Vampire x Human c:

[Rika]

He trembled, oh how he trembled as he fingered his medical tools longingly. For three days, the only thing in his system was water, and the only thing that came out of his system was boiling blood. How miserable it must have been to have blood boiling inside you, when your whole body was cold clay. His honey hair usually came in curls that reached down pass his ear, but at this point, they were stuck to his forehead from the constant fever. How ironic the newspapers would be-- a doctor dead of sickness.


So, he sat in the backroom of his house, setting the tools aside and reaching around for his handkerchief, until he was reminded that he threw the bloody thing into the trash. Literally bloody. It was soaked in blood much to the point where he felt he could use it no longer. The tired-eyed man hung his head as he stared down at his floor. He already knew that his days were numbered.. He wouldn't be able to heal anymore people as he had done in the past. The lad suddenly went into a fit of coughing, and watched the merciless, red acid stain his floor.. He grit his teeth, pressing together chapped, red lips and shaking his head.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

The cold winter air whipped around him as he walked the streets of London, fading into the shadows so as not to be seen. He observed, that was what he would always do, observe and hunt, until he found the right one. Truthfully, he was growing tired of hunting, the weather was colder and the nights long, tiresome, enough to wear anyone out. Tonight he was just looking for something fast, he was desperate to go back to his home, to his fire and his study, where it would be quiet. The streets were loud as he walked, and while during the summer the noise and business of the streets would be welcome and pleasant, the cold bit at his ears, and he wanted nothing more than silence. He must know the map of london like the back of his pale hand, as he quickly takes a turn down an alley that lead him to the back of some houses. He lets out a breath, watching the cold air make it visible right before his eyes as he feels the first flake of snow land on his black hair, and fly around him. Great, snow. Just what he needed.


He sniffs the air around him as per routine, and he comes across the scent of fresh blood. He could tell, however, from the scent was not from the immediate body, but it could mean that someone was wounded nearby, in need of help that he could give before he took what he needed and left them for dead. He pushes some of his hair out of his eye as he looks around him, his icy blue eyes accustomed to the darkness, sniffing again and walking closer to the scent of the blood. A strong gust of wind almost nocks him from his feet and he wraps his ankle length black coat around him tightly, struggling for warmth. He finally finds the source of the smell, coming from the rubbish bins outside a small home, a single light radiating inside. He shamelessly roots through the trash to receive a bloody handkerchief, and as he studies it he realises its cause. Sickness, someone was dying, they must be coughing up blood. They would be weak, easy prey, something that he would not have to put much effort into to kill, and then he could go back home and get warm. The promise of warmth made him feel even colder, and he begins to decide on his plan, he wanted to be home fast, before the snow got worse at least.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

It might have not been a wise thing, but he always kept his doors unlocked. His home was also his office, and well, not even the lowest of criminals would consider killing a doctor that could very well potentially heal or help them. Plus, the crime rate in that part of London was not high, for everyone was too weak with sickness to even think about stealing. If someone were to walk in his house now, though, and put him out of his misery, he might have appreciated that. Might have. But.. I have to live. The Doctor thought, trying to stand, but collapsing onto his floor. Even if I'm as pathetic as this, I have to live. He thought grudgingly, his hand shakily reaching up for nothing but an invisible lifeline.


The Doctor gasped as blood spurted from his throat, and he coughed loudly, pressing his head against the floor as the crimson water seeped from under him. He pressed his hands against the floor, trying to lift himself up, but fatigue rolled in like crashing waves, and he could only manage laying on his back and staring up at his fogged wall. Life was.. slipping in between his finger tips. No.. He thought. No! I'm not ready. I'm not ready. Don't you dare take me yet, Death! Not yet.. He thought, desperately trying to hold on to his accomplished life as blood curdled into his lungs.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

He heard someone inside the house collapse, this could be his chance, he did not need to plan. He looks around cautiously as he walks to the front door and tries the handle, surprisingly finding it unlocked. The amount of times he had had to break windows or pick locks was comical in comparison to this, and he had half expected these doors to be locked too. But maybe the sick and dead had nothing to fear, as death loomed over them either way. As silent as a shadow he moved through the now completely opened door, it was much warmer inside, and he was thankful that at least the dying had the sense to keep out the cold. He shuts the door quietly, but he was certain that the sick would not hear him either way. He walks slowly through the house and stops as he comes to the back of it, where the light was coming from. He stands in the low doorway, his coat not wrapped as tightly around him now, the white snowflakes in his hair melted, leaving patches of it damp. He sees, on the floor, in the middle of the room, the honey haired man cloaked in blood, and the smell is almost unbearable, the appealing smell of red.


