Revenant: Freedom

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Boss Frost, Feb 14, 2014.

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  1. [​IMG]

    I have transcribed the events you are about to read not simply as a record of events, but also as a glimmer of hope for our future. However, our story does not begin with hope - it begins with a monster named Alexander Sangrey. Sangrey embodied the worst of our kind - many was the rumor that he was not human before he was a vampire, for there was little humanity left in him. A monstrous appetite - not for blood, but for misery. I'll not give away his origins for the moment, but I will go into saying: this was a being that sought out a particular type of person to make into his spawn - he looked for people that would be missed. He looked for people on the verge of success... he looked to take people that would cause the most turmoil. Then, once he took them, he warped their mind and bodies into other species of vampire - a feat never attempted by vampires before or since. He reveled in the mental and physical tortures he put his spawn through: leaving enough of themselves - enough of their free will to know he was in control of their bodies, and enough to remember their crimes in his name should it come to it.

    The large and imposing mansion stood like a horrible memory in the sands of Arizona - Tucson, as a matter of fact. A location chosen for it's proximity to human prey, and the apathy of those who lived there. If a few people went missing - no one would care. Old men and women die all the time, and the yuppies who came for golf or other such nonsense meant that even those with a taste for 'good blood' could have their fill. As well, the nearby observatory meant that the nights were very dark - lights pointed in a particular way so as not to disturb those who watch the night sky. A fine location for an apex night predator - like a vampire - doubly one that wanted to stay away from the politics of the Princes. A lawless realm, but not one without certain dangers... which we'll get to eventually.

    The sun was just a sliver on the horizon when our story starts - about the right time for the creatures of the night to come out. Normally the spawn of Sangrey would be greeted with a mental spike to each of their brains, waking them early regardless of their will to rise or not. This evening was different - no such spike came. Indeed, the wooden mansion of Sangrey stood quiet... and eerily serene. Sangrey's small army of spawn would find that they were alone in the mansion, with naught but each other... and no reason as to why.

    The noisy, hardwood floors and fine Victorian furniture only masked the horrors of the place. Traps set for hunters hidden in places - some concealed even from the spawn there. In control of their own actions - for the first time in centuries for some - the question of what to do in such a situation becomes present. That is, of course, when they discover this is the case. I have spoken to many of those present in the events that followed - some seemed legitimate, but many seemed fabricated to make the vampire in question look better. Thus, I shall do the same: following are what I believe happened when each of them awoke that fateful night, based on their personalities and what I know of them....

    ~ Leon D'Gueste​
    #1 Boss Frost, Feb 14, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 18, 2014
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  2. Sigurd's eyelids slid open slowly, revealing dark blue eyes as the beginnings of a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. Something felt different this evening... Something he couldn't wrap his mind around just yet. A few minutes passed as he simply lay on his bed, right hand lifting to lightly grasp the battered, iron Thor's hammer that hung about his neck on a rawhide cord. Under his breath he murmured a prayer, to the gods he had followed in life, in Old East Norse. Then, without wasting anymore time, he swung his legs over one side of his bed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Lifting his right hand, he absently dragged his fingertips through long, dark brown locks.

    Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, stretching his 6'8" tall, muscular form to its fullest extent before finally moving to pluck up a pair of faded, blue jeans off the floor and going about the business of tugging them on. With this achieved, Sigurd moved to a nearby oaken dresser, pausing for a moment to look at himself in the mirror that hung there. Memories of ages long passed danced through his mind teasingly as he took in several of the scars that marred his deathly pale body. Scars earned in battle, earned while standing in shield walls. He'd never felt so alive, or scared shitless, as when he had stood in a shield wall. That's where a man's worth was measured, at least when he had been among the living.

    A scowl took hold of his rugged features as shoved aside the memories. Then tugged a drawer open to grab a random t-shirt, dark gray in color, and tugged it down, over his head. Thus, clothed, Sigurd snagged up a loose, rawhide cord off the top of the dresser in one hand while his other reached back to tug his long hair into a ponytail. Securing his hair in place with the cord, he strode across his room, pausing again to look upon the armor stand that stood in one corner. Upon that stand was the mail he had worn in life, he couldn't count how many axe and sword blows it had saved him from. Reaching out, he let his fingertips brush over the battered, yet well cared for, armor. He should be dead, feasting in the halls of Valhalla with his friends. Yet he had been denied that fate.

