** carve // keep.

what is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it?

[bleederudite]

noospherica‌:

    “oh come on, the university would prefer if i wasn’t a house mother at all.”  noah answers honestly, a genuine edge to her smile despite the prickling irritation that always brings to mind.  a dismal separation, like church and state and just as badly adhered to.  professors have favorites.  noah’s no different, but at least this lets her treat them well without it oozing into her teachings.  “this was set up by the board that handles this sorority.  i wanted my own entrance and they weren’t… pleased by it, but paid for this to be built out of what excess funds they had.”  

it’s not that she doesn’t enjoy the company of her girls.  but noah has as many late nights as they do, and knows there are some things young woman want to keep secret.  hell.  things she should probably want to keep secret more than other as well, so the chance for privacy works for all of them.  it’s not like they won’t text her at any hour if they really need something, crucial to them even if not crucial in her own eyes.  

again, another duality.  because as crucial as it is to noah to have ferret get out and play throughout the day, she knows the girls she asks to do so for her over text must roll their eyes or huff at the message.  works like that.  

a small huff leaves her at his words, plenty sassy enough to break her out of her thoughts.  “i could’ve done just about anything for a name, thanks.  but it didn’t feel right to give him a work name, and… work is all i have.  or do.  so some separation felt health.”  she pauses there, pink on her cheeks.  “which kinda sounds pathetic now doesn’t it.  i have no life outside of this, though that’s apparent from the invitation i gave you… most people invite their friends over for coffee and netflix instead of.”

noah makes a motion at all of the papers around her.  it’s a moment of silence as much as an apparent cue, because when rafael breaks it with his promise, so too does ferret.  a small high squealing squeak from his mouth as he war dances across the room, no doubt making himself dizzier by the moment, and rolls over rafael’s shoes.  noah can’t find the words for an appropriate scolding or apology over the redness in her face.  instead busies herself, pretends not to notice, lifting large piles and flipping through messily stapled stacks.  

it’s cute.  a sudden ball of innocence and wily naivety scrabbling at rafael’s slacks, making it almost impossible for noah not to giggle to herself.  

     “finals, yeah.”  noah answers with her eyes fully turning away from him and her ferret now.  “but it’s not that bad, i have less coursework than other teachers who are required or more interesting.  a lot of this is just me… being me.  half finished projects.  different translation attempts that i need to compare and choose a preference out of.  i love a lot going on, and i’m really bad at organizing.”

still, the papers come out eventually.  mostly clean and crisp as well despite having been some of the first pieces noah ever translated with rafael’s books.  holding them in her hands carefully, almost sacred, she carries them over to where rafael sits and joins him on the small couch.   it takes her a moment to offer them out.  half out of worry, instinctual and present.  half out of the warmth of her leg next to his, cool and almost invisible in presence.

    “take your time,” she says in lieu of careful, “it’s probably still not the cleanest it could be.”

"i'm sure the university would prefer plenty of things," rafael points out dryly. "ignore them. i've known quite a few academics, and most of them seemed to be happiest when they were defying the institution." many academics and their institutions exist in a strange kind of relationship, where both are necessary to the other's survival but they never quite manage to get along. too many differences in goals, especially with universities now. profit versus a kind of moral goal. it's one of the longest conflicts in human history, and it's only gotten worse. "well, they can deal with it. i can understand wanting a separate entrance. frankly, i'd never be able to live here, so more power to you."

it's in character, so to speak, for him to say that, considering the luxury of where he currently lives. he likes his own space. living above an entire sorority would be untenable for him. frankly, he doesn't know how noah can do it, but he can't fault her either. perhaps it keeps her busy outside of the everyday rigors of teaching university students.

he's heard just a little, generally, about the controversial existence of this sorority. makes sense, considering the history. to exist on the edge of disapproval like that must be a stressful existence, but maybe it works for noah too. just another way to make the university staff and her superiors uncomfortable but unable to do much without backlash. a neat strategy. if they were on different terms he might even compliment her on it, but he knows that it might offend her.

"fair enough," he says lightly. "i can't judge you. not much of a pet person myself." of course not. a dead thing and animals tend not to mix. a smile flickers across his features. "come on. you know i understand having one thing in your life. you've seen my collection." it's large enough that it could only exist in a human lifespan from someone who both inherited half the texts (the excuse he's used to giving) and someone who refuses to move past this one goal (also not incorrect).

the ferret skitters over and rolls across his shoes. rafael blinks down at it in surprise. he gently nudges it away just a little, but it comes back to concern itself with his dress slacks. alright. he's been in worse scenarios.

"well, if you ever need someone to organize, you've seen my office." everything has a place. "though i can't promise it'll be an organization system you'll like." this is organized chaos. it makes sense to noah and no one else, which is why he doesn't even try to parse anything or help her find the papers. she'll find it eventually. instead, rafael settles back on the couch to wait, watching her go through more and more papers until she finds what she's looking for.

gently, rafael takes the papers from noah and begins to shuffle through them. he does, in fact, take his time. japanese myth translations aren't exactly the thing he's the most versed in, but he's been alive long enough and interested in enough adjacent topics that he knows enough by now.

eventually, though, he finishes going through the pages and neatly stacks them again.

"i could see a few lines that could maybe be cleaned up a little. excess language. but it's difficult, considering how differently it's constructed. mostly here." he taps a finger over one section. "but - it's beautiful so far. i'd love to see more whenever you get that done, or even an edited version of this at some point." he leaves the offer intentionally open. it just depends on what noah gets to first.

[bleederudite]

byzantinc‌:

her smile is almost feral, stretching a bit too wide and holding for a bit too long.  fork tongs scraping across her plate before she lets him rest from the sudden, cold white noise.  “oh, you’re a brave little bambi aren’t you?  i admire that, darling.  admire all of your confidence as you try to read my mannerisms.  please, endear to me in a game of sorts and guess what written words would fascinate me.  what do you think i’ve read and taken joy in, what sort of papers have fallen apart in my hands from being touched over and over again?”  she says it like a challenge, almost like a threat.  

it’s what he’s drawn from her.  if he wants fire, there’s no reason not to give it to him.  children, older or not, need to learn lessons.  it seems that his mind and common sense haven’t developed as much as his age should have allowed them to.  erzsébet wonders if that helps his mother keep him in place.  a broken minded child is a worthy child, the only kind that’s safe to stay in the same reality where you exist.  

clever astarte.  she almost admires the woman for it.

     “we are a dramatic species, are we not?  built around it for the sake of our survival.  life is cheap. and dull.  when you live as long as we do, there is no time or sanity for things that are dull and cheap.  were this not true i would be horrified by this beast of our sibling, but alas.  i can claim understanding of them – we all can.”   erzsébet gives no options for his denial of this.  setting her fork down and flicking her fingers as the waitress shifts, her scent changing at the motion.  nervous.  eager, as well, always good to tell when she’s hungry for another creature to sink her pretty little fangs into.  “it is their refusal to hide such things that i damn.  tell me darling, do you prefer seafood?  i’ve chosen such for our entree.”

on command, the young woman returns.  lobster tails presented to them as other plates are taken away no question if rafael has finished his appetizer or wishes to keep it.  fresh forks.  erzsébet hums as she lets her fingers touch the waitress’s swinging braid when she walks away, vanishing quickly into the darker lighting of the restaurant.  

she shrugs dismissively.  taking to the meal before her carelessly, tearing the shell as she brings meat to her mouth and chews.  swallows.  “all things are fickle.  vaympires more than most.”

such as him, now.  does he think she’s such a fool?   erzsébet would laugh if she thought it proper, if she didn’t think the act would make her tear him into pieces a moment later.  “your intrigue is desire enough.  and i would take that as my side of payment, befitting that you would undeniably read whatever was found before offering it back to me.”  

she's angry. good. that means the lines have been set. as if any dominion member is truly passive or as dour as he makes himself seem on a regular basis. he thinks that it is, rather, quite healthy to let some honesty through. strategically so. if everything about the way he conducted himself was false, rafael would have found a way to end that wretched version of his existence centuries ago. there's nothing fun about it. so her fork scrapes, slow and repetitive, and he smiles right back.

