constantine

i fear no evil the shadow is mine and so is the valley

[moved-suscitat]

ARIANA FAWN

Her mind could only spend so long trying to push away thoughts of Atticus Knight and dead Clarice, poisoned by the witch’s own hands. Or of Aurelio, crazy murderous uncle out and about town somewhere - hiding and biding his time. The vision of the glassy, dead eyes and foaming mouth of her first witch kill and the happy, laughing face of her young father in Aurelio’s dreamscape haunted the back of her mind at every moment. No matter how long she spent concentrating on new magic or her favorite piano pieces, it always came back. She couldn’t talk to Willow, not when her friend was focused on her suspiciously brought back-to-life brother, nor on August - who just gave her different sorts of anxiety. Her new little cousin. What the hell was she suppose to make out of all this new development?

She took her hands off the piano keys in frusteration, just as there came a the ringing of the doorbell. Thank God, she thought to herself as she got up. She was hoping for Malachi or even Philippe. Anyone at all who could give her something else to concentrate on that wasn’t thoughts about family and dead non-vampire people. When Aria opened the door, she hadn’t been expecting the face that combined all those things together, plus the sinking feeling of imprisonment - both literal and metaphorical.

“Con?” Aria heard herself say, almost breathless in shock. But her mind was elsewhere - racing with thoughts and questions. He was older. Was it that many years already? He was out? This was real? Why was he here? Did he speak to her bitch mother? Where was his sister? Did he want something? Did this mean anything about their past arrangement? He’d never cared either way about the marriage… so what if he still expected it? The mere thought of that fucked up engagement helped her gather back her wits.

She immediately glanced down at Constantine’s hand, unexpected relief washing over her at the sight of the Mark of Salem. One less thing to worry about at least. Aria looked back up at those familiar brown eyes, her own briefly narrowed in suspicion now. “Wrong and wrong. I ordered Chinese. Unless you found your post-jail calling in fast food delivery and you’re hiding teriyaki chicken under that designer overcoat… then we have nothing to talk about. What are you doing here Constantine?” 

Time passed oddly here. That was the first thing he had noticed upon his return. Constantine never measured how long an hour was anymore. Sometimes it felt like a minute. Other times, he thought he’d been here for months. It did not need to be stated, thought, or assumed, that he was suspended between worlds. He was hovering somewhere between the living and the dead, the whole and the broken. He felt like a white noise. There, but not quite; present, but oddly removed. he was lost in a haze of smoke with no compass, no map. Constantine had lost his sense of direction long ago. He was simply that - here. He awoke in a dark fog, and wandered around blindly. And all because of one magical seal burned on his wrist. It was making him feel unlike himself and he despised that feeling. Feeling like he was the same as everyone else. The one person who he valued aside from his sister was Ariana. And this had everything to do with her magical capabilities and not with her physical attributes. Not that he was blinded to her beauty, he just didn’t care for it.

Con. Oh, how he abhorred the use of nicknames. Everyone had a name and yet people felt the need to shorten it, change it, to make it sound more pleasant. Constantine heard her speak but every word that evaporated out of her mouth went through his like smoke. “I’m afraid not. I went to visit your mother and she told me you lived.” He paused, watching her expression change from one emotion to another. Constantine was as usual, not emotional about anything. As usual. He was not the kind of man that you would see with any kind of emotions splashed on his face, in his eyes, or anywhere on him. Even mind magics had a hard time getting through his head, not because he had formal training against it, but because his mind was such a complex thing, it was hard to find a way to the core before you found what you wanted to find. His mind was essentially a blank slate, and this was something which he enjoyed.  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?

[ariafcwn]

❛ RELATIONSHIP BOARD

Aria Fawn & Constantine Vogel

@suscitat-mortuos

[moved-suscitat]

THE HOURGLASS CREATED BY CELESTE & CONSTANTINE VOGEL

This 18th Century French Silver Hourglass was turned into a Dark Object by the Vogel twins and used to effectively murder their parents. The life essence of one or more creatures can be attached to the Hourglass and it works as a countdown. When the last grain of sand drops, the creature(s) immediately drop dead. It is important to note that the twins were arrested in April of 2008 and Victor and Annette Vogel died of unknown causes in August of that same year, two day after their children were convicted. It is safe to assume that their absence triggered the Hourglass although some people believe that the object had been counting down for years. Like it knew exactly when it needed to stop, which is a far more terrifying thought. The Hourglass’ whereabouts is currently unknown. 

[moved-suscitat]

“Oh my God. It’s you.” Cecily Fawn was an insufferable woman. At least from what he remembers. Constantine used to watch her, like a hawk, from across the table during those many times she and her daughter had been invited over to his house. Wearing the best clothes she could afford and even then she was still drenched in her own mediocrity . To him, she was could not disguise her paucity for it was vomited from within her, spilling out of her every time she opened her mouth to compliment his family. Once, she told his mother that she wanted Ariana to conduct herself in a sanguine manner. Constantine did not believe she knew what this meant. Ever definition of a word is taken verbatim. Another time she used the word demagogue incorrectly. It made him frown. And now, she was standing there, holding the door open, eyes wide and skin pale. Not as confident as the last time he saw her. When she stood there in court, pointed a finger at him and Celeste and called them degenerates.

 “Maybe I come in?” She swallowed so hard that he could hear it. The lump in her throat. No response. “I’m not a vampire Cecily. I’m merely asking out of politeness.” Finally, she pushed past the door to lead him inside and into the living room. The house looked a lot smaller than he remembered. Then again, the Ashbourne itself was smaller than he remembered. ”Do you - Do you want some coffee or tea?” Constantine stood there, eyes traveling across the walls to the pictures that hung there. “Where’s your daughter?” Cecily gasped, bringing one shaky hand up to try and reach for his arm but stopped half way. Probably realizing it was a bad idea. “Please Constantine. Don’t hurt her.” Hurt her? Laughable. It was smart of her to fear him though. She knew about the mark and yet she knew better than to simply dismiss him as a threat. “I have no reason to hurt Ariana. You - on the other hand…” He took a step forward and she stood still - frozen. “I had to. I’m sorry. I needed to protect my daughter.” The necromancer took another step, finally stopping a few inches away from her. Looking down as she shrunk in his presence. “Where is she?”

