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Eyes like serpants and a voice like fire...

The words rolled round and round in Nikolae Dragomir's head as he sat hunched over the desk all of his lineage had access too and frequently made use of. He scribbled and then scratched out the words just as quickly on a yellow notepad. He'd never get anything done at this rate.

The ring of his cellphone jarred him from the half-crazed stupor and with a glance at the name of the caller he bit back a groan.

It was possible he'd made a huge mistake in becoming such a loud voice for this new Council.

It was also possible his tenuous grasp on social antics was giving way. He'd never liked half the people he was either defending or being forced to converse with on a regular basis now. Kacee Docere... why should he listen to her wailing? As much as she spoke out, it was no surprise to him at all to hear a handful of mongrels - Hellhounds - were disrespecting her home. Definitely no surprise to learn Reganlief was one of the main culprits. That one was as crazy as she was annoying. He winced, chasing back the vicious firey thoughts with a purposeful mutter to himself.

He plucked the phone up and set it on the desk, left to it's ringing until it finally went silent. He was done pandering to her. Pandering to the masses who'd whimper about the most obvious of statements. Why, if he told the city he believed blood should sustain them... half of them would shriek that he was wrong! Of course, in such a case, the Dragomir would sit back and laugh until they all perished of their own unending stubborness. And then at long last there would be silence.

"Eyes like serpants and a voice like fire..." He muttered hoarsely to himself, fingers grasping at the edges of that heavy wooden desk. On Crowsnet his patience shown thin. In reality his self-control was much thinner.

God what he wouldn't give for a drink.

He'd heard murmurs of these zombies found in the quarantine zone, an area the Shadow had yet to venture to. His childer would often gather round the otherwise useless table to tell tales of how much fun they'd had going after the undead-for-dead. Nikolae was skeptical, but after seeing his dragons get better and better at fighting by the eve he felt he had no other choice than to check it out.

He was told the only way there was through the sewers, and so map in hand he'd slunk into the familiar wet arena. Glancing down every so often, the Dragomir headed southeast as quickly as possible, easily overstepping the squealing rats in his path. When he came out the other end he cringed at the huge lightpoles shining fluerescent down on the empty streets. A block west and he ran into a few vampires. Then more, and more. Some hangout.

Finally he slipped into a grocery store, and it was total disarray. Shelves were knocked down and what food wasn't gone was rotted. A horrible stench filled the air. At least the electricity had gone out here. A sound ahead brought his hackles up. It was a definite groan.

Nikolae paced forward, careful, until he saw the creature. It was just like he'd always pictured. A rotted human shuffling along, covered in blood and other body fluids. The thing noticed him, and lunged forward, hands outstretched towards his throat. The Shadow felt his natural instincts rise to the occassion and in an instant he'd shoved the monster away with a quick grapple of hands. He leapt into the air lithely, knees bracing as his feet hit the wall, using the momentum to launch back at the zombie. All the while the twin blades in either hand slashed and swiped, cutting the stinking creature up.

He rolled as he hit the floor, bouncing back to his feet with ease. A grin quirked his lips as the bleeding bellowing creature made another move at him. The Dragomir's hand shot up in the air, silent as he called to the shadows around them with his power. The zombie still came at him, unaware of the shadows forming a blade until that blade had buried itself into Niko's opponent. The vampire could see his enemy was weak now, staggering, and with a sudden thrust forward, he buried his own knife deep into the monster's heart.

Niko leapt back as the zombie finally collapsed. He was exhilerated and indeed, he knew this battle had sharpened his skills. He could feel himself more at ease with his blade. His power, too was under more control by his spirit. And watching and guessing the enemies moves had only increased his intelligence in battle.

As he left the grocery store, he noticed the northern edge of the area was surrounded by water. But no fence. On impulse he raced over the water, long capable of trecking over water on foot. He was back in the main city just that easily, and it was a mere trot back to the Temple. The Dragomir officially had a new favorite past-time.

Nikolae paced in his Temple, far away from the battle and the coming bloodshed. Though his features remained, as always, stoic and emotionless the barest hint of grimness gave way his thoughts.

The evening had started out well enough. Despite the little tiff between Azariel and Amaranthia still ensueing, it was relatively calm. As calm as any night the dragon could hope for. He found himself once again going back and forth on a thought to approach Mircea personally. To PM the man, possibly, and make it clear that he had no personal grievances with him. That, to Niko at least, their public disputes were no more than banters of disagreeance. He hoped the Old One would feel the same. But ultimately, the Dragomir took the rare cowards way out and talked himself out of speaking to the somewhat intimidating Grigori leader. It was during this debate, sat in the library in front of the computer, that Asher made his presence known.

