brogley
in the flames, a lonely person turns to dust.
blurb
hello, i'm niko! i'm a full-time student who can be very busy at times. i've been roleplaying since 2014, and i consider myself to be adv. lit (~1500 words). i'm lgbt+ friendly and play both females and males indiscriminately. i don't double but do oc/oc. my timezone is GMT+1, and as far as platforms go, i prefer to stay on discord for writing and ooc chat, but pms & threads are okay as well.
please pm me or comment if interested. it is great if you can send a writing sample when you do so. i look forward to roleplaying with you!
please pm me or comment if interested. it is great if you can send a writing sample when you do so. i look forward to roleplaying with you!
looking for
16+ please. i'm mainly interested in oc/oc with some exceptions. it's great if you write similar lengths as me -- however, i do believe in quality over quantity, so don't stress. this is especially applicable in e.g. dialogue/combat where shorter replies are more appropriate. enjoyable ooc chat is also a must for me!! bonus points if you love rambling about characters as much as i!
as far as plots go, i prefer angst and darker themes, as well as world-building and/or character-driven storylines.
non - fandom
historical / currently I have no particular preference for time period, but I am most familiar with the 20th century
alt. history / could be anything from magical realism to something like 'the man in the high castle'
dark fantasy / fantasy's black sheep cousin. death, the plague, etc.
apocalyptic / anything dystopian, post-war, post-nuclear or so on, where there is a continuous struggle for survival. preferably not zombie-based, as ive grown weary of them.
own / if you have your own setting/world that you'd like to propose, or if you'd like to make a world with me, i am positively interested! do keep in mind that i do prefer world with similar themes as those outlined above, but am willing to try new things, e.g. sci-fi or alternative modern.
pairings/plots
spartan/athenian during peloponnesian warcaesar/brutus except brutus is a woman, and it's a story about female rage, and how women historically had to forfeit their pride and talent to support men. inspiration.
epistolary fiction the exchange of letters during a significant historical event. can be between lovers, friends or family
investigator/murderer a small-time crime enthusiast and reporter (or maybe blog-owner) gets the opportunity to interview today's most infamous criminal.
fandom
elder scrolls (esp. morrowind)
vampire the masquerade: bloodlines
metro series (2033, last light, exodus)
fallout series (esp. new vegas)
dragon age (esp. origins)
silent hill
sometimes / stardew valley, fire emblem
characters
these are characters I would be interested in playing against or playing as in a canon x canon* or canon x oc* pairing. again, i must reiterate; i don't double.- kassandra from assassin's creed: odyssey
- jeanette voerman, bertram tung or gary golden from vampire the masquerade: bloodlines
- tomie from tomie
- voryn dagoth or cicero from elder scrolls
- morrigan, zevran, dorian or solas from dragon age
- maria or heather from silent hill
- ayano, shuuya, shintaro, kuroha or tsubomi from kagepro
writing
Staring down at Henrik, Fiammetta briefly wondered if she felt any remorse for him. He was crying, going between praying to the Maker and trying to barter with Fiammetta. He made it clear that not only did he not want to die, but he also had a wife and children who did not want to see him dead. Fiammetta felt a pang of guilt in her chest at that moment, and yet her grip remained vice and her intent to kill still raged through her hands. Henrik was nothing like the Crows she killed. They were murderers with blood on their hands, he was an innocent bystander. She was inclined to blame the Crows at that moment; to stipulate that they were the source of her obduration. That she had been made a victim of their harsh axioms and in following them she had only been a survivor, not a perpetrator. But deep inside, she was greatly bothered by the thought that she had been iniquitous from the start.
At that moment, she felt her grip loosen, and Henrik was looking up at her with some degree of consternation like he realized that his pleadings had started to win her over. Finding this success, his bargaining only became faster and louder in nature, and he was staring her straight in the eye. And for a second, she was ready to let herself be won over. She was going to let go and leave Henrik out of it — as he deserved, but then she heard it. It was Ursmaro Nero’s adenoidal voice in her ear. You must kill someone’s self-paragon before you can kill their true self. Fiammetta realized, then, Henrik was no innocent victim. He had gone along with Vincenzo’s word without thought or doubt. He had not even cast her an afterthought but left her to be gutted. He was prepared to let her die without knowing her cause, or why she religiously chased after Vincenzo.
Any doubt that had been in her mind was expelled with the wind, and she had only grown more relentless in her hold. She was ready to splatter Henrik’s blood even without provocation from Vincenzo. Ursmaro, who had once favoured Fiammetta, had made her into a well-trained dog which still barked his old tunes, even after leaving his possession, and she hated herself for it.
