Dorian_Gray_

@mason_grayl: @samuel_grayl:

Oh joy! Things were finally getting back on track…or at least as on track as they could be, considering that Dorian had abandoned his secondary objective in favor of getting out of the castle alive and that he was still walking a tightrope of spider’s silk when it came to the ‘sharp swords and where they go’ front.

He had blamed dark gods for his predicament, but there was a much simpler solution to how he had ended up in this mess. A certain individual who possessed a certain very special substance of the presumably illegal variety had allowed Dorian some, and Dorian was not one to turn down a good time. The stuff made one feel like one was flying, and apparently gave one the common sense of a child.

"Very Well Dorian, seeing as you came here without the very portrait we speak of and seeing as we can't further pursue a deal without the product before us, no matter how many unknown respectable appraisers speak kindly of the piece. I see no further reason to continue this present conversation,” said the chattier of the Grayls. Dorian tensed. This could either be very good news or very bad. Dorian inhaled deeply, held his breath.

"Instead, I have a proposition of my own. Since you seem to want to part with the potentially valuable portrait and you have had our interest this far to the point where we've welcomed you, an uninvited guest into our home. I say we solve the problems we face today. What if you were to bring the portrait you speak of to a mutual location, to assure you that we mean no harm and for you to show us the portrait so that we can evaluate it, then after all that we can come to a deal,” said Grayl.

Now would be a good time for Dorian to be a bit deferent, to be gracious and take his leave on a good note. But this is Dorian Gray after all. That’s simply not his style. He snorted. “’Welcomed me as an uninvited guest.’ I’ve had greater hospitality from the undead, disgusting creatures. If you didn’t want me here you didn’t have to open the door.” He paused. “Regarding the Portrait though, that solution seems satisfact-”

His plan was essentially to get out of the castle and then book it out of town. He could lie low for a little while, or something. Surely something more pressing than searching for him would occupy the Grayls.

His plans abruptly changed when a third (presumably) Grayl burst in rather dramatically. His words made it very clear that he wanted his shiny shiny blade to reside somewhere within Dorian’s guts.

“Monster?” said Dorian. “I’m merely a gentleman with an artifact to sell, and I quite resent that accusation.” He knew as he said it that his words carried no weight.

He was a frog in a pot of boiling water, one that had been heated up so slowly he didn’t even notice until it was too late to get out.

“That being said,” continued Dorian. “If you lay so much as a finger on me, I will kill you.” There was no tremor in his voice, no nervous tics. His eyes were hard. He was deadly serious, and unless the Grayls somehow already knew about his abilities, Dorian thought he had a pretty decent chance against them if it came down to that. “Though I would hate to do that, being a guest in your home after all.” This was aimed at the newcomer who seemed a little happy with his sword. “I, however, will not further impinge upon your hospitality – I’d rather like to return home, and I can bring the Portrait to our meeting spot on the morrow.” He sincerely doubted it would be that easy, but it was worth a try.

Please feel free to make Dorian's life as difficult as possible

Posted! Whaddaya think? Let me know if I need to make changes or anything.

Dorian Gray, cursed son of art and vanity, muse of artists long deceased. His pocket watch is often incorrect, for he has no use for keeping time. He has as much time as he could ever desire, enough time to drown in it. His portrait hangs upon the wall and grows more hideous by the day, for in it is age, cruelty, and sin. Dorian keeps it locked away somewhere safe, where he does not have to look upon it (though he often does, often sneaks in and contemplates it for hours) and no one else can find it. His name is spoken in all the wrong places and his appearance is often a harbinger of dark tidings to come. Those who get too close to him are corrupted, shunned from society even as Dorian continues the graceful dance.

Today, Dorian is at his home, a place with pale floral wallpaper and a steep spiral staircase leading to the attic. Opulent chairs with a variety of cushions are scattered here and there, and art – generic art, always without any human figures – hangs upon the walls. Coffee table books are placed upon coffee tables. Odd books indeed: Panoramas of Leng, Prints by Doré, The Complete Works of Basil Hallward (but it is not complete…it is missing one very important portrait). There are a number of mirrors, though their purpose is not mere vanity, oh no, not at all. Dorian, throwing caution to the wind, has lived here for a long time, letting the neighbors gossip about his seeming eternal youth.

