SANGUINEOUS.

[sanguineos]

𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖔𝖘 is a dependent multimuse blog written by 𝖗𝖔𝖍𝖆𝖓 for 𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖙𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖘, featuring ;

𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑. ━━ higher vampire. 47 (354). owner of passiflora.

introduction ; appearance ; threads ; pinterest

𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍. ━━ human. 35. blacksmith.

introduction ; appearance ; threads ; pinterest

[gutterlight]

A faint crease appeared between Danica's brows. There it was. The same answer she heard from fishermen with infected hands, from grandmothers who refused to sit down, from mothers who had not slept properly in months. Someone else needs it more. The waterskin remained exactly where it was.

"You say that very quickly." There was no accusation in her voice, only gentle observation. The smile that followed softened the words. "Fortunately, there is enough water in Novigrad for both you and everyone else." Her gaze drifted briefly toward the half-finished shrine. Beautiful work. Made by hands that cared, Danica thought.

"I am a healer." Not doctor. Healer felt closer to the truth. "And no, I don't need help." A pause. "Though I suspect you do." The corner of her mouth twitched. "Drink first. Then you may tell me how long you've been standing in the sun pretending you're indestructible."

[sanguineos]

His smile spread, bright and grateful, lighting up his eyes at the healer's insistence. She reminded him of the other servants from the palace in his childhood, vowing to help each other when so many others would not. Perhaps she was like him, perhaps she was trying to help the people of this city, perhaps she could be of help to the cause he had allied himself with... No, he mustn't get carried away. Gods, the burden of secrecy weighed heavy on his loose, trusting lips.

Now taking the waterskin, Felix took a reserved sip, enough to please her without leaving others wanting. "Thank you." He said, truly grateful. She was the first person he had met in this city so far who hadn't asked for something in return. Not that it mattered, of course, because he had already offered his services anyway. "I'm Felix, by the way. I work at the forge. If you ever need anything fixed, or something to protect yourself, I won't forget your kindness." A gesture never went unnoticed by him.

He laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I admit I lost track of time. I've been trying to get this right." He gestured to the shrine. He had been so caught up in it all day, but now that she was here his mind was reeling. A new person could mean new information. Felix had almost explicitly been asked not to actively get involved, but here he was. "So is there much... healing for you, here? In the city?" The question was posed as stupidly as it was worded. Smooth he was not, even if his heart was in the right place.

[the-heart-eater]

Not for her. Not again.

The words dragged Damian's lips into a snarl. Starving hound that he was, forever poised to sink his teeth into someone's throat. In an instant, the armchair was forgotten. He surged forward, invading Dorian's space, his hand found a fistful of dark curls and yanked Dorian's head back, the strands winding around his knuckles.

A familiar position. Intimate, once, although now it was poisoned by the bitterness festering between them.

Friend or foe? Even Damian could no longer tell.

"I should rip your jaw from its hinges for daring to speak of her," Damian hissed. His free hand drummed against the armrest beside Dorian’s head, a headsman’s fingers upon an axe haft.

"Or perhaps I should burn this place to the ground. Hm?" His eyes flicked across the room; how fast would fire lick up the vines, swallowing Passiflora into the ground? "Let's see how long your precious petals survive when the flames come for them."

Immortality did strange things to the heart. Damian loved Dorian as fiercely as he hated him, trusted him as much as he feared him. The savior and the headsman, the blade and the altar upon which it fell. Had another man stood where Dorian sat, Damian might have broken his neck for less. Hell, he had doomed his own bloodline to death and ash, but never Dorian. That, at least, he lacked the cruelty to do. In some bitter corner of his soul, Damian knew he would mourn him long after kingdoms had crumbled into dust.

"Or maybe," he mused, his grip loosening, fingers smoothing absentmindedly through the disheveled curls he'd just ruined, "I should drink from you. Like old times."

A humorless grin tugged at his mouth.

“There are many roads a man may take.”

The smile vanished as quickly as it came.

Heavens, but he was weary.

"A thief walks into a crypt," Damian began, clicking his tongue as though spinning a bedtime tale for a child. "A crypt sealed from the inside by fire and sorcery."

Every monster in every story had come from somewhere. Humanity invented nightmares to survive the real horrors lurking in the dark.

