[ #SANCTIFISOL ] ──────── original interpretation && portrayal of the vampire SERANA VOLKIHAR from bethesda's ELDER SCROLLS franchise. this portrayal is fandom independent && heavily headcanon based , with a focus on religious themes and engaging in horror imagery , taking inspiration from all forms of vampiric media , authors including but not limited to plath , woolf , dostoevsky , brontë , and shakespeare , as well as musical artists such as hozier , florence & the machine , sleep token , and ethel cain [ . . . ] crossovers are preferred & no knowledge of elder scrolls is needed to interact [ . . . ] loved by ouija , est 2018 , 21+ , she/her. rules/credit beneath the cut.
✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇʀᴀɴᴀ ᴇxᴘʟᴏʀᴇꜱ ,.., sacrificial lambs raised for the slaughter , girlhood + beasthood , god loves you but not enough to save you , familial obligations carved in blood , strangled by the threads of prophecy , love is devouring , a kiss is the beginning of cannibalism
[ #LAVORRIRE ] ──────── private && low activity JESTER LAVORRE from the show && campaign the mighty nein. this portrayal is fandom independent && heavily headcanon based [ . . . ] crossovers are encouraged [ . . . ] loved by ouija , est 2026 , 21+ , she/her. ( BLOG CURRENTLY WIP )
And that's the reality of it, isn't it? She isn't just laid here to be worshipped. She isn't just writhing in her pleasure and discovering its shapes. Within her throat, all its vowels would rest peculiar, the great heaviness in their middle as though a baffling tongue, and it must bewilder her, surely, to haven't time to grasp its letters--! And yet, with every passing of his mouth, she sings it sweet. So, listen! rings the chancel. And listen closely, you willing servant, like a mouse of the church! How she would carol like the choir as though that cantor in the middle dappled white as snow, and how she would have you, it'd tell her, possessing you so fully like those harvesting moons. Yes, she has long fed you, dear knightling, till swelling upon the road where your heart with its valleys grew fat with love, and alas, she isn't laid here caught singing just to crumble at your mercy, but indeed..!
She will take you. And have you. And have you till spent. Listen to you, it tells him. Your whines deafen hers.
God! I am, ma'am! At your mercy, dear Lord! Yes, yes! Please! Forever, ever yours! He has served his dove, hasn't he now, with that great shimmering of his longsword and that bold bravery he would boast like a banner-clad wolf? He means to sing her with everything, with every tongue-swipe of a gospel be it Gregorian in its nature or perhaps slithering Byzantine. She will claim them all tonight, both the headiness of his worship and the flavor of a faith made whole and gentler. No, she has never felt such devotion so thusly, so saccharine in its palette as he tilts right his head and hungers for her taste. It had ever been her role as the lambling, to lay portioned out in cuts for the greed of the world, but he will lap her back together, suckling where she's trembling like a fault in the earth. Lap at her. His heart, his blood, and his service for her...! Body hot, he grounds into the floor. Fuck. "And what if I don't want that?" he asks dumbly. Have I been good, Lord Almighty? Am I had? Am I yours? He growls. "I'm not needing your mercy. I'm needing what you'll offer me." Till I'm begging! Till I'm howling! I can handle it. Need.
Oh, fuck. Seranka, Seranka! How she's singing, Seranka! Parting her with his fingers, his nose presses into her hairs as he tongues with greed at her spill.
Good. Yes. "Seranka--" He's breathless. His world's throbbing. Desire....! Eyes wobbly, he looks up at her, his mouth slick, lips red, and that sweet begging she let slip caught low in the ceiling. When she kisses him, he would lean bodily up against her, his arousal dragged incessant in his need at the soft of her thighs. Like this, Henry figures he can tumble off the precipice, made but nothing but a boy in his very first fumbling, and but a beast, he ought to feel just a more more pathetic, his body trembling to her touch as she laps at her flavor, but alas, what shame has he now and what shame had he ever? Daring a glance, that glow on her skin nearly makes him whine. Yes. Like the Madonna, he's imagining. You...! Oh, stars, so giving and so pure like a mercy to behold. Lord, and how she would grant that mercy, allowing him such kindness when he had begged mistreatment. On his feet, she guides them leisurely to the bed, his back surrendering to the sheets and the pressing of the hay laid well-packed beneath it. There, he looks up at her, down at her, and down as she teethes him. He gasps. He's hard, dizzyingly hot, and ears burning, mortifies slightly to the damp in his braies.
