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((Splitting these posts up for easier reading))

There certainly was a flurry of sound and images flying about the Opera Populaire, and Firmin sensed that in all them there was a crying despair of confusion, and horror. This phantom certainly wasn't a cheery fellow, threatening people like this. He or they or it was trying to prove a point, or get things moving as the case was, although they may have never ascertained that the receivers of these notes would collaborate, in an effort to understand them. Separately he could see how they could be perceived as threatening but were they altogether so weak minded as not to be able to perceive that they were obviously being duped, obviously being bullied about into fulfilling this phantom's whim. And even so, what ultimatum did he offer besides a very elusive "because I said so". Firmin chortled; the threats were as childish as the very handwriting that made them! Phantom indeed!

"Please!" cried Firmin, grabbing the note before Andre or Carlotta or Raoul could get their fevered mitts on it. They certainly weren't in a temperate enough moods to read, they'd been thinking too much on the subject, perhaps.

Unwittingly moving the spotlight to himself, Firmin ripped back the red wax seal, unfurling the letter and exposing, yet again, another red-scrawled threat.

"Gentleman," he began, "I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature," Firmin paused, then perhaps he did expect them to congregate? M.Richard was of course hoping that M.Moncharmin was deliberating on the matter because he himself did not feel the need, or the want, for such a perplexing (so he perceived) issue as such. And just as Firmin glanced at Andre to assure himself he saw that his associate was red in the face, ah yes, he must be thinking awfully hard. It would be best then, to continue, in case (for anxiety's sake) Andre's head turned purple, "...detailing how my theatre is to be run." Firmin balked at this sentence but remembered his partner and continued quickly. "If you have not followed my instructions, I shall give one last chance.

Christine Daae has returned to you and I am anxious that her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy, and put Miss Daae in the role of countess. The role which Miss Daae plays call for charm and appeal, the role of the page boy is silent which makes my casting in a word...ideal!"

Firmin glanced at Carlotta after this exceptionally harsh paragraph to the diva, and expectedly her face and turned from overly-dramatic horror to painfully true hot-blooded Italian anger, and her little candied demons still transformed their mouths every second to relieve the pressure of emotions from her. He shook his head and continued knowing that no matter how many times he paused, if Carlotta had read the note, they would have never gotten through the note, and there were too many horrible alternatives to the current scene for him to imagine.

"I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five which will be left empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster, beyond your imagination, will occur. I remain, gentleman, your obedient servant. O.G."

And Firmin understood now that if Andre had read the note, they would all be left far more confused by his theories afterwards than by the actual events leading to and contained within the note. The segment of the box, however, had caught his interest, whether by coincidence or not, it had caught his attention. Folding up the note in a matter-of-fact-well-that's-the-end-of-that way, M.Richard waited for the surge of emotion to continue within the parlor of the Opera Populaire.

Carlotta was the first to crack. "CHRISTINE!" she seethed. "It's all a ploy to help CHRISTINE!" Firmin was suprised by the severity of the Prima Donna's address towards the singer, which could have been mistaken for an Italian curse. Carlotta's tail feathers of course, turned into a small chorus line and mimicked their Signora's pain of "Christine" (although he had to admit it was an impressive crescendo, but entirely improper nonetheless).

M.Richard's partner was next of course, to prounouce his displeasure, but instead he was still pondering; "Whatever next?" was his inquiry. Firmin could assure his associate that there were no notes for now, this had been a dramatic point, if it had been an Opera they would have known not to spoil the moment with any more notes, the last one was certainly threatening enough and whatever theories Moncharmin would form would have to be solidified by this final note, now.

"This is insane..." Yes Firmin had taken this chance to impute his opinon, and it was regarded towards the reactions of his fellow inmates (inmates of this rather extended prank that is), if it was regarded at all.

Yet before the Viscomte De Chagny had had the proper interval to respond Carlotta, like the true prima donna she was, stole the spotlight once again crying with an indignant but prettily pampered pointed finger at the Viscomte. "I know who sent this! The Vicomte-her lover!"

Well, atleast he would have a chance to respond now.

(Le bump)

((We'll probably have a little time in between the Prima Donna sequence and Il Muto unless everyone's in a hurry to skip to that part. On that note, there will probably be a short time in between the rooftop scene and Masquerade because in the movie/musical there was a small gap of a few months. It's length will depend on what people decide to do during that interval, but I do not expect that it will be terribly long.))

