9419/Dracul Rising: Bloody Feathers

Dracul Rising: Bloody Feathers
Date of Scene:	01 January 2022
Location:	Somewhere underneath Queens
Synopsis:	Jon is brought to the Irrapu lair and drained to the point of unconciousness. In the haze between life and death, he is given a vision by those he serves. (Warning: Scene is Rated R. Contains disturbing content. Reading discretion advised.)
Cast of Characters:	Marc Spector, Jonathan Sims

---

Marc Spector has posed:
    When Jon awakes he is in a circlular room of ancient metal. The air is thick with the smell of oxidized iron and blood. The room appears more like a cross between cage and auditorium. The floor is more a heavy mesh marked with stains of black, brown, and deep red. There is a level high up on the walls that allows viewing of the central space and more room beyond that allows for the same. That level is filled with masked figures in dark robes. All variations of animals are represeted by the masks. Canine, feline, serpentine, avian and all are stylize in the make of the Egyptian gods.

    Jon is locked on a table in a tilted upright position perhaps 10 degrees shy of true perpendicular. His arms are set upright slightly apart from his sides, his cardigan and bracer are both gone and the buttons of his collar and cuffs have been opened exposing locations that are not positive when in the presence of vampires. Before him, just beyond the table is a brighter red curved line accented by arcane markings in Egyptian heiroglyphs. A binding circle to keep the Archivist from accessing his magic. The indication that that no living creature may cross the line or it will break. It seems these vampires are not stupid in their use of magic.

    Before him stand three figures. One is the unmasked vampire who attacked him at the mission. One of the others is a petite female with skin even paler than Lydia's wearing a frog-like mask, the only thing marking her as female is the cut of her robes, accenting her modest chest and the curve of her hips. The other is a man even taller than Jon with charcoal black skin wearing a serpentine mask. His own garb is more royal than priestly.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks his eyes open slowly, then looks around with a rather wild expression. His heart is hammering already, in a terrified manner the vampires surely have experienced many times before. No bracer, and cardigan gone means no ICER--not that that's much use against vampires. He dropped his staff and his phone's gone.

    None of that matters, of course, when he's strapped down to a table.

    He tries to summon forth his magic, despite the circle, and finds... nothing. It's like his connection to the Astral Plane has been severed. And /that/ makes his heart hammer even /faster/. No Astral Plane means no magic, no Archive--nothing. He's not the Archivist here, not really. He's just Jonathan Sims, captive of vampires.

    He swallows, and looks over the three in front of him. "All this, just for me?" Somehow, he keeps the terror out of his voice. "You could've just sent an invitation if you wanted me to join your New Year's festivities."

    He's long since understood why superheroes quip and banter at their foes. It helps with the fear.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The unmasked vampire steps forward stopping at the edge of the circle and smiles, showing a double set of fangs taking the place of secondary incisors and canines. "It's cute that you can still show defiance at this stage. It means that breaking you will be all the more entertaining."

    He looks at the man and then looks up at the gathered audience. "It is a New Year, at least by the Roman Calendar. Some of us here have used other means of tracking time... and a select few of us knew of time before the Roman's even cobbled together their *supposed* governance of time." He allows a small spread of laughter to pass before continuing. "But we have adopted their use for the ease as it serves our prey. Tonight marks a new dawn in our continued vie for power. Today we will gain the use of not just one power--" he gestures to Jon, "the Archivist among our ranks. But we will also take the Valkkai bitch who has so long evaded capture and force her under our sway. With their combined skills we will retake what the Apostate thought he could take."

    Cheers erupt from those in the tiered auditorium and he lets them continue for a moment before raising a hand for silence and then turns his attention once more to the bound Archivist. "Tell me, Archivist, what do you know of the man who calls himself Raul Bushman?" he asks.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon gasps at 'the Archivist among our ranks,' but it's 'the Valkkai bitch' that /really/ gets a reaction. Fear suddenly blooms into anger, furious and clear.

    "This is about /Lydia/? Oh, /fuck/ you. Me becoming one of you was a non-starter already, but I am /not/ going to let you use me to get at my friend. Piss off."

    He tests the bonds. Nothing doing there. So he glares at the vampire and says, "I know he's got half his face ripped off. I'm afraid everything else is covered by patient-client confidentiality, but if you'd like to make a HIPAA request..."

