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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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Came As Strangers, Left As Family - WoD Meet Cute

Art by @waylyngdraws

Author's Note: My entry for the World of Darkness OC Meet Cute event! I was paired with the awesome @waylyngdraws who drew a really cool art piece of how our VTM OCs vibed. They own Orazio/Ofelia and Wynter belongs to me.

This is the story of how two like-minded souls wrecked a Giovanni dinner party and gave them a taste of their own medicine.

Content Warnings: Blood, violence, implied/referenced abuse, wraith, post-canon, Giovanni racism and sexism, the Circulatory System.

They caught a glimpse of each other from afar. Wasn’t this how love stories started? Fate, as some would call it. But it wasn’t hard to single them out at a dinner party full of aspiring despots dressed in elegant mourning wear. They were the only ones sulking instead of mingling, nursing half-forgotten ichor in cordial glasses doled out by unassuming ghouls. Perhaps the top one percent of them would make it as future family of theirs.

Family. The two strangers shuddered at the term. What did it really mean in the end? A family who controls with an iron hand, who threatens, hates, and betrays at every waking second, sharpening their best knives behind your back. But it was all for The Family.

Wynter sized up her quiet, distant companion. Despite his cherubic face and luscious caramel locks, he had a stitched together look about him, as if his body had been shattered like a porcelain doll and put back in haste. Not only that, his clothes were at least a century old. A pair of suspenders lined his starched dress shirt with sleeve garters to boot. Woollen knee-high socks were tucked neatly under his buckskin breeches. His palm rested on the knob of an ornate steel cane and she wondered if it was large enough to conceal a weapon. He must be an Ancilla or older, she determined. All of that power housed in such a small fragile being. Looks could be deceiving.

In the meantime, Orazio had been appraising the woman as well. Her wavy jet black bob, the fullness of her Cupid’s bow, a lit cigarette wedged within her deep set scowl. The lush fur coat she wore over her leggy silk dress clearly indicated that she was backed by money. But while other Giovannis were either pallid, bookish corpses or the epitome of brute force, she carried herself like a solitary black jaguar, eyes shifting from one guest to the other, observing, finding her marks. Orazio realized that her side slit dress wasn’t just for show, it allowed for unrestricted movement should she need it.

With a languid coyness they gravitated toward a midway point like cryptic, nocturnal animals, sniffing the air, wondering if they had read the room wrongly. Throughout, they were met with taciturn, dismal stares from the Anziani and the occasional contemptuous laughter from their “cousins.”

Wynter heard it all, the hushed whispers of her impure “Kuei-Jin blood,” the mock of her slanted eyes, her mother’s name dragged through the mud. Lettow’s absence meant she was without protection, but since when couldn’t she hold her own? “The Della Passaglias and their taste for the exotic,” one of the younger ladies of the clique raised a glass to her which she promptly ignored. Not now. It wasn’t time yet. Like a true hunter, Wynter knew how to savor the rewards of a good wait.

Orazio, on the other hand, felt the stern gaze of the Don boring holes into his back. That terrible night where this rotten man had abused and reduced him into a pathetic plaything still permeated his mind. “A fucking disappointment.” His ears pricked up. “Should have stayed an intern with Anziani Manuel like a good little housewife.” It was raspy and snivelly, peppered with a heavy Venetian accent that was so unmistakably Cousin Lorenzo, a previous rival. Housewife? Orazio scoffed. Either Lorenzo was an idiot who didn’t understand the inner mechanisms of gender or an even greater idiot for thinking that emasculating him would suffice as an insult.

“Enjoying the party?” A featherlight yet husky voice with a slight twang interrupted his reverie. He wasn’t sure if he was dealing with a precocious little girl or a seductive Southern belle altogether.

“Ah, buona sera, signora,” he greeted. Tapping the tip of his cane on the ground, he bowed politely as the curls of his hair brushed past his shoulders. “Pardon me for not seeing you there and I am afraid my manners escapes me.” A flourish of an extended hand. “I am the one known as Orazio.” He paused for a moment, pursing his lips apprehensively while calculating the woman’s reaction in front of him.

“Orazio…” A flash of her hazel irises reflecting his green.

“... or Ofelia Rossellini if you prefer,” he quickly added. “Pick your poison.”

“Why would I need to pick at all?”

His startled eyes met her lopsided smile. She slipped her hand into his and he placed a customary kiss on a particularly beguiling antique ring on her finger. The onyx seemed to suck him in like a void.

“You can call me Wynter.”

Orazio gave a slight nod. “Well, Wynter, to answer your earlier question, we are, after all, indebted and loyal to The Family.” A tinge of irony laced his voice as he rattled on like a finely-tuned ad. “What could be more delightful than to celebrate the new year and new beginnings with our Giovanni brethren?

Wynter snorted in response, but Orazio wasn’t quite done yet. “Oh, and… qual è la parola? What the Don says, goes. Am I correct?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don Fanton?”

“Sì.”

“He give you that?” Wynter jutted her chin at the prominent scars that crept along Orazio’s face and neck.

Orazio shook his head. “No, signoria, this was...” He touched the side of his cheek gingerly, feeling the welts and grooves under his skin. “This was what I wanted.”

A fleeting sense of fear struck him. Perhaps he had revealed too much and it was time to even the tables. “And what about you, Wynter? Did you come here on your own accord as well?”

She smirked sardonically. His mistrust was warranted, especially when they had barely spoken to each other in a room full of sharks, loosely connected by their grievances and inability to conform. Both had experienced their fair share of Anziani nonsense and understood that this wasn’t just some fancy party. It was a way for their elders to check up on them like Big Brother.

“I owed my sire, Chiara, a boon,” Wynter explained. “Appearances are important, since we’ve been brought back into the fold.”

“I regret that we are not better company, my friend.” Orazio’s apology seemed heartfelt and sincere enough that it didn’t take long for Wynter’s eyes to light up in mischief.

“Well, how shall we change that, Orazio?”

Tear them apart.

“I might have some ideas,” he offered.

Watch it burn.

It was almost as if they were communicating telepathically through a shared primal urge.

A disembodied hand with bright red talons scuttered out of Orazio’s trouser pocket, nestling itself onto his shoulder, tapping its fingers impatiently. “Piccolino too,” he acknowledged, while Wynter looked on amused.

“The walls have ears, friend,” she warned. “Come with me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━

Away from the crowds, unseen servants, and prying eyes, Orazio and Wynter took stock of the taunts and slights they had been dealt, ultimately boiling it down to two spoiled and obnoxious Kindred: Cousins Jessica Milliner and Lorenzo Giovanni. Their resulting arrogance and complacency made them easy pickings for those who knew what it was like to be hungry. Orazio and Wynter planned to make a fool of the opening ritual, and they wanted Jessica and Lorenzo to take the blame for it. Eventually, it became a challenge of who could pull the greatest prank of the evening without getting caught.

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Wynter teased, wagging her finger.

Lorenzo had apparently been shouting from the rooftops about a highly coveted fetter that he was safekeeping for none other than the Don. His pride left him blissfully unaware that Wynter had eavesdropped from the shadows, uncovering details about the item and its rough location.

Orazio waved his hand, dismissing her concerns. “If you would allow me to speak freely, with that kind of information, I could do far worse on that… qual è la parola?” As he grasped for the right words, Wynter focused on her surroundings again, relieved that there had not been any homuncular spies in sight.

“Ah hah!” Orazio exclaimed victoriously and Piccolino twirled around his arm in excitement. “Yes, that cumrag!”

Cumrag? Wynter was puzzled. Did he mean scumbag?

But Orazio was already onto the next step. “We must make haste, my friend. Fret not, Piccolino and I will take care of the trinket and I trust that you will acquire the fetter?”

They agreed to return to a discreet rendezvous that Orazio had known during his time with the upper echelons of The Family. He reassured her that it would be a safe place to conduct the ceremony.

Back at the dinner reception, Orazio situated himself among throngs of guests drunk on a plethora of fresh, warm blood. It was bustling and the low ceilings amplified clinks of glasses and lively chatter. If there was one thing Piccolino was good at, it was blending in with the masses as it dipped and slinked past legs and feet, nimbly hopping into Anziani Giulia’s coat pocket without raising her suspicion. A second later, it emerged with the intricate silver coin in hand, once again avoiding the limbs of the other Kindred as it delicately planted the trinket in Jessica’s handbag. If that wasn’t a job well done, Orazio didn’t know what was. He petted Piccolino approvingly as it disappeared up the sleeve of his shirt into the comforting dark.

Wynter had always been one to fulfill her end of the bargain as efficiently as possible. When Lettow left Tucson, she became his second-in-command, going where Dove would not follow. Camarilla elitists often derisively referred to her as his “foot soldier.” Never accepted, always shunned, but her loyalty to the Eagle Prince never wavered. Perhaps Orazio would soon earn hers. Aided by her heightened senses of the mundane and unseen, she darted in and out of the blind spots, bypassing the worst of the watchmen who were disguised as casual guests.

When she finally reached Lorenzo’s private chambers, she tapped in through the keyhole with Auspex, feeling the vibrations of various objects, their residual energies appearing to her like wisps of smoke. A hidden cache called out to her, obscured by a veil of negative space—hollow, barren, and cold. Even from afar, the weight and power of the fetter drew her in, but a flicker of movement suddenly captured her interest. She peered directly at it, wondering how on earth she could have missed the lonesome ghost guarding the stash, but it was an elusive figure, appearing and disappearing from view.

Carefully, Wynter unpicked the door lock, taking the odd deep breath as each pin was lifted and set in place. She could wrap this up quickly as long as she timed it right. Slipping in, she recalled what the brazen Brujah, Pattermuster, had taught her back in Phoenix. Every fiber of her undead nerves fired up with the force of life and speed. Swiftly, she knocked over a bunch of books to act as a distraction before turning toward the cache. In the blink of an eye, she was there, nabbing the prized item before dashing out undetected. The poor ghost never saw it coming. “Thank fuck for Celerity,” she muttered, sauntering down the hallway.

Reconvening at their meeting spot, Orazio reported about his and Piccolino’s success with panache and gusto while Wynter triumphantly placed the fetter into his awaiting hands. It was a slender and modest bangle, caked in dirt and grime that was difficult to remove, sized to fit a child’s wrist. Orazio studied it intently, tracing the curve of the metal, testing its strength and malleability as he recited an Old Latin phrase. Spilling his vitae on the ornament, he whispered the name, “Scaevola…”

The room chilled to a freezing point and Wynter encountered that prickly feeling of dread like a thick, Stygian sludge crawling through her esophagus, flooding her entire body with nausea. How many years had she learnt the necromantic arts of her clan, but never gotten used to it? Orazio, however, seemed quite the opposite. He was in his element, brimming with an eagerness and passion to speak to the entity. A long, quavering shadow cast over the tiles and a distorted voice bellowed in a mixture of Latin and Old Italian. It was perplexed, angry, and skeptical at having been summoned by someone it didn’t recognize.

“What do you mean ‘let me go in return?’ Your kind have assaulted and exploited me for—”

“Lorenzo and Fanton are sadistic brutes, I agree, Signorə,” Orazio interrupted, still clinging onto the bangle, subtly inching it toward an open flame should the wraith prove unruly. “I, too, have suffered under them and with utmost sincerity, I believe we share common goals.”

“Which is?” Scaevola spat.

Orazio gestured to Scaevola. “Your freedom from tyranny.” Then, pointing at himself and Wynter, he added, “And our chance to put these absolute tankers in their rightful place.”

Wankers. Absolute wankers, Wynter groaned internally, but bit her tongue to stop herself from correcting him.

Scaevola deliberated on the offer. “Is this not simply exchanging one master for another?”

“We will deliver your fetter to wherever you desire it to be,” Orazio promised.

“Perhaps you have some unfinished business?” Wynter chimed in with Orazio as their unofficial translator.

The shadow fluttered, but remained silent. Finally, it replied, its tone uncompromising, “Swear it to me in blood. Both of you!”

A Kindred’s vitae was potent and what contained their very essence shouldn’t be given away lightly. But then again, so was the possession of the wraith’s fetter, one that had experienced years of defilement and threats, which it was desperate to escape from. Regardless, Orazio never sealed a deal with a spirit without some sort of ace up his sleeve. He turned to Wynter and nodded. She unsheathed a knife from her camouflaged leg holster and slashed her hand. The sanguine fluid dripped into a bowl that Piccolino had produced, mixing in with Orazio’s as he chanted an oath that satisfied Scaevola.

It allowed itself to be compelled with a sprinkling of blood, solemnly declaring, “Mayhem and thy will be done,” before vanishing into thin air.

━━━━━━━━━━━

At the dining room, they settled into their seats inconspicuously, lost in the sea of faces. Better to be nobodies than to stand out with the plan they had set into motion. A tense and begrudging reverence swept across the guests as Anzianis Giulia and Edoardo waltzed in, taking their place at the head of the table. Appeased, Giulia and Edoardo spoke in turns for the opening speech, finishing each other’s sentences, as though their very thoughts were melded together as one.

“The beginning is the end.”

“And the end is the beginning.”

“You have all been gathered here as part of The Family…”

“Part of our flesh and blood…”

“To lay witness to this momentous celebration.”

“For we are Giovanni; let it be known.”

“Let it be known.”

