museyboxy | Vampire AU

Vampire AU

In Thedas, vampirism is a rare, powerful, and highly unusual form of blood magic that can be directly learned only from hunger demons. It differs from all other forms of blood magic in that it directly changes the user's body, making them into essentially a monster.

How to become one: Becoming a vampire is far more involved than learning simple blood magic. It's a ritual that must be conducted in the waking world, rather than the Fade. Therefore, the hunger demon needs a body. In other words, vampirism requires sacrificing someone to become a hunger abomination. The hunger abomination then feeds the mage their own blood, and drains the mage's blood in return. Once the last drop of living blood is gone from the mage's body, they collapse and the abomination takes them, feeding on them for a night and a day. The second night, the mage rises again as a vampire, and the hunger demon is freed from the bond between them. Most vampires let the abomination go, but many choose to kill their demonic sire, to cover their own tracks.

How common: The choice to become a vampire is a serious one, requiring a real, extremely risky deal with a demon. Albeit one that many end up betraying. Vampirism is most common in Tevinter, but not as much as one might think: the weaknesses of vampirism make the prospect unattractive to many magisters.

Outside of the Imperium, vampires are the subject of legend and folktales, but most folk, common and educated alike, believe them nothing more than ghost stories. The Chantry teaches nothing about them, and most templars believe them a fiction.

Abilities: Vampires can turn others, of course, in all the usual vampire ways. Vampiric abilities (speed, strength, hypnosis, etc) are immune to templar cleansing and dispels, and vampires cannot be tracked using their mage phylacteries.

Vampires have abilities similar to those in True Blood: speed, strength, the ability to sway the minds of others (glamouring/hypnosis), and heightened senses. Vampire mages can all do blood magic (even if they weren't directly turned by a demon, and never directly learned blood magic). Vampiric weaknesses are similar to those in Buffy: sunlight, though they can handle being in shadows, staking, silver, and certain holy symbols- though, ironically, not the Chantry symbol.

Vampires can walk in sunlight, but it hurts their skin and weakens their abilities. If mages, their magic is hampered, giving them the strength of the average Circle mage and nothing more. Their ability to tolerate sunlight increases the more recently they've fed. However, they will always be stronger at night.

Prompts:
1) Sire - make someone a creature of the night.
2) New Blood - maybe you wanted this, maybe it's being done to you. Welcome to vampirism.
3) Victim - some fanger's sticking a straw into you like you're a Capri Sun.
4) Hunter - did a vamp kill your family? Are you a Templar off the reservation? Idk.
5) Harem - that hypnosis thing? Yeah, you're some vampire's pet now.
6) Wild Card - roll your own. Let's get weird.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There’s a flash of understanding in Anders’s eyes before it’s overtaken again, the pleased smile of the predator returning as Hawke comes closer. It’s lucky for them both that it’s too early on, the hunger too sharp and new for there to be any significant amount of communication between those two parts of Anders’s psyche. Rather than worry about the blood magic she’d cast, he’s much more focused on Hawke herself. The promise of her blood is much more immediate.

He’s gentle as he embraces her again, gentle as his teeth sink into her neck again the same spot. The blood magic at least numbs the pain that would come from the reoccurring injury. Through it all, Anders can do that much.

It’s not long after that the cavalry arrives. It’s a flurry of movement, barking and snarling, screaming and pleading. But Anders doesn’t relinquish his hold on Hawke until something is pressed to the bare skin of his back. Pure silver. Runes blazing. It’s in a flash of searing pain and relief that Anders releases her, howling in a voice that is him and Justice and something else all at once. He goes unconscious after that, leaving Hawke to be tended to by the faithful caretakers of her household. Minutes more, and they would have been too late.

[ OOC: Where this goes from here is after you! I'm up for a time skip to a later scene. ]

As soon as his fangs sink into her, Hawke is lost. The last of her resistance ebbs away, setting her adrift on a sea of captive, pained bliss. It's not pain from the wound, exactly, but pain from the unnatural sensation of the life slowly leaving her. At the same time there's a wonderful feeling, something that has to be from blood magic, something that makes her enjoy the feeling of being fed on.

In the end it's Orana who saves her. Ox latches fiercely onto Anders's arm and Sandal takes off for his enchantments and Bodahn shouts, all in vain. But Orana, bless her Tevinter heart, presses a silver mirror against his skin until Anders releases her in a fury and goes unconscious.

