The winds of change were certainly blowing as a pale, barely twenty-year-old looking male with platinum blonde hair locked the doors to bar just as the sun was coming up. He turned to catch the first hints of the rays glinting off of the waters of the Mighty Mississippi. He reached into the inside breast pocket of his black leather jacket, pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses, and slipped them on to cover his piercing blue eyes. He looked up at the bar so blissfully called The Dungeon and grinned at himself. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and strolled through the dirty streets of early morning. The city smelled of piss and garbage as the trash was piled up in and around overflowing trashcans, waiting for the daily pick up from the city garbage men. This was his Mecca. His favorite place in the entire world. And, to ensure he was a part of the world he loved so much, he had established himself as an astoundingly successful bartender in the French Quarter of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Louisiana. Gandrell had never wanted to live anywhere but New Orleans. He had become known as the Vampire Bartender of Bourbon Street and worked every night of the week all over the French Quarter, raking in the cash. It was something to do. A way to distract himself from the passing decades as he submerged himself in the non-stop tourism of one of the biggest party cities in the world.
He only lived a few blocks from the club. The French Quarter wasn't very large, only thirteen blocks in length and nine blocks deep. It was the perfect little rectangle of debauchery, lust, sin, and fantasy. As he walked, a group of extremely drunk tourists passed him and must have recognized him from the bar. They called to him and waved him to join them. He turned his head and sported a crooked smile at them before shaking his head playfully and walking on. That would have been a fun encounter, but Gandrell has strict rules for himself. He only allowed himself innocent blood on Friday nights. Every other night of the week, when he decided to feed, he only went after the evil doer. And, if he was being honest with himself, he just wasn't in the mood to hunt, or seduce, or do any of the normal things that usually brought him pleasure. A chilly breeze whipped off the Mississippi River and hit him in the back, his neck feeling the extreme change in temperature. This time of year, New Orleans was being hit with heat wave after heat wave. So, to feel something almost artic was odd. His head tilted up. No sign of rain. It made his mind start to wander. Perhaps it was time to put away the shot glasses and take a break from the constant entertaining?
He arrived at his doorstep of his two-story flat. He fished the keys out of his pants pocket and opened the door. On the outside, the building appeared exactly as it should, blending in with its neighbors and fitting the esthetic of the city. Inside, however, was of his own garish design. Plush, thick blood red carpets. Onyx countertops. A sterling silver and chrome kitchen. Wall sconces with flickering blubs. It looked like a Victorian era house on steroids. He dropped his leather jacket on one of the overstuffed leather couches and headed for his computer. He booted up the top-of-the-line gaming computer and pulled up a map of North America. He knew he wanted to stay stateside, not really in the mood to go abroad again, yet. He closed his eyes and let fate guide his finger. New York. Back to New York, it seems. It had been several years since he had visited his mansion in The Hamptons. He leaned back in his chair and spun himself around slowly as he thoughts about how it was a new decade and… He looked at the clock: 6:30am. It was too early to make calls.
To kill time before he slept the day away, he checked his stock portfolios and sent a few emails to his many brokers about trades and stock purchases he wanted done for him that day. His portfolio was robust. Gandrell was all about the thrill of investing and gambled with millions at a time. His instincts were usually very good. He always made more money than he lost and, some of his brokers, used Gandrell's open trading techniques on their other clients. He toyed with the idea of moving to Manhattan rather than The Hamptons just to play about on the floor of the Stock Exchange. But the idea past swiftly. He transitioned into his many email accounts that were linked to his hundreds of businesses across the globe. He was the silent CEO of more companies than anyone could imagine. Gandrell had a real knack for hiring the right people to run the corporations and, he kept their pockets lined well enough that they did a stellar job at running the corporations for him. Lord Gandrell de Lioncourt was a name on paper. A wealthy philanthropist who wouldn't survive in a suit and being tied down to a desk. But he was always there to make decisions and offer his superior business strategies via text or email. Just as he was finishing up he glanced at the clock, 7:30am. Was it too early for a call? Then he realized the East Coast was an hour ahead of him. He grabbed his cell and dialed a number. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered. Gandrell had found this particular builder about twenty years ago when he had bought the mansion in The Hamptons. The work had been exactly to his specifications, and he was hoping lightning would strike twice with this builder. The job was accepted and Gandrell advised he would draw up some plans on the renovations and send them over so they could discuss price and time frame. Though the sun was climbing rapidly, the vampire gave no indication he was needing the rest. He opened a program that was used by architects and began creating his masterpiece of a home.