Their words resounded off the walls before a pregnant pause took over. Wynter fidgeted in her seat and Orazio stifled a yawn, finding such “pleasantry rituals” trifling and tiresome. The Don cast Orazio an admonishing look and reluctantly, the Ancilla straightened himself up to pacify him.

Giulia rang a small vintage hand bell by her side and a number of masked servants stood by the doors at her command. “Before the tasting, we shall pay our respects to our dark ancestors,” she began.

“And let their hand guide us to the right choice,” Edoardo ended, producing a nearly identical silver coin to the one that Giulia was supposed to be holding. The only difference was the date etched on them—Giulia’s 1444 to Edoardo’s 1528.

The next thing that happened was certainly a sight to remember. Much like a horror movie in slow motion, Giulia reached into her coat pocket, but pulled out nothing. Digging in once more, her brows knitted together, pale lips stretching into a frown, as though she had touched something unpleasant inside. Removing her hand, she patted the exterior of the pocket a few times before searching the area frantically. The crowd broke out in a cacophony of murmurs until Edoardo implored, “Silence!”

Wild-eyed and in a fit of derangement, Giulia pointed accusingly at the group before her. “You!” Everyone turned to look at each other, but her finger was aimed at a blank space. “Which of you foul childer has done this?”

Immediately, the servants lunged forward. Drinks were knocked aside, pockets were emptied, and purses were flung open unceremoniously… until the fated silver coin fell out of Jessica’s bag, clattering noisily on the table. Shock and incredulity dawned on her face as she was met with daggered looks. “I-It wasn’t me! I-I swear!” she stammered.

In a flash, Giulia had closed the distance, smacking Jessica so hard with the back of her hand that a rush of blood sprayed out in a wide arc, decorating the tablecloth like pressed rose petals.

“Vile brat!” Giulia cursed.

When Jessica tried to plead her case, an opaque black mass engulfed her mouth as she choked and clawed at her throat. Giulia glowered unsympathetically and with a prompt wave of her hand, her lackeys pinned Jessica down and carted her off.

Orazio and Wynter exchanged looks as he gave her a sly wink, but the evening was far from over. This was just the appetizer and they were starving for the main course.

Giulia had reverted to her usual stoic self. “Well, now that has been taken care of, let us continue.”

At the second ringing of the bell, a selection of what Giulia coined as her “lambs”—comatose or mute vessels provided by courtesy of the Circulatory System—were wheeled in. The latter were restrained on stainless steel serving trolleys, barely conscious but still struggling against the leather straps that bound them. Poor creatures, Orazio grimaced. There were indeed outcomes worse than death. Wynter fixated on the bluish-green of their veins, protruding from their jugular and clenched the armrests of her chair. This night had made her dizzy with hunger, but she swallowed it down, controlling the Beast for now.

The purpose behind the tasting ritual was to reinforce the hierarchical relationship in The Family. Naturally, Giulia would be first in the pecking order, followed by Edoardo, and so on. If one could not control their drinking beyond a sip, they would be ousted from the entire event altogether. Orazio glanced at Wynter expectantly. It was almost as if he knew what was coming next, or maybe he—

“EEURGH!” An unearthly, ear-splitting shriek filled the air. Giulia’s face scrunched up in disgust as she spat a thick glob with the color of black bile onto the floor. Blood spurted from the mute vessel and their eyes were wide open in shock.

Before anyone could react, large gaping wounds appeared on Edoardo’s forehead, side, and hands as he bled profusely from them like a perverse Jesus on a crucifix. On the other end of the table, Lorenzo doubled over violently, vomiting slimy maggots onto the hapless companions seated beside him. The whole scene erupted in chaos where plates and glasses were thrown and smashed. As a grand finale, the opulent chandelier that hung ominously above tore from its bracket and fell. Orazio and Wynter ducked out of the way as it crashed to the ground. Some were less fortunate, but the elders were wisening up to the wraith’s antics.

“Scaevola!” The Don hissed, his eyes glazed over like egg whites.

Immediately, an amorphous shape appeared, called to attention by its previous master. Yet, as soon as it came, it went, dissipating into fine mist. Something was interfering with the Don’s hold over it.

The Don whipped his head fiercely in Lorenzo’s direction, paying little to no heed at his wretched state. “The fetter! Where is it?” he barked.

Lorenzo scrambled to his feet, running towards his chambers like a dog playing fetch, only to return empty-handed, cowering in shame.

“You imbecile!” The Don roared, wringing Lorenzo’s neck as he was hurled across the room, landing against the wall with a sickening crack. “You’ll not get an ounce of rest until you find it, you hear me?”

At this point, Edoardo declared that the dinner party was over and Giulia would deal with the culprits as she saw fit. The guests were ushered out to their awaiting vehicles, accompanied by the sound of car doors slamming and engines rearing as they departed in haste. In the cool evening breeze, Orazio found Wynter leaning against the hood of her baby blue 1973 Chevy Malibu, taking the longest drag of a cigarette he’d ever seen.

“Want one?”

An opened pack. The smell of warm tobacco. An offering.

“Um, err…”

She blew a smoke ring in his face. “Hey, live a little.”

“Right.” Orazio fiddled with the carton and drew out a paperwhite stick. He turned around, noticing the Don watching disapprovingly from the porch window. Where do you think you’re going? he almost seemed to say.

The click of a lighter. A flickering amber flame.

“Trust me, okay?”

Orazio looked between the Don and Wynter until he finally made a decision. “I shall be snitching a ride!” he yelled to the elder, waving his cane as a form of goodbye before taking a puff from the cigarette. He coughed and sputtered, unused to and taken by surprise by the stinging bitter taste.

Wynter had already gotten into the driver’s seat, extending the passenger door like an invitation. It was now or never. Orazio climbed in and Piccolino pulled the handle shut behind him, making itself comfortable on the dashboard.

“So, how’re you feeling?”

Incredible? Perfectly dandy? Most wonderful? No, those weren’t the words. He didn’t know how to explain it, not in a way that would make sense, not in a way that she would understand. Or would she?

“I’m… please…” He paused, recollecting himself. “I think— I think this is what Ofelia would do.”

Without batting an eyelid, Wynter met her reticent gaze and smirked, “Well, Ofelia, are you ready to help resolve a fetter?” She rapped against the secret compartment behind the glove box and the bangle in it quivered with a content hum.

Whatever insecurities Ofelia had harbored dissolved and the corners of her mouth ticked into a grin. “Allora, ready and at your service, my friend.”

Wynter stepped on the gas pedal and the car took off into the night, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in its wake. As it turned out, this hadn’t been a love story at all, but something even better—the beginnings of an unlikely friendship and a partner-in-crime for unlife.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #vtm night road #vtmnr #wodmeetcute #world of darkness #its so fun seeing a hecata dinner get wrecked #everyone was characterized so well!

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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WoD meet-cute event w/ @porcelainseashore

illustration for a meet-cute between our two vampires. both wynter and orazio are done with the giovanni's shit, and take some mischievous revenge! written up in full by the wonderful porcelain, which you can read HERE (they got orazio bang to rights 100% canon)

WoD meet cute was organised by @crownedinmarigolds , @vampemoqueen , and porcelain themself. i highly recommend checking out the other stuff !

this event was so fun, it was like taking our ocs on a playdate, 10/10 would do again

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #vtm night road #wodmeetcute #nicely done <3

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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WORLD OF DARKNESS OC MEET CUTE

SO EXCITED to finally finally FINALLY share with you this little fic i did to accompany some awesome art by @feith-rikya! you can find her part of our meetcute between Saul and Danya here! it was so much fun doing this silly little meeting... please enjoy!!!

thanks so much to @porcelainseashore @crownedinmarigolds and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event! without further ado...

Bitten by the Acting Bug

From the "son" of Saul Meyer comes Saul Meyer Jr.'s Carmilla, starring newcomer Danya Vetranov!

Only two days into filming another Saul Meyer masterpiece, everything started to fall apart.

The seeds of the problem were planted long before that fateful day. After 50 years of cult fame, a certain paranoia crept up on Saul. No matter how much special effects makeup he had Dickie apply, no matter how big his sunglasses were and how hunched he tried to appear in interviews, it was becoming harder and harder to justify remaining himself when physically he wasn't a day over 19. A worldwide pandemic provided the perfect opportunity to "kill" himself, and as many a vampire had done before him, when he re-emerged it was as his own descendent. Like many children of celebrities, "Saul Meyer, Jr." followed in his namesake's footsteps; but where his father was known for his Z-movie splatter films and incredibly lax workplace safety, his directorial efforts would be more art house, more cerebral. (The continued comparisons to the loathed Cronenbergs were numerous and infuriating.)

And then Robert Eggers' Nosferatu was announced, and Saul's ire was turned towards a new target.

***

"I don't care what you think I should do! This isn't about you!"

Saul has spent the past twenty minutes locked in his trailer, shouting into his cellphone at full volume. His rank mood was apparent as soon as he stepped on set sans his constant companion, Dickie, and the cast and crew have all listened to it get worse.

"Copying? COPYING?! I'M NOT COPYING ANYBODY!!! You know what would be copying? DOING 'DRACULA,' YOU STUPID SONOFABITCH!"

Production was at a standstill, a suffocating tension hanging over everyone's heads. Nothing was done without Saul's say-so, not even rehearsals, because every film he made was a chance to share his mad vision with the world. Attempts to deviate from his script or his way of working were a one-way ticket to swift punishment, and, at worst, incorporation into the production's "practical effects" post-mortem. Only the costume and makeup crew were working, tucked away inside the leading lady's trailer.

In his most recent interview, Saul Meyer, Jr. praised newcomer Danya Vetranov as one of the greatest undiscovered actresses of their time, the perfect fit for his brand-new adaptation of the lesbian vampire classic "Carmilla". He described it as fated, having seen her first in a dream, not unlike the protagonist of the original novel (a parallel he was eager to point out, in hopes it might help generate a little more buzz.) Her accent, her beauty, her mole... all of it just screamed "Carmilla!"

"Oh, there it is-- uh-huh, yeah, tch, that's what this is really about, eh? You're fucking jealous! Your stupid he-man woman-hater shit got old in the 80s, bud!!"

The only real resistance to Danya's casting came from Dickie. All throughout pre-production, he always voiced his discontent, behaving boorishly to Danya's face and complaining openly whenever she left. As he always did, Saul made excuses, but he couldn't just stop his best friend from speaking his mind. Saul's apologies on Dickie's behalf included plenty of praise for Danya alongside open flirtation, all the better to smooth over any bumps in the road to the film he envisioned.

As the makeup lead applied setting powder to Danya's face, a door slammed outside. Saul screamed, "She's not Russian, you fuckin' ignorant insensitive little-- get your ass down here NOW!!"

A few moments of absolute silence passed before a knock came at Danya's door, which an assistant rushed to open. There stood Saul, a strained smile on his face and his hands in his pockets. "Danya, baby! How's things...?" He came up behind her, watching her reflection in the massive lighted mirror.

"Better for me than for you, boss," she said with a mischievious glint in her eye. "So, Mister Creepy doesn't want to come play pretend with us?"

Saul grimaced. "Dickie is still a little disappointed he doesn't get to show the world his Renfield. You know how it is... You're partners with somebody for fifty-some years and suddenly they think they can tell you what to do!" He shut his eyes for a moment, then reopened them, forcing himself to focus on the positive. "But that's just too bad, isn't it? Because you and me, hah, w-we're on the same wavelength. Isn't that right?"

One of Saul's hands came to rest on Danya's shoulder. Their eyes met on the silvered glass before she placed her own hand on top of his. "Of course! You can relax, boss. I know what I'm doing!"

"That's what I like to hear! Hah, great. God, that accent-- heh, well, don't let me get in your way, folks... hm."

As he leaned in towards the mirror, Saul's pupils contracted. His brown eyes shifted to gold until they resembled a snake's. "What the fuck is that supposed to be?" he asked. He turned to face one of the few kine on set, in the middle of steaming one of Danya's costumes, an ethereal gown extensively trimmed with delicately-woven Styrian lace. As soon as she met Saul's gaze she was transfixed. He flexed his hands as he stepped towards her. "Who made this?"

Silence in the trailer. Danya turned around in her seat to watch as one of the hair-and-makeup crew approached to start styling her (and hopefully avoid Saul's wrath.)

Saul's stare burned hot with hatred. "Do I have to explain everything to you fucking morons?!" He took hold of the lace adorning the collar of the nightdress, running it through his fingers, examining each little stitch. "The pattern– I made it very clear, I gave you photos, I gave you everything you could fucking need... and you give me garbage!!"

"Mr. Meyer, if I may," began the Toreador thinblood he'd hired as a costumer designer, cringing back from his rage, "none of the references you gave me were of anything useable, I mean, what am I supposed to do with aerial photos of a maypole?"

"Get out of my sight!" he shouted back. "All of you! Except you–" he pointed to the hairstylist carefully brushing out Danya's waves, "and–" his tone softened, as did his eyes, when he turned back to his leading lady, "you can stay, Danya, baby. You, you're perfect."

"Stoooop!" Danya affected a bashful smile, batting her eyelashes at the director. "Or don't. I can take a few more compliments..."

Saul sighed. "You're gorgeous. You are Carmilla. God, this is gonna be the one, I just know it. People are finally gonna get it this time..." Still muttering to himself, he stomped back out to find something else to be miserable about.