Unlike her mother, Ariana Fawn had made quiet a name for herself. No longer the little girl who followed him and his sister around in awe, trying to learn as much of their tricks as possible. Even behind bars, Constantine managed to follow up on her life. He knew about her uncles tragic demise and her rise to becoming a Ceremonialist. Frankly, he could not believe it had taken her this long. Finger pressed on her doorbell. Was she even home? It was a gamble. One that he won when he heard the sounds of footsteps rushing toward the door and soon the piece of wood was flying open and she was standing there - looking just as he remembered her. Only now, she was stronger, powerful, and far more useful to him. “Hello Ariana. You haven’t changed a thing.” @ariafcwn

[moved-suscitat]

CHARLOTTE CRANE

It was no wonder they got away with so much for so long, Charlotte thought as he spoke. She knew when someone was inspecting her and while it wasn’t something that bothered her, she did find it curious. She’d heard that he and his sister had been released, though she didn’t expect to run into either of them really. Despite having been part of the Trillium Coven at the time of their excommunication, Charlotte had missed a majority of what they’d been convicted for. She’d only joined barely a year prior to them being sent away and even then hadn’t felt comfortable casting judgment as a new comer. Still, it wasn’t like she condoned what they did but she had enough problems of her own to worry about the Vogel siblings. She hardly merited their attention either, which, she supposed, was a comfort. 

And yet– there they were. Constantine standing opposite her as she paused her locking up for the night. Keen blue eyes focused on him as he invoked the memory of Bernard– she’d just spoken to the witch earlier that day. Or his spirit, rather, but still. There was an unease that crept up her spine at the mention of her previous boss and dear, dear friend. “Oh?” He’d never mentioned Constantine, but she couldn’t say that was surprising. After they’d been sent away, most people who’d associated with them quickly learned to put the past behind them and atone for rubbing shoulders with the perceived devils of the town. 

“Bernard never mentioned you.” His question caused her to laugh incredulously, brows scrunching together, “well, yes, of course.” Hadn’t that been the point? Notoriety. At least, that’s what Charlotte suspected, though who knew what went on in the minds of witches who’d left the light well behind them as he had. His request had her pausing for a beat and she tipped her head to the side curiously, wondering what he’d need with her shop. She could feel Bernard’s presence gathering beside her as it so often did at and around the store; Charlotte cast her eyes in his ghost’s direction for a split-second before looking back at Constantine. “What do you need to test?” 

Sometimes, Constantine could not sleep, and he didn’t know why. He woke up with memories of the night, stone walls punctuated by mad ramblings that he knew (somehow) belonged to him. They read like sheet music beneath his fingertips, low, long and terrible, a howl in the dark. To put these thoughts into words seemed beneath him, but as icy as he tried to be, somehow they couldn’t help but penetrate the chill. He liked to think that he was invincible, that nothing could penetrate that stony exterior of pure magnanimity. But maybe not. Steeped as he was in blood, maybe there were some things which were worse than death. Like this seal, for one. Leaving him powerless. Without his magic, he could pass as one of those mere mortals he despised.

Staring at her with his brown eyes, strangely warm in the yellow light, Constantine felt suddenly tired. The feeling was momentary, fleeting in the grand scheme of things, but intense while it lasted, and for a second he was almost overwhelmed by it. Then almost as quickly, it was gone. He straightened up visibly, his resolve immediately kicking in, returning the poise back into his body. He recognized Charlotte’s apprehension and he understood it. Noting the faint pale tinge which formed upon that well-proportioned face. “No, he wouldn’t” The moment he was captured every witch who had ties with him turned their backs on him. There was no loyalty among devils, was there?

Constantine knew that this little witch knew who he was. Even if she had never once seen his face, she knew of him and his evil deeds. The Vogels being a cautionary tale of what happens to witches when they fall into darkness and when they allowed that darkness to consume them. “Good, then you know where I’ve been this past decade.” Trapped in hell and getting his soul sucked out of his mouth - over and over again. “Tell me, witch-” Because her name was not important. “Have you ever seen one of these?” Constantine lifted his sleeve just enough for her to see the burn on his flesh.

[moved-suscitat]

CHARLOTTE CRANE

Charlotte hadn’t had it in mind to close early when she’d opened up shop that morning. But a slow afternoon, most likely attributed to excess drinking for those celebrating St. Patrick’s Day (even in Ashbourne), had prompted the witch to reconsider staying open. Especially when no one had come through for nearly three hours by the time the clock hit five-thirty in the evening. Rather than wait for six pm to roll around, Charlotte decided to lock up early. It was better than fiddling with the logs she’d already completed that morning. 

She’d just finished her last minute check of the shop and was locking up the front when a voice spoke and she started slightly before laughing at her own reaction. It was easy to be jumpy in Ashbourne, especially when you had the unfortunate gift of seeing the dead, without say as to when they might appear to you. Charlotte had gotten better at regulating her reactions to sudden things but she’d lost in a maze of thoughts just then, when the man approached. Thankfully not a ghost, wanting help she couldn’t yet provide. Though, perhaps it might’ve been better had it been. While Charlotte didn’t actually know the man standing before her, she knew of him. Constantine Vogel wasn’t someone she spent much time dwelling on but she’d heard stories– she’d just joined the coven when he’d been excommunicated and sent to prison. She’d never witness something like that before, her only communion with other witches prior to Ashbourne being with her own family. 

The thought of excommunication was never something that she considered a remote possibility. At the time of her joining the Trillium Coven, she’d never even thought of what someone could possibly do to merit such a punishment. Of course she’d heard stories– of the Vogel siblings’ great sins but, over time, such stories had faded to memories of stories, rather than lessons at the forefront of her mind. So while she knew that it was Constantine Vogel standing before her, Charlotte wasn’t sure what to actually make of him just then. “Uh…yeah, actually,” she gave another polite smile, pausing in her locking of the front door, “slow day so I didn’t really expect anyone else to show up…” the witch cleared her throat, nodding at the shop, “but if you were looking for something in particular?” she left the question open, implying she might be willing to help if that was the case, rather than someone simply browsing for the sake of it. 

His time inside the coven had been a string of simple, disconnected events. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve been disgusted or amused by the Trillium coven’s panic, and the faster the Vogel twins came into power the more desperate they became to stop them. Soon it was more than just humans dying, it was witches too. And when members of their own coven had their brains scattered, throats slit as part of some ritual or when they found their family’s tortured to death, things suddenly became real. And the more frightened people became, the more stupid it made them. It was delightful to watch. The society they had built up, the one they had thought so right, so secure, came crumbling around their ears. People turned against each other in their panic. This is what he and Celeste had been born for, all the anger he had been pointlessly containing now had a direction, and he was no longer turning like a tiger caged by the bars of his own life. Constantine was content. In fact, he thoroughly enjoyed himself. He was at home in the shadows, prowling the night, the murderer of innocents. He played the devil because he could, and was the type of witch that the Ashbourne Gazette liked to advertise, prodding the wolves to scare the sheep.

