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Februarie, 1897

Castle Dracula

I have sent word to Budaphest (so strange to call it thus) for an agent who speaks English. I would take myself away from the petty concerns of this backwater country. I long to rule over a living kingdom again. The man, I do not remember his name, was in Istanbul not long before, and brings word of many business opportunities in this New Rome.

London, the seat of kings. Of great minds and great culture. She thrives on the meat of mankind, it is said, a hive of industry. The age of reason has come forth into the light, and as always, the darkness follows behind, staining the hem of her gowns with filth and blood. It is glorious and I would see it with my own eyes.

The wealth of my treasury is easily converted to currency. I send word under seal, and they will come slathering to my door like the starved wolves they are.

I will learn their tongue, and I will walk among them, and they will know the fear and majesty of the Prince who defied God.

2nd of Aprilie, 1897

Castle Dracula

The language comes easily to me. I remember the text Abel brought me from Varna. I believe it was Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and the works of John Donne, the poet. There were others as well, and I find the language has not changed so much. Yet, I must practice with its native speakers. My mother's tongue is still heavy on my lips, and colors all that pass them.

The Englishman took his time setting up my accounts, and his mind strays to ways to further profit from my inexperience with Western financial instruments. It does not matter to me. There remains such wealth in my coffers, he could squander half of it and I would still have enough to see my plans through to completion.

Ten manor houses, houses befitting royalty, in and around the heartbeat of this New Rome. London, my new home, my new love, you are my next conquest, by blood and by fire if necessary. Fifty boxes of earth are only the beginning. I shall take the mountain with me, one handful at a time, if that is what the hunger requires. I shall spread it across the whole of the world until there is no dark place I cannot come to rest. My children will go forth, beautiful and terrible, and I will see them rise to the highest places in society.

Kings and queens will beg to become part of my court. I shall rule as never before. I shall rule in the Light! And the Englishman, with his greedy thoughts, shall be duly rewarded for his ardor, and shall feast upon pestilence until the end of his days, always within reach of everlasting life, but eternally denied the gift. He shall rot in a cell, his mind turned only to thoughts of hunger, of mindless, gnawing ravenous need for life, in all its forms.

28th of May, 1897

Castle Dracula

Ah Renfield, my black-hearted scribe. I can feel him, and feel that his pathetic mind has shattered, but the blood bond remains. I can hear him calling, across the leagues that separate us. Ravenous for life, for the secrets of the blood eternal. He will never see it from my hand, but he will serve me in other ways, yet. I have no need to dispose of him, harmless vile thing that he has become.

They sent another in his place, one Jonathan Harker. With him comes a miracle I could never have foreseen. He carries with him a graven image of my beloved. No, she is not my beloved, but a woman, with the given name Wilhelmina. Mina, as he calls her. His betrothed. It is fascinating to look upon, not a painting, but a feat of science, captured with light and chymicals. But she is the very image of my Elizaveta. She wears her face, her eyes, even the soft hint of a smile on her lips. It is impossible, but how can it be anything less than destiny. I look upon this portrait, this photograph, and I see my beloved looking back at me. She has come for me. She walks the earth again, a world away in my city, in my London. She waits for me.

I shall keep him here, for a month or more, until I make the passage. My beloved will not be kept from me by time or distance. I shall keep him here, a prisoner, and I shall return in his place. He wears the barest sense of her in his skin, and I have tasted perhaps a hint of her in his blood. That they are betrothed surely matters not. She will look upon me and she will know me for who I am. Her Prince, returned from the battlefield, returned to her whole and alive. I will forgive her the lie that took her from me. It will be as if she never fell. I will have her in my arms again. I will take her to my breast and make her my Princess, my eternal love. I swear, He will be powerless to keep her from me. His treachery is at an end. My love walks the earth again and she will be mine.

This I swear, by blood and by my oath.

