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18 April 2008 @ 04:42 am
LOCKED: Manfred Von Karma's Study  
*He's spent the few days since he arrived quietly observing and learning all that he can about the nature of the place in which he has found himself.  The occurrence of so many versions of the same people was jarring at first, but he has become accustomed to it, and started to study individuals to determine the best way to tell them apart. Miniscule differences in body language, vocal infection, mannerisms - things that would be of little importance in the outside world, yet in here take on a significance all of their own. His own presence seems to have called little attention, and from that he deduces that there must be or have been other versions of himself here, although he has seen none.

The many versions of the boy that he has observed is disconcerting, and there is a deep revulsion every time that he encounters one -  although thus far he has succeeded in remaining outwardly impassive.

He has also learned the art of creating rooms, although it was not intentional. The day he arrived, he spotted a door that he thought he recognised, and upon opening it found himself in an exact replica of his study in Germany - stone floor covered in heavy rugs, walls lined with bookcases and cupboards - ancestral portraits filling the gaps between. The familiar heavy walnut desk and several blue leather upholstered chairs are deceptively perfect replicas of his own. The oversized stone fireplace behind the desk had a welcoming fire in the grate, and his sword cane and a small hunting knife had been where he expected to find them in a cupboard by the door - the latter now concealed in his pocket as was his usual practice when at home.

It had always been a sanctuary, and it is now, as he sits at the desk with a laptop in front of him and a cup of Earl Grey cooling rapidly beside it next to the inkpot and quill. The conversation he is having on-line concluded, he sits back with his eyebrows knitted in a frown,  a slight smile playing on his lips still.

He reaches for the cup and takes a sip of tea, staring at nothing in particular, but with a deeply thoughtful expression on his face.*


Hnnn...  we shall see.

((OOC: Locked to jedetotesprach, in the first instance. WARNING for TL;;DR central and vampires doing what they do best, if that is likely to bother anyone.

Anyone else wishing to thread with MVK who would have good reason to find his hidden study, please IM me and we can set it up))
 
 
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
 
 
 
Kristoph Gavin: [ white shirt // oh really? ]jedetotesprach on April 18th, 2008 05:06 am (UTC)
Now fed, he's feeling much more up in his spirits. His exploration continues, as it perhaps always has before he's found himself mostly settled in LA, and now he's here, so it's reawakened inside of him.

This door he has to literally fight the urge to sprint from when he opens it. His master's study, he knows, the books, the rug. It's different, though, he realizes after he fights that immediately flight instinct. There's a fire in the grate - his master's was always empty. The blue chairs look unfamiliar.

The computer. Computers are still new to him, really.

The pale face, the grey hair, the elaborate jacket is not new to him, and the flight instinct rears again, stronger than ever, feeling like bile in his throat. This time he can nearly feel the wings sprouting, face puffing, body shrinking in less than a second. He has to fight it back hard this time, fingers twitching.

"Master," he says, and bows low.
Manfred Von Karma: Spectaclesderbildhauer on April 18th, 2008 01:53 pm (UTC)
*He looks up from his reverie when the door opens, fingers still wrapped around the tea cup and his chin resting on the china rim.

It's the first time that door has admitted anyone but himself. No one else has even tried, which has led him to the conclusion that somehow this room is shadowed to most - that the door can only be found by those who know what they are looking for, or are familiar with what is within and wish to see it again.

He puts down the cup slowly, rises to his feet, lets his hands rest lightly on the desktop in plain view for a few, slow, measured heartbeats. Then he steps sideways so that the chair behind him no longer restricts his freedom to move. Carefully, he crosses his arms, one finger tapping lightly against his jacket sleeve.

His eyebrow arches slightly at the lowness of the bow and his lip curls slightly at the blatant obsequience. To see a man behave that way disgusts him. He nods towards the laptop, slightly*


"Jede tote sprach", I presume.

Edited at 2008-04-18 01:54 pm (UTC)
Kristoph Gavin: [ side profile // i'm watching you ]jedetotesprach on April 18th, 2008 02:17 pm (UTC)
When his master moves away from the laptop, and he lifts his eyes to the man's face - can you believe disobeying orders still hurts like it did so many years ago? - he is struck. He knows that perhaps he should be keeping to himself, staying tightly controlled, as he always should be, but he can't keep the stunned look off his face.

This man has blue eyes. Pale blue. How could he...?

Being dead knocked away his need for glasses. But why would it change a man's eyecolor? Did it change his eyecolor? Was this man truly not his master, aside from more than just personality alone?

he knows that, either way, this man is sharp, perhaps sharper than his fangs. Even if it isn't his master, he has to be on his toes.

"Der bildhauer."
Manfred Von Karma: Smugderbildhauer on April 18th, 2008 02:54 pm (UTC)
Indeed. The Internet is a fascinating thing, is it not? A glamour that allows us to believe that we have learned everything about a person, when in reality we know nothing.

You know my real name, sir, I presume. Am I to know yours?

*Almost casually, he uncrosses his arms and reaches for his cane, which is propped against the desk, leaning his weight on it once he has it in hand.

He regards the new arrival hawkishly, taking in the blond hair, the soft features... and the dizzied expression on the boy's face. That reaction makes his eyes narrow slightly.

With his free hand he gestures to the chair that sits in front of the desk, the one that had always been reserved for Miles, or for his daughter, when they responded to his summons.*


Sit.

Tea? Or would you prefer brandy?

Kristoph Gavin: [ shadowed profile // this is me ]jedetotesprach on April 18th, 2008 03:11 pm (UTC)
"Kristoph Gavin." He sits down in the motioned-to chair, regaining control over his expression.

