Time To Die: A Vampire Quest (V:TR)
- Thread starter The Laurent
- Start date
- Historic Horror
- Pronouns
- Male
[X] Continue to test yourself by trying some of the other five 'sin rooms.'
The Beast Waits
- Pronouns
- They/Them
The Beast Waits
If you think this is the story as it happens, then all that time tied up, trying to remember yourself, is even more wasted. Of course it isn't so: of course there's facts that aren't being talked about. You're a bloodsucking monster with animal instincts that begin at fucking, stretch to running, and end at mass-violence. You're dragged down by sleep when the sun rises, and none of it makes sense. It's supernatural, but then what does that explain, actually.
There's a strange vampire you meet in the 1970s, who tries to test something. He wants to see what happens if a vampire is in a jet plane racing against the sun, trying always to stay in night. Does it work? Does it not work? You don't know, since of course a rival engineers a failure in the plane, and it comes crashing down to the earth.
That is Icarus.
"Well, you can go in that room, but it shouldn't do much. The last person in there was a scared human, and so it'll take a while for it to figure out…" Deborah says.
This is mysterious, and only makes Margaret want to open the door. She's holding the knob, and she opens it up, and steps into a dark room indeed. It feels vaguely safe, and a part of her is already tired as she closes the door. There's a bed, yes, but with no sheets. What draws her instead is not that, or the blocked off windows, but the crawl-space under the bed. It seems to call to her. As she steps closer, it's so cool and dark, and she imagines the kind of slumber she'd have somewhere like that. Sometimes she wakes up hot and exhausted. She should not feel hot, she cannot truly be hot in that way. But she feels it. It's the summer.
She finds herself inching forward, and then stops herself. Even though her body protests, it's not time to sleep. No, bad body. She yawns--she doesn't have to, but she's used to yawning when tired--and turns around.
It isn't hard to resist, but there is something to resist, and the cool, dark room is a lot nicer than the first two rooms she's been in. Doesn't she deserve a break?
But, no, she turns around, and yanks the door open. Her excellence is about all the work she does, not… not this. She stumbles out, and Deborah is there.
"It drew you in?" Deborah asks, a little confused. "That's… unusual. Human sleep is what the spirit knows best. But, perhaps Abraham was here ahead of us. Or perhaps not." Deborah doesn't quite sound nervous, so much as she sounds as if she's considering new things.
Margaret doesn't understand it, but she picks another door. When she opens it, she freezes in place.
No, not like a mortal would. Mortals still breathe. Mortals still blink. The only thing that moves is her nose. Blood. She can smell blood. She steps forward into a dark room, remarkably plain, really. There's a huge spread laid out on a table near a bed, and there's a side table covered in chocolates--ash, ash, ash again--but nothing that would truly interest her. She doesn't feel any presence here, and in fact it feels so, so empty.
She feels empty too. Her nose is sniffing. She can smell blood. Blood. She wants blood. She crouches down, not even caring what it looks like, and crawls on the ground sniffing. The door is open. She's so hungry.
There it is, underneath the bed. Two…
She stares in shock at the pool of blood and what's in it, and then reaches a trembling hand out, and touches the blood, dark and semi-fresh, and brings it to her lips.
It is the difference between gruel and the finest meal ever devised.
She realizes what she's doing, and she's horrified… but she's also hungry. She refocuses.
On the hands.
One of them is withered, as if he's been drained of blood, but the other has clotted.
Clotted, but still full of blood. Two severed hands, just laying down underneath the bed.
She rises, blood dabbled at her chin, licking at it and unable to stop, but feeling the terror and uncertainty rise up. "Deborah! Come in here!" she finally shouts.
******
"It's fresh. Not that fresh, but whoever died, died today," Deborah says. "Can't say for sure how, but it smells like vampire." She's crouched over the hands, sniffing at them. She licks some of the blood as well, but without the fervent, desperate hope: it's clear she's instead trying to analyze how old it is based on the taste.
