defait de familie

Rowan Bordeaux. Noble, voyager, retired soldier and tavern-owner.

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

I WISH YOU WOULD

Characters: Nixon Reynolds, Rowan Bordeaux.

Location: By the banks of the river Rhin, Strasbourg, Alsace, France. 

Time: Early February, 1917.

          There were no crickets. No crickets, no birds, no rabbits; nothing. It seemed like all the life in that place had vanished since the war had begun. The only noises he could hear in that cold night were the ever-flowing waters of the river Rhin and the leaves rustling due to the chilling wind coming from the East. He was alone. And though he was surrounded by an entire platoon of soldiers, solitude was all he felt. Nights tend to be the loneliest time of the day when you are a nocturnal beast who needs no sleep, but that night must have been the loneliest night of his life... There was no life to be found in miles. No life except the ones of the soldiers who lay in a clearing nearby; but were they really alive? After seeing all they had? Their mates being blown to pieces, kidnapped by the German, or perforated by a dozen bullets. That was enough to kill anyone on the inside. Anyone besides him.

          There were no crickets. 

          No crickets, no birds, no rabbits; nothing. Just the ever-flowing river Rhin the leaves rustling in the cold wind, and... footsteps. One pair of feet, to be precise. Rowan was able to pinpoint that in the half-second it took him to grasp the gun that hung from his shoulders and hold it firmly in the direction of the noise. Without much of a second thought, he moved forward, hand in the trigger, prepared for the shot. And as he was about to demand the person showed themselves, he saw him. And he knew he wasn't alone anymore. "Nixon?" The weapon fell to his side almost immediately, "I thought it was an intruder. I didn't mean to scare you." The tone clearly much kinder than the one he would have ever used with an intruder, or even with any other platoon-mate who was not Nixon. "Can't sleep?" The distance between them diminished by the second, as though Rowan subconsciously longed for that proximity. 

@nixonreynolds

[kazimir-voronovich]

@rcwanbcrdeaux

“My Lord. Welcome home.” Cyrus said, somehow managing not to crack a smile  at addressing Rowan Bordeaux in such a way. It was ridiculous but also so easy to get caught up in. It must be whatever that combination of Magic and Oneiroi dream weaving that had made something that felt so convincing  that even he, in his privileged state, felt and tasted and lived the world around them. “I hope your last journey was a profitable one.” The Basilisk finally looked up from his work desk and smiling stood to make a short bow, “What brings you to me now, when you are just returned home?”

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

          In spite of his blue-blooded status, Rowan had always been prone to much more casual treatment towards the people he encountered with a certain frequency, and, even though he would never allow strangers such camaraderie, Rowan often found himself reminding friends and relatives to avoid the use of expressions like ‘sir’, or of the overly ceremonial ‘my lord'. “Prithee, Cyrus! Have I not told you already that such formalities are absolutely unnecessary?” His tone, as per usual, the friendliest amongst all nobles, with identical kindness towards servants, commons, and nobility alike; a most progressive thought, not rarely reprimanded by others in his caste, something Rowan never paid much mind to, as he had never been one to abide by certain (or rather, most) social norms. "But, aye,"  He continued on, deciding not to elongate the discussion about his title of preference, "They most certainly have been..." Surprisingly, he had managed to find quite a few interesting things through his journey, despite the more spiritualistic character of that specific voyage. His intentions were making it into a spiritual retreat, to allow him some time to recompose himself after Noah's decease. Still, his visit to their neighbors to the East turned out to be much more entertaining than he had primarily expected. "So much so, that I even brought you a gift for your personal collection." There was still much to unpack, but Rowan quickly shifted through the bags on the carpeted floor until he found the small relic; a mechanical clock, about three palms in size, placed right at the center of a white, rectangular porcelain frame with signature Chinese ornaments, made in dark blue paint, decorating it on all sides.

