It's So Beautiful Over There

[Maxwell]

As if in a trance Farnham stared at the man, stared at his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he laughed. Very vividly, he envisioned strong, decaying fingers gliding into place around the man's throat, strangling the life out of him. No matter how he tried, nor how vividly he imagine it, he could not glean even the slightest shred of satisfaction from the thought. In fact, he could not so much as feel offended by the arrogance that surrounded him. Somehow, he reckoned he should at least feel violated - that person in the coat was searching around in his head, for crying out loud! Still, standing there and acting dumb would probably be the safest course of action. A call from the woman who was not a mage shattered that plan, as well - very well, then. After all, what choice was there but to obey? Or, wait... would it be fun if he tore a finger off and tossed it to her? No, it would be too imprudent, too much of a risk and, in the end, Farnham was not convinced that it would serve a purpose, to damage his already decaying body for no reason. He forced his cloth-wrapped shape to turn around where it stood and step closer to the woman. Peeling back stained linen, he revealed his ashen-grey left hand, his bony, yellow-clawed fingers protruding from it like spines.

With the effectiveness he'd learned by his master's oven, he swiftly offered the woman his naked hand. Flies massed on the now-bare skin, clamoring in and around a lengthwise gash across the palm, where he'd cut himself to ease the swelling, once corpse gas had begun to inflate his body. The flesh inside the wound was oddly discoloured, but dry. Any liquids it might once have shed were long since gone. As he held his hand out straight for the vampire's perusal, Farnham took the opportunity to eye her closely, mapping out her body for lack of a better thing to do. His eyes were safely hidden in the shadow of his hood, of course, but he would have done it anyway. Some habits go beyond the grave. "My finger", he offered dryly.

[Jenica Sabiny]

The stench was worse with the bared flesh, and it was plain enough that this creature was more the walking corpse than the vampire could ever hope to be. She expected maggots to drip from its skin like cream-colored teardrops, but none emerged. Still, she considered that they might be inside of the flesh itself.

It had never occurred to her that as a living corpse she might suffer from the actual effects of rot. She had never experienced anything like what this creature was clearly going through, and she had long since decided he could not be a vampire. The shadows remained hers entirely; there was no part of them which craved another's company. This more than anything told her that the corpse before her was, at the very least, not a vampire.

Or was it? She did not know for certain that every vampire had companionship with shadows as she did. Perhaps it was specific to her sire, or only one line. Perhaps there were several families of vampires, each with their own traits. Or perhaps she and her sire were the last. She had no way to know beyond going and asking him directly, and this was not something she would ever do.

She reached out with the vial, staying just inside its range and tipping it enough to let a small trickle run along the offered finger. Satisfied with the amount given, she stoppered the tiny vial and placed it back into her pocket. She tried to meet the dim eyes past the darkness of the hood, shuttering her own against the red steadily building in her own irises.

"Eat."

She tilted her chin slightly in the direction of the fingertip she'd soaked in the odd blood, staring at the dark shroud. Now she could only wait and see what it would do to the creature.

[Maxwell]

Farn could only tilt his head and stare at the strangeness of it all. She was pouring something red, something very much resembling blood onto his hand. Once, it might have disgusted him. Now it just happened, and he determined that finding out what would happen if he licked that liquid up would probably be less dangerous than finding out what happened if he didn't. Of course, he did a lot of speculation during those seconds it too for her to finish. Was it poison? Would it kill him for real? Would it restore him? Would it enslave him or put him under the effect of some other strange magic? Well, perhaps it would be better than coming under the effect of a fireball right then and there. Farnham looked at his finger. Flies were already swarming over the blood-like substance, and it seemed to do them no immediate harm. Still, he was a zombie and they were... flies. There might be some subtle differences, he thought with a mental roll of his eyes. He stuck the finger into his mouth, teeth clenched as it dug in under his lips and made its way to his cheek. Tightly closing his lips around it, he pulled his finger out, effectively scraping off both flies and liquid against the inside of his lips.