    As his hand fell away from the mail, Sigured clenched it into a tight fist, the Norns had been cruel to him. They were fickle bitches... Once more he shook himself out of his reverie, unclenching his fist before his nails cut too deep into his flesh. Now his mind turned back to that strange feeling that something was off this evening. What was it? He continued to mull over the conundrum as he moved to a weapon rack that hung on one wall of his room. Stopping at it, he gazed over the weapons it held with dark blue eyes. In the end his gaze settled on a single weapon. It was a Ulfberht sword of the finest craftsmanship, another item from before he had been turned. The sword had a name, and it was Life-Taker. It had tasted the blood of many a foe and Sigurd was an expert with it and still wielded it when going into battle. This weapon he plucked from the rack, gripping it firmly in his right hand. There was no way he was going to walk around unarmed when things felt so odd.

    With sword in hand, Sigurd nodded to himself and turned away from the weapons rack. Now he moved towards his bedroom door, padding across the polished, wood floor with bare feet. Once there he extended his free hand to turn the knob and, without another moment's hesitation, tugged the door open. Releasing the knob, he tilted his head slightly to one side, listening to see if he heard anything before cautiously stepping out into the hallway. His gaze swept up and down the hall as the frown on his bearded face deepened as he spotted nothing out of the ordinary and then he began moving slowly down the hall, sword ready just in case.
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  3. Ilyana Pavlenko

    Ilyana could feel herself being pulled from a deep slumber, as though the gravity of the waking world were overcoming her desires not to join it. She resisted as best she could, hoping to escape its grasp and to remain in her sleep.

    But, why? Ilyana was always motivated, always driven. This was unlike her - at least based on what she knew of herself in her previous life. Gradually, Ilyana came to realize that she had better get back to work - she had so many things yet to accomplish. Her eyelids fluttered open, squinting to adjust to the brightness of daylight. She'd always had migraines and a sensitivity to light, and this morning her headache seemed especially severe. Blinking rapidly as her vision came into focus, her eyes were met by the contours of the ceiling.

    But the ceiling that greeted her was not the one she was accustomed to.

    Pushing herself into an upright sitting position, her hazelnut stare studied the room around her. It was familiar, yet remarkably foreign. It looked like her room - her bedroom from when she lived on her own, all the details exact down to the placement of photos and decorations, complete with trophies, plaques and medals. But this room had wood floors, not carpet. And Ilyana would never, ever paint the walls this color. "Ce dracu?" She muttered, in her own Romanian tongue. The familiarity of it all was eery, like a recurring nightmare.

    Almost as if on cue, then came the nightmares. Vividly, Ilyana remembered some of the things she had experienced while asleep. Visions of dashed hopes, of cruelty, torment, and of inflicting unbelievable pain, all overwhelmed Ilyana's mind with painful clarity. The woman shook her head forcefully as if in an attempt to eject the thoughts from her brain, willing her body to plant its feet on the ground and stand up. With each hand rubbing her temples, she stumbled to her dresser, stopping to look at her reflection in the mirror above it. She seemed awfully pale, and there was something else odd about her appearance as well, but she couldn't quite place it.

    Sliding the drawers open, she donned a loose white collared blouse with dark navy pinstripes, and a pair of form-fitting blue jeans, remaining barefoot as she preferred. It all felt so routine. But this morning was different. Perhaps it was the odd pang of hunger aching at the pit of her stomach - unlike any she'd ever felt before. "I'd better get breakfast," she figured, heading for the door.

    Moments before her hand touched the doorknob, she froze. Why was she being so complacent? Why did it not bother her that she wasn't in her own home, but rather some other home with a room that was cleverly modeled after her own? Suddenly, an unsettling fear sank in, though she was unsure what exactly she had to be afraid of - just that she was right to be afraid. Turning the doorknob excruciatingly slowly, the door hinges creaked as she pulled it open, eliciting a pained cringe.

