WOE.

augustin garneau 276 yrs // vampire the evil that men do lives after them // the good is oft interred with their bones. 

[drgarneau]

duderosiers​:

the heartbreak that had occurred so long ago was being dug up again, emotions that jean-claude kept locked behind his cold and un-beating heart beginning to stir the longer he spent in augustin’s presence. his question was not dignified an answer, his sire simply still lost for words and that only served to dissolve the hurt and years worth of pain into…anger. so much anger red hot through his veins and he didn’t need to breath but god his chest hurt. the crushing sensation, as if his ribs were being ground and forced back up his throat, was something unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

“of course i’m alive. you would’ve - you would’ve known that if you had fucking bothered to look, bothered to save me bothered to do this!” that bond they have, the one that always connects a vampire to their sire and vice versa, those thin strings that are steadfast around his heart, jean-claude seeks for it and tugs hard. as if they could sever the organ they wrap around into shreds. the more augustin talks, the worse it becomes. the crush, the overwhelming sensation to scream, and cry, and laugh, and vomit. 

i’m sorry. that gets a laugh, a loud cackle that sounds ever so slightly unhinged and causes even more people to glance over. some of them will know who he is - j.c is a regular here. “it took me 40 days to die. 40 days, alone, underground. i ate the entire flesh off my left hand because i was so desperate for blood. i felt my fingers and toes solidify into stone i died crying for my mother i died crying for you! i died begging for you to come back, i died asking what i had done wrong,” his voice is rising in octaves now as rage and heartache war against each other in every inch of his being. there is no need to breath but still, he’s taking quick shallow breaths. it’s taking an ungodly amount of restraint to not simply rip out the throat of the man he once loved more than anything on the earth.

the suggestion to go outside or have him beg in-front of an audience feels like a slap in the face. it feels like sarcasm. it feels like this is a huge joke. everyone laugh at jean-claude, the man who waited for someone who couldn’t care less. his fingers itch for a smoke, or a bottle, or to be buried deep in flesh and ripping out things. 

“are you being funny with me?” he asks, still furious. it’s slowly ebbing, being mad but he needs to keep it up because what comes after is devastation. he refuses to let this man see him cry. “the audacity to think i would demand anything less than you to prostrate yourself in front of this crowd!” 

what did i do wrong what did i do wrong why did you forget me? i loved you i gave you my humanity was it not enough? was i not enough? why was i not enough? i have our love letters i have painted you i have waited for you. am i that pathetic? is the great jean-claude du derosiers no more than a sham? so many things i have crammed into an augstin shaped cavern and everything just falls through. at what point did it stop resembling the man and simply begin to resemble a bottomless pit? those thoughts continued to swirl around his head, mouth still half open. there still hasn’t been an explanation other than…what? maybe he found another. maybe you were just a plaything of a creature unable to feel and unable to love. nothing. you have finally realised your worse fear; that you were discarded. there is no sensible explanation that will make this better.

Any words he could ever think of would never be enough. There was no excuse for damning one to a fate such as his. But, even so; he had to have had his reasons once. He’s digging deeper through his memories, feeling like he’s almost got the answer; but something is begging him to stop. Begging him not to look any closer; like a hand holding his head in place whilst his gaze desperately searches out the horror it should not see but very much hungers to do so. 

A choice had been made once, whether for good or ill–it had been made. The tug at the impossible thing between them almost causes him to stumble forward. As if the man had twisted the tie at his throat around and pulled–

It’s there again–I’m sorry, it’s hollow and empty and tastes of ashes upon his tongue. The memory is there–of an animal circling; mad with a potent cocktail of emotion; don’t look too closely or you’ll taste–

The distance between them is both too great and not enough all at once, if not for the gloves he wore he’d be carving half-moons within his flesh. To simply stand here and allow Jean-Claude’s emotions to wash over him is the bare minimum he can offer; and since no words he can think of will be enough—it’s all he does for a time. 

“I mourned you,” he says softly, where once he found it impossible to look at him; his gaze remains locked “My memory is…difficult to navigate but…I know that, I know that for certain.”

He knows that with his entire being. 

“I’d never dream of making light of the situation,” a situation he’d never once thought…

He takes a half-step back “I will give you your space, this place is yours–” and before he can say anything, before he can do anything more be it to fall to his knees and beg or simply remain a statue within this one safe space (do you really believe you have any right to call it such)? 

He leaves.

Runs away. 

The cool air of the night ought to act as a balm for his very being but instead all it does is highlight the turmoil within. The yawning chasm within himself. He’s merely standing on the sidewalk outside Erzsebets. Standing? No, he’s pacing only a stone’s throw from the door–mind churning through its backlog of…of…history. He ran once, before–didn’t he? 

Circling the point on the—

The impossible draw of—

It’s there, it’s there go on go on–

A trap it has to be, how stupid do they think he is? To walk in and–

Oh but he wants to. Wanted to. The well of emotion had been all-consuming, he’d torn at his chest with blunted nails scraping and peeling and bleeding—and it hadn’t been enough to yearn to grasp that cold dead organ within his chest and squeeze–

No, no apology would make this right. 

He drops down to sit on the curb, polished loafers sinking into the grime of the street as he rests his head in his hands. Fingers deftly massaging his brow to either ward off the oncoming headache or onslaught of memories; maybe both. 

Augustin should never have come to Opulence, he shouldn’t stay; move on somewhere else and try his hand at settling. Or rather yet, why bother? Was his nomadic life truly broken up until this point? Was the loss of Jean-Claude the catalyst for it all? 

When had he last visited France…?

Had he truly been so desperate to put as much distance between himself and the greatest tragedy of his time that he just…what? Has all the good he’d done been his sad, desperate attempt at atoning for–

You abandoned him. 

Say it.

He bites down on his knuckles, sharpened teeth almost tearing through the expensive leather. He had been a coward who chose his own life over dying with the one he loved. The love of his entire existence. What has he been playing at this whole time? A farce. Would things have been better if he had—no, he knows at his core that there would have been no unmarked grave for him; they surely would have seen him dusted in some perverse attempt at cleansing his soul under the Lord’s light. 

