Initiations « Thread Started on Jul 1, 2008, 1:42am »
The Death Eaters; a noble, respectable group comprised of the best members of society. A group Genevieve had aspired to for over ten years. And finally, she had made contact.
She didn't know who, and even if interrogated under Veritaserum, she couldn't say how, but one day the letters started. They were inconspicuous, short and to the point, hidden in meaningless letters regarding classes and paperwork. She couldn't even be sure she was properly corresponding with someone of worth, but she was willing to take her chances. And if she had somehow ending up corresponding with a spy or traitor, she slept with her wand in her hand, and it never left her side during waking hours.
Then one day the letters stopped, just abruptly as they had begun. The past week, Genevieve had been more on edge than she could ever remember, thankful for the ending of classes and the chance to indulge herself in luxuries to calm her frazzled nerves. She was waiting for something, anything. That one moment that could change her life forever.
After another long day of waiting and indulging, she slips into her usual black silk nightgown and slides between the Egyptian cotton sheets for a restless night's sleep. The air's calm, almost too calm and it takes her nearly twice as long as usual to fall asleep. As she slips into the dark oblivion, one last fleeting thought catches her attention.
Quite enjoying himself, Ramses lets himself into Neveau's cute little house, heading right up the stairs. He's quite good at locating women's bedrooms. It's a gift.
His three lackeys (he really loves that word) follow him into the bedchamber, and he motions for the most intelligent of them (not that that's saying much) to go around to the other side of her bed. In a smooth motion, designed to be just loud enough to wake her up, he rips the bedcurtain aside, smiling down at the lovely woman lying there in one very naughty little nightgown.
"Get dressed," he growls, stepping back so she has room to get out of the bed. He doesn't touch her, much as he might want to. That can come later, perhaps. He's not fool enough to risk the Dark Lord's wrath by being late. He does, however, motion for the other three to turn their backs, but he doesn't look away, smirking even though she can't see it.
He doesn't say another word to her, though--the quieter he is, the more frightened she'll be. And it's always so much more fun when the little lambs are frightened. It's the icing on his cake.
Completely startled from her sleep, Genevieve's eyes fly open, quickly taking in the four dark-robed men standing menacingly around her bed.
"Get dressed," one of them growls, the one she presumes to be the 'leader,' and Genevieve doesn't even consider disobeying. Carefully pulling her wand from between the sheets, she looks directly into the eyes, the only feature of the man that she can make out, and sets the thin piece of wood on top of the covers.
Genevieve's not the type to panic, but she can't deny the butterflies in her stomach and adrenaline racing through her veins. This is it. Either these men are here to fulfill the one dream she's had in life, or they are here to kill her. The robes look genuine, but it's not hard to replicate something so inconsequential. But like she'd been steeling herself for beforehand, she'll take her chances.
She slides off the bed, quite aware that her meager nightgown reveals almost the entirety of her thighs and quite an indecent amount of cleavage. She does notice, however, that tiny glimpse in the man's eye. He must like what he sees. But then again, what respectable man wouldn't?
Walking to her armoire, she pulls off her nightgown, her backside now turned to the man and unashamedly stretching her back as she removes the cloth. When one is about to be either taken before the Dark Lord or killed, what is modesty? Besides, she never had any modesty to begin with, anyway.
Her heart pounds for moment. What does one wear to such an occasion? Thinking her finest dress robes were out, she slid into a pair of sturdy but fashionable black pants and a tight black shirt. Donning a sleek robe on top, she turns, trying to remain calm as she looks the same man in the eyes once again.
"May I take my wand?" she asks politely, although she can't completely quiet the quiver in her voice. This is it. One way or another, her life was about to change.
Ramses smirks, knowing that she will only barely be able to make the expression out in the dark room. He hands it to her without a word; his eyes don't leave hers as the Death Eater behind her steps up and slips a hood over her head, keeping it loose enough that she can breathe, but not so much that it will fall off.
Not many women make it into the Death Eaters; it's chauvinist, but Ramses really doesn't care. The ones that do, though... He smiles to himself, thinking that he certainly doesn't mind this one joining, if she's that comfortable taking off her clothes in front of strange men. He finds himself wondering what she would look like, tied to his bed...
Deciding to savor that mental image later, he nods to the other two Death Eaters, who take her arms gently enough, at least compared to how they typically haul people around (she's going to be one of them, after all, they don't accept pussies) and lead her out of the room and down the stairs and out of the house, past the wards. They side-Apparate her to the Dark Lord's home, and Ramses leads the way once again through the dark corridors, into the main parlor, currently filled with about fifty Death Eaters.
With a wave of his hand, Ramses signals for one of the others to remove her hood, striding through the crowd, which steps aside from him. It's a disconcerting experience, being the only person unmasked in a sea of hidden faces. Eerie. Although there were not nearly so many when he was initiated, perhaps only a fifth of this number...
When the hood slips over her head, Genevieve's heart skips a beat. Two callused hands grab her roughly, tight enough to make her grit her teeth, but not exactly painful. Besides, she was never one to complain. She counts the familiar steps out of her house to keep her nerve, and waits for the intense squeezing of apparition as they finally take off.
