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((Discussion thread here.))
Subject 34 has proven resilient so far and testing shows positive to continue to the next phase.
First Opening deemed a failure. Subject 34 was nearly lost. Will proceed when openings can be better monitored and limited.
Limiting Openings has improved stability. No successful lasting Guests yet. Most never fully materialize. Most stabilized Guests immediately vanish on Closing. The rest exhibit erratic behavior before fading away. A few still appear to have lingering traces, but this may be faulty readings.
Retention of Guests after Closing has improved but they continue to fade. Limited localized testing has revealed possible mental break or death in Guest bodies following Closing.
Subject 34 has become unstable. Changing Subject 52 to primary.
Several Guests appear to be remaining stable with only a partial Closing. They are being given time to acclimate. Memoids are being sent to aid acclimation and further assess stability.
((You may open how and where you like, but it must be in the dream and viewed as reality by the end of your post. If you're stuck, I'm happy to offer ideas. You don't have to start in the same place as anyone else, but you may if you want.))
Subject 34 has proven resilient so far and testing shows positive to continue to the next phase.
First Opening deemed a failure. Subject 34 was nearly lost. Will proceed when openings can be better monitored and limited.
Limiting Openings has improved stability. No successful lasting Guests yet. Most never fully materialize. Most stabilized Guests immediately vanish on Closing. The rest exhibit erratic behavior before fading away. A few still appear to have lingering traces, but this may be faulty readings.
Retention of Guests after Closing has improved but they continue to fade. Limited localized testing has revealed possible mental break or death in Guest bodies following Closing.
Subject 34 has become unstable. Changing Subject 52 to primary.
Several Guests appear to be remaining stable with only a partial Closing. They are being given time to acclimate. Memoids are being sent to aid acclimation and further assess stability.
((You may open how and where you like, but it must be in the dream and viewed as reality by the end of your post. If you're stuck, I'm happy to offer ideas. You don't have to start in the same place as anyone else, but you may if you want.))
Takurasho Dralt "awoke" to darkness.
He felt neither fear nor alarm, nor necessarily tranquility. What he felt and what he saw was nothingness through and through. Around his consciousness stretched a seemingly boundless blackness, no sights or sound to be had, and in that moment he felt as though he and the nothing were one and the same. But soon thought began to trickle and seep back into his mind, a spark of sentience riling him from his mind-made purgatory. It began with sound. He could hear the wind howling, and with it came the sensation of a chilly breeze at his back. The immortal turned, "finding" himself as he did so, now aware of his lifeless form spinning about in search.
He was in a tunnel, he supposed. Dralt could not recall entering it, but the more he thought upon the dark and upon the sound, the more the situation made sense. The more he believed in it, the more the scene seemed to solidify. There was a light ahead. As many a man who is submerged in the dark is prone to do, he chose to move towards this light, savoring the reassuring sound of his footsteps against stone echoing around him. It was a comfort compared to that momentary void.
The breeze billowing by carried the smell of the sea, and it was then that he began to become concerned. Still he couldn't quite place why he was walking through a tunnel. Was he on English soil? No, he had been visiting his progeny in California, hadn't he? Was the light ahead that of day? Dralt reached upwards to tug down upon the broad brim of his hat. He could feel its coverage, he heard the creak of leather as his fingers moved within his gloves, felt the rustling of fabric that he knew was an overcoat. Mister Dralt's "reality" was formed. Now it was time to see what awaited him beyond the tunnel of thought.
He felt neither fear nor alarm, nor necessarily tranquility. What he felt and what he saw was nothingness through and through. Around his consciousness stretched a seemingly boundless blackness, no sights or sound to be had, and in that moment he felt as though he and the nothing were one and the same. But soon thought began to trickle and seep back into his mind, a spark of sentience riling him from his mind-made purgatory. It began with sound. He could hear the wind howling, and with it came the sensation of a chilly breeze at his back. The immortal turned, "finding" himself as he did so, now aware of his lifeless form spinning about in search.
He was in a tunnel, he supposed. Dralt could not recall entering it, but the more he thought upon the dark and upon the sound, the more the situation made sense. The more he believed in it, the more the scene seemed to solidify. There was a light ahead. As many a man who is submerged in the dark is prone to do, he chose to move towards this light, savoring the reassuring sound of his footsteps against stone echoing around him. It was a comfort compared to that momentary void.
The breeze billowing by carried the smell of the sea, and it was then that he began to become concerned. Still he couldn't quite place why he was walking through a tunnel. Was he on English soil? No, he had been visiting his progeny in California, hadn't he? Was the light ahead that of day? Dralt reached upwards to tug down upon the broad brim of his hat. He could feel its coverage, he heard the creak of leather as his fingers moved within his gloves, felt the rustling of fabric that he knew was an overcoat. Mister Dralt's "reality" was formed. Now it was time to see what awaited him beyond the tunnel of thought.
Trey gasped violently as he roused from his slumber, he had had the most terrible nightmare. He had tracked a neck-bitter to the frigid Alps betwixt modern day France and Italy. But he had lost track of it in the winding snow covered trails of those accursed mountains. He remembered much as he struggled to find a comfortable breathing pattern between fits of coughing and spitting up water from his lungs. The pain alone was enough to convince himself that he was awake, alive and relatively well.
He remembered his mission, he remembered the journeys, he remembered the people he had met, he remembered the trials he had gone through. Once he established himself he allowed his other senses to fill him in on what was going on. First came the spray of surf crashing on rocks and the wetness of his legs being partially drenched by the breaking waves around his lower extremities. Next came the familiar sting and smell of salt water in his nostrils. Next the sounds of waves, wind and the sound of foliage rustling not too far away.
Trey opened his eyes blearily as the flood of bright light hit him, as he blinked his eyes the light faded darker to reveal the time of day, twilight - which kind was not known. It could've been morning but it also could've been the evening too. Trey continued to look around; in front of him was the choppy ocean on the horizon, to either side was a seemingly empty beach with a cave a ways to his left in the side of a conifer tree laden cliffside, behind him was a small patch of trees before another tall cliff of dark colored rock. Trey felt around to his sides, he felt his weapon lying on the sand next to him as well as his shield to the other side. He must've dropped them earlier, he felt around his person, he was still wearing his armor.
Now the questions came to him, how had he arrived here? Last he remembered he had fallen off a badly constructed bridge into freezing cold water before falling over a waterfall... After that everything had gone dark, now here he was. What was going on? Trey sat up, he then grabbed and put away his shield onto his back harness, he would do the same with his trident afterwards.
Trey got up and looked around, he had no bearings of where he was. He needed to find some indication of where he was - something he could recognize. As he would walk away from where he had awoken he would find himself staring at the sea, a familiar tune snuck its way into his mind. He would do his best to follow the tune in his head, a tune about ways to punish a drunken whaler.
He remembered his mission, he remembered the journeys, he remembered the people he had met, he remembered the trials he had gone through. Once he established himself he allowed his other senses to fill him in on what was going on. First came the spray of surf crashing on rocks and the wetness of his legs being partially drenched by the breaking waves around his lower extremities. Next came the familiar sting and smell of salt water in his nostrils. Next the sounds of waves, wind and the sound of foliage rustling not too far away.
Trey opened his eyes blearily as the flood of bright light hit him, as he blinked his eyes the light faded darker to reveal the time of day, twilight - which kind was not known. It could've been morning but it also could've been the evening too. Trey continued to look around; in front of him was the choppy ocean on the horizon, to either side was a seemingly empty beach with a cave a ways to his left in the side of a conifer tree laden cliffside, behind him was a small patch of trees before another tall cliff of dark colored rock. Trey felt around to his sides, he felt his weapon lying on the sand next to him as well as his shield to the other side. He must've dropped them earlier, he felt around his person, he was still wearing his armor.
Now the questions came to him, how had he arrived here? Last he remembered he had fallen off a badly constructed bridge into freezing cold water before falling over a waterfall... After that everything had gone dark, now here he was. What was going on? Trey sat up, he then grabbed and put away his shield onto his back harness, he would do the same with his trident afterwards.
Trey got up and looked around, he had no bearings of where he was. He needed to find some indication of where he was - something he could recognize. As he would walk away from where he had awoken he would find himself staring at the sea, a familiar tune snuck its way into his mind. He would do his best to follow the tune in his head, a tune about ways to punish a drunken whaler.
Aaron Fleischer had slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
This in and of itself wasn't unusual. Over a decade of this pattern, and the regularity hadn't waned in the slightest. Nightmares happened; nightmares that left him plastered to his sheets in a cold sweat, nightmares that left him obsessively washing his hands in a panic-laced haze, nightmares that left him quietly padding around his house to check on the teenager's room down the hall, before remembering she'd moved out for school months ago, nightmares that appeared to rattle the man's otherwise unshakable core.
Nightmares he'd never admit to having, for who would believe him?
His coping routine was always the same, and always involved a plethora of pills, alcohol, and the occasional more esoteric method to banish them from his mind. Or to banish his mind, entirely - if only for a while.
Perhaps that was why he didn't remember arriving here. Or where 'here' even was. Fists clenched and unclenched reflexively, balling up the fabric of his pant legs in a tense grasp, the motion betraying a nervous tension he'd otherwise long banished from his manner.
