mascherata - Tumblr blog

mascherata · 3 years ago

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Summarised character sheet I threw together of my OC, Circe, because what else is Tumblr for than weaponised autism? 🦄✨🎠💖

I want to try using this blog for my indulgent infodumps more! Below I’ve included the in-depth character sheet I filled out for the Fairy Tail roleplay campaign I’m involved in.

Circe Wish Rozen

❥ Nickname or Title : Pale-eyed Daemon; occasionally “Wish”, her optimistic middle name

❥ Age : 19, born November 28

❥ Gender : Female

❥ Sexuality : Pansexual

❥ Race : Perceived to be a cryptid for her bizarre appearance and generally bizarre tendencies, but, at least spiritually, human

❥ Combat Class : A

❥ Appearance : A somewhat sickly albino girl with a very heart-shaped face and strange, unearthly features that suggest if in fact of human origin, she may have a chromosomal condition, perhaps Schmid-Fraccaro.

With a slight gap in her two front teeth and vaguely elven ears to set off her alien-like composition, it’s easy to see how attention was drawn to her in the rural traditionalist town of her origin. Her reflective eyes, however, are the first one would notice of her ethereality, which change from a mellow bluish lavender to a fiercely bloody pink color depending on the light cast on her pigmentless irises. Framed by starkly white lashes, due to her ocular albinism and strabismus, they sometimes eerily shake in place as she tries to focus her blurry gaze.

Her opalescent white hair is cut into feathery blunt bangs, occasionally colored with pastel highlights that to her dismay rarely last more than a few days at a time due to the lack of melanin for the pigment to grab onto. Though of a delicate build, she stands at a dignified 5’7. She dresses strangely, oft in silhouettes that look more like children’s clothing than that of a young woman, with embellishments of a culture long lost.

❥ Personality : Circe is a bizarro young lady with a strange sense of social cues, but a well-meaning heart and a healthy dose of self-awareness. A combination of her rather isolated childhood and being very obviously on the spectrum, she tends to just blurt out whatever comes to mind first, and cares very little about coming across as off-putting to people who don’t bother to get to know her first; she’s resolved that she’s spent too many years worrying about what other people think about her, and wants to enjoy every unfiltered facet of herself that she was prevented from exploring sooner. In spite of this, of course, it’s much easier said than done to throw away inhibitions and insecurity, especially coming from a homelife where her every defect was picked apart, hence she has her moments of anxiety and self-doubt. She has a sarcastic yet wholesome sense of humor, often punny and borderline nonsensical that she plays straight under a well-timed deadpan.

Even in spite of being blessed with Angel Magic, from her upbringing she maintains a deep-seated fear of God and religion in general, and finds herself agonizing over her origin despite her better judgment - what if she really is of daemonic, sinful conception? Could she be doomed to Hell regardless of the content of her character? She often questions her own morality and greatly fears overstepping the divines’ boundaries.

Circe cares deeply for others and puts them above herself at almost any cost, and can sometimes be incautious of people who are kind on the surface but may not have her best interest; she is not naive, but empathetic and extremely starved of affection, and will seek that warmth wherever possible. She’s an outgoing extrovert with a somewhat childish sense of fun that masks her savant intellect; even if it doesn’t appear that way, Circe is observant of people, patterns, and abstract concepts that would fly above most peoples’ heads, yet she is anything but an elitist and doesn’t feel that she is above anyone. If told that she’s “not like the other girls”, she would reply that she is in fact exactly like the “other girls”, and that she loves, respects, and looks up to those “other girls”.

Also on the topic of her outwardly childish tendencies, she enjoys much of the same things that children do, in large part due to her hunger for the childhood she was robbed of. In general, she bonds well with children, sometimes more than peers of her own age, and enjoys playing with dolls and adorns her bed with stuffed animals. She’s extremely fond of glitter and vibrant colors, and sometimes dresses a bit young for her actual age, in frilly pastel pinafores and prints that would make Jojo Siwa a little nauseous.

❥ Background : In a superstitious and plainly cruel town, Circe was abused as a child on a religious basis, primarily for her albinistic appearance, which was very abnormal and thus perceived as derivative of the devil. As an infant, she was adopted by a Lady Hecate Rozen, who offered no information of her origin, and alongside the gawking of townspeople any time she showed her face in public, led her to believe she was something subhuman. Circe was often subject to beatings and exorcism, and when not treated with outright violence, she was starved of affection and treated more as an indentured servant than a daughter.

The pale child had been aware of the constant buzz of mana in the air since before she could talk, surrounded by it since birth as her mother was a skilled (fanatical) mage herself. Though the paranoid Hecate kept her techniques close to her chest, and refused to seek a formal education for her savant daughter for quite frankly she despised the deformed pale whelp, she did often put the young Circe on errands that allowed her to hone her own methods by trial-and-error. The herbs and crystals she brought her mother, she’d experiment with them on her own and learn of their properties whenever she could sneak relevant chapters from Hecate’s library. And to compensate for all that life denied her, she discovered her own brand of what arguably may be magic, or simply the will of a lonely child’s imagination; the conjuring of imaginary friends and worlds to escape into. Hours would be spent drawing maps of the places and people that were very real and alive in her mind.

