Fantasy ••• ℬяιтαηηιcα ℒσsт ••• | [O/A]

[Luxura]

Alexei Pavlovsky

alias: CAIN

health bar

WHERE: Engineering Lab
WITH: Ephemera
DOING: Bickering
CREDIT: maria_lahaine
PLAYLIST:

​

He hadn’t worked on his prized suit for some time. There hadn’t been much need since much of New Londontown’s supernatural influence had waned with the burning of Cheapside. Cain had only had small opportunities in private training to truly work with the Seraphim technology and yearned eagerly to test it out in real, full combat once they landed in New Orleans. Provided, of course, that they weren’t stuck finding their mark as soon as they arrived.
Much of what the Legionnaire set his mind to was improving the flaws and trying out new configurations of accessories or armour plating. Once a day he would train with the suit, keeping himself fresh and knowledgable about the way it moved with his body. For nearly a year he’d perfected his craft; body and mind blending as one with the suit’s built-in venous system. With its help, Cain could outlast most in athleticism from the electrolyte filtration. The pinch of morphine, admittedly, also did wonders to keep his spirits high when the threat of pain was lessened.
As much as Alexei loved the suit, he couldn’t deny there was an aversion to it as well. His creation brought him incredible pride in his own capabilities as a Legionnaire-- he’d designed the whole things from the concept drawing to the schematic blueprints, to cutting and welding every single plate of steel on it. Everything was purposed and bespoke to him, by him. But Jonah’s influences in its capabilities was where the Russian felt disdain. The concept of the venous system was glorious in theory, but he’d never been fond of the implications of it; especially since it made him sick every time he used it in great quantity. The surgery to install the implant connectors along his lithe frame had not been kind either, from what he could recall of the memory. He spent much of his time that month in the infirmary getting familiar with fluid injections, bloodletting… and the toilet.

The morning had been quiet, and he’d been happy to have his station situated in the back of the Lab as to not be interrupted in his work as others arrived for their duties. Though, he had been keen not to miss the clear assignment of Troxler at the station across his partition and found himself curious as to when the pesky blond would arrive. After last night’s little firecracker moment, Cain felt he needed to make sure his Engineer had some fun; a particular plan formulated in his mind.

The first hour Alexei worked alone. He always thrived better in solitude, where his mind could think freely without distraction or looming gazes of his peers. His desire only was to be working on his latest experiment in the power of electrical current direction for his solar core. The trick would be to harness and control the static, channel it down through the arm and create a conductive cell that could pull from the core at will. The result would be electricity at his fingertips-- Literally.

As the morning began to tick onward, engineers trickled into the Lab, finding their respective stations and getting to work on repairs. Flashy in his vermillion-coated suit, the Russian stood out like a sore thumb to each person who entered; a little jolt to their system, but otherwise unperturbed.
Cain was the only Legionnaire to function so well with his prior background that he had his own space in the Lab otherwise reserved for the technicians. Others in his faction and that of the Sisters would slip in and out for fittings, or to pick up or drop pieces, but none of them ever lingered. Legionnaires were trained to make quick repairs. They were technically savvy and often excelled in areas of mathematics and science. However, their purpose was to kill, and they gave themselves to become monsters for their God. The Blood Sisters were goddesses of tact and warfare with the supernatural. They did not busy themselves with as much augmentation but rather flexed their prowess in training and upgrading their weaponry to tame the immortal beasts.
With the grace of the Overseer, Cain had been saved from making changes to his body, as his slight form allowed him an edge over the other more brutish Brothers. The suit enhanced him in ways a mortal man could only dream of, while still retaining his handsome physique.

Sensing the ship becoming alive with activity, more and more heads bobbed past the large windows of the Lab doors. He’d skipped breakfast, finding the mornings when he worked on his gear to be best on an empty stomach-- he’d have less to wretch later. Instead, he would nourish himself in the noon hour, often absolutely ravenous.
This morning had been no different. The peckish tinges in his stomach were beginning to pull at his concentration. And for the better, as he peered over his shoulder at the large clock hung above the Storage Room. His roommate would be arriving at any minute.

Cain cleaned up his station of any debris and leaned back against the desk, his stance neutral as he closed his eyes. To the outside observer, one would be curious as to why he’d left and propped his suit up in such a manner, but for those that knew Cain’s notorious antics, one could never be too careful that the devil wasn’t still inside. With careful consideration, he flicked the switch on his chest under the solar core, and felt the draw into his implants become slower, the hum of the electricity softening; and the light it emitted receding to black.

It felt like an hour had passed, but the moment Cain heard soft footsteps approaching his area, his eyes flicked alive under the helm of his guise. Ephemera, in all his ethereal grace. As if he heard the Legionnaire’s thoughts, the blond looked towards him with a critical gaze, rolling his eyes in distaste.
Good, at least they were on the same page about working with one another.

Watching the blond begin to open and unpack his belongings, the Legionnaire shifted to lift his head, easing the heaviness upon his neck. The single movement was just enough to catch in the peripheral of René’s honey-glazed gaze, and in that moment Cain’s lips pulled into a Cheshire’s grin. A smile the other would never see behind the plated mask, of course, and likely for the better-- It had enough darkness to run blood cold.

In his element, René had an air of casual peace about him. Nothing could permeate him here. There was a softness to his eyes, a smoothness in his brow. Even the comforts of a smile just barely at the corners of pale lips. It was nearly a pity that Cain saw beauty in the other’s visage, it would make the final act almost bittersweet.
At every opportunity, the Russian inched his body more upright. The Engineer’s vision obscured or back turned was a second he could shift to his full height off the workbench without a sound. Within minutes Cain had found himself standing erect, no more than a foot away from the table, and only a few more from the partition that separated him from his toy.
His moment finally came. Troxler moved with diligence towards the shelving unit nearest the partition, and the Legionnaire lunged forward, gripping the rail of the dividing wall menacingly. His reward for such patience was sinfully sweet-- more than he could have anticipated-- and he bellowed a venomous, outrageous fit of laughter. René shrieked in fear and surprise, thrust back into the bench.

Between sinister giggled, he unlatched the locking mechanism and peeled off the helmet of the Seraphim, cool air washing over his flamboyant features and dark periwinkle eyes,
“Oh, you really will be the death of me, Troxler.” he sighed, grinning from ear to ear.
He held the other’s gaze, watching with amusement as he grappled with himself to make a retaliation. The fire in the Legionnaire’s eyes was a taunt, welcoming it. He wasn’t surprised that the blond didn’t try his luck,
“Get over yourself. You’re not the first victim of my curious mind. Lighten up.” Cain shrugged as he turned back to his station, the other engineers, too, letting their nosey leers fall away back to quiet work.
The tension in the air heightened, electrifying and sizzling. The Russian could nearly feel the rolling rage off the blond behind him, and it pleased him immensely. But, his desire for revenge had been sated, and the raven-haired devil began to set about finishing his work for the morning.

Nimble fingers moved over the latches that kept the suit together across his chest and abdomen, unbuckling the halves of heavy canvas, steel and wire casings. With practiced movements, he manually unclipped the plugs from the implants at his chest and with some wriggling managed to do the same with the ones along his spine, leaving only the pairs at his wrists and pelvis intact. Relief was a melody that passed from his lips in a soft sigh. The suit ran hot, and Cain breathed deeply at the crispness of the air as it brushed across the light layer of sweat that glistened his bare torso. Happy to be free, he pulled up a stool to the bench and pulled over the small cart of tools and wiring spools, eyes tight with focus. The sooner he was finished, the sooner he could eat.

Another thirty minutes had passed over the Lab of diligent minds hard at work. Cain’s forearm lay upon the table’s surface as he worked over the glove, the putrid scent of hot metal arising from his sautering wire connectors together. He was so close! He could feel the excitement of a coming meal push him to continue. Even if the results weren’t correct, at least the foundations would be in place and a few rounds of adjustments over the next day would have him ready for real testing.

He had just begun to make some minor wiring adjustments when his attention snapped away to Ephemera’s hand yanking hard enough on the Seraphim glove he was still connected into to pull the Legionnaire forward off the stool. Cain’s eyes ignited immediately, but he recoiled at the heated reprimand that exploded from the other’s mouth. The longer René continued, the deeper his brows furrowed, and quickly that ire crept back into Cain’s ocean eyes.
Looking past his shoulder, all eyes were upon them, some expressions smug, the other’s curious but unreadable. All the same, there was a collective satisfaction that someone was putting the diabolical Legionnaire in his place, publicly at that.
Cain’s body shook, “WHAT?!” he roared at them lividly, each set of eyes looking away quickly for fear they’d be next to feel his wrath.
Chilled eyes flicked back to the Engineer, hoping to freeze over the suns in his glare,
“For being the Lead Engineer, you are incredibly uneducated in the Overseer’s prized weapon.” he scoffed, “Of course I’m aware, you fucking idiot. I’m a risktaker, not a suicide case.”
He snarled as slender fingers plied at his efforts and cradled his wrist as it was thrown back at him. The pull had ripped painfully at the implant, leaving him sore and the area throbbing at the injection site. Evenly, he levelled his gaze and tone,
“The suit has a neutral running point. As long as the venous system is attached in half capacity, it goes into stasis. I can run the core at ten percent power based on a combination of the human body’s natural conduction and thermoelectric generation. I become the battery and save the solar core’s charge levels. I draw enough from it to test my ideas without the risk of malfunction, or stupidity.”

He shook his head firmly, “Not a chance, no one works on the suit but me. While I’d like to think those were Jonah’s orders, they are my personal rules. If I need your opinion, I’ll ask of it. But since I don’t trust you, my work stays under my control until I see the quality of your craft. Ponimayu?*” the Russian sneered as he stepped forward, intruding threatening on the blond’s personal space,

“Besides, if you wanted me undressed, you only needed to ask. This is all a bit too dramatic, even for me.”


*"Understand?"

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health bar

WHERE: Maeve Donovan's residence
WITH: Jack, Seiko, Maeve and co
DOING: Sitting, listening, engaging in a pastime
CREDIT: Charlie Bowater

The merriment of the Brass Canine seemed faraway, as though underwater, as she gazed down at Jack. Esther, compelled by a flicker of fear lancing through her, hoisted herself up and swung her legs up and over the bar. This was no easy feat, for she was encumbered by her skirts. She made her apologies to the barman, though her attentions were fixed elsewhere, and then sank to a crouch beside her fallen friend to tend to him. The fall proved to be a minor and quickly forgotten inconvenience, however. Jack recovered with bewildering speed, and owing to whatever concoction of alcohols was in his system, he felt no pain and his mood was undimmed.

Esther had reached out to rouse him when he nearly sprung to find his way back to his feet and she, startled, hastily retracted it. She peered up at him in stunned silence. No sooner had his eyes settled upon her than he reached down, seizing both of her hands to tug her to her feet. A cursory and delighted greeting fell from his lips, followed by a request to dance in the same breath.

"Wait," she said, "It's been a long while - I'm not -" Whatever feeble protest she had attempted to conjure was lost in the din of the establishment as he led her out from behind the bar and into the throng. He drew her into a waltz, and as they took ungainly turns about the room, people cleared away to avoid their path.

How long had it been since she last danced? A very long time, surely, though never this way, a merry-go-round in the midst of smiling faces. She never grew dizzy, perhaps because she had something to hold onto. Somehow this seemed a caliber above what she had known. The dancing lessons her mother had arranged for her as part of her refinement would hardly come into use, and she struggled to remember the footwork now. She had mistakenly tread upon Jack's toes more than once, though he hardly seemed to mind, as he had done the same to hers.

When Maeve's voice cut through the cheers of an encouraging crowd, Esther was nearly drunk on laughter alone. Smiling and out of breath, she looked to the other woman from over Jack's shoulder, and the fingers of the hand that rested on the nape of her partner's neck lifting in greeting. "Come now, she makes a fair point," she said, when he argued with Maeve's proposal to return home. The gallivanting was only put to an end once the ravenwoman took them both in hand to pull them away, and as they departed from the bar, three more would join their company.
They were all unknown to her, the two men and the short-statured woman. Esther's eyes were curious as they flickered between each face, never lingering long, though she stole a second glance at one of the trio, her attention snagging upon his hat.

Taking a steadying breath, she patted a hand over her fluttering heart. "Look there at that fellow," she whispered to Maeve and Jack, urgent to gain their attention. Conspiratorial, she indicated the individual with a subtle lift of the chin, her green-brown eyes vibrant with a childlike sort of wonderment. "His hat - and his shoes! They have the pointed whirligigs. He surely is one, don't you think so?"

The glittering New Orleans night was a welcome comfort outside the close air of the Brass Canine; distant jazz and the smells of cookfires drifted on the breeze. Some scents, colored with the fragrance of layered spices, reminded her vaguely of days spent in her Abuela's kitchen.

She would sit on the countertop to watch the little woman work amidst the gleam of copperware. She remembered the bienmesabe, served with coffee black as pitch and warmed with cardamom. The stuff could make a young girl's tongue turn, and were it somewhat thicker, it could have been spread like margarine across toast. Her grandmother had laughed at her pursed lips and querying look, instructing her to pair sips with bites of cake. When bitterness comes, mija, she had said, we can cut it with sweetness.

Esther drew herself from her thoughts, resisting the inclination to shake her head to rid it of memory. They had entered a neighborhood lined with an array of houses painted in brilliant shades, bright as a meadow of wildflowers. Her lips parted as she admired them in passing. She had never seen the like.

In the first stretch of the walk she and Maeve had both had a hand in carrying Jack, and toward the end, they all did so in shifts. Near the end the ravenwoman seemed resolute in bearing his weight, despite the sweat beading her brow and the fatigue weighing her step, and while Esther made no comment, she lingered near, ready to trade-off if she found herself unable to continue.

It was not much farther to their destination, thankfully. After Maeve had collected Jack where they had propped him up against the doorframe, proceeding inside, she appeared to pause. Esther only caught pieces of the statement that followed, but she was taken aback by the sudden venom in the woman's voice. Her brows lifted by a fraction and she averted her gaze elsewhere, awkwardly shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Jack was borne away upstairs to his room, and the rest of the party ventured inside to settle in the parlor. Esther made herself comfortable in a sitting chair, and she sat for a long moment while awaiting Maeve's return, fidgeting, her eyes wandering across the room. Then she reached down to draw up the hem of her skirt, reaching into her boot. Her feet rarely did peep out from beneath the hem of her skirt, and if one looked closely, they might notice she did not wear ladies' shoes that gave a satisfying clack as she walked, but well-worn traveling boots that permitted her to move as noiselessly as she pleased.

From the depths of one boot she withdrew a small bundle placed there for safekeeping and opened it in her lap. Inside this folded square handkerchief was a whittling knife and a half-formed wood carving that fit comfortably in her palm. She pulled off her gloves and tucked them away on her person. The night seemed too warm for them. Hers were not the hands of a lady, though they might have been once; on the outside they gave every appearance of being so, but underneath was a different story. Her palms and the pads of her fingers had been marked by flame, and they bore smooth callouses earned by way of honest labor.

The pads of her fingers passed over her handiwork, studying; Esther turned over the carving appraisingly in her hands, and then set to work. She studied a painting on the wall while her hands methodically coaxed a figure out of the wood with every pass of the blade, and woodshavings drifted down like snow into the handkerchief spread open across her lap. Rarely was she struck by the need to glance down at her progress. When Maeve returned to address those gathered there, the little knife paused only briefly in Esther's hands. Her gaze flitted to the woman, but there was no surprise showing in her face.

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

René Troxler

Ephemera

health bar

WHERE: Paradise Engineering Lab
WITH: Cain, Technicians, Engineers, etc.
DOING: Arguing
CREDIT: len-yan
PLAYLIST: ☀

If looks could kill...

Then Cain’s would surely imprison him in a pillar of ice. The night before there were mischief and lasciviousness in those same eyes, a great deal of suggestion in the voice, but not the hate and rage palpable on the engineer’s tongue he was tasting from both. The cold glare shot from him to the rest of the room. Of course, he’d garnered them an audience with his shocked outburst, so they were being watched. His own eyes shifted to the technicians and engineers as they smirked and stared. The rumor mill would be turning out some fascinating news later.

He rolled his gaze away. Hypocrites, the lot of them. Later they’d be patting him on the back for saying anything at all to the demon Legionnaire just to whisper and hiss when he wasn’t around, condemning him for having done it. The blond almost didn’t mind the roar in his ear from his bunkmate to turn them away from their scene, but his ear rang.

“Risktaker, suicide case; what’s the difference when you fight the front lines of a war?” he spat back, refusing to bow down to the icicles in Cain’s stare. This man really pissed him off. As if he knew his role backward and forwards. He might have been the Overseer’s pet, but in terms of rank, they were equally scored. “And you are just as incredibly uneducated about my position. Last time I checked, my job is to ensure everyone here has the best fighting chance of seeing dawn again. Even you.” He returned the scoff leveled at him, caring less and less for the guy he stood in front of. “Repairs, custom builds, augmentations: it scratches the superficial surface of what my assignment entails. A soldier is only as good as the equipment they use. If I fail, they fail. They fail, they die. I take my charge seriously.”

His arms crossed over his chest, listening with a scowl that grew as he listened to how this particular suit worked. The blond’s tongue danced behind his teeth, wanting to know more about the design, see the plans and the science behind it, and his eyebrow perked at the use of the body as an energy source. Shit, the prick was actually intelligent. Ephemera hated that the power system was rather clever. The Russian actually had a mind for design and mechanics, even biological modification in order to make his power schemes work. If he was half as good in the suit as he was designing it, it would be no wonder he’d won the Overseer’s attention to become the favorite of the Legion.

Another poster child for the cause. It was becoming less and less of a mystery as to why they’d been forced to room together. It didn’t make the engineer dislike him any less.

What was worse was the flat out refusal to allow the “Lead Engineer” to work on the suit. However-- much to his own distaste-- he could respect the reasoning. Rene would be the same way if someone demanded to work on his arm biogear. The thought made him tighten the grip around his biceps, the grip on the fleshy right enough to cause a bruise. The difference between the two of them lay in his assignment and position.

“You, Jonah, I don’t care. When you’re in this room, I am the authority. As for the quality of my craft, who do you think designs half of the upgrades to most augmentations in the Sisterhood, or cleans up some of the schematics for the 84th’s technicians? Who do you think builds them for the Sisters? I wasn’t hired to be their personal engineer and technician for my looks-- no matter what your lot would say. Take a look at the statistics some time, and choke on your own foot.”

He hated the way the Legionnaire approached. What he hated, even more, were the words slipping off of the other man’s tongue, half-dressed in the suit to match the threat. Salacious until the end, it seemed. Ephemera wasn’t about to let some pompous prick shake his resolve, even if it was the one he was forced to bunk with. With a disgusted sneer, he shirked off the comment. “Hardly my intentions. I think I’ve seen enough of you to know you’re not as impressive as others- who I’m sure have overblown your ego- let you think you are.” His voice was low as he said it because as much as he wanted to René wasn’t about to start another scene. He wasn’t about to have this man walk all over him publicly and try to destroy him privately. The space below his eye was still sore, even though it hadn’t bruised from being slammed against the wall. He still feared being overpowered when no one was looking or could witness the potential abuse, physical or otherwise. If the engineer was going to be assaulted daily, he’d return the torture in spades.

“I won’t touch the suit, but I want the schematics on this table tomorrow morning to review. Should there ever come a day you ask for my assistance I need a thorough understanding of how it works.” It was more to satisfy his curiosity, to dig into the unknown of the mechanics and sate his hunger for knowledge, not that he'd ever admit it. It was also an opportunity to evaluate Cain's intelligence and creativity. He'd planned for the human body as a substitute battery, surely he wasn't nearly as daft as the rest of the 84th. However, he was just as hateful as all of them together.

Before more could be said, someone barged into the lab looking for the very man he was ready to be rid of. An answer to silent prayers. And at that, it was an order to meet his superior in his office no less.

Returning to his workbench to start on something far more interesting than any retort that would be pointed in his direction, he muttered, “Off you go, puppy. Master is calling”

 

[CosmicDusk]

Cecile Bellerose

Ember

health | bar

WHERE: La Lune, Drawing Room
WITH: Cassandra ⇀ Cassandra & A Shadow
DOING: Conversing ⇀ Analyzing
CREDIT: Milica Jevtic
PLAYLIST:

Cecile agreed on the account of American culture and trends. They were lively, colourful, and brought forth enough distractions when one needed them. The music was different, but she grew to enjoy it to some extent. The somber versions were better fit for her study, to focus on the Templars movements, while the upbeat were best matched with company, of both beings and liquor. Cassandra would likely be one to enjoy the music New Orleans had to offer; presumably the party scene as well. She made a mental note to take her friend to one of the dwellings in town. It was not guaranteed the traveler will stay long in one area.

As they traversed the vast building, they shared sightings, small and large. Very few caught the blacksmith's attention; but when they do, it was usually intricate designs or delicate pastries. Her mind was always at work, concocting new blueprints for better mobility and strength, sometimes even just for decoration purposes but still prove useful, even as menial as a dagger. There was no doubt she enjoyed her travels, but for the past couple of centuries under Kestrel's reign she was focused on supporting the faction as she used to before becoming immortal. Even now, it became more of a priority.

Ruling was unknown territory, but she was not one to back down in helping others as she saw fit.

She tossed the thought aside, guiding Cassandra into one of the drawing rooms. The room was many a similar to the other rooms. One difference was that library it contained. Ceiling topped, dark cherry wood to match the floors, accented with gold trimmings; almost as if the books themselves were placed in a glass display for protection. If only such a thing was designed, for literature were easily flammable should anything happen. Cecile would personally tend to it, but glass was much more delicate than metal. One other distinguished design of the room was the appearance of an additional door, one that led to the back of the estate without having to traverse to the main hall or that of the kitchen. It provided easy access to where her forge was.

"Timothy, some refreshments, if you please."

The vampire gave a curt nod before disappearing back into the corridor.

Cecile settled herself in one of the armchairs. Sapphire eyes scanned the room. There are had been many a night she occupied the room when she took a break from her forge. Finding the room bordered with a fair collection of books, the vampiress had busied herself with one, and perusing her choices now and then after the completion of one. The estate was silent for most of the night, she presumed everyone decided to visit the market or attend to business. It left her to wonder if she was the only one of their group to stay back, but it didn't bother her as quite as she had previously thought. Often, if not, Cecile would remain in her forge than a night of lucid activity from time to time. Keeping herself active with a library was fair game to her. She enjoyed booze and dance as much as the next person, but her ideal of spending her a tranquil night was with some serene reading. Thankfully there was quite the amount of books to choose from. It was also another means of placing judgment on a person was by the selection of books in their library. The reasoning behind it was something her benefactor once taught her in the midst of her blacksmith training: knowledge built character.

She smiled at the memory, then turned to her guest.

"I thank you for your condolences. Kestrel was indeed a dear friend. An... intriguing ruler, but he was true in himself despite his temporary fall."

No one could deny his opium addiction, not even Cecile. She was the one to clean his messes after all, and ensure he was not making a fool of himself in the presence of others, especially those who sought to overthrow him. She specially recalled a gaudy feeding he had, one sat so decoratively in a Beast's dining hall. Table lined with food and wine, with gold and silver of all jewels in shapes and sizes. Thankfully the Beast was a courteous one, though that did not mean Cecile did not have her hand on her moonblade. The memory of the Beastly Thief was a fond one, despite his mouth.

"It appears we have another guest with us."

The tone was more playful than she had intended, but the least she could do was ease the tension that rode the air. She could only presume he was another one of the vampires who wanted to pick a gamble with her, like many in Kestrel's past. The blacksmith had kept quiet about the lurking shadow. She had been more curious about his intentions. She didn't disregard the matter as non-threatening. In actuality, it was entertaining. Many barged into her home, yelling obscenity in her courtyard to have an audience with her. Some were more courageous, perhaps a bit idiotic and attempted to sneak into her chambers for a sneak attack. The estate may have been quiet, but not quiet enough that she would ignore the slightest change in the atmosphere. Of course, feigning ignorance was always fun. She can only do so much to lure the enemy into their own traps.

However, that didn't quite stop her curiosity. Not with this one.

"I won't bother with the details of how you have entered my estate. Show yourself."

 

[CosmicDusk]

Jonah Lancaster

The Overseer

health | bar

WHERE: Paradise - Observation Gallery ⇀ Engineering Lab
WITH: Holly & Dominick ⇀ Alexei
DOING: Conversing ⇀ Reprimanding
CREDIT: Ástor Alexander
PLAYLIST: ♱

A man of little words, he only nodded at his companion's sentiment. There was no argument that many need to re-wire their focus on their work, spend less on leisure activity. Then again, most were not aware of how dire the situation was, a cold lesson to be taught. Jonah had no particular interest in what the other Templars did their free time; so long as they produced proper and beneficial results, they were free of his wrath. It also meant less time dwelling in the presences of others. Though, not all were unpleasant. His time with Holly, for example, had always been enjoyable. A few more could tally themselves onto his list, though they were not as pleasant of a company as Holly's. At most, they were... crucial, he would say, in their line of work. Speak of the devil, his ears perked at the mention of his own protégé.

Jonah only gave a nod. "Cain could not complain if he tried. Your young pupil has nothing to worry, so long as such actions are properly monitored. Worry not, Holly. I will see to it Cain is on his best behaviour."

He gave her his sincerest words that he could muster, the back of his mind elsewhere. A piece of him reminded him to enjoy the serenity while he could. Mornings like this one were rare, extremely rare. Most were spent with little activity. They were always redundant. Mundane, perhaps, but Jonah had no complaint. Though the days would be young, he'd been up for some time. The not-so-young man was an individual who savoured routine. It was a notable trait given his organization; he rose before the sun and drifted through the dark corridors, lighting candles crafted from beeswax and scented with lavender as he wandered. The remainder of his morning was uneventful, filled with mountains of documents that needed his attention.

