#. visage . she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader

❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut

❣ Word Count: 8.5k

❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love.

❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior, panic attack. Sexual themes: hematolagnia, body worship, masturbation, bite kink, olfactophilia, voyeurism.

❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

❣Chapter 2: Wolf in sheep's clothing❣

Love is a word that deserves closer consideration, halfway between the dry hypocrisy of the dictionary and its deep sacral meaning.

What a strange feeling…

Love, both virtuous and vicious, motivates us to accomplish great feats yet also triggers the commission of heinous crimes. This mysterious and inexplicable feeling interweaves its complex structure within us, becoming the most unstable, contentious, and hazardous of all human emotions.

Love is the fundamental source of all our emotions and experiences in the world, both beautiful and disgusting.

Love has a multitude of motives, including the desire for control, submission, care, seduction, lust, protection, worship, creation and, of course, destruction.

The feeling is manifold; We can call this complex emotion by different names, including passion, hatred, obsession, alienation, objectification, mania, unattainable dreams, happiness, idolatry, spiritual unity, and possibly the most poetic of all—the second half of the soul.

Humans crave love from birth until death. This desire is inherent and everlasting. As we take our first breath, we unconsciously absorb the toxic essence of love, which settles in our lungs like delicate, silky flowers.

This need is woven into the very structure of our DNA, an animal instinct that inadvertently condemns us to eternal suffering.

Love exists as a palpable entity, often obscured by human perceptions of carefree happiness and joy. It can be likened to a lurking deep-sea creature, concealing its true visage, branching and moving under the thin surface of our skin.

She is as cunning as a murderer's grin, and she is well aware of the inevitable tragic end of every story she is about to tell. Though we may be in the belief that we have had a joyful life, in reality all our actions have been under the impulse of love. For the sake of this deceptive feeling, which unites us for a moment in the ecstatic joy and privileges of angelic ugliness.

In the end, our physical bodies will serve to feed the earthworms, to house the larvae and to nourish the roots.

Never again will they gaze into each other's eyes, never again will the turquoise flame passion between them ignite, and never again will their lips meet in a voluptuousness kiss. 

Love has the power to drive us insane, to blind us, and even to lead to our demise.

And yet, in life, it is possible to miss everything but love.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

 3rd POV 

I want to fill my mouth with your name. I want to eat you whole. Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems, and a Song of Despair

“You look pathetic, San. Don't you think so? I wonder what Seonghwa would say to that?” Yeosang lazily runs his pale spidery fingers over Yoru's silky black fur, looking with contempt at the naked brunette stretched on a pile of knocked-down sheets and pillows.

The rings on his hands burn with blood, like the eyes of the Devil.

San looked blissfully relaxed and languid, like a caressing predator. His golden skin seemed to glow from within with an otherworldly glow as the translucent sunlight greedily licked his body with its soft touch.

Still, there was something vaguely animalistic, almost primitively predatory, about him, which in no way connected him with the arrogant aloofness that was inherent in the entire vampire race.

There was hot blood running through his veins, making him even more dangerous.

He was unbridled.

“I don't care what Seonghwa says, if he says a word at all in the next few centuries. Personally, I would prefer that his magnificent body continue to rest in the coffin for a very long time.” A smug smile played on his sensual lips. “And unlike you, my dear brother, I don't hide my true desires.” A slow, almost lazy glance from San's silvery eyes swept over the slender body of Yeosang sitting in the chair, lingering for a moment on the pale pink patch of soft skin on his temple.

He imagines, not without pleasure, how, with particular cruelty, he tears it from the porcelain face of his beloved brother with his long claws, leaving behind a wet, gaping wound.

San hated it. His birthmark is indisputable proof of his connection with his beautiful Rose.

The sign that binds their souls tightly into a single whole.

He should have found her first that night.

“Look at you, Sangie. You act like a coward, hiding in dark corners and wandering in her dreams. Perhaps I could understand you if your wayward antics gave her pleasure. If our Rose woke up with your name on her lips, all wet and needy, so desperate for more.

You have to ignite her passion and her desire to be loved, make her feel special, and fill her with thirst and hunger for our touch and our love. All her thoughts should belong only to us. But how did we end Yeosangie? Tell me, huh? Our Rosa has an animal terror before you. Sarang is afraid of you. Isn't that really pathetic? You know, I can smell that sweet scent of fear on her sheets.” San buried his face in the soft fabric of the silk pillow on which Sarang usually slept and took a deep, slow breath. “So damn delicious… I want to eat her whole.”

All he wanted now was to feel her from the inside, so that her scent would stay forever in his lungs, merge with his blood, be absorbed into his skin, and become an integral part of it.

God, he is prepared to worship this woman and idolize her in every conceivable way. 

She was his.

Not in some figurative or metaphorical sense, no. She was his everything. A soul that fills the shell with his dead body, blood black as night, that runs through his veins, his thoughts. Every second of his life. San couldn't tell where he ended, and she began, for you were two halves fused together into a single breathing living being.

The beginning and the end of his life

If he could know death, which was no longer possible for him, he would be happy to suffocate on that heady aroma that was spinning his head like a powerful drug. And to do so until death takes him into his arms.

How beautiful would his death be! Silk sheets, roses, and Sarang are the only true loves.

“She smells so divine, Sangie; how can you resist this temptation?” His back arched gracefully. Under the golden canvas of the skin, the jagged vertebral bones were outlined, and the flexible muscles were stretched like tight velvet ribbons. The relief of his chiseled abs pressing against the bed, his thighs rushing up, creating a perfect s-line.

He moved so smoothly. A large predatory cat, draining gross sexuality and animal dominance. A true erotic vision, fringed by the diffused glow of the lazy midday sun. The smell of her fear brought out the worst in him and made him crave to devour her heart and soul, but he couldn't do it.

“You don't know shit, San. You come here whenever you want and act like a cranky kid, pouting and expressing anger because you couldn't get her first. What a pity, because I was the one who made the connection. I can feel her; I can feel her in my veins; I don't have to act like a bitch in heat fucking her bed.” Yeosang's voice was indifferently cold, so deceptively calm, but San could clearly hear the poisonous malice in every word he said.

It looks like he hit a nerve.

“You tell me you'd never been in my place, Yeosangie?”  San grinned, and on his cheeks appeared charming dimples. “You never could lie;you always spilled everything to Seonghwa like a good puppy at the first snap of his fingers. You should ask Wooyoung to teach you some lessons if you want to play games with me. We all know exactly what you do, so didn't be shy about it, honey. Do you think you can hide from Hongjoong your little dream manipulation, constant stalking, and night visits? Or how pathetic and pathetic you look, whining and wriggling like a whore when you come in with her dirty laundry, which you hide under your pillow. Oh my God, what will Seonghwa say when he finds out? You should care. Our good boy has gone to the dark side; he's going to be so disappointed that he lost his mutt. Although you know, maybe you and Wooyoung aren't as different as I originally thought. He's just as pathetic a puppy as you are, my beautiful brother, and look how that turned out for him. Perhaps you'll be the next one to end up in a coffin. I'd change my behavior if I were you. Bad boys get punished.” There was mockery and outright bullying in his voice.

That's right, they were family; their loyalty to each other was an unbreakable blood oath, and if necessary, they would be willing to die for each other. Blood is thicker than water. But the bond they shared with Sarang was different from anything that could be explained. She wasn't a missing part; to think so would be foolish. No, she was a part of themselves, a part of their dead souls, filling their bodies with a semblance of life. Something extremely more dangerous than any possible blood bond. A bond where the lines between reality and fantasy, obsession and morality, understanding and rationality were blurred.  And that bond was the reason, why Wooyoung, Yunho, and Seonghwa were still resting in their luxurious coffins. Iron, velvet, and crystal—so completely different, so frighteningly the same.

San remembers with pleasure how good it felt to drive stakes into their black hearts. The spell would be broken with a kiss. Perfectly. He hopes their sleep will be eternal. This time, it should be different. He will be the first, yes. San will be first—not Seonghwa, not Hongjoong, not Wooyoung, but him.

That's right. Everything will be the way it should be from the beginning. After all, he was the one who started it all.

Once upon a time, Sarang belonged only to him.

“San…” Yeosang hissed menacingly, digging his bony fingers forcefully into the soft feline fur, causing Yoru to meow painfully and curl up into a ball in his lap. His fangs bared, scratching his plump lower lip, and black veins trickled in an intricate pattern down his thin neck.

The brunette laughed and rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric of the pillow, covering his eyes dreamily.

The silk felt wonderful against his bare skin.

“You hiss like a kitten; will you show me your sharp little teeth?”

“You'd better watch out for your tongue, or I might rip it out.” The fierce gaze literally stabbed him. It burned and penetrated to the core of his being.

“I dare you.” The bloodied lips opened, allowing the pointed tip of his tongue to traverse the tortured, swollen flesh, licking away the blood that seeped to the surface.

“Let his lips be like rose petals - red as fresh blood.” Said the Queen Witch.

San covered his eyes and completely ignored the angry brunette. He loved to play with fire. It was his nature. If it had been Hongjoon or Mingi in Yeosan's place, he might have thought twice before poking the tiger with a stick, and of course he would never intentionally offend Seonghwa; the outcome of any of those confrontations would not have been in his favor. But this was Yeosang - airy and gentle as melting snow.

The shadows of San's long eyelashes lay in a lacy pattern on his heart-wrenching cheekbones. They were one of the most striking features of his appearance - sharp and angular - and they made his face a masterpiece. A creation skilfully crafted by the hand of a master.

Yeosang's beauty was soft and angelic, the kind of beauty one might see on the faces of the winged, plump cherubs beneath the vaulted ceilings of Gothic cathedrals. He had once admired their beauty so much, especially when he tore their flesh with his claws and tore baby, fluffy wings from their pale, soft bodies.

Such an exquisite, decadent taste.

San's beauty was of a completely different kind: vicious, dark and hypnotic. Chiseled like the eternally frozen perfection of a pagan marble god, every line of his face was sharp and deadly seductive. From the feline cut of his eyes, shimmering with silvery immortality, to the capriciously curved corners of his plump lips, always inflamed and soft, so tortured and tender from incessant biting and kissing…

San's appearance was sinful.

He was the most desirable of all nightmares, the special kind that seduces the girls of the church, then fills his bathtub with their blood and organizes orgies in the bloody pieces of their torn bodies. San was formidable and intimidating, but his aura was alluring and seductive. The terrible prospect of an inevitable end and death had never looked so appealing. Maybe he was having an affair with you, or maybe he was going to kill you. There was lust, danger, and rage. There was a delicate balance between horror and desire, as if he were the embodiment of both the horror and the charm of God. He was the man everyone secretly dreams about when they caress themselves before going to bed, in a cold, lonely bed.

He was the person who made you feel uncomfortable in your own skin and who made you experience a shivering sensation of fear that would spread over all of your exposed areas.

San was undoubtedly that person. Despite the potential for his eyes to linger on your skin, his presence was desired. Exquisite wounds, reminiscent of blossoms from damaged tissue, were created by his razor-sharp canines.

Death and sex were not enough for San; he had a craving for disorder and hot sensations.

He always wanted more, whether it was blood or pleasure. He never felt satisfied.

His sole desire was Rose—just her alone.

“Do you smell that Sangie scent?” San inhaled deeply again that intoxicating divine scent, resisting the urge to savor her flavor like a dog, choking and whimpering. “Mmmm, I want her so badly. I want her whole, every fucking cell of her body. She's driving me crazy.”

Sarang emitted a scent that was distinctly sharp and overpowering in its fragrance. Reminiscent of aged wine, it was infused with the bitterness of dark chocolate, the piquancy of red pepper, and the sweetness of roses. It tastes like sin and blessing at the same time. Like a slight saltiness akin to the tears she had shed, he longed to lick them off her rounded, flushed cheeks. The fruity sweetness of illicit fruit. The taste of his own blood. The metal and thick aroma of their sexual encounter. Thick as semen and honey.

San wants to have her. Wants her to love him. He desires his love to be reciprocated as fervently and passionately as he does.

His only wish is her love.

Although it is not enough for him to possess her love, he wants her to have an intense and almost sadistic affection for him—one that goes beyond what seems possible. He yearns for her to destroy him. Because he's confident in Sarang's ability to do so. He needs more. More than she could offer him, more than she could ever agree to. He is but a slave, created to worship her.

San's aim is to belong to her; he would go to any extent, even to the point of destroying the entire world, if that is what it takes to achieve that. The value of her love is immeasurable, and his objective is absolute.   She is the center of his life and the very essence of his being.   She is the haunting presence in his dreams, a seductive force that both seduces and tortures. The midnight idol of his desire, the serpent that dwells around his heart, tempts him to sin.

San craves her love so much, and that need is so painful, so all-consuming, and so twisted. If need be, he would kill her with his own hands, just to be sure that no one else would ever have her.

Sharing her with his brothers was like hellfire burning him from the inside out, but it was a paltry sacrifice he could make in exchange for her love.

This time, he won't let her go. This time, not even death would dare separate them. Saran will be his. She will be theirs. In life. In death. Forever and ever.