The male was never one for speaking to Nikolae, despite Nikolae's encouragement to all his dragons to come and say hello if nothing else. Asher seemed to want to walk his own path always, even to the extent of harassing and insulting Nikolae's own sire until he was banished from the Worthington lineage. Niko had defended the man and to his credit stayed his sires sword. It had seemed for a time that Asher was calming down, perhaps the blood had driven him crazy at first. He was intent on bettering the Allurists throughout the city, and so had taken up the task of teaching the Dragomir Allurists their abilities and skills. Nikolae had been proud to see it done, and encouraged his somewhat prickly grandchilde. "Perhaps soon your Allurists faction can earn a seat on the Council," he'd only recently told Asher, who to his surprise was excited at the prospect.

And so when Nikolae had stood and stepped into the familiar shadows at the sudden knock, he had been somewhat surprised to see that same grandchilde now fidgeting before him. The surprise, of course, would be short-lived.

Even now Niko crushed a crystal glass in his hand, containing slow building rage at the words Asher had so callously spoken to a man who'd defended him to any who questioned Asher's rash and often rogue sentiments in the lineage and the city as a whole. He'd told Nikolae he wished to reject his ties to the Dragomir, to the sire that had saved his worthless life. Niko's blood had run cold, and yet he'd kept his permanently emotionless mask firmly in place. He'd told Asher simply the consequences of such a thing. Allowing one the ability and right to betray the lineage, would allow any and all to do so. A precident that could not be allowed.

Asher had stormed out not long after hearing those promises, despite numerous attempts to change or sway Nikolae's decision. And to the Dragomir's continued surprise, the shout of Rebecca Quartermaine from the public area of his Temple was heard not long after.

It was she who admitted Asher sought refuge within her lineage. That he desired to forsake his blood in order to accept hers instead. Niko barely kept himself from skewering her on the spot as she said such things to him seemingly with no regard to Dragomir feelings on the matter. She brought up words of an alliance that Asher himself had tempted Nikolae into considering with the Quartermaine. He'd thought for weeks that it could be a benefit to them both - for now more a benefit to her than to him, but none could tell the future. But now, things had changed. He couldn't ally to someone who would harbor a blood-traitor. His mind raced; how many things had Asher told her? Had he plucked information from the Dragomir crowsnets board to feed to this woman? Listened to Nikolae and Azraeth only to repeat all they said to the Quartermaine? No. He could not abide an alliance, nor any sort of relationship, should she seek to protect him. This only served to seal the boys fate once and for all.

The two had parted with no decision made. He'd been firm, and he'd been clear. He would not ally with one who would protect, accept, or harbor blood-traitors of his lineage. No man in his right mind would. Seeing the grief on her face, he'd worked to soften his tone at the last. Surely the woman could maintain a friendship with the traitor, without allowing him to fly her banner or abuse her lineage with whatever machinations the stupid ******** had planned? The words still rang in the Temple after she left, and he shook his head in disbelief and the faintest worry for her. Rebecca Quartermaine needed allies. But it wasn't for protection from wars. It would be for protection from herself. The heart she brandished openly on her sleeve would be her undoing if no one reminded her to keep it safe and tucked away.

He'd returned to the library, safest there, where he could pace in relative silence. His lineage were all out tending to their own business. A thick unnecessary swallow had been afforded him as he'd speed-dialed Azraeth. Speaking quickly, without allowing the male to interrupt, he relayed all that had happened. The silence when he was done told plainly the pain these actions caused Nikolae's childe.

"Give the order."

The phone clicked; his childe hadn't said a word. But Nikolae knew that this task would be seen through to it's inevitable, ugly end. Asher Dragomir would die this night; debt paid on the life Azraeth gave him. When he rose in weeks time, he would be simply Asher. Asher the outcast, the rogue, and the man that was no longer Nikolae's problem. Nikolae had returned to the computer, forcing himself back to business as usual despite the wariness on the edges of his being. There was a new post on Crowsnet. Asher was begging for help from outsiders, it seemed, and leaving out numerous details that might tarnish the reputation the traitor believed he had. The Shadow frowned, eyebrows drawn together. The thought of responding to the public cry for attention never occurred to Nikolae; he'd said all that needed to be said to Asher in private already. How the Dragomir handled his lineage was no business of anyone else.

