#;;v. carry the scythe ( coven.)

[desanctii]

"i can’t follow in your footsteps." ( :) )

Bold, to speak so plainly on a matter of such importance. But Amadeo had always been bold. Santino sat among his shades, his many church candles, holding court with rats and wraiths, thin columns of dust raining down onto him where overhead the world kept turning, ignorant of the rot that infested its root. And out of these many grim parts from which dark romanticism could be spun, the pale, sculptured face of the Coven Master peered back at his defiant child.

He had a way of staring, Santino. He stared with eyes so large and inquisitive, they might absorb all the light in a room, gather it at the center of his stare and abolish it there. For eyes like his, that could melt and weep at the slightest twinge of pain, there was an eerie soullessness to them. All that feeling, all the tears, they were ripples upon the surface, but the black water remained untroubled. And beneath the water, who knew what lurked there, what slowly coiling winding serpents measured the circumference of a mind like his? Nothing, possibly. But that would be all the more terrifying, then.

As it stood, as Amadeo stood, steadfast despite his trembling fingertips, Santino gazed back at him like an animal peering out of a forest that was on fire. The boy was, then, strangely cut out of the landscape, a hole stabbed into the pergament to erase him. Santino's purpose was to stitch the page make together, keep the illustration in one piece. There was no time now, for dissidents.

"You can and you will." The master's voice slunk closer to the boy, rubbing against him like a big black cat, purring in his ear, purring so loud the small, faulty heart in Amadeo's chest surely felt him there. Santino was both the man sitting in front of him and the looming shadow at his back, the ghostly arms wrapped around him from behind, shackles and embrace in one. He spoke to him so tenderly, as if he meant to encourage a doubter. But what he said was no comfort, it was a command. They both knew it then.

"I know you would never disappoint me. Already you have proven more efficient a killer than all my other children,your hapless brothers and sisters who adore you so. Already you have surpassed them in beauty and power, surpassed them in evil. Your youthfulness shall guide you but do not rely upon it as a crutch. You do not owe me, my sweet one, but you do owe our Dark Lord and I would despair to see you fail him. So you will do as you are told." A smile, a sweet, cheerful smile, the smile of a proud father, a loving father with a dark mouth.

"I know you do not want to displease me so you won't."

[somesortofenthusiast]

All the changes I wish I could make to Dark Souls 3: High Wall of Lothric/Undead Settlement

#1: Move the "High Wall of Lothric" bonfire to the center of the room in which you spawn when first teleported from Firelink Shrine.

#2: Add rings to list of items that are hidden from other players when dropped.

#3: Lock the ability to change your equipped covenant when an invader enters the world.

#4: Hide summon signs when an invader enters the world, including those connected through a password.

#5: Increase the duration of the Seed of a Tree of Giants from 45 seconds to 60 seconds.

#6: Add the dried finger icon to the display of anyone invading into a world with the finger active, similar to the Seed of a Tree of Giants.

#7: Alter the formula for “halving” invaders’ estus so that it rounds odd splits up, rather than down. Meaning that 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, and 15 estus would become 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 respectively.

#8: Do NOT grant invaders a pale tongue upon defeating a Host of Embers if they invading with any covenant other than Fingers of Rosaria equipped.

#9: Place a crystal lizard carrying a large titanite shard inside one of the boxes on the wooden scaffolding that connects to the very first stairway in the high wall.

#10: Alter the hitbox on the residual fire from wyvern breath such that only spots with visible flame patches will stagger you, while the rest will deal DoT equivalent to toxic.

#11: Raise the backstab hitbox on all sitting hollows in the high wall from their butt up to the top of their spine. Usually this isn't a problem, but on certain slopes the backstab startup animation either won't be attempted at all even though you're aligned at the right spot for the full attack to go through, or it will be attempted but won't go through entirely because you're nowhere near the right spot.

#12: Alter dog AI such that they won't attempt their wide sidestep in enclosed spaces.

#13: Remove dogs’ ability to teleport.

#14: Change the item pickup in the hallway full of explosive barrels that leads to Greirat's cell from 8 throwing knives into 3 black firebombs, and reduce the size of its glowing globe to the size associated with average item pickups.

