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Long Day Long Night for @ladykaivodulin
Aug. 11th, 2026 05:33 pmOutside the winter wind was harsh, rattling the camp’s timbers and making the outer layer of the imperial tent shudder. Inside the tent, the wind muffled to a low whistle, the inner layer shivered and sent colors and paisleys and the beaded eyes of birds dancing overhead. It was years since the Iron Crown was mauled and his heart eaten at her feet, and now the Crow Queen’s world was full of color.
She and her general had spent the morning tormenting each other in front of the senior officers. Over plans for where and how and when the army was to winter, the Crow Queen had bent and hummed, looking intently at nothing on the map. Across from her, with a view down the whisper-soft muslin of her décolletage, her general sat with his whole body at attention. His expression was serious, his teeth grit together, his eyes never leaving the pearly grey shadow where her breasts met and hung down over the map.
When he was forced to think, then to speak, he did so with a thick voice and a practiced, military pomposity. When the officers, struggling to decipher his point, spoke up the general let his voice quiet to a hum, let it hitch and muse. Letting his queen hear each true note he could hit. Under the table his boot tapped her slipper, his ankle rubbing along hers. As he went on and on the general toyed with the rings she had given him, showing her the long, deft motions of his hands and the steady slide of his fingers as he pet the next map or report flat on the table.
She sighed and shifted to let her long neck show above the deep dive of her neckline. He paced back and forth, tight trousers clinging with each small motion. She hummed and pet her left breast as if it itched, he gripped the edge of the table until it whined.
The work of leading an army agonized both of them in the hours after the meeting. Eligre, as the royal head of the operation, had spent enough time mustering and pointing and watching boys dig holes in the mud that their morning repartee was a distant memory by evening. Her dinner waited for her on the brazier, the imperial tent was warm and stuffy with incense and cedar, her lady’s maid shuffled off leaving the queen to her books.
He had been out pulling down a new batch of horses to be branded army property. It was, apart from watching the fear and pain in the animals’ rolling eyes, the worst part of his job. But no other man could pull a horse down by its ears so he was left no alternative. He came in wrapped in his traveling coat, gloves and a scarf pulled over his nose to block the smell of burning horseflesh.
Tying the tent flaps closed behind him, Luka shrugged off his overcoat and scarf and hung them on the spar where weather-beaten pieces went. He came shivering into the tent, rubbing his bearded face and neck with thickly gloved hands. He pulled off his boots and plucked off the gloves finger by finger, hunching over the brazier by her desk and letting the red firelight thaw his blue hands. He flexed his fingers, cut out black against the bright flame, and curled them slowly, light glinting off his rings.
Coming up behind her, Luka took a heavy satchel from his belt and set it down on the desk, leaning over her to do so. Still leaning, he undid the leather tie and drew out two fat glass bottles still wet from the hole he’d made for them in the frozen stream. Standing, he put a half thawed hand on her shoulder and took one bottle in the other.
“Have the sages given up their secrets?” He asked, looking over her shoulder at the impenetrable tome she had plundered from the latest crypt they dug up.
Cold Blooded Heat for @wynterssolitude
Jun. 24th, 2026 11:02 amStories of the naga, the wish granter, reached far beyond the deep humidity of the swamp and the bizarre town at its edge. Macondo was, despite its own insanity, the last human settlement before the wildness of the snake's domain bloomed and turned the flat jungle into a world unto itself. Any traveler wishing to meet the king of the swamp had to stop in the town, see its chestnut trees and clutch of whitewashed buildings, and perhaps hear the story of the capon, if they knew how to answer. Despite its loose connection to reality the people of Macondo were not truly stranger than any others. Even their incestuous founding family could be relied on to provide a good meal, rowdy conversation, and loose directions to the hot springs for the naga's future guests. They sent travelers into the swamp with a hearty goodbye, never promising that they would see each other again.
The naga was known to delight in finery of every kind: jewels, gold, muslin, furs, glories of art and music. They loved poetry especially, requiring pounds of fabric and riches for wishes they might grant for just one excellent poem. Their works were, however, as unusual as the people living on their periphery. A wish to see the stars might put the grantee in orbit with only the clothes on their backs. Or a wish for love might land the couple in deepest poverty, ensuring the romance that lasted the rest of their lives ended quickly. Young grantees wishing for wisdom could be turned into feeble old men. Animals wishing for safety would return to their warrens as slavering jaguars. It all depended on the naga's mood, and he could be kept in particularly high spirits if he was lavished with proper gifts.
The hot springs in which they lived was a pyramid of stone pools, numerous at its foot and deepening as it rose up to one single, sweltering pool. Luka lounged there, his deep rich voice sifting through the wet jungle leaves as he read off a poem in a long dead language. Tasting the hot air, his long black arms crooked around the stone lip of the pool, his long coils piled into the pool as he lay with his head back and his long thin braids drifting on the breeze. Luxuriating in the beauty of his own recitation, he hangs there with his eyes closed and the last length of his long black tail ticking happily in the thick heat.
The naga was known to delight in finery of every kind: jewels, gold, muslin, furs, glories of art and music. They loved poetry especially, requiring pounds of fabric and riches for wishes they might grant for just one excellent poem. Their works were, however, as unusual as the people living on their periphery. A wish to see the stars might put the grantee in orbit with only the clothes on their backs. Or a wish for love might land the couple in deepest poverty, ensuring the romance that lasted the rest of their lives ended quickly. Young grantees wishing for wisdom could be turned into feeble old men. Animals wishing for safety would return to their warrens as slavering jaguars. It all depended on the naga's mood, and he could be kept in particularly high spirits if he was lavished with proper gifts.
The hot springs in which they lived was a pyramid of stone pools, numerous at its foot and deepening as it rose up to one single, sweltering pool. Luka lounged there, his deep rich voice sifting through the wet jungle leaves as he read off a poem in a long dead language. Tasting the hot air, his long black arms crooked around the stone lip of the pool, his long coils piled into the pool as he lay with his head back and his long thin braids drifting on the breeze. Luxuriating in the beauty of his own recitation, he hangs there with his eyes closed and the last length of his long black tail ticking happily in the thick heat.
Wishes and Scales @lady_kaivodulin
Jun. 16th, 2026 11:29 amThe town in the middle of the swamp had a name, but none of the locals used the one Eligre had been given when she set out to find the naga that ruled the swamp. She found herself among a small clutch of whitewashed buildings, put up among chestnut trees that still hung with blood stained hammocks, echoes from when the town's founder carried his pregnant wife on their long expedition through the mountains and down into the humid jungle where they made their home. Everyone in town confirmed that reality began shortly before their founder, who in his dotage had gone mad and was now tied to the chestnut tree in the center of his family's courtyard, doted on by his granddaughters and niece, built the white house in the middle of town. They said that, for ages, no one in town died because it was new, and Death could not find them on the map. But then an old traveler, the leader of a circus, settled in town with his dear friend, the founder, and when he died and left the founder's son his crow-feathered hat, then Death found the little town with no name.
