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
He sniffles quietly for two or three more minutes and then moves to stand.
"I do hope you weren't overly attached to those shoes," he says by way of apology. "And I think it goes without saying that if you breathe a word of this to another soul you are as good as dead."
no subject
He glances up at Joscelin, trying to take in the measure of him, though all he sees is blood and whatever mask the younger vampire has slapped in place besides. He moves to stand, his eyes dark and unreadable as he keeps his gaze on the other. "I have others," he replies, waving away the fact that his shoes are now full of blood. "It is you who concerns me, mon ami. Dîtes-moi, what has happened?"
no subject
Joscelin takes a deep, steadying breath.
"Hers was my life to take. I have wanted her dead for half a thousand years and she lets a wolf kill her?" His voice breaks; he'd been on the cusp of puberty at his death and this uncharacteristic display of emotion is playing havoc with vocal cords already obnoxiously predisposed to cracking.
"You did not know my sire; she died while you were still...doing whatever it was you did on the Continent. Millicent had her killed. I swore vengeance for Aurelia's death, and for the deaths of my progeny following my own overthrow." That, having happened more recently, Jean-Claude would know about. "I don't know why she continued to spare my life. She had no such pity for those I loved."
And that word, more than the tears or anything else, is completely unlike the vampire Joscelin has been in his many hundreds of years on the planet. He hasn't admitted feelings of love for anyone since the sixteenth century.
Nor, it must be noted, will he ever again.
no subject
He stands, tall, still and silent as he regards the other vampire for a long moment before he bends to take the other vampire in his arms in an embrace. "I am sorry, mon ami," he says, quietly, offering what little comfort he can in what little time the other vampire will allow him to do so.
no subject
"Get the fuck off of me."
no subject
Jean-Claude steps away as he is told to do so, raising his hands in front of him in something of a defensive gesture, to show that he will keep his hands to himself. He does not regret his action, however. He knows that it is probably the first embrace that the other vampire has had in some time, and he recognizes that for a fraction of a second, he had even admitted to himself that he needed it.
"I am sorry, mon ami," he says, although he is not very sorry at all. "Here. Please, let me take you home." Wherever he is calling home these days, Jean-Claude realizes after a moment that he isn't quite certain where that might be.
no subject
He attempts to tidy himself as much as is possible, given all of the blood. It's starting to dry in sticky clumps in his hair. A bath is very much in order.
no subject
He gestures them forward. It will be a big of a walk, but he does not think that the other vampire will mind it, given the mood he is in. And what with the state of the pair of them, it's smarter to take to the streets and the shadows than to hope that whatever transportation they could procure might not ask too many questions.