When he speaks, von Karma might notice too much white. Normally, he talks with his mouth mostly shut, but he's not trying to hide what he is from this man who is not his master, so his mouth moves when he speaks, and every so often, his fangs show for a couple moments when he pronounces those syllables.

"If it would not be considered rude, neither, please."

It takes a lot of energy not for him to fidget. He's never fidgeted in the presence of his master before, but something about this man makes him nervous. He feels about as small and stupid as he felt looking up at his master from the floor a hundred and fifty years ago, only this man's not as old as he is and has blue eyes.

"Your eyes are blue," He says, though he still isn't quite sure what to make of it. "My master had gray eyes."
Manfred Von Karma: Side Snootyderbildhauer on April 18th, 2008 04:17 pm (UTC)
Mr Gavin. *He nods, once only, a very formal greeting*

*Oh, he notices the fangs, not that you'd know that from his expression. It does not constitute proof to him one way or another. Such things can be done for cosmetic reasons, he knows, or by people deluded by romantic illusions or fantasy.*

I do not consider it rude for a man not to require refreshment. Knowing our own bodies and their needs and demands is essential to mental and physical health.

*He moves to cross the study slowly, leaning on his cane. The path takes him behind the chair in which the other man is seated and out of his eyesight, for the few minutes that it talkes to retrieve the decanter of cherry brandy and a glass from the upper shelf of the cupboard near the door.*

It would be ruder for a man to accept what he is offered but then waste what he is given than to accept nothing at all. Don't you agree, Mr Gavin?

*He pours the dark red liquor slowly, sets down the decanter and lifts the glass to his lips. he doesn't yet drink though, just allows the rim to rest there, the liquid moving slowly in the glass as he speaks.*

But I am not your master, Mr Gavin. I am a version of him, true. But I am not the man who expects you to grovel and demands your freedom to gain some false sense of power.

Edited at 2008-04-18 04:19 pm (UTC)
Kristoph Gavin: [ white shirt // oh really? ]jedetotesprach on April 18th, 2008 10:54 pm (UTC)
Again, it's hard not to fidget. Especially when his master (not his master) is standing behind him. He has a feeling that the man doesn't believe him to be dead, and would probably attempt to kill him by contemporary means, and that wouldn't be a problem, but it still makes him anxious. Old fears and hatred of his master seem to come alive differently when he... respects this man. He crosses his hands in his lap and turns his head a bit, glancing out of the corner of his eye so he can at least barely see what the man is doing behind him with his peripheral vision, maybe a few blonde strands interfering with his sight.

"Yes, that's quite true. When given something, one should take the most advantage of it that they possibly can." He pauses, thinking of himself, of the library, of all the things that he knows in exchange for being dead. He wonders, vaguely, what this give-and-take means to this version of his master.

He turns more fully in the chair, watching the man and the red brandy. How symbolic."I am beginning to see that you don't resemble him at all, and it fills me with an enormous sense of relief, sir."
Manfred Von Karma: Psychelocksderbildhauer on April 19th, 2008 03:15 am (UTC)
*He sips the brandy once, then walks deliberately back to the fireplace, carrying the glass with him, placing it on the polished walnut desk. The brandy catches the light from the flames just so and he notes it, admires it, without changing his expression.*

Does it, Mr Gavin? I wonder.

*There's a slightly sardonic smile now, and he places his right hand in his jacket pocket, casually and slowly. He can feel the cold, polished steel of the knife against his palm, and brushes a fingertip against the jagged edge of the blade. If this... man is what he says he is, then he knows that it will be of little use. But he has yet to see conclusive evidence that this is the case and until then, he will be cautious.*

You have yet to prove to me that what you claimed to be is what you really are.

*He leans the cane against the desk, then lifts the glass of brandy and takes another sip, keeping his eyes on the other man as he does.*
Kristoph Gavin: [ scenery // the world's a big place ]jedetotesprach on April 19th, 2008 03:46 am (UTC)
It's a good thing he's just fed otherwise that sparkling brandy might be driving him insane. Would be driving him insane, especially the way the light flickers off of it in just the right way, the way moonlight sparkles through blood in back-alleys. He's full though, and the sight actually makes him smile a bit.

This is undoubtedly the most relaxed he's felt all night. Something he knows, for one, that this man doesn't. He's very sure that he is most certainly a vampire, probably sure than most of the stuff he's learned after all this time. He can't look at his not-master (that's a good way of thinking of it) when he walks in front of the fire, though - too bright. He returns to looking at the desk, as casually as he can, to disguise the flash of pain that goddamn fire just caused.

"It does," he says, and smiles back, though his smile has about the same amount of affection. "You've no need to wonder. As for proving what I am......how would you like to do that? If you'd like, you can have a wrist and search for my heartbeat. Cut me. I don't bleed."

Got to take the leap of faith, doesn't he? He's confident this man doesn't believe he's a vampire, and if he does try to break or cut off his hand, it doesn't really matter. Sure, losing a hand would be pretty unfortunate, but he's almost positive he could sew it back on.

He offers his left arm to his not-master, palm-up. His skin is dead pale, as if it's never seen the sun, and over the riddle of arteries, blue against his white skin, are two small marks. They might be from a bite, a long time ago.

"Search for a pulse, if you'd like."
Manfred Von Karma: Watching Youderbildhauer on April 19th, 2008 03:00 pm (UTC)
*He's noted that the other man is uncomfortable when he is out of view, and so he notes likewise the narrowing of the eyes and the unwillingness to look at him now, and that intrigues him although as yet he cannot identify the reason.