The locals were... informative, though they could not be made to be helpful. They knew many things, particularly about their founding family and its erratic, incestuous dealings, and despite the madness of that family most people agreed they were no worse than the other people in the world. Cock fighting was illegal, and rumblings from the capitol far away from the swamp stated that houses must be painted blue, not white. When Eligre arrived a tall, dark young man with a waxed mustache was organizing a troop of bastard sons to march on the capitol's forces and demand the rights of bastards to inherit, and for houses to be painted whatever color people pleased. She watched the squadron form, the mustachioed boy's eyes fiery and dark and wet, and watched him ride off with an unmistakable air of failure already drifting around him like an unseen flock of crows.
An ancient old woman, his mother, stood outside the palatial white house with the begonias on the porch, and told her about the ruler of the swamp.
The bizarre little town owned none of its strangeness to their neighbor, though they often relied on them for guidance, luck, and the fulfillment of wishes. Stories abounded of the wish granter: women given new faces and bodies when they bowed and asked in a strong voice, children imbued with the wisdom of ancient creatures, a rabbit who whiled their way into manhood, men devoured for the crime of mumbling. It was, to a learned mage, par for the course as wish granting went. Intense, powerful magic but unpredictable. She could not interview any of the grantees, only the few people at the edges of their stories, but Eligre could be sure the stories were real. And such a place, a swampy jungle where mere habitation could create a town like Macondo, gave every indication of very very old, and very very powerful magic.
She was told the naga was picky, vain, and liked opulent gifts. Those few who returned from the spring had all brought elegant gifts to lay before the creature, and nothing was ever heard of those who journeyed there empty handed. The snake considered conduct an artform, had been heard letting their operatic voice free in long verses that shivered through the heavy wet jungle leaves. He despised ugliness, but gave little thought to morals, instead preferring to be entertained by the world, not lectured.
After dressing and starting out in the pre-dawn hours, hoping to avoid the irrepressible heat of the jungle, she knew she was close as the flora started to shift to tones of deep purple, the trees grew tall and thick and ridged with scaly bark, ferns drifted up with peacock eyes at their tips and waved Cambrian stamen. The ground was thick with wet underbrush, the sun blocked by the far off tops of trees leaving the swamp in a perpetual steamy twilight.
In the dimness, behind her, away, but never far enough, the smell of smoke followed. Pacing ever closer, until she could feel the dry heat crackling on her skin and hear the panting thing with every wrong turn.
Just passed noon, as the sun blazed far above and the jungle roasted down below, she heard the voice delighting itself in the branches. Strong, deep, with a musical lilt. Poetry, by the meter, but she couldn't make out the language. It called to mind shedding manuscripts that withered with the softest touch of fresh air. She followed the sound and the swamp grew warmer still, until the air was a foggy, humid wall she had to press her whole body through.
At last the trees opened onto a pyramid of stone and the noise of laughing water. On a hill, the only hill she had seen since leaving the strange little town, a series of terraced stone pools spilled out on all sides. Pouring one into another, the hotspring was made of small tide pools at its base, that grew and deepened in steppes up to a single pool at the top of the hill. There, with his long tail wound along the edge in big, heavy coils, its tip wagging to and fro with the patter of his verse, the naga bathed.
Even from afar she could tell he was a creature of enormous proportions, his coils wider around than her whole body and piled such that she couldn't guess how long he must be. His tail was pure black, so deep and lightless the eye struggled not to fall endlessly into it, dappled with the humidity. The foggy light left all of him the color of coal, a soft shimmer hinting at the iridescence of his scales. Their head and shoulders hung over the edge of the steaming pool, long arms made of long cords of muscle, ending in long hands with long fingers wearing a king's random of shiny rings. Their face was peaceful, self-satisfied, and lost in their poetry. Eyes closed, canted back in repose with their long neck exposed to the steam heat. Miles of black braids hung down nearly to the next tier of the spring, ten feet below, each braid threaded with jewels and gold and shimmering stones. The way they drifted in the air Eligre could tell they were even thinner than her little finger.
The naga finished his verse and, sighing at the profound beauty of his recitation, sank more and more of his tail into the water until it poured over the edge, dousing his shoulders and chin and running down to the other pools in long chiming rivets.
The locals were... informative, though they could not be made to be helpful. They knew many things, particularly about their founding family and its erratic, incestuous dealings, and despite the madness of that family most people agreed they were no worse than the other people in the world. Cock fighting was illegal, and rumblings from the capitol far away from the swamp stated that houses must be painted blue, not white. When Eligre arrived a tall, dark young man with a waxed mustache was organizing a troop of bastard sons to march on the capitol's forces and demand the rights of bastards to inherit, and for houses to be painted whatever color people pleased. She watched the squadron form, the mustachioed boy's eyes fiery and dark and wet, and watched him ride off with an unmistakable air of failure already drifting around him like an unseen flock of crows.
An ancient old woman, his mother, stood outside the palatial white house with the begonias on the porch, and told her about the ruler of the swamp.
The bizarre little town owned none of its strangeness to their neighbor, though they often relied on them for guidance, luck, and the fulfillment of wishes. Stories abounded of the wish granter: women given new faces and bodies when they bowed and asked in a strong voice, children imbued with the wisdom of ancient creatures, a rabbit who whiled their way into manhood, men devoured for the crime of mumbling. It was, to a learned mage, par for the course as wish granting went. Intense, powerful magic but unpredictable. She could not interview any of the grantees, only the few people at the edges of their stories, but Eligre could be sure the stories were real. And such a place, a swampy jungle where mere habitation could create a town like Macondo, gave every indication of very very old, and very very powerful magic.
She was told the naga was picky, vain, and liked opulent gifts. Those few who returned from the spring had all brought elegant gifts to lay before the creature, and nothing was ever heard of those who journeyed there empty handed. The snake considered conduct an artform, had been heard letting their operatic voice free in long verses that shivered through the heavy wet jungle leaves. He despised ugliness, but gave little thought to morals, instead preferring to be entertained by the world, not lectured.
After dressing and starting out in the pre-dawn hours, hoping to avoid the irrepressible heat of the jungle, she knew she was close as the flora started to shift to tones of deep purple, the trees grew tall and thick and ridged with scaly bark, ferns drifted up with peacock eyes at their tips and waved Cambrian stamen. The ground was thick with wet underbrush, the sun blocked by the far off tops of trees leaving the swamp in a perpetual steamy twilight.
In the dimness, behind her, away, but never far enough, the smell of smoke followed. Pacing ever closer, until she could feel the dry heat crackling on her skin and hear the panting thing with every wrong turn.
Just passed noon, as the sun blazed far above and the jungle roasted down below, she heard the voice delighting itself in the branches. Strong, deep, with a musical lilt. Poetry, by the meter, but she couldn't make out the language. It called to mind shedding manuscripts that withered with the softest touch of fresh air. She followed the sound and the swamp grew warmer still, until the air was a foggy, humid wall she had to press her whole body through.
At last the trees opened onto a pyramid of stone and the noise of laughing water. On a hill, the only hill she had seen since leaving the strange little town, a series of terraced stone pools spilled out on all sides. Pouring one into another, the hotspring was made of small tide pools at its base, that grew and deepened in steppes up to a single pool at the top of the hill. There, with his long tail wound along the edge in big, heavy coils, its tip wagging to and fro with the patter of his verse, the naga bathed.
