Ambrose Wildes

Here, there's no beeping of machines, no deathbeds or hurrying nurses around them ⸻ only a silence that feels heavy yet comforting, only Ambrose and the bits of him all around his room. Legos, piles of books, a skeleton or three ⸻ He feels shy, suddenly, feeling exposed and open in ways he has never been before with her. "I haven't really had the time to ⸻ Organize." A hand waves around, returns to rest on his back, pressed between cold body and solid wood as his eyes watch her. "Between moves and um ⸻ dying." A dry chuckle, cracked glass in his throat. His fingers interlace, and he brushes his own awkwardness off with a smile, nodding at the present she set down.

Things seem to pass in a blur until at least there is just them. In Nikko’s room. In Nikko’s space. It smells like him, his soap and shampoo, the detergent his clothing always holds. That unique rotting scent that clouds him, it’s a vampire's natural scent, but there is something so unique to just this green-eyed man. She knows it’s different the way she can smell the death, from say a werewolf, smelling the magic of it all that clings. It was different with vampires, different than the cadavers in the hospital. She couldn’t smell the humans that lined the halls and filled the morgue. They were just simple, dead meat and flesh. Her magic did cling, did entice her to create.

But vampires, it was like a magic all its own blossoming from their very being. It was pungent, like something sickly sweet, it could be intoxicating. Here, in his room, it is all she can smell. The magic making him move and the cloying scent of him. She smiles back at him before letting her eyes wander. Taking in bits and pieces he hasn’t shared with her before, smile turning softer. It is all so fitting, that she nearly takes a step to peer closer at a structure built of leggos, but his smile and words bring her back to him.

“I like it, it is organized in its own way. Like that beautifully chaotic mind of yours.” she lets out a soft chuckle, head tilting back and forth shortly before giving a shrug. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I already find you more than impressive, Nikko,” she tells him, before glancing back at the box she’d set down.

AJ nearly laughs when she admits this is her speed. A monstrously dark creature that stands beside him, for whatever that means. Someone enraptured by death, and tits and all the fleshy in between's.

"You can have it." It's not in his taste, where would he put it? It's a piece that decays and decays, and rots and rots by the appearance of it. There's no frozen-in-time, like some art here, or weathered displays that appear ancient but stand the test of time. It's not art as much as it's a statement. Astor evidently hasn't been in town long enough to know what kind of depraved message it's supposed to be.

The room knows better than him, as it tears in two, half frantically veering for an exit, the other, peering too close to see what's real and what isn't. Suspending their disbelief when they very much don't need to. "Ink's cool though."

“That tends to be the case,” she agrees that most wouldn’t be as inclined in the workings of flesh over a pretty image they can hang on a wall and forget about. The main attraction though, it took a special kind of person to preserve. She likes to think she could do it, if she tried hard enough. If she kept up with the ritual and the exchange to keep it alive. She’s tempted to make a decaying finger twitch.

“Your loss,” she breathes for him to hear. She has an urge to reach out and touch it, the center hand though, ‘the ink’ as he calls it is most definitely hunter. It feels like it was a recent slice. She takes a deep breath. Looking to AJ she quirks a brow.

He is worried, truly, of bringing Ambrose to his childhood home - his mothers are in the middle of a complicated divorce-non-divorce, and he is not ready to introduce them yet. Not like this. He will not hide her existence from them, he has never hidden anything from them, but he doesn't feel particularly eager to talk about it. Through the nervousness, he still finds himself beaming when he opens the door. "Hi," breathless flustered words from a boy unable to blush, but utterly devoted to the woman in front of him.

She’s just as nervous, but seeing that smile puts her at ease, he still feels of death. Though it’s different now, he is the death she feels, it doesn’t just surround him anymore. He pulls at her magic, she can feel the yearning of it. Wanting to wrap around a corpse that is so much more than just that. Her hands are still full as she steps inside, so she makes sure they’re facing one another and he can watch her. “I’d love to see it, where should I put your gift? I’m more than sure you’re going to love it.” she tells him, eyes curious as they take in the unfamiliar home. As she gets a glimpse deeper into Nikko’s world.

They’ve never been to one another’s homes she comes to realize, most of their time together in the hospital. The thing that brought them together, the place both of them felt most at home. The morgue was their playground as she showed him her trade, as she explained how to properly remove each organ. Making hearts beat despite not being able to on their own. Time with Nikko was something she had never truly experienced, so alike despite the difference in age. Both into a dark scene. Both of them enraptured with what their magics craved.

