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

[CosmicDusk]

Cecile Bellerose

Ember

health | bar

WHERE: La Lune
WITH: No One ⇀ Cassandra Caldecott
DOING: Reminiscing ⇀ Entertaining
CREDIT: Milica Jevtic
PLAYLIST:

Thoughts clouded Cecile almost all day, like a dull blade running down her skin. Blurred images scattered about, mumbled words mixed themselves like an old hymn from the church. Her fingers trailed over the edge of the bookshelf. Hebetude grew from remaining idle for too long. For some time now, she debated with herself of tending to her forge, but recent events drained her of any creativity or motivation she needed. Neatly arranged papers piled like mountains on her desk, but it was not enough to tide over the long hours ahead of her. She was diligent in her reports, keeping them up to date as much as she could while honing her smithing and fighting skills. The forge was always hot for her, licking up every bit of creation out of her and bringing it to life. On the other note, gratefully, there were a few vampires who would visit her from time to time just for sparring. It was also one of the few ways for them to comfortably approach her should they feel it would be a worthwhile risk to seek an audience with her.

She sighed.

A spar was enticing at a time like this, to draw her away from dreadful thoughts; however, she needed to recover her energy from the events that transpired at the docks. It had not been long since that night, and today the manor was anything but beamish. The day ahead was expected to be procellous from here on. After all, the Queen of Beasts herself reached out to her on the previous day to address the matter on the Templars. There was not a point Maeve made that Cecile could have disagreed with, and they must be prompt with their plan if they wish to take down the Templars. It was undeniable that the metal-clad soldiers were growing in ranks and strength, and the sight of children, while it was less called for, was sheer evidence of their upcoming plans. They were desperate.

Another sigh left her, and Cecile finally dragged herself out of her office.

The manor was alive, despite the early evening. Among the handful of servants under her employment, there were various vampires who volunteered to assist in the preparations for what was to come. Their anxiety was evident in the quivers of their state when they first approached the Vampire Queen just mere hours ago. Yet they were eager and determined, and she could not possibly turn them away. She welcomed all the help she could receive from her own kind. As rare as they came, she was thankful her own ranks grew in numbers, too. There was no denying the effect the Paradin Twins left behind, but that was not enough to falter Cecile to the rubble. She would prove all of them wrong.

Even if it ultimately took her life.

However, she would not see the end of such life until the Templars were taken down. She dare not let them slip away again.

The scent of honey wavered across the great hall, the sweet smell of pastries fresh out of the oven wafted all over the manor. Something skipped in her stomach, and before she could stop herself, her feet charged, gracefully as they could, for the kitchen. The chef already vacated the facility, but a platter of sweets and bonbonniére were placed at the wooden table as if he knew she would arrive sooner or later to ravish his delicacies. Normally Cecile would laugh about it, but her sweet tooth tossed out all thoughts and judgements, her fingertips once armored with several metallic accessories designed to incite harm if need be in secret trysts now clattered into a ceramic dish before they took hostage of a creamy, stick bun. Steam escaped, riding the air current as the flaky crust split in half, honey trickled down to the pink center. The golden piece passed pearly fangs, damp tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth so that she could savour its essence. A sigh of content vibrated in her throat, and a second piece was quick to follow. While the activity around her did not lessen in their pace, they dulled to the background, leaving her in a state of temporary euphoria.

​

The vampiress remained in her seat, cold, pale hands clasped around a warm cup of tea the chef brewed for her mere moments ago. He cleared her table, leaving behind a small plate of bonbonniére. Some chocolate bonbons, macarons, and biscuits to enjoy as Cecile relished in the aftermath of her sweets conquest. The air remained sweet around her, honey and lavender dancing in waves, sapphire hues watching the flame of the candle flickering in front of her. In the tranquil silence, it was easy for her thoughts to waver and soon various emotions flooded her.

The clangs of battle dwindled behind her, heels clacking against the stone pavement. Each step was taken with haste, a sharp pain clenched in her chest that screamed at her if she did not hurry. There was little time to waste, for Templars had reached Four Points with all the determination to bring the vampires to an end. More specifically, to Kestrel Paradin. She needed to hurry and return to his side, aid him against the many adversaries that came for his head with this sudden ambush.

How cowardly they were, she grimaced inwardly.

The pavement turned into stairs, and Cecile quickly descended them. Her heels louder than the booms ringing from outside as they echoed her uneasiness in each step. It would not surprise her if the prisoner was gone, if this was their way of rescuing one of their own. Not that the walls of Four Points were impenetrable, but the entrance and exits of the area were simple yet well hidden. Those who knew the building would scout all the possible escape routes. Many would get lost and later perish from lack of supplies. The scent of sewer drew near as she rounded the corner, a torch lighting her path. Unconsciously she held her breath, drawing the key from her pocket and unlocked the cell with shaky hands. She bursted into the room, the figure of the boy remained seated at the center.

What she did not realize back then was a sigh of relief, but all thoughts disappeared as she freed the boy from his chains. While he looked at her puzzlingly, Cecile brushed off any comments and urged that they needed to relocate. Her calm demeanour was replaced with worry, worry for her king, but his orders came first. Relocate the prisoner, then return to his side should he not meet her at their rendezvous. His words echoed and made her queasy. The ceiling above them convulsed, strings of pebbles meeting the ground. The tremors grew in numbers and she sucked her teeth. She grabbed his wrist and led him out of the cell. Cecile paid heed to her surroundings, listening for any potential enemy that may have followed behind her. Sapphire eyes glowed in anger and anxiety, their feet in unison as they moved towards the stairs. Another tremor shook below them, causing the both of them to lose balance. The ground split between them, forcing them apart. As the explosions grew louder, voices were heard from above. She pushed herself back to her feet, scanning the room for the boy. Their eyes met briefly, and with every intention Cecile poised herself for jump. BOOM! The vampire was knocked back by a falling piece of the ceiling, and soon more pieces began to crumble upon the impact. Dust clouded her vision. No sound was heard except continuous booms.

Cecile wanted to scoff at herself, disappointed by how easily she swayed. Her emotions still took the better of her, even after years of practice and even after the loss of not just one, but two dear beings in her life. The boy marked himself as the third, but it did not lessen how bittersweet the separation was. She was unable to receive an answer from Gabriel about any form of essence that could possibly remain from the Templar younging. The boy was full of promise, she could see why Holly Wilshire took an interest in him and took him under her metallic wing. To Cecile, he was pure. Not in the sense because of his belief, but because of his naivety to the world, to how cruel it can be. Her lip quivered, a flash of black-brown orbs drawn to her when she entered the prison. How small, how energetic, how… quaint he was. She pitied the boy.

He was full of redemption, even if he had done no wrong.

Her attention was brought back by the sudden gasp at her right. She shot her head towards the source, a frail younger vampire voiced her concern at the sight of blood. Blood? Cecile sought for what the female meant, a pool of red coloured her palm. She released the tension of her fist. Crescent half-moons lined her palm, the wounds disappearing on sight as the other vampire brought forth a damp cloth. She rubbed her palm with the soft material as the other cleared the table. While she cleaned her wrist, the vampire finally spoke that a carriage arrived and a guest was on their way in. Cecile nodded, saying she would receive the guest at the door first. Certain all stains of blood were gone, her appearance quickly fixed, somber steps took her out of the kitchen.

The grand doors widened, the sounds of pattered steps entered the hall with concise, short steps. A smile lifted the corner of her reddened lips as her friend, clad in the finest silk, approached her with a sunny glow. Behind her, several men entered, arms coated with bags of all colours and sizes. Cecile tilted her head in amusement, signaling for her butler and another. There were bouts of clamour and exclamations as the bags were retrieved from them and how quickly they were ushered out the doors. Some called out for Cassandra, but the woman was too busy focusing on the host, which she immediately returned her attention after giving orders. A chuckle escaped, along with a shake of her head.

"You never cease to amaze me." She cooed, hugging her dear friend and placing kisses on both of her cheeks, a French custom since birth. "Come, join me for some tea."

Cecile personally guided her guest to the drawing room, and it was not long before a maid pushed in a tea set and a platter of finger food as they conversed. It was noted that Cassandra was out shopping, a habit of hers when in a new area. Cecile could not blame her friend, for she was very similar wherever she ventured to. The Vampire Queen was up to date with the latest trends, while some were to abhor in her opinion. She mentally shrugged at the thought, as they were mere weapons in catching prey before she arrived in New Orleans. As her friend spoke, a thought drifted in, and Cecile felt a chill run down her spine, her throat all of sudden dry and tight. She sipped at her tea again, then proposed an idea.

"Join me into town. Perhaps for a drink or two to drown this night away. I have been in a dull mood since the fight. Will you?" She lulled.

 

[CosmicDusk]

Jonah Lancaster

The Overseer

health | bar

WHERE: Paradise, Sparring Grounds
WITH: Templars
DOING: Sparring
CREDIT: Ástor Alexander
PLAYLIST: ♱

Long fingers kept their hold over the worn papyrus supplied to him by his current charge. Jonah's expression barely changed as he read over the documents before him. Words etched across the parchment in synchronized loops, effortlessly colouring it with what felt like was endless. His eyes trailed over them for a second time, its contents etched into his memory, he lowered the item towards his candle. Its flame hungrily licked the corner, then gradually devoured the yellowed paper with great haste. Sparks fluttered into the air, the scent of ash lingered as it flickered back down to its original size. Silvern hues never left it, anger once filled it now replaced by forlorn thoughts.

It was silent in his office all day following the prior events at the docks. He did not care for what the other Templars did, only that he withdrew his men from the scene and retreated back to Paradise to regroup and recover. A new plan must be placed before their next encounter with the immortals. Speaking of immortals, where was the blasted vampire? There was no sight of him since then, and the Key, mere feet away from them, escaped. Plenty of wounds were inflicted upon the rotting flesh, it would have made for easy capture, but the vampire was not seen since. The Overseer clenched his teeth. Perhaps this vampire was the wrong decision, but he could not deny the High Order.

An exasperated sigh, he slammed a fist on his desk, then exited the stuffy room. The bottle of ink wobbling to regain its stance was the only sound that remained.

​

He grunted, then let out a hefty bellow as he raised the axe overhead. The metal curve screeched its way downwards, a clean cut split the dummy perfectly in half. With quick withdrawal, he discarded the axe and unsheathed his sword and swung upwards, uppercutting into another sword as metal clashed. They scraped against each other as force pulled them apart. The other man then took advantage and charged forward, giving Jonah little time to reposition himself given his larger stature. Instead, the Overseer twisted his wrist outwards, a metal palm placed at his forefront, levitated the blade and successfully blocked the attack. His opponent was smaller, thus more agile, than he was. However disadvantageous his stance was, he focused on his power. With a huff, Jonah pushed forward his blade, the two swords screaming at each other, as the two of them repositioned themselves. Strength tethered back and forth for mere seconds before he finally took a step forward, lunged his chest forward, knocking into the swords. The other man let out a yelp at the impact, then another grunt as a dull pain clung to his shin, and his face planted into the dirt. The sword clattered to the ground next to him as he leveled himself up on his elbow.

"Do not let go of your weapon. The mere second could be your end."

"Yes, sir!"

Jonah let out an approving grunt, offering his hand to his befallen comrade. Once the man regained his stance, he tapped the armor-clad shoulder and promptly dismissed him. Another man, one much smaller and not in armor, brought forth a damp cloth. He accepted it, then proceeded towards exiting the arena. The cloth clung to the back of his neck, defining the muscles that clouded the area as it soaked up the sweat trickling down the side of his profile. A canteen of water presented to him, he obliged. Heavy gulps were taken, evident by how fast the prominent lump in his neck descended. When the luscious liquid was gone, he placed the canteen back into the hand of the waiting boy, and returned his attention to the men in the area. The previous mission was without a doubt a failure, and many casualties were recorded, but he could not help but feel pride bellow in his chest at the sight of his men continuing their training and preparations as if another battle were to break at any second.

For a bit longer, Jonah observed from the sidelines. Some training was the best remedy to rid his mind of lingering thoughts that tormented him. Not that anyone would dare to say the Patriarch was any less of who he was and meant to be, but even he himself admitted he was only human. He may not be the kindest, but still human that even the smallest failure ate away at him. When he felt he watched enough and the thoughts would begin to cloud his mind, he returned to the sparring area again. Plenty of men were afraid to go against some as large as he, but there were some enough who were willing and daring to, giving Jonah a challenge. It allowed him to keep his body in shape, testing the limits of his metal limbs.

He unsheathed his sword once more, the tip of the blade barely scraped the ground in all his height. Heavy footsteps tumbled one after the other. He exhaled deeply, letting the vapor of breath to dissipate in the humid air that shrouded over them. Silvern eyes narrowed dark, one of the corners of his lips twitched upwards as he brought his free hand up and tousled the loosened strands of snow-ashen hair from his face. He slicked them back as much as he could with one motion, then with none the wiser charged with his next steps. It threw off his opponents when the Overseer brought down his weapon, slicing the air as they dodged the sudden attack. He let out a deep chuckle, his sword arm swinging out as he straightened his back, creating more distance between him and the men that surrounded him. It was not tense around them; he was enjoying himself. The exercise was one of the best ways to exert his body. For a split second, he imagined the scent of black tea and leather amidst the humidity of male body odour and putrid excretion. Jonah snapped out of his fantasy, and poised his sword again.

His muscular hide was probably doused in musk and sweat. Overexerting himself for the past two days.

 

[nighteyes]

Sister Aglaé

JEANNE D'ARC

health ✧ 100/100

WHERE: The airship Paradise
WITH: Ephemera
DOING: Getting patched up
CREDIT: Isabel Westling

The somber morning that crept meekly in following the waterfront incident, Ségolène ventured out of doors, and strolled through the dusk-blue quiet preceding dawn with a hand-me-down coat hung from her shoulders. Acquired over her last leave, her sister-in-law had kindly taken it in for her, and by way of floralia embroidery at the neckline and cuffs, Françoise stitched a second wind into the garment. Even without a vow of poverty to cleave to Ségolène would have wanted this for civilian’s wear all the same, to keep something of home close to hand. Once upon a time it belonged to a younger Bay, and the elder had remarked that its color on her, akin to a verdant delve, made her eyes look green as mother’s.

She did not stray far from where the Order was newly garrisoned, but she needed not to for the city’s influences to become readily apparent. When she bent over a newspaper in the gutter, the rain-marred words called to her from the page; a Français print. The streets, too, were familiar to her in another fashion; already she had a sense of their layout. An old acquaintance, déjà vu, was a commonplace and sometimes guiding force. Her world was a tapestry part-woven from behind closed lids.

Without two working arms she was of little use, and out of a need to feel productive she’d taken solace in the scholarly. She spent a fair amount of her free time pouring through books in the airship’s library. The light of the lowered sun slanted vermillion through the windows when she made to leave, and her eye was caught by the embossed lettering on the spine of a high-shelved tome. A furtive glance was turned to her surroundings before she went up the ladder to retrieve it. This she would not read in the open, but instead depart with nestled in the crook of her arm. She retired early to her quarters.

Following the reciting of prayers, special focus given to the injured and the fallen from the waterfront, she lay tucked under the coverlet, leafing slowly through her pocket journal. She was on her second since her transfer, and her tenure within the Order was chronicled between the pages.

Speckled smatterings of words in English, her side of varying interactions, were sparing in comparison to the clouds of diarized thoughts that eddied around imagery wrought roughly in charcoal, impressions of memories and daily sights. A soldier with his head bent in prayer; the river bridge in Dinan; a legionnaire making ministrations to his battle suit with clever machinist’s hands; waterfowl wheeling over Tombelaine, wings stretched on the wind; the 84th’s towering triumph brandishing a trademark jolly grin as he stooped so as to not bump his head on a lintel; Gabriel and student on the sparring grounds, embroiled in combat and oblivious to the world; the abbey's faceless bas-relief of the archangel Michael.

She held the soft leather cover to her lips in thought. If she could have done, she would have rendered as best she could a moment she would not soon forget, when an opponent drew back her mortal coil to reveal what was beneath. The sight was imprinted in her mind's eye.

Setting that aside, she at last opened her saved letter from Bay and Fran, holding the ink-lined stationary aloft. A care package from the abbey lay in wait under the bunk, but that was for another day. At the time of writing the sweetness of a mild summer lingered in the air, the flowering hills and meadows still a motley riot of color, the river so teeming that the waters shimmered silver. They were all of them enjoying good health, her cat included.

Her brother thanked her for the old shirt she'd sent along with her last letter; he said Gobelin had slept with it since, and she smiled to think of him. Ségolène hoped she could visit when they returned to Europe, so that she might engage in pure bribery and bring him his favorite treats. Following an absence it was the cat's way to greet her with a dignified aloofness, skirting her with his nose in the air. But she would wait, as always, and eventually he would curl like a grub in her lap to bat at her with his paws.

The letter folded in her hands, she dwelled at length on late summer in Dinan, and began to nod off when her eyes fluttered open. Stung by sudden remembrance, she made haste turning over to take up the pamphlet and flip to her recovery schedule, her eyes skimming the itinerary in search of the rudimentary vocal exercises. Now? Today? whispered that candle flame of eagerness from within her heart's confines, and never would again. Ségolène pressed the cool of her palm to her throat.

Today.

✧
​

A page lies like a leaf upon the water, drawn with all gentleness to the sea’s embrace.

Amidst the imagery that flickered by behind her lids, only one had stood apart. The next entry in the journal she regularly submitted for evaluation would be short. Should she try fluffing it out with detail?

Dressing for the day was a trick. She prided herself on having hit only a few snags, managing almost everything on her own to the point of using her teeth in place of her damaged arm to pull her shoelaces taut. Finishing touches the likes of buttons and knotting her kerchief at her nape required enlisting outside assistance. When all was said and done, she was well and truly biting at the bit to hold the reins of independence again.

She hadn’t even bothered having a go at her hair, happy to pull her coif over two day old plaits and forget. At novitiate’s beginning her hair was shorn to the closeness of a fox’s winter coat, and she had gotten away with not combing what-so-ever between washes, but after nearly six years untouched on the path toward her perpetual profession, she couldn’t say the same. Tidying could be done later; there was nothing for it.

She was set to be tended by the lead engineer himself. When her armor was shucked off the night before last, her cowter had been dropped off for repairs, and now her turn had come. For the whole of the morning before the appointment she kept a weather eye on the hour, determined on punctuality in respect of his time, which must have been in high demand. So when the watch hands neared eight o'clock, she struck a course for the lab. She lapsed in checking herself when rounding corners, and in consequence was just shy of stumbling over a fellow tying his shoelaces.

Outside the door Ségolène found herself stalling, halted by the fret that her arrival might have been too early, and therefore an imposition. A little uncertain of herself, she eased open the door by a handspan and peeked, then nudged herself onward. She didn’t venture far, waiting politely at the fringes; but her eyes swept over the lab, taking in all it held. She had never found herself lingering long in the spaces of the Order’s tech-savvy. She had only glimpsed the goings-on in precious bits and pieces, and they still imbued her with the feeling of being a fish out of water.

Milling about near the entrance, she rocked back on her heels and stole glances at the folk who toiled at their workstations, then at her wristwatch. Anxiety pricked all the more persistently at her as the moments ticked by, and she puffed out a breath, tucking her good hand into a pocket to keep herself from fidgeting. She’d half a mind to seek him out when movement at her periphery turned her head, and she sighted a fellow making his way across the room. At his approach, reflex overtook her all at once, and her posture shifted accordingly. Pivoting on her heels to face him, she did so with spine straight and shoulders angled back, but her eyes defied attempts at composure, never leveled with his for long before flickering away.

But in looking at him, she found his face was known to her already. His features held a better familiarity than one she had merely passed day-to-day; she had spied him in Gabriel's company. Owing to his duties, he wouldn’t be far from the shade of the Sisters’ wings--a place she understood--and she was gladdened to meet him properly, sooner rather than later. She guessed his age was near to hers, but his years did not rouse in her any apprehension about his capabilities, and served to cast them into greater relief. In her view, his skills must surely be great to have buoyed him to this position.

Hand over heart, the man tasked with putting her arm to rights dipped into a bow, a greeting gesture so formal in its courtesy that it took her off guard with its princelike air. “You must be Sister Aglaé. I’m Ephemera, the head technician for this enterprise and the private biomechanical engineer for the Sisterhood. You can follow me over to my workstation and we can discuss the repairs you need on your mod.”

Surprise alighting in her expression, she nodded at his mention of that veil-name, and cast a look to his workstation as indicated, but when the word discuss met her ears, she instantly stilled. Her mouth spread but a little in the skittish beginnings of a smile, and she tried to think nothing of the knot in her stomach as she patted her person searchingly, growing flustered, and then twisted round to reach for the back pocket of her trousers.

In her hand was her pocket journal, and a manual she’d been given detailing upkeep and repairs for her automaton arms that she had brought for good measure. These she offered him with an entreating glance, passed into his hands for holding. With a light pat on the journal to draw his attention to it, she turned to the front page. Commonplace phrases were written there in a tidy hand, curated in English with painstaking care. She pointed, a steel fingertip touched to paper.

I am Sister Aglaé, or Jeanne, and I am called Egg sometimes. You can choose.

I am happy to have made your acquaintance. I can speak to you through this.

A ferry bore her from France across the channel, and when she stepped off and set foot in England for the first time, a Templar soldier was waiting. He was to be her escort, and by happenstance was unversed in the French language. She had turned her journal to him, too, and he'd stared at the name within. Sister Aglaé. He weighed it on his tongue, stared a little longer, then squinted before he peered at her and said with no small amount of amusement, ‘Egg… Eggly? That's your name, eh?’ Travel-weary, thoroughly overwhelmed by the commotion of the city and bodies jostling about her at the port and the upcoming introductions and simply everything, she wasn’t in a sporting enough mood to correct him. She let it be, and so the nickname held fast.

Easily remembered, it stuck to her like... like… well, like egg, and truly set in when word got round that the streetside omelette was a beloved fixture of her abbey's isle that had sated the hunger of pilgrims for millenia. That was about when she pulled her nose up from her duties long enough to sort out how she felt about the whole business. All her life long she’d been called Gigi by friends and family; this was a only few letters distant. Following a good think, she’d decided she didn’t really mind, but even if she had she doubted there was anything to be done about it, and might have fared better putting out a fire in a dry field.

Lifting her eyes from the page, encouraged by his amicable grin, Ségolène pinched together her fingers. She moved them to mimic the act of scribbling. When she readied that morning she had made a point of rolling her sleeve up over her shoulder, and now lifted the limb to display to him the dent in her elbow that had disrupted with the complex machinations within and taken out her writing arm. She looked to Ephemera, then to her arm and back again, pressing him with a pointed stare meant to convey. Ségolène waited, hopeful.

“So you cannot use your modification properly to do simple tasks like writing, correct?” he asked, tone soft, and her answering nod was emphatic. Her delight at the swiftness with which comprehension dawned in him could hardly be smoothed out; it stoked her optimism that her arm would presently be put to rights.

Assured by their progress, she followed his lead, dutifully occupying the stool he’d directed her to. Settling with manual and journal gathered in her lap, she was patient, but in the moment sitting as motionlessly as one of the lab’s automatons was too much to ask of her. As he set about retrieving tools he would need, fascination effervesced in her expression and she leaned forward in her seat. She studied in the details of the atelier where he worked his arts, thinking inwardly that knowledge this advanced might as well have been wizardry. There was much she wanted to ask of him, but she shooed away the litany of welling questions and bid herself to focus on the task at hand.

“You’ll have to guide me through this as best as you can,” he instructed, setting out a journal and pencil, “I admit I am horrible at writing with my opposite hand as well, but please try your best when necessary. My first question is simple: is the augmentation detachable from your body without the need for surgery? Such as a socket joint at the shoulder or mid-arm?”

Her gaze dimmed a little. She’d wanted to try and avoid jotting anything down, thinking that he might be able to assess her and glean all he needed from looking, like reading tea leaves. She’d favored her left, once, and still did in combat, but had been pressed into writing with the other when she was small. Mind over matter; she could make her penmanship legible enough to decipher if she put forth enough effort, couldn’t she? Undaunted, Ségolène gave another assenting nod.

His first question regarded the methods required to perform invasive procedures, and her brow clouded. She put a hand to her arm in thought. Jointed in a fashion that evoked the limbs of a doll behind a glass casement, they were wrought of metal instead of fine porcelain; belying in appearance, coy about the power coiled within. Sometime during her first leave after being fitted with them, Bay had challenged her to an arm wrestling match on a lark. She had turned him down, citing the unfairness of the thing, despite his cajoling.

She flipped open the manual, leafing through the pages in search of a diagram she remembered and believed would assist him. A finger tapped triumphant, and then she turned the it to him for inspection. Featured within were illustrations of her arms, both with and without the outer protective plating, beneath which lay flowing skeins of gossamer cabling in place of sinew. Parts were labeled in a dizzying array. She singled out a footnote that listed, in fine print, the pages that held a guide for the event a removal at the joint was needed for repairs.

As it happened, her findings had nudged him in the right direction. The change that overcame the engineer’s demeanor was sudden, stark as day overtaking night when the manual passed from her grasp to his. She followed as best she could when he delved headlong into speaking of fickle mechanisms and inner hubs that needed a seeing to, only partly understanding, but fully respecting his enthusiasm. He made much more sense of it than Ségolène could, to her relief. Tension ebbed from her stomach. Ask her to translate Latin texts or give a rundown on parrying and she was your lady, but this was beyond her. One look at the page had put her on the cusp of breaking into a sweat, but he met it with eagerness, and there was no reservation subduing his demeanor. This wasn't merely work; it seemed his calling.

He used his own person to demonstrate his strategy before looking to her for affirmation for the procedure, which she readily provided without delay. One by one, her arm’s pinnings were drawn out and set with a tink into a dish on his workbench. She tried not to stare so as to not meddle with his focus, observing from the corner of her eye. There came a pinch, as he’d warned, but she’d been ready for it.

Through the years, she'd been subjected to more procedures than could be numbered on her fingers, to undo old damage done and to make a weapon of her. She’d endured many rigors and come out the other side more resilient for it, but there was something uncanny about seeing parts of herself come away to be tinkered with, automaton regardless.

“This is… excessive, unless….” he mused aloud, before turning his attention to her. Were the inner workings excessive? She hadn’t the experience to know as much, but she trusted him at his word. The engineer was pouring over the limb when she angled to observe him, and when he turned his gaze to her again, she blinked and then she shifted in her seat. Mingled suspicion and curiosity pulled at his mouth; how was it scarred? Fisticuffing?

