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“Graphic. Novels.” He retorted at Flynn’s query. Of course, the vampire was very much focused on the task at hand, so the line was a bit of a throw away, revealing that perhaps there was some history with Azraeth and that line of conversation. It was something they could talk about at a time when they were not fighting for their, and someone else’s life.

As it was, the Mystic’s attention was split several different ways. He was trying to keep an eye on the mortal they had come to rescue, as well as all of the sorcerers (because he didn’t want one sneaking off, only to attack them when his guard was down). He was also one of the few mystics who required incantation for his spells to work. He’d talked with a few others like himself, and each seemed to have a different experience of using the exact same magic. Some could do it with no ceremony at all. Just will the blood in another person’s body to become corrupt and caustic - and it did exactly that. Azraeth, on the other hand, what he did always required some form of sacrifice, occasionally some hand gestures, and almost always a spoken component (though over the years, he’d learned to more mutter those under his breath so as not to sound like a lunatic). As such, he didn’t even really notice the approach of his partner until Flynn was right on him, speaking his name.

He could immediately tell something was wrong though, or off. He scanned for injury immediately, ready to look for whoever had caused it and rip their throat out with his (very blunt) fingertips. However, the exact nature of the problem presented itself when the Paladin reached for his hand and then there was a tongue on his flesh. Which was not helping matters because it took the vampire’s mind out of the fight and in the direction of...other things. Normally, Az gave into his temptation fairly easily. Flynn knew this about him well. It took very little to distract the Mystic when there were certain rewards for his attention. Except it totally, totally was not the time. His gaze narrowed. Or at least one of his eyes did - the other destroyed by the heat blast.

He was about to tell the other man to save it for later, when he could have significantly more than a taste, but before he could utter a response, Flynn was gone to take care of some of the ‘baddies’, and Az was being attacked by another staff-wielding sorcerer - specifically in the form of a hard bash right to the back. What had that been about not letting his guard down? He whirled.

“Really now?!” He asked as he slid out of his defensive posture and slammed the heel of his palm right into a nose after stepping inside of the sorcerer’s guard. Up close and personal was not a good move for someone who relied heavily on magic. The nasal passage suddenly dislodged and slammed into a brain. There was some blood and other fluids which trickled out of the nostril holes. Eyes rolled back in a head, and the combatant fell to his knees, then to the ground. Dead.

The rest of the fight went largely on auto-pilot. There were some things people could do adequately without concentration. This was a fairly commonplace notion. A person got up every morning (or evening) and generally followed the same routine. The individual acts of getting up, pulling on clothes, preparing a bed, coffee - all of these things became muscle memory, and didn’t require active thinking to accomplish. Azraeth had been fighting for long enough that he rarely had to consider what he was doing unless his opponent was particularly crafty or strong. Neither of which was the case with the group of sorcerers.

He was just finishing up (tying up loose ends really), when his partner caught and kept his attention. ****. ****. Right. “The **** he isn’t!” He called back, making his way across the room, dropping a corpse along the way. As he approached, he dug his middle finger into the wound on his palm, and slowly inscribed a rune into his pale flesh. A last bit of magic came over him, and the damage done during the fight seemed to fade away. His eye returned. His ear. His skin became clean and smooth once more. His facial hair was gone, having totally burned away.

In the seat, the dead man’s throne, sat a man who was rapidly losing his blood, losing his life. Valdimar would not last more than another few minutes without prevention. Which left Az with limited options. He could not heal the wounds. Restoring the mortal’s blood would buy them scarcely any time at all because of how quickly the fluid was dripping from him. He knew what he was going to do, of course.

Being a sire was all about choices. Usually, Azraeth liked to hand that first choice off to his potential childer. Lazy of him, really. Except there was no way to gain consent from an unconscious, unseeing, unhearing form. So it seemed the vampire would need to take that decision into his own hands. And that meant the next choice would be Valdimar’s. The choice to embrace what he became, or to hate it, and by association, to hate Az.

The mystic tore into his own skin as he hovered over the Icelander, so he could tip the human’s head back. Blood flowed from his clenched fist and down past lips. At first it was a few drops and then this steady stream of darkness which slithered its way down the other man’s throat and crept into the core of him.

