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Elias Laertes Brandt
J u d a s
h e a l t h | b a r


WHERE: Alleyways ➢ His House
WITH: Martin ➢ Alone
DOING: Obsessing
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:
axPLraY.png
Despite the fact that he was bloodied and badly wounded, Elias managed to maintain a dignified swagger as he abandoned the site of their battle… at least until he was entirely sure that he had slipped out of the aggravating Beast’s view. Then, and only then, did he permit himself to wince; slowly sheathing his sword and blowing out a soft and aggravated sigh as he made small and careful movements to turn his entire body and survey his surroundings--not confident enough in the structural integrity of his neck to attempt moving his head.
Though the vampire was not intimately acquainted with all the twists and turns of the French Quarter alleyways, he knew the area well enough that he remained uncertain of his bearings for only a very brief time before he was able to reorient himself.
Booted feet all but dragged over the pavement as he began to make the arduous journey to his house on Dauphine street. With the adrenaline dying down, pain was bubbling up in its place. He hardly dared to swallow, taking only shallow breaths through his nose, desperate to contain what little of the Mephisto’s blood might remain on his tongue even through the pain.
With care, Elias pressed a hand over the wound in his neck. Every drop of his own blood had become infinitely more precious in the wake of his attempt to take Fletcher. It now contained the very essence of the sun, a microcosm of the elixir he had hungered for throughout the centuries. To waste a single drop would be undeniable blasphemy.

His pace slowed, tension easing a little, thoughts beginning to drift as home drew ever nearer and the streets became familiar enough that he did not need to pay such diligent attention to direction. Idly, the thumb at his neck began to stroke over the wound. All that separated blood and viscera from the storm-riddled air was a thin membrane his immortal body and its preternatural healing had begun to form, but the edges still ran ragged, dried blood tacky beneath his touch and fresh blood still oozing from between his callused fingers despite his best efforts to staunch the flow.
He pressed a little harder against the film-like skin and a bolt of pain shot through him, bringing with it a jolt of crystalline memory: dilated, frightened, umber eyes flecked with deeper, richer, browns that were nearly black… peering up at him in a way that was-- A shudder rippled from the back of his skull all the way down to pool hot in his low abdomen. His thumb pressed harder, feet slowing, lurching.
All over again he could feel the cool of Fletcher’s lean body pressed against his own, the soaked chestnut curls his fingers had coiled into, the dissonant ticking of their clockwork hearts, and the heady scent of blood unlike anything he had ever tasted before. A hissed gasp ended in a breathy moan: Elias could smell him, recalled in perfect clarity through the pain.
Fingers pressed harder against the wound, heedless of the tearing of the thin veil of skin, half panting as he all but stumbled--mad--against the door of his house. Ah, he could feel it again, spreading hot over his tongue… the roughness of Jack’s cheek, the ridges and pits of his wound, the way his aromatic, godly, blood had filled him from even that small taste...
A heated groan tore itself from deep in his belly, electric tingles playing over every nerve… and that was how Martin found him.

The door to his elegant townhouse opened to reveal his bespectacled manservant; ash brown hair perfectly coiffed back, cool silver-blue eyes appraising and seemingly unsurprised to see him in such a state.
...What have you gotten yourself into this time?” the words were spoken in a dry tone but the hand that stretched out to bat Elias’ hand away from his neck was surprisingly gentle, and at the sight of the wound there came a sharp gasp, a low anxious whisper of “Elias…!
The blond’s eyes whipped upwards to meet him--feral hunger visible clearly in the darkened viridescent irises, “It will heal,” he all but hissed.

Despite himself, the vampire found his gaze continuing to lick its way up and down the other man, his breathing growing pitched and ragged. Hunger… had a way of spreading, of creating other appetites. A burning need that screamed to be fulfilled. He had been so close. So fucking close! If that damnable Seiko hadn’t been there. If the scent of Fletcher’s blood hadn’t driven sense from his mind. If he had only-- The vampire clenched his teeth together, hard enough that he felt his jaw begin to crack.
The brunet should have been secreted away with him right now. His tongue should have been dragging over the flesh of his neck. Hand delicately wrapped around his throat. Teeth sinking into the hot fount of blood within his jugular. Sunlight exploding in his veins. Chestnut curls wrapped around his fingers. Every inch of Jack’s body being his to sample, to possess, night after night, moment after moment, all the way until they returned to Eden.
The sound that strangled its way out of his throat this time was more manic and less controlled… somewhere between a snarl and a moan.
Desperate for distraction from these torturous thoughts, he found the strength to grab Martin by a fistful of his shirt, slamming them both backwards past the doorway and into the nearest wall. His neck lolled, straining what structural integrity remained to it. This would normally have been enough to make him reconsider, but the aching need he felt was too much.

You need to be careful. Why don't you let me--” but the lubricious offer about to be afforded him by Martin fell on deaf ears. Hissing, Elias leaned in, silencing him as he claimed his lips.
Teeth skated restlessly over the tender flesh, pressing in, pulling the bottom lip back in an inviting tug before he took him more deeply with a low growl, tongue slipping between his teeth to stroke with unhurried sensuality over the brunet’s own tongue.
Helpless within the spell that Elias was weaving, Martin’s breath stuttered, his hands finding shaky purchase around the blond’s shoulders; one of them coming up to press against the wound in his neck… as though to hold him together.
But Martin's mouth was not enough, not what the vampire craved, the taste of him failing to send the electric fire through his veins that he yearned for. So, abandoning the kiss, he found the smooth column of the other man’s neck instead, nose nuzzling against it, hearing the pick-up in speed of his living heart, revelling in the gasp of his anticipatory pleasure--a gratifying and encouraging sound. Elias’ lips curled back to reveal sharp, silver-capped, fangs that he brushed against the line of Martin’s jugular, breathing in the--
Abruptly, the vampire released him and stumbled away, nose crinkled in equal parts disgust, confusion, and despair. Martin smelled wretched. Muddied, watered down, imbued with an animalistic note to the aroma that reminded him of nervous sweat. He wouldn’t be the first human to smell this way, but previously Martin had been one of the few mortals that Elias enjoyed tasting.
What… what are you-- Why did you stop?” the other man asked… no, demanded, through a hoarse voice, making a slow show of straightening his tie and smoothing down his rumpled clothes with a slightly trembling hand before looking him up and down, expression shadowed.
I--
No, no, nevermind. Don’t tell me right now. Your head is…” there was a sudden tightening to his voice, the visible notes of desire fizzling to fear, “Elias, your fucking head is about to fall off. Sit down, let me see what I can do to keep you… attached and then you’re going to tell me everything.
Martin…
Don’t Martin me, Herr Brandt,” he hissed back at him, a more typical anger asserting itself in his expression. “Whatever is going on, you’re clearly in no state to fuck me,” he hesitated, sucking in a breath while his brows pinched inwards before the expression quickly smoothed and he turned away, “Nor do you seem keen on taking my blood.
The blond made no answer… less because of Martin’s insistence on leaving it for later and more because he did not know what to say.

NiiOPPH.png
It took about an hour before the manservant was content with the patch job he had done on Elias' neck. And the vampire--if he was being honest--had to admit that between the stitches, bandages, and pair of scarves wrapped around him, he felt much less apt to go the way of Marie Antoinette. What he could not say, however, was that calmness had descended over him. Every time he closed his eyes he remained haunted by an intoxicating umber gaze that beckoned like a siren’s call for him to come find the Mephisto, to cradle him close, to steal his lifeblood.
You are going to tell me everything now, Elias. Everything. Und wenn Sie das nicht tun, werde ich Ihnen den Kopf abreißen.*” He said, his tone almost cheerful, though the expression in his eyes was hard and unyielding. Elias could have easily denied him, refused, after all… the brunet served him, not the other way around, but the blond couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after the decades of something akin to friendship that they had shared, not when he knew intuitively that Martin was replaying the moment he had recoiled from him over and over in his mind, something he had never done before during the fits of passion they occasionally partook in together.
Very well,” he murmured quietly, prasiolite shuttering briefly before he blew out a breath and began.

No detail was left unsaid. The meeting with Gabriel and the Overseer, the children training, the mission assigned to him, the battle wherein those same children were sent to fight… and Jack Fletcher.
Martin did not speak throughout any of it, but Elias did not miss the way the other man’s clasped hands tightened to a white-knuckled grip the more the vampire extolled the taste of Fletcher’s blood. The more lost he became in recalling the entirety of their brief encounter in the alleyways--unable to stop himself from reliving it in exquisite detail despite his manservant’s obvious agitation.
It was only in the end, after a few long beats of silence had passed between them, that Martin elegantly pushed himself to his feet, long fingers fiddling with his gold-rimmed glasses for a moment before he softly cleared his throat.
Well,” he began, one hand slipping into his impeccably tailored, brown, houndstooth wool trousers, a smile stretching his lips that did nothing to soften the hardness of his stare as his other hand brushed off the front of his charcoal dress shirt in harsh, aggressive, strokes. “I suppose it’s a comfort to know that even an old vampire can lose his mind.
Martin…” he murmured, a warning in his tone.
Twenty-five years I’ve served you. Washing blood stains from your clothes, patching what can be patched, replacing what can’t be. Offering you my neck when you wanted it, my ass when you were so inclined, and doing my utmost to fulfill the vow of service my family gave you centuries ago. And now, it seems, you’re finally going to lose your head chasing after some… some…” both hands flew up from their respective positions and into the air, the smile cracking into the sneer it had wanted to be all along. “Some scrawny creature with an unusual taste!
Not just unusual, Martin, he--
“‘Tasted like sunlight!’” the brunet crooned mockingly with a flutter of his lashes before the expression hardened once more, “And what taste is that? Hmm? Like burning flesh and screams? Because that is all you know of sunlight. God help me, the Templars offer you everything you could have wanted and you’re going to put it all at risk, including your own life, because of some… some… infatuation you've developed with this pathetic sack of--!
The vampire rose suddenly with a fluidity that was entirely preternatural, and the anger in Martin's eyes sputtered out to a healthy dose of uncertainty. He seemed to shrink even as Elias loomed, not quite able to meet the frigid cold that emanated off of the blond… a breath from the grave itself.
Who is the Master here?” Elias asked, voice a poisonous velvet.
Y-you.
Don’t question me about Fletcher again, Martin,” a callused hand lifted to cradle the brunet’s cheek in his palm, thumb stroking over the slightly bristled skin before his grip shifted lower, fingers wrapping almost casually around his throat--squeezing ever so slightly, “There won’t be a next time.” Nails pressed in, deep enough to draw blood, and the manservant choked on a whimper, though the expression he wore was not quite fear, no, it settled somewhere closer to resentment… and it was not aimed at Elias.

NiiOPPH.png
A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows onto the walls. Seated on the edge of his bed, legs spread, elbows resting on his thighs, the vampire stared broodily into the flames as he periodically brought the crystal wine glass in his right hand up to his lips.
There was a restlessness to his spirit that was difficult to quantify. His gaze would stray at times towards the corner of his room where his music stand and violin case rested. Idly, he kept trying to decide whether playing might soothe the unrest within him that left every inch of his body tensed. The wine had been meant to serve that purpose, but it was failing.
“Fiend.”
The word echoed like a hiss in his mind, snaking its way out into the air of his bedroom. It swirled with the flames, caressing up along his spine like ghostly fingers, brushing over his ear… “Fiendddd.”
BOOM.
A pulse of pain ricocheted violently from the wound in his neck, ears suddenly aching, his breath turning to ragged pants, the wine glass dropping from his grip to shatter on the ground as his left hand fluttered up to his neck--half expecting to come away with dark arterial spray coating the digits. But there was nothing. Just the ghost of his memory, the ghost of Fletcher, haunting him.
Elias’ closed his eyes tightly, searching through the ringing in his ears for the remnant taste of him, tongue sliding carefully and slowly through his mouth; fondling every tooth, stroking his gums, exploring his cheeks, searching methodically for any traces left behind. But he found none.

Growling softly, static crackling in the fringes of his mind, Elias leaned forward and groped with a slightly trembling hand for a shard of crystal among the wreckage on the floor. Finding one, he lifted it up towards his right hand.
In a casual motion that was almost obscene, the vampire pressed the sharp glass deeply into the pad of his middle finger, eyes narrowed in focus as beads of blood bubbled up from the incision. Humming, darkly, he lifted the hand contemplatively to his lips, tongue wrapping around the digit as he pulled it into his mouth. His eyes closed in concentration, caressing the finger with his tongue as he pulled the slowly flowing blood over his palate, searching for any remnant spark of Fletcher’s taste mingled within his own. He found it.
A deep shudder wracked his entire body, Elias violently impaling the finger onto his left canine, body quivering, before he tore it open all the way to the second joint.
In a rush, blood flowed down the digit and over his hand, a low moan slipping free as he popped it back into the warm cavern of his mouth, letting the crimson flow rich over his taste buds, eyes rolling back in his skull.
If vampiric blood tasted exquisite, purified and distilled through the process of imbibing living mortals, then Elias’ blood--comprised of only the finest vampires throughout the centuries--was otherworldly. And now it was lit with the faintest traces of Fletcher’s ichor. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Again, the memory of their encounter flooded through in vibrant clarity, pulsing over him in erotic bursts, sucking the air from his lungs as his head spun. His breath grew more laden, more desperate, with every passing second. Feverish, he pulled his finger out of his mouth, surveying it through the blackened forests of his eyes, lids heavy, as the blood continued to bubble forth with every tick of his heart. It took but a few moments for his hand to be completely coated, painted in black waves that--if he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply--he found to be redolent with echoes of the Mephisto.
With every successive shuddering inhale there came a new flashing image; the feel of Jack’s nape as the vampire had dragged his fingers up his skin, the perfect press of their bodies together as he had held him flush, the dark eyes that had beheld him in defiance and fear and something else unnameable, the way his skin had felt beneath his tongue, the way...
Fiend.
A towering inferno of flame roared and exploded over the blackened forest within his soul, scattering pinecones and enriching the dead earth with fertile ash. It burned, tongues of fire shooting through his veins, hot enough that Elias half expected them to come crackling up through his skin to engulf him and leave nothing behind.
Sweat beaded his brow, trembling in the aftermath of the desirous heat that had flooded him. How would we taste together undiluted? He wondered, weakly lifting his saturated fingers back to his mouth.
With eyes half-shut he welcomed the digits inside himself, tongue taking them with all the gentle caressing of a lover. What little of Fletcher’s blood existed within him was growing fainter--lost by the arterial spray of his neck and then further by his own obsessive need--but there was enough of a hint, of a remainder, mixed in with the rest of his blood’s composition to make him whimper.
“I need more of him,” he whispered to the silent air, hoarse. He had failed this night but there were more nights to come. He knew getting close to the Mephisto would be nearly impossible after this, but... only nearly. “I need him,” he hissed softly again, sucking long on his fingers one last time before releasing them with a reluctant pop and falling slowly back onto the bed, drawing his hand shakily through the silvered wheat of his hair and not caring in the least if he left streaks of red behind.
Dawn was coming. Perhaps, with sleep, Elias would regain some of the sanity that the Mephisto had stolen from him... and tomorrow night, he would seek out Gabriel. They had things to discuss.


* And if you don't, I'll rip your head off.


 
Sister Aglaé
JEANNE D'ARC
health 50/100
WHERE: The airship Paradise
WITH: Templar personnel and co
DOING: Returning to headquarters ⮚ Outside Paradise
CREDIT: Henry J. Ford

The return to Paradise was not a triumphant one. The transport vehicles that remained in working order bore them without urgency through the streets, and for the first time she looked out on the city. Even during these moments of relative peace, no longer called to arms or embroiled in pursuit, she was not unburdened.

Ségolène had loped to the vehicle and hopped up with head ducked and eyes downcast, avoiding the gazes of her comrades as she found herself a seat. She watched New Orleans sweep steadily past—speckled with lights, a city with the hiss of electricity hidden in its veins—and thought to herself that Dinan had never looked so bright in the darkness. She doubted she would ever see the like in her hometown. Its people, with one foot firmly set in yesteryear, had put up a great resistance to some long-ago proposed plan to implement gaslamps in the streets. Eventually a compromise was met and a handful of them were scattered strategically throughout Dinan, two of them flanking the statue of Bertrand du Guesclin at a respectable distance, but many of the lamps to be found there were still maintained in the old way. The skepticism they'd turned on one modern innovation was so keen; electrical wires could not hope to be received so well.

There welled up a pang of homesickness unlike any she had ever felt in a long while, for sloping cobbled streets and a house with a garden patrolled by geese, and she pressed it back down with force. Letters from home were the remedy for times such as these. She had been saving one from her brother and his wife for a stormy day. The Order's stay here in this foreign country would be longer than anticipated, but for how long?

Brows knitted, she looked down into her lap where her helm rested, and the tapered fingertips of her gauntlet idly followed the whorls embossed on its surface. The events on the waterfront replayed behind her eyes. She poured over her encounter with the bestial sovereign thrice over and every time found her technique wanting. Slow reflexes, shoddy footwork, poor focus; had she really given her best? Stung by shame, a breath of resignation trickled from her. In that moment, the littlest notion of training did nothing to lighten her mood; her fatigue was only thrown into relief.

The odds of apprehending their quarry might have been raised had she done better. As it was, the battle had drawn out and the entity had slipped away, right through their fingers. No, she thought, no, he does have a name. She remembered that with greater clarity as she brought to mind the man cornered on the waterfront, wrathful and desperate and frightened. This hunt was a great undertaking for one frightened man, but there surely had to be good cause for it.

With her head tipped forward she closed her eyes to rest them, lulled by the movement of the transport and the hushed voices of her fellows mingling with the downpour. Her kerchief and coif, soaked through, clung fast to her skull; rainwater streaked down her temples and cheeks, warm with summer's throes, warm as blood.



A ceiling of twilit sky is overhead. The trees murmur all round, shaken by a summer wind's unseen hands, and when they become still again, all is silent. She blinks, and rises from the bed of undergrowth at her back.

Rubbing at one eye with the heel of her hand, she turns the other to her surroundings. She recognizes this copse of trees and the little stream that glints nearby. In her wandering she had passed right through it; the hem of her bedgown is still wet. Her father would be looking for her soon, if he wasn't already. This was not the first time she had gotten by him in her sleep straying.

Padding on sluggish bare feet toward the familiar outline of the house, she slips through the ajar garden gate that marks the edge of their property. When she crests the steps leading up to the back door, she stops. The door sits wide open, and the house sits in darkness. The pale light of the moon filters inside, but not far enough to send away the dark. Ségolène's hands fist in the fabric of her bedgown, and she lingers at the threshold. “Papa?”

The wrongness of this ties a knot in her stomach. She is afraid of the dark, and there was always one lamp left on in the house. She receives no answer and remains rooted in place, at a loss for what to do. The silence is as deep as the awaiting shadow, and she realizes for the first time that she cannot hear the birds in song. Bay was away for the evening, but Papa ought to have been in the parlor looking over that day's newspaper again.

She forces herself forward into the house. Her heartbeat flutters when she is enveloped in the gloom; she cannot see, and she strains her eyes while she navigates the house by way of touch.

The parlor's smooth floorboards pass beneath her shuffling feet. Then she slips; the floor is slick, and she loses her balance. She falls, and finds herself lying in a puddle. It is warm. She thinks Papa must have spilled his nightcap. When she moves to stand, her fingertips brush something solid. Seeking with her fingers, she finds a hand, a hand she knows, and she holds it. He does not stir, not even when she shakes him. She cannot find his face.

She lays her head upon his chest and waits for him to wake. The air is heavy with a metallic smell that crinkles her nose; she turns her face into his shirt, clenching her eyes shut against the dark. She doesn't know how long she sits with Papa this way before a flash of illumination falls across her lids, and a sharp cry pierces the quiet. When she sits up, eyes fluttering, she is swept up and into her brother's arms. He presses her face into his shoulder. Bay's hands are trembling and so does every word that crosses his lips when he asks, over and over, if she is hurt.

“No,” is her muffled, startled reply. She squirms in his hold and tries to draw back, but he clasps her close and does not let go. “Bay, quit.”

“Don't look,” he tells her. “We—” Then he halts mid-sentence and turns abruptly, toward the front of the house. He is listening. When he speaks again, his tone is hushed and hurried. “Promise you'll keep your eyes closed until I say so. We'll... we'll cut through the woods to go to Madame Dupuis' house nearby. She will help us. But we must go quickly, and you must be quiet and brave until we get there.”

Something gives her pause; it may be the catch in his voice, or the underpinnings in it that she recognizes to be fear. Her brother was never afraid, not of anyone or anything. She does not understand. Now she is afraid, too. Her eyes are stinging when she nods, looping her arms about his neck. “I can be brave. I will be.”

He is carrying her out of the house. Ségolène keeps her promise, even when she wonders why he is not rousing Papa and realizes they are leaving him behind. The moment Bay sets foot outside, he breaks into a sprint. He clears the stream in only a few bounds, kicking up water in his wake. Stray branches snag on her bedgown.

A shout sounds from the distance, an order to halt. Bay hastens. A cacophony of pops rings out through evening stillness, and a pained utterance rises from his chest. One of his legs crumples beneath him, and they are falling into the brush.

She tries to catch her breath, but finds she cannot. The noise that comes is strange, a whistling and strangled rasp. She sputters, and the taste of iron and copper fills her mouth. Warmth flows freely down her chin. Bay’s hand is clamped over her throat. Past him, over his shoulder, looms the fixed moon, bright and watchful with a light that lays like reaching fingers upon her skin.

Unfamiliar faces circle all around; someone is calling frantically for a medic. Black speckles begin to cloud her vision. Through tears that fall upon her face her brother pleads with her to stay, but his voice is faraway and it is encompassed by another calling her by a different name—she knew that name—

Ségolène's head snapped up. Her gauntlet had flown instinctively to her throat. In alarm she looked round and saw she was in the bed of the transport. An oft-relived memory receded like the tide; she was a woman now, not a girl. There was only rain upon her face; she was again in the midst of soldiers, but here they were her comrades, her brothers and sisters in arms. One of their number was standing at the rear of the vehicle, looking at her expectantly. She blinked at him, and he regarded her with confusion.

“Don't tell me you'd prefer to sleep out in this mess, little Jeanne, or you'll need a boat.”

The answering smile she flashed at him was sheepish. Making haste at gathering up her things, she holstered her crossbow and tucked her helm into the crook of her good arm. Once she stepped down from the transport and was left to her own devices, her eyes slipped closed and she took a moment to compose herself. Then she drew in a measured breath, her shoulders rising and falling with it, and was resolved to wake in the early hours tomorrow to train. She truly wished to crawl into her bunk and not emerge for a week - or not until midday, at the very least.

But there were matters that needed tending before she could do much of anything. Lifting her damaged limb but a little, Ségolène considered the heel-shaped dent in her cowter with pursed lips. The injury was not dire, but with it being her leading arm it seemed a pressing thing - and she was growing anxious to have it seen to, even while she grappled with a reluctance over bothering the engineers about it. She reasoned it couldn't hurt to ask, and that she was helpless without their expertise. Her understanding of automaton prosthesis was rudimentary, limited to everyday upkeep and maintenance… but even if she did have the required skill, she would have also needed two functioning hands. (She doubted she could get away with holding tools in her teeth, too risky.)

Puffing out a sigh, her mind made, she turned her attention to the throngs of bodies filtering back into the airship. Jogging to the crowd’s fringes, Ségolène unwittingly rose to her tiptoes as she stood looking at faces, searching for one that could help her.

 
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S E I K O 島崎清子
alias: Kirin
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Nascha + Jack
DOING: Making gumbo
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

"Best hurry after Fletcher, lest there be any more unpleasant surprises. Keep him safe for me until next time, Seiko."

Die.

Seiko gripped the hilt of his broadsword instinctively, ready to use the last of his strength to carve his name onto this vampire's cheap toy of a heart.

His toxic words bit like a viper. In a perfect world, Seiko would cut open his stomach and spear him to the ground to make an example out of his kind. Nothing but violent thoughts filled his head, and the temptation to give into them was almost too great to bear. It would be easy, like lopping off a piece of bread or slicing an apple. A wave a sadistic desire seeped into his conciousness. Seiko dreamed of hot steel piercing each layer of the vampire's cold and undead skin and watching as the contents of his gut melted onto the cobblestone leaving him empty save for that idiotic ticking contraption.

Death was too great of a blessing to deliver to this feral animal. His heart tinged in pain at the thought of even giving him any more of his attention. Even if Seiko could eviscerate him, those final words couldn't be unsaid. Being dismissed like some errand-boy or lap dog, it plunged a different kind of emotional blade deep into the forlorn caverns of his psyche and twisted in pain. The words crept in like a sweet poison, and while he shrugged them off immediately it would only grow more severe as time went on. 'You''ll regret saying that,' he thought to himself. The prick was even bold enough to turn his back on Seiko. With gritted teeth, he could feel his brow swelling with a determined fire to prove his little remark so very wrong.

Or... was he right? Was he anything but a vassal?

Was Seiko even his own person? He wracked his mind for some sort of smoking gun of evidence to cling to to prove the vampire wrong. Yet, all he could think of were things others told him. He remembered Jack's thanks when he saved him the first time. He remembered the confidence Maeve had in placing him as the Key's retainer, or the way Dominick had appreciated his company. Lastly, he remembered the trust the lion has imbued with him during his recent fight with Jonah. Simple and fleeting memories may have been all they were to most, but he held them dear to his heart. He knew that he was much more than a lapdog and he tried to believe himself, but was that his own thought - or just something someone had told him?

Damn it all, why did he need this ? He was always so reliant on validation. He cursed himself for being so pitiable. Seiko desperately clung to those words to pull himself up from despair, but he was nothing on his own. Where would he be if he wasn't constantly relying on others to pull him in the right direction? He knew this to be too true. He fought so hard to be irreplaceable and valuable. The more he struggled to keep himself a step ahead, the longer he could know that once his novelty had not worn off.

Seiko swallowed his feelings, biting his own tongue and taking a deep breath. He would practically disable himself if he dwell on this any longer, and so he pushed the poison to the back of his mind knowing it would only seep further. There were so many things he wanted to say to this man, but nothing would change what had already happened.

And so without a word, he left to find Jack.

Seiko meditated on the objective at hand and produced a simple task to throw all of himself into : Get Jack safely to the Canine.

He caught up to Jack quickly, an easy task given the condition of his liege's body. He didn't give Jack an option to deny him as he once more wrapped an arm around his shoulder and helped him walk by holding up his belt. In fact, he could feel Jack's initial protests as well as hear them. Seiko's bedside manner was met with a polite but curt denial and retracted limbs. It was the only way to help since he knew Jack wouldn't accept any of his help if properly asked.

"Come off it, and if you still feel raw about it then I'll buy you a drink," Seiko commanded.

Seiko knew he was setting himself up for failure to push away his problems and draw upon happiness from another. Yet it was the instant gratification he needed, and while he may have forced a smile initially it stayed after his muscles did the work. "Vampires, alleyways, leaving to a bar..." Seiko mused on, "...We can't keep meeting like this, my liege." He heard naught but a huff of air from Jack at his little joke, but didn't expect otherwise.

Had he been in better repair, he would have played chauffeur and carried Jack on the back of the stag. Though with most of his body numb as is, he dared not even think about what state he would be in if he reverted. Seiko tried to focus on his left free-swinging arm to return the nerves back to their place and warm away the blackness. He took a deep breath and... "Tch...! No, no no... not yet..." Seiko muttered to himself quietly as the sensation of a thousand needles pricked his hand. The ends of his fingertips returned to the color of his tan flesh, while everything else from the shoulders below remained black and corroded underneath what remained of his armor and tassets. Curiously, he tried returning feeling to the part of his body that had been painted in the medicine woman's salve. It wasn't painless by any measure, but his shoulder adapted to the return of feeling a lot better than his fingertips did.

The pair were certainly hard on the eyes at this point. They were covered in such a brew of dirt, dust, blood, shrapnel, sweat, and debris that it all became an undecipherable mess of brown. What remained of their clothes were in such tatters that not even the most skilled tailor could repair. Likewise there were no words for the ache within their bodies. While he was relieved to be meeting up with the others at the Canine as commanded, it was going to be quite the dirty and smelly crowd.

He would need a stiff drink not only for his own nerves, but his nose too. The thought of it helped keep his forced smile painted on. It was likely a lost cause to try, but he made small attempts to spark Jack's emotions, but knew he must be going through an even greater turmoil. All of this bloodshed had been over his own well-being after all...

...And for what? To win a battle with nothing to show for it?

Even if they had staved off the Templars, they would return stronger and experienced. Meanwhile Jack would grow weak and addled. Those holy knights all had a unified agenda with something to gain which was a stark contrast between the beast and vampires. Outside of the pack mentality, his own kind had little or nothing to gain in the grand scheme of things. Seiko himself couldn't of much a reason outside of his own paycheck to carry on the fight himself, truly. Sure a city without Templars would make things easy for beasts and vampires, but they didn't reign down in terror on this settlement until Jack had arrived, did they?

He couldn't imagin the amount of weight being slumped onto Jack's shoulders, it made him almost want to hold him up tighter just thinking about it. Though throughout all this, even with no personal stake in the City of New Orleans vs. The Templar Order, it felt good to have purpose. He had not felt so useful in so many decades and the dual-edged sword of his own self-worth was brought forth again.

In that moment, Seiko's own inner-turmoil seemed very small. He felt foolish for even giving himself pity, there were plenty worse off than he was, and he pushed the poison even further into his psyche.

He gave that man's last words a final thought before opening the door to the Canine and turning to Jack, "I really did say some foolish things during that fight didn't I?" There was a lace of self-deprivation in his joke, but he didn't say it to hear himself being told otherwise.

"I've never been good with words, truly. Though I'll babble any nonsense I have to if it means a few extra seconds of keeping you alive." That vampire was right about one thing, Seiko's attempt to taunt him was but school-yard prose. "Think we can come up with a catchphrase for next time?" Seiko joked a final time as he closed the door behind him, being greeted to an almost empty and un-lit bar. Typical, it's not like business would continue with a war outside the doorstep. He figured the staff was either hiding or lending a hand themselves. Slipping off his greaves instantly, his heavy feet puttered Jack to a nearby lounge.

His eyes flicked to one of the few nearby patrons, instantly recognizing a woman as the same one who had fought alongside him with Jonah. His brow rose quizzically at her lack of clothing, and he would have found it much more odd had he not already seen her in this form but an hour or two ago.

"I almost forgot when I told you earlier, I think the one who help me with Jonah was a friend of yours." Seiko explained, as he motioned toward the woman known as Nascha. It seemed Jack had a knack for attracting helpful friends, it was enviable and likely the product of being a bit more selective with his company than Seiko was. He flagged Nascha down to where he had sat Jack down, "A little worse for the wear, but he's safe and sound. I didn't think I'd be thanking you again so soon....but... "Seiko hesitated, and his proclivity for retreating in social situations reared it's head once more. He didn't really know how to ask Nascha to take a look at him, or moreso ask her to do anything at all. Even delivering Jack as he promised, he still felt indebted to the fellow beast.

"My name... I never said my name earlier... It's uh, Seiko. May I know yours as well?"

Seiko exchanged what felt like mandatory introductions with the fellow beast. Her name was Nascha. Even having fought alongside her, he still felt like such a stranger beside her as human. Beasts typically were lax with social constructs, but as time went on the sophistication of once primal conversations enhanced. He'd hope Nascha was a beast that catered toward the former style of society, but would adapt regardless. He could feel his guard being let down, and feared he'd embarrass himself if he stayed conversing with the two of them any farther. Eyes darted across the bar to find someway to keep his hands too busy for his mouth to speak.

"I'll.. um, I'll go and make myself useful and I'll find us some soap and rags to wash up with; mayhaps a few uniforms to change into?" He was amazed he didn't stutter, but knew he probably said things too fast to comprehend. He assumed the two knew he was generally going to do something helpful and whether or not they knew the specifics didn't matter. Seiko needed a drink or three in his blood before he could take trying to speak to them any further. Though, he knew one way to make friends quickly as he pondered about the availability of the Brass Canine's kitchen.