“Are you hiding a trick up your sleeve with these that would require such a sheer number of cables? They can’t all be for the sake of ensuring these mechanisms work-- your elbow and digits. There’s too many for such simple tasks.”

He was right on the mark. They weren't only for mundane doings, like writing, or sketching, or stirring clockwise for good luck. Her knee jerk reaction to any suggestion of her keeping secrets was to insist that no, she did not ever, she hid nothing and in fact was the most open of books with nothing to hide, thank you. It was silly to be struck with that notion here in the company of the Sisterhood’s private engineer, where it was unneeded, and she could practice all the candor she pleased.

Even so, she did hesitate to decide how she would answer. Then, struck by an idea, she sought his eye again; her face was livened and made rosier by a gleam of puckish mirth, and she raised her remaining arm. Her shoulders were lifted a little by suppressed laughter as she flexed and puffed out her chest, chin raised high, in what she hoped was an exaggerated image of toughness worthy of an adventure novel. The armor she took into battle afforded nothing save protection; the offense went with her wherever she went.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Beau Desmarais

Mathis

health bar

WHERE: Training Grounds
WITH: No one
DOING: Trying to train
CREDIT: Searching
PLAYLIST:

Mathis had kept his promise about going to the med bay. The room had been filled with many others injured from the battle; he thought he could have flown by under the radar. His injury was a lot less severe than some of the other patients. That wasn’t the case. They had seen his injury and ordered him to rest for the next few days. Rest was the last thing he wanted. He had failed at his mission and wished for nothing more than to get back to training. Gabriel had seen something in him that she liked, enough to want to bring him onboard Paradise, that last thing he wanted was for her to regret her choice.

The medical staff had kept him there for observation the first night, though Mathis knew his head would be okay, it was healing just like it usually would. It was not the worst thing his body had recovered from. However, they explained later that they were also waiting to locate a room for him.

The following day he had gone to collect his things, not that he had many belongings in the first place. A change of clothes that had been provided looked the same as all the other children. It was a uniform of sorts, made more for training than for anything else. Dark and easy to move in clothing, as well as the lightweight armour that was fitted to him. Mathis was told his weapons of choice would be transported to the training grounds aboard Paradise, since they were now responsible for it.

Passing through the barracks, he did notice a few faces missing from the usual numbers. Mathis threw the thoughts aside. It was a war, casualties happened.

After collecting his belongings, Mathis was directed to what was to be his new room. They left him to it, having other things to do than ‘babysit’ him. Mathis preferred to be left alone and didn’t wish to be babysat. He was capable of handling anything himself.

Upon entering the room, he had expected someone to be there, but it was empty. He would be sharing with someone, there were not enough rooms for him to have one on his own, and there were definite signs that the room was lived in. He shrugged it off and expected he would meet whoever it was later.

Promptly throwing his stuff haphazardly to the base of the bed, the boy collapsed on the mattress to sleep. It had been an intense couple of days, and sleep in a proper bed was a luxury he was not going to refuse.

No one returned to the room. Mathis had woken and was still alone. Maybe whoever he was supposed to share with died during the fight, and he got the whole room to himself. He would like that. Mathis knew well that sharing with others sometimes got annoying.

On the very first night he had been introduced to the training grounds with the other children, Mathis remembered being pulled from his bed in the middle of the night. He flinched at the memory of the boys pummelling him. Not being very strong at the time, and the sheer number of them that had decided that Mathis did not belong, they had easily overpowered him. Mathis understood very quickly that night that he would have to get stronger. No one would take him seriously until he could prove that he was following the same beliefs they were.

Finding his way around the ship was a lot more confusing than he thought it would be. It was a lot bigger than the barracks he was used to, but he quickly found common areas. He had spotted the training ground onboard, which had been his main goal in searching out. Training was important; surely, no one would mind if he had a look around.

Holding on tight to the bars, Mathis swung from one to the next. He liked these a lot more than the ones down in the barracks. He had wanted higher ones for a long time, but they had remained at the same level. Since there had always been recruits filtering in, they could not risk the fall damage. Seemed silly to him, how else would they learn not to fall.

“Mathis, get down,” a voice called from the ground. He had stopped mid-swing, only holding on by one hand. He had not expected anyone to know him yet, and he didn’t think that he was doing anything wrong.

“What? Why?” he questioned, his one hand holding firmly to the bar, still dangling.

“You are on strict rest instructions, from the higher-ups. No training.” He didn’t understand. “But I’m not doing combat training.” He had thought that it just ruled out training with others, no combat training until his head recovered. He didn’t know that meant not doing anything.

“Get down,” the man said again, his voice firm. “My head is fine, no headache,” he lied. There was still a dull ache, but he could ignore it. It was just swinging on bars; he could handle at least that much, right? The look on the trainer’s face told him he was not going to win out on this. The kid gave a slight groan, more to himself than to the trainer. “Fine,” he muttered, dropping from the bar, and landing on the ground.

“What am I supposed to do then?” Mathis asked.

“Go back to your room, and rest,” the man said, not wanting to feel the wrath of higher-ups if they found out he had let the kid train against orders.

“Yes sir,” Mathis said, though his annoyance still clearly filtered through. It was going to be boring for the next few days, especially if he was not allowed to do anything.

 

[CosmicDusk]

Olivia Baynes

Raphael

health bar

Where: Paradise - Medical Bay
With: Patients ⇀ Dominick Durham
Doing: Operating, Tending to Patients
Credit: AdamaSto
Playlist:

There was no rest. Not even more than ten minutes. Olivia was seen rushing back and forth between patients, with no end in sight. Everyone knew this was normal for someone like her, who did everything possible for her patients, but they could not help but feel a bit anxious watching the woman. Casualties were recorded as she went along, noting all various wounds, cause of inflictions, reactions, and after-effects of her treatment. A couple of books were always seen at her side, mostly for her notes, and she often changed out masks and headwear to diminish the amount of sweat and blood that painted her. Her comrades did well keeping up with her, assisting her at her side with any surgeries or bandaging needed, and completed the postoperative procedures for her to move onto the next patient with little concern. This was where she shone the brightest, where it kept her busy like no other. It was her tranquility.

​

"Raphael! It ruptured!"

"Clamps, now!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

A pair of silver clamps were placed into her palms, she immediately used her other hand to subdue the bleeding as much as she could until she found a proper place in the vein. Another medic forced their palms in a nearby area, in hopes of halting the blood flow from their direction. She blindly searched for the vein, fingers digging through organs to find the source. A third approached the table with cloths and bags, immediately going to work until Olivia managed to find what she was looking for. She brought the clamps closer, using its tip to trail along the back of her hand to her fingertips, where she felt the flesh cushion down at her touch. With quick maneuver, she adjusted the equipment and a distinct thump vibrated against her hand. Success! Now to clean up and clear the work area of the overflowing claret to resume her surgery.

"Scissors."

"Tie."

"Thread."

"Alex, hold this part firmly and use the gauze to apply pressure."

"Good. Removal complete. Good job, everyone. Now we just need to close up the organ and dress the wound. Prepare a solution for the blood loss."

Orders were given back and forth with ease and with such calmness. Everyone around her also kept their cool and worked diligently as they could, keeping up with the doctor's speed of work. When the operation was completed, and the next task delegated to the next work, they could not help but watch in awe for a split second. Their eyes never left the silvern-haired woman as she removed her gloves and began writing her notes, leaving the operating room without so much another word.

​

Her fingers ran through the four strings idly, plucking them with a pristine nail as golden eyes blankly stared at the line of books in front of her. A persistent throbbing in her temple returned, a sign she needed to rehydrate after all the movements she made. Her notes, scattered on the desk, were filled with her documentations of each surgery and treatment she made; however big or small they were, they were all recorded. The casualties gradually lessened in numbers. Those who could be saved were saved. Those of the more severity, she did the best she could, and now the rest laid in God's hands. It was chaotic for the past couple of days, Olivia was among those who did not stop a moment in their tracks for anything else other than quick refreshment of water and protein and then resumed back into the operating room. Several voiced their concern for her, but she nonchalantly dismissed them, retorting that each moment of rest could be utilized to save another's life. She would rest when all was well. By today, results improved and many regained consciousness. All that remained were routine check-ups and being on standby should any irregularities come up. More than half the day flew by, another day drifted into the background that she hadn’t realized it was already evening. When the clock ticked dusk, she was ushered out of the room just as fast as she finished the latest operation. She could not help but laugh at her comrades.

Now she sat in one of the patient dorms, but everyone was sleeping soundly, so she remained at the desk. As if they had predicted this, one of them gave her the violin from her quarters when they ushered her out. She was not in a particular mood to play a tune, but she could not help herself from taking the delicate item out of its wooden encasement. The red-brown colouring glistened under the fluorescent lighting, a thin dusting of resin remained on the strings from her last play. Her other instrument was in her quarters at the moment, but there was no sense of interest nor motivation for her to retrieve it. She idly played a scales tune, just to fill the silence.

"What is the most valuable virtue a person can hold?"

"Patience!"

"Correct!"

The little girl cheered at her answer, jumping into the older man's arms as he captured her and let out a hearty laugh. He patted her hair as she curled herself into a ball, resting perfectly into his lap. He began to recite the inscription before them, his voice low and deep.

"Remember, Li Qin. There is no rush in this world that will be rewarded. Stay calm, and the road will always be clear to you."

"Yes, father."

His warmth enveloped her, his words returning to the scroll as heavy eyelids fought to stay open. The spring breeze entered the corridor with wistful intents, dancing around them, mingling with the scent of tea and incense.

"Raphael?"

Hm? She did not recall a voice that deep in her company. The patients should be sound asleep. When the voice called out to her again, more tender than at first, Olivia's interest was piqued. She adjusted her shoulder back, a sharp pain spiked across her entire arm. Soon pins and needles cascaded down the length of it, stirring her realization. Her vision blurred by clouded words and the scent of worn paper violated her nostrils. Oh. She had fallen asleep. How long? The medic carefully rose from her hunched position, the violin in her lap nearly slid off her thighs before she caught it with her free hand, a sigh of relief quick to leave her tinted lips. She raised her head, but only caught sight of a person's midsection. She leaned backed into her chair, the other arm brought up above her to stretch out the numbing. She softly groaned, then tousled her hair back, craving her neck. Golden amber eyes climbed the lengths of the person's large anatomy. Wide torso, broad shoulder. This man was much bigger than the average male. There were very few like that. Dark coils of hair covered his shoulders, then a sunny smile was in front of her as he leaned down closer to her.

"Oh, my. Dominick. What a surprise."

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Cassandra Caldecott

Little Sparrow

health bar

WHERE: La Lune
WITH: Cecile Bellerose
DOING: Gossiping
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

The last few days had been nothing short of dreary. Flittering about La Lune meant that Cassandra would not escape the wary faces of not only Cecile but the rest of the drab that stayed within the walls. The blonde vampire was doing nothing to involve herself in the dire stresses that seemed to follow the never-ending war zone of immortal beings. She had much more pressing matters to concern herself with—a new wardrobe.

The sombre feeling at La Lune was almost maddening during the daylight hours, escaping as soon as the sun dipped behind the horizon, the vampire was able to breathe some fresh air. The city was still very new to her, having a lot to offer and for her to explore. She had spotted a few places that had been unfortunately closed on her last outing in the evening hours, that she made a note to drift back in their direction to check the opening times, as well as to look for more 'nightlife' friendly establishments.

There were more available than she had first realised. The rumours that she had heard before arriving seemed to be holding true. Seemed they were more accepted here than many other places in the world. Though there also still appeared to be a conflict; a battle in the streets was evident of that. No matter. Cassandra would stay as long as she deemed necessary, and necessary right now was new outfits.

Cassandra had only packed so much, and it was all getting a little repetitive for her taste. She had spent the night after the battle going to various shops, ordering and getting fitted into new gowns. Her gentle and compelling nature, as well as her wallet, allowed for pieces to be expedited, hastening the process. The altered clothes were promised for the following evening.

The next evening Cassandra went out to collect; to get her final fitting, and make sure everything was perfect. She stood as the woman worked, making a few final adjustments to the last dress. "Miss Caldecott, we hope everything is to your liking," she said, taking a step back.

The blond vampire smiled. "Everything looks exquisite," She said, twirling slightly on the pedestal appreciating the flow of the silken skirt. She wore a light green floor-length gown with a delicate rose pattern. A large ribbon tied about her waist tied with a rather large bow at the back, fabric roses pinning it in place. The bodice was tied snuggly down her back and the sleeves a delicate ruffle resting nicely along her shoulders. "This is perfection, truly stunning work," Cassandra said, admiring herself in the mirror.

All the other dresses she had ordered had been packed away nicely, boxes and bags with accessories had been piling up all evening, but this dress, this one she would be walking out wearing. She would have to order more on another occasion. The craftsmanship was too good of an opportunity to pass up. New outfits were always a must.

Cassandra directed the men standing gawking at her to help gather the various purchases. Throughout the evening, the short vampire had collected a handful of men. They had been all too happy to help her carry things for her. Pretend you are struggling, and there were always going to be people that wanted to help. Granted some needed a little more convincing than others, most of them were there of their own accord. They were even kind enough to offer their carriages to help transport her new items back to La Lune. Truly very thoughtful.

As the doors of the glittering hall opened back at La Lune, Cassandra walked in with the parade of men carrying her new belongings. She gave a gentle smile as Cecile intercepted her arrival. Butlers came, taking the boxes and bags from the men and ushering them out of the door. Well, that made things much easier. No long goodbyes, no faked promises of calling on them later. Much easier to ignore the calling when others took the burden from her hands.

"You never cease to amaze me."

"Always my intention," Cassandra said with a smile. With a gentle return of kisses to the cheeks, the shorter vampire followed Cecile to the drawing-room for tea. She retailed the events of her early evening and the clothing she had bought, also laughing at the ridiculousness of the men carrying her belongings.

Taking a sip of tea and a small bite of food, Cassandra made a mental note of the slight change in Cecile's demeanour. Cecile chalked it up to a dull mood from the fight, but Cassandra sensed that there may be more to it than that. She shrugged it off for now. "Well, we can't have that can we," she said, taking another sip of tea. "Dull moods do nothing but make people age terribly, even immortals." Cecile was looking somewhat weary, and that would not do. "I could fancy a drink myself; it has been a busy evening. Where shall we go then?" She asked.

 

[Luxura]

Jack Fletcher

LAZARUS

health bar - 5%

WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: Seiko
DOING: Waiting
CREDIT: Zara
PLAYLIST:

​

Curious how the Stag could look so relaxed, so beautiful, almost regal; despite all the burdens of combat only a day before. Jack knew what the other man had gone through that night just to save his life, the wounds he accepted into his body and the scars they would make. Jack’s name would be a whisper on his skin in the memory, carried with him now and for eternity. He hoped they would be met with fondness and not the shadow of regret as years tolled on.

"I would say the same to you, my li- Fletcher."

Jack smiled gently. He knew Seiko spoke off the cuff most of the time, but now he was just plain lying, “Cleaned up, perhaps.” Jack uttered with a soft scoff. He was thankful that the other caught himself out of the new grown habit, using his surname to address him at the last moment rather than that unfitting title.

Taking a small few steps towards the large wood desk, Jack leaned his weight back against it, resting for the moment as he beckoned his companion closer with a kind glance.
A stroll? The Canine was over an hour’s walk from Maeve’s. Perhaps it was more apt to think of it as a journey. The Mephisto released a soft sigh as he pondered, turning to cast his glance over his shoulder and out the paned window behind him. No rain… He supposed, silently, that he hadn’t much of a choice in the matter. His tongue craved to taste the fresh autumnal air, his skin to feel the caress of dying sunlight as some sort of last rites before a long slumber.
“I’ll be slow,” Jack warned as he turned back to Seiko’s waiting visage, “But since you are early, I suppose we’ll be right on time.” The brunet smirked, a hint of his old cheeky self peeking through the Tailor’s veil.

With that, Jack pushed up off the desk and took unhurried steps towards him, guiding his Retainer with a hand upon his arm, from the study and into the foyer. Their heels were dead and hollow upon the floorboards of the old home, quiet having descended upon the household save for the ticking of his heart, and the two men’s breaths.

"That colour, it looks nice on you,"

Jack was sliding his hands down his sides, absently checking his person for house keys, a wallet, a weapon, when Seiko complimented him. The brunet’s eyes widened a fraction at the claim, quickly meeting Seiko’s stare before looking down at the sweater he’d slipped on. Jack was rather fond of it as well. It fit snugly against his frame, the fabric soft upon the skin, the weave of wool and silk tightly holding in the New Orleans heat against his cold, rotting corpse… But Seiko hadn’t meant all that, did he? The green dyes that made it were expensive to replicate, and against the chestnut of his hair, or the black, fertile soil of his eyes, they brought a little life back into Jack’s complexion. Made him look more human. At least, that’s what Jack would have thought, were he in the beast’s place, and looking at Bernardo through the same lense. He wasn’t looking at Jack, but the memory of a Tailor, worn with as much reverent care as one of his exquisite suits over Jack’s heart and soul.

It must have been the hesitations flickering over his face that made the other man recoil slightly. Jack’s pale lips parted as if to speak, but the other got there first, the suggestion of moving, of business, replacing the air of camaraderie with a frigid little shiver down the Mephisto’s spine, "Thank you, all the same." He whispered, closing the door behind them.


Indeed they strolled, their pace likely not as swift as Seiko was expecting, but perhaps that gave him a greater sense as to how fragile Jack had become in the aftermath of those events at the docks. And as they walked, the Stag told him a little of what transpired after Jack had lost his consciousness at the bar, drowning in a bottle of whiskey and wicked regrets haunting his dreams. Somehow, Jack had anticipated there more to tell, but mayhaps his perception of time was more skewed than the Mephisto first assessed.

Regardless of chatter, Jack greedily swallowed down deep breaths of air every so often. While the humidity was strangely present and held that southern warmth, the stillness of it against his face was crisp with the changing of seasons. Cloying within each inhale was the taste of foliage decaying, the unmistakable musk of yellow leaves and damp earth mingling together; missing only the burn of woodsmoke to encapsulate the true epitome of autumn’s cologne.
At a leisurely pace, they trekked across the residential neighbourhoods, Jack allowing himself to enjoy the peace and quiet of the birds chirping. As their feet carried them closer into the downtown core of the city, the pedestrian traffic increased and coupled with that the lights and noise of an active metropolis. It wasn’t long before Jack felt winded, overstimulated in his frail state, his body shivering and clammy. With a tone of apology, Jack asked his Retainer to take the trolly with him the rest of the way--at least that way he could rest his weary limbs upon the moulded seat, lean himself into Seiko’s shoulder, and close his eyes.


At the French Market station--a much too short twenty minutes away--Seiko nudged Jack into wakefulness and with the taller beast’s assistance, the pair descended the trolly to meander their way up Elysian Fields Avenue. A fitting name, Jack thought to himself, were Hades ever to find him worthy of such a glorious eternity in the underworld… But such emerald groves and cool, crystal waters weren’t meant for the damned, were they? They were for the heroes and the divine. No, the best place for Jack, he felt, was a black, vast, nothingness, made only better by lack of consciousness.
The streets around the Market seemed as bustling as ever, stall after stall of vendors selling goods, the thick scent of black coffee and rich yeast wafting from Cafe Du Monde mingling with the salt of the ocean winding its course up the Mississippi River. Were it not for the increased police presence shadowed in the wings of every scene before his eyes, it was as if nothing had happened at all. Stunning… vita activa… time moving ever onward, mortalities resilience to keep persevering.

As the two men approached, the Brass Canine stood proud and on guard as ever, the haven of all immortals in this southern city never seeming to lose her lustre or charm. A lantern hung glowing at the front doors, unnoticed by him before; a signal guiding the weary traveller and lost souls in from the harrowing world.
Seiko opened the large door for him, and Jack shuffled inside, greeted by a thin haze of tobacco smoke and a leftover cocktail of liquors pungent in his nose. Muffled activity in the back signified cooking was happening in the kitchen, yet he could not distinguish what--if anything--was being crafted. A stoic few, most likely regulars, lounged about the booths and poker tables, but he had yet to visually recognize anyone of importance.

From his left came a soft, broken apology. Bleak, uncertain. Jack turned his head, canted slightly as he looked over Seiko, who’d spoken it. There was something in his eyes that the Mephisto couldn’t quite extract. A sadness, perhaps even a sliver of regret. Jack shook his head and smoothed his palm flat upon the other’s back, resting between his shoulder blades, “I do not want sympathy, Seiko. Unless you are handing me into the Templars, I see little reason for apologies.” He murmured, offering him a friendly, comforting smile through the tiredness, “Come, we must still be early.”

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health 🙢 100/100

WHERE: Her residence
WITH: A curious kitty cat
DOING: Making a new friend
CREDIT: Bella Bergolts

Night fell as it often did upon St. Vincent De Paul. For its priest, the placidity of that hour when all things were winding down held tirelessly as the cornerstone, but he had yet to adjust to the fanfare of the day’s receding fingers. Rays of the descended sun had stretched through the stained glass windows to dapple the interior with gilt pools of colored light so brilliantly that he was driven to distraction.

The pews that day seemed flush with people. He’d welcomed the strangers among them with an open heart, but the numbers caught him unawares, leaving him with no recourse but to ration the wafers and wine for morning mass. He made a mental note to inquire if the neighboring parishes had experienced the same.

When the last remaining congregants filtered out into the dusk, donning hats and coats as they turned toward their homes, he stood at the front step to see them out and wish them well. The priest addressed them by name if he could, and was no less gracious if he couldn’t.

All was still on the street. He tipped his head back to glance up at the church’s brick facing, red against the darkening sky, and something there drew his eye back for a longer look. He thought he'd spied a wisp of movement on the roof, curling round the clocktower.

As the priest ventured back indoors, he reached beneath his spectacles to rub at his lids with his fingers to tend to aging eyes that he reasoned must be up to mischief. After putting things to order and tucking away his vestments, he returned from the sacristy to the sound of a door sighing closed. The front; he knew it better than the going of his own breath. His eyes swept the church in search of the latecomer, but found no one. He stood alone. Amongst the rack of dwindled votive candles tucked in a corner one flame stood tall and newly lit.

❧
​

The moon hung at her back, and eaves were underfoot.

To an untrained eye she might have been little more than a dark streak as she navigated the rooftops, alighting on arched, questing feet and moving with the practiced, sparrow-swift ease of a tightrope walker, unencumbered by any notions of falling, so foreign a concept as they were. On a high ledge where the tracery of cloud and star speckled sky seemed near enough to put a hand to, Esther had taken up a vigil. She looked out upon the metropolis that teemed beneath, her familiarity made all the more keen by new perspective. Its streets unfurled in all directions, reaching for the horizon.

A rushing updraft swept back her hood, and the billowed sleeves of her tunic flared on the wind. Borne by that current were stirrings of life from below; shoe heels upon the sidewalk and fragmented voices, there and gone in a flash. She leaned to it. Breathing in deep, she drew away the cloth from her face, throat bared to the free air that coursed about her and still smelled of rain.

Something brushed her cheek. Fastened around the staff slung across her shoulders was a ribbon, fraying ends fluttering playfully beside her face.

With a softening of countenance, Esther pulled it free to bring under her considering gaze. It was so small a thing, so timeworn as to render the original color a mystery, fragile as a butterfly’s wing in her fingers—fragile as the purpose that tugged at her person. It had seen her through death, hunger, and hurt; across seas, quiet wastes, and bustling thoroughfares, more than a mere strip of cloth. Often she did wonder if the girl who once loved this pressed good luck into the fibers. Her sight could not perceive the hue of that dye.

Esther looked out on the glimmering city lights, a thousand score scattered embers reflected on the river’s pitch waters. The ribbon was tucked away on her person with deliberate care, over her heart. Then she sprung, leaping headlong into the enfolding night.

When at last her boot touched down upon a sill of home, the hour was sometime between midnight and witching. She ducked through a window overlooking the courtyard garden at the rear, purposefully left ajar, and shuttered it in her wake.

In a house taller than it was wide the attic was the largest space, now converted to her living quarters after the crossbeams and slanted ceilings had charmed her thoroughly. The stairs leading to it were naturally in the second floor corridor, but did not readily meet one’s eye at first glance. Esther hadn't uncovered them until she stood on a chair to run her fingerpads over the ceiling, and when she made out the telltale shape cut cleverly between boards, she found the gaps were scarcely broader than a hair's breadth. Only when she struck the ceiling just so with the butt of her staff were the stairs coaxed out of hiding.

Overspent from the outing, she couldn’t bring herself to give half a fig about bothering with putting things away in their proper place. The end railing of her bed became a repository as she shed a veritable cocoon—or so it felt after a spell of scouting—of leather-backed lamellar over umbrous garb. When her hair was divested of all pins, she gave a head shake and sent the single plait falling like a length of near-black rope down her back.

Her hand ventured into a loose floorboard's underlying hollow. She took work to bed, and toiled until the weight of her eyelids was more than she could bear.

❧ ​

Within the snares of illness, when vitality was a receding tide and an ashen pall had settled upon her, sleep could be so deep, or, rather, so deathlike as to invoke alarm in others, but Esther ordinarily rested just beyond the bounds of the waking world. She could be snapped back to it by the house settling, which sounded at times too similar to a floorboard protesting beneath a foot.

So it was that a disturbance reverberating in the walls and window panes had her sitting upright in bed, quick as a wink, and the second that followed had set her mind to conjuring a litany of possibilities.

If mice or restless spirits were about, they would have surely been sent scurrying for the sanctuary of the woodwork. But when the source of all the hullabaloo announced itself, not at all a battering ram or a new neighbor armed with foodstuffs and a very strong sense of southern hospitality, she relaxed. A blade that sat ready and gleaming across her lap, drawn before her eyes had opened, was laid back to rest in its sheath. The rigidity in her shoulders unwound, but her surprise did not.

Springing forth were recollections of sharp curiosity and sharper, skeptical amber eyes that scoured her for injury, not likely to leave any stone unturned. A woman of medicine whose bedside manner held more vinegar than honey at first blush; but vinegar too had its myriad uses, and if Nascha’s handiwork with the injured that night were any indication, was quite efficient at seeing the job done. However brusque, her approach was driven by the selfsame desire to mend, her skill no less worthy of respect. The libation clouded evening before last at the Canine followed in their wake.

