Dorian_Gray_

True beauty is so painful

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Dorian_Gray_

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@ali_sani_bashir@ezra_strix

There

Dungeons Dorian could handle. He’d had some perfectly lovely times in dungeons before. But this? This was some kind of…Dorian didn’t know, but it seemed designed for company. It was a touch garish, with lots of red and gold, but Dorian loved garish. If the circumstances were different he’d curl up here with a good book. And cocaine. He liked snorting cocaine off books, it made him feel cultured. A favorite was The Importance of Being Earnest.

Dorian’s favorite demon (even mentally the sarcasm was almost palpable) was walking towards the fireplace with Dorian’s portrait. Dorian’s face went white, and he scrambled towards the beast. But no matter how fast he ran, he could not seem to gain any distance. He could only watch in horror as his portrait was hung above the fire. The heat was immediate and intense, but not yet to the point of pain. It did make him sweat rather dreadfully though. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

Ezra,” Ezra said, finally answering Dorian’s question. “Call me…Ezra.” The voice came even though Ezra stood totally, and unnervingly motionless. Ezra…raze in anagram. And that’s certainly what Ezra did…raze Dorian’s life to the ground.

I want him,” said Ezra, pointing at a portrait next to Dorian. Dorian examined it. It was certainly not as well done as Dorian’s portrait, but it was very pretty. Dorian certainly would not argue about getting acquainted with the man, though almost certainly not in the circumstances he was about to meet him.

Ali Bashir. He is a sweet boy. My sweet boy” Ezra said, and giggled, a sound which would have sent a shiver down Dorian’s spine if he wasn’t so damned warm. “But he has been... naaauuuughttty", Ezra continued, "Bring him back to me".

Dorian sure wouldn’t want to be Bashir.

"Crush his bones... tear at his flesh... pluck the eyes from his sockets" Not really Dorian’s style. “BUT DO NOT KILL HIM! DO - NOT!” Dorian’s heart almost stopped at the awful cry. The noise was horrible, the screeching of a hungry black hole, death rattles through a megaphone. And then Ezra started to cry. Dorian didn’t even know how to react at this point. He had given up trying to make sense of it all. And so he clung to one thing: He had orders. He could get his portrait back. That’s all that mattered.

Bring him back to me", said Ezra, "And I will return your painting, and free you from this bind".

Dorian bowed as sarcastically as it is possible to bow. “Your wish is my command,” he said. Should be a piece of cake, black forest cake to be precise. Dorian could demolish black forest cake. Except Dorian was a little concerned about his directive not to kill. His abilities were largely fatal, though if he was allowed to…what was it?...‘crush his bones’ he could probably age him up a little. He sighed. Who was he kidding, he knew full well that wouldn’t go over well. This was all on his natural charms now.

Here

I’m going to leave now to get him…I am not running away. I am not breaking our bargain. I’m going now.

Dorian went up to the portrait of Ali Bashir. He stepped into the frame, vanishing into the depths. When he stepped out, he should be wherever Bashir was. If this worked. He hadn’t had much practice, and it was always possible that Bashir somehow had some way of making Dorian’s life horribly difficult.

If he got there, this is what would unfold:

Dorian appeared out of empty air crashing down to the ground. He stood up, brushed himself off, and looked for Bashir. “Hello…you no doubt have many questions for me, but there’s no time. My name is Dorian Gray, and you must come with me…the lives of millions depend on it!” Actually only one life depended on it, but Dorian knew his life was obviously worth the same as millions, so he wasn’t lying too much. He wiped his face with his sleeve again. He was so unbearably hot.

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Dorian_Gray_

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@ezra_strix:

Elsewhere

It might as well have been Charon's cruise ship, floating slowly towards the underworld. But Dorian refused to place silver coins over his eyes, for to do so would be to give in to death. He would wait on the banks as long as need be, for he would find a way out. He was Dorian Gray, dammit! He had been alive a hundred years, dodged the draft, survived the blitzkrieg, survived several laws that somewhat clashed with his lifestyle, and it wasn’t all going to end here!

