Sitting Room
ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ |
| ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ |
❤︎❤︎❤︎
𝕿𝖍𝖊 moment one crossed through Archway V, the air shifted. Sounds from the rest of the venue, laughter, music, footsteps, fell away, as though caught behind invisible glass. Here, in this hush, the rest of the Augury Cloister was held at arm’s length.
The space was softly lit by magical light, intimate in scale, clearly designed as a reprieve from the grand festivities. Two luxurious chaise lounges in a deep, velvety teal lined the walls in such a way that the participants could angle toward one another. Each chaise was adorned with delicately embroidered pink, ruffled pillows. Their placement suggested conversation, secrets shared in quiet tones, or perhaps silent contemplation free from distraction or intervention.
In the southeast corner, a table made of mixed wood serves as a pedestal. An artfully cut piece of rose quartz the shape of a human head stylized into the shape of an anatomically-correct heart. It caught the light in delicate facets, giving the impression it might be pulsing ever so faintly with life. On this same polished table, a deck of elegantly gilded cards, as if inviting guests to shuffle fate into their hands. Tucked beneath the table, ornate metal chairs that offer additional seating.
This room serves as a passageway to yet another, marked only by open archways: to the south, Archway V led back to the quiet Reading Nook with its flickering fireplace and curated books. To the north, Archway VI revealed what appeared to be an Observatory, its entrance bathed in a cool, silvery light. SOmeone is there playing a piano, but no sound made its way into this silent sitting space.
It was a strange little oasis, warm, still, and suspended in time. A place where guests could lower their masks, if only for a moment.
Some stories should never be told...
Sitting Room
Came from the Reading Area
Aamon strode purposefully into the sitting area. He assumed this would be an area that would soon fill with guests that wanted a more intimate experience. There was not much of interest here, some cards on a table. He had his doubts anyone understood how to use the cards, those were not normal tarot cards. They had replaced anything with real substance or power for party games and trivialities to entertain outsiders. To give them a more palatable view of their world if for only a single day.
This quiet space had always unsettled him because of the deep silence that came with it. He could no longer hear the din of chatter from the other guests in the ball room, or what his father had to say, if anything. This was a room intended for secrets. Visible to others, so no rumors of dalliances, the intention was to speak truths and make clandestine deals without distraction, intervention or evidence. He checked again for his wand, good it was still there he reminded himself. He knew that it would not be long before the Augury was packed, and with each passing moment there was a greater opportunity for failure. That he might be stopped or even saved.
He was too much of a coward to make that final push, but he was willing to live with being the passive cause. To be able to lie to himself and to others when he says 'there was nothing I could do.'
Moves on to the Observatory
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
Sitting Room
Arrived from the Reading Room
"The room is unique," Vladimir began, stepping inside and letting the silence eclipse him. His mouth continued to move, "utterly soundproof" but no sound passed into the reading room. He said it without emphasis, like a man discussing weather or wine pairings, but there was something in the phrasing that suggested he was not simply describing architecture. The implication hovered, unspoken but obvious: this was a space for discretion. A chamber of confessions.
It would have been unnerving if not for the architectural transparency. The room’s open archways allowed perfect visibility into the adjoining chambers, each framed like a theater box in an opera house. A means of letting those invited to the room know that while their cries for help could not be heard, if anything improper were to transpire, there would be witnesses even if context was limited.
Vladimir took a seat in the far left chair, the one nearest the outer wall. The elves continued to carry their companion. Vladimir considered closing the curtain before a distraction ended their conversation early. "You’ll find," he said without looking at Howard, assuming he had followed, "that the walls do not echo. While there is no door locks, the soundproofing is what makes this room useful."
He placed the book on the cushion next to him without opening it. Its presence was symbolic. A weight. A threat. Or perhaps just a distraction.
"Since we are brothers," he said, finally raising his eyes. "I felt it was necessary to at least get to know you formally. Morgantha made you, yes?" The corner of his mouth twitched in a faint smile that seemed to rest someplace between civility and a warning.
Will not post until others have posted or moderation.
