Encounterlogs
Victorias Odd Encounter Sr Castiel 250216
In a serene and intricately detailed dream world, Victoria finds herself plucked from the warmth of her master bedroom and dropped into a macabre garden, a realm that defies the laws of nature and physics, conjured by a being known as the Ivory Marquis. This entity, mysterious and eloquently spoken, expresses a disturbingly keen interest in Victoria, offering not just words but an atmosphere thick with enchantment and hidden threats. The garden, with its unnerving beauty and the suffocating sense of being watched, sets the stage for a dialogue between predator and prey, where the Marquis reveals his intention to "remake" Victoria into a creature more to his liking. Despite the oppressive perfection of the surroundings and the Marquis's compelling presence, Victoria stands her ground, her curiosity piqued but her sense of self-preservation strong.
As the encounter unfolds, the Ivory Marquis dances around Victoria, both figuratively and literally, describing his vision of her transformation with a blend of admiration and sheer dominance. He sees her as raw material for his artistry, a fascinating contradiction to be refined. Yet, for all his poetic persuasion and the seductive danger that his words imply, Victoria remains undeterred. Her response to his grand declaration of inevitable possession is to flee, an action that proves futile within the dream's confines. When the Marquis finally asserts that all paths lead back to him, he seemingly releases her - but the escape is not into freedom. Victoria "awakens" in her bed, the dream evaporated yet leaving tangible traces of an encounter too real to dismiss. Her last thoughts fracture on the realization of the day ahead, a veiled acknowledgment of the Marquis's warning. In the end, despite her defiance, the unsettling truth lingers: the paths of her life might yet circle back to the insidious promise of the Ivory Marquis, making the encounter an ominous prelude to a potentially darker saga.
(Victoria's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Sat Feb 15 2025]
In a serene master bedroom
This room combines rustic decor, warm lighting, and a welcoming atmosphere that invites relaxation, making the space the perfect blend of nature and warmth. Walls are created of rich wood, and the main feature within is the bed.
A large bed with a frame made of oak dominates the space and is covered in several plush blankets, making it the ideal place to curl up and unwind. A fur throw has been laid at the foot of the bed, and several fluffy pillows rest against the headboard that is made from the same oak, featuring a black velvet backdrop.
It is morning, about 27F(-2C) degrees,
(Your target is swept into a pocket dream world by a true Fae interested in a romantic liaison
)
Shadows coil and stretch across the walls, twisting unnaturally in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. They flicker like something living, something breathing, stretching long fingers where no light should cause them to extend. For the briefest moment, they form something almost tangible- a suggestion of movement, of figures lurking just outside perception. Then a blink, a heartbeat, and the world is not the same.
A severance cuts through reality with an almost audible silence, a sudden and absolute shift. The air itself feels altered, weightless yet heavy, pressing in with a cloying hush that muffles the senses. There is no lingering memory of the bedroom, no trace of the space left behind. There is only this, and this has always been. It is not a place one arrives- it is a place that simply is, vast and ancient, patient in its existence.
The world surrounding Victoria is exquisitely macabre, built upon contradictions. The sky overhead is not sky at all, but a sweeping vault of hollowed ivory, a grand cathedral ceiling stretching beyond comprehension, ribbed like the inside of something once alive. It curves high and infinite, cradling a luminous haze that cannot be called daylight, a diffuse glow that gives no true warmth. From its great expanse hang chandeliers of bone and onyx, enormous things that sway with a wind that does not touch the ground, their many candles flickering with flames that burn too still, too quiet.
The ground beneath is pale marble, pristine and cold underfoot, interrupted only by veins of deep crimson that slither through it like veins in flesh. The floor stretches outward into mist-laden space, giving way to a vast garden that should not exist, lush with growth that is both beautiful and wrong. Flowers bloom in shapes unfamiliar, petals curling like grasping fingers, their colors too rich, too saturated, bleeding into one another in hues that do not belong in nature. The air carries their scent- sweet, intoxicating, cloying in a way that lingers at the back of the throat like the memory of something once tasted but long forgotten.
Towering trees with obsidian bark rise along the gardens border, their boughs stretching high into the hollow sky. Their leaves are silken and dark, shifting between deep violet and abyssal black as they catch the light. The breeze does not rustle them, yet they move- slow, deliberate, as though adjusting themselves in careful observation. The branches arch over pathways of mosaic stone, threading through the garden like veins in a living thing, leading deeper into the unknown.
There are structures in the distance, statues half-shrouded in fog, their forms indistinct but humanoid. Some stand alone, twisted into frozen expressions of ecstasy or despair, while others meld into one another in grotesque embraces, locked together as if caught mid-transformation. The marble of their bodies is too smooth, too polished, their hollow eyes deep voids that seem to follow every movement. Water trickles from their mouths and down their limbs, staining the stone at their feet in dark rivulets that disappear into unseen depths.
