Encounterlogs
Iness Odd Encounter Sr Maria 250402
In the shadowed, damp alleyway where the past night's rain left its scent lingering, Ruprecht encountered a newly turned vampire, devoid of guidance and starving, unsure of what he had become. The man, hunched and gaunt, exhibited the telltale signs of a newborn vampire, with milky skin, sharp, clean teeth meant for rending flesh, and a deep, marrow-deep hunger. He pleaded with Ruprecht, revealing his confusion and desperation by asking, "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" and "Please, tell me what I am." This encounter set the stage for a critical decision: whether to destroy this creature of the night or to offer him the dark tutelage he needed to survive.
Ruprecht, on the other hand, displayed a mix of disdain and pity towards the fledgling. With a grim sense of humor and a hint of possible assistance, he engaged the vampire, musing about the nature of their existence and the cruel hunger that defined it. He even offered a glimpse into the potential future for the vampire, suggesting a world of power and predation, yet also hinting at the loneliness and despair that accompanies the undead life. The climax of their interaction came when Ruprecht picked up a brick, threatening violence to prompt a reaction from the vampire. This action led to a demonstration of the newborn's powers as he dodged the attack with supernatural speed, questioning the very nature of his existence and defiantly refusing to submit to Ruprecht's version of the future. The story concludes with the vampire's refusal to kneel, questioning what lays beyond the hunger and threats, his new identity hanging in the balance.
(Ines's odd encounter(SRMaria):SRMaria)
[Sat Mar 22 2025]
In the Bedroom of Room 102 at Hotel Antlers
With walls painted in the sorority's signature cerulean blue, the hallway serves as the nexus of the Charity House, bridging the domain between leisure, hospitality, and rest through gold and silver-trimmed doorways. The majestic flight of stairs leads up to the second floor bedrooms, each step framed with intricate silver patterns. A large chandelier, dripping with crystals resembling droplets of water and pearls, casts a gentle glow over the entire landing.
Adjacent to the entrance of the living room, a neat stack of cheerleading pom-poms in shades of silver, gold, and cerulean can occasionally be found, fresh from the latest practice session or White Oak Wildcats game. Occasionally, a pair of cheer sneakers, still bearing traces of field dust, might be left to the side, waiting to be picked up.
It is afternoon, about 43F(6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
With that, she is left alone with her thoughts as the officer leaves, her room turned upside down, and her thoughts left in disarray, the afternoon perhaps was not as nice as she had thought. Indeed, one might think - she's ought to stay home tonight, besides... Surely they'll believe the story she has to tell at the White Oak, won't she?
(Your target and their allies encounter a newly made vampire who hasn't been taught by their maker and doesn't know what they are.
)
Ruprecht seems to be lurking in the midst of some campy fuckin' college town STARBUCKS bullshit, holding a cold brew coffee and staring at two girls as they jabber along without notice. He seems bored. Tired. Exhausted of life.
The alley is slick with last nights rain, the scent of rot pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Ruprecht releases there is a figure in it, not moving, and he is drawn to the hunched figure at the far end. The man is tall - lanky, stretched thin like something starving. He barely seems to notice your approach.
A streetlight flickers above, catching the pale sheen of his skin - milky white, mottled with shadows that might be bruises or something worse. His hands twitch at his sides, long fingers flexing as if remembering a purpose theyve forgotten.
Then, slowly, those cold blue eyes lift to meet yours.
Ruprecht stands with the rigid poise of old wealth, his posture contradicting the filth clinging to his clothes. His suit - if it could still be called that - bears stains no laundering would fix. His breath, if he breathes at all, does not mist in the night air.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Too slow.
"I think Im unwell," he says, voice a dry rasp. His tongue flicks over his lips, and for a moment, you glimpse teeth - too sharp, too clean. The kind meant for rending flesh.
His brows knit, a childlike confusion flickering across his gaunt face. "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" He clutches his stomach, though it's clear the pain is something deeper, something marrow-deep.
Ruprecht notices now - the tremor in his hands, the too-stillness between every movement. The sickly red threading through his veins, pulsing with something richer than blood.
A newborn. No sire in sight.
Something shifts, an inch too fast, does someone have time to move? His body lurches, the motion disjointed - like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. A snarl curls at the edge of his lips, too primal, too sudden.
But then - just as quickly - his expression crumples.
His eyes dart between you, pleading, lost. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I am."