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Annabelle Rhodes.   @annabellerhodes-x

          With his back against the side of a rock and his legs against his chest, he watched from a distance as she swung her sword in the air, with the grace of the old masters, and as she kicked and jabbed with the fierceness of a raging storm. He wished that someday, sooner rather than later, he would manage to muster the courage to go into battle again, just so that he could fight alongside her, and witness the best warrior he had ever known take down her opponents one by one, with a grace he assumed must resemble one of the warrior gods and goddesses he had only heard about in stories. But it was still too early to even consider returning to the battlefield; watching it take the life of his brother had taken its toll on him and, for now, the closest he would get to war, was as close as he could get to that specific warrior. But the thoughts of Noah had no time to return to his mind, as the chaos unfolding before him came to an abrupt halt; her opponents rolled on the grass, groaning and stretching their sore muscles, as she stood triumphant over them. A most serene vision; the dark locks blowing in the wind as she returned the sword to its sheath. It was somewhat ironic how a person who could bring demise to a dozen warriors in a matter of seconds could also bring him peace of mind just as quickly. And that was what was so enchanting about Annabelle, how she managed to maintain the balance between characteristics that, at first glance, seemed so inherently adverse. As their gazes finally met, Rowan got up to greet her, "Good morrow, my lady." He bowed slightly, after the unnecessary formality, a hint of a smile in his face. The first since Noah's death. "Congratulations on the victory." He dodged her opponents as they finally walked away. "I cannot say I am surprised, though I must admit I'm amazed... As always." The distance between them dwindled by the second until they were only inches apart. And once again, he was washed over by an ever-so-present burning desire to close the small gap that stood between them by pulling her into a kiss. 

[luciantallis]

“It is about damn time.” Lucian hardly looked up from pouring his glass of wine as Rowan strode into the room. His parlor room, that he’d practically broken into. The vampire would have smelled him the moment he set foot on the premises. In fact he was banking on it. Not the politest way to meet someone and it was certainly an ungodly hour, but he didn’t feel comfortable just hoping to glimpse Rowan at the bar. It didn’t feel right being there, he hadn’t set foot in the place since well before New Year’s, and he had little desire to do so at the moment. “I’m not here to cause trouble.” For once. “Just figured I hadn’t checked up on you.” His tone softened and he looked up from where he’d poured a second glass of wine before setting the bottle down. “Been a while.” @rcwanbcrdeaux

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

          As he strode through the sumptuous silver gates of the Bordeaux household, after 4 months away, Rowan was greeted by all the memories he had decided to leave behind before his departure to the East, on the height of winter. And, besides the yards of white tapestry covering the estate having molten into seas of green, not much had changed about that majestic mansion, standing tall over the village... Finally, a familiar, sight after months of travels through the mysterious lands of the neighboring continent. But as comforting as it may have been for his gaze to meet the black-and-silver coat of arms that uniquely represented his family, it felt just as hurtful... Noah's memory was everywhere. Under the trees where the two had played during Rowan's childhood, before the fireplace where they used to tell each other stories, and in the dining room where they had enjoyed feasts and banquets together... It all felt so vivid, so utterly present, that it was almost as though it were happening right before his eyes. Rowan was so instantly embroiled by the remembrance of his brother's presence, that he almost didn't notice the scent coming from his suite on the second story. Spices; cinnamon, clove, and peppermint. A candle he had brought from one of his voyages; not just any candle. His candle. Lucian had stated his preference for that exotic aroma the moment Rowan had returned, dressed in colorful Persian-like fabric that smelled just like that. "Precisely the sort of warm welcome I expected..." His voice dripped sarcasm as he approached the witch. "Good morrow to you too, Lucian," he bowed slightly. 

[jackson-falahee]

jackfalahee: Love this time of year! Perfect excuse to wear my new @moncler jacket. 

