#wampirszy

[edensbite]

@wampirszy | starter call.

" obsession can be hell from which you'll never be free. "

[sanctifisola]

" it isn't mine. "

" i could tell. " of course she could !! it smelled nothing like regis. however spattered he might be in crimson cruor , never once did her mind stumble toward mistaking it. serana’s smile bends soft and knowing , almost liturgical in its patience. a pale hand reaches out to catch a dark drip just on her fingertip with a , " but just in case you're lying. . . " before it comes to meet her lips. confirmed. not his. " so [ . . . ] were you simply a bystander this time ?? or did someone cut on the wrong side of you ?? come in. let's clean you up , @wampirszy . "

[pawnedprince]

❛ i know that ... ❜ so then why must the response feel so petulant? so humbled by his presence, he can't help but shrink within himself, arms crossing and only furthering the point. it feels like an obvious sort of statement: one that goes without saying; but a sentiment which fewer and fewer people seemed to share in these darkening days. hans can't conclude whether war is a business or an artform — poetic though he may be, he is not so inclined as to surrender his thoughts unto the matter more so than necessary. it depends on the shrewdness of the man, he supposes, whether he finds the value in the profiteering itself or the blood which he gets on his hands.

capon has the stomach for neither.

the frown well settled into his expression suggests he's preparing for some sort of lecture; as if they are not in agreement upon this matter? his gaze sinks slowly, thumbing at a bundle of herbs laying on the table he rests against; all of this posturing to suggest that he thinks he's done something wrong — or he's used to being told so. twisting the stems between thumb and index finger, he stops himself from becoming too wistful. ❛ and yet i have been made the fool for believing so. ❜

too sensitive a stomach, they say, he's not quite made of sterner stuff. the silence stews for a moment, he clearly thinking further on the matter despite his efforts, and a tepid frustration is wearing thin. a quick huff and he's lifted both his gaze and attention back to regis. ❛ somedays i don't quite understand what people expect of me... am i supposed to care less? ❜ the frown deepens, saddens even. ❛ ... would that make me better? ❜

mercy is rarely a complete mistake. ↳ for @wampirszy

[blindsite]

@wampirszy said : " you don't have to pretend with me. "

upon his acquaintances frankness, the demon's mouth open and shut once before he sighed shortly. not irritation as much as acceptance. ❝ very well then. ❞ a hand reached for his small, round spectacles and pulled them off. eyes averted only long enough to tuck them safely into a pocket within his ornate black doublet. golden gaze flickered back to the other man and chin rose so the street lamp cast over his face more so than before. ❝ now that that is out of the way. what can i do for you? ❞

he didn't plan to address it because the answer was pretty clear to him. just breeze right over. the other was most likely nonhuman as well and who would want to discuss that in broad — well, not daylight, but certainly with too many people milling about. toussaint never slept. crowley liked that. always a place open and serving some of the best wine he'd had in ages.

[decaeys]

continued w/ @wampirszy

once invited, she does not see it fit to linger. her fingertips run across the wall to the study, dragging across the ancient fixtures without care for what she might disturb. a tactic her tremere friend had shown quite the disdain for once upon a time. it surprises her how similar this place is to a tremere chantry, though the voice reassures her that this is none that he has known of over the past centuries. no, this regis is something else -- something worse. a lone actor, a procurer of information beholden only to himself.

" my source is quite unfortunately out of the picture these days, but the secrets themselves... " she forces a sigh, " concerns rituals that the pyramid are not privy to, should you have access to any such information. "

in her slow, dedicated attempt to circle the room before approaching the other, she notes the state of all within the room. far better taken care of than the church that she is used to, yet still just as dated. she wonders if her elders are even capable of keeping up with the times, or if they simply enjoy the tiresome facade they continue to keep up of being only a few decades too late.

with every glance, another pair of eyes makes swift work of titles and authors on every shelf. while laura does not care to take it all in, the man that resides in the back of her mind is far more observant, far more privy to the meaning of any of it than she could dream of being.

" in return, I offer you everything the tremere -- both camarilla and otherwise -- have discovered over the past few centuries. mithraic artifacts included. "

[alcriti]

Coexistence. The word hangs on the very crux of Astarion's foolishness. His selfish arrogance flirts with discovery far too often; cleanly, expertly, avoiding the inevitable. A mob on his doorstep isn't so far removed from the realm of possibility, but he likes to think he's smarter than that. Maybe not wiser, but clever enough, certainly.

❝ For now, it's working. ❞ Astarion corrects, sensing Regis is aware something isn't quite right. His sudden visit to the elder vampire is strange enough; his sentimentality most likely unnervingly concerning. Astarion isn't the sort to lament, and less is he reflect. However, the changing situation in a far flung village in Beauclaire compels him to seek guidance.

Regis' grip is grounding — needed — and Astarion looks to him as an age long friend. ❝ People are dying in the village, Regis. More than what's normal for their kind. They're coming to for me help but at the same time, I can't help but feel like they suspect me. The newest person to their village; the one who only operates at night, selling rat poisons and weed killer. When their friends, loved ones and neighbours start dropping dead, I can see why they would look to me. I sell death by the bottle, after all… I'm worried it's only a matter of time until they… catch on. Which is why I'm here, in fact... ❞

The purpose of his visit is laid out and whatever solemn mood threatens to overtake him is swept away by something pulled from deep within himself. Not quite glee, not quite sorrow; an odd in between. Manufactured. ❝ Would you consider housing me for a while? ❞

@wampirszy / cont.

[windhcld-archived]

“ it is like hearing a snake sing an aria. ” | to jaskier!

" I am a good man, regis, the kind of good man that is inclined to believe their companions could only dream of insulting the voice of the only other bard with whom they have crossed paths. the gentleman in the encampment a meager few miles in the opposite direction - do you recall? "

because it would be silly — downright preposterous, really ! — for regis to insult him that way, no ? jaskier wouldn't have it. unless, perhaps, the vampire has found a desire to ... oh, could it be ?

" your teasing remarks have aimed true, my friend." jaskier tuts, finger wagging before hand settles over his heart. " I am wounded beyond repair. how could you harm me so ? "

[ofvoidx]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. specifically upstate new york's most grandeur casino and resort, somewhere just outside of the restaurant kale works at. [ * ] nowhere. we're not what they say we are. you know that and i know that. | + kale. ━ ft. @wampirszy's emiel regis &. kale kane.

THE LIGHTS ARE SO BRIGHT THEY SEEM TO DANCE . a monetary gain as much as it is aesthetic , like so many other things that are designed in a casino. PRETTY , FUN , WINDOWLESS IN SO MANY PLACE SO NOBODY KNOWS THE TIME OF THE DAY . it's also indirectly such a benefit for the supernatural. where things start to look maybe a little humanly normal. KALE'S WINTER JACKET IS RIPPED AND A LITTLE DIRTY . telling the tale of struggles with frigid winters.

kale's head turns to find the voice and when the voice is found then his body turns. HIS LIPS ARE PURSED . a veritable lack of emotion. MACHINES ARE MAKING AN ARRAY OF SOUNDS IN THE BACKGROUND . mostly, he just wonders why humanity wrote intricate stories about why they think werewolves and vampires smell horrendous to each other. he just smells a little like tonight's menu. THE MOON'S FERAL FRAGRANCE IS UNDER ALL THOSE LAYERS OF NORMALCY . and the jacket.

 “  you're an old man, ain't ya?   ” that is a comment about white hairs or aging features, as sarcastic as it slightly sounds. it is just an indirect way of pointing out that the old haunt that appears in curiosity around here now and again may be a lot older than kale originally thought.