❝ — as the sun sets on an evening in celebration of the approaching BLOOD BRAWL the great flower of hokuei removes herself from company to lay alone with ILYAS. ❞ @stygianprophet
with a look, she becomes his lovely shadow.
a silhouette delayed by only a few moments, in the wake of ilyas comes yena, trailing after him amongst a pool of smouldering, burnish silk. there is a ceremony to the procession, a ghost parade the rest of the room ignores. it ends by being swallowed, by opening up the jaws of the balcony’s great doors and slipping between them, the pair as close as blood on a tongue.
yena presses herself to his front, one palm against chest.
“it’s so terrible. so awful,” she sighs, forehead coming to ilyas’s great chest. she wants to curl into the hollow of his collarbone like a maiden in the sticky pollen-centre of a flower, drawn to sleep and isolation in his warmth. she wants blood-red petals over her milky thighs.
her voice is high, soft, wounded. warm milk, a fresh wound. ready to be lapped.
“why must they do it?”
Yena leaned into him, and he wasn’t sure if he felt suffocated or sustained by the embrace; wasn’t sure if her aim was to press herself to his defenses and push until something essential was squeezed out of the edges, or to simply tilt an ear and listen for what lingered beyond reach. It was an ever-recurring uncertainty, stirred in the wake of each drifting touch and every mindless gesture. Yet stronger than the doubt was the pull of the surrender that unfailingly tugged on his bones and stroked along his walls, each and every time loosening and coaxing him into blind, unburdened indulgence in the companionship of the other. This instance was no different from all those that had come before and all the ones that were sure to follow in that regard; as Ilyas found himself impulsively cushioning her delicate fall, hand rising to trail tentative, restrained fingertips across the slope of Yena’s chin.
He knew the intended comfort of the touch was meager, and the awareness sent his mouth curving into a regretful curl of lips. “I wish I could tell you why. I wish I knew why.” He shook his head, dismay giving way to contemplation as he leaned back with a parting caress to Yena’s shoulder before making his way towards to the refreshments table in the corner of the balcony. He poured two glasses of blood; clutching one for himself and handing the other to Yena as he turned to face her once more. “But I believe the significance of your question pales against that of another: why must we do it? We didn’t have whips at our backs when we were informed of the rules. We were given a choice, and we made it.” Bitterness slowly overtook the twist of his mouth as he looked down at his glass. “Their reasons don’t matter any more than ours do. Savage as it is, there’s a system in place, and we’re all simply moving pieces within it.”
OPPOSITE — @ircncrowned
the temple, in the midst of the second round of brawls.
The doors of the Temple slowly yawned open around a groan not unlike the call of hunger from deep within the gut, easing wider and wider before finally coming to a silent, expectant halt, open-mouthed and slick-lipped. Before it stood a dozen vampires claimed by gleaming Cicada crests, which they bore with the same militant pride and curbed prowess that blanched their hands around the crates and cases speckled among them. Carried within those containers was cargo of the utmost value; an assortment of weapons and armor, crafted for the exclusive use of serving the Moths’ needs. It was the foundation upon which the diplomatic relations between both houses stood. Cicadas provided the supplies required for security and guardianship, and in return Moths gave away a portion of their prospects for turning; subsequently boosting the Cicadas’ ranks and man-power.
Ilyas watched the ancient exchange unfold with idle familiarity, eyes tracing the rigid march of the vampires as they ventured through the gaping doorway. He had long since grown numb to it, the sight of the Cicadas heaving the fodder of violence into the once-unbloodied maw of the Temple. Its pacifistic tranquility was long-lost, ever since the age of war when the careless ideal had left the Temple pliant before so much chaos and carnage. Though the withered conflict surrounding that was a distinct one for Ilyas, as it was not rooted in regret over the tarnished peace, but over the belated violence. He had always objected to the defenseless state of the house, believing that its holy cause must be protected at all costs and without bounds. Such was precisely what he had fostered coldness towards; the bitter, burning knowledge that he had, eventually, finally, harnessed blade and fang in the name of his house, and the act had been all but barren of the sacred purpose he had believed it would hold.
Ilyas ground his jaws against the thought; a subconscious effort to crush what little of it he had chewed. He turned away, clasping his hands in front of him in a polite stance of greeting as he approached Cai, who lingered a few paces away. “As always; welcome, Cai.” He greeted, with more familiarity than amiability, despite the frequency of these visits. “Didn’t have trouble transporting the cargo, I hope? The streets are often terribly crowded in ceremonial times such as these.”
OPPOSITE — @ooseye
the fighters’ area, shortly after the conclusion of the first round of brawls.
A sharp sigh carved its way through his nose as he ventured backstage; the aggravation curled around the sound forcibly dislodged by his momentum and sent cascading along his form until it found its anchor in the arches of his feet -- where it made its presence flagrantly known, hardening his steps into a firm, clipped cadence that all but rang in declaration of his haste to fulfill his needs and make his exit.