Just then, as her enmity for both herself and Henrik were at its highest, Fiammetta felt blood splatter onto her face. No longer was the body under her trying to worm itself out of her grip, but it was still, gradually growing colder. For but a millisecond, Fiammetta thought she might have been possessed by her anger, and that she had stupidly killed Henrik herself in her rage. After all, she recognized the dagger as her own — but her hand was still firmly pressing another dagger against his throat while also pinning the corpse down. Unless she had truly been possessed by a rage demon, it was an impossibility.
Fiammetta whipped her head around to see Vincenzo charging for her. He had killed Henrik? She was surprised when perhaps she ought not to be. How foolish she was to rely on the empathic ability of a Crow! Having seen what goes on inside the Houses, she should not have been so presumptuous of Vincenzo. Of course, he would not care for his tailor or his neighbour.
Before Fiammetta could make a move to defend herself, the room filled with sparks and vociferous noises. The silhouette of Vincenzo which had been clear to her just a second ago was now gone in a light show of jots. If the goal had been to disorient, he had succeeded, as she found herself lost in a jungle of sounds and visuals which overwhelmed the mind and body.
Just as she was about to get up to try and orient herself in the room, a body crashed into hers. Her arm twitched to slash at the entity - no doubt Vincenzo, but before it could, it was nailed to the ground by a heavy force. Then, her back crashed to the ground as she was pinned down by her neck. It was not until she was looking into the tumultuous eyes of Vincenzo which hovered above her that she fully processed what was happening. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Panic rushed into her body. She had been strangled an alarming amount previously, and so she knew all the easiest ways to get out of such a predicament well; and she attempted at them, from trying to make his elbows buckle to trying to flip him over. But there was a difference in this attack compared to the others. While the others had been furious men upset and attacking in a childish attempt at control, Vincenzo was a trained killer, much like her. He most likely knew the same methods she did, and he countered them well. He didn’t budge, and time was ticking.
Her head was exploding in pain and Fiammetta thrashed wildly under Vincenzo. The tightness around her throat was nightmarish, and she could feel Vincenzo’s nails digging into her jugular. It felt hopeless and infinitely harrowing at once. Was she going to die? She was going to die.
Lost in her inner world of malady, her eyes started to lose their lustre. She felt a wave of calmness overcome her. Fiammetta had never deceived herself into believing she would live a long life. She held no fancies about retiring to the Antivan countryside to live with a husband and two children. She wasn’t even imagining life after 40. Even as a child with the Crows, she had thought of her corpse stuck in eternal youth, rather than brazened by life. In a sense, she had been accepting this moment for decades.
And she had already planted the perfect garden for her grave. The reason for telling Vincenzo her true name, Nowen Nero, had not just been founded in a flurry of emotions. Rather, it was partially to prepare for this very second. If she died, her name could lead Vincenzo and the Crows down a rabbit hole which leads nowhere. Her name had no affiliations with the Hawks, even if one might presume it. She took on her new name long before she ever made contact with the Buzzards. It would distract the Crows long enough to make her death worth it, she thought, and she would not die in vain. The Hawks knew death was imminent and would not weep for her long. She felt something like comfort in knowing she could pass away without guilt.
But just before she was about to let go of her fate, and allow herself to relax under Vincenzo, she felt a droplet hit her face. Her eyes looked back up to Vincenzo and she noticed he was crying. It was a silent cry, yet his face seemed to be filled with pain. She couldn't even begin to understand why he was crying. She had him pinned for a heartless man; the perfect Crow to the Talons, a man who did not regret. It reminded her of herself; of Nowen.
Contrary to what one might assume about who Fiammetta was, she was a proud Crow as Nowen. Nowen was a woman who delighted in her work, who delighted in using the full extent of her talents. She got along well with her Guildmaster and was in close relations with the Talon. She was deeply ingrained in the Crow mentality; the egocentric love for death. Nowen might have grown to become one of the most prolific Crows of her time for her lack of compassion in combination with her skill and determination. That is if she had not been sent to kill the Marquess Quinzio Minetti.
It had been a dangerous mission. One which required great skill and planning from its executor. Nowen had been happy to step up to the challenge, however, and in a night, she had managed to execute not only the Marquess himself but also half of his men. It was a job well-done Nowen would have written into her book of accomplishments and then moved on, were it not for the Marquess’ son. The son who, when he stumbled upon his father’s scene of murder, with Nowen hovering above it, found the courage in his little body to charge at the Crow with the bravery of a bull, and Nowen, in her own cowardice, had upon instinct murdered the little boy.
She would never forget the tears she shed that night and the distinct feeling that she couldn’t wash the blood off her hands no matter how hard she scrubbed.
