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June 12, 2012 - First encounter.

It had only been two days since the first time Hamlet willingly tasted blood; only two days had passed since Mircea and Habren had coaxed their newest Grigori out of his room and out into the world. Seven full days since he had been bit by Mircea and turned back out into the world as an immortal.

The past day was spent exploring the home that he was staying in. Everything seemed a bit brighter now that his canines had gone away, now that he didn't have to think about them or even feed too often. (But he was starting to get hungry, and animals were a source of substance, right? They had blood and all he needed was blood, right? It didn't have to be human blood, did it?)

"Can I drink from animals," he asked Mircea on the seventh night.
"Yes," Mircea responded immediately. There was a pause between them and then he added, "Of course some will taste better than others. It's just like different cuts of meat."

Hamlet hadn't taken a seat on any of the furniture, but stood in front of where Mircea sat. He scratched at the side of his face and moved some of his hair behind his ear.

"In the woods," Hamlet asked next.
Again, Mircea paused because there was no rush for conversation. "Yes. Just be mindful of where you walk. Don't go too far into the woods," he suggested.

Hamlet bit back the desire to reply with something snarky about Hansel and Gretel, but reminded himself that despite the fact that Mircea had killed him, he was only there to help. "They're starting to get longer again. I'm going to go try that," Hamlet declared, dropping his hands from where they had been locked and crossed behind his back.

"Okay. Just be careful," Mircea reminded him again.

Hamlet tried to smile--it was strained--and nod his head. "Okay," he said, then turned to leave.

The walk from the home to the woods was hardly a few minutes, less than five for sure and before too long, Hamlet was stepping carefully over branches and peering around tree trunks, looking for any sign of life. Nothing had turned up too quickly, so he walked further in, paying attention to what was in front of him, which soon was a fluffy, white rabbit.

Hamlet's stomach started to gnaw just thinking about biting into it, just thinking about it struggling between his hands, thinking about the scared noises it would make. What was he becoming? Why did he enjoy that? He couldn't enjoy that, it made him sick, it was wrong, it was--

PAINFUL.

Hamlet let out another one of those roaring sounds, not as loud and strained as when he had first woken up into vampirism, but pretty close. His left hand, which he had been using to balance himself by holding onto the tree next to him, was now gone, just like the little rabbit.

There instead was a growling, spitting, barking white wolf. It looked larger than the gray wolves he had seen roaming in these woods. Its eyes were the brightest shade of cerulean, harsh in anger that matched the snapping jaws.

Hamlet didn't know what to do, because maybe this thing would just finish him off, but his instinct kicked in again. He jumped back a few feet, kept the white mass in his view and then, when he felt he put enough distance, he turned around and ran.

In the next few minutes he had arrived back at Mircea and Habren's home. He had hardly been gone twenty minutes before he was fumbling for the handle to the front door, practically bursting in and then rushing back to the living room where Mircea still was.

"My hand," he choked out, the missing body had been long forgotten--and maybe gobbled up by white wolf with the bloody muzzle.

June 16, 2012 - The Hulk.

Jonah had been settling for the night when the new comer came in. The big killer studied the smaller man for a moment trying to place the slight familiarity as the other found a spot in the factory. It finally hit him and he approached and asked, "You're one of Mircea's?"

It had been six nights since Hamlet's first feeding.

Six full nights--few bites and meals between--since he had first accepted that he needed blood. Eleven days since he had become a vampire, which he was still having trouble with. (It still made bile retch up in his throat when he thought about it.)

Mircea and Habren had told him that if he was out and couldn't make it back in time before sunrise that he should find the nearest building, preferably one that wasn't already occupied.

This was strange.

All of this was really strange and he still couldn't exactly wrap his head around it. (Not to mention those two powers he had already learned. Two powers that Mircea had helped him with--easy ones. Of course, 'easy' was all relative.) He could jump across the river, the ground only denting a little when he landed on the other side.

That was weird. That was really weird.

And now he could tunnel into the sewers whenever he wanted. (That was another option if he got caught out as sunrise approached.)

This time, he had made it--not as far as his new home, but pretty close. The building smelled of dust and forgotten machinery, of productivity that hadn't been there in years. It wasn't that tall, more rectangular and squat. It actually kind of reminded him of the school he used to go to on saturdays to learn the Cree language. He and four other young children went to school on a saturday so that they could learn the history of their ancestors. So they could truly appreciate all the life that they now had.

The door wasn't locked and Hamlet--still being new--didn't notice if anyone else was there. He didn't bother to check, not even before he shut the door and started to move around. His eyes had adjusted almost immediately, but he had been looking off to the left, studying the way the paint was peeling from the walls.

"You're one of Mircea's," came a booming voice somewhere behind Hamlet and to the right. His throat tightened, his muscles in his jaw clenched and his hands formed fists. He spun around, eyes darting over the blackness until they settled on what was arguably the largest man he had ever seen. Ever. (The hard swallow that followed was involuntary. Again, he felt like that nervous little fawn from eleven days ago, but his voice deceived him. His voice gave an air of confidence.)

"Who are you," he retorted steadily, the tip of his tongue pressing hard against the back of his teeth.

"Jonah. I'm a...friend of Mircea's," the big man replied. He cocked his head, confused at the other vampire's reaction. Unlike many of the other vampires, he knew that Mircea took an active role in the lives of his childer and so it was surprising that this one seemed so...raw.

"You new to the city," he added after a moment of silence and studying the smaller man, trying to be friendly to the childe of the man he respected.

Hamlet searched his mind for the name 'Jonah' and came up blank. Not once had Mircea mentioned someone named Jonah. Then again, Mircea hadn't mentioned too many names just yet, or at all. (He was very concentrated on getting Hamlet to feed regularly and settle into vampirism.)

"No," Hamlet said. (What was up with all of the questions?) "I've lived in Harper Rock for a few years," he volunteered.

The big killer quietly nodded, still studying the other man. He was...smaller than Jonah would have expected a male childe of Mircea's to be. "What's your path?"

Hamlet's eyebrows scrunched up more, he cleared his throat and he kept his fists clenched, but he didn't stand down. His mind wasn't working all that quickly, especially not right now with all of his senses still so overloaded.

"Uh," he hummed in his throat, trying to remember what Mircea had told him. "Killer," he said, though he sounded unsure. "I'm a killer," he repeated--practically sullen.

Jonah sucked on the tip of his mustache as the other seemed to grow upset. "Hmm, me too. It...doesn't have to mean just that though."

Not knowing what struggles the other man might be having, he just assumed it was the same one he had had when he was fresh turned. The desire to be more than just a senseless murderer like so many others in this city. "I never did get your name."

Hamlet wanted to say that it was because he never asked. Hamlet wanted to give him a fake name. Hamlet wanted to get away. Instead, his eyes searched up and down the hulking (literally) figure of this man, this Jonah before him. "No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I'm a murderer, a killer."

Jonah frowned then and the many scars on his face grew tight, twisting his face ever so slightly towards his monstrous form unconsciously.

"Your choice if that's what you want." He thought of the many other vampires, not just killers, that had abandoned any sense of humanity or even decorum and simply did what they wanted. They were a danger to their entire kind. That thought on his mind, his large hand found the worn handle of his hammer and gripped it to remind himself to keep control.

Hamlet saw that. Of course he saw that twitch. Of course he saw that movement. He was nothing more than a frightened predator feeling more backed into a corner than when he had spent five days literally in a corner.