That was a fractured place in her memory, a turning kaleidoscope that gradually yielded more; moments returned to her in bits and pieces. At some point in the midst of enjoying Nascha’s company she had taken in hand a salt shaker and a butterknife and declared them to be assault and a deadly weapon, which was about the time the barman remarked that the green fairy had a hold on her, and he’d never seen anyone knock back absinthe as she had, and she’d realized (far too late) the surprise in her order was the alcoholic content of the drinks she’d been downing with abandon.

With a fearful hiccup she had pardoned herself, and before taking her leave promised to better acquaint the healer with cinnamon’s many good virtues. She followed her nose to seek out the kitchens, where she threw herself on the mercy of the man of the Far East and Cassandra Caldecott for a cup of coffee to dull the alcohol finding purchase in her system. Following this, she’d still endeavored to make her rounds among the battle-wearied folk, if only to see how they fared and pass along a warm word. She had the vague sense of entreating poor Jack to be among friends instead of alone with his thoughts, positioned so that the bar’s patronage could instead stare at her silly drunkard self and leave him be, and of offering up pleasantries to the respective sovereigns of the races, who she would be dealing with closely again in times to come.

Finding her way back to Bywater was a feat she still wasn’t entirely sure how she’d managed. She had a notion of taking the tram and of humming Scarborough Fair throughout the last stretch. The house key had proved elusive; she’d spent a good while fumbling about for it. Time to hide that anew.

Her hand quested about the nightstand for Tom’s pocket watch. Had she slept overlong? That couldn’t be. She blinked in bleary confusion at the watch hands, brought them nearer, and wondered if they were erring. If all was in order, that would place the hour at sunrise.

“Right, yes,” she mumbled in answer, pressing the heels of her palms to her closed eyes to rid them of dreams lingering. “Give—give me a…” There was a faint rustle from the litterfall of maps and splayed-open journals across the coverlet when she pushed her feet out from beneath and to the floor. “Hold, please, I'm on my way.”

Meandering to the washbasin table, she took up the pitcher. The cloth pressed to her face was bracingly cool. Tendrils of ink rose from her stained hands, tinting the water darker than steeping tea leaves would have done.

She picked her way gingerly down both sets of stairs and into the darkened foyer. “Good morning,” Esther called out. Instinct and courtesy both compelled her to permit the healer entry, but she restrained herself and tucked her twinging fingers in the crooks of her elbows. “Ah—is anything the matter? Has something happened? I cannot open the door to you, I’m afraid. Would that I could, but it isn't yet my time.” She leaned in with an ear turned to the door. Fleetingly she stood thinking the healer might have made her departure.

“No. Nothing is the matter,” came her voice again, “What do you mean by ‘not your time’? Are you incubating yourself?”

This gave her pause, and she tipped her head in thought. “Oh, well, in a manner of speaking…,” she conceded. That wasn’t an ill-fit term for the thing, really. But the lack of understanding in her questioning was curious; did Nascha not yet know what the sun wrought upon her and her kind? She set that aside for the time being in favor of mulling over another point of interest. So if nothing was amiss, no pressing matter at hand, was this perchance… a social call?

Esther laid a hand over her throat, lips parting. Was she still adream? She was entirely unused to receiving visitors, least of all those who visited for visiting's sake, accustomed to keeping her own company enclosed in gloom and quiet through the day hours, especially now that Jack was settled. She was still dwelling on this when the other woman’s voice rose again from outside.

“You’re not just saying that because you’re afraid of me, are you? I do promise not to rampage through your house…”

The emotions that now colored her tone sent Esther hurrying to allay the entirely unintended insult. “No, no,” she replied without missing a beat, insistent. “No, surely not.”

Eyes downcast and with her arms about herself, she went on, and all the while made a conscious effort to keep her voice from falling. The words did not come so readily; to speak of a thing was to acknowledge truth. “The reason lies with me. What I am—” she began, but halted to correct herself, “...What I was made to be—vampyr, strigoi, nosferatu—has rendered me a night creature. Stars conceal themselves during the day, and so must I. Never have I beheld the sun’s wonders, nor have I basked in its light, for it would be as my funerary shroud. The why of it is a mystery, but the truth is this: were sunlight to touch me for even a moment, I would perish.”

She fell silent, giving this information time to descend before speaking again. “Listen, I’ve an idea,” Esther declared, “On the left end of the porch,” she rapped twice on the doorframe of the respective side, “in the corner, you'll happen across a loose board. A house key lies beneath. If you need assistance, I’ll be near.”

With that she turned round to give her house’s darkened interior a look-over, heart aflutter. Though only partially furnished, it was welcoming as could be, circumstances considered. The curtain-swathed and heavily shuttered windows could be off-putting, barricaded as they were, but that couldn’t be helped. The wood flooring shone with a freshly-washed luster, and the scent within here no longer held the dust-rimed stagnance of a forlorn place where no one had tread in years; the space between these walls was acquiring a new lived-in patina, and a lingering aroma spoke of the cake she had baked the day before. She then turned her attention to her own person, clad in a pale bedgown that whisked over bare feet. If Nascha did not mind, then neither did she. Seeing as she’d glimpsed the woman in nature’s own, Esther doubted she would.

Nodding once, assuring herself, she set off to make ready without further ado. Her first order of business was to light the oil lamp she had left sitting on a side table in the entryway. The house was outfitted with electricity, but there was something faulty with it; she’d remembered, dimly, that she still needed to have it seen to.

Hanging copperware gleamed under the passing touch of the lamp’s soft glow, and she set it aside. Bustling about, she drew up two chairs to the isle in the kitchen’s center and brought out the cake. There was no end to the variations of this dessert, but this rendition was a honey-sweetened custard cake cradled by a ground almond crust; a light powdering of cinnamon and nutmeg had imparted a floralia design across the topping layer of meringue. The feastware was still lacking, so she was setting generous servings on mismatched plates left behind by the previous owners when a warning was called out to herald Nascha's entry. “I’m tucked away,” Esther answered brightly, “Do come in!”

Standing by the stove, she set out the new siphon pot for its first whirl, soon to fill the kitchen with the aroma of coffee and cardamom. She discerned the engaging of the lock, but not the following footfalls.

Then she looked and there the little woman was, clad in a wrap and looking well, much recovered from the skirmish at the waterfront. Her gaze flitted between Esther and the cake, and she gave a single nod of encouragement, watching with bated breath when she selected a plate.

A smile suffused her face with new warmth when Nascha, in her matter-of-factly manner, listed the sun’s less estimable qualities. “I would sooner have it this way,” she replied. “There was only stagnancy before, and now the world is as it once was. What’s more, my life is replete with goodness, even now. I daresay it's counterbalanced the hardships. Were a choice given, would I endure them twice-over to preserve all the blessings?” She peered at her hand, scoured of prints and palm lines alike by flame. “I would.” Somewhere there were children of a kindred likeness who could play in the daylight and earn their freckles; she had lived to know such a time, and that was enough. It would have to be.

Feigning innocence, she occupied herself with changing out the water in a mason jar of plant cuttings, and then took a cloth to the countertops she’d wiped down the day before, stealing furtive glances all the while at Nascha as the first forkful of cake was sampled.

“Is this some vampire trick?” she breathed, and it was then that Esther looked at her fully to gage her expression. “What is it? How can it taste like… like… a full moon on a dark night? Like running with wild abandon over starlit meadows…?”

Eyes alight, she watched as Nascha took another bite and regarded her with what she now realized was reverence. “It’s to your liking?” she said, tickled pink and hiding a show of unaltered teeth behind a raised hand.

Remembering the coffee, she turned to the stove. “To me, it tastes simply of… happy times,” she murmured, pouring a cup for the guest first before setting out the sugar and cream. She’d taken initiative with the choice of beverage; circumstances had stretched her thin of late, and today called for more of a pick-me-up than tea could give. This was how her grandmother would have served it, besides. “The neighbor at the corner, a Miss Lula Dubois, became my rescuer when I found myself short on eggs yesterday. She bid me bring her a piece when all was said and done; no more than that. She has to limit her sugar.”

“Your being here today is serendipitous, too,” she remarked, settling beside her. “I was seeking a taste-testing favor, and... I’d meant to attain eyewitness accounts of what transpired at the docks.” Esther raised her cup to her lips, taking in the fragrant steam before sipping. She paused a moment to think, tracing the rim with a fingertip. What was a fair barter?

Tentatively she confessed, “I… do have some familiarity with opium’s beginnings in the poppy fields, but not a medicine-maker’s intimacy.” The scoff that had escaped healer that evening at the Brass Canine, like the first warning puff of steam from a kettle, was enough to take her attention captive. “I sensed a good tale was afoot. I was keen on listening, reluctant to dissuade you—and I wasn’t quite myself that evening. I do not hold my alcohol.”

Esther levelled her eyes with hers. “We might make a trade. I would happily sate lingering curiosities concerning my condition, and I have a tale or two to pass on. What say you? When I was waylaid by a band of footpads armed with nothing but a walking stick, or my stint running opium in London?”

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Maeve Donovan

Phoenix

health bar

WHERE: Home > Brass Canine
WITH: Alone > Bar patrons
DOING: Preparing
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: ♔

It was there again, in the darkness. It was lingering just on the edge of the vignette, made of shadow and light, both horrifically clear and terrifyingly blurry.

The snout was massive, snarling. The bared fangs stained with ichor and loathing as a venomous tongue pressed out of it to lick at the lips covered in viscous blood of a kill. Was she going to be next? Others had surely fallen to such a hunter. Was this her grim, black hound? Surely it was an omen. Destruction had come and it dared to call creatures born with abilities they didn’t understand monsters when they destroyed their bodies in the name of God and His righteous war.

Its eyes glowed with fire and brimstone. With fury, it glared her down.

“Will you come for me now or later, Friend?” the queen posed to the beast. “I’ve been waiting too long.” The blond offered a hand to it, and in spite of her fear it was steady and poised. Its breath against her palm was thick with deadly humidity.

As her hand neared its muzzle, it lashed at her palm, missing by minuscule inches by comparison to the sheer size of the direwolf. A second later and its massive jowls had opened to rip her apart.

Sitting up in her bed, Maeve startled awake. Her breath shook and rattled in her chest as shivers took to the base of her spine. The blonde inhaled the perfumed air thick with honeysuckle and Caroline jessamine, replacing the lingering taste of rust and acid on her tongue from the nightmare. A jittery hand went to her eyes, rubbing away the sleep and visions, while the other reached for the glass on the corner of her nightstand. The crystal met her lips and the cool sting of water rushing down her parched throat brought the queen further into her morning and out of her exhausted mind.

The milky hand dropped from her eyes to the bed as she scanned her room, over the New Victorian-age furniture and the plush emerald green velvet edged with gold tassel drapery framing the French windows. Outside the sun was rising, another day was beginning. She needed to reach Bjorn and Seiko… Dutch and Nascha. Slipping out of bed, she needed to know how many had been reached for the meeting that night. If everyone necessary would be present. The battle and its implications had worked deep under her skin. The conversation she had with Kenna the morning before had also found a home beneath it all. And she’d be damned if she betrayed the tentative trust placed in her.

--- ---- ---

The scent of sausage, roasted mushrooms, fresh fried eggs, and coffee was heavy in the air. Her hair was pulled back and up out of her face, a rarity to be sure of the ravenwoman. Her eyes wandered from a newspaper she'd been reading to the stove, keeping an eye on the eggs sausage still cooking within. Her gaze shifted from the stove back to the paper before a new shape beyond caught her attention. She looked up and set the paper down onto the counter. Her mouth opened to say something, but instead, it closed again. Maeve turned towards the stove and flipped the eggs over in one pan and moved sausage in another. Finally, she found words. "Coffee is ready in the French press. It's still hot."

As the teenager thanked her and approached she realized she had never truly had the opportunity to be shown around the house. "Second cupboard on the left. Just past the sink," she responded in turn as the girl approached. "While you're there, could you open the one to the right of it and take out a plate... or two, if you're hungry." The blonde turned to look at her, her expression soft and giving nothing away. It was calm. It was exhausted as it displayed the failed experiment of sleep the night before. She suspected Kenna felt the same.

"If you prefer beans separate from the rest of your meal, I suggest you get a bowl." The wereraven picked up the plates and began to load up each evenly with fried eggs, sausage, mushrooms, and toast. She held off on loading a plate with beans, but ladled a small helping over the toast on the plate she claimed for herself. One hand reached out to shift the burners off. Maeve lifted her coffee in a hand and managed to curl her fingers around the newspaper. Quietly, she set up her place at the table before turning to a dresser in the room in which she kept her napkins and silverware. She took out a set for two of each. On the counter, she left what the teen would need to eat. "You're welcome to stay with me at the table if you'd like, but I won't force you to." Turning away she returned to the table, pulled out her seat before settling down comfortably, crossing her legs casually.

Maeve looked up from her plate while she lifted her fork full of fried eggs and beans while the brunette sat across from her. Her motions were effortless if a little sluggish. There was a hint of something beneath the surface, something positive-- a shred of hope blossomed in her chest. "You're welcome," she answered in kind before taking the contents of her fork into her mouth.

She had much she wanted to say, to ask. But tact had to be her friend and companion. Her ward had already been through enough, had said enough that it was plain she blamed the Queen for it all. But after the previous night, the appearance of Beau left more questions than had been answered.

“I know you want to ask me.”

"That... may be true," the queen retorted, her tone steady while she took another bite, "but it's as far removed from any point I could make. You refused to tell me once. I have it well in mind that you'd refuse my advance to ask again."

Kenna went quiet, pushing the food absently around her plate before finally admitting, “ I… need your help.”

A calm emerald gaze lifted to meet the teen from across the expanse of the mahogany table. She was quiet for a moment, reflective on how serious the situation truly was if Kenna was at last admitting defeat to her resistance and asking for help. “And I won’t hesitate to assist you as best as I am able. But first, be honest: what haven’t you told me?”

It took a moment, but the girl before her whispered that she thought she knew where her brother was. The blonde nodded in agreement. She had her suspicions after taking wing the night before to scout the city. “I think I do, too, based purely on his actions,” the queen confessed between gritted teeth. It had been a thought plaguing her, a speculation about the ongoings of the Templars. Why else would the children fight against the immortals? Why else would a child like Beau— a happy, bouncy boy the last she’d seen him— aim a lethal shot at the rare Mephisto? “Take your time, but tell me what the missing piece is to this puzzle set before us.”

Maeve listened carefully, absorbing the information given to her with an air of neutrality. However, she could hear her blood in her ears as the pressure within began to rise. It was Londontown all over again. She’d heard whispers there, too. Children of poor families in Cheapside taken in. But here in New Orleans, it seemed a stark reality. “What happened that you blame yourself for what those cowards did?”

"We stayed in one place for too long," she mumbled. "We would usually only stay a week max, before moving on somewhere new. We stayed like 3. We were making our way back from the market. It was so hot, and bright, and I was so tired." Tears welled up in her eyes and she bit her lip. "Kids don't go down quiet alleyways by themselves. You don't come back out the other side. I was selfish because it was a short cut. I knew better."

With the tears beginning to fall, the queen stood from the table and walked around. Instinct wanted to hold the child close and reassure her. Wisdom kept her at bay. She placed a warm hand gently on Kenna’s shoulder, the touch light but the best attempt she could make at being comforting. “It’s not your fault. You are not to blame for adults acting like monsters hiding under beds.”

The blonde moved away and let Kenna have her moment, and in the meanwhile, she disappeared behind a door she quickly unlocked with a heavy key from her pocket. Returning with a bottle of a dark amber liquid, she poured about of shot into her own mug. With a careful, slow stride she meandered towards Kenna and poured a shot into the teen’s cup as well. “Hair of the dog, as it were,” she managed though her throat felt choked. Oxygen wasn’t making it through. The bottle went to her lips and heaved it heavens ward, swallowing gulp full after gulp until she made it back to her chair. The heat settled in her core, sending fire into her bloodstream and illusionary warmth to her extremities.

She knew what it meant for a child to be taken. It was clear what they had done, were doing. They turned him into a weapon against his brethren, against his own sister. Maeve clicked her tongue as she sat down and reclined into it staring at the plate as of it would reheat the meal on the porcelain. Her stare shifted to the brunette opposite her. “Eat. You’ll need your energy if we’re to get your brother out of there.”

"Do you know where 'there' is?" Kenna asked, taking a mouthful. "Cause I have a hunch but I don't know how accurate it is."

Maeve perked up, leaning slightly forward in her seat. “Do tell. Though I suspect we’re thinking of the same place….”

--- --- ---

She was running behind. Work had to be done elsewhere, letters to be written, sent off. Plans had to be expressed and delivered across the globe. Few knew her cipher, fewer knew how to read the code. But the ones who did, oh…. They would be invaluable to them.

Her focus was a knife as it split between the doorways when she entered the Canine. Behind the bar was a young vampire she knew well after several drunken nights. He caught her stare and startled slightly from the conversation he had with a patron. She saw him mouth something to the stranger as she approached before gracing her with a charismatic smile.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted respectfully with a gentle bow, averting his gaze in the process. He managed a smile out of the blonde. “Your usual?”

Shaking her head, the Irishwoman heaved what was surely the hundredth of the day. “No, Marcus. I’m in need of utilizing the back room of the establishment this evening. Could you kindly direct any that enter with code ‘Blood for the blood lily’ to join me?” she instructed after he confirmed her request. She nearly stepped away but before she could manage to adjust a glass was pushed towards her, whiskey neat. Emeralds bore into the liquid amber before meeting his. “Smartass,” she grumbled before taking it.

The few who were already there, she nodded to them before escaping into the back, struggling to catch her breath. The sting was already at the back of her throat because the reality of it all settled on her shoulders. She sipped from the glass, and placed it onto the table with precise delicacy she did not often muster. All that was left was getting the rest of their small world to know what was the plan to be laid out before them.

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

René Troxler

Ephemera

health bar

WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Sister Aglaé
DOING: Discussing Repairs
CREDIT: nikoboiko
PLAYLIST: ☀

It had been a rough start to the morning. Sleep was hard and difficult with the ongoings of his roommate who had also been largely bedridden the day before. What work he had managed the day before seemed to pale in contrast to what he was left with. The orders had piled on from both Sisters and Legionnaires. When he arrived that morning, he set to breaking down the workloads among the technicians, leaving most of the work from the Sisters to himself and the few that had been assigned to their squadron.

Amber and honey-toned irises scanned over the appointment list scheduled for his morning relieved he had successfully managed to balance the workloads between the two factions. Those who needed the most difficult repairs or even remodels were set for his morning appraisals. He expected only half of the Legionnaires to actually show up at his desk. However, he could still be surprised. His first appointment arrived early while he was still setting up, and only occasionally argued with him on points of design versus functionality. Typical peacocking of the faction he was happy to have avoided.

His next on his list was a new name, one he hadn’t recognized. He checked the clock over his desk and cocked his head at it and the time listed. Late? He turned around and checked the others in the room only to see a Nun standing near the lab entrance. It had to be the name listed on the docket for the augment he was to repair.

Rene left the document behind and navigated his way around the room to meet her. His right arm lifted and gently settled over his heart before making a quick bow to her. “You must be Sister Aglaé. I’m Ephemera, the head technician for this enterprise and the private biomechanic engineer for the Sisterhood.” He straightened up and gestured across the room “You can follow me over to my workstation and we can discuss the repairs you need on your mod.”

The blond wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Perhaps a brief exchange in passing before they continued, or even curt nod in agreement. But he couldn’t help as his head cocked to the side as she fumbled into her pockets to take out a pamphlet. Confusion contorted his face while he looked towards it at her gesture. He scanned the brief phrasing before his lips formed around a soundless “oh”. Turning his gaze towards her as he smiled a small, amicable grin. “The pleasure is all mine, ‘Egg’. You’ll have to tell me how you came to have such a,” he hesitated while he tried to decide on a proper phrase,” unique name.”

He nearly turned until he saw her hands start to move, gesturing. A silent conversation pressed on as he tried to piece together her mimes to a coherent statement. “So you cannot use your modification properly to do simple tasks like writing, correct?” he asked softly. When it was clear he had gotten it correct he motioned to his workspace again so they could better communicate.

Ephemera offered her a seat on a stool before taking a few tools down to better observe the damage on her arm. “You’ll have to guide me through this as best as you can,” he instructed, taking out his journal before moving it between them with a pencil. “I admit I am horrible at writing with my opposite hand as well, but please try your best when necessary. My first question is simple: is the augmentation detachable from your body without the need for surgery? Such as a socket joint at the shoulder or mid-arm?” He picked up the pencil to write down her response so he could maintain a record for the repair.

Understandably she didn’t respond with words but instead began to look through the pamphlet she’d referenced before. After a moment of silence, she turned it towards him, pointing excitedly at the diagram within. He followed her gaze and stared at the page in wonder. Slowly the corners of his mouth turned upward and he pulled it towards him. Rene’s eyes hungrily took in each connection of the cabling it labeled, the joints of each segment that made up the complex beautiful machine that made up her arms.

“They did not hesitate in designing this,” he mumbled to himself in wonder. Slowly, he looked back at her, “Nothing against the engineer, but they were merciless with the complexity of this piece. I can fix it, of course, I just need to access the hubs within that are damaged and there’s a good chance a piece or two broke that is preventing the mechanism from triggering properly. I won’t know for certain until I can remove it.”

With a grin, he looked back to the document, reading the details of the modification’s instructions for removal. “Fortunately, surgery is necessary to remove it. However, I need access to about,” he gestured to the central spot of his upper arm, “here. Looks like a series of switches within, but first a few screws have to come out for removal. I’ll have to twist the piece out to expose the connection to disconnect them, so expect a pinch. And I’ll have to hold your arm in place to steady the removal process. Is this okay?”

With her approval, they both set to work. Her sleeve was pulled further up and Ephemera excitedly began to remove the screws in the indicated locations, setting them into a small dish he kept on his workbench. His gloved hands went to either side of the arm. Hidden beneath the leather his own modification held the permanent fixture in her shoulder still while his flesh and bone twisted to release the stabilizer within. His left hand fell away from her shoulder to steady the heavy equipment in his hand and put it on the workspace. The number of wires and connections within surprised him in their sheer number.

“This is… excessive, unless….” He looked at her, curious and with a suspecting grin pulling at the scarred blossom pink lips. “Are you hiding a trick up your sleeve with these that would require such a sheer number of cables? They can’t all be for the sake of ensuring these mechanisms work-- your elbow and digits. There’s too many for such simple tasks.”

It took a moment before the sister responded, her acting drawing out a sincere lighthearted chuckle from his chest. “Ah!,” the engineer exclaimed in understanding with a gentle nod of his head while he beamed at her. “Small, but mighty. I understand. Between you and me, after having a chance to look at your mod, you might be the toughest in the room. Considering the materials it's made out of and the intricacy of the design which include areas of reinforcement that typically would go ignored for the sheer amount of weight it would carry.” He looked at her then, with a curious child-like wonder. “Do you have surgical implants along your spine to help reduce the imbalance between the weight of the mods and human physiology?”

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Marcus Sideris

Erebos

health bar

WHERE: Apartment > Brass Canine
WITH: Alone, Virgil
DOING: Working
CREDIT: NINJA THEORY
PLAYLIST:

Humidity was thick in the air as he awoke, stretching with dramatic groans and the sweet sound of vertebrae popping. Sunset was soon. He’d become accustomed to this routine and the steady decrease in the heat around him felt familiar and comforting as he went about his “morning” to prepare for work. A sinewy, olive hand combed back the mess of umber waves and curls from his eyes that slowly adjusted within the darkness. Marcus swung his body around on the bed to sit up with a large, rolling yawn that pulled his body upwards. He followed the natural progression and stood, stretching more thoroughly.

The young vampire moved lazily across the minimally furnished studio apartment to the icebox near a kitchenette afforded to him. The icebox-- a wooden box lined internally with metal to insulate the ice and contents within-- had cost him a small fortune to purchase and maintain, but anything was better than having to go to the blood bank for daily trips. He could keep a week’s worth of blood to keep him sated within the tiny contraption. He lifted the lock on it, dipped his hand inside to grab a glass container hidden within, and removed it with surprising delicacy.

He placed the container on the counter and added water to a lonely pot sitting on the stovetop. Moments later water was being heated gradually with a ceramic mug within holding the deep scarlet liquid. Absently, a long digit gathered remnants lining the bottle’s neck. Fighting the mixture of guilt and obsession, the brunet licked it clean from his finger like a child removing icing from his sticky fingers. The bottle was tossed aside without a second thought while he continued with his routine, dressing while he waited for his meal to heat up.

When the youngblood did make it out onto the busy streets of the Big Easy, he was easily lost in the crowds shuffling and moving along the avenues. All were heading to some epicenter of evening entertainment either for meals or for leisure. A few gave him hasty glances, the kind someone of his stature often received, but some others were of curious, piqued interest. The lingering looks he smiled at, oozing allure to one particular redhead he had to turn to keep eye contact with. She smelled delectable. Perhaps, he could manage to get her alone long enough…

No, he turned away and continued elsewhere. Playtime would have to wait to be with others who could handle his rough touch.

It didn’t take much. The Greek bartender was entertaining a young woman who had entered seeking refuge from the madness of her latest poor affair. Did he understand her woes? Her broken heart? Surely those rich chocolate irises burning in the candlelight could relate? Of course, and so much more. Such a pretty petite little thing. How curious she was in manner and design.

“Well, άγγελέ μου, you’ve captured my attention. I am enthralled by you,” the brunette cooed from across the bar to the patroness across from him. He leaned towards her, holding his jaw in his hand to keep himself up while he gazed at her. She was truly an interesting creature; a beautiful young woman with a warm, beating heart and lively veins pulsating and sending shivers down his back. Who knew what manner of Beast she was. Perhaps something cute and small, or something predatory. A vixen seemed to suit her well and how he longed to hunt her down. A charming, smug grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “What spell is this?”

“Tsk tsk, Casanova…” His head snapped up towards his estranged mentor with a quick grin before it faltered with the remainder of his taunt. All the time he’d suffered without the Fantome, and here he was prodding fun at the youngblood. Typical prick. “I must know out of morbid curiosity, dear, if his endeavors at charm are proving to be irresistible.”

He chuckled under his breath, knowing exactly where this was headed. There went his after-work special with a soft grazing touch over his face. It sent a shiver down his spine. Payback was going to be a bitch.

"Think it was something I said..?"

