#Prinnsal

[charmspoint]

Sanguine Friday 2

Time to introduce the protagonist of my og story.

Art has been drawn by @lilleeboi who did such a wonderful job bringing my boy to life and you should go give them lots of love.

Name: Prinnsal

Gender: Agender

Pronouns: He/Him

Age: 280yrs

Height: 179cm

Orientation: Demiromantic Asexual

Affiliation: Rezasel (ex), Duchess Eliza

Belief faction: The hands of the New Brood (eventually and without contact with other members)

Personality: Having a personality is something Prinnsal is still getting used to. Having spent his whole life as a tool of someone else’s will, feelings and opinions are new and strange and not completely defined. To others he comes across as cold and calculated. He finds little merriment in things and a lot of annoyance in them and other people. He is acquainted with a position of a servant and that is about the only way he knows how to relate to people, which no longer works for him because the people left on this earth are those he doesn’t respect. Humans. Vampires. He feels like he is above both of those species and plenty of his own. While most ex-angels mourn their gods and plan on their return, Prinnsal absolutely despises his own. The very first feeling he developed independently was the stark relief of his god’s death. This makes him feel alienated from the others of his kind, so he prefers to avoid their company as well. He is a strict perfectionist and prefers to be self sufficient if he can, but also has a sharp mind for tactics and details. In the end he is a sword learning how to become a human being, cold, sharp, brutal and wrestling every new emotion into understanding and acceptance. There is a sort of stubborn pride to him that keeps him going and a self absorbedness of someone who is only now finding a self to be absorbed in. Despite all that, at his core he’s still an angel meant to serve. Meant to be used. No matter how much he tries for self-sufficiency there will always be a part of him searching for a new ruler. Someone to give his life direction and order, someone he could live and die for. He is far too proud to admit this core need to himself, far too stubborn in trying to fight his own nature and be a fully realized person without the shred of the baggage that comes with his origins. But it’s still a part of him. This growing, hungry, need for obsession. In the end he is angel through and through and he would burn himself inside out if the right person told him to.

Appearance: Prinn cuts a striking, clean figure, as sharp as the sword he carries. He’s meticulous to a fault about the way he presents himself, preferring unobtrusive black and white schematics for his clothes, as well as outfits that look professional and elegant. He cares little for jewellery and fluff and only wears Duchess’ red jewels as the sign of who he belongs to and why he mustn’t be messed with. As all other angels, his skin is pressed with long faded runes binding him to the service of his god. Once upon a time they used to be pure silver like his eyes. Now they are barely visible on his skin. He still prefers to keep his marks covered up and rarely shows more skin than his neck. When he chooses to extend his wings, they are silver with black tips, built more for speed than for power.

Interests: Swords and swordplay, art, architecture, fine food

Fears: Whips, being in another’s complete control again, dying from a blood drain

Habits and quirks: Tends to overly focus on the design of things when panicked as a way to distract himself, prefers the art that is long lasting (architecture) to art that is fickle and changes by the moment (music), genetically talented for all of it though.

Goals: Ensuring his own safety and survival in a world bent to get him killed, being in another’s complete control again

Lines in the sand: While he tries to strictly care for only himself and no one else, willing to sacrifice anything and anyone for his own survival, he does have a soft spot for what remains of his original angel cohort and doesn’t want them to come to harm as a result of his actions.

Nightmare of the body: Like all angels post deaths of the gods, Prinn is only just getting to know what free will is. For his entire existence he had been a little more than a tool and a weapon to be utilized in his god’s agendas and having the ability to make his own decisions is a strange and clumsy process. Like all the angels of Razasel that had been made to populate the city of Brilnant, Prinnsal had been changed from his core the moment his god decided to overturn it from the city of art and beauty into a war factory. It was a shoddy work, as Razasel’s mind had already started fraying, with the aggression and vigilance of a guard being carelessly shoved into flesh of a being made to be a muse and a teacher. It leaves Prinnsal anxious, jumpy and torn between who he used to be and who he’s meant to be now, never able to rightly fulfill one or the other again.  Between his new found free will and the ruined remains of his design, Prinnsal is amidst a struggle to finalize his identity as an independent person. Or to even realize what being an independent person is.

[charmspoint]

Sanguine Friday 7

Potential intro scene of Prinn and Duchess meeting

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It wasn’t a bad looking mansion.

Nestled in a sprawling garden, roses climbing its sides, ruby red apples hanging off the trees, fishes swimming in the decorative ponds, it would have looked like something out of a fairytale if the stonework of the building itself wasn’t so dark. Burgundy drapes sheltered the inside of the house from direct sunlight and the wood of the door was dark, clean cut, no visible irregularities.