"what a challenging question to ask," he says mildly. no anger at all. no worry. just placid and calm. "it would be an easier question by far to think of things that must infuriate you. jane eyre, for example, must infuriate you since i believe you would prefer miss bertha mason between both of rochester's erstwhile wives." bertha mason, the woman turned mad and feral, violent and hateful, and yet never let out from her cage. a tragedy, surely, to bathory. "have you read we have always lived in the castle? more recent, but something you might enjoy." eighteen year old merricat, furious and violent and undeniably strange, who kills her whole family in a fit of cunning rage and feels no remorse for it. and then she burns the house down, letting herself live in the woods with her sister, separate from society. shirley jackson was always good at writing scenarios where morality is slanted and wrong to the human eye, and something that perhaps made sense to a creature such as a vampyre.

some might go with more common examples like lady macbeth. rafael, however much he enjoys shakespeare, will only relegate himself to that if necessary. he likes a broader perspective on literature, beyond the classics. 

"i suppose we all can," he agrees. genial. no real sound of impact or anger in his voice. she can think that he is violent and uncontrolled. he is certainly violent, even if he waits and waits to indulge that impulse. there is nothing he hates more, though, than an uncontrolled action. precision, and nothing else. "the total lack of subtlety is the most worthy thing to be condemned, i agree." he pauses as the girl approaches. "i enjoy seafood well enough. a lovely choice, though, as expected." he removes the tail fins neatly, casual.

the thing is that he'll ask for something later, or he'll just quietly build up a longer and longer list of favors. he would never be so crass as to demand something so simply. "i'm afraid you're quite right about my interest. i will warn you that it will likely take some time and some convincing. he is stubborn, but not impossibly so. or perhaps it won't take long at all. it depends on his mood and whether or not he feels he's been wronged in the past week by someone. an eccentric man, even by vampyric standards." it's possible rafael has something on him, enough to force the issue. it could honestly go either way. he does not need to talk about the various ways that the issue can unfold, because he's already thought it through.

[bleederudite]

parliansyren‌:

from the man’s voice, gatsby feels an expectation.  loaded into every word within his statement and question like bullets to chambers, he has presumptions set and burned into his mind already.  such a terrible habit of creatures set in their own ways, meandering through life as though already so keenly aware of all that happens around them.  gatsby can tolerate them.  has no dislike, but a distaste in his own throat when lured into conversation with one of their type.  

even that smile is empty of a true meaning.  paper people, he thinks when he sees it.  as thin and as tacky as a string of them hung in the doorway of a child’s classroom.  lacking the vibrant colors when made up as an adult.  “you don’t need to apologize,” gatsby says absently as he leans on his forearms.  “we stay open any hours.  legality is an issue now.”

what he means is: you don’t mean your apology.  what he truly means is: you don’t need to say something that’s not sincere to me, i don’t want it.  

words are absolutely useless when they lack meaning.  it makes gatsby itch, like rot beneath scales or inside of teeth just waiting to be pulled free from the aching maw that contains them.  he twists the gum in his mouth and chews down hard on it until the urge to grind his own teeth to teeth against one another.  like all things, it passes quickly.  

     “longer.  the owner hired me to fix his business.”  gatsby says this as though it’s a nothing fact, not an oddity.  “i know collectors.  sellers.  i know people.  it’s a combination you need for a store like this, and he started it on a whim.  had none of that.” 

that, at least, is true.  an older man with an older point of view on how to do things, and a single syren song to convince him to hand over reigns and keys.  poor thing.  gatsby makes sure he gets plenty of money twice a month to live off of, feed the belief that he’s now a silent partner in his own business. 

after a moment, he hovers near a collection of audiobooks. he's never been fond of them, but he can see the convenience of them, even now. his fingers brush along some of the cases, flicking through them, the heavy thunk of plastic against plastic as each case collides with the one behind it. he uses that sound to fill silence, impact making up for everything else. when he walked into the shop, he paid attention. syrens always have a certain aura, and the singing said enough. their voices are some of their best tools, besides the sharpness of their scales.

dominion, of course, has a renewed interest in syrens ever since their more recent contact with the surface world. a faction now present instead of glaringly absent.

"it's still quite impolite of me," rafael says, "to impede your way home too much. i'll take my leave soon enough." of course. he is polite most of the time, careful about what he says and does. offense only happens when it's more useful to him than a kind of cold civility. it's not particularly sincere, yes, but civility is still civility. it still has the same results whether or not he really means it.

he tilts his head a little at the explanation for the start of the store. so from nothing to something across the exchange of hands. "you certainly seem to be doing that. some good contacts and a few good collectors make all the difference in the world." he taps his fingers on the edge of a display. "do you know neil morris, over in rapid city? he's got an enormous vinyl collection, and he's old enough now where he occasionally looks to get rid of a few rare records. let someone else listen to them, or so he says." of course rafael knows other collectors. he focuses on texts, but inevitably you learn about others, a web of contacts stretching around the globe. some are human. some are not.

the man in rapid city is, but he was born with money and has poured the excess over years into his predilections.

[bleederudite]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “oh, if you’re not a native you’re a common visitor.  the truth is that simple though, you got it in one.  i’ve never known new york to really give a damn unless something is absolutely crucial.  the younger ones huff and puff more, but they have hearts even bigger than mine.  which, if you ask my dearest, is saying a lot.”  alec smiles with some dry humor there.  “which sounds a bit fake to me considering that here i am, talking to a stranger.  they don’t do that so much these days from what i see.”

it’s not a critique, more just a statement.  one sacred truth next to the others that alec maintains as he sips his drink.  already over halfway empty with the passage of time drawing him closer to another blissed out state of liquor’s influence.  this man is good company.  relaxing company, he doesn’t have the urge to still himself or lower his drink early.  maybe that’s a bad thing.  good company can lead to bad things, the things that have left alec feeling shameful and dirty in the past.  

maybe it’s a weakness for beautiful men.  or just weakness, period.  people and weakness are two of alec’s biggest personality traits if he had the right to choose them.

     “most of them don’t even know what i look like.  that’s one of the funniest things to me, i attend and wear nice clothing.  but anyone who strikes up conversation with me who isn’t my agent, well, they most often just guess that i’m another guest.  it’s exhausting.”  alec rolls his eyes a bit as he speaks.  flips his ankles over one another.  “if i’m honest though you don’t seem the type to enjoy such things.  more to play the game.”

he stretches out in his chair.  almost sprawled to pieces, enough to be embarrassing tomorrow when he remembers this.  “well you know my first name, don’t you?  or did i forget to introduce myself?  because with that and what i’ve said you could let my agent in on this dirty little secret of mine and then i’d be damned to the proper movements.”  still he can’t help but pause at the last part.  consider this other man, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as he almost raises his glass again.  sips from it like an homage.  

the urge is there, but alec avoids it.  laughs instead.  

     “any rich bastard doesn’t draw my humor in any good way.  it’s been two years in this state and i still don’t recognize most of them as anything but rich bastards, as hypocritical as i am.”

"a common visitor would be right. i haven't lived there myself." not in this lifetime, at any rate. living this long is a question of language more than anything - what do you say, and how do you say it? of course rafael's lived in new york. plenty of collectors there, and plenty of vampyres. no reason for him not to. but he makes his knowledge sound secondhand, or like it's been a while. he isn't particularly fond or not of new york city. it is, however, a place where things are always happening. some immortals live there for most of their lives and still find things to do.

he shrugs mildly. can't judge them. humanity changes but sometimes it doesn't. there is always a moral crisis, and if it isn't the internet then it's television, and if it's not television it's radio, and so on and so forth, all the way back to the invention of the printing press. it is just newer ways to distract yourself. he has never bought into the panic about it. "they'll work it out," he says plainly. "people have a way of doing that. besides, rarely did i find those kinds of conversations particularly thrilling when i was younger." useful, yes, but not interesting. there is a difference between the two.

some could say that this counts as small talk. but they have jumped past the niceties and the things that make him want to roll his eyes. he's with a talkative and drunk artist, who seems to have plenty of thoughts. like many artists before him.

