Realistic or Modern 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕣𝕠𝕒𝕕 𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕣.

[mother of sorrows]

┊❛ 𝐀 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐕𝐓𝐌𝐁 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 ❜┊​

A story about four vampires trying not to find their final death in Detroit, the year of our lord 1999.

YAEL CANTEROVITCH, the Ventrue that will never get to enjoy the luxury she dreamt of.
WESLEY TAMAGAYA, the Sabbat-escapee that is tired from running.
SIBYLLA, the Malkavian that sees more than they should and talks to onions.
LOTHAR GODFREY, the head-strong Brujah that knows more of swords than flipping burgers.

 

[mother of sorrows]

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝟏. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦...

It is not just you. The moon really is growing bigger.

 

[neon reverie]

click!

Sibylla

lost in our minds

location

Night Road Diner

outfit

interactions

Roddy, Barbara and Otto

tags

mother of sorrows cavitea demonology

Can you hear it

Rustling robes of a reaper; ebony tendrils seeking, stretching like limbs. Screams of the innocent bounces off the walls , powerless in being heard and fruitless in being answered ; the darkness closes in, and the sword swings. A prophetic glimpse shattered as easily as it was assembled; somewhere, mania cackles, louder than anything else. Gone. Gone. Gone, a voice whispers, crying about everything and nothing. They exist as one of many – too many — and thus, have become prone to remain untouched, fated for the void — except, something clings to still hearts.

Pale fingers brush against skin, lowering to the place where eternal silence resides in crimson. Head tilting, Sibylla tries to untangle the strange sensation within; the knotting that should not be there, the stirring disturbance in the sea of souls. Was it a sense of panic? Gone. Gone. Gone, it echoes, again, this time defeated. Sadness. Sibylla can’t shake the emotions, even when they travel from a source that can’t be found. It paralyzes the Malkavian for a moment, feet tethered to stone like chewed gum to underneath surfaces.

Black feathers screech, pupils thinning—

Roddy nibbles on flesh, pulling one from their mind and reminding them of the time that ticks on and on. Next to them, a stranger curses. “ Other are trying to fuckin’ walk here bitch” Eyes widen slightly in realization, but moreso in remembering their purpose than their hindrance. Right. They were on their way to the diner. Sibylla looks down to their rodent companion nestled in their pocket, petting the creature on its head.

“A wise mind speaks. Let us continue the journey.”

And so Sibylla moves on, the prophecy drifting away into oblivion.

Chiming of the bells announce their eventual arrival at the Diner; the place has slowly become a constant in their life, almost as much as the headless voices. It was about a month ago that the owner offered them a place of activity there— something to keep the years interesting, they said — and Sibylla, boredom sunken in bones and wayward between worlds, accepted.

Only a few matters has happened since then; they got promoted as server, then demoted as their way of speech sent some customers shoving some breadsticks in their purses and bolting, then promoted to teller of fortunes with a side of horror performance (or so it reads on a card), and now, they even occasionally concoct beverages. It is not that eventful, but Sibylla supposes it is not bad. They got to meet some new people, though they haven’t interacted much with their fellow job brethren.

Still, some friendships blossomed.

Comfort settles in the stomach as familiar worn booths and flickering neon signs fill their sight. Familiar companions greet them and they respond;

“Pleasant Eve, Barbara. You look quite dapper today, Otto”

in the mind, a table nods and a pepper shake blushes.

Sibylla turns to greet their greatest friend here, eyes wandering to the table where he sits.

“Lovely evening, Alb–”

the words hang in the air, unfinished. An empty spot battles them, the botanical shaped comrade nowhere to be seen. Gone. Gone. Gone, a voice haunts, telling. Flashes plucked from the deep depths; maggots crawl, thunder rattles the ground, curtains fall—

Goodbye.

Sibylla’s scream pierces through the walls.

maniac

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

click!

yael

michelangelo

location

Night Road Diner

outfit

interactions

Sibylla, everyone

tags

you already know

burnt coffee crisp

The form before her was chiseled, as though it always existed underneath the tons of stone. It simply needed to be plucked from it. Her eyes wandered, as they always did when she snuck away to the Metropolitan Museum, but not even the prettiest capturings of Aphrodite could stray her away from the creature before her. Massive, the statue loomed above her, vaulting overhead so high that the reflection clouded her vision. Marble whole, carved dutifully, this was a man, she recognized. This is God, she thought, gazing too and from the stone arms to her arms. From the stone legs to her legs. Crafted much the same as this looming thing, she too was simply plucked into existence. Her pupils swelled, and her neck hurt from looking up. Then, her father called her name, and the moment passed.

That night, her brother had left. The date plucked at her, as God had plucked her into being, as Melchior had plucked her from God’s hands and thrown her into someone else’s. Today is the day, she thinks dimly, tying on her skates and adjusting her pinafore. She spots a coffee stain on the sky-blue cap-sleeve of her uniform and tries to rub it away with a bit of saliva. Huffing, Yael stands before quickly slipping and crashing on her ass. For the fifth time this week, her tailbone huffs at her.

She takes this moment to sit on the floor, to study the recycling bin housed underneath the sink, and to envy the simple, yet exponentially free life of the spider climbing alongside the blue plastic. Her knees curl up and into her chest, rolling backwards easily on the hot-pink wheels. She looks down to see the white laces have also been stained by coffee. Sighing, Yael rests her head on her knees, surprisingly childlike in this moment where only the spider watches.

