Stephen’s Personal Chambers [Azazel]

The personal chambers of Stephen Vazgoth III are a lavish but eerie sight. Like a few of the denizens, the décor is almost entirely of darkest black. The cherry wood gives the room a sinister reddish sheen here and there. Scattered around the place are various devices of torture and execution, weapons, as well as the odd coffin or three... some freshly crafted and others a bit filthier; as if they’d been recently dug up. Even Stephen’s bed has been carefully crafted to resemble the shape of the iconic coffin, though is technically big enough for two.

He gets claustrophobic if there’s not space enough in which to comfortably move.

A straitjacket hangs from a nail in the wall, blood-stained side out. The mask he’d been made to wear upon arrival seems to shift about from place to place due to the occupant’s odd and erratic modes of thinking. Sometimes it’s hidden in order to forget the memories associated with it, while other times he contemplates pulling out the barbs and wearing it again, only on his terms rather than another’s.

In regards to chiefly personal effects, Stephen has none with him except the necklace with which he’d used to strangle his wife Kalypso. It is on proud display above the mantle, the pendants and jewels glinting ominously in the correct light. Stephen intends to visit Carpatus to collect his things so that he may add his own personal touches to the room.

For one thing, the asylum hadn’t let him take his collection of scalpels...


There are two doors leading from Stephen's chambers. The one directly opposite the main entry leads to a bathroom. Beyond the door off to the side are the adjoining chambers of one Rowan Violet Baines, a woman Stephen freed from a lifelong sentence within an asylum. Specifically why he insisted upon her release is a mystery, but he does enjoy spying on her through the keyhole every then and again when other hobbies aren't dominating his attention.

Stephen paced within his chambers, thinking. There was a map spread out upon the table, held open at each corner with a skull of some sort. One in particular looked eerily human. A candelabrum stood proudly not far from it, as Stephen had taken a liking to keeping the drapes drawn in his rooms. Personally he chalked it up to his days at the Carpatus Asylum – there had only been one window in his cell, and only if one stood in just the right spot did the light of day sufficiently assist one to see. ... Usually this spot was on the opposite side of the door, looking into the cell. But that was all in the past now.

Hanging upon the wall was the mask he’d been forced into during his trip to Azazel. Sapphire orbs glanced at it briefly as their owner approached it in the process of pacing. As Stephen had done every other time he had spotted it, he caressed the mask as though it were a lover and continued walking onward as though nothing had happened. In truth he hated that mask... yet despite it all still had yet to get rid of it. After all, it just might come in handy for something later...

Just thinking about the mask and his semi-unwilling trek here caused Stephen to touch the side of his face as he sunk into a lavishly-carved and cushioned chair near the table with the map upon it, so distracted that he was unaware of the drops of blood now smeared upon his fingers. The wounds were still healing though the few that had torn more than just little puncture holes would surely become scars. The balm his healers had given him made shaving a rather interesting task, but eventually do-able. Stephen thanked the gods that he knew how to handle small blades as per the mortician's trade.

Peering at the map, Stephen scoured it for the locations of Azazel and Carpatus, just to see how far he had come with the other inmates. It had taken a handful of days at least to get here to the frozen shores, or so he thought. Stephen knew he couldn’t be entirely sure as his mind tended to quickly disconnect from the notion of how long he’d been in a place. Another quirk added to his character by his stints in the asylum and similar confinements.

The pair fingers stained with blood stroked the portion of parchment containing the village of Carpatus. “I’ll be back soon...” he whispered, leaning over the map to stare intently at that one location. In the same tone of voice and with a rather ominously deranged grin he added, “I promise!”

The room was dark, save for the light from the candles in the twisted chandelier that hung in the center of the room. There was indeed a small window, but Rowan rarely let the sun’s rays shine in…reminded her too much of the window on her cell door at the Asylum. She lay silently on the modest, yet beautifully carved bed, still marveling at the softness. She was afraid to sleep in in the first few nights in here; she was so used to the straw mat on the cold stone floor. Yet Stephen insisted she do nothing to remind herself of that wretched place. He was even kind enough to sit at her side a some nights as she slept, for she feared she would wake to find herself back inside her cell.