His shadow stretches long under the flickering streetlight, and for a second, you wonder - do you teach him? Do you spare him?
The alley is slick with last nights rain, the scent of rot pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Ruprecht releases there is a figure in it, not moving, and he is drawn to the hunched figure at the far end. The man is tall - lanky, stretched thin like something starving. He barely seems to notice your approach.
A streetlight flickers above, catching the pale sheen of his skin - milky white, mottled with shadows that might be bruises or something worse. His hands twitch at his sides, long fingers flexing as if remembering a purpose theyve forgotten.
Then, slowly, those cold blue eyes lift to meet yours.
Ruprecht stands with the rigid poise of old wealth, his posture contradicting the filth clinging to his clothes. His suit - if it could still be called that - bears stains no laundering would fix. His breath, if he breathes at all, does not mist in the night air.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Too slow.
"I think Im unwell," he says, voice a dry rasp. His tongue flicks over his lips, and for a moment, you glimpse teeth - too sharp, too clean. The kind meant for rending flesh.
His brows knit, a childlike confusion flickering across his gaunt face. "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" He clutches his stomach, though it's clear the pain is something deeper, something marrow-deep.
Ruprecht notices now - the tremor in his hands, the too-stillness between every movement. The sickly red threading through his veins, pulsing with something richer than blood.
A newborn. No sire in sight.
Something shifts, an inch too fast, does Ruprecht have time to move? His body lurches, the motion disjointed - like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. A snarl curls at the edge of his lips, too primal, too sudden.
But then - just as quickly - his expression crumples.
His eyes dart between you, pleading, lost. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I am."
His shadow stretches long under the flickering streetlight, and for a second, you wonder - do you teach him? Do you spare him?
The alley is slick with last nights rain, the scent of rot pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Ruprecht releases there is a figure in it, not moving, and he is drawn to the hunched figure at the far end. The man is tall - lanky, stretched thin like something starving. He barely seems to notice your approach.
A streetlight flickers above, catching the pale sheen of his skin - milky white, mottled with shadows that might be bruises or something worse. His hands twitch at his sides, long fingers flexing as if remembering a purpose theyve forgotten.
Then, slowly, those cold blue eyes lift to meet yours.
Ruprecht stands with the rigid poise of old wealth, his posture contradicting the filth clinging to his clothes. His suit - if it could still be called that - bears stains no laundering would fix. His breath, if he breathes at all, does not mist in the night air.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Too slow.
"I think Im unwell," he says, voice a dry rasp. His tongue flicks over his lips, and for a moment, you glimpse teeth - too sharp, too clean. The kind meant for rending flesh.
His brows knit, a childlike confusion flickering across his gaunt face. "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" He clutches his stomach, though it's clear the pain is something deeper, something marrow-deep.
Ruprecht notices now - the tremor in his hands, the too-stillness between every movement. The sickly red threading through his veins, pulsing with something richer than blood.
A newborn. No sire in sight.
Something shifts, an inch too fast, does Ruprecht have time to move? His body lurches, the motion disjointed - like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. A snarl curls at the edge of his lips, too primal, too sudden.
But then - just as quickly - his expression crumples.
His eyes dart between you, pleading, lost. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I am."
His shadow stretches long under the flickering streetlight, and for a second, you wonder - do you teach him? Do you spare him?
Ruprecht had long since abandoned the starbucks, his cup plastered across the pavement as a suggestion of high-impact collision. It's a languid look up. Perhaps, normally, he would say more. "Do maintain your composure," He suggests, having no immediate instinct until the teeth come into sight. "Ah. You know. I actually do. Every day -- a searing migraine worms its way through my eyes, until I find my medication and make my own of it," A sick, morbid humor in the sentiment. The briefcase on his left wrist is corded to a cable, hanging loose. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, moving to make a few calls, if permitted. "Money. Your pockets. Do you have anything? We might be able to get you handled."
"Welcome to the newest leg of the blockchain, young man! A never-ending incestuous genetic line that stretches back about as far as anything else. You know, you's could've been a king, couple thousand years ago."
The street is slick, the scattered remnants of Ruprecht s coffee soaking into the cracks of the pavement. He regards the mess with a languid disinterest, a flicker of regret shadowing his too-bright, too-hungry eyes before his attention returns to Ruprecht.
"Do maintain your composure," he says, voice smooth despite the sickly tremor behind it. His lips twitch, amusement dancing at the edges. "Ah. You know. I actually do. Every day" he presses two fingers to his temple, rubbing slow circles as though trying to grind something out of his skull. A chuckle, thin and humorless.
