The Darkness is Mine

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The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Thu May 26, 2016 7:45 pm

Rain poured down from dark clouds that blocked the stars and cloaked the moon. It fell against the windows in a rhythmic pattern, drowning out the crackle of the fire dancing in the large black marble fireplace. She sat in the high backed, over stuffed leather chair cloaked in shadow. Her hands rested casually against the arm rests, her fingers tipped in lethal, dagger like nails that were nearly as hard as diamonds. Her past was an enigma, even to her. She remembered almost nothing of where she had come from, or even she had ever been human. All she knew was the blood. It was life. It gave her abilities that astounded her, mesmerized her and sometimes even frightened her.

The light from the fire reflected in her eyes, much like a cats when light bounces off its retinas. The only difference was that her normal peridot green gaze had shifted perpetually to a startling crimson. It was a gaze that could peer into the very soul, reach in and grasp at your deepest desires and darkest fears and turn them into a thing of reality. Perfectly sculpted, arched black brows sat above them, framing long and thick lashes that had no need for any beauty product. Her nose was perfectly proportioned for her face, and her lips were full, immediately begging attention from anyone who dared to look at them. Long, rich, black hair fell down over her shoulders and down to the curvature of her hips. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly white. Contrary to popular myth, Vampires were not ice cold to the touch. Their skin, though pale compared to most humans, was still warm and soft to the touch though it tended to be harder to pierce through as the centuries progressed.

Her petite, slender frame was enveloped in black. Hip hugging black yoga pants that seemed painted on, were tucked into knee high black laced boots. The long sleeved shirt she wore held no design in the front, but the back of it was cut out in the design of a skull, revealing the flawless bare skin of her back. As she shifted one of her hands, over a dozen black and silver metallic bracelets jingled softly along her right wrist. When her hand moved, the shadows danced, pulling together at her call to form a creature no larger than a Timber Wolf. It moved forward, shifting to rub its head against its mistress' hand, seeking attention to which she granted.

"There is one in this City that is not yet known to us. I can feel him. His presence calls to me for he is one of mine. Bring him to me." Draven's voice when she spoke was soft, seductive and husky, laced with just a trace of a subtle accent that was hard to place.

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Mon Jun 06, 2016 8:01 pm

'Seek the city of Sanguine, and perhaps you can stop running, boy...'

That was the only phrase he had to go on to find a city that most have never heard of.  No reference to location, style, architecture or what language was spoken there.  Six months slipped away after that comment...

The rain didn't stem the flow of the denizens of Sanguine as they all scattered throughout the city, seeking out their respective vices, clubs and company they have waited for all day long. A Friday night in Sanguine won't be held down by something as simple and petty as rain, as was obvious by the walls of pedestrian traffic flowing every which way, hindered only by the changing of the lights at each intersection. But the foot-path of each and every human in Sanguine was far from the most interesting parts of the city.  It's history is shrouded in mystique, right down to the date it was founded.  There are no such records.  One thing is a well established fact for those capable of seeing through the twilight veil cast far and wide.  This was a city that welcomes immortals of all denominations, as well as mortals who find their way wandered there.  Each and every brick, neigh hand-laid by the vampires who founded this monolithic city of Sanguine.  From border to border, this entire city was a cove of glittering jewels and treasures.  Or at least that was the opinion of one such immortal.
Fallon Haestus is a vampire.  Certainly not the only type of immortal, but his race is the precise reason for his arrival in Sanguine.  'A place of tolerance for a vampire' he'd been told after first hearing about it in London from a vampire passing through the local haunts on his way through Europe.  Fleeting rumors led Fallon to where he was now.  That and a bit of luck.  Fallon arrived in Sanguine the prior day, but it was far too close to dawn to risk in a foreign place, so his first night he spent in the shipping container that he arrived in.  It belonged to someone of wealth who was far too aggressively concerned and revealing of the details of his shipping container's transport.  Being a man of ill repute and low monetary worth himself, Fallon took it upon himself to commandeer traveling arrangements at a loud-mouthed entitled man's expense.

As the the hours before dusk crept up, Fallon felt the call of the night and awoke.  A hour's time would see him free into the night, but for now he sat contemplatively on a crate near the center of the densely packed shipping container wondering at what exactly he will find beyond these heavy steel doors.  All he knew was that the city was incredibly well developed and that it was 'a place of tolerance' but as far as what else to expect went, he was completely blind and was an unexpected guest here.  No one knew he left, to where, when, why and as such, no one in Sanguine had advanced warning about it.  But as he tried to prepare himself for what would be found ahead, he regarded the state of his appearance.   He was clothed in rags.  Some things stitched together here and there, pant-leg's from two different sets of pants, shredded shirts and a jacket improvised out of a blanket.  Perhaps he should be a bit more appealing before he steps out into the night became his immediate focus.
"My god, who the fuck wears fings like 'is?" The unmistakable trait of the far-too-long lonely, talking directly to himself.  He spoke casually as if waiting to hear a response while digging through clothing from one of the many boxes packed in around him.  Polo tees, golf shirts and other various 'yuppie' attire were briefly picked up before being discarded over Fallon's shoulder.  'Pink golf tee wif yellow stripes, or blue wif salmon lines.  Oly shite...This is it!  Gold tapered, bright green vest of the ponce!  Who dunna wanna look like a tart?"
He overturned the entire box, throwing it against the wall of the container with an exasperated sigh.  Two boxes later, Fallon finally came across a black shirt made of a very soft but stretchy material, and a charming olive-ebony hued frock coat. He gently folded each and placed them on the wooden crate he'd been previously sitting on before returning to the boxes.  After opening the next box and finding all business suits, slacks, dress jackets and vests, he began sorting them out based on the first garment on top.  The meticulous nature of how everything was packed implied to Fallon that the first garment through the last garment would fit a style or occasion.  A few were marked for business and suits, and were quickly dismissed entirely.  By the time he finished sorting each box that way, he was left with only 3.  He'd looked inside one to find a few plain white tees and the other two were marked as miscellaneous but were with the rest of the clothing.  Khaki shorts were all else that was in the box with the white tees, and the first miscellaneous box had a various collection of what the owner of this container would likely consider 'shoes that were too casual.'  Of that box Fallon pulled out a pair of reasonably worn black leather shoes, then back-tracked to a previously passed up box for a pair of dress socks.  These were placed next to the shirt and coat he'd already taken fancy to on the crate.  With escalating dread, he turned back to the final remaining box, labeled Misc. Clothing.  As his luck at this had gone, he would be walking out of here looking odd and uncomfortable in some pair of dress slacks and otherwise totally unmatched casual clothing.  His fears were put to rest after he dug past a wide brimmed had, then a rain smock to find a black pair of denim carpenter jeans.  Beneath them were a pair of soil-stained gray work gloves and boots.
Hah! I bet me life you only 'ave 'ese to tend to you pansies and petunias, you rich tosser!"  He burst out in between chuckled breaths as he began to disrobe and don his new, clean apparel.  

It took Fallon very little time after stepping out into the rain of the night to realise how he felt about this place.  Barely had he traveled a block and already his fingertips itched to snatch at the valuables he could hear all about him, calling to him.  As he passed through the streets, he received no looks or attention at all.  Even when he passed a fellow vampire, she did not give any recognition to his being there.  Here he was just another face, even to those that knew exactly what he was.  This fact enticed him even more that he should give in to his kleptomaniacal nature. So long as the city remained unaware of the other moniker he was known by, 'He Who Cheats the Headsman', he would remain an unknown face in the crowd to a city so desensitized to the supernatural.  The name Fallon Haestus has no recording, but He Who Cheats the Headsman was a mythic character known to be a vampire among the vampire race, and thought to be a ghost or something of the kind to mortals.  Of the 2 dozen or more times that Fallon was imprisoned, sentenced to beheading, he was never contained until the break of day.  As if a phantom, he melts into the very air, they say.  2 of the occasions he was sentenced to death by vampires, once by lycanthropes.  All 3 times were for being He Who Cheats the Headsman, for the crimes of exposing and drawing too much attention to the creatures of the night, each tied to a separate escape that involved a mortal watching him do something impossible.  Captured all 3, escaped all 3 in less than 6 hours of the cell door clanging shut.  His pursuit past that point by immortals has only been by those involved in his capture on those 3 occasions.  The embarrassment of their failure too glaring to give up the chase, even after 200 years.  Naturally, being a lone vampire with no companionship for anyone, concealment of his identity was a high priority.  But this was virgin territory for Fallon, and it was his hope that he wouldn't have to run quite so fast or hard here in this city.  Old habits die hard.
30 minutes in the streets and Fallon was casing a jewelry shop.  Despite the near solid state of the passing pedestrians, his eyes were locked and fixated on the building behind the people passing before him.  Through a lot of practice and with great focus, Fallon narrowed his senses to pick out the specific occupants of the shop.  His eyes glowed bright blue only momentarily, and then he closed his eyes.  His mind immediately began repainting the layout of the shop before him.  Two guards, one by the door, another by the more expensive jewelry case on the far wall, floor manager with a couple, lone man looking at very expensive watches, woman at the cash register with an attendant.  The details began spilling across the rough images already on the canvas of his photographic mind.  Guard by the door was aging, favoring his right leg, but was clearly vigilant.  The other guard was quite overweight, wearing a thick mustache and bearing the greatly disappointed look of a man who wishes he was elsewhere.  The floor manager with the couple down-right reeks of entitlement, speaks with a holier-than-thou tone and who's very face is twisted into a rodent-resembling expression with nose held high.  The woman was excited, scared and happy.  She looked nervous and expectant of good news about a purchase while her mate was clearly uncomfortable and trying to seem cool and collected as he internally panicked over the prices being recited by the floor manager.  Man by the watches is only window-shopping. His unsettled fidgeting was a clear sign that he knew he couldn't afford anything here but wanted one of them desperately.  The woman checking out at the register was just now sliding the bag that her new necklace was inside of around her wrist.  Wispy sort of look about her, like she were experiencing a day-dream that she knew wasn't real but felt comfortable enough in to just enjoy the ride. The attendant was young, perhaps only in young 20's, and wasn't hardly worth considering.  He would try to stop Fallon if able, but wouldn't try too hard.  His eyelids slowly parted again as the rain increased it's strength, accompanied by a very stiff breeze.  It was only a few more moments now, and...
The pedestrian lights in both directions turned red at the same time, the wall of bodies thinned just enough and now was the time.  Fallon twisted his head to the right, which produced three small cracks, before he shot into movement.  At the suggestion of his fingertips, the glass front door swung wide open just in time for Fallon to dart through, a mere blur of black passing the guard's eyes.  He was just realizing that something was wrong about that when the theft alarm blared coincided with the sound of glass breaking.  By the time the both of the guards turned their head to the sound of shattered glass, Fallon had already stuffed both his coat pockets with glistening jewelry and was smashing in the next counter-top.  Exactly as he expected, the larger guard didn't even attempt to go after him, just looked very startled and angry.  The older one was on the way, however.  Though slightly limping on his right leg, he was crossing the room with surprising speed.  Mere inches before his hand clasped down on Fallon's shoulder, he slid to the left, allowing the aging guard to tumble over the counter, right into the path of the young attendant that was attempting to come around the counter.  The floor manager was simply screaming in an atrocious accent about theft and getting out of his shop, the couple was crouched on the floor, just trying to stay out of it, and the man by the watches slid his hand into the broken glass and liberated a beautifully encrusted white-gold watch that went right into his pocket amid the confusion.  As Fallon lit back out the front door, the lights of the intersection turned green again, and the wall of bodies started to move once more, blocking persuit from within the shop almost entirely.
Much as Fallon's luck typically went, there were two beat-cops within hearing range of the alarm, both of whom watched Fallon slide back out into the crowd and whom promptly gave chase.

