A Begining

[Leo]

Valentines day had come and gone and though he was not as quick to follow the Marquès from the Ball, he did follow a couple days later. The look he had been given by his boss told a well known signal: it was time to begin.

As is with all signals, once they were given they started off a domino of events and Leo had his role to play. After he left Claremount he headed to the Marquès manor after a few stops in the city - unfortunately he had no time to go pass the Inn but he had good faith that his package had been delivered. Once he arrived at the Manor he could see that things were under going change there as well and he found the head Ama discussing terms with a lanky fellow a bit older than Leo.

"Yes, you know where it is, Fabrications by Design, in the wealthier portion of that New Haven city." Her hand came up then and she whacked the man on the shoulder with a packet of papers. He hadn't been paying attention.

The man recoiled and stepped away from the Ama, intently scrubbing at his shoulder with his hand like her hit had left a stain upon his jacket. "Crikey! What was that for!"

Ama raised the hand with the papers again, poised she was and ready to strike again. "Don't you use that tone of voice with me Joseph or I'll -- Leo." She and the head Mayordomo, Butler, were the only staff permitted to reference either Leo or the Marqués in such an informal matter. "Good, you're here. Perhaps you can impart the importance of what I'm saying."

Leo had walked up and now had an arm around Joseph's shoulders, giving him a pat. The man was slightly taller than he but that didn't matter. "I'm sure he understands what fate will befall him if he fails in his given task. Don't you?"

Having Leo's arm around his shoulders was not as comforting as the gesture made itself and Joseph was a tightened ball of nerves. "Yes. Yes of course," he managed to stammer out. Panicked eyes looked at Ama, he was too nervous and scared to look at Leo.

He had heard tales, lots of various tales that circled amongst the help about what happened to those who were disappointments to the Señors Stry and Mînguèz. Though Joseph never put a lot of stock into fables and tales he did not want to test their validity. He had a good life in the employ of the Marqués, even his children, and he did not want to see anything happen to them.

"The shop will be taken care of as if it were my own."

"That's a good man." Leo gave Joseph another pat to the shoulder before he removed his hand. "Ama, my papers, please."

Leo started down the hall and, after turning her chin up to Joesph, Ama followed. The lone man, knowing he had just been dismissed, stood there a few moments longer before heading to the nearest exit.

Ama placed the papers she had used minutes ago as a stick in Leo's outstretched hand. "All of it is there Leo. As soon as I received his signal I sent papers to the families and pulled up the extra reserves. I even pulled the manifest from the coming ships and did you know that --"

"Gracious Ama, I can read. You have it all meticulously written out." If he hadn't cut her off she would have prattled on about every last detail and he didn't have time for all that. Especially when she had gone through the trouble of putting all those tiny details on paper. No one in their employ was as good as Ama at the job she did.

They walked down the hall to the library, paying no mind to the servants who were moving about covering various items in cloth. He didn't speak again until they were inside of the room. While there were some servants anything could be said around he was not daft -and neither was Ama. "He should be landing at the port back home before months end; do not expect to see him back until just as long." Leo spoke to her from over at the bookshelf, picking a few select choices off the shelf in no particular order.

Ama frowned and that is all she would show of her dislike of the situation. "Do not worry. All will be handled."

"I know it will. Chao, Ama." Books in hand, Leo gave her a smile and walked around the corner and through the archway that lead to the back portion of the library. Ama didn't bother to follow, if she had the only place she would have ended up would have been the back room of the library.

[Marqués del Stry]

The boat docked at Port Whitby in England and a different Marquès stepped off the boat than the one who got on in Rhydin. This man was more casual in his dress without the four-button blazer and double-breasted suit. Instead he wore a black bowler hat pressed down over his head, dark pants, red shirt and jacket. Make no mistake, he did not look haggard or vagabond, he merely didn't dress for his station. Here he was only known as Stry.

A teal BMW with black tinted windows was parked at the corner of the dock, the driver stood outside the passenger door and opened it as the Marquès approached. He entered in and the door closed, the driver then moved around the car to take his place at the wheel. Aside from the driver, he was not alone in the car. Sitting on the floor next to him, hands and feet bound together and mouth taped over, was a man of middle age. His pepper spotted hair was shaggy and his face weathered and worn. This man had taken a few hits and it showed, dried blood stained his shirt and places on his face. A rather big man, fitting him into the small space between the front and back seat had to have been a challenge, not to mention truly uncomfortable for the man.

"I think you've learned a valuable lesson, haven't you Steven?" Steven couldn’t move much but he could nod his head and was now doing so very fervently. His eye – the one that wasn’t swollen shut – was skittish. It had the look of fear. The Marqués leaned forward and tapped the back of the drivers seat, signaling him that it was time to go. The engine started and the car eased into the rhythm of the streets, the driver knowing where to go without being told. All the employees knew what to do and they never went against their orders or betrayed the trust that they were given.

Steven had once been a member of the Stry household; in fact, he was a part of the personal escort that had the charge over the safety of the Marqués’ wife. Though he was treated very well, his family given housing and needs cared for, he turned traitor and fell into association with the very people the Marqués had been keeping his family from. The Drow and High Elves. For years the exact location of Marqués’ home had been guarded and, thanks to magic, untraceable by any that did not know the way. Steven knew of the secret and had sold it to the highest bidder. That information had lead to the massacre that soon followed. Until a few weeks ago this man’s role had been unknown but now that he was found, he was going to pay for his crime.

“Your wife, Margret, and your son, James, now belong to me. They think that you have died in a car crash.” The Marqués drummed his fingers on the handle of the door, briefly turning to watch the scenery. They were driving through the industrial part of town where warehouses abound and a factory was puffing smoke into the air.

Steven struggled with his bonds, bound feet kicked at the floor and his too-big torso tried to break free of the wedge he was in. All to no avail his actions were enhanced with muffled grunts and curses. “You should be thanking me. They could be in the car with you.”

It wasn’t long before the car rolled to a stop and the engine turned off, the driver exiting. The Marqués smiled at Steven then and took the bowler hat off his head, tossing it to the bound man. “You should have been a better man.” Maybe it was a joke. Either way, with that said the Marqués opened his door and stepped out of the car but didn’t back away yet. They had stopped in an area of the inustrial section, large metal crates were stacked atop of each other and there were pipes and equipment here and there. No people were visible.

The driver had opened the trunk, pulled out a crowbar, and bent to swing at the pipes and gas line under the car. He knew exactly where to hit and soon hissing could be heard. The Marqués rolled down the back seat window by an inch or two and closed the door and started to walk away before taking a lighter out of his pocket. Striking it to bring about a flame, he turned and flicked it into the open window, confident that it would hit Steven and a fire would start.

First there was a muffled scream that was shortly followed by a loud ‘Boom’ as the BMW exploded. Luckily the Marqués and the driver were out of range and were not the victims of any shrapnel. No alarms would sound in the nearby areas, no local authority would come zipping down the street in a din of sirens. No one would come to put out the blaze or see if they could help. It was amazing what money could do. The only shame was the loss of the car, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t get another, and besides, he liked to walk.

“Now that that’s out of the way, on to more important business.” The Marqués and his Driver headed from the industrial part of town their destination: A quaint lounge on Hanover Street. It would be just after dusk by the time they arrived there, and that is when they would meet the man they had come to see.

[Damon Fauci]

England. Land of Queen and Country. It was not often that Damon graced the soil of this corner of the earth. Even his smooth aristocratic humour found the British to be too dry and stiff for his taste, with about as much personality as a dried, stale tea biscuit. He was always willing, however, to grace whatever establishment that his compatriot selected to discuss their affairs. Damon could, after all, conceal his presence from the eyes of one to one thousand with a simple exercise of power, and that same exercise of power could also muddle the minds of those same thousand people so that when they looked upon Damon they saw what he wished them to see, rather than the actuality. Thus, location was far more important to his associate.

Today, as Damon reclined in the hand-crafted leather booth in one of the Hanover establishment's many meeting rooms, no one that looked upon him would see the Marchese Fauci, the notable and mysterious noble of the northeastern boarder of Italia. They would see instead a simple but well-presented mortal man. Clearly not one of their own land, but to their foggy minds what his origins were simply wouldn't matter. What's more, once Damon stepped out of this establishment, not a single person who was within it during the time of this meeting would remember he was here at all. Except one.

Stry. Damon was rather pleased that there was a possibility of another mutually beneficial agreement between the two of them, and that the opportunity came with such impeccable timing. It had been enough to push Damon to cease toying with the malevolent spirit who was certain he had the upper hand on the vampire. As delectable as it had been for this centuries old cat to have a mouse to play with, he knew full well all entertainments must come to an end. Stry reaching out to him had provided such a possible end.

