.

"We accept your most gracious welcome, madame, and hope to be of more benefit to the praxis than hindrance. Even if we are just visiting."

"I'm very very good at curtseying, and it makes my rack look amazing," Artje answers as she rises up to her (tiny) full height. Somehow -- somehow -- that comment manages to be cheeky and charming rather than rude or offensive. Still, it's likely to make the corner of Visigny's eye twitch or something really adorable like that. (Or at least, something Artje finds adorable. The weirdo.) "You have us exact," she agrees, absently smoothing her hand down her stomach so that the dress lays exactly as it should.

The corners of her mouth curl the tiniest bit at the last four words Visigny speaks before smoothing back out again. It's so cute when he flirts with her in lil secret ways. "Indeed," she agrees. "And we would be terribly grateful to know how we can be of more benefit than hindrance. Your governmental form here fascinates me. You've succeeded where Wien -- was not as successful."

Saagochque lets out a laugh, dry a rasping and as eerie and monstrous as her outward appearance might suggest it would be. She sits back down and gestures an invitation. "I don't normally make a habit of commenting on the physical appeal of this city's member, but you said it first, not me," she responds to Artje.

"I will admit that I don't know the ins and outs of how the government in Wien works. I give the European domains only a passing interest, in the ways that they might impact my own domain here in the United States, and the truth is that there's very little of that. I can tell you about my own philosophy on leadership, though." She looks between them. "If that's what you'd like to spend our time discussing. I do take it you've familiarized yourselves with the laws of this domain?"

"I have read the ... charter? Such as it is." Visigny concedes this point without quite knowing what to call so simple and common sense a list of rules. "Though I find it rather sad that some of those things needed to be said. I found the bits about children and people not being property particularly compelling. Speaking as the prior property of the Invictus. Quite refreshing, I admit. We never achieved such progress." Visigny concedes that point, likewise. Then he looks aside to Artje as he goes on, "You see, if I were to hazard a guess? It is that Wien kept with autocracy. In order to appease elders who were never going to go along with the end of the Starhemberg Regency. Had they gone with democratic rule, you would at least have a majority of the people being heard, rather than all but three being without voice."

He then looks back to the Sakima and notes, "I told them as much at the time, but no one ever listens to me bout such things. What do I know about rule, they ask someone who's watched the ending of three regimes. What not to do, mostly. In the end. My life as a servant of the Invictus and my requiem since I achieved my liberation has been one long grand tour of the monumental hubris and ineffectual greed of the de rigeur European elder. I am, yes, eager to study the praxis and to discuss leadership and politics with you. At length. As often as possible."

"But, as we said, we are here to be of assistance. And, as I noted in my prior letter to you, I may be of more than trivial assistance to you in the present moment. Perhaps madame would consider setting aside our wishes at the moment in deference to your needs." As though letting him do her a favor would be doing him a favor, somehow. He's good like that.

Her smile is broad, her dark blue eyes glitter, when Saagochque laughs aloud, and Artje rolls her shoulders fluidly, easily, before taking a few steps to one side and slinging herself somehow both artfully and artlessly into a high-backed chair, leaning one elbow on one of the armrests and letting the words of both the older individuals flow over her like a river. "I did," she agrees with the Sakima, and holds silent for the moment.

"Mmm," another agreement with Visigny when it comes to the matter of Wien's autocracy. "Those in power rarely want to let go of the forms which give them power. Master's tools, et cetera." Another idle smoothing of her hand down the exquisite embroidery on the belly of her dress, stretching it over the ribs of her corset.

"He means that," she appends when he talks of study. "He really, really means that." Her head tips to one side, loose brown curls falling over her shoulders. "Mmm. He really means that, too." She looks thoughtful, questioning. Visigny knows the look of Artje turning something over in her mind and considering whether to offer it.

Saagochque stares as she listens, like she's searching in the soul of whoever is speaking to see what's written there, and not just said in their words. It's not supernatural, it's just the effect of an old and powerful vampire, far from her days of humanity.

"Why did you come here, anyway?" she asks. "I know, you say to be of assistance, but was there something in particular that gave the impression that I required it? Don't worry about causing me offense by implying that I'm making some mistake, or in some danger, or failing to tend to something you think is important. Unlike the de rigeur European elder, I welcome criticism and advice. I have a lot of experience, but I don't know everything."

She picks up the notebook from where it was sitting next to her and deposits it on an end table, then leans back to relax comfortably. It's much more the at-ease casualness of someone meeting with new friends in her living room than a regent holding court. "I think that a key to my success here, in addition to having the personal strength, divinatory ability, and connections to defend what I've tried to create, is that I don't view the kindred of this city as my subjects, but as my adopted children."