The silence here is too complete, vast and encompassing, broken only by the slow, deliberate drip, drip, drip of unseen water. Yet beneath it all, something lingers- an unspoken presence, a pressure at the edges of perception. That sense of being watched is impossible to ignore. It does not come from a single source, nor from any one direction. It is omnipresent, woven into the fabric of this place, patient and waiting. The garden does not breathe, but something within it does.
The air carries a lull of tranquility, a stillness meant to soothe, to erode the sharp edges of reason. It is easy to believe that nothing is amiss, that this place is as it should be. And yet, the mind knows better. Something here is off, too carefully constructed, too attuned to the senses. The very perfection of it gnaws at the edges of thought, a whisper just beyond comprehension, urging- no, daring- one to relax, to accept, to believe.
This is how it begins.
Victoria remains motionless, her breathing even and unhurried, each inhale measured with quiet intent. Her head tilts ever so slightly as she listens to every subtle sound around her in silence. The scent of the garden reaches her, thick and insistent, but she does not shrink away from it; instead, she draws it in, letting it settle in her lungs, parsing its complexity, analyzing.
Her gaze moves at an unhurried pace, sweeping across her surroundings with quiet deliberation before finally settling on the structures in the distance. A faint frown tugs at her lips, her expression shifting to betray the conflict of wanting relaxation, and her natural curiosity. A barely perceptible twitch runs through her before she exhales slowly and takes a step forward.
Nothing stirs at first. There is no grand announcement of arrival, no shattering of earth or heralding fanfare. Instead, the change comes as a ripple, a quiet fracture in the silence. The stillness, once serene, now carries a weight- a presence unseen, but felt, as if the air itself holds its breath in anticipation.
The flowers, obedient to an unseen law, lean away in a slow, languid motion, parting as though bowing to something that has not yet stepped into view. The atmosphere thickens, shifting from the heavy, cloying sweetness of the garden to something sharper- something laced with old paper and ink, the ghost of aged perfume clinging to a velvet coat.
Then, like a scene unfolding on a perfectly timed stage, he arrives.
The Ivory Marquis does not enter; he appears. One moment, the garden yawns empty, the next, he stands upon its path as though he has always been there, as though the world had simply forgotten to render him before now. He does not materialize with abruptness, nor with the ostentatious shimmer of magic- the mind merely adjusts, accepting his existence without question, no matter how improbable.
His presence is meticulous, curated to the last immaculate detail. He is tall, but not towering; his form, elongated yet never grotesque. The coat he wears is a dark, endless blue, its texture shifting like wet ink, swallowing the light in rippling waves. Silver embroidery coils along the cuffs and hem- alive, perhaps, or simply so intricate that the eye cannot catch its stillness. His skin is the color of polished ivory, his features sculpted in the manner of something too perfect, too deliberate, a creation born not of flesh but of intent. And his eyes-
Ah, his eyes.
They are fathomless voids, blacker than the spaces between stars, yet within them, something moves. They are not reflections of light, nor pools of shadow; they are abysses that watch, that wait, that know. They blink- too many pupils shifting, adjusting, realigning in ways the human mind does not wish to comprehend. And yet, despite their impossible nature, they carry no hostility. No malice. Only amusement.
He lifts a hand, long fingers gloved in something smooth, something that mimics silk but is too seamless, too untouched by wrinkle or imperfection. The movement is effortless, the gesture of a man accustomed to grand halls and whispered invitations, where every motion is part of a greater performance. A breath passes- just one, drawn deep into lungs that may or may not require air- before he speaks.
"Victoria."
The name is spoken like a declaration, a single note in a melody composed just for her. His voice is warm, rich, with the quiet decadence of poetry recited in candlelight. Yet there is something within it, something unplaceable- a resonance that lingers longer than it should, that settles not in the ears, but in the marrow.
"Ah, but of course, you are wondering. That delicate tilt of your head, the stillness in your breath- I would not be so gauche as to call it fear. No, nothing so crude. Curiosity, perhaps. Suspicion, certainly. A mind too sharp to be dulled by mere illusion."
His steps are unhurried as he moves, his presence never quite touching the ground, though his shadow- impossibly stretched, longer than it should be- drifts along the path like ink spilled in slow motion. The flowers recoil further, their stems bending back as if unwilling to be grazed by the hem of his coat.
"I have watched you. Not as a voyeur, no- never so crude as that. A connoisseur, perhaps. A collector of moments, of people who fascinate. And you, Victoria, are..." He trails off, as if tasting the weight of words, savoring their texture before selecting the finest from his mental gallery. "Undone." The smile he wears is not cruel, nor kind- it simply is, a practiced expression that holds all the secrets of old tragedies and whispered lullabies. He clasps his hands behind his back, his posture impeccable, as though he stands before a canvas yet to be painted upon.
