â I just find the topic interesting, thatâs all. â - A finish to a lasting conversation, sat down besides a couple of tomes neatly scattered across the table, though just bordering on exiting his own personal space. Leaned up against the edge of the mahogany, a calm smile spread across his features. As he spent a multitude of his days, flipping through the pages of a book to widen his expanse of knowledge, as any good man should. Of course, these evening studies almost never gone uninterrupted, as he occasionally took a break to converse with the local librarian. Just as his focus were about Victorian medical practices, it results in becoming the main topic of discussion. It werenât too uncommon to find Laurence taking up a book based from that specific time era, but more recently, itâs become more of a habit to pick up the first antiqued text off of the shelf, almost as though he were attached to it.
.. Ah, yes. That reminded him of another topic, as he piped up once more, closing the book he had in hand with a soft clap of leather. â Speaking of, have you any texts on dreams? Iâm afraid my nights have been plagued by nightmares of recent. â
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The warm-palettes of the french cafe warmed up to him immediately, just as soon as he stepped inside. Though his day had been rather - mysterious, and he himself just as flighty. His mind as though it were regressing back to his more bleaker days, before he had adapted more than the label âamnesiac.â No answers, no way to go about it, nothing more than urges and mimics of what should had been, of things that he hadnât even known beforehand. He sought to catch a rest from whatever impulses heâd been getting, and there were no better therapeutic treatment for oneâs self than a good coffee and a table to rest at, waiting in line to order a warm cup of tea. Leaving some dollars upon the counter, he received his drink, and was quick to find a seat.
And he would had gone, except he found a seat besides one a bit more familiar, and - quite a coincidence, considering his last comparison. And who were he to ignore a friend, whilst he had the time to rest his aching mind? Smalltalk, while exhausting, had usually left him with just enough satisfaction. Changing his mind just as swiftly to sit himself besides the blonde law student. His name was all but lost, and it only took him a few seconds to bring it back to mind. Laurenceâs smile broadened, as he approached, shedding his displeased expression with one more open.Â
â A sight for sore eyes - is that you, Enjolras? Itâs been too long, how have you been? â
DROWNING THE BACKGROUNDÂ sound has become a luxury that hecould finally afford. reawakening with what he knows now. index finger tappingon a half full glass of blended malt scotch. Already intaking two prior to this,the sight of a particular name etched on the flesh of his arm only urged him tofinish his third. that name resonated in his mind like a karmic reminder ; howmany lives had to be lost in order for him to live ? no amount of alcohol couldmake sense of it , and due to his own tolerance there is only a slight buzz and the ghosts of the past haunted hisreverie.
lagging down the bartender subtly.Â
â iâll take another scotch , neat. â setting the glass down for it to be taken away for another fill â he became painfully aware of another person within his vicinity. not drunk enough to be unaware , but he chose to ignore it for now.Â
The flow of his coat tails behind him as the door creaks over, flashing him with bright lights that contrast with the dark hues of his shawl and coat. Though the coat had been in his closet for ample time, the cloak-let that veils his shoulders is but a new addition to the antiqued attire. Though, when donned upon his person, it feels almost nostalgic, for reasons unbeknownst to himself, just as he neared the bar counter, something felt amiss. He as never one for beer, much more inclined to a good bottle of red wine.
And red wine is why he had come, of course, he wonât be finding a luxury bottle just lying around in wait for the right man to come along and take it, no. Heâs come to taste his own buds, and though he was unfamiliar with pubs having not taken much time to enjoy the atmosphere of any which one, he thought heâd start off with something basic. He found himself sitting just besides the stranger, taking a glance to the glass besides him. - Sure, scotch sounds good.
â Iâll have what heâs having. â Words spoken, producing a few bucks from his side.
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â Beg pardon, but are you open? Iâve.. Quite the urgent commission waiting here. âÂ
A voice from behind the window of the shop, his eyes attempting to scour the interior for any man or woman on shift within. He didnât seem particularly panicked, but merely alarmed. If he were packing, itâd be over the horrendous flashback to a time that never happened - or, shouldnât be able to have happened in the first place.
A firm grasp around the bandages that wrap around his thin wrist, obscuring skin all the way up to his elbow from the unusually large font that seemed to appear in the blink of an eye. Though the blackout just a few hours earlier had overshadowed such developments, it withstands with more pressure, it being one of the more physical changes that Laurence had suddenly undergone. If it were only just the mark left upon his arm, then he would had merely covered it like a blemish with use of foundation. However, with glass splinters making their mark upon his rather pale skin, he found that the task to brush it over with a brush to be pestiferous, with stinging pains all around.