Aamon
Sitting Room
@Solomon Lear
The room was indeed unique as Howard stepped through following Vladimir. The moment his body crossed the threshold it would seem as the air itself shifted around them and with it came absolute silence. It was an odd sensation really as everyone enjoys a bit of quiet time, but the absolute lack of noise was almost disorienting. Howard looked around him and at least the room had multiple archways to provide an easy exit or witnesses if he was being drawn into a trap.
Howard followed suit and took the seat opposite of Vladimir, setting down the book title "Augury Cloister" next to him, but his gaze remained locked on the other man. He had spotted of few oddities when entering. A set of cards unlike any he had seen before lay out on a table. A rose quartz carving of a human head in the shape of a heart flicker away nearby. One of the exits exuded a muted, silvery light, but nothing was distracting him from Vlad in this moment. Whatever was to come, the moment had surely arrived.
The room made for a perfect confessional and that's exactly what Vladimir had to offer. Howard could keep his cool in the most intense situations, but when he spoke Morgantha's name a flash of surprise would cross his crimson gaze. He looked Vlad over again. This must have been the change Howard sensed before. While it eluded him in that moment it was all so obvious now. The smile on Vlad's face did nothing to offer a sense of ease, but the way he chose to use the term brother stoked an odd feeling within Howard. To call Morgantha mother was a far stretch, but he remembered how it felt to be around her. It wasn't a sense of loyalty. Nor was it reverence. Yet there was something between creator and created that made Howard want her to persevere. Would he feel that for Vladimir too?
"Yeah. Morgantha turned me and I assume now that she has made you? How'd it happen?" If they were going to meet formally, might as well trade war stories.
Action: N/A
Stats: STA - 17 | EVA - 21 | STR - 17 | WIS - 1 | ARC - 0 | ACC - 21
Abilities: Fangs, Claw & Bite | Martial Artist | Unsettling Aura | Blindvision | Keen Smell | Terrible Presence | Blood Resurrection
Sitting Room
The pair had taken books from the previous room. Starting with Howard White, he would find that he was holding a book that detailed the history of the Augury Cloister. At least the history that something had bothered to write. Being a muggleborn, it was unlikely that Howard knew anything about this sacred site turned elite venue. He would find a laminated page stuffed between the pages of the tome, a glossy, more recent publication certainly intended for modern wizard consumption.
An attractive, preserved brochure of the Augury, the sort of thing Howard might have seen at a rest stop on road trips with his muggle family as a child. Pictures of the venue, sans the roses, artistically angled to capture blue skies and even bluer waters. The shining floors, marble halls, posed and smiling members of the Athanatos family sitting across or alongside people Howard could assume were important because of the clothes they wore but the images were quite old, likely over 30 years ago, before Howard was even born.
An attractive, preserved brochure of the Augury, the sort of thing Howard might have seen at a rest stop on road trips with his muggle family as a child. Pictures of the venue, sans the roses, artistically angled to capture blue skies and even bluer waters. The shining floors, marble halls, posed and smiling members of the Athanatos family sitting across or alongside people Howard could assume were important because of the clothes they wore but the images were quite old, likely over 30 years ago, before Howard was even born.
The pamphlet was a sanitized version of the cloister. What wizards were told. What an abbreviated slip of paper could tell someone who had "done their research." The book that held the slip had some parallels, but like most good stories, there was more than to the story than most parties knew. [Content obviously paraphrased because I cant write a whole book nor can you read one in the time of this reception.]Augury Cloister
Historical Estate and Event Venue
Established: 1431 (Current form circa 1784)
Location: Dover, England
Current Use: Private Events, Academic Retreats, and Celebratory Occasions (Weddings, Gala Balls, and Sponsored Magical Showcases)
Brief History:
The Augury Cloister is a historically significant site in the wizarding world, marked as a Historical Site by the UK Historical Society, known for its breathtaking views, coastal architecture, and storied magical heritage. First erected in the mid-15th century, the Augury Cloister served as a private sanctum for a reclusive magical order believed to have practiced advanced forms of coastal divination and lunar cartomancy.
Though early records are sparse, magical historians have confirmed the estate was originally used by seers and natural philosophers devoted to interpreting omens via tidal patterns, birdsong, and cloud movement, hence the name “Augury Cloister.”
