#AND NO NEED TO MATCH LENGTH

[devsmuses]

closed starter for @ghostsxagain

drag was never something he envisioned himself doing. he'd never had anything against the form of expression, but it just didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd be good at. all of that changed after attending his first drag show. the queen he'd seen had been at a local bar and he remembered being taken by her confidence alone. not many people were watching her as she lip-synced to some power ballad but she performed like everyone in the room was watching. that was talent, that was something not many people could do. that began his fascination and appreciation for the art of drag and now here he was, one of the newest cast members on rupaul's drag race, the biggest opportunity a drag performer can get. he swore he'd blacked out completely while making his entrance, not even remembering what he'd said but hoping it was memorable enough for the viewers back home. anxiety is all he felt as he walked over to the workroom table where a handle of other queen's awaited him. he recognized a few of them having seen them on social media and that only caused him more anxiety. he was doing his best to portray himself as confident, to act as if he knew he belonged here and would be the one walking away with the crown; not wanting the other queen's or viewers to view him as early out potential already. he noticed someone he recognized again except this time he recognized them from knowing them in real life, they weren't just a queen he followed on tiktok. "fancy seeing you here." his eyes were on rylan as he spoke. he'd know there was a chance there'd be queens from the same city on the same season but for some reason he didn't think he'd have to worry about him being one of those queens. he wasn't exactly sure how to feel in the moment. it was nice that he knew someone here and had some kind of connection with them, but it wasn't like rylan and him were close. they'd spoken a handful of times when they happened to be gigging at the same bar. he took his chances and sat alongside him, awaiting his reaction to him being here.

[gwyndolence]

Part of Krovs' particular charm was its provenance, especially to a young fae hybrid with a... muddled opinion of the second war. Gwyn was deeply curious to see exactly what the vampires had done with the place since, expecting more of the same fancy, old-fashioned European aesthetic the undead seemed to favor. He was delighted to discover that the vampires had installed a strip club, of all things, instead. Diabolus Luxuriam had a decent crowd going for the late hour: wealthier townies playing tourist, a semi-circle of masters more intent on their conversation than the dancers, a few slaves who hadn't been bidden to get on stage nervously idling, either there as pretty set dressing or pathetically forgotten in favor of other distractions.

Gwyn bypassed ogling the gyrating under the spotlights; he'd go into Krovstown and do some real dancing if mood struck for that. No, the people-watching was the purpose of this exercise and Gwyn put himself in the best possible place for it -- right behind the bar. He'd learned centuries ago there were few places you couldn't access if you walked in with enough confidence. If any patrons had noticed their server was collarless, none had mentioned it yet. For their part, the staff seemed unable to decide if the young master's status forbade Gwyn the spot or gave them perfect excuse not to confront him about it. Either way, he'd been enjoying himself immensely tugging stories out of the chattier workers and sneaking any tips into the poor, confused barkeep's shirt pocket.

Gwyn had keen sense for anyone leaving an opening exposed for approach and he narrowed in on just a one now, leaning bodily over the bar top towards his target, the jumbled collection of necklaces around his neck glittering in the red and blue club lights.

"Someone looks thirsty. Want me to fix that for you?"

@krovscastlestarters

[thearcherbrothersx]

Closed starter for @aftermiiidniiight / Muse: Declan Archer

He'd agreed to come by and pick her up this evening. He'd had a late meeting and she was out with friends not too far from his office, so naturally it made sense for his driver to swing by her venue on the way back to his place rather than have her make her way there later.

Declan left his driver with the car outside and made his way inside the club she'd told him she'd be at, his features maintaining the visual of ice; cool and calm. This despite the fact that his eyes visibly began searching the area for her as soon as he stepped inside. He looked entirely out of place, perfectly trimmed and kempt, dressed in a tailored Armani suit, a Rolex around his wrist. The sheer value of the man's attire probably surpassed the average occupant's yearly income. And yet he didn't seem bothered by the smell, the noise or fact that one person or other was intermittently bumping into him as he made his way through the crowds.

In fact, his expression didn't change until he finally spotted the gorgeous redhead on the dancefloor surrounded by several appropriately aged males, and at that point it was only for his lips to thin and brows to shift slightly higher on his forehead before his features settled back into that same indifferent mien. He watched her for a few seconds, considering the many different actions he could take, as well as the possible outcomes of those actions, before he turned around to leave.

