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deercountry2023-03-08 01:10 pm
reddosmod) wrote in deercountry2023-03-08 01:10 pm
The House Always Wins
MARCH 2023 EVENT
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING
THE LEECH
HIGH STAKES
CODING
Due to the UNIQUE NATURE of the Moss King, previous March events are NOT available during this month's event. Please keep that in mind.
IMAGE DESCRIPTORS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
Prompt One
[Image One: Fanged, smiling carnivorous plant from little shop of horrors ]
[Image Two: House overgrown by roots.]
Prompt Two
[Image One: Person covered in glistening film that seems to be suffocating.]
[Image Two: Woman's face splattered in blood. ]
Prompt Three
[Image One: Poker chip with an anime girl's face on it. ]
[Image Two: Dogs Gambling Painting, but it's famous horror monster villains instead of dogs. ]
Prompt One
[Image One: Fanged, smiling carnivorous plant from little shop of horrors ]
[Image Two: House overgrown by roots.]
Prompt Two
[Image One: Person covered in glistening film that seems to be suffocating.]
[Image Two: Woman's face splattered in blood. ]
Prompt Three
[Image One: Poker chip with an anime girl's face on it. ]
[Image Two: Dogs Gambling Painting, but it's famous horror monster villains instead of dogs. ]
WHEN: March 8-31
WHERE: The City of Trench and surrounding regions
CONTENT WARNINGS: Plant-Based Peril, Isolation, Entrapment, Carnivorous Plants, possible but unlikely death.
WHERE: The City of Trench and surrounding regions
CONTENT WARNINGS: Plant-Based Peril, Isolation, Entrapment, Carnivorous Plants, possible but unlikely death.
The plentiful and bountiful harvest of plants that started to blossom towards the beginning of the month has continued, and if anything? It's getting more and more troublesome. The old saying goes that too much of a good thing is too much, and this is definitely the proof of that pudding. Plants are literally growing everywhere. Trenchies can be seen cutting branches out of impossible locations, and vegetation is beginning to grow inside of established businesses and homes. There is an ever increasing market for vileblood based defoliation options that are being offered by entrepreneurial Trenchies, but the fact that more than a few of those selling the stuff have gone missing under strange circumstances calls into question their efficacy.
For Sleepers, this means that the possibility of encountering enlarged and potentially dangerous plants such as those seen in the earliest parts of the months grows ever more real. A human-sized venus flytrap might very well try to snatch one up, with all of the peril that entails. However, while it is possible for any exotic plant to carry with it potentially lethal threat, most of these are able to be dealt with by even the untrained with a machete. The real problem is the root systems and the plants that ones that talk. The former are the most likely to be encountered. Root systems grow over entire buildings during the mid to late month, choking over light sources and blocking windows to dim houses. They clench their grip over doors, making getting out of one's house an act of willpower and muscle that may have to be repeaated over and over again. Worst of all is the fact that many of these root systems almost seem to be intentionally creating barriers around the Lantern Network! The little moaners are safe, but their sphere of protection becomes a dome of wood, shielding and keeping them away from those naughty sleepers trying to hack their way to a teleport.
The talking ones, though, are downright disturbing. They're not very large, at first they do indeed seem to whisper and beg to be fed. Naturally, only blood will do, and the longer that they're fed the larger and more dangerous that they can become. But, so long as one doesn't feed them, they're harmless, right? Wrong. True, they can bite and it's easy enough to avoid them. However, it's what they start to say when they're denied their food that becomes disturbing. “There is a consequence of your actions, you know.” “Do not think that you are immune.” “Saving the Moss Brat seems wise now, but have a long memory.” Things like that. The voices they take on are eerie, unnatural and do not match the plants' normal begging voices. They never clear up who is speaking or what they're speaking about, but surely it's not a big issue, right?
By the end of the month, the plants wither away and break off of the various homes and businesses, leaving no visible damage behind, as if whatever caused them has faded entirely.
For Sleepers, this means that the possibility of encountering enlarged and potentially dangerous plants such as those seen in the earliest parts of the months grows ever more real. A human-sized venus flytrap might very well try to snatch one up, with all of the peril that entails. However, while it is possible for any exotic plant to carry with it potentially lethal threat, most of these are able to be dealt with by even the untrained with a machete. The real problem is the root systems and the plants that ones that talk. The former are the most likely to be encountered. Root systems grow over entire buildings during the mid to late month, choking over light sources and blocking windows to dim houses. They clench their grip over doors, making getting out of one's house an act of willpower and muscle that may have to be repeaated over and over again. Worst of all is the fact that many of these root systems almost seem to be intentionally creating barriers around the Lantern Network! The little moaners are safe, but their sphere of protection becomes a dome of wood, shielding and keeping them away from those naughty sleepers trying to hack their way to a teleport.