As a result of her natural inclination for the occult and a deep-seated curiosity to learn more of the world in spite of Hecate’s discouragement, Circe grew to rival her mother in many of her own fields of expertise, including alchemical herbalism and basic light magic. Although her powers were obviously messier and much less classically refined, Hecate perceived her then 15-year-old daughter’s newfound abilities as a threat, and confined her to isolation in an emptied broom closet as an indefinite punishment. As Hecate gradually neglected her basic human needs over several grueling weeks, something foreign and feral came over Circe, and she remembers nothing of the incident except her mother’s scream before waking up, free, in a ditch around the outskirts of a town on the periphery of Hecate’s forest nook. All she knew then was the compulsion to run as far and as fast as she could.

Attributing her survival and escape to the gods she prayed and pleaded with during her confinement, and believing herself to have sinned greatly in whatever may have been done in her hours of blackout, a great feeling of guilt and debt is held toward the divines. With the concentration it took to escape into her imaginary worlds, she reached deep inside herself, and indeed found herself able to communicate with the angels who had saved her. Contact was made and a deal was struck. Circe’s sins would be forgiven and washed away into godliness if she would channel their holy light through her magic to make the world a better place. She obviously accepted, weeping in the irony that someone who’d been ostracized since birth for supposedly being an acolyte of Satan himself could be blessed with angelic forces.

Since, guided by the angels, she’s learned much of this brand of magic, and continued experimenting with herbalism as well as studying the more creative aspects of magic, aspiring to one day make those imaginary worlds and friends who were her childhood sanctuary a reality.

Though rumors of the “devil’s daughter” still run amok (contrary to her innate brand of magic), upon escaping her cruel town, Circe managed to hide out as a rather nomadic traveling sorceress, spreading hippie-ish ideals of love and anti-elitism. She befriended Yiscel Veil and bonded over their magic capabilities (and their shared hair color, of which Circe had been ostracized for in her hometown and never seen another person with, she was incredibly excited and felt she’d met a long lost twin or kindred spirit). Thus, teaming up, the two joined Mariposa Horn to use their powers for the greater good. They dubbed their team the Holy Crusaders as a play on Yi’s Requip Magic and her own Angel Magic.

Just recently the duo met Yi’s long-lost little brother, Yudeng, who Circe is already very fond and protective of. Never having had a positive familial experience, she quickly gravitated toward the Veil siblings and views them as her own, occasionally finding herself wishing she had been born their sister and wondering how much less lonely her childhood would have been with them in it. Nevertheless, she is unspeakably grateful for the present with them and tries not to dwell on what could have been. She sympathizes greatly with their similarly misfortunate upbringings and has a deep respect for their strength in adversity.

❥ Magic : Circe wields a sort of creative Angel Magic, a more alien and fey rendition of Sorano's sorcery of choice, leaning into the theme of Circe’s unknown origins, and the fine line between the divine and satanic; sacred and profane.

❥ Magic Type : Caster/Holder

❥ Holder Items : Opalescent Key, Angel Coins

❥ Magic Description :

Traditional Angel Magic mainly revolves around the summoning of angels through the use of golden Angel Coins, which represent the cost of the user’s lifespan in exchange for heavenly summons; in some twisted way, bringing the wielder closer to the divines.

Although the ability to summon angels with these coins has been seen in a scattering of others throughout the years, Circe’s form of Angel Magic is anomalous, perhaps a lost version. Fascinated by the Creator’s ability to manifest worlds - something that captivated her as a lonely child whose only escape was the imagination - Circe tinkered with her Angel Coins, using the alchemical knowledge she’d gleaned from her time experimenting behind her mother’s back to modify their properties.

After many sleepless nights of trial and error, and the arduous task of acquiring the necessary materials, she combined opal, brugmansia, silver, copper, fifty Angel Coins, and the crayon of a child’s first drawing (Razzle Dazzle Rose, from Crayola’s Fluorescent line) into a magic circle, resulting in the conception of the Opalescent Key.

A barebones yet ingenious passageway to worlds childishly imagined, this angelically-forged tool can be used to access extraterrestrial realms crafted by a creative mind’s eye. Through extensively stimulated imagineering, usually via drawing D&D-esque maps of a biome’s placement, architecture, and other intricate specifications, dreams can become reality, or at least as real as one dreams them. Alas, Circe is still but a fledgling in this craft, as is the case with arts so plainly foreign and nouveau, even if strangely familiar and a concept old as the Creator. Four notable caveats prevent her from utilizing this aspect of her Angel Magic for anything more practical than a glorified VR headset:

Not enough gigabytes. The realm can only be the size of a couple small islands at a time.

In spite of its fluid and imaginative nature, nothing pertaining to its visitors can be “edited”, at least not in any way that would affect them in the “real world”. Likewise, nothing from the realm can be brought into the overworld.

People cannot be brought into the realm against their will. One must believe to experience, after all.

Heartbreakingly, she hasn’t yet found a way to bring those childhood imaginary friends she so desperately longs to meet into animate life.

Thus the Opalescent Key is used primarily for leisure, and never combat. She wishes to improve upon these flaws in the future, but development is difficult as she fears the angels (and their Creator) may view her creation as an overstep, a bastardization, as for all intents and purposes, Circe is playing God. This irony is not lost on her, and paranoia creeps upon her that the ever-watching angels may catch on and condemn her, revoking her blessings and taking away all that she’d worked for. But still the daydreamer can’t resist escaping to her fairyland, heretical it may be.

❥ Magic Spells :

Higher Angel Summons (Lucifer, Aurora, Cephalus, Ceyx, Asherah); requires coins and mana. A gargantuan winged humanoid whose mission is to protect Circe. Despite their immense strength and arsenal of eldritch gimmicks, their earthly forms are imperfect and “mortal”.