Marc Spector has posed:
    The woman moves forward with quick purposeful strides. She pulls off her mask revealing a face that is almost youthful in appearance. She couldn't have been older than 20 when she was turned but her eyes--a shade a unnatural lavender--are so very, very old. She bores into the Archivist's eyes with her own and says in an accent tinged with thick Mediteranean overtones, "Such spirit... such power... I will enjoy turning you young one..."

    In blur, she moves behind the table. There must be some sort of stair or stepladder behind it because she is suddenly standing at a level with his own face. She runs a perfecctly manicured nail down the side of his face in a far too affectionate manner and then leans dow to whisper. "Answer our question..." before biting into his neck.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glares at the woman, briefly, and shudders at her touch, turning his face away. He flexes his hands, trying to prepare for the sensation he knows is coming--but nothing can prepare him for the pain of fangs sinking into his neck, and gasps in pain, eyes flying wide.

    Then the waves of pleasure, intended to keep a victim still, overcome him, and he takes long, shuddering breaths, trying to push the sensation away. "I d-don't..." He licks his lips. Resisting on principle might be a fool's errand, but the longer he holds out, the more likely people can find him. He call on Khonshu, and they want Lydia to come for him, right?

    "I don't... know anything..." he manages, fighting against the compulsion to just give in, give the vampires what they want.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The vampiress draws away from Jon, red staining her pale lips like high end lipgloss. "Wrong answer..." she says. She snaps her fingers and blurs to stand before Jon once more, her stange eyes boring into him again. "All we want is information, sweet thing. You tell us what you know and the pain will stop... until then..."

    More pain followed by a rush of pleasure rushes into Jon as another vampire, this one a man with dark skin and toned physique wearing what could be presumed is the garb of a royal attendant steps up behind Jon and sinks his own fangs into the man's neck opposite the woman's bite.

    "We ask again... what do you know of Raul Bushman? It should be simple to recall what you know from what The Traveller's Dog has told you." She reaches up to grab either side of his face, fixing him in her captivating and compelling gaze. There is a soft push at his internal mental defenses. Someone was trying to get into his mind.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Stay... out... of... my... head," Jon growls. The first line of defense is cheery pop music, annoying and catchy, that he focuses his whole attention on.

    HEY, I JUST MET YOU
    AND THIS IS CRAZY~
    BUT HERE'S MY NUMBER
    SO CALL ME MAYBE

    It's hard to do past pain and pleasure, but Jon looks up at the ceiling and focuses on the song, humming it even, with a kind of grimly cheery determination. Slow breath in, slow breath out, focus on the song, don't let the vampire into his head. Don't let her get anything, even if it doesn't *matter* if he gives them information on Raul Bushman. Drag this out as long as possible. He has to /live/.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The woman jerks back and looks over her shoulder at the unmasked vampire in confusion. "What is this, Menes?" she asks, her tone disgusted. She shoves Jon's head back hard against the table, jostiling the man feeding on him loose who takes it as his cue to depart.

    The man, presumably Menes steps forward over the blood circle to examine Jon. "Typical mental defenses. I have seen it a few times before... easy enough to break. Overload his mind. Make him focus on other things and it will come down, My Queen."

    The woman turns to regard Jon with disgust once more a young woman with bronzed skin appears in a similar attendant's gown and at a gesture she bites into Jon's left wrist. With a gesture the woman directs Menes to see to Jon's left. The man hesistates but then nods in acquiescence and goes to bite into Jon's right forearm just below the elbow.

    The woman saunters to Jon and takes his head in her hands again, her eyes swimming in compelling magics. "I ask again. Raul Bushman. Tell us what you know or I will pry it from your mind. I do not want to break you morsel, but I will if I must..." Again that prodding at his defenses comes in, more insistent and stronger this time a shove against the barrier around his mind.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The second bite makes Jon's eyelids flutter and close, his head thump back onto the table. The song he's trying so desperately to focus on slips away, lost in the sensation of blood flowing out, the giddy elation of shock slowly starting to close in on him. He shakes his head. "No," he says. "Stay... /out/."