"I..." He swallows. "I shouldn't, ma'am." I should. "I couldn't." I must. I want! "They aren't for the listening." But Christ, he can imagine it, can't he now, how the earth would split like bone and swallow him greedy? After all, it isn't hefty, unfortunately, that river-line of worship and hungering profanity. Once spilled, she'd have every right to strike him humbled, the greed of this lambling who would dizzy for more, but drunk with it, he allows her to wrest of his shirt, his skin tight, too hot, and his musing twice-mad. it is like this: he thinks not of the earth as it cants in its swallowing but -- he's slack jawed. She lips. Drags teeth. And he thinks of her mouth. "It isn't proper, ma'am," he's babbling, "to starting saying how I want you. How I've been meaning to treat you like I think you deserve." Oh? "How I think about you letting me sink into you, you having me until I'm just about shaking with it. And I'll--" he's dying! "--give it you, won't I? Give you everything, ma'am. You'll let me spoil you until I beg with it, then have you again."
He's too impatient. Henry squirms underneath her. Dragging his hand down, he slips his fingers beneath the curl of his braies and the hair underneath. Dazed, he looks at her feverishly, the blue of his eyes gone whittling into the ring of the most infinitesimal blue. Desperate, he grabs at the root of him, pulsing, writhing, and hiccupping up that drag tightly to his hip. He groans. So good, he gives out a touch, bowled by the press of her skin and her gaze. He falls down -- down, down, weak, down flat from his elbows. He thumb at his slit and nearly croaks. Oh, sweet girl, take pity on or punish the fool both...! " Every night, god dammit, I want you. I think about it when you're out there, when I've only a moment to myself. Do it when I've ought to be praying? And maybe I am. Kristepane, Seranka! I get desperate with it. You drive me mad."
need. he needs you. when has anyone ever needed you. wanted you. every part of you. and not just needs it. craves it. oh how he craves it. and you do too. the thought settles deep , roots itself somewhere tender and long-neglected. not want ── not passing indulgence or idle fascination ── but desire. this desperate pining that itches beneath the skin and begs to be clawed free. she could feel it in every molecule between them , see it in his eyes as he peers down at her with unwavering heat , can feel it in the way his body pulses and twitches beneath her skin. he was looking for a place to worship. a place to return to. a place to kneel. and she . . . oh she had asked so little of him , hadn't she ?? no need for gilded offerings , no need for coin , no grand sacrifices. only his time. only his presence. and how willingly he had given his devotion , his tithe , offered freely , even eagerly as if it were never a burden to begin with.
" is that what you want ?? to give it to me ?? " she dips down , working off the braies , dragging her tongue along the throbbing of his femoral. and with a claw , just the barest scratch so that a bead of blood wells at the inside of his thigh. oh please , please !! henry. let her have a taste. while your heart is thump thump thumping in her old language with so much lust and vigor. let it take her , just for a moment , somewhere else where every nerve every blood vessel lights up and hums. to feel what it is to have her skin soaking with such warmth , such living urgency ── to feel it hum beneath her hands , within her mouth. let her have a taste of your decadent sunshine. let her moan against the heat of your skin. and when her eyes peel open in time to see the way he grabs at himself , she couldn't help it. maybe his blood in her mouth made her do it , his own essence guiding her back to him. her hand curls over his own to give him a couple slow and lazy pumps , eyes flitting upwards so she could watch how he reacted. learning him. listening closely just as he had for her. languishing in the whimpers and moans he sang. that was good , wasn't it ?? searching , touching , tasting wherever she could until from him she drew the same sounds and choirs he'd lapped up from her.