Or something? It doesn't make sense.
"What do we do?" She's afraid now, trembling a little bit by instinct. This is… bad.
"We need to find the beast, and we need to confront it. There are things in this dark mansion that, if an outsider got their hands on, could hurt quite a few people. Human life is in danger," Deborah says, firmly. "I would escort you outside, but you would be no safer there. I feel as if he, or she, might still be here."
Oh.
"I will keep you safe. I would even if you were not my Childe," Deborah says, her voice rich with meaning and firm and all too serious.
So, where do they search first, after looking through the rest of the rooms, just in case?
[] The gardens.
[] The stables. The spirits of certain animals and certain objections.
[] The kitchen, where there's apparently spirits of food and cooking objects.
[] The basement, where vampires may sleep…
******
A/N: Surprise, murder! Sorry this took so long!
[] Continue to test yourself by trying some of the other five 'sin rooms.'
If you think this is the story as it happens, then all that time tied up, trying to remember yourself, is even more wasted. Of course it isn't so: of course there's facts that aren't being talked about. You're a bloodsucking monster with animal instincts that begin at fucking, stretch to running, and end at mass-violence. You're dragged down by sleep when the sun rises, and none of it makes sense. It's supernatural, but then what does that explain, actually.
There's a strange vampire you meet in the 1970s, who tries to test something. He wants to see what happens if a vampire is in a jet plane racing against the sun, trying always to stay in night. Does it work? Does it not work? You don't know, since of course a rival engineers a failure in the plane, and it comes crashing down to the earth.
That is Icarus.
"Well, you can go in that room, but it shouldn't do much. The last person in there was a scared human, and so it'll take a while for it to figure out…" Deborah says.
This is mysterious, and only makes Margaret want to open the door. She's holding the knob, and she opens it up, and steps into a dark room indeed. It feels vaguely safe, and a part of her is already tired as she closes the door. There's a bed, yes, but with no sheets. What draws her instead is not that, or the blocked off windows, but the crawl-space under the bed. It seems to call to her. As she steps closer, it's so cool and dark, and she imagines the kind of slumber she'd have somewhere like that. Sometimes she wakes up hot and exhausted. She should not feel hot, she cannot truly be hot in that way. But she feels it. It's the summer.
She finds herself inching forward, and then stops herself. Even though her body protests, it's not time to sleep. No, bad body. She yawns--she doesn't have to, but she's used to yawning when tired--and turns around.
It isn't hard to resist, but there is something to resist, and the cool, dark room is a lot nicer than the first two rooms she's been in. Doesn't she deserve a break?
But, no, she turns around, and yanks the door open. Her excellence is about all the work she does, not… not this. She stumbles out, and Deborah is there.
"It drew you in?" Deborah asks, a little confused. "That's… unusual. Human sleep is what the spirit knows best. But, perhaps Abraham was here ahead of us. Or perhaps not." Deborah doesn't quite sound nervous, so much as she sounds as if she's considering new things.
Margaret doesn't understand it, but she picks another door. When she opens it, she freezes in place.
No, not like a mortal would. Mortals still breathe. Mortals still blink. The only thing that moves is her nose. Blood. She can smell blood. She steps forward into a dark room, remarkably plain, really. There's a huge spread laid out on a table near a bed, and there's a side table covered in chocolates--ash, ash, ash again--but nothing that would truly interest her. She doesn't feel any presence here, and in fact it feels so, so empty.
She feels empty too. Her nose is sniffing. She can smell blood. Blood. She wants blood. She crouches down, not even caring what it looks like, and crawls on the ground sniffing. The door is open. She's so hungry.
There it is, underneath the bed. Two…
She stares in shock at the pool of blood and what's in it, and then reaches a trembling hand out, and touches the blood, dark and semi-fresh, and brings it to her lips.
It is the difference between gruel and the finest meal ever devised.
