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A new Emperor rises
Ezalor
Emperor D'baenCanada
--- A private lounge ------------- 4:8:-2 ---
This small room is enclosed for privacy, with no windows, thick walls, and plush carpeting muffling normal range of sound from leaving the room. Soft candlelight caresses the shape of the luxurious furniture positioned in the center of the room, designed with utmost comfort and prestige in mind. A life-sized oil painting of the Primus himself graces one wall, his arrogant and regal countenance captured perfectly in a scene with him seated on his throne in the Font of Blood.
Catty turns her attention instantly to her Sire, offering a small smile, "Sire, do you need anything from me?" she asks quietly, her bright blue eyes never once leaving yours.
You have emoted: Ezalor gives a small start, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Not at the moment, Childe," he says somewhat absently; his gaze continually flickers to the portrait of Abhorash, an irresistible twitch.
"Did any of us do anything wrong?" Catty asks softly, her own gaze shifting to look up at the Primus, her words lingering.
You have emoted: "No, no," Ezalor says softly; he finally gives in, his own stare turning to the portrait. "There are very few things in this world that can make me uncomfortable," he says, eyes unblinking.
Catty tilts her head to the side instantly, "Yet you stand here seeming slightly uncomfortable, Sire. I'm not trying to pry at it but I'll always listen to you just as you would me," she offers quietly, her attention finally back on you as she tries to give a comforting smile even knowing your gaze won't shift.
You experience a sudden irresistible tugging sensation as your blood bond to your sire yanks you away.
--- The Font of Blood ------------ 6:7:-1 ---
Massive in size, this onyx throne dominates the center of the chamber. There are 7 wailing banshees here. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Examining the surroundings with a perpetual sneer, a callous Praenomen vampire slouches here. An imperious hemic savant is here, leaning upon her scythe. Abhorash is here, sitting on an onyx throne.
PROBE THRONE
The back of this throne stretches all the way to the ceiling above, joining with the earth seamlessly. Onyx in nature, it is of a simple design if not overly large in scale. All angles are squared, and the seat is wide enough for a pair or more larger beings to sit upon.
LOOK ABHORASH
He is a powerful Tekal vampire unabashedly displaying the arrogance of practiced nobility, his thin lips twisted into a perpetual sneer at nearly all times. His face is sharply defined, angular, and his narrow eyes a startling ice-blue in hue. His form is graceful and powerful, his palpable aura restrained with finesse and flair. His skin is pale, trademark of the Consanguine, and slightly sunken eyes are all that detract from his attractive visage, and his blond hair is swept back from his face, immaculately kept and clean. He walks with the boon of Iosyne.
You have emoted: Ezalor stumbles for a moment as he materializes, clearly unused to this now. As his gaze falls upon Abhorash seated on the throne, a soft laugh escapes the man. "I was just looking at a painting of this exact image," he says conversationally. "I think I may have a case of throne envy."
You tell Catty, "It seems I am called away."
Catty tells you, "Alright, Sire. Just uhm.. I meant what I said."
Where your earlier comment may have brought faint humor to Abhorash's mien, the Primus is a portrait of stoicism at this current moment. Seated upon it and favoring a lean to one armrest, his features are serious, and his observance of you is as silent as it is scrupulously penetrating.
You have emoted: "Mine is not quite this big, I mean," Ezalor hastens to correct himself, bringing his hands up somewhat defensively as he explains. "Not that I have any desire to sit upon your throne. Primus." The Keeper's hands fall to his side once more though they fidget; he is clearly not used to having to explain himself.
"Do you know why I have summoned you, childer?" Abhorash inquires in a calm voice; its depth and scope is beyond compare, imparting not only vocally but resonating within your mind as well.
You have emoted: "Should I be expecting my peers?" Ezalor continues, choosing to drop the previous line of conversation entirely. Ezalor looks around himself, noting the lack of anyone else present. "It is always such a...pleasure..." the tone in which the word is uttered stands at an utter disconnect from the meaning of the word, "To be in their company." The Praetor tilts his head at Abhorash's question, one fang biting a lip thoughtfully. "I would hazard a guess that it has to do with these whispers you've brought up."
Waving his hand in dismissal, Abhorash says, "If you want them to be."