Undated Entries:
Winter, 1897

Mirella,

She of the black tresses and laughter, she of the soft lips and soft hands. She who kept me company through long nights, who brushed my hair and told me stories, wild fanciful tales of faraway places, of Moscow under Catherine the Great, of Paris and Rome, of Barcelona and Marrakesh. Mirella who took me into her arms and warmed my body with her own. Mirella who loved me as much as I loved her. I drew her to me, and I would have kept her with me until the sun burned down to ashes.

Mirella, my love, fell to the hunger, and I kept her close, tried to help her find her way back. Mirella who hunted and feasted with all the relish of her living self, who gave herself entirely to the hunger just as she had to me in her life. Mirella of the black tresses and the beautiful sunrise smile.

Mirella, sleep now, and dream of the white fields of snow.

~~~

Alexandreina,

She of the quick tongue and quicker wit. She who would draw a knife to defend herself. She who knew the sigils and the gestures that make up more than a simple warding, who could draw a veil across men's eyes, and cause the winds to rise at her bidding. Some said she was the Devil's concubine long before she met me. Widowed far too young, with a son and daughter of her own, her people believed her spells had cost her the life and protection of her husband. It was simply cruel fate, not the curse of God upon her house. She was too beautiful, too outspoken, too powerful in her own right. Such a thing could never last.

Alexandreina who defied me openly, who drew my eye with a quick and unexpected laugh, who cracked the ice around my heart. She was a gift, for her mothers and aunts feared her insolence would never be suffered by their protector. They cast her out, in an attempt to appease my temper. But her insult amused me, enticed me. She was so beautiful, and so furious with me. I could not help but fall in love with her. She had dark brown hair, and green eyes. A witch's eyes, with the sight, the ability to look upon those things that lay between the worlds. I courted her for months, with flowers and beautiful trinkets and baubles, but it was the books of poetry and other arcane ephemera that turned her face to me. We were a tale the grandmother's told, of beauty and the beast.

Alexandreina who fell into my arms and who wept upon my chest, who begged for her freedom, and when I gave it to her, who refused to leave. Alexandreina whom I loved for many years, taking her to my side in small sips, keeping her for as long as I could.

Alexandreina who is the strongest of the three, who still keeps company with me from time to time, who still knows my heart and who loves the monster as much as she loves the man.

Alexandreina, with her beautiful lips and her cruel eyes. My Alexandreina.

~~~

Tsura,

She who sought me out, who pursued me. Dark of eye and hair, dark of temper and heart. She stole into under the shield wall and into the castle of her own volition, broke the seals on the sanctuary, and placed herself into my coffin. Tsura, who lay her head down upon me, cold and still and yet, alive. She who was too young to die. Too beautiful. I took her back to her mother, and left her there, without a word. She suffered the lash for her transgressions. Tsura, who came back to me. Alexandreina found her, and kept her as a play thing.

My lovely wolf maiden, Tsura, who ran barefoot in the woods, who killed with her bare hands, man and beast alike. Tsura who knew the power of the night, of the storm, of the beasts of the earth. Tsura who danced like the fire itself, who brought music back into these halls, who mixed potions and tinctures to draw the dreams up from within the mind, making them spill out all around us. Tsura, who took me as a slave to her lithe young flesh.

Tsura who saved me from the King's men, who drew them away and led them on a merry chase. Tsura who found me, who led me home again, who refused to let me age, who screamed and fought to keep me from the deep slumber, who fed me and washed me and made love to my waking corpse.

Tsura who gave up her life to be with me, and to whom I gave the curse in return. Tsura, whose icy kiss I still seek out, whose brave heart I will never forget.

Tsura, my wolf maiden, my bride.

August, 1896*

Castle Dracula

I do not know how long it has been since Abel departed our service. Days? Months? I cannot tell. Time has no meaning here. The sun will not breach the dark clouds over the mountain, for such is my will. The storm reflects the turmoil in my heart. As does the loneliness of the wood and the cold stone of the mountain. Darkness, my love. The darkness is all that I have, now. It is all that I want.

