RP:The Return of the Elder, Part 2

From HollowWiki

Part of the Rest in Pieces: Vailkrin! Arc



Summary: Daermon returns to Vailkrin, a shell of his former self. Desiccated and barely recognizable, the elder lurks in a darkened corner of the establishment. His desire to blend in and remain unnoticeable doesn't seem to work on the Lady of House Dragana though, and thus the two become caught between past and present as they discuss the banshee's current predicament.

This is Part 2 of the RP, which has been split into two parts for easier reading.

The Dark Forest

The specter's head dips nearer the male's own, ghostly lips a mere breath's touch away from his own. "Take my blood into your own body; truly become a member of House Dragana; share my bloodline and my madness," she answers, her voice a soft, lulling whisper. "Show me that your loyalty is truly mine; that you support my vision of what Vailkrin will be. Help me to unify what is left of my House and to bring the undead together as a force once more."

That was a tall, unexpected order. He didn’t shrink back from the specter, nor did he close the small space. His eyes burned as they watched hers. “That poses great risks to us both. It’s not often two elders join bloodlines in that way.” he says, careful consideration in his tone. “And is that even safe for you now? What would the potential flux do to your body?” he says, turning enough to wave a hand at her crumpled shell, the shell that was holding back destruction and death. He was quiet for a long moment. “You would trust me that close after everything?” he asks, softly, the words seeming to have a great weight behind them. “With how close I am to Pilar, with my own failings and everything else…why?” he asks, needing to know, so very curious.

"If you meant to end me, you'd have already made the motion to do so. I am a ghost. What could I possibly be capable of?" Larewen's query is rhetorical in nature. Even in this form, the necromancer has found a measure of power and a way to control it. The gouged shoulder lifs and for a moment, her throat melds seamlessly with the wound that nearly removed her head. "You have a choice, Daermon. One I suspect you've already made, simply by daring to step into Vailkrin after it has spent so much time under the influence of my will." Her head cants to the side, studying the sallow features of his face. There's sorry to be felt there, in seeing another elder reduce himself to something so pitiful. She raises a cold hand, this time to place her palm flat against his cheek. The pad of her thumb traces the line of his cheekbone, as if to accentuate the flaw she sees so clearly. "Do you continue to purpetuate this false romanticization of our kind? Or do you return to your base nature? To help redeem our kind? To remind others of what we are, of what we've seen, of the power we hold. The Holy Ones once feared the dead. They sought to eradicate us. Now, we do their job for them."

Once again he found her hand touching him. He didn’t recall Larewen being this touchy before…but it had been some time since anyone touched him in a fond manner, so it wasn’t wholly unpleasant. “You’ve always been an elitist. From the moment I met you, I knew that. That day so long ago when I came, told you that I’d been sent to spy and infiltrate and instead, joined you. You let me down then you know. All your talk of plans…I was eager at first. But as you were swept into one thing after the next, as you were distracted…I let myself drift away and pursued my own far smaller pleasures. I failed you as well. Yes, I’ve made my choice. I’m tired of playing. I left because I was tired of the games. Perhaps it is time to try something…new. Or old in this case. Will I still be free to come and go as I please? To speak to those you find undesirable, like Pilar? I’d hear her side of the story. I can’t say I blame her for some of it. I once thought that your madness would force my hand against you.” he admits, feeling almost foolish to say so much while the wraith watched, her spectral hand on his cheek. She could likely end him now if she chose it.

Larewen would be lying if she claimed not to be tempted so sorely into doing just that. Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth and slowly she withdraws her hand. "Acceptance does not mean trust, Daermon. I faltered, yes. I dared to fall in love. I dared to try and bring something I'm not, and during those trying times are when those that profess to love and care about me turned against me. Did you know I gave Emrith my heart? I ripped it out of my chest, giving him means to end me with the closing of his fist because I was so desperate to be what everyone else wanted me to be, if it meant that I'd have him. My punishment was the first of many tortures I'd endure, because I dared to hope while those I relied on reminded me precisely why I was so callous before. You have always been free to do as you wish. If you feel Pilar needs to justify her side of things, if you feel there is justification in the way I was martyred for what I am, then you do not believe in me or my cause. I cannot stop you from doing what you will. My madness now is far worse than it ever was before, but it is of the most delectable sort." Still, those mismatched eyes remained on his even as she relinquished her touch. That, too, was an echo of a maimed creature desperately seeking something to cling to. A familiar touch to nullify the all too present ache of loneliness that afflicts all who live for eternity. "The choice is yours." There is an underlying chill to those final words, but she makes no attempt to sway him.