" poor thing , have i tortured you so ?? " hums a kiss. " how ever could i make it up to you ?? for all of the pain and suffering of your longing ?? " there'd be no rush. if he could feel what he'd just made her feel , then it should last as long as possible , right ?? he deserves it most out of anyone she's known and it roots inside of her this need to have him in euphoric bliss like he'd just had her. her tongue passes wetly again to sup from him another bead of blood. against his skin she groans , " i'd like to feel that. to feel you. to let you have me. "
just as he needed , she did too.
but not like this. she needed more. this pit that bloomed in her stomach pulsed a decadent hymn and serana knew this wasn't going to satiate it. it wouldn't go away and even could come back stronger and hungrier on a later day if they decided to end this now. she was in her right mind , yes. he was hers entirely. just as she was his. nothing made more sense to her than to fit themselves together in grace. before he's able to complete , she ascends , and the head of him is kissed. then his knuckles used to grip. hips. stomach. savoring his taste. up his sternum and chest she drags her tongue. " můj rytíř. . . " mouths against the column of his throat.
finally she's hovering above him , palms supporting some of her weight on the broad of his chest as though she'd start floating away if she didn't. nothing less an angel with a crimson gaze so reverent you'd think she was the one worshipping. kisses him. she wants this , it's decided. yes , she wants him. she's desperate to have him. hungry in the need to reclaim what had been so brutally taken from her. to understand how it was meant to feel ── without fear , without pain , without any shadow of what came before. this was sacred , this trust. and she wanted that blessing with him. oh with him. " you've been so good , henry. you've taken such good care of me. " slowly , so slowly , she begins to sink onto him. struggles clumsily. doesn't a novice at any new task ?? embarrassing !! but with their efforts yes , she slips down on top of him , pressing herself skin to skin as she acclimates with a most satisfied purr.
also i've always imagined serana being "stuck" at home very akin to jester in critical role (yeah yeah insert your laura bailey female character bs here) where she wasn't just confined to the castle but was expected to stay close. or if she did go anywhere it was in the presence of her parents (winterhold with her mother as an example) and she does have very similar reactions to having this freedom like jester as well, just a bit more reserved. meaning, it's so clear that she gets caught up in what she's seeing and experiencing because she's had little exposure otherwise. and like jester, she has a tendency to romanticize things that play out similarly to books she's read, it's just internalized more often than not. here's some examples from her dialogue:
"Wow. Look at this place. No one's been here in centuries. I doubt there's any other place like it in Skyrim. It's beautiful."
"It's not like anything else in Skyrim, I can tell you that much. From now or... before. There's probably groves like this all over Tamriel. Most people just don't even know what to look for."
"This is incredible. It's like a whole other world."
"This is the kind of thing I've been wanting to see. Makes everything else worth it."
"That... has to be the place. I've never seen a building like that before. It looks like some kind of temple. Are you seeing this? It's fantastic!"
"I'd read stories about the Solitude windmill, but I didn't expect it to be that big!"
"From the castle, you used to just be able to see Solitude over the mountains. It's exactly what I imagined."
"They used to call Windhelm, "the City of Kings." In my books, anyway."
"I've never seen leaves this color."
"I was always taught to avoid these types of ruins. I think I see why, now."
"Oh wow. This is gorgeous. I'm glad you're here with me."
it's impossible to stop the way her eyes light up at the question. " oh !! well their selection seemed a bit limited. . . " is that embarrassment ?? regardless , she fans the tomes out for @archaeval to take a look and make her choice. " . . . but i found an original printing of chimarvamidium and this one here is death & divinity. " by balancing the aforementioned two , she twists the third back and forth to try and find its worn title. " i thought this one just looked interesting. have you heard of it before ?? "
Yes. He doesn't think to correct her. The man she had known... Aye, he would have kept dearly to his masters like his very own name.
Much like the hammer of thunder, its punch electric and all-too sobering -- frazzling, too, his eyes widening as a great fear finds his belly -- something starts as though fire in the blues of his eyes. Before her, she would notice but a phantom, a ghost a of a memory from bygone year. And goodness, he would seem but a terrible thing, wouldn't he?, as to so provoke in her a venom to make his coil seize? Yes, how he nearly reaches for his longsword, but the instinct of a man who has long lived danger, like -- like she in her error might leave him as a corpse-thing. Or drain him. And finally, with his flavor, know he's real.
She drags him out. When a drunken man laughs, his cuirass bangs against the mortar.