Mismatched hues traced over the light of the colors, the way they swirled into a mixture of bight purple and that lighter shade of orange, the color of apricots. It almost smelled of it too — apricots, and summer. He'd always been a fan of warmth. "Is that, because you're a doctor? Or were you drawn to medicine, because of your sick fascination?" he asked, tone the slightest bit cheeky. Then she went on, about her own preference that was quite different than his — Riven couldn't relate. "Comfort in violence? Hm — It would have to depend on the act." because as much as he wasn't a fan of blood, Riven found comfort in other violent ways, like invading someone's mind and pulling the invisible threads that made up their conscious, or indulging in acts of pleasure that were rougher — bruising.

She keeps scanning the painting, waiting for it to spark something in her. A memory. An emotion, Something behind just looking at colors and swirls. It’s a beautiful piece, she can tell that, but it just is out of her grasp. At his question, dark eyes glance at him again. “A bit of both, my work speaks to me. Gives fulfillment and pride. I can fix a body, give it life. Or at least that is always the goal, to spark life in something troubled. Death…it isn’t an option, but it does come. For all – most – of us. In one way or another.” she replies easily.

It’s like using magic with the crudest, most basic tools. What was a scalpel, but a knife created for precision, and the stitches are merely thread sewn in with a fishing hook. Basic. Barbaric. Something that once was full of pain and anguish. Would she be able to work so precisely with the wounded wails of a victim beneath her in the throws of vivid pain? Maybe that way of thinking was better left unsaid. An internal thought, there were select few who would understand the wonder of it. A boy cloaked in death and a lover long lost.

But she ballparks him, and it's enough to rip that stunted chuckle from his throat.

"I really thought you were gonna get in there and motorboat them if you got any closer," But it's a side-thought and he doesn't expect adult-youth party behaviour at a gallery; it's not the right degree of class. It lacks body shots off the servers too, it's how he determines the level of a soiree. "Flesh worth more to you. How does that go down when you start saying that to people?" Not everyone is AJ, he knows. They're unlikely to find the joking in slicing off tits from a painting and reducing them to monetary value.

Realistically, a lot of AJ's purchases will be based on who is bidding for them. He'll outbid a bitch, just to make a point. Might even burn the picture in their face, for dramatic effect if he's feeling that way inclined later. Noilles is one of her more favourable targets.

"None of tho—" AJ is interrupted when there's an announcement to the final piece, a big reveal. He turns, looking past Ambrose to stare at the hands, of varying states of decay. A blueish, purplish hue bleeds down its display post. A pale, pinkish thing bearing a hunter's mark of some sort is splayed in the centre; he's seen a lot of those, lately. Astor tips his head, glancing a those whose reactions elicit something far less than intrigue, but sudden disgust and ferality. The city got a little more interesting. For half a moment, he glances at Ambrose, puffing his chest. "There's your flesh, love."

She chuckles at how ridiculous his suggestion sounds, how completely insane it would make her look. How she knows a certain dark-haired boy who would do something so wild to get a reaction and make a joke of the whole situation, it causes her smile to not falter. She shouldn’t be flirting with random men in galleries, no matter how intriguing.

“Flesh always costs more than simple art. You can do much more interesting things with it.” she replies before their attention is taken away by the main event. And here it is, the thing her magic has been pulled towards, eyes widen, not in disgust, but a morbid curiosity. Even to her normal senses she can smell the decay, the blood. Can sense the death, the warning it gives. The grand event of the piece, the center of attention not only a warning. A tongue-in-cheek joke of a display is the freshest. She imagines her own limb there and tilts her head.

NATASHA DOESN'T SMELL THE SCENT OF DEATH OR BLOOD that apparently illuminates from the work of art in front of them. She's still only human, doesn't have any special abilities to speak of in a world she's already been made aware of through her father's work and reputation. If she's being honest, she feels like part of the low end of the pedestal, part of a food chain or an easy toy to play with. She can't sense a particular species or group from those around her and although somewhat irritating, there's not much she can do about it in her current standing.

Valka was helping her, but until she got that tattoo, there was no hope for much else outside of human perspective and a brief sense of knowledge that there was more out there in the world than met the eye. More at least in the sense that no one normal would've known it was right in front of their face all along. To say her father really gave her something to think about was an understatement. ❝ You're an artist—? So am I! ❞ Now that captures her attention. ❝ Well, not in like, paintings or whatever but, in music, mostly. Is any of your stuff here? ❞

Human, she finally decides, it’s nothing disappointing to her. Humans were just as important as any other species. She wonders if this one knows, wonders if she realizes how dangerous a place like this can be for her. What she knows of the setting she is sitting in and the people who created these pieces. The creatures that smeared the visceral contents of violence in their work. Probably not, no. It was better she didn’t.