His little peptalk to himself was rather ineffective, faced as he was with a beast that held his everything in its corpse-like hands…Dorian couldn’t imagine anything other than a corpse having such fingernails. The-thing-that-was-not-Morozova was running these fingernails along the portrait’s frame. Dorian shuddered. He could feel it in his spine, intimately. "I promise, darling", Morozova said through her sickly smile, "I'll be good to our painting."

It’s mine,” whispered Dorian, so quietly that he couldn’t even hear himself. “It’s my painting.”

Silence fell, the same forced silence as before, silence potent as if it was sprayed from a can of mustard gas.

But only if you are good to me.” Dorian shuddered at the voice. The words were wrapped up in fairy tale, the witches that flew on frosty nights when the moon was high; witches that ate children, ate heroes, ate gods. He had feared them when his mother read him the tales (and when was the last time he had thought of his mother?) and now his fear was rekindled. As the horrible voice echoed louder and louder, Dorian clapped his hands over his ears. It was no use. Other voices joined in. You’re over Dorian you’re outdated you’re last year’s model you’re archaic out of mode a regular junker fit for the scrap yard.

And then the Devil Himself appeared, for who else would do this to Dorian? Who else could play him like a fiddle, and the Devil was notorious for his fiddling. Who else could do what the Devil had done? He must be here to make good on the bargain Dorian had made so long ago, for surely even the Devil tires of waiting for a soul he was promised. (And Dorian could not comprehend the truth, what he was really up against…perhaps he would have been even more frightened. Perhaps not). He was holding a human skin, the skin of Morozova. And then, to Dorian’s immense disgust, he used the skin to wrap up the portrait. Dorian understood the need to be dramatic, but really? Was that truly necessary? He almost gagged, the sensation of almost-living skin unbearable. The Devil gestured for him to come closer. Dorian rose to his feet (for he had never quite made it up off the floor), and stood for a moment, hesitating.

Take my hand, darling.” Those were his words, in that maddening voice. Dorian took a step forward, but did not take the proffered hand.

"Your painting will be returned to you," said the Infernal Prince, reaching out slowly and stroking Dorian’s cheek with his thumb. Dorian cringed. He felt like an animal being sized up for the slaughter. He felt like he was bound in chains, helpless, at the mercy of his tormenter. And he was. “But only once you’ve helped return something of mine.”

Dorian started to laugh, first quietly then outright guffaws. It was so funny when he thought about this. Absolutely hilarious. He couldn’t quite express why, but it was. He grabbed the outstretched hand and

Between There and Here

the shadows closed in, pouncing like wolves. It might have taken a fraction of a second. It might have been an hour. A cannibal wind howled, hot and cold. Dorian thought he heard voices, familiar voices, suicidally sibilant. The darkness was merely a front for deeper darkness, and Dorian dared not look into it. He closed his eyes tight, and

Here

soon he was kneeling on an unknown surface. He slowly opened his eyes, seeing nothing as they adjusted from the darkness.

Tell me what I need to do, and what I should call you…I suspect your identity, but I don’t wish to make a fool of myself if I’m wrong,” he said. He was still surrounded by the sickly feeling of shed skin. He was still surrounded by death. He was still Dorian Gray, and he would survive this, no matter the cost.

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Dorian_Gray_

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Dorian’s holding a corner seemed trite, and he counted on that. Everyone thought they could just whip it away from him, or do whatever they pleased. It wasn’t like that though, not at all. Dorian used the frame of the painting as a conduit for his abilities. If someone did something he didn’t like, he simply and almost instantaneously, drained their lifeforce away. Problem solved.

This never even occurred to him during the following events. It probably wouldn’t have done much good anyway.

"I have seen it before", said Ms. Morozova "The death of someone young. Also an artist." Dorian shivered. It was as if the room had dropped ten degrees in temperature. The silence was oppressive, cloying even, like he was being buried alive in silence. And for once, he could think of nothing to say, to break that horrid silence.

And then it was gone. Just like that. Ms. Morozova smiled at him charmingly.

Thank you,” she said, as Dorian handed her the portrait. And that’s when things went absolutely, positively, spectacularly, wrong.