The briefcase at his wrist swings, the steel cord looped through his wrist like a shackle. Whatever is inside, he guards it. Or perhaps, it guards him. He flicks his cigarette to the pavement, toeing it out before his fingers twitch toward his phone. The movement is slow, deliberate, as if hes uncertain whether hes still permitted the normalcy of a call.
"Money," he murmurs. "Your pockets. Do you have anything? We might be able to get you handled." Mimicking someone words.
Handled. As though this affliction is something that can be smoothed over with enough cash, as though hunger like his can be tamed with a transaction.
His eyes flick towards Ruprecht, sharp enough to draw blood. Then he smiles, all teeth.
"Welcome to the newest leg of the blockchain, young man!" He gestures grandly, like an auctioneer announcing a prized lot. A chuckle. "You know, you couldve been a king, couple thousand years ago." His words, his body, just a mime.
His voice turns wistful, almost regretful. As if something vital has been stolen from him. Or perhaps, he has only just realized what he has become.
The town thrums around you, alive in ways that man no longer is. The neon reflections in his glassy eyes betray the question he does not ask.
What happens now?
The street is slick, the scattered remnants of Ruprecht s coffee soaking into the cracks of the pavement. He regards the mess with a languid disinterest, a flicker of regret shadowing his too-bright, too-hungry eyes before his attention returns to Ruprecht.
"Do maintain your composure," he says, voice smooth despite the sickly tremor behind it. His lips twitch, amusement dancing at the edges. "Ah. You know. I actually do. Every day" he presses two fingers to his temple, rubbing slow circles as though trying to grind something out of his skull. A chuckle, thin and humorless.
The briefcase at his wrist swings, the steel cord looped through his wrist like a shackle. Whatever is inside, he guards it. Or perhaps, it guards him. He flicks his cigarette to the pavement, toeing it out before his fingers twitch toward his phone. The movement is slow, deliberate, as if hes uncertain whether hes still permitted the normalcy of a call.
"Money," he murmurs. "Your pockets. Do you have anything? We might be able to get you handled." Mimicking Ruprecht s words.
Handled. As though this affliction is something that can be smoothed over with enough cash, as though hunger like his can be tamed with a transaction.
His eyes flick towards Ruprecht, sharp enough to draw blood. Then he smiles, all teeth.
"Welcome to the newest leg of the blockchain, young man!" He gestures grandly, like an auctioneer announcing a prized lot. A chuckle. "You know, you couldve been a king, couple thousand years ago." His words, his body, just a mime.
His voice turns wistful, almost regretful. As if something vital has been stolen from him. Or perhaps, he has only just realized what he has become.
The town thrums around you, alive in ways that man no longer is. The neon reflections in his glassy eyes betray the question he does not ask.
What happens now?
"Oh, now THAT'S just impolite." Ruprecht declares with a turned up lip, leaving his phone to dial empty in his pocket without so much as a whisper of hello to whoever'd be on the other side. A syndicate main-line coach, of course, one that would handle bags, tags, fags, and all other forms of the human trade. Maybe Ruprecht intends to sell this sorry sod into the slave trade. Maybe, more mercifully, to buy him a body and send him on his way. He hasn't so much as stepped away.
He knows what he tastes like. Perhaps there's a confidence in that. That even the most desperate and starved wouldn't permit the filth of his flesh in more than a modicum. It would be a bold, ridiculous belief, if so.
"In about sixty seconds I am going to try to hit you with this brick, unless you begin talking plainly."
He's sincere. He leans down, picks up a red brick, and looks between the two. Brick, Baby. Baby, Brick. "You're fuckin' dead. Not everbody gets to come back from dead. Fewer with a heartbeat. They say you can figure out how to turn that back on, with practice."
The world is too loud. Too bright. Too sharp.
The vampire sways, stomach clenched around a hunger that has no name, vision flickering between the edges of reality. The man before him - Ruprecht, a creature stitched together with filth and aristocracy - speaks with the cadence of someone who has never feared consequence. His lip curls, the lights hum. The weight of his regard is heavier than it should be.
Then, with all the ceremony of a man ordering breakfast, Ruprecht picks up a brick.
"In about sixty seconds I am going to try to drain you. The freshly turned man claims in protest.
