#antu the raccoon

[vampiresuns]

Look After Your Dead

✴︎ LOOK AFTER YOUR DEAD ✴︎

In which Anatole is very bad at staying dead, and Amparo and Valerian Cassano look for him. 1.9k words. Art is ‘Fruit of Life’ by Megan Rieker. For Anatole’s Apprentice timeline, pre-game, compliant with all routes. Content warning(s): Death.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here. 

First came the silence. Both of them had promised themselves in their own way they would not check on Anatole while he was dead; or perhaps they would only to know if he was safe where the dead are supposed to be. He wasn’t, not for long. He had the energy of a wandering dead; a soul, or cumulus of former living energy, which was traversing through the realms still, albeit not because he didn’t know he was dead. On the contrary, like always, their Anatole felt like he was looking for answers — like he was waiting for something to begin, or something to click.

Second came the turning. Anatole was a restless yet restful dead. He didn’t come back to deliver any messages, he didn’t come to sit in anyone’s dreams. Both of them could tell it wasn’t because he didn’t want to do it, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to turn and tell them something they could only imagine. Anatole was still searching for something, and they both knew him enough (one saw him grow, the other grew up with him) to know Anatole would keep going, even if he turned his head to look back, until he found what he was looking for. Giving up was not in his vocabulary: if it were, he wouldn’t be dead. 

Third came the jump. It would take both of them a while to realise what had truly happened. Valerian had never witnessed it before like this, Amparo had never witnessed it at all, used to the energy of those who were gone and came back as ghosts, or sometimes, never left, changing into something which shouldn’t walk their world. Those were the kind of changes in the dead that she was used to. This was different. It felt as if Anatole’s presence had jumped and relocated somewhere to never be found, somewhere which wasn’t the realm of the Dead. 

In the magical realms, the person known as Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva had climbed to the highest peak of the Fool’s realm. There he could see a dragon fly above his head, getting lost in the horizon while he stood alone in the overgrown island. The words had been clear: We will look after you, and then the Fool’s: When you’re ready, all you have to do is jump, I will be waiting.

Waiting for what? For whom?

For him, of course, he knew that. But where? And most importantly why?

He stared at the horizon as darkness faded, and the greyish first tints of sunrise left way to an explosion of colour, and as if the shoe he was waiting to drop finally hit him on the head, he laughed. The conclusion came to him like a realisation, and on top of a building that was once shaped like the Lazaret he cried. He only hoped his mother would forgive him for making her weep for however long. He would walk the clouds again, he would see the faces of the people he loved again, he would step on the cobblestones of Vesuvia and breathe again. 

Giving up had never been in his vocabulary. All he had to do was jump.

“Am I dead?” He had asked, a year ago.

“Yes,” he had been answered. “But I do not think you’ll stay dead for long.”

He recalled that conversation as he drew a breath and, like a lover running to the arms of the subject of their affections, he ran to the edge of the precipice and jumped. 

It took Amparo and Valerian about eight months to piece together what had happened and to dare say it to each other. The first clue came in the shape of energy, picked up by Amparo before Valerian could; energy which reassembled Anatole’s, was Anatole’s, but faded like a fire which stubbornly fights against its nature to be lit. Or perhaps, like a fire which does not have the right conditions to do so. Amparo had promised herself she would leave the dead alone, but she guessed that if the energy of the dead felt so alive, then she was allowed to look. 

She didn’t do it immediately, too hurt, too scared for all of it to be wishful thinking. But what if it was him? What if it was him and he needed someone who knew how to transverse energy and life and death? Amparo felt she was justified enough to ‘create a tether’ between that energy and herself, a way of keeping tabs on her dead cousin. 

That energy disappeared suddenly after three months, and reappeared two weeks after that just like it had gone: with no warnings. This was when Valerian picked it up too — the distinct energy of someone who had died and come back to life, someone who, against all odds had come back as themselves but didn’t know who they were yet. Valerian had never witnessed such a thing face to face, instead he had seen the results of it once when he was in his twenties. Most of the time necromancers did not interfere with the natural order of things, and when they did, it usually was for their own selfish reasons: a necromancer who did not understand that everyone eventually had to die was either a very incompetent necromancer, or a very dangerous necromancer. 

It took both of them some time to raise the topic with each other. When they did, they felt like they could breathe again, like there was someone else to bear this weight with; Valerian was old, older than most, and while he had no intention of dying yet, he didn’t know if he could bear something like this alone again. 

Their plan was to track the energy so they could come to the bottom of it, with Amparo doing the tracking and neither of them doing the talking, too aware of the negative consequences this could have. If they were wrong, they’d break their families hearts for nothing and they couldn’t do that to them, especially to Anatole’s parents, Valerius, Amparo’s own mother, Milenko or his friends. However, if they were right, Valerian had advised Amparo to tread with caution. 

“Death is not a pause, but often a reset. How people come back, or how they remember who they are — if they remember at all — is a very delicate matter, my dear.”

Amparo now was one of the few living people who knew Valerian Cassano, former darling of Vesuvian theatre and window of Iovanus, former Consul, was a necromancer, but it seemed like a light secret to keep in comparison to the possibility of Anatole being alive. Without saying it, they both knew the secret would be their responsibility to keep, theirs to carry until they knew more of the situation. How had he come back, had there been side effects, was it really, truly him? Valerian explained to Amparo that there was a possibility the person who came back would look like Anatole without being Anatole: his entire personality and everything that made him himself misplaced, lost, as something new and alien took its stead. A new personality, for a new person. 

Amparo hated to admit it made sense, even though she insisted this had to be Anatole, it felt too much like him. Even if it felt like he was coming from behind a veil, or from underwater. With a determination not even Valerian’s well-meaning advice could temper (though she accepted it, as she knew he cared deeply about Anatole) Amparo swore she would find her cousin. She owed it up to him. 

“Valerian?” She said one day, after much thinking, finding the old man in the winter garden. “I think I know how to find him without being seen. I think we have to wake up Antu.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Lele, darling.”

Valerian stood up with the help of his walking cane, moving towards the closest bed of flowers; Amparo rushed to help him kneel down, but he shook his head telling her to save it for when he had to stand back up. He ungloved one of his hands, handing the garment to Amparo as it revealed a perfectly youthful hand in its absence, the skin looking more like it belonged to a 20 year-old than a centenary, and counting, old man. When Valerian had stopped practising necromancy for his own reasons, all that pent up magic began working its way through the magician himself, or affecting his immediate surroundings. 

One of those side-effects had been his abnormally young hands. The magic regenerated them on its own accord, the instrument it had been one casted with. 

He cut a handful of flowers, and in their place new ones began to grow in a blink. “Here,” Valerian said after Amparo helped him up, “if I cut them, they will last a little longer.” 

It was three o’clock, the Palazzo moving to the rhythm of its afternoon shift. Amparo would have to go through most of it in order to reach the small external garden it had, and from there she’d have to descend to the family’s mausoleum. Of course, Anatole’s actual body was missing. Or rather, it was nothing but charred bone so there had been no body to bury. As she made her way, no one from the staff stopped her, nor asked if she needed anything, the flowers on her hand were telling enough. She prayed to the Sun in high-heaven and the Moon looking after her that no one would.

Amparo also prayed she didn’t run into Anatole’s parents. Nothing would ruin her tries more than running into Louisa, or even worse, Vlad. Valerius was a different matter entirely, she was angry at him over some argument he had had with her mother in the Council, so while she had no desire to cross paths with him, he was relatively easier to get rid of. One would think Louisa would be the hardest, but Anatole’s mother grieved her son in different ways which luckily involved staying as far away from the mausoleum as possible. 

Dr. De Silva, as a former war doctor, was no stranger to Death, nor she was unevered by it or the rituals the living had to reminisce on those they have lost; however, Louisa De Silva would not cry tears to an empty coffin. She said her son was in other places, not there, so she didn’t need to go as often as her husband did, even if she still went down to leave him flowers once a week. 

Vlad, on the other hand, had practically become as part of the family’s mausoleum as the dead themselves. 

