Path of the Vampire forum

<Lancaster> Sometimes, everything went exactly to plan. Sometimes, however, everything went pear shaped, and nothing went right. Sometimes, there was just a series of unfortunate events that led to an even more unfortunate outcome. Or, maybe a fortunate one, depending on where one was standing.

Lancaster often made no secret of what he was. Not that he went shouting from the rooftops that he was one in a league of the undead, but nor did he watch his every action and his every movement to hide the fact that he slept all day, or that he healed in five seconds, or that every now and again, when feeling a little feisty, his canines happened to lengthen to pinpoint sharpness. The past had proven that he wasn’t exactly careful. There had been people who’d come to the bar, completely strangers, looking for him because they knew what he was. It had never led to anything untoward, until now.

If there was one thing that could be said about Lancaster d’Artois, it was that he was far too trusting. Innocent until proven guilty, on most accounts. There was a man who came to the bar ranting about some new bottled blood that was far better than what the city already had to offer; farmed by humans for vampires, willing donors, and all that jazz. It was the last part that appealed to Lancaster. Willing donors? The blood that he stocked at the moment for his vampire clientele was sourced from Arbor Vitae; as much as he liked Ariadne, he also knew that she was a member of the faction that he loathed. How, exactly, did she go about bottling the blood that she sold? Was it moral? Maybe this was an organic solution.

So Lancaster agreed to go and have a look; he wouldn’t be able to taste the blood, but he could at least go and see how it was done. Meet the donors. Or some of them. Except, the address that he was given was hokum; he walked right into an ambush. Hunters, who knew what he was and who wished to see him dead. But they, like everyone else in the city, underestimated the docile bartender. The three of them ended up dead, slaughtered. Though, not before Lancaster had gained a few wounds of his own.

By this time, the sun was close to rising. The tome was in his jacket pocket which had been sliced clean through, a gouge in his gun from one of the hunter’s swords. A wound that would heal in a day or two. There was also a bullet lodged in his skull, so he could barely focus on the blood-soaked tome.

He would fine, of course. The wounds would heal and he’d be back to work in no time. But for that night, he collapsed in a corner of a room that might not have even been sun-safe. In the middle of a warehouse that may or may not have been abandoned. Dead to the world, as soon as the sun came up over the horizon. Immune to pain, or to anything that might alert him to his own personal safety - or lack thereof.

<Othella> The small woman had received four bodies -- some sort of gang fight or another, she did not really care. Her assignment was one thing; finding the actual cause of death. No matter what it looked like at a first glance, it was often something more.

She was working on the last man -- a gunshot to the head, he was quite strange. She had tossed his belongings aside in a bin, just as she had with the first three men, she had yet to look for identification. She would do that later -- Othella was never one to follow set rules.

She dragged her step-ladder around the table, kicking her shoes out of the way. Stupid stiletto heels, damned short-stature. Ugh. She cursed her genetics. She flinched at the large crash of the step ladder slamming into the side of the autopsy table,

Climbing the steps, the short, dark-haired woman leaned to claim a scalpel. Well, might as well start somewhere. She began the autopsy with the large, “Y”-shaped cut that would lead to her going through the man’s internals.

She did not get too far with the incision, before someone entered the morgue to talk with her -- it sounded like one of her assistants. “Do you need the table lower, Ms. Bonnaire?” The male in his bright scrubs was already leaning down to help the woman adjust the table - only to be hit against the top of his head with the scalpel. “No! I do not need help, Gods! I am fine!”

She huffs as she glared at the man, “Get out. Don’t need you tonight.” As the man left, rubbing at the nick the woman had given him with the very sharp little blade, he muttered, “Crazy poser-*****.”, loud enough for her to hear.

The woman simple hummed and turned back to continue with the autopsy -- though her momentary distraction had stopped her from getting too far, she was able to easily continue -- at least for a little ways. This corpse bled -- it bled quite a lot considering she had just started to cut. Most corpses did not bleed this much.

Nonetheless, she continues, taking blood samples to run toxicity labs, sexual health check, and any other type of test that she could think of. She was a procrastinator -- nothing was ever done on time with Othella in charge. As she moved to take a scraping from one of the scratches she had seen… she frowned to herself. Had she been seeing things? She thought she had seen a scratch there. Shaking her head at this thought, dismissing it as sleep deprivation, she moves on.

The examination continues -- each organ is categorized, logged and placed aside only to be put back into their proper places before she stapled the torso closed. The ‘ping’ sound that announced the tests were done sounded and she moved away from the body to read the reports. The man seemed to have been a very healthy fellow; despite anomalies in his blood.

With that, the little woman dipped her pinkie into a vial of blood -- simply to taste. It smelled… strange, not like the usual copper, metallic scent -- and when it hit her tongue, it did not taste metallic either. It tasted better, though, so as she drops into one of her various chairs, and starts separating the blood into doses for different drinks on different days; it was too good to simply give up like that.

<Lancaster> The first thing that Lancaster was aware of was the pain. A headache. His entire torso felt like it had been pulverised, beaten black and blue. And the hard coldness beneath his back, his arms, his legs. There was a draught, too. Sure, he generally ran at a cold temperature, but at least it was slightly warmer than the average vampire. He dressed to keep himself warm, for comfort. But he wasn’t warm at all, here. He was so very cold.

A deep rumbling in his throat resulted in a groan, his fingers twitching before he lifted his hand to rub at his temple. When he blinked open his eyes he hissed. A baritone ‘...****’ could be heard from under his breath as he narrowed his eyes at the ceiling - all bright fluorescents. Where the hell was he? What had happened?

