carpe-astra

[carpe-astra]

Knox T. Wilder Song

A song generated by @gamjeebreadfox

[carpe-astra]

Carpe Astra (Seize the Stars) Generated by @gamjeebreadfox

[carpe-astra]

Meme about Storm created by Q

[carpe-astra]

The Eternal Companion

The recent explosion of his office coupled with the return of Dixie had brought a lot of things screaming back he'd thought well and put away.

War, in all its various forms, was an eternal companion of his.

Dirt splashed over his back like a crest of sea-spray against a coastal cliff as the ground behind him exploded with a shell, and shook violently. Heat lapped his spine, searing in through the threads of his uniform. Sweat dripped down his back and cheeks. He took Oliver's hand in his own, squeezing tightly as he gripped his brother's shoulder.

"Hang on Ollie. We'll get you to the med tent and get you patched up. Maybe that pretty nurse you've been mooning over will be there," Valentino spoke, managing a strained half grin that felt too wrong on his face. It was hard to keep his voice steady, feeling his throat constrict and burn. Stopping his words as he swallowed back sullen sorrow as Oliver's blood boiled from his mouth and down his chin.

Frankie's hand forced him to share a look with his best friend, cruel as it was. Valentino's head dropped, a bead of sweat dripping from his nose to soak into the ashy soil beneath his knees though he hardly saw it through the swimming shimmer. Then his throat bobbed forcefully and he slid a few inches closer to Oliver while jamming the heel of his palm against his helmet, like he wanted to rip at his hair.

After Frankie took Oliver's helmet off, Val was careful to avoid the large piece of shrapnel buried in Ollie's chest. Tightly gripping his big brother's hand, he spoke. "It's alright Oliver. I'm here..." His tone was deep and gruff with the emotion he couldn't let show.

It was the same nightmare he'd had for years. One that lingered even now, returned to him like a ghost he couldn't quite shake even with the soft glow of the lamps lighting the room.

Valentino lay on his back, his arm wrapped around Lulu, her head resting on his chest. The room smelled faintly of whiskey and ash, the kind of scent that had long since become part of his skin, a reminder of all the things he couldn’t wash away.

Lulu was silent for a while, tracing lazy circles on his chest, her breathing calm but heavy with unspoken thoughts. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. “Is Dixie doing any better?"

Valentino tensed, his jaw clenching as the weight of her words pressed down on him. “Some.”

Charlie, the godsblood child they were supposed to protect. The strange, otherworldly child. The one they’d lost. Taken. And Dixie, kidnapped with them. When she’d been returned, something in her had shattered. The loss was too much for her. It was more than just Charlie’s absence - it was the ghosts of the past stirring up old pain.

“She’s hurting, Val,” Lulu said softly, resting her hand over his heart.

“I thought we could have saved her back then,” Valentino muttered, his voice thick with old regret. “But we didn’t. I didn’t. I didn't even save her this time.”

Lulu tilted her head, her brow furrowing in concern. “Val… what are you talking about?”

“He couldn’t handle it,” Valentino whispered. “Frankie couldn’t handle the war, the memories. He didn’t even recognize her.”

Lulu’s expression softened, her hand sliding to his cheek. “Frankie… you don’t talk about him much.”

Valentino opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. The name was like a knife in his chest. “He was my best friend. We served together. The trenches, the mud, the blood… we saw everything. Did things I try not to remember. When we got back, neither of us was the same. But Frankie… he lost control.”

The night air was thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of wet earth. Frankie stumbled alongside Valentino, laughing louder than he had in years, the bottle in his hand sloshing whiskey over the rim. They’d been drinking for hours, retracing old haunts, smoke-filled pubs, dim alleys where they’d made their names with the Kingbreakers. It was almost like before, before the war.

Almost.

Frankie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot Valentino a sideways grin, his eyes wild and bright beneath the moonlight. “You remember that time, Val? The one with Mickey and the safebox? Jesus, I swear that man never knew how to keep his head on straight.”

Valentino forced a smile, his heart a lead weight in his chest. "Yeah. He got us into that mess with the coppers, and we still came out clean. Dumb luck."

“Luck, yeah,” Frankie laughed, then tipped the bottle back for another swig. “Man, I miss those days. No worries. No fucking nightmares.” His voice trailed off, the laughter fading into something darker, something hollow.

Valentino kept his eyes forward, on the graveyard up ahead. He’d been dragging this moment out all night, savoring the last flickers of who Frankie used to be. The Frankie he remembered before the war shattered everything.

As the night wore on, the laughter had faded. Frankie knew. They both knew.

“You think we can go back?” Frankie had asked, his voice quieter, eyes glassy as he stared into the empty street ahead of them. “Back to before? Before the trenches. Before… all of it.”

Valentino had looked at him, at the shadow of the man he once was. “There’s no going back, Frankie. We’re not the same men anymore.”

Frankie’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered with something... regret, maybe. Or anger. Valentino couldn’t tell anymore. “I miss it, Val. I miss feeling… normal. Like I had control. But it’s gone, isn’t it? I’ve lost everything, haven’t I?”

