#bloodforvlad

[dagger-of-venom]

@bloodforvlad from here

"Mine are going very well thank you very much!" Cardiff slipped out of the shadows and allowed the cloaking hood's power to drop. He looked the same as he had the last time he and Vlad had met. Black and blue leather fitted tightly to his form and a cloak with a shimmer of magic about it as well. "A few of your friends in the expensive districts can't say the same."

[infinite-xerath]

🕯️ - BloodForVlad

"To devote oneself to mastery over such a primitive craft... I suppose he was drawn in by hemomancy's versatility, failing to realize the true limitations of blood magic. Regardless, I suppose his skills are a step above the average mage... There may yet be a place in my empire for one such as him, provided he swears his loyalty to me."

@bloodforvlad

[essence-flux-primed]

Smash or Pass *smirking intensifies* - @bloodforvlad

smash or pass? / accepting

⋆ — Ugh, speaking of insufferable. "You really think you have a chance with me? You're polite in that Piltovan way of actually being rude, you've got the smile of a snake who just ate some really cute animal, and you're Noxian to boot. I've never had a worse time at the Grand thanks to you."

Once he's finished his tirade, Ezreal nods once, as if what he says next has anything to do with his complaints. Then he continues with, "Smash."

[cautelous]

@bloodforvlad

Piltover loves celebrities. It has been so easy to become one of them. Money and novelty (and, perhaps, that thrill of danger behind the smile) are certain lures. His fame is assured, and swifter and easier here than it had ever been in Noxus. He does not dwell too much on that, on could-should-would, but instead enjoys every moment of his status as celebrity.

There is so much that money can do, and the city feels like something of a paradise. His money goes so far, and there’s so many people that like to cluster around him. He wines them, dines them, takes them dancing, takes them to his room, takes them to shows and events and to the card tables of The Grand, he plays with their pulses and their kisses but honestly he rarely needs to do anything but be his usual charming self. It’s fun. It’s harmless. He’s harmless.

Well, right now, anyway. He’s on his best behaviour because he likes it here. He likes the pleasant side of fame.

And now his latest choice has asked a rather bold question, and it makes Vlad smile. “The eighth floor,” he says, and anyone in Piltover who knows their luxurious casino landmark knows that’s the highest floor, the ones with the penthouses that are the peak of luxury, with more amenities and luxuries than one typically needs. Just one more fine feather in Vladimir’s metaphorical cap, isn’t it? To have access to something so few do?

A sweet forbidden fruit, almost as heady as the fruit of the vine.

He grins, and almost murmurs in Mister Raines’ ear. “Would you like a little peek?”

Piltover loves celebrities. Julian loves a celebrity, maybe, although she considers herself a civil servant first and foremost, but... Well! This isn’t exactly about love, is it now? At least not that kind.

Vladimir’s not particularly harmless. Yes, he plays the role of a harmless dilettante well enough, but harmless dilettantes don’t usually come with metal claws and the title of “Blood-Mage of Noxus”. Julian will go along with it for now. He can handle himself well enough, and there’s something rather interesting hiding beneath the other man’s self-assuredness and smirks. (And, well, perhaps his interest lies in something beyond the observational. Nothing wrong with that.)

“The eighth floor?” Julian asks in a whisper, wide-eyed and innocent. He has a suspicion that Vladimir will get a kick out of the act. “Goodness. I suppose the elevators don’t trouble you, then?”

He smiles. “And I would, if you wouldn’t mind.”