Az believed that blood called to blood. Only time would tell if that was true in this case, if Valdimar would return to himself, not as the man he had been, but as a dragon.

Azraeth and Flynn were deeply connected. Using the comparison of a metal chain which linked them was perhaps too tame a metaphor. In fact, in the world of metallurgy, it was as if they themselves had been forged together through both adversity and more pleasant things. Red-hot and molten, they had melted and swirled together to create an alloy that was stronger, or at least more durable than either component piece. There were things about them which remained unexplored, and just how this bond between them worked was part of it. Az knew instinctively when the Paladin was in peril. He could feel it. When there was physical pain, it was shared with him in a very real way. The first time he had experienced it had been when Flynn was attacked during the daylight hours, and there had been nothing the vampire could do. Those nights had stretched into what felt like months, and had been a dark time for the Mystic.

He could sense, on some level, that his mate was in distress. There had been times when he had seen revulsion on the Paladin’s features. That was one of the hurdles that came with a vampire falling in love with someone who had been essentially designed to hunt and kill vampires. Azraeth normally broke all of those rules. Usually, he and his partner could live in relative harmony. But sometimes, when they least expected it, something would happen and Az would see the primal, instinctive reaction of a hunter in its most raw form. This had never weakened them. Never weakened his resolve. He had never questioned if they should be together. Because to him, life was a series of challenges to be faced, and he wasn’t going to drop something that brought him happiness, just because it was occasionally uncomfortable. He had never felt disgust from Flynn before though, and it was a unique experience which twisted in his gut.

For the most part, his focus was on Valdimar, because the process of being turned was not an easy one. Not for the members of his bloodline at least. Azraeth knew there were some vampires who had the ability to make someone into a vampire with little more than a bite. For them, he supposed, it was simple. How many people had the Dragomir set out to make into what he was, only for them to die and stay dead? That was one of the very real dangers of the transition from living to undead. It was as if the spark of darkness was lost in a deep maze, which had to be navigated through in order to infest the soul within. Sometimes that darkness, the gift which Az gave, was totally lost in that labyrinth, and never took root. It was not uncommon for the Mystic to feel someone slip right through his fingers. Dead. Never to return.

He did not ignore Flynn. He couldn’t have, even if that was his desire, but there were certain ceremonial components of the turning which had to be observed. Before he could turn away from Valdimar and move to address his partner, the other man slipped away. He had to leave. Had to get away from the vampire who was attempting to make a childe. There were perhaps some people who would have been hurt by that - by the way the Paladin had to retreat, lest his instincts take over and he attack. Certainly, people might have called the vampire a fool for keeping someone with those natural biases so close to his chest. They weren’t entirely wrong, but love was not the sort of thing that heeded logic. And Az found a great deal of strength in his partner.

“I love you.” He said before the other man could leave fully. He would track Flynn down later so they could have a talk about it. Because that was what they did. When things got weird or bad, or difficult, they talked about it. That was one of the reasons Azraeth loved their relationship so much. There was true communication there. Earnest communication even, which did not come with some ulterior objective in mind.

He assumed Flynn just needed some time to cool off. Maybe take out his natural impulse to kill vampires on some of the less savory members of Az’s community.

Out of necessity, he turned his attention back to the body laying beside him. He would know soon. He would know, if those wounds began to heal themselves, if that visage changed, if eyes opened. In truth, Az was afraid that he was too late, or that it wouldn’t work. And that would be the death of another innocent on his conscience. That was usually the line in the sand, for him. He didn’t mind the death of someone who deserved to be ended, but a person who was just caught in some sort of miserable cross-fire? He already had a number of lives on his head. His hands were constantly dripping red with the darkness he had brought into the world. And yet, in a way, he was addicted to the violence. Talk about a vicious cycle.