Fuck. He tastes the mineral. "And what master would steal mine?" he wheezes out, his body warring between surrender and an animal thrashing. He's mad. That he slowly lets his muscles dare to grow slack... Dear lord, she has felled him like a lamb in but some few wheezing seconds. "Is that what I am to those men who would have you, ma'am? A sore to go and pick at as to make you bow that head of yours? Tremble in them noble knees?" What a thought. He had feared this. He had promised, promised to return to her, and to know see in violent bursts the way his absence had worn her-- "Is that what I am to you now? Have you strength still to even say my name, or have they gotten your tongue, too?"
it should've been his cruor that convinced her. rest assured that a single drop ── just one ── against her tongue would have been enough. enough to stir her from even the deepest , death-bound sleep. enough to silence doubt , to anchor memory , to say this is real , he is real , in a way nothing else could.
and yet ──
" yes he is [ . . . ] because they know that which pains me most. they know how my eyes could never look away from the door he should've walked through. they know whose face to take because it was fading away from my memory. " the words fracture as they leave her , something splintering mid-thought. desperate to deny what she wants to believe. because if henry was alive . . . if this was him . . . then that meant . . .
" they must've sent you and given you that face because the man who you are a ghost of would've never abandoned me and he was supposed ── !! " she shoves him back against the mortar as the realization settles in. " ── to come ── !! " again. each word breaking sharper than the last. " ── back ── !! " a banshees shriek rips itself free from her throat as she paces away before she could do any more damage. her hood falling back. " he promised !! " another wail , the vampire twists to face this ghost , crimson eyes glinting against the moonlight. a step is taken towards him. " he promised me !! " still she yells but it's noticeably weaker. a streak of red carves her cheek. " no i'm not saying your name because you are not him. " each word hits its timpani skin. punctuated. " you can't be. he would have rather died than abandon me without so much as a letter to tell me he wasn't dead. he was as tied to me as the sun is the moon , where i went he followed. " she trembles, her arms fold in , clasping to each other to keep her from falling apart as she heavily leans against the opposite wall. it hurts , how it hurts !!
a thread where your muse happens upon a bat thats injured and tired and they nurse it back to health and oop. . . why did they come back home one day to find a pretty lady there 🙂↕️
Something has changed. It’s microbial. The baldachin may be an eyelash higher. The candles may be an egg yolk redder. Nicholas thinks there’s a pinch of sugar in the vinaigrette air, and tucked in a wall is Raphael’s Altar of Transfiguration, imperceptibly more highlighter-Vegas-neon. Christ is looking right, not left.
Purgatory’s walls shimmer, the paintings peach-blushing as a statue smiles. She’s seducing.
“I’m so much like Her,” Nicholas says now. He holds out his hand. ”Nothing is enough.”
Serana offers him what he doesn’t want. Her dress drags behind her the way death follows the British Empire.
Tchaikovsky swells. Nicholas takes the bag. The apse glows in Buddhist robe golds, throwing miniature solar systems into her eyes.
“But She will never say no. Not to you.” His voice echoes and it doesn’t. He barely smiles. “Not if you like it here, and not if you want Her,” he says. “Serana, I think She wants you.”
that was new. not being told no. not being denied something whether big or small but instead encouraged. however predatory it may be. serana has never needed much to be led ;; give her a kindness , a small allowance , and she feels the pull of it too easily. prey to it , perhaps , but willingly so. it didn't and wouldn't matter to her if beneath the opulent veneer lay vile and twisted guts feeding off of her own personhood. someone [ . . . ] something [ . . . ] it was cradling her , wasn't it ??
her hands , now freed of their earlier task and burden , fall back to fold neatly in front of her. " nicholas , " she starts , quieter now , curiosity threading through the edges of her voice , " why don't you like it here ?? " there's a slight tilt of her head that follows , she's studying him , noting the flecks in his blues. " it isn't beautiful to you ?? " she presses , then after a beat , and softer still , " or does it [ . . . ] present differently in your eyes ?? " the question lingers between them , more thoughtful than anything challenging. perhaps she should care more for the mortal perspective ──── for the way they moved through the world , what they saw in it , what they rejected , all of that which held weight in their souls ──── but time has sanded down her empathy for strangers. if souls were what it wanted and if souls were what taught her the deeper magic of undeath , then so be it in her eyes.
He has scarcely felt a man to be so drearily parasitic. Fucking Christ, like some suppurate leech. And God knows the brute's his haberdashery of enemies, naturally, all scampering at the bit to wear his fists and bruise, but this skin-shivering leer and that thump in those footstep? Henry rankles. Like a damned dog, his hairs stand, their prickling like some coyote's hackles past the sleeves of his coat.
Fuck. Refusing to look, he bets pa would wear his blood like a pricey rouge.