    Door now open, she found herself in a hallway, just like some of the ones from her nightmares. Using what fragmented information she could recall, she crept quietly in the direction of the nearest common area.
    #3 fatalrendezvous, Feb 15, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 15, 2014
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  4. The mansion was not completely quiet. Never. Over on the east wing, in the drawing room where French windows faced an unlit lawn, the usual noise of Lloyd Bridger filled the night.

    American night. Indian day. The perfect schedule for nocturnals.

    "Yes, Naved, we need the cross-trained moved from Terminations to Settlement. With three Core the productivity will be at four hundred. Unacceptable, my friend. Your KPI is shot. You know it; I know it. The customers aren't happy. Which means I'm not happy."

    He spun on his heel and clacked the floorboards. The suit he had slept in was tailored sharp like his voice. "Aging accounts are at three days. Now you may tell me the SLA is devoid of repercussions. But just because you have a lousy contract does not excuse you from vendor etiquette. I will say it in Punjabi if I have to. Unacceptable. The capacity plan was sent to you three months ago. If you are not staffing to production hours then its begs the question of whether you are any use to us at all."

    On the lid of his coffin, slid ajar on velvet lining, a selection of corporate stress toys had been arranged. He had the first in his hand - a rubber ball that he squeezed as he paced. His second hand was free for gesticulation, and for the occasional adjusting of his headset.

    "Twenty days? You are shitting me, Naved. Shitting, me. I know that is an easy feat for an Indian. But this is not Lamb Biryani we are discussing. This is a backlog of nine thousand and twenty one accounts. I don't want to hear about RAT Tool outage. The IT problems are irrelevant, if not expected. The AAVG files can wait. Open Items can wait. Default is your priority and I expect you to treat it as such. I want the SmartLease team re-trained. Today."

    Lloyd came to a halt, a snap of heels resounding in the furniture-starved room. His eyes, half-lidded, were fixed on the door. Luckily he had finished his sentence, else it would have been cut off mid-flow, such was the weight of realization that had struck him. The stress ball trembled in his hand, locked in a death grip of shock.

    The spawn frowned. He had launched himself so thoroughly into the morning that he had not felt it till now. The absence. The utter lack of presence in the mansion.


    His headset babbled with Naved's excuses and explanations, a white noise from the other side of the globe, flavoured with call center chatter. He tuned it out. All that Lloyd perceived in that moment was the ringing chord of negation that played in every floor and wall.

    "Get it done, Naved." He said quickly, coldly, into the mouthpiece. "I'll call you tomorrow." He snatched the headset away and dropped it on his desk.

    For the longest time he stood in the middle of his makeshift office and watched the door, as a child too fearful to approach his parents' bedroom. Then gradually he fixed his tie and cuffs, dusted down his waistcoat, and moved once more. The door of his office creaked open and he took one step into the downstairs hallway. It was silvered in moonlight. Beautiful like a mausoleum. Filled with the trophies and keepsakes of Alexander Sangrey.

    All abandoned now... like Lloyd.

    "Master?" His voice rang out in the silence.

  5. The sounds of a small lizard were heard as it skittered across the hardwood floor, searching for an insect or small rodent to devour. The small reptile then came upon a man wearing dark clothes, and hissed at it, trying to intimidate the being that lay in front of it, before noticing that its attempts were futile. It quickly moved back into the darkness of the shadows in the small room. The man who laid in the center of the room coughed, before turning his head to the right. Still dormant and deep in sleep, his mind reminisced about the past.

    It was dusk in the town, and Jonathan was on his way back from the church. So far his day was not going well, but excitement still ensued in his heart. He was heading home to his family, and that was all that mattered to him at the time. As he walked down the street, he noticed a boy who seemed to be the son of a peddler. He glared at the boy, seeing dirt and grime staining his face. Jonathan clenched his fists, before noticing that the boy was looking back at him with sadness in his eyes. He then built up mucus in his throat, before spitting towards the shoes of the boy. A few words were rendered under his breath.

    "The world needs none like you. Ugliness is what I detest."

    Jonathan then continued on his way, not even taking a second glance at the boy. Ugliness was something that he feared, and something that he also hated as well. As he arrived at his home, his daughter, Ophelia, ran into his arms. He smiled and gave her a large hug before seeing her skin slowly peel away. He gasped, not understanding what was happening to his dear daughter. The flesh would not stop peeling away, and the process eventually revealed the muscle layer of the body.

