[ They come to speak a mess of language over the next few hours. Trevor's shaky Hungarian and half-remembered Greek make up the bulk of it, with the odd word of Romanian and French and a lot of gesturing. The captain speaks enough Romanian and French to maintain a decent conversation in a bastard chimera of a language. He manages to communicate that this is Adrian Tepes, that he and Sypha are his allies, and that they request sanctuary here.
(The captain stares for a long time at the Belmont crest, and then at Alucard's broken, sleeping form.)
They're housed in the ship's sick bay, both to keep them apart from the more superstitious of the sailors and because, truly, that's the right place for them right now. None of them emerged from the castle unhurt, Alucard least of all.
Trevor has slept inside carcasses before. Drained the blood from the meat of night creatures to make it safe for consumption. Seen corpses in any state from intact to red smears. Watched men's bodies twisted into dark things. Smelled burning flesh and hair. All of those things, and what brings bile up to his throat is biting the inside of his mouth and spitting into a bottle.
Communion wine, transubstantiated. The stuff he uses to maintain his whips and wipe the blades of his knives. The blood of Jesus of Nazareth, mixed with the spit and blood of an excommunicant. Made profane. Made into something dark.
Every sacred thing has been desecrated, over the last week or so. There's no reason his own faith ought to be spared. He tests it, because the last thing Alucard needs now is to be poisoned, letting a drop fall onto the morning star. The liquid sizzles away, even sparks a little, burned by the consecrated metal. Good. There's not a lot of it, not really enough, all their supplies still in the wagon god knows how many miles away. This will have to do.
He soaks a cloth with the liquid, laying it first over Alucard's throat. Hopefully, it'll at least be enough to counteract the mixture of sacramental oil and silver dust and all of those tiny silver pins they've pulled out from him. ]
no subject
(The captain stares for a long time at the Belmont crest, and then at Alucard's broken, sleeping form.)
They're housed in the ship's sick bay, both to keep them apart from the more superstitious of the sailors and because, truly, that's the right place for them right now. None of them emerged from the castle unhurt, Alucard least of all.
Trevor has slept inside carcasses before. Drained the blood from the meat of night creatures to make it safe for consumption. Seen corpses in any state from intact to red smears. Watched men's bodies twisted into dark things. Smelled burning flesh and hair. All of those things, and what brings bile up to his throat is biting the inside of his mouth and spitting into a bottle.
Communion wine, transubstantiated. The stuff he uses to maintain his whips and wipe the blades of his knives. The blood of Jesus of Nazareth, mixed with the spit and blood of an excommunicant. Made profane. Made into something dark.
Every sacred thing has been desecrated, over the last week or so. There's no reason his own faith ought to be spared. He tests it, because the last thing Alucard needs now is to be poisoned, letting a drop fall onto the morning star. The liquid sizzles away, even sparks a little, burned by the consecrated metal. Good. There's not a lot of it, not really enough, all their supplies still in the wagon god knows how many miles away. This will have to do.
He soaks a cloth with the liquid, laying it first over Alucard's throat. Hopefully, it'll at least be enough to counteract the mixture of sacramental oil and silver dust and all of those tiny silver pins they've pulled out from him. ]