He was on a bench. That much was certain. He'd thought it a dingy transit stop bench, encrusted with gum, the smiling realtor's face disfigured by a hastily sprayed mustache and devil horns, a poorly-scribbled and lewd accessory altered by another to be a more innocuous pipe. He'd thought he'd known the bench well.
But that was silly. It was a park bench, peeling wooden planks held together by recently painted metal, which had been slathered on with little regard to dribble - or color sense. It always had been.
He'd fallen asleep here, he realized, and sighed heavily. Aaron had two criteria for acceptably waking up in public - he was fine as long as he wasn't naked and covered in an unsightly mess, or slumped over like a drunkard at a bus stop - and he would have liked to consider the criteria rather generous, thank you. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.
Still, the initial lack of recognition disturbed him, a lapse that outlasted the fog of sleep.
Was this his own Portland? Southmont? The nip in the wind was all wrong for New Versailles, and the lack of the distinctive scents of pickles and agricultural waste meant that they were nowhere near Shadywood. Southmont he hadn't seen since grad school, and Portland held no allure these days, outside of the rare bout of nostalgia.
A ship's horn blared its arrival, the sound slicing through the man's mental fog, and everything seemed to click; he'd fallen asleep on a bench alongside his local oceanwalk.
The industrial stench seemed to follow this revelation, as did the bustling sounds of the quay market further up the path. Of course it was the port town. He worked here, lived here - had for decades, now. Why hadn't he recognized it, before?
The man stretched stiffly, staring up at the sky, lanky limbs dropping to drape across the back of the bench. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, barely stifling a small groan. Was he already confusing his cities? Is this what it meant to grow older?
Eaugh. He certainly wanted no part of that.
He sat up, looked about. Miraculously, nobody had stolen his bag, which he'd evidently stuffed beneath the seat, band entwined around one of his legs. The professor snoozing on a bench would have seemed an easy mark, in spite of the towering man looking for all the world like a sprawled spider. Still, perhaps it was fortunate that he hadn't brought his laptop along.
He finally sat up straighter, adjusting the glasses askew on his face, hands quickly passing over his coat and pant pockets to check on their contents (which, like his bag, were all somehow spared the malice of passing hooligans) and fumbled in the last one for his Zippo and a cigarette. If he'd had wondered any more about the prior discrepancies, he didn't comment on it, didn't allow it to bleed through to his demeanor, even as he insistently worked away at his smoke.
Before long, he crushed the little half-finished cigarette beneath a heel, slung the bag over his shoulder, and rose to his feet.
A walk alongside the water would help him regain his bearings, surely.
This in and of itself wasn't unusual. Over a decade of this pattern, and the regularity hadn't waned in the slightest. Nightmares happened; nightmares that left him plastered to his sheets in a cold sweat, nightmares that left him obsessively washing his hands in a panic-laced haze, nightmares that left him quietly padding around his house to check on the teenager's room down the hall, before remembering she'd moved out for school months ago, nightmares that appeared to rattle the man's otherwise unshakable core.
Nightmares he'd never admit to having, for who would believe him?
His coping routine was always the same, and always involved a plethora of pills, alcohol, and the occasional more esoteric method to banish them from his mind. Or to banish his mind, entirely - if only for a while.
Perhaps that was why he didn't remember arriving here. Or where 'here' even was. Fists clenched and unclenched reflexively, balling up the fabric of his pant legs in a tense grasp, the motion betraying a nervous tension he'd otherwise long banished from his manner.
He was on a bench. That much was certain. He'd thought it a dingy transit stop bench, encrusted with gum, the smiling realtor's face disfigured by a hastily sprayed mustache and devil horns, a poorly-scribbled and lewd accessory altered by another to be a more innocuous pipe. He'd thought he'd known the bench well.
But that was silly. It was a park bench, peeling wooden planks held together by recently painted metal, which had been slathered on with little regard to dribble - or color sense. It always had been.
He'd fallen asleep here, he realized, and sighed heavily. Aaron had two criteria for acceptably waking up in public - he was fine as long as he wasn't naked and covered in an unsightly mess, or slumped over like a drunkard at a bus stop - and he would have liked to consider the criteria rather generous, thank you. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.
Still, the initial lack of recognition disturbed him, a lapse that outlasted the fog of sleep.
Was this his own Portland? Southmont? The nip in the wind was all wrong for New Versailles, and the lack of the distinctive scents of pickles and agricultural waste meant that they were nowhere near Shadywood. Southmont he hadn't seen since grad school, and Portland held no allure these days, outside of the rare bout of nostalgia.
A ship's horn blared its arrival, the sound slicing through the man's mental fog, and everything seemed to click; he'd fallen asleep on a bench alongside his local oceanwalk.
The industrial stench seemed to follow this revelation, as did the bustling sounds of the quay market further up the path. Of course it was the port town. He worked here, lived here - had for decades, now. Why hadn't he recognized it, before?
The man stretched stiffly, staring up at the sky, lanky limbs dropping to drape across the back of the bench. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, barely stifling a small groan. Was he already confusing his cities? Is this what it meant to grow older?
Eaugh. He certainly wanted no part of that.
He sat up, looked about. Miraculously, nobody had stolen his bag, which he'd evidently stuffed beneath the seat, band entwined around one of his legs. The professor snoozing on a bench would have seemed an easy mark, in spite of the towering man looking for all the world like a sprawled spider. Still, perhaps it was fortunate that he hadn't brought his laptop along.
He finally sat up straighter, adjusting the glasses askew on his face, hands quickly passing over his coat and pant pockets to check on their contents (which, like his bag, were all somehow spared the malice of passing hooligans) and fumbled in the last one for his Zippo and a cigarette. If he'd had wondered any more about the prior discrepancies, he didn't comment on it, didn't allow it to bleed through to his demeanor, even as he insistently worked away at his smoke.
Before long, he crushed the little half-finished cigarette beneath a heel, slung the bag over his shoulder, and rose to his feet.
A walk alongside the water would help him regain his bearings, surely.
Mary Collins awoke from her sleep as the bell rang.
Fingertips brushed the couch's rough fabric as the woman opened her eyes, instinctively springing up from the seat and knocking over a plastic cup of coffee from the table in front of her.
The woman scoured the teachers' room, eyes frantically darting all over the place. Had she actually dozed off? Had the classes really already started? Why on earth didn't anyone wake her up, for goodness' sake? There were no other teachers in sight, with the only other source of noise apart from her movements coming from the television set, which was currently showing an old fifties film.
Mary Collins grabbed the remote control as she gathered her things and pressed (or rather, smashed) the off button in irritation, Peter Cushing's voice beginning to annoy her. It didn't work, and the vampire hunter continued trying to stake Christopher Lee. She pressed the button again, and again, and in frustration threw the remote on the paper-filled table and left, stepping over the spilled coffee on the ground and slamming the door on the way out.
The teacher marched through the school in irked silence, bag in hand and a few choice insults towards her colleagues in mind. She did not remember the school's name, but surely it had one. She walked through unfamiliar corridors and past unfamiliar rooms, but surely she remembered them. She had, after all, taught here for more than three decades. Whatever "here" was.
Mary Collins took a look inside one of the rooms, a wave of relief washing over her as she saw a colleague teach fifth graders - all in rows with their backs turned to her- advanced algebra. Collins frowned, taking a look at the teacher himself. Was that...Mr. Dawson? Danson? Denvon? The face through the window looked almost as indistinct as her memory of the man.
She shook her head and looked away, continuing her walk.
Despite the unfamiliar corridors and unfamiliar rooms, Mary Collins found herself being led to her class at the end of a hall. She knew it was her class, of course. There was no reason for it not to be. Quickly fixing her hair into a bun, Mary Collins straightened up and entered the class.
Well, tried to, at any rate. The bell rang with more intensity than ever before, no longer the sound of a school bell but almost the blare of a naval horn. Mary Collins raised a hand to her temples, and suddenly she was no longer entering the room but in a teeming school exit, with students of all ages and indefinite faces crammed in crowds in the hallway, waiting to get out.
Where there had once been silence and quiet, now there were children and all the noise that came with them. Mary Collins headed for the door, snapping at any unfortunate person that got into her way. Rest, now that was what she needed. To hell with staying after hours. Of all people, she could afford to miss an afternoon. Something was quite, quite wrong here. Was it a side effect of a spell she had cast? Were it the pills she had been taking? Maybe it was just her age catching up with her. And wasn't that a pleasant thought.
"Move! Out, out, out!" Mary Collins yelled over the racket, to children she only began to recognize, and headed for the exit, brushing them aside.
The woman stepped into the light of the school's outer courtyard, shielding her eyes from the sun's brightness as she stormed past the school's gate and into the streets. The latter were crowded with unfamiliar faces, filled with the smell of industry and the sea.
But of course! The school had always been near the shore, whose beach was one of the few places in the port city that was not entirely polluted.
Perhaps she should head there. Going for a walk through the port city's shore always managed to clear her head, and that was something that was rather necessary at the moment. Mary Collins slung her bag only a fraction more casually over her shoulder and loosened her hair, beginning her march.
Fingertips brushed the couch's rough fabric as the woman opened her eyes, instinctively springing up from the seat and knocking over a plastic cup of coffee from the table in front of her.
