Chapter VII - Healing Pains

This is what you came here for. Adventure, intrigue, murder, mystery and action - plus a healthy dose of boring everyday stuff. One continuous story-line, broken up into smaller themes for easier consumption.
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Karl the Mad
 

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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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Abraham blinked, and was glad that he had not blindly opened the door. "What do you-" he started to say, but was cut off by the person's screaming. "Hello?" He wasn't cut out for this, he was literally the only person today who was too sane to safely handle whoever was back there. So why was he here?

He wouldn't be alone for long. Marius was interrupted in his thoughts over being reliable and trustworthy, picking up on the screaming with his supernatural senses. He bypassed Nereus in a flash and was at Abe's side just as quickly. "Your ears, boy," he told the swarthy agent, who quickly covered his ears and started muttering some litany under his breath. Marius approached the door, a hand ready to bash it down or keep it shut as necessary. "You in there! Speak your truth!" he demanded in the Black Speech.

For his part, Charles figured the kitchen would get crowded pretty quick, so after exchanging a glance with Three, decided to stay outside and deal with the former thralls. "Bit a' both, I reckon?" he replied to the woman, shrugging noncommittally. "Def gonna hafta start makin' calls when yer back in town, though..."
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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The odd, superimposed Hebrew continued, seemingly in response to Vlastos, and in consideration for Abraham's sanity.

"There's no time; Travers knew the Loyalists would try and poison his own cup! He's using you to test them, see how far they're willing to take things!"

There was a brief pause. "You've got Nereus - meeting me would be a bit more difficult! You're all connected to the Darkhallow and there's a lot of movement in there; I can't risk revealing myself to most of you! They'd retrace me, jeopardize Nereus and Meris, and the entirety of the resistance against the Others!"

The voice them refocused on Zahavi. "Get comfy, tonight, Abraham - I'll pull you in so we can discuss, you're the only one here with a sparse access record. I- I'm starting to slip, I'll refocus the thrall on the door, now! Marius; this one's too far gone, there's nothing to save - not even biologically! Destroy it as soon as this door opens!"

The wordless screams were resumed, this time pushing far past and far below normal human ranges. Marius would sense that what had likely begun as a common thrall was being altered, with the unmistakable sounds of tearing flesh and ripping clothes being heard. A pool of blood began to stretch forward from underneath the door. The next few impacts that followed suggested some attempt at imparting the man within with a considerable amount of enhanced strength, with even Marius needing to strain lightly to keep up. However, no amount of delayed flesh-crafting could be sustained for long. The bangs lost in strength, with the creature's final, desperate play involving a slithering and lithe tendril of flesh that pushed the broken key through and out of the keyhole.

Resistance against the Alexandrian soon stopped, and the now-mangled panel swung open slowly, adding a lame creak to the ominous atmosphere. The damage to the heater closet's gas feed line was less impressive or grotesque than what had once been the second line cook and now existed as a sagging mass of torn clothing and deflated muscles. The man's hands had turned into bone talons that had pushed out of his fingers' normal boundaries, his facial features had sagged beyond all recognition, and all that was left was the cold glint of hatred and fear combined - a wounded animal working up its last reserves before one final, desperate pounce.

Clearly shocked, Nereus slowly raised both hands, one to his affected mouth and another in front of him. "Old Gods above!" he quietly swore, barely needing an effort to set up a temporary barrier in front of the doorframe. Seeing this, the creature didn't pounce and instead kept its pose, staring at Marius the way an animal would at whoever might land it the coup de grâce - a weird mixture of hatred, extreme weariness, agony; and just a hint of gratitude.

* * *

Outside, what would've been an easy agreement to Charles' statement was delayed when the freed thralls heard the commotion from inside the diner. Faces turned white, and the woman pressed the side of the child's head against her abdomen, covering his other ear with her hand.

"I- Y-Yes, I suppose so," she agreed, the particulars of their vehicles suddenly mattering a whole lot less. "God," she said, keeping her voice down, "is that what almost happened to us?!"

Aidan pressed his lips together. "I've almost never seen inductees into a Void Weaver cell be physically exploited like this. Almost. What the Loyalists did to the people of one particular Afghan village - all to get back at the man who made the both of us," he said, glancing at Charles, "probably felt similar. I don't remember the exact details, it's one of the last few things that are still solidly repressed.
- How is that even possible?" asked the husband.

Three sighed as he glanced towards the diner. "Altering someone's mind is child's play for these people. Altering the body takes more skill, but it can be done. The Progressives boosted their human and anthro helpers' immune systems and healed the sick with this, and the Loyalists turned innocent people into war dogs - basically bio-engineered machines assembled out of designer cancer strains. The average person's metabolism can't keep up, so these creatures don't live long - usually long enough to mutate, acquire their target and then croak once homeostasis goes out the window and the person's biology turns unsustainable."