He takes a small step into the room, his face a straight line and his eyes stone as he studied the sick man in front of him, and he thinks how ironic this must be. The man was dying, and it was almost as though he himself was there, the personification of death, to take him away to the afterlife. He steps into the view of the man and kneels next to him, using his hand, that was snow white, freezing cold, to tilt the mans head up to look at him. He himself studies the man slowly, in his room all that echoed in his ears was his heartbeat, and he could practically feel death coming from him. He did not have long left, he was certain, and something inside of him wanted to put him out of his misery, but as his fingers gently caressed his chin he could not bear to kill something so beautiful, so innocent.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

The honey-haired man could not hear another come in. Everyone in that part of the city heeded whatever he said, whatever warning he gave-- do not come near him, if they wanted the same fate he had. But-- tired, tired grey eyes peered up to see a face.. a face he couldn't quite make out. Black and white. The only colors he could see-- the only colors he could feel as he stared at the man's damp, dark hair. He wreaked of snow and travel. He wreaked of the outside world the Doctor had become so accustomed walking into with no regard of himself. He was careless to have gotten such a sickness-- had he not built immunities to them over the years? He was a careless Doctor. So, staring up at him, unrecognizing of his face, feeling his cold, white bones caressing his chin..


But he felt something else grab his hand on the other side of his body, and he slowly peered over to that side, warmth enroaching his whole body. Another pale face peered down at him, but this he could make out. Deep, black eyes.. gentle, black eyes.. His soul practically rolled in his hands before the Doctor realized what he was doing. When the being turned to go, he yanked the soul back stubbornly, and Death could only solemnly watch him, before accepting his refusal; there would come another day. And so, Death left him, and the honey-haired man peered up at his savior. Still, even if he escaped Death this time, he.. he still felt.. weak..


Blood continued curdling in his lungs, and dripped down his chin, staining the floor. He shakily took the unidentified man by the hand with his own, and opened his mouth to speak.. but no words came out, only blood.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

The dark haired man tutted slightly before he put down the mans hand on the cold floor, and stood up straight, looking around him. He was so hungry, he needed red, but he would not kill this man, and if he so much as bit him he could probably kill him he was so weak. But he could not bring himself to leave him, and in which case he could not let him die. He was conflicted between his responsibilities and his needs, and his wants. He looks down at the man and studies him from head to toe again, then looks around the room that belonged to the man, at his objects and his tools. A doctor, it would seem. He could come in handy, and maybe they could work out a deal if he managed to get him back to health. No, it wouldn't be a selfish deal, he wouldn't do that but, a deal that benefits him nonetheless, and he was sure the man would do, maybe, anything to stay alive. He knew he shouldn't, but he decided that he would go ahead with this new plan forming in his head anyway, as he took off his long coat, thankful for the sweater he was wearing underneath. It would not be enough for protection against the cold, but he would not freeze to death either. He kneels down beside the man again. "I am going to help you," he whispers to him, his accent was not from London, but it couldn't be placed to anywhere in particular. In truth, due to his excessive life span, he had travelled far and wide for decades, adapting and learning from new cultures, but none he liked as much as London.