Would dying have made it better? Would it have made it right?

[thebellamybarnesarchive]

⌝ The man's laugh feels a little surprising, Bella's jaw tilting ever so slightly up as she attempted to discern what it meant. It was hard not to be used to vampires behaving the way Val did, with a stoic quietness, no desire to over speak, and so each time she met one who was nothing like that it was hard not to be just a little surprised. "I didn't think so, a bit disruptive to sleep typically," she agreed.

⌝ At his suggestion he would pay an additional fee Bellamy was immediately shaking her head. "The price always included furniture, I'm happy to adjust things, I have a catalogue of everything I keep in storage, I'll email it to you and you can pick some pieces. For tonight we can just turn the neon light off so you can get some sleep, adjust things in the morning." It did surprise her he slept, wondering if he needed it, or, if like her he did it out of simple habit, a way to feel time in a way that was not to unending.

⌝ "Yes, we broke up, if I was going to kill any of my exes it probably wouldn't have been him, though if I was a better vampire I'd have devoured all of them," she said in jest...mostly. "And no, I mean, I only officially put the place up for rent at the beginning of the year, a few months isn't so awful, I haven't even finished renovating my new home. I'm so indecisive, I've painted my office five different colours already, eventually the room is going to lose some size because of how many layers of paint there are on the damn walls."

⌝ As for his luck Bellamy nodded, dark hair falling around her face while liquid gold eyes scanned the space. "Maybe not," she agreed, unnsure if that was true or not. "How many rich girls renovate their townhouses for doctor boyfriends that end up leaving though? I don't know if it's so much an Opulence thing as a dumb heiress thing, maybe I'll get my own reality show eventually." It was a cover, of course, the vampire woman dusting off her coat as she spoke of herself in this way. It actually had hurt, to be left that way. It had hurt each time she'd been left by various men, and it was hard to not feel stupid for trusting each and every one of them.

⌝ "So you'll let me keep bothering you then? I get to be that sort of landlord?" she joked, pushing off the wall finally and opening the door that said 'STAFF ONLY' to show him the rest of the space, even if he wasn't concerned with it, a small hallway with the same accents as those in the waiting room visible, with a door to the left, space for a sign but none since it had previously read 'DR NICHOLAS' on it. Bella gave it a shove. "Fortunately I think at least the lower level should be fine," she assured him, a desk already in place with shelves and draws, a computer in a matching hue to everything else as well.

⌝. A flick of her hair in his direction she finally asked, "what sort of doctor are you, by the way?"

[drgarneau]

Augustin couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept. Pretend or otherwise. There was a simple comfort to be found in a bed of one’s own. A sort of stab at normalcy that came with working while in comfort rather than at a desk or kitchen table. Some days it made him feel silly but one should find joy where they could especially in a life as long as his. He cants his head to the side almost in consideration before he speaks “I don’t…sleep,” it’s a slow admission and if he had the blood to spare he’s certain he may blush in embarrassment “I tried pretending once long ago, I think, but it never…stuck.”

Following such a personal fact he’s almost eager to jump onto the offered conversation “Are you sure?” he asks “Well…” he hums and haws for a moment “A separate workspace with ample storage could be nice I suppose. I don’t know about relocating my personal effects wholly as I don’t have many outside of a rather extensive book collection.”

Both personal and otherwise. Even considering a journal with at minimum, one entry a day–over the course of nearly two-hundred-and-fifty-years of un-life things added up impossibly fast. Not accounting for the volumes he’d lost along the way. He had recovered what he could of some of his oldest volumes but even so, the sheer number was rather staggering. It would be…would be rather nice to have space to fully look over and retrace the history of his life. 

It’s only through decades of practice that keeps him from outwardly reacting to her words, at most he frowns a little as if the thought of devouring his (non-existent) ex-partners had never crossed his mind. Messy work, eating a man. “Well, I suppose layers of paint are easier to manage than layers of wallpaper, no?”

He had no clue, the kind of decorating of one’s home had never…never been his responsibility. He’d had someone to do that for him once, in another life–and ever since, he’d never had a stable place to really bother with the chore outside of how it already stood. Outside of keeping it clean and tidy of course. “You loved him,” he says simply “Love makes fools of us all.”

Monsters of many. Tragedies of some. 

“Bother away,” he offers as he follows her into the office, casting one glance at the name on the door and making a mental note to replace it with his own at some point–or at the very least, remove it “No no, the professional space is perfect as is. Leagues above many spaces I’ve worked in prior.”

Idly he traces the shelves with one gloved hand only to hover near the expensive looking computer with clear interest. Fingers itching to further explore but he’s quick to fold his hands at the small of his back in a tight hold “Bit of a jack of all trades,” he replies “I was formally educated back in the day over two centuries ago but medicine has come a long, long way since then.”

He circles out from behind the desk to stand before her “General practice suits me just fine, though I have volunteered at the hospital for the odd shift or two–I have considerable surgical experience among many other fields, when you live as long as I have, you tend to learn a lot more than you anticipated; especially when you don't sleep.”

[sagescarlett]

TW: Gun Violence, Blood.

The russet she-wolf whimpered again as the strange male approached her hiding spot, fur raising along her spine. However, when he asks if she is sentient and explains he's a doctor, she forces herself to relax slightly. Shifting to human form, she crouches in the bush to keep her naked form covered. "Yes" She replies, voice tense with both pain and uncertainty. She glances around cautiously as if expecting a trap of some sort before letting her green gaze meet his. She studies his appearance silently for a few heart beats, before lifting her injured arm gingerly to show him. "Can you fix this?" She asks. There's a bullet hole in her upper arm, the veins and skin surrounding it darkened with infection caused by the silver bullet still lodged inside. She'd had a run in with a hunter and she'd been lucky enough to escape, but had suffered the injury in the process. How she had managed to keep running even after she'd been shot was a mystery even to her, though she supposed it was from the adrenaline and fear. Now that she had stopped running at last, the adrenaline was wearing off to be replaced by pain.