The talking ones, though, are downright disturbing. They're not very large, at first they do indeed seem to whisper and beg to be fed. Naturally, only blood will do, and the longer that they're fed the larger and more dangerous that they can become. But, so long as one doesn't feed them, they're harmless, right? Wrong. True, they can bite and it's easy enough to avoid them. However, it's what they start to say when they're denied their food that becomes disturbing. “There is a consequence of your actions, you know.” “Do not think that you are immune.” “Saving the Moss Brat seems wise now, but have a long memory.” Things like that. The voices they take on are eerie, unnatural and do not match the plants' normal begging voices. They never clear up who is speaking or what they're speaking about, but surely it's not a big issue, right?
By the end of the month, the plants wither away and break off of the various homes and businesses, leaving no visible damage behind, as if whatever caused them has faded entirely.
WHEN: Second Half of March
WHERE: Anywhere in Trench, but not the Outpost.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Magically Cursed Ailment, Severe weakness, Anemia
WHERE: Anywhere in Trench, but not the Outpost.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Magically Cursed Ailment, Severe weakness, Anemia
You didn't think it would be that easy, did you? From the moment that the first talking plants appeared in Trench, there has been another ominous presence. Unbeknownst to the people of Trench, but the Moss King is recovering from Riteior's attack and, while they are safe and slowly getting back to their normal self, this has allowed for Riteior to offer a little payback in an effort to cause trouble to those seeking to stop his attacks on the Pthumerians of Trench. In the night, while characters are sleeping, the plants strike. They wake to find a thin film over them, but otherwise it appears harmless. The next full day, there's nothing wrong and they feel hail and hearty. In fact, those pesky little talking plants are gone from their house. Of course, the next day the horror begins to settle in.
Within 48 hours, Sleepers will find themselves weak and lethargic in the extreme. The condition is not fatal, but it is problematic and irritating. They will find that no amount of food, water and rest quite gets rid of the malaise that they are experiencing, a strange drowsiness and lack of energy plaguing their every moment. The longer it persists, the more dangerous it becomes. However, there appears to be no obvious cause, at least until they visit someone capable of treating their condition, be they a Blood Minister or trained physician. Victims of this curse appear to be suffering from a severe, but not life-threatening anemia. There is no obvious cause, but the Ministers are certain that it is not natural and is likely a result of a curse of some kind. They can offer stimulants and high energy food, which will help the person experiencing the condition, but the real danger comes if they try to use their blood for a blood ritual of any kind. The insidious reason becomes obvious. Someone is attempting to stop them from safely having enough blood to perform the rituals to seal them away!
Victims are “fine” in the sense that they could get through the month safely without risk of death and just be weaker. However, if they attempt any form of blood ritual or blood letting, they risk running out of blood, which would indeed be a life threatening concern. The only solution, then, is a blood transfusion of another type. The Blood Ministers are willing to provide blood from their banks, but caution that it is better if a fresh supply is used. Do you have a friend willing to lend a hand? Or, do you miss one of the deadlines this month for fighting back Riteior?
FAQ:
This condition strikes after the mid-month, when the latest batch of rituals further weakens Riteior, and ensures the Moss King's safety.
This condition is not life threatening, unless a person attempts to use blood for a ritual or other purpose without first receiving a transfusion.
If a person attempts to perform a blood ritual before getting a transfusion, their anemia can become life threatening very quickly.
It is possible to completely avoid this prompt by not being targeted by Riteior. His cursed targeting is not that precise and he is clearly becoming desperate.
When a transfusion is given, both participants will be lightly anemic for another 24 hours, but the condition will fade afterwards completely.
It is suspected strongly by some of the Blood Ministers and Arcane Scholars that this is a curse brought about by a brief moment of control over the Moss King by Riteior. This can be learned easily in conversation with members of the orders in Trench.
Within 48 hours, Sleepers will find themselves weak and lethargic in the extreme. The condition is not fatal, but it is problematic and irritating. They will find that no amount of food, water and rest quite gets rid of the malaise that they are experiencing, a strange drowsiness and lack of energy plaguing their every moment. The longer it persists, the more dangerous it becomes. However, there appears to be no obvious cause, at least until they visit someone capable of treating their condition, be they a Blood Minister or trained physician. Victims of this curse appear to be suffering from a severe, but not life-threatening anemia. There is no obvious cause, but the Ministers are certain that it is not natural and is likely a result of a curse of some kind. They can offer stimulants and high energy food, which will help the person experiencing the condition, but the real danger comes if they try to use their blood for a blood ritual of any kind. The insidious reason becomes obvious. Someone is attempting to stop them from safely having enough blood to perform the rituals to seal them away!
Victims are “fine” in the sense that they could get through the month safely without risk of death and just be weaker. However, if they attempt any form of blood ritual or blood letting, they risk running out of blood, which would indeed be a life threatening concern. The only solution, then, is a blood transfusion of another type. The Blood Ministers are willing to provide blood from their banks, but caution that it is better if a fresh supply is used. Do you have a friend willing to lend a hand? Or, do you miss one of the deadlines this month for fighting back Riteior?
