malkydel

[malkydel]

As someone who changed his name just for fun when I thought I was still cis, i promise most people are ok with accepting a new name, even if you lie and say it’s a nickname. I promise. It’s really easy to just casually go “hey I wanna go by Bob now, it’s an old nickname I wanna bring back” like. Just start introducing yourself to new ppl, no one knows better. and if someone accidentally deadnames you just go haha no I go by my nickname now.

It sucks that ppl treat nicknames as more sacred than trans ppls choice names but still.

[malkydel]

"It is in the smiling scholar’s nature to be sardonic. As the crow must mock, and the skull must grin."

Okay so people who have read/enjoyed Beckett’s Jyhad Diary for the characters and get unbearable Feels over the snarky vampire archaeology posse. Speak up. Make yourselves known. Show me I’m not the only one. LET ME LOVE YOU.

(I want to blog about it a lot but don’t think I can endure another fandom where I shout into the void. for pity’s sake)

[malkydel]

So. Damn. Good

AMERICAN GODS TRAILER HOLY SHIT reblog if you agree

[malkydel]

A Cap We Can Believe In

I just love the salt being shed over the whole Captain America thing. It's obviously a gimmick that'll be explored and messed about over time, but everyone is having such an insane knee jerk reaction. It's just beautiful. It's the best and worst of fandom. This sort of thing is exactly the sort of reason why I only read Vertigo and Image.

[malkydel]

Running down the local vampires, screaming "WITNESS ME, BLOODBAG." would make me the best Iron Master.

Last time, I gave you an overview of the contents of The Pack, and the crowd went wild. As well you might, as this book’s going to be amazeballs.

Yeah, I went there.

I do have a Lodge for you, but I’m going to make you hold on just a little more. Before we get to it, let’s talk some about what a supplement is. That’s obvious, right? It’s in the name. The material’s supplementary to the core book, something you can add to the main work to bring out more of the flavour of certain parts. Some folks like to have all the flavour, all of the time, and add in all of the supplements. Other people, however, want to mix in only one or two extras. They want a kick of paprika, but don’t need the tumeric or cumin; they like the pickle on the burger but think the onion rings and bacon are overkill.

I’m drifting. Then again, shouldn’t you expect a food metaphor from someone who wrote a cookbook?

Anyway. What I’m trying to get at is a point that I picked up working with Ethan on early Werewolf and then had beaten into me (in the good way) by Matt McFarland.

Every supplement needs to work for people who only have the corebook.

Sometimes that’s hard, because what’s in one supplement or another should logically reference something else. Sometimes, that’s worth a small call-out. Other times, supplements only work with others; while you can mix them in with just the base it won’t bring out the same depth of flavour. But these last aren’t something we do with the Chronicles of Darkness. Each supplement stands alone; each picks a part of the game and shines a spotlight on it.

That’s what we’re doing with The Pack. It’s the book you want when you want your games to have a greater focus on the pack as a thematic element.

Now, that does raise the question: What happens when we introduce a system in one supplement that gets used in another? The Pack introduces systems for Lodges, and odds-on we’re going to use them in other books. Every developer has their own way of doing things, mine is to hold fast to the “only the core book” philosophy. So we condense the basic principles and systems and present them along with the Lodges in each book, along with a small call-out for The Pack.

You’re not here for that. You’re here for this. This is the Lodge I promised you.

Fire all of the guns at once. Explode into space.

The Thousand Steel Teeth

Steel Predators, Road Wolves, Gear Dogs

He’s on the road out of town, pedal to the metal. The wolves were on his bloody trail, but he knows they’re territorial animals and no way they’ll track him on the highway. He glances at his wing mirror and his eyes widen; he sees a car coming up behind, headlights bright in the night. The shape behind the wheel has a grin that’s far too wide, and filled with way too many teeth.

The Thousand Steel Teeth are road warriors, hunters of the highways, oil-smeared wolves riding war-wagons bound with spirits. Claws hitting tarmac isn’t enough for a gear dog; no thrill matches that of hunting from a chariot of steel. The Lodge exists wherever mankind has clogged the air with exhaust fumes and wherever the roads stretch out for miles. Prey fear the Thousand Steel Teeth because not much is as terrifying as being pursued by an adrenaline junkie werewolf screaming down the road in a van made of murder-spirits. The Lodge isn’t just about roaring engines and blood on the asphalt though. Gear dogs provide the Forsaken with vital lines of transport, communication, and mechanical expertise.