But it affords him the opportunity to examine the other man unobtrusively and so he takes it - dispassionately recording in his mind the long blond hair, the too-white skin and eyes that bely his age. There's the slightest quirk of an eyebrow at that smile, false as it is, which reveals fully the fangs that until now he had only glimpsed.*


Very well - if you insist.

*He waits, counts the appropriate number of beats before he follows through on his words and steps forward a few paces to take the offered wrist in his left hand. he doesn't look down, keeps his eyes fixed on the other man and his right hand in his pocket tightens slightly on the leather handle of the knife.

He's struck by the coldness of the skin, the waxiness of it under his fingertips, and he brushes the old marks with a thumb, feeling the raised hardness of old scars before he seeks a pulse that indeed, he cannot find. He takes back his hand slowly.*


Hn.

*He pauses for a time, considering. He has no belief in the supernatural - no superstitious fears of the realms of fantasy and illusion. Such stories are woven only to make men afraid, to bend them to the will of religion; to make them meek, weak and humble. For him, only the evidence of his own eyes and the proof of his own experience are acceptable. After all, the guilty always lie, and who is to say what this man may be guilty of.

Carefully, he removes his hand from his pocket, folds up the left sleeve of his jacket, and releases the cuff of his shirt from its bounds. His right hand goes back to his pocket and he extends his left, wrist up, in a mirror of the other man's gesture.*


Then show me.
Kristoph Gavin: [ sex // blood // life ]jedetotesprach on April 19th, 2008 04:08 pm (UTC)
The starbursts fade after a minute, thankfully, and he can finally look back up this man. His hand is so warm, though he knows he shouldn't be surprised, because his not-master is very alive, and his skin, pale as it may be from age and staying inside, is still darker than his own dead flesh. The search, as he knew it would be, is futile, though he wonders what his not-master thinks when he touches those scars. He thinks about his brother, at least, becuase he made those scars himself, for Klavier. He knows his master has (had?) a couple sets of those scars, and he can't help but wonder, idly, what other servants his master had.

An 'I told you so' rises in his throat. He suppresses it, keeping his face straight while the other man is still. He feels a little bigger than he felt when he walked in here, though somehow this man has managed to make him continue to feel stupid, even if he's just proven him wrong. He wishes that he could see inside his not-master's head, watch the gears click together. Undoubtedly, it would be a fascinating, incredible experience.

Drinking his blood will have to suffice. Because that's really all this man is, flesh and blood. Watching him uncuff his shirt has a sort of hypnotic element to it, and he most certainly tries to fight back the deja vu; you can't become a vampire twice after all, and certainly not from someone who's still alive.

He gingerly runs a thumb over the network of veins, blue against pale skin. He closes his eyes and listens to that beat, the delicious beat of life, really, and from his not-master it sounds so fierce and so ambitious and it makes him smile. He looks up at his face, wondering if he's going to get some sort of punishment for this, but, like his real master, this man's aged face is impossible to read.

He studies the wrist given to him some more, holding it gently in both his hands. He draws his face close, well aware of how much danger he's in, and takes a deep breath of the offered skin. Lavender, he notices, and can't help a quirk of the lip at that. Cherry brandy - that's what must be in the goblet. Wood, from the desk, he imagines, and other scents. And blood. The sweet, sweet smell of blood, reaching out of the pale expanse of skin and caressing him lovingly. He runs a thumb over the pulse again, not surprised but impressed by the speed - quick, but surely not as quick as one would expect when they've just offered their wrist to a vampire.

He pulls his lips back and sinks his fangs in, his grip tightening as he does so.

The blood is bitter. Laced with hate, he imagines. Drinking it shocks his senses, like cold water or strong, strong alcohol. He needs more because of that shock. He's never felt it before. A hundred and fifty years and he's never tasted anything like this.
Manfred Von Karma: Regretderbildhauer on April 19th, 2008 07:05 pm (UTC)
*He can almost feel the covetousness of that gaze when the boy takes his wrist in his cold fingers; when he caresses it and savours it with rapt attention. That quiet smile that is so different to the one that came before - this one genuine, lighting up the pale features, speaking of passion and... perhaps... of reverence. The response amuses him in its honesty, and when the boy looks up he represses the urge to smile in return.

His grip on the hilt of the knife in his pocket tightens painfully in response to the sudden, sharp agony of the bite and of alien nails digging into his skin. His knuckles lock and the muscles of his fingers contract, but it's the only outward sign he gives of any concern and since his hand is hidden, it's barely even that.

He's not a fool, however, and he's not inhuman. His every fibre screams with horror at the wrongness of it, and while he knows it is a fanciful illusion, it's as if he can feel the blood draining out of him immediately - inexorably pulled through his veins away from his heart, the volume lessening with each dull throb of pain.

Despite it, he doesn't pull away. He conquers the bodily fear, as he was trained to do, all those years ago; recognises the aggression and the panic for what they are, and puts them aside. He focuses his attention instead on the boy, on what's happening - intellectual fascination overriding everything else as he takes in the marvel of it - the single-minded purpose of its creation and the relentlessness of its execution.

He knows, by now, that this is real, that there is a chance the boy will not stop willingly - that he is utterly absorbed in the moment. Detachedly, he fingers the knife again, and checks the location of his cane. And it's a test when he moves his wrist slightly, tugs lightly against the grip of those dead fingers - a jolt of pain making him tighten his jaw as he feels his skin tear and sees a trickle of blood - the first that has appeared all this while.*


Enough.