Like Anatole’s father, his familiar had also become a permanent fixture in it. After Anatole died, Antu kept going back to the East Docks on his own, waiting for him to come back, trying to throw himself into the sea to swim all the way to the Lazaret. He was too smart of a creature to stay doing that forever, so sooner rather than later it sunk in that his magician, his companion, his saviour and protector was well and truly dead. Amparo wasn’t sure what sounds Racoons made when they were sad, strangely, she had said they must’ve sounded a lot like dogs, or perhaps, howling foxes. 

She had never expected Antu’s outward noise (a sad little series of chirps) to be nothing in comparison to the wailing cacophony that would echo in the mind of whomever could communicate with the raccoon. Would’ve she been able to drink enough alcohol, drink whatever potion, undergo whatever spell to not hear it, Amparo would’ve done it.

But if anyone could track Anatole it would be Antupillán. Luckily for Amparo, he was the only thing in the mausoleum, except of course, for the Dead, but the Dead were always everywhere.

Antu came back two days later. 

He is alive, my Anatole, he is alive! 

[vampiresuns]

A Dream Within A Dream | Prologue, Part 2

✴︎ A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM ✴︎

In which Anatole dreams, wakes up, and finds his way to the Palace again. Again? Again. Feeling like he’s been there before, he decides to make a plea to the Countess. For Anatole’s apprentice timeline, compliant with all the routes. 2.5k words. Content warning(s): Memory loss.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

Anatole was not in his bed any more. Instead he looked upon a green sunset, as green and vivid and those of the Sea of Persepia, only this wasn’t the sea. He had come into this place through a snowy forest, where the sun glistened on the snow. He was ignorant of how such a landscape turned into a desert, but something told him it wasn’t the same place. He asked Asra where they were as he set his eyes on the two diverging roads.

“Far enough from home, I think.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you remember what home looks like. Where is it. How it felt. I don’t, not when I’m awake. Why did you come this far?”

Asra’s expression was unreadable, his words deliberately neutral. “For answers. For clarity. And I need them soon. A storm is coming...”

“I’m not afraid of storms.”

“I know.”

“People always say they’re loud. Do you know how an explosion sounds, Asra?”

Once more his friend didn’t reply, looking out into the distance instead. Anatole did too, unable to find a reason to reminisce on the past right now, not when the road ahead was ever changing. This wasn’t like one of his usual dreams. He never dreamt of Asra, he never dreamt of anyone he knew. 

“Soon there will be a crossroads.”

“Isn’t there always one? Do we know where they lead?”

“Depends on which one you take.”

“One of these days,” Anatole said, standing up from where he was sitting, “you are going to have to give me a straight answer. We both know what happened the last time you didn’t.”

“Nana, I’m—” Asra extended his hand towards Anatole’s, but withdrew it too soon, like he always did, as the sand rose around both magicians. 

“You’re always so much of yourself here. I miss—” Asra sighed, and Anatole’s vision faded. “Nevermind, Nana, for now, just rest.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

It was still early enough for most of the City not to be fully awake. Except, of course, for the Market. Gods, what a strange morning Anatole had had. As if last night’s interruptions weren’t enough, someone with a foreboding message was waiting outside of his shop, waiting for him. Anatole tried to think of who it was, but the more time that passed, the less he could make out of the encounter. He couldn’t remember who it was, no matter how much he tried — it was strange, one would think that after being warned of perilous guests who wanted to take advantage of oneself, one would remember the messenger. 

Were Vesuvians always this dramatic? Probably. He must be just as bad. Was he ever sure there was someone outside his shop? 

The activity of the Market pulled him away from his thoughts. Selasi, wonderful, fantastic Selasi, popped his head into the street to offer him pumpkin bread; Anatole, of course, says yes. He could say no to handsome, sun-speckled men who offered him bread, but why would he? Selasi even offered him coffee. 

“Gods, Selasi, I would duel someone in the streets for you,” Anatole said with a smile as he took in the scent of the coffee cup the baker had offered him, “I only had time to drink one cup before I left. Do you mind having Antu inside? I can have this in the street.”

“Of course not, I’ll pull a chair for the little man,” as soon as Selasi did, Antu sat on the chair, saying his thanks to the baker, even though only Anatole could hear him. Selasi gave him a bread-roll from yesterday. “You must be in a rush then… I’m not interrupting am I?”

“He says thank you, and not at all! Bread is never an interruption. It’s a necessity. Are you going to let me pay you this time?”

“Maybe I will. And where is Asra? Sleeping in?”

“Probably, but not in the Jasmine. He’s on a journey,” he said in an acerbic, but harmless tone. 

“Where to?”

“Not a clue.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Selasi’s alarm was very heart-warming. It was always nice to know someone looked out for you.

“No, no he did not. He was acting strange… honestly last night was very strange. Have you heard of anyone complaining about break-ins?”

The baker folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head affectionately. “That’s nothing new—” but at the mention of break-ins, his look grew worried, “wait, what do you mean break-ins, Anatole are you fine?”

“Oh, I’m superb. But J— someone came into my shop very late last night, asking for a reading and asking a lot of questions. Huge drama out of it, and then… left. Didn’t even let me finish. Mountains shook, I got a mouse, Selasi.”

The baker snorted. “Where did you even get that expression from?”

“No idea.”

“But what about your mysterious journey, if I may ask? Did your intruder incident happen before the Countess’ escort rode into the neighbourhood ‘roud dawn?” 

Anatole had spaced out, thinking about Asra, his morning, Julian The Self-proclaimed Murdered and Medical Professional, and his strange dreams. He gave Selasi a smirk, though his eyes are still unfocussed.

He takes a drink from his coffee. “You may ask questions, which I may choose not to answer.” He turned to the baker when he spoke again, a debonair smile on his lips and a single raised eyebrow. “How’s that bread coming along?” 

Anatole took out enough coin to pay Selasi as soon as the bread was out, waiving the baker goodbye as he sent him off. As he went up towards the Heart District, he got distracted by a fortune telling stall that looked exactly like the one Asra used to operate in, years ago. Caught up in his musings, unaware how far back in time it really came from, he collided into someone else. The person was shorter than him, with bright, red hair and something which looked like a uniform, but Anatole wasn’t entirely sure it was. 

Anatole almost fell down the step, twice. Once with the collision, another time because he almost stepped on one of the pomegranates that fell from the stranger’s basket with the impact. 

Both him and Antu threw themselves into helping, the latter accepting a pomegranate greedily when the stranger offered it to them as a thank you token. 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

His luck must’ve been changing, because the stranger, Portia, was the Countess’ head servant. He didn’t notice the look the guards exchanged when he crossed the Palace’s gate, as the same swooping sensation from last night as he explained Antu’s name — who was now perched on his shoulder — settled in his stomach. The name of the guards seemed familiar too, like characters from a well-loved, well-read novel.

Good morning, Ludovico! Good morning, Bludmila! He could hear himself say.

Good morning, secretary! He could hear them answer back.

The Palace stands tall under the Vesuvian sky, looking back at Anatole, a fortress welcoming him back as anxieties and loose ends rattled inside his mind. There was no turning back now, no matter how many questions he had. Only time would tell if this was the right thing. 

For a moment, he thought he saw himself walking by, only his hair was much shorter, reaching his shoulders instead of the middle of his back; he walked with a man with ombré hair and a woman with one purple and one green eye — she had her arm affectionately pulled across his back. When he blinked the entourage was gone and each temple throb he felt got lost with the skull-rattling sound of Portia knocking on the Palace’s door.

When they stepped into the Palace, the Chamberlain did a double take at them. While at first they paid Anatole no mind, a second look had them looking between Portia and himself, looking completely out of sorts. As Portia asked about time, Anatole thought maybe he shouldn’t have stopped for bread, even if it was nice to share it with Portia and Antu as they walked through the City.

The Chamberlain tried not to stare at Anatole as they explained how late they were, and while the golden-haired magician felt a bit guilty, he was too fixated in looking at the Palace’s corridor, one foot still deep down the feeling of déjà vú, even when Portia began to escort him to the dining room. 

He’s been here before. He knew he has. 

