THEO JAMES “Episode Three” — The Time Traveler’s Wife

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THEO JAMES “Episode Three” — The Time Traveler’s Wife
It helped to be observant, that he was generally the smartest person in the room was another plus. Then again, that wasn't an especially tall order in the Pyramid; these ancient creatures had the mentality to go along with it. Each was more stuck in their ways than the last, too stubborn to change, too old to care. Nicolas had underestimated him and underestimated Octavian as well; at least, he was smart enough to realize as much. The only person who'd ever done anything for this city had been exiled from it. "Do you know of anyone else that feels the same?" Octavian had charged him with finding the people who stood in stark opposition to the chimeric archdruid, while his maker didn't want Atlas dealing with them himself, Octavian had made it very clear what would happen to them.
A huff of a breath escaped Nicolas, something borderline to a tenebrous chuckle, shrugging, "Who feels Octavian is some pawn on the chess board or who want to help him tear everything down?" Unfortunately, Nicolas was unaware of any others who felt the same to the latter; the chimera had always been a touch careful in his own dark ambitions, which had never lent to him having open-hearted conversations about the approach he'd since taken. Aiding Dionaeia in the war, revealing himself as the manticore he'd become, was a sure-sighted mistake that Nicolas could only hope to rectify by helping the slighted Octavian retain more than his former glory.
"I know you wouldn't mind it, but who knows about everyone else." Anders always had his shirt off, he was sure people were tired of it, but he didn't care. Rome was hot during the summer. He had a little skimpy orange vest he wore while he did construction, working around Rome on old houses was something new and exciting to do with his hands. Right now, though, they were busy holding on to Nicolas, ensuring bruises would remain as a little bit of possession took hold, "Are you not? What will you stroke?" He couldn't help but laugh, moving to capture Nicolas' mouth in another kiss. There was something they hadn't breached yet, besides the druid naturally, but Anders was only nervous when it came to love. He showed a tremendous amount of PDA, he had no issues being touchy, but words? He wasn't so good with those.
"I might have something in mind," there's a roll of his eyes as though Nicolas was above their borderline cheesy back and forth yet the way the Jackal leaned into each bruising touch and biting kiss was evident of a very different opinion on the matter. His tongue clicked, he'd have chosen to ignore how often Anders' mind drifted to the democracy of it all, but it was clear even the Wayward needed some form of a pep talk now and then. "I don't think you'd be the only one in the mud pit decided to ditch the clothes," the Jackal voraciously returned the embrace, carving his hips into the other.
"Our kind has long memories, which sometimes is more trouble than help." They are a dying race, only a handful survivors from the attack last February, and with a number of Octavian's acolytes presenting themselves despite his exile. Only one Archdruid can make more druids, and it is the one that has been all but kicked out. Whether they like it or not, their species is in danger, and they need to ensure they change enough to survive what is coming. Complacency in moments like this will kill them. "And I want to ensure that we do change, and for the better."
"That's a kind way of saying you're holier than thou sons'a'bitches," Nicolas offered a flash of a smile, one difficult to discern if he was teasing or bearing his teeth like some feral beast. The Jackal sighed, he'd had plenty of druids, Keepers and Archdruids alike, attempting to sell to him from both sides; but he was nothing if not an opportunist. A shrug came next, "Okay, you wanna do better: what's your pitch? Sell it to me like it's some new product on the market." His arms crossed together defiantly, an expectant brow poised at Evy.
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"Is that what you've been made to feel like? A reject? Apologies, because looking at you here and now I couldn't imagine giving you anything less than the highest praise. You are magnificent." Octavian's work proved his sincerity. Since his liberation, he's worked to create more chimeras and then helped those to grow even beyond the capabilities of such a designation. The Pyramid made their stance on him clear which Octavian quite liked. He much preferred shades of black and white on the field of battle. "I've told you, what I want is to see you embracing the upper limits of your potential. And I want that power for myself. I've been exiled you know. If you're a reject then I am one too, so why not see how life feels beneath the wings of a phoenix?"
There was no reason to trust Octavian, truly, he was a former archdruid and not Nicolas' maker, but throughout everything Dionaeia's deafening silence when it came to her acolytes was very telling. Octavian, however, was forward and present; he had a missive and knew just how to sell it in a compelling way that didn't make the Jackal feel he was betraying everything he'd come to know. How the Pyramid, and those holier-than-thou within it, were complete shams, betraying themselves and their principles entirely until they became unrecognizable. "Okay, you've got my attention," how often Nicolas had tuned out when Octavian spoke merely out of this ingrained disrespect he'd come to garner since his imprisonment; the further Octavian was shoved away from the limelight of his former glory, the more the Jackal craned to listen to what he had to say. "I'll be honest, it's easy to kill, absorb their traits, but I'm not perfect with what I do." A chimera, a manticore with no sort of mentor to aid in this transformative power, "So, if you'll help me, I'll help you." Dionaeia and the rest of them be damned at this point.