Rowan clutched her doll, Missy, in one hand as she outstretched the other, tracing along invisible lines on the celling as she stared up from her spot on the bed. She whispered quietly to herself, spouting nonsense as her finger slowly twisted through the air. Every so often, a morbid giggle would escape her, as she continued her hushed conversation with no one in particular. The years spent in isolation with no one else save Missy took its mental toll on her already fragile state of sanity. Rowan grew to find company in the thin air, as well as creatures not seen by those who did not share her condition. For her, it was perhaps the only thing keeping her from being completely lost to madness. Still, she found it difficult to find rest, still awaking in the night to the cries of the insane imprinted within her mind. The freedom and safety of Azazel still did nothing to rid her of the memories. The only comfort she found was knowing that her savior was just beyond the door of her room.

There were nights she would sneak into his chambers, having been awakened by her nightmares. She would watch him sleep for a few moments before curling up upon the floor next to his bed. She knew he did not mind it, he even told her so, though he insisted she not sleep on the floor. But Rowan could not bring herself to disturb him within is bed. As much as she cared for him, she could not help but remember the last time she shared a bed with a man…despite the fact that Stephen was not her father. Still, he seemed to care for her as if he were; so protective, so concerned for her welfare. Rowan found herself slowly becoming accustomed to the feeling, and began to revel in it.

Deep footsteps from the attached room echoed under her door. Rowan snapped from her daze to focus on them. He was pacing again. Slowly sitting up, she wondered what could be upsetting him this time. Ever since the arrived here, he seemed preoccupied with something. He paced quite a bit, she noticed. It saddened her to see him so concerned. He was free, she thought, his mind should no longer be burdened. Slowly and a quietly as a cat, she slipped off her bed and more or less crawled over to the door, taking a peek through the key-hole. She could one slightly see him, sitting there, half blocked by the chair. She saw his hand touch the table, catching a small glimpse of crimson upon his fingers. Her heart sank slightly, to see that he was hurt somehow. Without seeing his face, she could sense that his mind was disturbed. With a small, crooked smile, her hand pulled the knobbed and creaked open the door, cracking it enough for her face to show through. Perhaps he could use a friend’s company. With a slight hoarse voice, she quietly spoke.

“Stephy?.....”

The facial muscles in the upper portion of his left cheek twitched at the sound of a door creaking open, tilting his head toward the noise to hear what was going on. Had Rowan left her room? Where to and why was she leaving? Stephen contemplated the map just a bit more and was about to turn and spy through the keyhole when Rowan called to him. The former mortician jumped and turned, eyes wide, though relaxed upon seeing the familiar face and did his best to smile. “Ro. By all means, c’mon in...” he beckoned, curling his fingers in a gesture to come to him and focusing back upon the map again with brows furrowed as though it had said something to him, interrupting his present conversation with the lovely lady in the next room. “I could use some company... too much like the asylum, in here all by myself.”

With little to no warning he pulled the map out from under the skulls to clear an area for them. One skull went rolling off the table and into the seat of the chair he’d been sitting in. Another rolled and fell off the table, splitting in two with a thunderous crack as it hit the floor. Stephen promptly and placidly folded up the parchment and retrieved the skull from his chair, placing both back on a far corner of the table. It wasn’t until he’d done that that he noticed the blood. Glancing between where Rowan stood and the skull now adorned with a bloody pair of finger-marks for a hat, Stephen licked off a majority of the blood upon his fingers before scurrying to meet her mid-way.

“All is well, I hope?” he asked, completely unaware one of the mask’s puncture wounds on his jaw was weeping a light trickle of crimson that slowly meandered almost in serpentine fashion down his neck. The scab that was in charge of its healing had been partially torn off as though by scratch or scrape. “Did the pacing disturb you?” Sapphire depths held a deep and lucid concern despite the fact very few would deem him sane.