It took a little while for Dorian to register what was happening. As Morozova began to change, he just kind of smiled and nodded at the relatively reasonable things she was saying. It was perfectly normal for her to have wanted to see the portrait since she heard of it. Who wouldn’t?

Then he merely thought he was dreaming, having an awful nightmare. The things he was seeing could not be real. The flesh crawling like a nest of cockroaches under a blanket, the eyes he could feel radiating madness from beneath their prisons of skin. But the thing is, it had to be real. And why? Because she was touching the portrait, and he could feel the pressure of her fingers and body on his own skin. It was real.

At this realization, the average man would have broken down in terror. That was not Dorian Gray’s style.

"It's mine now...", said the monstrosity, the demon who breathed darkness and madness. "You are mine, you belong to me!", she growled, her body stretching like rotten taffy.

Dorian looked at her. Every instinct screamed at him to run, or to close his eyes and lie down and wait for everything to be okay, but that was certain death.

He said: “It’s rather rude to claim people ‘belong’ to you, don’t you think?” but his words were flat and dead in the air, and he knew they held no weight. His lip quivered.

The beast that had once been Morozova grew ever more hideous. Its flesh was foul putty, gratefully masked by darkness, then once again revealed in her full glory. That mouth in the gargantuan face whispered silent promises. When she spoke for real, her voice was almost normal, and yet it sent shivers down Dorian’s spine, it felt like icy water was being injected directly into his cerebrospinal fluid.

"I'll be good to you, darling" said the creature, and the words were sweet maggots in Dorian’s ears. She had the portrait. She had the portrait. She had the portrait. Dorian realized he was drenched with cold sweat. She had the portrait, and his fate was completely in her hands. He was scared of her, yes. But he was more scared of death. He could endure untold torments on Earth, for he knew an eternity more waited for him in death. Or perhaps there was nothing at all, and that was even worse. Maybe Basil waited for him, and that was worst of all. So when the monster said, “Just come with me, and you'll be in a place safer than the one you now live in" Dorian had only one possible reply, coward that he was.

He sank to his hands and knees. “Do with me what you wish,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Take me where I am to go. I am…I am yours. Just…don’t harm the painting.”

Oh Dorian…do not go gentle into that good night!

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#4  Edited By Dorian_Gray_

@ezra_strix:

Dorian had attempted to destroy the portrait once, and only once. It was after Basil’s death. Basil’s murder. He might as well just call it what it was. He had killed Basil, one of the few people who had every truly cared about him, and for what? Because Basil dared to ask to display Dorian’s portrait, thinking it his finest work. That had earned him a knife in the back. Dorian told himself he had no regrets, but this one always came back to haunt him, in one way or another.

So then, how had Dorian survived? How was his portrait intact? Dorian did not properly know, but he had some theories:

1. Basil had come back from the dead and fixed his painting. That might sound strange, but it was not beyond the realm of possibility in the slightest.

2. Dark gods still had plans for Dorian Gray

3. He had imagined the whole thing, probably after too much opium.

He wasn’t sure which was the most likely, and it could be for some other, totally unknown reason, but that’s all he had.

Now, his loathsome painting was before him again, and a shiver went down his spine. He felt the eyes on the painting as if they were boring into his own black heart.

"So what they say of you is true then" said Ms. Morozova. Dorian said nothing. “That only Dorian Grey can find pieces of art others say are only legends".

This was true. Dorian owned Davinci’s ‘Medusa Shield’, and he sometimes experienced considerable stiffness if he looked at it too long. ‘The Just Judges’ was part of his collection as well. He had a painting rumored to have come from Atlantis (he had to keep it submerged in a tank of water), and a barely-Euclidean sand-canvas from Leng.

This is you,” said Ms. Morozova, leaning in closer than Dorian would have liked. He grasped the frame protectively, and nodded. “The raw emotion of this portrait…” She reached out, and Dorian tensed. He felt a strange mix of emotions: His heart fluttered with anxiety, but also anticipation. He hated himself and this hideous manifestation of his soul, but at the same time he was connected to it with an unbreakable fondness, an eternal bond. He relished the danger of having the painting out, and cursed himself for getting himself into this situation in the first place. On the other hand, Ms. Morozova was harmless, and if anyone was going to see the painting he was glad it was her. He could always kill her if he needed to, after all.