[lightshielded]

anonymous said: Truce? Truce. Momentarily. I just want to talk, if you have the inclination. - @bloodforvlad

in truth, he had no clue as to who this strange man was. but the stench of death and the gaudy fashion reeked of noxian, and a rich one at that. nobility then perhaps? the prince did recall that noxus had those from his dealings and texts. there was the urge to roll his eyes at the thought. how could a noxian ever be considered noble? he couldn't imagine a single virtue could survive in a place which cares not for its vulnerable and crushes and tramples any who dared to stand in its path.

the prince had very little patience for noxians at the best of times, even less when he was hunting a killer. but even that fine slither was running thinner with new developments. word had reached him of the chicanery in alderburg, the dirtying of his good kinsmens’ name by a filthy noxian mage. and all the lives lost against their own allies. every name he would remember, and once his own grim task was complete he would let drakebane taste ten of the trifarix’s dogs for every single one.

and none of this disdain was hidden in the prince face or words when he would finally reply. no, it was drip from him in every facet, painting every movement and every flick of his tongue. his stance shifted such to place his weight upon one leg and his arms folded across his chest. ‘ how very un - noxian to want a truce. and here i thought you dogs pissed on the idea of peace and slaughtered you own kin who tried to offer it. colour me impressed. ’

[maridofthelamp]

💭 - BloodForVlad

“I can understand the terror of using blood magic, but...does it require the crimson fashion as well?”

[viperanoxia]

@bloodforvlad | continued from here.

“I’m quite sure you won’t, darling,” she counters, though any further words are lost in the eager press of his lips against hers once again. Still, rather than pull away and reprimand him, she chooses to reward him instead, delicate clawtips curling around the curve of his jaw and lips parting, tongue flickering slick against his. 

Her free hand finds it way over his grip on her waist, fingers lacing between his possessively, a false warmth in her touch to match the searing in his veins.

Mine, whispers the throaty chuckle against his mouth, smug and delighted. And proud, too, sadistic in her glee at his submission to his own longing. She always loved it so when they gave in to her.

When they wanted nothing but her.

[heraldofzaun]

“Do you believe monsters are born, or made?” - BloodForVlad

FANTASY RP MEME.

"It depends on the monster," Viktor replies flatly.

He has little time for Noxians, and even littler for Lord Sanguinus. Red is not a color that stays vibrant for long in Zaun. Not many do, admittedly.

"If you are attempting to question which I am: I am not a monster.”

[tenebriiis-archived]

☛ - BloodForVlad

𝑀𝒶𝓃𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓎𝓂𝒷𝑜𝓁 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up

{ ⟡ } — It would be a lie to affirm the Matron wasn't surprised once her dear student hushed her. Not because her statements were or not needed to be silenced, neither because she would punish the dare in the action — But it was him; who was ever respectful & careful, knowing the extend of her power & how far her hands could reach as at any given second. To silence her; even if the action had been made with such softness despite how sudden, was something to applause in him, how certainly brave~

Emilia can't help but curl the corner of her lips in genuine amusement. Golden eyes never leaving his own as he is prized with a soft kiss being pressed in his digit, leaving a little bit of her nightshade lipstick on his pristine skin. She avoided saying anything in whatever regard; waiting for him to proceed & speak his mind.

There's was a little wonder if he would grow nervous or confused; perhaps her plans weren't up to his tastes?

@bloodforvlad

[askdragonbladetalon]

[In case anyone was wondering WHY I commissioned Talon eating a heart, blame @bloodforvlad.]

[strikewhenready]

@bloodforvlad

For each “⭐️” I get, I’ll write a headcanon about our muses.

Rengar doesn’t like most Noxians. Their xenophobia and racism and just so much about their culture repulses him. How he and Vlad managed to meet one another and even strike up something of a friendship is unknown but it’s there and very real. He finds Vlad’s magic interesting if a bit grotesque and alarming but that hasn’t prevented him from seeking out the man’s company. Suffice it to say, he doesn’t know about the hemomancer’s past since Rengar avoids Noxus and most cities in general. This doesn’t mean he hasn’t figured out that something unwholesome has happened in the mage’s past, even if he doesn’t know what it quite is. 

[jerichoswain]

💎 - BloodForVlad

Diamonds in the rough | Accepting (Selective)

Careful eyes trace the delicate alabaster cheekbones, the snowy, short-cropped hair. He gives a solemn nod.

“Vladimir.” His voice is quiet, contemplative. His scarlet gaze is taut with something living and curious. He sweeps his cape to the side with a brush of his glamoured left arm, deepening the nod into a proper bow.

“Come. Take a turn with me. Allow me this attempt to unravel some of your secrets.”