They twins rose to an infamy far more prominent than their father’s dubious career in politics. They were shaping the world, not with words, but with blood. Which you know was far more convincing. Some people grew to hate it all, tire of the death, but this was what he had wanted. And he prided himself in being able to remain separate from it all. Unfeeling. Even as children they had been cold and remote, then they truly were putting their hard hearts to the test. No pity. Still, he could look upon people and feel nothing. Not anger, or fear or hatred, not any of the things which can provoke a man to kill. It simply seemed as natural as breathing, or like opening a door. It was not with rage that he sometimes lost control. It was with excitement. The electrical current of magic, black magic, and the thrill of power it gave him. But whatever this darkness required, he did. If it was stripping away layers of his soul, they were so thin he couldn’t feel it, and in the end he would of done what it commanded and what Celeste asked of him even if it meant ripping he heart out of his chest. She was a figure he cannot help but obey, her imagination was undeniable, and his loyalty was rewarded in the end.

Witches like Charlotte knew of him if not by his face then by reputation and it was something he enjoyed. After all, one of the reasons he had taken it upon himself to be as powerful was notoriarity and infamy. He wanted his name to live long after he was gone. Which, thanks to that darkness that he served, wouldn’t be for a very long time. The smile that he offered her wasn’t warm. Wasn’t friendly. It was sure to send a chill to anyone who saw it. “I knew the previous owner of the place. We had a good business relationship.” His eyes looked up at the sign and then back at her. “You know who I am?” A rhetorical question. Of course she did, or else she had been living under a rock her entire life. “I need to test something.” He was not sure of the extent of the mark he wore. Surely he was not able to do magic or touch anything magical item but would he be able to be near certain ingredients? It was a good place to start if he was going to find a loophole. “Mind letting me in? It will only take a moment.”

[celestexvogel]

What Heart?

[moved-suscitat]

CELESTE VOGEL

His hand gripped hers with all the knowing familiarity of someone who had committed that same action a thousand times before. Celeste had wondered if she would know it again as she had before, but his hands were just as certain as she remembered, his eyes just as telling. What she had forgotten, was the sound of his voice, somehow Celeste had remembered it differently; time, prison, and the wraiths had done enough to shift whatever perception she had of the past. Wine may have tasted different t her now, but Constantine’s voice could still bring a smile to her face. 

And it was good to be home, was it not? They had no one following them, nothing to fear, no enemies at their doorstep. For a few moments, Celeste counted herself as content, how could she not? She had imagined him in a thousand thousand pieces, some broken thing she’d have to spend the rest of her life putting back together. He wasn’t built for prison, he wasn’t built to be apart from her, Celeste knew that. 

Together they had scaled mountains of the unknown, stormed the citadel of their own minds, brokered treaties for powers with forces that would make the Ashbourne townsfolk quiver in their unsightly little boots. Necromancy had opened up doors that others could only dream of, while Trillium likely thought themselves all safe, it was only a matter of time before they removed their wretched Marks of Salem. “Brother,” she began “I missed this. You were never far from my thoughts,” her fingers slipped from his and she moved to smooth the lapel on his jacket down in a single stroke. “Tell me,” she was smiling now, cruetly glinting in her eye as she did. “What did we miss?” Judging by the state of things, Celeste would have guessed not much.

Getting the pair of them a drink, bourbon curled easily between her fingers, he did not need to know yet that Celeste had been informed previously of their impending arrest. It was too likely that he would not understand the beauty that came with long suffering in pursuit of one’s goals. But really, there was no other way, the Vogels had been too careless, for too long, a sentencing was required if they would have any longevity. But still, the way his eyes had looked at her from his hollowed, gray face, that face had followed her each night into her dreams.

Celeste was a sight of pure beauty, a black and white photo, moving and living in a colored world. A mixture of gothic horror and forbidden romance sparkled in her eyes. Her lips ever so slightly pink with chill. She was the sort of woman one could fall in love with at a glance, and be very sorry afterward that you had. Constantine could be considered a cold man, he felt no compassion, no affection for his fellow man, and he took a sick thrill in pain because nothing else excited him like it. But his sister made him seem positively saintly. She had a deep foreboding strength about, an aura of malignancy, and of danger, like a feral cat just waiting for the strike. A complete lack of feminine delicacy. 

Their mother, who had been a self-obsessed socialite more interested in her newest dress or invitations then her children, always had more of an eye for Celeste. It was an unwritten rule that daughters are a mother’s property, whilst the son belongs to their father. But she made sure they had all the right connections, and always kept her eyes open for eligible marriage partners. They had dreams of their children marrying into another powerful family name. Constantine never saw Celeste as someone’s wife though. The very thought had been laughable since the very beginning. All the suitors that came to her only to be chased away, not by him, but by her own hand.

She spoke, telling him how she had missed him and it brought a smile in his usual stern face. “Oh, nothing terribly important. The coven has a new Regient. Patrice Olivier.” Constantine had yet to meet him and he was certain that he would not be leaving a good impression. It’s not like it was required from him anymore since he was no longer a member of the Trillum. The cowardliness and weakness that secreted from that coven made him skin crawl. And to think that he once used to want to be a part of it. Of course he had been disenchanted on day one when they expressed their position against the use of certain magic. How they were setting limits for him and his powers. This only pushed him to want to surpass them and he had. Outlived them before they decided to excommunicate him.

Celeste looked well, even in the dim lighting of the living room. His eyes followed her as she served them some bourbon and handed him a glass. Constantine could tell that she was no longer resembling a walking corpse. The last time she saw her, her eyes and cheeks were sunken in and she had lost all the color on her skin. “I can see you’re feeling a lot more like yourself again. It took me a few days to recover as well.” Physically, at least. His magic was a different story. 

[celestexvogel]

What Heart?

[moved-suscitat]

CELESTE VOGEL

@suscitat-mortuos

What options remained for a witch, stripped of their magic, that had spent the better part of the last decade behind bars? The answer came as Celeste stumbled away from the fence, barely a week after her brother’s release, though she had no idea where Constantine even was. What day it was, the year she knew, the month, time was something she kept track of while inside. Herself she had lost, or, rather it was taken from her. The wraiths of Ashbourne’s funeral home had peeled off layer upon layer, skinning the humanity off of an already bare-boned beast. 

They’d given her back the clothes she’d been processed in, it was the prisoner’s garb of the Trillium Coven, her own clothes from that night were - who knew where - but home was on the horizon, however far off. For those who knew Celeste Vogel before, and for those who saw her now, she would have been unrecognizable to her old self. Her clothes had always been of the finest make, she’d had her favorite designer bring her everything and more that she could ask for, she’d be disappointed, and they would suffer the consequences, or they’d make her clothes that were inspired by the fear she instilled in them. 

She was a witch who walked tall, a God among insects who saw no equal, and that candor translated to the way she walked, the way she talked, and of course, in the way she treated others. Her enemies outnumbered her allies, but that was nothing knew, she controlled both with the subtle flexes of her magic, the same thing inspired both parties: fear. 

They would fear her again.