“Come back to me.” The plea was the same as had been spoken countless times in a diverse number of languages. Normally, those words were said to someone leaving on a journey, or going on a quest - maybe a mother with a son going to war. Never were they uttered to a stranger in proverbial chains. The ties binding Valdimar were literal as well, and Azraeth carefully began to pry them away using both the sharp edge of his ritual dagger, and his inhuman strength. Until he was able to free the other man of everything that confined him, laying him out on the blood soaked ground. In that manner 'come back to me', was really just 'free yourself of your chains'. Because a dragon was ruled by none, especially death.

Hope, elation, and concern. The three hit him in waves, the likes of which crested high over his head and had the potential to sweep across him with the power to knock him either to shore or into the undercurrent. The moments between the gift of darkness and awakening were always tense. They had been from the very beginning, the very first person Az had ever turned - he still remembered the red-haired Irish beauty, though it had been what felt like years since he’d heard from Eilidh. He had chosen her because of her strength. Because, when faced with adversity, she had come out swinging. He had thought, in those days, that it was best to only offer up his blood to those he knew could survive. Fighters. Maybe this was the fault of Nikolae, who sought to build the Dragomir into an entity which could protect itself in a community which constantly sought to rip it into pieces. Or perhaps Chad, who had wished to create an army to face the hunters.

Time had changed much of the way the Mystic turned a person, but the results were still largely the same. It was an instinct, a gut feeling which told him if someone had the strength to make it through. Here there be dragons. The name was not just given because of genealogy or those reptilian eyes. To be a Dragon was more than the sum of any of the parts which went into it.

To be a Dragon was to thrive in the darkness.

So when the man on the floor began to come back to himself, it was impossible for Az’s heart not to swell just a little bit. His smile was immediate and it very nearly split his features in half. His expression faltered though, when he realized something was wrong. There were noticeable twinges of pain. He could tell that his childer was hurting, and in turn, the small part of himself which Azraeth had given over to the other man hurt as well. He reached out, his palms open and up as if to reveal there were no weapons there. “Hey. Hey.” He whispered, his tone having lowered, and softened. “I seek nothing from you except to help you.” He insisted as he crept a little closer. His hands lowered slowly to lay against the newly turned vampire’s form.

Already, the wounds were surely sealing. Closing up. The knitting of flesh together was always the first thing that happened. And, as he always did in these situations, Azraeth lamented the fact that he could not use the healing magic which worked on his own body on someone else’s. However, he could, at the very least, restore some of the lost blood. This would aid in the healing process. “I’m going to restore some of what was lost to you. You may feel a little different here in a second.” He said, though his focus made his voice come out somewhat monotone. His thumbnail dug into his own palm so that the requisite single drop could well up and splatter over tattered and already bloody clothing.

One of Az’s few natural gifts was a deep reserve of anima. He blamed it on his years of study into the arcane and magic. Where others might run dry after only a few feats, he could seem to go all night under the right circumstances. He muttered something under his breath, which sounded vaguely like a chant, though the language was of unknown origin. And then the effects began to take root. Blood began to replenish itself naturally, not just one pint, but a few, filling his newly turned childe’s veins.

Azraeth knew the bitter sweet nature of being turned. He had, after all, been hunted all over Harper Rock and bitten a number of times. He’d attempted to escape Nikolae at first. He had fled the attack the first time. Another time. By the time he’d gotten to the small apartment he’d shared with his twin brother at the time, he had been delirious and near death. When he’d lost his life, he had done so cursing the man who had stolen it from him. He had hated the shadows and the darkness. He’d reviled vampires before anyone else even knew they were back from their extended absence. There had been times, in the past, when he’d hated the vampire community of Harper Rock. How its members refused to work together. How there were always agendas within agendas and schemes buried inside of schemes. And yet, the Mystic loved what he was. He loved his power, and his bloodline. He loved who being a vampire had turned him into. He loved that the sickly, lonely, depressed weirdo he had been in life had well and truly died.

Shucking the mortal coil had given him the permission he needed to be himself. He loved the blood thirst, and the violence. He loved his bloodline, and those few people who considered him family. He had once compared Nikolae to the common concept of God - always hidden and yet always there. All powerful. All seeing. All loving. Utterly insane. It was no secret that the Mystic revered his sire, but that was a bond that had taken years to forge deeply. And the fires of tribulation had been what had melted away the impurities of doubt, rage, and pain.

