primum non docere,

10. Why do you write?

it's for two reasons I think. one, because I love the passion that comes with this hobby. having a community with whom you can just go absolutely bonkers over writing, character analysis, metas, you name it admittedly, there's nothing quite like it! it scratches a creativity itch. and two, because I just love the act of writing itself. I like immersing myself in a character and asking myself what kind of things I'll put out that day, at least on the days when I do write. it's not a very elaborate answer but I just know that writing is a core part of my being, put simply.

18. What is one thing you’d wish to see more in the rp community?

at first I was going to say common sense but that's a cop - out, because everyone's interpretation of common sense is different; what I truly mean to say is self - awareness. it's the root cause of a lot of problems, and one of the main issues that I've heard coming out of some of my mutuals (and I see this all over the rpc too, mind you) is a hesitance to follow first because of experiences with weirdos and it's like can we not. whatever happened to treat others how you'd want to be treated? do you want to have your boundaries disrespected, or be approached invasively and inappropriately? do you want to be iced out or not spoken to just because you think you don't owe the person you're communicating with at least a bit of decency? get real. we've grown way too comfortable being assholes on the internet just because the other person can't call you out in person.

6. Name 3 things you love most about your muse.

hard to keep it to three for now but I'll do my best. one, his lore, and I'm referring specifically to how neat a take on vampirism he is. I don't get enough of it and it's super, super fun to write a vampire that's quite literally an alien; it's fun to have to look at things regarding humans/mortality through a perspective so different from your own. two, the fact he's a monster, plain and simple. I adore how easily he can lull people into a sense of security (which isn't false btw, because at this point he means no harm) only to then bam drop a very stark reminder that he isn't like you. there's this uncanny quality to higher vampires that drives me batty. three, he's one of my favorite tropes: do no harm, but take no shit. it's not even because he's a medically inclined muse, but because he's turned out like that in spite of his innate violence (that he hasn't gotten rid of, mind you. a fourth hidden thing about this is that he's a case of forgotten identity, but that's for later).

like the plants and herbs he loves, Regis is very much an onion. a very spicy and bloody onion, but an onion regardless.

7. What is one overrated roleplay trend?

I could get in hot water for this but the inclusion of affiliate(s) in the rpc lingo. I've seen people explain it, I get why it's done and in some part of my brain it makes sense, but I still think mains is a perfectly serviceable term for people you give priority to, and if you end up writing with only one writer's take on a certain muse, then you have an exclusive and that's it. it feels like an extra echelon we don't need, but it's the rage these days (and I've been guilty of doing it too, but now I've just hit the back button) so oh well, I'll play along lmao.

19. Who is an author that inspires you?

our old man Sapk/owski, for one, especially because he's a great reminder that snappy and straightforward prose will never be a shortcoming. of course it depends on what kind of story you're writing, but you don't have to get tangled up in the reeds of elaborate grammar bordering on purple prose for your writing to feel good. Timo/thy Zahn is another one of these writers, and he has such a handle on spacefaring action scenes / combat with fast and uncomplicated phrases that you get sucked into it like that. Ari Mar/mell employs some of my favorite descriptions ever; his imagery is fucking gorgeous. describing Lilith, mother of demons, in The Abomination Vault is incredible work:

her skin was the deep purple of a nighttime storm, her dark hair wreathed in horns that only accentuated her unearthly allure. emerald eyes that could coax an angel to sin and had, on more than one occasion; a face to make a dead man ache; a figure to make a golem sweat. she was desire made flesh on a nearly divine scale. [ ... ] most would have gladly allowed her to skin them alive, if only they might gaze upon and worship her as she carved.

tell me that's not metal as hell. I wanna write like this man when I grow up.

22. Are there any red roleplay flags for you that make you back off immediately?

if this sounds incredibly specific, it is, but instant familiarity + constantly assuming you're bothering me. it's whiplash! you can't immediately assume we're best pals while constantly saying 'sorry if I'm bothering you'. as someone who also struggles with anxiety (and we all do!), you have to understand at some point that if you've been welcomed into a person's space, it's because they've made that choice to and because they want you around. there's only so much comforting they can do before it's borderline disruptive.

when the whole of mortalkind, and even existence, becomes one's sworn enemy, to acquire strange bedfellows is par for the course. Some vampires choose isolation, while most others prefer to prey upon those they revile and hate with a passion only born from undeath and a hunger as deep as the void itself. Regis has walked both paths and now has embarked on a third: there are no noble reasons behind it, no aspirations of or illusions of gratitude, but rather a twisted hybrid of rebellion and penance. The living cannot claim a monopoly on redemption, the guidance offered by something that resembles righteousness or so Regis had thought until now. Mostafa, man of many names and qualities except his own, has made a lifestyle of it.

even @zaratustran's name seems to burn Regis' tongue on occasion; the boundary between man and icon is blurrier than ever these days, and even from the beginning of their journey together, the signs had been visible. Beast, Mostafa spits out, while apparently remaining blissfully ignorant to the space inside his heart from which he carved out his own humanity. Or maybe he knows? Maybe he knows his hands are drenched in the blood of a dozen murders, half of them those of an image bearing his face that he refuses to acknowledge? [ Mostafa would hate to hear it, but a baptism in blood is but one more link in the chain that joins them. ]

the reason that stays the Crusader's hand is a noble one for in times of crisis, striking down a helping hand is an abhorrent deed that Regis doubts any of the Nine would ever be able to forgive. At face value, Mostafa's reasoning is simple and satisfactory, but Regis isn't stupid and to assume the opposite of Mostafa would be insulting.