He had based the main house off the Playboy Mansion back when that had been the pillar of success. A twenty-two thousand square foot house. The entire lower level was to be designed as entertainment space. Large, open rooms. Stunning tile and exotic woods for the floor. A professional kitchen and a full bar set up next to it. Floor to ceiling windows that led out onto a real stone grotto and then a pool. But not a normal pool. Something that would blow the pools you saw on the show Extreme Pools out of the water. All bedrooms upstairs. His bedroom was the furthest away from the pool and the party areas. He needed it entirely sealed - blackout everything. Then he started working on the designs to expand and update the lavish garage where he would be moving his car and vintage motorcycle collections, which had grown since his last visit. He also made some notes for the updating of the staff housing that had been built a few decades ago. The houses needed to be inspected and modernized for his beloved staff. He would need to send an email to the staff and let them know they can move into the rooms in the mansion while their houses were being updated. The staff housing would be done first, then the mansion itself. The designs were sent off as the sun climbed to its apex. Gandrell yawned and switched off his computer. He stumbled towards his bed, his clothes being dropped along the way until he fell right into his black satin sheets and was asleep.
He didn't need much sleep, only four or so hours. Before 5pm he was out of his bed and sitting naked at his computer. He eyed the email from his builder and had to blink a few times at the time frame. Ten months? Really? Ten months? He shook his head and signed the agreement. He asked that the construction start the moment they had the proper permits. He pushed back in his chair. Ten more months before he could have his escape. He shrugged and went to start his daily routine.
To a vampire, ten months went by fast. The builder had started the renovations about a week after the agreement had been signed. Gandrell was sent pictures, blueprints, videos, cost reports, and updates often from the crew out there.
10 months later…
His final farewell party was coming to a close. He was saying goodbye to his true home, his beloved New Orleans. He was exchanging the hustle and bustle of the party city to something a little more laid back. At least, he hoped it would be more laid back. He had been on the go, go, go, for over forty years now and thought he deserved a rest. He gave hugs all around and even had a few kisses stolen from him before he was taking that walk for the last time. Well, not the last time. He would be back. He wasn't selling his home. He had decided to lease it to a sister company of his called Sinner's Paradise. It was an underground brothel, and the two owners were ecstatic to get the space. Gandrell trusted them to take care of his home and all the furnishings he left behind. He was curious to see how much money they would make off the new location, he would get a cut, of course. But one last sleep in his bed was all he desired.
Evening arrived and within it came his departure. He pushed the blankets off himself and climbed out of his silken, black clad California King bed and shook his naked form a little, getting the blood flowing in his limbs. His bed was his most beloved possession, and he could only hope that the designer he had hired had understood his instructions on the bed. He wandered out of his bedroom and turned on the lights in the bathroom, kicked on the shower, and took a long look at himself, studying his physique.
He looked like he could be sixteen or seventeen with the lack of body hair and no five o'clock shadow ever to darken his face. The bitch who had changed him into the dark God he had become had seen to that, shaving him with a straight razor before working the dark gift on him. And, after two hundred and fifty-five years, he still appeared to be that of a prepubescent boy. Though there were certain attributes of his body that screamed - adult male. The steam from the shower was starting to fog up the mirror, which was his cue to hop in. His skin was so impermeable that the water rolled right off him, but the heat felt amazing, and he was going to absorb as much of it as he could. He didn't need to bathe; it was just something he enjoyed, so it became routine. After a few minutes, he figured he needed to get on the road. It was a long drive from New Orleans to New York. He used a towel to polish himself, if you will.
Gandrell could dress very fancy and flashy, if the occasion called for it and he was in the mood. Today he was not. He found a pair of holey, faded blue jeans, the kind that hug the ass just perfectly, a faded Guns & Roses t-shirt, and his black leather boots. The transporter truck that would move his collection of cars and motorcycles would be by in the next few days and his friends knew how to handle that situation for him; he had left specific instructions. He locked up his house and went into his garage. The garage wasn't shabby, but it was nowhere near as luxurious as his newly designed garage was going to be. He decided to ride cross country on one of the motorcycles, but didn’t want to take a vintage one, so he just picked a Harley Davidson Knucklehead. It was a head turner, and it was a good ride. He knew some states had made it a law to wear a helmet. So, he pulled one on and fastened it under his chin. He kicked the bike to life and walked it out into the short driveway. He closed the garage and said his farewells as he tore through the busy streets.
He made good time on his trip, only stopping for gas when he was practically on empty. He didn't need food or water, or bathroom breaks, or sleep. Only gas and the open road. When he pulled into the town that was to be his new home just before dusk the following night, he was sure he looked a mess. Windblown. Hair matted from the helmet. Clothes a bid out of sorts from the ride. He went slow through the streets, checking out where things were and, mainly because he hadn’t been here in several years. When he finally found the turn off for the road that led to his mansion, he gunned the engine a little and picked up the speed. He could smell the new construction and headed right for it.