Edited at 2008-04-19 07:08 pm (UTC)
Kristoph Gavin: [ black&white // that so? ]jedetotesprach on April 20th, 2008 01:43 am (UTC)
This man's blood isn't cold, but it's the closest thing he's felt in a long time. It doesn't stop being so shocking and intense after the first gulp, either, like blood sometimes does, and that's just not a good sign for von Karma. If he had go the rest of his eternal life drinking this, he'd be all right with that. Even though his last one sated him, this is a thousand times better, and he might simply be starving again just for this.

The first time he drank his master's blood he was still human, and blood tasted disgusting, like coppery slime, and swallowing it was a terrible thing. It took him a while, after that, to begin to enjoy drinking blood - learning all the nuances of taste, like learning to enjoy gourmet cuisine. These days it's a glory, though not always - some people are so average, and they taste dull. There are exceptions, always, like his brother and his not-master.

It's hard for him to stay in control of himself. It's easy to slip away, to clench at the flesh and suck the life out of the skin, especially when it's offered. But this is his not-master, and even if he tastes so incredible and so addicting, part of he knows he can't hurt him. Not beyond what he's allowed, to least. He slips between a trance, the trance that blood brings him, and the cool lucidity of reality.

When his not-master tugs against his grip, his first thought (and indeed, his first move) is to hold the wrist, because damnit it's his, it was offered, to him, so he should be allowed to take what he can. But he steps back over that line, and he can't kill this man. His not-master wants his arm back, so he has to give it back. He keeps his firm grip on it, though pulls his mouth away, three strong licks of his tongue cleaning the already-sealed wound. It's then he lets go, though he stays bent over like that for a couple more moments, licking his lips.

Finally, he sits up and looks at von Karma. He gives him a bloody smile.

"I've never tasted anyone quite like you."
Manfred Von Karma: Spectaclesderbildhauer on April 20th, 2008 04:42 pm (UTC)
*There's a long moment in which he waits to see if his command will be answered - to see how much power he commands over the boy, merely by being a replica of his master. He feels the fingers tighten, the nails dig deeper - but it's an instinctive reaction, he can tell, and so he waits. There are enough places that he could strike with the blade of the knife in his hand should he need to, but damaging the creature unnecessarily would be like defacing a work of art.

He has no illusions about his ability to cause any long-lasting injury - it is already dead, after all, and the grip on his wrist informs him quite clearly of the strength it possesses. No doubt he could kill it, given the right circumstances - but not now, when he is effectively at a disadvantage. Should that become necessary he will be a great deal more careful about choosing the time and the method.

The moment passes, and he feels the pressure on his skin and into his vein withdraw, as if a hypodermic had been suddenly removed. He watches with the slightest flicker of revulsion as the creature licks the wound and then its own lips before looking up at him.*


I am not sure if I should be flattered or offended, Mr Gavin. But I shall choose the former, for now.

*He examines his wrist, dispassionately. The dull ache of bruises beginning to form is present, but he notes with interest that the wounds do not bleed of their own accord. The efficiency of it impresses him. He refastens his cuff and rolls down the sleeve of his jacket, moving back behind the desk and seating himself in his chair before the fire. Leaning forwards with his elbows on the desk, he steeples his fingers and rests them on his lips, examining the boy openly and allowing longer than is necessary before he speaks again.*

You have proven to my satisfaction that your state of being is what you claim it to be, Mr Gavin. The question remains, however, what it is you want from me.

If you plan to threaten my life, do not waste my time or yours. My life will be over soon in any case, by my own choosing, and I do not respond well to threats - they are the empty rantings of cowards.

Edited at 2008-04-20 04:58 pm (UTC)
Kristoph Gavin: [ shadowed profile // this is me ]jedetotesprach on April 21st, 2008 06:47 pm (UTC)
He sits for a while, thoughtful, still thinking about his master's blood, his not-master's blood, about that shock. His not-master speaks, and he listens, though to say he's paying so much attention might be a bit of a lie. He probably looks like he's paying attention, but given his master's sharpness, he doubts it'll slip past his not-master.

Though it does give him interesting perspective. It allows him to see this man separately from his master, not just a reflection or an alternate. He may be just another man, a smart man, with the suit of his master. This man doesn't even have his master's eyes. But he does respect this man. There's things in this man - this human - that he admires: ambition, wit, cunning, fearlessness, control, intelligence. It's hard to meet humans that can get his respect days. To find one is too rare an oppertunity to pass up - even if this man does look nearly identical to his master.

"It is a complement, I assure you. Blood is life, and like food, there are less and more savory lives. Yours most certainly is a gourmet life." He smiles again, white-and-sharp-toothed, a little bit of color returned to his cheeks, a little life sparkling in his eyes. Stolen life, maybe, but most certainly life.

"I'm quite glad I could prove to you, that I am, in fact, dead as a stone. And I would never threaten you. Despite that it is clear that you are not my master, who I am bound against hurting, you seem to be a very respectable gentleman, filled to the brim with admiral qualities. You don't have to let death stop you, you know, though I imagine you've already thought about that, now that the option presents itself."

There's that smile again.

"Also, I'm not fond of threats. I'm not a ranter, nor am I a coward. Why I sought you out..." There's a more difficult question. There's a number of reasons, some more private than others, but the worst that could happen is this man uses the information against him, and he doesn't have much to lose; he's already dead, after all.

"Curiosity with a side of dread, I would say, to see if my master had appeared here. I want nothing from you, except perhaps a chance to see what books you have here and to read them."
Manfred Von Karma: Sidelong Lookderbildhauer on April 23rd, 2008 03:10 pm (UTC)
*He knows that the boy/creature is more interested in him than in his words. Inwardly he smirks at that, but outwardly he returns the gaze coolly.*

To cheat death would be interesting, certainly - if not to my captors. But such gifts rarely come without a price, Mr Gavin, as I am sure you will agree.