Once his eyes had adjusted, he looked down. His chest was covered in stitches, in straight, precise lines. “Oh… Jesus Christ,” he muttered, doing his best to sit up, fingers trailing along the stitches. The wound underneath were… ******* deep. They ached when he touched them. And itched. They were healing, slowly. It slowly dawned on him that he was in a morgue, somewhere. He was on a cold metal table and some lackey with a scalpel had assumed he was dead. This was like something out of one of his worst nightmares.

He had to get out of here.

He sat up, and swung his legs from the table. Clothes. He needed clothes. He needed his tome. Where the hell were his clothes?!

<Othella> The woman had left the room for an hour or two, taking one of those drinks she had mixed the blood into with her. It was her lunch-hour, and she did not want to eat in the morgue -- that was just creepy as ****.

“Hey! ‘thella! You really got to stop dressin’ like you belong in some kind of cult, girl. ‘pires aren’t real!” The same man that had come into the morgue earlier to ‘help her’ shouted these words as she passed by him in an office, on her way to the morgue. “**** off. It’s a well-known era of goth.”

She had just shoved the morgue door open when she said that, carrying the empty thermos in one hand. She hummed softly as she moved from the door to her desk, never once thinking to glance to the body on the table. “Well, guess it’s time to go through the personal ****.”

She furrowed her brow -- she would do the body on the table first, since his things were in one of the drawers. She froze when she finally turned around, her gaze focused on the… not-so-dead body on her table.

“Uh. Where is my body? The **** kind of pranks do you fuckers pull?” She huffed, crossing her arms. “C’mon, I need that body back. The police are coming by to find out how he died.”

<Lancaster> Personal ****, she said. The pieces were slowly falling into place. There’d be some drawer somewhere, something, where his things would be. Hopefully they hadn’t incinerated them yet. He couldn’t imagine trying to stumble home without any clothes. He’d get arrested for indecent exposure. And end up in a worst situation than the one he was in now. Maybe. Maybe there was no worse that it could be.

The girl - short, he could tell, even from this distance. Short and sharp and with the same attitude as every other human, which was why he didn’t bother to hide what he was, completely. They didn’t believe in what they thought had to be impossible. They’d prefer to think of other explanations. Pranks, for example.

The police, she said. The police were coming by.

“****,” Lancaster muttered. He slipped from the table. He was completely naked but it didn’t seem to phase him. “I can’t be here when the cops get here,” he said. “This isn’t a prank. I need my clothes. Where are they?” he said, broad Australian accent rounding the vowels. When he pushed the hair from his eyes his fingers grazed the bullet wound in his head and he hissed again. He recalled, now, the hunters. Their failed attempt. And his own failure to get home safely. Without waiting for the woman to respond, he began to search, gazing over her shoulder, through the doors. Where the hell would they keep his ****?

<Othella> “You mean you are my body?” She had moved to stare at the man, now, her fingers searching for the keys. She arched a brow as she jingled the keys -- flinging them toward the man. She wanted him distracted -- the hell was this guy? He was dead! She had opened him up.

The woman was sliding her hands against the desk, she had backed herself against it, searching out a scalpel. Hopefully the man had taken those keys and decided to look through the locked drawers -- his things were not in the locked drawers, but it might keep whatever he was busy.

“So explain to me… how I performed an autopsy, only to have a dead man wake up?” Her fingers slid against the scalpel and she shifted her weight -- what chance did she have against this man? He was huge compared to her. Well, nobody could ever say Othella Bonnaire had a temperament that would suit such a tiny woman.

“Are those others going to wake up too?” She arched a brow as she tapped the scalpel against her lower back, ignoring the small cuts she was giving herself. Perhaps he would give her a good reason as to how he woke up.

“And if they are, are they going to try and kill each other? Or was it you they were after?”

<Lancaster> “Aaaaaagh,” Lancaster caught the keys; the sound of frustration given in response to all the questions. Of course there would be questions. Bright blues landed upon the short woman, assessing her. A medical examiner, who he knew nothing about. He didn’t know what she would be capable of. Whether she would gather an army of… what? She didn’t know who he was or where he lived so what danger could she possibly do, this one person?

“Because I was already dead before,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to the other bodies. He grimaced. Yeah, he’d done that to them. But, they’d started it. Right? It was self defense. Still, he didn’t like to be reminded about the violence he could be capable of.

Lancaster was not like Pi, his other half. In this situation she would tell him to deflect. To… hell, even kill this woman because she had seen too much, or knew too much. Lancaster functioned under his own ruleset. Whatever, right? The truth was far easier than trying to fumble for an excuse.

“They’re not going to wake up. They tried to kill me and I … self defense,” he said. And he did exactly as she expected him to. He went to the drawers. Tried the keys. He needed to find his tome. He needed to get home.

<Othella> “Oh. Already dead. Well, makes me feel better.” She shrugged, there were things the midget would believe, and things she would not. Once he stated that the other men, were indeed, dead, and turned away from her…

Well, the girl moved forward, scalpel pressed against her fingertips -- though she did not make it halfway across the room before the room began to spin. She was such a tiny little human -- she should not have drank the dead man’s blood.

Ugh. Maybe it was poison. She scrunched her nose and shook her head hard, moving to continue across the room -- though she was becoming more and more unsteady. She mumbled under her breath as she moved forward to try and stab the scalpel into the man. Though… she was off by a few good feet, she had not even made it to him when she had tried to stab the man, so she was thrown off of her feet by her own momentum.

