#thread: 001

As the first rays of light breached the horizon, illuminating the sky in soft yellow, Cassius caught sight of the foreboding thunderclouds rolling in. He could smell the salt in the air, feel the static rising -- building and building -- as the storm edged ever closer.

Perfect flying weather.

At least, in Cassius’ opinion.

He relished the icy prick of rain pelting against him, the wind howling as Varyx pushed his wings to their limits -- testing Cassius’ core strength as he dipped and dove, flipping in rapid circles while making goading remarks.

Cheeky brat.

Said brat was stretched out before him now, lazing beneath a willow tree, having happily gorged himself on sheep not an hour earlier. His black scales winked with iridescent purple under the dappled light filtering through the leaves.

“Careful,” he said to Varyx in Draconic, “eat too many sheep and you might just become too fat to fly.”

Varyx let out a derisive puff of smoke through his nostrils, tail flicking to and fro in clear irritation. “Vissai would run out of sheep long before I became too fat to fly,” he sniped back. He tilted his head, mouth parting to reveal rows of intimidatingly sharp teeth, a low rumble sounding from deep within his chest. “You would do well to watch yourself, Still One. If you grow too fat, I may decide carrying you is too arduous a task.”

Now it was Cassius’ turn to snort. “Is that your way of telling me I’ve been partaking in too much sweetmeat as of late?”

Varyx chuffed. “Your words, not mine.”

A small, affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Had today been any other day, Cassius would have been content to banter with his dragon until the sun set. Today, however, was not any other day.

No, two days prior, a delegation had arrived from Lysain. Among them had been a familiar -- and very welcome -- face.

The Lord Commander of the Serpent Guard, Aren Brook.

Cassius was not known for his friendly demeanor, nor for any great social adeptness. No, that was where Umberto reigned. Despite that, he found himself daring to think of the Lord Commander as a… comrade. And, with a little coaxing, perhaps… a friend.

His life as third prince, the spare of the spare, had been a lonely one. He had long since grown accustomed to being dismissed -- overlooked in favor of his brothers and their larger, more demanding personalities. Even when his words carried the weight of truth, the warning of misfortune, they fell on deaf ears.

But, Aren had been an… irregularity.

When Cassius had unraveled their enemy’s strategy, had seen the rear assault before it came, and relayed it to the Lord Commander, there had been no hesitation, not even for a moment. No -- Aren had taken him at his word and acted immediately, his voice ringing with certainty, with a trust that had cut cleanly through Cassius’ carefully guarded distance, his commands followed without question -- a true leader.

And, as he so often was, Cassius had been right.

Aren’s decision to trust him had saved lives that day.

In that alone, he had earned Cassius’ respect.

“Daydreaming about the Lord Commander again?” came Varyx’s mocking tone, accompanied by a chittering chuff -- his dragon’s version of laughter.

Cassius scowled, annoyed at having been so accurately called out, his fingers unconsciously fidgeting with his rings -- an obvious, anxious tell.

“Shut up, you overgrown lizard.”

“So, I take it you didn’t want me to mention he’s awake -- wandering about the courtyard, alone?” Varyx asked, head cocked, the picture of innocence.

Cassius’ scowl deepened, though something sharper -- quieter -- flickered beneath it. His fingers stilled against his rings for only a moment before he turned on his heel.

“Not a word,” he muttered.

Varyx’s answering rumble was suspiciously pleased.

The dragon rose without further prompting, unfolding to his full height in a smooth, practiced motion. Wings stretched wide, catching the shifting air as the first low roll of thunder echoed somewhere distant. He lowered himself just enough Cassius to mount him in one fluid movement.

The moment his weight settled, Varyx launched.

They cut through the air in a sharp ascent, wind rushing past in a familiar roar as stone and terrace fell away beneath them. The courtyard came into view quickly -- far too quickly for anything more than a short flight -- but Varyx angled his wings regardless, drawing the moment out just enough to be irritating.