You have emoted: "Oh if they're not needed I see no reason to trouble them," Ezalor says hastily.
Abhorash's right hand forms a fist, index finger extended to trace along the sharply-square edges of his throne's armrest. "Whispers do not make solid foundations, Praetor," he answers you, lifting an eyebrow. "And my opinion would not be so easily swayed, let that much be clear."
You have emoted: A sharp inhalation of unneeded breath is Ezalor's first reply; after a moment, he collects himself and speaks. "No, of course not," he says quietly, nodding his head. "D'baen is built on so much more than just whispers." Even now the vampire maintains some traces of cockiness.
Abhorash stands up and stretches his arms out wide.
>Control your thoughts.
>He's standing. This can be good or really bad...
>I bet he can read my thoughts. He can, can't he...I've never been able to do much but guess at my Childer's, but he does not play by our rules.
>Should I bow? Should I ask? Or just stay silent and wait...
Abhorash raises his hand, beckoning to you with two quick gestures with his middle and index finger. He continues to wear a nigh-unreadable expression - be it disgust, amusement, pride, or simple arrogance is made unequivocally unclear.
You have emoted: Ezalor walks slowly to Abhorash, his steps at once eager and hesitant; the result is a steady, fast pace accomplished by slightly dragging feet. He comes to a halt a couple feet away from Abhorash, maintaining a respectful distance. An internal struggle crosses the Praetor's face for an instant as the man stands uncertain of whether to continue moving or remain where he is.
Calmly, Abhorash says, "Among all that have made lives sprung from my legacy, there are so very many who disappoint."
>Is this conversation? Is it an admonishment?
>Have I disappointed?
>What a struggle. Here stands our creator, the man I owe my very existence to. And yet I hate this feeling. This uncertainty...
Continuing on, Abhorash says, "And yet there are still a few who rise above the rest, who have proven themselves to be exemplary of the Blood."
>Oh no. He can read my thoughts can't he? Have I sai...-thought- too much? I am the Bloodletter. I am the Keeper. Praetor of House D'baen. I have risen above so many others. And yet I am nothing before him.
You have emoted: Ezalor's expression is carefully neutral, his head bowed slightly in respect for the man before him. His gaze, unblinking, settles somewhere around Abhorash's chin, a thousand thoughts and emotions battling behind the brilliant blue.
>The Primus. A walking legend, the Source, the very foundation of what we are. I have become so much, earned so much Power, yet I owe my very existence to this man, this legend.
Abhorash closes the distance placed between himself and you with a few languid steps of his own, approaching you himself. Contrary to your unease, the Primus maintains his aloof, utterly disinterested air of appearance.
Abhorash says, "And I believe I have found the first of such. You, with terror in your step and who stirs genuine fear in the beating hearts of fodder. You would not besmirch my name. My legacy."
You have emoted: Ezalor's gaze flickers downwards for a moment before pulling itself back up; it rests for a moment on its previous spot, Abhorash's chin, before rising up the tiniest bit to rest on Abhorash's nose instead.
>Good enough
You say, "You honour me, Primus. What I am, the very Blood through my veins...I owe my very existence to you. It is my honour, my -duty- to uphold your legacy."
>He is pleased. D'baen, the name that once, in shame, caused his rise so many years ago to undo the damage done...D'baen is something to be proud of now.
Both of Abhorash's hands disappear into the pockets of his military jacket, and he quirks an eyebrow at you. "You will become the first to foster a new generation of the Blooded. I have every bit of confidence that you will do such with aplomb, as you have risen to surpass so many in influence and power."
Barely before he has finished speaking, Abhorash draws both of his hands out from his jacket, holding a twin-edged dagger in one. Before your very eyes, he slashes length-wise along his right wrist, a trickle of bright crimson blood emerging from the cut.
You have emoted: At Abhorash's words, all unease is temporarily forgotten; Ezalor's eyes shoot right up to meet his, shock, joy, honour blending into a cacophonous cluster on his face. The gaze breaks as his eyes dart down to the blood seeping from the wound, transfixed.
>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In the dimming afternoon light, the heavens above the Vashnars smolders and darkens in a turgid wreath of shadow that blots out the sun.
Still holding his wrist out in front of him, Abhorash offers you a cock of one eyebrow, questioning.