Sucking the liquid in between his teeth, he swallowed and then proceeded to spit out a tangled mass of half-crushed flies. Farn had tried to keep clean to delay his decay, and he was not at all intrigued by the thought of introducing any surviving flies (and accompanying eggs) to his gastrointestinal tract. He'd stuck oil-drenched pieces of cloth up his nose, as well, though those were less than noticeable on one who does not breathe. As the crimson stuff slowly made its way down the dry walls of his throat, he waited... and waited... and waited. Nothing. Farnham pulled the cloth back over his face and considered his options. It wasn't certain that insulting the capabilities of whoever had created the drink would be wise, so he decided nto to ask what it was supposed to do. Rather, he thought that these people might as well take responsibility for their magics (or whatever that vial was) and ask, themselves. Farn, he'd just stand there and look at the woman, and wait.

[Nichatus]

Nichatus stood back and watched the proceedings, trying not to breath to heavily of this creature's stench. It was....overpowering, to say the least. The mage's mind still circled the question of what this thing was like a hungry predator cowing its prey. Could it be some form of fleshed revenant? He pondered it for a moment longer, until Jenica requesting the creature's finger broke his concentration.

What did she have planned? He was about to ask when he saw the vial come out of her pocket. That's not going to work, he thought with a smile. He may not know a lot about the liquid, but he knew it was engineered for Jenica's specific...ailment and doubted that this creature's problem was anything like hers.

The handsome face screwed up in disgust as the smell was increased by the revealing of the hand. A knot of stomach acid and half digested food threatened to make a reappearance as the creature stuck its finger into its mouth, flies and all. Then the hand was gone again and the stench returned to its normally disgusting face. Nichatus's face was, however, still pinched up in a sickened manner.

"I could have told you that wouldn't work," he said, turning his eyes from the walking corpse to Jenica. She was a walking corpse herself, true enough, but at least she didn't smell half as bad. Much easier on the eyes too.

[Jenica Sabiny]

She watched with purpose when the creature moved the entire fly-encrusted digit into its mouth and sucked off the blood. Her eyes roved over its figure, waiting for some kind of reaction - anything at all. But there was nothing. While it spit the fly-juice from its mouth, she rocked back onto her heels from the balls of her feet. Disappointment claimed her a moment - and then she moved on, internally.

Whatever had been given to her was specific. This creature couldn't be a vampire, not in the state it was in. She'd deprived her own body for weeks before and gotten nowhere near the state of decomposition staring back at her. The mage's statement afforded him a sidelong glance of disapproval; his observation was unnecessary. She was tempted to shove him to the floor just for the hell of it, for the sheer satisfaction of overpowering a mortal.

But he'd proven himself too much fun, in the end. She did not want to hurt him because at least he was entertaining. This was not something she'd often found in mortals. He'd been entertaining for nearly an hour in her presence, not including fixing the memories he'd dislocated in her mind. She would not rid herself of an interactive toy until it became boring.

She crossed her arms, considering their next destination. She could roam the streets at random, sniffing in the air and hoping for the barest whiff of the man she was supposed to track. But this was a fool's quest. Even if she found him, what did she care? She still did not know what the bottle contained beyond blood that acted differently than other blood. She would not let herself be tricked when she could so easily check to see if the blood was potent enough to work its intended purpose.

She glared at the silent Pont where he stood trying to shrink into the background, unwilling to purposefully call attention to himself. Her voice cracked out harshly against the night air, disturbing the almost-visible scent fumes rising from the creature before them.

"Where?"

Pont seemed confused a moment, looking from the battlemage back to the vampire as he tried to think of what she might be asking for. Giving up, he shrugged and shook his head. She snarled and produced the vial again, shaking it at him in her frustration.

"Where?"

She never thought to clarify her meaning, expecting him to remember on his own.