❛ I understand your reasons, ❜ says the vampire, at first apparently to nobody, but there's a barely restrained twitch of Mostafa's body as he discards both helmet and cuirass that indicates he's listening and he knows very well what this is about, ❛ but the sake and health of those we aim to protect is but a mere part of the whole picture. ❜ His voice takes on the ever - present chill of Bruma and it cuts in a way Mostafa despises by now but has still heard many times already. ❛ Or is the way you can barely even look at me fully unrelated? ❜

that seems to trigger something in Mostafa, because that one - eyed golden gaze falls on him with the intensity of the Deadlands' fires. It'd be enough to make any lesser men bow their head in repentance, but Regis is neither lesser nor a man.

some days feel colder than the rest, despite it being the middle of summer, and the reason why is clear only to Regis. It never is about the actual weather itself, for the few he meets near the Chotla have never complained about any strange happenings; with no observations from which to derive proof, the vampire thus deduces that the chill comes from within and only one being he's ever met would be capable of even causing such a thing. And when the ravens that often keep him company warn him of her presence with a cacophony of caws, Regis is always too late to find her.

he'd welcome @azarathian back into his cottage if she weren't so skittish, if the instinct so often attributed to an animal of prey didn't triumph over the rest of her. It's nearly impossible to speak to Raven and convince her to return, but for a creature of such mysticism and ability to reach into one's emotional core, perhaps the best thing he can do is to let the conversation unfold quietly, patiently, from within.

a week and a half goes by, and the dahlia Raven wished to have him partake of still sits, undisturbed, on his workbench. A single bird's call cuts through the silence one evening while he's setting up the distiller, and a momentary bolt of trepidation immobilizes him. Will he find Raven at his door, or will it be too late again? When he opens it, he looks into the familiar void - like eyes of the dyad. The bird of ill omen returns, and something clicks back into place. There is despair in her eyes, and the weight of a stifled cry is evident in her throat: they are creatures that take to their suffering quietly, Regis understands that, but it makes it no less painful.

Raven's arms loop around his neck as easily and as immediately as his own encircle her midsection, and as their bodies slot together, as jasmine mixes with sage and lemongrass, her anguish spills in the form of a sigh. Relief comes in the sight of her shadow where Regis' should be, in the little sob that emits from her shaking chest, and his embrace tightens. A minuscule turn of his head and the vampire presses a kiss to her hair, further expression of the forgiveness she quietly asks for as well as the apology he himself owes.

❛ Welcome back. ❜

there's nothing poetic about that confession, even if it arguably comes in the form of poetry and, for an instant, Regis is inexplicably but undoubtedly glad they've left the confines of their usual dwellings. @lamourstre's tone is a gut - wrenching plea, a realization as scalding as a flash of sunlight over skin ... and it belongs nowhere near the coven, the Théâtre, the image of maître that Armand has fashioned over the decades. They've discussed this time after time in varying degrees of direct terms, but under the lamplight of Rue Foyatier, things become even clearer: there is no line that, to Armand, separates love and violence. That line never existed. That line is an impossible concept.

Regis extends a hand and all Armand sees is claws, poised to take, but the pursuit never stops, because Regis isn't the one seeking to take.

he stops a step just below Armand and looks up at those eternally young features, and waits. Silence breaks even the best of them, and Regis has learned to be patient even at the worst of times. [ So has Armand, obviously, because he wills that silence to stay still, like a neck held in a vice - like grip under threat of having its throat ripped out. ] Armand's eyes grow even more intense, but then Regis registers the signature intake of breath that tells him he's about to speak, insist, command as he often does

whatever he would have said dies a quick and sudden death when Regis' hand alights upon his cheek. It's a tender touch, and it's the first in all the time they've spent around one another. He wonders if Armand considers it a relief, a momentary reprieve from wanting, before he realizes he has to defend himself against it, too. ❛ A stalemate then, Armand? ❜ Regis asks gently, and only loud enough for the other to hear. ❛ Is that what awaits us for as long as I'm here? A bit unfair for both of us, don't you think though mostly for you. I might've been on the fringes for a while, but I'm not clueless. ❜

he lowers his hand away from Armand's face, but does so while tracing the line of his jaw. That won't go unnoticed. Good. ❛ Think about it. When you show up at my door with your fists unclenched, ❜ He smiles now, and his fangs lengthen, ❛ I might take you up on the former. ❜