Schattenfeuer » Hibernal Den » Emmanuel

Emmanuel

(#53665183)

Level 25 Skydancer

Familiar

Spirit of Earth

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

5.68 m

Wingspan

5.32 m

Weight

715.63 kg

Genetics

Clay
Jaguar

Berry
Morph

Sunset
Capsule

Hatchday

Jul 17, 2019
(4 years)

Breed

Adult
Skydancer

Eye Type

Earth
Uncommon

Level 25 Skydancer

Max Level

STR

101

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

none

Offspring

none

Biography

__._

Emmanuel.
↠ Red like ancient Blood

"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall..."

”Your son is easy on the eyes. He could bring you a fortune.”, the hand of his mother tightened around his own, so small, so vulnerable in her grip, he didn’t know any better. She was looking down at him, the sparkle in her eyes far too easily mistaken for kindness. When she smiled at his four year old self, Emmanuel smiled back, tooth gaps and all. She was his mother, how could he not love her, return her smile?

“He is my pride and joy”, she answered, an answer that made the man’s one eye narrow, crinkle at the corners. He looked pretty, long hair and even the eyepatch could not take away the ethereal beauty surrounding fair features. A white knight, Emmanuel thought in his childish mind, the man looked like kindness incarnated. “Do you think he could be the same for someone else?”

“Oh, easily, mylady.”, the man winked and reminded the boy more and more of a satisfied cat that had stolen the cream. His lazy smirk curling up full lips. “Shall we talk about the business side of this now?”
.
.
This wrench had sold him for a handful of copper coins. Just enough to buy enough booze for the next week, some cheap foods and a dress that was too unflattering for her swollen figure. Now, a decade later, he saw this rose tinted memory as that what it was. A sales pitch, his mother, the discarded toy of some noble, the maid with her calloused hands and pallid taint, had jumped onto without hesitation. Even when he could do nothing but think, but remember, he felt the hatred for this woman grow inside of him. Like a poisonous weed, it dug its roots in deeper and deeper into his heart, while he was trapped in the back of his skull, a passenger in his own body.

She was free, to lay with the next unsuspecting noble, to pump out more unfortunate sons and daughters, while he was stuck behind glassy, dead eyes and a seal burnt on the surface of his tongue. At least she had been right in one thing and one thing only, he was easy on the eyes. He was a Doll and valuable on top of it.

The master had spent a handsome sum of money on acquiring him after first catching a glimpse of him on some vile, sin riddled masquerade, they never spoke to him, they never even asked for his name, yet they had to own him. They prided themselves in his radiance, basked in his glory. As if he was a mere accessory, a pet they could discard whenever it became too tiresome to care for.

Their home, filled to the brim with decadence, became his prison and they, the holder of his keys. The master was neither old nor young, just rich enough to drown in wealth and power, a fact they adored to share. Willing or unwilling, it did not matter. He could do nothing as their voice became the bell on his collar, their words the chain locking him in place. For someone who never once had been bound in his life, he wore the shackles of his seal stunningly.

It almost cost him his sanity, imprisoned in a state of detachment to his body, having to feel and share every sensation, every pair of hands touching his skin, holding him down with bruising strength, the tastes on his tongue, the aftermath every party his master threw left, the fire in his stomach. He knew pain and he knew torture. Yet they never raised a hand against him, they merely watched, in their looming, velvet clad chair, legs crossed and leaning forwards when the pinnacle of this sickening festivities was within reach. He wanted to scream, to claw and throw up. Instead, they ordered him to smile.
.
.
”You are free now, my sweet ruby. You served me so well, it would be my pleasure to have your company a little bit longer.”, the master cooed, their voice as sweet as decaying fruits. He swallowed the words on the tip of his hurting, bleeding tongue as gracefully as the dancing petals of the Empire’s roses. Hands clenching tighter around the intricate, gold rimmed wood of the box, he barely managed to keep his smile on his lips. When they leaned forwards, with their red painted lips, he could taste old agony and familiar misery with every shaky inhale and see his crumbling mien in the mirror of their eyes. Their eyes. They were gleaming, full of life, just as his own now. A pale, warm shade of golden soil whereas before, they had looked like chips of polished copper. Gleamless, lifeless, empty. “Do you want to say with me?”

“Pardon, Master, while the pleasure is all mine, I have to go now.”, he managed to hide his grimace behind a cascade of red hair, his bow less a gesture of respect and more to cover up the shame forming in drops of crystalline, gathering at the corners of his eyes and dusting his lashes. He left the Gardens with their thinly veiled darkness, he left in favor of entering the gaping jaws of a pit of vipers.
.
.
The pressure of the seal was replaced with the pressure to perform, yet at the core of things, nothing had changed for him. He was free of a master, yet threw himself willingly in the fangs of another when Towers of Obsidian failed to further his special branch of studies, his choice of magic, the one he wanted to pursuit, the one he performed with increasing skill at the cost of his own lifeforce. They pointed him towards the capitol, towards a nest of sanguine drenched, nocturnal horrors, because he would fit in with them far better.

Emmanuel knew power when he was confronted by it, he could pick up the many, many warning signs, yet he still knocked on the imposing door, the same box given to him by his former master pressed against his chest. He was not afraid, too proud to die, he wanted to learn, to master this skill of his and he would. No one could stop him from doing that, if he had to go toe to toe with an ancient being for that, he would do it with his eyes wide open and seeing.
.
.
”What do you have to offer, boy, except the meat on your bones?”, the old man asked with his suffocating gaze, heavy by the number of decades he had seen passing by as if it had been mere days. “Or do you rely on my kindness alone?”

