Follow the links to my muses' bios!
Najelon ; Adrian ; Mireia ; Otsana ; Ophelia ; Nestor
â ïž About Najelon
Naj often comes across as playful, charming and flirty, but donât mistake that for softness. His whims are cruel and his idea of fun can be deadly. He doesnât bend, he doesnât become safe. Of course, I wouldn't have him do anything drastic without previous plotting, but if youâre looking for lighter or gentler dynamics, my other muses are available for that tone.
What they do not know is that Nestor was once flesh and bone.
Born to House Guinere during the eighteenth century, Nestor was raised to inherit a kingdom and a future that had already been planned for him before he took his first breath. He learned diplomacy and duty before freedom and desire, both of which grew to be his biggest temptations. Quiet and observant by nature, he became the sort of heir people trusted precisely because he rarely spoke more than necessary.
So lovely was the prince that he caught the attention of a vampire. A wolf among sheep, disguised as one of their own.
Seduction, manipulation, or genuine affectionâNestor couldnât tell what drew him into a world far removed from courtly obligations. For the first time, he indulged in pleasure in ways that would be frowned upon, and so did the vampire. Immortality was never something he sought, but it was forced upon him nonetheless. The secret transformation shattered everything he knew of life, and like all fledglings, he found himself bound to his makerâs will. It was a fate he refused to accept.
Eventually, Nestor turned against them. He fought for his freedom, the one they had baited him with, and believing he had killed his maker, he returned to the life heâd left behind. Denial or naivety, maybe both, pushed him to convince himself that the worst was over, that discipline and determination would allow him to continue where he had left off, to fulfill his destiny as heir and ruler.
As it was prescribed, his arranged marriage followed soon after. It was meant to secure the future of House Guinere, to produce new heirs and stability. Unaware of the limitations of his new nature, Nestor thought he could still be the man he once was. But the illusion lasted a single night.
In the privacy of their marriage bed, with his new bride in his arms, instinct overcame restraint in a split second. Hunger took over reason and he bit her.
Though he managed to stop before fatality, as he was a little more experienced in the art of feeding by that point, the damage had already been done. His secret was longer his own; the prince was a monster. Terrified, his wife fled. She was certain that no mortal solution existed for such a curse, and so she sought help from a far darker source, a demon: Vorace. Someone who could grant exactly what was asked forâfor the right priceâand never was was intended.
Her request was simple, maybe too simple: âGet rid of him.â The demon obliged.
Thus instead of death, Nestor was given eternity within a frame.
HEADCANONS
Nestor was the prince of a mediterranean kingdom during the 1700s. He still remembers his full name and lineage, even if House Guinere has long since disappeared, only remaining in forgotten records and Nestorâs memories.
Time has transformed him: calm where he was merely reserved, observant where he was attentive, nihilistic instead of a future oriented dreamer, and morbid as he has become immune to Deathâs touch. Boredom became surrender at some point, now he doesnât even remember what thirst truly felt like, itâs just a distant memory.
His vocabulary and speech have evolved with time, adjusting as he learned from visitors and Vorace himself, but he retains some particular mannerisms, as well as a flair for baroque excess.
The plaque under his frame has displayed different names throughout the centuries, as it was changed from time to time: Nestor Guinere, Nestor IV of House Guinere, The Guinere Prince, The Quiet Prince, or simply⊠Nestor, as itâs been for decades now.
PERSONALITY DESCRIPTORS
Scorpio energy
INTP
Lawful neutral
PHYSICAL QUALITIES
Height: 180 / 5â11
Body type: muscular
Hair color: black
Eye color: olive green
Below thereâs a sketch of what the painting heâs trapped in looks like (coming soon)
-closed starter for Marius @ofdeathwiishes
The Crucible, Onyx Peak; midnight
Some decisions arenât made because theyâre good. Even for someone who kept a neatly organized archive of all the contracts heâd made over centuries of scheming and soulâcollection, sometimes recklessness won over logic. Especially when the circumstances involved a certain human pushing fortyâfive.
âStill decorating like a mausoleum keeper,â a gravelly voice echoed in the shadows surrounding Marius, breaking the cryptic silence otherwise interrupted only by the occasional clack of bones against stone. âOr is graveâdigger more suitable for you?â
He didnât reveal his face yet. Despite the arrogance of his unannounced visit, Najelonâs instincts advised everything contrary to what he would attempt. Red eyes narrowed at familiar symbols; shelves crowded with ancient grimoires, glass jars containing preserved organs and blackened herbs. The air smelled of damp stone and sweet rot. Everything was just like he remembered it, unfortunately. Including that gutâwrenching magic that oozed from every pore of the necromancerâs skin.
Najelon couldnât afford to show a shred of weakness.
