Topic: Warning!

Michael Nguyen

Date: 2010-02-22 10:00 EST
Winter still proved a difficult season for Michael Nguyen, even after all the years away from San Francisco. The cold winds and the watery half-sunlight played havoc with his mood, and the snow made the Univega he loved useless for riding, for the narrow racing tires were ill-suited for the drifts and ice. Tristan recognized the signs of the blackness threatening his friend early into the season, and so for Christmas, his gift to Michael was an all-terrain bike, one with a belt system rather than a chain to power the larger wheels over the winding trails that surrounded the Manor. Of course, the day after Christmas a blizzard hit, making the forest impassable for over a month. Finally, the sun showed its face again, and the snow softened enough for Michael to take his new bike on its maiden journey. He suited up for the cold; a baselayer shirt, windstopper tights with bibtights layered over them, a jersey layered over the shirt, winter gloves, his helmet, and a new addition to his attire given to him by Elise - a sports jacket that looked like something Batman would wear, designed to protect his upper body in case of a crash. He smiled as he zipped it up, remembering the look in her eyes when she'd given it to him, "to keep him safe", she'd said. He left Tristan a note on the table in the main foyer, telling him he was taking a ride once around the expansive Manor grounds, and he'd be back for dinner.

The air was chill, but not unbearable as Michael started his ride, the bike running well over the softer snow covering the trails. His breath billowed out in thick puffs of white steam as he increased his speed, testing the handling and the braking of the bike with the joy one can only get from being outside in the fresh clean air. Michael soon reached cruising speed, racing over the snow-covered trails like he he was flying, one with his machine, growing more and more daring with each push of the pedals.

Gaston de Laurier

Date: 2010-02-22 10:46 EST
The deer was strong, swift, a creature fully in the prime of life, the great Prince of the Forest. In the natural order of things, the buck would've lived many seasons, and fathered many offspring. Unfortunately, it crossed the path of a preternatural being. The death squeals sent small birds scattering into flight.

A shaggy head lifted from the carcass, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, nostrils flaring as a scent came to him on the cool winter's air. The sharp tang of oil, metal, and PVC almost covered the sweat and heat beneath it. Not even the fresh kill before him fooled his nose, human though it was at the time. For buried under the layers of grease and exertion, he smelled the faintest hint of oil paint, and the barest touch of white roses.

Growling laughter sent a squirrel, out seeking some of its hoarded nuts, fleeing back into the safety of its den. A manic glee lit the eyes of the man. The deer was not meant to sustain him, for he preferred softer flesh, but it was meant as a warning. And now, a much better warning was approaching.

Michael Nguyen

Date: 2010-02-22 11:05 EST
Michael accelerated up a slight grade to jump over a shallow, frozen-over creekbed, but his landing was abruptly interrupted when he caught sight of what looked like a fallen log right in his path, forcing him to roll off the bike to avoid colliding with it - the armor doing its job well as he hit the ground, hard.

With a groan, Michael rolled up to his knees, flexing his back under the armor, very grateful Elise insisted he wear it. He edged closer to the log that had broken his stride, his eyes going wide with shock when he realized it wasn't a log at all... but the remains of a deer. From the front angle, Michael could now see the ripped-open belly, the blood and entrails staining the snow beneath it a sickly reddish-black. He shifted into more of a crouch, his entire body on alert, for even the city boy he was could see the kill was fresh, an hour old at the very most. He breathed in slowly, fighting the urge to retch, and he listened. Whatever did this, whatever was strong enough to bring down the prime buck had to be nearby, for the carcass was hardly touched.

A menacing growl snapped Michael's attention to his left, bracing as a huge shape bull-rushed him to his back. With a shout of focusing chi, he got his legs tucked under the creature and shoved outward with all his might. The crunching thud he heard gave him the opportunity to regain his feet, not noticing his jersey was torn at the shoulder, revealing the plastic armor beneath it. He crouched slightly, staring at what he had flung off him, something that was now... laughing, as he (for it looked like a man) snapped back into a low stance.

"Who are you - what do you want?" Michael called, advancing towards the man. A chilling laugh met his ears.

"I cannot believe my luck. I wanted to send my brother a message, and look what comes to me, but the one he protects. Perfect." Michael felt the rage within him swell, and his eyes swam with a red haze - he knew who this had to be, for Tristan had told him, warned him, and his own voice growled in response.