"just there to make sure it's over with, then. fair. i know plenty of people who show up to those kinds of events and parties as a way of checking something off on a list. so if it makes you feel any better, you aren't alone in that feeling. perhaps other people are just more prone to hide it rather than shutting themselves in a closet." rafael can feel like that depending on the party. some are worse than others. "i'm afraid you really have hit the nail on the head. my enjoyment can at best be called - professional, i suppose."

a small joke at his own expense.

"we did go through usual introductions. so i could go through all that trouble. or i could enjoy your company and worry less." with a first name alone and a good enough eye for it all, he could certainly make things hellish. but it's not worth the trouble. there's too much going on.

rafael smiles down at his class. "i suppose i'm lucky, then. rich, comfortably so, but i can take comfort in not also being a bastard."

[bleederudite]

noospherica‌:

     “they seem consistently dangerous,” noah assures him as she glances over her shoulder towards where he lingers, seems to hesitate a few steps behind her before following.  “but i don’t really care anymore.  if i step the same and i weigh the same, it probably won’t break on me.  that or i trust that i can grab onto the railing attached to the house before anything terrible happens if they do go.”  it seems like a sarcastic way to think about it, but noah thinks he’d find it funny.  even if he’s more focused on the stairs beneath his boots than she had expected, with his eyes cast downwards until he joins her at the top.  smiles.  slips past her into her home.  

closing the door behind them, noah takes a moment to exist inside of her home.  From the messy bed with blankets and sheets and different pillows to the desk, far more cutesy and eclectic than the one in her office.  garlands of dusty white pom poms hang across the ceiling with fairy lights wrapped around them.  rugs on the floor, varied in appearance and texture.  a small couch.  a chair.  books and plants and books and the door leading to her bathroom, the window near by bedside table, and–

pink in noah’s cheeks.  she inhales, and slips past rafael to kneel in front of the enclosure.  pretty toys and beds of woven fabrics and feathers fill most of the enclosure, with a straw bottom and water bottle attached to the side for suckling from.  there’s no need for a late night feeding; noah knows that the ferret inside is scrabbling at its bars for attention from her instead.  she begins to work the clasps keeping it shut – wily creature, would get free without them – and only remembers to answer rafael when halfway done.

     “yeah, this is uh– i mean.  it’s ferret.  that’s his name, he’s a champagne ferret because of his coloring.  i’m sorry i totally forgot, but it’s late and he needs to run around or he’ll never let me sleep through the night.”  noah’s face is hot but she doesn't’ give him any attempt to argue as she opens the last clasp and pulls the door open, hand out to act as an improvised ramp for her ferret to scrabble down.  tiny feet hit the floor and immediately her ferret goes zooming towards the other side of the room.  

war dance and all.  what a way to try and make noah feel even slightly more embarrassed.

     “ignore him.”  noah says, shaking her head as she stands again.  “he won’t ignore you probably, but uh.  ignore him.  and you can sit down if you want while i– try to find my damn papers–”  she busies herself even as she speaks, reaching for the pile on her desk to start shuffling through.  a combination of essays and prompts, her handwriting and those of students.  dizzying.  not what she wants.  in the distance her ferret is gnawing on something paper, and noah chooses not to feel panic over the idea of what he might have found.  

despite himself, rafael chuckles a little. it's a very human thing - the jokes at their own expense, the awareness of their own mortality that sticks to them stronger than the scent of blood. "how brave of you," he says dryly. "so does the university not care what happens to its professors, or do they assume that the stairs are stable enough considering you've never showed up to class with a broken limb - at least, not yet?" rafael does generally assume that the university cares little about its more human professors. he knows, of course, of saint leviathan. he learned about it before he even arrived here. he isn't really concerned about the stairs himself. he would be fine. but it's the affectation.

there are little things you do to look human. you worry about falling, and about a limited lifespan. surely almost every human author has, at one time or another, written something small about death, even something that they keep hidden in hard drives or inside the many pages of notebooks. it's a pervasive anxiety for them.

that anxiety about death and the need for companionship, two essential human concerns. noah exudes both, especially considering the treatment of the ferret. the thing has so many toys and decorations in its cage that it's practically living like a human. he lets her work at it. no need to get too close. he is a dead thing, in one regard, and most animals aren't particularly fond of that as a general rule. but he makes sure to look interested.

ferret. of course. rafael's expression cracks into a smile. "it's alright. no pet likes to be caged. but - i have to ask, noah, i'm sorry. you're studying myth and legends and you couldn't come up with a name for your ferret?" the animal in question is running around the room, scampering and getting underneath and into things. that alone is why rafael could never own a pet. the idea of it getting into everything he owns is innately horrific, but noah doesn't seem to care. or maybe his presence alone is setting everything off-balance that she hasn't really noticed yet.

"i'll try to ignore him," he promises, finding an end of the couch that puts some distance between him and the ferret. he suspects it will leave him alone, and that's something he's perfectly fine with. "we have enough time for you to find it, even with the curfew. i can see that it's a quite busy time for you right now." the piles of papers say enough. on principle, rafael reaches over to flick through a few pieces of paper on the coffee table. probably student essays. nothing of interest, but he figures he might as well try and help her find her papers. "finals right now, isn't it? i don't know anything about this university's schedule." of course. pretend he knows less. ask for information. let noah fill in the blanks herself.

distinctly, rafael can hear the ferret chewing on something that crinkles. definitely paper. noah’ll notice sooner or later.

[bleederudite]

divinefelt‌:

the dragyn chuckles.  surely astarte hadn’t had zahra in mind when this place was designed.  no , it was made for more subtle creatures.  a simple kiss on the neck in the middle of the dance floor wouldn’t raise any suspicians.  

on the other hand , if she were to sate her hunger with something a little more raw …  

eyes scan the crowds as she envisions such actions.  her smile grows wider.  what chaos it would cause.  but she would never do such a thing to her dearest friend.  

❝    what about the wolves ?  do you cater to them ?   ❞   her feeding habits could perhaps be more likened to them than the vaympires.

young vampyres sometimes show up to the club. it's easy for rafael to pick them out, the sallowness, the hunger that they don't seem to know how to handle. once or twice he's intervened when he's been around. because they feed too much. they make themselves too obvious. rafael has seen, more than a few times, the damage that an uncontrollable young vampyre can do. he's had to clean it up as a magistrate. it's annoying work, but someone has to do it.

or at least, they have to try to intervene. before something too large to hide happens.

but tonight is not one of those nights. the crowds are as placid as the club gets, which isn't particularly placid, but the bloody nature of it all seems to be carefully hidden.

rafael chuckles. "that would be quite the thought," he says. "perhaps in some back rooms. but certainly not out here, in all of this." he gestures vaguely out towards the crowd. "we wouldn't want to scare them - at least, not any more than what they'd enjoy."