[flamesque]

₊❏❜ ⋮ i'll chase you to the ends of the earth. ⚬𓂂

@dolasach

He is used to it; however, that didn't mean he accepted it.

Rafayel sighed as he let his head rest against his palm, the same thing being drilled into his mind by the endless sea of words spewing the history of Lemuria and the world on the surface repeated like a broken record from the elders. He seemed to be falling asleep and was immediately scolded for not paying attention.

Evidently, something came up that had the elders leave the vicinity for the time being and this served as an opportunity for Rafayel to escape. He had attempted in doing so a few times, but he was sure that this time he would be able to be successful. 

A blue fish swam around him and held his hand out, allowing the fish to swim over his palm. 

"Shall we head to the surface? It's a little boring right now and I'm tired of hearing the elders saying the same thing over and over again." 

The fish continued swimming over his palm before seemingly directing him toward an opening to which he was able to squeeze through. It was then he realized that he was out of the city walls of Whalefall City and was able to swim to the surface.

He thanked the fish before it disappeared back through the city walls and Rafayel didn't have to think twice as he turned away from Whalefall City to swim up to the surface; however, before he allowed himself to fully come out, he swam slowly as the damn words from the elders rang in his head. 

"The world on the surface is dangerous, even if those people worship our Sea God, there is a chance that someone will try to capture him."

"As the previous Lemurians have..." 

"Rafayel, you must never venture out to the surface world. Your people are here, that is all that should concern you." 

And the annoying part of all. "The Sea God will one day meet the Goddess of the Forest, and when that day comes, should he fall in love with her, it will be the beginning of the downfall of Lemuria."

Rafayel always thought it to be those stories to be something a parent would tell to their child to make them listen. And besides, Rafayel had always been, not only a rebellious soul, but one of sheer curiosity. 

Once he peeked out from the water, he spotted a woman by the shore. And he had seen a few other humans before, but something about her was different and he couldn't help but to swim towards the shore, closer to her. Who could she be? For some reason... he needed to know and while he doesn't know why he needs to, he simply just has to try; in a way, it felt as though there were residual feelings, feelings that weren't from him and that in itself baffled him.

So without thinking, his mouth opened to speak.

"Who might you be? You don't seem... human to me, although you do appear to be." He tilted his head briefly before letting out a laugh. "Ah, apologies. This is bold of me, I will admit."

[jake-fieldsrp]

Who: Open (7/7) capped When: Early Evening Where: Outside Cobblestone Cafe

It'd been a week (a week and a half now?) since being back in town —time showing its cruelty when a week back in his parent's house felt like only an hour and an eternity depending on the day. It'd been a while since he'd felt like this, a truly blank canvas. Supposed to be a recoup of sorts but where a week that would normally be a vacation was permanent. By day three when cracking open a comic was filled with a bizarre tightness in his chest, anxious an understatement. Today though, he left the perimeters of his parent's house in the burbs. An old crushed-up stack of flyers for music lessons with the ends frayed with his contact information he used to staple around Brooklyn in hand, Jake in the midst of stapling to a post for the hell of it, turning to the passerby, "Hey! Hey yeah, you dropped this..." Bending over to pluck the imaginary object to hand over one of his tabs, "You call within a week, first three sessions are free. And I'll tack on a holiday discount for the month of December."

[beckdean]

She should never have come here.

It had been curiosity that led her to the event - the pamphlet she had received at first quickly crumpled and thrown in a trash can. But, she'd recalled the words on the page 'supernatural or friends of the supernatural only' - and... despite her better judgement, she wanted to learn more. To truly understand this city, what lay within it. So, she'd allowed her hair to hang loose for once, even slipped on a dress from her pre-werewolf days - an attempt to blend in at the nightclub, as she entered through its doors.

Yet... there was something wrong here. She could feel it deep within her bones. Every part of her was on edge - what with the mixing of so many bodies, the loud pounding of the music, even the scents of so many species... every werewolf instinct was on high alert, her heart thundering and breathing heavy as she made her way through the crowd. Seeing the... situation on the main stage had been enough to almost send the young wolf into a full blown frenzy, that beast within stirring beneath her skin, threatening to appear - but what was worse was the lack of reaction from so many in the crowd, the way everyone continued dancing. Was this normal here? In a panic, she'd tried to thread her way in what she hoped was the direction of the exit - managing a few steps before she sees one of The Bunny workers right in front of her.