In 1784, the estate was purchased and restructured by Amatus Athanatos, a reserved yet influential figure from an old Greek pureblood line that traces their bloodline to Thebes. Under Amatus Athanatos’s patronage, the Cloister was transformed into a coastal retreat for the magical elite. While it has often been asked why a manor was never erected on this site, it has been said simply that there is not enough space and Amatus' goals were to modernize the outdated site of prophecy for future generations. The renovation preserved key elements of its original augural purpose—particularly the cliffside observatory and sea-facing ritual spaces—while incorporating refined Greco-French architectural aesthetics, including marble galleries, gilded furnishings, and carefully warded terraces.
Today, the Augury Cloister is best known for its atmospheric coastal charm, elegant indoor and outdoor spaces, and subtle magical touches that enhance each guest's experience. Wards for privacy and peace keep the grounds serene and secure, while licensed house-elves and support staff ensure each event runs to perfection.
Notable Features:
- The Silver-Crest Ballroom
- Enchanted Reading Nook & Sitting Parlour
- Observatory Overlooking the Northern Sea
- Patios with Rare Botanical Specimens
- Floo-Linked Reception Halls
- Cliffside Walk & Historical Runes (non-operational, display only)
Safety Notice:
While the Augury Cloister’s gardens and cliff paths are maintained to the highest standards, guests are advised to obey posted signage and refrain from accessing any restricted areas, including the cliffside cave system and marked flora zones.
Contact:
Inquiries regarding bookings, academic access, or historical research permissions can be directed to the estate steward via owl post or through the Ministry’s Historical Estates Registry.
Vladimir's book was a bit more specific. The Daughters of the Veil, a heavy tome that appeared to have been read numerous times. The worn bindings suggested a fragility to the text as well value in the words it held. [Again, paraphrased.]The Augury Cloister: A History in Veins and Veils
Long before the cloister bore its name, before its marble halls rang with the sound of champagne flutes and enchanted string quartets, there was only a stone altar and a circle of women who bled for the storm.
They were not witches in the traditional sense, nor priestesses of any sanctioned order. They were hags, though not yet twisted and not yet monstrous. The first of them bore the title Augurine, and she spoke to the sea and the stars in the language of entrails and iron. They did not fear death, for they understood it. They wore red robes and drank saltwater and read the future in the way blood steamed on stone. Sacrifice was not taboo; it was holy.
Sacrificial practices persist to this day, the art of Haruspicy and its subdisciplines hepatomancy particularly. This site however was founded on the divinary practice of Anthropomancy, or the study of the entrails of a human sacrifice. While sacrifice is specifically focused on the will or favor of the gods, the early Seers did not believe in divine intervention but rather their own power and that death created powerful ripples in the natural order. That fate was not a product of the will of gods, but a product of their own will. They were the Gods of their own world.
The Mouth Below, their most sacred site, was their cradle. Rituals were held at moonrise when the tide swelled to kiss the altar’s base. Divinations were paid for in flesh, not coin. Their power became legend. And where power gathers, so too does greed.
A noble house, the Athanatos family, sought to domesticate the power. They built walls around the rites, declared the sacred altar private and installed windows to “civilize” the dark. The cloister rose like a white bloom atop blood-soaked roots. The hags were exiled from the surface, driven back to the depths where their whispers festered and deepened. Yet their line never truly vanished, only diminished.
The Augury Cloister became a place of controlled prophecy, a retreat for wealthy visionaries and aristocrats of questionable morality. Over time, it evolved into something far more palatable. A wedding venue. A gala stage. A spectacle of curated extravagance. The runes embedded in the ballroom floor are now called “decoration.” The silver table in the washroom was once a sacrificial offering table, now referred to as “vintage.” The flowers? They still bloom from the soil where foresworn bones were buried.
They say the rites have been forgotten.
They are wrong.
For beneath the champagne sparkle and curated chaos, the hags remember. They remember everything.
There are bloodlines that return to the cloister year after year, unaware of the old vows their ancestors made in candlelit secrecy. And some guests who arrive at the water’s edge do not leave. Some hear a song in the walls. Some dream of red tides. And every now and then, someone knocks at the altar stone below. And the Mouth answers.
The Cloister has changed. It has evolved. But it has never stopped watching.
And it will always, always collect what it is owed.