All of the muscles in his body were at attention and all of them were tight. Instinctively, his right hand rose in the air, headed in the direction that his revolver was tucked. The shoulder strap was discrete, hidden below the lightweight jacket he had on. (There was no way he could take this guy, right? There was no ******* way. He was bigger, he was most certainly older and that meant he had several legs up on Hamlet.)

Hamlet swallowed again, his hand pausing near his bellybutton. "I didn't do it on purpose," he said. "I didn't want this. I didn't ask for it. It wasn't my fault," he spewed in rapid succession, his eyes still darting around the massive form of his opponent.

"What's not your fault?"

"Any of this," he said, strained to say. He still wasn't used to the idea of being what he was, this new life. He couldn't believe, he didn't want to believe, but he had no choice. Hamlet had no choice in any of this, in the direction of his new life, in his death. When there was another pause, he opened his mouth and gestured to his teeth.

"THESE," he said, louder, pointing to his canines. (He was still having trouble getting them to go away. Especially since he refused to feed the past couple of days.)

His form was still more intimidating then he would have liked, but Jonah kept his voice steady. "You're not the only one that didn't have a choice. Were you on the street after work, just walking home? Had a maniac attack you and leave you for dead? Drag yourself out of a gutter and figure all of...THIS," he gestured around to the world around them, "out on your own?"

"No," Hamlet spat back.

"Your friend killed me," he said--venom, anger, wrath all wrapped in the words and then, the feeling was gone. He thought about Mircea, he thought about how Mircea was now his Nohtawiy.

Hamlet's nose started to twitch, both of his eyebrows scrunching up so tightly because of the rapid blinking twitch that his eyelids took to. He uncurled his fists and stretched his fingers. Then, he took a step back.

"If you're dead, how're you here? I'm not dead. I walk. I talk. I remember who I am. This was the life chosen for me by Nox. Just have to deal with it."

Instead of reaching towards where his gun was strapped, his hands went up to his face, rubbing hard. He took another step back, swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. (Both of his canines, which he couldn't control yet, dug into his gums. His bottom lip flinched.)

"I shouldn't exist. This," he gestured between the two of them. "Shouldn't ******* exist," he nearly shouted. Though breathing wasn't a requirement anymore, he found that with each step, he gulped down more air. It made his chest hurt, it made his body hurt, but he couldn't get enough. (He punished himself. He hadn't meant to kill that girl.)

This meeting wasn't going anything like the big man had planned but he was caught up in the conflict now. "You do. Gonna have to accept it sooner or later. Sooner you do, sooner you can learn control. Took me a long time to figure that out. How I ended up with these." He gestured to his face and the many cris crossing scars that he wore as a badge to prove the he had, in fact, learned that control.

All of the muscles in Hamlet's face were twitching and clenching. His nose had scrunched up as if he had smelled something rancid, his lips started to curl over his teeth in agitation and he was shaking his hands out at his sides. Again, to distract them from reaching for his gun, he scratched hard against his scalp.

"I don't know who you think you are," he croaked. "But you don't tell me what I do or don't accept."

Teeth clenched, Jonah felt the anger that had been in him for the past month rising up yet again. He wanted to strike this boy down, teach him through force. He was in control and wouldn't stoop to that.

"You better ******* figure it out fast before you do something you regret. This city's not forgiving of mistakes." Letting go of the hammer, Jonah took a purposeful step back and put his hands in front of him, almost as if he was washing his hands of the other killer.

"You want to talk to someone that understands, I'm easy enough to find. Tell Mircea I said hello." With that, he turned on his heel and went back to his corner of the warehouse.

Hamlet laughed--not a joyous sound as laughs should have been, but something bitter, something that was unsure, full of fear and strained muscles.

"Didn't you hear me, Hulk? I said, you have no say in telling me what I should or shouldn't accept. Five to ten minutes of speaking to me doesn't give you rights to put yourself above me. You don't know me, you ******* behemoth," he spat out at Jonah's back.

The words thrown at his back as he walked away broke Jonah and he blurred back to the room instantly and the other man's throat was in his hand and his body in the air. "Maybe it doesn't. But what you do affects this city and me and people I care about and I don't want you to put them at risk."

The ground was gone in seconds, Hamlet's feet dangling in the air. He coughed and hacked, both of his hands flying up to grab the one large hand that was nearly crushing his throat. He tried to talk, but naturally, he couldn't. All that came out were wheezes, coughs, gurgling noises.

The two abilities that Mircea had taught him were useless in this. He forgot about his gun. His brain felt like it was melting, but eventually he coughed out, "Let. Me. Go. Godzilla."

Jonah cocked his head and considered what the man said. He'd dug himself in this far though, might as well go all the way.

"No. Not yet. You're a child. You need to grow up. Need to deal with what is going on. You seem to be a fighter. That's good. Means you have a chance. You've also got a choice. Control it or let it control you. Look around and you'll see most everyone in this city let's it control them. Whatever happens though, it'll be because you let it happen."

He dropped the other killer then, tired of the conversation. He had rambled and doubted the man understood. Jonah hardly undrerstood what he was trying to get across himself.

Hamlet--while Hogan was talking--swung his feet, kicking the tips into Jonah's thighs--though it didn't seem to matter, Jonah didn't seem to notice or even really care. Hamlet kept digging his fingers at the hand, practically feeling his throat crushing, but it only made him work harder.

He didn't have to accept anything. He didn't have to do anything and especially not on someone else's terms.

Instead of wasting time and energy trying to explain this again, he kept digging at the hand. Jonah talked more. (More words that weren't making it to Hamlet's panicked mind.) Then, there was a release. He was dropped.

The ground came rushing up at Hamlet, kissing his right cheekbone and temple. His fingers flexed and dug against the smooth concrete of the factory floor and then, he hacked, desperately wanting to empty out his stomach even though there was nothing there.

When his breathing had regulated--because he still breathed out of habit and comfort--he picked himself back up, shaky hands checking for his gun. It was still there, safe and snug in the holster.

"Eat ****," he mouthed off again. (Be dammed if he would have someone attack him and try to tell him how to live this new fucked up life!)

"You know what, when you're big enough to try, you come and make me."

He wanted to say that he would, that he wasn't exactly feeling the fear from earlier--mostly because of the adrenaline rush. He wanted to pull his gun out and shoot at the lumbering tower puffing himself out.

Instead of saying anything, he rubbed his throat, his top lip peeling over his teeth and acting on instinct--as he had been doing lately--he growled. He flashed his teeth, he nearly hissed, and he backed away, back towards the door. He'd go somewhere else.

Hamlet's hand grabbed the doorknob, twisting it, then forcing the door open behind him. Another feral sound rumbled in his stomach and then, he left.



***NOTE*** Writing contributed by Jonah's player.

Saturday October 13, 2012
7:59 PM; just after sundown
pt. 1

Habren Ashe eased the front door open with a smile for their Hamlet and the girl beside him.  "Come in, my dears...I am so pleased you have joined us this evening...please, mind the two mortals here, and make yourselves at home.."

Hamlet remembered the humans (even if their names escaped him) from when he stayed at Mircea and Habren's other home. As if it were a command issued directly from Habren, Hamlet didn't even turn to look at the humans when he walked in. "Took me awhile to get her over here," he said--an attempt at a joke. (No matter how poor.) "This is Mick," he said, hardly even crossing over the threshold. (Introductions weren't exactly his strongest area.)

Mircea smiled from where he reclined, allowing himself to enjoy the memory of the girl struggling to keep up with him in the quarantine the first time they had happened upon one another. Reluctantly, he pulled his feet from where they rested on the table and sat a little straighter. "It is good to see you again, Mick. And Jameson... Always a pleasure."