Abel. My sweet Abel. I miss him. I cannot avoid the simple truth. My heart aches for a servant. A gypsy boy with dark eyes and a mouth full of irreverence. I miss the sullen glare he would give me when he thought I wasn't looking. I miss the way his hands felt straightening the back of my robes. I miss the sound of his heartbeat somewhere within the castle walls. This place is so very empty without him. It is as if the castle itself mourns his loss. In the stillness, every footfall reminds me of his absence.

I have not taken on a new caretaker, and I will not. I cannot stand to imagine someone else as my body man, or the thought of another heartbeat taking the place of his, one so very different from his own. I cannot stand the idea of talking to someone who does not have his face, his dark eyes, or his gentle hands. He was a gift to me, and…

He served me well. He served me well, and I repaid him by taking his life, discarding him on a pile of bones for his people to reclaim. Elizaveta, I do not even know where he sleeps now. Deep in the earth. Or in fire and ash, if they feared I had given him more than just a good death. I miss his face. I miss the sound of his voice.

I have not slept in many weeks, and it feels as if his ghost accompanies me on my nightly walk. I feel his presence beside me on the parapets. I feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin. I welcomed it at first, but now, it bears down on me. He was a balm to my heart, for so many years. Without him, I feel as if the waters are all rushing in at once.

I have seen no other living thing since my return. I have not fed. The hunger rages but I refuse it. It is his blood that flows in my veins now, and I will cherish it for as long as I can. Without it, the years gather in force and show themselves on my face. Without it, I walk the fine line between madness and truth.

I fear I look like my father, now. No, my father's father. Old. Like white goat skins pounded smooth for the pen, aged and thin. It amuses me to look upon the backs of my hands and track the march of years. My hair has grown silver and long, almost to my heels. I have taken to wearing it in the style of the ancient kings, swept up away from my face, and then in a long queue down my back. I know, you have always thought me vain, my love, but if I am to be forgotten lord of these lonely halls, at least I should dress the part.

I have not slept and yet I dream of you, my love. I dream of what I would say to you, if you have indeed been watching over me these many years, if you had seen what I have become. My love, I would beg for your forgiveness. I would lie face down on the stones of the chapel and wash myself in your tears. The words feel like ash in my mouth, but I would plead that I have not borne the weight of years with the dignity and patience you would have of me. But I am still here. My soul, perhaps you might call it, still resides behind this monstrous mask. Whatever lies within me that loves you still holds fast, and will not falter, will not fall. That love sustains me, even in blackest night, even in when I fall to despair. You are lost to me, my love, but I am still here. I walk the earth, and I light the candles so you may see my face, shriveled and veiled as it is. I am not lost to you.

I am always, and ever shall be, your husband.

OOC: A note about previously stated dates and knowledge of other characters from canon, and invitations to London. ~handwaves~ I screwed it all up. I'm fixing it now.

The story of Dracula's canon begins before all that. It makes more sense for the story. At least in my head, it does. Apologies if that makes your head hurt.

To the Doctor, Guppy Sandhu,

Please forgive the necessity of this correspondence, but there are circumstances which make a face to face apology untenable at this time.

I do apologize to you for the manner in which you were detained on the evening in question. Please forgive my atrocious manners, and accept that I am making recompense in tithe to the fund which serves the needs of the deceased, and orphaned children.

Also, if I may, please understand that it was never my intent to harm you or [a large blot of ink mars the page] Javert. I have returned him safely to this place, as I'm sure you well know.

If it is possible in the future to make this apology in your presence, I will not hesitate. I have been told that the good people of this place speak of you highly, and I do hope that amends can be made.

With regards,
~Vlad III
Draculea, Transylvania

He'd spent the last few hours ghosting through the woods, trying to find a way back to his home, but it was proving a fruitless search.

And so, he finds himself outside the bar, looking up at the door Javert disappeared through just yesterday. He doesn't want to go in. He doesn't want to face Rae again, not now. Maybe not ever. And he doesn't want to face the man, either. Not like this. He's whole again, but the wolf still clings to him. He feels like a barbarian, or a wildling. He doesn't feel like a Prince right now. He feels like a beast of the wood.