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"Good." That made it easier to get around or to talk his way out of situations. It also made it much easier to take someone out; the Phoenix's directive had been blatantly clear: find those still loyal to him, and take care of the rest. Atlas wouldn't admit it out loud, but a good chunk of him was hopeful people leaning more towards sympathy where the former Emperor was concerned. "Feels like a double standard, doesn't it? How many of those aspects or archfiends were on the other side but get to walk around like nothing happened." Atlas shook his head, "Pluto was working with the Asphodel the whole time and attacked one of his own sire line just outside base camp, and his vampires are still licking his boot, it's pathetic. Trivia spent most of the war hiding in a basement, and now she has built a temple to herself. Octavian's sister writes a book that kills countless, but she's okay because she feels bad about it now. There are necromancers put in charge of covens, a dragon living in the Pyramid, and more bullshit happening in the city than ever." He shook his head, "But sure, Octavian's the problem."
"You know, I once thought Octavian was nothing more than the crazy archdruid who burned down the city once," he smiled at that in comparison to the examples Atlas presented; the Cat was a swift learner to this world and Nicolas was more impressed of that than anything. Each example presented Aspects and archdruids that would swallow a life like his whole, whereas Octavian saw it as a primed opportunity to bestow greatness; it was clear Nicolas had been sniffing around the wrong places all this time. "It's been my mistake to wave him off time and time again," the Jackal was often blinded by the perception others had given to him, nothing more than some lowly thief who'd never learn, and he'd mirrored a similar scrutiny towards Octavian when really he held more cards than expected. "A lot of the Keepers in the Pyramid look at me like some hopeful charity case," Nicolas shrugged, turning to face Atlas, "So, if you, or Octavian, needed any resources from the Pyramid; I'd have my ways." The Jackal was never really eloquent with words, never predictable in his paths either, but if the Keepers had once saw him as a thieving creature who'd never change, then he'd be everything they once imagined.
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Anders hummed, though he couldn't help but laugh at Nicolas' question. If he'd listened to Dante all the time, he would've been back in Norway, perhaps. But he did appreciate the other's thoughts on matters, and truthfully, he never wanted Dante to feel ignored. Thoughts of his brother were easily shoved away and out of his mind, however, when he focused on the kiss that Nicolas pressed against him. Another mention of fixing his memory; someone could probably do it. Nicolas had archdruids around him at all times, one of them could perhaps slow down the issues that the lycan was facing. "You just want to see me bloody and shirtless, don't you?" Anders laughed now, his hands moving to find purchase on NIcolas' hip, pulling the other flush against him. Anders settled between the other's thighs, his second home as of late. "I will do it for you." He ran his hand down the other's hip, to his thigh that was now hiked up around Anders' waist, "Maybe I'll have a fighting chance with you there."
As often as they both attempted to willfully ignore Anders' memory problems, they still naturally resurfaced with mere talks of Lupercalia, of the End, and everything murky in between. It was an unavoidable blip, something that the Jackal paid little mind to despite how often it stared him so starkly in the face. Whatever had blossomed between them had been untroubled at first, something not marred by a serious wonder of later, but the Wayward and him had become irrevocably bonded the longer Anders lingered within Rome. Where once the lycan had proposed he'd be leaving, the statement now seemed a distant memory, separated by the grueling End that had almost taken them both. "It's a bonus which I don't think anyone would complain about," possessiveness was one thing candid of the lycan, but jealousy was void of the feral creature, Nicolas leaning into the Wayward as his hands roamed over the Jackal. Anders settled between his thighs and Nicolas welcomed him with little hesitation, a simple creature prone to being navigated by the animal within, "I'm not going to stroke your ego." An affirmation that Nicolas would be there cheering Anders' on, but a clear suggestion that he'd rather stroke something else.
"Don't." It seemed like Nicolas was always fucking there. Why was he always there? It was like he was the only one trying to keep the friendship alive. Maybe she should've been happy about that though. There weren't a lot of people willing to talk to her right now. Which was actually okay when she thought about it, but she didn't want to be some pariah. All of this was just a mess, but she was in the process of figuring it out. That didn't mean talking to the Jackal, but she had to take what she got, she guessed. "I don't really want to hear an apology, Nicolas. I've actually heard enough from myself to last a lifetime. However..." She paused and let out a sigh. Actually, she wanted to gag as the next words left her mouth. "I am..." She actually did gag that time. "What I meant to say was I'm s..." Another gag. No, she could do this. "I'msorryokay?" That would have to do. "Granted, it really felt like you were choosing dick over friendship, but you know, I kind of understand. That guy has great tits and you know I love great tits. On women, not men, but you get the point."