She had been counting on the man bracing her well enough to stay on her feet. She has released the knife by the time she realized she was going to hit the floor; arms tossed to shield her face. She groaned against her arms, groping around for the sharp object which had landed just out of her reach, but she did not want to move -- no, if she kept her head buried against her arms, it would all go away, right?

<Lancaster> There was a clatter of metal against tile, and the scuffling of feet behind him. Lancaster had hardly even had the chance to get a single drawer open before he was turning around to see what all the commotion was. The black-clad woman sprawled on the ground, like she had tripped over her own feet. Bright light glinting off the sharp edge of the scalpel nearby. Lancaster’s lips twisted into downturned disapproval, even as he moved forward to try to help her up; to grab her beneath the armpit to try to bring her to her feet.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. Why would you try to stab me?” he mumbled. He even managed a small laugh, wondering what the hell she could have been thinking.

“You cut me open already, for ****’s sake. You think a stab from a scalpel is going to me any harm? What was your goal, there?” he asked. He couldn’t tell that she was sick; he had no idea, yet, that she had drunk his blood. The small stirring of that bond between sire and childe was still too young, too weak for him to recognise. He assumed that she had simply just tripped, slipped. Something, in the heat of the moment. There were plenty of ways a person could handle the rising of the dead. He supposed spontaneously attacking said dead person ranked pretty high.

<Othella> As he lifted her up, she was fine -- though her fingers had curled against his arms to hold herself upright… If he released her altogether, she would indeed lose her balance once again.

She muttered quietly, “Wasn’t trying to kill you earlier, you were already dead. Now you’re a goddamn living dead-man.” She closed her eyes gently for a moment, sighing harshly. “I don’t ******* understand. If you were already dead when you came in, the **** are you? The only thing I know about that do this are…” Her voice waivered and she cleared her throat harshly, before continuing, “...vampires? Even then, everyone says it’s stupid to believe in them.”

She’s tilted her head back to stare upward, her skin would be quite hot to the touch -- she shouldn’t have drank his blood. Ugh. She tried to pull away from the man, though if she succeeded she would indeed lose her footing and simply slump down.

<Lancaster> It took mere seconds for Lancaster to realise that the girl hadn’t just tripped and fallen. As soon as he touched her skin he could feel that there was something wrong. Call it a sixth sense, but it was as if she were all of a sudden taken ill with some kind of poison. It still didn’t click. The musician hadn’t bitten the girl, and he doubted that she could have accidentally ingested any of his blood. It didn’t cross his mind at all that she could be turning. Not yet.

“Zombies, maybe. Aren’t they the most common culprit of waking up from the dead?” he said. “But no. As far as I know, zombies don’t heal from their wounds and you would soon see that I do,” he said, all the while managing to keep hold of the girl who was trying to lurch away from him. Instead of letting her slump to the floor, he all but manhandled her into a nearby chair. From the back of which he plucked a spare white robe. It was too short for him, of course, but at least he hid his nakedness when he pulled it on.

“Now what’s the matter with you? Are you sick? Is it… I know you’re probably in shock. I apologise for that. Maybe I should have timed it…” he shook his head. “Is there a fridge? Can I get you some water?”

<Othella> Small hands pressed against the arms of the chair, tilting her head back to stare up at the man as she was spoken too. She shifted to point with trembling fingers toward a small, industrial silver fridge. It contained his blood samples; the drinks she had mixed with his blood; and many more samples of things.

“Your… uh, clothes are…” She frowned. Where had she put this particular man’s clothing? The midget pulled her legs to her chest as she stared around the room. After a few minutes of staring around, she twists to point toward the ceiling behind of the chair -- obviously the man’s clothes are not there, but she cannot think.

She stares blearily up at the strange, living-dead man. She frowned quietly as she hid her face in her hands, “‘m not really… shocked, I guess. Just didn’t expect… real vampire under my knife.” She reached out to press a small hand firmly to a place on his arm, “You had scratches here.” She murmured, rubbing her face roughly.

“Thought I was goin’ crazy… So you really did heal those?”

<Lancaster> The way she pointed at the fridge had Lancaster assuming that was where the water was; he considered it an affirmative answer to his question. Even if she said nothing about water, but instead about his clothes. He highly doubted that they would keep his clothes in the fridge. But she wasn’t really helpful on that front. He would search the place before he left. He needed the tome, more than he needed the clothes.

“I did heal,” he said, staying still for a moment to look down at the girl, confused and a little concerned. “Not on purpose. It happens automatically,” he said, talking about his body as if it were a well-oiled machine. The cuts in his torso, deep and invasive, would take longer to heal. Even now it felt strange walking around, feeling as if his insides were all wrong, as if all his dead organs were shifting around like rocks in a hessian sack. He didn’t really want to know what she had done to him. That was not something that he would ask.

Moving away, he went to the fridge to get the water that he assumed she wanted. When he opened it, however, he had to blink. It looks like someone had mixed up a bunch of Bloody Marys, or something similar. He couldn’t see any water. But then, he might not have looked too hard. His focus kept going back to the… they did look like drinks, didn’t they?

“... what are these?” he asked, choosing to give the examiner the benefit of the doubt. For the moment, choosing to believe that she wouldn’t have been so stupid as to try to ingest some of his blood.

