Blood Bliss

(( the opening song: [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.] ))

Mr. Huges swirled about the theater, a foreign tone flowing from his mouth that he hardly expected anyone else to understand.  He didn't understand the words himself, but he understood them to be his.  By God, they were at last his.  Every note was clear!  Every hold wavered just the right amount, the crescendos echoing about the seats, the decrescendos barely audible . . .  Musical bliss, the best bliss.  Perfect for his current scene, as well.  Romeo and Juliet, Romeo et Juliette . . .  Same thing, really.  The operatic version was simply a bettering of the original.

Left behind in his room was the fated letter from Wolfgang: "Dear Denskith, I was impressed by what I saw when visiting the castle and--"  And, at that point, he noticed a small tag-along in the letter: a blood packet.  It was created by the pro-serum group, not the Resistance, as an instant high of blood whenever needed.  Of course, not many in their own ranks could utilize it properly, so, one by one, the packets were lost to the ones who could: Wolfgang, Denskith, and others.  Who cared about the others, though?  Who cared about the reasons for such a gift?  The substance is supposed to be diluted by water, yes, not mistakenly similar to instant coffee, but he couldn't wait for water to boil!  His own blood began to boil as the grains fell onto his tongue, his mouth immediately erupting into a grin--!

Instant euphoria.
Instant bliss.
At last, his head was empty of doubts.
Whatever restraint he had left carried him over towards the stage, making sure that no one would hear.  Who cared about the others, though?  Not him.  At long, long last, he had control.  And, he would utilize it.  And, he would abuse it to no end.

The ending notes.  A tricky run, but again, performed perfectly.  Everything was, a triumph within ever-victory.  His face had never faded from the grin-- how could it?  How could his face ever leave such an expression?

How would he ever again be able to give up blood?

Mr S was on duty. With the white, red and black mask pulled over his face he strode around, robes dragging across the path behind him, keeping a vigilant eye out for misbehaviour. It was a sunny day out, and there weren't any classes, so a good portion of students were outside. As such, that's where Mr S found himself today, wandering around the outskirts of the castle walls. Failing to greet anyone he happened to walk by, a most peculiar tune caught his senses. What was...?

It was coming from the theatre. Singing, it was. Wherever there was a performance, there must be a crowd, so the watchman felt it was within his duty to inspect it. Still, even if were muffled, he couldn't help but find himself taken aback by the noise. Just who did that voice come from? He lingered outside the door for just a few moments, before slowly and quietly opening the door as to not interrupt.

There was no audience. There were no listeners. Just a man singing alone.

And then he finished.
It wasn't the man's euphoric grin that he noticed first, but the horrific scars that he could see from across the other side of the room. It was unnerving. Stunned, he found himself speechless, before finally forcing himself to take advantage of the brief silence that had overcome the room.

He slowly clapped both hands together, offering the applause that no one else was there to give.

He didn't notice the one-manned-- creature?-- audience until the applause. Denskith was surprised, of course, but took the praise in unending stride, bowing deeply when there should not have been any balance to do so on his stilt legs. His grin remained. His grin would never leave so long as he had this bliss.

An audience provided many things: a listening ear, an appreciating ear . . . a practice target to see just how much more powerful his commands had become. He would have to lure him into a false sense of security first, of course-- but, where wasn't the security? He was in complete control! He could sing howevermuch he wanted, and nothing could or would stop him. Nothing.

He walked up the set's balcony, his scarred hand tracing the holds as he went. Another song, regardless. He looked up towards the guest and continued smiling.

He began again:
Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,
Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!

Mozart was a genius at writing opera, but what made the soprano piece so memorable was its range. He was confident--! As confident and empowered as the mother convincing her daughter to kill . . . or, at least, that's what he was told it was about; he didn't really understand German, himself. But, the emotion in the lyrics spoke for themselves-- especially, of course, when there weren't lyrics.

ah ah ah AH ah ah ah ah . . .

He hit every note in the run. He was damn sure of it, and his smile showed it. He was good. He knew he had his one-manned audience entranced.

(( The song: Magic Flute's "Queen of the Night": [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.] ))

Even at the lack of audience, the man was still pleased - and so was he.  He was prepared to invite him into conversation, but the man continued his show. Well, so be it, and he would watch, for the time being. It would be best that he didn't stay there for long.