The worker was staring out at the crowd - eyes glassy and gaze numb, despite a drunken figure nearing them, leaning closer. One arm slung around the worker's waist, another hand running a line down their neck - no response from her, only unnerving apathy. Beck feels a flare of adrenaline as she storms over, grabbing hold of the guy's shoulder to try and pull him back. "Get your hands off her, before I remove them myself." She snarls with tense venom written all over her, trying to hold on to sanity as she feels her temper, and control, fleeting. But, the guy doesn't even respond - flashing only an intoxicated smile in Beck's direction, before he returns to his prey.

Which is enough to push Beck firmly over the edge. Not waiting another second, Beck grabs him with both arms and violently throws him in the opposite direction - accidentally tapping into her supernatural strength, as she sends him straight into the nearest fringe of the crowd. Beck stares down at her trembling hands with wide eyed horror, taking a shaking breath as she tries to find composure. Then, slowly, her gaze lifts upwards - recognising with dread the small area of carnage she has created, and the number of people now staring in her direction. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

[bordercollieholland]

Holland sat on the floor of the first common room, the heavy silence pressing in around him as he stared at the checkpoint. The voices of the other slaves chatting and playing games nearby served as a soft and steady background noise that did little to ease the turmoil in his mind. His thoughts drifted in and out of focus, a hazy collage of memories that tugged him between the past and the present.

He was back in the lab, the sterile smell of antiseptic sharp in his nostrils, the cold metal of the operating table biting into his skin. The pain from the surgeries, the long hours under harsh lights, the feeling of being reduced to nothing more than a test subject—all of it flooded his senses. But then, just as quickly, Holland’s thoughts drifted to the small, quaint apartment he had shared with Cécilia. It was a modest place, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, but it had been home. The tiny balcony was his favorite spot, just big enough for him to lounge and watch the world go by. He could almost feel the cool breeze on his face as he leaned over the railing, teasing the stray cats that wandered below. They’d hiss and arch their backs, and he’d bark back, amused by the simple, silly game.

That balcony had been his refuge, a place where he could relax and forget about the lab, the surgeries, and the pain. It was where he felt most at peace, with Cécilia nearby, her presence a constant comfort. Those moments felt so distant now, almost like they belonged to another life. She was gone now, and with her went any sense of safety he’d had.

The memory of the traders came next, the rough hands that had grabbed him, inspected him like he was no more than livestock. The humiliation burned in his chest as he recalled the way they’d forced him and the others into the truck. He could still hear the hushed conversation he had with the race horse shifter from Lyon, their shared fear masked by the familiarity of their native tongue. Where are they now? Did any of them end up here too? The question gnawed at him, but he shoved it aside, focusing instead on the discomfort in his hip. He shifted slightly, grimacing at the pain. The traders hadn’t been gentle, and his old injury flared up in protest.

Cécilia’s voice echoed in his mind, a reminder of the surgery she’d mentioned, something that might have helped if she’d had the time. But that was before… before everything had fallen apart and gone to merde. He gently touched his neck, instinctively feeling for his worn leather collar. Digits searching for the brass metal name plate and the worn vaccine tags. Instead, he found a different collar with no plate and no tags. He frowned, a pang of anxiety tightening in his gut.

A masculine voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. Holland’s heart raced as he stiffened, his eyes darting up to meet those of the newcomer. For a moment, he was disoriented, the transition from memory to reality jarring. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his mind, then mumbled an apology in French, his voice thick with the remnants of his reverie.

“Pardon… eh... d- do you want me to move?” His accent was heavy, the words coming out clumsily as he nervously licked his lips. His hand moved to his hair, fingers brushing against the messy strands as he fought to regain his composure. His ears, once twitching beneath his hair, vanished entirely as he shifted slightly, hiding the remnants of his other form. The memory of Cécilia’s comforting touch, the way she used to rub his ears, flashed through his mind, and a deep sense of loss welled up in his chest. He frowned, the grief threatening to pull him under once more, but he forced himself to focus on the present, on the person standing before him. His fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He avoided eye contact, his voice barely above a mumble as he spoke, the words tinged with uncertainty. "Je ne connais pas les règles de cet endroit… ni même où je suis," he admitted in French, his accent thick with the weight of his confusion and unease. "I don't know the rules of this place… or even where I am."