#15: Place a body with a "Soul of a Deserted Corpse" pickup in the dark corner to the left of the blocked stairway by the longbow pickup and pus of man hollow.

#16: Do NOT grant invaders a forked pale tongue upon defeating a Blue Sentinel or Blade of the Darkmoon if they have any covenant other than Fingers of Rosaria equipped. 

#17: Add a second hollow archer to the side opposite the existing archer guarding the stairway leading down to Vordt's boss arena.

#18: Make Vordt of the Boreal Valley no longer spawn a bonfire on death.

#19: Remove the "Foot of the High Wall" bonfire.

#20: Give Greirat a unique faint crying dialogue or something similar rather than repeating the "Heavens, she was already dead" line when conversing with him as he does the "curl up" gesture.

#21: Refine the hitbox of the Evangelist's fire grab attack such that it more closely resembles the visual.

#22: Reduce the damage of thrall blowdarts by 10%.

#23: Add a bonfire immediately next to the spot where you appear when dropped into the Pit of Hollows by the passive cage bearer.

#24: Alter the Warriors of Sunlight covenant so red-gold phantoms can only earn a sunlight medal during invasions if both them and another invader damage the host before the host dies.

#25: Add Warriors of Sunlight and Fingers of Rosaria to the list of covenants whose followers cannot damage fellow invaders in the same covenant whilst invading.

#26: Shorten the patrol of the cage bearer near the "Dilapidated Bridge" bonfire such that he'll only walk until he's even with the stone archway before turning back around.

#27: Replace all great scythes’ critical attack animations with the axes’ equivalent.

#28: Make the Curse-Rotted Greatwood no longer spawn a bonfire on death.

#29: Change the drop instantly acquired after killing the giant rat in the sewer connecting to the "Dilapidated Bridge" bonfire from the Bloodbite Ring to the Poisonbite Ring.

#30: Restore the "sin" system that existed in the previous games, with the rules as follows:

i) One sin is accrued upon aggroing an NPC.

ii) Another sin is gained upon killing the NPC.

iii) One sin is accrued upon invading and dealing damage to a host of embers before they die, regardless of your covenant.

iv) Your character gains unique persistent partical effects when invading at 100, 500, and 1000 sin. The first being ember flickers like hosts have that inherit a slightly brighter version of your phantom color. The second being a version of the glowing "red-eye" overlay that also inherits a lighter version of your phantom color. And the third and final effect being a replication of the level 3 Brother's of Blood Aura that, you guessed it: inherits a lighter version of your phantom color. These effects do not stack; each new effect will replace the last once the sin milestone is met. In the case of all three partical effects, wearing the untrue dark ring will use the normal ember shader to determine the color of the effects due to the absence of a phantom color.

v) Sin can be absolved as usual at the Statue of Velka or the Purging monument. However, with each sin milestone you are permanently placed into higher priority for Blue Sentinel summons when invading other worlds and invasions from Blades of the Darkmoon when you’re in your own world.

#31: Alter the animation of touching Irina's shoulder so that you actually touch her instead of hover-handing like a turbo virgin.

#32: For the love of Gwyn, please give poor Siegward the stats to properly wield his Zweihander with one hand.

On to the Road of Sacrifices and the cursed Cathedral beyond...

[desanctii]

@marakama

The whispers crowded in his ears like a cloud of black birds, all wings, all talons. Wherever he went, there was no silence. The minds of mortals raked through his own like fingers through fine sand. Suspended above the din, the voices of his followers sparked and burst. They called to one another. They rambled. They prayed. He listened to them all, a priest hearing endless confessions. He could have closed his mind to the world and gotten peace, of course, but what use was peace? 

His fangs crushed the throat. Sharp heat filled his mouth and he greedily gulped it down. He drank in the dying cry, the cardiac arrest. Then he dropped the woman into the lazy black current of the Tiber. Something had changed. He felt first a ripple of confusion, then curiosity. Then fear. Bare feet came running. He felt their silent tremors in the ground, racing towards him. The Coven Master lifted his head, a dark tongue licking the last of blood from his lips. He held still, attentively scanning the dark maze of winding alleyways and towering palazzi. Then the young blood drinker broke away from the shadows. 