For the ostentatious Noel, that end has been quite a surprise, as Damon had expected it would. While the spirit had made admirable attempts to glean information about the vampire's present whilst Damon slept, the aristocrat had mastered the art of mental blocks and sealing off memories centuries ago. As such the events of Damon's past - his mortal as well as his immortal one - were an absolute mystery to all who knew him now. It was thanks to a long-standing, meaningful ally from some of Damon's earliest days that helped put a rather creative end to the entity which sought out its revenge. Contrary to Noel's belief, all things could be jailed. All things. One simply needed to find the correct means.

This recently proven fact was precisely why there was a small box, even smaller than the one he delivered to Epiphany a few weeks ago, sitting on the leather seat next to Damon. It was made of a coarse wood, and while it had a well-formed clasp on the front to fasten it tightly shut and hinges on the back to facilitate its opening, there was no lock. He saw no need for it. If any man was fool enough to pilfer this box and meddle with the contents, the consequences would be punishment enough for them.

A glance down to said box, yet no subsequent glance at his watch while he waited. It had been his choice to arrive fifteen minutes early. Time enough to take a seat, order the appropriate spirits, and collect his thoughts. Indeed, as he mulled over the matters of his mind the vampire didn't even cast his eyes at the single door to this room. Stry would be here in good time, as the man always was.

When he arrived, he would see a bottle of a robust red Spanish wine and two glasses sitting upon the table. Damon's glass was filled only with what wine the server had poured into it for him to take a taste. Clearly the vampire had approved the wine without tasting it, for that liquid to remain. Damon himself was dressed in his usual attire, a finely woven black sweater, black slacks, and polished shoes of none other than fine Italian leather. All of his clothing was carefully tailored, as usual, to fit his deceptively lean frame.

All was ready for Stry. So you see, one truly never knew who the associates were of one Damon Fauci.

[Marqués del Stry]

The streets in this part of town were not overly busy and they were not so vacant that anyone would pay particular attention to two men walking on the sidewalk. Other people were using the stone and mortar walkway as they went about their business in the last fading lights of the day as well, Stry and his Driver were just two more people.

Their walk was casual, the measure of conversation that of business partners walking together and headed somewhere after a long day at work. They shared the sidewalk with others, moving to single file to pass by a too-big crowd and begged pardon of any conversations they had to slice through as they proceeded on their way. While he may be known amongst his compadres here only as Stry that did not mean he had to have a total lack of manners.

The light had faded moments before Stry arrived a block away from the Lounge on Hanover street. Perfect timing, he would have hated to arrive late for his date. Presentation was everything and in negotiating transactions it was important to present yourself on time. Stry watched a person or two go through the single door into the Lounge and then he entered himself after giving a nod to the Driver. Two men parting ways, that's all it was.

Upon entering the Lounge Stry did not bother to look around or even dally in the threshold of the door, those were things a person did when they were unsure of where they were or the people. Stry knew where he was and knew where to go and therefore when he entered he began walking towards the back. His direction took him pass an apparent random waitress who he treated with a smile as their paths crossed. People were everywhere.

He proceeded to the booth that held a bottle of Spanish wine - the man owned many vineyards, he knew his wines. "How nice, Fauci, you have ordered a bottle of my favorite," Brown eyes regarded the black clothed man who sat at the booth as he too took a seat.

Eye contact was important in business and therefore he had it. Nothing hard or intrusive, just enough for standard conversation. As he sat notice was taken of the small box on the table.

"Do you have it with you?" Straight to the point. There was no need to beat around the bush, Damon would know to what he referred.

[Damon Fauci]

"Yes, so I did. Your favorite." A bit of emphasis on 'your' from this fellow vineyard owner. Naturally Damon's land raised up a different selection of grapes than Stry did, for him to speak such a jibe. The light dig accompanied by one of his brief but wolfish grins. When he did, there they were as always, the pronounced sharpness of his two keen eyeteeth. He felt no need to hide them, as none of the fogged tavernfolk who crossed their path would notice them, and Stry knew of them full well.

Seeing no need to wait for a server to do the task, Damon picked up the bottle of red wine and filled Stry's glass first, and then his own. The level the liquid reached in the vampire's glass was noticeably lower, but surely the man he drank with would understand? While the color delighted Damon's visual palette, the taste left something to be desired for. The why went beyond any particular blend of grapes, and was rooted more in Damon's personal dining habits.

Damon was also a man of eye contact. His gaze was intense, even when he was not pressing the fullness of his power into those seemingly bottomless black eyes. So while the vampire poured, Stry had the honor of meeting him eyes to eyes. "I do," was Damon's sanguine reply. He set the bottle on the table between them, and then reclined back against the supple leather of the booth. Stry was a man who got right down to business, and Damon was a languid immortal with all the time in the world.

His long, pale fingers closed around the lid of the box in question, and he set it upon the table within Stry's reach. "Contained within this box. You may open it, of course, as I'd never ask you to take care of cargo without some form of inspection on your part. However, I advise you to inspect with your eyes only, as touching the item might prove. . .well. No need to surmise." A rather devilish curl to his lip.

"The consequences would be devastatingly dangerous enough, Stry, that I do have to ask this: what is your proposed manner of handling such a precarious piece of cargo?" He folded his arms across his chest, watching to see if Stry decided to inspect this potential bit of business. If the Marques opened the box, he would find within the fire orange stone known as Wulfenite. A rather rare find, especially in this size, the stone alone was museum quality and no doubt worth a good deal of money. This was not just a simple stone, however, not anymore. It was acquired from that old ally of his for a small donation in exchange. One he was always more than happy to give this particular ally, even when receiving nothing in return.

"I also can't help but wonder," he added in his usual smooth, silken timbre, "what it is I can do for you, Stry."

The stone, with a height of approximately three inches, a width of two inches, and a girth of two inches:

[Marqués del Stry]

They were two different men from two different backgrounds and yet here they were, on a date, talking over glasses of wine. There was a lot to be said for people of varying backgrounds working together. That Fauci had picked up the wine bottle and poured drinks for the two of them showed a level of mutual respect, especially considering the fact that this drink was not one that the Vampire favored. A fleeting thought delivered the possibility that he probably should have bleed the man who had been held captive in the BMW. No. Something such as that was not what you should deliver to the man across the table. Another moment was not wasted on the thought.

Whereas Fauci had taken up a lax position, Stry remained upright and reached for his poured glass of wine while he listened, his eyes looking at the small box that was slid in his direction. Stry had taken one pull of the wine before the glass was set down upon the table in a very fluid manner as the wine did not shake from anything more than the movement created from his arm. Accustomed to handling sensitive objects he handled this one with just as much care: thumb and forefinger secured the base, thumb and forefinger on the other hand pulled back the top.

At the start he wasn’t quite sure of the name of the stone, for it could have been one of many. Though the color was enough to mark it as rare. Not one to draw attention, Stry took his fingers from the box , easing the open box in the path of the wine bottle so the gem would not be so easily seen. Then he took up his wine glass once more, but he was not simply taking another drink of the liquid, but he was looking through the other end of the glass and to the stone. Curved glass acted as a magnifier and enabled him to get a closer inspection of the item without holding it up to his eyes. Satisfied he lowered his glass and closed the top on the box.

“There is something housed within the stone.” Magical, spiritual, or otherwise, simply that Fauci had admitted that touching the stone was dangerous implied that it was a house for something more. Statement put out there, he tapped the forefinger of his right hand upon the table as his gaze stayed on the closed box. “It is not within my personal ability to be able to deal with such an item as you have set forth.” His attention now turned to the man across the table. “But this meeting is not in vain for I know of a man who specializes in things such as this and he will be able to accommodate your need.”

Stry then folded his hand on the table. His posture was straight and yet relaxed. “I shall contact him for you if you will agree to do something for me.” This would be the payment that was inquired.

“I need information pulled from a man who has sworn that he would go to his grave with it. So far he’s held true to that statement. I need to know what he knows and it’s been said that Vampires have,” here he paused for a moment, “Creative ways of obtaining information. That is my price. I provide you the means to effectively be rid of the stone, you get the information for me.”

[Damon Fauci]

A date? If they truly were sharing such an occasion, there would be no doubt in Stry's mind. A gentleman beast of the worst [or perhaps best] kind, when Damon was pursuing someone there was no wonder in the other's mind, as the vampire left no room for such wonder. But Stry could always keep the hope, if such a possibility warmed his heart?