[drgarneau]

As the wolf raises its head to look at him he halts his approach, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to bite him truly but–

She changes. 

And it is a she. 

It’s not his first time watching a wolf shift but it feels incredibly private, it forces him to avert his gaze while the snapping of bones settles slowly into place and she speaks in a voice heavy with pain and lingering caution. Understandably so. The stench of tainted blood however draws  his attention forward and she’s presenting an injured arm to him for his consideration. “Let me take a closer look.”

Stepping closer, he raises one gloved hand to gently grip her offered wrist to hold her limb still. He takes in the edge of infection that eats at the wound and somehow more concerning, the dark winding veins spidering out. Instead of manoeuvring her arm this way and that, he ducks down to look at the underside, no exit wound. Standing once again he carefully returns her arm to her side and steps back “I don’t have my medical bag with me. It’s currently in my motel room,” he grimaces “I’m aware of how sketchy that sounds but I can indeed help—there’s no exit wound which is normally bad news; and in your case it is. A normal bullet alone would impact your healing considerably but the silver and your continued operation has turned toxic–you’re approaching septic.” 

With one hand he gestures in the direction of his motel “My accommodations both professional and personal are still being worked on but I can help you immediately by transporting you to my motel or I can walk you to the hospital—I’m not...I”m not comfortably leaving you alone with such an injury, if it helps soothe your worry, my name is Augustin and the choice is yours but please, make it quick.”

[duderosiers]

it is the first time in a few days that jean-claude has properly ventured out, the approach of spring bringing with it brighter mornings and evening - the time which he can rightfully skulk around the night grows shorter with each passing day. he is yet to apologise to elora for his drunken outburst, though feels brave enough to do it thanks to thalia’s words of wisdom and her patience with him. an evening in erzsebet’s is exactly what he needs to relax and gather his thoughts, rubbing soldiers with other vampires like himself who understand that sometimes living for so long is difficult. 

there are regulars, some he recognises and some he doesn’t, eyes trained on his phone while he sits alone in a booth. a twinge in his chest - he feels it, the feeling makes him frown - thalia? perhaps hunter…either of them are clearly searching for him for a reason he cannot yet fathom. jean-claude thinks very little of it, giving a tiny tug back as if to say he is there, and he is listening should they follow that string to him.

something - someone - moves, just out of the corner of his eye, walking quite freely then…coming to a halt. silence around him seems to grow louder, a crawling of his skin as if an invisible force is whispering look up. what is that atmosphere? why is it threatening to choke him with how heavy it is, the dead heart that lies shrivelled in his chest suddenly beating so fast with nerves not his own? the sensation is alien, and intense, and green eyes glance up just a little as to who that is stood there staring at him in such a way -

time stops. he meets a dark gaze, and for a moment the two aren’t in this blood bar but in a humid ballroom, faces hidden by masks. whos birthday was that again? it mattered not, never had, for that was the first time jean-claude had laid eyes upon augustin. 

the phone clatters to the table, mouth slightly ajar, words do not come to him. they don’t come to the vampire opposite, either, things running fast through the vampires cluttered brain. how many times had he thought of this? of meeting his beloved augustin again, yet each scenario could not have prepared him for it. j.c is still, waiting for something to be said anything to be said say something say something you idiot -

yet. augustin does not, simply looks upon him with an expression that he cannot fathom. there is little familiarity in it, as if looking at the face of someone you know yet cannot name properly. a cold sharp knife lodges itself between the third and forth rib and begins to slowly cut away at flesh - why isn’t he saying anything? why isn’t he doing anything other than staring and sending nothing but sheer blind panic and fear and c o w a r d i c e through their shared bond? jean-claude keeps silent to, tongue too heavy to speak, the thing in his chest slowly slicing him further open for all to see. 

once, jean-claude had thought that he was not forgotten. that he was lost, and his sire was simply unable to find him, he had to wait. that he would not die alone, in the earth, that the love of his life would save him because they were going to be eachother’s forever. as the minutes trickled into hours, into days, into weeks, and the hunger for blood not his own and the slow turning of his body to stone, the thought had become truth. he had been forgotten, and abandoned. for so long, he had hoped that it was an accident, that one day augustin would simply come back into his life and apologise and give a reasonable and sensible explanation that he would so greedily accept in his desperation to be loved again but -

you were forgotten. you were left to die.

jean-claude. his heart tumbles out from where skin and muscle have been flayed, peeling back to reveal rotted organs. he stands, so fast that it knocks his glass to the ground, shattering and breaking the silence. blood lies in a pool on the floor - he takes those thin strings that are tied so tightly and pulls hard enough to slice anything they are wrapped in into ribbons. a turn. he is running away, he is a coward he is trying to run away you were forgotten you were left you have believed a lie and now it is laid bare and what do you do? jean-claude what do you do -

“savez-vous combien de temps il faut pour mourir ?” 

do you know how long it takes to die?

[drgarneau]

Augustin was not a man made for war, but for the aftermath. Of collecting the pieces and stitching them back together. The blood that soaked his hands was not in the horror of battle but the iron stench of it sank deep into his bones all the same. For all his…aversion to violence, he’s not lived a life unscathed. His status as a vampire alone was testament to this, his age another; his all-consuming need to wade into some truly deplorable situations in order to help help help– sometimes he wondered what exactly drove him to this.

Why exactly was he so desperate to do so? Was he trying to atone? Were you always like this? And it drove him mad that he simply could not remember. Could not remember who he once was, his foundations— and with the jarring sight of the man before him, the layers began to peel off recesses of his mind long, long forgotten. 

He’s half turned as if he had any hope of twisting free of those strands that bit into his flesh, that demanded attention–at the words—

Savez-vous combien de temps il faut pour mourir ? 

An answer demanded. 

