9 ◦ [VIDEO]
[There is vibrant, shimmering green that almost fills the screen - fabric, silken, as of many layers of chiffon. It is pressed against crisp white, and for a moment that is all that can be seen. The tips of dark, glossy hair fall into view. The ungloved hand fumbling with the communicator is that of Schneizel el Britannia.
The hand currently over his chest - the gesture possessive - is that of someone else entirely, someone sporting long nails that look as though they have been filed into points.
Their tips are curiously red.
The woman dressed in such fair green shifts, for a moment allowing a glimpse of her face - she is beautiful, stunningly, achingly beautiful, lissom limbed and pale, her features stark and striking, radiant. But her face is not that of any other woman in Demeleier. For all her beauty, she is entirely other-worldly. Or perhaps very much of this world. Too much. Her fingers - long, elegant - move, a nail tracing down his shirt - and then her head falls forward, her hair curtaining what’s happening from sight.
It is odd, to hear the Prince make such a pained little noise of protest, but it’s there. Vaguely he can be seen tensing - the muscles in his hand go taut, and grip the side of the table for a moment, as if he needs help in keeping himself upright. But he moves, hand delving into a pocket. Searching.
She gives a high shriek when he brushes her arm with the iron link, and staggers backwards, revealing the torn shirt, the deep scratches on his chest, on his neck, bleeding freely. They don’t look like much on their own, but he’s pale, a little unsteady as he steps after her, holding out the iron towards her.
The gleam of excitement has become one of fear. The Baobhan Sith almost topples in her haste to get away from the iron he’s holding out, as if offering it to her as a gift.
It is not one she wants. She turns on heel and grasps at her skirts, her nails no longer so very long, so very pointed, so very deadly. The door is heard slamming open - Schneizel makes to go forward, but cannot. The iron link falls from his hand, rings on the floor - his fingers go to cover the scoring across his chest, and then, abruptly, grip the table as he stumbles, falling to one knee, sucking in a breath.
His mouth opens for a moment, like he's about to speak - something tumbles out of his mouth too soft to hear, however, and he slumps forward, out of sight of the camera but for the reddened collar of his shirt and a wave of golden hair.
His breathing is thin, the sound lost beneath the whimpering of a young wolf.]
((OOC: The Baobhan Sith is a vampiric type of fae that syphons blood from victims through the fingernails, just incase anyone needs refreshed on that :' Schneizel has, subsequently, lost quite a lot of blood.))
The hand currently over his chest - the gesture possessive - is that of someone else entirely, someone sporting long nails that look as though they have been filed into points.
Their tips are curiously red.
The woman dressed in such fair green shifts, for a moment allowing a glimpse of her face - she is beautiful, stunningly, achingly beautiful, lissom limbed and pale, her features stark and striking, radiant. But her face is not that of any other woman in Demeleier. For all her beauty, she is entirely other-worldly. Or perhaps very much of this world. Too much. Her fingers - long, elegant - move, a nail tracing down his shirt - and then her head falls forward, her hair curtaining what’s happening from sight.
It is odd, to hear the Prince make such a pained little noise of protest, but it’s there. Vaguely he can be seen tensing - the muscles in his hand go taut, and grip the side of the table for a moment, as if he needs help in keeping himself upright. But he moves, hand delving into a pocket. Searching.
She gives a high shriek when he brushes her arm with the iron link, and staggers backwards, revealing the torn shirt, the deep scratches on his chest, on his neck, bleeding freely. They don’t look like much on their own, but he’s pale, a little unsteady as he steps after her, holding out the iron towards her.
The gleam of excitement has become one of fear. The Baobhan Sith almost topples in her haste to get away from the iron he’s holding out, as if offering it to her as a gift.
It is not one she wants. She turns on heel and grasps at her skirts, her nails no longer so very long, so very pointed, so very deadly. The door is heard slamming open - Schneizel makes to go forward, but cannot. The iron link falls from his hand, rings on the floor - his fingers go to cover the scoring across his chest, and then, abruptly, grip the table as he stumbles, falling to one knee, sucking in a breath.
His mouth opens for a moment, like he's about to speak - something tumbles out of his mouth too soft to hear, however, and he slumps forward, out of sight of the camera but for the reddened collar of his shirt and a wave of golden hair.
His breathing is thin, the sound lost beneath the whimpering of a young wolf.]
((OOC: The Baobhan Sith is a vampiric type of fae that syphons blood from victims through the fingernails, just incase anyone needs refreshed on that :' Schneizel has, subsequently, lost quite a lot of blood.))