Even from afar she could tell he was a creature of enormous proportions, his coils wider around than her whole body and piled such that she couldn't guess how long he must be. His tail was pure black, so deep and lightless the eye struggled not to fall endlessly into it, dappled with the humidity. The foggy light left all of him the color of coal, a soft shimmer hinting at the iridescence of his scales. Their head and shoulders hung over the edge of the steaming pool, long arms made of long cords of muscle, ending in long hands with long fingers wearing a king's random of shiny rings. Their face was peaceful, self-satisfied, and lost in their poetry. Eyes closed, canted back in repose with their long neck exposed to the steam heat. Miles of black braids hung down nearly to the next tier of the spring, ten feet below, each braid threaded with jewels and gold and shimmering stones. The way they drifted in the air Eligre could tell they were even thinner than her little finger.
The naga finished his verse and, sighing at the profound beauty of his recitation, sank more and more of his tail into the water until it poured over the edge, dousing his shoulders and chin and running down to the other pools in long chiming rivets.
Kiss Me Deadly, for @skirka
Sep. 5th, 2025 02:44 pm When Luka knew him, then by campfire light after long and bloody days on the battlefield, he used the name the soldiers called him. Houndstooth. A brutish name for such a calm fellow but one he had well earned. On the field Gelert von Llywelyn was a fearsome warrior, battle-tested and clever with little concern for his own life. It was at first a joke on his given name, a means for the farmboys to tease their better, but before long Houndstooth proved out. Like the fabled hound he was named for, he was as powerful as he was loyal.
In the teeth of a vicious battle, Houndstooth defended his battalion even as the enemy circled and overwhelmed them. Never leaving his men, Houndstooth led them in a desperate struggle that splintered the enemy line, freeing his men to reap their revenge as the cavalry stormed in at their backs. The whole affair turned Houndstooth's once plain face into a mass of scar tissue and cost him his right arm, and the farmboys never suffered another joke to be made about their commander.
He returned home a battered hero and enjoyed the added thrill of losing his father and older brother. With the Duke of Ardt's passing the family title and land passed to Houndstooth. Scarred and staggered by the loss that waited for him at home, Houndstooth isolated himself from the world and found solace only in writing to his old brother-in-arms.
For his part Luka delighted in their letters, as he had always delighted in the man's company, and he wrote Houndstooth many times a day every single day. Even when the messages only reached him in a month old pile, the two men's affection for one another was evident. Luka had known many who had been lamed in battle and his steadfast assurances that Houndstooth would live through the shadowy pain in his stump and that the ringing screams of all those lost souls would one day quiet, all served to bolster his friend in his new life. Court was dull and peopled with blackguards. He ached to take a walk, uninterrupted by affairs of state, through the meadows that had been shining and gold when he was a boy. In lieu of these pleasures a letter from an old friend did Houndstooth a world of good.
Beloved by his peasantry, although he was now a horror to look at, the rumor mill churned rapidly wond about his bride. She would need to be as sweet a soul as Houndstooth himself, and someone who could cool his fire and soothe his trouble brow when the spectre of his war rose over him. She would have to be temperate and kindly, and not mind too much that her lion hearted husband had a distorted face that scared children. A well borne, well bred, lovely country girl was what he needed. Someone who did not mind his plain ways of thinking and speaking, and who would be happy to cherish a walk in the meadow over a palace of gold and a bed of silk.
Luka hoped just as much as the washerwomen that his friend should find a perfect girl to fill his autumn years. Houndstooth was a good and noble man, he deserved a woman who could appreciate those parts of him. When the news arrived that Houndstooth would wed Luka exalted and packed his bags with as many novelties and gifts as he could carry. Though not of noble blood himself, his arrival was one of great fanfare, as he brought with him riches fit to glorify a king and marvels taken from all corners of the world.
Though the feast that awaited his arrival turned Luka's stomach, he was keen to sit through it and be in the company of his old friend. So it was a cold shock when, looking across the banquet and bustle of the growing wedding party, Luka saw his comrade's bride for the first time.
She was a strikingly beautiful woman, made more so by her unbending nature and the snake cold eyes watching the party as if from a great distance. Seeing her Luka felt a chain of hellfire wind around through his guts, lashing the two of them together to burn as a black maw opened wide at their feet.
In the teeth of a vicious battle, Houndstooth defended his battalion even as the enemy circled and overwhelmed them. Never leaving his men, Houndstooth led them in a desperate struggle that splintered the enemy line, freeing his men to reap their revenge as the cavalry stormed in at their backs. The whole affair turned Houndstooth's once plain face into a mass of scar tissue and cost him his right arm, and the farmboys never suffered another joke to be made about their commander.
He returned home a battered hero and enjoyed the added thrill of losing his father and older brother. With the Duke of Ardt's passing the family title and land passed to Houndstooth. Scarred and staggered by the loss that waited for him at home, Houndstooth isolated himself from the world and found solace only in writing to his old brother-in-arms.
For his part Luka delighted in their letters, as he had always delighted in the man's company, and he wrote Houndstooth many times a day every single day. Even when the messages only reached him in a month old pile, the two men's affection for one another was evident. Luka had known many who had been lamed in battle and his steadfast assurances that Houndstooth would live through the shadowy pain in his stump and that the ringing screams of all those lost souls would one day quiet, all served to bolster his friend in his new life. Court was dull and peopled with blackguards. He ached to take a walk, uninterrupted by affairs of state, through the meadows that had been shining and gold when he was a boy. In lieu of these pleasures a letter from an old friend did Houndstooth a world of good.
Beloved by his peasantry, although he was now a horror to look at, the rumor mill churned rapidly wond about his bride. She would need to be as sweet a soul as Houndstooth himself, and someone who could cool his fire and soothe his trouble brow when the spectre of his war rose over him. She would have to be temperate and kindly, and not mind too much that her lion hearted husband had a distorted face that scared children. A well borne, well bred, lovely country girl was what he needed. Someone who did not mind his plain ways of thinking and speaking, and who would be happy to cherish a walk in the meadow over a palace of gold and a bed of silk.
Luka hoped just as much as the washerwomen that his friend should find a perfect girl to fill his autumn years. Houndstooth was a good and noble man, he deserved a woman who could appreciate those parts of him. When the news arrived that Houndstooth would wed Luka exalted and packed his bags with as many novelties and gifts as he could carry. Though not of noble blood himself, his arrival was one of great fanfare, as he brought with him riches fit to glorify a king and marvels taken from all corners of the world.
Though the feast that awaited his arrival turned Luka's stomach, he was keen to sit through it and be in the company of his old friend. So it was a cold shock when, looking across the banquet and bustle of the growing wedding party, Luka saw his comrade's bride for the first time.
She was a strikingly beautiful woman, made more so by her unbending nature and the snake cold eyes watching the party as if from a great distance. Seeing her Luka felt a chain of hellfire wind around through his guts, lashing the two of them together to burn as a black maw opened wide at their feet.
[[Enjoy my Bulgakov reference, I couldn't think of a better name and Mikey B really has every name ever in Master & Margarita]]
The box found her in a jumble of other mail, surrounded by academic journals and reports, the newspaper and a few letters from the saps Lady Kaivodulin kept clinging to the spider silk threads of her affections. It was wrapped in canvas and brown parcel paper under that, unremarkable and unmagical in every sense but for the smell of lavender emanating from it.