    "No, stop! What is happening!"

    His cries of help were not answered, and the muscle eventually shed itself of her form, showing her skeleton. The skull then turned to face him, before falling off. Jonathan yet out one final yell before awaking.

    The wooden floor was cold against his skin, and Jonathan coughed from the dust that he was inhaling. His limbs shook, as he slowly tried to pull himself up from the hardwood floor. There was hardly any strength left in him, so as soon as he arose, he leaned against the wall. He needed time to recuperate and gain his strength back. He looked around the room, which was mostly covered in a blackness except from the light that was coming in from the sun. Jonathan then realized something; he was able to wake up on his own, without being given a signal in his mind to rise from the ground. His rise hand rose and pulled his cheek, trying to tell if this was truly reality. As he tugged his skin, he felt pain and quickly let go.

    "The...the master is no more?"

    He looked around the room, checking to see if their were any points of entry and there was. A medium sized wooden door was in front of him, and he grasped the handle before pulling the door open. Jonathan peered out into the hallway, looking left and right before walking down the right.side towards the main area of the mansion.
  6. He did not care if the house was silent or not. One way or another he would end up making another drink or having to deal with his brother. Bastion's work was what he liked, and that is what he would do until he end. Bar tending was an art form, well to him anyway, it made him happy. His days in back alley bars prepped him for the world outside of his fragile mind. The bar fights, the throw up, the smell of boozy clothes, all of that was his home. That home was of course second to this mansion he has been staying in with his master. He enjoyed his master's company, though it was slightly over shadowed by his brother's presence. They had a different relationship. Bastion may have been older than Jonathan, but it was obvious who had the more power in the family, or in the eyes of the master. He never knew his opinion on his job, and he never wanted to hear it. They may have been of the same brood, but he was not the same as him.

    Bastion woke up, it was going to be a normal day. He had to pop his back and put on his normal clothes, not his best. He walked downstairs and headed to the kitchen to begin some work for today. He knew how to cook, so he would have to prepare something that would suit the master. Something bloody, something succulent. Bastion knew he would have to run out and get some meat, but he had a little tradition he preformed before doing any work. He pulled a round glass from the cabinet and set it on the table. Then from the refrigerator he grabbed some ice and tossed it into the glass, it made a ting which echoed through the kitchen. He had kept a small bottle of whiskey under the sink, just for him only. There was not much left, which meant he would have to go out and get more. With a couple of turns the cap came off and Bastion poured the last of it into the glass. The drink just sat there, temping him, but he would never drink it. He drank sometimes, but only on the most special occasions. There were only a couple of days when he did, and that was his birthday, the day he was turned, and his mother's birthday. He set his hand over the glass and set it in the refrigerator, then slammed the door. It was going to be some time until he came back and he had a couple of things to do before he left. With a flick of his wrist he threw the bottle into the trash can, then began his walk around the house. Bastion put his hands into his pocket and then roamed through the household. He began to step upstairs, when he stopped for a moment. There was something peculiar going on. Where was the master?
  7. The air in the room was cold, making her curl up in a foetal position and hug her knees to her chest in an attempt to feel warm, even though that was a pleasure she did not have now. The sun was setting and it was time fir her to rise. She stirred in her sleep before she woke, her eyes fluttering open to reveal their warm honey colour. If you looked past that you would be able to see past their warm colour to just how dead she was inside.

    The wood of her coffin was a welcoming feeling on the palms of her hands as she rose up and stared around her room. Books were strewn across the aged wooden floorboards of her small room and the silence that surrounded her, it was unnerving to say the least. 'What is happening?' She questioned herself as she felt an absence within herself. She clenched the front of her shirt as she stood up, carefully balancing as not to knock her coffin off the table and jumped almost silently to the ground.

    Adjusting her long, chestnut hair behind her she grabbed her jeans and shoes off the floor, dressing herself as she make her way over to the door. She needed to know why she felt so empty. Her hand reached up the the doorknob and she slowly turned it, being careful not to make too much noise.