GAZE FALLS AWAY FROM THE PAINTING and down towards the floor when the subject of death is mentioned. She can't help but feel that sting of pain in her heart but of course, doesn't want to display it like a work of art either. The hurt keeps her going though, keeps her fueled and this painting is like a reminder; both good and bad, something deep that calls out to her with a new type of inspiration she can't speak of out loud. Where would she put it—? ❝ I don't know. ❞

Stated with honesty, though she did have several spots, regardless of how limited her space actually was. The small entry way, the living room or even her bedroom would suffice. But then the woman beside her says something about keeping it private and that rang in the back of her head. Bedroom, probably. It's the price of it, really that's keeping her from moving forward with the purchase. Not that she couldn't afford it, but it would cause her to dig into her savings a bit. Maybe holding another concert in town might help with that. Then again, doing so just to afford a single painting seemed unfair and tedious.

Finally, she looks over at the person she's been speaking to and she can feel her heart racing, strangely. ❝ You make a valid point, can't deny that. Didn't think I'd find anything worth while, honestly but… it is enchanting, isn't it? Actually, I think I know exactly where I'd put it. My home is private enough as it is so, no worries about keeping it secluded, necessarily. What about you? Anything here catching your eye? ❞

She doesn’t know and that is fair. Art deserved certain positions in one’s home, a piece like this deserved just the right setting. Somewhere you could stare at it for hours in comfort. It wreaks of death, well trained nose can recognize it, fingers itch to reach out and run over the tainted paints. She wonders if the other can sense the gore that is truly smeared over the canvas. Probably not, it took more than a human to recognize things.

The witch has been surveying to pick out who is and isn’t more in the gallery. The wolves, noses scrunched as they stay clear of certain pieces, the vampires a mix of doing the same or delighting and lingering. Witches were harder, they didn’t have the same senses, no heightened smelling, or overly clear vision. No, she isn’t even sure if they can feel the death that lingers in the hall the way she can. Pulling at her magic. The way a new prey animal does as its last breath leaves its lungs. Their hearts beat slower and slower until they cease. The way a patient feels under her scalpel and trained eye as they slip in a space between life and death, like some kind of vampire as it begins to reach its metamorphosis.

Riven took a sip of his champagne, letting his eyes travel between hers and the paintings she was planning on buying. He wouldn't exactly count on that one to bring life into any house — the colors were still dark, and unpleasant on the eyes. "If I were you, I'd choose something brighter." to avoid her prying eyes, he turned around to point at another painting. This one, portraying another nude woman, but painted in light, bright colors. "Ah, there it is — " he moved closer, expecting for her to follow. "Isn't this one much better?

At his nonchalant callout, she raised an intrigued eyebrow, if he could tell her secrets, there was definitely one of his own that he held. “You have a great sense. I might dabble in a little extra.” she gives as a reply, the smile he offers catching her by surprise. She wishes she had more of her normal tact about her, that her senses weren’t slightly dulled. The familiarity in little details of the man setting off something in her mind she still can’t quite place.

“Aight, then.” He starts, smirking. “Ballpark me.” He wants to know what her top dollar is, for the tits — from the curve, to the nub. To the flesh and the bone; the person. Just from one image, nothing above, or below.

AJ doesn’t say whether he might buy it or not. He’s undecided. Astor likes to circle the waters, like a shark. Waiting, seeing. Coming in at the last moment to reap the rewards. He can get tits anywhere — even a nice pair, he’s got more than a few numbers in his phone he could fly out to this dump, if he were feeling inclined.

He eyes the hand, moving his flute to his other one, as to reach out and take hers. Ambrose. “Now I’m plenty pretty to look at,” he’s joking; he’d pick the tits too if they were more than imagery on a canvas. “What gave it away?” He already knows what; he doesn’t belong, even in the gallery where everyone’s dressed to their nines, and throwing money around. It’s like, a nursery for the wannabe high flyers.