Hours later Nikolae was pacing that same path into the carpet of the library, until the sudden sound of the family's sole trusted human servant rang a knock at the open door.

"My lord... it is done."

Nikolae had been tired since seeing to Asher's death. The vampire didn't spend much time sleeping as it was, but even attacking zombies hadn't given his body enough exhaustion to give into his mental tire. Plans with Quartermaine had come to a screeching halt, and he was left believing the woman might probably think more with her genitals and less with her brain; an altogether unfortunate summation.

When Scratch had arrived for what had become their daily ritual of speaking, Nikolae expected the usual banter sprinkled with updates on the progress of the Atrum Nex. Nikolae often encouraged or gave what advice he could in these discussions. The small talk dwindled finally and the fount of the Dragomir believed perhaps it was time to go to sleep. Yet Scratch was not yet done.

There were plans, it seemed. He spoke quietly and quickly of a gathering storm against the Grigori. Such things werne't unheard of. In these days there weren't many vampires in the city who hadn't spoken of taking the Grigori down a peg or seven. At first Niko took the words as yet more postering that would amount to little. It usually ended with an insistance that the Dragomir account for the majority of the force and attacks. Why would Niko take care of the city's trash for free?

Scratch promised this was different. Other lineages, he said, had signed on to see the ends met. He named a handful, and though Nikolae was still left hesitant, the words that doc Stauss was involved won it for him. He agreed then and there, and let Scratch vanish to inform these other lineages of the Dragomir's participation. Nikolae had little time himself to get the word out to his childe and see it was passed along through the lineage. He had little doubt Chad would somehow be involved, the man had long wished to see Mircea fall. It would be in two days, he was told. And the goal, much to the Dragomir's delight, was to see the bastards murdered on the ground of the precious club. A perfect ending to an imperfect lineage.

Nikolae scowled in somewhat of confusion when his text was responded to. Seemed Azraeth already knew, and furthermore that Scratch had also taken it upon himself to do other Dragomir responsibilities. Nikolae's jaw ticked. Scratch had overstepped his boundaries, and his head was getting bigger by the moment. For now, Nikolae would be silent. He would watch. This would be a serious issue to deal with after the bloodshed.

[Note: This takes place post-fight. I'm still holding out the dwindling dying hope that the group-RP will go far enough to see Niko's side of the battle. If not, I guess I'll never have to write that. Cheers and thanks for reading.]

Nikolae sat on his bed, one leg stretched out over the mattress and the other dangling over the side. In his hand was a half-filled glass of purplish liquid, and on the night-table beside him an open bottle of wine. He couldn't drink the stuff; the one time he'd tried he'd thought he'd never quit vomiting. Talk about your Alcoholics Anonymous fix. But he still loved the smell of it, and he still loved having something to hold in his hand. True, some nights he'd taken to filling a goblet with blood of a human he'd caught and drained into a bag he'd stolen from the abandoned hospital. But it just wasn't quite the same. Blood didn't slosh. Blood was too thick. And it didn't have that tangy sweet smell that was known to the crushed grapes of the california lands.

He was staring directly at the wall in front of him; reptilian gold eyes unblinking. His mind was churning. The Dragomir had battled this night, a bloody affair to say the least. There was still blood from the splashes of swords and bullets alike pounding into the unsuspecting flesh of their targets. He'd never forget the look of shock and indignation that'd crossed their targets faces. They hadn't seen it coming, and moreover, they couldn't believe so many would rise up to take them down. In the hours since it'd been called over, the hours Niko had spent in his Temple, he'd thought long and hard of what had brought them to this place.

There were the obvious reasons. The Grigori were uppity bitches that talked too often and spewed out threats they could never hope to see through. They treated every other lineage in the city like second-rate citizens. They truly believed their own propaganda; that they were Gods gift to vampires. Knocking them back down to earth was a damned gift in these cases.

And then there were the more personal reasons. Time and time again Amaranthia had used her Necropolis club to provide safe haven to those of her blood, while turning away those not of it. She treated the place like it was her personal playground. Hell, she thought she could get away with unleashing her 'bouncers' on other vampires like she had any right to lay a finger on anyone just because she owned the place. No less; the Grigori themselves had taken to hunting down Nikolae's own childe Azariel like he was a dog. Trying time and again with all their might, and all their powers - he was positive it was that stupid ***** Hariasa that kept sending spirits to do her dirty work - to land a blow to the twin dragon's head. As yet, not a one of them had succeeded. But that didn't matter. What mattered was the sheer audacity they had to think they could do it, and think that Nikolae wouldn't respond in kind.