Heralded by eerie giggling and broken laughter, Calipso's voice sounds across the land, "Who put out the lights??"
You see Abhorash shout, "Silence."
You have emoted: Trembling hands take Abhorash's wrist. Rather than move Abhorash's arm, however, Ezalor instead braces himself as he lowers down to the wound. His grip suddenly steadies as the vampire lowers himself eagerly onto the wrist, drinking in the Blood. His eyes cloud, lost in rapture.
A callous Praenomen guard kneels onto one knee, demonstrating his humility and respect.
A callous Praenomen guard kneels onto one knee, demonstrating his humility and respect.
Dizziness swarms you, headiness and all-consuming lust overtaking all of your senses.
A thunder of drums and triumphant chanting splits the sky above Bloodloch, as the city celebrates the ascent of Emperor Ezalor D'baen.
You will now be known as Emperor Ezalor D'baen, the Bloodletter, by order of Razmael, the Synthesist.
You have emoted: Ezalor falls to a knee, only his desperate grasp upon Abhorash's wrist holding him upright. Deep, heavy pants escape him as he retracts his fangs from the wound, the grip slowly falling away. The new Emperor's eyes are firmly shut, chest still rising and falling before he rises to his feet. When they open, they burn with pride and fervour. "I will not misuse your Gift, Primus."
Ezalor:
He is Praetor.
He is one of the Consanguine.
He is of the Praenomen.
He is of the Bloodborn.
He is by rights an Emperor.
Abhorash takes one step backward, onto the dais containing his throne. "A Gift well-earned," the Primus answers finally, before turning his attention onto the blood-filled trenches in the room near him.
Abhorash says, "Go. You have a very important first night ahead of you... Emperor D'Baen."
You say, "Thank you again, Primus."
You bow respectfully to Abhorash.
Comments
LOOK FAITH
She is a typical Atavian vampire and is blessed with rich, lustrous curls of a golden red hue which frame the delicate features of this lovely young woman before you. Her bone structure is refined and her skin tone is a rich creamy shade which compliments nicely with her high slanted cheekbones, full pouty lips which seem perpetually curved into a slyly sensual smile, and slightly uptilted eyes, framed with thick lashes tipped with gold. Her eyes indeed are perhaps her most striking feature, a gorgeous shade of emerald green, deepening or lightening depending on her mood, but most often appearing as lambent pools sparkling with good humor. She moves with an elegance that is entirely inborn, the sway of hip, the way she walks, even the way she holds herself is a graceful symphony of motion that is designed to delight the senses and draw eyes to the lovely figure and gentle curves that nature has been so generous to bestow upon her. Two large wings of soft, moonlit-touched silver rise up from behind her back, completing the picture of grace and beauty. She walks with the blessing of Iosyne.
Opulent meeting room overlooking the thrones.
There are 3 plush wingback chairs here. An intimate table for two is here, 2 high-backed chairs have been placed at it. A set of heavy, dusty red curtains have been tied back away from the windows. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. An imperious hemic savant is here, leaning upon her scythe. Her posture hunched uncomfortably, a shawl-draped scion of despair resides here. Standing off to one side, the meeting room attendant patiently awaits orders.
You see a single exit leading out (open walnut door).
You greet a meeting room attendant with a sincere smile.
A meeting room attendant turns to you attentively and offers a courteous nod. "Praetor of D'baen."
A meeting room attendant says, "Is there something I may assist you with?"
[*] (say) No, thank you.
[*] (say) What is your role here?
[*] (say) Yes, I am calling a meeting of the Blood Council.
[*] (say) What do you have?
You say, "What do you have?"
A meeting room attendant says, "Courtesy of the Alcazar."
glass198084 pinot (wine glass) 5 1gp
glass224115 merlot (wine glass) 5 1gp
glass224125 chardonnay (wine glass) 5 1gp
glass224257 cabernet (wine glass) 5 1gp
glass224378 champagne (wine glass) 5 1gp
towel73437 a moist towelette 5 1gp
You can see 6 item(s) being sold in this location.
To buy something, BUY <thing> FROM Attendant.
[*] (say) I am looking to slake my thirst on something else.
You say, "I am looking to slake my thirst on something else."