*A small smirk twists his lips at that - does the boy wish to make him a slave in revenge against his own master? If so then he has mistaken his prey - a Von Karma would rather die than be forced into servitude for another.

He listens impassively to the flattery and to the reasons that the boy is here. It's a lie of course, he's sure of that. Or at least an obfuscation. If the boy is as old as he claims, and his master even older, there is nothing he could possibly have in his library that has not already been read and read again. But for now he will humour him.*


I am afraid you find me at a disadvantage, Mr Gavin. I only keep a few books in my study, and they are all of the legal type for reference purposes.

*He indicates the shelves along the walls with a quick movement of his eyes*

The library at my home in Germany would undoubtedly be more interesting to you.

*He marks the sudden flush in the cheeks that has replaced the pallor; the apparent good humour that comes with the drinking of his blood, and he wonders...*

I have wandered this place since I arrived and heard no reports of mysterious deaths and blood-drained corpses. I am curious, Mr Gavin, how it is you are managing to feed unnoticed?

Edited at 2008-04-23 03:13 pm (UTC)
Kristoph Gavin: [ scenery // the world's a big place ]jedetotesprach on April 25th, 2008 12:11 pm (UTC)
He thinks about being his not-master's master. He knows that he'd never accept that life of servitude, not even if there were no rules attached. Just the idea of rules, really, would be enough. Just the thought of these blood-binding orders, the very words running in his blood, compelling him to do as told. He can even tell, by the man's face, that he isn't impressed by his flattery, even if it is laced with truth. He is, over all, impressed by all of this: the man's skepticism, his intelligence, the sharpness of his being in general. The shock of his blood. His eyes follow his not-master's eyes to the shelves, and some of the books he recognizes, but some he simply hasn't gotten his hands on, yet. He's got storage going at his place at LA to move to his library back in Germany. He hasn't read as much as he's liked, though, as he's normally doing the job thing that he decided to do. And here, he's barely read at all.

"I even see books here I don't recognize, though I would be honored to visit your library in Germany sometime. I keep a fairly monstrous library myself, though, interestingly enough, mine is also in Germany." He can't help a twinkle of pride in his eyes. He loves his library.

He pauses to consider the next question, thinking of that Klavier, thinking of his own hunger. Right now, he's sated, and it's good. But in a couple of days he'll have to find something to drink again, and it'll be a pain, unless this damn place decides to provide him with a blood room.

"When I first arrived here, I was already well-fed. I don't need to feed every day, maybe.. every five days before it seriously becomes a problem, before I become somewhat of a monster. A couple days ago, I drank some blood from a man and simply ordered him to forget. I'm also blessed with the power to compel, though my master was always better at it than I was. And now you.... I won't have to feed for another week, hopefully, though when I'm home I normally feed every other day, maybe every three days."

He sits back in the chair and arches an eyebrow. "Do you think that I would leave blood-drained corpses even in Los Angeles? Most of the time, I hardly drink them to death. Bodies, as you've clearly figured out, are hard to hide, and unsightly evidence of what's happened."
Manfred Von Karma: Grim Sidederbildhauer on May 1st, 2008 02:02 pm (UTC)
*He sits back in his chair a little, closer to the hearth, and picks up the glass of brandy, sips a little as the boy speaks. The talk of Germany intrigues him.*

I doubt that my own library is as extensive as yours, although it owes as much to my ancestors as to myself in its content and form.

*There's a sparkle in his eyes and his tone when he talks about his books - he doesn't realise it, but it's there all the same. To him they are objects of great beauty, and collecting such objects is a passion of which he will never tire.*

For my part I am pleased to have added some rare first editions, some of which you may find here, if this place has accurately rendered this room as I last left it.

*He watches the boy over the rim of his glass, the orange flame of the fire almost reflected by the whiteness of the skin.

He takes in the information about the feeding habits - notes them, files them in his head. he will commit them to his journal later, when he has the time.*


Sometimes, Mr Gavin, the best answer is in not hiding the corpse. Sometimes, plain sight is the best option.

*Almost casually he reaches out and grips the head of his cane, bringing it to rest at his side, upright, hand resting on it lightly.*

You may feel free to use my books as you see fit, provided that you respect them as opbecjst far more valuable than ourselves. ...Even than yourself, Mr Gavin, as rare an artefact as you may be.

*The smirk is a quiet one, as he considers whether this this boy/creature is as rare as he appears.*

Are you here alone, Mr Gavin? or are there ... others of your kind?

Edited at 2008-05-01 02:05 pm (UTC)
Kristoph Gavin: [ shadowed profile // this is me ]jedetotesprach on May 4th, 2008 05:51 pm (UTC)
[He smiles as he watches his not-master talk about book. It's clear how passionate this man is about books - like his master. Like him. He likes that, really, that there's proof of feeling inside that shell. He wonders, perhaps, if at one point they could be equals, and discuss books. Probably never. He smiles, internally, interest piqued in the slightest by the cane. Is this another difference from his master? Curious... ]

Thank you. I assure you I will treat them with nothing but the greatest care. I understand the sort of treasure books can be.

[ Kristoph pauses at this question. Yes, and no, he wants to say. He knows this man is dangerous, even in life, and as much as he respects him, he knows what he can do. He thinks about Klavier, too. That's something he can keep away, for now. This is a bad time and place to test waters like this, what he can do with this man, despite what he's been ordered. ]

Alone, unfortunately.

