[center][h3][color=9e0b0f]Veins of the Veylthorne[/color][/h3][/center]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/1849a635-cbcb-425b-ad73-bb38f26c9d37.jpg[/img]

[b]Location: The Veylthorn Eyrie, New Katur[/b]

There was a bloody murder! Vaelith's pupilless eyes on full display—cold, flawless, like two perfect diamonds. Silver staked through the heart, the felled queen’s delicate right arm dangled off the bedside, a jangling constellation of bracelets adorned her wrist, and the slender backside of her left hand rested at her pale forehead.

It was a tragic scene. 

The oversized dagger sheathed into the Katuran ruler’s heart impaled even the bed frame. It was peculiar for a vampire of her maturity to forgo resting in a coffin, but no lid would have spared her from this untimely assassination. Approaching the cherry-blotted mattress soaking up a vampire’s buffet worth of blood was Luthienne, one of several daughters of the Veylthorne estate. Borderline unmoored from reality, the young vampiress’ sleepwalking habit brought her before the slain queen. Standing at the foot of her mother's literal deathbed in a white Edwardian ruffle nightgown, behind Luthienne's moppy draping hair, her sleep-deprived hazel eyes barely widened. It wasn't because she was heartless. The blood supply shortage due to the war affected the surviving Vampires aboard the Château du Sang in varying ways. Luthienne, classified as a feaster, required consuming copious amounts of blood to offset the frequency with which she involuntarily used her powers. Any ounce of empathy and sorrow normally shown in a situation rocketed off the other end of the balance scale when weighted against her intrinsic nature as a vampire.

In awe of all the blood in front of her, quickly the young vampire’s thoughts veered towards [i]“If only Mother were human.”[/i] She'd wring the bedsheets of their last drop were it the case. Luthienne was hungry, bed-headed, and vampire blood was about as appetizing as a Bordeaux glass of cod liver oil. Regardless, her sleepwalking, deemed prophetic by her father, brought her here before anyone else. As much as she wanted to return to her canopy coffin and close the curtains, her subconscious brought her here for a reason. Her hunger did not blind her to that aspect.

Instinctually grabbing the teal satin sheets with no reserve like any sleepwalker would a fridge handle, Luthienne had no hesitation as the first witness to the crime scene. The [b]smart[/b] thing, the [i]normal[/i] thing, would be to [b]avoid[/b] tampering with evidence as it could only draw suspicion. However, the Veylthorne family operated by a peculiar set of rules and customs rebuking familial norms. In this family, the narrative is always up for grabs. Whoever can dictate and insert their self-serving will via schemes takes all. It is instilled in them at a young age that their meritocracy of family dysfunction made each generation stronger as iron sharpens iron. Programmed by that instinct, the brazen teen went to work, uncovering the recently crowned late matriarch. Conducting a half-assed autopsy with just her sleep-deprived eyes. It didn't take a coroner to realize Vaelith had been dead for less than an hour. 

Further inspection made Luthienne's eyes narrow. The murder weapon of choice was… bizarre. Dull, unpolished, sinuously twisting into a helix, and engraved with a twin snake-themed insignia. The dagger resembled a prop more than a practical assault instrument. Something so unique should have instantly attached itself to a memory in the vampiress' thoughts, but its craftsman origins sat on the tip of the girl's tongue. That information tittered much closer to her fangs than the assailant probably was comfortable with. 

Though she’d pretend otherwise, the girl was more than busybodied. She was offensively intrusive in things that interested her. Clearly, her mother’s death met that criterion. Or did it? Her body language certainly didn’t say so. Probably to the glee of the perpetrator, if they somehow watched, the young vampire's head nodded a bit. Despite the circumstances, mystifyingly, Luthienne fell asleep standing at her mother’s bedside. 

She stood there for more than a minute, giving ample time for someone to approach, and for a second, a shadowy figure [i]almost[/i] had. This was not some act of politeness. Luthienne, like most of the Veylthornes, had a moniker—[i]The Nightmare Eyes[/i]. She saw reality through an extended scope of clarity when sleeping. The room dissolved into her unconsciousness, a melding kaleidoscope until it took on an inverted palette. Not only was there a visible residual aura on the weapon, but it did not manifest in her dream as a dagger. It was some strange, gold, gem-embedded artifact in the shape of a closing hand resting quite calmly on Vaelith’s chest. The aureate glow of the artifact appeared to rebuke her control over the space. Every time Luthienne’s hand crept near, it began to phase away. It was a deliberate foil to her psychometry.

Stubborn, she attempted to force it, but like a bolt of lightning, a surge of energy shot through the vampiress, jolting Luthienne wide awake, severing her from the oneiric landscape she had been maintaining. 

[i][color=92278f]“Hmph! I’ll find another way.”[/color][/i]

Pouty, the vampiress failed to realize her hunger had been mysteriously satiated.[i] [/i]About-facing, the young vampire departed, mood much fouler than when she had arrived, though her problem was solved. She returned to her corner of the Veylthorne quarters—part of a massive, vast, labyrinthine castle confined by dimensional magic within the Château du Sang, the final pride of the Katur. As the only intact testament to the might of their former space empire, the Veylthornes and the fractionated populace of surviving Katurans had no choice but to call it home. 