She was a big-eyed beautiful little thing, barely a year in the Blood. Her whispers were very loud now. She spoke quickly, excitedly, the way a child confided in a parent. With a caress to her dirty cheek, Santino sent her scurrying on her way. The orders were clear: A stranger had come to Rome. The young ones were to return to the catacombs. The oldest should stay nearby and wait for instructions. Strangers were no novelty, not in Rome. But history had taught him well. He would not endanger his Children needlessly. 

His heart beat in his throat as he made his way to Castel Sant’Angelo. She had described to him a picture of strength and prowess, a heretic display of finery and luxury. That did not shock him as it shocked her. He had seen the likes of such creatures before. He had slain ancient Marius. Little could shock him now. But it was always exciting, a break of the monotony, when a new face arrived. Ah, but there he was. 

Santino was not sure what or who he had expected. The piazza was nearly deserted and the drunkards and thieves did not garner his attention. Instead his eyes fell upon the vampire who was about to turn the corner into a smaller side street. He was a vision. Despite the symptoms of his condition, he was clearly of darker complexion. His thick hair rounded in a full beard that was no longer in style here, but once would have been the cause of great envy. His dress, too, was not quite in touch with common habits, but it suited him well. The world was ever growing, ever populating, and Santino could not have even guessed at what region this creature hailed from. He had never once left Italy, himself.

“Welcome,” Santino’s voice was a low hum in his chest, a full sound that suited his native Italian very well. It seemed as though his words were solely designed for the other man’s ears. No one else took any note of them. “It has been some time since we were allowed to greet a newcomer in our city.”

[desanctii]

@covetxus​ said: ❓Faustus (maybe a bit early since we only just started interacting but first impressions?)

“Hmm. The former priest, yes. I find him intriguing. It is rare that we welcome men of the cloth in our ranks. And in truth, they seldom last. They were made weak, their spirits corrupted by the poisonous machinations of the church. They cannot stomach the pain we must endure to cleanse our filthy souls. They cannot do what is asked of them. It is the decadence of the Vatican that ruins them. You wish to find a place that is divorced from God? I should like to show you to the Holy See.” Santino shook his head. 

“But Faustus, he might have potential. The Magic is well at work within him and he seems eager to learn. I appreciate his openness, his eager reception of the truth. He is not like those many straggling vagabonds that have made for themselves a theory of the world and refuse to put it aside. But that is another matter entirely. He is new and as such he shall be tested and tempered. No sickle can carve the ripe fruit without first being sharpened by fire, hammer and whetstone. It will be a process to make him ready. But I have faith in his willingness to do what must be done. He seems the type. And our numbers have dwindled in the wake of our holy mission in the north. I would like to see him last among his brothers and sisters.”

[desanctii]

⏮

|| meet a younger version of my character (for @the-immortals-assistant)

His nails dug into the mortar and stone as he climbed. It still amazed him how little effort everything cost now. He felt his muscles strain and coil but it was nothing to him. With ease he pulled himself up the house wall, at once stemming his entire body weight. In these brief, minuscule moments, he could almost delight in himself, in his new powers, his new abilities that so easily surpassed everything he had ever been capable of when he had been alive. But with every moment of levity came a barrage of pain, guilt and hate skewering what was left of his heart. He had quickly understood to loathe himself.

Overhead, on the roof, he heard the distant chatter of his new brethren. They were waiting for him, the youngest. At times he looked at their hungry pale faces, the faces of demons, and wanted to weep. They frightened him to the end of his wits and yet he knew he no longer had any right to that fright. He was a monster now, too. Who was he to judge them? They were all the same, sinners without reprieve, without comfort. And his face looked just like theirs. 

He joined their pack with a soft hiss, crouching beside them to see what it was that they were doing. He had never hunted in a city like Rome before. The city was a hollowed out carcass, crumbled and bleeding. They were the carrion crows, picking apart the remains. Fabrizio looked up when he settled next to him. He nudged him lightly, as if to encourage. “Remember,” His slick serpent voice wormed its way into Santino’s ear. “Remember what the master said. Have your pick but we do not touch those that carry with them the holy cross. It will burn us. Do not enter a church. Do not look upon the likeness of the saints. You won’t see the dawn.”

