Alucard \\ Adrian F. Ţepeş (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cryptsleeper) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2022-01-03 07:09 pm
cryptsleeper) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-01-03 07:09 pm
[open] january catchall
Who: Alucard + open
When: All of January
Where: The Horizon; various haunts around Cadens (graveyard, Hall of Relics, and a tiny little dive bar)
What: January dhampir business
Warnings: Added as needed
A. I have stood here before
You're in my light.
[The comment comes from a few headstones over, where a pale man kneels atop canvas. In front of him are pieces of a headstone, the pieces of it scattershot in size but clearly in the process of reassembly. A few have already been rejoined, and the buckets to the man's right makes it clear why light is important: he is in the midst of reassembly, and there's only so much daylight during the winter months.
To the man's left, there are reassembled stones now standing tall. Further along the right, two remaining piles of rubble that will soon get attention.
There's a sigh, and Alucard looks up.]
Yes?
B. inside the pouring rain
[It's always raining in Alucard's domain, the constant fall of it soothing. Rarely does he walk the late autumnal woods, letting himself get lost in the fog and the dark, twisting trees whose last few colorful leaves cling to branches. Instead, he sleeps, curled up under a pile of furs in front of a wood burning stove, or he stands over a kitchen work bench, hands kneading dough. Or fluting a pie shell. Or chopping something for a stew. Anything to keep his hands busy and mind focused on a single task before him.
His Horizon always works to ward off visitors. A twisting, impossible path. Too thick fog. Trees that seem to point in the wrong direction. But in the center, there is always a smell. Bread, sometimes a normal, hearty loaf, other times a sweetened cozonac. Plăcintă stuffed with apples and pears. The promise of some roasted beast with herbs. The smell leads to the true path of the place, and eventually, the front door of a hut.
The hut's door knocker is held aloft by a metal bat affixed to the door. The first knock reveals no response. The second, a tired looking dhampir with flour on his face, shirt, and forearms - the sleeves have long since been rolled up.]
It is remarkable how consistently people think a lack of response to a knock on the door is an invitation in.
C. with the world turning circles
[It was Gideon who had turned Alucard onto the existence of The Surly Wench. A tiny thing, not larger than two apartments put together. Enough where too many people meant that folks were turned away, and familiar faces were given some preferential treatment. She might've commented on the waitstaff, he's never much noticed or cared. The few times he's gone since, they've been polite, given him space, and he's made sure to say thank you on his way out.
Polite. Not a regular, just someone who breezes in when there's money for something beyond masonry supplies at the graveyard. Two glasses of wine and the cheapest food on the menu.
It's colder than usual tonight, which is the only reason Alucard's not curled up in his wolf form, already fast asleep. The wine's gone, but there's a bowl of soup in front of him that he's taking his time in getting through, writing in a small notebook every so often. He's nearly done with the graveyard's reconstruction now. He has to figure out what's next.
Moreover, his quiet work means that his seat isn't vacant for the small group of people wanting to get inside and out of the cold.
He isn't sure he'll see a familiar face, scanning the small queue.]
D. running 'round my brain
--That's two rooms over, through your left.
[Alucard's come to know the Hall of Relics well by now. Being asked by another museum goer for directions towards you know that one weird taxidermy thing they try to ignore but still have out? is an easy enough question to answer, and Alucard was meandering towards that area anyway. The exhibit area before it has a new installation of early bestiaries, featuring desert animals both living and extinct. That's where he heads, making no sound as he moves across the stone floor.
Standing in front of one of the cases, Alucard understands he's looking at one of the older chaigon relatives. It is spikier, but the colors are still terribly familiar. He's seen them out in the desert before, but always given them their space. It is the style that has his eye though, for it and all the handwritten text is achingly familiar to him. This is all pre-printing press work, and that means all the little gold foil details on the page are also done by hand. The application is sheer perfection, and only a few flecks have flaked off over the centuries, it seems. He leans in for a closer look.]
Yes, I think you're a little easier to deal with in your current form.
Wildcard
PM me for something more specific.
When: All of January
Where: The Horizon; various haunts around Cadens (graveyard, Hall of Relics, and a tiny little dive bar)
What: January dhampir business
Warnings: Added as needed
A. I have stood here before
You're in my light.
