vrykolakas | TIMESKIP.

Entry tags:

eachdraidh,
ooc

TIMESKIP.

THE BRUCOLAC

COURT Unseelie.
TITLE Baron of Srathmarbh, Black Omen.
OCCUPATION Baron, drugs manufacturer, political thinker gods help him, Umibōzu captain.
ABLE TO FAST-TRAVEL Yes; puca.
RESIDENCE IN 2,701 Srathmarbh.
RESIDENCE IN 2,702 Srathmarbh.

MAJOR EVENTS

PUBLICATION OF THE REDDENED HILL
Being a Personal Account of the Battle of An Carn Ban... [ ✖ ]

ADOPTION DISCUSSION
"There is no one I would want to do it more." [ ✖ ]

COMPLETION OF THE SRATHMARBH SPIRE
Description [ ✖ ]

PUBLICATION OF THE GOVERNOR
A brief meditation on what and what not to do while holding public office. [ ✖ ]

BIRTH OF SHAMASH
Description [ ✖ ]

BIRTH OF ISHTAR
Description [ ✖ ]

RESCUE OF CHILDREN
Description [ ✖ ]

PLANS
By the time the timeskip ends, the Brucolac will be in a more stable position, his spire complete and the surrounding lands a buzzing centre of construction and commerce. He will have two children in the care of Alyosha Hazan.

SUMMARY OF KNOWN DETAILS
Beebins; daring rescue of beebins; becoming reluctantly published; stuff stuff stuff; seeing a scifi film and being the biggest nerd; building a wee town & preparing for ports & shipyards; maybe hunting cloudwhales; tsk'ing unhappily at the cult of the fox

TIMELINE OF EVENTS

SPRING IN 2,701 (Mar, Apr, May)

MARCH - Publication of the Brucolac's The Reddened Hill: The Unseelie Triumph of An Càrn Bàn. Anonymous, though rumour suggests it was one of the Barons.
MARCH - A long talk with Alyosha about adoption.
APRIL 5TH - The Srathmarbh Spire is completed and the name 'Srathmarbh' finally begins to catch on. Construction workers are encouraged to stay and continue building on the town proper. Whispers abound of future, grander plans (the Brucolac himself ensures these whispers circulate). Various grants and start-up loans are offered to would-be business-owners.
APRIL - Hunting cloudwhales for their precious floaty bones.
MAY - Publication of The Governor. Anonymous/under penname.
MAY - A run-down rural farmhouse west of Mair is chosen for the location at which to base the Brucolac & Dasha's growing drugs business.
MAY - Aileas an Seabhac requests that the Brucolac act as her diplomat to help smoothe over tensions between the vampires and the elves.
MAY - Those fucking swans. The Brucolac will scoop up a few and be seen to pour what wealth is gained from them straight back into Srathmarbh.

SUMMER IN 2,701 (Jun, Jul, Aug)

JUNE - Two vampire entrepreneurs take advantage of the Brucolac's offered start-up loans and begin to create a printing press in Srathmarbh.
JUNE - The Brucolac participates in the Treun summer tourney, in the Melee category! Yseult comes to watch; the rumours which have long abounded about the Brucolac's kept woman in Mair become noisier. The event ends terribly for them when, during the daytime, Yseult is attacked by copycats of the fox cult for her association with shardbearers.
JULY - Perhaps it's the rich heat of the summer sun which the slakemoths respond to? Or the blood in the air. They wrap themselves up in cocoons and emerge terrible, but are manageable. Don't ask how.
JULY - An attempt is made to feed one Mr Bones to the slakemoths.
AUGUST - The Festival of Shadow.

FALL IN 2,701 (Sept, Oct, Nov)

EARLY SEPTEMBER - The Brucolac is affected by the scrambling of the translation enchantment; he speaks some stilted Drabbish, and a whole heap of languages from his world, which are all totally useless to him. Expect terrible handwriting and a lot of gestures. Also expect one great big universally-understandable I TOLD YOU SO.
SEPTEMBER - The Srathmarbh press is complete and ready for business! Grants for teachers and educators, or literate people wishing to become teachers and educators, are refined and more widely publicised.
SEPTEMBER 29TH - Birth of Shamash, son of Verla.
OCTOBER 3RD - Birth of Ishtar, daughter of Yseult.
OCTOBER 5TH? - By the grace of the Unseelie monarchs, the children are returned, delivered safely to the arms of Alyosha Hazan.
OCTOBER 25TH - 30TH - Samhain! An excuse to be naked with loved ones.
NOVEMBER - Some of the escaped criminals are former employees of Mr Bones, out for vengeance or perhaps out for gainful employment now that Mr Bones is no longer quite the force he was. The Brucolac puts out feelers to ascertain various situations and deal with them appropriately.