"But do not mistake me for some coarse thing, seeking to ensnare you in chains of folly and false love. No, no. I offer something far more elegant. A dance, if you will, a waltz of curiosity and discovery. You, who stand at the precipice of reason, looking inward rather than out- I wonder, would you not care to step inside rather than merely observe?"
His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of a blade concealed beneath silk, a paradox of danger wrapped in the soft trappings of civility. He gestures, not towards the world around them, but towards something unseen, something that lingers just beyond perception.
"And so, here we are. You in your reluctance, I in my invitation. It is not a command, nor a demand. It is simply a door- one you may choose to walk through. Or not. But tell me, Victoria-" His head tilts, just so, his many-eyed gaze unwavering, his voice a sigh of velvet wrapped in ink-dark night. "Is it not lonely, standing just at the threshold?"
Victoria stands as she is, unmoving, but her breath slows, drawn in deliberate, measured sips as though testing the gravity of his presence. She does not bow, nor does she lean away like the flowers that shrink from his path. Instead, she studies him, dissecting him with a gaze that does not flinch.
"You speak as if you know me," she says at last, her voice even, smooth as glass yet carrying the trace of an edge. "Undone?" A pause. Then, with a tilt of her head, "How very bold of you."
Victoria does not step forward, nor does she retreat, but there is a shift, a subtle thing, in the way her chin lifts, and the way her shoulders square. "Who are you?"
The Ivory Marquis does not answer immediately. Instead, the world itself exhales with him, a slow and languid shift, as though the garden responds to his very breath. The scent of lilies thickens, cloying in the air, the edges of their white petals browning and curling as though touched by unseen decay. The moon above does not shift in the sky, but its glow pulses once - like a slow heartbeat, like the contraction of something vast and unseen that watches from beyond this curated dream.
At last, he moves. His presence does not displace the space around him as one might expect of flesh and bone, but rather it reshapes to accommodate him, as though reality itself deems his existence inevitable. The pale fabric of his coat drags against the air like silk against a blade's edge, and when he steps forward, the ground does not protest his weight. Instead, the path beneath him darkens ever so slightly, colors desaturating like old film.
"You wound me, lovely thing." His voice drips with something both intimate and distant, a melody unspooled from the throat of a predator. "To think I might not know you - the notion alone is offensive. Have you not noticed? You are stitched into the marrow of this place, woven into its very bones. How could I not know you, when it has been made in your honor?"
His eyes - those abyssal voids - seem to drink in the light rather than reflect it, and when he tilts his head, something shudders in the periphery of reality. A ripple, brief but undeniable, as though the dream itself quivers beneath his amusement. His lips part in something that is not quite a smile. "You ask who I am, and I find the question charming. I have been called many things. A patron of lost souls. A collector of broken things. An architect of beautiful endings. But you, Victoria, may call me what I am."
A slow incline of his head, a motion laced with something indulgent, something far too assured. "I am the one who has chosen you." The whisper of his voice curls between the vines, slithers between the petals, as if the garden itself listens with rapt attention. "I intend to have you. To unmake and remake you in the image of something more befitting. Not because I must, no, but because I can. Because I will. Because I am a sculptor, and you"
He lifts one gloved hand, gesturing in a slow arc that sweeps across her form as if outlining an unfinished work. "You are exquisite raw material." There is a shift in the air. A subtle, nearly imperceptible deepening of color, as though the entire world is being drawn inward, the focus tightening. The Marquis's presence coils like a vice, not in touch, but in certainty, in inevitability.
And then, as though to soften the weight of his decree, he exhales a laugh. Light, pleasant - a sound that does not belong in a place like this. "But do not mistake me for a brute, you delightful, crescent moon. I am nothing if not patient. I have no need for chains, no use for force. You will come to understand, in time, that all doors lead back to me." A gust of wind, though there is no breeze. The flowers tremble, shadows stretch, and a thousand eyes watch Victoria.
Casting another careful glance around her surroundings, Victoria's eyes linger on the goblets resting on the table. Her gaze narrows slightly, suspicion flickering across her features as she regards them for a moment longer, before shifting her attention back to the man before her. Letting her eyes travel deliberately from head to toe, she takes in every detail- his posture, the cut of his clothing, the way he carries himself- before finally clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the sharp sound punctuating her silent assessment.
"Right then," Victoria concedes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear with deliberate care, her fingers lingering for just a moment. "I'll play along." Her voice carries a note of measured curiosity, laced with the faintest edge of skepticism. "What exactly are we remaking me into?" She tilts her head slightly, the corner of her mouth curving in something that is not quite a smile. The tip of her tongue glides absently along the edge of one incisor, tracing its sharp point as if reacquainting herself with something both familiar and foreign.
Another step forward to breach the gap in between, completely, unhurried, his presence a measured force that presses against the very air itself. The garden bends in his wake, petals quivering as though whispering secrets to one another as that last stretch of distance fades. The eerie, mirrored floor distorts slightly beneath his feet, reflections warping, bending around him like liquid silver stirred by an unseen hand.