Then Alfredo let out a guttural laugh and swung down into the next best open window, impatient as ever. At once they scattered, scurrying like beasts in all directions. They had a duty to carry out and there would be no mercy for those who wanted to shirk it. The young fledgling shivered in revulsion at the thought of the things he had done in hunger. They had seemed inevitable then, unquestionable, but afterwards he wanted to come undone with horror.

“Come with me. I will show you.” Fabrizio said kindly. That kindness was enough to make Santino love him. “You must be starving.”

He was. 

[desanctii]

@of-ivory-and-gold:

I’m adrift in endless fascination of how the sunset looked like a carnivorous flower this evening. I look to the boys, their faces, their rosy cheeks, their fine, silken hair. They are all tailored in velvets of gold and blue garments, and I of Ivory and gold. These are the magnificent and endless gifts that have been bestowed upon us. This is Venice, after all, and we, it’s birthed children of a country so fine in riches and culture.

The Maestro is our Lord and we are his Princes. By daylight we are tutored by the finest teachers of music and literature. By nightfall we dance at the Palace on marble tiles and lead on the lutes. We dine on delicacies where your plate or stomachs will never be emptied.

My consciousness detaches from these endless thoughts.

It is ripped away by my valiant spirit that awakens me to alleviate me of this strangled hold. I recollect being dragged by my hair and dropped down on the cold dark ground. I sit, my wrists bound by ropes.

My head aches from the bloody wound that has soaked the back of my head. The inside of my chest burns, I heave, gasping for air. My rib is cracked. I can taste the grimy dirt on my lips, and feel the it against my cheeks. My tunic is soiled with vomit and dirt.

I want to weep endlessly from hearing the outcries of the young boys. I listen carefully for my two confidants, Amadeo and Riccardo. I cannot recall hearing one or the other since I was beaten, blacked out and pitched into the bowels of the ship. I bring my roped burned wrists to my mouth to cool them.

“There, there” I say softly to them and I recite in my native tongue of Greek, a verse form of beauty to ease  our weariness. I’m frightened of us altogether in this unknown place and of these gruesome creatures or whatever they may be that have tormented us all. I put my hands over my face and close my eyes, they too, burn. I take away my sight and recluse into total blackness.

Without warning I’am pushed by fear in finding the truth in the words gently whispered from behind of a dreadful beast.

For he must be like the other’s that I have caught glimpses of them. In their shrouded ghastly expression and black tattered robes. I crane my head, straining to look for him. “Move aside, please move away” My voice is brittle. “I may as well be lacking the courage to distinguish into nothing, but I I will not surrender”

“That is very noble of you.” The voice continued, strangely detached from the content of its own words. “And just as well. Your surrender is not needed, Albinus. It is the simple course of nature. Good is extinguished by evil. Pray, if you like, it might ease the way.” 

Santino glanced at his scurrying brothers and sisters who in childish glee pricked and prodded the children to keep their cries high pitched and their tiny hearts racing. They were hungry, one and all, and there were so many living bodies in their midst tonight. Santino, too, could feel the pull of their blood, the scent of it among all the foul odors. He stared at the squirming bodies with unrestrained desire. But if he was thirsty, his followers were parched. They prowled around the captured flock like slavering wolves, always searching for an opportunity to strike quickly and drink their fill.

“No,” Santino lifted his head when one of them veered too close to a crying boy at the edge of the huddled group. “They are not for us.” This simple statement, a phrase not even uttered loudly enough to be more than a passing comment, was enough to drive the hungry vampire back into the ranks of his brethren. Santino stepped closer to inspect the children. God, God, what horrible task have you bestowed upon me? Anything. Anything I’d rather do. But that, of course, was the point. The Lord’s design was impeccable. And quite efficient.

Santino’s hollow, grief-stricken eyes wandered back to Albinus as he said: “This is a burning of vanities. And burn, they shall.” 