The boy looked up to him. "Why'd they do this?
- Because some of these people are still kind by nature, and the Progressives won a big victory, today. This wasn't about killing people. Stopping one of our friends was the goal, but scaring the rest of you, plus any collaterals, is what mattered. There's tens of thousands of them now, all of them wanting a chance to live in peace - and now, some people will give in to fear at their sight. Mundane drivers saw what they're capable of on the freeway, today."

Aidan glanced down at his rifle and then back up at Charles. "We're not dealing with cultists anymore, I'd say. They're bonafide terrorists now. Nereus, Rothchild, even Grimley - they'll need to be careful with their messaging, from now on. This was the Loyalists saying they're ready to adapt, and that they're ready to play ball."

* * *

"And that is what's likely to come out to play, during the Choosing," agreed Spector. "Supremely self-confident entities thousands of years old, the closest thing this world has to True Fae from the first lineage."

He glanced towards Abigail. "No offense, of course.
- None taken," she replied, allowing herself a smirk as she wrestled pins into place along Azazel's legs. "House Rhapso's only Greek by name. Only bored Nouveau Riche mortals buy the marketing pitch about our being descended from Ariadne. We maybe learned a few sewing tricks from the first Fauns and modernized them over generations, but the last time anyone from my neck of the woods ever visited the archipelago, Winston Churchill still had a full head of hair. I'm the daughter of just another one of several calcified, Bourgeois British tailoring services - nothing special, altogether. If I can take a few commissions away from the boys on Saville Row, I call that a plus."

Silas chuckled at that. "I think Melmoth would like you, Abigail.
- And I'll stick to liking him from a reasonable distance, thank you," she replied. "He might not be Prince, but he still officiates Greed, and he's got an army of Scrooges keeping tabs on everything Post-Pride War. I've heard good things, but being Fae's taught me to be wary of anyone who quantifies things like power, desire, ambition or drive. If anything, I think Greed having a friendly and even generous public face makes it even more dangerous. Before long, you'll have suit-clad idiots thinking that if they act like boardroom sociopaths long enough, they'll reach the other end of the scale and somehow turn into everybody's best friend."

Anjali hummed in thought. "Sounds like you speak from experience.
- Mom's basically Anna Wintour on steroids," replied Abbie, as if that explained things.

* * *

Claudia's smile turned a tad impish, a glint in her eyes inviting the roane to follow along. She got up, swerved through and around the dance floor's occupants - and somehow switched something on internally, about halfway across.

It started with a slight shift in her gait, in how it turned less loose, gained more mechanical precision, and at the same time gained a modicum of grace. Her hip sway didn't feel particularly exxagerated, but it was somehow different from her usual posture - suggesting more seductiveness, more openness, somehow. Her eyes changed as well, gaining that slight shimmer common to vampires exerting their skills, as if she somehow were on the verge of tears despite her placid exterior and secretive, calculated smile.

In Gremory's construct, the deejay was one of Belial's formerly-isolated demons, what looked like the son of a former pencil-pusher or factory supervisor, with clean black clothing and a few piercings thrown in as slight marks of rebellion. In human terms, he probably was in his late teens or early twenties. Claudia leaned on his booth and plastered a smile that would've inspired paintings on her features, holding the pose until he took notice. The music didn't stop, as he'd been caught mid-loop. Nobody would notice if nothing changed for the next several minutes.

"Hey, good-looking," she said, which made the jaundiced creature turn almost pink within seconds, "what's a gal gotta do to get some decent music around here?"

The deejay stammered, struggled to find the level at which he'd be able to speak over his own mix, and eventually adjusted. "Uh, hi! What did you have in mind?"

Tomlin glanced away and clicked her tongue. "I'm feeling old-fashioned - at least, as far back as the early two-thousands. I'll take some Massive Attack or some Tricky. How about you, Ciaran?"
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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Meris clicked her tongue and nodded. "Fair enough. However, I will say his relationship with Abdiel may keep some of those traits in check with her own qualities. They're partners in crime and balance each other. Given that Abdiel personifies all of of Fire's qualities-creative and destructive, I think any potential conflicts would create friction between them in order for those conflicts to be tackled early before they got out of hand," she observed.

"As the mortal saying goes with a little paraphrasing, don't judge a book by its cover too harshly. Abdiel is obviously on our side, but she's also linked to attributes that most people can't fathom representing from an elemental perspective and maintaining control over it," she noted.