He wraps the black coat around the blood soaked man, and easily picks him up bridal style, he was light as a feather. He looks around and takes a deep breath as he finalises his decision, walking through the door to the house and back into the cold streets of London. Immediately the cold hits him hard and he regrets not wearing a thicker sweater, but there was no time to do anything about it as he slowly and silently weaved through the streets and the shadows back in the direction of his home. His walk was stunted by the thick fog and snow, but he knew exactly where he was going. He tried not to think too much about the life he was carrying in his arms, the living and innocent soul he was going to bring into his own home of death and melancholy, and instead he focused only on walking through the snow as fast as he could manage.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

I am going to help you. The half-open grey eyes that the human displayed widened a bit, and it was a shame he could not say anything but whisper under his breath. What he whispered, even he could not make out. Maybe his ears were stuffed with blood too, but he knew that wouldn't be possible when it came to this certain kind of sickness. His numb body could feel warmth wrapped around it in a single black coat, though that quickly changed when the cold devoured him. Where were they.. going? Someone had to be crazy to be wandering out in the weather. Even the prostitutes that were usually out working had ran to their brothels half-clothed. When was.. the last time he breathed this air? The Doctor looked up at the pale sky, snow falling on his already damp, honey hair, and he could only watch the face that took him wherever he wanted. Where was he going? The morgue? Or was this really, truly Death?


It couldn't be. That voice.. That voice in his old home-- that was the voice of hope. That was the voice of his savior. And so, he would trust that voice, whatever that voice said in his time of desperation and weakness. That voice.. resonated within his soul, the soul that nearly escaped the inviting bones of Death. He had to live. He had to live. And the dark-haired man had to realize that. He must have. Otherwise, he would not have saved him.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

He finally found his home, and as he walked up to the front door and kicked it open, he was thankful that his maids had left it unlocked for when he came home. When he closes it, he hurries upstairs, and into an empty bedroom. No one had slept in this house but him for a hundred years, and so this room was untouched by all, but not now. Now he was giving it to the life in his arms, and as he placed him gently on his bed and removed his coat from his body, he knew that there was no going back now. He places the dark coat on a chair in a small crumpled heap, and he quickly gets a fire going and lights a few candles around the room, before shutting and locking the door to prevent his maids or anyone unwanted from entering. He walks back to the end of the bed and stares down at the man, who was still covered in blood, still sick. He couldn't stay in those clothes forever. He hesitates slightly before he goes back to the door of the room and unlocks it again, calling a specific name, Edith, very loudly down the hall. She was the only one of his help that he trusted, the only one who knew his secret and the only one who could know this too. She hurried up the grande staircase and towards his voice, and he quickly demanded hot water, towels, and her assistance. She obliged, and as she hurried to get those things, he walked back over to the bed.


He would have to remove those clothes, and then he would clean his body, and then he could help him properly. Of course, this was all relying on him not dying as he and Edith rushed around to save his life. She was quickly back, not questioning him as she saw the bloody man on the bed, and she placed a tub of hot water on the bedside table, and then she pulled off his shirt and his pants, folding them neatly and placing them over a chair as she began to clean away the blood from his body. He paced back and forth while he did this, thinking and rethinking all the while, he couldn't do this but he would, and he shouldn't do this but he felt a need to. He turns back to the bed, dismissing Edith before he changed his mind. The man was now clean, and as he walked over to the side of the bed his eyes trailed all over his body, but he tore them away and looked directly into his eyes. This was it.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

Warmth surrounded him the moment he was brought in a-- what was it?-- a house. It must have been the man's house, for he had called a maid to service him in.. what were they doing to him? The Doctor held on for dear life, however, no matter what they did. It was as if they were cleansing his body for it to be buried, or displayed in a window. Did they think he was dead? No, no, his eyes were open, and faint, steady breathing could be heard.. Even a child would recognize that. The Doctor could move no muscle, only watch what they were doing to him. They seemed worried. He was one of the only three doctors in his part of the city.. and it was very expensive and difficult to become a doctor in the first place.


Maybe they wanted him to heal someone. Little did he know, the healing he would be doing was very different than his.. usual methods. The man only stared up at the ceiling, knowing what they wished for him to do-- cling on. Cling on to that miniature thread that held his life. Death could harm him. Death would not. He would live. And when all was done, he peered up at the man, the man only, naked and pathetic in his time of sickness. Who was he? Who was he? He said nothing, could manage to say nothing, but his eyes said it all-- Who are you?

