[The source of a vampire's power is many things, as varied as each undead possessed by their cursed blood. Uncharitable interpretations call their flesh a simple husk, worn by a parasitic monster burrowed into its veins. Free will is a tool for this creature's survival, revoked at will. Arrogant kindred portray themselves as the nearest thing to God, creation and damnation all subject to their whim. Charlie takes the standardized approach - a magnanimous one, he thinks.
A vampire is only as powerful as the secrets he keeps.
Influence, but do not reveal what you are. A brutally enforced rule back home, and not one Charlie has ever been tempted to break. He doesn't need to see a wild kindred be torn to pulp to keep his cards close to his chest, but he's been witness to the display nonetheless.
There are other inhuman haunts in Chicago, but he's encountered an astounding volume of them in this place. A demi-plane, he's heard it called, and he's inclined to agree.
Makoto is obviously among them; his eyes make Charlie's look fucking normal. The boy's distinctive quality is why Charlie had offered his ability to weather more abuse than a human's so forwardly. An unspoken connection. Neither of us mortal.
But the rule hasn't changed. Strength comes from being on the knowing end of information. Makoto is right to feel impressed upon, even if the source of the feeling is nebulous. Nearly every interaction of Charlie's is a power struggle.
He leans forward in his seat, watching silently as he lets the moment of obvious discomfort soak into the boy's blood. A pinprick of metal elicits a tinge of iron, the scent threatens to shock his features alight. With a sigh, Charlie shakes his head and shifts back in his chair.]
Eh, let's not sit in silence - let's talk. You're curious, understandably. I am too. We can make this easy- [A framework of reciprocity, instead of transaction.]
Your eyes got a look to 'em. Mine- [He points to the sunken dark landscape.] -they uh, always looked like this. I was a terrible ugly little kid. [Delivered with good humor, almost as if he's proud of the fact. Charlie chats as if there's never been any unease between them.]
no subject
A vampire is only as powerful as the secrets he keeps.
Influence, but do not reveal what you are. A brutally enforced rule back home, and not one Charlie has ever been tempted to break. He doesn't need to see a wild kindred be torn to pulp to keep his cards close to his chest, but he's been witness to the display nonetheless.
There are other inhuman haunts in Chicago, but he's encountered an astounding volume of them in this place. A demi-plane, he's heard it called, and he's inclined to agree.
Makoto is obviously among them; his eyes make Charlie's look fucking normal. The boy's distinctive quality is why Charlie had offered his ability to weather more abuse than a human's so forwardly. An unspoken connection. Neither of us mortal.
But the rule hasn't changed. Strength comes from being on the knowing end of information. Makoto is right to feel impressed upon, even if the source of the feeling is nebulous. Nearly every interaction of Charlie's is a power struggle.
He leans forward in his seat, watching silently as he lets the moment of obvious discomfort soak into the boy's blood. A pinprick of metal elicits a tinge of iron, the scent threatens to shock his features alight. With a sigh, Charlie shakes his head and shifts back in his chair.]
Eh, let's not sit in silence - let's talk. You're curious, understandably. I am too. We can make this easy- [A framework of reciprocity, instead of transaction.]
Your eyes got a look to 'em. Mine- [He points to the sunken dark landscape.] -they uh, always looked like this. I was a terrible ugly little kid. [Delivered with good humor, almost as if he's proud of the fact. Charlie chats as if there's never been any unease between them.]
Yours always been that way?