The Thousand Steel Teeth choose those who would take to the road as their sacred prey, hunting humans and Claimed and Uratha alike upon steel steeds. Holiness is in the snarl of the machine and the thunder of the wind, and divine exhilaration in the sheer speed and adrenaline and impact of vehicle against flesh. So many prey think they can outrun the judgment of the hunt or the wrath of the Urdaga. So many prey think that taming a beast of metal makes them a superior predator than the wolves. The Thousand Steel Teeth prove them all wrong.

Most gear dogs come to the Lodge from the Iron Masters — Uratha who believe the flows of traffic and movement that run through humanity’s domain hide deeper secrets and mysteries, or who simply thrill at the sensation of hunting on the wheel. A surprising number of Storm Lords and Bone Shadows also join the Thousand Steel Teeth, usually because they concern themselves with spirits of machinery and travel; the Lodge has hunted down no few bizarre possessed and Claimed vehicles bent on their own bloody rampages along the tarmac.

Gear dogs in less densely settled areas tend to be nomadic, travelling from place to place and claiming only the roads as their territory. This sort of lifestyle has its benefits for other Forsaken; nomadic Steel Teeth take on the role of trusted messengers and couriers who always get the delivery through no matter what obstacle gets in their way. More settled Steel Teeth build lairs where they can tend to their great passion — garages and workshops of customized and modified vehicles. Gear dogs are often in deep with biker gangs, illegal racing circuits, highway police, car thieves, and — in lawless lands — actual road bandits. Adherents know the road networks like the back of their hands, learn every shortcut and underpass in the bustling, clogged city, and call upon little gods of wheel and steel at their bloody shrines to road-rage and tar.

Totem: The Smoke Drinker

The Smoke Drinker has an eternal thirst that it cannot slake, a craving for speed and oil it cannot sate. It’s a snarling thing of billowing fumes, grinding gears, and shining chrome, roaring out its utterances with all the subtlety of a thousand engines. The Smoke Drinker thunders through the Shadow at the head of a mad cavalcade of spirits of smoke and steel; its heralds are sinuous, snaking road-spirits that ooze tar and spew smog. The totem never stays in one place for long, loping along an endless journey through the Hisil.

The Steel Teeth prepare the way for their god of gears. Cultists maintain shrines of tangled chassis and machinery inscribed with sacred glyphs under soaring overpasses, in the dripping spaces beneath garages, in the corners of car factories; they anoint the rusted altars with gore and gasoline taken from kills on the road. Adherents caper through mad, frantic dances by moonlit roads, smeared with oil, scrubbing their own blood into the asphalt. Wolves howl to the snarls of finely-tuned holy engines. The ceremonies and sacrifices of the road feed the Smoke Drinker and provide its cavalcade of followers with thick, oily Essence at the Lodge’s gasoline holes.

The Smoke Drinker has predators of its own — clattering, shambling hunters made of rust, decay, and wreckage that are always on its trail, the servants of a terrible god of ruin called That Which Is Broken. Steel Teeth are set on the pursuit of spirits and Claimed from the nemesis’ court. The totem is terrified of obsolescence, falling behind the curve of vehicular technology, and has its adherents steal modern vehicles, take them to pieces and bring them into the Shadow as offerings that it can absorb into its own framework.

Bonds

Blessing: When she spends Willpower to add dice to a Drive roll, a Crafts roll to repair or modify a vehicle, or an Athletics roll to move between moving vehicles, the Lodge member gains the rote quality on that roll.

Aspiration: To improve and enhance a vehicle the adherent possesses.

Ban: A Lodge member cannot sleep in the same place on consecutive nights; she must travel to a different resting place at least a mile away.

The Sacred Hunt

The Lodge Sacred Hunt grants your character the ability to track prey even while she is in a moving vehicle; she suffers no penalties to the tracking attempt for the prey using a vehicle. While the prey is in a vehicle, your character can downgrade any lethal damage to bashing damage that is inflicted due to being hit by a vehicle, falling off a moving vehicle or her own vehicle being damaged or destroyed.

Tales of the Steel Teeth

It’s a tough time to be a gear dog. A tar-skinned duguthim runs the local court of fumes and fuel, and has no desire for peace or mutual respect with the Thousand Steel Teeth. Adherents’ vehicles sputter and due in quivering submission any time they go near the Claimed lord. A gear dog needs to step up and tame the wildest, most savage spirit of the road — a vehicle so proud it doesn’t accept the duguthim noble’s authority.