As Stry inspected the cargo in question, Damon's long fingers circled around the stem of his wine glass and he took a modest sip of the full-bodied blend. Again, it wasn't entirely disagreeable to his sense of taste, but it was a far cry from the taste Damon's tongue required and sought after on a daily basis. For now, for this meeting, the wine would serve well enough to keep his senses occupied on something other than the scent of Stry across from him, or the sound of the man's heartbeat, and so on. Base instincts such as hunger had no place at this meeting, and what's more. . . it should not be a surprise that Damon spent his nights feeding upon women with precious few exceptions.

Those dangerous black eyes appraised Stry's actions with the box. If there was one constant Damon had learned about this man, it was that his staid nature always equaled an unparalleled sense of caution. It was that precise quality in this mortal that, after appropriate exploration and testing, ultimately lead to Damon's decision to forge ahead with their particular brand of 'alliance'.

When Stry spoke the correct reality of the stone, Damon raised his brow. Impressive. He'd known the man to be nearly as observant as he was cautious, but this particular diagnosis was a pleasant surprise indeed. "There is," he replied with his usual silken nonchalance. "And my interest to keep it caged up in this fashion or another makes me quite interested to meet this man you speak of. I've never crossed an individual with such . . . convenient abilities, shall we say?" Indeed, even his oldest ally did not possess such a talent. Or rather, the ally did not possess the ability to a degree that Damon could put the stone in said ally's hands and not be concerned about a possibility of danger, injury or fatality upon the ally if one single misstep was taken.

As for Stry's need, well. The slow predatory smile should be answer enough. But just in case it wasn't, the vampire had a ready reply. "A great number of means, actually. Any of which I am most happy to employ." Another small sip from the Spanish wine, before he set the glass soundlessly on the table. Was Damon pleased at the prospect of such an assignment? Of course. Such tasks were often his favorite, especially if he was allowed to take liberties. This anticipation of liberty fueled the two questions he posed next. "Must this man remain in any useful state after I've obtained said information, or am I granted the freedom to remove the information as I see fit? And is this time sensitive information, or is there a bit of breathing room for its acquisition?"

A world filled with mice, and this ancient cat loves to play.

[Marqués del Stry]

Not many people knew the Marquès, or Stry as he was being referred to here, and as such they didn't know what he was capable of doing. Nor were they aware of the type of company he kept. If it were not for the fact that this pair appeared to be only two men talking over glasses of wine, who would have ever suspected to see them together? They made a rather unlikely pairing.

Stry was in the habit of letting people see what he wanted to show of himself. A gentleman full of manners with only the most honorable of intentions is what he was. Or maybe he was a peddler who lived off of what he could scrounge up from strangers. Or, even still, maybe he was the head of a notorious crime circuit. Jester, politician, worker of the arts, Stry may not have the long life of his partner who sat across from him at the table, but being mortal and raised as he had learning the art of proper guise was essential to survival.

Now, to continue this farce of a typical meeting, Stry gave a light shrug of his shoulders and took on a more lackadaisical pose in the seat. "Whereas I do not expect to leave here with you in tow and have us get down to interrogation it is not something I would put off any longer than a fortnight." Fauci might have all the time in the world but, again, Stry was mortal.

"It will take me the better part of a day to get in contact with the man you need. Daniel is his name; he isn't a holy man." There was a reason that was said. "I believe what you have to offer will be well worth his time."

The stone in the box was there for Fauci to retake. He picked up his
glass of wine. "Mantan, it's a Mooreland village in the County of Devon known for it's rocks and mountain climbing," Stry folded his hands on the table. "If he has agreed to met he will be found in the thatch roof house at the base of the Western mountain. Let us met there in two days."

That would give him the time he needed to make contact with Daniel. All that was needed now was for Fauci to agree.

[Damon Fauci]

"Longer than a fortnight, I'd never dream of putting off such a delectable little task for so long. Patience and procrastination are two very different animals, and I haven't a whit of the latter. By my confident estimation, you will have the information within seven days after he and I meet acquaintance. Should an urgent need arise that calls for the information sooner, well." A slow, calculated smile. "That will simply mean that I change my means of getting to know him to something a bit more expedient." Such a task as the Marquès had given him he had performed many times before, on subjects easily bent and 'impossible'. In the end, no one proved truly impossible.

As for the less than holy man, Damon offered a languid shrug of his lean muscled shoulders. "Should he prove as useful as you described, he will certainly prove well worth my time as well." This Daniel would be one he would be observing carefully. Any new knowledge of methods of what most would call the darker arts would prove a quite useful gift to his most favored of allies. An ally for which great toil was well worth the resulting embrace. And enhanced ability, naturally. Damon always sought to better those he considered his own. Call it the 'nobleman' in him.

"Two days, upon the setting of the sun. I will be prompt as ever. As for now," Damon reached out and his fingers closed over the box, which he pulled towards him in a gesture so smooth it would be impossible for a human to duplicate, "I must tend to my nightly drink. And will leave you to yours. Best you finish it, Stry, it wasn't cheap. And dare I say the completion of the bottle just may be enough to loosen you up?" A brief devil's smile was flashed to the man as he made that ironic jibe. For when did this Marchese ever 'loosen up' to something other than his silken, sanguine nature?

Damon bowed his frame slightly forward in the old-world gesture of respectful departure. Then, taking the box with him, he rose from his seat and exited the room in the time it took to blink an eye. Hunger was swift in coming, and he swift in leaving.

[B.D. Adams]

(the destination is the at the very top, that dark shape)

Dartmoor was a remote area, a far cry from Hanover Street and the din of that portion of England. Here streets and sidewalks were out of place and buildings could be nearly miles apart from each other. The flat rolling hills and rocky mountainous walls made the land inaccessible for many of the modern day vehicles to travel upon and therefore, those that lived in the area, relied upon the use of carts pulled by the infamous Dartmoor ponies, or the strength of their own feet to carry them. With the land being sparse of trees any traveler could easily be seen from many locations when the sun was up. This was a welcomed thing for the herdsmen that resided in the area. However, since the land was bereft of lights, when the sun went down the only way to see was with the aid of artificial light.

That is, unless a person happened to be otherwise gifted.

At this time the sun was starting to set, a universal symbol in this area that it was time for all those who were out to go in. Self- engaged in business of their own no one bothered to take the time and look up to the top of the hills were a dark skinned man sat watching the people below. To anyone who happened to look in his direction and who had particularly keen eyesight would simply see a man sitting.

There was nothing about this man that would cause anyone to give him more than a cursory glance as they went about their own way. He wore \brown trousers with a knitted woolen shirt, a cap pulled back on his head, the dress of any rugged common field worker. A few feet behind him was a simple stone house with a mud-thatched roof, a few stray goats and sheep meandered about, and smoke rose from the chimney carrying with it the smell of mint and pine. What was he doing sitting on the ground outside his house? He was waiting.

A couple days ago a message had reached him with notice of a meeting. There were precious few people who knew how to contact him, and even with that there was no guarantee that the person’s efforts wouldn't be a waste of time. That he was actually choosing to make a personal appearance instead of having someone make contact for him proved that he thought this meeting worthy of personal attention.

The man who had contacted him, Stry, had presented him with a very interesting offer: a vampire who needed to be rid of a possessed stone. Now, what would a vampire be doing with such an object and why did he wish to be rid of it? Those were questions that made simply meeting this creature worth his time.

Stry had arrived during the day- being human it was easier for him to traverse with the sun –and he was inside the house. He only had to await the arrival of the Vampire and from his seated position he would be able to see anyone who approached. Unless his visitor chose to travel by other means – even then he would be aware of the presence when it made itself known.

And so, this ordinary man sat on the ground outside an ordinary house, watching the people retreat to their houses at the end of another ordinary day and waited.

[Damon Fauci]

While Damon could walk the daylight - thanks to a strange turn that had come during the era of the gaslight when the eldest of Damon's particular vampiric bloodline sought to adapt their kind to blend with the modern age - he was and would always be a creature who preferred old habits. The sun had nothing for him but discomfort for his eyes and skin and irritation for his nocturnal nature, and he in turn had nothing for the sun. That it was now dipping below the canopies of the tallest trees was good enough for him to start the travel to the agreed upon rendezvous.

Fog. That was his chosen method of travel when he wished to get to a destination expediently and had no need to have discourse with anyone between Point A and Point B. As this dense collection of silvery mist traveled through the sky above the quaint landscape, the man on the porch would no doubt feel the approaching presence first. Then, when the mud-thatched abode was in sight, the mist made its decent and collected into proper shape and form. What was ethereal one moment was unmistakably solid man the next. Damon had arrived, and was now only a short stroll away.