The woman scoured the teachers' room, eyes frantically darting all over the place. Had she actually dozed off? Had the classes really already started? Why on earth didn't anyone wake her up, for goodness' sake? There were no other teachers in sight, with the only other source of noise apart from her movements coming from the television set, which was currently showing an old fifties film.
Mary Collins grabbed the remote control as she gathered her things and pressed (or rather, smashed) the off button in irritation, Peter Cushing's voice beginning to annoy her. It didn't work, and the vampire hunter continued trying to stake Christopher Lee. She pressed the button again, and again, and in frustration threw the remote on the paper-filled table and left, stepping over the spilled coffee on the ground and slamming the door on the way out.
The teacher marched through the school in irked silence, bag in hand and a few choice insults towards her colleagues in mind. She did not remember the school's name, but surely it had one. She walked through unfamiliar corridors and past unfamiliar rooms, but surely she remembered them. She had, after all, taught here for more than three decades. Whatever "here" was.
Mary Collins took a look inside one of the rooms, a wave of relief washing over her as she saw a colleague teach fifth graders - all in rows with their backs turned to her- advanced algebra. Collins frowned, taking a look at the teacher himself. Was that...Mr. Dawson? Danson? Denvon? The face through the window looked almost as indistinct as her memory of the man.
She shook her head and looked away, continuing her walk.
Despite the unfamiliar corridors and unfamiliar rooms, Mary Collins found herself being led to her class at the end of a hall. She knew it was her class, of course. There was no reason for it not to be. Quickly fixing her hair into a bun, Mary Collins straightened up and entered the class.
Well, tried to, at any rate. The bell rang with more intensity than ever before, no longer the sound of a school bell but almost the blare of a naval horn. Mary Collins raised a hand to her temples, and suddenly she was no longer entering the room but in a teeming school exit, with students of all ages and indefinite faces crammed in crowds in the hallway, waiting to get out.
Where there had once been silence and quiet, now there were children and all the noise that came with them. Mary Collins headed for the door, snapping at any unfortunate person that got into her way. Rest, now that was what she needed. To hell with staying after hours. Of all people, she could afford to miss an afternoon. Something was quite, quite wrong here. Was it a side effect of a spell she had cast? Were it the pills she had been taking? Maybe it was just her age catching up with her. And wasn't that a pleasant thought.
"Move! Out, out, out!" Mary Collins yelled over the racket, to children she only began to recognize, and headed for the exit, brushing them aside.
The woman stepped into the light of the school's outer courtyard, shielding her eyes from the sun's brightness as she stormed past the school's gate and into the streets. The latter were crowded with unfamiliar faces, filled with the smell of industry and the sea.
But of course! The school had always been near the shore, whose beach was one of the few places in the port city that was not entirely polluted.
Perhaps she should head there. Going for a walk through the port city's shore always managed to clear her head, and that was something that was rather necessary at the moment. Mary Collins slung her bag only a fraction more casually over her shoulder and loosened her hair, beginning her march.
"Darling? We're here."
Leslie Morea woke to the cold, dancing snowflakes falling upon her hair. Her head fell halfway between the ineffective moonlight and the blazing lights of the car as her sleeping form was disturbed by the opening of the vehicle's door. She blinked, then blinked again, trying to banish the spots brought to her eyes by the sudden arrival of artificial light.
The girl pushed her fair hair from her fairer face and looked into a very similar combination of those features. Her mother was an elegant woman, with appealing features, eyes like emeralds, and hair comparable to the family fortune in gold. Leslie, on the other hand, appeared as her mother's washed out miniature, with an unnervingly sickly complexion, gray eyes, and hair that was closer in shade to a shiitake mushroom than a precious metal. Now, Leslie obsessed and lost interest in her own appearance as it suited her, but today, at least she was perfectly content: with her hair in a curly up-do, a swirling sapphire dress, and some phenomenal heels. She was happy with her exterior at the moment.
She only tripped twice on the stairs. (Maybe it was three times. Four... Seven?) She realized her shoes were a bit too large, but she'd be damned before she'd admit that.
She entered the grand mansion. Her godfather, the owner, could be detestable, but this estate of his was gorgeous. Everything seemed to sparkle or shine... Of course the best part of his New Years Parties was the food. Although she loved looking through his library as well.
"Happy 2007 mommy!" Leslie couldn't decide what to do. So many friends and family milling around, so many shiny surfaces... New Year's Eve was a truly magical holiday.
"Sweetie, it isn't even 2005 yet. Be patient," her mother cooed in reply. Leslie nodded. She must still have been pretty sleepy... That was also probably the cause of the irrational deja vu she was feeling.The young woman smoothed a wrinkly in her daughter's dress's puffy taffeta sleeve and glanced around, looking for someone, presumably. The host? A sister? Her daughter knew not and cared less. She would some shrimp first...
Leslie Morea woke to the cold, dancing snowflakes falling upon her hair. Her head fell halfway between the ineffective moonlight and the blazing lights of the car as her sleeping form was disturbed by the opening of the vehicle's door. She blinked, then blinked again, trying to banish the spots brought to her eyes by the sudden arrival of artificial light.
The girl pushed her fair hair from her fairer face and looked into a very similar combination of those features. Her mother was an elegant woman, with appealing features, eyes like emeralds, and hair comparable to the family fortune in gold. Leslie, on the other hand, appeared as her mother's washed out miniature, with an unnervingly sickly complexion, gray eyes, and hair that was closer in shade to a shiitake mushroom than a precious metal. Now, Leslie obsessed and lost interest in her own appearance as it suited her, but today, at least she was perfectly content: with her hair in a curly up-do, a swirling sapphire dress, and some phenomenal heels. She was happy with her exterior at the moment.
She only tripped twice on the stairs. (Maybe it was three times. Four... Seven?) She realized her shoes were a bit too large, but she'd be damned before she'd admit that.
She entered the grand mansion. Her godfather, the owner, could be detestable, but this estate of his was gorgeous. Everything seemed to sparkle or shine... Of course the best part of his New Years Parties was the food. Although she loved looking through his library as well.
"Happy 2007 mommy!" Leslie couldn't decide what to do. So many friends and family milling around, so many shiny surfaces... New Year's Eve was a truly magical holiday.
"Sweetie, it isn't even 2005 yet. Be patient," her mother cooed in reply. Leslie nodded. She must still have been pretty sleepy... That was also probably the cause of the irrational deja vu she was feeling.The young woman smoothed a wrinkly in her daughter's dress's puffy taffeta sleeve and glanced around, looking for someone, presumably. The host? A sister? Her daughter knew not and cared less. She would some shrimp first...
The tapping continued, one tap following another, gradual and slow, counting the time like the seconds on a clock. The tap became a scrape, a long, scratching scrape, broken by uneven stone, tripping into divots, and spreading long across the smooth callouses of crafted metal.
Drip. Drip.
The cold touch of fallen water brushed against his hand, and shattered into a thousand pieces, which shattered upon each other, multiplying and multiplying, until they found his face, and there leaping, clung to the thin hanging hairs.
Theodice wrote. The papyrus rustled. The tip scratched. The quill brushed against the divot of his thumb, and his fingers twirled swiftly to turn the black ink from its natural blot.
open the eyes of your stomach open your eyes your ears bare your teeth steal the beast sordid feast
"Broken heart, by what salve shall I mend thee, when fear draws only hastening words from my sharpened soul; I knew thee first, and found thee less, so say what thy mind is, lest I, in striving, fall."
Theodice stopped.
The breeze cut waves in the curtain, and it reached for the outside. At the front, the instructor held his hand hovering over the map, tracing with his index and middle fingers the outline of Arodlan's capital. Covering the stone wall to his left and to his right were the unfurled paintings of knights and queens, and where his sandals touched, the soft fur of a bearskin pelt caressed. Before him sat three attentive students, that scrawled his words in their scrolls, and raised their faces to watch his movements. Their eyes were bright with learning, and with the want for knowledge.
Theodice sat in their midst.
They were looking at him.
"Have you nothing to say, Master Theo?" The instructor asked in his reedy voice, his moustache pulled by the downward trend of his mouth.
"Ah, that is," He stumbled. "Pardon me, sir?"
Alvus the scribe shook his head mournfully, and turned back to the page. "It is because of the treasures in the shafts below! For these riches, the first king made this his home."
Over his shoulder, Lord Alvus cast toward Theodice a withering look. "Do try to pay attention."
Drip. Drip.
The cold touch of fallen water brushed against his hand, and shattered into a thousand pieces, which shattered upon each other, multiplying and multiplying, until they found his face, and there leaping, clung to the thin hanging hairs.
Theodice wrote. The papyrus rustled. The tip scratched. The quill brushed against the divot of his thumb, and his fingers twirled swiftly to turn the black ink from its natural blot.
open the eyes of your stomach open your eyes your ears bare your teeth steal the beast sordid feast
"Broken heart, by what salve shall I mend thee, when fear draws only hastening words from my sharpened soul; I knew thee first, and found thee less, so say what thy mind is, lest I, in striving, fall."
Theodice stopped.
The breeze cut waves in the curtain, and it reached for the outside. At the front, the instructor held his hand hovering over the map, tracing with his index and middle fingers the outline of Arodlan's capital. Covering the stone wall to his left and to his right were the unfurled paintings of knights and queens, and where his sandals touched, the soft fur of a bearskin pelt caressed. Before him sat three attentive students, that scrawled his words in their scrolls, and raised their faces to watch his movements. Their eyes were bright with learning, and with the want for knowledge.