Prinnsal refused to let the aesthetic trappings of the lair lull him into a sense of comfort. What hid inside was nothing short of a thirsting monster, one that would sooner drain him of his blood than invite him in for tea.

And still he approached.

Still, he took the knocker in his hand—Intricate, branching frame, the wear on the gold attempting to hide beneath an inadequate new coat of paint—and banged it over that immaculate wood.

Suicidal, the others might have called him, like he didn’t know so himself. Like he wasn’t perfectly aware that an angel knocking on a vampire’s front door is just a feast delivering itself to the doorstep. But he wasn’t stupid nor reckless nor quite done with his life yet. There were simply more pressing things that wanted to kill him than a bloodsucker with a pompous taste.

The door opened without so much as a creak. Through the narrow opening, a man stared out at him. An old, gray haired man with eyes almost bulging out of his skull, like an insect inserted into a human-like suit. His eyes darted over Prinnsal’s frame, before shutting the door again.

For a couple of minutes, Prinnsal wondered if that would be it. If he would he would simply be turned away without so much as an acknowledgment of his stupidity.

But no. His blood alone was too delectable of a lure. The man returned. He opened the door wide. He bowed deeply. He motioned Prinnsal in.

So Prinnsal stepped into the belly of the beast.

Walls of the hallway crowded around him oppressively, claustrophobically. Every few feet, a rose shaped candle gave its damndest to light up the dimness of the house, failing considerably in the battle against the rich black walls and the scarlet carpeting.

Prinnsal kept his back straight, his fists unclenched. Every rune on his body screamed at him to flee, to turn tail now, while he still could, while he still lacked a bite at his throat and death at his back. But he was made of firmer stuff than fear. He was made of the hardest steel tested under the cruelest lash. Hundred years of torture couldn’t bend his back and neither would this. Even if this turned out to be the thing that actually killed him.

The house opened up as he was led into the parlor. A spidery chandelier gave the room some much needed light, dripping red specks of light down onto the two couches positioned around a tea table. The frame of them was a dark cherry rosewood, the firm panels carved in the shapes of snarling wolves chasing a fleeing doe. Brought to life by a masterful hand, that was plain to see, each animal lovingly crafted with distinct fur patterns and lively posing. 

On the further seat, the one facing the door, sat the woman he had steeled himself to meet. And he could have prepared for a week more and still failed to suppress a shiver that ran up his spine that first time their eyes met. What greeted him from those eyes was visceral, raw hunger.

He tore his gaze away from her eyes, only to have it snag on her mouth instead. Tips of fangs poking out between her lips, two tiny pears in a sea of dark red. Panic pinched at his mind in a sharp burst, almost making him miss her actual greeting.

“You know, my dear, it’s usually customary that one should announce themselves before coming to visit. I must say I’m caught quite unprepared to receive such an esteemed company.” She looked at him like she wanted nothing more than to tear his throat open and gorge on the blood. She smiled like a hostess keen on entertaining exactly how good manners dictated before she did just that. “Nevertheless, we must preserve. Sit, will you not? Tea please.”

The last line was directed towards the wavering servant in the doorway and the man bowed before disappearing from sight. There was something strangely unnerving about being left alone with her. Prinnsal had never before been this close to a vampire. He never before felt so much like a mouse in front of a starving cat.

She must have seen it in his eyes, in the briefest hesitation before the next step, because her smile widened and her fangs flashed fully in the dull candlelight.

“Sit, little lamb.”

Prinnsal did what he did best.

He gritted his teeth behind a smile and approached like there was nothing to run from. She lounged on her seat, hair spilling over her shoulders in bronze waves, relaxed in that finicky way of cats that could lash out at any moment. He refused to break eye contact first. It set his nerves on fire but he wouldn’t allow himself to yield a second time.

“I’ve come to you with a proposition.” He said, every muscle in his body tense just to keep his voice steady.

“A proposition, how exciting.” She grinned, leaning towards slightly, her dress—all shadows spilling over a scarlet sea—leaving little of her voluptuous figure to imagination. The servant returned and set the platter down on the table, two cups of tea and a generous helping of sugar. The subtle scent of pomegranate wafted through the air as she waved the servant off before picking up her cup, gently blowing out the rising steam. “And what may be your proposition, little lamb?”

The teacup didn’t stain with lipstick as she drank from it, not even a hint of the dark red color that was too vivid not to have been painted on. His own throat felt dry so he reached for the tea too. Tried to enjoy the warm lull of it without thinking of all those stories that warned not to eat the food of the underworld.