With the comparison made of her mother, the selkie thoughtfully pursed her lips and asked the True Fae, "If you're wanting to partner with Nickar, how do you think your mother will take to it realistically? For you, it would be a major boon in making Rhapso & Ariadne available to a wider clientele, but I'm sure your mother would see it otherwise, to put it lightly. I imagine Nickar would want to know how you would react, when you do have the chance to meet him."

***

"Either of those would work," replied Ciaran, then offering Claudia a wry smile. "If we're going with the early 2000s, Darude probably has too much of a history on par with Rickrolling, hm?" he joked.
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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"Ugh." If he'd been wearing his preferred clothes, there was no way Marius would have gone anywhere near that mangled body. Instead he had his Cowboy Trucker outfit which he wasn't nearly so attached to, so he wasted no time kicking the remains of the line cook until it stopped moving and the hateful light was gone from its eyes. "Good thing I was throwing these clothes away anyhow." He turned to Nereus. "We can't leave the body here, not like this. Want to help me evaporate it, or something?"

As desensitized as he was, there were still some things that could get to Abraham. Seeing the mangled remnants of what had once been a person, and then watching how casually Vlastos killed him and then discussed erasing the body somehow, served to remind him that it hadn't been so long since the old vamp had been their enemy. "Excuse me," he told them, turning to go outside in case he was going to be ill. The man's words ran through his mind, and he wondered what kind of a night he was in for tonight.

Out in the parking lot, Charles just nodded. He knew a thing or two about terrorism, having once or twice been credibly accused of the same. He wondered about the wisdom of going underground, along with the shadier allies they had gathered over the years, to fight the loyalists at their own game while the rest of Shield stayed in the sun to do things the 'right' way. It'd be fun, if nothing else!
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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Nereus watched Abraham leave, sighed and then glanced back a second time, checking to ensure that no-one else could overhear him.

"A shame," he said, his tone soft. "If he hadn't been so far gone, I might've been able to reverse-engineer the worst of the phrasal constructs used to alter him, maybe restored some semblance of a mind to him and then referred him to Gammell's Promethean Order..."

Of course, the obvious subtext was that he knew the man couldn't have been saved. Marius wouldn't have killed him, otherwise. He then looked away from the torn clothes and gore, forced himself to take a deep breath in despite the rising stench of bowels voiding themselves, and nodded. "Or something," he said. "If my people are ever freed, he'll deserve justice."

He extended a hand towards the mass of gore, somewhere near what had been the chest cavity, and whispered a construct into being. Marius had likely conjured blades for himself in the past or Spoken sand into molten glass, but what Nereus' Words created would've been unusual, even by the Alexandrian's record.

Slowly, quietly, what had to be the man's right kidney tore its way free of the rest of the body, specially-tailored adjectives slowing down the further pooling of blood. The tendrils he'd willed into being out of the thumb-sized, pea-shaped organ seemed to guide it forward, its ducts and veins tearing themselves off of the organ under some precise act of will. Still whispering, Nereus made the air around the tentacle-laden organ vibrate, effectively cleaning it of all exterior blood and gore. It rose out of the gore pile and levitated towards Nereus' carefully-obscured hand - so as not to disturb onlookers - and was then delicately split open, as if it had been a particularly pulpy fruit. What looked like a renal calculus fell into the Augur's hand, looking rather polished for a buildup that wouldn't have had time to leave the kidney and make its way down the urinary tract. It was also much bigger than anything that could've formed natively, suggesting Nereus had mutated and briefly imparted life to the separated organ - just long enough for it to impossibly shape and polish a hard calculus of mineral salts, and to do this while encasing even smaller bits of organic material.

"If we're ever allowed Speakers and Arbiters under the Architect's rule," he explained, "we'll be able to extract genetic data from this, and to submit a record of the man's last moments to competent authorities."

He looked back down to the corpse. "I'd go for dust, but transmuting this total mass into water would at least help us to clean things to a degree. You're more aggressive than I am, you'll probably have no problem Speaking a measure of bleach into being."

Outside, Three didn't seem to share Charles' mild enthusiasm, but he didn't voice his own opinion. He instead took a few steps toward the diner and raised his voice.

"Everything alright, in there?"

Drake's voice made Nereus tense up slightly, out of some lasting reflex. He looked back at Marius and smirked, in what would hopefully be an obvious and self-deprecating manner. 

"Sort of!" he replied, raising his voice. "Keep the civilians out there, we'll be out in a few minutes!
- Anything I can do?" the soldier called out. Nereus was about to reply in the negative, when something made the bottom half of his Flesh Mask ripple slightly. His eyebrows raised, he obviously gave sign of having picked up on something. Bending down and holding his breath, he carefully pushed on a corner of the blood-stained name tag that rested in a pool of blood. 