Theodice sat in their midst.
They were looking at him.
"Have you nothing to say, Master Theo?" The instructor asked in his reedy voice, his moustache pulled by the downward trend of his mouth.
"Ah, that is," He stumbled. "Pardon me, sir?"
Alvus the scribe shook his head mournfully, and turned back to the page. "It is because of the treasures in the shafts below! For these riches, the first king made this his home."
Over his shoulder, Lord Alvus cast toward Theodice a withering look. "Do try to pay attention."
Mister Dralt eased further into the situation, steeling himself against the inevitable sense of urgency that came with walking into daylight. He heard his steps echoing around him couple with the soft splash of shallow water, as well the distant blaring of an obscenely loud school bell. Soon the hems of his neatly pressed dress trousers were weighted with dampness, the black fabric no doubt darkened further, and he could only imagine what the water was doing to his finely shined shoes. The tunnel proved to be a culvert, so at its edge he hesitated. Dralt felt the familiar handle of a leather doctor's bag in his left hand. The right raised to shield his vision from the garish light of the late day sun, his piercing silvery eyes narrowing to slits. They were given a moment to adjust before he drew the broad brim of his hat a little lower and stepped down into the sand. Whatever had he been doing in that tunnel? He turned about to peer into the darkness, but despite his impeccable night vision, the pipe stretched on indefinitely. It had brought him to the sea side of the boardwalk.
The gloved hand, now free, moved to secure Dralt's angular chin in an idle rub of contemplation. He went on to open his case, trusty thing that it was, as surely he would not have come here without good reason. He began to rifle through it for a reminder. From this he produced first an RSVP. The note cordially invited him to attend a Mr. Morea's decadent 2007 New Year's party, and while he could not recall the family in question, he supposed they must be persons of import. Next came his notebook. Balancing it carefully in one hand, a thumb was used to peel back the cover and coax the little book to its first page. There remained a note scrawled in handwriting that was not his own:
Arodlan, March Count’s castle, lecture; 22:30.
Dralt could not recall having ever visited the country cupped by mountain spires. Was this where he was presently, then? The immortal grimaced now, turning in full to further inspect the scenario. It was then that- further along the beach, beyond where the walk ended, he spotted the glimmer of armor, shield, and weaponry equipped to a certain slayer. He arched a single brow. A man fully clad for battle? It was peculiar given that this was evidently (he checked the RSVP once more- had the date changed?) the year 2005. That was an odd character indeed. This must be California.
The clues tucked away and the case now closed, Dralt's hand now delved into the deep pocket of his modest dark overcoat, producing his pocket watch and opening it with a gentle pressure from his thumb. The glass was fogged over. The immortal huffed in agitation, worrying over water damage as he rubbed the face against his sleeve and checked again. It was clear as crystal now. Unfortunately, it gave not the time, but each number had been replaced by an old alchemical symbol. His thin lips pressed together into an even thinner line while he tapped the surface. Checking again, he would this time utter a short tut, having found the alchemical symbols to be replaced by astrological signs. The watch was tucked away with an air of dread. It would be poor form not to attend the celebration, but even poorer form not to arrive in time for a lecture, and no gentleman should be caught without the time. Ascending a set of stairs brought him atop the boardwalk.
A chilly sea breeze blew in from behind Dralt, tousling his bone-white ponytail and causing him to clutch at his hat. Here a figure downwind would catch his attention. The man straightened, pivoting on the spot and bidding his disgruntled expression to settle into a neutral one, mid-baritone voice projected firmly with a cordial deliverance: "Pardon me, sir. Have you the hour?" Dralt eyed Aaron expectantly.
The gloved hand, now free, moved to secure Dralt's angular chin in an idle rub of contemplation. He went on to open his case, trusty thing that it was, as surely he would not have come here without good reason. He began to rifle through it for a reminder. From this he produced first an RSVP. The note cordially invited him to attend a Mr. Morea's decadent 2007 New Year's party, and while he could not recall the family in question, he supposed they must be persons of import. Next came his notebook. Balancing it carefully in one hand, a thumb was used to peel back the cover and coax the little book to its first page. There remained a note scrawled in handwriting that was not his own:
Arodlan, March Count’s castle, lecture; 22:30.
Dralt could not recall having ever visited the country cupped by mountain spires. Was this where he was presently, then? The immortal grimaced now, turning in full to further inspect the scenario. It was then that- further along the beach, beyond where the walk ended, he spotted the glimmer of armor, shield, and weaponry equipped to a certain slayer. He arched a single brow. A man fully clad for battle? It was peculiar given that this was evidently (he checked the RSVP once more- had the date changed?) the year 2005. That was an odd character indeed. This must be California.
The clues tucked away and the case now closed, Dralt's hand now delved into the deep pocket of his modest dark overcoat, producing his pocket watch and opening it with a gentle pressure from his thumb. The glass was fogged over. The immortal huffed in agitation, worrying over water damage as he rubbed the face against his sleeve and checked again. It was clear as crystal now. Unfortunately, it gave not the time, but each number had been replaced by an old alchemical symbol. His thin lips pressed together into an even thinner line while he tapped the surface. Checking again, he would this time utter a short tut, having found the alchemical symbols to be replaced by astrological signs. The watch was tucked away with an air of dread. It would be poor form not to attend the celebration, but even poorer form not to arrive in time for a lecture, and no gentleman should be caught without the time. Ascending a set of stairs brought him atop the boardwalk.
A chilly sea breeze blew in from behind Dralt, tousling his bone-white ponytail and causing him to clutch at his hat. Here a figure downwind would catch his attention. The man straightened, pivoting on the spot and bidding his disgruntled expression to settle into a neutral one, mid-baritone voice projected firmly with a cordial deliverance: "Pardon me, sir. Have you the hour?" Dralt eyed Aaron expectantly.
Trey wandered the lonely beach for what seemed like hours, though in reality it had been a few minutes - time had a way of doing that to a person after just waking up. As he whistled his tune and wandered down the shoreline the late evening sun gleamed off of his armor.
He had no idea where he was going and no matter how far he seemed to travel he could not see anything he recognized. It was then he heard a sound, a loud bell toll from far off. It was a sign, a sign of civilization! With new found energy Trey ran as fast as he could muster up the beach towards the sound. As he cornered around a outcrop of s rocky cliffside he spotted what looked to be some sort of settlement. There was a tall pier, an ocean wall, several buildings of various shapes, styles and sizes. A good of a place to start finding out where he was if any.
Trey made his way towards the town, along the way he would catch the glances and stares of the people he passed - they looked at him the same way he would look at them. Their clothes were very strange to him. As were what several of the buildings looked like and offered. The further along the cobblestone walkway he went the more confused he grew.
"What is this place? Where am I? I don't understand." Trey began to repeat periodically whenever he would come across something new. From his point of view it was as if two types of vision were competing with each other to be seen. One was of the past he knew and the other of the world that was around him. Was he the only one seeing this?
He had no idea where he was going and no matter how far he seemed to travel he could not see anything he recognized. It was then he heard a sound, a loud bell toll from far off. It was a sign, a sign of civilization! With new found energy Trey ran as fast as he could muster up the beach towards the sound. As he cornered around a outcrop of s rocky cliffside he spotted what looked to be some sort of settlement. There was a tall pier, an ocean wall, several buildings of various shapes, styles and sizes. A good of a place to start finding out where he was if any.
Trey made his way towards the town, along the way he would catch the glances and stares of the people he passed - they looked at him the same way he would look at them. Their clothes were very strange to him. As were what several of the buildings looked like and offered. The further along the cobblestone walkway he went the more confused he grew.
"What is this place? Where am I? I don't understand." Trey began to repeat periodically whenever he would come across something new. From his point of view it was as if two types of vision were competing with each other to be seen. One was of the past he knew and the other of the world that was around him. Was he the only one seeing this?
People of all sorts could be found upon the boardwalk, some more striking than others, while many seemed just part of the thin, faceless crowd. Jeans appeared to be the pant of choice, but there were slacks and skirts as well, some timeless and some very much dated. Here there was lace, there, leather, and a jogger in bright polyester could be seen from halfway down the boardwalk. One boy looked excitedly down the line of his hastily-assembled "fishing pole," moving the stick carefully to try enticing a few small fish to pay attention to his bait.
Another child, a girl with a pair of blonde braids, overheard Dralt's question to to Aaron as she was running by. She laughed and stopped, grinning up at the men without a hint of fear.
"It's 3:30, silly! Didn't you hear the school bell?" The girl twirled in her delight. "And everyone's coming to the sea! Even mean ol' Mrs. Collins!"
As she said the name, she pointed off toward the not-so-old-looking woman as she approached the boardwalk. The child, meanwhile, chose that precise moment to run off.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and a young woman peered in hesitantly. "My apologies, Lord Alvus, but I have been sent to retrieve Master Theodice. He has been assigned as guide to a newcomer."
"Guests are still stabilizing within the environment. One Guest in particular is being difficult. We're waiting for the locality to settle more before sending in a memoid."