In his eyes, it was by far the most distasteful location within the arena, even more so than the Blood Dome. After all, what need was there for searing spotlights and callous crowds to remind one of the purpose served by these grand designs, when one was standing in the very heart of the spectacle? Surrounded by the garish array of weaponry, the anticipatory hum of the fighters, and the blaring echo of pummeling strikes and splintering bone from the training rings, he felt like he and his fellow vampires were merely pets corralled into a well-dressed cage -- to be pampered and prepped for the awaiting eyes of those who stood at the end of their collective leash. And worse than the awareness of that was the recollection that the horrid performance was one that most, if not all, of them had offered themselves up for willingly.
The thought ironed his mouth into a bitter line; one that he harnessed as a boundary to push at his gnashing frustration and tamp it down. He needed to rein in his rage more aptly, or he certainly wouldn’t be able to make it through whatever time he had left in the Brawl. Entering his room, Ilyas began to scout for his things. Now that he had been cleared of the upcoming round, there was no point in occupying the room any further, at least until his next fight was announced. Yet before he could make a single move, his instincts suddenly tugged at him, swiftly propelling him into turning around and facing detected danger. It came in the form of the notorious Oseye, who instantly crossed the threshold and barreled into his space. Unflinchingly, he said, “Step back, Oseye.” Despite the vigorous urge to do so, he didn’t push her away. He knew that any touch between them would send blood spilling in its wake. As his request went unheeded, he repeated it, yet with more force. “I said step back.”
OPPOSITE — @sablcsnare
the temple, months before the blood brawl.
Within the hallowed heart of the Temple, he sat like a prophet swallowed up by his pedestal. The back of the cathedra loomed behind him, sharp and spire-like, stretching far above like the horns of an imperious god, spun from the shadow and chant of ritual. Below it lay the stool upon which the disciples poised themselves, fangs bared atop the altar in serrated anticipation of the sustenance that it would bleed. And beyond that, in a languorous curl of pale, pearlescent cloth, was the tail-end of his temple robes, spilling over the broad step that lay past the dais; the only tether grounding him to the mortal plane.
The vision might as well have been a portrait of myth no different from the artful, ethereal carvings that haloed the dome of the Temple above his head. And much like the divine depictions as they stood in vigilant concealment of the brutal, blood-soaked truth behind them, the scene in which he sat arranged its saintly visage in a manner that was nothing short of deceitful. Though the cuts and tears along the shroud were nonetheless glaringly visible if one knew where to look -- in the absentminded dullness of his eyes; in the weary arrangement of his limbs; in the detached tilt of his chin as he braced it against the heel of his hand.
Eyeing his outstretched arm in habitual appraisal of his veins, Ilyas didn’t look up as the resounding creek of the doors declared a new arrival. Only when the echo of approaching footsteps faded did he address the vampire, gaze gliding up in the same moment that his hand rolled down, scarred, power-harboring flesh concealed with an elegant twist of his wrist and a downward slide of his sleeve. “Séleste of the Spiders,” He said by way of greeting, head rising and posture straightening. “Quite a surprise. It’s not often that I receive members of your house.” With a mild tip of his chin, he sent a nod her way. “What can I hope to offer you with my counsel?”
OPPOSITE — @citrinesaints
the temple, shortly after the blood brawl was declared.
He stood beneath the statue as though hovering within a vacuum, empty-eyed and hollow-hearted. He had once sought its shadow with fervent desperation; after all, when plunged into darkness at every turn, it was only natural for him to drift towards the depths marred by his Oracle’s grace. But then the unholy hand of death had snuffed out her light in its callous grip, and from that moment on, the shadow of the Oracle’s idol harbored nothing but the splatter of her blood before his eyes and the tang of her ashes upon his tongue -- its darkness washed by the stain until it was at last unclean and untouched.
Now he found nothing within its embrace but empty space and lifeless stone. He could look the towering monument in the eye; he could shatter it and crush its rubble between his jaws; he could lay scornful waste to it and smear it with his sullied blood -- and none of it would make any difference. It remained a vacant trace of a long-forgone past, much like every portrait, verse and rite contained within these ancient walls. It didn’t even wound him to gaze upon it as he did now, though he couldn’t tell if it was because he was indeed unscathed, or because the hurt was aimed at a scar that has yet to stop bleeding.
The doors shrieked with abrupt, unannounced entrance, and he knew it belonged to Shiva without ever needing to draw his eyes away from the idol. The cadence of the footsteps was unmistakable; graceful and languorous, but with a distinct firmness to it that, when latched on to, offered a small yet significant glimpse of the purposeful, deliberate core to their prophetic whimsy and airy intuitiveness. And just as certain as he was of Shiva’s presence, he was certain of the motives that had compelled it. “I wonder what tirade you’ve come to spring on me this time, Shiva,” He drawled, letting the words and their underhanded sarcasm linger between them for a moment before continuing on to say, “I imagine it’s related to the Blood Brawl,” Finally, he looked at her. “Isn’t it?”
power enhancement » giving blood to others enhances their strength and unique abilities. blood must be sacrificed from his own body.