"If the thief crossed that threshold, then some magic invited them in."

How could he trust a witcher? A mage? How could he trust any of them after Amala? And if they discovered what the necklace truly was, how long before they tried to collar him again? How long before some lord, some king, some fool with a crown decided he should kill at their command? Amala was kinder than most masters, that was true, yet a gilded chain remains a chain.

"What happens when a Witcher learns the truth?" Damian murmured. "How long before I become their next blade?"

He planted both hands on the armrests, boxing Dorian in, his words fell little louder than a whisper.

“From the cradle to the grave, every soul in this town knows your name. I can feel the necklace still, lurking somewhere near. Tell me, then… how does a thief flee with a ruby worth a kingdom beneath the eyes and ears of all mighty Salazar?”

Dorian ought to know. If not him, who?

“Either your garden has grown blind, or someone welcomed the wolf through the gate.”

[sanguineos]

Dorian didn't so much as blink when Damian surged towards him, if anything it lit a fire in the darkness of his eyes from the embers that always burnt in him. A desire to push people, to see what they would do, to outlive the consequences. True that Damian was one of the few that could actually end his life, but he didn't consider that was even a possibility. He'd had that chance enough times and still, Dorian remained. Despite the way they tortured each other, there was a trust that ran so deep it could not be questioned.

"Daring to speak of her?" A dark chuckle left him, his nostrils flaring as his head tilted back with the force of Damian's grip. "After everything she dared to do? I have never hidden my feelings of her from you, and I wouldn't do so now. Just because the truth falls on your deaf ears, it does not mean it is not the truth." As calm and collected as Dorian was, Damian's threat of burning his home down did force a flash of anger across his features. He held his tongue, letting the other enter this spiral he seemed to be caught up in, giving him the benefit of the doubt considering the state he was in. A luxury Dorian didn't offer many.

His expression cooled as Damian loosened his grip, the need for either of them to take their true form dwindling. It was always like this between the two vampires, bordering on tearing each other's throat out while also being the hands that offered to hold them. "You chose a life of servitude. Should it be her or another that holds the reins, I see no difference." He said flippantly, knowing that the issue was far more serious. Frankly he was irritated, and he liked to provoke when he felt in such a mood.

"I would like to clarify, if I may." Dorian began, pressing his fingertips together, looking up at Damian as if he were a lover rather than an adversary even as he towered over him and caged him. His eyes and posture may have been soft, but his tone was sharp. "You came here, pathetic and dishevelled, to seek my help. Then, you threatened my house and my Flowers, and now you insinuate that I have had some part to play in your misfortunate life." He let the words hang, his jaw visibly tightening. "You think you have control over the fire, but it appears the years have blurred the lines and now it has a hold of you. How do I know you are not already in league with someone, this 'thief' of yours, and come to me to gain information? Power?"

He leaned closer now, a wolf bearing its teeth to another in a primal display of dominance, even as he smiled. "Sit. I will find you someone to drink. But you are in my house, you are at my feet, and you will behave yourself. Won't you darling?"

[forgctmenct]

Savya decided it would be the best way to spend her time by patrolling the streets. She couldn’t sleep; and plenty of unsavory creatures and folk tended to come out after the sun went down. A bell tolled in the backdrop and she glanced up before continuing on her stroll down Novigrad. Most people were asleep. Sometimes she envied humans for that. One of the few things humans had going she could be jealous of.

Suddenly, she heard a noise behind her. Someone trying to get her attention? It could be a mimic. Carefully, she drew out her sword and spun around, holding it out. After a moment, she greeted them back. “Hello,” she watched the human, before slowly sheathing her sword back in its place. “Did you need something?” she asked, brow raised, not yet noticing the purse of coin he was holding in his palm.

[sanguineos]

Felix slowed as the figure turned, a foolish smile starting to shape his features, but the sudden flash of steel catching the moonlight from her drawn sword had him halt completely. His hands flew up in surrender immediately, the purse still gripped in one hand and the fingers of his other splayed. He was no threat, that much was obvious.