***

In the end, Saul relented on the dress; there were plenty of other problems that took precedence, in the set decorations and the volume levels and the way the light played against the skin of the Toreador child actress portraying the younger version of Laura. "The dream is everything," he kept saying, rubbing frantically at his temples as if he could massage out the frustration. "It has to be perfect, because it's our first glimpse of Carmilla. How is this so hard for you morons to understand?!"

Only Danya's emergence from her trailer in full costume and makeup was able to placate him. Filming began after Saul piled on more compliments, then announced that they were "burning moonlight." The irony was not lost on any of the crew, but no one dared provoke another rant.

It was supposed to be a simple, straightforward, silent dream sequence—young Laura awakens and sees a beautiful stranger standing at the edge of her bed, who approaches her with slow, deliberate strides, hands reaching out towards her. The stranger, Carmilla, takes the girl in her arms and implicitly bites her chest over her heart. (To avoid any chance of an accidental blood bond, Danya won't actually bite her scene partner; in post-production, Saul intends to intercut a blooming rose, symbolic of the flowering of Laura's passionate lesbianism, and footage of a rotting cat, "for obvious reasons.") Because Saul insisted on being the sole camera operator in addition to directing, they would have to run the scene again and again, shooting it from as many angles as he needed to have plenty of footage to work with.

For Danya, it sounded like the cast and crew were about to slog through the rest of the night, doing the same thing, over and over and over. Endless repetition, and for what? As always, Saul had written incredibly detailed stage directions to ensure every second was exactly as he imagined it, so Danya did a few takes just as it was written in the script to ensure he would be satisfied. When that wasn't enough for him, though, Danya decided that it became her job as the star to liven things up for the rest of the workers.

As the makeup artist touched up her mascara and buffed her nails until they were shining, Danya fixed Saul with a sly smile. "You know, boss, I was thinking, what if this time... we try it with me in the bed, and her doing the biting?"

Saul laughed. "That's a good one, doll!" The corners of his eyes crinkled as he forced a smile, which only lasted a second before he dropped it into a serious frown. "Butnow that your nails are fine it means it's time to shoot! Places!" He clapped his hands for emphasis, before the crew shuffled about to take their positions once more.

Danya sighed as she got to her feet, determined to do something different this time. The first part of the scene was as Saul scripted it—Interior, Laura's chamber. LAURA tosses and turns in her red silk sheets, red being representative of menarche, as CARMILLA approaches from between the gauzy white curtains, white symbolizing sexual purity, one foot in front of the other with catlike grace—but on reaching the bed, something shifted. Stage lights flickered, the air grew close, and psychedelic patterns began to shimmer across the set. As Danya approached, her aura of menace grew, a complete shift from Saul's syrupy and sensuous scene progression. She cackled, looming over the Toreador actress, who to her credit responded immediately with a shriek of fear that even Danya considered a little over the top. The crew around them were split between snickering into their hands and staring in horror at the ad lib (depending on whether or not they've worked with Saul previously.)

Of course, Saul was furious, lower lip trembling as he leaned out from behind his camera to shout "CUT!!" before he grabbed the assistant director's copy of the script. He stalked forward, his shoulders hunched, his head lowered, twisting the script in both hands. "Danya! Sweetie! Honey! What in the fuck did you do just now?"

"You like that, boss?" In an instant, the illusions evaporated, and Danya fixed him with a proud smile. "I just thought, hah, well, maybe this time we could use a little extra oomph!"

"Did the script call for oomph?" he asked, affecting a sugary tone that mimicked Danya's. "I don't recall writing anything about oomph. The oomph, that's– that's real cute, eh, extra oomph– how do I explain this so you can understand?" He pinched his forehead with one hand, muttering to himself with his eyes closed as he flipped open the script to the exact right page. He recited it as if from memory: "CARMILLA is completely silent as she reaches for LAURA, tenderly and without malice. You know, seeing as how you did the first five takes just perfect, I would think you could do a sixth without a problem!" His nostrils flared as he spoke, but he did his best to keep smiling at her. He couldn't lose his Carmilla, after all.

"But just think, boss! The audience thinks everything is all so romantic and dreamy, but then, wham, you have some spooky shots to cut in, show the real Carmilla!" She clasped her hands together, fingers interlocked.

Saul's rictus grin broke, and he laughed bitterly in her face. "Ohh, no, no, no– no, that's– that's not how this works, kid!" He pinched her chin, looking deep into her eyes. "We do things my way. That's the only way this movie gets made. Got that?"

She batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh, of course. Whatever you say, boss!" She gave him a little salute for good measure.

***

Somehow, Saul Meyer Jr.'s Carmilla finished filming. Despite numerous setbacks—the loss and subsequent re-use of kine crew members, Danya's penchant for mischief and improvisation, and Dickie's foul moods prime among them—it all came together in the end. Saul was even able to convince most of the cast and crew (those who were still alive) to come to the wrap party, including Danya.

While Dickie busied himself suckling from the neck of a teamster in some secluded corner, Saul did his best to corner his leading lady for a private conversation. Despite her continued attempts to "liven up" his carefully-planned future masterpiece, Danya proved herself indispensible in his eyes. More than that: Saul was pretty sure he was in love.

"Danya, baby...! You know something, I've been thinking about you. Dreaming about you, hah, just like before... just like little Laura, eh?" He stood close to her, hunched forward as he chewed on his lower lip. "So that got me wondering... hah, you know, what's that mean? For us, for, uh... for what we've got!"

Danya blinked, doing her best not to cringe back immediately. Perhaps, she thought, she had misheard him. "What we've... got?"

"Yes! You felt it, babe, I know you did! Why else are we both here, right now, like this?"

"Uhh. Well, boss, I thought it was because you invited us all to the wrap party!"

Saul laughed. "God, the way you talk..."

"Excuse me?"

He shook his head, taking a step closer. Saul was going to charge forward, whether he was getting the right signs or not. "Look, Danya, honey, the way I see it, you and me, we have got to be together. I mean, you are just the most phenomenal chick, eh? This could be it. The real thing, f-for both of us." His eyes shone, mania seeping into his voice. "You're the girl I have been waiting for, Danya...!"

When Saul leaned in for a kiss, however, he was met with the unmoving, unfeeling illusion of a Danya-doppelganger, her chimerstry coming back to bite him in the ass once more. Of course, by the time he even realized that she was gone, she was far out of range to hear his pathetic, groaning cry.

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #wodmeetcute #OH MOVIE VAMPIRES #how fun!

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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Here my entry for the WOD MEET CUTE event in collab with @mspiggy

Here her wonderful fic about our characaters https://www.tumblr.com/feith-rikya/786257944514822144/tumblr

https://www.tumblr.com/feith-rikya/786257944514822144/tumblr

Thank you to the organizers! @porcelainseashore @crownedinmarigolds @vampemoqueen

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #wodmeetcute #lovely art!

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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Me and the lovely @swinefluuu's parts for WoD Meet Cute. (maybe less cute ! more meat)

Art by myself, Darren is my wayward and Cherry is their cool ghoul hunter.

Full Written Part by @swinefluuu Below! Thankyou and I love how Darren was written, along with being a stunnin writing piece >:3 have a read! Posted some Excerpts so get in there for the full thing.

Thankyou for the event @crownedinmarigolds @porcelainseashore @vampemoqueen<3 . I got the flue like 2 days ago and was so relieved my fever let up today to le tm e finish the final art.

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‘Do you wanna, like, help, at all, maybe?’ Cherry bitches, bent in half and tugging on the rusted valve of a heavy metal trapdoor. With the sun beating down on the two hunters in full combat gear, and the mile walk they’d taken out into the scrub to keep the cars hidden, he is sweating. The strange hunter with the face tattoos he’d been put in contact with for this job – Darren, apparently – had stayed quiet and glared at the back of the ghoul’s pink head the entire walk, and is content to continue now that they’ve reached their destination. Cherry really doesn’t want to burn blood on this…

He opens his mouth to keep whining, but Darren huffs and acquiesces, and between the two of them, they manage to wrench the screeching metal in a tight protesting circle. The circular door opens with a rush of even hotter air from the tunnel below. Cherry wrinkles his nose.

‘Might have to do us and gear separate to get down the hole,’ he clicks on a flashlight and shines it down, peering around; chirps, ‘looks like it opens up inside, though.’

Darren’s pale eyes flick down towards the ladder, ‘You first.’ His voice is quiet, and hard.

Cherry smiles and nods, even though he wants to roll his eyes; just like working at Starbucks, he thinks. He takes off his guns, pack, and axe, and when Darren doesn’t offer to hold them, dumps them in the dirt. Then, he climbs onto the ladder, and into the hole. The rungs are similarly rusty, and the concrete scrapes at the padding on his shoulders as he shimmies downwards. He sees nothing at either end of the murky blackness when he shines his light around, and flashes an OK sign in view of the overhead spotlight. (Dropping loaded guns down a hole to be caught at the bottom isn’t exactly safe, but neither is vampire hunting. Cherry is glad they’re both on the same page there.) He catches his weapons, his pack, followed by Darren’s, before the light is blocked out by the other hunter’s descent.

The flash light is clipped to the barrel of his shotgun then, while Darren taps on a shoulder light. The sound echoes in the cramped tunnel, and they’re lucky that they’re both short men.

They follow the tunnel south for about five minutes in silence before Cherry feels the need to pipe up, whispering, ‘Wonder what this bunker was for before the licks got their hands on it.’ He squints at underfoot claw marks.

‘Nothing,’ Darren grunts, ‘they had it made.’

‘It’s gotta’ve changed hands then, cuz, like-’

Darren cuts him off silently, rapidly throwing up the hand signal for halt, followed by listen. Cherry shuts up. Tightens his grip on his gun. Listens.

Something stumbling, or dragging. Something wetly sniffing, and getting closer. Even when it comes into view, Cherry can’t put a name to the malformed thing that approaches them. It is mostly drooling mouth, supported by two bulky legs, and counterweighted by a heavy muscular tail. It breathes like a brachycephalic dog, and has eyes like one too, protruding and crusty. Cherry lets out a smothered giggle in place of screeching, and raises his gun.

Darren hisses, ‘It’s armoured.’ And it is. Hairy plates shift on its back as it moves, galloping towards them now. Its legs curl, and the pair have less than a second to react before the thing is hurling itself towards them.

Cherry ducks, rolling on the hard tunnel floor. The thing flies over him, open mouthed and snarling, and attaches itself to Darren. He’s ready with a huge knife, plunging it into the bottom of the thing's jaw over and over, but it doesn’t let go of the clamp it has on his shoulder. Cherry pushes a cold pulse of vitae through his veins without thinking, grabs the monster by its thrashing tail, and yanks it off of his temporary partner in one powerful movement. He kicks the thing belly up, already thrashing and bleeding through it’s mangled jaw, and levels his shotgun at its soft belly. The noise the blast makes in the cramped bunker tunnel makes him wish he was wearing ear protection, but it’s nothing that blood can’t also fix.

Cherry breathes, and stares at the pool of hot meat scraps that had just attacked them. When he glances up, Darren is looking at him with the same amount of disgust that he had regarded the dead creature with.

‘Its warm,’ he starts, unsure and sickened.

‘Blood slaves tend to be,’ Darren sneers quietly, touching the punctures in his armour.

‘God, that was a ghoul?’ Cherry racks his gun and grimaces, ‘actually... no, that makes sense. I do know someone who could probably help get it back to normal. Whatever that is… I dunno. Croc, maybe? Uh, pitbull? If we can spare any, I can probably help ‘em.’

Darren’s face becomes steel, ‘No mercy for blood slaves.’

Cherry feels a trickle of cold run down his spine, and he thinks maybe he understands the looks Darren has been giving him.

The shorter man continues, with a little less venom, ‘...No use trying to retrain the animal ones anyway. Corrupted, body and mind.’

‘If I knock one out and you put a bullet between its eyes, I’m gonna-’

Cherry is cut off again by a noise echoing out from deeper in the bunker. He swallows, dragging his eyes away from the dead ghoul.

‘They’ll’ve heard the shot. C’mon.’

Deep into the bowels of the structure, the pair encounter half a dozen other animal war ghouls. And true to his word, Darren executes each one, to Cherry’s mounting distress. When another goes down with a distinctly dog-like yelp, he can’t keep it in.

‘Welcome to Darren’s kill shelter, 100% of abused animals get a bullet, guaranteed!’

‘Happily,’ Darren growls, wiping bloody chunks of matted fur and skin off of his face, ‘that’s what you do with a nest of poisoned monsters.’

‘The best cure for poison! Euthanasia!’ Cherry says hysterically, reloading his own gun.

‘Glad you agree.’

‘Urgh,’ Cherry barely resists stamping his feet, ‘at least if we find any human ghouls, we try and help those.’

Darren’s eyes seem almost to glow, two pinpricks in the dark behind his flashlight. ‘Your sympathy for your fellow carcass suckers wont spare them the angels fire.’

Cherry stops for a beat, chest heaving and sizing up the other man, as the cogs turn in his head. He could never have been said to be smart, but he wasn’t completely stupid.

‘...Fuck me. You’re one of those psycho hunters,’ he breathes.

Darren watches him silently from the shadows.

‘Girl, if you turn on me the second we’re done here I am soooo leaving you a bad review on the network. You’ll never work in this town again, mister.’

He thinks for a second that the Wayward didn’t catch his sarcasm. It's hard to tell. But then he rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth to say something.