[thenextlordthorpe]

OPEN STARTER | OPEN TO ALL LOCATION | CYTHEREA GALLERY

When he was forced back to Mayfair, Tobias had made a promise to himself that he'd do anything to get back no matter what it took. Whistledown had provided him a solution, if she could write about his actions since he was back, the perceived mysteries of his past, or anything about his family then he could use that to get back. What he didn’t anticipate were other people’s reactions and how those he cared for being affected by him would cause such a horrid feeling. The ball and the hunt had soured him completely and made him aware just how stupid his plan had been. That was him all over. Impulsive and stubborn. While it had saved his life on numerous occasions, this was a different world and he could both see himself so outside of it like he wanted and sliding into the role others wanted of him.

Wanting some peace, he took to visiting the gallery knowing it would be quiet there with people still making their way home after the Sinclair event. Once inside, he’d walked around for a while before taking a seat near one painting that caught his eye. It was simple, a winter landscape of a man who cast aside his crutches, laying against a boulder and praying with a church in the background. Had the man given up a journey to get to the church or did he have no means to carry on, tired by his own inabilities and made his spot in the snow?

He'd been too involved in the painting that he didn’t notice someone join him. “I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he began unable to take his eyes off the man in the boulder trying to understand what happened to him, “what did you say?”

[rosaxseer]

open starter location: in the halls of the summer court, a few days after the arrival of everyone in the court

rosalyn had never liked unfamiliar places. not because she feared them—no, fear was too tangible, too grounded for what unsettled her. it was the in-betweenness of it all. the way walls blurred together when she wasn’t paying attention, how corridors stretched too long or bent too sharply when her mind wandered elsewhere. and now, here she was, untethered in the summer court, the salt-heavy air and golden light pressing against her senses like a too-warm embrace.

she had meant to follow the directions she had written out for herself after arriving. had even traced the path in ink over and over again in one of her journals. but now, standing in a hallway that felt like it had shifted when she wasn’t looking, rosa realized she had no idea where she was.

her skirts whispered against the polished floors as she turned in a slow, uncertain circle. no one had given her much notice so far—just another visitor drifting through the grand halls, a pale slip of a thing against the sun-kissed vibrancy of the court. but she could not keep wandering forever.

rosa exhaled, brushing a stray curl from her face, then spotted a figure just ahead. without hesitation, she crossed the space between them, light-footed and unbothered by the quick oddity of her own approach.

“pardon me.” she said, her voice lilting with its usual, airy cadence. “i seem to have misplaced myself. you wouldn’t happen to know where they’ve tucked away the dawn court chambers, would you?”

she tilted her head, gaze flickering over them like she was reading something only she could see. lingering a moment too long“or are you lost as well....or not here at all...do tell me if you arent real now, won’t you? i’d hate to be talking to nothing at all.”

[ritualove]

Open starter: @cardinalstart

Location: Bonnie's 

Alma may dress modestly, but she still has a strong appreciation on fashion. She won't wear anything too revealing, being more prudish, for lack of a better word, than many missionaries are. However, she does like clothes with shape, and the ever-rising, or ever-falling, loose fit of the grunge style getting more and more popular has left her in between a linen and a cotton place.

As Alma slowly made her way around the well kept stands in her favourite clothing boutique, Bonnie's. Alma was a stern arbiter, quickly deciding if any individual piece was worth a second look, the options this day seemed to be quite grim. The strange temperature of the store simultaneously not to hot and not to cold, yet still not entirely comfortable granted solace from the absolutely not hot, extremely cold temperature outside. She liked shopping quite a lot, but with the years of experience she has drudging through the designs of the garments in this store has given her some firm opinions about what she likes.

It was on the fourth rotating clothing rack where Alma found what she was looking for, a gorgeous blouse adorned with perfectly shaped and placed frills, and adorable buttons that were just to die for. To Alma's horror though, it was the most disgusting colour ever formulated by a dyer, frankly, it was the most disgusting colour possible of being perceieved by her now suffering photoreceptors. This just couldn't do, not to such a perfectly designed piece. Alma decided to fix it up with some magic, she couldn't resist such a nicely made garment. She gently placed the blouse on the rack, and slowly ran her hands across it. She watched as the colour of the shirt changed from the monstronsity, to a much more appropriate pastel pink. Her experience with magic meant she didn't have to take long to finish, and didn't have to do any chanting either.