Smoke and embers flooded the room as the demon did a quick inspection for anything dangerousâother than the bane of his existence. Once pleased, he materialized at a cautious distance from Marius, crimson eyes emerging from a dark corner with nothing but a shitâeating grin.
âYou knowâŠâ he murmured in a mocking tone, although it sounded more grounded now that he was corporeal. âItâs quite easy for a demon to trespass, even a little fae wouldnât have any trouble.â
Peyton walked into the Roadhouse, the place felt like a second home to her after all. If she was going to try something new, there was no place she was more comfortable doing that than here. She sat down at the bar, wearing a curly blonde wig, and ordered her usual drink before tossing some of the fake hair over her shoulder and smiling at the person next to her. "What do you think? Does this look suit me for a little on-stage character I'm working on?" she winked. "Best part of my job, playing with different looks."
Otsanaâs expression soured when Peyton finally appeared with a whole new look and questions that had nothing to do with Beta duty. At first, she didnât know how to answer. She didnât want to. People accused her of always being too stiff, too serious and businesslike, but she saw no point in wigs and performances.
Still, she wondered what it would be like to disguise herself and try to disappear, as if it would prevent her from monthly doom.
âYouâd look good in anything, Peyton,â she conceded, not wanting to disrespect the younger Beta. Her fingers curled around a glass of peach liquor that she herself produced for the Roadhouse. She hadnât taken a single sip yet. âNow, regarding your other job: how many mers refugees are you still housing in Nepenthe territory?â
-closed starter for Jasper @oftragxdy
Mireia's atelier beneath her home, Myre Grove; afternoon
It was the middle of the afternoon, the sun was shining outside, coming through the open windows of the atelier, and Cold Little Heart by Michael Kiwanuka played in the background as Mireia cut pieces of fabric away. The record wasnât in perfect condition and it skipped sometimes, just like the majority he owned. It was very rare to find them, and even more so in perfect condition.
Jasper was curled up on one of the windowsills, sunbathing without a care in the world until something disturbed his peace. It was none other than his namesake, but Mireia still didnât know.
She hadnât even noticed her cat scattering away, shaken by the energy he perceived way before she could, all too focused on her work and the music she cherished.
âIn my heart, in this cold heartâŠâ she sang along to herself, her voice low and barely hitting the notes, simply following the rhythm. The scissors split one last piece into two, and so she was ready for the next step.
A long, red-nailed finger traced the rim of a half-empty whiskey glass in hypnotizing circles, an elegance at odds with hands that had torn bodies apart in cruel ways than most monsters had. Though sheâd formed a certain attachment to Otsana, the other woman was like a cockroach, an ancient part of her life she couldn't crush. Or a rodent in the walls, scratching through the drywall at night, impossible for Liliana to ignore. The same could be said for her uncle, an old man with disgusting beliefs. Turning those thoughts over, Liliana studied the amber in her glass with a tedious gaze. "And why the fuck would I do that?"
She didnât care about those damn fish. They could rot in bloody waters for all she cared.
"They donât get in my way, and we wonât get in theirs. Itâs that damn easy, Otsana."
Did the old bitch really give that much of a shit about all that caviar? Liliana would rather spread it over buttered toast.
A heavy swallow of whiskey quenched a venomous thirst. Ruby eyes lifted, pinning the other woman in place, holding her there against the wall, mercilessly. "Youâve gone all soft for them." She sat her glass back down. "Why are you really here, hm? Because one of mine had yours by their little throats?" The red on her lips matched the one burning in her eyes. "If your pups canât handle their nature, then theyâre better off dead, baby. Havenât you learned that by now? Pity doesnât suit a wolf."
The warning was issued, and the sly fox was already onto her main intentions. Trying to fool Liliana was futile, hence why the older wolf didnât even try. Otsana had watched her grow into a werewolf who proudly wore red to match her vicious lifestyle and hateful eyes. Territory. It was always about what belonged to whom and the consequences of stepping out of bounds. It was necessary to maintain peace within their own species, but it was getting as old as the rest of their customs. Rules needed to adjusted, reformed.
Otsana sighed into her own drink before taking a small sip to avoid saying something she wasnât allowed to, beta to alpha. âThereâs a middle point between overgiving charity and the survival of the fittest, Liliana.â
Living on the farm, away from all the pack politics until she was given a position of responsibility, had given Otsana the chance to look at things from a broader perspective. But it continued to prove to be just another curse.