"Fine. Yeah. Right," he answers. "I'm just -- I'm going to ask you to call me, alright?" He's hopeful. From his wallet, he fishes out a card with his shop's name and phone. Goodness. Perhaps he really, so impossibly worries, his care sat tenderer in its middle as to give like a cake. After all, he isn't one of dad's...oil-slicked companions or those servers starved of money eating ramen for lunch. Somewhere, she's his sweater in her luggage, its cologne of lingering peppercorn mingled with his stews, and it's those top-notes of freedom with a warm base of safety. Genuine. And in the middle, the laughter they'd took to as they'd fought about films. And, sure, perhaps she's lamenting its ending, thinking that'd perhaps just tasted what's real to now suddenly lose it, but this creature made of sass and insatiable love?! Him, too! It'd felt...full with her, hadn't it? She touches him, and a man comes.
Hal blinks. Garan, he's thinking. Eyeing him carefully, he's not certain if he trusts him.
"...that's right." A way out from the lion, ey? He looks to Serana. Back again. It's instinct, him shuffling to guard her back where her father's near. "Serana's said she hasn't gotten the chance to see them gardens here yet--" his posture's straight "--and might have been a little too caught up with working and such." A choice phrase. In truth, he's betting she can't go anywhere if she isn't there working! There's silence. Tense, he can practically hear these doors trying to shut. "So, I'd told her I'd take her and show her the grounds if that's what she likes." Anyway... "Not going to be a problem, is it?" He feels dad's gaze. Bastard...! Then, to Garan: "I'd guessed she wouldn't need to ask for permission. Got flowers that only wake up in the night."
Look at her! Henry does. A grown fucking woman! (The father clock thunks like shackles. Come, come hither!) "Fine to do something for ourselves every now and then, isn't it?" When has she ever?
silence sinks its teeth in while the advisor waits without a trace of impatience as henry works through his explanation , his gaze steady on the man with the steady attention of someone long accustomed to letting others speak themselves into clarity. off in the distance , vingalmo had started to usher the patriarch away. the maneuver is subtle and carefully done , as though the elder vampire were simply being redirected into another conversation rather than removed outright. successfully. for now. " is that so ?? " garan muses. " how fortunate , then , considering our serana’s propensity for nature. goodness , i remember the garden you kept with your mother , back across the waters. maybe you'll gain some inspiration and grace us with a new one. " he looks to her. something passing between them before serana's eyes flicker down despite the ghost of a smile. garan's next words keep low between the trio. " hm. i don't think there is a problem , so long as my lady would like to attend. "
it didn't matter to him if the patriarch could hear or not. a leash she may have , but it had length to it. garan was the only one outside of valerica to remind harkon of that. he was the only one wiling to risk the proverbial whiplash for letting the lead run to its full range
she hadn't realized the subconscious way she'd stepped back. only when the quiet warmth of henry seeps faintly through the thin barrier of her dress does she become aware of it ── the strength of his presence at her back, solid and grounding in a way she hadn’t expected. enough to stand in her convictions. " i would. " simple. direct. and again , garan bows his head. " there , that wasn't so hard , was it ?? " why wouldn't she ?? in this home of claustrophobia , no better than it's own coffin , henry stands there as her beacon. drawn to life not just because he's living , but because he had heart to share. serana was no part of her father , but that greed had her salivating at the beating muscle and all it promised.
it's with a quick glance over her shoulder to see that the shadow of her father was still well preoccupied and an even quicker bow of thanks to the chancellor for his help , that serana holds tight to henry's arm and hurriedly leads him out the door of the foyer to the elevator that would eventually spit them out on the streets below. " honestly , henry , what were you thinking biting at his bait like that ?? we were lucky garan came in when he did. " likely due to hearing the clamor of raised voices that was quite uncommon in their building.
❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜
˚࿐ SPARE MEMES FOR THE HUNGRY WITCHER. ㅤ⸝⸝ㅤ 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽.
❝ if you'd had it under control, i wouldn't have had to put down more than five men. ❞ and the witcher had counted at least eight men, not counting the three others serana had found herself surrounded by. while geralt hadn't intended on undermining the single-handedness of her efforts, his discovry of her whereabouts had been timed too fortunate for the circumstances at hand.
his gaze sweeps the bloody scene between them. over a dozen men slaughtered. several stormcloaks in their muted blue-grey uniform, and all the rest of undetermined origin. geralt doesn't care what they were. he only cares to tap away a few burnt torches with his boot, likely meant to ignite the threatening vampire. even the thought makes him blow a breath through his nose. while she's perfectly capable, geralt hardly thinks she looks like a threat.