His gaze shifted from the sharp point of the sword in front of him to the face of the person wielding it, and immediately he noted their eyes. A Witcher. They could not hide so easily as mages, and he had yet to meet one that actually accepted any help from him. But, if there was one thing he knew about Witchers, it was that they could usually be swayed with coin. So he gave a soft jingle of the coin purse, as if he were trying to distract a predator about to pounce. "I found this, over there." He cleared his throat, his voice seeming to squeak a little higher under the threat of her blade. "I thought it might be yours."

[starpale]

Glancing in Felix's direction, Olwen couldn't help the small smile that spread across their lips. He seemed perpetually full of optimism and always willing to share it. On almost anyone else it would come across as foolish, but he somehow managed to exude hope with such earnestness that it became contagious. Even Olwen, with all the cynicism that had grown like a poison within them this last year, was not immune to it.

And really, he was right. There was something to be said about the way people were coming together, helping one another, being joyful in the face of so much uncertainty. Still, it felt like a betrayal to join in the revelry and to forget, even for a moment, what they were fighting for. It was hard to square joy in the midst of pain.

"I'm fine," they assured, though admittedly it was not the most convincing statement. "And you're right. Its good to see so many people coming together. It's just... I can't help but feel like we're playing pretend, you know?"

[sanguineos]

Olwen had a heaviness about them that Felix was desperate to help hold the weight of. It wasn't just them, this desire and need to help was deep-rooted in him, as though if his hands weren't helping, building, or protecting then he had no purpose at all. A flaw as it was, he didn't mind. If he could help ease the burden of others for just a moment then perhaps it would all be worth it. To watch the light return to Olwen's eyes, their shoulders ease just a fraction, the way their cheeks dimpled ever so slightly with the hint of a smile...

Realising his distraction, Felix swallowed hard and blinked as though dust were in his eye, then pulled all of his focus to listen to their words. This was still a solemn time for them, understandably so, and it was good for Felix to have the reminder that dark clouds could still loom even when the sun was shining.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asked gently, voice lowering a touch so that their conversation couldn't be heard in the soft din around them. "I can scout outside the city or check on the others more, or speak to Iris again about what more we can do with the sewers. I don't have to be here, I just wanted to..." Well, it didn't really matter what he wanted. Only their cause mattered, so he corrected himself. "I just want to help."

[sanguineos]

open starter featuring felix castellan

Night enveloped Novigrad, the sky alive with bright stars and a moon half full. It was the most dangerous time to be caught unsuspecting, but Felix wasn't exactly the type to keep his wits about him. He was rather more the kind to simply walk with his head up, one foot in front of the other, and never dare to imagine the worst. Novigrad's busy streets were a far cry from Oxenfurt's, but still, it took more than the smell of the city to dampen his spirits.

This street, however, was calm at this time of night, much like the ones he was used to. There was only the figure of one person walking quite a way ahead of him, minding their own business he imagined. But as he took another step and felt the crunch of metal underfoot, he looked down to realise he had stumbled upon a coin purse. It must be the stranger's! He picked it up, tightening its string, and took off after them. "Hello!" He called, hailing their attention.

[starpale]

closed starter for felix castellan | @sanguineos

The sun had reached its peak and was now slowly making a descent. Olwen loved this time of year when daylight stretched itself lazily into the evening. It felt full of possibility, and on the surface, the city looked as it always had. But beneath it all the threat of violence still hummed. You can have this celebration, this time of jollity and revelry, but remember we are here, watching and waiting. They tried to ignore it, to settle into the merriment, and whether consciously or otherwise, looking for a sense of peace often brought them to Felix.

Always dedicating his time and energy to others, if there was work to be done by many hands there was a high likelihood Felix would be among the volunteers. The shrines were beginning to take form, the skeletal frames already dazzling in the golden glow of a setting sun. He wasn't hard to spot, tall amongst the others.

Striding across the square, Olwen came up beside him, her eyes on the growing shrine. "Do you believe in all this?" They asked, forgoing a proper greeting. "Do you think it can protect us?"

[sanguineos]

Felix hadn't really stopped since the preparations began. He wasn't really sure what else to make of himself, but if anything he was actually glad that business in the forge was slow enough that he could get out into the community of Novigrad. For once, people were actually a little more focused on working together rather than trying to harm each other. It didn't matter if it was just for the solstice, it meant that it was possible, and that gave Felix more hope than perhaps it should have.