When “killed”, they’ll eat through an ungodly amount of Circe’s mana to regenerate their worldly manifestation for future battles, inflicting a nigh-deathly pain onto her that is guaranteed to leave her incapacitated and unable to summon again for awhile.

Aurora: an eldritch, biblical-esque angel with three faces, six breasts, three pairs of wings, absolutely covered in feathers and eyes and eyes and feathers. She’ll set herself ablaze with Greek Fire and chase after the opponent with every intent of smothering them in her blazing embrace, and can launch volleys of destructive, fiery light in their general direction every other turn. 30 coins.

Lesser Angel Summons (Angel’s Messenger, Punching Angel, Hammer Angel); these only require mana and as a result do not as severely drain their wielder if defeated. These are significantly less powerful angels, more feathery mass than humanoid, whose abilities amount to basic projectiles.

They’re essentially slightly slightly nerfed versions of Sorano’s likewise named spells, except for Hammer Angel, who bears no resemblance to his canon counterpart and is literally just a winged, feathery hammer who bonks around at its enemies as if it’s playing whack-a-mole. Not quite the same glory as this guy.

Punching Angel: a feathery mass curled into a fist-like ball who is allowed a punch at his opponent per turn.

Angel’s Messenger: a barrage of light projectiles, the individuals being approximately the same specimen as Punching Angel but much, much smaller.

Prism - magic crystalline projectiles, akin to kunai; the glowing blades are hot as if they’d been sitting in the sun for hours, and they have a slightly broader range than regular throwing-knives, plus the added benefit of being able to fire off about a dozen at once.

Opalescent Key - a key that can create rifts into other worlds, though only the ones she creates can be entered; they can only be the size of a couple islands at a time. Though she can’t enter worlds she did not create, such as the angels’ realm, she can use it to converse from afar with the “other side”.

Bedazzle - a very self-explanatory spell. It adds glitter to almost any object. It is non-combat only. Obviously. Unless weaponizing glitter is a thing that people can do now. *shifty eyes*

❥ Magical Limits : Circe’s mana is depleted quickly, most of her spells being extremely costly. Summoning higher angels lessens her lifespan, and she endures great pain when these summons are defeated and oft falls dangerously ill as a result. The Opalescent Key can be unreliable when contacting worlds she didn’t create (think bad cell service).

❥ Magic Strengths : Can literally summon divine entities to fight her battles, utilizes her own imagination to her benefit

#original character #oc aesthetic #aesthetic board #oc bio #angelcore #pagano lovecore #fairy tail #fairy tail oc #angel aesthetic #kidcore #threaded tales

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mascherata · 5 years ago

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Mon Cher Martyr - a short story

Genre: dark romance, thriller, with fantasy and historical elements

Category: young adult

Setting: a fantasy world with influences of the Victorian, regency, and Renaissance eras

Tone: elegant, regal, acidic and witty, creepy

POV: first-person, past-tense

About

A budding romance between a charismatic socialite and a prim young florist comes to a head on their first date.

This story was written with the intent of being part of an anthology alongside other works, but it works well enough as a standalone if you don’t mind a few loose ends and lack of exposition.

Content warning for light violence, creepy imagery, bigoted language, and descriptions of sexual assault (though kept brief and mostly only alluded to as past events).

Comments and feedback are very much appreciated!

Mon Cher Martyr by Mascherata

About a quarter past seven and my date finally arrived at the tavern with a flick of her rust-colored hair and beam of varnished lips; obscenely late, and yet who was I to complain? This time of evening, we’d have practically the entire vicinity to ourselves. Poised and pretty as a rose from her mother’s garden, she sat across from me, small, peachy hands woven together in her lap. Of course I returned her smile, setting a chalice in front of her and uncorking the bottle of champagne I had been saving for my dear.

“How did you guess what I wanted?” she chuckled at me – with a note of gratitude; or embarrassment, perhaps. Filling her glass with the crystalline liquor, I laughed lightly in response.

“I’d believe my Ofeilian heritage is responsible,” I smiled modestly as I filled my own glass. “we tend to know what women like, you’ll find.”

“We’ve barely met,” My friend’s freckled cheeks heated, but she smiled teasingly. “I’d reckon it was more of a lucky guess.”

“My guesses are very scarcely incorrect.” I jested mysteriously, setting aside the bottle of liquor and raising the cool glass to my lips. Her dimpled grin was enough to warm a dead man’s heart. “Now, cherie. How are you this fine autumn evening?”

“I’m very well, thank you!” she laughed a tinkling laugh. Sipping her champagne, her honey eyes met my steely grey ones, twinkling softly as her smile turned to concern. Whatever was on her mind she did not verbalize.

“Hmm, might there be something on my glasses?” I teased her, removing my round spectacles with a chortle (though I immediately put them back on as I was frustratingly nearsighted). “Something on my face? Go on, you can tell me!”

“Oh…it’s nothing that important,” she said with a dismissive smile, setting her chalice back on the table. “I only hope you can also say you’re well? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“Ah, I’ve gotten a bit of a cold,” I answered disarmingly. “A mere inconvenience – don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Oh! I hope you feel better,” Her gaze was sympathetic. “I have to say, it’s easy to worry about you – all the charity work you do, volunteering night and day…when in the world do you sleep?”

“I know my limits, Amy!” I laughed heartily. “I’d never bite off more than I could chew. I can safely assure you that I, like every other human, do in fact sleep.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear,” she chuckled, becoming relaxed as she drank more of her champagne. “You do so much for others, yet you never tire. How?”