To Alma's horror though, just as she finished, she heard the distinct sound of clothes hangers being clinked behind her. She spun around, holding the now pink shirt in hand, as she faced the person who suddenly appeared to her. She had forgetten one of the most important steps in her spell crafting process, making sure no one is around to see it. Alma let out a long "Uhh..." while she tried to tell if the person caught her doing magic, and come up with an excuse for why her blouse is a completely different colour to the others. "I just found this shirt here and it's such a different colour, but I couldn't find any like it. Isn't that weird?" Alma, famously, was a horrible liar. She hoped and silently prayed, that she hasn't been caught casting magic and accidentally revealed it to the entirety of human-kind. Her dad would be very angry if that was the case.

[farspaceapple]

Open starter; How many times this week? Twice? Thrice?

Probably more than Caleb would have liked. At this point, he was tired of seeing suspicious shadows and passive glances—clumsy attempts on his life. Whether for revenge or vengeance, it didn’t matter. They all ended the same way.

This time, too.

The man knelt before Caleb, crushed under the weight of his gravity evol. His bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets, desperately gasping for air as he reached for any shred of hope—the hope to survive the monster before him.

Just five minutes ago, he had been lurking behind a nearby building, watching Caleb and what might have been his girlfriend. They were laughing, pointing at something that had caught their attention. He had only looked away for a moment, and when he turned back, Caleb had vanished.

’Sigh.’

Suddenly, the weight of tons fell upon his shoulder, pinning him to the spot.

The voice from behind made his blood run cold.

“You must have a death wish.”

Damn, He'd been caught.

"I don't care who sent you. But I’ve been in a bad mood, thanks to people like you," Caleb spat at his would-be assassin.

The assassin trembled, feeling his body buckle under the unseen force Caleb commanded. The weight was unbearable, pressing down on his limbs like an anchor dragging him into the depths. He had seen monsters before, but none like this.

Caleb circled him slowly, each step deliberate, the crushing pressure increasing with every second.

The man desperately grunted as his neck tightened, and Caleb’s jaw clenched. The only thought running through Caleb’s head was, What if she saw?

The man before him continued to spew his final words, which fell on tired ears. All the same. It's the same tune.

"Those old foxes are still wasting my time. Still out to feed this pointless grudge?" Caleb spoke aloud, his voice flat, dangerous.

A bitter chuckle escaped the man’s throat, though it was cut short by the suffocating pressure. 'You… and the fleet… m-monsters…'

Caleb leaned down, his expression darkening, eyes narrowing. The words struck a bit deeper than he cared to admit. He let the silence stretch for a moment before finally responding.

"Maybe. If I am, I’d be the worst kind."

With a flick of his hand, the weight intensified. The assassin’s body crumpled under the strain, bones snapping like twigs as the life drained from his eyes. There was no sound, no final cry for mercy—only the quiet collapse of another would-be killer crushed beneath the force of Caleb’s evol.

Caleb stood there for a moment, staring down at the lifeless body, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t proud of it. He wasn’t even angry anymore. Just… tired.

Without a word, he cleaned up quickly, opening a black hole over the man’s body and letting it vanish. He turned away, the weight of his own conscience heavier than the gravity he wielded. His violet eyes glanced back to where he was needed. The excuse he had used to leave was catching up to him as his partner showed visible concern for how long he had been gone.

Caleb took a deep breath, steadying himself before returning to her—ready to fill in his missing time expertly.

The shadows of the past were creeping closer every day.

[tanvimvshra]

WHO: Open Starter (2/3) WHERE: Paradise Point Resort & Spa

Anyone who knew Tanvi knew that while she liked to keep up appearances where her wardrobe was concerned, you’d be hard pressed to ever find her at the spa. Sure, she loved a good pedicure as much as the next person, but everything else? Count her out. Facials and manicures required too much trust in strangers while you were in a vulnerable position and if she wanted to sit naked in a hot room full of steam she’d just forget to turn the fan on in the bathroom when she took a shower. However, she’d been hired to look in to one of the masseurs in regards to yet another cheating case, and while she hadn’t wanted to go into the proverbial lion’s den, there she found herself- in a comfy robe and slippers, following a man down a way too well lit hallway for the little amount of clothes she was currently wearing.