âMy pups wonât cross the line; they normally donât,â she murmured the last part, her eyes narrowing with the weight of memories that involved both of them. She leaned against the bar counter as her expression soured. It wasnât easy, trying to reach someone who was already attempting to eat her alive with one look. âThereâs something personal I want to talk to you about, a favor I need to ask.â
Adrian's wife? The queen. She speaks like she's giving a speech at a city gathering. And Izara swallows down the unease that settles in her chest, because she cannot retract the boot she's just put in a very deep hole. (This is almost like when she suggested the king was involved in a scandal) She might be royalty, much like Adrian, but Kit does not serve them blindly. There's coin, with Adrian. The queen is merely throwing power around like it's a battering axe meant to chop off Kit's head.
She'd be damned if she didn't go down fighting. It cost nothing for her to have a conversation, "I don't need your permission." she snarked, without apology. Maybe there's some bitterness about a newly swollen finger, hit with a hammer that the queen had carelessly interrupted her from. "I have permission from the real owner of the ship. So perhaps you should go ask them, if you're so close." A smile; a knowing behind the wolfen grin, because if she's telling the truth. She'll know that Kit knows.
It's not revealing a name, or a detail. It's challenging a queen about something she already claims to be aware of. Just not enough to understand she's repairing the ship, on orders and payment. She doesn't get paid, if she doesn't get her work done. Kit isn't interested in bickering with the Queen, really; she's been unkind in her approach, and from the rumours, far less understanding than she's painted to be.
Isn't she the one who broached the peace treaty, to begin with? Seems like a façade, if this is how she talks to people. She knows that Axel's been in war rooms with this woman â if she's telling the truth, that is. Kit's never asked, nor wondered what that's like for him, to stare down at people like this, barking as though everyone else is their subjects. She'd not like it, if the queen spoke to Axel like this, in front of her.
It'd be a question of who might bite the head off who then.
She hadn't been this bold with the King. But he hadn't been a jerk.
Izara huffs, picking up another set of nails, and propping them between her lips as she began to work on the hull again, "Now I have stuff to do, if you don't mind."
"And who do you think the real owner is?" Because Saylor needed to know. Not only that, but she needed to know who the fuck this woman was. To Adrian. To her. Was she someone she needed to be wary of? Was she one of Adrian's past lovers? How did she even know about the ship, when only her and Adrian did?
Unless her husband lied to her about who knew about it.
How many lies had he told her, thus far?
The way the woman spoke -- and the fact that her own doubts were flooding her mind -- practically caused her sails to die down. Saylor was fucking tired and confused. She'd come to the ship thinking she'd be alone and could actually sleep but there was someone making loud noises. Someone she didn't know. Someone claimed to be repairing it.
She needed to talk to Adrian. To get him on the ship before the woman left. Worry tore at her mind, wondering who the woman had told so far about the ship that was supposed to be a secret. How long was it going to take before others in the Forgotten found out just exactly who her husband used to be?
Saylor let out a sigh as she ran her hands over her face. The ship was one of the only places she didn't have to be Queen. Somewhere she was comfortable being herself. And now... well, it was as if that was slipping through the cracks of the floor boards. "Okay. Alright." Saylor muttered. "Could you just... try to keep it down? Do something not so... loud."
Saylor was being completely unreasonable, unusually so. She was normally as stubborn as he was, but this time it was almost surreal how big the snowball was growing from something that was completely unimportant to him. So much so that he had forgotten to mention it, but only because there was no reason to tell her in the first place. Did she expect a whole ship to maintain itself while he was busy playing King? He shook his head on the way to the Dagger, swimming as fast as his ragged tail allowed him.
Fucking phones.
And besides, why was she going to his ship without even letting him know first? Heâd given her permission, but he expected at least a headsâup. Entitled Queen. He shouldnât be surprised by that, but he was certainly pissed.
The transaction with the fae guard down the grottoâs opening was as fast and painless as it could be. Adrianâs had grown so used to the transfiguration that he didnât feel pain other than the chronic pressure in his joints. Not that his mind could process anything but the things he wanted to say to his wife. Respectfully. In the blink of an eye, he was on the deck, not even bothering to take the ramp. Instead, he propelled himself up with a towering stream of water. On his left, there was his shipwright working diligently.
âKit,â he greeted dryly, sounding more like a grunt. His eyes were instantly searching for the source of his irritation. âYouâve met my wife,â he continued as his gaze landed on Saylor, his voice laced with irony.
