Celeste Visits

Celeste would be arriving, within the next day. He had had to come up with an idea for why he looked different. How on Earth do you ever explain to someone that you are an alchemical scientist. Is there even an explanation for that. He didn't know why he was here on this Earth, but he was here, and he didn't think he was going anywhere anytime soon. He'd held up for several hundred years, and had the fangs to prove it.

He'd had an emotional breakdown after acquiring the new body, because, even though the scars, the malformities, and general basic appearance had morphed into another, he realized that what happened to that flesh would always be a part of him. This had resulted in some painful moments before the fountain that was lit within, amongst his rose garden, upon the concrete bench. Some of his tics, and his dementia had healed. It was tough being this old. But he had a lot to live for. Was he taking it for granted, as if he was owed all of this? The vast properties, his lovers, and the friends that resided with him, and the work that they did below? It was almost as though there were multiple hims performing each of these duties. One man loved, one man killed, one did the experiments, and one tended the property and it's ancient artifacts. It was time to erase all of that, and make them all him. He had healed himself, physically, at least. Youth invigorated his ancient flesh, and he marveled at how his skin was glowing, and how strong he felt, even when just resting, and his senses were hypersensitive, the blood he had consumed and life force had him in a state of euphoria.

This fractured consciousness, however, had always been troublesome to Alastair, as if he knew, that if he wasn't careful, he was teetering over the edge. And he was careful, very careful. Sinisterly careful. Kindness was given to friends, and his soldiers that were worth it, but he began to question why he was doing all of this? Whatever was the point? The mansion's yard was filled with age, metaphorically reeking to him of ancient times, and majick that was even older. His lids fell heavy over his eyes, which he had transformed to green. It was the Old World, and he could feel that it was trying to die, or being forced to die, or at least transform. He had transformed, this very night. Growth, that had happened as well. He laughed to himself softly at his thoughts. He never let anyone in, ever. And then there were thoughts of Celeste once more, alerting him. Certainly, it was clear, that someone(s) on the Other Side liked him. A lot.

Seven hundred years, perhaps, could do that to you.

And even longer.

He had pushed himself through into this world again. And he nearly regretted it. Like he had taken another man's life, and pushed his soul into this man's body, sending him spiraling out into whatever, whichever, Alastair didn't give a fuck. Or he hadn't. Not then. Had this all been worth it?