She saw that pain now in Vincenzo. Perhaps she was just projecting onto him, but it woke her nonetheless from her trance, and she was reminded of why she had fought for years now to be free of the Crows. She felt her consciousness seeping out of her bit by bit, and she knew from experience she had mere seconds before she would fall unconscious and powerless. She gritted her teeth. Henrik. Her eyes flicked to the corpse which laid next to her; the corpse which she would join in the afterlife if she didn’t act now. A tailor ought to be equipped with something sharp.
With her only free arm, she grabbed onto Henrik, her fingertips barely reaching into his pockets. She felt something metal graze her fingers. Jackpot. She grabbed onto the scissors in his pocket, and then immediately went on the offence. She aimed for Vincenzo’s eye so that even if she missed, his reaction would allow her freedom. And the second Vincenzo’s grip loosened even slightly as a result of the attempted attack, she used the last of her strength to push Vincenzo off of her and roll to the side.
She was gasping for air, her heaves sounding more like a man coughing up smoke than proper breaths. She crawled with haste towards the doorway. She had to get out. Her hunger for air blazed in her lungs. She was practically clawing her way forward and into the corridor. She was going to live, she reaffirmed, but she knew she had a hungry wolf after her. In a last-second attempt to get the upper hand, she set herself up against the wall, coating her dagger in one of the many poisons still strapped to her thighs, holding it firmly in her grasp. There was no way she could run in this condition, she realized, and with her vision filled with dark spots, and her throat overcome with violent coughing, her last hope was that he would come at her and that she could thus get the poison into the system.
At that moment, she felt her grip loosen, and Henrik was looking up at her with some degree of consternation like he realized that his pleadings had started to win her over. Finding this success, his bargaining only became faster and louder in nature, and he was staring her straight in the eye. And for a second, she was ready to let herself be won over. She was going to let go and leave Henrik out of it — as he deserved, but then she heard it. It was Ursmaro Nero’s adenoidal voice in her ear. You must kill someone’s self-paragon before you can kill their true self. Fiammetta realized, then, Henrik was no innocent victim. He had gone along with Vincenzo’s word without thought or doubt. He had not even cast her an afterthought but left her to be gutted. He was prepared to let her die without knowing her cause, or why she religiously chased after Vincenzo.
Any doubt that had been in her mind was expelled with the wind, and she had only grown more relentless in her hold. She was ready to splatter Henrik’s blood even without provocation from Vincenzo. Ursmaro, who had once favoured Fiammetta, had made her into a well-trained dog which still barked his old tunes, even after leaving his possession, and she hated herself for it.
Just then, as her enmity for both herself and Henrik were at its highest, Fiammetta felt blood splatter onto her face. No longer was the body under her trying to worm itself out of her grip, but it was still, gradually growing colder. For but a millisecond, Fiammetta thought she might have been possessed by her anger, and that she had stupidly killed Henrik herself in her rage. After all, she recognized the dagger as her own — but her hand was still firmly pressing another dagger against his throat while also pinning the corpse down. Unless she had truly been possessed by a rage demon, it was an impossibility.
Fiammetta whipped her head around to see Vincenzo charging for her. He had killed Henrik? She was surprised when perhaps she ought not to be. How foolish she was to rely on the empathic ability of a Crow! Having seen what goes on inside the Houses, she should not have been so presumptuous of Vincenzo. Of course, he would not care for his tailor or his neighbour.
Before Fiammetta could make a move to defend herself, the room filled with sparks and vociferous noises. The silhouette of Vincenzo which had been clear to her just a second ago was now gone in a light show of jots. If the goal had been to disorient, he had succeeded, as she found herself lost in a jungle of sounds and visuals which overwhelmed the mind and body.
Just as she was about to get up to try and orient herself in the room, a body crashed into hers. Her arm twitched to slash at the entity - no doubt Vincenzo, but before it could, it was nailed to the ground by a heavy force. Then, her back crashed to the ground as she was pinned down by her neck. It was not until she was looking into the tumultuous eyes of Vincenzo which hovered above her that she fully processed what was happening. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Panic rushed into her body. She had been strangled an alarming amount previously, and so she knew all the easiest ways to get out of such a predicament well; and she attempted at them, from trying to make his elbows buckle to trying to flip him over. But there was a difference in this attack compared to the others. While the others had been furious men upset and attacking in a childish attempt at control, Vincenzo was a trained killer, much like her. He most likely knew the same methods she did, and he countered them well. He didn’t budge, and time was ticking.