His routine was different this time. Embarked on an airship changed everything, from scenery, to placement, and even company. Some say Jonah should learn to enjoy a change of pace. He would argue it was pointless, for every moment served a purpose.

Normally bafflement would cross one's expression, including that of a cool one, but the Priest's gesture was not acknowledged, however heavy his hand was. The Patriarch slipped back into silence, leaving the elder to wonder if it was a gesture of consideration or a desperate gambit to come up with some sort of alternative route through contemplation. His expression remained composed throughout, so it was difficult for most to gauge if the man's thoughts were racing, or if he had surrendered any attempts to smooth over this conversation. Not that it was a troublesome discussion; merely just one that Jonah never bothered to join such... excitement.

"Chipper as always, Dominick. A good morn to you as well."

He listened as words exchanged around him. He considered speaking on the matter, as far as where leisure went, but no words came to mind. Rather, he kept looking down his pocket watch. Time had been rolling by at an unbearably slow pace, leaving the Overseer to be a bit restless. It was a rare occasion that a Legionnaire should enjoy the leisure, but Jonah was not one of those. Whatever workload that stumbled their way into his study were the best means in occupying his time. He cannot deny the accompaniment of others if they sought him out; instead, he made it known for others to keep their conversations sweet and short. If he were one of small talk, it would be over whiskey.

"By morrow's dusk, indeed."

He saw no delay in their journey, and he hoped it would remain so.

He had not realized he had spaced out, watching the horizon until Holly and Dominick sauntered off. He gave them his acknowledgement with a wave of his hand, then began his own path. He agreed that Cain needed a follow-up. Typically the boy would be called into his office should he fail to find the Overseer in a prompt timeframe. Jonah only allowed this to pass due to certain circumstances. Additionally, with a shadow of a guest always creeping behind him. His cane tapped against the pavement with each cushioned step.

Voices scattered along the ship. Despite the noise that sung from its machinery, vehement words were still heard. It was not difficult to distinguish whose voice belonged to whom. If anything, he suspected it would become a daily occurrence until they arrive in New Orleans; likely that it would continue passed the mission. He prayed this venture would harbour great connections, for there would be many future partnerships between the Sisters and Legionnaires so long as immortals reigned the earth. No doubt there would be some disagreements, but in the end, victory was a common goal. He hoped his own pupil took this as an opportunity to display his knowledge.

He approached where voices were the loudest, one of them he recognized. Twas banter, so Jonah remained in the shadow of the door, watching whom he believed was the very pupil Holly spoke of. Their dislike of one another was evident, but there was no denying their craft as they spoke fluidly about the suit. The corner of his lip twitched.

"Cain." He allowed the word to play on his tongue. "Come."

Jonah led their path away from the Engineering Lab as far as possible. The safest place for them to discuss anything was his office. The route to his office was far quicker than back at Eden. There was still enough distance to hold a conversation, if he wished there to be one. Normally the silence was preferable, but the words of his platinum blonde companion lingered at the back of his mind while his work was at the forefront. One could say even mountains of paperwork alone was not enough to abate his restlessness.

Soon, he thought idly to himself.

He navigated the pathways languidly. The cane's clacks in sync with their steps, voices drawing into the background. Gabriel's concern was brought to the front was his thoughts as he replayed the scene at the Engineering Lab. Perhaps such concern was granted, but given the situation, none should arise.

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Virgil Bedeau

Fantôme

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WHERE: La Lune
DOING: Foreshadowing
WITH: Queen & Quarry
CREDIT: WIP

Expectations... he made it a point not to have them, for more often than not, they resulted in avoidable disappointment. The conversation between the queen and a certain cunning Cassandra Caldecott came close to it. It had been nothing but exchanged pleasantries and condolences over a past he already knew. Even so he tarried on, as perhaps they would provide him with morsels of detail he was not privy to, no matter how trivial.

If they didn't, it happened to be that Virgil wasn't there to solely gather intelligence; he had some of his own to offer.

Their trail had led him to the arching entryway of a decorated drawing room, where he avoided the suspicion of a man leaving its threshold by way of a curt nod. For a time he waited outside, leaning back against the ornate wall with inconspicuous temperance, and only when he thought their attention to surely be diverted did he slip into the drawing room as no more than the flicker of a shadow. The bookshelves provided ample cover from the sight of a hearth's sputtering fire, which bathed the room in deep shades of yellow and orange.

When had been the last time he found himself in a library?

This place was something that wanted to be one, he thought, and under the cover of dim light and relative quiet, he was allowed the superficial pleasure of grazing his fingertips along the spines of the books lining the shelves. The last time he had done so was over a century ago. The first had been during years he could no longer recall with the stark clarity his mind usually lent him.

Just once, he and the man-to-be-mentor who'd plucked him from the streets in his youth had visited Dublin, and while the captain was off settling a deal with whichever unlucky fool he'd decided to swindle at the time, a young Virgil paid visit to the city's oldest library. He remembered how endlessly tall the ceilings of the long hall appeared to him and of the limitless number of books lining the shelves. He remembered the pedestals that held the stone-etched likeness of age-old scholars and philosophers and his own curiosity getting the best of him, as insatiable as ever of the knowledge and stories contained there. He remembered leaving the library after hours of reading with a few borrowed books in hand, their frayed pages leather-bound and pristinely kept. That day, he'd arrived back at the ship moments before they'd decided to cast off without him. The books had been struck away from him, tossed over the side into the murky depths of the sea, and then he'd been struck even harder with the back of a weather-beaten hand.

"This is no place for history," the captain had told him, then. "It doesn't do anyone here any good. Especially not you."

The young man he was hadn't understood why it'd been said, yet a lack of understanding hadn't kept him from what he'd gotten a sampling taste of; all the books he'd procured ever after had been hidden, and he'd read in secret under the twilight gloom, beneath the dull, constant light of his only friend, the moon.

Virgil despised sleeping dreams, but the waking ones and the sentiment that came with them was infinitely worse.

"It appears we have another guest with us."

Her manner of speech held a natural authority, he noticed, as he was pulled from the memory. It was truly fitting for the queenly role. After she'd made her demands - what he heard to be optional requests - he remained where he was, nearly unseen and just out of reach. Showing himself was the last of the commands he'd oblige, if there were any at all.

"Humble? I suppose so, if you've your own definition of the word."

If this proclaimed queen had once known of humility, she'd seemed to have long lost her grasp on it. Virgil lingered on the edge of the firelight with teeth slightly bared, lips curled into a crooked smirk, vaguelly visible down one of the corridors between books and the shelves that housed them. His eyes shifted fleetingly towards Cassandra. What was once his now resided with her, he knew, somewhere on her being. He'd make sure to get her alone sometime and retrieve it, but the third of their company was who he'd subject his scrutiny to.

"It was nothing more than curiosity that guided me," he uttered, so low it was as though he was afraid of disturbing the very air itself. "I merely wished to see what the interior of such a large, elegant building held in store."
The click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth was almost taunting. "At my own leisure, that is."

Had circumstance permitted, he would stay longer, perhaps even take a chair of his own. Without the advantage of concealment at his side, his chance of learning any more than the little he already had was likely low, and he hadn't the depth of interest or the time to spend coaxing it out of her with mindful manipulation or beguiling charm. He had her pinned as an authoritarian the moment he'd heard her speak, so he knew her to be careful with her words, particularly when privacy was broken. The thought of attempting to provoke her ire was tempting. Instead, he'd offer her what he knew in his favored indirect manner.

"Three, maybe four days - the information has unfortunately been as easy to grasp as a fish in water. If I had to gamble on it myself, I'd say the prediction is a bit of a stretch and to expect them even sooner. They are an overbearing and impatient lot when it comes to struggles for power, those Templars."

Virgil's silent stride had guided him through the maze of bookshelves and back to the entryway by the time he'd polished off the sentence with its final words. He had his back turned away from the room and set his gaze even further, focusing somewhere beyond the walls of the mansion, past the frolicking city of immortals and humans. Taking a side was a practice he had a tendency to avoid, just as he avoided bureaucracy or vows or convention. Occasionally, however, he'd find something to oppose. The Templars had become one such thing. Those who needlessly laid hands upon others too harshly were a constant other, though he kept that battle a discreet one.

He hated memories.

"While there have been many queens over many ages and all have fallen in some way, I do hope that the consequence of war isn't your end, Cecile Bellerose." There was a sidelong glance cast their way from over his shoulder back into the drawing room at the deceiving blonde. "And may we speak again sometime, madame Caldecott. It's been some time since the last. I'll be around should either of you need me to find you."

When he'd made to leave, the weight of a wallet in the butler's jacket drew forth his attention. "Ah, yes. I'd nearly forgotten..." Virgil withdrew it from the confinement of a pocket and after ensuring some form of identification within, he tossed it to land on a table near Cecile's armchair.

"That man deserves a promotion."

It may have been a trick of the light, but the grin on the phantom's face seemed to grow wider before he disappeared around the corner, leaving them alone to each other's company.

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Dominick Durham

Goliath

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WHERE: Paradise
DOING: Walking and Talking
WITH: Holly
CREDIT: WIP

Had Holly not been there, Dom might have lacked the sensibility to no longer continue with his pestering. Their companion was more than grumpy enough to warrant it, so emboldened by his fading adrenaline and in the absence of any blatant restraints, the priest would have pressed onward to test just how much he could get away with. Luckily she'd spoken before he took that opportunity.

He'd waited patiently for her to address Jonah, then nodded in agreement when she'd suggested their own departure.

"Gladly!" A beaming smile was sent towards her from across the room and he wasted no time making his way toward the door, but not before resting a heavy hand against his commander's shoulder along the way, with a touch that was far lighter than the last. "I'll report in before we land, Overseer. Do take care."

There wasn't any more that he needed to say and he was sure that his elder would appreciate nothing more being said. He'd been someone of fewer words than most. Dom opened the door barring his and Holly's path, courteously allowed her to pass before him, then, as the door closed behind them, their comrade was left to whatever modicum of peace he was able to muster before the day would begin again.

At first, Dominick had walked behind her, and it would have appeared as though he was nothing more than a towering sentinel that shadowed her every motion. In a way he was, since it'd been his own personally assigned mission to be well aware of the inner workings of the Templar's members, herself included. Trusting them had come easily enough, some more easily than others, but insight into every man and woman's being was a thing he strove for. The things that made them who they were, their habits, their routines, their interests and desires; all had the tendency to be fickle and sometimes strayed them from the right path. Those would find his gentle hand to help guide them back into the light, and while it was sometimes difficult work with so many already far from it, the priest only hoped to have provided well over the few months he'd been serving for them.

The first remnants of a waking day were becoming apparent as a select few soldiers, acolytes and the scientifically inclined made their way out of their chambers to greet their duties headfirst. Some passed them by on their way to their respective stations, saluting before Holly while others offered their attention by bowing at the waist, never without sincerity, respect, or even some semblance of a smile. She'd attracted the veneration of every one of her peers and subordinates with ease.

That confidence, unwavering to the core and not simply restricted to the surface, was something he strove to emulate the most.

"Morning, all!" he called out to the early birds in his overly friendly way.
"You're quite loved," Dom rumbled, still beaming widely as he finally set into step beside her, hands resting on his hips so that his stature took up a good portion of the hall. He had to lean down while speaking so that she knew the words were directed at her. "How in the high heavens do you manage this? I'd be overwhelmed."

There was some truth to the words, but not entirely; his sermons of late had garnered larger crowds than ever. Both the fear of and dedication to impending war had seen to that. He'd found himself time and again staring at their faces while they stooped at prayer, questioning how many of them he'd see again after the first battle was done.

All of them, he always told himself while kneeling to say prayers of his own. The line between who he was speaking to - himself or the Lord they claimed to fight in the name of - had become blurred.

The onlookers were left to carry on their own ways as they took turn after turn, side by side. The winding halls were a maze while being navigated aimlessly. The mess hall seemed a world away, and when the halls were once again only theirs, the giant man settled his gaze upon her with a soft warmth that rivaled the sun's. They were free of probing eyes and ever-listening ears, with only the sounds of distant steam-propellers and their footsteps resounding against the metal walls to accompany them. He encouraged their stride to slow to something that would lead them to their destination later rather than sooner, for once. There was no need for urgency then. "We're finally away from the masses, eh, Holly?"

He chuckled lowly and nudged her with an elbow, feeling the weight of the metal beneath her sleeping tunic. Dom could have asked her about why she'd made the modifications she had in spite of his presumptions. What better way to counter the enemy but to match them in strength and speed, of course? That much they agreed upon.

And yet, begrudging as it was for him to admit it, their enemies were home to hearts too. He wondered if she even realized that at this point in her campaign. Some of their order hardly retained hearts of their own.

"If you wanted to be free of Jonah's grim presence, you could have easily excused yourself without me as an alibi, you know." The playfulness of his tone made way for the gentle kindness of his following words, "My time and attention is yours now. You'd mentioned consultation, so feel free to ask of me anything that is on your mind. Know that I'm not averse to conversation either. Our last real one was a mutual reprieve that I'd love to delve into again."

It'd been beside flickering candlelight within the confines of a chapel, their last talk, but they were free from the constraint of time and duty now. She had never needed his guidance, he believed. Holly needed someone to share with her words that weren't dedicated to her title or out of obligation alone. The woman needed a friend.

For a moment, there was concern to lace his tone. "Before anything else though... You truly have been well since then, I dearly hope?"

 

[Luxura]

Holly Wilshire

alias: GABRIEL

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WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Dominick
DOING: Meandering in good company
CREDIT: AdrianDadich
PLAYLIST:

​

The smile upon her countenance warmed the pale of her features, spreading into the cool blue of her eyes to a darkening comfort, “Splendid,” she uttered with poised eagerness. She returned her gaze quickly to Jonah in a nod of respect and parting, then flashed a grin to the Priest as she led them to the Gallery door. Dominick passed her just swift enough to open the entryway with one hulking hand, a surprised ‘oh’ passing from her lips before becoming engulfed in quiet chuckles.
Doors being held for her were not uncommon, between her sex and heavy title, but as with all her companions she kept close to her chest, it was not expected. So for this, he earned her blush as she slipped by gingerly.

Glorious sunlight had begun to fill the ship, spilling heat and radiant golden streams into the hallways and cabins alike. To reserve energy, the hum of electric lights powered into a dim, gentle white ambience until the sun had truly risen above the horizon. Staff, crew, and all the rest had begun to awaken; sleepy-eyed and groggy, stumbling feet. The time-difference would wear on them the first few days once they made landfall, but this was a good start to easing that burden.
Crew and Engineers were plentiful and the earliest risers, meaning to tend to their work in preparation for the looming arrival in the Crescent City. Blood Sisters and Legionnaires were few in numbers-- both groups selected from only the best and most prestigious of warriors, the few they passed in their walk was countable on a single hand.
To each they passed who gave her their eyes or congenial smiles, she returned with a nod or sentiment of affection-- to those she knew better, soft ‘hello’s and ‘good morning’s.

Holly found his presence behind her a comfort where many would likely feel it as some sort of ominous shadow-- God’s servant observing their every move, reading their every thought, ready in the wings with a reprimanded verse.
Dominick radiated an aura of safety that Gabriel couldn’t seem to place to any other she’d met in her lifetime-- even that of her once beloved mentor. While she didn’t know the giant all that well, from their brief time together she could safely say she trusted him without hesitation.

"You're quite loved," he’d said, voice like a rumbling tympani. Holly pursed her lips and shrugged the comment aside with a nervous chuckle, glancing to him curiously as he slipped in toe next to her, bare feet padding along the steel in quiet against the sharp click of her metal against the floor,
“I’ve never sought for glory from my peers,” she replied, watching those who tried to share the corridor with them pressing tight against the wall to slip past Goliath’s elbows. She pressed closer to him to let one such Legionnaire slink by who, ducking out of the way, sent a glare in his direction, “In the beginning, I found it overwhelming. From time to time, I still do. I’m thankful for their blessings, but truly, I just do my best to ignore it. Egotism doesn’t sit well on anyone.” Brushing a hand through her hair, she curled the tips absently around her fingers, “Though, I can assure you, it isn’t all adoration. Having all eyes on you-- studying, critiquing, judging you-- is something I’m sure you know very well, Dominick.” she mused gently, casting a glance back at the Legionnaire before shaking her head, “From my perspective, you seem to carry that attention just as well.”

They continued then in silence for a few moments, weaving in and out of Paradise’s maze of interior hallways. Bodies began to thin out, many sticking to the larger routes to get to their destinations. Before long, she had lead them to quiet; one such path where they could be less discrete, and without pretenses for ears and eyes that did not sleep.
Her pace fell easily in time with Dominick’s own. She walked much with others, and constantly aware of her surroundings, she took care to notice even the faintest of changes in atmosphere or the company she kept. That had been the point of this detour, had it not-- to slow down?
“Finally,” she nodded with a smile, “I thought we could go the long way. Eden has a bit more room but this ship… I find it hard to breathe.” At his nudge she gasped, balance faltering as she stumbled a step. Well, at least she had her lungs about her again. Her head snapped back and chin tilted upward. Cerulean met the caramel of his eyes dangerously in a warning glare, but the smile the curled the corner of her lips matched his own, laced in underlying impishness, “Careful,” her tone only lightly chastising.

At the mention of the Overseer, Holly pressed her tongue into her cheek, a roll of her eyes, “Jonah isn’t always ice, as one might seem to think. He can be very gentle when he wants to be. But that trust must be earned, Dom.” Her hands smoothed her platinum locks, bringing them around her shoulder to separate the strands and braid with deft, golden fingers, “Before you arrived we were having a nice recess. I may even say you were the instigator of that change of mood,” she bit her lip, a sidelong glance through her lashes, “I was just saving you from the ire of iron fists.”
The thought of how that ire might now be directed at Jonah’s protégé blossomed some anxiousness. In the moment, she hadn’t considered it, but Cain was likely to brunt some extra bitterness at their behest. To tell herself that he was deserving of it would be a lie-- Cain may have his own issues, but Holly knew he did his best to live up to the Overseer’s expectations. She knew his file well…

Her smile had slipped into a soft melancholy. It’d been far too long since they had spoken at length in the chapel, and the things therein that she had wanted to discuss had seemed to never fully resolve. Memories of her visit to Confessional before departing clouded over the serenity of the moment they were sharing now, insomuch that the blonde slowed her pace down to a crawl, “I’ve been well, but… I find my soul is still haunted by ghosts from my past. This mission has dug up feelings I thought I’d been able to forgive and bury.”
Her sigh was heavy, fiddling with releasing the braid and starting over again if only to keep idle hands from finding something else to worry, “I expect I will see her face again very soon, the one who killed my protégé. I do not know if I have the strength to stay true to my mission or values. I seek vengeance… rooted deep in the loss of all that was taken from me.”

A shiver of Hwarang’s face left her cold, and that was not where she wanted to be. Not with Dominick, “One wonders where you, yourself, find solace of guidance in hours of need?”

Pulling a forced smile until it felt like an ardent effort, Holly met his eyes, “Admittedly, I hadn’t asked you to join me so I could bother you for consultation,” hands abandoned her hair in her confession, tendrils spilling free from the braid to cascade around her shoulders once more, “I just wanted to spend time with you. I don’t see you much outside of duty and… I found our last ‘mutual reprieve’ to be very agreeable.” she snickered, this time being the one to elbow into his ribs-- whether or not she made any impact was barely seen; even with an arm of steel.

Smokey eyes glanced down his form slowly, “My schedule is rather open today,” letting the offer sit between them, pregnant with something akin to innocent coquetry.

Just before a single door marked her own, Holly paused, “I’m not privy to your timetable, but if I may be so candid; seeing you like this has made me curious to know just how well the Legion has taught you. Would you like to spar with me?”

Being so forward was outside of Holly’s character, especially with those she didn’t know as well. Something in the giant’s affectionate flamboyancy seemed to relax her enough to be bold, and for the moment she didn’t shy away from it. Decidedly, the Angel needed to loosen up, even if for the day.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Cassandra Caldecott

Little Sparrow

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WHERE: La Lune, Drawing Room
WITH: Cecile, A Parting Shadow
DOING: Catching Up
CREDIT: Wendy Ng
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

The drawing room Cecile led her to was delightfully beautiful, not that she had been expecting anything less by the brief walking tour she had received. The library it contained had a draw of lavish comfort. Cassandra’s fingers danced over the spines of the books her mind lingering to forgotten memories from a life that no longer seemed like hers. They were familiar comforts she supposed, a childhood that seemed far too innocent. A tiny child had found solace in the stories books like these contained, the distant places and far off lands that fuelled the dreams of her youth. Those hopes and dreams had been thrown away as merely childhood fancies as she grew. The social standing of her family and the expectation that was placed upon her made sure of that. Those dreams were only once again realised when the restrictions of what her life was supposed to become were stripped from her.

Cassandra gave a soft hum as her fingertips left the spines, the notions and nonsense of a life she was no longer consumed by nor had to think about any longer left her as she turned to join Cecile, sitting on one of the armchairs beside her.

“Indeed,” said with a soft nod in acknowledgement of her friend’s loss. Cassandra was not Kestrels biggest fan, that was no secret to Cecile, but her condolences were sincere. Losing someone close was never easy. An offer had been placed on her years too long ago to even recall clearly enough. A proposal to join his court, to join in the fight. Cassandra had chosen to run. To travel a world only stories in books had told. Fighting had never been her style, nor was keeping up with politics. Knowing and participating were vastly different things

At the mention of another guest, her brow piqued, “Oh?” she said bemusement flowing through her voice, though Cassandra was no fool to the lingering shadow. She had sensed the shadow following for some time, though she did not wish to say anything until it was deemed necessary. The blonde was still familiarising herself with the location and the people it held, though there seemed to be less than Cassandra had thought there would be. One could merely assume they were enjoying the night before the sun rose to a hindrance. Though she had never thought he fit, she had no basis for knowing it to be true or not. Everyone was out of place, and she treated them as such until she knew her surroundings better. Still, sitting pretty and playing dumb on the matter was what she did best.

He was an odd shadow of a man, yet there was a familiarity that washed over Cassandra as he spoke, though she made no notion on these thoughts as she sipped from her glass, merely intrigued by the conversation he presented.

Templars. A name that lingered through the whispers of the world. She was not unfamiliar with them, though it was the least of her wishes to become involved with the looming threat they presented. If what the shadow spoke of was the truth, it seemed they too were coming to New Orleans. What a bother. She hoped they would not make a mess of the city before she got the chance to appreciate it.

Confusion lingered on Cassandra’s brow as he confirmed her suspicions that they had met before, though she could still not entirely place where or when that had been. She had met a grand number of people over her years of travel; it seemed somewhat likely they had crossed paths. Not as memorable as he seemed to think he was, however.

Her eyes lingered on the darkness he had dissolved into. “Hm,” she hummed softly as she took another sip of her drink. “What an odd fellow,” she said, almost dismissively at the intrusion to their conversation, a shake of her head as she continued to speak. “I wish I could remember where he knows me from.” Her voice held amusement at the idea. A puzzle for her mind to solve if she were to even give it another thought after tonight.

“No matter, I’m sure he will tell me if I don’t,” the blonde said as she gave a slight chuckle, “he seems insistent on making an impression. How dramatic,” Cassandra said with a small smirk and a roll of her eyes; she was well aware of the hypocrisy in her statement. “It seems New Orleans is going to be a fascinating place indeed.”

 

[Luxura]

Paradise approached the Crescent City, ever onward. Legionnaires and Sisters prepped for their mission, The Key closer with every mile trekked over the skies; unbeknownst to residents of New Orleans.

Meanwhile, Maeve spilled a recounting of one Jack Fletcher-- of how he came to be the anomaly of an undead beast with a vampire’s heart. Those that would hear of this story would be unceremoniously entrusted to keep this knowledge close to their chests and were welcomed into the Pheonix’s inner circle. Little did Maeve realize that these select few would become her finest assailants under her new reign.

Two suns have passed, risen from the horizon to kiss the heavens then danced with the moon in its descent to darkness.

Paradise has landed in Kenner, the Templar Base situated in this district is small but ripe with secrecy. At least several hours from the city core, she arrived out of sight and out of mind in the early twilight. A storm follows her closely, tempest and warm.

On route to the French Quarter, the Overseer and Gabriel make their way to a standing reservation, while the rest of the Templars make their way to the Chapter Headquarters, not far behind. ​

 

[ashwynne]

Elias Laertes Brandt

J u d a s

h e a l t h | b a r

WHERE: French Quarter
WITH: No one of import
DOING: Setting the Board
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

Through the soles of his leather boots, the vampire could feel the remnant warmth of a daylight he would never see. A long black trench coat, meticulously tailored to his form, billowed out elegantly behind him; an equally black vicuna wool turtleneck clinging to the broad expanse of his powerful chest beneath it. Undeniably, Elias cut a striking figure on this humid New Orleans night.

The city had its charms. Still, it was not particularly to his taste—he found himself longing for his palatial estate in Berlin or the elegant detached home he owned in London—but all the same New Orleans had a quaintness to it that was not entirely off putting. In some ways it reminded him of Germany back in her younger days, before she had been so thoroughly tamed and developed. Minus the humidity and wretched swamps, of course, which were a far cry from the noble majesty of the Black Forest. Here they boasted gators and the like, nothing like the civilized beasts he was familiar with and fond of.