❝ didn't want to see you killed. which it seemed like they were close to doing. ❞ even if they weren't, geralt wouldn't stand idly by to let her fight alone. ❝ you all right ? not too hurt to go on, are you ? ❞
her face twists. lips opening then closing. eyes squinting. quip ready to stab but it's sheathed. for now. " i could've ran away if it felt like too much , " is grumbled in defeat. arms cross as she nudges a quilted blue body ripening the air with the metallic perfume of his crimson. they weren't supposed to have seen her. passing through as if she were nothing more than a shadow had been innate to her as breathing had once been. one moment she was but mist in the air , the next , frightening out of that state by the sudden rumbling of a dragon taking off in the distance.
the rest he'd happened upon.
" i'd say they would've made your job easier , but i know better by now. " his. not others. serana wasn't ready to linger on the thought of what could've happened had the witcher been any other. namely , she wasn't ready because of the pain throbbing at her side. his appearance had distracted her , allowing for an axe to eat beneath her ribs. through a sudden wince , her fingers find the wound , " i can go on. should stitch myself together in a few hours. "
for twenty minutes he stares up at the ceiling, oscillating his gaze between the same three or four blemishes in the brick above. mostafa's space is usually so barren: excessively spartan. basil had humorously called him an anchorite in youth, once. nothing in overindulgence, everything minimal and clean. usually. these days everything appears as disorderly as his head feels.
[vampire] - Revisionist fanfiction.
[vampire] - Misconstrues physical beauty for moral complexity.
[vampire] - Where are you?
ultimately he was always drawn back to his faith in its most severe and uncompromising expression. true belief could not exist untested, vulnerable as it remained to contradiction and paradox. this crassness has nothing to do with milton and everything to do with danger of his ideas. contradiction — they both know how he felt about dante.
minutes later and he's sluggishly leaning up against his studio's kitchen counter, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. the dog stares at him, bored and he considers her fondness for mocking. thirty seconds drag by, predictably he's calling serana volkihar's phone.
maybe it was the fact that he presented as so particularly ascetic that had serana poking the boar so much in twisted glee. his texts weren't unexpected. they'd sat for hours together dissecting each book of the divine comedy to make their opposing points. did it's straying from strict theology make it any less of a piece of art and important literature ?? if it brought people into faith , was it worthless ??
[🙏🏻 my spiritual advisor🙏🏻] - or a story demonstrating man's failure is inevitable. out of his control.
[🙏🏻 my spiritual advisor🙏🏻] - free will was a gift doomed from the start.
he asks where she is. she pauses. deletes. considers. the plan tonight had been simple enough ;; sate the quiet itch for company by being present somewhere public while remaining entirely removed from it. her usual wallflowering. linger near the edges , watch the room unfold , slip away when the noise grew tiresome. but why else would she have texted him if not out of a want for his attention ?? she's about to share her location when the cell pulses to a hearts beat and she grins while answering with a coy , " who's this ?? " despite the phone worked it's magic to reduce as much noise in the club as it could , the bass thumping still bled through.
❝ No losers, got it. ❞ Adella sighs into the mic, twisting her fingers 'round the cordline as though it were her lover's own lock of hair; that is, rather violently, without mercy, and brutishly coy. A sour gummy is caught between her lips, and her words sounds slurred as she sucks the crystals off them. ❝ But you know how difficult that'll be for me, right? Contrary to popular belief, I like them most when they're broke and pathetic. As long as my primary source of income comes from a very fat pocket, anyway. ❞ Like her's? ❝ Like yours. ❞
the crescent of the phone cradles to serana's shoulder as she fingers through some plastic cd cases while she purrs , " oh is that right ?? like mine ?? " her victim is chosen , the disc is snapped into the player and a satisfying 'click' starts o'riordan's keening. " i thought you liked me for my winning personality and bewitching eyes , sweet adella. " outside the rain patters against the city loft apartment , promising a gloomy spring. with beautiful blooms to come , she hopes. " i think you mean my father's pocket , but who really cares. listen , you can have all of the broke and pathetic ones once we make it to germany. "
A guardian angel. Fucking Christ. Is that what, after all these long and uncertain years, these ages in obscurity and shadow, he, this looming wraith, had come to her as? Had he but known, it might have but broken him a little, might have but swelled in him a granule of a treacherous hope. Indeed, he has been half a demon for forever, for perhaps the length of too-long winters that have dragged for an age. By the lord, he's forgotten how it feels like to be protector, to stand dutifully and proudly as a shield and a blade, but here, he is more creature than a hero, more a scoundrel with his body that would ache with the rain! Fuck. He is older than he had been, is greyer in his temples and harder in his eyes, and in the flicker of the glower of the crackling lanterns, she--
She, dear Serana, is just the same.
