volkarin | SALTBURNT

[ It's not difficult to track Emmrich down, not in a house full of gossips and maids with considerable emotional investment in, as one of them had put it, "older men with a sort of sexy librarian thing going on". Armand encounters a little difficulty when the manor itself contrives to throw him off the scent and the room he's directed to ends up being on another floor entirely, but he finds the correct window in the end, alighting on the balcony and glad to find no sign of magical wards. A different sort of necromancer than John Gaius, then. Or at least a man who doesn't expect to be disturbed.

The lock is no problem for a telekinetic vampire; he slips soundlessly into the dark room, finding himself in something that looks more like a study than a bedroom, piles of books on every surface, strange diagrams on the walls. The faint scent of the man he's hunting tells him he's in the right place, so he lingers, exploring a little while he waits for his quarry to arrive.

By the time he's discovered, he's made his way through half a dozen volumes, moving them from one stack to another as he finishes them. He doesn't glance up from his latest acquisition as Emmrich arrives, having made himself comfortable in an armchair, flipping through the pages with uncanny speed. ]

You have made yourself very comfortable here, Professor.

Ah, you paint? A pursuit not too far removed from your abilities last month. I wonder if the two are related ...

But I shan't linger too long on the unpleasant past. Tomorrow evening, perhaps?

I do.
gosh, maybe? we should all other people if they might have noticed anything like that.

that would be lovely!

[ It's the sound of pages turning that alerts Emmrich to his visitor before he actually sees him, pausing by the door, his hand on the light switch — and looking only mildly surprised — before closing it behind him. ]

One learns to adapt, [ he says, schooling his expression into a polite smile.

A part of him wonders if he ought to have expected this to happen sooner. He's hardly unaware of the fact that he's made himself somewhat unpopular, and though he's giving Armand the benefit of the doubt as to why he's here ... benign encounters typically don't begin with breaking and entering. ]

I wasn't expecting guests.

[ The air of predatory control in Armand's body language is anything but benign, lacking only a tail to twitch in anticipation, but he remains where he is, amber eyes catching the light for a moment before he glances back at Emmrich. His fingers spread across the book in his hands, almost caressing the page. ]

Yes, well. As I recall, your recent adventures have sorely tested the adaptability of the population of this house. I thought it might be prudent to return the favor.

[ He snaps the book shut -- then is abruptly on the other side of the study, a sharp breeze briefly ruffling pages and loose paper the only indicator of movement. Showing off for Emmrich; as always a victim of his species' love of melodrama. Almost idly, he picks up another book and starts to leaf through it. ]

You mentioned in your message that you believe our souls are trapped in this place. For centuries, I have believed myself to be damned, my soul destined for the deepest pits of Hell to atone for the acts committed in life. Yet you claim it has been.. waylaid here. I'd like to know more.

[ At every step, he meets her: she waits, he obliges; she pushes him back, he falls without complaint, providing only just enough resistance to ensure that they're not both simply tumbling to the mattress. It's another kind of dance, a dilution of the merry skeletons she'd shown him, seeking not damnation or salvation but each other's company, the fact of it encompassing all of those greater terms of philosophy. Love is a kind of life's work, after all. ]

The two questions might have the same answer, [ he hums, arching upward to steal another kiss from her lips. ]

Turned rotten, ever-desirous and eager for another lesson in indulgence.

[ His hands — a little chilly from his morning ablutions — travel, one settling at her chin, his thumb passing just under the moue of her lips, the other leading his arm around her waist as arousal pricks at his senses. ]

Or not spoilt enough, requiring the same sweet hand to correct course.

[ The words dissolve into breath as his mouth finds her cheek, hew jaw, her neck. ]

Which do you think it is, my dear?

[ The only comfort Emmrich can really find is in the fact that, were his guest's intention solely to kill him, he'd have attempted it already. Granted, there's still time — he hardly seems happy — but, as the line of Emmrich's jaw goes tense, his brow pinched as Armand flits from one side of the room to the other, he doesn't move in pursuit or in retaliation. Rather, he moves — slowly, slowly — to his desk, taking a seat in his chair as though this were any other visit or consultation. ]

You were ... adversely affected, [ he states rather than guesses, his expression betraying more sorrow than anything else. ] I'm sorry, despite how little that may be worth to you.