So he retreats to the rooftops, finding the highest place he can with a bit of cover from the wind. He settles in with his back against the wall, his white shirt unpinned, and his cuffs hanging lose. His trousers are tucked into the tops of his riding boots, and he doesn't want to think about how his boots look. (Or who is going to polish them, now that Abel is gone.) He sits with one knee drawn up, and his arm resting on it. The other is clutched across his body.

He keeps his mind closed, shutting out the dim roar of the minds below. He doesn't want to think anymore right now. He just wants a moment of stillness.

(Be still. Stay with me.)

This place will surely be the end of him.

[ After this. ]

There is no place to hide. If she can see him like this, from beyond the veil, if she watches over him and has seen the things he has done... Not even the beast mind can protect him from this horror writhing in his gut. He always imagined she was lost to him, and by extension, he was lost to her. But no. He never stopped to think...

Dark trees streak by as he runs, aimless, his body twisted and broken by the fists of a man. He hears the night calling to him, to take up his place in the hunt, but he runs from it. His limbs seem detached, the blood flowing through them hot and sweet. He should tear out his own heart and eat it. He should find a cliff to hurl himself from, to break his body on the jagged rocks below. Instead, he runs, head down, the wound at his mouth dropping pearls of scarlet on the dirt trail. His feet pad silent on the leaf litter, passed the hart and the hind, passed even the foul hares, their red eyes reminding him of the way the Virgin shed tears for him.

He runs, and the hares take chase, and for a moment, he forgets why he's fleeing. The world is turned on its head, again. He would laugh if he could, but the throat he wears is still rough, and the sound comes out as a grating yelp. The hares only take it as encouragement. He feels the heat of their breath, seeing the tiny puffs of flame they exhale. His nose is assaulted by the noxious poison they spit at him. He leaps and snaps, taking one of them in his jaws and crushing the fine bone beneath the black pelt. The blood beneath is foul, tasting of oil and something bitter and alchemical in nature. He shakes his head, sending the carcass flying, and its brothers take note, falling back.

It doesn't matter. He keeps running, up into the darkest part of the forest, seeking out the caves he had sheltered in before. This is surely the land of the Baba Yaga, as the valleys and hills are always shifting, always changing. The path is never the same twice, and he doesn't care. He is mad with sorrow, mad with rage, and like any wounded thing, all he wants to do is find safety. All he wants to do is delve into dark earth and hide himself from her. From his beloved's gaze. He does not want her to see him like this. He lived for her, died for her, and lived again. And if he had to explain this all to her, he could not justify his actions.

If she fell, would she think she dragged him with her? She'd never known all the things he'd done before the end. She hadn't seen the field of bodies. He'd kept all of that from her, but now. From where she sits, she can see it all. And surely she knows, she did not do this thing. God did this. His enemy, his nemesis. God took her from him, and God is the one responsible for all his crimes. If God had not betrayed him, he would never have chosen to walk this path. If God would give her back...

He shies from that thought, his head jerking to one side, and blood spatters. Abel's blood, bright and sweet.

He runs, and runs, and remembers, those huge dark eyes and that playful smirk. The tzigani boy who had never been afraid of him, who had loved him from the first day he laid eyes on him, even as his grandmothers crossed themselves and prayed for him to be spared. He'd gathered things for him. Books that told tales of far away lands. Maps and treatises on the modern world, sheaves of paper with illustrations showing him the march of progress. He'd gone into the city of Buda, under the guise of a merchant, and brought him back the modern fashions and perfumes from the far East. He'd pestered his mother until she taught him the way of the needle and thread, so that he could tailor them to his master's figure. He'd stayed and talked, playing chess until the morning sun crept over the horizon. He'd argued God's case, and he'd argued against God. He'd been as devoted a friend as any man could hope for, under the circumstances. He'd promised his life, and had defended him when the some of the elders thought their debt might be paid. He was loyal and true, and the beast had fed upon him.

He'd sank his teeth into his flesh and given him the briefest taste of ecstasy before his life's blood drained away. And he'd done it because Abel had asked him to. That was the worst of it. He'd not been given the chance to die in battle, and he would not want to die in bed, wasting away from old age until he'd become a burden to his master and his clan. He'd given himself wholly to his service, and to his master. And for what? To keep a promise his master had made, to keep his master's word.

