KINDRED RAGTAG.

As much as Garrett didn't seem to mind Reuben or his appearance, even he had to admit that was… unsettling. The stretch of limbs, the looming. It made him think of videos of praying mantises reaching up for something and it took a second of centering not to take an unconscious step back. But still he mirrored the faint grin. It really was the bane of his clan. Not the Cryptophilia. The hair (or lack thereof).

Still, Garrett knew a humorless laugh when he heard one. The sentiment was one he was familiar with: pity, scorn, disgust, etc from Kindred of other clans (the more “human” clans, one might say), who only interacted with the Nosferatu when it was necessary. It boiled down to the same thing: I'm glad that's not me.

It wasn't often one was given such a… sudden shift in perspective. Garrett let his own grin return.

“You got to keep your hair. Silver lining and all that, right?” He said. “Was it always that long?”

Was it always that long? Oh boy, there was a long answer and a short answer for this. A flicker of silence drifted between them.

Whatever. He didn’t have anything to lose by chatting—not about hair, that is. Too mundane a topic for most. Certainly not intimate enough for a Nosferatu to have their little notebook out, scrawling out intel—not unless they wanted to consider cutting it off as a prank or worse, and risk getting mauled to shreds by a Gangrel whom was already on the edge of insanity.

“No,” Reuben admitted, “when I was a mortal, about … I want to say I was eighteen or nineteen, went through a phase where I cut it all off impulsively. Well—not all of it. Most of it. Regretted it the day after. Partially because I did a shitty job, didn’t bother going to a hairdresser or anything.” His smirk remained. “Some people rock shitty bowl cuts. Me? A lanky, blond, white kid? The only thing I rocked was my anxiety levels.”

Another laugh.

“Ah, funny to think about, now.”

mxldito

cont from here with @bloodempire

"Spilt chicken and dumplings. Dumpings. Do you smell that? Comin' on strong like a lot lizard who wants to buy himself a mink coat? Hard to see their mess through their rose-tinted cheeks, sometimes you forget it's even there in the first place." Coyote lifted their boot, seeing squashed chunks of viscera encrusted into the ripples of their outsole.

"Your friend is still with me. And will be. . .until I find a hose to spray him off with." Coughing out a laugh, they tried to scrape their foot along the ground. They'd seen worse.

Scraping a piece of flesh off their shoe and flicking it past Vitus's head before putting their foot down, "I got enough mess on my feet and where I sleep, you can have this one! I do all my own stunts and mine are usually louder. We can call it me respecting your original work."

"Ends with an S, what was his crime? Or was he just there?" They asked. "I think you got pieces of him in the trees."

#ic.#mxldito #st. vitus the third.#HOPEFULLY THIS IS OK <33 lemme know if you need translations too!

The Tapestry. Known by many names by fellow Malkavians, it was a difficult web to traverse. Sometimes, that web were to overlap the closer Malks were to one another. Layering their strange thoughts—too many and too diverse, too bright and yet too dark—tenfold over one another, convolutions upon convolutions.

A laugh ruptured from St. Vitus the Third’s throat. Prying open a mouth that’d been smeared with makeup, one that formed a white-and-red heart over much of his face. He was an unusual character to look at, that was for certain.

Even more unusual to actually talk to him. He’d oscillate between clarity and impenetrable riddles. There was no way to determine which you’d get with him. Frustrating to many. For a fellow Malkavian though? It was like talking to a friend of twenty years, even if you’d yet to see their eyes or their smile, yet to hear them laugh or speak.

“As original as taking a photograph of Mona Lisa and claiming you are Da Vinci! Methinks you are looking through eyes clouded by too many nerves and too many round cartilages.” St. Vitus the Third’s own eyes—a deep, forest-like green—narrowed at the bloodied individual. He canted his head, pinched his chin. A moment passed before he shrugged, spun on his heel, and pranced away. “Ah well! That’s for the pigs to deal with now! Surely they will stuff their noses in him the moment they get a whiff of it.”

