[@AlicePleasanceLiddell]

[i]Mahzun stopped and allowed the conversation to end on that note. If Aurora kept walking without him, he'd watch her as she left, anger simmering in his weasily guts. There was no way in hell he was going to actually change, least of all for his sister. He turned to glide back into the depths of the castle, claws flexing with discontent. Mahzun more or less had an entire floor to himself, with no lights, scant windows (all of which were boarded over), and countless hallways and doors. Some doors opened into hallways which looped back around in semi-circles, twining together into a banded maze of dead ends. The carpet was plush and soft, but the floorboards beneath it squeaky and uneven. Only a vampire could quickly traverse the floor without a sound. Every wall was lined with surreal paintings commissioned many hundreds of years ago, crafted by human hands. They portrayed the landscapes of dreams, and of nightmares. 

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[img]http://webneel.com//daily/sites/default/files/images/daily/09-2013/8-surreal-paintings-by-salvador-dali.jpg[/img]
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[img]http://d5wt70d4gnm1t.cloudfront.net/media/a-s/articles/1936-649700782474/the-10-worst-ways-to-die-in-a-hieronymous-bosch-painting-900x450.jpg[/img]
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At the center of the whole mess, was Mahzun's room. The old vampire stopped in front of his door and removed a long brass key from his cloak. There was a heavy ratcheting sound as several tumblers were shifted. A crack of black opened up, and Mahzun slipped through. The crack disappeared. Within the pitch black confines of his quarters, Mahzun lay stretched haphazardly across a black velvet couch, naked, belly still grossly distended. Of course there was a coffin in there, and a fine one at that, but it wasn't time to sleep yet. First he had to think. Mahzun plucked at thoughts, rolled them around in his bony claws, considering them. There was always more than one way to skin a cat, and over the years he had become quite excellent at thinking on his toes. 
The others considered Mahzun to be an emaciated, rabid dog of sorts, a mentally and physically diseased recluse meant to be looked upon with pity at best, and revulsion at worst. That was how Mahzun liked it. Few knew the truth, because they didn't like seeing it. He had spent his life not supping on fine wines and making witty, polite banter, nor posing in elegant clothes. He had lived, still lived, the life of a hunter and killer, and had feasted on more nutritious blood than virtually any other vampire, rivaled only by George. Mahzun had gorged himself at every opportunity, whereas his kin had exercised restraint. But again, there was still George. 
Mahzun could see that George knew the putrid power that one could gain by killing and drinking. Mahzun considered the usefulness of the assassin, and suddenly like a blossoming flower, a plan came to Mahzun. One that could be the end of all their troubles...

[@Cuccoruler]

Feon would be able to hear the ringing of the servant's bell, coming from Mahzun's quarters. He had never been allowed in the room, permitted just to stand outside in order to hear the old vampire's voice. When he eventually did so, he'd hear the following;[/i]

[color=a0410d]"Feon. That is you? Tell George to come to my room. I will be speaking with him shortly."[/color]