Truth be told, alliance or not, he'd have seen every one of them dead sooner rather than later for the insult of their egotism.

And now two of them lay skewered on the floor of their precious club. Taken down like so much waste to be tossed to the curb come Monday pickup of ones garbage. But another had been killed, and that still rang questions through the Dragomir's mind.

Tristan, a target of opportunity. That Nikolae could understand. Even he had thought once the Telepath had seen the force stride into the club, that Tristan would wage a fight to protect his lineage-leader. Or worst, use his telepathy to wake the rest of the Grigori and send them running for the battle-grounds. The boy had to die. It was nothing personal, it was just business. He didn't know Tristan at all for it to be anything but business.

But Rocklin. That had been utter chaos. Nikolae remembered the shouted words that one of his own, his outspoken Mortll, had been attacked by Rocklin. Only later would he discover that the shot had missed; Mortll hadn't been injured at all. In the heat of battle, Nikolae had sent his forces to defend the girl. He heard returned calls that a battle was already taking place there. Indeed, Rocklin was surrounded by members of their psudo-alliance. Nikolae didn't know why. What had this one Hellhound done to deserve that attack? Had he struck first? Why would he have, he had no connection to the Grigori outside a few ass-kissing remarks to Mircea. But even Nikolae hadn't taken them at face value, why would anyone else.

As Nikolae sat in his Temple, replaying the events on repeat in his mind he was as ever left with a question mark. Things had been utter chaos. It hadn't gone down as smoothly as he'd hoped and for that there would be hell to pay. His dragons needed training. They all did. In the future they would work as an elite assault team. Last night had been the first test, and in the Dragomir's eyes they'd failed it spectacularly. Not a one of them, including himself, had made the perfect motions he expected of a Dragomir. He would likely beat himself up over it for weeks to come. But before he could even begin to do so, he would continue wondering exactly what had happened on that pitch-black night.

Why had Rocklin, the rogue with no family to speak of, died this night.

[Note: The following takes place post-attack, as there is already an ongoing thread dealing with the pre-attack and attack itself. This roleplay reflects ONLY the thoughts of Nikolae and is in no way intended to dictate the actions of other characters, merely the way Nikolae viewed them.]

The Temple was empty as Nikolae returned home, shrugging off the soft brown leather jacket he'd taken to wearing almost every night. He dropped it to a chair at the massive oak table that served as the main gathering area for the Dragomir before making a beeline to the games room. He turned on both televisions just to have the chaos of sound attempt to drown out the whisperings in his mind.

He'd done it. He'd killed her. Another notch on his belt, another death to his name. The Shadow felt peculiarly devoid of emotion regarding the murder. She hadn't even really fought back. It was as though she'd been waiting for him, waiting to feel the coldness of death take her. And Nikolae had been that death.

Too often it was assumed the Necromancers were the closest to death. The most in tune with it. But, to the Dragomir, this was a fallacy the vampires told themselves in order to face the Shadows with less fear than they truly felt. Who of all the vampires would know comfort in the arms of the shadow realm? The Shadows themselves. He'd heard those shadows he was so often surrounded by sometimes filled the edges of his reptile-eyes. That they peaked out of his already alien looking orbs to scare others when Nikolae himself was even unaware. What did those vampires see, he wondered. Their own future deaths, perhaps? And would those deaths now be propheted to come at his hands.

Perhaps that's what the woman had seen when she'd silently stared back at him. He hadn't even taken her stare for defiance. It was acceptance as only an Allurist could show. Acceptance of that last inevitable moment. Not defeatism. Merely a wish to see it over, a wish to move on. He'd had no words for her himself, though he'd thought he might. He'd thought he would tell her the reasons she was to be executed; and the reasons were surely many. He'd even briefly mused on telling her exactly what he thought of her harlotess ways. But when it had come down to it - when that final moment had arrived - his stoic silence had once again won dominance. Even afterwards, he had nothing to say.

