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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years ago

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CONGRATULATIONS, LEXX!

You have been accepted for the role of DMITRI ALEKSEEV. Admin Rosey: First of all, Lexx, I’m so sorry for the wait! I was so enthralled by your application that I lost track of time reading it, and truthfully, it took me longer than it should have to put what I loved about it into words, because there was so much! Your plot points were amazing and so well thought-out; as if they alone weren’t enough to show how well you know him, your samples blew me away. You captured his voice perfectly, and with your words, you painted a picture of Dmitri I’d never seen before. Well done! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Lexx

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 21+

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: 6 -7: Typically I am around for plotting/chatting daily, as for IC interactions, it might depend on how RL affects my muse, but even so, once 1-2 days I should be able to write at least one reply. This is sort of a worst case scenario, because on top of having a full-time job, I typically leave town most weekends during the summer months, and I have a holiday coming up between the 14th and 24th of July, but things should slow down after that, and my activity should stabilize to at least 7/10. My timezone is GMT+2, which could also affect my real time responses as I’m 7+ hours ahead of American RPers.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: n/a - they’re inactive

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Dmitri Timofey Alekseev

DMITRI– like the earth goddess he was named after, his mood swings have the capacity to influence all around him. He gives, and he takes away. He dabbles in people, rather than nature, but like entire harvests are crushed by hail, so too can he bring immense devastation with the flick of his fingers. If he’s unhappy, everyone suffers. When he is content, others may be, as well.

TIMOFEY – “honoring god” and there’s no greater one worthy of worship than him. He is the first in his family in generations to be Grisha, what further proof would he need of his significance, of the importance of his role in shaping what is to come? He is designed for critical and magnificent things, he is a creature capable of affecting the very molecules that keep humans together, and that can be nothing other than further evidence of his preeminence.

ALEKSEEV – a family name, a human name, but it suits him, as at the Ravkan court one’s ancestry is vital, and his is exemplary. A noble, strong household. Diplomats and politicians and advisors, people versed in manipulating others for their own ends, of twisting the situation to their advantage, people whose subtlety of thinking brought them as close to power as anyone without royal blood could get. But they are not him, of course, for he is altogether more. Where they did not excel in a country at war, where their silver tongues did not turn to bullets, and they had to flee in order to maintain their relevance, Dmitri would show the rest of the world that he can be a warrior, he can be a killer, he can be the worst monster of them all – as calculating as he is cruel.

DESCRIBE THE SAME CHARACGTER TWICE

TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THEM

There is no indulgence he refuses himself, he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it. He turns hedonism into an art form. He’s suave, confident and sultry, unafraid and uninhibited. He’s his own blessing, he is the only god he worships, and such supreme aplomb turns everything he does into a game only he knows how to win. He’s deliciously amoral, unencumbered by sentiment, or personal attachments. He’s the center of his own universe, and he makes all around him dance to his tune.

TO BE REPULSED BY THEM

With confidence, comes vanity, but that is, perhaps, the least among the plethora of mortal sins he dabbles in. His gluttony is devastating enough to eat the whole world raw, the force of his lust would bring angels to their knees. He thirsts for blood, for the rush he feels when he has another’s life at the tips of his fingers. He’s both sides of the coin, capable of bringing maddening pleasure, and cause immeasurable pain, and indeed, more often than not, a coin toss is all he needs to decide.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

A deity born of unworthy clay, and oh, how they knew it. If blame could be placed on anyone but himself, then his parents are responsible for much of his pitilessness. Adored and spoiled rotten from the first moment he drew breath, Dmitri grew up with all the advantages of a privileged birth, with all the gifts nature could bestow on a creature. Beautiful and charming, and so incredibly cruel. He isn’t weighed by principles. His disregard for other people is fascinating. He is a rotten thing with an angel’s face, and he thinks the world is his. That it was made for him. He’s never suffered hardships, what he wanted he got, always, and he’s smug and self-serving and greedy.

He takes everything for granted and he takes everything as his due. Even his power, which is why he uses it so freely, so carelessly, taking when others aren’t willing to give. People are his playthings, the world is his stage, and he’s never known the taste of refusal.

As someone who has no ideal in the world but himself, he lacks consistency and has no worthy goals. Whether the world ends in fire, or in ice, he does not care as long as he sits atop the pile of bodies. The future is a distant, unimportant detail to him, the legacy he seeks to leave has a more immediate effect. He wants his name to be on people’s lips now, and he doesn’t quite care how it gets there. There is no negative publicity in his mind, which is why he does not care that people whisper “the Darkling’s bitch” as he walks by. At least they’re talking about him, and he sees whatever attention they grant as his due, even if it will never be enough to satisfy.

I think a significant part of his character is his absence of feeling, and this is something I would like to delve into further. He can be brought low by circumstances, and he’s capable of negative emotions, but there is no denying he is almost enamored with himself, and he has the ability to find precedence in things, he is aware enough of his surroundings and how to put them to use to achieve maximum satisfaction, but this is done in a distant, conniving way, and he is maladroit at considering anyone else a ‘person’. He sees people as a means to an end, sometimes for a minor purpose – for pleasure, or his own amusement – and others as steps to climb on in order to reach greatness.

He’s empty, he is a beautiful lie, his eyes are ice, he’s covered in blood, his skin is silk kissed by worms and if they were given a choice, if they could see him for what he truly is, no one would touch him. But he is the flame, and people are just moths. Even the devil was an angel once – the most beautiful angel of them all. He is Conquest, their bodies are his battlefield. He is Famine, always hungry, leaving them starved and begging for more. He is Pestilence, he would find his way into their blood, and he would waste them away from the inside out. He is Death, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

[Disclaimer: these are only suggestions as it is far from my intention to GM anyone else’s characters and I would be happy to discuss these plot bunnies further and adjust them where needed]

ZERO SUM GAME – Dmitri’s been using his power longer than he could talk, longer than he understood that he was different, or had a notion of right or wrong. It comes as naturally to him as breathing, it’s a sense he’s never been without, and he doesn’t know – nor does he want to – how to turn it off. He sees the world through the sound of hearts beating, through feeling someone before touching them. And while at first it’s been crude and inelegant, the reactions he caused too strong, leaving signs of his presence in their bloodstream, he’s had years to hone his skill, to perfect his craft to the point where he’s almost unnoticeable. There is no denying he has a superiority complex – especially when it comes to the otkazat’sya. When it comes to fellow Grisha, he’s more reluctant to unleash his power against them, based on his belief that they are not to be quite so easily discarded. The Sun Summoner, though, is untrained, untested and raising too quickly above her station that it grates at him. He wants to drive a wedge between her and the Darkling, and for the time being, while she’s fresh and gullible, there are a number of options. Should he incite her to betrayal by pushing her into Anton’s arms? Once that happens, he could tell the Darkling that Viktor plans to supplant his brother, the information would surely hold more weight then, than it does now.