Another child, a girl with a pair of blonde braids, overheard Dralt's question to to Aaron as she was running by. She laughed and stopped, grinning up at the men without a hint of fear.
"It's 3:30, silly! Didn't you hear the school bell?" The girl twirled in her delight. "And everyone's coming to the sea! Even mean ol' Mrs. Collins!"
As she said the name, she pointed off toward the not-so-old-looking woman as she approached the boardwalk. The child, meanwhile, chose that precise moment to run off.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and a young woman peered in hesitantly. "My apologies, Lord Alvus, but I have been sent to retrieve Master Theodice. He has been assigned as guide to a newcomer."
"Guests are still stabilizing within the environment. One Guest in particular is being difficult. We're waiting for the locality to settle more before sending in a memoid."
There was an involuntary missed step in Aaron's stride as someone suddenly shouted, addressing him; he tensed up, stiffened, invisible hackles prickling at the man's shoulders, a sudden wrench in the pit of his stomach an oft-ignored warning.
A sharp intake of breath, a subtle investigation of the scent of something unmistakably dead that had blown in on the breeze.
This in and of itself wasn't unusual in his city, though it wasn't particularly welcome - especially when the interloper was one so unfamiliar in a setting that seemed almost familiar.
He looked up; approaching was a man nearly as tall and narrow as he, sopping wet from the hem of his pants downward.
"Hello! Yes, mid-afternoon, I would guess - but, one moment."
He fixed his face into a particularly blank smile he reserved for those he'd just met,resisted drawing the silky, sibilant sounds out into a hiss, and returned the stranger's cordiality in equal measure, even as he calculatedly fumbled shoving his sleeve up to check his watch.
And frowned.
The face had shorted, it had appeared. The screen was covered in spots, which were edged in thin rainbow filaments and filled in with zig-zagging stripes. Bizarrely, the aberration appeared less electric and more organic, the hallucinatory spots that heralded a migraine or seizure.
Well. All right.
As the aimless feeling of something off stubbornly refused to dissipate, there was something about the appearance of the other odd one that brought both relief and a wary sort of unease. But a weird, elaborate vampiric prank seemed out of the question in the face of this equally puzzled man, and the concern that followed from Aaron seemed genuine.
"...maybe not. I'm sorry!" He gestured with pantomime helplessness at the watch and shrugged. "Is everything all right?"
If Aaron had any worries about his own nature being detected, they were expertly masked in the face of his presentation. Eyes quickly flicked about at his surroundings, came to rest but for a moment on a man clad in unusual armor, who'd been warily stumbling about and goggling at the people around him.
And even while the armored man's surroundings stared back, Aaron vaguely noted that some weren't up to date, either - while they weren't as sorely out of place as the newcomer, there were still discrepancies. Though, bafflingly, none of the crowd gathered acknowledged them. Was there a convention going on?
"Heh. Maybe we can ask our friendly neighborhood Templar?"
But before either could react properly, the vampire's question was answered by the sudden appearance of an alarmingly chipper child, and Aaron was silently thankful that the little one had spared him during his impromptu siesta.
Rather regrettable, though, was the fact that the girl's sudden point drew him, in spite of himself, to brief, deadened eye contact with that Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins, herself.
A sharp intake of breath, a subtle investigation of the scent of something unmistakably dead that had blown in on the breeze.
This in and of itself wasn't unusual in his city, though it wasn't particularly welcome - especially when the interloper was one so unfamiliar in a setting that seemed almost familiar.
He looked up; approaching was a man nearly as tall and narrow as he, sopping wet from the hem of his pants downward.
"Hello! Yes, mid-afternoon, I would guess - but, one moment."
He fixed his face into a particularly blank smile he reserved for those he'd just met,resisted drawing the silky, sibilant sounds out into a hiss, and returned the stranger's cordiality in equal measure, even as he calculatedly fumbled shoving his sleeve up to check his watch.
And frowned.
The face had shorted, it had appeared. The screen was covered in spots, which were edged in thin rainbow filaments and filled in with zig-zagging stripes. Bizarrely, the aberration appeared less electric and more organic, the hallucinatory spots that heralded a migraine or seizure.
Well. All right.
As the aimless feeling of something off stubbornly refused to dissipate, there was something about the appearance of the other odd one that brought both relief and a wary sort of unease. But a weird, elaborate vampiric prank seemed out of the question in the face of this equally puzzled man, and the concern that followed from Aaron seemed genuine.
"...maybe not. I'm sorry!" He gestured with pantomime helplessness at the watch and shrugged. "Is everything all right?"
If Aaron had any worries about his own nature being detected, they were expertly masked in the face of his presentation. Eyes quickly flicked about at his surroundings, came to rest but for a moment on a man clad in unusual armor, who'd been warily stumbling about and goggling at the people around him.
And even while the armored man's surroundings stared back, Aaron vaguely noted that some weren't up to date, either - while they weren't as sorely out of place as the newcomer, there were still discrepancies. Though, bafflingly, none of the crowd gathered acknowledged them. Was there a convention going on?
"Heh. Maybe we can ask our friendly neighborhood Templar?"
But before either could react properly, the vampire's question was answered by the sudden appearance of an alarmingly chipper child, and Aaron was silently thankful that the little one had spared him during his impromptu siesta.
Rather regrettable, though, was the fact that the girl's sudden point drew him, in spite of himself, to brief, deadened eye contact with that Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins, herself.
Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins glanced at the little girl in irritation, the far too cheery child's words clearly in her earshot. She didn't recognize the girl hereself, but she was probably from the school, considering she had heard of her. Feeling only mildly bad about forgetting a name, something Collins rarely did, she nevertheless couldn't help but feel curious about where the little girl's parents were. (Only so she could comment about the girl's politeness, or lack thereof, to them, of course.)
This curiousness quickly turned into concern as her fairly conspicuous glance led to a deadened eye contact with one of the men the child was talking to. Mary Collins gave a sharp intake of breath, resisting the urge to step backwards, knowing that those brown eyes hid something different altogether. This one wasn't human. He simply couldn't be, Mary Collins was sure of that.
Vaguely annoyed at feeling daunted by whatever the brown haired stick insect of a man was, the teacher steeled herself and gave a quick stare at the other man, finding another unpleasant surprise. White haired and pale skinned, with an overly angular face and an overtly dead odour that carried through the wind, Mary Collins didn't need to make eye contact with this one to discover... no, to remember what he was: the answer came easily to her, only reinforcing the odd sensation at the back at her mind. She hadn't seen a vampire in almost three decades, and she had hoped to keep on without seeing one for much, much longer.
Mary Collins felt relieved that the little girl had decided to run off soon enough, of course, but she couldn't help but think how indistinct the girl's face had looked: Collins couldn't help but only fuzzily remember most of her facial features only a moments later. The brown haired stick insect and the solemn vampire, however... they were different. More focused, more distinct than any of the other people in the progressively more crowded seashore. This unsettled Collins more than the pair's supernatural nature ever could.
Mary Collins didn't like to be alone. She didn't like being with people, either, but moved by a pragmatic instinct that knew that something was wrong and that the duo could lead to finding out just what, exactly, Mary decided to approach them.
She did so in her usual brisk manner, lips pursed and rough voice as objective as always. "Good afternoon. I'm Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins." Some form of sarcasm might have been present in her voice. It was quite difficult to discern. The woman looked at the white haired man, noticing how his pants were dripping wet. She decided not to comment. It wasn't like he would die of hypothermia.
"I didn't quite get what the child said about the hours before she mentioned me. Is it thr- " the woman began stiffly, noticing the man in armor that stood out in the crowd like a sore thumb. "I'm sure that trident wasn't made for antiquated fishing techniques.
This one also seemed more nitid that that of other common passerbys, but apart from the obvious improper attire, there was nothing too odd about his presence.
This curiousness quickly turned into concern as her fairly conspicuous glance led to a deadened eye contact with one of the men the child was talking to. Mary Collins gave a sharp intake of breath, resisting the urge to step backwards, knowing that those brown eyes hid something different altogether. This one wasn't human. He simply couldn't be, Mary Collins was sure of that.
Vaguely annoyed at feeling daunted by whatever the brown haired stick insect of a man was, the teacher steeled herself and gave a quick stare at the other man, finding another unpleasant surprise. White haired and pale skinned, with an overly angular face and an overtly dead odour that carried through the wind, Mary Collins didn't need to make eye contact with this one to discover... no, to remember what he was: the answer came easily to her, only reinforcing the odd sensation at the back at her mind. She hadn't seen a vampire in almost three decades, and she had hoped to keep on without seeing one for much, much longer.
Mary Collins felt relieved that the little girl had decided to run off soon enough, of course, but she couldn't help but think how indistinct the girl's face had looked: Collins couldn't help but only fuzzily remember most of her facial features only a moments later. The brown haired stick insect and the solemn vampire, however... they were different. More focused, more distinct than any of the other people in the progressively more crowded seashore. This unsettled Collins more than the pair's supernatural nature ever could.
Mary Collins didn't like to be alone. She didn't like being with people, either, but moved by a pragmatic instinct that knew that something was wrong and that the duo could lead to finding out just what, exactly, Mary decided to approach them.
