Nazareth


Dillon Connery stood in front of the shabby dressing mirror, looking into fiery hazel eyes that he literally willed into focus, along with the rest of his reflection. He is clad in only a silver crucifix around his neck. Beyond his reflection, flushed with freshly stolen blood, lay the hooker on the bed. She had already been drugged out of her mind, and the Gangrel is feeling it painfully. A frantic delirium ached at the back of his skull, causing an errant spasm here and there. He couldn't help but think that if he were alive, he would be trembling.

But the working girl behind him was a pro. Even under the influence of cocaine and blood loss, she lay perfectly still. Glazed, dreamy, but wide-eyed. She was still fairly attractive herself, 'better' than your typical street trash, but the way she had treated the Vampire suggested that she rarely got such a treat. A handsome man, and a handsome sum.

Dillon inspected his youthful form in the mirror. The girl inspected it from the bed. He is clean, healthy with the Blush, and pleasant enough in his own tough and stocky way. He had little excess body fat, and his eternally youthful and supple skin is unmarked.

That is about to change.

For there is a well-worn scourge hanging from one of the Gangrel's hands. The Beast stirs when his gaze locks onto the bundle of leather whips in the mirror's reflection. He could feel the growls in the back of his mind... one voice behind each ear, one in the center. It knew what was coming. It would share Dillon's pain. And it does not like it.

“Remember this, when you choose to disobey me again.” If the human in the room thinks Dillon is talking to her, she gives no mention. Instead, she stares, transfixed, at his nude form, and the lashing she must know by now that is coming.

First, Dillon needs the thing to be present. With him, truly. So he urges it on. Every frustration he'd suffered recently, whether founded or not, swims around in his mind, enticing the creature to the forefront of his consciousness. He doesn't quite Surrender, but it is close. The anger eggs it on. Rage quickens it. And slowly, Dillon's expressive face contorts with the madness of it.

His brow draws down, and vertical ripples form along the tensed muscles of his jaw, spiking up the sides of his brow and into his hairline. Lips curl back in a feral snarl as he begins to breathe. It is a display of ferocity more than necessity, so that a deep growl can be heard under the heaves.

When the eyes in his reflection practically glow with a golden gleam, and a red mist begins to creep around his peripheral vision, Dillon knows that it is time. His fangs are even bared, and the woman on the bed looks positively thunderstruck. She's apparently either too weak, or terrified, to move.

The lash wraps around Dillon's shoulder with sudden speed, striking his back in a sickening slap. The pain is exquisite, but the only reaction the Gangrel shows is a sharp accent to his continuous growl. The woman jumps, however, as though she was the one receiving the punishment. Dillon continues to flail at himself before her, simply aiming for anywhere on his torso, back, and choulders that doesn't hurt. He forces blood to trickle from the deepest wounds, soon turning his masculine visage into a monstrous, crimson mess. He doesn't allow the wounds to heal themselves, yet.

This is the blood of a Prostitute, thinks Dillon. The thoughts are directed to the Beast he can almost plainly see in the mirror. Which you desired so greatly that you refused to heel your master. Remember this. If you don't, the next time; I will brand our flesh in flame.

The Beast snarls its hateful response to Dillon's declaration, but is forced back down to the depths. The Gangrel Priscus would accept no argument on the matter, least of all from himself. In seconds, the devil dog is back behind the fence, and Dillon turns away from the vision of his bloody, striped flesh, and the weak spattering across his face, which had returned to normal.

He looked to the hooker, who is obviously faint, and not all there at the moment, but has enough presence of mind to shrink away when Dillon points at her with the bloody scourge.

“These stripes, you deserve as well, for your harlotry. For your willful defiling of your body, that is God's Temple. But know that one was already striped for your sins, so that you may have salvation.” Dillon punctuated the announcement by retrieving the Bible from the Hotel nightstand and casting it to the bed before her. “Go forth, and sin no more.”

With perfect timing, the girl finally passed out. What she would make of this experience when it was attributed to her drug stupor, Dillon would never know. He only prayed that she took the lesson to heart.