A meeting room attendant arches an eyebrow and nods slowly. "Of course," she murmurs. The attendant exits the room and returns with a nubile young bloodslave in tow.
A meeting room attendant directs the scantily-clad slave to stand beside one of the plush wingback chairs, and returns to her post.
PROBE SLAVE
A human woman of young, but indeterminate age, this slave is lithe, her snowy white skin traced with swollen veins. Her only clothing is a ceremonial loincloth of dark crimson silk, and even this does little to conceal her.
A nubile bloodslave looks weak and feeble.
She weighs about 106 pound(s).
The bloodslave is currently at full vitality.
Do you want to:
[*] (suck) bloodslave
You greet a meeting room attendant with a sincere smile.
A meeting room attendant turns to you attentively and offers a courteous nod. "Praetor of D'baen."
A meeting room attendant says, "Is there something I may assist you with?"
[*] (say) No, thank you.
[*] (say) What is your role here?
[*] (say) Yes, I am calling a meeting of the Blood Council.
[*] (say) What do you have?
You say, "Yes, I am calling a meeting of the Blood Council."
A meeting room attendant says, "Very well. Would you like me to announce it?"
[*] (say) Yes
[*] (say) No
You say, "No."
A meeting room attendant nods her head at you.
A meeting room attendant says, "I will be just outside."
A meeting room attendant slips out of the room and closes the door behind her.
Faith tilts her head and listens intently to you.
You have emoted: Ezalor eyes the bloodslave, nodding his head to Faith. "If you wish to slake your thirst, she will serve."
Faith says, "Hmmn, it seems I have forgotten much in my sleep."
Faith draws in the small human female closer to her, sinking her fangs into the tender flesh of her neck. The mortal woman goes limp in Faith's arms as she feeds upon her.
Once a nubile bloodslave is eventually released, she staggers briefly on her feet before standing straight once more.
Faith says, "A tasty treat."
Faith waves away the bloodslave.
You have emoted: As Faith attends to the feeding, Ezalor walks quickly to the chair placed at the table. He slides the chair out from under the table, motioning for Faith to take a seat. "The Primus went through much toil to ensure our luxury here," he says with a small smile. "It wouldn't do not to indulge."
Faith says, "It has been many centuries since I have been awake for a significant amount of time. Most times just for a moment or so before the tupor would embrace me once more."
You say, "Aye, hence the rather...eager...greeting by our House earlier. I thought perhaps you would fancy some space away from it all for the time being while I brought you up to current times."
Faith nods her head emphatically.
Faith nods in agreement before taking a seat in one of the high backed chairs near the table. "It would be helpful to know the lay of the land once more before being thrust back into the night to night bustle."
Faith sits down on a high-backed chair.
Faith says, "Do the Bloodborn still thrive. They had just learned those dark arts when I was last awake it seems."
You have emoted: "Where to begin..." Ezalor states pensively, taking his own seat at the chair across from Faith. His fingertips drum a steady beat against the table, unblinking eyes locked on hers. At the question, the Praetor gives a small nod. "Aye, they do. Quite active, actually."
You have emoted: Ezalor stops his drumming, clasping both hands together as he leans forward, elbows now resting on the table as well. "You had asked earlier if your brothers wake. Emperor Zahmekoses made a brief appearance. Emperors Zoharim and Paracelsus have not been seen for quite a few centuries and..." the Praetor pauses for a moment, lips pensive as he ponders how to phrase the next bit. "Well, I sit across from you."
Faith says, "Zoharim was my actual brother in mortal life as well."
You nod your head emphatically.
Faith chuckles darkly, "Not many people remember that far back."
You say, "I was informed of such by one of his Childer. Princess Sarita Bahir'an."
You have emoted: "Events, events," Ezalor mutters to himself, eyes closing for a moment as he delves into his memory. "Belladonna is no more. Were you aware of such?"
Faith frowns, "Who would be powerful enough to destroy Belladonna?" She looks thoughtful as she murmurs to herself, "A loss....although perhaps an opportunity as well."
You have emoted: "Only she herself," Ezalor replies, his brows drawing together in a small frown. "She purged the Gift from her body, taking up identity as Yrtez once more. Zsarachnor slew her mortal form shortly after." A slight pause is afforded after this declaration, to allow the news to sink in. "Your...-our- Sire now sits as the Primus, the Source. His direct progeny Emperors and Empresses as he once was."