<Othella> “Oh, those? Those are experiments. Like Frankenstein, an’ Mr. Hyde.” She was not thinking straight -- and she has indeed realized this. “N- No, those are blood samples -- Ophelia had the idea a few months ago.”

She waved her hands, giggling upwards, “Ophelia believed she would find the right person’s blood one day, and become a ‘pire.” Her face falls as she stares up at the man, “But Ophelia disappeared a while ‘go. All we found was a room of blood.”

She is soon rocking back and forth, frowning, “Ophelia knew ‘lots. Said she found someone to turn ‘er, said she ******* hit the lottery. Her dreams --” She’s lifted her hands to make a *poofing* motion the best she could.

“But I thought I’d do it since she wasn’ here. Remind myself of how she lived, really lived.” She’s staring at her hands, picking at her nails quite roughly. “******* lottery. ‘I met a guy,’ she said. ‘He knows how to make it happen,’ she said. Didn’t believe her. She was always the nutter of the two of us.”

<Lancaster> At first, Lancaster was relieved. Experiments. And they didn’t even belong to this woman - they belonged to someone else. Until she continued, and if Lancaster had any blood in his face it would have drained, leaving him looking paler than usual. Not that he walked around looking like a corpse - unlike other vampires, he got away with looking more human than usual. No one could ever pick him out for what he was by the way he looked. Now, though, he may have looked a little pasty - anyone would, after being cut open and losing god knows how much blood in the process.

He knew that there were people out there who believed in vampires, and obsessed over them so much that they wanted to become one. Some of them probably knew of their existence, but others probably could be considered a little crazy. Lancaster thought they were all a little crazy - he wouldn’t have picked this. He wouldn’t have wanted it. Ever. But as always, he tried to understand the views and opinions of others.

When the woman continued, Lancaster groaned. His head bowed, and he closed the fridge, slowly. She didn’t need any water. He took a breath that he didn’t need, and turned to face her.

“Is it mine? Did you take samples of my blood to drink?” he asked, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything accusatory, or judgmental.

<Othella> “Uh… that’s… yours and the other three guys.” She threw her head back against the chair he had placed her in, the resulting crack would sound very painful, though she just stared at the ceiling with a groan.

“What does that mean for me?” There were rumors that vampires just had to feed their blood -- though there were so many rumors, even some of a vampire being able to turn another just by biting them, or a vampire being able to turn over several days of visiting the person. Who knew what was true?

“What does that mean?!” She inquired again, her small hands balling into fists as she closed her eyes tightly. It was hard to seem angry when she felt so terrible.

<Lancaster> The groan turned into a sigh, a breath of an uttered **** before he abandoned the idea of finding his clothes, or of finding any water when now he was one-hundred-percent certain that this woman did not need any water. The illness that she was suffering was one that she would have to ride through, and when she was done, she would crave only blood. Not water. At least there was some on hand, right?

The six foot six musician found another office chair and dragged it over, so that he could sit in front of… he didn’t even know her name. He knew absolutely nothing about this woman except that she liked to wear black, and had a fascination with the dead. Or the undead.

“It means that you’ve just done something that can’t be undone,” he said, his baritone voice slightly scolding, even if it probably sounded calm. “It means that you’re undergoing a change. And soon you will no longer be human. You won’t be able to go out into the sun anymore. There’s a high possibility you may not be able to eat human food anymore. In order to survive, you’ll have to keep on drinking blood,” he said. Now that he was focusing on it, he could feel it. That tenuous bond that linked sire to child. it was getting stronger with each passing second.

“I’m Lancaster d’Artois. For all intents and purposes, I’m now your sire,” he said. His voice, at the end, was tense. He’d had a plan. He’d sought out Sia on purpose; she was the kind of person he’d wanted around. Someone with good morals and an optimistic outlook. Someone who had known what they were getting into, and who had decided that was what they wanted. His plan was to continue to find like-minded people. This… was not part of the plan. But it had happened. And there was nothing to be done but to handle it.

<Othella> “Well I fucked up.” She huffed lightly into her hands, listening to the man. She furrowed her brow when he tells her his name -- and she murmurs, “Well ****. Fancy-*** name.” She’s pressed her hands against her face, before focusing on this man - this Lancaster.

“Othella Bonnaire.” She mumbled, gesturing to the once-pristine room they sat in, “Medical Examiner -- just transferred to these parts, specifically.” She’d shrug slightly, huffing quietly. “So… what do I do now? Do I resign from my job?”

She arched a brow. She really enjoyed her job -- it was what she knew how to do.


<Lancaster> Lancaster snorted.

“Othella Bonnaire. And you accuse me of having a fancy *** name? Hypocrite,” he said, watching on with a furrowed brow. It was just like him, to keep his calm; to try to be upbeat about the situation. For her sake, if not for his. He licked his lips, wondering how long it would take before she was okay. But, it was probably best if she took the rest of the night off sick, and came home with him.

“You may have to take a couple of weeks off. And you’ll have to work night times. If they’ll let you do some kind of graveyard shift, I don’t see why you have to resign. You’ll probably have all kinds of new insight into the dead people wheeled in here,” Lancaster said, frown deepening just slightly. She’d have to have seen so many bodies drained of blood. Mauled bodies. So many with sword slashes and bullet holes.