Whoever had been behind this entire fiasco would be sure to pay, as staining his skin is a surefire way to trouble the man. He tugged at the strings of his lips, attempting to present the best uncomfortable smile he could offer, loitering by the entrance of the tattoo parlor. - He was never a fan of their work, while he could admire the craftsmanship from afar when it came to branding ink upon flesh he couldnât help but wince at the thought. However, if it were a tattoo that had suddenly granted itself a place upon his limb, then someone who specialized in the field would be able to handle such a worrisome case. And, why. Perhaps heâd even be so generous to pay a little tip, for such hard work in the morning, where the sun just barely began to shine over his shoulder.
â Iâll treat you a coffee if youâd be so kind to let me procure your services. â
he could feel the untended chill of air breeze across his skin as the heater shut down. a sudden frost of the winterâs bitterness down with the glass of water heâd just poured a second before. now, a cemetery of appliances lay around him for nothing more than a second. however, the tutorâs mind whizzed through thought in even less - did something break? a wire, perhaps the start of an electricity fire? where was the box, who was going to fix it? - that all came to an abrupt pause as soon as the overhead lights flickered on, illuminating his morning attire - dressed up in only so far a blouse and dress-pants, as it were only so early in the morning. a sigh of relief escaped him, his worries eased. despite the convenient repair, he wasnât entirely satisfied. what if it were to happen again, after all? in a time where times were just slightly more urgent? he made note to make an extra round to the back of the house just to make certain, dousing the aforementioned glass. he was already turning to head out the back door, before he could even feel the glass break upon the tiles of his kitchen floor. scraping by those shards, with the most minimal of cuts suffered. and yet, he barely bled, no - he could remember why. not how, not why it was like that, but why was it so -
when he had first arrived to rome it wasnât through bus nor tram, more awakening with sand in his mouth and hair, doused in the sea water just behind him and emerging from the shores of a beach not far off from the city. his hip and everything below dead-weight, nothing more than aching - burning muscle - dragging just behind him as he crawled along the shore, mindless, clueless to his surroundings. like his legs, his mind was scorched. scorched and touched with flames that roused through every nook and cranny that couldâve carried a coherent thought, now disarrayed and hopeless to ever resurface as it rots away unspoken and dragged down into the depths of his own subconscious. maybe a whimper, no - not even words, but merely the growl of a haughty animal that had finally been cornered. but even then, there were no words needed to describe the feeling of falling back asleep, the fear of going back - but to where? where was before? it wasnât something he could remember, almost as though there were chains pulling the mouth of his mind apart, ripping those jaws apart to keep him from making even the most humanest sound. the last he saw were the figure of two fishermen coming close, before he fell back asleep again, and awaken under bright lights.
his name is laurence. there is no record of a surname under any legal documentation. if he had a mother, her face had been lost to time. he was on a ship. it crashed, somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. he was lucky and got washed ashore. his legs were badly burnt and were fractured, he had to sit in bed for months in an endless white room with no halls that could ever be exited. his mind was still blank, as though those words meant something, and at the same time, they were nothing to him. and yet, he was remembering something different, something almost unreal, something of much more fire than he could ever begin dreaming of, with much more wails and far too much fur. he remembers the way it licked at his very bones, in the internal clockwork of his misshapen, beastly anatomy. the way his antlers stung and rung drills through his skull as he attempted sleep, oh - how dead sleep had become in those times unforgotten. his fingers grasped for the cement between the tiles, clawing at them with human nails. vivid fantasies, such turmoil that while had only entered his life now, in such a terrible way, it was only that of a single memory. a moment in time that felt as though it would stretch on forever, and in that moment felt ever more real than the life he had been living.
he had a title. he had a title. an honored one, one that brought men to their knees and he could feel it, he knew it, there was something just hidden under his tongue, just in the blind side of an eye, under the nose and in every obscured corner. and yet, nothing came up.
hey guys its me, the one that only plays as laurence. back at it again with the same muse, but this time i get to explain bits about his memories! of which i will definitely be writing about in the future. im open to plot and generally do anything with this muse, and will do anything for this muse i will read pride and prejudice if it means i can finally use better dialogue. anyways i -
( miles mcmillian. cismale. bloodborne. ) It looks like LAURENCE THE FIRST VICAR has been transported to Rome, Italy. HE is AN UNKNOWN AMOUNT OF YEARS, BUT SEEMINGLY AROUND HIS LATEÂ THIRTIESÂ years old and are currently working as a PRIVATE TUTOR in the city. Their mark indicates they are bonded to JOSEPH SEED, revealing some memories to HIM.