He did not know what to do with the pleading look she'd given him. It made him blink awkwardly at her then look away, the movements of his hand and the poker he had to stir up the fire turning more rigid. âAhâŠâ He trailed off in understanding. Heâd known of the Tempest. Seen a show or two a couple of times during his lifetime, against all advice otherwise. Even Heathcliff wasnât immune to the good old razzle dazzle. But it was a dangerous pastime, risky at best. Like everything was in vampire territory. What had started as a fun little outing, an exciting little escapade, could quickly turn quite literally bloody if any vampires were around.Â
âA friend? In the Darklands?â Heathcliff stood up straight again, setting the hot poker aside safely. âCan a friend even be found there?â Or anywhere, really? Perhaps this thinking was exactly why Heathcliff had so few. He wasnât judging, he really wasnât. He was only being cautious. Being a fae in Calamity was not an easy feat. Before they matured, they were flies among a field of Venus fly traps. Successfully making it past five hundred, Heathcliff had so many scars on his body and in his soul to prove his survival with. In a world where the greatest principle of survival is to eat or be eaten, being a fae and living up to the age they were both in now was⊠a luck of the draw more than anything else. Even mostly confined to Myre Grove, as Heathcliff was in the latest decades of his life, did not guarantee safety. But he was hardly inclined to keep Mireia chained to their homelands for her safety alone. Everyone was a master of their own fate. If Heathcliff had to worry, he would worry in silence.
âAhh⊠A Davenport. The other owns the Bite Club, I know.â Heathcliff recognized, picking up an old but perfectly polished brass kettle already full with clear water from many underground spring breaches in the cave. Plumbing was virtually unnecessary here in the underground of Myre Grove. With many subterranean waters running down from the mountains or bubbling up from the depths to find their way eventually into the sea, there were plenty of places where springs came up through the stones and thermal waters rich with minerals filling up small, naturally carved pools throughout the numerous tunnels. For his comfort, Heathcliff had taken advantage of and adjusted some. Why there was one in the room with them too, water trickling down moss covered stone walls and into a stone basin beneath, as refreshing and cool as freshly melted spring snow.Â
She was standing beside him now and he regarded her profile with quiet observation. After a long moment, he spoke up, tone almost an intimate whisper. âFear is what keeps us safe, Mireia. Donât entirely stop listening to it. Friendliness is but moments of clarity for vampires. The rest is a hungry beast always thirsting for blood. If no other meal is present but you⊠Could any of them resist?â He knew he was being a worm of doubt, whispering anxieties into his sister-in-lawâs ear, but would any of those leech friends find the time to do the same and warn her against themselves? Unlikely. âDid they seek anything from you in return for the shelter theyâve provided?â Because why else would anyone put priority to someone elseâs wellbeing if not for something to gain in return? Friendship? Friendship was a fairytale in Heathcliffâs heart. Friendship was people you bury, sooner or later.Â
Mireia trusted her own judgment; she had almost all of her life, except during those darker times when not even her attuned intuition seemed reliable enough to keep her away from trouble. Or to deter her from searching for it. But it wasnât like that anymore, she was no longer looking for halfâarsed vengeance or an excuse to reunite with the two people who had mattered the most to her.
âMaybe the word friend is too bigâŠâ she recoiled, becoming smaller on the spot as she thought of a more fitting term. She was a friendly fae indeed, but that didnât turn everybody she met into one. âMore like an acquaintance.â For now, at least.
Malcolm was that. And Nisha was just a business contact. That was why she had mentioned only them, it was easier to process, to digest. Then there was Cecilia. Kind, thoughtful, someone that Mireia truly trusted despite her vampirism. Cecilia was different, her life wasnât led by the intensity of her thirst. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Maybe she brought the matter up with Heathcliff because she needed to ground herself in reality once more.
She was overthinking again. Spiraling like a river eddy.
Mireia flinched at the mention of Bite Club, as if waking up from a trance. She didnât know Malcolm was a Davenport, she hadnât thought to ask.
âAre you sure? Heâs a Davenport?â She took a step closer to Heathcliff, her hands lacing together in front of her stomach as if guarding her leaping heart. The stories sheâd heard about them werenât precisely⊠heartwarming. But she didnât need him to answer those questions, she trusted him and his sources. Despite not setting foot outside the Myre Grove, Heathcliff had more connections and access to information than she ever would, simply because sheâd rather keep her nose out of dodgy business.
With a sigh, her shoulders dropped. Suddenly, the sound of the spring water running was louder, but also comforting. Just like Heathcliffâs softened voice.
âI know⊠youâre right. We can never fully trust them,â she murmured, adding to his reminder. âI havenât forgotten.â She hadnât forgotten any of it. âMalcolm didnât ask for anything that night. Maybe I was lucky enough to witness whatever humanity is left in him.â Although, even at that time she could see him fighting his nature, as blood poured outside. âI havenât grown naive, Heath. Iâm just tired of being angry and scared.â
Demitri had chanced it -- eyeing the sky as he moved through the shadows that the trees created. The sun was barely showing itself against the horizon, which meant he had time. That, and the fog was thick in the air, smothering out any form of sunlight.