As the space was filled by Virgil, his expressed shifted somewhere between annoyed and amused. “Oh, surely not. Couldn’t have been. I mean, she and I were having a lovely time flirting and becoming acquainted and then you come in with those smooth lines of course.” He couldn’t help himself. A hand reached forward, offered in greeting. “It’s been awhile. What brings you to New Orleans, old man?”

The retired pirate was a few words into his explanation that a particularly high profile patroness entered the Canine that it caused the hair on the back of neck to bristle at her approach. “Been in the presence of a queen yet?” he asked before his eyes shifted to meet the Phoenix’s.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted, his voice laced with honey though his eyes gave him away. God, this woman was going to be a problem if the two of them ganged up on his ego. He began the glass. “Your usual?”

“No, Marcus. I’m in need of utilizing the back room of the establishment this evening. Could you kindly direct any that enter with code ‘Blood for the blood lily’ to join me?”

He was nearly done with the drink he intended for her while she spoke, He nodded his understanding. “Of course, madam,” he confirmed while she spun on her stilettoed heel. He pushed her drink towards her. A proud grin pulled at her mouth while she walked away. Try as he might, he knew she’d tip well later if he kept her hand busy.

His eyes settled back on Virgil with some curiosity. “You were saying?”

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Kenna Mac Amery

Incendiu

health bar

WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: Alone
DOING: Being Impatient
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

Kenna woke up later in the morning than she had intended to. Her head was pounding with regret for how much she had drunk, along with how much she had let slip past her lips. As much as she wished to forget the little breakdown she had, even the alcohol she consumed had not saved her from it. As she rubbed her eyes of sleep, a familiar smell broke through the haze, practically lulling her towards the kitchen. Standing by the doorway, she peeked around the corner, seeing Maeve sitting with a paper. Her eye quickly flicked to the stove.

Kenna wondered if she should back away, but she could not seem to make her feet move. The smells were lulling her forward; however, the awkwardness of her freak out the night before kept her in place. Kenna could only remember parts of what came spilling from her mouth, but what she did remember left her a little embarrassed. She doubted that her little outburst had slipped past Maeve.

Before she could decide if she would flee from the 'Queens' presence or enter the kitchen, she was startled by Maeve breaking the silence. Kenna opened her mouth about to refuse the coffee, but the pounding in her head told her that would be a stupid decision. With a small sigh, the teen stepped into the kitchen. "Thank you," she said, walking to find a mug and to pour herself a cup.

"Second cupboard on the left. Just past the sink,"

Kenna gave a small nod, more to herself than Maeve, heading for the cupboard that she had been directed to. She pulled out a cup for herself before opening the neighbouring cupboard for the plate that the woman had also asked for. The offer of sharing the meal tugged at her mind as she pulled a plate from the cupboard. She pulled only one at first but reached for a second when her mind told her not to pass on the opportunity of a taste of home. She placed the plates beside the stovetop for Maeve and then went to fill her cup with coffee.

The teen was trying not to show how much she was drooling over the food, so she sipped on her coffee instead. "I like beans over everything," she said with a small smile. Funny how memories that were locked away bubbled to the surface through smells and tastes. She ladled beans on to her own plate before picking up the silverware that Maeve had set aside for her and the mug of coffee. Picking up her plate, she made a quick glance to the door, hesitant.

Fuck it.

Kenna instead sat down at the table opposite Maeve. "Thank you," she said again as she settled into her seat.

As the first mouthful of food hit her tongue, Kenna relaxed in her seat. There was a certain sense of comfort from such a simple meal. Although she had been fed well since staying at Maeve's, it would take a while to get used to proper meals like this. They had been few and far between. Usually, it was whatever she could find, and that wasn't a hot meal. Kenna took a wary glance at the beast across from her as she took another mouthful. She'd had a fair amount to drink last night, but not enough to forget completely what had happened. Her outburst at Bjorn had been one thing, but Beau turning up at the fight had been a catalyst. She knew Maeve wanted to ask her more about it, especially since she had refused to talk about it in the days prior. Kenna knew she was not going to get out of talking about it forever.

"I know you want to ask me," she said quietly, taking another mouthful, still avoiding the Queen's gaze.

Maeve was not going to force her to talk about it, and the teen did appreciate the sentiment in that. Kenna was quiet for a moment, considering her options. "While that would have been true yesterday, I can't not talk about it forever." She said, pushing some of the food around her plate. "I . . . need your help," she admitted, not looking up at the older beast.

Kenna was hesitant, if only for the moment. She knew she needed help, that she wasn't going to be able to do this alone, but the information she was sitting on . . . would Maeve be mad at her for not telling them sooner? She still was not sure herself if it was fact, but it was the best bet she had for now. "I think I know where Beau is right now," she admitted, still avoiding Maeve gaze by pushing food around nervously.

"I don't know much," she admitted. "But there is always enough talk around town if you listen closely enough. Kids have been going missing for years now. No one's done anything; they can't. It always seemed more like a myth than anything else, a scary story told to children so they wouldn't wander off." She stopped for a moment. "It . . . It was my fault he was taken. I made a stupid decision and gave them the opportunity. I couldn't track them when they first took him, so it made things hard," she said, her finger lightly tracing the scar over her nose. "After some time, I thought I knew where they took him in the city, but I think I was wrong."

"What happened that you blame yourself for what those cowards did?"

Her cheeks and her ears flushed red in the shame and disappointment in herself for the whole situation. "We stayed in one place for too long," she mumbled. "We would usually only stay a week max before moving on somewhere new. We stayed like 3." She knew she had to tell this to Maeve eventually, and even after briefly breaking down about it to Bjorn the night before, it did not make it any easier. "We were making our way back from the market. It was so hot and bright, and I was so tired." Tears welled up in her eyes, and she bit her lip. "Kids don't go down quiet alleyways by themselves. You don't come back out the other side. I was selfish because it was a short cut. I knew better." Kenna abandoned her fork and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"It's not your fault. You are not to blame for adults acting like monsters hiding under beds."

The teen shook her head. "It doesn't change the fact that my stupid decision made us an easy picking. I broke my promise to Kathrine, and I let Beau down." Nothing Maeve could say would alleviate the guilt, but the touch to her shoulder provided more comfort that she thought it would.

Kenna brushed away the last of the tears that lingered on her cheeks. Guilt aside, she was determined to do whatever it took to get him back. She perked up at the sight of the bottle Maeve brought back to the table, even more appreciative when she poured some into her cup. Pulling the cup to her lips, Kenna took a sip.

With a nod of her head, Kenna leant forward in her chair, placing the cup back down and picking up her fork. "Do you know where 'there' is?" She said, taking a mouthful. "Cause I have a hunch, but I don't know how accurate it is."

-------

The days were going slow. A lot had happened, but the teen felt as if everything was taking too long. Kenna's mind continued to tick away, itching to continue moving. She had to remind herself that staying put was the best course of action. It would be safer, and she was finally getting the help she needed to save her brother.

Night was rolling around, and with the familiar comfort of the darkened sky, the meeting Maeve was calling together drew closer. Kenna did not think she would have been invited, being so new to the apparent 'inner circle', which in Kenna's firm opinion was not that hard to do in the first place. After the conversation with Maeve in the days prior, she apparently had things to share.

Kenna had come off her first day of training; if it could even be called that. Supposedly before they got into any proper techniques or weapons, she needed to bulk up. Kenna could see the importance of it; she knew she lacked the body mass she once had, but how much it reiterated how far she had to go left her feeling impatient. Saying no to the meals provided wasn't even an option; she hadn't eaten so well in a long time and would never complain.

Anxiety settled under her skin, though she tried her hardest not to show it as she entered the bar behind the lumbering mass. The teen was in desperate need of a drink if she had any hope of getting through the evening.

Slipping further into the bar behind Bjorn, she glanced around as he quickly got things organized. Secret codes; blah blah blah, she rolled her eyes at the amount of secrecy. She understood why it was needed, but still, Kenna knew where she needed to go.

In the glances over the bar, her eyes caught a poor abandoned drink with no one to claim it. Swiftly sneaking around the brute, she snagged the glass with a smirk before twisting around Bjorn's back and heading towards the backroom, sipping on the drink as she went. Whatever it was, it was alcoholic, and that was all she needed.

Plonking herself down on one of the chairs, the teen sipped away, hoping the drink would start to numb the anxiety that had settled in.

[/QUOTE]

 

[ashwynne]

Nascha

Black Sun

health | bar

WHERE: Esther's Home
WITH: Esther
DOING: Social Call?
CREDIT: @peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

Nascha detested travel through the city by day. The cacophony of voices, the confusion of scents, the glaring sun that illuminated all, and the marked lack of any sheltering trees made it thoroughly unbearable. Despite this, she had decided to risk being caught by the early morning foot traffic for the sake of an impulsive decision to visit the vampiress that she had enjoyed conversing with at the Canine.
Esther. She was an interesting undead creature... and while the end of their evening spent together was consigned to the drunken stupor of that night, Nascha had been left with a sense of fondness afterwards that was uncharacteristic of her, worth exploring. Besides, their conversation on the topic of ‘cinnamon,’ still lingered in her mind, and the werebeast had a hankering to see what else she might learn from the brunette. Well… and, if she was being honest, the feline had a very frank curiosity about vampires in and of themselves that she felt safe exploring with this woman. To be undead was a strange thing, after all, and of great interest to the healer. Who knew? Perhaps the key to unlocking a replication of Jack’s serum might be found through interro-- err, investigating the vampire phenomenon.

With that mission in mind--firmly dismissing any inner whisper that she might simply be keen on pleasant company--Nascha paced through the streets of New Orleans. She had been given thorough instructions on how to find the home of the vampiress… and advised that taking a tram would cut down her travel time considerably. Naturally, she had turned her nose up at that entire concept. Once had been enough… and even that time she had been bolstered by the presence of Jack and Maeve. Now? On her own? ...Not a chance.
Considering the fact that unlawful transformation was frowned upon within city limits, the feline had reluctantly resigned herself to travelling by foot, but it was taking so damnably long! She could almost feel the intrusive fingers of dawn clawing at the horizon, practically salivating in their looming desire to burn her eyes, it was enough to have her all but running through the streets, heedless of the curious eyes that followed the strange woman clothed in only a ratty poncho.

She was nearly panting by the time she found herself standing before the building she had been referred to. Amber eyes considered it thoughtfully, head tilting to the side slightly as she took in the rundown state of things.
Grass and weeds grew unhindered within the unkempt front lawn; a single tree stretching from within the plot of land, its branches sprawled haphazardly outward and its leaves beginning to be dressed in the breathtaking colours of autumn. The porch was enclosed, at least, but the dead vines that had chosen their final resting place around the support columns only added to the general downtrodden look of the facing.
Nascha’s eyes slitted with pleasure and a rumble rolled from her throat that was as close to a purr as her human form could convey. She liked it. From the outside, at least, it reminded her of a grander version of her own cozy home.
One foot stepped in front of the other as the sun began to rise over the horizon, the feline marching to the front door, skipping over the broken step as though she belonged there. There was no demure rap to notify Esther of her presence, no, not from this woman! Her hand curled into a fist and she slammed it down twice on the door, head twitching back a little as the thuds resounded dully through the house and the door itself looked ready to give up the good fight. Fortunately, it managed to survive the assault… this time.
“Nascha is here!” she called after a scant second had passed, her foot twitching a little, eyes flicking about with an unrealistic sense of impatience.

After a brief moment, a muddled voice called out to her in turn, recognizable as belonging to Esther but addled and entirely lacking the alertness that Nascha had expected. Ever so slightly the she-cat’s head canted to the side, her brows furrowing with a quiver of impatience. What manner of lazy creature were vampires? It would seem she had roused Esther from bed--if her voice was anything to go by--which seemed entirely at odds with the feral, fanged, demonic beasts of darkness that Nascha had been led to believe made up the bulk of vampirekind. Granted, Esther had seemed none of those things at the Canine… but whether that was due to her being unique, or to the healer’s preconceived notions being incorrect, remained to be seen.
Regardless, it still seemed passing odd to her that she had caught the woman unawares in bed. Well. She would be able to glean more when Esther opened the door, no doubt, so for the time being the she-cat hushed the spinning gears and cogs of her mind.

With her head still cocked, ears attentively listening to the sound of stairs being navigated, Nascha rolled her weight forward onto the balls of her feet, elongating her body while also coiling muscles in case it was necessary to flee. It was old habit, done without conscious thought, as she waited for the door to open and admit her inside.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” she replied briskly, not bothering to raise her voice very much, expecting--even if vampires were notorious lounge-abouts--that Esther’s senses would still be sharp enough to pick out the greeting.
A beat passed as she waited on the porch, but the sounds of movement within had stopped.

Queerly, the vampiress asked her if something had happened and offered some cryptic statement about not being able to open the door as it was ‘not her time.’ Frowning at this, Nascha gave her head a small shake. “No. Nothing is the matter,” the furrow of her brows increased in depth, staring in bafflement at the door. “What do you mean by ‘not your time’? Are you incubating yourself?” she supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility. Perhaps they needed to take their time digesting meals… like snakes, or perhaps some other quirk of their physiology necessitated them shutting themselves away?
Nascha hummed thoughtfully under her breath for a moment as she mulled it over before her eyes widened, shock, dismay, and no small amount of reprimand in her tone, “You’re not just saying that because you’re afraid of me, are you? I do promise not to rampage through your house…”

“No, no. No, surely not.”

Esther’s quick response mollified her, too quick and genuine to be a falsehood… or so Nascha deemed. Listening to the rest had her eyes widening in surprise, glancing towards what little of the horizon was visible through the streets, making note of the fingers of light crawling with menace towards them. Hm. She supposed she had heard something before about bloodsuckers being confined to the dark, but had never really given it much thought. Now, it was galling. Galling, inconvenient, and entirely ridiculous. Naturally, Esther could not see her, but in the spirit of the thing the healer scowled towards the sun, mentally shaking her fist at it and only a smidgen of self control away from doing so in actuality.

It seemed more prudent to address all this information face to face, and so the she-cat nodded in silence once the directives were given and paced on silent feet to the left side of the porch as indicated. Sure enough, in the corner was a board that was not nailed down like the others were, and--with a quick glance around her to ensure no one was watching--Nascha lifted it and snatched up the key, moving to the front door where she hesitated for only the span of a few heartbeats. “I hope you’re not standing right behind the door,” she said, her voice raised just slightly enough for the other woman to hear her if she was near, waiting but a moment until Esther confirmed she was away before the healer slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and admitted herself inside.

The interior was bathed in the blessed cool of darkness, though Nascha hardly had time to notice this as her senses were immediately arrested by the mouthwatering scent of something from further within the home. It was sweet, warm, boasting hints of the ‘spice’ that Esther had used to overcome the Templar with the sun in his chest. She was immediately intrigued.

With metaphorical ears perked, the healer padded on silent feet in the direction the scent came from, able to hear her host bustling about in that area as well. As she went, Nascha took curious note of her surroundings, admittedly impressed. It was far more orderly and tidy than the exterior would have suggested, obvious care having been paid to its upkeep. She, herself, had never had a proper home that she could fondly recall--save in her childhood but she refused to think of those days--and rarely had occasion to be invited inside the homes of others. Shops? Yes. Bars? Sure. But her penchant for aloofness meant that house calls were almost always off the table and friendly invitations even less likely.

The she-cat rounded a corner and found herself in a generously sized kitchen. All the kitchenware gleamed and the mouthwatering scent could be identified as a cake that had been cut into two heaping portions on a pair of mismatched plates. Amber eyes glowed and sparked brightly with curiosity, Nascha hopping closer to flick her gaze from Esther to the cake and then back again. “For me?” she asked, suddenly seeming much closer to her natural age as the throes of girlish delight took over.
Without really waiting for an answer, she reached for one of the plates and inhaled deeply of the cake’s rich, sweet scent. With it now in hand, however, hesitation came as she tried to parse how best to eat it. A fork had been provided and she took this daintily, slowly slicing off a forkful with a surgeon’s precision as her voice took on a more professional tone, “I’ll have you know that the sun is entirely overrated,” she said with a sniff, “You’re truly not missing anything. It burns the eyes, it heats the skin, and it makes it terribly easy to be seen,” she shot Esther a glance that was a gentler and more friendly expression than any she tended to make in the presence of others, “If I could stuff it back from where it came, I’d happily do so, and I’m sorry you’re constrained to your home during the daylight hours now.”

Esther’s answer came as a surprise. Not only was the vampiress unperturbed by her circumstances, but she went so far as to consider the advent of the sun a blessing. The healer arched a brow at this but after a moment opted to say nothing and merely shrug her shoulder. Frankly, she didn’t see anything to really adore in the harsh light that burned eyes and rendered vampires to dust, but to each their own.

Almost without realizing it, Nascha had found herself settling down at the kitchen table, perching herself on one of the chairs as she peered up at the brunette… making herself far more at home than was prudent or polite. It was only then that she brought the forkful of custard cake between her lips and let it settle on her tongue, pulling the silverware out from between tight lips that allowed no morsel to escape.

No sooner had she done this than her pupils expanded wildly, irises restricted to a ring of gleaming gold about the deep black, goosebumps raising on her skin as a kitten mewl burst from her lips and she stared down at the delicious-smelling confection in wonder before tipping her head up to peer worshipfully at Esther. “Is this some vampire trick?” she breathed, “What is it? How can it taste like… like… a full moon on a dark night? Like running with wild abandon over starlit meadows…?” she shook her head and tentatively took another tiny forkful, as though a second taste might nullify her impression of the first. Another small sound of pleasure came as she found it just as delectable and she blinked owl-eyed up at the other woman, her voice a shocked whisper, “This is food?”

She was asked if she liked it and the she-cat could do nothing but mutely nod, eyes saucer-wide and locked onto her plate, only dimly aware of Esther bustling about the kitchen. The words, too, fell largely on deaf ears. Something about eggs and sugar limits which Nascha did not really understand. What she did understand was the way the confection seemed to melt in her mouth, making love to tastebuds she never knew she had, doing so in a way that had her metaphorical tail curling in rapt delight. Still, the she-cat had just enough wits about her to listen as best she could to Esther’s request, her hands moving to fold around the steaming cup of some sort of liquid that had been set before her. It had a familiar scent, one she had smelled wafting from many a building in the mornings, but never had she tried any for herself.

A tentative sip was taken as Esther spoke of opium’s beginning in poppy fields and offered a trade of tales for tales. The flavour that burst over her tongue had the she-cat’s eyes widening all over again, not quite sure whether the bitter taste--offset slightly by cream and sugar--was to her liking or against it. It would require draining the cup to find out… and possibly require a second cup to really be sure.

“I will make that trade,” she said, a little brighter and eager, pupils slightly dilated as she fiddled between sips of coffee and nibbling the cake--taking only small forkfuls in a desperate attempt to make the pleasure of it last longer. “Running opium story first, please, and I’ll see if I can convince you to tell me the other one, too. I have plenty of stories of my own--not just about what happened at the docks,” she said, leaning nearer to the other woman with a keenness in her gaze.

It took only thirty minutes for the caffeine to take root in her system. Very swiftly the conversation devolved to paced steps and jerky movements, gesticulating wildly as she brought her stories to life. Alas, it took precious little time for the roiling ball of energy nested in her chest to explode outward. No longer capable of keeping her energy constrained to storytelling, Nascha’s manic focus shifted to roving restlessly through Esther’s house. It was undeniably the most fun she had ever had in her entire life, though the vampiress likely felt differently as a pair of curious feline hands fiddled with delicate items absent any real care and set things at serious risk of crashing to the ground once she was done.
By sheer luck the she-cat failed to break anything in actuality, and at the end of her caffeine-heightened state she crashed and crashed hard. With no real explanation or time for reaction, the petite healer’s bones cracked and shifted, fur blooming where none had been previously, and in the end Esther had to contend with a massive werecougar that had somehow managed to find a home sprawled over the foot end of her bed.

Naturally, Nascha did not stir until the moon had risen again, waking just in time to be nudged and cajoled into padding alongside Esther to the meeting at Maeve’s home.

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Maeve Donovan

Phoenix

health bar

WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: The Gathering
DOING: Monologuing
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: ♔

Maeve leaned forward against the table which stood at the center of the room. One hand grasped the edge of the surface, holding her firmly in place. Casual conversation passed between a few of the gathering while she tapped her nails on the glass of her drink, watching everyone in the room as it slowly filled. Only a few remained who needed to arrive before the meeting could begin and she could get the intel she’d collected out into the open. Her sights settled on her ward across the way, sipping on her own drink. The blonde was certain it was stolen just as others had been during the teen’s previous visit to the Canine. Her’s was a problem that needed solving for the sake of many, but there was also the issue of protecting the last Mephisto.

As the last of their number entered the room, she nodded to the bartender who closed the door behind them. Maeve brought her glass to her lips and sipped before she moved across the room to stand beside the Vampire Queen. Tilting her head she gave Cecile an inquisitive glance. “Would you mind if I take the lead?” The raven-haired vampire gave her approval and the werebeast sovereign stepped forward.

“To begin, I’d like to thank everyone for coming on short notice. It seems we’re all of the understanding we needed to meet. Those who are present are trusted in our shared community and have shown to be reliable in times of trouble.” She moved again, taking careful steps around to meet the gaze of the first she could think of who had been rescuer to hundreds before. “Sherwood saved many of us after the bombing of Cheapside by providing safe passage from New Londontown to America.” She turned and her arm lifted as she gestured back to the Leech Queen. “Ember has taken up the mantle of leading and ruling vampires since the losses of each of the previous sovereigns.” Turning on her heel she nodded in the direction of her advisor. “The man formerly known as ‘the Hunter’ has assisted me in leading the werebeasts since the loss of the Midnight Jackal.” Her body began to turn away, though her emerald gaze lingered on Bjorn. Taking in a deep, steady breath, Phoenix gestured to them all, pulling her sights away from him.

“Most of us here tonight took part of the battle at the riverfront docks. We may have held our own, but the damage has been done… not only to our bodies and our companions, our comrades but to the larger community who until that night lived in peace. Laws were broken to protect ourselves, but already the lawmakers of this city are seeking to ‘correct’ the situation and punish anyone involved. Those of us who have been identified as leaders--” she met Cecile’s gaze “--are likely to be approached to answer for the actions taken by our kin.” It was but one of a number of topics the two queens had discussed at length, but it was certainly one they had agreed held considerable weight. New Orleans was meant to be a haven, and their presence had turned into a hindrance. “That comes as no surprise to any of us here. However, whatever demands are made at the expense of our respected races will be negotiated using the methods of the law. We must continue to put our best foot forward in this endeavor.”

Licking her burgundy-stained lips, she squared her jaw. “Where it comes to the Order, I’d like to point out this does not mean we will go gentle into the night.”

Squaring her shoulders, Maeve finished her drink and placed the glass onto the table with nary a sound. Her arms crossed in front of her chest as she shifted her weight onto one foot. There was a dangerous glint in her eye as she stared into the spaces between those present. “The Templars have become too accustomed to breaking the backs of those unfortunate immortals in other cities, and other countries. The power they have accumulated over the last few decades has been tremendous but we are not individuals who die so easily. For centuries we were at war with one another, each seeking to gain the upper hand to survive. Few are aware of how that war began, fewer are alive to remember when it began. But the war with the Order is fresh and deep. This is a force greater than we could have expected, and though some of our number here tonight may have survived a few encounters, they still have us running like cockroaches through the world. No longer. We must make our stand, especially with the discovery we were all witness to: their heinous crime of subjugating children to the battlefield. One of the children present at the docks is, in fact, the younger brother of one of our compatriots here tonight.”

The Ravenwoman turned towards the teenager in their group, and she nodded her encouragement to Kenna. Approaching her, the queen placed a steadying hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “As we discussed, it’s your turn to share with them what you told me. Everything you possibly can, please.” She stepped back to let the brunette through to share her story, moving to the back of the room while others listened to the tale she had heard the other morning. With a hawk-like gaze, she watched as the expressions shifted on the faces of the party while Kenna spoke. It did not surprise the blonde to witness the shock, discontent, anger, and disgust shift over their visages. If nothing else, it confirmed everything she suspected: this was the final straw for them all. When Kenna had finished, Maeve nodded to her again, approval and pride transparent on her face.

“The location of the children is still pure speculation. It will require investigation to be certain whether or not they’re being held where we suspect, but we should assume they’re clever enough to plan to move them. We’ll have to determine where there are any additional Templar locations within the vicinity.”

Her lips pursed and she moved again. “All of this having been said, we also know the goal of the operation within the city at this time. I have no intention of allowing them to retrieve their ‘prize’.” Standing in front of Jack, she swallowed hard at the feeling at the back of her throat. Memories, recent and fresh and long ago and faded replayed in her eyes. “We have to protect everyone, and that includes you, my friend. I don’t know what their plans are for you, but whatever it is you deserve an opportunity to escape it. The best method is to find you asylum where the Templars have the least amount of power overseas.” She raised her hand and cupped the side of his face, caressing that of the two men she’d cared for deeply as her nearest and dearest since her youth. Why did this have to happen a second time? The face was Bernardo’s, the soul was Jack. Her mind raced to the first time she had told them to escape the war, over a decade before in her tent back when the immortal races had danced a fine line of peace before the war would surely begin again between them She had been a lieutenant to the Jackal then. He was surely going to rise in the leech’s ranks, too, had he stayed. “I’m so sorry to have to ask you to do this again, but for your sake, I’ll make it a point to ensure it is the last: Run away, Jack.”

Her hand dropped to his shoulder, fought the mist in her eyes, and Maeve turned back to the group. “Is there anyone here who would help Lazarus to escape their reach?”

 

[legalrehab]

S E I K O 島崎清子

alias: Kirin

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Every Beast and Vampire and Jack Fletcher
DOING: Brass Canine
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

He had come to learn this lesson many times but it seemed Seiko would be reminded each time he started to forget. Maeve's words left a bitter feeling inside of him, a sort of painful regret that would make him realize that memories were nice, but they were fleeting. The more he chased after those memories, the harder this lesson would return to bring him down. First it was the fond recollections of his time with the emperor, then the emperor's son, his daughter, and countless others after in the short lives that mortals lived. He knew they were all different, but found himself chasing after the hope of what once was. The faces would change - but as he served each of them - it still felt as if his cherished Hikaru was still in there.