Or rather, should he befriend her, seduce her, make her believe he’s indispensable to her, and use her as the way back in the Darkling’s inner circle? His resentment of her is quite great at this point, but ultimately Dmitri won’t be easily swayed by personal feelings if he has more to gain by ignoring them. If he finds himself back in a position of favor, will he grovel and apologize and worship the Soverenyi, or will he still nurse his wounded pride, and plot against him? If, or rather when, he finds out the Darkling is looking for the amplifiers, will he want to get to them first, and if he succeeds in that, will he hand them over or keep them for himself – will he, once he figures out what Aleksander wants, involve Viktor in his quest to improve his odds? He needs time to break Lantsov’s will, to wear down his resistance, if he wants his work to last, he has to be subtle and rushing a job, especially this job comes with great risk. For the moment, he prefers weighing his options, testing the waters, tugging at strings in one direction or another just to see which would be the easiest path to getting his due.

THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS – to look upon the Darkling was to look into a mirror. At least on Dmitri’s part, seeing all the things he thought he was, laid bare. To see people gaze at the Darkling, was to finally, finally find a definition for the black hole inside him. The mix of fear and respect, awe and wariness – it was all he fancied himself he was and more – because it was real, it was acknowledged and reinforced by others. He became one of the many shadows dancing around him, at least for a little while. He took those first steps willingly, accepting him as his lord and master. He had his taste of real power as the devil on his shoulder, whispering everyone’s darkest secrets in his ear. Everyone’s but his. Even as he exposed others to the judgement of the Darkling, he suppressed, hid, kept himself to himself. He thought he belonged with Aleksander, but he could not quite convince himself he belonged to him. He imagined the Darkling would understand a creature such as him, a fellow god, could only ever be on the same footing, never on his knees. He was wrong, and the taste of failure is bitter in his mouth. He lacked his experience, his skill, something akin to wisdom and Dmitri had never been wise. His restlessness, his constant hunger for more, everything, always scrapping for a bigger piece of the pie drove him towards the wider world, seeking what the Darkling wouldn’t provide. Entertainment, meaningless and crude, a game with no stakes other than his own amusement. The weight of his own discontent, the Darkling’s disapproval could only be displaced by surrounding himself with lesser beings where his superiority was plain for all to see. He craves the idolatry of the masses, and the Darkling is so distinctly apart from all the humbug that his distant approval never could have been enough to fill the emptiness inside him. He is still the best chance he has of seeing his ambitions realized, of seeing his name carved in flesh and blood on the surface of the earth, of having his name turned into a curse, of being seen for the famished, cruel god he is. But he’s drifting, untethered, away from his sphere of influence, each moment pushing him further away from meeting his goals. He’s rootless and simmering in the depths of his own resentment – at himself, at the Darkling, at all he holds in higher regard than him. He still collects secrets, hoards them like the selfish dragon he is, overflowing with the seductive, poisonous power of those things he holds close to his chest: Viktor plots against his brother; have you noticed how that Fjerdan prowls like a wolf? The king’s advisor is guilty of regicide, she stalks the Lantsov bastard like a bitch in heat; the princess is hiding something and I’m not the only one on their trail – he’s drowning in secrets that aren’t his, drowning as he watches his opportunities ever dwindling, pulling him, kicking and screaming, into obscurity. Can he do anything about any of those things without the Darkling’s help? Can he assert his own power without assistance? Or is he already doing it, and all he’s good for is fucking confidences out of people? The thought rankles, it sounds unjust, and if he could only untangle one of these knots without help, perhaps he can prove he’s been misjudged. But his pride, his bitterness, keep him languishing on the edges while others take precedence in the Darkling’s plans. He fails to see the appeal of Altan – nothing but a butcher, with as much finesse in his whole being as Dmitri could scrap from his perfectly polished shoes. He dismisses the oprichniki out of hand – they’re only human, and so easily replaceable for all they might think otherwise. And the Sun Summoner is getting a little too friendly with the crown prince. But then again, what else could one expect from a mere peasant when she finds herself in the presence of royalty, tarnished or not? She must be a bastard herself. Truth is that Dmitri believes that he alone can help the Darkling with the finer points of his plans, and it bothers him that the other man doesn’t think likewise. Exposing everyone else's deficiencies to Aleksander is beginning to sound more and more tempting. He would start with the Pavlova girl, and bide his time until she missteps. And keep his eye on the petty power grabs of humans and their silly, meaningless crown, as well. A fact made easy by having placed himself in a Lantsov’s bed. His manipulation is subtle, thorough, taking small steps to extract information from him, planting ideas in Viktor’s head, though he really doesn’t think the bloodhound would require much of his assistance to turn to fratricide.

FOR KING & COUNTRY – and of course, the questions are which king and why should he restrict himself to just one country, when he can have the whole world? But he is quite impatient, and impulsive. He’s never learned to be persevering, not really, so far no objectives he’d set himself have been really that difficult to surmount. Learning to deny himself immediate satisfaction is a struggle. And while there is no refuting the fact that the Darkling has the advantage of being Grisha – a state of being Dmitri himself considers far superior – his snubbing of the favored son was a bitter pill to swallow, whether it had been warranted of not. Dmitri wants back in his graces, but how long would he have to suffer, and be ignored until his resentment becomes greater than his infatuation? He was not made to waste away in the shadows, he was supposed to thrive in the darkness. Ultimately, it’s a matter of his own welfare, and there is no doubt that he values that above all else. He finds a match to his savagery in Viktor’s bloodthirstiness, and in truth, Dmitri’s brand of manipulation works far better on the Lantsov hound than on the Darkling. His strings are easier to pull, and his role as the puppeteer is well known and comfortable. But the man is presumptuous enough to imagine he’s superior simply because he’s a prince, and Dmitri might find that amusing now, while he dances to his tune, but there is no denying his pride will not allow him to remain content in this position while Viktor is so openly derisive. At least the Darkling once offered him the recognition he so craves, and for all the Grisha are classified as secondary Dmitri believes that the one capable of turning the tables on the measly humans, for all their greater numbers, is Aleksander. Still, he could switch camps, if the opportunity presents itself, to be the only one of his kind, to be singled out and adored, but the devastation would have to be complete. He finds plenty of allure in being the sole Grisha, there is immeasurable power in the concept, more so even than what the Darkling has to offer. To be known as the one who reduced the Second Army to a mountain of corpses is a treasured prospect. His footnote in history would be final, his transformation into a destroyer of worlds, complete and irreversible. The mere idea is enough to get him drunk on power. But first, Viktor has to prove himself worthy of such attention, of the privilege of being the object through which Dmitri’s machinations will be realized. And he is a mere pup, letting his bastard half-brother steal his crown while he sits idly by, sulking like a child, unappreciative of a greater power and impertinent where he should be reverential. The Grisha is even less patient with others than he is with himself, and while he will try to steer the man in the right direction, should he prove belligerent, he would have no qualms to eradicate him as a nuisance and throw his lot in with the Darkling.

