Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Summer Soiree: Vampire Party [closed]]

The fire didn’t go out, but it dimmed, just a little. Like it realized it had competition. The kind that didn’t arrive with fanfare or heralds, but with the quiet pressure of something ancient stepping into a room built by children. The air changed. Not colder, not louder. Just… heavier. And then Gypsy Winters stepped onto the sand, boots first, the heels sharp and high, laced up her thighs like a predator dressing for the hunt. The skirt was short, too short for someone who ruled anything but a strip club, and the cropped sweater clung to her shoulders in soft, heathered gray, like some sweet, harmless afterthought. Fishnet sleeves kissed her arms, and her long hair, platinum with hints of colour hung loose, and moved like silk in the breeze. Blood trailed down her right hand in lazy lines, still wet, still warm, still bleeding out from the person standing guard as she arrived in this place. She hadn’t bothered to clean it. She never did.

She didn’t hurry. She didn’t strut. She moved. Like gravity had shifted around her, and the sand simply adjusted to accommodate her weight. Vampires cleared out of her path like they didn’t want to be caught breathing her air. The newer ones didn’t recognize her face, not at first. But they recognized the feeling. That cold-sweat instinct that whispered, You’re not the most dangerous thing here anymore.

Her gaze swept the crowd once, uninterested, until it landed on a black-haired girl standing just a little too close to Julien. Gypsy paused. Tilted her head. Took in the scent of old ego, healing flesh, and false importance. First she was curious what in the world Julien was doing here. Then her eyes slid over to his bride, about to command both of them. But then she heard Lydia’s comment. The girl, Jade, was turned away from him as if it was a dare. Like she thought her voice meant something in the presence of the Queen’s personal blade.

Gypsy smiled. Not sweet. Not cruel. Just tired of being unimpressed. And the air shifted as Gypsy stepped directly infront of Jade, massive power flowing deadly through a frame nobody believed was literal pure evil. “I don’t know you,” She said softly, almost innocently, stepping forward, each word measured like piano keys under her heel. “That’s already a problem.”

She let her eyes drag slowly down Jade’s throat, hunger in her eyes, up to the sigil behind her ear. Clan-branded. Laughable. Gypsy rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “You tried to flex on him,” She said, chin tilting toward Julien. “And now you’re standing there like you’re owed something. Bold.”

She stepped closer, just once. Close enough that the blood on her hands could’ve touched the girl’s dress. Close enough that the ice from Gypsy’s body felt like the kind that burns. Her hand lifted, graceful, deliberate, and she pushed her hair back behind one ear, leaving a smear of red across her cheekbone like a crown worn sideways. “Let me make something clear, sweetheart,” She said, voice velvet-wrapped and sharp enough to carve bone. “I don’t give a damn who you belong to. That tattoo? That little family crest? That laughable excuse for loyalty? I’ve eaten older things for breakfast.” Her smile deepened, slow and unblinking. “And if you ever speak like that again to what’s mine…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.
Her silence said more than any threat could. It coiled in the space between them, daring the air to breathe wrong. And then, Gypsy stepped past her. Just like that. Dismissed her with her back. She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t care if one came. Her attention was already drifting elsewhere, like the girl had never been worth it in the first place, and as casually as if she were in her castle, “Julien, find me a drink before I decide which one to start with. And someone tell me why I’ve left the Angel in my bed for this?”

OOC: Jade doesn't have a clan tattoo, also known as a "cattle brand" because Jade is not cattle.

Additionally, the chair, the canopy and firepit are Jade's. She's not walking into anyone's space.

Just some small clarification.

OOC: It seems a nerve was struck so allow me -

1. No one called Jade's sigil a "cattle brand" nor did they call her cattle. Jade introduced the fact that she had a mark and was "clan property". The "tattoo" comment was an assumption based off of only visual knowledge. Gypsie did call it a "clan brand" which does not necessarily mean a burn, only that they are marked.

2. Nowhere in any post referring to the chair, fire pit, or ice chest was it acknowledged to be or claimed by Jade. However, Lydia and Gypsie were not referring to Jade approaching a specific location - they were referring to Jade's proximity to Julien's personal space. He just happened to be checking on the... (is she dead? This isn't clear either) girl.

This is supposed to be a fun event. Vampires are catty and snarky but please know that all posts are meant to entertain and challenge our writing. They are not meant as personal attacks on anyone.