He did not dress the part for the locale, and rarely ever did. There was precious little need when Damon was only seen by others when he willed it to be so. No one beyond those who presided at the top of this hill would even know he was here, or think twice about him, unless they had uncanny senses that could 'feel something in the air'. Thus, as Damon made approach the man on the porch would spy a man dressed finely tailored and modern blacks, save for his coat. A jacket from the Victorian Era, the painstakingly crafted black garment belonged in a museum, surely. But as it was Damon's prized possession, one he would never part ways with, his body was the only museum it would ever adorn. It should be noted that Damon carried nothing, though the stone in question was indeed on his person.

The vampire possessed a rather intense gaze. The man on the porch would feel it, no doubt, even from the distance. Already Damon's impeccable senses were picking up interesting details about this man, and filing them away. An individual's scent spoke volumes. As did the manner in which their heart beat. That, and other things - such as the man's marvelous choice of dress - these details were all filed away never to be forgotten. To allow ample time to make this assessment, Damon walked with that same languid pace he'd treated Stry to during their meeting two days before. The gait of a man with all the time in the world.

As he came to a stop at the foot of the porch stairs, Damon greeted the man with his usual smooth, sanguine tones. "I've come to huff, puff and blow your house down. I hope you don't mind." Had the vampire caught the scent of wolf in the man before him? Truly, no. The assessment of the man's scent while telling revealed nothing that concrete. It was Damon's. . . diplomatic way of making a comment on this fine establishment. Any deeper meaning was happenstance, and no doubt ironic. He'd also made such a comment to gauge the man's reaction, another detail he felt would be telling.

After a pause long enough to allow his amused wolfish smile to curl across his lip and fade, he added. "Damon. Fauci. And I'm early, I trust." He broke gaze with the man long enough to indicate the skyline with a faint nod. The sunset had not quite reached its completion.

[B.D. Adams]

He would not be so foolish as to think that his visitor possessed no other ability of travel then to do so by mundane means. It wouldn't be to far of a reach even to say that Benjamin would be surprised if his guest had decided to arrive by pony. A Vampire, riding on a pony, now that could make for an interesting picture and he spared a brief moment to picture such an event before letting it fade. The fact that his visitor could arrive in any form was another reason why he watched for he wanted to see exactly how he arrived.

Before too long Benjamin got his answer as he picked up on the new collective energy entering his space. He considered the whole of this hilly area to be his space and as such he’d know if anything entered or left whether material or incorporeal. His dark eyes watched as the energy settled and took shape. How wonderful, he thought to himself as his keen eyesight honed in on the living corpse and started his examination, he has taste.

Benjamin could be rather picky about the type of people he gave his time to meet. If Damon had appeared wearing dark sunglasses and spikes would have felt less than courteous. As it stood the man didn’t have a liking for Vampires in the first place – only a tolerance – for he had seen far too many of that kind living up the old adage of their bark being worst than their bite. If created to bite, then bite they should. If the being was not going to do what they were created to do then they may as well throw themselves on their own sword and stop wasting space. Either that or find someone to change them into something more fitting their self-righteous attitude. Vampires of that nature never held his attention for long but this one had the demeanor of a predator, he could tell it from his eyes.

To get eyes like that a person had to enjoy blood stained hands. Figuratively speaking.

He said nothing while Damon approached, only met his gaze solid and unblinking and as the other man approached Benjamin only lifted his eyes to continue contact. Huff and puff, the vampire had a sense of humor it seemed. “Watch for the wind. Wouldn’t want you to die from a splinter.” His own humor directed back though it might not have been much in ways of a witty retort.

“Perhaps you are on time. Fauci.” Damon’s wolfish smile was met with one of his own. Palms of his hands pushing down upon his knees Benjamin stood to his full height, the folds and creases of his attire falling out and leaving behind only their impressions. Benjamin didn’t shake hands and there was reason enough for that. How deliciously marvelous it would be for these two hunters to go prowling in the night. Simply looking at the Vampire who stood before him he would wager that the man wasn’t one who turned down offered luxuries. “There are better things to do in the night than converse over trivial affairs.” He would not give voice to what those things were. There was no need.

He stepped back and ushered a hand to the opening of the house. “Come into my parlor . . . “

[Damon Fauci]

Or literally speaking. Damon and Benjamin (Or Daniel, as Stry had told him this man was called,) would perhaps quickly find they had two delectable tidbits in common. For Damon never hid the fact that he enjoyed such beastly, indulgent and dare it be said 'biting' sport. And second, for those that crossed his path and or tried to catch his eye, the vampire had a habit of making it perfectly clear that if he didn't observe good reason or potential gain, the hopeful ones should well stop wasting their efforts with him for he had no need for their company. Even though Damon had infinite time, that didn't mean he desired any of it to be wasted.

So the vampire appreciated, naturally, that this man of the mud thatched roof wished to get down to business. Not only that, he was rather amused and pleased with the man's retort. Splinters, good. Let it be said that Damon had immediate distrust or doubts about any who could not speak with humor in even the most dangerous or serious of occasions. Absolute seriousness at all times usually pointed one of two things - a lack of confidence, or fear. The vampire would deal with no one who hinted they were victims of either trait. Especially now, when one considered the manner of object that was on Damon's person, and what was contained within. This Daniel seemed to display neither. Already this meeting showed great promise.

Thus Damon did not hesitate when the invitation was extended. That this Daniel chose to say 'parlor' did not escape his attention. A word he did not hear often in the modern age, it was one that could be considered 'dated'. Details like that told tails - such as how many rings a particular tree had, so to speak. He said nothing regarding that, however, and instead moved right to the matter at hand as he entered the quaint abode.

"There are indeed better things, as you say. Pity for me that my most savory projects are a great distance from here." As Damon spent the majority of his nights as of late a short distance from New Haven, most of his delightful dolls resided near there. Or haunted there, in the case of the one farthest along - while he certainly never made those he merely hunted into one of his kind, after he was ‘done’ with one of his projects she was always barely an echo of what she was before. In any case, he would have to hunt for new blood tonight, after this meeting was through.

"So. As Stry may have disclosed, I am in possession of a stone that is a cage for a spirit of rather disreputable reputation, a nuisance of irritating ability. While the cage is stable, that does not close the window for potential mishap, and release. As I am in no mood to babysit this prison for the rest of my eternity, not even in the vaults of one of my properties, nor am I willing to leave said stone with any of my allies as any mishap would be a cause of great danger, I am seeking a means of 'disposing' of said stone or spirit in a manner which does not release the entity once again in the wild. Stry said you specialize in matters this such as this. Do tell."

A glance over to this Daniel, as a rather sly curl twisted the corner of Damon's wolfish mouth. The look was brief. For the vampire’s sight, and the rest of his preternatural senses, were also seeking to locate the stoic Stry. To see if the man chose to grace them with his presence during this meeting.

[Marqués del Stry]

Portals. Gateways. Riffs in the Space-Time Continuum. Whatever turns of phrase someone chose to call this method of travel the Marquès called it unnatural. All of his experience with this form of travel often left him feeling gritty and in dire need of a bath, but he was not so hypocritical of the travel form that he never used it. When he did it was because of a strong need. Like now.

The Marquès had arrived earlier in the day because, unlike his two cohorts, he did not have night vision. He also needed to work out negotiations for use of Daniels hut. Working out deals with that man was never an easy task, especially if you did not have something of particular interest to him. Fortunately Stry had a bargaining chip, and it was just enough to produce the desired result. Sometimes you only had to know what a person wanted.

While Daniel was outside greeting and talking to Fauci, Stry had used one of Daniel’s riffs to steal himself off to two locations. The first was to get Leo from the hotel room in the city, he needed him in order to get to the prisoner Stry had mentioned to Fauci during their encounter. Next, with Leo's help, the pair of them went to get said prisoner who was battered, bleeding, and unconscious. The last round of interrogation must have went terribly well, the mans face was distorted to the point of misconfiguration. Stry was starting to believe that perhaps the man was under an enchantment to keep him from giving away what he knew. Another reason why he needed to go extracting it by other means. Blood and mud caked and stained not only his face, but also hair and clothing as well.

No special care was taken as the pair of them bound the man wrist and ankle, but to make sure he didn’t bleed to death the protruding broken bones were snapped in place and tied. Once that was done and Leo had hefted the man over his shoulder, - Stry couldn’t carry the man for he would get blood all over his fine suit - they went through the portal and appeared inside of Daniel’s hut. If Fauci was reaching out to sense the presence of others the smell of three men would suddenly strike the air, especially that of the bleeding man.

Once they were through the portal Stry gave a tug to his brown blazer. Funny how going through portals could rattle a few nerves while killing was easily discarded. Now, where were they to put him? The hut wasn’t very large,- A table with chairs, fireplace and a straw and cotton cot - and Leo shrugged the man off of his shoulders, letting the body fall in a collapsed heap in the corner by the roaring fireplace. It was a good a place as any. There was no fear of the man awakening – not yet anyway, besides, he was bound, and therefore no extra measures were taken.