“Where are my clothes, Othella? We should probably get out of here. I can take you somewhere comfortable,” he said. Later, he would question her. Later, he would ask her why the hell she would keep drinking blood, just like her friend used to, if she didn’t think there would be consequences? Said friend, who wanted to become a vampire. Yeah, at least Lancaster didn’t have to feel entirely responsible for this one, if she turned out hating what she was. Oh, he would help her. Of course he would. But at least instead of feeling like the worst monster in existence, he could always tell her she shouldn’t have been drinking the blood of dead people.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Othella> “Pft. I’m French, what can I say?” She shifted her weight as she studied him -- furrowing her brow. “Mainly work graveyard anyway. Philip was out today -- and they had…” She gestures to the man in front of her -- “...a body they needed autopsied pronto.”

She tapped her chin quietly, before she moved to stand -- a little unsteady, the little woman moved across the room; through a glass set of doors into another room. She was slow -- it was all she could do not to lose her footing again.

An alarm would go off, and she would quickly shut the sound off with a code -- though not before one of the other morgue-workers was shouting into the morgue, “Ms. Bonnaire? Do you need help, miss?”

Othella, dragging the box filled with the personal belongings of ‘John Doe #4’ shouted out, “No, ‘m good. Go away. Drillin’ into bones in here!” It’s a lie, but the room was mainly sound-proof -- the alarm, however, was positioned outside of the room to alert the rest of the workers to issues. Usually infectious -- but that rarely happened.

The door shut, and the small woman dropped the rather large box, before she frowns. “Uh, what are we going to do about… my files? I’ve already updated them to state… well, everything from the fact you were here -- dead -- to the items in this box.”

She is peering at the tall, sturdy man, her brow furrowing. “I don’t understand how it won’t raise suspicion if you just… walk out of here.”

<Lancaster> At first Lancaster was going to suggest that they just burn them, but quickly remembered that they weren’t in the dark ages anymore. The files wouldn’t be paper. Not just paper anyway. His mouth had opened and quickly shut, before his thoughts caught up and he shrugged his shoulders.

“You didn’t know who I was. You haven’t got a name on those files, do you?” he said. It wouldn’t matter. Maybe it would to Pi, or to any other of the die-hard masquerade keepers, but this wasn’t something that concerned Lancaster overly much. “If it’s an issue, I know hackers. And you know why I could just walk right out of here? Because people don’t like to believe that dead bodies can rise, and they’ll make up any excuse to explain it to themselves. Otherwise, I can be persuasive,” he said with a wink.

It was something that he had learned, over time. He’d always had a way with people, but after becoming a vampire, everything had become so much easier. He could talk his way in and out of almost anything. It certainly made running several businesses that much easier. And, knowing what other people were feeling was also handy. He could change tactics depending on how their mood swayed.

“Though, I don’t understand why you can’t sit back down at that computer and update the files again. Get rid of any evidence that any fourth dead body was ever here. Or, make it look like it wasn’t updated, scream bloody murder, tell them all I’m still alive, have them call an ambulance, and we escape in the chaos,” he said. It was all like something out of a movie, and he almost laughed.

“Or we can just walk out. I bet you it won’t be that hard. How many people could really be working here this late anyway?”

<Othella> “No. You’re listed as John Doe 4.” She scrunched her nose at his wink, snorting. “I’m suuure you could.” She shook her head with a another snort. “I mean, I could definitely sit down and fix it -- but we’d be here for a while.”

“Eh… I don’t want a huge scene -- already tried to stab you.” She grumbled, crossing her arms. “Let me send an email really fast -- and we can leave. I think I can access the files from my flash -- didn’t save them to the computer yet. Like to triple-check facts.”

At those words, she’s kicking the box lightly and moving away from the main room -- to plop down in the computer chair and make sure the files were indeed saved to her flash-drive, before she pulls the little piece from the computer.

She’s stuffed it into her pocket, before she rubs her eyes again. She should have been more careful -- she did not even know if she wanted this. But she had it -- so she’d deal. “Six or seven people are here on a nightly basis -- two security guards, and lab assistants mostly. Tonight I think there’s only a few less. Don’t know.” She’s tilted her head to stare at the ceiling with a huff.

<Lancaster> While Othella’s back is to Lancaster, he quickly pulls his clothes from the box and pulls them on. It’s not pleasant, to pull on clothes that have gone hard with dried blood. If anything, he figured, it would be the state of his dress that drew attention rather than the fact that he was a dead man walking. Out of the pocket of his jacket he retrieved the tome. It was soaked with blood but it was still usable.

The tome only worked with one person, otherwise he’d have suggested taking them both along for a ride. He considered giving it to Othella, but that meant he still had to get out of the morgue without causing a scene. He could use it himself, but he was concerned about Othella’s wellbeing, and didn’t want to leave her alone.

When he turned back around, she was done on the computer. “How are you feeling?” he asked. He wondered whether she could have taken enough - and maybe that was why the change was taking so long. Not enough blood in the system, and she hadn’t been drained, first. He’d always had to drain them, first. He thought that was how it had to be done. Looking at Othella now and knowing without a doubt that she was turning, he hoped that Sia would never find out. The way he had made sure that Sia was drained, in a tub of all places. Because he himself could not drink human blood.

“This is kind of… not the normal way that a vampire is turned,” he said. “I have a way to get home but it’s only valid for one person to use at a time. And I don’t want to leave you alone…”

<Othella> “Could be better.” She mused, resting her chin on her hands. “How are they usually turned?” She arched a brow curiously, tilting her head. “I’d always heard they had to drain their victims first.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I can meet you somewhere, if you want. Just give me directions -- coordinates, even. My car’s GPS does all that fun stuff.” She’s scrunched her nose in thought, eyeing his clothing.

