The Guillotine Hums
Posted: 24 Jan 2017, 15:55
The Libra star sign was one which supposedly held paradoxical views. They appreciated harmony and cooperation, but disliked conformity for the sake of conformity. In essence, your average Libra was meant to place a high value on individual freedom and yet prized strong group dynamics. Azraeth was, in many respects, a classic version of his star sign. He had an independent streak that ran deeper than a well, and yet he simultaneously craved the emotional stability which came from making bonds with family. To that end, it pleased him that he rarely had to go item hunting on his own. Ritual ingredients practically flowed into his coffers from the Dragomir. Licones had been especially helpful in getting him pieces for the home bound ritual, and Cordelia was always leaving him things he might need. And yet Az found himself in the muck and grime of the catacombs with his blade slicing cleanly through the components of a Greater Mooncalf so that he could dismantle it the way one might Ikea furniture just before a move.
The thing fell apart and left Az with a bone that he plucked up to put into his backpack. He wore a pair of black harem pants with a drop crotch. The material was thick cotton, which made them double as sweats, and they were tight from the mid-thigh down through the ankle, a little long, which made the fabric bunch in on itself so the mystic could wear light boots. Really they were there for ease of movement rather than warmth or comfort. He wore no shirt underneath his deft fencer's jacket, which he wore because it was an enchanted object that seemed to improve his acuity and evasion. But why was he in the catacombs, when he didn't need to be? There were many types of meditation, and Azraeth employed them all. The Shadow Realm was where he went for silence, to drink up the power of the darkness and feel it still him. Yoga was for clearing his mind when he needed to tackle something in the real world. But what he needed when he wanted to look inward was the same repetitive task. In the past, he'd translated texts to get that effect. For years, he'd collected his own ritual ingredients though, so there was a familiarity to the splatter of blood and the feel of flesh breaking under his blade.
So what was Azraeth looking into his own mind about? There were always fragments of the minds he shattered and the lives he destroyed left behind when he took a new body. Back when he'd killed Celestine Carter, the fusion of their personalities had crafted Superbia. It was no different when he'd taken back his masculine name, only instead of personality, all that had been left to him were fuzzy memories which replayed in his brain when he dreamed. Normally this was no problem, but Azraeth often found signs without meaning to. Omens liked to crop up in his daily life, and he'd learned that repetition was like the voice of something greater than himself trying to get his attention. And he kept seeing the same face when he closed his eyes. Again. And again. And again.
No amount of introspection was revealing what he needed to know.
He returned home, and showered.
As he was in the process of laying out some clothing for himself, he realized his phone was on the nightstand, buzzing. So he plucked it up to go through his messages.
From: Siremania
To: Az
Message: Raeth, I've found a pirate at the local fish market! I want to get close enough to acquire his booty, but this market appears to be warded by some kind of evil magical fish odor.
Attached was an image of a man with a hipster beard eating what looked like battered fish. Az stared at the image for a second, trying to place it. There were nets on the walls, and fake harpoons and...was that a fast food fish place?
There were about twenty more messages with variations of 'Raeth, ready the ship!' Or 'Bring help immediately.' Or 'Come do something magic.'
Az was in the process of shrugging his sweater on when he finally shot back a response.
From: Az
To: Siremania
Message: Be there in a few. Hold onto your toast!
From there, it took little more than a simple location spell and Az was suddenly out of his apartment, appearing beside his sire. Except they weren't inside of a Long John Silvers or wherever the father of dragons had been. Nikolae was seated beside a round table at an outdoor bistro. Azraeth had landed on the table itself and he slipped down onto the ground so he could drop into a seat near the other man.
"I take it the pirate got away?" He asked.
But Nikolae was looking through a spyglass into a building across the street from them.
Sure enough, there was the bearded man inside of what looked like a hobby shop. The variety of which sold everything from paints, to sketch pads, to picture frames, to drones. A hand lifted for Az to scratch behind one ear, and he slumped into his seat, legs stretched out, heels digging into the ground, arms folded loosely across his lap.
The thing fell apart and left Az with a bone that he plucked up to put into his backpack. He wore a pair of black harem pants with a drop crotch. The material was thick cotton, which made them double as sweats, and they were tight from the mid-thigh down through the ankle, a little long, which made the fabric bunch in on itself so the mystic could wear light boots. Really they were there for ease of movement rather than warmth or comfort. He wore no shirt underneath his deft fencer's jacket, which he wore because it was an enchanted object that seemed to improve his acuity and evasion. But why was he in the catacombs, when he didn't need to be? There were many types of meditation, and Azraeth employed them all. The Shadow Realm was where he went for silence, to drink up the power of the darkness and feel it still him. Yoga was for clearing his mind when he needed to tackle something in the real world. But what he needed when he wanted to look inward was the same repetitive task. In the past, he'd translated texts to get that effect. For years, he'd collected his own ritual ingredients though, so there was a familiarity to the splatter of blood and the feel of flesh breaking under his blade.
So what was Azraeth looking into his own mind about? There were always fragments of the minds he shattered and the lives he destroyed left behind when he took a new body. Back when he'd killed Celestine Carter, the fusion of their personalities had crafted Superbia. It was no different when he'd taken back his masculine name, only instead of personality, all that had been left to him were fuzzy memories which replayed in his brain when he dreamed. Normally this was no problem, but Azraeth often found signs without meaning to. Omens liked to crop up in his daily life, and he'd learned that repetition was like the voice of something greater than himself trying to get his attention. And he kept seeing the same face when he closed his eyes. Again. And again. And again.
No amount of introspection was revealing what he needed to know.
He returned home, and showered.
As he was in the process of laying out some clothing for himself, he realized his phone was on the nightstand, buzzing. So he plucked it up to go through his messages.
From: Siremania
To: Az
Message: Raeth, I've found a pirate at the local fish market! I want to get close enough to acquire his booty, but this market appears to be warded by some kind of evil magical fish odor.
Attached was an image of a man with a hipster beard eating what looked like battered fish. Az stared at the image for a second, trying to place it. There were nets on the walls, and fake harpoons and...was that a fast food fish place?
There were about twenty more messages with variations of 'Raeth, ready the ship!' Or 'Bring help immediately.' Or 'Come do something magic.'
Az was in the process of shrugging his sweater on when he finally shot back a response.
From: Az
To: Siremania
Message: Be there in a few. Hold onto your toast!
From there, it took little more than a simple location spell and Az was suddenly out of his apartment, appearing beside his sire. Except they weren't inside of a Long John Silvers or wherever the father of dragons had been. Nikolae was seated beside a round table at an outdoor bistro. Azraeth had landed on the table itself and he slipped down onto the ground so he could drop into a seat near the other man.
"I take it the pirate got away?" He asked.
But Nikolae was looking through a spyglass into a building across the street from them.
Sure enough, there was the bearded man inside of what looked like a hobby shop. The variety of which sold everything from paints, to sketch pads, to picture frames, to drones. A hand lifted for Az to scratch behind one ear, and he slumped into his seat, legs stretched out, heels digging into the ground, arms folded loosely across his lap.