But she isn't, is she? Henry swallows. Her dagger tickles the bob sat hard in his throat, the closest to a bloody kiss he has had in months with any damned sincerity. When he licks his lips, he even believes he can scantly taste it, the count of the hemorrhage she has spilled from what hunters might hound her. Secretly, it is then that something wicked claws viciously up his belly, something...proud and mangled and utterly possessive. He longs for it. He longs for it again to serve and serve proper. She has been wandering alone, so free and so sure and so robbed of a leash, and never in the night has she struck him so handsome. So mighty! he sucks a breath. It's been a decade, and she's changed where it matters.
He cants his head. An offering. But brave, his voice familiar--
"And what would be their quality of character, ma'am, to take my lead?"
(Just as he's changed. War had ate him.) "Am I not worth striking then?" A stray?
" yes. " and familiar. so familiar. those eyes , those eyes , those eyes !! they were stolen by some magic to let her guard down. but she's stubborn isn't she ?? always has been. and that word spits out with a venom aged in a loss that had almost broken spirit. because he couldn't be here. it was a dream. a figment born from loneliness and a desire to be known. to be chosen. to be seen in a world that closed it's eyes to her. it had to have been. because she'd been promised. told that he'd come back once his duties were complete. " a master who steals faces to give to their pawns. "
the door had stood empty for a decade. and the certainty of her memories had shattered in that time.
there were too many eyes in here. too many loose lips who were more than happy to gossip about the strangers fighting wielding a dagger while they'd enjoyed a lukewarm ale. with her free hand , serana wrests his arm and drags him out the door , down the narrow alley beyond. only once the walls close in around them does she stop. the shove comes quick and decisive , forcing him back against the rough brick. " keep avoiding my question and i'll cut out that tongue of yours. who sent you ?? " who is threatening her family ??
sure she is. the blood slicking between her fingers , the bodies strewn about like discarded offerings at their feet , well it doesn't lend any credibility to the claim. still , the vampire obliges. dips her head , something like sage understanding passing across her features for someone who doesn't wish to be touched , and steps back. the cleric would know better. who was she to presume she ought to intervene , to tend wounds meant for other hands ?? " you just looked like you were in pain. " so instead , at the very least , she offers what she can. a strip of cloth torn from the hem of her cloak , already frayed , already sacrificed once , and presses it into @archaeval’s hand. anything to staunch the bleeding.
𝑹𝑼𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑲𝑬𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑷 𝑶𝑭 𝑭𝑨𝑩𝑹𝑰𝑪 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑼𝑪𝑻𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬, stiffening at the brush of Serana's hand against hers, however brief, and retreats from the center of the carnage to somewhere slightly less bloody. Already, the telltale itch of healing has crept under her skin, wounds slowly starting to knit themselves together without any aid. Ruby holds herself stiffly to stifle any trembling as she dutifully wraps the fabric around one hand in a show of good faith. "I am always in pain, my dear. Only rarely is its source so obvious. You need not worry over something so trivial as that." A pause, as she scans Serana. "Are you at all injured yourself?"
well that was new. she wasn’t accustomed to being called dear by anyone beyond the bounds of her own coven ;; and even then the word often came barbed , dipped in quiet condescension. yet this time she did not catch that edge. no sneer hid beneath it. no soft mockery. serana blinks. a quiet breath leaves her nose , and with it a small , reluctant smile as she gives a faint shake of her head. " nothing that won't mend in a few hours. " there was that much to be thankful for. their kind endured many indignities , but pain ── most of it , at least ── rarely lingered long enough to become anything more than an inconvenience. they at least had that in common , not that serana could tell. her head tilts. " why are you in pain so often ?? if you don't mind my asking. "
