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Rose McClary
"Right," The door opens and a woman walks in, talking to someone over her shoulder, "would you make sure of that before we open the doors of Elysium tonigh..." She trails off as she turns back to the room she's walked into. It's obviously not what she was expecting to see. Red hair flips about her waist as she glances around uncertainly, hazel eyes peering from behind copper-rimmed spectacles. "Well." She takes a step back out of the room, calling out "Steve? Where have you gotten to?" and closes the door. It reopens and this time she steps confidently into the room... only to find that it is still not her Elysium. One glance at the window tells her this is not simply a redecoration of her rooms in Milwaukee. "Oh dear," she murmurs, heading toward the bar.

Her cheeks are flushed and she's breathing, but any vampire will notice that it's simply a very well-refined act. She's wearing a black heavy silk button down with mother of pearl buttons and the sleeves left unbuttoned, and relatively tight black jeans. Her hands are, well, not rough and calloused, but certainly not a stranger to work. However, her nails are perfectly manicured, painted in the same dark maroon/brown as her lipstick. A gold rose adorns the middle finger of her left hand, with what seems to be a diamond in the middle of it, and a gold Byzantine link bracelet matches it. A series of black roses with ruby chips in their centers rings her throat, and the scent of roses follows her lightly wherever she walks.

"Pardon me..." She starts to ask Julia... when she notices the lack of reflection and realizes what it means. "Hrm. I seem to have lost my way," she points vaguely back over her shoulder and smiles winningly, "somewhere between my office and the upstairs lounge. You couldn't..." she pauses uncertainly, "point me back in the right direction, could you?"

Most recent entrance into the Pub, December 14, 2002:

What seems to those in the Pub to be seconds later, the door is opened again, this time much more slowly. The woman in the doorway isn't looking where she's going; her head is turned back into the room she's leaving. Just before the lights go out in the room a desk and a window are faintly visible.

Moving with the weight of a mountain worn down to sand, she turns back in the direction she's moving and freezes.

Streaks of what must be blood snake down Rose's cheeks, though none of it seems to have reached her clothing... but then, if it had, you likely wouldn't see it. The casual silk button-down has been replaced by a black cotton tshirt and a black leather button-down in a similar cut to the silk one but worn loose like a jacket. She's wearing stonewashed blue jeans instead of slacks and boots instead of penny loafers. Her hair is loose, wild, unrestrained by any headband or chignon and it falls down around her face like a sandblasted glass wall. One hand is absently playing with a little glass bottle of ashes on a silver chain about her neck, and a black and silver rose pendant on another silver chain sits just above it.

Whatever life animated her features before is gone. Her eyes are dark and shadowed, her cheeks sallow, her lips and eyes painted a deep charcoal grey.

But the biggest change is in her eyes, which stare dully around her as she registers her change of location. She shrinks in on herself, arms wrapping protectively around herself. "I can't deal with you people now," she murmurs without breath. Her arms tighten, bracing, and she turns back toward the door.

It opens inches from a window, through which the nighttime skyline of Milwaukee, looking north from across the valley, is clearly visible. There is no desk, no office, just the wall and the window. "No. I can't do this..." Her lips move but no sound escapes. She stands in the doorway and delicately reaches out to touch the frost-rimmed window.

"Yeah, fuck you too." Violence tints her voice and in a blur of motion, faster than the eye can follow, she slams the door.

The bells of glass breaking carry through the heavy door.

She spins and glares around the Pub.

Wildwind smiles warmly and nods. "How's things?"

"Stellar." Sarcasm coats her voice like a taffy apple rolled in broken glass.


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