Once unwrapped it was a beautiful object, rosewood set with shiny silver fastenings, but Eligre had seen better. It was large enough to hold something good and the lavender smell was even more powerful once unwrapped. Throwing the neatly fit latch, she found a dark round shape inside tucked up to its ears in a sea of purple.
The head had belonged to Archibald Archibaldovich, a sometime pirate and restauranteur who had been a ceaseless pain to Eligre. When last they met the old pirate had vowed to to skin her alive after pouring molten iron down her son's throat. And for all that half the threat was meaningless, Archibaldovich's track record suggested he was not only serious but well equipped to make it all happen.
The box found her in a jumble of other mail, surrounded by academic journals and reports, the newspaper and a few letters from the saps Lady Kaivodulin kept clinging to the spider silk threads of her affections. It was wrapped in canvas and brown parcel paper under that, unremarkable and unmagical in every sense but for the smell of lavender emanating from it.
Once unwrapped it was a beautiful object, rosewood set with shiny silver fastenings, but Eligre had seen better. It was large enough to hold something good and the lavender smell was even more powerful once unwrapped. Throwing the neatly fit latch, she found a dark round shape inside tucked up to its ears in a sea of purple.
The head had belonged to Archibald Archibaldovich, a sometime pirate and restauranteur who had been a ceaseless pain to Eligre. When last they met the old pirate had vowed to to skin her alive after pouring molten iron down her son's throat. And for all that half the threat was meaningless, Archibaldovich's track record suggested he was not only serious but well equipped to make it all happen.
But not well enough, evidently.
The wound absenting his head from his body was severe and ragged, misshapen enough that the head had to lay back on a pillow of lavender rather than sitting straight up in the box. This left Archibaldovich's mouth hanging open, with his grey tongue lulled back in a stretching slide towards the back of his throat. Between the bloodless lips and teeth was a neatly rolled piece of parchment tied with a leather throng, almost as wide across as the box itself.
In a tall, sharp hand it read:
My ' Lady Kaivodulin,
Do not destroy this letter err you have read it. It was through serious work and not inconsiderable pain that it came to be written, and though I am assured you should like nothing more than to warm your little hands over its flame the information inside will be of value to you.
Please find enclosed the head of one Capt. Archibald Archibaldovich, who I have been told had an outstanding account with you. The late captain enjoyed a brief acquaintance with myself and in that time he made his disposition towards you known to me. For all that I can well confirm the veracity of his account of you and your foibles, I found the captain a low and unctuous person and thought best that we end our association. He has his uses, as you see. I did not take these steps purely for your good name, nor would I ever do so, but I felt it a better use of him to assist in sending this letter than just sunning him on a pike. Not the least because my days of lining the perimeter of a war camp are, for the time being, behind me.
I have never known you to enjoy olives, nor nature for that matter, so let what remains of the captain be our olive branch. Those events that transpired to end our marriage are as water into the sea. I can assure you the intervening time without you has been some of the most peaceful of my long life, spotted with frivolities that would bedevil you for reasons I cannot now nor have ever fathomed. That said, we would fracture our social life to insist we never be in the same room together, not to set eye or hand upon one another.
Because it has never been my ambition to rid the world of you, as has animated so many others. They are, we know, fools who waste their lives on a futile pursuit. A modus operandi I know you share with them, though for far different reasons. But there is no need for their wish to be mine, and so it is not. I only hope that I might have still more peace knowing I will not expect the same violence that befell our captain visited upon myself for such crimes as being within miles of you. That fate alone ought be sorry enough.
I will be in attendance at the winter ball held this season by the Madani family and I have heard you are also to attend. Of course I cannot assign an end of hostilities to both of us, given your hard-headedness, but for my own account I will not be there for anything more than those things I typically enough at ball where you are not.
It is my great hope that our worlds will meet such that we may move forward with both our lives, removed from the viciousness that has colored our time together. I assure you I do not cherish having my memories of you so scarred by our separation that the woman I married must in fact be dead and gone, honoring the hopes of her rivals. I imagine you do not enjoy it either. So let it end.
I suppose I will see you,
And signed in the same angular black strokes, with enough looping filigree to assure her it was his genuine signature:
Luka Forrester
It paled in comparison to the letters he used to write her. Here and there on the page were dry and wavered places, as if it had been written in a rain that didn't smudge the ink. The rambling lines were neatly arranged but without rhythm, as if they had been started and stopped ceaselessly until they stumbled into the next period. Where he flowed his anger was clearly holding the pen but where he meant to say anything else he might as well have been dictating things over the noise of his old war camp.
To know he must have written it alone made it a sad and stupid rag next to the works he used to send her. When, in brighter days, he had sent pages of poems about her eyes and the shine of beads of sweat on her scales. When he used to tell her more than his small mind could possibly contain, and would pledge a love for her that was as deathless as he himself. Back when he was General Luka Forrester, and proud to head an army without a cause, and carried her on his arm as an empress he put even above himself.
It was, despite all that, certainly the vampire's work. Eligre could see, in its awkward mishmash of phrases, some of the not inconsiderable pain that went into making it. And although his final result did not give him away too badly, there was one stroke out of place. In addressing it, where he used to write in every name of love he had ever had for her, illuminating some and turning others into a first flash of a burning desire for her, he had slipped. His pen had started to write in one such name, unknowable now, but still there as a soft sigh of the pen as it realized that work was long finished.
Just one mark of what had been.
It's fair to say that Cazador, though a good deal younger than Luka Forrester, was much more dangerous. Magic, at the end of the day, cannot be replaced by muscular strength or personal charisma no matter how magnetic they make a person. Luka is terribly dangerous, as long as he can get his hands on you. If not, he's really just a brawly old fool. No magic, no mind reading, just his extraordinary strength, a pretty face, and the chance to turn into a large black bat if he's willing to fall out of his clothes and turn back naked as the day he was born.
For all those deficiencies, Luka gets to walk through sunlight. It's about as good a trade off as one can ask from a curse like vampirism.
Right now he's engaged in the very dangerous pursuit of running around the house as fast as possible to get it ready for company who could arrive at any moment. His tailorshop, always a heap of every kind of fabric and garment imaginable, is being tossed upside down to make it presentable. Perfection is the enemy of the good, he decides as he runs both hands down his seams and makes sure his deep purple suit with the mango necktie is on straight as he surveys the shop. It is, with its vanilla smelling dust settling, presentable enough if his company is drunk or horny or both. He can only hope. He leaves, locking the door behind him and hurrying to his rendezvous.
Billfold ready to be abused, he finds his place near a fountain that's filling with the gold sunset. The buildings cast long ornate shadows, deep blue like him, and the sunset over the sea is plush and red and glowing. He watches its light passing over the buildings, giving them each their own peachy glow, until the sun gently sets into the sea and goes out.
As dark rising through the air he sits on the edge of the fountain and lights a smoke, turning into just another strange face in a tumultuous city of strangers and heroes.
For all those deficiencies, Luka gets to walk through sunlight. It's about as good a trade off as one can ask from a curse like vampirism.
Right now he's engaged in the very dangerous pursuit of running around the house as fast as possible to get it ready for company who could arrive at any moment. His tailorshop, always a heap of every kind of fabric and garment imaginable, is being tossed upside down to make it presentable. Perfection is the enemy of the good, he decides as he runs both hands down his seams and makes sure his deep purple suit with the mango necktie is on straight as he surveys the shop. It is, with its vanilla smelling dust settling, presentable enough if his company is drunk or horny or both. He can only hope. He leaves, locking the door behind him and hurrying to his rendezvous.