Valentino swallowed hard, the image of Dixie’s broken body flashing behind his eyes, the way she had looked at him when he found her. Her face bruised, her hands trembling, and the baby… gone. “You didn’t lose everything, Frankie,” he said quietly. "You threw it away."

Frankie stopped, blinking, the words sinking in like stones. He looked at Valentino, and for a moment, the rage flared. Just like it had the day he beat Dixie. The day he didn’t even know her face, didn’t even know what he was doing.

"I didn't... I didn’t mean it, Val," Frankie whispered, his voice shaking. “I love her. You know that. You know I didn’t mean to hurt her, don’t you?”

Valentino’s chest had tightened, anger and sorrow warring inside him. “I know, Frankie. But it doesn’t matter. The baby… she lost the baby.”

Frankie’s face had crumpled, his body sagging under the weight of the guilt. “I love her, Val. I really do. I’d never… I wouldn’t hurt her like that on purpose.”

But the damage was done. There was no forgiveness for what he had done, not in Valentino’s eyes. Not in Dixie’s. They had made the decision together. Frankie couldn’t be allowed to spiral further.

Frankie took a step back, staring down at the bottle in his hand like it held all the answers. “So, what now, Val? What happens to me?”

Valentino’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down like a vice. “We say goodbye,” he said, his voice almost steady.

So, they had walked to the graveyard. Frankie had known. There were no words for it, just the silent understanding between them.

“Do it, Val,” Frankie had said, almost relieved. “I deserve it.”

Valentino had raised the gun, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been. “I’m sorry, Frankie.”

Frankie closed his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I get it. I’ve been a danger to everyone. To Dixie… to you. To myself.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Should’ve died in the trenches. Should’ve gone with the others."

“You were supposed to make it out,” Valentino said, his voice rough. “We both were.”

Frankie looked at him then, his eyes softer, like he was seeing Valentino - the real him - for the first time in years. “You did right by me, Val. By the gang. Even when everything went to hell, you always stood tall.”

Valentino gritted his teeth, the gun feeling heavier in his hand with every passing second. "You weren’t weak, Frankie. The war took too much from us. Too damn much."

Frankie smiled, sad and broken. “Yeah. Maybe. But this is right. You’re doing me a favor.”

Valentino raised the gun, the barrel steady, aimed right at Frankie’s head. His best friend. A brother.

Frankie nodded, his face calm, like he was finally at peace. “Do it, Val. Make it quick.”

Valentino squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed through the graveyard, shattering the stillness. Frankie’s body crumpled to the ground in silence, his lifeless eyes staring up at the stars above.

Valentino stood there for a long time, the gun still in his hand, his heart pounding in his chest. He kneeled beside the body and closed Frankie’s eyes.

Frankie had gone into an unmarked grave.

Lulu stroked his cheek, bringing him back to the present. “You did what you had to, Val. You always do. You’ll find Charlie. And Dixie… she’ll heal.”

“I’ve failed her before, Elizabeth,” he whispered, calling her by that old name. “I don’t want to fail her again.”

"You won’t," Lulu whispered, her voice filled with a certainty that he didn’t feel.

Valentino didn’t answer. He just held her close, staring up at the ceiling as the ghosts of his past refused to let him go.

[carpe-astra]

Cycles of Choice pt. 2

Britta moved silently through the halls of Dandy’s estate, her footsteps barely a whisper against the floors. The air was thick with silence, untouched since that night. She’d been avoiding this place, just like Isaac had. But tonight, something had pulled her back. Perhaps it was the quiet ache in her heart, the need to feel his presence one last time before locking it away.

The front parlor greeted her first, the room where Dandy had spent so much of his time when he wasn’t out getting into mischief or chasing some fleeting thrill. Odd, how he had lain there in feigned death only weeks prior.

The furniture was untouched, perfectly in place, like it was waiting for him to return. She could almost hear his laugh, the way his eyes would light up when he saw her walk into the room.

A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to keep moving.

Britta drifted into the next room, past shelves filled with books Dandy had read and the ones he'd meant to. The memories tugged at her heart, each one a little dagger of grief, but she pushed through. Dandy had always been the reckless one, always the wild spirit; now, everything about him was frozen in time. Just like he had been in those final moments.

Her hand grazed over the edge of a nearby table, picking up a painted portrait of the three of them. Isaac, towering and composed as ever; Dandy, flashing his carefree grin; and herself, standing between them like a proud mother beside her two boys. She’d never had children of her own, but Dandy… he was the closest she’d ever come. Watching him die had torn something from her that she wasn’t sure she’d ever get back.

Her eyes fell on the portrait. Her fingers tightened around the frame, a bitter, twisted part of her wishing she could smash it, shatter the illusion of that perfect, fleeting moment. But she didn’t. Instead, she carefully placed it back, the protective glass cool beneath her fingertips as she fought to keep herself together.

She moved through the house, room by room, each space echoing with the ghost of his presence. His wardrobe was still open, clothes tossed carelessly about like he’d been in a rush to leave. One of his fancy coats was half off the hanger. She reached out, touched the fabric, and almost pulled it free to bury her face in it. But she stopped herself.