 

[buildingaspaceship]

He looks into the mans eyes and as he looks into his he looks away again, shutting his eyes for a moment before he walked over to the curtains and shut them, and then the doors and shut those too. He walked back to the man and perched on the edge of the bed slightly, his body twisted so the he could reach the man. Why did he want to help him so badly? This man was nothing to him except a sick and dying doctor, but something about him was playing in his mind. He has to do it soon, or he will begin to rethink again, and so he out of his pocket he produces a thin, sharp blade. He had done this before only once, to a woman who had once been dear to him, but when she had realised what she was she had fled, and they never saw each other again. But he knew it worked, and that was all that mattered. He dragged the blade across his skin, cutting deep enough for it to bleed heavily, but not enough to bleed out or uncontrollably. He looks at the man. This wouldn't turn him, this would heal him, the vampiric blood in him would heal the cells and destroy the sickness inside him over the next day, and the man would be as good as new, almost as though he had never been sick, perhaps.


He cannot wait any longer as he moves closer to the man and uses one hand to force open the mans chin, not that it needed much effort considering he was so weak, and he placed his wrist to the mans mouth. "Drink," he ordered, removing his other hand from his chin and using it to move hair from the mans face, "You will be okay," he tries to comfort the man, but having been particularly alone for many years his words did not come so naturally to him, he only guessed what the man would like to hear, but at least he wasn't lying to him. He would be okay, if he drank.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

His eyes.. His eyes were the only thing etched into the Doctor's hazy mind, and when he was commanded to drink, he did so. Blood. He was.. feeding him more blood? Was this some gypsy ceremony? Witch craft? Not that he believed in any of that stuff, though it was strange when blood was running down your throat instead of out. But-- But when he consumed the other's blood, he could feel his fingers again. He could feel life begin to return to his body, but his eyes, they felt heavy. And so, he drifted off to unconsciousness, only to be woken the next day.


It was quiet. The Doctor could only hear muffled sounds downstairs, and he shot up from the bed, staring down at his bare body with all of the surgical scars on his abdomen and legs and chest that he had performed on himself in his younger years. Where was he? Why was he-- The honey-colored haired man's eyes widened, and his pupils dilated. He could think. The man peered over at his clothes on the bed, and quickly changed, surprised at his ability to move around. He started walking in circles, unaware of his surroundings until he realized the walls around him were not his. Fearfully, the man peered around and brushed now soft, curled strands of hair from his forehead. Where was he?

 

[buildingaspaceship]

Maids were rushing around downstairs as he sat in the study with his head in his hands. He had been looking over some old maps and books but he couldn't concentrate with the knowledge that upstairs in a room was the man from last night. He had left quickly when he had fallen into unconsciousness, being sure to have Edith wash and restore the mans clothes to his room. He wondered how he was doing, was he awake? He wondered how he should care for this human now that he was his responsibility? Or well, he wasn't officially his responsibility yet but the stress that he would be once the deal was proposed would be greater than just thinking about the stress- Gah, he didn't know what he was thinking anymore. He pushes his chair backwards and stands up, before he begins pacing the floor of the study. It was still snowing outside, quite heavily, which he supposed he could use as an excuse for the man being unable to leave, and maybe he could- stop thinking about it! He groans and marches out of his study and quickly runs up the grande staircase, rushing to his door. His hand lingers on the handle for a moment, as he contemplates just going inside, but no, no he couldn't do that, he wouldn't. He steps away from the door again and sighs in defeat as he marches down the hall and into a large room, books lining ever wall. The library.


