Joscelin Fitzthomas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dredefulchilde) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-06-07 08:21 pm
dredefulchilde) wrote in undergrounds2016-06-07 08:21 pm
Entry tags:
She's not so special so look what you've done boy
It's with your sins you've killed me
Islington, 29 May - Locked to Jean-Claude
Millicent is dead. Millicent is dead. MillicentisdeadMillicentisdeadMillicentisdead.
If Joscelin were even halfway as cool and disaffected as he pretends to be most days, he'd be happy. Ecstatic, even. Over the moon. After all, he's wanted Millicent dead for ages and he's never been very shy about letting people know about it. Millicent had been behind the coup that ousted him from the Nest--she still holds onto his daylight jewel as a reminder of that particular humiliation. Held onto it. He supposes that whoever's stepped into the power vacuum has it now. Oddly, he's far less interested in their new leader than he thought he'd be. The man's a right monster, he knows that, but aren't they all?
He doesn't care much besides that. Because Millicent is dead and she had the temerity to die by someone else's hand.
There aren't many vampires left alive who still remember Aurelia. She's been dead for centuries; there was a different Elizabeth on the currency then. But Joss remembers. Aurelia was his entire world, mother and sire both. Even though Aurelia had been killed by human hunters, Joss has always suspected that it was Millicent who told the hunters where they were hiding. She never did like sharing power.
The man out for a late night stroll with his dog, mercifully, never saw it coming. Joss's rage and frustration needed an outlet--that outlet ended up being the man's neck. Death was near instantaneous when the small vampire ripped out his throat, nearly decapitating him except for some muscle and sinew at the back. The dog got away. Once Joss had drunk his fill he curled into himself and let out a sob. Millicent is dead.
That's how Jean-Claude finds him some time later: covered in blood and gore and crying out his anger and grief into an eviscerated corpse. Joscelin has hated Millicent for five hundred years. How can she just be gone?
Thinking of your sins I die
Islington, 5 June - Locked to Natasha
Besides the dog walker, there are now seven more bodies on the streets. They're mostly indistinguishable from the other vampire kills that now pepper the city after Millicent's death, except that an expert might be able to tell that the bite marks are from a smaller set of fangs than usual. After seventy years of feeding off animals and only using living donors, Joss has gone back to killing humans and seems to be trying to make up for lost time.
He hasn't tried turning anyone yet, but that might change soon. Their new leader has lifted the ban on turning children for the first time in one hundred and twenty years, and there are all sorts of disaffected kids in London who would relish a chance at eternal youth. In fact, there's a children's home not far from where he's been spending a lot of time lately. He's watching it, waiting to make his move.
Thinking how you'd let them touch you
Westminster, 20 June
It's the shortest night of the year.
In London, the sun sets at 21:21 and will rise again at 04:43. That's far less than seven hours of darkness when one factors in twilight and the predawn glow. For a vampire without a daylight ring, summer is torture. Joss has always hated it, being trapped inside all the time while the rest of the world blithely dons sunscreen and pretends to live in a country that isn't perpetually cold and damp.
He's chosen to spend the extended evening hours on this Midsummer's Eve inside a museum, studiously avoiding any skylights and generally trying to escape notice by guards as they begin closing for the night. If he's going to be trapped inside until dark, he might as well do it amongst his long-dead peers.
The small vampire turns down a gallery, walking a row of portraits until he finds the one he's looking for. It's inexpertly done, by later standards; the Renaissance had come to England rather later than other countries. But this Portrait of an Unknown Woman, about 1510 still managed to capture the beauty of the sitter, demure in her gabled hood and heavy gown. The artist hadn't known what he'd painted until much later, when she'd drained the life out of him as payment for the work.
"Aurelia," he murmurs, forgetting himself for a moment. It's far too long since he'd last paid a visit to his sire.
Islington, 29 May - Locked to Jean-Claude
Millicent is dead. Millicent is dead. MillicentisdeadMillicentisdeadMillicentisdead.
If Joscelin were even halfway as cool and disaffected as he pretends to be most days, he'd be happy. Ecstatic, even. Over the moon. After all, he's wanted Millicent dead for ages and he's never been very shy about letting people know about it. Millicent had been behind the coup that ousted him from the Nest--she still holds onto his daylight jewel as a reminder of that particular humiliation. Held onto it. He supposes that whoever's stepped into the power vacuum has it now. Oddly, he's far less interested in their new leader than he thought he'd be. The man's a right monster, he knows that, but aren't they all?
He doesn't care much besides that. Because Millicent is dead and she had the temerity to die by someone else's hand.
There aren't many vampires left alive who still remember Aurelia. She's been dead for centuries; there was a different Elizabeth on the currency then. But Joss remembers. Aurelia was his entire world, mother and sire both. Even though Aurelia had been killed by human hunters, Joss has always suspected that it was Millicent who told the hunters where they were hiding. She never did like sharing power.