Soon.

It will happen so soon. San can't wait for the day when his Goddess is beneath him, in the cage of his body, sprawled on the black velvet of his bed. With his fangs deep into her sweet flesh, and she will screaming his name in a haze of ecstatic pleasure.

He would make her see stars. San will take her all the way to the doors of Heaven.

“San,” “San,” “San,” “San” over and over, until her voice completely collapses to a painful wheeze, until he absorbs every tiny sound she makes, every moan, every breath, every barely perceptible note, until all she will remember is his name.

Until Sarang whispers right into his lips, “I am yours.”

Soon.

In the meantime, San can patiently wait. He will wait as he always has, obediently and without complaint. He will be such a good boy. San will wait obediently, as he has done for centuries and centuries before. Until the time is right to pursue his desires, he will take all that he has dreamt of, and God will save the souls of those who get in his way.

Right now, he thinks he could die here — in her bed, surrounded by the lingering warmth of her body and her maddening scent. He would like nothing more than to show her all his passion and devotion and all the love he could give her.

He dreams of running his lips over her skin and tasting her until his whole face is wet and glistening with her juices. He will fuck her into oblivion until night turns to day and then drown her in tenderness, worshiping her caress-weary body as an obedient slave should.

Sometimes, he thinks it's not normal—the feelings he has for her. Such love simply cannot exist. How can someone love someone so much? Is it normal to hate the very existence of nature and the heavenly bodies for being able to see her beauty, which should belong to him alone?

However, these were only momentary musings until he regained his composure, dispelling any doubts. How could he even question his love? It felt so perfect and effortless, like breathing. How could such thoughts even enter his mind?

Her love was a life worth living.

It was destined since the dawn of time, when spirits roamed the earth, the sun was young, and the old gods had not yet vanished. She belonged to them, and they belonged to her. They sensed her first breath on their lips. He felt. 

Their love bloomed again—a blood rose.

Soon…

These fantasies drove him mad; every cell ignited with the desire to possess, awakening his animal predatory nature. The ugly nature of his genuinely depraved being.

He pictured Sarang biting into his neck and taking possession of him. She aimed at him as if he were nothing more than a thing, a toy for her amusement.

“Say my name, Sarang. Express your fondness for me and acknowledge that I am your only one. I want you to own me and claim me as yours. Say my name until it burns your lips. Again and again. Drink my blood, bite me to death; I'm nothing more than your slave, just a pathetic means of pleasure. Hit me. Hurt me, I beg you. I need it so badly. Please, my love, I am begging you to love me. Love… Love me so much until it kills me. That is what I wish for.”

His hips moved smoothly, grinding his arousal against the rumpled bedclothes. San moaned, breathlessly gasping as he found the perfect angle to satisfy his intense desire for release. He needs to cum; he couldn't leave here without cumming. He buried his face in the pillow, panting and whimpering like a wild animal possessed. His primal instincts demanded he leave his mark on her, to possess her and fuck her into oblivion until her belly bloated from the amount of cum pouring into her and her head felt light and empty.

His claws lengthened, digging into the mattress, leaving sickening jagged stripes as his hips moved uncontrollably, continuing to rub his throbbing wet cock against the silken folds of the crumpled sheets.

The sounds he made were almost heavenly.

Soft, extended moans that turned into pitiful sobs. He sounded like an angel in the throes of passion.

In his fantasies, San imagined drinking from her as long scarlet streams of her sweet blood ran down their naked bodies, staining everything red. How deeply he entered her body, seeing the imprint of his cock on her flat stomach as her neat, pointed nails plowed into his back into gaping lacerations.

His teeth clenched as he let out a hoarse moan, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. San needed to cum; he was on the verge of madness. The need for pleasure was more obvious than anything around him at the moment. The transparent essence of his arousal dripped down onto the sheets, sticking to his golden, wet skin with every movement of his muscled thighs.

His thoughts returned to the dark, vicious images of hot animal sex. A fine shiver ran down his entire body.

He will run his tongue along every contour of the intricate bloody lines, licking up every last drop. First, the longest neck-open and vulnerable to his insatiable mouth, then lower down the hollow between the heavy breasts, rising in time with her labored breathing. His lips would close around the hard pink nipples, scraping them with his teeth, making her squeal and gasp. Lower down her flat belly, where the flowers of his hungry kisses and hard touches bloomed. Until his tongue is between the moist puffy folds of her pussy, he runs the pointed tip along the soft silken flesh, plunging deeper into the tight hole where blood mingles with her natural sweetness. He wants to feel the velvety, wet walls of her vagina clench and quiver around his tongue.

“Sarang!” His voice was hoarse, and his hands gripped the sheets beneath him with such force that his knuckles turned white, almost tearing the skin.

He looked pornographic.

San was so lost in his fantasies that he had completely forgotten about Yeosang, who was still in this room, until he was reminded of it with a sharp, painful tug of his hair. Long, thin fingers gripped the dark, damp strands with force and tilted his head back rigidly, revealing a view of a strong neck with veins swollen from exertion and beads of sweat running down her

“Here we go, such a pathetic, stupid bitch.” Yeosang said it with mockery in his voice. His lips curled into a wicked smirk, and San could feel it on his skin as the brunet whispered in his ear. “Look at you, you're nothing more than a slut; where's your pride, San, eh? The great general of the dark army, the heartless ice prince, the ruthless Ripper, is nothing more than a drooling whore shamefully rubbing his cock against the sheets.” Yeosang's fingernails dug painfully into his scalp, tugging harder on the long silk strands the color of night.

“Yes, yes, keep calling me that.” His request sounded like a plea. All Yeosang's words made him move faster, almost in desperation.

The rhythm of his hips became erratic and uncontrollable. He was close. His teeth clenched as he let out a hoarse moan, the sound vibrating deep in his throat.

“Are you imagine fucking her, Sannie, hmm? Or what would it taste like? I bet the taste will be heavenly; she's sweeter than ever in this life. Oh no, I know exactly what you're thinking.” A mocking chuckle escaped his ruby-red lips. “You want her to bite you.” Those wicked lips pressed against the frantically beating pulse point. “Right here.” Yeosang's teeth sank with force into the flushed skin of San's neck—that particular sensitive spot on his neck beneath a scattering of pale freckles.

San's eyes rolled back in pleasure, his mouth opened in a silent moan, and his hips shook with the intensity of his orgasm. Thick, hot cum splattered onto the sheets, staining them with the pale, milky liquid.

The brunet unclenched his teeth, releasing the tender skin. The bite mark was wine-red, with swollen incisor impressions and drops of black blood in the hollows. A poisonous flower, tempting to know sin.

“Sannie, look at the mess you'd made. Truly a royal fuck. I always thought it was more Mingi's style.” Finally, thin but surprisingly strong fingers let go of the silken strands, allowing San to rest his face tiredly against the pillow. His whole body relaxes after the overwhelming orgasm. The entire pillow is soaked with drool and sweat, and semen cools beneath his stomach, sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

He opens one eye and looks up at the vampire leaning over him with a lecherous smile.

“Would you like to join me, my beautiful brother? We still have a few hours before she gets home.” The brunet rolls onto his back to make room for Yeosang in the bed. His fingers run along the sculpted curves of his abs, scooping up the viscous, pearly liquid and sliding it into his mouth. “Mmm…” A long tongue swirled around his fingers, licking up every drop with lazy, slow pleasure.

“You're disgusting, San.” Yeosang puckered his lips in disgust, looking around at the brunette sprawled on the bed. He turned sharply on his heels and strode away from the room;  to he pick up Yoru on his way, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, in his arms. “Get up; we have to go. Hongjoon is calling us.”

“You're not leaving the cat?”

The brunette turned around over his shoulder, meeting his gaze with San's silver eyes.

“June misses his darling; for our little girl, it's time to come home.”

San propped himself up on his elbows, looking at the departing Yeosang. His lips stretched in a satisfied smile full of devilish anticipation.

The time had finally come.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

1st POV

"Feed me to the wolves, let them take my flesh."

“Well, I'm glad to finally meet you in a more relaxed setting, Miss Ahn. Please take a seat.” With an elegant gesture, the man motioned me to a deep leather chair in front of his desk. On the glass tabletop was a silver plaque engraved with the name “Mr. Lee Taeho”.

“Miss An” - how sad and tragic that sounds. I never wanted to try out this role. I didn't like being addressed like that, because it was always Mina, and before her, it was my grandmother, and probably my mother was addressed like that when she was alive.

But here I am, the new Miss Ahn, and unlike my predecessors, I have not sought to carry the weight of this unbearable crown. I don't need the congratulatory ribbons and the wet glitter sequins smeared across my face.

Although there was nothing in the address itself that I could call unpleasant, the tone with which it was always delivered foreshadowed the inevitable tragic ending of its own and tasted of earth and chrysanthemums.

You're bound to end up as one of them; it's not all by chance, Sarang.   Don't kid yourself.

I saw the future as a series of predetermined events, especially after Mina's death. She had the arrogance to dispose of my life as she saw fit, putting chains of obligations and secrets around my neck. I buried her in the ground, and my days became nothing more than a list of dull plans, paltry hopes, and bitter regrets, as murky as the water in the city canals through which a coffin floats. Still, I couldn't help but wonder who would be the next Miss An when I died, or would I be the one to hold that title forever?

There are never any former queens. There are only dead ones.

I could feel the blood flowing faster through my veins.

For a few moments, there was silence around us, thick and enveloping like fog. If I'd felt any hint of confidence as I walked through the tall glass doors of Silver & Black LTD, now, alone with this man, I was floundering in my social insecurity like a butterfly caught in a spider's web. I resisted the urge to squirm under the gaze of his night-dark eyes. Beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Lee Taeho wasn't just one of Silver & Black's most successful lawyers; he was also a devilishly handsome man.

He was built like a god. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a tight-fitting white shirt that accentuated his muscular biceps, bulging pecs, and flat stomach. The image of strength and power was completed by the perfectly tailored, tight-fitting trousers. The rolled-up sleeves revealed several tattoos on his wiry forearms—something in Latin that I couldn't make out.

His face was also striking, with angular, pointed features that would have looked strange and out of place on anyone else, but the luscious, perfectly sculpted lips made them something unimaginable and outrageously beautiful.

I felt uncomfortable under the weight of his scrutinizing gaze. He was looking at me like I was something special, but not in a sexual or romantic way; rather, it was the look of an explorer who had found an unexpected treasure in a pile of rubbish.

“I honestly didn't expect you to have any free time in the next few months, so thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

To be honest, I knew absolutely nothing about Silver & Black until Soomin told me about them on the way here. Soo turned out to be absolutely right when she told me about them. This place was the epitome of the arrogant domination of money and power—cold, glassy, and sterile, like a morgue where the remains of all “happy stories” are taken.

I could never belong to such a place, but I could easily imagine Mina here, with her developing blood curls and the unemotional grandeur of royalty. People like my sister were part of that 'proper' society so suited to closed Sunday clubs and icy glass offices. Like all of her kind, Mina was a great predator, used to labeling people and giving them her own names and definitions. She knew exactly how to make those around her feel uncomfortable with just one look.

Some people have everything, others nothing. It's as cruel and true as the inequality of love.

I still didn't understand how Mina had so much money to afford the services of this company, but judging by how polite and “sweetly” the receptionist greeted me at the entrance, she was very much appreciated here.

Blood of my blood.

“You have nothing to thank me for, Saran.” He said that, and I looked back at him in surprise. It wasn't so much the fact that he allowed himself a familiarity that surprised me, but the way he said my name—as if it had always belonged to his lips. It was as if he'd said it over and over again until the intonation was perfect.

My heart beats fast in my chest, but I couldn't tell if it was fear or something else entirely.

“We will always make time for you. If you'll allow me to be frank, I've left a few free hours each day, just in case you decide to call me. Honestly, I expected it to take a little less time on your part, but who am I to judge you, Sarang?”

“But why?” I tried to gather information and put it together in a way that wasn't absurd. I didn't want to assume anything.

“Why? Do I have to explain? Maybe I just wanted to see you; you're a beautiful girl, and I'm a great admirer of the beautiful. He smiled, seemingly satisfied with the embarrassment that must have been written on my face. I could feel the heat spilling over my cheeks, turning them a painfully inflamed shade of red.

I had never been a girl with a 'cute' blush. I was more like a girl burned by the gold of the sun, pressing her cheek directly against the boiling, bubbling surface of the sun.

Taeho lightly drummed his perfectly filed nails on the glass tabletop, completely ignoring my obvious embarrassment at the situation, and continued:

“But let's say that this is due to the fact that your dear sister was a valued client of ours, whom everyone here at Silver & Black LTD sincerely appreciated. Miss Ahn was our special customer. All the staff will agree with me; your sister is impossible not to love.”

“A special client?” I interjected. Somehow, that didn't surprise me at all. Of course, it was only natural that Mina was always at the center of the universe. People followed the sound of her voice like rats behind the magical melody of the flute.

“Are you surprised, Sarang? Your sister has helped our firm in many ways, bringing us new clients and introducing us to the 'right' people, making our firm one of the best in Korea. She's contributed a lot to the development of Silver & Black. There was a strange note in his voice, as if between the cracks there was something terrible—a terrible secret that could change my whole life.