He walks past shelves of books, running his fingers along the dusty spines, until his finger stops randomly at one book, a poetry book, the authors name was now unreadable due to the years of use, and he took it, it was rather heavy, and sat with it on his lap. He opened it to its first page and flipped through until he got to a poem, and he read through it, trying to calm himself down. There was no need to be stressed about something that he had complete control over, and besides, he was just a human, nothing of great importance, very insignificant in the eyes of a vampire.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

The Doctor inched towards a fogged window, and started wiping it lightly with his soft fingers, staring outside. Blankets of snow lay, though they were ruined by footprints of many bypassers. Most of them he recognized as his patients.. and.. his patients! H stumbled through the room, looking around and up and down and-- Where was he?! Where was he taken? But surely whoever took him there must have meant no harm. Whoever took him there must have had all the answers, must have been an elite doctor. He slowly moved towards the door, and gently tugged it open, shutting it behind him and peering down the hallway.


He heard pages turning in a book faintly near a certain room, and the Doctor found himself walking towards it in curiosity. The man entered quietly, like a mouse, and his eyes widened when he realized who had healed him. This man. The dark-haired man with the pale face and cold fingers. The man that fed him blood. Slowly, softly, he walked over to him, peering over his shoulder. The Doctor held a rather soft, but lovely face structure, his eyes holding nothing but gentleness.


"I've read that poem before." He broke the silence. "I really love how the poet makes the words dance across the page," The Doctor had a London accent, yes, but hit his "d"s and "t"s rather harshly, and occasionally rolled his "r"s. No doubt he was a German-speaker as well.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

He hadn't been expecting it when the man had come in, and he hadn't heard him, so when he spoke he momentarily startled him, and he shut his book in surprise. He puts it at the side of him and stands, turning to face the Doctor. He took him in properly now, in the natural light, and he saw that he was healthier indeed. Colour had returned to his skin, his honey coloured hair was shining, and his eyes were bright. And now that he could see him properly he could see that he was handsome too. He looked away and gritted his teeth, hearing the heartbeat coming from the man. He still had not eaten, and he would not be leaving any time soon in this snow. "Dance they may do, but his talent lies in the meaning instead of the words." He states simply, grabbing the book from the seat and taking it back to the shelf. He would probably never pick up that book again, there were so many of them in the library.


He turns to face the man properly, jerking his head to the side as a gesture for him to follow him as he walked out of the room and down the stairs, the decorations were luxury, expensive and collected from many countries over many years. There were paintings that were older than he were littering the walls, and as he lead him into his study, he could passed a particularly well painted portrait of himself. He takes a seat on one of the soft sofas in his study and gestures for him to seat down. "There's no doubt in my mind that there are are things you would like to know, is there not? So sit and ask questions to your hearts content, there is plenty of time." His own accent, unplaceable and strange, his voice almost a choir, seductive without intention.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

The Doctor could only follow the other with curly hair kissing his cheeks, and not so much sticking to them anymore. He felt amazing. He felt as if he could conquer the world with one word. But, he knew he was a mere doctor with mediocre training, and that he was fortunate enough to prolong his career only because of this man-- this man. Such lovely decorations he held in his home, decorations the Doctor had never gotten the pleasure to discover before. Some of them he recognized where from, only because his patients were ethnically diverse sometimes, but other than that, other than the rest, he hadn't the foggiest idea. When he was led into a study, the Doctor chose to sit across from the man, eyeing him with unhidden curiosity. He must have had so many secrets, but he was not a doctor. If he was, the man would have heard of him.


So, giving a soft, nervous grin(especially by the man's unplaceable accent and.. tempting tone), he cocked his head to the side. "Your name would be nice to know. I remember you healing me in a way I am not familiar with." He whispered softly, before staring down at his shoes. "You are not as I am, a mere mortal." Grey, curious eyes peered up to him, and the Doctor, as inquisitive as he was, could still manage a small, appreciative smile. "Who and what are you, might I inquire?"

 

[buildingaspaceship]

He nods his head and chews the inside of his cheek while he comes up with a backstory that could possibly make him seem more human than he actually was, he made up a birthday and an age, a mother and a father whose name he could remember, and he made up a small history of where he had grown up. "My name is Silas, Silas Franklin." He tells him, leaning back comfortably in his seat. His name was true, he had been called Silas since he could remember, but he knew not his actual birth name, nor so much about being human. "I am as you are contrary to your belief, I am a mortal just the same as you, I live and breathe and eat, I do not understand what has given you a different idea?" He defends himself. He was going to pretend to be human, and he had to have everything planned. He did not know how long he could possibly make the facade last, or what he would say or do when the man did find out that he was indeed not like him, although he seemed to be handling it very well so far. But what would he be like when he actually knew? Just having an inkling of suspiciousness was fine, but when he knew what he was, and he knew what he was capable of, well Silas knew things would be different then.