The German clicked his tongue with softly derisive distaste and cast his mossy gaze further down the cobblestone path upon which he trod. He felt a little parched. Overindulgence in blood had never been one of his particular vices, but it had been a long journey and he had chosen to abstain from feeding on his fellow passengers in the hopes that he would find finer fare in the city. A wretched mistake, unfortunately. As it happened, the blame for this excessive thirst could be placed on the inferior blood upon which he was now forced to sup. It was not enough to fulfill him when he was used to a richer vintage. He supposed--in time--he would adjust to the watered down taste of Americans but in the meantime he would simply need to imbibe more of them… and all the better if he managed to find a freshly fed American vampire to slake his thirst on.

It was, perhaps, one of the most unfortunate pitfalls of killing and cannibalizing his own kind: it made all other blood taste bland by comparison. True, there were a few mortals here and there who offered a fine vintage all their own, but they were exceedingly rare and hard to find. There was simply something to be said for blood taken from the living and distilled in the veins of the dead. It had an especially rich taste, heady and aromatic, a poison so addictive and delectable that it put liquor to shame.

And lo! Like a gift from the heavens, the wind shifted and on his first inhale he was greeted by the unmistakable scent of the undead. His adopted kin, his brethren, his prey.

Eyes glinting in the shadows, Elias altered his course by the merest angling of his toes in the direction of where the scent grew stronger. More’s the pity: to be upwind of a predator was never a happy place to be. For them.

In anticipation, his fangs seemed to grow heavy in his mouth, pressing down into his gums with an incessant hunger that had them pricking open the tender flesh, allowing him to re-drink blood already taken. “Patience,” he mused mildly to himself, but the warning did not stop his tongue from snaking greedily to the newly made injury.

As he moved, Elias drew fingers over the coarse stubble shadowing his face. The prickling of hairs, which caught against the whorls of his finger-pads, sent a steadying shiver down his spine. It was a motion he tended to reserve—in reverence—to the times when he was hunting. Left for when he was formed into a knight once more... though this time he charged into battle at the behest of his appetite, rather than the clarion call of some lord ushering him onwards to die in his service. Noble pissants, the lot of them had been. Save for-- Elias shook his head, he had no place here.

Rolling his shoulders—and welcoming the pops this motion brought—the vampire’s expression shifted from a genial smile to something empty and cold. The muscles in his face all went slack, the light in his eyes dimming until they truly appeared like prasiolite: cold, gem-like, and anything but alive.

The scent drew him ever onward; through twisting streets and quiet homes where curtains billowed in the wind. Luminescent splashes of colour painted the walls, lending his path an ethereal glow. It was a pleasure to stalk through, the colours glinting off his countenance in a way that made him feel even more the predator. Elias could admit, grudgingly, that this was perhaps a superior aspect to New Orleans that he had not seen during his travels in Europe. Granted, the occasional aggravating hum and garish brightness of electric lights at punctuating intervals detracted greatly from the pretty effect.

He did not watch the street signs, nor did he take heed of where he went. He simply stalked, following the scent of unnatural life as it grew stronger and stronger in his nose.

One turn down a quiet alley and his gait settled into something less urgent: stride becoming measured and easy where before it had been swift and clipped. In the shadows at the end of this darkened street—aptly absent of any bioluminescent paint—stood a tall man hunched over a smaller figure. She was clutched against the man’s chest by way of a tensed arm wrapped around her waist. Judging by the paleness of her skin and the limp drop of her hands to her sides, Elias suspected the poor fool was well past the point of surviving her encounter with a vampire. All the better, it would have been tedious to have a human to account for after he had finished his little game.

“Good hunting?” he asked, his voice a low, accented, rumble.
With a snarl the other vampire whipped his head around, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, lips curled threateningly and eyes wide. “Fuck off,” he snapped, but Elias was already stepping closer, his pace casual.
“Now, now, there is no need to be so hostile.”
“I said you need to fuck off, foreigner, I’m not sharing.”
“Never fear, I have no interest in your leftovers,” Elias murmured soothingly, his own hand slipping beneath his expensive coat to wrap around the hilt of his sword.
“Then what the fuck do you want?” the other man asked, confusion now warring with anger in his tone.
“Why, a gift for my new employers, of course,” the German purred.
With a casual speed that was monstrous in its fluidity, the blond pulled the simple steel blade smoothly from its scabbard, stepping forward like a dancer, unyielding metal piercing precisely through the hyoid bone and spine of his prey in a flash of silver that cut through the gloom. The other vampire had no real time to be surprised, eyes flickering once with brief alarm before he collapsed—senseless—to the ground.

Elias allowed only a brief moment to admire his handiwork before, with a sigh, he placed the point of his sword directly over the prone form’s ticking organ. There was no hesitation, no remorse, nothing in his eyes save the simple enjoyment of a successful hunt as he wrapped both hands tightly around the hilt and drove the blade down with practiced force. Metal and gears crunched beneath the weapon as it slipped through flesh and broke through ribs—music to his ears—and then there was a sort of silence. The discordant rhythm of two sets of ticking hearts pared down to one.

With the pre-chorus now at a close, it was time for the climax of this song. Meticulously careful to keep any blood from spilling onto his clothes, Elias tugged up his pant legs and slid to a fluid crouch beside the body, pulling the man with gentled fingers against him while he lowered his mouth to the fount of blood spilling from beneath the man's chin. His lips were as soft against the skin as though it was a lover he cradled and not a corpse, taking the blood with a low hum of satisfaction and half-lidded eyes. Even if it was only for a few moments, while he fed Elias could forget everything else.


Whistling under his breath, the silvered blond headed at a modest clip towards the French Quarter. He had purchased a house there, modestly sized at only two stories, with a baroque wrought iron fence that had reminded him of his home in Berlin. It had been a slightly impulsive purchase, he could admit it, but as he had required a place to stay anyways it had been worth the price.

By now it had been entirely refurbished inside. Persian rugs accented rooms dominated by crisp whites, the eye drawn to the vivid splash of colour that the imported furniture lent the space. Each piece had been custom made and sent directly from his preferred woodworker back in Germany. They were done in maple—primarily using wood slabs directly—in a way that suggested living trees and made the furniture seem both warm and alive.
There were paintings aplenty as well to add flavour to the space; his favourites that he could not bear to be parted with for the duration of his stay in New Orleans. Some depicted scenes of warfare but most were impressionist landscapes—soft twilight pastels of rolling fields or shadowed forests.
Damask curtains in white, specially designed to block out sunlight, draped themselves demurely on either side of the tall casement windows which stretched nearly floor to ceiling. And, as far as lighting went, he had opted for candlelit fixtures. It was rather old-fashioned, he knew, but there was something garish in the hum and unnatural brightness of the electric lights that he could not brook.

Still, beautiful as his home was… that was not the vampire’s destination this night. Instead, he wove through groups of people, both mortal and immortal, towards a well regarded establishment called ‘La Cloche Sonnante’ or ‘The Ringing Bell.’ He had not chosen it as a meeting spot for its cuisine (though rumoured to be excellent) or its elegantly designed interior (precisely as advertised), but rather for its perpetual busyness and open floor plan which would enable him plenty of avenues for escape or defense should it come to that. After all, a meeting with the Overseer and Gabriel was not something to go into unprepared.

A quick glance at the watch around his wrist showed that the appointed time was fast approaching and he did not delay, slipping through the inviting french doors that led the way inside La Cloche Sonnante.


He greeted the hostess with a congenial smile, “Enchanté, madame, I have a reservation under the name Brandt,” he said in low, sultry, tones, appreciating the reciprocal smile she gave to him—particularly when her eyes passed over him a second time alongside an accompanying blush.
“Of course, Monsieur Brandt! If you would be so kind as to follow me?”
“Gladly,” he purred, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her from behind as she walked in front of him, moving towards a table directly in the middle of the restaurant. Upon seeing it, however, she turned to him with a slightly wrinkled nose.
“It is not technically proper protocol for me to offer this but… we do have a table available in a more intimate corner of the restaurant if you would prefer?”
“I see, that is quite kind of you… What is your name, madame?”
Her eyes danced, “Marie.”
He twitched at that, a shadow clouding the viridescent forests of his eyes for a moment before he recovered himself and managed to offer her another warm smile, “Well then, Marie,” he stumbled over the name only a little, “While you are an undeniable engel to suggest such a thing, I’m afraid my party was rather insistent about the location of our table,” he shrugged a broad shoulder and she pouted slightly in commiseration, undoubtedly picturing some domineering boss being difficult with him, her cheeks still flushed and her heartbeat audibly quicker in his ears.
“I understand. At least might I have a glass of wine brought to you?”
The vampire, settling in his oak chair of choice, leaned towards her with a charming grin still fixed upon his countenance, “Only if you are the one delivering it.”
She flounced away to do just that with a giggle.

When she had left, Elias’ eyes cooled themselves to tranquil gems, giving the satchel at his hip a conciliatory pat and chuckling low in his throat at the metallic sound of gears and cogs scraping against each other. His fingers then slipped inside to pluck out a letter from a separate portion of the satchel with a flourish. It bore the seal of Eden... and not that of some middling member of their hierarchy either.

With care, the vampire unfolded it and smoothed it on the table before him, studying words he had glanced over many times before in anticipation of this meeting:

--------------------

Jonah E. Lancaster & Holly Wilshire,

I cordially request a meeting between the three of us at La Cloche Sonnante in the French Quarter upon the night of your arrival in New Orleans. Let us say 10:00pm or at your earliest convenience thereafter. There are various details we must address in regards to the task which I have been commissioned to complete, and I suspect you may have some questions for me as well.

I will be dressed in a black trench coat and turtleneck at the centermost table of the restaurant. If you do not immediately see me, you may find me entertaining the patrons with my music.

I look forward to our partnership,

Elias Brandt
--------------------​

About fifteen minutes passed. The first ten had been agreeable enough (Marie returning with the wine and a simper) but after the maître d' had called angrily to her to cease her flirtations and return to her post, the vampire had been thrust once more into tedium. Sitting still had never been one of his talents. All his life had been spent in motion, and by the time the fifteenth minute was over and no one had appeared through the doors, Elias had had enough.

In his other hand he had brought his violin and it was this that he now brought up onto the table; unclasping its case with a satisfying 'click' and pulling out the instrument. It was worn, the wood scratched and beaten, something that had surely seen better days, but in the blond's mind it was a treasure of immeasurable value and he would not be parted from it so long as his clockwork heart kept ticking.

Holding it with care, Elias stood and threaded his way through the restaurant until he found the maître d'. There, he lifted himself to his full impressive height, tensing his shoulders and leaning so that he loomed more than stood, a hand clapping onto the man’s shoulder in a way that seemed friendly but was far too heavy to truly be so. Intimidation was far more an art than a skill--the act of making someone feel small and inferior--and though the other man was tall and well built, there was an instinctive nervousness in his eyes as he turned to regard the vampire that made it clear who the winner of this exchange would be, well before it began.

"While I wait for my guests to join me, I thought I might regale La Cloche Sonnante with some music," he told him, "There would be no charge for my services as this was not officially arranged, of course," he added, prasiolite gaze pinning the other man like a bug. Every syllable said 'this is a favour to you, make no mistake.'
"O-oh, why, we would be honoured of course. Only--" He trailed off, catching the dangerously arched brow of the blond, eyes shifting almost against their will over Elias' sculpted chest and then skittering away to the ground. "Let us at least offer you and your guests some free wine as compensation?" the maître d' said at last, nearly choking on the words as they escaped, seeming almost bewildered himself at the way he was bending to the blond's will.
"I suppose I could accept that," Elias answered breezily, a dangerous undertone to his voice that warned against anything further being said on the subject. It was enough to shut the man up and he simply gestured shakily towards the raised stage in the corner of the room before hurriedly retreating.

Grinning toothily to himself, the vampire wove his way through the centre of the dining area, the eyes of the currently assembled guests inexplicably drawn to him as he went. He used no stairs, springing up onto the stage in a fluid motion instead. Even as he moved through the air he brought the violin to the crook of his neck, the first note already ringing out as he spun with a flourish towards his audience the instant his feet landed.

What followed was a series of haunting notes; his eyes closed in concentration and face relaxed as he let the song pour through and from him. It conjured images of rain pattering against windowpanes, warm fires burning in the hearth, pipesmoke spilling through the air. Melancholic, it was, nostalgic even, a wild sorrow hovering on the margins of every note that was impossible to grasp onto exactly but always there like an afterimage.

In similar veins he continued to play song after song; blind to the passage of time and deaf to everything save the music which soothed him.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Beau Desmarais

Mathis

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WHERE: Chapter Headquarters
WITH: Initiates
DOING: Training
CREDIT: Olivier Ponsonnet?
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

Darkness surrounded, the air stifled and dank. Mathis stood, silent and still, not moving from where his feet were firmly planted on the ground, arms behind his back. The inevitable was coming for him. Ears pricking at the slightest sound of movement, concentrating he waited for what was stalking in the darkness. Waiting for them to make a sound, for his eyes to capture a glimmer of action. Eyes adjusting to the lightless surroundings, he could still not precisely see everything, but the noise he waited for would help his eyes hone in.

Everything about it fuelled the hatred in his soul. The sound so easily vibrating in his ears, his eye's unnatural ability to hone into even the slightest of movements. It had developed before he had even realised what it was or what it meant, but he knew now, and the knowledge haunted the back of his mind constantly.

Guilt enveloped him as he relied on the senses he did not wish to have. It was a cruel, sick fate beyond his control that he wanted so desperately to rid himself of. However, in the meantime, he had no choice. He had no power to switch his sense off, he had to use them, and in the end, if they did assist him with ridding the world of scum like himself, then so be it.

Just to the right of him, he heard it, the sound he had been waiting for. It was barely a step, a shifting of weight as someone prepared to attack. A small smirk crept to the corner of his lips, his ears focusing on the steps. It seemed unsteady, unsure . . . almost nervous? Mathis found it somewhat amusing in a way.

Mathis had always been light on his feet, his counterpart was too loud. Though he tried his hardest to be silent and granted, to most others, he would have been. Mathis' ears were a little more apt at picking up those sounds.

Smirk still lingering on his lips Mathis stepped, unhidden in this movements, making a sound that could be heard to anyone listening. He was baiting. The boy lunged haphazardly, jumping at the opportunity of attack. The slight smirk still lingered as Mathis jumped backwards, his footfalls making no sound at all. He reached out, grasping the boy, his hold firm on his forearm. Mathis used the boy's own weight against him, spinning him and slamming him to the floor. His other hand grabbing on to the boy's upper arm, fingernails digging into flesh.

Mathis stood above him, foot on his back as he pulled the arm at an angle, the boy screaming. The joint hovered on the verge of dislocation. There was the slight temptation. It wouldn't be hard, all it would take was just a small little nudge ---

"Enough Mathis."

Suddenly the lights turned back on, the training room illuminated by the lights above. Mathis blinked against the brightness but let go of the arm he had been holding, getting off the boy who was taller and stockier than himself. Mathis was small, younger too, but it hadn't been hard to take the older boy down. There were others more challenging than him, and Mathis would have much rather been training with them than being used as a test for these kids.

"This is not fair!" The boy complained with a groan before getting up off the floor. "He is a freak of nature, it's cheating." He rolled his shoulder, nursing the ache that was settling in as he stared daggers at the younger boy. Mathis wished a little that he had dislocated it, but he knew he would have been in trouble if he had.

"If you can't learn to fight a beast in the dark, what good are you to us?" It was not said with malice, merely fact of the matter in the situation they were put into. They were right of course. He was the very thing they were being trained to kill. If they couldn't get past him what hope did any of them have against someone bigger, stronger and more attuned with their senses? Didn't mean that for Mathis the strain of self-hatred wasn't internalised by that very statement.

The boy could not say anything else against it, returning to a group of others waiting to take their turn. "Can't wait for the day we get to kill him," he muttered to the other boys, pointed glances in Mathis direction, knowing he would hear them snickering.

Mathis made no notice of what they said, not giving them the satisfaction. He knew what he was, he knew how they saw him. At the end of it all, his death would be inevitable. They had saved him from himself of that much Mathis was sure, but he was still what he was, and no amount of upgrades and mechanical augmentation was going to change that. But so help him through the will of God, he would kill as many like him as he could before that time came. Perhaps then his soul would be saved. Even if it wasn't, he would make a valiant effort to rid the world of those that should not belong in it.

Mathis righted himself, standing back in the middle of the training mat, a neutral look upon his face that seemed too cold on someone so young. He waited to take on the next person willing, hoping to get a challenge out of it.

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Maeve Donovan

Phoenix

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WHERE: Home
WITH: Jack
DOING: Brooding
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: ♔

The exposition was over. Her explanation of Jack and his appearance had been enough to settle the matter for the Beasts in her employ, and those not. However, it was the shock of her newly discovered position that kept her placid. The child had laughed, clearly more amused by the announcement than Maeve.

All of the signs had been there, but she had ignored them. They all knew who she was, all of them. They knew she wasn’t the Midnight Jackal, but rather every other name she’d ever been known by. The Daughter of Morrigan, the Harpy, and now she was the Phoenix: risen from the ashes of a legend and the fires of Cheapside. Behind closed eyes, she could still see the bombs going off along the streets and blocks of the neighborhood. She knew it back in the days when it had been a marketplace, long before its name was ever made true turned into the home of the broken and battered.

In less than an hour, everything she thought she knew was in upheaval. Not only had she not managed to save anyone from the Templars, but she’d also failed to protect the three she was certain she could rescue before hellfire rained down. There was nothing she could do about what happened once Kenna’s family had made it over the ocean, but it had hurt to hear the girl’s brief, tragic retelling of life in the last two years. She’d have to hear all of the gruesome details the following morning, just as she had promised, and decide how best to help her.

She looked to Bjorn and Jack, uncertain about what to do about the girl for the time being. Under a quiet breath, she requested Bjorn to get the girl and young woman set up in an available room and to show them where they could bathe. In the meanwhile, the blond left to escape to her kitchen, her hand reaching for a kettle as soon as she was near enough. She operated in stiff, practiced motions, just another cog in the wheel while her mind spun vehemently out of control. The most she could do was prepare a drink for herself, but alcohol wouldn’t do. No, not this time.

After she poured it out, Maeve stared into the bottom of the cup unable to drink the weakly brewed tea. Emerald eyes shifted as she was joined with her housemate and “closest” retainer, back from their separate aims. “How long did you both know?” she seethed, her voice like gravel driven into the ground under massive weight. “And why didn’t either of you bother to inform me that my kinsmen were not, in fact, confusing me with the dearly departed Mercia, but recognized me.”

Jack’s explanation was simple enough, he and Esther followed the stories and with his condition, her status was hardly the focus of his existence. The blonde scoffed, not at the response of the Mephisto, but rather her own naivety. She should have truly sat down with him to get the full details of how he and his companion had found them in New Orleans. Maybe weeks ago she would’ve known. “I would expect as much from you, Fletcher. Yours is not an easy life.”

"I thought it was apparent. You've been enjoying yourself among the city, and it's creatures so liberally you became deaf and blind."

It was to the Alpha her eyes slipped and held his stare with such malice that she could almost taste the blood from the daggers she cut him with. “You, on the other hand,” she started, a growl forming in the back of her throat, “should have said something. Deaf? Blind? I’ve been playing a role like I did when the late Queen disappeared, keeping her story and legend alive when everyone needed hope to cling to.”

She stood, still she was much shorter than him, but she hated being looked down upon from such a height. “As far as what I do with my free time, that’s my burden to bear, not yours, Hunter. You’ve made it your business to know, against my will, what I do and when I do it. Are you standing so close these days you know how I do it, too?”

He glared down at her in turn, condemning her in tone, if not with his words. He accused her of being the ‘inevitable’ choice as if it were obvious. It dug under her skin how he seemed to understand something she had never even considered. “How could I know? Mercia wasn’t even queen until after the vampires were created and started to slaughter us; the people made her one with her actions in the name of a just cause. There’s no clear line of succession in a sovereignty that has had only one ruler. How in the hell was I supposed to know they’d raise me to a throne they created?”

She was prepared to hear his next round of critiques of her actions as if he were any better. Following her, creeping behind her every move, and waiting for her outside of the Lair. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a list of names of her preferred companions. He bared his teeth at her, lips flexing to cast judgment, but Lazarus moved between them, ceasing their tirades. The blonde’s emerald gaze softened as they turned from Bjorn to Jack, and she sighed, sitting down again. A hand gently covered her eyes, rubbing at their corners as he explained she could be the one to wield the crown, to be a symbol of hope. “I was barely a General,” Maeve muttered, exasperated by the expectations her newfound role held over her head. Her hand clenched around the one that had wrapped around her own. “How can they… how can I expect to be a Queen?”

“You were everything you could be. No one expected anything more of you.”

“You’re wrong, Jack. If people are placing a crown I never thought would be put on my head, they’re expecting something from me… regardless of why they put it there,” she added for good measure.

“This will always be your choice. If you do not want the role, the people will easily find another. That is the way of things. When one falls, they look to the next, and the next. While it may be anticipated you would take Mercia's place... this is your choice, darling." His hand, cold to the touch, but soft as ever, pulled the Ravenwoman’s hand from her brow to look her in the eye, a vague smile pulling at the corners of his lips, "I support whatever choice you make."

A heavy sigh huffed through her nose while he spoke, putting her fears aside. Maeve didn’t have to take the role. It could easily be placed on someone else’s shoulders, someone else could carry the weight of Atlas. He held her stare with the tailor’s eyes, but she could still see the vampire behind them. She nodded, though she gave no answer.

Steadily, her eyes shifted to the Viking. “What about you? You hid this from me rather cleverly. Still seeking control after all these years, Bjorn?”

The blonde did not let her face give away her emotions. Hers was a complicated mix for the wolf. He was her only companion for nearly two years, and at the best of times, he could make her chuckle, at the worst she wanted to rip his spine out through his belly and feed it to him. In the moment, she was dancing between both poles fluidly.

"The title must be earned. You have shown me much to believe you could wield that power... but do I think you deserve it?" His gaze flicked to hers as he made to leave the room, "We'll see."

“At least we are in agreement about something,” she offered quietly, not wanting to argue further. He made to leave, but before his shadow could escape the door she gave him one final statement: “We’ll discuss the matter regarding Kenna later.”

Her sights settled back on Jack, and she gave him a small smile. Gingerly, a hand reached to the back of his head and pulled him forward to kiss the crown of his head. “Thank you, Lazarus.”

----

The Ravenwoman reclined back in a cushioned wicker chair overlooking the garden shaded by ancient Southern Oaks. Her mood, like her clothing, was dark and brooding. A hand perched under her chin as she stared at the cup in front of her, pensive after exhausting days and nights. Her only comfort had been slipping into bed to hold her friend as she struggled with the weight thrust upon her. Alcohol didn’t have the same burn. Her loins didn’t have the constantly captivated stirrings to distract her. The blonde was bound and chained by the metaphorical crown upon her head.

If not her, then who? Who could she trust to care not about their desires, but the needs of their kin? Who would protect them, who would console them, who would die for them?

All of her questions led to a final answer: Her. For centuries she’d sacrifice for them, she’d shoved her desire for simplicity and mundane for her ambitions for her Queen and her kin. She may not have been the best choice, but what leader was without fault?

Her greatest challenge yet was not in moving forward in the position; it was accepting it.

The next was one she knew was a necessary evil, naming an advisor, her General. Loath though she was to admit it, Maeve could only think of one person in the world she could trust to stand nearby and prevent her from screwing up their world. However, there was always the likelihood he would reject her appointment. What then?

Heaving a breath, the buxom queen drank from the amber liquid, the sting numb on her throat.

There was also the matter of the teenager, Kenna MacAmery. The conversation they had before had left her wounded, more than she cared to admit, but the youngling deserved to get her punches in. She could blame Maeve for all she needed to. There was only so much responsibility the Phoenix could actually take for the situation they had found themselves in, but it was the startling similarities that Kenna had suffered to her own childhood that had turned her veins into frozen rivers. No one deserved to lose a mother, least of all twice over, and then the matter of her brother….

Movement and noise caught her attention and brought her back to the moment. Shifting, she looked as Jack joined her in the shade of the patio. He was worse for wear, and she knew it. If tragic, vibrant at heart did not reflect on the surface, except, perhaps, the tragedy. Laying beside him, she could smell the rot of the stolen body. As a carrion, it had no effect. As a friend, it troubled her. In the glow of fading evening, she could see it clearly.

“Come to whisk me away out of the gilded cage I’ve created for myself?” she asked through a forced smile. It made her remember the one for the beautiful golden jackal kept close by the fallen Leech King years ago in London. The irony that he never caged the last queen yet she had made herself at home in her own was not lost on her platinum head. “Perhaps it is time I left the nest. If I am to be of any use to you, I shouldn’t stay on my arse for so long.”

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

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WHERE: A market street
WITH: No one
DOING: Running errands
CREDIT: John Atkinson Grimshaw

Over the course of several hours the noise of the pub had ebbed to a murmur. Thomas Weaver had occupied a secluded corner of the room long enough to observe the change for himself, nursing a pint of ale that he rarely raised to his mouth. He was more focused on drinking in the talk around him. The establishment was the favored gathering place in the village, and if one wished to know the latest news, they could trust to find it here. Within these four walls, rumor and hearsay were intertwined with pleasantries and flowed as freely as the liquor. He sat awhile, straining his ears for any scrap of information that could help him.

Curious glances were cast his way as the night wore on, and Thomas was not oblivious to it. His was an unfamiliar face to these country folk; he was not one of their own, and this was as evident to them as the pepper in his beard. They were likely to remember strangers in their midst.