For some reason, I don't feel comfortable at all right now.

“I'm pleased… hmm, or rather, I'm pleased to know that my sister has done so much for you. Lately, she and I haven't really been close, and we've barely chatted. So I didn't know where she went or what kind of people she hung out with.” My words come out a little sour, and I press my lips together.

The lovely Mina, as always, is proving to be the best. I wonder if the day will come when she damn pedestal will be nothing but a pile of ruins at my feet. I thought all this time you'd been pining for roses, but instead you've been doing the right thing. What else don't I know about you, Ahn Min?

What don't I want to know about you?

''Yes, yes, she helped us a lot. Now let's get on with signing the documents, do you mind? I don't want to keep you any longer than necessary.” His words were very dry, businesslike, and in no way in keeping with the previous flirtation. Something flashed in his eyes—concern, doubt, maybe even fear—there was a tense tremor in his hands, and his whole aura changed, as if something huge and evil had turned its attention to him.

“Sure, let's get started.”

The entire process took no more than 30 minutes. I signed document after document, with occasional detached comments from Mr. Lee, which were completely at odds with his previous behavior. There was nothing special about the documents, except for one thing: Rose Hill. As best, I could make out from the extensive stack of papers, it was a small house in the style of Victorian England. It was in the ownership of a gated cottage community, the grounds of which were owned by a private company. It was all too complex and confusing to realize the meaning in the space of 30 minutes. I'll deal with it later, most likely in the company of Soomin and a couple of bottles of wine.

“Can I sell the house I inherited, Rose Hill?” I asked without lifting my head from the papers; a few more strokes and I could be out of here. The atmosphere in the office was terribly tense; my skin itched unpleasantly and tingled in places as if it no longer belonged to me.

“To my regret, I cannot help you in this matter. In all matters concerning Rose Hill, you must deal directly with the owners of the land; I will email you their contacts.” The smile he gave me was forced, and I couldn't help but wonder what had made such a difference in his change of mood.

“Okay, thank you.” I signed the last form and handed the pile of paperwork to Mr. Lee. “I'm done; hopefully everything is settled now. Can I get a copy of the documents, preferably today?”

Taeho cursorily flicked through the pages to make sure each one was signed.

 “Our administrator, Sunwoo, will give you all the documents. There is one more thing you need to get before you leave. When you leave here, go further down the corridor to the vault, and Bora will show you a locker in the storage room that belongs to your sister. Now, if you'll excuse me, my next customer is waiting, and I don't want to keep him waiting.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Lee.” I clumsily rose from my chair, trying to get out of this stuffy room as quickly as possible. The air felt pressurized, and I felt like I was going to start suffocating a little more. I needed to get out of here right now.

“It was nice to meet you, too, Miss Ahn. Please take care of yourself.” The look he gave me was sad—so unusually sad, like the look of a man living his last day on earth. It was as if the end had come for him before he could realize it.

His words, on the contrary, were a warning. “Take care of yourself.” What kind of lawyer wishes that to a client as a farewell? Was I in danger? Perhaps you were. Although that's true, it's worth crossing out the word “perhaps”, yes, I was in danger. Could he have known about it? Did Taeho know about the roses or the people who sent those awful flowers? Was there something he hadn't told me? A thousand questions were in my head as I walked out of his office.

Mechanically, I reach for the strands of pearls at my neck and twist them around my fingers, nervousness bubbling in my stomach. This isn't some worldwide conspiracy, Sarang. Wake up.

I think I'm becoming paranoid.

The door closes softly behind me. I'm alone in a sterile, shiny corridor.

In the distance, I hear a cheerful laugh—Soomin. She was definitely laughing. Soo is having a great time waiting for me to wrap things up. Even though she was denied my escort to Mr. Lee's office, she wasn't upset at all because the nice receptionist, Sunwoo, I think his name was, was determined not to let her get bored alone.

I could have fallen in love with him. He was charming and cute, with a sweet, heart-shaped smile that would make your teeth rot. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, Armani Prive, in a thinly stitched pinstripe. I'd say he looked like a puppy. With those big, wet, shiny eyes and the way he struck the right pose when you told him to.

Yes, that was the kind of guy I fell in love with—the kind with a good reputation and a well-paid job—the kind who makes love, not fucks. They're the ones who make sure he looks you in the eye and whispers to you about how good you're feeling when he's caressing your body.

Good boys. Obedient boys. Sugar-coated like candy.

If I fell in love with a guy like that, Soomin would break him up like a Christmas candy bar and take a bite right down the middle of him. She liked that type—kind, gentle, and submissive. There had never been a lack of male attention in her life, but for some reason, Soo had always surrounded herself with this type of boy, like colorful toys. She wasn't afraid to break them because she could always move on to the next one. They never crossed her, nodding in obedience and jumping as high as she asked. Men were no more precious to Soo than broken crystal balls, shimmering but useless.

The corridor in front of me was long and empty, with a single door at the end. The sound of heels hitting marble tiles echoed in my head, and the checkerboard pattern on the marble was jarring. For a moment, I thought the corridor was narrowing like a rabbit hole, endless and dark. I was short of air, unable to breathe, and the oxygen in my lungs was as thick and viscous as swamp sludge. I clawed at my neck with my fingernails, trying to pull off the pearl collar, but I felt myself tightening it stronger. My eyes stung from tears and mascara, and ink streaks ran down my cheeks, and somehow they felt colder than they should have.

My fingernails dug into the skin on my collarbones, scratching at it with cruelty and anger.

I needed to get away from myself. To be separate from my body and the way I felt. The nightmare awakened inside me, licking my veins, working its way inside, and gnawing into my soul. My consciousness was beyond my mind.

I hear the sound of tearing threads and thousands of pearls falling at my feet, and I fall with them. I want to go back to before it all began. Before the pain, Before the roses.

Fluorescent lights flash like the tails of nameless comets on the pearly roundness of the beads. I see stars exploding behind my eyes, painting the underside of my eyelids with intricate strokes—the constellation Gemini. Nergal. I want to remember the days when roses were just roses, not home to the ghosts of my soul.

I hear a sound—it's pearls crunching under sharp heels. Under steel heels, like the teeth of the Witch Queen. 

“Oh my God, Saran!” Someone shouts. Soomin isn't laughing anymore.

Her hands are so cold against my clammy skin. She presses my face against her chest, and the feverish beating of her heart brings me back to reality. She is my white rabbit.

Voices, voices—there are so many of them. It's a cacophony of sounds and unpleasant cracking noises. The pearls keep breaking, and I keep crying.

Someone brings me a glass of unpleasantly cold water; it runs down my throat like a liquid flame.

I finally took a breath.

“Take me home.” That's all I can say right now. I want to go home, away from the world, away from the sun, and away from the memories.

“She's having a panic attack; she needs air.”

“No! I need to go home.”

“It's OK, sweetheart. I've got you,” Soo purrs, kissing the top of my head like a little baby. She pulls me off the floor with effort, lifting me to my feet.

I look down at the checkered pattern of the marble slabs and at the scattered pearls. In some places, the white slabs are smeared with red, like lipstick smeared by a kiss. This is blood. My blood.

My legs shake like a newborn fawn as Soomin leads me away from this place. Every step was painful, almost more painful than Soo's tight grip on my forearm.   “It's okay, Sarang, we're going home.”

It's okay, Sarang.

It's okay.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“Are you sure you're feeling better?”

“Yeah, I'm fine now.” I squeezed out the shadow of a smile. Apparently it was useless; the look in her eyes remained the same: worried, with fear lurking around the edges. Fear for me.

“How long have you been having these attacks?”

“This is the first time. I guess… I don't know. Let's just say it's a consequence of trauma. I don't want to talk about it.”

“I'm so sorry.” Soo crouched on the edge of the bed, taking my hand gently. I was made of glass; she didn't want to break me or do the opposite by hurting herself on me. “It's so horrible that you have to go through all this, baby.”

“Yes, it is.” What else could I say? I could not have said a word, and everything would have been understood. The wounds under the bandage itched terribly. Long red marks stretched along my collarbones and neck. Mascara was still smeared across my face, as was the soft pink lip gloss. I looked like a mess. I was a mess.

My throat was all dry and thirsty, and my eyes were so swollen I couldn't even open them fully.

“Do you want me to stay with you tonight, love? We can watch a film or something; maybe one of those stupid comedy shows Mina hated. I'll make dinner and open the wine.”

“No need; I'll be fine. Soomin, go home; you should be resting too, not babysitting me. I'm fine, really. I'm feeling better, and I'll definitely get through the night. I'll probably go straight to sleep as soon as you leave.” Much as I loved Soo, I didn't feel like seeing anyone right now.

“If you say so, Please call me in the morning as soon as you wake up, okay?”

“Of course. Be safe, Soo. Love you.” I thought I covered my eyes for only a second before I heard the click of the front door. The mark of her kiss burned on my cheek.

I don't know how many hours I sat like that—completely still, not taking my eyes off the dark landscape outside the window, which was getting brighter now that a little moonlight was seeping through the thick clouds.

I didn't want to get out of bed, drowning in pillows and blankets like a pipe dream. I felt good in my bed. I couldn't understand what exactly had changed, but I could feel the change. Even in the morning, the bed had been cold and lonely, but now the silk under my fingers was warmer and softer to the touch. Even the smell of the blankets seemed to be different, like purple lilies and musk, a scent that remotely reminded me of something very familiar but long forgotten. Could it have been Soo's perfume? No, more like the scent that Yoru always brought with her.

By the way, where did she go? She was here when I left this morning, but knowing her talent for disappearing and reappearing at will, I didn't hold out much hope of seeing her today. It would be nice to have her around now, though.

I rolled onto my side, resting my cheek against the pillow. I didn't want to sleep, but I didn't want to get out of bed either. My gaze settled on the small box that lay on the chair across from the bed. A casket from a storage locker.

After my panic attack, Soomin took it away, since I was apparently incapable of doing so. Next to it was a neat stack of papers with black paint poisonously embedded in them, listing all the possessions I now owned, including Rose Hill, but the most valuable and important thing was kept in this little silver coffin.

The metal walls of the casket shimmered like liquid silver when moonlight hit them. I was mesmerized by this otherworldly glow. Number 0711 - Miss Ahn Mina. Sometimes a lifetime can be folded like origami and placed on a velvet cushion like a collector's item.

I struggled with myself for a few more minutes before I threw back the blankets and got out of bed. My curiosity outweighed my fear. At that moment, I had to remind myself that “curiosity killed the cat,” and if I had been any smarter, I would have thrown the box to hell and never thought of it again.

The box opened silently, and I felt a chill, as if someone had dipped my heart in ice water. There weren't many things in the box—something old, something new, and something blue—all like a wedding tradition. It wasn't like Mina. She had always despised the idea of marriage; the very thought of anyone daring to claim her freedom made her sick.

It wasn't for her, and it wasn't for me.

Weddings are gorgeous, creamy bouquets of fragrant flowers that breathe in the dawn. At the end of a long journey down a narrow church aisle, a handsome prince awaits with the promise of eternal love. As if. Girls, guard your hearts, for they will eat them for breakfast. Piece by piece, like a birthday cake, until there's nothing left to keep you alive.

Then there'll be another, just as naive. And then another, and so on, endlessly. That's all love is. A streak of devil's rubies and eaten hearts.

There was no heart and no love in that box. Just one little piece of paper with torn edges and a handful of precious trinkets. Just one small puzzle piece that had fallen out of a huge and complex picture. I could recognize Mina's handwriting from a million others, but the words written on that little piece of paper were not hers. In each letter lurked something that had never belonged to Mina; her hand had scrawled those lines, but her lips had never uttered those words.

“My only love. My divine Rose, when I leave this world, I will leave you everything you could ever want. When you read this, I will be gone. Everything has been arranged; everything is ready for you. The whole world will belong to you, my love. I took care of it. On the back of this page, I have left the number of my good friend. Please give him a call; he will help you with all the things you need. He'll be waiting for you. He is the only one you can trust, Sarang. Your beloved Mina P.S. Don't forget, love is eternal.”

I flipped the sheet to the other side. The handwriting was the same but so different; the letters were sharp and crumpled, as if they were written in a hurry.

Hongjoong. I had heard that name before. I knew the taste of it on my tongue.

My fingers hurriedly dialed the number; I didn't look at the time, and, to be honest, I didn't care. I wanted to make sure that he was real and that this wasn't another one of her crazy fantasies that would lead me down a blind alley. I needed to know that Hongjoong wasn't fiction but blood and flesh, intermittent breathing, and an unevenly beating pulse.

At the other end of the phone, the long beeps were interrupted, there was a static pause for a second, and then I heard the sleepy and so welcome sound:

“Hello.”

[gunsli-01]

Alright who's getting Chimera now that we know it isn't Mu- Well I could be putting my foot in my mouth again or catching a tiger by the tail. However, after looking into it more. It's more than likely Amane. Let's start with the weakest evidence first the squiggles and lines that appear in Magic are remniscent of the ones we see in Chimera Miku's hair.

