hadriel_logs | Thirst

Entry tags:

Thirst

Who: Armand (

oversear) & Carlisle Longinmouth (

tongueamok)
What: A clergyman and a vampire meet up for their monthly dinner date.
Where: Carlisle's rooftop garden
When: Forward dated to January 8th, just past the Tranquility Resurrection event (because what is the sun, Armand).
Warnings: PGish for blood

The beautiful, open sky and the bright sun fully vanish just as the 20th day rolls around -- the recurring day that Carlisle has set to meet with Armand each month or so to make good on his word. It's just an exchange: a meal and his silence for a modicum of protection from an abomination and his vile habits. He hasn't heard of the vampire attacking anyone else, certainly not anyone he knows -- despite his low level of trust in Armand, Carlisle can only assume that he's keeping his end of the bargain.

And so, he does the same: every 20th day, they meet in his garden, away from his friends who may be prey, away from the safety provided from his roommate. It's gone smoothly so far, but Carlisle and his general paranoia can't help but wonder if that trend will continue for much longer.

As usual, Carlisle busies himself until Armand arrives, but he tries to keep his senses open, to pick up on the vampire's presence the moment he's close enough. Though the clergyman is pruning away at one plant, noticing how much it seems to have grown with the ample light the city had before, he's listening carefully between the snipping of his shears for movement; there are moments he holds his breath, so sure he can feel that chill that runs down his neck whenever there's an undead in the area. Then again, that might be his neck preparing for the inevitable feeling of teeth sinking into it. At least the bearer of said fangs won't be rending his flesh from his body to sate his appetite.

Well, maybe. He is an otherworldly vampire, after all. Carlisle shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore, but despite his request Armand not startle him, it's almost hard for anyone not to, especially when he starts getting lost in his own thoughts. He wonders how close an eye Armand keeps on him, and if the vampire has noticed he's moved in with Glacius; he ponders what the alien would think if he knew of this arrangement. He cannot know, Carlisle reminds himself inwardly. He must keep his word, lest Armand turn on him. His word and his healing, after all, are all he has.

Well, that, and a lot of overgrown plants in need of a trim.

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Not surprising Carlisle has been on of the stipulations of their deal and for the most part that was an easy requirement to fulfill. Instead of using his supernatural speed, Armand approaches the rooftop garden on foot, making sure to apply human weight to his footsteps. The soft thud as they connect to the ground is a little unusual to his ears. He usually walks with the silence and skill of the ancients, but he does not want to be invisible tonight.

He can hear the soft snapping of shears coming from up on the terraces. In one skillful leap he lunges up on to the roof and lands deftly on the very edge, a respectful distance away from Carlisle. He can be polite when he wants to. He watches Carlisle's back for a moment, wondering what this encounter will be like. He occasionally scans the minds of the people of Hadriel and has yet to skim the word 'vampire' from any of their thoughts. This must mean Carlisle's has kept his word.

Armand steps off the ledge and lets his feet make a stamping noise as they connect with the roof. He is in a sour mood tonight. From what he gathers there had been 24 hour sunlight for the past week and it caused him to sleep his death sleep for that amount of time. The tricks of these gods infuriate him. He looks a little bedraggled as a result to his lack of care over the week; his auburn hair a bit messy, and the denim jacket he found too big for his small figure. He looks at Carlisle with an intensity, daring him to comment on these things.

"Good evening, clergyman. You look well."

Edited 2016-12-30 20:33 (UTC)

Despite being grateful for Armand's efforts at an audible approach, Carlisle still doesn't manage a polite reply, noting Armand's unusually disheveled appearance. "And you've looked better," he returns flatly, setting aside his shears. Unlike Armand, he has no skill in telepathy; however, it's not hard to figure out just why a vampire would look less than his best after the peaceful, sun-filled days the cave has had as of late. As for Carlisle, it was an event spent mostly indoors, but what thoughts may be found at the top of his mind regarding those days are all related to a certain icy giant. In general, he looks and feels better than he has in ages.