The song was... high pitched, needless to say. Sure, the voices back at Csestasa could reach to all sorts of heights, but it was surprising to hear such noise from a human... or slightly human face. Even if he could not understand the words, it was wholly flawless. 

That smile, that confidence... Mr S knew in every sense of it, that he would be elsewhere. But fascination had him rooted to the spot. He simply stood where he was, his masked face revealing little, but hoping that his mere presence would be enough of a compliment to suffice.

He bowed deeply once finishing, bathing in the warmth of unspoken attention and appreciation.  Only Windor understood, and they had long-since took for granted his obvious talents.  But, now! now, he had an audience, a target.  With the blood, he could do anything.

He had the man's trust; now was the time to take the next step.

"You feel compelled to take to the stage alongside me," he sung over to the single audience member, gesturing a hand towards him.  There was no way the man would resist or could with the boost of blood running through his system.  If there was resistance, he could break through it-- no, he would break through it.  No more requests.  Now, he would command.

(( The blood powers-up Denskith's powers, but Sner can still resist mentally. It would/ will be very difficult, though, to succeed. ))

As the second performance ended, Mr S watched him bow. Yes, it had been an impressive display, and he counted himself lucky to have seen it.  But now there was business to attend to.  With a slight nod, the watchman turned away and started to head towards the door.

Something stopped him.

He was sure that he'd been on his way out, yet, his feet suddenly turned the wrong way, and he started to carry himself in the opposite direction: towards the stage.  It was odd; he didn't think he would've wanted to stay longer, yet, he felt like he had to join him there.  He wished that he knew why.

Painfully aware of his own actions, Sner asked himself, over and over, 'why?', but no answers reached his head. He simply hauled himself up the short staircase 'til he was standing alongside the music professor. With one last desperate glance at the exit, he finally faced Denskith. It was an expectant look, yet, Mr S knew not what to expect.  Almost subconsciously, he found that he was bracing himself for something.

"Yes?" he inquired, almost as if he hadn't walked up there of his own apparent accord.

The thrill of seeing his singular audience member obeying with confusion was almost equivalent to the taste of blood.  Almost.  That 'almost' was key, you see.  It was oh-so-close, but nothing else could match the bliss of blood--!

He smiled even brighter at the question; a squeal of joy would have soon followed, but he needed the mysterious figure's eardrums to remain intact.

"You decide to remain on stage with me-- Would you like to request a song?"  The words from song to question were almost nigh-indistinguishable now; his voice was carrying across the empty seats as if he were still singing, his tone of voice was still soothing and lofty.  He slowly circled around his listener, his long legs making the entire way around in just three, four steps.  Even the stilts were now graceful.

"Don't be shy," he sang in the man's ear, now turning the question into a command.  "Ask away."  He would sing anything at all, and then . . .  And then, the man would be his to control.

He wanted to go, but he had to stay. ...Well, it might be rude to suddenly leave, he tried to reason with himself, but for the most part, he just didn't understand. He supposed that he was a little curious, and he did want to find out what was going on, though there were better places to be.

"No thank you, I..." He trailed off as the man continued. He was just being shy, wasn't he? And it'd be rude to just leave him there without a song. Yet, there was a constant sense of unease. He didn't really want to be here at all. He felt out of control.

He gulped. Whatever song could he request at all? Something nice, optimistic, something that'd he'd picked up on the radio. His mind quickly reeled over the possibilities, before blurting out a suggestion. "Olly Murs, Change is going to come."

One more song. Then, he'd leave.

He had heard the song only once or twice-- but, it was an excellent choice, regardless.  A lovely beat, an upbeat tune and message . . .  Nothing could be better.  Nothing was ever better than music.  He hummed the starting note, beginning to sway his hips back and forth.

"Something's come-- feel it down in my bones . . ."  Mmm, that sounded wonderful!  He closed his eyes and let his smile grow more and more, continuing the catchy melody:
"Yeah, it's been a long time gone, but ya here tonight.
Now, let's not look back, ya keeping me right on track.
Feel the karma coming back; we're gonna be alright!"