"You know, after that - think I'll help myself to the kitchen and the biggest gumbo pot I can find," Seiko mused, as he let down his hastily tied hair.


 
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Maeve Donovan
Phoenix
health bar
WHERE: Docks > Brass Canine
WITH: Alone > Bar patrons
DOING: Processing
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:



Some moved quickly from the boardwalk, the rush of footsteps making a clattering as debris reverberated along the damaged wooden space. Vampires moved with the bestial exodus into the hazy, slicked cobblestone and brick streets away from the destruction. Sugar in mountains of white and beige cascaded from broken hogshead barrels remnants, scattered across the floorboards. It melted with the downpour and coalesced with the blood and viscera slashed and gutted from mortal and immortal alike.

In some disturbed, amused part of her mind, the Queen thought back to her predecessor. The way she licked blood from her hands like it was melted candy played in the reflections of those viscous pools, but that had just been the brand of repressed sexual sadism the Jackal got off on. Maeve, on the other hand, looked to the scene and heaved a breath steadily through her nose until she released the remainder of her frustration in a controlled, tense sigh. Were the Jackal still alive, would anyone else still be? Would as many of her kin have walked away, or would their bodies slowly be stacking up to create the late Queen’s throne? The shadow of such a creation loomed over the Raven’s head.

She left the boardwalk and followed the scents on the streets of gore and malice. Here she found the remains of an overturned Templar vehicle, the remains of the dead in chunks and thick piles of ooze. Her hand raised over her mouth, holding back the burning, vile feeling reaching up her throat. Only one of her kind could be capable of such a calamity. Only they had the size for it. She only hoped the person who had done it didn’t have the desire to enjoy such an act. Hypocritically, she enjoyed the thrill of a fight that led to a fair death. Victory was sweet, but absolute victory tasted like the gods’ ambrosia. It was another day and more time to make it right.

Turning away, she took uneasy steps from the horrorshow and began her trek to the Canine as she had commanded to the others. She was alone and liked it that way. No one was near her, beside her, and it made it all the easier as she stepped into a sliver of an alleyway and retched up her dismay and shock. She wiped the sick from her mouth with the back of her hand, then cleaned it with the cool, slick surface of the brick building that housed her in darkness.

They had been found far too quickly. She had made her home near the local Templar Conclave intentionally to keep a closer watch on them, and what good had that done her? She had failed in her efforts to keep her people and her wards safe. Slipping back out into the streets she donned her usual self-assured gait. No one would know the difference; no one would know the criticisms the Beast Queen was self-flagellating herself with, nor that the stone-cold eyes set with ire and impatience were set deeply inward.

But there was ticking, a buzz she couldn’t ignore. She could hear the dull hum as a hymn sang out in the air amidst the storm. Her kin was happy. They rejoiced. They felt safe. They were empowered. They felt pride. But there were those who felt pain, loss, despair, and their dirge rose and fell in contemptuous harmony with the victory song. The ghostlike voices stalked the weakened recesses of her mind. Is this what Mercia suffered for centuries? Fighting voices, the emotions of her people? No wonder the woman had been heartless.

An unsteady hand went to her forehead, and she wiped rain and sweat from her brow. The corners of her temples ached with the droning of voices within and on the streets. Her blouse stuck uncomfortably to her skin, the corset was rubbing in raw places from the fight. For the first time in years, her body ached from a fight. The Irishwoman was drained. Metal limbs and an icy stare just beyond the helm of her opponent could still be felt from the places she’d landed her blows. The shrill shriek of her magnificent blade still reverberated if she listened for it in her memories. Licking her lips clean of the downpour, Maeve grinned. The adrenaline was wearing off, she’d used too much energy defending herself and avoiding the kill. It would have been so easy to go for it, too. Just a shift from this earthbound form and raise them all into the air and drop them like the overpowered paperweights they were to watch them splatter on the ground. Simple. Clean. Well… maybe not clean, but her plumage never took the stain as her hands did.

“One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon...”


Her voice was just above a whisper, and just on key. The blonde was never a songstress, and this was just for her, just for them. She could feel them, their eyes on her as she passed- the woman formerly known as Harpy before the Cheapside bombing. The Templar General had given that much away: they didn’t know her new name. Hysterically, it was the fires they had set off that had made her this mythical regenerative Madonna. Her lips pulled tightly over her teeth while she sang the ancient Irish fight song.

“...By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon


They had also shown their hand. Unfathomably, they recruited children and forced them to fight their wars. It was as much a sin against the God they claimed their charge against the immortal horde was for as it was ane earthly war crime. They couldn’t have been so foolish as to deny children their innocence? The battlefield was nowhere for little ones to be. But the Sister she’d battled beside seemed just as shocked as she had… perhaps there was more to be learned about this treasonous act against humanity.

“Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshees lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon”


Beau was with them, and was acting as one of them. He stood beside them as a brother-in-arms, and Kenna had been just as shocked as anyone else. Maeve was certain something was amiss the teenager hadn’t told her. She’d have to find out somehow, interrogation of a different sort. The Queen would have to take other channels to find the truth. She’d sent them to Boston originally, but they had settled within the Southern port city for a reason. Why? How did the Conclave know?

“All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green”


Her heels dug hard into the cobblestones as she strode across Esplanade Avenue, the storm letting up as she continued to the Brass Canine. The closer she got, the more the ache settled, the more it rattled in her bones the echoes of her fight. Warriors were in short supply, decent fighters… it remained to be seen. They’d leadership, she’d need help to shape this motley crew into a force to be reckoned with when the time came. She had two strong warriors to task with such a charge, but would they be able to do it? How much time did they have? Did they even have time? Did Jack? She grimaced. No doubt the Mephisto was in a bad way.... It was all or nothing for them all.

“Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon!”


On the precipice of the bar, she pushed the doors open, and looked around the room. Everyone who had been at the battle was there… along with one who was not. She had felt him inside before she ever made it there.

“DUTCH, YOU SPINELESS AMERICAN PRAT!”

Her lips formed a hard line as she squeezed the wooden door. It groaned in protest beneath the pressure. Emeralds sharp enough to cut shot daggers as they surveyed the scene. The bar was nearly bare bones, save for a few patrons at the bar and poker tables. Her newest retainer was seated at the latter. A beautiful petite woman sat in his lap, cards in hand. The furious queen approached, and she could feel the nails of her heels digging as she pounded against the polished oak floors. He shot up from the full table, the beauty falling to the floor in a heap of her designer lace. She leaned towards him, an enraged goddess that had been a harbinger and welcomer of Death, her face inches from his.

“We’re caught in the middle of this city by surprise and I call upon you as had been agreed when I hired you. A battle commences. Everyone I summoned makes it, but not you… No. And this is how I find you? Playing Casanova, again, with a two-trick broad?” Her eyes settled over the woman. She couldn’t blame him for his tastes, she had cute features, but she could hear the ticking within her chest, could smell the centuries on her skin. The Queen didn’t even bother offering a hand to her. “I’d recommend staying away from his lap, madame. He’s about to receive the lashing he deserves and I want to be left alone to do it.”

When the woman moved away, Maeve snatched Dutch from his seat and ripped him upwards in a hard jerk. “You were here? You came to me asking me for a job. You asked the Queen, remember? When she called to you in her hour of need you were too busy paying attention to your cock and how to better serve it that you couldn’t be bothered to serve her, could you?” She released him and pushed him back. “WE NEEDED YOU. ONE FUCKING BEAST COULD MEAN CHANGING THE TIDES, CASANOVA.” Her hand raised, prepared to strike and then she remembered the boy running at her. Her hand fell to the table, causing a resounding bang to startle even herself for a moment. Rage slipped for a second, revealing something more just beneath the surface wasn’t ready to confess. Her ire pulled back on like a mask she was comfortable wearing.

“Children, Dutch. They’re using children, hardly younger than you are now, to fight their war. Jack was shot at by a child, and not just any child. No,” she shook her head disbelieving as she glared him down. “No. I’m not going to tell you. Bollocks to that. You are going to get your narrow cowboy ass out of this fucking bar and march until you come to see the destruction for yourself and you can see what they are capable of. You’ve heard stories of what they have, you’ve seen a fraction of what they unleashed tonight. You’ll see what your kin suffered tonight and then you will report back to me after dawn with what you have learned.”

The blonde could have spat on him. “Get out of my fucking sight, or I’ll show you first hand what little patience for mercy I have right now.” As he headed for the door, the Ravenwoman held him back for a moment, her nails digging into his shoulder to keep in place. She leaned forward to whisper. “Don’t report to my house after first light with your observations, and women will be the last thing on your mind.” Her hand released gently, and she let him move past her to leave.

Her lungs expanded, but she didn’t feel the air that filled them; didn’t feel it as it left her in the exhale. She followed her nose, moving around the room to the stench that lingered wherever he was. It was all a blur. Bjorn and Kenna there. Cecile here. Esther in that corner. They mattered, they all did… they were all alive and living…. But by the smell….

When she found him, her features shifted into a stillness he would recognize from that early evening. Her instincts did not fail her. She could see it. He was holding on by tattered threads now.

The ravenwoman’s mouth opened, but it closed quickly. She couldn’t speak; it would give her away as much as her silence would. Looking him over, she took account of his state while a hand pushed tensely through her sopping platinum locks to one shoulder. “... We need a better method of hiding and protecting you. I think we are in agreement that living with me is no longer an option.” Her eyes strayed from him as her breath became forced. “I’m sorry, Fletcher.” The tightness closing around her chest was becoming unbearable. “I’ll come back later. Rest.”

She followed the most direct path to the bar, and with each step breath came easier. Sick was threatening to come back up again. Her knuckles rapped against the bartop in a sharp sound. One look and the barkeeper took a rocks glass, dropped to cubes of ice, and poured her preferred brand of poison inside. The amber tides cascaded in a ballet that slowed as her mind raced. Her pushed the cup to her and as her hand reached for it, a smaller grasp stole it from her own. Baffled, her sights followed her other ward as she walked away glass in hand and her lips closing over the whiskey. Scoffing, she called the bartender back, “Make it a double-- NO. Triple. This time. And any time you see her,” she pointed to Kenna as she wandered away, “Make sure it’s a single that’s watered down and I’ll pay you as if they’re doubles.”

The new drink was handed directly to her and she settled steadily beside Esther quietly as she took a hearty drought from the cup. “I was sober for eight hours and I came to realize something: sobriety is over-rated.” With a chuckle, she lifted away from the bar and walked away, slipping into a corner to be forgotten, to quietly watch as life continued as it always did after these battles. She’d earned her latest notch in her belt, another day was hers…. But she could feel the grains of sand slipping from her fingertips into the lower half of her life’s hourglass. She’d need to use what she had left to expand the time left in another’s.

Sitting with her back in a corner, she slipped deeper into the darkness, Maeve began to formulate what steps she’d have to take next. Busying her mouth as her legs crossed, she frowned between sips of the sharp flavor cutting deep into her throat. It tasted like her fears.


 
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Cassandra Caldecott
Little Sparrow
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: The biggest fool around --> Drinking Buddies
DOING: Poker --> Eavesdroping
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


To say she was delighted at how things were playing out would be an understatement. Cassandra had been looking for a little fun, and it seemed Dutch was precisely that. Granted, it was generally a terrible idea to poke at people she had bested before. They were up on the tricks and knew at least some of her ploys. The firm squeeze around her hand confirmed that he knew who he was dealing with but seemed to be up for just a little bit of teasing fun. Fantastic.

There was something she found captivating about Dutch; she had noted it the first time they had met. Him knowing just a little bit more about her now only added to the challenge of the game. Cassandra gave a shy little shake of her head, looking away from Dutch, as if embarrassed by his flirtatious remark, "trust me, I'm not that interesting," she said.

A small glint in her eye would give away just enough to the game that was afoot. "You must be rather good at poker; if you keep beating those poor saps as you put it," a slight smirk played on her lips as memories flooded in from their last encounter, "would you be able to teach me some time, I can't say I am very good at it." A lie, one that he would likely catch on to very quickly as he so eloquently put it in not so many words, she had 'robbed him blind.'

The blonde gave an innocent smile as she shook her head, "no," she said softly, "not recently, at least."

This dance, this game, it was so very amusing. They knew each other, and it was no question that the recognition was there for either of them but playing along with the oblivious was too much fun to pass up. This game was very much the fun night out that Cassandra had been hoping. She had been holed up inside for the past few days, and although it had been necessary to garner her bearings better, it did not mean it was any less stifling. There was only so much she could do indoors during the sunlight hours; it was a nuisance. If anything though, it made her enjoy the nights out so much more.

The slight woman gave a soft shrug of her shoulders, the glass at her lips not particularly hiding the little smirk that lingered. It had not gone unnoticed to her, the many patrons of the bar observing their interaction. Cassandra knew how to play a room nicely. Men were somewhat predictable, at least in a public setting. Alone in small groups, normal social behaviours disintegrated, and things became a little trickier. However, for the most part, public spaces held enough societal expectations that men would try to one-up each other to garner favour—trying to look suitable to an audience. If she so deemed the situation past the point of comfort, it would not take much to gain assistance. Dutch knew that and played the game regardless.

Dutch preened, expressing that he was indeed very good. "Hmm," she mused with a slight smile. To his credit, he was reasonably good at reading people; she had just been better at bluffing. She wondered how much more of a challenge another game between them would be since he knew she was a little slyer than expected. "Such a gentleman, thank you for obliging to such a silly little request."

A whistle through the establishment gathered the intentional attention of those that were already listening, calling to those that would enjoy a game, to help teach her, of course. The woman flashed an innocent smile at those that looked her way—a snippet of excitement at the possibility of the match they would have. There were enough flies in the trap to strike up a game.

"Why of course," Cass started, as they headed to a more suitable tabletop for their game, "sitting on your lap would allow me to see the cards more clearly. If it is not too much trouble, that is." So innocently spoken, but her eyes, if looked upon closely enough, could find the amusement in his offer. "It would not be too," she almost hesitated, "inappropriate?" she whispered. "Would it?"

The shock that passed over Dutch's features, even for only a split second, as she agreed to the offered seat was priceless, though Cassandra kept herself composed for the sake of the other eyes on them. A scene could have very well been made, and she assumed that it had been his expectation of her by his reaction, but he covered himself well. All fun and games, it would be oh so much less fun to end it all with just a slap, at least this early in the evening.

The other men at the table were jealous, their gazes fixated on the pair as the thought of her on Dutch's lap set in motion a lingering desirous wish that it was them instead. Lowering his voice, Dutch agreed that it would be best, for her to see the cards of course. There was no ill intention hiding behind that sly grin of his, absolutely none at all. With an indication of where she could sit with a gentle pat, he made a motion for the other men to put their opinion forward on the matter. The short woman who was barely even considered taller than the men sitting down in their chairs, Cassandra waited to hear what they had to say before making her move.

The pause felt more drawn out than it probably was, but the seemingly young woman watched their faces with curiosity at how they would react. With a tip of his hat, an older gentleman of the group expressed to her that if she felt comfortable with the arrangement, then he could not speak up against it. The other men at the table nodded their heads in resigned agreement. Interesting. "Thank you," Cass said, a soft smile and the gentlest nod, "I promise not to make a nuisance of myself."

A hand ever so gently lingered on his chest and thigh, innocently enough to anyone else looking on, as she positioned herself on his lap, settling in to learn how to play a game she was already relatively proficient.

"Someone would cheat?" the lady questioned naively, "that seems dreadfully immoral," she stated as the men sorted out their cards, requesting a new pack rather than taking the cowboys own. Cassandra would be lying if she ever said that she had not done it once or twice herself, easy to slip a card here or there, but it was so much more satisfying winning by the tact of one's skills at bluffing than by hiding a few extra cards around.

Shifting where she sat upon the cowboy's lap, only ever so slightly that it would not be picked up on by any of the other men at the table, but most definitely for Dutch himself. "This is going to be fun," she said, the soft smile and delicate voice the very opposite of the underlying intentions of the lady.

This game was far more interesting than the card game on the table. Cards were simple, merely just pictures. People were a much more fun game to play. Riskier, dangerous, and unexpected. Dutch may have caught a glimpse of who she had been the last time they had met, but that did not mean he knew anything about her. Cassandra was going to have fun at the poor boy's expense. The real regard would be how long it would take him to falter.

Keep him honest? That was a dangerous request when playing a game of poker. She supposed, though, if he wanted her to keep him honest, then who was she to deny him that. "You fine men will have to ensure he is teaching me correctly," she said, flashing the other men a soft smile to ease the scowls left by Dutch.

Was it shameful of her to make such an indecent movement? Most certainly. The reaction, however, had made the act worth it. The surprise cutting off his words, almost made her giggle, but she restrained from it. Really, what had he expected to come out of it? He had offered up his lap to her; there was bound to be some 'unintentional' movements. Dutch should learn to control himself better. It seemed though; her teasing was making him react in more ways than one. Shifting forward under the guise of taking cards and tossing his chips in, the movement of his hips did not go unnoticed. So that was how it was going to be then. Well, two players in the game were better than him ducking out too early.

Dutch covered himself nicely, his tone showing no hint of his actions as he fanned the cards so that she could see. He was right, the cards didn't even really matter, the game itself was about making people believe what you wanted. Getting the right cards was beneficial but not always necessary. He kept the small woman tucked very close to him. Was it uncomfortable, not in the slightest, but it did beg the question of how far the man was willing to go in this game of theirs? Cassandra gave the cowboy a soft glance, "You are trying to corrupt me Dutch," she said, an innocent smile at her lips. "Bluffing has never been a strong suit of mine."

With his arms keeping her so closely snug against him as he helped himself to a drink. "Right," she said sweetly, her hand came down, pressing down firmly on what anyone else would think was his thigh, as she righted herself forward towards the table. "Let's play then,"

The cowboy was getting too big for his boots. Dutch was bold she would give him that. Confidence could be admired in a man, but too much confidence? Becoming cocky? That was when people started to slip up. "I am an excellent student," she said sweetly, "I hope this game is as easy to pick up as you say."

Dutch was thoroughly distracted if the clattering of the glass was anything to go by. He seemed much less focused on the cards compared to her, which, by and by, was what she was hoping. The lady of the table was going to make the sweet-talking overconfident cowboy lose against the men he had been bragging to all evening. Cassandra was enjoying every moment of it.

Bold indeed was the cowboy as his hand found its way under her dress. It was done so smoothly that one could almost be convinced that he was the thief instead of her. Now the question on the table, to call him out for being an incorrigible pervert in front of the men so gently wrapped around her little finger, or let him keep his hand there and let him think he was affecting her.

"So, uh," her voice faltered slightly as she shifted in her seat and unintentionally allowing his hand rub along her thigh in the process but under the guise of trying to move away from the lingering hand. "What are good cards to have and what are bad cards?" Cassandra asked, a light dusting of pink to her cheeks as she collected herself and pointed at the cards in his hand.

Stuck in the most precarious situation, Cassandra knew he would not be able to get himself out of it with ease. Dutch had put himself into the position, and who was she to give him an easy way out. That would be no fun at all. Cass was planning to drag this out for as long as possible until he broke because although she may feign it, she was not going to falter first.

As she questioned him more about the game, he seemed to refocus, giving him something else to focus on for at least a little while. She nodded along as he explained the different hands, and he was right - for the most part, at least. Now was not the time to be nit-picky. Cassandra was proud that the pup could explain it as well as he had in the current situation. He pointed to the cards, not having anything to do with what he was talking about, and she knew it was not for her benefit, but the others around the table.

With the hand so comfortably on her thigh, Dutch asked if she would pick which cards were to be laid down. Now the girl had options; she could either let him try and figure out how to place the cards himself, the hilarious thought of him trying to remove his hand from under her petticoat lingering in her mind. Or - "Alright," she said with a soft smile, mischief hidden behind her eyes if looking close enough. She wanted to test how well he could bluff in the current circumstance. Call it a little bit of training in the art. Cassandra sabotaged his hand, only a little.

There was little time to enjoy him blundering through with his cards as a woman's voice shouted through the bar. Their little game was being distracted by others filtering in. Cassandra hadn't altogether been paying attention to the comings and goings of the bar that she should have been, too busy caught up in the game she was playing with Dutch. The voice that cussed the cowboy out broke whatever illusion of a match they had been playing.

In the cowboy's surprise, he stood, hurtling the startled vampire off his lap, and leaving her unceremoniously on her ass. The audacity. The other men at the table made no move, afraid to catch any of the abuse Dutch was getting their way. Typical cowards.

Reputation preceded her; it did not take Cassandra long to guess who the woman was. The new 'Queen' of beasts. Word travelled quickly, and Cass was always sure to keep up with the latest gossip going around.

Two-trick broad? That was the best she could come up with? The vampire had heard far worse. Perhaps the woman was not as quick-witted as she had heard. Rising to her feet, Cass quickly dusted herself off, looking both offended and hurt by the situation at hand. "How dare you, the both of you," she said, looking between the pair. "I deserve better than the way either of you has treated me this evening."

The Queen was on a warpath, and nothing was going to get in her way of chewing out the puppy cowering under the pressure of her. She stated her 'recommendation' of staying away from Dutch's lap. "Oh, I intend to," Cass said, giving the young man a hardened stare, but enough of a bottom lip tremble to convey how upset she could have been by the situation. "Be my guest," she said as Maeve asked to be alone to give him the lashing he deserved for missing whatever battle they had all just arrived back from. "I do not need to stand in the middle of this just to be berated by you, excuse me," Cass said, pushing between the pair and leaving Dutch high and dry with his Queen.

The small blonde vampire headed to a comfortable seat away from the table. One of the men that had been at the table but had left to get a drink before the whole situation took place, handed her a glass, citing she needed it more than he did. She thanked him before taking a sip, her ears not shying away from listening to the verbal lashing taking place from where she had just vacated. Cassandra assumed the battle the Queen spoke of had been the same battle her new friend had rushed off to earlier in the evening. Such a pity. Children? It sounded horrific. She was even more thankful that she did not head that way herself.



 
Harrison Van Doren
Dutch
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Pesky Magpie ➳ His Queen
DOING: Poker ➳ Uh Oh
CREDIT: Exile0403
PLAYLIST:
Once upon a time he might have fallen for Cassandra's pretty ruse. The damsel in distress stuff. The way she acted like she didn’t recognize him. Sure, he’d done the same thing with her just now, but he had to wonder if she really thought he would have forgotten her… Cassandra Caldecott was not the type you forgot. Unless… she had forgotten him? ... Nah. He wasn’t forgettable either and he knew it.
He was still not decided about what he wanted to do with her now that she was within arms reach, but Dutch reckoned it would come to him before long. In the meantime, putting on this show of being ‘strangers’ had plenty of potential, especially with her playing along.
When she offered her hand to shake, he made sure to give it an extra firm squeeze. Not enough to hurt, hell no, she was still a lady after all, but more than enough to make it clear that he wasn’t going to be duped so easily this time.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Caldecott,” he drawled, watching as she took a sip of her drink, following careful suit with his own.

It took everything in him to control his expression as she continued to speak with a shyness and affected demeanor of insecurity. He wasn’t gonna fall for that… not this time! Then again… she had been more than a couple drinks in the last time, and he knew how booze could bolster someone’s-- Abruptly, Dutch gave himself a little mental shake. No! He was not going to buy into her damnable act again!
Schooling his features to emulate his usual rugged, cowboy, charm, he tipped both head and drink to her as though in sympathy, his eyes the only thing giving away a sharper mind behind the carefree expression as he spoke. “Oh, I’ve been doing nothing too exciting, Miss Caldecott. Beating some poor saps at poker, waiting for the evening to get interesting… Guess now it has.” He offered her a wink and took another small sip of his drink.
“Most things can be forgiven, especially wardrobe malfunctions. Isn’t like you killed anyone… or robbed ‘em blind.”

The woman was damnably good at her games. Cassandra wore the damsel mantle like a second skin. Not so much as a twitch to his firm handshake or the pointed barbs he’d littered his answers with. It was only her choice of words and how she chose to say them gave him any sort of acknowledgement that she’d understood what he was getting at. Though perhaps most striking was the way her shy, demure, little mannerisms contrasted so wildly with the woman he remembered rolling around in the sheets with.

“Well now, darlin’, I think how interesting you are remains to be seen,” he said a little dryly. He supposed the coquettish act--apart from being amusing for her--was probably a pretty smart strategic move. If he tried to do or say anything that would hint at the true minx beneath the dainty damsel display, he knew damn well that every living being in the Canine would be on him like flies on pies. The blonde would escape scot free and who knew what condition he’d be in. Still, that didn’t mean it grated any less… though at least two could play at this game.

Only the glint in her eyes betrayed any stirrings of the cleverer mind hidden beneath, and as she asked him about his ability at poker, a little disbelieving grin cracked the veneer he was wearing and he gave his head the smallest of shakes. “Very good, actually,” he looked her up and down as she said she wasn’t skilled at it herself, and completely stilled when she offered an angelic smile and a smooth denial of killing or robbing anyone lately. He checked his amused snort just in time, shifting it to a soft exhale as he inclined his head towards her. “Then it’d be my pleasure to show you the ropes, Miss Caldecott. Pretty thing like you asking me this? How can I refuse.”

Most of their fellow patrons had their eyes or ears on the pair of them already, so as he straightened up and gave a sharp whistle to grab the attention of those within the establishment, the bulk of them jumped in their seats, guilty at the thought of being identified as the eavesdroppers that they were. “The lady would like to see how a game of poker is played. Now, I know I trounced most of you pretty good, but would some of you oblige Miss Caldecott--if not me--by agreeing to lose another round?”

A mixed volley of scoffs and laughs greeted this, but in short order they had enough volunteers to make a go of it. “Will you pull up a chair or do you want to sit in my lap? You might find it to your liking,” he drawled playfully at her, though the calculation in his eyes made the rest he left unsaid vibrantly clear ‘you certainly had no complaints the last time.’

Frankly, he didn’t expect her to take him up on the offer. Dutch fully expected an incensed refusal--maybe even a slap for good measure--or if nothing else a polite demurral. So when Cassandra agreed instead, he nearly choked on the sip of his drink that he’d been taking.
Peering askance at her as he settled down into a chair at the chosen table, the cowboy found he could neither fault her logic nor feel particularly put out at the fact that she was agreeing. Hell, if he was going to play this game with her he might as well get something out of it… and devious though she was, there was no denying that Miss Caldecott was also precisely the type one would want settled in their lap.

Dodging the disapproving glances that the other card players shot him--he knew deep down they were just jealous--he leaned towards her conspiratorially, his voice lowered to match her hushed tone. “I figure, considering the fact that it’ll make it easier for you to see the cards and learn, these fine folks will allow it.” Leaning away from her, he patted his thigh and offered her a roguish grin that was maybe just a little bit too sharp. “You fellas don’t mind, do you?” he asked, slowly pulling his gaze away from hers to look around the table at the assembled players.

There was a long, pregnant, pause before one particularly grizzled older gent sighed deeply and tipped his head towards Cassandra, “S’ long as the lady is comfortable with it, I can’t say much.” The reluctant nods from the rest of them was all he really needed, and Dutch turned towards the blonde to offer a kindly smile, the rampant mischief in his eyes a dead giveaway to his own true emotions.
“There, see? No worries about it being too inappropriate.”

With that settled he made sure to leave plenty of room for her to settle herself and offered the grizzled gentleman a more neutral, but still friendly, look. “Mind being the dealer? Wouldn’t want anyone accusing me of cheating,” he said glibly, pulling out his own personal deck of cards and extending it out to him.
For a long moment the man stared at the offered cards, but after some inner debate he shook his head. “Sorry kid, if cheatin’ is the concern then we should use a fresh pack.” The man’s eyes flicked past him to catch--Dutch assumed--the gaze of one of the Canine’s employees, shortly having a fresh pack in hand which he meticulously opened from its plastic packaging in front of the eyes of everyone gathered.
Untroubled, the cowboy gave a slight shrug and tucked his deck back into an inner pocket of his coat, giving it a reassuring pat before turning his attention to the game. “Watch and learn, Miss Caldecott,” he teased in a drawl.

To the rest of the men gathered to play the game with them, her touch might have looked entirely innocent. There was the light brush against his chest, one delicate hand settled on his thigh, expected of a woman attempting to demurely position herself in a man’s lap, but it held entirely different connotations to the cowboy. Maybe… offering himself as her seat had been a mistake. He’d been so certain she would refuse, dammit all, and now he couldn’t very well say anything about it. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a chore to have her sitting all cozy against him either. Keep your enemies close and all that, right? Though he imagined that the expression hadn’t been made with this degree of closeness in mind.

He had to bite down on his tongue--hard--in order to withstand the urge to roll his eyes and laugh at her ‘innocent’ dismay over the idea of them cheating. “Very immoral,” he managed to say once he had some command over himself, “These fine gentlemen find it hard to believe I beat ‘em fair and square, but with you here to keep me honest… well,” he offered the other men a charming smile and received only scowls in reply.

“This, ah--” his train of thought sputtered as Cassandra shifted in his lap, blood rushing and pooling in ways that were not conducive to winning at cards. He could have left it there, but the dainty way in which she spoke afterwards, completely at odds with the obvious maddening intentionality of her maneuvering against him, was enough to make the kid more keen on fighting fire with fire.
Dutch shifted forward towards the table, reaching to take his cards and toss a few chips in the pile, taking special care to make sure his hips rolled nicely against her as he did so.
“Here, have a look at my hand,” he said in a mild tone… downright educational in fact, leaning in a little closer so that they were nearly cheek to cheek as he fanned the cards out in front of her. “Now, you can’t control what cards you get, but you can control how you choose to react to the hand you’re dealt. Make it so that no one around the table knows your intentions,” his eyes slid from the cards to peer at her peripherally, inhaling the light scent of her very tasteful perfume, “It’s called bluffing and it’s probably the most important part of the game.”

Casually, he reached around the other side of her for his glass on the table, keeping her squarely in his arms as he pulled it up to his lips and took a long sip.

The other men at the table were--predictably, putty in her pretty little hands. A single smile, a demure line, and Dutch watched with thinly veiled consternation as they all fell under her spell. Had he bitten off more than he could chew? ….Nah, the kid refused to believe it. He had the advantage of knowing what she was capable of, no way she could pull a fast one on him, not again.

“Oh, I don’t think corrupting you is possible,” he replied in a tone tinged with a little too much laughter, knowing full well that the corruption ship had set sail a long time ago with her. “You seem like a quick study, I’m sure you’ll have a knack for this game in no time.” He almost felt bad for the other men around the table… almost. Here they thought that they were playing a game of poker when in reality they were just chess pieces in the much higher stakes game he was playing with Miss Cassandra Caldecott without them.

Dutch was just lowering the glass from his lips to place on the table when her hand took up firm residence in a sensitive area that was decidedly dangerous. The glass clanked--hard--onto the table as his fingers twitched involuntarily. Had the timing been any different, he might well have spilled it right on her.

Clearing his throat a little weakly, the kid wavered over his next move. A bluff? Or a fold? The cards blurred in his sights, unimportant, as he struggled not to lose himself beneath the mix of alarm and pleasure that came from her strategically placed touch. Keep it together. He had to keep it together… By fighting fire with fire?

“Guess I’ll start,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice neutral. As soon as the words left his mouth, he leaned forward to press against her back, pushing a chip to the center of the table with his right hand even as he deftly slid the left beneath her dampened petticoat to rest suggestively on her bare thigh--done so smoothly and swiftly that no one would have been able to tell save for Miss Caldecott herself.

At the sudden suggestive touch he applied to her, Cassandra’s voice faltered ever so slightly and Dutch felt a thrill of triumph shoot through him. Evidently, his hand was having the effect he had hoped for. Then again… the way she shifted had that same hand sliding over the perfectly smooth skin of her thigh, and the cowboy found himself swallowing hard as his mouth ran dry. Shit.