CROWN THE BASTARD – Dmitri sincerely doubts Anton would be first bastard on the throne, as well versed as he is in the intricacies of lust, but it just goes to show that to name something is to define it. The line of Lantsovs on the throne has been unbroken – or so they claim, but what he knows of the base nature of people belies such boasts. He’s stuck between wanting to laugh in their faces, and kill them all for their stupidity. Nothing should matter in this world, but power, and ever since the crown fell on his head, Anton seems to believe he has it. That he is prepared for the task at hand, that he will succeed. It’s easy for a heartrender to see through the lies at court, easier still for one such as him, attuned from infancy to the beat of others’ hearts, but the crown prince’s confidence seems quite a steady melody. He will claim other reasons, of course, but in reality, Dmitri has chosen to fuck with him, first and foremost, out of spite. It is so easy to stay out of his line of sight in a crowded room, so easy to exert his influence from a distance, making him believe he longs from something at one point, or imagining he’s nervous by a sudden rush of blood, confusing his instincts so that people who might genuinely want to help him appear as rivals instead. He can follow the threads of want and wanting all the way to the object of their desires. There are no secrets that are truly safe from him. They might all wear their glittering courtiers’ masks, but they cannot hide the spike in their pulse, the small catch of breath, the unsteady stutter from a heart who fears and wants and betrays them to him. He pays special attention to the crown prince, seeing the advantage of making him unsteady, falter and fail. He coaxes his body to small treacheries, a twitch here and there, an ill-timed blush, or a brief bout of bleariness when he ought to be paying attention. He’s careful, for he cannot be close enough to hear what he says, and he must always choose his moments wisely. But he wants to acclimate Anton to his effect, step by tiny step so that when the time comes and he needs to strike irresolutely and without mercy, the man would be too tangled in all the ways he cannot control himself that he’ll think the blame lays with him. He does not want him on the throne, not as he is, so focused on the Sun Summoner, seeing her as the hope of his nation, and belittling everyone else. Corporalki are the chosen of the Grisha, they alone have the option to create or destroy, to shape their power to their will, and seeing an Etherealki – an inexperienced one at that – raised above him rankles. At least the Darkling appreciates the subtlety of Dmitri’s science, at least the Darkling has lived long enough to master his skills beyond all others. That chit of a girl with her pretty, empty lights cannot hope to threaten the divine order, and a human involving himself with Grisha power structure is a challenge that cannot go unanswered. One day, he will choose to betray the secrets he gleans from the bastard – oh yes, he knows, he can feel the queen’s distress whenever she looks at him, can almost smell the doubt on Anton – to the highest bidder, and he will rejoice in his downfall.

THE HEART OF RAVKA – it’s right there in the name, they fall right into his sphere of influence. Dmitri knows how hearts work, at least from a physical standpoint. Their language is easy for him to understand, and he knows how to make them sing. And the heart of a princess isn’t something he could claim ownership over, just yet. But he can see the appeal of such a prize, the lure of lifting himself above his humbler beginnings. Marrying a princess makes him a prince, does it not? A title that Viktor, for all his appeal, cannot and would not grant him. A title the Darkling cannot grant him. There is power in words, just as there is in sinew, and power is something he could never resist. Their innocence is not an insurmountable obstacle,merely a nuisance. He would have them if he wants them. And, in turn, they will teach him endurance, how to bide his time, and how to bend to their desires first, rather than have them bend to his. His coldness will have to be tempered; he cannot take without giving something in return, in this case. He must be cautious, and serene. He must prove he has a heart, even if it’s just pretend. As he feigns vulnerability, he will reveal his shortages, even if only to himself. For all his mastery of the carnal, he never did comprehend the emotional, or saw much of its use – at least not to him, but others place great significance in it, so he would try. He has the ability to cure their bleeding heart, or at least convince them he did. He can affect grief, and humility, thoughtfulness and comprehension. He could be a cheerful companion, or a shoulder to cry on. It’s a long game, and he must be infinitely watchful, for if he puts on too much of a façade, he will lose them to the rumors at court that paint him as anything but a caring man. He must be discreet, but at least with that he’s had plenty of practice. It’s an interesting notion, to boost himself not through carnage, but through gentleness. He isn’t convinced he won’t grow bored, eventually. But still, having their ear would be an advantage, and should he tire of them – well, he’s always looking for new ways to hurt. Breaking a heart without leaving physical damage is a mere honing of his skills. And theirs is already so cracked, it wouldn’t take much to crumble at all.

THE POWER & CHANCE OF DOING PROFOUND HURT – all things living must die, disintegrate and rot and sex might be the height of life, blood pumping, heart thudding, skin singing at the barest touches, but death has just as much allure to Dmitri. Bodies talk to him in a language better than words. He can track the veins all the way to their hearts, he can see the organs beneath the veneer of skin, he feels lungs that aren’t his expanding with breathing. It is so easy, so ridiculously easy, for him to play with that, to tug at people’s strings, one moment making them feel alive, another luring their deaths closer, delighting in the rush of panic, the last, desperate attempt to draw in another breath, to force a heart to beat one more time. He’s hungry for death, for the taste of fear in another’s bloodstream. He is Grisha, he is a soldier, he was born to kill and there are simply not enough opportunities around court to do what he was meant to do. He wants chaos, he wants bloodshed, and he is willing to pick fights with little lambs in the hopes that they might sprout claws. It might not be enough to slake his thirst, but he finds her infinitely frustrating – they are like gods and she chooses to serve, instead, making a mockery of her fire. He does not mind being the instrument of punishment – the eagle rending her liver piece by delicious piece – for daring to deny her nature. She can reshape him in her fire, though Dmitri doubts she knows how, and he can tinker with her flesh, they cut themselves on one another, dogs with a bone, and so far there’s been no winning in their war of tug. Not many people can resist his siren call, and it’s discomfiting that she’d managed to for this long. Perhaps he’s losing his touch, perhaps he never had it – merchants, humans all, might not have been the challenge he’d originally predicted. But he can, at least, hone his skill on her, until she’s his, or until she’s destroyed by it, and he can divine something from her ruin.

APEX PREDATOR – Dmitri does not like to see his prey hunted by others, he’s never been one for sharing his toys. And there’s something about Sergei that doesn’t sit right with him – he’d grown up with his ambassador father, after all, a man bred for the task, and the Fjerdan fits the role like a round peg in a square hole. There’s a restraint to his movements that speaks of barely contained violence. He is not who he claims to be, and given his nationality, Dmitri is willing to wager he’s not Anton’s biggest problem, but theirs, instead. The Practitioners of the Small Sciences. He plans to ingratiate himself to the man, to use his unique brand of seduction to confuse and confound him, to negotiate a position better suited for uncovering his secrets, for striking first, should he be given reason to. And he does not like how Iskra – the one Grisha away from the safety of the Little Palace – has drawn his attention. He cares not for the girl, but he cares even less for a druskelle, and if there is anyone who ought to discipline an errant Grisha, then the task should fall to one of her own.