"FREEZE!" A voice boomed from behind Fallon.  While the phrase itself was new to him, he knew exactly what the tone behind it meant.  Such a boom always comes from those that meant to capture Fallon.   The tides of the sidewalk did not accomodate free movement enough to simply sprint wild away, and this limited his means of escape considerably.  As he did his best to weave in between the people blocking his path, the police officers were actually gaining ground on him as the crowd behind him parted for two cops chasing a man with guns drawn. As the crowd behind him clearly parted, the voice boomed once again.  "STOP OR I'LL FIRE!"
Guns were something Fallon was intimately familiar with, and a statement implying shooting a person rang clearly in his ears.  Things were always fun and games to Fallon until a gun was pulled out, and that was because humans rarely live through the pain of being shot in the chest.  Fallon had, on the other had, been shot 4 times in his torso, and the joking ended when guns came out. All of the sudden he stopped dead in his tracks, turning around with a beastly and snarled look on his face.  Fallon's arms and shoulders rolled back and with a snapping motion both of his hands sprung forward, then were swept across his chest to the left.  As he did, both police officers shot to their right, directly off of their feet and face-first into a brick wall.  This didn't satisfy Fallon enough, and he lifted both hands from his sides.  Both of the cops' guns lifted up from the ground, and by reversing the motion of his hands, both guns snapped in half across the center of the firing chamber.  It felt a little late for real concealment at this point, as he was standing in the middle of a crowd of gasping humans that were trying desperately to understand what just happened.  His hand jutted into the inside breast pocket of the coat, then swept back out in a downward motion.  Before his arm finished swinging, and shattering noise sounded and then an enormous flash of light exploded in the middle of the crowd for just the briefest of moment, which was enough for Fallon to slip out into the crowd.  Instead of running, he stooped lower to the ground while the crowd recoiled from the flash, traveled two doors away from where he had been standing and sat down against the threshold of a doorway.  He pulled his coat inside-out as he removed it to reveal his original jacket within the coat.  His arms were slid back inside of it in just a moment, and once he'd spit in his hand, he grabbed up a small amount of dust and dirt from beside him and smeared it across his forehead and cheek.  By the time the crowd could see again, Fallon once more greatly resembled a homeless man, a black garbage bag pulled up to mid-thigh and his tattered jacket on and only a quarter of his now filthy face visible, he was incredibly transformed in a few moments from a suspect to a dismissed homeless man.  The crowd dissapated rather quickly, all amid the mumblings about how strange all of that was, but Fallon remained motionless huddled in the doorway.  It wasn't until the police officers had gotten back up and been on their way that he finally stood up and casually strolled with the crowd around the corner.
After he had traveled 2 blocks and stopped at a not-so-crowded section of a public park that he stopped and flipped his coat back around and cleaned his face off.  It boiled down to back luck in his opinion.
"Could've been worse.  Hopefully I can find a fence before dawn and get some place to sleep today. Hah!  That's the hard part." He quietly talked to himself as he took a closer look at a diamond broach that he'd stolen.  It was true enough.  Finding someone to fence stolen goods when no one knew who you were wasn't the easiest thing in the world. Word of mouth is typically what allows the access of people's fences, and that was something that would take a lot longer than 10 hours to produce.  The thirst was beginning to set in as he sat down underneath a tree, now contemplating robbing a place for the express purpose of having actual physical currency.  Perhaps he could turn over a corner store for enough to rent a hotel room for a day.  And now that would become another powerful issue.  Blood.  He hadn't seen a lone person anywhere since he stepped out into the cool rain from the container, and abducting one from a crowd is always a terrible idea that gets worse with each passing decade. After appraising each item he'd stolen, he stood up to leave the park when the thunder broke loudly again and an enormous downpour began.  Annoyed and begrudged, he sat back down on the exposed root of the tree he'd sat upon before and stared up at the violet light-show in the clouds.  He would give it a little time to lighten up some, and then would go do whatever he had to to hide from the sun.  Even if it meant burying himself, another survival tactic most vampires felt above resorting to, but not Fallon.

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Fri Jun 17, 2016 2:24 pm

The dark creatures made of Shadow chittered among themselves as they had watched the scene unfold. They knew their mistress would not be pleased with the public display of power that this new Vampire had showed. She would more than likely hunt him down herself. She would want to, need to for the safety of Sanguine. The Shadows clung to the rough stone wall of the alley not far from where the chaos had unfolded. No human would dare to search for them as they were of the darkness themselves. They would pass unoticed by anyone. The Shadow on the right, the one Draven often called Jareth used its telepathic link to share the information it possessed.

Still sitting in the high backed chair before the now dark fireplace, Draven closed her eyes at the mental knock from Jareth.

"What news do you have?

The Shadow seemed almost nervous, chittering and shuffling against the stone it clung to.

There has been a complication, Mistress.

Her brow frowned instantly.

"What kind of complication?"

This new comer...he has caused a scene among the human population.

Jareth widened the link, showing her exactly what this new Vampire had done within the city.

She heaved a sigh and unfolded herself from the chair. Though she stood no taller than five foot three, what she lacked in height she made up for in the sheer force of her presence alone.

"Where was he headed?"

West, Mistress. Towards the Vermillion Cemetary.

"Keep tabs on him. If he causes anymore trouble, contact me immediately. I am on my way. I dread the type of PR we are going to need to explain this."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Tue Jun 21, 2016 2:30 pm

The rain never let up, but indeed did it escalate.  Blue and purple streaks flashed through the sky rapidly now, at some points nearly bright enough to light even the darker recesses of the lush green expanse that was unfolding before Fallon.  At the other end of the field he could see gravestones, a few obelisks jutting up into the sky and greater buildings, likely family crypts and mausoleums.  Fallon drilled the fact into his head as rapidly as he could.  He would need to be able to home back in on this location if all else failed, something that wouldn't normally be a feat, but this city was emense, vast and completely cryptic to Fallon.  Even the architecture was a unique structuring that he'd never seen the like of before in all of his travels.  He'd not yet noticed an easy method of placing streets or locations, every so often throughout the city were multiple large buildings in rows or clusters, making it very difficult to simply 'eyeball' landmarks that may have been taken note of.  He was well and truly lost here.  Despite his incredibly good natural instincts for direction, he knew he probably couldn't even find his way back to the container he was in unless he climbed a building, and still he doubted the speed at which he could do it.  The lightning and rain was a large part of it against him.  No stars, no moon, random intensities of light from random directions.  Not very good conditions when exploring a new territory.  And the scents were throwing him off.  Vampire and lycanthope scents were absolutely everywhere, in such variety, such magnitude, that Fallon couldn't even pick up and recognize his own scent where he was standing now.  He'd never had to deal with such a large population of the supernatural before.  Even when captured by his own kind, their 'civilization' extended to maybe 2 dozen, perhaps not even quite.  The lycanthropes were in much higher concentration when they captured him.  A den of perhaps 60 or more, though they were not all there at the time Fallon had been, and their scent had greatly faded before his being brought there.  But this, Sanguine, was overwhelming.  His head swam hard against the displacing effects of his surroundings, but gained very little ground.  He needed to feed, and he needed to block himself away from all of this.  Soon.
By the time Fallon and his mind returned to what was actually going on around him, he was tripping over the legs of a homeless person on the ground.  Fallon stumbled, but caught his balance, though not before kicking the person rather hard in the side of their ribcage.  Before Fallon had slowed his stagger down enough to turn around, the homeless 'thing' was upon him.  The black creature from beneath the pile of rags and cardboard was no human, it was not vampire nor anything Fallon had ever heard of before.  It smelled of burnt eggs and death, but was only detectable just now, as it's enormous and powerful hands seized down around Fallon's shoulders and throat, pinning him to the ground.

"What the hell are you thinking?! You always walk around kicking sleeping people, you don't look where you're walking, Lamia?!"  It boomed down at him like an entire crowd of people, men, women and children alike, screaming at once, each syllable in perfect sync. This very fact took grip of Fallon's entire chest, each breath he took was panicked and short. Whatever it was, it was out of focus.  Fallon could see the hulking creature before him...skipping?  The huge black monster frequently seemed to revert to a very safe, but unhappy, looking greying man with snowy looking beard.  It was only for fractions of a second that it happened, but Fallon could pick it up.  It bore down on him a final time and pushed away, shrinking back down to the homeless man it was before.  "Get out of here, fish.  I don't want to see you again...or I'll eat you."

Fallon scrambled to his feet, and cautiously followed behind the creature.

"Please, tell me.  What are you?  I beg apologies to you for what I have done, but please tell me. I do not understand."

"You are young and foolish.  Things are not always as they seem, and Sanguine is the heart of that storm of doubt and confusion.  If you were older, if you were of Sanguine, you would not be alive now.  Accidents happen, but in this city, you watch where you go, you watch what you touch, and you watch out for who what belongs to." The now very kindly sounding old man replied in a very raspy, but equally pleasant, ramble.  He was lying back down when he decided to actually answer the question. "I am a Demon, Lamia.  And this is MY garden."

His eyes closed as he finished speaking, and at that moment, the flickering began again.  Like the demon's large and menacing form, the entire area around the tree the homeless man was laying under flickered between a tree and empty space and a garden courtyard hewn from black marble.  The rain ceased to exist within the flickering space.  It wasn't that it did not fall, but that it didn't exist within that area.  After a few moments, the effect ceased as well, and all that was before him was a wide tree, a sleeping homeless man and oddly dry ground even beyond the borders of the overhanging branches.  After several seconds of trying to force his eyes to see it again, he staggered backward a few feet from the sleeping demon and continued on his way. As his mind raced about what had just happened, he stopped dead in his tracks and looked around.  6 people were staring at him walking away from the encounter, but each of them glared at Fallon.  Not a soul in the area giving a second look to the homeless man, just the prick that tripped over him.  They hadn't seen any of that.  None of it.  He continued on his way, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hurrying himself away.  How did the demon do that?  Pinned him down standing at least 9 feet tall, a behemoth.  But that wasn't what those humans had seen.  They saw a mindless prick trip over a homeless man he didn't have the sense to notice in front of him, and the homeless man knock said prick on the ground.