Cherry will never find out what that was, because a furious scream rattles out from the next room over, piercing the conversation as the watertight door swings open. A snarling animal crashes through, but is held back at the threshold by a leash of its own hair, grasped in the boney mantid claws of a very angry woman. Tears streak satiny lines in the short space between her bulbous eyes and her chin, against spiny skin that is stretched elastic, back and taut.

‘Get out!’ she howls, ‘I’ll let go.’

Cherry’s aim flickers between the straining, swiping beast, and the-…

‘Lick?’ he calls to Darren, not taking his eyes off the threat.

‘Ghoul,’ the imbued barks, unleashing a burst of rifle-fire into the meaty leonine head of the monster. A bullet pierces the things lolling tongue, but the shots otherwise bounce off it’s fortified skin. The woman startles and releases her grip, and the animal ghoul is loose, lunging straight for Darren. He strikes it in the face with the butt of his rifle. It roars, blood bursting from a ruptured eyeball and spittle spraying the air. It knocks him in the side with a huge paw and he collides with the concrete wall, already tensed to spring back up. Cherry drops his gun and throws himself across the room, swinging his axe in a wide arc. He buries it in the war ghoul’s back. It hisses, kicking out at him with a back paw, landing squarely on his chest like a sledgehammer. He hangs on to the handle of the axe, and the beast kicks him again, and again, and again. He feels a rib crack. One more kick is enough to send him backwards, his grip dragging the cutting edge out of the things shoulders in a deep, ragged gash. It bellows, reverberating in the cramped room. Cherry thinks he would probably be crying too, if his spine was poking out. When it turns to swipe at him, he brings the axe down on it’s claw, and it jerks away, clumsily backing up against the wall. There’s pure animal fear in its eyes, warring with the loyalty pumping through its veins. Cherry feels his heart pang. He glances around, for half a second, looking for Darren, the other ghoul, and sees movement in the room beyond the metal door. Panic rises in his throat. A low snarl is the only warning he gets before the beast takes advantage of his distraction and tackles him, knocking him flat and snapping it’s jaw inches from his face. With one hand, he struggles to keep it off of him, tears pricking in his eyes as it’s weight bashes against the break in his chest. With the other, he inches, reaching towards his dropped gun. In a moment, he snatches it, shoving the barrel in it’s open mouth, and pulls the trigger.

The shot is deafening. Metallic white noise rings in Cherry’s ears, and he feels something wet splatter his face. When he finally opens his eyes, he realises he’s covered in the thing’s brains. He heaves, and has to push it’s body off of him before he can roll over and try not to vomit. Sound returns slowly. Gagging hurts. He has no choice but to will the dregs of vitae in his body to his broken bone and hope it knits back together in a way that he wont have to re-break later. He wipes chunks of brain out of his eyelashes, and strains to make out the vague piercing sounds from the room over.

‘Darren?’ he calls. His voice is underwater.

No reply – that he can hear, anyway. He pushes himself to his feet, shotgun in one hand, axe in the other, and stumbles to the door, blood dripping down his chin.

What he finds makes his stomach drop. Darren stands over the ghouled woman, her fleshcrafted arms scrabbling behind her, trying to get away. Her legs are broken in multiple places. Even as the hunters watch, the vampiric blood in her body struggles to fix the mangled bones, just as Cherry’s had done moments earlier. But Darren doesn’t let it. He stamps down on her ankle with his heavy boot, and Cherry is glad he can only vaguely hear the snap. He does hear her scream. He inches forward, until Darren warns him off, head shaking in the torchlight.

‘Want to know why we had to kill all those animals?’ he looks down on the ghoul with blistering disgust, ‘she worked at a rescue centre. She stole them for her master. To fill with poison, and twist into those things.’

Cherry winces, ‘It’s not her fault,’ he says weakly, ‘it’s the bloodsucker.’

‘She’ll kill you,’ the woman on the ground spits out between faltering breaths, ‘you ruined everything.’

Darren cocks his head, and watches with a stony expression as the ghoul backs up across the room, dragging her legs. She makes it to another watertight door, and fumbles with the lever for a hurried moment, before dragging herself through. Cherry moves to follow, but Darren stops him with another curt hand signal.

‘Dude,’ Cherry whispers, frantic energy beating through him in place of vitae.

Darren holds, like he’s listening. Cherry doesn’t hear anything, except the dragging of a body along concrete, and his own hammering pulse. He deliberates, and pulls an autoinjector out of a pouch, slamming it down between the armoured sections of his thigh. After several more long moments, Darren drops his hand.

‘Go.’

The blood trail isn’t hard to follow. It leads them down another short tunnel, and into what had been a hidden hollow cut into the walls of the bunker. There, the ghoul has pulled herself up the sides of a large crate, and is crying as she tries to shake something inside awake.

Darren pounces, grabbing the ghoul by her broken ankle, and wrenching her towards himself.

Cherry moves in on the crate. The dishevelled, half awake, dirt covered vampire inside blinks at him with dizzied alarm. It looks like a gaunt man with a shaggy mop of dark hair. Before it can wake up any further, Cherry introduces it to the fun end of his shotgun. He succeeds in blowing a fist sized hole out of the corner of it’s head, but it keeps moving, trying to crawl out of the crate. He snatches it by the arm, and it twists, grabbing him back, it’s fingers prodding for the bare flesh of his hands: - and sinking in. The vampire wriggles and pulls, and Cherry’s skin is stretched and distorted with it – it is agony.

‘Oh, you motherfucker-,’ he swears, and jerks his arm back, holding it close to his body and curling around it. He struggles to aim his next shot with one hand, and puts a crater in the vampire’s shoulder. It snarls and rushes him, toppling them both over the side of the crate and back against the low wall. He struggles to push it away, but its no use: his hand feels like its been skinned, and he’s out of vitae. Fangs pierce his neck above his armour and his knees buckle. Darren shouts something, but Cherry can’t make it out over the ringing in his ears and the sudden overwhelming bliss of the bite. He feels lighter, floating – and a dull, familiar, stabbing pain, a needle wrapped in cotton wool.

And then it’s gone all at once, as quickly as it came, because the vampire falls off of him, confusion crowding what’s left of it’s face. Being half awake probably doesn’t help. It’s legs go out from underneath it steadily, until it is doubled over on the floor, and it looks to it’s own hands like those are somehow what betrayed it.

‘W-what-?’ the vampire says, in a voice like small tumbled rocks.

Cherry takes out another autoinjector and punches it into his thigh.

‘Dumb fucking lick.’

He drags himself to his feet, and readies his axe, raising it above the vampire, who has progressed to trying to vomit up the poison. It is a practised swing that neatly separates head from body.

‘Could’a stepped in any time,’ Cherry grouses, as the vampire’s slightly rotted head rolls from one side of the hollow to the other.

‘I was hoping you’d kill each other,’ Darren says plainly. At his feet lies the body of the ghouled woman – sans a face. Oh, there it is, dripping from Darren’s fists. Cherry’s stomach would turn, but he no longer has the energy for revulsion.

‘Love you too,’ he replies, exhausted, with as much toxin in his words as there is in his bloodstream, ‘but if you didn’t notice, sweetpea, this,’ he kicks the vampire’s corpse, ‘was not our guy. That was a shitty little fledgeling. So, like, d’you wanna plan the next steps with backup, or on your own?’

Darren regards him coolly, distractedly. Listening to angelic voices in his head, or simply calculating how likely he’d be able to get through the next part on his own. His flitting stare is uncomfortable and backlit with sacrosanct fire.

After several beats too long, Cherry sighs and gingerly touches the open bite wound trickling hot blood down his neck.

‘...Can I at least have the first aid kit?’

#hunter the reckoning #world of darkness #wodmeetcute #hunters!! so dope #such cool art and story

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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Shadow of Midsummer House: A VtM OC Meet Cute Story

Here is the story for the meet cute between my Nythanel and @seventhsign's Sasha. He also did the art HERE for the meet cute and it's amazing go look at it!!!! and the banner! The dividers are by @diableriedoll

Thank you to @porcelainseashore @vampemoqueen and @crownedinmarigolds for putting on this event, it was a blast!!! Here is the original Meet Cute post.

Without further rambling, the story is below the cut.

The gardens were warm and humid. Frozen in eternal spring. Vibrant flowers in full bloom. The branches of small trees stretched out laden with green leaves. Sasha spun the ring on his middle finger with the opposite hand as he pondered the similarities and differences of his own perpetual state. He let himself wander deep into these thoughts, perhaps too deep. If not for the vitae in him granting heightened senses he may have not noticed the reason why he was waiting here approach. He was wearing a tan sweater vest, charcoal gray button up, and brown pants. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned and not tucked in, the sweater vest fit him loosely. If his face had shown more age he would look like a disheveled college professor. He stood in contradiction to Sasha. Black overcoat, black pants, red button up, black tie. Not a single wrinkle on the fabric, the shirt tucked in and tie fashioned up to his throat. Corporate Goth was a suitable descriptor.

“Sorry I’m late.” he remarked nonchalantly. He held up the 7/11 Big Gulp and shook it, the ice clattered like crystals inside. “I had to stop for a snack.”

Sasha was unconcerned with his tardiness, more interested in his attire. Not being one to stereotype, he isn’t shocked, but by the rumor and descriptions he expected to meet with someone fresh from the embalming table. There was a lot of life in him for someone of the clan of death. He couldn’t help but to examine him, a quick look up and down. Nothing came across as strange or out of the ordinary, perhaps a ghoul. Sasha didn't think he ranked high in the concerns of the Hecata so once again he was met with the unexpected but still not surprised. The only marks of interest he could find were the pointed ears, and the left eye, seemingly the only sign of death he had, the color dull and light not quite reflecting from it as it should. He didn’t let himself stare too long, even if he was a ghoul it wouldn’t do well to forget his manners in the domain of other clans.

“That is alright, the wait wasn’t long.” Sasha assured him as he took in a forced breath. “I am Sasha. I assume you are who I’m meant to meet?”

“I am!” He said, taking a long sip from the cup. “I’m Dr. Nythanel Loken-Hidalgo. A pleasure to meet you. So what’s going on with you needing to snoop around our turf?”

“The pleasure is mine.” Sasha took a moment to consider his words before speaking. “Items of mine were stolen, I am simply wanting to recover them. I know their general location up to several meters. There would be no need for me to snoop.”

“Oh, I'm sure.” Nythanel said with the barest hint of sarcasm. “What was stolen?”

“Personal items.” Sasha hid his annoyance. One would think a clan known for criminal enterprises wouldn't ask too many questions. "Namely, a Bloodstone."

“Ah, a Bloodstone. So that's how you got them pinpointed.” Nythanel mused aloud.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Welp, let's get going then. Sun's gonna come up whether you have your stuff or not.”

“Does that mean you will be accompanying me?”

“Yep!” Nythanel said with a wide smile.

Sasha held back the grimace pulling at his face. Being watched over like this didn’t set well with him. Especially with the personal items he was seeking to recover being his research notes. He started to wonder if there may be ulterior motives. However he had to accept it for now, and deal with the consequences.

“I shall lead the way.” Sasha offered as he began to walk to the exit of the gardens.

“Please do, but let’s take the back exit.” Nythanel said, the tip if the straw at his lips. “So did you drive here or-?” He asked as they walked.

“I took the bus.” Sasha answered.

“Cool cool. So your stuff isn’t too far away then?”

“It isn’t.” Sasha assured him.

“Great! I need to get my steps in but did not want to walk to the other side of the city.”

“If you would rather take your vehicle, I wouldn’t object.” Sasha offered.

“Oh, don’t drive.” Nythanel dismissed his offer. “My wife dropped me off.”

“We walk then.” Sasha said, inwardly lamenting the forced companion.

The air was cool as it blew through the Windy City. The streets lined with cars, headlights and street lights bathed everything in a sickly yellow. A presence hung in the air. The feeling of eyes peering form every shadow, anxiety rising from every sound coming from the allies. The night grew quiet as they came to a part of the city with little vehicle traffic but more people shuffled along the street.

It was a neighborhood with tents blocking foot traffic on the sidewalks, windows boarded up on the buildings on either side of the street. The walls were spray painted with art ranging from obscene scenes, thought provoking statement pieces, and gang tags. They walked down the street surprisingly undisturbed. There were no panhandlers. Everyone seemed to either keep to themselves or keep the groups they formed, giving the two of them no more than glances.

“We are getting close.” Sasha broke the long silence between them.

“Oh great! I was worried-”

Sasha tuned out Nythanel’s whinging, focusing on the pull of the Bloodstone. It called to him from a dilapidated building farther down the street. He paused, something felt off as he looked at it. Standing alone with small grass lots on either side. The grass and weeds wilted and dead. The makeshift shelters stopped about a hundred yards from the building. The shuffling pedestrians walked on the opposite side of the street as if something pushed them away from it. The foreboding presence could only be a herald of the unpleasant things inside.

“Ooo, spooky.” Nythanel cooed broke his concentration.

“What?” Sasha said, turning toward Nythanel.

“I said, ooo spooky.”

He seemed relaxed, almost too relaxed. They come across an obvious haunt and all he can say is that it's spooky? Sasha pushed his abrupt annoyance aside for now, he was close to having this finished.

“Can you tell me about this place?” Sasha asked.

“You bet your ass I can. But will I?” Nythanel said with a smirk, taking a sip of the seemingly bottomless Big Gulp.