[desanctii]

"Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming"

Among the whimpering and chirping of the young horrified minds, the dazed murmur of a stray thought was like the back of large fish, slowly breaking the murky surface, only to disappear again in one gliding motion. A simple thought, descriptory in nature, and curiously clinical in its design. It slipped past him quietly, without stirring the panicked praying and helpless squirming of the babes that pressed against it.

Santino’s eyelids fluttered from their trance-like rest. They opened. He watched as the children were dragged across the dusty ground, perfect little creatures, smeared with blood and dirt and their own filth. Fishers of men, weren’t they? In nets they had brought the fledgling, struggling to heave him underground, to contain him. Only one, Santino knew. One had been giving the Dark Gift by his blasphemous master. Curious, that. He had expected there to be more. 

One such candidate was the one who was so stunned and silent, thinking his little philosophical thoughts. Albinus, that was his name. The children cried for him as they cried for all the older boys. But this one, why, he was long a man grown. A sick twist of fate, a great misfortune, that he had not left the palazzo in time. So it went. Everyone was always missing their chances everywhere.

Santino went to watch the children, allow them to break his heart. It felt better when he knew how well he suffered for his lord. This grief was noble and just and therefore proved to him that he was right in what he did. Such reminders were dearly needed in times like this. Being a monster was hard work.

Still he went to watch the pale one, blond to the point of whiteness, seeming such a glowing thriving thing, even caked in dirt. He stepped closer to where they were bound in their nets and ropes, struggling uselessly. But this one sat still. This one he spoke to:

“The Lord created all things in beauty.” His voice was a soulless hum, a gentle whisper at the back of Albinus’ head. “You are right to fear it. But take heart. Soon the fear will be over.”

[desanctii]

@dark-eyed-elegance:

Such a lovely, texturous whisper, the sound of his fingertips on the other’s robes – thick as they were, layered as they were in grime and dust and soot and pain and worship. For a moment, just a moment, Amadeo thought perhaps he had felt heat beneath them – but it was just the shape of Santino’s body, bigger than his own, broader than his own, the swell of his back under Amadeo’s fingers when he drew a breath for the question.

It wasn’t that complicated, he thought. His eyes wide but tender under knotted brow, as he stepped slightly, leaning half around his coven Master’s elbow, little white hand with crescent moons of dirt tipping the nails giving a gentle swirl where it had drifted to the small of the other’s back –

Amadeo’s lips parted; he squinted at Santino as if perhaps he had the answer. Quite suddenly he felt rather ridiculous, and perhaps it was obvious in the slant of his frown as he mumbled, “What are you doing? You look very upset.”

Santino couldn’t help but smile at Amadeo’s innocent act of kindness. He reached out to him, cradling his pale cheek in the palm of his hand. “Sweet one,” He said. “It is my duty to take care of you all, not the other way around.” For a moment their gazes interlocked, Santino’s a pool of still water, almost dreamy in its absentmindedness. 

Then he pulled away, from Amadeo’s face, from his searching hands. The Coven Master turned, slowly, deliberately, to look back at the remnants of the young life that had been so gruesomely ended before their eyes. Santino never liked to make a show out of his killing, but presentation mattered. Why else would have the Lord chosen His forms so distinctly? And Santino had chosen his forms just as well; sadly one of them had the shape of a beast. It had been a masterful dismemberment, even so. The blood had spilled from the gurgling throat. Santino’s chin had run red. Only glory was not gleaned from the task for it was a failure to the devil, that they could not bring him a servant that was strong enough to endure the Dark Blood.

“Killing is a necessary thing,” He finally said, pondering the ashes. “But it is nothing to be proud of. Remember that, Amadeo. You will one day have to put your failed children to the torch, not only your enemies. Keep their suffering in your heart when you do.”

[desanctii]

▨ : rubbing their back to calm them down when they’re upset (coven!)