Rowan cracked a small innocent, yet eerily dark smile as Stephen invited her further into the room. Slowly she stood and took careful steps across the room, almost as a child timidly approaching her stern father.

“I could use some company... too much like the asylum, in here all by myself.”

She shuttered a bit at the mention of that horrid place, literally feeling a chill run up her spine, or perhaps it was just the chill from the icy palace itself. He was right in one aspect though: she did not like being alone for an extended period of time. Rowan nearly stopped dead in her tracks as one of the skulls came crashing onto the floor. She stared at it with mild curiosity before reaching down and carefully retrieving it, handling it as if it were a delicate flower that would further disintegrate should she make the slightest wrong move. She examined it for a moment, placing the two pieces together, almost seamlessly, and then tucked both halves tenderly under one arm before continuing across the room.

“All is well, I hope?”

“Yes. I believe so.” She said softly, her hands moving to hold out the broken head bone to him. She glanced at the table, wondering what had held his attention she deeply. Whatever it was, he had already put it aside. Perhaps nothing important, though if it was causing Stephen to pace, it must be intriguing. Raising her eyes back to his face, she noticed the trickle of blood that streamed down his neck.

“Did the pacing disturb you?”

“Oh no, it didn’t” She said, shaking her head vigorously, though it was only a half truth. “Just worried. You seem troubled. And...and you are hurt again.” She said reaching up and lightly tracing a finger down the stream of blood. She studied the crimson liquid upon her finger tip, taking in its every aspect: the deepness of its color, its bitter metallic sent the warmth against her chilled skin. She fought the urge to explore its taste as well, curious if it was the same as her own, though refrained from doing so, afraid it would anger him. Instead she raised the blood covered finger to his eyes, as though to prove to him that it was indeed his own.

“It seems we both still bleed from our wounds. Except you can’t see mine. They’re hiding deep…they only come out when they want to heal.” She whispered, almost laughing at the very idea. “But they don’t always want to heal…”

From the corner of his eyes, Stephen had noticed Rowan shudder. He tried not to remind her of the place, and encouraged her to do nothing that would bring back those memories. Yet, coaxing did not always yield the results he wanted. Sometimes he would sit beside her and ‘guard’ her until she fell asleep from foes both tangible and seemingly-fabricated; other times he invited her to his bed when it was he already sleeping. The mortician confessed to himself only a sense of disappointment when she took the cold floor over lying beside him. ‘There’s always next time,’ he’d often muse with a smirk as he leaned over the side of his bed to watch her as she slept.

A smile stretched the still-healing wounds on his lower face at her response. Stephen took the skull, deliberately brushing his hands against hers as he did so. “Thank you,” he whispered, glancing around for a moment in paranoia. Any minute now, the mortician anticipated an orderly would appear out of nowhere and drag the both of them back to the hell that was the Alranian asylums like a demon sent by the Devil himself.

Like a criminal attempting to hide all evidence against him, Stephen snuck over to a bird cage long since emptied of residents and crammed the skull into it. He then proceeded to cover the cage with its specially-designed fur cover. “I never liked him anyway...” he muttered and returned to Rowan’s side as though he’d simply gone to tend water for tea. “Thought he owned the whole damn ward... the prick...” Upon rejoining the redhead Stephen grinned as though he had told an amusing joke.

A flicker of skepticism crossed the mortician’s face at the vigorous shake of her fiery tresses, though his attention shifted from the truth in words to the beauty he found in her features. Was Stephen troubled? Silently, he took inventory of his thoughts. Should he go back? When would he go back? How would he get there? Would Rowan be alright by herself? Should he take her with him? What if he died on the journey; who would take care of the woman then?

Stephen tacked a sheepish smile upon his face, deeming that he must indeed be troubled.