The Dragomir had passed shoulder to shoulder with his childe, Azariel who had perhaps arrived too late to seek his own vengeance on the females head. He'd heard some words, amusing ones of course - it was after all Azariel. But Nikolae was ever silent despite it. He'd returned to the Temple after a stop at the bank to send the cash to the Hounds; it was their blood money and he really wanted no part of it. Her death was all he wanted, and now he had it, and now he could return to life... as usual.

And life for the dragons did go on. Their quarral with the Grigori was at last at its end. He'd heard not a whisper from those thinly-tied-together allies that only days earlier had been passing along messages left and right. Perhaps time to forget them altogether, and return to his original plans. He'd need call on Quartermaine again. He'd need speak with doc Stauss again. There were others, groups he thought worthy of the Dragomir's allegiances if those allegiances were shared in kind.

But first he had to kill Asmodeus and his bint childe Elizabeth Swift.

Betrayal stung more deeply than even a generally emotionless Shadow could have expected. The news had felt crippling, though he'd kept his face neutral as he'd heard it. Responded only in short phrases and quiet words. His golden dragon-eyes hadn't betrayed a single thought he had. No. Emotions were not for public consumption.

He had sequestered himself in what Azariel had dubbed Circe. The 'Shadow Realm Simulation Room.' A room of total darkness, with nothing save black walls, floors, and ceiling. It was kept cold, cold enough that even a Dragomir felt some discomfort. It fit his mood perfectly. But more importantly, it was also sound proofed. He'd paced silently back and forth in the confines of the room until with a sudden motion he'd buried a fist against a thickly concreted wall. He barely flinched as the knuckles of his hand shattered with the motion.

Zachariah Stauss.

One of two Elders he respected without question. One of two he trusted. One of two he cared anything at all for. Like an idiot boy he'd nearly idolated the man he considered to be one of the smartest of their kind. A man with a vision. A man that gave Nikolae hope for the future.

A man so obsessed with gaining power he had made up lies to breathe distrust among Nikolae's brethren. Like the snake in Eden, he'd gone to the gardeness herself and hissed words to ensure she would never trust him or his kin. Had told the gardeness the most basest of untruths in hopes to bend her will to his own. She had perhaps believed those lies, and perhaps not. Nikolae did not know. He wasn't sure if he had the strength to care. Any who would judge a man on the words of another was a wary ally at best.

Suddenly none of the business of allies seemed to matter anymore. Like a child who had learned his father was a serial killer, Nikolae's world had shrunk to obsessing over each moment he had spent in the Telepaths company. Though the two had never spoken of the gardeness, nor of anything outside the usual business truly, Nikolae had felt kinship with the man. He had enjoyed those easy conversations with a vampire he felt so much like himself. Now he stood in stricken terror of that possibility. Could he be such a desperate man as Stauss? Could he have it in him to turn others against one another for his own gains?

He swallowed thickly and rigidly brought his broken fist to his chest, blinking slowly in that all-encompassing darkness. The Dragomir swayed on his feet as though struck by a blow to the chest. He stumbled back to a wall and only then allowed himself to sink to the floor. In the back of his mind a tiny voice screamed for leniency; perhaps he was too quick to judge. Perhaps the entire situation was misrepresented. Perhaps his chosen mentor hadn't sold him up the river for mere trinkets.

He squashed that voice ruthlessly. Those were the thoughts of a boy still weak enough to believe in fairy tales. It was time he grew up, entirely. He had a lineage who depended on him. And Stauss had taught him one final lesson. That he could never depend on any but himself; as a leader he must assume everyone would cut his throat rather than simply be his friend. It was a harsh lesson, a brutal one to learn. And one that tore the last of his humanity away from him so completely that he was left gasping in silent, tearless sobs.

Nikolae Dragomir had no friends. Nikolae Dragomir needed no friends.

It had taken hours for the Shadow to return to his zen. He'd left the Circe and stepped silently to the Atrum Nex, surrounding himself with the aura of the Necromancers. There was nothing calmer than the grave, and these creatures practically breathed it. He slipped into the shadows, going practically invisible, to peer in on Scratch and Perry. Their presence, and their continued hard-work to seek the betterment of their species and their Path brought him peace as nothing else could have. He owed it to these men, his Dragomir, to be as strong a man as he possibly could be.

The area of the Docere labs that had been declared open for this months Council business was a quick walk away, and Nikolae was there in less than ten minutes, head bowed against the wind sweeping through the city. His stomach was a hard knot - he was glad he didn't have need to feed this night.