“Come, come, friend; the trees may have bits of him, but there’s much more of the forest to be seen! The night is young!”

still need to finish this piece BUT .....

maksim vladimirovich zantosa. a revenant belonging to the large revenant family known as zantosa (historically, szantovich). currently in his 80s, looks early 20s. has three teenage children and a recent ex-wife. she's mortal.

grew up amongst kindred, particularly the sabbat and tzimisce, knowing the ways around vampiric society. he was witness to many atrocities, both on a humanity level and a body horror level. unlike many others in his family, who grew accustomed to it, daresay revelled in it, he was always a gentle boy. he was deemed weak, shallow, pathetic, yellow-bellied, amongst other derogatory words.

eventually, he escaped. he was desperate to live amongst mortals, though found the cultural shift hard to accustom to, thereby making mortals think him strange.

maksim wanted nothing more than to put vampiric life behind him, to live happily and obliviously amongst mortals. of course, both of those proved downright difficult given trauma, flashbacks and threat sensitivity, as well as the fact that kindred always seem to find him, time and time again.

#ooc.#maksim vladimirovich zantosa.

It was in poor taste but Garrett couldn't stop the smirk that crossed his features at the comparison of the drained bodies to tofu. It was a… strangely apt comparison.

Even with his amusement, he couldn't help the slight lean back as Reuben moved closer. It was nothing personal: the last creature Garrett had dealt with that was even close to the other's size was a werewolf.

He shook his head.

“Not many, besides the fact that he's apparently big. Not big like you, but big enough to stand out. Police reports said the damage to the bodies looked like it had been made with a chainsaw. We're hoping someone's heard or smelled something.”

“Interesting.”

He heard many things, down here. Somethings which might’ve indicated this particular Kindred’s activity, but none that Reuben was confident enough to bring to light. The whir of machines dusted a constant hum through concrete and rock, the closer he got to the surface; he might’ve heard something more vicious and aggressive, something likened to the roar of a chainsaw, but, again, nothing he felt confident enough to mention.

He'd keep an ear out.

“I can put my feelers out there,” he canted his head towards the mass of black widows that’d accumulated upon his shoulders, “see if I can rope anything in.”

While spiders might not have rat-like intelligence, these spiders—his spiders—certainly proved their use in espionage. No nails skittering along the floor, no struggles in squeezing past tighter confinements; better infiltration. People—Kindred and mortal alike—were more likely to shrug off the presence of a spider or three than they were with rats. Mortals might squeal and shout, fearing the rats. Kindred, for the most part, knew that strangely intelligent rats were likely the work of a probing Nosferatu.

His spiders were, in his eyes, perfect.

Garrett's eyes followed the gleaming curtain of the other's hair, giving a nod. He was unfamiliar with how much work went into maintaining hair, Kindred or otherwise, but he knew something well cared for when he saw it. And Reuben's hair looked like it could be in one of those really fancy commercials for the expensive kinds of products.

“I can believe it. I know how to get blood out of clothing, but not hair. Having to wash it every time you feed sounds like it would be a huge pain.”

Especially hair of that length and quality.

Now it was Garrett's turn to grin, and he tugged his hood back to reveal a head as hairless and pale as a skull itself.

“Only when I wake up at sunset. Trust me when I say I look better bald.”

The patchy mess that was his hair (what was left of it) was something very few people ever saw if he could help it– shaving it off was the first thing he did upon waking up.

The way Reuben moved then was alien and downright freakish. To get a better look of Garrett’s bald scalp, as though to ensure that no strand could be found, his crooked legs straightened somewhat. He became tall. Too tall, some might argue. Towering over the Nosferatu even more, he leaned his upper torso forward; inspecting, silently, until a lopsided grin plucked one corner of his lips wide to the side.

“Ah, yes, the bane of Nosferatu. Hair. It’s unusual to see one of your clan with a full head of hair.”

