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Calliope Leonatus

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The familiar caress of leather met the soft expanse of her cheek, filtering out all other distractions. The garbled cluster of noise within her mind blinking out of existence as her fuzzy vision honed in on the man before her. Behind him, the light cast a halo around the pale blonde of Samael’s hair, leaving his face in shadow. Devastatingly close to her creator, it was almost as stimulating as the sparks of magic that still snapped through the air around them like bolts of energy.

More of her teeth were revealed within her depraved, lazy smile, marred with diluted blood smeared across the white enamel. Points of her fangs exposed to the world as Calliope’s face melted into an expression somewhere between bliss and agony. Eyelids fighting to remain focused, the tiny muscles twitching with effort. Eyebrows tilting up towards her hairline as she listened ever so obediently to her companion. His presence was enough to bring her damned soul back to the earth, back to the present moment.

The adjustment of his grip caused a slither of fire to blast back through the new mark, like the hot flash of a branding iron against her muscles. It was delectable, but only because it came from him. Only pain inflicted by his hand was acceptable, anyone else that dared would have received the stab of her fangs into their flesh.

Calliope’s gaze did not falter upon his authoritative hold on her, despite the ache within her bones that made her nerves scream in protest, she remained in her place. She felt all consuming privilege to have elicited the soft glint of sweat across his temple, that she had brought about such a reaction from him, that she had pleased him. It was obvious he was content with her, in the way he had crouched down for her, deigning to offer his hand in aid for her to stand.

Slipping her hand into his, residual trembling still evident, Calliope lifted herself from the floor. The action took more concentration than she would ever admit, having to tense her limbs to force herself back upright. Samael was right, she did not have time to dwell on the pain that ran through her body. After all, she would not die from this pain, so there was little sense in lingering on it.

Gradually, her bones regained the ability to articulate herself. Drawing her spine back into the perfect posture, eyes betraying Samael as he gave the silent order for her things to be collected. Following the figure as they vanished out into the world, she did not care to watch them return for her world was standing before her.

A spark of satisfaction washed over Calliope as he explained where to find her quarters. He had been kind enough to ensure she remained close to him even when apart, she could hear him, be prepared for his arrival or departure. Most essentially, if anyone dared to crawl their sinful self into his room, Calliope would be there to rip their jugular out with her bare teeth.

“Of course, Samael.” Her voice still carried the strain of damaged vocal cords, the rasp clear in her words but the calm, refined cadence had made its return. Ever the devoted follower, Calliope dipped her head in acknowledgement of his suggestion. “Again, thank you for bestowing this gift upon me.” Her head lifted to peer back up at him, the blood that had discoloured her teeth seeping into the subtle creases of her lips, only to be collected by her tongue once she realised the fluid was escaping.

At the suggestion of a meal, her eyes darted to the servant Samael had gestured towards. The sudden gaze jarring the man, his shoulders hunching up to his ears, eyes blown wide in fear as the predatory woman stared at him. Just as quickly as she had turned her eyes to him, Calliope dragged her attention back to Samael. Entertaining breakfast would be most enjoyable. Not only for herself, of course, Samael needed the finest blood from the most beautiful of necks. Now, that was something she could procure.

“I will find you blood that tastes as though it has been drained from the gods themselves.” Calliope offered with a feline smile, casting her eyes towards the man who was carrying her bag into the halls of their new home.

Little time had been wasted in her departure, sacrificing mere minutes to allow herself the comfort of more acceptable attire, Calliope had ventured out into the muck encrusted streets of Kreah. Her dress had become damp from sweat produced during her encounter with Samael, trading it out for one of the only other dresses she had brought with her.

Black, as ever, a boned corset with cascading fabric that led down to the cobblestones. Arguably, the most lavish piece she currently owned. The layers of silken fabric like a waterfall that bloomed at her hips and fell neatly down to her toes. Hidden beneath the skirts, a pair of modestly heeled shoes.

The most treasured piece of her outfit, now exposed to the world thanks to the sleeveless nature of her dress, the serpentine mark that twirled its way around her body. She didn’t dare sully this mark with the adornment of additional jewelry as she would usually, letting it be a vision to every creature she passed on the street. Let them wonder whose she was, what that mark meant and who had delivered it to her once pristine skin. The thought made her skin tingle with excitement, that she was the first to be under his new command. That tonight, Anjou would be forced to bear witness to the elegant power of his younger brother, forced to acknowledge the founding of his new lineage.

Oh what she wouldn’t sacrifice to be privy to his thoughts the moment Anjou realised his downfall had already begun. The mark seemed to be in agreement, a steady humming of pain lingered on the mark itself. It had yet to leave her, perhaps it never would. Perhaps Samael's power was too much for her body to handle, producing a constant reminder of his superiority to her.