May I hold it?” Dorian pretended he hadn’t heard the question, buying himself a little extra time to consider it. He was not pleased with the prospect of his soul in another person’s hands. It was then that Ms. Morozova mentioned Basil. This was not surprising considering that Dorian had mentioned Basil when introducing the work. Still, hearing his name in her voice made his head spin. Oh all Basil had ever wanted was to show off Dorian’s beauty, the way his own brushstrokes had captured magnificence. All he had asked of Dorian was to allow him to use his own painting in a show. And how had Dorian repaid him? With death. Et tu Brute?

Ms. Morozova kept saying Basil’s name, each echo throwing Dorian further out to sea.

What became of him?

He died. Tragically, and oh so young,” said Dorian. What would Basil want? He would want:

You can hold the painting if you’d like. Careful though it weights a lot…it’s heavy with my sins, and you must know from the tabloids how much I like to sin.” He laughed, and his laugh rang hollow. “I will however hold this one corner here. I trust you, but one doesn’t live a hundred years without a bit of caution.”

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Would you believe it, Dorian Gray hadn’t always been interested in art? He had yawned during Basil’s lectures on painting and the beauty of the artist’s touch (and had then said something that made Basil blush quite a lovely shade of pink). No, those static figures in antiquated poses held no fascination for the brash young man, back in the days where ‘young’ didn’t have to be in quotes. Beauty was fleeting; life was fleeting; why waste time looking at boring old painted pictures?

It all changed with his portrait of course. It was beautiful too, back then, before it all went wrong. He’d spend hours following the brush strokes, admiring the interplay of light and shadow. He’d actually listen to Basil as he explained the style, and only occasionally distracted him.

Then it had all gone wrong. That story has been told a thousand times, and it has run through Dorian’s head a thousand more. He knows exactly the moment it all went wrong and yet…was it truly a mistake to pledge his soul for eternal youth? He would be dead by now otherwise, and life was so sweet, and would only get sweeter.

But to the task at hand! Dorian carefully unwrapped paintings from layers of bubblewrap and placed them so that they leaned against the wall. The best paintings he placed on the bed. Then he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. There was a knock on the door, and Ms. Morozova entered. He started to grin, managed to catch himself in time, ran a hand through his hair instead. He loved showing off his collection to people who clearly cared (and ideally were a bit envious) though he certainly wouldn’t admit it.

How do you come upon these art pieces? If you don't mind me asking of course,” said Ms. Morozova.

Dorian waved aside the latter statement. “Well, you have to know where to look, and you have to have the right reputation. To find art – REAL art – the sellers don’t advertise. They’ll either come to you, or you have to have a damn good reason to go to them. But…I can’t give away all my secrets or you might just take up dealing yourself!” he laughed, and turned his attention to the actual art.

He gestured to the first piece. “Here we have a lost work by René Magritte…you might know him for the ‘ceci ne pas une pipe’ illustration (more formally, The Treachery of Images), or that of the man with the apple in front of his face (The Son of Man). As you can see in this painting, there is another pipe, but it’s lit. The smoke spells out (in French) ‘All is exactly as it appears’.” He glanced at Ms. Morozova. He thought he read interest in her face. Maybe she was even mildly impressed. Or maybe he was just projecting, but this didn’t occur to him.

He turned to the next piece. “This painting is by a an up-and-coming artist you probably haven't heard of. The canvas is human skin, and all the pigments are made from the human body – the yellows are bile for example, and the brownish-red is blood. It’s sealed with varnish to keep it from smelling of course.

It felt so good to show off his collection, and Ms. Morozova was such a good listener. She seemed enraptured, even. (Dorian was surprisingly bad at reading people for someone who had survived so long). Maybe…

Dorian mechanically introduced the next painting, a lost Picasso called ‘The Nightmare’. It was truly terrifying, and Dorian absentmindedly related that it seemed to move in the dark.

Dare he? She would appreciate it, he knew. It brought up strange emotions within him to have other people look at it, and the thrill was something he hadn’t experienced in a while.

