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Describe, in detail, your muse's dwellings. Where does your muse live and what do they surround themselves with? Do they have lavish surroundings or modest and spartan surroundings? How long has your pup lived there? Does it feel like home? Is it a place they want to come back to at the end of the day or not? Is it more like a sanctuary or a prison? How does it reflect your muse? It need not be there present residence, but choose one adobe and write a scene that takes place in the dwelling or describe it in great detail.

Have fun! Looking forward to reading your entries!

-Trinity Mod


American moving companies have got to be the most incompetent of any I’ve dealt with. Granted their presence made moving my possessions into my new home in daylight much easier. My servants were, of course, undead I’d brought with me from my estate, and therefore were unavailable to keep these children from tossing my belongings around like sacks of flour. Standing in the shadows of the mansion’s porch watching them was beginning to wear on my nerves. Granted, they probably didn’t know I was there. I’d augmented the dark shadows on the porch with a few of my own creation. Not getting a migraine while watching my possessions being unloaded was a wonderful thing. A headache, though…that was just starting. Idiots.


“Continue to drop boxes and I shall ensure even sanitation workers will not trust you to handle their wares.” I stepped forward a bit, out of the darkest shadows, and leaned against a pillar. “I’ve changed my mind. Stack the boxes in the main hall. My servants will deal with them when they arrive.”


“I assure you, sir, we are taking…”


“Shut it. I was watching the whole time. If anything is broken, I will be taking the damage out of your check.” Inside me, I could feel that dark core pulsing contentedly. I turned and walked inside, two shadows on my heels. I stopped one. “Watch them. If they drop anything else of mine, come get me at once.” The shadow took a semi-human form and nodded. I turned away from it and went up the stairs to my study.


Most of the boxes for this room had already been brought up. The furniture, too, was already here, bought from a local shop rather than flown from my estate in southern England. The room was dark and full of the dark mahogany and leather furniture I loved, and yet it still felt empty. No shadows in here as yet. The two I’d created to shield me from the sun were the only two I had here. The rest I would create once I’d properly sanctified the place.


I dropped the illusion hiding my right hand from the eyes of the movers and ran my good hand over the stark white bone. It was a constant reminder of my condition, as if I needed a reminder now, when the beginnings of blood hunger stirred in my gut and my fangs were still lengthened due to the irritation downstairs. Bloody hell. It had been over thirty years, and I still was not used to that particular response to anger. Or maybe it was just that every time they lengthened due to hunger or anger, I was tempted just a little more to do something with them. I sighed and pulled the black leather glove in my pocket over the bare bone.


The small courtyard just off my study was what had attracted me to this place. Grape vines blocked most of the light from the small space. In the middle of the square, a large, gnarled tree grew up from the rich, dark loam. I had already set up my stone altar on one side of the tree. The stone offering-bowl was empty. I’d remedy that later, when I could sacrifice the fat rabbit that even now nibbled lettuce in a pet carrier downstairs.


I knelt before the altar and rested my gloved right hand on the offering bowl. The power and death both items had seen left an aura that made this place feel a little less alien. My family had used this altar for generations, though none had used it for as dark a purpose as me. Still, the power surrounding it made me think of home. It was good that it was here. Soon the rest of the house would feel more like home as well, but for now, this small sanctuary would do. I smiled.


One of my shadows danced about me. “Lord,” it said in its quiet, hissing voice, “the movers brought the last box in. They are downstairs looking for you.”


“Very well, I’ll be down shortly.” I rose, dusting off my pants, and made my way downstairs. The sooner I got these idiots out of my new house, the sooner I could go about making it a home.

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deathmage: (Default)
Brendan Keigwin

February 2010

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