Confusion danced within the eyes of the madman, watching keenly and rather enjoying the feel of her skin upon his as she made the motion of wiping something from his neck. Then it hit him: the blood that had stained his fingers had come from there. With a sort of bated breath Stephen watched Rowan contemplate his blood that was now upon her finger. He had ideals when it came to blood that did not mesh well with the rest of society, both Alranian and Carakleinian. The mortician had no fear or nausea at the sight of blood. In fact, Stephen enjoyed it. It didn’t matter whether it was his blood or someone else’s. Always present was the curiosity to explore the liquid that gave life – examine its color, its scent, the feel of it upon and between his fingers... and, for a reason he couldn’t explain to the sane of mind or those not greatly enthralled at the prospect of battle, its taste. Stephen was not a vampire; however, exploring the taste of blood even if it was the familiar taste of his own greatly invigorated him.

As her finger was held aloft level with his eyes and Stephen watched the crimson liquid cascade down the digit, he did what only seemed natural: he took her hand in his and lowered it to his mouth. Without even thinking how Rowan would take to such an action Stephen reached out with his tongue to catch the falling blood, and licked off approximately half of the amount that had been there. He contemplated licking off the other half but decided against it and released her, not yet considering it the best time to make his move. The mortician was sorely tempted, though... and not just because it was blood: he’d tasted Rowan’s skin as well. Awkwardly he grinned at her, encouraging her to take the other half-measure of blood for her own tasting if she so desired.

“It seems we both still bleed from our wounds. Except you can’t see mine. They’re hiding deep…they only come out when they want to heal.”

“But they don’t always want to heal…”

“Then we shall make them heal... just as they made us cry out in pain,” he replied, mimicking her hushed tones and trying his luck by placing his hand upon her arm in what he thought was a gesture of comfort. From an outsider’s perspective it would appear as though he were trying to steer her in a controlling manner, though his grip was far from vice-like. “When yours come out to play, we shall be ready and waiting for them. I promise.”

Rowan watched curiously as Stephen took the skull from her hands, his face slightly fearful for a moment. Her eyes followed him as he stuck the piece of bone in the birdcage, wondering for a brief moment who it had once belonged to. Her eyes moved around the room slowly, taking in every detail: the black theme, the “coffin” bed, even the mask she had aided in freeing him from caught her eye. Her memory flew back to that split second choice to assist in his escape, the prospect of instant death fully on her mind. She couldn’t explain why she had such a strong need to see him free, perhaps she believed that if she showed mercy to another, that fate would reward her with mercy as well. Much to her surprise, she was right. Perhaps it was because she was willing to risk her own life for Stephen, a man whom she knew nothing of, that he insisted she be freed and put under his care. But whatever the reason, she cared not, she more than grateful to him and in her eyes, he was her savior.

She was quite taken aback when without warning he had brought her hand to his mouth and licked off a fair amount of the crimson stream that had begun to creep its way down her finger. The feel of his warmth upon her skin sent an invigorating tingle up her spine, yet at the same time, felt a slight twinge of fear, or perhaps it was merely shyness. She recoiled only slightly, but could not help but close her eyes a short moment as the sensation filled her. As she opened them they fell directly into his own icy colored orbs. She felt nearly hypnotized by him. Everything about him was fascinating and frightening all at the same time. There were times when it seemed to overwhelm her.

A coy smile played upon her lips as he released her hand. Glancing at the remaining blood, upon her finger, she pondered for a moment, and then merely rubbed it gently into her own skin, rather than wiping it away; it would seem like such a waste.

“Then we shall make them heal... just as they made us cry out in pain,”

Rowan’s smile widened a bit. She was not by nature a violent person, nor vengeful. But the idea of enacting vengeance upon those who had wronged them both seemed a sweet remedy to all the pain and abuse she had endured in the two years spent in the hell hole. She knew beyond a doubt that Stephen was quite capable and more than willing to follow though upon his words. Secretly, she even hoped he would and that she would be present to witness it.