The hour grew late. The pub gradually emptied as the patrons, one by one, began to retire for the evening. A handful tarried, cradling their dwindled drinks close and speaking in hushed voices. Thomas rose to his feet and took up his hat, setting down several coins beside his neglected ale. He went out into the brisk air and onto the main thoroughfare of beaten earth. His stay in the pub had been for naught. The talk had been mundane, mostly of the weather. Had he made a mistake in coming here? For all the time spent he had only, a few snippets of interest to show for it. Granted, that was favorable over nothing at all, but he had very little to go off of.

Heaving a sigh, Thomas tucked his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat. He was wistful for his study and the brine that could be tasted on the air of Kewstoke, but he was resistant to turning back now with the great weight of this errand still burdening his shoulders.

He hadn’t laid eyes on her in some time, and the ink on her last letter was nearly a week old. It had been posted here in this very village. She’d walked this road, but there was no trace of her now, nothing that indicated she breathed the same air mere weeks before. The rooms open to travelers on the second floor of the tavern had stirred hope within him, for she habitually sought out lodgings whenever the lure of creature comforts was too great - hot baths and feather beds, namely. He had gone so far as to ask the master of the establishment if he knew anything of a woman who peddled wickerwork, only to receive a blank stare in answer.

Truth be known, Thomas was beginning to lose heart. He was keenly aware that time was not on their side, and for the ageless, that was a sobering prospect. He had little confidence in himself, moreover; he had failed at this before. He did not know if he could convince his young ward to return to the world of man, but he knew that he could try, so try he would.

With that thought Thomas set off at an amble toward the outskirts, whistling to himself to fill the silence. He cast a backward glance at the lights of the village. They winked beckoningly at him through the blue-tinged dusk, but he soldiered onward, and the landscape enfolded him. Gently undulating, hedge-bound pasture yielded to meadows and fens. A strand of dense woodland laid waiting in the mist-streaked distance beyond.

The village folk were leery of it. A fellow in the pub claimed his young son couldn’t shake the sense of being observed while berry picking in its depths. Another, who had been a little too far into his pint, was quick to offer an explanation: he swore up and down that it was where the fair folk crossed over from the realm between realms to dance with mortals. While Thomas did not think himself the superstitious sort he would not be setting foot in a toadstool ring anytime soon, not even for a chance at documenting the revelry of Oberon's court in the name of science.

He followed the road into the shadows of the trees until it was overtaken by brambles. With his way now barred, he stood a moment to contemplate how he would proceed. Then he turned down his one recourse, a narrow deerpath that veered meanderingly into the underbrush. His hat was nearly pilfered by a low-hanging branch and he opted to carry it in his hands instead.

After a spell of trudging without aim or respite, he settled on a slab of lichen-flecked stone to rest. A brook burbled near his feet and birds of the evening hours all round him had quieted their songs, struck mute by his presence. As wary of strangers as the village folk, he thought to himself, and he was half certain they were judging his antics. Thomas was beginning to feel very silly being here, and now he feared he was lost. He'd made up his mind to turn back when a voice from behind him broke the stillness.

“No letter, then?”

With a start Thomas turned, twisting hastily where he sat, and his eye was drawn to a figure reclining on a bough.

At sight of the face peering down at him, relief twisted within Thomas. There sat his quarry, casual as could be with one leg dangling free, and she swung it once at him in greeting. He noted firstly and with concern her ashen pallor, and secondly, that she did not appear very surprised to see him. Pleased, but unsurprised.

How long she had watched him bumble about before deciding to say something?

She announced, very matter-of-factly, “I am disappointed.”

“I am a poor substitute for my riveting missives, do forgive me. I ran out of pen and paper, so I decided I might as well come myself. It's been quite the misadventure, I'll have you know.”

She beamed at that. Like a lamp chasing away the dark, that flash of teeth seemed to banish some of the weariness from her face. “How did you find me, Tom?” she asked, a flicker of laughter ringing in her soft voice. “I never took you for a tracker, yet here you stand. Imagine how startled I was when I realized the thing moving through the brush was not a hunter or wayward livestock, but you!”

To seek her out in this way was highly irregular of him, Thomas would not deny that. When she went off on her own, as she was wont to do, he wagered he was one of few with the wherewithal needed to find her. But he’d never tried, never so much as entertained the thought of doing so. He hadn’t felt the need to until now, when all was changed and she did not yet know.

“Well,” he began, brushing dust from his trousers as he rose to stand, “There was a wee bit of luck involved. When I heard from you last, you’d posted your letter in the village up the road. I started there. I poked around, and I have on good authority–tavern talk, always reliable–that there were strange goings-on in this area. I had an inkling it could be you.”

“An inkling?”

“You’ve always been a bit of an odd bird.”

“Thank you.”

He raised his hands, displaying his palms in a show of submission. “I mean that in the best way, of course.” He did, truly. Barbs were never hidden in their banter. Then his eyes fell to the ground, and he clutched his hat in his hands. “Now come down from there, I have news. Good as it is to see you, I didn’t come here on a lark. Something’s happened. It’s to do with the war.”

✧​

Hours before sunset, Esther crept downstairs barefooted and bleary-eyed. She padded through the darkened parlor and into the kitchen, where she fussed over a cast-iron stove. She stood there clad in a nightgown, arms folded across her chest while she waited patiently for the kettle to sing.

Sequestered in her bedroom with a tea tray, Esther used the floor as a makeshift desk to work; papers were fanned out around her in a kind of ordered chaos. The only neatness was in their arrangement, but she knew the rhyme and reason to it.

Nimble fingers and hazel green eyes sifted through them with keen intent. Her focus would have been unwavering if not for the tendrils of steam curling from the tea that carried the fragrance of warm spices. Now and again Esther would pause, her fingers would quest for the cup, and then she would sip absently at its contents while surveying her work.

This went on for a spell, until the teapot held only cold dregs. Esther, having grown weary of looking at ink on a page and already in desperate need of a reprieve, turned over onto her back to peer up at the ceiling.

The loom would have to be restrung. She had managed to maintain her business - either side - since her departure from London, and she intended to do so for the foreseeable future, but her network was fraying. Lying low in Kewstoke had not helped, nor had crossing an ocean; to regain her bearings and establish New Orleans as a new base of operations would take some doing, but she was resolved to it. With the heads of the long-lived races settled here, it was apparent to her that for the time being this city was where she needed to be.

This, coupled with fixing up the new house, was keeping her fairly occupied.

Articles of furniture had been brought in only yesterday, and thereafter she had spent a signficant amount of time with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, face smudged, and armed to the teeth with all manner of cleaning implements. Some areas were still sparse, particularly in the spare rooms and the stretch of wall by her window intended for a writing desk.

Now there was nary a cobweb in sight, and in every corner of the house the floors held a hearty gleam. She had even started work on the enclosed courtyard garden in the back. There was still much to do, certainly: repairs here and there, and a fresh coat of paint on the outside, but it couldn't be said that the interior was not tidy.

Renewed by a moment's rest, she sat up and peeped over the top of the nightstand, at the exposed face of Thomas Weaver's pocketwatch. He was still keeping her abreast of the goings-on in the world outside, even now. From the placement of the hands she gleaned that her confinement was blessedly over. She was more versed in the sun's schedule than weather reports.

Taking up her quarterstaff, she proceeded tentatively to one of the windows. Standing off to the side, she used one metal-capped end of the heavy weapon to part the curtains and disengage the heavy shutter latch. She judged the quality of the light that filtered through, quickly deemed it safe, and then drew the shutter aside. As she leaned with one thigh propped on the sill, she found herself overtaken with memory. How many years had it been since the night she'd heard Thomas stumbling below in search of her, carrying with him the news that would irrevocably alter her life's course?
Absently, Esther took up the wood carving and whittling knife she had left on the sill the day before, to finish what she had toiled at in Maeve Donovan's parlor two days ago.

Twelve years, give or take, she thought, with some amount of wonderment. Twelve years.

Had it really been so long? In her mind's eye, parts were clear enough to have transpired only yesterday.

There had been something marvelous about him, the picture of a proper gentleman in his scholarly and pristinely kept suit, having embarked on a goose chase in the woods. She said as much when they set out to the ruin of an abbey that was little more than a skeleton of stone, where they made camp beneath the vaulted ceiling of the undercroft. There had been tea brewed; she recalled their sharing a cup, for she only traveled with one. What had they dined on? Simple fare, surely, but she couldn't quite recall.

There, Tom had told her of the newly-struck Oath. It had all sounded too fantastic, even from him, a person with whom she would have entrusted the welfare of her very soul. They'd talked in hushed voices long into the night by the light of the cookfire that sent cinders drifting upward and wavering shadows upon the gray walls.

Her hair is white now, Tess, he had said. By all appearances, she is hearty and well, but this could be your last chance.

I fear myself, was her reply, faint as wind in the meadow grass. More than all else, I think.

Esther's gaze fell to the little figurine cradled in her scarred palms. From the wood she had coaxed a fawn just shy of being newborn, one that ambled behind its mother on ungainly legs. With the tip of the blade, she bespeckled the back with spots. With care she set it by the lone carving that sat at one end of the sill, a doe that wore a fine coat of dust.

When she stepped out on her front porch, ready for a new day (or evening, rather, but the sentiment was the same), a wicker basket was tucked in the crook of one arm and she was pulling on her gloves. A shawl of cream challis with a delicate floral pattern was cast about her shoulders over a cinnamon daygown.

The laughter of children echoed down the street. A gaggle of them were still at play, and when she ventured out of her yard and into the street, their ball went astray. They all looked on with bated breath as she lifted the hem of her skirt and ended the ball's escape under the heel of her boot. With a nudge Esther sent it rolling back in their direction, and before turning away, encouraged them to be mindful of the late hour.

Onward she pressed. She had a mind to remedy her barren pantry tonight, and so her first order of business was to go to market. Esther went by foot, taking in the city with admiration in her eyes. Much of New Orleans would be settling down for the evening, but a good portion was only just shuddering to life.

Lingering outside a grocer, she stood beside a stand that held a colorful array of produce beneath the display window's scrolling painted letters.

Despite being up to her eyebrows in work, she had managed to find time amidst the hustle and bustle to still call on Jack over the past two days.

She worried fiercely about his predicament. The very last thing she wanted to do was burden him by fluttering about like an anxious hen; she tried her best to not dwell too long on the future and instead focus on what sat at her feet, but the worry persisted, no matter how terribly she wanted to shoo it away like an uninvited guest.

With eyes downcast and fret showing in her face, Esther endeavored to press the full weight of her attention on her errand. She picked up what was nearest to hand, an apple, and turned it this way and that to appraise the color.

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Virgil Bedeau

Fantôme

health bar

WHERE: Nearby
DOING: Waiting
WITH: Shadows
CREDIT: WIP

The dock of Pihlaja Island was deserted, as it always was in Helsinki's early 'morning' twilight. The dull glow of a lantern at the man's hip did little to shed light on his surroundings or the wharf underfoot. He yawned, scratched at the beard on his jaw, and checked the dark face of his pocket watch - a gift from a long ago lover. It was still an hour away from his shift's end. Ninety minutes more and he'd be allowed to drag his chilled body home to nestle it in the loving warmth of his wife.

Faint scratching from behind had him wheeling about. His right hand instinctively slapped down toward the coarse leather of his pistol's holster, but his unease was quickly quelled when the sound turned out to be nothing more than a pair of rats scurrying down the center of the dock. He smiled grimly, faintly embarrassed at himself for his display of jostled nerves, then let out another exhale that was whisked away as a ribbon-like cloud by a cold breeze.

Vampyyri had been frightening everyone as of late. Most of all among those fearful were the unlucky Templars designated to lone shifts. Each day the newspapers carried stories of their plundering raids, of bodies found drained and limp in desolate corners of the city, and now the peoples' resolve to fight back against the denizens of the night was a shambled, withering image of what it had been in the beginning. Very few remained. Even less were willing to guard the moored ships; they were a treasure trove for those who sought gold or goods over blood.

The Templar's footfalls echoed heavily over the wharf. Shallow breaths shuddered against the cool air. Soon, all of the harbors lining Finland's edges would be closed with the first ice. In the distance, a drifting merchant ship blinked with shimmering lights across the black gulf, on course to somewhere further east. Nearer, loosely tied up to the condemned section of the wharf where the Templar paced, another vessel rocked silently on the water. It was much larger than a standard fishing vessel - sizeable but ancient, a black, empty hulk without even an identifying name on its transom. He walked toward it. The boat was obviously abandoned, although he had never seen it before and wondered how something of its size had been captained into the dock in the first place.

Behind him, the numberless rats housed in the decayed pier house set up an indignant chatter and scattered about in every direction. The Templar turned to the source of the noise, a thin line of sweat rising against his forehead and an anxious prickle trailing up his spine. Vampyyri? Here? He pulled his pistol from its holster as he approached the stooping stone building.

But it wasn't the cold, bloodthirsty mirror-image of a human with clawed talons and fanged teeth that he'd been told tales of. A curse left him and he smiled with relief at the figure slouched against the crumbling facade of the pier house. The young man was asleep. No more than eighteen or nineteen, the Templar would have guessed. He was dressed in a ragged sailor's jacket and a pair of filthy trousers. Under his head was a tattered old duffel, which he used as a pillow. Grime and dirt smeared a flawless face. It made him feel his age, but didn't quite assuage his bitter caution.

"Hey now, what's this?" the Templar said in Finnish, prodding the young man with the steel toe of his boot. The vagabond snorted awake and strained to stand, sluggish in his motions and staring at the ground. "Get moving. You can't sleep here." When the vagrant didn't show any signs of understanding, he repeated the command in Swedish. The young man stirred slowly. "And take your things. You won't be coming back tonight." He pointed at the duffel bag with the pistol, holstering it afterwards.

The derelict obeyed. He brought himself to his feet, then, shivering, he dragged the ragged canvas bag away from the wall. The gaze he cast at the officer was watery and sullen, but there was a certain brightness to his eyes that the Templar had never afore seen. Briefly, his attention was stolen as whistles and bells chimed from within the city. An alarm? There were other patrols in the area, and he had other business to take care of before he went chasing after a drunken hoodlum again.

"I'm sorry but... off you go." After a gesture towards the end of the dock, the young man padded away softly, his back bent. The Templar watched him go until he was sure that he was enveloped by the shadows and far out of sight, then walked back to the black boat.

He stepped carefully over its mooring lines and scanned the vessel, now bathed in the light of the lantern. Over the place where the ship's name traditionally should have been, a black-painted board hung suspended from two hooks.

The whistles within the city grew frantic in pitch and pace, but the Templar paid it no mind.

That was odd, he thought. It was as if someone had purposefully concealed the identity of the old hulk. He leaned over the pier, reached forward with an outstretched hand, and lifted the board. For a moment the name Shadow gleamed in pristine white lettering against the pitch black of the hull. Even further confused, he moved down the pier, lantern now lifted so that the light beamed along the length of the large craft. He stopped at the bow, gave the ship a once-over, then shook his head. Nobody would hide the name of a boat, unless...

"Unless it’s stolen," he mumbled to himself, exhaling and beginning to turn toward the city, until motion on deck of the hulk stopped him. The Templar had almost drawn his weapon when a sharp blow to the back of his neck sent him buckling to his knees. The impact was forceful enough that it snapped his head backwards and sent his pistol and the lantern sailing into the water to fizzle out with a pop, leaving the wharf dimmer than it had already been.

"Wha... what..?"

The Templar groaned, then twisted around to see the young man standing above him, far from the hunched over bum he'd believed him to be. A thick, foggy mist was rolling in at the absence of light, doing very little to obscure his figure against the gloom. The siren in the city had reached a crescendo. It howled loudly in the distance, but even it paled against the abrupt rustle of unfurling sails, blacker than night and billowing as they caught wind.

"Go on." The voice came from above, resonantly deep and as smooth as ice. “You know it needs to be done.” A thick haze obscured its source from view. There was bloodied intent dripping from his words that hadn't gone unnoticed by either of the men beneath him.

All that the Templar wanted then was to see his wife again.

“Wait,” he sputtered fearfully, entirely unaware of the more deeply rooted fear hidden within the young man. “Please wait-”

"I'm sorry, too."

The Templar saw no fangs when he whispered. When the short blade of a knife came singing upwards under his jaw, he saw no talons or claws; the young man's hands were much like his own. What he did see was a conflicted coldness in otherwise bright eyes, smoldering like two rings of amber fire in the dark.

He noticed that the Templar grasped at his neck and struck out as though electrified while he died. The vampire had never before sent someone to the Reaper, and so he wavered, terrified, but watching on nonetheless. Just before the Templar's body slumped down and splashed into the abyss of water beneath the pier, his fingers grasped for something in his coat, leaving it skidding against the mist-slick wharf in his place. It was a pocket watch. There were no intricately engraved words of endearment or embezzled jewels to decorate it, unlike the assortment of acquired trinkets gathered within the canvas bag. There was nothing spectacular at all about the locket of steel ticking endlessly away.

Yet the newborn killer knelt down to clasp it between trembling fingers and held onto it as tenderly as he could with blood-stained hands.

"Virgil..."

He had glared up to see the captain looking right back down on him, looming over the railing, chin held high with hubris. His inhuman, lifelessly grey eyes bespoke an obscene sense of pride. Ever since that day, the captain wore his crooked, wicked grin like a brand upon his protégé - one he'd ensure that Virgil would never be rid of.

"Well done."

- - -

There was kind of solace he could only find in the sea.

Phantom had been the name of every ship he'd ever commandeered until he'd found Shadow a half century before, the first and only craft he'd ever obtained through legitimate means. Decrepit and rotting away, it had been abandoned at an old shipyard in Greece, left to become a relic of some remote past. Many ships of the day were adopting the innovation of steam engines or propellers. This schooner was more of a traditional sort; two tall masts bore shredded black sails and just a few patches of its washed out wooden hull were left untouched by termites or age. He'd spent a pretty penny to restore it. Though not as resilient as the metallic hulks that were oftentimes spotted venturing the seas, Shadow could outmaneuver or outrun all but the ships that traversed the skies. It always had.

Virgil swayed with the vessel, perched atop its furled mainsail while looking out over the ocean. The soft chorus of waves lapping against its hull had lulled him into a state of quiet serenity. New Orleans was muddled against the horizon, rising as a faraway beacon of light against an otherwise bleak night. He'd have stayed there, lost to buried memories and surrounded by the bracing scent of the ocean, if it weren't for the swiftness of a dark shadow overhead.

He gazed up at the newly reigning moon with something distantly kin to contentment. Shadows were hard to come by on cloudless nights.

"Anything of interest today?" Virgil asked the raven as it soared to a fluttering stop and landed upon his shoulder. There was the glint of metal between its beak, and when the vampire raised an outstretched hand, palm angled toward the stars, the raven dropped a gilded golden coin onto it. His fingers twirled the metal about until it disappeared within a clenched fist. He grinned, the gleam of his barbed teeth at home beside the glint of the coin.

"An intriguing find. Perhaps I'll keep this one for myself."

"No!" Then, after a brief pause and a nudge of his beak, "Not... again." Virgil sometimes wondered where his friend wandered off to when they were anchored, to know the words he did. The sounds were garbled, guttural and raspy, but he always managed to understand the raven's musings.

"Such a temper... I only jest."

He loosened his fingers so that his companion could once again have his prize. The coin would likely end up atop a growing stash of others, burrowed in a hidden corner of the cabin. The raven soon proved his suspicions to be true; he hopped down and soared gracefully through the open doorway of the cabin. It was still hard to believe that when Virgil had found him, a half-starved and injured chick laying forgotten in an alleyway, his friend couldn't fly at all. The only symptom left of the old wound was the subtle droop of his left wing, a quirk that was difficult to spot without a keen eye.

The floorboards of the deck groaned in protest as the vampire dropped from up high, crouching to cushion the impact. Rumors were abound of a recent Templar presence in the area. Some amidst the whisperers passed it off as another patrol - attempted intimidation and nothing more, they told themselves. Fantôme would never allow himself to fall prey to such idealistic hopes. He couldn't, not if he wanted to survive.

He entered the cabin and emerged minutes later with a stuffed, anciently old and waterproofed canvas bag strapped to his back. Nothing veiled him from the misty spray save for a pair of dark breeches. Solitude, a luxury he'd had little time for of late, was the only condition under which he could bare himself. He'd never been a particularly large man; lean and lithe, his body was more suited to nimbleness and speed, carved by many years spent either fighting against or swimming beneath the waves.

A sudden flutter of black escaped the confines of the cabin to land on the railing beside him.

"You wish to accompany me this time?" The raven was peering up at him in the same manner that Virgil turned his own eye to the world; inquisitive and curious, making them two of a peculiar kind. After an amused grunt, he rolled his shoulders in anticipation of the dive to come.

"So be it. In fact, I have a proposition: Best me in a race to the shore and I shall purchase for you the finest dried meats to dine on as opposed to the usual figs. Lose, and I get your coins. Have we a deal?"

Except the raven had already taken flight towards the edge of New Orleans, letting loose a mischievous cackle.

Virgil grinned. "Clever, Horatio."

Then he dove into the frigid embrace of an untamed sea.

- - -

Horatio bobbed excitedly on Virgil's shoulder as they passed through a darkened alley stemming away from a somehow busy street. Virgil planned to make good on his promise, but they had things to do before then. Any other time he might have taken a seat in front of one of the many cafes bordering the sidewalks and watched others, as he usually did, quiet and contemplative. The allure of a local library had nearly drawn him in, as had the temptation of the museum nearby. He wondered what the security was like there. How deeply would the city mourn one meager missing artifact?

There could be no distractions if he were to be in the right place at the right time, however, as a long-dead mentor had once told him.

"Careful."

That had been one of Virgil's teachings. He stopped only a step away from leaving the alley. On cue, one of the largest men he'd ever laid eyes upon walked past them, speaking to an old woman who was half his size. They were arm-in-arm and laughing over something he hadn't quite heard. Either happenchance, an ignorance brought on by glee, or the black of his attire covering all but his face had kept them from spotting him.

He shot a mildly amused glance at Horatio. "They hardly seemed like a threat," he whispered, but the raven only cocked his head to the side and leered at him.

Sometimes, his friend saw things that he didn't, at first. Virgil swept another pensive gaze over the street. It always astounded him how boisterous this city could be even after the sun had retreated for its rest. Some shops were only just then filtering out the last of their customers; artisans, sporting their crafts on display, called out the last of their inventory so that they could be done with the night; others were selling a variety of fresh produce under--

Horatio had somehow noticed her before he did. The raven must have been watching them when they met in the park.

Virgil murmured something to his friend, ruffled the feathers on the back of his neck, then watched as the bird left his shoulder to become a black streak against the sky. He could have approached. He might have, had he not been haunted by the principles of his past.

The building beside him was tall and sturdy and the rusty metal of a fire escape clung to its side. After adjusting his footing, he jumped, high enough to grasp the metal rails and lunge himself over. The stairs provided him access to the roof, and from there he made a slow approach toward the French Quarter, treading lightly over the shingles of a broad expanse of buildings.

Lurking about La Lune and the depths of New Orleans's immoral underground had lent his ear to an interesting array of information. Most of it had been names he had yet to be familiar with, or the ongoings of vampire and werebeast culture, but there was a place repeatedly mentioned: the French Quarter. He wasn't yet sure what it had to do with current events; both the Templars and their objectives were still blurry in their intent to him. Finding out was an ambition of curiosity that he wouldn't let slip.

The sound of the sea was no longer as distant. After a time, Virgil knelt docile atop the tallest building in the area, watching over it like a silent sentinel. His overcoat twisted and writhed against a warm breeze, and his gloved hands sat clasped over his knee. There was time to spare. If he didn't spot it first, Horatio would alert him to any happenings in the Quarter. What better way to wait than amidst shadows?

"He who delights in solitude is either a wild beast or a god... Which will you be, boy?"

When he was younger, it had frustrated him how his mentor would so openly mock him by reciting words of wisdom that he'd been prohibited from studying on his own. In the current day, he wondered if the man had simply meant to guide him in his own cruel, manipulative manner. A strange way to cater to a boy's rebellious nature, and yet it had worked to some degree. He closed his eyes to shutter himself away from the world.

Virgil wanted to be neither beast nor god - he simply wanted to be free.

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Dominick Durham

Goliath

health bar

WHERE: Local Library
DOING: Fraternizing
WITH: A Kindred Foreigner
CREDIT: WIP

They called it The Brass Canine and Dom could imagine no livelier place to have loitered. Most of his evening had been spent mingling with the more coherent patrons who found their way to the bar beside his seat, telling their myriad of stories, listening to his own, or just seeking out good drink and company to go with it. Thus far he'd learned of the distinct lack of sentiment towards Templars, met a rather revealing werebeast gal - both about her style of dress and her identity - who was adamant about him visiting an establishment called Le Repaire de Velours later on, and he'd even sat through a lecture on the mating season of a local bird species. He couldn't remember a moment where he hadn't smiled and he was sure that his stomach would soon begin to cramp with how often he found himself bubbling with laughter.

As enjoyable as it was to stay, he'd already avoided the chapter headquarters for long enough. The bar hand received a bit more than he was owed before Dominick capped his head with his newly purchased bowler hat, said his goodbyes to the friends he'd made for the night and took his leave. It wasn't as cool outside as it had been indoors and he was glad that he'd worn a thin layer of clothing; the warmth revitalized him as though the day was still new.

There was something to be said about the city. In what little of Europe he'd visited, most tended to linger indoors for fear of those who skulked the shadows, but in New Orleans, there were those who walked during day that remained even during night. They persevered, enlisted fearlessness to carry on with their lives, and some even seemed to embrace hope for a better world.

Quite unlike the Templars, at times.