Becoming himself had taught Az the important things, and to always prioritize them. Like his newly turned childe.

The other man seemed to be slowly getting his bearings back, and Az’s smile was a blossoming ivory flower. Emotion welled inside of him, and he finally reached out again. This time, he wasn’t looking to heal. Instead, he pulled Valdimar into a tight hug. He squeezed the other man to his chest, mindful (or he attempted to be mindful) of the wounds the other vampire was healing from. His grasp was tight, after the manner of a friend who had not seen someone they cared deeply for in years, and reunited, wanted nothing more than to clutch them close. He could feel pressure behind his eyes.

They were total and complete strangers. And yet, Az had given part of himself over to Valdimar. And that piece he had given the other man, it was like thread which stitched them together.

Forever.

Even if the worst happened, and Valdimar ended up hating him. Thought of him as a monster. Wanted to spit on him - it could not change what had happened between them. It could not change what Az had given up, and how that seed of his darkness had grown inside of the Icelandic vampire.

“I have made you like me.” He said, by way of explanation, at the question. “You’re a vampire now.” he realized he was still hugging Valdimar, and carefully let him go with a delicate clearing of his throat. His smile was still there though, as big as ever. “I’m so pleased you made it through. There is so much to tell you and show you.” Finally, he pulled out of that crouch, so that he could stand, leaning over to extend his hand in offering to the other man.

There was this transitionary period just after a human was turned into a vampire when everything changed. A vampire had to deal with increased speed and strength, with senses that could shame those of even the most keenly attuned human save for the supernatural classes. In many ways, a newly made vampire was much more dangerous than an older, more powerful one - the reasons for this were abundantly clear. For one, an older vampire had a better idea of just how strong they were. They weren’t likely to accidentally crush the palm and fingers of another person, for example, when trying to shake their hand. A fledgeling, on the other hand, did not have the experience to understand just how restrained they needed to be. Some found the influx of new sensory information overwhelming on such a level that it sent them into an incoherent rage, where every ounce of their humanity was stripped away and they reacted purely as a dark entity at the core of vampirism. There were others who were consumed by the hunger, who had not quite learned yet how to sate it in the least harmful way.

Some never did learn how to sate it.

Those first few hours after being turned were, to Az, much like the first wobbly steps of a beast out of the animal kingdom. Some creature who had just been born and was already learning how to walk. Except that Valdimar did not come across like a helpless animal who was unsure of his footing. If anything, he seemed as if he was quickly coming into his own, becoming more and more sure of his body with every passing second. The Mystic might have compared it more accurately to an intelligent machine, which quickly ran through all of its systems at a rate that a human would have found alarming. Like those robot movies where the artificial intelligence only took a few minutes to go from struggling with a newly acquired physical form, to deadly weapon of destruction.

Without a doubt, the other man was intimidating, physically at least. Az could tell without doing much in the way of mental or spiritual digging that Valdimar would end up becoming strong. He radiated that - strength - or cast it as a shadow.

“I am Azraeth William Carpenter.” He said, offering up his full human name. “But now that you have entered the realm of night (ignore my penchant for dramatic language, it’s a knack I always have possessed), you can call me Azraeth Dragomir, as Dragomir is the name my sire gave all of his progeny and the descendents of his bloodline.” He explained. “This makes you a Dragomir, a Dragon.” And Valdimar certainly already looked the part to an extent, missing really only one of the telling features associated with the branch of the Worthington bloodline.

He slipped back a step as the other vampire moved to stand, and offered something of a playfully wry smile. “Yes, well it was that or I was never going to get my hands on that relic.” He said, though the way he had embraced the Killer only a short time before indicated there was a lot more to it than that. “You are better off alive I think. I see something in you that deserved to be preserved. You’re strong, not just physically, but mentally. Your aura itself is the same. I saved you because of that strength I sense in you, and because the world needs it.” He paused then, as he backed away once more, moving towards the door.

“We need to get you blood. From there, you can choose to either go out on your own, or we can work together and I can teach you the lessons this new life has in store for you.”