“Quite the opposite, I doubt you have any kindness left to spare after such eternity.”, sharper than intended, Emmanuel cut the man off, his smile resembling a piano wire in all its eagerness to slice into unsuspecting flesh, to part its softness and lay bare ruby red life. When he placed down the box, the only thing he had on his person, the only thing he could never part from, the little bit of light there was, caught on the intricate lock, a twisting of runes and symbols with jagged edges. “I want to learn and you can teach me. This is what I want to open.”

And for the first time, he saw something akin to genuine interest spark in Mahatma’s eyes, only for a moment, before it was snuffed out once more.

“I am not a gentle teacher.”
.
.
Mahatma was indeed not a kind teacher, he was ruthless, punishing. He never forgave a mistake and he demanded everything Emmanuel had to offer and more. Far, far more, he pushed and pushed, up to and beyond the limits of a mortal body, leaving the young man drained in more ways than one.

Yet, Emmanuel had a choice, every day he woke up with one, that he could pack up his belongings and leave, towards a simpler life, a comfortable one in which he would never acquire whatever he wanted the most or he could stay and one day open this cursed box, get his hands on whatever it promised to be the thing he wanted the most, with all his wounded heart.

It was his choice and a consequence of his actions that brought him down this fog veiled path of an emotion he had so far only read about in books. It started suddenly, it came like the cold in winter, overnight hoarfrost was everywhere, covering every thought of his in a blanket of glittering sharpness. Mahatma was a parasite, he invaded his mind and Emmanuel could not shake it off, even when he gave in and followed the pulling of a longing so unfamiliar, all he met was stoic silence, apathy towards anything. Not knowing, neither being accepted nor rejected in his shy attempts to show a blooming affection for the old vampire, cut deep, deeper than the betrayal of his mother ever could.

He was not good enough, yet. He clung to the yet like it was his lifeline on the churning sea of his emotions, diligent to the letter, he read every book within Mahatma’s collection, read them twice and poured his heart, his soul, his whole being into this. Because it would reward him, he would be given the thing he ultimately wanted with all his being, it had to be worth it.
.
.
Life and power drained out of him at a steady, ruby red stream but he was smiling, because he could hear it. The click and churn of gears turning, of the twisted metal unfurling and runes straightening out, the lock was opening and if he held on for only a few more minutes, he could see what it was that he was dying to have. Pride rushing through his body, it burnt bright and strong enough to replace the pain and the exhaustion, even as his sun kissed skin turned deathly pale and his eyes lost their gleam, he kept smiling, too far, too fascinated to see what was happening to him.

“Am I now worthy?”, he couldn’t help but ask, the unlocking box in his shaking hands. Only a short while now and he could lift the lid. The heavy gaze of too old eyes, he could feel it on him, his hair, his pale skin, his shivering shoulders. Could feel it tracing the curve of his smile and linger on the box in his hands, the inside of it hidden from sight. “Am I now worthy of your love?”

His legs gave out underneath him before he could open the box, he fell before the lid could be lifted. And it became so cold, he thought he heard words, alias, if they ever had been spoken out loud, they drowned in the declining beat of a dying heart.
.
.
Salt and copper, iron and something ancient running down his throat, he felt life leave him and he tasted as it returned, a gift with no explanation, nothing but a deed when it hadn’t been necessary. The heart, this foolish, stubborn thing that had been far too content to just stop here and now, clung to hope. That this would be more, that this had to mean something.

Am I worthy now?, a question with no answer, silence, all he got was silence and it was more than enough to break down the faint, blooming splinters of hope into dust and flaky ash. As the time passed and he finally stumbled over the open box again, after Mahatma had left, wordless, he couldn’t help but wonder. Alias, the box was empty and in his anger, his hurt and disappointment, he couldn’t help himself but crush polished wood and delicate, golden ornaments. Screaming all the while. Will I ever be worthy?

A change had been set in motion, what began as a means of rescue, of guarding him from death’s cold grasp morphed into something grander. Piece by piece, parts of an old bloodline came together, every drop of ancient blood severed as yet another layer of polish, pushed the boundaries of what he had been capable of doing before. With the power however, came the hunger. No water or wine could soothe the burn in his throat. He ate too much, mainly meat which he used to despise, because it stopped the feeling of his own stomach consuming itself. What was happening to him?

You are awakening. Mahatma had an answer for everything, except the question Emmanuel asked the most. Held afloat in a space of careful neutrality, neither given encouragement nor rejection, he could feel how his heart ripped itself apart everytime silence deafened him. Time will slow down for you.

I don’t want this. Not yet., was his answer, emotional - far wilder than he had ever been - as it burst over his lips and the tip of his tongue. Never had he been one to put a hand on another, yet here he was, pulling and pushing at a creature that could snap his neck with frightening ease. The blood was not enough, he wanted the other’s breath, his heart. He bit still lips and clawed at strong shoulders, raging fire against eternal ice. I want your love first!

Foolish boy. Blind boy. Demanding for what you already have...

Mahamat
Old he may be, his power suffocating,
but he would never hurt him. Too many
chances and all went by untaken, ignored.
Beloved yet waking the urge to scream, as
he is like eternal ice, slow in his change,
too stuck in his own head. But they have
time and he was the fire to this ice.

___

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