#huntercam 01

[elysiumkerr]

closed starter for: @huntercam where: cam's gallery when: a private appointment

She was proud of her work, of course she was. This was perhaps some of Elysium's finest work yet, but if Mr. McCormick were to even look at her wrong, she'd offer to set the paintings on fire if it would earn her even an ounce of his respect. She hated this, hated being dependent on the taste of others for the recognition their work deserved.

"You could be the juiciest plum in the ice box, and someone will still hate plums," her mother would say after her earliest rejections. But those were childhood games. Now, their work was an icebox plum compared to dust and gravel served on chipped plates. The problem was never with her vision -- it was half-assed would-be's putting others off the idea of provocative art in the first place.

But this time would be different. Elyse knew that. She had changed, her perspective had changed. The artist finally had something unique to say, whether or not others would be ready to hear it.

"...so?"

[kannivalistic]

There are, of course, secrets of her own she prefers to keep hidden, for now. Secrets that could come back to bite Valka if she isn't careful. The life of a hunter is one with enemies around every corner. But despite their differences in creed, she has to believe that the Brotherhood and Fellowship have the same goals. It's how she was raised -- the only difference these days is their willingness to act. And it's a relief to hear there are Brothers who aren't content to sit around on their hands.

Valka sees the way Cam fidgets with his glove. She smiles coolly and offers him her own hand, to shake on it. "I'll gather a little more intel before making any definite moves, but I'm hoping to see you at the table, Cameron. At the end of the day, a hunt's a hunt. And we aren't supposed to let the beasts bite us back. You're a capable killer, and I can respect that."

Feng-Lindon and Phial are, in his eyes, the most dangerous - and could very easily retaliate if given the time. She's right. It's not just Fellowship that will be harmed if they actually decide to do so. Which is the problem.. will they decide to? It does worry him, but not enough to make moves himself. At least not yet.

A truce, then. He can respect that. He gives her a nod, and picks idly at the hem of his glove, covering the tattoo on his palm. An alliance, even.

Despite his penchant for the art and wishing to use this lifestyle to create more - he does enjoy the hunt of it all. The violence, the death, the blood splattering across his features and the ground - watching these things writhe and come apart. Dust or blood, it's all the same.

Valka's proclivities intrigue him - always have - but he's never spoken it aloud. So his answer is:

"Tell me where we strike, and we'll share a meal."

[elysiumkerr]

Watching an artist at work is a private, sacred act. Elysium rarely allows anyone to see their process, even if there's a model sitting for them. The process of creation is volatile, often fickle, always changing. Paintings are rarely complete, they're just dismissed. Abandoned. Walked away from. But the act of progress, the perpetuity in between blank canvas and the moment Elyse stopped touching the art... she doesn't take Cam's invitation lightly.

He will show her his art. She will demonstrate hers, and learn from his teachings. Elyse is giddy with the thought but does her best to hide the excitement -- men of his position often dismissed those feelings as immaturity, girlishness. Instead, she swallows a calming breath and nods.

"A week from now, at nine," Elyse agrees. It's all she's going to think about until then. "I'll come with an open mind and open eyes. Th-thank you, Mr. McCormick. I deeply appreciate you giving me this second chance. I promise, I won't waste your time."

An act of creation is what's here between them now, and he wonders if she can feel it. That spark of life that should be bright and beautiful, but instead festering and rotten - a mold taking root underneath her skin. His gaze travels from her widened eyes down her neck, shoulder, arms..

If he reached out, touched her - would he feel the sickness within? Would he be able to grab it, twist it, bend her to his own needs? The thought sends a bit of chill of excitement down his spine. His hand flexes at his side, the sound of leather crinkling in the open space of the gallery.

"A week from now, then." The words are nearly forced out, breathless in anticipation himself. A wonderful, willing subject right here at his feet.. What luck. "You'll be here at nine, and I'll show you how I find my muse."

[kannivalistic]

"They've all been caught in the crossfire. I'd say we hit the Feng-Lindons hardest, but some Phial got tangled in our plans. Theirs is a slow burn, not a lot of firepower in the field but give 'em time and resources... Honestly, I think the only coven we didn't completely fuck over is those space cadet divination girls," she explains. It's not as if the witches all wear big nametags advertising their affiliations. Would make things a hell of a lot easier for Valka if they did -- though witches have always been among the least of her concerns.

