Shhh [Azraeth]

[Jesse Fforde]

<Jesse Fforde> After meeting with Rhett and finishing a few things at Serpentine, and driving lessons with Kaelyn, Jesse still had a few hours to kill before sunrise. It'd been a while since he'd let off some steam, hunting the sewers or other such places for foe. He was out of practice, and Rhett had just been going on about making their family homes safe. Jesse had focused a lot on rituals and thieving lately, his combat skills were getting a little rusty. For about an hour he stalked the sewers; but when he stumbled across a door that he hadn't noticed before, he could help his curiosity. He went inside.

What he found was what appeared to be an abandoned subway; another hidden part of this city that ceased to amaze with its hidden corners and secret lairs. Maybe it didn’t have all the romance of Paris, but he assumed Harper Rock’s tunnels could give Paris a run for its money.

There were a few other bodies that he passed - a couple of blood thieves, too, that he didn’t hesitate to slaughter. Nothing valuable was gained from them. It didn’t seem to surprise Jesse when he found the secret passageways; an elevator that went up to more apartments, more public areas. He went straight back down again. He hadn’t quite finished exploring the hidden passageways.

Down in the dark, he sensed another presence. Someone - maybe he should talk to. Maybe this person had some idea where they were or what this place was. Except… Well, it wasn’t Jesse’s style to just confront someone and ask for information. Instead, he uttered a hissed “Shhhh.” Perhaps with the intention to mess with the person.


<Azraeth> The demi-fae watched him through the invisible field which separated them. Az had long before given up on feeling compassion for the beings of light - they disliked him and he wasn't a fan of them. However, as long as one of them could be of service, well that was reason enough to make nice. Finally, the being imparted the location of a blood thief. It was gone, like a candle flame just snuffed out. After clasping a cane sword in hand, the end featuring a seated dragon, he made his way from his apartment into the night. The nearest sewer entrance wasn't far, and then there was a short trek to the abandoned subway. He recalled having read about it at one point, but he honestly didn't know much about why it had become defunct. Apparently, it was a den for blood addicts.

He dropped into the subway itself, and it didn't take long for him to locate one of the beings he was searching for. Of course, there was the routine offer of money in exchange for his blood. He wasn't strictly opposed to the idea - in fact he'd donated to several necuratists over the years. However, he lacked warmth towards humans, and he wasn't there to make friends. Frankly $200 was a ripoff anyway. His blade slid through the air in a blur before it was re-sheathed. There was no blood on the impressive steel, but blood did well up as a line formed on a neck. Az let his fingers curl in hair as a body fell away, leaving him holding a severed head.

Shhh, he heard and his attention shifted. It took almost no time to determine it was another vampire. Az set the head he'd collected on the nearby stonework, so the blood could run out of it. "Have you got a flashlight? I have a ghost story." He said by way of greeting, flashing a smile. In the darkness, it was difficult to see the oddity of his eyes.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse chuckled, the sound echoing in the dim space. It would seem that his company had a sense of humour. Although Jesse may have had a flashlight on his phone, he chose instead a more archaic way of lighting the space between them. From his pocket he fished a lighter - a heavy metal object that someone, at some point, had given to him. Was he a bad person, that he couldn’t remember who had given him the gift? He distinctly remembered receiving a few over the years. It didn’t really matter, in the end. No one was going to quiz him on it.

“I think we’re the ghosts,” he said, clearing his throat of his husky voice. Although he’d already fed, the irritation there persisted; the constant dry scratch, the ache, the hunger for something that he couldn’t get enough of.

Without a second thought he flicked the lighter; the flame brightened and flickered to life between them. A warm, dim light revealed more of the same abandoned passageways, and another moving body. A man. Obviously. Jesse’s own sword was still held loosely in one hand; just because this guy had a sense of humour didn’t mean he wasn’t a threat. The dim light would reveal Jesse, dressed in jeans, boots, and a dark shirt, skin spattered with blood and gore. He was never too neat when he chose to go on a slaughtering spree. He canted his head to the side, regarding the other vampire. “You got any idea what this place is?”


<Azraeth> The sound of a chuckle lightened Az's mood, not that it had been particularly heavy to begin with. "You've got a point there. I'm honestly surprised we haven't found more dead things. Usually subterranean in this town means at least corpses, and usually a lot of spiritual activity." It was a strike against the place in his book, but he considered the Temple home, and the Temple had been built on top of crypts, which made it a locus for supernatural activity. Spirits wandered openly there. A haunted attraction, it was sometimes billed by local tourist agencies.

