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d | a november catchall
WHO: d & others
WHERE: stygia mostly probably
WHEN: nov.
WHAT: general meetups, notice board things, etc.
WARNINGS: me freezing spoon's comment so i can laugh every time i see it, reference to csa (laurent), snake imagery (augustine)
OOC plotting post
WHERE: stygia mostly probably
WHEN: nov.
WHAT: general meetups, notice board things, etc.
WARNINGS: me freezing spoon's comment so i can laugh every time i see it, reference to csa (laurent), snake imagery (augustine)
no subject
What other choice does he have? In that way, he might be like Laurent. Bold, but just in silence. Enduring because there isn't any thing else except to press forward in time. Dwaddling earns nothing.]
I don't know if this curse works that way, [he admits.] The last time it happened, the only parallel was the moons were full.
I can stand in the rain. You can go inside.
no subject
[ a part of him wants to listen, to simply go inside and leave D stranded outside. but a larger part of him can't allow this curse — if that's indeed what it is — to simply sit. to fester. to spring up again with another inopportune truth that he keeps hidden for his own protection. the quiet intimacy of close bonds is not a luxury he's ever experienced, and so his honesty has always been withheld, locked away beneath his layers of impenetrable ice.
he turns back toward the tavern, clearly expecting D to follow, and when he reaches the door he pushes it open, crossing the threshold. the room is noisy, warm, and smells of cheap swill. laurent ignores the several eyes that sweep over the two of them, turning around with one hand holding the door open, looking at D standing mere steps away. ]
Well? Come inside.
no subject
His eyes watch Laurent head for the tavern. He only follows enough to come to a final stop some ways from the door. It really feels impenetrable to him now. He knows the doorway isn't going to accept him without stealing the breath from his lungs, but Laurent stands there, beckoning. Inviting.
Slowly, he takes one step and then another. The threshold accepts him as easily as any other, as it always has; however, just on the other side, standing in the orange light, he can feel the tightening of his chest. Something begins drawing the air out of his lungs, not even bothering to make it escape his mouth. His jaw tightens. He could probably last for a lot longer without air than most others, but there's no point.
Under the curious, confused gaze of some of the others, he simply turns around in place and leaves exactly the way he had entered without a word. It's almost as if a ghost had breached the establishment doorway and been cast back out again.
He stops where he had been previously, letting his breathing level out.]
no subject
it might have ended with that, if a drunken patron did not choose that exact moment to waddle up and clap a hand to laurent's waist. he stiffens, unused to such brazen contact when no one in arles without a death wish would dare raise a hand to the prince. he turns, coming face to face with a stranger with unremarkable black hair and muddy eyes, holding out a heavy mug of the cheap ale as if in offering. laurent recognizes the look of a man captivated by a pretty face, something he's had to endure his entire life.
in the palace, it would be much more subtle, forward advances made by ministers and diplomats desperate for a mere glance from vere's prince. laurent would not cause an international incident, skilled at getting himself out of these situations with his silver tongue. but this is the netherworld. these are mere restless, and he is hardly a prince here. he accepts the drink and thinks nothing of the familiar rage that grips him, blinding. in one powerful arc, he smashes the mug against the man's face hard enough that the crack of bone can be heard throughout the tavern.
it breaks in his hand, ale spilling across the floor as the man crumples. he throws the pieces down as several patrons spring to their feet, but instead of choosing to make a timely exit, laurent upends a table and kicks it several paces across the room, sending it careening. his eyes are glacial with fury, his temper unleashed like a wounded beast. at his back, the twisted skies of stygia open up and the downpour begins, cold water splashing his boots through the open door — no doubt soaking D, though laurent doesn't look back to see if the man is even still there. ]
I will take any one of you. [ laurent speaks calmly despite the quaking rampage he wishes to let loose. ] Or all of you.
no subject
Being in the rain is bad enough. He can feel his strength, already diminished, getting pulled somewhat out of him. Silent and unmoving, he stands in place and watches Laurent, not for the first time, make a disorderly mess of everything.
But he isn't heartless, unfortunately. Laurent starts some trouble, and D doesn't leave.
The shadows on the outside of the door spit D languidly out just behind Laurent with no noise at all. The full of him takes up the whole doorway, a mass of black making Laurent seem like a bright overlay in the foreground. Under the brim of the hat, two burning carnelian eyes gaze over Laurent piercingly. The darkness congregating in the corners and the edges of the building, the threshold, the windows, seems to churn; it creeps inward like a prowling cat, bending toward D.
A strange chill raises the hairs on the back of Laurent's neck; it's fear, but a very primordial kind of fear. An old, ancient reflex, understanding a predatory danger, the desperation to survive. There is a sick thrill to it too, however. Under the surface, something sensually charming, an addictive and unnatural seduction. D moves around Laurent and into the tavern, stepping over the fallen man without sympathy, even letting the ends of the long cape drag across the body.