A nasal voice resonates in his head as Portia opens the dining room doors. “Hey, little Valerius, are you joining us for dinner? Come on, I was just joking earlier—”

Even staring down at that atrocious fucking painting felt being welcomed by an old friend. Or perhaps, an adversary, or an incompetent boss, which were the same thing in Anatole’s mind. He had no trouble telling the Countess he didn’t like it, mostly because he didn’t see any harm in telling the truth. He did keep to himself her comment about the Count having the populace (‘populace’, what an estately word that was!) eating from his hand. He felt, deep down, that it was wrong; even though the Count, or rather, the late Count Lucio did rule for 20 years and his masquerade was often mourned by town gossipers — Vesuvia’s City sport was gossiping — Anatole had heard enough of the Count to know it was impossible that he was worshipped. 

Even Gods had their heretics and apostates. Yes, Anatole supposed he had heard enough positive things about the man, but the negative things he had heard… they were atrocious. 

He kept his opinions to himself for now, being able to tell the Countess didn’t pry him away from his shop to listen to the political opinions of an amnesiac, even if said amnesiac felt like someone had to tell her sooner or later, and the topic kept bugging him. 

A third time, his own mouth betrayed him. “Shouldn’t a Palace always be open to its people? Countess? I do not mean to be impertinent,” yes, yes he did, “but birthday parties, as fun as this particular one seemed, shouldn’t be the only occasion a polity has access to its public servants.”

The Countess looked at him in shock.

“I’m sorry, I spoke out of place.”

“No, no, there’s no need to apologise. The strangest sensation invaded me, for a moment, Anatole. It’s of no substance, however. Though I must ask if you have studied, perhaps. ‘Public servant’ is a very specific word to use and I cannot think I’ve seen it used outside of the Republic of Galbrada, my own natal Prakra, and the Democratic Republic of Balkovia, perhaps a couple other places, but it is a rare word in Vesuvia.”

Anatole took a very small sip of the Golden Goose, to drown a temple throb. “I have read a little. But please, you were telling me about the Masquerade.”

As the Countess began talking about the Count’s murder and everyone averted their gaze, Anatole focused on the painting but his magic latched onto the Countess’ words. Anatole hummed as she spoke, not in agreement, though he hoped that for now it would pass as active listening, so the influx of opinions he was having that he did not know where the place they came from betrayed him again. Because Anatole’s magic picked up a lot of uncertainty from the Countess’ words. 

Did she truly feel sorry for the death of her husband? Most likely, Anatole couldn’t tell the reasons or the causes of the intention people put into their words, whether they put it willingly or involuntarily. From what he had read about language magic so far (Asra had gotten him some books about it, to Anatole’s immense joy. He had hugged him that day.) it was not possible to draw upon the causes of things through percolating emotional states through speech. But they were an awfully convenient clue, weren’t they?

Something about her whole speech didn’t quite click with Anatole. Something was missing, something the Countess herself was unsure about. The biggest talettell was how said uncertainty flew away when she spoke about the purpose why Anatole had been called to the Palace. 

He didn’t hesitate to tell the Countess he would assist her in the investigation. Anatole insisted on his own modesty when she told him the way he spoke about affairs of governance and justice earlier had only confirmed her decision to appoint him as the main investigator of the case, though he had left Julian breaking into his shop well out of the conversation. He insisted on it again when she speaks of her abilities as a magician, mostly because it did weird him out that people knew who he was, while he had no idea who everybody else were. 

The look of Portia’s face does not escape him. Anatole looked at her, then at the Countess. 

Something is urging him to speak again as the Countess walks out, even if once again he has no idea what he’s about to say. Perhaps it was that he felt the Countess agreed with her current view of justice. Unlike the other times, something inside of him told him to have confidence in himself. So he did. He knew, deep inside, that whatever he would say was meant to be the right thing to do, even if the Countess didn’t like it. “Countess, you say that when ‘we’ find him you shall bring him to the people so they can witness his execution. Countess, I must heartfeltly ask you to consider a fair trial.”

Everybody in the room went artificially still as the Countess turned to assess Anatole. Though her crimson gaze was heavy on him, unfriendly and irritated, he did not waver.

“Now you are being impertinent.” 

“Whoever is most impertinent has the best chance, Countess, but please,” he says, doing his damndest to mean every word he’s saying. Antu heeled by him, standing in his two hind legs to take his hand. Anatole felt his familiar’s magic flow into him. He would not waver, Aelius Radošević did not waver. “Do not take it as the advice of someone impertinent but the advice of someone who knows of the matter. A testimony is a fundamental aspect of evidence in trial, but a testimony taken in unlawful circumstances does not a fair trial make. I am not defending him. I do not know who this man is, and as I do agree to your request, I agree to it on the warning that I wish to uncover the truth. I do not want to be responsible for a judicial malpraxis. I could not live with myself. Could you?”

The Countess weighed him with her stare, his heart beat inside his chest so hard it merged with the throb in his temples, though Antu’s magic did wonders soothing it. His wonderful little care-taker. Anatole only broke the Countess' gaze after excusing himself so he could take Antu in his arms.

“Portia. Portia… Portia!”

“Yes, milady?”

“Show Anatole to the guest quarters. I imagine there is much to ponder before the night is out.”

Portia was quiet as she ushered him through the hallways of the Palace. They don’t cross many people, but the ones they did, stared. No wonder, after Anatole’s bold display in the dining room he was sure the whole staff might know by now. What had he gotten himself into now? All he could think of as he adjusted the strap of his travelling bag on his shoulder was of holding Antu tighter, almost burying his face in his fur. 

If he was still alive in the morning it would be a fucking miracle. 

[vampiresuns]

The Stories Of Dead Kings | Prologue, Part 3

✴︎ THE STORIES OF DEAD KINGS ✴︎

4.5k words. In which the Palace continues to bring out things long ago buried within Anatole, the investigation commences and he makes an unlikely friend. CWs: Memory loss, death penalty.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

Antu did not like the white dogs. A shame, because Anatole loved that breed — he had only seen pictures of it, drawings in books and a couple of paintings, but he thought it was a fantastic one all the same. They looked so funky and given his preference for raccoons, it was no surprise he favoured fuzzy, slightly funny looking but beautiful animals. He’d pet them later. 

Antu liked the voice that called to Anatole even less. While he didn’t like it either, Antu reacted with a viciousness Anatole had never seen before.

Stay back! You’re not wanted! He threatened, his voice echoing in Anatole’s mind as he bared his teeth at the open air.

No! We don’t like it in there! You can’t make us go!

With the dogs pulling him through his clothes upstairs, he had to hold onto Antu for dear life, fearing his familiar would launch himself at the dogs. It made him a blur of hands, fur and hair. 

“Ouch, Antupillán, don’t scratch me!”

As soon as they’re in the dark hallway, the dogs vanished, but Antu did not seem any more calm. Still in Anatole’s arms but ready to jump if needed, he was still growling at nothing and every time Anatole tried to make an advance, trying to walk down the hall to explore the room by the end of it, Antu tried to bite his hands. 

“Fine, fine, fine, Antupillán, you win.”

When the ghostly voice purred behind them, Antu climbed over his shoulder before Antole could stop him. Of course his raccoon threw himself at an apparition, because demanding fair trials out of the Countess of Vesuvia wasn’t excitement enough for the furball he had for a familiar.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole tried very hard not to growl at Portia when she brought him breakfast, but the Palace kept hours that were too early, even for him, who had become a relatively early riser out of habit — waking up at dawn was too much, what had happened to seven AM? At least she had come with coffee, coffee he chugged while he listened carefully at her.

He had no clue about how to feel about the clothes, though the shirt was a dream come true. Cross-tied and with a V neck opening, big bishop sleeves, and matching, deep emerald green pants and a sleeveless long coat. The coat had a gold embroidered trim, and it reached his ankles, It would flutter deliciously as he walked down the hallways, the clack of the black boots with a golden plate shoe tip against the marbled floors.

Everything was miraculously his size; he didn’t still comprehend nor trust the Countess’ motives for giving him clothes, especially when he had brought his own. Anatole might not have a personal tailor, but he was very dedicated and careful about his clothing. He always strived to be well dressed, so what was the reason for it? Ease him after his opinions last-night? That felt too much like trying to buy him into the Countess' good side. However, while it was true he didn’t know how to feel about her, he felt it was unfair to automatically assume the worst. This required further analysis. 