He smooths back his chin length straight messy black hair and looks at him with those blue eyes that looked as though water has frozen over, and he smiles back at him, trying to be reassuring. He knew there were obvious things the man would pick up on over time, and he would have to make excuses for them. Why he was so cold, why he had slightly sharp canines, but most of all, how did he heal him? If he asked about the blood he would simply say it was a hallucination, and that he simply tested some great medicine on him because he was running out of options. If he asked why he saved him, well then he wouldn't know for sure. Perhaps he would say that he could never leave anyone dying on the streets but then that would be a lie, and as he was already lying to him, he couldn't lie about that also. Maybe he could say that, he thought the Doctor had great promise, that he could do with one around for his injuries or his sicknesses. But he would not allow him to leave.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

Silas Franklin. How the name rolled off his tongue, and so melted in his ears. He was beginning to grow some sort of attachment to Silas, despite only meeting him yesterday. Then again, the man had saved his life. Of course he would be attached to him. But as he rejected the idea the Doctor came up with for him being mortal, he smiled and nodded in understanding. "Silas Franklin." He repeated softly, before peering over at him and cocking his head rather inquisitively. "Well, I apologize for my incompetence right now. It must have been a dream-- a dream that you were not human." The Doctor's eyes widened, before he melted into a smile and chuckled. "Oh, where are my manners? I didn't properly introduce myself. I'm Elias Amsel(OHM-SOUL)." Elias traced delicate, yet capable fingers across one another, and sighed. "You saved my life, Mr. Franklin." His top eyelids lowered, his face subtle of the dim setting in Silas' study.


"I don't know, though I would like to. And I don't know why, though I would like to." He smiled charmingly. "But most of all, the thing I would love to do is pay you back in any way I possibly can. What is it you desire in return?" His smile still laid perpetually there, as he was rather entranced by those cold, blue eyes. He wondered if Silas' skin was as cold as yesterday.. and Death's hands were as warm and inviting.


Though Elias always fancied the cold.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

Elias Amsel, he could now put a name to the face of the man that he had saved rather unusually yesterday evening. He smiles at the name, it was pleasant and it sounded warm, it fitted him very well. They were like two opposites, a light haired, innocent man with a good heart, and a dark haired corrupted man with a twisted heart and a dark past. "Honestly yes, it must be a hallucination or a dream as I can completely assure you that I am quite human." He smirks knowingly, he was as human as someone who was essentially dead could be, a shadow, a vampire. He was not human. But, for now he would be, he would lie and Elias would believe him easily because lying was what he did. He crosses his right leg over his left and spreads his arms out around him, draping his elbows over the back of the sofa. "As for how I healed you, put it down to some very good medicine, and for why, that I shall not reveal till I myself know. Perhaps you are a good man and I could see it in your soul, and that could be why I chose to say you." He says mysteriously, but he smiles lightly at the end. He still needed time to figure out and understand why he had actually saved him, but for now he would remain mysterious, and ignore the question as best he could.


He stands, walking over to a mahogany wood table that held two crystal glasses beside a large half empty bottle of bitter alcohol. He poured himself one while he spoke, "But however, for paying me back, you need not worry currently, for I have yet to decide what I could ask you to do for me." He brings his glass up to his lips, taking a sip of the bitter taste and closing his eyes as he swallowed it, grimacing slightly. It was awful stuff, but yet oddly pleasant, and it burned his throat like words that could never be said. "However you simply must accept my offer. It's a bitterly cold winter, the storm is only just beginning, and I could never forgive myself if I did not offer a room to a sick man. I have plenty, and I do insist." He says, putting his glass on the table and refilling it, he holds up the empty glass and tilts it towards Elias, a gesture that clearly asked if he would like some, and he smiles at him kindly.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