The Predator Kings have moved against the Steel Teeth. Lines of supply between Forsaken Protectorates are vulnerable to relentless attacks from wolves strong enough to flip trucks right off the road. The Pure are hitting the city packs hard, and the Protectorates need all the help they can get — so a Steel Tooth convoy sets off, loaded with talens and gathra. The convoy has to make it through the Predator King blockade.

The moon and the stock market prices of the big car manufacturers have aligned; it is time for the sacred Hecatomb. One hundred cars must burn in a grand sacrifice to the Smoke Drinker. Cue a night of thievery and high speed chases as the Steel Teeth compete for the finest rides they can steal.

The Steel Teeth have made a treaty with the road spirits, and for a price they’ll ensure green lights, clear roads and healthy engines for Forsaken packs. Problem is, the Lodge stick their snout in whenever a pack tries to subdue the roads in its own territory, rolling up to support the spirits. Local Blood Talons are on the verge of violence, but the Steel Teeth refuse to back down; they seem to think the roads are theirs, no matter where the asphalt lies.

Tools

The Thousand Steel Teeth have access to the Lodge Connections Merit, but only for the purposes of vehicle- and travel-related matters.

Iron Leviathan Harpoon (Fetish ••)

The barbed head of an iron leviathan harpoon will punch through the hide of any road-prey.

Effect: When thrown at a moving vehicle, this fetish weapon ignores the prey’s Durability entirely. A vehicle with an iron leviathan harpoon stuck in it suffers a -2 penalty to all Drive rolls.

Nomad Chain (Fetish •••)

Just a small trinket or talisman, but it marks the steed as having an owner.

Effect: An Uratha with the Ward the Wolf’s Den Warding Facet can settle into the driver’s seat of the vehicle and use the Facet for a modified result, targeting the vehicle itself. For the rest of the month the vehicle is warded — the fetish adds the werewolf’s Glory Renown to dice pools and values to contest, resist or withstand supernatural effects from anyone other than the wielder. If an effect outright destroys or incapacitates the vehicle, the wielder may spend one point of Essence and suffer one point of aggravated damage to nullify it entirely.

Roadkiller (Fetish ••••)

Roadkillers are hungry, angry vehicles whose headlights glare in the night.

Effect: A Roadkiller is a vehicle fetish that inflicts twice the normal damage from hitting characters or objects. If a Roadkiller wrecks another vehicle by ramming it, the fetish regenerates any Structure that it has lost.

A depressing lack of back-matter this week. Normally I get a bit meta, and talk about music. I’ve already threaded the most obvious music choice throughout the post, and you don’t want me being meta up here.

So again, I’m taking requests from the booth; the floor’s open. Give me some werewolf-y recipes you’ve come up with. Link’em or post them here. Tell me about your tastes in food.

[malkydel]

[malkydel]

Current sexuality

[malkydel]

Wicdiv 18

I'm in love with Persephone. And the Baphomet and Morrigan-ness was just perfect. Everything was perfect and well worth the wait. Such. Pretty. Madness.

[malkydel]

Tzimisce Fic

'He is beautiful, in his own way. The way that clay is beautiful, or yet unused paint. He is beautiful because of his potential. His eyes are wide with fear and revelations, as though he had only just realised the game we play. I raise one finger to my lips, to shhh him. A jest, of course, since I sealed his mouth before I began. I let my own eyes drift over the smooth expanse of skin that I have replaced it with. Fine work, all told. I roll my muscles as I watch him, feeling the intricately inked flesh vibrating with the sculpter's need. My human visage trembles for a moment, and I remember that it is nothing but a chrysalis awaiting shedding. "Mine is the legacy of the Eldest." I allow myself to whisper the words, almost a mantra, even as one hand slips into his chest. His self-muffled scream is almost enough to make my undead heart flutter. Somewhere within, the Beast stirs. I stroke it behind its ears, acknowledging the monster waiting to transfigure the man. My fingers caress the bones of his ribcage, drumming lightly upon them. I feel them begin to shift and lengthen, my ministrations reworking them as easily as a smith shapes steel. I am Tzimisce. This is my art.' Wrote this a year ago on a whim. I truly love the Fiends. What a joy it is to be reminded by "On This Day"

[malkydel]

Tabletop Gaming has a White Male Terrorism Problem

I am a gamer. I followed the call of Cthulhu and ran in the shadows with hackers and shamans. I traversed the ancient lands of Greyhawk, Faerun, and Eberron with companions new and old. I swung from an airship and buckled swash over London for the Kerberos Club. I threw dice and flipped cards and ground men into dust playing table-top wargames.