No nerve struck really.
My fault here I'm afraid. I missed Jade adding in the mark to her description. When we discussed the mark in private messaging I said that it was a mark used for identifying property and slaves. Jade added it on the fly, adapting the concept, and I missed it. My apologies.

This is the quotation where all the props were introduced as belonging to Jade.

"One of the Black Clan's herd of mortal hopefuls, Tryst had laboured hard in order to drag everything from the black SUV across the sands to the place that Jade had chosen for herself and assembled the canopy and sling chair and the fire pit.
"Tryst was clearly dead, two glistening red holes proudly and prominently displayed upon her neck were an obvious indication as to her demise."

Said twice in one sentence, in addition to a prior reference to staring off blankly at nothing. Demise, in particular, is a stronger, more emphatic synonym denoting significant finality.




Generally, in human terms, this is basically, this is the equivalent of going to the beach, laying out your stuff and returning from the vendor stand to find an attractive looking man(*?) going through your garbage because Tryst is, effectively, garbage.


*Forgive me if I missed it but I don't see Julien's beach attire described so I'm making a simple assumption that he looks generally "good" based off his profile page.

Jade fell silent.

She heard every word. The insult, the dismissal, the threat cloaked in cultured syllables. Felt the shift in the atmosphere as Lydia's voice joined the storm. But it was not fear that stilled her—it was perspective. A beat too slow, maybe. But not too slow to reclaim pride.

Her jaw clenched once. And then she exhaled, gentle and measured.

She turned around—not to confront, not to escalate—but to look. First at the girl on the sand, then at Julien, then at Lydia. Her eyes lingered just long enough to take in the room she was in now. The weight of names. The shape of reputation.

And then he appeared.

The Red Host did not need to shout. Being there was sufficient to stitch the scene back together with invisible thread. That voice—velvet, authoritative—put an end to the matter before it could ignite again.

"Enough."

She bowed her head slightly—not a bow, not obeisance, but respect. Enough to show she had heard.

Enough to show she cared.

“I brought her to celebrate,” Jade said, her voice quieter now, smoothed by intention, not defeat. “Not to stir dust or drama.”

Her eyes met the Host’s, just briefly. “This is your night. I’d rather it stay that way.”

Then she turned to Gypsy, her voice altering—respectful and contained. "Your words were heard, Host. I don't attempt to insult you or your land. Clan Black bears respect for your name."

She reached behind her ear to touch the sigil—not in challenge this time, but as a silent reminder of where she was and who she represented. "The mistake was mine. But it won't be repeated."

And that was all.

No apology. No pride-wound denial. Just a simple step back and a dismissive flick of her gaze into the fire, letting the moment dissipate like blood in seawater.

She didn't look at Julien again. Didn't give Lydia the satisfaction of a response.

She knelt instead beside the girl—taking her pulse with steady hands, gathering her things, and summoning one of her own to help. Unobtrusive competence. As if to remind any witness: she did know how to care for what was hers. She just didn't do it for applause.

Let them gossip if they would. Let the rest of the night continue.

Jade had already turned away. And when she was done, she headed for the to get a little drunk, so she could forget this. She knew she wild be punished later.

Mitch gave a dry, brief laugh.

Not loud. Just enough to fog the rim of his glass.

"Damn, Jade," he growled resentfully, half sneer, half agony. "You sure as heck do have a knack for picking the right time."

He watched Gypsy's outline dissolve into the throng like smoke blowing off a knife edge. That was power. The kind you didn't take on unless you wanted to recall what it felt like to bleed from within.

He stirred his drink once, gaze tracking the now-silent stretch of sand. The girl had vanished. The blood was still wet. The moment sealed.

Shame. He liked that human. Sweet thing. Stubborn. Could’ve made it, if given the chance.

But that was the price of pride. Of trying too hard to be something in rooms designed to make you feel like you weren't.

He glanced across the firelight at Jade—now on her knees, quiet, rebuilding herself one slow, careful motion at a time. People would talk. They always did. And she wasn't built for court politics or subtlety. She was all teeth and raw nerve in a world that respected neither.

He'd visit her later. Tell her something idiotic to get her to smile. Inform her that she still had some people who cared about her, even if they weren't always the greatest ones.

For the time being, he raised his glass to the fire, the edge of a smile curling at his lips.