He does not reach for her outright, not yet. Instead, his gloved fingers hover in the space between them, as if he might trace the air that separates them, weighing its intangible presence. Then, slow as an artist's brush, he moves, trailing a fingertip just along the curve of Victoria's jaw, the pressure featherlight, calculating. The caress of a sculptor assessing his marble.
"What shall I make of you? What will I carve from the clay you call a body?" His voice drips with the savor of something ancient, something that does not ask but states, as if the shaping has already begun. "Flesh is pliable. Bone, though stubborn, will bow to patient hands. But the mind... ah, the mind is where the true craftsmanship lies."
The Marquis moves, drifting around her with an absent grace, his eyes drinking her in as if the sight of her is a poem being whispered to his very soul. "You are a contradiction. You wield cruelty with reluctance but do not shy from it. You have the heart of a wolf, yet you bury it beneath the trappings of civility. You make your home in a place of vices and indulgence- a tavern? Yet you hold yourself apart from the worst of it, a queen who does not fully partake of the feast she lays before others, but partakes nonetheless."
His fingers ghost over her shoulder now, measuring the line of it, the shape of her collarbone beneath. "A fractured creature. That is what you are. And I will make you whole." He steps closer, just enough that she might feel the breath of his presence against her skin, though he does not yet press further. "What shall we strip away first? The hesitations, the hesitance to reach and take what is yours by right? Shall I smooth away the flickers of guilt that restrain your hand from tearing? Or shall I refine the hunger in you instead, shape it into something purer, something more potent?"
His gaze drifts downward, over her hands. "They are strong, but they hesitate before they grasp. That will not do. Not for one I wish to perfect." His hands do not linger long on any part of her, never fully committing to touch, but always there- like a phantom sculptor envisioning his masterpiece before the first strike of the chisel. "And your form... ah, the beauty of a predator disguised in human skin. But why settle for a disguise? Why not embrace the essence fully? Claws that do not need to wait for the change, eyes that see through the veils of pretense and deceit with a glance. A voice that does not merely command, but compels."
He draws back, just enough to study her once more, considering. "I do not ask for devotion, nor demand it. What is love worth if it is not given freely? No, my dear, I would not break you to make you mine. I will sculpt you into something greater, something that cannot help but love me, for I will be the only thing worthy of your affections. The only thing that can stand in the presence of what you shall become."
His lips curve, slow, indulgent. "Does that not tempt you? To be the wolf unfettered? To be adored as you deserve?" He lifts his hand, open-palmed, inviting for her to take - but there is a distinct weight to it that seems to signify it would be a very, very poor decision to do so. Almost a form of commitment in some manner. "Tell me, Victoria... what shall we carve first?"
"Into something I can't help but lo-" Victoria starts, nearly choking on the word. She clears her throat quickly, regaining composure. "Therein lies your mistake."
A flicker of amusement dances in her eyes, and the twist of her lips morphs into something sharper, a grin that borders on mischievous- almost apologetic, yet laced with a quiet confidence. "You chose incorrectly," she chides softly, her tone light. "The one wolf who abhors strong feelings of affection." She tenses slightly, and exhales with a huff. "My answer to your carving is...no," she confirms, with a hint of regret. "As much as the words tempt me..." A spin on a heel, and she's moving to run, any direction that will put distance between herself and him. "I have to decline."
So she runs.
Flees, as one would.
Yet, Victoria's steps do naught but take her anywhere. She's moving in place, in the same spot she was always - at the complete behest and control if the Marquis that's taken an interest. Slow, insidious hands land upon her shoulders while his head lowers over her shoulder. He, too, looks ahead - but there is a moment where he lays his head aside to her own, with a subtle and slight brush that's affectionate.
In that moment, all movement ceases - of her, around her.
Everywhere and nowhere.
"You can deny me, you can say anything - think anything." The way he even says it, it sounds like he knows well what brews within the coils of her mind, and it makes him smile. A drifting curve of the lips that's neither here nor there, ethereal to say the least, perhaps a bit too wide. "But do not forget, I will remember you, and you will remember be - and you will remember, more than anything..." Her body is turned like a suspended marionette, faced towards one of those ivory doors.
"Every path you ever take, will eventually lead back to me."
His release is as if it never was him that held her. Color floods into the world in flickering hues that start slow but gradually hasten, while motion joins as a familiar, filial member of it - floods into her body to resume her escape, but her captor is nowhere to be seen even if that primordial sensation of a thousand eyes watching her from the vast expanse of abyssal sockets remain.
She can't help but run through that door that she's suddenly made to face, and as soon as she does -- there were no doors. There wasn't even the thought of one, or another place, or another thing. All that there is is a lapse within Victoria's judgement, of her thoughts, of her memory. She was laying there in her own bed a few seconds ago, but hours have went by between that blink and this where her faculties are returned.