She did so in her usual brisk manner, lips pursed and rough voice as objective as always. "Good afternoon. I'm Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins." Some form of sarcasm might have been present in her voice. It was quite difficult to discern. The woman looked at the white haired man, noticing how his pants were dripping wet. She decided not to comment. It wasn't like he would die of hypothermia.
"I didn't quite get what the child said about the hours before she mentioned me. Is it thr- " the woman began stiffly, noticing the man in armor that stood out in the crowd like a sore thumb. "I'm sure that trident wasn't made for antiquated fishing techniques.
This one also seemed more nitid that that of other common passerbys, but apart from the obvious improper attire, there was nothing too odd about his presence.
Trey stumbled along the pathway, keeping clear of anyone he bump into by accident and still drawing blanks as to where he was and what was going on. As he moved along he took a keen notice, in the otherwise disorienting world around him, of the three in front of him. They appeared clearer to him somehow, like a lighthouse beam in the middle of a raging and stormy sea.
"Who-?" Trey began to ask before his hunter instincts kicked into overdrive. He immediately put together what all was before him. The faint smells of death and blood on the white haired man, the scents of musk, meat and dog on the other brown haired one. And last but certainly not least the presence and pressure he felt around the woman in front of him.
Trey's eyes darted from each one before surveying his surroundings for innocent Mundies around them. Trey smiled, "I know what you all are... I've spent the better portion of my life hunting and slaying creatures like you three. What are you all doing here? What are your intentions?" Trey asked as he prepared himself to quickly draw his weapons should he need them.
But as he did so many things about him changed rapidly. His clothing shifted until he was wearing a thick and heavy looking leather jacket, the outlines of reinforced armor barely visible against his still very bulky frame. His brown cloth and soft leather pants became brown jeans with a spiked belt and matte black riot shin guards. His leather medieval boots becoming steel toed military grade combat boots. His weapons changing from a tower shield to a ballistic riot shield and his tall trident to a telescoping and retractable one attached to his waist that was still just as functional, if somewhat more practical. Trey felt around himself, all his gear had shifted places. Instinctively his glare went right for the woman, "What did you do to my gear?" Trey asked Mrs. Collins as he pointed at her accusingly.
"Who-?" Trey began to ask before his hunter instincts kicked into overdrive. He immediately put together what all was before him. The faint smells of death and blood on the white haired man, the scents of musk, meat and dog on the other brown haired one. And last but certainly not least the presence and pressure he felt around the woman in front of him.
Trey's eyes darted from each one before surveying his surroundings for innocent Mundies around them. Trey smiled, "I know what you all are... I've spent the better portion of my life hunting and slaying creatures like you three. What are you all doing here? What are your intentions?" Trey asked as he prepared himself to quickly draw his weapons should he need them.
But as he did so many things about him changed rapidly. His clothing shifted until he was wearing a thick and heavy looking leather jacket, the outlines of reinforced armor barely visible against his still very bulky frame. His brown cloth and soft leather pants became brown jeans with a spiked belt and matte black riot shin guards. His leather medieval boots becoming steel toed military grade combat boots. His weapons changing from a tower shield to a ballistic riot shield and his tall trident to a telescoping and retractable one attached to his waist that was still just as functional, if somewhat more practical. Trey felt around himself, all his gear had shifted places. Instinctively his glare went right for the woman, "What did you do to my gear?" Trey asked Mrs. Collins as he pointed at her accusingly.
[I've heard this one before. So a vampire, a werewolf, and a witch walk into a bar....]
The pallid immortal drew nearer, settling into a space more appropriate for conversation. It was here that at last his sense of smell- inferior to that of a werewolf, and one downwind no less- would at last suggest the nature of the spindly stranger. His senses were specifically attuned to blood. Here he heard the other's heartbeat as though it were far-off thunder, smelled his veins as if Aaron wore a generously applied sanguine cologne. His own practiced neutrality was broken by a hesitation in his stride and a hardening of his eyes. There came a moment of instinctive scrutiny; the wolf was now eyed with a new brand of expectancy, signs of hostility sought. The last thing Dralt needed on this already befuddling morn was to stumble into lycanthropic territory. But instead, there came the demeanor of civility, the watch with a face whose curiousness rivaled his own, and an apology.
"It's quite alright," Mister Dralt would assure with a dismissive gesture. The question had his thin lips tugged into a frown, perplexity wrinkling his brow and narrowing his eyes, as he really hadn't an honest answer to give. Were things alright? "Yes, I... suppose. But I am afraid my watch is also inoperable." Again it was pulled from his pocket and opened, now facing the were'. In place of a proper face was a single eye. The iris was as strikingly silver as the vampire's, but with an ominous black sclera and pinprick pupil. It darted about with wild abandon before it was shut and returned to his pocket. "I presume it to be something in the air. This is a strange state, after all." Case in point: the "paladin" that Aaron had just jested about. Disdain and amusement measured equally in the ancient's expression as he glanced the hunter's way. "Indeed," he droned, managing something of a minimal yet genuine grin for the werewolf.
Mister Dralt's attention shifted accordingly as the young lady appeared and made her most jovial announcement. Now, the immortal was an active advocate of etiquette. But there remained three specific encounters in which he often offered minimal eloquence: being introduced to dogs, holy men, or children. The helpful youth was given no more than a short nod and a muttered word of thanks before his focus followed Aaron's.
Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins was examined just as dutifully. Her pause, the sharp inhale accompanied with a leap in her heart, collectively led Dralt to presume that they were all equally aware of one another's supernatural states. Granted, he couldn't quite place what she was. He had never possessed a perception for magic. But such would not prevent him from ducking his head and lifting his hat, not so much as to disrupt his cover from direct sunlight, but certainly enough to satisfy the expectations of a nineteenth-century etiquette mentor. "How do you do," came the low murmur. He looked between the pair present as he announced in turn "I am Mister Dralt." Dralt wasn't one for frivolous socializing, but in his near utter acceptance of the bizarre setting, he could not shake the feeling of rightness to their meeting. He was also (understandably) not at all religious, but introductions between they three felt ordained by an outer force.
Even the arrival of the fourth- with all his crass- felt intended.
This one was was given a mock look of innocent surprise. "Creatures like us?" Dralt echoed. "Are you referring to 'persons of intelligence'? I understand how such a being might intimidate you." Dralt spoke leisurely, patiently, but the stranger's impetuousness inspired a lecture in the old beast. When the human addressed Collins in so brash a manner, he automatically took a half step between he and the other two, less so out of chivalry and more so out of an automatic answer to opposition. "How very presumptuous of you. If you must know, we creatures are presently holding civil conversation." He lowered his volume to a murmur. "Might I add, I have spent the better portion of my life devouring self-anointed 'heroes' such as yourself, and I daresay..." Dralt paused to inhale deeply through his nose, testing the scent of Trey's blood as a snake tastes the air, "...my life has been far, far longer than yours." It seemed the peculiarity of a change in apparel went over his head. "I strongly suggest that you reattempt your introductions, sir. This is not the place for unwarranted quarrels."
The pallid immortal drew nearer, settling into a space more appropriate for conversation. It was here that at last his sense of smell- inferior to that of a werewolf, and one downwind no less- would at last suggest the nature of the spindly stranger. His senses were specifically attuned to blood. Here he heard the other's heartbeat as though it were far-off thunder, smelled his veins as if Aaron wore a generously applied sanguine cologne. His own practiced neutrality was broken by a hesitation in his stride and a hardening of his eyes. There came a moment of instinctive scrutiny; the wolf was now eyed with a new brand of expectancy, signs of hostility sought. The last thing Dralt needed on this already befuddling morn was to stumble into lycanthropic territory. But instead, there came the demeanor of civility, the watch with a face whose curiousness rivaled his own, and an apology.
"It's quite alright," Mister Dralt would assure with a dismissive gesture. The question had his thin lips tugged into a frown, perplexity wrinkling his brow and narrowing his eyes, as he really hadn't an honest answer to give. Were things alright? "Yes, I... suppose. But I am afraid my watch is also inoperable." Again it was pulled from his pocket and opened, now facing the were'. In place of a proper face was a single eye. The iris was as strikingly silver as the vampire's, but with an ominous black sclera and pinprick pupil. It darted about with wild abandon before it was shut and returned to his pocket. "I presume it to be something in the air. This is a strange state, after all." Case in point: the "paladin" that Aaron had just jested about. Disdain and amusement measured equally in the ancient's expression as he glanced the hunter's way. "Indeed," he droned, managing something of a minimal yet genuine grin for the werewolf.
Mister Dralt's attention shifted accordingly as the young lady appeared and made her most jovial announcement. Now, the immortal was an active advocate of etiquette. But there remained three specific encounters in which he often offered minimal eloquence: being introduced to dogs, holy men, or children. The helpful youth was given no more than a short nod and a muttered word of thanks before his focus followed Aaron's.
Mean Ol' Mrs. Collins was examined just as dutifully. Her pause, the sharp inhale accompanied with a leap in her heart, collectively led Dralt to presume that they were all equally aware of one another's supernatural states. Granted, he couldn't quite place what she was. He had never possessed a perception for magic. But such would not prevent him from ducking his head and lifting his hat, not so much as to disrupt his cover from direct sunlight, but certainly enough to satisfy the expectations of a nineteenth-century etiquette mentor. "How do you do," came the low murmur. He looked between the pair present as he announced in turn "I am Mister Dralt." Dralt wasn't one for frivolous socializing, but in his near utter acceptance of the bizarre setting, he could not shake the feeling of rightness to their meeting. He was also (understandably) not at all religious, but introductions between they three felt ordained by an outer force.
