bone and blood.

@vicissisanguis​

Never let it be said that the fear wasn’t drawn from him like infection in the wound years prior. Bastien approaches Vykos, untouched drink in hand. He’s brimming not with the awe of the other Tzimisce in the crowd, or with fear that repels others. It’s curiosity for the mutual knowledge that they pursue. At the very least, it will be an interesting conversation.

“I trust you’re having a pleasant evening, Vykos?” Bastien asks.

They hold their distant vigil; their patience yields fruit when they are joined by another from the crowd. Younger still, a bearing that holds separate from the frenetic resonance of his peers. Vykos recognizes it for what it is: purpose.

Beckett does not flinch. He does not take a step backwards. Something inside him stirs, of course, running through the multitude of possibilities of horror Vykos could inflict upon him (horrors he has faced at the hands of another Tzimisce). But as quickly as it comes, it’s shoved down for carefully barbed wit.

Perhaps it wasn’t a fluke that Vykos seems more mild mannered these nights. As mild mannered as any Kindred can be, that is.

“My observation. I’m sure you recall Rasputin.”

Not that Beckett does think that they were ever in need of his help. Maybe a bit of prodding to spring them into action. But never his help.

Their scrutiny loses its turbulence. They fall silent, each thought devouring the next.

Yes, they remember Rasputin. Vykos remembers the skill with which they marked his movements. They remember Beckett showing up much later.

But this is not what Beckett holds with such certainty, they know. He means the decision to pool their mutual interest in Rasputin’s whereabouts and discover where he fit into the puzzle together. He means the effortless fashion each piece fell into place when they no longer danced around one another.

They know, and that knowledge is still a poison.

“Well, as an apology, how about you let me tell you which one of those kegs is the best? I figured out how to adapt the recipe from beer-adjacent to mead-adjacent. Not to brag, but it’s much better.”

She still thought it was absolutely ingenious that her adoptive clan had figured out how to make alcoholic brew at all from blood. And they’d had several millennia to perfect it besides. Really, it was a shame she couldn’t stand beer. That the Hall of Jörmungandr and its cousin sects’ cultural milieu placed its religious emphasis on mead instead was a convenient excuse to do what she wanted anyway - hit the recipe with the metaphorical bat of trial and error until it took the shape she preferred.

Sigrid briefly entertained the impulse to clap her arm around the stranger’s… mid-back seemed likely where she could reach, and then thought better of it. They seemed even more eldritch than most, the way Kindred tended to drift inertially as they aged. This one, she guessed, was either old, weird, or both, and her survival instincts didn’t particularly care.

“Shall we?” She gestured melodramatically towards the booze. “I’m Sigrid, by the way.”

“Then I speak to the artist herself. Show me what you’ve done and what makes it such an improvement.”

So ordinary is the invitation, in all that is extraordinary by the very presence of every creature here, that the circumstances become an unknown in their own right. Vykos is keenly aware of this; their appreciation for the unexpected and the memorable are not insignificant among their reasons for agreeing.

“Vykos.”

@vicissisanguis​ [ starter call ]

      — Interacting with Sascha Vykos wasn’t in the plan for today, but Harlow decided it would be smarter on her part. She just put the book down on the table, “ I found this and I can’t read this language. “ She only knew of it as a Noddist related.

       “ I didn’t want to to be damaged from travel and after consulting my coterie back home, I thought this would be a good place for it. “ She pauses before speaking again, her brain thinking faster then her mouth. “ ——- I know this is a strange interaction but I rather this knowledge be useful to someone who appreciate it and preserve it. “

The final weight of the leather bindings resting between them, Vykos gives their attention -- and then their silence. The pages answer an unheard call, an unseen force, and display a glimpse at the contents within when Vykos extends their slender hand. A single digit is used to mark a passage of particular interest, shuddering the aged pieces back into motionlessness under their scrutiny.

“Where did you discover this?”

Although she appears to debate her own presence here, perhaps the young Tremere is right to approach. Vykos understands the language, and its origins are as suspected. To know beyond that, they will need to examine the text further and in greater detail.

There lies the issue—there’s no love lost between the two of them. Certainly, if they could, they’d both be long gone already with the relics in tow. Beckett resigns himself to the unknown.

“As long as necessary,” he concedes. “It seems as though Prospero was right about one thing: we’re to be each other’s shadow.”

Perhaps it’s not necessary to say that. Perhaps it’s not even a little wise to bring it up considering all that Prospero said and did. But to do anything less would be disingenuous, and they are after all working together in the spirit of cooperation. Beckett lies to himself, a skill he finds more and more useful in current nights.

“We do work well together.”

