d | a november catchall

[damnpire]

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

Comments

[wrists]

[ every part of him wishes to spit curses out at the patrons of the tavern, at D for interfering with his decidedly foolish actions. laurent hums with anger, some vulnerable part of him torn loose. he hadn't asked for help. he could have taken a good number of these men without any of them landing a blow — he's certain of his skills, of the years spent toiling beneath a sword with only the singular thought of becoming good enough to slay prince damianos of akielos, his brother's killer — and as for the rest, he would have weaseled his way out of the situation somehow. he always does.

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.

[damnpire]

[Here, now, he's thankful for the rain. It's a little harder to smell the blood from Laurent's hand through it, and it's a little easier to try wrangling back the Nobility he leaned into.

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.

[wrists]

[ laurent's anger pulses through him like a living creature, dangerous with no one to rein it back — though D certainly makes an attempt, his efforts unwanted. the strange power radiating from him has faded now, the glint of sharp teeth smoothed over. their eyes meet, laurent's lashes spiked with rain.

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. ]

[damnpire]

[This feels very much like dealing with a toddler, and then that's giving almost not enough credit to toddlers.] Not for fighting, no. [He does not think for a second Laurent is this mouthy without having some way of backing it up at least a little.

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.

[wrists]

[ could he blame discomfort for his anger? he can't remember the last time he truly felt relaxed, when tension didn't hold him as taut as a stringed instrument. even now, he's ready to move in an instant, his muscles rigid, instincts coiled like a viper waiting to strike.

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.

[damnpire]

[He stands there long enough to allow Laurent to have a moment, to grow accustomed to the sliver of serenity the kindness and cloak offer. It isn’t much different than sitting some ways off from an untrusting animal, letting it get used to just your existence.]

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.]

[wrists]

[ it takes a measured breath and several moments of convincing himself before he follows, his steps light even on the wet road as he catches up, keeping a pace between them but walking side by side. ]

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.

[damnpire]

[Even if he disagreed, he does not try to argue with Laurent about the rashness or the loudness.

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.]