He unclasps his tabard and undoes the top of his jacket to open the neck -- a habit he's gotten into with these meetings to keep the fabric from wrinkling and any blood from dripping onto his clerical garments. "I assume what the latest of the false gods brought wasn't exactly as relaxing for you as it may have been for the rest of us."

Armand scowls and crosses his arms. He looks very young when he does this and it's especially exaggerated now that he is swimming in this jacket.

"I do not own things such as brushes and clothes. I don't know where to find them. I'm not concerned with appearances."

That is a complete and utter lie. Armand is rather in love with fashion and looking the part of a modern human boy. He supposes he could always ask Delight or Hope for the items he needs to pull this off but he's beginning to suspect his presence in a cave full of mortals was a mistake on their part and he does not wish to draw attention to himself.

"It was restful. That is the problem. I do not wish to be like an ancient and bury myself in the ground for decades."

That might be a bit more information about his kind than Carlisle needed to know but he is distracted by the pale blue line that is running through the clergyman's neck. Instantly his thirst is inflamed. But he does not approach. He is waiting for an offer.

"Have your kind not found a way to adapt to the light of the sun?" Carlisle asks, pulling at the neck of his undershirt. Despite their meetings and the odd images transferred to his mind during them, he still has a lot to learn about undeads from other worlds.

One never knows when such information might come in handy, after all. The Door does bring in many monsters.

Armand shoots him a suspicious look. Handing over information like that is reckless, but he supposes it's not terribly damning since Carlisle already has a way of destroying him.

"The sun is one of the only things that can destroy us. However, if one is old enough in the Blood then not even the sun may kill them. When I--"

He stops himself. That was too much information.

"It would take days of exposure to kill someone my age."

While Carlisle hasn't asked the vampire's age, he has no illusions about their being a long-lived people. Though the ones from his world get more monstrous with age, he supposes things are either different in Armand's world and the youthful look is merely a facade, or he's being lied to. Given the way Armand can appear when desperate, Carlisle assumes the former.

But that question and answer is enough for the moment -- he can save all others for while recovering. With his neck bare, he sighs, keeping his hands where Armand can see them. No orbs of light for now.

"To business, then."

Edited 2016-12-30 23:30 (UTC)

Armand nods and walks over with his hands in his pocket. It has been a very long time since he's had a mortal aware of his nature and awaiting for the passing of blood. The difference being Daniel had always been desperate for immorality and Armand's blood, where Carlisle found it repulsive and the act of feeding despicable. Armand could remember his own human years, how he had delighted in his Master's kisses, filled with blood and gold. It seemed strange that this clergyman was above it all.

"Do you find no pleasure in being drunk from?"

He lays a hand very gently on the side of Carlisle's throat. He angles his face towards his neck and hovers his fangs just above the artery, waiting for an answer before he plunged in.

Carlisle's breath picks up as Armand's hand graces his neck in anticipation for the bite. Despite their meetings, physical contact so close is still an uncomfortable feeling for him, especially in regards to the situation.

"Why would I?" he asks. His heart thuds heavily in his chest, preparing for what comes next. "This is an exchange that leaves me with more questions each passing month, and given what you are, I am not sure I want to know the answers to any of them."

"Questions are good, are they not? Knowledge is power or so they say..."

He doesn't wait for a reply, he simply spread his lips and punctures Carlisle's throat. Although he can withstand not feeding for a month it is a hard thing to do and the blood washing over his tongue makes him moan. He sucks hard at the pulse, bringing in large mouthfuls. He presses fingers into the other side of Carlisle's neck, feeling for when the pulse weakens.

He can feel the memories passing through this sacred blood exchange. This time it was of Marius, a man of forty, tall, impeccably kept long blonde hair and dressed all in red velvet. He hisses at Armand who has lash marks all up his thighs.

'There's nothing worse than for a fallen saint to be a horrid devil!' the words rang out harsh and clear in the memory, startling Armand out of his drink.