She realizes what she's doing, and she's horrified… but she's also hungry. She refocuses.
On the hands.
One of them is withered, as if he's been drained of blood, but the other has clotted.
Clotted, but still full of blood. Two severed hands, just laying down underneath the bed.
She rises, blood dabbled at her chin, licking at it and unable to stop, but feeling the terror and uncertainty rise up. "Deborah! Come in here!" she finally shouts.
******
"It's fresh. Not that fresh, but whoever died, died today," Deborah says. "Can't say for sure how, but it smells like vampire." She's crouched over the hands, sniffing at them. She licks some of the blood as well, but without the fervent, desperate hope: it's clear she's instead trying to analyze how old it is based on the taste.
Or something? It doesn't make sense.
"What do we do?" She's afraid now, trembling a little bit by instinct. This is… bad.
"We need to find the beast, and we need to confront it. There are things in this dark mansion that, if an outsider got their hands on, could hurt quite a few people. Human life is in danger," Deborah says, firmly. "I would escort you outside, but you would be no safer there. I feel as if he, or she, might still be here."
Oh.
"I will keep you safe. I would even if you were not my Childe," Deborah says, her voice rich with meaning and firm and all too serious.
So, where do they search first, after looking through the rest of the rooms, just in case?
[] The gardens.
[] The stables. The spirits of certain animals and certain objections.
[] The kitchen, where there's apparently spirits of food and cooking objects.
[] The basement, where vampires may sleep…
******
A/N: Surprise, murder! Sorry this took so long!
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The gardens.
It's totally in the basement, but damn it, I want to go to the gardens before the scene ends!
Some kind of cool nature/garden spirits.
It's totally in the basement, but damn it, I want to go to the gardens before the scene ends!
Some kind of cool nature/garden spirits.
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EternalObserver
eYe Gaze baCk
- Location
- The Void
[X] The gardens.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
No lust room? That was sloth... and I was thinking that the room was gluttony, but the blood seems to be something else.
[X] The gardens.
[X] The gardens.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Damn, interrupted before the lust room could prompt a crisis of identity. Ah well, I suppose Margaret will spend awhile longer crushing on Barbara without realizing that's what she's doing.
As for the vote, there's no real reason to think any of the choices are more likely to house the culprit than the others, and I have been a bit curious, so...
[x] The gardens.
As for the vote, there's no real reason to think any of the choices are more likely to house the culprit than the others, and I have been a bit curious, so...
[x] The gardens.
- Location
- Pittsburgh, PA
I hope the first vampire's friends in the Ordo Dracul murdered the hell out of that second vampire.
(Because "what happens should a vampire race the Sun?" is an insanely Ordo Dracul question to pursue.)
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Sorry for all the wait, I'll be hopefully writing and releasing it post-haste. It's just been a busy week or so.
In The Gardens
- Pronouns
- They/Them
In The Gardens
They head down the stairs, moving slowly and carefully. "I think that the garden makes sense," Margaret says, trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. "It's outside, and so that might be a good place to hide. Or, if they escaped…"
"This is true," Deborah says, seemingly believing her. The truth is simpler. Margaret can't stand to be in the mansion at the moment. She's afraid, and she's tasted blood, which is a different kind of fear: she's afraid of others, and herself. So she flinches with every step down the creaking stairs of the mansion. She glances over at Deborah, again and again, her eyes continually flitting to reassure her that Deborah is there.
Why does it matter? She figures it out, on the way down. Deborah is in control. She drinks human blood, but she doesn't seem like she's compelled by it in the same way that Margaret feels, having tasted even just a drop. It's more powerful than she can stand, and this mansion suddenly seems like a place of temptation and want.
She admits, when they step outside into the night. "The blood… it tastes so good."