Visigny's head tilts to the side, bird like and curious. It rights itself after a moment. "Ah." Why, indeed. "My honorable sire, the Dame Eleanor Winthrope of Manhattan? As I noted in my letter to you-- you did receive it, Sakima, yes? --in that letter I noted that Dame Eleanor is among your chiefest advocates in Manhattan. She suggested that I would benefit from visiting you here, from seeking you out. In particular. And, forgive me madam, but my blood mingling with my politics means that I must be of service wherever I go. I must be indispensable to those in power. To those who thirst for the power held by those in power, too, or my utility to the one becomes a target to the other, and my blood and politics all the excuse that is necessary."

"So wherever I go, I make myself invaluable. And in being invaluable, I prove myself deserving of the blood I am accused of having stolen. I serve all covenants, not simply the Invictus. Not simply the movement, either. I raise the ideals of Le Jumel up to be something to be aspired to by all, not merely those of the First Estate. I am a friend to all, because I have no friends. I am the sword in every sheathe, so that I find none in my back."

"They accuse me of being bad. So I must be perfect, madame. That is why I am here. To become my better self. A road that my sire and I myself believe runs through you." And here, he offers a slight and apologetic bow. Suffer his many compliments.

Visigny does tack on at the end, "And there was the ever so subtle mention of an attempt on your life." He makes a little dismissive toss of the hand that rests near his weapon. Like a casual toss of dice, really.

This is the point where Visigny talks, you see, and Artje does not. She tips her head to one side, her chin leaned on her hand; she gets distracted for a second by how sparkly the engagement/wedding set on her hand is, and then focuses back in a second later. Somehow, somehow, this manages to be charming, really.

And once Visigny finishes his long, elaborate, and extremely Jean-Louis explanation of why he's here, she appends, with a cheeky little smile, "Philadelphia Fashion Week is next month."

"I hope you don't take this as me casting judgment on you," says the Sakima after listening to Visigny explain about his situation. "This is only an observation based on my own preferences and perspectives, but that existence sounds absolutely exhausting. If there's one thing I've found myself having less and less time for, it's trying to please everyone, and especially allowing that to make me be less true to myself. That's a large part of where how this domain came to be, in fact."

She narrows her eyes slightly. "If you want to become your better self, I would ask you precisely what self is to you. So much of what you just described seems to be defined by how you relate to others."

After considering him a brief moment longer she suddenly smiles and turns to Artje. "It is! I attended one year, but I think that kind of thing would be much more enjoyable if I wasn't observing in secret."

"It is becoming less exhausting as my talents grow and my enemies thin out or see reason," Visigny concedes with a brief glance down towards his boot toes. "But, yes, madame. I confess that living my life with a sword in my hand, constantly glancing over my shoulder had become tiresome long before I was embraced. I suppose part of me has been continuing the inertia of having been the ghoul and property of a kallisti of the Invictus."

"I cannot say for certain that I have ever met myself, madame. I was barely a man when I went to war, and was shell-addled and sick with loss when Player Rinaldi claimed me. For sixty years I was not permitted to be anything other than servile and silent. At least in public. At night. And since my embrace, I have been fighting for my right to exist in the fractious dissolution of the Wien praxis."

"I can describe to you the man I am attempting to become. His word is his bond. When he speaks, he speaks the truth as he recalls it, and the truth as he sees it. He is loyal to his friends, polite to strangers, gracious in victory and in defeat. He is humble of his failings and certain of his strengths. When his peer asks him for help, he gives it. When he sees work that needs doing, he achieves it. When he knows a way to do something better, he will share it, teach it, implement it, and not rest upon the laurels of his achievements. His comings are looked to as a blessing, and his goings diminish a place. He is trusted to carry his sword wherever he travels because it has been decades since last he had reason to use it, so compelling is his reason and speech. When the word gentleman is spoken, he will come immediately to mind as an exemplar of the term. And that for all that, he never demanded of another more than he was willing to give in return."

"I am humble enough to know I have a good deal of work ahead of me, madame." He glances aside to Artje, still on his feet. Never was much of a lounger.

"Generally speaking, yes. It's a good place to be seen, if one desires that, but it is rather fun to be backstage." The concept of having to keep herself entirely away from humanity has not yet occurred to her, despite the fact that she served Carthians who had to do just that for a very, very long time.

