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Cezanne Beauvais

Melancholic

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Mar 10 2018, 09:30 PM
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Date: Saturday, June 24, 2017
<p>Song
<p>Outfit
</div></div></div></div><div style="position: relative; width: 500px; height: 350px; background-color: #1f1f1f; border-top: 7px solid #FFF;"><div style="position: relative; width: 500px; height: 320px; margin-top: 5px; background-position: top; background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/UO843sf.jpg); border-top: 2px solid #FFF; border-bottom: 4px solid #FFF;"></div><div class="rosetext2">

Blue, purple, and pink, with splashes of orange lined the skies, slowly, but steadily, darkening over the tops of the foliage outside. It would have been a picturesque view provided by one of the rooms purchased at the Bedford Hotel, if the actual reasoning behind their visit hadn’t been so precarious. The certainty of the situation before them had been replaced by doubt and trepidation. In truth, Cezanne wasn’t certain what to expect once they reached Wonderland Hotel, owned and run by Jessica Fontaine. Even more, he had yet to mention that fact that there might be an organization, a cult, in fact, being housed there for this particular event, to Nathan. The journalist claimed ignorance, feigning to be just as in the dark as the detective he brought with him. But then, why mention something that might not even be true? What if they arrived at their destination to just find a couple old perverts exploiting innocent women.

<p>The blackening sky shared a truth with him, one he didn’t want to believe quite yet. So, Cezanne looked away, eyes shifting to the clock on the nightstand by the bed. The clock stared back at him. It’s numbers showing him the exact same truth he knew. It was almost time. This had been his idea, and although Cezanne wouldn’t admit, he felt as though he were on a ship in the middle of a storm, doomed to wait it out and see what happened. No way of knowing what to expect, no way to plan things out. In short, no real control over the situation. It was a feeling he wasn’t comfortable with. The anticipation bringing on unwanted anxiety. He looked down at the black robe folded neatly in his arms and the mock invitation laying on top or the garment.

<p>The journalist thought about what was at stake. Too late to turn back now. Things had already been set into motion.

<p>His phone went off in his pocket. Their transportation had arrived. Somerville Key was a decent stretch of land, lined with multiple resorts throughout it. Wonderland Hotel was known to be rather exclusive with it’s guests. During certain seasons, the hotel would open to all, then close down to listed members only during certain months. Looking at that information now, it made sense. But they wouldn’t be going straight there, from one hotel to the next. The invitation said to go to the docks at Wilk’s Lake. Wilk’s Lake being located in the middle of nowhere, though roughly about halfway from Bedford hotel, on the edge of the island, to Wonderland Hotel. Perhaps it was to ensure those with invitation were the only ones arriving at the hotel.

<p> “All right, time to go,” Cezanne said, turning to Nathan. He moved over to the man, handing the detective the items, the only items, he hoped they would need. ”Here you are. Your mask, your invitation,” he paused briefly, handing Nathan the robe last. “And your robe. Size extra-small,” he laughed, trying to ease the tension. It sort of worked, if only for himself. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, before remarking, “I guess we’ll see what happens.” Then added a small shrug.

<hr>

<p> “We’re almost there,” the driver stated, as instructed by the pair behind him. “Thanks,” Cezanne said, looking out the window at the dense overgrowth. It was better to go the rest of the way on foot. He wanted a chance to scope out the situation instead of just driving up to it blind.

<p> “Uh, are you sure? I mean, I can drive you right up there. It’s not a problem.” The car slowly pulled to a stop. Cezanne and Nathan got out of the car. Cezanne reassured the man once again, “No. We’re sure. We like to walk.” The driver gave the pair a scrutinizing, disbelieving look, before taking off the way he had come. The dim glow of the taillights disappearing in the night. The two began to walk towards the docks, the sounds of their footsteps on the dirt the only noise between them.

<p>There was a pathway leading to their destination, but Cezanne decided to take Nathan and himself the indirect route, through the thicket. “I’d rather not get chased down by a bunch of masked cultists and sacrificed to the woodland gods,” he added as an explanation. There it was, the truth that there might be a cult involved. He said it, and now they were both seeing it, as they got closer to the docks. It was definitely not just a few old perverts. There seemed to be quite a few masked figures waiting, their cloaks traipsing along the wooden boards of the landing.

<p>It was nothing too alarming, no strange chants or blood lettings. The journalist and the detective put their cloaks and masks on, then made their way to join the others. As they got closer, Cezanne noted how most everyone was standing in silence, though there were a few people whispering among themselves. The whispering ceased, all the white faces turned to the new arrivals, black emotionless slits staring, unblinking. There was a brief pause, then they tilted their heads to regard them. There was something else the journalist noted, something made painfully apparent now. Their masks, none of them had the gold etchings like the ones he had fashioned for themselves, like the one Bernard had in his closet. The silence was deafening. And just like that, the tension cleared, the few speaking before continued mutering their conversation to each other.

