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//I think I finally got the blog color palette, etc down.

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Are there any specific triggers or stressors that impact Dieter's personality? How does his personality influence his behavior and interactions with others? How does he handle conflicts or disagreements with others who have different personality styles?

Dieter is the kind of guy to either completely remove himself from conflict, (if he sees there no getting through to them) or defaults to intimidation. Depending on who they are influences how he goes about things as well. With allies, he’s more apt to stay quiet/ remove himself/ let them learn the hard way. He can recognize their position in helping him, however that may be and will be more ready to just wait it out. No point in being in bad blood with someone who has the same goal. But Dieter hates cleaning up after people and babysitting less experienced people/vampires/etc. (Especially if they smugly think they know everything already.) That’s a pet peeve of his actually.

Being turned as soon as the war started and then being thrown into things with little guidance due to wartime constraints he has little empathy for those who do have such help and don’t realize how inexperienced they still are. (Not to mention how much of an ‘easy child’ he was so his parents kinda did the same thing without realizing.) Others being stuck up about their abilities when Dieter can outdo them easily grinds on him. Not that he’ll show off at all, but he will make sure whoever it is see him pull off the same thing with ease. He had to navigate his new found vampirism, the cravings, controlling himself in spite of it all, and having to fly against enemy planes in a new body, nearly entirely by himself. It steeled him from being kind.

When he does default to intimidation, it’s merely bc he wants to be done with it. (He also likes the power trip, but that’s solely because of the vampirism he loves so much.) He’ll partially transform, use hypnosis, use his inhuman strength, etc. whatever is first to pop into his mind and able to be done. Anything to nip the annoyance out right there and then.

If he didn’t get so tired from dealing with people he’d be a good mentor. But he will not let himself do it thinking that because he did everything by himself, they can too. He’s just been on his own for so long. Standing against everything he’s endured and for little reward. I don’t think he truly realizes how deep that goes either.

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*holding onto ur heart thru ur ribcage* so what are we

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Desire gradually took over—not simple need, like hunger, but a taut, elastic compulsion.

This Urge to Ravage

Thunderous quedship, punctured in blood. The mahogany rooms in which you refuge yourself, amongst a circle of gentlemen cannot disguise your nature. All the manners in the world will not make up for how you employ teeth. You’re not going to stop, not once you begin. You intend to deserve your judgement, it’ll come either way.

RP blog for fandomless oc Dieter Bergström. Vampire sired during The Great War.

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Howl’s Moving Castle (2004)

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Starter for: @malefikant

Peculiar in how the scent, or rather a feeling presented itself. Moving through human veins with full force of glaciers behind it, as if the frost wasn’t invading the viscera. Spiking in geometric shapes the very tubes that bore it. Ice as if impregnated with blood that stained throughout its marbling. It gave him a chill that stopped him immediately. Were those veins black with its bite? Those around him shuffling in, about, and around him, gave him no mind. Off to this stall and the next, chattering about that mug and this tchotchke. All as he stood motionless. Unblinkingly, over his fur collared shoulder, to find the source. In its gratuitous warmth the place had in its plethora of warm bodies to radiate heat. He scoured by instinct to find the cold pocket’s source. Even the lighting seemed to take a colder tone around him from the honey shade they normally had. The inviting nature of these nighttime shops was cooled in his wake.

Body heat is around ninety-eight degrees, give or take for the individual. Blood, by extension, about the same. By extension, those fed on warmed the drinker. It’s what helped it stay so fragrant for beings like Dieter. A biological invitation of sanguine health. But this one smothered the heat. No, rather, pushed it out. Expelled it from itself. Heat had no home with him. No home indeed within the black haired man he spied stopped at a stall. The rest of the crowd melted away into their shared heat. The mass’s undulating mirage slowed in time with the folk music. The blurred together as dieter’s senses fixed. An anomaly. Anomalies he loved. Anomalies were to him as exotic animals to trophy hunters.

He thought better of hunting this one though. He was already cold himself. It’d do no good as he wouldn’t spoil as normal dead things do. That would’ve happened ages ago. Long gone into the soil Rittmeister Bergström of Jasta ten. Like many a good flier before him. Now he was here, decades later, in a winter night-market, watching a man who should be frozen solid buy trinkets from a vendor who probably couldn’t even tell. Clever man taking advantage of the cold outside. Gloves shielding the closest contact between others. Would the old shopkeeper’s hands instantly freeze without them as he gave back change? How far did that glacial air extend? Could Dieter get closer?

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photography by Nona Limmen

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🩸

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He met the carbine being thrust under his jaw with a disapproving throaty grunt. Impressed though he was, the man still wanted to fight. Even with the pain coursing through him. A lame buck from the start it had been re-exasperated. Pushing floating embers of it into a medium Dieter could perceive with these ever familiar monstrous senses. Like the man’s veins were screaming for the very teeth he had to release the pressure within them and relieve them off that wretched anguish that kept them in woe. Dieter, the man who started this conversation, as the Finn knew him. Was growing fuzzier, dimmer, in the wake of animalistic senses, synapses, instincts and frisson that ruled him now. Appeals to human reason would fall upon deafening ears.