FAQ:
WHEN: Second Half of March
WHERE: Goat Turning in The Cellar Door
CONTENT WARNINGS: Gambling, Possible Coersion, lowered inhibitions, Risk of Character Death
WHERE: Goat Turning in The Cellar Door
CONTENT WARNINGS: Gambling, Possible Coersion, lowered inhibitions, Risk of Character Death
The Moss King appears to be 'on the mend' by the latter part of the month, or at least he seems to be his usual self. A flyer advertising a special for all Sleepers and residents of Trench at the Goat Turning, his personal gambling hall, circulates throughout town. The doors of the Goat Turning will be open to absolutely everyone, and nobody will be turned away for an event that will last the last two weeks of the month! Anyone who comes will be given a complementary set of chips for free, along with a very special commemorative poker chip embossed with their own face on it which they are assured they can keep afterwards, assuming they don't lose it betting! In fact, that commemorative chip is the only way that a person can return to the Goat Turning during this period, and has to be shown to get admittance, though you don't need to bet it even if it appears to be worth quite a lot! Every night, a new allotment of chips is offered to gamblers. It isn't much, and if they're willing to trade a few goods to get more, they can supplement their stash. What could be more fun than a friendly game?
The drinks and food are free for those attending, and even better? They don't seem to have a lot of strange effects. The drinks seem to ease the symptoms of corruption, in fact, and make a person more relaxed and at ease, along with lessening their inhibitions. The food is filling and pleasant, but salty, making one crave the drinks more. But, honestly, compared to Generosity's botched and spoiled food in January it's almost heavenly, even if it does make it easier to want to keep gambling and gambling. After all, those prizes for the big winners of the night are certainly something to behold, and the kinds of luxuries that Trenchies drool over.
The Big Prizes: (Maximum 1 big prize per character for the month)
A Lunar Orb
A Vial of Pthumerian Blood that can leave a person feeling sickly and weak if they come in contact with it
A Genuine Lantern, enabling a second teleportation location to be placed!
A Blood Enchanted Weapon or Armor.
An Item from Home that a character might not normally find washing up on shore
The Lesser Prizes:
Players are encouraged to use their imagination on lesser prizes that could be won. Food. Supplies. Furnishings. Weapons. Tools. Clothing. Any number of valuable could be won throughout the month.
So, what's the catch? There's always a catch. Well, like any gambling hall, the saying goes that the House Always Wins. This isn't true universally. You could have a hot streak at the Craps table, or you might just win on your lucky number in Roulette. It is very possible to walk away with enough chips to win a big prize all in one night, or build up over time to claim such a lofty goal. But the trick is that commemorative chip. It's the admission, and it's also the only way you can leave the gambling den each night. The chip must be presented both at entry and leaving, and only then does the reality become clear. That chip is so valuable because it represents your life! You might literally be betting with your life here! Should you lose your chip and not have it at the end of the night, the impressive and powerful bouncers at the door will bar you from exit, and once the hall closes there is nowhere to go but the basement. Anyone who enters the basement after hours will find that their life is indeed forfeit, and their debt is called. They will die down below. How will they die? Well, considering the fighting pits down below, any of a thousand deaths, some more gruesome than others, are possible. And, if another player holds their chip, they will be given a special pass to remain below, to demand their price themselves.
So, if you lose your chip is it still possible to get it back? Absolutely! It is a gambling hall, after all. Someone just has to be willing to give it back, or to win it back from another player or the house. What could be simpler? Of course, because there are no compulsions in the commemorative chip, and no rules about how it is to be used or transferred other than that it must be won from the house in a fair game, it is almost as if the Moss King is testing his own guests to see just how far they will go, and what they will do if their life or the life of a friend is on the line.
FAQ:
Players are limited to one grand prize per character. Please record this prize on the prompt below.
Characters that die because of this event may die in any reasonable fashion in the basement. Tools are provided. This may be handwaved.
Because this event involves the potential of players bargaining for their lives and death, we remind players to be mindful and communicative with others regarding permissions and preferences during this event. Do not break permissions.
Lesser prizes can be won in quantity, but we ask that you be reasonable about this.
The Commemorative Chip is non-magical and there is no compulsion to gamble with it.
It is simply worth a lot more.
The Event is not age restricted, so underage gambling is possible.
The drinks and food are free for those attending, and even better? They don't seem to have a lot of strange effects. The drinks seem to ease the symptoms of corruption, in fact, and make a person more relaxed and at ease, along with lessening their inhibitions. The food is filling and pleasant, but salty, making one crave the drinks more. But, honestly, compared to Generosity's botched and spoiled food in January it's almost heavenly, even if it does make it easier to want to keep gambling and gambling. After all, those prizes for the big winners of the night are certainly something to behold, and the kinds of luxuries that Trenchies drool over.