It must have been a hallucination, it must have been. There was no medically possible way that blood from Silas would ease Elias' illness. In fact, doing so would have made him worse. Drinking blood in this time was unhealthy, and he had heard reports of those who practiced witchcraft dying from their blood lust. Why he had such a dream, such a hallucination, he couldn't figure out. What did it represent? Elias was a mere Doctor; he didn't study dreams. But either way, he was only thankful that he was saved, no questions asked. At his demand that Elias stay in his home for the night, however, the man grew unsettled a bit in his bones. Not because he had to stay, but because he wondered if anyone would send out looking for him. Many times he was checked on during the day, and what they saw of him in his last condition made them sure he was going to die. His faithful patients going there and finding nothing but blood on the floor might disturb them. He cleared his throat, and shook his head at the alcohol. He was not allowed. But he dipped his head in thanks.


"Well, if you insist. You're a very kind person, Mr. Franklin, may you be blessed." His soft smile lingered on as he stared into the man's fascinating, blue eyes. "You must have wandered a lot in your past. You have so many things in your household, very pretty things. You're a very intriguing man."

 

[buildingaspaceship]

He chuckled slightly to himself, may he be blessed? If anything Silas was condemned to Hell the moment he exchanged rings with Lucifer. There was a special place in Hell reserved for him and the sins he had committed, but perhaps he could change. Silas put the empty glass down and picked his up, tilting his head back and downing it all in one, feeling the pleasant burning sensation again. He puts the glass down on the table, the sound of glass colliding with wood echoing slightly through the room. He walks over to the sofa again and sits back down on it, leaning back in his seat again. "I am indeed a well travelled man, but intriguing I do not find myself; no definitely not." He laughs slightly. "I find my lifestyle and ways to be oddly unfascinating, and plainly boring I must admit."


It was true he had grown bored of his lifestyle, even the most amazing things he had seen probably twice before, and he could not find anything more that could entertain him. When once looking at the stars or experiencing other cultures could be the most fascinating thing, now he found it oddly common. There was not a sea he had not crossed, nor a corner of the world he had not discovered. "I do wonder, Mr Amsel if that is how you would prefer to be addressed, how your own lifestyle must be. Have you travelled?"


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

[Rika]

Oddly unfascinating? Plainly boring? Oh no, no, no. He could not be that. He was so.. different. Elias had interacted with so many people in his life, had seen beating hearts and working lungs and cut the inside of mostly everyone he came into contact with. But Silas was the first man he could not cut inside and peer into. Silas was different, but that was very beautiful, so very beautiful. He was so very beautiful. And the portrait of him made Elias happy for some reason, as if someone could possibly capture his beauty that way. He twiddled with his fingers when the conversation was placed towards him, and he cleared his throat. "O-Oh? You can call me Elias if you wish. That's what everyone calls me." Because he would not stand for such a superior title as "Mr Amsel" or "Doctor Amsel".


"England is the only place I've traveled," He admitted sheepishly, smiling. "I moved here from Germany when I was an adolescent." Elias frowned. "W.. Where are you from, by the way? I don't-- I don't recognize your accent, I'm afraid."

 

[buildingaspaceship]

Silas smiles and shakes his head slowly, "I'm from here, there, and everywhere. But nowhere, all the same." He tilts his head to the side as he tries to remember where he had come from, where he had started in this world? He could not remember much from the times before his current ways of life, his memory full of dark spots that he presumed could only be filled with childhood, happiness, life. He had forgotten all from before his change long ago. "In truth, I do not remember where I come from. It could be perhaps a small village in Sweden, or yet perhaps I am even from here. I have travelled so long and so far, that I do not specifically remember where everything began." He sighs quietly, looking down at his feet. "But when I am in other places, take Asia for example, I was there last, all I could long for was London, so it would not surprise me if its here I do come from. In regards to my accent, however, I picked it up from the years that I have travelled, all the places that I've been to have become a part of me." He smiles fondly, before looking back up at Elias and biting his bottom lip. "Forgive me, I have spoken far too long about myself, it would not surprise me if you are uninterested, Elias."