It's okay. She'll do all the lounging for both of them. His glance toward her is in fact her cue to lean slightly to one side, fold one leg over the other at the knee, and lean more fully on her elbow. (It makes her waist and ass look better, and she knows it and looks like she knows it. Brat.) She glances to the side and under her lashes at him, then back at the Sakima. "Less than he thinks."

"All well and good," Saagochque answers without any measure of sarcasm or dismissal. "It's easier to be who you want to be if you know who that is, and I'm sorry that the circumstances of your time on this Earth haven't left you the opportunities you needed to pursue an alignment with your desired self."

Her lips, so thin that they almost don't exist, pull into a smile. "I view a large part of my responsibilities as Sakima to be creating an environment where people are relatively safe to pursue those kinds of goals. If the ones who force you to live by your sword instead of by your heart follow you here I'll need to have words with them."

Artje's lounging doesn't even make her bat an eye, though she does turn to her to say, "I suspect you're right."

Artje rarely gets to see Jean-Louis caught entirely off guard. Socially, he's usually swimming laps ahead of the competition and never sweating. But what he was not expecting was the Sakima of the praxis to volunteer to put herself between the Thorned Wreath, the greater Invictus as a whole, and himself. It actually causes him to briefly recoil a full step, his guard going up not so subtly. He is immediately and quite obviously suspicious.

"Madame, they are the natural enemy of your governance. The Invictus of the First Estate and, most particularly, the children of Le Jumel, my cousins, the Spina of the Thorned Wreath. They are the finest of their kind, peerless warriors. What you propose, madame... I would strongly advise you to do otherwise. I would be a cur if I did otherwise. I picked this fight, madame, in defying them. My existence is a finger in their eye. They will never suffer me to live free, unmolested."(edited)

And the fact that she rarely gets to see that means that Artje focuses in on it like an owl focusing in on the movement of a mouse. Her head turns subtly but suddenly toward him and she blinks slowly. There's a small smile that slides across her face, and she lays her hands in her lap. She doesn't interfere here, though. This isn't her match, exactly.

"Mr. Visigny-Winthrope... or Jean-Louis? Which do you prefer?" Saagochque inquires. "In either case, do you think that in all my centuries, and my taking of this domain from the Invictus, I've never faced down the Thorned Wreath? That the First Estate never called them in to try to defend this territory?"

A bony hand cuts a casual wave through the air. "You brought up the topic of the recent attempt on my life. There have been a couple of such in the last few months. I would have suspected the Invictus, but their attempts to dispose of me have generally been less haphazard. Ironically, their organization tends to make their attempts easier to divine."

"If madam has, indeed, received the attentions of the Thorned Wreath, she will appreciate that my caution is warranted and that I would be a cur indeed if I simply consented to put you between myself and they without having cautioned you to do otherwise. I remain the man I aspire to be in this, I feel."

"What does madam intend to do to the offenders once they are rendered to the justice of the praxis?" Not an idle question from the Spina, no doubt. And then, after some consideration, he finally decides that, "My friends and comrades call me Visigny, madame. You may do so if it please you." He inclines his head slightly at this.

"I ask what you intend to do because I have found that not murdering them tends to make bringing them to justice a great deal more simple. I have my suspicions as to your assailant, but helping you track him down becomes somewhat more difficult-- not impossible, simply more difficult --if your intention is to destroy him." He does tack on, "Not that I would blame you." Only then does Visigny slooowly slide a look over to Artje and give her a subtle little twitch of the eyebrow. He is not immune to dat ass, no.

"I've heard a few things," Artje comments thoughtfully, sort of distractedly. A little wiggle of her fingers. Harpies do hear things, now and again. "I have a thread, at least, to pull, if pulling is desired." Of course she puts it in a clothing metaphor. That little look aside only widens her smile fractionally: the tiniest flash of fang. No, he isn't, and she knows it.

"I appreciate your concern for my safety as it pertains to the barbs of the self-proclaimed 'unconquered'." Saagochque says with an accepting nod. "I'll take it as the fair warning it was intended to be, Visigny. Please, if you wouldn't mind, I would prefer Saagochque, or Sakima, rather than madam."

"As for what I intend? I find that simply killing my enemies is an extremely permanent solution to what are usually temporary problems," she continues. "It should be a last resort, not a first one." She pauses. "Then again, if violence isn't your last resort, you failed to resort to enough of it. Still, I'd prefer to know details that are harder to get out of a pile of ashes, or a corpse. Pull away on threads, if you would like. I have some of my own to pull."