The Big Prizes: (Maximum 1 big prize per character for the month)
The Lesser Prizes:
Players are encouraged to use their imagination on lesser prizes that could be won. Food. Supplies. Furnishings. Weapons. Tools. Clothing. Any number of valuable could be won throughout the month.
So, what's the catch? There's always a catch. Well, like any gambling hall, the saying goes that the House Always Wins. This isn't true universally. You could have a hot streak at the Craps table, or you might just win on your lucky number in Roulette. It is very possible to walk away with enough chips to win a big prize all in one night, or build up over time to claim such a lofty goal. But the trick is that commemorative chip. It's the admission, and it's also the only way you can leave the gambling den each night. The chip must be presented both at entry and leaving, and only then does the reality become clear. That chip is so valuable because it represents your life! You might literally be betting with your life here! Should you lose your chip and not have it at the end of the night, the impressive and powerful bouncers at the door will bar you from exit, and once the hall closes there is nowhere to go but the basement. Anyone who enters the basement after hours will find that their life is indeed forfeit, and their debt is called. They will die down below. How will they die? Well, considering the fighting pits down below, any of a thousand deaths, some more gruesome than others, are possible. And, if another player holds their chip, they will be given a special pass to remain below, to demand their price themselves.
So, if you lose your chip is it still possible to get it back? Absolutely! It is a gambling hall, after all. Someone just has to be willing to give it back, or to win it back from another player or the house. What could be simpler? Of course, because there are no compulsions in the commemorative chip, and no rules about how it is to be used or transferred other than that it must be won from the house in a fair game, it is almost as if the Moss King is testing his own guests to see just how far they will go, and what they will do if their life or the life of a friend is on the line.
FAQ:
no subject
Alessa had survived clinging to scraps of dreams, buoyed by her hope for satisfaction, the possibility of a future happiness, driven forward and kept alive through sheer force of will and hope. On maybe.
The moment he says you, she bends his arm with hers so she can look down at their hands laced together. It's hard to believe that she makes it worth it but the knowledge still fills her chest up; balloons it out and makes it feel like she might pop. For such a heavy topic, it feels wrong that it leaves her with a strange sort of pleasantness.
"I'm glad that you found ways to keep going," the idea that he might have given up at some point pops that swelling in her chest; deflates it. Her grip on his hand tightens, "I've been there," her voice drops, quiets, "Lived off of dreams and maybes. Kept them alive when I wasn't sure if I really wanted to."
"I survived off of rage and hate for a long time but then I found a way to survive off of hope. That some part of me, one day, far away, would have some tiny, little chance to live a happy life. I didn't need fairytales or even a happyending, I just wanted some part of me to be happy for even an hour. That would make the suffering worth it."
CW: references to being buried, drowning, immolation
"You have to survive somehow, moment to moment," Mayerling agrees. "Hope lasts me longer than rate or hate, but I do not begrudge you your survival, not off rage or hate or hope or anything else you have done to survive. I have survived too long to begrudge you that. The only line someone could cross, you cannot cross." The bite. A vampire biting a human.
He's killed humans, most of them—in self-defense. He gives them the chance to back down usually. They don't, as a general rule. It infuriates them further, faces red with anger. They think they can take down a vampire. The hunters, at least, have some experience under their belts. The rest. What a waste. What a shame. He won't die for it however.
"In the City of the Night, it's barely functioning enough for me to survive. It's one task; then the next. On and on and on. If there's a break, I sleep. That's how the last six years have passed," Mayerling explains.
He does not explain that for him, a human lifetime, a happy ending, a human lifetime of a happy life is for him what it would be like for Sharon to be happy for even an hour. That is what makes the suffering worth it. With Charlotte, it wasn't even that. Not even a year.
no subject
She knew Mayerling wouldn't judge for her what she'd done to survive. Not for the feelings that kept her clinging to life. He's already acknowledged her rage and the depths of which it boils away within her. Still, the verbal confirmation has the very edges of her lips twitch upward. It soothes something she didn't even realize needed a balm.
"I know you mean that literally," she says as they turn down a darkened cobbled street, thinly lined with bare trees waiting for spring and the occasional gas lamp, "but that sounds a lot like life when you're grieving," she looks up to him, her smile more a thin grimace, "You know, running on a mental autopilot. Living day-to-day." Focus on survival, on getting to tomorrow. She knows enough about that.
It's not long before they reach their first destination of the night. It's a dark, impressive victorian building; steepled with dark shingles and siding that leans towards a deep, blue-grey. Sharon takes the steps up the stoop two at a time, shoves the key in, gives it a turn, and swings open the heavy wooden door. After she flicks on the lights, she turns dramatically to Mayerling, coat tails fanning out around her legs and holds her arms out by her sides. Very Voila of her.