The white wolf keeps his eyes to the trail, his other senses blurred, his way obscured. He does not grieve. The centuries have taken too many of them from him, and grief would take away the pain. The pain fueled his rage. And without his rage, he was nothing.

~~~

He'd ran until he could no longer run, and had taken up a ground eating stride. The scents here seemed familiar. The rotting, gutted corpse of his dinner from many weeks ago was a landmark he recognized. It wasn't far.

He lifted his head, and a white light filled his vision. There was a man stood in his path, and from his shoulders stretched the light of Heaven, white feathered wings that blinded him with their brilliance. He turned his face away, but his body was too heavy to continue running.

'Thought you might be headed this way.'

Leave me be. The thought is communicated in a sharp snarl.

'Not until I've had a word with you. Come on, Mister Dog-Faced Boy. Get bipedal again.'

Who are you to command me? The wolf circles, head down, lips peeled back in a grimace of pain and fury.

'Who do you think? C'mon. I haven't got time for this. I have to be on a golf course in Boca in fifteen minutes.' The angel snaps his fingers, and Vlad stands before him, clothed as he was when he left his world this morning. 'There. That's better.'

Above them, the clouds roiled, thick black ropes of vapor, tangling like the shadows about Dracula's feet. Not even the thunder above could equal the storm upon his brow. 'Leave. Me. Be.'

'Sucks, don't it? When someone plays with you like you're a doll?'

'I didn't not play with him. I tried. To help.'

'Oh well, then. That makes it all better. Do you think you're going to get an A for Effort?'

'What do you care?' He spits the words, unconsciously pacing back in forth, eyes fixed on the dark hole behind the angel. 'He fell. He chose to fall. He is beyond your grasp now.'

'He survived. And he's here now.'

'Did you save him?' He glares up into the blinding light.

'No, you know I didn't.'

'If he could save that fool, why could he not save her?'

Earl sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. 'You're like a dog with a bone. I've told you, I don't know why He makes the choices he does. I just know that He sees things we don't. You could give Him the benefit of the doubt, maybe?'

Dracula snarls, and the beast within transforms the lines of his face. He's burning precious blood here, but the bones in his face knit like putty, reshaping beneath his skin. The wounds close over and seal. Not even a scar remains to be seen. 'He is a tyrant, a vicious, petty child god who takes things from us just to watch us suffer. Who is toying with who, now, Angel? Who is set up only to be knocked down, for His amusement?'

'It's not like that...'

'It is from down here, amongst His faithful, His devout. Look at Javert. Look at the way his heart stands empty. What kind of cruelty left him so bereft? Did God simply forget to shine His mercy upon the man?'

'Listen...'

'No, you listen. Your master is more of a monster than I will ever be. To deny that man even the smallest taste of Love? If that is His justice, then I am proud to stand separate from you and your Court of Lies. Now, begone from this place or I will call upon the Old Gods, and take up a visage so terrible, even you will tremble before me.'

Earl glared at the vampire, his mouth set in a fine line.

'You swore you'd never do that.'

'That was before I met him.'

There is a long and tense silence between them, the still figure of the angel and the pacing, savage beast in a man's clothes.

'Fine. But just so you know, he's on my docket now. You'd best be careful with him.'

'Go choke on your mamaliga.'

Earl winced. He liked mamaliga. Anything that involved corn meal and fried cheese was a slice of heaven in his book. 'Suit yourself. But you've been warned.'

Dracula looked him dead in the eye, and spit on the ground at his feet. He turned his back on the angel and walked away, the shadows dragging him in and clutching him to their breast.

Earl stood and watched him walk away, even when it started to rain. Someone was going to have to keep an eye on that boy.

[ Cont'd from here. ]

He returns from the hunt, his hunger sated, but his mind restless.

The man haunts him, with his stern mouth and his searching gaze. He lets himself imagine all the impossible moments, trying to let them fall away into darkness, to let them die like the flames when all the fuel is spent.

He paces when he's restless, and he finds himself back in the sanctuary. Alexandreina frets in her sleep, and he kisses her icy lips. Mirella is still, and cold, and beautiful. He remembers how easily he could make her laugh, before the hunger stole her mind. Tsura reaches for him, her dark eyes opening and her voice a hungry moan. A wave of desire hits him, and he pushes it away, willing her back down into sleep.