Portia left his room and he looked at the clothes with a sigh. He examined for a minute longer as he ate another pastry. He looked at Antu, who was still pretending to be an angel after jumping from his arms to fight a ghost out of all things. 

He was eating some grapes. 

It’s pretty.

“We don’t accept gifts from people we don’t trust.”

Who’s we?

“Oh, is that how it is?”

You have never been very good at lying to yourself.

“And you’re awfully insightful this morning, huh?” 

Antupillán continued eating his grapes, this time in silence. He had a point, Anatole supposed. It was a gorgeous outfit but he hadn’t been lying to himself when he said he didn’t accept gifts from people he didn’t trust, and after last night, he wasn’t sure he was on the best terms with the Countess, even if she did seem civil enough afterwards. He couldn’t wear this, even if he really, really wanted to. It would be wrong, it would betray his principles, it would—

It would have to do because when he turned to check where he had left his clothes, he realised the Palace’s staff had taken all of them to laundry them. When Portia had mentioned that, he had assumed they’d only take the clothes he was wearing last night.

“Fuckers.”

He hated people rummaging through his stuff. He was very, very close to deciding to throw all caution and professionalism to the winds and be contrarian as could be. It was a bad idea, but there was a part inside himself which had been kept dormant for the most part. That part made him want to remind people he wasn’t trapped somewhere with them, they were trapped somewhere with him.

Perhaps another time.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The Palace’s library was one of the most gorgeous places he had ever set a foot in. From its doors to its high shelves, with the high windows with stained glass and the plants, Anatole wished he had the entire day to get lost in it, explore every section, even the ones he wasn’t interested in. He wanted to ask why was the library locked up under so many keys, but he didn’t know if he’d get an answer, or if Portia knew, or if the Countess would be up to more of his really incisive questions about things she would deem out of Anatole’s range of incumbency. 

If you asked him, Libraries should be public.

Despite how they left things last night, the Countess seemed to be in a great mood, complimenting his looks and treating him amiably. Anatole detected no deception nor flattery in her words; it threw him off for reasons he didn’t have the time to decode right now. Perhaps he had become too used to people shading half a light on things for reasons bigger than Anatole himself, perhaps the reason was another. It’d have to wait to be pried into. 

“You told me you read.”

“Constantly, as long as my brain lets me.”

Silence fell between them. Well, this was starting to get awkward. 

“Thank you,” the Countess said.

“What for?”

“You are very genuine,” she said. Anatole didn’t know what to do with that. Taking his silence as encouragement, the Countess continued. “Reading is a wonderful gift, shared by all citizens where I come from, but it’s woefully uncommon here.”

He hummed, squinting back at the Countess. He took a sharp breath as he made himself count to ten. He had felt the same need to speak without knowing what he would say as before, but this time he could anticipate it would be something angry. He didn’t need to know where these things were coming from to know he was about to ask the Countess whose fault was that, and then he’d be really, really done for. 

He kept his mouth shut this time — Antu biting him softly (but strongly enough to make him hiss) helped. Time and place. He was better than this, he was taught better than this. 

Wait, what? Taught what? By whom?

“Concentrate, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered between his teeth.

“Did you say something?”

“That this is truly a wonderful collection.”

“Anatole… you are my guest, if you wish to return here, you need only ask. But for the moment I would have your undivided attention here.”

There was something deeply intimate about prying into someone organisational systems. How they cluttered, why they cluttered, the organisation methods employed, the thought process behind it and what you could infer of it by looking. The way documents were studied and how and where notes were taken. In that sense, Dr. Devorak’s desk teemed with information.

It might have felt like prying a little too deep into him, but Anatole thought it was a fair exchange after he broke into his house. An eye for an eye wasn’t the best justice system, but hey, a little pettiness couldn’t hurt, besides, investigating the murder was his job now. 

His musings were tampered by the mention of Asra working for the palace during the Red Plague. He didn’t remember living through it, though he had always assumed he must’ve been present for it, given their earliest memory was of a post-plague Vesuvia. It had ravaged everything. Plagues were like wars, they seldom discriminated. Not that Anatole knew of war beyond books. If that wasn’t the case this was, once again, nor the time or place to second-guess himself.

Do you know what an explosion sounds like, Asra?

After promising the Countess he would meet her for dinner, he set himself to work. Anatole loved few things more than a good puzzle without a solution, and once he grew determined he did nothing half-ways. 

Lacing his fingers together, he stretched them, a waft of satisfaction dawning over him as his joints cracked. 

“Let’s figure you out, Julian ‘Magic Cards’, hm?”

He didn’t expect his search to lead him back into the city, but with Antu in tow he’s determined to follow the trace his magic had cast into its streets. Vesuvia was a wild thing, a glimmering thing in the lowlights of dusk making Anatole wonder why hadn’t he insisted in seeing more of it, wondering how much memories of it could he be missing. What used to be his favourite spots? His favourite streets? His favourite garden? 

He wasn’t one to dwell in the past, living in the past was no way of living, but that didn’t mean the past didn’t matter. He just wanted to be able to reclaim it, to say ‘this is mine, this took me where I am today, this made me myself, just like who I am today will make me the myself of tomorrow’. He looked at the past not with wistfulness but searching for an explanation.

The area he found himself in was crowded, urbanistically speaking, shabby, probably in need of repair, and while he didn’t stop chasing that trace something in his heart (and his temple) pulsed. Something unknown and caged, something which begged to be let out, something he couldn’t make out what it was. He hated not knowing, he was getting tired of getting all these feelings, these knowledge, these looks and these visions without any sort of explanation. This time he didn’t file it away for later, and yet whatever he felt, eluded him.

The word he was looking for and failed to find was Love. A word which would continue to escape him for a little longer, as Julian Devorak himself manifested out of an open door. Finally, he thought, throwing hypothesis and chasing them was starting to give him results. 

Falling into a barrel and stepping on Antu’s tail were unforeseen outcomes. So was falling face first into Julian’s chest after he helped him out of the barrel, both of them looking at each other like deers startled by light.

After Julian let him go, he held Antu, petting him as a way to apologise for stepping on him by accident. 

“I have a name, you know? Shopkeep isn’t it,” he said as he looked at the Rowdy Raven’s sign.

“Dare I ask what brings you to this neck of the woods, Not-Named-Shopkeep?”

Anatole caught himself smiling, but as he tried and failed to find a way to explain what had happened the smile faded from his face. Words eluded him and he had to admit he was very grateful for Julian taking it in stride. Because how could he explain any of this without giving away his new-found position? Or at all? He couldn’t find it in him to articulate such a thing — not to mention the glint in Julian’s eye as he turned to him was much more exciting.

It tied neatly to the trace of Anatole’s magic, like a master key he had been desperately looking for. 

“Rumour has it you’re working for the Palace,” Julian sneered. “What happened to not being a snitch? I’m sure— well, by now— you’ve heard some interesting stories about me.”

“As interesting as you’re prone to not explaining yourself, though both of those might be gross understatements. And I take great offence in you thinking I’m a snitch. Don’t you think that had I told anyone you’d already be found?”

“I’m very slippery and you don’t know where to find me.”

“I found you now.”

“By accident I’m sure, not to say you aren’t talented and magnificent and all those things the rumours say… but you haven’t heard my side of the story.”

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“Stop assuming the first thing about me and how I do things, will you, sweetheart?” 

Julian’s cheeks went as red as his hair. Anatole let out a pained whine. Wherever that had come from, Anatole didn’t want to know and he expected it to not come forward again. He apologised; Julian, having composed himself, thought teasing him was a good idea but Anatole levelled a look at him that convinced him otherwise. 

He sighed. Julian was right: he’d only heard things from the Palace and muddled rumours. A wanted poster was a statement of capture, not an absolute truth and it was obvious to him there was some sort of power imbalance playing against the doctor. So when Julian said he could get him a drink, to get the story and to pay him what he owes him from the reading, Anatole found it difficult to say no.

“I don’t usually accept trading payments unless previously discussed, or the party is in need, but you know what? I think I’m willing to do an exception for you.”

“Oh, please, you work for the Palace now, I think you’re set on the money.”

“You know, I haven’t discussed fees and wages with the Countess, do you think we’d be cell mates if I did?”