"If it tasted terrible, would it be any temptation besides necessity? You've seen other vampires, do they seem as if blood is merely a necessity? It is an addiction, and yet one that they need to fulfill to live. So they tell themselves it is about need. It is a nice lie, like calling a vampire a Kindred and a human a Kine. As if they are animals to be fed upon." Deborah shakes her head. "Here is the truth: if you live long enough, one day your blood will make it so that you will have to feed on people. As I said, if you feel at that time that it would be bravest to walk out into the sun… then you should do so." Deborah's voice was rich, and careful. "I prevented you from doing it earlier so you could have time to think about life, or unlife. And now?"
"I want to live," she admits, unable to quite describe it. There's something in her that wants to keep existing no matter what. It isn't a good thing. It is belief, yes: suicide bars one from heaven.
But, is a blood-sucking monster welcome in heaven? She knows what the Protestant faith says, but surely that's for humans. Or… should she ask? Deborah is clearly Christian. That much seems obvious.
They reach the hedges, and the trees, and the pond, and then beyond it… oh.
The grass is torn up, as if something has tried to dig up a hole. The whole area feels oddly empty.
"The spirits are gone," Deborah says, and she sounds a little worried. "I did not know that anything could send them scurrying. Some might even be gone." Deborah shakes her head. "Of course, normally spirits die all the time. You have to understand: it's an ecosystem. But this is different."
"Yes." Margaret cannot see spirits, not in a very direct way, but she can just tell that something is missing, and it makes her feel vaguely ill and incredibly uncertain. "What could have done this?"
"A Crone, perhaps. But if they're here and acting, is this official or just another splinter."
"Crone?" She's heard it: bad people, who you shouldn't be around, at least according to the Prince.
"Their magic can be very powerful, and very bloody indeed." Deborah crouches down next to the torn up earth, sniffing at it. "It can also backfire on itself. I can banish spirits easily enough, but killing them would be harder for me, and rather pointless. It's enough merely to drive out any threats, most of the time. But destroying and eating spirits? It would make sense, if…"
It's strange. There's nothing there. It's a little like other places you've been: you remember it, the way that absence feels so wrong. Over the years, you've been in abandoned buildings plenty. Sometimes there's a need to hide, and more importantly, others hide as well. Someone, inevitably, must find them. Often for the last time, of course.
She's nervous, she'd be sweating if she's human, but she's not.
"We should go to the basement. It is the least likely place for them to stay, and the most likely place for them to visit next," Deborah says. "It's where the blood is."
"Blood?"
"Oh, this is going to be something."
Then they hear the shriek, coming from inside the house.
*****
The mind forgets transitions. You know you ran, but what you remember is what you ran to. In front of the basement was a human. He has no hands, they are cut off. He's barely recognizable as a 'he' at all, with eyes torn out, and tongue slashed up, though not entirely gone. The blood is everywhere, each wound flowing into themselves, and by all accounts he should be dead. But somehow his wounds on his hands are stitched together, into stumps, and what was left behind…
She can smell the blood. It is a little like honey in the air, and a little like a sweet flower. Only a little. These are comparisons, metaphors. It smells like blood, and blood smells like heaven itself. She draws forward, legs moving against her will, the smell catching her.
Deborah holds out a hand, and catches Margaret.
She wants blood, she's sick at herself, -1 MP
"No."
"...right," Margaret says. The man groans and shifts towards her, still having perfectly working ears.
What to do?
[] Stay and interrogate him. Or have Deborah do so. Deborah and Abraham are powerful, and so is whoever is here… which means they need to be dealt with.
[] Grab him, find Brother Abraham, and leave. This is clearly meant to be a taunt, and if that's the case, then it might be beyond you.
[] Write-in.
*****
A/N: Blood is the life, and pain is universal.
They head down the stairs, moving slowly and carefully. "I think that the garden makes sense," Margaret says, trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. "It's outside, and so that might be a good place to hide. Or, if they escaped…"
"This is true," Deborah says, seemingly believing her. The truth is simpler. Margaret can't stand to be in the mansion at the moment. She's afraid, and she's tasted blood, which is a different kind of fear: she's afraid of others, and herself. So she flinches with every step down the creaking stairs of the mansion. She glances over at Deborah, again and again, her eyes continually flitting to reassure her that Deborah is there.