“So messy. You could slip into scrubs if you preferred, they’re not coated in dried blood.” She paused when the door to the morgue was flung open by a gurney -- and she was up and over to the end of the gurney.

“Hiya, Bon. Got a dead ‘un.” The man grinned -- most likely another of the assistants -- “This is Ms. Felicia Tempta. She’s a rush -- you might be here a while.” Othella is pushing against the gurney, though she is barefooted and comes to… well, the gurney comes to her stomach.

“You can leave her. I’ll get her rolled into place and start her testin’, okay?” The man snorts, he has not yet gotten a good look inside the dark morgue -- “You’re gon’ need some help to get ‘er, Bon.”

The little woman sighed, “If you don’t get out, right now, I’ll shove you into the incinerator when you least expect it.” The woman pulled herself onto her toes to stare at the man. “A’ight, fine, fine, jeez Bon. Threatenin’ the help.”

When the man was gone, but the door itself still ajar as the gurney was still in the way, the little woman began to slowly pull the bed into the morgue -- her lips parting in a groan as the door slams shut.

“Can you open one of the Y-drawers and put her in there?” She twisted to peer up at the man. “Someone else can get to her tomorrow.”

<Lancaster> Lancaster didn’t make a move to try to hide himself when another employee threatened to come into the room. He should have. But he was drowsy and his body felt all kinds of weird, beaten up and cut open and healing, slowly. It felt like there were tiny little creatures crawling beneath his skin, sewing everything back together in all the rightful places.

When the other guy was gone, Lancaster did as he was asked, albeit slowly. He was watching Othella carefully, as if he were waiting for a time bomb to go off. Despite the interruption, he was still ruminating over Othella’s first question.

“I was turned by being drained, first. Every person I’ve turned was drained first… or at least close to death. And the majority, post-turning, suffered a hell of a lot. I mean… like incapacitated for a couple of hours. You seem to be doin’ okay, which has me kind of worried…” he said. Helping to shift a dead body into a morgue drawer should have disturbed Lancaster, but it was part of the adaptation process. It worried him that death wasn’t as disconcerting as it once was, depending on the circumstances.

“Unless it was just the small amount that you ingested, and it’s working really slowly. And in that case, is it even enough? As I said… kinda not normal,” he said. Like a doctor dealing with a disease, he wanted to know what she was feeling. Right down to the very last detail.

<Othella> “I’ve never been normal.” That was the only thing she could think to say, shifting her weight quietly. Was she ever normal? Didn’t think so -- her own mother had always had issues with Othella.

The girl who scratched eyes out of dolls faces, who sat by herself and chatted with birds, who talked to death. Death had never bothered her. Death was a natural resource -- yes, a resource. It was most likely why she had chosen to enter into the gothic style, and then the goth community -- and later in life, she became a medical examiner, leaving her well-paying forensics job behind her for a job of death.

She stared at her feet for a moment, before speaking up again, “If you want to make this whole thing normal, go ahead.” She tilts her head back to stare up at the man quizzically, her teeth settling onto her lower lip.

“Death and I are great friends.”

When her grandmother had died, five year old Othella Bonnaire had sat on top of the coffin, legs crossed and grinning proudly out at the congregation. She had been proclaimed the devil’s child when she refused to move.

When her father was taken by pneumonia, Othella was there when he died. She was twelve, and there was speculation that she had killed the man. Her father had been abusive -- but her step-father was kind; more of a father than her own kin.

The woman rolls her shoulders gently, stating upward, “I think it’s safe enough to leave, now, if you wanted.” She peered at him thoughtfully.

<Lancaster> Lancaster narrowed his eyes at the girl. Did she just suggest he make things normal by killing her? He shook his head. If he had the ability to lie, even in jest, he might have joked with her. Might have told her that no - he didn’t want to leave because he was going to kill her instead, and shove her in the same drawer they’d just stored Ms Felicia Tempta.

But of course, he couldn’t lie. The words couldn’t even form on his tongue. She had suggested that he wear scrubs, but he wondered whether they’d even find any to fit him. The thought had rolled from his mind, dismissed. Now he just nodded.

“Yeah, we should leave. Are you ah… how do you feel?” he asked. Had she even turned? Or had the blood just made her a little woozy? Had her body rejected the change? Was he just imagining that bond? If she picked up a cheeseburger right now and ate it, would she throw it back up again? Or would she want to latch onto the neck of the first human she saw as the vampiric thirst took hold?

Of course, Lancaster always used his own turning as a point of reference, first and foremost. He remembered how dry his throat had been; how he thought that he wanted water, but instead all he needed was the thick, hot red blood. He was already wandering toward the door as he asked the question, eager to get Othella somewhere he could sit her down, talk to her properly without fear of interruption.

<Othella> The question he asked her made her scrunch her nose. “I don’t know.” How did she feel? She stared at the floor for a bit, her hands running across her lower back as she swayed in thought.

After a moment, she murmured quietly, “I like to ignore how I feel. Can’t bother me if I don’t think about it.” She frowned quietly to herself -- it was harder to ignore the way she felt, especially with him asking questions.

She kicked her feet at the ground for a bit before adding softly, “I mean, I’d like to be snuggled under my blankets, and sleep, but since I can’t do that I’m just ignoring it.” Eventually she would not be able to ignore it forever -- but she would try.