She stumbled forward from the gate, her feet bare and bleeding, the filthy sack that covered her skin and ended at her knees was tattered and warn. Where it had been an off-white since the beginning, it was tattered and ripped, filthy with blood, dirt, and whatever else. Her hair was the matted mess of her cell, of her mind, a wild storm of locks and raven hair, she was a wild thing that quirked at every cheep from the trees, every sigh from the sky. 

Celeste stumbled forward, she dragged her bloody feet through fields she only barely recognized. She knew this place, all these places, at one point, but it was distant as a storybook. Celeste knew hatred, and when a child passed her on the street asking why did she look like that? Celeste hissed and moved to strike, stopped only when the boy’s father stepped between them. 

Good behavior.

She tried to summon the magic to smite them both where they stood, but there was nothing, there was no press from the air current in the trees  - no hum from the earthen crevice of the man’s soul. Celeste had no magic, she wondered if people thought that meant her powerless. She kept walking, uncertain of where she was going but trusting the familiarity of the journey. 

The door to her families’ home creaked open, the wards recognized Vogel blood, what was she expecting? Celeste could not say, whatever words she’d heeded to this point, they had ebbed away by the dark of her cell, by the wraiths and all they had taken from her. Perhaps they were why Trillium did not see her as a threat without her magic, the wraiths had done their part to take from her the will to live. But she was an unbreakable and undying type of thing, she would remove her mark, she would have her power, and this town would know beauty and torment in ways that not even the tree had dreamed. 

The home is not empty, someone dwells within, its Constantine, but she is a stranger now in her own skin. She passes him, a nonspeaking ghost, and Celeste retreats into her wing of the families’ home, not leaving her bedroom for days. She showers, and it is the first time she is able to wash herself without an audience, she dresses, and it is the first time that she feels clothing on her skin that does not chafe. Celeste reads over spellbooks she had hidden away, but there is nothing that comes with them, no crack of magic, no residual force. She retreats to her bed, and sleeps for three days straight. 

When Celeste awakes, her mind is more settled, more focused. Clarity returns and when she looks in the mirror she sees the Vogel that was waiting beneath the chains. She’ll see Constantine now, and she finds him in the study, working over some book she is sure to have seen him with before. Her beautiful, baby brother, the only man ever created who could rule next to her - maybe not King, but something important to her just the same. In this world, there was only two things she cared for, her magic, and her brother. One had been taken from her, and the other would never be so far from her again. 

She touches his cheek, “my Constant.”

Becoming a necromancer was true power, the thing he had been straining toward his entire youth, and the knowledge of it left something deep and scarring inside of him. The magic had been overwhelming and Constantine knew as soon as he felt it that he would serve it with more loyalty than he ever knew he possessed. But even though he was completely devoted to dark magic, it did not compare to the devotion he had for Celeste.

Constantine was a naturally selfish being, and the affection he felt for Celeste was different than what he was confronted with. She was his sister, his twin, they were like two halves of one being, flip sides of a single coin. They shared the same thoughts, the same wants and dreams, and caring for her came as naturally as caring for himself. Not like she ever needed him to. About his parents he felt nothing, and anything he had felt for his coven members had always been under the constant reminders that loyalty had been tainted by self-interest. When he discovered the true power of Necromancy, he felt as though a hole of undirected desperation had suddenly be filled. He had been searching for something without knowing what, and his whole life was as though he had been stumbling through a fog towards that single moment. A purpose rose up before him like a beacon, he need only reach out his hand to grasp it. And so he did. They both did.

He remembers the last time he saw her.  He had been beaten and tortured and they sent her to him so they could say their goodbyes. Won’t see one another for a long time. As he struggled to his feet, his pale, grey face dotted with sweat, the blue circles beneath his eyes forming into a death mask, as waxy and expressionless as her own were calm and cool. There was a hunched defiance to him, his legs slightly bent, body so twisted that it seemed impossible for it to move the way it should. And she was relaxed, as if she was being sent off to a vacation spot somewhere. Celeste had always been the strongest of the two. Being out in the world without her made him feel incomplete. Like half of his body was missing and replaced with smoke.

A week went by but the days were still blending together. Constantine was not sure how long it would be before he could see her again and he was already coming up with a plan to set her free. Hard to do without his magics to back him up. Then one day, he felt it. A light chill running up his spine. Like a cold finger running across his skin. He could always feel when she was close. A connection they’ve shared since the were children. Constantine didn’t move from his spot in the library but felt her come in. Her feet dragging over the wooden floors and up the stairs. A shadow and nothing more. But she was home. Shadow or not, she was home. 

Constantine knew she needed some time to get herself back into a place were she felt like Celeste again and so he left her alone. Didn’t crowd her even when he wanted nothing more but to see her. She would come to him when she was ready. And the day came. He was in the library again, going through old notebooks. Writings of spells and the dark objects they have once created. All that power and he could not access it. The room became a few degrees colder when she walked in, making all the hairs in his skin stand up. He loved that about her. The ability she had to make everyone notice her bitter presence.

My Constant. Oh, how he had missed the sound of her voice and the way she touched his face. She always did when she approved of something he had done for her, because of her, to her. Wasn’t it all about her? His own hand reached for hers, bringing it to his lips to kiss her bony fingers. “Welcome home, sister.”

[moved-suscitat]

AUGUST KNIGHT

@suscitat-mortuos

The Vogels? 

Oh yeah, they were legends. Necromancers. Evil as they came. If you believed in such things, August? He didn’t, but from everything he’d heard, the Vogels painted a vivid enough picture. Pair of artists, really, the artifacts they had created,t he stakes they’d raised. August had come to learn of the horrors that they brought down on Trillium, had known from the first few months in the coven, that the Vogels were the irredeemable and powerful sort that he was all but compelled towards. 

What was most interesting?

Their enemies, because oh, did they have a lot of them. Anyone who’d been in Trillium while the Vogels were there, had a story, and it was the kind that kept you up at night. Horror stories that would give most people nightmares worse than even what the blood tree was spitting out. But August? He was inspired. His aunt had been an exorcist, a reverence against death magic had been drilled into him, so naturally, August was curious. There was power there, and power could mean any number of things. 

August heard of Constantine’s release, so he tailed him. Followed him for a few blocks, never quite losing sight of him. The young ceremonialist whispered a few words of power under his breath, he grazed the outskirts of Constantine’s mind, the way that August had heard it, by the time the twins were his age, they were already being put to trial for their great crimes. He wondered what the man would think of him, but absently, August wasn’t questioning why he would care at all. He just wanted to learn. His hunger was pure, insatiable, raw and driven. 

He spoke now into Constantine’s mind, he didn’t want to be seen speaking to the man in public. Constantine may have been released, but he’d still been excommunicated. 

“Vogel.” August began, “I’ve been an admirer of your work for years, I hope you’ll excuse the need for secrecy, I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.” Once the link had been established, August ducked inside an alcove, finding some place private to whisper his incantation. “I was sorry to hear about your magic, power like yours should never be mistreated.”