“Will you?” Sasha said, biting back as much of his annoyance as he could.

“I'm not a tour guide buddy.” Nythanel looked at him and let his words hang in the air, steeping into Sasha. “But, I'll give you this one for free. This place is a stomping ground for haunts, haints, phantoms, spirits, wraiths, and more. You honestly should have been able to guess that, given who's domain this is. But that building specifically? It's supposed to be abandoned. We've had it set aside for- well… I'm probably not supposed to tell you about that. But yeah, it's supposed to be empty of 'Beings of the Flesh' at least.”

“Is that so?” Sasha said with a raised eyebrow. It all felt off. He couldn’t imagine why the Hecata would lure him out, it didn't make sense but, Nythanel’s aloofness wasn't settling his mind.

“I said it, there for it, is so.” Nythanel replied. “So, we knocking on the door or you got other ideas?”

“The front door seems a little, expected, doesn't it?” Sasha said.

“You would think that.” Nythanel replied. “Can't you radar the place? See with sight beyond sight and all that?”

“I haven't honed those abilities.” Sasha answered honestly. “I can in a smaller proximity but I can't see through the walls or the whole building.”

“Bummer.” Nythanel said with a slurp of his drink.

“And you? Any abilities to make this less of a harrowing task?”

“First, harrowing as a specific meaning to us, it doesn't apply here. Second, like I said, I'm not a tour guide, you're gonna hafta figure it out kid.” Nythanel took out his phone and started to type out a message.

kid? Of course you can't go by appearance with the undead to tell their age, but kid? It put Sasha off to be called that, the infantilization from someone he met only tonight. But cool heads will prevail, at least that's what he told himself.

Nythanel starts to wave his phone around, holding it toward the building then away. “Huh.” then took a few steps away from the building and hit send.

Without another word Sasha turned back to the building and began to walk toward it. To his surprise, Nythanel had nothing more to say. However, the quiet wasn't peaceful. As they drew near the air became clammy. A pressure weighed and pressed on them like a diver going down into the dark depths.

Sasha looked over the building, windows boarded. He walked around to the back, the back door was also boarded. The front door was the easiest option. The whole situation felt off. A strange feeling crawled up his skin. He wanted to get away from this building as soon as possible. The front door may have seemed like the only option to a mortal man, but the power of the vitae in his veins could open pathways. He opened his bag and rummaged for a moment, then produced a mirror.

“I can take it from here.” Sasha said as he slid his arm from the sleeve of his coat and pressed the sharp tip of the mirror shard to his forearm.

“Uh, nope.” Came from Nythanel like the crack of a whip.

“What?” Sasha snapped with much more of his aggravation slipping through than intended. His concentration once again broken, so close to what he is here for, and the best way to get it, the most simple solution, he is told no?

“I’m coming with you.” Nythanel affirmed with another sip of his drink.

“Why?” Sasha tried his best to reign back the anger he felt building in him.

“Because I’m curious?” Nythanel states as if Sasha should have known.

“Curious? About what?” Sasha said through a stiff jaw.

“About what the fuck is going on here. Besides, you were given access to our domain. I can revoke that. So be nice.” Nythanel said with a lower tone, the mirth gone from his voice.

Sasha swallowed his rage. The whole situation went from frustrating to ridiculous. This was obviously some form of trap and he is expected, forced, to walk right into it.

“To the front door then.” Sasha ignored Nythanel and walked to the front door of the building.

The door was made of a heavy wood, no window to see inside, and a plaque. 'Mind your manners' Sasha took hold of the door handle. It felt icy cold, almost painfully so. He took in a forced breath to steady himself for what may lie ahead. The door was unlocked, the knob turned, and he pushed it open. Opening the door was like breaking the seal on a vacuum chamber. He and Nythanel were sucked into a lightless maw, darkness engulfed them and carried them into the unknown. If they tried to yell it went unheard. The deafening silence and darkness made them feel nothingness around them.

In moments, hours, or seconds, too disoriented to tell, they were dropped into a hallway. It was narrow, nearly unable to stand side by side. Brass sconces with white light lined the walls on either side with doors every few feet, stretching on forever both ways.

“Well that sucked.” Nythanel said as he stood up.

Sasha ignored him, he was tired of having the tag along, tired of being babysat. Anger burned in him hotter than he’d felt in a long time. It wasn’t even the beast’s anger, it was truly his own. The rage that rested in the pit of his stomach boiled. To prevent making the situation worse, he decided to simply not speak to Nythanel. He focused his mind on something that might actually get them out of this. He focused his mind on the forces around him, attempting to determine what is not what it seems. Everything felt like an echo, the walls and doors flickering like a light bulb about to burn out, sounds bouncing round and repeating in his ears. Everything was magical and mundane in equal measure.

“So, how are you going to do to get us out of this mess?” Nythanel asked.

His words were like red hot spikes in Sasha’s ears. He felt the anger in his stomach start to boil over, but he kept ignoring Nythanel. He didn’t need to answer him, Nythanel wouldn’t give him any answers. He gritted his teeth, took the door knob of a door in hand, twisted, and stepped through.

He blinked and he was back in the hallway, several yards down from where he was, standing outside a door like he just walked through. He doesn’t remember what was on the other side. It was like driving a route you know by second nature, moments the journey just blinked out your memory. Every door was the same. Open one, exit another. He walked in one direction down the hall but saw no end in sight.

“Man, Acolyte training is really laxed these nights huh?” Nythanel said.

Sasha froze and looked back at Nythanel. “I’m not part of the Pyramid. If you are intent on not being useful then at least be silent.”

“Did I strike a nerve with that one?” Nythanel said, smirking.

Sasha was about to speak but down the hall he saw the lights being snuffed out. A darkness crept closer, like a rolling fog that eclipsed all light.

“Oh shit.” Nythanel said, looking past Sasha down the other end of the hall. The darkness came from there as well.

“We don’t have time for this. If you know how to get us out of this then you need to do so.” Sasha

“Well, I don’t know the solution for this.” Nythanel said. “BUT! We have to think of this like a riddle. There has to be something we are overlooking, or something we are not considering.”

Sasha pushed back his anger, spinning the ring on his middle finger he thought. "Mind your manners." Sasha mumbled then turned to the door near him, and knocked. The darkness didn’t stop, it still flowed toward them. He opened the door and saw a new room. “Here!” He said as he stepped through, Nythanel coming up right behind him and pulled the door closed as he did.

The room they were in now was a round room with mirrors lining the whole wall and ceiling. The door behind Nythanel was now a mirror. The floors were polished wood, the mirrors were set in golden frames, sconces of the same style in the hall lit the room.

Nythanel let out a long whistle as he looked around the room. “That was a close one.”

“Why did you really accompany me?” Sash demanded. “You’ve refused to assist in any way and have been vague on your reasoning for anything. Are you here to impede me or do you just delight in watching others struggle?”

“You know what?” Nythanel said, turning toward Sasha. “I love watching you bumble around. You don’t even know how fucked you would have been if you actually went through the Incorporeal Passage ritual. You don’t even know where we are, do you?”

“Then where the hell are we!?” Sasha snapped. “How do you know enough about thaumaturgical rituals that you knew what I was going to do?”

“First off, fuck you figure it out. Second-” Nythanel pulled the collar of his shirt down to the brand at the base of his neck. “I have a chip on my shoulder.”

The brand resembled the Tremere clan symbol. The alchemical geometry of the orbiting triangle, the encompassing circle, the inner square, the difference lied in the circle within the square. It was half full. The half moon of the Thin-Bloods. Sasha looked at it for a moment, the anger in him simmering down. He recognized it for was it was truly, a mark of ownership.

“I’ve heard stories of the things they did to control people. My house doesn’t hold onto the methods used by my clan before the fall of the Pyramid. I wasn’t embraced until after the fall. So, I am not your enemy.”

Nythanel sighed, his own anger deflated. “You’re right.” He fixed his shirt and took a sip of the Big Gulp he still had with him.

“Our real enemy is the one who trapped us here.” Sasha added on.

“Jeez kid, I already said you were right.” Nythanel started to walk around the room, looking at each mirror.

“Would it be rude of me to ask about the mark? I can surmise the meaning based on my studies but-” Sasha said, also examining the room.

“I was supposed to be embraced into the Tremere clan. However, according to my sire at least, I was an experiment and came out a Thin-Blood. The brand was part of the concessions forced on me to allow me to escape final death. I was under the Las Vegas chantry for about a decade before breaking away from it.”

“I can understand why you hold onto anger from that.” Sasha added.

“Honestly? You being so understanding is kind of pissing me off.” Nythanel said as he knelt down to look at the bottom of a mirror.

“I’m starting to think you are just an angry person.” Sasha remarked.

“Fuck you, But you’re not wrong.”

“I was a nurse.” Sasha said, Nythanel had shared something about himself he figured he should too. “I've dealt with angrier people.” He let what he said have a moment to see if Nythanel would respond, then continued. “How do you suppose we get out of this? I'm unsure how minding our manners can help.”

“I have an idea.” Nythanel says standing up. “Mirrors reflect light, we need to turn off the lights.”

“I don't see a light switch. Breaking the lights would certainly not be good manners so I don't think we should do that.” Sasha states

“Hmm you have a point. I have a solution!” Nythanel takes the lid off the Big Gulp and pulls an ampule from the ice. The glass was transparent brown, save for the gray band painted on it. “Get it? Solution?”

Sasha stared for a moment then spoke. “The humor isn't lost on me but we are in a bit of a situation.” He explained. Not so much to dismiss the joke, but so he could see what Nythanel planned to do with his 'solution'. Curiosity was a strong trait passed down in the Warlock's blood. He'd heard rumors of Thin-Bloods and their alchemy, but hadn't had the opportunity to see it performed in action.

Sighing, Nythanel, broke open the ampoule, sliced his thumb on his fang, and let a drop of his vitae fall into solution inside. He licked his thumb to close the wound and drank the contents of the vial. His face twisted in disgust as it washed over his tongue. Sasha wondered what the formula was, how it was made, many questions to save for later. Nythanel took a deep breath, breathing in for an inhumanly long time. Then, as he exhaled, mist rolled out of his mouth. It had a faint cigar smell but it didn’t float up like smoke, it rested in the air like a morning fog. After the long exhale the room was full and the fog so dense it was difficult to see to the other side of the room. The lights were dimmed, but the passage wasn't revealed yet.

“Well shit. I thought I had something there- oh look!” Nythanel said pointing. The densest part of the fog clung to him, Sasha could only make out a silhouette but could see where he was pointing. The smoke was pulled toward one mirror, slipping into and through it.

“Wrong formula, but the correct answer none the less.” Sasha said approvingly.

“Well, as a scientist, I am willing to accept the results of the experiment.” Nythanel conceded.

Neither could see the facial expressions of the other through the smoke, but the air had a levity that had not been there the rest of the night. They walked toward the mirror, Nythanel gestures for Sasha to go first, and he does. He first reaches his hand out, and it goes right through the mirror as if nothing was there. Then he steps through, with Nythanel close behind, trailing smoke.

They find themselves in a cold room. Grey cinder block walls, cement floor, dark wood ceiling. It looked like an unfinished basement but the only way out didn't lead to stares, it was a gray hallway that ended intersecting another hallway. It was dimly light, as if from a distant unseen source. The contrast from the warm and decorated rooms before was jarring. As if they stepped out of the fun-house and into a murder den.

“Fuckin' fuckin‘ spooky spooky.” Nythanel said, smoke rolled out of his mouth and his words echoed.

They didn't echo in the ears but in both their minds, the reverberating memory of them slowly fading. Nythanel thinks for a moment, eyes narrowing as he looks around the room. Sasha also investigates the room and the empty doorway leading to the corridor. It all seems so mundane. He turns to look at Nythanel and sees the dead eye is now all black. Not a simple change of color but the complete abolishment of light. He waits for him to get done looking, expecting him to speak without having to be asked anything anyways.

“Hmmm well hmmmm well well” Nythanel paused, the echo in his mind becoming frustrating. He looks at Sasha, who meets his gaze and opens his mind, connecting them both in thought.

“This is unfortunately the worst of what I expected.” The connection is made, Nythanel breaks eye contact and walks around the room.

“And what did you expect?” Sasha sent a mental reply. “What all do you actually know about this place?”

“Well if you mean the place we are now, unfortunately a good deal of first hand information. If you mean the building, not much more than what I've told you.” Nythanel stops moving around, focusing on the mental link to impart only the information he wanted to Sasha. “This house was a faerie den. I suspect the manners thing is their doing and the bright rooms. But one day they fled and everything around the building withered. We don't know what happened exactly but it's made a very thin spot in the veil between the Skinlands and the Shadowlands.”

“The realm of life and oblivion.” Sasha confirmed.

“Exactly. So now, like the dwarves of Moria who dug too deep, we stand in the precipice of unfathomable darkness.” Nythanel tried his best to impart the feeling of dread into Sasha, if he was affected he didn't show it. “We are in the upper parts of the Labyrinth. Fascinating, we have an opening to it right here in Chicago. I’ve gotten out of it before, I can do it again.”

“How do we get out?” Sasha asked, the Lord of the Rings reference not lost on him but it's hardly the time to talk about common interests.