A Chimera is also a a mix of multiple animals. We see Amane transform into what could be considered a human hybrid of a chimera at the end of Magic. After taking on the brunt of punishment Amane has a magical girl esque transformation adding three different things to her visage lightning magical girl wand a badge from the cult replacing her ribbon and then wings on her back. A transformation met with applause and praise from the people who'd just punished her cause this change met their expectations.

Let's touch on those expectations. Throughout, Magic we see Amane being molded by the expectations of others repeatedly. Something her Positive Parade cover touches on. The positive parade cover can be interpreted as her attempt to cope with the circumstances presented in Magic. Showcasing her intent to focus on the positive by stuffing her heart and mind full of dreams that her situation will get better as long as she tries hard to be a better girl. As long as she can become that better girl her circumstances will improve.

Her not being able to stop and it not being enough perfectly emphasizing her environmental circumstances. That feeling of reaching the goal just for it to be moved. Something that's shown over and over again in Magic but said to be love. They just want her to be better but regardless of how better she becomes it's never going to be good enough. Amane is shown to understand that helping the injured person is against the rules but does it in secret anyhow even making a motion to keep it a secret to the cat before being caught.

So, it begs to reason that she may not personally believe everything being done here is right. Yet knows that doing something considered wrong to the group will lead to forms of punishment she'd rather avoid. The cover could also be seen as something she was singing directly to herself with lines like "If someone tells you you're wrong even when you're not at all. I won't support anything that denies you." "Don't laugh and say this isn't like me it's my answer to meeting you. Rely on me, rely on me, please."

These lines also showcase her headstrong nature far before we even get to see her response to punishment later on. Amane has dealt with punishment before this is clearly showcased in her trial one song. It's understandable that she would be unwilling to fold to it again and stick to what she's chosen to believe in now over anything anyone else says. Why she would suddenly believe in the teachings she's shown to be skeptical in within her first trial song is what we believe should be questioned here.

Magic shows her skepticism pretty clearly and how punishment did play a part in her ending up in Milgram. All this has led to her becoming someone who won't back down or accept her choices being denied easily. All that and the heavy focus on changing for approval within Chimera needing to watch one's step or be drowned in poison. The thin line of tettering between acceptance and being rebuked. It just fits Amane a lot to me from what's been seen so far.

Jackalope even compares voting her guilty to catching a tiger by the tail while Chimera has lines like your face is like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Both things allude to situations where the chances of anything good coming out of it are near impossible but the person is already stuck within it. So there's really no choice when it comes to proceeding. People tend to not realize someone's a wolf in sheep's clothing until the danger is unavoidable and if you have a tiger by the tail you're already in a situation that you can't leave. So chances are someone will get hurt either way unless they're the wolf or the tiger in those situations.

So, even if she doesn't get Chimera dealing with Amane is turning into a real putting your head in a lions mouth situation.

[epeesanglante]

@ask-mlle-desaulniers from x

---

The pause before the Photographer’s response is not lost to Joséphine and another light chortle echoes from her at this. How fascinating to meet another of herself! What hopes and aspirations does this Joseph possess? What are their thoughts upon meeting a literal vampiric version of themself? Surely, if anything, they certainly must be finding some amusement in her appearance with such a lengthy pause before speaking! Though this is typically the norm for any and all who gaze upon her visage, why would another version of herself be any different? 

But perhaps they were looking for a different reason however and not just at the usual physical attributes of her appearance as most others do...

Whatever the reason, Épée Sanglante can’t help but find much fascination in this ‘other Joseph’ and finds herself staring for a moment or so as well in return. Is this the appearance the Vampire, herself, bore in life? As something so full of that life and ambition? Untainted by the rot and decay of death that ever constantly gnaws upon her very flesh and bones even now? She cannot recall what being ‘alive’ is like, for it has been far too long since she has been, God knows how many centuries its been since her heart has uttered a single beat after all, but as Joséphine stands before this... much shorter version of herself, a bit of that prior life seems to run its way through her stilled veins.

“In awe of my beauty darling?” The woman offers after Joseph speaks, clear amusement evident in her tone. “Should you wish to view something equally charming, you'd have only but to look in a mirror! I'm quite certain you still can!” A wink and laugh follow these latter statements.

It’s unusual for Épée Sanglante to make such an obvious tell of what she really is, but seeing as she was not making any current attempts to hide it, she sees no qualms in doing so. Besides, with their own next statements, it would seem Joseph, themself, did not seem to mind, at least apparently anyway. 

“Oh?” Joséphine exclaims in surprise, “You would invite me in dear? Well! How very sweet of you! My, and I hadn’t even introduced myself yet! You may refer upon me as Joséphine, honey. Countess Joséphine Desaulniers. Though I’ve no doubt your name to perhaps be similar to this, but, may I inquire what you would wish for me to call your darling little self?”

Now, it was not often one so freely invited the undead into their home and so Épée Sanglante can’t help but feel a bit surprised by the fact the Photographer did. Inviting such an obvious threat into one’s home! This version of herself was proving more and more interesting by the second! Or perhaps Joseph was aware of the... ‘rules’ that came with all vampiric creatures and knew their guest would not be able to enter without proper permission. Whatever the reasoning though, the Vampire certainly had no complaints, this was the most entertaining thing she’s seen in the last century!

Thus, the wolf in sheep’s clothing enters the abode after a polite bow.

But... was the owner of this abode not also a fellow wolf?

“How glad I am to see you also have such a superior taste in interior decorating as myself! I’m quite positive this is quite an apt location for the discussions between your darling self and I.” Joséphine pauses for a second before continuing, she had not missed where the Photographer had been looking when speaking to her.

The Vampire’s fanged smile seems to grow larger.

“Goodness, what a quaint little camera! Why, it’s almost as cute as its owner!”

[umbramortiis]

tag drop

. aes . killer within , . ask . mission accepted , . music . indulge , . meme . lets play a game , . ooc . vic stop talking , . hc . making an assassin , . musings . isms , . verse 001 . bite off the venomous head , . verse 002 . run for your life ,  . visage . she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing ,  . skill . i could do this blindfolded

[fogmade-a]

new tag drop ! ( pt. 2/5 )

[animereaderinsertwriter]

Cupbearer (Eren/Reader)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV (in progress)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), vampire!eren, hunter!reader, fem!reader, smut, some amount of predator/prey dynamics but only kinda?? there is also a significant age difference but only cos eren is immortal and all that jazz. we're all adults here. there will eventually be smut.... and do i really need to say that there's gonna be blood in a vampire fic?

Description: A story of falling in love in 4 parts.

Eren is a bad man (well, a bad Creature) who has done bad things. When he meets the great-great-great granddaughter of one of his former friends in his favorite blood bar, however, he thinks it might not matter so much what happened in the past, so long as he can make the future something worth living to see.

Ao3 link here

Part I

A lamb in a den of lions, he thought, watching the newcomer as she settled in, ordering whiskey neat. A fool, for sure.

A fool she may be, perhaps, but even fools could be dangerous. Eren had known that the young woman was a Hunter from the moment she entered the bar (everyone else had, too) but something told Eren that she was hardly cut from the same cloth as the average Bane of Creatures. There was something in her movements— a predatory grace in her stride, perhaps, or a stiff, straight posture, with muscles tensed and ready for action— that betrayed her power to him; but for all that, she really was lovely, and the image of a rabbit caught in a patch of bramble came to mind whenever he looked at her.

Sitting in a corner, drinking his B-neg, he watched the woman as she sipped her drink, checking over her shoulder now and then. She was wary— as anyone with good sense would be— but she didn't appear frightened, and Eren's curiosity was piqued. It wasn't every day that someone so bold happened across his path, and it became harder and harder for him to resist the urge to approach her.

Eventually, Eren gave in to his curiosity— he never had been very good at or even particularly fond of restraining himself— and when he came silently up behind her, the newcomer didn't even notice his presence until he murmured a greeting close to her ear.

"Hello, little love," he said, and she startled in her seat. "Are you lost?"

She turned around then, her eyes big and bright in the dim lighting of the bar, but by the time she managed to look at the spot where Eren would have been, he was already seated on the barstool beside her. Eventually, though, her eyes found his, and when their gazes met, Eren was amused to find no fear in her visage.

"Far from it," she told him, turning her body towards him. "I am precisely where I mean to be."

Eren blinked, nonplussed.

"Curious," he said, leaning forward so that she could see the sharpness of his teeth as he spoke. "Do you fancy yourself a wolf among sheep, little Hunter? Did you really not think we would know you for what you are the moment you crossed the threshold of this place?"

Any normal, human ear would have missed the way her heart leapt in her chest, but Eren missed nothing. The fear he had hoped to inspire in her was present after all, but her face never moved from its impenetrable mask— an affectation that was somehow both soft and steely at once.

"That's not what I'm here for," she told him, widening the distance between her knees as she readjusted on the stool. "I'm here to discover the truth."

The truth— what an odd notion!— and yet Eren sensed no lie in her.

"You're a strange one," he told her, but forced himself to relax his posture to appear lazy, almost drunk. "Most Hunters— even ones so pretty as yourself— shoot first and worry about the truth later. What's your name?"

Her nose crinkled. "It's polite to give your own first."

Sharp, he thought, watching her closely. Names have power.

"Eren Jaeger."

"Eren Jaeger," she echoed, then extended her hand. "My name is (Y/N)."

That name sounded familiar to Eren— and though most names did after living a few centuries, this one seemed to hit closer to home. He knew that name, and knew it well…

"What's your surname?"

(Y/N)'s eyes flashed with an emotion that Eren didn't catch.

"Kirschtein," she replied, averting her eyes. "I'm Jean Kirschtein's great-great-great granddaughter."

And damn if Eren didn't want to laugh. Perhaps his nosiness into the posterity of his old acquaintances really was as bad of an idea as Armin always seemed to imply.

"I see," he said, and he truly, truly did. "Then you know who I am— what I am— and what I've done."

More than that, if she truly did know who he was, it was unlikely that she had come without a specific purpose in mind.

(Y/N) nodded, confirming his suspicions. "I was digging around in my family history and— well— I read what my grandfather wrote, and I just— I wanted the truth."

So wide-eyed, so innocent— so alive. Eren could see now her resemblance to Jean; if they were not similar in looks, she had his sharpness, his humanness… and, as he always had Jean, Eren envied her for it.

"If that's the case, then I'm sure you know that you don't get something for nothing," he told her, sipping his drink just to watch the expression on her face as he let the warm blood slide down his throat. "And that dealings with me can be dangerous."

"Jean Kirschtein loved you, Eren Jaeger," she told him fiercely and with such conviction that Eren nearly choked on his drink. "To take such a tone with me, to threaten me, the last living remnant of him, is the most disrespectful thing I've ever heard."

Eren was about to say that he didn't owe her, Jean Kirschtein, or anyone else any sort of respect, but she plowed on, unwilling to let him say his piece.

"You broke his heart a million ways by doing what you did, but— but he was your friend through all of it, no matter what side each of you were on," (Y/N) continued, passion aflame in her eyes. "I can't even imagine what inspired such a love, such a loyalty from him that he would forgive you for the horrors you caused. That's what I'm here to find out— what you have that a man such as him would find you redeemable."

The reproof in her words stung, but Eren was too old to argue. She could never understand what it was like back then.

"I understand more than you think," she snapped, and Eren actually flinched. "I understand that you hurt the woman my grandfather loved immeasurably, and that he forgave you for that even though he never even particularly liked you. I understand that you were ready to sacrifice the world for that selfsame woman, for Jean, and for all the others. I understand that you're a monster who loved and was loved back, but I want to know why."

How? Eren thought, shaken.

How had she known his thoughts? It was as though she had seen straight through to his innermost being.

Without speaking, she answered his question. (Y/N) took a hand and rolled up her left sleeve, presenting to him a scarred marking in the shape of a pentagram.

"My grandfather didn't settle down with just anyone," she told him, holding his gaze. "I come from a line of powerful witches, all of whom possessed strong claircognizance. Paired with my nature as an empath, you can assume I know what you're going to say before you say it."

Eren hummed, trying to appear less perturbed than he was.

"And yet you hunt Creatures for a living; strange, since you're practically one of us yourself."

(Y/N) glowered. "I hunt monsters that prey on my people, not Creatures. No innocent has died by my hand."

The unlike you went unsaid, but that didn't mean that Eren didn't hear it anyway.

"Don't get high-and-mighty with me, girl," he told her roughly. "Knowing is one thing, but experiencing what we experienced is another."

"I'm not here to judge you," she replied. "I told you, I'm here for truth, nothing more."

"And I told you that the truth doesn't come for free," he told her darkly. "You must give me something in return."

(Y/N) set her jaw.

"What would you have of me?"

It was a mean, base request. Eren was wicked for even thinking it, and vile for wanting it— but looking at the great-to-however-many-degrees granddaughter of a good man that he had once known, seeing the vitality that brought a flush to her cheeks and thumping to her heart, he knew he couldn't pass up this golden opportunity.

It had been so long since he'd had a Companion.