Silas reflected fondly on his years in Asia. The cultures and experiences still fresh in his memory. He had only been in London for a few months, after travelling back from Asia, and much had changed since he the last time he had experienced it. He spent years in every country, exploring and discovering, for he did not age, and he could not stay in one place too long lest he draw suspicion to him and his kind. The body count would raise, the heads would turn, and he would leave to a new home. He could not remember how many years he had been on the run, how old was he?

 

[Rika]

No, no, no. The man intrigued him so, and he must have been so wealthy, he must have held such a past that Elias could not begin to fathom. Silas must have traveled so long, so far.. He must have felt many things, seen many things, and though Elias was a mere doctor, he could read that part of the man at least. Something about him seemed so dark, so sorrowful. A natural tick in his head started jabbing in his brain, and he tried to control his constantly twitching fingers. His eyes widened, a healthy flush coming to his face, and he smiled brightly. "N-No! I am very interested. You're so fascinating to listen to, and your voice is quite mellifluous, if that does not sound odd of me to say." He grinned nervously, knowing that would come off as odd to anyone, so he kept talking, praising the man, practically worshiping him.


"I-I mean, I've never met a person as interesting as you, is all. And I do enjoy hearing about their stories, their pasts, their joys, their hardships.. Many think it's a burden, but I do love listening to people speak," His smile was soft, eyes were kind and laden with concerned, and honey dripped from his tongue as he spoke. "And-- And now I guess I'm the one speaking too much. I'm sorry." He peered down at his fingers.

 

[buildingaspaceship]

"Oh no, don't be apologetic. I would much rather hear someone elses voice rather than just my own for once. It seems I hardly ever have anyone to speak to, and when I do find someone I drone on and on until they get so fed up of me they make up an excuse to leave." He says, and he grins slightly, showing his teeth. Naturally, as a vampire, his canines were slightly sharper than the rest of them, but not so much so that it was entirely noticeable. He closes his mouth quickly and instead just turns the corners of it upwards slightly. "It is pleasant to know you find pleasure in hearing about others lives, but I'm afraid if you were to listen to mine you would not... You would not be around for very long, that it for sure. You would get bored very easily I imagine, I have lived a very long and tiresome life." He frowns slightly. He had indeed lived a very long life. How old was he now? He was still struggling to remember. To others, he would look young, hardly aged and as though he had never seen the world, but in reality, he was an old man, years passing as he let them go by. Perhaps he was two hundred and something? He did not know the specifics.


"But I would like to hear something of your life, if you would indulge me. I know you are a Doctor, and I am sure you are a very great one too, but that is all I could possibly know. Tell me something of yourself, entertain me for the evening, I insist!" He laughs slightly and he hears Edith busy in the other room. The room behind this was the kitchen, and though the walls were thick he could still hear her making lunch for their guest. He would have to eat alongside him, considering his usual diet of only blood would not be a very convincing human act.

 

[Rika]

Despite what he said, despite what he believed, Elias would have no trouble listening to his "very boring life". He didn't believe for a second the path he took was so boring, especially not with his plethora of books, his magnificent house, all of the paintings on his wall, all of his maids, his artifacts.. Even his study was luxurious and nice. Surely someone with such pretty things could not have had such a boring life. And-- And-- long? Silas appeared so young. So youthful and his skin hadn't a crease or wrinkle containing it-- he was flawless. But Elias did not say that, no, he only tautly smiled and cleared his throat. "O-Oh, I am not so interesting. I haven't traveled, nor obtained such a lovely accent over the years. I guess I'm not a very social or impulsive person. I'm just trying to make a living, is all."


And that was all there was to it. He'd never been saved before, nor helped; he'd been a servant to society for a long time, and everyone was fond of his modest, kind attitude. He was well-liked. Not social. He did his job, kept to himself.. "You seem to be much more interesting than I. I'm a mere man, making a living." He crossed his arms, curled, honey hair dipping across his face. "But you seemed to have made a life."