Julian laughed. One drink couldn’t hurt, right?

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The flurry that erupted after the caw of the Raven would be etched into Anatole’s mind forever, becoming part of his daydreams unsanctioned. It was the kind of chaos which brought the familiar thump of an inconclusive memory. The Doctor might not have told him his part of the story, Anatole was well aware, but he did give him some insight into his circles and his person. Not anyone who was wanted by the Palace would shield the Palace’s investigator in the shadows so they didn’t get in trouble for hanging out with said wanted person. 

As he vanished after an awkward and unfinished thank-you-for-not-being-a-snitch, Anatole turned to make his way back to the Palace, only to be met with Ludovico, who introduced himself and tried not to stare at him while he hailed a carriage for Anatole. 

Anatole paid no mind to the staring. Whether it’s leftover staring from the day before, or staring driven by having found him in such an odd quarter of the City, he chose to ignore it. His apology for summoning a carriage for him despite him being the one who said it was a bad idea to leave the Countess waiting, was another thing altogether. 

It was true Anatole didn’t particularly enjoy carriage rides, but why would a Palace guard would know such a thing? Did it have to do with how he felt yesterday when crossing the gates? As he stepped into the carriage he tried not to think about it, afraid he’d overthink his way into a migraine. 

Relieved as he realised he was in time for dinner, Anatole took in the exquisite smells of what is definitely too much food. He was too hungry to think about the quantity for now, perhaps he could inquire about it after he ate something. 

His appetite seemed to hold itself back at the mention of the Courtiers, almost evaporating altogether. He still forced himself to eat, he needed it after such a day in the City, while he listened with rapt attention to the Countess' words. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin before taking a drink from his cup, doing the same afterwards. That he didn’t have any issue distinguishing the cutlery from one another somehow didn’t call to his attention like his next words did.

“I know, and I promise you I’ll be careful.”

“You already know my Courtiers?”

“Oh no, no such thing it’s just—”

“One can never second-guess one’s intuition, is it not right Anatole?”

For the first time in two days, when he smiled at the Countess it was genuine. “Exactly.”

Just like he knew the painting, the gardens, that other version of himself walking through them and his opinions on subjects which required more education than the one he thought he had, he somehow knew the Court — being equal times prepared to brace himself for meeting it, and unprepared for whatever he may find.

He knew deep inside he could trust the Countess to have his back on that, however. It’s the way the word ‘Courtiers’ felt from her mouth: she didn’t trust them. 

The mention of Julian’s hanging brought him back from wherever place of commodity his mind had gone into. The faraway look in the Countess’ eyes almost eluded him. Almost.

“Countess…”

“I am thinking about what you said last night, Anatole, but I expect you to understand I must seek to tend to my people’s needs.”

“And you think they need executions?”

“I think they need to see justice done.”

While restricted and mild, Anatole couldn’t help to look at her with some semblance of disappointment, his unspoken question dancing between them.: And is this justice? Is justice confession and punishment? 

She truly must’ve given it a thought to not react with the same impetu as last night. Instead she changed the topic with a weary sigh, claiming such were tomorrow’s matters and stating having questions for him — not of his day, like Anatole had feared, but of himself. Being surprised at the change of disposition the Countess had shown today didn’t cover it. Bewilderment might. 

At the mention of friendship, bewilderment fell short too. Sensing his apprehension, she smiled at him invitingly, jovially, exposing her hands to him in a gesture of trust. 

“I am afraid I do not have many friends, nor know enough people who fear not my position in order for them to tell me what their true opinions are.”

Anatole sighed. “Countess, I do not wish to antagonise you when I say those things, I find it hard to help it, that is all. I’d like to think if I was in such a position the responsibility was so heavy I needed council, I would wish it was sincere. It’s not up to us how history remembers us but that doesn’t mean we have no choice in the matter. I believe our choices make us who we are, whichever those choices might be.”

“You are awfully impertinent,” the Countess said with a playful tone, “which must surely give you an advantage at life.”

Anatole laughed with his mouth open, his head thrown back. “No, but it does give me a strong personality. Tell me Countess, what do you wish to know about me?”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Out of all the things he found about the Countess, perhaps finding out she too understood the feeling of homesickness for a place you could no longer return to — because one couldn’t or one didn’t wish to — was the least expected out of them all. Anatole knew he had been born in Bgraz, Balkovia, but that’s all he remembered of his hometown. He didn’t even remember how he had ended up in Vesuvia, though the more he thought about it, the more he suspected he had some kind of relation to the City beyond his deceased Aunt having a shop there. 

He didn’t tell the Countess as much, not even sure of how to word it aloud but it was refreshing to find someone with whom he could talk about these things.

The night was welcoming and cool. The stars were visible in the inky night sky, making Anatole wonder how they would look in Balkovia, that unknown homeland he couldn’t remember. The Countess’ words about Anatole not being quite like she had imagined him, or the intrigue she felt towards him pulled him away from his thoughts.

Anatole wondered if she, like Julian, was also a victim of the rumour mill. Word in town was she was a tyrant, yet she didn’t seem malicious — malice was something Anatole’s language filter picked up with incredible ease and it left a feeling in him hard to ignore. It didn’t just make him immediately stand on edge, it also felt like tarr on one’s skin. Hot, icky and venomous. The Countess felt lost, not malicious.  Someone with good intentions and not enough turn out, as he had previously felt.

“Tell me, Anatole… Why did you come to the Palace? Why did you agree to help me?”

“I believe I said it was a matter of justice, last night.”

“You did, but when I asked you to come, you didn’t know what for.”

She got him there. The offer of trust from the Countess would not last if he wasn’t honest with her — perhaps if he was, he would be able to convince her to reconsider the way in which the Devorak affair was being conducted.

The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? 

“Because it felt right. I knew that whichever answers I’ve been seeking, I would find them here.” Anatole existed in the liminal space between his heart and his head. They were extensions of one another. Living a full life required both. 

When the Countess asked him if he had any questions for her, reassuring him he could speak freely, Anatole already knew what to ask and in his defence, the Countess shouldn’t have taken it as a vague question, because it wasn’t. The claim was just an excuse to elude the topic; the stage they were in, of whatever it was she, him and whatever else bigger than them had sent in motion was looking at them in the eye and avoidance would help exactly no one. 

“You know I mean the murder investigation. The Count has been dead for years, so why now?”

“Ah, that is a right question to ask. Vesuvia is in dire need of help. Order needs to be restored… and I am in the unique position to restore it. However, I intend to lead by example, not fear. I must show the city I am capable. I have so many plans for Vesuvia. I was to see this city flourish… Perhaps you’ll be able to help me with those plans, Anatole. I could use more competent people on my side...”

Her loneliness was heavy, almost too heavy, the feeling pouring into her speech and threatening to cover Anatole under a heavy blanket, merge with his own unattended loneliness and trap him in place forever. Seen and unseen, craving connection and something more he couldn’t name nor grab, no matter how hard he tried to.

“It’s funny,” Anatole said, a knot in his throat. “I did not expect you to be as lonely as I am. I never allow myself to admit it out loud, let alone in front of someone else. Yet here I am.”

“You already know I won’t do things whatever way. I want to find justice, and I do not believe justice lies in a hanging. You are right, your position is unique, but it’s also risky,” Anatole paused to take the Countess hands in his. His next words came from the same unknown place as they did all those times he felt compelled to speak, though they were much kinder this time: “When we know something is not right, we do not settle. People like us, whatever that means, were not thrusted into the world to settle. Power wielded without reason, without justice, without kindness, without knowing the subject you must serve will always lack. I will not tell you what to do, you are capable enough, Countess, to figure that out on your own, but I will tell you this, as a friend: truth is the only thing worthy to be built on, and when we find that truth we plant ourselves in front of whomever dares us to move and we say they move. The truth can’t lead you astray, as unpalatable or hard to accept as it might sometimes be.”

Out of all the things he expects the Countess to tell him that he’s sweet is not one of them. He’ll take it.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Just between you and me… I think Count Lucio had a lot of enemies, too. Alone in his bedroom, having returned from exploring and chatting around with her, Portia’s words swirled around him, letters formed by a light orange haze, forming and evaporating in front of his eyes. Portia’s words came from rumours but they were enough to cast reasonable doubt about what might have transpired that night. It was kind of her to look after Anatole, so the least he could do was to take her words to heart. 