He heard the snick-snick of a lighter, and for a moment he felt pangs of craving. He hadn't had a cigarette he could enjoy in years. They were at one point one of his favorite comforts. Suddenly there was illumination. He could see the other man better, and in turn be seen. His most striking feature were his eyes - but there was no way around that, with the serpent pupil and reptilian irides that created a starburst of cerulean. There were no real whites to his eyes. Just color and serpentine coldness. His own garb was decidedly understated. He wore all black - a turtleneck and slacks that went with his suit jacket. Nondescript, neither particularly cheap nor name brand.

"Mind if I borrow that?" he asked, reaching for the lighter. For a second it looked as if he were about to scoop up the flame. In truth, he snuffed it out right at the exact moment he summoned an orb of pale light in the palm of his hand. He held it out in front of him, as he tucked his cane under the same arm. The orb gradually brightened until it bathed the entire area in just enough light to give them some room to look around.

"Somewhere between the abandoned subway and...somewhere else." He decided.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse preferred the flame. He was addicted to the flame. Even now, the little fire salamander sat neatly on his shoulder, its greasy body pressed up against Jesse’s skin. Its eyes were the blackest black even when illuminated. Eyes - Jesse recognised the eyes across from him, though he didn’t recognise the body that went with them. He was about to ask whether the guy had come here often - whether the door had always just been there and Jesse hadn’t noticed, or whether it had been only re-opened recently. What with the elevator leading up to apartments and shops, he had to wonder whether he’d just been ignorant of the place. Or whether whoever owned the apartments had found it and decided to open it to the public.

All comment upon the place and its uses, however, were stoppered. Instead, Jesse was remembering a storm, ages ago. One that had him and a couple of others trapped in the basement of a club. The Necropolis. The only other helpful body - the one who’d helped himself and Jesse find a way out of the basement that looked as if it would either blow up or be flooded - was a man who’d had similar eyes.

But then, he’d witnessed Kleo and her changed eyes, too - they’d looked serpentine, almost like this guy’s did. Perhaps it was just a rare trait that some vampires collected, and it was only a coincidence. Still…

“Neat trick,” he said, nodding to the illumination that now lit up the space, in lieu of the lighter’s snuffed flame. Jesse put the item back into his pocket. “You don’t happen to know a Nikolae, do you?” he asked, the name summoned from the recesses of his memory like an interesting piece of old dust.


<Azraeth> He found himself looking around, though there wasn't much to be seen, in truth. The subway had gone the way of all decrepit, abandoned things, becoming filled with the shiftless and homeless. There was an accumulation of natural and unnatural filth. If one looked closely, for example, they might see used up syringes from people who had gotten high in the solace the darkness provided. There was trash scattered, from binges, and grime on the walls. There was paint on cement. The place was just another in a long line of forgotten locations that humans had discarded for...whatever reason; it was ugly. Naturally Az felt a strange fondness.

"Nikolae is my sire." It didn't take much of a guess to figure out how Jesse had arrived at that conclusion though. The Dragomir eyes weren't precisely a secret, but newly turned members seemed to develop them later and later. Az had gotten his as soon as he'd died. Maybe it was something that was fading from their blood. He didn't know. "We call ourselves the Dragomir." He attempted to determine just what the relationship to Nikolae was. His sire was enigmatic at the best of times, and prone to polarizing people to him. Either they enjoyed his blunt way with words, or they hated it. Nikolae had found a string of lovers and enemies over the years.

Usually it was up to Az to help clean things up if they got messy.

"I'm the king of parlour tricks. Just watch me pull a rabbit out of this head." He said, gesturing to his still emptying skull on the stonework. "And you? Who murdered you?"


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse scoffed. He, too, had spared a glance for their surroundings but had found nothing much of interest. The interest he now found himself invested it had mainly to do with this man and his head - and the information he chose to divulge. The scoff was due to the memory, of course. Nikolae had thought it pertinent to introduce himself, to call himself a Dragomir. Jesse couldn’t remember exactly how the conversation had gone or how it had come about, but he remembered thinking the guy was full of himself. Also, Jesse never did understand introducing oneself by immediately giving away whose family they belonged to, or who their sire was.

“It’s not murder if you ask for it,” he asked, a singular smirk colouring his features. It seemed odd that this guy would first tell him what relationship he had with Nikolae, and next ask Jesse who his sire was. As if that were a completely acceptable introduction - sires, before their own names. Jesse didn’t have that much respect for his own sire, and would prefer not to say her name at all. He preferred to think he was his own man. He sheathed his sword and held out a hand.