To bad timing," he muttered, largely to himself. "And better substitutes.". He drank slowly, letting the burn eclipse the dull ache of loss at the back of his throat. And then, with a nurse's eye and a predator's quiet, Mitch tuned back in to the room—every movement logged, every face committed to memory. No judgment. Just observation. And the understanding that, one way or another, the night was far from finished.

Julien’s attention was no longer on the dead girl – he was not a fixer for the vampire community as a whole, so it wasn’t his problem. He had also completely dismissed the accusatory female who had the nerve to approach him the way she did. The Red host didn’t even cause Julien to turn his hearing in his direction as he tried to insert his false control of the situation. The host might control his minions, but his words were too weak to have any effect on Julien. Whatever ’authority’ some may have perceived in his voice, Julien heard only the whimpering of someone who had lost control and didn’t want to acknowledge it.

From the moment the heaviness of her presence stepped onto the beach Julien’s attention was lazar focused on her movements. Whatever mess his Queen made, he would be responsible for cleaning up and making it disappear – if it that was the annihilation of an entire coven. He had done worse for her over the centuries, he would do it again. He merely waited for his Queen’s command.

When no apology came from the accusatory woman Julien was relieved. He hated having to fake gratitude from someone he could gut and dismember before she would finish a full intake of breath. He also knew that any apology coming from someone who behaved so arrogantly would have been hollow and self-serving rather than sincere. He had no interest in insincerities.

To keep his Queen contented, he offered her a bottle of the purest blood he carried with him. The brand was legendary in the supernatural community, and he hoped it would please Gypsy. He removed the seal from the bottle and offered it to his Queen as he tried his best to answer her question. “My Queen, it seems someone was tormenting vampires in the vicinity by sending their sigil into their dreams and scrawling messages on mirrors. For whatever reason, Lydia was targeted.” He knew this small bit of information would be enough to cause Gypsy’s crawls to become thirsty for blood. He weighed his words carefully, knowing that if Gypsy started butchering the vampires here it would set off a chain reaction of deaths that he would have to carry out.

Julien loved killing. He was a serial killer turned vampire after all. But he liked to choose his own victims. He thrived on the ritual of the hunt, the stalk, and then the slow, harrowing death he instilled as he kept them barely alive with his blood as he dissected them while they were still awake enough to feel it. But when was ordered to kill and they weren’t his victim type, it was boring work.

“You should not have left Deacon. I’m sure your angel would serve much more entertainment for you then whatever these,” he waved a dismissive hand at the group of vampires, “…things.” He stood confidently before her as he gave her the look that told her he had the situation under control when it came to himself and Lydia. “They can’t hurt us with anything more than agitated words and hollow authority that falls short of control. You shouldn’t worry yourself with their nonsense.”

Even though Julien’s attention was on Gypsy, he was giving silent cues to Lydia the entire time. Julien and Lydia had a connection that transcended mere love, loyalty, and obsession; they truly shared a soul. He knew she would understand the role he needed her to play – either to ignite the Queen’s wrath or to quell her and help him give her enough assurance for her to return to her angelic lover.

Lydia stood still in the hush that fell like fog across the beach, her arms loosely crossed, her body deceptively relaxed despite the thunderstorm of tension tightening every supernatural throat around her. The moment Gypsy appeared, the air bent around her. Not with sound, but weight. Lydia had felt it before. The hum of a thousand silenced screams. The elegance of a predator so old and so honed that blood itself seemed to still in reverence when she passed. It was not fear Lydia felt, but awe sharpened by survival instinct. And something else: the desire to protect Julien from the storm he had just beckoned closer with every word. He was saying all the right things. Of course he was. He always did. But even his perfection held the threat of tipping into brutality if Gypsy demanded it. And she might yet.

So Lydia shifted, just slightly. A measured breath. The faintest tilt of her chin as her gaze lifted toward the Queen. She knew to never challenging, but she was not entirely submissive either. It was the game they played, but It was also a gesture crafted for ancient eyes. A slow, careful offering of poise. “Your Majesty,” She began, her voice low but smooth, like velvet pulled tight over a blade, “I believe the intent was to provoke a response, to disrupt, to sow suspicion among us. And it nearly worked.”

She stepped forward once. Just one step, enough to align herself beside Julien’s silhouette without overstepping it. A united front. “But I see it clearer now. The sigils, the messages, they were never about us. I believe they were about getting to someone who isn’t here tonight. Someone who might run if they believed your wrath had already found them.” She bowed her head slightly, fingers clasped loosely in front of her. “You’re too clever to be baited by misdirection, my Queen.”