@bloodforvlad

[prodigal-ezreal]

💎 - BloodForVlad

Send a “💎” and My Muse will state one physically attractive thing about Your Muse.

“Do I even know you? I don’t remember meeting ever someone with your vibe.” It was… eerie. Ezreal was very much in-tune with his instincts, and he wasn’t one to question when a stranger raised some red flags no matter how innocent they seemed. And Innocent is not a word he’d use to describe this guy. “It’s okay though, I know it must be some people’s dream to get complimented by me, I get it.”

He had nothing to say though.

“Uh… Your… Hair is cool? Not a lot of people can pull off white, props to you I guess.”

@bloodforvlad

[justicewinged]

“I don’t care if you don’t want my help, I’ll do it anyways.” - BloodForVlad

RP starters: Concern - [x]

Food is slipped under the bars to her cell door. The Demacian glances upwards to view a supernaturally pale man with a shock of white hair and crimson flushed lips. He looks like death, but no Veiled Lady she’d know, and thus, she lingers at the back of the cell, cheek pressed against the dank dirt wall. Mud stains her auburn hair to brown. Blood is dried on her cheeks. She is weak, but she doesn’t care about the food. It smells too much like the Noxian nobility she’s being run ragged to please for it to have any appetizing quality about it. 

“If you don’t care then the feeling is mutual,” she mumbles, her voice echoing off her cell wall slightly. “Just go away, why are you helping a piece of Demacian filth, anyway?”

@bloodforvlad

[cautelous]

flirty + vlad

mood + champion drabbles

Hm. Well. It’s probably the wine’s fault, at least in part. He and Lord Sanguinus (it never hurts to be formal, especially with Noxians) have had a very pleasant evening out on the town. There’d been an art auction, which Julian couldn’t buy anything at - such is the harsh reality of a teacher’s salary, and then a very pleasant dinner, and now...

Well, he’s currently walking Vladimir (oops, perhaps formality is overrated in these circumstances) back to the Grand, isn’t he? They’re arm-in-arm, and it would take a man far less astute than Julian to miss that meaning. He bites his lip in thought.

“Say, what floor is your room on again?”

[askmorgana-blog]

@bloodforvlad:

Vladimir’s name opens some doors and closes others. Depending on whom she speaks to, to mention that she will be dressing for one of his galas might resort in mockery, in those saying ‘sorry, we have nothing for you’ and snickering behind their hands as they usher her out. Or, it might curry unusual favour and obsequious behaviour from certain individuals. Why, yes, the Lord Sanguinus, another gala, how lovely; please do recommend us, if you should find this humble fabric to your liking. It seems the noble has quite the divisive reputation, even among shops and tailors on the same street.

Gossip trickles through, about the number of candles, the foreign imports, the amount he has spent on wine and spices. Cluck of the tongue and shake of the head, but greedy longing glances even as they decry him. An invitation is pitied, wanted, envied, hated. The days move swiftly. On the night of the gala, there are torches lit around the fence of his estate, and the gates are flung wide. Carriages roll up the hill, into the Ebony Quarter of Noxus, to the manor house with high walls and smooth cobbles. Clouds of incense hang thick in the air, rose and jasmine, undercut by the sickly-sweet smell of lilies in great number. The walls are hung with rosepetal tapestries, the banisters are woven with ivy, the carpets paid are thick green weave that muffles the footsteps like the softest moss. Smoke and flowers and greenery. Acrobats, contortionists and still-life actors perform in alcoves and pedestals, women dressed like flowers carry trays of floral drinks and floral canapes, musicans play light springtime tunes before a mosaic dancefloor.

The lord himself does not make an appearance until the rooms are well-crowded. He descends the stairs in black: silk jacket, silk shirt, silk pants, patent leather shoes. His cravat at his throat is red, like a slash, folded artfully to look like a rose. And over his back, an extravagantly long cape that drapes on the ground behind him, thick with briars and brambles and red-tipped white roses. A few that get to close to him with bare arms find that the thorns he is wearing are very, very real, and nurse little cuts from them. He sweeps through the crowd, deigning to greet those he chooses to, taking and holding a glass of wine in silver claws that have little ruby roses gleaming from the knuckles. His hair is up, clasped in a silver-jet-and-ruby clasp, a few strands falling to frame his face just so. His crimson eyes cast over the assembly, looking for something to entertain him.