I don’t do that anymore.

Since July of 2015 fans of the game Malifaux have been attempting to overwhelm me with death and rape threats for no other reason than I am a woman who has opinions on the game. Wyrd Miniatures is silent on this matter and hangs up whenever anyone attempts to discuss the harassment. Given that a large number of threats identify the senders by name as Wyrd staff members, I do not find this surprising.

But that’s not what this article is about.

Keep reading

[malkydel]

Viking Werewolf Fic

It was cold here, at the roof of world, but he forced himself on through the snow. Winter clawed at him like a living thing, the wind alive with the secret whispers of arctic spirits. He drew his furs tighter about him, watching his breath fogging the air with squandered heat. Cursing, he squinted through the blizzard, before advancing again. The rocks rose around him, great towers of sundered stone like a dead forest frozen in time. He could see the runes of his people etched there, alongside the First Tongue of the People. Between the columns there burned a light, filling the mouth of a cave with smoky flame. Darkness and cold gave way to heat and illumination. The cave stank of smoke and herbs, of man and wolf and spirit. Leather and furs hung in great drapes, obscuring much of the interior from his scrutiny. He couldn't even see- "Is it your fate that you seek, hunter?" The voice drifted from the shadows, almost lyrical in its cadence. There was power there, power and mockery. "It is." "Then I name you Ivar, of the line of Fenris-Ur, Rahu of the Pack of the Valiant Slain. You come seeking answers from the weft and weave of things, the skein of destiny?" The Prophet leant out of the shadows, his hooded face revealing little of his features save snow pale skin, a leper's pallor. He grinned, bearing too many rotten teeth. Ivar did not flinch or shudder, he simply nodded. "The Wolf must Hunt." The prophet said, tilting his head as he did. "That is your creed, as sure as Urfarah's blood runs in your veins. You have hunted far to find me, ranging across the sea to new worlds. How like your forebear you must feel, to roam the Border Marches of the world." He was stirring in his robes now, the passion of his speech rousing him from dormancy. The shadows seemed to deepen, to twitch. There was no echo of spirits here, Ivar realised, the Gauntlet having grown thick and stagnant like a lake choked with weeds. "You kill what you do not understand, what you dare not master." Rising now on his legs, on too many legs. The hood fell back and the bald head gleamed in the torchlight, glossy like some vile exoskeleton. Eyes winked from its skull, gleaming insectoid orbs perched above empty human sockets. Spiders scuttled from the apertures, chittering with inhuman pleasure. It stood on its great bladed limbs, flexing to full height. The black bulge of its abdomen seemed obscene beneath its robes. "Did you never wonder, Northman," the thing laughed and its laughter was a crackling of tiny bones in its throat, "who weaves your future?" He was reaching for his blade, even as the Azlu pounced in triumph.

[malkydel]

To be fair, he is a scared (and we've seen how he fails to deal with death in his mortal life) child, being manipulated by Ananke into thinking that this is his only choice. He does go through a spate of mental gymnastics as to the who's and why's of who he is going to kill.

It's not as clear cut as simply being "awful" or "excused", and that's the beauty of the narrative. Each of the characters is deeply flawed and that only adds to their humanity in the midst of divinity

I am such a shameless Baphomet apologist that last night I was talking to my friend about the preview for issue 18 and I was saying that it made me worried for Baph and she was like, um he is awful. And I defended him with, no remember karaoke he is nice…sorta. And so she reminded me about Inanna which, I know what happened to Inanna but I have like completely blocked out Baph’s involvement in that and…yeah. In case you were wondering why I am awful.

So…uh…how about that beard?

