Thread: Masquerading By Moonlight [Gypsy x Bishop]

Of all the scenarios that she expected to witness upon awakening, Juliet Rosendahl did not expect immobilization. It was a dreamless slumber, she realized, upon regaining consciousness. Quite a peculiar conundrum, for Juliet was inherently a dreamer perhaps the lack of that constant aspect was a foreboding sign in and of itself. Yet in this particular case, when the pungent fragrance that breached the oppressive haze freed her from the tendrils of sleep, none of the familiar wisps of a fading subconscious vagary was present. Everything that had preceded her aromatic reveille eluded her grasp. In its place, a bloodcurdling reality too difficult to comprehend in one sitting greeted her at the van. A prominent ache in her limbs informed her of the unorthodox position she rested in, causing discomfort and numbness alike. On the cold, hardwood floor, it proved to be a taxing task to alleviate herself of her predicament whilst her arms were bound behind her. The coiffure Ophelia styled her thick, brown locks into erstwhile had unraveled, wayward strands obscuring her field of vision as much as the blur of the sedative inflicted. Such knowledge heralded the sonorous pounding in her chest. Questions bourgeoned forth like mirages in a wasteland, alarmed and perplexed, yet none were verbalized when she discerned a presence before her. What she perceived once clarity was perceptible besieged her with cold, paralyzing dread. It was him. A fleeting dance was all it took for him to have Ophelia fall head over heels with his charisma at the masquerade from what Juliet gathered. While Juliet indulged in ladyfingers during the revelry, Ophelia indulged in men. Julie, he's absolutely dashing. You must have seen how he danced with me, haven't you? I quite fancy him oh! Here he comes! Smile, doll. Smile! The glamour of the event settled, and he approached, masked with intrigue and thrill. With grace like a panther and charm like a politico, Ophelia was ensnared in his web. Though Juliet had been warier than her friend, it wasn't long before she too was windswept into Virgil Dunstance's enchantments. A prime quintessence of affluence and aristocracy. Splendors Juliet would never have the privilege of experiencing if it wasn't for Ophelia's proclivity in bringing her bourgeois companion wherever she went. Ophelia was Juliet's invitation whether the latter liked it or not. Deeper and deeper the pair delved into his spell that conversation with him resembled one with childhood friends rather than acquainted strangers. Thus why the invitation to his home was not refuted immediately by Ophelia. However, her acceptance alarmed Juliet to a point that, upon awaiting for the carriage that would whisk them away from the gathering, a squabble nearly erupted between the friends. Accompanying Ophelia to picnics and parties was one thing heading to a stranger's manse without any escort was another, especially when women's cadavers ran rampant among these times. Juliet, quit whinnying. Mustn't let them think we British ladies are so petty as to indulge in arguments on the streets. We only discuss the weather, and when the weather is bad, we pretend not to notice. Any attempt to persuade Ophelia from reconsidering was promptly dismissed much like a bothersome guttersnipe. Resigned, all seemed to be forgotten when dialogue between the trio began once more until unconsciousness befell them. When she came to, Juliet could not pretend not to notice now. Not the smooth, deep baritone that greeted her, not the awareness that Ophelia was nowhere to be found, and certainly not the restraints that rendered her upper extremities incapacitated. Fortunately, her modesty was retained with her apparel and her identity was concealed with her mask still. The faade Ophelia had woven unto Juliet for the promenade melted away with how she appeared at present before him. A vulnerable vision on his floor. How long this would be maintained she did not know. And it was that daunting verity that diffused fear to promulgate in her anatomy. The effort she exerted to raise herself into an orthostatic stance was nigh debilitating, for her body resembled lead and her mind squashed with cotton whilst a weakening vertigo crashed over her. Aftereffects of the sedatives no doubt, eliciting distressed groans to vacate her throat. What Juliet missed in the moment where she gathered her composure was the queer impression weighing down her neck. These were items used on pets, on animals, not humans. To have it affixed on her seared not only debasement, but also trepidation, for no matter how much she tugged on the damnable chain, it still leashed her to the bedpost with nowhere to escape. Nowhere to hide from the dark gaze that watched her. Rumors of a killer who prowled on females roamed the streets of the city, leaving the deceased on the streets after a libertine tryst. Some claimed it was separate incidents with no concordance to one another, yet some mused all were the work of one man alone. Nevertheless, the accusations resulted to one outcome death. He was still on the loose though, and to think that Juliet might be with him right now drained the color off her complexion and exacerbated her already frantic heart apace. They would be the same with the other women who had been slain, splattered on the cover of the newspaper she read a fortnight past Woman found dead in Kensington Gardens A woman was found dead by a passerby near Batty's Hippodrome on Saturday, September 12. She looked to be sleeping on the grass, aye, said the witness, Michael Tunsel, 39, who was out for a morning jog upon Fairchild's discovery, all pretty and peaceful in her green cloak. But t'was a cold morning to be napping outside unless you want to get a nasty cold. Typical English weather with them dark clouds overhead. So I called out to her, I did. Said, Oi, miss! Sleep's better in a warm bed! No response. I figured the lass was plastered. T'was a Saturday morn after all. Must have been a jolly good Friday night for her. I went up to her, crouched and tried to shake her awake. That's when I realized something ain't right. Lass was pale and not breathing, naked underneath the cloak too. Tunsel reported the incident immediately. The victim was identified as Eloise Fairchild, 24, only daughter of Harold Fairchild, a wealthy socialite and member of the Bastian Brotherhood. Fairchild returned to the city after a weeklong vacation in Brighton to attend a gathering of her father's fraternity. Fairchild did not go home the night of the party and was found in the meadow near Batty's Hippodrome where her body was abandoned. Authorities confirmed a consensual sexual intercourse occurred prior to her death Where is Ophelia? were her first words against her captor with what she hoped to be a severe inflection, though even to her ears the tremulous pitch could not be disregarded. To have Ophelia and her name in the headlines of the paper and the obituary was an outcome Juliet sought to avoid at all costs. Disheveled tresses framed her face, emphasizing sapphirine irises fraught with fright and betrayal. Let let us go. Please. Where is she? What have you done to her? We didn't come here for this. Ophelia she just... Please let us go. We won't tell any anyone of this if you release us right now. No one needn't know. Her struggles escalated like a thrashing child. Desperation ruled her cognizance and turned her feral, manipulating her to move even though the collar cinched about her neck prohibited her from advancing. It resulted to her collapse time and time again, damaging the damascene cobalt dress that garbed her sveltely form. Ophelia! Juliet shrieked, chest heaving and breath laborious. The tears crystallized her eyes and spilt, staining her flushed cheeks. Ophelia! Where are you?! Anyone! Help! Please help! Ophelia!