“Jesse Fforde,” he said, then narrowed his eyes as he realised the guy might think that’s who his sire was. “My name, that is,” he said. There was no need to clarify; to tell a complete stranger that he didn’t care about his sire enough to give away her name. Nor was Jesse adopted into any family, to claim their name. He had only his own - his own small little bloodline that may or may not be recognised by the stranger, when the last name was given. Whether or not it was recognised, Jesse didn’t much care.


<Azraeth> "According to Dante, those who commit suicide are turned into trees, and inhabit a forest where harpies are charged with tormenting them for eternity." He commented. Potato potato, really. Being dead was being dead, as far as Az was concerned, no matter how you got there. He noted that Jesse was reticent to give the name of his sire, and the mystic assumed there was a story there. Maybe there had been a falling out. Maybe Jesse didn't know who had turned him. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd heard of that sort of thing. But then, if the guy asked for it. Well. Maybe certain topics were just better left untouched.

Az understood that.

"Azraeth Carpenter, in life, but I don't use that surname anymore." The name was an odd one, shared in similarity with his twin brother, Azariel. "Parents were religious freaks. Decided they wanted to name me and my brother after angels." Az-ra-yeth. "As you can imagine, I got black eyes a lot as a kid." He chuckled then, because even if they weren't fond memories, they were still his. By owning them, he took away their ability to hurt him.

"Fforde. That name is familiar." He mused, a non-glowy hand lifting so he could draw digits through dark hair. And then it hit him. "Do you know someone named Kaelyn?"


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse knew the name. Not because he’d heard of this particular Dragomir, but because he knew his mythology. It was a hobby of Jesse’s; mythological stories were rife with inspiration for art. For designs. For new canvases, whether they be skin canvases or paper ones. Eventually, they became skin canvases, of course, but sometimes they adorned walls instead. He knew that Azraeth was an angel - the story of said angel, however, evaded Jesse’s memory.

The Dante quote was not one that Jesse had heard, though it was one he could imagine turning into an art piece of some kind. Though he could argue the finer points, of course - he did not believe that becoming a vampire made him dead. He did not believe that asking to be turned was a form of suicide. He could have mentioned that suicide was something that he had experienced, an act that he had committed, and it definitely wasn’t the same as being turned. Far too personal a thing to to be sharing with a stranger, however. Jesse chose instead to keep the conversation on topic. He’d been asked a question.

“Yeah, I know Kaelyn. She was turned by one of mine,” he said, curiosity piqued. He’d had a few different conversations with Kaelyn lately; he was curious how she conducted herself in the company of others. There were those who liked to consider her theirs. Jesse was curious whether Kaelyn allowed others to believe she was someone that she was not. It had only been a recent development, however. “When did you meet her?” he asked.


<Azraeth> His back hit a wall, which had the impact of forcing his cane to jerk forward almost comically, dangling from between arm and body as he lowered himself to the floor. His backside came to rest on the ground with knees propped up. Fingers snapped shut, and the light from his palm suddenly dissipated. They didn't need it, not really. And Az preferred the darkness. But he liked the grayscale world of shadows that was the final resting place of many vampires, and even some human spirits that got sucked in through the rift. He let the newly extinguished hand reach so he could pluck up the severed head, giving it a firm shake to get the final droplets of blood off before he placed it in his lap. His elbows angled in to rest against a scalp.

"Would have been a while back. I met her on a trip to the Handle Bar, but that was months ago. Memory is a little fuzzy there, but I recall thinking she was an excellent fledgeling mystic. A bit young, mind you, to be dealing with all of this, but sweet all the same." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated because of the placement of his arms. The girl had seemed terribly innocent. "She's alright though? I mean these days?" Az hadn't kept in contact. He rarely kept in contact with anyone, and chose to blame it on frequent trips to the Shadow Realm - both intentional and accidental. He forgot entire months of time occasionally.

He just wasn't good at keeping up with people.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse didn’t sit. He was a restless being, and didn’t exactly anticipate sitting and having a deep and meaningful with this stranger. The light disappeared and Jesse’s eyes struggled to adjust - his own very ordinary eyes, even if they were a nice shade of bright blue. A gunshot was heard ricocheting down the narrow ways of the abandoned system; someone out there was having fun with whoever populated the subway. Some people did prefer guns over swords. Jesse wouldn’t judge.

A couple of months ago, Jesse was either fine or just beginning to descend into suicidal, over-sensitive, madness. How was Kaelyn, then? Was she more someone else’s, then, rather than Fforde? But from what Azraeth said, he’d met her on her own, somewhere out on the streets. But, no… she could have been met at the Handle Bar. Jesse’s tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. He hated that ******* place. That’s probably where Victor was right now, getting drunk rather than working. Sometimes, you just had to give up on some people.