The boys who had held her down, who had bitten into her flesh, who had made her watch Dandy die... they had left scars far deeper than the ones on her skin. Thanks to Andrew, her body was healed now, with no more wounds or bruises, but inside… she felt hollow. She had begged Isaac to choose her. She had wanted to die in that moment if it meant sparing Dandy and Xavier. But Isaac had been unable to choose, and Dandy had paid the price.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the lamp in the corner. The light flickered as she turned it off, casting the room into deeper shadow.

She made her way to Dandy’s sanctuary, where he would hole up when the world became too much, when the fun and games couldn’t drown out whatever darkness gnawed at him. She stood in the doorway, unable to step further inside, as though crossing that threshold would break the dam holding back her grief.

He had been her boy. A wild, reckless, foolish boy, but hers all the same. And now he was gone.

Her fingers rested on the doorframe, a sigh escaping her lips. She had been with Isaac and Dandy since the late 1800s, had seen more than a mortal life could hold. But she had never felt so weary as she did now, standing in the wreckage of a life cut short by vengeance and cruelty.

Britta’s heart ached with a fresh wave of sorrow. She wanted to fix it. She wanted to go back and change it all. Beg Isaac harder to choose her, beg Dandy to run, do anything to stop this nightmare from unfolding. But it was too late. It was always too late.

Steeling herself, she turned and walked back downstairs, her pace slower now, the weight of the memories heavier with every step. She reached the front of the house again, stopping by the doorway. Her hand hesitated over the light switch.

“We’ll deal with it… later,” she whispered, though the house didn’t answer. No ghosts would rise to greet her, no familiar voice would call her name. It was just her, standing in the stillness.

With a quiet click, the last light in Dandy’s estate flickered out, and the house was swallowed by darkness. Britta stood there for a moment longer, taking it all in, the silence, the cold, the finality of it all. Then she locked the door, the key turning with a soft, definitive sound. She would not be back. Not for a while. Not until the wound in her heart could bear reopening.

For now, Dandy’s estate would remain entombed as it was, a mausoleum of memories, waiting for a time when they could face the ghosts it held within.

[carpe-astra]

Cycles of Choices

Isaac's Estate

The night felt cold, colder than Isaac had ever remembered. The lamp in his study barely chased the shadows from the room's corners, and the darkness seemed thicker, almost tangible, pressing in on him from all sides.

Isaac sat at his desk, his hands curled around a silver coin - the one that had brought the nightmare of his past roaring back into his present. It felt weighty in his grip. The same weight that had crushed his heart when Adil forced him to watch Dandy die, helpless. A boy, his Childe, snuffed out in a bloody reminder of Isaac’s sins.

He turned the coin over, the light catching its edge as it glinted against the old, worn features of the Crusader's sigil engraved on it. His mind wandered, back to another time, another death, another loss.

Labwe’s face, stern yet kind, framed by the cool desert moon. Her eyes... those eyes that had seen the worst of him, that had burned with judgment as they ghouled him, cursed him with half-life as retribution for his crimes.

He could hear her voice, though she had been dead for centuries. "You were a beast, Amalric, like all of them." Her words echoed through his mind, filled with the bitterness she carried toward the Crusaders who had spilled innocent blood in Jerusalem.

But then there had been the nights when her voice softened after he had proven himself time and time again.“But even beasts can be tempered. Even they can be shaped into something… better.”

Better.

“Better.” He muttered the word aloud as though trying to convince himself. But Dandy’s death had shaken that belief to its core. He had been powerless, trapped, watching the life drain from his Childe. Adil mirrored Isaac’s sins, forcing him to choose between his past and present. Just as Robert had made Ekrem choose between his wife and children during the Crusades. History had a cruel way of repeating itself.

His jaw clenched as the memory surged forward, unbidden but vivid. Adil, the Judge, broken and sobbing, as Isaac made quick work of ending the lives of his mother and brother. He had been forced to watch, just like Isaac had watched Dandy.

The voice of Labwe stirred again in his mind. “You learned from your sins. Or so I had hoped. Do you still believe in your own redemption?”

Isaac closed his eyes and saw her standing there in the light of the Temple Mount, her dark hair flowing like ink against the backdrop of the city. She had punished him with the blood, turned him from his path as a mortal, molded him into something unholy, yet eternal. He hadn’t seen it as a gift then. It was a curse, and Labwe had wielded it like a weapon. She had meant to let him outlive everything he knew, and then let him crumble. A punishment that evolved into something more over the decades, centuries. She had given him purpose after stripping him of everything he had believed in.

When the Inquisitors found her, he had been far away, on some other errand, blind to her fate until it was too late. He could still feel the agony of that loss, the helplessness of realizing that even immortality wasn’t enough to save the ones you cared about.

And now, Dandy. Taken by a ghost of his past. By Adil.

Isaac’s eyes snapped open, and he stood, shoving the coin into his coat pocket. He could almost hear Labwe’s voice now, more real than it had been in centuries, whispering like a ghost in his ear.

"You cannot undo what was done. You cannot change what you are. But you can choose. You can still choose, Amalric."

He thought back to Adil’s face, the seething hatred, the satisfaction in his eyes as he watched Isaac break. Adil had sought revenge for his family, and he had succeeded. But Isaac wasn’t finished. Not yet.