The neutral set of their features flutters, their mouth slashing into a half-formed, soundless snarl, caught and rectified before the first flashes of teeth. Beckett prods at things he scarcely understands, and they do not doubt it is with purpose. Prospero and his ties to the Inconnu earn their enmity with reason.

“Was that Ameirin, or was that your wishful thinking?”

[ @vicissisanguis ]

In spite of her bubbly, easygoing demeanour, Sigrid did not enjoy parties; there was too much chaos, very little of it usually under her control, and too much attention - too many chances to fuck up and piss someone off, and that had spelled danger to her even before her embrace. Now, when the parties she was likely to visit were hosted and attended by immortal undead with touchy tempers and easily-insulted egos and who had a nonzero chance of going into frenzy if you played your cards wrong, they set her teeth on edge like almost nothing else.

Still - she was presentable, as far as the Setites were concerned, animated and charming as she was under the influence of nervous energy; and as a convert, she had joined the Followers of Set by choice rather than chance. She made them look good - when she behaved herself. That, of course, was the difficulty; the agitation large gatherings of Kindred caused her was a gnawing at the back of her head, not a rush of adrenaline, and the anxiety in combination with boredom kept her constantly on the verge of following her impulse to cause a stir just to break the tension.

This particular party had a unique treat - beer, provided by her adoptive clanmates and for some mysterious reason largely untouched by all but the most incautious fledglings present. Sigrid couldn’t begin to understand why; she had always found it delightful, especially given it was one of the easiest ways for the undead to get a bit of a buzz in their current state.

Glancing around, she found her date had disappeared on her and felt a little spike of anxiety, but - no, she would find him later. It was fine. She was fine. Heading towards the Setites’ brew, she walked directly into one of the other partygoers, a slender individual with an alarmingly beautiful face.

She retreated, quick as a cat that had accidentally stepped in water. “Sorry about that,” she said with an apologetic grin. “One-track mind - I was headed for the drinks.”

It is a rare thing, indeed, to call so many forward and rarer still that it does not spill into bloodshed. This evening’s main event stands as a testament to the nature of Cainites. For the right circumstances, any one of them might tolerate even their bitterest foe for an insignificant hour or two. Such is the way Vykos makes many of their temporary alliances, but that is not what they seek here. That particular opportunity will present itself later, they hope.

From where they watch, Vykos sees enough. Those who keep their entourages around them, a pale imitation of holding court outside of their influence, and those who weave through the crowds like insects who must sip from every flower, ever onward. Nameless others still whose intentions they cannot name, whose aims do not cross their own. And they suppose there are those such as themself, who wait for what is yet to come.

As the stranger approaches, the collision course becoming more evident, they wonder which she will be -- but they offer neither warning nor rebuke, only their attention as the stranger recovers from the impact, shadowed eyes that devour detail and make observation a meticulous work. Their appearance cannot be happenstance, an undercurrent of deliberation in every shape, every angle, the vastness of an ocean given a vessel.

He watches them. Vykos is not particularly emotive or easy to read. However, one thing he has always been keen to recognize is their ire. There’s, luckily, none of that yet—not like the many times he believes he’s passed them in their various similar circles with altered looks and a glare that would wither all the flowers in a garden.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, they would be safer with you than me,” Beckett says. He knows full well how difficult it is to steal from them. “At the very least I could take some pictures. Maybe a sketch or two.”

Vykos watches in return, the only movement in the contemplative silence they allow to settle. The vain might find their egos appeased by these acknowledgements, but centuries crossing Beckett’s path teach a valuable lesson in his tactics.

That those who believe he is no longer a threat are the most susceptible to his end goal.

As fortune would have it, Vykos has no particular use for vanity.

However, they do not believe Beckett intends to make off into the night with the artifacts in question. There are other factors that assure them of that much.

@vicissisanguis​ continued from x. 

Beckett matches their expression with a sharp one of his own, peering at them with unnaturally bright red eyes over the edge of his sunglasses. He has no desire to see anymore previous relics of their woefully under researched past to be squirreled away into some warded haven.

“I don’t think we do,” he says. “I doubt I could convince you to part with anything,  mind you.”

He pauses. Then, “In the name of our truce, I propose we both study the relics. Here and now.”

Beckett is correct in precisely one way. This is not a matter of convincing anyone, plying them with appeals and speeches, hoping that one yields a favorable result. The truth is much simpler than that.

This is a matter of intent.

Vykos bears in mind a growing curiosity -- that Beckett, not for the first time, turns to them when his options come up short.

“And to whom do they belong?”

It strikes them as strange, yes, the concept of ownership, as though the passage of time allows for it -- as though Beckett does not tear into and break barriers to procure whatever captures his imagination that night.

“You?”

If it is an attempt to either goad or gauge, it is hidden behind sharp features and sharper eyes.