taxonomites | Entries tagged with { the brucolac

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

The moon is setting.

Well, no, the moonship is setting. Well, no, the moonship is falling. Having hung in more or less the same position, glowing pearly at night and bone-pale by day, it is now descending toward Taxon in a steady drift. Closer than it as come before, when it dipped down to take up refugees during the Doctor's fire, closer than the tops of buildings, then of the trees that make up the great forest in Osten, and surely, at any moment, the crash and vibration of its impact on the city's face would be felt.

The force that flies the thing defies that climactic ending - the spherical ship pulls up, catching its own breath, and then seems to simply alight, as if fitting into a nook designed for it. Or slipping into a vast pool or lake. Like the one in Taxon forest.

It sets off a dark cloud of unsettled birds, the noise of their circling adding a final coda to the performance, and then all is as quiet, if darker, than before.

a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com

The artificial sun should have been bright, even if the city beneath it was filled with shadows.

The cave was cold and dark. The buildings were empty. Just hollow spaces where the people should have been. The streets weren’t running red, so Drusilla knew that she hadn’t missed a party. Something else had happened. Something – or a someone - had stripped Taxon bare and left the city for the dead. With no true skeletons to feed on, the crows gathered in filthy black storm clouds above her head.

It wasn’t fear she could smell. No delicious dread or terrible slaughter. Just the cold and the lost and the broken.

Drusilla – soulless and unafraid and broken beyond the ability to fear – shivered.

In her mind’s eye, as she ran through the streets in search of an escape, she could see … oh, terrible things. Terrible, wicked things.

She saw, just for a moment, dearest Anne, speaking to her through the red, gaping wound at her throat. The Dawn bird wanted to know why she hadn’t been there for the fight against the Beast. Spike wanted to know why she’d ran away from him. Her little brother, the Master, her beautiful Morgana. So many questions. It made her head spin. But, worst of all, there were some questions that couldn’t be asked and could never be answered. She didn’t see the Slayer and she couldn’t find Angelus – Angelus? The Angel Beast? Why couldn’t she pick out such familiar features? – and Grandmother was lost. She’d let them fall. They’d fallen so far that she’d never be able to find them again.

With a start, the vampire opened her eyes. The cell was … cold and dark, yes, but she could feel the pulse of the city and the flicker of life nearby and she knew that it wasn’t lost. Not yet.

Clumsily, she scrambled for her tablet and reached out for a doll that wasn’t there. Miss Edith for comfort and the tablet because she needed to tell someone. To warn them, to save them, to stop them.

She spilled a cup of pig's blood in her haste, staining her palms - and, oh, her poor white dress! - a deep crimson.

“They’re going to fall,” she said, looking wild eyed and almost sickly pale as she addressed the tablet. She didn’t trust science and she didn’t know how to filter the post from those she didn’t want to protect, but, here and now, she couldn’t care. “It’s all going to go to ashes.”

faderbroderson

When Godric wakes from his deep, dreamless sleep, he still feels tired, but other things are demanding his attention. He's hungry, and thirsty, and he has to go to the bathroom. Reluctantly sitting up in bed, he takes stock. Thanks to Eric's blood, his injuries are fully healed, some soreness lingering that will fade completely in another hour or so. The only damage that's left is emotional, and that's something only time can help.

Pulling himself from bed, he takes care of business in the bathroom before dressing in soft, loose clothing, then padding up the stairs to see to his stomach. Water is first, and he downs two glasses before even considering food. But he doesn't feel ready to stomach anything solid just yet. Instead, he makes some hot tea and brings it back to the living room.

Pulling the blanket off the back of the couch, he wraps himself in it and sits, nursing his tea. He remembers that Sookie did this once, during one of her previous stays in Taxon. He hadn't really understood the appeal of it then, but he does now.

[Backdated to the day/night after the rescue. Anyone who wants to visit Godric can start a new thread or hop in on one with permission.]

faderbroderson

When Godric awakes, the first thought that strikes him is that something is very wrong. Everything feels, for lack of a better word, dull. The colors of his bedroom are strangely drab, and sounds that would usually be crisp and clear come to him as if he's under water. Some sounds he's used to hearing don't reach him at all. The strangest thing though, is that despite going to bed alone, the sheets feel warm against his skin.

Warm. Because he's warm. Because he's breathing.