Mike. Mike the short-order cook who'd worked in the rest area diner just a few miles out of the city. Mike, who'd lost months of his life to thralldom, and who'd ultimately lost his life altogether. Nereus didn't verbally elaborate, but the silence had the obvious weight of telepathy. Retracing him and finding out his complete credentials wouldn't be too difficult. It would allow Shield or the HPD to bring some measure of peace to his next-of-kin.

"Got it!" added Aidan, confirming he'd been sent these details.

That done, the former Augur stood up and away with a grunt. "So - I dissolve," he told Marius, "and you clean and evaporate. How's that sound?"

* * *

Abigail tried to repress a smirk, as she still had a few pins stuck between her lips - and still had to deal with a fidgety demon who wasn't too enthused with the idea of having markers set against the back of his knees.

"She'd know better than to object," the tailor said, "but she'd also make her displeasure known. It's easy to call anyone from Balenciaga an upstart, it's easier to coat basic courtesy in frost when you're dealing with the Queen of England's personal tailor; but it's hard to claim superiority when you're up against someone who's seen every design trend and who dressed up kings and queens back when Greek synthesi were the top of fashion. I'm not anywhere near your Court, Meris, but I know enough to know nobody messes with someone who commanded enough respect to dress up King Solomon - nevermind anyone who's thrown sketches together for people like you, local superheroes, one decorated Transgenic and an Elemental Throne."

Azazel frowned slightly as he fidgeted. "Why does he command so much respect if he's just a tailor?"

That was enough for Abigail to remove her pins from her mouth and smile. "Okay - ward-work basics on clothing. You design the pieces first - obviously, or else you don't have a canvas to work on - and then you weave in wards or runes. Sometimes it means you literally have to weave on top of existing fabric, sometimes it's just a matter of picking out the same thread so nothing shows, and passing over your piece's backing while following the runework's patterns. That's how everyone, from Home Ec students learning how to make fireproof swatches of polyester to Scottish goblins weaving protection spells into tartan designs to even brazen, wannabe Fae businesswomen like myself, have to work."

The former Scapegoat followed along. "And Nickar doesn't have to.
- Bingo," she replied, also including Meris with a smile. "His magic is distributed in his seamstresses and sewing machines, his looms and needles - and in every bale of thread he's ever touched. If you've ever heard about Rumplestiltskin or a fairy godfather sewing magic corsets for serving-girls or helping out downtrodden farm-boys for their princely glow-up, you've heard distorted accounts of what he can do.
- Doesn't Rumplestiltskin kidnap people?" replied the Faun.

That made Abigail chuckle. "Even someone with an ego bigger than Karl Lagerfeld's gets lonely, every once in a while. What the orthodoxy calls a kidnapping, Nickar probably calls taking a medieval peasant-girl with an eye for design out of war-torn Bohemia and into 1980s Italy, half for a bit of a joyride and half to get her a post as an intern at Gucci."

Looking back to Meris, she smiled a bit more earnestly. "So, I'd probably throw up my Mantle accidentally, like I did with Coach and Aspasia here, if that meetup ever happens. Call it an accidental moment of fangirl panic. Give me a few seconds to breathe, and I'd drop the Galadriel act and then get more than a little technical about some tricks I'm looking to pull off, later on in my career."

* * *

The deejay seemed to find Ciaran's comparatively mundane composure more comfortable. "No meme songs - gotcha," he replied, smirking. Looking back to Ciaran, Claudia clasped one of his hands and led him back the way they'd come, slowly enough for Norah Jones to bleed away and for muffled electronic thumps to place themselves on her muted chorus' beat. Said beat was accelerated by a touch, going from melancholy to something warm and serene - and samples of summer rain mixing into a low canvas of static settled into Massive Attack's Teardrop. Instead of leading Ciaran back to their seats, however, Claudia picked a space just a few feet off to the dancefloor's rightmost edge - as secluded as you could get with bodies around them - and gently pulled him closer.

Enlil's blood, as ever, magnified its wielder's very life. With her head on his shoulder, Claudia didn't just smell clean - she smelled divine, something natural in her bouquet flattering his theriomorph's nose, marked with just a hint of floral perfume. Her hair was full and fresh, almost demanding that he sink a hand into it and caress her scalp - and her lips just barely tickled the small hairs on his right earlobe, sending waves of pleasure down his spine.

Love, love is a verb
Love is a doing word
Feathers on my breath
Gentle impulsion
Shakes me, makes me lighter
Feathers on my breath...

Men usually took the lead for this sort of dance, but Claudia's nature seemed to push her to take the spot, to present herself as a purveyor of release. Her hands worked up Ciaran's back, and she rested her chin on his shoulder with a comforting sigh.

Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

Night, night after day
Black flowers blossom
Feathers on my breath

Black flowers blossom
Feathers on my breath...