Daermon listened as she laid bare bits he’d heard secondhand, but never from her. “You already know I made my choice. For good or ill. I can’t say that I completely believe in you or your cause. You know me, know the doubts I harbor, always. The struggle I have. Once, I offered to listen, to be there. Once you took me up on it, briefly. I didn’t offer out of fear, or duty. I offered because you know me perhaps better than any other. You know what it means to live centuries. That is rare and it changes you.” his eyes seemed to burn with a cold fire. “We’re all mad in different ways. I once sought to bury my own with decadence. You sought to bury yours with love. A fine pair we make.” he says, near bitter. “I have loved and been broken or left so very many times. It never gets easier. Even when I sought to make a companion for the long years, they all manage to leave too. So yes, I will join you properly, as I never did. I will support your madness and you. You need help, a hand to occasionally move yours either to, or from the hilt of the blade. I can do that.” he knelt then, bowing his head. “Let me fulfill a promise given a long time ago.” he says, and if his bared neck was proof of his trust, then he didn’t know what was.

Larewen watches as he speaks, her eyes focused upon the rise and fall of his throat as he articulates his words. When he kneels down before her and bears his throat, she takes to her knees and reaches out once more. Pale, ghostly fingers coil beneath his chin as she nudges his icy gaze upwards to meet her own dual-colored stare. The madness that holds her body glimmers darkly in their depths. "You are right in your concern about merging our bloodlines at this precise moment. Especially considering that in order to accomplish that, I would need to reinhabit my body. To do so, would once more bind me and I am not so selfish as to take back what is mine at the destruction of Vailkrin," she says, coolly. "When Corruption is once more bound and I have taken ownership of myself once more, the ritual will be done properly. For now though, you need sustanance. Bloodcraze is not the type of madness we elders need succumb to." To punctuate her words, the banshee extends a hand in the direction of her body - or more pointedly the corrupted pool beneath her. With a gentle song, she coaxes it to her bidding and, cupping her hands together, allows the blackened ichor to pool in the palms of her hands. She offers it to Daermon then, like a chalice with the promise of a fine wine within, for him to drink from. "This may call to your darker nature, but it will help revitalize you, too."

He could feel her gaze and as she coiled her fingers under his chin, raising his gaze, he meet those eyes again. He listened, but couldn’t help a ghost of that old charming smile of his. “There are easier was to get me to ‘merge’ with you.” he teases, injecting a little levity into the tense moment. “I can find-“ he started, but then, she was pooling the black ichor into her hands. He met her gaze steadily. Trust. This was the first test of the newfound loyalty. He had to trust that it wasn’t something that would kill him as he drank, and so, finding faith in something different, in a change, he cupped his hands over hers and directed the spill of the black liquid into his mouth, his throat working as he drank it down.

The faintest hint of amusement curls the corner of Larewen's mouth at his jesting, but she appears to make nothing of it. Still feeding off of Daermon's magic, the banshee's as good as tangible and thus he finds it easy enough to cup her hands in his. As he drains the dark fluid, it works its way through him, seemingly replenishing several aspects of his desiccated being. Corruption in liquid form, despite its cloying, putrid stench, is like a fine wine, pleasing to the palatte and willing to fulfill one's darkest desires and deepest needs. Nourishment, in this case. He may even feel the shadows within him strengthen as he drinks of her blood. When he's finished, he'll find the matron's eyes still upon his. She is not bothered by the cursed blood that mars her ghastly appendages, anymore than she is the remnants that linger on his chin when she pulls her hand away. She takes advantage of her tangibility, of their nearness, and though she draws no breath, her chest seems to expand with an inward draw and deflate with exhalation. The banshee dips toward the elder vampire, mouth pressing to his in a desperate bid to taste her own blood, to truly feel it once more. A futile effort, as there's nowhere for it to go, but he may yet feel the coolness of her touch, of air manipulated by a presence that is otherwise ethereal.

There was a sound of popping, and cracking, like when a lycan changed into their bestial form as his muscles grew back to the size that they had been locked in for so many years. His body took the blood, the corruption and made it into mass and power that he’d been without. His vampiric form was the default template and the blood helped to bring it back, to reset his body. He stayed crouched and knelt as his form shifted under his clothes, writhing as he filled back out. When it was done, he did feel better and as she leaned forward, moving to taste, to touch that which she couldn’t really, he couldn’t help a little laugh. “You’re a little too late for that.” he says, knowing that she couldn’t possibly have that which she wanted. “I’ll make you a deal though. This all goes well, and you get your body back, you can have a bit of my blood in that very manner, if you want.” his eyes sparkled with the offer as he wiped the last of her blood from his lip, then, rubbed the thumb along her ghostly lips, curious to see what would happen. Would it pass thru her? Would it stain her ghostly form?

A smirk finds its place upon her lips, even as his finger brushes over the cold air that is little more than an illusion. Instead, the blood remains on his finger - albeit a tad bit more dry than it was previously. "You do enjoy playing with fire, don't you? For a man so cold?" she replies, and though her tone appears to be oddly upbeat, there is a pained sadness in her words. In reality, the necromancer worries whether or not she'll truly be able to return to her body. Without the curse engraved upon her bones, upon her flesh, her mood has become exceptionally mercurial, more so than before when her temperaments comprised of grumpy, grumpier, and grumpiest. Instead, her hand practices a familiar motion robbed from before she became incorporeal and finds the back of his, seeking to press the blood-spattered appendagae against her cheek and aware that she will not feel it. The woman is capable of being afraid, that is more than clear in her present appearance. "I don't know how much longer I can stand this form. The living think undeath to be eternal damnation, to be a torment and hell. Being between those two is far, far worse."