She barely noticed when Stephen placed his hand upon her. She was so used to the forceful, cruel hands of the guards that the gentle touch was nearly unrecognizable. It was moments before she had even realized it and made no effort at all to shy away, and instead, prayed he did not remove it, for she once again felt safe in his hands.

“When yours come out to play, we shall be ready and waiting for them. I promise.”

A spark of pleasure hinted in her emerald eyes as he told her his promise. If anyone could help heal her wounds - metaphorically as well as literally- it would be Stephen. For not only did she unwillingly host demons that played cruelly within her sanity, but also still bore her own physical wounds from the beatings she endured after freeing Stephen. Her wrists still bore half-healed lacerations where the shackles had gouged into her pale skin, among many other cuts and bruises that littered her thin body.
Her attention finally broke from his face as she slowly turned her gaze to the desk. Genuinely concerned as well as curious, she still wondered what had made Stephen so agitated.

“What was that paper?” she asked, hardly above whisper, her tone almost that of a curious child. “Was it what was troubling you?” She thought for a moment, determined to ease his mind. “…Something I can help with?...”





(Ok Stephen, cool your jets.. I know what you’re thinking! xD)

(roflmao... you know him too well. XD)


Her deepened smile made his own lips curl further. Stephen had noticed the first day he’d met Rowan that she was not exceedingly violent like he was. She was actually quite docile and timid. Those traits had become even more apparent when she had tried to recoil from the touch of his tongue to her finger moments ago. Yet, she seemed wholly interested in his plans for bloodthirsty vengeance. Either that or Rowan was just humoring him. Should he take her with him on his eventual trip back to Carpatus? Or should he leave her here in Azazel until he returned?

Decisions, decisions.

The trip was sure to be lonely without some form of companionship... Even if she didn’t get into the bloodletting as much as he, it went without saying that Rowan’s company would no doubt still be enjoyed. For the briefest of moments Stephen closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her pressed up against him when other inmates before them had stopped at the gates of Azazel. At the time it had been several months since he had felt the touch of a woman, though it felt like ages. Sometimes it was maddening to know he had a member of the female persuasion practically at arm’s length, but she was for the most part off-limits for the time being. For some strange reason, he didn’t want to have to kill this one in the event she denied his advances. The mind of a psychopath was not something easily explained.

At least there were those laid to rest in the local cemetery to occupy himself with. Soulless shells of the long since dead who could deny him nothing in their present state. There was something about the dead or swiftly dying that the mortician found irresistibly attractive. Something Rowan didn’t have, yet at the same time it was something Stephen didn’t want her to have. Perhaps it was the flicker in those large green eyes – a feature that would not be there, he knew, without some life in her – that caught his attention and added to her overall allure in place of bluing flesh or a state of decay.

Stephen noticed it took Rowan a little while before she realized he had laid his hand upon her. He took the fact she didn’t shy away from him before or after discovering it as a good sign. Although, a part of him couldn’t help but entertain itself with thoughts of what if she had shied away and denied him... and the chase that would have no doubt ensued. The mortician wondered if it would have been similar to his altercation with Arianna Terris, or if it would have been completely different. And if so, how different would it be? It didn’t matter to Stephen that he barely knew the woman; the thoughts and fantasies were entertaining and continued regardless.

Rowan’s still-healing injuries caught Stephen’s eyes and subsequently his thoughts after the woman broke her gaze from his, whisking him away from previous musings. Stephen still had a fair share of his own wounds, though only the ones upon his face were readily seen. His arms suffered from muscular aches that could only be seen in the occasionally stiff way he moved about. Curiosity instantly went to the lacerations upon her wrists. They were clearly not fully mended and he knew what the salt from one’s skin did to an open wound. However, Stephen couldn’t resist reaching out to the one nearest him to touch the angered flesh. He intended to take care and not touch the wound itself...

“What was that paper? ... Was it what was troubling you? …Something I can help with?...”