Cam's question is a fair one. She'd wonder it herself if she wasn't a bit desperate at this point, to make sure no one else was going to leap from the shadows and strike. "Killing them's the game. Not sure what I'll do about that just yet... but I guess I'm telling you because I want you to know what we're working with here. I need to know that even though the Brothers and the Fellows have had their differences, we're all still working towards that goal down at our cores. Now's not the time to be making any extra enemies."

Valka narrows her eyes and looks McCormick up and down. Everything about him speaks to Brotherhood life, its tenets woven under his very skin. Restraint, withholding -- even as some sort of BDSM power play. Men like him always had a fetish. But he could be so good if he let up on his own choking leash every now and then. "I lost one of my best men because of their stunt. I want to hit back and do it hard. If you're ever willing to look past the labels we've all put on ourselves... The way I see it, tenderloin, chuck eye, flank steak -- they're all dead meat, in the end. I don't care where it comes from or how it's sliced, I just want them all fuckin' dead and on my dinner table."

There's a slight twitch of his lips at the term 'babysitter' but he won't challenge it. It's not for Valka to know that he's got himself someone to play with outside of (and perhaps sometimes a part of) hunter business. And there's also the question of the bite mark on Elyse's neck - something that makes him still flex his fingers in an attempt to control a flare of something other than his usual neutrality.

Captives gone. Fellowship plans gone awry, and here Cam is thinking about something other than numbers dwindling and retaliation himself. A moment of weakness, perhaps.

His gaze flickers up towards her, and he feels his eyebrow twitch. He doesn't necessarily approve of the Fellowship's methods, but this potion. "Has Phial been hit heavily? What reason would they have to retaliate?" But - "The potion could be useful, either way. Use it, trade it, kill a few of them on your way."

He's curious though. "Why tell me? Why not a Fellow?"

[elysiumkerr]

Too many times in her life, Elyse has been asked to prove herself. Prove her devotion, prove her worth. Prove that she's not just psychotic or perverted or some sort of serial killer fangirl. If Cam asked it over her here, she would probably prick her finger or slice her palm or whatever would show him she's willing to bleed for this work. She's willing to put herself into the paint if it brings her ideas even an ounce of earnestness.

The mention of shock value makes her breath catch in her chest again -- it reminds her of the critique he offered, or rather burdened her with, the last time they spoke. But Cam changes his tone and his line of thought. Elyse tries to pull back her eagerness, verging on desperation, as he challenges her. She looks at him with wide eyes as he closes the gap between them.

"I've spent months on end working to learn, to better express myself after our last meeting. Of course I'm willing," she promises. "Learning and growing is just about the only thing that matters to me, aside from the actual act of creation."

Profane, blasphemous, Promethean creation.

The artist breaks a smile that quickly falters in surprise at McCormick's next question. She knows how private artists could tend to be in those vulnerable moments of process. "I... Yes. Yes, wow, I would be honored to accompany you. Any time. I'll make myself available."

She does. It's music to his ears, and he wonders if it's something he can feed. To make that desire worse. He makes an inquisitive sound, then, as if deliberating on what he wants to do from here. He's already accepted her art, and yet she wants to grow further. Isn't that the case of every artist?

Maybe..

He turns towards her, facing her fully - instead of merely glancing at her - he studies her now. Her words strike a chord within him, one that he's sure no one else who truly knows him would actually wish to - But this Elyse.. she's an enigma. Not born in it, not of it - but ready to dive headfirst into the red and cover herself in it.

His mouth waters at the thought.

"There are some that cover that, yes. There are also others who prefer the shock." How to reach out and pull her under? How to drown her in it? The idea of holding her underneath it all makes his skin prickle in anticipation. Would she breathe in it or let her lungs burn?

"But I understand your desire for something other than that. And I think you're on the cusp of what you seek. Hence my acceptance, so long as you're willing to.." He pauses, stepping closer to her. "..learn."

Any other person, he'd reach out now and touch with a gloved hand. He restrains himself, and allows a smile to slither onto his features - the first of many he's sure that Elyse will coax out of him. She will learn of Port Leiry's darkest places, he's sure - and so:

"Would you like to accompany me to one of my sessions?"

[kannivalistic]

"Well, whoop-de-fucking-do for you."

Even though Cam was Brotherhood, Valka can spare an ounce of relief for the fact that the nightstalkers didn't dwindle their numbers too bad. Still, it's not like she's gonna throw a fuckin' party for McCormick. Hell, he'd be so much more useful on their side -- the Leiry branch of Fellowship's losing face and rank faster than she can personally do much about.

"Brotherhood on babysitting duty. What a world," she sneers. Valka hopes, at the very least, Cam achieved his ends. The fact she wasn't there... she's ashamed, but the hunter still isn't exactly feeling charitable enough to explain to others the real reason she left. She grimaces.