There was no doubt, when he parked his bike on the road at the beginning of the driveway, that he looked completely out of place. Anyone looking his way would probably ask 'Who is this kid?' It could have easily been assumed that he was an employee of the person who owned the property. Gandrell might be an auto-mechanic to go with the fancy new garage. He certainly didn't look the part of the billionaire playboy. Keys. Keys. They were supposed to have left the keys somewhere...but where?
He only lived a few blocks from the club. The French Quarter wasn't very large, only thirteen blocks in length and nine blocks deep. It was the perfect little rectangle of debauchery, lust, sin, and fantasy. As he walked, a group of extremely drunk tourists passed him and must have recognized him from the bar. They called to him and waved him to join them. He turned his head and sported a crooked smile at them before shaking his head playfully and walking on. That would have been a fun encounter, but Gandrell has strict rules for himself. He only allowed himself innocent blood on Friday nights. Every other night of the week, when he decided to feed, he only went after the evil doer. And, if he was being honest with himself, he just wasn't in the mood to hunt, or seduce, or do any of the normal things that usually brought him pleasure. A chilly breeze whipped off the Mississippi River and hit him in the back, his neck feeling the extreme change in temperature. This time of year, New Orleans was being hit with heat wave after heat wave. So, to feel something almost artic was odd. His head tilted up. No sign of rain. It made his mind start to wander. Perhaps it was time to put away the shot glasses and take a break from the constant entertaining?
He arrived at his doorstep of his two-story flat. He fished the keys out of his pants pocket and opened the door. On the outside, the building appeared exactly as it should, blending in with its neighbors and fitting the esthetic of the city. Inside, however, was of his own garish design. Plush, thick blood red carpets. Onyx countertops. A sterling silver and chrome kitchen. Wall sconces with flickering blubs. It looked like a Victorian era house on steroids. He dropped his leather jacket on one of the overstuffed leather couches and headed for his computer. He booted up the top-of-the-line gaming computer and pulled up a map of North America. He knew he wanted to stay stateside, not really in the mood to go abroad again, yet. He closed his eyes and let fate guide his finger. New York. Back to New York, it seems. It had been several years since he had visited his mansion in The Hamptons. He leaned back in his chair and spun himself around slowly as he thoughts about how it was a new decade and… He looked at the clock: 6:30am. It was too early to make calls.
To kill time before he slept the day away, he checked his stock portfolios and sent a few emails to his many brokers about trades and stock purchases he wanted done for him that day. His portfolio was robust. Gandrell was all about the thrill of investing and gambled with millions at a time. His instincts were usually very good. He always made more money than he lost and, some of his brokers, used Gandrell's open trading techniques on their other clients. He toyed with the idea of moving to Manhattan rather than The Hamptons just to play about on the floor of the Stock Exchange. But the idea past swiftly. He transitioned into his many email accounts that were linked to his hundreds of businesses across the globe. He was the silent CEO of more companies than anyone could imagine. Gandrell had a real knack for hiring the right people to run the corporations and, he kept their pockets lined well enough that they did a stellar job at running the corporations for him. Lord Gandrell de Lioncourt was a name on paper. A wealthy philanthropist who wouldn't survive in a suit and being tied down to a desk. But he was always there to make decisions and offer his superior business strategies via text or email. Just as he was finishing up he glanced at the clock, 7:30am. Was it too early for a call? Then he realized the East Coast was an hour ahead of him. He grabbed his cell and dialed a number. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered. Gandrell had found this particular builder about twenty years ago when he had bought the mansion in The Hamptons. The work had been exactly to his specifications, and he was hoping lightning would strike twice with this builder. The job was accepted and Gandrell advised he would draw up some plans on the renovations and send them over so they could discuss price and time frame. Though the sun was climbing rapidly, the vampire gave no indication he was needing the rest. He opened a program that was used by architects and began creating his masterpiece of a home.
He had based the main house off the Playboy Mansion back when that had been the pillar of success. A twenty-two thousand square foot house. The entire lower level was to be designed as entertainment space. Large, open rooms. Stunning tile and exotic woods for the floor. A professional kitchen and a full bar set up next to it. Floor to ceiling windows that led out onto a real stone grotto and then a pool. But not a normal pool. Something that would blow the pools you saw on the show Extreme Pools out of the water. All bedrooms upstairs. His bedroom was the furthest away from the pool and the party areas. He needed it entirely sealed - blackout everything. Then he started working on the designs to expand and update the lavish garage where he would be moving his car and vintage motorcycle collections, which had grown since his last visit. He also made some notes for the updating of the staff housing that had been built a few decades ago. The houses needed to be inspected and modernized for his beloved staff. He would need to send an email to the staff and let them know they can move into the rooms in the mansion while their houses were being updated. The staff housing would be done first, then the mansion itself. The designs were sent off as the sun climbed to its apex. Gandrell yawned and switched off his computer. He stumbled towards his bed, his clothes being dropped along the way until he fell right into his black satin sheets and was asleep.
