cyrus cartwright

Ever since the doom had occurred and his subsequent dismissal as the captain of the guard, Cyrus had not missed the fact that the guard itself seemed to be lacking in not only numbers, but diligence to their duties. Not only had they seemingly forgotten to strip him of his keys, but they hadn’t either changed the locks to many a door. Important doors at that. Early in the twilight hours Cyrus had helped himself to one of the outlier guard posts, one that still only had one man to a shift in the early hours of the morn. 

He’d heard of a bit of a scuffle at one of the upper end taverns, an uppity two-bit noble who liked to think he had more class and money than he truly did. Bottom of the pecking order of damned nobles. Easy to forget about. Easier even to snatch from a jail cell where he’d been left to sleep it off until morning. He’d knocked the man unconscious and carted him off to a quiet rooftop to feed. He didn’t drain the man, but once sated, the man was pale, limp and still unconscious, but he was still breathing. For the time being at least. Cyrus was no medic outside of basic field treatments. 

There was the scuff of a foot landing on the rooftop behind him, and Cyrus turned his gaze to the unexpected guest. He made no effort to hide the noble slumped on the rooftop, between himself and the newcomer. “Before you go spouting your head off, he’s not dead,” he said quietly, not wishing to rouse the tenants of the building below. “He’s not all that great a person either -- bastard was in a jail cell just hours ago. Was planning on putting him right back where I found him.”

helping set up camp and care for the wounded had kept sophia busy once the groups had met up outside the castle.  she’d meant to go find roman, or arlo, or even isolde, but she’d been held up with the others who’d been sent to wash clothes and fabric for bandages.  it was there that the blood fiend found her.  the blood fiend.  cyrus cartwright.  she froze, hands stuttering to a stop clutching the shirt against the washboard.  “m- me?  busy?  oh, uhm, no, i can-” she stammered, quickly setting the shirt aside and scrambling to her feet, “-i can step away.”  no sign of anyone else she knew in sight.  good.  she couldn’t have them knowing.

Cyrus let the woman ramble on over her washing and pursed his lips slightly. “You can be back in twenty. Is there some place you’d rather this.. occur?” He asked bluntly, an attempt at some vestige of courtesy. His hunger was starting to push at his temperament, and it had been a long and noisy day. A campsite filled with many eyes and ears was likely not the most private of places. 

lips curl into a small smile as she moves to perch upon the log he had gestured to, placing her book on her lap with charcoals in hand.  she found the stain of the black on her fingers was more comforting than the blood fiend’s blood spattered along the expanse of bare skin on her arms, idly beginning to sketch the features of the man as she nods. 

“well…someone has to stay alive to tell the tales of the brave warriors through song and paintings, i couldn’t miss out on the opportunity to tell stories of these battles.” though the crack in her voice betrays the fake confidence she attempts, eyes flitting between her paper and the man before her hand stills, gaze slow to look to him. “i killed a man…a blood fiend, but a man all the same.” there was a conflict in her over this killing. “i’ve never killed before, but i saw my daughter’s face as he approached and i just…i just…killed him.”

How curious.. It had been a number of years since Cyrus had made his first kill. It was oddly nostalgic, in a grim sort of way, to listen to the woman talk over the flames. “Its easy, isn’t it?” He says after a long moment, quietly working at a spot of dried blood in a small crevice at the base of his sword’s hilt. “Easier than you expect it to be. Its the aftermath, up here,” he says, bringing a hand up to tap his temple, “that is more difficult to live with.” It was something he had long numbed himself to, but once, long ago, it had been a fresh wound to his own code of ethics. 

Bell - no, Yara felt the knife blade against her throat as she was forcibly pushed against the rough bark of a tree, her feet stumbling on the roots. A confusing mixture of fear and anger boiled in her stomach as she looked at the man that had ambushed her. He could look familiar if not for the darkness of the woods, because even the moonlight barely reached them, and it was too hard to say when her life was being threatened. She felt her rings dig into her hands as she pressed against the tree: one of the diamonds had slipped around and was cutting her palm.

“Who the fuck are you?” She seethed. She leaned her head against the tree - both to look down on him and to get as far from the cold edge of the blade from the thin skin of her neck. “What have I ever done to you? I should scream - the others will come running instantly. A clara would heal me before I bled out.” Her head pounded at the sudden internal disunion of her words - Bellamy would never imply that she would prefer to have her throat slit than be in a situation like this. But Yara might….

“Yara, Yara, Yara” he tsked, shaking his head, “Truly, feigning ignorance to a former business partner? Sure, you did indeed screw our arrangement over, but I wouldn’t think you’d deign further to play the clueless damsel.” He tapped the knife along her collar bone and dragged the tip down her torso, settling it in along the nest of her bodice the edge tapping a faint rhythm against her torso. 