“I won’t run this time,” Isaac muttered, his voice low, a chilling growl. His hand curled into a fist, and the faces of the Judge, his mother, his father, his brother... all the innocents he had slaughtered in those blood-drenched years flooded his mind.

Adil wanted retribution? He’d have it. But it would be on Isaac’s terms.

Isaac straightened, his gaze hardening. Dandy's death, Labwe’s voice, the Judge’s hollow order to choose - it all pointed in one direction now. The past no longer held sway over him. Only the present and the hunt.

The shadows that had pressed in around him seemed to recede as he stepped toward the door. He would track Adil down. He would end this. Not for forgiveness. Not for redemption. There would be no absolution for him.

This was simply what had to be done.

As he left the chamber, Labwe’s voice faded from his mind, leaving only the cold, steely determination that had always driven him, through Crusade and Kindred blood alike.

"Choose, Amalric."

He had.

Adil was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.

[carpe-astra]

Alicia Montgomery & Andrew Darling "I wish time had better timing for you and I."

[carpe-astra]

Valentino Darling & Lulu "And after all this time, it's still you."

[carpe-astra]

Aimee la Rue & Kushiel "So touch me again, I feel my shadow dissolving, Will you cleanse me with pleasure?"

[carpe-astra]

Vanya Berkova & Isaac Solomons

"I'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing room floor, your morgue and your final resting."

[carpe-astra]

Spektor Iocaine & Knox T. Wilder. "I want to be yours the way the stars belong to the night."

[carpe-astra]

The Island Oasis

Island Oasis is a vibrant and authentic Caribbean restaurant located on the Emerald Coast, right on the beach itself, that invites diners on a culinary journey through the flavors of the tropics. Nestled in a cozy corner, the restaurant exudes a laid-back island vibe with its colorful decor, reggae tunes, and warm hospitality. The menu is a celebration of Caribbean cuisine, featuring a diverse array of dishes inspired by the region's rich culinary traditions. From mouthwatering jerk chicken and savory seafood gumbo to flavorful plantain dishes and refreshing coconut-infused beverages, Island Oasis offers a true taste of the Caribbean that transports patrons to sandy beaches and swaying palm trees with every bite.

The dining experience at Island Oasis is not just about the food; it's a complete immersion into Caribbean culture. The restaurant hosts occasional live music events featuring local Caribbean artists, adding a lively rhythm to the atmosphere. Whether patrons are seeking a casual night out with friends or a romantic dinner for two, Island Oasis provides a tropical escape right in the heart of the city, leaving guests with a memorable and flavorful experience that lingers long after they've left the restaurant.

[carpe-astra]

Symphony of a Godly Ambition

Dead ears bear wittness to Vivaldi. The rushing cacophony of strings in Summer writhes through the echoing laboratory. Through the chambers, and into the corpse’s ears. Lifeless eyes stare into bright, overwhelming light.

It reminds him of the Royal College of Edinburgh… how the body is displayed in the dripping hall. He can almost hear the professor yelling on, and on about how the procedures he was about to conduct granted them ‘insight’ they never had before. The erratic debates on whether to use ether or chloroform… But the corpse has certainly lost its majesty. Harsh lights shine from the ceiling making the pale skin snow. Sagging and swelling cheeks have succumbed to tumefaction. It was in the stage of decay that almost changed a corpse’s personality, casting a grim look on its face. But for some reason, it seemed… more alive than ever.

Amongst the dripping and cacophonous strings, comes a snap of electricity that sends a bright light through the room. Dusty is hunched nearby, zapping more details into his dagger with electricity that emulates a blowtorch. He examines the dagger some, letting the harsh lights of the room illuminate the intricate runes that he had been digging into the metal for the last year. The perfect time for a memory.

“Godsblood…” 

The dagger clatters against the ground as he hears the word. Immediately, the elder is jerking up from his spot and staring at the corpse. Heterochromatic eyes jut between each body part, making sure that it hadn’t moved. Then he looks to the dagger as though he’d find an answer there.

“...You know they are looking for it.” His head whips around again to the corpse, but still… no movement. A hand slowly raises up to his head, cupping around his skull as he speaks to himself.

“Of course I do.” A simple response. The situation was under control. Liliana was to do research to help guide them into the next stages of figuring out where the Godsblood may be contained. “Then what are you doing here? At this rate, they are going to get it before you. Before us.”

The assertion of others getting it seemed to make Dusty stir instinctually. He walked toward a nearby wall, placing a clawed hand on it. If he let the thing keep talking, it would eventually just shut up. Right?

“You should speak to brother.”

“Paul?” Caliban’s other hand jerks up to his mouth, and his eyebrows furrow from the instinctual word that leaves his mouth. “...Saul?” He repeats questioningly, trying to figure out why that was the first thing on his mind.

“Fratello. Brother. You need to speak to him.”

“I need to hide from Saul.” A pause in the internal conversation.

“Regardless… you need the Godsblood, don’t you? How are you going to let him get it before you? How are you going to let him, brother, outshine us? You know what he’s going to do with it. You know what Konstantin is going to do with it.”

Another pause in the internal conversation. It was right. Neither of them could be trusted with such an artifact. “What about the Carpe Astra?”