The book carries on, some pages written by a different hand, describing some of the faith's practices and excerpts from a book known as The Veiled Verses. Much of what is written here is worn away with time, the ink faded, the pages cracked and partly torn.The Daughters of the Veil
The Daughters of the Veil was not a religion in the conventional sense, it was an inheritance, a blood-soaked whisper passed from mother to daughter, seer to supplicant, wound to wound. A faith practiced in shadowed chambers and moon-drenched groves within the cloistered halls of Sanctum Noctis, their faith was a labyrinth of secrecy and transformation, governed by cycles older than calendars and voices older than language.
They did not pray to gods. For the Daughters of the Veil, divinity was not a being but a boundary. The Veil as they called it, was a thin, trembling membrane that separated what was from what must become, what might become and what will become. To cross the veil was to know, to shed the skin of the self and be reformed by the chorus of ancestral women, referenced in some sacred texts as the Mothers Unknown, women who had crossed before. These spirits did not offer comfort. They did not forgive. They demanded understanding, blood, and obedience to the truth.
Prophecy, ancestral communion, and transformation were not mystical metaphors to the Daughters. They were anatomy. They treated dreams like scripture, madness like communion. Sacrifice was not symbolic, it was sacred. The Veil wanted blood to speak. And often, when fed, it did.
But such truths were never meant to survive the world.
What began as a slow erosion of faith, mockery by scholars, marginalization by political entities, and the missteps of clergy, resulted in a centuries-long crusade of suppression. Faiths more palatable to the powerful rose in opposition. The Children of Fate offered structure. Destiny Dependent offered obedience. But it was The Brothers of the Weave, with their grand looms of fate and their promise of order and knowledge in exchange for coin, that brought the final unraveling.
They did not just burn the texts or scatter the faithful. They rewrote the loom. They altered fate itself.
Generations of holy war, theological persecution, and strategic assimilation led to the Veil’s silence. Its daughters were unremembered, shamed as monsters, reduced to allegory, or buried beneath euphemism. Today, their relics are labeled “esoteric curiosities” and bunk. Their rites, “dangerous superstition.” And Sanctum Noctis, once their sacred stronghold, now a stage for imported rituals and curated histories.
Core tenets of the daughters of the Veil included:
Revelation through Rite: Prophecy is not received but earned through ritual, pain, and inheritance.
Sacrifice as Seal: All vows must be sealed with blood, memory, or voice.
The Hag Ascendant: Change is holy, especially when it terrifies. Hagdom is considered a sacred, if perilous, metamorphosis.
The Mirror Law: That which is broken can still see. Reflections are truth-bearers, even in pieces.
Weddings, such as the one at Sanctum Noctis, are seen not as unions of love, but pacts woven into the Loom of Fate, binding lineages, powers, and fates for the benefit (or ruin) of generations.
It is not a plea but an invocation: an offering to the unknown self and the veiled matron figures who came before.
Their prayers, a communion with the Mothers Unknown, the Daughters spoke in tongues drowned long ago, their lips cracked from saltwater and silence. They gathered beneath stones that remembered older moons, clothed in red veils soaked in the blood of their foremother. Each veil was both relic and wound, a tapestry of matrilineal confession.
Their dark prayers, known collectively as the Chorus of the Veiled, according to their faith should never be written. To inscribe them would be to anchor them, and prophecy must float. These prayers were not supplications, they were demands. Bargains. Sacrificial contracts.
Scholars had recorded a few instances of prayer,many believed to be a part of ritualistic practices.
Whispered Prayer of the Daughters
Mother of Moth and Mirror,
Fold back the veil with your blistered hands.
Let the darkness know my name
And forget it in the same breath.
I walk with thorns in my mouth.
I wear the silence of those who watched and waited.
I am the broken daughter,
The blade softened by blood,
The truth said sideways.
Cloak me in unknowing.
Let me dream of teeth, not tongues.
Let my shadow speak louder than my voice.
Let my reflection betray me only when I’m ready.
You who see without sight,
You who bloom in rot and ruin,
You who remember what was never spoken—
I offer what is left of me.
I offer the girl I was.
Take her.
Leave me only what is needed to see.
Let the world misunderstand.
Let the light mislead.
Let the Veil bless me with forgetting
So I might remember true.