Her head was exploding in pain and Fiammetta thrashed wildly under Vincenzo. The tightness around her throat was nightmarish, and she could feel Vincenzo’s nails digging into her jugular. It felt hopeless and infinitely harrowing at once. Was she going to die? She was going to die.
Lost in her inner world of malady, her eyes started to lose their lustre. She felt a wave of calmness overcome her. Fiammetta had never deceived herself into believing she would live a long life. She held no fancies about retiring to the Antivan countryside to live with a husband and two children. She wasn’t even imagining life after 40. Even as a child with the Crows, she had thought of her corpse stuck in eternal youth, rather than brazened by life. In a sense, she had been accepting this moment for decades.
And she had already planted the perfect garden for her grave. The reason for telling Vincenzo her true name, Nowen Nero, had not just been founded in a flurry of emotions. Rather, it was partially to prepare for this very second. If she died, her name could lead Vincenzo and the Crows down a rabbit hole which leads nowhere. Her name had no affiliations with the Hawks, even if one might presume it. She took on her new name long before she ever made contact with the Buzzards. It would distract the Crows long enough to make her death worth it, she thought, and she would not die in vain. The Hawks knew death was imminent and would not weep for her long. She felt something like comfort in knowing she could pass away without guilt.
But just before she was about to let go of her fate, and allow herself to relax under Vincenzo, she felt a droplet hit her face. Her eyes looked back up to Vincenzo and she noticed he was crying. It was a silent cry, yet his face seemed to be filled with pain. She couldn't even begin to understand why he was crying. She had him pinned for a heartless man; the perfect Crow to the Talons, a man who did not regret. It reminded her of herself; of Nowen.
Contrary to what one might assume about who Fiammetta was, she was a proud Crow as Nowen. Nowen was a woman who delighted in her work, who delighted in using the full extent of her talents. She got along well with her Guildmaster and was in close relations with the Talon. She was deeply ingrained in the Crow mentality; the egocentric love for death. Nowen might have grown to become one of the most prolific Crows of her time for her lack of compassion in combination with her skill and determination. That is if she had not been sent to kill the Marquess Quinzio Minetti.
It had been a dangerous mission. One which required great skill and planning from its executor. Nowen had been happy to step up to the challenge, however, and in a night, she had managed to execute not only the Marquess himself but also half of his men. It was a job well-done Nowen would have written into her book of accomplishments and then moved on, were it not for the Marquess’ son. The son who, when he stumbled upon his father’s scene of murder, with Nowen hovering above it, found the courage in his little body to charge at the Crow with the bravery of a bull, and Nowen, in her own cowardice, had upon instinct murdered the little boy.
She would never forget the tears she shed that night and the distinct feeling that she couldn’t wash the blood off her hands no matter how hard she scrubbed.
She saw that pain now in Vincenzo. Perhaps she was just projecting onto him, but it woke her nonetheless from her trance, and she was reminded of why she had fought for years now to be free of the Crows. She felt her consciousness seeping out of her bit by bit, and she knew from experience she had mere seconds before she would fall unconscious and powerless. She gritted her teeth. Henrik. Her eyes flicked to the corpse which laid next to her; the corpse which she would join in the afterlife if she didn’t act now. A tailor ought to be equipped with something sharp.
With her only free arm, she grabbed onto Henrik, her fingertips barely reaching into his pockets. She felt something metal graze her fingers. Jackpot. She grabbed onto the scissors in his pocket, and then immediately went on the offence. She aimed for Vincenzo’s eye so that even if she missed, his reaction would allow her freedom. And the second Vincenzo’s grip loosened even slightly as a result of the attempted attack, she used the last of her strength to push Vincenzo off of her and roll to the side.
She was gasping for air, her heaves sounding more like a man coughing up smoke than proper breaths. She crawled with haste towards the doorway. She had to get out. Her hunger for air blazed in her lungs. She was practically clawing her way forward and into the corridor. She was going to live, she reaffirmed, but she knew she had a hungry wolf after her. In a last-second attempt to get the upper hand, she set herself up against the wall, coating her dagger in one of the many poisons still strapped to her thighs, holding it firmly in her grasp. There was no way she could run in this condition, she realized, and with her vision filled with dark spots, and her throat overcome with violent coughing, her last hope was that he would come at her and that she could thus get the poison into the system.
Of excellence, Plato once said it is not a gift but a skill. Young Wenzel had the works of Plato shoved into his hands before he could understand the value of philosophy and the importance of its words. However, in spite of this, when Wenzel read this passage in Five Dialogues, his tiny chubby fingers took the page and ripped it out, showing it to his father, who was perturbed at his decision to tear the book, but happy his son engaged in the work and promptly told him then we’ll work on your “excellence”.