With his part in the story done for the moment Leo exited through the portal and back to where Stry had found him. A quick adjustment of his tie and then Stry stepped into the threshold of the huts doorway and gave a smile to the two men.

“I see you two have found each other. Fauci, if it’s all the same to you, Daniel allowed me to bring the man here.” Stry didn’t venture outside of the doorway. The light was fading and at least here he had the light from the fireplace to assist his vision. “He shouldn’t give us any trouble while we conduct our business.”

When they started to enter he would move aside.

[B.D. Adams]

Daniel was, indeed, old. He wasn't ancient as some immortals tended to be but he had a few good hundred years behind him. How funny that, though he had time to dawdle he rarely did. It simply wasn't his nature. Therefore, he cut to the chase.

While Fauci engaged him with words, Daniel could feel the fabric of space tearing as Stry used the riffs made available to him. That 'trick' was not exactly one of his, but a benifit of one of the beings he had consumed. It was easier to use anothers talent because many people often took them for his own. This way, when they thought that they had him figured out, he surprised them with something unexpected.

Stry's emergence brought with it the smell of blood and he was sure that the Vampire at his side noticed it just as easily. "In one regard, Fauci, I am a Collector. I felt that spirit the moment you made yourself known." if he had felt it before this Vampire took on a solid form would be left up to the others imagination. He had already given the information on that particular matter that he was willing to give. Stry choosing to appear in the doorway at that particular moment provided Daniel with a good excuse not to say anything else for a few moments.

Once they had stepped inside Daniel let his gaze travel to the slumped figure in the corner before he pulled out a chair and took a seat. If the others wanted to sit they may, he even motioned to the chairs as a way of an invitation. The beaten man was of no concern to him and therefore was given as much attention as an ant on the floor.

Now, back to Fauci's inquiry. "I take what's offered," freely or otherwise, "And it becomes part of me, to do with as I wish, forever under my control. It has no way of escaping, so that particular fear of yours may be put to rest. Though I do not know what type of comfort will be had in knowing that this spirit of yours will be in my possession."

There was no reason for him to sugar-coat or wax lyrical about what would happen to the entity once in his possession. While Daniel would not tell all, he liked letting people know what they were signing up for - even those who had no choice.

Very relaxed in his seat, Daniel rested one arm on the table. He maintained eye contact as he carried on. "Anything known by the imprisoned spirit will in turn be known by me. Do you understand?" He chose to use the word 'known' because if someone listened close enough to the statement they would hear that he spoke of more than simple information that is acquired over time.

"Is there anything else you need to know?"

[Damon Fauci]

Stry, yes. His scent was familiar, immediate recognition on the part of the vampire as the man finally grace the mud-thatched abode with his presence. It was the scent of the pending project, however, that caught the full of Damon's attention. Blood, yes, that had been shed so its scent and composition were corroded by the air. But the vampire could smell more than simply blood. The smell of wounds, pain, tension, fear. . .so many sweet notes making this man a project that was as full-bodied as a proper wine.

As Leo so delicately placed the man by the fire, Daniel would have to excuse Damon. The vampire took a slow, contemplative stride towards the heap of a man, smoothly slipping through Stry and Leo to crouch in front of the project. He had not dined this evening, so yes, the rich mixture of the tortured man's scents and reluctant sound of his heart beat would prove a small irritation. Akin to the smell of food from a coworker's office igniting one's own hunger ache, it would be no stronger than that. Damon was well aged beyond the need for a nightly hunt to sustain himself. His preference to hunt once, sometimes twice come each night was the beastly desire of a man allowed himself every indulgence.

The time to indulge was not now. Even if it was, the heap on the floor was as appetizing to Damon as a bloodied animal laying in the middle of an interstate. During this crouch he was merely making observations. More than taking stock of external injury, Daniel would perhaps feel a shift in Damon's energy. A small slice, barely a nick from the great reserve of power that lay in wait within the vampire, was pushed out towards the man. Like a set of invisible fingers, the power pressed within the mind of the man to briefly skim the surface of the situation. A slight nod, as he gleaned enough to satisfy him for now.

As he stood, brushing his palms together as if dusting off the grime from the heap on the floor even though the vampire did not actually touch him, Damon met the gaze of Stry and Stry's man. "The next time he wakes, feed him something simple. Broth, perhaps, with a bit of meat. Then give him valium, or a similar drug which induces a 'natural' sleep." Instead of sleep that came with starvation or injury like the sleep the man was caught in at the moment. "Then I'll begin." He would walk the man's dreams. On that walk, were there any enchantments or obstacles in place that prevented the man from speaking the information Stry wished to know, Damon would learn of them.

Now, to Daniel. When Damon said, 'do tell', he certainly did not expect this man to pour out his heart and soul they were long lost compatriots. After all, not a single soul knew even a scrap of information about Damon that the vampire didn't want known. To conduct one's relations in any other way was to be nothing short of a fool. So, as his raven black eyes appraised Daniel while the man explained, he received more information than expected. Candidly given, without a trace of fear, hesitation or duplicity, didn't that speak volumes. Theory was solidified that this depth of this man extended far deeper than any clues Daniel's scent revealed.

"Come now, Daniel, surely you're not truly concerned with my comfort?" The vampire's easy grin showed clear amusement as he gave that chide in sanguine tones. "There's no need. What talents and motives the spirit possess are of no danger to me, but rather those I have invested interest in. That it will be contained indefinitely is all I require. Though I must ask - should an unfortunate case of death befall you, what then?"

Clearly the pending answer would not make or break this deal, for as Damon finally sat he reached within the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out the stone. He was asking to merely be prepared for the possibility - life was an eternal game of chess, and he liked to have full knowledge of all potential moves. The stone, today contained within a leather pouch black in color, he placed upon the nearest flat surface. Sitting back in his chair, he gestured to the pouch. An invitation for Daniel to take it.

With a faintly nefarious little smile upon his lip, he added only one more thing. "That it seems you will reap great benefit from the entity within this stone, well. I simply request this back be remembered, as one never knows what the future holds." After all, Damon's dealings with Stry over the years began with a single instance of mutual benefit, which then spun into another occasion, and another, and surely this current meeting not be the last meeting between them. Perhaps between Damon and Daniel the future would prove the same. One never knew.

[B.D. Adams]

"....should an unfortunate case of death befall you..."

Daniel thought on that statement after Fauci gave it voice for he found it highly amusing. While he never considered himself to be 'immortal' he wasn't exactly 'mortal' either and therefore he could be arrogant enough to think death a joke. The two conscious men in the room would have to excuse the slight trickle of laughter that came out from between his lips - or not. Whatever they thought of the laughter was of no consequence to him.

Something he had found interesting was the mention of the captured spirit being of no threat to the vampire, but more so one to those be cared for. Perhaps he didn't realize that if Daniel discovered who these people were and he found some reason for blessing them with his attention, that they could be in worst straights than if Fauci had decided to baby-sit. Then again the vampire didn't seem to be the type to underestimate anything, anyone, or knock things off without first examining various angles.

"If I should happen to die, Fauci, there would be more to worry about than the release of that spirit." This was the answer to the question as Daniel reached across the table and took hold of the bag. His eyes closed but a moment, the span of time taken to blink, when his fingers closed around this new object.

Oh how Daniel liked to receive objects from the hands of other people, whether freely given or otherwise acquired. He could tell so many things about the person if he wished to use his ability to do so. Not to mention that it gave him insight and a way to the person themselves. A small link. Though linking to the Vampire was not his current focus, the tone was. Opening the pouch he deposited the orange stone into his awaiting palm. A lovely stone too. Raw, without the bother of it being cut into any particular shape. It would make a nice piece. But now that the stone was within his grasp Daniel not only examined it's property, but what dwelled inside. In a matter of moments he knew the spirit.

His voice was deeper the next time he spoke; careful listeners might have even picked up a low rumble. "Benefits indeed." That was the only hint that he had taken possession of the spirit.

The smell of the prisoner’s blood was beginning to irritate his senses. If it were not for the current people in the room it would be assured that the smell of the wounded man would draw the more beastie wildlife right to their doorstep. Now he would spare the man a glance while balling up the black pouch in his fist. This was not some finicky gesture or one brought about by nerves, there was a purpose.

"As for your request." When he was done Daniel deposited the pouch upon the table. Although what Fauci gained from this strange partnership was the riddance of the spirit, that did not mean that he would not ask for something else. "When such a time should ever come, hold the pouch, state what you want and turn it inside out." Would doing such an action bring Daniel forth? What would be the consequence - if any - of doing said action? If ever Fauci used the item, he would find out. The next statement would be made perfectly clear. "Do not waste my time."