Without water, a man will die within three days. Without food but access to drinkable water he will last much longer, a month; maybe—but can you truly call the state he will be in surviving? The statistics for the supernatural fluctuate; are up to debate—but there’s hardly any type of proper educated study being conducted.

He knows it’s not the answer Jean-Claude wants. Deserves. Needs. It’s hardly an answer at all. The question is not one to ponder, for it is an accusation. He draws no breath but feels as though he’s suffocating, dark eyes shut as if they had any hope of blocking out the sight. The reality. The door is right there. Escape. Promised salvation. He’s turning, slowly–inexorably not away but towards him, him the only him that has ever truly fucking mattered in the entire course of Augustin Garneau’s two-hundred-and-seventy something years of life both undead and living, breathing, loving—

A torment situation of his own creation. “Jean-Claude,” he says again, the only thing he’s been capable of saying since his existence was reaffirmed like a slap to the face; hold the sorrow, hold the pity don’t you fucking dare look upon him with such–the memories playing before his mind’s eye “It’s…been a…” long time, horrible time, impossible time, i’m sorry, i’m sorry i’m sorry “You’re alive.”

Foot meet mouth.

Where has your eloquence gone? 

Savez-vous combien de temps il faut pour mourir?

Irony. Cruel irony. Your former lover Jean-Claude has not been alive since he accepted your gift. Your promise that was a proposal in everything but name; without the ring—a promise is a promise. His hands clasp firmly, impossibly tight at the small os his back as he’s finally fully facing him standing here feeling incredibly small, vulnerable wrong wrong wrong you poor fucking bastard in the small foyer of this fine establishment.

He doesn’t want an answer. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue, demanding to be given. He can’t quite look at him, gaze skittering slightly to the side; like a man looking into the sun he is going to go blind. It’s the least you can do. 

Don’t fucking say it.

“I’m sorry.” 

Idiot.

It’s not enough. It will never be enough. What fancy words do you have to give? What could you ever hope to offer to serve as the balm to this impossible wound?

“I…it has been a long time,” and his memory dictates only the moments of depth from the joy and ecstasy to the all consuming sorrow and loss “I didn’t…know you were…” alive, here, alive alivealivealivealive—his memory tells him that he had looked, but cannot for the life of him recall the depth of it, how long and where—had he eventually given up? Run away? He must have. Why? Feared for his un-life? 

As he’s glancing to the wayside he’s catching the acute attention the scattered patrons have, the whispers— “Perhaps we could continue this outside…?” he offers carefully taking a half-aborted step backwards “Or would you prefer I fall to my knees and beg for your understanding and forgiveness with an audience?”

[yashicanandarchive]

⌝ Yash heard the voice before she saw anything, that hummingbird heart in her chest jumping, as did her body, deep brown eyes listing to see a pallid flat hand held out. The woman was by no means naive, she too knew what it meant to be a woman alone in the dark when a man approached but in Opulence, if she was hurt, there were far more ways to determine guilt than outside the barrier and so, for the most part there was that protection, that getting away with this was harder than normal. Of course, it didn't make her heart rate slow, it didn't make her move towards the figure as he spoke.

⌝ "I - I -," Yash stuttered, an attempt by her human gaze to focus, to find the man's features in the darkness. Perhaps he really could get away with something if she couldn't describe his face...

⌝ Eventually, however, her eyes adjusted, making out strict features with dark hair, a little taller than Yash but not looming as some men could be. "My flashlight went out and I - I don't do well in the dark," she admitted, unsure how the man would be able to assist her with this.

⌝ Logically she should have reached for her phone, it had a flashlight on it, but logic was harder to find when fear was prominent in ones mind. Even as she found her words, clutching at the strap of her bag with knuckles going white, fear drenched her scent, wafting off her in the wind, practically drawing predators to her. Silly thing, she should have found a ride, or perhaps just stayed home to avoid the trouble all together, but mortals in Opulence were by no means smarter than those outside. Some were even more reckless.

⌝ "I'm sorry I screamed," she offered, defaulting to a need to be polite and amenable. Yashica had yet to move, eyes simply stuck on him as she remained in the circle of the street lamps light. "I didn't mean to bother you."

[drgarneau]

The seconds standing outside of the street lights dim halo feel like hours as her heartbeat hammers in his ears. Each rapid beat feels like the vibration of a great drum. And still he waits. He gives her space. He gives her time. While he means her no harm, he can’t quite say  the same for anyone else that may be lurking in the dark. Though as far as he’d been aware since his arrival, Opulence was leagues kinder to its residents both supernatural and not than any other similar community he’d visited. 

I don’t do well in the dark.

Augustin’s brow furrowed at this admission and he found himself almost…stunned. Frozen? Maybe. Wetting his lips carefully he slowly lowers his hand and moves it towards the pocket of his jacket with exaggerated care– and then she apologizes for screaming.  For bothering him. 

The fact that she assumed...made him think the usual outside reaction to her fear was annoyance, and that struck a potent chord of emotion within him.

“Don’t,” he says quickly “Don’t apologize. Not to me, not to anyone— never for this.”Removing his phone from his pocket he’s quick to unlock it and select the flashlight, bathing the space between them in bright artificial light. It doesn’t completely chase away the shadows but it keeps them at bay, especially for the girl–the human, without his heightened senses, without his ability. Swallowing the grimace at the heat of his previous statement he offers her a tentative smile “Better…?”

[thebellamybarnesarchive]

⌝ Bellamy smirked a little, it reminded her of the way her mother used to introduce herself and her daughter. It seemed another cruel trait of the woman's that she had never taught her daughter any French, a solidified decision on her mother's part that it would make Bellamy 'strange' to not be like the other girls in her school. Still, Louise Jacqueline Barnes née Chevalier, had always uttered her daughters name with her native tongue. "Yours as well," the young vampire agreed.