Billfold ready to be abused, he finds his place near a fountain that's filling with the gold sunset. The buildings cast long ornate shadows, deep blue like him, and the sunset over the sea is plush and red and glowing. He watches its light passing over the buildings, giving them each their own peachy glow, until the sun gently sets into the sea and goes out.
As dark rising through the air he sits on the edge of the fountain and lights a smoke, turning into just another strange face in a tumultuous city of strangers and heroes.
The dogs and goats and pigs, the smoke from the forge works, the chattering of the officers and soldiers and scared children. A sea of tents, rivers of mud, the ceaseless tanging of hammer and steel. It all makes Baron Knacus grind his teeth and tap his heel against his horse's flank, irritating the animal and making it blow and tug at the reins.
The witch is bound and gagged, tied behind his horse where she can walk along and take in the war camp at eye level with her new captors. Knacus contented himself that this was the best they had traveled together, and that his relationship with Eligre was ending on a pleasant note. Her books and spell components are locked in chests carried by terrified boys three horses behind her, and Knacus has paid a few extra roughs to flesh out his contingent. Eligre made up with magic what they lacked in might and now, as they said goodbye, Knacus hoped to make up for her loss.
Their four months under contract was to end with Eligre winning a number of his family's finest gems, the best books from his library and whatever she pleased from the dungeons they traversed. As it stood she had gotten a five month headache, a few fistfuls of gold and the most interesting book on offer: a moronically written travelogue for a country she had yet to visit.
And now she was being sold for Baron Knacus's peace of mind.
The obligatory bald place in the campsite loomed before her and the terrified boy holding her lead left her at its center.
"General Forrester!" Knacus grins and laughs, his heart on the back of his tongue making the whole sound shiver. He sits tall in his saddle, his brown and red slashed sleeves and leggings too tight and threadbare for him making the Baron look every bit like the turkey he is. His sweating face smiles at the man sitting across the bald patch of ground.
"Baron Knacus." The general stands from the table of paperwork that had held his attention till now. He tucks his glasses away and turns slowly to face them. The girl in the mud and the sweating man on the horse behind her.
The general wears a Loden green wool coat, cut perfectly to his broad frame and arabesqued across the chest and shoulders with black braid. Matte iron fastenings give the shoulders, the cuffs, the collar their ranks of metal importance. The general's air of tired dignity and the cut of the coat make it easy to miss his riding trousers and heavy, worn boots. This meeting required a coat, not dress.
"It is my honor to finally meet you, sir." Knacus keeps his smile on and doesn't blink. At Luka's elbow a bored aide de camp moves papers around, their scarred face and stern eyes lightless. No one here is batting an eye at the Baron's station. The general watches him with all the interest he'd show a tapering candle. Soldiers around them waste time, chew loudly, talk over each other's shoulders. "My thanks that you've made your camp such a welcoming place."
The general raises a hand and winds it through the air. Get on with it.
"I bring you the price we negotiated." Knacus hurries to say through his sneer. Luka and his army have been a threat since his father's day but only in the last year had they become an inevitability. Knacus could choose to back the king whose line had handed his ancestor their barony or he could lay what riches they still possessed at the general's feet and hope. Eligre and her works significantly increased the value of those riches. "My riches are yours, as is my loyalty. For the good of my house, we pledge ourselves to your cause."
The general stands listening, his eyes small black pinpricks against the gold rings of his irises. He waits, watching the sweat swell through Knacus's skin, hearing his heart stuttering and starting to try and beat its way free of his chest.
He lifts a hand and brushes it through the air, dismissing the baron. The noble on the horse starts to go, the animal skating back awkwardly, shaking its reins as Knacus gets the will to refuse his dismissal. The general is a commoner, a foreigner, he's no king. He's not even human, some say.
"That will be all, baron. Fare thy well."
Knacus clutches his reins, looks behind him to the boys on horseback dressed as knights, and leads them away. They leave Eligre, her crates of books, and take the fineries and horse she joined their company with.
"You would think they never met a mage in their lives." Luka says to the scarred figure at the table. The other grunts in response, organizing the papers in front of them. The general takes a lead block from the table, handling it like it were a snuffbox. It is a leaden square, with a pair of hands bulging from its center and a lock on one side. The general opens it like a book, showing the hollow place inside designed to trap a pair of clasped hands.
He comes up to Elgire, casting a long shadow over her, and stoops in front of her in the mud. The lead gloves sit open on his knee as he takes both her hands, folds them together and then sets them in place, closes and locks the contraption. His big hands are cold, very cold, and he goes about the task as if it were simple and he weren't locking away her best chance to obliterate him. Once locked the gloves are shoulder-achingly heavy and she can feel the heat of her fingertips sweating on each other.
The witch is bound and gagged, tied behind his horse where she can walk along and take in the war camp at eye level with her new captors. Knacus contented himself that this was the best they had traveled together, and that his relationship with Eligre was ending on a pleasant note. Her books and spell components are locked in chests carried by terrified boys three horses behind her, and Knacus has paid a few extra roughs to flesh out his contingent. Eligre made up with magic what they lacked in might and now, as they said goodbye, Knacus hoped to make up for her loss.
Their four months under contract was to end with Eligre winning a number of his family's finest gems, the best books from his library and whatever she pleased from the dungeons they traversed. As it stood she had gotten a five month headache, a few fistfuls of gold and the most interesting book on offer: a moronically written travelogue for a country she had yet to visit.
And now she was being sold for Baron Knacus's peace of mind.
The obligatory bald place in the campsite loomed before her and the terrified boy holding her lead left her at its center.
"General Forrester!" Knacus grins and laughs, his heart on the back of his tongue making the whole sound shiver. He sits tall in his saddle, his brown and red slashed sleeves and leggings too tight and threadbare for him making the Baron look every bit like the turkey he is. His sweating face smiles at the man sitting across the bald patch of ground.
"Baron Knacus." The general stands from the table of paperwork that had held his attention till now. He tucks his glasses away and turns slowly to face them. The girl in the mud and the sweating man on the horse behind her.
The general wears a Loden green wool coat, cut perfectly to his broad frame and arabesqued across the chest and shoulders with black braid. Matte iron fastenings give the shoulders, the cuffs, the collar their ranks of metal importance. The general's air of tired dignity and the cut of the coat make it easy to miss his riding trousers and heavy, worn boots. This meeting required a coat, not dress.
"It is my honor to finally meet you, sir." Knacus keeps his smile on and doesn't blink. At Luka's elbow a bored aide de camp moves papers around, their scarred face and stern eyes lightless. No one here is batting an eye at the Baron's station. The general watches him with all the interest he'd show a tapering candle. Soldiers around them waste time, chew loudly, talk over each other's shoulders. "My thanks that you've made your camp such a welcoming place."
The general raises a hand and winds it through the air. Get on with it.
"I bring you the price we negotiated." Knacus hurries to say through his sneer. Luka and his army have been a threat since his father's day but only in the last year had they become an inevitability. Knacus could choose to back the king whose line had handed his ancestor their barony or he could lay what riches they still possessed at the general's feet and hope. Eligre and her works significantly increased the value of those riches. "My riches are yours, as is my loyalty. For the good of my house, we pledge ourselves to your cause."