Wenzel five-thousand Papiermark into the letter and licked the envelope gum.
If all he worked on was excellence, had his childhood been wasted? In the end, his father did not find him particularly excellent. Had he not worked hard enough? Or was Plato wrong, and excellence was a gift unattainable to him? Wenzel thought of this often, as he did not feel particularly exemplary as he had been promised he’d be as a child. He could not understand extols which said otherwise.
At any rate, the most precious thing a businessman had was his reputation. Even if this, theoretically, did not extend to family, he was particularly concerned with how he came off to his parents. Maybe this was because, as time had ticked on, his father had become more of a business partner than a father.
At the bottom of the letter, he wrote in practised cursive. Tell ma’ to buy herself something nice. He regretted the informal wording, but the ink was forever. He put the letter in the envelope and closed it.
Now, Wenzel was not so wealthy he could frivolously send his already fortunate mother five-thousand Papiermark — he wasn’t frivolous in general, either; he would gladly wear the same Homburg hat as often as was socially acceptable, and use the same tweed suit until its pockets had holes. Yet he spent his last mark on his parents. Hanno, who had mentored Wenzel as a businessman, would hit him over the head and tell him to let that money to a new pair of Oxfords — Wenzel knew this so well he could feel the palm of his hand hitting the back of his head. His business, he realized, wasn’t the only idea he was trying to sell. He wanted his father to see his excellence.
One day it wouldn’t be smoke and mirrors. He would be excellent. He would be the red-letter son.
To get there, however, he could not sit on his arse all day. Instead, he punctually got out of his seat and walked outside. It was 1 pm, and Wenzel had somewhere to be. He strolled out of his house in Au-Haidhausen, a Franconian house by the Friedensengel, and started walking along the Isar. It only took Wenzel about an hour to get to his destination, but knowing he tended to stop along the way, he gave himself some leeway. He stopped by Maria, a potential investor living at Innere wiener street, Uta, a kind baker and business owner willing to collaborate with his business and Emmerich, a dear friend of his in his seventies whose ideas were as brilliant as they were plenty. Wenzel’s network was undeniably strong, and he liked to reaffirm it by sticking his head in periodically.
Eventually, he did arrive in Neuperlach. He very rarely went there, but when he moved to Germany, it was originally planned that he would live here. It was only his Austrian friend Franz who delivered him from this fate, and for this, Wenzel was grateful. Neuperlach had rats running along the cobbled ground and houses which sunk into the ground. That’s not to say he hated Neuperlach. Ramersdorf-Perlach was often called “the green side of Münich”, and for good reason. It was a welcome break-away from the bustling inner-city, and even if Neuperlach was rarely one of the popular destinations, the location had potential written all over it, and Wenzel liked to think he had a nose for business.
It was for this reason Wenzel had one day strolled down the streets of Neuperlach. Most of the people were foreign — and not foreign in the normal way but from the East! But they were pleasant nonetheless, and even if they had to resort to sign-language and smiles to communicate, they seemed the perfect crowd.
It was while doing this afternoon exchange that he had met the Takahashis — or was it Takeshi? or rather, it was more accurate to say he met their locale. A Renaissance building: vertically symmetrical façade and Mannerist arches, finished in ashlar masonry. Wenzel could only assume it was the bulging hole in the roof which allowed the Japanese pair to buy the building, and perhaps they did not understand its value, because when he proposed a dealing for the place (with a combination of pointing, drawing and speaking in large gestures), they seemed excessively enthusiastic.
Or maybe they were hiding something. He had heard those Easterners could be fastidious types.
Now outside the Takahashi’s once more, Wenzel felt at least somewhat confident — queer foreigners or not. The house looked radiant under the sunlight, framed by tall oaks. He looked to his clock. 2:58 pm, it was, perfect for a man who wanted to seem punctual, but not uptight. He walked up to the door, framed with square lintels, and knocked.
It was Mrs. Takahashi who opened the doors, with Mr. Takahashi close in tow. “Good evening, Mrs. Takahashi!” He greeted, a genuine smile on his face. The two seemed polite in their approach, and Wenzel matched this. He shook both of their hands firmly — a gesture the two seemed uncomfortable with. “It’s a very fine evening we’re having,” he commented, hanging his hat on the coat rack, and, with the help of the Mrs., took off his coat. Before he could start his dealings, a voice cut through the air, and Wenzel realized there was a third person in the room.