Her fingers feel tingles, there is a scent of rust, of blood in the air, and a thick taste at the back of her throat as if he's ate something she shouldn't. Even if she can't remember at all what happened, if anything happened - it isn't even a recollection of a dream she endures - it is total absence of self, the void of recollection.
What was she doing, again?
Ah, that's right.
It must be just another day in Haven.
As the encounter unfolds, the Ivory Marquis dances around Victoria, both figuratively and literally, describing his vision of her transformation with a blend of admiration and sheer dominance. He sees her as raw material for his artistry, a fascinating contradiction to be refined. Yet, for all his poetic persuasion and the seductive danger that his words imply, Victoria remains undeterred. Her response to his grand declaration of inevitable possession is to flee, an action that proves futile within the dream's confines. When the Marquis finally asserts that all paths lead back to him, he seemingly releases her - but the escape is not into freedom. Victoria "awakens" in her bed, the dream evaporated yet leaving tangible traces of an encounter too real to dismiss. Her last thoughts fracture on the realization of the day ahead, a veiled acknowledgment of the Marquis's warning. In the end, despite her defiance, the unsettling truth lingers: the paths of her life might yet circle back to the insidious promise of the Ivory Marquis, making the encounter an ominous prelude to a potentially darker saga.
(Victoria's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Sat Feb 15 2025]
In a serene master bedroom
This room combines rustic decor, warm lighting, and a welcoming atmosphere that invites relaxation, making the space the perfect blend of nature and warmth. Walls are created of rich wood, and the main feature within is the bed.
A large bed with a frame made of oak dominates the space and is covered in several plush blankets, making it the ideal place to curl up and unwind. A fur throw has been laid at the foot of the bed, and several fluffy pillows rest against the headboard that is made from the same oak, featuring a black velvet backdrop.
It is morning, about 27F(-2C) degrees,
(Your target is swept into a pocket dream world by a true Fae interested in a romantic liaison
)
Shadows coil and stretch across the walls, twisting unnaturally in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. They flicker like something living, something breathing, stretching long fingers where no light should cause them to extend. For the briefest moment, they form something almost tangible- a suggestion of movement, of figures lurking just outside perception. Then a blink, a heartbeat, and the world is not the same.
A severance cuts through reality with an almost audible silence, a sudden and absolute shift. The air itself feels altered, weightless yet heavy, pressing in with a cloying hush that muffles the senses. There is no lingering memory of the bedroom, no trace of the space left behind. There is only this, and this has always been. It is not a place one arrives- it is a place that simply is, vast and ancient, patient in its existence.
The world surrounding Victoria is exquisitely macabre, built upon contradictions. The sky overhead is not sky at all, but a sweeping vault of hollowed ivory, a grand cathedral ceiling stretching beyond comprehension, ribbed like the inside of something once alive. It curves high and infinite, cradling a luminous haze that cannot be called daylight, a diffuse glow that gives no true warmth. From its great expanse hang chandeliers of bone and onyx, enormous things that sway with a wind that does not touch the ground, their many candles flickering with flames that burn too still, too quiet.
The ground beneath is pale marble, pristine and cold underfoot, interrupted only by veins of deep crimson that slither through it like veins in flesh. The floor stretches outward into mist-laden space, giving way to a vast garden that should not exist, lush with growth that is both beautiful and wrong. Flowers bloom in shapes unfamiliar, petals curling like grasping fingers, their colors too rich, too saturated, bleeding into one another in hues that do not belong in nature. The air carries their scent- sweet, intoxicating, cloying in a way that lingers at the back of the throat like the memory of something once tasted but long forgotten.
Towering trees with obsidian bark rise along the gardens border, their boughs stretching high into the hollow sky. Their leaves are silken and dark, shifting between deep violet and abyssal black as they catch the light. The breeze does not rustle them, yet they move- slow, deliberate, as though adjusting themselves in careful observation. The branches arch over pathways of mosaic stone, threading through the garden like veins in a living thing, leading deeper into the unknown.
There are structures in the distance, statues half-shrouded in fog, their forms indistinct but humanoid. Some stand alone, twisted into frozen expressions of ecstasy or despair, while others meld into one another in grotesque embraces, locked together as if caught mid-transformation. The marble of their bodies is too smooth, too polished, their hollow eyes deep voids that seem to follow every movement. Water trickles from their mouths and down their limbs, staining the stone at their feet in dark rivulets that disappear into unseen depths.
The silence here is too complete, vast and encompassing, broken only by the slow, deliberate drip, drip, drip of unseen water. Yet beneath it all, something lingers- an unspoken presence, a pressure at the edges of perception. That sense of being watched is impossible to ignore. It does not come from a single source, nor from any one direction. It is omnipresent, woven into the fabric of this place, patient and waiting. The garden does not breathe, but something within it does.