GENERAL INFORMATION.
The coveted prowess within him spills forth in the gush of his blood around the fangs of another, through the ancient act with which all vampires seek their sustenance — by drinking it.
The channeling of his gift takes place as typically as the joining of vampire and victim in the days of old, made distinct only by the unusual prominence and protrusion of his veins around the area of the vampire’s feeding, along with their gradual discoloration the longer his gift is at play. It’s how he marks the amount of blood that has been generally drawn from him and remains aware of the extent to which he can continue to provide it; as his veins slowly darken throughout the process, rusting and rotting until they deepen into black. That’s his limit; upon reaching it, he’s quick to pass out.
His senses remain unaffected while the feeding is within reasonable bounds, but as soon as his veins begin to darken, he grows addled with the symptoms typically associated with blood loss, such as dizziness, fatigue, disorientation, etc. It’s at that point that his senses weaken considerably, making him susceptible to attack, or worse — losing his control and containment of the feeding and being left pliant before a vampire who, in the throes of sustenance and ascendance, might not be so willing to honor his limits.
Due to his age and his superior physical capability as a vampire, he’s able to provide his blood in vast amounts, across several individuals. Even when his veins have grown muddled with warning, he’s able to maintain the feeding for a considerable amount of time before he finally reaches the point where he must bring it to an end. An unwavering rule that he’s upheld over the centuries is the necessity of knowing the purpose for the power that’s requested (and often demanded) of him. He demands to be told the reason for the required enhancement, and based on the nature of that reasoning, he controls the amount of blood that each individual is granted, and in turn the level of enhancement that’s provided along with its duration. Since he can’t dictate the speed at which his blood is drawn, his control is restricted to the bounds of ending the feeding by asking the vampire to stop, or forcibly detaching himself from them if necessary.
Alongside the symptoms of blood loss and his general state of vulnerability, another negative result of his gift is that it leaves him with unusually heightened aggression and an extreme craving for blood in the aftermath; his body vicious in its desperation to replenish what it has lost. The intensity of the violence and the craving is largely dependent on the amount of blood that’s been drawn, becoming all-consuming when his gift is pushed to its limits. A distinctly regretful memory of his is that of the age of war among the Great Houses, when he lost consciousness on the field of battle and went on a rampage the moment he awoke. Ever since then, he’s made diligent efforts to ensure that he’s not pushed over that tipping point ever again.
His gift has been employed at the Temple over the centuries; an act of servitude that he once fervently volunteered to perform, now merely an obligation that he’s forced to uphold, if only to maintain appearances and erase any indications of his disillusionment. The Temple offers private counsel with him, where vampires may invoke his blood and request the power it promises. He may accept or he may refuse, based on his judgement of the vampires’ reasoning.
ADDITIONAL HEADCANONS.
His sense of taste is often smeared with a sour taste while his blood is being drawn, yet time has washed away his discernment of whether the bitterness is indeed a result of his power, or a mere trace of his disdain towards his gift and its ever-selfless empowerment.
Although vampires are normally immune to scarring, he carries more scars than he can ever hope to grasp; countless conjoined dots marking the fangs that have conquered his flesh over the ages. Upon noting that bites given with the intention of attack or any reason other than feeding fade into nothingness like all wounds do, it led him to the conclusion that the scarring is an exclusive symptom of his gift — but by the time that discovery was made, it was already too late. The scars of his sainthood had long since pierced their place upon him.
His scars are light and faded, but noticeable upon close inspection. They can be found speckled across his arms, from his wrists to his elbows, and along his shoulders and the sides of his neck. He doesn’t allow anyone to bite him in the latter areas anymore, finding the position to be demeaning and far too indicative of submission. If the scars on his neck are a mark of anything, it’s the long-lost naivete with which he had wholeheartedly devoted himself to his faith and the Oracle’s cause, giving and giving even long after there was nothing left to offer.
The scars on his neck and shoulders have been concealed with tattoos; an arching, looping pattern inspired by the carvings that adorn the Temple’s walls. It starts below his jawline in a sharp swipe on either side of his neck, like two blades of grass or the curving teeth of daggers. It spirals down and stretches into roots and loops that thicken in the middle, in the curves where neck meets shoulder and down to the tips of his collarbones, then thin out as they spill towards the edges of his shoulders where the pattern ends.
The War of Superflower Moons marks the period of discovery across the history of his gift, due to how far he was obligated to push it to bolster the strength of the Moth troops. It also marks a regretful string of rampages that he succumbed to after several instances where he lost consciousness on the field of battle. It’s a decidedly distasteful memory, and a time period that he is loathe to look back on — especially because of his suspicion that the Moth army generals may have deliberately demanded such extreme use of his power; particularly for the rampage that they knew would follow, as it certainly strengthened and brutalized his performance in battle.
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