Mick didn't touch Hamlet, at all, even though it would've been so easy (inviting, even) to just hook her hand around the bend of his elbow and hold tight. He spoke and rescued her, once again, while her head was too busy retracing the steps they'd come to get there. The words tripped over themselves in her head, around the duel heartbeats battling for which would be the loudest, but because she was expected to speak, she simply let it go. "It's nice to meet you, officially. Both of you, but you..." She looked at Mircea while stepping up beside Hamlet, "...always run off so fast."

Habren Ashe raised her brows, uncertain as to what they were speaking about, but the smile gracing full lips simple grew.  She stepped aside from the door and joined Mircea on their sofa once more, beckoning the two young ones before them.  "Come, join us...would you care for any refreshment?"

Hamlet shook his head. "No thank you," he said. (-Thank you-, wasn't something he ever said to anyone else. Unless you counted Jodelle, but by now, she was so far lost to him that he was having trouble remembering her name.) He thought about grabbing Mick's hand or her elbow and pulling her (Dragging if he had to.) over with him to sit down, but he didn't. He walked and waited for her to follow.

Mick | Yes. Yes, please. Yes, I almost can't stand it. Yes, they're right there. Help myself? Thank you for not minding if I do. "No, thanks," she answered, only to follow it up with another, "Thank you." The refreshments were an offer, though. The joining was a command, one she felt in the fibers of her bones. That, and being so far away from Hamlet in such an unfamiliar place was anxiety building. (Like first meeting Lydie. God forbid if her side left his side for even a nanosecond. She would've launched herself across the table and tried to stifle the woman's screams by how hard she could bite.)

Mircea shifted slightly, molding his side to his wife's and easing one arm across her shoulders... Every bit the twenty-something year old man he looked to be. "Forgive me, Mick. I become somewhat... Ah, distracted when there is blood on the air. I shall be more polite in future," he murmured with a smile that suggested he might not be entirely gentlemanly in not killing something should it present itself. He paused for a beat before continuing. "Do you mind if I have something?"

Hamlet didn't want to look at Mick. He didn't want to give it away, but he turned his head, he couldn't help it. His mouth didn't change, his nose didn't squirm and his eyebrows didn't move, but he stared at her. Hamlet wanted to answer for Mick. He wanted to tell Mircea that, 'No! She wouldn't mind!' But he didn't dare, even if he knew she hadn't fed yet.

‹Habren Ashe› Habren's brows drew together for a moment as she eyed Catherine and Micheal who tossed the elder pair knowing, amused looks.  The Grigori elders' pets were off limits for feeding, and they slid away to quieter parts of the home to provide more comfort to their guests while Habren pressed a kiss to Mircea's cheek and stood with her gentle smile. "We keep a supply of blood on hand, my dears.  I will go fetch some for us..."

Mick 's jaw relaxed with a hint of slack as she stared at him, Hamlet's maker. Hamlet's maker who, at one time, had his mouth around the side of his throat, or him pinned against the side of the wall, or some bleeding body part of his shoved against Hamlet's mouth. (The new 'This is how babies are made' rules, and every bit as unpleasing to think about.) Her tongue pushed into the roof of her mouth and all of those little ridges there and was beat away from telling him, Hamlet's maker, to wait until after she had left. No pleases about it. But a look...One look and her chest tensed in a quick cut off. She couldn't help but lift her eyes to his, feeling her eyebrows relax, desperately. 'Don't let him,' she pleaded, but it came out as, "Not at all. Help yourself to your things." Mick looked beyond Hamlet to his maker. Mircea, was his name, now sitting alone as Habren went to fetch his meal. She pushed up a smile, remembered her courtesy. They were, after all, his things. His home, his kingdom. "Please, don't mind my being here."

‹Mircea› "Things?" He queried quietly... Perhaps too quietly as he wondered if he had misunderstood and jumped to the wrong conclusion that the girl considered their mortals things, but worked not to tighten his jaw or grit his teeth too much. "There is plenty, should you care for a drink and of course not... Why would we mind you being here? Our home is your home," he asked, genuinely puzzled by her statement. He didn't think he had overstepped some social construct or made them unwelcome somehow; Habren would have nudged him or Michael given a look before leaving had that been the case and so... What troubled the girl so about his... Things.

Hamlet still hadn't moved. He hadn't thought about Mick needing to feed, or having her take out some aggression before they walked over here. (He had the decency to run off early in the evening when he started to reach 'the point of no return'.) Still, he didn't say anything. The conversation didn't involve him right now, the judgement wasn't on him--he only hoped that Mick passed the test and cleared the air. No longer looking in Mick's direction, he stared straight ahead, waiting for Habren to reappear.

Habren Ashe slipped back into the main room with four tall, dark glasses and a pitcher of warmed blood.  Despite Hamlet's insistance that he was fine, she poured all four and quickly passed them out, recognizing all too well the symptoms of hunger in the youngest of their group.  "Michael and Catherine are our treasured...charges, I suppose you could call them.  Unlike most thralls, they are our constant companions and we all four of us look after one another," she explained gently, kind and pleasant.  "You will see them around often if you visit or stay, but do not worry.  They are used to our Kind, and while we do not feed from them, they are always willing to help...Now then, my dear," she murmured, taking her seat beside Mircea once more, curling her form agaist his like a content cat. "How are you finding things?"

‹Mick› Of course they were things: blood bags, catering services, meals. All things and nothing but. And why was it that he was allowed to have things, but she couldn't? Mindset differences? There were obviously a few between them. In the same way that Hamlet stopped looking at her, and at Mircea, she did the same until Habren returned. Her eyebrows immediate tweaked together in obvious confusion, but it was held at bay until she downed her glass of blood in full. It pooled in her stomach like warm milk with the consistency of bread in the way that it satisfied. But it tasted much better than any of them.

Hamlet took the glass, even if he didn't want it because now, it was there for him. He didn't put the rim to his lips or even stare at the thick red that moved around and clung to the clear container, but he held his thumb hard against the side. Habren was the mediator, in any and every situation. With the tension repelled--save for the corners of his own mind--he looked up and over at Habren and even chanced a look at Mircea. Still, it wasn't his turn to talk.

Mick held the glass in her hand, staring down at the temple of blood that ran up one side from where it'd been tipped. When a drip splashed in the belly of the glass, she quickly licked her lips and wiped away visible remnants. "Thralls? -- I thought it was against the Masquerade for humans to know about us..."

‹Mircea› "Thank you, love," he murmured with more than a hint of relief in his voice. He was often teased for being something of a bear before he had a good meal inside him and it more than likely contributed to his demeanour so far that evening. He drank slowly though, mindful of their company to not simply take the lot in one swallow before he sought to answer questions. "There are exceptions. Some amongst us have the power to... Ah, ensnare a human, you might say. They become our companion, bound in magic and exempt from the masquerade because of it. Some use them as weapons, others as a meal and some..." He paused with a slight shrug, his fingers moving restlessly against Habren's thigh as he took another small sip. "For some they are a treasured friend and companion."