Calliope never did like paying a visit to her underling. He never listened to her obediently, talked back, and tried to charm his way into her bed at night. Irritating little sod. However, there was one thing he was particularly incredible at – finding the most enticing meal.

The door to The Soothing Dose was open, the windows emitting a delicate glow from the light within. Inka was home and more importantly, awake. That meant that Niemir was also hiding within the scrappy little shop.

The muffled voices from within did not deter Calliope as she flung open the heavy wooden door and strode into the shop. Eyes glancing over the heads of the people gathered within with complete and utter disinterest until the familiar ash brown hair of her underling muddied her vision.

“There you are.” Her voice was sharp, almost a sneer in the way she spat it out towards the younger vampire. Calliope stood strong at the side of the table, arms bent to allow the palms of her hands to rest upon her cinched waist at the point they widened out to her hips.

“I require two of your finest, and I needed them half an hour ago.” At her words, Niemir only winced. “Well? Why are you still sitting there looking at me like a wounded rabbit? Go on, shoo!” Calliope lifted her hand to waft towards Niemir, bidding him to scurry back out onto the streets to find her breakfast.

There was a beat of silence, Niemir remained seated, staring up at her with his doe eyes glittering in the soft light. Then he rose to his feet and made his way towards the front door, leaving Calliope in slight surprise that he had listened to her instructions so willingly. It was a very rare occasion to not receive a sarcastic comment or complaint. Yet, Niemir’s presence left with the soft jingle of the bell above the door as it closed.

She remained in place, only lookind down at the other two people once she sensed the uncanny stare of Inka. Calliope looked down at her, one perfect eyebrow raising in question.

"Inka, I have need of your urchin."

Inka merely blinked up at her before casting her strange gaze back across the table towards a man. Calliope followed suit, taking a mere second before she recognised the beast before her.

"Now, this," Her hand left her hip to flick towards him. "Is a fine creature. I recognise you, you've been haunting these streets for a long time. Cynric's little beastie, if I am not mistaken." Calliope's words were not soft, nor kind, analytical.

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Loic Bataille

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Inka’s implication of his hand being ‘massive’ compelled the angel to crease his brows to a degree just noticeable as he took a thoughtful glance at his own hand. Massive, he pondered, mechanically taking a comparative look at Inka’s own hands, dragging down her face. Against hers, then yes, he supposed his were much larger. Loic laid his coat down with more consideration than necessary when prompted by the apothecary, a mumbled apology about his blood trickling onto the floor following the action.

From the vials Inka tinkered with to the first failed attempt of mending his mutilated flesh, Loic watched in relatively frozen silence, the only real movement he made being the occasional blink, swivel of his gaze, or breath. Despite the circumstances that so often brought him to this shop and its shopkeeper, he did find some reprieve within a quiet existence as he was tended to. He didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to talk unless he truly desired to. Perhaps a correlation between pain and peace was unhealthy by most definitions, but to Loic, it was a welcome fragment of heaven on the land he was bound to walk.

The contact between them, as Inka carefully applied her newly made paste to his injuries, allowed him another momentary peek into her emotional state that usually came with any kind of direct contact with living beings. He did not mind feeling her emotions. She was not a fanatic of any kind, or at least not that he had ever felt; she was focused. She might have pitied him, but it was not without a sense of compassion that he understood to be uniquely Inka’s. While he was typically averse to touch due to his acute dislike of feeling the chaotic inner workings of the beings around him, Inka was an exception. Both as his go-to healer and as a person.

Then, a question that was simple on a superficial basis, but one that pulled Loic’s lips down into a subtle frown. “One that didn’t want to die.” He answered honestly yet with a vague underlying insinuation that he was not unknown for speaking with. Lying was not something he enjoyed practicing at any capacity, however. It was an act of sin that always made the angel’s tongue tingle in a way he did not want to invite without true reason. White lies and dance-around-truths were something he had become fluent in over a period of years to avoid the discomfort of both truth and falsehood. Even so, honesty, no matter how vaguely given, was his preference.

Only interested in watching the plate Niemir had slid toward Inka for the sake of observing its proximity to his coat, Loic otherwise furthermore disregarded the vampire whom he had no true incentive to engage with aside from the seconds-long stare he had given him. “There have been many before me who have attempted to break the binds of their marks and masters,” Loic replied to Inka’s comment in a manner of simple statement. “My imagination is otherwise lacking in contemplating those kinds of fantasies.” He added plainly. It’s true, though, in the sense that Loic did not have the kind of imaginatory or creative capabilities other people did - though of course the time he’s spent down on Kreah has provided him with understanding experiences and sensations he had previously thought trivial of more mundane creatures.