He liked to call it meditation. From time to time he tried to pray but prayer was elusive. It required a mouth to speak and ear to listen, and Santino was not at all certain that the Lord cared to listen to the prayers of vermin. The devil, surely, was ever prowling for a stray petition but Santino did not wish to speak with him. Praying, that was for Allesandra. Santino meditated. It was always a bad turn to lose a young one. They didn’t always make it. This was, of course, their own failing but it still was a haunting sight, those mindless eyes, the sagging jaws, the helpless crawl across the catacomb floor. 

He stood with his back to the scattered congregation, the scattered ashes, and listened to the foul sludge that slowly seeped through the earth into their cavernous kingdom. He listened to the scurrying rats that squeaked and spat in their burrows, fighting over worm ends. He listened to the hum and chatter of his disciples as they went to their hunt, some shaken up, some energized. Amadeo was still there even though he had dismissed him with all the rest, but Santino didn’t turn to look.

His eyes were closed, his breathing even. He was willing his features to soften, his undue anger to quell and dim. And then suddenly-- a brush of white fingertips against his shoulder blade, rustling the heavy fabric of his robes. Santino’s eyes opened, at once gathering all light to him. 

“What are you doing?” He asked him, not to accuse, merely out of mild curiosity. 

[desanctii]

dark-eyed-elegance‌:

He felt the other approaching before he heard him, before he saw him; Santino’s presence was one like shared quiet, like watching eyes, like the absence of emptiness in a room. Tangible, and commanding in and of itself, in a way that felt safe the same as it felt isolated. And knowing it, sensing it, Amadeo committed to composing himself, just slightly, just enough not to disappoint, his face hardening although the burnt-honey brown of his eyes was still hot with feeling.

Santino’s shadow fell over him, but it was not until that soft, soul-weary tone of voice fell to follow that Amadeo looked up, the tension in his body uncoiling a bit. Upset tonight, your Brother’s fate – ? The flames, the screaming? Both voice and singing bone, hiss of skin, boiling blood? The way the body so quickly swirled away into the smoke, into the bosom of perdition – forgiveness? – holy nothingness. And the darkness of Santino’s eyes as he commanded it, the blackness of them, the unfamiliarity of them, and his own reverence, fascination, obsession for the sight of it.

“No,” he replied, and his voice felt dusty as his hands did on his arms. “Yes. I do not know. Many things. Sometimes I do not know what I feel.”

Santino waited for Amadeo to gather his bearings. Then he cocked his head to one side, an entirely innocent gesture. With one hand he showed the youth to a side corridor, somewhere they could speak more privately. He was not sure what he meant to say yet. It was strange to him, to feel so responsible for another’s private sentiments. His other followers’ little worries and horrors were not of great concern to him. Theirs was a cold and dark life, full of agonies. One had to get used to it quickly, or perish along with the unfit. 

But there was also something else at play; a tugging at his heartstrings the moment Amadeo’s brown eyes were downcast. He looked at him the way a sculptor looked at a block of marble. It would take a lot of violence before he was finished. Someone so young should not have to suffer like this in life. But life was secondary. This was just a nightmare, a bad dream. Once they woke to the final death, there would be light again. There had to be light again.

He walked Amadeo away from the others, silent for this moment. Then he sighed, his breath stirring the sheen of dust in the air. “You understand that it was necessary though.” He spoke kindly. He prompted. “He meant to bestow this Dark Blood upon someone who was not meant to join our ranks. Two souls have been forfeit by his selfishness, his sin. Death by fire was far too merciful for the crimes he committed.” Santino shook his head. “So why does it bother you?”

[desanctii]

@dark-eyed-elegance:

The smell. It was distinctly earthier than the rancid smolder of mortal fat and muscle burned for sterility. Slightly more coppery. Swollen tang of blood-scent, blood and bone and soil. Burned for sanctity. The stuttered, chopped-up moans of the drums had shuddered his soul; it still trembled, as buzzed his bones, in that aching ecstasy of indeterminate longing, of inexplicable …

Santino’s voice stirred him with a suddenness of which he himself was embarrassed; what blood there was flared in his cheeks with a fleeting tingle and through a flutter of lashes and tangle of hair he found those familiar dark eyes. Santino’s figure, slipping through the night. “Oh,” Armand breathed. What do you see? He shook his head and shrugged limply at the same time, folding his arms behind himself at the small of his back. A smile, flickering across his mouth, as the other came close enough upon him so as to require him to lift his chin to look up at him. “What else? Stars and stars and stars and nothingness and everythingness."