"You won't get to her - I won't let you!" The man growled back, a purely bestial sound that slurred his speech.

"Oh, I think you will."

Michael didn't see the beast-man spring, but he felt the impact, or rather the armor did, cracking like eggshells with the impact of his back to the still-frozen ground. He swung a hook from his back, and again used his strong legs to shove the beast off, but the effort cost him. Michael was young, and strong for a human, but he'd been riding for a couple hours before nearly hitting the dead deer, and that crash, combined with the attacks by the beast, had Michael panting and gasping for breath, slower to get to his feet. Just as he drew upright, a blurring rush met him mid-chest, tumbling them both to the frozen creek bed, the thick ice spidering into long cracks at the horrific impact, jarring up Michael's bruised back, a sharp pain telling him ribs had likely broken as well as the ice.

Gaston de Laurier

Date: 2010-02-22 12:05 EST
Gaston pinned Michael beneath him, blood from the connected hook shot to his temple dripping onto the smaller man's cheek, bending lower to hiss at him.

"He can't keep me out forever. She WILL beAHHH!"

The boast was cut short by Michael's head slamming into his, French curses pouring from his mouth along with more blood. A shove got Michael out from under him, and a sweep of a strong leg sent Gaston crashing to the ice, pure unadulterated rage powering Michael's second wind as he tackled the bigger man, lefts and rights landing almost unblocked, battering the beast-man almost to unconsciousness.

But, Gaston was only toying with Michael. He played possum, allowing the smaller man to expend his fury, and the moment his broken nose told him the adrenalin was ebbing, Gaston struck out with a clawed hand, raking across Michael's chest, carving through the jersey and the armor beneath like they were the underbelly of the deer.

Michael cried out, flailing a last shot with his left, his right clutching at the ruins of his jersey, cutting his arm on the jagged edges of the armored jacket. Gaston sat up, hauling Michael to his feet with him by the throat, claws pricking the flesh on either side. His blood-laced breath made Michael's stomach churn as Gaston pressed in, nose to nose, raw power and manic glee in his growling words, barely heard over Michael's choking gasps.

"Tell my brother, I am waiting."

The minute he finished speaking, Gaston's hand blurred, and blood poured to the ice, slowly flowing like the creek would in the spring. A howl split the air as he flung Michael away from him, the smaller man landing with a crunch half on his side, more blood seeping from his chest and stomach, slowly freezing as the sun set. Another blur, and with a growling laugh, a large black wolf loped into the thicker forest.

Tristan de Laurier

Date: 2010-02-22 14:13 EST
Dinnertime came, and went, and Michael still had not returned from his ride. Concerned he had fallen prey to an ice patch or a hunter's hidden trap, Tristan summoned Omar to the Manor to guard Elise, and after promising he would bring Michael safely home, he went out in search of him.

The wind had picked up once again, heralding a fresh barrage of snow, so Tristan picked up his pace, calling out for Michael at intervals, the only sound returning that of his own breath and his own quickening heartbeat. He broke into a jog, nostrils flaring as he followed Michael's trail, which was still visible in the dwindling light - not that Tristan needed the light to track him.

A dark twisted shape caught Tristan's eye, and he ran towards it. As he neared, he could see it was the remains of the mountain bike, bent and broken like matchsticks, the tires pulled so hard the spokes were broken, clattering together in the wind. Tristan stopped cold, breathing in the early night air. He moved slowly towards the dead deer, eyes following the crushed and muddied snow to the edge of the creekbed.

His movement blurred as he leapt down to the ice, which groaned in protest under his landing. It wasn't long before he was kneeling at Michael's side, tracing fingers through the congealed blood, testing his neck for a pulse, which by some miracle was there, thready and faint, but still there. As Tristan examined Michael, he gasped, managing only one word before he slumped back into unconscious oblivion.

"Elise.." Tears fell upon Michael's battered cheek, the hoarse whisper hardly recognizable as Tristan's own.

"Mon fr?re, what has he done to you..?"

Tristan flung his head back and howled to the night sky, howling his rage, and howling a challenge to the brother he knew still lurked in the woods. Tears flowing more freely, he gently gathered the limp form of Michael in his arms, carrying him as effortlessly as one carries a small child. He stood on the ice, staring out at the forest beyond the creekbed, his words less like the refined businessman, and more like the beast within him.

"This is not over, bastard, not over by a long shot."