It was a realization that he couldn't help but notice the longer he attended their ranks; there was something crushing and absolute about their order, and he'd only been able to find quietude while sparring with Holly or on the very rare occasions that René would share with him a conversation. Life as a priest had tempered him. Times had been easier then, when the most grievous of fears had been tripping over words when delivering a sermon or blessing. Even before, while serving what he believed to be justice as a mercenary, there was a purity and simplicity to the craft. He'd been hunting killers and murderers and occasionally worse. His short stay in New Orleans had already shown him that at least some of the people here, immortal or otherwise, were just that - people, attempting to find some relative peace.

Haplessly taking lives was not the way of their faith, nor was it his way. Peace was supposed to be their goal, not culling an entire race.

Something bumped softly against his hip. Or someone, he realized, when he glanced down to see an elderly woman staring wide-eyed up at him. The lines etched into her worried face attested to human years that most didn't have the opportunity to see anymore. Somehow, he'd forgotten that he was in the present, doing nothing more than passing time on the sidewalk.

"O-oh!" the old woman sputtered in a quiet voice, as fluttering as her thin frame against the humid breeze. "Apologies, my dear. It seems as though I've lost my way. Would you happen to know where I might find..?"

The woman drifted off. It was a big city, so getting lost didn't seem like a surprise. Maybe she'd forgotten her destination?

His expression was a bit apologetic as a large hand rose to scratch at the back of his head. "I've as much reason to apologize for taking up too much space! Even worse, I am afraid that I'm as unfamiliar with these streets as you, ma'am." For a moment, her features twisted with dismay, until he lowered his other hand to her bony shoulder as a gesture of consolation. The motion was slightly clumsy; while gentleness of word came easy to him, he'd never been able to manage a truly gentle touch and almost feared breaking the small woman.

"Together we might stand a chance, though. A bit of wandering might jog the memory." The warm smile that beamed down at her was as effortless as ever. "My name is Dom. Might I be honored by helping with your search?"

The chapter headquarters would have to wait, it seemed.

"I'm Matilda, and the pleasure would be all mine."

Dominick stooped low enough to hook his arm through her own and they set off down the walkway, beneath twinkling stars and the lamp posts that tried to mimic them.

- - -

"My mother, Jane, was born in Belfast as well."

They'd made their way through streets lined with markets and stalls and bustling people until they were far outside of the French Quarter. They had no real aim, so their pace had been kept to a leisurely stroll. While Matilda seemed content to talk to him about anything and everything, Dom listened. His job was to juggle searching for the library and keeping an eye on the shadows. They were there, he knew. They'd passed one by in an alley not too long ago, and ever since he made sure to keep his grip on her arm gentle, yet firm.

"Is that so?" The pep in her step was a stark contrast to her frail appearance. "You must have been raised within its borders, then?"

"York, actually."

"Of course you were! Everyone there is kind. If you were from Belfast, you'd be unlikely to help guide a foolish old woman around the city as you are." She scowled, nose wrinkling in distaste. "Nothing good comes from that place."

"Ha!" That she just mentioned being from Belfast was something he'd keep to himself. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."

They carried on. The streets were less populated and most of the buildings they passed by were quaint little homes. St. Louis Cathedral's spires just barely poked out from above the tall rooftops, standing guard at a distance from behind. An older man tended to evening primroses on his porch and just beside him, sheltered behind a partly opened shutter, a young girl stared out at the two of them. Her eyes shone with an unnatural luminescence under the dull glow of the moon.

"We're nearly there, I think," Matilda murmured. She seemed visibly settled despite the bright-eyed occupants of the surrounding houses. "My daughter owns a local business in these parts. Poor thing has been on her own for ages..."

The priest was intuitive enough to identify a coy glance. Seeing it on Matilda's face was a surprise that coaxed from him a bellowing laugh. He raised his left hand, then waggled his fingers in his own impish display, drawing attention to the simple band of steel wrapped around the third finger.

"I'm sure she's as brilliant as her mother, but I'm a taken man."

His elder croaked out a raspy chuckle. "I should have known. Where is your partner now?"

"Waiting for me in a place far away from here, hopefully," he said. Matilda didn't press for more. She instead nodded, laying a tender hand upon his forearm and silently offering to walk in quiet.

He thought of her sometimes. With occasional fretfulness, when he looked back on her stints of brazen zeal and stubborn bravado, or with tears at the memory of her smile. Other times with a smile of his own while recalling the good she wanted for the world. They were mercenaries, then, travelling with a company of like-minded individuals of differing motives. Hers was one of a kind among them.

"Odd choice of work for someone who wants to change the entire world," he'd told told her.
"More than you're doing, innit?" she'd shot right back at him.
While the times he sat to think of her had become far and few between, he missed her always.

A light tug at his arm pulled him back to the present yet again. Matilda was on her toes, pointing at a building not far from where they stood, a bit larger than the rest that surrounded it. "That's it," she whispered. He gathered from afar that it was a bookstore or library. They walked together toward its open door and she slipped past it first, followed closely by Dom.

Inside was darker than usual, with candles to ward away some of the dark and light the corridors of shelves. Dominick noticed that in spite of its modest exterior, there was more space than met the eye when within, and a few paths actually seemed to wind deeper into the library. There were more books than he'd expected there to be and one section of the room was even partitioned off as a study, bearing a couple of tables with electric lamps on top of them. It was a peaceful place.

"Oh my!"

Matilda called out as his attention was averted, and he turned in time to see the blur of rapid motion and glowing eyes. She'd wandered too far from him. Even as he turned on his heel to get between her and the vampire, it was already upon her, enveloping Matilda with its body.

But not in the way he imagined. The vampire was a woman, and she was embracing Matilda with deeply harbored care.

"Mother, you must not leave like that!" she scolded her elder, though her wavering tone betrayed that it was brought on by protectiveness as opposed to irritation. "I was just about to go searching for you. You know that it's not safe out."

Matilda waved her hands dismissively. "I'm quite alright, my dear. No need to worry - I had a very efficient guardian watching over me."

Dom, who'd been busy grasping at the cross hidden beneath his shirt in an attempt to dissuade an encroaching ripple of confusion, looked down to see her staring up at him with a smile. When his charge extended her arms, he wordlessly stooped down, and she wrapped them around his neck to hug him close.

"Thank you, Dom. You're a fine man."

A low, rumbling laugh preceded his words. "I can only hope to be."

Matilda kissed his cheek before releasing him, then wandered quietly through the shelves until her figure disappeared. He and her daughter watched until she was gone. It was quiet after, but she broke the silence with a sigh and a timid smile sent his way.

"Thank you for bringing her here," she said softly. "She's been increasingly adamant about leaving and I fear for her safety outside of these walls. Danger is around every corner. In any case, you're free to stay and browse until we close, which will be rather soon. My inventory isn't much, but it's something." And with a bashful wave, she too disappeared, following after her mother.

Dominick had never felt so unsure about his place in the world.

He'd never once seen a vampire display compassion of any kind in his years of hunting them. It had been easy to tell himself that they were doing the right thing when his neighbors were families of human beings, tending to their much more fragile lives. He'd never once stopped to think about the lives that were lived here, or that they may have just been trying to conserve themselves. The realization struck him like a blow to the chest, and he took to the corridors of books as a diversion from his faltering convictions.

For a small, local library, the network of genres was broad. The rows were neatly aligned and ordered with labels for each section, with columns of fiction and non-fiction books taking up the majority of the shelves. Curiosity drove him to explore the depths of the library. Further in, there was a section devoted to historical works, and in its own little corner was a single shelf labelled 'Templar Studies'. The last thing he expected to see when he rounded the corner was another person.

The man was quietly poring over a book in his hands, brows knitted with focus. He was a far cry from any of the locals Dom had seen so far - a far cry from anyone he'd seen, in fact. There was no doubt that the man would have heard his none-too-subtle steps, or caught a glimpse of him towering over the small shelves, so he approached, beaming from ear to ear.

"Good evening, friend," he murmured; more of a slight bellow to the average sort. "A good time for a late read. Studying Templars, eh?"

Dom stroked the thick beard at his chin with an idle hand. "I happen to be an expert on the subject!" He couldn't help the rumbling laughter that escaped his chest. Secretly, the priest hoped that the fellow foreigner would be welcome of his company, for idle conversation was always the best thing to drive doubt from his mind.

 

[ashwynne]

Nascha

Black Sun

health | bar

WHERE: Wilderness ➟ Maeve's
WITH: Nature, Eyebrows ➟ Jack
DOING: Hunting ➟ Investigating
CREDIT: @peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

Moonlight turned the world to silver and indigo. Soft beams captured by the boughs of towering trees, the world beneath the canopy a dim affair... but full of life nonetheless.
Cicadas sang soliloquys to tempt their lovers, foxes swept bushy-tailed through underbrush as they sought their daily meal, a mother raccoon scolded her chattering children as they tussled in the branches above… and prowling among them all was a great sinewy cat.
Her paws made no sound; claws retracted, paw-pads soft against spongy moss and the damp underlayer of autumnal leaves. A roughened pink tongue snaked from her maw occasionally, dampening her nose so that she could gather a greater range of scents, ears pricked forward and tail kept low as she hunted.
In the skin of her beast, Nascha was a consummate predator. Nearly six feet tall at the shoulder, she was the size of a thoroughbred horse and built to kill. Tonight, she fully intended to fulfill the purpose of this monstrous feline body.
The wind changed and immediately her body lowered, belly brushing the tops of stunted switchgrass and thickly carpeted mosses. With her ears pinned back, she scented the air, maw opened to take in every note more fully: warm fur, sedges, Spanish moss, the unmistakeable scent of antlers in velvet, musk… it was a whitetail deer, a buck.
Growing perfectly still, Nascha waited for the animal to come to her. A small clearing opened up a few paces ahead—perfect for browsing—and sure enough this seemed to be the destination of her prey.

Into the silvered light he emerged, caramel coat turned to grayed cedar by the moon, almost indistinguishable from his surroundings were he to stand still. There were only two points to his antlers, indicating he was not a particularly old buck, but this came as no surprise to Nascha; the old were the wise ones, they would not be so easily caught unawares where predators roamed.

A slender neck dipped as the buck lipped the fallen leaves and browsed snapped twigs. The cougar permitted him a few moments—a final meal—muscles tensing beneath her tawny coat. Back paws extended their nails, digging into the loamy soil in preparation to spring. One breath passed, two, three… the wind changed.
Up snapped the buck’s head, nostrils flaring, tail flicking up in alarm. He wheeled to flee in the same moment that Nascha exploded from the underbrush. Had she not been a werebeast, had he been facing a natural cougar, perhaps he would have escaped. But against a seven-hundred-pound cat the size of a horse, he had no hope.
Against his side she bowled, front claws sinking into his neck as both prey and predator slammed hard to the ground. A single hard bite to his spine, a snap, and all was still once more.
Nascha licked her chops, eyeing the carcass longingly for a moment before releasing a huff of air that shivered her whiskers. This kill was not for her to eat.
With a skillful tug on the buck’s neck, Nascha maneuvered her body beneath it so that it was slung over her. The weight was uncomfortable, but she did not have terribly far to go, and she took comfort in that fact.

​

He waited for her beneath an old oak tree draped eerily in moss. They had never exchanged names, nor did Nascha care to. She simply called him ‘Eyebrows’ in her mind—to honour his defining feature. Black, thick, and seeming to have a life of their own, they were almost majestic. She never really bothered to look at his eyes when he spoke, entirely transfixed by the jumping, dancing, wriggling motion of the bushy brows that told stories all their own.

Out from the shadows she slipped, unseen until she was within pouncing distance of him. Despite the fearsome sight she made—shadowed but for amber eyes reflecting the moonlight, massive, and in possession of a corpse—Eyebrows had no reaction save a shift in body language to something that was welcoming rather than frightened.
“You got a nice one tonight,” he said, in a voice that reminded her of stones rumbling down a mountainside. “This one will keep Ms. Marge and her brood fed for a couple weeks, I figure,” she watched as his brows jumped enthusiastically. “You really oughta shift one of these days so I can thank you properly.” He received the same answer he always did when he asked this question of her; a calmly unmoved amber stare. “Or not… maybe next month,” he murmured with a small smile, waiting as Nascha carefully tipped the buck off her back.
A long, luxurious, stretch followed this action—every muscle rippling beneath her pelt as she soothed the complaint of her muscles.
“I’ll bet that feels good, sometimes you make me wish I were a beast.”
She chuffed at that and he laughed too, pulling out a row of butchering knives from the pack at his hip.
Ordinarily, Nascha stayed to keep predators away and watch him work. Eyebrows had a talent for knifeplay and the smooth action of his blades as he dressed whatever game she brought him had a penchant for putting her to sleep. But not tonight. Tonight, she had other, more pressing, matters to mull over.
Mephisto… she rolled the unfamiliar word in her mind and released a deep breath, stepping towards him.
“What? Leaving already?” he actually sounded dismayed and the healer managed a small smile in her mind, flicking the tip of her tail against his talkative brows as she passed him; a gesture that acted as both farewell and amused answer. “Same time next month then, stay safe.”
She answered him with a soft purr and disappeared into the shadows. She needed to get her rest. Tomorrow she braved the Queen’s home to see what could be done for Jack Fletcher.

​

Having made her way into the estate that Maeve called home, Nascha padded on habitually silent, moccasin-clad, feet down the hall. She had been told that Jack could be found in his study, though she hardly needed the direction. It was impossible to miss the aromatic mixture of decay, vampire, and beast that was unique to the Mephisto.

Knocking never once occurred to her. Reaching the door where his scent was strongest, she pushed it open and strode in without the barest sense of shame. “I’m Nascha, a healer,” she said briskly by way of greeting as soon as her eyes landed on him.
He stood tall, limned by the light of the window he leaned against. At her entry—following his obvious initial surprise at the sight of her—he was quick to recover, straightening in order to come hospitably towards her. "Nascha. Pleasure is mine. You... already know who I am."
She waved a hand dismissively at this. "I know what you are--to a degree--but not who, no, that would take more time and different questions,” though there was hardly a pause for breath before she carried on, it was long enough for his expression to morph into a smirk she took to be approval at her statement. “Tell me about your serum."
“... Why?"
Understanding his reluctance, Nascha tried for a gentler tone... though bedside manner had never been her strength. "Because it is my intention to try and help you solve your problem. You need more serum, yes? And the Templars aren't going to be giving it," her lip curled in disgust, "Fuckers."
She tilted her head and looked him over again, inhaling deeply with lips parted to more fully capture his scent. "If nothing else I'd like to buy you some more time until a better solution can be found."
There was a long considering pause, his eyes narrowing in thought, but at last it came; "Very well, what details do you require?"

Nascha could not say how much time she spent poring over the vial he produced, musing over his description of the changes in taste, consistency, and colour that the serum had undergone. With reverence and a roughshod compassion that was unrefined but genuine, she attempted to allay his anxieties by having him hold the vial as much as possible, by keeping her motions slow, confident, and fluid. Alas, scent alone did not tell her all she needed, and so the healer dared to ask him to spare a drop.
"By all means, take what you need,” she tore her gaze from the vial to peer up at him carefully as he acquiesced, searching his countenance. “I find myself in strange conflicts. On the one hand, I beg for an end at every opportunity, and yet when faced with the dilemma of this serum, it's like I am terrified to lose my life."
A twinge tugged at her heart at this, at the bitter smile on his lips. She closed a hand around his own to protect the vial and then stretched onto her toes so that she could give his ear a gently reprimanding tug with the other. "It's one thing to desire the ability to end your own suffering, it's something else entirely to see the choice taken from you. That's no strange conflict." She released him and settled down onto her feet, rifling through a pack at her hip until she had a small, clean, vial and a narrow eye dropper. "I'll take but a single drop."
She hardly heard whatever flustered answer he gave in reply to her gentle scolding, more focused on taking what she needed without an iota of waste. Every movement was fluid and deliberate, cat-like in execution, and before long she held her own small vial with a sluggish bead of puce-coloured serum, reverently screwing the cap back onto the source vial for Jack once her own was safely tucked away.

That done, her small fingers curled around his earnestly and she looked up at him with fierce determination in her eyes. "I'll do all I can to ensure you can make your own choices without them being made for you," she said seriously, though the expression slipped a little as one hand abandoned his while she pulled out a bottle of bourbon from the pack at her hip with the other, "I gathered last night that you liked your drink," there was a mischievous glint in her eyes now, "Take it."
The flush that stretched across his face at the sight of the bottle brought a grin to her own, but Nascha managed to restrain a snicker at his expense. He recovered quickly enough, slowly taking it from her. “You know, drink is only as good as the company it is shared with. Would you care to join me for a glass? We can move to the parlour."
The invitation to stay and share the drink with him had not been expected and her eyes flickered with surprise for a moment before she caught her bearings and relaxed again. "That... sounds agreeable enough," she said at last, offering him a friendly smile. "Lead on."
She had planned on scurrying to some dark corner of the library to do some research of her own, but Jack was surprisingly pleasant company. He had an air about him that she instinctively warmed to, and the prospect of bourbon in the parlor held an unusual appeal. The library would keep until afterwards. And so, she let him guide her to the parlor, enjoying the companionability of the moment until she had an opportunity to take her leave and begin experimenting with the serum.

 

[Luxura]

Jack Fletcher

alias: LAZARUS

health bar

WHERE: Maeve's Home
WITH: Maeve
DOING: Making a game plan
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

​

“Never said who.”

With that the overhead lamp flicked off, door slamming firmly behind the Harpy. He could have sworn he heard her lock it, too.

Jack slowly blinked, the mischievous smirk sliding from his lips quickly in the shadows. The bedside lamp glowed a soft yellow, flickering with the draw of electricity. He hated to think part of Bernardo’s wealth was being used to generate it, and with a huff, he lurched forward and flicked it off. After all the blinding lights he’d endured, he made a mental note-- that he’d sooner forget in his current state-- to replace the lamp with an oil one instead.

For nearly thirty minutes the brunet lay still and silent in his bed, body heavy, eyes wide, mind frantically avoiding sleep. His ears were too sensitive to the voices in the parlour room below, red hot as they spoke of him. Strangers asking questions of Maeve as if he was an exhibit to be ogled. Prying eyes and prying minds. What if he didn’t want his whole life lambasted before these people? And without consent; what of Bernardo’s wishes? Did the Mephisto have any choice left? Stripped of his lover, his home and life… now stripped of his secrecy and dignity. Perhaps he deserved some of this… Perhaps he owed them this much, they had helped him home, after all. But how did she know she could trust them?

Well, if Maeve was going to gab about him in the open, at the very least he should be present to ensure no details were out of place.
Jack lifted himself out of bed, bare feet against cool floorboards. He stumbled, arm outstretched for the wall should he need it as he gained his balance with each step and toddled his way to the door. Palming the knob, a single brown perked, “Unlocked.” he uttered, nearly surprised.

Having made it down the stairwell without much trouble, Jack hesitated on the last step before finally making the decision to head to the kitchen-- a toddy was desired, a drink suitable for the night he’d had and to help ease his anxiety. From the other room, the pause in Maeve’s sentence brought a smirk to his lips, clearly noting she knew he was up. With a little more confidence to his gait-- though still at an inebriated wobble, Jack sauntered down the hall, past the parlour-- ignoring the many sets of eyes-- and finding his way into the large kitchen.
As the water boiled, tapered fingers set about procuring a stick of cinnamon from the pantry cupboard, and slicing a lemon with an assiduous effort not to cut himself. All the while he listened to the buxom blonde artfully weave what she knew of the star-crossed lovers’ tale, interjecting hushed anecdotes into her mind where appropriate.

The warmth of the drink between his fingers kept his rotting chill at bay as Jack slyly moved into the parlour with silent steps. He eyed each person in turn; Esther as she perched herself with all the elegance of a Victorian lady upon one of the many chairs. Bjorn, his looming, broad structure hovering behind the velvet forest green Bergère, and within it, a young girl-- Jack could smell the filth of days’ long sweat and dirt that lingered to her clothes and hair. She had eyes like an inferno and a look upon her face that matched that burning ire. The other two-- a woman of some Native American descent by the tell of her skin, features and dark hair; and a young bloke looking to be an ‘ol fashioned American gunslinger-- Jack also did not recognize. The woman sat gingerly upon one of the other chairs in the room, whilst the Cowboy leaned with arms crossed against the doorframe. Finally-- and certainly the hardest to miss-- was his companion, Seiko. The Samurai lingered between the others but close to the exit.
For himself, Jack found his home in the back of the room, leaning his weight on the window sill and panes of cool glass against his shoulders.

It was no surprise that the air about the room changed with him in it. He delighted in it, internally, though his lips never seemed to be able to lose the curl of a brattish smirk as his eyes barely left the Harpy. Jack wasn’t normally one to be excitable at so much attention, especially in such a circumstance concerning his and Bernardo’s demise, but the sake had turned the Writer into a devious troublemaker this night, and he was feeling rather unlike himself. Maeve’s glares were a warning he nodded to periodically, chuckling into his toddy without further interruption.
That was, at least, until she had wrapped up her story.
The Cowboy, seemingly the type to jump into anything head-first, looked about the room in its silent consideration before perking up, “Well now, that all said and done; how can we help the Queen?”
It happened within a second-- Jack’s eyes flicked to Bjorn’s, who’s flicked to his. The Writer’s lips curled into a Cheshire’s grin as he pushed off the window, moving with an intention to place a hand on Dutch’s shoulder. Dark brown eyes returned to Maeve as her eyes narrowed slightly towards the auburn-haired mutt, about to correct him, “You may assist her,” Jack interjected brightly, holding Maeve’s stare, “By making yourselves available to her call for you when it is required. For now, the night is late. Meeting adjourned. Get out.” he snickered, clapping the sport on the back before gliding back to the kitchen.

He would sooner face Maeve’s rage in private over a drink than in the company of strangers.

The days that followed that night flew by in a flurry of activity, despite Jack never truly leaving the house. He’d hoped after Maeve’s revelations and the telling of Jack’s story that all would cease for a short while. A chance to breathe and reflect, to be left alone. Instead, the house became a bustle of activity, doors open to those who wished to aid them… Were it his own house, he would have locked the door tight.

On the afternoon of the first day, the Writer had been staring out the window of his study when he met the young werebeast woman known simply as Nascha. Shoulder pressed into the frame Jack turned his head towards the door as it opened. He had expected to see Maeve's blonde mane but instead was stricken by the girl from the night before... the one he had looked at curiously for her aboriginal beauty. The brunet suddenly felt sheepish then, he'd been quite a drunken mess... Her eyes transfixed upon his own, bold as she strode within his study without so much as a knock or question,
"I'm Nascha, a healer,"
His brow perked and he straightened, arms untangling from across his chest as he moved to greet her, "Nascha. The pleasure is mine. You... already know who I am." he smiled timidly, but it was her next demand that made it disappear,
"Tell me about this serum."
"... Why?"
Jack had every right to be protective of the one thing that kept him alive. And he had little of it left. While he didn’t suspect her of being associated with the Templars, that did not mean she didn’t have other ill intentions. However, she described how she was interested in providing him with an alternative solution, and to this end, Jack was certainly curious.
Bringing his hand to his chin, rubbing fingers into his beard as his eyes narrowed in thought. He didn't have much choice in the matter... She was correct in that the Templars would never willing offer what he needed. His supply was dwindling, quickly. It wouldn't be long at all until he was without, "Very well," he murmured, "What details do you require?"
"To begin I'd like you to describe it to me: texture and taste. It would also be helpful if I could see some of it for myself."
Jack nodded, a finger in pause, "Just a moment," He retreated from the study briskly and returned a few minutes later from somewhere else within the house with a long glass vial, fitted with brass casings upon the bottom, and a screw-on lid of similar shape and material to match. Held within both his hands, preciously cradling it close to his chest, hesitance and worry sat heavily upon his brow, and he made sure to close the door firmly before approaching her with his life-source. Wearily he watched her eyes, and with some reluctance held it out for her.
Within, the liquid was a sickly puce, viscous in consistency, much like blood would have been, "I take it through a needle, direct to my veins. It was how it was administered to me in their... captivity." he muttered.
He took to heart how she held his gaze for a long moment before taking the vial with utmost care. As her eyes softened, Jack could feel a small amount of his anxiety lessening. She took the vial from his palms, and they wrapped around his chest protectively, teeth worrying at his lip, "So you know nothing of the taste," seeming to take mental notes half aloud and half in her mind,
"The few times I've tasted it, whether directly on my tongue or in my own blood, it has been sour, rich in..." He tried to think of a word, nose scrunching, "Not quite like bile but..." he shrugged, "It's offensive on its own. Mixed within my blood the edge is softened, more bitter, nutty almost." he sighed, tipping his head as he reviewed the mixture, "I've had this since I escaped, nearly two years now. It's changed colour significantly with age and exposure to air... I imagine part of my problem has stemmed from the batch being no longer as potent or going rancid. It used to be nearly chartreuse in colour, thinner, like water."
"Would you allow me to open the vial?"
His hand slid up, nails scratching at his collar, wrapping around his neck. Slowly, he nodded in acceptance, "Go ahead."

While his anxiousness had subsided only partially, the Mephisto could feel it skimming the edges of his resolve, breath held as she opened it. Seeming to sense this-- and this came to no surprise, being a beast (a keen one at that)-- she insistently held the vial back for his hands to take, which he did so eagerly; ensuring to hold it between them for her to do her work,
"Interesting. Have you noticed a change in the scent of it over that time? Or the taste, if you had the opportunity to taste it when it was still fresher?"
"I would say so, yes," Jack nodded, "When it was fresher, it had a more medicinal and herbal element... more like a mix of green tea leaves and cognac. Slightly sweeter in taste, hints of something akin to honey but... still rather unpleasant."
Nascha wafted at the scent, and it’s acute putrid qualities slithered up into Jack’s senses, providing him with a brief scowl, "It going rancid may complicate things in identifying its composition, but there are certain things I recognize. Do... you think you could spare a drop?"
"By all means, take what you need," he uttered gently, a bitter smile playing his lips, "I find myself in strange conflicts. On the one hand, I beg for an end at every opportunity, and yet when faced with the dilemma of this serum, it's like I am terrified to lose my life."