“A philanthropist’s job is never done,” I mused with an enigmatic smile. “But many hands make for light work. I’m simply contributing my piece.”

Her almond eyes met mine for a second time, perhaps with a gaze of veneration. I pondered what she could have been thinking as silence fell between us. Her fair, soft face was very rosy, and her ear-to-ear, laughing smile never diminished, even when she raised her glass to drink. I chortled softly at her, aware of my own heated cheeks.

“What is it, dove?” I inquired.

“Your face is all red.”

“I must look silly.”

“I find it adorable, actually.”

“Oh, do stop with the flattery.”

Amy giggled and drank from her chalice, face reddening even further from the combination of champagne and affection, rather like fresh blood on snow. It would have been immensely difficult to stop smiling at her had I wanted to.

“It isn’t flattery if it’s true,” she said playfully. “I know we’ve only known each other for so long, but…”

She trailed off when her eyes met mine. I had been giving her the most knowing, tender smile, and she returned it with utmost warmth as a passionate silence fell between us. For several minutes we more or less let ourselves exist with nothing on our minds but the love that hung in the air, faces flushed with infatuation and compassion.

“Alexandre?”

I cocked my head, beaming brightly. Her hand met my cheek, twisting a lock of my auburn hair around her finger.

“Yes?”

“I–”

For a mere fraction of a second, a most uncharacteristic grimace distorted her pretty face. She drew her hand back. I was unable to help but notice how much she had blanched.

“Is something the matter?” I asked sympathetically, brow furrowing with concern as I set my chalice back on the polished table.

“I just feel a bit–” Amy shifted in her spot and shook her head wearily, again bearing a smile. “–it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling fine?” I inquired with a frown. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m absolutely sure, thank you,” she nodded with a reassuring smile, though the pink hue in her cheeks had noticeably diminished. “a little faint, but I’m positive I’m only tired.”

“Perhaps some more wine will cheer you,” I suggested, grinning eloquently.

From her amused giggle I could infer that she agreed, and so I took the decanter and re-filled my friend’s chalice with glistening champagne. She was quick to take a drink, visibly relaxing as a calming quiet fell upon us once more. It had been gradually getting darker, until the tavern was completely submerged in shadow, lit only by the tall, flickering candle I had placed on the table prior to Amy's arrival. Somewhere along the lines rain had started to drum against the dusty window, though neither of us had taken much notice up until this moment, as we were so caught up in each other.

“This has been lovely,” said my friend, voice soft, even drowsy. How could I have blamed her? The atmosphere was nearly soporific. “You're lovely.”

“Speak for yourself, will you?” I teased. “No, you've made this night wondrous. You are an absolute gem, mon cher.”

With another sip of wine, her eyelids became heavy – it was clear she was having trouble staying alert. I set the bottle aside, gaze again shifting to one of concern for my dear friend.

“Perhaps we should call it a night?” I offered. “I would be more than happy to escort you home.”

“I’m only a little sleepy,” she shook her head, taking another swig. Her eyes began to drift shut. “I’d hate to cut this short…”

“Come now, you’re practically falling asleep!” I chortled. “It’s absolutely no trouble.”

“I’m fiiine…”

“I’ll even carry you if you prefer – I doubt you weigh much!”

“I don’t know…”

“Sleep, Amy,” I instructed. “Sleep, mon cher.”

“…no,” she murmured uneasily, eyes closed. “I don’t want to.”

“Sleep.”

Below her breath, my friend mumbled something and slumped back in her spot. When her head lolled backwards and her arms dropped to her side like a discarded rag doll, I knew she was no longer conscious. Silently I rose from my seat, inching over and crouching beside her. I took her delicate, lax hand in mine and checked for her pulse. Aloud I sighed as the relief flooded through me – the dose had been enough to ensure that she would indeed awaken later.

I slung an arm around her waist and gingerly lifted her limp, warm body. I need not have worried about inadvertently rising her from her slumber, for the effects of the tincture wouldn’t be so quick to fade. My assessment had been correct – barely standing above five feet, Amy was quite easy to carry. On our way to the exit of the tavern, I turned to give a polite smile to the pale bartender – an unfortunately pockmarked, overworked young bloke with a hooked nose and ungroomed curls the color of tar.

“You recall our agreement.” I said to the trembling young man. It was difficult to suppress a chuckle – he looked rather like a terrified mouse, frozen in its tracks before a creature of prey snatches it up.

“F-five hundred gold…” he muttered timidly.

“Yes, Fernand,” I smiled, turning back on my heel to take my leave. “‘f-five hundred gold’.”

The bartender hesitated before making an attempt at defiance.

“W-wait!” he called. I could not stifle a small laugh, again glancing back at the feeble teenager.

“Yes?”

He inhaled and exhaled sharply, fruitlessly attempting to shake his painfully obvious anxiety.

“W-when will I-I be…” he breathed, rather comically feigning confidence. “…receiving it?”

“Once I’ve had my bit of fun,” I replied. “and once you’ve proven you’ll keep your mouth closed.”

Leaving him amusingly dumbfounded, I again turned to the threshold and exited into the cool, rainy night, Amy’s delicate warmth in my arms. I clicked the flimsy wooden door shut, its resounding “snap” reminiscent of the sound my mother’s enchanted deer traps would make when she took me hunting as a child.

And the trap indeed snapped shut, for I had caught a particularly fine gazelle.