“There should be two paths. One to Oblivion and one to the Skinlands. We are in the perfect middle spot that it really can go either way for us” Nythanel’s left eye returned to its 'natural' color as he started to walk down the corridor. “It’s always changing, the shadowlands are not as static as the Skinlands. The best way I can explain it, I’m letting the vibes guide me.”

Sasha focused his mind, attempting to hold the telepathic connection while also opening his mind to allow him to sense the things around him, and it was nearly blinding. They were surrounded by wraiths, thousands of them, lining the walls, the floor and ceiling. He quickly closed his mind, his beast recoiling inside of him as he tried to push back the flight response. Still, he followed behind Nythanel, holding back from spiraling into the implications of what he discovered. Questions half formed in his mind then died. There will be time to ask questions later. He assured himself to quiet his inquisitive thoughts.

Nythanel guided them through the Labyrinth. The corridors widened, then narrowed, then widened. He would take a turn, then double back and the path would be wholly different. As if it was an ever evolving organism. The only static feature was the cinder black walls, concrete floors, and dark wood ceiling. It was nearly maddening, constantly changing but always the same, little to no sense could be made of it. They walked for hours, days even? It was so hard to tell. Nothing was here to keep time, they never felt the need to sleep. Sasha checked his watch several times, when surely an hour should have passed barely a few minutes had ticked away.

Sasha could feel the anxiety slowly rise in him, spiking with small frustrations. Was it Nythanel’s volatile emotional state? Perhaps it was the beast growing more restless. Or maybe it was the essence of Oblivion itself seeping into him. It felt like it was gripping his heart, and pressing itself into his skull. He fidgeted with the rings on his fingers but even that couldn’t sooth him. It was coming to a fever pitch, he was beginning to struggle to hold it back, when Nythanel spoke.

“This This ss this is it is it it!” His actual voice echoing through their minds.

Before them, was a wall. A blank, gray, cinder block wall.

“I only see a wall.” Sasha stated telepathically.

“Well, yeah.” Nythanel replied. “That’s because this place works off memory. We haven’t seen a door down here so we have no memory of that door to be shown. I mean, we didn’t actually even go through a door to get here.”

“Ah, right. We walked through a mirror.”

As Sasha relayed the thought, an ornate mirror like the ones in the room of mirrors appeared on the wall.

“Bingo!” Nythanel started to walked toward the mirror.

“Wait.” Sasha grabbed his shoulder. “Mind your manners.” He reminded Nythanel.

“You’re so right, I’m such a rude bitch.”

He reached out and knocked, the glass tolled like a bell and echoed through the labyrinth. He knocked a second time, the glass rippled like the surface of a pond. The third knock, his hand went through the glass, and he stepped through. Sasha close behind.

Darkness and vertigo struck them, weightless for just a split second, then the floor rose up fast to meet both of them. Hardwood, dark but pristine and polished. A staircase leading up on their right, a hall leading to what looked like a kitchen on the left. A door under the staircase and another directly to the right before getting to the stairs. Behind them was the front door. A sign on it saying 'watch your step'.

They look between each other. The transfer to the foyer broke their mental connection, but the unspoken was understood. It was time to get this over with. Sash pointed up, Nythanel nodded.

Sasha cuts into his palms with a pocket knife, but holds his Vitae back for now. Nythanel takes two other ampules from the big gulp cup. Placing one in his mouth, the other in his left hand held tightly in a fist. He sets the cup down next to the door and whispers, “wait here.”

Sasha leads the way, guided by the pull of his Bloodstone. It was close, above, across. The stairs creaked in low hollow groans as they ascended. The doors on the second floor were all boarded, the only exterior window was over the stairwell and sealed so tightly even the lights of the city couldn’t come through. The shadows writhed and twisted in on themselves as they ascended to the third floor. Their footfalls were mute and the stairs now deathly quiet. The faint orange glow of candle light trickled into sight as they rounded the stairs up to the third floor landing.

The place was stripped bare. The only structure in the interior were load bearing wood frames. On the far end of the floor was a red stone, and a small stack of books. An obvious trap, but who or what lied in wait for them was still unknown. Shadows danced around the flame of the candle to an unheard tune. They walked towards the stone and books. Cation with each step. Then the shadows began to move in unison. It gathered and swirled just in front of them and rising from the inky darkness was a man dressed in black cargo pants, a blank tank top, and black boots like some mercenary wannabe. His arms crossed in front of his chest and he looked at the two with disappointment in his eyes.

“So you two just all buddy buddy now huh?” He said in a thick Chicago accent, shaking his head.

The two didn’t reply. Sasha pushed his vitae to the openings in his palms, the flesh smoldered with the acidic power. A quiet crunch came from Nythanel as he broke the ampule in his mouth and swallowed. His eyes turned red and streaks of blood ran down his cheeks.

“Awe, don’t cry little guy, I haven't given you a reason to yet.” He said with a self satisfied smirk. “And you warlock, you got no respect for yourself? Working with a water blood-"

Nythanel acted first, stepping in front of Sasha, and spiking the ampule in his hand onto the ground in front of him. It shattered on the floor and a blinding light erupted from it. All darkness was banished as if the sun had dawned in the room. Sasha recoiled, Nythanel's body eclipsing the brunt of the light but still, sun spots danced in his vision. The beast roared and thrashed but held it back for the moment. The shadow master recoiled and screamed, his own beast’s fear erupting from his throat. In the several blinks Sasha took to clear his vision, Nythanel was closing in on the man. Taking advantage of the distracted Cainite, Sasha concentrated his own powers, making a slight pulling motion with his hand.

The Cainite beat his beast down in time to realize Nythanel was in his face. Nythanel’s lips was twisted into a snarl, his mouth full of frothing blood like a rabid creature. The Cainite brought his arms up to block and counter. However Nythanel’s fist broke bone and lost no momentum as his punch went right into the face of the would-be ambusher. Teeth scattered and his skull fractured sending him stumbling back. He had no time to react as his vitae was drawn out from the tears in his face and arms. It dissipated into the air like thin smoke. Fear gripped him, his plan falling apart in a spectacular fashion he couldn’t even fathom. With a flash kick crunching into Nythanel’s chest he sent him into an exposed beam, then dropped into the returned shadows.

Nythanel slowly tried to rise, the kick having done a tremendous amount of damage to his near mortal frame. Sasha readied himself for the Cainite to pop back up. No longer than it took to shift his eyes back and forth he saw the shadow master breach from the shadows like a shark.

The Cainite swung a wide hook at Sasha, giving him time to throw the acid on his hand into the Cainite’s face, but taking the brunt of the fist. His dead body could weather it, although the strength of the Cainite overcame much of his natural defense. He roared, the same bestial roar and unleashed a flurry of fists and shadow tendrils on Sasha. The bludgeoning blows individually did little, but as a whole they were breaking down Sasha’s defenses and began to impair him. Hunger gripped him and twisted in his gut. With no other choice but to push through he threw more of his acidic vitae on the Cainite, his flesh sizzled and bubbled as it melted away, causing him to hesitate for just a moment. Long enough for Nythanel to bring himself back into the fight with a hay-maker into the side of Lasombra’s chest. Flesh parted and ribs broke as he jammed his fist into him, twisted and pulled out half a lung already beginning to desiccate. With a powerful back hand he batted Nythanel away and stumbled back.

The Cainite’s face softened into fear as he came to the realization he might lose this fight, to a Neonate and a Thin-Blood no less. “I’ll kill you later.” He hissed through a broken jaw and sprinted for the stairs. Sasha started to run after him, but was stopped by Nythanel calling out from the floor.

Sasha paused, looked back at Nythanel then the stairs. He didn’t want to let that bastard get away but Nythanel’s injuries looked severe. He doubled back to him and began to triage his wounds.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He said, sitting up and gently pushing Sasha’ hands away. “Cover your ears.” He said and cupped his hands over his own ears. Sasha did so, confused and wondered what Nythanel could be doing now.

Only a second when by and his curiosity was sated with a loud bang coming from downstairs. The building shuttered and the force of the explosion rippled through them. He looked at the stairs than back to Nythanel in astonishment.

“Fuckin’ dumb ass!” Nythanel said with haggard laughter. His dead eye turned black as he looked at the stairs, at something Sasha couldn’t see. “You’re a fuckin’ champ Juarez.” he said to no one living. “Get your stuff man. The shadow bitch is dead, and I need a minute.” He said to Sasha.

Sasha had questions, he could connect the dots on what happened in broad strokes, but he wanted the little details of exactly. He was sure he would get the details. For now, he gathered his research materials and Bloodstone the secured them in his bag. Nythanel was very slowly trying to stand up. Sasha lent a hand and let Nythanel prop on him as they descended the stairs, both wanting nothing more than to leave this house. The bottom stairs were a ruin of splinters. The plaster on the walls was nearly completely blown away, and there was a hole going right down to the basement just in front of the door. The door itself however, not a single scratch.

“Hey Sasha, get it? Watch your step?” Nythanel said with a chuckle.

Sasha looked at the ruined foyer and the sign on the door. An involuntary laugh rose in him and for a moment they both stood on the last stable step, laughing.

Epilogue:

Sitting outside they took a moment to enjoy the cool air and reprieve from the haunted house. Despite how long it felt, only fifteen minutes had passed.

“Can I ask how you did it? What exactly was that explosion?” Sasha asked.

“Oh, yeah sure. That Big Gulp was half filled with plastic explosive.” Nythanel said it like it wasn’t a big deal. “The wraith that watches over me triggered it when the Lasombra got near it. No one suspects the Big Gulp.”

“How did you know the Lasombra would run away?” Sasha asked.

“I didn’t. That is the 'oh shit last resort.' With every other way out boarded up and possibly magically sealed, either we would come back down or eventually the dude who stole your stuff would. Either I pick the cup up, or Juarez blows up the jackass when they get close.” Nythanel explained.

Sasha spun the rings on his fingers. “And the ampules?”

Nythanel looked over at Sasha with a smirk. “Thin Blood Alchemy. The flash bang was an experimental one I've been working on. Sun in a Bottle. I might need a better delivery method for that one. The smoke one was one I made years and years ago, just a kindred fog machine really. The other, I don't really want to talk about how I make that one.”

Sasha nodded, he figured he wouldn’t get all the answers but that was enough to sate his curiosity for now.

“The books?” Nythanel asked.

“Simple research notes. Nothing worth stealing. I’m still not sure what exactly the Lasombra wanted with it." Sasha sighed. "I'm going to be thinking about it for while."

“Who knows? Some dumb ass Cainite plot. We, being my family and I, will get to the bottom of that another night. For now, I’m happy to still be kicking.”

Sasha nodded and looked at his watch. “We should get going, the Sun will sneak up on us.”

“I really don’t feel like walking.” Nythanel checked his phone. “My wife is a few minutes away. We can give you a ride, she’d love to meet you.”

“Ah, thank you. I was dreading the walk.” Sasha said, allowing himself to relax a bit more.

#vtm #world of darkness #vampire the masquerade #wodmeetcute #whoa #what a blast through different genres and sects!

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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WoD Meet Cute: Sasha & Nyth

I had such a fun time with this piece and getting to talk, draw and explore character interactions! i look forward to doing this again if it becomes an annual thing

this is my companion piece with @thesixthplaneteer 's super cool oc, Nyth! Please go read his story to go with this piece

(click for higher quality viewing)

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #wodmeetcute #they look like a great pair!

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

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WoD MeetCute Event: “Over/Under”

With thanks to @crownedinmarigolds @porcelainseashore and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event. Words and the character Eddie Gage belong to me. Art and the character Blythe belong to @luoniiel

I also mirrored this on AO3 if you prefer.

Story & Art under the cut (content warning: suicidal ideation, smoking)

Monday, 25 October 2004

2:57 AM

Santa Monica, California

The pier drew strange visitors after all its businesses shuttered—not so much on a weeknight, though. Gage lingered at the gate, noting that the only remaining traces of the first Ripper crime scene were some dark stains on the wood. The other killings in the greater metro area had kicked the case over to the Bureau, but the savagery of the murders didn't necessarily mean vampires—or werewolves, or whatever.

The Special Affairs Department was keeping an eye on it, that was all. Department-wide morale had been bolstered by a recent win on the part of the surveillance geeks, but Gage would be dead or retired before they cracked the encryption.

There was no reason for him to be treading old ground, except for the fact he couldn't sleep and was between assignments at the moment. An explosion at the old train yard had abruptly canceled an op that had been in the works for months. Demetrios was still fuming about it.

As for Gage’s pet project, he had to be sure about the Hollowbrook Hotel before he proposed anything, and so far it was too easy to write off as just another drug den in a bad part of town. The onus was on him to prove it was a nest of leeches. Maybe next quarter, because working for the government meant treating vampire hunting like a damn business, paperwork and all.

Gage didn’t expect any breakthroughs tonight, he just didn’t want to be home alone with his thoughts.

He lit a cigarette and strolled down the pier. The goth couple loitering by the arcade paid him no mind. No surprise, there. Peterson told him once that he was great for undercover work because his “suicidal divorcee” aura made people want to ignore him. Never mind the fact Gage had never been married or suicidal. The fight that resulted led to two weeks of mandatory anger management training, and the dead-pool for Gage’s inevitable demise was only getting bigger by the day.

A lot of people would be pissed if he made it through the year alive.

Someone was standing alone at the end of the pier, dressed in a manner Gage only knew to describe as 'alternative’ without assuming too much.