The woman looked to be in his twenties, certainly younger than the Takahashis — their daughter? No, before he could finish that thought, she introduced herself with the surname Kanamori. She had an accent, but it was much lighter than that of the Takahashi’s. Compared to them, she was the Wolfgang von Goethe of language. Indeed, he was pleased to meet someone who wielded German with greater ease. Wenzel loved to talk, but he wasn’t very prolific in the Eastern languages. “Miss Kanamori, it’s a great pleasure,” he said, offering his hand, just as he had with the Takahashis. “I am Wenzel Kraus, but just Wenzel is fine though. Formalities are not needed, at all, my good lady.”
Wenzel then moved to the table set out in the middle of the locale, seemingly prepared for this occasion. “Excuse me,” he hummed as he took his seat. He sat with a straight posture and hands braided in front of him, but he was not tense — he had done this many times before. When the others had also sat down, he started speaking. “As we discussed,” he gestured to the Takahashi’s with a pleasant smile, “I am very interested in purchasing your fine establishment.” His eyes went between the Kanamori girl, who he knew understood his words, and the Takahashis, who he was making business with. He allowed for a pause to pass before he continued. “I have a suggestion for a price, but I want us both to leave more well-heeled than we came, so I would happily hear your own appraisal.”
Mr. Takahashi looked to Kanamori with hopeful eyes, having understood only parts of Wenzel’s circuitous talk.
Wenzel five-thousand Papiermark into the letter and licked the envelope gum.
If all he worked on was excellence, had his childhood been wasted? In the end, his father did not find him particularly excellent. Had he not worked hard enough? Or was Plato wrong, and excellence was a gift unattainable to him? Wenzel thought of this often, as he did not feel particularly exemplary as he had been promised he’d be as a child. He could not understand extols which said otherwise.
At any rate, the most precious thing a businessman had was his reputation. Even if this, theoretically, did not extend to family, he was particularly concerned with how he came off to his parents. Maybe this was because, as time had ticked on, his father had become more of a business partner than a father.
At the bottom of the letter, he wrote in practised cursive. Tell ma’ to buy herself something nice. He regretted the informal wording, but the ink was forever. He put the letter in the envelope and closed it.
Now, Wenzel was not so wealthy he could frivolously send his already fortunate mother five-thousand Papiermark — he wasn’t frivolous in general, either; he would gladly wear the same Homburg hat as often as was socially acceptable, and use the same tweed suit until its pockets had holes. Yet he spent his last mark on his parents. Hanno, who had mentored Wenzel as a businessman, would hit him over the head and tell him to let that money to a new pair of Oxfords — Wenzel knew this so well he could feel the palm of his hand hitting the back of his head. His business, he realized, wasn’t the only idea he was trying to sell. He wanted his father to see his excellence.
One day it wouldn’t be smoke and mirrors. He would be excellent. He would be the red-letter son.
To get there, however, he could not sit on his arse all day. Instead, he punctually got out of his seat and walked outside. It was 1 pm, and Wenzel had somewhere to be. He strolled out of his house in Au-Haidhausen, a Franconian house by the Friedensengel, and started walking along the Isar. It only took Wenzel about an hour to get to his destination, but knowing he tended to stop along the way, he gave himself some leeway. He stopped by Maria, a potential investor living at Innere wiener street, Uta, a kind baker and business owner willing to collaborate with his business and Emmerich, a dear friend of his in his seventies whose ideas were as brilliant as they were plenty. Wenzel’s network was undeniably strong, and he liked to reaffirm it by sticking his head in periodically.
Eventually, he did arrive in Neuperlach. He very rarely went there, but when he moved to Germany, it was originally planned that he would live here. It was only his Austrian friend Franz who delivered him from this fate, and for this, Wenzel was grateful. Neuperlach had rats running along the cobbled ground and houses which sunk into the ground. That’s not to say he hated Neuperlach. Ramersdorf-Perlach was often called “the green side of Münich”, and for good reason. It was a welcome break-away from the bustling inner-city, and even if Neuperlach was rarely one of the popular destinations, the location had potential written all over it, and Wenzel liked to think he had a nose for business.
It was for this reason Wenzel had one day strolled down the streets of Neuperlach. Most of the people were foreign — and not foreign in the normal way but from the East! But they were pleasant nonetheless, and even if they had to resort to sign-language and smiles to communicate, they seemed the perfect crowd.
It was while doing this afternoon exchange that he had met the Takahashis — or was it Takeshi? or rather, it was more accurate to say he met their locale. A Renaissance building: vertically symmetrical façade and Mannerist arches, finished in ashlar masonry. Wenzel could only assume it was the bulging hole in the roof which allowed the Japanese pair to buy the building, and perhaps they did not understand its value, because when he proposed a dealing for the place (with a combination of pointing, drawing and speaking in large gestures), they seemed excessively enthusiastic.