“She’s got her reasons for being young. Mystic, and all,” he said. The stranger didn’t have to know she was sired that young. She could have just landed in a young body after coming back from the dead. But, the words rang true anyway. She’d have died, if she hadn’t been turned. Victor had taken pity on her, tried to give her a family. It had been good for a while, for her. But now it had all fallen apart. Jesse shrugged.

“She’s struggling. But I’m doing what I can to help,” he said. “I have faith. She’ll get there.”


<Azraeth> Struggling. That was the theme of life though, wasn't it? From the moment anything was born, it fought its way into existence, and worked towards the singular goal of survival and perpetuation. Even then, the moment anything was born, it also got an expiration date. In essence, everything living was in a constant state of entropy. Fear of death drove people insane with the search for perfect health or immortality, or something to pass their lives into legend. Azreath didn't think life and death were entirely that different. The only evidence he had of an afterlife was the Shadow Realm, and the spirits he'd seen running around all over the place. Things died, and that didn't mean anything really except that they operated on a different frequency to living things - like the way a human eye could only percieve light waves within a certain spectrum. Existence was like that. Life was just red through violet; it excluded everything to either side.

He wanted to say 'good'. Because struggle was the type of thing that brought out the best in people. Or the worst. Either way, it led to a sense of finality in the end, bitter or sweet as that may be. "She will." He said, with the decisive nature of someone who had seen it happen. He chose not to address her age. Az frankly didn't care. There had been a time, very early on, when he'd been concerned about the rules which supposedly governed their kind. He'd been a member of the first council, a representative for the Worthingtons. Time had taught him that rules were only valid to immortals if they cared about them, and it was better to guide than teach. He knew the truth about Kaelyn. He just didn't care to call Jesse on the slight deception.

Instead, he reached behind himself, against his back so he could yank a long, thin knife with a curved blade from where it lay strapped across his tailbone. He inspected the head for a moment after holding it up, and then began to peel away the flesh, the very tip of his knife digging into skin to cleanly pull it from bone. Of course the process would take a while. "Tell me, is she what’s on your mind, or is she just what you're talking about?"



<Jesse Fforde> If the words had been said out loud, Jesse would have laughed his agreement. Kaelyn was accustomed to being coddled because of her age. Victor wanted to shelter her and protect her, whereas Jesse had wanted to throw her into the deep end. It was where, he assumed, the rift between himself and his childe had started. They were constantly at odds - Jesse dismissing Victor’s orders for Kaelyn in favour of his own. This was probably why Kaelyn was struggling now. Constantly at odds with herself and who she ought to be. The struggle would help her to develop a tough skin; both inner and outer strength that would allow her to survive the vicious world that belonged to vampire-kind. She was not a child. She was old enough to learn.

She ought to be treated like an adult if she was expected to act like one. It was a kind of tough love that Jesse was constantly reminded that Kaelyn didn’t much appreciate.

This was not something he was going to discuss with a stranger, however. The mention of Kaelyn’s struggle was all that Jesse would reveal; hadn’t he just reamed her for sharing his private woes with someone outside of the family? She’d done it with someone she trusted; someone she deemed family. Jesse would be doing far worse if he shared her woes with a complete stranger - even if he claimed to be acquainted with her.

The conversation did not stay on Kaelyn, however. As the other man started to play with his severed head, he asked Jesse the kind of question Jesse might expect from a psychologist. Yekaterina was a psychologist, of sorts, and he had hated it when she’d asked him such subtle, veiled questions. He had hated it when she’d tried to get into his head. Now, here was a complete stranger doing the exact same thing. Jesse laughed.

“What makes you think there’s anything on my mind? Further - what makes you think I’d tell a complete stranger my problems?” he asked. It was amusing, this Dragomir’s confidence.


<Azraeth> The sharp edge made its way through the layers of skin, carefully pulling them away from the scalp - which it left bloody. Thankfully, there were no connective tissues really holding the top in place, and once it was cleanly sliced open, it came off without much difficulty. It got a little bit more difficult the lower he got towards the neck, which was around the time he began to pluck bits and pieces off. He'd tug out bits of bone that had been chipped, and found himself experimentally toying with where a spine disappeared under flesh. It was a little known fact that the brain liquified after death, if it wasn't placed in preservatives. He couldn't remove the gelatinous mass just yet though, not enough time to decay.

"Usually people have something on their mind." He pointed out and then smiled faintly as he glanced up from his work. "I wasn't really asking your problems. I'm just making conversation. Way as I figure it, a person can do that by directly asking questions, or they can beat around the bush without ever really learning anything about each other." He paused then, as his gaze once more dropped. He lifted a hand to idly lick away the blood from his fingertips. It was a thin coating. It didn't taste right - too old. No anima in there. No life force.