He outstretched his arms, offering to dance with his sole audience member.  His logic was embedded into the lyrics themselves, his euphoria shining from his face all the way down to his toes.

"If everything's a constant battle, sometimes you won't win;
If all our strengths turn into struggles, we won't be giving in . . ."

Don't fight this!  Dance with the half-Lorelei; it was okay.

As Denskith began singing, Sner didn't feel at ease. It was a merry, upbeat tune that enjoyed, but hearing it here was only disconcerting and strange. And it wasn't the quality - the man was a very talented singer indeed, who seemed entirely invested in his profession. But Sner didn't feel right. He didn't know what was going on or why - and there were other places to be.

Yet, despite that, there was something enchanting about it. Something that hooked him in and rooted him to the spot, no matter how hard he tried to turn his attention away. He was obligated to stand here and listen him out - it was the song he'd requested after all, though he knew not why he'd requested a song at all. He eyed the offered hand - and that was when Sner realised.

He took a step back, his own hands raised.  "I... I can't, sorry, I can't," he said. It wasn't the right time to be dancing, of all things.

He . . . didn't trust him?  Why not?  Denskith cocked his head to the side pleasantly, allowing his disappointment to show-- but, the smile was still there.  How could it not?  They were just reaching the climax!

"Will be livin' on an all time high--!
(I'm trying to keep it!)
We've learnt to walk, but now it's time to run.
A change is gonna come."

With the continuation of the chorus, Denskith outstretched his hand further, enticing his audience to come closer.  What was the harm?  Just one dance, that's all it would be . . .  Of course, if he didn't come closer now, they could always start the puppeteer's show sooner rather than later.  He was just trying to be nice, you know.  Let him come willingly.

"Livin' on an all time high--!
(I'm gonna live it!)
First thought we couldn't, but it can be done.
Ch-ch-ch-change is gonna come!"

Things would go so much smoother with a volunteer, not a prisoner!  He thus put all the trademark charisma of a siren that he could into those last words, all of the enthusiasm the song possessed naturally coupled with his everlasting smile.  Come now!  Change was going to come, and that meant the odd man's mind.  Change your mind!  Dance!

The chorus of the song felt even worse than the verse - especially at such a height, with so much power and energy. It was nothing but a flat insult to refuse the call, especially shown his eagerness, and his otherwise lack of audience. But what if one of the deans walked in and saw him joining in? What would they think to see their supposed watchman celebrating while danger happens elsewhere? It was a highly contrived situation, but Sner was sure that they'd sack him on the spot - and moreso than disappointing this performer, he didn't want that to happen.

He stood, frozen to the spot, unable to muster up the heart to refuse him again, yet unable to bring his limbs into motion. He didn't want to refuse, not on such an excellent performance of a song he genuinely enjoyed listening to. Was there any way of making the other understand his situation? It seemed futile.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, feeling his own heart drop slightly. "I can't."

Denskith could understand the audience member's reluctance well enough: duties, orders, something told by another to him that refused any sort of musical enjoyment.  He understood it too well-- not that the Resistance harbored any ill will towards his singing or musicality, per say, but that the activity was a hazard to those around him.  He himself was a hazard.  And, insubordination certainly was a hazard that should be taken care of as soon as possible, regardless of how or why or . . . Erm.  Where was he before this?

The blood was wearing off, and fast.  He had to act now before he remembered why such testings were bad--!  And, it was a small instrumental break, so taking a small interlude here was okay.  He would pick back up the verse soon enough.

"You do not feel the need to be sorry," his near-ethereal voice hummed; guilt was a horrible thing, and he didn't want one to suffer from it due to his actions.  Never from his actions.  "You want to come closer to the man singing to you, to ME . . .  You want to be useful to the man.  You want to HELP the man!"  He cast his best smile on the figure, trying to be as irresistible as possible.  He had always been told that he could be quite charismatic . . .

As the man continued to sing again, Sner reconsidered. It wouldn't be so bad if he let himself go, would it? It was hardly likely that any dean would be walking in here, they were far too busy. There was nothing to apologise for, not with such an obliging performer. He drew himself closer towards the man, reaching out a hand to take his. It still felt weird and out-worldly, but everything would be fine, things would work out... That was when the lyrics had registered in his head.