<Lancaster> Lancaster arched a brow. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Whether she was turned or not, whether she was just going to be ill for a while… he needed to take her home, and watch over her, and decide what to do as matters progressed. He opened the door and peered outside - Othella should probably go first, seeing as she knew everyone who worked here. They could act like thieves, or spies. Undercover agents, trying to get from one place to the next without being seen. At least, it would be better if Lancaster himself weren’t seen. He’d be able to deal with it if he were, but it’d be better if he wasn’t. He waved Othella out the door; he couldn’t see anyone down the hall. Besides which, he didn’t know where they were, or how to get out.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know how you feel,” he said in a hushed tone, trying to keep his deep baritone at a level that would not be heard by anyone lurking nearby. He supposed the sound of it, the accent of it, would be foreign within the building.

“I suggest you don’t ignore it. I don’t know whether you took enough. I don’t know whether it’s just going to kill you, or whether you need more. I don’t know whether you’ll just pull through and be able to go through your days as if nothing ever happened. So help me, help you,” he said, just as hushed as before. Almost low enough that she wouldn’t even be able to hear. If the change was taking place, however, her hearing would be better. Her sight, her sense of smell. Everything would be heightened. He was waiting, watching for any kind of reaction. Good or bad.

<Othella> It was dark as they started into the hallway -- and as she left the morgue she clicked a remote to turn the lights off behind her. The woman shifted to stare behind her at the man, narrowing her eyes gently.

“But if it kills me, it kills me.” She slipped past the front desk, shoving her hands through her hair as she turns to walk backwards, so that she can face the man. Her hands fall to rest on her lower back as she steps assuredly backwards.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you if I were gone?” She arched a brow. She wanted to know if this man wanted her. She shifted her weight as she stopped to study the desk, huffing quietly as the security guard wandered by.

“Hiya, Ms. Bonnaire. Your night well?” Othella played his question off, “Just another long night.” The man responded with something akin to - “I hear you,” and went on his way, never really thinking to look at the woman as he spoke.

She’d lean against the door to the building, peering at Lancaster.

<Lancaster> Lancaster didn’t answer Othella until the coast was clear. It was a loaded question, and although he couldn’t lie, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a question that he could answer with any direct or blunt honesty. He wondered whether Othella was depressed. Whether she had issues in her life, with feeling wanted or needed. In that moment it wasn’t about what was better for Lancaster. He knew he wanted instead to do what was better for Othella.

As soon as the coast was clear he slipped past Othella and outside. He went to push his hands into his pockets, only to remember that the one pocket was absolutely ruined and had pooled with coagulated blood. His face twisted and he pulled the hand out again, absently wiping his fingers on his already-dirty jeans. With the fresh air at his back and the wide open space ahead, there was no longer a need to whisper.

“I don’t know you. I know nothing about what you’re like to live with, so I can’t answer that question,” he said. He wasn’t allowed to be anything but honest. “Whether it was better for me or or not doesn’t matter, though. It’s what’s better for you. And I’m not gonna let you die,” he said, levelling Othella with a look that said she should know better.

<Othella> “Eh. My life’s not all that great. I mean, I work on dead people for cryin’ out loud. And before that, I was a forensic scientist.” She shrugged lightly. “Never had much of a life -- devoted it to studying death.”

She had been that woman. “After my mother died there was no point in studying anything but death -- ways to reverse it, to fix it. Never found any.” She shrugged her shoulders, kicking her foot against the door as she studied the man for a moment.

“I have cats.” As if that explained it all. “I have cats that I do not have the time for, because once I stop working, I have to think about the lack of family -- of people.” She has stuffed her hands inside the pockets of her jacket, “And nobody wants to do that. I’d much rather study death, learn about reincarnation -- look for answers, then think about being alone.”

Being alone was frightening, Othella was aware of this. Before she had started as a medical examiner, she had… spent her time in the dark. Spent her time studying potions and poisons, different ways to die -- frightening ways to die. Then, she had decided to find a cure for death by studying the dead.

<Lancaster> Lancaser began to walk, wanting to get away from the morgue. It hadn’t really dawned on him yet that he had been laid out on a cold slab and treated like a dead body, and now that he was beginning to realise the situation that he had been in, he wanted to get away from the place as quickly as he possibly could. He didn’t like death. Not in any of its forms.

Which, of course he did not tell the girl who had just admitted to dedicating her life to studying death.

“A forensic scientist? You say that as if you were saying… oh, but I’m just a garbage collector. That’s nothing to kick a stone at. That takes a lot of hard work and you should be proud of your achievements,” he said. And then focused on the rest of it. All around it didn’t sound like Othella was at all thrilled about her life, and Lancaster began to wonder whether this was some kind of… fate.

“If this… if you definitely have turned, because you drank my blood,” he says, not even considering keeping his voice down, now. “You won’t be left alone. There’s… well we have plenty of places to call home. And by we I mean… we. There are a few of us. Sia and Stryge - Stuart - are newly turned, too. And there’s Skylar, who’s a ray of sunshine most of the time. And Pi, my other half… Charlie…” he said. There were quite a few of them who came and went via the Den. “By doing something completely out of the ordinary you may have just… landed yourself with a whole new set of people,” he said with a grin.

<Othella> A name in the group of people he listed caught her attention -- Sia. That was pretty. She scowled at herself. Why was she taking interest in someone based off a name?

“Eh… things happened with that job. Things that make me never wish to go back.” She shrugged slightly, glancing away from the man. She shrugged again and chirped up, “But anyway! It’d be nice to have people for a change.”