Although her voice was nearly as silent as the whistling of wind, Stephen’s hand jerked at the sound of her voice. Once more any thoughts had vanished from his mind. Ebony brows began to knit with confusion at talk of a paper: what was she talking about? Azure eyes almost the hue of ice darted back to the table that he’d been standing near, settling upon the folded map. That’s right... he was looking at it just moments before she arrived. “A map,” he answered simply, setting his sights directly into the emerald windows to Rowan’s soul.

Stephen’s hand migrated from the woman’s arm to rest just above the small of her back. “Join me... I’ll make tea,” he said, for the moment putting off answering her other questions, and gestured to the table he’d been pacing passed. The mortician gave her a small encouraging nudge before, with strange reluctance to be parted beyond touching distance, he strode away to prepare the promised beverage.

“I need to go back...” the man began and haphazardly poured water into a kettle from a large porcelain-esque pitcher that sat within a basin near his bed. A little of the liquid splashed onto the floor and upon his leather boots. With a bit more care than the previous task he set the kettle over the fireplace used to heat his lavishly-sized chambers, and crouched to add a bit more wood to the fire. For a few seconds Stephen watched the amber flames begin to consume the bit of tree, fascinated by it, before he tore his eyes away from the sight and stood to rejoin his newest friend.

“I hear them calling to me... they think I forgot where I put them, beneath the floor. On the desk... Everywhere,” Stephen explained, re-approaching ever closer. The sapphire pools revealed only slightly that this was the true source of his agitation. He wondered if this made sense to her as much as it made sense to him. “The men that dragged me away weren’t to know where I kept them safe. Only one stays with me, safe and sound. It was the only thing I had that they let me keep...”

Rowan kept her eyes upon Stephen’s face, as if she were attempting to solve a puzzle. Why was this man so feared? She knew he had the potential to be violent; she witnessed that when they were both chained together. But in her mind, anyone would become tempered had they been restrained in the manner than he was. But in the time they had been freed, she had not seen one instance of the rage she had seen before. This made her wonder why he had been placed in the asylum in the first place. Perhaps he was merely a victim of circumstance; conveniently locked away. Whatever reason it was, Rowan was convinced it was not due to insanity, for he had been nothing but kind to her, perhaps strange in the eyes of others, but again, so was she.

Emerald eyes followed his hand at it lightly touched the flesh around the wound on her wrist. She winced slightly, but it was his gentleness that caught her mind more than the slight twinge of pain. Indeed, he seemed quite rough around the edges, but Rowan could only see compassion in his icy eyes. Compassion and a spark of something Rowan could not quite put her finger on. It intrigued her greatly and she felt herself increasingly drawn to it. Finally her eyes broke from his as Stephen explained the parchment she had asked about. A map? Why would Stephen be troubling himself over a map?

The question was quickly pushed aside as Stephen offered her tea. She smiled in acceptance and followed his gesture without resistance. Watching intently as he stared into the fire, Rowan couldn’t help but absently create and play with a small flame upon her fingertips. She had the thought to play around with the flame a little more, but the concern in Stephen’s voice kept her attention away from the flame that danced in her hand.

“I hear them calling to me... they think I forgot where I put them, beneath the floor. On the desk... Everywhere,”

Rowan's eyes flickered around the room warily, afraid the voices she hears in her own head were now trying to torment Stephen as well. Curiosity caused her to inquire further about …”they”. “Wh-…who is calling you, Stephy? I hope it is not the Dark Ones….they frighten me.”

“The men that dragged me away weren’t to know where I kept them safe. Only one stays with me, safe and sound. It was the only thing I had that they let me keep...”