He hadn't expected her reprimand. In fact, he'd mistaken it, and even leaned into it to give her leverage as she leaned forward, quickly snagging his earlobe between her fingers with a yank, "It's one thing to desire the ability to end your own suffering, it's something else entirely to see the choice taken from you. That's no strange conflict."
And oh, didn't Jack know it? The echo of his own screams from Bernardo's memories rippling from some far-off chamber in his mind. He nodded, averting her gaze as she settled back upon the soles of her feet, "Indeed." was all he could reply, embarrassed.
As she took what she required with nimble and careful fingers, he held his breath. The articulate grace of her movements, fluid and cat-like; eyes so keen and dilated in some internal excitement. She was a little rough, but Jack knew all sorts of creatures with worse edges than her's.

Nascha, Jack decided then and there, was quite exemplary.

The pair finished their transaction with a sharing of gratitude-- a single drop of serum and in exchange the feline had presented him with a bottle of bourbon. Jack, the lush and gentleman he was, settled the deed over a pair of glasses in the parlour, spending another hour in polite and warm conversation.
The afternoon continued just as such, for as soon as he had finished with Nascha, Jack was struck with more company.

Jack turned the handle of the study door but an inch, expectant to find it still locked, but as it smoothly pushed past the mechanism his eyes narrowed curiously.
Pressing a hand to the wood he pushed the door open silently, his feet masterfully soft as he peered within his own private space. Umber eyes caught the visage of the wild teen from the night before, poking about the flurry of messy papers across his desk. The Mephisto couldn't help the smirk that crossed his lips.
Slipping through the door with confidence, he tilted his head, closing the door with intention, "I used to pick locks before I was taught my manners." He chided with a wiry grin, "But, I was never really fond of manners myself."
Just as he expected, she startled and spun, but made no movement to apologize nor leave, “Manners are overrated.”
"I concur," Jack snickered and offered a wink. His mood had improved with good drink and conversation. Had she happened upon him earlier in the day, perhaps the brunet would not have been so jovial, "So, it seems like you're just as much a topic of the house as I am."
Kenna rolled her eyes, "Why? Because I yelled at your so-called 'Queen'?"
"Which I found titillating, to say the least. I appreciate someone who can put the old girl in her place." Jack crossed his arms, leaning his hip against the desk. Studying her clearly, she couldn't have been much older than fourteen... but less than a woman of eighteen. Childlike softness still rounded her hardened eyes, the softness of her skin radiant in a youthful glow. She had been looking over his things, and broken into his private study… Head tilted as he regarded her, getting to the heart of the matter, "You have questions about me. So ask."

Jack came to find two persons of interest that day. Kenna went on to inquire further understanding of how he came to be the ‘thing’ he was, and Jack did his utmost best to give her simple terms-- for he, himself, did not fully understand either. What he could tell her, however, was what he knew best-- Love. And through that, the pair planted the seeds of trust.
He hadn’t been certain as to why he felt a strong connection to the young girl but chalked it up to be his fondness of children and the longing he’d had for years to have a family of his own. Even before vampirism, the Writer had dreamed of marriage, of having a child-- a daughter. Women were pretty creatures, and deep in his soul somehow Jack had always known that if he were to have had a child to care for, of his own blood, it would have been a girl. Those dreams were dashed when he’d died, and further still when thrust into warfare. As years passed, one lover to the next, he’d all bust lost those dreams. Even with Bernardo, Jack found it rare to think of having a family together. The Tailor hadn’t been fond of children, to begin with.
Seeing Kenna, a girl with a life paralleled to his own-- orphaned… alone… His broken heart grasped for her, and ghosts of old desires dredged from the ashes of his past. These were pivotal years for Kenna... and she needed a guide. Maeve and Bjorn would help shape her into a Queen if she wanted it... But who would care for her heart? What creature could offer her the kindness she deserved? Without a single word or conscious thought, Jack would protect her like she were his own. He would never claim to be a father-figure, he knew nothing of that sort and was likely to be a terrible role model; but to the highest calibre of his abilities, he would guide her heart and be a confidant to her conscience and soul.

For that single day, Jack Fletcher found a sparkle of hope nestled in his chest as he looked down at her dozing form, hours later after a few shots of whiskey in her young blood and Shakespearean monologues woven in her brain. He’d managed to gain enough of her trust to convince her to stay another night in their care, though he had not intended to be the one to carry her to bed. His arm around her shoulders on the settee, Jack gently closed the book and slid it under his arm to scoop her into his hold, raising with her form tight to his chest. Her limbs curled into him, her mind rousing from the movement. The Mephisto smiled, gingerly walking them to the door and placing a soft kiss within her hair, murmuring soft poetry to lull her back into sleep.

Enveloped around him, submerged in a warmth only ever internally afforded by the taking of blood into his veins, Jack lay back in the small clawfoot tub, arms hanging heavy by the elbows over the porcelain rim. The amber glow of the candelabra and small pillars around the room in their thick pools of wax cast an aura of soft edges across his vision. Scents of sandalwood and tuberose oozing from his skin.
Head tilted back, nestled in relaxation, peridot eyes closed to the world, to become lost in silent dreaming. Within the bathwater, the vampire felt weightless-- an easy thing to be when muted poetry slithered like poison in one’s ears. From his side, a man of long limbs and slender physique leaned forward in a simple wooden chair-- Bernardo, his Tailor, his lover, his mate-- aged book within his hands as his thinly framed glasses slid down his nose,

“To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks…”

Tapered fingers slipped into damp platinum locks, sweeping them from his brow, “Jack,” his voice barely more than a whisper, “You must wake up,”

“To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream…”

Cold. Bitterly cold. No longer weightless; so heavy it was as if he’d been dead for years, “Jack! You must wake up!”

“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come-”

His body lay on a bed of steel, biting to the touch. Deranged, stumbling in purgatory. White, so blinding and bright. Unnatural light! Gone were the candles and safety of Venetian plastered walls, replaced with rusted rivets and sharp iron echoes,
“They’re coming, Jack! You have to wake up!” his lover screamed, sobbing as he shook his shoulders violently, but delirium would not dissipate. For all the brilliance of the light, still those grabbing fingers of consuming black clawed at the corners of his blurry sight,

“To grunt and sweat under a weary life-”

“They’re here-- For fuck sakes! Jack-” pleading, cracked whimpers, “I’m sorry-”
Silent screams from his mate’s pale lips as his arm wound back, fingers coiling into a fist. How long… How long had they suffered? The tailor’s hair grown and scattered, a patchwork of facial hair thinly covering his jaw… It mattered not.

“Be all my sins remembered.”


The impact of Bernardo’s strike awoke the Mephisto, the silent scream of his lover taking to life from the tightness in his chest, ringing in his ears; the confines of his borrowed bedroom. He was quick to capture it in a white-knuckled grip, swallowing it down roughly with the dryness of his mouth, the fullness of the raw lump in his throat.
Chest heaving and eyes wide, Jack sunk back heavily into the pillow, angrily tossing the bedsheets off his sweat-slicked form; all too suddenly feeling smothered and confined. Trembling hands pressed palmistry into his eyes as they spilled over remnants of bathwater and soliloquies. This time, the scream that unfurled from his mouth was all his own, a bitter rasping cry that ended in an aching sob, familiar limbs curling feebly as his body quaked into the mid-morning sun.

Dreams came to the Writer from the Tailor’s mind-- memories not his own-- usually in the form of his lover’s body and eyes. Curiously, this had been different. Not once since Eden had Jack dreamt from his own perspective-- he’d thought it near impossible by this point. By any other circumstance, he would have been pleased to feel but an inch of his old self again… but not like this. Something had changed.

From this particular spell, the recovery of the episode lingered long into the early afternoon. Hours ticked to the clockwork of his iron heart, body crumpled within crisp white cotton sheets as he watched the daylight pass by the window panes with a stare void of life.
Time used to be such a trivial thing. An immortal man living in endless twilight; what need was there to count the days? Now, glorious as it was, the sun was but a bittersweet reminder that this world did, in fact, turn. Days had beginnings and ends, and each one was a moment in time where Jack was slipping into his final end. He longed for it, in many regards. He had little reason not to-- Bernardo was there, in an afterlife he could not touch; barred from over and over again. What twisted fingers of fate wrapped around his ankles and planted him firmly to this forsaken plane he did not know, but feverishly the Mephisto dared to understand. If he could break the bonds then he could be free… he could finally rest; die… sleep.

It was nearly dusk when Jack had finally felt a stirring in his limbs, dredging his weary bones from the mattress to wash himself of sweat and stale memories. He’d clothed himself in simple charcoal cotton slacks, pairing to it a deep mahogany leather belt around his hips, fitted with a polished silver clasp-- Bernardo would have had nothing less than the finest metals in his wardrobe. He’d thought of a buttoned shirt, but something weighed heavily about this day, the lingering phantoms of his dream looming over his mantle-- Jack was feeling more melancholy than usual; more himself, less of the man whose body he’d stolen. Instead, he opted for a light crewneck sweater. Tailored from a soft blend of cashmere and linen, its understated basil hue, tonal checkered pattern and lambskin detailing cut a sophisticated silhouette.
Bravely, he chanced a glance at his form in the standing mirror next to the oak wardrobe cornered opposing the bed. The brunet inhaled deeply, evenly as umber eyes lingered forced over his countenance. The pale of his skin had begun to lose what warmth Bernardo’s body used to afford, greying slowly as days turned to weeks. Gaunt had his cheeks become, more so than the natural structure of his face. The very taste of his saliva was tinged with decay… And yet, Jack couldn’t help but feel his heart pull and swell for the picture of the man staring back at him. It was easy to imagine a thin set of obsidian-rimmed frames sitting proudly upon the bridge of his nose, and for a brief moment Jack almost absently reached up to adjust the ghost of them, his body moving out of a memory that needs no longer exist. That was enough to tighten his jaw and snap his head away.

Moving to sit on the edge of his bed, he lifted the small lamp on the bedside table. Beneath, a tiny brass key had been hidden, meant to unlock the petite drawer within the table’s framework. Reaching inside, he pulled out the long, fragile vial of serum, and held it weighty within his hands for a long, silent moment. Without needing to measure, it was apparent this was the last couple of shots he had left. Two shots of soured poison… Enough to last him another few weeks. The potency, as he had explained to Nascha prior, was dwindling with its age-- if his appearance and scent weren’t enough to distinguish that. Jack was running out of time… Perhaps, before finding Maeve, he would have revelled in the fact that his trial was coming to a close. But since being in her care… since Kenna’s innocence, and Nascha’s fire; since Esther’s tenderness and Seiko’s generosity… Jack couldn’t help but feel the tickle of an urge to remain-- to stay. Even if only to figure out how to release himself from the bonds of this world and let himself fully die in peace.
Deft fingers pulled out a sterile syringe from the drawer as well, and with delicate and careful movements, Jack drew all that it would allow, rolling up his sleeve to complete the ritual, passing the toxin into his veins.

It felt like fire, a wave of scorching heat as it slipped quickly through his blood, but every artery it slipped through would chill as it passed. The cells of his tissue drank at the poison greedily, whatever properties it held seeming to feed them as they gorged desperately to live. It was a brief respite, but for the moment; Jack sighing long into the solitary quiet of his chambers in relief; he felt the fog begin to clear, the haze of his sight vanishing. It was time to make some decisions.

Much like Jack, the Harpy had also lingered much longer than she should have, haunting the halls of this house she barely seemed to know. Considering how much she frequented the Canine or Le Repaire de Velours, it was any wonder if this was the longest she had remained in her private dwelling at one given time.
Clipped Oxford footsteps on hardwood resounded from the hollow rooms as Jack made his way down to the main level-- first to his study to procure a much-needed drink, and then to where the Mephisto could sense the blonde’s presence outdoors.

Approaching the back entry of the home, the inner door hung open widely, inviting in the cooling autumnal breeze as the evening settled fully over the city. Jack cleared his throat politely as he slipped through the screened outer door and onto the covered back porch, noting Maeve’s form sunken languidly into one of the rattan chairs. He smiled, albeit tiredly, and brought his glass to his lips. He could smell rain on the air, humidity pregnant and damp, yet the air was not so thick as the afternoons could be. A storm was approaching.
“Come to whisk me away out of the gilded cage I’ve created for myself?”
Jack swallowed down the cognac, eyes narrowed over the back lawn, “I had a strange dream,” he murmured, pausing but choosing not to delve further into that train of thought, “Maeve,” Jack’s voice gravely quiet. He looked to her then, jaw shifting uncomfortably, “I only have one shot left…” slowly he pulled his gaze away from her to move forward, leaning his weight upon the pillar, arms crossed over his chest, “And, I think… Maybe I’m ready to find more.” the smallest twinkle of the blond vampire in the Tailor’s eyes.
“Perhaps it is time I left the nest. If I am to be of any use to you, I shouldn’t stay on my arse for so long.”
Jack nodded, inhaling deeply before exhaling slow and thoughtful, “I was hoping you might. Do you have any possible theories on where we might begin?”

 

[legalrehab]

S E I K O
島崎清子

alias: Kirin

health bar

WHERE: Local Library
WITH: Dom
DOING: Studying
CREDIT: Inesanemona
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

Change came quickly to Seiko. Thankfully, that was something he adapted to well.


Maeve’s estate was a much needed wake-up call, his employer explained what his new comrade was: a mephisto. A creature unnatural to this world, yet no more unnatural that anyone else in that house. He took the information straight forward and accepted that he was now a full-time retainer under Mr. Jack Fletcher. He couldn’t believe the irony of it all when it ended up being the same man he had thought to never see again after last night at the Brass Canine. It felt unreal, the red string of fate that bound them together went farther than he could have ever anticipated. The two of them so vastly different yet succumbed to the same issues despite their different walks of life. Though he awaited the future to let him know if their meeting was a blessing or a curse.

It became apparent that these surprises of knowledge needed to end, he had been on this earth far too long to be so ignorant to these terms: Templar, Mephisto, Serum, Eden, The Order, Seraphim, Kestrel… the list could go on longer if he cared to keep thinking. He found himself in the local library pouring over any information he could on these subjects with naught but a kettle of hot water and a box of oolong tea to keep him company. He must know his enemy before believing he could defeat them and at present he knew less about his enemy than he could have imagined.

Templars were after Jack, and Templars were unbeknownst to him; he had never met or seen them before. The Templars worked by thriving under blinding religious faith, of which was not welcome in the secular region of Japan. His homeland ran under a truce between all races under the Meiji restoration. Previously Japan was under totalitarian rule of the Samurai. They thirsted for blood-shed and had become overtaken by greed and corruption. It took the entire country turning on the Samurai to realize how vile they had become and upon victory they were made to give up their blades and find other work. Seiko realized the err of his blade brethren early on in the restoration as did many, the crimes that Samurai commited were not easily ignored and he welcomed the change. However, many did not agree with the idea of converting to such an egalitarian society.

One such person being his current Shogun, Aoi Shimazaki, his own father.


❃❃❃❃❃❃


JAPAN, KANSAI DISTRICT 1866

“Rebellion?” Seiko muttered, his hands instantly reached for his mouth before stopping himself as if they could prevent he word from coming out. He found himself in the midst of a night’s raging storm. Rain crashed upon the roof of the tin gazebo he sat under with his companion, just loud enough to drone out their conversation for any curious ear. His companion was his childhood friend and best arrow, Nobu- who met his grave expression upon hearing Seiko utter that word of treason.

“I can hardly bring myself to say it out loud, yes,” Nobu said, with eyes as dark and hollow as the night sky. “When you close your eyes, you see their faces too don’t you? Look how numb we have become to this.” It took all he could to remain calm as to not arise suspicious to their conversation. Nobu was afraid to even think about such a thing, in fact it was the first time he told his plan to anyone out loud. His feet and hands trembled as if he were enveloped in the bitter cold – despite the warmth of summer around him. He continued, “What started as war for equality has become the game of a delusional zealot. The killing won’t stop; it’ll continue until all of Japan kneels before him.”

He meant Aoi Shimazaki, the greedy Shogun himself. He told himself the killing was all in the name of revolution, yet he knew deep down his father was truly a false prophet. His greed had no equal, and he wondered often himself if he had inherited any of this greed being born his son. Seiko smoothed his hands across his own knees in an attempt to remain calm, “I know it, and I don’t think it would even stop then. Japan won’t be enough for him, I dare say the entire world wouldn’t.”

“Will you join me then?”

Seiko did not answer; it wasn’t as easy as just saying yes. There was little he could do; even given the risk he could not imagine anything other than the life of war he had always known.

“You know what we are doing is wrong, I know that. I can see it in you- “Nobu questioned, his jaw clenched in frustration. “Why are you being ignorant?”

“I know this.” Seiko admitted, he could admit it plainly. Vowing to do anything about it was another story. Seiko was strong, stronger than most, but not stronger than all. He knew this as well, what was the point of even trying to rebel when he knew one day he will be cut down. “Doing what I’m told,” Seiko continued, “Obedience, war… that is all a samurai knows. I want to leave but- “

Nobu looked half defeated, in truth he had already admitted his loss. Seiko would not join him, not today. With despair he muttered to him, “What’s stopping you?”

“How could I take part in your rebellion?” Seiko choked on air. The words felt sour, so uncomfortable to say that they felt impossible to conjure. “You have nothing to promise me, and I have nothing I can promise you – let alone anyone else. Nobu, I can hardly speak for myself and you… you expect me to speak for others?”

“I don’t,” Nobu stated plainly. “I expect you to make yourself useful and make the right decision– a decision you will make for yourself ."

❃❃❃❃❃❃

He couldn’t take in any more information, the more he read the more he found himself conjuring his own thoughts instead of the words his eyes glanced over. The store would be closing soon, and for all the time he spent there he felt like he knew less than when he started.

His mind was left to addle- he had been alone with his thoughts too long with nobody to converse with. He was never much for talking anyhow but these days he longed for just a bit of tête-à-tête. Like a dry plant the conversation skills he once knew in time withered away like neglected leaves. The once rich and fertile soil of his brain was now a barren tundra of rotted earth under the constant barrage of winter’s snow. The icy garden within was fortified by impenetrable castle walls, high as mountains and built upon the solid stone of isolation keeping out any who try to tend to it, even himself. The deafening silence of a raging blizzard concealing any thought he may invoke.

Without a missive to deliver or liquor in his veins he could hardly hold a conversation. He tried to form sentences in response but doing so was puzzling. When anyone asked him questions directly, he could feel them think less of him in the way their eyes would focus onto him as if they had to drag the words out of him themselves. He had hardly changed since that day, still unable to think for himself. For someone who cared so much about being strong, it was a bitter taste for him to realize these truths and it grew even more when he knew he wasn’t always like this. His mind would always cling to memories of social highs, whisking from one conversation to another. The last night with Jack came to mind- the two of them exchanging bawdy tales and reveling in the drunken spotlight. At his worst he could almost relive the moments and carry on full conversations in his head.

It was nice talking to him, he enjoyed having a bit of dependence these days. It felt nice to be… desired. The comfort of knowing his company was wanted was something he never realized he took for granted when it happened. He knew those memories were locked away in the past and it was all his fault. It was easier to do that then force enthusiasm but after years of doing so he was so far gone it would be impossible to try turning back.

He hated being alone with his thoughts the most, yet how was he to have someone to share thoughts with when he couldn’t entice the company of anyone to begin with. He shook his head as if to shake off the avalanche of gloom within his head, resuming his tea. He peered his nose over the teacup and breathed in the aroma of the steam: lavender, bergamot, ginger and tea leaves. The scent drifted from the rim and the reflection of a sun set painted among the glasslike surface and porcelain material. The corners of his lips perked up in content, this position was an opportunity to make new relationships and break out of the isolation chamber he locked himself in. If not for his swordplay then perhaps he would have new friends to cook for, if they tried his cooking then maybe they could see past the cold image he couldn’t seem to shake.

Even so, he knew that again he was relying on skill to garner relationships. It felt as if that was all he had. He was so envious of those who seemed to have an air of attraction about them and could pull in the ears of others for nothing other than being themselves. He felt as but a mere pawn amongst kings, doing only as he told with little to no expectation that it would be completed. When was the last time he felt something had been achieved? When was the last time he even felt useful?

“Good evening, friend.”

His voice was healing, he had the exact aura he had just been dreaming about. Without knowing anything about him, Seiko already wanted to know more.

“Evening.” He stated dismissively, he didn’t want to invite a conversation should the other man not wanted one. But wait – this was exactly the problem! He then kicked himself for being a doormat once more and flashed a smile to try to welcome him back.

“A good time for a late read. Studying Templars, eh?” his voice rang once more.

This stranger didn’t have to know about his short-comings with interpersonal relationships, and if he spoke correctly, he would not have to. Seiko gathered himself and straightened up his posture, fixing a crook in his neck from crooning over pages for the past several hours. “You know I can’t tell if it’s just that the information is so vague or that my head is just repelling the words,” Seiko met eyes with the new acquaintance, immediately noticing (as all creatures of the night instinctively do) he was human. The man was immense, even the width of his fingers bulged with the muscles of someone who had spent immeasurable amounts of time pushing the human body to its limits to grow stronger. His eyes were light pools of honey brown tinted brighter than Seiko’s own and dark tendrils of matted hair fell around his face and caressed his bearded jawline. He was truly a goliath in human form, enough to make even Seiko feel small.

Seiko extended his hand to the chair adjacent to him, all the other chairs occupied by books and tomes he had brought over. He would have to buy one of them on the way out – he owed the library something for the amount of time he spent here today.

“I happen to be an expert on the subject!” he laughed and offered his companionship. Seiko accepted and did his best to be welcoming, this was his chance to improve what he was self-conscious about and there was no better practice than a stranger of whom he may never see again.

“Well where were you seven books ago, then?” Seiko jeered. He bowed his head slightly in welcome, “My name is Seiko; it’s Japanese. I’m a former – soldier – who came from overseas for mercenary work only to find I know very little about America’s war economy.” Seiko began moving the opened books aside, sorting them all into piles to be returned to the shelves. “I think everyone knows what werebeasts and vampires are. We’re all told the same bedtime stories growing up.” He once again straightened his posture and let his mind flow, perhaps he did have quite a bit more to say than he thought. He paused on a book of mechanical blueprints before continuing, “The weaponry, I get that. These books they explain very well and very plainly what a Templar is and what they’ve done. They fight under the name of God but I can’t really understand how they fit into the same picture.”

Seiko paused for his acquaintance’s responses and made sure his own company was still desired. “Religion is …unfamiliar with me but surely that can’t be the pure motivation for their actions. To go into battle against such skewed odds with naught but a one-time victory in Port Thames and a few skirmishes under their belt… how could they continue to march for their cause. Being sent to death so freely, it doesn’t make sense.” He pinched the temples of his nose in frustration and tilted his head back toward the ceiling. “Maybe I’m thinking too personally, but I can’t relate to them at all.”

“War is all I’ve ever known. As a soldier we go from one war to another, and once you’re on the battlefield, tasted the elation, the pressure… it all becomes part of you. Once you’ve stirred the instincts within… they never sleep again. You move on to higher pressures, greater ecstasies. As a mercenary, you think I would have realized that by now. Loyalty to your country, or loyalty to a leader. The mission, or your beliefs! Duty to your unit or personal feelings – that’s all it ever comes down to is what side to choose! And when I place myself in their shoes I don’t see how they are choosing any of them!?” He could feel the sting in his tone, the frustration of someone who felt defeat. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.

“So I hope you can help me understand, friend… what do they fight for?”

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Cassandra Caldecott

Little Sparrow

health bar

WHERE: Market
WITH: No one of Importance
DOING: Shopping
CREDIT: Wendy Ng
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

Bright blue eyes stared longingly out the window, the glow of the afternoon sun shining on soft features as the small golden-haired child waiting patiently for her parents to return. They had been away for several weeks, and Cassandra, barely past the age of four, was eager for their return. The book for her studies tossed aside. Her eldest brother was sitting as far from her as he could get, his head buried in a book of his own. Being thirteen years older than her, he had little time for her antics and had been frustrated by her peering over his shoulder, her incessant questioning of what he was doing. She had merely been curious but given up to the distraction of watching through the window.

Head in hand, absentmindedly letting gaze wandering to the birds flitting around on the lawn outside their home, she wondered if they were really coming home today. Her brothers had assured her that they were, however, she was starting to think they had tricked her again. It wasn't until the birds flew off, startled by movement, that her eyes fell to the carriage coming closer. A smile shone across her face in delight as she pushed herself off the window seat, her little legs carrying her down the halls to meet her parents at the door.

The small child was full of bouncing steps, little hops at her feet as she got closer. She was enveloped in embraces by her parents. Cassandra was glad that they were home. She missed them terribly when they went away.

"Here, this is for you." Her father pulled out a doll, passing it to his daughter. It was exquisitely crafted to look just like her. Blonde hair, delicate features. It was beautiful. As people were bringing in the rest of their trucks, in a flourish, her mother pulled a dress out. "We picked this up as well, isn't it beautiful my darling," she said, holding it out to size it up against her daughter's small frame. The dress matched that of the doll that her father had given her.

Her brothers filtered in from other parts of the house to greet their parents return. Cassandra was mostly distracted by her mother fussing over her, ignoring the exchange. Her interest in what was happening only resumed upon hearing a conversation between her eldest brother and their father.