Now to see if he would take the pouch.

[Marqués del Stry]

Fauci had humanity, this was the thought of Stry as he stayed by the captive, thinking on the meal that had been requested. While care of the man was not something he considered worth the vampires time, it did not totally surprise him. The business of the stone was now in the hands of the two other men, for the moment, and his business was with the other he had brought into the room. This, however, did not mean that he was ignorant to what was being said. For now, he was quite on their conversation.

How was he to go about the order of food? This hut was barren aside from the few meager objects Daniel had laying about and there was no sign of any bin for food. The riff. Unless he was going to walk all the way down this Mooreland hill, in the dark, going unknown miles, and heading who knows where, using a riff was the only way he was going to get the food. He could wait until daybreak, but the man would have woken by then and the purpose of him having food may have been wasted.

Pulling out his black phone from the confinement of his pocket he sent a message to Leo via a text, letting him now of what was needed: good broth, passionflower, a bit of tea, bottle of water and a cloth. While he was at it he may as well get the items needed to clean the man – no one wanted to deal with someone who was bleeding all over everywhere. Besides, the smell of dried blood was not his forte.

Once the order was given to Leo, the message sent and received, Stry stood beside the fireplace as it was were he found the riff before. A quick exhale – obviously he wasn’t looking forward to using this method again – and he took a step forward and vanished from the room.

Brief time passed and when he came through once again Stry had a sealed container that held the broth with him, along with a bag. He set the container on the mantel of the fireplace and cast a glance to the two men at the table. Daniel had just picked up the stone; things appeared to be going well.

Stopping besides the captive Stry bent down and dug in the bag. Pulling out the rag and bottle of water he began to clean the man’s face. All that was left to do now was to wait for the negotiations to finish, and for the man to wake up.

[Damon Fauci]

If only Damon knew his requests regarding the man on the floor were being looked at as humane, a laugh similar to the one Daniel graced the air with moments ago would have come from the vampire. It was Damon's experience that if one wanted to crack someone's mind though the vampire's particular brand of torture and deception, that mind needed to be working in health. To start with, at least. Where the mind would end by the time Damon was through would be a very different tale. But one always had to begin at the beginning.

As for the issue of an unfortunate case of death, this Daniel's answer was exactly what Damon expected to hear. A simple nod was the vampire's reply, no more. The point was understood. That Daniel would know all the spirit knew, that point had also been well understood. Perhaps while the stone was in the vampire's possession he had taken some time with the jailed entity, so to speak. Or, it may be that the spirit knew nothing of consequence about those Damon watched over, as far as the vampire was concerned. After all, Damon made certain that the spirit never learned of his connections to Epiphany, or of Epiphany herself. He was a creature of great care and impressive strategy, no doubt of that.

Such was why Damon was watchful of this Daniel as he interacted with the stone. Reclined in the chair, his elbows were set upon each arm, fingers coming together to form a peak. From this vantage point he made no attempt to be subtle as he observed man and stone. Each detail was committed it to memory. Keen preternatural senses easily noted the change in Daniel's voice, enough to make Damon arch one brow ever so slightly. What an utterly delectable talent. One Damon had no interest in possessing for himself, as the aristocrat believed most things utterly beneath an honor such as dwelling within his own body even if only to be used like a puppet, but still. An utterly delectable talent. For all of Damon's nefarious dealings, this evening was becoming a rather singular occasion.

The business with the pouch, however. If he did not possess such polished decorum Damon would have laughed in the face of directions such as those. Even with his close kinship with the Romany, Damon was a man who was a rather hard judge of anything which seemed to have in it the hand of 'magic'. "If a rabbit doesn't pop out, I'll be rather disappointed." While he squelched any potential laughter, he simply could not help making that sparkling comment with a devilish curl of his lip.

And then, he made fluid shrug with his hands. "As for wasting your time, I've no worry of that. From what you've told me, I suspect that even the simple projects of my mundane nightly hunger would be of use to one such as yourself. Until tonight, I've never given much thought about what happens to my dolls when my interest with them has waned." Such dulcet darlings, but the fate of each was the same. The thrill inevitably evolved into apathy, and the vampire left a trail of living ghosts in his wake and moved on to cultivate his next.

That said, the vampire stood. The business to come was with a man who was caked in enough blood that it made him a one-man battlefield, and Damon was in no mood to have his prized coat soiled. The jacket was shed and placed on the table, on top of the pouch. Out of harm's way, Fauci would collect up his things from that table once the business with the heap on the floor was through. But for now, Stry was flashed one of the vampire's sanguine grins. "I see dinner's arrived for our guest, and with stunning promptness. Shall we rouse him, then?"

[B.D. Adams]

And when Fauci touched the pouch . . . nothing happened. No flash of light and no spark reaching out to shock his fingers or penetrate his body. There was no heat reaching out to grab at his very core and embed itself. When the vampire took back the pouch the only thing he felt was the lingering heat from it being in Daniel's hand.

It didn't matter if anything happened with the initial touch, what mattered is what would happen if the power placed on the pouch was invoked. Perhaps he should have warned him of the consequences if someone else used it. No. If he was of mind to give this 'gift' to someone else then he would have to deal with whatever befell that person.

The more time he spent around this being, Daniel thought that he was developing an appreciation for his humor. He wasn't much of a funny man himself - often told that his humor was rather dry or sarcastic - but he could tolerate in others, especially if it was not in excess. "I'd never take you for the Mad Hatter." Pull out a rabbit indeed. When he spoke, now, the sound of his words was the same as it had been when he and Fauci first met. It only took a moments time to absorb the spirit and only a few moments more for any residual effects to leave his body. He knew that he was being watched, and he didn’t mind. If people wanted to take note of his actions for lack of something better to do, or to stave their curiosity, that was fine. If he were doing something that he did not want observed then the observer would not last long enough for their thoughts to settle.

At this point Fauci had begun to rise and Daniel held out his hand that held the stone. Without the spirit inside of it that’s all it was. A stone. Needing to put it somewhere Daniel would do something interesting. Fingers curled around the stone, his thumb and forefinger came together and gave a pull at the air before him. It was similar to opening a small door – and perhaps he had. After which he lifted his palm and placed the stone in the ‘door’. When he uncurled his fingers he hand was empty.

Both Stry and Fauci were now paying attention to the man and Daniel rose up from his seat and moved to the fireplace, where that jar of broth had been placed. Currently he was biding his time as he thought about the last statement Fauci had made. Perhaps he could make use of the victims left from the Vampires kiss.

While he may not be a Mad Hatter, he could make for a brilliant Gepetto..

[Cormick]

The sleep of the injured was disorienting, a tangled web that sought to protect the mind by emersion in chaos. At the moment this web had ensnared a new victim, one with a beaten and battered body by the name of Cormick.

The road-kill resembling lump had once been a man, but now all that remained was a mere shell. His short red hair was no longer spiked, now matted to his head by sweat. Sun tanned skin had taken on the darker colors of the rainbow from multiple bruising and lacerations. The worse was his face; both eyes were nearly swollen shut, the nose all but crushed. For all the bruising and swelling the mess held no resemblance to the man it belonged.

Caught in the throws of unnatural sleep, Cormick appeared sedated, but his mind was far from calm.

He was burning; adrift in a lake of fire. Water; water, water everywhere and not a single drop to drink. His throat was so raw, drier than the Sahara desert. Oh Gods, he needed a drink! The burn was growing with every passing. . . Second? Minute? He was on fire!

This mental litany of thirst and burning continued and would have, until sudden coldness shattered all thought. The sensation was heaven in a touch, the burn fading under the spreading assault of coldness. With the coldness came clarity and with that awakening. The process was slow, comparable to clawing one's way to the surface of an ice filled river. Awareness began to return and with it a groan came from the captive man. He was awake.

[Damon Fauci]

Perhaps Damon would, in a stroke of luck, think to give the pouch to one of his enemies. It could prove a rather amusing way to be rid of them. But no more was thought of the pouch on the part of the vampire at the present moment. His attention was instead fixed upon the mass of waking flesh upon the floor.

Damon's bottomless black eyes targeted the man as he moved closer to him, though his dryly spoken words were answer to Daniel's literary quip. "Far from it. You'd be amazed how many women cry out 'Mr. Darcy' with the longing quake of their bosom." One literary reference for another, Damon was referring to the fact that when ensnared in his dark power, the women projected their hunger for Jane Austen's 'beast' of a character upon him. Each supple girl he drank from had the same fantasy of the marvelously dark beast come to claim them. It was just their chosen set of titillating details that changed from girl to girl. As foolish as he found their craved imaginings to be, he simply couldn't deny that they gave him invaluable advantage.