When her feet hit solid ground once again, she listens hard, trying to discern if these man had betrayed her and turned her into the Ministry, or if she was finally about to meet the Dark Lord, in person. The next part of their journey is quiet--eerily quiet. It's the type of silence that's almost deafening, only the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the room.
The hood is pulled back over her face and she gasps. She's alone, surrounded by several dozen black robed and masked strangers. Well, this certainly wasn't the Ministry. She breathes a sigh of relief, and realizes that her's is the only face that's bared. Time stands still as the weight of the situation lands on her, and she grips her wand a little tighter. It's the epitome of anonymity and complete individualism all at once.
Her eyes seek out the Dark Lord, or the leader of the group, at the very least. A man before her stands out from the crowd, as if he is not joining in the circle, but the circle is joined around him. She drops to one knee where she stands, not presuming the permission to step forward, and bows her head.
She doesn't move and she doesn't speak. Not being unintelligent, she understands that one wrong move could mean her death. She will wait until spoken to, and only do when given permission. She hides a smile. She's been waiting for this all her life.
Ramses glides forward to take his place next to the Dark Lord, grinning beneath the mask. Time for the fun part. The Dark Lord reaches up, removing his mask, and watches Neveau very calmly. It's almost eerie, how there is no expression whatsoever on his face.
"Closer, Genevieve Neveau," Lord Voldemort commands softly. She obeys, and when he judges her close enough, he nods to Carrow, who pushes her gently to her knees again.
"Look at me." The Dark Lord's lips had barely moved, but she looks up; Ramses knows what's happening, here. The Dark Lord is peering into her mind, judging her worthiness. What he finds will decide whether she leaves this room a Death Eater or a corpse.
"Do you wish to serve me, Genevieve Neveau?" he asks, his voice barely audible; the room is completely silent and still. Not one black robe so much as swishes.
Genevieve is drawn to the Dark Lord's gaze like a moth to fire. Their eyes lock, and the world shrinks to nothing but the incredible power and prestige of the man before her, her life on the line as her every memory, motivation and fear is looked through and deciphered. It's Judgment Day for Genevieve Neveau, and she's never felt more alive.
Do you wish to serve me? he asks.
It's only been her single most desire for as long as she can remember. But a simple 'yes' won't suffice, it's too plebeian. And with her every thought, every movement or action under watch, she hardly has the time to blink before deciding her answer.
"My only wish is to honor you, my Lord," she whispers, but the sound is clearly audible in the almost unnatural silence of the room. Her answer is honest; the Dark Lord is intelligent enough to read between the lines. She would do anything for the Dark Lord, whether it be servitude or laying down her own life.
The Dark Lord is silent for a long moment, but finally he nods very slightly. "Very well."
Before Neveau even has time to register what he had said, Voldemort has her left wrist, crushing it in a deathly cold grip. His hand is so cold on her skin that it feels as though it hurts, Ramses knows from experience. Neveau doesn’t even have time to figure out what’s going on before there is a wand touching her arm.
“Morsmordre.”
The Dark Lord’s voice is even as he intones the spell, and then there is a searing pain in Neveau's arm, shooting through her entire body, as her flesh actually sizzles in front of his eyes. Ramses can smell it; beneath his mask, he smiles.
When the Dark Lord grasps her wrist, Genevieve can only gasp. His fingers are cold, too cold, seemingly numbing her mind and her soul. She didn't know it was possible for someone to be that cold, but perhaps it was part of the mystic that was the Dark Lord. Perhaps it was just a contrast for what was to come.
Before her mind could even comprehend the spell, sizzling heat flayed and seared her nerve endings, forcing her to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. She's known pain before, but nothing like this. Her eyes blink rapidly as she remains too stubborn to let a tear fall.
The smell of her own sizzling flesh turns her stomach, but nearly as suddenly as it began, the pain receeds, her arm still feeling as if it was held over an open fire, but the intensity has decreased to something bearable.
Genevieve's knees give way when the Dark Lord releases his hold on her wrist, part in physical exhaustion and part submission to her new Lord. A small smile flitters across her face despite the pain and she inspects the skull and serpent now permanently etched in her skin.
A tiny rustling of a robe reminds her that she has an audience. For the first time, she wonders how many people she knows are currently standing around her. She's always had her suspicions about Malfoy; how many of her other colleagues or former students just watched her initiation?
She lifts her head slightly, and her eyes connect briefly with the man who brought her here. The same man who watched her practically naked as she changed, too proud to turn to his head and ordering the bulkier men around like pawns. Was he smiling at her??
If it weren't for the magnitude of the situation, she would roll her eyes.
Pompous prick, she thinks incredulously, wondering if and when she would find out who is the interesting 'man behind the mask'.
Ramses is indeed smiling, feeling oddly proud. Not in a fatherly way, though, or the feelings he's getting in... other... regions would be very disturbing.
Not that 'disturbing' really bothers Ramses, most days. Nope. He rather likes disturbing, usually.