Armand let Carlisle go in an instant. It had been a long time since he thought of Marius.

Wearily he looks over the clergyman.

"There you have it. Another month complete."

As Armand's fingers tighten at his neck, Carlisle closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind of everything: what's happening, what's on his mind, and most importantly, what is on Armand's mind. It is a practice that has yet to work, but he's trying not to think of the lightheadedness overcoming him, of the desire to accept this as death, of the moan that escapes the vampire as he indulges himself.

Though growing accustomed to the flow of memories passed between these drinks -- he has wondered more than once if Armand is as privy to his mind as he is to Armand's, but is too afraid to ask -- Carlisle is immediately alarmed by the sudden voice in his mind, the images that feel so real that they could be his own. He exits that euphoria that comes with bloodloss suddenly, able to feel the fangs in his neck, the fingers at his throat, and then the release in vivid detail, each sensation sharp and unnerving.

He stumbles back, leaning on one of the tall pots in his sanctuary as he finds his footing, his head swimming. "Wh- who was that? What was he- what was he doing?"

Questions, indeed. He rubs at his own thighs, feeling sympathetic pangs along his legs.

Armand watches Carlisle closely and not to his surprise he was asked the question anyone would ask.

"That was my Master. He was punishing me because I broke down his door with an axe."

It had hurt like hell at the time but centuries have dulled the memory into something far away and dreamy. Only Marius could make him feel young and foolish and that's what it felt like right now. Like having his master beside him whispering in his ear 'why are you merciful with this human when you've slayed so many others'. He didn't know. Maybe his encounter with Castiel where he proclaimed he wanted to be a better person was making him kinder, more compassionate. It is what God would want.

"That is a very old memory."

Carlisle's brow furrows, what little compassion he has for such abhorrent creatures as vampires welling in his stomach, leaden. Perhaps it isn't a feeling aimed toward undeads as it is toward Armand himself -- they're not friends in absolutely any regard, but he cannot help that moment of sympathy as he recalls those lash marks along the vampire's thighs, the disdain in the older man's voice as he tore into him verbally. It's not his memory, but it still feels too tangible, too close to him to ignore.

He's grateful in that moment his curse didn't gift him with the uncontrolled ability to read minds. It's no wonder all the twice-cursed who are granted that kind of awful magic go mad in a matter of days, at best.

Carlisle rubs at his neck, his hands shaking, the wound in his neck healing over, as always. "M- master," he repeats, trying to put his mind in order as he fights off weariness. He must keep himself alert, just in case. "You were a slave? A pet? I don't- don't know how the hierarchy works where you come from."

Armand blinks and then laughs. Rey had asked the same thing. He remembers how he asked his Master childishly if he was a slave to Armand. He had answered 'yes'. Of course it was easy to enslave a vampire when they felt nothing but love and bloodlust towards mortal flesh.

"A pet? What sort of world do you come from, clergyman?" He lets his laughter die down.

"No, I was taken in by my Master and given education and riches. He was my sire as well."

It occurs to Armand that Carlisle's world vampire might be born and not made. That was a curious thought.

"I was a rebellious mortal. He was frustratingly distant with me."

Armand's laughter rings in Carlisle's ears as he slides down the side of the pot to have a seat, his hand on his head. Don't pass out, he reminds himself. It's a common chant he inwardly repeats more often than anyone probably should, whether it's because of blood loss, squeamishness, or outright terror.

"Ah," he replies dully, still fighting his senses. "Did you- you choose this life, then?" he asks, less because of curiosity and more because he needs another moment to get his wits back.

Maybe he took more blood than he should of. But it felt good to have warm hands again. He watches with an amused look as Carlisle is all but keeling over.

"Yes. I would have followed him to the end of the world. He wanted me to have more years but at the time I was dying from poison. There was no other way. It was the Dark Gift or death."

He didn't really understand why he was telling him all these things. Perhaps it was the same impulse that made him tell his story to David. Just to be understood for a brief moment.

