➤ ANON SENT: "Enchanting ladies and valiant masters! Garlic bouquets for your beloveds! Stay safe from terrible creatures of the night and impress your paramour. For a price as fair as your heart!" // a Toussaint merchant, after the Night of Long Fangs, when the whole Duchy grew keen on anti-vampiric measures
Beauclair was just as he remembered, resplendent in its beauty; radiant and picturesque as if torn from the pages of a fairy-tale itself with the rays of the sun reflecting off Beauclair Palace that stood in the distance: its spires tall and proud, a bastion of the so called knightly virtues it prided itself upon. A warm breeze flowed through the streets, carrying with it the scent of rose blossoms and freshly opened bottles of wine the citizens were ever tipsy on. It was, for all intents and purposes, perfect.
It was as if that night had never happened.
But Dettlaff knew better. Toussaint knew better.
As he walked the cobbled streets, Dettlaff swore he catch wind of the blood nestled beneath the ancient stone, lingering in the soil. The blood of innocents sent to an early grave. The blood of men, women, children. . . how many children were orphaned that night because of him, crying out for parents that would not return home — ? How many became young widows never to know again the embrace of their lover and sweet, whispered nothings — ?
The strands of garlic that hung from doorways and stalls told of something more sinister at work. Children and youths—orphans numbering far more than ever in Beauclair’s history—sat at street corners, begging for whatever scrap and coin one might spare them. Others held religious symbols close to their breasts and sought comfort in divinity in lieu of Toussaint’s Virtues, uttering prayers towards Melitele or Lebioda beneath their breath for protection against what may yet linger in the dark, thirsting for their blood. It all spoke of subtle change at work. Change that the ghastly Beast of Beauclair wrought upon the duchy some dozen years past in the form of his righteous fury. The citizens of Toussaint feared that such a day might come again when all things vampiric would emerge from the shadows, should the gods—or the Beast itself—invoke their wrath upon them once more for turning their backs upon all that was Good and Righteous. . .
Dettlaff grimaced as the poisonous memories came creeping back, ones he thought long buried in the darkest corners of his mind where he hoped they’d never resurface. He should have known better than to think he could hide from his sins. But Dettlaff knew in his heart of hearts that his hands would never again be clean of the blood he spilled that night, and he knew the guilt he carried on his shoulders since then would never weigh any less. It was a burden he would forever carry so long as the sands of time still trickled away.
Returning here reminded him of it all. Reminded him of the Beast he had become. . . and since swore never to be again. It was time for new beginnings. He knew he could never undo what happened some fifteen years ago, but he also knew he could work to be better because there were still some who believed in his goodness. And that was just enough to push Dettlaff van der Eretein in the right direction.
Emiel had helped him make strides in opening his heart towards humanity again; he was one step ahead of the monster he’d been teetering towards, but two steps behind being a star citizen worthy of walking among men. He was, even after all these years, . . still something of a mess but far better off than he’d been right after he fled Beauclair into his self-imposed seclusion. Regis was more than a little surprised to hear that Dettlaff wished to return to Beauclair on his own terms, but confident enough in his brother to let him set off on his own this time. Though nervous to be without a faithful pack member at his side to navigate the crowds, Regis’ confidence in Dettlaff was enough to drive him forward with renewed conviction.
Dettlaff had hardly paid any mind to the merchants or swathes of people that frolicked about the streets, too absorbed in his thoughts until he was promptly pulled away from them when one of the vendor’s voices rang out, loud enough that Dettlaff recoiled from the intensity as though the merchant had been shouting right into his ear—he might as well have been. Dettlaff scowls and flashs his fangs for only a brief moment before composing himself, only to find himself face to face with a garland of. . . garlic — ?
He has to bite back a laugh, as if garlic could possibly repel his kind. It was just that, a superstition, and yet it persisted as a fail proof method of keeping vampires at bay even to this day. The smell was strong and repugnant, sure, and was a good way to mask the scent of blood if one was looking to hide from a lesser vampire, but many, like Dettlaff, found the herb to be an excellent addition to cooking, and some even enjoyed it. . . raw. Whatever it took to help humans sleep well at night, he supposed, not that a few strands of garlic would keep a bloodthirsty vampire hellbent on getting what it wanted away.
Eh, why not, the least he could do now is give back a little to the local economy, so the vampire shrugs and fishes out his coin purse. ❝ How much — ? ❞ He asks, and thinks about his soon-to-be visit to Natanis, one of the few—if not only—things he was looking forward to upon his return here. Fifteen years. . . will she remember him still — ? Will she be happy, or angry, to see him after all that happened — ? He’s giddy on his feet as he thinks upon it, unable to stand still as he pays and hurriedly tucks the garlic away as he rushes off to buy a bouquet of flowers to present to the succubus upon his eventual arrival at her doorstep. . . twin feelings of excitement and nervousness colliding within.
To new beginnings—or an attempt at one, at least.
prguitarman
titsay
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
areudirty