The air carries a lull of tranquility, a stillness meant to soothe, to erode the sharp edges of reason. It is easy to believe that nothing is amiss, that this place is as it should be. And yet, the mind knows better. Something here is off, too carefully constructed, too attuned to the senses. The very perfection of it gnaws at the edges of thought, a whisper just beyond comprehension, urging- no, daring- one to relax, to accept, to believe.
This is how it begins.
Victoria remains motionless, her breathing even and unhurried, each inhale measured with quiet intent. Her head tilts ever so slightly as she listens to every subtle sound around her in silence. The scent of the garden reaches her, thick and insistent, but she does not shrink away from it; instead, she draws it in, letting it settle in her lungs, parsing its complexity, analyzing.
Her gaze moves at an unhurried pace, sweeping across her surroundings with quiet deliberation before finally settling on the structures in the distance. A faint frown tugs at her lips, her expression shifting to betray the conflict of wanting relaxation, and her natural curiosity. A barely perceptible twitch runs through her before she exhales slowly and takes a step forward.
Nothing stirs at first. There is no grand announcement of arrival, no shattering of earth or heralding fanfare. Instead, the change comes as a ripple, a quiet fracture in the silence. The stillness, once serene, now carries a weight- a presence unseen, but felt, as if the air itself holds its breath in anticipation.
The flowers, obedient to an unseen law, lean away in a slow, languid motion, parting as though bowing to something that has not yet stepped into view. The atmosphere thickens, shifting from the heavy, cloying sweetness of the garden to something sharper- something laced with old paper and ink, the ghost of aged perfume clinging to a velvet coat.
Then, like a scene unfolding on a perfectly timed stage, he arrives.
The Ivory Marquis does not enter; he appears. One moment, the garden yawns empty, the next, he stands upon its path as though he has always been there, as though the world had simply forgotten to render him before now. He does not materialize with abruptness, nor with the ostentatious shimmer of magic- the mind merely adjusts, accepting his existence without question, no matter how improbable.
His presence is meticulous, curated to the last immaculate detail. He is tall, but not towering; his form, elongated yet never grotesque. The coat he wears is a dark, endless blue, its texture shifting like wet ink, swallowing the light in rippling waves. Silver embroidery coils along the cuffs and hem- alive, perhaps, or simply so intricate that the eye cannot catch its stillness. His skin is the color of polished ivory, his features sculpted in the manner of something too perfect, too deliberate, a creation born not of flesh but of intent. And his eyes-
Ah, his eyes.
They are fathomless voids, blacker than the spaces between stars, yet within them, something moves. They are not reflections of light, nor pools of shadow; they are abysses that watch, that wait, that know. They blink- too many pupils shifting, adjusting, realigning in ways the human mind does not wish to comprehend. And yet, despite their impossible nature, they carry no hostility. No malice. Only amusement.
He lifts a hand, long fingers gloved in something smooth, something that mimics silk but is too seamless, too untouched by wrinkle or imperfection. The movement is effortless, the gesture of a man accustomed to grand halls and whispered invitations, where every motion is part of a greater performance. A breath passes- just one, drawn deep into lungs that may or may not require air- before he speaks.
"Victoria."
The name is spoken like a declaration, a single note in a melody composed just for her. His voice is warm, rich, with the quiet decadence of poetry recited in candlelight. Yet there is something within it, something unplaceable- a resonance that lingers longer than it should, that settles not in the ears, but in the marrow.
"Ah, but of course, you are wondering. That delicate tilt of your head, the stillness in your breath- I would not be so gauche as to call it fear. No, nothing so crude. Curiosity, perhaps. Suspicion, certainly. A mind too sharp to be dulled by mere illusion."
His steps are unhurried as he moves, his presence never quite touching the ground, though his shadow- impossibly stretched, longer than it should be- drifts along the path like ink spilled in slow motion. The flowers recoil further, their stems bending back as if unwilling to be grazed by the hem of his coat.
"I have watched you. Not as a voyeur, no- never so crude as that. A connoisseur, perhaps. A collector of moments, of people who fascinate. And you, Victoria, are..." He trails off, as if tasting the weight of words, savoring their texture before selecting the finest from his mental gallery. "Undone." The smile he wears is not cruel, nor kind- it simply is, a practiced expression that holds all the secrets of old tragedies and whispered lullabies. He clasps his hands behind his back, his posture impeccable, as though he stands before a canvas yet to be painted upon.
"But do not mistake me for some coarse thing, seeking to ensnare you in chains of folly and false love. No, no. I offer something far more elegant. A dance, if you will, a waltz of curiosity and discovery. You, who stand at the precipice of reason, looking inward rather than out- I wonder, would you not care to step inside rather than merely observe?"
His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of a blade concealed beneath silk, a paradox of danger wrapped in the soft trappings of civility. He gestures, not towards the world around them, but towards something unseen, something that lingers just beyond perception.