The general stands listening, his eyes small black pinpricks against the gold rings of his irises. He waits, watching the sweat swell through Knacus's skin, hearing his heart stuttering and starting to try and beat its way free of his chest.
He lifts a hand and brushes it through the air, dismissing the baron. The noble on the horse starts to go, the animal skating back awkwardly, shaking its reins as Knacus gets the will to refuse his dismissal. The general is a commoner, a foreigner, he's no king. He's not even human, some say.
"That will be all, baron. Fare thy well."
Knacus clutches his reins, looks behind him to the boys on horseback dressed as knights, and leads them away. They leave Eligre, her crates of books, and take the fineries and horse she joined their company with.
"You would think they never met a mage in their lives." Luka says to the scarred figure at the table. The other grunts in response, organizing the papers in front of them. The general takes a lead block from the table, handling it like it were a snuffbox. It is a leaden square, with a pair of hands bulging from its center and a lock on one side. The general opens it like a book, showing the hollow place inside designed to trap a pair of clasped hands.
He comes up to Elgire, casting a long shadow over her, and stoops in front of her in the mud. The lead gloves sit open on his knee as he takes both her hands, folds them together and then sets them in place, closes and locks the contraption. His big hands are cold, very cold, and he goes about the task as if it were simple and he weren't locking away her best chance to obliterate him. Once locked the gloves are shoulder-achingly heavy and she can feel the heat of her fingertips sweating on each other.
Vampires texting on a pole telephone
Jun. 11th, 2024 07:53 amAll attempted murders are trying, aren't they? But not trying hard enough! L-O-L
Vamp 2 Vamp (text) Conversation
Jun. 4th, 2024 09:00 amYou might think that old impulse should die with age, but in my experience it is more like a wave. One night you are riding high, and the wind is at your back, and the next you are in a doldrum with nothing but broken birds around your feet. Listening to one's hunger is the only course that can keep you sane, if it can at all. But then self denial never goes out of fashion, does it? Poor fools.
Fight Night with @nogodsnoheroes
Dec. 15th, 2023 09:50 amPrizefighting went one of two ways, for Luka. First, he could take the fight seriously and attempt a good show despite his enormous strength by toying with his opponent for a few rounds and then finishing them off decidedly after the bell, usually at the top of the fourth or fifth round. It was a tough business, not because of any real risk of harm but because his strength and ability to walk off nearly any injury made him a very conspicuous fighter. He had to sell pain and disorientation in a way he did not real, and often got wrapped up in his performance enough to lose sight of his real objective: Beating the snot out of his opponent for large sums of money.
The second option was altogether easier: Rig the fight. Few were the fighters who looked up at his seven foot, musclebound self, and thought they had a fair chance in a brawl. So why not fake it? Both fighters would perform, toss each other around and see how they could best hurt one another without injury, before one of them wheedled out a victory. Then they split the money and disappeared. It was altogether easier and left far fewer questions. Even if they were made for charlatans they were then both culpable, instead of strange questions being asked as to why just one fighter had been holding himself back.
Seeing the woman across the ring from him tonight, with a severe, animal look in her eyes and no apparent interest in talking things out, Luka guessed tonight would go the hard way.
He shrugged off his satin robe, hung it on the post behind him and sat watching the woman in the opposite corner of the ring. Worrying over fighting women didn't concern him, only the worry that he would be up against someone slighter than him and punching down at that. If he wasn't careful there could be serious trouble right away, and if the match was over too quickly he might be made for the sneak thief he occasionally was.
Hands wrapped, glasses stewed away, in his undershirt and trousers Luka rose when the ref grumblingly summoned the fighters to the center of the ring. He tapped his knuckles on his opponent's and inclined his head towards her, hoping for fruit at the end of his olive branch as he said:
"Let's have a good clean fight, uh?"
The second option was altogether easier: Rig the fight. Few were the fighters who looked up at his seven foot, musclebound self, and thought they had a fair chance in a brawl. So why not fake it? Both fighters would perform, toss each other around and see how they could best hurt one another without injury, before one of them wheedled out a victory. Then they split the money and disappeared. It was altogether easier and left far fewer questions. Even if they were made for charlatans they were then both culpable, instead of strange questions being asked as to why just one fighter had been holding himself back.
Seeing the woman across the ring from him tonight, with a severe, animal look in her eyes and no apparent interest in talking things out, Luka guessed tonight would go the hard way.
He shrugged off his satin robe, hung it on the post behind him and sat watching the woman in the opposite corner of the ring. Worrying over fighting women didn't concern him, only the worry that he would be up against someone slighter than him and punching down at that. If he wasn't careful there could be serious trouble right away, and if the match was over too quickly he might be made for the sneak thief he occasionally was.
Hands wrapped, glasses stewed away, in his undershirt and trousers Luka rose when the ref grumblingly summoned the fighters to the center of the ring. He tapped his knuckles on his opponent's and inclined his head towards her, hoping for fruit at the end of his olive branch as he said:
"Let's have a good clean fight, uh?"
Blue Man Coalescence for @Makingmyway
Dec. 6th, 2023 10:14 amForrester Tailor is a three storey turn of the century townhome made of red sandstone. There is a hexagonal tower on the front corner, with bay windows looking out onto the street and in onto the shop that makes up the first floor. The front door in etch glass and dark, polish wood, set back in a shaded porch that opens through a circular marble archway that grows down into a set of low steps onto the street. The porch is shaded by a second floor balcony built of the same white marble, with the posts of its railing carved to read 'Forrester Tailor.' Dorian has never been upstairs, the ground floor itself offers plenty of fascinations all its own, but he's come and gone from the shop enough times to find the ostentatiousness of the façade pleasant and familiar now.
Luka Forrester himself has become one of those familiar fascinations, too. Dorian usually finds him in the racks of the tall, red curtained main room of the shop. Here there are Persian rugs covering the hardwood floor, gently gold globe lights hanging from the tin tiled ceiling, long curtains covering the tall windows that face the neighboring buildings and a pair of covered mirrors. Everything else is shelves and racks and stacks of clothing of every cut, shape, material and purpose imaginable. There is a fitting room off the main room and a pair of pocket doors that close on a tomb of bolts of fabric and the rattling sewing machine Luka can be found at from time to time.
The man himself is tall, a full seven feet, and built as broad and brawny as any experienced adventurer. He's got pointed ears, dark blue skin, and yellow eyes like a cat's. Dorian has to wonder what combination of Drow he might be, though Luka has ducked the question if it's ever asked of him. With his good looks and implacable accent, a non answer is just as good as a real one.
He finds Luka at the large desk at the back of the main room, just in front of the tomb of fabric, reading the newspaper and nursing a cup of tea. The cup is a tiny, elegant porcelain thing with gilded lip and handle. It looks silly pinched in Luka's big hand, in a way that reflects the oddness Dorian feels in this building. The ornateness of the place is one thing, but it's also been built on a total different scale than Dorian is used to, all the doors, press-buttons for the lights, coat hooks and any other fixture built for someone Luka's size. The feeling of being a foot too short is now also familiar to him, though perhaps not altogether pleasant.