That is what he did to Javert. He had good intentions, but the man refused all his advances. And he pushed, and pushed, until all the armor was stripped away, and he made the man wail with ecstasy.

It was easier to live with dispensing pain, he thinks, eyeing the earth-filled coffin.

In his head, he tries to imagine what the world would look like, if she had never been taken from him. How many lives would have been spared? How many souls?

He cannot sleep, not while this last day remains, and so he paces. Listening for the man to stir above, and sending Abel to tend to him.

He releases all veils from Javert's mind, but the connection in the blood, that will only fade with time.

[ Cont'd from here ]

The caretaker is an old man, one who has been in servitude to the Master since he was a small child. He received word only an hour before of his imminent arrival, and has prepared only one of the bedrooms.

Save he was expecting only his Master, not a guest. And not one in ill health. But the grandmother has sent provisions, and a basket of some strongly scented salve with instructions. The Master deposited the man on the pure white sheets, and he was instructed to prepare hot water, enough for a bath. There are no servants to carry water, he murmurs, and the Master smiles at him. He holds his breath until the Master's head dips in acknowledgement.

'Go prepare him a meal then. We shall carry water, later.'

'Yes, sire.'

'And the others?'

'They sleep, sire. Shall I wake them?'

'No. No, leave them be. When you are done with the meal, and the fires are laid, you are excused.'

'Yes, sire.'

The Master lays out clothes for the man, from his own wardrobe. He paces in front of the fire. He sits and watches the man sleep, but takes no rest himself. Outside, the storm batters against the high walls, but the sound of thunder is faint within.

'Food, sire.'

'Thank you, Abel. You may go now.'

'Thank you, sire.'

The Master still sits and watches the sleeping man as he pulls the door closed. It is not the most disturbing thing Abel has seen in his years of servitude.

The strands of her magic cling to him like cobwebs, but not unpleasantly. Perhaps more like warm silk, sticky and soft in the same breath. She doesn't need to hunt him in the traditional ways any longer. She has her gift.

It is a truth that makes him cautious, but not wary. Never wary. Of all the people in this place who wish him ill, she has the most cause perhaps, and yet, he can still taste how drawn she is to him. It would be a lie to say he wasn't flattered by her attentions, and perhaps, even more of a lie to deny that he seeks her out.

But now, she is hunting him. Along the cold dark bank of the lake he winds, the mist of his passing seeming to defy the cold stiff breeze off the water. He feels her in the distance, a bright star in brilliant counterpoint to his own dark nature.

He hesitates, feeling her come for him.

The predator in him shifts restlessly. She will be the death of him, he fears.

London, 1899

He stands at the window, watching the night's procession as the theatres give up their patrons to the brisk autumn night. The men in long black coats and the women wearing layers of wool and velvet and silk. Gloves and feathers and ribbons of perfume wafting up from the street, stirring his senses, urging him from his reverie. A flash of pale skin catches his eye. An elegant neck framed with hair the colour of copper.

Lucy.

No...

This one is more golden. He can hear her laughter ringing through the street, over the sound of the hansom cabs and the street hawkers. She is as bright as a ray of sunlight. He turns away from the window, assaulted with a sense memory. The smell of fresh milk, cold butter, cinnamon. His eyes press tight closed as he sinks into the waking dream.

He sees an angel of God, draped in flowing crimson, a sword of Light raised in her hand, an emissary of the Holy Spirit moving across the battlefield. She casts about, almost as if she is blind, but her sword cuts a swathe through her enemies, leaving a trail of blood and viscera and broken bodies behind her. He needs not breathe, but the vision still causes him to draw a lungful deep into his chest. She is radiant, a vision of fury and righteousness. Above all, she is beautiful, cloaked in Apollo's glory, untouched and untouchable.

The part of him that fought so desperately, that gave up his soul to save his country and his people, the part of him that loved God with every shred of his humanity -- that part of him swells with pride. He knows that he stands on the far side of that divide now, but in his day, even despising the Sultan with every breath in his body, he never dared not to respect the man who opposed him in battle. To be betrayed by God, one must Love with all the power of one's being. And a Love so strong does not diminish in the blink of an eye. It twists, certainly, burrowing deep, setting down roots to become the darkest of hatreds. But at its core, Love still burns bright.