His eyes fix on the rough red slab, the uneven surface, the flecks of dirt clinging to its sides. His finger twitch. Not an idle threat.
The words that follow land with a different weight. "Im fuckin' dead!?"
Something inside him knots, then loosens. The cold clarity of it is worse than the hunger.
His wet lips, tongue dragging over unfamiliar teeth. A heartbeat. His. Still there, fluttering against the bones of his ribs. Wrong. Out of place.
His voice - when it comes - is dry, cracked. "Youre saying I died." It isn't a question.
Ruprecht s gaze flickers, perhaps bored, assessing. "I didnt ask," he muses, the vampire shifting in place, twitching uncontrollably. "Fewer with a heartbeat. They say you can figure out how to turn that back on, with practice."
A laugh builds in his throat, ragged and unsure. Hes shaking. He doesnt do not feel cold.
The brick waits.
He swallows, tasting something rich and rusted on the back of his tongue. "And what if I dont want to?""
Hey... that's thirty seconds early! Phtunk! Without any finesse for knife-throwing, Ruprecht heaves the brick straight for the face of the blue-eyed baby boy in front of him, planning to impact at the nose, with any luck. There's a certain weight to his shoulder. The brick flies very, very fast. Perhaps not accurately. "Now, I'll have you know that this is a shrunken, pitiful heart, in here," A sway of a wave goes to his chest, still no flight in his feet.
He is ready to dance, though, swaying as if to dodge, to jump for hope. "If you didn't want to live, again? If you could figure all this out? You'd be one of us. A whole new world-view out there. You'd be your own god, until someone new came along."
Theres no time to think.
The brick that Ruprecht hurtles toward him, a blur of red and rough edges, and instincts he doesnt recognize take over. His body lurches, too fast, too smooth - his head tilting just enough for the projectile to whistle past his ear and explode against the alley wall. Dust scatters, his breath sharp in the night air.
The vampire doesnt blink. He sways, arms loose, expression half-amused, half-scrutinizing. "Im sorry, please dont hurt me," he muses, an almost child-like response, tapping his chest with feigned delicacy.
His fingers twitch, something deep and primal thrumming beneath his skin. Move. Feed. Own.
His voice snakes into the pause between beats. "Be one of you, how do you come back from this, what even am I?" A lazy gesture to the yawning dark around them, to the unseen things that slink through it. "What world view is that, what world awaits me beyond this hunger and your threats?"
The hunger in his gut twists. His breath is steady. Too steady. His fingers curl. His voice comes, low and hoarse: "And what if I dont feel like kneeling?"
Ruprecht, on the other hand, displayed a mix of disdain and pity towards the fledgling. With a grim sense of humor and a hint of possible assistance, he engaged the vampire, musing about the nature of their existence and the cruel hunger that defined it. He even offered a glimpse into the potential future for the vampire, suggesting a world of power and predation, yet also hinting at the loneliness and despair that accompanies the undead life. The climax of their interaction came when Ruprecht picked up a brick, threatening violence to prompt a reaction from the vampire. This action led to a demonstration of the newborn's powers as he dodged the attack with supernatural speed, questioning the very nature of his existence and defiantly refusing to submit to Ruprecht's version of the future. The story concludes with the vampire's refusal to kneel, questioning what lays beyond the hunger and threats, his new identity hanging in the balance.
(Ines's odd encounter(SRMaria):SRMaria)
[Sat Mar 22 2025]
In the Bedroom of Room 102 at Hotel Antlers
With walls painted in the sorority's signature cerulean blue, the hallway serves as the nexus of the Charity House, bridging the domain between leisure, hospitality, and rest through gold and silver-trimmed doorways. The majestic flight of stairs leads up to the second floor bedrooms, each step framed with intricate silver patterns. A large chandelier, dripping with crystals resembling droplets of water and pearls, casts a gentle glow over the entire landing.
Adjacent to the entrance of the living room, a neat stack of cheerleading pom-poms in shades of silver, gold, and cerulean can occasionally be found, fresh from the latest practice session or White Oak Wildcats game. Occasionally, a pair of cheer sneakers, still bearing traces of field dust, might be left to the side, waiting to be picked up.
It is afternoon, about 43F(6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
With that, she is left alone with her thoughts as the officer leaves, her room turned upside down, and her thoughts left in disarray, the afternoon perhaps was not as nice as she had thought. Indeed, one might think - she's ought to stay home tonight, besides... Surely they'll believe the story she has to tell at the White Oak, won't she?