[ And though he draws in a breath to further explain himself, he stops short of actually doing so — intention hadn't prevented what had followed, nor will it ease the man's pain, such as it is. Instead, he folds his hands on top of his desk, allowing himself only the briefest consideration of his companion's invocation of Hell. ]

All I know is what the Sibling chose to divulge to me. She described a "ceiling" over this place, one that prevents souls from finding rest. Atonement, I'm afraid, hardly factors into it.

[ His hands lift, then, mimicking a barrier and an enterprising spirit. ]

My order believes that a soul, when separated from the body that had once housed it by death, will then pass into the Fade. Others believe in Heaven or, as you've alluded to, Hell. Such a system of belief might designate this place as Purgatory, but I'm inclined to think that's not quite the case. We're living, breathing, and moreover, our souls remain tethered to our bodies except for when the process of death begins.

[ It's a troubling idea, but nothing that Armand hasn't already considered. The power of the forces at work is unmistakable, having cowed devils and gods in their control -- he can't see any other explanation than being trapped somewhere beyond the veil.

He remains where he is, watching Emmrich from across the room, glass-sharp nails resting lightly on the pages of the book in his hand. After a moment, he nods, carefully closes the book, sets it on a nearby stack, making sure it aligns exactly with the book beneath it. ]

We're not all living and breathing. [ He spans his hand lightly on top of the stack of books, trailing his fingertips over the leather as he approaches Emmrich's desk. ] I am dead, yet my soul remains. A quandary for your order. When I was turned, I was already at the gates of death, poisoned and sickened. Because of you, as I lay dying once more, my mortal life was restored to me. Your mistake meant that I was able to taste mortal food for the first time in five hundred years. I felt my heart beat, my lungs fill with air. I was able to remember..

[ He pauses, glancing away from Emmrich, hands fidgeting closed and open again, clearly lingering over his words. When he looks back at him, there's a fragile resolve in his expression. ]

You killed me and you gave me life. I wanted to thank you.

[ As Armand speaks, Emmrich's expression doesn't fall, exactly, but grows more open, his brows knitting, his eyes round and searching. His face is a clear canvas for the surprise that thank you provokes, his breast filling with— guilt? Grief? Gladness? (He's never been the sort to really hide his feelings, especially not in a context like this.) It's enough emotion, regardless, to suppress his natural curiosity at Armand's claim at a living death, bypassing his usual inclination toward inquiry. ]

I don't believe I deserve your gratitude, [ he says carefully, passing a hand over his forehead. ] But I ... I'm glad that death — that life — brought you some measure of peace.

[ He stops short of saying more, uncharacteristically soft-spoken in the face of the consequences of his actions, so clearly and earnestly presented. He'd known people had died — had seen them bleed out and perish — but there's something uniquely painful about the idea of succumbing not because of the revenants, arguably not his doing, but because of an illness he'd allowed to finish its terrible work.

He hesitates before speaking next, aware that what he's asking is deeply personal, but they've arguably crossed that confiding line already. ]

—Do you wish it? To be mortal again?

[ The welling of surprise and bittersweet gratitude is as clear in Emmrich's mind and heart as it is in his face; Armand reads each with the same opaque expression, as if having made his confession, he's been forced to retreat back behind a necessary wall. Only his hands betray him; he brings them together to fiddle with the ring on his left hand, restlessly.

Does he wish to be mortal again? A question every vampire asks himself over and over down the advancing years. Armand has no easy answer. He'd begged for the Dark Gift before being turned, even before his illness, wanting to be as beautiful and eternal as the master he loved more than anything. Mortal life had only ever brought him pain and sorrow -- life as a vampire could surely not be worse.

How wrong he had been. ]

No. [ He says it softly, after a long moments of silence. ] No, I could not. Even if I could somehow survive the disease in my body -- the world I left behind as a mortal no longer exists. That boy no longer exists. I only know how to survive as I am now. The only reason I would seek mortality would be to seek a final end, the death that Amadeo survived. And I now know I cannot achieve that here.

[ He would enter the jaws of death only to be spat out again, perhaps growing worse and less himself with each attempt. ]

No, Professor. I am a vampire. I will always be a vampire. My kind are not meant to find absolution.

Oh, you know. No complaints, other than being sick of these endless renovations and sex magic and dreadful resurrection consequences.

So, suffering the full range of consequences of my hubris.

Well, apart from the [ is there a less crude word for this ... ] sex magic.