Even the arrival of the fourth- with all his crass- felt intended.
This one was was given a mock look of innocent surprise. "Creatures like us?" Dralt echoed. "Are you referring to 'persons of intelligence'? I understand how such a being might intimidate you." Dralt spoke leisurely, patiently, but the stranger's impetuousness inspired a lecture in the old beast. When the human addressed Collins in so brash a manner, he automatically took a half step between he and the other two, less so out of chivalry and more so out of an automatic answer to opposition. "How very presumptuous of you. If you must know, we creatures are presently holding civil conversation." He lowered his volume to a murmur. "Might I add, I have spent the better portion of my life devouring self-anointed 'heroes' such as yourself, and I daresay..." Dralt paused to inhale deeply through his nose, testing the scent of Trey's blood as a snake tastes the air, "...my life has been far, far longer than yours." It seemed the peculiarity of a change in apparel went over his head. "I strongly suggest that you reattempt your introductions, sir. This is not the place for unwarranted quarrels."
[Aaron was LITERALLY gonna' say something like that, Lib, pff. I'll opt for 'brat,' instead.]
The strange human approached rather suddenly, and a flurry of activity followed, threatened to snowball into chaos.
"WOAH. Woah. Slow down." Aaron allowed a frantic note of confusion into his voice - though the indignation was certainly real. He wasn't keen on a trident being shoved in his face, after all. Slowly, he raised both hands, eyes wide, yet the stare remained strangely dead. He was evidently unarmed, and if he couldn't yet convey "petrified innocent," he could still attempt to pathetically lay on the guilt.
"'Creatures,' huh? There's a word for this..." His stare flicked around his own company; it looked for a moment that he was about to play a very different card, before thinking better of it and opting for something far tamer. "'Nonsense.' There's no need for...whatever the hell you just did." A once-over of the man's new wardrobe. "Doubt this getup was her choice."
Another pointed look at Mrs. Collins. "I'd wager she's not keen on being speared with no hope of defense, either."
But it seemed the strange Dralt was in no mood for bullshit of any kind and so Aaron's hands - and act - dropped rather quickly. The piercing, dissective stare he'd partially concealed in deference to his act was now more openly worn, and entirely fixed on the armed man. The strange and oddly bitter clarity of their company, especially compared to the rest of their surroundings, coupled with the disquieting feeling of dwindling chance made Aaron harbor suspicions of a trap more than ever - but not, as he'd previously thought, one set by the vampire.
Either that, or this was the strangest hangover he'd had, yet.
Dralt spoke his piece, and Aaron continued tersely, barely stifling a growl from creeping into his voice - though his suddenly-black stare that appeared to consume the light rather than reflect unknowingly ruined the illusion of humanity, somewhat. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light?
"If we are what you say we are, then we're more than capable of ruining your whole day if you test us - and we're all just a liiiiittle bit on edge - so I would suggest putting that away."
The strange human approached rather suddenly, and a flurry of activity followed, threatened to snowball into chaos.
"WOAH. Woah. Slow down." Aaron allowed a frantic note of confusion into his voice - though the indignation was certainly real. He wasn't keen on a trident being shoved in his face, after all. Slowly, he raised both hands, eyes wide, yet the stare remained strangely dead. He was evidently unarmed, and if he couldn't yet convey "petrified innocent," he could still attempt to pathetically lay on the guilt.
"'Creatures,' huh? There's a word for this..." His stare flicked around his own company; it looked for a moment that he was about to play a very different card, before thinking better of it and opting for something far tamer. "'Nonsense.' There's no need for...whatever the hell you just did." A once-over of the man's new wardrobe. "Doubt this getup was her choice."
Another pointed look at Mrs. Collins. "I'd wager she's not keen on being speared with no hope of defense, either."
But it seemed the strange Dralt was in no mood for bullshit of any kind and so Aaron's hands - and act - dropped rather quickly. The piercing, dissective stare he'd partially concealed in deference to his act was now more openly worn, and entirely fixed on the armed man. The strange and oddly bitter clarity of their company, especially compared to the rest of their surroundings, coupled with the disquieting feeling of dwindling chance made Aaron harbor suspicions of a trap more than ever - but not, as he'd previously thought, one set by the vampire.
Either that, or this was the strangest hangover he'd had, yet.
Dralt spoke his piece, and Aaron continued tersely, barely stifling a growl from creeping into his voice - though his suddenly-black stare that appeared to consume the light rather than reflect unknowingly ruined the illusion of humanity, somewhat. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light?
"If we are what you say we are, then we're more than capable of ruining your whole day if you test us - and we're all just a liiiiittle bit on edge - so I would suggest putting that away."
The woman narrowed her eyes, mouth forming a thin and unpleasant line as the man in armour spoke about "hunting" and "slaying" "creatures". Mary Collins was already having a bad day: she didn't need a badly mannered templar with a prehistoric fishing device to make it even worse. So there he was, the hunter, to round off their little group. He, too, was brighter and more nitid than the other passerbyes, as she had noted before, but brightness did not strictly apply to intelligence.
Mary Collins' rather rude retort was interrupted by the transformation of the templar's apparel, which she watched with shock. Impossible! Mary Collins hadn't felt anything. No surge of occult powers, no wind of change. This was no ordinary magic, and the thought trobuled her. The man's insistence of jabbing his finger in her face troubled her even more.
The so called Mister Dralt spoke before she could say anything, in a sternly lecturing manner that grew into a crescendo of dignified scorn - Mary Collins approved. She did not, however, approve so much of the undead standing in front of her as if to protect her from the formerly armored man - she didn't believe in the idea of chivalry. Mary decided to put this thoughts away for the moment, however: he was probably just reacting to the hunter's reprehensible behaviour. His last threats to the trident-wielding idiot confirmed her predictions: so this really was an ancient vampire, and powerful, as well.
The brown haired stick insect proceeded to speak next, his tone initially far more serene than the vampire's. Mary Collins didn't fully trust this one: his eyes seemed more lifeless than the vampire, but that was probably because he was lying. And he was lying, of course: the "creatures" didn't only apply to herself and the undead. Now that she was closer, she could smell a faint scent of fur around his person: interesting. He didn't fit the look of a veterinary, and she doubted he was as harmless as he tried to be. Nevertheless, he seemed to be the most inclined to take the diplomatic approach out of the trio of "creatures".
This misunderstanding was shattered when Mary Collins heard the growl, and saw the eyes. They didn't seem unhuman, they were something different altogether.
Even so, she followed his cue.
"Do try and listen to these two, you silly man." Mary Collins said, as if talking to a particularly problematic child, and pushed the accusing finger away with her hand. "If I had anything to do with your new weapons, I'd have turned that trident into something less propense to to stabbing someone's eye out. Like a plastic fork, or maybe a toothbrush. Not that I'm sure you should be trusted with even that." She rummaged in her handbag, as if looking for something, and continued talking.
"We all do seem to bit on edge, man, and if we are these creatures you seem to be so, then trying to intimidate a particularly neurotic trio of them wouldn't quite be the best of ideas, yes?" She took out a small spray can with a spidery handwriting written over it, and firmly held it to the height of the man's face, while not pressing the trigger on the can. "While you reflect on this, however, I should say that if you don't remove your face, hand, and attached fingers from my close proximity in about five seconds, I'll be forced to use this on your lovely visage." Mary Collins said bluntly, arm outstretched. "This may be pepper."
Mary Collins' rather rude retort was interrupted by the transformation of the templar's apparel, which she watched with shock. Impossible! Mary Collins hadn't felt anything. No surge of occult powers, no wind of change. This was no ordinary magic, and the thought trobuled her. The man's insistence of jabbing his finger in her face troubled her even more.
The so called Mister Dralt spoke before she could say anything, in a sternly lecturing manner that grew into a crescendo of dignified scorn - Mary Collins approved. She did not, however, approve so much of the undead standing in front of her as if to protect her from the formerly armored man - she didn't believe in the idea of chivalry. Mary decided to put this thoughts away for the moment, however: he was probably just reacting to the hunter's reprehensible behaviour. His last threats to the trident-wielding idiot confirmed her predictions: so this really was an ancient vampire, and powerful, as well.
The brown haired stick insect proceeded to speak next, his tone initially far more serene than the vampire's. Mary Collins didn't fully trust this one: his eyes seemed more lifeless than the vampire, but that was probably because he was lying. And he was lying, of course: the "creatures" didn't only apply to herself and the undead. Now that she was closer, she could smell a faint scent of fur around his person: interesting. He didn't fit the look of a veterinary, and she doubted he was as harmless as he tried to be. Nevertheless, he seemed to be the most inclined to take the diplomatic approach out of the trio of "creatures".
This misunderstanding was shattered when Mary Collins heard the growl, and saw the eyes. They didn't seem unhuman, they were something different altogether.
Even so, she followed his cue.