[Maxwell]

Nothing. Obviously, as the mage had confirmed, whatever had been in that bottle had been completely wasted on him. Farn told himself that he should feel satisfied, that these people had now paid for interrupting him. Sadly, there simply was no way he could feel that any of it mattered, now that everyone's attention had been diverted from him. Unless these people decided to blast him offhandedly as they left, there did not seem to be any overwhelming risk of destruction. Not that there was anything saying they wouldn't, just... judging from the tones of their voices and the looks that were exchanged, as well as the disgusted look on the coated man's face, it might just be possible to win the favour of the woman by being a little... unpleasant to the man. The cowering wretch in the background was obviously of no consequence, and could be safely ignored. These people were obviously folk of some power - one could guess as much from the way the woman barked orders, and the coated man showing her no excess respect. Maybe they could help a lone zombie out. If nothing else, getting his body - and more importantly, his emotions - back was worth risking his life, or undeath, for. Everyone was ingnoring Farnham now, however, and that could not be allowed to continue, unless he wanted to be left there on the street.

Being left on the street might have been the better choice, true, but that was something he would never find out if he were left on the street. Farn had something of a plan. He'd never been a genius, he'd be the first to admit, but there was something about this state of undeath that cleared the mind. Through conscious effort, he forced his lungs to expand, making a whistling sound as they took in air not only through his throat, but also through two holes in his chest, where he'd stabbed himself like he had cut his hand. With a theatrical gesture, he placed his right hand over his chest as if saddened, dextrously blocking the stab wounds with his wrist and middle finger. Turning to the man in the coat, Farn gave a deep sigh, expelling a breeze so utterly pungent that a week-old battlefield could not have matched its olfactory might. Aiming for the coated one and the one the woman was ordering around, hopefully, would create a moment of silence. At that point, Farnham wedged himself into the conversation. At that point, he was grateful for his theatrical demenour in life. "It's sad", he began, still covering his chest as he had his other hand make a meaningless gesture at the air to his left, "that there is no common courtesy between people anymore".

Farn's voice remained the same as in life, and with some effort he could make his speech as lively and nuanced as any human's - and he still had a complete register of emotions, their realistic and theatrical variations and the tones of voice associated with each firmly implanted in his memory. At least that's what he liked to think. Never the less, even though it did take some concentration, he could fake emotions rather well. Not that a lot of people could remain collected enough to notice any mistakes, while under the effect of his corpse cart odour. With a gliding step toward the mage, he flicked his thumb in his own direction. "I, for one, seem to have completely misplaced my manners. I hope you'll forgive me - although I normally would not object to be chased down by a beatiful woman, that sort of situation is undeniably more fearsome in the middle of the night...". Right, he should have their attention by now, which meant that all that was left was finding out who they were and if they could cure him... without getting himself killed. The greatest problem was the fact that Farn could not think of a plan more likely to succeed than the one he was trying. Get the woman on his side by annoying the man. Now, he just needed some idea of how to make fun of the guy - breathing death in his face just wouldn't be enough in the long run.

"Farnham Malus. Baker and dearly departed", he said with a joking flourish. He still kept his face covered, as his ashen features did not make for pleasant expressions. "If I may ask - what was it I just drank?"

[Nichatus]

"I believe she means the Alchem..." he had been saying to Pont before being interrupted by a gust of stench in his face. He gasps a bit, and almost gags. It was a horrid stench, like the air around bits of body that had been trapped in a poorly treated leather bag for several weeks being forced out by some sudden pressure. He shook his head in an attempt to force the scent out of his nostrils.

"You are one to talk of common courtesy, blowing such foul wind in someone's face. I should drag you off to The Hall and let the necromancer pick you apart and use you for his little creations, you bumbling pile of rags." He glared at the undead man for a moment. "Or perhaps I should just cave what is left of your mind in upon its self? Yes, that's a splendid idea. Let that corpse of yours feel the wind again and then turn it into sheer walls of pain."

The battlemage gnashed his teeth at the corpse for a moment before taking an almost jarring change in tone and thought. "It was an altered form of blood. Supposedly has the ability to reverse her," he points nonchalantly at Jencia, "ailment. No matter though, didn't work on you."