Dorian is not alone. There is a young man with him, of approximately the age Dorian appears to be. Dorian picked him up somewhere or other, nowhere reputable to be sure. Through a line of subtle questioning, Dorian established that the man was what he was looking for (though ‘subtle’ is somewhat subjective here).

Let’s give the young man his fifteen minutes of fame:

His name is Will Osman. He is of average height with brown hair and green eyes. He works as a cobbler, though he is not very good at his job. In his spare time he raises rabbits, though they keep escaping. There. This is his legacy.

At the moment, Will is perched on Dorian’s knee. “…and so, Arnold caught the package of meat and literally saved my bacon.”

Dorian has listened to not a word of this presumably riveting tale. He is engaged in twirling a rather gaudy ring around his finger.

“Talk, talk, talk, you’re a regular chatterbox,” says Dorian. He considers being cliché and shutting him up with a kiss, but decides not to. On second thought…

He kisses Will.

They disengage. “You taste like paint,” says Will, and laughs.

“Hm,” says Dorian eloquently.

Will reaches into Dorian’s pants.

Dorian kisses him again. But this time…

Will starts to struggle, but Dorian’s hands are around his throat. But he’s not suffocating him. That would be merciful in comparison. Will has begun to age, crows feet appearing by his eyes, his hair graying. The process speeds up, and Will is an old man, an ancient man.

Then he is nothing but dust.

The portrait is not enough to keep Dorian young. He needs more. No one will miss Will, no one will even realize he is gone. His beloved rabbits will escape their pen and run wild.

Dorian examines himself in the mirror. His reflection winks at him. Dorian smiles back. All is well in the world of Dorian Gray.

Except for one thing perhaps. The gristly murders taking place have drawn his attention (and drawn attention away from Dorian). He is most curious about who’s behind them. He has little more motivation than that, nor does he need it. Seeking out curiosities passes the time, and there’s nothing quite like a deranged murderer to provide a few laughs. Dorian believes he cannot be harmed, though that may be put to the test soon enough.

@the_houdini: @the_houdini:

Sorry for the late reply, I got distracted/had school stuff. Also, feel free to use Madame O and the others as needed.

"Misdirection usually works. A lot of them try to find out information, or base it off of something you're wearing or how you act, so if you do and look in ways that totally contradict that...well things get rather unfortunate for them.”

Dorian thought over what Madame O___ might have seen in him in order to target him with Basil’s ghost. They had been known as fast friends before Basil’s mysterious disappearance. That would probably be enough. It was doubtful that Dorian’s waistcoat would be the door to his innermost thoughts and fears. Maybe his pocket watch, but not his waistcoat. He snorted at the thought.

Erik was now doing something with his handkerchief. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was real or not (he leaned towards not), but he wasn’t overly impressed. Compared to Dorian’s abilities…well, it somewhat fell flat. The point was taken however.

Erik then proposed that they re-enter the room where the séance had taken place. Dorian nodded his assent and started to make his way back to the salon. This might be rather fun. He’d tell Madame O___ that he ran into a friend while taking a breath of fresh air (that incense really got to one sometimes) and that he was most interested in seeing Madame O___ perform her trade.

“Just follow me,” Dorian said, and led the way.

@samuel_grayl: @jacob_grayl:

The first Grayl was watching him. His eyes burned into Dorian like hot pokers. It was impossible to tell with that mask of his, but it was like he never blinked, never reduced the intensity of his stare. He was laughing at Dorian, he just knew it. Laughing at the foolish man, the rabbit who had willingly approached the den of the boa constrictor.

Dorian was beginning to have second thoughts. The way the two Grayls looked at him, the way they saw right through him. They knew full well that beneath his polished veneer he was rotten to the core. He hadn’t noticed if they had left the castle door open or not, but he guessed not. He was trapped in here with them and he had a lot of explaining to do.

"Ah, so you already had the piece appraised? How does one appraise the portrait of an Immortal's Soul, Dorian? Who is this appraiser you speak of and what gives him the right to judge how much a soul, an immortal's soul at that, is worth?"

Dorian cursed himself again. He knew he shouldn’t have brought up the appraiser, he just knew it. “Er, well…” He had actually had the portrait appraised by a very trusted colleague, but he wasn’t so foolish as to give up the name. “I know a fellow who specializes in such things. Monkeys paws, life serums, odds and ends that you won’t find unless you look very hard for them.” He shifted his feet, glanced down at his shoes which were a tiny bit dusty from the road.