The town – usually bustling with life and merriment – had fallen with an uncanny calm as a result of the heavy rain. Nobody would be out in this sort of weather. Where hills and moors were once visible in the distance was now a dense fog that hung in the air, masking even the majority of the drenched cobblestone road, to the point where I could only see a few feet ahead of me.

The rain spattered my glasses and slightly clouded my vision, yet I was far too giddy to care. Each time I captured my quarry, I was overwhelmed by pride and fervor – even when it came to my relatively easy targets, I always grew excited. Sometimes the best catches were the simpler ones, after all: The very young, very black woman I found out on the streets of the Opal slums in the dead of night, for instance, crawling back to her house after being shot in the leg by a city guard – she was an extremely memorable “involuntary acolyte” of mine, if you will. Her pitiful air of helplessness was what drew me to her – despite resisting, she and I both knew I was the only man who would give her time of day.

Even the occasion I was most proud of – one of the most widely desired Ofeilian socialites, no less – had barely put up any level of struggle. Always a martyr to the ideal, she was a sickly thing, starved half to death and weak as an anemic child. I had stayed after watching her kittenish gypsy performance to converse with her (and eventually have my way with her). But she was not a naive soul – she could guess my game, I could see it in her bloodless face: Aversion, nausea – her fear was what turned me on. I would never forget those harrowed, rose-colored eyes. I hadn’t even bothered to bind her to the harem, satisfying as it’d have been to acquire an aristocrat – but like the harlot I found bleeding that night in the Opal slums, leaving her in turmoil was the most gratifying move I could’ve taken.

I gazed down at the prize I held in my arms, drenched in rain and thoroughly oblivious to her surroundings. In a way, Amy was quite like the noblewoman I cornered – they shared the same ivory skin and rosy cheeks; the same softness; the same pitiable attempts at masking distress with defiance. I slid a finger across her cheek, illuminated in a warm glow from the tavern sconces, and feverishly contemplated how she would look in linen and beads. Yet my fantasies would have to wait – clicking my tongue in anticipation, I glanced back to the inky blackness and narrowed my eyes in attempt to see through the combination of shadowy fog and rain-streaked lenses: An infeasible feat. I grew frustrated – how was I to bring my quarry home in such weather?

I would just have to make do with the circumstances. Clenching my jaw and ignoring the tickling stream of rain making its path across my cheek, I warily started down the dangerously slick cobblestone road, straining my eyes to such an extent all I could see was blotches and specks of imaginary color. Initially it wasn’t quite as difficult as I anticipated, though I hadn’t the slightest idea whether I was going the right way. Yet as fate would have it, my foot wound up getting caught in a loose stone and I stumbled forward, cursing loudly as I struggled to keep myself from hitting the ground. Albeit half-blind and filled with adrenaline, I succeeded in catching myself.

Generally I’d have been more meticulous regarding whether someone had heard my exclamation, but nobody would possibly be going about in this sort of weather. My voice had no doubt been drowned out in the thunderous downpour. Exhaling a heavy sigh, I carried on warily, though my enthusiasm had rather been soured by the inconvenience. I was unscathed, yet I cursed myself for not considering the possibility of a storm before I went about my scheme.

Just as my eyes had begun to adjust to the murkiness, I became aware that I was not alone. Much to my chagrin, a low chuckle sounded from behind me, just barely audible over the relentless downpour. Had my senses not been as vigilant as I fine-tuned them to be, it’d have gone unnoticed.

“Reckon you’re glad nobody saw that.”

Again I gritted my teeth in irritation and paused in my tracks. Letting out an exasperated sigh and mustering a hostile smile, I turned to face whatever absolute asinine lunatic was out in the rain on this godawful night. A single glance at this newcomer and I was filled with dread – it was him, of all people.

I was face-to-face with the most disheveled young gypsy I had seen in ages, dressed in a dirtied suit that was no doubt stolen from a nobleman. My immediate reaction was to take a few steps back, yet I was too mortified to move. Gangling and painfully scrawny, yet nearly as tall as I – he was like a spindly cellar spider. His peculiarly wine-colored, chin-length hair – which he very obviously cut himself, for the ends were frayed and jagged – was completely soaked with rain and plastered to his thin, sharp features. Regardless of the darkness the fog had submerged us in, I could see his porcelain-white, gaunt face plainly – he was just that ashen. Despite my annoyance, I had to silently admire that the rumors had made no exaggeration: Though he frankly looked as if he had just survived the plague, he held himself in the most ridiculously campy, theatrical pose I had ever seen in my life, with a hand on the hip he jutted out and his head cocked in a farcical attempt at appearing coy.

“Fancy seeing another venturesome creature of the night out and about, luv!”

Bearing a vacuous, ear-to-ear grin, he dropped his cadaverous body into a nauseatingly cheesy bow. I refused to return his smile.

“What – in God’s name–” I inhaled and exhaled deeply. “–are you doing here?”

“Heard of me, have ya?” His stupid grin only seemed to grow, much to my dismay. “Well – who hasn’t? I am a rather illustrious star, if I do say so myself!”

The temptation to drop Amy and throttle him was unbearable in every sense of the word.

“You are a vagrant,” I corrected him curtly. “a vagrant who makes a living by ruthlessly goading strangers into throwing gold at you.”

“So you have heard of me!” He snickered and clapped his spidery hand onto my shoulder. He was so unsettlingly close I could feel his hot breath in my face. “Though might I make a quick – ahem – correction: I also get my income from concerned mothers who hope I’ll have a bit of decency and leave their pretty daughters alone!”