The words were soft, deferent, but her tone was deliberate. She wasn’t soothing Gypsy out of fear,…exactly. Lydia was offering her a higher path, a throne unmoved by the scrambling of lesser immortals. Julien would recognize the tactic. Gypsy might see through it, but that was fine. Lydia wasn’t lying, not exactly. But she was steering. And if she could buy even a few moments of stillness, then Julien could handle the rest. And maybe…just maybe, the beach would remain bloodless.

The beach went quiet in her presence, the unnatural hush of predators who’d suddenly remembered they weren’t top of the food chain. And yet, Gypsy didn’t move with aggression. She didn’t need to. Her violence was something slow and ancient. Something earned.

She stood in the soft moonlight like a painting half-finished, a silhouette of darkness crowned in stars. Her skirt moved like smoke, black and liquid, clinging to her curves with possessive grace. Her lips were stained red, but not from lipstick. Her eyes, twin voids rimmed in frost, fixed first on the corpse, then on the vampires whose cowardice scented the air like copper.

Julien spoke then and she listened. Not because she needed answers, Gypsy didn’t need anything, a reason included, but because she had always liked the sound of his voice when he was trying not to anger her. That cold reverence, threaded with the thrum of shared history and violence. His offering was exquisite, the blood he brought her legendary, but Gypsy accepted it only because it amused her to do so. She didn’t drink yet. Instead, she tilted the bottle gently between her fingers, like a woman considering whether to toast or to shatter it on someone’s skull.

“You say ‘someone,’” She echoed finally, low and rich as aged wine. “Yet no one bleeds.” Her gaze shifted then, dragging across the gathering like the swing of a blade until it landed on Lydia. For a moment, she said nothing. Just watched. Observed. Felt. And what she felt in the girl was… curious. No trembling. No simpering. A soul still sharp-edged despite the centuries breathing down its neck.

And then Lydia spoke. Clever girl. Gypsy’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air did. Just a shift in the current, as if the tide of her fury paused to listen. The girl was playing a dangerous game, but she was playing it well. Julien was incredibly protective of her, and it amused Gypsy to no end, but at the same time, Gypsy recognized a power in Lydia not yet fully formed. Not enough to challenge her, not yet. But perhaps enough to please her.

“Bold,” She said finally, with the faintest curl of a smile. “I like you better when you’re not whining.” She moved then, one step, maybe two, her presence enough to make the most arrogant of the beach-dwellers flinch backward. But her eyes never left Lydia.

“If this was bait,” Gypsy said, “Then what are you? The hook?” Her voice softened, almost playful. “Or the worm?” She reached out and let her fingers brush Lydia’s sleeve. The touch was light, but enough to make the girl’s skin crawl with the knowledge that this creature could break her mind open like a rotted peach. The smile that followed wasn’t cruel. It was worse. She was entertained

She turned her gaze back to Julien then, finally acknowledging the words he’d offered about her angelic lover. Her smirk deepened, slow and molten, and something older stirred in the pits of her blackened heart. “My angel,” She said in a tone that was both poison and velvet-laced, “Serves me in ways no one else could survive.”
Her head tilted, considering him.
“You know that better than most.”

There was no warmth in it. No softness. But there was truth. It resembled the way someone tells the moon it’s beautiful before dragging it down into the sea. Gypsy loved Deacon in a way only she could: possessively, destructively, obsessively. She let the silence sit there between them like a fresh body. Her gaze moved once more across the beach, uninterested in the cowards staring at their feet, more curious about the way Lydia held her ground like a girl trying not to drown in a riptide.

Then, finally, she lifted the bottle of legendary blood to her lips. Just a few swallows of the exquisite bottle before she handed it back to him. “Julien, if you do find the little rat who sent those messages…” She ran a nail across her neck, lazily. “Don’t kill them too quickly. I want to hear what they sound like when the screaming starts.”

And then she turned her back on the crowd, unbothered and untouchable, her boots making the trial, carrying her tiny body away. No true command to follow, as she had said the word ‘if’. There was no mercy given. Just Gypsy moving back into the dark, leaving behind the suffocating echo of her presence and the knowledge that none of them, not even her right hand, were ever truly safe. Not from her. And especially not from the things she loved.