WINTER IN 2,701/2,702 (Dec, Jan, Feb)

DECEMBER - The Brucolac stays far away from the White Hart. No thanks. Srathmarbh will hold a fervent Yule celebration, which promises to become a tradition.
JANUARY - Fuck, what do you mean the slakemoths bred? Oh fuck.
FEBRUARY - Yseult causes controversy at the Ostara Festival by anonymously submitting a work named Blindeye, a great abstract mural of wild colours meant to be touched and stroked and stared at with unease. It is torched by a traditionalist. The Brucolac tries to use this to distract from possible re-emergence of elf/vampir tensions caused by the assassinations of elven artists.

SPRING IN 2,702 (Mar, Apr)

DATE - Description
DATE - Description
DATE - Description

( codes by whambam )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She knew the layout of the place well; guided him along a brightly-lit corridor, past quiet shops and cafes, towards a gleaming, broad stairwell leading down.

"Awful, isn't it? And... similar after a fashion but different; all of this would have been considered monstrously archaic. Wasteful. The darkness between stars is unfathomably cold and hungry, sucks out heat and light like the deepest part of an ocean; so you can afford to waste nothing. Not even light, or heat. The archsips and civilian fleet all bioluminesced, and only when necessary. Like holding a piece of very thin parchment up to full moon light, that same... backlit radiance. But all about you; ceiling, walls, floors if need for light was great enough. So if you had a long hallway and you were the only one walking through it, it would be dark but for the space you walked in, a few metres forward, a few behind, Athena brightening in a soft halo about your path. Rare case, that, though."

He gave the faintest shiver of pleasure at the description, not able to articulate why, not even to himself. It appealed, the thought of that cold, hungry blackness, and the delicate, hopeful mechanisms put in place to appease, refuse and manage it. "A raft of light in the dark. That does seem far preferable to this omnipresent bloody glare. It's like being watched by an angry god..." Here squeezed her arm, flashed a fang, and all but bounded down the stairs. "But without the romance of such things."

"Ahhh, listen to us, deriding it all! Ugly as it is, at least it's a change of scenery, and isn't likely anyone here's going to give half a dead rat's arse about us one way or the other. Also the drabwurld's only purveyor of spermicidal contraception, bless what imps and fairies were mad enough to thieve this place."

She laughed, nudging her shoulder to his, clearly pleased by this esteem... and took the stairs two and three at a time, eyes glinting as if she might challenge him to race her the last leg. At the bottom of the stairs, another wide avenue of neon-glowing shops. It was louder here, undamaged by the attack, and the bright directional signs hanging from the ceiling indicated directions for bathrooms, restaurants, theatre.

"You're right. Such an unanchored ship of a place..." He took his arm from hers to tuck it instead about her waist, pressing their sides together, as if he could warm her through bodyheat. He hadn't been down to the lower levels before; stared in fascination at the candy-coloured glow of neon, so strange and sickly-bright he could almost taste it along with the sugary chymical flavours of the air.

He paused a moment, frowned, and asked, "Sorry. Purveyor of what, did you say?"

Bright and sweet and false, somehow, like cheap bubblegum. She leaned into his side, touched her cheek once to his shoulder like a happy cat, drew her claws lightly up his back as they walked in-step. Their overlong strides matched easily, and she spared only fleeting attention for what they passed, instead looking up to him in vague surprise.

"Ah! Contraceptives with both a very high rate of success, reliable ease of use, without the... other drawbacks of more widely-spread options." Her tone tread an odd balance between helpfully informative and vaguely half-hopeful. But she covered herself neatly, adding, "Learned of it in a merchant marriage gala in Leathann; distributed to sailors by employers for tax incentives. I've thought to replicate the notion among soldiers."

He caught her tone, couldn't help but look at her oddly, as if to say, but we don't need—

Ah, except they did. The thought which was somehow mortifying, if only because it had dawned on him so slowly. He winced faintly, still keeping her well-hugged to his side. "I see, but of what kind?"

Praying for something palatable; who knew what her concept of proper contraception might be? He had lived a little too long and seen a little too much quasi-mystical thinking on the subject to quite be at ease, and had always counted himself—not lucky, but at least as having dodged a very complex bullet.

How had something she'd meant mostly-laughingly come to this? She pursed her mouth and wished desperately she could recall the words.

Ah, well. Fuck if she'd be made awkward over it. Her free hand ticked options off on silver fingers. "Condoms— a sort of synthetic barrier; varieties of lubricants— oils and so forth made so as not to be so uncomfortable or hard on a woman as the cedar-oil whores tend to use where they can; films— clever little, ah, square, about so big," and she demonstrated using thumb and forefinger, less than an inch, "Paperlike but all biological. Pressed into a woman, it dissolves like sugar in water, imperceptible, but has some chemical property which won't allow seed to take."