He was in the middle of hoisting a child down off of his shoulders who he had helped put a stone high up on one of the shrines, when he caught sight of Olwen heading towards him. Immediately his stomach lurched, his balance wobbling enough to almost drop the kid, a goofy and apologetic smile spreading across his lips as he handed her back to her mother.

Then he composed himself, or at least attempted to, running his hand through his hair and opening his mouth to say something, but Olwen looked focused. Instead he followed their gaze to the shrine, sensing this was not necessarily the time for pleasantries. "I think it already is." He offered, sounding optimistic. "Whether it's a god or spirit or whatever it is... Everyone is out here helping each other. That's good, right? It helps." A moment passed, and he looked back at them. "Are you okay?"

[insaticte]

It is difficult not to feel out of place in this opulently-appointed room. In comparison with the Passiflora's other, far grander clientele, Aled imagines he must seem rather shabby, little more than a dust-grey ghost best blown back out into the balmy summer evening and forgotten. The Flower that has been keeping him company has made a truly admirable effort to coax him out of himself, but it isn't any good, and he has already made up his mind to leave the moment he can do so politely. It was foolish of him to come here in the first place.

And then, just as he is gathering the will to walk away, the air shifts. The Flower is dismissed without a word, and in his place is a dark, handsome man whose eyes glitter with something decadent and sinful. Aled knows the owner of the brothel by reputation - an unapologetic hedonist who, if a certain set is to be believed, is single-handedly driving Novigrad into the depths of depravity - but he never really expected to meet him, and certainly never expected to find himself pinned beneath his gaze, as he is now.

It takes him a moment to recover his voice, hardly knowing what to make of the suggestion that the man has not only noticed him, but seems to have actively been watching him. "On the contrary, they have been very accommodating," Aled assures him, the slight twitch of a smile incongruous with the ever-present crease between his eyebrows, "I... hope my hesitance has not caused any offence?"

[sanguineos]

Dorian eased himself back in his chair, as if it had been moulded for his shape, and raised one leg to rest his ankle on the opposite knee. An open posture, inviting if anything. His lap was rarely empty, and it was almost as if he wanted to show off the very fact that it was to this stranger. His expression settled into something warm and curious, lips curved and eyelids slowly blinking, like a cat deciding it wanted this one's attention.

"Offence?" Dorian barked a quiet laugh, the word bearing so little relevance to him. It would have been a tiring long life indeed if he was so easily vexed. "No, no, it rather sparks... curiosity." He licked his lips, his fingers stroking the soft edge of the chair's arm. "Perhaps watching is exactly what you wish to pay for." He gave a shrug, it would be of no consequence to Dorian if that was how he wished to spend his money. But he felt like there was more, something he wanted to push for.

"But you yourself admit hesitance. Why?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes pinned on the other's face, trying to read between the lines. "I assure you there is no judgement here." He placed a hand over his chest, as if to solidify the statement. "If you let me help you, I can see to it that you are entirely satisfied." Not to mention that he liked to pry, to learn people's secrets no matter how dark they were. The darker the better, in fact, for a man like Dorian.

[sanguineos]

closed starter for aled aed gruffydd ( @insaticte )

Passiflora's energy pulsed with electricity, the brewing celebrations in Novigrad making footfall heavier through its gilded doors. It appeared religion made people want to fuck. That, or the heat sticking to the air outside. Truthfully it could have been any number of reasons, and really it didn't matter — Dorian loved the way things picked up in the summer, the smell of sweat magnified, the rush of blood.

But despite its hum of business, his attention was caught on the figure seated in the corner making what looked to be polite conversation with a Flower, seeming to keep watching the room go by as he was. Only this man's shoulders were rigid, his brow set and his eyes wide, the polar opposite to Dorian who moved with fluidity to the rhythm he knew so well. He did not belong here, that much was obvious. The reason for his coming, then, intrigued Dorian.

He slipped through the crowd with ease, reaching the chairs and placing his hand on the arm of the Flower. A cue, subtle as anything, for them to move. This man was his now, for tonight. "Do you enjoy my theatre?" Dorian purred, sliding into the seat beside him and eyeing him with a darkness he ought to be careful not to fall too deep into. "I only call it such because I have seen you here, watching, and yet you haven't touched. Do my Flowers not please you?"