After a good amount of searching after leaving the park, he finally found a pawn shop.  As soon as he placed jewelery on the table he was commanded to leave by the owner, though.  Each and every trinket was flawless, and he'd never touch it, because to him, it was obviously stolen.  It was disappointing, but expected.  Must become established before you steal high end goods.  That damn sweet tooth.  He just couldn't resist.  This city was too shiney.  Even run-down sections were beautiful to behold and one could damn neigh smell and taste the valuables in the air.  Just the same, this was not going to work.  He could turn around and rob the store and feed from the owner, but the hassle was just too much trouble right now.  He began back toward the park with his head held low.  Every few paces, he pulled a bauble from his coat pocket and simply dropped it on the sidewalk.  He passed a man playing a guitar on the street corner and dropped the diamond broach into his guitar case as he passed.  The lad wasn't particularly talented, in Fallon's opinion, but hey, now the kid could afford some lessons.  The thought provoked a chuckle out of Fallon as he mouthed an agreeance with himself.  Once more talking to himself.  When he came again upon the sleeping demon near the edge of the park, the people who had been standing around were all gone.  They were alone.  Being very careful of his footing, and approaching very slowly, Fallon removed several gem encrusted rings from his pockets and laid seven of them in a circle beside the sleeping figure and as quickly, but slowly, as he could began to retreat away.  He was meaning to do a kind thing just now, but it had threatened to eat him if he returned, and Fallon didn't think he'd be a match against a creature with, as far as Fallon knew, unmeasurable and unknown powers.  Never-the-less, he managed to slink away from the sleeping demon without incident and started toward the cemetary.  Engraved in the stone wall of the entrace was 'Vermillion Cemetary.'  Vermillion.  Fallon lolled the word around in his head as he walked through the foot-path gate.  


"Vermillion.   Veerrr-miiiilll-eeonn."  He had to say it aloud by this point, his accent began to take over. "Vear-meeell-aeon.  Vaermellaeon Cemetry. Home of the luxuriously deceased."  He whispered to himself.

"Bite 'at off, lad.  Dunnaya be disrespectful.  Not one pissed on your grave."  He snapped back at himself.

"Aye, aye, aye.  I only poke fun. No harm done.  Ye act like I'll by bunking up with one's here." He protested in almost an entirely different accent.  One seemed more Scotch-English, the other lesser influenced English slang.

"P'raps no, but reveal your manners.  The dead are only free from the strife of the living, they earned some respect."  He calmly replied in the more Scottish accent.

He was just then dropping the last of the necklaces he'd stolen from his pockets, but was much more focused on looking for a grave that was already dug, speed it up a bit.  But he had hours yet before he really needed to hurry and the charm of this cemetary had captured him already.  The design and architecture was unspeakable, brilliant.  It was all perfect.  All the graves were perfectly spaced, even against mausoleums and obelisks that invaded simple ground-plotting.  There were archways that looked like someone had made the stone pliable, and had braided different strands of it together, complete with noticable gaps between the stone strands.  The amount of time and patience, the delicacy, required of the mason's hand to accomplish some of these structures was something beyond anything Fallon had ever experienced in all of his travels throughout Europe and Asia.  Where had all of this come from?  It all looked centuries aged, though well maintained, and yet that would have it predate the establishment of the country it existed in.  Was it all transported here, and if so, from where?  Nothing he'd ever seen resembled much of it.  Some influences here and there from different regions, times and styles, but millenia ahead of what humans and even vampires seemed capable of in the rest of the world.  Which returned his thoughts to the demon as he wandered through the rows of graves in perfectly straight lines, taking great care to avoid any possibility of stepping atop a corpe.  Perhaps this place was of somewhere else, like that garden.  Even the foliage in that hidden garden was not of this world.  Could not be.  Some of it writhed and moved during the scant few seconds he was able to see.  Some of it dark, some light, some lush, some pointy and covered in thorns, but all of it was foriegn.  Things he'd never seen before.  Perhaps this city existed long before the legions of man tried to stake claim of the planet.  Or perhaps he was looking far too far into this and the reason he'd never seen anything like this anywhere else is because it was moved here from wherever it was before, before Fallon had visited there to have seen it.  He tried to calm his mind, closed his eyes and simply walked through the row, brushing the fingertips of his left hand against the tops of the headstones and he went.  He focused on taking in breaths, counted the headstones he passed and tried not to think.  A peaceful escape from reality.  Cemetaries always made Fallon feel relaxed.  No one wants anything from you here.  They're all dead and care not one molecule for what you're doing.  Totally peaceful when you get it all to yourself.  There was just something calming about being surrounded by finality to Fallon, perhaps even because it was out of his reach, and this was the closest he could get to experiencing it himself. He had every intention of being within the ground today.  Feeling the wet dirt pressing down upon him, no air to breath were he to want to perform the physical act, no light to see, and a fool thing to try to look.  There was sound though.  One could hear all the passings above when buried.  Almost make out conversation muffled through a few feet of soil.  The part Fallon truly was looking forward to out of it was that all that dirt would block out the scents.  They were still so over-powering, even through the heavy rain that Fallon was strolling through as if without a care in the world.  The vampire and lycanthrope species didn't have foul odors as some would believe of undead or unnatural creatures.  But everyone has a scent, and the older one is, the more powerful the scent becomes.  The near choking qualities of the air here clearly meant that there were a great many very old creatures in this city.  Not just a few, a few hundred.  More possibly.  He didn't detect the demon until it's jagged teeth and massive grip were inches from his face and his life was inches from being ended. But it was noticable then.  Nauseating.  Not just because of what exactly it smelled like, but the pure concentrated potency of it was immeasurable. A scent so old and powerful that Fallon dared not try to guess it's age.  How many more demons alone he couldn't detect was an alarming idea, not to mention if they weren't the only ones able to conceal such a powerful aura and smell.  'A City of Tolerance For a Vampire.'  Honestly, so far that held up if one asked Fallon.  Were it not a tolerant place, he may have disappeared a couple hours ago.  Maybe hanging from the black marble structures in that garden he saw, adorning it like a trophy, or worse, like a rug.  Or not at all, perhaps eaten, bones and all, just as the demon had promised. Shove!

With a powerful mental suggestion, Fallon shoved the entire train of thought out of his head. 46, 47, 48...He continued to count the headstones and enjoy the cold rain, which had completely soaked him from head to toe by this point, but clearly that didn't upset him.  He reached the end of a row, cut a 90 degree angle and then another, then began back the way he came in the next row.  He already knew it would end at 50, but that didn't matter.


"Jus' injoy ye'self."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Tue Jun 21, 2016 7:00 pm

The very air seemed to tremble, shaking with the power of the storm that had proceeded before her. She paid the downpour of rain no mind as she casually wound her way through the Vermillion Cemetary. How many friends had she buried here over the centuries? Thousands? Tens of thousands? There had been far too many and though it did not weigh as heavily on her as it used to in the past, she still felt the sting of each death as if it were her own. Casting her gaze downward, she noticed the tell tale pile of rags. It moved as it sensed her approach, a large massive shadow looming over her by nearly two feet. Draven tilted her head upwards to peer directly into the Demons face, unflinching and unafraid.

"There is a newcomer within Sanguine. One of my kind. I seek him out in hopes of stopping him before he causes anymore distress among the mortal populace. Have you seen him, Bazarad?" The Vampire Montriach spoke loud enough to be heard over the roar of thunder.

The looming shadow moved closer, bending down towards her. He reached up with a massive shadowy hand, letting his palm hover just above the smooth taunt skin of her cheek. It was a gesture of something more akin to affection, an odd occurance for a Demon to be showing in such a public display. Bazarad curled his fingers back against his palm and lowered the large limb before he could touch her.

"The one you seek has ventured further into the cemetary. He seems lost but becareful. Sometimes when you feel lost, you can lash out." He replied almost sadly. The darkness that he seemed to be made of swirled around him, revealing a large, muscular human facade behind. He was a Shape-shifting Demon that Draven had created centuries ago when she had first learned of her darkness wielding abilities. Bazarad had never resented her for his creation, instead he had become fascinated, almost obsessed with her. In an attempt to rid himself of his affections, he had taken up residence here just beneath the large, gnarled tree just inside the entrance of the Vermillion Cemetary. He often posed as a homeless man, keeping to himself.

"I trust all is well with you, Draven?" He inquired, folding his impressive arms across his chest. His deep voice never failed to soothe her nerves.

"Not quite. I have a new Vampire causing some problems in my City and have no shred of evidence as to where Dasani has disappeared to."

The Demon quirked a brow.

"Dasani has gone missing?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"Not quite. He left to deal with some issues with the Vampires in Rome. That was five years ago. I have not heard a word from him since."

Bazarad grunted softly. It was well known that the Demon and Draven's former husband did not get along, mostly due to the Demons infuation.

"I shall keep my ears open. Perhaps in my passings I will hear some information that will put your unease at rest."

"Do not concern yourself, Bazarad. This has been a long time coming, though Dasani would have never simply abandoned his responsibilities. It warrants caution and looking into. I have several scouts in the area of Rome that are searching for clues."

The Demon nodded his head once.

"Never the less, I shall keep an ear out."

"I appreciate it." She offered him a small half smile, the first genuine show of emotion in several months.

"Since Master Dasani is not around, I would offer my services. You need a guard, Draven. You run the entire Vampire race. I would not want to see you come to harm."

"You know, I think thats the first time you have not called me Lamia."

He snorted in lieu of laughter.

"You would give up your place of residence to act as my guard?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He gave her a somewhat pained look.

"You know why."

Draven nodded once.

"Alright. I will take your offer, Bazarad."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Tue Jun 21, 2016 8:05 pm

"Three hundred twelve, three hundred thirteen, three hundred four--"  He stopped dead in his tracks, his hand felt nothing where the 314th headstone should have been.  He'd had his face tilted skyward, pleased with the feeling of cool rain on his face, and naturally hadn't paid any attention to what he had walked up on.
His eyelids split apart just slightly as his head swung downward where, to his infinite dismay, there was a headstone maybe only 2 feet tall.  His nostrils flared, pupils contracting sharply to mere pin-pricks of black, quivering rapidly atop the pool of silvery-blue that constituted the color of his eyes as he realized that there were hundreds more laid out before him when his gaze shifted slightly higher.  His hands, then arms, then his entire body began to tremble before he staggered backward away from the tiny graves, but failed to gain ground beneath him, and landed on his arse.  Immediately after hitting the ground, his hands and feet shuffled him backward, away as quickly as his shattering mind could force them to. His left hand slid through a pool of mud and down he came flat on his back, pupils now fully dilating to large black saucers with a light blue ring.  His mind faded back to the cave, back four hundred years.