There’s one…” he started, anxiously tapping his fingers on the bed. “There’s one more painting, I shouldn’t even have brought it on the ship it’s so rare.” He had to be gone on the cruise for too long to leave it in its hiding place, so he had very little choice.

It would be good for it to get some air. “It’s by an artist who’s almost completely unknown today, Basil Hallward.” He started pushing at a section of wall, worked his fingernails under a layer of plaster that he had previously cut away. He placed the section of wall aside and underneath it was his Portrait. He shuddered. It was horrible to look upon, withered and old, stained with blood, full of malice. “There are said to be…special properties to this piece that are almost completely unheard of.” He could hold himself back no longer: “What do you think of it?”

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#6  Edited By Dorian_Gray_

@ezra_strix:

Dorian didn’t know what happened, but something clearly did. As a semi-mythical individual, he had a knack for sniffing out people who didn’t quite fit in, misfits and fugitives. Like attracts like after all. At this point, he suspected nothing of the femme fatale before him, but the faintest voice in his head warned caution. Dorian ignored it.

"It should be better now" said the woman, and indeed the most distasteful man seemed to have departed.

A chill ran down Dorian’s spine, and he irritably thought about how poor suits were this day and age. He thought about that a lot.

But he cannot be blamed, not entirely. You are very famous, Mr. Gray. Anyone who has not been living in a cave for the past years knows who you are. That reaction was normal I think.

Dorian smirked. He liked being famous, liked it very much. In these days of plastic surgery, it didn’t even seem strange to people that he didn’t age. He periodically changed his birthday on Wikipedia just to make sure.

However, your celebrity status is the last thing I find interesting. What I am interested in are the rumors about you being an art dealer and collector. Art is a passion of mine.

Dorian’s eyes glittered. The woman before him was clearly into art. But what kind of collector was she? Was she in it for the aesthetics? For the money? For the social standing? Dorian did indeed do some art dealing, though that was not a well known fact. He honestly enjoyed it, holding priceless works in his hands and admiring their beauty, which, much like his, would never fade. And then trading them away for something of equal beauty, and greater worth. He liked his clients, mostly. They reminded him of Henry and Basil, who still held fond places in his heart after all these many years.

"Have you brought any of the works you are said to carry with you to the cruise?" Dorian exhaled slowly. He had, as a matter of fact. It made it easier to mask the presence of one particular painting if he moved several at a time…for a period of time as long as a cruise, he was uncomfortable leaving that painting behind on dry land. He’d hidden it, of course, on the ship somewhere. Dorian nodded affirmation. Yes, he had brought the works with him. “My dear, someone like me going anywhere without at least a portrait is simply unheard of.” He made a face to indicate how ridiculous even the concept would be.

And if so.. would it be too forward of me to ask if I could be treated to a glimpse of one?" Dorian thought for a moment. He certainly didn’t see why not. The girl was a star-struck fan, and would probably be willing to pay an exorbitant amount for one of Dorian’s paintings.

Naturally you can.”

She introduced herself, a Russian name to fit her Russian voice. Dorian had been to Russia a few times. He always ended up meeting the strangest people there. One student had kept him hostage with a bloody axe and lectured him on morality for four hours before bursting into tears and running off. Rascal…rascal something. This Russian seemed much nicer.

And you already know who I am…Dorian Gray, at your service.” He gave a little bow.

I keep the paintings in my cabin. You’re welcome to join me there, room 201. I’ll just run ahead and get everything ready.”

He darted out of the room. He did hope that Ms. Morozova took his invitation in the spirit it was given…that being, that she could see some art. A gentleman’s invitation back to his living quarters could be interpreted in other ways, but Dorian was simply not interested. Morozova was not his type. He did like her though, he had a feeling she was trustworthy, and she clearly appreciated Dorian, which was always a plus in his book.

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‘It will be good for your image,’ they said. ‘There’s sure to be scandal,’ they said. ‘There’s money in it for you,’ they said. They knew exactly what Dorian wanted to hear. Played him like a damn fiddle. He leaned on the railing of the hateful boat and stared at the sky. The moon was high. The moon brought madness with it, Dorian had watched its slow insanity rise over the past hundred years. How old was he now? He had forgotten. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had evolved and changed with the times. He’d seen many others like him succumb to ever-moving progress, and he was not going to be one of them. God forbid he actually work though! True, his once ample fortune had run out over time – he had lavish tastes and he was planning to live for an awfully long time. But he had made do. He’d dodged three drafts, pretended to be someone else for a time, and generally lived his life.