Why does it matter? She figures it out, on the way down. Deborah is in control. She drinks human blood, but she doesn't seem like she's compelled by it in the same way that Margaret feels, having tasted even just a drop. It's more powerful than she can stand, and this mansion suddenly seems like a place of temptation and want.
She admits, when they step outside into the night. "The blood… it tastes so good."
"If it tasted terrible, would it be any temptation besides necessity? You've seen other vampires, do they seem as if blood is merely a necessity? It is an addiction, and yet one that they need to fulfill to live. So they tell themselves it is about need. It is a nice lie, like calling a vampire a Kindred and a human a Kine. As if they are animals to be fed upon." Deborah shakes her head. "Here is the truth: if you live long enough, one day your blood will make it so that you will have to feed on people. As I said, if you feel at that time that it would be bravest to walk out into the sun… then you should do so." Deborah's voice was rich, and careful. "I prevented you from doing it earlier so you could have time to think about life, or unlife. And now?"
"I want to live," she admits, unable to quite describe it. There's something in her that wants to keep existing no matter what. It isn't a good thing. It is belief, yes: suicide bars one from heaven.
But, is a blood-sucking monster welcome in heaven? She knows what the Protestant faith says, but surely that's for humans. Or… should she ask? Deborah is clearly Christian. That much seems obvious.
They reach the hedges, and the trees, and the pond, and then beyond it… oh.
The grass is torn up, as if something has tried to dig up a hole. The whole area feels oddly empty.
"The spirits are gone," Deborah says, and she sounds a little worried. "I did not know that anything could send them scurrying. Some might even be gone." Deborah shakes her head. "Of course, normally spirits die all the time. You have to understand: it's an ecosystem. But this is different."
"Yes." Margaret cannot see spirits, not in a very direct way, but she can just tell that something is missing, and it makes her feel vaguely ill and incredibly uncertain. "What could have done this?"
"A Crone, perhaps. But if they're here and acting, is this official or just another splinter."
"Crone?" She's heard it: bad people, who you shouldn't be around, at least according to the Prince.
"Their magic can be very powerful, and very bloody indeed." Deborah crouches down next to the torn up earth, sniffing at it. "It can also backfire on itself. I can banish spirits easily enough, but killing them would be harder for me, and rather pointless. It's enough merely to drive out any threats, most of the time. But destroying and eating spirits? It would make sense, if…"
It's strange. There's nothing there. It's a little like other places you've been: you remember it, the way that absence feels so wrong. Over the years, you've been in abandoned buildings plenty. Sometimes there's a need to hide, and more importantly, others hide as well. Someone, inevitably, must find them. Often for the last time, of course.
She's nervous, she'd be sweating if she's human, but she's not.
"We should go to the basement. It is the least likely place for them to stay, and the most likely place for them to visit next," Deborah says. "It's where the blood is."
"Blood?"
"Oh, this is going to be something."
Then they hear the shriek, coming from inside the house.
*****
The mind forgets transitions. You know you ran, but what you remember is what you ran to. In front of the basement was a human. He has no hands, they are cut off. He's barely recognizable as a 'he' at all, with eyes torn out, and tongue slashed up, though not entirely gone. The blood is everywhere, each wound flowing into themselves, and by all accounts he should be dead. But somehow his wounds on his hands are stitched together, into stumps, and what was left behind…
She can smell the blood. It is a little like honey in the air, and a little like a sweet flower. Only a little. These are comparisons, metaphors. It smells like blood, and blood smells like heaven itself. She draws forward, legs moving against her will, the smell catching her.
Deborah holds out a hand, and catches Margaret.
She wants blood, she's sick at herself, -1 MP
"No."