It was selfish, but there was a part of him that knew his time alongside Jack was too good to be true. That morning he didn't expect Jack to take him up on his offer to walk to the Canine at all, let alone walk the portion that he did. Allowing himself to indulge in his interest brought him a happiness he was not use to. This sort of delusional denial brought him the most joyous high. Seiko coveted Jack, but was his fascination born from simply looking for parts of him to fill the hole within his heart? It was a conversation he dare not have with himself. Regardless, the warmth of his head upon his shoulder that morning was something he wouldn't soon forget. The trolley ride may have been short, but he lived in that moment for hours.

Despite everything; the changing of faces, the shores eroding into the sea with the passage of time, and his body getting older - ever so slightly in little ways he still stood. A lump formed in his throat as he realized his liege was no exception to this fate.

Seiko was a protector, he always would be. Jack did need protection, but now he did not.

He had known this bliss wouldn't last and it was such a thrilling dream to lose himself in the prospect that it just might. Though there was little to say, in the grand scheme of his lifetime this chapter would be a short one yet it weighed no less an impact. When Maeve asked if anyone would be willing to escort him away, Seiko opened his mouth to speak but no words fell form his lips. He had just brought him here, and to so abruptly say goodbye seemed impossible so much so that it was not possible to speak. He wasn't ready for this farewell, come to think of it - he had never been good at them. It was a grim closure that he did not know how to process out of refusal.

It would be him though, there was no one else fitting for such a task. Even as the question was spoken he could feel the weight of everyone's minds turn in his direction. It was odd, humbling even, how someone who did their best to go unnoticed was known by so many in this moment. "I..." Seiko muttered publicly, "I..."

"Hmm..." He exhaled, giving a curt nod and straightening up his posture. There was no need to say anything else. This was his duty thus a task that could not go uncompleted. No one else was more fitting to see Jack's exit from New Orleans as was the very person who ensured his livelihood here. He wanted to offer something else, anything really beyond just taking the order.

His mind twisted and turned to find a different answer, but there was no alternative. Say he kept Jack in shelter, it would only keep his companion in constant fear - and for what? For him to feel as though he had someone to protect? Mayhap he was more selfish than he knew. This was no life suited for Jack, and he knew it was no life suited for Seiko either.

Yet this was not what fate had in store as his eyes turned to an most unexpected arrival.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Cassandra Caldecott

Little Sparrow

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Many People
DOING: Being included in something she wants no part of
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

The night hung in the air, darkness flowing through the streets. Cassandra had already had a pleasant evening shopping; to end it with a drink seemed almost perfect. An arm linked with Cecile, they made their way towards The Canine. Cassandra found herself somewhat fond of the place. It was quaint but had enough vibrance around it to pull her in.

Upon entering through the door, Cassandra made careful notes that something felt different in the air. There were a few patrons around, seemingly more than the last time she had visited, but though that time had been after a disturbance of the peace, it seemed to be more jovial than the current. She could not put her finger on why.

The short vampire parted ways with her company for a moment, heading for the bar to get a drink. Keeping an unnoticeable sight on her from the corner of her eye, she made note that Cecile was conversing with someone. Being likely to do with business, Cassandra shrugged it off. She had no desire to be nosy of the Queens doing when it came to her business.

Taking the glass with a delicate hand and a gracious smile to charm, she turned to Cecile, who was wandering back at her side, linking arms with her once again. The Queen extended an invitation to join her in the back room. Although seemingly trying to keep light and almost playful in the matter by her tone alone, Cassandra could tell the Queen was hiding something. She was darting around the truth, nothing that was an outright lie but enough that kept her true intentions hidden. Cassandra gave a light lift of the brown as she considered the invitation. In the end, her curiosity outweighed her concern about what she was being dragged in too.

Settling down in a comfortable spot, Cassandra gauged the room. This is where the heavy air had been drifting from. Solemn faces matched those from the other night, and it was not hard for her to guess that this was probably concerning that evening. There were several familiar faces from that evening, but she wondered why she had also been invited to join.

Cassandra kept to herself, sipping on the deep red wine from her glass as the Beast Queen addressed the crowded room. As it dawned on her what the evening was truly about, she gave a side-eye to Cecile. This is not what the traveller had signed up for. This is precisely what she wanted to avoid. Talks of wars and battle, this was not her fight to partake in; Cecile knew this. Cecile had not asked her to join the inner workings since Kestrel reigned. Was she trying again, simply because she was Queen now?

Not being above making a scene, Cassandra knew she could have left at any time, but the environment and the surrounding air that had settled in the room kept her in her seat. It was not the scene she wanted to cause and not the attention she wanted to draw upon herself. Keeping her demeanour calm and soft, the thief remained in her seat, sipping at her drink.

When the young girl spoke of her brother, Cassandra stopped in the middle of her sip. She had heard of the children involved in the battle through passing comments and thought it sounded horrific. Hearing it in more detail, the words tugged at the missing heartstrings in her chest. Biting her lip slightly, concern started to scratch at her resolve. This was why she did not want to be involved. She had spent much of her extended life staying as far away from war as she possibly could. Battle was messy, destructive, and served to benefit no one. Hearing such things filled her with heartache that she would much rather just ignore. It was not her battle to fight. Cassandra would be having words about this with Cecile later.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Kenna Mac Amery

Incendiu

health bar

WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: With way too many people
DOING: Public speaking . . . ew
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

As the minutes ticked by, more people began filling the room, taking their places in the various chairs scattered around. Sipping on her glass, whatever alcoholic liquid it contained, the more she drank it, the less her anxiety rattled her.

Sitting back in her chair, her eyes scanned around the room before her gaze fell to Maeve stepping forward to address the crowd of people. Kenna listened carefully, though she knew most of what Maeve was going to say. They had been over this the day prior. As she shared what she knew, Maeve had started formulating what they needed to do next.

Directing the room’s attention in her direction, the Raven indicated that it was the teens turn to talk. Nerves sat in the pit of her stomach as all eyes turned in her direction. Kenna had spent the better part of her life hiding in the shadows of the world. At this moment, she was becoming the centre of attention. She hated it with every fibre of her being. Maeve had told her that it was a necessity, that it had to come from her. It would be more meaningful, and that it was her information to be shared.

Tapping on the side of the glass, the teen mustered up enough courage to speak her truths. She started off as simply as she could, going over everything she had been through, chased, hunted, the rumours that had filtered through the streets of the city. She had guarded the moment she had become separated from her brother so fiercely that even though Kenna had been over it more times than she would have liked over the past few days, it still wasn’t getting any easier. The teen stumbled over a few words but managed to get the main points across. Who her brother was and how they had become separated.

Then it came to the year she had spent looking for him. "So originally, I was scouting a place,” she said, "big house, weird vibes. Like you know there are a lot of people there, but you never see them. And I don't know; I’ve always just drawn to that house. But, I'm not going to go storming into a house I don't know on the hunch that my brother is there. If I'm wrong, I look crazy and get arrested, and if I'm right, I'm likely dead before the question even leaves my mouth." It was a foreboding feeling littered with frustration at feeling so close but so very far away from the truth. "But here's the kicker, a few weeks ago finally saw a guy leaving the place. So, I follow him. One person is easier to confront than an unknown number,” she said, still gripping onto the glass. "I thought I would have been able to confront him, but then he started heading out of the city in the middle of nowhere. I hung back a little and followed his scent. It seemed very trap-like, so I kept my distance. Anyways there is like nothing out there, only small buildings that seem very underwhelming. What is strange is that there seems to be a hell of a lot of guards patrolling an empty space of absolutely nothing."

The whole area was screwy, and she knew it had to have something to do with Beau. "They kind of half saw me. I got chased all the way back to the city.” The niggle of guilt twitched in her heart, knowing that she still had not attempted to go back there. She had a feeling that it was connected, and yet it had taken her so long to try and return.

"Got a damn heart attack though when I ran into Bjorn a few days later. Thought he was one of them," she said with a slight smirk. Kenna gave a small shake of her head. "I don’t know if Beau is in the city or not. But I know he has to be at one of those places.” Kenna firmly believed that it was all connected, and if he weren’t there, it would at least lead them closer to his whereabouts.

Maeve drew the conversation back, leading it herself once again. The teenager gave a heavy sigh as she downed the last of her drink, thankful that her speaking part was over.

As Maeve brought up the subject of Jack leaving, Kenna regretted that her cup was now empty, her fingers tapping on the edge of the empty glass.

 

[ashwynne]

Elias Laertes Brandt

J u d a s

h e a l t h | b a r

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Jack, Esther... others
DOING: Embracing Fate
CREDIT: Zara
PLAYLIST:

There was a weightiness to the air this night. It seemed to press down on his shoulders, claw at his throat, and the vampire could not quite decide if it was doing so in a vain attempt to prohibit him from reaching his destination, or if it was urging him on faster. Almost imperceptibly his polished oxfords began to clip against the ground a little quicker, prasiolite fixed unerringly in the direction of the Canine. There were strange premonitions in the air, whispers of wind against his collar, and though Elias could not make out their voices... he knew where his path would lead him: Fletcher. Energy hummed over the external brickwork of the jazz club when he reached it, but it was of a fretful nature--nothing like what one would expect from a place of alcohol and music. Frowning, the blond's pace increased to a light jog, flipping up the collar of his coat and smoothing the lines of his face: just a friendly patron looking for a drink, nothing more. When he entered, the unmistakable medley of immortal scent washed over him and he had to carefully school his features as he meandered to a table against the back wall, nearest an unobtrusive door where all the scents seemed to mingle most thickly. It could only be a meeting of some kind... fortuitous timing, then, as it most likely would pertain to--
His body stilled, nostrils flaring and eyes widening for a moment. Fletcher. His scent was woven into the nest of others, picked out now and unmistakable, a golden thread that tugged at Elias' core so violently that his entire body shuddered as though yanked by it. It took him a moment to realize his nails were carving dents into the surface of the table, lacquered curls of wood left in his wake. It was jarring enough to make him attempt a steadying inhale as he lifted his digits from where they had wounded the wood, though now that he had marked the Mephisto's scent this inhale only served to pull more of the brunet into his mouth, over his palate... Elias just barely managed to stifle a heady groan.
Making himself as unobtrusive as possible, the blond canted his head to the side and strained to listen as a female voice began to rise faintly from behind him in the back room. It took considerable energy, but eventually Elias found he was able to make out enough bits and pieces of her voice over the din of the jazz club that he could understand the gist of what was being said. By the end, the vampire was left with two crystal clear notions: the first was a renewed fury at the abuse of children at the Templar's hands, the second--and most powerful by far--was summed up in three simple words: "Run away, Jack." Elias moved by instinct, not thought, the woman's voice (Leech Queen or Ravenqueen, he did not know which) ringing with a final question of who would help the Mephisto escape. The door that barred him from the target of his desire was nothing more than bits of wood and metal, and Elias did not so much as hesitate as he balanced elegantly on his right foot, lifted the left up and back, and using his forward momentum slammed his foot against the center right, nearest the frame.

The metal lock buckled and broke, the door hanging slightly off-kilter on battered hinges as the vampire straightened his lapels, brushed off his shoulders and languidly strolled in. "I apologize for interrupting," he said without even an iota of alarm, the entire audience of immortal faces vanishing from his consideration as the forests of his gaze locked unerringly onto the haggard, weakened, form of the Mephisto, restlessly roving over him with a tingle beginning at the back of his skull in concern at the state of him, "But you did ask if anyone wished to help Lazarus cheat death once more." Before anyone could protest, he plucked the vial from his breast pocket and held it aloft for all to see, his eyes never leaving the brunet as he walked with collected, measured, steps towards him, his voice sonorous and serious. "The Templars have held my leash long enough, I won't bend my knee to those who use children in their schemes," he spoke only to Fletcher now, completely riveted by him, even haggard and worn as he was. Lips parted to breathe him in again with a delicate shiver, Elias drawing near enough to make out the faint bruises on his skin, to admire the sculpt of his jaw now that the brunet was unburdened of his scraggly facial hair. Unerringly, the vampire found himself remembering the shape of this man in his arms, the pulse in his neck, the way his blood had spilled over his tongue like a galaxy bursting to life. "I petition you, King alone of your kind, to take me with you," he came to a stop a few feet away from Fletcher, rolling the vial into the meaty palm of his callused hand and holding it out towards him, "Accept my offering and take me with you or strike me down here, but if I live I will follow you," his smile turned wry, quietly searching the earthen umber for the green soul that dwelled within, "You've bewitched me."

"In nights past you would have obeyed a different master. Had me in your very grasp… Bewitched, indeed." Elias stood quiet as the censure came, doing nothing save holding Jack in his eyes. "You... whom I know nothing. Who would sooner take me for himself, I think. Why help me? What worth am I?"

The vampire did not deny the accusations, the distrust, but his eyes flashed with something between passion and fury at Fletcher's final question. "Mad dogs only obey their master until they find a better hand to feed from," he rumbled, thinking of Lucas and his leering eyes, "Or are kicked one time too many." He set the vial down on the table between them keeping only a single controlling finger atop the cap, his darkened eyes never leaving the Mephisto. He rolled the vial into his palm again, his gaze hardening, "As to your worth, I would sooner ask that question of the man who stood upon the docks in the midst of a gale and spoke storms into being as he roared in the face of his oppressors. If you are unwilling to see your own worth, the worth of you and your mate made one in defiance of the death that wished to break you apart, then I doubt I will be able to convince you otherwise. Mmm, but you are correct; I'd have you tight in my grasp all over again in an instant if I could," he pressed his tongue against the pointed silver cap of his right canine, the pinprick of pain sending a thrill of sensation rolling over his skin as he did so. "I do not deny the Monster that I am, the hunger that has been etched into my bones, but I am more than some mere animal--I rise above my own appetites. Your imprisonment at the hands of mortals playing god with their machines does nothing for me. Were I to deliver them to you, as they would like, my hands would never find you again, my tongue, my teeth. It does not serve me. Nor does your death," his eyes blazed with conviction, "I am only granted a chance to taste you again if you live freely. And you will find no better guard than the one that craves you like this blasted earth has craved the burning sun."

"I am not a possession or prize."

Their words might see them warring, but their bodies told a different tale. It was impossible not to note the way Jack's head canted to the side, that act alone releasing a fragrant bouquet of scent that saw Elias' lips parting, his weight shifting ever so slightly as his entire being gravitated towards that beautiful neck--for beautiful it was. Even despite the ashen pallor of Fletcher's skin, it was impossible not to be drawn to the long, slender, column... the gracefulness and elegance of it, the blood rushing just below the surface... Jack's body cried 'take me,' even if his words said otherwise, "Not a possession or prize? You have a strange way of showing it," Elias murmured in turn, his gaze still stroking over Jack's neck, "A King in your own right, letting yourself be dictated by the will of others."
Elias squared his shoulders and straightened beneath Jack's stare, holding his gaze unflinchingly and without sympathy or sorrow, his presence commanding. "You chained me to you the instant your blood pooled over my tongue. You consume me.”

"You've done that yourself."

"I am not the one who made you smell, taste, like what I have imagined the sun to be," he protested dryly, "I was doomed from the first moment I saw you, smelled you.” Still, he did not argue that point too hard. There was merit in it. In truth, Jack could no more control the way the vampire reacted to him than Elias could control the attraction he felt. “And... you need me," slowly, he pressed harder against the cap of the half-filled vial on the table, pivoting it on its axis, "I know more of the Templars--their structure, their organization, their way of thinking--than any other soul here. If you wish to avoid the noose, there is none better to advise you than the executioner himself."

"You will come to learn just as well as everyone else here that I crave my death more than the world's love of the sun."

The vampire scoffed, finding Fletcher's eyes again with dark amusement. "And yet you live. You stand in contempt of your own words. There has been nothing to stay your hand from self slaughter except yourself. Perhaps these others will let you wallow in the lies you tell yourself, but I have no allegiance to your misplaced self-pity." He clicked his tongue and then grinned, "Then again, perhaps the lie is more true than you think. I am part of the world and yet have no love for the sun... Just as you do not crave your death as deeply as you profess." The expression in his eyes abruptly turned wicked, "But I do quite like the implication that you expect me to be near you long enough to learn your mind."

The joy of their repartee was soured as the fire stoked in the Mephisto began to flicker and fade, a weariness claiming his limbs instead that had Elias yearning to step forward and-- well, he wasn't quite sure what he would do. Hold him? Force the serum down his throat? He stretched his hand across the table with the vial, holding it flat in his open palm for the other man to take, "Do not scorn the strength of spirit it has taken to carry you this far. Take the serum before you fall apart before my very eyes."

He could see Jack debate, feel the hunger that was consuming him as he stared at the vial--an emotion that Elias was intimately familiar with. And, at last, the brunet bridged the gap to wrap slender digits around the cool tube to take it. Gods. His hand was so cold…

"I don't trust you."

He held the other man's eyes as, at last, Jack popped the cap and held it to his lips, Elias releasing a sigh he hadn't realized he was holding. "That is your right, you have no reason to trust me," he murmured, having no inclination towards excuses.
Time ticked on, measured as it had been for centuries by the unfeeling mechanical beats of his immortal organ. It was not long but it felt as though it was, the vampire continuing to hold the Mephisto in his gaze, little interested in anything else, prasiolite bleeding into deeper emerald as he would flick between Fletcher's earthen orbs and the unhealthy pallor of his lips where the vial rested--untasted. Much hinged on this moment, Elias knew. If his goading--his needling at the brunet's professed disinclination to live--struck the wrong nerve then it would be simple enough for Fletcher to cast the vial to the ground and doom himself... and Elias with him. Two lives hung in the balance, the pair of them drowning in their shared stare as they circled each other in spirit. It was reckless, it was wild... it was strangely beautiful. Cool earth calling to the shattered gardens of his soul, drawing him in, doing so just as surely as the Mephisto's blood appealed to all his senses.
The decision was suddenly made. Jack left his gaze and tipped the vial back, chartreuse liquid disappearing between pale lips. By no means did this act make the blond safe, but nevertheless his shoulders sagged a little further in relief and the stoic expression on his countenance breaking to a pleased smirk. His pleasure was offset only by the way the other man shuddered with the ingestion of serum, a sight that managed to be arousing and distressing all at once.

With the serum now pumping safely through his veins, Elias spoke again--this time in a tone that was reverent and serious, ringing with a frank honesty. "In my mortal days, many centuries ago, I was a knight. As such, I still hold my vows as binding," he had eyes for no one else, holding Jack in the gem-like cool of his own, "If you will have me, I will swear a Knightly oath of protection and servitude to you. You still have no reason to trust my word, but then... you have the serum now, and with it--my only bargaining chip--my life is also in your hands." He blew out a soft huff through his nose and pulled his sword from where it was concealed beneath his trenchcoat, holding the handle out towards the brunet. "Strike me down or let me swear myself to you."
Once more, time slipped into limbo as the man before him weighed him in his eyes, measuring him upon the scales of judgment, the sword handle hanging between them like a living thing. And then, decision seemingly made, the brunet stretched forward to take the sword, and something inherently strange occurred. As slender digits wrapped about the hilt, Elias felt his heart jolt. Not the clockwork organ he had long accustomed himself to, but some phantom memory of his living one. A pounding had begun, a drumbeat, his mouth going dry, his usual arrogance diminishing to something reverent and youthful... something fated. The room faded, nothing remaining save Jack's strengthening scent wreathing about him like a cloak and his eyes locked onto him as he sealed the blond’s fate in the sweetest of ways, “My past has not made me so cruel; I still believe in second chances where they are due… I wouldn’t the strength to deny you.”

The vampire’s heart smiled before his lips had a chance to, but any answer he might have made was cut off by the sudden intrusion of another.
"Allow me." Elias’ head swiveled, eyes narrowing fractionally as he found himself staring at the Stag. Of course, it would be that meddlesome creature who would come between them, and the blond felt his heart begin to sink as Seiko turned to Jack. "I am under contract to ensure no harm comes to you on these lands. My protection over you it's… It's written, Jack. This must be completed as written. I'll ensure you shelter to the ends of New Orleans, beyond that… you'll have to rely on him.” A finger was rudely jabbed in his direction and Elias growled low in his throat, eyeing it for a moment with a sudden desire to bite it off. If this was a changing of the guard, then it was a bitter and unhappy one--at least in the Beast’s eyes.
Without warning, steel seethed free of its scabbard, the Stag’s swordpoint diving near enough his throat that he could feel the blade’s energy humming against his skin. Defiant to the last, Elias tipped his chin up, hearing Jack’s intercession on his behalf with a quiet gladness. If the Stag struck him down here, at least he would die in the knowledge that the man he wanted would have had it go differently. And yet it seemed that Seiko did not intend to plunge the blade into him… not here and not yet anyways.

Prasiolite had lost its notes of warmth the longer the other swordsman spoke, and he now held Seiko in the defiant cool of his unreadable prasiolite gaze as the other man attempted to intimidate him.
"You're weaker, significantly."
Elias’ eyes flashed, an angry itch starting where this other man’s weapon brazenly rested on his shoulder--unasked for and unwanted, not the Lord he cared to serve nor a creature he had any intention of prostrating himself to.
It was a struggle not to bark out an angry laugh of disbelief at the assertion of his own weakness, the vampire nearly struck mute by the pride endemic to that statement… As though Elias had survived centuries of life alone and reviled without possessing skill that could match a beast. True, he might lack in the brute strength of the transformed Stag, but a keen hunter was not marked by their stature but by their ability to down their prey with a single well-placed arrow.
"He will be considerably more vulnerable in your watch and I do hope you plan to accommodate for where you are lacking. Don't let yourself forget this, you will be a walking target until the end of your days with him in your care."
“Fortunately, I am not so enamoured with myself as to believe that I am invulnerable or more powerful than I am,” he replied coolly, “I have no intention of leaving him vulnerable, and you do Jack a disservice by implying that he is not fully capable of protecting himself. A man in his position does not survive this long without a strength that far outstrips what you or I can conceive of. If enemies wish to take him… let them try.”

At this, the other man took back his sword, wiping it upon his sleeve as though it had been dirtied by its contact with Elias’ suit, the blond doing his best to keep his brows level and his expression unreadable. "It appears my contract ends tonight. There will be a time that I will seek you out in repentance for your attempt on my life. I hope you'll make that fight worth my time."

He did not owe him anything. Nor did this man earn his gentility by all but spitting in his face. The bow and fleeting eye contact Seiko offered was met with a collected sense of inner pride, Elias standing poised and relaxed, refusing to permit tension or anger into his body language. “For your sake, I hope you never find us. It would be a shame to take your life when Jack seems fond of you.”

The vampire did not miss the faint smirk on Jack’s lips at this, but he was well-mannered enough not to foul up whatever goodbyes the Stag had for the brunet by acting a boor in turn and acknowledging the gesture. Instead, the vampire remained calm and quiet where he stood, watching and waiting as Jack affirmed the other swordsman as a friend and accepted his token and farewells.

At long last, Jack turned back to him, their eyes locking, and immediately Elias found himself drowning in the sweetest of ways, his tension and anger banished. The phantom heartbeat reasserted itself as the brunet stepped nearer, on feet that softly tapped out a ritual rhythm of fates entwined. "What is your name?"
Slowly, almost without conscious thought, the vampire sank to his knees, chin tipped up and eyes still holding onto the honeyed umber of the Mephisto. "Elias Brandt," he whispered in turn, his voice at once deeper and softer than it had been a moment before. "Yours if you'll have me, mein König."
"Yes."
He was claimed on a whisper that might as well have been a shout. 'Yes.' What a simple word, what a powerful one. A tremor claimed Elias' spine, rattling down the vertebrae with a force that stole his breath. He had served many lords in his time, many organizations, but in this single word he heard the echo of what he had long searched for, reached for, something that had slipped out of his grasp time and time again. He had seen it in the man who planted his feet on the rain-slicked boards of the dock and commanded the storm for an instant, tasted it in the blood that had entered his veins in a baptism of holy sunlight, and he heard it again now in this simple word. He was truly kneeling before a King. His King.
"Call me Jack."
Against all odds, in defiance of the fates that had denied him throughout his wretched existence, he knew with sudden clarity down to his marrow that he had found his true King at last.

The vampire's head spun, phantom heart thundering in a way he had never known it to do before, not even in mortal life. Their world was a kaleidoscope of forest greens, leaves dancing in the wind, forget-me-nots and wisteria petals twined in a lover's embrace as Knight and King stood in the centre of the Grove. "Jack," he breathed the other man's name, tasting it on his tongue like honey and whisky, a low rumble rolling in his chest as he gave his head a gentle shake, conviction in his gaze as he continued to look at him, "Mein König all the same," he faltered for a moment, his voice turning a little more vulnerable as he breathed, "You wear a crown of sunlight and rubies, Majestät, I see it even if you do not," and with that, slowly, he broke from his eyes and bowed his head to him, waiting for the press of steel.

The sword hovered above his heart. It would be so easy for Jack to slip it between his ribs and release him from his immortal tenure on this earth, but he did not. Or did he? Elias felt as though he had, some invisible blade lodged in his breast, piercing through the darkness and misery of Judas, a beam of sunlight shining on the moulded plot of earth wherein Elias Brandt--the Knight, the man--had laid himself to rest when Marie took her last breath. It was he who answered to Jack, who stirred his brittle and maggot-eaten bones to heed his call... and he who shuddered when the flat came to a rest upon his shoulder. Elias straightened instinctively, chest forward, shoulders back a little, leaning into the heavy weight of the metal against him and all it represented.
"I look forward to seeing you prove your worth…" His King murmured, the words emblazoning themselves into the blade, twining around it until they pierced and bound the vampire in turn. He'd been here before. That was the thought that rang clarion in his mind. Not just as a man swearing his oath to a Lord, but somehow... here, with this man. Pieces of a puzzle he did not understand clicking into place beyond what he could see. Elias wanted him. Blood, body, bone, and he wanted him in a way he had not felt before, a way that bound him with chains he had no desire to escape. "Sir Brandt." The sword was held back out towards him and at last the blond found Jack's eyes again. What he saw there, a curl of a smile, a glimmer of heat in his voice, was enough to stoke fire to life in him in turn, in a way that seared through his very being. And his name, his title! The words were wrapped in furs and hearthfire, smooth and magmatic, shot into the core of his being like tongues of flame. Gods! He took the hilt and rose, taking two strides to bridge the gap between them around the table, a scant hands width separating them, practically nose to nose.