He paused. He leaned back, lowered himself down. His grin dimmed for a moment—a moment too long, just enough to notice, even in the low glow—before a brief laugh ruptured from his throat. The sound ricocheted, though not an ounce of mirth could be found.

“When I was a little fledgling, I used to pity Nosferatu. I used to think, ‘wow, so glad that didn’t happen to me,’ and I’d stroke my hair, touch my face. Then, of course,” he gestured towards his entirety, “this happened. That mindset is long since gone.”

Another beat of silence. Now, did mirth find its way back into his expression, and his grin bloomed into a smirk.

“… Buuuuut, I did keep my hair.”

#srb.#my art.#i've been thinking SO much abt him and he doesn't even have a name yet

omnic

tried a different method of referencing, since i have a tendency to follow the reference strictly (esp. for full bodies), which i saw originally on twitter: do a loose blob of the vague shaping of the body from the reference and how it flows and then sketch over the blob

anyways here have a sketch of my vtm revenant oc <3 he hasn't got a name yet but he will SOON ! ! !

omnic

lineart done (kinda)

omnic

anyways here have a sketch of my vtm revenant oc <3 he hasn't got a name yet but he will SOON ! ! !

#my art.#srb.#my newest boy ...

i'm hoping i still end up maintaining activity to some degree here but <3 i'm starting my animation bachelor soon (classes start the 5th of Feb) and it's going to put me in so much bloody student debt but it's like. so exciting???? i've always admired animators and to think after two years i will find myself in a fully-fledged, qualified animator is ............... amazing tbh

#ooc.#it's one of the two universities that offer animation as a bachelor in my state #but the uni i'm going to is the only one where literally every class has something to do with animation and creative industries #the other uni is like. yeah you can learn about animation! in 5 classes! the other 10 you must pick random unrelated electives!!!!#like what GFLKMFDKMGDKMGD #i'd rather pay a bit more money and get an actual like. qualified education y'know ?????????#anyway yes i'm excited <3

YOUR ASSIGNED AESTHETIC WORD ...

REUBEN WILLOWSEED EDITION.

DOWNPOUR —

aren't summer downpours special, in a way? don't they make you want to dance barefoot in the middle of the road? isn't it so satisfying when the raindrops kiss your face? that's how i feel about you, i think. when people meet you, it's always a bit unexpected but still pleasant. you're unpredictable and that's what's so attractive about you; no one truly gets bored around you. if i could, i'd put you inside my pocket and go on so many adventures with you.

TAGGED BY. @gnarledbite !! ty <3 TAGGING. steal from me and tag me in it !!

#dash games.#tagged.#OOOOO fun #reuben loveeees nighttime summer downpours he loves it when its both warm and wet #and he IS getting more unpredictable as of late #prior to being a prisoner of the sabbat he was very meek and quiet and shy #very easy to predict and also to twist and mould #now he oscillates between a variety of emotions and behaviours (he feels like he's going a bit crazy </3)

ST. VITUS THE THIRD: BACKSTORY.

St. Vitus, 1518. St. Vitus the Second, 1754. St. Vitus the Third, 1922.

This specific brand of Malkavians are known, quite notoriously, to bear only one childer. One to bear the brunt of their curse, their disease. This disease has many names: dancing mania, dancing plague, choreomania, tarantism and—St. Vitus’ dance. St. Vitus' are known plague-carriers, and their proximity to mortals can sometimes cause minor outbreaks of a phenomenon long-thought deceased. Kindred, too, can be susceptible—but normally only when the Vitus' blood is ingested. These strange Malkavians love to dance, dance, dance—and they'd love for you to dance with them, until you simply can't anymore.

