[D4 LN Once Upon a Troubadour, CLOSED]

[Marcus Kendall]

Sometime after Chantelle had withdrawn from the stage, there was a knock on the door of her changing rooms. A familiar male voice called out, letting her know that a particular gentleman was waiting behind the door. There was an another male voice, deeper and perhaps bit younger. "No hurry." This voice belonged to Marcus, she could tell.

______

Once Upon a Troubadour - Nightwish

[Chantelle Rossette]

Opening the door, Chantelle peered out, smiling. “Dank you, Renato, it’ qui’ alrigh’.”

She pulled the door further open to permit the beast entry, and the bouncer scowled, “you shouldn’t encourage them,” he huffed, crossing his arms but absenting himself all the same. Having shed the slinky cocktail dress she’d been wearing onstage, the egret was once again wearing a sundress, ankle length with thin shoulder straps that were more decorative than anything.

The small room beyond, barely more than a closet, had a dressing table with a massive lighted mirror, the surface entirely clean of makeup, jewellery, or knick-knacks apart from a stalk of live “lucky” bamboo in a decorative vase. There was a small couch, with a narrow space to walk between the two pieces of furniture, and a door that appeared to lead to an actual wardrobe.

[Marcus Kendall]

"Good evening." Marcus murmured, Renato hearing the words of a young, polite man while Chantelle could hear the real tone, the one that sounded like the echoes among woods. The beast's cold blue eyes seemed to see nothing but the egret, his gaze meeting hers. "You were fabulous, again." he quipped, seeming both honest and impressed. Also, much to Renato's chagrin, Marcus was utterly ignoring his guide. "I wanted to see you."

[Chantelle Rossette]

Ushering the beast inside, Chantelle closed the door, “you too kin’,” she cooed, “I’m gla’ you enjoy’ it.” Curiosity swirled around the egret as she regarded her guest, “I’m surprise’ you came, I know you don’ li’ de place.”

[Marcus Kendall]

Marcus stepped into the room, his nose wrinkling as he inhaled deep of the tapestry of scents. "Nah, honest." The beast replied, offering Chantelle one of his eerie grins. Had he been a man, his smile would have been disarming. The beast merely revealed the rows of sharp, impossibly clean teeth. "Don't like the place, much. Wanted to hear you sing again." he explained, thinking it made perfect sense. "Is the place always that full?"

[Chantelle Rossette]

“Only on Friday an’ Saturday,” she answered, careless and matter-of-fact. “Mais, di’ you wan’ someting to drin’? I ca’ ge’ someting fro’ de bar.” The smells were likely a cacophony to the beast, the bar was underground—literally—and old, it was steeped in the decades, unable to ever be truely aired out, but Chantelle had done her best all the same. Baking soda dominated the bouquet of the room, undetectable to lesser noses, having been used to absorb what the worst of smells. To Chantelle and her employers, all they could detect was the egret’s unmistakable perfume and citrus cleaning products.

[Marcus Kendall]

The beast nodded his head, his nose wiggling again. "Uh, I'm fine. But if you are taking something, I can join you?" Marcus offered, sounding a tad nervous - trying to hide it as well as he could. "It was bit pricey so I didn't have much."

[Chantelle Rossette]

Clucking her tongue, “I’m no’ as poor a ‘ostess as dat. Stay pu’ and I’ll bring you some whiskey.” Reaching up, she placed both hands on his massive shoulders and rubbed the end of her beak to his cheek in a pantomime of a kiss. Not allowing him to protest, she swirled from the room, the door falling shut behind her, leaving him alone in the small space.

[Marcus Kendall]

As she touched him, she could sense a pang of hunger, blending with desire. His fur was course and a little damp - it had been raining, but the hours spent in the Lounge had allowed him to dry a bit. "Oh, that would be nice." Yet, his tone was polite and reserved, though he did turn to see her go, his gaze resting on her hips.

[Chantelle Rossette]

She returned quickly, a double tot of whiskey on the rocks (ice, not proper whiskey stones, for Chantelle feared that the beast may throw back the entire thing in a single gulp, and didn’t want to be the one responsible for the digestive outcomes of that) for Marcus, and a flute of sparkling rosé for herself. “Ere we go,” she handed him the glass, and held up her own in toast “à ta santé.”