Constantine wasn’t sure where he was going at first, he was simply overcome with the urge to walk, and he did that for a while until he found a glowing shop front and stepped inside. He bought a ham sandwich wrapped in brown paper, and ate it on a bench down the street. He sat there enjoying the cool night air, and casually tearing off the inedible pieces of the dry bread set around tasteless cheese and flabby processed meat. A few people glanced his way, but Constantine merely smiled at them - a secret, strange kind of smile - and some even returned the expression. Others whispered to each other and kept their distance. Cowards. This town was full of them. 

A young man who stank of alcohol joined him on the bench for a while and spoke absently about the weather while he smoked a cigarette. When asked what he was doing tonight, Constantine vaguely replied that he had been ‘working.’ Shame, man. Yes, it was, wasn’t it? When he finished the sandwich he threw out the wrapper in the bin, walked up the street a little further until he was stopped by a sudden chill down his spine. He recognized it for what it was. Magic. And before he even knew where it was coming from, he despised its source. A tingling inside his head that soon turned into actual words. Someone thought it was prudent to get inside his head. Of course, he understood the reasons behind it. The Vogels were not necessarily welcomed in this town so any witch seen approaching them would be condemned. He had stopped to listen and waited for the one sided conversation to end before taking another step towards the lake. If the witch wanted to talk, he could follow him into the dark. 

Constantine stared out across Lake Harmony for a moment, thinking of Celeste. She should be out by now. The water lapped at the stone ledge, stroked by the breeze into small ripples and convolutions. He heard steps and the echo of laughter as a group of teenagers walked by but then quickly stepped away when they noticed him there. He could not deny that the look of terror painted across their pale faces gave him tremendous satisfaction. He could still feel someone burning holes in the back of his head as his eyes lingered across the water where a mermaid splashed her tail and swam away. “Show yourself or leave.”

[moved-suscitat]

Ashbourne was a town still half-asleep, caught between a dream and a nightmare. It had changed over the years. People drifted in and out of white-clothed restaurants which sold tidbits of food on mostly empty plates. He remembers the billowing smoke stacks spurting flame intermittently like an angry dragon, stark-faced factories lining empty streets, and slums of the unpaid and overworked crammed into smoke-stained houses like so many sardines. Now there were businesses and houses with french windows. Seemed the town was stumbling in a race towards the future, caught between what it was and what it wished to become. 

Constantine Vogel stood outside a street cafe, sipping spiced tea from a styrofoam cup, the steam puffing upward in little bursts and bathing his face in warmth. The night was early yet, and darkness had fallen but an hour beforehand, leaving the streets a jumble of activity - businessmen mixed easily with the more eclectic night crowd, suits and ties contrasted black leather and high heeled boots. People paid little attention to the dark figure leant against the brick wall, and though black eyes followed each passing figure with morbid curiosity they were set in the deep black of shadowed brows and expressionless because of it. 

He blew with pursed lips at the liquid, taking another sip immediately after, and though the liquid was uncooled he appreciated the burning warmth which seemed to seep through him like a pleasant feeling, gentle but all-encompassing. It had rained that afternoon, and though the pavement was no longer damp some water still collected atop cloth awnings and the air smelled damp and clung to his skin. Though the cold was not biting, the wet air seemed to carry it everywhere, and he shifted beneath the stiff fabric of his coat. 

He glanced to his right, where another figure stood, slender and distinctly female, and smiled a little - crooked and not exactly pleasant to see. “Good evening.” He added as he approached her and the store she was locking for the night. The sign read Herbs & Hexes. He remembers the place and how it looked years ago before his arrest. Back then it had a different name. “Closing early?” @charlottexcrane

[moved-suscitat]

THE DEIECTIONEM  CREATED BY CONSTANTINE & CELESTE VOGEL

Roughly translates to The Purge. This preserved vampire skull was turned into a Dark Object by the Vogel twins in 2010. A dangerous artefact that could effectively desiccate any vampire within a 1 mile radius. The object was destroyed upon arrest a few weeks after its creation and therefore was never used.  

[moved-suscitat]

THE RING OF RESURRECTION CREATED BY CONSTANTINE VOGEL

The Ring Of Resurrection is a Dark Object created by Constantine Vogel some time in 2006. Enables any creature who wears the ring to come back from the dead. Believed to have been destroyed by The Council after his arrest in the spring of 2010 but this has not been verified. Some believe the Ring of Resurrection is on the finger of a Council Member.  

[yourplayersaidwhat]

Corpses are like legos – you build stuff out of them.

our necromancer (via yourplayersaidwhat)

[moved-suscitat]

Something Wicked Is Here | Constantine, Marius & Selene

[moved-suscitat]

selenebellona‌:

quietmagics‌:

The fact of the matter was this: When Selene put her mind to it, she was quite good at portraying herself as an insolent child. Calling him an old man, pushing fashion choices and technology on him that he had no desire or need for… well. It was an annoyance. She had her good qualities, of course, that was made clear by the fact that he kept her around at all. She was young, not yet settled in to her full abilities, but she would. In time. And in time suffering through the rest of this would be worth it. 

Some of her seemingly useless tirades had actually worked out for the better, at least. The phone, for example- he’d resisted for a long time, until she’d taken matters in to her own hand. He’d refused to use it out of pure spite, at first, but begrudgingly he’d come to see it as a useful tool. The texting bit, at least, though he would have just as soon not allowed people any more means of contacting him than strictly necessary.  There were still times when he questioned whether or not it was worth it- but this wasn’t one of them. 

The Vogel twins were a pair that Marius found quite interesting, indeed. All too often the Seer was apt to look down on his fellow witches, irate while they squandered their abilities. If you were born with a gift, the least you could do was appreciate it. He would always view his own magic and the path he’d taken as being on a level above all the rest, but he’d always had an interest in necromancy, in any of the darker arts. An appreciation for it. 

He hadn’t realized they were being released, so recieving a request to meet came as a pleasant surprise. A drink, lovely. He’d go, of course he would. Selene had been with him when he’d recieved the text. He’d considered going alone- had very nearly done so- but what an opportunity this presented. A test. She seemed to cling to the light, most of the time. Kept herself held up to her golden ideals, but Marius didn’t think she was cemented there. He believed she could be guided past that barrier that kept so many of their kind from reaching their true potential, so he’d invited her along. A drink with an old friend, he’d told her. A rather flowery way of putting it, but it had done the trick. She’d followed him along to the Vogel’s old home.

A decade did make a world of difference but Constantine seemed well, all things considered. He supposed etiquette would have dictated sending the man a warning that he wouldn’t be arriving alone, but Marius had possessed little interest both in such a notion and with granting him the opportunity to raise an argument. ‘Hello, Constantine,’ He signed. ‘Good to see you as well. This is Selene. She is a Seer too.’ A pause, and he offered a short smile. ‘Don’t worry. She is bound by oath to keep my secrets.’ Magically, of course. He didn’t expect such a distinction would have to be made aloud in his present company. 