[malkydel]

Kevin

There is a man who does not smile. Perhaps he has forgotten. Perhaps the darkness he surrounds himself with has mercifully stolen his mirth. Perhaps the blinding light outside would return it, but- no. No. That is how they get you. Beyond the doors, he hears them with their lilting voices, raised in abominable terrible happiness. Their strained smiles stain every word. He has fought and resisted for so long, the relentless corporate onslaught. How much longer can he fight? There is something running down his cheeks as he stumbles for the window, pulling back the barricades and tearing aside the drapes. Perhaps he is weeping. Not from defeat, no. He looks around. He looks inside. He sees the terrible light. He believes. He believes in a Smiling God. He does not know how the knife got in his hand. He does not know where he first began to cut. Or to pull. But now he is ready. Now, he is smiling. He sits back down at the table, the unproductive table; that simply won't do. He let's the blood make its own contributions. He let's the blood improve it, and dapple his lapels. He begins to speak. "The future is what you make of it! Just know that your supplies are limited. Welcome to Desert Bluffs."

[malkydel]

Tzimisce Flashfic

She is beautiful, my Voivode. Regal. She burns with a captive nobility, even beneath her many alterations, self-inflicted scars and shaping of her being. She is no Metamorphosist, such things are tawdry for one of her august position. No. She has been moulded by life and by her own decisions. That is what makes her beautiful. That is what makes her flesh sing. The edges of pack brandings peek from the boundaries of her clothing, the equator that divides silk from skin. She wears piercings upon her face with pride. Nose. Lip. Ears. Eyebrows. These are all simple steel. Her cheeks are marked by sub-dermal growths of coaxed bone. They form spheres and spikes, trailing from just below her eyes to the corners of her mouth. When she speaks, they undulate beneath her skin. I am put in mind of a coral reef, and I shudder at the nature she aspires to. I am humbled, nothing more than a child before her majesty. "My servant," she whispers, "my beautiful bogatyri. You have come far, to seek me out." I bow my head. The climb has not been easy. She commands a city, has brought low the Ivory Tower. Now, she holds court from a similar peak. Others, mere guests, are permitted the use of stairs or fire escapes. I am a seeker, though. I must prove my loyalty in these times of war. My fingers ache and bleed with the effort of the ascent, hooked as they were into claws. She can smell my vitae on the air, she knows that I have suffered for her. Beneath us, the city stretches out. Old and young, all at once. It is perfection, a metaphor for her strength and her drive. Who else could alloy the packs into one great army? Who could have crafted us into a legion as easily as she crafts flesh? "My lady." I speak the words without even thinking, a rush of thought and will and whim. "My Voivode, I have served you in all things. I have fought for you, bled for you. I would die for you again." This makes her smile, and I smile too. I am encouraged. "I am your sword, as we are all the Sword of Caine." "As is proper." Her smile broadens, and I see her teeth gleaming in the light. Each one is scrimshawed with old words and past deeds, the legacy of her pack and the testament of her rule. She leans forward as I kneel, tilting my head up to examine me with one taloned finger. I feel her critique burning my flesh like oil. She takes in my countenance. I wonder if she is disappointed or simply curious, I know that there shall be no envy or ecstasy in her scrutiny. She is built for rule, a goddess formed of flawless flesh and exalted bone. I have been made for warfare, for battle. I am a knight in service to her, a questing serf before a liege lady. My face is a ruin of twisted skin. Bony nodules and spikes rise from every surface. My scalp is gone, replaced by a sharpened crest. My skin is painted and scarred in service to the pack and to the Sabbat. I have inked the name of every fallen brother upon my skin, and pierced myself with the bone-shards of Camarilla lackeys. She does not care. She knows, but she would never show it. I am a weapon in her arsenal, a blade sharpened for the war against the Ancients. I know my place in a Jyhad that will never end. I am at peace, in the fires of conflict.

[malkydel]

This is just beautiful.

Immortality, Of A Kind.

The girl in the white suit hid her nerves behind the cigarette.

The curtains opened. A pale man in pressed flannel frowned.

“Who are you,” he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “and what the hell are you doing on my window-ledge?”

The girl balanced on her bare heels, rocking back and forth.

“I… am a fan,” she said, “Don’t worry. I’m perfectly safe.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he said, “Lose the cigarette.”

“Sorry,” she said. Her face twisted, as if her muscles used to make apologetic expressions had atrophied through neglect.

“I wanted to ask some advice,” she said as she flicked the cigarette into the void behind her.

The man thought of his breakfast cooling.

“Make it quick,” he sighed.

There was silence, or as close to silence as the rumble of the city far below would ever allow.