"Anyway, the only one talking about problem is you. I'm an open book, so you can ask me what you want, if you don't feel like being chatty about yourself." Or Jesse could leave, though Az hoped that wouldn't be the case.

[Azraeth]

<Jesse Fforde> It was something that Jesse missed, and had missed for a while. Something that he didn’t get as often, these days, and he blamed it on the fact that he’d regained his voice. When he was mute, people took his silence as permission to cry on his shoulder. He wouldn’t have been able to count the amount of times he’d heard people’s life stories. At the time, it had irritated him. Only after it was gone did he realise he enjoyed the noise of it. He enjoyed learning things about people, which may or may not be used against them later. Now that he had a voice, however, the only thing he ever got was the expectation to talk. To vocalise everything. It wasn’t something that he was accustomed to.

Jesse snorted, glancing down the hallway in the direction from which he had come. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness; he could vaguely see what Azraeth was doing, the silhouetted movements joined by the sound of the flesh as it ripped, the wetness of blood as it was licked from fingertips. Jesse’s nostrils flared, his hunger reminding him of its existence. He was forced to clear his throat.

He didn’t have anywhere to be; he’d go home and find Clover, but he’d do that regardless. For a few seconds his face lit up with the eerie glow of his phone’s screen - he opened up a message to send to Clover, to tell her where he was, and that he would be home soon. Soonish. He worried about her. He owed it to her to keep her informed of his whereabouts. There were mistakes he’d made in the past which he refused to repeat.

“Why are you peeling the skin from a severed head? It doesn’t need to look pretty for the rituals…” he said, even as he finished the message and hit send. Whatever problems he had, they were his own. He wouldn’t even acknowledge the fact that he had admitted to them without intending to do so.


<Azraeth> Az noted the glow of the phone. His own was stashed away somewhere, back probably at home, where he'd forgotten it. He was painfully avoidant to the idea of being 'plugged in'. Not that he held it against someone if they were, but it just wasn't something that interested him. Screens. Words flashing with a backlight. He preferred his conversations in person or not at all, but he was, at his very core, much more introverted than the handful of people who knew him were aware. That came from having been part of a set of twins. His brother, Azariel, had been successful at nearly everything he'd ever put his hand to. Azariel had been an athlete who somehow managed to luck out in the brains department too. And he had been 'popular', though that assessment somewhat reduced Az's life to a highschool trope.

The mystic had always preferred to keep his own company. He cultivated few friendships but when he made them, he was loyal to a fault.

So the glow of the phone was slightly foreign to him, but easily adjusted to. "I'm not using it for a ritual." He explained. Except that wasn't entirely true. He furrowed his brows, and began to try and unhinge a jaw when he got there. "Well it is for a ritual, I suppose. I'm going to be turning it into a tome." He explained. "Nearly anything can be one, as long as you can fit the language on it. A token. A file on a floppy disk. I decided I wanted to become a stereotype." He said, attempting to hide his amusement at the idea.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse hadn’t had many conversations with others about rituals; the first had been with his sire, who had for all intents and purposes given him a crash course. There were things that he had missed, however, things that he had struggled with until he had met Micah. Micah had helped him to hone his skills, to fix the things that he was getting wrong. But the logistics, the ways and means, the results? In this stranger he wondered whether he had found a like-mind - like a man who covets cars might be able to talk to a complete stranger about engines and carburetors. Other than being taught, Jesse had become the teacher. If he could discover different tricks of the trade, it would only be of service to him.

Finally, he found space against his own part of the wall and slid to a seated position. There was something liberating about talking to a veritable stranger in the dark. It was different from the usual routine. Where he wasn’t so willing to talk personal ******** with a stranger, he was willing to talk rituals.

“A tome?” he asked, before clarifying. He knew what a tome was, but he wondered exactly how this guy intended to turn a skull into one. “I like my tome because it’s small and fits neatly into my pocket. It can go with me wherever I go, concealed. Safe. You… want to put a tome onto a skull? Is that practical, or do you make spares for artistic purposes?” he asked. Unless Azraeth intended to etch the tome into the scalp, or the skin of the cheek. At least it would be tender?