[the-heart-eater]

An Old Friend in Novigrad (starter for @sanguineos)

The town sang and danced with all the force of whatever celebration was underway by the time Damian crossed into Novigrad.

Time had long since become a meaningless thing to him, he couldn’t have said whether he had spent days or weeks stumbling through forests and muddy roads to reach the city. Too deprived of blood to run, too weak to surrender himself to the wind and trust a bat’s wings to carry him the rest of the way.

At the heart of the town, between a broad fountain and a church of pristine white stone, a great bonfire clawed at the midnight sky. Flames crackled through stacked cherrywood logs, casting molten gold across the square and filling the air with the scent of smoke and sweet sap. The structure towered nearly halfway up the church itself, a massive triangular skeleton of stripped tree trunks and heavy branches.

The streets teemed with people, young and old alike spilled from taverns and doorways, laughing with wine-flushed faces. Barrels stood open along the square, their contents flowing freely into wooden goblets and eager hands. Some lingered in tight embraces, while others danced around the bonfire in dizzy circles, moving in time with the music drifting through the night.

A troupe of troubadours occupied a makeshift stage near the fountain. The platform looked as though it had been assembled from whatever scraps of wood could be found and held together by little more than optimism. A length of maroon fabric hung across the front, decorated with garlands of leaves, strings of berries, and deep violet flowers that swayed gently whenever the dancers thundered past.

Midsummer was near. 

Mortals were forever abandoning old gods, old customs, old promises. Entire kingdoms rose and collapsed in less time than it took vampires to become bored. Yet somehow, after centuries of wars, plagues, kings, priests, and revolutions, people still gathered beneath bonfires to celebrate the longest days of the year.

A strange sort of persistence, a stubbornness he could almost admire.

Finding Dorian, on the other hand, had required considerably less effort than expected.

The bastard may as well have walked around with a glowing target painted on his back. Every fresh-faced local seemed delighted to speak of dear Salazar and his beautiful flowers. They laughed behind open palms and exchanged knowing looks, as though privy to a joke Damian alone had been excluded from.

He simply wanted answers, however, what he found was Passiflora.

If the heavens concealed Eden somewhere among the clouds, Novigrad flaunted its own earthly paradise openly. The establishment was lavishly adorned with flowers spilling from balconies and curling around carved railings. Damian’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline when he discovered Dorian wasn’t, in fact, selling rare blooms.

Well… that certainly explained the laughter.

“Tell your… employer Damian Van Łowca is here,” he told the girl stationed at the entrance, keeping his gaze fixed on the flowers braided through her hair rather than the flimsy scraps of fabric she wore. “I shall be waiting for him.“

The girl dipped into a graceful curtsy and disappeared through the doors before he could demand an explanation.

Was he truly surprised to find out his friend owned a brothel? Not particularly.

Dorian had always worshipped excess and, more often than not, surpassed even his own devotion to it. Damian suspected the other vampire found mortals endlessly fascinating for that reason alone: how effortlessly they surrendered themselves to vice. 

Humans rarely sought to resemble their gods, their appetites were far better suited to vampires.

Mortals spent their brief lives chasing sensations they could never hold onto. They drank too much, loved too hard, gambled fortunes away, ruined themselves for beauty, power, desire. For creatures who lived less than a century, they possessed an astonishing talent for self-destruction.

The suite was little short of a greenhouse. Damian traced the gilded ridges of the wallpaper with absent fingers, feeling foreign in the gesture. Everything felt overwhelmingly alive. Three hundred years ago he would have considered the room gaudy, now it simply hurt to look at. After centuries trapped in deathlike slumber, every color seemed sharpened beyond reason; reds bled into crimsons, gold gleamed like captured sunlight, even the green of the leaves felt aggressive, blooming behind his eyes until a dull ache settled beneath his skull.

He needed to feed.

Soon.

"I thought you might leave your dear friend waiting," Damian mused as the door swung open and clicked shut behind its occupant. Time settled differently upon immortals; some became brittle, others became monstrous. Dorian seemed to have become expensive. "Three centuries have passed. I could hardly hold it against you."