His fangs ached as he stalked through each territory, trying to find someone to satiate his hunger. He wanted the chase. He wanted something fun. And just as he was about to turn and run in another direction, he heard footsteps. Smelled a human. He pivoted and faced her with a smile.
"The Dominion." Demitri chuckled. "Now why would you want to go there?" He asked as he took a step towards her. "Looking to make a deal with a Demon?"
The confidence, the low sound of amused mockery. Within seconds, Ophelia could tell the man before her was the tricky type. But with the sun only starting to light the morning mist, there were two kinds of people she could have encountered: hardworking early birds, or those who carried trouble with them like a badge of honor, whether they caused it, or it followed them around.
She usually preferred answering questions in the order they were asked, maintaining structure had been at the top of her priorities even when she was whole. But sometimes, mirroring made more sense.
âI already did,â she clarified, unafraid of honesty. âIâm searching for the causal demon,â she explained, as if her current state was inferred by a pathogenic agent and not a sentient being. She did not blink, she didnât break a sweat or skip a single heartbeat as she confessed the truth like it was just the weather forecast: densely foggy and eerily chilly, just like her veiled eyes.
closed starter for @curseaddendum
location: tempest
Cecilia sat with Mireia as she worked, her eyes watching every expert movement as she worked with the fabrics. To her, it was like watching an artist paint in real time, absolutely mesmerizing. She reached out and touched the soft fabric next to them, a piece she wasnât currently using, and sighed. âYou know, when I was human I would have paid absurd amounts of money to have you making all my dresses. Your attention to detail is unmatched,â she said dreamily.
âWhat are you working on now, exactly?â She wasnât one to presume to know an artistâs mind, she just counted herself lucky to be around them and get to wear any art she could for her performances. She started to hum along to the old jazz record Mireia had on, one of her favourites.
Having company while she worked on her creations was a frequent occurrence for Mireia. Whether it was at the Tempest like this time, when some of the performers liked to stick around for solidarity or simply because they enjoyed watching the process, or back at home in the Myre Grove, where Jasper was often hanging around her atelier.
She cherished it. Sheâd spent enough time alone for a lifetime.
A quiet giggle escaped her lips as her fingers neatly pinned a pleat directly on the mannequin. âWhat stops you from doing it now?â she cheekily asked, turning to wink at Cecilia. It was the sort of joke she allowed herself in the company of a trusted friend. Aggressive marketing wasnât really her style.
âThis is the costume for the next playâs main character. Well, one of them.â With a small shrug, she continued folding the fabric around the lifeless model. âBut since youâre hereâŠâ she continued in a lower tone as she took a step back to check her progress, her words coming out slowly. âYou could try on the dress for your next show.â
Selene relished being on stage - the lights, the heat, the thrum of the music through her system as she moved, sand with a pitch that could almost make the Merfolk jealous. She revelled in it.
The attention.
It fed her soul, fed a hunger in her she had since she was a child. To be seen, to be admired. And oh did they admire when she performed. She smiled out into the crowd, purple tendrils of magic coiling from her fingers, wrapping around the audience, her body, like teasing strokes that only added to the flare and wonder of her performance.
When the song came to its climax, her tantalising performance at its peak, Selene gave a little wink into the crowd, blew a kiss and stepped off stage smooth as silk, ready to work the floor.
When he first saw her, Najelon noticed something that ultimately drew him to not only hire her, but make her want to stay. Selene deeply reminded him of Raven; it wasnât their dancing skills, nor even the obsidian hair they shared, but a presence that demanded attention.
If he put them together on stage, there would be a line at his doorstep every night.
âWhat a lovely trick,â he commended from the shadows backstage, his fingers holding a cigarette that softly lit his face when he took a drag. âContinue like this and I might consider a raise.â
The Ghouliardâs staff was used to their boss walking around, supervising and reminding them of who they worked for, but he rarely made idle conversation.
Raven bounced on her tip toes towards Najelon's office. She'd just finished an aerial performance and while she was sweating, she was no where near exhausted. Even at her age, her stamina could be compared to someone that was at least twenty years younger than her. It helped her in many ways but it also created boredom extremely quick. And even though she'd just finished spinning around in the air, Raven was seeking the next exciting thing to experience.
"Naj." Raven cooed as she hopped up onto his desk, planting her warm body on some of the papers. She didn't care if her sweat got on them -- she wanted attention. "Naj. I have a question. Or... well-- I want to do something with you. Something new." A hand reached out, fingers splaying wide on his chest as she leaned forward. "I want you inside of me." She crawled across the desk until she dropped off the other side, her legs straddling him. "But in a different way." Fingers slide upwards, wrapping around the back of his neck. "I want to know what it's like for you to possess me." Raven's smile widened. "Pretty please?"