"Welcome to Debloom's Crenshaw Gallery," she puts on a fake, exaggerated French accent, "This exhibition will take you on a journey: from winter into spring," her fingers fan out on the word spring but she rolls her eyes. She might have heard this introduction a handful of times by now and then she rolls her wrist, "Yadda yadda, hope springs eternal, or whatever."
She laughs at herself, "Next time, I'll memorize something romantic for you." Next time.
no subject
When they reach the building, a building Mayerling has seen so many times from the outside, Mayerling leans toward it with the longing vampires might have for a fine pale neck. The art it promises, the art that has been out of reach all this time—
It's far harder to access (and stay in Trench) than biting someone's neck.
Mayerling breaths in the old air, filled with the scents coming off the art, each affects by the artist's choices and the age of the piece. He listens to her introduction, smiling, as well as the echoes throughout the gallery and the way it gives much of the floor plan away. The dramatic sight of her nearly distracts from it all. At least until yadda yadda, but that too is Sharon entirely.
He steps up, hands on her waist, and lifts her, spinning her in a circle, once, twice. before holding her up but closer, close to him. "This time is wonderful." The promise of next time is romantic. Mayerling sets her down, though part of him wants to hold her close and never let her go. He releases her with a smile.
"I believe I was promised to see your art, all of your art. Winter into Spring, mmm?"
no subject
For some reason, she can't stop smiling. Heart pounding. Ears ringing. It feels a lot like floating and it's so unfamiliar. Unbelievable. Different. Not like other crushes. It burns a little hotter in her chest and in her belly. A gentle, hungry flame.
"Well, I've only got two pieces on display here at the moment so you might have to be a little patient with the rest of them," even her voice sounds like a smile, foreign to her own ears, "But we'll get there." It's just one stop in their journey.
"Come on," she whispers, taking him by the hand again to give him the grand tour. From the entryway, small and cozy and welcoming, into the first paneled room. The walls are lined with paintings by a variety of Trench artists, every style unique. Many display the cool tones of winter, the whites and blues, and blacks. Some are dreary and lonely, cold, but others yet show off homes lit by lanterns, their warm light inviting strangers and friends alike in from the cold. She stops before every single one but makes certain Mayerling can take his time in enjoying each piece, never rushing him along. Sometimes, she offers little factoids about the artists like, "He only paints with the same brush. That's why the strokes and colors look the way they do," or, "They specialize in painting the Pthumerians. I think they might have a thing for Doorway."
It's as she leads him into the next room that she becomes noticeably more excited, a bounce in her step. This next room appears to represent the space between winter and spring. Some of the art features the first buds on branches or thin blades of grass finally popping up through a layer of melting snow. Others of beasts and others still of the ocean. It's the second to last painting, though, that sends her heart into overdrive. Mouth dry.
"Winter blinded by Spring, Sharon Da Silva, acrylic on canvas," and, sure enough, her signature rests gently in the lower right hand corner, SDS in swooping, silver lettering.
no subject
Haunted by the feeling of her hands on his chest, Mayerling follows her hand in hand and focuses on the paintings, the feelings they evoke first and the artistry behind the feelings second. The lonely ones are relatable to so many winters he's lived before, but Mayerling enjoys the ones inviting others in more. There's promise amid all the harsh realities of winter, a promise more powerful than winter itself. He makes a note of the name of the artist specializing in Pthumerians. That's a potential source of information the archives lack. Artists are as valid a source for scholarship as any other.
The arrival of spring, the first stirrings of hope, of new life, or however artists interpret that transition gathers his attention ever more. Transitions have perhaps more potential for meaning, fleeting though their time is. Mayerling hums along as he sees the different understandings. Trench is a complicated place and people full of multitudes. Winter to Spring will never be one sole thing.
Before Sharon's painting, Mayerling stands still for long long moments. He brings up one of Sharon's hands and kisses the palm. More importantly, he traces the feel of it. The exact nature does not matter. The feeling is there inside him as soon as he saw the hands facing out. Sharon both is and isn't Winter, blinded. The religious style of dress on Winter is familiar, her origins. The others and herself. Blinded by Spring, but to what end?
To those who harmed her, death.
To Sharon, true sight and freedom.
Mayerling rests his head against hers, atop hers. Through that, he lets his feelings flow. Not the ones he holds back, the depths of his emotions for Sharon. No. His interpretation of her art.
"I see you, Sharon Da Silva," Mayerling says aloud.
no subject
When they shift closer, as he rests his head atop hers, she hooks both her arms under his, her cool palms pressed against his back, fingers just barely curling over his shoulders. I see you, he says, and she believes him. Her heart stutters and trips over itself.
The fearful, doubting parts of her want to shy away from the knowledge; deny it even though she can feel it radiating out from him. He sees her. Her loneliness. Her doubts. The way she's blindly searching, reaching, for something that she fears will always be out of reach; something she's not even certain exists. Something beyond her.