[ A shadow passes over Emmrich's brow — the shape of a skull flickering over the gaunt set of the necromancer's features. Perhaps inevitably, he thinks of the immortality that awaits him, of the latent promise of lichdom. For years, he has feared the cost of it, brought to a standstill that he might simply die before achieving it. He fears that less, now, but he'd be lying if he said he hasn't considered the fundamental shift the vampire describes to him. Who will he become, when the man Emmrich Volkarin no longer exists?

But this isn't the time nor the place for him to wallow. (And he has one point of certainty, besides: he has promised Parisa his eternal devotion, and in that, he knows, he'll never waver.) ]

You believe you are all damned?

[ He picks his words carefully, thinking not just of the teachings of the various faiths throughout Thedas but of the rather different natures of vampires as he understands them and as he's encountered here.

(He doesn't put much stock in the ideas of salvation or damnation, largely because of the proximity he's had to death for nearly his entire life, but— he understands the appeal of it, the reason for it. After all, forgiveness is one of those rare things that cannot be bought. Wouldn't it be a comfort, to be absolved by an all-knowing and merciful god?) ]

Or do you believe it solely of yourself?

Perhaps you should add it to your repertoire, if you really want the full range.

( she hums, swept up and away by emmrich, largely from the cadence of his voice but also the ease of his affection, mouthy kisses as fleeting as butterfly wings. parisa smooths her hand up and down the velvet of his robe tilting her head this way and that to offer some room for more of his kisses, a dopey smiling curving up her lips. )

Either way, I'm in the position of your mentor.

( a very beneficial spot to be in. emmrich is a very dutiful student. he does the readings, does his homework, participates in class. still, she doesn't really have to think about it — evidence is as plain to see as the love in emmrich's eyes when she pulls back, fingers splaying out on each of his shaved cheeks, lazily dragging their mouths back together. )

The latter. Definitely.

( far too sweet to ever turn rotten, she says. too committed to his chivalry, his own circling goodness, to be anything but a generous partner.

luckily, that's exactly what parisa likes in one. she murmurs, ) Your lesson. ( against his mouth before kissing him harder, tongue in his mouth, teeth against his lips. parisa has had full access to his mind for awhile now — there was that deep darkness, his so called shame, but the clouds have all dispersed and left clarity in their wake. of course, there are still dark corners — everyone has their secrets. but she gives him an image, her fingerprints as evident as they ever are on the soft parts of his brain, and lets him feed into the fantasy she places there. parisa, thighs on either side of his head, lowering her cunt to his mouth. emmrich, talented as usual, proving what a teacher's pet he is. eventually, his cock inside her — details unimportant, he can fill them in himself, color the portrait she's left in him. the point is —

the point is — ) This is what I want.

[ It occurs to Emmrich only after he's sent his previous message that he realizes that his exploratory efforts with Parisa could easily be considered "sex magic," though he'd argue that sex had only been a part of the magic they'd been conducting as opposed to the backbone of it, but— ]

Having singed my hand upon that flame once already, I'm somewhat loathe to return to that particular study.

[ Which is the most he's alluded to what had happened at the beginning of the previous month. ]

[ Like fragments of rock falling through the upper atmosphere, Armand tracks the bright flare and fade of thoughts through Emmrich's mind. No tedious mortal considerations here -- he recognises the shape of the necromancer's worries from the edges of John Gaius' influence. A shame that the god of death hadn't lingered much longer; Armand wonders what Emmrich could have learned at that man's knee. How to cope with eternity, surely.

Also: Parisa. Interesting, but not unexpected. She is a collector of interesting subjects, after all. ]

Vampires are monsters. [ Armand offers his answer as he moves back across the study, back to the armchair he recently deserted. He folds himself into it as he continues: ]

Killers, defilers, abominations before God. If we are not damned, what hope is there for mortality? To become a vampire is the greatest sin, a rejection of God's plan, desire and hunger made flesh for -- what reason? To prey on the innocent and the weak, culling them like sickened animals? To provide a lesson to mortal men? I was once taught it was so. We exist as the shadow of evil, to prove God's goodness in reflection. Therefore we must be evil, we must be shadows. We must not know joy, or simple pleasures. We must be beautiful horrors. So I learned.

[ He drags himself back from reflection to look at Emmrich. ]

For what reason do you practise your magic, necromancer? For whose benefit do you profane the dead?

[ Now isn't that interesting. ]

Professor. I'd say that I'm shocked and scandalized, but I always knew you had it in you.