Already rummaging through the suite's cabinets, Dorian procured a bottle of liquor. It did nothing for their kind, of course, but friendship was built upon a thousand shared pretenses.

A drink for your troubles.

A hand that will not harm you.

A back I shall never stab.

Two crystal glasses dangled between Dorian's fingers before finding the center table with a soft click.

“I shall not offend you with empty pleasantries,” his voice emerged rougher than intended. The hunger again, always the hunger. He hooked two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt and tugged it loose, the fabric suddenly felt restrictive around his throat. “I need your help.”

Damian lowered himself into one of the armchairs, noting its luxurious softness for future commentary. Trust Dorian to lavish equal care upon his patrons and his flowers, Damian had known long ago that he would make an exceptional coven leader.

"I need to catch a thief. The little vermin responsible for waking me."

The words tasted strange, humiliating. He had survived wars, religious purges, entire centuries dragging by, only to be robbed by some insolent creature whose name he didn’t even know.

His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the crypt from which he had clawed his way back into the world. The place where he had chosen to die beside Amala.

The earth had claimed her. Time, however, had spared him.

"They have Amala's necklace…" Damian murmured, staring into the untouched liquor in his glass. Three centuries had passed, and he remained exactly as he had been. That, perhaps, was the true curse of immortality: endless stagnation. 

[sanguineos]

Dorian was settled into his apartments, draped across the chaise longue at the end of his bed with a guest sitting comfortably under his arm slung over them as his lips traced their jaw uttering the most filthy of intentions. A guest, as he referred to them, since those coming to visit him were not the same as the clients that paid for his Flowers. He didn't need money, their surrender to his whims (or vice versa, depending on his mood) was payment enough, and he had barely gotten started with this particular peach before a rap at the door commanded his attention. Another visitor. This time, a name he hadn't heard in a very long time.

A growl left his lips, not in disdain for the man himself but for his impeccably poor timing. Anyone else would have been left waiting, but this was news indeed. Raised from the dead, it would seem. Still, it didn't stir much within Dorian. Hardly anything surprised him these days. Reluctantly excusing himself, Dorian didn't bother making himself any more presentable as he ambled through the halls to the parlour Damian had settled himself into.

"You didn't see it fit to visit the bathhouse before arriving here to dampen the mood?" He drawled as he entered, a playful smirk pulling at the edges of his lips. He could have harked his name, could have embraced him, could have asked how he came to be here after all of these years, but did it really matter? He was here now, and he wanted something. How very mortal of him, despite the way he disrespected them.

He let Damian speak, watching him carefully over the rim of his glass, and let out a hum at his request. "Then you are, as they say, fucked, my darling." He couldn't help but chuckle despite the very dour face Damian had on. "Why do you want my help? Hire a Witcher, for pity's sake, what am I to do about it? I am not following you into any madness, not for her. Not again." He shook his head, raising a finger which then wagged with his next words. "And do not even think about drinking from any of my Flowers. I can see it in your eyes how thirsty you are."

[forgctmenct]

Summer meant outdoor performances, which were Corrand’s favorite. There was a beautiful painted sky in the background, and the newest play that one of the writers had submitted to the theatre. Audiences came out to watch a myriad of performances. They pranced along the stage, reciting in perfect precision.

As Blaer, they were a completely different creature of the stage. Musician, bard, actor. Their own piece was in the works, to debut by summer’s end. Whenever the audience cheered after a performance, they took it all in, no sense of flustering or humility. Who could have a troubled soul when music and poetry filled the air?

A deep bow, peacocking at best, Blaer walked towards the edge of the stage. As he looked up, his eyes locked on an unsuspecting patron. A cocky smirk appeared on their lips.

“What can I do for you, love?”

[sanguineos]

Dorian had always enjoyed the theatre. Any form of storytelling captivated him, from dusty books to cheerful music to solemn soliloquies, Dorian loved the way humans poured their tiny little lives into memoirs to pass down through the ages long after they were gone. He could fill whole libraries with the chronicles of his long life, but he would outlive them all, and deemed it redundant.

So, as Corrand - or rather Blaer - in this flamboyant get-up basked in the glory of the crowd's praise, Dorian caught their eye with a wry smile. "Bravo, darling." His voice was low, as if they were the only two people in the Yard despite the crowd around them. Dorian had a way of finding entrancement in attention, an addictive quality and personality about him. "Show me something of yours, something new. Just for me. A little self-indulgence, if you will."