Ears that now flew back in displeasure of the rifle still being in his way. It would have to go, promptly being tossed aside by simply waving it away. Replacing the hand on top of a shoulder to keep him pinned. The webbing between pointer and thumb running along collar bones. Now unencumbered the vampire’s face drew closer to ground level. A hemoglobin hypnosis his instincts enacted upon themselves. Out of habit the monster tilted its muzzle. The adrenaline had churned the canine scent over and over till it was finely mixed, even a little diluted. He was still painfully human. A latent threat of a still to show up lycanthrope became less of a factor. As bood was just below the skin and Dieter’s teeth looked to make headway bring it to the surface. May as well bite at the most enticing part, the wounded leg.

Once the razor like teeth had sunk into their prize, and the blood rushed out to meet them as he knew it would. It curdled in his mouth, of long rotted victims of powerful canine claws and teeth. Territory ruled and objectors fought. Whatever human was in it had been completely bastardized, at least to his tastes. Taken completely within its fold, with no longing hand to help it back out. It had been turned over within the animalistic that only its scent was still fragrant. Deviously tricky these veins. What drew him in previously now was now entirely revolting. That fact alone flung his jaws wide open to let out a distorted chirpy yowl. In brutish hopes of flinging what had clung to its teeth off and out. Nothing of the like had ever happened before. No blood had ever been so reviled as this sample was. Such deception was angering. It got to spitting out what was persistent into the snow just next to him. Shaking of the demonic head to do so. Letting the spit run off freely, it would take the rot off with it.

Vile spoiled wine. Maybe all those years of only drinking from high places had spoiled his palate. War heroes, human and vampire alike. Those who had been given unwillingly, and willingly. Aristocracy even! Dieter never went without. Or having to turn to animal substitutes to get by. He couldn’t say which caused such disgust. The years of easy gluttony, or never having tasted animal of any kind. Regardless He held little interest in the veins now. That alone being frustrating. But his original goal still stood firm. Dieter’s mind connecting back after the shock of it all wore. He could still prod the wolf.

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Horrors. How many had he witnessed. How many had he suffered under? Men that — like him — had served in a war (and still did, each in their own self-destructive way, taking blame rather than shifting it and hunted by ghosts of both the dead as they suffered that of the living) were both archivists and tools used for man-made horrors and atrocities. Standing calmly while committed there had not once been as much a change in that bitter-faced sternness of the Finn than there was now. Facial expression of pure disbelief and horror at the sight, at the changing of a body into another savage form that was not normal. Unnatural. Hell-sent. What he saw before him was no beast. Nothing as ambiguous whose image changed depending on the taken-on stance. No wild animal driven especially ferociously under the influence or impact of outside forces. No human acting in ways that were non-human and only ever that — utmost evil and cruel for the sake of it.

What Paukka had fallen victim to was a leviathan, a monstrosity. A horror that caused his entire body to tense up and freeze like a deer would before a headlight. Not firing his gun. Standing there with a rifle raised and aimed right where it would hurt – he believed — yet incapable of pulling the trigger. Overtaken by a sense of fear he had not ever felt before, reaching bone-deep and further than that. Into his very essence and taking hold of it, possessing, taking claim of a soul that had not been offered but who had been forcefully torn free from a wildly-beating heart and adrenaline-filled veins. Laying metaphorically bare and for the taking, offered up to this winged devil on a silver platter, against his own will and aim. Offered by shaking hands that were very well his and yet not, led by another; entranced by that damned fear that had him stand wide-eyed and troubled to process the transformation beheld. Still cursing it a bad dream in escapism. A dream he would awake from any moment now. Any moment... Any moment—

He felt light first before he felt something massive crash into him, sending him not stumbling backwards but quick to falling over backwards; toppled by that massive bat-like being that could well be twice his size — if not taller. His fall felt like it went on for too long and yet he abruptly fell onto the ground (hard, the snow did not feather his fall at all) crashing with his back onto the hard suomalainen earth. The impact itself pushed the air from within his lungs, forcing out a sharp exhale from the man that drew longer through the suffered pain weaving its way through cracks within him all the way from his back. Through his lungs and down his lower back until it came screeching and screaming reaching his right leg. Not properly healed and never going to — that old fracture causing the occasional limp still sitting fresh. Another, now painfully-sounding curse left him through pressed teeth. Internally screaming at that impairment suffered that rendered him so much less than he once used to be. He could stand as firm and strong and planted as he wanted to. His balance never would be the same.

The pain coming from his leg was the worst, coursing through his upper thigh all the length of it downwards to his ankle in consistent waves of unending ache, like knives driven through his flesh and pulled back upwards again. A beast that bit his nerves and tugged and pulled at them, as though to tear them right from him. That very pain was what brought some life back into him, some fire back to those dark brown eyes that now stared at the creature above him, fierce and unwavering. The Finn watched tensely the disfigured chiropteran maw opening, revealing dagger-teeth and a slithering tongue. Watched as it loomed and drew closer for the taking.

The cavalry carbine.

Frantically his hands began searching the powdery snow to his sides for the firearm that had escaped his grip during his fall. Something thin yet sturdy found its way between his fingers. Paukka gripped it and tugged, pulling the carbine closer to himself by its attached string. Not thinking much further he acted on instinct (and out of the little time he feared he had) positioning the long firearm lengthways on top of himself. Wrapping both hands around the barrel he did not wait, instead used all the strength that he could bring up in that awkward position to energetically yank the carbine butt-first upwards, praying for it to hit the devil's jaw just right and force its mouth back shut again.

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Marienburg Castle, Hanover, Germany, photos by Dejan Saulic

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Martin Bladh

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Nicholas Alan Cope

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York Minister Cathedral, UK

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Fluid Toy: red, with the Wrap setting turned on

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