She looks between the pair. "On the matter of your residence in this city, do you plan to be here long enough that you want to be considered members of the domain? With the benefits and responsibilities that entails?"

"A year or more, surely?" Visigny looks aside to Artje with a small shrug of the shoulders. "We're near enough to Mother that I can visit whenever I or she wishes, and between here and the New School, you will have plenty enough fashion distractions. Annikah will be fond of all the parks, no doubt. At least a year." He's talking it all out as though Artje's input were necessary, but no doubt it's been discussed prior and he's just walking through all their prior decisions.

So he answers her, "Yes, Sakima." Always erring to the more formal of the offered options, this one. "We intend to remain and pitch in, as they say. To begin with, I will endeavor to confirm my suspicions and seek for more information. Once I know for certain what must be known, I will render my full report. Shall I make that directly to your person, or to some officer in charge of security?" He glances about, as though seeking for the beefy right hand that all the old timers have around in Europe. He even cranes about to look behind himself since he's coming up short on murderous enforcer sidekicks.

"Where he goes, so goes my nation," Artje answers mildly enough, canting her head toward the Spina in question. When he elucidates all of the appeals of Philadelphia, she nods thoughtfully, her shoulders lofting and dropping in a sort of vague agreement. It would seem, after all, that they did discuss it prior. Probably at extreme length. There were debates. Visigny wouldn't have it any other way, after all.

"Indeed, Sakima. To stay properly, one must exist legally here. So we should do that."

"Oh, if you have information to share, then just use the Signal message application and send me a message," Saagochque says casually, like just being able to text with the person in charge, an Elder no less, is normal. "We have Sheriffs, but they're investigators more than security officers. I'm sure they would be glad to receive any information you pass to me, but I'll pass it on to them if you don't, and vice versa."

"I imagine, since it seems you've done a thorough review of the laws, that you're aware already of my requirement for an annual donation of vitae?" she looks back and forth between the Daeva. "When I say that I view those who live in this domain as if they're family, like my children, that isn't simply empty words."

Visigny blinks slowly and inclines his head, resolved to ask someone what Signal is. "Of course, Sakima." He then nods his head in answer, "And yes, Sakima. A notable custom, to be sure." A very versatile adjective, notable. "How does the Sakima take her drink? I was always fond of mingling it with a soixante-quinze, but your tastes likely run less provincial et militairement than mine."(edited)

Her expression goes calm and still: that doll face of Artje's slips right into place, and the microexpressions she once evidenced just ... stop to exist entirely. "Yes, Sakima," she answers, her voice perfectly pleasant. It's the audio equivalent of air conditioning at seventy degrees with fresh filters: a pleasant nothing. And she leaves Visigny to ask the relevant questions, just resting her hands perfectly still in her lap.

"I'm a member of the Circle of the Crone, and grew up placing importance on ritual besides," the Sakima responds to Visigny. "I have one I've developed for this purpose, but if it comes down to it I'm willing to accommodate people's comfort or their own religious needs. I do try to limit myself to a single donation in a night, though."

Speaking of comfort, she isn't oblivious, and she notices the change in Artje's demeanor. "You uncomfortable with this idea," she observes. "Is there some way I can make things easier for you?"

For once, Visigny is silent and looks to Artje to do the speaking. His left hand remains perched on the pommel of his sword while his right folds flat over his stomach, thumb resting atop the buckle of his sword belt. Still ramrod straight, of course.

Her head tips just a very little bit to one side, and she looks at the floor for a moment. Visigny has seen this look on her face more than once in their years together, but less and less once she and Laibah started keeping The Spreadsheet and Taire left Vienna for good. She holds that unnatural stillness, her eyes cast down, for near on to a solid minute. Then, her gaze flicks up and meets the Sakima's eyes. "No," she answers. "Some things must simple be borne."

"I see. Would you prefer to simply get it over with tonight, or wait for another night when you've had more chance to prepare? If it will be easier to bear, I can grab a glass or a bowl and we can be done with it, without any ritual or intimacy. As you prefer." She glances at Visigny, to see what his take on all of this is. If he has other suggestions. He knows Artje better.

Visigny remains wordless, though he does step closer to where Artje is reclining. His left hand strays to his back, and given that everyone sees him do it it's safe to assume he's not drawing his main-gauche so as to murder anyone. But draw it he does, offering it Artje hilt first over the back of his right forearm. Apparently he figures she'll want to get it over with.