For a good fifteen seconds he stood there, sniggering at his own fatuous jest like a brainless idiot, perhaps in hopes that I would join in. I did not.

“Eheheh…ahem. That’s not funny.” he continued ruefully as he removed his hand and stepped aside, tilting his head at me. “Well, then, angelface. To, ah, turn your question around a smidgen, what are you doing out here?”

“This is none of your concern.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but instead caught a glimpse of what I held in my arms, the unconscious young lady’s mouth hanging half-open, droplets of rain caught in her wispy eyelashes. The gypsy glanced back at me, chortling lowly.

“Oh, a ladies’ man, are you?” He raised his very black eyebrows. “Well, I’ll say, pally! We’ve got more in common than I initially imagined!”

“It’s nothing of that sort, gypsy filth,” I made a nauseated expression. “She had a bit too much to drink. I’m merely taking her home.”

“To do what?” He smiled cheekily. “That’s right, that’s what I thought. Haven’t ya heard what they say, darlin’? There’s no lying to me. Nothing gets past Vermillion Hellsing, the esteemed actor!”

He flipped his waterlogged hair in such an obnoxious fashion that it made my blood boil. It took everything in me not to hex him into the void (though perhaps it was simply because I was feeling significantly drained at this point). I pointedly cleared my throat.

“If you are at long last done prying into the personal life of someone you don’t even know, I’ll be on my way.” I said coolly, shoving past him and carrying on down the street. To my aggravation, he almost immediately tagged along and gripped me by the shoulders.

“Wait just a tick, friend!”

I whirled around to face him, making no effort to hide how absolutely livid I was that he had the backbone to delay my business any further.

“What–the absolute hell–” I spluttered through my clenched teeth.

He took a few steps back. I privately wondered how he managed to be so thoroughly apathetic to my obvious vexation that he was able to just continue on smirking like a thickheaded bastard.

“Now…don’t get me wrong, luv, don’t get me wrong…I don’t think you’re stupid or anything…” he said, chewing on his cracked lips. “…but I can’t help but notice…”

He trailed off and paused, staring at me for several moments. I was seeing red.

“What? What is it?”

“Well…it’s just…you’re trying to walk alone – to that godforsaken forest, it looks like – in this weather?” he finally asked in dual mockery and fascination. “What kind of elderberries ya been sticking your nose in?”

I said nothing, refusing to give him that satisfaction. He eyed me, that curious smirk of his growing.

“If only there was somebody who could potentially accompany you…lithe as a panther, perfect eyesight, armed with an enchanted handgun; a master of sneaking around and aiding convicts worldwide…” he chortled mischievously. “…well, mate, you’re in luck, I’d say, I might even know a shortcut or two…”

“You are raving.”

I exhaled and turned on my heel again, briskly striding down the cobbles. I prayed with every ounce of my being that this lunatic would finally leave me be. Dealing with such a multitude of disturbances was terribly exhausting – though she had felt so light at first, Amy was now so heavy in my arms, carrying her was becoming unbearable. My strength had greatly depleted throughout this exchange, to such an extent that I felt as if I had just recovered from a bout of influenza. More than likely a result of my sudden weakness, I skidded across the slippery stone and lost my footing, once again just barely catching my balance. My face felt extremely hot when I heard that inane gypsy behind me, cackling like a madman at my error.

“Raving I may be, if not extraordinarily extraordinary!” he chimed jauntily. “What say you, sweetcakes?”

It pained me to admit it – it truly did – but I was privately beginning to consider accepting his offer. Though Vermillion Hellsing was notoriously mendacious and fly-by-night, he was said to be a valuable ally with the influence of payment. It was starting to seem highly improbable that I would reach my destination safely alone.

“…what do you want from me, gypsy?” I finally sighed, turning to face him, yet refusing to meet his eye.

“Oh, it’s nothing much, a mere pittance, really…” he responded with an impish grin he probably thought to be dastardly or roguish. He stepped forward and caressed Amy’s cheek with his long, skeletal forefinger. “…I’d be content if you’d let me have at her, just for a night – maybe two.”

“Quite a catch, yes?” I almost smiled. For the first time, he was starting to make an ounce of sense.

“Surprised someone who looks the way you do managed to get his hands on this lovely gal,” he tutted, running his fingers through her ginger hair lustfully. “Ah, well. Guess it’s all a matter of the drugs you slip ‘em. What’d you use?”

“An elixir of my own creation, actually,” I responded, unable to help but speak with a note of pride in my voice. “It’s outstanding what you can concoct with a bit of help from the dark arts. She won’t awaken until I’m ready for her to.”

“Ah-ha! The ultimate drug, I see. Didn’t quite take ya for a potionmaster, luv!” He wiggled his eyebrows, grinning toothily. “Perhaps you’ll have to teach me your ways in trickery and seduction. Now, I personally opt to shoot ‘em between the eyes and then have my bit of fun, but perchance someday I’ll give your approach a shot–get it? A shot? Eh? Eh?!”

He snorted at his own dreadful joke and burst into raucous laughter as I stood there, deadpanning and waiting for it to subside. Once it finally did after what felt like an eternity, he cleared his throat and elbowed me in the ribs.

“Where to, pally-o-pal?” he inquired jauntily. “Was I mistaken, or are ya really crackbrained enough to be heading for the woods?”

“The creatures there don’t dare cross me.” I blurted out, perhaps a bit defensively. “They know what I’m capable of.”

