CARMINE CARTIER BAUDIN
“Two by two. Lord we'll take 'em two by two
We'll lead 'em through the pouring rain. We'll lead 'em to the gas chamber.
But not me. I'm gonna crawl back to the sea.”



S I R E N . BANISHED

My name is Carmine but you can call me Baudin or Carr if that's got too many syllables for you to handle. I might look like I'm forty-four but I'm actually five hundred and twenty-three. ; hard to believe, right? Roughly, I'm 6’2 tall, last I checked, and I'd be the first to admit I'm a little on the lean side, but don't hold that against me. Loads have people have told me how much I resemble Edward Norton but personally, I don't see it.

F I R S T . I M P R E S S I O N S

Philosophers have often toyed with the fragility of man’s perception. Through human interaction, we see only aspects of people that they so choose to reveal. Complex, there are layers to a man’s personality that may never be seen by another living soul. But Carmine isn’t a man—and he does not have layers. Such things were lost to him as he slept in the deep. Instead, he has masks; roles. Businessman, Humanitarian, Friend, Lover, Brother: he can play them all with effortless ease. So perfectly does he blend in to the mundane normalcy that surrounds him, that it is only the highly attuned—those flightless flies—that can sense the crushing, sociopathic impulses that hide within.

So look closely. Pay no mind to the warmth of his dark eyes, the ease of his smile. Do not listen to the soothing call of his liquid voice. Smoke and mirrors, gilded hype, such attributes only mask the vacuous malignance that long since consumed the empathetic connection that defines what it means to be a man.

F A S H I O N . P A S S I O N

Carmine delights in the decadent pleasures of the material world. Certainly, one could never accuse him of being underdressed. Though he has others shop for him, his closet is filled with custom-tailored designer clothing. Think the original Armani prototype, and viola—Carmine.

Strictly streamline, he delights in dark colors and simple patterns—blacks, blues, burgundy, browns. With his hair and even his eyes, such color choices tend to intensify his already dark, angular features.

Delighting in order, structure, and simplicity, he takes that “natural” elegance to his physical appearance. His beard is always in pristine condition—never wild or peppered stubble. His teeth are white; fingernails clean, and his skin always tan. Frustratingly; it all looks effortless. If it wasn’t for the proficient way in which he integrates himself into society, many would probably suspect him to be part machine—far too structured to be human.

D I M P L E S . A N D . T H I N G S

Carmine has dimples. It’s generally one of the main things people remember. They are what make those perfect smiles seem so real—and what make them utterly contagious. He also possesses a small scar that left it’s mark upon his left eyebrow—a linear line of hairless flesh. He picked that bad boy up in a fight—in a time long before guns gave man the ability to end confrontation in moments. He’s been told it gives him character. Fantastic. Anything helps.

Other than that, he’s without flaws. His biological makeup promotes rapid regeneration—and while he was human, he had a rather posh, indulgent existence.. Ah, the lifestyles of the wealthy elite.

W H Y . D I D . Y O U . D O . I T

A Spanish nobleman born and bred, Carmine always believed tattoos to be for the common. Books were for the elevated—images for the underbelly. Having to ink anything on one’s body as a symbolic reminder seemed utterly pathetic, and a testament to the need for social stratification. He would have said such things two hundred years ago. Now, Carmine just simply doesn’t care.

M A N . W I T H O U T . S K I N

Sirens, by the very nature of their existence, can live for quite a long time. Some never lose that divine spark of joy that comes with the sheer thrall of living. However, others become jaded and disconsolate as the years pass and their humanity slips from them. And yet—Carmine, as a mortal man, was probably more beast than some of the fishy contemporaries of today. Living in a vacuum of isolation, he has never been able to empathize with the plight of another creature. He doesn’t delight in the pain of others, their happiness, their sorrow, nor their rage—it all ultimately means nothing to him. He cannot fathom the depth and thought of another individual—they are walking objects in his lonely, lonely world. Because like toys, they are expendable and boring, Carmine delights only in the roles they play in the dramas he creates. Once they have played their part, he casts them aside.