His vision flashed an off-white color, and when his sight returned to him, Veronica's bloody, nearly dismembered body was strewn across his lap, stomach and chest.  Her head was rested on his left breast, her dull lifeless eyes peering into his as blood pours from the multiple jagged wounds on her chin, cheeks and even forehead where flesh was bitten completely away.  Then she was gone, but he was wearing his rags from back then and was still covered in her blood.  A single tear began forming in his left eye when he noticed the tombstone just next to him read; 'Here Lies Veronica.  Tormented Innocent, Left To Die By He Who Cheats The Headsman.'  He audibly gasped in a higher octave than he realized he was capable, that one tear rolling out of his eye before becoming a drop of blood.  It ran down his cheek to the corner of his mouth where he just barely tasted it's sweet bouquet of flavor when he felt cold drops raining down on him, though he hadn't noticed it before.  When he looked up, it was Veronica's mangled body hanging above him, single drops of blood falling out of the corner of her left eye which were landing on Fallon's face.  Despite where they landed, each drop ran toward his mouth from where it touched.  In horror, he began frantically wiping at his face with his sleeves. Only one pass was required for him to realize that he was now completely nude. His eyes widened and he gasped again in that higher octave when the blood he wiped away onto his arm continued to flow back up his bicep, up his throat and once more tried to slither into the corner of his mouth.  He pursed his lips shut as tightly as he could, swiping violently now at his face with his hands, his arms, he laid out upon the ground, wiped his face into the now miraculously dry grass, but no matter what he did, it continued to flow, to seek out the thirst he felt and quench it.  He drew back to his knees, his head swinging backward, and he finally tasted it against his will.  His lips finally parted, and he screamed with all the force his lungs could create.  It was a pitiful wail, a defeated sound, a miserable sound, a cracking and fading plea to taste, to need, to feel no more.
Without a single conscious thought, he sprung up from the ground and began to run.  He made it a few feet and Veronica's corpse swung down into  his path before him.  He yelped with surprise and horror, and then he lost his manual control.  Fear, sadness and pain overcame thought and rationality.  His hands shot forward, and as he did, five invisible strings lashed out from his torso in front of him.  Each of these 'appendages'  disrupted the raindrops that were falling, but were not visible.  They shot directly through the hallucination that Fallon was experiencing, which in his mind had torn Veronica's body apart, but in reality had lashed those five appendages forward, each one piercing into the side of a mausoleum at least 120 feet in front of Fallon.  Where each of these telekinetic manifestations struck, a perfectly circular hole was pierced in the dense stone of the mausoleum. When Fallon's hands fell back to his side, dust exploded out of each of the holes in the wall, but did not otherwise crack or damage the wall further.  The dust was the portions of the wall that the appendages had struck.  It hadn't broken a hole through, which would have crushed the wall, it instead had seemed to pierce, cut and grind the wall only where it struck into powder and pushed it through the other side of the wall captured in what appeared to be a solid state.  When Fallon's arms had fallen, the appendages retracted and collapsed at the same time, which produced the affect that the dust was just then being created.  He hadn't noticed the plumes of dust himself, as he had cut directly to his left, swept his arm, lashed out 3 more of the appendages of kinetic energy, which shot several hundred feet out and away from him, wrapped around an obelisk and in the blink of an eye he shot away, disappearing from view of where he had been in less than a full second.  He hit the ground running as the saying goes, sprinting at as full a speed as he possibly could toward the northeast corner of the cemetery.  He had not caught onto the fact that the hallucinations had waned yet, and in still sheer terror and grief, ran as fast as he could away.

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Thu Jun 23, 2016 7:14 pm

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of someone running. The scent of fear cung to the air in a thick acrid cloud, laced with the sulfuric atmosphere of horror. Draven caught a brief glimpse of a fleeing shadow before Bazarad loomed in front of her field of vision, blocking her view of the retreating figure.

"It would seem that trouble follows this newcomer." The Demon's voice boomed quietly over his massive shoulder.

"Why do you say that?" She inquired, moving to step around him. She caught just the barest glimmer of movement as he ran past. To them, his movements would seem as if they were in slow motion when in reality he would be a blur to everyone else. The field of vision for the preternatural races was far better, clearer than any other race.

"He tripped over me earlier. Kicked me in the private bits."

Draven grimaced faintly. While she did not have the same equipment, sympathy pains caused her legs to nearly cross.

"Ouch."

The Demon grunted in response.

"You could say that." He turned to glance over his shoulder at her. "Shall we persue him?"

"I have to before he causes anymore trouble for himself, or Sanguine. He has already caused quite the scene in front of the mortals. Jareth and Zariah should be on his trail anyway. They can lead us to him."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Wed Jul 06, 2016 1:23 pm

The rain lightened up and became only sprinkling, the lightning and thunder began to space out more, but the cloud coverage stayed. The grief continued to wash over him in waves, each greater and more devastating than the last. It staggered his conscious mind, dulling his reflexes and finer motor skills like one were grinding the edge off a blade until it was blunt.  He was managing to dodge headstones using his hands in between each stride at what seemed an incredible pace, when in fact he was just barely keeping ground beneath him and each time he pushed away from a headstone was equally for the purpose of trying to regain his balance and maintain his stride.  He could at this point see the corner of the cemetery wall, which was the only objective he could focus on in his current frame of mind.  Simply getting over the wall and maybe she couldn't chase him past it.  He hoped this desperately, and with such frantic necessity that nothing else mattered, just that wall, getting past and away from it. Staggered right, dodging another obelisk and he was clear of any more graves.  There it was.  50 feet.  30. 10. 5 feet and he made a leap toward it, it was an awkward, clumsy movement, but he made the distance, fingertips gaining purchase against the outer ridge of the wall.

Meanwhile, within the range of the immediately perceivable for practically anything that can hear or interpret what is around them, the bustle of steady, if not heavy, traffic growls and moans from mere feet past the very wall that Fallon is trying to scale and fling himself to the other side of in total obliviousness set in by panic and shock of a weary and guilty mind.  And what would be expected is exactly what happens.

Fallon put his shoulders into it when his collarbone lifted above the wall, beginning to roll over the top of it, and instead of looking at where he was about to land, he was looking behind to see if Veronica was still there when he crested it.  He laid his stomach across the top of it and flung both of his legs up as he pushed away with his hands and neatly hopped 3-4 feet away from the wall, his back to the road, eyes searching for the dead child that haunts him, his posture already preparing for the landing...Curb.  Because he was so absorbed in fear, he never looked down, and landed with only the toes of both feet on the very edge of the curb.  He immediately lost his balance and began to fall backward, and that's when it happened.  The waves of grief he felt assaulting him ended with a final one.  But it wasn't grief, it was the world.  Everything around him washed back into his conscious mind at about a 20 degree angle and it was really far too late.  His back hit flat, and his head followed, cracking nastily on the pavement, but he was already rolling over backwards to try to regain the ground as though he hadn't noticed.  The moment he began standing back up, BOOM!  Struck directly in the shoulder by a Toyota pickup truck going 43 mph, his head rebounded off the top end of the grill and he went flipping sideways away into more oncoming traffic, several bright red ribbons of blood stretching out and breaking away from his head in all directions as he spun round and round.  The first car, a dark red sedan, managed to swerve into the slow land and off onto the sidewalk without hitting Fallon or any pedestrians and came quickly to a stop, the second vehicle was a off-gold minivan and was swerving into the fast lane attempting to avoid the sedan, and did not see Fallon's body at all as the driver, a middle-aged woman, screamed and shook her fist at the sedan for cutting her off.  He landed with his head pointing back the direction he had just come and his body, which was limp by this point, curled over and rolled.  Fallon's face smacked onto the pavement as he rolled, but didn't stop.  Too much force behind it.  His back was about to roll down flat onto the ground when the very low hanging bumper of the minivan hit him.  He rolled up the hood, over the windshield and hit the roof-rack directly on his hip-bone and flipped up into the air as the minivan, now swerving into the opposite lane, the woman driving it scared and panicking about the blood now sprayed and spattered across her windshield.  His limbs splayed out just before he landed, left knee first, on the pavement and crumpled into a pile that immediately began pooling blood.  All traffic had totally stopped after the minivan hit two different vehicles and blocked oncoming traffic, while those that had been driving behind her had watched the twisted scene unfold and had ample time to stop curb-side.  There was a lot of confusion, and attention was divided between the obviously dead man and the possibly about to die, two of the vehicles, the minivan and a smaller car were on fire, the large Dodge truck that had been the third hit vehicle was nearly undamaged.  The body was quickly ignored and an enormous crowd swarmed as close as they dare to the burning vehicles, some people attempting to get the woman and children out of the minivan and the older couple in the small car.  Only three stayed by Fallon's body.  Two were mid-teenage boys, nerdy, but proud of it, and the other was a young girl with red hair who had been walking by at the time.  She was the one on the phone with 911, calling for paramedics and fire fighters, and was holding Fallon's blood soaked, partially disfigured hand.  The middle and index finger on the left hand, the one she held, were dislocated in all of the knuckles, and she was gentle and thoughtful of it.  He didn't understand why she was there, why she held his hand.  He wasn't breathing, he was barely conscious, the two nerds were very sure he was dead and seemed confused about the girl too.  Each one took a couple pictures of Fallon's mangled frame and started off as soon as they heard distant sirens approaching.  They were alone now, and the impulse gripped him.  Blood.  He will die, or this girl can die.  His options are bleak.  He would not have the time to let her live.  It would be a violent feeding, quick and painful for her.  And if he did not he may not survive, as his own precious blood was spread all across the pavement now, far too great a loss too quickly for his regeneration to keep up.  Blood.
The two nerds turned a corner several moments later, and then things became a little more clear.  The girl's eyes lightened from the brown they seemed to almost a golden color and when she smiled down at his barely slit open eyes, he saw the glint of fangs peering past her lips.  He exhaled forcefully and blood bubbled out from his nose and mouth.  Her expression softened, like that of a mother looking at her child who's scraped a knee, and shook her head slowly at him.
 "No, no.  Be quiet and still.  Poor boy, how did you let this happen to you? No matter.  This is going to hurt some."  She sighed down to him in a soft whisper while pulling him almost into her lap. She looked around her quickly, and darted over to the sidewalk, somewhat carrying Fallon like he was a mix of a football and a baby.  She ran to the first door she saw and with just a push of her foot, threw it open, breaking the door frame by the handle.  It was kind of unceremonious, the manner in which she kind of just dropped Fallon flat on his back on the floor of what seemed to be a hardware store before turning around and gently closing the door behind her.

"Now, I'm going to be honest with you.  I have never in all my time seen anyone take that kind of damage and not die.  I don't know if I can save you.  I can only feed you some of my blood and run as fast as I can to try to find my Vitae, Karise.  I know he can heal you...but you should be dead."  She explained very flatly and calmly as she walked back to him and knelt down at his side.  She began rolling up the sleeve of her knitted sweater when the ambulance pulled up just outside.  She dropped her hands and swept away from him to the door and listened carefully.  While she did, Fallon wondered; 'If I should be dead, why aren't you feeding me? Could I not die any moment?'  She didn't seem too worried, and that did ease his panic a little, but truthfully he wasn't irrational.  His mind was his own again, and he was completely lucid, and very lucidly was in tremendous pain.  Through the pain was reason, though.  They can't be discovered inside this place and she was making sure it was safe. He would wait, not that he had a choice, as patiently as a rock would until given what she could give.  Even that he knew would not be much, the way she described running as fast as she could to FIND someone.  To imply maybe that she has no idea where this Karise person is, or if he wanted to be found at all perhaps. Perhaps death finally caught up on him.  So many headsmen, hunters, slayers, templars, even vampires and lycanthropes hunted him, tried desperately to kill him for four hundred years, and here he's been laid low by mortal vehicular traffic, and likely to not survive it seems.