What would she weigh this pair on display? It’s a good enough question and she’ll give him an answer from a professional point of view. Things she’s picked up from around the hospital, from her high-dollar surgeon friends. It’s no secret amongst colleagues the way their type views bodies in a way that most would consider rude or insensitive. The way they can separate a human from a vessel. Sharp eyes scrutinize, she even takes a step closer, calculating. It really is a beautiful piece but there is also the factor of the artist making embellishments, finding sentiment in their art and the subject. With how much they cared. To them this image, this body could be important, something to glorify to paint through rose-colored glasses. Like most things when it comes to emotions a person can be merely subjective.

“They’re amazing, slight imperfections. A photograph would be more of a tell on their value. People, artists especially, capture what they see. What they want others to see and feel. But if I were going merely on what they are describing with their perception, I would pay a thousand at least. Though if it were for the actual flesh I’d be willing to pay at least double. Again they are great, but silly emotional attachment has a specific pair of tits I’d rather be looking at, at this moment.” she glances back at him and winks.

THE PRESENCE STANDS BESIDE HER, she can sense it and see through her peripheral vision and yet, she doesn't take attention away from the piece in front of her. It's far too enchanting. Nat could've been standing there staring at it for hours without even realizing how much time had passed by, even though she knows it hasn't actually been that long. When the person next to her speaks, lips slowly come to part as if to speak in return, but there's still a slight pause.

Not a hesitance, just a focused pause. ❝ Yeah, it is. ❞ And that's what she likes about it. Beautifully macabre, telling a story within a single image. Every brush stroke meticulous. Although not a painter herself, she appreciates those minor details and the fact that you can see them so clearly. All of that hard work and dedication, not going unnoticed. It's the price that keeps her hesitant on making a purchase, but the fact that she can't take her eyes off of it holds some volume.

❝ Guess I'm just into morbid shit. ❞

“Death is all around us, might as well find beauty in it,” Ambrose answers in kind, it was true, it was the natural order of things. The reasoning behind why vampires alighted her with so much muse and curiosity. Something dead clinging to another life. An enhanced presence. It makes her think of Nikko. His transformation is so bittersweet.

She sighs a little. “If you’re that engrossed you should get it. You’ll regret it if you let it go,” she says and whether that statement is about the painting or her past is anyone’s guess. “I have to admit, some of these pieces would go great in my home. Death amongst rebirth.” she muses and takes another drink. “If you did buy this, where would you put it?” is asked, small talk while she finishes her wine she tells herself, and then the surgeon will leave.

For : open to anyone. no caps. Where : Nouveau Art Gallery, Grand Opening.

WITH LEATHER JACKET DRAPED CASUALLY OVER A SINGLE SHOULDER, Natasha struts herself inside the grand opening of Nouveau wearing her silver silk blouse, black vest and pants. Heels clicking away upon the marble beneath her feet and immediately does her gaze wander around the room. Not at the people; but the art itself, finding beauty in each and every piece. Not all of them capture her attention save for a select few. She didn't come here with any intention of purchasing anything, but there's a creeping feeling that suddenly washes over her with the thought she may have to be digging into her pocketbook at some point if she isn't careful.

Morbid. Dark. Desolate. So many pieces of mangled flesh and sharpened edges. Things that fester and bleed on canvas. It’s beautiful and cruel. A gaping and raw admittance to the world. She’s drawn to it. Dissecting and slicing away the pieces as if she could crawl her way in the creator’s mindset. She wonders what their muses are. What their workspace looks like. Clean or smeared with paint and blood and something so uniquely them. Darkened fingers coated in charcoaled ash. Surgeons in their own art.

But the question lobbed back towards him is an easy one - Is Laure a friend? Somewhat, even if they are on opposite sides of an ever-encroaching war. He hums, his attention shifting back to the piece for a moment and then back towards the woman.

"You could say that, yes." Precise, indeed. "As far as I'm aware, the artist loves the subject dearly. You can see it in every point."

“I suppose not, I’m afraid after hours I can be quite reclusive, the thought of approaching people…even for insight, well I can be lacking at best.” The way he speaks, as if he knows more about this medium, this way of displaying something deeper gives her the feeling that he himself is a creator. She wonders what kinds of things he gets up to, why he isn’t displaying anything tonight, or if he is what it looks like. A beautiful mystery is hidden behind an attractive face.

“Excuse me if I’m being presumptive but do you happen to have any pieces here tonight? You just seem well-versed.” She asks adding on the compliment, watching sharp eyes. A certain confidence in his body language. She’s already decided she likes this man, whoever he may be. At his answer, she hums and gives a nod of acknowledgment.