He would’ve left the stranger alone if not for the fact he standing with his hands on the railing and swaying like he was high on any number of substances. Gage just had to be the only Hunter in the LA office with something resembling a conscience.

He cleared his throat. No response.

Not sure why he was even bothering, Gage reached out—and stopped when big, tear-filled eyes met his.

Gage took a step back. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s worth it, isn't it?” The question froze him in place. “To keep going? No matter how shitty it gets? No matter how much you think about dying?”

Gage looked around. He was in no way equipped to deal with this, but no one else was around to help. And who else would help a stranger in the dead of night?

“I don’t even know you.”

That got a giggle. “Call me Blythe.”

“Gage,” he replied.

“Now we know each other.”

“I’m not so sure about that…”

An approving, if unsteady nod. “Always good to acknowledge the limits of your knowledge.” Blythe tilted his head thoughtfully, blonde curls bouncing against his cherubic cheeks. They couldn’t be an odder couple. “Does that count as a rhyme?”

“Maybe?” Gage took a drag on his cigarette, noting Blythe’s flushed skin. Just regular fucked up, then. Probably. Ghouls and blood dolls were hard to spot until the moment they were jumping in front of bullets to save their masters—or stabbing you. The old scar on Gage’s side twinged at the thought. “I don’t know.”

Blythe leaned in, nearly toppling over on his platform heels. Gage gently put a hand out both to steady him and keep him at a distance. Blythe took the opportunity to steal the cigarette from his other hand and take an excruciatingly long pull.

“What do you know, then?” The question was exhaled in a plume of smoke. It coiled around Gage until of gust of wind snatched it away.

Gage shrugged. He knew a lot of shit. Too much, yet still somehow not enough—and none of it for polite company. It was as good an excuse as any for his nonexistent social life. People kept telling him he needed a hobby.

The cold wind blowing in off the ocean made him regret not wearing a proper coat. It cut right through his suit jacket and made him shiver. Blythe, meanwhile, was dressed like it was the height of Summer and seemed completely unbothered.

LA never got that cold, but the recent rain had left a chill in the air and caused at least a dozen car accidents while it happened.

“If nothing else there’s spite,” Gage offered. “Keep going just to prove the bastards wrong.” He stole his cigarette back, silently lamenting it was almost down to the filter. “Or see them die first. Whichever.”

Blythe laughed, and for a moment he seemed fully present as he squeezed Gage’s shoulder. “Not a bad idea… is Gage your real name?”

The new thought careened into the first like two cars on a wet Mulholland curve. Gage doubted this conversation would ever be remembered.

“Last name,” he admitted, finishing off his one allotted cigarette for the night. The residue of Blythe’s lipgloss tasted like cherries. Gage licked his lips in a futile attempt to get rid of it.

“Then maybe next time you can tell me your first,” Blythe said, waving languidly before turning to leave. Given the state he was in, Blythe was much steadier on his feet than Gage expected—whatever that meant besides 'half out of his goddamned mind on something.’

“Sure,” he muttered. “Next time.”

One or both of them would most likely be dead long before that ever happened.

They hadn’t even exchanged numbers.

Thursday, 29 February 2024

4:28 AM

Santa Monica, California

Blythe was a few minutes late to the meetup, which ruined the whole point of setting it at 4:20 in the morning. He texted his contact an apology as he walked across the beach, phone in one hand and sandals in the other. If they were meeting under the pier, he was going to make the most of it.

The sand felt so nice between his toes—which, now that he thought of it, were going to need repainting soon.

His phone buzzed with a new message before he could hit send.

[I see you.]

“Well, that’s not ominous at all…”

The little spike of fear underlying the words was unwarranted. His contact for the evening’s business came highly recommended as someone who could be trusted—and who didn’t care about the whole Hunter thing.

Bonus, the godawful hour of the morning meant no one was on the beach to witness the exchange. The early morning surfers wouldn’t be out for like another hour. Pity. They could be great company, surfers. Maybe Blythe would stick around Santa Monica a little bit after all—just for fun. A vacation was long overdue, and his target wasn’t yet aware he had her trail again.

While his mind wandered through all the delectable possibilities an impromptu vacation could offer, an unnervingly tall, thin figure peeled away from the deeper shadows beneath the pier. Blythe was proud of himself for not gasping at the sight, but then he was warned his contact was a Nosferatu. He was fine with their kind. Same with almost any other vampire. Except for her.

“Wow,” Blythe said, craning his neck up. “You're tall.”

At least seven feet, even accounting for the slouch. Impressive.

He liked the whole Lurch-Meets-Riffraff vibe he had going—long hair, long everything. A question bubbled up and was immediately smothered for fear of souring the deal. The guy who arranged everything had been very clear about not asking personal questions.

The Nosferatu’s face scrunched up in interesting ways when he grimaced.

“Congrats,” he said dryly. “You're the first person to ever tell me that.”

The voice was familiar, like a song heard on the radio decades ago, now played on a worn-out cassette tape—warped, but still recognizable.

“Can we get this over with?” The familiar-sounding Nosferatu pleaded. “The last thing I want is to be caught out at sunrise.”

Blythe snapped his fingers as it clicked. “Gage!”

The Nosferatu stared at him, clearly considering denying it, but ultimately sighed in a mix of defeat and acknowledgment. The sound blended nicely with the hiss of the receding waves.

“Eddie,” he said.

“You remembered!”

“That, and Eddie is all anybody knows me as n—!”

Eddie went rigid as Blythe hugged him. After a beat, right as the surf rolled back in, he leaned into it and gave Blythe an awkward little pat on the back. The texture of his claws was interesting against Blythe’s bare midriff. It’d be fun to paint them, too—but that would be too forward.

“You look… the same,” Eddie said, almost impressed.

“And you look...” Blythe pulled away, more to get a better look at him than to stall for time. “Happier.”

Eddie scoffed.

“You do!” Blythe insisted, reaching up to wave his hand above Eddie’s head. It was quite a stretch. “Before you had like a little cartoon storm cloud hanging over you.”

“Those were actual storm clouds.” Eddie gestured to the horizon. The sky was turning a lurid shade of purple as dawn crept closer. “And unfortunately for me, it’s nowhere near as overcast now, so…”

“Right,” Blythe agreed. “Let’s get down to business.”

It was all Blythe could do to keep from bouncing on his heels in excitement as Eddie pulled out a small black ammo case. The foam padding held neat rows of 12-gauge shotgun shells, a little bit of fiery chaos in every one.

“Ooh, they’ve got SI embossed on the head and everything,” Blythe observed. “Fancy.”

“Have you dealt with tracer rounds before?” Eddie’s long fingers curled around the case lid, ready to snap it shut at a moment’s notice. “You know what bore to use?”

“A few times.” Blythe grinned mischievously. “And I’ve got my own modified choke, too.”

There was a joke there, but Eddie didn’t seem like the type to appreciate it. He nodded approvingly nevertheless, plucking out one of the shells to hold between two spindly fingers.

“Then I’m sure you already know about the barrel overheating.

Blythe nodded. “I’ll make my shots count.”

Eddie turned the shell over in his fingers. The way they moved was hypnotic. “And watch where you fire, too. If it’s too much of an enclosed space you’re liable to end up singed and/or trapped in a burning building.”

Blythe snickered. “It almost sounds like you care about me.”

“Professional courtesy, that’s all.” Eddie avoided looking at Blythe as he put the round back with the others. “Basically? Try not to set yourself or the countryside ablaze.”

Touching as his concern was, Blythe rolled his eyes. “People are always begging me not to set things on fire,” he muttered.

“All I’m saying is be careful,” Eddie said, closing the lid before holding the box out. “For your own sake—and the sake of my business.”

Reminded of his part of the exchange, Blythe produced a wad of bills and counted off the fee, silently lamenting the lean months ahead.

Eddie surprised him by giving back half the money along with the case.

“I heard about your whole situation,” he explained. “My only regret is I don't have more to offer at the moment. But you’ve got my number, and I guess I can keep it active a little while longer…”

Blythe gasped. “Friends?!”

“Business associates,” Eddie corrected. “Let me know how well those work—whenever you get around to using them, I mean.”

When Blythe turned the bitch to ashes, he meant.

Eddie didn’t tense up quite so much when he got hugged a second time, the surf rushing in around their ankles. Blythe was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the reluctance with which Eddie pulled away, but then he could never completely trust his perception. Yet another reason for revenge.

“Happy hunting,” Eddie said, tipping Blythe a wry salute before disappearing back into the shadows.

Blythe lovingly stroked the container full of dragon’s breath. “Always.”

#vtm #vtmb #vampire the masquerade #vampire the masquerade bloodlines #world of darkness #wodmeetcute #oh this is adorable!!#their characterization is so nice #we got a twofer! art and writing!

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vampemoqueen · 6 days ago

Text

wod meet cute event with @spookebee!

I had a blast working with @spookebee on this event! writing this really helped me get my game back and finally gave me an excuse to write something set in the world of darkness; and it definitely helped that I got to write about my brujah, alan, going up against @spookebee's brujah, ryker! his piece featured in this post is just one of the many masterpieces he has to offer, and they're currently taking commissions, so make sure to check out his blog! without further ado, here are the finished pieces!

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amazing art by @spookebee:

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writing piece by @countfreakout (~3800 words):

The crowd roared when the first fighter made his way towards the ring.

Cheers and shouts erupted from nearly every direction, regular and first-time viewers alike eager to see what the moustached man had to offer; though even to those aforementioned regulars, this would be the first time they’d ever heard of Alan Harvey. They all watched as he pried his sunglasses from their perch on the crooked bridge of his nose, taking a few good glances around the arena now that his vision was fully unobstructed.

The Black Flag Combat Club was as advertised: nothing special, and a little shabby at that. It was sheer coincidence that had even informed him of its existence. He’d been out scouting for a safe place to squat, hoping to save himself the $100 he’d have otherwise had to spend on an AirBnB. Instead, he’d found a nondescript brick building whose only manner of decoration was the poster on the door and the banner above it, announcing the establishment’s name. The poster hadn’t been particularly eye-catching—it had looked like something designed by someone with no prior knowledge of graphic design on one of those apps plainly titled “Photo Editor”—but they’d already had him at the word “combat.” And their hold on him was cemented once he’d read the text on the paper, boasting the opportunity for seasoned fighters to participate in a match for a cash reward; $500 for participation, and another $1,000 if he happened to win. Which was guaranteed, seeing as he hadn’t yet met a mortal who had stood a chance against his preternatural strength.

The interior looked much the same as the exterior had, which was to say that it was practical. It wasn’t designed to please, just to provide a venue for sparring matches so the owners could presumably rake in some extra cash. And if they could afford to throw $2,000 total at every pair of brawlers, it was probably working.

The arena was small, capable of accommodating maybe two hundred people shoulder-to-shoulder, and was less of an arena than it was a large room with a boxing ring in the middle of it. There were no seats, leaving the space completely empty save for stanchions bolted to the ground, paving a much-needed path for fighters through the tightly-packed mob. Floodlights mounted on the ceiling trusses illuminated the ring, leaving the cramped audience with a clear view of the action. Alan had a feeling that might impede his vision during the match—unaccustomed as he was to bright light—but he supposed a little challenge was always fun.

There wasn’t a bar, or posters plastered on the brick walls, or even shelves, for that matter. Practical felt like the right word, though someone without his prior experience may have called it lousy or under-decorated. All in all, it wouldn’t be televised anytime soon. Still, Alan smiled at the audience as if he was, willing his dormant heart to pump blood through his veins and make him look some semblance of alive.

He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket, slipped his jacket off, and entered the ring.

He’d been right about the brightness of the floodlights. The onslaught initially blinded him, forcing him to squint as the crowd hollered, louder this time around. A few chants of “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!” managed to make themselves heard over the general cacophony, prompting a grin from the second fighter as he approached the ropes.

The man who appeared in the ring only seconds later wasn’t what Alan had been expecting. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe someone brushing if not breaking six feet tall, sporting a five o’clock shadow, decked out in little else but a tank top and scuffed jeans, like he was. Of course, he’d long learned his lesson about not judging a book by its cover, but the individual in front of him looked more like someone you’d find at a hole-in-the-wall record store and less like someone you’d find in a fight club. Though he figured the two scenes did have a bit of overlap.

Layered black hair framed the man’s angular face, ending just above his shoulders, the colour briefly intercepted by white stripes forming a raccoon tail on his left. His eyes were a deep brown, his skin somewhat lighter. An array of piercings Alan couldn’t name off the top of his head decorated his ears and lips, glinting in the overhead light. Clothing wise, he wore a spiked choker, a beat-up grey hoodie, a studded leather jacket adorned with pins, hand wraps, a studded belt, and a pair of pants that looked like they were actually two separate pairs of pants Frankensteined together; one leg red, black, and white plaid, the other just plain black.

Whoever this guy was, the crowd seemed to favour him. He carried himself with a confidence that suggested this was far from his first rodeo, or maybe even that he had professional training.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, surprisingly loud.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our final matchup of the night! This one’s bound to be exciting, so feast your eyes and show our fighters some hype!

“In the wifebeater is our first fighter, coming all the way from Kingston! Weighing in at 76.1 kilograms with a height of 179 centimetres, he just barely qualifies as a super middleweight! I, for one, think he’ll put up quite a fight, and I’m sure you’re all eager to see what tonight’s guest has to offer! Please welcome Alan ‘Whizgig’ Harvey!