Faith leans back thoughtfully her chair, as a thoughtful expression crosses her face. "My father, he is awake in the world? I had not thought he would wake again."
You have emoted: "Aye, he has risen from his slumber," Ezalor says, hands unclasping in a grand gesture encompassing the room. "This palace, the Alcazar, was built at his behest. A palace truly worthy of the Consanguine. He has taken me as his sixth Childe. D'baen has earned his approval." Done posturing, the Praetor's arms settle back onto the table, though both are balled tightly into fists this time. "Which brings me to what I mainly wanted to discuss. Kauller was given this Gift once in the past and proved an abomination. I have no desire for such to arise again."
Faith sneers, "Yes, Kauller, my one mistake. One I wished to eradicate but she proved to be troublesome."
You have emoted: "I wish to work towards a harmonious relationship in the House," Ezalor continues, nodding. "I have had the Primus appoint you as an Elder - you hold nearly all the power and authority that the House Head does. All in the House save for myself still bear your Blood, your line, though I will take Childer in the future. Two branches, two lines united still under the name of D'baen." A graceful inclination of his head finishes the sentence.
Faith tilts her head as she considers Ezalor, her expression quizzical as she asks "And you do not wish to form your own House to bear your own name as my other brothers did?"
You have emoted: Ezalor scoffs, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture at the absurdity of the idea. "D'baen has been all I know, since my eighteenth year. I have grown, been broken and risen up again all while bearing the name of D'baen. Fought countless battles, bled and bloodied others to protect what the House stands for." Ezalor's head tilts slightly, his gaze unbroken. "Our Sire raised one he found worthy for greater leadership, to continue the Excellence D'baen stands for." A momentary pause. "I am D'baen." Ezalor ends simply.
Faith stares thoughtfully at Ezalor, "It is not an idea without merit, Ezalor, to stand on your own and build up a legacy that is only yours. You are bred in blood and bone to D'baen, but I am D'baen incarnate. I am the founder and progenitor of this House." As she speaks, the shadows around Faith darken and writhe around their mistress who for so long had been dormant. She seems to pause for a moment as she gathers her temper and the shadows settle. "However, I am willing to consider that you have looked after my House while I have been asleep. We can give this a trial run to see how the two lines would coexist with the provision that if there is a division that grows within the House that is irreparable, you would split to form your own House with only those of your line."
Faith arches a brow as she waits Ezalor's response.
You have emoted: A small smile creeps lazily onto Ezalor's face as he listens, the tiniest breath of cold air escaping his nostrils at the finish. "I will have to lay the reality forward. I am every bit what the House encompasses as you are; the name, yours, but its ideals and all the House stands for propagated by me for the last century and more. The Primus did not choose haphazardly." The Praetor extends a hand across the table, palm up. "I am not pleading my case here, Your Imperial Majesty. I am offering a chance for yourself to integrate back into the House in a position befitting your history."
Faith laughs suddenly, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "Indeed, just as I would have said to someone trying to take my power. You are indeed a worthy D'baen." She extends her own hand forward in agreement, "Very well, let us see what we can make of our House."
You have emoted: Ezalor holds Faith's hand for a moment before opening his palm, pricking open the faintest wound on it with a fingernail. A small trickle of Blood escapes the wound; standing, Ezalor strides politely over to Faith and extends the bloodied palm. "In Blood then. The strength of two of the greatest Consanguine bound under a single name. Your name," he concedes with a small laugh. "I have no wish to be a Kauller, Your Imperial Majesty, but neither will I throw away all that I have accomplished and the Gift the Primus has bestowed upon me. We will take D'baen to new heights as equals."
Faith lets a wound form upon her own palm with nothing more than the power of her mind, the slow flow of blood a splash of crimson against her pale skin. She clasps the hand of Ezalor and says with a vehement expression "And I will not suffer another Kauller from my House again. I hope you prove yourself worthy of my father. He can be a harsh taskmaster."
i am rapture coder
i am rapture coder
I digress.
Good read, lucky vampires.
I agree. It's quite enjoyable to see this level of intrigue present, especially among vampires.