These weren't just song lyrics. It wasn't even of the same song. He was being controlled, manipulated. All at once, the realisations flooded in - it was why he'd found himself staying despite needing to go, and why he'd stood up on the stage and suggested a song. It was why he'd felt like a foreigner in his own skin. And now dancing. This had to end.

Except, he couldn't. He wanted to help the man. He couldn't stop him, he had to help him. That was what the lyrics said, and that was what he felt compelled to do. This time, the internal struggle was evident as Sner tried to force his actions into his own control. Raising a hand, he reached to tear that emotionless white mask off his face, and drop it to the floor, before aiming a serious look towards Denskith.

"Why are you doing this?" he said, still gripping to the other man's hand with one of his own. He needed an answer. Now.

Mental strain began slowly upon Denskith, his smile persisting through all of it but, well, still a strain.  The blood made it easier, of course, but with its effect seeming to rapidly fade-- he didn't want it to fade, not yet-- it was harder than he would have preferred.  If the masked man decided to continue his inner battle, if he did not give in soon, Denskith would probably pass out due to the effort.  That had happened several times before in Windor, and it was never pleasant.

He returned the audience's grip calmly, making sure it was comfortable for him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he insisted, but not worriedly insisted, no, no.  He wasn't worried at all!  He knew the man wanted to stay, really wanted to stay.  What he was doing was giving rhyme and reason to an already-there impulse.  Maybe.  He had to persist, though! had to finish what he started.  His head now aching, the man pushed harder:

"Help me practice.  Pretty please?"

Sner could almost feel himself regaining control, and having a grasp on himself again, wincing in frustration as the professor denied all knowledge. No, why would he sing lyrics specifically like that, especially when they did not match with the song? There was no other explanation for it. No other way to describe the sensation all over his body.

His grip on the man's hand was shaky and trembling, as if wanting to just tear it away, yet, being unable to. Either the other man's grip was harder than he thought (and it certainly didn't feel as such), or puppet strings were holding it in place - metaphorical or otherwise.

Then, another command, as clear as daylight. Help him. Help him. That's all he wanted, so why not? "I will help you," he said, before realising the words that flew out of his mouth. No, he couldn't control his own voice now. He was a hostage inside his own body. It was so bizarre, yet distressing - like a trapped bird in a cage. Was this what the paralysed felt like? But even they might have some peace of mind - there was conflict even in there.

"You have to stop this," he forced out, desperate to cling to both his sanity and sense of control.

There it was!  See, see--?  The feathered man--feathered?--focus!-- wanted to help!  He wasn't being forced to, see?  He was going to help, right out of his own mouth and volition.  Denskith's smile nearly beamed at that; he was going to help!  How wonderful!  It was very much appreciated; with a living creature to manipulate, he could accurately judge how much his powers had improved with the blood and how much more accurately he could use those . . . those powers . . .

The next sentence wiped Denskith's smile away.

Have to--?  He didn't have to do anything now, did he?  No, no, Wolfgang wasn't here, the Resistance wasn't here, and he could control himself better than anyone else.  He could control this!  Why didn't they see that?  Time and time again, he seemed to be rejected by those who didn't understand his abilities.  He could control this, though, and he would show them, prove to them that that was the case!

Mentally, Denskith desperately fought back.  It was proving difficult; he didn't understand why.  Was his blood really wearing off this quickly--?  Had it always worn off this quickly?  He couldn't let his mind wander, though, instead focusing as much as he could on the fight.  He would win this.  He would gain complete control--!

"No.  You . . ."  His breath was heavy.  Dizzy-- "You will help me no matter what!"

The moment Denskith's smile disappeared was the moment that sent a shiver of dread down his spine. He was about to apologise again, as needless as it seemed to be so far, but Denskith's had continued to sing, and... Oh no, those lyrics.

No matter what. Regardless of what inhibitons he held against following his command, no matter how much his mind was desperately tugging at the reins, he had to obey. His arm jerked involuntarily, and a twisted grin appeared on his face - the sort of grin that did not want to appear. Help him. That meant that he couldn't do anything to hinder him. His trembling fingers balled into a fist, but remained exactly where they were, no matter how much he tried to force it into movement.