Last edited by Fallon Haestus on Sat Sep 17, 2016 7:53 pm; edited 1 time in total

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Mon Sep 12, 2016 12:03 am

"Angelique."

The Montriarch's voice whispered softly through the closed door of the abandoned building that the younger Dimensia had brought the other Vampire into and away from prying eyes.

"It is Draven. Open the door."

At her words, the girl cracked the door open just enough to glmipse through it. Upon confirmation that it was indeed Draven, she eased the door aside, allowing the Elder Vampire to enter. The darkness and shadows seemed to grow thicker, almost shrouding the Montriarch in the inky blackness.

"My blood can heal him far quicker than the abilities of your Bloodline, child." Though she did not need to explain this to Angelique, Draven knew that most Dimensia became almost territorial when it came to an injured charge. It was as if they were guardian angels, protectors of the weak and hurt. And this man was indeed hurt, possibly dying from the injuries he had sustained. How he had survived thus far was an enigma. Yet, there was something about him that called to her. Some deep need to protect. He had a tortured past, that much she knew simply by watching him run, stumbling and fumbling until he landed practically into oncoming traffic.

She would have to call her attorney and make some kind of statement, run some interference with the news.

Moving closer, Draven peered down into the man"s face. Something in that particular moment, stole her breath. Shrugging it off for the time being, she knelt down by him and leaned close, her lips a mere inch away from his ear.

"My name is Draven. I mean you no harm, Fallon Haestus. You are safer now that I am here." She paid particular attention on keeping her voice soothing, calming as she spoke. "I am the Montriarch of the Vampire race and my blood is more powerful than anyone elses. All of your wounds will be healed and you will live. Afterward, you and I need to sit down and have a chat."

Draven paused for a moment, just long enough to roll the cuff of her leather jacket back. Though her nails were lethal, it was never a clean cut on the skin and so she had a custom made ring on her right thumb that was as sharp as the best made blade. She used its pointed edge to slice her wrist. Potent, dark blood welled to the surface instantly. She carefully positioned herself behind Fallon's head, lifting him enough so that he would not have to strain in order to access the wound. She held her wrist carefully above his mough and urged him with her words.

"Drink."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Fri Oct 14, 2016 5:28 pm

Fallon's vision began to falter on him as he stared at the back of the girl's blue knitted sweater.  Or was it green? He couldn't tell anymore.  All attempt to distinguish which it had been came to a demise as a drop of sweaty blood broke free of his right eyebrow and slid into his right eye, the only one capable of opening and seeing.  It stung upon contact, but it was it's thickness and hue that disturbed his ability to see.  As he gave up on it and closed his eye, his hearing took a turn and attempted to turn in to a better frequency, but only in time to hear:  "..s Draven.  Open th..ee..."  Panic washed over him briefly as his mind warned him that this slipping feeling was death, but a calmer part of his brain, quite fortunately, reminded him that blood loss and concussions distort how the mind interprets what information it's given.  It was fine.  Will be fine.

He could faintly distinguish the sound of the door cracking open, not slowly at all, but rather quietly regardless.  Had he the faculties to vocally ask questions, he might have thought to ask why she opened the door that she just went to check that no one was at.  Had he more of his faculties, perhaps he would have heard, seen or even smelled the new woman enter through the door, but he had not noticed.  What he did notice was something beyond hearing, sight or smell.  He felt the room concave.  Not just a sinking feeling in his stomach, which did accompany it, but like some new force of gravity had appeared within the room and the forces of nature around it were attempting to resist it, but ultimately failing to do so. Like if a marble or ball were placed on the floor, it would begin rolling toward this new force despite the floor being perfectly level.
Entirely aside from the sinking in his stomach, there was a new tightness.  It was fear.  Not like his terror of Veronica's memory, no.  Much more visceral, real...palpable.  He struggled to call out, to force the sounds from his mouth that would ask 'What is happening?' but more bubbles and garbled moans were all he was capable of producing. A moment ticked past.  Or was it ten?  Ten thousand?  No way to trust his judgements, but every so often in his purgatory of distorted reality, the force intensified.  And again, and again.  Hours, possibly days, in between each increase in intensity.  But his mind was playing tricks, each two increases really was but the passing of a second, as each increase was but a step in his direction.  The pressure he felt was exactly that, pressure.  The aural pressure of a single being.  But that was an idea that Fallon's current mental state couldn't possible conceive, as in all of his 400 years walking the earth, being surrounded by 2-3 dozen vampires or lycanthropes was the only thing he'd ever consciously detected aural pressure from.  20-40 strong individuals, almost all probably older than Fallon, and the amount of pressure he felt then was dwarfed by what he felt now.  The thought fell through his head again when the pressure stopped increasing, but was near unspeakably intense, as Draven stood over his body and peered down at his face.  It was at this moment that he realized that whatever was happening, there was someONE new, and they were standing over him, looking at him even.  The hairs all over his body felt like needles standing right up out of his skin, and he felt like a porcupine from it.  The pressure combined with his state and this pins-and-needles feeling of eyes upon him left him in near agonizing discomfort until she knelt down even closer to him.  By the time he had felt the minor cool caress of her breath, he had just caught on to the fact that the pressure had vanished entirely.  Once more, it was due to his inability to conjure upon his right mind and true thought-process, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his personal knowledge, Fallon did know why the pressure stopped.  Because he was within it's immediate range, and at this point it was more projecting through or around him that directly affecting him as it had just moment before.

A chill crept across his entire body as her words slid past her lips and rang true and loud in his disoriented ears, despite how difficult it had been the past scant minutes to perceive of anything around him, this fact scared him as much as anything that had happened in the past 10 minutes as he paid close attention to her nearly hushed words.
 "My name is Draven. I mean you no harm, Fallon Haestus. You are safer now that I am here." She paid particular attention on keeping her voice soothing, calming as she spoke. "I am the Montriarch of the Vampire race and my blood is more powerful than anyone elses. All of your wounds will be healed and you will live. Afterward, you and I need to sit down and have a chat."

He did and did not understand what she had said.  His consciousness was failing him, and despite having clearly heard every word, a lot of it had seemed unintelligible.  Pieces of it stuck out immediately, words like 'Draven', 'mean no harm', 'safer', 'here', 'Vampire race' and 'blood' were clear to understand, but his mind would have to process the rest while in a better state.  His senses snapped back into focus the moment she pierced her flesh and the scent of blood flooded into the air, but it was only a brief conjuring of strength, and flickered out as quickly as it had arrived.  It wasn't until Draven lifted his head and said,  "Drink" that nature and instincts took over.  He did not physically have the strength to lift his own head to the wound, but was not completely disabled.  His lips parted, revealing the blood-stained, but otherwise quite pearly, fangs and teeth behind, the first drop of blood landed on the corner of his mouth and then his ability did the rest of the work.

His bloodline was capable of using auras to create raw force, almost always manifesting in a wave, usually triggered the first time by reflex.  Fallon had not had the benefit of being raised, though.  He was turned and abandoned, and panicked defensiveness was not something he was capable of for the first few whole days of his life as a vampire.  His adrenaline ran high much of the time, but it was not fear or reflex, but premeditated determination. A full year passed before he discovered that he had an ability, and it was only because a wanderer claiming to be a "Slayer" had run through a town Fallon had been squatting in happened to be loud and drunk each and every night of his stay.  His talk of different types of vampires, and what those types could do that were different than the others.  But none of the mentioned types had been his own.  This led to experimentation.  His experimentation was totally blind at first, waving his hands at things and shouting, and continued that way for a few weeks.  At long last, he stopped approaching it with random requests, and instead focused on a single, very precise target and expression.  The phrase he commanded in his head was "Break" and the target was  a small tonic bottle, no larger around nor longer than a finger. It took months, but he finally broke the bottle, and in that moment saw his creation.  It was three fat and oblong claws each protruding from his chest and each stabbed into the bottle at the same time.  In his mind, a smaller object would be easier to interact with, when in fact a smaller object makes an infinitely more difficult target to affect, much less to ONLY affect that single target instead of an area.  An aura after all, is a wave, or field.  Which is why it is almost always animated as a "Push."  But Fallon trained over months to affect small targets, and only the intended target, because he didn't know any better.  His very ignorance forced him to hone the ability of his bloodline in a direction that no one had considered.  Taking a wave, and stretching it out into a thread and shooting it like a dart or arrow.  But it became so much more than that after years, then decades, then centuries of practice.  At the point that Fallon had stood shortly before hallucinating and losing his mind, it was more exactly like being able to command 7 300 meter long invisible scorpion stingers that were no thicker than piano wire, or at maximum a single wire the width around of a standard car's tire capable of accurately striking a target nearly a complete 500 meters away, or even a single wire the thickness of a hair, capable of piercing and then cutting apart something the size of a pigeon from 2 kilometers away.  Accuracy was the absolute focus, despite his bloodline's typical likelihood to be anything but totally accurate. But centuries of refined use like that doesn't only produce destructive results.  He was also capable of balancing a feather atop one of these tendrils at any distance he could reach otherwise, or to lift a human being up of the ground in the embrace of one, or several, without harming their delicate skin.  And though Draven's skin was hardly delicate, it was gentle, like the coil of a serpent's embrace, that 7 of these slender misty light green hued manifestations constricted her wrist, forearm, elbow and bicep.  They were only perceivable to someone very powerfully attuned to auras, which meant that aside from physically feeling them, Draven could very likely see them in Fallon's own aural color of light green, which he repressed and concealed when in public, leaving no visible aura at all.  But now, even as these appendages pull Fallon's mouth up to Draven's arm, they are even conveying blood back into his system.  The dark red hue of Draven's blood mixed into the green of his aura and a few centimeters beyond her skin stained his aura a dark, burnt looking orange-brown color that made them now physically visible trails leading to the back of Fallon's head.  They looked in many ways like "S" link chains, but writhed and breathed like a serpent's skin does, flexing and pulsating .  As his lips sealed around the small wound, his aura slowly purged the blood into Fallon's body, which returned the light green hue of his aura over a few seconds to Draven's eyes, and made them vanish before Angelique's.  The effects of it became immediately noticeable now.  The transfusing that his appendages did began the forced evolution before he even had a single mouthful down.
The tips of every hair on his body began to fall pale, into a smokey gray color. The deep gash from the pinnacle of his cheekbone to his ear, a great crescent-shaped wound, began mending.  Soft white colored strands of tissue snapped back together at the center of the cut, turning a healthy pink color as they did, even the blood that was wet which had flowed from his face retracted back into the wound as it rapidly sealed itself shut. A few pieces of glass stuck in his forehead and in the soft tissue of his left eye socket jutted up to the surface of his skin, then popped out onto the floor, the skin closing up behind them down to the size of a regular pore, and then vanishing altogether.  A portion of his scalp from his hairline at the top of his forehead quickly mended over the top from bloody, to rosey pink skin, then paling over to Fallon's typical tone before deep black locks of hair steadily flowed out of his scalp, past his brow, across his eyelid and down his cheek all while drops and smears of his own blood were absorbed into the pores of his face that the hair grew past. Upon reaching full length, the tips of the new hairs turned gray like all the rest.
All over his body, small popping and cracking noises could be heard as fractured splinters of cartilage and bone drug themselves back into place, sometimes breaking and re-breaking repeatedly until the joints were perfectly reshaped as they had been before, which made nearly every part of his body appear to crawl and pulsate as though worms dwelt below the surface.  In only a few moments, and after a dozen spastic jerking and cringing gestures, his body had repaired itself, but it did not end here as it had every other time Fallon had healed using blood.  As he continued to drink, the new changes began settling in, starting with his skin graying over.  It paled only slightly, leaving a trace of natural skin color, but now still never-the-less somewhat appeared as though the skin were covered in a fine layer of ash on top.  The graying of his hair crept slowly, up his hair toward his scalp  now.   And with every swallow, the change in color lurched further and further up the shaft of each hair, and when it reached the skin, all of his hair simultaneously turned light, foggy green and broke away.  The hair maintained it's wavy shape, but drifted up into the air, separated and wafted around the room.  And as he opened his newly repaired eyes, he saw this, watched his hair drift away from his face.  His brows furrowed together and some very mild level of panic began setting in.
By the 7th drought of Draven's blood, any and all creases in his skin began to show the same wispy and smokey appearance.  Around his eyes, corners of his mouth, and beneath his clothes, at his hips, elbows and knees.  These joints began to feel numb to Fallon, and he tried to lift his right hand up to his face, but his right arm fell off at the shoulder, broke apart on the floor at the wrist and elbow, and evaporated into a separate mass of light green vapor.  The color of his eyes lightened and changed to a more green, now aqua hue, and appeared to burn and glow that color.  Finally panic was gripping his chest as much as he was totally unable to feel his chest. He sucked the 10th time upon Draven's wound, and as he swallowed, his face melted away, the entire drought of blood splashing on the floor where the back of his throat had been. His body evaporated into a cloud of... of what?  Mist, smoke, vapor? It was also that gentle light green that had truly constituted Fallon's aura.  The random drifting nature of his hair and limbs ended at this point, though.  The masses that represented these things quickly sucked toward this greater mass that had been his body and head.  As the 5 clouds pulled into the 6th, the entire mass began to swirl exotically around Draven's torso and head, and it became apparent by it's nature of movement what it was.  Smoke.  It curled and danced around her body in that swirling and coiled expression that was so definitive and characteristic of smoke before wafting up into the precise center of the room where in coiled into a huge ball.  A moment later the air pressurized and began drawing inward to the cloud.  This seemed to be compressing the body of smoke, another moment and there was a bright white flash of light, and the loud clatter of glass hitting the floor.