“I know how much your kind values the blood of my kind.” His voice sounded steadier than he thought it would, and that fact alone gave him the confidence to continue. “There are rumors saying that our blood stops your decay and the dungeons are filling up because it must be true.”

Something glinted in her eyes, a sharp sort of light, like the reflection of sun on a polished dagger. She brought her tea away from her lips and set it back down on the platter. Rings glittered on her fingers as she folded her hands down in her lap.

“Interesting,” she said that word as if she meant to say foolish, “I thought you were far more ignorant of your position in the world to come knocking on my door. Did you fail to consider this visit might cost you your head.”

“Wouldn’t dream to.”

“And yet here you are?”

“I thought that perhaps you’d like to entertain the idea of me being more useful in the long term.”

She licked her lips. One long, slow swipe of her tongue that cleared away the pink stains left by the tea, but left the makeup unsmeared. “How quaint, I’ve never before had a meal come to my door and demand to be played with. You’re masochistic, for an angel.”

“I haven’t come here to offer myself as a meal,” he said, even though that was only partly true. “One meal means nothing. You eat me now and, in a week, you will hunger for angel blood again. But you keep me under your roof, in your care, and I will willingly let you feed off of my blood every day, for as long as you wish to have it.”

There was that glint in her eyes again and this time when she swiped her tongue, she trailed it over the sharp edges of her teeth. “And in exchange?”

“In exchange I ask for nothing but protection. I am to be yours exclusively. You shield me from others of your kind that may wish to harm me.” He hesitated a moment, the final confession briefly stuck in his throat, fighting to give her that much of a leverage on him so early on. “And you shield me from anything else that may come for me.”

Curiosity infested her smile, turning it into a butcher’s knife. “Poor little thing, is someone chasing you?”

“No one that could stand a chance against you.”

“Oh you flatterer,” she laughed, waving her hand at him dismissively, though her eyes shone with pleasure. “You come with a whole heap of trouble, I just know it, but…mine exclusively.” Her smile played over the edge of the words. “I like the sound of that. Do you have a name, little lamb?”

“Prinnsal.”

“Prinnsal,” she turned it over in her mouth like candy, hissed out the ‘s’ and curled her tongue around the ‘al as if she were savoring the taste’, “A cute name for a cute pet. Prinnsal then.” She reached down below the tea table and pulled out a knife. It wasn’t terribly big but it was sharp as sin, the ornate handle printed with shapes of thorns and wild flowers. She pushed the platter with the tea cups closer to him and laid the knife upon it. “Flavor my tea.”

Not once during his travel there did he actually consider how the deed would be done. There was no need to, he reasoned, vampires were cruel creatures, they knew how to let blood spill and at least that they could be trusted with, if nothing else. He hadn’t prepared for the possibility of her wanting him to do it himself.

But her eyes left no room for opposition, the words of refusal couldn’t even make it past his lips, and perhaps it was better that way too. He had come so far. He wouldn’t give up now, not at the final step.

The knife was light in his hand, barely more than a toy. His eyes reflected back at him from the blade, pupils blown wide in the silver sea, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was doing.

He did it anyway, pulled her cup closer, settled it under his arm. It wasn’t like he never bled before, but he was never one to inflict such suffering upon himself. Positioning was mostly guess work. Trying to remember where the others had hurt him, how to cut shallowly enough not to actually harm the system underneath. Divine blood still flowed through his veins and he had to trust it to keep him together. Not to let him bleed out upon her desk.

It hurt, but he wasn’t a stranger to pain.

He didn’t dig deep, barely a line, barely a small trickle of thick blood down into the rich sweetness of her tea.

A sharp sting, an uncomfortable roll of dread through his body that he tried to ignore.

The knife was well taken care of, polished to a shine and sharpened regularly. The teacups on the table all matched charmingly with the pot and the sugar bowl, black in color with the constellations painted on with delicate and precise brushstrokes of stark white. Darkness blossomed in her tea like a winter flower.

He didn’t let himself make a sound, didn’t let himself so much as wince, wouldn’t stand for the humiliation of it. He was the one who had chosen this. He would see it through. 

The trickle of blood eased and he pulled his arm back, leaving the knife down on the platter and pressing his palm against his forearm. The pain was a memory and a dream and the tea table was black walnut carved with wild roses. 

“You have strong nerves, I like that,” she said as she retrieved the cup, stirred the bloodied tea with her spoon, let that dark color spread and grow until it was the deepest shade of garnet.

She then brought the tea to her lips, drank in elegant, contemplative sips for a long time, every so often pausing just to close her eyes and sit still for a while, the smile unwavering on her lips.

