“About a hundred years,” says Astarion breezily, refusing to look at him. He looks instead at his hand mirror, which shows nothing but the trees and tents behind him. “That’s about how long I spent thinking you were dead, after all. It was no trouble to go without me then - surely it’s no trouble now.”

He drops the mirror to its little wooden table, feeling himself shaking. It’s so light it would be imperceptible to anyone else unless they were touching him - or had the gift of a vampire’s keen sense for subtle movements. His overwhelming relief and joy at finding his friend alive has been replaced, as all good things in his life eventually are, with bitter hurt.

@ohmolloy

He knows this man.

From his dreams, yes. But not only.

This old man used to be a boy, a rambling idiot of a journalist who let a white-haired stranger take him to dinner and share drinks with him while they talked about city living and the night life there. The Corinthian had laughed when the boy begged to interview him and said no, he was flattered, but his story wasn’t right for Daniel’s… medium. Then after a while he had hummed and said maybe. We’ll see.

The current Corinthian doesn’t remember the rest. But obviously the boy survived; the beautiful, grey creature he’s become now is fascinating. Confident in himself, cocky to the point of arrogance, he paints a very different picture to the one in the Corinthian’s fragmented memories. Vampirism alone can change a man, sure. But this isn’t just that: his story has changed. Who he is has changed. The Corinthian can see the threads of it, the strands of narrative woven around him, twisted and pulsing with recent change.

It licks its teeth and offers Daniel its best smile. It has hunted him in the Dreaming before, and that was technically their last meeting, but who remembers their nightmares if they can help it? It’s almost funny, each of them remembering what the other can’t.

“My predecessor planned to kill you, yes. I have no such intentions… and you’re already dead.” Not that he’s never eaten carrion before. Daniel’s eyes are beautiful: sharp, vibrant, and brimming with experiences this Corinthian will never have.

He envies him. It’s a hunger, that envy, and it shows in his demeanor: he’s too close to Daniel, crowding him in. Old habits die hard or not at all.

@ohsunshine: there's no way i'm leaving you alone for a minute. / from roman >:)

if his smile strains any tighter across his face, the whole gala is like to hear tendons snapping; and although the rest of his face is still projecting mildly bored yet politely entertained, the eyes that turn with agonizing slowness to bore into the side roman's skull read a different message just as clearly: i will fucking get you for this.

he knows how he'd normally handle roman, if they weren't in the middle of a ballroom packed with upper-crusties to whom the faintest whiff of open non-conformity would be as welcome and noticeable as a fart in a church — one thoroughly satisfying KICK TO THE BALLS, signed, sealed, and wholeheartedly delivered. unfortunately, on this particular turf, constantine is the one with his balls in a vice: caught out where he's not supposed to be, playing at someone he isn't, too deep into a long con to afford bailing out and burning all the bridges he had to build to get here. and now at the questionable mercy of the single smuggest little spoon-fed toerag he's ever had the misfortune to be on the wrong foot of at the most inconvenient bloody time.

having to actually play nice with these wankers instead of faking it should count as a karmic bloody injustice.

'really enjoying this, are you? just can't help bein' the living, whinging proof that money don't buy class.' doesn't, con job, doesn't; watch your enunciation.

he sips from his champagne flute so no one will see him scowl, pretending it doesn't taste like expensive vinegar; trades a brief, distracted appraisal with a woman dripping factory diamonds off the arm of her much-older date. then, exasperated, aims his rictus-smiling glare back at roman, the source of his burgeoning reflux. no fucking chance he's getting anything useful done like this, not with the ghost of christmas fuck you prancing after his heels, so there's no use trying to ignore it, either.

'unless this bottle service of yours includes holding my willy when i go to take a piss, squire, sod off. i'm busy.' it's weak even to his own ears, especially in the fangless sterility of his genteel cover accent; they both know constantine lacks the leverage to threaten the roy boy in any real way. he can't even SWEAR in here properly without risking unwanted attention.

( @ohsunshine asked: ❛  you’re  just  saying  what  i  want  to  hear .  ❜ / from daniel / deadly nightshade starters // always accepting !! )

❝ why, mr. molloy? to console you? ❞ the edge to his words have a purpose — if only to lead him off-track, to remind him more of the sarcasm and biting remarks exchanged between the two. the verbal chess game was better when lingering on the surface. armand enjoyed those games immensely, but what he hadn't enjoyed was any sign of suffering in daniel.

some, naturally, he did. and while he takes great care to influence how he's perceived and what's remembered, he isn't interested in hurting daniel ( irritating and toying with, yes ), and the interview seemed to have gone astray earlier. tracking both louis's and daniel's emotions sometimes felt like dampening a blazing fire.

❝ do i strike you as someone who placates? ❞

He may recognise both figures, if the image clears for long enough for him to see them clearly.

The video may be distorted but the audio is clear: high-pitched whimpering, pleading, unspecified other noises that are wet and unpleasant.

It ends abruptly; the link has disappeared.

[do not ask me about the logistics or practicalities of this. all vibes all the time.]

Sometimes it was hard to tell when he was dreaming. For most this would be alarming, disturbing even, but he has had enough time in this trans-liminal space to know that he has already courted the things here that he should fear the most. They are his dearest companions now. There is a chirrup from a device in his hand. It looks like a cellphone. From somewhere in his mind he knows this is his phone, although the object bears no marker of ownership; nor does he recognize it. He raises the screen to his eyes, a reactive gesture rather than a necessary one. A notification is lit across the screen. There is garbled text, but there is no need to interpret it. Only action is needed. He taps it.

Immediately the screen is filled with a distorted image, snowed with static. It is just as jumbled as the words had been, but something tells him the poor picture quality is because this is something he should not be meant to see. That this belongs to someone else. It makes him all the more curious. About the owner, about the benefactor—though he could make a good guess at the latter. Severen holds the unintelligible picture close to his face, eager gaze picking out what flashes come through the pixelated haze. Soon he stops caring so much about seeing because he starts hearing. He knows these sounds well. They are fearful, pleading noises that crawl from the throats of the desperate, of the cowardly. The sounds of broken men. Even in this dreaming space he begins to hunger. A flare in his mind tells him this is the reaction it wanted. It wanted to share this with him. Knew he would appreciate its work. Both of Severen’s hands grasp the device. Wishing he could pass through, ready to drag his tongue across the stilled mass of blurry confusion, just in case he might be able to taste the suffering of the individual making the horrid (delicious) clamoring from the far side of somewhere. It becomes all the better when the work begins. Liquid squelching, gurgled cries (tears? vomit?), the sound of something ineffably sharp slicing through tender despair. A guttural growl rumbles in his chest, teeth itching, jaw working itself to soreness as the muscles tense and slacken in compulsory action.

The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He observes his sulking sibling; she has hidden herself to the side of his throne, arms around her knees and chin resting on them, pouting. A puddle of colour surrounds her, like spilled gasoline in sunlight.

"You and I will not have ghosts, little sister," says Dream calmly, and crouches down at her side. He extends his hand to her, palm-up: from his fingertip a butterfly unfurls, plain white, a blank canvas for her to play with. It flutters its wings and seems to wait for her.

elias' first response is reflexive and without any mercy: “can't i?”

his grey eyes are unflinching for a moment where they're locked on the archivist's, but then he sighs. there's a softening of his expression, and for a moment elias looks older than he has before. a hand lifts, elbow resting on his desk as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “you've read countless statements, jon. you've listened to the recordings left by your predecessor. you understand what we're up against.