"Do try and listen to these two, you silly man." Mary Collins said, as if talking to a particularly problematic child, and pushed the accusing finger away with her hand. "If I had anything to do with your new weapons, I'd have turned that trident into something less propense to to stabbing someone's eye out. Like a plastic fork, or maybe a toothbrush. Not that I'm sure you should be trusted with even that." She rummaged in her handbag, as if looking for something, and continued talking.
"We all do seem to bit on edge, man, and if we are these creatures you seem to be so, then trying to intimidate a particularly neurotic trio of them wouldn't quite be the best of ideas, yes?" She took out a small spray can with a spidery handwriting written over it, and firmly held it to the height of the man's face, while not pressing the trigger on the can. "While you reflect on this, however, I should say that if you don't remove your face, hand, and attached fingers from my close proximity in about five seconds, I'll be forced to use this on your lovely visage." Mary Collins said bluntly, arm outstretched. "This may be pepper."
Leslie finished off a small plate of hors d'oeuvres then eyed the door to the house’s library, wondering if she could find an old book to take home as a Christmas present. She started towards it, then spotted her uncle’s cat out of the corner of her eye, and, with classical childish excitement, raced after it.
It headed upwards and Leslie climbed too, losing a shoe on the way up. Up staircase after staircase after staircase after staircase after staircase the duo traveled, neither slowing down until the pursuer tripped over her long green skirt, and, in her hesitation, sight of the dog.
The teen cursed, quite graphically. Where the heck had that tiny dog taken her damn shoe? They weren’t just any shoes, they were her Aunt Aislynn’s old heirloom slippers with the magical stone powder in the sole. The fact that she didn’t quite fully understand their use yet was irrelevant, goddamn it. How the hell had the mutt even gotten in that crap motel, anyway? How had he gotten out…? She spied an open window at the end of the hall and- admittedly impulsively- crawled out through it into the sunlight.
She fell to the ground, landing on sand and smelling sweat and salt as she squinted her eyes in search of the beast. Not detecting him, she began walking towards the boardwalk, reasoning that animals would seek out food in most situations. She couldn’t quite remember what she was chasing or why as she crossed the burning sand, then wood… It was such a hot day… She weaved aimlessly through bodies until she came to a group that appeared on the verge of a fight and curiosity took over. In what was less an actual inquiry and more a bid to find out what could bring - well, not a diverse group, given they were all white, fairly young adults- but any group together and subsequently apart on such a dreamy beach day, she cleared her throat. It was more shy then demanding, and she followed it with the words, “Excuse me, have any of you seen a…” She trailed off and knitted her eyebrows together. What was it she was looking for again? Oh, right. “... Dog?” she finished, the higher note of the question’s end cut off by the sudden appearance of the gigantic mongrel, darting wildly through the group, with enough force to knock down a grown man. It dropped her shoe on the way through. “Speak of the devil…” she muttered, picking up her stolen possession.
It headed upwards and Leslie climbed too, losing a shoe on the way up. Up staircase after staircase after staircase after staircase after staircase the duo traveled, neither slowing down until the pursuer tripped over her long green skirt, and, in her hesitation, sight of the dog.
The teen cursed, quite graphically. Where the heck had that tiny dog taken her damn shoe? They weren’t just any shoes, they were her Aunt Aislynn’s old heirloom slippers with the magical stone powder in the sole. The fact that she didn’t quite fully understand their use yet was irrelevant, goddamn it. How the hell had the mutt even gotten in that crap motel, anyway? How had he gotten out…? She spied an open window at the end of the hall and- admittedly impulsively- crawled out through it into the sunlight.
She fell to the ground, landing on sand and smelling sweat and salt as she squinted her eyes in search of the beast. Not detecting him, she began walking towards the boardwalk, reasoning that animals would seek out food in most situations. She couldn’t quite remember what she was chasing or why as she crossed the burning sand, then wood… It was such a hot day… She weaved aimlessly through bodies until she came to a group that appeared on the verge of a fight and curiosity took over. In what was less an actual inquiry and more a bid to find out what could bring - well, not a diverse group, given they were all white, fairly young adults- but any group together and subsequently apart on such a dreamy beach day, she cleared her throat. It was more shy then demanding, and she followed it with the words, “Excuse me, have any of you seen a…” She trailed off and knitted her eyebrows together. What was it she was looking for again? Oh, right. “... Dog?” she finished, the higher note of the question’s end cut off by the sudden appearance of the gigantic mongrel, darting wildly through the group, with enough force to knock down a grown man. It dropped her shoe on the way through. “Speak of the devil…” she muttered, picking up her stolen possession.
Impatiently, Alvus waved a hand at the newcomer. His pride did not take well to being interrupted, and he finished the last few minutes of his description of the great capital of Arodlan before sparing her a second glance.
"Off with you, Theodice."
The boy rose sheepishly from his seat, head ducked at the jealous stares from his friends, and followed the woman out the door.
Her blonde hair was glossy in the cracks of daylight through the windows. Theodice's gaze flitted to and from her shyly as he walked one pace behind her.
There was something familiar about her poised figure, and the slope of the braid down her back. Memories stood on the tip of his remembering. Perhaps she was a maidservant? But, no, her dress was too ornate. A lady-in-waiting would be otherwise his assumption, but she did not seem quite aged enough to be tutor to the Lord's wife. It was likely she was a visiting relative, which was a far worse verdict, for Theodice would be greatly ashamed to be exposed in his ignorance.
"Who is it that expects me, and where do you take me, milady?" Theodice queried. He thought to find out her name another way, his concentration on tiptoe though he could not meet her eyes to jog his memory. Perhaps with the turning of conversation, she might let slip who she is some other way.
It may be a beguiling method, but that was often the method that nobles were wont to use.
"Off with you, Theodice."
The boy rose sheepishly from his seat, head ducked at the jealous stares from his friends, and followed the woman out the door.
Her blonde hair was glossy in the cracks of daylight through the windows. Theodice's gaze flitted to and from her shyly as he walked one pace behind her.
There was something familiar about her poised figure, and the slope of the braid down her back. Memories stood on the tip of his remembering. Perhaps she was a maidservant? But, no, her dress was too ornate. A lady-in-waiting would be otherwise his assumption, but she did not seem quite aged enough to be tutor to the Lord's wife. It was likely she was a visiting relative, which was a far worse verdict, for Theodice would be greatly ashamed to be exposed in his ignorance.
"Who is it that expects me, and where do you take me, milady?" Theodice queried. He thought to find out her name another way, his concentration on tiptoe though he could not meet her eyes to jog his memory. Perhaps with the turning of conversation, she might let slip who she is some other way.
It may be a beguiling method, but that was often the method that nobles were wont to use.
"Guest 5 is headed for the other Guests and carrying the instability along. Guests are noticing. Risk of collapse is rising quickly."
"Take care of it!"
The little girl from before returned, chasing after the dog and giggling. When she came to the now-larger group, she looked up at them with big eyes and a disarming smile.
"Hi again!" she declared, and tilted her head. "Somethin' wrong? Everybody's got grumpy faces!" Her attention focused on the one person in particular that the others seemed upset with. "Mister, why you angry at my friends? Here, this'll help!"
The child produced a daisy from behind her back and head it out to the man.
The young woman who only moments before had seemed a timid, proper thing now grinned back at Theodice and giggled girlishly. "Well me, of course! But you don't think old Alvus would have let me take you if I'd been honest, do you?"
"Take care of it!"
The little girl from before returned, chasing after the dog and giggling. When she came to the now-larger group, she looked up at them with big eyes and a disarming smile.
"Hi again!" she declared, and tilted her head. "Somethin' wrong? Everybody's got grumpy faces!" Her attention focused on the one person in particular that the others seemed upset with. "Mister, why you angry at my friends? Here, this'll help!"
The child produced a daisy from behind her back and head it out to the man.
The young woman who only moments before had seemed a timid, proper thing now grinned back at Theodice and giggled girlishly. "Well me, of course! But you don't think old Alvus would have let me take you if I'd been honest, do you?"
Trey saw as the two girls appeared, his attention being split between what he wanted to say to these monsters he had slain for years now and the two new people who had arrived.
This was all becoming too much for him; the sights, the sounds, the feelings... He felt like he would explode.
Until the small girl proffered him a single simple flower, it reminded him of something - something familiar and comforting. And with that all his rage, confusion and (for a lack of a better word) instability seemed to melt away. He was pacified by that singular flower. An iris flower. As if in a trance Trey stared intently at the flower, he was remembering his past - as he did the world around him began to make a bit more sense. Or at the very least he was starting to accept it for what it was.
Trey looked up to the people in front of him, he remembered what they all were but he seemed less agitated by it, more docile. "I... I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Who are you people, what are you all doing here and what is this place?" Trey said, his voice less aggressive and much more subdued.
This was all becoming too much for him; the sights, the sounds, the feelings... He felt like he would explode.
Until the small girl proffered him a single simple flower, it reminded him of something - something familiar and comforting. And with that all his rage, confusion and (for a lack of a better word) instability seemed to melt away. He was pacified by that singular flower. An iris flower. As if in a trance Trey stared intently at the flower, he was remembering his past - as he did the world around him began to make a bit more sense. Or at the very least he was starting to accept it for what it was.
Trey looked up to the people in front of him, he remembered what they all were but he seemed less agitated by it, more docile. "I... I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Who are you people, what are you all doing here and what is this place?" Trey said, his voice less aggressive and much more subdued.
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