“In the leather jacket is our second fighter, a local talent many of you are already familiar with! Weighing in at 72.6 kilograms with a height of 173 centimetres, he may not look like much, but those who’ve seen him in action know he packs quite a punch! With an astonishing win-loss record of six to none, our undefeated champion is sure to take your breath away with his tactics! You know him, you love him, please welcome Ryker Kessgowasse!”

The crowd had cheered when Alan was introduced, but that was nothing compared to the uproar Ryker’s introduction prompted. Ryker drank the near-deafening noise in avidly, glad to be back in his element.

“As you’re all aware by now, this club doesn’t shy away from a little ferocity. That’s why we only have one golden rule…”

What was probably hundreds of voices all shouted in unison;

“Don’t kick ‘em when they’re down!”

Alan had known this wasn’t a professional club since he’d walked through the door; professional clubs didn’t throw money at whoever showed up itching for a fight. No, this was the kind of place that masqueraded as your regular, law-abiding gym by day, and bared its fangs as your erratic, wayward fighting pit by night. The audience wasn’t here to watch two people take harmless jabs at each other. They were here to see brutal swings and ruthless beatdowns.

They were here to see blood. And that was what they were going to get.

“I won’t keep you folks waiting any longer! Something tells me this one is going to be a close call, so give it up for our fighters and let’s see some action!”

With that, the bell rang, and Ryker crossed the entire ring in a few quick strides, delivering a nasty right hook to Alan’s jaw. Alan took the hit, slipping out of the way as his opponent thrust his knee forward in what would’ve been a jab to his thigh. He backed off to briefly plan his attack as the announcer said something about Ryker coming in hot.

He knew Ryker’s type; rash, relentless, speed over smarts. It wasn’t the first time he’d fought one of them, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. There was no real “trick” he’d discovered to taking them down besides just waiting for them to tire themselves out, though he was sure there was something he just hadn’t picked up on. He had the advantage of sheer size, but that was only useful if he could tank through the barrage ahead of him; and judging by the blow he’d already received, Ryker was no light hitter. Tanking through wouldn’t be his first course of action. So he had to think of something else, and he had to think of it fast.

A hand gripped his shoulder as another whizzed past his face, missing him by a hair’s breadth when he leaned back to avoid the strike. He immediately realized that doing so had put him in a nonoptimal position, but it was too late. The hand on his shoulder moved to grasp him by the throat, and he was heaved across the ring with alarming strength, ropes straining with the effort of catching his full weight. People howled at the sight, breaking into their chant from before.

“Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

He stared at the other man in disbelief, attempting to rationalize how someone ultimately smaller than him could’ve pulled that off in the first place. The last time he’d been hurled across the ring like that, the guy who’d done so had been several weight classes above him. And even then, he’d been like Alan was; cursed to spend his days asleep and his nights hunting for blood.

Ryker liked that look, the disconcertment that always made its way into the eyes of his opponents. It was especially satisfying to see in cocky mortals who underestimated him, to watch their air of superiority falter in the face of an adversary stronger than them.

He’d grown to expect it, just like Alan did. Every fight was a cakewalk, in the ring or outside of it, something the two of them could breeze through as if it were a minor blockade on the road to whatever goal they were chasing in the moment. Unlife had taught them nothing was unachievable; so long as you had the money, power, or fame to coax it into the palm of your hand. But they were still fledglings, new to the game with only the basics on how to play it. And fighting others of their kind wasn’t in the basics.

Alan was the first to notice something was wrong about his opponent. After a feat like that, Ryker should have stopped, panting, heart hammering against his chest. He shouldn’t have thrown Alan a smug look while motioning for him to approach, visibly unaffected despite having thrown a seventy-six kilogram man through the air only seconds ago.

He understood why the crowd had cheered so loud now. The guy was good. Too good.

Suddenly determined to prove himself to the audience, he lunged at Ryker, grappling him to prevent any further assault as he attempted to force his jaw to the side, expecting to meet skin moist with sweat.

But he wasn’t sweating. He was cold.

Dead cold.

Fuck.

He’d gone up against other licks a few times now. None of those experiences had been anything less than agonizing, and he didn’t care to repeat a single one of them; at least, not until he’d learned what to expect. And that was the problem. With mortals, he could almost predict their every move. Sure, some were more skilled than others, but so long as they weren’t armed with flamethrowers or machetes, they were relatively harmless. With vampires, on the other hand, he could never be sure they wouldn’t screw with his head, or vanish out of thin air, or become impossible to move, or grow a whole ass pair of claws.

His momentary hesitation cost him a blow to the side of the head.

And then another. And another. And another.

Before he could even register it, he was down on the ground.

“One!”

The light caught him right in the eyes with a sharp glare.

“Two!”

Over the PA system came a snarky remark about Ryker mopping the floor with him.

“Three!”

Rage threatened to take hold of him, but he reigned it in.

“Four!”

He picked himself up and settled back into a fighting stance.

Caution had gotten him nowhere. Not right then, and not in the past. He’d spent the entire round riding the wave and analyzing Ryker’s moves, forgetting that wasn’t what places like these respected in their fighters. They only respected brute force.

Now that he knew what he was dealing with, he’d show them that and then some. With mortals, he had to maintain a careful balancing act; he reigned himself in just enough not to breach the Masquerade or cripple his opponent, but still took enough advantage of his vampiric strength to end up victorious. It was an ordeal, which was why he didn’t fight as often as he had before his Embrace. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight, he fought against someone on even ground. The next round wouldn’t be a repeat of the first; at least, not for him. He’d show this Ryker guy what it meant to harness the might given to them by unlife.

As round one took its leave—signified by the bell—so too did his wariness.

The two men retreated to opposite corners of the ring, waiting out the break. Neither of them needed it, though Alan, for his part, tried to pretend he did. Not just for the sake of maintaining his mortal facade, but also because he suspected Ryker hadn’t figured out he was going up against one of his own yet. That was an advantage he couldn’t just dump down the drain.

Soon enough, the bell sounded again, and Alan surprised Ryker by hurtling forward in a reckless lunge, not unlike the one he’d received himself at the beginning of round one. The difference between his and Ryker’s attack, however, was that he wasn’t holding back. His fist connected with the punk’s nose, cartilage and bone dislodging themselves as a consequence of the brutal hit. No blood seeped from the injury, but if the audience was disturbed, they didn’t show it. A cacophony of glee filled the room, which only increased in volume as Alan kept going.

A forearm strike to the throat sent Ryker staggering back, leaving him free for only a moment before Alan enveloped him in a crushing bear hug. Bones splintered, a telltale sign of less-than-natural force that was thankfully drowned out by the crowd’s cheering. Despite his newly-broken ribs, Ryker grabbed Alan by the hips, pushed himself away, and delivered a knee strike to the other man’s groin, forcing him to relinquish his hold. Had he been mortal, that move would’ve surely given Ryker an opening, allowing him to put Alan on his ass.

Definitely not his first rodeo.

The pair retreated and circled one another for a moment, that same look of realization slowly working its way onto Ryker’s face. But Alan wouldn’t let him have time to think; or to use the power of his Blood to will his bones back together.

He came in high with an overhead punch, but just as Ryker moved to block it, he used his left arm to grab him in the abdomen with a low uppercut. Ryker soon found himself forced back into the ropes by a series of relentless jabs, doing everything he could to keep up and parry before regaining his footing and spinning away.

The rest of round two continued on in much the same way, roles reversed; Alan now on the offensive while Ryker tried to keep up and defend. Eventually, Ryker did manage to regain some of his earlier aggression, placing the two on even ground just before the bell rang.

Ding, ding, ding!

While the announcer gave a brief recounting of the events of the last two rounds, Alan and Ryker locked eyes, now both in possession of the knowledge that the other was a lick. There was a challenge there, in that moment of eye contact, one that wasn’t hostile, but instead friendly. The two had at last met their match; someone who could keep up with their preternatural abilities in a similar fashion. A common sentiment pervaded the arena: this is fun.

Ryker smiled, baring his fangs, and Alan smiled back in much the same way.

“Now, folks, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for! While the last two rounds may have awarded each fighter with a victory of their own, this third and final round will be the tiebreaker; whoever takes this one will take home the prize money! As a show of your admiration, I’d like you to give our brawlers a huge round of applause!”

There was less actual applause than there was people screaming at the top of their lungs, which was unsurprising. Controlling a crowd that rowdy was practically impossible, unless you were the Toreador Alan had once seen lure an entire neighbourhood into one bar using only her voice. In his experience, the announcement of the final round was always like floodgates being opened. That wasn’t to suggest the audience had been tame for the past two rounds—far from it—but there was always a detectable change in atmosphere when the grand finale hit. People were on the edges of their seats, eager to see if their bets would pay off or sometimes just if their championing idol would retain their streak. It was all held breaths, wide eyes, and slack jaws. Alan had come to appreciate the humanity of it in the years since his untimely demise.

This time around, there was a countdown before the bell rang. The announcer began at five, but by the time he’d reached four, every other voice in the building had joined in.

“Three!”

Alan could just barely make out the sound of Ryker’s bones welding back together.

“Two!”

Ryker rolled his shoulders, ignoring the Hunger digging its claws into him.

“One!”

The two men readied themselves for action.

Ding, ding, ding!

In what would be the first time since the beginning of the fight, both brawlers charged each other at once.

The audience fell speechless when they watched the pair land their attacks on each other, Alan punching Ryker in the jaw with enough force to dislodge it completely, Ryker wrapping his hands around Alan’s throat until there was an audible crack. Both were giving it their all now, and the sight was grisly. Assault after assault came that should’ve had both of them on the ground, bleeding, groaning, dying. The only thing more disturbing than the arena’s dead silence was the sight of them tearing each other apart, strike by strike, bone by bone. And every single time, they got right back up. Like it was nothing.

The fighters, on the other hand, were having the time of their unlives. Being able to unleash their full potential was a luxury they seldom came by, let alone under a circumstance where neither party was trying to kill the other.

Eventually, the Hunger started to get to Alan. He’d been so enthralled by the action, he’d forgotten that every healed injury cost him more and more juice. He really should’ve grabbed a drink before diving head-first into a match he’d presumed would be a dull, easy win; but it was too late for that now. Not too keen on frenzying out in front of hundreds of mortals, let alone on one of his own, he slowed his pace marginally and stopped healing his wounds.

But marginally was a big difference when it came to fights like these, and Ryker soon seized the upper hand.

The round was almost over when Alan felt the world start to slip away from him. Neither of them were on the ground yet, and he wasn’t sure how the judges would be able to score something like this, but in any case, the outcome was clear: he would lose. For once in his unlife, that prospect didn’t bother him. Especially when, on the other path, there was torpor. And his experience with torpor wasn’t one he cared to repeat; mostly because sneaking out of the morgue was never fun.

When the next blow came, he let it knock him down.

“One!”

Ryker backed off, abiding by the one rule.

“Two!”

The cool feeling of the mat bit its way through his tank top, soaked with artificial sweat.

“Three!”

At last there was a moment of stillness, one that allowed him time to think.

“Four!”

Events hadn’t unfolded like he expected them to. But he was glad they hadn’t.

“Five!”

“After a beating like that, folks, we’re not sure if he’ll be able to get up!”

“Six!”

He healed the worst of the damage he’d received, reeling his Beast in as he did so.

“Seven!”

What a fight.

“Eight!”

A smile worked its way onto his face.

“Nine!”

Yeah, he’d like it here.

“Ten!”

The round came to a close with a final ring of the bell.

The silence that had permeated the arena shattered all at once, replaced by the ruckus of the first two rounds; somehow amplified to the point that the announcer could barely be heard over it all.

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen; we have a winner! While Harvey proved himself to be a worthy adversary, tonight’s fight undoubtedly goes to Kessgowasse! Please show your appreciation for your champion before you head out the door!”

The crowd’s appreciation was shown indeed, as the hundreds of people within it lent their voices to a third chant: “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

The noise trickled out of the building just as the audience members did, and soon enough, the arena was left empty save for the announcer, a few staff members, and, of course, the two fighters.

As he steeled himself for standing up, a pair of worn-out Docs entered his field of vision, shadowed by the presence of the man they belonged to.

“Hey.”

In an attempt to preserve what was left of his dignity, Alan sat up, squinting in an attempt to make out Ryker’s face through the torrent of fluorescent light.

At the very least, Ryker was every bit as roughed up as he was. The entire left side of his face looked like it had been hit by a truck, and his nose was more broken than it had been when the fight started. He may have won, but there was a reason he hadn’t healed himself; and it was very likely the same reason Alan had let himself lose.

The two exchanged a glance much like the one they’d exchanged just before the last round had started, but there was a difference in the one they shared now; something akin to admiration present in each of their gazes. Teeth flashed in a grin just before a hand reached down, palm open, in front of him. Immediately, Alan recognized the gesture.

Sportsmanship.

That was difficult to find in mortals, and nearly impossible to find in those like the two of them. And yet, there it was. Clear as day.

Smiling back, he took the hand offered to him and heaved himself up.

Ryker stuffed his hands into his pockets once Alan got onto his feet, speaking once more.

“Welcome to Montréal.”

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thank you so much to @porcelainseashore, @crownedinmarigolds, and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event!

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #world of darkness #brujah #wodmeetcute #this was so much fun! love the art and writing #always down for a kindred fight club

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