I HAVE BECOME DEATH – Dmitri revels in the subtlety of his craft, the careful waning and webbing of blood, the way nerves respond so eagerly to his coaxing. He sees his power in all the ways he can hide his influence, not in the obvious tearing of the throat, not in how easily the clench of his fist obliterates a heart. He’s insidious, refined, like the shrewdest poison. To be poison is what he craves; to not only see people die by his will, but to know he’s hidden his tracks well, too. To be capable, if the need arises, to shift the blame on someone else. He would be eager to find an Alkemi, to learn how to replicate the symptoms of clever venoms through his skill. He would seek out someone as interested in all the ways bodies can break and work together, to uncover a new facet of his ability that would serve in the environment of the court – if only to strike panic in the hearts of its residents. He’d learned long ago that fearful creatures are much easier to manipulate and subdue than those whose will has never been tested.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: To be honest, I can easily see how his story would end in tragedy. He is the villain in his story, and he’s too greedy, too power-grabbing and impatient to ever feel satisfied. The subtlety of his powers, and his ambitions might keep him in check for a little while, might make him a difficult enemy to remove, but in the long run, his unpredictability and obsession with chaos could prove to be his downfall. I would definitely be interested in exploring his character while he balances precariously on the edge of his mortality, and losing control of all the strings he's been trying to pull. Will it happen gradually, or all at once? Will he cease to merely consider betrayal and set himself on a course of action that would bring about his demise? It could even be something as simple as fumbling his grip on one of his toys at the wrong moment, or breaking someone beyond even his ability to contain.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

[tw: underage scenes of a sexual nature; graphic language; age difference]

i. THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED FAINTLY IN THE CORNER, a soft rhythm so as not to distract people from mingling, and the candelabras glittered magnificently in the dance of the candles. He lounged lazily, bored with the sumptuousness surrounding him, bored with all these small little people and their petty requests, and their dull black clothes. He left the priceless crystal glass fall to his feet, unconcerned with the damage it did to the hardwood floors, or the servants who’d have to labor on their knees to rub the smell of alcohol out of the rugs.

Like a serpent, he weaved between people, not touching them, not having to touch them to leave a little mischief in his path. A lady breathing champagne through her nose there, a stuffy gentleman sneezing abruptly in his companion’s face, fingers losing their grip on drinks, or food, expensive silks stained and ruined. He caused a man’s muscles to cramp as he lecherously leaned closer to admire an exquisitely fragile necklace, breaking the delicate chain. He had no doubt the woman would have thanked him, should she have known it was him who gave her the opportunity to storm away from the grubby philander in a huff. Dmitri was familiar with him, he was all show, and even on that he had a lot left to work on.

He caught his father’s eye as he turned, and the man nodded suggestively at him, causing Dmitri to huff as he glanced in the direction of his mark, eyes washing over the somber clothing. His suit looked like it could have benefited from a little less starch, in his opinion. But he wasn’t exactly ugly, if a bit coarse looking. Strong jaw, big hands – big everything probably, considering how his clothes strained to contain him. A bit like a farmer, were he entirely honest. With an open face and sincere, solemn eyes, and a mouth whose lips pressed a little too tightly together, as if ashamed of their lushness. Yes, perhaps Dmitri could see the appeal. These type of things always worked better when they coincided with his desires.

And the man was truly a bore, a staunch, pious pillar of society, who wouldn’t be caught dead seducing a mere boy. Luckily, he didn’t have to do any seducing, and Dmitri stopped, still far away from him as to not draw his attention prematurely. He’d need far more alcohol in his system if this was to work, so he found his pulse and raised it, coaxed heat to rush through him as he teased the cells in a frenzy, so that his skin would break into sweat. He waited until the man grabbed a glass of wine to dry his throat, made his tongue swollen and awkward, and when he brought the drink to his lips, he gulped it greedily, draining it in seconds. It didn’t help, Dmitri made sure it wouldn’t, and he smirked triumphantly as he reached for a refill. There was only alcohol to be had at this function, and he gave him no choice but to consume it.

Now it was time to make him tremble, to make his heart seize in his chest as his common hazel eyes gazed uncomfortably around, alighting on him. Dmitri’s smile suddenly became unaffected, his eyes rounding with feigned interest, and he made himself blush as he glanced away for a second, before looking back, as if it pained him not to admire the man before him. He backed away, too shy to approach such an esteemed specimen, even as he kept him in thrall to his caprices. His blood would only get hotter, and yes, of course, he reached for another glass, tugging viciously at the restricting cravat.

He could see the sweat glitter on his forehead, his hair dampen and the man moved away from the candles, as though that was what made him so warm. He walked to a window, inspected it with eyes that were already beginning to show their whites in panic, and opened it, but the cool breeze that came from outside, carrying the pungent smell of the port wouldn’t help at all with a heartrender still stalking his prey. The merchant glanced towards him again, and Dmitri was ready for that, his appreciation reduced by a layer of anxiety. He had the man’s heart in his palm, and with a twitch on his fingers, caused it to clutch in his chest when their eyes met. Cautious, concerned, he made his way closer to him, heightening his turmoil with each step he took towards him. “My lord,” he stopped a respectable distance away, but still close enough to touch him, and he gave him a smart bow. Just an amiable host, making sure his guests were comfortable. His eyes flicked to the open window. “Is something bothering you?”

The man gasped, fighting for words as well as breath, and Dmitri’s fretful frown increased. “Perhaps you are too warm? I’m afraid the room is quite airless,” he offered, reaching out, not quite touching him, but enough for the breeze caused by the movement to be felt. He withdrew his hand when it was a mere breadth away from the man’s elbow, but made certain the rush of blood hurried to his loins as he did so, delighting in seeing him tensing suddenly at the sensation. A most ridiculous blush covered his whole face, making him look like a tomato. Dmitri had to press his lips together not to laugh in his face. “Would you like to step aside for a moment?” he let his eyes fall, his long, thick lashes fluttering down bashfully. “I could show you to the veranda, if it pleases you,” his tone was earnest, no innuendo coloring it, his skin unblemished by self-aware blushes. He did not seem the type who’d fall for the coquette, and Dmitri struggled to appear guileless.

His fingers twitched again, the heart in the merchant’s chest thudding painfully. He could hear it. Better yet, he could feel it, warming his own blood, the power coursing through his veins, so close to the surface it made his skin glow, like he was a holy thing. He could see the effect he had on him and it made his whole being sing with intoxication. “Y-yes,” the man gulped again, parched, and Dmitri, ever solicitous, grabbed a glass of champagne and handed it to him.

“Follow me, please,” he turned, looking over his shoulder, willing his muscles to move, to trail him like a dog brought to heel. His superior smirk blossomed as he cut a clear path through the room, giving his father a brief nod as the man tracked his progress. Ten more minutes, he meant. Ten more minutes and the merchant’s pockets would open to them. Dmitri pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the fetid air. He much preferred being inside, where he could hear people’s hearts, feel their blood moving through their bodies, their heat dissipate into the air. He felt almost blind without them, as if he suddenly were alone in the world.