<Azraeth> He could hear the other man moving, sliding to sit, and he could sense that he'd touched on some sort of common ground between them. That was usually all it ever took to make someone real to Az. Which wasn't to say he didn't consider most people 'real'. He just didn't particularly care about them until they were relevant to him on a mental level. "I'm making a spare. I got an apartment a while back and I've been wanting to hand out tomes to members of my lineage. As it turns out, we're a reclusive bunch." Like roaches fleeing once the light was turned on. Az liked to fancy, to himself, that they were just isolated creatures, the Dragomir. Like Smaug in the mountain, they needed to be alone, needed their own little territories and niches. The truth was probably just that there weren't enough of them.

"I was looking forward to making tomes for people to have access, and then realized promptly that I had been pointlessly gathering ritual ingredients for months. Needless to say, my response to that is '**** you, I'll do it anyway'." He chuckled then, like he'd told a joke. He placed the knife down so that he could let his fingers slip towards eye sockets, digging in carefully to evacuate the occular cavity, letting the squashed orbs that had once held life drop to the ground. "Not practical at all, sadly. Once considered getting them tattooed onto me. Zero chance of losing them that way." But he'd opted not to, mainly because he wasn't even sure a tattoo would stay. "Next project? Necronomicon."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse laughed under his breath and nodded. He could relate to that - a small family that may or may not use the tomes given to them. Independent lot, his, if not solely reclusive. Either independent, or wanting to create their own little families outside of Fforde. Or keeping to themselves because they feared lack of safety. Jesse was half considering changing the tome drop spot. At least if anyone in his own little lineage decided to turn on him and his, he could retract their permissions to the lair elevator. If they themselves were enemies, there’d be less opportunity for them to summon enemies into the safe place. All the portals should be shifted, too. Everything in the one place…

It would give him something to do, anyway. But that was something he would think more about later. For the moment, it comforted Jesse in some strange way that he was not the only one to have trouble gathering a family and keeping their loyalty. Though things had been looking up, recently. The lair was often populated. It was heartening.

“I say keep trying. With the spares. They come around eventually,” he said with a shrug, and then a hollow laugh. “Or just keep siring and hope for the best? But no, no. I probably wouldn’t recommend that, either. Tattoos, though… now that’s an idea. I have leg space. Could make it look fancy…” he pondered out loud. “You… want to make a Necronomicon of your own or do you actually believe everything Lovecraft wrote is true…?


<Azraeth> "I don't much sire anymore. I probably could, but I'm not very good at it. Lack patience. Once beat a childer's face with a keyboard - but that was years ago. Less violent against my own kind these days, but still can't seem to muster the whole teaching thing that goes into it. I'd rather make friends and leave the family business to those who are good at it." His tone said that it was more of an observation than a resignation. He wasn't particularly bitter about the issue with his lineage, but that was likely in large part due to his own lack of drive to interact with his own kind. There was no real vampire community; it was all a sham, made up families and made up groups sticking close to each other, and never daring to pull together under any universal plan or idea or fight for any common goal.

Eventually it would kill them. For years, people had feared it would be humans finding out about their kind that would hurt them. Az felt it was the lack of cohesive planning that would do them in. Sure, humans figure out the existence of vampires. If the community has a contingency plan, at least they can do something about that. But none of that. Never any serious or real discussion. Never any planning for inevitabilities. Only ever reaction and killing, and endless cycles of violence that burned down any future any of them would ever have. Maybe Az just didn't want to draw anyone else into the muck.

He glanced towards Jesse, his leg specifically, though he couldn't see where a tattoo would go. "See that's the other problem. I'm not an artist. If I tried it on myself, I'd end up making the wrong symbol, and accidentally summon a demi-fae into my skull or something." He muttered as he held up his work to inspect. For the most part it was as good as it would get until he could properly clean it, polish it, and begin the work of transcribing over the text.

"Nah. I mean I want to make a tome out of human flesh. Very eerie, I know, but I figure I've got eternity, and a guy needs a hobby."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse considered. He didn’t mind teaching. It was his responsibility to do so, so he tried to do his best to prepare those he turned for the life that he had forced them into. The majority had been forced, and therein, he had concluded, his problem lay. You can’t force a person to be loyal. Plans had been made, however, now that the addictive urge to sire seemed to have been quashed; he would not sire again on a whim. Logan had been the last. Henceforth, he would sire only those he deemed worthy - those who knew what they were getting into. Those who entered into it willingly, and who gave him permission. He was in no rush, however, which was a relief.

“I tried killing one of mine. She turned coward-yellow and ran,” he said lightly. Once, the problem called Aria had been one that tortured Jesse. He’d tried all he could to sate the woman’s need for vengeance. What would it achieve, if she did manage to kill Jesse? Nothing. He’d only come back again. Tytonidae had beaten him to it, though. Aria had not yet died at Jesse’s hands, though he wasn’t sure it would make much of a difference. He hoped that the woman would stay dead, permanently. But that would just be too lucky.