[bleederudite]

parliansyren‌:

WHERE: metronome, rapid hills WHEN: 8:00 pm WHO: @bleederudite SONG: ilomilo, billie eilish

he stays open late tonight.  pushing to the very edge of curfew, keenly aware how few truly obey it and instead form convincing lies and crocodile tears for police officers who may find them on the roads and sidewalks after dark.  it is not for the fact of someone who could buy music.  these hours belong to clubs and restaurants trying to squeeze final dollars out of their patrons.  indeed, it’s hardly for want of anything himself when the store has been organized.  cleaned and adjusted as much as he needs, after the live act of the evening left a few hours ago with their tips and instrument in hand.  even the stock of the back room has been shifted as per his new whims.  

no, gatsby does not stay open for reasonable options.  he stays open for a man who has wandered the displays upwards of an hour, yet said not a word to him.

maybe that’s not particularly odd.  some people come in browse, simply see what he sells and coo over the oddities, smile when nostalgia awakens within their bellies.  yet these are often the ones with partners or a will to speak to gatsby, if lacking immediate connection to anyone else.  the lonely souls.  wanderers who use these places as a way to fill themselves on communication until they feel gluttonous and gorged, yet wholly content to have put the beast of empty rooms and swirling minds to bed for another day.  

and once again, gatsby is reminded the man has not spoken to him.  if he is weak to the thrall of the songs that gatsby sings it would be one thing, but those types are woozy.  fluttering like dancers finishing a bottle of wine and clinging to their partner’s arms to keep themselves upright.  not purposeful, hunched some but focused enough that gatsby’s eyebrows are pushing into his hair.  perhaps, he thinks, the goal is to touch everything within metronome.  he can understand that goal even if it will be impossible, gallery walls of one of a kind offerings too high up for anyone’s hands to reach without a ladder.

for the first time within the hour, gatsby stops singing.  removes his gum from where it has been tucked against his molars and chews it before blowing a bubble large, wavering, and letting it linger.  he pops it with a fingernail.  beneath all that music, it’s almost deafening.  

     “we close in half an hour.”  gatsby says, strands of blue bubblegum clinging to his lips damp and tacky all at once.  “to get home before the city shuts down.”

stores like this are often equally likely to disappoint rafael as they are to enthuse him. he likes old things. he likes things that most people would consider archaic, and he likes novelty. the books and texts are his main collection, but here and there, he has collected other things ever since the advent of recorded sound. it is not as vast nor as expansive, but he does like music. always has. the curfew has made it quite a hassle to actually find the store open when rafael is usually roaming, the dark as close to him as anything else. but he got lucky tonight, it seems.

organized chaos. that's what he would call the store. the aisles aren't quite perfect. he has found several shelves that reveal smaller storage spaces when moved. it is what he would politely call whimsical, or at minimum eclectic, and no one would probably disagree with that characterization.. he's noticed the owner singing along to some of the songs here and there, voice half-garbled behind the gum he seems to like to chew.

there is a part of rafael that is very aware that he is probably imposing upon the man's life with the lateness and the fact that he seems entirely unable to hurry. but he seems remarkably unconcerned about it, taking his time. here and there, a record or two catches his eye. he peruses with the aura of someone who has not been concerned with time in a long while and scarcely remembers it. it is a part of his personality that leaks through when he is in places like this - libraries, and archives, and record shops too. maybe it's just because it's what grabs his interest. maybe it's being alive for too long.

the pop of the gum grabs rafael's attention. he doesn't even seem quite surprised. rather, there is a stop. then he rotates to look back at the counter, in time to hear the owner's voice.

then, the blankly gracious smile. "of course," rafael says. "my apologies. i keep odd hours, and i sometimes forget others don't do the same." placating. quiet. "though, while i have the chance: you do have an extraordinary collection for such a new store. usually it takes a few years for stores to build up a stock like this, but you've been here - what, a few weeks? a month?"

new enough that he hasn't been before. here enough that the owner seems comfortable, none of the jittery nerves of a new owner desperately trying to shepherd a new business into success.

[bleederudite]

byzantinc‌:

     “so you do – so we all do.  a befitting use for mornings with bright sun, i suppose.  but then we no doubt has different tastes, and as such any debates of the written word we have would be far more interesting.”  as though the idea of any such conversations truly interests her, but pretending is no harm.  he’ll have to clue in sooner than later that any small talk is nothing but false niceties to draw him along as far as she wants him to go.  a monster is a monster.  let her be cunning and clever, so long as he goes along with it everything will be fine.  have the conversations.  eat the meal.  stay in his position on the ladder without gunning for any thrones.  

que sera, sera.  he’s left himself up to the fates the moment he chose not to chase after his mother’s throat all those hundreds of years ago.

a good enough agony for erzsébet to take particular joys in, to swish through her mind as wine in the mouth before swallowing.  slide it across the palette, she thinks.  let it touch every bit of you before settling into your insides and festering to its rotting death there. 

     “i wouldn’t consider it ritualistic; at least there’s no religious intent behind it if it’s one of our fellow fools.  if one of our bastards have chosen to do such a thing then they choose this ritual out of the same reason a serial killer does.  we kill,” erzsébet adds almost dreamily, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “to as they say… ‘get off.’  rituals i believe would have more displays around them – candles and gems or herbs.  but you speak like you wish to blame a wytch for this trauma, not our own kin.”  

she raises an eyebrow over her fork and the raw meat clinging to it.  redder than her mouth, it stains her pink lipstick a darker color in splashes and shades.  it’s nothing compared to the taste of prey or the freshness of it.  raw, yes, but gods there’s no heartbeat still reverberating through the muscles.  just the reminiscing burn of a knife’s cold cut from the chef who prepared their appetizers not moments ago.  it reminds her of anna.  so does rafael in some ways, were he more cunning and cutthroat.  more likely to cut than to talk his enemies to death; anna was never quite afraid of blood.  

whether she was hungry for it, erzsébet can’t be certain.  never truly gave a damn enough to ask, and has no care for it now.  but she acted far more than she imagines rafael ever has in his long, ancient life.  at least anna smiled when erzsébet commanded their evenings like she knew what was happening.  this sweet fool, she notes, tries to hide it.  

laughing sweetly, erzsébet dips her head.  “so you can, but i imagine you have one sensation far louder than the other within you.”  unlike him, she refuses to pause or hesitate.  another gentle tap of fork to plate, another removal of meat.  the gentle circular shape begins to waver.  egg yolk freshly burst with golden yellow rushing down the beef.  “why slovakians are cunning.  they rarely enjoy to speak of their lives, let alone give away pieces of it… so i wonder, darling, what sort of thing you would earn from speaking to him on my behalf?  that is an awfully large headache to take on for a stranger.”

he doesn't believe her. he doesn't believe her because he has spent long enough in close proximity to the high council. rafael listens to the rumors, and rarely does he believe them, but he takes them into account. he takes everything into account in that way. so his smile curls just a little more pointed, and a little worse, strategically so. "usually i dislike being too forward, but i will say that i doubt debates on the written word are what you prefer to take up your time. they would interest me very much, but i would hardly wish to take up your time with something that you probably view as... trite at best." he sounds like he doesn't care much about this fact. it's just something else to take into account.

of course, it's a little more than that. it's like battle lines between them. here is where you end and here is where i begin.

he tilts his head. "quite true. i wouldn't blame a wytch - at least, not one that is still a wytch. although you never know what they were before joining our ranks. it could be a leftover predilection. or they could have no motive beyond attention. some do have a flair for the dramatic." bathory would know, he's sure. there are only two reasons to keep a book like the one she so desires. either as a meticulous record, neurotic and obsessed, or to luxuriate in the memory of each and every kill. he can guess which one she is. she does not come off as neurotic. but she is someone who likes to luxuriate - in the blood of young women, if the stories hold any truth.

he thinks they do, to a degree. no story is entirely fact. but no story is entirely false, at least none of the good ones.

there is a way he likes to set himself up with each and every high council member that he meets. each version of him is different, fine tuned to stroke egos in the right way. the exception is, of course, astarte. the rest meet rafael as he likes himself to be perceived - quiet, thoughtful, educated. he does not overextend. he knows boundaries. he certainly does not engage in slaughter, as if he has simply forgotten the person he was after everything fell apart.

sometimes you can hold yourself and your worst impulses together, like two sides of a coin, and each day weight it so that the coin comes down on the correct side. he reaches for the wine instead. "that may be true," he says, "but those feelings are fickle and certainly trade places across moments."

of course she assumes he wants something. incorrect. he wants nothing right now. there is always later to want. then he laughs, light, and takes a sip of wine. "firstly, he owes me a favor anyway. i helped him obtain a painting he was quite interested in a few years back. and secondly, the idea of such a text interests me. not as much as it interests you, i'm certain, but nevertheless. consider me intrigued."