Masters of elevated thought believe that all creatures are connected. To find oneself out of that all-encompassing loop aches in ways that not even the poets could describe. And yet, Carmine cannot even internally articulate this feeling that has plagued him for centuries because he, himself, cannot understand it. And so, that ache has hollowed him, taking pain, joy, love, hate; everything and left nothing in its wake. The disconnected were never meant to live for eternity. It is a bleak existence.

Someone trying to explain the true Carmine—or the Carmine that they believe they can fathom, would call him power hungry. It is more of a learned trait, than anything. Born and bred from ancient nobility, the superiority of his birth was preached to him like some unholy aristocratic religion. Carmine seeks power and status not because it promotes his own personal brand of happiness, but because it was what he was programmed to do. By the dogmas of Divine Order—it’s what he believes he was destined to do.

And though he will never be one of them, Carmine has slowly come to learn how to parade about like a empathetic creature. Move ones face in the right ways, and one delivers the impressions of anger, fear, sorrow, forgiveness, hurt; one creates the physical manifestations of emotions. People respond well to those. Speak softly, blend in. Pretend to comprehend. Time and trial and error has taught him how to play his role; how to behave, how to speak. None of it is real, but sometimes it can be amusing; creating someone who does not exist.

And yet, despite it all, Carmine was once a man. Redemption, change; all men share such possibility. And throughout his prolonged existence, Carmine has felt the occasional glimpses of what he cannot begin to comprehend. The acute pain of sorrow. The flashes of rage. The wistful tendrils of yearning and desire. Such things frighten him—like illuminated light piercing through the dark. It is unsettling—and drives him back to the only thing that gives him comfort. The void; the sea—it’s embrace strips from him the questions, the humanity, making him born again. Making him as pure as the Ancient ones that sleep in The Deep.

S H O W . O F F

quite the .L I N G U I S T.
Five hundred years old-somethin’ , and an inherent drive for power gives one incentive to learn a few things. As a mortal man, Carmine was already affluent in his native tongue—Spanish. And with a mother hailing from France—he had also picked that langue up as his childhood progressed. English, Dutch, Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Russian, Czech, several dialects of Aramaic—and hell, even a bit of Swahili; those came later. Such mastery of the spoken word is quite beneficial when on the job, or simply attracting one’s dinner.

so undeniably .C O N F I D E N T.
Truly, such things stem from an absolute lack of caring and a continuous struggle with the societal games of interaction. Often times, when he wants something, he simply opts to let the mask slip a bit, and he doesn’t dance around all that verbal tape. Apparently, it gets the job done—and attracts supporters. After all, there’s nothing more appealing than a man who knows what he wants, when he wants it.

such a natural-born .L E A D E R.
Spanish nobility, born and bred, his upbringing molded and sculpted him to become an individual able to lead. Decisive, confident, and completely pragmatic, (you’d be surprised what one can accomplish without petty emotions clouding one’s judgment) he is a consequentalist through and through. Machiavelli would’ve wept.

knowing how to work the .W O R L D.
Always on the outside looking in, the events of the world and the behavior of man are so easy to anticipate and manipulate. Because of this, when he’s playing his role, Carmine can give the best of advice. Or…It may seem like good advice, and may even feel like good advice—but generally benefits him in some offhand way. Good times, good times

voice like an .E C H O.
Echolocation. It’s an interesting talent –one that he honed and perfected within the deep. He doesn’t even have to operate through a serious of clicks or screams. No, by merely speaking, a picture is painted. This of course, is perfect for those long, dark nights. Carmine is a creature of the deep; he cannot perceive the world through infrared spectrum. However, this might be better.