Rowan was not extremely curious as to what – or who – he was speaking of. Rowan opened her mouth to speak, but no word emerged. What could she possibly say to him? She knew nothing of his life nor his plights. How could she even hope to bring him a sense of peace? Still the prospect of him leaving frightened her. Ever since she had been thrown into the hell-hole of the asylum, she feared the idea of being alone; of being abandoned. Her eyes widened slightly as dread filled her. Why would he leave her? Did he not know the safety she felt in his presence? A jolt of panic shot through her body, causing the flame she had forgotten in her hand to grow larger. Finally after a moment, she found her voice, surprisingly calm. “Leave? Why must you leave? We are safe here. From all the others who wish to hurt us…”

Rowan stepped closer to Stephen, decreasing the gap between them. Her eyes locked with his as she spoke hardly above a whisper. “Would you leave me alone here?...I do not wish to be alone again…”. With her hand she reached out to take his, not realizing it still cradled the small flame.

The moment her skin touched his she remembered the flame and pulled away, immediately realizing she may have burned him. Backing away quickly, she caught the edge of the desk with her palm. Finally, she curled her fingers into her palm to put out the flames, but not before a few papers on the desk caught on fire. In horror, Rowan quickly threw her hands upon them, cringing slightly at the brief sting of the flames, though successfully extinguishing them without much damage to the documents. Satisfied that no flames were still prevalent, she swiftly tended to Stephen, praying to the gods she did not harm him severely.

“Oh Stephy! You are not hurt are you? Please forgive me! I did not mean to….I can’t control it sometimes…stupid fire…never goes away when I want it to….always burning people….” The image if her mother engulfed in flames suddenly flashed in front of her and watched the burning body reach out to her as if it were standing before her very eyes. With a scream she flung herself to the floor. “I’m sorry momma! I’m sorry momma! I didn’t mean it!” She shouted at no one in particular. She sobbed for a moment before becoming deathly silent save for her breathing. Slowly tilting her face to meet Stephen’s, green eyes glimmering with tears pleading with his, she whispered.

“Don’t leave me…”

Fire... a fascinating and sometimes terrible thing. Dragons spewed it, human beings knew how to start it, and even some of the species were able to conjure it up. It had been a distant ancestor of his that had learned how to quell a dragon’s firepower, albeit at the expense of either exterminating the creature’s life or irreversibly altering it. On one hand, Stephen wished he knew how to control fire. But then again... if he did... it would likely have caused the destruction of many a home during spurts of childhood and teenaged anger. The asylum would have also likely burnt down... with Stephen still trapped within.

As he once more approached the woman, it did not take much at all for Stephen to notice the small flame in Rowan’s hands. A portion of his mind set itself aside to marvel at the feat, while the other was still entirely concentrated on the map and what it meant to him. How curious that she knew how to summon fire. The mortician hadn’t recalled his companion having mentioned that particular ability, nor had he seen it in action until now.

Ebony brows knitted together, icy eyes following Rowan’s emerald ones about the room watchfully. Did she notice someone watching them? This was a new place for both of them, after all. However, Stephen had full confidence that his cousin wouldn’t have given them these particular chambers if there was any possibility for being overheard or spied upon. His thoughts were interrupted by her quiet questions, which was a good thing.

“Wh-…who is calling you, Stephy? I hope it is not the Dark Ones….they frighten me.”

Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure quite how to explain in a manner that would not surely scare her off. He had an image to uphold around her, after all. When he noticed Rowan too was in the same pose of parted lips, the mortician had within the blink of an eye imagined his lips upon hers and what they must feel like. Realizing he was inching forward to take what he wanted, just like in most of his romantic endeavors, Stephen gave himself a little shake to snap out of it. The woman deserved an answer and he had yet to give her one. “No... no Dark Ones... People I knew, both in life and death. They call from beyond, demanding my return to collect them before they are lost,” he explained quietly, almost whispering as though in fear of the spirits overhearing and swooping down upon him in vengeance. “I placed the cherished dead to rest, in my old life.”