(Your target and their allies encounter a newly made vampire who hasn't been taught by their maker and doesn't know what they are.
)
Ruprecht seems to be lurking in the midst of some campy fuckin' college town STARBUCKS bullshit, holding a cold brew coffee and staring at two girls as they jabber along without notice. He seems bored. Tired. Exhausted of life.
The alley is slick with last nights rain, the scent of rot pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Ruprecht releases there is a figure in it, not moving, and he is drawn to the hunched figure at the far end. The man is tall - lanky, stretched thin like something starving. He barely seems to notice your approach.
A streetlight flickers above, catching the pale sheen of his skin - milky white, mottled with shadows that might be bruises or something worse. His hands twitch at his sides, long fingers flexing as if remembering a purpose theyve forgotten.
Then, slowly, those cold blue eyes lift to meet yours.
Ruprecht stands with the rigid poise of old wealth, his posture contradicting the filth clinging to his clothes. His suit - if it could still be called that - bears stains no laundering would fix. His breath, if he breathes at all, does not mist in the night air.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Too slow.
"I think Im unwell," he says, voice a dry rasp. His tongue flicks over his lips, and for a moment, you glimpse teeth - too sharp, too clean. The kind meant for rending flesh.
His brows knit, a childlike confusion flickering across his gaunt face. "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" He clutches his stomach, though it's clear the pain is something deeper, something marrow-deep.
Ruprecht notices now - the tremor in his hands, the too-stillness between every movement. The sickly red threading through his veins, pulsing with something richer than blood.
A newborn. No sire in sight.
Something shifts, an inch too fast, does someone have time to move? His body lurches, the motion disjointed - like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. A snarl curls at the edge of his lips, too primal, too sudden.
But then - just as quickly - his expression crumples.
His eyes dart between you, pleading, lost. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I am."
His shadow stretches long under the flickering streetlight, and for a second, you wonder - do you teach him? Do you spare him?
The alley is slick with last nights rain, the scent of rot pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Ruprecht releases there is a figure in it, not moving, and he is drawn to the hunched figure at the far end. The man is tall - lanky, stretched thin like something starving. He barely seems to notice your approach.
A streetlight flickers above, catching the pale sheen of his skin - milky white, mottled with shadows that might be bruises or something worse. His hands twitch at his sides, long fingers flexing as if remembering a purpose theyve forgotten.
Then, slowly, those cold blue eyes lift to meet yours.
Ruprecht stands with the rigid poise of old wealth, his posture contradicting the filth clinging to his clothes. His suit - if it could still be called that - bears stains no laundering would fix. His breath, if he breathes at all, does not mist in the night air.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Too slow.
"I think Im unwell," he says, voice a dry rasp. His tongue flicks over his lips, and for a moment, you glimpse teeth - too sharp, too clean. The kind meant for rending flesh.
His brows knit, a childlike confusion flickering across his gaunt face. "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" He clutches his stomach, though it's clear the pain is something deeper, something marrow-deep.
Ruprecht notices now - the tremor in his hands, the too-stillness between every movement. The sickly red threading through his veins, pulsing with something richer than blood.
A newborn. No sire in sight.
Something shifts, an inch too fast, does Ruprecht have time to move? His body lurches, the motion disjointed - like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. A snarl curls at the edge of his lips, too primal, too sudden.
But then - just as quickly - his expression crumples.
His eyes dart between you, pleading, lost. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I am."
His shadow stretches long under the flickering streetlight, and for a second, you wonder - do you teach him? Do you spare him?
The alley is slick with last nights rain, the scent of rot pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Ruprecht releases there is a figure in it, not moving, and he is drawn to the hunched figure at the far end. The man is tall - lanky, stretched thin like something starving. He barely seems to notice your approach.
A streetlight flickers above, catching the pale sheen of his skin - milky white, mottled with shadows that might be bruises or something worse. His hands twitch at his sides, long fingers flexing as if remembering a purpose theyve forgotten.
Then, slowly, those cold blue eyes lift to meet yours.
Ruprecht stands with the rigid poise of old wealth, his posture contradicting the filth clinging to his clothes. His suit - if it could still be called that - bears stains no laundering would fix. His breath, if he breathes at all, does not mist in the night air.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Too slow.
"I think Im unwell," he says, voice a dry rasp. His tongue flicks over his lips, and for a moment, you glimpse teeth - too sharp, too clean. The kind meant for rending flesh.