Like the vision in his mind's eye. The angel turns and he feels the wash of her heat, feels the raw power searing over his skin. She looks so fragile, so lost, and for a moment, he meets that gaze. The dark power of his Will extends to touch her thoughts.

"Ad victoriam. Ad undas."

To victory. Or else, to Hell.

Somewhere in the house, a servant moves, tending to the fire in the grate. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. Such a vision as this portends well, he thinks. She will not go quietly, he knows. He's felt the sting of her wrath. And he confesses, he would miss her if she left. He does so enjoy the sound of her voice, and the hammering of her heart.

If he sees her again, she will be transmuted by the fire, washed in the blood, but whole in body, if not in spirit. As he retreats to his sanctuary for the day, he considers this simple fact: she will return victorious, or not at all.

Such is the way of War.

[ cont'd from here and here ]

He waits, motionless, listening to the conversation she's having with the female doctor.

He's become a master of waiting.

His breath stills, his heart stills, his entire body grows still. He tries not to think about the host of bodies thrumming through this place. Tries not to think about the anguish he has caused her, merely by existing.

Elizabeta, my sweet Elizabeta. If only there had been another way.

Time is meaningless in the moments like this. Pain and hunger and the sorrow of his human heart, all meaningless.

When she returns, he has settled in one of the few chairs here, straight backed as if he is sitting in a throne. His hands are tucked into his sleeves, and his eyes fix on her face the moment she crosses the threshold.

"Will she keep her word?"

He cannot keep the edge from his voice, though whether it is fear or rage, it is difficult to tell.

His eyes open in the darkness, listening. There's a woman's voice, singing.

"Elizabeta?"

No.

No, she is gone. Lost to him, for all eternity.

No it is someone else.

Rae.

He can hear her humming as she works, even from such a great distance. It draws him up from the earth, draws him out of torpor and towards the light. He is a moth to her flame. She calls and he answers. It should be as simple as breathing, as night following day, but no. He knows better.

Still, he moves, seeking her in the darkness.

The night is cold and bright. The moon casts a pale light over the world, throwing it into chiaroscuro.

He stands on the hill over looking the Bar and his thoughts turn to the gold of her hair and the gentle lilt of her voice.

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

He covers his face with his hands, trying to recall the sound of her laughter.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

He can still taste the sweetness of her mouth.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

He can still hear the beat of her heart.

Kate. Wake up.

I need you.

If the sun that illumines the world
Were to draw nigher, the world would be consumed.
Close thy mouth and shut the eyes of this matter,
That, the world's life be not made a bleeding heart.
No longer seek this peril, this bloodshed;
Hereafter impose silence on the 'Sun of Tabriz.'"
He said, "Thy words are endless. Now tell forth
All thy story from its beginning."

Gamepost here.

A Gothic Winter Tale

✔ = Thread complete | + = Bitten | - = Not bitten

ACT I
Teja is witness to a strange phenomenon (lakeside) (✔, -)

An encounter with Miss Jane Austen (library) (✔, +)

An encounter with Miss Kate Bishop (archery range) (✔,+)

Kate Bishop awakens in the stables.

An encounter with Miss Joan Holloway (hallway) (✔,+)

Miss Holloway reappears in the bar.

An encounter with Miss Bela Talbot (corridors) (✔,+)

An encounter with Miss Nita Callahan (✔,+)

An encounter with Miss Alyx Vance (✔,-

Miss Vance reappears in the bar.

An encounter with Miss Coreen Fennel (✔,+)

Miss Fennel wakes up in a daze.

An encounter with Miss Valerie von Doom (library) (✔,-)

An encounter with Master Robin Goodfellow. part two (✔,-)

Puck reflects on his obligations.

ACT II

An encounter with Officer Grace Hanadarko (stairwell) (✔,+)

Grace returns to the bar.

An encounter with Miss Rae 'Sunshine' Seddon (✔,-)

Miss Seddon returns to the bar

An encounter with Officer Shufti (✔,+)

Officer Shufti returns to the bar

An encounter with Mister Rupert Giles (✔,+)

Giles returns to the bar.

An encounter with Miss Scaramouche (✔,+)

An encounter with Miss Kate Barlow (✔,-)

An encounter with Mister Havelock Vetenari (✔,)

An encounter with Master Albus Severus Potter (corridors) (-)
An encounter with Mister Ben Wade (+)
An encounter with Mister Edgar (+)
An encounter with Miss Esfir Shostakovna Yazycova (+)