Sleep was hardly ever a restful experience for Erik. He was usually haunted by some demon of his past. Rarely had he had an entire night's worth of sleep where he did not wake up at least once with his heart racing or drenched in a cold sweat. The only place where he was able to find even a temporary reprieve was in his music. All of his emotions could be poured into beautiful, winding harmonies. It was this kind of emotional cleansing that had led to the creation of Don Juan Triumphant an opera that he had been writing for years. Into it he had poured all of his longings and love, and he had poured into it so much lust as well that it fairly reeked with such a heady emotion. He had not finished it yet, and he was certain that he was never going to have it performed once it was finished. To have the opera performed would be to bear his soul to the world, and he was not ready to show them his soul when he could not even show them his face.

Grunting in his sleep, the unmasked portion of his face could be seen to have twisted in displeasure. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment as though he was speaking to someone, but a moment later he grunted again and his whole body seemed to flinch slightly as though from some physical blow. "Stop..." he whimpered quietly before his body gave another involuntary flinch. The demons within his dreams were obviously in no mood to listen to his pleas as he continued to flinch away from some imaginary attacker.


((I'm mostly posting this because I hate posting out of character posts without doing any RPing.))

((a little artistic release from al the tests I've been taking @.@ plus a little something to spice up this post, I give you a little chibi spoof of our managers' reactions to recent events...))

Perhaps she hadn't heard the patron, or perhaps the hair and the fur and maybe even those little feathers had plugged her hearing but La Carlotta, Prima Donna of the pink puff, their leading previously leading singer refused to accept the Viscomte's answer, understanding now (how long did it take to register?) that she was certainly "previous" in everyone's minds and this was something that some one, like herself, could not stand for. In her mind the change was rather sudden, who was this little Christine woman that could work the crowds and in one night change her three seasons of legend into a mere forgotten mention? Certainly some one that knew how to draw attention to herself in a way that Carlotta did not, and how else but through money and youth. Oh yes Carlotta had money, the uselessly shiny artifacts hanging around her was a constant reminder to anyone who doubted but perhaps youth was what was slipping away from her. She would never admit it! of course, and no one could tell, but sometimes the Prima Donna wasn't always feeling at the top of her queenly game, and a time of crisis like this no one reminded her of her previously easily gained years of triumph like that little brown haired tramp! Youth and money, using her youth to her advantage, maneuvering without the weight of years to grow close to the patron, this Opera's new source of money.

"O Traditori!"

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! The very audacity screamed in Carlotta's mind. And who else was more closely connected to the patron but the new managers themselves? Oh they were all against her!

Obviously Carlotta didn't need motive or conflicting interests to call some one tainted with guilt, this woman's threads of thought were all sewed together with social interest. Carlotta didn't know the managers money, or where they intended to put it, but they she knew money connected the managers to the Viscomte, and the same motive could be placed on Christine's shoulders as well. She wasn't involved in this money scheme, as far as Carlotta knew, and she was therefore innocent in her own mind.

Yet everyone was tainted in M.Moncharmin's mind, if that's the correct term for it: dipped in a boiling stew of murky consciousness that consumes the sinners screams as they're slowly lowered, every action only adding to its unfathomable depths, until slowly they are encased, head too foot with the black inkiness of their heart's despair that encrusts over every orifice until they are denied the very right to cry, to even confess might be better but, yes, tainted seemed to fit well enough. Everyone except for Carlotta perhaps, who seemed like quite a colorful god-send at this moment, for the louder she cried in despair the more Moncharmin's thoughts beckoned for her cleanliness. She was always in the spotlight, she had nothing to hide, no shadows to deal with and therefore no suspicion to place. Now enough with this ghost, their money (or their singer, rather) was in despair and needed to be coaxed to lay back down into the plush satin lining of their wallets once again.

"Signora!"

Firmin could see that the hard mentality of Carlotta had not been swayed or affected by the note, quite consumed with the idea that the everybody was against her she was simply flattering herself, and now his very own partner hadn't added any new theory or exception to his thoughts upon his reading for Andre's head no longer rushed with the fervor of brain juice that greased his mind's cogs. M.Richard had been hoping that the note would turn Carlotta's circus into a rather calmly pacified court-house where sentiments rather than hot-headed passions would rule, ironically. But instead Firmin got more of what he understood, probably more of what he understood that what Firmin could really understand, and the circus was a giant constrained rush of emotion that M.Richard measured and scientifically expressed as: "This is a joke!"

"This changes nothing!" Andre reminded his partner rather curtly who had dared to challenge his theories, he was quite sure on this one, considering he had thoroughly analyzed the facts. Miss Daae was not a healthy investment and that last note had only proved it. Carlotta was their star; Carlotta was their voice, their mocking bird, their circus parrot! It was she they needed to please, and if M.Richard was not 100% in tune and agreed with him than they could not run this opera, they could not get this star and they would not be able to push through this guise of an opera ghost! This is how the managers had always worked, and now their business could not risk failure.


Certainly Firmin could see the distraught look upon his associate's face, concerning the situation at hand. If Firmin hadn't thought about it before, perhaps now he should.