Tears fill her eyes, emotions burning through her, until they spill over, "How?" her voice sounds so small. She's always thought she'd done a good job blending into the background of the world. Playing a part. Hiding. To be seen feels like a weight lifted off of her. Like she's failed in what she's been taught to do her whole life.
It's a beautiful fucking failure.
no subject
It could learn her to connect with someone else. Anyone else. The dam opened. He will be okay if that happens. If she's happy. Anything, so long as Sharon's happy.
"I pay attention," Mayerling says, "I have paid attention since we first ran into each other and climbed those air vents." Since she reacted poorly to his first telepathic touch but worked with him at the sounds of Blood Crazed Zealots. To a first night of many mixed signals.
"You can only hide yourself so deep," Mayerling says, "Your every action yet gives yourself away to anyone who pays enough mind." Fading into the background only works with those content to let her fade. That might be most. It's not everyone. It's not him.
no subject
And she would ask for more.
The tears are brief and end as quickly and quietly, almost secretly, as they'd begun. The only sign of them was the light dampness to Mayerling's clothes and the thin trails down her cheeks but even they will be a memory sooner rather than later.
She pulls away from him but lingers close, resting one hand against his waist. Her eyes, still wet, trail over his face — from the red of his irises to the outer corners of his eyes, down his cheekbones, following the curves toward his thin, pointed nose and before they rest, finally, upon his lips a second too long. She pulls her gaze back up to his eyes, flushing, well aware she's just telegraphed her thoughts, but at this moment she does not care. She smiles up at him, softer and more serene than any she's given him before, and takes him, again, by the hand, her attention returning to the painting before them.
"Thank you," she whispers warmly, her eyes glued to the painting's blinded face, "for not being blind."
no subject
His life will end as surely as Sharon's. For all their differences, for all Mayerling hold's his emotions at bay because of those differences, he sees more similarities. Sharon's feeling of being lost in Winter. Alone. Never knowing if she will truly connect and find someone or somewhere. Even in Trench. Even here. Even as they both have people. Mayerling can smell many of them on her regularly, enough to know them if he came across them in the city. Mayerling still feels alone, the night time of Trench so isolating from most of the city, from museums like this one. Only Sharon has opened the door for him.
Mayerling watches her intensely, every millimeter shift in her attention. His lips curl up in a smile, despite the tears, not merely serene but happy in the shape of community. Of people. Of them. Of the red of her lips.
"You're welcome," Mayerling says, "Thank you for being a beacon among Trench."
They are early in the date. They've only seen the first of her paintings. They're on their first date. Oh so many reasons. Mayerling leans down and sweeps imaginary branches away from Sharon's face before kissing her soft, sweet, and short. He smiles against her lips.
"Anyone who comes here could know you, Sharon Da Silva."
no subject
As he pulls away, she locks her half-lidded eyes with his, something hot hidden away there. She is not shocked by the action. He saw what she wanted and he gave it to her. Slowly, a grin spreads out across her face as she tiptoes up to whisper in his ear, cool cheek pressed gently against his warmer one, "I was getting to that" a gentle, chiding tease. The grin doesn't fade as she pulls away, cheeks painted that familiar shade of berry, but there's a fresh boldness to her. A satisfied eagerness.
"I don't think I need anyone else to know me, Mayerling," it's such an odd feeling, this sense of being seen and known and she didn't need anyone else to see or know her like this. Not right now. Not with him around her. He satisfied that need of hers before she even realized what it was.
Her grin remains as she pulls him along to finish the current room and into the next. The final room, Spring, is full of color. Every painting is awash with it. Some styles are familiar, the artist no doubt featured in a prior room. There's a lively painting of Argonaut and his children, a night sky lit up by them, orbs raining down. Some of the art features the busier city streets of spring, packed with people, and others of Sleepy Town. More still feature flowers. Even the muted paintings hold a quiet hope to them. Spring was for transformation and rebirth. Life.
It's not long before they're stopped before her second and final painting. It appears to be a companion piece to her last one. Winter wore black, Spring wears white and both were blinded. In many ways, the pieces were representative of her own duality. Of Alessa and of Sharon and the horrors it took to get them to where they were now. The loss of innocence.
"Her Gift," she finally tells him, her smile softer and distant now. She never realized just how much of herself she put into her work or how much Mayerling would be able to see.
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Her words stick in his throat. Mayerling knows Sharon has friends and repeats that to himself as a mantra. Her words don't mean the two of them alone in the world. Mayerling wouldn't want that. He does not want that, even as those irritating deep rooted instincts try to tell him to sweep her up and take her far far away. The alternative instinct rises as well, to gather Sharon and to get to know her as intimately as he can smell her hormones of desire swell. Not only hormones, signals of emotional shifts.
He gains control of himself again and follows her to the second painting, using the time between to focus internally on his self-control.