Behind the lash-curtain of her eyes, the memory plays. This Michelangelo, this Ares, this… art. His hand was calloused and familiar, but only upon touch. He had glowed with renewal, with undeath. He loomed, just like the statues at the Metro, and she shrunk away. This was her brother, she had thought, and she listened to him reasonably, despite her trepidation. In awe of his reappearance, of his ability to gain something higher than godly existence but instead one of art, she had been deceived. Rather, she had been convinced.

“Foolish girl,” she mutters, looking at her dainty watch-face and winding it up before her shift begins.

Five times. Five days. Five shifts in a row. Already, after only three weeks, this life wears on her; it is by far the worst one yet. No, she reminds herself as she white-knuckles the blue-plastic chair, getting herself into a standing position. Her knees bent, arms spread wide as an eagle’s. She is a deer in headlights, though all she wants is not to fall and scrape her knee again.

Successfully, she moves towards the mirror on the wall next to the clock-in apparatus (she still refuses to learn its name). Tucking tawny tendrils behind her ear, she realigns her sparkly, pearlescent hair clips so her bangs have a mod-twang to them. Overall, she’s given into the whole retro theme of the diner, finding that her hoarder-habits and penchant for the 1960s has given her a leg-up in this job. She’s already learned that the old timers, particularly the regular widows who find solace in a cup of coffee and midnight pancakes like their wives used to make, are the ones who give plentiful tips when provided nostalgia on a platter.

However, her expression in the mirror only reminds her that, Yes, you hate this. It’s a fact well-studied by Yael at this point, so she practices her smile and decides to just leave it at that.

Just as she’s sticking her timecard in the machine, a great scream breaks her false mood, shocking her, and causing her to fall. Scrambling back up, she knocks over a condiment cosy, a pan, and a bottle of oil.

”Circkets!” A spatula joins the deceased, alongside the onion. ”For fuck’s sake…”

Finally, she is up. She huffs a flyaway piece of hair out of her face. A horse clomping to the front of the restaurant, Yael plants a hand on her hip and the other on the counter.

”Did someone die? What’s all the screamin’ for!”

jukebox

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[cavitea]

click!

lothar

dawn of the crusaders

location

Night Road Diner

outfit

interactions

Yael, everyone

tags

the meat

sancta simplicitas

“What foul fate has befallen such an Eidolon as yourself, Dame Lothar?” Words laced with meager concern sharpened themselves and stabbed into the bandaging skin of a warrior. Rolls of linen wrapped tightly around the blooming streaks of crimson down forearm and side, a proud collection obtained from the tournament being held.

Milky strands stuck weakly to skin in the drying aftermath of haunting screams and belligerent cries. Red stained there too, diluted drops from splatters like pox on a babe. Still the figure wrapped themselves, pulling callouses along cloth until a tightened chest and bound arms gave a relief of safety. a sense of victory came steadily to cracking lips, dullness only seen in motions to stand and replace the heavy metals that encased them all.

Metaphoric, they thought, slipping gauntlets along hands, helm along face. The stench of iron tasted bitter behind the shell they stepped into; it was suffocating, hands wrapping knuckles tightly along the Adam’s apple they didn’t have.

Lothar was there, in the moment, comes palatinus in a heart stopping quest for justice and divine truth, an embodiment of the rage of the divine. They dropped knees before altars, clattered steel along marble in the crooning comforts of their mind; appealing desperately towards something higher about their fate, their purpose. It was all Lothar could do at this point, all they could manage after fate struck them wrongly and pulled their thread from the tapestry of time.

“Ageless,” the daughter of a duke whispered meekly, pressing unworked hands along the gaunt cheeks. Velveteen curtains could hide their escape only from the eyes of humans. Throbbing and weak they had succumbed to the life they were bound to leave, drifting through grains a forlorn warrior alone. It circled back over the years, over the centuries. Hands trailed themselves thoughtlessly along the tales of better days, weaving their time into the thief that stole them away.

Castles crumbled, societies rose.

Lothar still lived.

A slab of meat was their new enemy.

Bubbling and crusted, the slaughtered remains were a mocking site to the one fiercely wielding a spatula. “You’ll never defeat me, foul beast” it taunted, wriggling between the holes of the modern sword as they pressed down. A resounding sizzle was the closest thing Lothar had found to a battle, sloping shoulders pushed uncannily forward as the routine of the years pushed a shockingly dismal bell curve into forming what they could of the meat. It was never really useable but the customers timidly ate it after meeting sullen eyes and sunken cheeks through the kitchen opening.

Candy stripes decorated the hat and apron snugly worn; they were the set of armor they could attend to during each monotonous line of onions, and lettuce, and stagnant tap water. Sinful wastes on heretics, bitten back from bruising lips, wasted on a glance towards the floating forms of others.

Once there had been a girl who looked like this wraith before him, the daughter of some marquis that spoke sweetly over warm bread and mulled wine. She trampled produce and pans to venture at the scream brought on by one they connected to in age. Both were interesting products of their times, silent observations gliding in their own adaptations of the play they all endured.

Sighing, Lothar moved hands along grease-covered knobs, leaving his foe of meat to writhe in growing blackness. Hands reached and grabbed at fallen objects, squeezing too hard on produce until the acidic scent teared at eyes and prompted a brief comment tossed through the pass-through.

“Yael, the produce has not been so trifling to deserve your fate.”

Squinted eyes moved to the owner of the scream and a settled expression. Surely, surely it couldn’t be for the reason they thought.

jukebox

♡coded by uxie♡