"Nichatus Von Trier, by the way. Now, if you don't mind, our little troupe has business to attend to. Pont," the man, still looking ravaged by hunger, jumped a bit at being addressed again. Probably due to the vehemence that had been in Nic's words just a moment before, or maybe he was just extremely timid. "I believe Jenica was asking you to continue guiding us to the alchemist."

[Jenica Sabiny]

Ailment. Again, as though she was merely diseased and there was a simple cure to vampirism lying about. And still, she did not care to be cured; she only wanted to feel warm again.

She huffed an impatient breath while the corpse gave its own introduction, followed by the mage's rambling explanations. It helped her in that she did not need to bother trying to explain on her own; it bothered her in that it was a waste of time. Names and destination were irrelevant; they needed to get there, that was the important bit. And standing in the middle of the street discussing their intentions wasn't getting them any closer.

She did not join their conversation to introduce herself, seeing no need for her name to be known by all present. Time was still being wasted, and she had a task to complete. She glared first at the mage, then at the creature they'd found, and snorted out her distaste of mortal formalities. If the two wanted to bicker, she did not care - she just wanted to get going.

She looked up expectantly when the mage addressed Pont, informing him of her intentions. She was somewhat confused about why the man needed the clarification, but it was already taken care of now so there was no reason to dwell. Not waiting for his response or for either other member of the party to consent, she took a step and started a steady trudge in a random direction. Pont released a small mew of surprise, then joined her. As before, she kept her gait slow and deliberate to keep pace with his shuffle, intent not to leave the useful tool behind. She had no idea where she was going, after all.

[Maxwell]

Farn listened carefully to the words of the man. He would have to be a mage - who else could threaten a walking corpse with pain? But to feel the wind, that would be something grand, indeed. Perhaps getting on the good side of this mage would be a better bet than trying for the woman... especially considering that she didn't seem impressed in the least. Forgetting to acknowledge the mage's insult as it flew by, and not even considering acting appropriately intimidated by his threats Farnham opened his mouth again, despite being quite clearly asked to mind his own business and let the solemn trio proceed. With an apologetic gesture, he glided away from the mage. "My thanks for the information, and my apologies for the smell, I... sometimes forget that I am no longer among the living". That was a complete and utter fabrication, of course - how could he ever forget? "But I must ask - and I realize this might be a bold request - may I follow you, lord? I should like to speak with a skilled alchemist... for obvious reasons. Also, to feel the wind again, can you truly do that? Not to say that I doubt your abilities, my lord, but as a mere commoner, I had no idea such was even possible. In the state I'm in, I daresay even a, uh, what did you call it? Yes, even a 'sheer wall of pain' would be a pleasant change".

[Nichatus]

"Well, I suppose there is nothing we could do to stop you from following, save removing your ability to walk, but that would be a waste of time and someone seems impatient." With that he turned on his heels and followed after Jenica and Pont.

Based on the proximity of Farnham's mind Nichatus knew that the creature had, indeed, decided to follow them, and continued to speak to him. "As to your other question, yes, I can do that. I can do a good many other things." The battlemage began to apply subtle cues to the still functional mind of the corpse, muddling the signals being sent to it by his eyes. The effect was so subtle and thorough that Farnham would probably not realize that he was now seeing the street and people before him as if the sun were at high noon until it was pointed out to him.

"Have you noticed, Farnham, that it is quite bright out for nearly three hours 'til midnight?" A self-satisfied grin moved across his face. "The mind is such an easy thing to fool when you know what...'switches' to flip." He continued to walk near behind Jenica, having caught up to the other two now, and could not help but admire the woman's physique from this new angle for a moment.

[Jenica Sabiny]

Jenica overheard the creature's comments on what seemed to be a type of numbness, and she stopped short to turn and stare at him. Her eyes moved from the tip of his head to his feet and back, judging every inch of his length while she thought on the implications. He lived inside of a corpse, just as she did - though the similarities in their species seemed to end there, it was still a closer connection than she could feel with any mortal.

While the mage fiddled with the creature's mind, she moved back within speaking distance. Pont only stopped walking, not coming any closer for the stench. The vampire crossed her arms lightly against her chest and slouching where she stood into a more comfortable position. She inhaled deeply to speak, flinching at the strength of this creature's stink.