Hawke learns all of this later from Bodahn. The manservant tells her of how Orana saved her, how under her guidance they tied the mage's hands with a thick silver chain that was once, they think, part of some overwrought jewelry or cloak or some shit. Into a trunk he went, Sandal shouldering most of the burden, and they put a piece of furniture on top of it. Orana, apparently, knew about vampires, and what they could and could not withstand. She fretted, but promised he'd be fine until the next nightfall.

Then, apparently, Merrill had come. Merrill, for nobody else in their group could be trusted not to freak out. For all the elf lacked healing talent, she had looked over their pale, unconscious leader and declared that healing wouldn't help- she needed to recover her blood loss.

Apparently Sandal and Orana had both volunteered, and Bodahn also. Hawke lowers her chin and feels shamed at that, that anyone would need to sacrifice blood for her health. Isn't that how the blood magic slippery slope works? But Bodahn assures her they did it out of love, that only a bit came from each of them- and that seeing the color return to her face made it worthwhile.

Still. Hawke feels sick. Sick, and sad, and in more than a little shock. Orana tells her that Anders probably didn't mean it, that vampires get strange after they turn- just like Master did. (And just like that, she vows never to tell Fenris about Anders's condition.) No matter how Orana assures her, no matter how the elf girl tries to explain that he might be alright now, she can't get it out of her head.

The coldness. The predatory cruelty. How willingly she went into his arms- and longed for him. When Hawke thinks about the things he said, the way he spoke to her and confessed to always wanting her, it makes something inside her twist cold and empty.

One thing doesn't make her sick, though. The memory, crystal clear, of how she begged. The sound of her own small pitiful voice makes her furious, so the next night she stomps into the spare room, where Anders is still locked in the trunk, and shoves the furniture off the lid with force magic.

Her other hand is wrapped in silver jewelry when she opens the trunk- dreading what she'll see inside.

The time spent unconscious is a blessing, though Anders is completely unaware of that fact until he next wakes. It’s not night yet when his eyes blink open. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he can feel it. It’s early afternoon perhaps. That strange knowledge comes secondary, however, to the burning at his wrists and the fact that he’s crammed into a box. His first few moments of consciousness are spent panicking, body jerking against the silver and the confines of his temporary prison. Not enough space, not enough air, why is he…?

Then he remembers exactly why he’s trapped. In detail. There’s no convenient amnesia of the things he’d done in the thrall of his bloodlust the night before. He remembers it all as clearly as if he’d been the one making those choices. And in some way, hadn’t be? Using blood magic. Attacking Hawke and drinking her blood. Was she even alive? Anders stares blindly at the inside of the trunk, breaths coming fast, a trembling starting in his limbs that quickly overtakes the rest of him. What he’d done. What he’d said. Oh maker, what he’d done.

The struggling stops after that, but it’s only the start of a very, very long day.

He has plenty of time to think, to remember, to piece it all together. Those blood mages had changed him into something even less human than he’d been before. He’d used blood magic as easily as breathing (which after hours in the trunk, he realizes is something he doesn’t need to do anymore). He’d spoken his true feelings to Hawke, except that the intent had been utterly twisted. Demonic. He hadn’t felt a thing but satisfaction as he’d drained the life out of the woman he loved. Fenris, he thinks, would be quite happy with this proof that Anders finally is the monster he’d warned them all about. And Anders can’t even argue the point now.

And the worst of it? By the time the sun sets again, the hunger is back. The constant burning of the silver binding him is there to meet it every time it rises, but it’s there still. Anders presses his forehead to the wood, grits his teeth, and tries to swallow down the howl in his throat. He’s still doing just that when there’s a loud thud and the lid of the trunk finally opens.

Anders blinks up at the light, momentarily blinded. Then he sees her, and the world narrows down to just the sight of Hawke’s face. Alive. Pissed off, or perhaps just afraid, or both. But alive.

The face staring up at Hawke is drawn and pale, but it’s very much Anders and only Anders. His expression cycles through too many things to be predominantly a single emotion- relief, shock, fear, pain. When he goes to speak, he can really only bring himself to say her name in a wavering voice. “Hawke?”

It doesn't look like a monster. There's no eerie calmness, no blown-black eyes, no drawn fangs. It doesn't look like it would hold her down and slowly kill her. No, it looks like Anders- sweet, volatile, melodramatic, earnest Anders.

Somehow, that just pisses her off more.

"Morning, lover," she snarls, then lifts her leg high to bring her boot down hard on his face.

