Martin
```ROLEPLAY 1: 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐚```
Delbert
*Silence. And then burning. A sensation of burning that wrap around and encompass a psyche, an organism, a living body; suspended in animation. Dead, but not quite dead, living, but not entirely alive. Flames wreath the body, incorporeal, unable to be seen by the eye, perhaps just a fragment of that singular imagination that can do nothing but lie in pain. The psyche screeches finally, and becomes a face, a human, a person with no idea of who he or she is. All they can remember, and will remember is a name, on the tip of a tongue, on the ghost of lips once living, now cold.* ***Arcano?*** *A name floats into the fiery strands of memory.* ***Is that what my name is? Is that who and what I was, am, and will always be remembered as?***

*Silence. There is no answer in the mental plane of fire, one that eats away at the fragments of Arcano's mind, but they don't expect one. They think they move, a sudden recognition of the conscious that yes, yes they do have a body, and yes, yes it does feel that endless, cracking pain; a twitch of the corporeal body that presents a rush of emotion at the writhing psyche. A question, they assume. Accept their fate and melt into the fray, or jump, lean over the edge of their mind and fall into the unknown. Arcano shakes, and realises that they—No, __he__ is scared. Scared to be human again, scared to return to the land of the living and face..* ***What?*** *What is he scared of, he wants to ask himself, what lies on the other side?*

*Silence. And so he jumps instead, leaving the pain of the flames and descends, spiralling, spiralling. And then—*

*His throat is dry. It is the first thing that he realises when Arcano comes back to life. The next, is that something is tickling his face, no, it's multiple, semi-soft things that stroke his body. It takes him a while to realise that it is grass, much longer than it takes for him to open his eyes. He adjusts to the stabbing pain of light from dawn breaking sky, and sees it; a grassland.*

*He lies there, still feeling the motions of a body twisting and turning, around and around, and turns, realising that he feels oh so sick, and dry heaves onto the green grass. The waving stems seem to laugh at him, at his fragile body, and fragile mind, but he ignores them, more focused on the raging headache in his mind, and the severe dryness that runs through his body. Another question in his mind.* ***Where am I?*** *And another.* ***What is wrong with me?*** *They repeat in his mind even as he looks over his hands, pale against the green, at his clothing, strange against his skin, touches the twinned bite marks at his neck.*

*He is thirsty, for water maybe?* ***No,*** *His brain tells him,* ***For blood.*** *The living essence, the blood spilled at the end of a life. Arcano doesn't want to, he shakes his head, as if that would clear the need for sustenance from his being. It doesn't. And so he, slowly, moves. He, slowly, edges to a stand, and shakes. This doesn't feel like who he is, but it is hard to remember what is fated to be forgotten. And so he forgets, and his conscious begins again, rewriting on the pages of a fragmented memory.*

*Even the shortest of steps tire him, each breath he takes alerting him to a new source of pain somewhere on his body. But he has found solace in the shade of a large tree, allowing the jagged feelings of memory to return to him. He remembers his name, Arcano. A last name, Sternthorne. Before whatever caused this, he was reaching 21 years of age; the rest of his life, a blank. It angers him, the fact that he cannot reach into the edges of memory and dredge out a fact about himself, and soon he becomes tired of trying;*

*Movement reaches the corner of his eyes. Before he can even wonder what it is, his brain registers it as food. By a patch of shrubs a deer; a source of blood, a body soon drained. A sudden speed that overcomes him surprises him, and Arcano feels his canines lengthen, soon sinking in the animal's neck.*
Linda
*It was a rather nice day to hunt. Bright rays hit his face, illuminating the pale skin covering it. Lately he had found himself not much willing to go out during the day at all, though he wasn't sure of the cause. He had always preferred the comfort of the shadows. It was likely due to his solitary nature, he supposed. Nevertheless, he was out, holding his bow firmly as he stalked the area between the trees, sniffing the air. Deer. And.. Something else? Hm. This area wasn't heavily populated, in fact, many wouldn't dare stray out this far, as it was quite a ways from any towns. The Hunters ears twitched as he continued forwards, solemn. He had an idea of what he may be soon encountering... He hoped he was wrong, for once. A nasty scar ran across his neck, from something that had sunk its teeth in and ripped the flesh. Numerous other scars dotted his body, the oldest being from a pox, likely a childhood illness. He was sickly looking, but his steps were silent, and his prey would likely never notice him before he struck. The Kitsune slowly took out an arrow as the smell grew stronger, knocking it into the bow. His icy blue eyes glinting like those of a predator, the silver flecks within cold, like steel. As he drew the bowstring back, staring down at the deer he had spotted, he froze. His instincts were right. **A bloodsucker**.*
Delbert
*There is a morbid satisfaction that pools into his body as Arcano drinks his fill, tenacity increasing as he delves into this carnal madness. And then it stops. That shaking line between clarity and inanity snaps and he's thrown into deadly focus. Focus on the blood that continues to pool out of the side of the deer's neck, focus on the whimpering breaths it continues to take; as if it knows it is reaching the last any time soon. He's afraid, Arcano realises as he leans away from the carcass and slowly pushes himself further and further away from it.*

***No,*** *His conscious croons to him,* ***You did this. You allowed this.*** *Arcano shakes further as he whispers a quiet, gravely,* ***" I didnt- I don't know how this happened. I don't know what this is. "*** *It is a lie of course, since he know's exactly what he's become, and what that will mean for the rest of his life. A vampire. His knowledge fails him on what they do or what they are, but the name itself seems to throw his body into flight or fight, adrenaline thundering through his body. Breaths, either his own or the quiet pants from the deer before him, are the only sounds that seem to break through the quiet of the clearing. Uncanny, he realises; some sort of nostalgic instinct telling him that this loud noise is __not normal__.*

*A sudden creak snaps him out of sullen quietude, instinctively baring his asserted fangs at whatever direction, the singular obstruction to the quiet. No; His fangs retract, though much more slowly than the had appeared. This isn't.. This can't be what he's left with. But he can smell something foreign, at least foreign to him, rather than to the land, and Arcano doesn't think he is able to control- He moves backwards, away from the sound and into bright, radiant sunlight, that incinerates his skin, forcing him to flinch forwards back into shade. He's felt the flames before, he doesn't want to do it again.* ***"Don't- Please don't hurt me."*** *His voice falters; weak.*