The movement of Visigny seems to give it all away: he knows her better than anyone unliving, bar one exception, after all. Even her sire doesn't know her as well as he does. She adjusts her posture, sitting up straight in the chair, and reaches one hand out to take the main gauche. For all that she usually appears a silly little defenseless frippery, she takes that blade from him with no hesitation and far more familiarity than her dress and carriage would imply. "I believe we can forgo the ritual, thank you, Sakima," she answers in that same pleasant tone, which probably means 'that would probably tip me into Bad Brain Time,' but distantly and calmly so.

Saagochque nods and rises. She moves with the care and precision that Kindred of exceptional puissance tend to learn, in order to stop themselves from constantly breaking things by accident. She doesn't rush, but doesn't tarry, on her trip to the kitchen where she gets out a single bowl and a hand towel and returns. "Would you prefer if someone holds the bowl for you, or should I put it on the coffee table?" she asks.

Visigny gives the Sakima his best polite smile that still manages to communicate 'I will take care of everything from here, please stop talking and stand over there' without being so terribly presumptuous as all that. He remains silent, though he does dip his head in thanks before turning to take up the bowl and hold it out for Artje. Apparently he'll be acting as the intermediary, here.

She spreads the towel across her lap -- G-d forbid that she splatter blood on this dress, or any other. There is a sort of distant solemnity from Artje for the whole of it: it is very clear that the Artje-ness of Artje has gone somewhere very far away for the moment, and her hands act of their own accord somewhere quite distant from where the her of her has gone, like little balloons on the end of very long strings dancing in a high wind. They don't falter, they don't fumble, they move rather expertly and mechanically. Once Jean-Louis holds the bowl out for her, she tips her head just so and holds his gaze as the blade draws across her the meat of her forearm and vitae splatters into the proffered bowl. Some things must be borne, and they are easier to bear when she looks at him rather than the blade, her hands, her arm.

It only takes a few moments before the bowl's filled with blood, and her skin mends itself via application of vitae. She lifts the hand towel, and only looks away from Visigny when she looks down to attend to his main gauche and the cleaning of it.

Visigny meets her gaze and stares for several long seconds. And when Artje has bled her fill, he turns about and carries the bowl to the Sakima, extending it out to her in offer, steepled upon his fingers. His gloves aren't white, but they may as well be.

Saagochque hands the bowl over and moves away, standing where she can observe, but be less obtrusive about it. There she stands, waiting patiently, letting them do this in the way they feel work best.

When he brings the bowl to her she takes it with a silent nod. "Thank you. I'm sorry if this was a cause of discomfort. If you'd both like to leave you're welcome to do so. If you want to watch me drink this so that you have confidence that I'm not using it for some other nefarious purpose, that's also fine. I leave the choice to you."

"Please do what you must quickly, and I will bear it witness. Then, yes, I must beg your leave for I must feed before the night grows too old." The fault is his, you see, and his hunger and his need to attend his wretched flesh prison. Not Artje. Nope. His own expression is artifice now, an efficient and inoffensive mask that served him well behind the elbows of the First Estate. It's doing yoeman's work now, too, truthfully.

Her attention, on the other hand, goes entirely to the blade itself, and she remains just so, calmly cleaning the blade, whatever else may happen in the room, barring something blowing up or being lit on fire or the Fire Nation attacking or whatever. Artje isn't going to be taken from this until Visigny comes to collect her. The sugar goes in the middle, and you never put a blade away anything but spotlessly clean.

The Sakima nods in acceptance, but her expression is far from impassive. It's clearly that she views this as a necessity, and she's willing to be implacable about that, but she's also not unmoved by the distress that it causes.

There's no real hesitation beyond that concern before she brings the bowl to her lips and begins to drink. She doesn't need to breathe, so she simply swallows, and in short order the bowl is drained.

When that's done she tilts the bowl so that Visigny can see that it's now empty, with the exception of what's stuck to the inside of the bowl. When she has done that she heads back into the kitchen to wash the rest of it off, to show she's not planning to store it for later.

She is Circle of the Crone, after all. Blood sorcery is a thing.

Once Visigny is reasonably certain that all of Artje's vitae has been either imbibed or disposed of as safely as possible, he shifts his weight and begins to move again with a creak of leather and a rattling of metal. He gingerly reclaims his blade from Artje, sliding it into its sheathe at his back easily. And then he takes Artje's hand, tucks it into the crook of his arm, and excuses himself with a lift of the cap and a glance back over his shoulder.

She'll start existing some time from now, no doubt. Coaxed back into presence by her partners in some manner or another. Maybe there will be new shoes, or smooches, or both. Whatever the case, Artje does as she's bid by Visigny, while the rest of her is somewhere very, very far away.