Dear Vladimir
@Vladimir Athanatos
September 24th
Dear Vladimir,
I didn't think I'd be writing to you again, but I've been faced with a bit of an unusual situation. I know you don't trust me but please hear me out before you throw this letter away.
Two days ago I entered the Hospital Wing during my early morning patrols to find a couple of children surround a kid with a severed hand. The kid is fine now, though he seemed quite disturbed. Said his name was Aamon Athanatos, so I guess he is your relative?
This kid has been here for less than a month and already turns up with gruesome injuries. Given the history surrounding you and your friends, I am worried.
If you know anything that can help keeping him safe, please tell me.
I hope you have been well,
Opeila S. Winters
Dear Vladimir
Vladimir sat in the dimly lit corner of the Hog's Head, the din of drunken patrons chattering, some rising to a crescendo before the tension would break and explode into fisticuffs between grown men. Though the world around him felt strangely quiet on this particular evening. His hands, gloved in dark leather, rested on the table, twitching slightly as if they held onto the remnants of the catastrophe that defined his last several years of life. He had extricated himself from his household, effectively removing himself from the immediate disaster that was his ambitious kin. His only hope was that during such trying times he would be able to pull Aamon away to safety, but the unease in his chest had not faded.
He was nursing a glass of something far stronger than he usually preferred. Deep crimson, almost black also. The bar did not serve his kind what they truly needed. When the owl came—dark, swift, and carrying the scent of something forgotten. The letter had been forwarded from his family’s estate, the owl persistent in its delivery to have found the man not at his alternative residence but rather the bar he had come to frequent. Vladimir watched it for a moment, his cold eyes narrowing. He recognized the handwriting immediately, a script that once filled him with warmth and hope but now only stirred the shadows of a bitter past.
His heart sank, but his hand moved to the letter instinctively, almost as if it acted on its own, driven by an invisible tether that still bound him to her. Opeila S. Winters. He had expected her name to reappear in his life, she had a way of returning now and then for fleeting, often chaotic, bloody and regrettable moments that cost him more than they cost her. And here it was, yet again, written in the familiar curve of her handwriting. The betrayal still stung, despite the cold façade he wrapped himself in, but some ties were harder to sever than a hand or a life.
He unfolded the parchment, eyes scanning the lines quickly, though his mind lingered on the weight of every word. Aamon. His younger brother. His blood. The words "severed hand" sent a cold shiver down his spine, though outwardly he remained expressionless. The mention of their shared family name, however, struck a chord deep within him. The Athanatos family was famed, but also quite insular. He did not hold great affection for most of his family, he saw them for what they were - selfish, cruel, indifferent to the plight of others. The younger brother would likely turn out like the rest, poisoned by ambition and power. But for the moment he seemed to lack the seemingly inherent cruelty of his kin and it gave the former Ravenclaw a modicum of hope.
As he read, his grip on the letter tightened ever so slightly. Aamon was hurt. Already. The fear that had twisted inside him since the explosion now took root as something far more dangerous—a dark, simmering anger. His instincts screamed to protect his brother, but he knew that any overt move could expose them both to even greater danger. But his other question was how. Also, what had Aamon been hiding?
He refolded the letter slowly, methodically, his face calm, though beneath it, a storm was brewing. She had reached out to him, of all people, about Aamon. That worried him more than anything else. How much did she know? And more importantly, how much was she willing to know?
Vladimir placed the letter down on the table in front of him, staring at it for a moment before sliding it into his coat pocket. His thoughts swirled with the possibilities, the danger that Opeila's awareness posed. She knew Aamon was in danger. She had always been too clever for her own good, and now she was meddling in things far beyond her understanding.
He rose from his seat, the shadows around him seeming to cling to his form as he moved. The dim light in the Hog's Head cast long, ominous shadows on the ground as he walked toward the door. His mind, though calculating, couldn't help but dwell on the woman who had sent him this letter. Opeila. Always a wild card, always unpredictable. And always, it seemed, capable of dragging his heart through the muck of emotions he'd thought long buried.