However, her surveillance was quickly nearly derailed as the man she'd been following turned stopped walking and looked like he was about to turn around. In a blind panic (she couldn't be caught again), the private investigator quickly turned around and booked it best she could in the opposite direction. She'd dropped her phone- which she'd been using to film- and cursed rather loudly, now having to make the decision to go back for the device or to leave it. But Tanvi couldn't let her phone with way too much footage of this man's life land in his hands, so she really had no choice.

Letting out an annoyed (with herself, of course) sigh, she came sliding to a stop and turned back around to retrieve the purple iPhone, only to come face to face with someone she hadn't noticed before. "Oh uh, hi?" She offered with a bit of a grin. "These robes are so soft, aren't they?"

[xgeorgetteollivanderx]

where: three broomsticks. who: open.

It was Georgette's birthday. She wasn't too keen on the day seeing as how the person who gave birth to her gave her up but there was always a tiny bit of something that she appreciated about the day, though she hated admitting it. She had come so far from the parents who dropped her at Uncle Garrick's door. She was now twenty-six. Where had the time gone?

She decided, perhaps against her better judgment, to go to the Thee Broomsticks. She had a sweet tooth, something most people didn't know about her. She longed for a butterbeer. So she went. A treat to herself on her birthday regardless of the fact that she didn't have much money on her.

Uncle Garrick had left her a birthday card on her nightstand, something he did every year. she kept every card. For some reason she brought it with her, wanting to read over the loving words over and over again.

"One butterbeer," she said to the barkeep as she sat down at the bar. Twiddling her thumbs and opening the card Georgette saw someone choose to sit next to her. It was her day so why did she have to socialize? Georgette closed the card and just looked at the person and nodded.

[hollowfaith]

「✦」 When Aurelius next awakes, it is dark, and he is warm.

Blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings, the angel tries to stir—and finds himself floating in some sort of enclosed space, just wide enough for him to stretch and touch the walls. A moment of confusion ensues—had his angels moved him indoors?—before a messy jumble of memories hits him straight on.

Sky. Swords. Blood. Klaus—

Of all the people he had trusted, Klaus had—

He doesn't finish that thought before an involuntary shudder wracks his body. Feverishly, he inspects his body in the dim lighting, checking to see that all his limbs are intact, then touches frantically at the walls, looking for a way out.

Seconds later, the giant, golden-leafed tree ejects him from its trunk, and Aurelius falls on all fours at its base. It's late afternoon and bitterly cold; he wonders if this is why he's shaking as he climbs to his feet, fingers trembling beneath his gaze.

"....."

He looks at the tree, then at the familiar house beside it. It's a place he knows, but now utterly foreign to him. For some reason, there's a sweater and scarf around the trunk of the tree as well, along with a completely unnecessary jacket—as if a plant could use those things to keep warm. He doesn't recognize them as gifts for himself while his mind plays catch-up with the present.

I need to leave.

Certainly, it wasn't safe here anymore. Klaus had chosen his side in their last fight, and condemned him to confinement in a world where death was meaningless. As long as a world with humans existed, there would be no room for him to stand by his side.

It was a truth he'd guessed from the start, but been too stubborn to accept until his partner—his soulmate—had stood against him, and very nearly killed him.

The thought turns him woozy; Aurelius pauses to catch his breath before pushing off from the tree to walk forwards. Could he fly? Or would that make him too easy to spot from the skies? Perhaps going deeper into the woods was an option until he figured out where to head next. His legs feel like jelly—how long had he been asleep? A root from the tree catches him unawares, and he trips, sprawling on the dirt like some uncoordinated fawn.

He crawls back upright—faster this time—and keeps stumbling forward. At the house he pauses, holding onto its walls as he scans the forest for his best way of escape. East or southeast, perhaps. Using the setting sun to gauge his position, Aurelius picks out a suitable opening in the trees and dives right in.

@anghexescu ໒꒱ hurry klaus ur not-BF is going awol

[imjustanauthor]

@il-mostrc

The strange nature of cases designated an X-File meant that the circumstances surrounding the investigation often ended up being just as unusual as the content within. Sometimes people contacted Mulder directly, having heard word of his work, sometimes he found them through the media or internet forums, and, surprisingly rarely, they came through official FBI routes.