"People think us Carmilla have no curse," she soon whispered in his ear. "People think we're eternally alive, freed from the occasional pains of existence. The truth is, Lilith cursed us as much as she cursed Horatio's first ancestor to madness. We're cursed to care. Cursed to feel. You either do the best you can, or you sink under the weight of it all. There's a moment, when Enlil turned me, where I felt exactly how he felt about turning me..."

Pain made her tense up slightly. "It was devastating, Ciar. He knew he was damning me - but he knew I didn't want to leave. Not yet, at least. And even now..."

Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my-

Water is my eye
Most faithful mirror
Feathers on my breath
Teardrop on the fire
Of a confession
Feathers on my breath
Most faithful mirror
Feathers on my breath...

"I feel the way you still love Sophia," she whispered. "I feel the love, the happiness that's at the center of it - and the pain that's covering it all. It's in your scent, your skin, your clothes... It's beautiful and so, so painful at the same time - like every Carmilla's birth. So much joy, so much regret..."

Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

You're stumbling in the dark
You're stumbling in the dark...

"I can't take the pain away," the sorceress added, gently pushing her cheek against Ciaran's. "I don't have that right. I can add to your joy, if you'll let me - just for a little while."

As the lyrics faded and returned to static suggesting gentle rainfall, she gently parted from him and held herself there, for him to gaze into her or for herself to peer into his own dark eyes. There was something arresting to her smile, something that combined gentle love and the exact twin of the pain he'd felt while giving Sophia the final blow.

Kiss me, she mouthed.
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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Meris nodded approvingly at her statement. "I could see him being on board with that, once he got to know you. I'm aware that he much prefers working with over his days as the Goat's previous tailor. I've only learned some of what the Goat had him doing before he joined us, but I can tell you that it was a waste of his talent. Making small adjustments to the same garments over the span of mortal civilizations," she noted.

Aspasia quirked a brow at Abigail. "What are you hoping to accomplish in the future? If we knew something about what you're wanting to do, Meris could give him an idea of what your repertoire could include one day. Whet his appetite for collaboration," she mused.

***

Claudia's sensory cues quickly took hold of his senses. The light teasing of her breath had him shivering lightly. The loss of Sophia hadn't left him touch-starved, but there was an emptiness left from her absence. Even the subtlest gestures likely struck at that grief-based void.

The song had a weirdly melancholy feel to it, yet strangely sensual. It complemented the vampiress' body language and statements. He leaned in close to her, letting her rest her head against his shoulder.

Her offer of joy and mouthed request made his throat go dry at first, eyes widening ever so slightly. Still, he relaxed again and gazed into her eyes, taking in her divine scent as he pondered her words.

A hand came up and nestled itself in her hair, his trimmed nails lightly scraping against her scalp. The slowness and care would send chills down her own spine.

Still tentative, he leaned in, his nose brushing faintly against hers as he closed the space. The liplock was initially chaste and gentle, as though asking if this was alright, but that would quickly change.

His agreement to her offer was finalized as he boldly parted her lips with his own and explored her mouth. His fangs would occasionally nip at her bottom lip, his tongue brushing against her tongue, teeth, and the roof of her mouth. It was as though he was trying to drink in every bit of her that he could, the joy and the sorrow.
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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"Is there no limit to what the Speech can accomplish?" Marius murmured rhetorically, watching Nereus pull the remnant from the dilapidated mass. "You're right, water and bleach are best. There are drains in the floors we can use to wash it all away, too." He checked to make sure Abraham was still outside, and everyone else beyond earshot, then stood beside Nereus and began chanting, again manifesting that weird Egyptian accent of the Speech as he willed the blood and viscera to shift into water and bleach. As the body dissolved, he swirled it around, making sure every last bit of gore was swilled away. And in the interest of avoiding bleach vapors in the natural gas closet, he pushed it all toward one of the drains, making sure it sluiced away out of sight.

Outside, Abraham decided to rejoin the others, approaching his boss. Charles was lost in thought, a strange, pining, eager expression on his face. "I know that look," he declared with a slight grin, laying a hand on Charles' shoulder and interrupting his reverie. "You are planning something, are you not?"

"Sh'yeah boy!" the vet retorted gleefully, rubbing his hands together. "Gonna hafta coordinate some shit, but we's maybe gonna git 'er done! 'n git 'er done OUR way..."
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

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Aidan felt a measure of caution was warranted. "I'd, uh, maybe wait until after Nereus and Rothchild really kick things off. Right now, every allied Void Weaver in America has presidential protection under Jones' decree, but they're not naturalized yet - Pride's left us with a lot of fires to put out. Once the US and Canada agree to the New Dalarath proposal, you'll have all the backing you'd expect out of deniable ops."