"O menititori!”

The returning opera stars' cry was a sharp piercing of Firmin's mentality. Surely Carlotta was correct in suspecting she was merely a forgotten figure, lost in the shadow of Miss Daae's success because that is exactly how she appeared (or dis-appeared) in the manager's mind. Sensing, Firmin comprehended that Carlotta was not a wise investment, over time expensive gifts of persuasion could outweigh the income provided by her performances, not to mention her constant pleading, bitter whining, and imagined tragedies would grate on his nerves to no end and Firmin feared for his state of mind at the end of his career. However, Firmin understood that his career, at this moment wavered on the brink of extinction and could very well rest on his decision to join M.Moncharmin or to hold his bias against the Italian candy ball. M.Richard knew that the Italian was a gamble, but so was Miss Daae and Firmin was an impulsive decision maker (that was how the duo worked) and a decision had to be made upon the sensitivity of the room, and they weren't in favor Miss Daae and they weren't in favor of the ghost because the ghost wasn't in favor of their business, he wasn't in favor of La Carlotta and the reigning feeling, it seemed, was that the phantom wasn't in favor of the opera. Bias towards the Prima Donna was the only thing keeping Firmin from impulsively deciding upon what was most likely the less risky gamble, a decision his business side asserted indefinitely. Yet in the risky business of understanding feelings, sometimes the processed data (usually following the path of the eyes, directly into the brain) flows, or seeps as the unwanted as the action is, into the blood stream, there left to be deliberated on by the heart instead of the mind.

Obviously the differences in the perception between the head rather than the mind would create a perversion of the original data. Perhaps this, then, was the reason for M.Richard's hesitation, that the strange strain of feeling had crept into Firmin's body of business and the business, so unused to a contradictive heart felt opinion, writhed in a fever of confused logic. Such was the risk when dealing with feeling, confusing the process of understanding with that of actually processing the emotions. Needless to say his body could deal with the large emotions and swirling dramatic flurries such as the climax about them, it was easy to process the idea against the ghost, the feeling of fear and horror, but it was the almost unspoken ideas buried beneath (so sensitive was his intellect), to detect the feeling of poor Miss Daae, in the note, the eyes of Viscomte, and a few onlookers--This was all water that slipped through the dam. Relative to his mind, it seemed that Monsieur Firmin Richard had caught a virus. However Firmin's immune system was strong, it had to be when dealing with the low lifes that they had previously associated with in the scarp metal business, not to mention the scenes that he had to stomach now; no, the diseased opinion did not last long in Firmin's conscience, it's only proof of existence was a slightly fevered brow at the height of discernment which may have been simply attributed to the climatic moment about them. And now the moment was gone, the hesitation diminished, for Firmin's mind had been made up and La Carlotta could now lay its silky sheets.

Now the managers' business could move on unabated, and business unabated had become, now, flattering and begging their leading soprano so that the other areas of business could progress, specifically the business of making money.

"Signora!"

Oh yes, the decision had been made.

"You are our star!"

The decision was in favor of reliable business.

"And always will be!"

The decision was in favor of La Carlotta.

"Miss Daae will be playing the page boy--the silent role..."

And it was final.

"...Carlotta will be playing the lead!"

((You play Buquet like he's a slimey, contemptable, perverted pig. In other words, you play him perfectly! It will be fun killing him.

Eric, the chibis are great, but I can't tell which is which...))

With a sudden scream he started out of his nightmare. He leaned back in his chair with such force that the piece of furniture toppled over backwards and threw him out. He slid across the cold floor for a foot or so before coming to a stop in a crumpled mass. For a long time he continued to lie on the floor panting heavily and with his eyes darting around as though to make sure the shadowy beings from his nightmares had not followed him into the waking world. His uncomfortable position and the slight throbbing in his head where it had made contact with the floor helped to assure him that he had indeed woken up.

He knew it was foolish to even think for a moment that the beings in his nightmares could step out into reality. The shadows in his mind could not exist beyond the dream worlds his subconscious created for them. Their world was an intangible creation that could change drastically with little or no warning, but that was not the world he was in. He was in a very solid world where things followed a typically predictable path, and rarely were there deviations without any sort of notice. Reality could not be changed with a mere thought. Certainly it was possible to distort someone's perspective of reality for a short time, but one could never permanently change the very laws that made up the world and the way it worked. All around him lay evidence of the stability and predictablity of the world that he currently resided in. The floor that he was currently lying on, the chair that he had been sitting in a minute or so ago, and even the desk that he had been resting his head against were all very solid and very real. Shadows could not exist in a real world without something real to cast them, and a faceless demon from his past could not leap out from his mind. He could not create something real from nothing. A thought was definitely something, but it was not a thing of any substance. "It's not real," he whispered slowly sitting up and reaching up to pull off his mask.