A deep, ragged breath escaped him. "Your name will b-burn for this... I hope you are aware." There was no anger in his voice. Just a calm, quiet tone.

He breathed a sigh of complete and utter relief as the audience member's resistance faded.  Good, good-- no, this was terrible!  He had just stolen away someone's free will-- or, rather, their ability to use that free will.  He had needed a practice target, yes, someone willing to be commanded upon-- but, that was the key word, willing.  Was this man willing to help him?  No!  This was exactly what he didn't want!  A-and, his words . . .

Denskith squirmed where he stood, his face twisting as he bit his lip.  He didn't want mental resistance, but he didn't want this kind of resistance, either.  What to do, what to do. . . ?

"Be more relaxed in your smiling," he commanded-- what else could he do, at this point?  He didn't want his name to burn, but it was going to burn regardless . . . whatever his name being burnt meant.  A nametag, maybe?  Or, something more theoretical, like his reputation?  Before he continued, then: "You will not tell anyone about what has happened or will happen on this stage on today's date and time.  Relax, now."  He should be saying the same thing to himself; he was sweating now, sweating.  "I won't harm you."  His last command wasn't really a command (it would take more than that to command himself) but rather more of a promise.  He wouldn't harm this man.  He didn't want to harm this man, as much as it seemed otherwise.

Sner had surprised himself with the dark threat, usually reserved only for the foulest of beings. But this man, as far as he was aware, was part of the castle staff. A supposed guardian of those who sought shelter here. But the veil had worn thin; he'd snatched away his self control like a wicked puppeteer. What sort of sanctuary was this, where the monsters were the ones protecting? He knew that the deans were to be alerted - but there was a sprouting worry within him that they might be the exact same.

His smile relaxed more into a flat, completely ingenuine twitch of the lips. 'Or what will happen'... What else was the man going to rob his control of? How inhumane could one get? The answer soon came as Sner was forced to relax, his tense limbs losing their rigidity. He glanced around, his mind reeling over possibilities. He couldn't tell anyone else... but perhaps, with the aid of a Lexi sprite, he could. Not without risks. Or so help him, he'd burn his name by himself.

"You are a monster," he murmured. The man had gone beyond hope now. He wanted this entire affair kept a secret. This was a more than intentional infiltration of his mind. "You should feel ashamed."

The insult went too far.

Denskith took a step back-- then, another.  He shook his head over and over, time and time again.  Don't call him that.  Don't call him that, whatever you do, no matter how true it is, no matter how horrible that truth is; it needed to be said, but he didn't want it to be said, not now and not by-- not by some bird-man!  That's what he was, that's what they all were, all monsters trapped on this little island, waiting to be accepted by a world that would never give in, but that didn't mean that he liked it!  He was once human!  Human!  He once had normal legs and voice and-- and-- and not this constant craving for something he knew was so, so wrong!  He was a hybrid now, a real monster, something that shouldn't have existed and something that, if he lived that scene all over again, wouldn't have existed.  He was a monster, but that didn't mean he liked the term.  Far to the contrary . . .

His breathing was sharp, the man almost hiccuping for air.  His eyes were wide, though they weren't focused on anything.  Broken.  Something had broken in him, and the blood had completely worn off.

Withdrawal hit.  HARD.

His hands raked through his hair, continuing to shake his head, continuing to hiccup for air.  The muttering began so quietly that words could not be distinguished, but they were there: "I'm not a monster, not a monster-- yes, you are-- that's what I call myself, yes, but I'm not really-- yes-- no-- WOLFGANG calls you a monster, that's what you are-- he's wrong-- he's right-- I don't want him to be right-- and, your actions-- MY actions--?  I was just-- no-- no, I'm not a monster-- please, no-- I'M NOT A MONSTER!"

The end of the moan, though, rang throughout the stage and its seats, Denskith staring desperately at the bird man.  Please . . . Please, just understand!  Could he at least explain--?  Why would he listen, though?  After all that he's done, why would anyone listen?

He continued to shake his head back and forth.  Rake his hands in his hair.  Hiccup for air.  Try to suppress the tears that were already brimming . . .