“And why would someone such as yourself Dorian choose to part from such a unique item? You claim it to be quite valuable, so why distant it from yourself?”

Dorian was going to say ‘Because I’m tired of it and I want something new,’ but he saw the sword instead. Steel (or was it steel? Might it be something Dorian should actually fear?) glistened in the soft light. Dorian tugged at his collar nervously. What had brought him here? It was almost if dark gods had clouded his mind, strung him along like a dog with a piece of meat right out of reach. His objective was nearly forgotten. He wasn’t just going to wander around and antagonize his ‘hosts,’ he was here for something more. But in that moment of bared steel, he was afraid.

“Dorian, I believe you understand exactly what it is we do. This blade, I hold in my hand allows me to defend myself when needed, and for that very reason, I find this very blade very valuable. So valuable, that I keep it on my body, in case, I need to use it. I don't see myself parting ways with it, for a simple deal. To me that is value. That determines what it's worth."

He sheathed his sword, which did not comfort Dorian at all. Rabbits and boa constrictorsafter all. He might have to act soon. Should he strike first? Or wait to see if that cold steel could make him bleed? He didn’t want to find out. Were there any mirrors present? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t let them see he was looking. He bit his lip nervously.

“For that very reason, Dorian, although you had some appraiser we do not know of, look at it. We as the possible acquirers of the Portrait must take a look at it. Did you bring the piece with you, so that we could do that?”

Dorian tried to pull himself together. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “I had no guarantee that you wouldn’t simply try to take it from me. In addition to which it’s rather large, and cumbersome to carry.” His words (which would have been true if he had had any intention of turning over the portrait, but were in this setting brazen lies) sounded hollow to his ears. “I thought that if we got this far we could work something out.”

Dorian felt himself slowly backed into a corner, and cornered animals are the most dangerous.

@the_houdini:

“Erik Weisz, pleasure to meet you,” said the man. The name didn’t ring any bells, but that didn’t mean much. Dorian mostly travelled in his own circles and ignored the outside world. Sometimes people would hear about him and seek him out and well…Dorian made sure that they weren’t a problem. He had discovered his abilities recently, and they served him well.

“Well let me say this then, I happen to not be very fond of psychics. So I kind of tend to look for them, I'll admit, I used to try and make contact with my mother. But none of them really managed it, so since then I've been on a crusade of sorts to expose them for the frauds they are. That rather has to do with why I noticed where you were probably coming from."

Dorian nodded slowly. He liked skeptics, he liked them very much. They were the ones who laughed in his face if he accidentally let slip that he was immortal. This one could be of use. If he could expose Madame O__ all of Dorian’s fears would melt away like ice cream on a hot day.

“Sure I believe in the afterlife and all. But after as many of these fakes I've seen I have my doubts about any of us being able to talk to any of them.”

“I’m personally of the opinion that dead is dead. Only beauty is forever,” said Dorian. “Undead of the sort we occasionally witness, has nothing to do with the afterlife, and everything to do with,” he tried to remember the terms a certain doctor had used, “the stimulation of electricity in the brain, reawakening old nerve impulses and creating new patterns of life.” The doctor in question’s name either started with F or W, he couldn’t remember. Maybe it was M. This was not really Dorian’s area of specialty. “But anyway, what do you propose? If you wish to prove Madame O___ a fraud I’d be delighted to help you,” the thought flashed through his mind: what if she wasn’t? “But I’m also willing to try most new things once if you have something else in mind.”

@the_houdini:

Now that he had had his mad flight, Dorian felt rather foolish. A gentleman such as himself should keep his composure at all times. So what if the ghost of his very good friend and murder victim tried to haunt him? It was all a practical joke, even though he didn’t know how the other members of the salon had learned about Basil. If ghosts were real (and they weren’t) Dorian would have known about it by now, since they would make excellent companions to the skeletons in his closet.

A man was approaching him now. Dorian tensed, still on edge. “Excuse me, you didn't happen to come from a 'seance' did you?”

Dorian flushed scarlet with embarrassment. Was it that obvious? He didn’t want to be associated with such things (even though his reputation included that which was far worse. “What, no, don’t be silly,” Dorian said unconvincingly. “I don’t believe in such nonsense.” He paused. “Okay, yes, I was at a séance but I don’t know how you guessed it. It’s not like I thought it was real, all the incense just got to me and I needed a little fresh air.” He fiddled with his cufflinks. “I’m Dorian Gray by the way.”