@selenebellona​

They’d made this pact, you see. Sliced their hands open and shook on it and everything. ‘I keep your secrets, you keep mine’ - with the measly consequence of death on the line. What were they to each other? Well, Marius was was a fellow Seer and that meant so much more than any arbitrary labels.

A drink with an old friend.

Now what was she supposed to say to that? Marius certainly knew how to toy with her curiosity in all the right ways. Of course Selene tagged along. An old friend, huh?

“Didn’t think you had any friends.” She’d said as she’d scribbled one last note in her grimoire and tucked it away into her messenger bag. “Color me surprised.”

She’d stood up then, not giving him really any choice in the matter, and said: 

“Well? Let’s go.”

The mansion was a decrepit old thing. She’d stopped in her tracks as he led the way up the imposing path to the porch. She knew he felt it too, knew the other witch felt the dark things that crawled here. And yet Marius strode forward, unyielding, towards the door. Selene only took a moment’s pause - to take in the estate, to gage what her magic was telling her. If the windows of the mansion where its eyes, the soul of this place was a graveyard. Selene took a beat and then quickened her pace to catch up, spurred on by her exasperation. The young witch was a fucking seer, did he think she wouldn’t sense what they were walking into?

Damn her curiosity!

Normally, Selene would be angry at Marius for keeping her in the dark about things - the places they were going and the reasons for such visits - as though she was too immature to handle the whole truth. She wasn’t. They shared so much, visions and omens and abilities… and that same tick-tick-ticking clock. She should be angry at him - furious. It was she, more than anyone else, who could handle the truth of such things. It was she who understood him in ways that no one else could. And now here he was, treating her like some misbehaving apprentice.  

Her mind flashed to California, to her mentors and tutors, to the men who had called her progress, ingenuity, and invention nothing more than ego. She recalled their pinched faces - their minds shriveled like raisins - and how she had vowed to herself to never let anyone control her. She’d be brilliant.

She was about to snap at him all this, right there on the front porch, her magic still dangerously alive, like a lit stick of dynamite (surely he felt it, her crackling power still on fire). And if the door hadn’t swung open, maybe she would have.

But there, on the other-side of the threshold stood perhaps the last person Selene expected, and the sight of the stranger drew a sudden, sharp, near hysterical laugh from her. She barely noticed her introduction.

“This? This is your friend?” She crowed incredulously. Yikes.

Oh yes. Selene was furious at Marius for giving her no heads up on this one and she’d make sure to exact her revenge in precise ways - she was going to burn all of those horrid sweaters for simply springing this one on her.

Constantine Vogel. She knew the face, she knew the name. Infamous. Another short peal of laughter rippled through her but it didn’t reach the young witch’s eyes. Those stayed cold. If anything, they narrowed. She knew danger when she saw it. 

She knew a good puzzle when she felt it. 

Something about Marius’ “friend” felt castrated, wrong and unnatural. Like there was something blocking the flow of him. That’d be the mark wouldn’t it? She was curious to see it, dissect the magic that held his magic back. And she felt a little sorry for him too didn’t she? Selene’s heart had a tendency to bleed and it would find a reason to bleed for just about anything and anyone; she’d rather be dead than without her magic. 

All this said, a part of her also very much believed that Constantine Vogel fucking deserved damnation.

“Charmed to meet you, Mr. Vogel. You’re looking rather well considering what you’ve been through. I, personally, would rather be six feet under than without my magic.” She nodded at Marius. “And he’s right, I drop dead if I say anything he doesn’t want me to. Same with him.” 

But now that she was here something else was cutting through her anger - there was that curiosity, back in full force. 

“I hope I’m not encroaching.” She didn’t really mean that. “Us Seers come in pairs - I’m sure you know what that’s all about.” 

After all wasn’t there another Vogel around here somewhere?

Constantine always found it strange how other witches looked just like him, except can also be so different. Like a reflection in a mirror which was slightly warped. Everything looked alright until you peered closer, and you discovered that certain things were elongated, out of focus, wrong. Eventually you can look at another witch and see something of worth, but the first time - the first time all he saw was human. Strangely incomplete, but with a mouth, hair and hands the same as him, crying salty tears and begging him not to be hurt in the same language. He’d hurt people before, killed even. Killed witches, which was considered unforgivable. Murder. The word never bothered him, sometimes, in his youth he had dreamed about it. And when it came to the exact moment, when he saw those eyes suddenly go blank, empty, lifeless, it was an incredible feeling. Powerful feeling. His father had been an important member of the Trillum Coven. If you recognized the name Vogel before Constantine and Celeste rose to infamy, it was because of him. When he was a child, he supposed he used to be proud of him. He thought those things mattered.

Now Constantine knew politics were just something old men did to convince themselves they actually had control over their own pitiful lives. And Victor Vogel spent his own life trying to change the views the coven had against dark magic. It was no more than a few drops in an ocean. But no matter how much he made speeches it never made any difference. That wasn’t how changes were made, not important ones. And deep down Victor knew that. His children taking on Necromancy though, that wasn’t his idea. His blood ran cold at the thought. His interest in that form of magic had been more scholarly than Constantine’s. For Victor, the words were simply that. Just words. He was excellent at dialogue, but Constantine thought he never had the balls to do anything more. A neutral man, never committing himself without an escape route planned. If anyone had ever told him nothing was gained without risk, he’d obviously forgotten. He thought he could do it without the death, but people like that - the bleeding hearts - you’ll never change their minds. They’re so buried in their self-righteousness that they could never see the light. But of course, Victor never agreed, because admitting that would be admitting that he has lived his entire life for nothing. Don’t get him wrong though, he never hated his father. He never felt anything about either of his parents. Oh you should have seen them at the trial. Victor and Annette Vogel sending their children to the guillotine. May they rot in hell. 