Originated in rumours or not, Portia was right. 

Going out with her was as strange as it was enlightening. He was sure the Chef, Hestion, had said something to Portia along the lines of how he expected Anatole to remember his way around the kitchen, only he had called him ‘Secretary Radošević’. Perhaps it had something to do with the investigation, but it made Anatole feel odd. 

The servants in the Veranda had been very welcoming, but almost too welcoming and he was sure he had caught a couple of them speaking about him —not as if this was his first time in the Palace, but as if this was him returning to it. Speaking of returning, someone had congratulated him for becoming the main investigator for the case and how it was nice to have him back. Ignoring the way his vision splotched as best as he could, Anatole had only thanked them and turned back to Portia feeling lost and ill. 

Normally, Anatole paid no mind to out of place comments. If someone demanded something of him he couldn’t remember, he tried to remove himself from the situation as fast as possible, but these felt different, the words staying with him even though his and Portia’s nightly adventures had finished. 

What weighed him down the most, though, was the Countess wanting him to join them for the announcement tomorrow. It made sense, but he had a terrible feeling about it.

Antupillán was nowhere to be found. Anatole hoped that he had a good reason to be missing at a time like this. 

[vampiresuns]

The Sun Thieves

For @arcana-echoes, this is the story of Aelius Anatole, the Rising Sun of Vesuvia, and his Raccoon, Antupillán.

CW for wrong handling of animals, though no one was hurt in the process.

One of the problems Vesuvia had was not all the books Anatole wanted or needed went directly to book purveyors. After trying his luck with one of them who specialised in rare books and first editions and failing, the same bookseller recommended trying his luck at the Red Market. 

Anatole didn’t have anything to lose, so he decided to try his luck there. He had been there thrice before: once for personal reasons, another with Valerius who wanted a very specific rug which was believed to be in the hands of art thieves, so if it was bound to be anywhere, it was in the Red Market. 

He had talked to Anatole about the artisan, and the history of it, claiming he had already lost his chance to directly acquire it, he was not going to lose it again. 

The third time was with his Aunt Paris and Asra, who were looking for specific ingredients for the shop. 

He headed to the Colosseum, looking for the right passage to knock. He rarely went there, unless he went to a trial of law along with Valeriy or Cassiopeia, or to the place he was headed now. He had never witnessed a fight, and he didn’t feel a need to, refusing to go. The only business he desired to have with that place was a very needed criminal system reform — but with the current state of Vesuvia and it’s Count it didn’t seem likely. 

The market was crowded, lit in that familiar crimson light which gave it its name, the smell of incense, fumes, and more things Anatole could recognise coming to him. Finding the bookseller alley wasn’t hard, he already knew where it was. Discovering himself successful in his pursuit, with the book he was looking for secured in his bag, he decided to have a look around, just in case he found another book, perhaps some ink or quill, or something one of his cousins, Paris or Valeriy might find useful. 

As he walked around a — was it a voice? Turmoil? Sounds? A Cry? — called to him. His magic picked up anger, distress, defensiveness, all so strong he altered his path in a heartbeat, soon arriving at the part of the market where exotic animals and other things were illicitly sold. 

A group of people were trying to handle a fuzzy animal which must have not been older than six months. It was fighting tooth and claw to free itself, afraid, hungry and mistreated. Anatole paused: how could he tell those things? His language magic didn’t allow him to communicate with animals, the only animals he could listen to was Faust and Cesario, but those were familiars.

Then it clicked. The voice he couldn’t recognise was the animal’s. One of the handlers took it by the scruff of the neck, revealing it was a baby Raccoon. It cried. 

Help me! Somebody help me! 

Everything else happened in a blur. A notice-me-not spell came to Anatole’s fingers, and there was a blinding light shot at the handlers as Anatole made his way to the animal, shoving everyone aside. Hitting the person holding the Raccoon on their side, Anatole took it. The Raccoon pressed his nails into his arm scratching him through his shirt, but Anatole held it close to his chest and ran all the way from the Colosseum to the Heart District, where he knew he would not be found. 

He ran past the foyer, standing in the middle of the main hallway completely out of breath, Adrenalin still pumping through his veins. The Raccoon had tore through his sleeve, and he was bleeding. He should’ve gone to his Aunt’s but he was already there. Panting, he made his way to the nearest staircase and finally let go of the little one. 

“This— this is my home. My name is— my name is Aelius Anatole.” 

The Raccoon stood on his legs, and gently patted Anatole’s face with its paws. 

What is an Aelius? What is Anatole?

“You’re free to go, if you want, and that’s my name. Aelius means sun, and Anatole means sunrise.” 

The Raccoon looked sad. I am not from here, I have nowhere to go. Did the Sun steal me too?

“Oh,” the Raccoon was right. Raccoons didn’t live near Vesuvia. They came all across the ocean, just like her mother had had one day, all those years ago. “My mother is from the same place you must have been, but southern. I’m not stealing you, you asked for help.” 

Did you come here like me? 

“No,” Anatole smiled, still breathless but able to talk without pause. He dared to gently pet the Raccoon along his back, and it let him. “My mother came here when she was a bit younger than me, to study—“ 

What is study? Can I do it?

“It’s learning, you know, knowing things.” 

The Raccoon seemed to nod, got off from Anatole’s lap, went up the stairs and came back again. 

What is my name?

“Were you called anything before?” 

I don’t think I was called anything.

A bunch of people from Anatole’s family came to see, as they were told he had run into the house. Valeriy, who had stopped home for lunch, spoke first. The Raccoon hissed.

“No, no, these are family, they will not take you, they are friends.”

“Aelius what is that?”

“A Raccoon… I think I stole it.” He told them what had happened while he ran his fingers through the animal’s back.

It decided to stay, and as the months went by, Anatole saw him pick on things, run around, follow him, and pick the locks in his desk a couple of times. However, no matter how many times he offered him names to take, he liked none of them. 

A couple of months went by and Anatole’s parents came to visit. He told them the story again, her mother laughing softly after the worry faded. 

“Look at you, Nanito— Antu stealing his Kuyen.” 

“He’s a he,” Anatole laughed. 

What is an Antu? 

“Antupillán, it’s the spirit of the sun of the Native people from where my mother is from. Kuyen is the moon.” 

What is the sun? 

“That bright orb in the sky, but the one during the day, the moon is the one at night.” 

Antupillán, Antupillán! An-tu-pi-llán… Is that my name? 

“Do you want it to be? Antu?” 

My name! My name! My name! My name! Happy and safe, Antupillán the Raccoon jumped in circles on his four paws.

[vampiresuns]

I forgot to add this in Amparo’s intro post, so have the RC Cousins’ familiars:

As we know, Anatole has a Raccoon, called Antupillán; ‘Antu’ for short.

Rescued (read, stolen) from Red Market exotic pet dealers which were mistreating him.

Anatole picked up on his distress, followed the trail, and argued until he took Antu with him and ran.

Only fully realised what he had done when he was back home (yes, he ran almost all the way to the Heart District).

He would never regret it, but he literally barged into the Palazzo with a Raccoon wrapped in a protective embrace, pulse wild, only to reply “I stole a Raccoon” when asked what was going on.

Antu refused to go anywhere, and it wasn’t like Anatole would’ve kicked him out... or like Raccoons weren’t his favourite animal...

Amparo has a caracal, called Cesario.

Cesario has bitch idiot disease. It’s incurable.

Milenko’s uncle, Atanasie, gave it to her a couple of years ago as a gift. Cesario was meant to be transferred to a shelter, but through a series of problems, they could not house him for rehabilitation.

Somehow, Amparo ended up with a baby Caracal, now an adult, who runs into glass doors at least once a week. He sometimes acts smug, and it always backfires on him.

Once he chewed Amparo’s pointe shoes. He was very sorry.

Milenko has an African Wild Dog named Ursula.

Found her on accident. Urusula herself said she travelled very far looking for something (she has never told what, as Milenko let’s her keep the secret), and got herself into Vesuvia.