He'd demanded audience with Zachariah. Told him he knew of what the man had said to the Deaux Corbeaux without Nikolae's permission or agreeance. Zachriah claimed innocence. The Docere stated that he had simply assumed Nikolae agreed with his own thoughts on the new sublineage, based on an offhanded comment Nikolae had made only the night before. A simple statement the Dragomir had said off-the-cuff. "Etienne. Don't even get me started." He'd said with a smile in his voice, a playful roll of his eyes. He'd taken to letting his guard down around the Telepath.

What Zachriah it seemed didn't know, was Nikolae's long standing dislike for his blood-brothers former egotism. Nikolae and Etienne had even had a public tiff over the matter that the Shadow had been shamed for later. He never let his anger get the best of him, but Etienne had driven it out of him. And Nikolae had never forgotten. He hadn't held out much hope for Etienne, despite Elizabeth's apparent good influence on him. Despite it, however, he had agreed to inviting the group into the Council once more. A vote of confidence was deserved.

The conversation had ended in a way that swung the pendulum back to it's start. Where once the Dragomir had sought out the German doctors advice, even tentatively, he now gave his own firmly to the elder. This business of speaking on behalf of Nikolae would not be tolerated. There would be no second chances in this matter. And the public charade that had happened in the Dragomir's absence had to be stopped immediately. It wounded the entire Council, and Nikolae pulled no punches in telling Staus as much.

As for the Deaux Corbeaux, Nikolae could only hope the group had not developed permanent ideas of he or his Dragomir. He was not looking for enemies. Not even of the Grigori, truth be told. Even that had been simply business: **** with us and we will **** you up. They'd attacked his childe Azariel en masse, and had paid the price for it. The Deux Corbeaux had made no such attacks, and so he had not even the smallest of querrels with them.

Though the issues with Rocklin would soon need discussed. That man deserved better, much better, than the lot he'd been given. A sad night when any felt safer surrounded by Hounds than by their own blood.

The dreams of Shadows were often nightmarish in quality. Rarely were they anything he was unhappy to leave behind once waking at the sunset.

Nikolae was walking with purpose, head bent against the unusual cool breeze sweeping down the streets. A newspaper jumped and sputtered down the empty street like a tumbleweed. Most of the shops in this district were closed already, their windows barred and doors hidden behind a heavy metal guard. But one was still open, the little old lady that ran it unendingly optimistic. The place was a family heirloom, and even though it was dangerous in this part of town, she kept the same hours her own grandfather had posted when he'd first opened the doors.

The Dragomir ducked inside, the clang of the old bell strung up over the door making a dinging noise as the door snicked shut behind him. The place was alive like so few other things in this town were - filled to brimming with plants and flowers. Some were potted, but the vast majority were already snipped away from their plants and placed in elaborate vases with other flowers of varying colors. Nikolae's eyes fell to the white roses on display at the front. There were only two left, and even they were at a hefty price. As he drew nearer he could see why. On each petal it appeared as though there were blood-red tear drops. An odd rose mutation. Near as odd as his own eyes.

The old woman was watching him, and a small smile graced her wrinkled face. "Someone special you're thinking of, lad?" She croaked, and had the barest hint of an accent. Odd for this area. He was silent but gave a nod and withdrew his wallet. The woman waved him off, lifting the two roses from their vase of water to hand to him. Her patchy yellowed hand patted his own before she shood him out the door.

His feet fell heavily outside on the pavement again as he made his way to the familiar towered building. He hadn't been here since that night. The first night he'd seen the object of his current obsession in person. But it hadn't been here that he'd seen the person. Here had been where he'd seen the woman. The woman he'd later killed. That wasn't important. He climbed into the elevator, watching the numbers change with curious detachment.

Just as he stepped out of the elevator, he closed his eyes, drawing the shadows around himself - Hiding in them and going practically invisible. It wouldn't do to be seen, and who knew who else lived around here. He knew this wasn't his Object's abode, but it would be where the creature was nonetheless. He just knew. Hesitating outside the door, he gave a push and stepped inside. A drain on his own power again to do this - to cross the threshold of a home he hadn't been invited.

If there were others in the apartment, he didn't notice, stepping with a shadows silent steps to the bedroom. He didn't bother to turn on the light, eyes easily seeing in the darkness as he sat down on the edge of the unrumpled seat. He set the pair of roses atop the still chest of the creature he'd come to see, ignoring the odd jar of ashes sat on the nightstand just to his side. Shaking fingers lifted to brush a bit of dark hair from the figures forehead as Nikolae frowned to himself.