[gwendolyncaris]

“Remember when I said I was fine?” That’s what she was always telling him. That’s what everyone told everybody in general. Gwen had been adamant to keep her problems to herself for a while when it came to those close to her. They had bigger things to deal with than worrying about what had happened to her that night. But it’d weighed heavily on her the last couple of weeks. After finding that one woman whose blood smelled like chemicals, her paranoia had only increased. Turning around corners she almost expected to run smack dab into Gianna and she couldn’t live with that worry anymore. She couldn’t just shoulder this alone. “That night, Nixon pulled me out of a pile of the ceiling and then I caught sight of someone I’ve fed on before. We have a very…Interesting relationship, this human and I.” Sitting at the kitchen table, her back straight and fingers clasped in front of her, she gave a light scoff. That was an understatement, they both seemed to love to antagonize each other. “And knew I needed something quick so I dove at her and she stabbed me. The knife had something on it, I’ve never felt pain like that.” Just remembering it made her wince in discomfort. @rcwanbcrdeaux

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

          A twinge of guilt pierced through him as she finally spoke, bitter and irksome like downing spoilt milk. Eventually, that sentiment of guilt soured even further until it became an impalatable feeling of frustration before it exchanged back into remorse and so on and so forth, like an idealized pendulum that never lost its momentum, oscillating back and forth between anger and regret, as it tried to force its way down his throat. How could he not have noticed? How could he have been so overtaken by unawareness during the past weeks not to acknowledge that Gwen was anything but "fine"? The mental penance had begun; his attention divided between her and the personal purge that took place inside his head. As the room fell silent, the gears of his mind begun to spin, finally putting a halt to the mental self-stoning. “Is the wound still open?” His voice muffled by the obstruction that was the knot in his throat. “And this woman, do you happen to know her name, by any chance?” It was a far shot, he knew, but maybe, just maybe he might be able to track her down, or find a viable solution for whatever had happened as he did the witch that cursed Nixon that very same night. He wanted to apologize, to say he was sorry for being so absent-minded, so self- centered on his own grief to notice the perils affecting his offspring, but ultimately held his tongue. Apologies won’t fix what’s broken, but maybe his attitudes might...

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Elijah Tallis.

The Tallis witch only looked up when he heard the Bordeaux’s voice. Elijah raised a brow, only watching the blonde bartender move to the other side of the bar. “Don’t know what he’s so worried about. It’s not like I’m the one that bites,” he mused with a slight smile before resting his head onto the bar top. “Make it a bit stronger than usual. It’d help if I didn’t remember about tonight.”

          From the mutual hatred, he and one Corrina Tallis shared, to the toxic proto-romance between him and Lucian, the amplitude of his intimacy levels with each of the Tallis witches was oddly comical. There was, of course, Hudson and the never-closing wound of what was once a friendship turned sour, mostly due to a disappointment brought along by one of Rowan's many unforgivable sins, and in the middle ground, between the bitterness of mutual loathing and what could have been love, lay his relationship with Elijah. Rowan wouldn't go as far as to say they were the best of friends, but there was a certain companionship between them that gave their relationship a friendly tone. Between one drink and the other, Rowan and Elijah eventually, build up enough rapport to allow for casual conversation, hence, as the witch demanded more alcohol than the usual, he couldn't help but question why. "What's gotten into you?" The inquiry sounded casual, despite his actual preoccupation. 

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Nixon Reynolds.

Nixon wouldn’t forget what Rowan did for him, to say the least. The curse had been lifted thanks to the help of his sire, and the vampire didn’t really react well to help in the first place. “Same level, huh? Means we might actually have some sense between the two of us,” he rocked back and forth on his heels, pushing his hands into his pockets, “Nothing. I don’t need anything.” He wasn’t really a vampire who liked to eat things to eat them, and the same went with drinks. It had little effect on him now, anyway. “I guess…water.” He rubbed his neck, looking back out towards the window, “Just…relax with me, Rowan. It’s been a shitty year.”

           In all fairness, Rowan would have been a fool to believe that Nixon would, like himself, indulge in the human pleasures that were food and beverages. It didn't seem much befitting of Nixon's personality to opt for the unnecessary effort that was digesting a meal or a cup of coffee hence, Rowan went for the more secure choice; opening the refrigerator door, the original vampire pulled two of his freshest blood-bags, taken from a nearby hospital not more than two hours prior. He was aware that Nixon was likely more keen on slurping it right from the source but after Rowan's latest incident fetching a hot body for his sister, it would take him long before he felt comfortable feeding off humans once again. "Here, bet you'd prefer this to water." And as he readied himself to go do something else, to offer something else, his thoughts came to a halt. It was like Nixon's words urged him to sit and embrace this very welcome moment... He turned on his heel and found a place beside Nixon, "Shitty year? More like a shitty century." He shot back as he sunk into the cushion.