Like before, the air starts leaving his lungs, swallowed up by nothing.
With what's left of his breath, he says,] Sit down. [His voice lacks the usual meek and humble timber; it's deep and rich. Commanding. The standing patrons hesitate uncertainly for a long moment, and then they slowly sit again in a confused sort of stupor. The idea sounds vaguely enticing to Laurent, but it's hazy, muffled.
Then he turns to face Laurent with the eyes on fire, and in the same voice says, paper-thin, mouth now full of fangs,] That's enough. Out. [Again, he steps over the man, toward Laurent this time, and he doesn't stop. Laurent will have to either fight him or leave out of the door lest he be bullied outside by D's whole body.]
no subject
and now his anger has nowhere to go as D bodily forces him out the tavern and into the rain, where he's immediately soaked, his golden hair darkening with water. his hand stings suddenly, and when he looks down he notices for the first time a gash across his palm, a jagged piece of the broken mug having sliced through skin to leave him bleeding. he swings his gaze to D, the moonlight catching the crystalline quality of his blue eyes, livid.
there are a dozen scathing remarks on his tongue, but he falters, an uncharacteristic weakness, the cloak of his identity stripped away. even with the dangerous weight of his uncle's presence hanging over him like an anvil back in arles, he was still the prince of vere. he had the authority to have men flogged, killed, to say and do as he liked and suffer the consequences in private. here, standing before D with the heat of his own temper warming his cheeks, he feels like little more than a child, battered, soiled, just a man with a bloodline ruined by his uncle's cock.
he has never wanted to kill a man more. he imagines his sword slicing cleanly across the column of D's throat, his unnatural beauty preserved as the blood drains out of him. and yet the last bit of sense remaining in him tells him that D cannot be killed, at least not so easily. ]
Don't order me again. [ his voice is low, the silken quality gone and replaced by something hard, raw — perhaps the only real part of him that's seeped through the falsely honeyed veneer, the blank impassivity he's presented so far. ] Or I promise you, I will find a way to have you sent to the Gallows, the Forges, or the Tempest. I'll allow you the choice.
no subject
Air returns to his lungs, and he inhales deeply and quietly; exhales, long and slow. The fangs have shrunken away, but by now he doesn't even open his mouth very widely. The resounding voice he had spoken with before has vanished; the level and low one has returned.]
Those places do not frighten me, [he says through the rain, peering at Laurent. The burning, red-hot eyes have faded almost completely away, once more dark and muddy.] Nothing of any importance would be lost with my death.
[He will absolutely look Laurent in the face and say Laurent cannot possibly kill or torture him in any way that matters. For all of Laurent's power back home, he has none here.
This is something D understands well, surprisingly, though he has never tried to use his reputation to get the upper hand. His life hasn't always been easy and free (it still hadn't been easy before his "death"), but unlike Laurent, he has never needed to stay a step ahead in prestige, or politics. Being the supposed son of the notorious vampire king was a title he too never wanted.]
There isn't anything for you in a place like that.
[The tavern, he means. There isn't anything of merit for Laurent somewhere like that no matter how much forced comfort Laurent is seeking, no matter how much facade Laurent is putting up.]
If I give you my cloak, will you wear it? [He has the hat left, it's good enough.] You can remove it when we are somewhere dry.
Wrap your hand with it.
no subject
he files that information away for later, the lack of D's fear of death. ]
There isn't — [ he stops himself, swallowing carefully. there isn't anything for him anywhere. no family that does not wish for his death. no allies to stand by his side. no one to turn to, here, when his shadow tightens its inevitable grip. he closes his bleeding hand into a fist, keeping the wince from his face even as the movement causes a throb of pain. ] I didn't require assistance back there, thank you.
[ because there's still the issue that now his anger has nowhere to go but inwards — but this is not an unfamiliar sensation, and it won't be the last time he's isolated in his rage. his eyes remain fixed on D at the offer of kindness; it chafes, a foreign burn against his skin.
but D, while he hasn't been cruel, is not particularly prone to overt kindness, either. he is not like aspen, who will help for the sake of helping. laurent's hand drips blood mingled with rain, and he lifts it now, his eyes glinting like the sharp edges of blue glass. ]
Does the sight bother you? [ he curls his fingers, his blunt nails digging into the wound in his palm, his expression unchanged and showing no inclination of pain as fresh blood wells. when he relaxes his hand, there is significantly more red marring his skin. lightly, he steps forward, wiping his hand on the front of D's cloak. ] I don't need it. Your cloak. I'm already wet.
[ although — he's uncomfortable and freezing, and will not admit to it. ]
no subject
But he is a bit of a loose canon, and he thinks he can understand maybe why now.]