As he gave this different kind of pray approach, naturally the smell of blood harped stronger upon his senses with each step he took. No matter. Even in the face of pressing hunger, the sight of repulsively injured man would be enough to assuage the predatory ache. His piercing eyes were concentrating on things other than blood and veins. Damon was concentrating on the man's mind as he knelt down within arm's length. He hadn't yet extended the overwhelming power of his thrall and already the project stirred and his vocal cords awoke.

Damon's brow arched slightly as the heap on the floor roused itself. "How fortuitous," was his silken murmur. Then, he would waste no time. Before Cormick's mind cleared entirely of the residual haze of sleep, the already beaten man would feel the press of Damon's invisible fingers against his consciousness. Pushing at the skull and invading inward, the effect would be a floating tickle that carried with it a faint taste of euphoria. How nice it was, the persuasive tingle would pose in a way that Cormick could not deny, to relinquish all control and simply grow limp and obedient. As a proper puppet would do.

Within the fog that drifted through Cormick's mind, he would hear the echo of Damon's words as well as upon his ear. "Be still. Your needs will be tended," the vampire announced with his silken, elegant candor. "as they must be." Must. The word would embed in the project's mind, lingering there. When Damon spoke, that single word would provide Cormick the echo. Must. It would be an urgency that the man would find he simply could not deny.

Then, Damon rose. Stepping aside, he gave a gesture of invitation to Stry. The heap on the floor needed his lunch. Once the man fell into the web off the sleep drug administered to him, Damon would take over and the true hunting would begin.

[Marqués del Stry]

The waking of the beaten man had Stry's attention. Being that he was taking care of the man while the other two spoke, he took notice when the man began to stir. Stry remained at the fireplace, the container that held the soup was open and he held the passionflower and a knife in either hand.

Now, he was not a master of herbal lore as his wife had been, but he did know some things, one of them being that herbs could be mixed with other properties, especially if they were going to be consumed. He was not idle with the knife; he was using it to finely cut the passionflower so that it could be added to the soup. As he was being very meticulous about the task in the end the cut herb would appear similar to any spice used in the culinary arts.

This didn't take long to do, and he did it all in his (clean) hands to keep from using any additional space. Maybe he did it that way because he was unsure how clean the surfaces were in this hut - just because the man was going to be tortured did not mean that he had to eat dirt. Stry set the knife down on the table and moved the soup container towards him. Once it was in position the passionflower was sprinkled over the top, forming a nice layer.

A spoon was withdrawn from his pocket and he mixed in the herbs. Fauci was done with the captive for Stry saw him motioning for him to serve the man his meal. The container, which carried a strong resemblance to a bowl, was set down in front of the man. Spoon included.

Stry knew that the man was still tied and so he moved to the prisoners side and began untying the rope. " Escuchame,"(1) Stry kept his speech level and his words were directed to the prisoner’s good ear. He spoke in Spanish not because he was trying to hold a private conversation, but because the native tongue of the groggy man was Spanish and it may be easier for him to understand in his current state. "El fulano,"(2) he motioned to Fauci with a tip of his head, " Él le dio comida. Será bueno si se come.” (3)

When he stood a tug was given to the rope and then he pulled it from the man’s wrist. Stry wasn't concerned that the prisoner may try to escape because, for one, his feet were still tied and two, where would he run?


^{1- Listen to me.
2- That man.
3- He gave you food. Be nice and eat it.}

[Cormick]

Must. The word hung like a stone above the burning fog that still clung to Cormick's mind. The man could not resist it, and found he did not want to. When told to remain still he did so, obedient like the puppet he was wanted to be. It was in this unresisting grip that Stry's words came to him. The man's voice was one not welcomed, but what choice did he have but to obey? On the 'good' side of his face the swollen eye opened, though the motion was limited to opening just halfway. The green orb was glassy, but it saw what it needed: the container of soup. Nothing else mattered, but it. His free hand came around, grasping the container and pulled it to his mouth. The spoon was discarded in his haste, and he began drinking like a dying man after water.

No complaints or hesitations, that was what he wanted to see. Stry had a penchant for obedience, especially in this situation, so if the man had chosen to not be thankful and partake in the food that was provided, things may have gone badly. Stry moved from the man, but not after he clasped him on the shoulder. This part of the game was over for the moment. A satisfied curl to his lips as he moved over to one of the chairs at the table. "Shame he could not have something better for a last meal." Was it really a shame? Probably not but the said it anyway.

A slight arch of his brow. "So the worms have a finer meal?" One had to understand where Damon's point of view lay on such a notion - he was long past the time where such things as last meals would seem like things of importance. As Stry moved from the man, Damon did the same. Bottomless black eyes giving Stry a pointed glance as he moved out of earshot of their project. If the now 'feasting' man was foolish enough to attempt to make an escape, he'd find Damon infallibly quick to react. Damon did not draw close to the Marques to whisper, nor did he even lean forward. There was no need. When Damon spoke, his head turned so that the man on the floor could not see the vampire's lips moving, Stry would hear the vampire's sanguine tones sounding directly in the cup of his ear. Such beastly tricks. Damon's needs were plainly articulated. "What is it, exactly, that you seek to know from him?"

Fauci's stance was noted. The way he stood and there was the tickle in his ear that accompanied the Vampires speech. While the Marqués had been around a vampire or two, he never got quite use to the way they went about their words. At times it would be something that could give the man a slight chill. The feeling was brushed aside for now as he kept his eyes on the man on the floor. "He knows the location of portal to the land of these particular Drow. That's what I assume. He at least knows the way in which to contact them for he had been in contact with them. Meet with the foul vermin and disclosed the location and means of entrance into my abode." His voice was low and his words were pointed and dry. No point in hiding the malice he felt for the man. "If all we can get from him is how to contact them, it will be more than what we currently have. Which is nothing."

A single nod from Damon. He turned smoothly to once more face the project at hand. Beastly black eyes observing the man as he had his meal. All that was needed was for the sleep drug to take effect, and then Damon would have his opportunity. While he waited, his intense gaze scrutinized the heap. Any details he found, they were filed away. Every wrinkle of the skin could be a scrap of potential information that was of use; Damon had learned that fact long ago. As they waited for the man to drift off to slumber, Damon
would pose a question to the man. To see how deeply the man was ensnared currently. "Introduce yourself to me, and tell me how it is that you came to be here. I must know." There it was again. Must. The echo in the man's mind would return with that word. As if it were a hypnotic trigger. In reality, that word, that 'must' was so much worse than mere hypnosis. If one had a strong will, hypnosis could be resisted. The thick coating of power in his voice, there were precious few who could resist that without a considerable amount of preparation or protection.

Cormick may have been a man of many things, but even he was not foolish enough to run in the state he was in. So, the man had remained where he was placed, slurping down his last meal like a dog. The container was not yet half empty, but already the effects of the drug were beginning to take hold. The man felt the haze of sleep spreading through his brain, but above it came that voice again. He couldn't resist it. Two words would be uttered from the man. "Cormick Montega."

"Hm." A name, but not the answer to the more pressing matter at hand. He recalled what Stry had mentioned at the lounge - the man feared that there was some sort of enchantment on this man to stay his tongue. It would certainly be a reason that the man's answer was lacking. But that was what walking in this project's dreams would achieve. Determining if there was indeed such a thing, and then picking the lock. So there was precious little reason to push Montega now, when his sleeping state would prove far more useful. Which is why the vampire spoken only this in his potently suggestive timbre, "Sleep well." Sleep. Didn't that sound like magic to the man's ears? All things could be cured by sleep, surely they could, the promise of peace and ease. Something that Montega couldn't give into fast enough.

Although Stry would not be privy to the more intimate details of Fauci's methods he was still very interested in seeing how all of this unfolded. For one the man had given his name with only the simple urgings. Though, perhaps this was only due to chance as the man was drugged. He also picked up that not everything was told. Interesting. This would defiantly be an interesting time and he settled himself in the chair to watch. Though, it was a shame for it looked like the soup Montega had might just slip from the mans fingers and spill upon the floor.

Yes, sleep was needed. Speaking seemed to have sucked out whatever strength was left and the man's head lowered towards the floor. The container of soup wobbled between lax fingers before slipping free, spilling out over the floor. The man noticed none for he was already drifting off into the promise of sleep.