Another pause. “What about them? Think of all the things you could do if you had the Godsblood. Think of how you could protect them. Not only would you be getting it out of their hands, but with that kind of power… You wouldn’t need a Diamonori. A pendant. You would be able to ward off all of their foes.”

Dusty rushes toward his dagger, clambering across the ground for it wildly until he gets a shivering hand around the blade's hilt. He scrambles onto his feet and raises the dagger above his head. “I… need it. I need to get it before them. I must.”

He slowly walks toward the corpse, composure returning to his lifeless body with every step. “To… protect Carpe Astra. To protect Dixie. Aurora. To…” He pauses and lets his fingers firmly hold the hilt of the blade. Life begins to breathe through each rune. A sickly, bloody vermillion light seeping into the metal. He shakes his head. “I need the Godsblood.”

Caliban’s arm jolts downward, sending the glowing blade deep into the heart of the corpse. The corpse writhes, and a similarly vermilion flame rushes over the corpse’s body all at once.

“Splendito.”

[carpe-astra]

Saying Goodbye

Kára Eriksdottir

-night and day bleed into one another for those who experience loss so great they can no longer feel the gravitational curse of what it is to be a living creature. or unliving. you are nothing, floating in a void of numbness. for Kara, those sort of sensations and sentiments have long evaded her after time. though that doesn't mean she is completely devoid of emotion. one moment Spektor is alone, in whatever devolved state she's succumbed to. then, she's not-

-a pale hand touches her shoulder-

Spektor Iocaine

‡She had been placed in a room, and there she had remained. At first in the bed, to heal. Still and disinterested in the world, and the people who came and went. Sustenance untouched, the few gifts given in the beginning left where they had been set on the table. One night she had shifted, found herself in the armchair, with the violin case at her feet, still open from the night she'd played. Once vibrant eyes dull, stared blankly, even when a presence made itself known. Kara wasn't the first to touch her, to try and gain her attention. Kara wasn't the first either, to be ignored.‡

Kára Eriksdottir

-a moment's more of peace, or whatever dark silence Spektor had become wrapped up in. A coating of grief so thick it hardly allows her to progress further toward acceptance. then, the hand is gone- Hannah.

I need your help.

Spektor Iocaine

‡The world is a little more kind this way, when there's nothing but the silence and the darkness. A veil of mourning that becomes both coffin and sanctuary. Nothing is quite so raw and jagged as the sound of her name in the wrong voice but it pulls her unwillingly into the present. Fingers twitch, the first sign of life in the undead, and it's cold, gloveless fingers tracing the edge of a cowboy hat in her lap.‡ With. ‡A toneless word, the memory of a proper reaction.‡

Kára Eriksdottir

A nightmare. -is the only distant reply Spektor receives from the darkness around her, the source of the voice seemingly no longer in the room. it echoes faintly from a hallway, leading the ghost of a woman toward something. but the choice is ultimately up to her. if she does find herself moving, getting up to follow the invisible trail like a stiff, sad marionette, she ends up outside. out back. in the dead of night. Kara stands in shadow, the dark tendrils of lightless motion all around her. beside her is a stack of crates, and on top of the wooden boxes is a copper bowl filled with what appears to be white paint-

Spektor Iocaine

‡A nightmare. What could be worse than this? Hands curl, then relax. Afraid to damage the hat in any way, more than it had already been. It feels like her bones should creak as she rises, but it's soundless as she sets the hat down in her spot, and follows. A shell of what was, that comes to find Kara in the darkness outside with her bowl.‡

Kára Eriksdottir

-she glances at Spektor, giving more time to study the woman and what she has become-

Do you remember his mare?

Spektor Iocaine

‡Unchanging as their kind were, there was little different. Closer perhaps, to the corpse she ought to be, and like she'd been frozen in time, she hadn't changed. Hadn't wiped away the Vitae. Old streaks of rust tracked down her face. There was nothing poetic, or pretty, about the grief that clung to the woman. The question was so out of the blue, it was disorienting. Hardly the first thing to come to mind when she thought of him, but she does nod.‡ I do remember.

Kára Eriksdottir

-she nods too, then looks out into the empty alley nightlife- She was lost before he ghouled her. A forgotten creature wandering the Dreamlands, feared by those who did not understand her. Now...-she pauses, face unreadable- Now that he is gone. She is stuck again.

-she looks at Spektor once more, eyes cold and unyielding- Now only we can send her off.

Spektor Iocaine

‡It's like she's the wounded animal all of a sudden, this idea of sending off the beast Knox himself had ghouled.‡ And how do we do that?

Kára Eriksdottir

Do as I do. -she dips her hand in the bowl until the paint covers her entire palm, fingertip to wrist. then she mutters several curt phrases, softly in some old Nordic language-

-then she lifts her eyes to the night again- Dark mare, of shadow and fear. Through ridder and under moon, come.