So I walk. So I watch. So I become.
In shadow. In bloom. In fire.
The First Unraveling
Before the sun taught men to speak, there was the Veil.
It fluttered between the breath and the bone, between dream and flesh.
To pass beneath it was to die, to live, and to awaken.
We were not born. We were broken from the moon’s ribs and bled into form.
The First Daughter wept into the river, and the river learned to sing.
Her shadow walked beside her, patient and hungering.
It learned her name and then unmade it.
The Doctrine of Becoming
To become is not to change. To become is to be remembered backwards.
You will dream of teeth before they bloom in your mouth.
You will feel the worm stirring before you know the soil.
Each Daughter is three things:
- The girl she killed.
- The woman who watches.
- The hag who waits.
When your hair turns to nettles and your dreams to rot,
When milk curdles on your tongue and the mirror cries,
Then you are ready to begin.
The Rite of the Hollow Eye
Pluck the eye from a crow born blind.
Place it beneath your tongue until it shows you a star that does not move.
There you will meet Her.
Do not ask Her name.
Do not offer yours.
Greet Her with silence, for that is the only thing She has never stolen.
Final Invocation
We step backward through the Veil with eyes wide open.
We drink from the root, we bite the bone.
We marry the darkness not for love, but for vision.
We become not witches, but warnings.
We are the Daughters of the Veil.
We do not burn. We bloom.
Some stories should never be told...
Sitting Room
Vladimir chose his seat with care.
Not the one nearest the door nor the window. Certainly not the one in direct view of the arched thresholds that connected the sitting room to the reading area and the bar. He selected a seat just shy of shadow, angled so he could not be fully being seen himself. While this did not conceal the fact that he had entered this area in the first place, he did not want someone to be able to guess what had been said. The archways, after all, were not flaws in the room’s design. They were intentional. Architectural duplicity. An illusion of privacy meant to placate the vulnerable. A Seer’s cage with open bars.
Vladimir knew the lie.
He drew the liberated book into his lap and cracked it open. He had read the book before, the contents were nothing new to him, they were for the benefit of Howard. The spine groaned softly, resisting exposure. The pages fluttered, thin and yellowing, until he found the chapter he’d glimpsed in moderation:
The Daughters of the Veil. A religious order predating formal divination, their rituals that used sacrifice to gain the gift of prophecy. Women cloaked in red, veiled. The order had vanished. Or at least that was what was written, but that was an obvious lie. The pages bled whispered secrets. He left the book open on the armrest, angled as if he was letting a peer cheat on his test.
Howard’s voice broke the stillness. “Yeah. Morgantha turned me, and I assume now that she’s made you? How’d it happen?”
Vladimir didn’t look his way. His expression was unreadable, as if drawn onto his pale features. Calm, composed. But something just beneath the surface seemed... fractured. “Christmas of ’22,” he said softly. “It was either that or a true death.” And he feared death, he was just a teen. He swallowed, jaw clenched. “Despite a cure being discovered weeks earlier, the message never reached St. Mungo’s. I... my family... St. Mungos, was never told.” There was bitterness in his words because it did not have to be this way. He did not need to die, just just let him. An afterthought if he was a consideration at all.
“So I died,” he said. “She changed me," he swallowed. "And I died.” His voice dropped on the final word, as though it still refused to settle in his mouth.
“It took me three days to come back.” Like some biblical resurrection, only the opposite. “It shouldn’t have,” he added. It should have been just a single day, at the dawn of the next moon he should have rose.
That was all he said about it. In truth, he did not understand anything more than that. Just that she had. That his father was furious, he wondered if he preferred that his eldest stayed dead. It seemed like he did. No curse. No elaboration. But the bitterness in his voice said enough. Bitterness... and something else. The slow poison of abandonment.
His story was not what he was here for. “I wanted to know if you ever get lost,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he meant, not fully. There was no language yet for what he was trying to name. The books didn’t cover it. The Healers wouldn’t speak of it. The converted didn’t like to compare notes.
“Not lost like wayward,” Vladimir clarified. “I mean—” He hesitated, searching. “Have you ever felt like something is pulling the thread behind your thoughts?” He gestured vaguely to his temple.