BUT WHO IS HE REALLY? :EYES:
laurence is the first vicar (as in his name), of the healing church. hailing from a college that specialized in archeology - more specifically the depths of whatâs now called the âchalice dungeonsâ, a labyrinth home to once a proud race of superhuman-like entities, now wiped out with only remnants and corpses. after a schism caused within the college, he drops out with few of his followers, then founding an organization near the victorian century city of yharnam, they grew in power as they began to mass distribute the all-curing medium, which was blood.
special blood. more specifically, blood of the great ones, elevated beings that exist within higher existences than the third-dimensional plane, keepers to eldritch knowledge of the universe, things humanity were not supposed to touch. through ingesting their blood, they cure any ailment that a patient suffers, though at a cost. the blood, diluted with the blood of our own, is an addictive substance, causing much of yharnam to fall dependent upon the churchâs supply of blood. itâs more disastrous effects happen not long after, as those drunk on blood lose their humanity, transforming into beasts on hind-legs or all four. the beastly scourge breaks out, and even laurence, the founder of the healing church, transforms into one of the worst of monsters, a cleric beast. not a man with fur, but a hulking giant, with horns that sprout and an ever-wailing screech.
laurence, like any beast, is executed swiftly, and his consciousness - or soul, falls into the hunterâs nightmare - a pocket dimension he had a part of crafting by proxy. his mind - his memories, gone, erased, as so was the last straws of his humanity. his fur coated in flames that burn through his skin and bones, now left to forever long for his human skull - an item that only exists within the nightmare realm, a symbol of everything he had failed to protect, though if he were to ever find it, it would never restore his mind.
upon his entrance into rome - heâs believes himself to be a recovering amnesiac that had apparently âwashed up on shoreâ one day, working as a private tutor recovering what was once his brilliance, bit by bit.
WORST MEMORIES:
1. the fishing hamlet | having been there to witness and even assist the hunters stationed in the hamlet, laurence was a perpetrator of the massacre that occured there. the corpse of a great one - Kos - had washed up upon the fishing hamletâs shores, and upon hearing word, byrgenwerth scholars had been sent to raid and mutilate the local villagers in search of finding any sort of evidence of âascensionâ in the villagerâs brains. poking holes in their skulls to search for extra eyes inside their brains, laurence was likely one of the surgically inclined to making those careful holes. though, his greatest crime was experimentation on the orphan of kos. the great one, kos - died with a child, who was bordering between dead and alive within the beingâs womb. the school, craving the depths of cosmic knowledge, took this infant great one for immoral experiments. eventually, itâs umbilical cord was taken out of itâs being. this nefarious act had gotten him, the entirety of byrgenwerth, and anything that spawns from the institution and everything that spawns from even that to be cursed, to fall into a pocket dimension, home to the infant great one that never saw the sun, forever true. laurence fortunately has only vague memories, though from what wisps of agony and sobs he could remember, a wave of nausea hits him with certain remorse for the âsceneâ he could just faintly remember.
2. âthe nameless moon presence beckoned by laurence and his associates.â  | after a beckoning of a great one - the moon presence, a being that he had speculated, theorized, to be the very source of the beastly scourge - the thing that he sought hard to find an antibody for -, and the same being that snatched up his closet friend, taking him to the moon, with a promise to return him home. he took a disregard for morale, after that, poisoning whatâs now old yharnamâs water supply with a disease called âashen bloodâ, which can only be treated with the churchâs blood supply - a multiplication of beasts, and all the more that he and the church could study. pushing himself to his limits in attempt to find something that could allow him to control the beastly scourge, even if it meant that he had to sacrifice countless lives.
3. beastsâ embrace. | a quote from the Paleblood Hunt: âÂ
In the Grand Cathedral of the Healing Church, the First Vicar committed the Embrace to memory, the Oath Rune burned into his mind. Â With this he would take control over the Scourge, put an end to the Hunts, master the Old Blood, guide humanity to the next stage of human evolution, and free his best friend from the control of the Great Ones. Â This is what everything had been for. Â All the dead victims, all the unspeakable crimes, leaving Byrgenwerth, exploring the Labyrinth, founding the Healing Church; everything in his life had been for this. Â Everything lead to this one moment; for this, it would be all worth it. Â But it was not to be.
On that day, the Healing Church changed forever.  Laurence became the first Cleric Beast, a creature the likes of which the Healing Church had never encountered.  This was not simply a person who had grown fangs and hair, this was a true monster. â
BEST MEMORY.