⌝ Much like some of their kind he seemed ready to act on practicality, all things could be changed she supposed. "Uh...I mean, technically you could move in now, the place is furnished but...," Bellamy rolled off a little. "It was sort of furnished with my ex in mind, and he felt the desire to pretend like I pushed him into feminine styles, because god forbid he actually admit he just wanted a pink bed," Bellamy overshared. It could have been considered a trait of her youth but Bella genuinely thought it would not fade with age, she was just someone who overshared. "So the bed upstairs is pink and has a neon sign above it..."

⌝ Turning to him where they stood in the waiting room, the back of her hips leaning against soft chairs, next to a door that read 'staff only' on it which would in time bring himself, and potentially in the future patients, back to the examine room, the office and the large space at the back with all of the equipment. For now, however, the space was just chairs and a desk with the open archway to the entrance space they had come in.

⌝ "All things I'd be willing to change but if you need a place to sleep tonight you're welcome to it and I can have some of my people come by in the morning to make adjustments. I have lost of furniture in storage because I am...wildly indecisive." The amount of beds she had purchased for her own new estate in Ashmore was ridiculous but she just had yet to be able to make up her mind on things, so used to catering her aesthetic to whoever she was with, or whatever concept of herself she wanted to project, who she actually was getting sort of...lost. "I mean, unless you're a neon sign kind of guy, who am I to say what your home decor aesthetic is? Maybe it's neon signs and pink velvet beds."

[drgarneau]

The bark of laughter that escapes Augustin at her words surprises even him “Honestly? As long as the bed is clean and fresh the colour matters little to me,” to even have the option of more than whatever a rented room threw on for the evening was a luxury he hadn’t had since his human days “Though I suppose the neon sign isn’t really…up my alley.” 

A wry smile follows his words and he lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug “I mean, if you’re feeling generous I’d be more than willing to pay an additional fee for some interior decorating out of storage–truthfully it’s been a long while since I’ve had a place of my own and not been on the road,” he lets his gaze drift around the room, mind already running away with the many, many possibilities at hand “I can continue my stay in the motel while waiting for things to be finished…?”

Not for the first time during this interaction, Augustin wonders about this mystery ex-something in question. Boyfriend? Husband? Should he follow her lead of toeing the line of personal or stick to professional? He was painfully new in town, could it hurt to open up a little? “I’m…sorry to hear about the breakup…?” he ventures carefully “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long for someone to come along, I’ll be honest and say I couldn’t believe my luck with this–” he gestures around with one hand “This kind of thing would just…I don’t think happen outside of Opulence’s borders.” 

Truthfully, there were a lot of things that didn’t seem like they’d happen in the world outside. “Not that I’ve really looked,” ever “I won’t be opening the doors for awhile anyway, so waiting for your input and potential magic touch with the living space might just be an unexpected boon.”

[sagescarlett]

New Beginnings

The russet wolf limped down the empty street, a soft whimper escaping her with every agonizing step she took on her injured foreleg. She'd been running for what felt like years but must have only been few long days, barely stopping for any rest or food out of fear her former pack was on her trail. Somewhere along the way she'd gotten separated from her brother and she worried he'd been caught and killed. Part of her wanted to turn around and go look for him, however exhaustion and hunger kept her moving forwards. Barely. Hearing the unfamiliar sounds of voices as a couple opened their front door and headed out for the night, she paused, ears perking up with alert as golden eyes watched them cautiously. Thankfully they didn't seem to notice the wolf. Letting relief flood through her she moved off the road and into a few bushes, laying down to wait for them to leave before making her way again. She didn't know where she was nor where she was going, but anything was better than going home...if she could even call Medora home anymore. Letting out another soft whimper, she curled up and laid her head on her uninjured leg.

[drgarneau]

For all the many long years that Augustin had lived, he hadn’t really ever developed a hobby to call his own. Too busy, too much to do–maybe there was something to be said about that old chestnut with idle hands after all. Still in the awkward state of limbo, between motel and permanent residency; he took to walking the streets between shifts. It was…peaceful. He was aware that with the sun making its steady retreat over the horizon, that he was blessed; the luxury item worn at his neck allowed the final warm kiss of its rays upon his flesh to do no harm. 

To some, it was a time of relaxation, maybe even contemplation. Getting lost within his memories had done him no good before. One foot in front of the other, he’s able to resist the siren’s call of memory lane and in doing so he’s able to catch it. But only just. Enhanced senses catch the whimper. It scratches at a different kind of memory but he’s quick to close that door and pause in step, glancing around his gaze alights upon the bush. His familiarity with the many cadences of human pain allows for him to catch on that it’s animal in nature. 

Within Opulence, that could mean anything. 

Still, he approaches carefully “Hello?” he asks as he scents blood upon the breeze “Are you…sentient?” 

A wise question, considering the heavy woods that surround this land “I am a doctor, while my expertise lies within those more human in shape I am not unfamiliar with…the animal form.”

[drgarneau]

@duderosiers

Augustin had visited many supernatural communities over the course of his long life. He may not remember every name or face that had crossed his path but Erzsebet’s was certainly the nicest of the blood bars he’d visited. Not having to worry about food was a considerable weight off his shoulders. It removed the guilt he often associated with the necessary task, not to mention an air of normalcy he never thought he’d experience with feeding. He wasn’t quite a regular–too new to the community to be such, but he imagined every vampire within the town’s limits became a regular at Erzsebet.

The hour was late still, perhaps early to some–bit of a strange line to walk. Whatever it was to be called, it was still dark out. The town had a small nightlife, nothing to hold a candle to the neon signs and crowded streets of a city but it was considerable all the same.

He’d gone back to the motel and freshened up. Showered. Changed into something not only more comfortable but something more…presentable.

The sooner his living situation got sorted, the better.

There’s something else there, something else nagging at him that he can’t for the life of him put his finger on. Something within pulled forward, pulled impossibly taut; worst of all the closer he came to the establishment the tighter it became. To the point that it felt it was the thing pulling him forward–maybe in another life, what scant memories he could recall of it, someone with talent would pluck at the string. An instrument of beauty rather than a source of stress.