“Like the hunger doesn’t just live in you... but guides you." No, wrong word. Wrong description. He shook his head, his lips thinned. "Picks for you," he tried to clarify, not that it made more sense. "As if someone’s leading you with a leash you forgot you agreed to wear.” His tone was raw, uncertain.
“Not bloodlust. Worse. Purpose.” Not that either could be seen as he gestured towards the solid wall, on the other side was the ballroom. "I tried to kill my kid brother," he admitted. "I really did," he confirmed. It was not a misunderstanding, he had meant to kill the boy. "Nearly killed Erin to get to him," he added, but the phrase he chose there was odd. It indicated the symptom of the problem he was trying to explain. To get to him, it was not a blind range or a bloodlust, it was directed.
“Do you feel that too, or am I already gone?” His voice didn't waver. But his eyes, sharp and searching, betrayed the flicker of fear he rarely let show. "I remember what I did, at least that time," he added with a tone of uncertainty. There was something nagging at him. The death this morning, he wondered if he was truly innocent.
The silence pressed in again, the room's isolation leaving a whistling whine in his ears. Somewhere in the adjacent rooms, someone laughed, someone chattered and someone else still whispered a secret, but the sound didn’t reach them here. They were alone with the quiet. And whatever they had become.
Aamon
Sitting Room
@Solomon Lear
(Thank you for the excerpts from the books. Fantastic reading!)
Howard's crimson eyes fell to the book in Vladimir's hands. His sharp vision picked up on a few of the words. Daughters of the Veil. Something about women and ritual. Strong as Howard might be, he was not the most clever, but even he started to get a sense of what was going on. Erin, Hags, slugs, Athanatos. There rarely seemed to be on without the other. Howard always just thought it a curse. Erin was mad when he met her and that had drawn her to the hags and that's why she had slugs. Simple explanation for a simple guy, but in a world full of magic nothing was that black and white. The thread was there. All Howard had to do was tug. Yet Vladimir proved too tempting a distraction.
Howard had a brother! Well, maybe more brother in arms. A shared trauma that would connect them for the rest of their lives. He was curious though, perhaps dangerously curious as he wondered if Vlad had any kind of relationship with her. How would Howard feel if he were to see her again? Hatred, enamor, love? Vladimir would give his testimony. The black curse that had coursed through many a Hogwartians blood had been considered terminal for Vlad. It was true death or transformation. Which would Howard have chosen if he had been given a choice? Life was precious, but living it half dead came at a cost. Nothing would make him want to give it up though, so what blame could be cast on Vladimir for being afraid.
"Three days?" Howard repeated. That was abnormal. Trying to remember his own transformation in any detail had proven impossible. The boy thought he was dead. His last breaths taken in the arms of Morgantha, but it had been the next day when he rose or at least that is what she had told him. This fact later confirmed in the research he had conducted on Dhampirs. "Was it some complication with the curse in your blood? Was Morgantha hurt by drawing it out of you?" Surely feeding on that could not have been healthy.
Howard cocked an eyebrow when Vlad asked him about being lost. Anyone could lose sight of where they are physically, but Howard would cast an almost guilty look at the floor. He knew what Vladimir was talking about. Years ago Howard had simply just cast it off as bloodlust. It made sense. Dhampirs feed off of human blood, everything that is alive hungers, therefore the predator yearns for food. However, he knew it went deeper than that. Howard was both alive and undead. The monster within wanted to hunt, but it was the human that craved certain...flavors. It had once been Aurelia. Something had drawn him back to her time and time again, even knowing full well that she meant him ill will. Yet there was something about it he could not resist. Then it was Falentra. Her blood was given freely, but that did not stop the urge he felt. Even in love the monster would purr. So, was this exactly what Vladimir was talking about? He would dig deeper.
"There is no voice or anything, but yeah, sometimes I feel like my brain is shared by two of...me." Howard was no wordsmith, but maybe Vlad would understand. Wanting to kill your brother was surely something that needed years of therapy. Was there really any difference though? Does the monster within recognize familial ties? "I have met people that I couldn't stop myself from going to for blood. Is that what you mean? I probably would have torn through whoever was in my way too." It was odd to be so truthful with someone he considers a stranger. He once could have talked to Fal like this, but perhaps there was something about a shared creator. Or maybe Howard needed this talk as much as Vlad did? "I have a lot more control over it now. It gets better."