"And so, here we are. You in your reluctance, I in my invitation. It is not a command, nor a demand. It is simply a door- one you may choose to walk through. Or not. But tell me, Victoria-" His head tilts, just so, his many-eyed gaze unwavering, his voice a sigh of velvet wrapped in ink-dark night. "Is it not lonely, standing just at the threshold?"
Victoria stands as she is, unmoving, but her breath slows, drawn in deliberate, measured sips as though testing the gravity of his presence. She does not bow, nor does she lean away like the flowers that shrink from his path. Instead, she studies him, dissecting him with a gaze that does not flinch.
"You speak as if you know me," she says at last, her voice even, smooth as glass yet carrying the trace of an edge. "Undone?" A pause. Then, with a tilt of her head, "How very bold of you."
Victoria does not step forward, nor does she retreat, but there is a shift, a subtle thing, in the way her chin lifts, and the way her shoulders square. "Who are you?"
The Ivory Marquis does not answer immediately. Instead, the world itself exhales with him, a slow and languid shift, as though the garden responds to his very breath. The scent of lilies thickens, cloying in the air, the edges of their white petals browning and curling as though touched by unseen decay. The moon above does not shift in the sky, but its glow pulses once - like a slow heartbeat, like the contraction of something vast and unseen that watches from beyond this curated dream.
At last, he moves. His presence does not displace the space around him as one might expect of flesh and bone, but rather it reshapes to accommodate him, as though reality itself deems his existence inevitable. The pale fabric of his coat drags against the air like silk against a blade's edge, and when he steps forward, the ground does not protest his weight. Instead, the path beneath him darkens ever so slightly, colors desaturating like old film.
"You wound me, lovely thing." His voice drips with something both intimate and distant, a melody unspooled from the throat of a predator. "To think I might not know you - the notion alone is offensive. Have you not noticed? You are stitched into the marrow of this place, woven into its very bones. How could I not know you, when it has been made in your honor?"
His eyes - those abyssal voids - seem to drink in the light rather than reflect it, and when he tilts his head, something shudders in the periphery of reality. A ripple, brief but undeniable, as though the dream itself quivers beneath his amusement. His lips part in something that is not quite a smile. "You ask who I am, and I find the question charming. I have been called many things. A patron of lost souls. A collector of broken things. An architect of beautiful endings. But you, Victoria, may call me what I am."
A slow incline of his head, a motion laced with something indulgent, something far too assured. "I am the one who has chosen you." The whisper of his voice curls between the vines, slithers between the petals, as if the garden itself listens with rapt attention. "I intend to have you. To unmake and remake you in the image of something more befitting. Not because I must, no, but because I can. Because I will. Because I am a sculptor, and you"
He lifts one gloved hand, gesturing in a slow arc that sweeps across her form as if outlining an unfinished work. "You are exquisite raw material." There is a shift in the air. A subtle, nearly imperceptible deepening of color, as though the entire world is being drawn inward, the focus tightening. The Marquis's presence coils like a vice, not in touch, but in certainty, in inevitability.
And then, as though to soften the weight of his decree, he exhales a laugh. Light, pleasant - a sound that does not belong in a place like this. "But do not mistake me for a brute, you delightful, crescent moon. I am nothing if not patient. I have no need for chains, no use for force. You will come to understand, in time, that all doors lead back to me." A gust of wind, though there is no breeze. The flowers tremble, shadows stretch, and a thousand eyes watch Victoria.
Casting another careful glance around her surroundings, Victoria's eyes linger on the goblets resting on the table. Her gaze narrows slightly, suspicion flickering across her features as she regards them for a moment longer, before shifting her attention back to the man before her. Letting her eyes travel deliberately from head to toe, she takes in every detail- his posture, the cut of his clothing, the way he carries himself- before finally clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the sharp sound punctuating her silent assessment.
"Right then," Victoria concedes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear with deliberate care, her fingers lingering for just a moment. "I'll play along." Her voice carries a note of measured curiosity, laced with the faintest edge of skepticism. "What exactly are we remaking me into?" She tilts her head slightly, the corner of her mouth curving in something that is not quite a smile. The tip of her tongue glides absently along the edge of one incisor, tracing its sharp point as if reacquainting herself with something both familiar and foreign.
Another step forward to breach the gap in between, completely, unhurried, his presence a measured force that presses against the very air itself. The garden bends in his wake, petals quivering as though whispering secrets to one another as that last stretch of distance fades. The eerie, mirrored floor distorts slightly beneath his feet, reflections warping, bending around him like liquid silver stirred by an unseen hand.
He does not reach for her outright, not yet. Instead, his gloved fingers hover in the space between them, as if he might trace the air that separates them, weighing its intangible presence. Then, slow as an artist's brush, he moves, trailing a fingertip just along the curve of Victoria's jaw, the pressure featherlight, calculating. The caress of a sculptor assessing his marble.
