THEME
{{Independent RP blog for my own intepretation of R. M. Renfield, before/during/after the events of Bram Stoker's novel Dracula. see about for more. this is a side blog; I will follow back as littlemissamethyst.}}

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OPEN RP
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death, or worse

catchtheshadows:

Monkshood (also Aconite, or Wolfsbane), one of the most poisonous plants in the world, in abundance where I work.


bloodrednightmare:

Black Widow

bloodrednightmare:

Black Widow


Did I have to come? — Open Starter

innocentandaquitted:

The last time Lizzie could remember being this uncomfortable in a room full of people, it was two years ago, and she hadn’t gone back to church since. It wasn’t that she didn’t like parties, it was just so much harder to enjoy them since the…incident. Since the trial and the newspapers and the photographs. The publicity. These days, if she wanted a party, she threw one herself back at Maplecroft, where she could control the guest list and never had to worry about more than a few pairs of judging eyes. She rarely attended someone else’s, and she certainly didn’t go to any within Fall River.

Well. She supposed she’d just thought two years would be enough for all the fuss to die down. That maybe people would finally stop staring at her like she had blood in her hair and finally accept the jury’s pronouncement of innocent.

She should’ve known better.

image

Leaving the party and just heading home wasn’t going to be an option for another few hours, not unless she wanted everyone to talk about how Lizzie Borden walked in the door, took one look at the room, turned right back around and left. Acutely aware of every eye in the room, she carefully picked her way through the crowd towards the stairs, hoping perhaps she could hide in the lavatory for a while.

She almost made it; just before the top of the stairs, her heel caught on a fold in the rug and sent her toppling towards the floor. Lizzie flailed for a second, failed to find anything to grab onto, failed to quite manage to catch herself, and cracked face against the very top step. A laugh rolled through the room below as she pushed herself up on her elbows, raising one hand to the soon-to-be bruised spot with a muttered, “Shit…”

Which just so happened to be the first thing whoever had just stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall heard before they noticed her there.

Coming here had been a bad idea. It’s not that he wasn’t trying- he simply did not know where to start. Or what he was trying to do, really. It had been several decades since he’d had any freedom to speak of. He wasn’t certain how to handle it. After living one life for so long, how do you build a new one? It was coming upon the first anniversary of his death; Renfield was sixty years old. Or he would be if he was alive. He supposed birthdays still counted for keeping track of time, if nothing else. He certainly did not look sixty. He wasn’t sure he felt sixty, either. Though that was not to say he felt quite like the young man he looked. For being both old and young, alive and dead, mad and- occasionally- sane, Renfield wasn’t sure he felt like any of those things.

He stared into the beautiful looking glass on the wall, studying the perfect reflection of the room behind him where his face should be, full to bursting with strange feelings he could not name. He had fled his native soil, feeling haunted, hunted, and alone… but he found he had not left so much behind as he had hoped. And so, as he had done back across the Atlantic, he wandered. From Whitby to Liverpool to New York and Boston, then, finally, here.

His hypnotic gaze, which he had grown used to rather in a hurry, had gotten him invited to a party- and therefore also into the home where it was being held. He accepted. He was hungry. Which brought him back to the fact that this had been a bad idea. There were too many people here, and he was acting too strangely, and barely managing not to draw too much attention to himself. His temper was poor, and he could not afford to make such a public scene. Nor did he think he was in an opportune position to spirit a young man away and slake his thirst. Especially since he was not very good yet at leaving them alive. He bit down violently, and often left conspicuous wounds (or worse).

He meandered a bit, studiously avoiding mirrors and too many personal questions, and ended up closing himself in someone else’s bedroom just so he could breathe. Figuratively speaking, of course. It was rather pathetic how he had to mimic his confinement to a lunatic asylum to preserve his ongoing attempt at sanity in stressful moments.

If not for the lady, his skulking around would certainly have earned more chatter and staring. She was the only reason he had been able to slip away unnoticed. Obviously some scandal had befallen her, though he couldn’t gather much about it other than it involved a trial. Truthfully, he wasn’t really paying attention. He was too busy trying to keep his composure.

Staring, staring, staring at that mirror without a face in it, waiting for the sun to finish setting so he could smash it and dissolve into mist and get the hell out of here. He was just about to raise his fist, sunset be damned, when a commotion from the hall distracted him. He burst out the door before he could consider whether it was a good idea or not.

Her.