[bleederudite]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “risky, but i find it’s worth it.  larger cities are far more dangerous, but i think it’s surprising in a small package like deadwood.  no one knows what to do when the population around them isn’t a number that you can easily quantify with whoever died –”  alec clears his throat and waves his glass slightly in the air as though to chase away the bad taste such words could leave behind.  “don’t take that badly, i feel awful for the victims and their families.  but new york city would shiver and walk the other way, not crumble apart like deadwood is, and that’s very odd to me.”

that’s a lot of words all at once.  he’s not even sure what he said at first, just that the lolling in his glass is beautiful and the stiffness of his suit is making his skin crawl with the urge to strip it all off and away.  after a moment his resistance falls apart, and alec finds himself tugging his arms out of the sleeves.  remiss to let go of his glass, but relieved for the thicker fabric falling away to pool around the seat of his chair.  

a small grin pulls at his mouth, picking the glass up again.  just to hold it.  feel the coolness against the skin of his palms.  

rubbing his fingers through the condensation building upon each side, he makes a small sound of assent.  dips his head towards the other man.  “you know what i find to be most convenient for escapes and those sort of things?”  he asks like he’ll wait for an answer – hardly has the patience this evening.  “a broom closet.  not particularly cozy, sure, but they’re empty and ignored.  and if you’re fond of illegal things that cause smoke… no better pace.” 

now how that grin grows.  stretches through his face until alec is laughing softly, shoulders shaking and hand covering his mouth to hide the smile painted there.  he’s not sure if he’s embarrassed or not.  just knows that the act feels appropriate instinctively.  

     “and now you have dirt on me.  a good thing in return for niceties though, i’d wager.”  

"no, no. i wouldn't take that kind of thing poorly. dynamics like that are always a numbers game." rafael tips back some more of his drink, enough to burn just a little. "small towns feel grief more acutely than a city. they always do. it's... communal grief, as far as i can tell. cities encourage private suffering - which i sometimes think i prefer. even maitland has people who like to pry as their main hobby, whereas no one cares what you do in new york as long as you don't hold up the subway system." he sounds like he's been there because he has.

just not in a few years. but recently enough that he can talk with authority on the subject.

he glances over as the man finally peels off his jacket. makes sense. the whole time he's looked like he's halfway to clawing himself out of it, desperately trying to release himself from some unseen shackles. rafael, on the oother hand, is quite comfortable in something so formal. he likes the layer it provides between himself and the world - a costume, a particular kind of affectation. but he doesn't fault alec either. sometimes you just want to try to forget the things you do, even temporarily.

there's a pause, and then a smile. rafael picks his smiles carefully. this one is friendly but with mild disbelief, something that just settles into outright amusement. nothing condemning in it. he doesn't even seem particularly surprised by it, which either says something about him or alec. it's hard to say which. "not a bad idea if you hate such events. then you can still say you attended and were present and no one can disagree, and by the time you're forced back out into the gauntlet, things are surely at least a little more tolerable."

he shrugs. "not much to do with it. it's not like i'm going to compulsively check broom closets at every party i'm at just in case you might be in one. so if there's anyone you'd like to specifically target as a source of ire, you can tell me that too. i probably know them." he eyes his glass, and then glances over at alec. "and there's a good chance i agree. they're like coworkers. i know them, but i don't have to enjoy their presence."

[bleederudite]

ancientastarte‌:

“ Be careful, my child.” She warns. Confidence is one of the traits of a leader, but in excess can and will lead to failure. Every choice and every step are a gamble. If one believes to be always sure of his steps and doesn’t look back to learn from the past disgrace will soon catch up and be a sour reminder. “ Your confidence makes you shine,  but can also make you fall.”  She raises her hand to touch his face, a motherly gesture with a feral side visible in her eyes. “ If something was to happen to you I will kill them all. Giving me people to love is not wise, Rafael.”

He knows how dangerously unhinged his mother really his. Rafael didn’t have the pleasure of watching first hand the first centuries of her reign as the blood queen. The pure madness and lust for battle and carnage. It’s true that Astarte and Baál brought order into the lands of the East, destruction precedes order. And that’s exactly what they did. Until the queen lost the rest of her dubious sanity when the emperor faked his assassination  and decided that watching all fall to the ground was the best option. 

Caging a hurricane inside such a small form is bound to rattle her control. Consider her very  rattled after recent events.

“ He faults us for trying to move on. No matter how many centuries passed my heart could never forget him. I lived with a ghost in my memory when he was alive and mocking my pain. ” A selfish part of her wishes that Rafael may never find his mate and hear the sound of a shattered soul. His. It echoes and continues to echo for lifetimes.  "I have had enough. Besides I doubt that he will look for either of us…the last time we talked didn´t end well. And my dear husband is rather busy at the Lusty Lady. “ Even after everything, Astarte still considers Baál hers. Rather pitiful in her opinion. Where the fuck is your pride? A voice screams inside her head and is quickly silenced. ” Would you take care of everything if I was to take a short trip?“

"i still remember the past," he reassures her. "we know i love nothing more than records of the past and present. but i'll still tread carefully. there are so many things in motion at the moment, within dominion and outside of it. i've been treading carefully." there's a softness to it, a quiet reassurance. "and here i was worried that south dakota would be quite boring. one of the times i've been proven wrong, i suppose." a little joke about confidence there, too. rafael really did think this would be an uneventful post.

he can't remember the last time he was quite so wrong in recent memory.

still, though, he reaches up to cover her hand  with his, gentle, despite the things that they both know about each other. "if i take risks," he tells her, "they will be necessary and calculated risks. i'm not looking to harm you again. there's been enough harm done." he would never be so short-sighted as to merely say that he won't take risks. that's not how anything works, and they both know that he has goals and aspirations. things that he won't abandon unless absolutely necessary. here and there he has even left in pursuit of those wants, disappeared for a decade or a few at a time and then come back. sometimes he thinks that loyalty is what dominion dislikes, but it isn't something he's quite willing to give up, even with the position that he desires.

he sighs. ignores the twinge in the back of his mind, the guilt that has never quite gone away. he can put it aside, like he puts aside most things. "it's strange. when i was younger, before things were broken, i... never thought he could be that callous. i suppose it was good i learned then that he was just as selfish as so many are. i would love if he would stay away. but any absence, i think, will be temporary. he's made himself known to us. he will certainly do so again."

still, though, he pauses and smiles just a little. "of course i can. though, if i may ask: what is this trip for? and where?"

[bleederudite]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “two years is longer than some people survive in deadwood, these days.”  alec can’t fathom his own humor, the darkness that’s begun to leak into it matches the shadows of the bar.  he tries to dampen it with a smile, soft and weary but present enough to matter.  “but here’s to hoping that we’ll last a bit longer at least.  and yourself, though i hear that maitland is a bit safer.  you have a drive ahead of you though, i hope that you’re considering curfew.  the sheriff here is quite the hard ass.”  

now that grin is even more real.  are garrett’s ears burning, can he tell that someone’s being brave enough to tease him with a cocktail of genuine warmth and humor all together in the words?  he likes to think so just for the sake of that image; the sheriff stiff at his desk trying to think of just what has the back of his neck prickling.  that’s more worth drinking to than most things this evening, alec decides.  almost downs the rest of his drink for it before deciding to sip instead.  it’s what he’d prefer after all – no getting drunk for him unless you want a breathalyzer and a dui on your record.  

dragging his finger around the rim of his glass, alec lets his shoulders rise and fall in a half hearted shrug.  “oh, it’s nothing particular.  a poor afternoon, let’s say, when they’re more often at night if not for curfew.  forgive me –” he motions at the man’s clothes, nice as his and put together, “– but i find i abhor meeting with the rich of any community.  rubbing elbows and working politics of any type makes me want to rip out every bit of my hair and run screaming down the streets.  is that dramatic, you think?  or right, considering the attitudes most well dressed people have?”