    Steep stairs connected to her doorway and she carefully worked her way down, watching her feet as if she didn't trust them, which she didn't. The last thing she wanted was for her clumsy toes to trip over each other or miss a step, causing an embarrassing and worst of all loud fall.

    Her feet reached the landing safely and she sighed loudly before raising her head.
    Stop making noise!
    She scolded herself mentally as she narrowed her eyes, listening for any signs of life.​
    #7 Neko, Feb 15, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 18, 2014
  8. Chatzpah...up to something.’

    Blix’s room was on the ground floor, a locked room behind the kitchen, in the freezer. Her room, maintained at a constant 33.8 °F, consisted of a hole in the floor that burrowed through the concrete foundation and exposed the earth, a desk, a bookshelf and a black insulated duffle bag filled with sterile packets of blood. A half dozen empty packets littered the floor, each pierced with two savage holes.
    Blix crouched in the corner, something pressed close to her lips. There was an emptiness upon her waking. It had made her hungry.

    Her coarse, dark ringlets wreathed her face as she fed.

    * *

    Blix hissed, allowing her fangs to elongate, and clung to the ceiling. Below, Sigurd stood, his sword still drawn. She had rounded a corner in the hallway and found herself almost impaled through the heart. Blix hissed again.

    “What are you doing, prostak?!”
    #8 Tegan, Feb 17, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 17, 2014
  9. ___The Atlantic Ocean, 2004

    I've found a reason for me to change who I used to be; a reason to start over new. And the reason is you.

    There was no turbulence, no "fasten your seatbelt" sign flashing on. The soft rattling of the stewardess' cart rolling down the aisle mingled with light snoring and a child giggling in a row seats somewhere further back. A callused thumb brushed lightly across the photograph he held, just as one would caress a lover's soft skin. All thoughts revolved around the image, absorbed in the last sweet moment spent with the person smiling up at him. An ache, a longing for the comfortable familiarity that came with this person made his chest feel tight. It wasn't until the floor began to tilt that his attention was drawn back to reality. Suddenly the atmosphere of the plane turned from warm and sleepy to utter chaos. The plane's angle intensified with every second that ticked by, sending the passengers into a panic-induced frenzy to fasten seatbelts while luggage popped free of the overhead compartments and pelted the seats below and the people now strapped down to them. Shaking hands stuffed the photograph back into the wallet from which it'd come and likewise the pocket said wallet called home. All around him, frightened passengers cried out in vain - the deafening hum of the plane's nosedive pierced the air, shrill, like a power drill straight to the eardrum. The engines sputtered and choked. Across the aisle, a little girl desperately clung to her mother, shoulders shaking as she sobbed.

    And then rather abruptly it all stopped.


    Frigid water filling his lungs. He was sinking, sinking...

    Fingers clamped the back of his shirt - an iron grip like none he'd ever felt before and sadly would grow to experience every day thereafter. It yanked. The sea rushed past his ears and tugged at his hair and clothes until the back of his head burst through the surface and--

    ___Tucson, Arizona, 2014

    A gasp filled the squat little bedroom, bouncing off of the walls plastered reds and oranges, or at least those were the colors that peeked out from the gaps between posters and papers. Malik opened his eyes with a flutter of his lids and for a moment his deep brown gaze remained fixed on the ceiling.

    Hoobastank stared back.

    Vampire spawn and glossy band poster held a staring contest for several minutes on end while the smell of salt steadily waned back into the fragmented memories of his mind. After a good ten minutes, it became clear that something was very off-kilter, considering he'd already wasted ten solid minutes of dusk and still the ever-present intangible vice grip around his neck had yet to present itself. What took its place was far worse.

    A jumbled memory. Confusion. Guilt.

    There's many things I wish I didn't do.

    A hand moved to push fingers through wild black hair as he sat up on the bed. Of all the songs to come back to the surface - that one? A sigh left the young man's lips as his hand fell noisily onto his thigh, then he swung his legs out over the edge of the bed and started his "morning" routine. He was just tugging on the green hoodie when he realized that he'd skipped a step.

    It wasn't like the Master to miss a chance to torment him; to torment any of them.