[ No pangs. No pain. It's startling, but somehow, he manages to keep it off his face. He can lie. ]
Manfred Von Karma: Side Smilederbildhauer on May 6th, 2008 09:00 pm (UTC)
*The hesitation before the boy answers is, he knows, as full of information as the words, if only he can decipher it. It reminds him of the times Miles Edgeworth attempted to conceal things from him - that unintended pause that belied the schooled neutrality - that pathetic belief that he could lie and remain undiscovered.

He allows himself a small smile, and as with Miles, he chooses to let it pass, this time, until he can establish better what is being withheld.*


A lonely existence indeed.

*Another pause, precisely measured in beats of his heart, then he puts down his glass, lets his hand rest on the desk.*

Tell me, Mr Gavin - what made you choose this state of being?

Kristoph Gavin: [ black&white // it's bright outside ]jedetotesprach on May 10th, 2008 01:26 am (UTC)
[ He's still thinking about his lie, and even if it may be caught or not. What does that smile mean? Does his not-master know? What will he do about it? Seek Klavier out? No.... this man has better things to do. He would serve him without holding his brother's dead head randsom. But he can lie. He can lie to the face of a man who he hasn't been able to lie to for over a hundred years. Even just that is enough to surprise him, though that expression remains bottled up. Klavier never had a master - he wouldn't understand what this means. But still...

He pauses to consider this question. It's something he's thought a lot about, in between books. Klavier doesn't spend much time at his side; he's always out doing something ridiculous. ]

Not much more lonely than I was in life. I've never been one for company; generally, I find most people barely tolerable to be around at best, and simply can't stand them at worse. It seems that these days are hardly much different from my life. People are still ignorant, and I hate ignorance. My true passions have always been books and exploration, and granted the opportunity, I saw no reason to pass up the opportunity to continue doing what I loved and losing something I felt hardly mattered.

[ He smiles, a bit fondly. Nostalgia, really. Those few first weeks weren't so simple, but... here he is. ]
phoslividus on May 8th, 2008 11:41 am (UTC)
[he was just looking to get away from everyone. People rarely agreed with him, and he hated his older-self for what he had done.

He was gently petting Ophelia when he entered, speaking softly to her in German and complimenting her on her clean work. She was, after all. his closest friend.

The door was opened, and he looked around. This was...different...and when he spotted the man, he nearly recoiled out of the door. It was about that time he remembered what his older-self had said about things like that.

He pulled the headphones off of his ears and managed a smile, gently worrying at the attorney's badge he was wearing on his collar. When he noticed the nervous tic, he stopped, and instead set to putting Ophelia back in his bag, whispering to her and smiling.

That done, he turned back to the man, smiling softly again]


Oh...hello there.
Manfred Von Karma: Sidelong Lookderbildhauer on May 8th, 2008 05:06 pm (UTC)
*He's surprised to see a child walk in - and especially one that he does not recognise. This is neither a version of Franziska, nor of the Boy. He wonders what the child must have been seeking in order for him to discover that door.*

Good afternoon... child.

*He pushes away his teacup and saucer, folds his hands on the table before him in plain view, and watches impassively as the boy responds to his presence.

The spider interests him - he knows of the species and of the genus - that they are a hunting animal of great skill and unstable temperament. It seems an odd choice for a boy this age and that, in itself, is worth noting.

His eyes fix on the defense attorney's badge and there is the slightest twitch of a smirk at the boy's apparent need to hide behind it.*


Are you looking for something in particular?

Edited at 2008-05-08 05:06 pm (UTC)
phoslividus on May 8th, 2008 09:44 pm (UTC)
I am not a child. My name is Kristoph Gavin.

[he smiles at that, saying it as if he were softly admonishing one of the teachers at his school. The man may have been older than he, but so far he saw no reason that he should be treated with any more respect than any other human being, who were, in general, simple creatures that were to be loathed.

The question, though, made him pause and think about what his mind had actually been on when he found the door. He was looking for one of his older-selves, and then after his talk with the Edgeworth boy...perhaps his mind had simply wandered. He wondered how much this man was like his older-selves that he would wind up here and not in the parlor that he was so used to visiting. Probably not much at all, and it was just a trick of the dressing room. After all, his older-selves were perfect.

...well, all save for one. The thought of him made his insides freeze with anger. Well, at least Ophelia had made the point clear of how he felt about that one.

The smile didn't leave his face.]


...it's not important, now. Who are you?
Manfred Von Karma: Laughingderbildhauer on May 8th, 2008 10:39 pm (UTC)
Hn? Not a child, is it? Good, boy - an answer worthy of my own daughter.

*He chuckles at that, approvingly, steepling his fingers and observing the boy quite openly for a while, noting the slight look of anger that crosses the boy's face when he's considering his answer. Mentally, he compares this one to the Gavin he has already met - assessing manner, posture, and bearing. It's an interesting contrast - in many ways.

He rises to his feet, slowly, crosses the study in measured paces, steady enough not to startle his visitor, swift enough to make it plain that this is his domain.

He halts in front of the boy, looks down at him for a moment, still half-amused, then clicks his heels, inclines his head in a formal fashion, then holds out his right hand, gravely.*


My name is Manfred Von Karma. I am a prosecutor. Do I take it that you are a prodigy, or does that badge belong to someone else?

Edited at 2008-05-08 10:40 pm (UTC)
phoslividus on May 8th, 2008 10:59 pm (UTC)
[there's a look of recognition that crosses his face. Aha! He knew that name, and the compliment doesn't go unnoticed.

His first instinct is to take a step back, but instead he looks the man in the eyes and smiles, shaking his hand after a moment of hesitation.]