Luka sets his cup down, looking up over the corner of the newspaper.
"Dorian, right on time as usual I see."
Luka Forrester himself has become one of those familiar fascinations, too. Dorian usually finds him in the racks of the tall, red curtained main room of the shop. Here there are Persian rugs covering the hardwood floor, gently gold globe lights hanging from the tin tiled ceiling, long curtains covering the tall windows that face the neighboring buildings and a pair of covered mirrors. Everything else is shelves and racks and stacks of clothing of every cut, shape, material and purpose imaginable. There is a fitting room off the main room and a pair of pocket doors that close on a tomb of bolts of fabric and the rattling sewing machine Luka can be found at from time to time.
The man himself is tall, a full seven feet, and built as broad and brawny as any experienced adventurer. He's got pointed ears, dark blue skin, and yellow eyes like a cat's. Dorian has to wonder what combination of Drow he might be, though Luka has ducked the question if it's ever asked of him. With his good looks and implacable accent, a non answer is just as good as a real one.
He finds Luka at the large desk at the back of the main room, just in front of the tomb of fabric, reading the newspaper and nursing a cup of tea. The cup is a tiny, elegant porcelain thing with gilded lip and handle. It looks silly pinched in Luka's big hand, in a way that reflects the oddness Dorian feels in this building. The ornateness of the place is one thing, but it's also been built on a total different scale than Dorian is used to, all the doors, press-buttons for the lights, coat hooks and any other fixture built for someone Luka's size. The feeling of being a foot too short is now also familiar to him, though perhaps not altogether pleasant.
Luka sets his cup down, looking up over the corner of the newspaper.
"Dorian, right on time as usual I see."
"Your nails will be ruined one way or the other, if we're going about this goblin affair."
Luka stands seven feet tall, wearing a pair of steel pauldrons layered and shaped to his broad shoulders over his Ulster coat of Loden green wool. The coat's short cape is strapped down by the leather ties of the armor, which form an X over his puffed chest and are buckled in the center by a steel clasp shaped like a snake eating his own tail. His face is dark blue, angular and bearded, his hair is precisely braided for travel. Under the heavy green drape of the coat he wears blackened leathers, well cut, formfitting and sensible for a seasoned adventurer. Around his waist there are two large daggers with jade and ivory handles, a zweihander strapped to his back. Despite the overtly wrought nature of the rest of him, his expression is frank and rather silly.
Around them the camp is sparse, but well constructed. Luka's tent is as big as the rest of him, embroidered green and black silks propped into a space that's kept militaristically tidy, and tarped overhead with sealskin to keep the worst of the elements from ruining his nice fabrics. Behind him the big draft horse, called Horse, who carries Luka's endless cedar luggages is plotting his next move in their extremely acrimonious partnership.
"But worry not, my dear." He inclines his head and smiles, a show of bright, very sharp teeth. "When your poor little arms give out I'll be there to carry you and the spoils back."
Then, as if obliging a wish from the other vampire, Luka raises an arm from under his caped coat and flexes the bicep of his left arm. It's as big around as Astarion's head.
Luka stands seven feet tall, wearing a pair of steel pauldrons layered and shaped to his broad shoulders over his Ulster coat of Loden green wool. The coat's short cape is strapped down by the leather ties of the armor, which form an X over his puffed chest and are buckled in the center by a steel clasp shaped like a snake eating his own tail. His face is dark blue, angular and bearded, his hair is precisely braided for travel. Under the heavy green drape of the coat he wears blackened leathers, well cut, formfitting and sensible for a seasoned adventurer. Around his waist there are two large daggers with jade and ivory handles, a zweihander strapped to his back. Despite the overtly wrought nature of the rest of him, his expression is frank and rather silly.
Around them the camp is sparse, but well constructed. Luka's tent is as big as the rest of him, embroidered green and black silks propped into a space that's kept militaristically tidy, and tarped overhead with sealskin to keep the worst of the elements from ruining his nice fabrics. Behind him the big draft horse, called Horse, who carries Luka's endless cedar luggages is plotting his next move in their extremely acrimonious partnership.
"But worry not, my dear." He inclines his head and smiles, a show of bright, very sharp teeth. "When your poor little arms give out I'll be there to carry you and the spoils back."
Then, as if obliging a wish from the other vampire, Luka raises an arm from under his caped coat and flexes the bicep of his left arm. It's as big around as Astarion's head.
Strange flowers @lady_kaidovulin
Nov. 6th, 2023 09:54 amLuka's experience with horticulture had been limited to the few gardens he planted and then dug back up whenever he had something new to put in the ground. It led to a lush, all be it haphazard ecosystem of tall, buoyant azaleas, plush rose bushes and a lot of odds and ends torn up or pruned down to nothing to make room for more 'fertilizer.'
On the road his interest in flowers diminished even further. Apart from being nice, but short-lived, ornaments he didn't see the use of them. Which is why the tall, poisonously colorful, thick stemmed and alien bulbbed thing striking up from the ground really caught him off guard.
It was about three feet tall, its bulb the size of a man's fist, with thick fleshy petals all tightly closed around a center that appeared to be oozing. The petals were green at their base, gradiating up to canary yellow and then a wet periwinkle where they folded in together over the stigma. The stem was as big around as two of his fingers, a vibrant greenish-blue and the whole thing sat on a bulbous mound of deep purple flowers.
Luka bent at the waist to look at the flower, sniffing at it. It had an earthy, fermented aroma that was a little putrid but only enough to make it interesting to keep smelling.
"Kaivodulin," he said over his shoulder, reaching for the plant. It bobbed forward under his hand, the oozy center dripping something clear onto the ground. "Kaivodulin come have a look at this, they've made a new kind of ugly plant!"
On the road his interest in flowers diminished even further. Apart from being nice, but short-lived, ornaments he didn't see the use of them. Which is why the tall, poisonously colorful, thick stemmed and alien bulbbed thing striking up from the ground really caught him off guard.
It was about three feet tall, its bulb the size of a man's fist, with thick fleshy petals all tightly closed around a center that appeared to be oozing. The petals were green at their base, gradiating up to canary yellow and then a wet periwinkle where they folded in together over the stigma. The stem was as big around as two of his fingers, a vibrant greenish-blue and the whole thing sat on a bulbous mound of deep purple flowers.
Luka bent at the waist to look at the flower, sniffing at it. It had an earthy, fermented aroma that was a little putrid but only enough to make it interesting to keep smelling.
"Kaivodulin," he said over his shoulder, reaching for the plant. It bobbed forward under his hand, the oozy center dripping something clear onto the ground. "Kaivodulin come have a look at this, they've made a new kind of ugly plant!"
In 372 BCE the bar had been a patch of farmland with a wiry, ill tempered goat who bleated at Luka loud enough to make his ears bleed. The farm woman didn’t seem to like the animal any more than he did, but she didn’t like people much either. She wouldn’t spare any of her grapes and the noise of the goat pained Luka too much to do anything about the disagreeable woman. He left them, telling the farm woman her grapes would rot on the vine and her goat would be her only husband.
She didn’t seem to hear him, the animal had already shrieked her nearly deaf.
Now, in the age of electric light, the interneted series of tubes and the pudding cup, there was a bar and several miles of city where the little farm had been. Luka noted, with grief, that there was a preserved carving of a heavy hung vine over the door and that the man behind the bar had the old farmer’s bony nose.