[gutterlight]

It is difficult to feel too anxious when the sun shines so beautifully upon Novigrad. Winter coughs are passing; lungs breathe more easily, ready to inhale deep and sing to the old gods. When Danica steps from her home this morning, she too inhales deeply, and tips her head back to allow the sun to cup her face, like a lover, before she sets off. Novigrad has many preparations to make, and so does Danica. She knows there will be an uptick in certain afflictions -- such as hangovers -- in the coming weeks. The people deserve to celebrate, and she will ease their hangovers with herbs and magic to the best of her skill.

She greets many people as she strolls through the town, smiling and waving, checking in on people she has healed recently. And then, someone who will need healing if he does not take care!

"You will make yourself ill if you carry on without a break - here, drink--" Danica holds a waterskin out; her expression is gentle, but her tone suggests she is not going to be taking no for an answer. The calloused hands suggest a man accustomed to hard work, but even the most practiced labourer must take water. @sanguineos (for felix)

[sanguineos]

Felix had been one of the first to get involved with the creation of the Summer Shrines. For the last twenty five years he had made the trip into the city with his family to join the festivities there, with he and his father always knocking their heads together to make and bring a Shrine of their own as offering. Now that he was alone, for the first time since he had been a boy, his sentimental heart couldn't abandon the tradition.

Hardly noticing the sweat dripping down his bare back, warmed by hard work and high noon, it was only the soft voice beside him that pulled him from his focus. Immediately they had his attention, his eyebrows raising with an open, cordial expression that he offered anyone he spoke to. Then, a smile. How kind, he thought, for someone to consider his needs.

"Please, save it for others who might need it more." His early life as a servant still lingered in him; he had long accepted that he belonged at the bottom. "Are you a doctor? Do you need help? I can take a break."

[sweetfridays]

♡ CHARLES MELTON entertainment weekly

[manny-jacinto]

OSCAR ISAAC Brioni BTS | 2024

[sanguineos]

[ charles melton, cis man, thirty five, he/him ] in novigrad, names have a way of reaching the wrong ears, and FELIX CASTELLAN is one spoken more often than most. the HUMAN has lingered in the city for TWO MONTHS, working as a BLACKSMITH. depending on who you ask they’re either GENTLE or PEOPLE-PLEASING. the eternal fire has yet to decide which. their presence is steeped in STEEL-FORGED KINDNESS, ROUGH HANDS WITH A SOOTHING TOUCH, SUN BEAMS WARMING A FOREST FLOOR, the kind that draws attention… and not always the right kind. speak carefully. the pyres are always hungry.  

felix was born in tretogor, redania to a servant of the royal family. technically this meant he grew up in the palace, but reserved to the servant's quarters where those of his class belonged. his mother raised him alone, his father a knight far too proud and cowardly to claim the family despite assuring his mother that he loved her.

as the child of a servant, he too was under the employment of the royal family and officially began work as a stablehand at the age of eight, though before this he had been a help in the kitchens beside his mother for some years already.

felix never received any kind of education, so he does not know how to read or write, nor does he understand the extent of world affairs.

he was a polite and well-mannered child as his mother taught him to be, characteristics he still possesses and values to this day, and was generally very well liked by the people of the palace, even by those he served. he didn't mind others, but as a shy child he always felt in better company with the horses.

before he was ten years old, his mother succumbed to a grave illness. with no one able to take full responsibility for him at his young age, felix was cast out of the palace and left to his own devices on the streets of tretogor. all he had ever known was inside the palace walls, and he was just a child completely out of his depth on the busy city streets.

he tried to find comfort in the only other place he understood — a stable — but hiding amongst the horses was cold and damp. he was hungry and desperate, but had no idea what to do with himself. to the city streets he was just another urchin, in the stable at least he understood the horses.

he was discovered a couple of days later by a trading blacksmith who had come to the stable to repair a harness fitting. taking pity on the young boy, the blacksmith decided to take him in and return to his wife in oxenfurt. they had been unable to have children of their own, so felix was taken in as their adoptive son.