If he lost focus he’d be in trouble. But he couldn’t exactly remove his hand either. That would be tantamount to losing in this game and he refused to lose. But damn it all to hell, it was really hard to remember what he was doing when she was positioned like this in his lap--squirming around so that all he could think about was--

Her question distracted him and he blinked hazy amber eyes, clearing his throat a little too loudly as he tried to reorganize his scrambled thoughts to provide some sort of answer. “Uhh, well, best hand with a standard deck would be a straight flush. Five cards of the same suit in order. 6,7,8,9,10 of spades, for example,” he managed, trying to angle for a professional voice when he felt anything but professional. “Basically goes down from there. Four of a kind is the same thing but with only four cards. Full house has three of one type and two of another; say three 9’s and two 3’s. A flush is all of the same suit--say clubs--but not in sequence. Straight is a flush in reverse, sequence of numbers is in order but the suits are not. Three of a kind would be… let’s say three 5’s and two other cards. A two pair is pretty self explanatory; something like two King’s, two 4’s and another unmatched card or in a one pair you only have, say, two 2’s.” As he spoke, Dutch pointed to varying cards in his hand--all at random, meant to throw off the other men around the table--and leaned close to her ear to whisper the last bit, “And the worst cards would be a hand where you can’t do any of it. They call that a ‘no pair.’”

He leaned back a little from her then, trying not to think of the way every movement made him torturously aware of her supple skin beneath his fingers, the shape of her body against his, and tipped his head to the cards. “Wanna pick what we lay down, Miss Caldecott?”

Dutch almost groaned. Almost. Of course, the little minx chose to lay down cards that weakened his hand. Of course. He’d have to rely on bluffing. Not normally a problem--it was how he won most games anyways--but… that was a mite bit more difficult to manage with this vixen in his lap. Still, he tensed his jaw, this cowboy was determined to win.

“DUTCH, YOU SPINELESS AMERICAN PRAT!”

The cards shivered and fell boneless out of his hand to scatter on the surface of the table. For the briefest of moments he was frozen, alarm bells screeching in his head and his body ricocheting between frigid cold and being set on fire. He knew that voice. Knew this presence. Found himself remembering the strange, fuzzy, tug he had felt earlier in his mind before Cassandra had walked through the doors. Oh shit.

His doom approached in the form of heels pounding punishingly into the oak flooring, each weighted THUD sucking the air from his lungs. Reflexively, he sprang up, everything forgotten save the vengeful Queen who now stormed towards him in a righteous fury. Cass fell unceremoniously to the floor but Dutch hardly noticed. The kid desperately wished he had a hat he could hold between him and Maeve, to wring his hands around its edge and feel--at least a little--as though he weren't facing the storm of her anger without any kind of barrier.

Everything in him wanted to bolt away or, better yet, sink directly into the floorboards, but he was rooted to the spot and did little more than flinch as his Queen's face settled mere inches from his own and the stormclouds broke; unleashing lightning and a whole hell of a lot of thunder.

"I--" but there was no room for his words.

He quailed beneath each lash of her tongue, the accusations settling deep, his face fire red and his ears hot as a scratchiness began at the back of his throat that had his eyes wanting to offer up tears--ones he fiercely denied.

Maeve turned her attention from him to briefly address the vampiress, and Cass turned her venom onto him too, amber eyes darting away from her. She did deserve better, probably, though he was glad that she chose to storm off in a gracious huff in the end. Last thing he wanted was her standing there to bear direct witness to his shaming.

As she left, the cowboy sank down--ashamed and shaken--to his seat. But that didn't last long. Before he even had a chance to attempt to collect himself, Maeve's fingers were hooked around his collar and he was jerked bodily to his feet again with a yelp. Instinct had him cringing away from her, unable to deny any of the things she'd said and feeling static crackle in his ears as guilt, embarrassment, and a deep-seated sense of shame rooted their way deep inside.

"I'm--"
“WE NEEDED YOU. ONE FUCKING BEAST COULD MEAN CHANGING THE TIDES, CASANOVA.”
"I'm sorry..." he whispered, tensing in preparation for the blow as her hand raised, shoulders slumped, face hollow and drawn, hands having come together to clasp boyishly as he awaited his punishment. But it did not come. Instead, his Queen's voice quieted from its furious scream to a collected wrathful tone and he slowly blinked amber eyes open to look at her in horror as Maeve described the children that had been part of the battle, the reality of injuries sustained by Jack. Guilt crashed heavy and suffocating over him; limbs growing leaden until even lifting his head felt like an impossible, monumental, task.

He was given his marching orders in cold, furious, tones and Dutch could do little but nod, not quite able to meet her gaze. "Yes ma'am," he managed to whisper, trying not to wince as her nails bit painfully into his shoulder and her lips hissed threateningly into his ear.

The cowboy was intensely careful not to meet the eyes of anyone else at the bar as he moved on slightly unsteady feet to the door, trying to convince himself that his hand was not shaking like a leaf as he pulled it open and slipped outside... angling immediately for the docks.
One hand rose to press over his abdomen, attempting to settle the queasy churning there as it dawned on him that some of the other scents in the bar had been familiar. Nascha? Jack? Cass was there too, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder who else had been witness to him being reamed out like a little boy. Mortifying. Mortifying and entirely deserved. He'd failed his Queen, everything she'd said was true, and there was no getting around that.

Dutch abruptly felt very small... he was every ounce the failure that Maeve made him out to be, but he'd be damned if he didn't report to her just after first light exactly as she'd ordered. Hell, he'd do just about anything to right this wrong... whether he was just a stupid kid or not.


 
Kenna Mac Amery
Incendiu
health bar
WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: Wants to be alone
DOING: Wallowing
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


"You need to go," her voice was rushed, panic seeping into her word. Kathrine locked the door, peering past the drawn curtains. "Do not come back to this place; it is no longer safe." Turning, the two children in her care looked at her with confusion. "What are you talking about?" Kenna asked, rising from where she was sitting. It struck her that Kathrine had no intention of coming with them as she pulled a pack from a cupboard. "What about you?" she said, following Kathrine through the house, Beau following along beside her.

Kathrine's hands paused on the bag as she placed it on the counter, "You can't worry about me," she said with a steadying breath.

"Kathrine,"

"Mama," the children interjected, panic breaking across their faces. Kathrine turned to them, a small smile on her face, Kenna could tell was hiding pain. She had seen that look before. "Hush," Kathrine said, "everything will be okay." Kenna knew she was lying.

The older woman kneeled in front of her son, hand resting gently on his cheek. "Beau, mon amour," her voice was soft, soothing her youngest child. "Kenna vous protégera." Kenna straightened up upon hearing her name, knowing the gist of what Kathrine was saying even though her grasp on the language was limited. "Je t' aime tellement,"

"Je t' aime aussi," the young boy said, though he still did not fully understand what was happening. Kenna knew. With her arms crossed, the young teen leant against the table.

"Go grab papa," his mother instructed. The young boy nodded, running in towards his room.

With the youngest of the pair out of the room, she turned to Kenna. Kathrine's face was solemn and cold, any sign of peace or hope had drifted off her features. "Kenna, you have to protect him," she said,

"I will, you know I will,"

"Kenna!" Katherine yelled, her voice stern with severity. Kenna flinched at the sound of the woman's voice being raised before Kathrine pulled her emotions back with a sigh. The woman reached out; her hands securely placed on the young teen's shoulders. "This place is not as safe as we thought it was." Kenna went stiff, her gaze held by the older woman. "You need to keep him safe. I am trusting you. Promise me; you will keep him safe." There was no room for error. Kathrine was trusting her with the thing she held most dear in this world. "I promise," she said, her voice a little shaky.

With a nod of her head, Kathrine gave a soft smile that was filled with pain. "Good," she said, stepping back towards the bag on the counter just as Beau came back into the kitchen, a small cuddly owl in his hands; beaded eyes slightly askew and the fabric tattered from the years of love.

Continuing to pull food and supplies from the shelves, Kathrine quickened her pace, time slipping away from them. "I will find you if I can, but," she hesitated, her hand pausing for a moment as she placed food inside. The woman shook her head. "If I do not come for you, find Maeve. She can keep you both safe."

Kathrine finished filling the bag with the very few supplies she could. There was no time to gather anything else; the children would have to leave with this and figure out the rest. Kenna was smart. She could handle it.

Passing the bag into Kenna's arms, the woman rushed past her, getting down on the floor, pulling the rug back to reveal a hatch in the floorboards. "Dangerous people will be here soon, you both need to go," she said, waving Beau forward as she lifted the door. "Mama?" he questioned, looking at the crawlspace under the house where the foundations resided. "Beau you need to trust me okay," she said. The boy nodded, but he still seemed unsure.

Kenna was not convinced. "Who are they?" she asked, needing to know more about what was happening. Kathrine shook her head, "knowledge will only get you killed." She knew all too well the dangers of knowing too much.

Lowing herself into the hole in the floor, Kenna reached her hands up in an attempt to help Beau down. The youngest beast slapped her hand away and jumped down himself, not needing her help.

"Goodbye, my loves." With one last look, Kathrine closed the hatch and righted the rug back down on the floor, making sure that there was no indication that it had been moved.

Wearily the two children looked at each other before Kenna steeled herself to the task she had been given. She gave her brother a slight nudge and a silent nod of her head to the back end of the house. Keeping low under the floorboards of the house, the two children shuffled as silently as they could across the cold ground.

A knock at the door echoed around them, and they both hesitated at the sound. Voices mumbled from where they had once been, but Kenna could only grasp a little of what they were saying. What had Kathrine got herself mixed up in?

"Kenna,"
Beau whispered, looking at her, his faced etched with worry. He shook his head. "Mama's not safe, I can't," he turned from her, heading back the way they came. "Beau stop," she whispered harshly, her hand reaching out to try and stop him. Beau was smaller than her, moving with much more ease than she could under the house; she could not catch him to stop him in time.

Clattering and banging coming from the room above disguised some of the sounds they were making as they shuffled. An ear-splitting ring of a clattering metal reached them as a blade pierced the air. As Beau made a move for the latch, the vision of Kathrine's head thudded to the floor stopping him in his tracks.

With no hesitation, Kenna's hands reached out, covering Beau's mouth so that a scream could not escape and blow their cover. She pulled him close, her arms wrapping around him as they both trembled as silently as they possibly could.

Hot tears ran over her hand from the small boy in her arms as blood dripped through the floorboards above them. The two children did not dare move afraid that even a single sound of shuffling would give them away. They endured the sounds of their mother being torn apart.

Kenna tried, but she could not see their faces. They were not beast nor vampire, not that she could tell. Surely they would have noticed them under the floor if they were? Whoever they were, they accomplished their goal. They picked up the pieces of Kathrine scattered over the floor, leaving the house silent and empty.