His home was the one place where he did not have to fear other people seeing his face. No one ever came down to his home. There were only two people who knew where it was, and only one of them had ever even seen it. "She will probably be the last person to see it as well." He stared at the emotionless half-mask in his hand for a moment before suddenly throwing it against the floor in a moment of disgust.

Predictably the procelain shattered, but he found little satisfaction in watching the hated object break into unrecognizable white fragments. He hated it, but he also needed it. The mask was his only protection from the rest of the world and their hateful, fearful stares. It was the only thing he could use to hide his horrible face and maintain some semblance of human dignity. Such a thing was already hard enough to come by even with the mask, but without it people didn't even seem to think that he was human at all. "How pathetic...I'm acting like such a child, and now I've gone and destroyed my mask." With a resigned sigh he rose to his feet and walked over to one of the tables.

There he had a spare mask to wear. It was just like the one that he'd been wearing previously. He always had at least one extra mask lying about in case an accident happened or his temper got the better of him as it just had a moment ago. His fingers lightly brushed against the cool surface of the new mask, and with a slight growl he quickly pulled his hand away as he was struck with a sudden desire to to smash that mask against the floor as well. What did it really matter. Even if he wore the mask people would still gawk at him like some circus freak. The only difference would be that they wouldn't know exactly what they were gawking at. "All they'll ever see you as is some sort of freak," he growled to himself. "You will never be able to pass as normal. The mask can hide your deformity, but it can never make you look like a normal human."

Letting out a frustrated roar, he slammed his fists down on the table. It gave a small creak in response as though it had been subjected to this many times before and was nearing its breaking point. As Erik slammed his fists down again it gave a slightly louder creak, but nothing further followed as the man grew tired of beating up the inanimate object.

Grabbing his cloak from where he usually hung it, he draped it over his shoulders before fastening it around his neck. He could not stand being down here right now, and he did not care at the moment that his face was still maskless. At the moment all that mattered was getting out of the cellars, and if someone saw him that would be their problem. Unless it was Buquet, of course. He was in no mood for coming across that man again, and if they happened to meet a new chief scene-shifter would need to be found. The punjab lasso would do its work around the filthy man's neck.

Pausing for a moment as he walked towards the boat, he looked back at the table where Antoinette's photograph sat. He knew that he should get it back to her. He'd already done what he had intended to do with it, and he no longer needed the photograph itself. Walking over to the table he took the picture and tucked it into the hidden pocket of his cloak alongside the deadly lasso. What would the woman think if she knew that an implement of murder and the only portrait with her dear husband were nestled so closely together? He would not tell her. It would probably only stand to disturb her further. "I hope Antoinette is in the mood for visitors," he mumbled as he stepped into the boat and began to pole across the underground lake. He was going to make sure that he returned the photograph into the woman's hands, and he was willing to wait in her room until she got there if that was what was necessary.

Hesitating for a moment in the secret hallway outside of Antoinette's room, Erik's brow furrowed in concern at the noises he'd heard coming from the other side of the wall. It had sounded as though the woman had been vomitting before those harsh sounds gave way to the quieter ones of weeping. What could have happened to make her do that? She had always been such a strong person. Rarely had he ever seen her cry, and it had always caused him the greatest of worries when she did. To see such strength as hers shaken was probably the equivalent of watching the downfall of a childhood hero, but that was not to say that Antoinette was his hero. She was the only stable thing he seemed to have to hold onto, and to have his only solid foundation shaken left him feeling very vulnerable.

Gently he tapped on the hidden door to her room and waited for her to answer. Perhaps she would not want to see him now, but he would enter without her consent if he had to. It meant that he might be knocked a few times with her damnable cane.

He remembered when she'd first gotten it. In a moment of thoughtlessness he had made fun of her needing one and how she was growing old. He'd been black and blue for days afterward, and he'd never made the same mistake of making fun of her cane ever again. That cane was a lethal weapon in her hands.

Pushing the door open, he walked into the room with his head slightly bowed. He was still without his mask, and even around someone as familiar as Antoinette he had an unconscious tendency to try and hide his deformity when he was not wearing his mask. "I am sorry for disturbing you, Antoinette," he said as his eyes flicked up to take in the woman's face. She had definitely been crying. Around her eyes were the tell-tale signs that tears always left behind. He had seen them enough times on his own face to know them at even the briefest glance.

Sitting as she had indicated, he sat silently far a moment as he pondered over whether to immediately address her reason for crying or ignoring it for a moment. If he tried to avoid it the next thing ponder would be what to talk about. His whole life was contained within the opera house, so there was little he could say that she did not already know. "I had come with something in mind to speak to you about, but I'm afraid I have forgotten what it was..."

He paused again before drawing in a deep breath. "Why were you crying?"