The man out for a late night stroll with his dog, mercifully, never saw it coming. Joss's rage and frustration needed an outlet--that outlet ended up being the man's neck. Death was near instantaneous when the small vampire ripped out his throat, nearly decapitating him except for some muscle and sinew at the back. The dog got away. Once Joss had drunk his fill he curled into himself and let out a sob. Millicent is dead.
That's how Jean-Claude finds him some time later: covered in blood and gore and crying out his anger and grief into an eviscerated corpse. Joscelin has hated Millicent for five hundred years. How can she just be gone?
Thinking of your sins I die
Islington, 5 June - Locked to Natasha
Besides the dog walker, there are now seven more bodies on the streets. They're mostly indistinguishable from the other vampire kills that now pepper the city after Millicent's death, except that an expert might be able to tell that the bite marks are from a smaller set of fangs than usual. After seventy years of feeding off animals and only using living donors, Joss has gone back to killing humans and seems to be trying to make up for lost time.
He hasn't tried turning anyone yet, but that might change soon. Their new leader has lifted the ban on turning children for the first time in one hundred and twenty years, and there are all sorts of disaffected kids in London who would relish a chance at eternal youth. In fact, there's a children's home not far from where he's been spending a lot of time lately. He's watching it, waiting to make his move.
Thinking how you'd let them touch you
Westminster, 20 June
It's the shortest night of the year.
In London, the sun sets at 21:21 and will rise again at 04:43. That's far less than seven hours of darkness when one factors in twilight and the predawn glow. For a vampire without a daylight ring, summer is torture. Joss has always hated it, being trapped inside all the time while the rest of the world blithely dons sunscreen and pretends to live in a country that isn't perpetually cold and damp.
He's chosen to spend the extended evening hours on this Midsummer's Eve inside a museum, studiously avoiding any skylights and generally trying to escape notice by guards as they begin closing for the night. If he's going to be trapped inside until dark, he might as well do it amongst his long-dead peers.
The small vampire turns down a gallery, walking a row of portraits until he finds the one he's looking for. It's inexpertly done, by later standards; the Renaissance had come to England rather later than other countries. But this Portrait of an Unknown Woman, about 1510 still managed to capture the beauty of the sitter, demure in her gabled hood and heavy gown. The artist hadn't known what he'd painted until much later, when she'd drained the life out of him as payment for the work.
"Aurelia," he murmurs, forgetting himself for a moment. It's far too long since he'd last paid a visit to his sire.
no subject
The boy laughs. His fangs are already out. "We seem to be riding a tide of spectacularly bad ideas in London lately. Let's just add this one to the pile."
no subject
She pulls her arms out of her pockets and crosses them over her chest then, shaking her head a little. Not for the first time, she thinks of just why it's cruel to turn children so young. Her own sire had chosen her in her early twenties and waited years to finally turn her, finding even that too young.
"Besides, you're smarter than that. No one lives to be your age thinking that way. As bad as things already are... you really want to make them worse?"
After that, Natasha falls quiet. She can only hope that age has taught him pragmatism. The two things tended to go together, but there were always exceptions, and always changes for old vampires to grow decadent.
no subject
He's in full froth now. His hand rests on the wooden stake he carries in his pocket--a warning.
"Do not forget to whom you speak, madam. Despite my shape, I am no child. I've killed many for less than this."
no subject
"If you think this is pity, then you don't know me very well." Her gaze doesn't even flick toward the implicit threat in his pocket. Even if she were well-fed, she wouldn't have had a chance facing him head on. She had killed vampires nearly as old before, but always with careful preparation. And that wasn't something she was about to advertise. "I'm just calling it like I see it. Turning yourself a bunch of kids isn't going to make you any happier or any less lonely, and whatever's going through your head, I think you're smart enough to know that the trouble this would bring down on all of us isn't worth the payoff."
The compliment is backhanded but intentional.
"But if I'm wrong on any particular point?"
no subject
But Joss hasn't survived this long by acting on every impulse he's ever had. He takes a deep breath and replies, in a measured way, "Your opinion on the matter was neither requested nor welcomed, but it's been noted. Now go poke your nose somewhere else it doesn't belong while I am still feeling charitable."
no subject
Natasha's posture shifts, crossing her arms behind her back and bowing her head halfway. There's something vaguely military about the stance. And finally the impression of bending to authority, even if in a controlled way.
She should take the opportunity to escape. Instead, she lingers. She's not sure he's let go of the idea of turning anyone tonight, and there's still the matter of the other bodies. No amount of confrontation is going to bring them back to life, but dodging out doesn't clean up the mess either.
no subject
But not now.
"Have you anything more to say, Ms. Romanoff?"
no subject
That does leave one last thing, though.
"There's still a mess to clean up." Someone has to get rid of the bodies he's left behind. Him and others. She won't be able to get all of them—and she doesn't intend to try. But there's too many to just leave to be found.
no subject
He isn't going to help her with that.
no subject