it’s immediately an inside joke.  for here they are, like those people, but drinking in a place they would rather die than enter.  camaraderie through choices.

there's a little bit of a laugh - a dry one, one turned to sound more worried than anything with actual humor. "it certainly seems to be that way," rafael admits. "living in deadwood has become a risky proposition for anyone at this point." it sounds more rueful than anything. they're in rapid city, far enough away from the danger that it must seem both distant and yet present in every note in their voices. "maitland's far less nervewracking than deadwood, i'm sure. just a lot of suburban houses. only terrorizing to those who dislike lawns and houses that look mostly the same." still, though, he tilts his glass in something of a small salute. "i'll keep that in mind. the most i've ever interacted with the law has been a few parking tickets, and i'd like to keep it that way."

a jest, of course, considering what he is and what he does, but one that sounds realistic. he is perfectly straight laced, an average boring suburbanite here for a drink and some quiet.

from what little he knows about this sheriff, though, from elizzia and just having an ear to the ground, he is anything but a hardass. just beleaguered, as someone trying to run law enforcement in deadwood would be. so the man next to him is either joking or has has had poor encounters with the sheriff, and from the way that he carefully sips his drink, rafael would label him as risk-adverse. so joking, then. a man with a sense of humor about his own town. admirable, considering the state of deadwood.

rafael laughs at the joke at his own expense, as expected. "you're forgiven through understanding if nothing else. i know quite a lot about the attitudes of the wealthy. and i think you're perfectly correct. there's an art to making yourself scarce at dinners and parties in favor of anything else, and i have become very good at it over the years. god forbid i have to talk for some of those people for more than the required niceties."

he's good at playing the game. that's the thing of it, really. he doesn't have to like anyone in particular. he just has to make them think he does.

[bleederudite]

noospherica‌:

noah thinks about what rafael says to her on the entire drive.  there will always be room for it, for those who are willing to listen.  that’s the real question for her though – how big is that room?  if she collected everyone who really cared, who wanted to sit and listen and remember the things that formed society and culture in steps and bounds, how many people would be gathered?  becoming pessimistic about such things feels inevitable to noah the older she gets.  all of her studies and her passion cannot stop the rapid evolution of a world away from their roots.  nor can she teach respect no matter how much she tries to enforce such a thing in her students during every class, every lecture.  

history is forgiving.  modernity is not.  

people like rafael are few and far in between.  the fascination of old things and ancient stories are children stories for young adults now, they dedicate themselves for a brief moment before outgrowing them.  filling that space with other things, new lessons and experiences from their current day.  which, noah thinks as she takes a turn, might be the key difference between her and them.  she does nothing.  they go out into the world, and noah remains interior.  

her throat aches.  stupid, stupid stupid stupid.  who wants to cry in their car when having a good evening?

by the time she’s out of her car and approaching her stairs, rafael cruising behind her, noah thinks she has herself under control.  refuses to consider anything else as she lets him catch up to her, leaning on the already cracking, yet still sealed railing.  “oh don’t worry, i’m always worried about them collapsing.”  noah assures him with a thin, wry grin.  at least that feels genuine.  feels real.  “c’mon, coward.  it’s not that bad.”

the sound isn’t awful as she pads her way up them.  like a wooden form of a fire escape, so therefore useless in case of fire.  noah fumbles with her keys again.  twists the lock open and pushes at the door until it pries open, also new and poorly installed from this side.  her fingers lock around the doorknob.  her free hand gesturing grandly for rafael’s entrance.  

     “welcome to my house, sort of.  my floor at least.”  it’s an attic, but she won’t mention that.  no reason to.

there is so much about this that has been quietly unexpected. rafael has voiced none of that surprise, though, of course. sometimes he thinks of noah in the way a human being must think of a frightened animal, the kind of thing that would skirt back at too direct of an approach and then disappear. she doesn't seem wary of him. but when someone is alone enough for so long, the mere approach of another person can be read as a threat. so he lets her set the boundaries. he pushes only when he feels luck is entirely on his side.

so he hasn't really considered what she considers hers - her space, her environment, something that belongs to her as much as she belongs to it.

when he gets out of the car and follows her to her rickety staircase, he can hear something - the slightest hitch in her breath, a sort of awkwardness in her voice. is she going to cry? it's been a long while since rafael had to comfort a human being through a crying fit, but he figures he can remember enough to make it functional. "i suppose that once you safely make it up them enough times, they don't seem quite as dangerous." there's no way these stairs were part of the original building - they are bolted on, an addition that seems on the verge of collapse yet somehow persists.

fitting, he thinks.

he follows her up the steps, listening to the sound of the stairs under his shoes. certain steps creak more than others - more risk than the rest. that's something he can pick up on, but he doubts that noah can. human beings live every day in a world far more dangerous than they can comprehend, and they simply function like that. it's something he admires, really. surely deep down some part of every human being must suspect, even by differing degrees.

at the top of the stairs, rafael smiles and steps inside. he glances around, even as he moves inside enough to get out of her way. plenty of books and papers. but what catches his eye is the slight hint of movement. he slows down the reaction, glancing over and then pausing at the cage. "... is that a ferret?" he finally says.

talk about unexpected things. he didn't even think noah was the type for a pet, but perhaps he misread that entirely.

[bleederudite]

hirxdo‌:

WHERE: rapid city, empty parking lot WHEN: 02/06/2019    1:56AM WHO: open

orange and yellow coloured ashes relinquish with a tap of doyoon’s finger against the white, thin coating of his cigarette, a warm summery breeze picking them up and scattering them all over the parking lot before they die a cold and gloomy death. he is a patient man, always had been, standing frozen to the hood of his car as he awaits his company. time no longer matters when you have an eternity to live. doyoon could stand there all night with centuries of thoughts memories to keep himself entertained, though, that was not the purpose of tonight’s rendezvous. this matter had to be dealt with quickly, an impromptu meeting conducted in the darkest of the hours to perpetuate the delicacy of their secrecy.

the gift of eternal life sounds tempting at first but it can be incredibly destructive as well, tedium and solitude slowly closing one’s arteries shut and draining them from any form of  humanity. why else would a man, once so considerate and kind, turn to bribing and threats to feel alive? to give purpose to a live that’s been lived so many times already? doyoon has parted with those kind of thoughts a long time ago, accepted the fate his sire had decided upon for him. he no longer tries to justify his sometimes questionable choices in profession of wanting to feel, wanting to live, but that doesn’t mean he is going to let go of all caution and care. he’s withstood almost nine centuries already. it would be a shame to throw it all away now.

a pair of headlights turn onto and illuminate the empty parking lot, eyes squinting together as doyoon throws the cigarette to his feet and stomps it out with the heel of his boot.

about damn time.

finding someone like-minded can be both fascinating and inherently dangerous. rafael knows that very well. in his long years of life, dealing with machinations and ambition, nothing puts him more on edge than someone with similar goals and the possibility of actually getting there first. at the same time, though, in something like dominion, alliances matter. being an entirely solo act is the kind of thing that leads you to eventual obsolescence. he's seen it happen, here and there. a powerful vampyre becomes nothing because the high council deems it so. that is not a fate he desires for himself, even if he knows he may be slightly protected by the merits of his lineage.

thus, these kinds of meetings, in dark parking lots and alone. there are few people he won't backstab, a list mostly consisting of his family, minus the one member who deserves it the most. rafael would sink a knife in that man's back without a single bit of remorse.

but most of the high council, the rest of its members, some younger and some more ancient? rafael holds little love for them, and some he finds outright distasteful. that alone is why he pulls into the parking lot and parks parallel to a building, his car dark and nondescript. in the distance, he catches the cigarette snuffed out by a heel. to business, then.

he approaches the hood of doyoon's car, idle and casual. as if they are anything but two friends and co-conspirators, leaning there against the other end of the hood. "this isn't a bad place to meet," he says idly, examining the rest of the area. out of the way. not too obscure, a place suspicious to visit, but not too obvious either. just a parking lot. "how have you been?"

a simple question, yes, but the niceties are necessary. for the facade, if nothing else. make it look like a simple exchange, perhaps even for the blood bag business.