Few found any joy in it, least of all Lazarel, eldest son of House Veylthorne. The noctivagant noble moved through the castle’s corridors in silence, cowl serving as another layer covering his stoic face, masking his thoughts. Inside, the vampire’s heart played his rib cage like a drum. He felt anxious. For someone not only known as, but quite literally [i]cold-blooded[/i], his mind needed convincing. 

Barely a day had passed since landfall, and already the heir made a decision shaping the fate of the surviving empire in this unfamiliar land. Other than his mother, who vehemently opposed it so much the prince could no longer face her, no one knew Lazarel had placed his father in The Sanguine Rest, a cursed artifact his family had been designated to guard for generations. He did so without the approval of the rest of the Curceată. While he attended to familial matters, much of their time was devoted to investigating the means by which Chiro, one of their disgraced own, escaped. Lazarel didn’t take her as one to sell out her people like they feared, but law is law. 

Frankly, the prince was thankful for the distraction she provided as it delayed the Curceată’s oversight. However, they would find out soon enough, as the hematite-black coffin with its agleam carmine crown was more than some magical artifact. It was living, possessing a sick sense of humor in the ways it rewarded usage. From the beyond, Lazarel could feel his father’s spirit condemning him. The way of the Veylthorne would be for the eldest son to take over and seize as much power as he could amongst the confusion, yet he chose to dishonor the king and his sacrifice. 

A thousand voices echo in the dark, yearning for the gift of another breath— but at what cost? What will the entity within the Sanguine Rest offer the Veylthornes this time in return? The first time it was used, centuries ago, is the reason their family was cursed as vampires. The last time, it gave rise to the Dream Wraith, a spirit born from Luthienne’s nightmares that possesses her to this day. The time before that, it snatched thousands of Katuran souls to forge the Scarlet Shell armor, a great asset at a pricey cost. And the time before that, the most consequential, opened a portal to the [i]Shattered Lament[/i], a dimension of nearly infinite resources. Initially seen as a blessing, it microwaved a renaissance in technology and sorcery but ultimately led to the invasion and demise of Katur. There was no telling what curse Lazarel just inflicted on his family, or even the new planet they settled on, but it would reveal itself soon enough. The least he figured he could do was check on the present family members he cared about.

First, the prince checked on Miuccia. He scanned her room, walls draped in deep, velvety purple and midnight blue curtains adorned with silver thread. His little sister wasn’t asleep. In the corner, she knelt, long, jet-black hair nearly touching the floor as she played with her dollhouse. Soft plush toys were scattered about the floor, next to her open black-wood coffin. Many of the toys stared at Lazarel with deep, human eyes full of sadness, one painfully mouthing, [i][b]'He...lp...us...'[/b] [/i]Miuccia turned to her brother with her big brown eyes capable of capturing anyone's soul with sheer cuteness. With genuine concern, she said [i][color=f6989d]“Big brother, I think Lulu is sleepwalking again. She passed my room earlier.”[/color][/i] 

That didn’t sound any alarms, but out of precaution, he checked Luthienne’s room. She, too, was wide awake, pillow behind her back, reading a yellow grimoire. 

[i][color=9e0b0f]“Luthienne, Miuccia said you were sleepwalking. Did you encounter anything odd in your visions?”[/color][/i]

With the most pathetic poker face in the world, his sister simply replied [i][color=92278f]“Nope”[/color][/i] before returning to her book. He left, and a brief laugh escaped her lips, thinking she had fooled him. He’d figure out what she was up to soon enough. Things often worked that way.

Shaking his head, Lazarel moved on, not even bothering to check for Bastien. Considering his younger brother has been gone wandering about the Château since its landing, he could say without the faintest whisper of uncertainty, Bastien was using the hierarchical chaos surrounding their father’s death to womanize his way into unauthorized feeding sessions. Lazarel had other matters to worry about than searching for someone who attempted to take his life more times than he had fingers. If something happened to his brother, it was safe to say this prince’s heart remained unmoved. Similar could be said about the eldest sister, Elara, an individual only capable of viewing him as an obstacle to the throne. 

Just when Lazarel exhaled at the realization of not having to deal with that insufferable side of the family tree, the pendant hugging Lazarel’s chest, a deep crimson stone set in a silver, barbed filigree halo mount, pulsed intensely in tune with Elara’s heartbeat.

[i][color=9e005d]“My eternal junior, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?”[/color][/i]

His sister’s incessantly patronizing tone rang through every vowel like a cacophony, far from music to the prince’s ears.

[i][color=9e0b0f]“What.”[/color][/i]

Lazarel’s retort was blunt, sharp, and devoid of patience.

[i][color=9e005d]“Not in the mood for banter today, are we? Shame. Shame… I’ll keep it short. While you’ve been playing the internal cleaning service, I’ve been attending to more important matters. Like, for one, surveying our surroundings. You know, you’ve always lacked that innate Veylthorne intuition. Come to my palace, brother. We have much to discuss. So much, I’m afraid I can’t leave even you in the dark.”[/color][/i]