"You don't feel pain? Nothing?"

She raised the burned hand, stretching the fingers wide to strain the skin. It was almost entirely healed save for pock-marks of burned flesh where the coals had burned through to the muscle.

"All this corpse feels is pain. Nothing else. You don't feel it?"

Her eyes were bright with honest curiosity when she voiced the question. This was something new - a creature worse off than herself in its own capacity to feel.

[Maxwell]

Well, that went unexpectedly well. No flaming end to undeath - no damage at all, actually. Farn followed suit, of course, making sure to walk no faster and no slower than the mage. Things might start to get very interesting around that man. As it was hinted that a demonstration was coming, the undead baker's apprentice faintly acknowledged this as a situation where steeling oneself might be appropriate. If only he'd been able to. Some seconds passed, and before Farnham's patience ran out the man asked if it weren't unusually bright out. One look at the street before him and, indeed, it turned out that it was light as day. What torment - he could have been gifted with any feeling or emotion the mage desired, and he was gifted with one of the few things he was still capable of sensing on his own. A thought struck him like a shaft of lighting. A though pertaining to his own, sneaking lifestyle. He said, nodding, "Interesting. Sunlight in my head and before my eyes. I must know - how does it work? Since everything I see is in sunlight, can I detect things that hide in the shadows that they see, but not I?". If mages could do this so simply, without a visible gesture or spoken word, then surely sneaking when the city's guardsmen were around would be laughable at best.

He did feel some urgency in finding out what the answer would be, but the white-skinned woman (whom he had started to suspect was not a human at all) interrupted with seemingly no care for his questions. Still, what choice was there but to reply? He saw her flinch as she breathed, her own fault as far as he was concerned - he only wished the sight could have made him smile. Speaking of stench, he would have to find somewhere to wash himself clean of the worst fly nests and the stench that was not his, but the corpse cart's. Not that he smelled like roses, but tonight was a tad more vile than most. She said her corpse could only feel pain... her corpse? She also lifted her hand, and Farn could see some sort of injury healing as she spoke. A fast healing corpse meant... if he only bent forward and look hard - yes, he could see the teeth when she spoke her last word. This woman must be a vampire. A very rude and thoughtless vampire, but a vampire none the less. In response he peeled the cloth off his lower face and pulled back his hood. When he'd swallowed the blood, he'd just used a tear in the fabric, but this time he revealed all of his unpleasant features.

His face was ashen grey, just like the rest of him, but the rot had very much left before he'd no longer look human. His features were still pleasantly shaped, and his eyes still discernibly blue. He still looked horrible, though, but that was for other reasons. His lips were both split apart in the middle, obviously sliced open with a knife, and cuts ran just below his cheekbones, not deep enough to connect with the inside of the mouth, but deep enough that they'd certainly have bled generously on a living man. Two similar cuts split each eyebrow in twain, and there was a gash across his forehead, as well. Small cuts and pin pricks ran along his hair line, and a few longer wounds trailed off into the jungle of brown hairs. Sharing his face with the cuts were small bubbles of elevated skin - places he hadn't cut. Pulling back his lips, Farnham revealed two rows of relatively normal-looking teeth set in gums that were more brown than pink. He shook his head. "I assure you, my lady, that if I could still feel pain, I'd have passed out by now". Looking up, he stared into her eyes. When the living forget to keep themselves in check, they display emotions. Farnham instead forgot to show emotion in the urgency of his following words, and his voice rang dry and impersonal. "But you, you must be a vampire. Vampires can create more vampires, I have heard. Could you make me one and save me from this state? I'd rather be your slave for eternity than shuffle around as a bag of bones till I rot".

[Nichatus]

"No," he said simply, at first, "you can only see what I can see, though your mind perceives the scenery as it would in daylight." He released the hold over Farn's mind. "The shadows stay just as dark in the illusion as they are in actuality, unless I choose to hide something from your eyes." He opened his mouth to speak more as Jenica suddenly stood in front of them, unmoving.