Hamlet didn't know any of that. He hadn't known to even ask about any of that, but he was glad Mick did. (There was that curiosity he had been hoping would crop up. He only hate that most of the time, he didn't have the information to satiate it for her; that she had to go to others, or he had to go to others, just to satiate it.) While Mircea talked, or Habren added something or even Mick asked another question, he stared down at the tall glass of blood. Maybe, he would have thought about how odd it was that he was holding it and not licking it clean from the glass, or that he hadn't given it to Mick so she could down more, but he couldn't get what Mircea said out of his head: 'Some use them as weapons, others as a meal...' Hamlet was concentrated on that phrase. He started thinking about it so much, that he thought he could taste it, taste the only human he couldn't get his mind off of. But all of his thoughts, all of his plans, all of the Darkness building and revolving around Jeff slammed to a halt when a voice yelled in his head. (Or, it seemed like it was yelling. At the very least, echoing.) "Who's Madison," he blurted out.

‹Mick› Magic...They were bound in *******...magic. She tasted the blood in the back of her throat, but the way the muscles in her stomach tensed, she wasn't sure if it was aftertaste, or it coming back up. The trace of her jawbone became sharp as she clenched her molars together, saved by the slight overbite she had. When she picked her head up, she stared at the pair lounging on the couch together, pleased as could be. And why shouldn't they have been? They had the power to jump through loopholes, and they had the love of each other. Granted, her entire body soared at the thought of Hamlet, from the love, the respect, but Hamlet (in all of his silence), was nowhere in her mind. "...That's what it takes to prevent the charges against the Masquerade..." She repeated, and when she said the next word, it was added with a slight hitch in her voice as the sarcasm broke through. "...Magic." Nevermind love, need, or the promise to keep a secret. Nevermind vows, hopes, and the overwhelming want for a future. No. It was magic. Mick 's anger got the better of her. It had her lips pressing tightly together, her spine forced to straighten as she sat up. It would've controlled everything she did from that point on, had it not been for Hamlet's quick, and random, interjection. She still couldn't look at him, but she left the floor open for him to be answered. By God, she wanted to not talk about the ******* Masquerade anymore.

Saturday October 13, 2012
pt. 2

Habren Ashe raised a brow, confusion washing over her features before she took a deep breath and summoned some quiet force to send a small wave of calm over the group in hopes of quelling some of the roiling emotions she could feel building. "Magic is the easiest way to explain it, yes, but for some, like Michael, like Catherine, it was a choice they made.  Magic is what binds us in such a way, but it is born of a desire to be together, and all it entails..."  She did not know how else to explain it as she lamely trailed off, but try as she might, she could not make sense of the girl's general demeanor.

‹Mick› Basically, she heard, want it badly enough and it'll happen. Magically, it'll happen. But who did she need to plead to so that someone, anyone, heard how badly she wanted that? Who was it that picked up on brainwaves, desires, (desperation), and shaped them out of clay into something that was? She couldn't think to ask, though. It was alright, if someone didn't have all the answers. At least, some of the more troubling ones were slowly being worked out. She'd met Habren and Mircea, after all. And instead of saying anything, she simply nodded. It may not have yet been, that bond (that protection from the Masquerade), but there was hope.

‹Mircea› "Perhaps 'exempt' is an inaccurate term," he hedged, drawing a slow breath to wrap the feeling of his lover's calm around him and finally succumbing to his hunger, favouring a longer swallow of the thick blood he had been gifted. "Through this bond, they become part of the masquerade, as able to affect the human's awareness as any of us are," he picked up where Habren left off, his glance alternating between his two childer and the young girl who joined them in an effort to find some understanding. "Madison is Robert Pratt's childe, Jameson. A blood thief turned, as I understand it. Does she trouble you, childe?"

Hamlet didn't answer immediately, frozen in thought--in anger. (-PRATT-.) He nudged his thumb hard against the glass of blood that he still hadn't touched, most of the warmth drained entirely out of it by now. (Madison was PRATT'S.) As calmly as he could--because he was still in the presence of Mircea and Habren--he set the glass down somewhere in front of him, on anything. "Kind of," he said, trying to smile and make it seem more lighthearted than it was. (But that smile was so painful and crooked.) "Nothing I can't handle," he said, but he wasn't even sure if that would work. (They'd know, they'd know.)

Habren Ashe 's brows drew together in concern as she looked between the two.  For the allurist, it was only too easy to pick up upon the stronger emotions of those around her, as uncomfortable as it could be.  She tried hard to block these things, but amongst family, it was something she had yet to master.  "Jameson...what has happened with Madison?" she questioned gently, leaving no room in her directness as her fingers curled around Mircea's free hand, drawing a slow breath and trying to exert more calm over them.

‹Hamlet› "Nothing yet," he responded cooly.

‹Mircea› "You are considering violence towards her," He said smoothly, fingers tightening against Habren's. It wasn't a question, precisely, but not quite a statement either.

Hamlet didn't even bother to lie--not like he could have to anyone in that room. "Possibly. If it comes to that. Pratt and I have been--" he paused, trying to think of what to say. "Not on the same understanding. She asked me to call her. In my mind," he said. "Telepathy," he questioned, still trying out the word.

‹Mick› But how hard was that when, if it wasn't one thing, it was another. Always another. Half a year ago, her biggest crisis was not picking something up for dinner, or forgetting to stamp a packaging slip at work. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, then opened them again. Her attention went to Hamlet, and stayed there, on his body and expression. Any ripple of movement would not go unnoticed by her, but she almost couldn't comprehend Mircea and Habren's questions because of it.

Habren Ashe gave a slight frown.  Whatever this was...  "Jameson....please explain...?...while Madison tries to look out for her ... sire ..." she murmured the word, finding Pratt to be beyond hope or help and unwilling to speak of his name, "she is very...open to the fact that he brings his own harm upon himself.  What trouble has there been with him?"

Mircea couldn't help but to laugh, a warm, rich sound of amusement at Hamlet's words as a grin broke his features at last and he leant forward to set his glass down. "Not on the same understanding... That is a good way of saying it, Jameson. You are not the first to feel that way about the boy, but Madison... The little she and I have spoken, she is not quite like her sire. Not so..." He trailed off, looking to Habren for help with finding some diplomatic word for the boy.

Hamlet almost replied with, 'What trouble -hasn't- there been with him?', but he didn't. He bit his tongue and went back to something that was a solid grounds for him to attack Pratt on. "He broke into the apartment Mick and I live in. We fought. He cut my arm and then...," he trailed off. What happened next he still couldn't explain. "I fell asleep."

‹Habren Ashe› "Headstrong?  Unwilling?  Impossible?"  *her gaze slid to Mircea, allowing an amused smile even in light of her worry. Habren Ashe went rigid and sat forward.  "He did what?!" she exclaimed quietly, anger clouding her features.  "When and why?!"

‹Mircea› "Stupid," he decided finally with another grin and a light kiss for his wife in thanks and for simple comfort. She was always much more diplomatic than him, but his head turned slowly at Hamlet's description of their quarrel, a low growl building in the back of his throat. "He bled you..."

‹Hamlet› "About a month ago," he said, to the best of his memory. "Mick wasn't home," he added. "He broke in, I was standing there. It took me by surprise so I swung. I missed. He tried to say something, but it turned into a fight. I hit him. He hit me. I hit him. Then..." he trailed off again, still confused. "I fell asleep," he said. It annoyed him.

‹Mick› And so, the calm was gone. Habren and Mircea were both, equally, up to par with where Hamlet and herself had been for so long when it came to...life. This was life. It'd been her life since her first feeding. Between Jeff, Pratt, accidents, it was a wonder she had sense left to feel anything other than anger, the same anger flitting between the four of them. Her knee bent where she sat and, as she listened to Hamlet retell what happened, her foot started bobbing by the toe of her shoe. Pratt would swallow her bullet around his millions of apologies.