The light in the room seemed to dim, the air crackling with an electric heat, Jack's scent washed over him like a balm and a goad all at once. Delicious, intoxicating, a siren song to the soul he had thought long lost. Elias’ hand lifted of its own volition, thumb brushing with surprising tenderness over the thinly scabbed wound in the brunet's cheek. His eyes--pupils blow, irises a thin ring of evergreen--migrating between cracked, serum-tinted, lips that begged to be kissed, and the soul behind the eyes that had newly Knighted him for one final time. "I vow," he rumbled, his voice sonorous and certain, wrapping each syllable in the gravel of his accent even as he cupped the brunet's cheek in his palm, "My life in the service of yours. I am your sword in the night against the foes who would harm you. Your shield from the slings and arrows of the world. I am yours, in body and what little soul I possess. May I be made nouveau in your image, struck down should I ever fail you. A fixture of protection at your side whether you hate me or no," in his right hand he held the sword hilt to his heart, the left sliding from Jack's cheek to his shoulder, down his arm, to find the slender grace of his hand and lead it to his lips for a lingering kiss, "Ich bin dein Ritter, bis der Tod uns scheidet... und darüber hinaus auch dann."

The thanks that came bordered on flustered, enough to make Elias grin roguishly.
"Well, I suppose now we need a way out of here, unseen or known by the Templar army."
Ever so reluctantly, the vampire released his new Lord’s hand, the hair prickling on the back of his neck with all the eyes he knew were on him. There was no sense of shame or discomfit within him at the attention, merely an unruffled dawning awareness that returned now that the world had expanded once more to include more than just the pair of them. Into that awareness the clear, sweet, voice of a woman rose to answer Jack’s query and Elias turned to find her now at the edge of the table herself.

She was pretty, willowy, a vampire by her scent and well accustomed to wars by her words. He had no qualms about sizing her up as she spoke, less with any sort of frank interest and more with a reserved sense of curiosity. Though she did not call to his blood the way the Mephisto did, there was certainly something unique in the bouquet offered to his nose, the medley of scent rushing over the roof of his mouth as he softly breathed her in through parted lips. As her attention left the Mephisto and the assembled immortals to aim its sharpened edge onto him, Elias held her in his gaze with a matching keenness.

“Tell me, what exactly was your occupation under your former employers?”

The question she asked was framed lightly, but it was thickly weighted and Elias knew it. His eyes flicked briefly to Jack, his sovereign, the only protection he had, and then he turned to face her properly.
The vampire’s shoulders squared further, his tone clear and even, coloured neither with guilt nor triumph, a factual soldier’s report, nothing more. “In exchange for handsome compensation and the guarantee of my own life, I have spent my time these past decades ripping ticking hearts from the chests of vampires and offering their ruined remnants to my Templar handlers as proof of success. Most recently, I was tasked by Eden itself to retrieve The Key alive for them.” Elias knew that he might seal his own fate by admitting this so bluntly, but the moment he kicked down the door he had thrown caution to the wind. “It is to this end that Gabriel herself allowed me a half-filled vial of serum to win myself into your good graces,” he continued, holding Esther firmly in his gaze.
“I see.”
But slowly, slowly, he broke from her to turn to find Jack’s eyes again instead, not blind to the way the brunet had shifted nearer to him… almost protectively. “A mission I ruin by telling you this,” his voice dipped a little lower, more intimate, meant for his King alone. “The vows I gave you are true, but if I forfeit my life by this admission… so be it. My life is yours to command. If you prefer to exact justice by doing to me what I have done to countless others, you will find no resistance in me.”

Once more he committed his very existence into the hands of the man he claimed as his King. Once more he found himself lost in the loamy soil of Jack’s gaze and the green touch of soul behind it all. Their arms did not hold each other but their eyes did, a strange embrace of sorts that was vaguely reminiscent to him of the kiss of Judas… had Judas told his Lord, in that moment, all the crimes he had committed against him.
“Not by my command.”
Perhaps the comparison was more apt than he might have thought, his breath punching its way to his lungs on an unsteady inhale as Jack decidedly shook his head and firmly spared his life.
With this, the vampire’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, his chin tipping up proudly, a strange flutter building within the cage of his ribs, butterfly wingtips brushing against him to see the King he had only just sworn himself to take up the mantle and crown of his sovereignty and use it to tacitly claim him and his fate. A small, strangely innocent, smile began to curl up the corners of his lips: if he was mad, then Jack was equally so.

The Mephisto’s gaze left his briefly to take in those of the others assembled around them, the royals and the loyals, addressing Elias by his words even as he firmly stamped in his claim and his right to be the sole executor of the vampire’s fate in the commanding way he looked over the rest.
“A risk you may be, but it is one I cannot weigh against the alternative. You know how to get me more serum, how to avoid their eyes, where they linger in the dark? I have no choice… I need you.”
This last, more than aught else, tipped the cage of fettered butterflies in his chest, breaking the locks and setting them free to rush through him in a whirling dervish that left Elias breathless. He had previously used those same words on the other man, inserted himself as being invaluable, but to hear it echoed back! The blond swallowed, hard, his attention still rapt upon the Mephisto’s features as he slowly bobbed his head, for once struck a little speechless at it all.
It was almost a relief when Jack dragged his focus to the brunette vampiress, though this was short lived as another shiver clacked up his spine. ‘Help us both.’

How strange it was. To feel, for the first time in centuries, the protective wings of a Lord around him. To no longer be an island unto himself but one bound and connected to another… not in the sense of the Templars, who saw him more as a useful rabid beast than an equal of any sorts, but as… a man. Elias had let his instincts guide him through his life, and for the first time he felt as though a red string--battered, frayed, and much abused--was finally tying him to something worthwhile, something that he had searched for fruitlessly throughout his miserably long existence. Jack…
But another’s voice called to him, the vampiress quietly sizing him up in her own stead, her poetically phrased misgivings seeing little but a twitch in his shoulders. He could not disagree with her assessment. Even now he had come to this meeting intent on carrying out his mission, it was only the scent of Jack, the knowledge of him fleeing, that had spurred him to admit to himself the truth he had been afraid to acknowledge: that, having known this feeling and taste once, he could not continue to exist without Jack. He had been a betrayer, a monster, throughout his immortal years, to bite the hands that had previously fed him was nothing to him when he had found a higher purpose.
He left her to her warmer address to Jack, still mulling over his own thoughts, but met her eyes firmly and clearly when at last she levelled them his way again. The idea she proposed was a good one, intelligent, and his eyes flashed to be tasked with this. It was a mission he could easily enough undertake. Elias nodded, firmly, shifting his weight unconsciously in a way that gravitated him towards the Mephisto. “Consider it done. I’ve had Gabriel’s ear and bed, I see no reason why she would doubt me. I’ll send a message outlining a false date and some other misleading information immediately,” he flicked a glance towards Jack, “And in terms of intel… what would you like to know? Of the children being trained against each other? Beast, vampire and mortal alike? What I could glean of their numbers? Hints of internal discord?” He relaxed slightly and canted his head with a genial smile, “Give me a starting point and I can tell you a great deal. I’ve served the Order almost since its inception, even if I primarily operated under the German Chapter’s orders. I am at Jack’s disposal.”
“I’m sure they will take anything you’re willing to tell, anything that can give them the advantage they need to bring the Order to its knees. But, time is of the essence. They are likely making their moves just as surely.”
Elias nodded briskly, already running over the salient bits of information that would be of most use and what method would be most efficient to convey them. As he mused, one of Jack’s hands fell to the table, the faintest sway visible in his body language as his other raked back through his hair. “Perhaps, Elias, if you speak with the others… I should rest. Esther, my dearest, we should discuss an exit plan before… before Elias makes his move… If you have any to spare.” Distracted by this, the vampire moved by inborn instinct alone.
Two steps took him to his King’s side, another placing him just behind him, the firmness of his chest at Jack’s back, the fingertips of his left hand gently resting against the brunet’s left hip as his right settled behind Jack’s hand on the table. The tips of Elias’ fingers just barely grazed the other man’s skin, the length of his arm and his shoulder a resting place for Jack’s own against him. “I think that would be best,” he rumbled softly into the Mephisto’s ear, “You’ll need your strength.” His gaze flicked up to find Esther’s, “I suppose I will leave you in her care and let the rest pick me apart for what they wish to know.” But even though he said it, Elias made no move to step away, a protective feeling budding hot in his chest, hard pressed to find a reason to extricate himself from having Jack’s lean, unhealthily cool, body fitted safely against his own.
Esther attempted a polite attempt to encourage them to part, but Elias found himself hesitating, reluctant to pull himself away. The vampiress sensed this, clearly.
“I must ask you to disentangle so as to spare me from searching for a prisebar. Work to be done!”
Elias could not resist imparting an amused bark of laughter, a rich sound that startled him--not having laughed for many years out of true amusement. But Esther’s insistence served its purpose, the vampire offering a weighted, slightly over-dramatic, sigh and slowly pulling himself away from Jack… though not before letting his fingers brush in a lingering caress over the brunet’s hip, “I will come see you later, mein süßer König.” His left hand lifted to lightly stroke his thumb over the scar in Jack’s cheek in parting before he blew out a soft breath, took in one final steadying drink of Jack’s earthen eyes, and turned back towards the immortal queens.
His shoulders were squared and the softness of his features hardened as he planted his feet firmly, holding his right wrist with his left hand behind his back--a soldier’s pose, ready to impart all that he knew, kept certain of himself by the way his left fingertips tingled in the remembrance of his King’s skin beneath them. Barely parted and already he found himself eager to seek out Jack the instant he was able… to explore the electric connection he felt in his presence, travelling together, never far apart--not after this.

 

[Luxura]

Jack Fletcher

LAZARUS

health bar - 10%

WHERE: Brass Canine
WITH: Everyone
DOING: Until we meet again...
CREDIT: Leonard_Wyrnist
PLAYLIST:

​

The Brass Canine wasn’t terribly busy when Jack and Seiko had arrived, but as they passed the front bar and moved towards the back room, a private area reserved for the Harpy as a makeshift ‘war room’, the Mephisto saw many more he recognized. Faces of companions who he had come to know over the last month… faces of regulars who lingered in the bar but were prominent locals. Together, they were the vampires and beasts who would gladly stand as soldiers in the revival of this Holy War.
As dozens of eyes slid up from their conversations and drinks, they found their home upon the brunet, the taste of malice palatable upon the air… acidic, sulfuric. Their words dimmed down to whispers, a murmured buzzing that closed in around him, made Jack feel infinitesimal. His body worked to make himself appear smaller, shoulders bowing inwards and slouched, his head hung low along with lashes that veiled his eyes. No matter how meek, it would not make them disappear.

Seiko guided them to a table, and sitting down seemed to dull the edge, encouraging onlookers to ignore his presence for a little while longer until Maeve took her stance before them, and the doors closed with a dead, heavy lock that Jack felt punctuated in his solar plexus.
The Queen started with a general overview and recap of the events that had unfolded on the docks a few days prior, and such governing agendas that had happened in the aftermath… Things Jack had been curious about as he had hermit away in fever dreams.
But then the conversation turned to that of the most troubling issue of all--Zealots resulting to child soldiers in a barbaric display of manipulation for more power. Jack’s dark eyes peered over to Kenna’s lithe form, his heart falling for her, the plight of Beau who had been caught up in such madness… innocent. As she spoke of what she knew, Jack barely listened, heard the words but did not comprehend. His mind spiralled over that night, the knife as it had entered his stomach, his cheek… his hands as they took the boy and smashed his head against the wall… puppeted by a dark energy he could not control.
His thoughts were scattered only when Maeve directed her attention unto him, having not noticed her move before him until her shadow registered with his eyes. The Mephisto blinked to clear himself of that night and looked up with a wordless apology written over his face.

What could he say to the woman he had hoped to find answers with, to whom he had brought a nightmare and pain in seeing Bernardo through her eyes, but Jack in his voice. He held no ire towards Maeve for encouraging him to flee…

Run. Run... again.

Of course, he'd been a fool to come here and expect to be safe or welcome. Where had running got him last time but a few years of respite before years of brutal, unspeakable torture? Free from a war that would tear him from his lover, but only for so long... They were destined to be star-crossed, and Jack was destined for the grave. Run? No, it was hardly a plea for his survival--he could tell that by nearly every pair of eyes in this room. While the Queen's heart may have been couched in those words, the majority wished him to parish, and take the Templars with him.

As Maeve's hand left his face, Jack's steeled eyes lowered, his jaw clenching as he swallowed against the bile in his throat, the scream perched beneath his chin. He tried not to scoff as she petitioned for someone, anyone, to volunteer to help him flee... Had she asked which of them would help end his life, he was certain every hand in this room would have raised, armed and hungry, without hesitation.
But there were a few whom Jack knew had better hearts... Those who would be eager to assist. Seiko, by his side... Nascha, if only for her own feline curiosities... And Esther, a kinship formed between them when she helped bring him to Maeve's door. But they were needed here.

Jack stiffened. It had started like a feeling, something he could not place. But then it had grown, steady but swift by the second--aching, cold eyes on the back of his neck. Like a hot breath against his ear. Like a whispering plea. But it wasn't a whisper. It was loud as if spoken before him, against him. And it raddled about his mind in an echo that grew roots in his soul and dragged him deep into the flames swirling in his low abdomen.
A sharp, thunderous crack stunned the room into silence, many of them jumping to their feet, tension palatable and electric in the air. Jack was one of them; weak though he was. The Mephisto gasped and stilled, head whipping around much too quickly towards the sound, and there before them were those nefarious eyes. Such cold, piercing gemstones that haunted even his waking mind. He choked on a breath and drew himself closer to Seiko, but Jack couldn't find the will to look away, entirely pinned beneath the Vampire's stare. He trembled as he held his weight stiffly behind the table, eyes widening at the figure who walked through the broken door.
A glint caught his eye, and through the washed haze the striking chartreuse was unmistakable--Serum. His heart clenched, more parched than he'd ever been before, veins thirsting beyond any starvation he'd felt. Burnt umber orbs flicked back to the blond, pinhead pupils lost into the void of the dark, shivering. Curious that he would hear fae whispers against his ears, weaving, 'You need him'...

"I petition you, King alone of your kind, to take me with you. Accept my offering and take me with you or strike me down here, but if I live I will follow you," Swallowing, Jack stepped a little further out from behind his retainer, looking Elias over cautiously, "You've bewitched me."
"In nights past you would have obeyed a different master. Had me in your very grasp..." He shivered, nodding, "Bewitched, indeed." His voice smoke and shadow, a grave rumbling, "You... whom I know nothing. Who would sooner take me for himself, I think," Jack's lip curled in distrust, "Why help me? What worth am I?"

"Mad dogs only obey their master until they find a better hand to feed from," he paused, “Or are kicked one time too many. As to your worth, I would sooner ask that question of the man who stood upon the docks in the midst of a gale and spoke storms into being as he roared in the face of his oppressors. If you are unwilling to see your own worth, the worth of you and your mate made one in defiance of the death that wished to break you apart, then I doubt I will be able to convince you otherwise."

Jack's eyes warred with the idea of leaving the blond's to follow the vial, ultimately his starving cells taking the throne. Anxiety bubbled at the precarious way the vampire positioned it, its delicate weight left to chance under the fingertip of his enemy... Though this man wasn't an enemy, was he? Not completely.

"Mmm, but you are correct; I'd have you tight in my grasp all over again in an instant if I could. I do not deny the Monster that I am, the hunger that has been etched into my bones, but I am more than some mere animal--I rise above my own appetites. Your imprisonment at the hands of mortals playing god with their machines does nothing for me. Were I to deliver them to you, as they would like, my hands would never find you again, my tongue, my teeth. It does not serve me. Nor does your death. I am only granted a chance to taste you again if you live freely. And you will find no better guard than the one that craves you like this blasted earth has craved the burning sun."

The tone in which the other spoke held a threat, but equally so was an underlying desire... He wanted Jack all to himself. Glutton, selfish... Fiend. When he looked back, the blond's hunger was a handsome display and already rendered defenceless, Jack was easily caught beneath it, his heart beginning to race. He could feel the ghost of Elias' tongue against his cheek, and his own lapped at the inside of his gum absently. It was so visceral, this memory, that he could imagine it down his neck, swiping long across his jugular, nipping against his clavicle. Unaware, his head had begun to cant to the side, a subconscious offering in his delirious heat,
"I am not a possession or prize," He murmured, barely more than a whisper with some lingering venom,

"Not a possession or prize? You have a strange way of showing it. A King in your own right, letting yourself be dictated by the will of others.” Jack shuddered, the cogs in his heart pounding violently with every word, “You chained me to you the instant your blood pooled over my tongue. You consume me.”

"You've done that yourself." He muttered, a half-smirk of petulance and wit forming on his weary face, warring against the truth that he did, in fact, find reason in his proposal,

"I am not the one who made you smell, taste, like what I have imagined the sun to be," he protested dryly, "I was doomed from the first moment I saw you, smelled you. And... you need me,” Words out of mind plucked with a rumbling, Germanic lilt, “I know more of the Templars--their structure, their organization, their way of thinking--than any other soul here. If you wish to avoid the noose, there is none better to advise you than the executioner himself."

If not for the words the blond spoke striking something clarion in Jack's mind, the Mephisto would have surely surrendered to his unspoken invitation, "You will come to learn just as well as everyone else here that I crave my death more than the world's love of the sun." It felt like a lie in his mouth, but the parts of him that mourned were scarred so deep his bones were etched in the likeness of his Mate.

"And yet you live. You stand in contempt of your own words. There has been nothing to stay your hand from self-slaughter except yourself. Perhaps these others will let you wallow in the lies you tell yourself, but I have no allegiance to your misplaced self-pity. Then again, perhaps the lie is more true than you think. I am part of the world and yet have no love for the sun... Just as you do not crave your death as deeply as you profess." The expression in his eyes abruptly turned wicked, "But I do quite like the implication that you expect me to be near you long enough to learn your mind."

The way the other straightened and squared against him was as much a challenge to his convictions and Jack bristled, but the very act of straightening for a battle was enough to drain the life from him, lashes drooping, along with the rest of his body as he began to wilt, "Do not scorn the strength of spirit it has taken to carry you this far. Take the serum before you fall apart before my very eyes."

Jack blinked, a cold chill wafting through his chest, brushing over his skin, his eyes beginning to clear as he found a little spark of himself. Calculating were his eyes that regarded the Vampire, watching his visage as he mulled over his words in pause, finding them to be almost pleading. As much as the blond held control over his survival, Jack held control over Elias' desire to do so. Fencers en garde, circling one another... balanced.
Dark umber eyes drifted down to the slender vial in the other's hand, held once more for him in open offering, and this time, Jack could not deny it. The Serum truly had his mouth watering, that level of unparalleled thirst beginning to return. Ginger steps brought him forward from around his companions, closing the gap between them, tapered, elegant fingers trembling as they wrapped around the glass tube, "I don't trust you." Jack whispered, holding Elias' eyes as he popped the cap, bringing it to his blue-tinted lips.
"That is your right, you have no reason to trust me," The blond murmured back.

There were so few Jack could trust, and those that he could would all be needed here. He brought them war, and it would be cruel to take any valued member of this resistance away from their fight for freedom. Hell, it was cruel he'd come at all... No one should have been asked to help him... Jack didn't deserve their charity after what he'd done...But Elias... Sure, Jack couldn't trust taking his eyes off him, but at least he wanted to help... whether or not for his own gain or someone else's, Jack would have to take that risk alone.

Shallow breaths left between his parted lips, his throat bobbing with each swallow as he held the vial close to his mouth, almost toying with his thirst as he held the vampire's eyes. It seemed a moment before he spoke, and in that time Jack had lost himself in the darkening maelstrom of the blond's eyes, how the storm ushered him to shelter in the depths of a coniferous forest. Enchanted he was, drawn to know how the story would unfold... where the path in the forest would go. Was Elias, too, so enraptured by him by scent alone? These dead veins and poison-laced blood made living again by power he did not understand... How could they taste like sunlight? Surely he was wrong...
The ache and burn of death made him cringe and break the spell of his lock upon the blond's stare; he could not hold out from the serum any longer. The brunet released a held breath, let the liquid pour across his tongue, slide between his teeth and coat his gums, wriggle down his throat. Cool, almost icy cold against the raw heat of his parched muscles, and he could feel tingling pinpricks as it made its way down and soaked into his body, a feeling not unlike strong menthol.
Jack carefully capped it once more as he cringed and swallowed the liquid, violently shuddering from head to toe, casting his gaze up and down the Vampire slowly. He watched as Elias produced his sword, the hilt of it was held towards him, an oath... A bratty voice whispered in his mind to refuse his request, but he was in the man's debt for the vial, and Jack would not keep it that way. Besides, even looking into his eyes, unreadable as they were... something about him called to Jack, some innate feeling in his soul pulling them together... or maybe that was just the serum talking…

With a hand more secured under the power of life-giving serum threading through his veins, working quickly through his clockwork heart, Jack reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the handle, a queer feeling gripping him as he felt the weight of it, "Strike me down or let me swear myself to you."

Jack’s eyes shot up to find the twilight forests gazing back at him, beseeching. He shook his head, brows pinched but his own eyes kind as he uttered, “My past has not made me so cruel; I still believe in second chances where they are due… I wouldn’t the strength to deny you,”

"Allow me," Seiko declared then, emerging between them both, taking voice for the first time since they had arrived, "I am under contract to ensure no harm comes to you on these lands." There was a sullen tone to his voice, it was one of doubt tinged with the veins of disappointment. "My protection over you it's… It's written, Jack. This must be completed as written. I'll ensure you shelter to the ends of New Orleans, beyond that… you'll have to rely on him.” The stag pointing back at the blond venomously, not dignifying him with his eyes.

Jack’s gaze narrowed as he bristled, his jaw beginning to clench with the same tightening of his grip upon the blade, words whispered in his mind, taunting, ‘A King under their control’, “I know your heart is true, Seiko, but you cannot follow me out of here… not when they need you-”
In a flash of steel, Seiko unsheathed his sword and plunged the blade toward Elias's neck, stopping within a hair's width of his Adam's apple, Jack’s heart thrusting into his throat as he watched, “Seiko… please…” He breathed a plea, his eyes flicking to Elias, who only held the Stag’s defiantly.

"You're weaker, significantly. He will be considerably more vulnerable in your watch and I do hope you plan to accommodate for where you are lacking. Don't let yourself forget this, you will be a walking target until the end of your days with him in your care."

“Fortunately, I am not so enamoured with myself as to believe that I am invulnerable or more powerful than I am. I have no intention of leaving him vulnerable, and you do Jack a disservice by implying that he is not fully capable of protecting himself. A man in his position does not survive this long without a strength that far outstrips what you or I can conceive of. If enemies wish to take him… let them try.”

Jack’s heart skipped raggedly in his chest, the broken ticking of his clockwork sending a wave of warmth over Jack’s chest at the vampire’s tenents. His features softened slightly, lips willing to cast a shadow of a smile.

Seiko retracted his sword arm and cleaned his blade upon his sleeve before resting it inside its sheath. "It appears my contract ends tonight. There will be a time that I will seek you out in repentance for your attempt on my life." In an oath of honour he gave a quick bow and met eyes with Elias for only but a second as a finger brushed over the scar on his cheek, "I hope you'll make that fight worth my time."

“For your sake, I hope you never find us. It would be a shame to take your life when Jack seems fond of you.”

At that, Jack’s lips truly did quirk into a sheepish smirk behind the Stag’s back, though he was quick to lose it as Seiko turned to him, "It's … odd…I always knew this day would come, I looked forward to the finality of today. Though, I can admit my selfish imagination pictured it much differently." A bittersweet smile painted his face and his eyes gleamed to restrain a persistent tear, "We have gone through so much in so little time. Though like most things I suppose our trials, hardships, and shortcomings - they all seem so small; insignificant in the world around us. Watching over you and retaining by your side, I don't know why but...it always felt as though I had known you all my life. It's foolish, I know that; I do, I do. Perhaps that's why saying goodbye is so painful, leaving behind someone who has been with me all my life. Though at the… same time…It feels good. It feels good to know I was capable of meeting someone who could be so wonderful. If this hurts as much as it does then I know now it's because it brought me more happiness than I can understand. I can't know what will happen once you leave my care… but something tells me starting a new journey won't be so bad, and I'll see you again- even if it isn't as I know you to be now."

Jack sighed slowly and thoughtfully through his nose, his free hand coming to rest upon, and gently squeeze, his friend’s shoulder, “You have been nothing but kind to me, Seiko… And you remind me much of myself from a time I often wish I could go back to. You helped me to laugh for the first time in years, and I will carry that lesson with me through the unknown. We’ll meet again, and when we do, it will be as it should--as friends.” He nodded with a smile.
He watched curiously, recoiling his hand, as Seiko unlatched the woven fabric that strapped his sheath to his side--a simple cutting of green twill--and offered it to Jack with a bow and murmur of thanks. With slender fingers, the Mephisto plucked it from the other’s palm and bowed his head in an unspoken understanding of gratitude before slipping it into his pocket.

With the Stag removed from between them, Jack returned his gaze towards the Knight; he who waited adamant and patiently respectful, the coolness of his eyes upon the Stag tickling Jack once more, but when those veridian pools slid across to hold the Mephisto in their depths, Jack’s lips parted in awe, feet drawing him near ceremoniously. There was no mistake in this strange attraction between them, a drawing of two magnetic forces wanting to be together,
"What is your name?" He breathed.

"Elias Brandt," he whispered, "Yours if you'll have me, mein König."

He'd asked for his name on a gasp, and even still as he heard it Jack found it difficult to breathe again. This feeling, powerful and strange, continued to grip him; a weight in holding the sword like it was more than just a weapon and a promise. No, this was a feeling more divine than that. Jack had understood great, inexplicable, supernatural acts; from vampirism to mate-bonding, to being reborn again beyond most reason or compare. What he felt in this moment, in his hand, was more like Déjà vu... more like fate; an echo of a place and time long since past or in an existence parallel to their own--maybe something that had meant to be, but was stolen. Nevertheless, it was magnetic, electric... and Jack remained taken by it for far too long. So it seemed the other, too, as the blond slowly sank to his knees, bewitched, together waltzing in a midnight Grove, all their own.

"Yes," Jack nodded, the word seeming to slip off his tongue and through his lips like it had never been there, feathery and phantom.
Normally, such a title would have made him cringe and scoff. But not this, and he couldn't fathom why, even as he spoke the mantle of it sitting like laurel weaved through his curls, the words he uttered feeling more like a lie, "Call me Jack."