“Show-off,” Cassius muttered under his breath.

Varyx didn't deny it.

They descended in a controlled sweep, the dragon folding his wings at the last possible moment before landing with a heavy, resonant thud against the stone of the courtyard. The impact echoed outward, earning a few startled glances -- but Cassius paid them no mind.

His attention had already settled elsewhere.

He dismounted without ceremony, boots striking the ground with quiet certainty as he straightened, gaze lifting -- finding Aren easily.

He looked just as Cassius remembered: of dark hair and darker eyes, skin pale, a contrast to Cassius' own, wearing far too many layers for the warm morning. He stood only slightly shorter than Cassius, though his presence bespoke of a quiet strength.

For a brief moment, Cassius said nothing.

Then, measured as ever -- “Lord Commander.” He paused, and then, with a crooked grin and a low, friendly tone, he continued in Common, “You rise early.”

Faith had been a princess once.  She’d been beautiful, once.  Part of her would always feel like that part of her life should have meant something.  After all, Princesses were the ones people wrote stories about.  Fairy tales, where they had magic and lived happily ever after.  But the truth was, any chance of her life being a fairy tale had ended on her sixteenth birthday.  Her father, King Titus of Azgeda, had given her over to his brother Roan in payment of...some debt that she’d never really had explained to her.  After all, she was property to be traded and property didn’t need to understand why.

And Roan had broken her.  In every way that she’d imagined a human being could be broken, and in ways that she’d never dreamed existed before that moment.  For two long, unending years she’d been beaten and abused for every petty violation of Roan’s equally petty rules and guidelines - and also simply when he felt like it would be amusing to hurt her.  Which also happened often.  Over time Faith became a patchwork collection of scars, both inside and out, and she all but felt the beauty people had once seen in her wither up and die like a flower left too long without water.  When she was collected by two of her father’s guards shortly after she turned eighteen, the shell of a girl that they carried through the hall and into a waiting caravan bore little resemblance to the beautiful young woman she’d once been.  In her place was a servant, who’d abandoned her own dreams and her own life to serve the will and whims of another.

She was cleaned up as best she could be, dressed in pastel colored finery that felt foreign after two years of rags, and even her hair - dark brown, gone flat and lifeless during her captivity - was done up into something resembling a proper style.  She was roughly gagged with a piece of cloth, hands bound behind her, and marched into an unfamiliar palace with smartly dressed guards who looked at her with eager grins.  Bringing her before the throne they kicked her leg out from under her, leaving her no choice but to kneel.  “Stay on your knees, whelp,” the guard instructed.  This part, though, Faith could do.  Head down, gaze directed at the floor, offering nothing but subservience.  She’d had more than enough practice.

@yosulbujog​ II Closed 

“i didn’t know vampires tutored in hagwons.” it’s blunt, but lacks any hostility. he’s leaning against the wall near the door she’s just exited, eyes on his phone and seeming for all the world like he hasn’t just said something intended to catch her off guard. minjoon DOESN'T like to get involved in this sort of thing, but when there's a potential of kids being in danger... he feels some obligation. "i guess it makes sense, though. if they've been around for centuries, surely they have a lot of knowledge; why not share it?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Surprise etches across a previously relaxed countenance, emotions obvious upon the features of the woman who stands so close to a man who has discovered her ultimate secret. She has guarded such a thing for centuries, running from those who suspected her of anything suspicious. Juyeon had never been one to cause scenes - never the type of vampire to yearn for attention. She merely wished to live a normal life, one where she could help others and in turn help herself. At the bottom of it all, there was some desire to return to her old life near the sea- in the arms of a lover she did not appreciate during those times. Such things were priceless actions that were only valued more with every year that passed.

"I don't know what you're talking about... What do you mean, vampire?"