Or maybe they were hiding something. He had heard those Easterners could be fastidious types.
Now outside the Takahashi’s once more, Wenzel felt at least somewhat confident — queer foreigners or not. The house looked radiant under the sunlight, framed by tall oaks. He looked to his clock. 2:58 pm, it was, perfect for a man who wanted to seem punctual, but not uptight. He walked up to the door, framed with square lintels, and knocked.
It was Mrs. Takahashi who opened the doors, with Mr. Takahashi close in tow. “Good evening, Mrs. Takahashi!” He greeted, a genuine smile on his face. The two seemed polite in their approach, and Wenzel matched this. He shook both of their hands firmly — a gesture the two seemed uncomfortable with. “It’s a very fine evening we’re having,” he commented, hanging his hat on the coat rack, and, with the help of the Mrs., took off his coat. Before he could start his dealings, a voice cut through the air, and Wenzel realized there was a third person in the room.
The woman looked to be in his twenties, certainly younger than the Takahashis — their daughter? No, before he could finish that thought, she introduced herself with the surname Kanamori. She had an accent, but it was much lighter than that of the Takahashi’s. Compared to them, she was the Wolfgang von Goethe of language. Indeed, he was pleased to meet someone who wielded German with greater ease. Wenzel loved to talk, but he wasn’t very prolific in the Eastern languages. “Miss Kanamori, it’s a great pleasure,” he said, offering his hand, just as he had with the Takahashis. “I am Wenzel Kraus, but just Wenzel is fine though. Formalities are not needed, at all, my good lady.”
Wenzel then moved to the table set out in the middle of the locale, seemingly prepared for this occasion. “Excuse me,” he hummed as he took his seat. He sat with a straight posture and hands braided in front of him, but he was not tense — he had done this many times before. When the others had also sat down, he started speaking. “As we discussed,” he gestured to the Takahashi’s with a pleasant smile, “I am very interested in purchasing your fine establishment.” His eyes went between the Kanamori girl, who he knew understood his words, and the Takahashis, who he was making business with. He allowed for a pause to pass before he continued. “I have a suggestion for a price, but I want us both to leave more well-heeled than we came, so I would happily hear your own appraisal.”
Mr. Takahashi looked to Kanamori with hopeful eyes, having understood only parts of Wenzel’s circuitous talk.
In recent days, Isaac had been riddled by anxiety uncommon to him. He swayed from regretting his decision to standing by it. Considering the uncharacteristically risk of the decision, however, it wasn't strange that it plagued Isaac with worry.
The assassination of a Camarilla prince was not uncommon. In fact, such attacks usually came from the Camarilla itself; from kindred vying for power or threatened by the Prince and his power. However, when it came to Sebastian LaCroix, a connoisseur of slimy, wretched behaviour and grandiose self-Image, it was not a question of if, but when. It was no secret that there were many, even well-established primogen, in the Camarilla chain of command in L.A. that despised the new prince. And it was also no secret the Anarchs hated everything LaCroix represented (even more than usual).
These are the factors that made Isaac confident in his decision. Unlike with "better", more liked Princes, there were enough people that would be happy to see him gone that if he were to be assassinated few would bother to investigate it thoroughly. Isaac was often compared to his peers and called more "civil", and perhaps, "diplomatic"; and it was true. Although he wanted Hollywood's independence from the Camarilla, he did not want war and wanted to avoid it at all costs.
That's what made Isaac nervous about this matter. If a loyalist of Sebastian or a clever Elder decided to look into his death and found out Isaac was behind it, thus implicating the Anarchs? It would mean war and this much was certain. What also made him nervous was his personal feelings; the kindred he had sent to do the job, a skilled independent Brujah named Winifred was someone he regarded as close.
Much like Ash, he was familiar with Winifred from her time as an actor, although that was a good while ago. Isaac never worked with her professionally before she became kine, but knew of her as a skilled actress overshadowed by the prejudices of man. Nonetheless, when she joined him in undeath, he introduced himself formally, extending his sympathies (knowing the difficulties that could accompany such a change) and kept in touch with her.
It wasn't until recently, however, when she lost her sire, that his compassion got the better of him and he started treating her closer to his own childe, despite the lack of shared blood bond. In a twisted way, she had become like family to Isaac.
And it was incredibly problematic.
Now he didn't only worry for the safety of those he aligned himself with, the Anarchs, but also the safety of the agent carrying out the deed. He couldn't deny that she was an incredible fit for the job, though; having no sympathies for the Camarilla, but still blending with their kind well and having a relatively clean background, and that was without mentioning her silver tongue and combat skill. Simply put, he would have to turn a mountain worth of rocks to find an equally capable candidate.
