fire made flesh

Now the writing's on the wall

It won't go away

It's an omen

You just run on automation

#mr-vvick an independent, semi-selective, low activity roleplay blog for the one you send to kill the fucking Boogeyman. guided by noodle/juls.

mature content present so minors and personals please DNI. primarily set post chapter four.

with adaptable verses in supernatural, read dead redemption, various aus

exploring themes of: deep grief and loss, finding peace, meditation, isolation and longing, slow trust, tension through restraint, haunted past, brand new beginning, hope

Never Without One

Slippery Bastard

Paint It Black

I hope i do'im justice

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★・・・・・Lestat smiles at the invitation. He hardly fit to be pedagogic, and yes somehow he continues to teach the best. Eyeing the corpse, Lestat reaches for it with the tip of his boot, turning the victim's head by their collapsed chin. This is hardly pretty, but they will still be recognized by their family in the morgue. That is, if they have a family that gives a damn. Lestat suspects that is unlikely.

"The new world," Lestat raises his eyebrow and wrinkles his nose at Rhaegal. "I am certain you won't like it. It is far more gentle than this," he kicks the corpse's head hard enough to finish the earlier job and separate it from its neck completely. The head rolls into the grass with a couple comical bounces, leaving behind multiple blotches of blood behind. It lands in the grass somewhere. "Unfortunately, my PR doesn't let me get...creative. I have to gain voluntary access to necks. But you, well," he eyes Rhaegal as a whole. "You get to do whatever the Hell you want, I suppose." the rockstar grins. "I suppose, I can let loose." He turns on his heels after shifting his weight backward. He nods toward the road, inviting Rhaegal to follow.

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Vampire, this was much obvious. Rhaegal's instinct should have been to tear him apart as well. But there was something different about this one. Something the way he carried himself, as though wearing layers that didn't quite fit. A story waiting to be read.

Rhaegal's eyes followed the direction of the severed head as it bounced through the grass, coming to rest with a soft, wet thud. The smirk that once again touched his mouth was faint but genuine. He lifted the handkerchief to wipe his lips first then his bloodied hands. He preferred his violence precise, not messy. Rhaegal disliked disorder as blood was meant to be deliberate, not wasteful. Sometimes things got a little out of control. Rhaegal stood up and straightened himself up.

Rhaegal considered the stranger for a moment. An unwanted witness, certainly. But not panicked one or scrambling backward in horror. No, this one stood there with a smirk of his own, with stillness beneath all the theatrics.

''Indeed,'' Rhaegal agreed with the statement. ''It still comes with a cost,'' his darkened eyes briefly flickering towards the bloodied handkerchief before looking up again.

When the stranger accepted his invitation, Rhaegal's expression shifted, acknowledging. "Have you got something in mind? he asked, following after the vampire.