His brows knit, a childlike confusion flickering across his gaunt face. "Have you ever been so hungry it hurts?" He clutches his stomach, though it's clear the pain is something deeper, something marrow-deep.
Ruprecht notices now - the tremor in his hands, the too-stillness between every movement. The sickly red threading through his veins, pulsing with something richer than blood.
A newborn. No sire in sight.
Something shifts, an inch too fast, does Ruprecht have time to move? His body lurches, the motion disjointed - like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. A snarl curls at the edge of his lips, too primal, too sudden.
But then - just as quickly - his expression crumples.
His eyes dart between you, pleading, lost. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I am."
His shadow stretches long under the flickering streetlight, and for a second, you wonder - do you teach him? Do you spare him?
Ruprecht had long since abandoned the starbucks, his cup plastered across the pavement as a suggestion of high-impact collision. It's a languid look up. Perhaps, normally, he would say more. "Do maintain your composure," He suggests, having no immediate instinct until the teeth come into sight. "Ah. You know. I actually do. Every day -- a searing migraine worms its way through my eyes, until I find my medication and make my own of it," A sick, morbid humor in the sentiment. The briefcase on his left wrist is corded to a cable, hanging loose. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, moving to make a few calls, if permitted. "Money. Your pockets. Do you have anything? We might be able to get you handled."
"Welcome to the newest leg of the blockchain, young man! A never-ending incestuous genetic line that stretches back about as far as anything else. You know, you's could've been a king, couple thousand years ago."
The street is slick, the scattered remnants of Ruprecht s coffee soaking into the cracks of the pavement. He regards the mess with a languid disinterest, a flicker of regret shadowing his too-bright, too-hungry eyes before his attention returns to Ruprecht.
"Do maintain your composure," he says, voice smooth despite the sickly tremor behind it. His lips twitch, amusement dancing at the edges. "Ah. You know. I actually do. Every day" he presses two fingers to his temple, rubbing slow circles as though trying to grind something out of his skull. A chuckle, thin and humorless.
The briefcase at his wrist swings, the steel cord looped through his wrist like a shackle. Whatever is inside, he guards it. Or perhaps, it guards him. He flicks his cigarette to the pavement, toeing it out before his fingers twitch toward his phone. The movement is slow, deliberate, as if hes uncertain whether hes still permitted the normalcy of a call.
"Money," he murmurs. "Your pockets. Do you have anything? We might be able to get you handled." Mimicking someone words.
Handled. As though this affliction is something that can be smoothed over with enough cash, as though hunger like his can be tamed with a transaction.
His eyes flick towards Ruprecht, sharp enough to draw blood. Then he smiles, all teeth.
"Welcome to the newest leg of the blockchain, young man!" He gestures grandly, like an auctioneer announcing a prized lot. A chuckle. "You know, you couldve been a king, couple thousand years ago." His words, his body, just a mime.
His voice turns wistful, almost regretful. As if something vital has been stolen from him. Or perhaps, he has only just realized what he has become.
The town thrums around you, alive in ways that man no longer is. The neon reflections in his glassy eyes betray the question he does not ask.
What happens now?
The street is slick, the scattered remnants of Ruprecht s coffee soaking into the cracks of the pavement. He regards the mess with a languid disinterest, a flicker of regret shadowing his too-bright, too-hungry eyes before his attention returns to Ruprecht.
"Do maintain your composure," he says, voice smooth despite the sickly tremor behind it. His lips twitch, amusement dancing at the edges. "Ah. You know. I actually do. Every day" he presses two fingers to his temple, rubbing slow circles as though trying to grind something out of his skull. A chuckle, thin and humorless.
The briefcase at his wrist swings, the steel cord looped through his wrist like a shackle. Whatever is inside, he guards it. Or perhaps, it guards him. He flicks his cigarette to the pavement, toeing it out before his fingers twitch toward his phone. The movement is slow, deliberate, as if hes uncertain whether hes still permitted the normalcy of a call.
"Money," he murmurs. "Your pockets. Do you have anything? We might be able to get you handled." Mimicking Ruprecht s words.
Handled. As though this affliction is something that can be smoothed over with enough cash, as though hunger like his can be tamed with a transaction.
His eyes flick towards Ruprecht, sharp enough to draw blood. Then he smiles, all teeth.