“Yes, yes, indeedy-indeed, I believe you, m’dear big boy! Definitely believe you!” Vermillion chortled, clicking his fingers. “Now, now, off we go! Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll shoot the baddies for ya! I certainly know my way around, that’s for sure – where in particular are ya headed? Chances are I’ve got a shortcut that can make this hellish journey a walk in the park!”

“The abandoned Hulder cavern system, east of the lake,” I replied, though almost certain he’d have no idea what I was talking about. There was no way he would be that well-versed in every nook the forest held.

“Wha–” he gawked at me. “Now that’s one helluva shitty hideout. Why there, of all places?”

My lips curled into a smile.

“It’s the only place vast enough for my collection.”

“Aha, sounds about right,” he snorted. “Onwards and outwards we go, sir and ma’am!”

Vermillion strode onwards, with a very distinct spring in his step. He sashayed and sort of waltzed as he walked – even though he was sopping wet, he was completely unphased by the rain and seemed almost comically determined not to let it hinder his dramatic flair. As much as I loathed to admit it to myself, his presence was enough to clear my mind. It was easier to think straight when I had someone else to worry for my safety. Despite how loathsome he was, the gypsy was a valuable asset. I would just have to put up with it until we arrived at the caverns.

As we walked, the constant pattering of rain was having a lulling effect on me, as was the steady beat of our footsteps against the smooth ground. Though I had only pretended to drink my champagne, I felt very hazy and exhausted. I glanced down at the arduous burden in my aching arms with envy – she was able to rest. But it would be completely worth it once we got to our destination. I could then at last take my prize; the recompense for all my troubles. A single look at my dear friend’s softness – the water tracing her collarbones, casting a pallor on her delicate flesh – it was all I needed to steel myself and persevere.

Soon the path led us into the thick woods. The downpour was significantly less harsh thanks to the tarp of foliage the trees provided, but the fog remained a tar-like, thick blanket of mist. I desperately wanted to clean my water-stained spectacles – or remove them at the very least, as they did nothing but blur my vision at this point – but I knew it would have to wait. It took everything in me to keep my patience from waning.

My companion took a turn into a thicket, not allowing himself to be hindered by the lack of light, nor the brambles he brushed through. He strode at such a brisk, imperturbable pace that I nearly had to break into a sprint to not be left alone in the midst of the grove. At least it was very apparent that he knew where he was going.

“Your ‘collection’, hm?” Vermillion smiled. “Do tell me more.”

“What is it you’d like to know?”

“How many might you have accumulated?”

“Many.”

“Ten? Twenty? Hundreds? Thousands?”

“More women than you’ve seen in your life.”

The gypsy laughed that irritatingly vacuous laugh of his and glanced back at me.

“Now, we both know that’s a highly improbable number.”

“That isn’t including the ones I decided not to take home,” I told him, the pride washing over me. It wasn’t every day I was able to recount my accomplishments to outsiders. “I’ve lost count. I’ve been with a multitude of important, rich women as well as nobodies who happen to be noteworthy in appearance. A personal favorite of mine was a certain Lady Jaime Rose of Ofeilia.”

“A right fine gal in bed, or so they say! What was she really like?”

“Not quite the ingenue the stories say she was,” I chuckled lowly. “she knew exactly what was going on. There was no trickery, she was merely too sickly to resist. I played on her fear.”

“Ah, you lucky bastard!” Vermillion gritted his teeth. “The hell did you not get caught? Last time I tried to get near a noblewoman, I got thwomped with a steel gauntlet and hauled off to the Serpentine Asylum for eight months!”

“Do you honestly think they’d believe her?” I smiled. “When you’ve got a reputation spotless as mine, the heir of a well-renowned clan with enough coin to donate to every cause, to bribe every judge, to hire every lawyer…a woman’s claims start to seem rather silly.”

“Ah, to be rich,” The gypsy sighed petulantly, glancing down at his grass-stained coat. “Well, I’ve got my looks going for me! Women dote, fawn, swoon, and beg for me as is!”

“You look like an undead fop.” I narrowed my eyes at him.

He must have been severely offended by this observation, for he scoffed and flipped his hair, sashaying onwards ostentatiously. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I followed him through the copse and thorns. Annoying as he was, I felt the need to at least try to keep my temper – should he become fed-up with me, it was completely in his power to leave me for dead (or lead me directly into a Huldre nest).

Thankfully this minor worry of mine turned out to be unfounded, for we arrived at our destination – how Vermillion knew how to get there so quickly mystified me. The rumors did say that he was exceedingly good at getting into places he shouldn’t, but I hadn’t entirely expected it to be so accurate – yet there we stood, at the beginning of a rickety, wooden makeshift staircase that descended into the underground tunnel system that once belonged to the Huldre.

“Aha!” Vermillion clapped his hands together in triumph. “So this would be your cozy little harem-hovel! Hovel-harem, or harem-hovel? Hmm…we’ll say the latter.”

“Thank you for your service.” I said to him, forcing a smile for the sake of politeness as I took a step onto the first disturbingly waterlogged stair. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“Nuh-uh, no sir-ee, not so fast,” he shook his head and stepped forward, much to my chagrin. “I’d love to take a peek at your collection before I take my leave.”

On most any other occasion, I’d have refused, but I was rain-sodden, exhausted, and my head was throbbing. The last thing I wanted to do was argue with this stubborn gypsy any further. I sighed heavily and relented.

“Fine, fine,” I muttered wearily, starting down the dim stairway. “but please make it quick.”

“It’ll be snappy as can be!”