Marius gave his explanation for bringing another witch along with him but the most interesting thing about this was said witch’s reaction. Typically, he got gasps or a shriek of horror. Not laughter. Even if it sounded maniacal. It was a good thing that he was magically bound or he would have ripped her tongue from her mouth with squint. She looked young, so he would give her some leeway. She commented on his situation, and he gave her a smile in return. Cold. He always looked cold when he smiled. “Right, I forget that death means something to you people.” Cheating death was probably the most vital thing one had to learn as a necromancer. The hardest thing to learn. Every else was child’s play. “Please, come in.” He stepped away from the doors in order to give way for the two of them to enter his property. The large foyer was still covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Books and paintings decorated the walls. But it was the smell that was the most unnerving thing about it. The smell of decay. “It’s been a long time, my friend.” He turned from Marius to Selene, giving her a once over before his eyes met Marius again. “So, a blood oath? Unfortunately the fact that she is forced to keep your secrets does not mean she is willing to keep mine. Selene, was it? How do I know I can trust you?” @quietmagics​ @selenebellona​

[moved-suscitat]

Something Wicked Is Here | Constantine, Marius & Selene

He had just turned 25 when he was sent to Ashbourne Penitentiary. It was the sort of place one cannot explain. But it’s hard to forget it. Constantine’s cell had been cold and empty, with a stone floor and stone walls. The window  too high for him to reach, but sometimes he could smell the rain outside, frigid and forbidding. The first week he paced, sometimes waiting for rescue, sometimes determined to escape himself. He found a piece of loose rock and carved the days onto the walls, the floor, anywhere which might receive his rambling occupation. He didn’t know where his sister was, that bond which had been so firm since infancy had suddenly been severed, and she could have been in the cell next to his or a thousand miles away. He counted the stones which made up his imprisonment, getting close to five hundred, and wondering how long it would take him to go mad from sheer boredom. Each day seemed to take an eon, and with his constant pacing he would thought he’d soon wear grooves into the stone floor. There were seven days of that, seven lines carved persistently beneath his window. Then they came, and he lost all awareness of time.

Now that he thought of it, he was not sure why it took them so long to find him, they were the sort of creatures that no one could understand. If they had motives, they were lost upon him. Perhaps they took pity upon him. Or maybe they simply had more souls to torture than they had time for. It is said wraiths feed on someone’s soul until they have drank them all dry, and all that is left is a mind filled with the torment of all their sins. He could not really describe it. But he did remember feeling very cold, his breath would echo in front of him whenever they passed by, and by that he knew that they were coming once again. If they stole his memories he couldn’t tell you but whatever it accomplished it left him muddled and half-mad. 

Days bled into one another, and he often slept like a man suddenly put into a coma. No longer felt bored, or if he did, he could not remember it, and it was as if his whole life were placed upon scraps of parchment suddenly thrown the wind. It was so jumbled he hardly knew who he was, or why he was there. Even if he had his magic returned to him, he wouldn’t have known what to do with it. The whole universe was encompassed by that cell, the bland food fed through a door so he never saw any human contact, and the constant visits of the wraiths. The name Constantine Vogel was carved upon his cell wall but at the end of it he wasn’t even sure if that was his name, or somebody else’s. 

And now he was out, vomited into the world after spending almost a decade in the bowel of the beast. The mark carved into his wrist as a reminder that he was, by all intents and purposes, castrated. If they thought he would simply continue with his existence as a mere mortal then they had another thing coming. A call to the right person was all he needed. Well, in this case a text message since a one sided conversation would be pretty fucking pointless. Simple request. Marius, it’s Vogel. I’m out. Let’s have a drink. My place. 

And that was where he was. In his childhood home. The Vogel estate stood in the outskirts of town like a carcass that had been left to rot. Strangely fitting. Was not long before he heard the knock on the door. No electricity for him to have a doorbell yet. Constantine made his way down the stairs and opened the heavy door coming face to face with Marius, who - to his surprise - wasn’t alone. Maybe he should have specified. “Marius, nice to see you again. Who’s your friend?” @selenebellona @quietmagics

[maledictushq]

[moved-suscitat]

maledictushq‌:

ASHBOURNE DOSSIER

NAME: CONSTANTINE VOGEL

SPECIES: WITCH

TYPE: NECROMANCER

COVEN: NONE | EXCOMMUNICATED FROM TRILLIUM CIRCLE

AGE: 34 YEARS OLD

TIME IN ASHBOURNE: SINCE BIRTH

“I don’t know what goes on in a child’s early life that ends up producing people like Celeste and Constantine Vogel. One would hope that it would be some dreadful horror story, death, abuse, or rampant mental illness at the very least. But in reality, such things are rare, and some are just born bad. I know it is an unpleasant thing to say, but Constantine and his sister are bad apples, rotten to the core, and no amount of education, positive influence or opportunities will change that. I hated using the word ‘evil’ especially when talking about children, but if there was a single redeeming quality in either of those two I was never able to see it. They were the sort of infants who would pull the wings off butterflies simply to watch them die. They were always fascinated with dark magic and interested in nothing else. Irredeemable. Often with children like this, you blame the parents. But with the Vogel twins it runs deeper than that. They were born nasty, life just got in the way.”

Constantine’s earliest memory was of his father, which in itself is strange because he could count the number of private interviews with his father on one hand, and he certainly couldn’t remember Victor pushing for intimacy between the two of them. Not that he was complaining, Constantine never wanted anything to do with him either. But this memory was of a man on man interview, Celeste was gone, probably out playing the miniature doll with their mother and Constantine and his father were alone in the library. He remembers the sunlight filtering through a gap in the heavy velvet curtain, the spines of leather bound books lit up like holy tomes on the high wooden shelves. He was five, maybe six years old, and his ability to read was limited at best, so the Latin flashed by like the mystic words of another world, and Constantine could do nothing more then simply admire the gold leaf lettering, so rich and extravagant, and answer in half syllables, as his father asked him questions. 

Was he looking after his sister? Yes. If by ‘looking after’ he meant putting worms from the garden in her bed and/or pulling her hair till she cried like a girl. Did he listen to his nanny, do what he was told? Yes. Or at least, he did after she’d asked him the fifth or sixth time and boxed his ears to get his attention. He’s getting tall, he’ll be a grown man soon. Yes. Not soon enough though. When he gets older, he’ll be a member of the coven, is he looking forward to that? Yes. Because he’ll get to learn magic. Constantine was looking forward to that. Oh magic, has he tried any spells, have they worked for him? Yes, he’s tried. Mostly they were muddled repetitions of things they had heard their mother and father say. The kind that made the house servants cry their ugly fat tears over in pain. When he was really angry, he’d even try them out on his nanny. But they didn’t work. His father laughed at that, and asked him if his hands were clean. Obligingly Constantine held them out for inspection, and his father eyed the dirty nails for a moment before proclaiming them ‘good enough’ and handing one of the books down from the top shelf. It was so heavy that he could barely open the front cover. There were drawings, strange rituals he asked his father about only to have him laugh and say it was superstitious bullshit. Never mind that, turn the page. Dark magic weren’t pentagrams and inverted crosses, that’s human stupidity. The only cockerel you’ll ever need to see is cooked and on your plate. It’s power. Constantine felt a little secret thrill at the word, and turned the page as reverently as if it would collapse into dust with rough handling.