"What shall I make of you? What will I carve from the clay you call a body?" His voice drips with the savor of something ancient, something that does not ask but states, as if the shaping has already begun. "Flesh is pliable. Bone, though stubborn, will bow to patient hands. But the mind... ah, the mind is where the true craftsmanship lies."
The Marquis moves, drifting around her with an absent grace, his eyes drinking her in as if the sight of her is a poem being whispered to his very soul. "You are a contradiction. You wield cruelty with reluctance but do not shy from it. You have the heart of a wolf, yet you bury it beneath the trappings of civility. You make your home in a place of vices and indulgence- a tavern? Yet you hold yourself apart from the worst of it, a queen who does not fully partake of the feast she lays before others, but partakes nonetheless."
His fingers ghost over her shoulder now, measuring the line of it, the shape of her collarbone beneath. "A fractured creature. That is what you are. And I will make you whole." He steps closer, just enough that she might feel the breath of his presence against her skin, though he does not yet press further. "What shall we strip away first? The hesitations, the hesitance to reach and take what is yours by right? Shall I smooth away the flickers of guilt that restrain your hand from tearing? Or shall I refine the hunger in you instead, shape it into something purer, something more potent?"
His gaze drifts downward, over her hands. "They are strong, but they hesitate before they grasp. That will not do. Not for one I wish to perfect." His hands do not linger long on any part of her, never fully committing to touch, but always there- like a phantom sculptor envisioning his masterpiece before the first strike of the chisel. "And your form... ah, the beauty of a predator disguised in human skin. But why settle for a disguise? Why not embrace the essence fully? Claws that do not need to wait for the change, eyes that see through the veils of pretense and deceit with a glance. A voice that does not merely command, but compels."
He draws back, just enough to study her once more, considering. "I do not ask for devotion, nor demand it. What is love worth if it is not given freely? No, my dear, I would not break you to make you mine. I will sculpt you into something greater, something that cannot help but love me, for I will be the only thing worthy of your affections. The only thing that can stand in the presence of what you shall become."
His lips curve, slow, indulgent. "Does that not tempt you? To be the wolf unfettered? To be adored as you deserve?" He lifts his hand, open-palmed, inviting for her to take - but there is a distinct weight to it that seems to signify it would be a very, very poor decision to do so. Almost a form of commitment in some manner. "Tell me, Victoria... what shall we carve first?"
"Into something I can't help but lo-" Victoria starts, nearly choking on the word. She clears her throat quickly, regaining composure. "Therein lies your mistake."
A flicker of amusement dances in her eyes, and the twist of her lips morphs into something sharper, a grin that borders on mischievous- almost apologetic, yet laced with a quiet confidence. "You chose incorrectly," she chides softly, her tone light. "The one wolf who abhors strong feelings of affection." She tenses slightly, and exhales with a huff. "My answer to your carving is...no," she confirms, with a hint of regret. "As much as the words tempt me..." A spin on a heel, and she's moving to run, any direction that will put distance between herself and him. "I have to decline."
So she runs.
Flees, as one would.
Yet, Victoria's steps do naught but take her anywhere. She's moving in place, in the same spot she was always - at the complete behest and control if the Marquis that's taken an interest. Slow, insidious hands land upon her shoulders while his head lowers over her shoulder. He, too, looks ahead - but there is a moment where he lays his head aside to her own, with a subtle and slight brush that's affectionate.
In that moment, all movement ceases - of her, around her.
Everywhere and nowhere.
"You can deny me, you can say anything - think anything." The way he even says it, it sounds like he knows well what brews within the coils of her mind, and it makes him smile. A drifting curve of the lips that's neither here nor there, ethereal to say the least, perhaps a bit too wide. "But do not forget, I will remember you, and you will remember be - and you will remember, more than anything..." Her body is turned like a suspended marionette, faced towards one of those ivory doors.
"Every path you ever take, will eventually lead back to me."
His release is as if it never was him that held her. Color floods into the world in flickering hues that start slow but gradually hasten, while motion joins as a familiar, filial member of it - floods into her body to resume her escape, but her captor is nowhere to be seen even if that primordial sensation of a thousand eyes watching her from the vast expanse of abyssal sockets remain.
She can't help but run through that door that she's suddenly made to face, and as soon as she does -- there were no doors. There wasn't even the thought of one, or another place, or another thing. All that there is is a lapse within Victoria's judgement, of her thoughts, of her memory. She was laying there in her own bed a few seconds ago, but hours have went by between that blink and this where her faculties are returned.
Her fingers feel tingles, there is a scent of rust, of blood in the air, and a thick taste at the back of her throat as if he's ate something she shouldn't. Even if she can't remember at all what happened, if anything happened - it isn't even a recollection of a dream she endures - it is total absence of self, the void of recollection.
What was she doing, again?
Ah, that's right.
It must be just another day in Haven.