Half of that was said up to the deserted ticket counter; the young man behind it was blushing hotly enough that his ears were red. "Oh God, lady, you gotta talk like that in public?"

"My day just wouldn't be complete without mortifying someone," she teased, without missing a beat. "Are we late?"

"Uhhh," he rubbed a hand through his hair, tousling it hopelessly, taking care never to quite look at the Brucolac. "No, but just barely. Couple other people in, so. Keep it down." He took a breath, drawling, "If it's your first time to a theatre, please remember that there will be little light, loud noises, and moving images. Pregnant woman and those with weak hearts should continue on at their discretion. If you feel panicky, nauseous, or other lasting discomfort you should exit the theatre following the red arrows. No weapons permitted beyond the doors, and you may check them at the desk."

The Brucolac all but melted into her side with relief. "Ah, sheaths, fuck me, I thought it was going to be something far worse—it wouldn't be the first time—ah, but..." But we're here, and I'm not going to tell you about those mishaps anyway, and...so on, he tried to communicate with a gesture, giving a rasping, abashed laugh. His free hand squeezing her hip.

"I promise not to panic," he murmured, patting down his tunic absently just to check if he'd a knife stowed about him (not considering the blade in his boot a weapon by any means; that was for emergencies), "either at the movie or the concept of a condom." No unnecessary knives found, he dropped his hand.

She only laughed, fangs flashing, leaning into his squeeze and squeezing him in turn. Leaned up to kiss his jaw, finding no need to pursue that line of inquiry: it was almost more interesting to imagine what worse looked like.

"Oh my God," whispered the ticket clerk at the mention of condom, somehow managing to go a still brighter shade of red. Alyosha held up her hands in the universal gesture for 'No weapons! See?', of course lying behind the smile. They were waved on; Alyosha had already paid when checking the listings in a hopeful gamble; flashed two tickets procured by some slight of hand.

"Just... yeah, just go on, and don't get any ideas! Number three, Xenomorph."

A snicker was all the response the Brucolac gave to the clerk's discomfort, not releasing his hold on Alyosha's waist as they strode to the screen door.

"Xenomorph. Sounds thrilling. What ideas might it give us?"

The clerk only shook his head as they left him, and Alyosha had to suppress a laugh, reaching forward to pull the door open for them both. "Ahhh, he means a rite of passage for the Station youth. Theatre's dark and isolated-feeling, the brave ones sit in the back and dip their toes very shallowly into exhibitionism with their lovers."

Her eyes twitched to the title of the film, backlit above the door. "This one isn't the sort of story to encourage it, alas," she almost sighed, and drew him in. The opening credits were already playing.

Edited 2015-03-19 22:26 (UTC)

He tensed a little in surprise at the music and the noise, having forgotten that she had said those were included in the images. One hell of a phonograph record—he took a sniff—yes, no orchestra. All recorded. Fascinating.

"Come then," he said, whisking her swiftly through the seats, towards—of course—the back. And why not? Best to keep one's options open. "What are these—names? Some kind of memorial? Are they important?"

He chose the back, and the pallor of her grin cut the darkness like a knife. She squeezed his hand, followed. Slid into the seat beside him, nudging up the arm between them with an elbow.

"Actors and staff," she whispered, "Far as I can tell! Investors too, likely."

"Ah, so not part of the story." The arm out of the way, he shifted to get comfortable, wrapping his arm about her shoulders and tucking her close. She smelt of metal and clean woodsmoke; he inhaled for the pleasure of tasting it, felt himself relax where he hadn't realised he had been tense.

A poor-lense blurred image of a planet drifted across the screen in muted colours; the score was haunting, even familiar as it was to her. She tucked against him and under his arm like a falcon against its mate, eyes forward, so rapt that she had gone very still, half-hugging him as if expecting to be frightened.

A field of stars wheeled slowly as the music quieted; scenes of the enormous ship panned, its interior dead and silent. Lighting slowly at some invisible signal. Computer screens flickered to life and poured out information to no one.

The stars provoked a sharp inhalation, the Brucolac sitting up straighter. They were brighter, clearer than any heliograph he'd ever seen. He tensed at the progression from planet to stars to screens, one hand at his mouth. Nonplussed, briefly, before he understood how he was supposed to link each sight to the next, a silent observer to it all. For a moment, presented with the stars, he tried to make sense of them, see if he recognised any of their configurations—from his world, from this—but there was nothing in the shapes they spelt out that he could read. And the ship... His fingers squeezed Alyosha's shoulder tight. Was that the kind of thing she had been born on? A silent and lonely metal creature, driving through blackness?

