01-02-2024, 06:31 PM
As the sleek state car glided through the city, Nikolai sat with a posture that bespoke both his comfort in power and practiced indifference. Across from him, Myshelov, his Patron of Dominance I, poured over the details of the evening with a meticulousness that Nikolai found both necessary and mildly amusing.
"You'll enter precisely at nine," Myshelov said, his voice a calm, modulated timbre. "The media are expecting your arrival, Ascendancy."
Nikolai nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. The routine was not unfamiliar, yet he couldn't deny the thrill that came with the anticipation of the attention he would command. "Of course."
Myshelov glanced up, his eyes sharp. "The Vasilievs have chosen a masked ball for their anniversary. A clever touch, don't you think? Particularly apropos, considering Mr. James will be there." A flicker of intrigue crossed Myshelov's face.
“Confirmed?”
“Of course, Ascendancy. As you commanded, he will be there. He will even be in white.” He mused proudly. The metaphor wasn't lost on Nik, of course.
Nikolai's gaze drifted to the window, the lights of Moscow painting shadows on his face. He thought of Noemi, wondering how she would be swathed in the anonymity of a mask.
The car slowed, signaling their imminent arrival. Nikolai reached for his mask, a simple yet elegant piece that complemented his tuxedo's understated sophistication. As he adjusted it, he couldn't help but observe Myshelov's more flamboyant choice.
"Your look makes quite the statement, Myshelov. The vibrancy suits you."
Myshelov gave a proud smile. "Thank you, Ascendancy, tis otherwise but a normal Saturday night in the Tarasovich estate." His joke was met with a knowing look on Nikolai’s part. He well recalled Myshelov’s parties.
The car came to a halt. Nikolai secured the literal mask on his face and emerged first whereupon straightening his shoulders, the metaphorical mask of composure settled upon him. A practiced, enigmatic smile graced his greeting while pausing to allow questions to pepper him.
Myshelov joined him, his flashy tuxedo was an exuberant contrast to Nikolai's clean, black lines. The Patron thrived under the scrutinizing attention of the media, a knowing glint in his eye, all the while perfectly redirecting attention and praise back toward his superior, the man to whom they all owed their prosperity.
"You'll enter precisely at nine," Myshelov said, his voice a calm, modulated timbre. "The media are expecting your arrival, Ascendancy."
Nikolai nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. The routine was not unfamiliar, yet he couldn't deny the thrill that came with the anticipation of the attention he would command. "Of course."
Myshelov glanced up, his eyes sharp. "The Vasilievs have chosen a masked ball for their anniversary. A clever touch, don't you think? Particularly apropos, considering Mr. James will be there." A flicker of intrigue crossed Myshelov's face.
“Confirmed?”
“Of course, Ascendancy. As you commanded, he will be there. He will even be in white.” He mused proudly. The metaphor wasn't lost on Nik, of course.
Nikolai's gaze drifted to the window, the lights of Moscow painting shadows on his face. He thought of Noemi, wondering how she would be swathed in the anonymity of a mask.
The car slowed, signaling their imminent arrival. Nikolai reached for his mask, a simple yet elegant piece that complemented his tuxedo's understated sophistication. As he adjusted it, he couldn't help but observe Myshelov's more flamboyant choice.
"Your look makes quite the statement, Myshelov. The vibrancy suits you."
Myshelov gave a proud smile. "Thank you, Ascendancy, tis otherwise but a normal Saturday night in the Tarasovich estate." His joke was met with a knowing look on Nikolai’s part. He well recalled Myshelov’s parties.
The car came to a halt. Nikolai secured the literal mask on his face and emerged first whereupon straightening his shoulders, the metaphorical mask of composure settled upon him. A practiced, enigmatic smile graced his greeting while pausing to allow questions to pepper him.
Myshelov joined him, his flashy tuxedo was an exuberant contrast to Nikolai's clean, black lines. The Patron thrived under the scrutinizing attention of the media, a knowing glint in his eye, all the while perfectly redirecting attention and praise back toward his superior, the man to whom they all owed their prosperity.