"Become my cupbearer for six moons," he told her, crossing his arms. "Starting with tonight, the moon becomes new; let me drink from you until six of these have passed, and along the way, you will learn what you want to know."

(Y/N) eyed him warily.

"Can you assure my physical safety?"

Eren grunted, almost amused. It was a bit late to be worrying about that.

"I think you know that I can."

"And will you let me continue in my duties as a Hunter?" she asked, her eyes searching his own as if she would find the answer to her question there inside the same eyes he'd had since he was nineteen. "Completely uninhibited?"

"That depends. Will you kill Creatures in the discharge of your duties?"

(Y/N) made a face. Eren had forgotten how expressive mortals could be, but he found that being reminded was not altogether unpleasant.

"You know I will," she replied, "But you have my word that any killing won't be unprovoked."

Eren supposed it was as close to a compromise as he could expect.

"As you wish it, so shall it be."

He turned away, signaling to the bartender for another drink, but a lightning-fast hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"Swear it," she demanded. "I need us to be Bound by it."

The meanness in Eren finally won over. He reached forward, grabbing (Y/N) by the neck, and the silver rings on her fingers burned him as she pulled at his hand to try and restore her breath. Eyes from all around the room were on the two of them— had been, since the very beginning— but it was only once the Hunter before him began to look appropriately humbled that he withdrew.

"Do not touch me without my permission," he said, "And I will return the favor."

(Y/N) looked at him then, but there was still no fear in her eyes. Anger, yes, but no fear.

She must be mad, or foolish one, he thought, considering her for a moment. I always have been partial to mad fools in general, but…

Something about her seemed different, and Eren didn't know what to do other than accept what she had to offer. Heavens knew he was getting the better end of the deal anyway.

"Swear it," she repeated, this time more quietly. "Give your word, and I will be your cupbearer."

Eren brought his hand up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. At his will, the nail tip of his forefinger sharpened, hardening into a point; he used it to draw an 'X' onto the skin just over where his heart rested inside his chest, cold and dead. Blood welled into the cut— precious little, compared to that of a human, but still enough to run down his chest in smudges— and it was by that blood that he swore. He spoke the terms of their agreement, then took the blood from his wound with the pad of his finger and marked the same spot over (Y/N)'s own heart.

"Satisfied?" he asked, their faces almost touching, and (Y/N) shivered.

"Yes."

Her warm, living breath fanned over his face with her reply, and Eren took the moment to close his eyes and appreciate the scent and sensation of it.

"You may think you're satisfied," he told her, pulling away, "But you don't know the meaning of the word."

She eyed him warily, but before she could speak, he added, "In six months' time, I'll ask you the same question, and it is then that you will truly know what it is to feel satisfied— satiated in every way."

"As you say."

It was a throwaway comment, nothing more than a dismissal, really; but Eren felt like it was the start of something truly remarkable.

[isaacs-greed]

Not to get meta on main, but I was thinking about tboi Repentance's endings- both of them, but mainly the polaroid one. This isn't what I'm working with for MY blog's canon- but it's I thought I had for the actual potential Isaac canon. Needless to say, SPOILERS FOR REPENTANCE. ALSO, LONG RAMBLE AHEAD.

I'm assuming everyone who clicked on the read more, knows the ending. You go back down, fight Dogma, internalize Dogma (very subtle Edmund (but actually such cool visuals, thank you Edmund)) and then fight the Beast. The ending has this bright light cracking from the sky, the beast is vanquished, Isaac floats up and goes back through his memories and dies. Pretty explicit. Except then his dad asks him if he REALLY wants his story to end like this. Now, I've seen people say "that's it, Isaac is dead and in heaven, be satisfied". But I'm a bit of a dreamer and I like to be optimistic. Plus, I have seen a theory going around- namely that the "crack in the sky" is the chest opening, bright light shining on the poor Isaac, who gets picked up in his delirious state, remembering it all. His dad was the one to find him and vanquish the beast (holy father vs the beast, who's model wears the clothes of Isaac's mom) Can't take credit, but it's a good theory! Working with it all being just a story, that has made me think- what if Isaac's dad got the story the same way we did? Think about it. The expansions. Layers of trauma Isaac first told a very simplified version of the story in the vanilla game. Pretty easy- Only six characters! The final boss was ONLY mom. Isaac opened up about his mother being scary to him- to be expected. His dad let him tell his story, over and over again- already pulling the first few layers of trauma back. "I find a wooden spoon." "What does the wooden spoon do, Isaac...?" "It makes me run faster."

Cut forward. Wrath of the Lamb. Isaac has both grown more confident in his creative abilities, as well as in the safe space of the story time. More items, with more implication. Naturally- not all of them were deliberately trauma related, some Isaac just put in because he thought they'd look cool or do something fun! But, some where. New floors. Shoel and Cathedral. "There's evil. I must defeat it. I'm just not sure if it's in me (cathedral) or out of me (sheol). There's anger (Samson) in me, I'm not sure who to aim it at." I think it's a fair call to assume Isaac has TROUBLE expressing anger, seeing it as destructive- but not outright evil, just like Samson wasn't evil. Which is a good thing! 

Rebirth Azazel. So Isaac IS afraid of the anger in him. Afraid of being evil. Strength, but at what cost? But there's Lazarus and Eden. Hope to be remade? Rebirth in general feels optimistic! Isaac is starting to reflect on his time and the very, VERY painful process of thinking back and trying to sort something. The good times and the bad times. It's easy for abused kids to think "my mom was SOMETIMES nice, so she must have loved me and I was the problem". It's fucking TOUGH. But Isaac is allowed to go down both routes of thinking without punishment or being lead. Polaroid, the ending of "it was all my fault, my family was good, I did something wrong", going up and meeting his maker, thinking about the suffocation and wishing for it all to have been different, HIM having been different. Negative, the ending of "my family was the problem". Meeting the lamb (wolf in sheep's clothing? Perhaps another visage for his mother, or him condemning the facade, or maybe condemning having been a lamb to the slaughter). This fantasy ends with him imagining about disappearing, but from the outside, wishing that it leads to sadness and pain and that her troubles be many. Also, Lost being his sense of powerlessness- and honestly, the way the lost was discovered? Couldn't be more perfect for this theory. The lost is this vulnerable creature, fragile, needing help, needing luck, not even helped by things that are usually good! Like perhaps a kid would feel when therapy (that they're told will help them) does nothing for them and makes them uncomfortable... And then the Lost being MINED for? FORCED out? MADE to appear? Huge step back. Canon or not, the way Isaac's Lost appeared was harmful to Isaac, leaving him even more vulnerable.

>I'm don't want this to be too long, so I'm just going to touch up on the later parts, PLEASE feel free to add to this with more in depths analysis, reblog or just in the notes. I'd gladly elaborate myself to any questions about this

Afterbirth(+) But yeah, with time, Lost got the D4 and a Holy Mantle. Which is good, despite the way it did happen, Isaac regained a bit more confidence, even at his lowest. And now we finally come however to Isaac REALLY making it out, REALLY facing things. Though- I do argue- it also shows Isaac off to have more FUN with the game! Greed mode is VERY video-gamey. Lilith is VERY gimmicky. He made them, enjoyed them, the thought about them. Greed being so prominent- and so closely associated with Isaac via an ARG- just shows the next breakthrow. Isaac learned to access his fear of himself as a sinner. An actually vile creature, a mangled corpse full of spiders. Not gonna go too in-depth, like I said, but sometimes abused kids can feel "greedy" for wanting better from  their parents. Wanting more. Feeling need. Isaac tells his father that he really sees himself not only as a sinner and demon (like Azazel), but as an outright MONSTER. A mindless creature. A mob. Hush here would suppression. Being silenced. The part of him still buried beneath. It scares him, there's so much still buried that wants OUT, wants to SCREAM, wants to UNLEASH. Meeting your own suppressed memories is terrifying. But it leads to Delirium- that is where Isaac puts the pieces together. First mangled, but he's putting it together. Finally. All these different places and thoughts, and feelings, a whole. A jumbled whole, but whole nonetheless. Which then leads to:

Repentance Okay, just to wrap it up nicely, I'll address only the bosses. Mother - I don't think Mother was ever supposed to depict mom in the way Edmund implemented it. But what Isaac created was a coping attempt- gone horribly wrong His mother saw his way of coping and punished him, like she punished him for coping with Bumbo. Maybe not malicious. Maybe she was just scared. She wasn't the best mother, but I think she loved him and fear+helplessness made her do terrible, terrible things. Regardless: she punished him for copying, for pulling parallels, causing the repression in the first place. But now he's safe. Allowed to cope. The memory gives him strength about how different things now are. And then the Beast- which I think is actually Isaac coming to peace with what his mother did. The good and bad. He extends empathy towards his mother WHILE being angry with her. Like her, he allows Dogma to consume him, fear of this giant horrid creature to show up, a creature he knows nothing else than to destroy, even if he knows he probably cannot (without help). And yet, the beast is also his mother, the edges of her dress, a vile creature chasing him, so overwhelming and scary and so self-destructive, that you almost want to feel bad for it, if it didn't totally deserve this. And then- the end. And it's an end he doesn't have to write alone. That he can retry. That he can fall asleep to. His dad helping to tell the story. It's hard to hate someone you love. Especially if it's your mom. Especially if you're a child. Especially if she's your whole world and stayed with you when your dad left. It's hard to hate someone you've seen good in. That you've seen unfair suffering afflicted to. That you still want to be around and help. It's painful to let yourself be consumed by hatred. By fear. It's painful to try and destroy all the good memories you made. It's agonizing to try to denounce all you used to admire and what used to help you. You don't need to. Isaac, in the end, didn't need to. There was a bit of both in him. Understanding. Perhaps forgiveness. Righteous anger. And fear. He explained it to his dad He explained it to himself He learned about what it's like to be bad. To be good. To be fickle. He came to his own conclusion, because his father was patient and let him tell the same stories, over and over and over- until Isaac felt good enough to tell something new. I really wish that is how the story goes. Healing takes long. Ten years. Or perhaps longer. For the full story to be told. >Well, in Isaac's case certainly less, seeing how young he sounds- but my point stands. Layers... patience and allowing someone to tell THEIR story at THEIR pace, without interjecting. Sometimes that is all we need.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/7/2020

I missed THE GOLDEN GLOVE at Fantastic Fest last year. It was one of my only regrets of the whole experience, but it was basically mandatory since the available screenings were opposite the much-hyped PARASITE. As annoying as that sounds, it was actually a major compliment, since what could possibly serve as a consolation prize for the most hotly anticipated movie of the year? Needless to say, I heard great things, but I could never have imagined what it was actually like. I'm still wrapping my mind around it.

Between 1970 and 1975, an exceptionally depraved serial killer named Fritz Honka murdered at least four prostitutes in Hamburg's red light district. Today, we tend to think of the archetypal serial killer in terms of ironic contradictions: The public is attracted by Ted Bundy's dashing looks and suave manner, and John Wayne Gayce's dual careers as politician and party clown. Lacking anything so remarkable, we associate psychopathy with Norman Bates' boy-next-door charm, and repeat "It's always the quiet ones" with a smirk whenever a new Jeffrey Dahmer or Dennis Nilsen is exposed to the public. The popular conception of a bloodthirsty maniac is not the fairytale monster of yore, but a wolf in sheep's clothing, whose hygienic appearance and lifestyle belie his twisted desires. In our post-everything world, the ironic surprise has become the rule. In this light, THE GOLDEN GLOVE represents a refreshing return to naked truth.

To say that writer-director Fatih Akin's version of the Fritz Honka story is shocking, repulsive, and utterly degenerated would be a gross understatement. We first meet the killer frantically trying to dispose of a corpse in his filthy flat, wallpapered with porno pinups, strewn with broken toys, and virtually projecting smell lines off of the screen. One's sense of embodiment is oppressive, even claustrophobic, as the petite Honka tries and fails to collapse the full dead weight of a human corpse into a garbage bag, before giving up and dismembering it, with nearly equal difficulty. The scene is appalling, utterly debased, and yet nothing is as shocking as the killer's visage. When he finally turns to look into the camera, it's hard to believe he's even human: the rolling glass eye, the smashed and inflated nose, the tombstone teeth and cratered skin, are almost too extreme to bear. Actually, suffering from a touch of facial blindness, I had to stare intently at Honka's face for nearly half the movie before I could fully convince myself that I was, in fact, looking at an elaborate prosthetic operation used to transform 23 year old boy band candidate Jonas Dassler into the disfigured 35 year old serial murderer.

Though West Germany remained on a steady economic upturn beginning in the 1950s and throughout the 1970s, you wouldn't know it from THE GOLDEN GLOVE. If Honka's outsides match his insides, they are further matched by his stomping grounds in the Reeperbahn, a dirty, violent, booze-soaked repository for the dregs of humanity. Though its denizens may come from different walks of life, one thing is certain: Whoever winds up there, belongs there. Honka was the child of a communist and grew up in a concentration camp, yet he swills vodka side by side with an ex-SS officer, among other societal rejects, in a crumbling dive called The Golden Glove. The scene is an excellent source of hopeless prostitutes at the end of their career, who are Honka's prime victims, as he is too frightful-looking to ensnare an attractive young girl. These pitiful women all display a peculiarly hypnotic willingness to go along with Honka, no matter how sadistic he becomes; this seems to have less to do with money, which rarely comes up, and more to do with their shared awareness that for them, and for Honka too, it's been all over, for a long time.