Shooting up in bed, he slaps a hand against his chest. He almost hadn't noticed it, it comes so naturally now, but his lungs expand and contract in a steady rhythm, and in tandem between them is the constant beat of his heart.

His next breath comes out shaky, a feeling rising in his throat that may be hope, or anxiety, or despair -- this can't last -- but he can't tell. He doesn't know what to feel. All he knows is that he has to see himself, and so he rises and crosses the room to the dresser mirror.

He looks almost the same, except for his skin. It has the kind of color that only comes from the rush of blood beneath a sun-kissed glow. It's a color that no vampire can ever possess.

For the longest time, Godric just stares.

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

Tonight is a night for firsts.

First number one: The Brucolac is showing up at the front door of the nest, like a civilized person. To be fair, this is not his fault: he is with a lich, who is by definition more civilized than three normal people put together, and the Brucolac is only twice as uncivilized as the next guy, so the math was really against him on this one.

First number two: The Brucolac is bringing a guest to the nest, like he...sortof resides there. NO ONE IS TO COMMENT ON THIS. It is weird for him already.

First number three: When someone opens the door, the Brucolac will say "Hello, we need to show this Deadman the television." Clearly, he feels that this is going to be exciting. And for him, it will be: this version of Doul has excellent facial expressions.

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

One perk about this newer, deader Doul is that he is easier to find. There are fewer possible places that he might be and only one place that he is. Which is, a library. Dropping from his ship, the Brucolac lands on top of the building and makes his way inside from the door to the roof. Hands in pockets, he walks through the stacks, singing absently (and unconsciously) to himself in a whisper.

Hello, darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools," said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence"

Where are you, Deadman? The Brucolac would see how you are faring, out in the wide world.

oneofthequick.livejournal.com

One moment, he is Uther Doul, a quiet, occasionally sly mercenary in the employ of Lady Petrana, and in the next, he is En-Doul. While he appears younger, it's unlikely that will be the first thing people notice. Far more shocking is that his skin is darker, no longer tanned by the salt and sea, but chymically tanned into well-crafted leather . After assuring himself that he is whole and hale, he examines his surroundings. The room is strange and brighter than he's become accustomed to, but his eyes are no longer susceptible to being injured by sudden changes in light. Instead of organic tissue, attached to the orbital socket is a thin inlay of metal, housing a pair of translucent, milky spheres. In dim light, it's possible to discern a pale, blue light at the core of the glass.

The window is open and the room is cool, but despite only wearing a linen kilt, fine sandals, and a pectoral necklace made of tiny, iridescent blue feathers. Unexpectedly, there is a strange silver bracelet grafted onto his wrist and while this is odd, the tablet on a nearby table is even stranger. On the top right corner, there is an icon labelled in Quiesy that reads [Lost?]. Tapping the image brings up a short file that explains where he is, what a glitch is, what is likely expected of him, and how to send out a video message.

[I have been told that I ought to introduce myself here and mention that I am 'glitched'. I am unsure if your devices will be able to translate my speech. Failing that, I have been advised to contact Deadman Brucolac.] During the entire time he signs out his message, En-Doul is completely silent and while it looks as if his mouth is just closed, it is actually sewn shut. Wisely, he never bought into the fad for detailed embroidery.

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

He stays out of Wilde, more or less, but not completely: he considers no district in this city closed to him, unwelcome though he may be in certain specific locations. Every now and then, in the hours before dawn when it is too late to begin a new enterprise, he would walk in and around the Hedge Maze, thinking. (The false sun didn't burn him, but he found that the it still made him drowsy, and he was not so comfortable here that he would walk around, light-bleached and addled, an easy target.)

Though Petrana's existance and estate were no small part of some of his current frustration, she herself did not feature much in his thoughts. When someone dear to you rides away to seek his fate on a swift horse, you don't really think about the horse.

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

((OOC: Hey guys! Here's a post for after everyone gets coralled into one room, so that we can start actually...doing a thing. Consider this post your opportunity for everyone to introduce themselves, and for conversation to happen in reaction to that. And for bitching that their evenings have been interrupted.))

After the vampires are all assembled (including Harvestman. Probably.), and those who wish to drink have poured hot blood from the decanter in the middle of the table, the Brucolac stands. The room is dim - it's only light comes from the curved row of windows that look out over the Uroc's main deck far below, letting in the false moonlight and the pale glow of the moonship itself. There are lamps on the wall and for the sensitive, the faint traces of lamp oil cling to them, but none are lit - warm, bright lights are for the living, and no one present breathes.