Hamlet put his hand to his head--no matter how dramatic it looked. Another voice echoed and bounced loudly in the walls of his mind. One he didn't know.

‹Mick› "...What's wrong?" She asked, finally breaking the small bout of considerate silence. "Hamlet?"

Saturday October 13, 2012
pt. 3

Habren Ashe 's eyes snapped to Hamlet as he recounted the tale, to Mick as she sat forward, and back to boy she considered a son, watching his hand move, wondering what suddenly afflicted him.  "I must know what this argument was over, Jameson.  Mircea and I...made a certain agreement with Pi, and Pratt," she spat out the name with disgust, "is not exempt from answering for his actions against any of our children." she hissed softly, working to restore the calm and balance back to the room.

Hamlet rubbed his head after the voice stopped talking, scratching his scalp and acting as if it was normal. He was trying to play it off. Telepathy was still a new idea to him and this time, it came without a pretty little name attached. "Breaking and entering," he said. It was all he had--besides the death of Lydie, but even he was partly to blame for that one. "Nothing," he said to Mick out of the side of his mouth, answering her second. He'd tell her later. (Later, later.)

‹Mircea› "Next time you see him, do not miss," he said quietly, his thoughts already drifting to Michael to ask the man check his sword was ready for a hunt. It would be, he knew, but it felt good all the same to make the request and feel the brush of his mortal's mind against his, sending soothing words back and giving him a moment to shake himself from the immediate rage. "Did he provide a reason for his... Invasion?" He asked, testing the word for its fit to the conversation.

Habren Ashe glanced at Mircea, anger still coloring her vision before her gaze slid back to Hamlet and Mick.  Frustration coursed through her that they were being blocked, once again, from helping their young.  The closed-mouth behaviour had her simply settling back into her seat, resigned and willing to taking her place once more as an ineffective and inept presence at her husband's side.

Hamlet looked up. No more voices. (No more, hush, hush.) "He wanted to talk," Hamlet said bitterly. He wanted to rant on and on about 'Who broke into someone's house, got into a fight with them and just wanted to TALK?!', but he didn't do that. "I saw him last night," he said. "Out on the streets. I threw him--" he paused, but now that he had started, he couldn't just withhold information. "Into a bank."

‹Mircea› "Jameson, we cannot do anything if you do not tell us everything. What did he want to talk about?" He asked again, settling beside his wife and just managing to swallow the frustrated huff that threatened to accompany the movement.

Hamlet tried to remember back to then, back to what Pratt wanted to talk about--but his memory hadn't proved to be the best. "I can't remember," he said, but it didn't matter; he had been looking out for Pratt with Mick.

Habren Ashe simply sat back and listened quietly. "I do not suppose they are wanting of our assistance, love," she murmured quietly, giving a slight shrug of her shoulders. 

‹Mircea› "I suppose not," he agreed before turning his attention between Hamlet and Mick in turn. "It occurs to me that your anger outweighs a simple breaking and entering, so I ask you, Mick: Why are you so filled with rage?"

Mick noticed the differences in mindsets, indeed. Maybe it came with age and experience. She was certain it did. That and some form of alliances. Pi was mentioned, after all. But when Habren spoke...When Habren spoke, Mick's shoulders picked up and her attention shifted from completely divided between the three to tunnel vision on the one. Mircea got it, when he said not to miss next time, but his bride didn't. He also go it when he asked that one little question. She had a simple answer, "Because, you sit pretty behind your walls working the strings of politics for some sort understanding to be come to when a twenty-eight cent bullet is the only solution, for it." One breath, and disbelief shot through her like a jolt of lightning. "Pratt attacked him! He BROKE IN and attacked him! I found him on the floor, and I had to wait for him to come around before I could find out what happened! If persuasion is what you think a solution to this problem is, then no. I don't need your assistance. I'll take care of it myself." Either way, with backing or not, she fully intended to hunt Pratt down. "That is ALL the information you should need to know when it comes to someone ******* with your child." Or, for Mick, her maker.

Hamlet tried to force several words or sentences out of his throat, but nothing came up. Multiple times he tried to open his mouth and will out words, but he had nothing. His brain had stopped just like time might have. Nothing moved, he couldn't think--everything was gone. (Maybe it was because Mick said what he couldn't find in his mind no matter how hard he looked. Or maybe it was because Mick had said that to Habren and Mircea.)

Habren Ashe barely supressed a snarl at the girl's words, reminding herself that she was young and clearly had not understood.  "As this is the first we have heard of such an attack, childe, there was little to do but ask questions to garner understanding."  She stood up, eying the girl coolly, disliking her attitude immensely.  "We are not mind readers, we are no where near omnipetent.  The only understanding is that Pratt is to be hunted and killed like the rabid brat he is when raising a hand against our own!"

‹Habren Ashe› "However," she continued, arms crossing slowly, "one cannot simply blindly order to kill without knowing all the facts to be known.  Yes, he broke in and yes he attacked Jameson.  And while I am beyond livid over that act, it had to be known if there was any instigation for such a thing before we give an order to kill another.  Do you understand?"

Hamlet tried again to find words between two women that he loved--a mother and what he could only label Mick as, his. Then, his own Maker--the father! The love, no matter how twisted and corrupt considering the circumstances of everything, kept him seated, kept him quiet. Both of them were right--all of them were right!--and clearly, Pratt wasn't just a sour spot with he and Mick. Clearly, Pratt's 'fan club' reached much farther than just their apartment.

Saturday October 13, 2012
pt. 4


Mircea barked out another laugh, short and sharp this time as he all but rolled his eyes at the girl's foolishness. Her ignorance. Her arrogance. "Why do you not ask your sire how easily persuaded towards violence I can be, childe," he hissed, fingers gripping against Habren harder than he should, harder than was polite or respectful to his wife. He let go, though, relaxing his hold slightly, but not pulling his fingers from their touch upon her skin so she coudl move away or linger as her anger required. "But I will not be lead blindly into conflict and I will not take my childer blindly to bloodshed either. I have a responsibility to keep them all safe, not just one, not just me. I have bled and killed and died for this lineage and I will do it again for any single one of them, but I will not do so without knowing what I am dying for. What I may be sending my sons and daughters to their deaths for."

‹Mick› "Then, please. Stay yourselves here and don't bother with it. Hamlet, too, as far as I'm concerned, can sit and work out the plan and start giving you the better incentive you apparently need. I don't care if he looked at Pratt wrong, or called his mother a strumpet. He put his hands on my maker, he invaded our privacy to do so. What you decide to do is your own business, but I'll be out there looking for him and when I do, so help him God." She sat her empty glass on the table, surprisingly lightly, and stood. As she headed for the door, returning the very way she came, she mumbled, "Thank you for the time, consideration, and the drink."

Habren Ashe shook her head as she watched the girl leave.  "She needs a good, heavy-handed lesson if you ask me," she muttered quietly, gaze snapping to Hamlet.  "What would you like done about Pratt, Jameson?  We are willing to hunt him.  But so too do I believe in eye for an eye and not necessarily a death over a fight...  though we did vow to do so should he act against this lineage."

‹Mircea› "Gods, I remember that age," he muttered with a wry amusement, turning his gaze to track the girl's movement across the room and out of the door. "I needed a good, heavy-handed lesson, too," he added with a glance up to his wife. Reluctantly, perhaps, he returned to the matter of Pratt. To the seemingly endless stream of problems surrounding the boy and he nodded his quiet agreement with Habren's words.