Over his shoulders, Jesse was wearing a messenger bag. When hunting, it wasn’t only to let off steam. It was also a means to gathering ritual items, and he always took a bag with him. In one of the lined pockets he had a stash of cards. He fished one out and flicked it across to the Dragomir.

“If you ever commit to the idea of tattooing it in your skin…” he said. The card was a business card, newly printed with the new name. Serpentine. Underneath the name, written in Sailor Jerry font, were the words - bar * gym * tattoos. Beneath those words, Jesse’s name, and the title - owner. And a phone number.


<Azraeth> "One of mine turned traitor on my bloodline. Mind you, this was back when I was trying really hard to be what I considered a good sire. Turns out the only good sire is one who turns you and leaves it at that. Anyway, so I tried really hard to make things work with this guy. Like I gave him things, I tried to give him good advice. I tried to be his friend. Eventually he walked out because other people in the bloodline wouldn't give him the ego stroke he thought he deserved." He stopped for a moment as he rubbed his hands together, letting the blood dry against his flesh. Some of it coagulated and flaked off.

"So then I worked with Nix to kill him. Er. You probably don't know who that is - she used to lead the Hellhounds, after...god. What's his name? Harlequin or something was the first leader. Anyway, so after Asher comes back, he joins the Hellhounds to try and get in her pants. Naturally, that didn't go to plan and the two of them basically made the whole faction implode because it was too much crazy concentrated in one place." He chuckled then as he caught a card before pushing it into his jacket pocket. His legs unfolded then so he could slowly stretch, bones popping. "I just might take you up on that. I've been trying to take care of this body more than my last ones." He admitted.

"Which ironically leads back to the childer I was talking about. Back when I had a vagina, he tried to get in my pants. After. You know. Trying to convince the Hellhounds to kill me. But like I said, tons of crazy there. Thankfully he's gone, and not my problem anymore." He commented.


<Jesse Fforde> The question of what made a good sire was one that plagued Jesse. It used to be more of a torture to him than it was now; he’d just keep doing what he was doing and if people bailed on him, then that was their problem. Aside from a lack of affection, there wasn’t much that Jesse failed to provide. According to Azraeth, it appeared to happen to everyone. Everyone has their own story though, don’t they? Jesse’s own sire no doubt saw Jesse as a disappointment. As someone who’d turned on his own family. She was the one who’d told him he was dead to her, however. He’d only acted accordingly.

As if his own thoughts were somehow picked up by the Dragomir, Jesse startled. That name. Nix. Mentioned amongst others, a story that may have otherwise interested Jesse was reduced to nearly nothing. If that name had not been mentioned, Jesse may have honed in on the whole used to have a vagina statement. Mystic, then. Probably a good acquaintance for Kaelyn. Kaelyn had freaked out getting a new body that was, for all intents and purposes, similar to her last one. This guy, if he was to be understood, had changed sexes. That had to really screw a person up.

“******* kidding me,” he mumbled under his breath. Tense, now. Ready to get up and leave, but too curious to shift. “Nix,” he repeated. It could have been anyone’s nickname, really. It was a large city. But the whole world could be tiny, sometimes. “Full name Phoenix?” he asked. He may have heard of the Hellhounds, at some point. It rang a bell. Whether it was a story told by Phoenix herself or by someone else, he couldn’t recall. But that wasn’t really the point.


<Azraeth> "Yeah, that's the one. Red hair. Looks a bit like a skeleton, and has enough crazy to float a boat?" He questioned. No doubt the other man had some sort of dealings with her. Nix was, after all, far more sociable than Az. Of course her particular brand of 'social' generally involved a person going to the Shadow Realm, or endless cycles of rage. Az hadn't spoken to her in years, not since the Broussards had been a thing, back when the entire vampire population had basically banded together to try and stop the spread of the criminal organization's power. That had been the last time Az had seen any large number of vampires work together towards a common goal. His lack of faith was not entirely unfounded.

"Woman introduces herself to me by telling me she's gonna kill one of my childer if I don't pay her cash or...something. It's been a while. Needless to say, that didn't go too well." He couldn't rightly remember what had caused her to back off, but she had. Of course, if a person stuck around long enough in Harper Rock, and they were a vampire, chances were they got to meet all sorts of people. The world for the undead was painfully small, like that. Assuming of course, one remembered everything. Az's recollections were spotty at best. He spent too much time in the fade, most likely. It had taken something from him, like a big toy crane, plucking little stuffed animal shaped memories out of his head.