There laying in the middle of the room was a ball the size of a peach made of what appeared to be glass, and within was a deep shade of light green that twisted and moved around within it.  The ball was actually a shield.  A corporeal manifestation of concentrated aural energies, created into a stalled state that made it a shield.  Precisely like glass, it would shatter given even the tiniest incentive to do so by physical force, but simply never had the chance before it faded off a hole forming on one side of it.  The green smoke gushed out of the new opening, which caused the ball to begin haphazardly rolling, spinning and shifting across the ground.  It rolled one time too forcefully and fully broke open, and with a great plume of vibrant bright green that fell instead of rising, it all quickly drew together laid out on the floor.  It grew density and formed into the shape of a body and as it increased in density, more colors began forming, shapes became more rigid, sharper.  And then it started moving.  It only took another full second for Fallon to appear, just as he was in the cemetery before all of this, lying on the floor.  His clothing was still in a destroyed state, but those too had evaporated with the rest of him, and reconstituted whole again exactly as they had been before, though apparently asleep or unconscious. In the nearing moments of his waking back up, Fallon had much to learn, much to understand.  He would have questions, and many questions would likely be asked of him, but for better or worse, he survived.  His life was now owed to the charity of a 'Draven' - whoever that might truly be he would soon find out.

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A Different World

Post by Draven on Sat Nov 05, 2016 9:03 pm

There had always been rumors, suspicions about her past and on how the Vampire race began. Though questioned about it numberous times over the centuries, Draven would simple smile and say, "what does it matter? The past is just that, the past. While it helps shape who we become, it does not define who we are in the present."

As she sat before the large black stone fireplace of her bedroom, her fingers toyed absently with an ancient Nordic drinking horn. Symbols and runes were artfully carved into the cream colored bone surface, perfectly preserved. Resting on her bed, was Fallon, his system still acclimating to the potency of her blood. It had been a shock when he had transformed into a mass of silvery white mist, though not too much of one. She had seen stranger things during her vast life.

The Montriarch lifted the horn to her lips and took a sip of the blood laced mead. It was sweet against her tongue, the blood replenishing what she had freely given to save the younger Vampire's life. She required very little of it now, no more than a thimble full would satisfy her hunger. She remembered very well the first time she had awoken to the blood lust raging in her.

Lightning flashed brightly against the darkness, searing her sensitive eyes. The steady drip of rain fell against the center of her forehead as she lay on the dirt floor of some strange building. It appeared to be a food storage, but how had she gotten here? She remembered the harsh burning of the rising sun and crawling across the earth to reach a cool, dark area. Glancing around her, she noticed that curing meats hung from the ceiling from hooked chains and barrels and baskets were stacked neatly along the walls. This was where they kept the food for the coming winter season. Suddenly, a sharp gnawing pain in her stomach caused her to curl up into the fetal position, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Feed or die.

A voice that was not her own spoke, but she wasn't sure if it was out loud, or simply in her head. Despite the pain, she felt her body obeying the voice's command. Tattered pieces of leather armor hung off of her as she stood. She ripped at them half-heartedly, surprised to find that they shredded like paper beneath her touch. The simple tunic and pants beneath the only thing that remained. The cold and rain didn't faze her. Her vision, as she looked around was sharper, allowing her to see in great detail despite it being pitch black inside the food stores.

Carefully, she stumbled her way towards the door. As silently as she could manage, she pushed it open, amazed when it made no sound at all. She slipped out and into the rain. It plastered her long black hair to her face, but she didn't care, not when there was a tantalizing scent coming from the house up ahead. It called to her like a gift from the Gods themselves.

She didn't remember the walk from the storage house to the main lodging, what they called the longhouse. She suddenly found herself standing in the main aisle that ran down the center of the dwelling. A fire pit burned in the center, acting as both light and heat. Instinctively, she shielded her eyes against the harsh glare as she passed by the flames. She moved so silently that the large family hound laying upon the floor did not even so much as twitch, continuing to sleep soundly and dream about it's masters. How she knew exactly what the beast was dreaming about, she did not know.

Her sense of smell became overwhelmed as she neared the nobles that slept within. The man and woman on one side of the large room and three small children on the other. The gnawing pain in her stomach returned with a fierce vengeance, almost causing her to fall to her knees.

Feed!

The voice commanded, forcing her to straighten. She reached out blindly, unable to see beyond the pain. She moved swiftly, grabbing the youngest of the three children and bringing thr girl into her embrace. She struck before the child could scream, burying sharp canines into the soft flesh at the crook of her shoulder. The blood as it hit her, filled her and brought with it a euphoric high that was better than anything she had ever experienced.


Draven had blacked out after that first initial feeding, remembering nothing as the force of the blood lust took over. However upon waking later, a grissly sight greeted her. The entire village, every man, woman, child, and animal lay slaughtered, lifeless and forgotten like refuse. She had been covered head-to-toe in blood that she knew immediately was not her own. A subtle motion alerted her to Fallon's awakening, but she made not move to ackowledge it. She took a deep breath after a few moments of silence just before speaking.

"That painting above the fireplace." She said softly, moitioning towards it by raising the drinking horn in her hand. The large painting showed a breath-takingly beautiful bond woman, tight braids keeping half of her hair out of her face. There was a sword strapped to her back and a simple blue dress adorning her lithe frame.


"That was me. A very long time ago. I was once a Shieldmaiden from a long forgotten age of the Vikings." She turned slightly so that her profile was visible in the flickering flames of the fireplace. She trailed her fingertips over her face, a sad smile adorning her full lips. "I look vastly different now, do I not?"

Her once white-blonde hair had darkened, becoming as black as the shadows. Her eyes could shift between the inky black of darkness or the bright red of blood. Her features remained the same, but seemed to have become more ethereal as the centuries progressed. Beside her self portrait was another painting, this one of a man dressed in furs and leather armor, a sword held in front of him. His fierce and commanding blue eyes seeming to stare stright into the very soul.


"That man was Ragnar Lothbrok, a great man. If you have read up on your history, then I am sure you know who he was. What you may not know was that he was once my husband. Most of the history will tell you he had three wives. In reality he had four. I was the last, married in a very private affair that no one knew of but the most trusted. Like his first wife, Lagertha, I was a renowned Shieldmaiden. A proud warrior that had joined Ragnar under his banner."

Draven paused to take a sip of her mead, savoring its flavor for a moment.

"When he died, I was beside myself with anger and grief. He was my first husbnd, afterall. A man that I not only loved, but respected greatly. So, in my grief and anger, I went in search for answers."

She paused for a moment, finally glancing towards the bed in which Fallon remain.

"I had made a vow when we were married that I would not let anyone keep him from me. I am not one to break my vows. I foolishly went in search of Ragnar's soul. My search proved to be my undoing. I found his soul and stole it from the Goddess Hel. The only mortal to attempt and successfully steal anything from the Gods. When they caught up with me, I grew cocky, boasted about how I stole Ragnar Lothbrok's from Hel. The Goddess did not take too kindly to my taunting. I was sentenced to death by what was termed the Blood Eagle execution."


"The sheer agony is unlike anything I could describe to you. It was said that if the offended were to cry out then they would never reach Valhalla. I made not a single noise, nor sound even though I yearned to cry out. "

Her nails dug into the arm of her chair, ripping into the leather surface as the phantom pain gripped her.

"Only I did not reach Valhalla when I died. Instead I was brought to Fólkvangr, the hall of the Goddess Freya. She saw on me a great potential, a warrior unlike any other and granted me the gift of life. Only Hel had other plans and cursed me with eternal life to feast upon the blood of my kin and the rest of humanity. Thus the Vampire race was born."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Thu Nov 17, 2016 3:18 pm

The lull of wavering flame and the smell of the smoke was the first thing Fallon began to comprehend.  It was a small and controlled sound, and while the scent of the burning wood was thick enough to sample on one's palate, it too was very minor.  It was this that immediately suggested that it was a fireplace and he had been moved while unconscious, no doubt by Draven and Angelique.  His mind was still numbed by his unconsciousness, and this fact came upon him in a very relaxed way, not enough for him to stir.  Other aspects of his surroundings began to dawn on his waking self, the very next of which was pressure.
Like a beacon, his hostess and savior constantly produced an incredibly potent aura, which in Fallon's now heightened state felt much like strong waves washing over him.  There was an ebb and flow to it now, much like it was water.  His natural state was one of a totally repressed aura, which left him in a unique situation in Draven's presence.
As he lie there, he could more significantly feel Draven's aura than the bed beneath him, like he was prone on a beach and the tide were washing over his body.  It was cool despite being hot, it was heavy, and yet weightless, but poured over him and seemed to drip from him after each wave had passed. Which is to say far and greatly different than it had been before, where it had been crushing and breaking pressure that beat down upon him.  This was now a gentle and soothing experience.  Which would soon provoke Fallon to have many questions, but for the time it more caressed him back to sleep than it disturbed him.  