His was a simple name, completely plain, snappy and without meaning... but upon Elias' tongue, spoken back to him, it made spring blossoms bloom in his chest; swarms of moths take flight as they scattered around his cage of iron and bone. Made him breathe the musk of the wet deciduous forests in the heat of summer. Petrichor and lichen…
"Mein König all the same. You wear a crown of sunlight and rubies, Majestät, I see it even if you do not,"
Elias, A knight and a fiend, foolhardy... but in some way, not unlike Jack, and that tipped the scales quite soundly in his favour. Jack could not know what the German saw, but just as well, there was something about the other that Jack could not place, but from the moment they had touched he could not escape. Though he would not admit to it here and now... Jack had been enchanted by Elias just the same.

There was a pause lingering, a sense of duty not yet fulfilled. Umber eyes glanced down to the blade in his hand, holding its weight beginning to strain him through the weakness in his body, the serum not yet having worked enough to return to him some of his supernatural prowess despite his growing confidence.
Following the length of the blade, its lethal tip hovered over the blond's breast, close to his heart, and Jack made the effort to raise it to his shoulder, brushing the flat of it over the fabric of his coat with a held breath and a tremble in his hand, "I look forward to seeing you prove your worth..." He murmured, turning the hilt in his hand, and with a reverent touch, balancing the steel with the other on a flat palm. He held it towards Elias to take back into his possession, a soft and coy smile curling the right corner of his mouth, "Sir Brandt." Words heated like oak cask whisky by firelight.

Jack watched with guarded emotions as the blond stood, his smile lessening as their eyes met, and Elias took two steps to bridge the gap between them. There was still the itch to flee this man, this monster that had taken hold of him in the dark and threatened to drink him dry... but the visage that peered back at him was changed, similar, but not truly the reaper who'd come before. The hand that raised to catch his cheek only solidified that notion, Jack's lips parting slowly as he stilled, but did not recoil. Compared to him, Jack was frigid, the warmth of Elias' vampiric skin almost... human, and his breath trembled, yearned for it. He watched the viridian of the German's eyes recede to the growth of his pupils, Jack swallowing, his chin lifting despite his knowledge of it…

"I vow my life in the service of yours. I am your sword in the night against the foes who would harm you. Your shield from the slings and arrows of the world. I am yours, in body and what little soul I possess. May I be made nouveau in your image, struck down should I ever fail you. A fixture of protection at your side whether you hate me or no. Ich bin dein Ritter, bis der Tod uns scheidet... und darüber hinaus auch dann."

Every word of this vow made his skin ripple in static shivers, a phantom heart pulsing where the real should have been. Despite the pale of his decaying form, a brush of rose petals stained his cheeks, allowing himself to be spellbound to the thickly accented timbre of Elias' gravel tone. As the blond's hand strayed from his face and made a languid path down to his hand, the trail of warmth spread through him in its wake. The kiss upon the back left him breathless, lashes heavy over his dark eyes, tracing the outlines of the plush lips that spoke as they lingered over his skin... a language of an old world, made poetic and, with any luck, sempiternal.

It was a beat before Jack found his tongue, using it first to wet his lips before he nodded, "Thank you," He murmured, boyishly dodging his eyes, doing his best to square his shoulders, clearing his throat, "Well, I suppose now we need a way out of here, unseen or known by the Templar army."

“I thought there would be time,”

Jack turned his head with surprise at the familiar, soft voice that broke into the flirtatious cocoon that warded them from all others. Deep umber eyes met the vampiress, watching Esther’s willow form as she seemed to create her own aura, a presence of importance despite her size and stature. She was a beautiful specimen of grace and talent, a woman not particularly bound by anything, yet portrayed herself with all the calm and poise of a sage monarch. She had helped him get here, helped him to speak his trauma, had given him so much kinship in the aftermath of awakening as a Mephisto… And much guilt weighed upon Jack’s shoulders for the brat he had been through it all, the terrors he’d been through making him less of a gentleman than he could have ever believed he’d be. Rough, tumbled… He often saw Esther as a contemporary, a partner perhaps he would have tried to woo had they met earlier in life… a woman he may have wanted to spend his life with, start a family. At the very least, Jack got to call her his friend.

“Time enough for you to catch your breath and regain your bearings. Be it by land or by sea, my resources are ever at your disposal. But...I'm afraid I cannot accompany you. I must stay.”
Jack offered her a smile brimmed with a misting of tears, his throat tightening as he nodded, “So had I,” he murmured, “You’ve given me much hope in a time where I had abandoned all. Were I a better man, I would have thanked you for it sooner, with the last of that… my time,” he paused, “I am eternally in your debt.”

Esther addressed the room, while she had their attention, and then turned to his counterpart--a term Jack would have to get used to again--asking of Elias’ intentions while working under the Templar's hand. The German didn’t hold back: A vampire who killed vampires. A trade of treachery, but something in that almost made Jack smile. Despite having been a vampire himself for a century, the brunet had never asked for his extended immortality and often believed vampires to be a despicable bane to the human condition, to the experience of living. Then he’d met Bernardo… understood love beyond simple emotions and had it threaded into fate itself--a reason to want to live… and in the end, a reason to want to die. Vampires, and immortality as a whole for that matter, was a curse and a burden.
However, such open and blunt honesty brought with it a deepening sense of unease. Not only an ex-Templar in the Raven’s nest but a murderer of his own. The room turned ever icier, and Jack lingered nearer to the blond, watching the room, and then turned upon the Knight as green eyes fixated within his own… Be that as it may; that Templars were utilizing children as a device for their success against the supernatural; if what Elias had said was true… His interest in helping Jack then suggested that… the wealth he desired, and his very life, were forfeit…and that Jack was more desirable than either.

“The vows I gave you are true, but if I forfeit my life by this admission… so be it. My life is yours to command. If you prefer to exact justice by doing to me what I have done to countless others, you will find no resistance in me.” Elias was more of a fool than Jack previously thought. And yet,
“Not by my command,” Jack shook his head, his sights turning then upon Cecile and Maeve; to Seiko and Esther; and all others who would call him mad, the echo of Elias’ words empowering him, ‘A king in your own right, letting yourself be dictated by the will of others.’ “A risk you may be, but it is one I cannot weigh against the alternative. You know how to get me more serum, how to avoid their eyes, where they linger in the dark? I have no choice…” He swallowed over the words, thick in his throat, “I need you.” Jack pulled himself away with some tinge of regret, finding Esther’s eyes, “You’ve helped me more than I could have ever hoped to have repaid, my friend. If you wish to help me, help us both.”

The tension in the air about them lessened with Esther’s approval, even if only at Jack’s word. He met her smile with one of his own, gentle and relieved, glancing back quickly to Elias to see a smile upon his lips as well. Entirely becoming of him, a warmth in his verdant eyes like dappled sunlight, youthful and beautiful.
Jack held back as she and Elias spoke, the suggestions Esther offered agreeable to the Knight, much to Jack’s delight. Not to mention Elias’ sudden willingness to be open and forthcoming. Jack simply looked to Esther and then the Queens, “I’m sure they will take anything you’re willing to tell,” He told Elias, “Anything that can give them the advantage they need to bring the Order to its knees. But, time is of the essence. They are likely making their moves just as surely.”

The serum was working through him, but the vial wasn’t nearly enough to sustain him long, only stabilize. Between the last couple days’ events, the walk here, and this meeting’s excitement, Jack began to feel lightheaded, and pressed a hand upon the tabletop to steady himself, working the other back through his hair, “Perhaps, Elias, if you speak with the others… I should rest. Esther, my dearest, we should discuss an exit plan before… before Elias makes his move… If you have any to spare.”
His Knight was there in an instant, though Jack had not noticed Elias move, he could quite suddenly feel his presence pushed upon his own, and therein the breadth of his sturdy chest behind his shoulder blades, the ghost of hands upon him; and slowly the Mephisto allowed himself to cautiously sink back into him until he felt supported by Elias and the scent of him overtaking Jack’s senses. The warmth of his voice came across the brunet’s ear, Jack’s lashes lowering in tandem with his guard, his chin tilting towards the pleasant, deep rumbling sound; giving Elias a single nod. For but a moment he could rest, but only just.

Esther moved with the conviction and drive of a mother hen, making way to them with the flapping of hands to make busy, and a workman’s insistent tone; both of which made the Mephisto smirk weakly, and the German laugh--a sound that rattled Jack’s rib cage with some excitement as he rose back to his full height.
Unhurried, Jack watched the vampire’s eyes as they drifted apart, Jack still as Elias brushed his cheek, Esther making to take Jack’s arm and wrap it around her own,

“I will come see you later, mein süßer König.”
Jack nodded, chest tightening, “Soon…” almost a question and a plea both mingled in his quiet tone.
Esther would sweep him away quickly, but his attentions still remained on the blond who lingered, now alone. Jack glanced back over his shoulder towards his Knight, his mouth twitching with unease, dark eyes sullen… Hoping he would see him again in short order, worried of what might come of him left to the wolves and leeches.

“Take heart; this gives our clever healer more to work with,” she told him, “I’ve a mind to treat you like a skipping stone--one flung beyond the reaches of Western civilization.”

Jack’s lips thinned into a sombre smile, giving Elias one last moment of his visage in a snippet of hope before they were out of the vampire’s sights; and with him, all others he’d come to know on this perilous journey through life and death…

“Bound to sink to the bottom of the world, forgotten and unobtainable…”

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health 🙢 100/100

WHERE: Her residence ⮚ The Brass Canine backroom
WITH: Nascha ⮚ Maeve, Jack, Elias and co.
DOING: Platonic co-napping ⮚ Signing herself up for trouble
CREDIT: August Splitgerber

So it was that a deal was struck over mismatched plates and enamelware cups, and in the early morning quiet, stories were bartered between bites of cake and sips of coffee.

Firstly, the opium. She took time to lay the foundation for Nascha, explaining that it occupied a wildly lucrative corner in the black market of London, a vast city with a criminal underbelly to match. But great danger had a way of dogging the steps of great profit. Trading in the tears of one innocent-looking flower was arguably more cutthroat than it was worth, and one needed a unique manner of mettle to wade into those waters. She had dipped a foot in once, very early on.

A fellow smuggler had the eye of the port authorities upon him, and he bid a favor of her. The funds were needed, but not so much as the rapport, so she agreed to run the product in his stead while he handled all business dealings. Her natural inclination to bite her thumb at monopolies also had something to do with her decision to assist him in his plight: the law was bearing down upon him because an above-ground rival in the opium trade, bent on culling the competition to consolidate his own position, had tipped them off to her partner’s doings.

The arrangement spanned three quarters of a year, until the danger of raids had passed over. “The whole affair struck me as just another Tuesday in his line of work,” she remarked over the rim of her cup. While she had chosen to wash her hands of it for good, she did go away wiser. “Now, where were we? Oh! The footpads.”

Her eyes rested upon the ceiling as she poured through the pages of the past, and then mirth adrift a swell of remembrance set crinkles about her eyes. “This was many summers ago, when my horns were a little greener than they are now. I was walking down the beaten earth of a well-traveled road when I sensed I wasn’t alone.”

One by one they emerged from the brush, grim-countenanced men barring her path. When she drew back her hood to bid them a good afternoon, none answered in kind. None spoke at all, save with their eyes as they looked to their fellows.

‘What business?’ she asked, knowing well by then that something was amiss.

‘Well, miss,’ said one of the men, his hat in his hands, ‘We’ll be needing your coin purse.’

She blinked, and was near to asking whatever for, but held her tongue when another thought overtook her. ‘Are you... waylaying me? Is this to be a robbery?’ she inquired in a marveling voice. Her brows rose further still as her gaze flitted from man to man. Eyes evaded hers, and she read what might have been a hint of guilt in it. ‘It is, isn’t it? Truly? Goodness, I’ve read of this sort of thing, but I never imagined—’

‘Please understand, we don’t go about preying on ladies,’ another piped in, eyes contrite beneath a knitted brow. ‘To speak plain, we… at first glimpse… and from a distance, mind, quickly sorted when we were nearer, we... well, we mistook you for…,’ Face flushed, he gestured vaguely and cast a glance to his companions, his sentence dwindling away.

‘Oh.’ She nodded in sympathy, taking no offense what-so-ever. ‘That must have been a surprise. It isn’t every day one crosses paths with a bosomed tower.’

‘And nothin’ against you,’ said another, ‘It’s the principle of the thing, is all.’

Already she was patting her person in search of the coin purse. ‘A wickerwoman is not a heavily-laden mark,’ she conceded, ‘By usefulness alone this woolen cloak must be the most valuable item on me.’

‘We’ll be off with that too, then.’

Her hands stilled.

It was worth taking a moment to note that she was, by and large, not a woman who delighted in violence, nor did she think herself as one, nor did she wish to be. Could she have fled? Yes was the answer she believed would hold true even on a poor day, because by chance they’d chosen a mark that outstripped them in many aspects. But coin was one matter, and a good cloak, worth its weight in gold to any itinerant, was another—and when they decided that it too was theirs for the taking, her patience finally frayed.

To borrow the words of a woodland footpad, it was the principle of the thing, so she closed her fingers about her favorite walking stick. She’d found it in the Midlands and could not say precisely how long it had been in her company since; down to Iberia and back again, long enough to have fostered a certain kind of fondness. ‘Will you? Have on.’

By skirmish’s end, the lot of them had been summarily bruised and battered into submission. She felt no satisfaction in having held her own, because she was in the thick of lamenting a casualty. The walking stick had served her well until the last, when it met its match in a broad set of shoulders and snapped clean in two.

‘Far be it from me to tell anyone how to live their life, but you ought to mull over your methods of putting bread on the table,’ she said, clapping dust from her attire. ‘Follow this road southward, then take the byway that runs alongside a brook. You’ll happen across an inn; its keeper will tell you if there’s honest work to be had anywhere in this shire. If nay is the answer then go bide your time by a bridlepath for a wealthy man’s carriage, perchance, but let the little folk be.’

Despite making a show of sorting through their loot bag, she took no more than a halfpenny. They seemed good men, if only a little misguided. She would wager desperation wrought by some stroke of misfortune might have placed them on that road. Tenant farmers whose land was sold out from under them by a frigid and unfeeling landlord, possibly; she wouldn’t have been surprised.

Her ill-gotten halfpenny went to the first soul she happened across, followed by her coin purse and what little foodstuffs she carried. The receiver was a woman begging for alms at a crossroads. Her hollow-cheeked little daughter peeked out at her from behind her mother's skirts. Seeing the walking stick halves tucked in Esther’s belt, she’d asked if the merry men walked the woods again.

At the soonest opportunity to put pen to paper, she’d relayed the sorry incident to Thomas. The simple act of reading about it after the fact must have put a thread or two more of grey in his hair, because the winter eve of that same year when she journeyed to Kewstoke to stay with him for the season at Dell Cottage, a gift was waiting for her.

After she sank into one of the inglenook chairs he tossed the staff into her lap without ceremony, giving her quite a start, and then fled the scene of the crime to busy himself in the kitchen. Thereafter he proved close-lipped about where he’d gotten it—unusual in a Welshman who could while away hours talking about subjects of interest. When she pressed, curiosity piqued, he grew flustered and declared Father Christmas had stopped by early before changing the subject.

Of him, she only said, “Some have known one father, and others none. By lucky chance I have had two.”

Staves hadn’t fared well after firearms took a place on the world stage, making her a bit of a Johnny-come-lately in twenty-fifth century England. But that troubled her little; it was as good a weapon as any, and her fleet feet were a force to be reckoned with for opponents busy fumbling for a trigger. The Enfield repeating steam rifle had its virtues, no question, but a staff? That boasted its own brand of usefulness. Thrashing hindquarters, for one, and prodding at things she daren’t touch for two.

Just as their breakfast had revived her, so too had it stirred Nascha—but to much greater effect. Her limbs seemed to twinge, possessed of an ever-rising vigor. She was roused up and out of her chair, and took to pacing about the kitchen, as though the soles of her feet may have lifted from the floorboards had she not occupied herself with an activity. As she spun stories not only using words, but the frenzied movements of her hands in the air, Esther was an apt audience, but privately began to question her own encouragement at Nascha helping herself to seconds.

Before long the other woman was sweeping from room to room, a tactile and inquisitive force of nature; Esther, in her turn, trailed behind, torn between amusement and concern throughout their impromptu tour. Now and again she would right objects left teetering in Nascha’s wake, doing so distractedly and with little thought before shuffling hurriedly to keep up with her pace, her focus more so on preventing her guest from doing harm to herself.

“Circumstances allowing, I could have been the mistress of a boarding house,” she mused aloud at one point, somewhere on the second floor. What she would make of all the spare space? For her part she only had need of the attic, where she slept and worked, and by the time they’d reached it, her companion was spent. Esther crested the stairs to find the little woman missing, and in her place was a great tawny heap reclined at the foot of her bed. One hand raised so as to dim the glow of the oil lamp in the other, she drew gingerly nearer. The rise and fall of Nascha’s sleek-furred side was slowed by sleep. The poor thing had put up an admirable resistance, but coffee had come out victorious this round.

Then she moved to leave, meaning to give her privacy, but thought better of it and turned back. As the conveyer of the meal that had upended her guest, she felt a responsibility to keep up a vigil. She moved aside some of the detritus from the coverlet to ensure Nascha’s comfort, and filled the washbasin pitcher with clean water.

For a spell she’d managed to keep her mind from dwelling on the troubles that awaited outside her door, but now she crept back into bed to return to work. After chronicling the events at the waterfront as they had played out before Nascha’s eyes, she set her workbook aside and laid back. She meant to rest her eyes for only a moment.

When Esther woke, she was comfortably warm, and gripped by a strange working of memory. Her eyes fluttered open and she anticipated seeing her long-missed sighthound reclining across her legs, but in his stead there lay a feline. In sleep her feet had shown a will of their own, nestling themselves snugly beneath Nascha’s ribs.

She would also find that a moment had stretched to hours, the sun soon to set, and so she hastily made ready to leave. Sliding the last half down the stairwell banister with her fallow walking skirt tucked about her legs, she hopped down and struck a course for the kitchen. Running the promised piece of cake over to Ms. Dubois would be a brief detour, and one of importance.

❧​

By way of horse-drawn carriage the two women traversed together to the Canine. They might have gone the whole way on foot, but in a flight of fancy Esther had sought out the services of the coachman she had met several nights before, and away they went.

All too soon it seemed to come to the close; the wheels were slowing and their destination was in view. She could have happily pressed on touring the city and give herself away to distraction were they not otherwise engaged. Upon arrival she was the first to step down and, beaming, put out a hand to assist her companion’s descent, asking brightly of her what she’d thought of their adventure of a ride. She bid another good evening to the coachman, who doffed his hat with flourish, and she in turn sketched a low curtsy. Only once did she look back to assure herself that none among the passers-by were watching the door of the Canine too closely.

The establishment was by then only sparsely patroned; the night was young yet, and they were likely among the first to trickle in from the dusk-shrouded street. As she followed Nascha inside, Esther’s eyes skimmed over faces; it took a second glance for her to recognize a figure seated at the bar, only seen once in the blue-tinged shade beneath oak boughs laden with wisplike moss.

The chosen meeting place was a backroom where they could bask in the warmth of more familiar company. A touch was what she gave to Jack when she passed by him, the press of her hand against his arm, before she assumed a place at the fringes to stand sentinel for the goings-on. She had not strayed far from him; her positioning was strategic, so that she could be at his side again in a few strides.

Scattered and low conversation passed the minutes by. After the last of them had filtered in and the barman came to shut the door, the time to address the state of affairs had come. All throughout, Esther listened with head bowed and hands folded.

Maeve moved to stand beside Cecile, and that alone was enough to command the room's attention. Her manner was matter-of-factly as she thanked them for their attendance and proceeded to lay out the depth of the threat posed by the Order, never shying away from underscoring the necessity in pushing back against it. When reference was made to her exploits in London, the only acknowledgement Esther gave was in briefly meeting the raven's stare.

At the queen's urging, an adolescent seated in their midst was next to speak. Discomfited by the weight of the room's focus, glass cradled in hand, she conveyed the tale of her brother and her search for him since. This came as no surprise, an old suspicion, but to have a witness furthered their fledgling understanding of this new tactic in the Order’s arsenal. For beastkind, whose numbers had dwindled to the brink, the taking of their young—their future—there was likely no word in any language that could properly describe this atrocity.

A person interwoven with another; a dyad forcibly made one. If only the scarcest shade of Bernardo remained, Esther hoped that she, even in some small way, had been a friend to him too since that first meeting in Kewstoke—it felt an age ago, to think of it now. But his association with Maeve Donovan stretched back far longer; she knew both of the men he used to be. One could perceive the years between them, along the breadth of her grief, as she drew close to Jack.

It pained her to know he would be on the lam again, just as before. If Esther had kept her wits about her instead of letting herself believe this city was safe and would remain so, would all this have come to pass? Would that have kept them from finding him? Never would she have the blessing of surety in that; she was left to turn the possibilities in her mind, over and over, and wonder at paths not taken. Now they could only react; what was past could not be undone. She would try to make it right; her help was already his if he was willing. There was no need in asking.

Not all the danger came from without, and that was more cause. Some surely cast the blame upon him for bringing the war to their doorstep, and perhaps others still were embittered by the turning of a sovereign’s coat and the culling of the thrice-dead that came after. Whatever the case, his allies were too few, even here. She was on her guard even before a loud crack sent the door flying from its holdings.

Gone rigid with alarm, a hand hovered by her side and at the ready. If need be, the blade of a long knife would be pinched between her fingers in an instant and a half. All eyes were turned to the stature that filled the threshold. The heel of one boot glided forward, angling, as she prepared to make a shield of herself in front of Jack, but when she saw the newcomer was not armor-clad and gleaming, she hesitated.

From the ensuing exchange, it was evident the man was known by the lone Mephisto in their company. Seiko was first to confront him, bristling and bearing an enmity that persisted despite Jack’s attempts at diplomacy. Whatever lay between them—and she suspected it was a great deal, judging by the samurai’s restraining of an urge to rend the knight on sight—it would not be settled here today. Then came an opening of the floor to whomever was willing to volunteer their help.

Several breaths of silence drew out and passed by before Esther stirred. Her approach was marked only by the whisper of a skirt hem brushing the floorboards. Her gaze swept over the serum-bringing stranger, from the crown of his fair-haired head to his shoes and back again, and her inner workings were as veiled as she could render them when her attention went to Jack. She sat on the edge of the table at the room's heart, one ankle crossed over the other.

“I thought there would be time,” Esther began, and her tone was not as even as she had meant it to be, wavering with emotion as she looked upon him, he who had already suffered too much. “Time enough for you to catch your breath and regain your bearings. Be it by land or by sea, my resources are ever at your disposal. But—” Fleetingly her eyes dropped to the floor, their hazel green shaded by the dark fall of her lashes, and she swallowed back the knot in her throat that threatened to steal her voice entirely. How often did she ever have the luxury of giving a sendoff and saying ‘fare-you-well’? She reminded herself, while she endeavored to smooth her composure, that it was not so much that as it was a phrase that held promise, an ‘until next time.’

“I'm afraid I cannot accompany you. I must stay.” She would do everything in her power to ensure safe passage for him, but she couldn't afford the risk of leaving New Orleans with circumstances as they were.

“This.... faction, this enemy—is one that sees in absolutes, for which any means justify the end. And this company is made of strange bedfellows, to be sure, but amongst us is shared a common cause,” she pressed on, addressing the room at large. Her gaze, then risen, flitted over those gathered, and her tone, though even and measured, was threaded by the kind of hesitation borne by one unaccustomed to speaking in the midst of so many ears and eyes. “T'was only a matter of when a stand would have to be made, never if. And if not now, then when?” The incident at the waterfront served to throw into relief just how precious peace was, and the idea that it would persist on and on in America was a fairy story for children. If every perceived affront to nature was felled, would the Order be sated and lay down their arms? When this crusade of theirs was at the close, would it be the last or merely the preamble?

“However... if the sovereigns of the respective races are knee-deep in flattening hackles after the waterfront, the Order—which is under the auspices of the British Empire—could be waist-high. Their standing here is not so good as in Europe, nor as steady, this we know. So swiftness is of the essence whilst their attentions are diverted, but we should anticipate that every means of leaving this city will be watched.”

Her focus then shifted to press upon the knight, newly-anointed by the touch of steel upon his shoulder. Elias Brandt was his name. She hadn’t forgotten him for a moment, not when defectors were hard to come by. She had every intention of using that to the utmost advantage. Her stare was measured while she appraised him, its keenness that of a lance thrown; she peered into his face with a flicker of interest, and searched his features for she knew not what. Perhaps to discern what manner of man he was--or a reason to believe he was true, that he was acting in earnest and not merely acting. “Tell me,” Esther stated lightly, “What exactly was your occupation under your former employers?”

The confession that followed was thorough. It was by some small miracle a weapon well-used by the enemy still stood in one piece, and without Jack's blessing, he wouldn't be. She doubted even that would stand for long, and so she was silently leafing through their options before swift tempers prevailed.

“I see,” was her answering remark. It went against her better judgement to put any significant amount of faith in a man who only days ago was an errand boy with a blade, one who led a life governed by coin, not morality. “The tides can rise or recede in a matter of hours, but a man is something more than water. Is he so changeable?” Stranger things--far stranger--had happened, but all that was at stake made her misgivings hold firm.

“You’ve helped me more than I could have ever hoped to have repaid, my friend. If you wish to help me, help us both.”

“What debt? You would have done so for me, were I in your place and you in mine,” she told Jack. “I can speak only for myself in this, but for my part, I follow your lead.” For his own sake, she wanted his judgement to prove sound. She showed him a smile, a faint pull at the corners of her mouth lit through by the wish that his trust was not misplaced. Were this knight to misuse it, there would be nowhere on this good earth left for him to run to, no place to hide where he wouldn't be found, but he was viscerally aware his life was balanced on a knife's edge. He’d resigned himself to that the moment he crossed the threshold.

All that remained was the task at hand. She had to mull over the weight of the words on her tongue. “You're sworn to a different service, so I’ve a proposition,” she said, turning to Elias. “Convey a falsehood to the Order while they still value your word.” And if he could secure more doses of the serum before his treachery became known, all the better. But it wasn't only for Jack's protection; she was laying at his feet a chance to prove himself. “A decoy of a departure date so as to ensure the way is clear on the true night of. When the Order learns they've been hoodwinked, their quarry will be far and away. In the interim, you will tell us all you know and your intel will be compared with ours.” Acceptance would be hard-won, if he even cared to earn it; this would give a semblance of assurance to any and all parties who felt inclined to relieve his shoulders of a few kilograms. At the very least his usefulness might do something to keep weapons sheathed.