He didn't need much sleep, only four or so hours. Before 5pm he was out of his bed and sitting naked at his computer. He eyed the email from his builder and had to blink a few times at the time frame. Ten months? Really? Ten months? He shook his head and signed the agreement. He asked that the construction start the moment they had the proper permits. He pushed back in his chair. Ten more months before he could have his escape. He shrugged and went to start his daily routine.
To a vampire, ten months went by fast. The builder had started the renovations about a week after the agreement had been signed. Gandrell was sent pictures, blueprints, videos, cost reports, and updates often from the crew out there.
10 months later…
His final farewell party was coming to a close. He was saying goodbye to his true home, his beloved New Orleans. He was exchanging the hustle and bustle of the party city to something a little more laid back. At least, he hoped it would be more laid back. He had been on the go, go, go, for over forty years now and thought he deserved a rest. He gave hugs all around and even had a few kisses stolen from him before he was taking that walk for the last time. Well, not the last time. He would be back. He wasn't selling his home. He had decided to lease it to a sister company of his called Sinner's Paradise. It was an underground brothel, and the two owners were ecstatic to get the space. Gandrell trusted them to take care of his home and all the furnishings he left behind. He was curious to see how much money they would make off the new location, he would get a cut, of course. But one last sleep in his bed was all he desired.
Evening arrived and within it came his departure. He pushed the blankets off himself and climbed out of his silken, black clad California King bed and shook his naked form a little, getting the blood flowing in his limbs. His bed was his most beloved possession, and he could only hope that the designer he had hired had understood his instructions on the bed. He wandered out of his bedroom and turned on the lights in the bathroom, kicked on the shower, and took a long look at himself, studying his physique.
He looked like he could be sixteen or seventeen with the lack of body hair and no five o'clock shadow ever to darken his face. The bitch who had changed him into the dark God he had become had seen to that, shaving him with a straight razor before working the dark gift on him. And, after two hundred and fifty-five years, he still appeared to be that of a prepubescent boy. Though there were certain attributes of his body that screamed - adult male. The steam from the shower was starting to fog up the mirror, which was his cue to hop in. His skin was so impermeable that the water rolled right off him, but the heat felt amazing, and he was going to absorb as much of it as he could. He didn't need to bathe; it was just something he enjoyed, so it became routine. After a few minutes, he figured he needed to get on the road. It was a long drive from New Orleans to New York. He used a towel to polish himself, if you will.
Gandrell could dress very fancy and flashy, if the occasion called for it and he was in the mood. Today he was not. He found a pair of holey, faded blue jeans, the kind that hug the ass just perfectly, a faded Guns & Roses t-shirt, and his black leather boots. The transporter truck that would move his collection of cars and motorcycles would be by in the next few days and his friends knew how to handle that situation for him; he had left specific instructions. He locked up his house and went into his garage. The garage wasn't shabby, but it was nowhere near as luxurious as his newly designed garage was going to be. He decided to ride cross country on one of the motorcycles, but didn’t want to take a vintage one, so he just picked a Harley Davidson Knucklehead. It was a head turner, and it was a good ride. He knew some states had made it a law to wear a helmet. So, he pulled one on and fastened it under his chin. He kicked the bike to life and walked it out into the short driveway. He closed the garage and said his farewells as he tore through the busy streets.
He made good time on his trip, only stopping for gas when he was practically on empty. He didn't need food or water, or bathroom breaks, or sleep. Only gas and the open road. When he pulled into the town that was to be his new home just before dusk the following night, he was sure he looked a mess. Windblown. Hair matted from the helmet. Clothes a bid out of sorts from the ride. He went slow through the streets, checking out where things were and, mainly because he hadn’t been here in several years. When he finally found the turn off for the road that led to his mansion, he gunned the engine a little and picked up the speed. He could smell the new construction and headed right for it.
There was no doubt, when he parked his bike on the road at the beginning of the driveway, that he looked completely out of place. Anyone looking his way would probably ask 'Who is this kid?' It could have easily been assumed that he was an employee of the person who owned the property. Gandrell might be an auto-mechanic to go with the fancy new garage. He certainly didn't look the part of the billionaire playboy. Keys. Keys. They were supposed to have left the keys somewhere...but where?
Moderators: TheCaffeineQueen Gandrell de Lioncourt (played by Eros_Calls) Sadie Reign (played by PAYTON)