Her painting parallels the first in ways that pull at Mayerling's heartstrings. The maiden in white, but her gift, as Sharon titled the piece, is in red, sharp red like blood. Her gift comes from herself and her blood. It may grant spring to others, but she remains as alone and blinded as before. Mayerling stares seriously at the painting. The others underwent journeys, changes, shifts. This painting, it's Sharon from a different perspective but in the same state.
Once more, Mayerling draws Sharon in, to share those feelings of her art—and only those feelings—with her. Better than words can ever convey.
"You give and you give until all you see of yourself is the monster you became to get free," Mayerling pauses, emotion hitting him hard, "When do you let yourself have more, Sharon?"
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Maybe she doesn't hide herself as well as she thought. Her eyelids flutter. Once, that might've terrified her.
The question catches her, briefly, off-guard and she draws a breath. Her smile goes rueful as she looks up at him, the edges of her lips pinched, and she shrugs her shoulders, "When I figure out how."
Sharon became whole barely an hour before she arrived in Trench. In so many ways, she had to relearn how to exist. Even after a year here, she still feels like she's walking blind, hands held out before her as the only buffer between her and the world. Every month, though, she thinks she's a little better than the last.
"I'll get there one day," she whispers before she presses up to touch her lips to his, just as gentle and short and sweet as his, "Maybe you can help."
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He kisses her back, melting behind an iron will.
"You have time," Mayerling says, breathing her in. "To become all of yourself. Everything and everyone you wish to be. Someone who receives, not only gives. Someone who sees—herself and the world. Lo, let the world tremble."
He traces her arm and guides them both back toward the painting. "Perhaps then we can see Summer."
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Summer, he says, and suddenly those blue skies don't seem that far off.
She leans into him and relishes in their closeness. Takes a moment to memorize his scent and his profile and the way the pale hairs curl at the nape of his neck. Tries to figure out how he's made her feel this way but comes up empty-handed and can only recognize that she likes it; likes him.
"You make me want to," see Summer, she admits shyly, her eyes on the painting. Mayerling has managed to uncover a wealth of desires and wants within her she didn't even know were there.
"I assume it's obvious," she starts slowly, a bundle of nerves in her stomach, "but I like you," she does not look at him as she speaks, her eyes stuck to the painting before them, "More than I've liked anyone. Differently than I've liked anyone."
When she finally looks at him, her smile is bright and gleaming and confident and a little coy, "I wanna be with you and around you and listen to you talk. I wanna know about everything you enjoy doing and everything you don't."
Sharon Da Silva is not a romantic. She has never dreamed of falling in love. She has never cared about the romance of fictional characters or cried when lovers were torn apart in movies. She gags at the over-the-top displays in most film. But, here she is, being everything she swears she is not.
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His heart beats thunderously loud, and he ignores it to gently memorize each and every word Sharon says, along with her heartbeat, where sweat forms on her body and how it smells, the sounds of her eyes looking around away from him and eventually to him, and—
Everything inside him slams into a wall of feeling unguarded at her smile. Mayerling picks himself and his emotions up, a few more shaken loose than he'd let them be before. He's weak to that confident smile and surety Sharon has in herself. "I like you, Sharon Da Silva," Mayerling says.
"I am yours to know and to be around," and so much more as soon as she is ready for it, "I am sure that you will look at me and my art with as sharp of eyes. You'll see me and know me for it. I want you to. You are welcome to my coffin at any time."
He wants to offer her everything but does not. It is still only a first date. "Thank you, for showing me yourself and your art." This whole place is incredible, and all the art pales next to hers.
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There is nothing, not in this moment, that she wants more than him. To know him. To hear of his life. To hold his grief. To be given more reasons than she already has to embrace and cherish him and this feeling he's birthed within her. His confidence in her cools any of the doubts she had; shoves them into the back of her mind and slams the door upon them.
"You're the reason we're here, Mayerling," she tells him with a nudge. She will not take credit for his work. This, everything tonight, was because he recognized something in her she would not, "I don't think I'd have ever acknowledged how you made me feel without a little bit of... outside advice."
She laces their fingers together, "Thank you. And Charlotte."
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"I will always consider the emotional gambits of openness when chance presents itself worth it, Sharon," Mayerling says, "Even with the risk it ends terribly."
His smile grows at the mention of Charlotte. The two women remind Mayerling of each other. He is sure that should their positions have been swapped, people would still regret their choices around them. In all the world he came from, how many humans could say they did not fear vampires?
Mayerling squeezes Sharon's hand. "I am sure she would like you and be glad to help," he says, "yes to... with you and me." Others may be unreasonably possessive, but Charlotte understood his lifespan and wanted him to be happy.
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She can only hope he's right. Trench is a strange place and there may be a day where that statement is put to the test. For now, though, she squirrels that knowledge away and lets it bring her some reassurance.
