The Nex family were more than a respectable family; they were a household name in this little town. People would always remark to Timor on just how lovely his son Braylinn was, just how much progress Braylinn was making in his herbal studies, and just how much Braylinn looked like his mother. Every time Timor locked eyes with his son, he was reminded of Lucretia's deep, azure eyes. So incredibly pure were they that Timor's own watery blue eyes paled in comparison. There were undisclosed reasons for the white flecks in his own eyes, which he'd rather the public did not know about. But all in all, the appearance of the Nex family was respectable in every way possible, and Timor intended to maintain that family reputation. Even after Lucretia had left him, he'd diffused any major rumours, and had spread his own to ensure the aristocracy still welcomed him as one of their own.
It was simply tragic; the splendour in which he languished, passing away borrowed time, wasting the sands in his personal hourglass. A great man in his youth, Timor had surpassed the intelligence of all his peers, and even his mentors. His parents had enrolled him in Arca University, and everything should've been good and golden, and syrupy sweet. Only it wasn't. Despite what he told himself, Timor knew he was the shadow in the wake of his sister, Rosalia. Whatever he did, she had already done better. Even his mansion was nothing compared to the castle she lived in.
But it was OK. He didn't have to see her except for odd special days of the year. His seething resentment of her always had to be masked then, masked with artificial smiles that had just as much blandness as the cocktails and the snacks the servants always served. No, he had his own little kingdom, built up from the wood and stone of an ancient vampire's stronghold. The previous tenant didn't breathe; that was no surprise, but it hadn't been too hard to stop him from moving...permanently.
And now Timor lived with his son in the old nest of a vampire, a mansion steeped in decadence and glutted with splendour. On approach, two overbearing gargoyles stood as sentinels to a yawning gate, which opened to reveal a winding gravel path that led up to the looming building. Built at least two hundred years ago, this mansion was of the old gothic style that was still in vogue with the aristocracy. Her great arches towered over the macabre garden, and each side of the main building was supported by a jutting wing.
Inside, Timor had kept the décor exactly as it was when he first moved here twenty years ago. The crystalline chandelier hung above a wide reception. Paintings lined the walls and two marble staircases ran up to a raised level, with a balcony, that led to other rooms. It would be pointless to describe the statues, the exotic plants, the antique chairs, the harpsichords, or the numerous bookshelves, but perhaps some attention could be paid to Timor's bedroom, the room in which he was currently residing.
The rise and fall of his chest betrayed the fact that he was alive; other than that, he was perfectly still, a portrait of a man in his prime, lying on a four-poster bed and spread-eagled in such a manner as to appear dangerously lascivious. His lush, dark hair was tousled, and no trace of stubble could be seen in what moonlight that filtered through the gaps in the light curtains.
This night, Timor was practicing the art of astral projection. It was the current goal on his list of things to accomplish, and being the second time that he had tried to do this, he found himself slightly more successful. However, he had read in one of his great leather-bound tomes that in the early stages, astral projections and dreaming often became integrated, and that was the strange sensation he was experiencing right now.
Timor was walking through a dark corridor, lined with portrait paintings. On a quick glance, Timor recognised this as his own West Wing, and it seemed that he was heading down a path he had secretly trodden many times. Yes, yes, past the laundry room, past the locked doors, and here, to the end of the corridor. He stopped before a large painting, depicting a battle of hell knew where. Raising an arm to touch the paintwork, he admired it's beauty for a minute, imagining each lush brushstroke. And then he dug his nails into the space between the frame of the painting and the wood panelling of the wall, and applied slight pressure. Stepping backwards onto a nail in the floorboard, there was a slight rumbling. Timor let go as the painting swung backwards, revealing a door, which he then passed through like a ghost.
That was one of the strange things; he wasn't fully sure if he was dreaming or projecting, but if he was projecting then surely there was no need for him to make the painting swing back. Based on this logic, he deduced that he was simply dreaming, and that he'd failed again. At this, the sleeping Timor's smooth face crinkled for a split second. Failure was not to be tolerated!
But no matter. He would see where this dream would lead. Unspectacularly, it led to his underground rooms, rather than to some flight of fancy. Timor found himself in dark, cold stone rooms, in places he knew oh so well, places that would never see the light of day. Sighing to himself, he acknowledged his failure this time and simply let the dream play itself out. Here he was, in what could only be described as an underground dungeon, littered with rooms full of bizarre equipment, bottles of strange coloured liquids, and books of forbidden knowledge.
In his dream, he walked up to a cupboard, produced a key and unlocked the door. Now this was something new. Timor had no such cupboard. Nevertheless, this cupboard swung open, to reveal a lifeless wax model of someone he knew very well. Timor's chest heaved another sigh, and he let his arm fall, gently stroking the shoulder of the waxen model. He titled his head, moving closer to press his lips to the lips of the model, and was within a hair's breadth away when...
Timor jerked awake, eyes wide and a cold sweat running down his body. That couldn't have been her, could it? No, no! His dream fled his mind as waking thoughts entered his brain. Even now, his dream had faded to something intangible, even now, he'd forgotten it's essence. But why had he awoken?
Timor frowned, and listened. Wait...he could hear something...a thud, thud, a banging sound, like the thud a body makes when one drags it across the ground.
Throwing his covers aside, he lit a candle, and fumbled for clothing. Making sure he was dressed respectably, he picked up the candleholder and cursed the servants for being so deep in sleep that they missed this sound of knocking. Timor hurried down the corridors, glided down the staircase and flung open the door, ready to give whoever was knocking one hell of a mouthful.
"What do you think you're doing, knocking at this time of--" He'd started shouting, before he even had time to register that it was Lily, Braylinn's friend.
Hmph, friend, Timor thought in disgust, but he had no time for this train of thought to follow it's usual route for Lily, white faced and stricken, burst out, "Come quick, someone! Help! Please!"
Frowning, he nodded and slipped some shoes on, before locking the door and following the girl.
((Sorry for long post- it's long to make up for me not replying!! Hope yooooou like it too! Oh, and Timor will follow Lily without making conversation, so take him to the scene of obscenity!! XD))