Despite it being a drag, Najelon had grown used to paperwork. It wasnât necessary by any means. Bureaucracy was something that only survived in the underwater kingdom, and a nuisance that never even reached the dark tunnels of the Dominion. He did it simply to keep tabs on his own endeavors and the many contracts heâd made other people sign over the centuries.
But while sitting at his desk had become a relaxing part of his day, heâd much rather have Raven on it than a pile of papers. He didnât mind the sweat either, or the crumpled sheets Raven left on her way to his lap; his assistant could transcribe any damaged documents while he had fun with his kitten.
He cocked an eyebrow at her mildly rehearsed pitch, at the way she danced around the words to charm him into doing what she wanted. âWell, arenât you full of big ideas, as always?â
The chair groaned under their weight as he leaned back into it, his hands remaining on the wooden top of the desk, just to make her wait. Her suggestion was tempting, to say the least. Heâd thought about it many times, but there were risks.
The unpredictable kind.
âDo you want to go even more insane than you already are, my little Raven?â he asked with a scoff, tilting his head to the side as his gaze roamed her body. âYouâve already seen what happens to some people when I⊠get inside them.â
It was a grand night for the casino today. A second reopening, Heathcliff liked to jokingly call it, although it was not nearly that in reality. The atrocious weather theyâve had some time ago had forced the staff to close off portions of the place for repairs and maintenance and although it had been kept running smoothly otherwise, it was not at its full capacity for a couple of weeks since. The right marketing move demanded to spruce things up, promptly, with a tempting event that invited the regulars to return and the newcomers to finally get a taste. The crowds poured in a constant stream of bodies and noise, tables filled up to the point of needing extra chairs brought out and honey mead and sparkly wine flowed in rivers and gallons to keep the thirsty patrons satiated.Â
Everything was glitter and gold and music and laughter, a true faerie feast for the senses, with illusioned marvels running rampant everywhere, fairytales come to life, gorgeous nymphs whispering sweet secrets into patronsâ ears, coaxing them to empty their pockets, eat and drink until they are full, have a taste of wine and intoxicating fae blood and sin. Dice rolled, roulette spun, cards were fanned and coins glittered, tossed onto tables polished to perfection; fabric swayed on dancers and entertainers and flowers bloomed and withered all around in spans of minutes only to shed their colorful petals all over again, like nature rejoicing by tossing out fragrant confetti.Â
And above it all, on the second level of this windowless place of mirth, was the crowned prince of debauchery and greed himself, a rare appearance demanded by this special occasion. Whispers and gossip spread out as people, uninformed and assuming alike, recognized the importance of the one demanding a few seconds of silence from the gathered crowd for a brief speech. Regal monochrome wings of all shades of dark and grey spread out behind him, the span doubling his impressive height, impossible to overlook. With an elegant rise of his arms, Heathcliff took advantage of the excellent acoustic point of the elevated space to raise his baritone for everyone to hear. âMy dear guests! Welcome to Myre Grove. I shanât bother you with introductions, assuming none is needed on my part. Yet still, indulge me by letting me greet you all to my humble establishment. Eat. Drink. Make merry. And may Lady Luck guide your hand with blessings worth rivers of gold!â A booming applause exploded throughout the rooms of Myre casino, cheers and laughter and exclamations of excitement almost shaking the mountain they were buried under.Â
Heathcliffâs eyes shone with wicked delight. Thatâs it. Thatâs right. Open your minds to me. See not the real from the illusion. Come. Spend. Give me what you own. Sell yourself to me. Give me everything. Hear my voice and succumb.
âLetâs spend some coin!!â He finished off the speech with a flair of laughter, tossing his head back to join in the ever growing fevered cacophony from below, applause and standing ovations reaching an ultimate peak. And with a swish of his closing wings and a snap of long fingers, a star burst of golden fireflies spilled out of thin air throughout, falling onto amazed spectators like a rain of gold, disappearing as soon as touched or reaching the ground.
Setting the mood and formalities done with, Heathcliff turned on his heels and started down the long, curving staircase that would lead him to the main level of the casino where he could mingle, followed closely by two lithe, charming attendants ready to be at his beck and call. Halfway down, heâd picked out a familiar figure from the crowd, and his fake smile was followed up by a more genuine raise of an arched eyebrow. Naj, of all people, back again. With an elegant motion of his hand, Heathcliff signals that he would be joining him toot suite, as soon as he can maneuver his long, flowing wings trailing down these accursed staircases.    Â
One thing was for certain: the Prince of Coin knew how to put on a show.
The reopening of the casino brought memories of a special event that took place in the Ghouliard years back, when his patrons were gifted with an unexpected release of nitrous oxide. The Sunday of Lechery became a night to remember, just like this one promised. Not only was the place adorned with all the theatrical flair the demon appreciated so muchâexuberance and decadence, his favorite flavorsâbut at a place like the casino, there was the added taste of gambling.