By the time she finished the cup, he had stopped bleeding completely and his palm was stained red.

“I think we have reached an agreement,” she announced, extending her hand forward, giving him little choice before she was taking his hand into her own, pressing his blood between their palms, “Remain at my service, give your blood to me when I ask for it. In exchange the protection of Duchess Elizabeth will be yours for as long as you earn it.”

[charmspoint]

Sanguine Friday 1

In which I do my very very best to every friday post at least a little something about the original story I'm toying with, Sanguinary Waltz.

This week I bring you the blurb and the brief summary for the idea.

Next week I'll introduce the male lead.

Questions are welcome!

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Blurb:

The gods are dead. Their angels brave the world like abandoned children. Vampires rise in droves, threatening to become to dominant species on the planet.

As an angel, Prinnsal knows that serving one being you know is better than testing the teeth of thousands you don’t. Freshly reeling from the betrayal and death of his own god, he throws himself into a service of a vampire. Duchess Eliza is everything nightmares are made of, sadistic, hungry and all too intently interested in using her new pet to social climb through the bloodthirsty world of her kin. With angels struggling for survival on one side and vampires trying to establish themselves on the other, the two enter a deadly dance of love, blood, and most importantly, utter obsession.

Summary:

The story is set in an alternate realty, in a world created by a group of gods. The gods initially made two groups of beings. Angels, who were their servants and nothing more than mindless, soulless tools for their will, and humans who served as more advanced toys of gods, able to make their own decisions. Most of the gods were satisfied with this, aside from the goddess of beauty, Lurza, who couldn’t make peace with her creations wilting and dying. To combat this, she made a new species, vampires, who she sent to earth to turn other humans and establish an era of eternal life and beauty. The gods fell into combat over this, most of them opposing Lurza’s plan, aside from the god of industry who had been courting her for centuries and who ravaged his own cities to provide aid to her cause. The war of the gods ended with all of them dead, with Lurza killing her lover to establish absolute control, with angels of all other gods left behind by their masters and the vampires allowed to freely rule over the world, increasing their numbers every day.

The story centres Prinnsal, an angel of the god of industry, trying to establish his own selfhood while surviving in the ravaged world left behind by the war. Prinnsal is bitter with his god because the years before the god’s death were filled with abuse and monstrous experiments to respec the angels under his rule. He had left the city his god had stationed him in, but not without being followed by one of the last angels to be created, still functioning on dead orders to keep her kin in line. To seek shelter from his pursuer, as well as the vampires that would more than gladly have him for breakfast, he enters into a deal with a low-ranking vampire, Duchess Eliza. In exchange for her protection, he gives away his life to service and acting as her walking blood dispenser.

Duchess Eliza wasn’t the first vampire ever created, but she was amongst them, as her family had been slain by the beasts some eighty years ago, turning them all. She is a devout worshiper of Lurza, often hosting parties and scarifies in the goddess’ name in order to appease her. Vampire society is split into strict social ranks and Eliza’s own is relatively low, so she dedicates herself to social climbing and power trips, trying to secure a firm grasp on the newly emerging horrors of the world. She sees a bragging right in Prinn. While most vampires do enjoy angel blood as a delicacy, it is hard to get by and most of the angel blood bags are prisoners being slowly drained in the basements. An angel on a leash is completely unheard of and therefor the deal grants her immense social benefits, along side the more material ones of fresh blood. She fully intends to eat Prinn if he becomes boring or useless to her agendas.

This is a story about struggle with identity. Developing one as an ex-tool and retaining one as a corrupted monster. It’s a story about evil, about people willing to do the unspeakable as long as it brings them to the top. It’s a story about love. Or maybe less love and more so obsession, worship, hunger. It’s a story of two people very determined to bend the world to their will if that is the only way they can survive it. A romance story. A horror story. A corruption story.

[charmspoint]

Sanguine Friday 10

Just gals being cult pals

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Her prey had escaped her again.

It has been years since the fall of her God, years since she set out to bring His unruly flock to heel, years since this particular sheep continued twisting out of her grasp. A situation that was fully expected. Prinnsal, after all, had been one of the honour guard, a soldier she had trained herself, far above any of the little grunts that had died so easily under the stroke of her whip. She would have almost been disappointed with him if he hadn’t managed to evade her for this long.

Almost.

His performance in the hunt was much outweighed by her need to return to the city in a prompt manner. Time moved slowly, but still it moved, and there was no telling what the angels left behind might have done with the city of her God, without her there to take the lead.