And how was he to explain to this master the God-fear of such vastness, of being infinitely infinitesimal to the swath of night overhead, the vague – brief pulse – indefinable trip of conviction for which he could not remember the shape of the words – ?

Santino looked upon Armand kindly and with patience, in the same manner he had always looked upon him. There was a strange sense of melancholy to what he said. Nothingness was a terribly frightful thought. Santino lifted his head then, to look up at the stars, to watch their swirling paths across the night sky where they turned ceaselessly to a music all their own. Sometimes, during silent nights when there was no wind to stir the air, he thought he could hear it; the dull roar of something immense, something so vast and eternal that it would continue to hum forever. The beauty of night, so easily dismissed by mortal senses. There was no darkness before his eyes. Only light. Light and light and light.

“I have watched a good number of them vanish in my years.” He nodded up to the stars, the endless tapestry of gleaming pinpoints overhead. “They seem to glow every night anew and then one dusk they will simply have left the firmament, or, if given to a dramatic air, streak across the sky in glory. I wonder what powers move among them to snuff them out, what flawless design is moving them, and if it mirrors our own. As above, so below.” He glanced at Armand with an almost playful twinkle in his eye. Santino had that ability, the skill to become all human at the sign of mirth. His smiles were soft and sweet. The edges of his eyes would crinkle faintly with laugh lines. He could smile as fully as he could grieve. 

“You do not take comfort in them, do you?” Santino took a few steps away from the remains of their gathering, gesturing for Armand to follow. “Do you fear you will be overlooked among all these wonders? You won’t. Everyone can see you. You shine your dark light on all you touch. These are our compatriots. The night might as well have been created for only us. Even when the Lord split apart the dark and the light, He could not bear to leave his disgraced children in nothing but shadow. So we have the stars. Do you know how the Lord created the heavens?” He prompted, very clearly expecting a full answer. He never quite missed the opportunity for a teaching moment. They would have no more, after all, once they parted tonight. This was a goodbye of sorts, and Santino’s heart was heavy with it.

[desanctii]

‘ be still my foolish heart , don’t ruin this on me -- ’ A barely-whisper, a thought that escaped through his teeth, as he moved through the catacomb shadows still smelling the recent immolation of a disobedient one at the hands of the Coven Master.

A rustle of rats slid along the walls, scattering themselves across the dusty ground. Santino was breathing ashes. He could feel the smoke seeping into his hair and skin, into the fabric of his heavy robes. He smelled like burning. His eyes were sunken, like the eyes of his skulls, hollow and unseeing. He felt that he ought to be angry. Angry with Federico, angry with his own lack of supervision. They had both failed each other tonight. As he pondered the ache of this, the dust carried a small helpless murmur through the air. Amadeo had escaped the execution site early and Santino had gestured for Allesandra to leave him be. It would take a while for him to understand the weight of the responsibility upon a leader. He was but a child.

It was later that night, before his flock would bed down, crawling back into the earth from whence they had come, that the Coven Master made to seek out their youngest brother. 

He found him apart, huddled in a way, as if his old Venetian lace could shield him against the cold damp earth. Santino stood, outline by candlelight, his shadow falling over the fledgling like a shroud. “Were you upset tonight, by your brother’s fate?” He asked him quietly, mournfully. 

[desanctii]

(//past? idk, up to you) ✮ = 'stargazing.'

xxx

The glinting lights of Toledo gathered like raindrops at the bottom of a window pane, far from their nightly revels. The fires had burned down, magnificently taking along with them a venerable elder who had heard Satan’s call among the kettledrums and ecstatic singing of his brethren. There had been fine dancing among their breed this night, arms thrust to the night sky which was their eternal canopy and feet stomping so loud the earth should split beneath them. 