The children waited through the silence, Kenna still holding Beau close to her before slowly and quietly crawling under the house again. Keeping her ears pricked, the young teen made sure that there was no one around. Apart from the casual chatter of the crowds on the street, there was no one else. Looking past the bricked foundations below the house, Kenna was still wary, unsure of the dangers around them. Everything seemed safe, and if she hesitated longer than they might not be. Grabbing Beau's hand, the two children sprinted as far away as they could from the house.

~~~~​

The walk back to the bar was quiet. Kenna did not say a word, unable to muster up the energy for it. She could not look at the carnage of the scene around them. Too drained from everything that happened even to absorb any of the aftermath. Her mind still lingered on the image of her brother walking away, his willingness to join them, accepting their help like he was one of them, like they had his best interest at heart. After everything they had been through, how could he believe that, trust it so quickly? What had they done to him? Whatever it was, it could not be good. The light behind his eyes had dwindled over the years, but tonight, there was so little of it left. Kenna wondered if there was any left at all.

The teen cradled her arm close to her chest, the pain still lingering as her body tried to heal itself from the wound Beau had given her. Kenna did not wish to move her arm any more than she had to, not wanting to agitate her shoulder. Her steps were slow as they made their way back through the streets, Kenna feeling somewhat hollow and just desperately wanting a drink. The cold rain washed over her, but she barely felt it. Kenna was aware of Bjorn's presence next to her, but she ignored it. Dealing with anything right now except for her focus on getting to the bar was too much for her.

Pushing past the doors, the young beast walked in, paying no mind to anyone else in the bar. She was past the point of caring. Walking past the bar, the teen took the first drink she could see; it just happened to be one from Maeve's hand. Kenna could not care less and pulled the glass with ease from the woman's hand, not even enough hesitation to falter her stride as she walked away. Kenna headed to the back of the room, finding a corner to sit where she could be alone to blackout.

One drink would nowhere be enough, but it was a start. Tipping her head back, Kenna drunk down the contents of the glass, emptying it. Slamming the glass down on the table, she pushed it aside before her head followed suit, landing with a dull thud to the table. She wanted another one.

Would it be soon to walk back over to the bar and demand another one? Sighing against the tabletop, Kenna resigned herself to waiting a couple of minutes, allowing the one meaningless drink to settle in her stomach before grabbing a second one.



 
Jack Fletcher
LAZARUS
health bar - 10%
WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: Seiko -> Nascha -> Kenna
DOING: Wallowing
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:



Everything hurt.

The ringing in his hears had yet to cease, but he was maybe only a block away from the scene of the attack. He hoped to God he’d killed him, the vampire. His scent still haunted him as it sank into his skin, not even able to be washed clean by the rain. He could feel the heat of that tongue, stinging the wound, slick as it lapped at his blood. A choked groan rolled off Jack’s tongue, a deep and violent shudder shaking him back to the present.
”What the fuck do they want from me?!” he whimpered within his thoughts, minute pinpricks in his eyes signalling the start of hot tears. Grinding his molars, jaw aching, he grunted with effort as he limped at a sluggish jog, pressing a hand hard against his stomach.

It had been another block before Seiko found him. Deafened from the blast, Jack hadn’t heard his approach and nearly shot the beast in the chest when his hand came to lay on his shoulder in aid, “No,” Twitching away, Jack shook his head firmly, grimacing as she shoved his pistol away, breath ragged. He didn’t want to be touched… but he did want help… With some thread of thanks resting in his sigh, Jack recoiled his tension as Seiko sternly chided him, and leaned into the assistance he offered.
Looking the man over briefly, they were both worse for wear, Seiko perhaps more so. Because of him… All of this was because of him. Jack forcefully swallowed down the bile that rose at that thought and tried to clear his mind of only one, singular task: Get to the Brass Canine.
"Vampires, alleyways, leaving to a bar...We can't keep meeting like this, my liege."
Jack scowled. Normally, he would have offered the man a snicker or impish sort of smile for his joke… but the very thought made him ill. And that word again… He hadn’t the strength to pick another fight; to put Seiko straight on matters of authority. For tonight, he’d let it go.

The walk to the Canine, on any given night, would have been an easy and relaxing jaunt, but that night, half-dead and dragging their feet under the weight of the world, Jack felt more like Atlas, struggling to maintain order and balance, each step a chore. He had half a mind to ask the other man to carry him, but noting Seiko’s own struggles, despite helping Jack as he could, the Mephisto held his tongue and pushed himself onward.
When at last they could see the dim glow of the bar’s amber lights, Jack felt himself beginning to relax. Safety and sanctuary were finally near enough to taste. He could drown himself to forget this night and any night before. He wanted to escape, be unseen and melt into the furthest spot he could in the bar. He wanted to be alone.
Seiko--darling of a man--tried to strike one final conversation with him as he opened the door, Jack limping in first. The brunet didn’t answer. Every conversation in the room before them hushed at the sight of them. Little did Jack know that Nascha had been the one to set the tone for the room minutes before, but it was clear that no matter how much Jack wanted to slip into the dark, he was going to be on everyone’s lips.
Uneasy, his shoulders curled and head lowered, eyes finding the floor as he began to collapse in on himself, absently trying to become as small as possible under their eyes. Seiko led him gently towards an empty booth along the wall, then left him to talk with Nascha. Jack gingerly lowered himself into the plush leather seat and shivered as he laid his head down into his arms upon the tabletop. He’d thought coming here would be a good idea… the anxiety that it filled him with only made it worse.
He could hear them, whispers passing from their lips, fledglings with their thoughts wide open. Jack shrank tighter inward, every door slamming shut, ever window barricaded. There was a brief moment, in the vampire’s hold, that he had wanted to live… it had been fleeting. The desire to be dead now paralleled when he’d grieved for Bernardo in his rebirth. To be alive, like this, was pure agony.

He hadn’t expected to feel little fingers upon his face--slender, tapered digits pressing firm into his skin and forcefully lifting his weary head. Jack’s eyes opened and peered up, wincing as he was drawn towards the healer as she looked him over. With a sigh, Jack’s eyes flicked away, staring blankly out into the room as she prodded over him. She steered them back, pushing her face in his view,
“I only agreed to kill you if they got their evil, hypocritical, unnatural, abominable fingers on you. They didn't, so save your moping for tomorrow. Tonight, let me patch you up and then I'm ordering you to drink until you don't remember anything anymore. Agreed?"
His brows levelled but he nodded in silent understanding. He watched her work, vaguely curious about the disgusting-looking bandage in her hand before it was slapped down onto his cheek with some force. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath as he tensed, his skin crawling from the cool and slimy mixture, but also from the sharp sting that radiated down through his jaw. For a moment he was complacent, silent as she looked him over. His features softened, becoming void as his eyes hollowed, “I don’t want to feel anymore,” he muttered, voice raw and tight as he held on to a sob in his chest with every ounce of his withered strength.
He ignored her next comment, letting the thought of serums and Templars slide off his skin like the droplets of rain that remained on his soaking figure, “I don’t… feel good…” he groaned quietly, turning his head away from her hands. Slowly, he leaned back into the seat and tugged his drenched shirt from his pants, lifting it up to show her the wound upon his stomach, “What can you do for this?”
He watched her unpack several things from her bag, one by one; herbs listed as she pulled ingredients to heal his broken body. Unmoving, his expression vacant, his eyes remained upon her hands as they worked. He was particularly intrigued by the aloe vera, never having heard of such a thing, and seeing the water-like ooze spill unto her fingers from the snap of the leaf piqued a small grain of interest. It did sting, as she mentioned, but the cooling effect came rapidly behind it, and Jack released a slow breath into it. Next came a strange golden salve, and then the honey, the scent pungent and hay-like with a hint of sweetness. All of this was relatively painless, if not mildly interesting… but it was her hesitation and cautious gaze that truly captured Jack’s attention,
"Don't watch me while I do this,"
The Mephisto’s eyes narrowed, confused, following her gaze around the room before returning to her once more as she placed her hand against the gash. His brows knit together with a small hiss, but as she closed her eyes, he did so as well, politely obeying her request.

At first, it felt like nothing, just the warmth of her hand and mild discomfort at the pressure and mixture of things seeping into the sliced layers of skin and muscle. But slowly there was something cold. Something… strange. Jack swallowed as his pulse quickened, his breathing straining through his nose as he tried, very hard, to comply.
A whisper pressed against his ear, something spoken in a language he could not decipher. Imposing, another joined it, softer, like an echo. And then another. Jack’s heart thundered, a light sweat upon his skin as the world seemed to slip from his grasp, swirling out of control. These weren’t the voices of immortals around the bar… these belonged to something else. And they wanted him--that much he could understand from their feather-light messages, sensual and caressing.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused as he peeked down. They widened then, trying to make sense of the phantom black flames that licked around her fingers, cold and all too inviting. He knew them… A pulling deep in his soul making itself known as he shivered.
The moment ended before much longer, and Jack’s body trembled as he felt the cold melt away, as if siphoned out of the wound by Nascha’s very hand, drawing out the impurities. The haunting whispers receded too until he was left with his own silence and the frantic ticking of his heart. When she looked up, Jack met her eyes, waiting, bewildered… and afraid. For a moment he couldn’t find the words to ask her how she manipulated such curious phantoms, but the silence was welcome. She looked drained, and he thought better to thank her, instead, for her efforts.
His lips parted, but the doors to the establishment burst open with the fury of a tempest, and the Máthair made her presence--boldly--known.

Maeve’s heels pounded the hollow floorboards like gunshots. Jack winced and closed his eyes, pressing his face into a trembling palm as the feel of roughened hands wrapped around him. He knew they weren’t there, but the memory of the vampire’s touch lingered in each thudding step. Grimacing, he pressed himself closer to the healer’s naked body, her warmth giving him some comfort despite the lack of dressing. Jack couldn’t be bothered to gawk or care--she didn’t, after all.
The Phoenix’s ire directed towards the young cowboy. Jack barely remembered his name, but his face was familiar from a few nights before at the Ravenwoman’s home. Maeve always had a sharp tongue and a passion to match. The room fell still and silent as her voice carried strongly into their chests, rattling their ears as she berated the boy for his mistake. Jack watched passively through his low-hung lashes… He felt for the kid. Couldn’t have been much older than he was when Jack turned. The poor bloke couldn’t get in more than a simple apology through it all before he was sent on his way, tail between his legs.
If Maeve hadn’t wanted her title… she couldn’t very well rescind it now. All eyes were upon her in the still silence that followed, and she met them, roaming as if searching… Jack knew she was searching for him. When finally their glances met, he quickly tensed and looked away. It wasn’t out of fear, but out of apology. Out of grief. His breath choked in his throat and he clenched his jaw tightly in an effort to keep tears at bay. Her energy sparked a riot in him, her turbulent aura as she approached with strange eyes gripped all his doors at the hinges and threatened to yank them off.

This was all his fault…

She reviewed him, and it was a long beat before Jack nodded slowly in agreement with her suggestion, but did not meet her eyes. He was thankful when she turned and briskly left for the bar… and so the room seemed too, as everyone released a slow, cumulative exhale, and resumed their evenings.
With a small and weary sigh through her nose, Nascha pulled away to look him over and resume her treatment, “Where else does it hurt?”
Curiously, a temptation to curl his lips in a smirk haunted his countenance, but it remained sullen, voice empty as he glanced to her briefly, “Nowhere your hands can touch, I’m afraid,” Jack muttered. He eyed the bar, “But a drink might.”

Her hands were gentle as she dressed his cheek with a small patch, but before she could get much further, the tavern doors opened once more. Quick and light steps hurried Kenna through the doors, followed slower by the Alpha, who’s broody gaze seemed even more dire as they came alone. Jack sat up, his eyes roaming over the pair of them hesitantly as his heart began to quicken once more. He shook his head a little, “Where’s the boy?” he asked quietly of no one in particular. While he was thrilled to see Kenna safe, it was in terror that Jack did not see her young brother at her side.
Ushering Nascha away with a rushed and mumbled apology, he staggered to his feet and nearly fell flat back on his ass as blood rushed to his frontal lobe, the room spinning as it all went black. Thankfully, Nascha’s hands were quick to steady him, and firm to twist him around, scolding him softly. He nodded in absent understanding, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking over his shoulder again towards the young girl as she made her way into the furthest booth from him. The healer seemed to understand his urgency and palmed him a small bag. Jack only barely registered what she told him it was for… something about a drink and forgetting. That was more than enough for him. He nodded and pulled away--slower--to head towards the bar.

It seemed like a death wish, a dangerous choice, but Jack pushed down a warning shudder as he slipped up next to Bjorn’s giant frame. He mumbled an order of two whiskey glasses, and slowly flicked his worried eyes towards the man next to him. Discreetly, he tilted his head, parted his lips, “The boy-”
“You did not kill him if that is what plagues your corpse.” The gruff growled response that cut him off from the large Beast. With a venomous leer, Bjorn held Jack’s gaze for a long beat before taking his mead and leaving him to cross the room, sitting down next to the Harpy.
Jack’s slackened jaw pressed firmly closed, his brows levelled and knit tightly together as he sighed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this… was supposed to happen. Bile rose in the back of his throat once more, the dread and uneasiness sat like a stone in the bottom of his belly. Two glasses, crystalline and fragile were placed before him, filled halfway with amber liquor. In a shaking hand, the brunet slung one down his gullet, even as the burn wanted to make him retch. The other he fondled tenderly between both hands, elegant and slender fingers entwined around it as he took quiet and cautious steps around the bar towards his ward.
Jack was barely able to comprehend how he got to her side, let alone how to start. The sight of her sorrow writ upon her young, pretty face gripped him like talons, piercing and tight. In offering, Jack placed the glass of liquor before her upon the table, and slowly seated himself across from her, silent. Unable to meet her eyes--his own brimming with tears--he wrung his hands together, voice hoarse when it finally came in the form of a whisper,

“I’m sorry.”




 
Nascha
Black Sun
health | bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Esther, Seiko, Jack ➟ Esther again
DOING: Healing & Sating Curiosity
CREDIT: @peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:
It might have been minutes but it could also have been hours. Nascha stood, slightly unsteady, peering at the sign above the doors that read ‘The Brass Canine.’ She needed to go inside, see if anyone had stumbled in who needed help, but having finally permitted her body to stop, she was finding it difficult to get started again.

Abruptly, the healer was no longer alone. Beneath the gentle hushing of rain against the pavement came a soft exclamation of surprise, and Nascha swiveled her head to peer at the woman who had appeared beside her.
Dark brown hair, a pair of eyes that reminded her vaguely of densely treed woodlands in the height of summer; boasting greens and rich browns to draw one in… tall, too, the petite werebeast had to tilt her head up to get a proper look at her. She was familiar, her scent sparking a dim memory from within the tired confines of Nascha’s mind. It took a few heartbeats before it clicked into place and then she nodded to herself in remembrance before dipping her head agreeably to the other woman... realizing belatedly that she was a vampire.
This morning she would have found conversing with a vampire to be somewhat odious, but seeing the great hypocrisy of the Templar order made even the blood-sucking undead palatable by comparison… and the healer was undeniably touched after the other woman murmured something of a greeting and held out some fabric to her.
“You were at Maeve’s house,” she murmured to her, gratefully accepting the fabric. “This is already very helpful, thank-you,” she said, running the shawl between her fingers, nodding appreciatively at the quality of the garment. It would serve exceedingly well for bandages.

Before anything further could be said on the subject, the she-beast flexed her muscles and began to neatly tear the shawl into long strips, nodding approvingly as it tore easily beneath her hands. “These will be invaluable to tend to anyone who is injured,” she murmured as she worked, shooting the vampiress a smile, “You’re very generous to offer up such fine fabric for the cause.” Another beat or two passed before she realized--belatedly--that the other woman likely knew nothing about her. “My name is Nascha, by the way,” she added, tossing the brunette a quick glance, “I’m a healer.” This seemed an adequate amount of information to give, and so she grew silent again as she finished tearing the shawl into strips.

Satisfied with her new supply of bandages, the werecougar blew out a slightly unsteady breath and peered at the doors to the Canine, summoning up the will to step inside. “Right,” she muttered, “Shall we?”

Without waiting for an answer, Nascha limped forward and pushed open the doors.

Once again she was greeted by a cacophony of scents as the door opened and a waft of air from inside spilled over her. And once again there came the familiar doggy odour that was distinctive to Dutch.
Concerned, she scanned the bar, searching for him. She couldn’t detect any of his blood in the air but-- The feline stilled as she caught sight of him; tucked in a corner, evidently playing cards, a dainty blonde comfortably settled in his lap.
Aggravated, amber eyes skipped quickly away from the scene, the healer immediately musing over the idea of concocting some sort of itch powder to dump over him. Later. First, she intended on scouting out the rest of the Canine, seeing if there was anyone in need of her services. She remained thoroughly oblivious to the slack jawed stares and stammers as her fellow patrons took in as much of an eyeful of her as they cared to have.

As her head swiveled, cat-like amber eyes widened fractionally as she settled on the sight of the stagbeast in his human form, a feeling of immense relief settling heavy over her shoulders to see him alive and well as his eyes met hers and he beckoned her over... though it was short-lived as she took in the gruesome sight of the man beside him.
She tossed a quick glance to the vampiress at her side, lifting the remnants of the shredded floral shawl in a gesture of thanks towards her before padding quickly on light feet, with only a minimal limp, to the booth where the stag and the Mephisto had settled themselves in.

Even as she approached, the feline was scanning Jack up and down--taking note of the gash in his cheek, the blood seemingly pooled about his abdomen, his shoulder, her jaw clenching and a soft hiss escaping between her teeth as she came to stand beside the werebeast who had called himself Jack's 'something.'
"A little worse for the wear indeed," she muttered in answer, layering strips of fabric over her arm as she mentally began to categorize how best to tend to the injuries she could see. Though... a quick glance to the stag had her eyes narrowing. He was upright, arguably in better shape than Jack, but all the same he could likely use some attention too… later, perhaps, after the Mephisto had been cared for.

The stag introduced himself and her eyes flicked from assessing what little she could glean of his injuries up to his eyes, holding them for a long moment before dipping her head, "Seiko," she repeated, more for her sake than his, perfectly at ease in her nakedness as she offered him a small smile, "I'm Nascha. Thank-you for keeping him alive." More did not seem necessary at the moment, so she left it at that, nodding her head agreeably to his plans as the beast muttered something about the kitchen and slipped away. "Soap, rags, yes," she mumbled, but her mind was elsewhere as she worked to concentrate, brows furrowing as she drew nearer to the brunet, concern over Seiko fading as Jack became her priority.

If misery could be encapsulated in human form, then it would take the shape of the man before her. His head was pressed into his arms, and he looked for all the world like he had given up. It made her jaw tense. A state like that simply wouldn't do. He wasn't allowed to choose to give up his life until he was healthy enough for it to be a choice.
The healer made quick work of taking one of the freshly made bandages, opening her medicine bag, and smearing a healthy amount of poultice on it. This particular one would sting a little. She had others she could use, but few things could draw someone out of miserable self-contemplation than a bit of non life-threatening pain.
Looping the rag over her arm, Nascha reached out with tapered, blood-caked, fingers to catch either side of Jack's face, lifting it bodily up from his arms and gently tilting him towards her so she could peer at the wound, careful to keep her thumb as far away from the injured area as possible.
Her tongue clicked softly and her eyes shifted back to look deeply into his own, beleaguered, umber orbs. "I only agreed to kill you if they got their evil, hypocritical, unnatural, abominable fingers on you. They didn't," her thumb lightly brushed over his right cheek, attempting to be soothing, her eyes firm, "So save your moping for tomorrow. Tonight, let me patch you up and then I'm ordering you to drink until you don't remember anything anymore. Agreed?" Without waiting for an answer, she shifted the hand on his right cheek to take the cloth, bearing the weight of his head with her left, before pressing it mercilessly against the wound, knowing it would burn. "See? Alive," she murmured to him, peering at the injury critically with a huff, "Well, you'll have an interesting scar out of all this." A moment of hesitation and then her voice gentled, "You're healing slower than you should be. I'm sorry, Jack, I'm going to work harder on replicating the serum for you."

Her concern grew in magnitude and scope at the lack of response her words summoned from him. At the muted answers he gave her. It wasn't entirely surprising, injuries such as his were not minor and sapped the body of strength, but there was a distinct undercurrent of despair, of exhaustion of spirit about him that was far more deadly. With her skills she could heal his body--at least as much as could be done without serum--but if he simply gave up… A quiver of anxiety threaded through her, but Nascha pushed it down with a steadying breath. Bad enough to have one of them falling apart, she wouldn't be any use to him if she crippled herself with emotion too.
"Feeling is overrated anyway," she said quietly as he espoused his desire to not feel anything anymore, casting a quick glance in the direction of the table where the cowboy still had a pretty blonde wiggling in his lap, "Endure this a little longer and you can leave it all behind for a while."

Though she had thought to focus on his cheek first, the Mephisto's low groan and shift out of her hands had her brows knitting tightly together, tensing as Jack leaned back and revealed the wound in his gut. She hissed, low and angry, eyes flashing for a moment in rage at whoever had inflicted it. She hoped they suffered.
"This..." the feline leaned in nearer, lips parting as she pulled in a deep lungful of air alongside the scent of the wound, sinking back into her mind as myriad treatments fluttered through her thoughts. "Turmeric and chuna salve to start, honey and aloe vera..." even as she spoke, her fingers were pulling items from her medicine bag in quick succession. A carefully preserved leaf of aloe was first, broken open and squeezed until she had a goodly amount of gel coating her fingers. "This will sting at first but then it should ease the pain," she murmured, steady fingers stretching to smear it generously into the opening, deaf and blind to any indications of his pain. "And this," she unscrewed a different container of salve, swiping two fingers into the golden paste, "Will speed healing and stop any bleeding." This, too, was applied to the edges of the wound before being pressed just inside. "Finally, some honey," one rag was set aside and it was with this that she cleaned off her fingers, dipping them into a third small jar afterwards and then proceeding to coat the viscous golden fluid over the wound. With that done, she levelled a soft sigh, hesitating for a moment before lifting her eyes up to peer at him cautiously. "Don't watch me while I do this next part," she warned, flicking a quick glance around them to make sure they were not watched before lifting to press her left palm flat against the sticky gash.

Amber eyes fluttered closed, the werecougar reaching deep down into the thick midnight pools within her abdomen where the black spirits dwelt. She whispered to them, less in words than in flashes of emotion and pressing need, shivering reflexively as one answered her call.
It rose upwards like a bead of black water against the flow of gravity, begging entrance into her greater being, pressing against the walls of her soul. The woman answered with an affirming nod and a quiet click as she swallowed and then grew very still. When her eyes opened, the amber of her irises were shot through with cracks of vivid electric blue. To the keen observer, her aura had also shifted from its usual tawny colour to something threaded through with black; these flickering flames of darkness congealing and oozing towards the point of contact between her fingers and Jack's skin.
Shadows bled from her fingertips, vapour-like streams caressing the site of injury thoughtfully for a moment before slowly threading their way inside. It would not hurt him--they had no power outside of their host--but as her lips moved in a language she did not know, under the power of some other force, Nascha knew instinctively that whatever quiet spell of binding was being applied would speed his healing and stave off infection, whether he lacked serum or no.
When it was finished, she shuddered, fighting back the urge to vomit as her stomach churned and the threads of blue and black retreated from eyes and aura back to the Still Place deep within her. Then, and only then, did she lift her eyes up to meet Jack's, taking one of the clean bandages and making to wrap it around him, protecting the site of treatment, the final ritualistic stage of healing. Immediately, Nascha found herself battling against the waves of exhaustion that crashed in over her, trying to stave off the blackening of the edges of her vision that threatened to sweep her away. The spirits always exacted a toll.

The ravenwoman burst through the doors like a maelstrom from hell. It was enough to jerk the healer's fingers away from where they had been tending to Jack, turning to peer wide-eyed at the beast Queen as she accosted Dutch with violence and a complete lack of pity. Good. Almond eyes softened in satisfaction as the blonde was dumped from his lap to the floor and the cowboy looked ready to piss himself and sink into the floor.
It was then with a dainty sniff that she refocused her attentions onto Jack, nose twitching only slightly as the ravenwoman joined them to exchange a few words with Jack before slipping away.

“Where else does it hurt?” she asked him gently, his muttered answer causing an uncharacteristic clenching of her heart. Despite being a healer, empathy wasn't something that Nascha had in spades, but she could understand the burden he must be feeling... both spiritually and emotionally, even if she could not empathize with it herself.
Dressing his cheek was a quick and easy affair, fortunately, and she was peering him over for the next area to address when his eyes were caught by something past her and a fraught sense of liveliness suddenly animated his features. "Careful..." she growled as he straightened to a sit, her brows knitting as she cast a quick glance over her shoulder to see what had caught his attention and took in the form of the large wolfbeast and the smaller girl beside him.
"You--" but before she could get another word in edgewise, Jack was attempting to stand and brush her away, still honed in on the pair who had only just entered the Canine. Predictably, he nearly collapsed but she was quick to hold and steady him, a worried growl of disapproval rising in her throat; "You need to be careful, Jack. You've lost a great deal of blood... Go slowly if you must."
His apology came quickly and she sighed. Ideally she would have been able to convince him to sit down and rest, but the healer knew it was a lost cause by the look in his eyes and so she did not bother. There was only one last thing she could think of to soothe him... bad idea though it may be.

"I..." she hesitated for a moment and then huffed out a breath, offering him a quiet look, "I can give you something to put in your drink if you'd like. It will heighten and speed the effects of the alcohol while you imbibe, but should limit the severity of a hangover." Her eyes narrowed playfully as skillful fingers, continued to gently prod the edges of the wound, "I will deny ever telling you that it can have this application."

It was clear that the brunet needed to deal with whatever it was about the pair that had him in such straits. Besides, having served her purpose the feline could see no reason to linger. “I’ll check on you later,” she said gently to him, flicking her eyes over his form once more before slipping away from him even as he moved away towards the bar where the big beast was presently settled.
She had noted the vampiress was now settled at the bar as well, and--wishing to indulge in a bit of curiosity--made a beeline towards her.

Nascha was blind to the wide-eyed stares that passed over her naked body, the bartender seemingly bemused enough by her unapologetic nudity that he had not yet said anything either, but as she settled onto the stool beside the brunette, it could no longer go unaddressed.
Miss… you need to be clothed in here.”
She peered at him in slight surprise and then blinked down at herself, sighing in aggravation before taking one of the remaining strips of bandages and fastening it around her bust before draping another over her lap, glancing wryly up at the bartender who--it seemed--could not be bothered to have an argument over how legitimate these coverings were and merely shrugged. “What’ll you have to drink?”
“Vodka,” she said without missing a beat, “On the rocks.”
Now the bartender really looked like he wanted to laugh, but Nascha paid him no mind any longer. Instead, she turned towards the vampire, eyes suddenly gleaming.
“Can you tell me about the poison you used against the Templar with the sun in his chest?” abruptly she remembered her manners and flushed with embarrassment, fidgeting in her seat, “And, ah… if you have any injuries you’d like me to take a look at, I’d be happy to do so.”



 
Beau Desmarais
Mathis
health bar
WHERE: In a Truck ---> Loitering
WITH: Rene
DOING: Mocking ----> Looking for the Medical Bay
CREDIT: Searching
PLAYLIST:


It did not take long to get back to the trucks, everyone seemed eager to roll out, the battle taking its toll on everyone, not many making it out unscathed. Gabriel directed him to one and then helped him climb up into the back before she joined the others in front. Mathis found a place among the others already sitting. Still, it seemed other people were taking their sweet time getting back to the trucks. Reclining back in his seat, the young beast watched as they filtered in, battled, and bruised. They were people of war, and he supposed that it now included him. Battle had been calling to him for a while now, and even though it was his first time out in the field, he thought he should have been able to do better.

Looking around, apart from the few other children in his group, he did not know anyone else. Introductions were tiresome, and Mathis did not need to see the need to bother with them. He merely slouched backwards where he was sitting and began poking at his head to see how the healing was coming along.

Shuffling sideways a little, Mathis made room beside him as the last of the spaces filled, including right beside him. He paid no attention to the blonde that sat down; he merely continued inspecting his head, wincing slightly as he did so. From what little knowledge he had of injuries or the healing process, he expected that there was maybe a slight crack to his skull and the skin had not entirely fused back together from where it had made impact with the wall. It was frustrating when it took so long to heal. Mathis hoped that by tomorrow it would be okay; training was his top priority, and there was no way he would be taking the day off.

The truck finally started making its way back to base, and the young beast was ready for bed. The blonde beside him piped up, asking if someone stopped at a bakery while the fight was going on. A sudden memory from the battle that he had not paid much mind to at the time, rose to the surface causing a small laugh to bubble up from the young boy.

He really should have known better than to laugh, but the young beast could not help himself, still, he tried not to make it too obvious. Mathis gave a slight sigh as he calmed himself, but the smile still lingered, "guy with the weird suit is the bakery," he said with a subtle indication with his head.

The blonde beside him seemed to find the whole situation just as amusing. A small smirk still tugged at the corner of the boy’s lips as Mathis recalled what happened; at least what he had seen from where he had been above the standoff. "Some lady threw a package of stuff at his face," he said, remembering the explosion of powder.

‘Properly dusted.’ Not being able to help it, the boy gave another small giggle, "oh, most definitely. Though he may be a little overdone.” This situation was getting to be too much for the boy. The jokes were his undoing. He did not know who any of these people were, but this was hilarious, almost deliriously so. He would just blame the knock to the head later. "Guess he wasn’t spicy enough," Mathis said, the laughter coming from him became a little louder as he clutched his head. It throbbed slightly, "ow," he said through his giggles.

The giggling calmed as Mathis relaxed in his seat, though he still had a small smile as his hand put pressure against his head. He was hoping that the pressure would help numb the throbbing headache that was lingering. He reached his other hand to shake the one extended to him, "Mathis," he said.

"Indeed, He does," he said with a shake of his head. Mathis glanced over at the guy in the odd-looking suit. "That's unfortunate," he said with a smirk before leaning back in his seat again. "But at least your room will smell of doughnuts for a while." It would probably be an improvement. Though, Mathis assumed that the sleeping conditions were better onboard Paradise. When Ephemera made note of the staining quality of the spice, the boy could not stop the smiling spreading over his face, "ha, he's going to look ridiculous for days." He did not know why he found that so funny, not even knowing the guy, but it didn’t matter. Blotchy stains would be funny on anyone.

When asked about his head, the kid gave a slight huff. "Yeah, got slammed into a wall," he said. Stupid 'Key'. It reminded him of his earlier irritation. He should have been better. "I should be fine," Mathis said, still poking at his head, "should be healed enough by tomorrow, a few days at the," freezing, the boy hastily shut his mouth. He should not have said that. People did not always react too well to him being what he was.

His lip twitched slightly at the suggestion of the medic. Gabriel had also made mention of going to see one too, and even though he had agreed then, it was not his most favourite place to go. Mathis would avoid it if he could. The young beast avoided eye contact as the realisation hit Ephemera. "I've had a lot of practice," he muttered. Beau didn't know what was ‘normal’ for his kind. He did not particularly care. However, he knew what he was capable of, for the most part at least. Mathis did stretch the truth of it a bit occasionally, but he could not afford to be out of training for too long. It had been worse when he had first been initiated into training, being the punching bag for a lot of the other kids that were much more advanced in their skills than he had been. Mathis learnt to be a quick study.

The kid shrugged his shoulders. Mathis did not want to get into it. He did even really know what was happening with the whole healing situation anyway. He healed, that was all he needed to know. Ephemera did not seem particularly threatened or mad about the realisation of the beast genetics. Mathis turned to look back at him, contemplating his options. "Can you take a look then?"

The issue of schematics of healing wasn’t pushed, whether Ephemera didn’t want to know, or had enough sense about him to realise that Mathis didn’t want to talk about it that he moved his curiosity to the side, Mathis was thankful. The young beast gave a small nod when Ephemera agreed to help, citing that it was his job after all. Someone else piped up making a comment that the kid thought was unnecessary. The kid glared at them as he took the towel, his eyes only turning away when he was instructed where to clean. Carefully he dabbed off the blood that was smeared across his face. Mathis rolled his eyes when Ephemera said that he had already started his observations while they were talking. "A little dizzy and maybe feeling a little sick," he said, still wiping off some of the blood. "It was worse before though, so I think it’s fine."

Better to be safe than dead? "Not always," Mathis mumbled to himself. He shook his head with reluctance, "fine, fine," he said, finishing cleaning off his face, "I'll go to the stupid medical bay." He rolled his eyes. The kid would not be happy if they kept him from training tomorrow. Today had been the most significant lesson he could get. He needed a lot more training.

Hopefully he would be able to go to Paradise soon, he could only imagine the facilities they had. "I will," Mathis said with a small smile, as they pulled up at the base. "And, uh, thanks.” He had not expected to get along with some of the older members, expecting more of what he had experienced at the training grounds, but the drive back had been a lot more pleasant compared to the circumstances they were all there for.

With the towel still in hand, and firmly pressed against his head, the young beast did what he had been told to do, making his way to the medical bay. Keeping his steps slow, Mathis was hoping to delay the inevitable for a long as he possibly could.



 
René Troxler
Ephemera
health bar
WHERE: The battle, Truck
WITH: Tech Unit, Mathis
DOING: In battle, talking
CREDIT: len-yan
PLAYLIST:


The unit moved down the street, drawing nearer to the fray. Gunshots reverberated over the slickened streets, shout sand cries echoed in sickening harmony. The leader of their unit removed a hand from her pistol and gestured forward. They moved together in tandem, rushing their steps.

Just ahead, he could see the battle. It was madness unleashed, and everything he had been trained for since childhood. It was never this crazy in London, he had never seen the sheer numbers of immortals collected in one place. For a second, his pistol lowered but quickly righted itself as he rushed in with the others. The unit dispersed, and he sprinted forward. Sword and gun, tooth and claw. Dodging through the chaos, he slid as he reached a fallen Legionnaire fighting to right his damaged leg mod. The blond reached into his bag for his toolset, then began to strip the damaged wires while the French-born soldier cussed and raged. Not two minutes later, the Legionnaire was back on his augmented feet and the engineer was setting off again.

All things passed him in a rush, but something felt off… not right. Sisters, Legionnaires, vampires, and beasts alike created the chaos he traversed as he sought to help his fallen comrades. He couldn’t make sense of it all, but he caught flickerings in the mayhem. Dominick engaged with a massive man, no doubt a beast. Holly engaged with a woman he recognized as the newly named Queen of Vampires. Ahead of platinum matted locks that could only be the Harpy dashing about a Sister he didn’t recognize.

He turned around, and in that flick of his head amber eyes finally caught what had made the whole scene uneasy. How hadn’t he noticed them? Children of a variety of sizes and, consequently, ages had engaged the immortal horde alongside the Templar forces. His stomach sank. This wasn’t what the Persephone program was intended for in Europe, how could the Americans taint it? He himself was a product of the program and evidence among others on this battleground, all adults, that the time and effort of educating and training them was worthwhile.

Ephemera grit his teeth. It wasn’t his order to make and was out of his ranking to decide. Just another group of children denied their youth to turn them into perfect killing machines. That was the intent of the recruitment program after all, and he was a poster child for it.

Something caught the corner of his eye, a rogue in the fight, standing on the outskirts, no doubt drawn by the scent of viscera in the air. It darted towards him, this creature with silver fangs and rage in her eyes. Cooly, he lifted his pistol at it and pulled the trigger twice before it dropped. It hit her in the shoulder, which was all he needed for her to slow and expose her chest enough to aim for where that mechanical heart ticked ceaselessly until the bullet ripped through its cogs and wheels.

René moved behind a set of broken crates and barrels, took a breath, and went to dive back in to assist others fallen on the boardwalk. It was interrupted by the call of his General, and his step fell short. The pistol in hand felt heavy as she demanded the battle to cease, and he shifted the grip in his slick palms. He moved the gun to its holster, and while others were frozen in place he sought those Templars on the ground. Slowly, others in his unit began to do the same as the retreat was ordered. For once, there was no argument from Legionnaires as he checked the fallen for signs of life and commanded them to carry those that were alive to the trucks they were called to. Sneers and faces were made in his direction, but there was silent compliance that followed.