It was very much like those people who mistake cougars and wild cats for big cats or dogs, give them a bath and let them in. Only Milenko was fully aware this was an African Wild Dog, and you know what? No one has time to decide what goes through his mind — he’s been seen floating on a raft down the canals of Vesuvia, what else do you expect from this man.

So she found her went “aw this poor baby doesn’t have a home”, took her in, fed her and gave her a bath. Ursula was very happy.

Atanasie, his uncle — yes the man who gave Amparo a Caracal — went into full “Violeta your son has a Wild Dog, how did Milenko get a goddamn wild dog.”

Milenko simply went “What does that have to do with anything, she still needs a home. Her name is Ursula.”

There wasn’t much reasoning to do after that.

[vampiresuns]

Antu @ Julian, in Something Wicked This Way Comes: I understand. You found oblivion in the magic ritual. You had your drama, you found your cure. The police are after you, but the people protect you. And you didn’t need a friend of us — no, no, matters not you thought Anatole was dead, you see, you forgot him. But now, now you come to us and you say — “Read me my magic cards” — but you don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You just ask for your own answers. You come into our house on the day my Anatole was asked to be a guest in Countess Satrinava’s Court, and you ask for a magic card reading. Antupilán doesn’t forget. Antupillán doesn’t forgive.

[vampiresuns]

today in things you didn’t expect to learn from anatole: he stole a raccoon

[vampiresuns]

3, 13, and 28 for nana and antu!

3. What is their personality like? How are they around strangers vs. people they know?

Antu is generally a friendly Raccoon, Anatole even describes him as bad at being a Raccoon, except for the fact he has opposable thumbs and will bring down anarchy and mayhem if you leave him alone for too long. So around strangers, you either have to have rancid vibes, be overly aggressive or disliked by Anatole for Antu to get defensive. Otherwise he ignores most strangers unless they have something which dawns on his attention.

He’s also cautious around people Anatole speaks him of and has funny or distant opinions about. He’s very protective of him, and their connection is strong.

He is an entire curious baby around people he likes, specially Anatole. He likes to climb onto is shoulder or head the best. He likes to sleep on Anatole’s face too, which Nana isn’t actually thrilled about, as he likes to Not suffocate in the middle of the night.

He is territorial about his food if you pester him, and his favourite spots to sleep, always.

13. What were they like as a baby? Did your OC know them back then?

He was a normal baby Rac, however he got orphaned and captured to be sold as an exotic pet. Anatole got him when he was about 7 months old, he was minding his business looking for a book in the red market and he began feeling some sort of distress, followed the trailed, and got to Antu who was trying to defend himself from mishandling.

Anatole didn’t like it, the argument escalated, he took the Raccoon, and he ran.

28. What was your inspiration for this familiar?

Symbolism and the fact I just goddamn love these animals. They’re rat cats, only not really. They’re smart, dexterous and fascinating, but also a little ridiculous.

[vampiresuns]

6 and 9 for Antu on the familiar asks?

6. What snack will always get their attention?

Grapes. Fäther he cräves gräpes

9. How energetic are they?

On a scale of 1 to 10, I want to say a 6.5. Walkies are encouraged (though Anatole usually takes him with him around the city or sends him on errands) and so is playing, unless you want to see all the paintings in his vicinity on the floor and things tossed everywhere — or bitten.

You’ll probably find him sleeping in his favourite armchair after he tired himself.

He’s the worst around Anatole’s quills. He collects them, and Antu thinks they’re excellent chewing toys and likes how the glass one clink against his teeth.

He’s also bitten a couple of books.

[vampiresuns]

Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva

Anatole has changed a bit as a character since i was around the first time, so he’s getting re introduced. His open to make friends.

art by @elizastarkart​

Name: Aelius Anatole Radoševic De Silva. He has two surnames because his mother is latina. He is a mixed Latine-Slav, with family that is all latine, vesuvian, and slavic. People he’s friend’s with call him Anatole (russian/greek pronunciation, he doesn’t acknowledge the French one). Only people he has a strictly professional relationship with, and his uncle call him Aelius.

‘Aelius’ means sun, while ‘Anatole’ means sunrise. He’s fully aware of this, he chose his name himself.

His nicknames are:

‘Nana’ is the most common nickname, and the one most people use.

His mother calls him Lilito, Nana, Nanito, Toly, Tolito, Tortolito.

His father calls him Lily or Lilu.

Toly, Tolytoly or Tolito are nicknames used by his maternal grandmother, his aunt, and his Vesuvian family.

He will not mind if you want to call him Toly, but you cannot call him Lily/Lilu if you’re not his father.

Asra came up with Nanatole, which he doesn’t like but lets Asra call him anyway. Asra also came up with Nana Banana and that is absolutely forbidden.

Family: on his father’s side both the Radošević, who are slavic (yugoslavic, specifically), and the Cassano, a prominent Vesuvian family who has had a hold of the Consulship for years.

On his mother side, the De Silva.

His father’s name is Vladislav, but everyone calls him Vlad, he’s an alchemist, a polymath, and works in what is most similar to biochemical engineering. He has one bother, named Valeriy, who you, however, might now as Valerius. Vlad’s biggest personality trait is being head over heels in love with his wife, and adoring his son more than he thought it was humanly possible to care about someone.

His mother’s name is Louisa De Silva (if you want to add her mother’s surname, it’s Lascal). The L-o-u spelling was a registry mistake she never changed. She moved half across the world while her native country suffer a military-civilian dictatorship to study Medicine. She swore never to go back as long as vestiges of said dictatorship remained in the country. She has two sisters: Paris, who lives in Vesuvia, and Alma, who remained with her parents out of her own choosing. Her medical experience include having been a volunteer war doctor. She didn’t change her surname when she got married.

The Radošević (pronounced Radozheveech) and the Cassano have been entangled families by friendship for generations upon generations, with some marriages between them. Notoriously: Vlad and Val’s father married a Cassano, Matilda, and his bother Mircea, Anatole’s great uncle, also married a Cassano: Florentino. Mircea’s brother and Matilda Cassano died when Vlad and Val were children still, so him and Florentino brought them up.

The Radošević are an overall eccentric family (think the european Addams family), whom are noted for: one, their self-sufficiency/self-preservation, which comes out in a very ‘eccentric people of the world unite’ manner. They appreciate people with character. Two, their leanings towards trades/professions, they do not conceive not doing anything (work hard to play hard). The Cassano, while sharing the quirk, they add the zest for life. It’s like they grabbed the Radošević and told them “you have forgotten how to live and we will remind you how.” Both of them are ridden with racially ambiguous bastard you cannot kill in any way that matters. They simply refuse to. Someone (either the courtiers or Lucio) compared them to roaches, they took it as a compliment.

This will tell you a lot about Anatole’s character.

On a last note, Anatole’s an only child. He has a good relationship with his parents, albeit marked by a sense of distance, solely because he was privately tutored from age 15 and on, which required him to travel a fair share. He was an argumentative teenager, but always cherished whenever he could see his parents. The older he gets, the closer they all become.

Favourite Food: Cake

Favourite drink: Coffee, in general.

Favourite Flower: Iris

Birthday: Nov 1st

Age: 29 (I calculate his age as if he had been born in 1991)

Zodiac:

Sun: Scorpio

Moon: Virgo

Rising: Libra

Mercury & Mars: Scorpio

Venus: Virgo

Patron arcana: Strength & Ace of Swords

Strength

Upright: inner strength, bravery, compassion, focus, Reversed: self doubt, weakness, insecurity      

Ace of Swords

Upright: breakthrough, clarity, sharp mind, Reversed: confusion, brutality, chaos

MBTI Type: INTJ-A

Gender: Transmasculine, but Nonbinary. Uses He/Him pronouns only

Orientation: Identifies as NBLM.

LIs: Julian, Muriel, @ilyamatic​‘s Andrico, @thelazaretmakesmesad​‘s Vishal.

“The sun-like strategist with a solution for everything, and a whole lot of hope in the future.”

More details under the cut!

Physical appearance:

art by @lesbianarcana​

5′4. As you can see in the sprite down below, while he’s slim but with muscle, out of doing a moderate to high level of physical activity. The man has a nice waist and inherited his mother’s hips, which he’s very proud of. He likes his legs and his butt the most about himself

Dark brown eyes, long eyelashes. His hair is naturally black, but he dyes it blond.