The name of Dorian Gray is whispered in concentric circles of gossip, echoed like a telephone. Dandy Dorian Gray, what is he up to? There is poison in his beauty, and those who try to embrace it end up corrupted. His charms are cloying, sweet perfume hiding something foul. He is not the fool he once was. His portrait no longer hangs on the wall for all to see, but is secreted away in a place only he knows. He is more the fool than he once was. He thinks himself invincible and brazenly walks the town. He’s starting to attract attention to himself; his legend is spreading. Dorian, Dorian, what are we going to do with you?

Tonight he was at a salon (of the mysticism and philosophizing sort, not the kind where you go for a trim and a shave) with several others whose names will be kept secret for right now.

“Dorian, do you believe in the afterlife?” said the Poorly Shaven Man, who had nicks all over his face.

“No,” said Dorian. “Death is death, and we die long before the end.”

The Perfumed Woman laughed. “You’ll believe soon enough,” she said. “When Madame O___ performs the séance you’ll believe.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sank down lower into the divan he was lying on.

“Come to the table, Dorian,” said the Bright-Eyed Man.

Grumbling, Dorian went to the table, pulling up a chair and sitting on it heavily.

The Perfumed Woman lit the candles, and took Dorian’s hand. Madame O___ took his other hand.

“Close your eyes,” said Madame O___.

They all did. Madame O___ began to half-sing half-speak.

“This is a night where the veils draw thin. Those of you behind the curtain, it is your chance to reach the living. Visit us, and tell us of life beyond death.”

She started to spasm sharply, her nails digging into Dorian’s hand. “I…I feel a spirit. It will speak through me!”

“Dorian you fiend!” she cried. “I loved you, I trusted you, I painted you! And this is what you’ve done to me!”

Dorian’s face went white. “Basil?” he whispered, all skepticism forgotten.

“Dorian, I will make sure you get your just desserts. My vengeance will by my masterpiece. I-”

Dorian wrenched his hands away and sprinted out of the room.

He ran down the street until gradually the cool night air calmed him. It was all phony. Madame O___ was a fraud. Basil was dead, and death was it, except for the undead who were special cases. Dorian wasn’t actually sure why they bothered with séances when they could just talk to a vampire. Anything to fight the boredom, he guessed.

He wondered if anyone had noticed his mad flight. That would be rather embarrassing. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. He decided to wander and see if anything happened.

@jacob_grayl: @samuel_grayl:

Things had looked rather bleak for a while there, Dorian had to admit. There were a lot of unspoken threats about swords and things like that. Dorian personally preferred dueling pistols (he did not have any on him), but he guessed swords were respectable too. He would have liked to examine these swords more closely, but he knew the only opportunity he would get for that is if they were up against his neck.

"Very well, Mr. Gray. If you choose to part ways with the artifact in order for a deal, walk with us and speak your terms." Well, that wasn’t too terribly difficult then, was it? He’d have to figure out a way to worm himself out of the situation, but that was his specialty. Someone usually ended up dead, but not Dorian, and that’s what mattered.

Dorian took up his position between the two Grayls. His black heart fluttered in his chest, and he silently chided himself for his fear. He may have gotten himself into a bit of a sticky situation, but he was in no actual danger. He was probably the most dangerous thing in the castle. He started to smile and immediately forced himself to stop. He couldn’t afford like he was up to something, mainly because he was up to something.

“Well that sounds like a fine idea, gentlemen,” said Dorian. “You see-” he stopped. He had just entered the castle proper, and it left even him speechless. For the briefest of moments he thought that this actually might be a good place to keep his portrait, but only for a moment. He wanted to see more. He’d have to keep the Grayls guessing while he took in the wonders of this place. Beauty attracts beauty, he thought, and this time he really did smile. “You see, this object I came into possession of in purely uninteresting and legal means is very valuable indeed, and I, not knowing what you have to exchange for it, wonder what you think it’s worth. I have had it appraised by someone who knows such things, so don’t think you can cheat me.” Dorian once again mentally kicked himself. He should not have mentioned the appraiser, for he was a good friend of his and these Grayls might take an interest.