"Course I'm planning to hit back. But the witches one-two punched us, sprung their captives. I need to let the dust settle so we aren't goin' in blind and at half-mast," Valka growls. Her brows knit together for a moment as she considers sharing a secret with Cam. Maybe one will keep him from finding out the other. "Get this -- shortly after the big soiree, I come home to a potion at my door. Promising strength, temporarily. Can't exactly tell if it's just some setup from Phial or not, though. Or maybe worse, some real cut-rate tequila."

Cameron barely has any reaction to her vulgarity. Used to it, perhaps, or simply uncaring. "Neither, yes." His hands go to the pockets of his slacks as he gazes around the shop - There is a morbid curiosity of wondering what her special cuts taste like. Maybe some other time.

Business first, at the very least.

"Alejandro is the only one I'm aware of personally." He'd made a getaway as fast as possible. "I was.. responsible for someone else. Made it difficult to keep track of things." Distraction was a disease that he'd been plagued by - he wants to say, but the words die on his tongue.

"A fair number, at least. So I assume plans will be made to retaliate?"

[elysiumkerr]

A flash of doubt creases over her brow at his derision. If it wasn't a vampire then... Port Leiry has extremely concerning nightlife. It isn't uncommon for tourist traps to have those inclined to darker proclivities lurking, ready to take advantage of the unaware. But this kill had been beautiful, precise. It wasn't a man on bath salts biting someone's face off. There was restraint and beauty, and Elyse knows in her heart it's maybe not as ridiculous as it would sound.

Vicious humans were one thing, unpredictable and cruel. In the stories, the fantasies, vampires were governed by supernatural rules. Logic and decorum, and a deep, unyielding hunger. Their existence was something to be puzzled out -- controllable and incomprehensible all at once.

But Cam's words have her reticent to bring up that line of thinking again. Whatever had inspired her, wasn't the resulting work the most important part anyhow?

"I did. I do," the artist asserts. "But I don't just want to see mindless slaughter and throw the offal on my canvas. That's not conducive to my process. I'm tired of the people who think death and the works that celebrate it are all just one big 'statement on human fragility and the inevitability of our mortal ends'. I've heard every critique attempting to reduce my work to torture porn or a cry for help. You're one of the first..."

Elyse looks back to her works, then to McCormick's gallery space. Her wide eyes sweep long over the space, as if trying to drink it in or find herself a place within it. The last thing she wants is to sound desperate, but her voice can't disguise the hunger for acceptance, something shaped like kinship.

"You understand it. Your analysis of my last submissions wasn't just disgust or misinterpretation of the intent. Elysium, this body of work I've created, it's meant to be the ideal bode of the dead. Not torture, not damnation, just... the reality of death and what leads to it."

He listens, and simply nods as she speaks to him - explaining both her mindset before and her mindset now. At the word 'vampire', his eyes narrow slightly. As far as he was aware, Miss Kerr was human. And humans were supposed to be kept away and protected from the nasty business of the underworld. That's the job of hunters, no?

But he also understands her intrigue. She saw someone die and has been obsessed, which makes sense for the shift in her art.

He hums once again, crossing his arms over his chest. "That is ridiculous. Vampires?" Still, there would be a way to take that curiosity for death and mold it into something he can use or someone who understands.

"The fact that you understand you thought you did the first time is excellent growth, but." He brings a hand to his chin, rubbing at the scruff and edges of his beard. "You saw a man die, watched his blood drain from him. You suspect vampire." He won't give her the satisfaction of telling her they exist, "But.. it almost sounds like you wish to see that again. Do you?"

This is no normal conversation, but he does wish to prod and find if she's like him or simply.. a groupie.

[elysiumkerr]

There is something that infuriates her about handing over all the power in the room to the person whose validation she seeks. But that's how the game is played in life, especially in the ecosystem of fine art. If Exquis were too easy to get into, Elysium would feel their work was cheapened by it. But that didn't mean the artist wasn't aching for recognition, to take a space within someone else's space in this world.

His hums break the silence on a breath she didn't even realize she was holding. But it's better than rejection. Mr. McCormick did not have to agree to this viewing in the first place -- many were comfortable to extend their rejections in perpetuity. So Elyse takes this as a mercy, and maybe a good sign.

Still she sees each of his critiques like a slash across her vision, filling the younger artist with the urge to hole up in her studio and make further changes, until they were perfect from every perspective. But where would she go from here? She still has more to say, more to see -- the work isn't done yet. In fact, it's only just beginning.