-the shadows swell before them. then, from the mouth of the alley, a street lamp goes out. and bright shining eyes like two small moons appear. the rhythmic strike of hooves make their way toward them. and the night mare appears, the same as she was when Knox last summoned her, riding her hard and fast to get to a kidnapped Spektor. the woman hadn't been there to see it...but by now she would have heard what happened-

Spektor Iocaine

‡A part of her, some old human sliver recoiled from the entire thing, as if she didn't do it, ignored this, it wouldn't be so final and concrete. A long moment passes before she finally coats her hand in the paint, and it's not enough to rid herself of the feeling of Knox's body disintegrating against her fingertips, the first and last time she'd touched him without gloves. Looking up as Kara speaks, she finds the bright eyes of the beast... Her first time seeing it for herself, her gaze wanders over it, taking in some last connection.‡

Kára Eriksdottir

-she says something else in Sami as the beast settles in an agitated stance before them- Born in shadow, painted by the fears of mortal dreams. Original legends describe her kind as witches, able to take the form of a pale horse. A temptress to guile men to their doom through dreams. -she reaches out and touches the black horse, leaving a hand print of white paint- Knox could see the tortured, abandoned phantom for what she truly was.

That was his gift. Seeing more clearly what was right in front of him, more than I ever could.

Spektor Iocaine

‡How like Knox it seemed to stand in front of something so seemingly dangerous, and then tame it so easily. Spektor could feel the paint drying against her palm, increment by increment. It would take quite a long time, with how thick it was. The prospect didn't bother her, if it meant not doing this. But ultimately some part of her knew that things had to move.‡ It really was. I couldn't hide anything from him, even when I tried. ‡She moved like Knox had taught her, to let the mare grow used to her before finally pressing her hand onto the dark pelt to leave a print behind too.‡ He was always so sure about it too. Like there was never any question or doubt.

Kára Eriksdottir

He loved you. More than anything. -she looks at Spektor- More than me.

You have to say goodbye now, Hannah.

Otherwise, what comes next...could fail entirely.

Spektor Iocaine

‡There are no words for what Kara says, and how could there be? Not when it feels like all the breath has been stolen from her even when there isn't any, like everything had been carved out of her chest and what remained had been left to rot. Her throat aches, growing tight while her eyes sting. A bloody trail dashed away as she finally found enough air to make the words come out.‡ Saying goodbye feels like giving up. Giving him up. I don't want to give him up.

Kára Eriksdottir

You must. -she fully turns to face Spektor. body and soul- He is dead. He died. He turned to ash, and that cannot be undone. -the horse, as if sensing and sympathizing with Spektor's pain, grows more agitated, striking heavy hooves on the pavement- We are past anger. There can be no bargaining. A long and dark depression has stolen you away from us. From me.

You have cried already. But you have yet to let go.

Spektor Iocaine

I know that. I was there. I watched that thing cut his head off. I tried to stop him from crumbling. Tried to catch all the ashes. Held his bones. I know he's gone, I know he's not coming back. That there was nothing I could do and nothing that can be done. ‡Useless, and helpless. She'd begged Liliana, and she didn't have the ability to do anything either. She pressed a hand to her face, swallowing down the thick ache as the horse expressed what she couldn't. If she let the anger out, she'd incinerate.‡ What am I supposed to do when I let go? ‡People were there, waiting... Kara, was waiting. But it didn't feel the same anymore.‡ Kára Eriksdottir

You move. You either burn yourself alive, live the way he would have wanted you to, or avenge him. But by the gods, you move.

You are not the ghost you make yourself out to be. -the Methuselah almost sounds angry-

Spektor Iocaine

‡Kara had experienced far more loss than she had, Spektor was sure. She'd almost feel foolish, if she didn't feel so damn cold and hollow.‡ You're right. Ghosts don't hurt like this. ‡Maybe in a few years.. a decade, she'd be grateful for the time there had been, but damn if she didn't wish she could feel nothing at all right then. With the hand not full of paint, she stroked over the nightmare's flank. There was an idea though. There was what Knox would likely want for her, but there was what Knox would do if things were reversed.‡ What is coming next?

Kára Eriksdottir

-whatever icy rage might have surfaced like the tip of a glacier quickly fades beneath the stony veneer of the elder. she dips her hand in the white paint again and smears another print across the horse's dark flesh- A rescue.

When I took Knox's blood as punishment for what he did to Mael, I used it in a ritual on the Diamonori.

If you remember, it turned from violet, to red.

An old Tremere ritual that would allow the soul of the blooded to transfer to the artifact if the circumstance of final death were to take place.

This is not hope. -she looks at Spektor with what looks like preemptive disappointment, as if already envisioning the woman's reaction- This is not your bargaining stage.

If he is returned...it will not be the man you knew.

Which is why we must say goodbye. Once and for all. -she looks at the horse- But it is something to fight for.

Spektor Iocaine

‡Hope does burgeon, but it's the kind of hope like a broken bone splitting skin. Jagged and painful, and it slips under the current as Kara slices out those thoughts with the precision of a skilled surgeon.‡ Who will he be? ‡Something is better than nothing, there was no refuting that. But if it was something that still couldn't be hers, was unrecognizable... well, the thought was terrifying. But something was better than nothing at all. This fragment hardly touched the grief, but it was something to fight for, just like Kara said.‡

Kára Eriksdottir

I don't know. -her gaze is far off now, watching as the white on the black horse begins to spread on its own. in the darkness, the pale flesh blossoms. the night mare returning to its origins- But there is a balance in everything.

A life for a life. A death in equal parts. -she looks down at her hand- A hand for a gift.