The dead were left behind. “I’ll return for them,” he told one that questioned him, “I and few others will be back. Their service is not yet over.”

Sweeping back gold locks from his sight, the engineer jumped into the truck, his metal arm clutched tightly by another as he was hauled in. Inside was a mix of all sorts, battered and bruised from Blood Sisters to Legionnaires, and the children. He grimaced as he made to sit next to one, filling in space as directed.

Amber eyes were alert as he looked around the caravan, trying to see those which had made it after hearing about the tragedy of another van. It was no surprise to see the Golden Boy had made it, but he could see the Seraphim suit was worse for wear. The corner of his mouth tugged unpleasantly, wondering what combination of user error, combat, and technical failure had caused a shutdown. Unsurprisingly, he was in a dour mood. No surprises there.

His sight fell back to the child he sat beside curiously. He was young, though perhaps older than when René had been drafted into the Academy. What horrible program were the Americans utilizing for their registration of new recruits that they depended on children to fight? His jaw tightened; he reminded himself it wasn't his call to make. He caught the glance back towards him and turned away silently.

The truck started and they pulled away, and he sighed. Perhaps he should just take a nap now, he'd never get any sleep until the next night. But a scent on the breeze caught his attention. It was an odd thing, especially while it mixed with the heaviness of sweat and blood.

"Did someone stop at a bakery during the fight, or am I mistaken?" The boy next to him laughed, and he wondered if it was he had said. "I take it you know something I don't."

With a sigh, the boy replied, "Guy with the weird suit is the bakery."

René smirked as the boy composed himself, putting the tough guy façade on. Seemed about right for the training he'd no doubt received by this point. But then the smirk faltered, shivering as he repressed a full out grin. "You don't say?" he mused. his eyes flicking towards Cain. "Pray tell, how did that happen? You didn't happen to see, did you?"

"Some lady threw a package of stuff at his face.”

A chuckle pressed against his chest, but he fought it back with a cough. From the look on the child’s face, he was also suppressing his amusement. "So I suppose you could say he was properly dusted before being served?" A giggle, small and reserved answered as his bunkmate was appropriately deemed a “donut”. His giggle was infectious. René grinned and chuckled back, amused by the retelling. “What a shame. I mean, I’ve heard he packs a punch, but this wasn’t the kind of spice I was expecting.”

He smiled, thoroughly amused by the boy he sat beside. He offered his hand casually. “You’re a clever one,” the engineer praised. “I’m Ephemera, and you are?” A small hand met his before they shook, and learned he sat beside “Mathis”, who held his head and winced painfully. “You certainly are,” he chuckled, recognizing the namesake. “He truly does work in mysterious ways....”

"Indeed, He does," he said with a shake of his head.

He shifted in his seat to better hide the conversation and crossed a leg neatly over his knee. “You see, the Legionnaire in the spice-coated Seraphim suit is my bunkmate. And this,” he grinned, “is far too amusing to let it rest.” His eyes widened as the boy expressed his sympathies for his rooming situation, though followed it up with the pleasantness the room would have.

René couldn’t help himself. He smiled earnestly, though his hand went up to hide it. He wondered if they weren’t forced to learn stoicism as they had in the Academy here. “I’ve made my peace with it. Begrudgingly so, but arrangements were made that make it less burdensome.” With a chuckle deep in his chest, he rubbed at his lip absently. He didn’t say so, but Ephemera had his doubts the Russian would allow it to linger. He was already having to answer for the broken nose and bruising; everyone would know about this. ”Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. I doubt he’d let the scent stand... however, the spice has one other unfortunate effect: it stains the skin.” Amber eyes all but lit up mischievously at the thought. Retribution was in order for the rage and torment he’d been subject to, and this was the Russian’s just deserts. Not to mention, there was the possibility of getting a better look at the suit. Who knew where the spice grains had settled. He was nearly giddy by the thought.

“Did you take a bump to the head, by the way?” The blond looked the boy over slightly, not wanting to cross into his space uncomfortably. “I have medic training if you need help.”

His brows stitched together in concern as he once again looked the kid over. “You might have a mild concussion. You’ll have to go to the medical bay, regardless of when you think you’ll be healed.” Then he realized why the boy had stopped speaking. He was different from the rest. His expression fell, and his head cocked to the side, his hand dropped from his face. “Curious,” he muttered. “I never considered it could be so fast in one so young.”


"I've had a lot of practice," he muttered.

“Practice in healing?” he wondered aloud just above a breath. He watched the boy with a newfound fascination. He’d never met a beast before, this was truly a magical night, such a gift indeed. Cain would look like hell for days— he was likely going to get punched for laughing at some point— but now this child, this beast child was sitting beside him. Not only did he have a clever mind, but he was there, real. Not a hypothetical like they suggested in the biochemistry lab.

“Still. You’re just a boy. Take no chances, Mathis. A concussion could take you out for days if not treated properly, or kill you.” René gave him an awkward smile and shifted away as he became uncomfortable. “Trust me. I speak from experience.”

The boy shrugged and went silent for a moment. Just as well. Ephemera was fighting against a pinprick to his subconscious, hauntings of a past better left forgotten and ignored. He prayed the name for this child, that once he was out of their system he could grow away from their cruelty, yet still meet or even exceed their expectations. He knew what it meant to be different from the rest of his peers, and how being treated as a pariah, no matter how you overcame their obstacles, still created a divide.

He licked his dry lips and bit at the inside of the flesh, re-centering his focus. "Of course. That's my job."

Someone nearby made a snide remark about how they thought it was for him to sit still and look pretty. The blond rolled his eyes as he moved his satchel and took a towel from it. The square of fabric was wet from rogue rain that had managed to slip inside during the battle, he handed it to the boy. "There's some blood on your forehead, there and there," he observed, and gently directed the boy to clean the mess from his face. "Admittedly, I've been conducting a field test while we spoke. You already have signs of a headache. Your speech or ability to answer questions or recall memories isn't hindered. Besides the headache, is there any nausea or dizziness?"

"A little dizzy and maybe feeling a little sick," he said, still wiping off some of the blood. "It was worse before though so I think it’s fine."

“You should still go to the medical bay for overnight observation. You’ll be safe there should anything go awry.” He looked the kid over and nodded approvingly as he cleaned his face. He seemed younger without the grime and blood on his face. “It is better to be safe than dead, Mathis.” The boy didn't seem so certain, and he nodded sagely in understanding.

The truck pulled into the base. “If you should find yourself on Paradise, you can find me in the Engineering Lab.” With a final smirk, he waved his farewell and disappeared into the building to help in the cleanup.

The engineering team began to sort through what they had brought along and what had been borrowed, though most of their equipment was already prepared to be loaded into the vans after those that had stayed behind were given periodical updates from the battlefield. Theirs was one of the first vans to prepared to leave and return to Paradise. His head leaned back against the back of the seat, and he controlled his breathing. In the room, he had counted how many of them had damaged mods and had taken stock of the rate of damage. This was supposed to be an easy task; in and out. No one would have or could have fathomed this. He’d have to take the next thirty-minute ride as his resting period. As soon as they returned, he already knew who he’d have to tap for the return trip for salvaging.

Staring up at the ceiling of the truck, he closed his eyes slowly with purpose. He exhaled a steady breath. The next few days would surely be hell aboard Paradise for them all.






 
Esther Asturias
SHERWOOD
health 🙢 45/100
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Nascha ⮚ Maeve ⮚ Nascha
DOING: Getting tipsy to know a new acquaintance
CREDIT: August Splitgerber

Once, she had enjoyed the comfort of anonymity. Her wandering years, with very few exceptions, had been spent in the company of mortals, and discerning the truth of her nature never seemed to come to them as easily. But predicting how she would be received by the moon-scented was a tricky business; she couldn’t hide, and it was a matter of waiting for them to light upon the unmistakable presence of vampirism. Relations between the races were the best they’d ever been, but revulsion and hostility were still within the realm of possibility even after the sun’s wakening. She imagined the same sentiments were shared by the opposite party; it left a kind of cast over first meetings.

But the woman did not recoil; she remarked on her presence at Maeve Donovan’s residence, and was gratified to receive the shawl from her hands. “I was,” Esther said, nodding, and the responding smile that drew at her mouth was imbued with warmth, yet marked by tentative reservation that welled from shyness under the gaze of this near-stranger. “I am acquainted with your new-anointed sovereign—Jack Fletcher, too.”

She stood back with hands folded as the beast ran the shawl through her fingers, appraising the fabric. This new acquaintance displayed little regard for her bareness, but courtesy nevertheless compelled Esther to avert her eyes accordingly, as best she could. “‘Tis a close-weave,” Esther offered, looking on as the muscles in the other woman’s arms suddenly shone prominent, “And a wool blend, so as to—” A tear loud enough to cut through the rain brought her to a startled, stumbling halt, and what remained of her sentence dwindled away, forgotten. Brows lifting, she watched in surprise and rising interest as the woman made quick work of the shawl without further ado, rending the garment into floral-flecked ribbons.

“This is the least I can do. It’s no trouble,” she told her, giving an assuring flutter of the hand. By a strange stroke of luck she’d fared well tonight, and better than some; there were others who needed it far more than she.

The ministrations of her hands stirred a memory that drifted up like a plume of disturbed dust, that of an earnest young physician in London. Not far from her residence in Cheapside’s fringes, a displaced American had been master of a clinic where the denizens of the slums could escape a night out of doors and seek treatment they could never hope to afford in the upper city, the jeweled coat that hid an underbelly of squalor and suffering. When she first met him—before an anonymous benefactor furnished him with supplies—he’d been running the place on a pittance and force of will, and when there were no linen bandages to be had, he had often turned to bedsheets in their stead.

By happenstance, she’d had good reason to think of him. The diminutive woman called herself Nascha, and her choice of phrasing for her profession had ensnared Esther’s attention so thoroughly that she hesitated to respond in kind, distracted by curiosity. A breath passed before she remembered herself. “Esther,” she replied, with a hand patted over her heart. Nascha had not named herself a physician, nor a doctor, but a healer. She could not help but dwell on the distinction, turning it over in her mind.

In the early years of her life, she had met many practitioners of medicine, and she found there existed a scent she could only describe as clinical, clinging to the figures who loomed over her in girlhood like a perfume, and later, to the woman who had used hollow promises to predate upon her father’s vulnerability. That scent once had the power to lance her with terror, but no longer, and as Esther followed Nascha into the Canine, she detected no trace of it on her person under the salve and mingled blood. She lingered near to hand, by the other woman’s elbow, for she had noted the limp in her stride and that had roused her concern.

There was more than one path to tread in the realm of medicine. This woman had the hands for that life, and that was the true tell: deft and capable, they wrought miracles with a grace that came from practice and innate talent. She wished to know more, and hoped an opportunity to ask would later present itself.

Together they passed into the light and warmth awaiting within. Esther’s eyes skimmed over the occupants of the establishment, picking out familiar faces, and for every one her relief grew. She hadn’t been the only one to note her companion’s lack of attire; at their entrance, many an opened mouth and widened eye were turned their way. Movement at her periphery drew her attention back to Nascha, who had raised her makeshift bandages in a show of gratitude. She wished the woman well in her endeavors, and looked on when she hurriedly made her way to a booth where Jack was accompanied by the fellow who hailed from the far East.

The two men were not unscathed; they were bloodied and fatigued, but they lived, and Nascha would see to the rest. Jack seemed to be sinking in on himself before her very eyes, bowed under the attention his presence had drawn from the patrons, and her gaze flitted away. She was resolved to look in on him later, but she would leave the healer to do her work. Now alone, Esther meandered to the bar and left a trail of raindrops across the floorboards in her wake. She eased herself onto one of the high chairs. The broom was laid across her lap, followed by her gloves.

It wasn’t long before the barman turned to her. “What’ll it be?”

“Could you put a kettle on?”

His hands had been busy wiping a glass clean, and they instantly stilled. He might have looked less confused if she had addressed him in Aramaic. “Excuse me?”

Her confidence began to wane, and she shifted in her seat, putting from her mind the hot mug of tea she’d had it set on. “Ah, nevermind.” Out of her element and a little flustered, a new flush of pink colored Esther’s cheeks when she regarded the daunting display at his back, an array of bottles in all manner of size and color. She felt thoroughly intimidated. At a loss for what to ask for, and not wanting to take up more of his time, she ventured, “Surprise me?”

A brow was quirked at her, and he glanced off into the middle distance in thought. “Coming right up,” was all he said, turning away on his heel. Glass clinked faintly as he set to work fixing up her drink, and she placed her hands upon the bartop. Its surface was polished, as glossy as burnished copper, and she idly ran the pads of her fingers over the woodgrain. Her hazel eyes passed over the establishment’s occupants, and she quietly took in the scene.

All was calm, but it proved to be the calm before the storm when Maeve Donovan’s voice, high enough to make the banshees of the old Irish tales hang their heads in shame, nearly shook the building to its foundations. Esther and the barman exchanged an apprehensive glance. The fellow seemed to know better than to make any remarks about taking disagreements outside, and he prudently occupied himself with his work. Maeve was a raven on the hunt when she stalked by with such force that Esther feared for the floorboards. Her quarry made haste rising to his feet, and his companion—a woman Esther was quick to recognize—was sent tumbling from her perch in his lap.

Sympathy flickered within her for the spineless American prat in question when his queen seized his shirt in a fist, drawing him near enough to share breath, so that she might use his very flesh to whet her tongue’s razor edge. When she was finished with him, he had the downcast, moist-eyed look of a puppy that had taken a boot to the ribs, and his dignity hung in tatters as he shuffled to the door to do his sovereign’s bidding.

She’d been sitting with her hands clasped about her drink throughout the whole affair. With the lashing finished and the ensuing, deafening silence was thankfully broken by the murmurs and stirrings of the bar goers, she finally roused herself and brought the rim of the glass to her lips. She sampled its contents, overly cautious, and blinked. The taste gave her pause. Not because she found it unpleasant, not at all; on the contrary. She drew away the glass to eye it, puzzled. There was alcohol in this, no question, but this concoction seemed rather muddled by sweetness, and… mingling anise and herbal notes that took her by surprise. She could only assume the alcoholic part of its composition was blessedly low, and felt comfortable enough to down it in one go.

Setting the glass decisively back down on the bartop, she hailed down the barman, and was quick to compliment him on his skill. “Incidentally,” she added, “Could I trouble you for another?”

In short order a refilled glass was slid in front of her just as Maeve, flaxen hair still dripping wet, settled beside her, and at her musings on sobriety, Esther could only muster a weary smile. “On an evening like this, I am inclined to agree with you,” she conceded, and touched her glass to hers before the other woman departed from the bar to seek out the privacy of a far-flung corner of the establishment, no doubt to shoo away her sobriety like guest who had stayed overlong.

When Jack appeared at the bar beside Bjorn, looking worn to the spirit and then some, his cheek was sporting a familiar floral printed makeshift bandage that had been soaked in the same substance the healer had applied to her own body. The woman herself was soon occupying the seat left vacant by Maeve, though not without escaping admonishment from the master of the bar.

“We’ve faced many a danger this night,” Esther informed him, matter-of-factly and with subtle lift of the chin. “You can show a little leniency, can’t you? Just this once?” The healer, sighing at the inconvenience, relented and artfully arranged the remaining bandages over bosom and lap, and the barman, clearly not wanting further hassle, deemed it adequate. With the matter settled, Nascha wasted no time, twisting in her seat to face her and pounce with an inquiry.

Amber eyes that were all the brighter from the interest that gleamed behind them were fixed upon her, and she found herself reflexively leaning away from their intensity. “...Poison?” she echoed, mystified, deliberating over the word.

The other woman, face reddening, seemed to remember herself and proceeded to offer her services. “Oh, no, please—” Esther tripped over her words in her haste to reply, vividly recalling the way the other woman had favored her leg. “That is to say—I would be gratified to be tended by you, but I am as well I can hope to be; a night's rest will put me to rights. I am a little tired, admittedly, but I often...” Her eyes flickered away, and her smile faltered, and then she recovered and propped the broom against her shoulder with a fond pat. I’ve not shed blood tonight, besides, and I’ve not yet figured out how I managed it. Mostly on luck, I imagine, but you needn’t worry for my sake.”

A breath passed between them before realization dawned, passing over her face. “And you meant… this, surely?” She gestured to evoke the image of plumes about her face, looking to her for affirmation. “That was cinnamon. A spice from the bark of a certain tree, ground to a fine powder.”

She sighed at the thought of the loss, turning to her glass again. It had gone to a good cause, leastwise. “I was on an errand out in the market this evening when… when all the trouble began. My larder is sparse, at present; I’ve only recently settled in this city. I was pressed to use what I had within reach at the docks, only… I didn’t anticipate it would be so… so… effective as weaponry.” Esther paused to take another sip of her drink, emptying the glass a second time, and it was promptly swept up by the attentive barman the moment she set it down.

“So, by the by,” she said, angling toward the other woman with an inquisitiveness that mirrored hers. “Earlier this evening… you called yourself healer? It is rare for me to cross persons bearing the name. A physician who went to university and employs sterile steel tools and laudanum is a healer in his own right, but I suspect your practice is different.” Beneath her torn skirt she crossed her ankles, and with head canted she chose her following words with care. “Where I come from, across the sea, there were uncanny men and women who were called such, but oftentimes were simply known as the cunning folk. One can still find them practicing their craft here and there in the rural country, where many of the old ways thrive, but I would not be surprised to find that some had trickled to the cities.”

 
Last edited:
Holly Wilshire
alias: GABRIEL
health bar - 60%
WHERE: Docks --> HQ --> Paradise
WITH: Mathis --> Judas
DOING: Retiring
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:



“You are certainly correct about one thing: This is far from finished.”

The Sister swallowed down those words with a thick tongue, pulling the young Mathis against her a little tighter. Before them, a group of Brothers intermingled with medics to heave Dominick’s massive and weighted frame into the back of one of the trucks. Within her chest, Holly felt her heart clench, her hand upon the boy squeezing in absent need to comfort something, if not herself.

She guided Mathis towards one of the vehicles, noting it full of soldiers who would be returning to Paradise, and not a caravan of children who would return strictly to the Headquarters,
“Make yourself comfortable. And stay close to me. When we arrive at the Headquarters, I would like you to pack your personal effects immediately, and come find me. I would like you to stay aboard the airship with us, Mathis, please.”
Her gentle orders given, she turned briskly, catching the familiar calculating gaze of her pupil, Ephemera’s hair dampened and curling tightly in the little humidity that remained of the southern city. He climbed into the back with the others, and her heart felt a little more at ease having him next to the boy. If there was a single soul in that flatbed that would care for him, it would be Rene.

The troops rolled out of the area quickly and without fanfare, eager to avoid much confrontation with the local authorities, let alone start any more turf wars or garner unwanted attention by locals--mortal or otherwise.
Returning to the Templar Headquarters was brief, but necessary. Medical teams and Engineers were rallied into groups and set out hastily to attend to the dead and gravely wounded who may have survived. The sooner they could get to the scene and deal with things without complications of the City’s constables, the better it would be for them in the long run. Meanwhile, Brothers and Sisters gathered their gear and reloaded the trucks. For good measure, a small group of Sisters was charged with remaining behind for the next forty-eight hours, in the event that The Key would pop up once more, wounded and easier to capture; the rest would return to the ship.

While Holly waited, arms crossed and leaning back against the engine of the vehicle for the small Mathis boy, she felt the icy leer of the young Administrator from across the way as he checked his lists of which children returned, and which did not. She could barely guise her displeasure as he approached with a malicious venom oozing from his smile, “It is a shame that I count so many missing,”
“I will have this Chapter’s barbaric practice resolved, mark me,” Holly snarled dangerously.
The other only grinned wider and nodded as he showed her his shoulder, “I will uphold the orders of my superiors until such a time, dear Gabriel. It is a pity you and your men will not be staying with us, nor you taking more youth with you,” he remarked smugly.
“Had our ship the room, I assure you that every child under your care would be hastily removed,” she glowered evenly through thin lips., “You seem capable enough to maintain our sparkling image with the locals, Administrator.”
“Yes, someone will have to, after all the mess you’ve made,”
Holly’s lip curled in ire, though eased out a measured breath through her nose as her ward appeared, a small bag over his shoulder. She beckoned him with a hand, and checked him over before lifting Mathis into the front cab of the truck with herself, “For your sake, Administrator, I hope you do,” she muttered sourly, “Though it will give me great pleasure to find reason to have you removed.”
She closed the door firmly as the engine rumbled to life, the driver eager to not gain the Sister’s ire.


The hours that passed upon Paradise flew by her like a whirlwind. They had arrived back as the sun first crested the horizon, much later than anyone had hoped, but the trek, even in the trucks, had been long.
From the moment they set foot upon the docking bay, the Blood Sister hadn’t once eaten, nor rested; her steel heels pounding against steel floors as she directed wounded to the infirmary, arranged living quarters to accommodate Mathis (as well as make arrangements of belongings to those that did not return, despite those being few) and began to plan the immediate and highly necessary debriefing from all that transpired on the pier.
Not to forget, Holly also made it clear to all her troops that they needed their rest. The hours in time difference from Eden weighed heavily upon all of them, creating much unneeded tensions. She announced the debrief would happen in the War Room upon the morning of the second day, allowing for everyone to receive one full day’s recovery before demanding their attention… she would need that full day to get her own head on straight.

It had been nearly the sixteenth hour since then, and the blond rolled her head slightly as she listened to the young officer speak. She was only half-listening, her eyes finding it hard to focus. Sleepless after the battle fought had left her mind scattered, thoughts adrift. Finding it within herself to spend energy upon anything other than settling the aftermath of the battle was a struggle.

Do the briefing, initiate orders, check on Dominick, speak with Jonah--

Cerulean eyes glanced casually over the soldier of the young man before her, sights clearing as she zeroed in on the man who targeted towards her.

Judas.

She’d been wondering when that son of a bitch would show his face. And as expected, he came empty-handed.

"Gabriel," the German ground out, his accent thickened in his displeasure, "Since when do the Templars stoop to sending children out into battle?"
Her eyes narrowed, lips thinning grimly, "Thank you, Sable. You should get yourself to the lab..." she muttered with only half of her usual professionalism.

As Elias bulldozed his way into her personal space, the Angel crossed her arms slowly, raising a brow up at his tone. With a scoff under her breath, she shook her head and turned her shoulder away from him. She didn't need to tell him to follow, "You're one to be doling out such loaded questions, Judas. Where is The Key?"
"Had a swarm of incompetent buffoons not flooded the docks, he might be in your possession right now. I am forced to question how capable the Templars are if they cannot come close to capturing their target... even when he is in front of them and they come in numbers."

Her shoulders tensed, but she let her arms fall about her sides as she walked briskly. Metal heels clipping the floor in sharp ricochets around the metal airship halls. Silently, she led them to the Observation Deck, pushing through the double steel doors. Her eyes combed the large room quickly, and seeing they were alone, she immediately spun upon her heels, features hardened as she leered, voice even but hushed, for fear of ears unseen,
"If I remember correctly, it was your job to obtain The Key. That is what you were hired to do. We provided support. Your failure to obtain it is not the problem of my men. You're the vampire, after all. What can us mere mortals really do to help you?"
She couldn't keep the venom from her tone. The ire, however, was not placed upon Elias' head. It was meant for her superiors. In realizing this a little too late, Holly's features softened. Her eyes scanned over the new wound upon the vampire's neck, curious, almost desiring to touch it... but what would she feel with fingers made of steel?

Arms wrapping around herself once more as she sighed deeply, the blonde turned towards the large wall of glass, overlooking the city, miles away. Her steps were slow, thoughtful, as she approached it, "Had I the authority... I would have never let those children get in that caravan... They're too young," She murmured, a shiver passing over her as she reached one slender, sculpted hand up to smooth over her hair, draped over her shoulder in a waterfall of white ash, "The Americans have adopted a... sinister view of what our Order desired of a recruitment process known as the Persephone Project. Children were never meant for combat. The program was meant to educate," she shook her head grimly, "I do not have power here..."
Her chin turned towards his voice as he followed her, but she did not meet his gaze, Weariness settled heavily upon her countenance; shoulders drooping, eyelids heavy, the darkness clear under her eyes upon such pale skin. Nude lips parted slowly, "It makes me ill to think of it. They are innocent..." she whispered, "This never should have happened..."
He was silent for another beat and then scoffed in disgust, "Americans."
Her eyes finally met his, sullen and tired, and she offered a small smirk at his quip.
"If you need a vampire to murder one of those responsible for this abuse of the children, I am happy to serve. But, more pressingly, I would like to discuss my next steps with you."
As she looked back out over the city, Holly released a weighted sigh, "We are a guest in their house... and we have taken an axe to their china cabinet. The people of New Orleans detested the Templar presence in their city before we arrived... we have only made it worse."
"Fortunately for you, I am not a Templar,"
The corners of her lips mirrored his, a flickering of curiosity in her eyes suddenly revealing the grinding of gears in her mind, “No, you’re not..” she uttered softly, absently, her mind elsewhere for a moment. It faded as quickly as it came, and sourly she rubbed at the back of her neck with a slight groan, "Do you have any immediate ideas? The Key escaped, but under what conditions? And as you said, now they know your face."

As Elias moved more in front of her, leaning against the glass, she felt her muscles begin to ease, sore and much too tense for the moment. He wasn’t a threat… She observed how he spoke, the falter in his speech and the way he seemed distracted in his memory. But, he brought an all too valid point to the surface. The Key was without serum, and he needed it to survive… Holly needed him alive. Everything depended on it. He had her attention then, eyes narrowing with thinned lips. Idle hands fingered her hair in the silence as he finished his plan, and after a long beat, she shook her head,
“I see no other alternative. I cannot risk The Key perishing, and I suspect they will not so easily give in for Serum, nor will he come of his own volition. Frankly, it’s a miracle he’s still alive after two years. No one on Eden could have thought he’d survived.”
"He's tenacious, I suppose," the blond murmured, "Or simply unlucky enough not to die when he should,"

Holly couldn't deny that perhaps the Mephisto had some knack for survival. She, personally, was more likely to believe that he had yet to fulfil his purpose, and it was more than fate or dumb luck that kept him alive. Though, to some degree, she had to agree with the man's observation. This role, this gift, was bestowed upon him... and he could have been anyone. What if it had been someone she loved? Her mind flashed back to the memory of a man, a face, a name she'd meant to forget... Quickly, she shoved all of it down, swallowing uncomfortably.
Sighing, Holly nodded and let her shoulders sink more, “Do whatever you must to complete your task. I will help you however I can. I will see to it that you are supplied with Serum.” Her eyes skated from his hand upon his neck-- the scaring fresh and thin under his touch-- along his jaw to meet his eyes, “Did he have a name?” she asked, quiet.
"Jack Fletcher," he rumbled, "Which I suppose answers the question of which consciousness survived this…Experiment you Templars performed."
"Fletcher," She repeated, nodding and looking past him towards the city, "Little surprise. He held much passion and empathy in his life. It was how they broke him... so his file says." She murmured, almost with a tinge of regret.

She inhaled deeply, fatigue clear in her face, even as she gave the appearance of an accommodating smile, "Will you be staying on Paradise, Mr. Brandt?"
Sure enough, following the German's gaze led her towards the horizon, the softest lightening of the midnight blue of the sky over the bayou. Dawn was coming... Was it truly so late? She'd lost herself, again, in work; it was no wonder why she felt so weary... among other things.
"I do not believe I have the luxury of choice at the moment, and it would be more convenient, yes. But I doubt my room has been adequately prepared yet."
Her gaze returned to him, a slight and modest flush warming her porcelain cheeks, "Ah, no... it hasn't... Admittedly, we haven't the space to accommodate more people. Finding a room for Mathis had been a feat," She squared her shoulders slightly and canted her head, "I figured you should have mine." Searching his gaze curiously.
"Oh you did, did you?" he rumbled, wryly, "And where, exactly, would Gabriel--leader of the Blood Sisters--bed herself down in that case? In a vampire's arms?"
Her eyes narrowed, but her lips curled into a bewildered, jovial smirk. The rumble of his voice warmed in her chest as she parted her lips. She knew all about the vampire tricks... not to stare in their eyes too long; about their venom kisses...
Casually, she turned her body to lean against the glass with her shoulder, facing him as her expression scrunched a little, "Perhaps your dossier is misinformed," She teased, twirling a strand of hair around a slender, polished finger, "If the Overseer is unoccupied, he has welcomed me before." Spoken in a matter-of-fact tone. There was a spark of something in the coolness of her eyes as they looked him up and down slowly, lingering over his biceps; his chest.
"More's the pity for me, I imagine you'd make very pretty sounds while tied to the bedposts.”
A part of her was pleased he didn't press the topic of Jonah further. Admittedly, it was rather unprofessional to have said it in the first place... all of this was rather unprofessional. And yet she couldn't help but wonder what Elias had been like as a mortal man. A Knight, of all things... laying the seeds of the very profession she came to learn and enjoy, centuries later. A pity he had been turned at all...
"Should he be... occupied, then..." she trailed off, shrugging a shoulder as her eyes fell, sneaking glances at his stomach, his abdomen, the strength coiled in his thighs, "Very few would know," She breathed, wetting her lips, "I imagine you are well versed. Centuries under your belt... talented musician... skilled swordsman."
His smile was predatory, sending a deep and tingling shiver down her spine. She'd danced with the Devil before... she wasn't sure she had ever danced so close in all her life.

He came for her--one step, two steps; her body turning with his advance so that both shoulders pressed flush into the glass, cool against her back as she released a shuddered breath, looking up through light lashes. Powerful energy radiated off him, igniting the fires in her blood, "Mmm you would be right. I boast nimble fingers and have dedicated long centuries to honing my crafts--all of them," he purred, "And these hands of mine can make many different instruments sing."
His touch against her neck raised gooseflesh down her spine, but she did not wince or recoil. Instead, her lids lowered, heavy, and her arms unfurled from across her chest,
"Lead me to your bed?"
She tilted her chin upward, mouth curling impishly, "Your bed, Sir Brandt." she purred, wrapping a hand smoothly around his wrist as she slipped around him, "Don't disappoint me."




 
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Elias Laertes Brandt
J u d a s
h e a l t h | b a r


WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Gabriel
DOING: Engaging
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:
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It took precious little movement for Elias to be made keenly aware of the wound in his neck, the new scar that would forever tie him to the Mephisto he was tasked with capturing. All it took was a turn of his head done too quickly and a bolt of pain would ripple through him... followed just as swiftly by a bolt of pleasure at the memory it brought. It was maddening, enough to make him tempestuous and particularly ornery... a potently troublesome combination as he strode onboard Paradise.

His shirt today was a deep maroon, tucked neatly into a set of gray houndstooth trousers, with a slightly more casual suit jacket worn overtop. He might not have looked particularly dangerous at first blush, but his sword still hung at his waist and the look in his eyes very clearly said otherwise. It had been a particularly unsatisfying day and partial night. The memory of dark eyes and a trembling lean body against his own had plagued him every time he had attempted to close his eyes, and the pulsing of his neck had brought him directly back to that same accursed alley whenever he had tried for wakefulness. It all culminated in no rest of any kind, and he was sporting a decidedly volatile temper.
Smartly shined black derby Oxfords clicked against the metal floor as he prowled the halls, the hard gem-like depths of his eyes plumbing every shadow and consuming every face in his hunt for the woman he was looking for. When at last she appeared before him he stilled, pupils dilating and nostrils flaring like any hunting beast that suddenly catches sight of their prey.
She was dealing with some underling, an air of weary fretfulness about her that Elias promptly ignored, stalking up to the platinum haired leader of the Sisters with a set jaw, a growl escaping him briefly as he pinned a glare onto the young man currently occupying her time. Perhaps feeling the vampire's stare, he glanced up and--upon catching his gaze--immediately paled.
"Gabriel," the German ground out, his accent thickened in his displeasure as he turned to her, "Since when do the Templars stoop to sending children out into battle?"

Now that she was before him, Elias took his time assessing her more closely, prasiolite taking in the defensive, closed off, posture of the blonde as she directed her attention to him in turn after dismissing her underling (who had no qualms about scurrying off) while snorting out a terse breath. His hackles only raised more as she turned away from him with a scoff of her own without first giving an answer. A dangerous urge to try snapping her neck reared itself briefly, but the blond bit it back with an angry huff through his nose.
"You're one to be doling out such loaded questions, Judas. Where is The Key?"
Pacing so that he was barely half a step behind her, he did not bother to restrain his low growl of displeasure at her comment. "Had a swarm of incompetent buffoons not flooded the docks, he might be in your possession right now. I am forced to question how capable the Templars are if they cannot come close to capturing their target... even when he is in front of them and they come in numbers."
A hand lifted to rake back through his hair in his agitation as they continued to sweep through the halls, the jostling of his head making him hiss and grimace, callused fingers shifting downwards to brush over the wound. He no longer needed to keep it bandaged, but it was angry and red... a violent testament to the battle.
"Frankly," he said, grinding out every word through clenched teeth to fill the pointed silence she left behind, "I performed the best out of all of you. Had he not been on high alert or closely guarded-- thanks to you fools--or gotten lucky with his shot, I would have had him..." ever so slowly, Elias' shoulders began to slump, brows knitting together unhappily, voice lowering, "I did have him. I tasted him. But that damnable pistol..." an angry sigh slipped his lips and he surveyed the back of Gabriel's body for a long moment before speaking in colder tones, "This failure will have complicated my mission. And I would still like to know why there were children running amok on the battlefield."

The staccato beat of her heels was the only answer he was given... at least until they stepped out onto the Observation Deck. Then, and only then, did Gabriel whirl on him with venom in her eyes and pretty lips curled in a sneer. "If I remember correctly, it was your job to obtain The Key. That is what you were hired to do. We provided support. Your failure to obtain it is not the problem of my men. You're the vampire, after all. What can us mere mortals really do to help you?"
Every word bit into him unpleasantly; frustration and anger bubbling hot beneath his skin. "You got in my way, I do not consider that support," he hissed, his expression sparking with displeasure. "I was not hired to be part of the inelegant Templars and your tendency towards brute force," he said, finally managing to rein in his emotions a little, tone turning decidedly cold, "I was hired for my ability to infiltrate the immortals--a task made much more difficult now."

The vampire did not miss the way her eyes lingered over his wound. He tensed, waiting for a sneer or some sort of barb, but the hardness of her expression had melted away, leaving behind something more gentle. Grudgingly, he brushed his fingers over the site of the injury again, trying not to sound sullen, "He made it difficult for me to focus and when my attention slipped he took advantage," he was silent for a beat before meeting her eyes firmly, "I won't fail the next time, I will fulfill my obligation to you and Eden," he intoned--the words an implicit promise.
He watched as she turned from him to pace towards the window, remaining in place for a moment before following after her with a soft sigh. As he listened to her denounce the use of children on the battlefield, his expression turned simultaneously more grim and less hostile. "Well, at least you are not condoning it. If you were, I might have done something rash," he was silent for another beat and then scoffed in disgust, "Americans."
Measured steps took him beside her, peering out with calculated thoughtfulness over the city. "If you need a vampire to murder one of those responsible for this abuse of the children," he cast her a wry glance from the corners of his eye, "I am happy to serve. But, more pressingly, I would like to discuss my next steps with you."
"We are a guest in their house... and we have taken an axe to their china cabinet. The people of New Orleans detested the Templar presence in their city before we arrived... we have only made it worse."
Silently, he nodded as she spoke, lips quirking in a wry smile. "Fortunately for you, I am not a Templar," gingerly, he turned and leaned a shoulder against the glass so he could look at her properly, folding his arms comfortably over his chest, trying not to look as bitter as he felt. "The Key is in bad shape. He was wounded, lost a fair amount of... of blood," he breathed, taking a measured swallow as a rush of saliva filled his mouth. "I am still an unknown quantity as far as they are concerned. Knowing my face means getting them to trust me will be more difficult but..." he paused for a moment, studying her carefully, weighing his words before he next spoke. "This man would sooner die than be taken... and he will die without serum soon, or so I suspect. He is no good to you dead, so my proposal would be this..." unconsciously, one hand lifted to thumb slowly over his wound, "I go to them as a defector, horrified by the use of children in battle... a starved vampire cruelly manipulated by the Templars against my own kind. You permit me to take a small amount of serum and I offer it, saying I stole it, and beg for their protection. I doubt I will be allowed near him for a while, but I will find some way to earn their trust from there." He shrugged a broad shoulder and grimaced, "Unless you have a better idea, but I can think of no other way to get close enough to take him."