Pulling the door open he slips inside and if possible, the sensation within grows worse. One gloved hand moves to absently press against his breast while he enters. As if his touch alone could soothe the impossible sensation within, he tries to offer a wan smile towards the bar as he approaches but…

Something stops him.

Another something with no name, that thread pulled taut and trembling round his throat and it’s as though a hand touches upon his skull to steer his attention to the side. He’s stopped somewhere between the entry and the bar standing in what one could consider an open space, feeling an awful lot like the fox looking for the hound at its tail (a memory, a memory of the howling and the fierce glow of a hunt) and there’s…there’s someone there.

A man is seated at one of the booths within, a man who he knows but doesn’t know–not a man in the classic sense but a man shaped thing like him. Vampire. The string loops around his throat stealing away his nonexistent breath and there’s a series of memories prompted to the forefront of his mind. Augustin has had a lot of memories in his long, long, impossibly long life. Time did steal them away the farther back he reached, only coming to him in bits and pieces. Names he couldn’t quite recall alongside faces he couldn’t hope to remember right.

This man, this vampire, this face—he knew them. The faded details of his memory struggling to connect the dots whilst that thread of something screamed at him. There was a roaring in his ears that had nothing to do with blood nor hunger (the fox eyes white with fear desperately searching; weren’t you supposed to be the hound, blue blood?). Keen eyes make out the details desperately trying to line up the pieces, overlaying over memory that stubbornly clings to the filmy overlay of time.

You know him.

The name is there, the feeling within his chest borders on the pain of something within eager to escape. Thud thud thud fists on the walls of his rib cage, thud thud thud his cold, dead heart. Tip of his tongue, desperate to be spoken; fear keeps it locked behind teeth too white, too straight while fangs not quite bare. And he’s staring wide eyed and impossible at it all as like a picture book the memories not quite in focus–but the face clear as day over something softer and washed at the edges flicker before his mind’s eye.

Jean Claude du DeRosiers.

Dead dead dead—he’s dead, they–

Coward.

Run.

His loafers are planted to the ground, each feeling encased within cement.

Runrunrunrun–

Coward.

There’s no distant hope at a civil conversation. His mind struggles to churn out the memories further, for all he’s forgotten over the decades, this was something else. This was a trauma response, he knew that logically but logic was nothing before the overwhelming tide of emotion that washed over him. Maybe once he’d bene desperate, so very desperate to hide away from these horrible horrible truths but–

He’s managed a half-turn, a pathetic first step towards pivoting away from the sight before him and the thread had started to go lax as if satisfied at turmoil it had caused. But it’s not enough, he catches the confusion upon the bartender’s face–the way they cast a glance around the interior looking for what had caused such a monumental outburst of fear so unlike the predator that a vampire wise. He is the fox and the hounds are almost upon him.

Run run run away—coward coward coward—

Augustin dares not let himself speak, for fear of what may fall free–but it’s a strangled sort of curse that falls forth anyway “Jean-Claude,” a whisper choked forth from his lips that he can’t hope to bite back, a name not spoken in near two centuries and a face he’d hungered to forget (succeeded in so).

R u n.

[thebellamybarnesarchive]

⌝ "It was all recently redone," Bellamy commented as the young vampire girl unlocked the door to the Bowden townhouse she had once resided within. The immediate area of the space having a door that blocked off a staircase that had once been on display but now read 'private residence' on it, while to left was an obvious waiting room. The walls themselves were a cool toned deeper blue shade with accents of white trim and gold lighting and door handles. "But anything aesthetically I'm open to changing," she offered as her black heels carried her into the space.

⌝ It was a relief to finally have an actual doctor looking into the place. The local real estate agent that had it listed for her kept telling Bellamy that it was unlikely to get rented by a doctor and it would be smarter to just sell all of the equipment. The vampire had simply ignored her, she'd purchased state of the art equipment, paid a ridiculous amount to have them set up correctly, she wasn't going to have it all ripped down when she knew eventually someone would be able to make use of it.

⌝ Cream coating hitting the back of her ankles she stopped so he could take a look around the space, to decide if he wanted to look upstairs at the area that would actually be a home, or to look around the lower half that would be capable of being used as either a private practice or allow him to bring work home from the hospital. "I really just want someone to make use of it if my ex doesn't intend to," she stated, with a sharp inhale. "My estate agent didn't give me your name either, I'm Bella," she offered, holding out the hand that was not grasping at her black Bottega Veneta purse.

@drgarneau

[drgarneau]

Augustin had never fancied himself the lucky sort. Yet here he stood at the one place he never suspected he’d stumble upon. When he’d come across the listing he’d honestly thought it too good to be true. Taking the plunge meant something a lot more permanent than he’d been planning for his seeking out Opulence.

He follows in the other’s footsteps taking in the clean details of the abode that could (maybe would) become his very own. “No, no it’s fine,” he assures her “Perfect really.”

Bit trite that was.

He wondered how rare it really was, how long had she sat on this prime slice of real-estate. What had kept her from gutting the place and starting from scratch? The question veered a little too close to personal for his taste so it went unasked. As he moves through the private practice part of the building he only vaguely considers what may lay above, taking in the impressive array of equipment that still sat covered in plastic sheets. Much much better than anything he’d had for himself in decades. 

As he slowly pivots in the middle of the waiting room to look back at the other he raises one sharp brow at her words. The unspoken question was given an answer. Best not prod the bear on this one. “Well, their loss, my gain.” it’s said with a half-smile somewhere between arrogance and uncertainty.

He eyes her–Bella’s–hand before offering forth a gloved one of his own to give it a hearty shake “Augustin Garneau, pleased to make your acquaintance,” even after all these years, the French accent still stubbornly clung to his words (why not try harder to disguise? Why not try harder to pretend?) “I don’t need to see anymore, I’m happy to take it at the listed price–I have very little personal effects to move into the attached residence but I’ll ask anyway, what’s the earliest move in date available?”