“Screaming is a funny thing, see,” he said, pausing to press further into her space. “If your lungs are punctured you can’t make much a sound at all,” he grinned at this, it would be so simple, and if he got an extra meal out of it, what a convenience.  “We had an arrangement, Nahir. You were the one that decided to break code. I don’t like those that break word. Its truly to your own luck that you managed to so publicly bring your face to light in that village --unfortunately people would notice if you were to disappear in the night in a camp at peace. The castle on the other hand,” he smirked, “Perhaps dozens of mad beasts around every corner - such a shame if you turn one without looking.” It would be a fitting end for a woman who upended everything in his life without thought nor care beyond her own greed. 

she was mesmerized by the sword, as if at any moment he could move and run her through with it. “but they weren’t like you, right? you and the other fiends here… that cloaked one that looks ill all the time… you can’t become… that, can you?”

Cyrus knew that a handful of donors his little group of blood fiends had forged ties with had come along the journey, and it had taken him the better part of a half hour amidst the masses to find one that hadn’t supposedly perished on the journey there. Many of the donors all seemed to lead particularly squishy, civilian lives out of harms way. When he finally recognized one, Cyrus approached the young woman with a stern set to his brow, “Are you busy?” he asked, a slight thread of impatience on his voice.

A bitterness had reignited itself in the culmination of the fight against Kastemir -- one reignited by the sheer presence of a woman who had fucked Cyrus’s entire life over beyond any sense of repair -- not that he even wanted to contemplated such a thing. No, he rather liked this moment of not having to report to anyone as soon as the dawn broke as well as no true authority figure. However this particular woman: Yara Nahir. The taste of her name on his tongue was ash and molten fire all the same. It had taken a while for him to track the woman down when she was alone, but finally, a moment when she was closer to the edge of camp brought opportunity to his lap. 

People were weary tonight, and that mad it all the much easier for him come up behind her with a knife at the base of her skull, “Quietly,” he growled, guiding her towards the woods. Once out of ear shot of the nearest tent he spun her around, shoving her none too gently against a tree, knife at her throat. “Yara Nahir,” he spat her name like a curse, a cold fire in his eyes “You’re much more alive than I’d like right now - you know how greatly I dislike people who cross their word.” 

Cyrus wove his way through the camp, eyes narrowed and stride quick with a very particular purpose.  His boots were damp with water and blood -- he’d done what he could to get the worst of it out, but further attentions would put his shoes simply out of commission for days that he did not have on this riotous storm-the-castle initiative Militant Grace was so keen on. He need a new pair of boots as soon as possible. He found the woman after combing through a couple rows of tents, “You the cobbler?” 

it seemed that once again her choice of a white dress was a poor one as the hem of her skirts was mucked with mud and dried blood of the fiends sunk deep into the fabric, painting the fair skin beneath it. she had found herself to shaken to grab a change of clothes from someone or somewhere, instead remaining in the gown that she had killed in. her first kill, well, the first that was known to her - as beast folk, she had no recollection of what happened on those fateful nights that called the beast out of her.

“apologies…” as timid as a mouse, francys steps off to the side before crouching down to look at the man, her sketchbook resting on her knees as she clears her throat. the artist had had a short conversation with the man before, but now they were hopefully away from danger she wished to speak to him more. he interested her. “may i draw you? an odd request, but my hands will not stop shaking and i must do something to quell the fear that resides in them.”

Dried blood was a stench on the air that was rampant throughout the campsite, and Cyrus found himself the slightest bit grateful that it didn’t appeal to his appetite. The sheer amounts of spoiled and spilled blood was just the slightest bit nauseating -- none of it bearing the sweet allure of fresh blood. Otherwise it was likely they would have another situation on hand. And in the interests of avoiding such a public affair, he had situated himself far from the healer’s tent. Preying upon the injured was not something he particularly wanted to build a habit upon nor reputation for. 

The artist was back -- the timid thing, and it seemed, judging by the staunch of dried blood on her dress the shake to her limbs, that she had been witness for a bloodied frenzy or two in the chaos. He nodded in ascent to her question, tilting his head towards a log near the fire side. “Good to see you managed to avoid the worst of  what trouble you ran into.” 

she was staring at him, and she knew she shouldn’t she just couldn’t help it. he was a blood fiend, it wasn’t difficult to see, but he was nothing like the one that attacked her and loras during the fight in the village. it was so odd; that one seemed like a wild animal. cyrus seemed so… human.

“were they some of your bretheren?” she asked, taking a step to the right, her eyes still on him. “the ones we killed?”

Cyrus lifted the wetstone from his blade and paused, looking up at the woman. “I suppose in an exact science, yes.” A sharp grind of the stone on metal, “But they were not any of mine,” he said, a firm edge to his voice. 