"Perhaps it's time for you to answer some questions yourself, Carlisle. Would that not be pleasant?"

Though he shakes his head -- no, that wouldn't be pleasant -- he complies. Fatigue ebbs at the edges of his mind; he had more questions relating to other people he has seen, that one figure in the painting with the monks and other times in this strange vampire from other world's life. Unfortunately, no matter how academically minded he may be in regards to learning as much about the undead as possible so he can better repel them, his mind is a scattered mess at the second.

"Fine, just- just fine. Don't pass out, don't- um." Don't announce the intent to not pass out should probably be higher on his list of priorities. "What could you possibly want to know?"

Armand laughs again. There's that old excitement, watching prey struggle for life. It ignites a type of mania in him, but he stays still, just watching. If only humans could appreciate how fragile their lives are.

"How did you come by your magic?"

"What, the healing? Or—" Yes, the healing. Obviously the healing. Not the other, unspeakable thing he's particularly good at.

"I was trained in it by clerics of my order. They- they said I had a natural talent for it, so I suppose 'born with it, then honed through practice' is the most accurate answer." Even when fighting fatigue, he still manages to spill more words than necessary.

Armand nearly sneers. It appears Carlisle is trying to be cute. His weakened state doesn't particularly inspire a kinder opinion of the man. He doesn't remember Daniel ever being this out of it, but he supposes he never regularly took so much blood from him.

"No, clergyman. The other thing. How you melted my flesh in an instant. That power."

Carlisle looks bewildered as he runs his hand through his hair, his hands still shaking. He might be the one feeding Armand, but the truth of the matter is that he's never been in the best of health, and he might be overdoing it just a tad.

"That? Minor magic, infused with the same kind of energy I use for healing. I didn't- I didn't learn how to do that so much as figure it out on my own."

"Minor? That is hilarious."

He does not sound even a little amused.

"So, it is not taught in your world. Is it forbidden?"

He seems reluctant to talk about it. Armand suspects that his goddess does not support such a perversion.

That gets a nervous little chuckle out of Carlisle, as though he's not quite sure where it is this line of questioning is going. How is it that the vampires of Armand's world can be clever enough to hide among humans and maintain their appearance, yet minor magic like his orbs of light is completely foreign to him?

Different worlds, he reminds himself. That does complicate things.

"These?"

He conjures into his hand a small lighted ball, one frailer than his usual ones and no bigger than a marble. It's more for demonstration and less for intimidation, as he's used them before.

"They're not a forbidden craft, no. I mean, there are forbidden crafts, but this- any magician even halfway competent in the art could do this, though I doubt it'd hurt an undead unless infused with magic from a healer, like myself."

He offers the small orb to Armand.

Armand shoots Carlisle a highly suspicious look. Seconds tick by as he just stares at the orb, seeming to think over his options. Should he trust Carlisle? This deal was built on threats and bullying. He could easily offer this orb claiming to be harmless, only to have it blow up in Armand's face. He briefly imagines dragging his shambling corpse back to Castiel for another healing session. He would be so disappointed in him.

But if this was a peace offering, would it be wise to turn it down? If Carlisle was more trusting and friendly towards towards Armand it would be easier to manipulate the man. Armand sucks on his fangs and then finally he moves, extending a single finger and touches the orb.

Though warm to the touch, the orb itself feels like delicate glass -- most importantly, it doesn't have any of the energies required for healing channeled into it, the light created by only the barest of magical energy.

His brow furrows, but he nods. "Just light in that one. It's the positive magic required for healing that wounds you, not the light itself, it seems."

Cupping his hand, Armand scoops up the orb, turning it this way and that, inspecting it. Despite himself he feels a bit of awe. It's the closest thing to a miracle he has ever seen a regular human produce. This goddess has given a great gift and he is pissed about it.

"Then your people must be proud of you, to have discovered such an ingenious way to incapacitate the undead."

He can't help but sound a little bitter.

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