~~~

Security Officer Andrew Wells investigates (I)

Security Officer Melaka Fray investigates & makes an undercover agent (I)

Agent Artie Nielsen investigates (I)

Newly made super sekrit agent Teja does research. (I)

Okay so here's what I have. Four categories of pups.

Please click through and comment with your AIM Screenname, your pup's name and journal name, as well as your availability and your preference for a plotlocked EP in the bar or an OOM, and if you'd like it to be hosted here or in your pup's LJ.

The Nommed: Your pup will meet V somewhere in the corridors of Milliways, perhaps in the library. They will be enthralled, fed upon, memory wiped. They will wake up some place safe with a wrist wound or the classic neck wound. As part of the plot, this encounter will end up with your pup EP'ing in the bar with a link to the OOM (hosted either here or in your pup's journal, your choice) and a chance for others in the bar to notice your pup's condition.

The Near-Nommed: Your pup will have a creepy encounter with a gentleman of Eastern European descent, perhaps in the halls, library or by the lake side. This could happen in a plot-locked EP or in OOM, again with a link posted in the bar.

The Non-Nommed: Immortals or other non-baseline humans that wanted to meet the Prince outside the bar.

The Investigators: Your pups will be interviewing the other pups regarding their interactions. How this plot unfolds depends on you. I don't want to rush it. Rather, I would like this to play out through the New Year, lending a little creepiness to the long cold winter nights.

I have no idea what the endgame looks like. I don't mind a pitchfork-and-torches welcoming crew, but please remember, my ultimate goal is to have him as regular in the bar, perhaps just better briefed on the rules.

I am open to any and all suggestions. This is my first plot, and I'd like it to be a good one.

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Prince Vlad, Dracula

November 2013

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Journal of Vlad III, Draculea: It Begins
Journal of Vlad III, Draculea: His Brides
Journal of Vlad III, Draculea
OOC: A Note On Timelines
[Letter to Doctor Guppy Sandhu]
The bar, rooftop
AOOM: In the Mountains above the Lake
OOM: Javert Day Three
OOM: Javert
[oom] Sunshine, lakeside
[oom] The Library
[oom] A cellar, reprised
[oom] A cellar
[oom] Come down into the Garden, Eve.
Rumi
[A Gothic Winter Tale] Master List
[game post] A Gothic Winter Tale

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Journal of Vlad III, Draculea: It Begins

Journal of Vlad III, Draculea: His Brides

Journal of Vlad III, Draculea

OOC: A Note On Timelines

[Letter to Doctor Guppy Sandhu]

The bar, rooftop

AOOM: In the Mountains above the Lake

OOM: Javert Day Three

OOM: Javert

[oom] Sunshine, lakeside

[oom] The Library

[oom] A cellar, reprised

[oom] A cellar

[oom] Come down into the Garden, Eve.

Rumi

[A Gothic Winter Tale] Master List

[game post] A Gothic Winter Tale

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November 2013

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