    The next layer is a dome of mirrors within his mind, carefully layered, their surfaces shimmering with light. It's not as strong as it would be with his magic in place, and so it might be easy enough for the vampiress to just slip on through one of the mirrors without the Astral backup that all his training has assumed he would have. Jonathan Sims is a telepath now, even without the Archivist powers, it would seem... but not a fully trained one by any stretch of the imagination.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The woman smiles and shakes her own head. "No, sweet creature... I will not..." The two vampires fall away, only to be replaced by two more. This time a overly lush female and the large charcoal skinned male, his head is shaved and his features hard as the rest of his body. He draws with a vicious bite to Jon's right shoulder. The woman adds her own mark to the left side of Jon's neck.

    The vampiress slides past one of the mirros and enters the next level of defenses. "Tell me your secrets poppet, before the feeding drains you. You will tell us in the end... one way or another. It would be so much easier to give it freely than to have me tear it from your mind."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Everything else in Jon's mind is easy to get past, defenses made of magic or will that he cannot access between the circle and the draining. He has to blink back tears. "Please," he whispers. "Please, don't kill me, I... I can't..."

    What's the point in resisting? Hell, maybe it'll help Marc, to tell them about Bushman. So he starts to talk, telling them all he knows. About Bushman, about his history, about the statement about the fight with him that he got off the main room of the Midnight Mission.

    "Please," he repeats, when he's done, "just let me go. I have... I have a daughter. I have to find her. I have to get back to... people need me. Please..."

Marc Spector has posed:
    The lead vampiress falls into the man's head verifying his words. More come and feed off of him leaving an almost drained husk. At the end the woman purrs at him and gently strokes his cheek. "Of course, child... we will let you go. As soon as we have the Valkkai woman in our grasp. That is all we want... and then you can return to your family. Bring them here. We will welcome them with open arms..."

    She moves around to be behind him and whispers in his ear. "I am going to drain you to the brink of death now... it won't be quick. I will savor it for you and for me. Simply fall into my arms and I will catch you, you will be my child and perhaps my consort when this done." She lowers her mouth back to Jon's neck and sinks her teeth back into the original markings she made not long before.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shakes his head, heart hammering in terror no matter how he tries to keep it slowed. It pumps his lifeblood into the vampiress' mouth, ebbing on out of him. "N-no... no I don't... I don't want... gods, please, /please/..."

    He's losing too much blood. So, so much blood. He's going into shock, some part of his brain tells him. It ticks through all the physical processes happening now as his blood drains away. A transfusion would still save him, or magical healing, but without that... he'll die. And then he'll become a vampire, and where does that leave everything?

    Of course... he knew he was supposed to die. So is this it? He dies here, and becomes a vampire, and somehow that lets him save the universe? Or will this doom everything?

    He can't think about it anymore. Maybe the gods finally listen. Consciousness fades, finally. He cannot reach the Astral Plane, but the vampires cannot cut him off from his gods entirely.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Jon finds himself drifting further and further away from his body. He is on a boat. A small boat, more a personal craft than anything large. There is no boatman, Jon travels alone. Eventually he comes to the end of the stream, the bow bumping hollowly against a breaker set in the stone track that serves at the boundry for the craft. Before him is an altar and two figures.

    Both are large. Easily ten feet in height. One has the head of a wolf and the body of a man. He is not wearing a mask, his head is truly a wolf's head. He carries a set of scales. One of the trays of the scales is stained with some dark residue. The other figure is a woman wearing a crown with a feather in it. Her arms are also draped with feathers. To Jon's eyes they are well known and well recognized. Anubis and Ma'at.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's awareness slowly slides into place as he gets further from his dying body. He becomes aware of the boat, the stream, the altar and the two figures. He swallows as he looks them over.

    "I'm dead," he says, and there's a kind of hollowness to his tone. "Aren't I?"

    He sighs and steps off the boat, standing before Anubis and Ma'at. Bows to them, respectfully. "So called, I come to you," he says. "I am sorry I have not been of service long, nor... well, I'm certain."

    This is it, then? He's dead, here and now? What was the point? Or is this some stupid fluke, and not fate?

Marc Spector has posed:
    The great judge Anubis bellows. "You are where the dead go when their time walking the Earth is finished. Does that mean you are dead? I am not so certain." He looks to the woman and asks. "He is your servant. You can be the one to determine his worth to rejoin with the Sun."

    The woman steps forward and shrinks to a more reasonable size. She is still tall, but in speaking with her Jon would not need to look up quite so far. Her dark eyes regard him for a long time before she says, "You've done better than some. You at least are not afraid of your duties so much that you hoard the position and do nothing with it. That much places you above your predecesor at the very least."