Sitting Room
The piano man stopped playing. The chance was not something either of the men in this isolated room would notice. Sound did not travel in or out of this room. This was a space intended for private, intimate conversation. This meant a lot of things, the first being that they would not know about the chaos in the ball. Oblivious to the drama and the destruction as well as the choreographed betrayal.
They would have a line of sight that would allow them to see the strange man, woman, perhaps something else entirely, amble past them. It's steps careful; almost mechanical. It would not stop, rather the click of their heels against the floor as well as a strange low whir was all that could be heard as they passed. It's mission, a mystery.
They would continue to the archway, the place that separates them from the rest of the Cloister. Without hesitation they would cross and moments later they would see a trio of beautiful women emerge from the hearth into the reading room. It is possible they would be recognized by both of them, not that they seemed to be particularly relevant at the time, They were just the entertainers.
They would have a line of sight that would allow them to see the strange man, woman, perhaps something else entirely, amble past them. It's steps careful; almost mechanical. It would not stop, rather the click of their heels against the floor as well as a strange low whir was all that could be heard as they passed. It's mission, a mystery.
They would continue to the archway, the place that separates them from the rest of the Cloister. Without hesitation they would cross and moments later they would see a trio of beautiful women emerge from the hearth into the reading room. It is possible they would be recognized by both of them, not that they seemed to be particularly relevant at the time, They were just the entertainers.
Some stories should never be told...
Sitting Room
"She’s gone." Vladimir admitted immediately. The words came out too fast, sharper than intended. Vladimir’s gaze dropped to the corner of the book where the pages were still curling from his grip. His voice, when it returned, was lower.
"I haven’t seen Morgantha since I was turned. No word. No whisper. Just… gone." It was not particularly uncommon in his family. He had no sisters but several brothers. Most of the prominent people in his family were men. The women, well they were generally 'troubled.'
He let the silence fill the space between that and his next thought. He hadn't meant to sound so bitter, so abandoned. But it lingered anyway, acrid and real. It was not that he had any love for her, she was hardly a maternal figure. She was not gentle, nor was she kind. She was a political move on his father's part and she was well-aware of her role: be seen and enjoy the comforts of the Athanatos name. A witch and a vampire, or so she claimed, the union was meant to be a spectacle. A reason for the magical world to talk about how modern the ancient family had become. They still had their pure blooded heirs, but they were 'tolerant.' He wondered if she ever had an actual opinion.
"You asked if she was hurt drawing it out of me," he added, almost absently. "I don’t think she was. But I was. Whatever she did, whatever I became, it wasn’t a clean crossing. I came back wrong." He concluded. His experience did not align with Howard's in the least. What was a blood thrall after-all. Perhaps it was closer to what was on the tin for him. A thrall, one that was in a state of servitude or submission.
A shadow passed behind the tall man's eyes.
"Three days," he confirmed. "But I wasn’t dead or asleep, even if it seemed like I was. I was dreaming the entire time. Not hearing the words in people's heads for once, but never silence. I was dreaming Someone else’s dreams. Voices I couldn’t place, thoughts I never thought. They haven’t stopped. They just… got quieter. Better at hiding." Merlin, he sounded cracked. But he was certain of only a few things in this world and his sanity was among them.
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, the weight of confession heavy in his shoulders. "You said it’s like sharing your brain with another you," he repeated. "That’s not it. Not for me." He was trying to explain the aftermath with a context he could not liken to anything he knew.
Vladimir turned slightly, face half in shadow, the firelight clawing at the edges of his cheekbones. "I don’t feel like I’m split in two," he said, and now his voice was distant. "I feel like I’m a marionette, only I don’t notice the strings until someone pulls."
He exhaled through his nose, his jaw set. "I nearly killed Aamon," his little brother. Well, half-brother, "a few months ago." He did not elaborate, he just added "and my cousin too." He was referring to Erin, but he did not use her name. The chains did not do much. ((Thought for @Mathias Pride and @Evelynn Decipio)) Crushed three ribs, broke a hand.
