Miranda is seated in her favorite booth in the Haus, one of the large ones in the middle that has the best view of the stage where the poets and philosophers read aloud. She usually comes here on Wednesday nights when the atmosphere is creative and warm, occasionally the Kine are even talented enough to carry her away.
She is watching a young girl of no more than 20 on the stage, tiny and elfin with pixie cut black hair, read from Gautier's La Comédie de la Mort and feeling quite amused when a Kindred she had never met entered the house. Miranda looks on as the other gets a drink and finds a seat, and soon the the little pixie girl is done and leaves the stage. No one seems likely to take her place for the moment, so Miranda gets up and walks over to the other's table.
She stands there with a warm smile for a moment; tonight she is dressed in a long, casually bohemian white gown ((pic))with her sable hair loose and waving down her back. When the other Kindred looks up, Miranda introduces herself, "Good evening, mademoiselle. I am Miranda Montreve of the Rose," she waves a hand at the seat, "Do you mind if I join you?"
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