Red City (Open to Dragons)

The cell in the basement of the Ordo Dracul chapter house sits open. Faint lights flicker as shadows dance and sway across the cinder block walls. These walls have multiple designs and words strewn across them, all in red. Atticus James sits on the floor, legs crossed in a lotus position. When he was a kid, he called it criss-cross apple sauce. He is shirtless, wearing only compression shorts. His head and face have been shaved leaving only a stubble, his skin is covered in white, ash or paint maybe, with red blood splattered about him. He prepares.

Candles around James dance with light as he meditates, focusing on within himself. Focusing on that dark living part of himself. They call it a beast, a creature, a parasite. None of that is true. It's him. It is the Gangrel, the man, the whatever he is. Batman and Bruce Wayne, The Punisher and Frank Castle, Aragorn and Strider. Two sides, same coin.

In front of Atticus sits a knife. It's nothing special. Not any kind of ceremonial blade or any such nonsense. Just a hunting knife that flashes red from the candle light and blood.

Red City

Dragons, please be aware, this is going to be a long thread for Ya Boy. So feel free to have your characters just stop in and check on him, or talk with him for a bit and bounce. I am in no hurry with this one at all. If you don't want to come in at all, that's fine too, can't promise this one is going to be super interactive from Atticus. Think of this one as a mix of a shared social and a shared glimpse.

Atticus James, The Supplicant of Terror, the bastard son, sits calmly. His meditation continues as he remembers fire. He remembers sunlight. He remembers all the things that he cannot feel anymore. His body is cold, the ashen substance on his flesh providing him no warmth or security. He remembers her laughter, as he drank her. He remembers his screams, as he beat him. Flashes upon flashes of memory, of darkness and light. Whistling is coming from the walls, coming from the ceiling, coming from the candles. Coming from his lips. Atticus, without opening his eyes, reaches down, picks up the knife and drags the blade's edge down his chest. No blood pours out, just coagulated ichor of a dead man is revealed. The knife is set back down in front of him.

​He's beginning to loose himself in the candle flame in front of him. The burning wick slowly dancing, a siren's song calling for his hand to dance through the blade of the burn. Atticus refrains from such an action. Allowing instead for his mind to dance away, until he refocuses on his unnecessary breathing. His body was stiff from sitting for so long. His skin was cold, any adjustment felt as if a layer of frost was cracking. Reaching forth, he takes the knife, now blood covered, Atticus slowly inserts it into his thigh at what feels like a millimeter at a time. The salt water of the Kotzebue sound could be tasted again. His limbs were frozen pins and needles as he tried to find air. He swam and swam, not watching the burning behind him. And then... light.

And the light fades. It was there. He felt it. It was so close. Atticus could have reached out and touched it. I have not gone far enough. Atticus thought. The wounds he was suffering, they were superficial at best. He was not truly testing himself. Removing the knife from his thigh the Gangrel flips the blade so the point is up. Without hesitation or fear he calls upon his inner strength to drive the blade into his left eye. The ichor immediately begins to slurp out of and down his cheek as he grunts through the intense pain. Is that the tip of the blade on the bone behind my eye? He couldn't imagine how painful this would be if his pain sensors were functioning at their full strength. Maybe...