There was no guilt in his voice. Not because he wasn’t guilty, but because he hadn’t allowed himself to feel it yet. It was still buried under a sense that might be fear. No, he knew fear. He laid in bed with fear and faced his fate. This was not fear, this was helplessness. Not helplessness like impending death. He knew that too. This was a feeling that his body was not his own, not anymore, not truly.
"It wasn’t bloodlust," he admitted. "Or some feral craving," he wanted to consume the twirling ladies in the ballroom and a part of him believed he could and they would even thank him in the end. But no. "It wasn't bloodlust because I was not there." ((Thought for @Mathias Pride and @Evelynn Decipio))
They tried chaining him, marking the floors. But he broke out. "The evening was over in the blink of an eye and the house was in shambles, Erin was bleeding and Aamon was hiding." It was like someone had rehearsed the steps and just used his body to dance them.
His hands curled into fists on his knees. "In any case, I guess not quite the same," he admitted. "But I have to admit, something about dying is pretty humbling." He forced a laugh that was not wholly genuine. it just felt like something needed to fill the space thereafter.
Aamon
Sitting Room
@Solomon Lear
Howard simply nodded when Vladimir claimed their creator had abandoned him soon after his turning. While he was still unsure how he truly felt about Morgantha, it did leave a bitter note in his mouth when thought of his own transformation. The young Dhampir had awoken no longer fully human, yearning for something that felt terrifying and delightful all at once. Howard's creator apparently had little motherly instinct when it came to her thralls however as she was gone from his life as quick as Vladimir's. He had returned to Hogwarts in a dire state and it was only because of the caring hands of the staff that Howard has stood a chance.
While he felt a sense of abandonment and resentment towards his creator, there was also a sense of family when Howard thought of Morgantha. She had stolen part of his humanity to save herself, but she had also offered him life in that same moment. She could have drained him fully and left a corpse behind for the caretaker to discover, but something within her drove her to show mercy. That was always the fact that drove Howard mad sometimes. Was this all a gift or was he just the by product of another being trying to survive? Was it both? Howard couldn't imagine being anything other than a Dhampir now. His future as a human sucked dry long ago, but did he really miss it? Would he change it if he could? Howard looked to Vladimir and saw a being of immense power and he would never tire of feeling that within himself. "She's not big on aftercare" The young man said with a shrug.
Howard blinked away the thought as Vladimir continued. The blood curse that haunted so many Hogwart's students apparently had no effect on the Dhampir. Curious, but irrelevant now that it had been cured. It still made his mind spin that Vlad had such a terrible turning. What could that mean? Why would it be different for some than others? It was something he had never even considered before. "I don't remember dreaming when I was unconscious and I don't have voices in my head, dude. Are you sure that is a result of the Dhampirism?" Vlad did indeed sound a bit mad, but everything about this world was mad. "It sounds like you've been cursed. Like the Imperious Curse or whatever." Howard wasn't a star student, but most kids at least remembered the unforgivable's.
Howard wasn't sure how to handle Vlad's confession as the other man spoke in a very matter of fact way. He too had harmed people before when compelled by his undead urges, so he tried not to judge, but to target family? And it wasn't the thirst that compelled him? It wasn't adding up. "I don't really know many other Dhampirs. There were others at school." Just a few, but none he had gotten to know well. "But I don't think it should be like that. Do you have a way to talk to Morgantha? Maybe she can help?" It was a stretch, but who else could they turn to?
The laugh that they shared was pretty hollow. Dying and living to tell about it left a mark. Howard and Vlad were an unlikely pair. There was no telling if they would ever speak again after this evening, but they shared something. If it was enough to bond them would be seen in time or perhaps right this moment.
A bizarre figure caught the corner of Howard's eyes. Vladimir would most likely see the perplexed look on his face as he stared past him towards the archway. "You see that?" Howard asked as he pointed. Now emerging from the hearth and into the reading room were three women. The figure may have already passed, but did they know this trio? "Is that...?"
Action: Does Howard recognize the women?
Stats: STA - 17 | EVA - 21 | STR - 17 | WIS - 1 | ARC - 0 | ACC - 21
Abilities: Fangs, Claw & Bite | Martial Artist | Unsettling Aura | Blindvision | Keen Smell | Terrible Presence | Blood Resurrection