Nicholas fiddled with the straw in his drink, after the bartender pushed his cocktail over towards him. All he got in response to the question was a blank look, and Nicholas sent something between a smile, and a grimace back. "It was just a question," he muttered at the bartender moved to the next customer. He gave a small sigh, and put some money in the tip jar (he wasn't a monster) before moving away from the bar and giving the White House Lawns a quick look around.

He had been told to come here and have fun. That was what The Fourth of July was all about, after all. And Nicholas was absolutely able to have fun, despite what some people might believe. So, he walked up to a small group of people, with a smile. "Did you know the White House made sure that the Firework display tonight was going to have a completely Carbon Neutral footprint?"

His fingers stiffened its grip on the steering wheel of the impala as he looked out at the lone standing home, surrounded by a series of too good to be true neighbours. Sam recollected the day Dean had chosen this path. It made Sam happy knowing his brother was doing his thing but, he also felt betrayed in hindsight. Knowing the world that was out there and choosing to pick a life of picket fences and neighbourhood BBQs was difficult to understand. Even to this day. Sam was just a young kid at the time of Dean’s departure, always followed the orders of his dad and brother. Sam knew he wanted more in life but destiny had other plans so here he was, a grown man now, following where life lead him rather than paving a way for himself. 

Sam mustered the courage to step out the car and make his way the front of the home. He glanced back around him, taking in the view of the neighbourhood.

His chugged the hard sensation at the back of this throat before allowing his knuckles to come in contact with the front door. Here we go... he thought to himself, shifting his shoulders to release the stiffness. Then a sudden burst of doubt shadowed over his decision. Sam began to move back, changing his mind. He turned away to walk back to the car before anyone could answer. 

Jesse sat at the table, his Mac open and hand lazily moving the mouse next to him as he looked after his Sim characters. He enjoyed playing the Sims. It was a world he could control and play God with. If he wanted Harry Styles to start dating Katy Perry, he could make that happen, he had that power.

He watched as the small version of himself left for work and his attention drew over too little Cooper sleeping in bed. He clicked the character to check his status, he was nearly fully rested, and Jesse decided to leave him in bed for a little while longer.

A reminder popped up in the lower right-hand corner of his laptop. He clicked on it and then began to add his and Rachel’s lunch into his calendar. It was going to be nice to see her again, it had been far too long. Truth be told, he had missed her. She was one of the few people to actually challenge Jesse and if there was one thing Jesse loved, it was a challenge.

He pushed his ‘reading’ glasses up with his finger as he checked his emails, going over the cast notes from last nights run. The show was fast approaching and some of the lesser trained members of the ensemble still keep struggling with Turn it Off. The producer emailed to ask Jesse to work closely with the MD to go over it with them, which he was happy to. Well, not happy but he enjoyed bossing people around. God, he missed directing.

Jesse heard the door click and swing open, he glanced over at his boyfriend walking in, looking as cute as ever. It was his style, smile and charisma that made him fall for Cooper. “You’re done. How was Africa, Elder Price?” He asked with a small smile on his lips. Yes, he was frustrated that he wasn’t the lead, however Cooper did the character justice and he was Marius in Les Mis so he couldn’t have it all… Sadly.

@imcooperanderson

There was many things to be said about being the only son of one of Italy’s most well known Mafia duos. But perhaps well known was not the right word to use, perhaps that would cause one to assume that they were good people. Infamous was, probably, the better word to use here. Digression aside, Fjord did not and could not simply walk out of the door of the decades old mansion and say hey, can someone talk to be about this bullshit? 

Well, he could, but the only responses he would get would be the grumble of his father’s distaste -- “what kind of future leader do you expected yourself to be if you can’t handle a little trouble?” came the reply that had plagued his childhood, and he was ten this time, looking up to their shared brown eyes, and he wanted to ask why he had to be okay with it when he was just a kid but that response never went down well -- or one of the many people who filtered through the home casting a quick glance his way and then going about their business. They didn’t talk, not to each other, and certainly not to people outside of their small group. 