What it was that roused his mind back from unconsciousness was the honey.  It's sweetness from within the fermented bitterness tantalized his mind, but he did not understand when his left shoulder shrugged and his neck cringed, his chin digging down against his collarbone.  It was just a second before he opened his eyes that he picked it out.  Blood.  There was blood mixed into the mead, and it was transferring, as far as the olfactory system is concerned, quite well and aromatically with the sweeter edge of the honey.  It wasn't a hunger, more like a ping.  His mind so defined the noting of the presence of blood that that truly was what woke him.

As he heard Draven take a deep breath, he opened his eyes.  The environment he opened his eyes to was dimly lit, but his attention was grasped hold of when Draven spoke.
"That painting above the fireplace."    He propped himself up on his elbows before his eyes trailed up to the pair of paintings hanging on the wall and he briefly took each one in before returning his gaze to Draven, whom was truly the object of his curiosity just now, his savior aside from, deserved and required his attention, and as she began telling her story, Fallon would remain quite totally silent and pay the closest of attention to what she said.

His mind had slipped somewhat into a state of imagining the scenes Draven was describing, a state he would remain in nearly uninterrupted throughout her tale, staring somewhat blankly at the side of Draven's head.  This state was broken once, though.  It was when Draven paused and glanced over at him.  It was in that moment that he and his full attention was taken hostage by her eyes.  As though it was a trap of quicksand he'd stumbled into, he was fixated on their all-enveloping blackness.  He felt flushed, though his skin tone didn't give it away, and a chill swept across his skin in a single and tantalizing wave, but he didn't tremble nor quake.  He was momentarily halted entirely as he was drawn into the reflection of the room in them.  It only lasted until Draven turned her head away again, nearly a shuttering breath passing, but gently eased out by no small feat of will quite silently before, nearly by force, re-entering that state of imagining once again.

His mind was attempting to imagine what could an execution termed 'Blood Eagle' actually consist of when his focus snapped back to reality to the sound of her nails digging into the leather chair.  
 "Only I did not reach Valhalla when I died. Instead I was brought to Fólkvangr, the hall of the Goddess Freya. She saw on me a great potential, a warrior unlike any other and granted me the gift of life. Only Hel had other plans and cursed me with eternal life to feast upon the blood of my kin and the rest of humanity. Thus the Vampire race was born."

Fallon threw both of his arms out from under him a second after she finished speaking, allowing himself to fall flat upon his back on the bed with a large and clearly exaggerated grunting sigh.  After another moment, he buried both his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. "So...it was a curse.  I am cursed. I once 'ad a bet wif a bloke, he put money on it being a curse.  I faught it was a sickness.  He wins, but guess it don't matta' as he couldn't live wif livin' forevah."      Was all he managed to produce after laying that way for several seconds. An attempt at minorly crude humor in the face of meeting what was effectively his God and Creator and being told by her than she was the victim of divine cursing of actual Gods because she fulfilled an oath to her lover.  Fallon's mind and personality always found ways of coping with subject that he found difficult to process.  This simply happened to be his most frequently used method.  Despite being able to push an attempt at humor out, he did not smile.

It was all at once that he sat back up into a sitting position in a flash, eyebrows furrowed and an alarmed expression adorned his face, both his hands shot to his chest and met with the plush of a soft cotton long-sleeved undershirt.  After only a moment of feeling it, his fingertips landed upon the logo on the upper left breast of the shirt.
"Armani.  Armani?"  His tone and his features softened considerably as he repeated the name of one of the most expensive and renown clothing manufacturers on the planet and in history in a questioning manner toward Draven, his expression had withdrawn all other influences save for confusion.  A part of him was wondering at the hospitality, another where he was exactly, the next how the lithe figure before him got him here while he was unconscious, but the most immediate thought at this moment was that she had undressed him in order to clothe him once more in Armani lounge wear.  And that means she saw it.   IT was a mark on the lower left side of his back, just next to his spine, branded there by his fellow vampires when he had been captured in northern France for drawing too much attention to vampires there as a thief.  And while most if not all physical damage can and will be repaired simply by drinking blood and resting, this brand was laid upon him with magic, and it's intention was to scar and bond his flesh and soul together, preventing him from being able to heal. Ever.


The symbol was a Faboan, which was a pagan and vampiric originating glyph marking one as a "Dangerous or Insane Vampire."  It was more than a mar on his skin, it meant that he was sentenced to a judgement, one that he clearly escaped from.

Surely Draven knew what the symbol meant, she predated Fallon himself, and may have had hand in the inception of such things even for all he knew.  His body slowly began preparing itself.  He was attempting to feign distraction by the clothing, but depending on how the next few minutes played out, He Who Cheats The Headsman may be required to put his skill to the test against a god, his God and creator.
Fallon, the person, began to fall away into the back of his mind, every muscle in his body ready to spring to motion at a moment's notice already, and the mind emerging to command them was in all reality, He Who Cheats The Headsman.  To do the things that were required to escape deadly situations, one had to cease being the person they were, and become the thing that they need.  A mechanism more than a person anymore.  Designed to act within parameters and react to anything that disrupts them.  And He Who Cheats The Headsman takes flight at the impact of anger or violent intent presenting itself in an aura, like a reflex, and it was ready, waiting and analyzing every fiber of the woman before him.

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Wed Dec 07, 2016 6:01 pm

A subtle, brief smirk caused a single corner of her mouth to twitch upward. She had seen the Magickal brand marring Fallon as one of the "insane" Vampires. It was; at least to her, a rather foolish tradition that the Vampires of Europe had developed.

"Do not concern yourself over your mark, Fallon. Sanguine does not follow the branding procedure. If you are deemed insane here, we kill you, not mark you. Anyone that threatens our existence being a secret to the mortals meet their demise either by my hand, or someone elses."

She turned in her chair to look at him, a serious expression passing over the ethereal beauty of her face.

"I know that you are new here and do not yet know the Laws of Sanguine, the Laws for all of our kind, if they live in the States or outside of it. All should abide by them."

Draven paused, her pitch black gaze glittering with flashes of red as the firelight reflected off of them.

"Rule number one; the Vampire race must remain a secret from the Human race. There are some Humans; whom we call Revanants, that know who and what we are. They are our daytime eyes and ears, personal assistants if you will. Their knowledge of our existence is usually passed through the generations of their family."

"Rule number two; each Bloodline must have a Vitae, or leader. The Vitae is usually the first, or Eldest of that particular Bloodline. Every new Vampire I create or save as I did you, creates a new Bloodline itself. I try to keep such things to a minimum."

She sat forward, resting both of her elbows on her knees.

"Finally, Rule number three; my word is Law. Each Vitae has a seat on the Council which acts as the ruling body for the Vampire race. We all decide and have a vote, but I have the final say and whatever I decide, weather you agree or not, must be respected,"

That semi-cocky smirk returned.

"Now that you are awake, we can begin discussing the building of your new Bloodline. As I state before, when I save a Vampire, or create a new one, it in turn forms a new Bloodline. The Leucetius you had been before no longer exists. The power of my blood transformed what you had already been given into something far more. You will be given an Estate to use as lodging for your Bloodline as well as creation rights to make new Vampires. There will be a limited number so choose wisely on whom you transform. The other Vitaes generally try to find people who would benefit Sanguine. Business owners, cops, etc. We will also come up with a name for your Bloodline and insignia. Do you have any questions?"

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Wed Dec 21, 2016 6:09 pm

He had been sitting upright this whole time, hands neatly folded in his lap while Draven laid out before him the very simple and limited 3 rules of Sanguine.  None of the rules were hard to understand, each for a blatantly obvious reason, and none of which inspired any questions or curiosities at all.  He drew his left leg in, bringing his knee nearly to his chest, and upon which he now leaned on from the forearm and drew in a breath.  Before he could utter a single syllable though, a lightning pattern pain deep within his bones shot from his right middle toe up to the top of his skull.  His body fully displayed visually what he was feeling inside as an agonized roar was wrenched from him, his body violently arched backward, his right heel and the back of his head the only things still touching the bed, but his left knee was still drawn up to his chest in this awkward position, and was jerking slightly and the skin was visibly crawling.  Each arm patted against the mattress in sporadic fashion with no noticeable timing to the movements.  His hair once more fell white and evaporated from his head into now a deep and bright green.  His eyes flashed open for a moment and were glowing a shade that was nearly neon green before they pinched back shut again, followed by a deep and full bodied scream of pain.  His head began to lift up from the pillow it was dug into and his body immediately pivoted to the left, his heel still dug down into the sheets.  A moment longer and he sharply sucked in breath for another scream, but didn't make it.  His body evaporated into a neon green cloud of smoke, which seemed almost to glow as bio luminescent creatures did, with a soft and attractive light.

It swirled into itself, looking briefly like a vortex which extended across the remainder of the bed and through the room, before pouring out onto the floor only a foot or two away from Draven, but instead of breaking upon it and spreading out, it stuck were it hit and began to solidify.  Skin tone immediately invaded and dominated the green hue, but not quite as dark as before, paler now.  Before the ankle had finished forming, a disturbance in the center of the cloud shot wisps of the smoke off to the side, which was a kinetic tendril in truth.  It had pulled open both doors of a standing wardrobe across the room and coiled around the legs of a pair of black pants, no doubt they were Armani, or perhaps another very high class manufacturer, and away they flew back toward the cloud, whipping as they went through the air.  They briefly disappeared into the thickness of the cloud before the cuffs of the legs reappeared where the bottom of Fallon's shins were forming. Any and all of the smoke outside of the fabric began drawing into the bottom of the cuffs, and then the process sped up.  The garment began to form substance within, filling it's volume from the ankle up in a matter of seconds, until the smoke was visually pluming up from the waist band of the pants.
His stomach and chest appeared fully formed after a large puff from the waist line of the pants, his arms and head quickly forming while wisps of smoke still clung to his skin, forming all the tiniest of body hairs until the smoke had finished the tips of the hair on his head, leaving a slender length of the neon green smoke that licked the end of his hair as it tumbled away in a serpent like fashion to the right of his head, which seemed to stain an emerald hue onto his black hair.
His eyelids parted to reveal the smoke itself still swirling around within the sockets as his head lolled and turned to the right and he inhaled sharply.  That final strand of green smoke seemed to slither back to his nostril and vanish, which caused his eyes to white over, the iris now that neon green instead of the watery blue it had been before.  His whole body quivered for just a moment, his balance clearly not adjusted yet.  After a few moments of cautiously tense posture, he looked up from the floor to Draven, his face clearly trying and failing to resolve which emotion or combination of them Fallon was mentally experiencing and how he felt about this state.  Finally a stern and focused look determined the victor and he drew in a breath once more.