At his words, something started to resonate in the other man, and he didn't know what. Was he starting to feel remorse for his actions? Or was it--- or was it the word 'monster'? It seemed so over-the-top of a reaction - obviously, he'd hit a sensitive nerve somewhere.

He watched - despite the convictions that he held against the man, he couldn't help but feel the slightest pity. Such a dramatic display of woe! But it wasn't entirely undeserved. No matter what pity he felt, he had not neared the line of 'forgiveness'.

"I might suggest that you shan't act like one, then," he calmly replied. He didn't care at all for the man's appearance - he'd seen stranger, even in human civilisations. But it took a particular strand of sadism to do an act such as this. How could he not be aware of that? Had he thought that he could just get away with it, manipulating him not to say anything? Sner could find relief in the fact that he was not ill-prepared; he had resources that could help him bring justice. A worried thought crossed his mind - one that wondered if he'd done the exact same to others and that they too, were forced into silence. And what suffering that would be...! It had to end.

He looked to his balled fist again, watching it twitch slightly as it still refused to move. It seemed the best option he had was to wait out until the man was done toying with him. Disgusting.

He looked up from his woe-- literally looked up, with his back bent down and his hands curled around his head in false protection to the singular woe, almost rolled up into a ball (except, he couldn't actually "curl into a ball" with the state that he was in, as any attempt to bend his knees would likely result in losing what little balance he had left and tumble down to the ground like a helpless child, the worst insult in any form of disgrace, this current one included).  It was rather pathetic, he knew, but how could he help it?  How could he change it?  His head stopped shaking back and forth, at least.

He studied the feathered man through wet eyes, the drops coming down as calmly as he could manage.  Maybe, if he didn't make a big deal about them, they wouldn't exist.  Maybe.  Or, he could command them away--?  But, that would be a command upon himself, and it was impossible to properly communicate in that state.  Instead of a command, then, he hiccuped.

"I-I'm sorry."  Had he said that already?  It didn't seem to do any good before, if he had.  Perhaps another would help.  "I'm sorry, I just needed someone to practice on, and you were there, and I was so HAPPY, a-and--"  His blurred vision caught the clenched fist.  "You can-- you regain your own will now."  The notes were shaky now, nothing like the precise melodies of before.  How shameful.

"I'm sorry."  There was no way the tears were not noticeable now.

Denskith's rather feeble display wasn't earning him much sympathy from the watchman. On the outside, a man could show anything. On the inside, a man could be anything else. Sner himself had already experienced exactly what he was - a manipulating fiend. That's why he had the Lexi sprites. That's why---

Then he apologised. He blinked at him with visible surprise at the following words, his tense limbs suddenly relaxing as control was restored. He could see the man's expression, the tears on his face... and he could feel nothing but confusion. He had him captive - why was he letting him go? Was this remorse?

But there was no way that Sner could forgive him on the spot. He'd done something dire, ruthless and invasive and he'd taken it way too far. He'd long overstepped the line. Brows furrowing, a hand snatched forth to try and grab him by his collar, relieved at the control that he now held over his own body. "Sir, you are coming with me. We need to have a talk." And maybe a drink too. He turned with every intention of dragging him back towards the main castle.

The man was too involved in his self-guilt to stop the grab of the collar, nearly allowing the drag towards the exit-- but, no, he couldn't!  He attempted to slow their efforts towards the doors, digging his heels into the stage and, instead of grabbing onto scenery and the like like he should have-- well, this was more important-- he began to hurriedly wipe away his tears-- but, they kept coming!  They kept flowing down his cheeks and stinging his burns with no sign of stopping.  He had to try, though!  He didn't want anyone to see him like this-- someone already HAD--!

"C-can't we talk here?"  He was done with commands, done with their concequences and his horrible misuse of them, thereby piling on more consequences.  He should have never done this, never approached his audience member, never-- never have tasted blood again-- he couldn't regret that, though.  No matter what, he couldn't regret-- "I'll let you do whatever you want to me!  I'll--"  The first and last option came hurriedly to his mouth: "I'll let you gag me!"

He had been gagged before, yes-- when he was on a particularly wild blood high, when his emotions were too distraught to know when to sing and when to speak in proper words.  No good memories were connected to being gagged.  What other option did he have, though?  He wanted to regain this man's trust, if he ever, truly had it before.