    She pauses. "But you have much to ammend before we consider you finished." She continues to regard him impassively. What did that mean?

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I am no Pharoah, to join with Ra in death," Jon protests. "The Amduat is not for the likes of me. I am a servant, a scribe--exalted in position, perhaps, but no king nor ruler." He shakes his head, denying Anubis' statement.

    "As for Gran? I don't understand. How did she hoard the position? Afraid of her duties? Did she avoid taking statements? Making judgements?" He makes a noise of irritation. "I would /know/ these things if she'd been /told/ I was to be her successor!"

    Another shake of the head. "None of that matters, though, does it? It's my heart you're here to weigh, and my actions will speak louder than any words I have for you."

Marc Spector has posed:
    "Indeed" Ma'at replies before she reaches at Jon's chest. One would think there would be some resistance, but perhaps that is simply the nature of this place as her hand passes -through- Jon's chest and her hand wraps around his heart. There is a soft wet sound as she withdraws the organ and her hand in one fluid motion.

    She regrads the heart for a moment her expression sad. "That is... unfortunate" she says. "Are you going to make excuses for this as well? Knowledge is best served through experience. Nothing that your predecessor could have said would have truly prepared you for the task you now possess." She walks toward the massive figure of Anubus and his scales.

    She raises the heart and it floats to its designated space. "Your predecessor did not judge many during her tenure. She sought knowledge rather than experience. Amicable as her duty was... she did only half the job she was appointed to. You however, are in contest with a being that is truly suited to you position."

    She plucks a feather from her winged arm and looks at it. "And yet... you are here before truly engaging with it. Rather unfortunate, wouldn't you say?" she asks him, arching a finely plucked brow.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shudders as his heart is pulled from his chest, reaches a hand down to feel at the open space with a frown. Odd.

    As Ma'at speaks, he grinds his teeth. "I make no excuses. Merely explanations. I have been floundering about with no mentor, no training, no therapist, suddenly thrust into 'save the universe by dying' which..." He laughs, shakily. "Doesn't seem as if this is very /helpful/ to that cause, hmm? What's the point of my dying /here/?"

    He sighs. "I'm not... I don't mean to... what's the point? You'll weigh it, and I'll go on or I won't. I have no excuses. I wasn't ready, and maybe I never would have been." His shoulders slump, and he stares down at the ground. "Tested and found wanting, which... seems about par for the course."

    Gods, why can't he stop /whining/? It just bubbles out of him, and he's beginning to hate it. But he hurts, too. So much, and he's so, so tired.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Ma'at watches him with an expressionless face and shakes her head. "My feathers are quite heavy. They always have been, did you know that?" she asks rotating the feather before her. "To expect a human heart, one that carries so many burdens with it, to weigh less than an actual feather is rather ridiculous and yet..."

    She lifts her hand and the feather rises to its appointed empty scale. As the feather rests on the scale the heart tray, where Jon's heart rests, stays motionless. "And yet you're is still burdened. It seems rather a waste to toss you to Ammit, especially when you're right. Your death here is rather pointless."

    She shifts gears rather suddenly. "Explain something to me. Why would someone who seems so dedicated to truth and justice, lie so much to those around them? Husband. Friend. Ally. All are subject to lies and yet you espouse to uphold my virtues."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stares at the scales, where his heart lies heavier than that feather, and suddenly his legs give out. He collapses to his knees on the ground before the two gods, holds himself up with his hands from falling completely prone.

    "I don't..." He gasps for breath. "I don't know..." Terror floods through him. He squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry." What good does that do? What's done is done. He shudders, and open his eyes. Stares at his hands, gripping the stone beneath him, at the tears falling to wet that stone.

    And he /does/ know what she means. He knows /exactly/ what she means. He's feeling it right now.

    "I'm scared," he whispers. "All the time. What if I tell them the truth, and they leave? The truth is dangerous. The truth..." If he keeps shaking, he's going to fall over. "The truth got me beaten. The truth could get me killed. Who would love... w-would want... someone like /me/?"

Marc Spector has posed:
    The goddess Ma'at approaches Jon and kneels down beside him. "Do you know why we measure against lies?" she asks softly, her words for him alone. "We do so because they weigh heaviest on the heart." She regareds him in silence for amoment. "Those without the weight are true to themselves as well as those around them. You know how those you surround yourself will react with regard to your actions and yet..." she sighs, "and yet you continue to lie, despite that knowledge."