"You made me bleed," Hawke spits. "How thoughtless. I could've stained the carpet while you killed me."

Anders had been expecting anger, but he hadn’t quite anticipated a broken nose to happen so quickly. Despite the pain and Hawke’s sudden brutality, Anders doesn’t find himself that surprised. He’s certainly not mad about it. This is, after all, just. While part of him darkens with the knowledge that he’s lost Hawke’s trust, curls up like he’d done in the trunk and aches, another part of him- tempered by Justice, the more logical side of things- is glad for it. He can’t trust himself. No one else should either. And there’s no way he’ll get near Hawke’s throat again if she detests the thing he’s become.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt though, and Anders reflexively turns his head away with a few rough, heaving breaths through his mouth. He doesn’t need to breathe, but his body hasn't forgotten its natural responses just as quickly.

The kick isn’t what gets him the most though. Lover. That’s the thing that sticks in his chest, sharp like a shard of glass between his ribs.

He deserves this, he reminds himself. He deserves worse than this.

“I did.” He steadies his voice and turns his head back, looking up at Hawke. He won’t cower. He doesn’t make excuses either, knowing that none of them would mean a damn thing. There isn’t one that justifies any of it. Blood runs freely from his nose, but either because it’s his or because of the silver, it does nothing but make him feel nauseous. That was one question answered at least: he can’t feed on himself.

“Who stopped me?” That part is harder to remember. He’d been a little too… preoccupied.

Hawke stares down at him, unpleasantly surprised by how little she enjoys it. Normally a good stompin' chunk o' revenge is just the thing to put a smile on her face, but this? She never wanted this. Seeing his face swelling and blood running from his broken nose just makes bile rise in her throat. Before she knows it, she's raising a hand in healing.

Healing. After what he did.

Fuck.

"Orana. Can you believe it?" A pathetic, fitful attempt at levity, to hide the unshed tears stinging her eyes. "That little thing beat out Sandal's enchantments and a full-grown mabari. She knew about the silver."

A beat, to let that sink in.

"Apparently, she learned about this sort of thing in Tevinter."

Fuck, this hurts. The lover sticks in her own craw like something choking, caught between her vicious attack and the sudden healing. The desire to lash out and not wanting to see him hurt.

It comes to her, all at once, that she's in love with him. Was. Is?

Shit. Damn it. Fuck. She wipes her eyes angrily with one hand.

Anders doesn’t have time to protest the healing spell before it’s setting his nose, causing him to hiss in pain even as the magic does its work. She doesn’t have to, he wants to say. She shouldn’t.

There’s too much that comes after to spend time on the magic though. He files each piece of information away- that it took that much to stop him, that the silver worked, that Tevinter apparently has working knowledge of whatever foul magic this is- and promises himself that he’ll write it down later, if he’s ever free again to do so.

The sight of Hawke’s tears has him, for the first time since the lid came off, struggling against his bonds. Just for a moment, just until he remembers that reaching out to her is the absolute worst thing he could do right now, even if his hands were free. He stops and sinks back, body still but eyes bright, almost feverish with the force of what he’s feeling as he watches her.

“I’m sorry.” He hates how his own voice shakes, his regret nearly choking him with just those two words. “I’m not- this isn’t me asking for forgiveness, but I want you know. I’m sorry, I didn’t… I wouldn’t have…” He shuts his eyes, willing himself to focus. This isn’t about him.

“I couldn’t control it.” Opening his eyes again is a feat, but he’s not enough of a coward that he’ll look away. “And you suffered for that. There’s… nothing else I can say. There’s no apology that’s enough.”

The sight of him struggling doesn't faze her (those bonds are strong), but his apology does. Marian doesn't want Anders, the soft-hearted, understanding rebel who knows what it is to suffer. She wants the monster, the demon, something to throw her strength against and win. There has never been an opponent she couldn't crush or a fight she couldn't win. But love? She's never had even a single defense against love.

"Shut up," she hisses tearfully. "Don't think you can make it better just by being you."

Shockingly, there's no bitterness or hate in the word 'you.' There's tears, and something very like love. As if, only a day ago, being him could have gotten him out of anything. As if, even now, it's hard to see the man when she's hurting from the monster.

She has to turn away. This is too much. Hawke takes a minute to collect herself, back turned to the creature bound in the trunk.