His hand moved in hers as she wished. “I once spoke to you of the loneliness, though now, perhaps I am uniquely able to help with the loneliness you have now. I’ve known a different kind of solitude.” He watched her, and worry was written upon his face. He felt…he felt her more than ever before. “Then perhaps the very first thing we should work on with me part of the team, is getting your body back.” his words, though serious, offer little bits of levity as he had before, knowing that sometimes, in the cold and dark, it was all you had. “Besides, how can I properly thank you if you don’t have a body? And as you well know, I always work extra hard to when a woman and her body is involved.”

"There's the Daermon I recall," she says softly, mirth teasing at her voice. Her expression shifts more seriously. "But it has always been loneliness. For what is the hunger for power, but to draw attention to yourself? I feared it for far too long, expecting to find it around every corner. Loneliness, like a bug infestation, multiplies when left to its own devices. I sought to remedy that by covering it up, to deny its existance by fooling myself into believing I needed someone, when really I held the final say. We are social creatures becausse we need the blood of others, because we have little else to do with our time, and because our kind are the perfect masochists."

The man smiled, and gave a one shouldered shrug and dip of his head. “I don’t disagree. But I would hope that you realize you don’t have to be so lonely now. I might not have been reliable in the past, but things have changed, I have changed, and I have a new perspective. I won’t judge, can empathize, likely more than you know and am always willing to listen. So let’s share the madness, the loneliness and when you are in your body, perhaps a nice meal. Maybe a redhead.” he suggests with a playful grin, which slipped when he looked down upon her form. “I wish I could do something now.” he admits, kneeling beside her form, inspecting the wounds. “It’s been a long time since I’ve played the scholar, but perhaps there lies a secret in a tome somewhere that could help."

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm blessed not to be a redhed," the banshee remarks offhandedly. As Daermon's attention moves to her body, she watches silently. Her draw on his magic fades and she disappears from sight, opting to take at least a brief rest. She'd sit, but that's pointless. Instead, the entity simply hovers there as the other elder studies her corpse. "I have an idea, and I've left it to the Necromancer's Guild to take the next step. If they don't... well, there's another one, too. It'd be dangerous and risky, but if all else fails... With your help, I believe it can be done."

"Oh come now Larewen...I like all the colors of the rainbow." he teases with a saucy wink before he feels her vanish for a moment as his eyes look over her form. "Then if they don't, or cannot, I would be willing to facilitate. It's the least I could do with my newfound committment I'd say." he says, looking up to the shade from his kneeling position. "Should I ask for the details now, or wait to see if the guild will solve it?"

"I believe we can craft a prison for it using a soul stone and magic similar to that which would be put in use for creating a phylactery," she replies, her mood shifting into that manner of hers that tends to be a bit more strictly business. Pleasures of the flesh are beyond her presently and, given her frustration, it's an easier route to take. "Once that is done, we will need individuals to help keep Corruption from fleeing whilst I reinhabit my body and then, with the aid of the Guild, bind it to the prison." Her brow furrows slightly. "If that fails, then I will take hold of my body once more. You will be needed, obviously. I am capable of moving my head without weakening the barrier, and I believe I can use the power created by merging our bloodlines to create another temporary barrier to hold it whilst I craft the prison myself."

A nod then, "I'm sure we can work it out. I'm not just devilishly handsome you know. I'm fairly sharp. And handy with a blade. You tell me where to be, what you need, and I'll see it done. My blood is yours. I'll be sure that I'm more...fit by the time you'll need it. Should help." he looked again to the Corruption. "I might have some old notes about something similar to a phylactery. If I can find them, I'll pass them along. For a time, my soul belonged to another and while seperated, I was very hard to kill."

Larewen arches a brow, not that the gesture can be seen considering she's chosen to once more become invisible. "That will be handy, certainly," she says after a moment's contemplation. Then, in pure Larewen fashion, her voice shifts to something colder. "Do not cross me again, Daermon. I would hate to have to come for you, as well."

Daermon nods again, though he couldn't see the shade just then. "It's weird talking to thin air. But then, I suppose it's not the oddest thing I've ever done." Her threat hung in the air for a moment. "I would hate that as well, as contrary to the way I looked earlier, I do enjoy living." he grew more somber. "You have my word Larewen...I am here for you now." he says and would have touched her again, had she been tangible.

The thing about being a spectre and not visible to the naked eye is that it's all too easy to slip away without being noticed, barring that one's companion is sensitive to the supernatural. In this case, unaware of the fact Daermon might have wanted to touch her again, the ghastly echo of the woman whose body sits trapped quickly departs to continue her studies, to continue moving forward. To get her body back and protect Vailkrin, no matter the cost.