Trepidation was a feeling that Morgana was now oh-so-well accustomed to. He’d seemed kindly enough when he’d requested her presence, and she had excepted it in heady, rose-glassed exuberance. But once his carriage had gone, the reality of her situation had settled in. She did not belong in a Gala. She hadn’t in hundreds of years. She wasn’t going to fit in with money, and her wings would mark her an even bigger outcast. She was walking into the wolves’ den. There were many times during the past few days where she considered not showing, where she considered throwing the yards of elegant fabric she’d purchased into the garbage and locking herself in her lonely manse. 

She was having one of these relapses again, across the street from Vladimir’s Estate. 

The party had started some time ago. She’d been led here by asking directions of passersby, and she’d watched from the alley’s shadows as carriages full of the rich and beautiful filtered into his wrought iron filigree gates. She kept her heavy black hooded cloak drawn up and around her form. In all of their gorgeously tailored finery, she felt very anxious. Her dress did not at all look like theirs. The women wore beautiful and vibrant ballgowns, silken flowery foliage, and golden twigs in their hair. Morgana’s handmade gown looked nothing of the sort. She should go home now, before she makes a fool of herself. A nagging in her chest will not allow her. She took a deep breath in, and made her way across the street. She kept her head bowed, as to not draw any excess attention to herself. Her attempt was thwarted at the gates. Two men, serving as guards to the gala, stopped the be-cloaked woman from entering.

“I’m afraid this party is invitation-only, miss,” sneered a man, dressed similarly to an orchid. “That means that no street urchins are allowed in.” Morgana rose her face to the man, and his snide smirk vanished like his partner’s hairline. “My invitation was by vocal request, not by paper.” Morgana stated, violet tinted lips frowned. The orchid-man stayed silent, but the pink carnation man spoke.

“Y-yes, we were told to expect you!! My friend here has no manners,” The angel narrowed her gaze. He seemed fearful, but perhaps not of her. “May we take your cloak?” She hesitated again. She could stay hidden, and perhaps he’d never see her. But she knew he’d come back to her bakery and she couldn’t face her cowardice then. A black satin-gloved hand parted her cloak and undid the plain brooch holding it in place. With both hands, she pushed it backwards off of her shoulders into the awaiting hands of Carnation Man. She freely spread her wings fully only once to stretch them, but she felt what seemed like a thousand eyes turn on her all at once. But whether it was because of her large, black wings or her dress, she could not tell. The entire affair, vastly unlike all of the gowns stretching out before her, was black instead of pastel. The gown itself was tight to the hips. There was thousands of delicately layered sheets of tulle from her hips down, completely obscuring her legs in a soft cloud of fabric that trailed behind her. This design was copied at her slit-armed sleeves that hung from her bare shoulders and trailed almost to the floor. As per usual, her arms were obscured to the mid upper-arm by her gloves. She wouldn’t be caught in public with her deformations on display. No one could see it yet, but the dress was entirely backless to allow for her feathered appendages. What the dress lacked in bright color, it made up for in stunning detail, hand stitched by herself with only a touch of magical assistance. The bulk of the beading was centered along her tight bodice, the top of which was of a single thin sheet of the tulle. Any suggestive parts of her chest were hidden with a dark overlay, also beaded. This overlay was sewn through-out the entire length of the dress in the form of many tangled vines. The beading that reflected both emerald and ruby in the firelight danced along the vines and occasionally burst into petal-like shapes. All hopes of being unnoticed were gone. Her black ensemble would stand out in this sea of pastels for the entire night. She should have remained in the street. She couldn’t even hide behind her thick amethyst hair, as it was pulled up and out of her face into a high ponytail, with her circlet holding her bangs away. She felt vulnerable. Exposed.