The carefully guarded prasiolite watched her as he proposed his plan; honing in on her narrowed eyes, the pretty lips drawn to a line, the fingers toying with her hair. She was listening, her expression contemplative rather than dismissive, and he took that as a positive sign.
Sure enough, when she shook her head, the words that followed were an agreement with what he suggested and Elias felt satisfaction hum thick in his veins. The smirk that wanted to rise faltered, though, as she voiced her surprise at the Mephisto having survived. The thought of such a loss... of the world--of him--being deprived of even the chance at another taste of his blood, made Elias shudder. "He's tenacious, I suppose," the blond murmured, hesitating for a moment before breathing out a soft huff through his nose, "Or simply unlucky enough not to die when he should," if there was self-directed bitterness in that statement, he resolutely ignored it.
Gabriel's gaze moved fluidly over him until she settled in his eyes and he met her there; calm, collected, unreadable and studying her just as thoughtfully as she asked whether the Mephisto had divulged his name. "Jack Fletcher," he rumbled, wrapping his tongue around every syllable, eyes flickering as he said it, a shiver crawling up his spine. "Which I suppose answers the question of which consciousness survived this..." his lip curled ever so slightly, "Experiment you Templars performed."

Silence gripped him as she repeated the name and turned away from him to peer out through the window. For his part, Elias was disinclined to remove his gaze from her, finding her reactions far more interesting than the cityscape. It was macabre and chilling, really, to be standing here calmly discussing the ruination of a man using his own passion and empathy against him. To believe that those same traits were what forced him to continue to exist. Driven on and on through every torment, perpetually unable to rest, existing by some other creature's designs, his own will and wishes callously disregarded...
At once, Elias felt weary. It was an unusual emotion for him, all the more so when it was sunk bone-deep like it was now. He could see a similar sort of tiredness in the blonde's expression, and grimaced at her question regarding whether or not he was staying onboard, finally peering out the window himself and knowing that dawn was drawing near. "I do not believe I have the luxury of choice at the moment," he murmured, "And it would be more convenient, yes," he returned to looking at her, scrying over her carefully, "But I doubt my room has been adequately prepared yet."

Unsurprisingly, she confirmed that his suspicions were correct. What was surprising--and intriguing enough to make his eyes flash--was her demure flush and her ‘figuring’ he might take her room for his use.
Elias stared at her, more than a little bemused. "Oh you did, did you?" he rumbled, wryly, the faintest twitch of mirth sparking his eyes and curling one corner of his lips up. "And where, exactly, would Gabriel--leader of the Blood Sisters--bed herself down in that case?" His eyes licked her up and down, lazily, appreciatively, with only the barest hint of a challenge laced in his tone, "In a vampire's arms?"
The beginnings of a grin bloomed into a full one at her answering smirk and shift in body language and his eyes fell half-lidded at her teasing.
Elias watched her warmly as she joined him in leaning against the glass. The weariness was fading now, the prospect of something far more tantalizing teasing him. Elias found himself wondering, as he watched her twirl a strand of hair prettily around her metal finger, what the polished steel would feel like wrapped around him.
Only a slight arching of his left eyebrow betrayed his surprise at her mention of the Overseer potentially welcoming her into his bed, and he remained relaxed and fully confident as she raked her gaze over him, knowing what she would see and having no need to oversell himself. "A lucky man then," he hummed, his voice dipping lower to a more intimate growl, "More's the pity for me, I imagine you'd make very pretty sounds while tied to the bedposts."
It had been a gamble to be so forward, but she neither rebuffed him nor ran away, and internally he chuckled delightedly, more than a little pleased. He liked her more and more by the moment.
"I imagine you are well versed. Centuries under your belt... talented musician... skilled swordsman."
"Mmm you would be right. I boast nimble fingers and have dedicated long centuries to honing my crafts--all of them," he purred from honeyed lips, pushing himself up from the glass to take two languid steps towards her, leaving only a small gap between them. "And these hands of mine can make many different instruments sing."
Slowly, keeping a careful watch of her eyes, ready to desist if she looked uncomfortable, Elias lifted a hand to lightly brush the pads of his fingers down over the curve of her cheek. A smile greeted the feeling of soft and supple skin beneath his touch and he paused with just the tips resting against her as he asked--in a low, provocative, tone; "Lead me to your bed?"
"Your bed, Sir Brandt."
"Good girl," he growled roughly, heat spiking and rolling through him as he let himself slip into his preferred role, pleased with her submitting her bed to him even as she granted him his rightful title. Perhaps, when she was truly pliant and crying out for him, he would be able to forget the brunet for a while, forget the haunting whisper of 'Fiend,' that was wont to echo in his mind when he least desired it.
Her hand circled his wrist; cool, smooth, altogether alien and fascinating to a tactile creature such as himself, but her prim warning not to disappoint her simply would not do.
Beneath her hold of him, his own hand twisted, cooled vampiric fingers wrapping around her own unfeeling wrist in turn, tugging her bodily back towards him--though ever mindful to only use just as much force as necessary--as he whirled her around and crashed her to his chest. In the same moment, his other hand trailed greedily up her side before thumbing lightly over her throat, eyes dark and voice darker, "Don't question me," his thumb trailed up the delicate column of her neck to brush over her lips, "And I won't."


 
René Troxler
Ephemera
health bar
WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Alone, Dutch
DOING: Salvaging
CREDIT: len-yan
PLAYLIST:


Sleep had been stolen from him during transit from the Garden District Conclave headquarters back to the second-rate airship. The constant jostling amongst the worn and weary had created passive aggressive banter amongst the members of the caravan carrying them back. He couldn’t bring himself to lower himself to their incessant ramblings and misgivings. They refused to admit there had been a severe miscalculation when the mission had been issued to them. Silently, he strategized ideas that turned in his mind, details and designs that would aid in the future for such large bestial specimens. In the end, the worst of it was they hadn’t considered total subtlety before releasing the dog to sniff out his quarry. It was a necessary move of force back in London, but it was a ridiculous, foolish one in the Americas.

He stayed long enough to hear the briefing, but immediately retreated to assign technicians to continue with him back to the city. Enclosed carts were rigged to two massive steel horses, and a third was packed down with his satchel and additional tools. The blonde was given a listing of the Legionnaires that hadn’t returned, and ordered to mark off those they found. He grimaced considering the sheer number in the decimated caravan left lying in the middle of the street.

The blond hoisted himself onto the back of the automaton. He patted the plated cogwork and they took off into the hazy night, led by the fires in the mechanical stallion’s eyes. Leaning over the powerful machine, he grit his teeth against the pounding of its gallop. It thundered across the road, the harbinger of the salvaging crew’s flight. In his chest, he could feel the echo of each rumble it’s steel hooves made. The sharp exhale of billowing steam from the automaton’s nostrils was the closest it would ever make to a true whinny. Simultaneously, he loved the creation for its beauty and grace as a masterful work of engineering, and grieved the mockery it made of the source from which it was inspired.

His body pushed closer to the steelwork frame of its head, ignoring the wind and mist which stung his face. At least he was getting away from the place which ailed him, and at a speed even the Devil himself wouldn’t be able to match.

----- ----- -----​

The sky overhead was shifting and churning with the remnants of the night’s storm as it passed. The squall left behind lacework patterns of clouds darkening the twilight sky dusty violet with the coming dawn. Stars sparkled behind the soft patches, shimmering against their translucent, gradually illuminating backdrop. He failed to recall them all now, but he could see the bits and pieces of constellations he’d known years before. Most of it was lost to relevant information to his job except, perhaps, the few details here and there his knowledge-thirsty mind retained.

The streets were quiet, peaceful. It was a silent space between when those of the night permeated the city like an ancient plague and its daylight citizens woke to begin its living hustle and bustle. Given the event to which he’d been both a witness and participant, Ephemera had no doubts some were staying cozy in their homes. Somehow, they were assured they were safer within. Others would be wandering with macabre curiosity or enterprising intention. He and his team would have to be faster than them.

His fallen comrades-in-arms had been pulled from the battlefield, at least most of the recognizable dead and living had been. The living managed to walk, hobble, or be carried away. The dead that were too maimed to be identified except by modifications or augments alone stayed behind for him and others to document and salvage from, along with any that were too heavy to collect. He’d sent the other three which made up his team to deal with the worst and largest of it: the damage done by the massive Stag. René focused on the few, but complex collection at the dock.

His ledger lay beside him on the wooden boards while he worked: seeking the serial number often engraved on the individual’s armaments. Deft hands moved with the precision of an experienced surgeon aged well beyond his years. His titanium hand tightly held the body steady while his other cut and tore unnecessary wires from the frame of a damaged leg replacement. Already he could see it was a custom model far older than his, from another branch of the Legion outside of the 84th. Ephemera picked up a pair of pliers from the corpse’s side and tugged at a stubborn connection that he’d spent far too long trying to remove.

Petal lips opened in a frustrated groan until he lifted himself away from his task to wipe beads of sweat away from his exhausted eyes. The only rest he would be promised was the half-hour ride back to Paradise later. Until this was done, sleep would be a distant wish. Honeyed irises, rich with the wakening dawn, cast upwards and settled on the final twinklings of Venus. As it was fading, he sent a prayer to it, a wish for a heavy, deep rest once this was over. It blinked away from view, lost behind a coy cloud.

Bending over the wrecked mod once more, he switched the hands which held the pliers, then ripped the connection and finally the leg from its joint. Rene heaved the mass of metal aside and marked the serial number he read from the post into the ledger. Tools slipped into his satchel, and his hands moved to make the sign of the cross. He whispered a prayer for Legionnaire’s final rest, hoisted the leg into his arms, stood, and walked to the cart he’d been tossing viable augments into. The steel horse automaton attached to the buggy did nothing to protest.

Hours had passed in blurred moments. Darkness gave way to coming light, and already he could feel the shift of the coolness from the night’s air to the thick humidity the day would provide, especially with the rain they’d suffered. There was one more to review and then he could collect his team and return to headquarters.

He knelt beside the corpse and did his best not to look at the face, but he’d known this one quickly. He hadn’t meant to save him for last, but avoidance was a practice the engineer had mastered while this Legionnaire was alive. Another of his school-age tormentors.

With a sigh, again the blond signed the cross. “Forgive me, Jacob, for what I must do. As it is my holy charge I desecrate not your body, but the empty shell in which your soul no longer resides. Find peace-” he winced as his mouth formed and choked over the next word- “‘brother’ as God gives a home to you in Heaven for your immortal rest. Amen.”

He placed the ledger to the side and began to take out a series of tools that would simplify removing the remains of the arm and leg augmentations. He pulled a cloth from his satchel to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck, then tossed it over the vacant, open eyes of the expired peer; an ounce of respect left for the dead.

Several minutes passed while he assessed the mods’ statuses, their state of disrepair, and viability to act as salvageable parts. He rolled the body to its side, seeking to investigate the leg he could not reach properly. The body jerked and shuddered. A shriek erupted from beyond the blond’s scarred mouth, and he scuttled backward on his hands and feet. The nervous system shut down once more, and the final electrical impulses subsided in the corpse. Ephemera heaved for breath. He struggled to his feet, approached the deceased Templar, and glared him down.

“You sick, twisted bastard,” he cussed at the body,” always seeking to scare the wits out of me when you were alive, and still aiming to do it dead! Fucking prick!” With a shout, he kicked the corpse. “Wherever you end up is better than you deserve! Figg dich!

Pushing his hair back, it took a moment before the calm with which he usually operated settled into his body again. He was on alert, waiting for the next scare, the next tremor of nerves to spring into action and startle him again. A reserved cold seeped into his demeanor, a tightness to his movements as he loosened the nuts and bolts of the intact leg mod. Unceremoniously, he tore it from its base. Ripped wires and broken metal shards scattered on the wooden boards at his knees from the destruction. The ruckus echoed in the space, bouncing off broken crates of imports and exports. The whole place was a mess and few others were permitted access. At least, that’s what he thought.

Ephemera figured they thought they were being silent, quietly trapezing through the wreckage. He ignored them. Likely a local official to take inventory of the city’s losses at the hand of those they harbored and the people sworn to protect humanity. He loosed the damaged leg, it was barely holding on-- it was probably the cause for the Legionnaire’s death-- and stood to place it and its pair into his cart one at a time. He turned to the three quarter arm mod, slowly removing screws as the stranger approached. Then he heard it. This was not the gait of a self-assured official lost to shock. These were heavier, casual- if cautious- steps of someone who should’ve seen this happen for themself. A pawn that hadn’t been on the board to begin with.

He shrugged off his jacket, sandy brown and well worn. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that in spite of the approach he’d have the element of surprise. He rolled the sleeve of his right arm, then the grey sleeve of left slowly. The titanium reflected oncoming dawn and the stranger standing mere yards away. There was a brief hesitation in the approach. Good.

Swinging his left arm wide, he flexed the muscles which triggered the single-action pistol’s release from its cavity hidden within the shell of his augment. With a click, it set into place and cocked, aimed perfectly at the grizzled face of the stranger. From his peripheral, René regarded him. “Were I you, I wouldn’t move.”

Hands raised in surrender. “Woah… Easy there.” A drawl pulled over the other’s tongue, raspy and good-humored as if trying to lull the Templar out of his defenses. An easy-going, nervous smile pulled at his thin lips. “Just trying to see what you’re doing here. Can’t say I’ve seen you around these parts.”

The blond considered him for a moment. Why would he think they would have met before? “You wouldn’t have. I just arrived with a job to do.”

“I can see that… but why are you wearing that?” He shifted uneasily and the pistol aimed at him followed, the metal of René’s fist tightening caused the leather glove to squeak in protest. “It’s dangerous to be impersonating one of them.”

The cowboy had no clue, and the engineer suppressed a chuckle. However, the amused smirk leaked through. “Oh, you don’t have to tell me that. I know full and well how dangerous it is.” He turned to give his acquaintance his attention. Tall, built well, certainly one of those country types he’d only heard about, but he seemed invested in his well-being though he didn’t know the engineer.

Brown eyebrows knit together in confusion and his stare scrutinized René closely as he went back to single-handedly removing screws delicately from the base. He detached it away from the body, and copied the serial number down in the ledger. The ritual elicited a judgemental click from the cowboy’s tongue. He took a step forward. It resulted in a swift drawing of Ephemera’s sidearm. With two barrels pointed in his direction the atmosphere shifted. “Who are you? You don’t smell like one of them, but you’re wearing their uniform.”

His metal fingers shifted and the single-action uncocked and lowered back into its compartment. “Me?” he pondered out loud as he thought what to tell the hot-blooded American beast. Grunting, he lifted the arm mod with his newly freed hand. “They break their toys while fighting, I repair or replace them… So I suppose I’m the person that keeps these fights of yours interesting.”

“You’re a Templar?” A growl followed.

“What else would I be? You’d think the uniform and gun pointed in your direction would have been a clue. Now then,” he lowered his sidearm though his finger hovered over the trigger, “I don’t know about you, but I value my life. I’m not interested in killing anyone, and I hope you aren’t either. There’s been enough for one day.” René wanted to be sure it would end here, one way or another. Curiously, he didn’t much mind if he were attacked. It would likely be an easier encounter than the others he’d faced within the Order itself, including those of the last few days.

The cowboy stepped away, giving him more distance, his raised hands lowered to his sides. Confusion and something else tugged at the man’s shoulders while his gaze leveled at the engineer. A question seemed to chisel away at this stranger’s resolve, pitting instinct against instinct.

For all of his calm and false bravado, René’s heart was pounding steadily in his ears. His sight hyper-focused on the Beast standing across from him, bright as the sun rising behind him. Early dawn light brought out the fine lines in the other’s face. From his voice alone he would’ve thought him older, but he was hardly a few years the blond’s senior. Cocking his head to the side, Ephemera pursed his lips. “We can be luckier than this lot and walk away. A chance encounter that never happened.”

His answer was a curt nod. Tension eased from his shoulders as he turned away. First mistake. From behind him, there was a metallic click. The hair on the back of his neck bristled and slowly his body turned back towards the cowboy, gun pointed in his direction. His own was still comfortable in his hand, finger steady on the trigger. “If,” the brunet started, “there is a ‘next time’, you won’t be so lucky.”

A nervous, disbelieving chuckle shook his chest while he adjusted his grasp on the mod. “I have no doubts it is a rarity second encounters end well with you.” The gun pointed at him dropped away with a scoff.

With a shared cautious glance, he turned away again and exhaled slowly as he heard the boots move in the opposite direction behind him.






 
Harrison Van Doren
Dutch
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: His Queen ➳ A soft-faced scavenger
DOING: Uh Oh ➳ Talking with the enemy
CREDIT: Exile0403
PLAYLIST:

If he'd had a tail, he reckoned it would be tucked firmly between his legs. With hat in hand, back bowed, and eyes trained on his boots, Dutch decided there might be no fate worse than being horsewhipped by a lady's tongue for everybody and their grandmother to see. The shuffling walk of shame he cut across the polished barroom floorboards spanned only a few lousy moments, but they sure did feel like an eternity. All too soon but not soon enough, the door eased shut and the evening air was closing about him, fresh and damp.

Out of the bright comfort of the Canine, his first course of action was to poke his head out from the shelter of the eave, under the stream that poured from the gutter. It did something to cool the embarrassment that blazed bright in him; the touch of water on his nape cleared his head and brought him back to the here and now.

He shook out his auburn hair, sending a spray of rain about him, and raked it back with his fingers before setting his hat upon his head. Tugging the brim into place, he looked out into the storm-soaked evening, and then beat feet to tackle the task he'd been saddled with. He still put some worth on his life, and he wasn't going to push his luck by loitering within reach of Maeve Donovan's talons.

She'd come at him madder than an old wet hen, and for all he knew she might change her mind and decide to play carrion to his corpse. Skipping several porch steps in his descent, Dutch threw one quick glance back over his shoulder to assure himself the raven's high heeled boots weren't hot on his trail, and then he picked up the pace. Even after he’d rounded a corner and the Canine was out of sight, he still didn’t feel entirely at ease. Every once in a while on his walk he found himself scouring frantically for urgent rapping at his consciousness, overly anxious about missing the next. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard what he could’ve sworn was her voice, but then he realized it was merely the fragments of a conversation drifting out of an open window above. On impulse he gave his hands a good shake to rid himself of lingering tension.

Sweet smiles, batted eyelashes, pretty faces—he was thinking they were more dangerous for him than tequila. They sure were when it came to Miss Cassie Caldecott, but with one real big difference: instead of waking up with a hangover, you'd find yourself burgled and bound to the bedpost. That little lady was danger in a dress, and he had nobody to blame but his own damn self for getting wrangled in again. He’d known exactly what she was when he approached her at the bar, and if he hadn’t been such a… such a spineless American prat—whatever a prat was—he would’ve kept a wide berth. He should’ve done better, and Dutch had his heart set on giving his all to make up for letting himself get led astray. Come hell or high water, he wouldn't return empty-handed at daybreak.

It might have comforted him a little to see some passerby laughing and talking their way throughout the walks between bars and dance halls, one scrap of ordinariness to keep him warm on his errand. He did count a few, but not as many as he would have liked. "Ain't right," he muttered under his breath.

People had a way of smelling trouble brewing, and he could speak from experience. A street going vacant with every window and door shut tight when a shootout was afoot, or a saloon going quiet as the grave when a disagreement over a card game or a lady or what-have-you was about to come to blows. Didn't take a nose like his to cotton on to it, neither.

The rain had sent folk scattering for cover, but the ruckus was sending them into hiding. At first he only thought it was strange and didn't mind it too much, but then he saw quick that the city, rain-slick beneath the steady glow of lamps and strings of lights, was looking lonelier than he'd ever seen it. An uneasy feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach, but he kept on with hackles raised. This was gonna be a long night. He could do with a shot of bourbon.

He'd expected to see destruction, yet he was still dumbstruck by the sights lying in wait for him. The scuffle had done a number on the city, and as he surveyed the parts hit the hardest, he did what he could to keep discreet in his observations. Over pockmarked, marred streets and structures turned into unrecognizable piles of rubble, the smell of death and bloodshed and adrenaline hung like smoke. Some of the dead were still waiting to be collected.

The storm had broken, leaving a still peace in its wake. He might have thought the happenings of the night were only a nightmare if he hadn’t had the proof right in front of him. He'd never seen the like, and he got an eyeful. The shattered cloud cover left behind was turning rosy, touched by the fingers of dawn stretching over the horizon, and the stars were winking out. Dutch was happy to leave it behind for the queen's residence, but decided to return to the docks for one last look-over before calling it a night, for sake of being thorough.

But the riverside wasn't as he'd left it. Sauntering along the boardwalk, as he took off his hat and looked at the waters of the Mississippi, he heard a cry. Dutch wasn’t alone. His boots toward the noise and he went on, ears pricked. His gaze swept across the mess that littered the slats, and then halted by the outline of a figure. His steps stalled. The stranger’s back was turned to him. An open book lay beside them, opened across the slats. Nearby, attached to a cart brimming with metal limbs, was a mount that didn't look quite right. A horse of the automaton variety, and his mostly flesh and blood rider was a scavenger, plucking off metal parts like a vulture. Dutch breathed deep, gleaning what he could from the scents drifting on the breeze.

While his attention was on the metal beast of burden, there was sudden movement in the outskirts of his vision. His eyes flicked back to the figure, who was facing him now. A raised arm, along with the weapon brandished in its grasp, gleamed dimly in first light. As his hands went up, displayed in a show of surrender, the brim of his hat slipped from his fingers and it went tumbling to the slats. Caught by surprise, he knew that one wrong move would send this situation further south.

“Woah… easy there,” he drawled, angling to smooth things over. The words rolled smooth and warm off his tongue. For all the hairy situations he’d found himself in he’d also learned a thing or two about talking his way out of them, but he wouldn’t deny it was an art form he hadn’t quite mastered. The smile that widened across his face was meant to be friendly, but the nervousness skittering in his chest was doing its damndest to show through. “Just trying to see what you’re doing here. Can’t say I’ve seen you around these parts.”

The other man looked consideringly at him with amber-shaded eyes. Admittedly Dutch had thought the scavenger was a lady at first glance, albeit a short-haired and flat-bosomed one. “You wouldn’t have,” the scavenger replied, “I just arrived with a job to do.”

A job in what, exactly? A seedy underground market dealing in automaton parts? Well, he supposed this would be the place to look for them; Templar tech was state of the art shit in a whole different league. He wasn’t judging, but this fella didn’t really look suited for this line of work. “I can see that… but why are you wearin’ that?” he asked, wondering just where in the hell he’d gotten his hands on that uniform. He moved his weight to his other foot, and the barrel of the pistol tracked the movement. “It’s dangerous to be impersonating one of them.”

Amusement lit the scavenger’s face. “Oh, you don’t have to tell me that. I know full and well how dangerous it is.”

Dutch, growing self-conscious as he studied him, squared his shoulders. It was some challenge trying to look casual with his hands in the air. He watched, puzzled, while the scavenger turned to the body he’d been toiling over and, with delicately and precise handiwork, detached another limb and then made a note in the book beside him.

Dutch could only shake his head and click his tongue, feeling like a disapproving granny all the while. Something something respecting the dead and all that mumbo jumbo, nobody cared about that anymore. Curious, he took another step forward to get a better look, but that only earned him a second firearm pointed in his direction. He was on edge, but why? If Dutch had planned to muscle in and make off with a limb or two—and he hadn’t—he would’ve done so by now. He was no thief. Well, not anymore, anyway, and definitely not right now. “Who are you? You don’t smell like one of them, but you’re wearing their uniform.”

One of the weapons drew back, vanishing into the confines of its holdings, and a hand took its place. A nice trick, and it had certainly caught Dutch with his pants down. “They break their toys while fighting, I repair or replace them… so I suppose I’m the person that keeps these fights of yours interesting.”

In Dutch’s mind, understanding clicked into place. His eyes narrowed by a hair, and a growl rumbled in his chest. He cursed himself for it; he’d shown his hand and what he was. “You’re a Templar?” Looking back it was clear as day, but the obvious had flown right over his head. Loosing a sigh through his nose, he retreated, and his hands slowly dropped. He hooked his thumbs in his belt. Hell, Dutch didn’t want to kill anybody either, and he couldn’t disagree with the point he’d made. This boardwalk had seen enough shit for one night, so had Dutch, and so had this scavenger. They were both tired.

So a shaky truce was struck. In that moment there were a lot of things he wanted to ask, questions he chewed on as he stood there looking the Templar in the face. It wasn’t every day you could shoot the breeze with the enemy.

“We can be luckier than this lot and walk away. A chance encounter that never happened.”

He couldn’t disagree with that, either. Dutch nodded, and he toed a piece of rubble lying near his boot. Nobody had to twist his arm, he got it. As far as Maeve Donovan was concerned, he’d walked these streets twice-over and the Templar cleanup crew had already come and gone when he’d given the docks one final look see. The way he figured it, leaving out one person, one small detail, wouldn’t make much of a difference. It wouldn’t matter, would it?

The Templar turned away, the opening he’d been waiting for. His hand flew to his holster, lightning-quick, and then his gun was in his hand and ready to fire. “If there is a next time,” he told him, “You won’t be so lucky.” He could've taken the shot. Could've—and maybe he should've—but he didn't. Dutch didn’t know if he could trust this repairman to return the favor when he went back to whoever he had to report to, but he didn’t care. He knew what he would do. His arm fell, and he twirled the weapon once in his fingers before sending it back into its holster.

They exchanged one final glance, and then Dutch turned away. He nudged the toe of his boot under his hat and flipped it up into his awaiting hand with flourish. With that, he left the Mississippi behind. On his way to the queen, his thoughts were running wild.

He was seeing a pattern here. Between run-ins with Miss Cassie and the raven queen and wayward Templar corpse wranglers, were these goddamned blondies going to be the death of him? Well, he thought, Only one way to find out.


 
Last edited:
Cecile Bellerose
Ember
health | bar
WHERE: French Quarter Streets, Brass Canine
WITH: Holly Wilshire ⇀ Immortals
DOING: Fighting ⇀ Reminiscing
CREDIT: Milica Jevtic
PLAYLIST:

The jeers and chaos of the bar were dull, humming in her ears as words flooded her brain. She repeated them, over and over, images of tiny humans, of children, storming the scene with every intent normal to a killer. The thought was more appalling than impressive, for the Templars to lower themselves to such a level. Were they that desperate with their mission, to rid of all immortals? Well-nigh impossible, but it was plausible; still, it didn't grant the reasoning of involving children, mortal or not. One of her fangs caught the side of her lip, brows furrowed slightly in thought.

The image of the vial flashed before her again. Cecile fathomed enough how rare Mephistos were, but what could be gained from another rotting immortal? Just how valuable was Jack Fletcher to the Templars? Had he been in their ranks previously? Had he obtained something he shouldn't have? Something didn't connect. While the woman sat at the bar lost in her thoughts, her surroundings was much more vivid and alive. Music caroused the bar, patrons enjoying each other's company in the splendor of liquor. Beasts mostly, but none to seem to mind the vampires that have sauntered in. Her glass of whisky sat in front of her, swirling itself into languid waves; slow, undisturbed, warming.

Familiar faces and voices enveloped her, but none were of importance if it could not pull her from her thoughts. The long fight left her weary, unfulfilled. It veiled her being with an ambience that made her want to return to her manor, retreat to the sanctum of her chambers, and sleep. She arrived with the others to the Brass Canine, mostly absent-mindedly. The stench of mudwater lingered in her nose, the hint of vanilla and lavender coming to a mere faint of a whiff that followed her. Not only did she not find the answer she was hoping to uncover from Gabriel, more questions arose about the Templars' intents; especially now that children were involved.

The battle left a bitter taste.

The Vampire Queen inwardly grimaced, exhaling a soft sigh as she finally picked up her warm whisky. In one swing, she downed the content and the glass clattered onto its coaster. As if on cue, the bartender refilled her glass, which Cecile quickly gulped. When the third glass was prepared, she stood to her feet and headed towards her usual booth, whisky in hand.

By no means did she ignore the others she arrived with. She paid enough heed to them, hoping the after-effects had gathered any further intel that was not present prior to the docks. Once everyone dispersed to their merriment, she silently left the presence of others. Some she knew, some she didn't. It was to be expected since their departure from Four Points. The name itself poisoned her tongue with such sourness that could no longer deter her. Still, she was grateful for the followers who remained at her side, and those who chose to remain at Four Points to keep it a bay. Perhaps one day she would venture back, renew it to uphold the Paradin name. Maybe.

She chuckled at the thought. He was gone, yet his presence was still existent as it ever was. It loomed over her like a ghost, an incomplete haunting. More like a taunt, knowing Kestrel's demeanour.

The giggles were high-pitched, but a tone of attempted lowered octave was conspicuous. The man at her side let out his own hefty bellow of a laugh, enough to shake the whole tavern down. Drinks were piled at their table, mostly ale and bread for the man while the woman kept her wits. It was obvious she was chosen to remain sober of the two, to ensure their safety home. Jests were made, spills occurred, and the music was decent. Some cantered along while others boasted their drinking capability with tales both new and old. All was of the norm, even the two oddly-matched men that sat at the end of the bar table.

One was clad in white and gold, hints of red here and there. Ashen air was held back, positioned to slick back, giving him an air of importance. He didn't quite stand out like a sore thumb, but it was obvious he held riches more than the average immortal. The other was plain, etched in only a white buttoned-down shirt and black slacks to complete his simple yet elegant appearance. Upon closer inspection, one could see the lace that lined his collar and cufflinks, specks of tiny diamonds that glittered him complete. Somber green eyes observed their surrounding, as raven black locks hung loose on his head.

The coin flipped in the air over and over, its gold sheen glinting in the light. Matching gold irises searched the room, as if they were looking for someone. Many patrons filled the tavern, each in their circle of humility and cheers. Jugs of ale were passed around like pamphlets, the heavy fragrance of meat and bread filled their plates and crumbled at their disfigured teeth. It was another night of endless pleasure, of evident escapade to the blissful unknown alcohol was known to provide. Some would return home joyous, some would wake up more sick than when they arrived.

Some with return with secrets.

"See that girl over there?" The darker-haired man nudged his chin toward the aforementioned couple. "She's been cheating on that guy over there, with her." His head tilted toward a redhead involved in a chugging contest.

"What? No way. I bet you he's in on it."

"No, no, he doesn't have a clue. Too drunk." He laughed. "Here, look, watch. I bet you ten coins he stumbles out and forgets, and she goes straight over."

"You're on."

The two clanged their ales together, confirming their deal as the the night went on. In the few hours they waited, they included themselves in more bets, left and right, money lost and gained. Mostly in drinks, as they laughed and jeered at others.

When the drunken man finally rose from his seat. Steps were teetered around each other, almost as if he was attempting to dance with himself. His laugh was just as hearty, but now weakened and incoherent. The door slammed opened, and shut with the same amount of force. After a few minutes, the wife finally stood up and sauntered her way over to the redhead, who had already isolated herself to the other side of the bar. They two shared a quick word, and was clear they pointed towards the tavern's upper floor. Blitzen let out a groan, reaching into his pouch as Kestrel laughed with his palm hitting the table. Then a third voice pitched in. Midway into their transaction, they glanced back at the duo, only to see their sapphire-eyed friend squeeze herself in between the two women, who both kissed her cheek. As they approached the stairs, Cecile glanced over her shoulders, clearly meeting their eyes, and winked.


The night continued in their festivities. Normally she would partake, but tonight, she longed for a drinking companion.


 
S E I K O 島崎清子
alias: Kirin
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Cass
DOING:
Making gumbo
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

Seiko was never good at verbal conflict and his bedside manner left something to be desired. When those feelings of sentiment within him traveled upwards and turned into words they never seem to translate in the best of ways Thus he retreated to the doors of the kitchen aptly as the bodies started piling in. Cleansing himself in the kitchen cleared away the dirt and bloodshed from his skin. Decades of wandering had made him efficient at performing a hygienic routine with the bare minimum. Privately, he took deep breaths to unblacken his veins, allowing the feeling to return to his body. Despite the heavy waves of pain, his skin returned from the blackened ichor to it’s typical shade after enough time.

The man felt right awful. The damage of today's brawl wasn't immediately apparent on the outside but he could feel it weighing heavy in his bones still recalling the impact from Jonah Lancaster. He shouldn't be surprised to have seen minimal bruising and cuts to the flesh given the flow of werebeast blood within. All healed excluding that blasted cut across his cheek. With a disdain he examined it upon a sink mirror.

"That letch really got me didn't he?" Something as small as a surface cut should have been gone as quick as it came. Yet his body rejected the wound, as if unable to accept that he had allowed the mark to ever occur. He told himself the assailant was nothing but another cheap lackey, but couldn't lie to himself about the feelings any more to his own body. There was no denying it, Seiko hated him. Walking away from the attacked was the harder than anything he could recently remember.

It hurt more than the wound itself a thousand fold, to know that he let his liege fall into the arms of another. His precious comrade, kicked to the ground as dirty hands had torn at his flesh, stolen him away and… drank from his veins- He could hardly bear to think of it! There was a part of him he knew cared for Jack of which he knew not the intensity. He always had ever since they shared spirits on that fateful first night. He felt the corners of his mouth perk up into a smile at the memory of it all - he couldn't remember the last time someone made him so happy and wouldn’t lose that feeling to some scheming parasite.

His body shook as the hurricane of emotions was set free, yet - this was not the time. It was never the time, and he bottled the feelings of the storm deep inside to repress for another day. That wasn't why he was in here, no not at all. He had a job to do and help the best he could.

Right... Gumbo. It was one of the first things he was taught when he started at La Perle, and not a day of work went by that he hadn't prepared the dish. He had likely made enough to feed every beast in New Orleans three times over since arriving. He wasn't going to let his nerves act up and prevent him from doing something as easy as this. Even so, it didn't have to be perfect. The crowd outside would gladly shovel down anything warm. It didn't take any sort of skill to melt butter and chop vegetables and so he began preparing the broth and roux.

An hour passed and any feelings he had were pressed far back enough to where he could console his mind into his working hands.
"All right let's keep this nice and simple," Seiko muttered aloud in his native tongue.
すべてが大丈夫になります

His mind was filled with the bubbling roux and the racous crowd outside. So much so that he thought nothing of the creaking of the doors opening to let someone else into the kitchen. Not giving it much thought at all he greeted with a simple, "welcome" before getting back to work.
いらっしゃいませ

It wasn't so much that they responded back, but it was in the same language he had forgotten he was using. Immediately he peeked upward from the roux in curiosity at who would be fluent in such words to meet with the sight of someone he thought he'd never see again.

"Now this is hysterical," Seiko jeered through a shocked double take, "Maybe I did die back there, because I can't even begin to comprehend what sort of chance it would take to see you here." He waved in greeting to the petite blonde woman. She had been a guest of his emperor decades ago and welcomed him back with a glass in one hand and the other performing a curtsy. He blankly stared at her trying to remember her name, "...Priestess Queen Hachigane. Or at least, that's what we knew you as. A name as absurd as that isn't easily forgotten. If you're here for my emperor's heirlooms then I regret to inform you he died sometime last century. I've got nothing to steal except for some unpeeled potatoes...“ A small panic set in as he realized the roux was almost burning in his distraction and he rushed over to lower the heat.

He had so many things to ask her, what happened to the real priestess queen? Or her real name? …And why did she steal the emperor's shoes? Even with his eyes and hands busy he managed to try and make her feel as welcome as possible, not expecting to see such an old friend. "Goodness, I'd ask how you ended up here but I'm just as far from home as you." Her disposition was welcome given the grave feelings he was trying to forget.

She answered his questions and spoke about how it was really the kingdom's obsession with being well-mannered that was their downfall. He didn’t realize at the time, but she was painfully correct as he didn't question his suspicions to not to have appeared rude back then. She responded to his inquiry by stating she was a traveler and it made sense for her to be here unlike Seiko- who had never crossed the sea until his immigration to America. "Very true, I suppose that's the result of my trade no longer being needed," he shrugged as he pointed to the broadsword propped against the wall.