Green eyes flashed at the laid out a plan of action; he seemed eager to acquiesce, readily offering up his services. A possible indicator of flighty loyalties—or that he was perhaps now driven by a force more binding than any mercenary's contract.

An intrigued quirk of the brows was her only response to the information he so willingly offered up. “We might begin with the most pertinent.” Angling her body, Esther turned to direct a pointed glance at the sovereigns. It struck her as only fitting that they should take the helm at the beginning. “I leave this round to you. This has been one trying night of many, and Jack is in need of a reprieve. I’ve an itinerary to sort out, and will return to you later to speak on all matters discussed.”

With that, she then lifted herself from the table to draw herself to her full height. Elias had moved to support Jack in his fatigue, and she waited for the pair to part, eyes flickering between them both. When neither moved, she seized the initiative. “The time for tarrying about is well behind, good sirs,” she announced, her fluttering hands waving shooing movements. Bringing her best to bear, she went into the fray armed with a tone of voice that was at once wholly benevolent and wholly no-nonsense, gentled yet brooking no argument; a subtle balancing act she’d honed long ago when a certain little one was unobliging. It was a thing rarely-wielded, especially of late, and out of a well of instinct seemed to rise from her of its own accord. “I must ask you to disentangle so as to spare me from searching for a prisebar. Work to be done!”

The knight merely laughed, perhaps too soon; the sound rang strange to her, loosed within the close confines of a room where only moments before the tension was so palpable, the air so headily suffused one could have a sense of the taste. Esther was unsure it did anything to dissipate what lingered, nor could she say what his assistance would do for it, either; his past doings would doubtless remain in the memories of those who bore witness.

What was more, he would soon learn was still running the gauntlet. Few could claim to have been subjected to an interrogation conducted by two queens at once. Maeve, who had known Jack far longer than she, and Cecile, kin to the kin-killer, could be trusted to give him a thorough picking over.

Tucking securely through hers the arm of her Jack, she bid him lean on her if he felt the need. She was glad to bear the weight, his shoulder against hers as they made for the door. “Take heart; this will give our clever healer more to work with,” she told him, leaning in to quietly convey these words of comfort as they took their leave. “I’ve a mind to treat you like a skipping stone—one flung beyond the reaches of Western civilization.”

Telegrams to compose, payments to make, the booking of a vessel; from here on her schedule would be brimming with preparations. In her view, the British Isles were out of the question for the time being. The European mainland was better, the Asian continent best; she had deliberated for a brief spell before settling on a place where they could rest awhile unbothered before moving on. Her fingers would draw on the threads of connections there old and not-so-old, to ensure that by the time they stepped off in the port a safehouse would be lying in wait to receive their travel-weary selves. From there they could scatter to the winds and disappear, and her friend might finally have the chance to live anew. In Jack she thought she might have glimpsed a burgeoning of something that gave her cause to hope when she saw him again, he would have found his footing at long last. He’d had a part in helping her find hers. “A trade city of boundless vitality and color, where folk of all kinds and creeds confluence...,”

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Two weeks have passed since the meeting at the Brass Canine in which it was decided that Jack Fletcher, Nascha, and Elias Brandt would depart New Orleans.

In that time, their attempt to disembark was a near failure. Whilst managing their way to the docks, escorted by Seiko, Bjorn, Maeve, and Dutch the group was ambushed by a group of Templars lying in wait. While the trio managed to successfully escape on a ship headed faraway to some undisclosed location, Bjorn was fatally injured in the process. Dutch, Seiko, and Maeve survived the encounter but were worse for wear.
A pyre was built and burned in the marshes outside of the Louisianian city, the best send off the Beasts could give to their fallen Viking-descended brother.
Additional meetings at the Canine and local residencies ensue to further plan reconnaissance on the Templar headquarters within the Garden District and the Templar base located outside of the city in Kenner.

Meanwhile, the Templars lost in the process only added to the ongoing frustration and fury of the Grand Conclave in New Londontown an ocean away. Holly, who had been named the spearhead of the attempts to retrieve the Key, was called back. Jonah is charged with settling the score in New Orleans and getting the city officials to see the sense in their duty to protect humanity from the creatures that had slaughtered and murdered them for centuries as mere casualties in the war between the immortal races. The first attempt for recon sets Cain and René out on the first expedition to the city, with more planned for the future should the mission prove successful.

It is the first week of September and the relentless heat and humidity does not seem to want to be quelled. Thunderstorms are becoming more frequent and locals are fearing a hurricane may be imminent. ​

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

René Troxler

Ephemera

health bar

WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Jonah
DOING: Reporting the results of his mission
CREDIT: nikoboiko
PLAYLIST: ☀

He’d been gone two days for the first reconnaissance mission which had been awarded to Cain, and to himself as the Legionnaire’s handler. Between them, it was neutral, even if it appeared his bunkmate was becoming steadily more unhinged in some ways. In a conversation, he’d won the right’s to the Russian’s true name, and as promised he’d only used it when the two were alone together in the bunk. However, those times were few and far between. He’d thought trust had been established, a striking of an understanding. It was the only reason he agreed to the mission he was allotted by Jonah himself. The blond didn’t have time to return to his bunk after he arrived back to the base, and ultimately to Paradise.

Now he stood before the very same man seated at his massive desk. The fireplace roared beside them, casting a sharp glare across the Overseer’s countenance which made the man all the more menacing. The cracks and pops filled the empty air between them, doing little to save the engineer from the building unease at the pit of his stomach.

René’s leather rucksack was at his feet, his arms set behind him while he stared ahead towards the unfeeling leader of the 84th Legion. He was being scrutinized by stone-grey eyes which were known to never overlook a single detail. He had nearly been recruited into the Legion-- not by choice, but by default-- except Holly had shined her mercy and grace upon him before the decision could be made. Jonah knew it, too. Having someone like Ephemera in his ranks would have been a laughing stock-- save for his mastery with biomechanical engineering.

“I assume,” the General began, his voice tense, “that your charge did as I expected he would.”

The same chill that had run up the engineer’s spine the day he’d met with him a week before found itself making a home at the small of his back. It threatened to race along the bony line again. “Yes, Overseer.”

Gloved hands scratched at the grey of his beard in mild frustration. “Recount for me the details of your report.”

“From the time we left, or specific to the situation?” The sharp look shot towards him compelled the young man to continue. René swallowed. “We arrived at the cemetery blocks away from the hotel as determined by HQ and we walked the distance between. Upon arrival we received no issue about our accommodations. Cain treated the experience like a vacation. I followed him around the hotel from our lodgings to the spa so he could enjoy ‘the finer things of life’. We returned to the room and ordered room service.”

The dark glint in the other man’s eyes urged him on, getting to the point. He cleared his throat as he continued to stare forward unflinchingly while he picked up again. “The following day, we began our mission. It is confirmed three of the seven locations are hot spots for Beast and Vampire activity. A fourth was also confirmed, but it is the private residency of the Beast Queen, Maeve Aine Donovan, formerly known as Harpy, current alias unknown.”

“And what of my protegé?”

“His misconduct which led to the end of our mission several days in advance would be the result of last night, Sir. After eliminating the locations on our list located within the Lower Garden District, Storyville, and the French Quarter, we opted to eat. After dinner, we sought out the nightlife of the city to seek out additional locales the immortal threat may frequent. When we stopped at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, Cain was distracted by a local ‘Creole’ beauty who vied for his attention. In the process of filling her request, he made his escape.” Behind his back, the engineer scratched incessantly at the skin of his index finger. “I took chase after him, knowing he was heading for the bike we arrived on.”

A heavy hand drolled a series of passive-aggressive taps across the desk. “Go on.”

“I cornered him in the streets of the French Quarter neighborhood.”

In the middle of the houses brightly lit in bioluminescent flora and paint, the Russian was bathed in cool colored light looking like a ghost with wisps of black hair lining his angular face. His eyes shown in the light, dangerous and threatening. Shock, too, perhaps resided within as he gazed at the pistol aimed at him. A charming, dangerous smile pulled at his lips as he adjusted his stance.

“He knew running would result in a manhunt; he didn’t think I would chase him down.”

Cain took steps towards him, his movements calculated and catlike. He was not without grace. The lights shifted around him, and it seemed he absorbed them all, his worn leather bomber jacket a black hole in the seraphic glow.

“He didn’t think I would shoot him either.”

The sound was louder in his mind. It split the night in two: before the gunshot and after the gunshot. The body crumpling to the ground. His arm and body shaking in the process. Everything was blurred besides taking the jacket, soaked in blood, and returning to the hotel room, packing their belongings, and leaving for the Conclave in the Garden District. A truck with springs coming out of the seat cushions. A ghost arm sore and strained, desperately rubbing at the titanium.

“What of the body?”
He stooped down and opened his rucksack. “I left it behind in the streets. Murder is common in the city. I took only his jacket as evidence.” Retrieving the black jacket, he offered it to the Overseer as he stood. If he held it higher he could see straight through the hole in the back made by the single shot fired. The fabric was heavier than it should have been. He laid it out for Jonah to inspect.

It was ignored as a gloved hand settled on his shoulder, heavy and foreboding. “Cain knew what to expect if he did not comply with the rules outlined by this opportunity given to him. You did as you were commanded.”

Ephemera nodded quietly. “Yes, Sir.”

The Overseer turned back to the jacket and ran his hand over the bullet hole in silence. He lifted his finger to observe his glove; it was stained brick red. The blond shifted backwards while he watched as the firelight forced shadow and light to dance over Jonah’s fingers like helpless pawns. “I have no doubts that as another Templar, the task was daunting. You were trained to help a brother-in-arms, not to kill turncoats. That is saved for a different regiment.” He lifted the article and offered it back to the engineer. “What would you do with this?”

René took it with cautious bewilderment. He stared at the jacket for a moment in utter confusion as internal conflicts waged on within. Golden orbs turned towards the flames shifting and turning in the fireplace beside them. “Discard it.” Swinging his arm, he released the jacket into the gate of Hell. “I take no pride in shooting a man in the heart, and I certainly don’t want a reminder of what I’ve done.”

The Templar leader nodded quietly, watching while the material began to smoke as it caught the flames of the contained inferno.

 

[nighteyes]

Sister Aglaé

JEANNE D'ARC

health ✧ 100/100

WHERE: Just outside the airship's medbay
WITH: No one
DOING: Meeting with Olivia
CREDIT: Henry J. Ford

The scent of paper browned at the margins by age made her nose twitch. She draped an arm over her eyes, thinking her bunkmate had returned to their quarters from a late night in the medbay. Or was it morning? Doubt began to tug at her. No, she couldn’t peek at the hour; then there would be no hope of settling back to sleep. But would she have to rouse herself soon? She would sooner choose losing rest over lateness. And her pillow had become inexplicably uncomfortable, all sharp angles that she was certain hadn’t been there before, and lacking any trace of the lavender sachet sent by the Révérende Mère to be placed underneath.

Ségolène started at the sound of chair legs protesting, pushed with force across a floor. Through her fingers she peered at shelves brimming with books, brow clouded. She sat up in her seat, brushing away a page clinging to her cheek, and squinted into the glow of the green-shaded lamp at her table. She stifled a great yawn into the crook of her elbow. Remembering herself, she glanced with haste at the hands of her wristwatch, and settled back down with relief when she realized her nap had been blessedly short.

When her schedule had time to spare that morning she’d stolen away to a secluded place in the library, hurrying down the corridors with all manner of texts gathered up in her arms.

About a fortnight ago she had been released to take up vocal exercises from the pamphlet detailing every aspect of her recovery. Setting aside a place for them in her daily schedule hadn’t been a tricky thing; she did not have much time to give, but they asked for little. At the start her assignment was to hum a singular low note, and draw it out a little longer with every day that passed. Until now she had always done so in the solace of her own quarters, but she’d had business in the ship’s library that day, so at the soonest opportunity she had hastened down the corridors, stealing away to the seclusion of an unoccupied corner table.

There, over a cracked open book, she ran through her chosen notes while her gaze went to and fro across the lines of the page. She had progressed to humming three now, the first of a hymn; she'd been advised to pick a familiar tune and someday soon she would progress to a full verse. Her day had only begun, but at the Mont the sun had started its descent, and she had caught herself wondering what would be had for supper that evening and who among them was tasked with toiling in the kitchens.

She could recall dwelling on memories of harvests past and then on Sœur Bernadette’s poached pears and crème fraîche in the autumn before her head began to dip the way a flower under the sun might. Slowly but surely, she slumped forward and her cheek came to rest upon the book she’d been attempting to read. It was still open before her, and she eyed it, frowning. Here laid the culprit—a dry text that had proved more efficient than warm milk with chamomile and honey, wearing away at her constitution by way of detailing the mechanics of steam propulsion. It was the third or fourth of its kind she had pulled that week. When her free time permitted she had been drifting more often between the shelves of late, her eyes and hands passing over book spines in search of a something she could not place.

A flicker of awareness snapped her back to the present like a tap on the shoulder, and she glanced down at her wristwatch again to appraise herself of the hour. She ought to get going; she did not want to keep Olivia waiting. Then she looked to the limb that wore it, flexing her fingers as she had the day the personal engineer to the Blood Sisters had mended and reattached her sword-arm. She’d had to go without the limb for a spell as he toiled at his workbench, and she’d had to resist the inclination to hover anxiously about him all the while.

A watched pot never simmered, nor could she will the ministrations of his tools to hasten just by looking, as much as she would have liked to. But when the repairs were finished at last, all restraint had fled. She’d touched her fingers together one by one, becoming giddier all the while, and in that moment, compelled forward by a rush of gratitude, her person was too small to contain what she felt. Bouncing on her heels, she’d swept up Ephemera in an embrace that had his shoes lifted and dangling several inches from the floor.

Burning with a new rush of embarrassment, she pressed her hands to the rising color in her face. She’d hastily set him down and patted away the rumples from his clothing, apologetic, but the memory had become one more in the litany that returned at odd times to torment her. (Oftentimes when she was trying to sleep, that always helped matters.)

There were many questions she’d wanted to ask him then, but the words had faltered in her and never rang quite right. What was more she had fretted over the timing of it—and she would be making herself a bother, far worse! America was proving itself to be more of a challenge than projected; the engineer’s table would see much use, and he would be stretched as thin as she was, if not thinner. So she’d been curled up in tomes on steam tech, at a loss for what to do.

Rising from her chair, her hands fluttered with haste about the table as she tidied. Making ready to leave, she closed the book on steam and she was stopped by what lay in wait within the pages of a book beneath. She gazed into a set of eyes that, in turn, gazed back into hers.

Teeth were bared and leering, a tail lashed. Blood darkened muzzle and coat alike, and the color leapt out at her from the page. A scourge that rode in the shape of a creature stalking field and pasture in daylight, the calamity that walked, the Beast of Gevaudan—and further afield stood a gray-haired peasant, flanked by his two sons who looked on as he raised the barrel of a weathered flintlock rifle.

Translated from French, the tome was a dated treatise on hunts in the European mainland at the opening of the twilit era. She’d taken this back to her quarters to read some days ago. This particular passage was opened with an eighteenth-century artist’s rendition of a hunting house’s beginnings, though this was a story she knew well. Her fingers touched an illustration farther down the page, following the familiar and undulating path of the blue blade forged by the hand of Tomos of Caerfyrddin, the smith not mentioned in these texts by name. It was commissioned from him by a young Luc-Reule Chastel. When he finally returned to Bretagne to lay claim to his seat at the ancestral chateau, he carried with him a weapon made to bring immortals to heel, heralding a new renaissance for his house.

After the books were returned to their proper places amongst their fellows on the shelves, Ségolène slipped quietly out into the corridor, nodding in greeting at two passing members of the 84th. She cast a quick glance down at her civilian's attire, assured by seeing that her shirt and trousers were in order, and stopped fleetingly by a window to take stock of her reflection in the pane, where she smoothed the undyed linen of her kerchief flat against her skull. A stray curl peeping out was tucked back underneath her coif. She made her way toward the medbay, a path better known to her than the one to the lab. This was the frequent haunt of Raphael, and among the Sisters, she was to flesh what Ephemera was to machine, and for the present she was partnered with her on assignment.

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health 🙢 75/100

WHERE: Her residence > the Brass Canine
WITH: A carriage driver and a horse > Canine patrons
DOING: Suiting up > Addressing the barman
CREDIT: Florence Harrison

The hiss of steel across a whetsone rose softly up from the quiet.

Within her grasp a pattern-welded knife was swept in slow, meditative passes across the stone in the other. She drew a hair from her head and let it fall across an edge that gleamed faint in the half-light of early evening. When it drifted gently away in two halves, she returned the long knife to the awaiting sheath bound to her calf. There was time yet before she had to take her leave.

Esther turned her face to the breath of wind that came through the ajar window, balmy and bearing tidings from the city. She took stock of what nature had in store. The past fortnight had been one of lowering skies and storms, and there had been talk - hushed, murmured conjecture, as though a raised word might become evocative - that there could be worse to come. Her brows drew together in thought as she pondered this. She had mistakenly believed this clime had already brought its best to bear through driving rains and thunder that seemed to reverberate in her chest's confines even while she lay tucked safely in her bed, what more was there to expect?

Strewn about her were various odds and ends unearthed from the space beneath the attic floorboards. She could not bring along as many as she would have liked. Without the balanced weight of her staff slung across her shoulders and the full embrace of her lamellar she would feel naked; operations conducted in civilian dress put her ill-at-ease, but there was nothing for it.

Assignments such as the one set for tonight required one to be as nondescript as possible, and if she hoped to maintain discretion she could only arm herself so much. She had fleetingly entertained the notion, and with some seriousness, of bringing along certain broomstick that had recently come into her possession. That would be fitting, but there was a high likelihood the opposing side was now wary of strange women bearing cleaning implements. Besides, she had already decided that it would retire from the front and see out the rest of its days in her home. The broom would remain as it was, mounted in a place of honor above the sitting room mantelpiece.

She was moving the floorboards back in place when her eye was drawn to a bundle lying within the gloom beneath.

Beneath Esther’s eyes passed turning pages made weightier by charcoal and ink. A journal bound in leather made soft by use laid splayed open across her lap, and her fingers followed the path of the looping longhand that filled the page. The penmanship couldn’t have belonged to anyone other than Thomas; she knew it by sight alone from decades of traded letters.

Along the edge he’d scrawled something that took a long moment to decipher, barely legible even to her practiced eyes. A reminder to tend something in the oven at four o’clock. Did he remember, or did he forget to check the pocketwatch that now ticked out the time on the stand at her bedside? Had he burned his supper? She could envision him jumping from his chair to make a run for the kitchen after being swept away by his work. Poised beside it were illustrations of human anatomy, cross-sectioned and labeled. These had been wrought with a care that was painstaking, and she endeavored to match it when she gingerly turned the cover over the fledgling research once meant to be a masterwork, unable to look any longer. For a spell she sat with the the journal clasped to her chest before returning it to the keeping of its swaddling cloth, and then to the hollow.

❧​

In her periphery, the pastel fluorescent paints that brightened the building facades seemed to bleed together as they swept past. The nightlife of the Marigny’s Frenchman Street had long since shuddered awake. Many of its establishments now teemed with activity, and sounds of revelry filtered out to mingle with the echo of hoof upon stone. A gentle precipitation, more mist than rain, had pattered the roof of the covered carriage.

“Sometimes, ‘round this time of year, we get a storm that’s different,” said the driver, whose name she had yet to catch, in response to her inquiry.

“In what way?” she pressed him further.

His head turned toward her but a little, and she saw him reach up to rub his jaw in thought. “Meaner, I s’pose. To live it is to know it. They come, then they go. That’s just the way it is. But you don’t want to be out when one hits, miss. You won’t catch Oeillet and me in the streets.”

She sat back in her seat and drew her shawl a little more snugly about her, curiosity mostly sated. A companionable silence descended after.

A slip of paper rested in her fingers. Old confidants, her left and right hands, had sent her a cable from London. Everything on schedule. Her company was not only surviving, but thriving. Gilbert Wyn was concise while Reynold Gyeong was the man of detail, and she could picture him grinding his teeth in frustration, not only at being charged by the word but the constraints of secrecy.

She managed business affairs as best as one could from across the sea, but the distance dredged up new challenges. New, not insurmountable. The helm was still her seat, but in her absence, the pair interfaced with every matter that had to be addressed firsthand, consulting her when necessary. They were discomforted by the arrangement, but in her view, the task couldn’t have gone to anyone better. Her methods were well known to them now, and both had already whetted their teeth for years acting as go-betweens to guard the true identity of their employer. As far as the outside world was concerned Abram Asquith was to be on holiday in Wales on the recommendation of his doctors. More recently, both had assisted her in securing the safehouse in Shanghai for Jack.

“Miss?” came the driver’s voice again, and she looked up.

“Have we arrived?”

“Well, almost, but—well, excuse me, but are you feeling alright? You need a hand getting down?”

She hesitated for a beat. “I am well,” she told him, “You needn’t worry for my sake. Lost sleep, is all; you might blame the recent troubles for it.”

There was no need to guess at what had roused the question; Esther had glimpsed it in the washbasin that morning. The color had begun to ebb in her face, slowly overtaken by the beginnings of a sallow pallor. Shadows hung like cobwebs beneath eyes dimmed by lethargy. She had patroned his business often enough that he would know this was far from the norm.

After the carriage came to a stop she bid him a good evening, quick to step down, quicker to leave, and flashed a reassuring and rehearsed smile in the face of his concern. Soon she would have no recourse but to resign herself to confinement, but not tonight. She would brush away the entreating, grasping fingers of the lull that seemed to cling with increasing strength with every passing hour until she had finished, and then—only then—would she consent to rest.

When Esther slipped through the doors of the Canine, her gaze already seeking out the barman at his post, she went clad in wayworn attire meant to hasten the passing over of an eye. A mended hand-me-down shirt was tucked into the faded skirt of cotton roughspun she had cast over her boots and trousers. She stepped up to the bar to ask after Maeve Donovan; she meant to have a quick word with her now, before nightwork took up what time was left to her this evening.

 

[legalrehab]

S E I K O 島崎清子

alias: Kirin

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: Kenna
DOING: Outskirts of Kenner Base
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

He'd hardly slept since he left.

It wasn't until situations like this where Seiko found out truly how stubborn he could be, most of all to his own self. He became buried in anything that could keep his hands busy and his mind free-of-thought. Whether it be volunteering in the kitchen, sharpening blades, or practicing his sword-arm, he wore his body down to the bone in an attempt to mitigate even a single image of the Mephisto and his captor from entering his head. It should surprise no one that he was wildly unsuccessful at this, only to find himself in a game of tug-of-war as to whether or not he should let himself be depressed or livid about all of it. It helped to avoid even saying his name, maybe he'd forget it if he kept it up.

What made it worse is that it showed. He constantly asked his peers to help with anything he could, and became defensive when anyone asked if he was doing okay. Eventually they just stopped asking, there wasn't a need to question him when it was so blatantly apparent. That's what Elias wanted though, he wanted to see him fly into fits of rage over his precious thing being taken away. For that reason Seiko refused, even in the privacy of his own quarters. What with Bjorn leaving he came home to his flat with nothing but his own emotional burdens each night.

It was an odd match-up to say the least that he would be so quickly thrown into a this role again. The Templar base located just outside the city of Kenner was his target to infiltrate and the young recruit was at first an unlikely choice. Kenna MacAmery didn't talk much - perfect as Seiko didn't either. If there was one thing the man disliked it was unsolicited advice, and made it a good moral rule not to give any. As they traveled on horseback to the location, there were no warning or cautions given. He didn't coddle the firestarter by telling her 'to be careful' or 'be on alert'. In fact, most of their conversation was transactional - speaking only of which directions to take and general plans of infiltration.

Perhaps it was this lack of distraction that got them to the location a lot earlier than anticipated. There was little to do but wait now until the sun had set and night began. His blades had been sharpened days in advance and there wasn't any thing else to prepare. Instead with the base being on the outskirts of Kenner, he found a wall of great Oak trees to tie the horses upon - and waited.

"Here," he offered a bundle of clothing to his companion, "We'll need to change into these at some point - though we've a few hours to spare at this rate." Seiko had procured general Templar vestments prior to this excursion. Though they followed no strict code in their dress, going as they were would certainly raise a few unnecessary eyebrows. Janitorial wear with simple crests etched into the aprons, going as lowly workers was ideal as typically no one tended to remember their names or faces anyhow. The undignified clothing came with many pockets and hid equipment easily as well as giving them a discreet reason to be masked as well.

Their mission was simple, retrieve dossiers of those in the Templar Kenner base and specifically that of any recruit who may be a minor. They also were to free as many children as possible but given the location being off-the beaten path and having to come in discreet transportation this objective was secondary.

"One more thing..." Seiko paused after he had given the clothes to Kenna, before her ears were met with a thunderous mere few inches away.

"Mosquitoes are quite pesky here, sorry if that startled you." His apology was more formal than needed, realizing that there had been little said between them up until this point. He was not there to command anyone, and it was written no where in his contract to give orders... so he didn't.

"It's been a pleasant ride here - Very rarely do I meet others that are as easily to interact with. Thank you for that." He retrieved a few apples from his bag and handed them to Kenna, no need to imply they were for the horses. "Few others go on too long about things that don't have much reason to be said, I'd ask if you have any questions but I'm sure you would have asked by now if you did."

He stole a quick bite from the fruit's flesh before tossing it haplessly into the maw of the horse, "You know, I use to talk to these two pretty often when I hardly knew anyone here," he said with a smile as he gestured to the two steeds before them. "They're nice, and don't say much back. I didn't know a single soul, and joined to repay a debt to the Raven, Ms. Donovan... and I suppose... well - that's still mostly true."

He took a pause before continuing, "Though I won't ask your reason to joining an army if you don't wish to share. I was born into one, so I suppose it's all I've none and I'm sure your reason is valid as any. Let's get some rest then- We agreed on the going in through the garden house once night falls - but... that's still an hour or two away." He gave a curt nod and allowed Kenna her own space. The man felt no need to hover over her and assumed so long as she didn't leave on her own there was nothing more to do until the time came.

Though with nothing to do - there was nothing to stop him from coming to mind once more. It took only a few minutes of this before he retrieved a brush and groomed the steed he rode in on as he communicated with them silently as he had all that time ago.