"...right," Margaret says. The man groans and shifts towards her, still having perfectly working ears.
What to do?
[] Stay and interrogate him. Or have Deborah do so. Deborah and Abraham are powerful, and so is whoever is here… which means they need to be dealt with.
[] Grab him, find Brother Abraham, and leave. This is clearly meant to be a taunt, and if that's the case, then it might be beyond you.
[] Write-in.
*****
A/N: Blood is the life, and pain is universal.
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- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Stay and interrogate him. Or have Deborah do so. Deborah and Abraham are powerful, and so is whoever is here… which means they need to be dealt with.
I kind of want Margaret to get into her first fight.
I kind of want Margaret to get into her first fight.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x] Stay and interrogate him. Or have Deborah do so. Deborah and Abraham are powerful, and so is whoever is here… which means they need to be dealt with.
This might be hubris, but I feel relatively safe in the company of Deborah and Abraham. Whoever/whatever this is would have to be pretty strong to threaten both of them at once. The fact that the mystery monster seems to be avoiding direct confrontation certainly helps that impression.
This might be hubris, but I feel relatively safe in the company of Deborah and Abraham. Whoever/whatever this is would have to be pretty strong to threaten both of them at once. The fact that the mystery monster seems to be avoiding direct confrontation certainly helps that impression.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Right, need votes, engagement, so on! I wanna get back to writing this and update it, I know that this is my most irregularly updated Quest, but still! Welcome back, everyone!
- Location
- St. Petersburg
"she shifts"? Or, [the man] "shifts towards her/them"?
I am not sure what is happening, but whatever taunts people like that is probably bad news for a fledgeling.
[x] Grab him, find Brother Abraham, and leave. This is clearly meant to be a taunt, and if that's the case, then it might be beyond you.
What exactly is a Crone?
The Sorcerer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
The Sorcerer
She can still smell the blood. She doesn't want to keep smelling it. She doesn't want to want this, not this much, not when she should be horrified. The worst part: she is horrified, she's horrified and that horror is only making the longing greater and greater. It is like a part of her likes the idea of the carnage. She wants to roll around in the blood like a pig in feces--
Pig in shit, say it, come on say it, some part of her says. She's too proper, but she feels it, feels it stronger than she felt all sorts of desires she thought were hard to resist.
"Can you stay here, or do you need to step back?" Deborah asks, her voice kind and patient, even and level as if talking to a child… but a child one wanted the best for.
"I can stay."
"I'm in his head. It's filled up, truly," Deborah says, leaning down a little bit. "Filled with magic, filled with lies. You've been hurt, so, so, so bad." Deborah's voice is almost a croon as she steps closer. "You've been tortured, and all to send a message. But what is the message… let me look."
Despite saying 'look' she closes her eyes, her features smoothing out as if she is suddenly absent.
Margaret swallows, edging a little closer, listening to every creak and groan of the house as if it is right up against her ear. She is in the darkness, and she is of it, and at the moment she feels incredibly, incredibly alone with her own thoughts.
He is looking at her, and then at Deborah, confused and odd.
She wants him.
She needs his blood.
She can't have it, or he'll die.
She doesn't want him to die.
"Ah. This is a sorcerer of sorts. Not as powerful as the man who owns this mansion, but powerful in his own right. A doer of great magics," Deborah says, frowning. "But he was hunted, and chased here… as a message. The message is simple, I believe: That we can be anywhere you go, and that even powerful humans are nothing against us."
"He was chased through the woods?" Margaret repeats, as a way not to have to think about anything else.
She can picture the scene, the man running and ducking and hiding. But he can't hide, can he, not at night, not against they who control the night… or at least stalk it. They drink blood, as she does, but…
But they tortured this man. This is bad. So is the fact that she has to keep on reminding herself of that. Something is odd about the smell.