Not to reduce someone’s performance to their physical appearance, but ???

To call Dassler's portrayal of Honka "sympathetic" would be a bridge too far, but it is undeniably compelling. He supports the startling impact of his facial prostheses with a performance of rare intensity, a full-body transformation into a person in so much pain that a normal life will never become an option. His physical vocabulary reminded me of the stage version of The Elephant Man, in which the lead actor wears no makeup, but conveys John Merrick's deformities using his body alone. Although there is an abundance of makeup in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, Dassler's silhouette and agonized movements would be recognizable from a mile away. In spite of his near-constant screaming rage, the actor manages to craft a rich and convincing persona. During a chapter in which Honka experiments with sobriety, we find a stunning image of him hunched in the corner of his ordinarily chaotic flat, now deathly still, his eyes gazing at nothing as cigarette smoke seeps from his pores, having no idea what to do with himself when he isn't in a rolling alcoholic rampage. The moment is brief but haunting in its contrast to the rest of the film, having everything to do with Dassler's quietly vibrating anxiety.

Performances are roundly excellent here, not that least of which are from Honka's victims. The cast of middle-aged actresses looking their most disastrous is hugely responsible for the film's impact. These are the kinds of performances people call "brave", which is a euphemism for making audiences uncomfortable with an uncompromising presentation of one's own self, unvarnished by any masturbatory solicitation. Among these women is Margarete Tiesel, herself no stranger to difficult cinema: She was the star of 2012's PARADISE: LOVE, a harrowing drama about a woman who copes with her midlife crisis by pursuing sex tourism in Kenya. Her brilliant, instinctive performance as one of Honka's only survivors--though she nearly meets a fate worse than death--makes her the leading lady of a movie that was never meant to have one.

So, what does all this unpleasantness add up to, you might be asking? It's hard to say. THE GOLDEN GLOVE is a film of enormous power, but it can be difficult to explain what the point of it is, in a world where most people feel that the purpose of art is to produce some form of pleasure. This is the challenge faced by difficult movies throughout history, like THE GOLDEN GLOVE's obvious ancestors, HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER, MANIAC and THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE. Describing unremitting cruelty with relentless realism is not considered a worthy endeavor by many, even if there is real artistry in your execution; some people will even mistake you for advocating and enjoying violence and despair, as we live in a world where huge amount of movie and TV production is devoted to aspirational subjects. (The fact that people won't turn away from the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, no matter how monotonous and condescending they become, should tell you something) How do you justify to such people, that you want to make or see work that portrays ugliness and evil with as much commitment as other movies seek to portray love, beauty, and family values? Why isn't it enough to say that these things exist, and their existence alone makes them worth contemplation?

A rare, perhaps exclusive “beautiful image” in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, from Fritz Honka’s absurd fantasies.

You may detect that I have attempted to have this frustrating conversation with many people, strangers, enemies, and friends I love and respect. I find that for some, it is simply too hard to divorce themselves from the pleasure principle. I don't say this to demean them; some hold the philosophy that art be reserved for beauty, and others have a more literary feeling that it's ok to show characters in grim circumstances, as long as the ultimate goal is to uplift the human spirit. Even I draw the line somewhere; I appreciate the punk rebellion of Troma movies as a cultural force, but I do not enjoy watching them, because I dislike what I perceive as contempt for the audience and the aestheticization of laziness--making something shitty more or less on purpose. A step or three up from that, you land in Todd Solondz territory, where you find materially gorgeous movies whose explicit statement is that our collective reverence for a quality called "humanity" is based on nothing. I like some of those movies, and sometimes I even like them when I don't like them, because I'm entranced by Solondz's technical proficiency...and maybe, deep down, I'm not completely convinced about "humanity", either. However, I don't fight very hard in arguments about him; I understand the objections. Still, I've been surprised by peers who I think of as bright and tasteful, who absolutely hated movies I thought were unassailable, like OLDBOY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. In both cases, the ultimate objection was that they accuse humans of being pretentious and self-deceptive, aspiring to heroism or bemoaning their victimhood while wallowing in their own cowardice and perversity. Ok, I get it...but, not really. Why isn't it ever wholly acceptable to discuss, honestly, what we do not like about ourselves?

The beguiling thing about THE GOLDEN GLOVE is that, although it is instantly horrifying, is it also an impeccable production. The director can't help showing you crime scene photos during the ending credits, and I can't really blame him, when his crew worked so hard to bring us a vision of Fritz Honka's world that approaches virtual reality. But it isn't just slavishly realistic; it is vivid, immersive, an experience of total sensory overload. Not a square inch of this movie has been left to chance, and the product of all this graceful control is totally spellbinding. I started to think to myself that, when you've achieved this level of artifice, what really differentiates a movie like THE GOLDEN GLOVE from something like THE RED SHOES? I mean, aside from their obvious narrative differences. Both films plunge the viewer into a world that is complete beyond imagination, crafted with a rigor and sincerity that is rarely paralleled. And, I will dare to say, both films penetrate to the depths of the human soul. What Fatih Akin finds there is not the same as what Powell and Pressburger found, of course, but I don't think that makes it any less real. Akin's film is adapted from a novel by Heinz Strunk, and apparently, some critics have accused Akin of leaving behind the depth and nuance of the book, to focus instead on all that is gruesome about it. This may be true, on some level; I wouldn't know. For now, I can only insist that on watching THE GOLDEN GLOVE, for all its grotesquerie, I still got the message.

[lillaamb]

                                                     The Lamb

Lamb is a figure of many rural folklores. No one really knows her true origins, and her origin story varies between different narrators and their depiction of the Lamb. 

In some stories, she is a beautiful young maiden with gold filigreed horns and shoes, in others, she is a sheep with gold horns and hooves, red ears and chest. How the narrator tells her story greatly depends on how they depict the Lamb, but what is most agreed upon in each telling are her dazzling gold features, her pure and graceful visage, and how easily they lure the curious and the greedy into her woods.

On all levels of appearance, she is harmless, a victim, shiny and glorious prey that promises great reward to her predators. In all the generations that have told her tale, however, not one story ends with her being caught. In fact, most stories end with her pursuer’s demise.

Her pursuer is most often depicted as a human man, but there have been tellings of it being a wolf, though it is surprisingly a rare depiction. Nevertheless, her pursuer is either drawn by curiosity, greed, or lust for the Lamb, and so they follow her, effectively becoming her “wolf”. She is fast and nimble, but she never leaves her wolf’s point of view, and soon her predator is flanked by a flock of sheep with golden eyes racing with the two of them. Here, it is too late to turn around, they are locked in a chase.

“WOLF! WOLF!” she may scream if she is not fast enough, signaling the sheep to ram and trample at her pursuer and effectively end the chase with a grisly bludgeoning of sheep hooves, horns and teeth. This is second-best outcome, the first being should there be an ending where the wolf miraculously survives.

If the wolf manages to catch up to the Lamb, grab at her, some even tear at her clothes, then the roles switch fast. The Lamb will turn on her pursuer, and it is often noted how this portrait of grace and purity morphs into some vicious and feral, a thing of rage, a “devil” as some narrators have put it. If the wolf manages to trap the Lamb, then they have chosen a gruesome, painful death. 

There are different ways people tell the story of the Lamb, each following a similar format with little differences, but not one story fails to end with that horrible scream she makes. It’s as if a flock of hundreds of sheep took in a deep breath and collectively, at the same time, BLEAT at the top of their lungs.

People often say that wolves are scarier, independent, and more powerful than the gentle sheep too afraid to separate from their flock; but what if, in some cases, it’s the sheep you should be afraid of?

[high-justiciar]

maskless;

She had secured for herself a place in Elwynn, safer than the city, with more room to stretch her legs. The dwelling certainly wasn’t much — hardly more than four walls, a bedroll, a place to wash. And yet she couldn’t remember feeling more comfortable anywhere else. 

Not within the Kingdoms, at least.

It was a dark trip, boots shed by the door, while her first order of business was to go about lighting the candles strewn around the front room. The hearth was ignited with a snap of fingers. Each piece of plate was meticulously unstrapped, removed to rest upon a stand, leaving her in the cloth fatigues beneath.

Weary muscle flickered and set tense in her shoulders; Sif was certainly no stranger to bearing the weight of plate, though the accompanying aches and pains were unavoidable. Slowly, she made her way into the washroom, peeling off the tunic that slicked tight to her upper body with sweat.

It was the mirror above the sink which drew her attention then, and with a start, Siphiah struggled to recognize the visage staring back at her. The mask, the helm, the obscurity had become more comfortable — now this was the stranger, the guise, the unknowable creature which lurked beyond steel. She tilted her head this way and that, inspecting the angles of her face, the hard jaw, the sickly scar that spiderwebbed down the side of her neck from Darkshore.

A new mark, too, was visible. Stretching her arm straight, she surveyed the closed gash that crept over her bicep, healed by a flash of light. Brooke’s light. Recalling that moment, a hot warmth settled in her core, a warmth she hadn’t felt in ages. There was something she’d wanted to say before the medic turned away. Sif had never been good at handling such feelings. Love, affection, it presented in her with an animal fervor, a desire to protect with tooth and nail; and yet, little real emotional tact. 

No matter, for a decision had already been made on that front. Earthly pleasures had been shed, girlish wonders made irrelevant. She was a machine of flesh — not a lover, no. Her heart lay dormant. She could no longer pretend to be a domestic thing, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, pacing around in her cage. 

And what would they think, anyway, this group she had come to trust? She could see herself where they couldn’t. In Teldrassil, beneath miles of billowing smoke; in Lordaeron, on a field littered with human corpses and deadly plague; in Darkshore, where the very sight of her prompted choruses of terrified screams.

No guilt was felt over the matter. Rather, a determination to ensure that she remained in this state of neutrality, never bound to wishes and wills of any state but her own. Water was drawn from the sink, rubbed between her hands to soothe the callouses and blisters that ensued from regular wielding. She leaned down to wash her face, reacquainting herself with foreign features, the fragile nature of her own skin. 

How she wished, sometimes, that she could be made of steel.

[sacrificim]

[ x - accepting / @asterites​ ]  ❝ you’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you? ❞

     “ A terrible - oh, yes! I have! “ Quick was the weapon to nod, doe-eyed agreement in voice alone. Swaying to and fro where skeletal toes hovered above the pavement, as if a child teetering in place - positively brimming with nervous exhilaration. “ Oh dear, Kaine must be a wreck with me gone. I can only imagine all the fights she’s started without me there to calm her down. Not that I, um, was good at that anyways... And Weiss is no better, always lecturing everyone on why he’s right... or egging Kaine on... Oh dear. “ Oh dear indeed. “ This wasn’t supposed to happen. I hope they’re doing alr - oh! “

     Oh.

     If only the stone visage he wore could shift from its petrified grin, could change from perpetual glee to the surprise a humans would now show. If only it could show the hesitation - the uncertain pause - that had the weapon stammering.

     If only, if only.

     “ You mean… “ My face? His body, skeletal and cold. Disconcerting, monstrous, terrifying. A scream-inducing spectacle to most whose eyes laid upon the smiling beast. ( But not her. ) She who did not flee - or worse yet, draw a weapon against one whose existence was one. A creature of destruction - of chaos… but one who would have fled instead, if it had come to it.

     It had not occurred to him, at first. The obvious a forgotten thought when it came to what he, in truth, considered terrible. A truth she could not possibly know of, of course. Of course… How could she know that, how could the mean that, when a terrible sight was what stood before her instead. ( A sheep, wrapped in the guise of a wolf. Innocent, pure, but with bared fangs in a grinning snarl. )

     Fretful were the fingers that came to rest upon tattered cloth, the bones that formed them joining with a soft click before his abdomen. Entwining together, rubbing at hands that no longer felt sensation, not really. Not fully. Yet the action was one of comfort all the same. A bygone of endless nights, of blinded eyes that would never gaze upon the world - could never, lest monotonous greys consume the color he’d oh so wished to see. A remnant of a worrisome heart; one still so, only now touched by courage as well. ( Courage that flickered like a wavering flame as the child’s wayward gaze found said hands. Hands stripped bare of flesh... Fingers stripped to the bone, of all that once was… )

     A terrible fate, huh?

     “ That’s one way to put it, heh… “ Insecurity ensnared itself deep within his bones, masked to perfection behind a still face… except for his hands. His tone, and the smile that was pushed into it. The friendliness, the concern, the hope that he was right and there was no fear to be found within this unexpected encounter. For onward, did he march. Onward, did he continue without missing a beat. “ It's a… long story. I wouldn't want to bother you with the details, but I'd do it all again, you know? It's not all bad. This new body has let me save people. I'm proud, and I mean it, too! I just hope I didn't startle you too much. I'm not as scary as I look, I promise! “

[eldestsalvatore]

Who Am I?