We descended into the blackness of the tunnel, each stair creaking dangerously under our steps. I started to again become giddy with eagerness to at last make this night worth it – I was so close, at long last. It had felt like an eternity, though I knew it couldn’t have been very long in reality. Through my date with Amy, throughout the entire loathsome exchange with the wretched gypsy, all I could think of was the reward at the end of it all. It was about to be worth it – I just had to keep my patience for a little bit longer.

Due to the lack of sconces, it was impossible to see in the entrance to the cave system, but I knew my way around well enough that I need not have been concerned. A part of me hoped that Vermillion wouldn’t be daft enough to wander off, though if he wound up getting himself killed, I don’t believe I’d have particularly cared. Quickly enough we reached the end of the passage, arriving at the foot of a beaten makeshift door that was barely more than a pathetic plank with hinges. I pushed it open with my elbow and strode inside.

My eyes had no time to adjust to the sudden light. Albeit from dim sconces, my vision had been used to nothing but the inky blackness for so long, I had to squeeze my eyes shut for several moments to prevent them from burning. Once the blur subsided, I was able to gaze out at my prized collection.

Before us was the envy of men everywhere – the collection I had spent countless years accumulating and perfecting. Countless women – none very old, all dressed in the same lace and pearls – were bound by their wrists and ankles to the craggly stone walls of the broad caverns in glowing wires, bordering the walls in rows. I gazed up at them in pride, revering in the memento of my hard work. It had taken a great amount of effort to create a tincture that allowed for them to only awaken when I willed it so, but it was completely worth it. I turned around to face the gypsy standing a little ways behind me, smiling in my pride.

“Such a pretty sight, yes?”

He did not smile back. It was the first time he did not bear a grin of charisma and sardony. He seemed to be frozen in place, staring into my eyes with the most unreadable look I had seen – his gaze did not seem to be out of fear, nor anger or sadness; it was simply an expressionless mask. Initially I thought perhaps he suddenly felt unwell – given his pallor this seemed highly probable – or possibly he realized there was something he had forgotten, yet both theories were disproven when my eyes travelled to his extended arm and I realized that he was holding me at gunpoint.

“Alexandre.”

While his face had been relatively clear in the murkiness of the night as a result of his pale skin, this was the first time I had gotten an actual glance into his eyes. I felt the deep malaise run through me. Like the color of pink roses, deep-set and with prominent dark circles etched beneath them – there was only one person I knew with those eyes.

“Release them.”

Dumbfounded, I stared at him, unable to react or speak. He was so vastly different than he was in our last encounter, yet it now seemed so hideously obvious. How had he managed to elude me, when I had so easily overpowered him all those years ago? How had I not recognized that voice?

“…is this your idea of retribution?” I inquired hoarsely, my words sounding strangely distant in my head.

“It is.” His voice held no emotion, and had become so quiet I could barely hear it over the din of the rain that spattered to the ground above us.

“…after all these years?” I laughed highly. “It’s over and done with. Why are you unable to let go of something that happened so far in the past?”

“You ruined my life, and you’ll continue to ruin more.” he responded. It was uncanny how little he seemed to move, unblinking and refusing to lower his arm. Had it not been for the slight rising and falling of his chest, it’d have been easy to assume he was an inanimate statue. “Release them.”

“I ‘ruined your life’?” I chortled, unable to contain my amusement. “It’s only natural – predator and prey; men and unwary girls. And if you don’t like that, well, perhaps…perhaps you shouldn’t have made yourself such an easy target.”

Though I found it entertaining at first, the wrathful pain that gleamed in his eyes would haunt me for ages to come. He didn’t deign respond. I was laughing at his expression when it happened, so I did not fully comprehend the crackling report until after I felt a burning, blistering pain searing through my upper back. Caught by surprise, I glanced down and became aware of the hot, sticky blood that was pouring from my chest and spreading across my expensively tailored, lavender suit. Extremely lightheaded and dazed, I let Amy fall from my arms as I dropped to the cold, stone ground, clutching my bleeding chest in an awful kind of frenzy. My glasses clattered onto the stone in front of me.

I had to live. I was going to live. I could not die. I was not about to be killed – and I was most certainly not about to be killed by a former quarry of mine. Inhaling and exhaling rapidly, I assured myself that I was going to live. I had to. My legacy could not end so early – I had only just acquired the woman I had sought for so long.

My denial was shattered when I saw it through my bleary eyes: Each and every member of my collection, once bound to the walls of the cavern in magic chains, were freed. One by one, they fell to the ground, pretty eyes fluttering open and glancing around the blurry world around them. There was nothing I could do to prevent it. My power over them had evaporated as I lied there, helplessly weak and bleeding profusely.

“Go.” I heard Jaime instruct them, as he helped one of the youngest captives to her feet. “You’ll be safe now. Get back to your families. Do your wonderful things.”

They didn’t have to be told twice, scurrying past me to the door that led to their long-awaited freedom. The searing pressure in my breast became so severe, I could not keep my heavy eyelids open any longer. They flitted closed. Vaguely I heard a chilling wail of agony, and it took me a few moments to realize that the noise had escaped from my mouth.

“This way, please! You need to get out of here! What are you–”

I pried my eyelids open. Through the blur, my clouded eyes registered a petite young lady by the threshold – with her rust-colored hair and peach skin drenched in rain and red, she stood gazing at me with such an emotion that could only be described as tired disappointment.

��Goodbye, Alexandre.”

She had turned back to look; my one and only friend.

I miss her.

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