"Fuck me pink," he muttered, rapt; delighted and apprehensive.

She exhaled a breath of laughter, relaxed against him a little, eyes mirrors to all she saw, "This would be set sometime during the Terraforming Age; ships were primitive, and there were no faster-than-light engines. So, it would take decades for ships to travel from one place to another, and decades more to return. Crews would sleep most of the journey in pods— like those there, see how they're waking now that the ship has received signal?— which would slow their bodily cycles to such a crawl that they wouldn't even age..." Her explanation drifted off as the very small crew began to interact.

The air was tense; it was clear the messages the ship had received were unexpected, unable to be translated, and caused division, seeds of dissent. Long silences were set to the background of the ship's sterility. The ship's computer was 'Mother', called so either affectionately or resentfully by the crew, and an outward pan revealed their destination: a planetoid dark enough to seem threatening, spinning slowly, the suggestion of surface-storms blurred in its shadows.

"Sleeping ships drifting through a sea of stars. All that black silence. Aly. What I'd give to—..."

He leaned forwards, rapt, and stared with hungry fascination. With a sudden stab he realised he was staring into an alien past. Some farworld fantasy. His fingers tightened at her shoulder.

"I've spent all my life travelling," he murmured to her, not taking his eyes from the screen. "I never expected to get this far away."

She squeezed his knee, suppressing laughter into a broad, delighted grin. "Does it really feel so far away?" What's different, what the same? She watched his face for a long moment, elated, before tucking herself close again, watching safety-suited crew members explore alien architecture. Their hushed voices drew her in, made her clench here and there in sympathetic fear.

"It's the dream of someone from another damn world," he whispered back to her, unable quite to put into words what was so strange about that when he sat with her held tight to him, each of them multiversal flotsam and jetsam.

It was so quiet. The Drabwurld was, as worlds went, quiet enough, should you find the right place. No hum of chatter, no machinery, no smoke belching into the air. Thaumaturgy here needed no circuitry. It was so alien to Armada's constance sea-mutter and city-churn that it had disturbed him at first. He wasn't surprised to find himself happier in Srathmarbh, with the howl of the sea and the clamour of construction. But the film showed a silence wide and lonely as the depths of the sea. He could almost remember silences like that. Desert silences, the hush of no one knowing or caring where you were, or if you lived or died, as you picked your way alone across the world.

Slowly, he leant back, and let the film play out before him, eyes lit with hungry awe. He hissed at tense moments, shuddered and gnawed his lower lip, barely blinked; he flicked his tongue in the air, shifted in his seat, gripped her tighter.

Aly had to know when the first scare scene was coming up. He, of course, was entirely oblivious, more interested in staring at the setting and tiny details of the characters' costumes than paying attention to the plot.

The dream of someone from another world.

She wrapped herself in the quiet and thought on this, only half-seeing the familiar images. Thinking of dreams, and other worlds; what did he dream of? what did he remember, what were the shapes and colours and textures of his world? Her imagination conjured images like a forest of brightly-coloured sails, fleet, synthetic-hulled skiffs hunting—

But a sound made her re-focus, and she leaned vaguely forward. The music faded in a moment she recalled well (it had made her shriek the first time, and muffle the same sound in her hands the second). She watched the Brucolac from the edge of her vision, making certain to time it. Turned her face toward him, innocuously— and in concert with the first of the movie's many later scares flicked out the tines of her tongue, touching them against the worlds of his ear, hissing in such close proximity just to startle him better.

He all but screeched, snatching at Alyosha and then shoving her away, his yell interrupted by laughter. Mortified and adrenalin-giddy at the same time.

"Fuck you," he groaned, "fuck you, fuck you, fuck your mother's mother's mother's...uterine replicator—" Laughing again, breathless and nearly soundless, covering his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking.

His shove cast her half into the seat on her opposite side, laughing so wildly that she didn't immediately right herself.

"Your face!" She crowed, righting herself in an inelegant thrash, kissing his shoulder (not at all apologetic) and giving his waist a squeeze. At a loud shush from another member of the audience seated far closer to the front, she pitched her voice to a whisper,

"Worth it."

"Witch, fucking harridan," he hissed, sounding as wrathful as any puca but hugging her close, chest still shaking with laughter. "If this were my godsdamn ship I'd have you lashed raw." His lips found her brow, then he tipped her face up to kiss her.

She hummed against his mouth, too pleased, kissed him eagerly and hard. "Pillow talk," she accused, leaning into the crook of his arm again, pinching his side lightly between thumb and forefinger, "You know I'd just beg for more stripes 'til I was half-flayed."

TIMESKIP.

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