Never had Tristan moved so fast, knowing Michael's life held on by a thread. And even if Michael survived the night, what of the next day, or the next full moon?

Michael Nguyen

Date: 2010-02-23 12:55 EST
Michael hovered near death for days. A very reluctant Omar used his power to cauterize the worst of the internal injuries, muttering all the while he was a mutant, and not a doctor. After the bleeding was stopped, Elise tenderly stitched the slashes closed with fine silken thread, while Tristan looked on with a heavy heart. Michael was an innocent, not part of the blood feud between Tristan and Gaston, yet he could pay the ultimate price, simply because he rode through the wrong place at the wrong time.

At last, Michael lay upon his bed, having been carried to his room by Tristan, and made as comfortable as possible. Bandages wrapped him from shoulders to abdomen, his lower body covered with a soft cotton sheet. A small fire burned in the grate, the flames casting light and shadow over his face, which while still bruised and swollen, was now cleaned of the blood and gore. His chest rose and fell with each shallow, halting breath, sweat beading on his forehead as his body fought for its very life. But he did not fight alone.

From the moment Tristan staggered into the foyer carrying Michael's torn and battered body, Elise hadn't left his side. She held his hand in both of her dainty ones while Omar used his power to stop the massive bleeding, she crooned soft non-words of soothing comfort while she repaired the wounds on his chest and stomach, and was now cooling his forehead with a cloth dipped in the bowl of water in her lap as she sat at his bedside. Another bowl containing ice chips nestled on the floor by her little chair, for when his lips cracked open in a barely-audible moan. She slept in the chair, refusing to leave Michael's side to tend her gardens, or even to eat. He needed her now, more than her roses did. Ava brought her trays of her favorite dainty foods that often went untouched, Tristan brought a soft cot into Michael's room that sat unused. Long thought to be delicate and fragile, Elise showed her true inner strength in this moment of need, and she gave all the strength she had to the one who touched her heart so long ago. She fought for his soul back then, and she fought for his life now. Whatever the days ahead brought to them, Michael and Elise would face the days together.

Omar Ranth

Date: 2010-02-25 00:47 EST
Omar stood at the study window, his head resting against the back of his right hand as it rest upon the window over his head, staring out into the night. At intervals, the glass of single-malt scotch was brought to his lips.

Some hours before, he'd used his gifts, his Powers, his curse (depending on who was asked) to save the life of the only "normal" person in the entire Manor. Traces of blood still stained his fingertips from the terrible wounds he'd sealed with the fire that constantly burned inside him. Omar hadn't wanted to do it - he told Tristan flat-out he wouldn't do it, the risks to Michael's life far outweighing the benefits in his mind. He had control of the fire, yes, but he'd never even dreamed of attempting such a delicate undertaking. But, Omar did what Tristan wanted in the end. He owed the man, for starters, for without Tristan's intervention back in France, Omar would have danced at the end of a hangman's rope for a series of fatal arsons he didn't commit. Besides, Ava had given him "that" look as well - even if he could refuse Tristan, he could never say no to Ava...

He sighed, and downed the rest of the scotch in a single gulp, exhaling wisps of smoke as the alcohol blazed down his throat. Omar was used to playing with fire - from the time he hit puberty, fire was his constant companion, for good or bad. But Michael had been through so much already, Omar knew, and it struck the older man as being unfair, somehow, that it was the young cyclist who was targeted, and not him. While Omar was no fighter, the flames at his beck and call would've at least leveled the playing field against a brute like Gaston de Laurier.

Omar turned from the window and walked towards the door, setting his empty glass on the tray beside the liquor bottles. For the first time since his powers manifested themselves, he felt the gentle tug in his heart to pray. Only a Higher Power could help Michael now, he thought, as he headed for the small private chapel. Once inside, a touch of each candle wick flared each to life. Then, surrounded by dozens of flickering lights, Omar clasped his hands together, and lifted his glowing orange eyes to the vaulted ceiling.

"Please, let the kid be OK. Please."

Gaston de Laurier

Date: 2010-02-27 22:11 EST
The shack was once the office of a logging operation that has been poised to make a pretty silver off the rare and exotic ancient trees in the forest. But that had been long ago, and the forest had nearly reclaimed the structure. Moss and vines covered the exterior walls, twining through the broken windows, pushing their way through the widening cracks in the boards. It was a desolate, dangerous place, perfect for the wolf trotting up to the doorway, the door itself long buried and decomposed under decades of fallen leaves and bracken.