"Welcome to the newest leg of the blockchain, young man!" He gestures grandly, like an auctioneer announcing a prized lot. A chuckle. "You know, you couldve been a king, couple thousand years ago." His words, his body, just a mime.
His voice turns wistful, almost regretful. As if something vital has been stolen from him. Or perhaps, he has only just realized what he has become.
The town thrums around you, alive in ways that man no longer is. The neon reflections in his glassy eyes betray the question he does not ask.
What happens now?
"Oh, now THAT'S just impolite." Ruprecht declares with a turned up lip, leaving his phone to dial empty in his pocket without so much as a whisper of hello to whoever'd be on the other side. A syndicate main-line coach, of course, one that would handle bags, tags, fags, and all other forms of the human trade. Maybe Ruprecht intends to sell this sorry sod into the slave trade. Maybe, more mercifully, to buy him a body and send him on his way. He hasn't so much as stepped away.
He knows what he tastes like. Perhaps there's a confidence in that. That even the most desperate and starved wouldn't permit the filth of his flesh in more than a modicum. It would be a bold, ridiculous belief, if so.
"In about sixty seconds I am going to try to hit you with this brick, unless you begin talking plainly."
He's sincere. He leans down, picks up a red brick, and looks between the two. Brick, Baby. Baby, Brick. "You're fuckin' dead. Not everbody gets to come back from dead. Fewer with a heartbeat. They say you can figure out how to turn that back on, with practice."
The world is too loud. Too bright. Too sharp.
The vampire sways, stomach clenched around a hunger that has no name, vision flickering between the edges of reality. The man before him - Ruprecht, a creature stitched together with filth and aristocracy - speaks with the cadence of someone who has never feared consequence. His lip curls, the lights hum. The weight of his regard is heavier than it should be.
Then, with all the ceremony of a man ordering breakfast, Ruprecht picks up a brick.
"In about sixty seconds I am going to try to drain you. The freshly turned man claims in protest.
His eyes fix on the rough red slab, the uneven surface, the flecks of dirt clinging to its sides. His finger twitch. Not an idle threat.
The words that follow land with a different weight. "Im fuckin' dead!?"
Something inside him knots, then loosens. The cold clarity of it is worse than the hunger.
His wet lips, tongue dragging over unfamiliar teeth. A heartbeat. His. Still there, fluttering against the bones of his ribs. Wrong. Out of place.
His voice - when it comes - is dry, cracked. "Youre saying I died." It isn't a question.
Ruprecht s gaze flickers, perhaps bored, assessing. "I didnt ask," he muses, the vampire shifting in place, twitching uncontrollably. "Fewer with a heartbeat. They say you can figure out how to turn that back on, with practice."
A laugh builds in his throat, ragged and unsure. Hes shaking. He doesnt do not feel cold.
The brick waits.
He swallows, tasting something rich and rusted on the back of his tongue. "And what if I dont want to?""
Hey... that's thirty seconds early! Phtunk! Without any finesse for knife-throwing, Ruprecht heaves the brick straight for the face of the blue-eyed baby boy in front of him, planning to impact at the nose, with any luck. There's a certain weight to his shoulder. The brick flies very, very fast. Perhaps not accurately. "Now, I'll have you know that this is a shrunken, pitiful heart, in here," A sway of a wave goes to his chest, still no flight in his feet.
He is ready to dance, though, swaying as if to dodge, to jump for hope. "If you didn't want to live, again? If you could figure all this out? You'd be one of us. A whole new world-view out there. You'd be your own god, until someone new came along."
Theres no time to think.
The brick that Ruprecht hurtles toward him, a blur of red and rough edges, and instincts he doesnt recognize take over. His body lurches, too fast, too smooth - his head tilting just enough for the projectile to whistle past his ear and explode against the alley wall. Dust scatters, his breath sharp in the night air.
The vampire doesnt blink. He sways, arms loose, expression half-amused, half-scrutinizing. "Im sorry, please dont hurt me," he muses, an almost child-like response, tapping his chest with feigned delicacy.
His fingers twitch, something deep and primal thrumming beneath his skin. Move. Feed. Own.
His voice snakes into the pause between beats. "Be one of you, how do you come back from this, what even am I?" A lazy gesture to the yawning dark around them, to the unseen things that slink through it. "What world view is that, what world awaits me beyond this hunger and your threats?"
The hunger in his gut twists. His breath is steady. Too steady. His fingers curl. His voice comes, low and hoarse: "And what if I dont feel like kneeling?"