[bleederudite]

byzantinc‌:

     “why you speak with far more education than i find in many species these days.  for that i appreciate you, my sweet one, even if i find we disagree.”  she smiles with just too many teeth, tilting her head towards him with all the sweetness, obviously fake and bitter that erzsébet can manage.  “and we do disagree, for i believe your mother would claim you as her own in more ways than you are comfortable with.  at least my claim is distant – via nature more than anything else.”

she knows keenly that he is older than her; were it not for her seat upon the table, her claim of dominion, it would make erzsébet gnash her teeth and dig her nails into his skin.  but he is beneath her in this way.  an arm she may send out, an open palm or fist at hers to command when the dominion does as she believes they should, and that gives her ownership.  a beautiful claim over someone who has more age than she does that thrills in erzsébet’s brittle and broken heart.  she enjoys this.  enjoys more that he must know their dichotomy as well, and that she takes a role that should belong to someone far older than her.  that she is more powerful by cleverness and cunning.

does it upset him?  does it make him writhe underneath his skin?  

erzsébet flutters her fingers.  laughs.  “curfews make my fangs ache, surely you understand.  i would nip the one of us who has made this terrible mistake, grab them by the nape and bring them back to the nest if i knew who they were.”  her jewels clink as she shifts her hands out to gesture.  “it’s like a foolish puppy trying to learn the world without their mother.  they’ll break this state, these cities in half if someone doesn’t teach them to be clever.”

as he speaks, erzsébet turns her glass over in her hand.  the food has been ordered already – the choice taken from him for their first course at least.  a waitress approaches with her hands cradling two plates and erzsébet sits up straighter.  smiles, and the young woman flushes when she comes to a halt.  sets down her plates and wishes them well before scurrying away.  beef tartare, a classic choice that erzsébet considers quite close to the scent of blood and taste of flesh in your teeth.  forks are already extended.  she takes her napkin and meets rafael’s eyes as she unfolds it across her lap.

     “do you quite enjoy texts, rafael?  or is it out of a terrible fear of trying to insure that history does not lose itself into the black hole of time?”  as she asks she collects the raw meat on her fork, slips it between her lips.  red to red, staining the golden fork.  “i had a book once, a very clever thing that was denied by the mortals who learned of my actions so very long ago.  since i’ve wondered if it survived through my hundreds of years – and i imagine if anyone would know, it would be you or your fellows.”

keenly.  her gaze cold, wicked, locked upon him without blinking.

"it would be strange if i wasn't. i generally find myself to be more well read than most, though i freely admit i have had the advantage of time." the intricacies of language are something rafael thinks about often. though he is more concerned with the act of collection than examining texts, they often arrive hand in hand. and the woman in front of him makes him think of the word saccharine, but in a sickly way. too much sweetness, like something used to disguise the bitterness of poison. "perhaps in some regards," he says, as evasive as most people would expect from something as old as he is. "but i don't believe her influence is quite as wide-reaching as you think."

in the end, his choices and their consequences are his own. he accepts this with all of the responsibility that it entails, and the fact that he is never quite alone while being self-sufficient. it is a careful dichotomy that he works within. he knows the exact boundaries of his position - has tested and studied them in the way a scientist examines slides under a microscope, and now he simply thinks of ways to escape them.

it's just so even in this conversation: acquiesce if only to subvert. he takes care in how he maneuvers around the high council, in the way that anyone should.

younger vampyres sometimes dislike the influence of dominion. it isn't a surprise. anything that gains power will dislike the bonds that hold it. he knows that quite personally. it's why sometimes he looks at the high council and that bitterness rises in him, slow and undeniable. going nowhere.

"personally, i doubt this is as simple as one rogue vampyre. we would have caught them by now if it were the case, and the murders would be less... complicated. less ritualistic. less purposeful, even. this isn't carnage for the sake of it. it would be a mistake to underestimate the mind behind it, whether that mind is deranged or simply unique." he'll admit that much. of course he has put thought into it. it has been a topic of discussion. there is no need to teach the person behind this to be clever. they are already clever, or they believe themselves to be so.

he glances over as the waitress approaches. no choice. of course. that, too, is a symbol of his position. he can read the way that this dinner, too, has been constructed, just as ritualistic as the killings. everything is about the little rituals that keep things stable.

still, he laughs a little to himself as he lays the napkin across his lap. "i can enjoy them and be nervous about their loss at once." rafael's fork pauses partway to the plate as he considers the question. "i've heard rumors of this text, though i haven't seen or encountered it personally. however, i know a slovakian collector who is notoriously private about what he has in his archives, and from what i do know about his predilections, he may have had interest in such a thing. i can see if i can coax a confirmation out of him."

[bleederudite]

irelianight‌:

She follows the action, as he gestures.

“Um, in case you haven’t noticed, people die everywhere. Even here.”

She mimics his the movement of his hands facetiously.

Next to her, the spirit shifts and moves away, flickering out of Irelia’s sight, though she can feel its presence still, and now that she’s seen its shape, she can almost find in the air, as the air wavers at the stranger’s side, as though the atmosphere has liquified and she is staring at the ripples on the surface of a pool. Her eyes stray only briefly to this apparition one more time– hear its muttered words, even if it thinks she can’t - and she feels the cold in her clamp down. Dangerous. Irelia has never thought of herself as dangerous, but others have.

Religious men and women who figured she was a child of a devil or a bad god.

Children her own age who see her fits, the possessions that had ransacked her childhood, and worried the sickness could be catching, or that her nightmares would spread.

Paranoid men who thought she could see the ghosts of their pasts, the skeletons in their closet, who thought she might reveal these secrets to others.

Dangerous– Irelia is only dangerous to those who feared death. Naturally, that meant most people. But she isn’t dangerous to ghosts.

Or this vaympire apparently. Not with the way he keeps standing there, talking to her. 

The blase attitude makes her shoulders relax, though she keeps skeptical eyes on him. Truth be told, she wants to ask about these other mediums he’s met. She’s never met another quite like her and she wants to know.

Do we all hear the same ones? How do you lay yours to rest? Are your irises white like mine too? She wants to understand.  

I want to go, her ghost whispers then.  My wife, he adds even weaker.

That’s right, Irelia still has a mission. Medium or not, strange ghoulish specter or not, she has a mission. She has a wife to find, a body to bury, a couple to reunite. It’s her job. She knows the favor means little and in the end, dust is dust, and death is death. But she’ll do it anyway. Help others find death because when she slits her wrists, for some reason, she can’t.

What of this stranger, then? She doesn’t want to leave him, if only because– despite his status as a vaympire, she is excited, deep down, to learn more about these other mediums.

So she tilts her head and smirks a cold little smirk at him, her white eyes searching his dark eyes, and in that matter, she thinks, yes we’re the same, because their eyes are eyes that see beyond graves. The immortal and the girl who can’t die no matter how hard she tries. Looking into his eyes, she already feels – understood.

“I’m Irelia,” she says. “You can call me Ms. Night, though. I’m on my way to bury a body.” Pause. She tilts her head up again and pats her pockets down for a cigarette. “You can come if you like. Sounds like you’re from around here. I need to find Rosebush Road.”