He watched with a curious eye as she questioned the man. Did she want to become less feeling or did it confuse her that someone could feel less than her? He silently debated with himself over asking her why she questioned the man, and whether any measure of commanding or pleading would stop her from attempting the transformation. If she became like Farnham everything Nichatus found interesting in her would most likely disappear. The personality, the strange mentality, and the appealing physical nature of Jenica would likely degrade into nothing.

The battlemage didn't just have a personal stake in her remaining a vampire and a vampire only, though. If she became....more undead...she might lose the enhanced senses that made her useful to the Judges. No, no, he could not have that.

Then Farnham began removing the wrappings of his head. Nichatus sneered in disgust at the face that lied beneath. Deformed from bubbles of corpse gas, cut in multiple places to release said gas, and rotting in almost as many locations. It was rather unsightly. Melagone's creations were looking like more welcomed company at that moment.

Then his question was posed. The young man's jaw hung slack. If Jenica took the creature in her arms and sank her fangs into the rotting flesh...or whatever it was it took to make one a vampire, he was sure that the oats from earlier would definitely be making that return appearance they had threatened with so many times since the making of Farnham's acquaintance.

[Jenica Sabiny]

In the background, Pont laid a hand over his mouth and turned, fighting off retching at sight of the zombie's features and further stench.

Despite her relative dissociation from emotions, the vampire couldn't help but reel back when she saw his state. He was more the corpse than she could ever be - and in some way, it put her own state into perspective. She was living inside of a dead body, just as he was, but her body was in stasis where his was decomposing.

A sense of superiority overcame her. She straightened up slightly, even puffing her chest as though to make herself look bigger. Her instincts told her that she was the dominant in this situation - the superior of two corpses, just because of the status of one versus the other. She couldn't help a moment's idle triumph. This...male...was inferior already, with no need for her to establish dominance otherwise. Removing her instinctive need to establish some kind of dominance made her job much easier.

Which meant she could skip all of that arbitrary nonsense and focus exclusively on his question.

She stared blankly at him. It was odd, to see someone who would benefit from becoming a vampire. For the first time she regretted that she had never studied her own species further. If it were possible to help this male, in such clear worse condition than a vampire could ever be, then she would have consented with hardly a second thought. She was torn by the knowledge that making him like her would be a boon, a blessing that lifted him up from his current state - but the fact was, she had no idea how to accomplish the goal. She couldn't remember how she'd been created; the memories were too lost in pain and fear for her to remember specifics. Even with the mage's mental conditioning, they still lay beyond her grasp...

"Don't know how."

She looked at the mage, blinking once, then twice, as she thought up an idea. She took a step closer to him, as though intending to menace him into doing her will - then stopped herself, remembering that it might not be necessary or helpful. This mage was odd and playful in the same way she was; perhaps he would help of his own accord.

"Can you find?"

She tapped a finger against her temple.

"Inside. Can you find how?"

[Maxwell]

Farn was not surprised by the mage's response, but the memory of that response quickly faded to the background as the full weight of the woman's words descended upon Farham's undead mind like a particularly dense and volatile fireball. The resulting explosion in turn resulted in something capriciously close to exhilaration and hope. Had he been human still, he would likely have dropped to his knees. She'd do it! She would cure him of his curse. Of course there would be drawbacks to vampirism as well, but he would have an eternity to find a cure for that, and most importantly he would have the power to take whatever cure he could find! Of course, one of the drawbacks might be eternal servitude to the woman... but that was a small price to pay. Also, she did not seem to know how and, on closer thought, he would have to be prepared for the possibility that the transformation might not work on a zombie. For a moment, he acknowledged a benefit to his condition - despair might have grasped his heart during such thoughts. Farham's corpse stood perfectly still as she spoke to the mind mage - what a perfect coincidence, that she should have someone like him with her right at this point! Even if he could not retrieve that information, there had to be vampire lore available somewhere in the city. Farn would just have to suggest the right place at the right time - oh, yes. He'd already decided he would tag along with these people for a good while.