#wcstenra

For @wcstenra.

Lucy Westenra and Mina Murray.

TO ANY WHO KNEW HIM AS A STRANGER, it would seem odd that the count sat alone amid a myriad of antique maps, reading them in the flickering light and also by the light of of a mobile phone, on which his thumb tabbed repeatedly as he took and saved many pictures.  the maps in question, all of a rather useless make for they were all manner of incorrect or simply very out-of-date, were all of the exact same place; the river that ran through the border of western hungary and down into romania.  the danube, along with its many populated shores, was being documented as well on a notepad to his right, and as well the many cities and small villages that popped up along the banks.  budapest itself was on the list, as well as bratislava and even the city of vienna.

indeed, the count        or rather, mister tesla       was hard at work in documenting something out of the ordinary.  he looked almost picturesque sitting beneath the hard fluorescents, which shined and bounced awkwardly off his deathly skin and fine long nails.  there was too a cup of plain black coffee that he had purchased in order to keep his seat, though it sat too long and had been entirely untouched.  he counted himself lucky...  at least tonight, that the library would remain open through the late hours... and perhaps, if the student population was anything to depend on, provide him with a meal.   

{ meme } | selectively accepting ;••••; @wcstenra​ asked▬

❝ i don’t know what my future will be. ❞

There had already been a surge of talk in the seaside town. First, a terrible storm. Then a ship, the Demeter, with its captain tied to the wheel, was it done out of bravery or madness? A large dog seeing fleeing the ship. He had done what needed to be done to secure his passage be complete, leaving none behind to witness him. The one that had stirred the turmoil now lingered about the broken skeleton of Whitby Abbey, abandoned and old. Very old. With crumbling molded arches, its foundation sunk deep into the earth. He always preferred old houses. New houses would not do for one such as he. However, new soil, new land, where he could also sink himself into, was his goal.

And close by was the graveyard belonging to St. Mary’s. The fellowship of the dead was his choice tonight. A shadowy cape clasped about the lily-white column of his throat as he walked with a solemn respect for those that had at last submitted to the earth. Already, he had heard a local legend, though, that many of these graves were empty. They were dug for those lost at sea. It was splendid and quite sad to him, a memory was buried rather than a person. It was more ghostly than a grave that housed the deceased. Mortals entertained death, even went as far to make it romantic, in this era. The black-clad vampire thought it foolish, adorning something that thought little of how it was received. But, he could see why it was viewed as such in this century, he had seen how it was revered or feared in all the centuries he had survived. Soon, again, they would complete the circle and begin to fear it. The sea crashed against the worn cliffs in the distance, a gurgling roar of froth as it receded to only violently throw itself again at the sharp cliffs in an endless cycle. 

He thought of little, except the night, the sea, and of his recent purchase that loomed above the graveyard. A light caught the demon’s reddened eyes...no. It was radiant, glowing like an angel of the Renaissance: still, quiet, with a demure softness and consolatory presence. She was beautiful. Her light hair swept in the nightly breeze, sitting upon a bench. Why would such a creature be out in the night? The vampire approached with stealth, gloved fingertips grasping the hem of his cape as he kept a path among the tombstones. What a soul! Young, fresh, hardly aware of the evils in this world. Mortals did not know it, but they wore their history on their faces, and their hearts. Her face was unmarred by the trials of life. Hers beat with a youthful vigor, ah, but she slept! Surely she would have stirred seeing a shadow approach her.

Now, just mere steps from the girl, Dracula looked upon her with greater inspection. The soft slope of her cheeks, the petal of her mouth, the gentle arch of her brows, her slim hands resting neatly in her lap. She was as still as the stone she sat upon. Without thought, the vampire sat beside her, the tender female having garnered his full attention.

Then, the rose pink of her lips began to move...my god, was she awake or asleep? Ah! Mortals were sometimes caught between awareness and sleep, perhaps that was her predicament. Her future? Was this what kept the poor girl from finding restful sleep in a warm bed? The vampire could not sit there and allow her to stay in the loneliness of this state. No, he could not.

Despite the fact he is here to wait for the vampire to appear, Flynn still shows up with a satchel full of the books he is discussing in class. Miss Westenra was quite bright, their short conversation this afternoon impressed him. Dark shadows had decided to cling to her, jealous of the spring that was pressed into her cheeks. He refused to let it darken her soul, to steal her smile, and most importantly her life.

They had a long night ahead of them, and he couldn’t be sure the creature would grace them with their presence tonight, so if she was feeling up to it, he would catch her up on all she had missed. Who better to tutor her than The Librarian?

Getting off his bike, he looked up at the house with a small amount of dread. Lucy was his only link to the creature so far, he had to make sure he would be welcome in this house by her parents, and the other people involved in this mystery. A flash of golden caught his eye, he walked through the garden gates, following the stone path until he found Lucy, wandering around the garden. 

“I thought you’d be resting, Miss Westenra.” adjusting the bag on his shoulder, Flynn offered her a polite smile, glad to have found her before anyone else. “You know -- I don’t think this place can be classified as a house, it’s a massion really.” 

Lestat mused and with a crooked smile, took the young girl’s hand in his own before bringing her stained fingertips to his blushing lips, “Yes, we must be more careful. Even the most beautiful aesthetics in life have their fractures. It’s so nice to see you again, Lucy. I’ve seen you around the city but have had yet to make a proper introduction. My name is Lestat,

Lestat de Lioncourt.”

Jacob’s head tilted in her grasp after his abrupt collapse, words indistinct into a muffled groan as he coughed, hazel eyes gazing up at her in that halo of late sunlight around her golden hair. It was so long since he was fully aware of his surroundings in the wake of the strife with Bloody Nora’s Blighters, such terrible brutes.

“Am I…? Am I dying? You must be an angel with a voice like tha–.”

A hand cupped urgently over her slim one, his own calloused fingers damp with blood from the gunshot wound to his upper chest and the other wounds from knives or brass knuckles, the other moving to rest on her sleeve. Dimly, he thought of her pretty dress – too pretty to be soiled with blood, though he can do nothing about that in his present state. Though he knew who he was and what happened, it was a mystery how he stumbled here this far. What if she was loyal to the Templars?

|| How blessed are some people whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly and brings nothing but sweet dreams.