Yes, pleasing as the fugitive’s skills had been, she needed to find him soon. Find him, end him, return to her proper station. Only when he died, when the last of the fugitives finally felt the squeeze of her whip against his throat and coughed out the blood of his treachery, would her task be complete. She would be able to move on.

Her thoughts ended there.

Find him, kill him, return to the city. The future beyond that was black and faceless, Unorganized, uncoordinated. All she could count on was that when she came back, something within her would stir. Something within her would tell her what to do next.

At least she hoped it would.

Without guidance, there was no life for her, no future to be found.

She had to kill Prinnsal.

The room he must have inhabited only a day ago was now cold and empty. She had turned it upside down and failed to find a single clue to where he was heading, what future might that crooked, broken mind of his have devised for his own benefit.

That was perfectly alright though.

Coretha had more ways to locate her prey than physical traces he left behind.

The small statue of Lurza was carefully tucked in the side of her bag. As soon as Coretha’s fingers touched the smooth marble, a warmth blossomed through her, a dizzying feeling that was her God’s not her own. His devotion, His love, His obsession. When she held the statue, she could hardly think of anything else but the Goddess behind it, the one that had stolen her God’s heart, the one He did everything for. And the one for who Coretha, as His extension, would also do anything for.

But it was never Lurza that answered the called, the prayer, that Coretha directed towards the statue.

And maybe that was for the best, because the one who did answer brought a glow into the dreary room that Coretha had never even been aware of until Lurza’s emissary answered her prayers that very first night she had called.

Irinia’s wings spread out behind her as she appeared, almost as wide as the room itself. Her skin practically glowed a warm brown, the rushing strength of her Goddess giving her shadow a golden glow. A peaceful expression rested on her face and peace spread from her arms as she opened them, setting them wide as if she was about to embrace the world as a whole. As if she was about to embrace Coretha.

There were no words that Coretha has been programmed with that could explain the way Irinia’s presence made her feel. She could only imagine that this was how her kin had felt when they were born from Rezasel’s still whole mind so many eons ago. This warmth that seeped through clothes and skin, settling into Coretha’s bones. This tranquillity that set her heart in it’s place like nothing else on earth ever did. This total, complete acceptance that just for a moment made Coretha feel like she was a being whole, not a being shattered.

“You called upon my Lady’s guidance?” Irinia’s voice was a chirping of birds, the first warm breeze of spring. Her eyes fluttered open and Coretha caught herself almost tipping into her gaze, attracted to that gentleness like a migratory bird finding it’s way home.

Coretha tightened her grip around the hilt of her whip, reminding herself to breath, to centre herself to time and place and not a person her broken soul longed for. It was hardly appropriate, to set something like this, a strange, eluding feeling, above one’s life function. Both her’s and Irinia’s.

“I’m still tracking the same escapee,” she said, tension seeping out of her shoulders when Irinia showed no derision towards her inadequacies. “He keeps dodging me. I need a hint. If Lady Lurza would be so kind to provide.”

Sadness clouded Irinia’s features for just a moment, casting her face in a shadow of uncertainty. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She closed her eyes. Coretha knew her wishes would not be fulfilled.

“My Lady concerns herself not with dealings of your Lord anymore,” Irinia whispered, the slightest touch of pity dyeing her tone blue. “I cannot provide guidance for you, and I implore you not to bother my Lady with such trifling things again.”

Coretha bowed her head. There was nothing more to be said of the topic, despite how that little thorn of resentment stung at her. The frantic adoration for the Lurza still burned in her veins just as it had burned in the veins of her God. But something else still rested beside it in her heart. The bitter feeling she had to chew through every time the Goddess refused to acknowledge any part of Rezasel’s legacy still left upon the earth.

She kept her head bowed as Irinia’s light started to fade, slowly making her way back to the plane that Coretha had never once in her short, painful life laid eyes upon. Warmth seeped out of the room, out of Coretha’s body, with her retreat, leaving the inner workings of Coretha’s mind once again spinning and frantic.

“It is not my Lady’s word, but I have observed your escapee.” The soft whisper, a confession of a crime, floated almost undetectably to Coretha’s ears once Irinia was almost only light. Coretha’s heart lurched in her chest, but she kept her head down as if she didn’t hear a thing. As if there was nothing being said. “He’s quite a bold one. He has made his nest with the predators of our kind. Find them and you will find him. That is all I can tell you.”

Coretha closed her eyes, committing that information and that gentle, reassuring tone to her memory.

“Do stay safe. I’ll stay listening.” The light whispered one last time, before being extinguished entirely.

Coretha righted herself, squared her shoulders against the returning cold and the ice picks lodging themselves into her spine. She would not let this information go to waste. She would find Prinnsal and bring along his end.