This was one of the few cases that had been on record before Mulder had picked it up, though that wasn't to say it had come to him in the form of an X-File itself. Instead, what had happened was he had connected some dots, put his own case together, and petitioned for it to be taken seriously. Usually, this didn't work out in Mulder's favour, what with the outlandish claims he had a habit of making, but maybe somebody had accidentally filed a response incorrectly because somehow he'd found himself with a response officially sanctioning his investigation.

It wasn't just one weird situation that Mulder was looking into this time. There had been a whole string of strange, elaborate murders in one single county, and he was convinced that there was something unnatural to it. Oh yes, killers had already been identified in the vast majority of the cases - he wasn't going to deny that - but there had to be something more to it. After all, you just didn't see crimes like that at such a high frequency!

Mulder's whole proposition had been based on not the profiles of the individuals involved, but rather the population as a whole. Being an extremely talented criminal profiler (when he wasn't too busy chasing ghosts and ghouls), this was something that he had been able to argue with ample research backing him up. However, this was the X-Files, and therefore there had to be a twist. In this case, it was demonic in nature.

The theory was simple. A demonic presence was in the area, encouraging some kind of murderous psychosis in select residents. If Agent Scully weren't on holiday, she would have surely laughed at the idea, but she was too busy sunning herself on a European beach to care. That did, however, leave Mulder without the medical professional assistance that he had come to rely on.

Through a series of connections and called in favours, a replacement for Scully had been found. Apparently there was a doctor who had been helping the FBI with some similarly elaborate murders (perhaps there had been a demon there too?) and, somehow, someone had got him to agree to help out. That was how Mulder had found himself in a morgue, waiting for one Doctor Hannibal Lecter to appear.

The man was, thankfully, perfectly punctual, appearing exactly as the hour ticked over as had been arranged. Mulder cast an eye over him, taking note of his appearance as he sauntered over to shake his hand in greeting.

"Doctor Lecter, I assume. My name's Special Agent Mulder. I hear you've agreed to perform an autopsy for me," he said. "We're looking for any signs of anything ritualistic or otherwise unusual. Have you been briefed already?"

At this point, Mulder was assuming he hadn't been. When it came to the X-Files, people often seemed reluctant to actually mention the details of what was going on.

[voraciouslyindulgent]

@viciousbite asked: -insert the meme icon to finding him next to a dead body here- //from Darkfang

Send ⚠ to find my muse next to a dead body

Beauty lived most vibrantly in the dying shrieks of a spark. The terror, the rage, the wordless pleas - none begged more desperately for life than on the precipice of oblivion. Tendrils of pure energy lashed and fought in whips of blinding light, screams unheard by all but the one plucking the strings. His own spark trembled with anticipation, pushing against the confines of its chamber. It felt too full, too hot, a smoldering burn nearly painful. Tarn wondered, a stray thought, if it would leap from his frame had he submitted to its desires and bared himself to its feast.

"Like the sun, how pristine it shines upon his light." He orated in a soft, gentle murmur, the libretto of a grand opera much adored. "Most sincere he was, yet betrayal he has committed to his most devout."

The mech below him, a dissenter who'd dared to threaten the peace of a triumphant Empire, let out an agonized cry, the jarring noise laced with static. Broken digits grasped for his mask, for his throat, but the grip was weak as energon bled a hefty pool across the ground. Upon the moon of a distant planet, hidden in the alleyway of a transport hub, Tarn sang the last notes of his hunt, and allowed his spark to gorge for the first time in years.

"Torn he was from his most beloved, from this world, by his own sword." The mech's life sputtered and flickered beneath him, stolen by force as his spark, its light barely visible through the seams of his armor, claimed consumption and ate its fill. "Truer oaths than his have never been sworn. None was purer." He sighed, shivering. "More loved...was no other."

The mech's hands fell limply, splattering in the puddle of energon faintly glowing. His plating dulled, mouth agape but lax, as Tarn completed his recitation. The last ribbon of energy seeped through his chassis, slipping between crevices to be taken by the insatiable hunger within him. With audible clicks, his armor closed snugly, and sealed his spark.

Overwhelmed still by the encounter, Tarn sat atop the corpse, kneeling on the wet, muddy ground. Intoxicated, his ventilation hummed a constant stream of heat, fuel pump a steady, thudding beat inside him. Stowed away in the dark, he didn't suspect anyone would discover him, or that an onlooker might be present. Oblivious, he waited for the rush to abate, optics dim and gaze unseeing.