Luka ordered a red and grappa to chase it, and comforted himself that he had outlived the old woman not only in years but in experience. Outside in the ancient cobble street there was a night fair, with elaborate fairytale costumes, hot grease dripping fried food, thick smoke and loud LED lights in all colors. The groaning arms of swinging metal carnival rides lurched back and forth in the plaza proper, and in the bar stragglers and people tired of overpriced IPAs looked for something to drink.
Luka bolted his grappa down, spun the little glass back across the bar and took his red with him deeper into the building. Being out of the light and noise of the fair was a much needed reprieve. He had thought to hunt tonight, and still hoped to, but the overstimulation of the fair was almost as grating as the ancient goat’s bleating. If he could have his way he would have liked the fair without its thumping electric music, a little less smoke and more dancing.
He moved into a dark corner where he could watch the rest of the bar for anyone drinking alone.
The old ways were reflected in the modern age, he thought, but he was a man for whom mirrors were as nothing. At least the wine was still good.
She didn’t seem to hear him, the animal had already shrieked her nearly deaf.
Now, in the age of electric light, the interneted series of tubes and the pudding cup, there was a bar and several miles of city where the little farm had been. Luka noted, with grief, that there was a preserved carving of a heavy hung vine over the door and that the man behind the bar had the old farmer’s bony nose.
Luka ordered a red and grappa to chase it, and comforted himself that he had outlived the old woman not only in years but in experience. Outside in the ancient cobble street there was a night fair, with elaborate fairytale costumes, hot grease dripping fried food, thick smoke and loud LED lights in all colors. The groaning arms of swinging metal carnival rides lurched back and forth in the plaza proper, and in the bar stragglers and people tired of overpriced IPAs looked for something to drink.
Luka bolted his grappa down, spun the little glass back across the bar and took his red with him deeper into the building. Being out of the light and noise of the fair was a much needed reprieve. He had thought to hunt tonight, and still hoped to, but the overstimulation of the fair was almost as grating as the ancient goat’s bleating. If he could have his way he would have liked the fair without its thumping electric music, a little less smoke and more dancing.
He moved into a dark corner where he could watch the rest of the bar for anyone drinking alone.
The old ways were reflected in the modern age, he thought, but he was a man for whom mirrors were as nothing. At least the wine was still good.
October Fight Meme For @sceadwe
Oct. 13th, 2023 09:59 pmThere have been many adventures, many parties, many names for Luka to remember. Adventuring suits him. Easy food, long days of travel, new people and new experiences. There are some constants, of course.
The long morning hours that roast his skin and make him sluggish and irritable. The warm taverns and the long nights under the stars.
There was the ceaseless hunger clawing at his gut.
There were, also, the personalities who came back again and again. The irrepressible, drunken barbarian. The pious, distracted cleric. The bard who couldn't contain themselves around dragons (Luka quite liked those ones.)
And, of course, the rogue who liked to keep to themself and their blades.
Luka, built tall and strong with more grace than such a big man was due, tapped Narriel's shoulder with his knuckles. He had on hand on a jade handled dagger. The rest of the party was off arguing in town trying to settle some basic haggling, leaving the two of them at camp.
"What do you say, elf? You haven't sharpened those blades on any bones for too long."
The long morning hours that roast his skin and make him sluggish and irritable. The warm taverns and the long nights under the stars.
There was the ceaseless hunger clawing at his gut.
There were, also, the personalities who came back again and again. The irrepressible, drunken barbarian. The pious, distracted cleric. The bard who couldn't contain themselves around dragons (Luka quite liked those ones.)
And, of course, the rogue who liked to keep to themself and their blades.
Luka, built tall and strong with more grace than such a big man was due, tapped Narriel's shoulder with his knuckles. He had on hand on a jade handled dagger. The rest of the party was off arguing in town trying to settle some basic haggling, leaving the two of them at camp.
"What do you say, elf? You haven't sharpened those blades on any bones for too long."
Luka stands on the sand at early morning, with the sky breaking blue over the black water. He wears a long overcoat and feels the wind on his bare legs. In his pockets he has their signed, wine soaked contract, a sarong folded to the size of a handkerchief, and a pocket square wrapped in tissue paper and a flimsy cardboard box. When the demon arrives he’ll negotiate hand off of the pocket square, then run into the surf to be in deep enough water to swim away when the spell is cast.
He doesn’t doubt that Crowley would transform him on the sand and let him flop there suffocating for four hours. An ounce of prevention equals a pound of cure. He’ll do the handoff waist deep in the surf if he needs to.
He wonders if there are any other marlins nearby. Or what the sky looks like reflected on the surface of the waves.
He doesn’t doubt that Crowley would transform him on the sand and let him flop there suffocating for four hours. An ounce of prevention equals a pound of cure. He’ll do the handoff waist deep in the surf if he needs to.
He wonders if there are any other marlins nearby. Or what the sky looks like reflected on the surface of the waves.
Younger vampires were easy to spot, in Luka's estimation. There were a number of factors: baring, clothing, the state of their eyes, their nails, in they shied or demurred from conversations. It was not, he could admit, easy to guess just how young one might be but that was where his handicap played a role. A vampire from the Court of the Sun King was about as old to him as someone who had seen the Crystal Palace at the '53 World's Fair.
He guessed the young woman in front of him was closer to the Palace than Court. And, as was the case with many young vampires, closer to her humanity than he to his.
Watching her, he hummed and distracted himself and made noises at the work of Julius Victor Berger on the wall in front of him.
They were at an estate sale, part of the usual machinations of the city as the world turned slowly but surely into the new century. A townhouse on Hyde Park was being liquidated and there was a townhouse's worth of furniture and art and odds and ends to get rid of.
He hummed and indicated the painting, a portrait of a wine drunk woman in rosy pink satin playing a mandolin, to the young girl when he felt a cold spot brush close to him. He gestured with his homburg at the work, looking down at her from the corner of his eye.
"I'd love a glass of whatever she's had." He said lightly.
He guessed the young woman in front of him was closer to the Palace than Court. And, as was the case with many young vampires, closer to her humanity than he to his.
Watching her, he hummed and distracted himself and made noises at the work of Julius Victor Berger on the wall in front of him.
They were at an estate sale, part of the usual machinations of the city as the world turned slowly but surely into the new century. A townhouse on Hyde Park was being liquidated and there was a townhouse's worth of furniture and art and odds and ends to get rid of.
He hummed and indicated the painting, a portrait of a wine drunk woman in rosy pink satin playing a mandolin, to the young girl when he felt a cold spot brush close to him. He gestured with his homburg at the work, looking down at her from the corner of his eye.
"I'd love a glass of whatever she's had." He said lightly.
Luka sits looking at the hatefully glowing screen of the phone with one eye shut. He huffs and types delicately with one fingers, trying not to let the light touch his eye too much. Around his chair there are a number of empty wine bottles and blackened cigar ends.
'My alternate theory is someone broke into my home and drank it all and then clubbed me over the head. A complex explanation for the headache but it at least meets the necessary facts.'
'My alternate theory is someone broke into my home and drank it all and then clubbed me over the head. A complex explanation for the headache but it at least meets the necessary facts.'