    But there it still sat on his desk, untouched - the photograph. His limbs did not force him to move in that direction like they usually did. Instead it was his own mind playing puppet master as his feet moved. Malik stared down at the photograph and gingerly reached a finger out to caress the smiling face.

    Who was this person?

    He didn't know, or, he couldn't remember. Why should he care about the food he eats? Why was his chest aching? Maybe it was the hunger starting already... His hand shook, hovering a moment with biting hesitation. He'd never been allowed to pick the photograph up, and yet he met with no resistance as his fingers peeled the picture off the dusty desk and tucked it into his pocket.

    At that point it became obvious what he had to do. He had to find out why. Why was he suddenly given free control over his body and why was his mind so silent save for his own muddled thoughts. It wasn't enough to be free. He had to confirm it before he allowed himself to get his hopes up. So he yanked open the top drawer to the desk and drew out the gun and the extra mag, tucking both into the waist of his jeans. Then Malik threw open his bedroom door with a loud THUMP, the outside knob smacking the wall, and he strode from the room with purpose.

    Before anything else, he had to know. Even before satiating the hunger that made his ears buzz and the very tips of his fingers itch. He had to know. Even if the others stood in his way, he would cut them down like saplings. He cared for them just as much as an insignificant tree anyway.
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  10. The rapid thudding of fists striking a large bag of sand was muffled behind the closed door. Adrien had been up for a few minutes now, shortly after he heard the nordic warrior in the room next door get up. The clothes he all day yesterday still clung to his muscular form, the heady musk of an unwashed male lingering in the room. His fists collided in calculated strikes against the punching bag, with a few kicks for good measure. In his mind, Adrien imagined the faces of enemies... he had always had the faces of targets programmed into his head by the Master, but now he was capable of picking which ones he wanted... "Why?"

    His strikes hit harder as his pace increased. His eyes flicked to the suit of armor set in the display near his own coffin, still holding the lance and shield - after decades upon decades of years, it was still functional - still as familiar to him as the day he rode into combat with it. An idle uppercut sent the sandbag thudding against the ceiling, bringing his mind back into reality. He backed off, panting as his target wriggled upon the chain. His fists still raised to protect his face, he turned his eyes to the rest of the room - the armor he had collected in his Master's service. His fists fell as he walked over to a particular suit - a modern suit. The fight left him as he touched the badge upon the black uniform, reading aloud: "Security."

    With no one to tell him not to, he tossed the badge over into his coffin before changing out of the drenched sweatpants and sticking wife-beater into more modern clothes. A pair of khakis and a polo shirt did the trick, making him look considerably less like a thuggish athlete and more like a marine on leave - he ran a hand over the stubble forming on his face - he'd always been forced to cut it... now, it was a simple and small act of defiance. He turned back around, looking down at the badge once more - picking it up and placing it in his pocket.

    He walked a few steps to leave the room, before tilting his head back to the punching bag. They stood there for a moments - inanimate object and animate corpse. Adrien's hands formed fists once again as a particular subject appeared on the sandbag. Quickly and silently, the bruiser lashed forward, feeling glorious relief as his fist penetrated the outer lining of the bag, busting it open and causing the filler to empty out onto the floor. A deep exhale, and he turned from the room, entering into the hallway - where a few others had gathered. He nodded to his comrade-in-arms, Sigurd: for now, he would address him rather than the wall-walking creature. "Sigurd." He looked around as others begin to leave their rooms, but he continued to address him: "...Is he gone?"

  11. Three of them collided in their search.

    Along the landing of the east wing, the stares of Bridger and Ketsueki met. Then between them, from the north wing, Malik arrived and shot them both a glance. His hoodie barely covered the pistol tucked down the back of his jeans.

    Bridger observed them both while squeezing his stress ball. A thin line of shadow was cast by his headset, still clinging to his head.

    "Malik," The voice was sharper, more like the 20s Wall Street trader he had been before - a voice from which a weight had been lifted. "Got yourself a spring in your step there, Friend."

    The analyst tipped his head to peer past Malik and toward the girl. "Ketsueki... why, you look the same as ever, Doll."

    The quip fell on dead stares. He tossed the stress ball. "Curiouser and curiouser. The Master ain't with you, and he ain't with me. So what's a guy to think?"