Hamlet sat there still, torn between going after Mick--his child, his creation, his abomination to this world--and sitting there with Habren and Mircea. He nearly sung when Habren said something, when she snapped him back to the conversation and decided for him. "I want permission to hunt him. No one should die for me--if it comes to that--with the exception of Mick. I didn't even really mean to tell you about it, or I would have mentioned it sooner. I want permission to fight him," he said, his hands still hanging between his knees.

‹Habren Ashe› "You do not need our permission, Jameson...he is no longer under Grigori protection.  But we do want the opportunity to extract our own vengeance.  How you would feel if Mick were harmed is how we feel over your being attacked as well," she murmured, moving to drop a kiss to the young male's cheek before returning to her seat.

Mircea nodded again, wrapping his arm across Habren's shoulders and pulling her close against his side to press a kiss to her hair with a quietly murmured statement of love. She had come so far, learned so much control since the night he had claimed her and he couldn't help but to be proud of her. "We want his blood on our hands," he confirmed simply, his voice lacking in any note of pride or even hunger. It was a simple statement to him.

‹Hamlet› "She won't be," he said quickly. (Even though he said she was allowed to die for him. It worked both ways, they were equals, friends.) After the outburst, Mircea spoke. Hamlet wasn't exactly a grand thinker, but an idea did come to mind. "How can I make it happen," he asked. (They all wanted the same thing. They all wanted Pratt dead.)

‹Habren Ashe› "I would like the opportunity to alert Pi," she murmured, settling beside her male with a feeling of relief.  "She is owed at least that much...but we can call the family together... I can track him, and we can start tonight or tomorrow if you wish."

Hamlet shook his head. "Can I have more time," he asked.

Mircea paused for a moment's thought on the matter. "Keep Mick away from him until that time. It will not help if he is alerted to an attack before we are ready and has a chance to hide more deeply," he suggested before giving a single, small nod. "As much as you need, Jameson, this fight is yours and we will abide your wishes where we can."

Hamlet tipped his chin down and lowered his gaze for a minute and then stood. "Thank you," he said, as if he had been acting that way all his life--or longer! "I should go get her," he said, averting his gaze down again. Then, he turned around, grabbed the doorknob and left.

<Mircea> "Well, my love..." He mused slowly, his voice thoughtful as the door clicked shut and they were alone again with the growing sounds of their pets beginning to move again, coming closer. "There is one good thing to take from this... They are neither of them quite so unpredictable as you were at that age.."

Habren Ashe smirked and gently elbowed him in the ribs. "You, my love, are impossibly honest."

--

Phone logs; Text conversation with Pi the night after the auction closed.
Sunday October 21, 2012
5:25 PM


--
Jameson Hamlet: [text] is there a time limit on when i use my 3 days?
Pi d'Artois: Pardon?
Pi d'Artois: Who is this?
Jameson Hamlet [text] ur buyer
Pi d'Artois: Oh Hamlet. What in the world are you doing? No, no time limit but... I'm curious why you bought me at all.
Jameson Hamlet: [text] good. i don't want to use my three days just yet.
Pi d'Artois: You're not going to tell me are you?
Jameson Hamlet: [text] is it part of the rules?
Pi d'Artois: I don't think so. Just me being very curious.
Jameson Hamlet: [text] i'll tell you soon. :)
Pi d'Artois: You know where to find me. >.>
Jameson Hamlet: [text] necro? i'll see you tonight and tomorrow night and the next. but i'm holding onto my days for a bit.
Pi d'Artois: Alright. So tonight, tomorrow night and the next aren't a part of the... auction? And what do you mean, holding onto them?
Jameson Hamlet: [text] i always come to necro. every night. i only get 3 days so i mean, i want to make them special. :)
Pi d'Artois: Oh. Bien. Then I'll wait until you let me know oui? Then I will see you tonight, tomorrow and the next day then ;)
Jameson Hamlet: [text] oui madame ;)
Pi d'Artois: Oui

--

-


Phone logs; Text conversation with Echo
Tuesday October 23, 2012
8:37 PM


Echo Meridian: *texts* Are you free?
Jameson Hamlet: [text] yeah
Echo Meridian: *text* Can we meet some where?
Jameson Hamlet: [text] yeah. i'm in my apartment in west towers. where r u?
Echo Meridian: *text* Walking along a cliff. I can come to you.
Jameson Hamlet: [text] we can meet in the penthouse
Echo Meridian: *text* Ok. See you soon.


In the Penthouse.
8:48 PM

Hamlet looked up and put down a picture frame when he heard the door open.

Echo slips through the door, the icy mask of calm beginning to crack around the edges, a tight smile on her lips.
‹Echo› Hamlet... do you remember me?

Hamlet almost laughed. "Of course I remember you," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Echo nods, shifting from foot to foot, so much she wanted to say, but she didn't know how, so she just stared with those storm cloud eyes.

Hamlet watched her, the corners of his lips pulling tighter the more he smiled. "So," he said quickly. "What's the special occasion," he whispered, leaning his torso forward an inch.

Echo stares at him and then steps forward, slowly at first, as if she were pacing, but then quicker, as if she was darting towards him, and in a move uncharacteristic to what she'd become, her arms slid around her and she hid her face in his chest, a soft hiccup slipping free as her tears fell.

Hamlet hadn't been expecting that. He hadn't been expecting the brute muscle of his forearms to be met with her body, let alone her tears. (This time, he was taken by surprise. This time.) For a few seconds, he just stood there and let it happen because he didn't know how else to react. (But how kismet was it that she left him in tears and came back to him that way. Hardly much had changed.) "What's going on," he asked, slowly prying his arms apart so that they weren't a barrier from him to her anymore.

Echo snuggles against him and holds him tightly, shaking her head as she struggled to gain her composure so she could speak to him like an adult and not a sniveling child. "I'm sorry" she mumbled, damn but she was saying that a lot lately.

Hamlet didn't tell her that it was okay that she was crying. He didn't tell her to keep crying and let 'it' all out, whatever 'it' was. "What happened," he asked again.

Echo shook her head, sighed and pulled away, dabbing at her eyes with a dark silk hanky, she drew a breath and spoke in a steady voice. "You were right. I've mulled over, pried apart, dissected and thought about every thing you said. You were right."

Hamlet grabbed her face then, pushing the pads of his thumbs over her tearstained cheeks. He even bent his head to place a kiss on her forehead. "My sister," he whispered. "There is nothing wrong with what we are. We are monsters, yes, but it's natural. It's natural for us to do the things we do," he said, craning his head so that he could catch her eyes. "Do you understand?"

Echo is shocked by his touch, going stiff beneath his hands as she listened to his words. She had become isolated, limiting physical contact to virtually no one, so it was a surprise that he touched her. "I think I do..." she whispered, "I don't know if I can do it though..."

Hamlet moved his hands so that they cupped the crown of her skull, moving his own body towards her face. "I can help you," he whispered into her hair. "We can help each other," he added.

Echo 's arms circled around him once more and she nuzzled against his chest, "How?" she queried softly, hands linking behind his broad back, fingers tugging on the ends of his long hair. She'd missed him.

Hamlet didn't even bother to look over at the door. No one ever came up there. (Normally, he might have been paranoid, though now, he wasn't.) "I can show you and you can show me. We have to embrace it, Echo. We can't change what we are. Stand by me. No more running," he said.

Echo turns her head up so she can look at him, conflict made her normally pale eyes stormy and dark. "I can't... I don't know how."