The Internet Age was a blessing for him. Finally he could use his God-given gifts – a wit so sharp it wasn’t allowed on airplanes (if he said so himself) and unending youth – to live on. And my word, was he popular on instagram.

Dorian sighed and adjusted his jacket collar. He had never really understood the appeal of modern-day suits. Back in the 1900s…that was real fashion. He was wearing a tie with little Mona Lisas on it. He’d heard rumors of a girl who had a way with paint…but that was neither here nor there. He sighed again. It was time to confront the mass of people inside.

He entered the door, scowling at the smoke. Some politician, a blind fellow who seemed like he was honestly too good for all this, smiled cruelly at him as he passed by. Dorian frowned at him, but the politician didn’t notice for obvious reasons.

“Dorian!” said a tall and incredibly sweaty man, putting his large and incredibly sweaty hand on Dorian’s shoulder. This was one of the people Dorian was supposed to ruin during his time here. He forced a smile. “Guilty as charged.”

The man roared, and slapped Dorian’s back.

Dorian scanned the crowd desperately, his eyes alighting on a rather elegant woman. She smiled at him, a ‘come hither’ expression in her eyes.

“I have to go, I’m supposed to meet with her fifteen minutes ago,” said Dorian, nodding his head at the woman as if he was intimately familiar with her.

“Got it,” said the sweaty man, and winked at Dorian.

Dorian quickly made his way over to the woman’s table. “Hello, name’s Dorian, please pretend we’re having a scintillating conversation for a few minutes so that that man,” he gestured, “goes away.”

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@jacob_grayl@samuel_grayl@mason_grayl

Also if it seems like the mirror stuff came out of nowhere, I have been setting it up in previous posts.

"Concerned with your shirt more than your head? Well.. it's still far from the worst decision you've made today!" said the violent Grayl. He’d fallen for the taunt, that was for sure. Dorian probably didn’t need to needle him, but hindsight was 20/20 and his vision would be sharp as a microscope looking back on today. As the Grayl unsheathed his sword, Dorian began to have second thoughts about his plan. Did he really need to invite a hit? Did he want to tempt fate with every blow? How much damage could his Portrait really take? Excuses, excuses, excuses, he chided himself. Lord Henry had once said that pain was the ultimate pleasure. He had been dead drunk at the time, but since Dorian knew he was about to be in an incredible amount of pain he needed something to hold on to. The blade was drawn back, the air itself crackling around it.

Lord Henry was dead wrong.

A-ah,” Dorian choked out. His flesh healed directly after the blade had left it, but the pain was excruciating, with the exception of when he spinal cord was severed, and everything went numb. But his plan was working. He could feel the Grayl’s life energy seeping into him, transferring to his Portrait. It tasted like death. After what felt like an eternity, the blade left Dorian’s body, the Grayl retreating in - did Dorian read his body language correctly? (He didn’t) - what looked like fright.

Two of the Grayls were having a bit of a tussle. Dorian wanted to watch (it might make up for everything he had gone through on this abominable day) but he knew he had to take advantage of the seconds he had. He scouted the room. There were mirrors. He might be able to escape after all!

Before he could stage his dramatic getaway, he was shot at point-blank range with enough magic to explode an elephant.

When Dorian’s vision cleared he was standing in a drawing room. It had rather garish curtains, red furniture that was on loan from the local brothel, and a Persian rug depicting small figures participating in obscene acts. Dorian looked closer. He was going to have to try a few of those. He straightened up (as if) and this time found himself looking at a hideous old man sitting across from him. “Hello,” said Dorian, and the man’s mouth moved. Dorian tilted his head quizzically, and so did the old man. He looked incredibly familiar, but Dorian couldn’t place him. He put his hand to his chin. So did the old man. And Dorian recognized him. He was the one in Dorian’s Portrait, the bane of his existence. Dorian looked down at himself. His hands were dripping with blood, and when he pulled open his shirt his sunken chest was riddled with scars. Dorian screamed, and this summoned two figures.