He turned to the merchant, raising an eyebrow. “I’m afraid the smells are better inside,” he allowed the man a brief respite, but only because he was looking at him, something almost like awe in his eyes, to see Dmitri washed into the pale light coming from the moon. He stood up straighter in the darkness, prouder and more assured. The merchant would be cold now, not too much, but enough to prompt him to come forward, drawn to the only other source of heat on the balcony. Dmitri made sure they were hidden from curious eyes by stepping to the side. He smiled, reserved and self-conscious. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked, as if anxious to get his approval.

He wouldn’t, of course, his heart was still beating too fast, his skin ran too hot, or too cold in turns, and he saw him teetering, uncertain. All of them were so surprised to realize they weren’t in control of their bodies as much as they thought they were. Dmitri pushed a little more blood away from his head and towards lower regions as the merchant nodded, already so eager to please him, and he allowed his lips to curl into a beaming smile. “I’m glad,” his voice was so sincere, he could have laughed at himself. Merely playing at seeking approval brought hilarity. As though he’d ever grovel in front of mere men. But the merchant was eating his act up, tentative and hopeful both.

Dmitri stepped closer, his smile fading a little, as though he wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed. “You’re Master Aling.” he made sure it wouldn’t be mistaken for a question. “Gerd Aling,” his eyes glimmered when the man nodded, and he cast another wave of pleasure towards him. He couldn’t control his thoughts, but he could, at least, make him wonder whether the recognition pleased him or not. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” the words came out in a rush, as though he couldn’t stop himself from showing his excitement. “You are on the Council – I’ve always admired the work you are doing,” he stammered, only a little, suddenly embarrassed by his evident enjoyment, and stared at his shoes. The man hesitated, and Dmitri realized he couldn’t summon the courage to touch him. Or perhaps his will was slightly stronger than he had expected. He glanced back at him, struggling to remain composed, and reinforced his assault. To look upon his face was to feel parched, starving, unfulfilled. He made his knees weak, worried that the man might turn and run cowardly rather than act on his urges. It was better if he stayed right there, if he kept his eyes glued to his perfect skin, his bright, warm eyes, and his Cupid’s bow lips. Dmitri’s breathing grew shallower, and he made sure the merchant’s did as well.

Surely he wasn’t as simple minded as to assume his hunger could ever be satiated by food. It wasn’t a drink he thirsted for, it was the taste of Dmitri’s lips. He almost narrowed his eyes, but chose to widen them instead, chose to take another step closer, the gap between them dwindling to nothing. The merchant’s knees were still trembling, if he’d been skinnier, he could have heard them knock together. He had him right where he wanted him, in his web, and he reached up on his toes – Dmitri wasn’t short, but the merchant was built like a fucking tank, and pressed his lips on his, making sure that brief touch granted him immeasurable relief.

For a few glorious moments, it worked, the man suddenly grabbed him, pulling him into his chest, his mouth feral and ravenous, and Dmitri let himself be manhandled, turning to putty in his arms. The kiss ended, just as violently as it had started and he was jerked away abruptly. “No,” he sounded as though it hurt him to talk – and it did, for he was being punished for refusing an offering that was too good for him in the first place. Dmitri heard his heart stutter, felt the wave of dizziness wash over him, and the fingers that were keeping him in place tightened in discomfort. “I’ve had too much to drink, you are just a boy…” he almost rolled his eyes at the tired speech, and reached out his arms to hold him up as the muscles in his legs failed to keep Gerd upright. He didn’t want to be crushed by this brick shithouse though, and he did not push his luck, keeping him on a knife’s edge of self-control, even as he forced the blood to rush through him in a too-hot torrent.

“I am not a boy,” he wanted to swear at him for daring to underestimate him, but instead added a hurt undertone to his edge. “Really, I’m not. I’m old enough to know what I want,” Gerd’s hand traveled downwards, not fighting Dmitri’s encouragement as he stepped closer once more, their breaths mingling together, maddening the other with desire just as it left him unaffected. A small, pleased smile lightened his features once the merchant’s hand rested just below his waistband. “See?” he made sure to make his question innocent, but even with no verbal reassurance, the man looked down, and Dmitri could have laughed at his victory.

“Oh,” the exclamation was breathed, rather than spoken, and he glanced at him once more, a brief nod from him enough to have him return to mauling Dmitri’s mouth. Had he had any intention of bedding him, he’d have trained him on how to do it properly, commanded his body to please himself, but seeing as that was not the goal here, he allowed himself to be pushed into the thin railing, the metal burrowing into his skin. He feigned enjoyment and Gerd’s grip on him tightened, breathless whispers of yes please, and more falling from his lips, as he leaned back, giving him access to his throat. He could feel his father approach, just out of his periphery, and he rolled his eyes to the heavens, partly relieved at the respite, partly piqued from having his toy taken away before he could properly teach it how to play nice.

“What is the meaning of this?” his father almost boomed, but cast a nervous glance at the lit house, as though he didn’t want to draw others’ attention to his son’s shame. Dmitri shrugged, hiding an attempt to wipe the slobber from his neck through the motion, but managed to look properly horrified and chastised at being caught. The merchant stammered beside him, having jumped away from him at the sound of another’s voice. “Father, I…” he began meekly, not looking at him, suffusing his face with blood as he shuffled awkwardly.

“Silence!” it wasn’t much of a command, his father had actually managed to sound too pained to be imposing, but all that changed as he turned to glare at the councilman. “You dare to come into my house and attempt to debase my son?” Dmitri nearly cleared his throat at that, trying to direct his father’s attention to his final touch, to the cherry on top, but he didn’t have to resort to such obvious ploys. Instead, he merely pushed his father’s eyes downwards, at the merchant’s crotch. Black was not really the best color to make his shame easily observable, but then it didn’t have to be, if one knew what to look for. His father sputtered, overdoing his indignation, Dmitri thought, but it was no longer his show, and he kept his head down, and his cheeks rosy, scurrying hurriedly back inside as his father dismissed him.

He’d asked his father for a challenge earlier, no more perverted old fucks who would follow him around dicks out before he even had a chance to toy with them, but as it turned out, the positively saintly Gerd Aling hadn’t been much of a trial either.

[tw: death]

ii. HIS EYES FOLLOWED THE MAN CURIOUSLY FROM HIS SEAT, a little out of the way. The flash of blue from his ratty sack had drawn his attention, certain he’d recognized a kefta’s colors, but he wore mismatched clothes, his trousers too big for him, while the shirt was too short at the sleeves, and strained across his chest. He watched him try to push the sleeves up, apparently uncomfortable with the stiff materials. He tilted his head sideways thoughtfully, before gracefully uncurling from his spot, to wander closer as it was his turn at the counter, wanting to know what his business here was.

“I would like to sell my indenture,” he spoke with a strong Ravkan accent, and Dmitri tensed, looking around hurriedly to see if others had heard him. “I am a Squaller,” he had lowered his voice further as he said it, but not low enough for Dmitri to miss the words. His eyes narrowed, washing once more over him with renewed concentration. His boots were different colors, and one was noticeable smaller than the other. His teeth gritted, and he stepped back into the shadows, aware he couldn’t really do anything about it in a room full of people.