The Dark Lord turns, sweeping out of the room, but he doesn't summon his chief Death Eaters to follow him--Ramses and Carrow are the only two of the seven members of the Dark Lord's inner circle to be in attendance, and Ramses already has his orders for the week.
Turning, he eyes the group of Death Eaters in the room (a fraction of their true number), sighing. Every singe person in this room, save for Neveau and an old widow, is male, and frankly, he doesn't swing that way. Their newest recruit, however...
Neveau is still kneeling, and he steps over, offering her his hand. "Milady," he says dryly. "Might I give you a lift?" And a ride?
Sparing a quick glance between this man and the slowly thinning circle of people around them, Genevieve extends her arm, the newly marked one, placing her smaller hand into his rougher one. She quirks an eyebrow at him. They're not worker's hands, that's for sure, but they're not dainty either. He's obviously someone of importance and high social standing, as if his involvement in her initiation wasn't enough for her to realize that.
"You may," she replies with a small half-smile, half-smirk, as he gently pulls her to her feet. Not that she really would have been able to leave without some help, seeing as she had been masked for the journey through what appeared to be a rather large manor.
Given that the Dark Lord had left the room and quiet murmurs of chatter have broken out in the sparse groups around them, Genevieve figures she is finally safe to speak freely.
"Is it commonplace for you to break into a woman's bedchamber's in the middle of the night, or should I expect such behavior more often?" she asks, smirking slightly. It's obvious from her tone that she's teasing him. Or nearly teasing him, at any rate. In fact, she can't say she'd mind, really. But perhaps she should refrain from such conclusions before she sees what is hidden behind the prestigious mask on the man's face. She may be proud to be an official Death Eater, but Genevieve has high standards quite unrelated to her political affliation.
"Oh, you can expect it," Ramses says calmly, leading her through the dwindling crowd of people without even seeming to acknowledge any of them. "I make a habit of it, if the lady is willing." And sometimes even if she's not; he doesn't doubt in his ability to... persuade women. But he doesn't think he'll have any trouble, here; this one had changed in front of him, while he'd been very blatantly watching, without even a blush. No, she's not a shy one.
He leads her out into the darkness. "I'll escort you home." It's not an offer, and he takes her arm gently enough. He knows when he has to be polite, at least. He won't remove his mask here, not without an order to do so. It's protocol, just in case there is a spy in their midst.
He Disapparates with her, though, and once he's standing on her walk, he smiles, reaching up and removing his mask with a smirk. "Surprise."
Simply raising her eyebrows as he talks of his practices around 'willing ladies,' Genevieve follows the still-masked stranger into the night. He grasps her arm, more cordially this time, and they Apparate back to her home, where he promptly lets her go and removes his mask, still smirking all the while.
Surprise, indeed.
"Lestrange?" she asks a little incredulously after studying his face. "Ramses Lestrange? How fitting."
She doesn't know him, not in the literal sense of the word, but having been only a couple of years apart at Hogwarts, she knows of him quite well. And his reputation... Perhaps the evening would turn out even better than expected.
"Will you come in?" she asks politely, with a tiny smile on her face. "Some coffee? Tea, perhaps?"
She turns to the door, opening it and stepping inside, waiting for him to follow her or not. Besides, this way, he gets a decent look at her backside, not that he hadn't already earlier. But what's the power of beauty if you don't use it?
(OCC: It's all good. I forgive you, on account that it's your b-day. And if you think I'm being presumptuous about her knowing who he is, just say so, and I'll change it.)
(ooc: Oh, hell, I don't care, lol. Ramses would like to say that he's quite happy at being recognized )
For what is definitely not the first time in his career as a Death Eater, Ramses curses the damned voluptuous robes they're all forced to wear, thanking God at the same time that Neveau hadn't had to wear hers tonight. After this she will, of course, but right now he's quite happy to stare at her arse to his heart's content.
Metaphorical heart. He's pretty sure he doesn't actually have one. Makes life a hell of a lot easier, he thinks with a grin, following her into the house and shutting the door.
"Shall we?" he asks courteously, offering her his arm. He knows quite well where her bedroom is, now, of course.
Re: Initiations « Reply #14 on Aug 2, 2008, 7:08pm »
Quite happy that the customary offering of refreshments goes ignored, Genevieve takes the offered arm, smirking as he leads them to her bedroom. Only someone like Lestrange would be so obviously frank about his intentions. And only someone like Genevieve would appreciate it.
Stepping into her bedroom, she removes her arm from his and takes out her wand to spell on the lights. She opens the clasp on her robe and hangs it perfectly in her armoire, exaggerating every movement just so slightly as to keep his attention. Not many women know how to make hanging up a robe look seductive, but Genevieve's had practice.
Still smirking, she turns back to Lestrage--Ramses, she tries out in her head--and steps toward him.
"Can I take your robe?" she practically purrs, not waiting for his response and she reaches up slowly undoes the ties and clasps to remove his outer robe before hanging it on a hook. One layer down, too many more to go.
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