The first was Lord Henry, wasted away to almost nothing, just as he had been on his deathbed. His face was drawn, the skin waxy, and resembled little more than a death’s head.

The second was Basil, who still had Dorian’s knife in his back.

“Dorian m’boy, you look terrible!” said Lord Henry. “I always told you that without youth we are nothing."

“What’s going on?” said Dorian. He was dreaming. He must be dreaming. He had recurring dreams about being trapped in his own Portrait, this was just an extension of that.

“Well, you’re dead. Almost dead. There’s a few issues you see, and we’re working on that.”

“Where are we?” said Dorian.

“Purgatory,” said Lord Henry. “About as close to Hell as you can be without being quite in Hell.”

“What’s Basil doing here then?” said Dorian.

“Oh he just wanted to see you one last time,” said Lord Henry. “I said he should remember you as you were and not how you are, but he insisted. He’ll go back to hosannas and boredom soon enough.”

Basil approached and ran his hand down Dorian’s cheek. “You were always my muse. I’ll miss you, Dorian.”

Dorian slapped his hand away. “What issues were you talking about?” he asked Lord Henry.

“Oh, since your soul still resides in your Portrait you can’t really be killed. However that blast all but severed the bond between your body, soul, and Portrait. If you were to be returned to the mortal coil, you might just find yourself trapped in your Portrait for all eternity. Or you might be in a charred corpse for eternity. Or you might be perfectly fine, but you’ll still be in the middle of that dreadful castle you just had to go and explore and you’ll end up back here. So we’re offering you the choice, as your closest friends: Stay or go? I’d certainly like the company.”

Dorian didn’t even consider the proposition. “I will never die. I will live forever, and live in beauty. Goodbye Lord Henry, goodbye Basil, take care not to get overcooked in the flames of Hell.

Lord Henry shook his head. “That’s the Dorian I remember. Fare thee well!”

Dorian closed his eyes and-

-for a moment he couldn’t move at all, couldn’t see – he must be in the Portrait. He tried to cry out but nothing happened. Then his eyes grew back. He was sprawled on the floor, for all intents and purposes a charred corpse. Dorian closed his eyes. Lord Henry was right. Lord Henry was always right. Then sensation returned from his left hand. He was healing! He didn’t know what was going on around him, but he decided to play dead until he was ready to put his plan into action, the one that had been interrupted by his temporary demise.

There were mirrors around. If Dorian could get close enough to see his reflection he could actually summon it from out of the mirror. There were several mirrors he could see at once. He’d get his reflections, and then they would be under his control. He’d send one sprinting towards the exit. This was almost certain to be mistaken for Dorian…he hoped at least. Then if he could he would clamber into one of the mirrors and be gone from this blighted castle.

If he made it…and he realized this was still a big ‘if’…he’d go straight home and hope he didn’t find the Grayls standing over him. He had enough traps in place to set the battleground easier but still…

He had nowhere else to go. He knew his ‘friends’ would sell him out for a penny or a good round of cheese.

Even monsters have bogeymen.

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Dorian_Gray_

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@the_houdini:

People were giving Dorian looks he did not much appreciate back at the salon, laughing behind their hands at him. Dorian shot them death stares. He did not like being laughed at. He was the one allowed to participate in mockery, but he was not one to be mocked. The smell of incense was cloying and made him cough. Why had he let Erik drag him back here? He wasn’t one to go places with random strangers…strike that, he absolutely was, but that was only partially relevant now.

Madame O___ had turned her attention back to Dorian, was staring at him with an intensity that made him squirm. “Shall we continue then?” she asked him.

“No, thanks,” said Dorian. Madame O___ grabbed his hand and forced him into a seat. She was surprisingly strong. She gripped his hand so hard it went white, and the others, as if by some strange telepathy, took their seats as well.

The séance resumed. The candles burned. Madame O___ did not release her grip on Dorian’s hand. She began to chant. The smell of paint infused the room, fresh paint newly applied to a canvas.

Dorian,” said Madame O____, “Dorian you were my muse! How could you do this to me!