Time was a relative sensation to Loic, but it wasn’t a considerably long amount by his definition before he heard the entrance of another patron. He had not intended to care enough to gauge who the individual could have been until their pointed demand was directed to Niemir. Well beyond the glint of fangs synonymous with vampires and dressage most onlookers could have been privy to fixate their attention on, the woman Loic’s hazel eyes fixated on bore a mark he had never seen before. This he found… surprising. And he was a man, creature, what have you, that was rarely surprised. During Niemir’s exit and the woman’s attention being turned to Inka, the angel came to a vague recognition of the woman. With so many faces he’s seen come and go over such a long period of time, his memory of them was not reliable, but there were always people he encountered who radiated a unique kind of energy and essence that stood out through time. She was one of them.

Cassiopeia? Cordelia? Calliope.

Loic registered her name in time with her gesture in his direction, aware of Inka’s glance toward him as well. Whatever house Calliope had belonged to when he had first observed this woman at one of Cynric’s hubris-based house parties for the more elite names in Kreah was not one she must have belonged to anymore. If her mark alone was any indication, that is. Faces he may not have been good with, but marks? Loic was well-versed in that world.

“No, you wouldn’t be mistaken,” Loic answered her after a moment long silence. His gaze traded the large intricacies of her mark up to her eerily colored eyes. “Your mark,” he began forwardly with a small narrowing of his eyes, gesturing with tone and expression over physical action, “I’ve never seen before. It’s new.” He observed, both referencing the way it seemed to brand her skin like a fresh tattoo, but also new in the sense that he was unaware of which house that mark belonged to. Surely, even if he hadn’t been a tool often sent out onto the streets of Kreah, he would have heard Cynric either cursing or admiring a new elitist establishment - depending on whether the siren viewed them as competition or twisted ally.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ Inka Yakovna ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The healing of Loic was never a particularly fast process, his wounds ranged from slashes to hollow divots where flesh had been carved out from its home. He never came in for a flu or hangover, something simple, something a potion could mend in a heartbeat. He required her true magical prowess, not unusual for her customers to be severely injured enough for her to use her connection to the glittering haze of magic that encircled the land, but the frequency? No one came in as often as Loic.

It had taken Inka a handful of visits in those early days to learn that he wasn’t slow or stupid, he was simply quiet. Be it from choice, disassociation or some other third thing, he liked his silence. She was inclined to give him that, which made her job a whole lot easier. No whining or flinching as she tried to work, he sat there like a stone sculpture and accepted her next method of treatment without question.

There was little they truly knew about each other, apart from the fact that he was The indebted guard dog for the Bataille family and that she was the best healer around. In all honesty, Inka didn’t particularly want to know all about his inner workings. If the way he arrived at her door was enough to go by, he was a brutal man, she did not fancy understanding the intricacies of his poor mind.

At his response, a guttural hum was all she replied with, almost as though the blonde woman was simply clearing her throat, not replying to his answer.

Inka swiped her fingers over the slash and the remaining salve melted into his skin like butter, leaving no trace of the injury in its wake. A delicate sigh accompanied her movement as she dipped into the pot once more to dash the next cut with poultice, the warmth growing again as she stitched the fibres of flesh back together.

“There have been those who tried.” She relented, tipping her head to the side, pale eyes never leaving the work she was so focused on. “They normally turn up at my door already a corpse.” With that Inka fell back into comfortable silence. She knew there was no way to wriggle free of the mark unless its bestower freed you from its prison, which for Loic was an extremely unlikely scenario. Or that his master dies. That could do the trick, unfortunately, also a highly unlikely scenario.

As the slam of the front door happened, Inka had managed to finish a couple more gashes before she was interrupted. The sudden intrusion made her hiss with irritation, leaning back with a harshly arched spine. Grimacing her pointed teeth as the cut burst back open with a short lived spray of blood that met the linen of her shirt, blooming red into the fabric.

It wasn’t completely surprising to see Calliope strutting her way into the space as though she owned it, barking her orders at Niemir. She came clattering into the shop whenever she had some inconvenient job that she didn’t want to do, forcing Niemir to do her bidding. Why that man did anything she said, Inka had no idea. They weren’t bound by marks, so there was something else, some other red string that tied them together.

Her hand remained in place, staunching the small bleed from Loic’s shoulder blade, but she did not work further. Instead, Inka’s eyes narrowed, pupils miniscule slits barely perceivable in the low light, aiming her scowl at Calliope’s turned back. The fact that some sort of mark had appeared on the vampire was barely registered, Inka was furious that her work had been interrupted. Especially her work on Loic, it was some of her best and now it would be even tricker to keep him from scarring in this spot.

Her words were met with the same glowering look, not a work mentioned in reply as her fingers pressed back against Loic’s burningly hot skin. Perhaps being a little heavy handed with her work now as she returned to it, ignoring the chatter between the two other people.