Najelon was almost vibrating with anticipation. It was a time for celebration⊠and feasting. Maybe the Prince wouldnât mind if Naj indulged in a soul or two. Not that he needed to know.
There he was, high on his throne of spiraling stairs, attracting all the attention like a candle flame. Najelon demanded an audience every time he visited; he wouldnât accept any less than the lead of the Myre Groveâs economy himself. Besides, a mutual understanding ought to be nurtured if there were to be future agreements between them. And yet, heâd be lying if he denied that he was drawn to the magnificent fae simply for all that raw greed pouring out of him.
So intense it bordered on lust.
Naj could already taste it, every drop of it. He wanted to consume it all. A hunger that sowed both dread and fascination with every step he took closer to the staircase, his presence strong enough to clear the way without muttering a word. The demon moved like shadow and smoke, black chiffon blouse draping smoothly over his body, tail swiping a couple of coins from distracted hands. His horns caught the glint of every light overhead, pointy and tall.
Those massive wings evoked a kinship, a sense of recognitionâHealthcliff didnât hide his presence just like Najelon refused to glamour his demonic attributes. Not all of them. Walking around in his full original form wasnât good business.
There was an important question wandering his mind, but first heâd charm the prince.
âYour welcome was⊠inspiring,â he commended with a smirk stretching his lips enough to reveal sharp teeth. His red eyes were fixed on him, as if everyone else around them was completely unimportant. âWhat prompted this special occasion?â
Obi just smirked with a chuckle as he picked up a date and popped it into his mouth, enjoying the burst of sweetness on his tongue. He always did enjoy pushing the she-wolf's buttons, just to hear that sharp tone.
He listened to her demand, casual, relaxed, like he didn't have a care in the world - because he didn't.
When she made her request for an exchange, Obi's smirk grew. Smart girl. He didn't do anything for free.
"Hm, it is an awful lot of blood, such a cleansing would take hours, power, experience..." He trailed off, making the whole task seem gargantuan, when in truth he could do it alone if he really wanted to. But he wasn't about to admit that much.
"Something like that would come at a very high price querida, are you sure you can pay it?" He smirked.
Golden eyes watched closely every single movement Oberyn made. How annoyingly unfazed he was while her patience struggled to remain in her body with every curl of his lips.
Was this task too much even for someone like him?
Already owned by a horrid creature every full moon, the least Otsana needed was to be indebted to one infamous sorcerer. So when he taunted her with high risk, she wondered if the reward would match. She wanted to do this for herself and her loved ones, just as she did with everything.
âAs long as it doesnât involve my family.â Her voice dropped, her tone deadâserious as she shifted in her seat to face him directly. Sheâd rather not bring harm to the pack either, but sometimes sacrifices ought to be made.
âAnd as long as full moons are off the table.â
Open to: Everyone
Location: Any Bar
"Jesus Christ," Kai breathed as he placed his drink down on the bar. His black, wool, coat was pulled around him tight. The collar popped up around his jawline as he turned to look at them. His blue eyes still looked bright as he faced them. "You look horrific." Kai grunted as he pushed his drink towards them. The drink, a tall pint of gods know what, was shedding small droplets of water down the side of it. The bar was busy but and the low hum of others talking and enjoying each others company fluttered around them.
He smiled brightly, his normal, charming, attitude coming forward as he shrugged off his jacket. "Is this what happens, huh? I leave for a month or two and you go to shit?" He asked with a cocked eye brow.
Mireia couldnât argue that the last few monthsânot one or two, but half a year nowâhad been especially unkind to her. Or anyone else in Calamity, for that matter. It felt like she was stuck in a loop of trying her damndest to stand up and find reasons to smile again, only for the universe to force her onto her knees once more. It was only the people around her that kept her going.
There were days when she didnât feel like using as much glamour as usual, when exhaustion won out the need to escape reality. On those days, her skin was wrinklier, her eyes appeared less focused, her glasses were on display, and the weight of more than five hundred years of life felt heavy on her shoulders.
Her eyes widened with surprise at the familiar voice, despite the jab.
âThat wasnât very kind of you, Malakai,â she retorted, slowly turning her head to address the returning sorcerer. She was glad to see him back, as that would make one of her dearest friends very happy.
Nolan remained silent as he led the Demon down the stairwell into the basement of the Slaughter Ring. It wasn't decorated in a way that was welcoming. In fact, it was much more cold and uninviting -- smooth, grey concrete walls filling the space. There was a lounging area, which was rarely used, with a couch and a couple of chairs. Past that were several hallways, all with metal doors lining the walls.
