[Alucard had expected to go across the sea and south to where the Italians were. It was impossible to miss their rumblings, the sudden interest in what was antique and now valuable again. But there was too much of the church in those lands (and perhaps, in truth, too much garlic) and so further north and just a little bit west it had been.
It wasn't Wallachia, but all three of them were sick of the place. Years after his mother truly did pass (from old age and nothing else), perhaps he would go back. But there would be no affection for the land that saw his parents meet, there would only be a mild interest in seeing the changes to the landscape and how the Ottomans influenced certain things.
There's no point in attending the university, but he is aware of it and the goings on, just as he is aware of so much else. Around him is a veritable sea of humanity, and to be in the midst of it feels strange. He grew up in the castle after all, and in Lupu when his mother realized so much isolation was not in his best interest.
The upstairs is theirs, of course. Much less spacious than the castle, but also a much easier place to protect. There are nights early on when rather than sleep in bed, Alucard takes to his wolf form and squishes himself against the front door, sleeping there instead. To catch drafts. An absolutely bullshit excuse, but he uses it anyway.
One thing that Alucard argued for in the clinic were dummy books. Contemporary works, not the advanced ones that the castle had, works with incorrect understandings of human anatomy and health and all things besides. If there was another attempt to attack, then the books could not be evidence. They were published this year. Last year. Two years ago. The printers were all in Prague or from Italy or the Germans.
He walks into the clinic with another armful of the books, not exactly proud of the fact that there's ink smeared on his face. Picking things up from the printer means time spent means ending up being asked to help with a stuck press means ink on his face and arms.]
no subject
It wasn't Wallachia, but all three of them were sick of the place. Years after his mother truly did pass (from old age and nothing else), perhaps he would go back. But there would be no affection for the land that saw his parents meet, there would only be a mild interest in seeing the changes to the landscape and how the Ottomans influenced certain things.
There's no point in attending the university, but he is aware of it and the goings on, just as he is aware of so much else. Around him is a veritable sea of humanity, and to be in the midst of it feels strange. He grew up in the castle after all, and in Lupu when his mother realized so much isolation was not in his best interest.
The upstairs is theirs, of course. Much less spacious than the castle, but also a much easier place to protect. There are nights early on when rather than sleep in bed, Alucard takes to his wolf form and squishes himself against the front door, sleeping there instead. To catch drafts. An absolutely bullshit excuse, but he uses it anyway.
One thing that Alucard argued for in the clinic were dummy books. Contemporary works, not the advanced ones that the castle had, works with incorrect understandings of human anatomy and health and all things besides. If there was another attempt to attack, then the books could not be evidence. They were published this year. Last year. Two years ago. The printers were all in Prague or from Italy or the Germans.
He walks into the clinic with another armful of the books, not exactly proud of the fact that there's ink smeared on his face. Picking things up from the printer means time spent means ending up being asked to help with a stuck press means ink on his face and arms.]
Mother? This is the last batch.