    She reaches down and tips his face to look into her own. "Your fear is natural, but letting it control you? When there is so much more you can do without it... is not worthy of you." At this proximity Jon can see just how heavy the being's feathers truly are. The gravity they exert is immense and yet she carries them on her arms in waves, and on her head as an adornment. "You have done much to earn hesitation, but I do not think that those you surround yourself with think themselves any better. The Fist of Khonshu carries much on his chest. Your husband is still finding his own identity in the mists. The vampire scribe she too carries doubt and uncertainty. None of them will leave you, and if they do... then they were not worthy of you."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon swallows, eyes wide as he stares at the goddess. "I don't remember a time I wasn't afraid," he says softly. "Everything before the... the giant spider took Gran's handyman is... fuzzy. Everything since is just... fear. And... and loneliness. I just..." He looks down and away, ashamed. "I don't want to be alone."

    He pulls in on himself, away from the goddess. "I /don't/ know how they'll react! Martin was so certain I couldn't handle myself that he let me think he was /dead/. And everyone else..." He folds over, head on his knees, arms over his head. Like a child, trying to hide. "I have to be strong, or they'll fall apart," he whispers. "If I tell them what's coming... that I'm supposed to die..." He shudders, sobs. "Cael... Cael couldn't handle knowing Michael's going to take me. How will /any/ of them handle knowing I'm going to /die/?"

Marc Spector has posed:
    Ma'at takes a breath and wraps her heavy wings around him in what may be a hug or may be a motherly figure protecting a child. "It is natural to be afraid sometimes, Archivist. But you must never let it dictate what you do in life." She nods. "You will not die here. This is not the place where your journey ends."

    She shakes he head and speaks again to him alone. "Everyone dies in time, Archivist. Even us, the gods of the Nile will eventually pass into oblivion." There is no trace of remorse or fear in her voice as she speaks of her own demise.

    "Wouldn't it be better for you to walk the journey to that point honest with yourself and with those who look to you? Presenting them with a false image: one without fear, without pain, is simply setting them up for disappointment when you ultimately fall. If you show them that you are just as mortal as they, them they can rally *with* you and perhaps you prolong your journey together for a time."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon just... cries for a while. He hasn't cried, properly, for as long as he's needed to, for... a long time. There's always been someone there, some reason to pull himself together, to pretend he's more okay than he is. It starts quiet, the way he normally cries, but becomes louder, until it's full-throated sobs.

    And then it gets quieter, and quieter, until there's nothing left.

    With the tears all gone he shudders and just crouches there for a little while. Then he sniffles and sits up. "Is it really that simple?" he asks, voice raw. "Tell the truth, be myself, and... what, when I come back I'll be /just/ fine? Light enough to pass through the gates?" He looks to Anubis, briefly, then back to Ma'at.

    "I'm sorry I haven't been worthy of you," he whispers. "I really... I really /do/ want to be."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Ma'at regards Anubis in silence for a moment. "Perhaps so..." she says. She reaches up and wipes away one of the tear streaks on Jon's face. "I know you do. And that is part of why we have given you this vision. Becuase you should not die here, but you need to realize that *intent* is important. Your desire to be worthy is enough to open your heart to me."

    She rises and helps him to rise with her. "And that intent is enough for me to tell you what you need to change that," she gestures to the scales and Jon's heart outweighing her feather. She waves a hand and both feather and heart disappear.

    The heart appears in her hand and she offers it to Jon. "And here is where you make one of those choices. We could proceed with this ordeal: weigh you, find you lacking, and cast you to Ammit. Or I can put this back in your chest and send you back to find that your friends are there, fighting for you, hoping to preserve you." Her expression gives nothing as to what avenue she would prefer he take, she's proven that enough with her words.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sniffles again and stands, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. "Tell the truth." He laughs. "Such a damn simple-sounding thing." He smirks at her. "But... come on, you think I'm /really/ going to choose to let you cast me to Ammit?"

    He shakes his head, and reaches out to grasp the heart. "I can't die yet," he says. "I /can't/. Agnes cannot become the Archivist. And I promised Cael I'd come back." He swallows. "And where would Martin be, without me?"

    Then, quite deliberately, he shoves his heart back into his own chest. Which... /hurts/ like hell. He screams in pain...

    And the scream becomes a gasp as his eyes open and he sees his friends in the arena, fighting to save him.