"I currently have..." Nolan tipped his head to the side as he pondered. "Three humans, two witches, and one fae." His supply wasn't as much as he'd wanted. He'd much prefer every single room be filled. "All of them have souls, if I remember correctly. So you can choose whichever one you'd like. Or multiple." A pause. "If you choose more than one, though, I'll have to charge you. First one is free, always, for new customers."
Najelonâs slit pupils were thin as a thread as he followed the man down the corridors, feeling the increasing burn of fear and depravity as they went deeper into the rabbit hole. The place was too lackluster for his theatrical taste, but he didnât care about such things in that instant.
âThe fae,â he murmured without thinking twice, instinct deciding what he needed out of all the possibilities. Humans were too fragile for his current self. Witches were even more unpredictable than fae, and still not that resilient. The little woodland creature would be perfect. But alsoâŠ
âWhat about vampires?â
Najelon could smell the blood on him, he knew the owner of the Ring was one of them. But would he go so far as to offer himself just to keep a demon under control? The thought of testing everyoneâs limits that night was more and more appealing by the second, especially if they werenât going to provide him with easy slaughter, as advertised.
He stood by, letting the others talk. After all, it wasn't really his decision. Sure, in the end he also had to agree and his magic helped but it was whether Zane had it in him to perform the ritual for Raven too. It was Zane's blood magic, so ultimately it was his decision. Truthfully, Harley was barely listening to the conversation until he heard Naj's words cut through the air.
For once, in an extremely rare occurrence, Harley's eyes flashed with danger towards the demon. The electricity in the room crackled, the lights above them pulsating as the music from the speakers seemed to struggle through static as they overloaded. "You want to bite your tongue. Electricity runs through all things, Najelon, even the living and not quite living." He snapped, his body tensing for a few more moments before he regained his composure and excused himself, storming off to the bathroom.
Zane could tell him what was possible. What the terms would be, if they were willing to do it. Zane could decide it all. He would rather not have to deal with the brat for eternity, but their friendship with Naj dictated they would do as he asked, if they could, even if Harley was pissed at him right now. In reality, it probably wasn't the demon he was pissed off at, but the fact that he thought he could make a comment like that to their faces sent a flash of anger through him as a result of a nerve too close to home being hit. @oftragxdy
A smirk formed on her lips as she stared at the other two as they clearly began to grow more annoyed by the second. Raven's eyes flickered towards one of the speakers as she pressed further back into Najelon for protection. She trusted that he wouldn't let anything happen to her, but could he control two Sorcerers?
Zane found himself sighing at Najelon's comment and Harley's subsequent reaction. "Harley." Zane warned, not wanting to cause any further issues between the three of them. Or four, if you counted Raven. Zane didn't. The personal lives of him and Harley were no one else's business, unless the two of them made it so. Had they been fucking regularly? No. But that didn't mean Najelon needed to know that.
He was relieved when his boyfriend decided to take his leave before Zane had even ordered it. He then turned his attention back to the Demon and his pet. "It's possible. It would take some time to figure out. I'd have to tailor the spell to her, specifically. And again, she'd be tied to me and my life. So as long as I stay alive, she will as well." Zane felt like he didn't need to tell Najelon what would happen if he ended up dying. "There wouldn't be any other requirements." He didn't want the human. And honestly, he wouldn't normally agree to something such as this. But Najelon was an old friend. One that he trusted.
It wasnât easy to surprise Najelon, but the way Harley snapped certainly did. It wasnât usual for him to react so strongly to the demonâs shameless teasing, even when it was crudely delivered like this instance. Clearly, heâd hit a nerve. One that was exposed and raw. Though his eyes widened, the smirk on his lips didnât waver even as the sorcerer stormed off. His mind was already working a peace offering for later.
Once things settled again after a moment, he listened to Zane despite having reached a decision already. A cordiality he granted a handful of people like him.
âI appreciate your consideration, my dear Zane, but itâs a no.â Whether Raven would be relieved or disappointed, it didnât matter, because the risk was too high. Tangling their lives together like that would result in madness and mutual destruction. He could picture it clearly in his mind.
âI donât think youâd enjoy being under my watch constantly.â Just thinking about it made his own skin crawl. âAnd I already have my hands full with this one,â he added, lowering his head enough to whisper it in Ravenâs ear, his hand sliding up to cup one of her breasts and pull her closer to him. The idea of fucking her in front of Zane sparked in his mind like a delicious three course meal, but maybe that would make Harley even madder.
Nothing he couldnât compensate for, surely.
âDonât worry about Harley, by the way,â he continued, his eyes fixed on Zaneâs as his thumb brushed right over Ravenâs nipple. âWeâll make amends.â