And Fjord was young. He was the youngest problem in the bunch when it came to their family, so he had learned through observation and teaching that it maybe wasn’t the best idea to seek out the battle hardened mafioso who’s list was longer than the rifle he carried on his back to talk about, who knows what? Feelings? No way. 

So when things like this happened, there was no real way to deal with it. At least, no real way that he dealt with it. He didn’t go for the route of drinking his feelings away nor did he opt to go for the angry route. Call it a stunted emotional growth, one way or the other, he would just let is fester and eventually, it would die out, ebbing away like the ocean being swallowed back by the horizon after a high tide. It was all he could do, really, 

A lost shipment meant huge losses for them overall. They lost deals with lucrative clients, money lost, lives lost in return. The news had come in the middle of dinner, the De Luca table terribly quiet as his mother did the books and his father poured over the newspaper like he’d just step out of a 1930′s mob movie, and Fjord did nothing but sit there. They valued family time but only in image; they’d stop raising him at fifteen, decided to let the psychiatrists do it after they found out about his ADHD and they didn’t want to deal with it, deal with him. 

Digression aside, the report came from one of his father’s most trusted advisers. Two of them dead by the hands of the Bellini family because they hadn’t been able to keep good on their payment. Two of them gone because, as his father practically spat, of them. Fjord didn’t really believe that, but he did get to escape from the awkward environment because his father let loose on his rage and hey, when your il padre storms out of the room, cussing in anger, you don’t necessary follow. For any reason.

So, he snagged the untouched wine bottle and made his way up to his room, where he sat now, legs crossed on the too big bed, eyes on the double glass doors that lead out over the balcony. It overlooked the acres of land they owned, before coming to the golden fence. Inside, there was they ornamental water features, that were completely different from the pool -- that was on the other side of the house. With it being late at night, the sky was a shade of dark pink, soon to turn completely dark. Lights would twinkle on the horizon soon enough. 

The bottle of win lay untouched on the beside cabinet. He hadn’t felt like opening it yet and for a good reason. He was alone. And why waste some of Italy’s finest on his own, individual moping?

And then, as if this were some tragic play and everyone worked on cues, he clocked some movement from behind his door. It lay ajar, having blown open a little at his failure to close it properly. His own movements were quick, as he moved from off of the bed and across the room, his fingers wrapped around the handle and he pulled it open fully. 

She was flitting past, going to wherever she needed, and it might have been all too easy to simply turn around and head back into his room, but he didn’t. He leaned against the door, the edge of it digging into his shoulder, and then he called out.

“Hey,” and then for added measure, “Hey!”

His goal was to make her stop, to have her turn and look at him, and when her eyes did land on him, he flashed her a charming smile. Italy’s Finest Asshole he’d been called once before, by a scorned lover who was very upset that he had decided a second date was out of the question. 

But what could he say? It was hard to date when you were the heir to a criminal empire and no ordinary person could understand that. So he was charming and an asshole. 

“C’mere,” he said, mostly to close the distance between them. “I have a, uhh, bottle of 1970 Lambrusco and lot’s of things on my mind. Care to join me?”

     fine, she may have thought she was being quiet, but apparently she was not – a big surprise, wasn’t it? rummaging through the cabinets, putting things into the microwave wasn’t a thing one, cranky individual could do, but lennon swore she was trying. and yet... here she was, a beanie on her head, glasses secured on her nose -- hyperfocusing on doing this particular thing, just because she was hungry for something other than blood.

     squinting, len looked over her shoulder just to see a figure leaning against the doorframe, “— you know, in theory,” she began, slightly slurring her words because talking required far too much effort at the moment, “to keep your noodles warm and tasting just as good as the other day, you just need to give it a good stir every thirty seconds. bonus points if you make a hole in the middle.” 

     where did that information come from? did the other woman even need to know it? she shrugged, and almost immediately made a lazy kind of smile appear, seconds before she turned back to her food.