"Look what you made me do." He stated softly as his hand fell down to rest over the the man's chest. No heartbeat, just cold unyielding flesh.

"They didn't tell me, you know." He continued in that same quiet tone. He leant down, his forehead poised over the males, golden dragon-eyes staring at closed eyelids. "They didn't tell me you would be so magnificent." He stayed frozen in that position for a minute before sitting up again. He'd never spoken to the man in person before. The man had never said a word to him either. They'd never met before that night.

Before the night Nikolae had helped to kill him.

The Shadow rose abruptly, had an hour passed already? He could feel the shadows begin to depart from his flesh and knew that just like Peter Pan it was time he leave and return to his own world.

Nikolae's eyes snapped open, in his own home, on his own bed. His mouth was dry as he stared upwards at the ceiling. Another crazed dream, like so many others, he couldn't hope to explain. Maybe bad blood. It had been a dream. Must have been. Nothing could have made him visit Mircea Grigori. He brought his hands up to his face, pushing the heels into his reptile eyes.

He'd never see the single white rose with it's bloodred teardrops, hidden pressed between the pages of a book he'd bought the night of his turning.

He was dreaming again. More clear than ever.

He felt the familiarity of the shadows covering his body, keeping him from view even if this apartment was devoid of any life but his own right this moment. Sat on the edge of a bed not his own, gazing hopelessly at a face he'd only seen in it's grimace of pain as death had descended on it.

Nikolae didn't often feel quiet. Calm. At peace. But here, by this dead creature, he felt just that. The rose was still sat on the mans chest, and he was careful not to jar it lest it lose one of those starkly white petals. The Dragomir took a breath only to speak.

"I spoke with Kajira today." A small smile curved his usually scowling lips. "She's such a charming specimen. She said she went to you. She went to seek peace between our two peoples." Nikolae pushed a hand gently through the silken hair on the top of Mircea's head. "She told me that you wished you'd come to speak to me sooner. That you regretted setting your lineage after my childe."

Nikolae frowned then, and leaned down, passing his lips across the Grigori's brow.

"I forgive you. This time. But you can't do that again, do you hear me? You can't force me to choose between you and my dragons." He thumped a hand firmly over the other mans still chest as though to prove his point. "They will win everytime, no matter how alluring you are. How charming you are." He promised quietly and then relaxed just as quickly as his mood had darkened.

"I worry I overreacted with doc Staus." He spoke now as though confessing to a trusted friend or lover. His hand lowered from Mircea's head to grasp at his hand, twining their fingers nonchalantly. "He said he didn't mean to speak on my behalf. That he agreed only I speak for the Dragomir. And he did say that he'd told the Deux Corbeaux that everybody disliked them. Can you believe he'd say something like that?" Nikolae shook his head, his free hand stroking over the stiff fingers of the other mans hand. "I think he was hoping to bully the gardeness into doing as he wished. But I'm hoping it was heat of the moment. That he's calmed again and returned to the intelligent man I know him to be."

At that Nikolae frowned and brought the Grigori's hand upwards to his own chest. "I know you don't like doc Staus much." He admitted quietly, golden dragon eyes solemn. "But I trust him, stupid as that may seem. And if I could I would bring you both to a table and force you to speak out your differences. It's stupid to spend two hundred years locked in darkness, only to come out of it with grudges." He gave a small disappointed sound in the back of his throat. "We should all be better than our predescessors, Mr. Gri..." He steeled himself. "Mircea." The word rolled from his mouth like a lovers whisper just as the shadows began to separate around him. He rose up, pressing the Grigori's hand over the stem of the rose, not noticing the thorn that pricked his own finger and left two drops of blood on the mans hand.

Nikolae's eyes flew open, gulping in a breath he didn't need. Another dream about the damned Grigori. Maybe he was dreading their inevitable return from the shadows realm. Maybe...

He looked to the wall of his bedroom where a massive dragon spanned the whole of the wall. It was hovering with it's wings spread out far, beneath it a wolf stood proud and just as large; jaws open on a silent howl as a bloated full moon shown brightly over both. Nikolae barely remembered commissioning the thing to be painted, but staring at it always served to calm him and tonight was no different. He sat up in the darkness and dressed quickly. He needed to speak to his sire. Worthington business would rid his mind of this Grigori obsession.