He felt unspoken trust with her as she caroused throughout the workspace. Nothing there belonged to him either, figuring it was better to ask forgiveness then permission in helping himself to the ingredients. Typically if judged upon the scales then Seiko would lean towards order as opposed to discord, but he did not find himself so bogged down with rules that he could not enjoy a bit of fun albeit a tad chaotic.

Seiko continued to stir as he continued with his anticipating questions, "I don't know how you walked off with one of his screens, but I at least understood why." Seiko furrowed his brow in thought, trying to recall her visit to the best of his memory. "Though I'll never understand why you stole the Emperor's shoes as well. You know, he made us remain barefooted for a month after you left...” Even if unpleasant, enough time had passed that he could laugh about now, teasing through a friendly smirk.

The tale was met with a small laugh and earnest apologies, though the conversation quickly turned to the dish bubbling in front of him. He couldn't help but be a bit bashful at the subject, trying to contain how much he should speak about the dish before him. "Gumbo." He stated, "You know, on paper it's nothing but cooked grease - and the ingredients on their own don't sound appetizing either. Though when it's made right..." He tried to think of what to classify it as. Was it a soup? No... it was more of a gravy... or was it technically a curry? He didn't let his mind scatter too far off before resuming, "...then be thankful. Because normally it's hardly made correctly! I could use a hand if you'd like the company."

A decline or dismissive reply was mostly expected. So he couldn't help but be elated when the familiar friend agreed to help - especially coming from someone whose diet consisted of blood. He knew little of her, and she precisely seemed to keep it that way. There was no way to know if she knew far more or less than what she was speaking about. For someone as naive as Seiko, it was a dangerous game but one he didn't care to decline as he enjoyed the gamble.

With a smile, the man gave the roux a few more stirs to demonstrate, "If it's alright would you mind to keep a stir on this? I can't let up for even a minute or else it'll burn. I'm not too familiar with the Canine's kitchen and need to find out where the remaining ingredients are. But can't reach too much if I'm stuck in front of this pot." After giving a nod, he pushed the whisk to her free hand with some assurance, then proceeded to turn his back and look for what he needed.

The Canine was certainly a kitchen of tradition. Where his own kitchen was one that focused on finding new ways to improve classic cuisine, this bar preserved the flavors of old. The lack of Celery and File powder made this apparent. "Hmm... Okra it is then," Seiko muttered aloud as he scavenged the larder for a thickening agent. "You know," he called out after finding comfort in hearing the whisk still stirring, "Priestess Queen does evoke a sense of mystery, but it's a mouth-full. What do you suppose I should call you by?" Her quaint laughter suggested she agreed in the elegance, and gave her given name - Cassandra Caldecott.

"Cassandra, then? You know - I've never met a Cassandra I didn't like." He had an odd sentiment for assigning relationships to names. "Though I have nothing nice to say about 'Sandra's. Those extra letters must really make or break the person.” In his ramblings he had given up on his fruitless effort to find celery. Yet he shouldn't be so surprised that The Canine wouldn't be a kitchen of modern change. He filled his arms with a bushel of tomatoes and then carried the pot containing the broth back over to where Cassandra had been stirring. A sort of panic set in as he realized he didn't hear the whisk anymore.

"Cassan- did you?!..." He set everything down quickly and hoped to be wrong. A grieving look of disappointment painted his face as the roux was a deep blackened pudding from burning. She seemed almost unaware that it had been an issue though, perhaps - was he in the wrong? He questioned himself as he prodded the dark amber roux. It was certainly burnt though a roux of this color would mean... "Why am I surprised?" Seiko spoke in a sullen tone. "Of course you knew more than I expected - It's not every day I meet a fellow gourmand. Blackening the roux will guarantee a velvety and stringy consistency." He was never one to turn down critique or advice for improvement, and so he welcomed her actions to the dish with gratitude. He hadn't had someone with a brain for food to cook alongside with in decades. Humans would try and have moderate success in the world of cuisine, but it couldn't compare to the palette of one who walked the earth for centuries. "Well then, let's make this a meal they won't forget!"

Enthusiasm sprung forth in waves, he had so much he wanted to ask - but now was not the time! They would be going to war together so he assumed there would be plenty of time to find out about her culinary past later on. “This will be better than I could have imagined, if it's alright then I'll trust you to the spices while I finish the seafood." Having ordered it himself he knew the canine had shrimp and oysters were probably in a brined jar somewhere along with sausage in the larder. "Cayenne, Allspice, Clove... I'm sure you know the other two spices. Seiko didn't want to come off as intimidating and respected her intelligence by not over-explaining common knowledge. He backed away and let Cassandra work to grab the broth across the kitchen as she nodded back in agreeance.

She required no direction at all much to his bewilderment, it still didn't feel real to meet someone with the same matched enthusiasm. It was almost upsetting to think they would likely never get the chance the cook alongside each other again. Tossing the seafood into the sizzling skillet caused it to cook quickly. The protein of this and the sausage would be more of a topping to the gumbo, cooking perfectly to tear apart at the touch of a spoon instead of becoming grey mush and lost in the stock.

"So assume you are with us now? Against the Templars I mean? If so, we will have to find another reason to land in the kitchen again. Everyone's stomachs will be thankful for it." His question was quickly met with a polite decline. It was a bold assumption to begin with, but Cassandra made it clear she wasn't on anyone's side but her own. There was little reason to invest herself in matters that didn't concern her, he often pondered it himself if war wasn't all he knew. Though again he was reminded that without bloodshed he didn't get paid. Despite that, today's events made it clear he was more emotionally invested then he cared to know. He couldn't have been more thankful for his cooking partner's attitude on the matter however. Regardless, it should not keep them from meeting over stovetops and cutting boards again.

Dismissing the thoughts, he aptly brought the conversation to the dish at hand. "I typically use Whiskey to deglaze the pan and reduce it into the roux. Care if I pick your brain on an alternative liquor to use?" He gave a look over his shoulder to see Cassandra reaching up for the spices. Just long enough to be assured she found everything before turning back to the frying pan before him. "I'd rather avoid the ire of pouring their prized whiskey into a pan."

His question was immediately answered by her musings, taking note of the prized whiskey before recommending a few liquors to deglaze with. "Cognac? Brandy?" Seiko pondered on the idea a bit. Such a contrasting flavor had him wonder what idea she was onto. They boasted such nutty and potent liquors, pouring them into the pan would surely add a burnt taste to an already burnt dish - like charred gingerbread. "Where have I heard of that before?" He asked aloud, not entirely expecting an answer but more so for his own self to mediate on the thought. It wasn't anything he would think to add into the pot before though he feared looking like a fool for questioning with nothing but his own ignorance as a defense.

"It sounds so... American..." He knew that most of the cuisine of this country was but interpretations of dishes from other parts of the world. Though, it was in saying the words out loud that he understood the familiarity. "Americaine!" He felt ecstatic at the idea, they would be turning the broth into a sauce Americaine before adding it to the roux. A novel idea, but he expected nothing less of the fellow chef. "You're brilliant! We are almost done here then..."

Efficiency raced through his mind. There wasn't much time and his hands moved in a blur to chop and refine onions into shreds. He quickly tossed the translucent slivers from the cutting board to the pan, and just as quickly produced a can of tomatoes to pour in as the heat was turned up to scalding. A second of hesitation would cause it all to go up in smoke. Absent-mindedly he answered Cassandra's question about the whereabouts of the Canine's whiskey stock and before getting back to work.


The pan came to an immediate broil and was quickly removed from heat. Spirits were poured over cackling shrimp skins, vegetables, and oyster shells. In it was a pure explosion of umami containing the brine and the potent flavors of the seafood scraps, the acidity of the tomato cut through the sting of the sea, and the sweetness of minced onion all swirled into the appetizing aroma of the hearty liquor. With all components complete he sifted and poured the deglaze into the broth and roux.

"Alright, now to taste our creation." It certainly smelled great, but he couldn't serve something just based on the aroma. "Cassandra," he beamed with enthusiasm as he produced two clean spoons. ”It's been an honor."

Typically, someone would wait for the piping hot dish to cool before sampling, yet there was no time for that. The sensation of searing hot food bouncing right past his tongue and feeling the heat slide past his lungs and into his stomach was one that he didn't tire of no matter how many years he spent on this earth. Without a single breath to cool it down, he loaded the taste onto his palette.

"Ah!" Seiko's pupils narrowed at the sensation the pure Umami of the seafood and heavily condensed flavor of the roux melted within him. Instantly the taste transported him far from the canine's kitchens. The fatty flavors of the shrimp and oysters enveloped him like the embrace of sea foam trickling upon your toes on a warm summer's day. It was quickly followed by the crashing wave of the whiskey's kick - painting the hues of his vision to a romantic palette. He could almost feel his heartbeat slow and muscles relax as Seiko embraced the taste.

"It's... this is pure magic... although... "


Seiko smiled to his cooking companion, "Well it's not gumbo - I'm not sure what we would call what we made but neither will they. The complexities will be lost on that crowd anyhow." He didn't let this disgruntle him too much. Regardless this was a meal he would never forget. "It’s a free meal so that’s on anyone who complains about originality. Thank you for your assistance. I can't imagine this is how you expected to spend the evening - though we should consider ourselves lucky. I can't remember the last time I felt myself this overjoyed."

Seiko tied up his hair into his typical low and loose knot before searching for a pair of mitts to carry the hot dishes out to the bar. A wash of bittersweet feelings came over him as he did, "It... may be awhile until we can enjoy ourselves like this again. Even if it be after the result of a bloody encounter - I'm glad to have found a bit of happiness here. Again, thank you - Cassandra..." he wasn't sure where the words came from, it seemed out of character for him to be so sentimental. "...and I don't believe the kitchen will have anyone coming in for a while - so have at as much of the top shelf whiskey as you'd like." He gave a friendly smile at the last bit.

"It's not as if I work here or anything."


 
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Cassandra Caldecott
Little Sparrow
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Seiko
DOING: Cooking?
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


The bar was far too dreary for Cassandra’s liking. The commotion of the new arrivals seemed to halt any festivities that she had hoped for. Now everyone was dreadfully depressed and wallowing over whatever they had come from. Now that would never do. Where was the high-spirited atmosphere she was promised? She did not want to leave, because that would end up most likely even more boring than staying. If she was here, she might as well explore the establishment fully. Drink still in hand she wandered, eventually finding her way into the kitchen.

“Well I never,” she said, the familiar dialect returning to her lips as if it had not been years since she had used it. The man before her had greeted her arrival without so much as looking up. It was a face that was hard to forget. What was with this city that she kept running into old acquaintances? Aren’t you just a long way from home,” she said, a small smirk on her lips as she took a sip from her drink.

まあ、私は決して

あなたは家から遠く離れています


Cassandra could not help the smirk that played upon her lips. Unlike Dutch, she was not keeping up any pretences. Seiko would be well aware of her deceit, at least Cassandra could assume he was after the items she had managed to get away with. Cassandra did not feel the need to pretend with him as she had with the cowboy.

Holding the edge of her skirt, the vampire gave an elegant curtsy with the raise of her glass as he recalled upon the fake name she had passed when they met. “I am rather surprised nobody expressed their confusion upon my arrival. Too polite for their own good I assume.” Cassandra had not tried all that hard to keep up appearances at the time, enjoying seeing how far she could push her limits. She had also not been fully fluent in the language at that stage yet either, she had been biding her time really.

Walking further into the kitchen, Cassandra still sipped at the glass in hand. “Such a shame,” she said, leaning up against the countertop as Seiko proclaimed that there was little to steal. “Potatoes are not all that worthwhile, but no matter. I am sure there are more valuable things around.” Value was not always important to Cassandra, sometimes she just took things for the sake of it.

“I’m a traveller by trade, not so surprising that I wound up here eventually. You on the other hand? Peculiar,” she said with another slight smirk. She had never pegged Seiko for one to stray too far from home. Then again, she supposed that being immortal made adventurers out of everyone eventually.

“What are you making?” she asked, curiously peering at what was bubbling away in the pan.

“Ah, the fallibility of time,” Cassandra said, leaning against the countertop slowly sipping away at her drink as he confirmed her suspicion. Time as an immortal tended to drag on. The world continued moving, and time was inevitably going to change things. One must always be adaptable.

The woman that looked a lot younger than the years she carried let a short giggle escape her as her company recalled the situations in which they knew each other. Her time with the Emperor was a time of reckless abandoned. She had not been trying to get caught perse, she had just been curious as to how far she could push things. “Would you believe that members of his staff helped me carry the screen right out the entryway?” It had been easier than she had thought to take. “When you are as short as myself, people often jumped at the opportunity to help carry things that look much too heavy to carry on one’s own,” she stated with a smirk. “The shoes? I merely thought it would be funny,” she admitted. “He was – oddly protective over them? He unintentionally made it into a challenge.”

“But, oh, I’m sorry that he made you all barefoot because of it,”
she said as she was holding back another small laugh. “Though, I wish I had stuck around a little longer to see it.” It would have been a funny sight for sure, but it would have been less than safe to push it even further than she had already by that point.

She looked at it all bubbling away as he described the meal of the evening. “It sounds – interesting?” Cassandra was not entirely sure what to make of it, but she would try it at least. Although she would need a meal of a different kind soon enough, no doubt, this would do fine for now. “I will gladly lend a hand where I can,” Cassandra said, although she had never really had much experience in the kitchen. It could not be too difficult, right?

“Of course,” she said, graciously with a nod as she took the whisk from him. As he turned his back, Cassandra looked at the pot with worried confusion, having truly little confidence in what she was doing. Stirring, it could not be that hard, right? Surely this would be the extent of her assistance in this cook. She gave a shrug to herself and sipped at the drink in hand, letting faux confidence take charge.

The short vampire gave a small laugh as he brought up her name fake again, “doesn’t it just,” she said with a flourish. Queen Priestess did have a nice ring to it. She would be sad for the last existence of it to dissipate. “But no, you are right, a little too much for now. Cassandra Caldecott is my given name. Do with that what you like,” she said with a smile.

The vampire gave a small chuckle. “Our extra letters make us more dignified, to be sure,” she said as she continued to stir the pot, keeping her mind focused on the task she had been given. “There is a long list of names of people to avoid, you are rather lucky to not end up on that,” Cass said with a smile. She had travelled a fair bit in the world, and there were a fair number of people to cross paths with. She was sure to have ended up on other people’s lists of avoidance. Cass supposed that it was the only way to make it through the world safely. Though her list was longer than some, it was better to be safe than sorry.

In the time as her mind wandered with thoughts, her hand had stopped whisking. Trying to concentrate on the task at hand turned out to be more difficult than expected as Seiko called out questioning her lack of skill. She was about to stumble out an apology, but before the chance had come to her, he expressed that she must know more than she had let on.

Cassandra knew little to nothing about preparing food, and surely the burnt mixture was not what he intended. Either he believed her to honestly know what she was talking about, or he was playing a game. Well, if that were the case, then she could indeed play along. “Of course,” she stated, confidence radiating from the short girl, “I thought I could help you enhance your dish to be the best possible creation it could be.”

“Truly unforgettable,”
Cassandra said, the false confidence filling her voice so naturally, no one would be able to tell the difference. Leaving the pan, that was now apparently perfect, she allowed Seiko to continue, embellishing her apparent skills and giving her more tasks to handle in their joint cook.

The short vampire nodded her head, “absolutely,” she said, as she turned to try and find whatever spices he was asking for. She had heard some of them before, but that did not mean she knew what they looked like. She looked through the shelving pulling jars to investigate and finding herself a little more out of her depth than she realised. No matter, it did not really matter to her if she got it wrong. The situation would be rather funny no matter the outcome at this point.

Climbing up the shelves so that she could reach a little higher, people that worked in this kitchen were obviously a bit more height advantaged than herself, she pulled jars, not even really paying much mind at what they were. “These shall suffice,” she said with a slight smirk.

Keeping herself balanced as she climbed the shelving just a little higher, Cassandra look as if she was looking for something specific. However, she was merely curiously inspecting whatever odd things the jars contained. Cassandra had no real knowledge of the spices and was actually a little intrigued by what was stacked upon the shelves. It was not particularly ladylike to be climbing in such a way, a memory of being scolded by her mother for such an act at a young age flittering in her mind as a reminder whenever she did, but occasionally it was a necessary circumstance.

“Oh sweetie, I’m not with anyone but myself,” she said, not even looking up from her perusing of the shelving. “I don’t particularly trouble myself with whatever war this century has thrust upon us.” The Templars. That name had been thrown around for a while now. If the aftermath of this evening was anything to go on, it was clear that it should not be taken lightly. It, however, was not a fight she would partake in. It was not her business to be caught up in a war that had no impact on her.

Climbing down from the shelf, a few jars in hand, Cassandra gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, “that does not mean that we cannot cook together again. Would not want to disappoint our adoring fans.” She was sure that this meal would be one that they would never forget. A silly little thing like taking sides should never interfere with her having a little bit of fun.

Placing the spices down on the countertop, her face almost let the confusion linger. Deglazing a pan? What did that even mean? “Do they have any Cognac? Though I do suppose that any Brandy would do,” she said, catching herself before she could slip up. She had no idea what she was talking about, but as eloquently as the words left her mouth, anyone would believe she did.

“Prized Whiskey?” she asked, her mind already ticking away if she could somehow get her hands on that. It sounded delightful.

The approval of her choice seemed to ease only after a short moment of confusion. Seiko was rather excited about the prospect, and the blonde vampire nodded along as if there should never have been any doubt in his mind about her skill in the kitchen.

“Of course, darling, did you expect anything less from me?” she said with a coy smile at her supposed brilliance, as she sipped the remnants of the drink in her glass.

Cassandra continued to watch as his hands worked, finishing up the rest of the meal. Her brilliance of lying was going to pay off in two ways. Either the dish was ruined by him entertainingly blindly following her suggestions, or by some miracle, her touches were somehow on point. Still, he should surely figure out eventually that she had no idea what she was talking about. If he did not know of his own accord, would she tell him? Not likely.

The short vampire eyed up the barrel that was pointed out to her. Interesting. Now she could take a glass and be done with that but taking the barrel could be more fun. It would also take a little more planning on her part, however. She mulled it over for a moment before her attention was regained by Seiko as he finished the creation they had been working on.

The dish did not smell offensive, so certainly that was a good sign, right? Taking the spoon, she gave the slightest of curtsy in his direction, “As to you, Seiko.”

Taking a small portion on her spoon, she held it up, “Bon Appétit,” she said, though she waited for him to try the concoction first.

It seemed safe? Seiko appeared to enjoy the mouthful, and there seemed to be no ill effects after he had eaten it. The man had more culinary understanding than she ever could, so really she had no reason not to trust his judgment on it, it was her own judgments on the ingredients added that had her apprehension. His statement that it was pure magic was the moment she decided it sounded good enough to take a chance on, but as the spoon entered her mouth, his ‘although’ made her hesitate. Was he going to call her out? No? It just was not a gumbo.

The blonde smiled as the flavours danced across her tongue. It did not taste half bad, which said a lot. Interesting flavour. She was sure she had never had anything like it before. Although her diet did consist of blood more often than not, roaming the world seemed like a waste if one was not going to partake in the delightful cuisines that countries had to offer. Although she had heard that her sense for the taste of it would not have been the same if she had been her mortal self, Cassandra had little experience with culture before she had been turned that she had no way to honestly tell the difference. It was still delightful. Tasting it was far better than attempting to cook it. So even though this was a first, or rather an infrequent occasion, she had enjoyed herself immensely.

“Anytime,” she said, a soft smile on her lips, still carrying on the façade that she had built up. “No, it was not how I had imagined my evening going, but I can’t say that I did not enjoy my time in the kitchen with you Seiko.”

“Happiness is in the moments you make, dwelling in the misery does no one any good. We can make them even in the darkest of times, you proved that this evening.”
Cassandra never put herself into moments of war for the very reason that it was no fun.

The short blonde gave a smirk as he suggested she could have as much whiskey as she wanted, not that she needed his permission. They would not likely miss the barrel, would they? “Thank you, Seiko,” she said, “I shall see you again shortly.”



 
Kenna Mac Amery
Incendiu
health bar
WHERE: Heading home
WITH: Bjorn
DOING: Breaking down - - - > Exhausted
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:



The night was dragging on, and the young beast found herself relinquishing herself to the booze to numb her mind, ignoring the rest of the crowd. To her relief, they had given her the same courtesy. That didn't seem to last, however. Just as Kenna lifted her head off the table to scan for another drink, Jack made his way over. Turning away, Kenna avoided him, not wanting to talk to anyone, and least of all him. Her eyes drifted to the cup that he placed before her. She was tempted to ignore it, but the need for liquor outweighed any other emotion she was feeling. Ignoring the words spilling from his mouth spoke, Kenna reached out and took the glass. Just as she had done before, she downed the drink as quickly as she possibly could. Slamming the glass down on the table, she pushed the glass back in Jack's direction, resting her head back down on her arm.

Words kept spilling from his mouth, his attempt at an apology, his self-deprecation leaking through. This is not what Kenna wanted. She did not want to listen, she merely wanted to sit in silence, letting the mindless chatter of the barkeep her thoughts at a distance. It seemed that she was not going to get that. Jack had to say what he needed to, to get it off his chest. Avoiding his gaze, the young beast turned her head to bury it in the crook of her elbow as she tried to block him out. He thought he was cursed? Showed how little he really knew about her.

"Please, stop," Kenna said, finally lifting her heavy head of her arm. Her eyes finally looked up at him, a cold glare in his direction before she turned away from him again; his battered form was a harsh reminder of what Beau had done. "I'm not the one that needs protecting, Jack," she said, her head shaking. Kenna could not blame Jack for protecting himself, Beau was out for blood, but she still found it hard to process what he had done. Worse still was the guilt eating at her insides for the part she played in it. All of this led back to her. It was her fault.

Kenna slouched in her seat, avoiding looking at the Mephisto. He tried to explain that he had blacked out. Kenna knew that he hadn't been himself. She had seen it in his eyes, but it didn't change the image of him losing control and slamming her brother into a wall. The conflict of not wanting to blame him for stopping her brother's rampage and feeling the hurt of seeing her brother injured in such a way hurt her head. "Please, stop," she mumbled as he stated that he would sacrifice himself for Beau. He wouldn't even need to if it hadn't been for her. Beau shouldn't be with them in the first place.

"Just stop!" she said, slamming her hand down on the table. "It's my fault, okay!" she yelled, turning back to the man that was filled with misplaced guilt. "Beau is in this mess because of me. He hurt you because of me. So just shut up!" She couldn't stop herself from yelling.

Kenna rose from her seat, a small stumble in her step as she steadied herself. "I can't do this," she said with a slight shake of her head, her voice broke quietly before she made a beeline for the exit. Needing to get out of there, she fled. There was no reason for her to stay. Kenna couldn't stay. It was making things worse for everyone. Ignoring the commotion behind her, she ran out the door, fleeing to the streets still darkened by the night that seemed again like it would never end. Her eyes quickly glance in the direction of the road that would lead her back to Maeve's house. Turning away, Kenna headed in the opposite direction. There was no home for her there.

Ticking away through the alcohol in her mind, Kenna tried to think where she could go. The number of holes she could hide out for a night around the city was plentiful, surely, she would be able to find one, further enough away from everyone but close enough to at least last her the night. It was the best plan she could come up
with, and for now, it would do.

Folding her arms across her chest, the young beast kept walking.

The pounding footfalls on the ground behind her had become too familiar over the past few days; Kenna knew who was coming before he called out her name. Her pace quickened, trying to avoid any confrontation with Bjorn, but it wasn't likely she was going to outrun him. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Surely he could see that she needed to leave. It wasn't safe. It would all be better for her to be on her own.

Arms still folded defensively across her chest, her feet kept moving, not even turning to face him.

"You would run away from a challenge?"

"Yes," she muttered, no hesitation as she kept her eyes focused on the road ahead of her. "Just leave me alone," Kenna said, her lip quivering. This was too much. He should just go back to the bar and forget that she had ever knocked that stupid roof tile on his head.

"Then your brother is as good as dead."

The words echoed in Kenna's head, her footfalls faltering as a jolt ran up her spine, stopping her in her tracks. Before her feet could keep pushing her forward, Bjorn was in front of her, his large frame blocking her escape. He held her in place, his hand resting on her shoulder, stopping her from fleeing. Kenna attempted to pull away but quickly gave up, realising that it would not be that easy.

Bright blue eyes avoided looking up at the beast as he tried to convince her to stay. It could not be that easy. Although the offer to stay was a tempting one, the risk far outweighed the benefits. Keeping her face stern as he knelt before her, levelling so their eyes could meet, Kenna tried to retain as much composure as she could. Within she could feel it all starting to crumble away.

"No, you don't get it!" Her voice began to raise as a small quiver broke her resolve, taking a step away from Bjorn as the frustration and anxiety bubbled over. "It's not, it's not safe." The panic filtering through her voice was making it hard to form her sentences properly, to explain herself in the best way to make him understand that it was better for everyone if she just left. A whispered bubble of hysterical laughter broke through as she shook her head. "I do trust you, but I," the laughter tapered off, "I can't stay," she said as her lip quivered slightly, looking up at the tall beast in front of her.

"You don't get it," she said, holding back the tears, her defiance holding ever so slightly in refusal to let them fall. Kenna knew she needed to explain it better, but she didn't quite know how. Her brain wasn't working the way that it should. "I can't stay here. I nee - I need to keep moving," she mumbled, "I always have to keep moving." It all started coming out in a rush, unable to hold her tongue, "I need to move. I always have. We always moved. Always."

"It's what we did."
The distant memories of her childhood flickered through her mind. It felt like a lifetime ago, and it no longer felt like hers. "It's how we stayed safe. We moved all the time. All the time," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

"And then we didn't." Darkness flowed through her voice, pinpointing the moment where everything changed. "We stayed in New Londontown. We stayed there, and they left. They left to fight in a war that they had no business being in," Kenna said, anger started settling into the pain. "They never came home. They left me behind, and they died." The hours she spent looking out the windows waiting for either of her parents to come home.

"I moved with Kathrine and and Beau because it wasn't safe. Everything burned, and we had to leave. Maeve smuggled us out because nothing was safe, and we had to keep moving. We stayed in Boston, but even that wasn't long. We kept moving because Kathrine was doing, I don't even know what. I thought I knew, but I was wrong." Kenna knew she was going to have to come to terms with the fact that she may never know what Kathrine was really doing.

"We made it here, and we finally stayed because it was finally supposed to be safe, but it still wasn't safe. It's never safe," Kenna said, her voice and breathing becoming panicked. "We had to hide. We had to stay quiet. Beau had to watch his mother die, and there was nothing I could do." Tears started to fall from her eyes, and she hated herself for it. Her face hardened as she tried her hardest to stop them from falling. "I did the only thing I could do, I took Beau, and we kept moving because that's what I do! I had to keep him safe. But I failed," she said, her lip trembling before her brows hardened into a scowl. "And don't you dare tell me that it wasn't my fault because it was," she yelled, shoving Bjorn's chest. "I failed at the one thing Katherine asked me to do. I promised her I would keep him safe, and I failed. We stayed in one place for too long, and that was my fault," she tried to steady her breathing but was failing. Pulling away from the massive beast, Kenna turned, avoiding his gaze, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. "I was so tired, I didn't want to keep running," she admitted for the first time out loud. "And then they – Fuck," she screamed, grabbing at her head.

Shaking her head, Kenna turned back to Bjorn. "I should have left days ago. What happened to Jack, to you, Beau again! I can't do this. I can't stay," she said, her body trembling as she took another step away from the older beast. "I am going to find Beau on my own, and then we are getting the hell out of here."

It would be the best thing for everyone, for her to leave and for them to forget that she even existed. Seeing her brother tonight had been enough of a reminder that staying for too long would only cause those around her heartache and pain. It had served its purpose to remind her of what she needed to do. Using her sleeve, Kenna wiped the last of the lingering tears from her face, about to turn and flee, expecting that he would just let her go. Bjorn seemed to have other ideas on the matter. He stepped forward, his arms encircling her in an embrace.

For the second time tonight, the young beast could not escape the man, his arms holding her close refusing to let her go. "Let go," Kenna yelled, her breathing ragged and raw from the outburst. Pushing against his chest, Kenna tried her hardest to squirm from his grasp. "Let go of me," she continued to scream, her fist beating against in her desperation to leave, but he wouldn't let her go. Kenna's screams turned to sobs as she grasped on to his shirt tightly, her body giving up as her head buried into his chest. His words held little comfort, though that wasn't what he was intending. He was honest with a truth she already knew. Nowhere was safe. No matter where she would run to, no matter where she hid, they were never going to be safe. Even if by some miracle she did get Beau, she was at a loss of where they would go next. Beau deserved to be protected.

As his arms tightened around her, the young beast nuzzled into his chest, the comfort of his embrace was warm, and as much as she did not want to admit it, it felt safe. As much as the safety of his homeland seemed to offer, Kenna couldn't accept. She needed to save her brother, she couldn't leave him there. Bjorn was right, she wanted to fight, and maybe staying with him was the best option, at least for now. He pulled her chin up to face him, her eyes, still red and streaked with tears, were hard with fire. "I want to watch them burn," she said. Although she held the unsettling feeling of staying deep inside her, Kenna was becoming limited in her options. Learning to fight in the war was seemingly inevitable. For now, Bjorn held the closest feeling of safety to do that.

Kenna's head slumped forward, the weight of the evening falling heavily on her, exhaustion seeping into her bones. "Can we go home now?" she asked in a whisper.

Hugging into Bjorn's side, Kenna gave a tired sigh. The adrenaline slowly lowered, leaving her with more exhaustion to top off the rest of the evening. Proclaiming that they had to return to the Canine to retrieve Jack before returning home, left the teen rolling her eyes with a heavy sigh. "Fine," she muttered wearily. There was no escaping it. She had hoped to avoid it for a long as possible, but it didn't seem likely to happen that way. She did feel bad about the way that she had lashed out at him, and the guilt settling in her stomach left her quiet for the short walk back to the bar.

With a heavy arm on her back, the large beast ushered her inside. Kenna did not go in any further than she had to. Doing as she was asked, Kenna held the door, waiting for him to collect up the passed out Mephisto. Kenna held back slightly, the guilt chewing up her insides as the tiredness settled into her lids as they made their way back out again.

As much as she had wanted to run off, a nice warm bed definitely had a calling to it. Rather than walking the distance home, Bjorn opted to lead them to the trolly, of which she was rather thankful for.

"Tonight we sleep, little one. Tomorrow, we make plans to destroy the empires."

Sitting down beside him, the girl tucked her feet up on the seat, curling into his side. "I like the sound of that," she said with a slight yawn.



 
Nascha
Black Sun
health | bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Esther
DOING: Conversing
CREDIT: @peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:
Nascha was not one for casual acquaintances. For acquaintances in general, really. She sought out those with wisdom, learned from them, and went on her merry way. Patients were treated with brutal efficiency and minimal interaction as well… so to be sitting here, at a bar, surrounded by the upper echelons of immortal society when ordinarily she kept to the shadows was daunting. Then again, it was simultaneously less horrific than she had spent years thinking it would be. Case in point; the vampiress who defended her nakedness to the barkeep seemed more than willing to converse companionably with her.
Much the same as it had been with Jack, Nascha found herself instantly--even if grudgingly--admitting that she rather liked this woman, based on little more than intuition and instinct alone.

The keen amber of her eyes scanned over her current companion as the woman quickly denied a need for aid. Nascha had met plenty of reticent patients in her time… as it happened, most people did not immediately take a fancy to a naked woman, covered in dirt, offering to heal them with what appeared to be mud. She’d learned to take inventory of a person and their maladies by keen scent and sight to compensate. Should a prospective patient be lying to her, Nascha had never been above adopting the cowboy art of wrangling the metaphorical steer to the ground and insisting they take their medicine.

A deep inhale through parted lips, with flared nostrils, had her breathing in Esther’s scent with careful attention to all the subtle notes it contained. Her brows furrowed, intrigued and confused. There was something to the cocktail of aromas that did not sit right with her, something reminiscent of ozone and sulfur, but she had no experience in vampires and the infernal ticking beneath everything else remained a staunch reminder of that. Drawing any sort of conclusions about her, therefore, was impossible.

There was also, curiously, a distinctly familiar scent around Esther that Nascha knew exceedingly well… the blood of animals. Somewhat musky, thick, and yet decidedly free of the impurities that were commonly associated with humanity. It was passing strange to scent on a vampire… or maybe not, who knew how their bodies synthesized and integrated the blood of their victims. Regardless, it was knowledge worth tucking away to explore later. Nascha would have to make a point of seeing if she could find another vampire with which to compare.

Aside from this distraction, though, she had to admit that there were indeed no glaring signs of fresh injury wafting from the intriguing brunette. Deciding to therefore take Esther at her word, the healer subsided into a more relaxed posture in her seat, the very picture of languid feline relaxation save for the brief quirk of an eyebrow at the mention of tiredness and the hesitation that followed afterwards. “Well, I’m glad you’re unhurt from tonight’s fight, besides a bit of tiredness,” she said at last, though she followed it with a sharp chuff and a flicking of her eyes to the broom and then back to the dappled forests of Esther’s eyes, “But I think you’re being too modest. You kept yourself from harm with just a stick and that substance, there’s certainly more than luck involved."

There was a moment of hesitant confusion before Esther’s eyes seemed to clear and she mimed the act of throwing the powder. Nascha’s eyes brightened and she nodded emphatically, leaning unconsciously nearer with a keenness as Esther named it.
“Cinnamon…” Nascha murmured, rolling it on her tongue, gleeful delight quickly suffusing her countenance. “Where does one procure this ‘spice?’ It does not seem as though it would fit the wares normally offered by arms dealers and traders,” her nose wrinkled slightly at the thought of the odious gunshops she had ventured into that reeked of charcoal and sulfur. She much preferred her bow and spear when claws and teeth were not an option.

Lost in her musings, it only dawned on Nascha dimly--and late--that Esther had not initially bought the cinnamon with the purpose of using it as an armament. This only served to inflame her curiosity further. “If you hadn’t anticipated its effectiveness as a weapon, what did you intend to do with it?” her head canted curiously to the side, eyes glazing as she recalled the brown cloud on the air and the pungent scent that had come with it, unable to imagine other uses for such a potent thing.
Absent fingers curled about her glass as she brought it to her lips, downing the vodka without even tasting it, hardly aware of the barkeep quietly replacing it, as she lost herself to trying to envision alternative scenarios. She came up empty and so relied on pinning Esther with a curious gaze instead.

There came a shift in body language, then. The vampiress angled herself towards her in the manner of curious, conspiratorial, clandestine conversations and Nascha leaned eagerly into it, eyes sparking. The vodka was already loosening her usual inhibitions somewhat, enough that the thought of partaking in an information exchange and pleasant conversation did not have the usual aura of hesitation surrounding it.

That Esther’s interest pertained to Nascha’s designation as a healer came as both a surprise and a delight to her. Not being one for conversation in general, having this one steered towards the singular subject she was well versed in came as a relief. Besides, learning the practices of other healers had always been something she strived for, and it dawned on her that vampires--with their immortal lifespans and general need to embroil themselves in civilization to feed--would likely have an abundance of knowledge for her to put to good use.
“Yes, I’m a healer,” she reaffirmed, unable to stop the small scoff that came at the mention of universities and sterile tools. “Do you know what laudanum is formed from?” she demanded, not waiting for an answer, “Opium, and opium comes from the unripe poppy seed. Everything physicians utilize and tout as the modern answer to illness is directly linked to that which we find in nature, that which healers like myself have been using for time untold and have learned to distill for increased potency without relying on synthetics,” her nose wrinkled, thinking of one particularly odious ‘doctor’ who had stared down his nose at her like she was some uneducated savage when she’d tried discussing the matter with him. As it turned out, for all his boasts of ‘modern medicine,’ he still died all the same from the poisonous tincture she had stuffed him with. “I find they have a penchant for dismissing healers that opt to work with the natural world--as though their fancy named potions aren’t just manufactured versions of what us naturalistic healers utilize.”
