From SuspireWiki

Historical Accuracy is Overrated

Sure enough, there was something around the corner. What was it? Couldn't really get a glimpse of it, but it was there, and there wasn't anymore noise coming from Milton's date. He checked his adrenaline, it was telling him to get the hell out of there, or go in there and fight, to stop waffling.

He heard the slight noise, it sounded like a moan. Was it a moan? What the hell would be moaning? He dashed into the alleyway, completely unprepared for what he'd find.

His footfalls carried him into the dark alleyway, the small bottle he was carrying shattered on the bricks next to him. It was his date, she was moaning. The creature that had her looked like a human, sweet god did it look like a human. It was a woman - was perhaps is not the best definition, it is a woman - with dark hair. Beautiful. Too beautiful. Milton stopped, his instinct was telling him something completely contrary to his masculine brain. FLEEsexFLEEsexFLEEsex. He stopped, broken bottle in his hand.

The woman turned to look in his direction. Droplets of blood dripped from her upper teeth onto her bottom lip and chin. Blood. FLEEsexFLEEsexFLEEsex.

Something that even the boys back then said, and the boys now still say drifted out from Milton's lips. "What the fuck? Let her go. Now." The silence was deafening. His date started to rouse. The woman dropped her to the ground and smiled at Milton, then turned to run away from him, further into the maze of the city. He didn't give chase.

As the woman went away, his emotions and adrenaline started to fade, as well as the dark feeling somewhere in his stomach, the pit of a man, the one that seeks nothing but to procreate with the best of the species. He tried to put it out of his mind and went to kneel next to his date. She had no mark on her at all. But he'd seen blood, didn't he? His date blinked a few times at Milton, confused to see him. He took her home.

When he went to sleep that night, he wasn't thinking of his date.

He got up, went to work, the thoughts of the woman wouldn't leave his mind. He found his attentions drifting back and forth to the night earlier, and skipping the details of his post. Even the snap to by the Major didn't really help, or the laps or the pushups.

Come the end of his work day, the sun was going down. He already knew where he was heading, he just had to convince his instinct to follow along with the plan.

Same dive, same girls. Not that woman. The chorus of Kansas came over the juke, playing the newest song to dish out the hits to everyone. "Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more." He ordered another whiskey.

By now he was good friends with the locals and the regulars, so he asked about the woman, like he'd asked before. He got a shrug. A shrug. Then followed up a few seconds later with a gruff, "Ask her yourself, she just walked in." His head turned on a swivel. Oh god, the room just disappeared. There she was again. Had she noticed him? Was his hair good? Blood? Just saw things in the light. No crazy fanged maw.

But that feeling was back in the pit of his stomach again. FLEEsexFLEEsexFLEEsex. Whatever, body, you're wrong this time. He pushed up from the bar and walked over towards the woman. If she saw him coming, she didn't register initially. Not until he was sitting down across from her at the table.

Her eyes were dark, her lips red, her eyebrows sloped. So beautiful. He probably stared like a moron. "Missing a bottle to threaten me with tonight, aren't you Romeo?" He smiled, again, probably like a moron. He proceeded to explain he'd had a few to drink and was extremely sorry. She asked where his date was. He shrugged. Then they talked for too long. He told her everything she wanted to know about him, couldn't have been the whiskey, he barely had anything.

Milton finally got to the point where he spoke just a little too candidly about his feelings. She slapped him. Not even just a common girl-wrist slap either. A slap. It sent his head spinning.

"You shouldn't talk to a Lady like that."

He watched her out, then he got his nerves up and followed after.

Dying is awfully like falling to sleep, you know.

The Invictus was a regimented hierarchy, full of all sorts. Not his sorts. He understood following orders though, and soon enough was told what he might could do. He never introduced himself first.

He wasn't interested in chivalry until he attended his first duel. Something latent in him stirred. He watched intently. Milton heard them say it was a demonstration from the Knights of the Thorned Wreath. He introduced himself to them first. There's a first time for everything.

For his manumission he was given things, but a single-man forged saber, hand sharpened, and it's blade cooled during the creation process by water and vitae mixed was what took him the most. It was engraved and decorated with gilding. He'd never seen anything like it. Beautiful.

The first time Milton used it on someone was during an eruption of violence at Elysium. A young Dragon Kindred was harassing a Paige of the Invictus, recently recruited from the sire of a Dragon. The Dragon provoked the Paige into frenzy, then torpored him. It was only the three of them present, and rather than accept the violence, something stirred in Milton again. He was out of his seat, and the blade that was peaceknotted was taken out of it's sheath.

The public whipping was worth it.

The Knights introduced themselves to him this time. They asked if he felt the desire to defend the covenant from outsiders at all costs. They asked if he were willing to train the hardest of anyone, to endure grueling tests. They asked a Daeva if he had passion.

They didn't have to sell him on glory, on chivalry, on anything anymore. He knew what he would do. He knew what he had to do, what he'd been embraced to do, without even a peep from that beautiful woman about his blood. He'd defended his country when he was alive, and now that he were dead, he'd defend something again. Selflessly, ruthlessly. There was no grey, only shades of black and white.

Milton endured the grueling tests and training. He had trouble with his left crossover step. It was too slow, always too slow.

Now he considers himself the embodiment of what he envied before. A well-oiled machine, kept and protected by those whom he never thought he would understand, those whom he thought weren't his sorts. He protects them, and in turn, they protect him. He's no soldier, he doesn't require payment for his deeds.

He's selfless and ruthless. He'll protect you or you're an enemy.

There are no shades of grey.

Pets & Toys

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The Saber

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