Nicolas grimaced at the implication, dick over friendship; he supposed he could be coined as being shallow and careless enough to do so, but it was hardly that simple when it came to Anders. Lucretia, however, she'd come into great power, devised herself as an enemy to many people within Rome and the Jackal couldn't fault her for being hesitant and burning bridges before people scorned her first. It was what he'd do anyhow, and yet here the Jackal was attempting to bargain his friendship with her continuously as if Anders wasn't trying to give him some cushy, lycan-centered life in Lupercal. Nicolas merely shrugged, despite the look on his face that indicated his salty demeanor, "I almost wish it was as crass as that, but," he shrugged, "He was the first face I'd seen since being freed, maybe I've got some warped view of everything but I thought I owed him something." Nicolas wasn't known for his blatant declarations of affection, fighting alongside Anders was as clear as the Jackal could be, "If Bebe was on the other side what would that mean to you?" It was better to silently accept her apology than verbally accept it; she'd likely smite him.
Safiye was from Nettelia's line and both were women who were forged from the fire, although the shark had always an affinity for the aquatic elemental -- they had walked through the flames of hell and allowed it to turn their skin to iron, there were many reasons why Safiye was the shark but the strong hide and impenetrable shell stood prominent. Both lost husbands and even in moments of great dire, they still sought the light and it was why her old friend nauseated her so. A dangerous grin hangs from her lips and this wasn't a social meeting to catch up but to see what strength resided within him. "I love when someone puts up a good fight." Her bite was ferocious and she was a Valkyrie, honor could be found on the battlefield. "It's a pity that you haven't found use for the anger and pain that resides in you, you've become spoiled with bitterness. Druids are finally gaining their rightful recognition back, you could have a part in it -- prove to them all how powerful you could be."
Safiye's ascension to Keeper changed nothing of his attitude towards her, it rode a line of wretched fondness and embittered contempt. For all that they'd hashed out, mistakes they'd squashed, the villainous Jackal which resided within him was something weaned on vengeance and cunning; whatever piece of him would forgive her, refused in light of everything the Senate, the Eye, and the Pyramid represented to him. A golden child squashed under the careless print of their thumbs, someone to throw to the wayside under a barbaric lesson that was really just cruelty when one shoved away their rose-colored glasses. "Well, I have options, Safiye," mockingly cheerful, Nicolas grinned as though he was holding back a sordid secret that she could not be privy to. Dionaeia was his creator, the one who blessed his first life, but there were others out there who spoke to dismantle what their kind represented and Nicolas was invested. "Besides, you've already seen what I can do, what I am," a chimera, he'd kept it hidden long enough but the End had forced him to use such abilities to their advantages. "I don't think I need a handout from the Pyramid to be powerful."
Atlas had left his jacket... Somewhere, it was getting late and while the part was in no way winding down, he'd probably need to get Eoin home soon before he started blowing chunks on the Count's walls. Atlas could tolerate a lot but being embarrassed by his date at a party wasn't one of them. "I'm used to being underestimated." Were the situation reversed Atlas might have thought the same thing, he hadn't given anyone reason to believe otherwise; he'd heard one of the archdruids say that Atlas' generation of acolytes were progressing faster than previous. Something about Fate making sure they were prepared, it hadn't done them much good so far, which didn't bode well for what was to come. "You still stink though." This time there was the hint of a smile on his face when he said it though, Atlas was mostly joking.
Anders was.... somewhere, probably getting gassed up about how he walks into the room tits first; despite being a lycan, he was frustratingly charming to all species but Nicolas somehow didn't possess a jealousy gene. Once, a few thousand years ago, Nicolas was a fresh acolyte himself but the Jackal seemed to buy into the snobbish idea of every other druid when it came to Octavian's new toys. "That's not really going to change," poised as a joke, yet it was a miracle in itself that the Jackal didn't have a permanent case of fleas; he'd spent half a human lifespan in his animal form, some habits of life were hard to do away with now. "Octavian's banned from Rome, does that mean you'll all slink into the fey forest for secret meetings?" Lupercal, maybe, but it almost seemed easy for the Jackal to slip towards what Octavian expected of him at this point though the question was still gravitated towards biting jest instead of a serious inquiry.
“According to the weird vampire who sold this outfit to me, I am wearing a ‘combat chic’ rave outfit,” Dionaeia says with a roll of her eyes and sarcasm so heavy it might have killed the cheerful vampire that helped her out. It’s not that the outfit it’s uncomfortable, rather it’s surprisingly comfortable for how little skin it covers, but it has far too much skin exposed. All of the scars she has gained under the Eye’s care are at full display, and it makes her skin itch, but she had promised herself to try to live like she hadn’t before and that included going to the weird ass party in a weird ass outfit. “How is it different from lingerie? No fucking clue, but frankly some of the assholes here are wearing less so I seem to be doing fine.”
"You went scrounging for an outfit from a vampire? You're really giving pick me vibes, Dio." Nicolas snorted, abrasive as always, but if one looked past the tenderly crafted insult one could see the affection laced within it. "What's with this sudden need to fit in?" Which she was practically doing the opposite, battle scars facing the world, fish out of water as she pranced around in something that was apparently the opposite of her style. "Doesn't really scream archdruid, aspect, Dionaeia; but what do I know."
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