She was lucky she hadn’t been a man, because that party may well have turned out much differently. As it was, he paused. A few things had registered at that moment: one, a lady had fallen on the stair. Two, people were laughing at her. Three, if he wanted to appear as a gentleman, he had to act like one. He remembered, after a long second, to lower his shoulders and quit staring. In a flash, he was beside her. Prefacing his assistance with a low ‘may I’ and an extended hand, he righted her, swiftly but gently- as if she weighed nothing at all- and did not let go of her arm until she appeared to have regained her footing.

"Are you quite alright, miss?"


rfmmsd:

Artist:

Cécile

"Veines de la Main"


murraywolfmanmanson:

zoophagousmaniac:

Exhaling his last lungful of smoke slowly, he gave a single short laugh and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

"It hasn’t been so long that I can’t remember Étienne going nearly feral whenever he smelled wet coffee grounds."

He finally turned his head fully, reavealing a last lingering streak of grey that had most definitely not been there last time they met.

"Ah, yes, that. I must apologize: ocassionally I go through… moody periods, during which I tend to withdraw from company. I’ve been here; just not out.

"Oh, I’m worse about sounds." Murray said. "Bad smells just make me cry, sounds I don’t like drive me insane. Literally."

He started to laugh nervously, regretting that he’d made himself think of that. 

"I understand. I’m like that too." He nodded. "…I don’t like people.

He lifted his eyebrow for a second as Murray explained, but said nothing. A slight inclination of the head conveyed his understanding.

"I like people very well, about half the time," he said matter-of-factly. "That isn’t a sly reference to my ‘dietary habits,’ either, although it may as well be. But even if I like people, there are several very good reasons why they should not always like me- the obvious being only one. I don’t blame them. I think I must have gotten at least a little more adept at handling social norms through all these years, but… Ah, well. C’est la vie… in a manner of speaking. There are always a few people who don’t mind me very much.”

He smiled and shrugged.


~~~


murraywolfmanmanson:

zoophagousmaniac:

"Oh- beg pardon."

He remembered the young man’s reaction to tobacco smoke last time he’d had a cigarette (he had stood with his shirt over his mouth and nose the whole time), so upon noting the tall, lank presense nearby, Renfield took one long drag and extinguished the thing beneath a shining hard-soled shoe.

"Nah, you’re right." Murray shook his head and tried to disguise the fact that his eyes were watering. "I’ll live." 

He laughed weakly. 

"You haven’t been around much." He commented. "I just noticed that."

Exhaling his last lungful of smoke slowly, he gave a single short laugh and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

"It hasn’t been so long that I can’t remember Étienne going nearly feral whenever he smelled wet coffee grounds."

He finally turned his head fully, reavealing a last lingering streak of grey that had most definitely not been there last time they met.

"Ah, yes, that. I must apologize: ocassionally I go through… moody periods, during which I tend to withdraw from company. I’ve been here; just not out."


"Oh- beg pardon."

He remembered the young man’s reaction to tobacco smoke last time he’d had a cigarette (he had stood with his shirt over his mouth and nose the whole time), so upon noting the tall, lank presense nearby, Renfield took one long drag and extinguished the thing beneath a shining hard-soled shoe.



Skin II, by mad-englishman.

destroyed-and-abandoned:

Harland and Wolff Drawing Office
Source: adcoc001 (flickr)

destroyed-and-abandoned:

Harland and Wolff Drawing Office

Source: adcoc001 (flickr)



{{rp wishlist:
dwightfryes:

i have literally nothing to say

dwightfryes:

i have literally nothing to say


{{for the times when A) i am doing canon-era threads back when he was human or B) if he goes for a long time without drinking blood and he ages back to an old man}}

{{for the times when A) i am doing canon-era threads back when he was human or B) if he goes for a long time without drinking blood and he ages back to an old man}}






H.W. Ernst’s transcription of Schubert’s “Erlkönig”
Kristóf Baráti - live performance
PLAYED 549 TIMES.

haeresisdea:

Inspirational sounds: Talented hungarian violinist Kristóf Baráti plays H.W. Ernst’s transcription of Schubert’s “Erlkönig.” using the violin built by the renowned Italian instrument maker Giuseppe Guarneri (del Gesù) in 1741. The instrument gained its name after being owned by the belgian 19th century violinist Henri Vieuxtemps. It was offered for sale in 2010 with an asking price of price of $18 million, making this violin the most valuable instrument in history.Some people call it the “Mona Lisa” of violins due its craftsmanship and richness in sound.Close your eyes and hear… and you’ll see why. Simply orgasmic.
Illustrative image: Manfio Violas and Violins