Happy Saint Patrick's Day...Underworld Style!
Happy Saint Patrick's Day, everyone! I've already seen some festive posts and icons so I thought I'd make some too. ^_^
Soren: Oh, why couldn't I have been Scottish?!
Because then I'd be drawing you in a kilt so hush. -_-' Anyways, I managed to remain undistracted long enough to write a pretty fic too. Oddly enough, this is written in Kraven's first person POV. Hopefully I didn't do too badly with him.
Title: The Luck O’ the Irish
Fandom: Underworld
Pairing: Kraven/Soren
Rating: PG
Summary: (260 words) It turns out Kraven isn’t the only one who survives the massacre in the lycan lair. (about 1 month post-movie)
Notes: Ah, Saint Patrick’s Day! A perfect reason to write something concerning my favorite Irish vampire.
Kraven’s POV...
Some things just aren’t possible, but occasionally they happen anyways. I, for one, managed to survive the combined wrath of Viktor and Lucian. No small feat by any means, and that is not a boast. Although my absurd display of good fortune falls just shy of my janissary’s.
For over a month, my cold, vampiric heart grieved silently for the loss of such a dear friend, loyal partner, and-yes-devoted lover. One cannot even imagine my shock at answering my apartment door one night to find a bedraggled and battered Soren standing there. He seemed even more pale than I remember, his beloved whips were no longer in his possession, and his once-fine clothes were naught but rags, yet it was him nonetheless, ill-fed and exhausted, but alive.
As soon as I overcame my initial shock, I embraced him and half-carried him to a chair. I actually winced a little when I wrapped my arms around him because Soren was quite a bit thinner than I remembered.
After I had gotten him some refrigerated blood, I asked him how he’d managed to get here. And what a story it was! Battling lycans to escape the sewers on that fateful night only to be captured by death dealers mere hours later. Standing trial in Ordoghaz, breaking out of the dungeons by means of a spork and faking a sprained wrist, and tracking me to London. The latter two astounded me immensely, and I was mystified at how Soren had managed.
Perhaps it was just the fabled luck of the Irish.
-fin-
Soren: Oh, why couldn't I have been Scottish?!
Because then I'd be drawing you in a kilt so hush. -_-' Anyways, I managed to remain undistracted long enough to write a pretty fic too. Oddly enough, this is written in Kraven's first person POV. Hopefully I didn't do too badly with him.
Title: The Luck O’ the Irish
Fandom: Underworld
Pairing: Kraven/Soren
Rating: PG
Summary: (260 words) It turns out Kraven isn’t the only one who survives the massacre in the lycan lair. (about 1 month post-movie)
Notes: Ah, Saint Patrick’s Day! A perfect reason to write something concerning my favorite Irish vampire.
Kraven’s POV...
Some things just aren’t possible, but occasionally they happen anyways. I, for one, managed to survive the combined wrath of Viktor and Lucian. No small feat by any means, and that is not a boast. Although my absurd display of good fortune falls just shy of my janissary’s.
For over a month, my cold, vampiric heart grieved silently for the loss of such a dear friend, loyal partner, and-yes-devoted lover. One cannot even imagine my shock at answering my apartment door one night to find a bedraggled and battered Soren standing there. He seemed even more pale than I remember, his beloved whips were no longer in his possession, and his once-fine clothes were naught but rags, yet it was him nonetheless, ill-fed and exhausted, but alive.
As soon as I overcame my initial shock, I embraced him and half-carried him to a chair. I actually winced a little when I wrapped my arms around him because Soren was quite a bit thinner than I remembered.
After I had gotten him some refrigerated blood, I asked him how he’d managed to get here. And what a story it was! Battling lycans to escape the sewers on that fateful night only to be captured by death dealers mere hours later. Standing trial in Ordoghaz, breaking out of the dungeons by means of a spork and faking a sprained wrist, and tracking me to London. The latter two astounded me immensely, and I was mystified at how Soren had managed.
Perhaps it was just the fabled luck of the Irish.
-fin-