But one thing was certain now: Aamon’s safety was paramount, and whatever plans Vladimir had been forming before this letter arrived were about to change. He would respond to Opeila. Not yet, but soon. And when he did, it would be on his terms.
As he stepped out into the cold night, Vladimir’s expression hardened, and his grip tightened around the edges of his cloak. A storm was coming, and it was only a matter of time before all the players were forced into the open. But Vladimir Athanatos had always thrived in the shadows.
For now, Aamon would be safe. And as for Opeila… she would have to wait.
He was nursing a glass of something far stronger than he usually preferred. Deep crimson, almost black also. The bar did not serve his kind what they truly needed. When the owl came—dark, swift, and carrying the scent of something forgotten. The letter had been forwarded from his family’s estate, the owl persistent in its delivery to have found the man not at his alternative residence but rather the bar he had come to frequent. Vladimir watched it for a moment, his cold eyes narrowing. He recognized the handwriting immediately, a script that once filled him with warmth and hope but now only stirred the shadows of a bitter past.
His heart sank, but his hand moved to the letter instinctively, almost as if it acted on its own, driven by an invisible tether that still bound him to her. Opeila S. Winters. He had expected her name to reappear in his life, she had a way of returning now and then for fleeting, often chaotic, bloody and regrettable moments that cost him more than they cost her. And here it was, yet again, written in the familiar curve of her handwriting. The betrayal still stung, despite the cold façade he wrapped himself in, but some ties were harder to sever than a hand or a life.
He unfolded the parchment, eyes scanning the lines quickly, though his mind lingered on the weight of every word. Aamon. His younger brother. His blood. The words "severed hand" sent a cold shiver down his spine, though outwardly he remained expressionless. The mention of their shared family name, however, struck a chord deep within him. The Athanatos family was famed, but also quite insular. He did not hold great affection for most of his family, he saw them for what they were - selfish, cruel, indifferent to the plight of others. The younger brother would likely turn out like the rest, poisoned by ambition and power. But for the moment he seemed to lack the seemingly inherent cruelty of his kin and it gave the former Ravenclaw a modicum of hope.
As he read, his grip on the letter tightened ever so slightly. Aamon was hurt. Already. The fear that had twisted inside him since the explosion now took root as something far more dangerous—a dark, simmering anger. His instincts screamed to protect his brother, but he knew that any overt move could expose them both to even greater danger. But his other question was how. Also, what had Aamon been hiding?
He refolded the letter slowly, methodically, his face calm, though beneath it, a storm was brewing. She had reached out to him, of all people, about Aamon. That worried him more than anything else. How much did she know? And more importantly, how much was she willing to know?
Vladimir placed the letter down on the table in front of him, staring at it for a moment before sliding it into his coat pocket. His thoughts swirled with the possibilities, the danger that Opeila's awareness posed. She knew Aamon was in danger. She had always been too clever for her own good, and now she was meddling in things far beyond her understanding.
He rose from his seat, the shadows around him seeming to cling to his form as he moved. The dim light in the Hog's Head cast long, ominous shadows on the ground as he walked toward the door. His mind, though calculating, couldn't help but dwell on the woman who had sent him this letter. Opeila. Always a wild card, always unpredictable. And always, it seemed, capable of dragging his heart through the muck of emotions he'd thought long buried.
But one thing was certain now: Aamon’s safety was paramount, and whatever plans Vladimir had been forming before this letter arrived were about to change. He would respond to Opeila. Not yet, but soon. And when he did, it would be on his terms.
As he stepped out into the cold night, Vladimir’s expression hardened, and his grip tightened around the edges of his cloak. A storm was coming, and it was only a matter of time before all the players were forced into the open. But Vladimir Athanatos had always thrived in the shadows.
For now, Aamon would be safe. And as for Opeila… she would have to wait.
Aamon