The night continues on. They finish the gallery tour but that's hardly where the night ends. From there, she takes him to Cellar Door, to a bustling bar that's hosting an open mic night. She grabs herself a drink after finding them a small table. A wide variety of people take the stage: singers and dancers, poets and artists and storytellers. When Mayerling decides to take to the stage, Sharon sits up taller in her seat and pays closer attention to him than she has any of the others, totally enraptured. She cheers the loudest when he finishes, on her feet, until he returns.
As the night finally winds down and away, sunrise not far off, Sharon walks him back to the place he shares with D, her hand in his. On the doorstep, she pulls him towards her, grinning, to press her lips to his. This kiss lasts longer than the last ones; sweeter and less shy. When she pulls away, she's still grinning, eyes half-lidded.
"The date isn't quite over yet," she whispers to him, "So, don't go to sleep when you get in. Give me an hour, okay?"
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Mayerling kisses Sharon a long time, not wanting the moment to end, not wanting the date to end, even as dawn's long fingers creep over the horizon. Most reluctantly, inside, even as he lets her go smoothly, with as much easy appearance as any other, Mayerling looks at her with longing— then amazement.
"Not over?" Mayerling confirms, questioningly. He nods. "I will wait for you, awake." Asleep, he'd be impossible for her to awaken. With a statement like hers, so mysterious, Mayerling won't be able to sleep if he wanted to.
He squeezes her hands, kisses her again briefly, and forces himself to break contact on the promise she will be back in an hour. Within an hour. His heart beat furiously like a storm, though calmly he returned inside before he caught flame, rose the stairs silently, and entered his coffin.
Mayerling lay there, thoughts oscillating wildly between thoughts he longed for unreasonably and serious attempts to pick apart what Sharon might mean.
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"All right, I might have missed the sunrise," she's breathing heavily, no doubt having rushed in an attempt to make it in time, "That's on me," she laughs, "I didn't want the night to end." That's said a little more shyly. She'd had this all planned out but the night got away from her. She doesn't regret it, though. For a first date, for how it all came together, it went far better than she ever could've hoped.
The video doesn't shake much as she shows him the view. Where ever she is, she is high up, her feet dangling over the edge of a jagged, dark cliff, ocean waves crashing loudly beneath her. She swings her legs a little, the tips of her boots coming into frame and then exiting.
She is far out from the city, far enough that the sounds of the morning bustle of people can't be picked up. No clamor of horses or rumble of carriages. No chatter. Just the sound of the ocean and morning birds and the rustle of leaves in the distance, "I don't come out here too often but... I wanted to show it to you."
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The view is... live, it's his, not Johan's memory. Not Sharon showing Johan but showing him. He breaths in and wishes he could smell everything through the omni. Despite its name, it is an audio and video call. Mayerling appreciates those two senses for what they are.
"The view is incredible," Mayerling says. With it, the way he can hear her breathing and knows she spent the entirety of this time rushing and running to get there, wherever there is. "You are amazing, Sharon. I— Thank you, and for sharing it with me."
That means as much in the end as seeing near sunrise. Mayerling doesn't say that part because it hints too strongly at his feelings that she's as important as the sun. He sets the omni to record so that he has this morning every morning he wishes when he goes to bed.
"Where... are you?"
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She swings the view around. There's some mild camera shake but she does her best to keep it steady. From the ocean, glimmering and rippling in the early morning sunlight, to the cliffside, and then to the forest far behind her. The trees stand tall and dark, a forest of evergreens, "The city is that way. It's a little bit of a walk."
Normally, it's a long hike. Some days it's more dangerous than others and, in her haste, she may have forgotten to grab her weapons from home but, thankfully, she's not without the ability to fuck something up with her mind, "I'll bring you one night. It's a little testier in the dark but it's just as nice when the moon is out."
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"I can fly us there," Mayerling offers in a single breath, "Avoid many of the beasts." Some fly naturally. However, between his speed and the gift from Never Mind to retrieve the mushrooms for the Tower, it likely isn't so testy. Regardless, he's used to navigating the woods at night. That is his time. Should they need to fight together? Mayerling smiles at the dark trees. They were ready for that the night they met.
"Perhaps for our third date," he suggests, forward, "Should you deign to include it in the next date of ours you plan." He pauses. "Or... 'hanging out.'" Six thousand years old and he cannot make that sound natural.
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In the early morning sunlight, everything about her is brighter. Her eyes are a little bluer, her hair a little more of that bleach-blonde gold, and even the usual shadows beneath her eyes have been washed out by the light. The trees in the distance behind her seem to soak up the sun, too. Waves crash, birds chirp, and Sharon already feels like she's flying.
The way he says that, hanging out, makes her laugh, "God, you're cute," she nods, barely even realizing what she's said as she continues, "Yeah, I'll add it to the itinerary for our third date. But isn't this our first one? We can't have a third date without a second date."
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Clooooooooosed