‘Who do you think you are?’

It’s a loaded question and if the bar patron knew of my story they’d find it’s one hell of a tale. Unfortunately, they don’t. This man who is most likely in his mid thirties is under the ill belief I’m some stranger that he’s about to teach a lesson to but oh how wrong he is. My visit to this pub was simply to have a drink with no trouble. Sadly, I forget the universe is never kind to me and the things I want I never get. This idiot has had one too many and wanted to pick a fight but he’s chosen the wrong opponent to match up against.

The corner of my lips quirk into my signature smirk. My pale baby blues take the stranger in as he circles around me. Him and his buddies think three against one is an easy fight. However, they are severely mistaken because they’ve never gone up against someone like myself before. I’m in a run down alley after taking my leave from the pub but they followed. Of course they followed thinking they were stalking their vulnerable prey but the joke is on them because I’m not the prey. I’m the predator. The deadliest of all.

‘Who do you think you are?’

The question again runs through my mind as I begin to answer it for myself. I was once a man son to Giuseppe Salvatore. No, no more like a burden to Giuseppe Salvatore. The son my father never wanted. The son who was always deemed a disappointment and lost cause. Why? Perhaps because I had a voice that I never silenced or had no fear in defying him. Either way I was the outcast while my little brother Stefan was seen as the Golden boy. Even as a child he had already been given the title of ‘could do no wrong.’ Living in that era I had felt trapped. Doomed to go around and around on this never ending merry-go-round called life. I was convinced that life would remain the same but boy was I wrong. Enter Katherine Pierce the woman who changed my life and ironically she changed me.

When my eyes fell upon Katherine I honestly believed she had been an angel fallen from grace. Again with the irony seeing as she was practically the devil herself. A wolf in sheep’s clothing and soon I learned she was like no other woman. No, she was like no other human because she wasn’t human. A woman I had once deemed from the heavens instead had been delivered from hell itself. Now, most men would flee and run for the hills but I wasn’t most men. I embraced it because ‘what’ she was made no difference to me only the ‘who’ and who she was at the time was the love of my life. I didn’t have many people in my life. I was viewed as an outcast and in time labeled a deserter. The people, my own people who had watched a boy grow into a man had turned their backs on me, thrown things at me and even turned on me. ‘Yankee’ is what they’d say each time I’d try to walk into one of their shops. I wasn’t welcomed so it’s really no surprise that this outsider felt drawn to the darkness that Katherine presented me with. Humanity wasn’t something that would be hard to part with because it meant I’d have forever with my beloved Katherine.

‘Who do you think you are?’

I’m someone who has experienced loss because many years ago back in Mystic Falls one night the council took part in a vampire roundup. My brother being the naive and starry eyed fool that he was hadn’t spilled the beans but had said enough to draw my father’s suspicions. He had laced Stefan’s drink with vervain which is deadly to vampires. Think of it like Supermans kryptonite from his home planet and how it weakened him. That’s what vervain is. When Katherine fed on my brother she weakened instantly proving my father’s suspicion and just like that my beloved was hauled off.  

‘Who do you think you are?’

Someone who knows death because I was ready to embrace it in more ways than one. That night I had run off wanting to free Katherine only to be shot by my own father. Dying wasn’t scary because in my death I’d be greeted to life. When I finally did come around I rushed off only to stand witness to my Katherine burning in the church the council had set fire to. There was no world without her. I had joined this world to be apart of her world but with her no longer in it I hadn’t wanted to be in it. I couldn’t even fathom it and a world without her was a world I had no desire to live in. Eternity, something I once viewed as a gift I only saw as a curse. I was ready to say goodbye. I was ready to die but my brother wasn’t. He had always been selfish and always expected to get his way. My parents had spoiled him rotten and he was never used to the word no. It’s not all that surprising he wasn’t pleased with my choice but what was shocking was the realization Katherine had fed him her blood. She had made me believe I was the only one joining her as a vampire and yet there he was a newly turned vampire gloating on how he had killed our dear ole daddy and how much he had reveled in the taste of blood.

‘Who do you think you are?”

Someone who knows betrayal from Katherine and brother who had forced me into completing the transition. The two people I loved had hurt me the most and yet only one I had promised vengeance to. An eternity of misery that I was keen on delivering. Stefan would feel my wrath and Katherine would too because it turned out thanks to Emily’s admission Katherine was indeed still alive, entombed and it would take me over a century to reunite with her. That’s one hundred and forty five years and though the wait time was hell I’d endure it for her, for me and for the future she had promised us. 

A punch straight to the chest snaps me from my thoughts as I let out a low groan. I flick my eyes around and notice they’ve now got me cornered. Their closeness is meant to intimidate but it only amuses me. I allow them the assumption they have me beat for a few more seconds before I decide it’s time to answer them.

“You shouldn’t be asking who I am”

I drawl and it’s enough for the first thug to get in my face. Ugh, greeted to the stench of cheap beer and cigarette lovely combo.

“Shut up bitch”

Bitch, right because I’m not fighting back. I’m the poor ole victim who is getting his ass handed to him and in a few seconds will probably be left knocked out on the cold pavement. He draws his arm back and I’m anticipating him to strike. In one fluid motion he’s coming in hard but before he can make contact I’m effortlessly catching his wrist and flashing a smirk at his dumbfound expression.

Showtime

“You should be asking what I am”

Allowing my vampire visage to come out in true form. Baby blues darkening into a soulless black. Veins appearing beneath my eyes and fangs elongating from behind my gums. Violently I’m pIercing my fangs straight into his flesh. I’m usually a little gentler when I feed because I’m not a messy eater but this guy really ticked me off. I rip into his flesh and I hear him howl in pain. The two men from around me start to freak out causing me to draw back and SNAP cracking his neck so his lifeless body sags to the floor. Blood running down my chin as I shoot my gaze over towards them bolting out of the alley but I’m faster, much faster.

Now, standing in front of them and blocking them from their freedom. Their buddies blood dribbling down my chin and running onto my jacket. I revel in the fear mirroring in their eyes as I cock my head to the side and observe them. They’re not daring to move. Oh how the tables have turned because they’re the ones to petrified to move.

“And what I am gentleman”

Flashing them a smile fangs and all as I advance forward.

“Is a vampire”

Without another word I strike thrusting my hand into one of their chests and pulling their heart out. Turning towards the other as I display the object in my hand and then toss it carelessly to the ground. This one, this one is my dinner as I sink my fangs into his tender flesh. Pulling the blood, his sweet ambrosia and my life source into my mouth. The more I take the slower his pulse becomes. If I was nice I’d stop pull a snatch, eat, erase and send him on his way but I’m not nice so I take every last drop he has to offer and then drop his body down with a thud. Glancing around the dark alley I take in the art I’ve just made. It’s beautiful. Three dead corpses scattered about on the cold pavement. I think I’ll title this piece ‘Don’t Mess With Me.’ I chuckle at my dry humor, my face returning to normal as one by one I effortlessly haul each body and throw them into the dumpster letting whoever comes here next be the one to discover them. What a surprise that will be. 

It’s where they belong.

Where do I belong?

Well, I have a long overdue trip to Mystic Falls and some serving of an eternity of misery to deliver towards my baby bro.

So, who am I?

I’m Damon Salvatore. Once man, turned monster and I’m back.

[arimvras-blog]

tag dump !!

[korkrunchcereal]

Masquerade, Part One

It was at the estate of Lord Erimonte that the Winterborn Ball was to be held, and with it Aurelian’s first true taste of Nightborne nobility and decadence. He had sampled such of course, but this was to be his real experience with it all. All the pleasures afforded to the richest, most powerful men and women of the city would be within his grasp to sample. That is, provided he lived through the night.

He was in essence a sheep in wolf’s clothing; here amidst the high society of the Nightborne, no one was his friend. He would be surrounded by enemies who would kill him on the spot if they saw through his disguise.  Illuria had warned him that they would be on the lookout for any imposters, be they the rebellious Nightfallen or outlanders. Thus not only would this be his real taste of Nightborne comforts, but also his first real test as Lord Coren Woodborne.

Thus as evening drew close and the stars began to appear, Aurelian found himself at the front gates of Lord Erimonte’s home, adorned in an outlandishly decadent outfit, wearing a golden mask carved in the likeness of an avian creature, and wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. Beyond the gilded gates there was a rather spacious garden and central fountain, the home itself and a large number of people. The opulence of Lord Erimonte’s estate was enough to even make Aurelian somewhat jealous, though he would never voice such an idea.

He of course did not know a single person he saw, for not only were they Nightborne but they too wore masks of unique make, each undoubtedly a small reflection of the individual behind them. Some he saw were of a terrifying visage, whilst others wore more serene, peaceful things. He saw ivory, gold and silver aplenty along with more exotic of gemstones in a flagrant display of wealth. His eyes closed behind his mask as he took a deep breath; one wrong move and he was dead.

“Your invitation?” Aurelian’s eyes opened as one of the Nightborne pulled away from the gate to face him, having spotted him. He did not wear a costume as others did, instead adorned in what appeared to be ceremonial armor. Unlike the others as well, he was armed with a longsword that for the moment at least was slung at his side.

“Ah yes, of course. Lord Coren Woodborne, guest of the Lady Illuria Indaris.” He was lucky most of the Nightborne language was similar to that of the Sin'dorei, as he could at least passably speak with them. Reaching into a pouch at his side, he withdrew a small piece of parchment, offering it to the guard. The man snatched it, reading it over with a furrow of his brow. Satisfied, he handed the invitation back before opening the door.

“Welcome, my lord.” Aurelian gave a nod of his head, walking into the estate. Now there was no turning back for him; from this point on, he was in the den of what he presumed was the enemy. Few heads turned to face him, for he was unknown even in a crowd of such people. One figure however broke away from one of the groups, her lithe form gracefully moving past several others.

“Ah Lord Woodborne, you have finally arrived.” Illuria’s voice was unmistakable, even behind the mask she wore. It was of strange make, with what appeared to be vines carved in a beautifully weeping face. She offered out a hand, which Aurelian took with a bow.

“Lady Indaris. Ah, as if I would ever miss such an event.” Illuria gave a chuckle that almost seemed forced, nodding.

“Of course my dear. Come, join me. The ball is to start soon.” She did not give time for Aurelian to protest, turning and moving back to where she was previous. Aurelian followed behind, noticing now several pairs of eyes turning to watch the two. Illuria returned to the group she had been part of previously, made up of three other individuals. “Apologies, Lord Valestorm; I had to fetch lord Woodborne.”  One of them turned to eye Aurelian up and down, face hidden behind an expressionless mask.

“So you are Lord Coren Woodborne. Lady Indaris has told us quite a bit about you. I am Lord Asalin Valestorm.” The man gave a bow, before extending his arm to his left at the other’s in the group. “This is my wife Esa.” The aformentioned woman gave a bow of her own.

“And I,” spoke the third figure, “am Lord Arcadion Vrayne, telemancer and engineer of the Magistrix’s court.” That name Aurelian had heard before. He was someone who with his brother Illuria had recommended watching out for; though for what reason he was uncertain. He gave a bow to the three of them, low enough to be respectful.

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintances. Please, do not allow my arrival to interrupt your discussion.”

“Not at all. We were just discussing with Lord Vrayne here the intricacies of his new defense network and it’s vulnerabilities.”

“Please,” Arcadion protested. “There are no vulnerabilities to it. Your scenario of ‘militant withered’ is hardly sound.”

“Forgive me, but I am not familiar with the new defense network.” Aurelian stated. For a moment Arcadion looked offended, before brushing it off.

“It’s arcano-based telemetric crystals. Essentially, it targets those with low reserves of arcane or magical energy, such as that of the withered and exiled.  Nightborne would be immune thanks to our inherent arcane power and the Nightwell. Lord Valestorm here has created a rather outlandish idea as a supposed weakness to my designs.”

“That’s because it is. Rumors already abound that the exiled have been training Withered to act more cohesively. They can simply overrun the defenses you’ve proposed to the Magistrix with sheer numbers.”

“Please; the Withered are feral creatures at best. It would be easier to train an army of beasts than it would to control those mana hungry creatures. Trained withered are just as you explained; rumors.”

“Let us hear lord Woodborne’s thoughts on the matter then, and get his opinion?” The various nobles turned to face Aurelian, who for the life of him had no clue what an arcano-based telemetric crystal was until ten seconds ago and even still only understood such basics that if he said anything he’d undoubtedly come across as a fool…and a fool he could not afford to be tonight.

“I presume it-” Aurelian’s words were interrupted luckily by the sound of a horn blowing, soft and melodic. The group turned towards the sound, spotting the horn blower on the stairs to the entrance of the manor. Beside the figure stood a rather impressive figure. He was physically as impressive as any other Nightborne, made distinguishable by the golden mask and outfit he wore. Crisp, shining scales wrapped around his body in a spiral towards his face. Upon his features the mask had been carved into the likeness of a dragon, giving an air of both the intimidating and alluring. Behind him, a servant held up a crimson cloak, keeping it away from any dirt that might tarnish it.