He glanced back at the highway. "Move too early, and you let them control the playing field, dictate your movements. If we plan things right, we can offer you support and also obfuscate what needs to stay hidden. In the meantime, I'd point you in Nodin Thorn's direction: framing any prep-work in the context of the Vanir-Aesir War ensures you'll stay about as dark as apocryphal legends get. Faerie's fringes are practically the local background for our Cosmic Horrors; there's got to be a few conveniently-placed Gates the Loyalists haven't tracked down, seeing as they usually stick to brine pools for fast travel."

The soldier gave another look at Jenkins. "If you want to scope this out, take one of the local Gates to Evergloam, and from there, reach London. Look for Thorn Antiques, and be on the lookout for some good-looking huldra twins. Tell them you're friends of Aspasia the fauness and Regis Woodford the forest troll. If that doesn't ring a bell, you can always mention that you know the last couple people they forced to take a stroll through Morgana's Wilds."

He sniffed. "Archie put me through a primer on Norwegian mythology, once I heard what Meris and a few of her friends had gone through. A run-down on Norse myths wouldn't hurt, either. Thorn's an information broker for the Vanir, a sect of Fae that opposes the Aesir - True Fae with plans of their own for this place. Thorn thinks people like Paul Travers or Swinburne might've been fiddling with susceptible Fae for centuries, encouraging some shifts in capital or particular investments, all while carefully avoiding the mainstream citizenry and aristocracy.

It all tracks, as far as I'm concerned. The Black Goat upstages their main theatre, and the Promethean Order, the Gentlemen and the Rothchild family are all about to go mainstream - the only staging ground the Loyalists have left is Faerie. Past that, they'd have to take their business to Hell, which would be hard with Lucifer around - and then there's Heaven. They probably know we have our eye on Amenadiel - Tom's old barman. We think he might've been a Squid plant."

Drake cleared his throat and watched the taxi-goers step to the edges of the parking space as their rides began to arrive. "Walk in the Green Knight's footsteps, and you might be able to get the drop on our enemies in ways they couldn't possibly plan for. Perks of the approach: you can always lose really problematic bogeys in the Wilds, if conventional tactics end up shitting the bed. Bend the knee if Morgana shows up, present the fuckers as tribute. Wham-bam, done. I didn't get to demo Vlastos' inner sanctum yet, but I've heard enough about it to know Team Amaxi Squids don't do well in thick jungles. Fucks up their superiority complex."

In the meantime, Nereus provided his own directed flow of water, carefully working around Marius' delivery in case of any personal belongings they might've been able to salvage. Apart from the name tag, a shattered watch was recovered, along with what had probably been a tiny lobe piercing. A bit of syrupy phraseology willed a standard evidence baggie into being, which Nereus caught and then used to store the three items. He'd gotten most of the bag's details right, apart from the fact that he'd likely based his work off of police procedurals instead of the actual object.

"There's very little it can't do," replied the former Augur, "and therein lies its tragedy. We're given tools to create masterpieces, brushes worthy of the Greats in Art; and we stab one another with the pointed ends while hollering obscenities. Worse, someone else might've looked at you and tried to Speak your old disregard for Mankind out of existence instead of trusting support networks and traditional counseling - disregarding your own autonomy in the process."

He looked a bit sullen. "Perfect tools for arrogant fools, I've always thought... I'll sleep more soundly the less I have reason enough to Speak, ever again."

Their grisly work done, he sighed, visibly in order to clear his head, and turned back. "Speaking of, I'd heard of your own initiation in our dream-space. I don't doubt your ability to make your sanctum inviolable, but I'm curious to see or hear of what you've done with it, on the more creative end of things..."

He glanced back at Marius. "And I don't mean traps, Marius. After a few centuries spent watching burgeoning psychopaths with facial tendrils waiting for a pat on the back because they'd designed their own, personal bloodsport arena, I needed Meris to realize I was only painting in tones of red, while dreaming."

The Squid caught himself with a smirk. "In a manner of speaking, at least. I'm a good draftsman, but not the best at figurative art. I am, however, one of the best dreamers in the Darkhallow," he stated, without an ounce of self-aggrandizing countenance.

* * *

The question seemed a bit daunting for Abigail. "Hm. I'd like to incorporate smart fabrics in my palette, eventually. LEDs, flexible panels - magic's all well and good, but it's hard to design a ward that hooks up to an ECG to keep track of someone's heart rate; let alone a fitness app. Exosuits are all the rage for Superhuman-focused SWAT teams, but they're still difficult to hide under clothing. I could, say, take care of the aesthetics of things while a partner in Biotech finds out how to expand on the tech behind your people's rapid deployment on the field," she said, nodding at Aspasia.