Edited 2018-05-02 05:10 (UTC)

Anders takes advantage of the moment as well, letting his eyes close and his head turn back so it’s facing the inside of the trunk. He can feel the weight of these last few days acutely- the abduction, the ritual, being found by and then nearly destroying the person he trusts most. His hands occasionally spasm where they’re bound at his back, the silver constantly burning into already raw skin.

“I’m not trying to make this better,” he says, his voice somehow hollow. This is the end of it all: his work to free the Kirkwall mages. His clinic. Hawke’s friendship. And he’ll never be able to fix any of it, particularly the damage done to the woman with her back now turned to him. Every bit of him wants desperately to somehow make it right. But when he closes his eyes, he can see it all happening over again, and his entire body shudders again with disgust. “I can’t.” He almost apologizes again, but manages to swallow the words before they’re spoken. He assumes that’s what she’d meant: to stop apologizing.

"You know," Hawke sniffs, trying very hard to get herself together. "When you said you would only hurt me, I imagined emotional pain. Heartbreak. The thrilling whirlwind of loving a revolutionary bound for some overwrought Varric-written tragedy. Not being eaten like a goddamn sandwich in my own house."

She wants to be able to let him go. She wants to take that silver off, so he doesn't keep flinching and hurting, she wants to give him a hug and laugh about what a crazy trip this all was and put it behind them.

That can't happen. Not anymore. Not when the man she loves (!) is a monster that only time will tell how dangerous.

Wait. No, that's not true. Not just time will tell. There's someone else.

Her voice is clear, though her back remains turned. "I want to talk to Justice."

Edited 2018-05-02 11:04 (UTC)

Anders really doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear his worthless good intentions thrown back at him, and he doesn’t want Hawke to sound like it matters so much to her. The Hawke that kicked him in the face on-sight was easier to deal with.

If he’s grateful for anything just then, it’s for the fact that Hawke isn’t looking at him when she says the word ‘loving.’

Speaking to Justice is one request Anders hadn’t expected. He nearly asks why. But then the silence stretches on, and eventually the only sign that he’s heard her is the telltale prickle of energy that’s uniquely Justice’s.

”I am here. Speak."

Before turning around, Hawke has one question, asked in a deceptively calm and level voice. It's absent all her usual expressiveness and verve. Even more so than her begging of the night before, it sounds almost nothing like her.

"Can he hear us? Will he remember what we say right now? Or do you have him locked in a brain-closet somewhere?"

“He can hear us.”

If Justice finds the question strange- or the situation itself, being asked to speak to Hawke directly- he doesn’t look it. If or when Hawke does turn around, he’ll look the same as he always does. Serious expression. Glowing, inscrutable eyes. “Everything you say to me, he will remember.”

"Of course." The put-upon sigh sounds much more Hawke. "Well, over the cliff, then."

After a moment she turns around, revealing a teary face that she's dried as well as possible. Her gaze is even, but appraising. Held together tightly.

"So tell me, doctor- is he still him? Was that really Anders I was just tallking to?"

Justice’s eyes narrow a fraction at the sight of Hawke’s face. He sees what Anders sees, remembers what he remembers. He knows there’s something off. But then again, there are several reasons for that. It’s not a shock.

“You wish to know if he’s still the creature that drank your blood.” Ever the logical one.

“Anders has been himself since he awoke. The hunger that transformed us is held at bay by our bonds.” For the first time, there’s a hint of unease in his voice as he continues. “Yet we hunger still.”

“That’s not so bad- I hunger all the time,” she points out reasonably, attempting to hide her discomfit at the confession. “Just... not for human blood.”

So he is still Anders. In many ways, that just makes this harder. It means the man she loves still exists in front of her, and this problem can’t just be solved with a swift dagger. It means he really is sorry.

It also means that they have a fucking problem to deal with. Hawke puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head quizzically.

“You saved me. It’s almost awkward, really- all the shit talking, and... now I owe you my life.”

“It’s not the same.” Justice never did have a knack for human sarcasm. Why wouldn’t someone just say what they mean? Deception for the sake of humor is still deception. “It is no human hunger. We are changed.” There, another hint of emotion: anger. It’s still there when he follows the topic change, and while it’s not directed at Hawke, it adds a clipped note to everything he says after.

“We’ve saved you before in battle. You’ve aided us countless times in exchange. It is not the purview of allies to keep score in that manner. Unless I am mistaken?” He lets the sarcasm hang there for a beat. He’s more solemn from there.

“Your life would not have been at risk if it weren’t for us. To defend you while you were helpless was our responsibility.”