Her eyes flickered as she recognized the rant she had been about to descend on and softly cleared her throat, “They have beneficial knowledge, I’m sure, but the ones I’ve met have been terribly conceited. I make a point of trying to engage and learn from as many practitioners of healing arts as I can--to expand my own skills--but I’ve yet to meet a physician who didn’t peer at me as though I were a fool… though admittedly I haven’t met many.”
She shrugged and took another sip of her vodka, shaking off the lingering anger that came when she thought of her interactions with them. “I would be very interested to meet any other healers you may come across, if you find any. And I’m happy to help you however you may need if you do find yourself feeling unwell, we could maybe even talk a little more about my methods if you were interested--though of course I can’t give away everything. I’ve been told that my methods are somewhat crude, but they are effective… if rather non-traditional.” More than that she was not comfortable divulging to someone who was little more than a stranger.
Unfortunately, with the mention of her lack of traditional methods, the memories of her family, of the black spirits and dark whispers she had called on in order to be made more efficient, bubbled to the surface. As did the memory of her banishment… for doing nothing more than striving to be better. Nascha quickly downed the remainder of her second glass.

“I’ve never really talked with a vampire before,” she said briskly, passing a critical eye over Esther, “You smell strange. I’m curious what life is like as an undead creature that subsists on the life of others.” She lit up with a sudden thought, grinning at her, “You ought to come to my shack at some point, perhaps we could find a way to hone the efficiency of cinnamon as a weapon and discuss these things more without the adrenaline of a fight hanging over us. I’m sure Jack or Maeve could give you clear directions to find it… admittedly a shack in the midst of a graveyard can be a little difficult to locate but they managed it well enough.”




 
Bjorn Thorburn
Úlfhéðnar
health bar - 75%
WHERE:Brass Canine
WITH: Kenna
DOING: Going Home
CREDIT: Aenaluck
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon


The walk back to the Canine was thrice as long as the Alpha remembered. In theory, it wasn’t far at all, if one were to compare it to his jaunt from the Harpy’s home on the far side of the city’s core. But, with considerable aches and a fair share of throbbing headaches, a good beer was most certainly further than he’d like. Not to mention Kenna at his side, her smaller legs not allowing for much more than a snail’s pace, even in the rain.

They remained silent for the trek, and even when they did finally arrive at the tavern, the young girl briskly made her way through the doors and to the bar without so much as a second thought. Bjorn, on the other hand, took his time to survey the large room, his eyes starting at the top, watching the horseshoe-shaped upper floor railing before lowering down to the booths and tables around. There were not many here, not like usual. Many likely hiding after the commotion, laying low out of fear. Those that remained were the lot who seemed indifferent to what fate had in store for them or a defiant regular who would be miffed not to have their daily ration of preferred poison.

The large brute gazed over at the girl as she stole Maeve’s drink and whisked herself away to the furthest booth in the back, slumping down. He would let her have her time. For himself, Bjorn moved to the bar and ordered himself a large mead--to start him off for the night--and released a long, weary sigh.
He felt a coolness glide over the back of his neck… like a fog brushing against the cheek on a crisp autumn morn. And then… that smell. Bjorn’s shoulders immediately bristled, his upper lip curling in disgust as his countenance furrowed. The Mephisto…
Without preamble, the slender figure of Jack Fletcher stepped next to him at the bar and placed himself an order… two glasses. The brute rolled his eyes. He knew where this was going,

“The boy-”

“You did not kill him if that is what plagues your corpse.” Bjorn gruffly cut him off. With a venomous leer, Bjorn held Jack’s gaze for a long beat before taking his mead and leaving him to cross the room, sitting down next to the Harpy.

Next to the newly appointed ‘Queen’ of Beasts, the Alpha scoffed and glared subtly in the Mephisto’s direction, eyes keen as Jack took his offering to Kenna, and sat across from her. It was difficult for him to explain, but there was a knot in his chest that he could not break… something like jealousy. But that was preposterous. He had little to feel jealous of when it came to Jack; he detested the man for the war he brought and the inconvenience he wrought on their sanctuary… that and his entire being was blasphemy. So why was it, when he had first learned that Jack had befriended the orphan girl; had read her stories until she slept soundly and felt safe; did he steal her away from them all for an entire day without purpose?
Maeve managed to pull his thoughts away for a short time, but not his ears. He could hear them, every word. It wasn’t going as Jack had planned. The idiot corpse wasn’t as smart as he looked. He tried to let Kenna make her own choices, to not intervene--he was not a parent, nor a babysitter--but it became more and more difficult to hold conversation with the Harpy as the one between those two broke down.

“Beau is in this mess because of me. He hurt you because of me. So just shut up!”

“Kenna!”

The Alpha snarled in agitation as he slammed down his drink, leaving his conversation with Maeve hanging--not likely to any surprise by the slightly smug look on her face. His full attention given to Kenna and Jack, he slid out of the booth as the young girl fled, Jack in toe behind her. In a few long strides, he was able to catch up to him,
“Gone and stuck your nose where it don’t belong!” he boomed, the whole establishment stilling once more, and this time not from the Queen, but her unofficial second-in-command. When Jack spun around, two large hands grasped him at the collar and threw him aside carelessly, “You’ve done quite enough for one night, Rotter.” Bjorn warned, his tone dark and even, and very much a threat that would pin Jack in his place. A warning, ‘Do not follow’.

With force, Bjorn flung open the double glass and iron doors of the Canine, pacing out onto the street with conviction in his eyes. He should have sat that idiot down when he had the forethought. Jack had brought more than enough trouble for them all-- and seemingly more for Bjorn than anyone else. When he saw him eye up the girl, the first thing he should have done was pull Jack aside, tell him to keep his mouth shut, and sit him down with Maeve. Instead, he’d done the exact opposite. He let his guard down; maybe a part of him hoping Jack could somehow ease her mind--the Rotter did seem to make a good rub on her at the house, after all.
His deep green eyes narrowed to the darkness of the witching hour, adjusting from the glow of electric and natural lighting that coloured the southern city streets. A bitter growl rolled in his chest. She wouldn’t go to Maeve’s, the girl had been looking for her escape for days.
Instinctively, the brute turned the opposite direction, the thick and fresh scent of the youthful young girl hanging heavy in the mist that remained from the storm, humid. Her blood was prominent; easy to follow. Sure enough, peering far enough into the distance he could see her lithe figure stalking away at a swift clip. With a quick jog, he caught up to her with ease, “Kenna!” he called gruffly, coming up on her six, “You would run away from a challenge?”

“Yes,” was the muttered reply. He’d only just heard it over the sound of his anger rising. The Brute had just about enough,

“Then your brother is as good as dead.” He called after her, his voice ricocheting off the buildings and becoming swallowed by the shadows.

Hardened eyes watched her as a growl started in the depths of his diaphragm, curling into a snarl as it reached his tongue. Bjorn’s movements were effortless, time and age having honed his supernatural abilities. Silent and faster than the youth who had yet to fully meet her puberty, Bjorn slipped around her in two fluid steps, stopping like a wall in Kenna’s path.
Hazel eyes had darkened under the shadows of night, but became richer still under his own inner turmoil. The Alpha couldn’t explain it anymore now than he could earlier in the day… but he couldn’t let the girl leave.
A hand reached outward and grasped her by the unwounded shoulder, holding her in place,
“If you respect honesty, I will be the one to cut you to the quick,” eyes narrowing, “It does not matter that you weren’t strong enough to protect him then. What matters now is that you are strong enough to get him back. Understand? If you leave now, you will lose every opportunity to kill the one who has him and bring him home. You lack discipline, you’re weak. But you have focus, little one, and you have a fire that could burn this city to the ground.”

Slowly, Bjorn lowered himself down, kneeling on one knee, levelling his eyes with Kenna’s own, “If you want to see Beau safe, I will help you, but you must trust me… and you must stay,” He muttered, the hardened edges of the Alpha’s gruffness smoothed, the closest Bjorn could get to a semblance of gentleness, “The Templars will not hesitate to corrupt him further and throw him into war as a tool to their agenda; throw him against you. Every second you walk away is a second with him you will not get back…. It is not your fault he was taken. And it is not your fault you couldn’t bring him home, but it could be,” The beast sighed. Often a man of few words, Bjorn cleared his throat and stood, dropping his hand from her to cross his arms, “Now, you can go weep and feel sorry for yourself, or you and I can have a drink.”

He watched, let her rabble, let her cry, let her scream. Bjorn wasn’t completely without empathy, but only insomuch that he was a beast too, driven by the feral and most raw of emotions. Even as his eyes watched her his pupils began to blow out, a tingling of hyper-awareness of her power ebbing against his skin. She had all the makings of a warrior Queen, the likes to rival the Midnight Jackal; borne out of devastating tragedy and no knowledge of how to control her craze… Bjorn would teach her. Shape her with the tools she needed to maintain her sanity, her edge. Mercia had been right to lose her humanity, feelings were dangerous… but the cost was also her eventual downfall when mated to Kestrel Paradin. Kenna wouldn’t suffer the same fate.

The Alpha stepped forward, grasping her firm--but not unkind--and pulled her into his embrace, sliding his arms around her. A simple hug, not asking for anything, just holding her for as long as it would take. He was an ancient, a man of exceptional patience. He’d outlast the growls and squirming, outlast the tears and screams, the pounding of his chest demanding to be released. Bjorn would hold her as long as it took for her to calm her racing mind and thundering heart, long enough for her to understand that if she needed stability, needed to feel safe, this was where she could find it.

He was prepared to wait out her hysterics all night, but even after a few long minutes, as her body began to lose the fight, the brute pressed words of wisdom into her hair,
“After 800 years--fighting wars, betrayed by my own men; after watching our Gods die at the hands of mortals--I know one thing to be true: There is no safety in this world, Kenna. Those of us that want to be safe hide, pretend to walk among the human race, forsake who they are… even you know that isn’t guaranteed. Jack knows…”
As much as he detested the Rotter, he couldn’t deny the man may have survived with his mate, had they never left New Londontown. Bernardo had survived centuries under the guise of mortal man, as best as any of them could only to be drawn into the war by his love for Jack Fletcher, “So long as there are Templars, and other forces, that wish to see our kind vanished from the Earth, you will never be safe. You will run to the day you die,” He sighed wearily. It was a wretched feeling to be so honest, she was much too young to have seen the things she’d seen, to have lived through the trials of war, “We must kill the terror at the source, or risk the extinction of our race.”

Inwardly, he groaned to think of offering it…but there were only two options left for her. Unconsciously, his arms squeezed a little tighter, protective around her, enjoying the feeling of warmth of another body against him, “My homeland… is the safest place on this Earth, Incendiu. It is a harsh place, cold, hardened by fierce frost. A land that struggles to survive and yet we have deep forests and thousands of miles of ocean that surrounds us. No mortals live there, only my clan; beasts who have lived the Old Ways. Mortal explorers know of us but have never conquered our land. You would be safe there, and I could take you…” His voice quieted to a low, soothing rumble, “Or, you stay with me. We fight together and bring the Empire to their knees, so we all have our freedom. So you and Beau never have to run again.” He loosened his hold around her just enough to slightly lift her chin, peering down into her eyes, “We are all running, Kenna; from armies who would kill us… Jack from the nightmares of his loss; Maeve from her guilt, Seiko from his past life… You don’t have to run alone.”

She seemed to consider all this, meeting his eyes. The fire in her was bright, a flame with fuel that was ever long and would not be doused so easily, “I want to watch them burn.” she said.

He watched her, felt the ire in that tone, banishing the rest of her tears, and Bjorn smirked, chuffing a small breath, “That’s my girl.” he muttered, a sprinkling of proudness in his gruff baritone.

“Can we go home now?”

The Alpha gently nodded to the girl’s request, and wrapped a heavy arm around her shoulders, drawing Kenna close to his side as he steered them back towards the Canine, “We have one last thing before sleep, and his name is Fletcher.”

As much as Bjorn was not in the mood to babysit, he wasn’t going to be able to wheedle out of helping Maeve with the Mephisto this time, and Jack had taken more abuse than he could bear. While he would have made the bloke sleep at the bar, it was apparent there were little places safe from harm for the Englishman, so Jack was better left to their collective protection and watchful eye. With any luck, he’d die on his own accord very soon, without the serum he needed on hand, and maybe then they could all be relieved of some stress.

Luck would have it that they didn’t have far to walk, only just down the street to the infamous immortal tavern. As they neared the front doors, Bjorn slid his arm off Kenna’s shoulders and pressed a large, weathered palm against her spine. He ushered her just inside the door, shadowed eyes scouring the room under furrowed brows. With a snarl, the beast sniffed him out, the bloke passed out in a booth.

“Hold the door for me.” He grumbled.
The Alpha was quick to scoop up the frail Mephisto in his arms, easing Jack’s broken body against his chest and a nod in the Queen’s direction when Bjorn caught Maeve’s eye. Few noticed their departure otherwise, and as he slipped out the doors of the Canine, he settled on the idea of riding the trolly home, the walk would be much too long for these two weary souls, and Bjorn wasn’t in favour of carrying the girl on his back.
Glancing down to her, the Alpha smiled to himself, a feeling of ease and righteousness settling in his chest. He would get to spend more time with her, and while that fact alone was startling for the old beast, he felt a sense of purpose at long last, and a drive to see her find glory in the wake of all she had lost, “Tonight we sleep, little one. Tomorrow, we make plans to destroy the empires.”



 
4Casv71.png
Elias Laertes Brandt
J u d a s
h e a l t h | b a r


WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Lucas
DOING: Leaving
CREDIT: Zara
PLAYLIST:
axPLraY.png
There was an easy, languid, grace to his movements as the vampire sauntered down the halls of Paradise. Between an exhaustive romp the previous night with Holly, a deep sleep by her side, and then a pleasant breakfast this morning… Elias was feeling profoundly less on edge. Of course, less did not mean ‘not at all,’ and the serum in his pocket felt as though it were searing his skin… even through several layers of fabric. It made it impossible to direct his thoughts away from the brunet with the haunted eyes and the bearing of a wrathful King for long. The memory of their encounter in the alley sat like an itch at the back of his mind, a constant reminder that his mission would now carry him back into the brunet’s sphere… would take him to Jack Fletcher, the Key, Mephisto, the man who tasted like the sun.
A swirl of gooseflesh rose over him in a wave and the blond shivered, idly pushing roughened fingers back through his hair as he worked to collect himself. He had his marching orders, his plan. He would go to The Brass Canine--a known bastion for immortals--and see if he could find Maeve Donovan, the Harpy, Queen of Werebeasts. With a little luck, the vial would be enough of a sign of goodwill to grant him access to Fletcher, or at least buy him enough trust to work his way up to that. Though he--
Elias Brandt? Mes étoiles chanceuses!*

The clear, trilling, voice sent a bolt of malaise rocketing through the German’s very soul. He knew him. Knew that voice. Had heard its sweet whispers a hundred times over in his nightmares.
“Durand…” he said grudgingly, reluctantly, feet coming to a halt as he slowly pivoted to face the Templar. He was just as Elias remembered; lithesome, beautiful, almost ethereal with his long white-blond hair and immaculately soft skin. The vampire could still recall the velvet feel of Lucas beneath his fingers, the hush of silken strands of hair over skin… and his whispers, the poisonous truths they had revealed.
Now, now, don’t look so put out! Lucas chided him in sugary tones, wagging a finger artfully at Elias as he came to a stop before him, I’d heard you were assigned to Paradise and the mission, so I was hoping to run into you sooner or later! he sidled nearer, peering up at him through thick, dark, lashes, We had fun, the last time we tangled, and I was thinking--
“No.” Elias growled out, immediately regretting the harsh quickness of his answer as Lucas’ brows raised and his elegant hands found their place on his hips.
There’s no need to be so abrupt with me, mon petit monstre,** Lucas whispered, his angelic features falling into a mournful expression that had Elias at once wanting to scoff while also feeling strangely nauseous. I just know how very burdened you are, what with your guilt over causing your daughter’s death and all, the Templar blew out a woeful sigh, And I--
But Elias did not hear him after that, not really.
The nausea was rising, his ears crackling, the world seeming to stretch into a long hollow tunnel of torment and pain. Marie. He could still hear her screams as though it had happened a moment ago, rather than centuries past. Could see it all so clearly… And it had been his fault, all his fault. If he had been stronger, better, if he had only done something differently… His eyes squeezed shut tightly, drowning out the world even if only for a minute, feeling the insidious black hands of Judas wreathing up and around, strangling out the agony, even as Marie’s screams transitioned to ones entirely different that were also impossible to forget…
Oh dear, did I touch a nerve? it was asked in the softest of tones, tender and full of a caring that made Elias feel untethered and uncertain. Instinct and a longing to see the brunet again--to see if his madness had been temporary or not--drew him away from Lucas, but some other unnameable something urged him to stay, perhaps a perverse sense of self-hatred.
“Not at all,” was what he managed in the end, not particularly convincing, though the vampire strove to straighten to his full height, softly clearing his throat. “However, as you already know, I have been commissioned by Eden itself to retrieve the Key and I--”
Oh yes, yes, but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and all that, hm?
Elias twitched as though electrocuted. Jack. Even contained within a classic proverb, the sound of the name was enough to startle him, his clockwork organ seeming to tick a little louder, a little harder. It only added to the swirling miasma of his mind, everything in him yearning to turn and walk away… save for a small, stubborn, foreign part that reminded him of the mindlessness inherent in pleasure; of arching spines and broken breaths shared in ecstasy. ‘Forget, forget, give in and forget,’ it seemed to whisper… all while under the dancing hazel of Lucas’ keen gaze.
“I…” his eyes fluttered shut, struggling against the temptation, and then it swept over him… ‘Fiend,’ whispered breathless and yearning in his ear. His stomach seemed to drop, the fall leaving him breathless, and the prasiolite cleared from hazy uncertainty to his usual level decisiveness. “Perhaps some other time, but I do not have the luxury of entertaining you at the moment, Lucas.” Before he could risk changing his mind or losing his nerve, Elias dipped his head in a perfunctory dismissal and began to turn, offering him a brisk wave, “I’m sure you have other things to do anyways.”
With his back to the other man, the vampire decidedly missed the way the genial expression on the Templar’s face winked out, replaced by something cold… abyssal deep and dark, calculated slyness slipping in, even as he called after the German in a voice as honeyed as always, I do have my little projects… but I’ll be sure to tie you down next time, you can count on it!

The instant Elias stepped into the dark, cool, night air of the New Orleans streets, he felt… cleaner. He inhaled deeply, feeling his shoulders begin to relax as he increased his pace, shoes clicking smartly against the pavement as he headed in the general direction of The Brass Canine. He rather expected that as he neared, it would begin to become rich with the mingled scents of many immortals… at which point he would hardly need to worry about directions.
Idly, he cracked his neck one way and then the other, lips grimacing briefly as he worked carefully to push the uncomfortable memory of his encounter with Lucas to the back of his mind. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why the scrawny mortal could make him feel so strange, but he wasn’t keen on examining it deeply… not now at any rate. Instead, he stalked the streets with a leonine grace, once more becoming achingly aware of the vial against his breast, pace quickening with anticipation… maybe it was foolish, but this was the most he had felt outside of despair in as long as he could remember… and Elias intended to chase this high for all its worth.
“I’m coming, Fletcher,” he breathed softly to the air, his smile toothy and wicked.

* my lucky stars
** my little monster



 
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S E I K O 島崎清子
alias: Kirin
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Jack and Maeve
DOING: Escorting Jack to the Canine
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

"Excuse me - sir. Do y'mind to leave that lantern burning?" she requested in a weary voice.

Seiko had not even seen her, in fact he would have left the bar normal as ever should she had been silent. The revelry of the night had ended and he cared not to know how late into the night it had become as he snuffed the lanterns out of courtesy. It wasn't really his place to have any sort of authority, the fact that she asked in the first place struck him as odd even. It likely was more of a command framed as a request, he realized and had reason to deny this request.

His heavily lidded eyes met hers, instantly recognizing the sweet red pools of a vampire. It certainly was not an unwelcome kind here, but a blood-drinker typically wouldn't keep themselves here any longer than they had to. He gave a solid nod and gave a warning as he stepped a foot out he door, "The light comes in pretty strong from that window in the morning, take care not to fall asleep there. I wouldn't-..." He stopped himself midsentence. The mind of that woman was far from this bar, he could say anything at all and he could see it would easily go through one ear and out the other.

No matter how dark the night, morning would inevitably come and his journey would begin anew. It was a bit surreal, as the light pollution from New Orleans made it normally impossible to see any stars at night. A city that never slept took a deep rest this evening, and his eyes were aglow much as the night sky above as he walked alone to his apartment.

His bed never seemed warmer than it did when it was very far away. When he wasn't in awe of the starry night, he was dreaming of a nest of blankets with his name on it. The apartment was a solitary home, and while Bjorn may have shared the abode more often than not they missed each other completely most days. He preferred it that way, and Bjorn likely did as well. He pried open the lock and slid open the door to flick his view over the common area. No one home, just as he figured it would be.

He felt as if he had not been home in weeks after today, arriving home to see that everything had stayed the same inside the humble abode despite the ravages outside brought him a sense of comfort. Looking around, there wasn't much to see. There were few furnishings in their common area outside of the kitchen and a table with benches that Bjorn built. The countertops and cookware had seen a lot of use, but the table hardly did at all. The two used to share meals and drink over it, until they both realized they weren't ones for conversation. It was little more than a glorified mailbox now, consisting of notes, materials from Bjorn, or meals from Seiko. Still, he couldn't help but notice his roommate kept it free of dust despite its lack of use.

Seiko's bedroom looked exactly as one would think it to be, minimal - you could even count the furnishings on one hand. A simple bedroom containing little but it's namesake, just as it should be. Little time was ever spent in this room outside of sleeping. He undressed and lit a few cones of red currant upon the incensory, a soothing scent to help him dream peacefully after a long day.

There was a sort of peace in the Canine that night, while he couldn't help tend to wounds he was delighted to have seen nothing but delighted faces as he served meals. Even those that didn't eat made him smile to think of... or perhaps it was just one person who didn't eat - Jack. He hadn't seen much of him once arriving to the Canine given the state of his body - but he remembered escorting him away from the bloodshed, holding him up and helping him walk, and the look of thanks as was recued from that wretched vampire.

Goodness, he was a man obsessed. His eyes grew heavy, yet his blood rushed with a lingering warmth when he thought of Jack. He could almost recall the feeling of his arm across his shoulder and the tender frailty of his touch and- No, he shouldn't be thinking of him this way. Though, he instinctively looked around almost as if to remind himself he was alone. Surely it was just an infatuation, having been deprived of contact for so long it was only natural he would cling to such interactions, maybe it was okay to smile when thinking of him...

...and maybe it was okay to dream of him as well.

▸ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ◂

That next morning he awoke early, almost excited that he could be awake. He felt mostly healed outside of a bit of soreness in his shoulders. The thoughts of last night seemed almost comical upon the clarity of morning sunlight, but they had given him a sort of happiness he did not have often. He could recognize that he should be thankful for that, but given his orders to bring Jack back to the Canine first thing in the morning... well, he couldn't deny he was just a tad giddy in anticipation.

He used the extra time to break his fast over some sliced apple and tend to his appearance. Long curtains of black gold framed his face before being placed into a knot at the nape of his neck. He once again adorned himself in a vest and pea coat same as the night he and Jack met. The majority of wounds from yesterday's scuffle were gone, only the severe ones leaving a small white trace upon his dewy skin. Yet the fresh scar upon his cheek remained fresh as yesterday. Just thinking about how he had let a miscreant like that mark his face filled him with disappointment. He would never forgive himself for being so foolish, and just the same that wound likely would never heal.

It didn't take long to arrive at Maeve's estate. With a skip in his step he helped himself inside and made his way to the usual spots Jack was found. Seiko felt unstoppable stepping around the halls, that was until he saw his liege reclining in his study. It was comical really, how a man could dance with death one night but be too timid to ask for attention the morning after. He fumbled and fretted over the best way to greet his companion, taking in his surroundings several times to ensure no one could see the visual of him in panic of such a minuscule action.

He settled on a simple knock of doorframe, praying it would be enough without him needing to press further. Seiko thanked his lucky stars as Jack turned to acknowledge his presence with no contest, it made Seiko beam instantly. Goodness he was really off the deep end wasn't he? Had Jack known Seiko spent the night thinking of him? It wasn't uncommon for the immortal kind to have phenomenal powers resting within them - Damnit, he was being paranoid now. What stage of infatuation did that one happen in?

"You're looking better, what happened? - I've... seem to lost time since last night." Jack questioned as he leaned forward.

"I would say the same to you, my li- Fletcher." Seiko composed himself, he couldn't help adding the title out of habit despite knowing Jack wasn't keen on being referred to as a liege. "It would take a lot more than the scratches from last night to put me out of commission, so don't ever fret about that." He stated this with mixed feelings, hoping not to be called out the new scar upon his cheek.

"Hope you're in the mood for a bit of a morning stroll, we've business at the Canine. Though, I am a bit early - so don't feel rushed." He smiled as if he had done something nice, but both men were aware it came at the price of leisure. "I'll tell you what I recall of last night on the way," Seiko offered to help Jack with his effects if needed and then respectfully awaited him in the foyer after his liege declined. Ragged and weary as he may have been, he could walk fine for the most part. His choice of wardrobe for the morning did well to hide the wear and tear on his body.

"That color, it looks nice on you," The words escaped his mouth before he could think to stop them. He turned before Jack could say anything or feel obligated to say something nice back. He didn't feel it to be too out of character, but definitely needed to ensure he didn't make a habit of such behavior. "Though I'm not paid to give you compliments, let us be on our way."

Just as he promised, he delivered a retelling of yesterday's events to his liege. He apologized for a lack of information as to what happened around the Canine after he left, but not much was expected from the introvert. Upon their arrival to the front doors, he did not see the woman who asked for the lantern to be left on. Though it was still aglow, creating a light for the empty tavern. A small sound of shuffling papers gave away that Maeve was in her office.

A grave feeling grew in his stomach, for Maeve to go straight behind her doors without tending at all to the tavern's estate was certainly telling. He hadn't exactly expected pleasant news from this meeting, in fact his mind had been so full of daydreams that he hadn't expected anything at all. Bleak reality toned down his rose-colored eyes and the brief respite came to a halt.

He looked to Jack, motioning him to follow - "I'm... I'm sorry." Seiko found himself apologizing in advance, not even he knew what for. Perhaps it was for his own ignorance.

 
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Virgil Bedeau
Fantôme
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
DOING: Being a Bother
WITH: His "Protégé"
CREDIT: WIP
Ztars&Moon.gifIt was a… strange sight? Perhaps not quite. Brilliant? Possibly. Divine? To folks of far greater gods-fearing faith than he, maybe. He’d never thought to find a word for it before.

Virgil exhaled, folding his arms over his chest and leaning a shoulder against the wall by his side as a gesture that might lend him momentary respite. The alley he’d taken refuge in was made dark by the stretched shadows of buildings sent crawling over the city, and the streets snaking past it bustled with the haste of late-evening wayfarers, quite keen on finding home or a place to call it so for a time. There was plenty there that vied to capture his attention, but even the chatter of humanity’s retirement alongside the light of day wasn’t enough to tear him away; he had eyes only for what lay above. Somewhere there, amidst a curtain of color and clouds, hid the very sill of this world.

“Smitten by the promise of a great unknown...” he spoke to the mass of black feathers that weighed heavier than usual upon his shoulder, opposite of the wall. “You’ve been overeating again, haven’t you?”

“Scraaaw…” Horatio cooed, with what seemed to be a touch of humanlike timidity.

“Not sleeping well? Felines in the area being a bother? Just feeling overindulgent? Or...” Virgil cast a sidelong glance at his companion, one corner of his lips curling upward in amusement at a thought of whimsy. “Having trouble with wooing a little raven lass, are we?”

“No!” was the guttural reply. There came soon after the restrained prod of sharp talons into his coat, but even they did little to deter his impish spirit.

“Easy now, I understand. No need to be so shy… little raven lad then, is it?”

A face full of tailfeathers was the only manner of farewell that he received when Horatio took to the sky, making an ascent up and over the buildings until he was out of sight. Virgil supposed that he deserved it, and while his sense of amusement remained on high for a time, the curl to his lip eventually began to fade. In truth, he’d know not what to do without Horatio. The raven’s intelligent company was often all that kept him from a slow and steady descent into a pool of somber thoughts and theoreticals. When alone, he easily became lost to meanderings of his own mind.

His gaze soon returned to its former place, heavenward and distant. It wasn't often that Virgil attended sunsets. He waited, and after some while found that the sky of dusk's hour reminded him of fire; a bright blaze that set alight the black and blue above. This fire's sparks were the stars, for those he could see clearly in their pursuit of the sun, and at its base, making a retreat over the border of a muddled horizon, was a warmth so pure that it could encompass the world.

At least he imagined it to be so. Perhaps they were mere musings made by a wayside observer, detained of a chance to glimpse the picture in its true totality. Virgil wondered there, looking up at what he could of the sky as it dimmed, if instead it weren't unlike the dying of a vast hearth; glowing embers that brushed the undersides of clouds in gold and gave way to rolling velvet, beyond which was only an endless expanse of slowly darkening ash...

"Oi! Ye mind movin' it, chum?"

Virgil was none-too-delicately eased from elsewhere by a voice that grated like boulders caught in a landslide. The man who bore it stood twice as wide as himself and held a mug of ale in one hand, spilling over at the rim to dapple the ground with froth; one might think he were a stalk set against a harsh wind with how much he swayed, very much in spite of being built like a brick wall. In fact, as he looked the fellow over again - who was doing his best to appear daunting without losing his legs beneath him - Virgil realized that he appeared to be of the nefarious seafaring sort: bushy beard, weather-beaten skin blemished by sea salt and sun, exposed arms and legs bearing tattoos that only a black-hatted tide rider would recognize... he was also in possession of a face that seemed to have suffered scurvy once or twice and never quite recovered. The man may have well been plucked right out of a fireside tale, one a 17th century seaside maiden might tell her children to keep them from straying too far from home.

He was quick to shed his withdrawn, upturned gaze in favor of a more shrewd and subtly roguish stare leveled right at the fellow.

"Sorry, I was a bit absorbed in thought, but do tell - how'd you know my name was Chum?" Virgil asked, set so fixed in place that he could have been a part of the masonwork.

The drunken man screwed his face up in confusion as a response, but only for a moment. "Yer name is… Choom?"

"Chum, with a long 'u', but just to you and only insofar as we've been speaking, my good fellow. Seeing that you know mine, it must mean I know yours and have simply forgotten… 'Benjamin', was it? No, no, not quite..." Virgil raised a hand up as the man began to speak, brows knitted together so tightly it was as though he were considering a matter that weighed life or death, then clapped both palms together with a certain resolve. "Something tells me 'Brick' hits the nail on its head."

It truly was a gamble of scarce odds and even lesser winnings, for he knew many took taunts to be ill-willed, no matter the level or lack of sincerity behind them. The longer he searched the glazed over eyes of the broad lad, the more inclined he was to believe that a heavy-handed blow would be sent his way, but like the flick of a switch, the man's face suddenly grew bright with merriment and wide with a semi-toothless grin.

"Ha! Only the best of me mates call me Brick," Brick said, extending a sturdy yet swaying arm out towards Virgil. "Though I don't much 'member where we's woulda met."

The faint murmur of a chuckle nearly rose to the back of his throat. He'd been hoping at best for a quip in reply, an exchanged word, and mayhap they'd go about their own ways. The amends to his expectations made by chance kept him rooted. "A quaint and quiet place called Drunkard's Alley. Newly established, in fact." With a push off the wall, Virgil reached out to clasp the other man's forearm in his hand, offering it a firm grasp and a shake before the release. "Taking your leave of the Canine?" he asked, making a motion toward the other side of the street.

"Just fer the night! Too mild fer me tastes, an' the barkeep's a right distracted bloke." Brick took a swill of the black slush in his mug, a mustache of thick foam lining his upper lip when it was once again lowered. "Fancy a carouse about town? Me and me boys don't mind a stowaway from time to time."

Seemed he could still call a pirate from miles off. "Were it not for a waiting companion of my own, I just might have obliged. Though if there were to be a next time-"

"A next time that ye won't forget 'til ya fill yer pint too full one too many times, mate!" Virgil had to duck and weave away from a stray splash of ale as Brick threw his arm wide in excitement, and the grin he'd been keeping concealed finally made its appearance, ridding him of the last of his solemnity. At least he couldn't say circumstances weren't interesting. "Should yer plans change, look for the Tilted Flagon, down in one of me personal favorite places: Storyville. Some o' the best rum to wash down yer gullet can be found whereabouts. The brothels're dandy, and women there don't bite 'less ye want 'em to, savvy?"

The man's rotund belly heaved with the onset of howling laughter as Virgil made way for him, and with a wave of one hand over his shoulder, he began a stumbling trek down the alley. Brick... what a curiously carefree fellow. He reminded the ex-corsair of companions he'd leaned towards the company of when he favored nothing more than the bite of harsh winds at his face, the grain of a slick deck underfoot, and hundred-foot-high waves at the fore waiting to be toppled. An oddly familiar feeling that they'd see one another again moored itself at the back of his mind as he turned to glance at his own intended destination: The Brass Canine.

With the sun set in its slumber and day's veil coming to a close, Virgil was able to cross the street to the establishment, peering up at its swinging sign in a manner not unlike the way he'd peered at the walls of La Lune. Behind his eyes was a cold, perpetual flame; to believe he were there on impulse alone would be to deceive himself. He'd watched the battle of last night's former, witnessed the weight of bitterness on the shoulders of its many contributors as they'd deserted the scene, left to linger there on the air. No doubt he’d have been able to taste it if the rain weren’t already washing it away. It had all been a very strange way to subscribe oneself to a host of paperwork and politics, he thought, because what other purpose had the battle truly served outside of a grandiose, altogether unnecessary showing of strength? Neither side had come to learn much more than they might have with ears and eyes set within the right walls. If anything, rifts were exposed like open wounds of the weary; both sides seemed fickle within their own fellowship, and he'd wondered if at times they were kindred only in their dissent.

His pondering had piqued when afterward, during the schism in time when things were quiet and the medics had yet to set to work, Virgil walked among the mess. Templars were a nasty sort, but when he saw how many small bodies lay littering the dock and guided his consideration to those who robbed them of their futures, he was reminded of how truly composed of grey their world was.

An unpleasant itch crawled up the marred surface of his back and he was soon pushing past the Canine's front doors to leave it behind. He'd never forgotten. Word of the night's potential at this particular place may have reached him, but what of all that business was his when he had an old confrère to find first?

Brick had been right - the bar hadn't yet found its proper level of festivity, sparsely strewn with cliques of frequenters or the occasional drunkard. The mood bore no symptoms of severity brought by the company of queens, consorts or confidants, but he knew it to be only a matter of time; he was not yet aware of what was happening beneath the surface. Instead, the lights glowed dim and smoke lingered in the air thick enough to wade through. An uninspired band of four took up the small stage of the room, playing a lethargic rendition of Dave Brubeck's 'Take Five', and an old man who could've found the bottom of a keg with how many cups were strewn about him was hanging loosely in his chair. Further, tilting well into the personal space of a buxom young lass seated on the other side - who was quite welcoming of the forward affections, it seemed - was the very kid he'd come hoping to see. Virgil wondered with an easy grin just how long his luck would last.

It took him no time at all to weave past the collection of tables and find his place near the two, leaning with cool composure against a lonely stool.

“Tsk tsk, Casanova. You know no bounds… this must be the fifth one of the night!” He spoke first to the dark-haired youth behind the bar, and then, to the young lady, “I must know out of morbid curiosity, dear, if his endeavors at charm are proving to be irresistible.”

Her eyes found him for a moment of speculative regard, and he knew when she turned back to Marcus that it'd take nothing more. "Well, they were..." With a wink and a finger extended to gently brush the bottom lip of her could-be inamorato, the vixen rose from her seat, turning tail without a second glance.

Virgil quietly made the woman's former place of residence his own, took her abandoned drink in hand, then raised it between himself and Marcus so that he could peer at the younger vampire from over the rim. Rye whiskey would do nothing for him and was far from his preferred taste, but the glass could serve a futile purpose; hide the grin all he might, his eyes shone a gold that were laced with mischief, as bright and playfully bold as ever.

"Think it was something I said..?"

 
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