Dancing mania was a social phenomenon that occurred primarily in mainland Europe between the 14th and 17th centuries. It involved groups of people dancing erratically, sometimes thousands at a time and sometimes for weeks at a time. The mania affected adults and children who danced until they collapsed from exhaustion and injuries. One of the first major outbreaks was in Aachen, in the Holy Roman Empire (in modern-day Germany), in 1374, and it quickly spread throughout Europe; one particularly notable outbreak occurred in Strasbourg in 1518 in Alsace, also in the Holy Roman Empire (now France). There have been many speculations on what caused the dancing phenomenon, but nothing set in stone …

St. Vitus the Third was known, prior to his Embrace, as Freddie Campbell. Born in North Yorkshire in 1891 in a relatively well-off, financially, household, Freddie lived in modest luxury. His father, Graham Campbell, came from mixed Scottish and Thai heritage, and held loose connections with the unified Scottish-English royalty. This aided a pleasant upbringing. As Freddie grew older, he made himself a comfortable living in the realm of watches. Making watches, fixing watches, creating designs and innovations—the Campbell name was one muddled beneath a guild title, but one that locals recognised immediately. Freddie was a strong, charismatic individual, one that many felt allured by and towards.

World War I was declared in 1914; he sought enlistment in the early months of 1915. While part of him wanted the enlist shortly after declaration, others aspects held him back; it was only after he received a white feather, from one of the many women of the Order of the White Feather, to declare him a coward in public, did he feel compelled to finally relent. Unfortunately, after a physical examination, he was deemed unfit for military combat due to being “a physical woman”. Freddie was slighted, upset, ashamed. He sadly returned back to his work, but found things … different. He was very vague about why he was refused enlistment, which lent to people suspecting him of some kind of disease or ill-will that he was hiding. This resulted in a steady decline of interest in his work.

After the conclusion of World War I, in 1922, Freddie sought consolation in the United States of America. He felt like a fresh start was needed, and with the war behind them, he could seek something new and different. On their approximately five-week voyage, in the last week and a half, a strange passenger finally emerged from their room. The individual was in unique, brightly coloured garb, and spoke in unusual tongues. They spoke of their name, St. Vitus the Second, which earned them a few laughs. They smiled crookedly. They beckoned those who laughed at them, and abruptly broke out in a musicless dance. Those same people were flecked with amusement, but ultimately confused.

Before they knew it, they’d begun dancing too. Before anyone knew it, almost the entire passenger cluster erupted into soundless rhythm, jutting and jerking and flowing as though music toyed in their eardrums. Select few from the sailing staff sought to quell the dancing, only to end up roped into it too. Those who hadn’t succumbed to the dancing throes were asked to stay far away from anyone who dared even tap their feet.

Freddie was caught up amidst the rhythm. He was the one which succeeded, dancing for as long and as hard as their unusual conductor. While others collapsed, pained and exhausted, Freddie prevailed. St. Vitus the Second was intrigued.

Two days prior to them arriving in New York, Freddie was Embraced. He became St. Vitus the Third.

#st. vitus the third.#my art.#FINALLY DID IT ALLOW ME TO POST THIS... pain

That was true enough: living among the Nosferatu tended to grant one a few extra points of knowledge. Though their secrets usually came at a cost, they generally weren't ones to deal in misinformation– not among their own kind or ones they trusted, at least.

Garrett eyed the black widows for a second, wondering if they acted for Reuben like his moths did for him before nodding.

“That's a way of putting it. He's been working in the East End for a few nights now. Police have already found pieces of the first two bodies; from the news reports it's safe to say he's draining his victims and then hacking them up.”

He refrained from morbidly commenting on the lack of a good bloodbath doing things that way.

Reuben grimaced, one side of his upper lip twisting up, flashing teeth and disapproval in one fell swoop.

“Draining them dry and then hacking them to bits? Must be like dealing with slabs of tofu,” he shook his head minutely. The black widows, more having accumulated from the ceiling and finding their perch upon his head and shoulders, seemed unfazed by the movement.

He shifted closer to Garrett, the movement either too slow nor too fast, hoping to not come off as threatening or intimidating. Even if this Kindred didn’t seem particularly offset by him, he’d rather not risk it.

“Come, let’s walk and talk. Any defining characteristics about him?”