Has a mole over his right eyebrow, on the left side of the bridge of his nose, and on his left jaw. He has freckles.

An horizontal scar on his nose, which he got by getting hit with a wooden scaffold square in the face. His nose wasn’t broken out of sheer dumb luck. He has a smaller cut on his cheekbone, which was done by a fencing sabre which lacked the proper tip protection/button. It was done onto him by someone else.

The nose scar is how he met Julian before the plague, as he was the doctor which cured his face.

He has several tattoos:

Right arm: A rapier on his inner forearm. Over his elbow he has a black work band, and over it the words ‘THE SUN IS MY UNDOING’ in all caps, circling his arm.

Left arm: a snake wrapped around his forearm, near to the wrist. The Odyssey quote ‘let’s have a toast to the incompetence of our enemies’ under the inner crook of his elbow, and a floral half sleeve.

Chest and Torso: AMOR OMNIA VINCIT over where his heart is supposed to be. He has laurel leaves on the base of his waist.

Legs: ‘o serpent heart hid with a flowering face‘ in his upper, inner thigh, like really up his left inner thigh. A floral anklet on his right ankle.

Languages Spoken: Too many. He speaks nine languages.

Magic Specialities: His magic is connected to both light and languages (it is a play on words with ‘logos’) so he is both adept in photokinesis — he is able to create and manipulate sources of light — and language related magic — which includes incantation and language manipulation. He learns languages as a faster rate than most people, and while he cannot speak or literally understand a language unless he learns it, his magic allows him to intuitively grasp the meaning of words that are being spoken to him.

This capacity also makes him very good at recognising hidden intentions in people. This is not an ability that he broadcasts having, and when he later succeeds Valerius as the Consul, it is something which aids his diplomatic work but he keeps private.

His words tend to carry more weight sometimes because of his magic, something which he can’t always control — it depends on many factors — so he tries to choose his words carefully and with consideration.

His familiar is a Raccoon, named Antu.

Occupation: While he did study magic and is in touch with his magic, he studied politics, diplomacy and international relations. By trade, and out of will to help people, he is a political analyst and, later in life, a Statesman.

Personality/Trivia:

Willpower or Stubbornness? Depends how you look at it. Passionate, generally devoted, hopeful, independent and sometimes defiant. He is a people-oriented introvert. Competitive, but not aggressively so.

Smarter than he gives himself credit for. Overall charming, even debonair.

Curious by nature, hates having his decisions taken for him.

He is proper, sometimes even distinguished, but he is feral. A firm believer in being kind and compassionate with people, until you cross him one too many times, then nothing will make him taint his vindictive wrath.

Is he humble? For the most part. His humbleness comes from knowing his own limits and knowing he’s not infallible. He does have, however, a good deal of pride in himself and trust in what he can do, and he doesn’t like being underestimated.

He’s not particularly loud, though when the chatterbox is on, then it is on, specially if he’s nervous. He is often never still. 

He’s known he has ADHD since he was seventeen.

Likes dancing.

He fences, almost every Radošević fences/sword fights, and he will let you know at the slightest chance. Which can be either him simply being hyper-fixated in fencing, him flirting, or him letting you know that if the occasion rises, he’s armed.

Friend shaped, lover shaped if you’re daring enough.

He wrinkles his nose when he doesn’t like something.

Speaking of which: he doesn’t like abuse of power, the Court, injustice, supremacists of any kind, unkind, hurtful and selfish people in general; he doesn’t like red meat (he says it tastes like metal or dirt), narrow minded people, incompetence, specially when displayed by people in positions of power, and purposeful apathy.

A mastermind archetype, but he draws his power from connection. He does not conceive a life not lived with others.

A bit of a bastard, he enjoys a good laugh.

He plays the piano and the harp, he sings, he cannot draw, he’s a lightweight when it comes to alcohol (which doesn’t really stop him), he likes the opera because he likes watching other people’s drama without being dragged into it, and his favourite season is winter. Also likes playing chess, reading, coffee, flowers, a well tailored outfit, learning, languages, the sea, mysteries, winter, a well laid argument, collecting quills, music, winning, knowing he loves and is loved in return.

When he was 7 he bribed his dad for more dessert, and he ate so much he vomited. His sweet tooth hasn’t gone anywhere, it is alive and well.

Perceptive little bastard, will knife cat you for the sake of it. He has a way more present sense of humour than what he comes across.

Would call himself a ‘trans masculine Mary Poppins’.

He is closest to his parents, his uncle, my other ocs Leonore, Medea and Sabine, his cousins Amparo Cassano and Milenko Radošević, Natiqa, Asra, Portia and Nadia.

If he liked women, he would be paired with Nadia. The possibility both terrifies and fascinates me.

@ilyamatic​, @viviae​, @gaybirdwrites​, @arcanaprentiss​ @apprenticeofcups​

[vampiresuns]

For nana, leo, sabine, and medea: what is the riskiest thing that you've done? Did it pay off, or turn out poorly?

“I suppose easy answer would be helping during the plague, so we’ll forgo that one. I was in the Red Market (irrelevant why) and I saw a baby raccoon being sold as an exotic pet. It was frightened and lost, not knowing where he was, so I began haggling for him. It escalated to a rather nasty business, but I got the raccoon. His name is Antu and he’s my familiar.”

— Anatole 🌞

“I was gonna say getting into a bar fight, because you never know, but actually? I tried to eat my sister Althea’s chocolate, and she sucker punched me. So it didn’t pay off.”

— Leonore 🔥

“Once I overcalculated my chances in a dare (I refuse to say what was dared) and I broke an arm. So it turned out poorly... but my cast was purple!”

— Medea ⚡️

“I fought a goose. I won.”

— Sabine 🌚

[vampiresuns]

🐢⚠💢 - @embersrevived

@embersrevived

🐢 - What type of animal would they keep for a pet? (apprentice anatole and consul anatole will have separate answers here because they keep different animals. they like the same animals, they just keep different ones.)

“I only have my familar around! He’s a raccoon, called Antu. He’s my son.”

— Anatole 🌞

“There’s Antu, my boy and familiar, and my dog Ichabod — he’s a black Borzoi and the best boy. Nucha’s my cat and she hates pretty much anyone, and I have a python called Andromeda.”

— Aelius Anatole, Consul of Vesuvia 🌞

⚠ - Your character just made a trespass against someone else, how would they go about righting it given the chance?  Or would they at all?

“I think it depends on whom the potentially offended party is, and what do you mean by trespass. Generally, I try to apologise if my actions or words hurt someone else, specially when no harm was intended, or I was at fault. If whatever happens allows reparation, I have no problem with doing so, it’s the least I can do.”

“However, sometimes people just deserve the artistically veiled insult, they just do. Again, I am all for being kind and patient and understanding, but some people make the bastard in me come out.”

— Anatole 🌞

💢 - What frustrates your character more than anything?

Answered here.

[vampiresuns]

🎱 - Your character and a talking raccoon walk into a bar… 📼 - An interrogation tape emerges regarding a recent interview with your character. What are they being questioned for? (Consulship AU or apprentice Anatole!)

🎱 - Your character and a talking raccoon walk into a bar…

So Antu and I walk into a bar and 7 out of 10 times I can assure you he will: cause mayhem like the little curious tinker he is, or someone will tell me I have an overgrown rat on my shoulder.”— Anatole 🌞

📼 - An interrogation tape emerges regarding a recent interview with your character.  What are they being questioned for?

“Interrogation tape sounds incredibly questionable. As in: ‘Esteemed Consul, here is a tape of you being asked about very unpleasant topics while you were imprisoned in dungeons of Vesuvia (never been); what do you have to say about it?’”

“But if it’s just a regular interview I’d expect questions about my role as the Consul, the direction I’m leading the Council of Vesuvia in, my education, my thoughts on this or that public governance topic, my relationship with the Countess, my relationship with the former Consul. Maybe the uncomfortable question about the last two Masquerades.”

“Why, would you like an interview? I’d be happy to oblige, I’m an open book — just not one that’s easy to read ;)”

— Aelius Anatole, Consul of Vesuvia 🌞