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Rowan Bordeaux’s favorite locations (1/?)

✈ La Ciudad Amurallada; 

The Walled City of Cartagena, Cartagena de Indias, Colombia.

✈ Kapalıçarşı;

The Grand Bazaar, Instambul, Turkey. 

✈ Bourbon Street

New Orleans, USA.

✈ Buda side of Budapest;

Budapest Historic District, Hungary.

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Shira Rosen.

“Last minute? Yes, maybe. But you’re invited over to mine for Shabbat dinner! Seven o’clock! Text me with any questions, okay? Do you have my number? I just have to run. Got my challah in the oven! You’ll come, right? I’m trying to make it a weekly thing.” Shira pressed a hand to the other’s elbow, smiling hopefully.

          In spite of the lack of need to feed off of actual food, Rowan would never turn down a good meal; yes, only blood was enough to organically satisfy him, to make his organs function and his limbs move, but tastebuds had never stopped working, so Rowan never saw much of a need to stop eating altogether, like most vampires did. Especially if the food being served happened to be free. "Um, sure. I'm all in. Especially if I can be one of your weekly guests... Do you want me to bring anything? Or to go help you with anything?"

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Claire Davenport.

Claire’s anxiety had shot through the roof. She had been up all night reading various texts trying to find anything about the Ouroboros. There has to be some record of them in history whether they went by that name or other. She just needed to clear her head too many thoughts invaded her mind. Not realizing the time she stepped out for some fresh night air.

            As always, Rowan was the last Bordeaux at The Red Cross that night; he would often stay there until it was time to close just for the sake of assuring himself that it looked perfectly pristine before another evening arrived. That was how you stayed at the top of your game, paying attention to every last detail, making sure every corner of the place is clean and organized, taking care of it as though it were your own child... Otherwise, it would eventually turn into another New York City spelunk. Plus, it was a great distraction from the anxiety that usually marred his thoughts during those lonely nocturnal hours. As was getting ready to lock the door, his attention was caught by a scent that had become all too familiar during the past hundreds of years. A scent that only a Davenport could ooze... But Davenports slept. Unlike vampires, werewolves were usually in bed at that hour, much like human beings. So he couldn't help the curiosity that washed over him as he noticed that there was a Davenport roaming the streets of New York alone at that time on a Wednesday night. And instead of taking his usual course, Rowan followed in the direction of the scent, hoping that he would bump into whoever was coming in his direction. "Claire?" He whispered as he finally turned the corner. "Hey... What are you doing out?"

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Elijah Tallis.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? Look, I just asked for something simple. But if you can’t manage that, then I can ask someone else. It’d save both of us the time and the trouble,” the witch said tiredly. Little sleep and an overworked schedule did things to an irritable man. That and he hadn’t exactly had the physical affection he desired in quite some time, which only worsened his mood. “Can you get it for me or not?”

          From what he could hear coming from the opposite side of the bar, The Red Cross' newest bartender wasn't doing so hot on his end. Rowan figured it'd be best if he let Mark take care of their most frequent customers, as his inexperience could certainly drive off the new clientele, but by the looks of it, even their usual ones weren't too happy with the newly turned vampire's performance. "Switch sides with me, will you?" He whispered to the blond, before coming face to face with Elijah. "Sorry, he's new here." Not just at the bar, but also new in town, new to the whole supernatural ordeal... "What can I get you? The usual?" 

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Caroline Bissett.

“Maman!” 

One word and the hundreds of years since Caro had last seen her child disappeared in the blink of an eye. Pulling her sunglasses, Caroline turned, eyes darting to locate the source of the cry. Her ears, attuned to her native tongue picked up the babbling of French. A cute little blonde girl had run to catch up to her mother. Both laughed as the mother extended her hand and caught her daughter’s. 

