THE PATH TO DECAY [OPEN]

[ALYSSA ESPAILLAT]

Those who reject pleasure reject life itself. That was what Alyssa held closest to her heart. She had long since accepted pleasure, of the flesh, of material wealth, of love, of laughter. Of death on rare occasion. And death no longer served to torment her. No ailment nor wound nor age would ever mar her flesh as long as she lived a lie. Not a problem for her. She smirked as she sat, glass of wine in hand, watching her prized dancers light up the cabaret.

Decorated in red and black today, the usual underside of society came out to play here. Drinking, illicit dealings and the occasional secret rendezvous with a mistress made the seating areas as seedy a place as the dance floor. In fact, she was confident that the dance floor was cleaner of such business. Harmless flirtatious behaviour with each other, but aside from that, little else. She sipped at her glass, her own black and red attire hugging her form like a second skin, a purely aesthetic corset about her waist, thigh length dress revealing her legs, in a manner entirely indecent for anywhere but here. Not that that had ever stopped her.

She looked on at her dancers, a faint smile upon her lips. They were good. They always were, but today, they seemed just that little bit more special. Possibly because she was in the audience, and they wanted to impress, show her just what they were capable of. It was a typically provocative dance, the music choice tonight was darker, more sensuous, like a forbidden pleasure. It was delightful. She drained her glass, before moving her hand over her greatsword, spinning it by the pommel, a slow motion, watching her girls perform, her smiler becoming wider as their dancing began to escalate to 'the fever pitch'.

This was where the boundaries of society would be torn down, where 'l'ancien regime' would finally die, in throes of passion and beauty. Not upon the battlefield, not in the courtrooms, and not simply ceasing to exist. It would rot from the inside, and at last, all would be free to their whims, the desires, their pleasures. And it would be gloriously liberating. So many more pleasures to enjoy. For with a higher class of people, came a higher class of pleasure.

[OSSETIA REGGADE]

The Shinigami hadn't visited a cabaret this immoral in nearly twenty years, but he felt a fight brewing inside, and he had to be there to clean up after the deadly scuffle. Welcome to Paris, he thought to himself, a City of Lights that simply allows the shadows to be all the larger.

Regardless of era, it seemed that not much besides the style had changed in these darker regions of society. The women still dressed in outfits designed to lure a man to his death, hiding this fact under the pleasure of seeing a pretty face and the lascivious gyrations of a dancer. If Ossetia had lived a little longer into his adult years, he probably would have been one of those grown men gawking at exposed flesh, but since then his occupation had led him to see nudity as nothing more than the final weakness towards death; why else do people dress up the deceased?

Checking his watch, the Angel of Death realized that he'd have to wait over half an hour for the souls to end their time on Earth. With so much time to wait about beforehand, he scanned the dark auditorium to see if there was any distraction besides the show onstage. Dates flashed above each person's head, but one in specific left him rather astounded. According to the maroon lettering, there was a person here older than most North American countries. With somebody here that had shattered even the longest age limits to compete with Biblical lifespans, this was a person that he had to meet.

Passing through the audience with a bit of a ghostly presence, Ossetia adjusted the dark blue bowtie wrapped tight around his neck, always allowing those about to die to see something respectable in their last moments. Putting on a pair of white-gray gloves, the Grim Reaper finally made it to the seat right behind the anicient one, surprised to find her looking as youthful as the dancers onstage and dressed just as immodestly. Did this change things? A bit, Ossetia thought as he saw the glint of a fine-crafted sword near the woman. Taking a couple of minutes to think of what to say, he finally settled on a few good words to start the conversation.

"I didn't know somebody could evade us for so long," he began. "I'm sure Sisyphus will appreciate the homage and company.

"Don't worry: this isn't your time to go just yet," he reassured the girl. "I'm just waiting for a couple of drunks to take things too far in about twenty-five minutes. In the meantime, I noticed that there was somebody here that predated the Glorious Revolution, so I figured that it'd be best to converse with a fellow ancient for the time being."

Extending a hand wrapped in the deceptive warmness of a glove, he added, "I'm Ossetia, and you must be..." Of course, he could already see the person's name flashing above her head, but it'd be amusing to see her alibi; one couldn't live over five generations without picking up a few aliases along the way.

[ALYSSA ESPAILLAT]

Death may not threaten her, but it certainly had a means with which to stalk and irritate her. He looked at the Reaper speculatively, raising an eyebrow at him. At least he was well dressed. She couldn't abide that that the people who ply the trade of the final passage could be anything less than impeccable. She continued to toy with the greatsword, contemplating his presence here. She assumed, as usual, he was the herald of death. Men looked on at him enviously as he addressed her so seemingly casually. It amused her somewhat.

I know it isn't my time. Hence why I am still sat here, and not giving you a job to do.

She smirked at this. It probably irked the Reapers that she was immune to their embrace, for as long as she hunted down those who bore the truth. And even if she met her fate, it would be at the hands of a creature far uglier, far more foul, and far more terrifying than a well-dressed man with a scythe. She leant back languidly into the chair, her face alight with amusement, looking at the man again. Certainly someone worth a second look. If only he wasn't the living personification of something she had sacrificed much to evade.

Pre-date the Glorious Revolution do I? I'm that old? Can't say I look or feel it, but what do you think?

There was a flirtatious twinkle in her eye, the playful smirk still plastered upon her face, despite the fact that he was most likely not the sort to meddle with humans, no matter how immortal they were.

Yes I figured as much. It's the glasses. You all wear glasses. Ironic really, because in my eyes, death always fails to find those right beneath its gaze.

She smiled at the man, making a quick, playful jibe at deaths inability to catch up with her, before offering her hand, palm down, as if waiting for him to kiss the back of her hand. While she was depraved and immoral, her greatest vice was her own self importance. Some customs were, after all, worth keeping.

Alyssa, if we're going by first names. A couple of drunks you say? Well, please, make sure it's quick, I don't like business being interrupted. It'll spook the girls.

She looked somewhat nonplussed about the fact. Death was death was death. The show must go on, and in this end of show business, things got ugly very quickly. That was why she loved it so much. Risk equals reward, and for her, risk was meaningless in almost every way of looking at it.

[OOC: A quick note, Ossentia wouldn't know her actual name, because otherwise dear Alyssa would be somewhat dead. ^^ He could know that it's a falsification though, or something.]