A voice broke the eerie silence, a commanding growl that would have made a lesser creature cower or flee. It only made the beast roll its grass-green eyes.

"Gaston, it is past the reporting hour. You must be there - answer me at ONCE!"

The wolf sneered, revealing jagged, blood-tinged fangs. It padded into the center room and sat on its haunches in front of a rather unremarkable piece of polished bronze. Reflected in its surface was the distorted face of a large man, eyes blazing in impatient fury. With a huffing snarl, the wolf lowered its head, its muscles rippling under the coarse black fur. Snaps and pops echoed in the shack as bones broke and reshaped, legs unfolding and rolling into a crouch, muzzle shrinking and widening, wicked claws withdrawing into still-sharp fingernails, the fur receding until all that remained was his long shaggy black hair.

Gaston crouched naked before the bronze mirror, only the slightest wince betraying any pain from his shift from wolf to man.

"I hungered, so I fed, Father." The reflection snarled, which seemed to summon a second being, glints of light blue eyes appearing over the man's shoulder, hovering there in wait.

"It does not take one of your power all day and all night to hunt. It is two hours past time." Gaston shrugged, tossing his hair so it hung in his face, feral eyes gleaming at the mirror.

"I felt it was time to give my brother notice that his adventure is almost over, so I left dear Tristan... a little present." The elder de Laurier glowered at his son.

"What sort of present?" Gaston grinned, an evil smirk reflecting over his father's image.

"The Rider emerged outside. He fought back," Gaston reached up and touched his still-tender nose, "but he was no match for me." There was silence behind the bronze.

"Is the Rider dead?"

"I tore open his belly and flung his carcass into a frozen creekbed, Father. He could not have survived." The reflection scowled.

"Yes... but are you SURE he is dead? Did you feel his life leave his body?" Gaston heaved a sigh, and stood, taking a step towards the mirror.

"...Father, I -" A roar cut him off.

"You didn't make sure, did you? You ASSUMED you finished him! I will NOT have some weak half-breed mock me!" He snarled at Gaston, his eyes glowing red in his rage. "Make sure the Rider is dead, Gaston, or I will have Setheus make sure." The elder de Laurier abruptly turned away, leaving the other alone for a brief moment. He smirked at the now-fuming Gaston, and then the polished bronze went blank.

Gaston growled low in his throat, glaring hotly at the bronze mirror. No one, man or beast, survived when he attacked them. His father was being paranoid again - the Rider was surely dead. And if he wasn't, the Change would surely kill him.

Michael Nguyen

Date: 2010-03-13 23:39 EST
Morning dawned warm over the Manor ten days after Michael had been viciously attacked, and while he was no longer hovering at Death's door, he still had not regained consciousness. The terrible wounds on his chest and stomach were healing slowly, kept clean and free of infection by the daily ministrations of Elise. Each morning after she awakened, before even taking care of herself, she took care of Michael, folding back the sheets and gently washing the stitched claw marks with warm water blended with healing herbs from her garden, humming all the while she worked.

On this morning, while Elise cleaned Michael's wounds, he stirred, moaning softly as his eyes slowly blinked open, focusing on his beautiful angel of the flowers - the reason he'd willingly stood toe-to-claw with a half-mad Gaston. She smiled brighter than the morning sun, dropping the soft cloth she used on his wounds into the water and taking his hand in both of her dainty ones, her voice a whisper of relief.

"Mon amour vous avez ?veill?." Michael managed a weak smile. His French still needed help, but he had learned enough to make him lightly squeeze her fingers at her words.

"Yeah..." He coughed once, which made him grimace in pain. "I feel like I was hit by a bus..." Elise's crystalline blue eyes filled with pain of her own, knowing how much Michael was hurting, reaching up to gently smooth her fingers over his forehead.

"You had us all so worried, mon amour." A shadow fell across the door, the low cultured voice carrying from where Tristan now stood.

"Indeed we were quite worried, but now, you are awake, mon fr?re.." Tristan walked over to Michael's bedside, with a gentle smile for Elise. "Petit, could you go to the kitchens and get Michael some broth? Now that he is back with us, he will need to rebuild his strength." Elise looked at Tristan for a long moment, reading his unreadable expression, then she leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Michael's forehead, her whisper breathing over his skin.