A relative for a loved one.

Being captured on purpose. To learn Konstantin's ritual.

-she lowers her hand again- It may be a deformity. Physical. Mental. It may be his very being. I don't know. I won't know until the very end.

All I ask is you have a little faith in me. Just for a little while longer.

Spektor Iocaine

‡There's a bitterness on her tongue. A selfish wondering of why it had to be that way. But more than that, there was a feeling that made her weak - a kind of relief that Kara had done what she had done. Spektor didn't want to let go, but there was something to turn to. She set her hand on the mare's long forehead, watching the white spread out like spilled ink in reverse. Not pulling away until the very end when she's forced to - but doing it all the same. Eventually angling a look to Kara, eyes so red, with hunger, with a sheen of raw emotion and blood.‡ I have faith in you, Kara.

Kára Eriksdottir

-she doesn't say anything more. she touches the horse one last time, but not to smear paint. she has wiped most of it off on her furs. but now she simply caresses the pale hide of the mare that has become calm as first snowfall- Goodbye. -the horse shakes it's mane, flowing with white smoke. it nudges Spektor's elbow before finally trotting off, disappearing into the night. free at last-

-she watches it go, then turns and heads in the opposite direction- Goodnight, Hannah. Get some rest. -then she's gone in a burst of speed-

Spektor Iocaine

‡The word is too difficult to say out loud, but it echoes in her head all the same despite everything. Knox was dead and gone, and what remained wouldn't be the same. And there would be a difficult road ahead to get to that point in the first place. She gave the mare one last pat before it trotted away. She wasn't certain she was quite ready to be Hannah yet, not anymore. The decision had been easy when Knox was alive, but Hannah was a softer creature that wouldn't survive what was coming.‡ Goodnight, Kara. Thank you. ‡Several minutes go by, the busy life of the district beyond winnowing into white noise. Until there's a loud shout, and she comes out of the reverie, disappearing back into the club.‡

[carpe-astra]

The North Star Hotel

The North Star Hotel occupies the open space next to Embraced.

EXTERIOR

In the vacant lot beside Embraced, construction had been underway. The exterior and landscaping had been taken care of first, followed by the interior.

The outside is a brick hotel blending in with the rest of the buildings nearby except for the sign that boldly proclaims itself as the "North Star Hotel." One notable thing is that there are no windows at all on this building, preventing anyone from peering in at any level, or most likely as intended, light cannot enter. The landscaping is minimal, a great deal of the plot of land taken up by the building and parking lot. Shrubbery and a few hardy but pretty plants ring the building and outline the plot, with a few lot lamps interspersed throughout the parking lot with sections of curb made of gravel and greenery.

INTERIOR

Entering through the lobby doors (wooden, not glass), patrons are greeted with the scent of freshness, and of the calming aromas of white tea, sandalwood, and jasmine. To the left is the lobby desk, typically manned by two front desk workers at all times, along with a front desk manager.

The Blue Eyes Lounge

To the right is an open archway that leads into a lobby bar. This bar is manned by up to three tenders as needed and serves a variety of blood liquors and other blood infused drinks for Kindred to partake in at any time of the night/day.

The other half of the bar turns into a sitting area with piano included. A pianist is available nightly and takes crowd requests, or Kindred can play the piano themselves when the pianist is on break or by request.

The Rooms

Straight ahead from the front doors is both circling stairwell and row of elevators to go up to the other floors. Each hallway is designed similar to the lobby and bar area, with patterned ceiling, chandeliers, comfortable chairs and blue and red carpeting. Each of the rooms on the five levels are styled almost exactly the same, but feature different artwork purchased from Liliana Rousseau, or curated from the Galleria d'Arte on loan. The most notable thing about the rooms is that as noticeable from the outside of the building, they have no windows. In replacement of windows, they each feature a large screen on the outward facing wall, where scenery can be selected, or used as TV.

The Rules of the North Star Hotel

While it is located within the Red Light District, claimed by Valentino Darling, the hotel and property is to be considered neutral ground. Business that cannot be conducted in territories of others may be conducted here when neutral meeting grounds are required.

No hostile actions may be taken on hotel property and grounds.

Loss of control or Frenzying is grounds for immediate removal and excommunication from premises.

Any agreement, contract, or oath reached on hotel property and grounds is considered binding and must be completed.

There are no wards (aside from structural wards meant to keep the building from falling down during a Hellifyno apocalypse), so these rules are considered formalities and good manners. Lack of adherence to these rules is grounds for suitable penalty as decided by first: General Manager, second: Concierge, third: Owner.

Current Residents

N/A

Workers

General Manager: Elaine Fox

Concierge: Gabriel Briggs

OOC Note: Because the wards do not exist, shenanigans can happen. If word gets out, IC results will occur.

[carpe-astra]

The Wards of Embraced

Original wards were created by Alicia, but since her betrayal, Valentino contracted the Everfield Coven to make magical replacements. These wards are not visible until activated, and cover entry/exit points, including all windows (only first floor has windows) and Valentino's private balcony out his of office.

They tag people as they enter (think like a club stamp or bracelet, but mystical) and track them through the building. They also tag weapons (standard weaponry such as guns, knives, batons, etc; due to the amount of exotic and makeshift weapons there’s no way to cover everything).