"You could be wearing a strength-enhancing blouse covered in wards that a mage with enough patience during a brawl could nullify the sigil array's effects. If nanotech instead fell off of a blouse's inner lining and slipped through your pores and into your bloodstream on-command, you could design strength, speed or resistance-enhancing programs that a good percentile of magic users wouldn't perceive fast enough."

She then canted her head. "That, and, well, I have violent fantasies where I personify Fast Fashion as an old Winter Court biddy, and smash her head in with a clothes iron. I think the planet'd thank me."

Coach chuckled at that. "Can't say I'd argue with that. Though, most mages I've crossed weren't exactly the Fast Fashion type. Mages a few centuries old, the Fae, vampires - they're more the Excrutiatingly Slow Fashion sort. As long as you're not against blue-collar spell-slingers like me getting the occasional affordable pair o' jeans..."

Anjali rolled her eyes in amusement. "Miss. Weaver here has it in for people like Archie's old flame, mister Robertson. Miss Sasha Grey is releasing collections like the world's going to end if she doesn't bloat up the upper price ranges of your average SHEIN - I think it's her Carmilla thing, her tiny little dam against Vampire Burnout Depression. Not that she's lacking in customers, Grey's corporate Instagram is raking in models by the handful, and her brand's getting shat on for not being especially focused on diversity."

Weaver seemed amused. "I saw. This is incredibly niche, but the first post-Pride fashion show happened in Macau, a few weeks back. She took to the red carpet and said, I quote - Nobody wants to see fat demon hips, much less goblin spindle-legs."

Spector kept his wince as discreet as his peculiar facial feature allowed. "Casting my mind back to centuries before Oberon shackled me, I recall a few Medieval housewives and serving girls gossiping on weird newcomers with long noses... Most goblins used Veils to pass for human, back then, but you could always spot someone who'd seen past one of them - and had a shockingly good time in the process."

Coach's eyelights blinked, William raising one of his spindly hands in a gesture of allowance. "Don't forget, they're shrewd dealers by necessity and culture. Goblins look misshapen, but their tongues - and wit - are cast in silver. Sneak inside the Screenwriters' Guild and you'll find that a lot of the Romance and Romcom classics of the past sixty years were touched on by one or more goblins with writing credentials."

* * *

Claudia's response was just as hungry, her own fangs gently clicking against his, quiet moans only he could perceive leaving her as she pulled away to breathe, like the receding tide, and returned to him. Ciaran would certainly taste her, being a theriomorph - and would perceive her own immediate joy, her spreading release, along with the deep well of empathy that pushed her to him.

She was young, as young as striplings of the Carmilla could ever get, and the first second-generation vampire in Enlil's lineage in millennia. Those hands of hers, and her tongue - they articulated an unspoken vow.

As long as she drew breath, as long as she could draw blood from the friendly and deserving alike - she'd stay by his side, either as a friend or as whatever this exchange could come to mean.

Soon, however, the kiss began to fade, his own hands began to shift away, and Claudia's soft gasps were soon replaced by Gremory's gentle grunts, like a feeder trying to coax an overeager baby away from its emptied milk bottle. Ciaran would come to still at his stool, still at the bar, but with Gremory sitting beside him, an arm looped around his shoulders in what felt like a protective gesture. His head was resting on the incubus' shoulder, and he'd realize that he'd cried, somewhere in the intervening seconds or minutes.

"Easy," crooned the elder incubus. "Easy, now... Careful, you're still on your stool."

He lightly chuckled. "Before you ask; no - we didn't kiss. You went deep, though - as deep as I've ever seen someone go while keeping things cordial. From the look of things, I'd say you needed it."

Tom handed Ciaran a clean napkin, in case he wanted to dab at his face or eyes. "What did you show him?" he asked, which made Gremory finish parting away from the roane with a few steadying gestures, and then raise a finger.

"Ah-ah-ah, client-incubus confidentiality, my friends. At best, I'll say that was one of the more touching displays I've seen in the last two, maybe three hundred years."

Reaching out, he gently gripped Ciaran's hand. "A disclaimer, though: what you saw wasn't necessarily real, but it doesn't mean it didn't come from a real place," he said, then pointing at the roane's chest. "It also doesn't mean it couldn't be real. Doesn't mean the real events will unfold exactly like this, either, if this does eventually happen. Past that, it's all on you, brother.

You can either resent me for not making this real - and I can't, no matter how much you'd want me to - or you can see it for what it is, in this little, swanky mortal context of yours: a sign of the times, that you maybe deserve to take a few steps forward, for your own sake."

Another raised finger. "And count yourself lucky: here on Earth, this is me helping you out. Back down there in Lust, if you'd ended up in my chambers, that would've been me turning the screw on every might-have-been, every could've, each and every should've in your lifetime."