The chaos of the last day and night found Cyrus once again at the edge of the camp. His once blood covered clothing had long since been shed and abandoned, soaked beyond any attempt of repair. He’d pilfered a set of clothing from one of the now empty houses of the dead in that town -- they fit well enough for the time being. The only thing he’d kept from his original attire was his boots and cloak -- they too had taken a beating that needed to be addressed eventually. 

A hunger had started to burn in his core, but that he would also tend to later. First, he needed to tend to his weapons. He’d gotten most of the blood washed off, but there were finer details to tend to. Not the least of them being sure they maintained the razor sharp edge that had gotten him out of many battles. And he didn’t want to be caught in another battle without them being in tip top shape. It was a lengthy task to be sure, and he wanted to take advantage of the dying light of day before all he had to rely on was firelight.  A shadow passed in front of the remains of daylight, and stayed there. Lightly irritated, Cyrus glanced up from his work, “Mind stepping just a few feet that way,” a tilt of his head to the left, “if you’re making a point to loiter around.” 

“i don’t think people would be that stupid to attack others in this group. especially with these soldiers around.” he felt the chill in the air but his heated skin warded it off slightly. he sat down on a log across from him, pulling out same snacks from his pouch attacked to his hip. he handed some over to the other. “let me guess, can’t sleep?”

antigone couldn’t help but grin; it felt like a victory, even though she had little interest in sitting with him. she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and sat close to the fire, enjoying its warmth. elektra would never snuggle with her the way she wanted, even when it was cold, so this was the next best thing. “i don’t believe i’ve met many men who enjoy wine over ale before.”

STARTER for @cyrus-cartwright​ from ELEKTRA

“OY, YOU! BLOODSUCKER! YOU ONE OF MINE?” she ran towards the blood fiend, watching for more of the townsfolk attacking their group. “SORRY I’M NOT BEING VERY POLITE. I LOSE MY CHARM WHEN I’M UNDER STRESS. WE NEED TO GET NON FIGHTERS SOMEPLACE SAFE. I’VE SAFELY STORED MY SISTER. IF SHE DOESN’T MOVE.”

elektra turned to pounce on the beast folk that launched at her. she had no time to finish her sentence, holding the beast by its jaws and pushing its maw away from her. “DON’T SIT THERE GAWKIN’! KILL THE DAMNED THING!”

The sudden disruption of a calm evening now that they’d reached the town had at first thrown Cyrus with a wave of deadly irritation. He was loath to suffer the efforts of violent confrontation that did not start and end on his terms. This whole situation of a clusterfuck that was this town was not in any way on his terms. But the more blood and dead that covered the ground, felled by his sword or others, the more the scent permeated his senses -- a rush of adrenaline and thirst for more and more blood to be spilled. His eyes were bright with the thrill of battle, his fangs sharp, and when a blond suddenly appeared within his realm of activity -- her voice loud amidst the chaos. Before he divest her words of meaning in battle field haze of his awareness, there was one of the crazed beastfolk, held by the woman -- he rushed the cursed one, and with little hesitation, blood sprayed through the air as he cleaved the beast in two with his sword. He gave the woman a blood splattered grin that some might have called crazed, “Well then, let’s get on with it, shall we?” Protecting the townsfolk.. corralling the civilians somewhere safe? He could particularly care about their fates unless they were of use to his own devices - no, that wasn’t why he fought, it was a downright pleasure to down those the crossed the path of his blade. He reveled in the blood soaked ground. 

he was young and was clearly motivated by emotions as he grits his teeth, looking to the older man with clear annoyance on his features.  “i have one working leg and a crutch to hit people with, i’m not completely useless unlike some people.”

His eyebrows pinched together, a frown set at his lips. “Can you at least land a decent hit with that crutch then?” he asked, eyeing the device, his hand resting loosely on the pommel of his sword. 

her hand stills as she turns to look at the man, charcoal being placed down on her paper as she nods slowly.  “but of course, this will be apart of ireyne’s history.  someone must capture it for the next generation and the one after that and so on.”  her voice is soft, wistful almost as her lips curl into a smile  -  a delicate thing, clearly not suited for an attack if it were to jump upon the group.  “if noone were to capture the journey in picture, song or words then it would be lost to the wind forever.”

Cyrus had never really given much thought to the who’s and how’s of how history was kept. He’d always relegated it to simply something that someone somewhere else did at some lofty noble academy of the sciences -- someplace someone born as a commoner could never consider as a viable option. He was lucky enough that he could both read and write well as it was. “I suppose that’s fair. Never given it much thought. What have you captured so far? I imagine there’s been many oddities these past few weeks.”