Justice's solemn, naked earnestness draws her pretty face into a small frown, brows knit in thought. They've been shitty to him- ignoring him, talking about him like a sickness. Everybody who knows regards the spirit as a buzz-killing corruption riding sidesaddle inside a good man, all the while ignoring the ally and thinking being beneath the surface.

To defend you while you were helpless. It sounds so very much like her own thoughts- the real ones, the gentle ones she keeps to herself under mires of bullshit. The reason, if she bothers to be honest with herself, why she continually plays the errand girl and knight in shining civvies for any rando who calls for help. It's her responsibility, as it was with Bethany: to defend the helpless.

Mother of hell, she never realized they have anything in common. An ally. An ally, right under her nose, that she's forgotten this whole time. No, worse than forgotten- shunned. Justice is as much 'her people' as Fenris or Varric, and apparently he's thought the same (or something like it) all along. He
thought to take care of her. She should have been taking care of him, too.

When she speaks, she sounds... honest. Maybe a little shamed. It's unprecedented.

"Thank you, Justice."

That’s… new. Or rather, it’s nostalgic. The last time anyone other than Anders had thanked Justice for anything was back before all this, when he’d possessed the body of a dead man and so held claim to all his own actions. He doesn’t go as far as to smile, but his expression softens. The frown is less stern, the furrow between his eyes smoothed.

“You are welcome, Hawke.”

His head tilts- a gesture, he’d learned, for conveying confusion.

“You sound… different. I admit that I find the sheer amount and variety of emotion you and Anders both have been expressing through all this to be overwhelming.” There’s the furrow again, a wrinkle right between the eyes. “It leads you both to foolish recklessness.”

He wasn’t worried. Spirits don’t worry. Concern for the wellbeing of a partner and an ally aren’t worry. It’s professional courtesy. It’s different. Surely.

"I hardly think spirits are ones to lecture about restraint. People don't turn into fleshy magic monsters all on their own, you know."

Spirits are known for and defined by being Extra As Fuck. It's what makes them so dangerous.

But her expression softens. It may be disturbing to see someone else using Anders's face, but there's no denying the honesty or the personality there.

"It's nothing you need to worry your glowy little head about. I'm just realizing how shitty we've been to you. Seems to be something of a talent around here."

“You speak of demons and abominations. We are neither. You know this.”

He takes longer to mull over that second part, obviously taking the time to really turn that over in his head. “You have not treated me amiss,” he finally concludes. “You have treated Anders with kindness, and we are one and the same. Therefore, you have treated me kindly as well. It has meant much to him.”

Too much, Justice thinks. This particular kind of emotion has proven nothing but a troublesome distraction from their cause. But seeing as the cause has no discernable future now, it seems a moot point to bring up.

“He regrets that this will prove the end to your acquaintance. I too find it… most regrettable.” Surprisingly enough, he actually means it.

Those last row words are enough to surprise her into honesty. “What? Really? I thought you’d disapprove of all the bullshit and blood magic. I’m very disapprovable.”

Still, it stirs something. She doesn’t want their acquaintance to end. Not yet- not with this new thing who saved her and surely needs help.

“You are, though I am sure that is not a word.” This feels strangely like banter. Also, strangely, he doesn’t hate it.

“You demean yourself by using blood magic. Yet you still support the freedom of mages. You lend yourself to other worthy causes. It makes little sense, yet it is. I cannot deny the good you have done, even with your... 'bullshit,' as you put it.”

A spirit. An actual Fade spirit expressing its slightly mixed approval of her. The significance makes her smile for the first time since Anders went missing. She spreads her arms out wide almost cockily.

“That’s me- impossible and irresistible.” Her arms and grin come down slowly.

There’s something here. Maybe more than something. In spite of every mage instinct telling her not to trust a spirit, Hawke trusts Justice. She respects him enough to pull a chair up and sit, lean down closer to his level, and grant him rare seriousness.

“I saw you fighting for control. Both of you. Justice, that can’t happen. If three players start fighting for center stage, the blood will win.”

Justice watches Hawke intently, curious about the fact that the conversation between them has gone on so long. She hasn’t asked to speak to Anders again, and Anders seems quite content to stay out of it. Justice would find this nearly pleasant if it wasn’t for the relative discomfort of the body he inhabits.

“We know.” He nods his acknowledgment, lifting his head as much as he can to keep his gaze on Hawke. “We know little of what has happened to us, but we are a clear danger. Your servant, the freed elf. We wish to know what else she has told you.”

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