#KERJHM

[sunlessea]

what if we shipped and ur muse dated a vampire and that vampire showed affection by biting n drinking their blood haha what then

[turnsorrow]

It's nice to see you on the dash again! (Marionmaverick here)

THANK U FRIEND i'm so glad to be back, i missed alisaie ...

[sunlessea]

oh, dear. so much for being polite. he's quite sheepish in the face of the other man's surprise, his smile shifting from curious to guilty, though there's a somewhat dismissive narrowing of his eyes. not exactly glaring, but there's more behind the smile than just tender curiosity. very well mannered, this man. he doesn't blame him for it, of course. he supposes it's rather rude of him to have approached in this state of dress, but the truth is ... he so rarely sees people around the castle who do not belong there, already. queen victoria values her privacy, and albert would never deny her it.

"and how would you describe it, then? you're only a painter, certainly no god among men." if his words are meant to offend, he's good at hiding it, so innocently are they spoken! but he genuinely doesn't mean it to be so cruel as it sounds, amusement 'pon his face as he looks past the artisan to the portrait of muted colors behind him. he's right. it's a dreadfully boring piece. "not very ... colorful, is it? i'd hope your usual work is less dreary than my parents. but i can't blame mother. she can't see her own reflection in a mirror, you know. i suppose that's why she asks for so many portraits..."

just an oddity of the 'neath, he assumes. he wonders why he didn't lose his reflection when the city fell. he'd hate to see how pale he looks, now, as he walks to lean 'gainst a nearby table. not to be rude, so much as how out of breath he feels having walked the length of the castle. and now speaking! his heart would give out.

"she'd fire you if you called her that to her face. or execute you... but i won't tell." his nose scrunches, his voice breaking a bit as he holds back a cough. he manages, blessedly. "so we haven't. i am prince lovek, youngest of the victoria's. not quite king of london to be, you can imagine." he squints in the artisan's direction, as if considering him, before raising a hand in an L shape, to frame the man's face. "prince. lovek. my family is old fashioned, so they're like to have warned you of the sickly princess in these halls. are you kinder?"

easier to call it a state of fixation, if not pure entrancement, the artisan and his work. one never works a day in their life, if they find something they love—and how true that was, the simple reverie that comes with every brushstroke, the hum caught under his breath whenever he pulls his hand back to clean the paint off the bristles and mix another. so repeats : a few minutes of actual labour, the rest in preparation, his gaze doesn't lift anywhere it doesn't need to—and even had there been any louder bustle, he isn't sure he would've heard it at all. much less the footsteps of someone stranger.

unsurprising, then, how sharply he lurches back, eyes wide even before he catches sight of him—and then higher, quickly after. the palace despite all her scandal is still a place devoid of depravity, resulting both his shock and temporary distraction to linger less in contrast to how easily he falls back to a state of composure.

" that's a terribly paltry way of describing it, " a small scrunch of the nose, but if he were annoyed—he certainly hides it well, the smile 'cross his lips perfect and porcelain. " it's nothing quite so interesting this time, i'm afraid. though i would be grateful if you didn't relay so much to her, i think i've painted her portrait more times than i could count these last few years alone. " so was the curse of being one of the queen's favorites among her court. he could hardly claim to be ungrateful, how well she paid, though there are only so many extravagant and gaudy dresses one could paint before they all start to blend together.

he lets his gaze drop briefly enough to set his tools aside and grab a spare cloth to wipe his hands clean : no matter how hard he tried, there was no avoiding the colorful stains across his skin. but prettied up enough, he shifts in his seat, propping his arms across his lap to lean against them as his head lolls 'gainst his shoulder as he regards them. small curiosities. " you're old vic's child, was it? i don't believe we've met. "

[sunlessea]

the bazaar is burning. it's the greatest act of rebellion any one man has ever pulled in the neath, a mob set upon the streets of london to decry the masters and demand either their compliance or their heads. the scene isn't so unfamiliar for humanity, not really. plenty of martyrs were made for the sake of freedom through the six million years he'd witnessed this world struggle. he'd never intended to be one.

cassius ashburnum : a hero, a revolutionary, the seed of this chaos. he's killed mr fires, they're screaming. killed a master and taken the bazaar down with it!

the freedom he'd sought is more selfish than all that. they'd found out. and what other choice had he had?

"you've come to arrest me." his voice is hoarse, strained. he'd inhaled more than his fair share of smoke, evident in the burns wrapped tight with gauze 'round his body and the black singes to the ends of his hair. the doctor had done what they could've ... but they knew the masters would come knocking, sooner or later.

cassius stands with a surprising amount of dignity as he throws himself off the cot despite his injuries, and almost as quickly, the burnt cloak he'd discarded falls back around him. he tugs up the hood, to cover his head. he won't speak to it, after this. or any of them. "we both know what the masters will do next. get it over with."

he expects, and why wouldn't he, that mr nests has come to herald his execution.

@londonfallen / mr nests