Hamlet 's hands fell from the crown of her head when she moved, but he didn't let her go. Instead, he grabbed onto her shoulders and held her out at arm's length. Then, he smiled. "I'll show you how. I'll show you how to do it all," he said.

Echo stumbled back as he moved her limp form, blinking owlishly at him. "You sired." she said, her tone was almost accusatory. "You said you wouldn't for a long time."

Hamlet 's smile dropped, the corners of his lips falling far down. "I did," he mumbled. "She was dying. They were all dying. I wanted to save them," he said, glancing back up. "I found them all. Right near death. Two didn't make it," he muttered. "I tried," he stressed.

‹Echo› You saved them. *she pointed this out, a brow arching* How can you be a monster if you care enough to save them?

‹Hamlet› Doesn't damning them MAKE me a monster? I've already been a monster to them. I've damned them.

‹Echo› Did you? *slides her hand in his, she needed contact* Did you damn them or give them a chance to live a life that would have been stolen?

‹Hamlet› Two of them died anyway, but they died as damned souls. That's what makes me a monster.

Echo looked around with a small sigh "Maybe. My priest said we're not damned, just closer to God." stepping closer, she snuggled against him with a sigh, "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to do this."

Hamlet took her back into his hands, stroking down the center of her spine. "How to do what," he asked. "Be a vampire? Be a monster?"

‹Echo› Exactly *another soft sigh* I don't feed on human's unless it's dire. Then I end up turning them... I still go to Mass, to Confession... I'm still... still human, save a few minor issues.

Hamlet shook his head, but he didn't stop smiling. "No, no Echo. You're not human anymore. You're above that. You're more than that. I feed every night," he said. "Until my belly is full. It's what we're supposed to do. It's what God wants. He created us," Hamlet said.

‹Echo› I believe that. *she agreed and looked up at him, searching over his face* I feed until I am full. Some times I heal myself instead. But I always buy my blood.

Hamlet frowned again. "You're depriving yourself. You shouldn't," he said.

‹Echo› How so? *she snuggled closer and sighed*

Hamlet scoffed. "How so," he repeated, asking her the same question. "You buy blood. You don't drink right from the source. Why not have it fresh," he asked.

‹Echo› I... because it's... but they aren't willing... *even to her the excuse sounded lame*

Hamlet smiled. "This friday. Are you free," he asked.

‹Echo› Friday? I think so yes.

‹Hamlet› Good. Friday, we're going out so you can taste real life. Mick, my child, is waiting for me back in the apartment. I have to go tonight.

Echo nods, reluctant to let go of the first contact she'd had in some time "Friday then... you'll text me?"

Hamlet thought about it, then nodded. "Yes. I'll text you. About eight," he asked, giving her arms another squeeze.

‹Echo› Sounds good to me. *looks up at him, then reaches up to tug lightly on his hair* I'm scared.

Hamlet just smiled. "Trust me," he said.

‹Echo› I'll try.

Hamlet kissed her forehead again, gave one final squeeze to her arms and then walked around her, back through the door and towards the elevator.

-

Wednesday October 24, 2012
10:13 PM
Random street encounter with Robert Pratt.



‹Robert Pratt› He nodded and smiled at Alester, bowing to the random woman who'd not introduced herself and was now leaving. "Enjoy your evening then Miss....." His voice trailed off as he spotted a man at the end of the alley, fiddling with something in his hand as he stood there. He blinked a couple of times, just to make sure it was indeed him then smiled and made the sign of the Light towards him while calling out. "Hamlet! It is good to run into you so! Perhaps we can talk?"

Hamlet had been staring down at his phone, the blue light striking against his high cheekbones in the near black night. He didn't even have to look up and away from the blank text message staring at him--the one he was about to send to Pi--to know who was talking. He didn't have to flare his nostrils and breathe it all in to know that coming right for him, was Pratt. "Well look at that," he mumbled low, hardly moving his lips to make any sound. He cleared his throat before giving a louder, "Sure."

‹Robert Pratt› He blinked a little bit, not sure he'd heard him properly because in all honesty - he'd expected the man to ignore him and just move on. So he called out, questioning it - but with a smile on his face as he moved closer, though remaining a decent sprint away. "Sure?"

Hamlet put his phone away, the text message meant for Pi could be saved and sent later--for a rainy day! The ground was still damp from a quick shower that had happened at some point during the day, making little black pools between he and Pratt. He crossed his arms over his chest, raised his left eyebrow and repeated himself, "Sure."

‹Robert Pratt› He walked over until he was out of the alley, glancing back at Alester and hoping he stayed back 'just in case', and stopped a couple of meters away from Hamlet. The man had been looking at his phone for the entire approach so Robert once more made the sign of the Light and smiled in a friendly manner at the man, bowing his head respectfully. "How are you this evening Hamlet? I do hope you're well?"

Hamlet watched Pratt's fingers, and even had the urge to try and repeat exactly what Pratt had done--and then maybe laugh at him, make a joke or find some way to tease Pratt about it, but he didn't. Hamlet had crossed his arms over his chest and there they lay. "Great," he said, resisting the urge to mock Pratt in some form or another. (There was so much mud-slinging that he wanted to do, but he stopped himself, catching his words before his mouth even opened.) "How's your leg," he asked.

‹Robert Pratt› "All healed thank you for enquiring. It was barely a scratch really. I think she was acting out for you - but her heart wasn't really in it." He smiled at the man, so happy to finally be talking and hoping to resolve whatever issue it was that Hamlet seemed to have with him. "How is she? Your Mick? And Lydie? I've not seen her for a while. Is she well?"

Hamlet smiled. The corners of his lips turned up into his cheeks, but he didn't show teeth and it certainly didn't reach the height of his eyes. "No. I wouldn't think he heart was really in it," he said, not dropping his smile. Then, Pratt said it. (He said it all, really.) "Lydie's dead," he said with the same smile, the same look. He didn't even move. He didn't bother yelling that it was because of Pratt, or anything else, he just smiled. "Bounty. Turned right into ash," he said, as if he were recapping a sports game.

‹Robert Pratt› "Do you know why she did it, I mean - what was the point?" Then his brain registered what he'd said about Lydie and his face fell, his voice abandoned him. He sighed softly and shook his head. "I'm sorry - but I'm sure she will return. She was strong willed and I don't think the Darkness will hold her. She will find her way back to you - she loved you too much to leave you forever. I believe it and so should you!"

Hamlet gave a sound akin to a laugh, just one spurt. "She was shot at the city limits, just outside," he clarified and for a second, he looked away from Pratt's (STUPID *******) face. When he looked back, he gave that same smile that stretched up to his cheekbones, but no higher.

‹Robert Pratt› "Oh." He didn't know what to say. I mean, maybe if it were that close she could hold onto the shadows and pull herself back. Surely she could. Right. "Well - she seemed resourceful. I wouldn't rule her out, not in the slightest. You shouldn't give up hope Hamlet." He'd closed the distance between them now, trying to empathise and console the man - give him hope. He reached out and squeezed the man's shoulder to try and reassure him. "From what I saw of her, she wasn't one to go down without a fight, and her feelings for you - she'll find a way. Have faith."

Hamlet felt an uproar of emotions--all of which he kept reigned in. He didn't move a fraction, which was so much less than he actually wanted to do. He wanted to grab Pratt's arm and throw him across the street. He wanted to leave holes in Pratt. (He wanted to drive Pratt out of Harper Rock and let him die, just like Lydie had.) "Faith is all we can have. Faith and hope," he said, not once losing the smile he had picked up earlier. "This darkness," he said, almost shaking his head. "It's heavy," he added, cutting his eyes away from Robert for a few seconds. "Does that make sense," he whispered when he looked back at Robert.