"Yes. And then chased through the mansion, and eventually caught and… poisoned, it seems," Deborah says with a shake of her head. "It's clearly trying to effect you. It's interesting, in a way, a little like what a Spirit can do."
It's affecting her? She wanted to hang onto that, because of course it is better than thinking that some hungry part of her just wants to eat, no matter who has to suffer.
"I think he may be gone, though," Deborah says, sounding annoyed. "This was all just… counting coup, all just about taking a stand and proving that we can't stop him. He even stole proof: the book, whatever it is." Deborah looks down at the Sorceror. "And he's forced us to try to care for him, and figure out how to get revenge. And what does he lose? A night. So far." Deborah shook her head. "God will damn him, but he does not believe, and so it does us no good now." Lips pursed, she pronounced, "Violence is cruelty, but I like all Christians, all people, am a sinner. Dear Michael--"
(You figure out immediately that's his name, but at the time you never think that actually that's a Shadow Name, a code name, and that he's named himself after the angel in a far more voluntary way.)
"I will kill him," Deborah declares. "He will die, and by my hand if I can manage it."
The bound man shakes a little, trembling like a leaf. No doubt he doesn't know what's going on. Margaret pities him, so clearly damaged and so clearly damaged by someone who is not going to do anything to piece him back together.
Deborah leans in, and that's when the door to the cellar opens… and out stalks their charming host, Brother Abraham, in human form and yet half-naked, dressed in rags. "What is it?" Deborah asks.
"Downstairs is… rather distressing, even to my stomach," Abraham admits, his eyes dark like pits, his whole body looking even more drained and corpse-like than normal, as if it cost him far too much to engage in his fruitless search. "It was defiled, and defiled badly."
"Ah," Deborah says, and yet despite the faint hint of trepidation, she steps forward.
(The Sorcerer, Michael, who despite everything will speak with his own tongue in just a few months, and speak the vilest words you heard that year, stares at her in alarm, not broken, in fact, despite everything that should break him.)
"Margaret, you might not want to see this," Deborah declares. But she doesn't move to stop Margaret, and neither does Abraham.
Did Margaret go down and see what was done in the basement?
[] Yes.
[] No.
*******
A/N: It's back, sorry about the long, long wait! Hopefully I can be more consistent, but we'll see.
[X] Stay and interrogate him. Or have Deborah do so. Deborah and Abraham are powerful, and so is whoever is here… which means they need to be dealt with.
She can still smell the blood. She doesn't want to keep smelling it. She doesn't want to want this, not this much, not when she should be horrified. The worst part: she is horrified, she's horrified and that horror is only making the longing greater and greater. It is like a part of her likes the idea of the carnage. She wants to roll around in the blood like a pig in feces--
Pig in shit, say it, come on say it, some part of her says. She's too proper, but she feels it, feels it stronger than she felt all sorts of desires she thought were hard to resist.
"Can you stay here, or do you need to step back?" Deborah asks, her voice kind and patient, even and level as if talking to a child… but a child one wanted the best for.
"I can stay."
"I'm in his head. It's filled up, truly," Deborah says, leaning down a little bit. "Filled with magic, filled with lies. You've been hurt, so, so, so bad." Deborah's voice is almost a croon as she steps closer. "You've been tortured, and all to send a message. But what is the message… let me look."
Despite saying 'look' she closes her eyes, her features smoothing out as if she is suddenly absent.
Margaret swallows, edging a little closer, listening to every creak and groan of the house as if it is right up against her ear. She is in the darkness, and she is of it, and at the moment she feels incredibly, incredibly alone with her own thoughts.
He is looking at her, and then at Deborah, confused and odd.
She wants him.
She needs his blood.
She can't have it, or he'll die.
She doesn't want him to die.
"Ah. This is a sorcerer of sorts. Not as powerful as the man who owns this mansion, but powerful in his own right. A doer of great magics," Deborah says, frowning. "But he was hunted, and chased here… as a message. The message is simple, I believe: That we can be anywhere you go, and that even powerful humans are nothing against us."