But he waited, and paid attention, and followed the man out as he brushed past the crowd, stuffing a paper in his too tight shirt. He focused on the sound of his heart, clung to it, to make it easier to shadow him as they emerged into the street. From the look of him, he wouldn’t have found rooms in the nicer districts, and they soon entered the swarming, dirty alleys of the Barrel. This area suited Dmitri’s purposes just fine, and he hurried to catch up, needing only the smallest opportunity – an empty side-street, or reasonably empty, at any rate. No one here would intervene.

“Hey you!” he called in Kerch, his accent indiscernible from that of a local, and he swaggered towards him as the man tensed. “Heard you were looking for a job.” he smirked knowingly, his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t dressed garishly enough to competently pass for a gang member, but he didn’t look like a merchant either, and he’d mused his hair and clothes so as not to look too evidently a noble. “Why would you want to sell yourself, when you can be a free man and still get fed?” he carelessly leaned his shoulder against a sooty building, unconcerned about his jacket. He had countless others back home. “Merchants are a bore, stuffy and proper and completely out of their league. How would you like to work for the Lions, instead?” the man frowned, struggling to keep up with his fluent Kerch. He could switch to Ravkan, but it wouldn’t make for a street rat to know the language. “Come on. You’ll be paid. We could use someone like you. Running away from something? We can hide you,” he grinned dastardly at him. The man shifted, clutching his sack.

Dmitri’s attention focused on that. “Anything of value in there? I can tell you where to sell it,” the material was riddled with holes, he could still see the blue occasionally showing as he shifted, even in the darkness of the alley. The houses on either side of them looked just about ready to fall over. The man hesitated, looking ready to bolt. “Now, now,” Dmitri straightened, raising his arms to the side to show he came in peace. It was a wholly human gesture, he thought, Grisha would push their hands forwards, when focusing their power. “I mean you no harm.” his tone became confidential. “Are you a deserter? Heard those Ravkans treat their soldiers like shit. They’re nothing but cannon fodder. Even the Second Army. And they couldn’t possibly afford to feed you all that well, either,” he wrinkled his nose in apparent disgust, and rolled his eyes at the folly of all those paper pushers who made decisions without having to suffer the consequences. “I can help you,” he let his arms drop, and stepped even closer. Surely the man’s Kerch was passable enough to understand that last sentence.

His mouth opened and closed for a few times as he considered his options. “H-how?” he stammered, in strongly accented Kerch.

Dmitri straightened, smug. “By putting you out of your misery,” his arms shot out, a split second before the soldier tensed, eyes widening in realization, and tried to attack as well. But by then Dmitri had his claws in him, twisting the muscles in his fingers, closing his hands into too tight fists. His upper arm cramped, the noise of bone breaking like a gunshot in the muffled silence of the alley. The Squaller screamed, falling to his knees, lifting his eyes to glare hatefully at him. “Heartrender,” he hissed in Ravkan, and Dmitri feigned confusion.

“Heart?” he asked, switching to his mother tongue. “What heart?” he squeezed his fist, and the man seized, eyes rolling back, as he crumpled into the dirt of the alley. Dmitri walked closer, straightening his vest, and reached with his boot to push him on his back. “Oh, that one,” he commented casually, his head tilted sideways in interest. But a dead body couldn’t hold him in place for long, and he turned around dismissively. Traitors were not worth longer than the time he took to kill them.

But the man did make an idea bloom in his mind, a thought he’d considered before, though never as fervently as now. Ketterdam had become boring, and there was only so much pleasure a man could take before even that lost its luster. Perhaps it was time to go home. He rather thought he’d be excellent at killing.

iii. THERE WAS A SYMPHONY PLAYING IN THE DARKNESS, all around him, within him, for him. Dmitri wasn’t surprised, not really. He’d been made for the True Sea, why should the Unsea be any different? Indeed, why should anything in the world not be for him to pluck and inspect and toss aside should it bore him? He was, and the environment would simply have to adjust to the irrefutable fact of his being, and reshape and bend to his indubitable will.

He stood on the deck, unmoving and resolute, eyes closed against the annoyance of the Ifernis’ flames. He wanted to enjoy this, he wanted to stick out his tongue and taste the power of the Shadow Fold for himself. The screams, human and Volcra alike made his ears ring, but his blood listened to him, obeyed his commands, a steady, cool flow beneath his skin. His heart – he knew he had one, for all they whispered heartless as he walked by, he could always feel it beat, betraying its presence – was steady and subdued. He wrapped himself in a blanket of chillness, drawing from the air around him, becoming one with the void. It was so easy, and such a delight, to feel his power cocoon him so, making him invisible to the predators swooping in all around them. The screeches of their death throes buoyed him. Their wings buffeted him, but they did not know he was there. He could feel them, sense them, burning as bright as any flame in their absence, not quite alive, but not of death either. Something else altogether, something unfamiliar, and oh, how he exulted in finding new toys.

He never doubted he’d survive the trip. The Fold could not take what didn’t belong to it, and he would never belong to anything but himself. He blinked in the light, even night time seemed so bright after such a complete and all-consuming darkness, dazed, but calm, as he willed his body to move, to become warm again, to resemble a person and he stepped down from the skiff, ignoring the tallying of the dead and the sobs of the survivors. He might not have been born on its shores, but Ravka was home. He could feel its call in his bones, stronger now that he was finally here. Its son of glorious crimson. Its collector of hearts.

Dmitri recognized in the Darkling a kindred spirit, an equal in brutality and ambition. It was a revelation, as though he was the first of his kind he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t far from the truth, indentured Grisha back in Ketterdam were not like him, like them, wretched, servile creatures that they were. Later, but not much later, he understood his true brilliance. The Darkling was not like him, the Darkling was who he would become. Powerful and feared and revered, for all his darkness.

They’re lying to you, he’d whisper in his ear, always at his side; they’re scared; they will desert you; they’re hiding something; that question – there – press the matter. He never failed him. He couldn’t read minds, but he could read bodies, and the longer he spent in their presence, the louder they spoke to him, spilling their secrets like blood from an open wound. The Darkling’s own lie detector. A truth potion made flesh, more accurate than the Alkemi could hope to concoct with their foul smelling substances, in an altogether prettier package.

He hadn’t expected his vanity to be his downfall. Indeed, he had not expected to have one, to be weighed and measured and found wanting. It created an ache in him, unfamiliar in its keenness, in its failure to be filled and plugged as any other need in him. It humbled him – humbled! – and that only made the sting grow worse. Dmitri was made to be favored, he wouldn’t settle for less. He wouldn’t settle for anything. Not even the Darkling, with all his aloofness, could keep him under his heel for long. He gouged others’ needs as easily as he drew breath, he couldn’t understand the seemingly impenetrable wall that rose between them.