"I 'ave 'undreds of questions, and I scarce believe you 'ave the time to 'ear and answer to 'em all. So I'll cut to the bits of import."

His voice was gruff and mangled, such as it is, by the dialect he spoke with, and he turned around after he'd finished.  The Faboan was just there, perhaps 1 inch to the left of his spine and 1 1/2 inches above the waist band of the pants, it glowed in a perverse way there on his flesh.  Like a bright blue light was shining beneath burnt to brown charred flesh.  The skin around the burnt areas were flawless just up to what looked almost like scabbing, but it still looked freshly burn, the skin still pliable and far from dried out as burns become.

"This.  This is what I am, Draven."   He had dropped his native accent like he had never owned one to begin with, picked up all of his syllables and enunciated his words correctly.  Even the tone of his voice was therefore altered incredibly, nearly as though it was an entirely different man speaking now, which was part of the point he was about to make.

"I am a thief, and like most I have my own rules and traditions, but I'm still a thief.  A criminal.  A dangerous or insane vampire who has spent the past 400 years running from his own kind who want his head for saving his own life the night he was given what was advertised to him as a 'dark gift of immense power that will free you from bondage and make you healthy and strong always.'  I was quickly then abandoned as I underwent the change, as my body died, and have done whatever I had to do to keep my head on my shoulders since.  He Who Cheats The Headsman, commonly referred to as a Feral Vampire in most of Europe, and in England as a Monster.  And those are vampires telling those tales.  Monsters telling scary stories of monsters, how fitting.  Oft I've sat at the tables of those who would quickly deprive me of my head and they sat ignorant of their company.  Let me be the first to tell you, Draven.  You become what you are branded and use the same machinations that were set upon you against those who did so.   I'm a liar, a con man and a bandit, and you wish to imbue me with title and estate and authority for it.  Do you have any, even the slightest notion, how confusing that is to a person like me?  Questions?"  That last word came out impulsively Irish accented.  Something that he would not be able to shake off in the coming minutes either.  He turned around to face Draven once more, his newly neon green eyes locking in on her depthless black ones, the same expression of focus adorning his features.  "Oh, I have questions.  Why could I not locate this city from anywhere in Ireland or the Isles of Great Britain?  Perhaps that one doesn't fancy ye, eh? How about 'Why was it that the captain of the same vessel I stowed away here on could not tell me the destination or co-ordinates of the City of Sanguine, the same city that they docked in and I entered from?'  Allow me to impress upon ye that it was not that he was unwilling to tell me, just couldn't.  Like the information simply weren't there to conjure upon in the first place.  Or maybe why the same demon that set himself upon me in the park was standing outside the door of the shoppe I was dragged into while injured? Even dying, I'm quite a perceptive creature.  Shall we dig further to the core of the matter?  

He gave no openings or opportunities for her to respond to any single question or statement before rattling off the next series of words. Fallon had already walked back over to the wardrobe that he had stolen the pants from to retrieve a fine dark blue long sleeved shirt.  He had been talking as he did so and paid absolutely no attention to who made the garment, simply decided it fell into his comfort zone of colors.  He stopped talking as he pulled his head through the shirt and immediately began again.

"Where in the fucked souls of Hades did the clothes you dressed me in go?  How in the hell did I know I needed pants?  I don't remember thinking anything while it happened.  Why in the hell do I feel so......light?  I feel so different. I..." Fallon's words drifted further and further apart as his eyes finally stopped focusing on Draven and trailed down to the floor along with a sigh.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know why I should be angry with you.  This....this is just a lot right now.  The only thing that I do know is that if you do not use the Faboan here, then I will adopt it as my sigil and clan name.  I will take it and make it mine."  His English accent had returned when he apologized, he simply didn't drop the syllables when he spoke, and he had also returned his gaze, somewhat apologetically, to Draven.


Last edited by Fallon Haestus on Thu Dec 22, 2016 2:48 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Typo and structure revision)

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Thu Jan 05, 2017 8:10 pm

Living as long as she had, there wasn't much that she had seen that surprised her. She had grown accustomed to the odd and quirky happenings that seemed to follow any supernatural being, be it Vampire or Shifter. So when Fallon's form evaporated into a green hued mist, the Montriarch barely blinked. She remained virtually still as the mist moved, seeming to act on impulse of it's own accord. Before the form of Fallon remateriaized, he instinctively removed a pair of pants from the wardrobe across the room. Once his modesty was sated, he began to take on a more corpreal form, shifting back into a solid mass of Vampire. She watched, fascinated as he explained a portion of his past with the vigor of a hampster on speed, his words slinging forth without so much as a hitch in his breath. When finished, there was a brief silence that seemed to stretch between them, a pause in conversation that was both comforting and unnerving.

Draven pushed up from the chair, unfolding her petite form gracefully. Though Fallon towered over her five foot three stature, she was not intimidated by him in the least. She crossed the distance between them, stopping within mere inches of his personal bubble and reached up to gingerly pluck a stray hair from the collar of his newly acquired shirt.

"There is no one who knows the term monster better than I, Fallon, for I was once just that. After my rebirth into a Vampire, I embraced my very predatorial nature. I hunted and killed not merely because I had to, but because I enjoyed it. Entire villages wiped out in one night. Men, women, chilred and animals. I had spared no one."

She glanced up at him, her dark gaze locked on his.

"They may have branded you as a monster, but they have never seen the true face of one. A thief is not the same as what I once was. There was a time when I could not go an hour without the crave for blood. I was the First of our kind. What many of you Younglings have mastered in two years time, it had taken me centuries to master. The only reason why I stopped bathing in blood was because as I grew older, I no longer required large amounts of it."

Her eyes moved, seemingly searching his gaze for some kind of acknowledgement that she was indeed a monster. Whatever she found there, caused her to drop her gaze.

"A lot of your newly acquired abilities will seem to act of their own accord but it is your instincts that are causing them to flex, to see what they are capable of in order to help you to adapt."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Wed Jan 11, 2017 11:17 am

"How many of us are there here in Sanguine?"

Was the first and would turn out later to be the only real question that he had left.  The other thoughts which had beckoned answers died down moments before as Draven explained to him just how little they were unalike to each other.  It instilled in him the realization that Sanguine was what he had heard of in Europe; A place of tolerance for Vampires.  It also calmed his mind as much as open it toward the fact that for the first time in his life, he was a person of unique importance.  He was a new breed, the newest breed, of Vampire and on top of that is the father of the Bloodline.  He regarded it akin to being appointed a Lord and Duke of lands and peoples in Europe.  People he had robbed unnumbered amounts of times over the past 400 years, but it was their fallacies that made them his targets, and that is not what Fallon would personify as a leader of his bloodline.  Fallon came from the mud and dirt, and he would elevate himself as well as any who shared his fate or his blood far above it, regardless of their station.  Indeed, the questions he had before had been replaced with ideals and innovative and creative methods.  As eager as he was to burst from this building and into the city to discover it's reaches, his acclamation with the city would soon become a central point of interest to him, but for now he had to sate the curiosity of how rare his breed was here.
There had been groups, sometimes quite large groups, of Vampires together in Europe, but those numbers felt as though they paled horribly to the city of Sanguine and it's inhabitants range and variety.  

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Wed Jan 11, 2017 4:05 pm

"Insurmountable. There is no real way to tally all that occupy Sanguine. Sanguine itself spans across a Tri-state area, its borders defined only by Magick and those who know what to look for. Hidden gylphs and runes mostly. There is a congregation of Vampires, Humans, Shifters, Demons and other various preternatural creatures that reside here. However, if you are referring simply to the Vampire race, than the number is more tolerable. There are aproximately over two thousand of our kind."

She sat back in the chair, recrossing her legs casually. Her arms hung loosely over the arm rests of the chair, the fingers of her right hand still grasping the drinking horn. She glanced down towards it for a moment before flicking her gaze back towards Fallon. She raised the horn in his direction, offering him the laced mead within. It was still full, the few sips she had taken had been more than enough for her.

"I will take you to the Archives when you are ready. There we have a state of the art database that allows us to keep track of the Vampires that permanently reside here. We will add you and take a small blood sample to by kept in the Vaults. Customary for every Vitae. It allows me to study your blood, try to determine what it was that caused you to have a shift in power. With Karise, the Vitae of the Spectral Bloodline, he had an affinity with medicine and healing. Naturally when he was Transformed, my blood sought out his strength and gifted him with astounding healing powers."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Fallon Haestus on Wed Jan 11, 2017 5:57 pm

"Hah! That's easy, then!" He responded as he took the mead from her, running the horn below his nose a moment to take in it's direct potency.  It was well made, very refined mild bite to alcohol scent buried at the core of it's bouquet, but was overly dominant in herb and honey.
The vessel met his lips gracefully, considering he hadn't fed yet, and he only really sampled it with a single drought before offering it back with a vacant expression and a small smile.  When the look of his senses returned he released a soft and long sigh before chuckling under his breath and speaking.


"Had ever I known that I could drink anything but blood....But the reason for this 'mist' thing is that I came from the dirt, a beggar.  Often a thief, because if you won't steal to prevent starving, than you ain't 'ungry.  I've been running and successfully escaping those who chase since I was only but on my 6th year on this earth.  If ever caught, I would break loose. Can't contain me in shackle, nor iron, nor stock, nor stone, nor cell, nor even a cage.  I will take my freedom.  Always."

Fallon explained as he gripped his left wrist with his right hand behind his back and strolled slowly to the far window.  He leaned forward, nose nearly touching the glass, and closed his eyes.  After a deep breath, he tried to focus, and after a moment of attempt he perceived a 360 degree radius around him in a 3 dimensional layout, displaying several nearby auras.  Draven's behind him was still incredible, but he could sense at least a dozen vampires within 300 feet of him, and 3 humans.  At least because he couldn't make out what he would call 'apparitions.'  Could just be imprints left behind from an event, or it could be greatly powerful beings hiding themselves.  Never can tell unless you look with your own eyes.

His eyes opened and he turned around abruptly.


"Whenever you wish to go to the archives, I am ready.  I admit that I am eager to go and see the city.  I promise that I will cause no more mischief."

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Re: The Darkness is Mine

Post by Draven on Thu Jan 12, 2017 4:14 pm

A smile graced her full lips. She sat for a moment longer before standing gracefully from the chair. she was petite, especially for someone who had fought alongside the Norse in the Viking Age. The Montriarch stood no taller than five foot three, but what she lacked in height, she made up for in the sheer astouding pressure of her presence and aura alone, not to mention the extent of her power.

"Then I shall be your personal tour guide to Sanguine." She said softly, tilting her head faintly, almost as if she heard something in the distance but no noise had greeted her sense of hearing. "I can have a driver and car waiting, or we can take one of my personal vehicles. Your choice."

Draven gestured with her arm towards the door to the room.

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