1. a bottle of regret, yet still full of memories. | the day he and few other scholars discovered what would become the downfall of himself. and yet, it was a miracle to him, one that exceeded unlimited potential - finding the blood of the old ones was one that he had not ever dreamed of. it was that day that lead to the fall of yharnam but to him, it was the day he became him. however, there had been.. many more times. he knows there should had been. and yet, his mind, filled with naught but his crimes and sins, can only remember a single joyful moment.
âCurse here, Curse there. Curse for he and she, why care? A bottomless curse, a bottomless sea, source of all greatness, all things that be. Listen for the baneful chants. Weep with them, as one in trance. And weep with us, oh, weep with us.â
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Tessa stayed where she was, her expression soft and patient as she raised her hands, hoping to show him she meant no harm. In the minute of silence the immortal let herself examine his garments and body, looking for injury. Whatever robe she had been wearing had long since fallen apart, though they spoke of an age she was familiar with. Meeting his eyes, she waited till he spoke, settling on her knees in front of him.
âYouâre in Paris, though Iâm going to guess youâre also here in a time and world thatâs not your own. If you will let me, I can help warm you? I want to help you, if I can.â Tessaâs voice was soft, the warlock careful to continue leaving herself open and vulnerable to the frightened man. She was quick with her spells, so if things did turn violent she wouldnât be at too much of a disadvantage, but she wanted him to relax a bit.  âItâs..I believe 2018 hereâŚ.what time are you from? Your clothing looks to be from the 1800â˛sâŚ.that was the time I was born into.â
Paris. Thatâs not too far from Yharnam during itâs more mundane periods - a mere three-week trip. From what he could remember, the Vicar lacked any substantial presence nor connection to France - besides some visits and other doctoral appointments made in the past. But this was a Paris that heâd never seen before, with mechanical lights illuminating the streets and buildings, in contrast to the dank streets heâd been adjusted to. But, at least the news did seem to stick; as could be seen by his shifting eyes, tracing along the cracks of the ground below him, to the side of a building wall. With delayed reaction, he offered a notably vacillate nod. His mind, fuzzy and wracked, could still hold some form of reason.Â
Despite that. there was one last word he was hanging onto, â he was here in a time not his own. â not to say that he didnât expected time to pass for years and years since his downfall, but he couldnât help but feel incredulous about that time-frame. His brow creased, ever so out of breath and exhausted, Laurence gave an uncomfortable grin - the type that comes from a joke so bad - so ridiculous, that itâs become comedic. â .. Hah. Haha--, Surely, you jest. Thereâs.. I shouldnât be here, no, no.. Thisâs.. This is another dream, isnât it? Another horrid dream, less fire, yes, an agreeable change, â he sputters midway, a cough interjects - some freshwater from his mouth,â-- Iâd like to stay in the cold, just for a longer while. If you would explain to me on how this had happened, Iâd be somewhat relieved. â
Tessa was simply walking through the city when she noticed the man laying prone at the riverside. The warlock had been doing her best to assist people throughout her long life, and this was no exception. Maneuvering her way down to the man, she reached out to gently touch the manâs shoulder, speaking softly.  âSir? Are you alrightâŚâ Â
Suddenly he was moving, rearing back and looking at her with fear and horror it seemed. Tessa withdrew, but not far, her grey eyes studying him with worry.  âMy name is Tessa Gray. I saw you lying here and decided to come see if I could help you. Are you alright? You must be freezing cold.â
He could feel the stare, and he dreaded it. Having become accustomed to years of years from many a hunter attempting to perform their greatest mercy, each with a familiar, blood-hungry. Though, he was still mobile enough to keep any madman from severing his head off from his shoulders. His arm reflexively raised up, shielding his own face away. The rest of his raiment was clear as the light of day, unfortunately.
In tatters, flays wrap around their angle - robes ruined and singed into a crisp burnt beige from what seemed to have been white, a long long time ago. His attire identified him as ânot from this eraâ, reminiscent of garb popularized by men of the cloth during Queen Victoriaâs rule. Though, it wasnât exactly as that, either. That aside, Laurence hadnât spoken for a whole minute until his composure returned, and then spoke no louder than a cough, wary of stutters,  â .. Yes, I.. Havenât felt so cold, not in a while. Where am I ? â
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Itâs been a while since his last slumber. The very first in decades - and who was to blame him for taking his sweet time along the river-side? Convinced he was dead, and nothing but - even as he felt the friction of cobblestone drag across his shredded, burnt robes, he wouldnât even so budge his eyelids open. Alas, his coma wasnât perpetual, and Laurence was bound to awaken to his newfound circumstances.