[The comment comes from a few headstones over, where a pale man kneels atop canvas. In front of him are pieces of a headstone, the pieces of it scattershot in size but clearly in the process of reassembly. A few have already been rejoined, and the buckets to the man's right makes it clear why light is important: he is in the midst of reassembly, and there's only so much daylight during the winter months.
To the man's left, there are reassembled stones now standing tall. Further along the right, two remaining piles of rubble that will soon get attention.
There's a sigh, and Alucard looks up.]
Yes?
B. inside the pouring rain
[It's always raining in Alucard's domain, the constant fall of it soothing. Rarely does he walk the late autumnal woods, letting himself get lost in the fog and the dark, twisting trees whose last few colorful leaves cling to branches. Instead, he sleeps, curled up under a pile of furs in front of a wood burning stove, or he stands over a kitchen work bench, hands kneading dough. Or fluting a pie shell. Or chopping something for a stew. Anything to keep his hands busy and mind focused on a single task before him.
His Horizon always works to ward off visitors. A twisting, impossible path. Too thick fog. Trees that seem to point in the wrong direction. But in the center, there is always a smell. Bread, sometimes a normal, hearty loaf, other times a sweetened cozonac. Plăcintă stuffed with apples and pears. The promise of some roasted beast with herbs. The smell leads to the true path of the place, and eventually, the front door of a hut.
The hut's door knocker is held aloft by a metal bat affixed to the door. The first knock reveals no response. The second, a tired looking dhampir with flour on his face, shirt, and forearms - the sleeves have long since been rolled up.]
It is remarkable how consistently people think a lack of response to a knock on the door is an invitation in.
C. with the world turning circles
[It was Gideon who had turned Alucard onto the existence of The Surly Wench. A tiny thing, not larger than two apartments put together. Enough where too many people meant that folks were turned away, and familiar faces were given some preferential treatment. She might've commented on the waitstaff, he's never much noticed or cared. The few times he's gone since, they've been polite, given him space, and he's made sure to say thank you on his way out.
Polite. Not a regular, just someone who breezes in when there's money for something beyond masonry supplies at the graveyard. Two glasses of wine and the cheapest food on the menu.
It's colder than usual tonight, which is the only reason Alucard's not curled up in his wolf form, already fast asleep. The wine's gone, but there's a bowl of soup in front of him that he's taking his time in getting through, writing in a small notebook every so often. He's nearly done with the graveyard's reconstruction now. He has to figure out what's next.
Moreover, his quiet work means that his seat isn't vacant for the small group of people wanting to get inside and out of the cold.
He isn't sure he'll see a familiar face, scanning the small queue.]
D. running 'round my brain
--That's two rooms over, through your left.
[Alucard's come to know the Hall of Relics well by now. Being asked by another museum goer for directions towards you know that one weird taxidermy thing they try to ignore but still have out? is an easy enough question to answer, and Alucard was meandering towards that area anyway. The exhibit area before it has a new installation of early bestiaries, featuring desert animals both living and extinct. That's where he heads, making no sound as he moves across the stone floor.
Standing in front of one of the cases, Alucard understands he's looking at one of the older chaigon relatives. It is spikier, but the colors are still terribly familiar. He's seen them out in the desert before, but always given them their space. It is the style that has his eye though, for it and all the handwritten text is achingly familiar to him. This is all pre-printing press work, and that means all the little gold foil details on the page are also done by hand. The application is sheer perfection, and only a few flecks have flaked off over the centuries, it seems. He leans in for a closer look.]
Yes, I think you're a little easier to deal with in your current form.
Wildcard
PM me for something more specific.
no subject
[He offers it in the calmest, most even tone possible. No harm, no foul, nothing terrible. They've never delved into the real meat of whatever is between Gideon and Harrow, just that they're from the same world and travel closely together. Nothing more, nothing less.]
I'm...hm. [Give the dhampir a minute here. Alucard's eyes move from Harrow and her guard to the graves beyond. Jaskier's done a wonderful job landscaping, adding color and texture when there was once none. Moreover, Alucard has been procrastinating about finishing the work. He's concerned about what may happen next if he does not have a project.
Finally, his eyes settle on a small group of graves to the far left. He's had the component parts gathered together, but yet to puzzle them together. Too many similar names, the stone is all of the same type, and if four hands can do the fiddly bits, all the better.]
This way, please? I admit to having put a few outliers aside. [Moreover:] What is their intellectual capacity?