It was a betrayal of their covenant – but he could not tell who it had come from. Who had blinked first, who had ruined this thing they had between them. Did he not gather secrets to lay them at his feet? Did he not needle and coax and turn people to the Darkling’s side with sure hands and poised smiles? His accomplished recruiter, working within the Grisha’s ranks to exhort their commander’s virtues, to bring his enemies low. Had he not uncovered countless plots against him and his before they came to fruition?

So what if he allowed himself to get distracted by the dazzling Ravkan court? So what if he sometimes woke late in the day, groggy and irritable after a long night of debauchery? He brought the courtiers’ secrets to the Darkling, whispered of their petty machinations, and still turned many a tide in their favor, even as he filled his rooms with glittering trinkets and left a trail of disillusionment in his wake. He would play his own game, too, he needed the distraction – deserved it, for all his hard work. It wasn’t his fault that those paltry nobles grew increasingly more tiresome, less useful the longer he spent in their presence. What more could they expect of the otkazat’sya? They were as small and insignificant as the meat that contained them, and just as prone to Dmitri’s guidance. It wasn’t his intelligence that grew weaker, it was simply that they were worthless.

“What of the Lantsovs?” the Darkling would ask. “What are they doing? What are their plans?”

“To put a bastard on the throne,” in hindsight, perhaps his tone had been a touch too dismissive. But everyone knew that, didn’t they? It was no secret. They did not need to have it spelled out for them when it was right in front of their noses.

The Darkling’s frown was unforgiving. Dmitri stood at attention, a disgraced soldier in front of his superior, chaffing at his shackles, even as he yearned to feel them return to what they once were – proof of his worth – people kept under lock and key only what was valuable, did they not?

And yet, the Darkling dismissed him from his presence with only an indifferent flick of his wrist.

[tw: sexual content]

iv. DMITRI LEANED BACK AGAINST THE WALL heedless of the bite of the cold in the corridors, unconcerned with the beauty of the night sky, where stars glittered sharply, distant and lovely, made even more piercing by the gloom of winter. Frost covered the great window he lounged in front of, glazing it with delicate lacework that clung to it, thickest at the edges. His fingers flexed impatiently as the hall remained accursedly silent, eyes set sightlessly ahead in his stubborn vigil.

He’d never liked quiet, never craved the solitude he now suspected he’d been tricked into, removed from his playground purposefully and purposelessly, to wait in the shadows for a tryst that was not going to happen, simply to satisfy the prince’s galling propensity for one-upmanship, his perverse tendency to pretend resistance to Dmitri’s lure.

He could not – he would not – be denied. And whether the blood flowing through one’s veins was red, or blue, they all answered to his call when he turned his attention to them. Whether it’d be sooner, or later, he would cloak himself in patience even if he sweltered under its cloying weight, and in the end, they’d suffer all the more under his yoke, until they accepted his bridle.

And finally, finally, he tilted his head to the side at the sound of footsteps, his attention hooked at the edge of his sight. The darkness of the hall might have confused him momentarily, made him wonder at what he saw, but he was attuned to Viktor’s heartbeat as he was to his own, and he recognized the tumultuous storm of his blood before he turned to fully face him, no trace of annoyance on his expression, as he smirked at the other man. “Loath to leave the party?” he questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow even as his voice remained reverent. “I shall endeavor to make it worth your while, my prince,” his tone did not change, remaining solicitous, though his countenance was anything but, something predatory filling his gaze as Viktor came closer.

Dmitri did not need his assistance in getting to his knees, his earlier frustration pushed back as he gave the other man a look full of dark promise before sinking gracefully to the ground. His hands made quick work of the laces of his trousers, lips pressing hard kisses from hip to hip, making sure that every light touch of his fingers would send shivers down his spine. It was easy to use more than his skillful tongue to bring Viktor off, easy, as he was this close to him, to sense every single shift in the man’s body, to ride the wave of desire with him and enhance the experience with well-timed jolts to his nerves, or an opportune stutter of his heart.

He reveled in the feel of rough skin under his fingers, of hard muscles and marks of battle, the prince’s ruthlessness written all over his body in a language that called to Dmitri’s own understanding of violence. He rejoiced in the power he had over a Lantsov, in the ease with which he could make him tremble, and moan and bite his lips helplessly as he struggled to keep the pleas from slipping out. He was granting him unbearable pleasure, part punishment for having made him wait, part promise of even more ecstasy, should he return. He was drawing out the man’s frenzy, his body a mere instrument in the hands of its master, who was tuning it to the perfect frequency so that when Dmitri tasted his seed, it felt almost sweet on his tongue, coated as it was in his sense of victory.

“You have the tastes of a king, Your Highness,” the pretense at deference had left him completely as he licked the corner of his mouth, almost thoughtfully, not raising from his obeisance. He glanced up at Viktor, chin tilted up, a dark lock of hair artfully fallen into his eyes, and smirked.

“Don’t you mean I taste like one?” Lantsov gave a harsh laugh and Dmitri raised, confident now that the man’s muscles had loosened, his limbs grown heavy with his exhausted desire, and firmly pressed his lips against his, the slant of his mouth harsh and demanding, fingers resting against the nape of Viktor’s nape, pulling him even closer. The split moment’s resistance was dealt with swiftly, firmly, and soon there was nothing preventing Dmitri from taking what he wanted. They were both breathless when he drew back, heated and dazed, and he blinked once, languorously, before glancing in Viktor’s eyes, an insolent grin on his lips.

“Do you – my liege?”

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

SPOILED BRAT – waited on by servants his whole life, Dmitri is incredibly careless about his things. His rooms are a mess, his writing is atrocious, all his books, barely read as they are, have broken spines and dog-eared pages. He has no idea how to pick up after himself, and indeed, the mere notion that he has to, offends him.

KING OF HEDONISM – he’s accustomed to having his every whim indulged. He doesn’t refuse himself anything, be it food, drinks, expensive clothes, or people. There is no vice he hasn’t tried, no line he hasn’t crossed. He does as he pleases, and he will never refuse himself anything. He isn’t made for moderation.

CHOSEN ONE – travelling the Unsea was a revelation, a revelry. To be surrounded by darkness and not be touched by it was a heady feeling. Then again, he never lets anything that matters touch him. Why should the Fold be any different? He isn’t scared of shadows – he isn’t scared of anything. And his power makes him invisible to the Volcras. He became cold, his blood turned to ice in his veins, his heart quiet in his chest, unmoving and unbreakable. Like a tailor bleeding colors into pasty skin, he took the darkness into himself, wrapped himself in it to become a shadow. Invisible, unreachable, undefeated and undaunted. Why would someone like him ever have to experience fear? He is a disciple of the Order of the Living and the Dead, he carries the greatest power of them all, and what is strength but a tool in his hands, to make the whole world take the knee?

A SCRIBBLE WITH FANGS – a selfish, demanding child, Dmitri cannot pinpoint the exact moment he’s come into his powers. There must have always been there, lurking beneath his skin, fashioning him into the hungry being he’s become. It started off small enough, as a call for attention, for his nannies, for the servants, for his parents. He wouldn’t be ignored, or denied, not without dire consequences, sweats, and tremors and dizzy spells. He had to have everything just right, and he had to have it now. Like dogs reacting to the whip, he’d taught those around him to bend to his whims, by giving them treats, or taking them away until everything was the way he wanted. Colors, materials, food, even the temperature of his milk. A tyrant in diapers, smiling sweetly whenever he saw them flinch, king of his own little kingdom, and cruel to the bone.