"I assume you are already packed," her father asked him.

"Yes, father, ready for tomorrow."

"Excellent, we shall head off in the morning. This is going to be a great learning experience for you." Cassandra's eyes flicked between those that were a lot taller than her. "You're leaving again?" she asked in a small voice. Her mother brushed it aside. "We're going only for a week Cassandra," she said, noting that she would also be heading off with them. "Hardly any time at all," she assured, though it somewhat came across that she wished it would be longer. "Oh, okay," the small girl said, with a smile and a nod.

Sometime later, the little blonde-haired girl lingered in her room, doll in hand as she inspected the new dress she was wearing, her face almost blank as she looked in the mirror.

"Are you alright, Miss Cassandra?" one of the elder staff who had come to fetch her for the evening meal asked, concern etched on his kind face. The child's face instantly lit up. "Yes," she said with a nod. "Look what mother and father got for me," she said, giving a small spin to show off the dress she was wearing, and holding up to doll for him to see. "They are beautiful," he said softly, and though a smile was on his face, there was sadness lingering in his eyes.

Cassandra absentmindedly played with the golden strands of the doll's hair, her face falling almost blank again. "Can I show you something, Miss Cassandra,"

"Show me what?" she asked, curiously. He crouched down to her level, a small smile on his face as he pulled a coin from behind her ear. Her eyes lit up. "How did you do that?" she asked, wonderment filling her voice as she dropped the doll, taking the coin that he now handed to her.

He smirked lightly at the child's delight. "Little bit of magic." The girl rolled her eyes but still looked at the coin in wonder. "Don't be silly, magic isn't real,"

"Maybe not, but you can make people think it is." She looked at him curiously, not entirely understanding what he meant. He sat down on the floor in front of her pulling out another small coin, dancing it across his fingers. "You're too busy looking over here," he said, his fingers folding the coin into a fist, making it seemingly disappear. "You miss what happens over there." Opening his other hand, the coin seemed to have jumped between the two fists. The girl gave a small giggle in delight at the game. "those are the truths about people, Little Cassandra," he spoke softly to the child, handing her the other magic coin. "People become too focused on the things they think are important, that other things, sometimes more important things, get missed."

∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼​

He had always been right, of course. People always focused on the things they, forget to see, to pay attention to what they thought was more important. Everyone had their downfalls, and she knew that she was no different. Arrogant men were the worst offenders, but some woman could be just as bad. It was easy enough to exploit, once time had passed and she had practised the act of it enough times.

Men were fun to tease, so easily distracted. A soft bump into that was innocent enough. A hand in and out of a pocket too fast to even feel a difference. A sweet stammered out apology. "Oh I am so sorry sir," she said, flustered by the indecency of her actions. "It's quite alright, Miss," he said, a smile on his face suggested he did not mind in the slightest by being bumped into by a beautiful woman. "How dreadfully impolite of me, I do apologise," she continued, apologetic and innocently begging for his forgiveness. "Not needed, I assure you." A soft smile lined the corner of her lips as they exchanged pleasantries. A smile, a crook of her head, sweet light laughter to lower his expectations of what he thinks he sees. A fluttering of eyes, chest out flirtingly enough but still an air of innocence around the seeming young woman. So focused, so enamoured. So falsely looking in the wrong places.

Gently excusing herself, having somewhere else to be, Cassandra left a lingering promise to meet up with him at another time, and an exchange of how to get in contact in the vast city. She gave a delicate wave as he walked away. If Cass contacted him was another thing entirely. An easy meal, she would be sure, but she was not at the point of craving it too much yet.

Cassandra had locked herself in La Lune for the past couple of days, and it had been high time to get out of there. She had explored it enough to garner a grasp on the location, spent some much-needed time catching up with her old friend, by the call of the city that she now resided was too strong to ignore. The rest of the town had much to offer she was sure; it was indeed her time to explore.

Opening the purse she carried with her, Cassandra made quick work at tossing in from her pockets and up her sleeve the things she had lifted off him. Coin, pocket watch, jewels. Not an awful lot, but it had never been her intention. A few pocket things to grab and exchange at a later date. It was more for the fun of it than any monetary gain.

Making her way through the streets, she found herself at the markets. You could often tell a lot about a place by the things that were bought and sold. Produce, items, it was all fun to explore. She was never one to turn down a shopping trip. Cassandra made a note to keep her eyes out for a dress shop, or perhaps to ask someone if they knew of a decent one. She would need a few more outfits for her stay here, she did not bring nearly enough.

 

[CosmicDusk]

Cecile Bellerose

Ember

health | bar

WHERE: French Quarter Streets
WITH: A Client
DOING: Concluding Business
CREDIT: Milica Jevtic
PLAYLIST:

The past couple of nights were laid with leisure. Cecile occupied herself with ensuring Cassandra was comfortable within her home, then the rest of the day she was stowed away with her forge. Contracts grew in numbers, but not all were accepted. The design alone would entice her, its practicality another factor; but like many jobs, it was the pay. The worth for her time and materials, as limited as they come. Still, she could not deny the requests at times, for it brought comfort to her. Many would detect the unashamed curiosity tingling her spine. They varied; all intrigued her regardless, and she always gave her wholesome heart into each artwork.

​

"Shall we dance?"

Then she launched forward, silent like the wind. She wanted to test the woman's speed, her strength. After all, what fun was bloodshed without a little dancing in the midst? When she had taken a step further from where the Templar stood, Cecile spun on her heels, using the weight of her blade to swing her towards the direction of her enemy. The blade barely missed the woman's midsection as the blacksmith's feet ricocheted in the opposite way. Reflexes, check. A chuckle left her throat, and she darted in, closing the gap with but a step, before bringing up her moon blade. The Templar responded with a well-timed guard, throwing back the strike before aiming her own downward slash. Her mace was quite the heavy blow had Cecile been a second slower.

Instead, its spikes caught the tail of her skirt, and clear RRIIIIIP! resonated in the air. Once she felt some weight off of her dress, she tucked her stomach in and lowered her head. The vampress pressed against the ground with her free hand, her legs following by slicing the air as they rose off the dirt. Her foot connected with the Templar's pauldron. Whether the force was enough to push back the platinum-haired woman, she couldn't tell; but it did give Cecile somewhat of a push out of her reach. The spiked ball hadn't let go of its clutches, so her dress continued to separate as she moved. Flicking her wrist, she backed up a few steps, letting out a coarse laugh as she pivoted her feet to a halt. She quickly glanced at the now ruined skirt, its missing piece stuck to the weapon's spikes. Without hesitation, she crumbled the remaining cloth into her palm and drove her blade through it until it made an asymmetrical rip, resting just about her knees. The white and rosy pink laces slipped from her fingers, pooling at her feet; her aqua eyes glistened with aroused excitement.

Sapphire eyes flickered open, as if someone had hit an old switch in an abandoned factory, withering in dust and darkness. A pale hand was raised overhead in the dimmed room, the ceiling's gold trimmings reflecting the background. She then lowered her hand down to her chest, a steady hum against her palm.

The White One.

Holly Wilshire, known as Gabriel.

It was unknown to Cecile why she dreamed of her first meeting the female Templar. All she could tell herself was, it was no doubt the two will once again meet. As much as the vampiress would enjoy another night of actions and deplorable sentiments, she had other hopes. She rose from her bed, kicking her legs over to the edge. A chalice of water on her nightstand called her, one she did not deny. As she downed the contents, her mind raped through her memories.

Templars were the cause of many of her kins' deaths. Some more memorable than others. Families reached out to her, in tears and in anger. Cecile did not want the bloodshed, not as much as her predecessor did. It followed him no matter where he stepped; death always loomed over his shoulders like a stray dog. He was ruthless, ill-mannered, even sloppy; but no one could deny his strength, his will, how easy it was for him to be king and attain all he desired. However, Cecile saw otherwise.

Kestrel Paradin was fragile.

Many didn't see what she saw, and her loyalty grew concrete by the hour. Many times she obeyed his orders, just as many a times she reprimanded his poor manners not fitting for a king. Cecile softly chuckled, recalling his messy eating habits that littered Four Points with corpses, both new and old. It was oddly fitting, for a king like him.

But Cecile wanted little bloodshed. Only the blood of the Templars, for the fear they have casted across the immortals. And as obvious as it was: avenge her friend.

But Kestrel's death was not the only reason she sought after the Templars.

One only Holly Wilshire can give her the answer.

"Where did you go..."

​

The blacksmith finally left her quarters after having spent the morning hours brooding over past memories. She disliked how sentimental she would get from time to time. Fortunately for her, none have caught this weakness of hers; something she despised since becoming a vampire. All those years, stuck in the streets, whoring for spare change, her emotions bottled. She thanked whatever being above brought her blacksmithing teacher to her, something she could drown her emotions in and not feel an ounce of guilt or mortification. Just relief and euphoria.

The estate was silent. Her servants more than likely still asleep or quietly rising from their slumber. If they were attending to their tasks, then they did so without a sound. The kitchen, especially, was vacant. Though it was usually a sole chef, and at times the maid, he often made a ruckus. For everything to be at a standstill was eerily uncomfortable. Cecile snatched an apple of the center of the island and sauntered to the main hall. Grand in gold and dark cherry wood, a faint scent of vanilla and singed metal danced on her nose. She hadn't heard from Cassandra, nor felt her presence. Perhaps she had gone exploring, a wanderlust bug she was. The thought made her smile, and with a crunch of her apple, she grabbed for a long cloak and exited through the tall doors.

It was a short stroll, from her estate to the center of French Quarter. The streets were lively, the sound of jazz and jingles hummed in her ears as she stuck closer to the side of the streets. She maneuvered around the stumbling drunks, the chipper dancers, and of course the lovely musicians. Colours blared her vision, voices pitched in tunes of a lullaby. Cecile swayed back and forth among the crowd, almost as if she was dancing along. None were the wiser, for she blended well into the evening. The hour was still early, but everyone treated the streets with festivities as if it was already midnight.

A particular jazz venue caught her eye, and she made quick work to cross the street. No one dared to disturb her, not that any of them could catch her on the movement with as much booze they were inhaling. Cecile considered the thought of a drink for herself, but a prior engagement called upon her. She would reward herself another time. Her heel clacked against the pavement, followed by two swift ones, and the bell rang her entrance. Welcoming the warmth, the scent of booze and coffee assaulted her nose as her sapphire gaze searched the room. Tucked away in the corner front, she found the glinting gold.

"My, you are early."

"Pardon me, I was eager to see your work."

"You flatter me." The blacksmith slid into the booth, then overlapped her hands on the table. "I see you have ordered me a drink as well."

"Well, best to hide our true intentions, no?"

"Hm." She silently agreed, then pushed her hands forward once more, then retracted them to grab her drink.

She feigned a sip as the man gathered the silver dagger off the table where her hands once were. He sat back into his seat, nestled himself as if he was adjusting, and inspected the dagger. His hand traced over the emblem that coated the thin hilt, the foreign words etched against the blade.

 

[CosmicDusk]

Jonah Lancaster

The Overseer

health | bar

WHERE: French Quarters
WITH: Holly Wilshire
DOING: Observing
CREDIT: Ástor Alexander
PLAYLIST: ♱

By normal routine, Jonah remained in his quarters. Most would spend their leisure time tucked away by the slumbers of their sheets, or by the seduction whiskey allowed them. Perhaps even just a lone stroll along the dock to bask in the return of the dawn. But the Overseer? No; he abandoned all company to sort through the many paperwork that stumbled onto his desk, either by demand or by opinion. The feathered pen never left his hand, dryly scratching across his desk. A sole metronome say idly at the corner of his desk, ticking rhythmically as documents traversed from one end to the other.

The only break times he allotted himself was for a quick meal and allowed his men to report back to him, whether they were of mundane activities or any sudden occurrences that may hinder them before their destination. Thankfully, none of them were idiotic enough to injure themselves or place themselves in a pit with each other. Their energy needed to be preserved, stewed in their individual stoves, and released at the first sight of an immortal. While orders had already been placed, the elder man debated with himself whether he would allow his men to run amok, or direct them in a fashioned manner to open up the field for the Blood Sisters.

Either or meant bloodshed.

Freedom it was, he decided. And the door of his study closed behind him.

♱​

Late morning, and not once had Paradise fallen into silence since the early evening hours the previous night. While he was thankful for no extra documents littering his desk, there was not a moment of peace or rest. The Patriarch moved from one area to the next, checking on his mens, on reports, and even on supplies to ensure a proper execution upon landing in New Orleans. There was no room for error, not in his eyes. As Templars ran, skipped, tripped, and even screamed to their next location, Jonah remained idle on the observation deck, a single thumb rubbing over a scratched spot on his index finger where a feathered pen once laid. In the other, mechanical fingers clutched onto an envelope. Its seal broken, the letter written with a fancy script.

He and Holly had already spoken on the matter, speculations rising over it. There was no denying something was amiss, and it irked him. He loathed surprises. The sounds of cheers and jests approached closer, and the letter disappeared flames.

As others organized themselves among their work, Jonah resided to a lone table where he enjoyed a cup of afternoon tea. The sun harsh on his skin, the heat uncomfortable on his mechanical appendages if he were to stray from the canopied deck. He lingered over the scent of earl grey, his late lunch gone. He tossed all thoughts aside, anything that had to do with an Elias Brandt. The Overseer was not fond of additional parties that interrupted plans he had already concreted. It was already enough he had to adjust his work for the Blood Sisters, moving his men accordingly to tend to them. Particularly a Cain in the crowd. As of late, he had been quiet, diligent on his suit; as he should before their arrival. He expected no less, and executed all means to ensure success.

♱​

The Overseer stepped across the cold pavement, music ringing in his ears as he tossed an overcoat over his shoulder. A golden cane in one hand, the other tucked into the pockets of his pants. Each long stride took him closer, quicker into the crowd as he glazed over their heads.

"Let us make this quick, Gabriel. A long night looms over us."

 

[CosmicDusk]

Olivia Baynes

Raphael

health bar

Where: Paradise - Medical Bay
With: No one
Doing: Supplying
Credit: AdamaSto
Playlist:

Antiseptic and harsh antibiotics covered the air like mist. Its scent harsh to passersby when their routes reverted them near the medical bay. Final inventory were in the works, some healers resting to preserve their energy until they were called on standby, and even soldiers philandering their butts with a couple of the medics. Certainly it was stressful moments, hours before the start of the mission; but one couldn't afford to botch a single movement, especially in preparations.

Still, only a sigh escaped her lips at the sound of giggles.

Paradise was in high tempo. Each sound clashed with one another, never in rhythm. It was chaotic, frantic, and at most disruptive. It was soothing for some, as odd as it was. She could never fathom the intensity of random noises joined together. Everything had a place, and should stay in place. Templars sought each other out from one room to another, questions shrieking from their throats while demands thundered across the halls. The turbulence that fought against Paradise was of no help neither; it only added to the pandemonium. Thankfully, not many lingered while she obtained some refreshments, idling along the halls as she munched on some fruits. They greeted her when they saw her pass by, a short greeting in reply. Olivia, instead, succumbed to the serenade of her thoughts.

She returned to the medical bay, where some of the healers have returned from the short slumber, adjusting each station accordingly for better maneuver around the bay when bodies will soon pile in. She took a seat at her desk, enjoying her snack as amber eyes gazed over the papers once more. Everything was accounted for, but she preferred to double-check herself, giving herself ample confidence for when she would later play music to soothe the nerves of her Brothers and Sisters. Olivia smiled at the thought. She was not excited for battle like most of them were. She would rather tuck away into a field and play her flute if possible. Not that anyone would stop her if she wanted to play for her patients in the bay, something she always anticipated.

A commotion erupted outside of the bay, prompting most of the healers to leave and observe the chaos. Raphael didn't move an inch. She remained in her seat, tossing a mandarin into her mouth, and savoured the sour-sweet taste as she reviewed her instructions. She had no intention of leaving the bay, nor she feel the need to. No, her place was here. Her most sane in what others call their sanctuary; their second chance at life. A number of them still occupied the room with her as she finally lifted her head up. A few stray white strands caught her eye, as she caressed a hand through her hair. While she tidying herself, the woman moved about the bay, finding herself halfway through as she mindlessly counted beds and trays. She stopped, the noise around her diminishing to the sounds of cheers, she crouched to a sitting position.

Olivia rested against one of the patient beds, long legs spread in front, head rocked back against the edge of the mattress with golden amber hues staring at the white ceiling. Overhead lights seared across the room, softly buzzing, the only sound to reign the medical bay. A piece of her soul wanted to combat the silence with a tune of some sort, whether a violin or a flute. More likely the latter, for it sat just at her desk not too far away from where she sat. A piece of her body refused to move, seeping in the chance to relax before danger approached and forced her to act. Casaulities were bound to happen, red to smear the white walls and floors, and green to cascade the air. Soon, they would reach New Orleans. Soon, she could hear the ticking of hearts. Soon, she would not find another piece of silent as this to enjoy.

Muscles relaxed, a hum lulled the silence.

 

[ashwynne]

Elias Laertes Brandt

J u d a s

h e a l t h | b a r

WHERE: French Quarter
WITH: Gabriel & the Overseer
DOING: Assessing his Employers
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

Calloused fingers gripped the neck of the violin with a lover's tenderness, but the way he drew his bow over string was anything but gentle. There was madness to it, a wildness, and few eyes in the restaurant were able to tear themselves away from the Devil in black as he painted stories out of notes.
His body swayed with the music, following it, so that as his song sketched out battlefields and adrenaline thundering through terrified veins, his own motions seemed to jerk and jolt in tandem with every violent image it elicited. A woman near to the stage moved involuntarily with him at times, the vampire hardly able to restrain his smile at the marionettes his audience were becoming as his song swelled and grew.
Of course, it did not pass Elias' notice when hostess Marie began to thread her way through tables with two distinguished looking guests in tow. Intuitively, he knew these were the ones he was meant to meet with--The Overseer and Gabriel--but they were well past the appointed meeting time and so he turned his attention away from them and back to the completion of his song.

The performance lasted for perhaps another five minutes; bow string stripped and hanging ragged by the end, his chest heaving more with feeling than exertion, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Many of those watching seemed off-kilter, looking hollow and forlorn, perhaps still lost on the battlefield he had painted; the mountains of corpses, the rivers of red.
He offered them no bow, no satisfaction of an ending. The last note still hovered on the air when he sprang off the stage with a thud that was not overloud but made most flinch and some grasp their necks in startled fear.

To the table in the center he went; tucking his violin in its case unhurriedly, settling into his seat and pouring some more wine.
"I like the tone of your instrument, you're very talented, Mr. Brandt."
"Thank-you," he replied in a low rumble and with a tip of his head, taking a considering sip of his wine. At ease, he studied Gabriel with appraisingly narrowed eyes. She had not been immune to his music, clearly, evidenced by both her attempt to applaud him when he first slipped off the stage, and the compliments she levelled towards him now. They were thoughtful, well chosen, polite. How disappointing.
"Did you have difficulty navigating the city?" the words were not rude but held a definite undercurrent of disapproval over their tardiness.
"You have our utmost apologies. Our ship was late to port. While we were running on schedule for most of the trip, the oncoming storm gave us a turbulence and a strong headwind. I am thankful for your patience to wait for us."
"No matter, I found ways to pass the time--as you saw."
This was not the commandeering general he had hoped for. One to draw from him a sense of duty, an irrepressible desire to serve, and yet she had a pretty form and good manners. Idly, he wondered what she was like in bed. Did she turn commanding and demanding? Or did she beg to be bound and bent to her lover's will? The latter, he would guess, though he had been wrong before. "You are both here, and so our business can be conducted, that is all that concerns me."
"Very well," It seemed she was finally ready to put niceties away and get down to business.
He reached into his satchel beside the table and pulled out a fistful of broken gears and cogs--blood and viscera coating them--and spilled them over the crisp white expanse of his plate, gesturing towards the pieces. "A greeting gift; one less vampire plaguing the streets." A cold smile stretched his lips, deliberately exposing his fangs, "Call me Judas."

His status as a vampire made it obvious why the meeting had been done discretely and so whatever questions they might have had on that score were no doubt answered.
In quick terms he sketched out the fact that their superiors had contracted him to assist in the retrieval mission. In answer, Holly described the path The Key had taken to reach New Orleans. As she explained, she referred to the unfortunate, ungodly, creature repeatedly as an ‘it,’ and the corners of his lips twitched in response.
The expression might have been read as amusement, but that was not the case. He had no love for vampires. They were--the lot of them--unnatural creatures living on stolen time, but Mephisto were far worse. A perversion of the mate bond, created by human hands, by Templar hands. Referring to this one as an 'it,' well, Elias was not sure whether that spoke to an inability to face the reality of what had been done to the unfortunate pair, or to a true soul-deep callousness. Either one could be problematic, either one could be advantageous--depending on how the knowledge was used.

In the end, she asked what his dossier was, why he had been chosen for this mission.
This question, while understandable, made his eyes narrow fractionally nonetheless, displeasure writ on his face. "Perhaps that is something you ought to ask your superiors, or do you not trust their judgment in assigning me to this mission?" his voice was velvet as he spoke, gaze piercing.
She gave a good answer, one he could approve of. Perhaps he would like her better than he'd initially surmised. Time would tell. Gabriel had appreciative breasts, if nothing else. And that was a thought that had his lips curving up in a truly wicked smile.
As she had removed her trenchcoat the collar of her blouse had dipped low to offer him a very pretty view, one he allowed himself to enjoy the sight of. To her credit, the living heart nestled between where his eyes wandered did not lose itself, nor did she betray any particular emotion one way or another at his leering. Something else to approve of; she would have lost all credibility with him had it been any other way. And so, he chose to address her question properly.

"Where is your dossier?" the voice with which he spoke was not his own but rather hers, mimicked almost perfectly. His gaze lifted from her chest back to her eyes, satisfaction flitting through him at the shock he saw there. It was no easy thing to hear one's voice echoed perfectly from another's lips. Such a very intimate theft it was. Still, a more thorough explanation of his qualifications still seemed in order.

He sighed, finger beginning to slowly rim his glass, "I've been doing this more than four times as long as you. The number of vampires I have killed is beyond your ken, and both my race and particular skillset enables me to far more easily infiltrate immortal ranks--should that become necessary," he quirked a brow at her, finger pausing in its lazy circling. "My senses outpace yours, my strength is at least on par, and my experience far outstrips yours. Does this answer satisfy you? If so, we can move on to specifics."
"It does, For now. I'll judge your worth in battle. What more do you need?" Of course, even as she spoke, she was shifting position, her eyes having followed the calloused finger he ran around the rim of his glass. Ah, now that was interesting. Perhaps she would be very diverting in the end.
"As I will no doubt be judging yours," he said with a faint edge of amusement to his voice. "Perhaps, as a warm-up, you can test my mettle in a spar or two, hm?" there was only the faintest of salacious undertones to the invitation, but they were there and difficult to miss, entirely heedless of their other companion. This time it was Gabriel who raked her eyes over him and Elias who sat calmly beneath her stare. He knew the figure he cut, had seduced enough people over the centuries to know his own attractiveness, and so he remained comfortably leaned back, allowing her to look as long as she pleased.
"Perhaps, I haven't had a challenge since I took Kestrel Paradin's head."
"Indeed? I'd very much like to test the prowess of one who accomplished such a feat," he said smoothly with a reciprocal smirk.
“Perhaps,” was the only answer she gave him… but it was not a no.
"As for what I need..." his expression cooled, eyes glinting, "Anything and everything you can tell me about The Key will be of benefit. Whether you think it inconsequential or no. The object being live retrieval, there will be fewer missteps and greater chances of success if I am well informed."

She proceeded to explain the basic information of the type of Mephisto the target was, his general stature and appearance, giving their assumption of his current whereabouts, the names he might go by, and finally mentioning that there was an extensive file compiled onboard their ship.

As she recited the basic information, Elias nodded to himself, idly drawing a hand through silvered blond locks as he committed it to memory. A matebond between Beast and Vampire... rare indeed, he itched to smell him. The vampire could only wonder what he'd taste like; a rare delicacy? Or muddied? He couldn't be sure, but if an opportunity presented itself to find out...
He cleared his throat--softly--realizing that his thoughts were drifting... at least until the mention of the names he might be going by. The name of Bernardo Maverick being one.
Disappointment swirled in his chest. The Maverick name was known to him; a Tailor he had intended on commissioning ere long for some suits. What a waste. Of all the matebonded pairs the Templars had to fuck with, why did this one have to include an individual he had some interest in? Repressing a sigh, Elias added another nod to show he was listening.
"Excellent, that is already quite useful, though I will want to see the file as well. I have my own accommodations in the French Quarter, but for the sake of expediency it would be ideal to have a place for myself onboard Paradise. However," he held up a finger, "I am rather insistent on furnishing whatever bunk you allot to me myself... and it may be worth considering whether your underlings will be amenable to sharing space with a vampire. I would, in truth, prefer my own space."

Alas, she explained—following a quick glance at the Overseer—that Paradise was at capacity and finding space for him would be difficult. Still, she asked for his list of requests and said she would see what could be managed which was enough to soothe him.
He did not ask for much… merely the bare essentials: a bunk to himself, room for a double bed, liquor cabinet, bureau, and space to practice his violin. Loathe as he was to go without a bathtub, he doubted they would be able to provide such a thing and he resigned himself to simply slip to his property in the Quarter should he require the respite it provided. He did suggest a separate bathroom of some sort, if only for the comfort of other Templars who might find it disagreeable to share with a vampire, but that was more for their sake than his.