"Be welcome, my kin. For those I have not met, and there are many of you, I am the Brucolac, once-lord of men and ab-men, and this is my ship. It has never been the home of living men. No Extras walk its many halls, and no irregular press-ganged citizen will disturb us. This is a our place, and our privacy is absolute. You need not hide or dissemble here." Their host certainly isn't. His voice is a long his, and he makes no attempt to keep up the small fidgets and movements that mark the living - his mouth and his eyes move, but the rest of him is still.

"You have been called here to discuss our relationship amongst ourselves and with the city as a whole. Some of you are here against your will, and you will receive no apology for this. You fucking well know better, or you have just learned better, than to think that you can hide from your kin. Let us name ourselves to one another, now, and begin. The sooner an understanding is reached, the sooner those of you who wish to leave can do so." He turns and looks at Godric, who happens to be seated in the largest chair at the round table. Everyone's met the ancient vampire by this point, but all the more reason for Godric to begin.

dieneidio

When the tablet clicks on, Enfys is still fiddling with it and only half in view; it looks like she's on the floor in the library in Wayne Manor, which probably means that the knees briefly visible on the sofa behind her belong to Bruce. When she has the tablet set up properly on the table, he isn't in view any more but she is (beaming) and it looks like she took to her hair with some scissors and hair dye. Possibly she stopped by an Extra-run hair-dressers, possibly she took her chances in the bathroom. You don't know.

"Hello, lovelies! And the rest of you." Ha, ha. "I've already got a job, conveniently, so I won't muddy the waters with adding my credentials to everybody else's. This is a much less important broadcast, I just want to know if anyone knows where I can find some abseiling equipment."

...because she wants to try abseiling down the side of her tower here at the manor. By the way.

faderbroderson

[The Brucolac has obligingly lowered his ship and opened his doors so that vampires who are flight-challenged may enter. It's now ten o'clock Tuesday evening.]

[ooc: You're welcome to make individual threads about your characters arriving and getting to know each other (or not arriving and being fetched) before we get down to business.]

oneofthequick.livejournal.com

During his off-hours, Uther Doul avoids the inexplicable eggs in town and makes the rounds to visit a few people and drop off a small gift. Odds are, if Doul enjoys the company of someone or has social obligations to them, then he will be by with a little paper-wrapped parcel for them.

Not all of the offerings are hand-delivered: the Brucolac's parcel is sent by Taxon Post, or whatever passes for the mail service in this place, and Judith's is left at the edge of her territory.

mightyfallen.livejournal.com

When the tablet flickers to life for this broadcast, the view is one Jack Benjamin, visible from the elbows up, seated at a table in a sharp navy suit and less severe tie, professional without looking inhuman for it. The backdrop behind him is solid grey-blue and unremarkable, except that it perhaps complements the suit. That is probably not a coincidence. The man himself looks well rested, well groomed, and well prepared.

"Good morning, citizens of Taxon. For those of you I've yet to meet, I am Lieutenant Colonel Jack Benjamin. I have been acting as proxy for the Countess of Gatas in matters pertaining to the confinement of the Doctor in her home." He pauses here; if he's steeling himself, it isn't visible, it's only a pause, but the possibility remains. It's been a while since he wore this cool political facade, and it hasn't always served him well. "The issue I bring before you today is one in which the Countess would prefer to be involved directly, but she is presently recovering from an unrelated attack. Rest assured she is no longer in danger, but she has been more than gracious with her time and resources, and it's time this process were expedited.

"We are in need of some manner of council to institute a judicial process and determine the Doctor's fate in consequence to his crimes. I, along with several others who I hope will take this opportunity to reaffirm their commitment," You know who you are, "Have offered to serve on said council. Any other volunteers would do well to come forward now so that we might bring this matter to a timely resolution.

"However, considering the extreme diversity of our population, no single judicial body can hope to be representative of the group without maintaining an open forum for discussion. I would like to open that forum now." He paces himself here, his eyes straight ahead and his words clear, measured. "I ask each of you to consider the judicial process as it functions in your own world, and to share whatever expectations you may have as to the manner in and extent to which crimes such as those presently under examination should be tried and punished. I invite your input and encourage you to discuss amongst yourselves as well. While not all suggestions will be followed, it is imperative that every voice have the opportunity to be heard."

Letting that sentence breathe, he takes the moment for a sip of water before sliding on to the next topic.