‹Robert Pratt› He nodded his head, sighing softly as he did. "Yes, it makes perfect sense. I have let go of the Darkness and embraced the Light. It is such a glorious feeling and I feel so much better for it. It's what I want for you too. I want you to be happy again Hamlet. I see the pain in your eyes and in your soul and I want to help you and make it better. Let me in and let me help you Hamlet."

Hamlet found this part particularly hard to chew and then swallow. It was as if he had been handed two day old bread that lacked moisture and wasn't even given a glass of water. He had to bite it off and chew it. He just had to. "Maybe I could come to a meeting," he suggested, took the initiative. (That, was harder than he expected, but like the Academy Award performing actor that he was, he said it without any complications.

‹Robert Pratt› He smiled and took out another book, offering it to the man with a friendly smile. "If you're interested in Solace then I suggest you read this as a starting point, then we can meet and talk about it. Or if it's not for you - perhaps we can talk about otherways to make you happy once more. I will do anything to help you Hamlet - afterall, I failed you in the beginning and couldn't stop Mircea from killing you. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you then! It would have spared you so much - but I was stopped by Pi. I only hope I can make it up to you now."

Hamlet wanted to laugh. He wanted to get down on his knees and actually THANK any deity that could have been playing around with their lives. This, was too much. This was the most perfect deliverance of information and Hamlet couldn't have watched it happen better if it had been planned out. (-Pi- was there when he died those months ago. -Pratt- was there. They were all ******* there. He wanted to laugh or cry, or anything.) "I'll read it," he said, taking the book without a question, like, where the **** it came from.

‹Robert Pratt› Robert swung the bag back onto his back having sealed it again after removing the book and smiled at Hamlet with a nod. "Is there anything I can do for you now? Anything you need?"

Hamlet saw himself laughing and then grabbing Pratt's throat. He thought about throttling him or dragging him to the edge of the city and hacking until there was nothing left. He thought about it so much that he could practically taste it. "Just hope," he said, his eyebrows knit in concern. "Just have hope for me," he repeated. "Have hope for us all," he added in a lower voice.

‹Robert Pratt› Once more he reached out and squeezed the man's shoulder to reassure him, smiling and finding his eyes to look into them. His own eyes were gleaming and smiling - full of hope and joy as he nodded. "Don't worry Hamlet. I will never give up hope in you. I believe there is good in us all and I believe there is joy for us all - we just have to find it. If we can't, we need to find someone to help us find our way. I will always be there if you need me Hamlet. Please - let me be your friend and help you through this period in your life."

Hamlet felt the pain from Pratt's touch for the SECOND time that night. He felt the fire, he felt revulsion down in his body, down in the pit of the beasts belly. (He wondered how many ******* encounters he was going to have to have with Pratt before he could move onto the next stage of his plan. He wondered, how long he was going to have to pretend to kiss Pratt's *** before he could turn around and stab him. Et tu, Brute?) "Slowly," he said, then nodded. "You need to apologize to Mick for how you hurt her. I don't think you hurt anyone more than her--except for maybe Lydie and she's well--" he stopped, raising both of his eyebrows. "Start there," he said, clapping his hand over Pratt's.

‹Robert Pratt› He raised an eyebrow, not moving his hand as he felt Hamlet's close over the top of it. He shook his head in confusion, not understanding. "I hurt Mick? How? I'd never met her before that night she shot me."

Hamlet 's lips twitched when his grip on Pratt's hand did. "She found me. The night you broke into our apartment. Blood scattered around, me unconscious. She's hurt," he stressed.

‹Robert Pratt› He couldn't help but smile slightly as he shrugged. "You shouldn't have attacked me then. I only wanted to talk to you - as I have now. I did ensure you were wrapped in a duvet and had a pillow after what I now know to be your powers kicked in and caused you to drop like a fly. But I will speak to her if you wish - explain what had happened and what was done."

Hamlet took his hand off Pratt's and waved it. "Just an apology. That's all she needs," he said, subconsciously checking to make sure his phone was still in his pocket. When he found it was, he looked back at Pratt from under heavy eyebrows. "Can you do that," he asked.

‹Robert Pratt› "I can certainly apologise for her finding you on the floor as I was unable to get you to the bed. And for not cleaning up - but as you well know, I was wounded myself and I was unable to do so. Other than that - I did nothing wrong."

Hamlet kept smiling. It was permanently frozen to his face at this point. "I should go," he said. "I'll read," he assured, tapping his hand to the book. Before Robert could touch him again, he turned and walked away. (He resisted all the urges to grab Pratt right there and rip out his throat. He resisted the urge to DRAIN Pratt and feed him to the wolves. He resisted the urge to become a wolf.)

-

-


Phone logs; Text conversation with Pi d'Artois
Tuesday October 24, 2012
10:49 PM


Jameson Hamlet: You saw me die?



Wednesday October 25, 2012
8:09 PM


Pi d'Artois: No? Why would I have seen you when you died? You're Mircea's aren't you? I don't think we've met before. I guess that's about to change since you bought me.
Jameson Hamlet: Pratt said you were there and you stopped him from from keeping me alive
Pi d'Artois: Robert? You've been talking to Robert? I thought you two were... at odds?
Jameson Hamlet: Saw him while I was walking home. We talked.
Pi d'Artois: huh. I have only met with Mircea about four times in the whole time since I have been turned. Only one was something that wasn't family oriented and I can't see how that has anything to do with your turning.
Pi d'Artois: It was a fight club. Robert was there.
Jameson Hamlet: Haha. At the docks?
Pi d'Artois: But there was no turning
Pi d'Artois: Yes, I think yes, the docks
Jameson Hamlet: I died that night.
Pi d'Artois: I got Robert out because it went all to **** and he was... young
Pi d'Artois: Mircea was fighting someone, I remember that. You, I take it? Why is it important I was there?
Jameson Hamlet: Isn't life funny?
Pi d'Artois: Ironic I find.
Pi d'Artois: Did you know I was there when you bought me?
Jameson Hamlet: No.
Pi d'Artois: Why did you buy me?
Jameson Hamlet: Why did you put yourself for sale?
Pi d'Artois: If felt the right thing to do to support the place we just bought. It's the first event since I bought in. Seemed harmless enough.
Jameson Hamlet: It's not harmless anymore?
Pi d'Artois: Depends on what you are planning isn't it?
Jameson Hamlet: Pi can't be your real name.
Pi d'Artois: Is Hamlet really yours?
Jameson Hamlet: It's really my surname.
Pi d'Artois: And Pi is my name
Jameson Hamlet: Not even spelled like, " A slice of…" So unique. :)
Pi d'Artois: Oui
Pi d'Artois: Would you like to... organise our time together?
Jameson Hamlet: I've made plans. How does next friday sound to you?
Pi d'Artois: I'll make myself available. Friday it is.
Pi d'Artois: You never did answer. Why did you buy me?
Jameson Hamlet: Another question. How are you with daylight?
Pi d'Artois: Fall usually has decent cloud cover and as long as I keep covered. Daylight doesn't hurt me.
Pi d'Artois: Much
Jameson Hamlet: Perfect. I'll pick you up at 4 on Friday. I've got an extra helmet. Wear a long jacket and pants.
Pi d'Artois: Motorcycle? I have something I can wear. Four it is.
Jameson Hamlet: It's what I drive. Until then, Pi. ;)
Pi d'Artois: Oui. Until then.