"One last thing; We understand this city has lax rules for the immortals, and as such our presence here may be uncomfortable for many of the local citizens. I trust that with your assistance we should be able to find our Mark quickly and discretely?"
"Naturally, you will find me indispensable on that score. I've already learned of several favoured haunts for immortals in the city, ones that I will have easy access to and you will not. He will be found quickly and discretely, yes."

Gabriel asked if anything further was required—it was not, save his desire to view the file—and so she invited him to join them at their Headquarters, to which he agreed. In addition, she proposed that he deposit his violin at home for its own safety--should his lodgings not be terribly far out of the way. It was a sentiment that earned an appreciative smirk from him. He had found her niceties galling initially, but in truth he had warmed to her through this conversation and was no longer so perturbed by it. In fact, he quite appreciated her thoughtfulness and was happy to agree to that suggestion.
With that settled, he rose fluidly from his seat with his satchel pulled over one shoulder in the same smooth motion that he plucked up his violin case.
He did not pull out her chair for her nor offer his arm--not wanting to insult her position as head of the Blood Sisters--but he did dip his head politely to her and offer a mannered smile that had won him many a political ally throughout his long life. "After you."

As they walked the memory came as they often did; unwanted, unbidden and strong enough to make his jaw clench tightly:

Homes that were unoccupied had a different air to them. It did not matter how well maintained the facing or how pristine the gardens; without a person to inhabit them they emanated a chill that would never abate. It set his teeth on edge.
Three wilted marigolds suffered beneath the squeeze of Elias’ clenched fist. It was not the interior of the cottage that he sought, nor did he think he would ever again summon the strength to pass its threshold—whether he preserved it for all eternity or no—but still, he found himself arrested, rooted in place, as he stared at the mausoleum of his mortal life. If he closed his eyes just so, if he drowned out the ticking of the hateful organ caged within his chest, he could almost hear the voices of his past. Some to make him flinch, some to make him weep.
A shudder shook his burly form. He did not want to hear them. He would remember, yes, always, but he did not have to live them. Once was enough. More than enough… too much.
Leather booted feet shucked through mud as he skirted the building, hopping the short, thatched, fence in a motion so familiar to his body that he nearly stumbled on the other side with the onslaught of memories. Girlish laughter. Golden hair. Screams. “Ah…” the hand clutching the blooms found itself pressed against his chest, an ache sweeping through him that had no business being there, now that his heart had been replaced with dead clockwork.
He told himself that his vision was not misted, forced his stumbling feet to carry him further, to the set of stones that rose like rounded teeth from the soil. One was cracked, hungry lichens and vines wearing it down for purchase in their pursuit of growth, but the other was kept as pristine as the cottage. It was to this one that he turned, placing the marigolds against it with reverence, his fingers brushing over roughly-hewn letters that he had etched into its face himself—though he could not remember doing it, could remember little, in fact, from that time of agony.
A roughspun cloth bag was removed from his shoulder, the contents dumped with far less care before the stone. Gears, clock hands, cogs; they spilled onto the dirt, still glistening with gore, and a bitter anger clutched his chest at the sight of them.
“I am damned,” his voice was rough, raw, “I will never see your face again, for no afterlife exists for a creature such as me, but the demon that separated us is also no more. I’ve seen to that. No others will be made into monsters by him,” his shoulders sagged, “I promise you this… if I cannot join you, I will suffer eternity and carry your memory forever… meine kleine Schmetterling.”
Elias began to turn from the slab, but his hand seemed to have a mind of its own, fingers stubbornly curling around the top of the stone. A choked sound strangled itself in his throat and he clenched his jaw, eyes squeezing shut, as he forced himself to place one foot in front of the other and step away. It would be the final time in his immortal life that he would stand here.

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

René Troxler

Ephemera

health bar

WHERE: NOLA Templar HQ
WITH: Cain
DOING: Preparation and Repairs
CREDIT: len-yan
PLAYLIST: ☀

Arms folded, he leaned quietly against the wall of the New Orleans Templar headquarters to which those actively going into the field were instructed to wait. His eyes absorbed the details of the foyer; Arts and Crafts movement reminiscent wallpaper of muted green and gold, the King Louis XIV furniture with velvet to match the colors of the room, the flora welcomed guests into the space as if this were a home instead of a business. He was feigning boredom to hide the irritation he felt. Rarely was he asked to tag along for a mission, but less so was he ordered to.

Dressed in black and grey tactical gear the blond stretched his hands in and out of fists, keeping them loose. His leather satchel was strung over his right shoulder and rested on the opposite hip, filled with tools for on-site repairs and emergency agents for anyone injured while he worked. His gloved right hand followed the long sleeve of his jacket, settling at his mid-arm, massaging the metal beneath as if the hidden weapon beneath the surface was aching. Pink buds formed a hard line over his features as he stared at the floor. Crossing his arms, he lifted off the wall and moved around in calm, small, tight circles to bring circulation through his body again. The holster housing his issued pistol on his hip shifted as he walked, hidden beneath the length of his jacket. He wanted his rapier on him. He wanted to defend himself with the weapon he had been training with for years, not the one he’d mastered at the Order’s behest.

His back hit the wall again, and he pushed his hair back with a concentrated sigh, before letting his hand slip to his mouth, hiding his lips behind the slender digits. An amber gaze slid over the group within the room to his left. A few Sisters, mostly Legionnaire’s in various states of preparation. His eyes decisively did not settle on his roommate who had become impossible to live with. Between verbal and physical assaults, René had had his fill of Cain.

---​

The smug bastard had given the engineer his schematics, alright. Every single page of the plans were meticulously designed and planned, the loose sketches above the official blueprint left room for the imagination of the alterations he’d determined to make in order to customize it for his strengths, but every single note was in Russian.

His eyes were wide at the scribbles and thoughts written down, the unfamiliar alphabet causing a stir in his mind of trying to decipher anything he could recognize. Nothing. Not a damn thing made sense because it was in a language he didn’t know. Muttering a cuss under his breath, he looked over at his roommate’s workstation and rolled his eyes. Of course he would do this. He’d broken the man’s nose, and because there was no opportunity for physical retaliation, mental was the best he could supply.

Ephemera took out his ledger and began to write a note to be left for the prick: "Thank you for the schematics, I'll be giving them more than a passing glance at a later time. It would appear you've done as much because your notes are indecipherable." He moved around the partition, left the paper on the table, and returned to his workbench to pick up where he’d left off the day before….

He had lost count on how many parts he had replaced in this one augment, but it was becoming a royal pain in his neck while he worked. Every now and again his sight would travel to the Seraphim plans, curiosity still blazing behind amber eyes. He rolled his neck, his hand massaging the top of his spine, and closed his eyes to rest them from the headgear he wore. This was becoming a little much, but it needed to be completed before the day was out. It was the last project he needed to do for the Sisters, and then he could reassign Legion projects appropriately to focus elsewhere. With an exhausted sigh, he returned to work, buzzing around the armament like an angry bee.

He hadn't heard the other's approach, the engineer was far too deep into his element to care who would sneak up on him. That was his first mistake. His second was deciding it didn't matter who had the workspace next to him, especially if it was the bastard who he'd punched the afternoon before. The slap on his table sent a shock up his spine. René turned on his stool and stared back unflinchingly. He hadn't seen how the wound had fared until now, and it seemed fitting for his features that Cain's face was swollen and bruised. It wasn't until the Legionnaire walked away that he bothered to drop the façade and reveal a smirk which pulled at the corner of his mouth gently, a tad too proud of the damage he'd inflicted.

Reaching for the note, he pulled it over to read it. "To protect my intellectual property. Regardless of what these motherfuckers think: The suit belongs to me."

He scoffed. Taking the pencil from his ear, he wrote underneath: "Until your sentence is over, you belong to the Order, therefore the suit does, too. But that's fine. I'll make due." With the Legionnaire’s back towards him, he tossed it back over the partition to be forgotten until a later time.

His mind went back to his work the second the note had left his hand. The break in his concentration was enough to relax his mind, but it had taken him a moment to find where he'd left off at. Ephemera fell back into his pace before long, removing parts and replacing them, marking notes in his ledger of the work he was doing and the final adjustments he'd decided upon. Provided he continued to work without finding more problems, he'd be done on schedule to return it to the Sister in question.

He pressed a trigger within the mod for it to close, but it wouldn't as a piece of paper was chucked over his shoulder and lodged itself within. He prodded the side to trigger the external switch; nothing. Ripping the headpiece of his face and dropping it to the table, he groaned. This was ludicrous. Using one of his custom probes, he set to dislodging the paper from the mechanism to release it and close the mod properly. He tossed the paper aside. There wasn't anything wrong with the augment; triggering the external switch again, it opened, properly this time and he removed bits of torn paper from within. The blond stood and lifted the mass of metal to carry and place among a set of completed repairs and projects. On a nearby clipboard, wrote down the specifics for the order to be released.

Returning to his workbench, he snatched the wadded paper up and read the small note: “And how do you plan to do that?” Rolling his eyes, he closed it again, and threw it at his neighbor's head. Certain those cold eyes were on him, René lifted the schematics into his hand and closed them as if they would rip from the slightest wrong touch. "Careful and meticulous research, as usual."

He grabbed the ledger, slipped his pencil behind his ear, and left the room. There was no doubt within his mind that the Legionnaire hadn’t even bothered to go to the library on this ship, and would likely find peace alone among tomes. If René were truly lucky, he’d find a book inside the Languages section that would help him translate the notes. However, he turned in a different direction. He’d eat first, settle the empty knot in his stomach, drown his thirst with tea and ease the tension he felt. Nothing in the years at the academy could have prepared him for the ceaseless frustration he experienced when it came to his bunkmate.

He ate and drank in silence, still irritated and unsociable while he sat at the table, looking over the folded papers across from him. He’d distanced them away to protect them, and to glare at them ominously as if it were the man who’d drafted them. It took a second cup of tea to get him to breathe easier, to realize the plans were just that. The moment he was done he stalked down the halls, his blood calmed in the rush of his veins. The library was still, and the atmosphere ran over him-- familiar, safe, untroubled. He could study and work here, Ephemera would find his answers, surely…

Not. Not a single book in the Languages section covered Russian in-depth enough. Conversational phrases jumbled and danced, little bits here and there, words translated from one alphabet to another, but the notes in his ledger were senseless drivel without a better understanding of the language.

His hand wiped over his mouth. Clasping them tight, his forehead met them as his eyes, tired and dry, closed, defeated. Inhaling deeply, the engineer held his breath for a moment before exhaling despondently, “fuck me.”

---​

There was little that could be done. He still didn’t understand the schematics he’d try to pour himself over. If anything happened to Cain, his secret would be his undoing. The blond had no doubts that he’d kept everything about his suit private, and it was likely not even the Overseer could protect his Golden Boy from his own recklessness. The only way to know how it had been changed would be to convince him it was in his best interest to translate them for René-- a feat likely impossible.

Honeyed eyes shifted to look for Olivia, seeking familiar and comfortable gazes, but he remembered she was in the hospital ward. She was tied up in her own responsibilities and prepping for her place in the mission to come. If she were to be called to the lines, they would both be waiting in a later wave, Ephemera in the last to follow; only needed if necessary, there mostly to clean-up whatever mess was left behind and salvage what could be taken. Typical operation.

Movement in the corner of his eye made his head snap to attention. His face was void of emotion, expressionless as he was approached by the Russian. An eyebrow raised skeptically. “What?”

His eyes followed where his roommate's led- to the suit spread out over the table, and he listened as he explained what had happened while he was sparring that morning, that it was now malfunctioning. It didn't come as a surprise that someone as large and fierce as Goliath could do severe damage to the suit. The blond had seen enough of the massive priest's prowess in the training hub before.

Turning his attention back to the Legionnaire asking for his help, he almost wanted to laugh in his face, a petty victory howl as karma came back to haunt him. Instead, he lifted off the wall and like the proper Templar engineer he was, and followed the way to the dysfunctional suit. "Which shoulder and where are you having the most trouble in the nodule?” he asked, focused on the undertaking, “Describe the limited mobility, and tell me what alterations you made to the suit in the area so I don't screw it up."

"Right shoulder. In the match I swung wide and overcompensated, leaving me open. Dom came down here. I managed to replace the wiring in the rhomboid area, but I think there is a loose connection from the impact that I can't determine. It looks fine, but when I'm in the suit... Fuck it, I'll show you."

It was easier to talk shop than it was to have a normal conversation with the Legionnaire. It should’ve been expected, but it was still a bit of a surprise that he was being direct instead of giving him the bare minimum to get the work done. René nodded as needed to show he was listening, but his eyes remained on the suit while he looked over the damage done from the sparring match. He removed his satchel from his shoulder and took out his headgear and a few tools that would help him to remove the trapezius plate. His eyes strained at the thought of putting it on, a sign he’d been using them too much lately.

He didn’t bother to watch as Cain removed his shirt or tugged at his pants to pull on the suit's torso component, that was for others to concern themselves over. After the last couple of days in the Lab and the whispers he’d overheard, there was hardly a doubt several glances passed in the Legionnaire’s direction. The engineer’s worry was over the expensive equipment he was putting on and how it operated, focused on fixing the malfunction. However, it didn’t stop him from wincing at the sound of the suit connecting to the plugs. He may have lost an arm for his gear, but at least the worst of his problems was a phantom itch, not having to reconnect to a suit every mission or for training between deployments.

Ephemera turned back to see how the suit moved, in the left arm, no issues there. However, the right was suffering from giving him proper mobility, just as the Russian had mentioned.

"Do you have the schematics with you?"



“No, I don’t,” he answered, hand moving to his lips, his eyebrows pinched with a question, though his eyes flashed with mild irritation. Was he trying to mock him? “It won’t matter, I’ve worked on these suits before. You’ve had this model for years, correct? You should know it inside and out if you use it and work on it as much as I suspect you do.” The blond removed his hand from his mouth and made a gesture for the Russian to turn. “Face your back towards me and try moving it again. Keep trying until I tell you to stop. Up and down motions forwards, to the side, and back-- as far as you can go.”

For a moment he watched as his bunkmate tried to maneuver in the suit, how it stopped short, and where. He stepped up a little closer, and listened to the mechanics beneath the trapezius plate, then at his shoulder. He could hear the gears catching, grinding as they came to a halt, but there couldn't have been anything jammed in the spaces.

“You can stop. You're probably right. It might be a connection,” he agreed. His eyes scanned the back of the suit, a small grimace forming at the corner of his mouth. “The plate is going to have to be replaced later, and you know that… However, the problem you’re going to have immediately is it has to come off.”

"Off for the moment, or off entirely?"

“Hard to say,” he answered, while he selected the tool he would need to release the plate. “With any luck, it’ll only be for the time being. I have to see the damage beneath the plate to know for certain that it’s a connection and not something that would put the suit out of commission.” He met the Russian’s eyes for the first time without contempt or irritation, only professionalism. It was easier to cooperate that way. “Was it only the suit that took the hit? Your plug connections didn’t sustain any damage?” René’s hand went back to his mouth. “No… you shouldn’t have been able to remove the suit if your cervical plug had been damaged.”

"My shoulder is raw but no, the plugs are fine," Cain muttered.

The Legionnaire’s back was turned towards him again, and he began releasing the bolts to the rear plate while the other removed the ones from the front. His mind was stuck on the different connections that could’ve been damaged underneath, all of his focus on the rotator cuff and the collection of wires and connections which could potentially be the root of the problem. He almost hadn’t heard the comment or question posed by the taller of them. His eyebrow raised as a curious glance shot towards him from over the other’s shoulder.

Might as well feed the demon while he was calm. Better than having his head chewed off at any rate while he tried to work. Amber orbs shifted back to the work at hand. “I had to learn them inside and out in the academy; I worked on several over two terms. Seraphim suits are one of the most popular armaments used by individuals such as yourself who opt out of body augmentations or modifications. Biogear like this are utilized more commonly by those who don’t expect to stay.”

The plate unlatched and he removed it, setting it aside gently back to the table. Scanning over the connections he could see the problem immediately. “Provided you didn’t change these much, my suspicions are right, rotator cuff connections have been compromised, specifically to the subscapularis and supraspinatus-- they’re torn and the hub is damaged, but I can fix the connections. The hub can be replaced later.” He stepped back and pursed his lips realizing a problem. “Unless you’d rather do this yourself, you’re going to have to sit down or something. I need a full range of motion to repair it.”

"I saw a few curing my years in the infantry. They were what inspired me to make my own. I guess I never thought that many of you wouldn't want to stay. Sometimes the Order feels like a servitude given with your life."

“Some make it a living, some don’t. This isn’t for everyone, but you can tell which ones will stay, which will go when contracts meet their end.” He shrugged, taking pliers, wire cutters, tweezers, and a fine-tipped probe from his bag. “For some of us, this is all we have or all we need. For some of the Legion, I hear, it’s all they want besides a warm body to entertain them.”

With little complaint, the Russian knelt down, garnering a surprised look from the engineer. It seemed odd, off. “I-I was thinking you could sit in a chair….” His eyes scanned the damaged hub and wires, deciding upon the points to remove and how to bypass the hub temporarily. Before setting to work he began listing off key phrases in the field analysis and repair checklist flatly, bored. “Check the core and power sources, make sure they're shut off. If in the middle of the repair, something physically goes awry, tell me immediately. Do not move or attempt to move while the repair is being done; inform me if you need to shift and adjustments will be made.”

Pulling his headgear over his eye, he turned a few knobs to increase the magnification, placed the tweezers and probe between his teeth, while the pliers and wire cutters moved between deft hands. As soon as he was certain the power was off, he began to pull the hub off with the pliers, switching between it and the probe in between his teeth. Wires were cut and stripped, and carefully reconnected to corresponding connections. They wouldn’t keep, he knew it. They would need a new hub and soldering kit to get in back into full operations, but using the tweezers, he tightened the connections as best as he could manage. Returning to his bag, René pulled out adhesive, placed dots down to hold the wires in place, and kept the tweezers and probe down until it cured enough to be trusted on its own.

“Give the adhesive two more minutes, and we can check the connections to see if it’ll move again. If it doesn’t, I can still make adjustments until it’s back in working order without having to remove the groupings from the glue. It’s only holding them together until you can replace the hub after the mission.” Replacing the tools from his back on the table, he crossed an arm over his chest and checked a watch on his dominant wrist, counting down the time until it could be tested properly.

“I can’t recall the last time I was on my knees for two whole minutes.”

Not even thirty seconds in and already the Legionnaire was making statements that made the blood rise to his cheeks. “Must you-- and your division-- always be so uncouth? I understand that is how you and brethren bond, but it’s exhausting listening to it day-in and day-out.” He was full of himself. Even a few of the Sisters spoke like sailors, the facade of the pious woman just as taxing as their training for deployment. The engineer was no different in his thoughts, he simply kept his tongue restrained from saying indecencies, but he was flavorless by comparison to the man he stood behind.

“You’re stronger than you look. I’m not surprised at your speed or accuracy… but your physical strength came as a shock. I wouldn’t mind sparing with you sometime, if you were up for it.”

“Provided the evidence of the last two days, I’m disinclined to take part in sparring with you.”

The blonde watched the back of the balded soldier’s head cautiously, his eyes piercing and trying to invade the other’s thoughts. What the hell was he trying to play at? Two days of hell, then this. Playing nice to get the repair done to go out into the field and fulfill his duties, coyly suggesting they spar, complimenting him? It was more than he could stand given everything he’d been subjected to. He could still see dark eyes staring him down as if he were prey for the hunter. The acid in his stomach churned violently.

“Two days, Cain,” Ephemera said, under his breath, low enough for only the Russian to hear. His hand around his side clenched, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Day one: a dagger. Day two, a fist. If it hasn’t been made clear yet, I have no intention of giving you an opportunity to assault me. Neither will I give you the permission to do it with the ‘innocent’ offer of a match we both know I’d lose. I’m not interested in feeding your ego while you’re filling your need for vengeance, whether alone or in the training center.”

Checking his watch again, his arms dropped and he heaved a sigh. “Power it up, and let’s see how it moves.”

"I figured you would have jumped at the opportunity to make a fool of me. Everyone has been wondering who managed to break Cain's nose this time."

“I’m not like the men in your division,” he seethed. Amber orbs rolled, hard enough he could feel a headache forming from the motion. “No one knows? Good. Let the rumor mill turn out whatever it wants to. I don’t care to take the credit.” With a scoff of his own, he started to put his tools away, and removed his magnifier.

Eyes narrowing as the other’s voice dropped, laced with poison, he turned his back on Legionnaire and was not about to feed him the attention he craved. However, he could hear the echo of Holly’s words in his ear as the Russian reaffirmed them. He was only here until his mission was complete and his sentence up, until then all orders were absolute. Ephemera caved. “If it’s such an honest offer, why make it if you’ll be discharged once we’re done?”

The engineer watched as his work was put to the test, wincing again as needles entered the plugs as his request from a moment before was met. He could never get used to it. Once this was over, he’d have to take a look at the recent schematics for the latest models and determine if there were better ways of connecting the suit to a user. Hell, maybe even just changing the types of needles used would be all that was necessary. His bunkmate started to move and his attention shifted to the range of motion successfully completed. It seemed everything was operational again and would fair well enough in the mission to come. His work complete, the blond looked forward to being left alone again, however, his bunkmate had other thoughts, questions.

“The plate has to go back on, regardless. It’s there to protect from water damage, not just physical attacks.” His hands reached for the plate and he spun it in his palms, considering the connections that would be beneath it. “Where my work is concerned, you’re at risk of pulling it out of place no matter what you do. It’ll hold under the most of the strain of combat, but it is precarious. Many of the other hubs are weak, too. You’ll want to solder them properly when you have the time, and I do mean time.” Shrugging, he took a closer look at the connections and hubs before replacing the plate. “Cleaner lines with material used at higher temperatures will hold them more securely than rushing through it. You’ll do fewer repairs, replace fewer hubs, and they’ll hold through training and missions.”

He reattached the plate and began to replace the bolts which held it sturdily in position. When it was done, he dropped the tool into place within his satchel and tossed the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “If you have any further complications, particularly during combat, fall back and let someone else take the heat.”

Cain went off on a tangent, and René could care little about it. Of course, he made fair points about his ability to find work outside of the Order. Cain was right, finding a job after leaving would be damn near impossible and likely some menial, labor-intensive employment. Getting out would be Hell, surviving outside would be stoking the pits for eternity.

"Besides, you're fast and agile. I've watched you spar with Olivia once or twice. I don't have many Legionnaires that match me quite like you could. The others provide a different challenge. Not all immortals are incredible monsters; some are cunning, light on their feet... Like you. But no matter. You don't want to take my offer, then I'll take it off the table."

Rene laughed. He had to be kidding. The spars he’d had for Olivia were little more than learning opportunities for him and a warm-up for her. He was quick on his feet because of his slight form, but that was the most of it. He survived the academy, that much was clear. Theoretically, he would survive on the streets during the mission, but that remained to be seen. He had so far in small missions in London, but the majority of the threats there were little more than cockroaches left behind or trying to crawl their way in from between the cracks. Who knew who or what they would run into this time? He waved off the comment on how his craftsmanship would hold up while Cain worked, unmoved by it.

"Not that you'd care for my gratitude, but I appreciate your effort. Now stick to what you know. I'll do the rest, Princess."



He gritted his teeth and flexed his hands. Crossing his arms over his chest he watched his bunkmate through guarded amber eyes. He could let him have it, the last word. Just to be done with the conversation and the frustration, and leave him to his vices-- likely a cigarette or three. The bunk was poisonous with the stench, just as much as the venom rolling around on his tongue while he spoke. But really? “Princess”?

“Fine, you want to spar? Give me a reason to believe you’re not just trying to get your licks in.” Thinking better of his words, he guarded his mouth with a loose fist. For a moment he’d forgotten who he was talking to. There was nothing more than he despised than how the bald prick could manage to get under his skin; he was baited every time. But no, not this time. “Don’t misunderstand me, I mean your hits. If you’re looking to make me bleed, and that’s it, I have no interest. You and half of the Legion want that. It’s arduous dealing with the way your division likes to taunt and provoke me, so I make it a point not to fall prey to the ridicule. However, if you’re actually trying to be sincere, I will consider it.”

The toothy smirk that flashed towards the engineer made his skin crawl. The man was absolutely rabid with his slip in the turn of phrase he’d used. He didn’t dare imagine what was going through the Russian’s mind; the thought alone was enough to repel and sicken him. But then it shifted, softened even while he looked away. The words which followed were plain, cutthroat even, but he had to respect the honesty.

The power core shut down on the suit, and his face pinched instinctively in sympathy. It was a wonder to René, however, that even the man he’d considered cold and unfeeling in their few days together had enough left in him that even he would whimper at the pain the suit inflicted. A shiver rolled down his spine unbidden, as his arms closed tighter around his chest. He truly hated the Seraphim suits.

"Hazing didn't do much to earn my respect of my Brothers either.” The Russian shrugged before continuing, "Broken noses, stab wounds, shaving my head to save myself the drownings... Let's just say I'd rather test my skills with someone Holly reveres as worth her time. The choice is yours, but if you decide to take me on, it will just be you and I. No suit, and the weapon of your choice."

“Still a bunch of asshole kids running around in expensive gear, it would appear,” the blond mused under his breath, looking at the rest of the room. There were Legionnaires he'd known in the academy, others that had been recruited from other agencies under different names, but all bearing the same Holy crusade. It was all so hypocritical. “None of them ever learn to keep their hands on their own….” He stopped, and took a breath before saying too much, but couldn't help himself. “I wish I could say I was sorry, but I was never much interested in the circle jerk the majority in 84th act like.

“As for sparring,.. I don’t like making hasty decisions before a mission. I never know how dirty my hands are going to get after, but I’ll take it under consideration, as I said I would.”