  12. Ketsueki narrowed her eyes at Briger as he adressed her. 'The pleasure is all mine.' Even she wasn't sure whether or not that was meant to sound sarcastic. She eyed the others carefully, wondering if they knew what was happening, or if maybe she had been lucky and Master had forgotten about her. 'Curiouser and curiouser. The Master ain't with you, and he ain't with me. So what's a guy to think?' She faced Briger as he spoke and frowned at him. I guess not...

    Frustrated, she let out a loud sigh, hoping it would ease her nerves and release some of her anxiety. What should I do? She finally had a choice, she had free will and it left her confused and nervous, scared even. All her emotions wirled around in her head as she slumped to the ground, sitting on the last step of the stairs and she began to regain herself, reminding herself how useless feelings and emotions were.
  13. Sigurd gazed up at Blix with a hint of possible amusement in the depths of his dark blue eyes. The expression upon his face was unreadable as he responded in casual tones, "Taking a stroll through the mansion," shifting his sword to rest the flat of its blade over one shoulder. He refused to show his unease outwardly for the moment, still trying to figure out what felt so off about this evening.

    Catching the sound of of Adrien's approach, he shifted his attention away from Blix. A respectful nod was offered to his fellow warrior, though a frown tugged at the corner of his mouth at the question. The connection was made with that feeling of unease. The presence of the one he had been forced to call 'Master', for so long, seemed to be absent. Lifting his left hand, Sigurd scratched at his beard thoughtfully before responding in unsure tones, "I think he might be..." Yet for all Sigurd knew the Master was watching right now, manipulating everything. However, if he was truly gone the chance for actual freedom could be at hand. Too many times had his hopes been crushed over the long years, it was best to not get them up again. Not yet at least.
  14. Upon the landing where the east and west wings met, Malik came to a halt not because he wanted to but because someone stood in his way. Annoyance bubbled inside just from being delayed in his self-appointed task but his face remained neutral out of habit, dark gaze wandering over Llyod Bridger's features as if committing them to memory for the first time. And maybe he was, because at the moment the only memories of servitude that Malik could recall were dark, painful ones that had nothing to do with his 'coworkers'. Strange though that he knew exactly whom he was eyeing, like the information was already there but buried under a desire to forget. The face was familiar and a name could be placed to it, but no memories could be recalled.

    However, an emotion came to mind when Bridger addressed him directly. His fingertips itched and twitched but he stood otherwise still, gaze lowering to Bridger's neck. The minimal skin peeking out from under a ruffled-from-sleep high collar was just enough to cruelly tease.


    And although the young spawn knew that what stood before him would not satisfy his stomach, the urge to bite was still strong, to sink teeth into flesh, to breathe in the man's scent mingled with metallic. A vein behind his right eye pulsed and he pressed his palm to it. This wasn't the type of hunger that came with the vampire spawn package. This was personal derangement in the form of perversion.

    Keep control.

    "Got yourself a spring in your step there, Friend." He could say the same, or similar, about Bridger's tone of voice. That meant he wasn't the only one running around off of his leash. Dropping his hand again and tearing his gaze away from Bridger, Malik finally turned his attention to the girl behind him, Ketsueki, giving her a nod in greeting. How many of them were free? Were all of them coherent and in control? There was an inkling in the far reaches of his mind, a feeling that some of the spawn were, if given free rein, more dangerous than the others, that some were unpredictable and untrustworthy. Malik was one of them.

    "What to think?" he finally said and his words were laced with a fading accent. "Think about what to do. And what would anyone do when something goes missing?" He started forward again, pausing as his right shoulder came in line with Bridger's. "Look for it. Find out who had it last. Join me if either of you want, but don't get in my way."

  15. Jonathan could hear the sounds of familiar voices down the opposite end of the hallway to him. He was going where he intended to, but if the others were awake and walking about the mansion, then he would go and question the individuals about the current situation. Jonathan pivoted around on his left foot before turning around in a 180 degree motion, facing the way from whence he came. He crossed his arms before taking steps down the corridor once more, looking at the renaissance style paintings on the walls. They were very intriguing and Jonathan did enjoy his art. Why did he not notice them on his first way down if they stuck out very much?