<Jesse Fforde> “Selfish, violent, cold-hearted **** of a *******…” he started, the sentence tapering off into muttered incoherence, scuffed boot kicking at a stray piece of rubble that went skittering across the tracks. Jesse had not heard from Phoenix in… years. Had to have been years. How long since he had even heard of her movements? For all he knew, she could have been dead.

“Yeah, I know her. I think I hate her so much because she makes me feel like a ******* hypocrite,” he said. So much of what he’d done, recently, had him wondering whether Phoenix had suffered the same curse Jesse had; an addiction to siring that led to suicide, if not sated. One that led to temper tantrums, and childish, stubborn grievances that pushed childer away even when the only thing they wanted was for them to stay. It was fucked up. Jesse didn’t want to feel like he owed Phoenix any kind of apology. He, who’d been so furious because she hadn’t thought to ask him what was going on before accusing him of lying to somehow manipulate her. What if he’d done the same thing? He could have sucked it up and just asked her what was wrong…

But it was all done, now. It was the past. That bridge would never be mended. Jesse had a habit of burning all his bridges. He liked to think they lit the path in front of him.

“You friends with her, then?”


<Azraeth> For a moment, he considered saying 'yes', just so he could see what the other man might do. It was pretty clear that Jesse wasn't a huge fan of her. That kind of anger? That only came from one of a few places. Maybe they had been lovers, or close friends. It slowly dawned on him, that Jesse hadn't told him who his sire was. Az had his suspicions he knew who it was, and that. Well. He could understand not wanting to talk about Nix. She was a parody of a person in a lot of ways. The distressed, emotionally fragile woman constantly in need of validation and yet constantly undermining herself with a self-destructive mix of grandiose delusion and insecurity.

"Is that what you got out of what I said?" He asked. "No. I can count the number of times I've talked to her on one hand, and in this conversation we're having right now, I'm pretty sure we've said more to each other than the sum of my and Nix's relationship." He replied. Of course, that was equally parts his and her fault. Az had not always been so...open with people. There had been a time when he'd taken the politics of the vampire community very seriously. Before they had let down his sense of fairness. But life wasn't really fair, was it? And vampires were, if anything, parodies of who they had once been.
"But I think the moment has passed. I need to finish up work with this skull, and I'm sure you have somewhere to be." He decided to stand, swinging himself up, with his skull tucked under one arm and a cane newly grasped in a hand.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse’s mood had suddenly soured. He’d come into this tunnel curious and playful, and he was going to leave with darkened stormcloud over his head. It shouldn’t affect him after all this time, but it did. In order to become a sire he had used his own experiences as a way to determine what not to do. And yet Phoenix had still retained the loyalty of a few. Altaire, as far as Jesse was aware, still existed. Whether they were a coherent unit or not, he didn’t know. He had no contact with any of them anymore. Roderic could have become a solid acquaintance. He had thought that Reanna would remain a person of important. Most of these bonds disintegrated once Jesse had removed himself from both Andras and Tytonidae.

It was better, in the end, to be his own man. To try to achieve what he could not find elsewhere. Or perhaps he was destined to fail. Whatever the case, he had to find his small happinesses where he could find them. Even shed of his curse, he realised he could not always be aloof. Happiness was not a constant. But he knew where he could go to find comfort, and contentment. He knew where he could go where his expended efforts would be appreciated. Although there were no messages when he checked his phone, he was not concerned. Clover could be busy. Jesse had no place to be, but he could find her. Bury his face in her hair and tell her all about how he likened himself to his own sire.

He stood as Azraeth stood. He nodded. “Sure, man. Call me about those tattoos. I kind want to hear about this… being female thing,” he said with a wicked grin. It sounded… intriguing. Jesse had a lot of questions.


<Azraeth> He chuckled then, as he reached his free hand into a pocket, withdrawing a small book that looked like one of those miniature 'New Testament' texts, the type with super small font, that soldiers sometimes carried into war. "I'll be sure to do that. Don't expect to have to wait too long." Az rarely took interest in people, but when he did, it tended to overwhelm his thoughts. He liked to lose himself in new personalities the way drug addicts could get strung out on their poison of choice. Often, the infatuation was brief, and then he moved on to a new obsession, like learning a new language, or translating an ancient text or...well any number of things.

He had a degree in cultural anthropology. He just liked to learn.

"Trust me when I say it's an enlightening experience." He winked then. And gone. His tome in hand and soon to be tome still tucked under one arm, he was transported back to his apartment so he could finish up his work. Though the card was heavy in his jacket, and he knew he'd be unable to resist the lure of telling more of his stories in the near future. That was what he needed more than childer, and more than family. A chance to express all the words he'd left silenced over the years.