"I will return very soon, mon couer." She squeezed his hand, and quietly stood up and walked to the door, bare feet padding in near silence over the stone, giving the men a long look over her shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

Tristan de Laurier

Date: 2010-03-23 11:10 EST
After Elise had gone, Tristan sat in her little chair at Michael's side, examining his wounds with a sorrowful eye. His expression was guarded as he spoke.

"I am sorry for this, mon frere, more than words can say." Michael tried to smile, but the effort made him cough and wince in pain.

"Hey... you didn't make me fight him, Trist - I could've booked..." Tristan shook his head, reaching for the small bowl of ice chips Elise kept on the floor by her chair, taking one in his fingers and gently laying it on Michael's lips, his words punctuated with a heavy sigh.

"The only thing you could have done differently is die at the B?tard's hands, for he would have hunted you down like the deer he slew before you rode into his path. To tell the truth, he did not expect you to survive, for when he hunts, he does not wound, he kills." Michael swallowed the cool water that beaded on his lips, narrowing his eyes to focus on Tristan.

"What do you mean, he doesn't wound? I've got a bunch of claw marks that say different..." Tristan leaned closer to Michael, his dark eyes haunted, burning in the intensity of his words.

"Michael, you live only because of an extraordinary set of circumstances." His long finger traced over a still-red mark on Michael's stomach. "Here, he missed your spleen by a hair's breadth, another fraction deeper, and not even Omar's power could have saved you." Michael frowned, his forehead creasing as he processed what Tristan told him.

"Omar? But.. he didn't get me THAT bad...?" Tristan said nothing, simply lifting the edge of the sheet just enough so Michael could see the full extent of the damage done, long claw marks across his chest and shoulder, deeper gouges criss-crossing his abdomen, the chest wounds healing up pink and white, the cruel wounds on his abdomen still red and scabbed. Michael's eyes went wide, looking up at Tristan as he tucked the sheet back over Michael, still with that grave expression as he broke the silence.

"When I found you, you were near death. Only the ice of the creekbed kept you alive, for it slowed the flow of blood. Omar used his power, at Ava's and my insistence, to seal the worst of the wounds. Elise, she has not left your side in 10 days-" Michael interrupted.

"Wait - whoa.. 10 days?" I've been out 10 days?" Tristan nodded once.

"Oui." Michael coughed again, sagging back against his pillow, looking more confused.

"How'd Omar - he's not a doctor or anything..." Tristan laid another ice chip on Michael's lips, before continuing.

"Non, but he had control over his fire enough to help you. Elise then did the rest, as she has a gift for healing, as you well know." Michael swallowed the water, licking his still-dry lips.

"Yeah..." Tristan's expression made Michael pause.

"Trist.. what is it? I'm not dying, am I?" Tristan sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I am not sure how to tell you this, to soften what you must know." He stared into Michael's eyes, pain etched deep in the older man's expression, making his voice crack with emotion.

"When the moon rises full, in three week's time, it is very possible you will... change. In fact," he slumped in the chair, "it is essentially inevitable."

Gaston de Laurier

Date: 2010-04-03 22:58 EST
Green lights moved through the forest, skimming the ground at preternatural speed. The black wolf raced for the Manor House, eager to prove his Father's paranoia wrong. He stopped just outside the grounds, lifting his nose to the sky, scenting the wind. The scent of oil and grease and sweat was faint, old, like the Rider had not been outside in some time. A smirk formed on the beast's muzzle as he prowled forward, slinking along the pine-carpeted undergrowth.

The black wolf made it about 5 feet, maybe less, before the fur started to stand out along his body, static charges electrifying his skin, hot and cold flashes making him snarl in frustration as he pushed on, though his paws felt like they were covered in tar and soaked with cement. Growling low in his throat, snaps and pops and the crunch of shifting bone soon had Gaston in human form, sprawled on the forest floor naked and angry, unable to progress farther even as a human. Finally, the taint of the magic, the constant buzz like hornets stinging, drove Gaston back to the edge of the pines, hatred piercing through the shadows as he glared at the Manor walls.

"You are guarded well "fr?re", but you cannot hide forever."

With a howl to the sky, Gaston plunged his hands into the ground, carving up dirt and clay with half-formed claws, before leaping away in a blur of black fur. He loathed the very idea, but the Angel of Death could get to places considered inaccessible, unreachable, impenetrable. The Manor would be no different.