[ hmmm ]

"Always" is a rather long ways to cast back the clock.

[ a god that listens, but acts only as sees worth her time. no different from the gods of his home, then, mercurial in their interventions and desires. the gods choose their favourites and play their games unfairly.

still, this is knowledge granted, and it is up to the common man to figure out an answer from what's been given. ]

'Tis a worthwhile endeavour to know what gods reside and rule over this here lands. Thank you for answering my questions. I'll not bother so soon about these matters, if we're lucky.

[ The first few times she'd reached into his head, it had felt— not strange, necessarily, but certainly new. A flicker of light, of a timbre and color he'd never seen before. Exposure has made it more familiar, as has the experience of being brought into his own mind — not so far removed, ultimately, from getting used to cohabitation. He never asks if it makes a difference, but he does his best to be conscious of keeping his mind open, pliant, like a well-loved book rather than one with a stiff, cracking spine, for her to peruse as she pleases.

He laughs as the image of her blooms in his vision, the sound fizzling into a hum against her lips. The ways in which he wants her are increasingly transparent, visible in how eager he is to kneel for her, to devote himself to the lessons she sets for him, and most explicitly in the letters he writes to her, hard evidence of a seemingly endless love. He's thinking of her, always, compelled rather than burdened by the promises he's made to her of a life beyond this.

There are images, under fine silt rather than layers of sediment, of the Lighthouse in the Fade, of Nevarra, the Grand Necropolis, each place altered just so to accommodate the newness of her.

And now, simply, ] Yes, mistress.

[ His hands urge her upward as he pushes himself down the length of the bed, his mouth finding her knee, her thigh, the soft skin between her legs — halfway, already, to fulfilling the first fantasy she'd planted in his head. ]

[ As Emmrich listens, his hand finds his temple, the point of one long finger going back and forth above his brow, visible evidence of an unsettled mind. He straightens only at that last question, a breath of laughter escaping him at the word profane. ]

You're hardly alone in thinking of a necromancer's work as blasphemy, [ he begins, his thoughts still caught on the edges of Armand's answer. ] But our work — my work — is not to disturb nor raise the dead but to ensure their peaceful rest. Much of the Mourn Watch is dedicated to funerary rites, to settling the affairs of wayward souls.

[ There's more to it — the spirits that death attracts, the distinction between spirits and souls — but that's not really what Armand has asked. Hesitation plays out in a pause, a fractured breath, the shape of his thoughts breaking and reforming as he changes his track. ]

There are ways to truly profane the dead — and the living. I would do all that is within my power to prevent it, to protect those who cannot protect themselves from the abuse of the occult.

[ His gaze falls, then levels in the vampire's direction. ]

If I may be so bold — what we are taught is not always the entire truth. Were you a servant of evil, truly, I expect I would already be dead.

And here I thought time was quite flexible, in this place.

[ The complexities aren't unexpected. Armand watches Emmrich with equal amounts of fascination, though a sullen brooding look remains on his face, as if he's still wondering if he shouldn't meet Emmrich's expectations after all. ]

Your actions last month lead to the deaths of innocents, yet you still attempt to protect them. More than anything, you wish to atone for what you have done. Even now, you would accept your fate at my hand, should I decide to take my vengeance. [ Armand lifts one of the hands in question, spreading his glass-tipped fingers before curling them back into his palm. ]

Do the dead ask you to speak for them? Or do you simply assume that you know best, that you are the one who must settle their soul's account? [ Armand tilts his head thoughtfully, finding unexpectedly that he's enjoying himself a little. He hasn't had a chance to engage in philosophy like this for a long time, not since leaving Paris and her crowded little cafes and salons, where he would spend long hours debating love, suffering, the nature of God. ]

We are all servants of evil, Professor, and therefore we must also be servants of good, for they cannot exist without one another. The vampire is cursed to take the lives of mortals in order to survive. Yet we are not soulless. Some choose to end themselves rather than continue such an existence. They are driven mad by horror at themselves. Should I do so as well, and save those who would suffer because of me? Perhaps. Should you take up your art against me, to save them instead? You claim to want to help those who cannot help themselves, yet you allow me to sit before you, unharmed. What does it say about you, that you have not attempted it? Would you commit to evil, in order to save the world from evil?

[ not as flexible as my ... wait, no ]

I don't suppose you've dabbled?

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