#vampire muses

New Semi-Selective Mult-Muse roleplay blog paned by snow.

Tragedy struck a rather dysfunctional vampire family forcing them to cohabitate in the same vampire den disguised as a hotel. Come and see what tragedies might occur when secrets get out. 

I’ll look forward to it. In the meantime there are many new year starters that any of my blogs can accept! So feel free to send them in

Who’s offering to be a snack?

He was always beautiful, but beauty was never what defined him.

It was discipline. That cold, deliberate refinement of self that mortals mistake for vanity.

He does not chase admiration. He manufactures awe.

The others in our clan misunderstand him — they call him cold, call him detached.

They see his restraint as absence, his control as distance. They do not realise that for Julien, restraint is passion.

Every movement, every word, every silence is deliberate.

When I found him, he sculpted his body as though it were marble — cut, measured, perfected.

Now, he sculpts the night.

His domain is not paint or melody, but flesh, fear, and precision.

He does not create to be adored. He creates to be obeyed.

Manchester suits him — a city reborn from iron and glass. It reflects him perfectly.

Beneath the industrial bones, it glows — disciplined light through tempered steel.

He walks those streets as though they were his studio, every shadow under his command.

Some nights, I see him in his gym — the one he keeps hidden from mortal eyes.

The weights move like clockwork, his motions flawless, ritualistic.

The red gleam in the mirror is not pride, but measurement — the artist judging his own line.

He does not speak of art, but everything he does is art.

The way he watches those who come to him seeking strength — how he weighs them, decides if they are worth reshaping.

His cruelty is not born of malice. It is curation.

Toreador thrive on beauty, but Julien… he has transcended it.

He does not chase beauty — he defines it through the lens of will.

I gave him the name Julien Marechal — a commander’s name, a sculptor’s name.

He wears it now as though he was born to it, though I remember the man he was — Jonas Mackay, the engineer who thought sweat could redeem him.

Now he redeems others through pain, discipline, and fear.

And I, ever the artist, cannot look away.

— C.D.

My schedule has been a bit busy this week/weekend so I should be able to send replies and plots out by next week! Thankyou for your patience. And in the meantime feel free to send In any asks and plots you'd like with my muses.