Both are true, I'm afraid. The badge is my father's. I'm certain that if we were still in Germany, I'd have one of my own, but America isn't as...progressive.
Manfred Von Karma: Side Smilederbildhauer on May 9th, 2008 12:37 am (UTC)
Your father's, hn?

*He considers that, processing the name, putting the pieces together as he notes both the hesitation and the boy's confident handshake. He looks at the badge again, and smiles.*

Kristian Gavin, the defence attorney - late of Rothenburg.

It isn't a question - he knows the man well enough by reputation, although he has never encountered him in court either in Germany or Los Angeles.*

A formidable opponent, by all accounts.

*He smiles at the boy's conceit, wonders how much of it is justified - in his daughter he would approve it, but he knows that Franziska has no need for false modesty - her perfection is absolute.*

America is a most foolish country. I am surprised that your father entrusts you to its education system.
phoslividus on May 9th, 2008 01:58 am (UTC)
Yes, late, in your world, I suppose? He hasn't died yet, in mine.

[the smile doesn't really leave his face as he acknowledges the fact] Formidable, yes. He's very meticulous with his cases. I get to read over them as he's working on them.

It is, and everyone is so superficial and rude...and wasteful. [he sighs] Oh, not the public school system. I go to a preparatory school.

[he smiles again. The people there were awful, but they were all beneath him, not the least in marks. They were just jealous of him, after all]

Edited at 2008-05-09 01:58 am (UTC)
Manfred Von Karma: Spectaclesderbildhauer on May 9th, 2008 11:25 am (UTC)
*He tilts his head slightly at the dispassionate way in which the boy discusses his father's death. So different to Miles, with his silences, his lowered head, his unwillingness to mention his father's name, the blubbering that he heard at night, sometimes. This... this is far more interesting, if not any less unfortunate.*

I used "late" in the precise sense that he previously had a practice in Rothenburg, Mr Gavin.

...However yes, you are correct that he is no longer among the living in my world. My condolences. *He inclines his head again* His death was a considerable loss to the legal system.

*His voice lacks any inflection. Gavin was famed enough, but defence attorneys that he has never duelled with mean little to him. They are merely vague figures in the shadows until the day they face him in court and incur the honour of being bested by a Von Karma.*

You are a very perceptive boy...

*He folds his arms, tapping his forefinger lightly on his upper arm, regarding the boy down his nose with a slight smile still quirking his lips*

Would you care for some tea?

Edited at 2008-05-09 11:26 am (UTC)
phoslividus on May 9th, 2008 05:09 pm (UTC)
Hmm. I suppose it would have been, but everyone dies. There's no use worrying about it here.

[he nods, smiling a bit at the compliment

Well, he couldn't find that version of his older-self to have tea with, so this man would do for now.]


Tea would be wonderful. Earl Grey?
Manfred Von Karma: Smugderbildhauer on May 9th, 2008 08:08 pm (UTC)
Is that so, Mr Gavin? You seem remarkably calm at the prospect, for a boy your age.

*He taps his finger a little more, regarding the boy as one might regard an art exhibit of particular novelty. Then, in a fluid movement, he turns to one side, extending an arm in a sweeping gesture and making a slight bow towards the desk.*

Then sit, boy - I had just made a fresh pot when you arrived.

*And he chuckles a little as he extracts an additional cup and saucer from the cupboard to his right*

Edited at 2008-05-09 08:10 pm (UTC)
phoslividus on May 10th, 2008 01:57 am (UTC)
I'm more mature than you think, Mr. Von Karma. Most people don't understand that about me.

[still, incensed at being addressed as "boy", his face twitches ever so slightly as he sits at the desk, folding his hands in his lap and smiling as pleasantly as he can manage. It wasn't something he did too often home, but his older-self was always drinking tea.

He usually helped and poured out the cups, but that was because his older-selves deserved that. He simply sat quietly and rested his bag at his feet on the floor, careful not to jar Ophelia.]
Manfred Von Karma: Side Smirkderbildhauer on May 10th, 2008 10:27 pm (UTC)
*He places the bone china saucer on the desk, and the cup onto it, noiselessly.*

My daughter has complained of the same thing many times.

*He pours the tea, very precisely, with not a drop spilled, then slides one cup towards Kristoph, before returning to his chair at the other side of the desk. He picks up his own cup, sits back slightly in his chair, watching the boy, still making comparisons to Miles in his head.*

... But respect has to be earned, not demanded. Don't you agree, Mr Gavin?

*He takes a sip of his tea as he waits for a response*


Edited at 2008-05-10 10:28 pm (UTC)
phoslividus on May 11th, 2008 12:12 am (UTC)
Your daughter? You have children of your own, Mr. Von Karma?

[He thought about that for a moment, studying his reflection in the tea cup. Yes, it was true. Then again, he never had to. He was, after all, Kristoph Gavin, and should have been respected simply for that.]

...for most, yes. Then again, some people simply deserve respect for who they are, not what they have done to earn it.
Manfred Von Karma: Side Smilederbildhauer on May 11th, 2008 09:18 pm (UTC)
Indeed I do. My younger daughter is a prosecutor in Berlin. She began her career at thirteen and remains undefeated in court.

*Thinking about Franziska always brings a swell of pride to his heart and he barely even notices the small smile that appears on his lips in response. Franziska - his perfect daughter, with her perfect record of convictions. He doubts that he will ever see her again, now - but it hardly matters. In his heart he knows that she will restore the family honour and carry the name with pride. He returns his gaze to the boy, and there's a slight smirk and a quirk of the eyebrow at his words.*

So you feel that for some, respect is a birthright? That seems a very... interesting... point of view.