Elyse follows him dutifully, taking in the sight of Cameron's work on display. There is precision in the pain -- the way the marks of injury are restrained and purposefully placed across the subject's body. One could not necessarily control the way skin reacted to trauma. There is a beautiful element of randomness in the scarification and healing of a wound, but captured in the liminal, transitive space between fresh pain and faded memories... She envies this moment he's captured, and wonders how she can experience it for herself. "I see," she offers, all she can say at the mercy of his particular tastes, his unique perspective.

The news that he'll take her latest works should fill her with joy, but there's a bitter pit to the words -- it feels like he's settling for less than they both deserve. Elysium is not quite there and they know it. But their shift in perspective has clued into something more appealing. More elusive. A language few could decipher, and even fewer could translate for the masses. But maybe it wasn't the masses she wanted to please. His willingness to give a second look is a worthwhile start, if not yet full validation.

"You're right... that I want to love the darkness but I don't know how. I thought I knew the first time we met," she admits, maybe killing some of her own mystique. But Elyse needs him to understand, she wants him to better understand her. "But I saw something several months ago... It sounds ridiculous, but I think it was a vampire... or something cloaked in shadows. They took a life in front of me and all I could think was how beautiful the dying man's blood looked, like moonlit rubies dripping on the asphalt. Something precious and yet... like crude oil as beautiful as water in a desert oasis. But I haven't seen anything like that since that night..."

He does not expect to be approached by this Elysium once more after his opinion of her work last time. But she insists that it's different, so he takes it in much like he had the first time. Each painting is given sufficient time to be studied, and he does so quietly without so much of a hint of anything on his features.

"Hm." Cameron finally says, as he turns towards the last one. The first sound he's made since he'd started observing. Compliments are not easily rewarded. "There is something different here."

Not quite there, not quite perfect. But there's something hidden underneath the brushstrokes that gives away her state of mind. "Hm.." Another repeated sound of contemplation, as he moves to one of the middle ones.

"The macabre scenes you've created still lack the love of it, but I see where you're trying to go." At this, he gestures to the smears and streaks of red, "This is too clean." And then to another, "And this is not clean enough." Art is subjective, but he's not judging her based on just the quality of it. The quality is phenomenal, but he wants to know if she truly sees what can be beautiful in the terrifying, or if she's just yet another wannabe goth kid trying to get credits before rushing off to brag about it.

He moves once more to another, "This one is nearly perfect technically." At this he crouches down and gestures to the lower half of the painting, "The strokes evoke emotion that isn't in the others. But it's only looking for it that I find it. Not at first glance."

At this, he gestures for her to follow - stopping when he comes to one of his. It showcases one of his hunts, but obscured and fantastical enough that no one would think it real. "Do you see in this one? How the body twists and the sores and burns are all lovingly applied?" He gestures back to hers, "It seems as though you want to love the dreadful and wretched, but aren't quite sure of how to."

He hates talking this much, he realizes. "I'll accept these, but I'll need to see your process for the next one."

[kannivalistic]

Valka is just starting to get a clearer picture of the absolute shitshow she barely missed at the Masquerade. She'd claim a case of divine intervention with the timing of her... son's return, but only if it was divine in the sense that it came out of one of the levels of Dante's Inferno. Comedy, depending on the angle you were looking down on it from.

She knows right now, not a single soul in Port Leiry is a fan of the Fellowship. Even the molasses-ass Brotherhood hunters, most of whom didn't have a damn lick to do with Summerfest. But they were hunters just the same. Difference of detail or not, their basic creed is the same. But that means this is no time to be turning on each other, not when the bloodsuckers, beasts, and witches-be-bitches were riled up and feeling proud of themselves while Valka and her allies licked their wounds.

"McCormick," the butcher barks, wiping her hands on her apron. "I got an itch on my ass but that's not my tattoo telling me as much -- so I'm guessing that standing here you ain't dead or undead either."

She pauses, slipping out from behind the counter to size the Brotherhood hunter up. "How many'd we lose?"

closed starter for @kannivalistic

This trip wasn't exactly a routine one, but it was one that was necessary. After the Masquerade, he was unable to find Valka anywhere on the grounds nor had he heard from her. Of course, that meant next to nothing - they all had their own agendas. His own didn't tend to align with the others, but he was a part of them whether he liked it or not.

Stepping into the butcher shop, he puts his hands into his pockets and breathes in the distinct smell of chemical, meat, and something.. other. "What a pleasant surprise. You're not dead."