Isaac would continue to lead these arguments against himself as he sat in his chair, his hands entwined beneath his chin. Even some of his peers, with whom he worked to keep Hollywood safe for kindred, commented on his strange silence. There was no getting around it, however. The assassination of a prince, no matter how normal in kindred society, needed to be planned out thoroughly and well thought out. He would not endanger the Anarchs, nor Winifred, if he could help it.
A knock on his door jerked him out of his thoughts, and he looked up from the papers scattering his desk. He was surprised when he saw Winifred at his doorstep, glamorously clothed. Speak of the devil and he doth appear -- although this was hardly a devil. Isaac stood up from his seat, smiling. “Winifred, good evening. Good to see you.” It was undoubtedly unusual, however; Winifred was, by all definitions, a professional, and Isaac doubted she would compromise her mission by appearing at the doorstep of one so universally known for his anarch-alignments.
The words that followed only worried Isaac more, his eyebrows furrowing and forming deep creases in his forehead. “I, no, I’m not busy.” Seeing her eyes travel around his office, he assured her “Nobody has been here all night. What has you so concerned?” The anxiety which spread through his body was undeniable, but Isaac had years of experience in quelling it and focused his energy on listening.
The assassination of a Camarilla prince was not uncommon. In fact, such attacks usually came from the Camarilla itself; from kindred vying for power or threatened by the Prince and his power. However, when it came to Sebastian LaCroix, a connoisseur of slimy, wretched behaviour and grandiose self-Image, it was not a question of if, but when. It was no secret that there were many, even well-established primogen, in the Camarilla chain of command in L.A. that despised the new prince. And it was also no secret the Anarchs hated everything LaCroix represented (even more than usual).
These are the factors that made Isaac confident in his decision. Unlike with "better", more liked Princes, there were enough people that would be happy to see him gone that if he were to be assassinated few would bother to investigate it thoroughly. Isaac was often compared to his peers and called more "civil", and perhaps, "diplomatic"; and it was true. Although he wanted Hollywood's independence from the Camarilla, he did not want war and wanted to avoid it at all costs.
That's what made Isaac nervous about this matter. If a loyalist of Sebastian or a clever Elder decided to look into his death and found out Isaac was behind it, thus implicating the Anarchs? It would mean war and this much was certain. What also made him nervous was his personal feelings; the kindred he had sent to do the job, a skilled independent Brujah named Winifred was someone he regarded as close.
Much like Ash, he was familiar with Winifred from her time as an actor, although that was a good while ago. Isaac never worked with her professionally before she became kine, but knew of her as a skilled actress overshadowed by the prejudices of man. Nonetheless, when she joined him in undeath, he introduced himself formally, extending his sympathies (knowing the difficulties that could accompany such a change) and kept in touch with her.
It wasn't until recently, however, when she lost her sire, that his compassion got the better of him and he started treating her closer to his own childe, despite the lack of shared blood bond. In a twisted way, she had become like family to Isaac.
And it was incredibly problematic.
Now he didn't only worry for the safety of those he aligned himself with, the Anarchs, but also the safety of the agent carrying out the deed. He couldn't deny that she was an incredible fit for the job, though; having no sympathies for the Camarilla, but still blending with their kind well and having a relatively clean background, and that was without mentioning her silver tongue and combat skill. Simply put, he would have to turn a mountain worth of rocks to find an equally capable candidate.
Isaac would continue to lead these arguments against himself as he sat in his chair, his hands entwined beneath his chin. Even some of his peers, with whom he worked to keep Hollywood safe for kindred, commented on his strange silence. There was no getting around it, however. The assassination of a prince, no matter how normal in kindred society, needed to be planned out thoroughly and well thought out. He would not endanger the Anarchs, nor Winifred, if he could help it.
A knock on his door jerked him out of his thoughts, and he looked up from the papers scattering his desk. He was surprised when he saw Winifred at his doorstep, glamorously clothed. Speak of the devil and he doth appear -- although this was hardly a devil. Isaac stood up from his seat, smiling. “Winifred, good evening. Good to see you.” It was undoubtedly unusual, however; Winifred was, by all definitions, a professional, and Isaac doubted she would compromise her mission by appearing at the doorstep of one so universally known for his anarch-alignments.
The words that followed only worried Isaac more, his eyebrows furrowing and forming deep creases in his forehead. “I, no, I’m not busy.” Seeing her eyes travel around his office, he assured her “Nobody has been here all night. What has you so concerned?” The anxiety which spread through his body was undeniable, but Isaac had years of experience in quelling it and focused his energy on listening.
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