    "Well, it seems as if my mind is faltering. How could I miss such masterpieces as this?"

    He examined one closely, which displayed presumed mother of Jesus, Mary.

    "What detail, what intricacy!"

    He then turned away from the painting, before continuing down on his way. Jonathan truly had no idea where he stood now in terms of religious belief. If God really did exist, why would he let a man who is the embodiment of Satan himself to take Jonathan when he has done no wrong in his life? It was truly a trifling matter.

    Upon arriving at the group, he noticed those whom had also been servants of the master. He murmured to himself

    "I guess familiar voices also lead to familiar faces..."

    He walked closer to the group, arriving about the same moment that Malik bumped shoulders with Bridger. He looked at both of the two before nodding in their directions.

    "Good evening, sirs."

    Behind the two he saw yet another familiar face, Ketsueki. He gave her a smile, before coughing slightly. Just walking through a hallway was taking a toll on his body. He would need to feast soon.

    "Good evening miss..."

    A deep breath of air would sound, before a rush of it escaping his lungs would commence as well.

    "Does anyone here know why we have suddenly gained control of our vess- er, of our bodies? Did something happen to the master like...death? He may be reading my thoughts or hearing me now, and I may get punished for saying these words but I pray to the Lord that he was smitten of this earth."
  16. Bastion heard voices speaking, he knew who it was They must have been ordered by the master to do something, that was most likely why they were together. He brushed his shirt off and wandered toward the group. It was four people, which of course had to include his brother. Bastion was never really social with anyone, the master had too much of an effect on him to have a social life with the others who lived in his prison. He did not hate them, he only wished to not speak to them. Overall, Bastion just wanted to be alone, back in the bar scene with the sweet songs of drunkards and whores.

    He walked up as they were all talking and put himself up against the wall, not to really draw any attention. All of them were important in their own way, and Bastion acknowledged that. They all did something, so they were not useless. Bastion watched his brother give kind smiles to the others. He was alright to him as a kid, but he never really accepted him as his own. His brother was always ahead of him, then again that was most likely because he was never really accepted in school. Bastion did not like his brother for that reason, but for another more private reason. He soon tuned into the conversation that was being had and he raised a brow. So, where was the master? Bastion then chimed in after his brother and moved up to the small group. "I haven't seen the master all morning, and since you all are here, then I assume something was have happened." He looked at the rest of the people gathered and waited for their response.

  17. Ambience
    A soft sigh of wind flew past cold against her soft cheeks, her forest emerald eyes admiring the elegance of serenity. A welcoming sun radiating it's light onto the morning dew that clung to the silky petals of white roses. Illuminating the garden with a gentle light that filled her heart with ease. The sweet scents bought a wave of Nostalgia, a tear running down her face.

    If only...

    The breeze grew heavier, sweeping Leila off her feet as she began to float like a feather in the wind. A place of darkness sucking her in, she reached out her hand. The rose petals floating in the air saying their last goodbye.


    Fluttering her eyes, Leila awoke from a deep slumber. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she unfolded the soft sheets that covered her and stumbled over to the mirror to see a figure standing there; with silky brown hair that reached down to her waist, beautiful emerald green eyes and a white nightgown. The same old me. She thought to herself, before getting Dressed and picking up her brolly on the way out.

    Leila felt heavy as she struggled to keep her composure, years without sustenance left her weak. Making her way further down the hall Leila eventually noticed a gathering. Interesting, did servants usually get together like this? she approached the group "What are you dilly dallying about around here for?" her eyes wandered from wall to wall, she couldn't help but notice the mansion was in a state! cobwebs climbed up the in the corner of the ceilings, blankets of dust lay everywhere accompanied by a pungent aroma of rotting mildew. "There is plenty of work to do!" servants! they always needed direction, speaking of direction, Where in the world was her master?

    The thought of her master clung to her for a moment before she pushed it to the back of her mind, wherever he was; she found it hard to believe he could live in such a vulgar place. Under the impression that Bridger and Malik were the head butlers, Leila turned to the two men giving them a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed "What have you been doing? and where is my tea?" she huffed.

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