"He was chased through the woods?" Margaret repeats, as a way not to have to think about anything else.
She can picture the scene, the man running and ducking and hiding. But he can't hide, can he, not at night, not against they who control the night… or at least stalk it. They drink blood, as she does, but…
But they tortured this man. This is bad. So is the fact that she has to keep on reminding herself of that. Something is odd about the smell.
"Yes. And then chased through the mansion, and eventually caught and… poisoned, it seems," Deborah says with a shake of her head. "It's clearly trying to effect you. It's interesting, in a way, a little like what a Spirit can do."
It's affecting her? She wanted to hang onto that, because of course it is better than thinking that some hungry part of her just wants to eat, no matter who has to suffer.
"I think he may be gone, though," Deborah says, sounding annoyed. "This was all just… counting coup, all just about taking a stand and proving that we can't stop him. He even stole proof: the book, whatever it is." Deborah looks down at the Sorceror. "And he's forced us to try to care for him, and figure out how to get revenge. And what does he lose? A night. So far." Deborah shook her head. "God will damn him, but he does not believe, and so it does us no good now." Lips pursed, she pronounced, "Violence is cruelty, but I like all Christians, all people, am a sinner. Dear Michael--"
(You figure out immediately that's his name, but at the time you never think that actually that's a Shadow Name, a code name, and that he's named himself after the angel in a far more voluntary way.)
"I will kill him," Deborah declares. "He will die, and by my hand if I can manage it."
The bound man shakes a little, trembling like a leaf. No doubt he doesn't know what's going on. Margaret pities him, so clearly damaged and so clearly damaged by someone who is not going to do anything to piece him back together.
Deborah leans in, and that's when the door to the cellar opens… and out stalks their charming host, Brother Abraham, in human form and yet half-naked, dressed in rags. "What is it?" Deborah asks.
"Downstairs is… rather distressing, even to my stomach," Abraham admits, his eyes dark like pits, his whole body looking even more drained and corpse-like than normal, as if it cost him far too much to engage in his fruitless search. "It was defiled, and defiled badly."
"Ah," Deborah says, and yet despite the faint hint of trepidation, she steps forward.
(The Sorcerer, Michael, who despite everything will speak with his own tongue in just a few months, and speak the vilest words you heard that year, stares at her in alarm, not broken, in fact, despite everything that should break him.)
"Margaret, you might not want to see this," Deborah declares. But she doesn't move to stop Margaret, and neither does Abraham.
Did Margaret go down and see what was done in the basement?
[] Yes.
[] No.
*******
A/N: It's back, sorry about the long, long wait! Hopefully I can be more consistent, but we'll see.
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Yes.
I kind of want to break Margaret down a bit and start building her back up into someone who can handle herself. The whole flashback thing leads me to think she becomes someone worthy of hunting down and staking out, so I'm down for slowly for a slow metamorphosis.
I kind of want to break Margaret down a bit and start building her back up into someone who can handle herself. The whole flashback thing leads me to think she becomes someone worthy of hunting down and staking out, so I'm down for slowly for a slow metamorphosis.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x] Yes.
You can't be a shrinking violet and also a vampire. Not if you want to last long, anyway. Not that avoiding this apparently awful scene makes someone a shrinking violet, but Margaret has enough of a tendency to avoid things that make her uncomfortable and freak out at basic vampire stuff that I really want to push her to step up when we can.
You can't be a shrinking violet and also a vampire. Not if you want to last long, anyway. Not that avoiding this apparently awful scene makes someone a shrinking violet, but Margaret has enough of a tendency to avoid things that make her uncomfortable and freak out at basic vampire stuff that I really want to push her to step up when we can.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Yes.
What did curiosity kill?
Well, we are already dead, and soon to die again, so.
What did curiosity kill?
Well, we are already dead, and soon to die again, so.
- Location
- [REDACTED]
[X] Yes.