"In the interest of transparency, I would also like to take this opportunity to present my own qualifications for serving on said council, and I hope any other volunteers will be inclined to do similarly.

( what are we waiting for )

"I welcome any questions, comments, or objections anyone may have, be it of my own background or the larger matters at hand." And with that he sits back to await responses.

faderbroderson

Godric is in the middle of stewing about certain recent revelations, doing his best to repress a completely unreasonable amount of anger. He's not sure how long the Brucolac has been standing on his backyard deck by the time he notices him, pausing in his restless pacing. It goes to show how distracted he is. But a nest is a nest, and Godric is predisposed to welcoming local vampires into his home without question. The Brucolac could have entered uninvited if he pleased, and Godric would have taken no offense.

Sliding open the glass doors, he does his best to put on a welcoming demeanor. "Kinsman. Please, come in."

[ooc: This log contains sex. You're welcome. :D]

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

[The text isn't locked, but if you'd like your character to monitor or wander in, pls to ping me! ispyslytherin on aim.]

Come down to the hedge maze, Uther Doul.

phoenixsays.livejournal.com

A woman appears in Taxon's arrival chamber.

This in and of itself is nothing out of the ordinary; that is, after all, the purpose of the room. The young woman in question has dark, curly hair, light eyes, and is wearing the slightly tattered remnants of a white silk cocktail dress, which has a smudge of what appears to be blood on one shoulder. She regards her surroundings with a look of resignation, and possibly vague, cynical amusement, stepping out of place to drift her hand all around the corners of the room, testing the walls, the ceiling, the steps, the platform itself, all the places where there should be a door. Something.

Nada. Fuck.

Well, she's grateful not to be locked back in FBI custody enduring all manner of accusations of terrorism (hardly), so she'll take it, but her nerves are rubbed-raw, brittle underneath her projection of sinuous, lazy calm. Her attitude is shit, kidnapping? Must be Tuesday, but that doesn't change the fact that she doesn't really appreciate what seems to be yet another abduction by forces unknown, who probably want her to do their bidding or break a law or something equally tedious. Zorya assumes it's not going to be anything so pedestrian as asking for a performance.

She turns back to the tablet, unaware that it is presently broadcasting her every move, and sighs at it, patiently exasperated, as though it is a misbehaving child. She flicks through the panels, head tilted to one side, and when she turns around, there appears to be a door already behind her, as though it had been there the entire time. "Now that's interesting," she comments in accented English, tapping her fingertips on the tablet, "and a little creepy."

From this angle, it becomes apparent that she has an interesting accessory: handcuffs, police-issue, encircling one wrist. Not the other, though; it seems she's managed to handle at least half of them.

"You look like you're something I'm not legally entitled to have," she informs the tablet in Hungarian, hoping that if Szebasztián is responsible for this, or at least listening in, this will provoke him, because she evidently plans to keep it. "I love that in a glorified cellphone, or whatever this is."

Zorya turns back to the strangely appearing exit, looking between it and the tablet contemplatively.

"Well. Now I know what to do."

...and that is head for the door, apparently. She sees no reason to waste any time.

spadetongued.livejournal.com

( stoplight is swaying and the phone lines are down. )

If he were someone else, he might give up, curl into a small ball, and accept this as some postmodern vision of hell; Ben never really wondered what the afterlife would hold for someone like him, since he never really believed in it, but it's the first explanation that makes sense. He's going to wait on accepting it, though, since a secret government agency kidnapping him sounds about equally likely and slightly more appealing.

"Okay, Ben, just--don't lose it, right now, if you lose it you are screwed," he says, softly, knitting his fingers behind his head and through his hair, eyes half-closing; he doesn't make a habit of talking to himself out loud, but the sound of his own voice is all the comfort he can get. "Deal with this."

"Hello?" He raises his voice and his head, letting his arms fall to his sides, and glances around the room able to pick out new details with less nascent panic and shock rolling through his mind like low thunder. "Hey, is anyone out there? Because I could use a quick refresher on whatever's going on. Or maybe more than a quick one. And if I can't have that, can I have a shower and my phone call?"

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

Once everyone who'd said they were coming had come - and a few Extras who seem to have queued up just because there was a queue - the Brucolac leaves his guests to NOT BREAK HIS SHIP, and returns to the wheelhouse with a few helpful (and trustworthy-looking) souls. He lifts off, directing the Uroc up as fast as it can go - which is not all that fast in this weak light. He has reserves, though, and turning a dial oh-so-carefully, taps into them. Beams of light shine out of the ship at various intervals, propelling it East.