These wards are built to be a point of safety for all guests at Embraced.

The wards recognize violent intent. They also recognize consent. For example, if someone strikes out with the intent to hurt someone, the wards will react. If someone strikes out with the intent of sexual excitement (and there is consent), they will not react. However, if consent has been obtained by dubious means (ie: mind fuckery), the wards will react.

The wards have a quick react time. These wards are designed to keep up with Kindred speed, and therefore can stop a strike from actually landing. Exceptionally and unusually fast Kindred may be able to land a blow.

The wards have a warning system. The wards once activated, will burn and sting as warning. If the violence continues, the wards will paralyze the perpetrator. It effectively makes them a statue, stopping any violence or Frenzying, allowing the perpetrator to be removed from the premises. Please note: if you have murderous intent, you will be paralyzed immediately, there will be no warning.

The wards tag patrons. Upon entering, the magick automatically tags patrons. This tracks visitors and allows previous transgressors to be noted for particular notice.

Valentino's office is especially warded so that only special people can enter without permission. Special permissions are noted here: Carpe Astra coterie members. Aurora Carmine.

Structural Wards: Wards have been placed along the foundations and in key, strategic places in order to make the building more structurally sound, while strengthening the material used. This is to that it can withstand more damage than a normal building ought to be able to.

[carpe-astra]

The Flesh is Weak

Mood Music

Dixie had asked him, if he had the chance, would he stay this way? Remain mortal, grow old and withered, until his bones creaked and his body gave out, and willingly, the spirit too? She had even said she would accompany him. Undoubtedly, his answer had been a selfish one.

Dixie was a light in a dark, bleak world, he couldn’t take that way, no matter how weary or ready he might have been.

He knew Dixie had her own dark places, and at times, didn’t think of herself as a light at all, but she had been a guiding point, a type of North Star, for so long - even if - by some chance - she thought herself tarnished, she was always, and would always, be diamond clear. 

And perhaps more selfishly, he could never allow himself to be the reason that the Darlings no longer walked the world. It was on one hand, a lingering compulsion of mortality, of legacy and progeny, but under it all, painted in shades of night and bitterness, the ruthlessness of the Beast could no more allow it than gravity could allow things to fall up.

Dixie had just departed to sleep as the sun broke over the horizon, and it was the first time in too many years to count that the sight of them did not incite a primal fear of burning, or the black hole emptiness of the day’s fugue state.

The early morning light cast a warm glow, the sky still painted with the darkness of the night, but the stars were fading away. A cool breeze rustled over Valentino as he took in the scene in front of him, of the city coming to life as the first light of day illuminated the streets below.

For the first time in a great many years, Valentino sat on the balcony with a morning cup of tea, and the things to roll his cigarettes. It wasn’t quite the same - there was no chatter of the Darling family still softened by sleep, or the tug of the younger siblings at his elbow, or later on, the presence of his wife next to him as she helped roll the cigarettes, warm and safe. 

As he rolled, the clouds caught fire with the light of the sun, painting the sky with brilliant shades of pink and gold. The world for a brief, shining moment, was awash in a warm glow as the sounds of the day began in earnest. 

A few birds chirped and sang, but the traffic was louder. Vehicles on the road and in the sky, the earthy hum of the portals, and the few drifting conversations of those passing below the balcony. He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air, reveling in the feeling of it filling his lungs, the way his heart pounded as the morning sunlight glittered over skyscrapers in fiery tones that made them look like great columns of living flame connecting planet to universe.

The first draw of smoke made his lungs ache with the taste of nostalgia, memories both bitter and sweet. Smoke and soap, the scent from his mother’s dress, the taste of it mixed with champagne from his wedding night, the bar room hazy with the afternoon’s smoke as they discussed their plans to take over the city. 

The way it tasted soaked in gasoline when he’d burned the man he thought had taken Elizabeth alive, how it tasted in blood when he’d hung the corpses in the butcher’s freezer when he thought Dixie had been taken. How it tasted with grave dirt, over and over again, Ollie, and Frankie, their parents, Odette, himself. 

And here, another familiar taste of tobacco in the sunlight. Sunlight washed over him, and he felt it warm his skin. Dixie had given him a dream years ago of a sunrise, and it had been close, but nothing would really compare to seeing the world in the daylight, to feel it against him. He savored the morning, a few hours of a real English morning, breakfast and tea, and the rest of the day in similar fashion. Doing things he’d always wanted a chance to do in the sun again, but never thought he would. The only regret was that Lulu was still gone, and he would have given a great deal to see her in the sunlight. To catch a glimpse of his Elizabeth.

At the end of the day with the sun sinking below the horizon, he had returned to open the club as usual. Hell or highwater, as the saying went. He had just seated himself at his desk when he felt the shift, the way the world slowed down. The painful cramp of muscles growing stiff, the blood drying up in his veins. The eager pump of his heart grew reluctant, as his flesh grew weak, but the spirit was unwilling and it settled in its corpse again.

No, even if he had the opportunity, he wouldn’t let himself become dust. But he had the memory of another sunrise, a day, to keep him company in the shadows he returned to.