[Cormick]

He did not need to wait long. Casting a glance over to Stry, the vampire crossed to the chair he'd been sitting in earlier. Reclining on its back, from this perch he could face the heap on the floor. Not that there was need to. Nor did he need to close his eyes, and yet Damon did so. While not imperative, it helped when weeding through the images that would inevitably reveal themselves once he was connected to the sleeping mind. The manner in which he did so was similar to how he'd pressed his power upon Cormick before. Except this time, within the throes of sleep the man would not feel the press of those invisible fingers, nor the manner in which Damon's power seeped into his skull, tickled at his synapses, and pushed seamlessly in. To Cormick, it would seem as if he was simply dreaming. Damon's will built the images. For now - all the sleeping man would see in his dream state was an infinitely long hallway, lined on both sides with identical closed doors. This hallway seemed to stretch on forever, and only Cormick would find himself present here thus far. For Damon sought a certain scrap of information, one unrelated to the information Stry was looking to find. He weeded through this man's subconscious as he posed it this simple question - who was a person that Cormick felt safe with, and trusted? Whether it be a figure from his distant past, or a spiritual figure, or a figure from his present it need not matter - this was a dream, after all. Once Damon found that scrap of information, Cormick would see that figure appear a distance down the hallway in this dream.

For Cormick Montega there had only been one person in his life that he fully trusted: his sister Isabella. She had always been there, that was, until the murky depths of a pond had claimed her life. Now she was there, trapped in that endless hallway of his mind with him.

And unfortunately for this subconscious image of his sister, she would now be used for devious ends. For Damon would use her image, her voice, her language, and every ounce of his remembrance of her to speak to him. He would see his sister coming towards him now, making quick hasty steps as her gaze was imploring, and her voice urgent. "Cormick, please. There is a door here that is locked, and you must help me find it and open it. It's our only way out." His sister took his hands in her own, squeezing them as she met his eyes. Her urgency, her worry, her fear, all of them were undeniable. Surely he would not deny her? This hallway, these doors, of course this was a metaphor. Each door represented a thought. If any were locked, it surely meant that there was some mental block on Cormick's part, or the effects of an enchantment upon his mind as Stry suspected.

There was a part of the man's mind that knew this had to be a dream, knew that his sister was dead, but that part was now muffled by the vision in front of him. How could he deny her, indeed. Cormick had never been able to deny his baby sister of anything she wanted, and even in this dreamscape he still could not. His thumb slipped free of her grip, rubbing her hand soothingly. "Do not worry Bells, I will get us out of here."

She gripped his hands tightly, what fingers she still held of his. Dream as it may be, weren't those moments when you saw those you had lost in life here again in the land between worlds precious indeed? And perhaps there was an element of truth to what she said. If he did not unlock the door to release what information that lay locked behind it...well, let's just say Damon has an eternity to wait, even if Stry does not. And the vampire was a tenacious beast. Slipping nearer to him, as if for protection, her eyes wandered this strange, uniform landscape. "Do you know the way, Cormick? The door that if only we can unlock it will release us?"

Which door was it? The hall appeared to stretch endlessly out in front of them, the doors never-ending. It may have been apart of the man's mind, but that did not mean he knew which particular thought, or in this case door, was the correct one. There was no choice but to start at the beginning and that would be the door closest to the pair. Leading the way, he brought them to the first door. Slipping his hand from hers he reached for the handle and turned. The click of the door unlatching echoed in the hall before it was suddenly ripped away by an unearthly howl. The door handle slipped away from his fingers as the roar grew louder. Instead of a room there was nothingness behind the door; a dark abyss of howling wind.

Such business was a game of trial and error, even for a creature such as he. This wasn't his mind, after all, though he was powerful enough to categorize it in this fashion where the blockage could be more easily found. So as he went to one door, she went to another. He would use the anxiety of this sister figure to justify her speed, her urgency prompting her to try door after door after door. When they opened, she did not open them all the way. There was no need to, as the mere fact the door opened at her hand indicated there was no blockage to the information that lay behind it. That his door opened, and there was the telltale sound of howling and abyss, well. Nothing was not the scrap of information that Stry sought, and so his door was incorrect as well. "Quickly, close it. Do not let what lies behind it escape, and come! I feel I am getting close, our exit must be near to me!" The incredible reality of the dreaming mind was simply this - if the dreamer had faith, so to speak, then faith was rewarded. So if his sister urged him into believing that the door was near to her, as this was Cormick's mind it would shift itself to comply to that very reality so long as he believed what his sister spoke. If that was the case, with any luck one of the doors he tried near to his sister would be the very one they were looking for.

By the time his 'sister' spoke, Cormick was already struggling to close the door. The roaring coming from inside made his efforts practically useless; the winds strength had increased, threatening to send him tumbling into the abyss. He would have fallen, if not for the saving grace of his assumed sister's words. The door was near her. In life his sister had never lead him astray, so if she said the door was near her then indeed it would be.
This realization of faith gave him the strength he needed. The door Cormick had been pulling against closed suddenly and he turned towards her. "You're right! It must be near!" He went to her then, going to the door nearest to where she stood. This door appeared as any of the others, but in reality it was the one. When he reached to grasp the knob a reaction would begin. Growing from the center going outwards a spider webbing of dark light occurred, spreading across the door like a wildfire's flame. The webbing spread out, forming into black Drowish ruins. This was the door. When he tried the handle he found it was locked.

Yes, excellent. From his position unseen in this dream, Damon's keen eyes scrutinized the nature of the symbols that spread over this door. Now, the question was this. Would opening the door go as smoothly as finding it had? He wasted no time in pursuing this matter. The dream image of Cormick's sister would cry out in surprise as the webbing claimed the door, shielding her face. But then quickly both of her hands grabbed onto Cormick's upper arm, holding it tightly as she hissed at him with great urgency. "That's it! This is the door, this is our way out, this is the only way..." A short pause as she looked at him very solemnly. "You must open this door for us, only you can do it. I believe you can." She gave to him a soft, encouraging smile as she added, "They might try to make you believe otherwise, but this is your door. They have no right locking it on you. They tricked you, into thinking they had that right. And so long as a part of you believes they have to right to keep us locked out, we'll be trapped. They'll win. You mustn't let them!"

Stry watched the proceedings with interest. Even though there wasn't anything much to physically see - he couldn't see inside the man's head, that's for sure - he watched Cormick's reactions. A small twitch here, a flinch there. All of it was signs that something was going on inside his brain. Signs that, hopefully, Fauci was getting closer to the information he had requested.

Some things could go easier than anticipated. There were many ways to open a locked door; speaking a password, shooting the lock, or simply ramming it down to name a few. In this dreamscape Cormick possessed no secret password nor a gun, and so option three would be the first he chose. Before he did so, he turned, taking his sister's hands within his own. "I will you get you out of here, I promise." He pulled away then, backing to the other side of the hall. Holding his sister's gaze he took off at a run at the door, ramming his shoulder into the wood. For the space of a second there was no reaction then suddenly the door gave beneath him, falling open.

Stry would see Damon nod. All was going smashingly. The deed was nearly done, just a few more suggestions to press upon this man's mind. "Run through it, Cormick. Run! Take the secrets in that room. You must tell them to the first man you see. Hurry!" His sister would move to him, hands pressing at his shoulders to urge him through the doorway. "Then we can escape!" These were all commands, of course. Veiled in dream symbolism. Going through the door to escape means he would awaken. The secrets in that room was the information that had been formerly sealed off by magic. And the first man Cormick would see when he opened his eyes, of course, would be Stry. Though he was speaking through the image of the man's sister, his words still carried Power. Wrapping the will of these words around the man's subconscious mind like a blanket. Here in this place with his trusted sister no information seemed as it would cause harm. In fact, the air tasted of freedom. As if doing this tasks would make him free at last. All his nightmares over.

Cormick could taste the freedom in the air. He was so close! All he he had to do was run and with his sister's urging he took off. The room beyond the door was surprisingly empty save for one lone object sitting upon the floor. This room was dark except for what light came in through the doorway Cormick had just come. This light even was warped, lighting a clear path towards that stagnant object. Cormick paid no heed to the light; his only goal was the thing sitting there. When he drew closer the object became more defined, taking shape. It was a box; plain with no special markings or designs and crafted out of dark wood. Picking it up, Cormick turned back towards the door

When the lid was open, the information would spill out. In the dream. Symbolizing the information taking hold at the forefront of his mind. Quite suddenly, the dream would also shatter. The subconscious world in Cormick's mind suddenly jerking back into blackness. In time with that moment, Damon released a strong pulse of power in the direction of Cormick there still heaped on the floor int he waking work. It grabbed hold of him, by his every nerve, and demanded. "Awaken. Speak." In anticipation of the project fulfilling this command, Damon opened his eyes. A short glance to Stry. Simply to check in. And then, those bottomless black eyes focused there on the floor. Awaiting their Sleeping Beauty to stir.

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