You aren't wrong to be angry when someone makes you uncomfortable.
[The smeared blood is accepted without a single defensive jerk or any flinch. He doesn't even try to grab Laurent's wrist even though he very well could. The sight bothers him immensely less than the smell of it through the rain, but luckily, the water washes it slowly off the material.
Then he does move finally; the way he reaches up across his chest is as if he might backhand Laurent. But instead, the gloved fingers of his right hand slide under the bottom edge of one of the pauldrons and unclasps that side of the cloak. The left hand is mostly open; the pale fingers do the same on the opposite side until the cloak is free. It takes a lot in him not to dump it over Laurent's head and turn him into some obsidian sheet ghost.
Politely, he drapes it around Laurent's shoulders and up over Laurent's head; it doesn't have a hood, but he brings it up enough for a makeshift one. The topside of it has been lacquered in something water-resistant, and the rain falls away. The inside is dry and smells like worn, soft leather.]
I can't enter any building, but I know a place to stay until the rain stops.
no subject
but D doesn't react in the expected way. laurent finds himself swathed in his cloak despite his protests, standing perfectly still as the cloth settles over him, effectively blocking out the rain. the material is reminiscent of the hat. instinctively, his uninjured hand comes up to clasp the cloak gently around his throat to keep it from slipping from his shoulders.
for a long moment, he says nothing. does nothing. water drips from his lashes, down the sharp angles of his cheeks, his damp hair framing his face. his nose is tinged red from the cold, and his fingers tighten around the soft cloak. this kindness feels like a thorny vine wrapped around his heart, tightening so the sharp points sink into flesh. he wavers, swallowing. the world seems to tilt, his balance lost. ]
You look at me differently now. [ his voice is detached, a mind desperate to sever itself from the body. this is the worst outcome he could have imagined. he would welcome vile, disparaging remarks over this — pitiful intimacy of being known. he wants to throw the cloak to the ground, turn on his heel and walk away. and yet he stands rooted to the spot, feeling as though the smallest movement could break him. ] This is not kindness. This is pity. You can't offer it to me because people will — they'll know.
[ he says it in a rush, his thoughts jumbled. a shiver moves through him, and not from the cold. it takes him another long moment to speak. ]
Until the rain stops. That's all.
no subject
No, [he says with level earnestness. He’d have done this for anyone, but doesn’t expect Laurent to give him that benefit.] You are the same rash, loud, foul-mouthed man I knew before.
Just now I understand why you think it’s necessary to be covered in thorns.
[He turns to walk ahead and lead. The lack of cloak has a similar effect to the lack of hat: he has been slimmed into something more his age, an extremely lean and muscular young man rather than a walking mountain of black. A little silly with the pauldrons only, the funny traveler’s hat, but he walks with the same measured and confident stride he always has.
The familiar croaking voice comes in pieces through the rain, hushed, like it’s for D:] Look, I know I … hard time … you think … a little risky … let … go over the… [D continues walking, looking straight ahead without acknowledgement.] Remember … last time. And … haven’t … blood. Eh? You … deny you’re … son— [D curls his left hand into a fist, and all the voice can do is let out a muffled mmph! of noise.]
no subject
I'm not rash or loud, thank you. [ foul-mouthed, he is. but what seems rash is generally a well-thought out decision even if it sometimes can be a poor one. generally. there are moments where his anger gets the best of him, and then... the people here don't know him well enough to stay away.
laurent, between the sheets of loud downpour, picks up only bits of conversation (one-sided) between D and his mysterious parasite before D silences it entirely. he realizes then that his hand is still dripping blood, rivulets of pink running down his fingertips. he would be leaving a trail if the rain wasn't washing away the evidence of their steps. his hand feels stiff and numb, and he slowly draws it into the warmth of the cloak, blood seeping into the soft, dry fabric inside. ]
Your little friend — [ laurent gestures to D's left hand. ] Doesn't appear to like me.
no subject
He continues walking, quiet, stride unhurried. Almost like he’s sour of spirit, perhaps the symbiote is quite skilled in hitting his sore spots. Though this is not necessarily a surprise having been with D for so long.]
There are only few it dislikes, [he finally says.] It acts as a Carbuncle does: caring only for its survival through the survival of its host.
[Not terribly far from the tavern they left, he takes them to a loophole: a dilapidated building with no discernible “threshold” he can be barred from passing, not when most of the front side has been peeled away. But there is still the overhang of a roof, and the interior is mostly dry and intact. The cold will plague them, however, until they get inside.
The back wall has the remnants of a hearth, and as D carefully steps through (wary that somehow the curse would have changed, or had some new stipulation), he goes straight for it. Laurent is left to be independent for now in what’s left of the dark carcass of the house.]