Edited at 2008-05-11 09:18 pm (UTC)
phoslividus on May 11th, 2008 09:29 pm (UTC)
T--thirteen? [he thinks about it for a moment, actually feeling a bit disappointed. He was thirteen, and the girl was already a prosecutor?

It took the wind out of his sails a bit, and he sighed softly, absently tucking a bit of his hair behind one ear. Were it not for that, he would have had a better answer to the question. His tone was mostly neutral, and his voice was a bit quiet as he said it]


Well, you would respect a king more than you would a common peasant, right? Some people are born better than others...that's just the way it is.

[he made a small face, still feeling a bit crushed. He was a failure, and he knew that for sure. Some girl had already beaten him? It was...impossible, but it was. There was no way he'd become an attorney for at least the next five years, and the fact settled on him with a heaviness that turned his insides to lead]

Edited at 2008-05-11 09:32 pm (UTC)
Manfred Von Karma: Watching Youderbildhauer on May 11th, 2008 11:43 pm (UTC)
Indeed. She is a prodigy, and under my tutelage she has realised perfection.

*It pleases him, slightly, to see the boy's reaction - the obvious acceptance of superiority. It always pleases him to see the name of Von Karma elicit that response - for many years it had not been so, and it had taken him decades to re-establish the natural order of things*

But a king may be born a fool, and a peasant may become a genius. Would you still respect a man who was a fool, merely due to the accident of his birth?

*He leans forward a little as he speaks, places his teacup back in the saucer and then steeples his fingers, resting his hands lightly on the desk. The words have their own meaning to him - an elder brother who took his birthright and gambled it away, drinking himself to death and bringing the name of Von Karma into disrepute. And now his own failure... but he pushes that aside and concentrates on the boy, watching him like a hawk.*

It merely requires sufficient application and a good teacher, and anyone can achieve greatness, of a sort.
phoslividus on May 12th, 2008 01:12 am (UTC)
Perfection?

[and he chuckled softly, the smile back on his face. This girl...she was not Kristoph Gavin. She was flawed, in some way, and this old man was just deluded.

Oh well.]


No, but until he proved himself a fool, he deserves the benefit of respect for still being born as he was. Whereas, for the peasants, it's quite the opposite.

I'm afraid I'll have to disagree with you on that. Some people are just too simple for it to take.

...and besides, what is greatness if anyone in the mouth-breathing public can have it? There are some that don't want it, anyway. They are just to foolish to ever think of bettering themselves. What of them?

You see, you can teach people, but it won't take. Your daughter, for example...if she didn't have half of her mind and was born as simple as a common person, I doubt that she would be as successful as she is, even with you guiding her.

You see...some people are simply born beneath others. The idea that anyone can achieve greatness, that we all have that same capacity...is flawed. "All men are created equal", but they are not. Some are born geniuses, and other simpletons. It doesn't matter how carefully guided, the simple folks will never best someone simply born better than they.
Manfred Von Karma: Smugderbildhauer on May 12th, 2008 04:27 pm (UTC)
*He arches an eyebrow at the chuckle, wondering if this boy dared to doubt hie daughter's ability. Not that he cared a great deal if he did - the son of a mere defence attorney, however gifted, would never be a match for Franziska in court. He knew that already.

He taps his steepled forefingers against his chin for a few moments while the boy speaks, intrigued by the extremity this Gavin's views. Idly, he wonders if the boy is under the control of another, or if he genuinely believes his words. And if the former, how easy he would be to control - if the latter, whether he suffers some kind of disorder. It presents him with an interesting knot to unravel.

Finally. he takes up his cup again, looking away from the boy slightly, contemplating the bookshelves to his right. His voice is quiet, calm, reasonable.*


Hn. But how would one know that he were a King, if upon first meeting he proved to be an imbecile in rags? And if the peasant wears a cloth of gold and reads Kant, how are you to know the origins of his birth? Would you not mistake one for the other?

I will grant you that some are born with a greater mental capacity than others, which makes them more likely to achieve their potential more swiftly. But status plays no part in it. My butler is more intelligent than my neighbour, who likely believes that the world is flat, despite being a count.

*And a fleeting look of disgust crosses his face at that*
phoslividus on May 13th, 2008 11:02 am (UTC)
In that case, the king is lowering himself to the common man, and the peasant is making an effort to be more than that. The king deserves no respect, for he has cast aside his throne like a simpleton.

[and he chuckles a bit at the last bit]

Your butler is a fool, even still. If he were truly so intelligent he would fully understand his situation, and know that he had lowered himself into servitude. He deserves no respect...maybe even perhaps contempt for putting himself in that situation when being so intelligent, as you suggest, he could do better for himself.

The count, at the very least, knows well enough to keep his birthright and doesn't lower himself from that.

[and he nods softly, taking a sip of his tea]
Manfred Von Karma: Side Smirkderbildhauer on May 16th, 2008 09:31 am (UTC)
I am glad to hear that you agree with me, then, despite your erroneous assessment of my butler's character.

*He chuckles a little at that, sipping he tea and watching the boy. A promising student, he suspects - but one that needs to learn humility before he can know greatness, and one who would benefit from a closer study of mankind.*

My butler knows that, sometimes, becoming a trusted confidante to the rich or merely to those one wishes to control can be a path to great power. Fortunately, I know that also.

*He looks down at his tea as he sips it, a smirk still playing on his lips.*

Unfortunately my neighbour is too foolish to know that, and the power in his household is wielded elsewhere, regardless of whose name in on the deeds.

Edited at 2008-05-16 09:32 am (UTC)