BATTLES OF THE FLESH – he was a precocious child, growing into a precocious teenager. Not studious, not particularly curious about the world either, but when it came to bodies, to what they could do, the pleasure they could bring, or the pain that brought them to their knees, he was an ardent pupil. He began early, not quite an adolescent, but old enough to get a taste of what he could take from others. He manipulated and beguiled, and later on, blackmailed, for his own purposes, but they just so happened to coincide with those of his parents, filling their coffers, and even Ravka’s. Kerch had too much money, anyway, greedy and grubby bottom feeders that they were, and he used his gift in service of himself, just as much as in the king’s.

PLEASURES OF THE FLESH – to call him a skilled lover would be to do him a disservice. Indeed, it’s almost an insult. Dmitri is flawless, capable of intuiting what his partner wants before they realize it themselves. He’s pansexual and non-discriminatory in his choice of sexual partners. His libido would put an incubus to shame. To partake in his talents is to never be satisfied by others again. He is sublime and brazen, and he enjoys exerting his influence long after he’s grown bored with his conquests, just for the pure joy of watching them waste away in longing. He’s a storm, taking others by surprise with the suddenness of their sheer need for him, or a subtle poison, torturing them with overpowering feelings and inexhaustible longings, toying with them mercilessly until he deigns to bestow his favor, or deciding to leave them unfulfilled and miserable until the urgency of their desires drive them to their knees, ardent supplicants at the altar of his decadence. He loves the flavor of their desperation once he gives them what he wants, the ease with which their brutalized flesh yields to his manipulations, buoys himself with their momentary relief, and finally finds his own pleasure in their complete surrender.

LEVIATHAN – his time at sea is one of his fondest memories, if one such as him could experience fondness. He took longer than necessary to get himself to Ravka, given his enjoyment of captaining his own ship, sowing terror on the waves. His mastery of his body meant he suffered no sickness, even as inexperienced as he was with the motions of the boat. Ships sailed a wide berth around his, protected as it was by the ambassador’s flag. But one, unwise and desperate did try to attack in the dead of night. He bathed their deck in their own blood, taking exquisite pleasure in watching them squirm under his eyes. Theirs were not quick deaths, not good deaths, they lived with no dignity and they would die as they have lived. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed, but it was the moment his hunger for it ignited, and he turned his ship around, a hunter in a sea full of helpless little fish, wanting Ravka to know of his coming long before he stepped onto their land. The prodigal son returned after washing the True Sea in blood. A god that would not deliver them from darkness, but teach them how to live in it.

NOT FASHIONED FOR LOVE – there’s no bigger motivation for Dmitri than boredom. In fact, his willingness to avoid falling into that state is what drives most of his actions, including twisting the purposes of his power in untried ways. He’s used it for giving pleasure long before he’s killed with it. Oh, he knew how even then, of course, he could sense the sickness lurking beneath people’s skin, the fragility of their organs, the inelegance of their bodies’ design. He could make a muscle twist in the most embarrassing way when going down the stairs, he could make them choke on their food with a mere inopportune hiccup. But he had no need for death when he was young, for his hungers lay elsewhere, and so he became something altogether different. Heartrender he may be, but he’s also a heartbreaker, and the latter provides more amusement in the halls of the court.

EXTRAS:

[DISCLAIMER: He is unapologetically vulgar. He’s quite graphic in his lewd comments, and whatever redeeming qualities he exhibits, they’re likely just a dissimulation in order to ensure he gets what he wants.]

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS: He’s left handed – indeed, given his dominant hand is the left, he sees being the Darkling’s left hand as no demotion. However, he is a self-taught ambidextrous. He can use both hands to manipulate his power, or just one, and in this aspect, there is no difference in ability or the accuracy of his aim. When it comes to other skills, like writing, eating, or fighting, he shows a preference for his left hand. The more menial the task, the more he will use his left, but at physical fighting, such as firing a weapon, or fencing, the difference is quite small – noticeable only when one knows to look for it. He’s brown eyed and black-haired and while he doesn’t go out of his way to exercise, he can control his metabolism to burn fat at an alarming rate. His body shape falls into the lithe and svelte category. His muscles are well-defined, but lean. He’s 6’2’’. Like all Grisha who consistently use their powers, he is alluringly beautiful, and healthy and his skin is unblemished. He has no distinguishing marks like scars, birthmarks, tattoos or piercings.

POWERS & ABILITIES: While Dmitri can kill, and do it in quite creative ways, and he has a moderate talent for healing (he can heal small cuts, bruises, and mend broken bones if they’re small – e.g. fingers) his true talent lies in subtly affecting a person’s bodily functions. He can excite nerves, he can fake the symptoms of medical afflictions, like heart-attacks or asthma, he can induce panic attacks, or incite people’s lust. He can modulate his own voice to make it higher or lower, control his and others’ body heat and he can forge people’s writing to perfection – he has to actually watch them write in order to do this. His muscle memory is impressive. He can mimic mannerisms, or mirror fighting stances effortlessly on first try. He has a minor ability for surface tailoring – best shown by the ease with which he can make himself, or others blush (by using his power, rather than by trying to embarrass them, I mean).

TARGETS: Even when he isn’t using his power to influence people, Dmitri still reaches out with it to better gauge their reactions. He’s so well versed in this and is immensely subtle, that it’s highly uncommon for his marks to realize something is amiss. He works in steadily increasing, but small increments to allow them to acclimatize to the changes as not to raise their suspicion. Most humans never find out that he’s doing it, even the ones he sleeps with. There are few, precious exceptions, usually repeat partners. He’s more willing to let other Grisha know that he’s using his power on them if they’re having sex – it’s in service of increasing both their pleasure, after all, and he finds they respond more easily when they’re expecting his guidance and are willing to be influenced by it – however he draws a line at Corporalki, not wanting to betray the secrets of his trade. They alone have a similar understanding of bodies, and if they’re crafty enough they might manage to replicate the effects. He is already sufficiently sunk in the Darkling’s esteem so as not to add fuel to the fire by further lowering his worth and unwittingly training his replacement.

STAR SIGN: Scorpio [November 13th] MBTI:ESTP [The Doer] MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil [The Destroyer] HOGWARTS HOUSE: 100% Slytherin

[PINTEREST] [tw: blood, nsfw content]

[MOCKBLOG]

[SOUNDTRACK] [instrumental]

ANYTHING ELSE?

I modified the last plot idea, expanded on my activity and my answer about the possibility of Dmitri’s death, and I replaced the fourth para sample. Other changes to the original application are minor.

FAVORITE BOOK: Deathless by Catherynne Valente||The Secret History by Donna Tartt

#raraccepted #accepted: dmitri

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