The moment Calliope all but teleported beside her, her heart skipped a beat. She knew what the woman was and it was not unexpected, but the closeness was unnerving. In a second, Inka’s neck could be snapped and her blood a light snack. Her hand had frozen in its place, pushing into Loic’s form and causing blood to pool around her fingers, mixing with the yellow poultice. Again this woman had interrupted her work.

“Have you ever heard of something called personal space? Or do you cling so tightly to that man that you have forgotten what it is.” Inka sneered, top lip curling up as she lifted the pressure from her finger and began to draw the wound closed. She knew of her devotion to Dietrich's youngest member, a devotion she was clearly overpowered with. How a woman could ever dedicate herself to a man in such a manner, Inka was left again confused about how these people functioned.

The faint metallic tang in the air distracting her, it was stale enough for her to know it was Calliope. Whether it was her last meal or drops on her clothes, it was tangible, barely. At this close proximity it was the only thing she could smell, the combination of Loic’s wounds and this woman, gods her shop was going to smell like a slaughter house.

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Calliope Leonatus

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Her lips cut into the classical feline smile at his observation, she could see how his eyes flickered from observing her to analysing the freshly laid black upon her skin. She would let him soak in its presence, the first instance of announcing the move that has altered the chess board. Shaken its pieces and they didn’t even know it yet, that the ruling families were in their twilight days. Soon Samael would eclipse their subpar glory and allow them the privilege to bask in his light. The thought alone made the hair along Calliope’s arms prick with anticipation.

“You also would not be mistaken.” Calliope twisted herself, allowing the full scope of her ownership to be displayed, slow, small steps around in a circle. The dull click of her heels on the wooden planks came to a stop as she faced the pair once again. Her eyes burning with a radical mania, bordering on delusion as she held her hand out, flexing the joints of her fingers to admire the way her snake’s scales shifted with the muscles beneath. It was painful, dull and aching but she hoped it never went away.

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” She began, darting her eyes up to Loic’s face. “However, I am completely certain of one thing, your master isn’t going to like this new development. In fact, I almost expect to find out that I am the new target at which he is going to point you at.” Calliope cocked her head to one side, her voice lilting with amusement at the idea of being faced with this brute of a man. He was something to behold, a true creature of destruction. That would be an exhilarating experience. But of course, she would end it with his still beating heart in her grasp.

“Nevertheless, your owner should become privy to this information soon enough.” Her legs moved, gliding her way towards the pair. She took one step, then with a heartbeat she was behind the both of them. Bent at the waist, lips still cut into a brutally giddy grin, head poised right beside Inka’s as she worked.

The medicine woman froze, fingers pressing abruptly into the open flesh it was mending. From a typical patient it would have elicited a complaint, Inka’s eyes snapped to the side to observe the vampire critically.

“Have you ever heard of something called personal space? Or do you cling so tightly to that man that you have forgotten what it is.”

The accent was heavier now, it almost made Calliope snicker at the notion that she had squirmed under the woman’s skin enough to draw out that sarcastic comment.

“That man,” Calliope made a point to flash Inka a snide look before she continued, straightening her spine to step towards Loic’s other shoulder. “Should be addressed with the correct respectful moniker and you will do well to remember that, half-breed.” Her insult was spat from her lips with a venom that drastically changed her demeanor. The silky, infatuated cadence had been sliced through with an aggression that not only took form in her words but in her muscles as they twitched beneath the skin. Preparing to assert a correction to any comment that might be made about her beloved Samael.

One hand lifted, the forefinger hovering only a moment before pressing against Loic’s shoulder, grazing along the skin from his nape to the bend of his shoulder, letting the touch fade away as Calliope rounded the chair he was sitting in.

“Your master can discover my mark’s origin tonight.” Her voice returned to its usual, irritatingly zealous inflection. “I would be correct in assuming he will be attending Anjou’s ball tonight? His inauguration as head of house, it would be ridiculous for him not to attend.” Calliope tossed her hair over her shoulder idly, taking up place beside the counter, perching an arm on the edge. Sharpened nails tapping on the polished surface as she awaited the response.

At that ball Anjou would be usurped. His precious day, his coming into power will be soured and ruined by Samael’s grand revolution. Gods, she couldn’t wait to see his face, the pure rage that would emit from his core. Perhaps he would lash out. That thought made her almost purr, she would love to sink her fangs into his flesh and tear at him, all that eccentric bullshit stripped away and left to rot in that gods forsaken house.

Not to mention her own house would be in attendance, the house she had forsaken in order to join Samael. She was not wed, not traded, nor employed into the Dietrich house. She walked in there herself and fell to her knees for the man that her parents oh so despised. Memory of her fae life was far removed from her head, a blurry miasma of a memory. The light, softness of her house in stark contrast to their major source of fortune at Ironbolt Prison. She was not one of them, not since she crossed paths with Samael.

Tonight would a meal she would savour.