[yashicanandarchive]

⌝ Typically Yashica was able to wait until morning before she left work, she could keep herself in Supernaturals until the sun rose and she could walk to grab a coffee and do the rest of her day before she inevitably collapsed and slept for a few hours in bed at home. She didn't need to be outside in the evening air. However, tonight she had promised the building manager she'd be back inside before three am so that he could shut down the building buzzers while they were replaced - meaning she wouldn't be able to get back inside after three until at least the following afternoon.

⌝. So Yash had prepared, or so she thought, walking along the desolate week night streets of South Opulence in the direction of her apartment in Descray. The mortal girl had an industrial size flashlight she had been testing for a few nights, she made sure not to bring her typically large purse and instead had a backpack on her and she just needed to make it home. It hadn't quite occured to her that testing the light with such frequency would mean she was using the battery, a lot of battery, and as she rounded a corner in Descray towards her home the brilliant light illuminating the dirty street began to flicker.

⌝ "Don't - don't do this," Yash practically stuttered as her palm hit the slide of the light, temporarily holding it's brilliance while the young woman paused where she stood, brown ballet flats pressed to one another alongside the length of her feet to keep her steady as her whole body seemed to quiver and her heart rate began to increase. "Seriously?" Yashica grew frustrating, a thud with a rattle of batteries in plastic each time she hit the light, a few times it returned, but eventually the violence she was putting against it was not enough to retain the light and Yash was left with only flickering dull street lights.

⌝ The girl did not cope well with this, the pounding in her chest growing into an erratic pounding, her breath becoming hard. Yashica tried to focus on where there was light, rushing forward to stand beneath the street light but in doing so she dropped the flashlight, object hitting the concrete hard and shattering, causing Yashica to let out a violent scream that echoed through the streets, high pitched and ripping through the cool night air.

@drgarneau

[drgarneau]

What are you doing? Night time was what one could classically consider his time. The hour of the vampire. At the very least he should be at work. Could have been at work. Had been at work. For longer than he cared to count. While he didn’t need sleep, there had been stolen moments of privacy for the odd shower or simply to sit and catch up on paperwork. It was easier to let time pass him by when he pulled the odd shift at the hospital whilst things were still in the process of settling in for his private practice. 

A hospital was still a hospital even in a town full of supernaturals. Hardly entirely special, a little unique; with the odd case not seen outside the borders of Opulence. Maybe he was tempting fate by walking alone at this hour, but he hadn’t owned a car in a very long time; that kind of thing required something a little more permanent. The kind of permanent he hadn’t had in decades, in a way Opulence was his chance at a new beginning. 

As if he had the luxury to entertain such a thought after all this time. 

And it had been a very long time. 

To be lost in his own thoughts was not an uncommon occurrence, to drift not quite down memory lane whilst his body went through the motions. His feet already knew the way to something he dared not call home. Between one thought and the next he catches it out of the corner of his eye, the flickering light within the inky darkness broken only by the dim light of the moon occasionally broken up by the odd street light. Hardly the blinding glow of a city and in that one might fight comfort. 

Perhaps someone, but not every one. 

A heartbeat heavy with fear. Enhanced senses picking further upon the stench of it, of the nerves and the shuddering breaths. The silence is broken by a shatter of glass so loud to his ear that it might as well be happening at his side– this is followed by scream so violet it’s like a physical blow. He staggers as though struck, attention snapping in the direction of its source while his feet already begin to move. To run. 

To help, to help, to help–

There’s no breath to heave as he skids to a stop upon catching the figure outlined by the glow, gaze wide as he takes in the scene. No one is under attack. There is no heavy iron stench of blood or gasping desperate breaths of pain. But they are there in another form and at a first glance it’s a woman, and he is a man. And it is so very dark out. 

He hasn’t lived so long and not learned. 

He keeps his distance, one hand raised palm flat out as if to soothe and assure “I don’t mean to alarm,” he starts softly, keeping his posture open and unassuming and the distance between them so very important “I just, I heard a scream–you scream and I…are you alright? Are you okay? Has someone…?” 

There are no other someones around. 

Just the two of them here in the not quite dark. 

“Do you need help?”

[findopulencerp]

                                        𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖚𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖓 𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖚

he appears as though he was born 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 years ago but is actually 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱, he is a 𝐯𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 who lives in 𝐛𝐨𝐰𝐝𝐞𝐧 as a 𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫. he looks an awful lot like 𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲.

“Something inside me had dropped away, and nothing came in to fill the cavern.”

TW: death, gore, sex work.

The prospect of a forever is an enticing one, The reality of it however; leaves something to be desired. As the first son born into the upper classes of French society, Augustin had considerable status and seemingly endless potential in his future. Was he to go into the family business? Was he to strike out on his own into another field of greatness? Truly, the world was his oyster. Shame about the whole never marrying thing, but the option to even turn down potential wives was yet another privilege he had to call his own. 

Through gritted teeth was his want for true love spoken, heated arguments shared by candlelight in hushed whispers. Nevermind the rumours that followed as the years continued forward–his younger siblings would go on to wed, to have children of their own. The quest for true love turned towards the given excuse: married to the job. ‘Twas not the control of the ports, nor military fame (perhaps if he had donned a uniform then there could be pride to be had), the practice of law or even its dutiful upkeep. Nay, it was medicine. Was it a complete lie when he desperately claimed a burning desire to help his fellow man? To be a doctor was an educated position of promise–who knows, perhaps he’d be the one to discover the cure for the diseases that plagued mankind, wouldn’t that be something? 

As his twenties plodded on, his time spent in the service of others only climbed. It kept him busy. It kept him out of the home. If he donned the odd disguise to visit the slums and offer aid by lit lantern under an alias then that was his business. If these forays into how the other half lived provided another way to scratch a rather…disgraceful itch that did forever linger under his skin, then that was simply an unexpected side benefit. 

To visit the houses of leisure that allowed for one to lay with another man for a price, to somehow feel more like himself in these stolen moments when he donned a different name, a different face–truly how long did he think his luck could stretch? 

