Vishous 1.14.2012

[Standing in one of the many bathrooms in Darius' mansion, I flip on the lights and venture a glance at the mirror. Wincing as the light spears my retinas with a shocking stab of pain, I note that most of the scratches I'd taken when the club blew have already healed. Not twenty four hours old and all that remains is the worst of the gashes that starts at my right temple and curves down my cheek. A shard of flying glass, a piece of metal.. hell, could have been a chunk of someone else's bone that did the damage. It all went down so fast there's no way I'll ever know. Doesn't fucking matter, really.

I set down the suture kit I'd brought in with me, arranging the gauze, needle and suture thread against the sparkling gold and white marble of the sink. D sure as hell knows his shit. This place is dripping with old world class and style. Gotta hand it to the Brother for having taste.

Threading the needle with a generous stretch of thread, I lean toward the mirror, my hands steady as the fingers of my right hand hold the skin of my temple and cheek taut, my chin jutting forward to give me an even surface to stitch. Working with sure movements, the needle slips into my flesh at the top of the wound. I circle it around to secure it before bringing it back to task. Knitting up the four inch slash takes me half the time it would have been if I'd allowed anyone else to do it.

Wrath's poor doggen, Fritz, was already up to his eyeballs in wounded Warriors. I could take care of myself. Been doing it for centuries, why stop now? So long as I didn't land my ass on a spiked fence, or found myself on the wrong end of a .357, I was good to keep going as I had been all along. Taking out members of the Lessening Society when I found them, indulging in my ...recreational activities when I could not. It all worked out pretty damn well for me.

Finishing up with the last of the needle and thread work, I use the scissors from the kit to snip the end of the suture and bundle the rest of the kit to add to the collection I've got stashed at home. Never hurts to have extra supplies on hand. Examining my features for other traces of last night's collision with destiny, dark brows fall low over eyes as clear and deep as diamonds. The navy blue ring circling the iris giving firm definition to the gaze that most see as cold, calculating. Fuck me if I never correct that assumption.

Keeping that shred of distance, my measure of space between the cursed warrior I am, and those who seek to burrow beneath the surface is critical to my own mental balance. I wasn't wired to be all 'good buddy' with anyone. Shit, only one other came to mind who would possibly be less inviting than myself. The scarred, soulless ghost that is the creature we all know as Phury's twin, Zsadist. A black hole of fucking nothing. Jesus. We all knew not to turn our backs on the Brother, even on a good day. Which makes his actions last night stand out all the more. If Z hadn't come back, hadn't let go of his own revulsion of the nightclub to come inside, clearheaded and ready to take action, we might not have gotten everyone out. Given a choice between our King and Murhder, Wrath would have been evac'd first. The last living vampire of pure blood walking the face of the earth was a number one priority.

Would Murhder have been left for the humans to find? Left behind to the flames and his injuries? Because of Z, it's a non-issue. That's one right there. I need to find out what the Brother saw, what made him come flying into a place he'd sworn he'd never set foot in. Chuckling to myself, shaking my head. I know damn well at least part of why he came in. It wasn't a club anymore. No, that'd been blown to hell. Z came running into a warzone. Of course. He would have felt comfortable treading over bodies and rubble. Had to be the reason. Nothing about him, or his actions exactly shout out "Hey! Let's all sit around the campfire and tell stories! Who wants S'mores?" Still, I need to know exactly what he saw.

Last fucking thing I remember I'd just ordered my bottle of vodka before an incredibly dense force threw me over the bar, my body smashing against the far wall before falling behind the steel and acrylic bar itself. Then, my vision spread before me, in fucking technicolor. The smoke, the flames. All of it. Swallowing thickly as I recall the destruction rent throughout the club, I close my eyes and rest my palms against the sink. The scents of the previous night still clinging to me. To my clothes, my hair. My fucking skin. Smoke and ash, boiled blood and scorched flesh. No, I hadn't changed. Spent the last 22 tending to the wounded, making sure my Brothers were going to survive this.

Was touch and go for a few hours with Wrath, thought we were going to lose our King at one point. Thank fuck he's a pure blood, it'd given him the advantage in his surviving the day. Murhder's were less serious, but not by much. The egg sized lump on his melon would be there for at least a fucking week. Tohr came out the easiest of the three. A broken arm, some scratches. He's limping, but won't let me check so fuck it. As long as he's mobile, my mouth is shut.

Opening my eyes once more, stepping back to gather up the bundle and shove it into the ass pocket of my leathers, I hit the light switch and head back out into the hall. The noises reaching my ears those of confused, pissed off and, although none of them will ever admit it, rattled warriors. Cursing quietly at myself, I stalk back down the hallway, intent on doing a re-check of the hole in Wrath's side, as well as another look at the rest. See where we stand, when we might be able to make a move on finding out the who's and where's and what's of last night.] Fuck. Me. I could have stopped this.. if only.. #BDBB