Caro felt her body tighten, eyes locked on the happy pair. So carefree. So full of life and love. And so sure they were safe in a world that time and again proved that no one was ever really safe. 

“Can we go back to the Disney store?” the little girl begged in flawless French. When the woman answered, Caroline confirmed that they were tourists from France. She wanted to draw nearer, to engage with them, to feel the French tripping off her tongue. They would be delighted–most everyone was when they discovered she spoke their language. And Caro would feel that tingling, the pleasure pain that was so familiar to her. 

They passed so close by Caroline that the little girl’s skirt brushed Caroline’s legs. A quick glance up by the impish figure and Caro’s heart broke anew. 

Snap.

She looked down as the mother and daughter vanished into the crowd. The sunglasses which had been clutched between cold fingers had been snapped in two. 

Caroline cursed inwardly, especially when she felt eyes upon her. She looked up to see someone watching her. The vampire gave them a half smile and a rueful chuckle. “I needed a new pair anyway,” she said, the joviality ringing hollow.

          He hadn't intended to have still been looking at her when she raised her gaze, but his thoughts had been so caught up in the scene that not even his supernatural reflex could not have avoided that awkward encounter of stares. At first, he was just as invested in that mother-daughter interaction as she seemed to be, the melodic sound of jovial French being spoken nearby brought along a myriad of memories that demanded he paid attention to whoever could be emitting such a pleasant sound. But he heard the sound of glass shattering, and his eyes immediately darted away from the pair that ventured out into the concrete jungle that was Manhattan. Had that enraged her? A mother caring for her daughter? Or did that bring along as many memories as it did him? He knew her, he noticed. They had never been formally introduced, but Rowan knew she was a vampire, Camila, or Caroline, he couldn't recall, but he had known of her existence, just as he did of most vampires in New York City, especially the elder ones. After all, it's difficult to go unnoticed when you're a centuries-old, immutable creature that feeds off blood and oozes magical energy.

          After their gazes met, he looked down at the shattered shades in her hand and back at her, as if questioning if everything was all right, brows in a sympathetic arch and eyes narrow in an innocent inquiry. "You okay?" He finally questioned, but to the world, it sounded like "Est-ce que vous allez bien?"

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Cyrus Hayes.

“Just give me a second.” The Basilisk said as he walked past his company without looking at them. He lifted the wash cloth and dried his face for a moment before reaching down and picking up the glasses he’d been wearing with only the slightest bit of tint. He turned, still shirtless, looking at the person with a small grin. He pointed behind them, “Before you start. My shirt is currently hanging right behind you. Would you mind handing it to me? Or moving ever so slightly to the left?”

          The lowering of his gaze and the subsequent peak –– brief as it may have been –– at Cyrus' abdomen was more an instinctive move than anything else it could have been interpreted as. Still, it was quite noticeable when Rowan raised his head so his gaze would be at his companion's eye level and cleared his throat to sound as though he had become distracted by anything but the basilisk's torso. At the request, Rowan turned to pull Cyrus' shirt from the hanger standing behind him, using those few seconds between taking that piece of cloth and letting go of it to dig into his memories and recall the reason he'd gone there in the first place. "Sorry if I caught you at a bad moment." His voice as natural as possible as though he had found himself in parallel situations dozens of times before, which, as a matter of fact, had, only with other people, "I was hoping I could get your help in Stage 4, we've been having some technical issues."

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Nixon Reynolds.

“Are you doing okay?” The question was unusual for someone like Nixon. The vampire had his sire to thank for many things as of late. For keeping his sanity together when all he’d wanted to do was fall apart instead. Rowan had managed to keep him in one piece, surprisingly. Nixon had wanted to tear his hair out, but his sire’s gentle reminder that it wouldn’t grow back had stopped him. Death had been next, but his dramatic flair had passed sooner rather than later. “It’s been a few days, so I figured I’d see if you were still as sane as I am,” he murmured, looking over at the other vampire. Nixon closed the door to Rowan’s apartment, clearing his throat, “Had a rough week?”