There are fires. There are people fighting and bleeding and dying on the streets. He can help with all of these things, but first he must have water. The lights cut out once he makes it past the beach (a little further, away from the shallows - he'd slice his own head off if he skuttled her over this nonsense, this idiocy) and the ship drops into the sea. Which is probably really fun for the people in the guest suite. Throwing switches, he opens the holds, and closes his eyes, feeling the gallons pour in. Saltwater, and the old remains of his blood store - it would not be a pleasant rain, but the fire would like it even less than the citizens of Taxon.

She groans slightly as she rises again, dripping, to drift back across the city while the Brucolac scans for the people and places in the most trouble.

[This is an open post for people who want to be RESCUED either with coming aboard or with massive quantities of gross water. (Oh baby.) If you'd like to be in the wheelhouse, to ~~yell at~~ discuss the situation with the captain, feel free to wander in!]

faderbroderson

( What the hell happened to Godric )

When Godric drags himself out of the ground, fully healed but caked in dirt like a proper zombie, a wave of relief washes over him. Taxon is still more or less standing, despite sustaining quite a bit of damage, and he immediately wants to know what's gone on in his absence.

He doesn't know who to contact first, so the broadcast is public. To anyone who doesn't yet know him, he just looks like a teenager covered head-to-toe in dirt. It's hard to tell he's even undead with his white skin so camouflaged.

"I've been incapacitated for the past few hours, but it seems the worst of all this has been averted. What happened?"

A pause as he searches the skies for the Uroc. "Kinsman, is your boat still in one piece? Judith, are you well?" There are a number of other people he wants to ask after, but he'll take things one at a time.

[ooc: This is dated to maybe six hours or so after the Doctor got caught, before everything programs itself back to normal. Anyone and everyone is free to tag into this with their two cents, though it's not any kind of official aftermath post.]

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

The Uroc may be safe, but it hardly cozy. While the outside of the ship glimmers with an odd nacre, it is very dark inside, and the nonsense-topography of random masts, spires, decks, windows and balustrades that pepper its circular bulk hint at the odd warren of passsages inside it. The Brucolac does not lead his guests very far inside, at first. He gathers them on the inverted deck that hangs at the lowest point of the ship, built around an anchor chain as thick as a tree trunk. Then, as a group, they go up a staircase and into her guts, down endless curving hallways and up spiral staircases. As he walks, he turns on gas lamps set in intervals along the walls, leaving a trail of visibility through the otherwise pitch-black space.

At one point, the passageway opens out onto a walkway over a silver cistern that yawns stories deep, brightly, blindingly illuminated by a softly-rippling lake of white moonlight. More light trickles in, collected from its masts and poured through artery-like channels throughout the ship to collect here in this hold. The vampire offers no explanation for this phenomenon, and simply leads them back into blackness and the gentler, buttery light of the wall sconces.

Not long after, the group comes to a suite of rooms that branch off a central lounge. There's a large round window here, giving everyone their first glimpse of the outside since leaving the deck. From its angle, they are in the Uroc's upper hemisphere - odd, as there weren't that many stairs. Their host opens the center panel of the window and begins pulling sheets off furniture, sending clouds of dust whistling out into the night. This room and the bedrooms leading off of it aren't particularly large, but the furnishings that emerge are rich and eclectic, if dusty and little-used. Low couches of soft brocade, wing chairs made out of some kind of soft leather, small stone tables, a desk and a number of glass bookcases (only a few volumes in English) decorate walls. The beds are covered in what looks like un-dyed, brushed silk. There's nothing on any of the walls except for a large oil painting in the lounge of a woman with a mischievous grin and a bee the size of a kitten cupped in one hand. There is a hatch, and the wall around it reveals the first signs of disorder, of life - they are cracked and clawed, as if someone ripped the hatch out of the wall not long ago.

"Please make yourselves comfortable. I've got hatches to batten down, so to speak, but raise your voices and I will hear you."

[OOC: OKAY I AM GOING TO SLEEP NOW. Please feel free to fuck around in the moonship as you like, everyone who is coming and going - it's sortof like a giant cruise ship meets a gothic/victorian mansion meets Howl's Moving Castle. HAVE FUN, I'll be with you in the AM!]