Tom seemed a bit impressed. "So you've never joined the others again, then. You've never, just, boinked because an incubus boinks, to use deliberate euphemisms."

Gremory faked a bit of disappointment as he languidly slid his eyes to his brother. "Tommy-boy, why boink when you can zig-zag? I couldn't go back, not after exquisite emotional pain and absolute bliss - not after people like Ciaran, here."

In so saying, he looked back at Aislinn. "I do what I do so people like your brother break off their shackles, go out running like in your average sappy Romcom, and ask the fricking girl or boy out. Fade-out, credits roll, box-office wins, Blu-Ray sales - catharsis. Can't get to Heaven otherwise."
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by TennyoCeres84 »

Meris shook her head and scoffed. "I understand it's her nature affecting her perspective, but she's frankly missing out on other forms of beauty. Conventional beauty doesn't indicate someone is a person you want to be around. There's other forms of attraction to be found," she mused.

Aspasia sent her a vaguely teasing smile. "It doesn't take much of a guess where your experience is coming from," she said

The selkie chuckled. "That's true. You might even considered me biased, but so is she. We're all biased in some form, but beauty doesn't equate trust, intelligence, humor, or any other quality you'd consider beautiful or would want in a partner," she mused.

***

The passionate, dream-like experience faded away and was replaced by the sounds of those around him. He was left with a residual desire for the illusory version of Claudia, but reality soon became clear. He weirdly missed it, but he also felt relieved that he had experienced. There was a sense of clarity as he regained his waking senses.

He steadied himself and briefly looked over at Gremory with some reddened awkward until he clarified that things hadn't been as serious as it had initially seemed. Taking the offered napkin, Aislinn's twin daubed his eyes with it and dried them. He realized he had been holding in more feelings in that he understood and the incubus' help had let the dam break.

Once he had fully calmed himself, Ciaran nodded to Gremory. "No, I don't feel any resentment toward you. It's something I needed. Thank you."

The young man sighed. "I know I'm not entirely ready to start dating again, but I also won't prevent myself from doing so. If things are meant to happen, they'll happen in their own way. No more, no less."

Aislinn smiled softly at her brother's response, glad that he had a positive reaction to it. She looked back to the older incubus. "Thank you for helping him. I can see how it might be easy for some to do what you just described, whereas others linger and torment themselves for ages, when the solution's basically dangling right in front of them."
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Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by Karl the Mad »

Charles nodded eagerly. "Betcha they'd mark me face too, me 'n Jan 'r the spittin' image of each other."

"Your ancestor, Jansik? What happened after he was resurrected?" Abraham asked, curiously.

The blonde vet shrugged. "Bought a boat 'n been wanderin' the world, Flying Dutchman style, far as I know. I was gettin' post cards 'bout every six months 'r so fer a while, an' I heard he checked in on th' rest of th' clan up at the Crossing. Big ol' hit, lemme tell ya." Horatio's Crossing, he meant. North of Hope on the border with Massachusetts, the town had been founded in the early Colonial days by the first Jenkins ancestor to step foot on the New World.

"It is not every day that one meets the truth behind a family legend," Abraham observed. "Did he contribute to the Pride Wars, at all?"

Again, Charles just shrugged. "If he did, he was probably helpin' ol' Gabe out," was his reply. "Honestly I kinda got th' feelin' he's done with War, ya know? Spent all his madness 'n bloodlust, an' now he just wantsa enjoy th' new life he has. Gotta respect 'at, eh?"

"So what does all that have to do with you getting into a Norse bar?"

Charles had to think about that one for a moment...

Back in the gas closet, Marius smirked. "I happen to be both a Dreamer and a competent draftsman," he replied. He was proud to have learned drafting and architecture the hard way, curse or no curse. "I happen to think my little hideaway is very interesting, it started off as an oasis in the desert, and then I added an antebellum mansion and some fields..." He got a faraway look in his eye, and his hands twitched as if they ached to hold a pencil. "I've had Jenkins visit, once or twice, and he says it inspired his own plans for a dream space. Though it probably won't be as neat as mine."

He too huffed a sigh, glad to have the grisly chore done with. "The mansion is fully furnished, of course, and correct in every way even if I've taken some liberties with the inside here and there, for the enterprising intruder who makes it that far. It's quite soothing, in fact, to sit on my porch and watch the sun set, feel the breeze from the trees..." He nodded toward the company box truck, parked outside and waiting for its soon-to-be human cargo. "They said I needed a focus, and I chose a revolver I had on me at the moment. It's been quite the useful sidearm, in fact, and it's probably channeled enough magic for me to qualify as an artifact in its own right! But I left it in the truck, of course, the others had the guns angle covered quite well."
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