And he acted as such, his spine jolted forward, followed by a retreat from whoever had approached him. Paying no attention his newfound humane anatomy, now concentrated on the person who drew far too close for his liking. Eyes widened, his mouth agape - the Cleric Beast, without his claws, for the first time in a millennium - and he acts as a cornered prey in shock. And hesâ still shrieking.
 â Away -- AWAY !! What are you ?! -- Who are you ? â
â Cinder flies around the hall like insects. Ash eats away at the regal murals that once covered the ceiling with holy depictions, leaving it pale and rigid. The once polished tiles now stood filthy, worn away from time. When this floor began to rot, it was something the Cleric Beast couldnât answer. From his pedestal, a collage of furniture that once littered the cathedral, he inspected the remains of the art. For how many times had he seen the cracks that scattered across the ceiling? Each and every detail, for all eternity, he could recount every single one. And yet, it was all he could remember. The smallest fraction that remains of memory.
â Fire burns into the nerves of his brain. it has no worth as an antlered monster. His dry gaze cranes to the statue he leaned upon - a woman tossing a vase of stone water. perhaps in droll humor, he made his lounge where he wouldâve felt the splash. No satisfaction had come from it, but as he was human at one point, he still retains that force of habit - he remained locked in that spot. His drowsy mind found no sleep from his uncomfortable makeshift throne for his blood and bones flickered in daylight forevermore, exposing his burnt flesh and lightly illuminating his fur. It pained him, inescapable. The Vicar had hoped it would eventually eat away at him, rendering him ash finally so itâd stop hurting.
â Heâd come to terms that it was hopeless to wait - no, rather - that he was hopeless. The rumble of shouts and slurred cries of fury echoâd from the entrance, but fell upon deaf ears, from their cockney accent - other Yharnamites. Ones thatâve gone mad with blood on their hands. No clanging steel or canon shot drowned out the flames of regret and the drips of blood, relentlessly filling up his cracked skull. His body burns, though his flickering sanity consistently sets him upon a course - his skull, oh - his head. His mind, any sort of reminder of what the Vicar once was, where had it gone? Perhaps it was a delusion, set upon him in a final cope, that there was still something to be done. Or .. Even more likely, simply another part of this curse that Kos had set upon him.
â he remembers the rampage he went through, how fiercely he tried to retrieve his skull back from whatever clutches of the nightmare it was in. Scouring rocks and much alike with the mantle that came his veins, melting ultimately as he scavenged the caricature of Yharnam that he was trapped within. Until, eventually, it proved in vain. It lead to a dead end, after dead end. It was hidden, obscured from sight. Maybe if he had some more insight -- no, no. Maybe if he just had kept some score of morals with him. Possibilities cross his heavy head, though unable to think of much else than longing and the despair that he caused for himself. Whatever the beast was thinking, it ended there.
â Laurence hadnât been able to dream since he died. No vivid dreams he could inexplicably remember in impressive detail. No waking up to find himself stuck to his bed, his arms frozen in paralysis, for that was just his everyday. Though, for a reason he couldnât wrap his head around, he could feel his eyes flutter shut. Had the curse been lifted - or would he finally be freed from his divine punishment, burnt by his own flames?
â Leaving naught a corpse behind, beyond just another head for another to find and treasure. Would they remember who he was? Would he ever be able to recognize himself in a portrait, or had they all been diminished? He succumbed with ease, though he couldnât help but wonder. His thoughts all but races as he reached some sort of peace, his nerves shutting down as he could feel himself slip away from his being. As though being drifted like wood across a river, he can hear the water, too now.
â A bottomless curse, a bottomless sea, accepting all that there is and can be.
â He felt water sooth his flames as he could feel air slip from his lungs. Or was that just him going unconscious? Who was to say. But.. Finally, he was disappearing. All was alright, or so he hoped. He felt .. Significantly smaller, at least. Not as a hulking wendigo that had become his very being decades upon decades ago. In fact, he..
.. Was he actually in water? He always took it as metaphorically. After all, Great Ones come from the Cosmos, not the sea. Though, the Stars and the Sea werenât too different from each-other - both vast, home to evolution that no man could ever predict. Whatever it was, he was rocked to sleep on whatever afterlife he was arriving upon. Or whatever was beyond death, he means.Â
â And thus, he fell asleep. Somewhere on the River Seine, Paris. Floating.