<p>This was the correct dock. This was the correct time. Why had Bernard’s mask been different. No one seemed to care any longer. Cezanne could only hope his major oversight wouldn’t become an issue.

</div></div><div style="position: relative; width: 100px; height: 100px; top: -65px; margin-left: 190px; background-size: 100px; background-position: center;

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Jan 10 2018, 08:17 PM
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Saturday June 3rd, 2017 4:00pm
<p>Outfit
<p>Cez's painting
<p>Song
</div></div></div></div><div style="position: relative; width: 500px; height: 350px; background-color: #1f1f1f; border-top: 7px solid #FFF;"><div style="position: relative; width: 500px; height: 320px; margin-top: 5px; background-position: top; background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/UO843sf.jpg); border-top: 2px solid #FFF; border-bottom: 4px solid #FFF;"></div><div class="rosetext2">

<p>Cezanne had picked Sam up a little after three o’clock, carefully packing her painting in the back of his car with his. Three o’clock was when everyone would start showing up, no doubt taking their time mingling, so if they arrived a little later on, it wouldn’t be a problem. There were usually some types of appetizers, hors d'oeuvres, and snacks, so naturally everyone spent about five minutes setting up and the rest of the time conversing. Sander was a flashy sort of man with a flare for the dramatic. As such, he always made certain that he provided amply for all the artists. It was a great pleasure of Sander to host such events, and nothing made events more pleasant then when everyone was in an agreeable mood.

<p>Cezanne hadn’t made too much conversation during the ride to the gallery, aside from asking Sam if she was excited and nervous. Despite putting her painting in his vehicle, Cez hadn’t actually looked at it. He preferred to see the young lady’s work once they had arrived at their destination and were setting up. There’d be more anticipation that way.

<p>Once they had reached the venue, Cez put the car into park and turned to Sam. He smiled at her, as he had just remembered something he’d forgotten to mention before. Too many things on his mind, it must have slipped his thought. He surmised now was as good a time as any.

<p> “I should tell you…” he began, “I use a pseudonym when it comes to my art. Dominique Alarie. I like to keep my personal life private.” he gave a short laugh, before adding, “So, if you could just use Dominique or Dom, that would be great.”
<p>Not everyone used an alias, but Cezanne did. He hated how everyone got into each other’s business. It was a nasty habit the community had, he knew that well. He could easily point a finger at himself for partaking in all the calumny everyone so very much enjoyed. He did, however, not want people talking about him. Double standards, he knew, but all the same, he felt better with fewer people knowing his actual name.

<p>He alighted from the vehicle, waiting for Sam to join him before locking it up with a click of his key. It was better for them to head inside, see what was happening and taking place, figuring out where they were going to be placed in the exhibit, then getting their pieces. Sam might not have been familiar with how best to go about this, so Dom figured he’d fill her in.
“Let’s just go in and see what’s happening and then we’ll come back, okay?” he suggested, placing a hand on the small of her back and leading her inside the building.

<p>They certainly weren’t the first people to arrive, but he could already tell they were far from the last. There were quite a few people scattered throughout the gallery, mostly it seemed as though people were figuring out where their work was to be placed. Sander was extremely particular when it came to arranging the pictures just the way he wanted, or more, the talent at times. Certain people had their own style, and Sander had been doing this for quite a while, long enough to know certain artists and what they would be bringing to the table.

<p>The building itself, Imago Art Gallery, was similar in structure to almost any other gallery. White walls with an art Deco styled trim and theme. The floors were a light wood so as not to distract from the pieces on display. Scattered throughout were a few royal blue satin covered benches. Aside from the benches, there were also a few end tables dispersed around, nothing more on them than a vase with fresh flowers. Pretty and pleasant would be a suitable way to describe the decor.

<p> “Hello, Dom,” Lauren greeted, shortly after the pair had entered. Lauren was another artist who was known for attending Sander’s events. She was a big advocate for her work which is the best thing you can do for yourself, as far as getting noticed went. Her style consisted of Impressionism. Admittedly, she had an extremely proficient use of colors and landscapes, making her quite accomplished in Sander’s eyes.

<p> “Hello, Lauren,” Dom addressed in return, offering her a friendly smile. “I guess Sander is running around?”

<p>The woman nodded her head in affirmation. “Yes, he is,” she said, her eyes stopping on Sam.

<p> “Oh, this is Sam.” Dom began, looking from one girl to the other. “Sam, this is Lauren.”

<p> “Nice to meet you, Sam,” Lauren said, giving the other woman’s hand a gentle shake. “I’ve never seen you at one of Sander’s galleries before. Can’t wait to see your work--well, everyone’s work when it’s all ready.” He looked back over her shoulder and Dom knew why. They could both hear Sander’s voice coming from somewhere further back in the gallery, but with the jutting walls, it was impossible to see exactly where the man was. “Sorry,” she said apologetically to the pair. “Just gotta ask him something. Excuse me.” And with that, the pair were left to their own devices once again.

