[ He hits the ground and rolls. His head is still spinning even after he's stopped, but he pushes himself to his feet with his good arm and stumbles forward, trying to get back through the gates before the protection spells he broke to find his way in here take effect again. He can't break them a second time, not in his current state. ]
Fuck. Fuck.
[ He doesn't reach the gate in time. There isn't a gate anymore. Just trees and an invisible line on the ground that he can't pass without suddenly needing to turn around and forget he was here.
It’s a few weeks before Trevor shows up next. And it’s not in the way anyone might expect.
Which is to say that he doesn’t bang on the door before trying to bewitch the castle. Because in fairness, there isn’t much of a ‘what anyone might expect’ to work with when it comes to Trevor. He’s calm, he’s quiet, and that long blue coat is meticulously cleaned and repaired, though it seems almost too large on him. And he isn’t alone.
The chain isn’t visible from the road, but the glamour fades away as they move through those gates. It’s around his neck and looped through itself in such a way as to tighten when pulled. He stumbles forward when he's dragged, eyes unfocused.
The vampires leading him, two of them with one clearly leading and another following, don’t knock. Because of course they don’t fucking knock. They, unlike their prisoner, know there’s no need for it. The castle won’t have allowed them to arrive without announcement. Instead they simply stand at the door. ]
My lord. [ The first vampire speaks. He’s local. Known only as Damian in recent years, he hasn’t been Giovanni Damiano or John Damian since he came to America. Older than many, an alchemist who became a vampire to fulfil a prophecy about a flying man and who had posed as a priest and a surgeon both for centuries before he was driven out of Europe by the Belmonts. His voice is soft and cool and absolutely the kind of deferential tone that could mean that legitimately be deference or that could mean ‘actually fuck you’. ] I bring tribute.
no subject
Fuck. Fuck.
[ He doesn't reach the gate in time. There isn't a gate anymore. Just trees and an invisible line on the ground that he can't pass without suddenly needing to turn around and forget he was here.
It’s a few weeks before Trevor shows up next. And it’s not in the way anyone might expect.
Which is to say that he doesn’t bang on the door before trying to bewitch the castle. Because in fairness, there isn’t much of a ‘what anyone might expect’ to work with when it comes to Trevor. He’s calm, he’s quiet, and that long blue coat is meticulously cleaned and repaired, though it seems almost too large on him. And he isn’t alone.
The chain isn’t visible from the road, but the glamour fades away as they move through those gates. It’s around his neck and looped through itself in such a way as to tighten when pulled. He stumbles forward when he's dragged, eyes unfocused.
The vampires leading him, two of them with one clearly leading and another following, don’t knock. Because of course they don’t fucking knock. They, unlike their prisoner, know there’s no need for it. The castle won’t have allowed them to arrive without announcement. Instead they simply stand at the door. ]
My lord. [ The first vampire speaks. He’s local. Known only as Damian in recent years, he hasn’t been Giovanni Damiano or John Damian since he came to America. Older than many, an alchemist who became a vampire to fulfil a prophecy about a flying man and who had posed as a priest and a surgeon both for centuries before he was driven out of Europe by the Belmonts. His voice is soft and cool and absolutely the kind of deferential tone that could mean that legitimately be deference or that could mean ‘actually fuck you’. ] I bring tribute.