with a good work ethic, felix very soon became much more than that. he took on the role of apprentice in the forge, earning his keep as well as learning a trade which would set him up for whatever his future would hold.

felix never underestimated the value of a good deed in a troubling world. it had saved his life once, and he would pay it forward for as long as he lived. he helps anyone who needs it no matter the ask, and never asks for anything in return.

after nilfgaard lost the war and mages were outcast, felix found himself tangled up in helping those that crossed his path. many made their way to oxenfurt as a means to get to novigrad, and even if felix didn't really understand why, he vowed to help as many as he could get into the city. this led to him falling into working with an underground railroad system of sorts where he was trusted enough to know that these were mages, and they needed refuge.

two months ago, oxenfurt was raided in search of mages after catching a rumour about the railroad. as a human, felix could have hidden in oxenfurt and continued his life as it was, but he was so caught up in it and feels like he has to play his part, so he decided to make the move into the eye of the storm itself to continue his work as a blacksmith by day, but as an aid to the cause of what he believes to be righteousness at night.

wcs

mages he has helped smuggle into the city, or helped in other ways.

clients at the forge - be it for weapons or just to fix a rusty door hinge.

i suck at these!! felix is just nice!! some characters might hate that idk!!!

[sanguineos]

[ oscar isaac, cis man, forty seven (three hundred and fifty four), he/him ] in novigrad, names have a way of reaching the wrong ears, and DORIAN SALAZAR is one spoken more often than most. the HIGHER VAMPIRE has lingered in the city for TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON/OFF, working as the OWNER OF PASSIFLORA. depending on who you ask they’re either EXUBERANT or HEDONISTIC. the eternal fire has yet to decide which. their presence is steeped in SOFT SKIN DAPPLED WITH BRUISES AND BLOOD, A SHIRT NEVER BUTTONED TO THE TOP, KNOWING WHAT’S BAD FOR YOU AND WANTING IT ANYWAY, the kind that draws attention… and not always the right kind. speak carefully. the pyres are always hungry.  

dorian's mother bore him on her hands and knees, bringing forth a child into this world that had no place to be there. a creature as she had been, one of eternal life and teeth carved by devils with the capability to drink blood.

he was raised in a coven of higher vampires. it was much larger than any coven now would be, seeing as their numbers have dwindled largely over the years. this coven remained mostly hidden from mortals, but just because his family coveted privacy, it did not mean that dorian did.

dorian had an appetite for the world, a fascination with how mortals lived with the short lives they led. able to conceal himself as one of them, dorian spent most of his time amongst them in every corner of the continent, learning everything he could, taking sick fascination in watching them bloom as they grew and decay as they aged further.

over the many years, he adopted a mortal-like desire to consume all of the finer things in life. he has a greed that will never be satiated, if anything this void inside him only grows as the centuries go by.

he took a particular liking to novigrad around 200 years ago when it established itself as a free city. he has no interest in politics and certainly likes freedom, so it became what he considers home. he periodically stays, leaves, and returns in a cycle that comes naturally to higher vampires that need to avoid suspicion of locals.

he came to own passiflora as an extension of himself, providing a haven for those like him that want to immerse themselves in a world of pleasure and fulfilment of all the senses.

he takes good care of the flowers that work for him, making sure they are safe and provided for, almost as a coven of his own even if most of them are mortals. it doesn't mean that he isn't a little controlling and possessive though.

he deliberately remains neutral between the eternal fire and the mages, choosing neither side while also playing both sides. he does not believe in a 'right' side of history in these matters, having seen so many years of it that he doesn't truly believe any of it matters.

personality wise, dorian is cheery and flirtatious most of the time, but can be hasty and sarcastic too, and completely unapproachable if he's in a bad mood. luckily those are rare.

wcs

a witcher that has tried to kill him, perhaps multiple times or just the once, even though they know it isn't possible. it could be a rivalry, though most likely also a game to dorian (and perhaps this witcher)

blood donors. though dorian doesn't need to drink blood to survive as a higher vampire, it provides him with an inimitable high.

his estranged mate (wc on the main).

i suck at this i'll do whatever u want

[chvrlesmelton]

CHARLES MELTON as AUSTIN DAVIS Beef 2x01