One eye grew larger while the other stayed the same, in response to Rowan’s own eye-widening. While it was an odd thing to say let alone think and acknowledge, Stephen could smell the sudden burst of fear on her. Animals could also sense fear, he knew, and like a wild animal the mortician seemed to thrive on it. However, his senses immediately became confused upon hearing the calm in her voice. Good questions, both of them, and good points, Stephen acknowledged. He opened his mouth to speak once more when Rowan stepped closer. Almost instantly his breath quickened, taking rather keen notice that the gap between the pair of them was ever shrinking. Stephen wondered if, perhaps, this was his chance to pursue the fiery-haired woman.

“Would you leave me alone here?...I do not wish to be alone again…”

“I...” Stephen began, honestly about to admit he had not yet thought that far in advance. Having forgotten about the flame in her hands, when the mortician saw Rowan’s hand reach for his Stephen immediately stretched out his own arm to take the offered hand. “OW!” he shouted the moment their fingers touched, burned slightly by the flame, and backed away a couple of paces. His attention immediately shifted from Rowan and her flame to the burn marks upon his hand: how they stung, yet at the same time how the tingling and reminiscent licking of flame invigorated him at the same time. He already knew he enjoyed pain in a sort of love-hate relationship, though couldn’t help but become completely engrossed in watching the burned flesh redden for a moment or three. Slowly Stephen flexed his fingers as though this were his first experience in being burned, an expression of fascination that was almost ominous upon his features.

Hearing the sound of paper shuffling he looked up just in time to see Rowan putting out flames that had sprung up on the desk. He approached the desk to assess what had happened, at first barely noticing Rowan had taken to examining his hand and the minor hurts it suffered. Damage to his documents were minor, and if he had to say so seemed to give the paper some additional character. “Of course it hurt... but I am fine. Don’t worry,” Stephen murmured, attempting to slowly drape his fingers across her hand. The mortician couldn’t help but snicker at her mutterings about her ability to control fire. He had just reached to tuck a lock of flaming hair behind her ear, about to reassure her once again not to fuss about it, when she screamed and made a beeline for the floor.

“I’m sorry momma! I’m sorry momma! I didn’t mean it!”

Stephen stayed stock still, an eyebrow raised. He had no idea what caused the scream and the actions and words after it. Confused at the shouts meant to be heard by her mother, the mortician tilted his head and only felt qualified enough to watch her cry until she settled herself. He wasn’t used to all of this, and even when Kalypso went through her own emotional periods had felt exceedingly awkward despite being married to the woman. All he would do was stand there and watch, waiting for a moment for when his wife was more settled and able to discuss things rather than taking the plunge and jumping in to console and soothe.

Very slowly, as if afraid she would lash out at him in realization he was not her mother, Stephen lowered himself to the floor. Icy sapphires remained fixed on the feminine form before him. Willing to push the envelope, even at his own expense, the mortician crept forward to close the gap between them. The only pause he allowed was when she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. Was it still for her mother that she cried... or some other reason?

“Don’t leave me…”

Stephen sank the rest of the way to the floor, mindful of where he placed his knees. Because of the flair of Rowan’s skirt his knees rested atop the cloth, though it would taste a lie to say it hadn't been purposely done. The gap between them was so diminished it would almost appear to an observer that they had embraced. He tilted his head, eyeing the teary emeralds curiously and cautiously. Just as he had before the scream, the mortician reached up towards her face. Unlike last time, however, his actions were instead focused on attempting to brush away the forming tears. “That is not my intent,” he murmured, cupping the side of her face with his hand. “Come with me. Together we can seek vengeance, and I shall show you my old life before I was taken...” Stephen urged, trying to go against his nature to tower over her. It was difficult when he was so close... Six months without the touch of a woman was a long time. Now not only was there a woman before him willingly in his presence, but within close proximity to boot. All he had to do was lean forward and the gap would disappear entirely. And if she struggled... well... Stephen had ways of dealing with that.

“Let us build a river and fill it with the blood and corpses of those that deserve our wrath,” he whispered, a tingle of excitement beneath the quiet words. Without even waiting for her to respond Stephen pulled Rowan by the jaw to meet him in a hurried kiss, determined to make the most of it.