She swayed as she wandered behind the man. “Will you introduce me to everyone?” She tilted her head to one side. Her nose scrunched gently as she hesitantly adds, “My new… family. Right?” She arched an eyebrow.

“That’s what my unordinary act has landed me into, yeah? A brand new family?”

<Lancaster> Lancaster nodded. He didn’t want to pry. He wouldn’t pry. It wasn’t in his nature. If Othella wanted to share her woes with him at some stage, then so be it. But if she didn’t willingly offer them up, then maybe it wasn’t something that she wished to talk about. The shrug and the peppy ‘anyway!’ had Lancaster assuming that she wanted to change the subject. So he happily went along with the change, whilst also keeping an eye on the streets and the buildings, trying to figure out exactly where they were so he knew which direction to take Othella.

He would take her back to the pub; it seemed to be his way station, these days. When he turned someone, that empty third floor became a hub. The place where they could stay until he could introduce them to Pi; until Pi could make them their tome, and they could make themselves at home anywhere they chose; anywhere that they had access to. He realised, as soon as he got his bearings, that it wasn’t that far to walk. He made to cross the road, and round the next corner.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” he asked, tone soft even though the question sounded hard. “Yes, I’ll introduce you to everyone. A brand new family,” he said. “There’s a… a forum. Internet thing that everyone uses to communicate. I’ll let them know about you there, so they’ll know to expect a new face around,” he said, distractedly making sure that they were on the right road, but also trying to walk slowly, often peering back at Othella to make sure that she was okay.

<Othella> “Pfft, you’re too vague.” She huffs as she shoves a hand through her hair. She was glad he was walking slow -- she had short legs. Plus, she wasn’t feeling all that great -- but she’d not show that, at least, not until she was by herself.

She didn’t like accepting any sort of help. Being short meant she compensated by doing everything on her own. That included taking care of herself. She mentally scolded herself -- though her facial features were neutral.

“So your other half -- are they nice?” She quips. It must be nice to have an other half -- or really anyone at all. Huh. That thought stung a bit; then she reminds herself that she would have a brand new family now.

Hopefully this family would not die as easily as her mother had. Though she is faring well with keeping up with the man, she is panting -- despite not going that fast. She tried to keep it hidden but was finding that hard to do, her arms curling around herself as she followed.

Why hadn’t she questioned where they were going? She should have asked.

<Lancaster> Lancaster stopped and waited for Othella to catch up; he matched her pace, walking beside her, watching her more than he was watching the path in front of him. Honestly, he imagined that at any second she was going to collapse, at which point he was prepared to carry her all the way home.

“Pi. Yes. I wouldn’t be with her if she wasn’t nice,” he said with a lopsided grin. Though honestly, it had been a bumpy road. He and Pi didn’t see eye to eye on quite a few things, but they were better now than what they had been. Each of them had changed for the other in specific ways so that they melded, now, like a perfect yin and yang. They’d never see eye to eye on some things, but that’s what kept their relationship fresh.

“Ah, I mean... we have jealousy issues? She might seem a bit cold the first time you meet her but it’s got nothing to do with you as a person. It’s just that you’re female. And I’m the one who brought you home. But, she’ll come around,” he said. She had come around to Skylar, and to Sia. “So long as you don’t confess undying love and devotion or hug me every five seconds, I’ll think you’ll do fine…” he said.

“I’m taking you to Lancaster’s. It’s a pub that we own - there’s an apartment above that’s … cosy. You can rest, get better,” he said.

<Othella> “I think we’re.. good on that count. Don’t much like hugs.” She shifted her weight absently, he told her a place -- as if he knew what she was thinking. Well, at least she had a name for where she’d be going. That was good.

“That’s… nice. I think.” She murmured, focusing on the path in front of her more and more -- she didn’t want to ask for help. She was a very prideful woman; did things her way, and only her way if she could get away with it.

Though she’s not got much of a choice -- one of her hands reach out to catch herself; using his arm to steady herself. This does very little to help her, though. She knew she couldn’t fight this forever, and it was pissing her off that she was showing weakness.

She’s not got too long to be mad, though, soon enough she’s out -- like a flame that was deprived of oxygen.

<Lancaster> When Othella reached out to balance herself against Lancaster, he moved to wrap an arm around her shoulders. Luckily he did, too, because without much notice or warning, her small body collapsed. His fingers dug into the flesh under her arm, acting on instinct he caught her, reaching down to swoop her legs up into his arms. She was so tiny it was almost like lifting up a child; and with a vampire’s superior strength, it was like lifting a feather pillow.

The Australian swore under his breath as he cradled Othella against his chest. There was almost no doubt, now, that she was turning. Taking her home was the best possible solution. He got a few odd looks as he walked down the street; he had to mumble to quite a few people that they were both perfectly fine. Given his ability to persuade, he got away with it, mostly.

At the pub, he bypassed all the staff and did the same thing, though a few of the staff were more aware of the city’s nocturnal occupants. They knew to just leave Lancaster alone. He passed by Roxette - his thrall - who rolled her eyes and asked whether she should come up later. Lancaster nodded, and thanked her, before he took the two flights of stairs up. Up, past the backpackers, up to the floor that he’d decked out as a kind-of studio apartment, and a kind-of storage space for all his instruments. he took Othella to the bed, which was made with clean sheets. He laid her out and took off her shoes and her coat before he pulled the blankets up.

He left only to change and to fill himself up on blood, seeking out Pi to tell her what had happened, before returning to the third floor. To work a little on the instruments that needed repairing, while he waited for his newest to wake up.