Dorian’s face turned white. He began to struggle but he could not get away. “A knife in the back…I thought you’d be better than that. You’re a creature of grace and beauty, but you’ve turned into a ghastly, ghoulish fiend hiding behind a beaming mask.

Basil, be quiet. Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!” said Dorian at rather a louder volume than he had perhaps meant it to be.

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Dorian_Gray_

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@archivist: Clearly you should root for me. Where else are you going to find anyone so charming, witty, and utterly stylish?

@mason_grayl: @jacob_grayl: @samuel_grayl:

Dorian hadn’t been so close to death since the sailor decided to take revenge (a rather long story which boiled down to Dorian drove a young woman to suicide and her brother got word of it, and decided to uphold his family’s honor).” He had felt the knife on his cheek then and cried pitiful tears. Back then when he was still semi-mortal, he was afraid. Now, he cried no tears. He kept up his nonchalant façade, examining his fingernails briefly before turning his attention back to the Grayls as if he had forgotten they were there. The effect would have been better if he hadn’t been in their house, at the center of attention, but he honestly didn’t have any better ideas. When he was stressed he simply became more the dandy.

One of the Grayls, the quiet one, seemed to be on Dorian’s wavelength. He nodded to the door in a very clear gesture of get out…or else. Dorian usually tried to avoid ‘or else’s. For a moment his (being Dorian’s) mask slipped and he smiled at the Grayl out of sheer relief. At this point, Dorian would very much have liked to sprint to the door, run until he could run no more, and lock himself somewhere safe and sound for when night fell. Instead he calmly, almost serenely, strolled towards the door.

The Grayls weren’t done with him yet. The third Grayl’s fairly blazed with rage, the kind of rage found in perfect stillness. Death without rippling the pond. "Yes I suppose you would regret doing so", said the Grayl (still hung up on Dorian’s death threat? It was merely spur of the moment; it shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Not that Dorian hadn’t meant every word), "Just as I regret allowing a monster into my family home"

Dorian debated the merits of explaining that he wasn’t a monster, again, but the Grayl wasn’t done yet. "However, the difference between you and I is that I'll live long enough to regret it.” He was reaching for something. Dorian glanced towards the door, considered breaking into a sprint, but through his misplaced sense of dignity didn’t budge. "I will honor your request to go home and send you there. The home from which all undead creatures escape-” Dorian almost rolled his eyes. He was scared out of his wits, but that didn’t matter. This was just too much. Today had started with the very simple quest of a) having a bit of a laugh and b) stealing something – anything – from Castle Graylskull just to see if he could and for a story to tell, and now he was about to be subjected to something that was almost certainly nasty. “Death.”

There was a deafening noise, concentrated thunder, and Dorian felt intense pain in his chest. The light was blinding, each bullet a spoke from Apollo’s chariot. The thing is, Dorian was not a vampire. The light merely hurt his eyes. The bullets hurt too, but after a moment or two they popped out of his fully healed chest, taking with them a tiny bit of blood and the smell of paint and gunpowder. Dorian stood up. He had two choices now. He could take a mad dash for it, but the Grayls were almost certainly faster. He’d have to fight. He turned to the Grayl who had shot him. “I quite liked this shirt, you know.” He brushed dust off himself. This was very much a taunt. Dorian had no sort of long-range attack. He did have two tricks up his (slightly tattered) sleeve. He’d try the first of them now. He could see the Grayl preparing to use his sword. Dorian was going to do something clumsy, charge at him, so that he was sure to be hit if the Grayl attacked. Then he would use his ability.

Dorian could drain lifeforce, giving it back to his Portrait and supplementing his youth. He could drain a fully-grown man in about twenty seconds with direct skin-to-skin contact. He could drain through clothing in about two minutes. Dorian was going to use the Grayl’s blade as a conduit (this would still work if it was lodged in his innards) and see what he could do. He doubted it would be very fast – a few seconds would likely drain a few days, months, maybe a handful of years, but not enough to be fatal or even particularly crippling. Maybe enough to give the Grayl a scare, and set Dorian up for the second part of his plan.

He did so wish they had simply let him leave.

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