Later that night, when he’d eaten his dinner and had a bath (despite his attempts to avoid the latter) he’d walked into his sister’s room and tried to describe the things he’d seen. He told her gruesome horror stories, edited by his own limited memory and a young boy’s penchant for blood and guts. Do you know there’s a spell that can make someone’s eyeballs pop out of their head, then fall on the ground and explode. And make someone’s head spin right around till their neck breaks. Constantine reviewed the afternoon thoughtfully. I bet Father has killed people like that. I bet if someone makes him angry, he makes their eyeballs pop out and then makes them eat them. He would be later disappointed in his fervent imaginings about Victor’s life, but for now he was able to twist things the way he wished. He thought the coven was a place full of dark magic, with pentagrams on the floor and dead chickens hanging from the ceiling. That the world was filled with cringing sycophants jumping at their own shadows in fear some powerful witch taking a dislike to their face and deciding to rearrange it a little. 

Dark magic. It had a hallowed ring to it, at least, around the Vogel home. And Constantine had grown up with an indirect knowledge of what it was capable of. The flick and swish used to rearrange the cutlery was good enough for rookies, but that wasn’t real magic. Not like the type of magic he had seen in his father’s book. That was what magic was really capable of, that’s what it really meant. And though his young mind couldn’t quite find the words to voice it, he felt a thrill of anticipation for the future. His future. This was broader than politics, he had seen that deep place in the human psyche which told what people were really capable of. No morals, no feelings. Just power and control. He looked down at his pale, pudgy hand, and suddenly clenched it into a tight fist, nails digging into his palm and knuckles turning white. “Let’s go down there tomorrow.” It’s usually Celeste who made the plans, she was good at that. But Constantine was all about impulse, and when he wanted something, he was never afraid to simply reach out and take it.

His magic came to him a week after Celeste. Constantine was nearly frantic by that time, sick with the fear that maybe he would never get it - be some disgusting little human thing that his parents would send away and pretend he never existed. It was stupid really, now that he thinks back on it, because Celeste also walked and talked first. He was just the late bloomer. That used to bother him a bit, but not anymore. He didn’t mind letting Celeste take the lead, it’s what she did. She’d already performed a spell, and he was simply left behind, stewing in his own misfortune. He used to walk up and down the hallways, muttering every single spell he knew just praying that one would work. It had to work. It was a mixed blood problem. Just one of many problems about laying down with beasts. Mostly they were curses, since they were the only things he thought worth memorizing, which was probably most of his problem. Constantine was always trying to perform spells beyond his ability, because learning theories and simple rituals was just boring compared to real magic. But despite all his attempts at forcing his magic to come, it came quite by accident, like it usually does.

He had gotten in trouble for something he said, he had heard his father swear once and he tended to repeat it whenever he got frustrated. Which would be alright, if he’d been smart enough not to say it loudly within earshot of adults. Anyway, Constantine had been sent out into the hallway, and his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth were beginning to ache. He was about to turn around to slam the door behind him, but instead he just sort of radiated anger, like a wave, and the door shut hard and quick enough to make the wall shake. And then the other open door in the hallway slammed, and he heard a crack as doors downstairs shut so hard their hinges splintered. And then suddenly after that flurry of activity, there was total silence. Constantine stood there panting like he had just run a mile, his fists shaking at his sides. The nanny burst out and boxed him around the side of the head so hard his ears rang, and dragged him back in the room by his elbow. He heard once that emotion is supposed to hinder magic, but he’d never found this to be true. Maybe for tedious things, like potions or hexes, not real magic. The spells with so much power that you get an electrical thrill when using them. Anger, excitement, adrenaline, he can’t shut it out, but it’s never harmed him. Magic is in his blood, after all. Not like those filthy witches, who have to bury their noses in books for hours just to cast the simplest spell.

He had been called quick tempered and impulsive, maybe he was. He doesn’t have any patience, not with other people, not with his magical ability. And when he was bored, which happened often, he needed to find other ways to occupy himself. He continued to sneak into his father’s study whenever possible, pouring through the books he had brought back from far away places. A lot of them weren’t in English, and he probably wouldn’t have read them anyway, but he enjoyed the diagrams, and spells were easy to pick out once you knew what to look for. Of course he couldn’t help but read them out, waving around his hand and he was never very surprised when nothing happened. Still he would go over them as often as he could, clinging to the hope that one day there would be that spark of intuition, and he would no longer need to use his hands to make things hurt.

Their nanny handed in her resignation and they had to make due with the butler. He was so ancient he was practically doubled over, and had suffered enough abuse from the both of them to make him cringe in anticipation whenever they walked by. It was quite amusing. He had always been an excellent subject for experimentation. Constantine thinks that by the time they were finally baptized, he would of preferred to be stuffed and mounted then spend another year with them. Being around other witches was lackluster. None of them could of told you which was the right way to summon a spirit even if you drew them a diagram. Magic meant about as much to them as it would to a dog. They couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. An idiot child can be taught to mouth the words, but they couldn’t ever understand the meaning. And trying to teach it would be like making a circus out of something hallowed.

Their collection of dark spells grew with time, as did their familiarity with the curses, though for the most part they resisted the temptation to try them on anything human (which did not include the family’s servants, obviously.) They had grown up with the dark arts since birth, it was their heritage, they were curious and enthralled by their newfound powers, the same as children who like to levitate the dinner plates rather than simply lift them. Magically, becoming a Ceremonialist was a dry spell. It had been an easy task that left him with a sour taste in his mouth. Not enough. Is never enough. It was in his early 20′s when he first heard about Necromancy. It hadn’t been a common topic of discussion in his home. There was something secretive about it, and though the hush was awed, his parents always acted as if the walls had sprouted ears whenever the topic was raised. It made him even more interested and was not long before he had become obsessed with the idea of of it. Playing God. Raising the dead. And then it happened. It was like a sign sent straight from God or - the devil himself. If he’d ever had a spiritual bone in his body he might’ve believed that. In the end, it was his ambition, hi pride, which damned him. He had felt so secure in his secrecy, certain the mask he wore had the whole world fooled. But some people saw him for what he was, and were eager to get rid of him. The Watchers and the Council alike. He was young and overconfident, it was a definite flaw, but it also was that which pressed him forward in greater and greater feats of service. By that time he was drenched in blood lust like a wild animal, and only twenty-five years old.

His sister and him were arrested and put into the hands of Coven justice. Every one of them had a horror story or two, and they were eager to render the appropriate punishment upon them. He was separated from Celeste and placed in a chamber for four days to be tortured. Then he was found guilty of performing sacrificial magic, of murder, or creating the most depraved and cruel dark objects  ( most of which were destroyed ), among other things. He was there for some time. He could not give you a more specific timeline if he wished to. He tries not to dwell on that time. It was a glimpse of hell. Could of been there a decade, or a month. It would of all felt the same. Now he was free to walk the streets again but he might as well remained trapped inside a cold cell. They called it “magical probation.” A mark placed on him that keeps him from accessing his magic. But Constantine was not one to bend over and take it. He’ll find a way to fix this and then - he will get his revenge.

[patka127162]