          Rough seemed to have been the only types of week fate had been throwing at Rowan for quite a while now. Long days with even longer nights in which lonely hours seemed to spam into eternity... Lonely hours filled with relentless thoughts about his deceased brother and how his life now hung by the thinnest of threads, and long days spent avoiding as many people as he could, as he purposely buried himself deep beneath piles and more piles of work. So, no, Rowan was not, in the least, okay. Still, at that moment, Rowan had to admit he felt better than he had in quite a while, and he had Nixon to thank. Being around people he cared for, brought along a comforting sense of tranquility for he felt that, in their presence, he needn't keep looking over his shoulders every other second. "Well, I guess we can say that. We're probably at the same level of sanity... Not on the verge of pulling out my hair anymore, but I might just do it to someone else's." Pulling himself up from the couch, Rowan started on his way to the kitchen, the same move as he did whenever Gwen, Mal or Isa were around, the only exception was that Nixon still hadn't made the choice of his signature drink, as coffee was Gwen's and beer was Mal's. "What can I get you?"

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Priscila Clarke.

“Oh, don’t be,” upon hearing the man approach Priscilla immediately turned to meet him, the cat in her arms maneuvering for better sight, and still with little struggle despite Pris holding quite firmly onto it so it didn’t spontaneously leap onto other people passing by. “I’m quite honoured actually, that he seems to trust me so,” she smiled, and chuckled lightly at his words. “He’s a funny one for sure… and cats don’t usually do that, no, chasing people around. Not after strangers with no food anyway.” She told him, though in truth she had little experience with cats other than her own. All she knew for sure was that cats do indeed, each have their own unique, often less-enthused personalities, but are no less capable of bonding with men than dogs are. “I mean, I have my own at home and she does become clingy at times, she’s quite hard to read. This little fella too… what’s his name?”

          It was oddly comical how the animal that was supposed to be a living remembrance of his older brother, with its characteristic independence and bluntness, was instead, the opposite; warm and approachable, unlike most of its species. Nevertheless, it still reminded him of Noah, an older version of the same brother he had always know, yes, but still. It was the Noah from his childhood, the one he would play fight against, the one from whom he would seek advice, the to whom he would run when he needed someone to confide in... And somehow, that was even better a reminder than what Rowan had expected. “Well, I guess he must be broken or something.” He quickly shot back jokingly, though not laughing, it was still too early for laughs and smiles and anything of the sort. “His name is Cat. Like Holly Golightly’s... I’m a huge movie nerd.” His voice remained in that lighter tone, perhaps the easiest conversation he’d had these recent times. “Rowan, by the way.”

[rcwanbcrdeaux-blog]

Jade Herrera-Hammer.

Part of Jay knew that if she hadn’t come back to life she would have probably been added to the list of unsolved mysteries that she seemed to love so much. The thought was not lost on her and it was probably why it made her far more passionate. The Shade smiled at the originals comment and she was completely on the same page as she was. Jay liked to cover cold cases, but something like this would have been taken to a more elevated level.  “I like the way you’re talking. I think it would have to be a season, because I could get talking for hours about the underrated or forgotten”

          Presumably unbeknownst to her, Rowan was an occasional listener of her podcast; it entertained him during long subway rides and his daily morning runs in the Central Park. And an entire season devoted to sharing the gory details of history’s most ominous unsolved cases? Now that sounded much too appealing for him not to encourage, and even offer sharing some of his extensive knowledge on the subject of the occult... He had been there, even seen the whole thing up close in some situations. As a matter of fact, he was sure that if he looked hard enough through the endless boxes of documents kept on the attic of the Bordeaux estate, he could even find some records that had never been released to the press — courtesy of his time in the police forces of cities like Paris, Stockholm, Amsterdam, and Chicago. “I can see that going a long way, after that incredible last season,” He said, finally confessing his admiration of her podcast. “You can count on me for help, by the way. Especially on the older cases...”