The mysterious doctor with the lantern hung outside a rented space, a rented space paid for by an unknown benefactor; face hidden behind a mask–those truly desperate didn’t see fit to look too closely for where else could they find such aid?  All it takes is one moment for everything to fall apart. Mayhaps the stench of blood still lingered somewhere about him, maybe it hung around him like a shroud even when donning his disguise or changing into his finery after scrubbing his hands raw. Perhaps he was simply drunk on the afterglow of truly being allowed to be himself.

Immortality was not offered as a boon to him, rather it was forced upon him. 

To awake within the house of vice he’d once taken such comfort in feeling wrong…with a man whose time he once bought looking down at him in pity. In the dim light he shouldn’t be able to see his face, he shouldn’t be able to trace every detail–he shouldn’t be able to catch the ghost of punctures past upon the flesh at his throat “He left me here for you.”

He needn’t have bothered even speaking. The blood on his tongue tasted sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted, sweeter than any wine–the man whose name was not given and the pity that he once looked upon him with now stared blankly out at the room. No longer did his heart beat, no longer would he look at anyone one way or another. His front stained red and flesh hung ragged at his throat. 

What a pitiful doctor Augustin Garneau was indeed.

The good doctor no longer hung a lantern in the alleyway, Augustin returned full time to the family home where he would steal himself away in his study. Hard at work he said when asked, rarely tempted forth to attend the galas–the prospect of dodging marriage and playing at something he wasn’t was now so far down his list of his concerns he rarely had it in him to play the role. No one had any clue what exactly it was he studied and no answers were ever given no matter how hard his family and friends did press. 

Questions that continued to go unanswered soon turned to pleas to rejoin society, this was an easier request to fill. To pretend to be Augustin Garneau was easier than pretending to be a good and just doctor. He was no longer human after all, that much he didn’t need his research to say. Married to the job. Married to the quest of knowledge. Though the sidelong jabs did still come on occasion, his parents had long since accepted his rather…odd choices in life. Four out of five children happily married with grandbabies of their own was a rather good score if they did say so themselves. 

Maybe their contentment in this was why they didn’t bother looking too closely at the intense way Augustin looked across the room during one of the rare parties they managed to convince him to attend. The way he looked at a fellow attendee, this attendee; a man whose name they’d come to learn was Jean-Claude du Derosiers. The younger man sparked a whole new light of life in their eldest who had been pulled so far inward from his former peers and for once, his secret research took a back seat to something. There were rumours of course, high society so loves its gossip but nothing ever seemed to come of them. The man was a constant fixture at Augustin’s side and as such it was so easy a thing to offer forth immortality to him. The desire so great to spend forever, the love so powerful and so very simple. It simply was. As they were, Augustin and Jean-Claude, it was; dare he say–perfect?

And then the people of France revolted against their oppressors. 

And that wonderful wonderful stranger turned dear friend turned basically family in all but name, who had brought their eldest out of his shell was gone. Without warning. Without a trace. They asked, delicately at first–then the rumours grew in fervour as their son began to act so very strange in his grief. 

In anger. In shame.  Augustin should have done something. Anything. Hadn’t he once lived a life for the people? For those who could not help themselves? There had once been the warm glow of a lantern outside a small, cramped clinic–and hadn’t Jean-Claude once been as warm to him as that glow? Had he not offered to turn him for their very own happily ever after in forever? 

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was simple self-preservation. He could call it a hundred things, the guilt ate him alive all the same. Jean-Claude had truly been his first real love. He could say that with absolute sincerity. In the quiet safety of his bedroom of course. Perhaps written on parchment that was quickly fed to the flames. 

Forever was such a very long time. 

He did not remain to watch his family wither and die before him, to outlive not only his parents but his siblings and all their children, and their children’s children–for questions would be asked. And maybe his cowardice lit the flame under foot a long time ago, maybe it too had once been the lead in his gut that kept him from acting on saving what he once called his true love. 

His family never learned what he studied simply one day he was there and the next he was gone, all those that he would go on to outlive simply never met him. Spoken of only in mystery, that particular branch in the family tree never growing further.

He travelled. He learned. He helped. He fed. He gained and he lost. He wore a dozen different names, a hundred different masks. The faces of his family would fade, their voices gone from memory–time was a cruel mistress and even the names of friends he once held dear before his spiral downwards escaped his grasp. Jean-Claude du Derosiers had once been someone so very dear to him. More than a friend. Held closer than family.  A chapter in his long, long story that was supposed to be so much more–and even he too began to fade from memory as the years wore on. The guilt still gnawed at his bones but the grooves it had worn had long become scars–an ache in his chest that simply became something to spur him forward to be better. 

Which was how he found his way to Opulence. 

When you’ve lived as long as he has, you meet a lot of people. People whose faces he didn’t always remember or names that didn’t always stick; but people who passed on information that stayed long after they were gone. And once upon a time, someone had spoken of this place; this place that was a haven for his kind. A simple secret shared and while the idea of putting down roots after all these decades was a laughable one…Augustin was tired of the fading, of the loss–of the great and empty feeling inside of him; perhaps after two hundred years and countless lives lived, this could be the chance to be reborn as it were. 

It wasn’t like he had anything left to lose after all, and even the supernatural needed a good doctor to call their own.

“what power did he attain when settling in opulence?“

It’s not one he noticed right away. The nothingness that was left in the wake of his touch. It was a passing comment of a nurse who held out their hand and let his touch alight–it’s not quite a numbing sensation, it’s not quite a loss in the common sense. It’s the absolute feeling of nothingness, an absolute anaesthesia. No pain, no pleasure, no sense of temperature. No sense they’re being touched at all. The feeling lingers even after he’s taken his hand away, gradually fading to the prickling return of circulation. He’s taken to simply wearing gloves when outside his home, at the very least; it’s only activated by touch. It’s made feeding easier at the very least.

this character is…taken

[deviika]

F. Scott Fitzgerald // Charles Bukowski