Santino had, as was his duty, overseen the mass. It was to be the last, as everyone had known, before he would finally retreat to Rome again and rule their covens from his throne beneath the holy city. Spain would be in the hands of his faithful flocks, gathered into covens each under the guided rule of their masters. They all had gathered here tonight for this last grand congregation. Among them was also one of Santino’s very own, his flesh and blood were it not for someone else’s. Armand, he was called now, the name given to him by Allesandra herself. Santino had spotted him at the edge of the circle, the earth kicked up and singed to ashes. 

“What do you see up there, my dear one?” His gentle voice called to the young coven master as he approached. “Any grand schemes that are revealing themselves to you?” It was half a question footed in amusement but Santino was not one to scoff at the arts of astrology. Many a destiny had been written in the stars long before it was made to unfold in the world. Some people had the gift to decipher constellations. It would not at all surprise him if his own protege revealed himself to be one such person. 

[desanctii]

Per Aspera ||

@crypticcovenmom

Santino sat in his cell, enthroned among the dust and remains of once-living saints, and his eyes were soft as he watched a cluster of black rats search the dirt for morsels. He studied their movements, the wet glistening to their fur and the twitching of their worm-like tails, as intently as a hieromancer would the red liver of a slain animal. The dim torch light reflected upon his fine features, illustrating the absentminded, almost entranced, calm the coven master exhibited. It was not disturbed when Allesandra entered, a white wispy specter at the edge of his vision.

“You come to talk about our Amadeo.” He mused before he dipped his fingers into the bowl of bread crumbs by his side to scatter some for the hungry rodents. The rats certainly weren’t made to starve in his care. Santino saw to these creature with the simple undemanding patience taught by centuries of denial and self-restraint. 

“He is a remarkable child.” His voice was lifted though his gaze was not. Santino seemed to contemplate his own words. “Remarkable, indeed. I mean to send him north, to Paris.” Finally he acknowledged the physical reality that surrounded him by way of gesturing briefly to a scroll of parchment on the wax-running counter in the far corner of his room. 

“Fabien has gone into the fire. He has been called home to our Lord and Master. We must replace him and swiftly. They are a wild folk in the north. Without care and leadership they might still revert to their old bestial ways. They are like broken wolves, half tamed but eager to run back to their forests and valleys. They need a bastion of piety among them, someone to emulate, someone to inspire them. I mean to give them the icon they need. Amadeo will do well for himself among them. They shall come to love him and rely on him, as we love and rely on him.” 

It seemed that this little speech had been circling in his mind for some time, only waiting for an open ear to pour itself into. Santino had a way of speaking as though he was ever in need of an audience. Who was to say he wasn’t? He glanced up, now meeting Allesandra’s eyes, and a sad smile bloomed on his shapely lips. “No one is better suited.”

[desanctii]

💔

28. My muse visits yours in prison.

Once again it had pulled him to the cell. Santino was looking at the small curled up figure behind the bars as he had done many times before. Every night he’d stand here, for a minute or an hour, to look upon the young blood drinker and how well he wore his suffering. The remains of the mortal servant lay strewn around him. He must have torn it asunder in his maddening grief. 

A pained, sympathetic expression softened the coven master’s features as he watched Amadeo. Such agony was torture even for those who only looked upon it. He wished he could spare him, really. He wished there were any other way. But this was the way and what pain could possibly be worse than the eternal fires of Hell? Amadeo didn’t know it yet, but he was saving his soul.

“I know you are hurt, dear one.” He said quietly, not even convinced the young vampire could understand his simple words in his state. “But think on the fast of the monks in your homeland. To know Christ is to know agony. I wish I could comfort you in your hour of need, but you will see the sense of it so very soon.”

[desanctii]

Right after meeting Eric for the first time: What are your thoughts on him?

“Wh- Oh. The witch’s companion. For a being such as him, he seemed remarkably... frail. Nothing but deception of course, but he did not command the room as the witch did. I lost track of him often even though the mere power he possessed should have prevented that. When he spoke it was softly, and with a strange accent. He was very quiet but his eyes, those eyes saw everything. A terrifying creature, designed to lull you into a false sense of security. Neither soft nor supple, but gentle, even in his mocking ways. I understand why she would keep him. There is a beauty to him. But then, there is to all of us.”