<p>Dominique gave a small shrug to Sam. “Sander is somewhere around here, but he usually places labels where he’d like everyone’s work to go. It’s kind of like a scavenger hunt or something. I guess we can look around, see where we're supposed to go,” he offered, moving further into the building.

</div></div><div style="position: relative; width: 100px; height: 100px; top: -65px; margin-left: 190px; background-size: 120px; background-position: center;

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Nov 11 2017, 06:20 PM
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Cezanne Beauvais
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<h1>Basics</h1>

<h2>Name</h2> <h3>Cezanne Beauvais</h3>
<h2>Age</h2> <h3>Thirty-Seven</h3>
<h2>Member Group</h2> <h3>Melancholic</h3>
<h2>Birthday</h2> <h3>26 / December</h3><p>
<h2>Birthplace</h2> <h3>Provence, France</h3><p>
<h2>Secret</h2> <h3>Here</h3>

<h1>Career</h1>

<h2>Occupation</h2> <h3>Journalist/Artist</h3>
<h2>Workplace</h2> <h3>Spectateur</h3>
<h2>Education</h2> <h3>Universite Paris-Sorbonne (Language); Universite Paris-Sorbonne (Art)</h3>

<h1>Relationships</h1>

<h2>Sexual Orientation</h2> <h3>Bisexual</h3>
<h2>Relationship Status</h2> <h3>single</h3>
<h2>Current Partner</h2> <h3>his hand</h3>

<h1>Player</h1>
<h2>Alias</h2> <h3>Lashes</h3>
<h2>Timezone</h2> <h3>Pacific Standard</h3>
<h2>Contact</h2> <h3>PM</h3>
<h2>Pref. Pronouns</h2> <h3>her/hers</h3>

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<p>“You want me to take a photo, pose for a photo, <i>talk</i> about the painting now? ...I’m not--”

<p>“Yes,” the woman said, nodding her head up and down.

<p>Cezanne shifted uncomfortably. He stayed silent a moment, staring at the foreign woman before him, her dark hair a stark contrast against her white skin. She would have been more pleasant to look at, had he not been so aggravated by her broken english. English wasn’t his first language either, but at least he knew how to string more than a couple sentences together when he made the move to America.

<p>“I don’t know what you’re asking me,” he replied simply. By this time he’d had enough of this whole guessing game. It had only been a few minutes and he was already ready to leave the event entirely, and it was only his second interview.

<p>“This. This,” the woman insisted, giving her camera a gentle shake.

<p>Cezanne blinked irritably. His phone had gone off in his pocket and now he couldn’t check the message for fear it would be considered rude. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

<p>The woman repeated the motion. “Picture.”

<p>“Yeah, you keep saying that, but I don’t know what that means.”

<p>The woman looked frustrated. She thought briefly, formulating her sentence as best she could, before speaking again. “You get that,” she began, pointing at the painting behind him, “from this--from a picture?” She rattled the camera in her hands.

<p>“Did I get <i>that</i> from this?” He repeated, now wishing he hadn’t bothered to be so polite and had just checked his phone. “Aidez moi,” he muttered quietly to himself. At least he knew what she meant this time. “No.” He would have kept his answer short, just at that, but for the sake of not wanting the woman to ask anymore questions, or attempt to, he continued, “I didn’t use a photograph, I used a model. And don’t ask me the meaning of the piece, I prefer for people to find the meaning on their own.”

<p>He couldn’t be certain if the columnist was even following along, if she even knew what he was saying, but she was writing something down. After a few moments she looked up at him, saying what seemed to be her favorite word, “Picture?” The columnist pointed at Cezanne, then to the painting.

<p>It was as if she knew, the gallery owner, she stepped in, all smiles. “Dom, I think she wants a photograph of you next to the painting.

<p>A bright flash of light, the picture was taken, Cezanne couldn’t have been more relieved to have this encounter over and done with. The columnist was happy once again, beaming. She had gotten what she needed and seemed ready to move on, though not before thanking him.

<p>“Thank you, thank you,” she repeated a few times. Cezanne shook her hand, offering a polite smile back to her. “Of course, it’s my pleasure.”

<p>After the woman stepped away, the gallery owner approached Cezanne once again.

<p>“It’s going really well. I just wanted to thank you again for being able to make it on such short notice.”

<p>Cezanne smiled at her, then pulled his phone out, reading the message that had been left unread for longer than he cared. “Well, I’m all for supporting art, and I know how it can be. Besides…” He turned his attention away from his phone and back onto the woman. “I know my paintings keep your gallery--how do you put it? <i>Afloat</i>.” His gaze shifted back onto his phone, and with his message sent, he walked away.

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What? Who?? When???

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<div class="merc_cred"><a href="http://cttw.jcink.net/index.php?showuser=160">merc</a></div>

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