“My lords and ladies,” the figure spoke aloud. “It is so wonderful to see you all here on this most auspicious eve. All of you here represent the cream of Nightborne society; those of the elite and powerful. As your host, you have all done me great honor in attending tonight. Whilst the Magistrix herself is unable to attend, she has wished us all a most celebratory evening. So come my friends; the doors to the Winterborn Ball are open!” Lord Erimonte, for it could only be him, raised his arms upwards. He was met with the applause of dozens, Aurelian quickly joining in.

“My my, Lord Erimonte is certainly dressed outlandishly.” Lady Valestorm quipped in.

“He always likes to be the center of all attention. Come, we should make haste to go in. We shall continue the discussion of Lord Vrayne’s work another time. Lord Vrayne, Lord Woodborne, Lady Indaris.” Asalin gave a bow alongside that of his wife, before moving with others who had already begun to make their way to the entrance.

“My lady, my lord.” Aurelian watched the inventor leave, ear perking as Illuria stepped beside him.

“You past your first test of the evening my dear. Well done.” Illuria offered out her arm for Aurelian, which he wrapped his own around, hand atop her own.

“As I said; I was born to such gatherings.”

“Do not grow overconfident so fast. That was but the first of many I presume you shall face tonight. Being my guest and conversing with those such as Lord Vrayne has earned you some looks, and I imagine at least some of those gathered here have taken an interest in an unfamiliar lord.”

“Not to worry, Lady Indaris. I’m a natural. By the end of the eve the nobility of Suramar shall adore my presence.” He turned, giving a wink behind his mask as the two walked to the entrance, trailing behind the vast majority. He could make out beyond the various people entering a vast hall, gilded and glittering as they ascended the vast stairway. In truth the estate seemed more a palace of sorts, large in both size and extravagance.

“We shall see how true that is, Lord Woodborne. Remember; everyone here is your enemy.” By now the two had reached the top of the stairs, allowing Aurelian a free look into the hall of the estate. He noticed that while those of the Nightborne often preferred silvers and purple, the estate of lord Erimonte was both golden and crimson. It reminded him of Silvermoon in some regards, much to his displeasure.

“I thought the Nightborne held silver, not gold.” Aurelian muttered to Illuria as the two approached a pair of guards, who flanked a thin man scrawling upon a parchment as each guest drew close.

“The colors of Lord Erimonte are gold and crimson, hailing from when the Kal'dorei Empire reigned. Gold is not a common amidst Suramar, for much of the gold came when the Empire was whole. Our host, however, refused to give up such and so hoards much of it, and as you can see shows it off.” Illuria turned up to the scribe, expression hidden behind the mask. “The Lady Illuria Indaris, sorceress of the Court of the Magistrix. Accompanying her is the Lord Coren Woodborne.”

“Very well, my lady. Carry on.” The two pressed past the man into the hall proper, where Aurelian saw at least a dozen guards here alone, and all wearing rather plain masks. The various nobles from before had been pressed into the hall, slowly moving to a grand an opulent doorway framed in the image of a roaring dragon. Aurelian could hear the nobility murmuring amongst themselves, picking out only a few words from the conversations.

The two drew closer and closer, and now Aurelian could hear not only more voices but also that of harps, violins and other music. It was sounds familiar to him, for the social gatherings of the aristocracy were second nature to him. He had not lied when he had told Illuria that he was born to such gatherings. Now he could make out more of the room, with all of its gilded statues and red tapestries mixed with the exotic attire and masks of its attendees. The smell that reached him was of fine perfumes mixed with the near sweet scent of the arcane, along with the various roasted, glazed and other cooked items.

“The Lady Cascasa, Blade of the Nightwell and mistress of the Lord of Vergeux.” Closer and closer the two came, as the nobility descended into the ballroom. There was only one couple before them now, and soon they too had descended down what was a marble stairway.

“Are you ready, Lord Woodborne?” Illuria did not turn to face him, staring ahead just as he did.

“Of course.” With a confident swagger, the two stepped forward.

“The Lady Illuria Indaris, sorceress of the Court of the Magistrix. Accompanying her is the Lord Coren Woodborne, patriarch of house Woodborne.” Now the ballroom was open for him to see, and more importantly for them to see him. Heads turned as the two were announced, including that of their host who stood opposite upon a balcony. At his side, Aurelian recognized that of Illuria’s brother Corvayon and a woman he did not recognize.

To Aurelian’s chagrin, the ballroom was more opulent than that of Castle Indaris. Indeed it would put his own ballroom to shame with its elegance, something Aurelian would never admit lightly. Each pillar of the balcony had been engraved in the spiral of a dragon, painstakingly carved into the perfect likeness of a real one, while the floor seemed to almost shine like glittering starlight. He had only a second to admire the work before he was forced to descend the stairs, keeping his haughty appearance going with each step.

“Impressive, is it not?”

“I must confess Illuria this is far grander than Quel'thalas.”

“Is it? A pity.” Aurelian turned briefly to her statement, eyebrow raised. What did she mean by that? He did not question her however as they moved across the ballroom in front of everyone, realizing they were moving to the balcony holding lord Erimonte. “We go to greet our host. The Indaris family has always been friends to Erimonte, and it would be rude not to personally thank him for the invitation.”

“Who is that with him and your brother?” Aurelian asked, eyes fixed on the woman beside the two. Whilst Erimonte was dressed to intimidate as was Corvayon, who wore a twin horned mask, she wore only a half mask that covered the top of her face. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders just above a golden torque that circled around her throat. Her attire was unsurprisingly revealing as was seemingly custom of the Nightborne culture, her well-toned thighs and defined musculature free to see.

“That is Captain Cassanora Stargrove. She is both guest here, and in charge of the guards.” Aurelian did not take his eyes off of her, though continued to speak to Illuria.

“I’ve noticed quite a few guards. Is Erimonte expecting trouble?”

“A gathering of the upper echelons of Nightborne society, all whom support the Grand Magistrix? It would be a field day for the rebellion to be here. Besides, it is not merely Nightborne who are here, I am certain.”

“Demons too?” She nodded at that, turning and bowing her head slightly as someone called her name.

“Indeed. Disguised of course, for their presence is rather…discomforting for even the most loyal amongst the Nightborne. They are both guards, and the eyes of the legion here.”

“A reminder of the fel shadow that hangs over this city…” Aurelian muttered, turning his attention now to their host. Erimonte was staring at the two, and it took a moment for Aurelian to realize that Erimonte was looking directly at him as they approached.

“My Lord Erimonte.” Illuria bowed low, with Aurelian following suit. He even bowed a touch lower, showing proper respect to their host.

“Ah, Lady Indaris. It is so good to see you here again; your presence is like a light in the darkness. And you are the lord Woodborne yes? Welcome to my home on this most glorious evening.” There was a slight accent to the man’s word that made each letter arrogantly pronounced.

“The pleasure is all mine, my lord.”

“How do you like it? This is your first time here, is it not?”

“It is indeed. To say I am speechless would discredit the beauty of this place.” He briefly looked to Cassanora, before returning his attention to Erimonte.

“Ah your words are good to hear; it is so rare we have newcomers amidst these halls. It is always the same lords and ladies, so fresh blood is most welcome. I must confess however I had not heard of the house Woodborne until some time ago.”

“We have only recently come into power. Our loyalty to the Magistrix during this time earned no small appreciation.” A lie, but one he hoped Illuria would work off of.

“Yes, it was Lord Woodborne who alerted the Magistrix’s guards to that rebel group causing trouble in the Crescent Glaive some months back.” Aurelian blinked; he had not done such a thing. Realization dawned upon him then, thankful his mask hid the fact his eyes went wide for a moment. When he had first travelled here, Illuria had showed him and Gardesia the legion’s presence on the city and what happened to those that were captured first hand. There had been a group of civilians, chained up and being escorted by demons onto a ship. He had little doubt that was the incident in question, which he had assumed was orchestrated by Illuria.

“Ah yes; I remember that. Was not Lord Valadance found guilty of aiding the rebels as well due to that?”

“Yes, thanks to Lord Woodborne here.” All three upon the balcony turned and looked at Aurelian then.

“I see. It is good to find such loyalty to the Magistrix; your recent rise to power is well warranted it would seem.”

“Not only that, but Lord Woodborne here is an accomplished duelist. I would wager he could give you a run for your money, Lord Erimonte.”

“Really now?” Cassanora finally spoke up, painted lips held in a smirk. “That would be a challenge I would love to witness.

"As would I,” Corvayon stated. “The only person I’ve seen defeat Erimonte is, well, myself.” Corvayon’s stare unnerved Aurelian, though he was not sure as to why it did. Erimonte seemed to visibly bristle at their comments, however.

“It would be a challenge I would accept one day…but for now we have a ball to celebrate. Go my friends; enjoy this night!” Erimonte seemingly waved the two off, turning now to speak with Corvayon. Whilst the two conversed, Aurelian noticed Cassanora still watched Aurelian curiously.

“Ah that was entertaining.” Illuria stated, smiling behind her mask.

“How so?”

“Lord Erimonte is rarely challenged, and so to have someone state he could be beaten? Ah that is one thing so predictable amongst all of us; arrogance. But, we did what we needed to do there.”

“And that is…?”

“Get you noticed by those in attendance here. I’ve created this persona for you, now you must use it.”

“Yes, so I’ve seen. I presume then those civilians captured when I was here with Gardesia were your work?”

“Mine?” Illuria placed a hand to her chest, as if indignantly. “Not at all; that was your work, my lord Woodborne.” Aurelian gave her a hard look, before nodding. “I figured with how you responded to that demonstration all those months ago that you would understand why I name you as responsible.”

“Clever, my lady.”

“And now, my dear, I must leave you. I’ve done the initial leg work, the rest is up to you. Socialize, mingle, and most importantly do not get caught. Have fun.” Illuria let go of Aurelian then, leaving him alone as she moved towards one of the many groups. Aurelian watched her go, turning to…

He paused as he stared right into the face of a mask shaped into the visage of a howling demon, twin fangs curled beneath an angered brow. Aurelian nearly jumped back in surprise, instead straightening himself however. Rather than the silvers and golds of the nobility, the mask was cut in what appeared to be some form of ebon stone, red lines carved harshly into it.

“Can I help you?”

“Ah, of course you do not recognize me. We’ve met before, at the Indaris manor several months ago.” Aurelian furrowed his brow at that. Who had he met? Recognition dawned on him then.

“Lord Kilrus Vaol, is it not?” Even behind the mask Aurelian nearly shirked under Vaol’s eyes. They were familiar and old, older than even Illuria was, of that he was certain. They spoke of power and cunning beyond most mortals, and it took everything for Aurelian not to run from the iron gaze.

“Indeed it is. I trust you have been well?”

“As well as can be expected in such times as these, what with rebels at the proverbial gates so to speak.”

“Agreed; there are many wolves closing in with their jaws open, ready to pounce. You’ll find that no clearer then in this room. All the nobles plotting and planning each other’s demise for the crumbs of their betters.”

“Yet you are here among them. Speaking of, were you invited by our host, lord Erimonte?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes.” Aurelian blinked at that, eyeing the man up and down. “My relationship with lord Erimonte goes far, far back.”

“Let me guess; to the time of Azshara’s rule?”

“I have had a long life.” Was all he said on that matter. “I see you have drawn the attention of quite a few people here.” He waved a hand to various groups, the last of the guests having arrived sometime during Aurelian’s conversation with lord Erimonte. Quite a few had already taken to dancing; a masked assembly of unknown individuals living in luxury.

“Have I?” Aurelian turned as a servant walked by, grabbing a glass of arcwine from the table he held.

“There is no need to be humble in this regard; you arrive with esteemed company and speak with such; you have drawn quite a few eyes onto yourself.” He paused, looking over Aurelian’s shoulder. “Some hungry for you.” Aurelian’s ears perked as he heard footsteps behind him, turning casually.

“Lady Stargrove.” Aurelian gave a bow to the woman as she approached, no doubt having descended down shortly after Aurelian left.

“Lord Woodborne…"She paused, unsure of the black masked man.

"A friend; lord Vaol.”

“A friend?” She chuckled at that, seemingly amused. “Lord Woodborne, did I hear you were a duelist?” Aurelian could not helped but glance over her form; she was beautiful; indeed, almost as beautiful as Calithielwen was.

“I am my lady, though perhaps lady Indaris was a tad boastful.”

“A bit, though it got Lord Erimonte talking about you. Well, do you dance as well as you duel?” Aurelian gave his glass of arcwine to lord Vaol, uncaring of the man’s stature at that moment. The glass did not drop, so he assumed the man had grabbed it. Aurelian offered out a hand to the woman, smirking.

“Shall we see, my lady.” Cassanora took his hand, nodding.

“Indeed we shall; lead on, Lord Woodborne.”

[fogmade]

tag drop #3.

[umbramortiis-blog]

tag drop

. aes . killer within , . ask . mission accepted , . music . indulge , . meme . lets play a game , . ooc . charlotte stop talking , . hc . making an assassin , . musings . isms , . verse 001 . bite off the venomous head , . verse 002 . run for your life ,  . visage . she's a wolf in sheep's clothing ,  . skill . i could do this blindfolded