“I have so much I want to do, and so little time,” she said, “I want everything. Is that so much to ask? Everyone says so. Everyone says ‘be reasonable’. But then I look at you, and everything you’ve achieved, and know that ‘reasonable’ is defeatist. Any one sliver of what you’ve done would be an enviable career. That it takes it all in, is an impossibility. There’s so little time, and so much work I want to do. I’m going to die but I want to be immortal. I’m trying so many things, but I’m afraid of losing myself in a–”

“Enough,” said the man, “I’ve two things for you. Listen carefully.”

“Always finish the album,” said the man, “and get the hell off my window ledge.”

The girl nodded.

“You were my inspiration,” she said, as she stepped backwards, turning to a shower of ash and sulphur, leaving tiny sooty footprints on the ledge.

The man sighed as he turned from the window. A girl dressed in a white suit, smoking, with that hair? And I was apparently inspiration? No shit.

Still – she was far from the first, and she’d be far from the last.

Immortality, of a kind.

[malkydel]

Was basically exactly the same layout as the Morrigan issue. Sakhmet just keeps her cards closer to her chest and we have to squint to see the trauma and read between the lines.

I enjoyed it; if anything it was the ending that was a disappointment, being so obviously tacked on where previous years have built to crescendo.

that issue of the wicked and the divine felt so short???

and it barely had anything in it??

like I like Sahkmet but that was so empty just her being her, with no real plot

[malkydel]

Ashwood Abbey Fiction

"There's something in the dark." The rather earnest young man who was staying over said this to me, as I returned from the bathroom. In the shadow he could not see my smile. "Oh hush," I said as I gathered my robe tighter about me. "There's nothing in the dark." "There is. I heard it. I saw it. I-" His face wrinkled all at once. "Maybe I dreamed it." "Maybe." I paused, clicked my tongue. "I'm going to go down and fetch some tea. Would you like some?" Silence. Then: "Yes. Please." "OK. Be right back." I closed the door to the bedroom, ran a hand through my hair and then let it slip down to grasp the bridge of my nose. This would take some doing. - The house swam with the absence of light, every surface dulled by the heavy carpet of night. We were far in the country, and the only illumination that slipped through was that of the moon. It was not a bright night, not a night of monsters and bacchanalia. Not quite yet. I crept through the kitchen, not bothering to reach for the light switch. My fingers found the switch for the kettle almost by instinct, and another hand wandered. It strayed across the smooth cold of the counter until it found the juncture between surface and structure. It crept up the block, until it found the handle. There was very little light indeed, but the knife shared my secret smile regardless. - You probably think you know my story now. I don't blame you. I mean, it seems awfully telegraphed. Here's the part where he sneaks upstairs and cuts the boy's throat, or perhaps disembowels him. I won't lie, I've done similar before, but those individuals had done a great deal more than spot something out of place in the dark. Believe you me. I move. Not up, but down. This house is old, something of a legacy. I've spent time becoming acquainted with every nook and cranny. That's what you do with hand me downs and family heirlooms. You get to know them utterly. This house has been in the family for a long time, almost as long as the family has held its Edinburgh connections. But I get ahead of myself. I pause at the door to the cellar, and note that the kettle hasn't even begun to scream yet. Plenty of time. I reach out, pull open the door, and let the umbra embrace me. - "You've been bad." I speak the words almost without thinking them. Reflex, when you take the game into account. I've been up and down all week, so much so that I needed a little human company to take the edge off. Him upstairs? Adorable. Practically oozes potential. He doesn't have much stomach for it yet, but I've been regaling him with stories at a remove. File off some of the shyness and the uncertainty and he'd be happy as a pig in shit at the Abbey. The thing in the cellar looks up at me with eyes that seem to glow in the dark. Like a beast. I've fought werewolves and fucked demons, chased down things made of dead men and figments of dreams made flesh. Somehow though, it always comes back to this. It bares its fangs at me, withered muscle reduced to outlines of barely perceived being. None of the cuts I make leave scars. I wonder sometimes if that doesn't rob some of the fun. "Very bad." I continue, almost dismissive of its threat. "Trying to mess with my guests? Playing with my toys." I tsk, and the noise carries in the empty space. I hear the rustle of shackles, the grinding of flesh against stone as it tries to rear up. "You know what comes next." "Please..." Begging. That's new. Interesting, in fact. A who-knows-how-old drinker of blood, begging from captivity. In the end, it doesn't matter. Not tonight.