"quite fair," rafael admits easily, almost cloyingly at peace with this entire conversation, "although we can agree that they die more frequently here than anywhere else." it's just a result of the population. get a bunch of monsters in one place, in suburbia especially, where everyone stays locked up in their little boxes at night, caught in sodium lamplight from the kitchen, while outside, terrible things prowl and lurk. and sometimes the security of those little boxes break, in places like here and deadwood more than anywhere else. were he more human and less mon

like him. he is, after all, technically one of those terrible things, as utterly harmless as he appears now.

rafael, at his core, likes oddities and information. these two are sometimes one and the same, and sometimes distinct. a medium is an oddity. they are rare and they have access to abilities that escape most of the creatures he is familiar with. and thus, he pays attention. he tries to remember how many centuries it has been since he last met a medium - at least one and a half if not two, though he cannot remember an exact count.

the bluntness of it - i'm on my way to bury a body - draws a small laugh from rafael. on one hand, it makes sense. a medium more than anyone would be familiar with the intricacies of death. but it is still utterly blatant and unapologetic. he likes that kind of confidence. it says so much about a person in so few words. "i'm rafael," he offers. "it's a pleasure, ms. night, and a rarity." he knows that she's trying to keep control of the conversation, and he's careful about how he says things.

he is always polite. but every word also sounds like an indulgence, which is the line he's very careful to walk when it comes to situations like this. "i live a few streets over," he says. it's not a lie. he does. he knows the streets very well. it's one of the first things he learns in every new area he comes to live in - geography, marking spots that might be good for such things as, well, burying a body. wonders do never cease. "rosebush road's a side street. if we walk about two blocks to the left there, we'll reach it soon enough." he gestures at the far end of the street.

a part of him is tempted to ask how the body got there, and if she has something to do with it. but with a medium, you can never know. the dead love nothing more than to talk.

on a hunch, he simply begins to walk in the direction he indicated. no one aware would trust a vampyre to follow them and linger behind them in the dark. there have been plenty of horror stories written about that very subject.

[bleederudite]

noospherica‌:

     “you’re right.  my class – i mean, the kids take it and i’m so glad people are interested.  sometimes it’s an elective and it’s supposed to be easy.  those are the ones who drop out or… get interested, no in between.  but even then i’m teaching these kids and all i can think sometimes is…”  noah hesitates, throat working in a stilted silence before she exhales shakily and shakes her head.  rubs a hand over her face.  “i don’t know.  it’s useless, isn’t it?  engineering, maths, science, well.  stem is what they should be learning to survive out there, not the differences between religions and the legends that started them.  what the hell will that help with?”

she feels a bit shitty for even saying it.  that awful twisting dichotomy between relief to have spoken it aloud and stunned silence for having thought of saying it, let alone letting it slip from her teeth.  alcohol speaking, noah decides.  has to be, can only be, there other options make her stomach twist too deep for her to consider longer than a brief moment.  

like he knows what she’s thinking, rafael jokes about her.  in return noah tips her empty glass, a small smile twisting her lips that feels only half sincere, half exhausted.  “i guess.  those aren’t the kind of parties that i go to though, not often enough for me to know which one i really prefer.  i guess the grass is always greener, isn’t it?  no way to avoid those sorts of things unless you explore every single side, unbiased, and survive.  shit.  sounds impossible.”

and now she’s cursing.  just barely avoiding muttering at herself, noah waits until rafael is at her side before heading out of the bar.  feeling those eyes finally give up on peeking at them even slightly, free as they head into the quiet night air.  she stretches now that she’s free outside.  twisting her spine from side to side and yawning, small, a sleep brought on by the kiss of liquor more than any sort of true exhaustion.  make it quick, he says.  a small pang in noah’s chest even though she knows that’s accurate, appropriate.  no time or reason for anything other than quick.

     “alright, just follow me.  it’s not too busy this hour because of curfew so i’d be amazed if you lose me.  but you’ll have to park on the street probably,  not many spots around where i live.”  noah unlocks her car as she speaks, climbing in but leaving the door open so her voice is only muffled, not choked.  has she told rafael that she’s a house mother?  did he google her and find out that way?  she’s not sure, a bubbling nervousness in her stomach that keeps her from saying it now.  either he’ll learn or he won’t, noah decides.  twisting her hands around the steering wheel as she looks over at him.  “i’ll see you there.”

he's heard this before. it's been a recent thing, really, in academia. only maths and sciences matter. anything else beyond that is extraneous, or doesn't matter to human experience. it's about jobs and numbers now, about the future of computers and technology as far as the eyes can see. how wretched. how depressing, really. he isn't even happy with the digitization of all these texts. "before we had all these modern number systems and computers," he points out, "there were stories and religion. don't sell yourself and what you teach short. there will always be room for it, for those who are willing to listen."

he means that quite genuinely. rafael has lived long enough to know what persist, and it goes like this. all civilizations have a story about a flood tearing the earth apart. there are mother figures and there are always wars and certain kinds of heroes. that's what will outlast all of them, even those who are considered immortal. it's also why he's so concerned with the collection of words and texts.

"i wouldn't recommend the kinds of parties i have to attend," he says, and he means that in so many ways. means socialites. means dominion. means all of it, really. "a collection of sharks, or at the very least things with sharp teeth and few morals." like him, funnily enough, but the whole point is to make himself seem distinct from that categorization.

he doesn't imply the things that he knows about noah. of course he looked her up, and maybe asked a few questions to those who wouldn't question why he was asking them. saint leviathan university looms large over all of these communities, a bastion of education and things that are far worse and more nefarious than that. but noah is surely oblivious to that too. she wouldn't know. her existence is contingent on not knowing.

so he smiles. "as long as i'm not at risk of my car being towed, i'll find somewhere." as if he doesn't have the money to not worry about his car being towed, or to even buy a new car. "i'll follow your lead, then." he is slightly worried about her ability to drive, but it isn't too far, and she seemed confident enough in it overall. he doubts something tragic will happen.

on the drive, he watches the clock, running calculations about curfew. he can make it, as long as they don't extend this visit for too long. he's mostly just curious about where and how noah lives. how much does the space say about her? he knows that the way he lives says plenty about him - the care and delicacy of glass, the neatness and the precision of it all. how people live says everything about them.

it's with that thought that he arrives and eventually finds himself a spot to park. on the street, like expected, which is fine. he can work with it. rafael approaches, forcefully ignoring the rest of the street, and peers up at the rickety stairs that noah's lingering by, awkward and still drunk. then he says, "you climb up those every day and aren't worried about them collapsing? that's brave of you."

[bleederudite]

draqqn‌:

she thinks to how she could’ve been spending her nights outside the club at astarte’s invitation.  how close she would’ve been to friends and support.  maybe it was stupid of her to decline in favour bacchus.  but the place held a certian allure that drew her towards it.  and she needed to find herself outside of her friends and kids.  they offered great support when she needed it , but she couldn’t rely on them forever.  she’s been free for a century.  she should be over it by now.  but still , the darkness plagues her.

and distractions are a necessity.  bacchus didn’t want her tonight and she needed a new scene.  though zahra’s frequented armana a few times already , she continued coming.  the noise and crowds didn’t help but there was a certian balance to the chaos that she needed.  

❝  you’d think they’d be more considerate of those who’re in here.  ❞   but her brows pull together as another thought occurs to her.  her eyes survey the crowd.  ❝  do humans come in here ? ❞

this is where he and his family split onto two different paths. rafael is particular about decor and feel. he likes glass and stillness. he likes things preserved. and this is not for him, in the end, and he understands that. yet he cannot avoid it, in the same way he cannot avoid many obligations.  it's something he's come to terms with. and armana is mostly convenient when he feels no love for the hunt. plenty of drunks who will be unable to put together the previous night, the blood loss and the puncture marks all lost to night.

sometimes it's just easy to observe and lose himself. that's all he wants, on occasion. and sometimes he sees someone who looks as distant as he does, and rafael cannot help but draw closer.

"on occasion," he says. "it isn't for them, but it's more to satisfy the hungers and whims of other guests." blood, of course, in the way that all things vampyric lead back to blood and the letting of it. "so they're here more as entertainment than guests, if that's what you're asking."