E P I C . F A I L

composed and . M A N I P U L A T I V E .
There’s no room for growth and development when the human life ends, just the honing of uncovered skills. Being less of a man, he knows how to control them—and he’s got absolutely qualms with doing so. Even his brethren are pawns in his games of intrigue.

fine young .C A N N I B A L.
By the “accidental” drinking and slaying of his maker, Carmine has tasted the forbidden fruit—and he’ll be the first to tell you, it tastes pretty damn good. True, he will feed on humans—Seers are far sweeter than the typical mortal, by the way, but there is nothing like the blood of a fellow siren. Shifters quite literally taste like dirt and pine—not a great combination.

more emotion in the .S T O N E S.
As aforementioned, Carmine is what one could only define as a sociopath. He’s done a good job at hiding it—when he was far younger, it would’ve been easy to stamp his cold hide out of existence, had some of the wiser ancients sniffed him out. But he traded his hollow soul for dreamless sleeps in the deep, and now more monster than man, he is a force to be reckoned with.

the ties that .B I N D.
If there was ever anyone Carmine Baudin felt an inkling of anything towards—it was his brother. Though he was the elder of the two, it was always his younger brother that took care of him—the one who understood him, knew how to communicate with him on his level. He was the only breathing soul to see the creature behind the array of masks—and he betrayed him. Needless to say, there’s definitely some unresolved issues in the Baudin family.


back to the .S E A.
Carmine, having lost his mortality to degrees unfathomable to even most Sirens, cannot abide dry land for extensive periods of time. Tied to the coast, he cannot wander too far from salt water for more than a handful of days. That is his element, and without it, he is not exactly on top of his game. Needless to say, he owns quite a few seashore houses with his own private plots of beach. When he can’t get to the ocean—we’ll let’s just say he’s converted several indoor pools to fit his needs.

T R I C K S . F O R . T R E A T S

feel the malleable .M A N I P U L A T I O N.
Carmine can manipulate water, causing the liquid to move and shift at his slightest whim. Around great amounts, he can create whirlpools or summon mighty, fast-moving undertows. When upon land, he can gather whatever bit of moisture he can find and manipulate it to do whatever he likes. Limited to strictly one form, he cannot summon rains, nor can he create ice. Solely in the moment, it’s strictly the wet stuff.

the skin and .S C A L E S.
Upon coming in contact with salt water, Carmine begins to share the physical traits of the giant squid. If at full strength, he can control said change, and generally it only takes a partial form. This is to say, legs become tentacles, eyes turn black, and body becomes peppered with scales and suctions. However, when particularly weak, or reaching unfathomable depths, his human shape is entirely lost and his dual nature rises to the surface. His size had not always been so great, but a couple of centuries beneath the waves changed that.

the eyes that .M E S M I R I Z E.
It is strange to think that one so cold and withdrawn as Carmine could ever hold sway over the minds of men. However, find yourself staring into his eyes for far too long, and you’re done for. Coercion and compliance; it’s how he attracts his prey. Unfortunately, those with elemental blood do not seem to fall victim to such petty tricks. With them, he must invest a bit more effort.

more than .H U M A N.
All five sense have been significantly heightened with his increasing age. Strength, speed, and stamina have followed en suit. Like a fine wine, Carmine has seemed to only get better with the passing of time.

L I K E S

Blood. The Sea. This Brother. Blood. Being in control. Pretending. Blood. Chamber Music. Top-of-the-line technology. Suits. The Hunt. Manipulation. Seduction. Blood. Waltzes. Nietzsche. Italian Leather. Buying priceless works of art—then destroying them. Blood. Everything and nothing.

D I S L I K E S

Shifters. His Brother. Human. Sirens. Dry Climates. Sex. Dolphins. Daytime Television. Feeling out of control. Seers. Being Analyzed. Italian Women. People who collect things like teddy bears or dried flowers. Everything and nothing..

D O W N L O W

Carmine doesn’t feed like the typical fish person—that’s what makes him so goddamned….insidious. His genes took to the process a bit different, and like his shifting shape, he goes about things in an unorthodox fashion. Suctions rise from the flesh of the tongue and hands—he can conjure them elsewhere, but the two aforementioned bits are the typical appendages to come in contact with his prey. The suction breaks the skin, and the absorption process takes place. Still, Carmine likes to taste his sustenance of choice—and so like most of his ilk, he’ll opt for oral ingestion whenever he can...

I M M E D I A T E

ALEJANDRO MATTEO CESAR BAUDIN
father – castilian prince – long since dead

JACQUELINE MONIQUE D’ARTOIS
mother – french duchess – long since dead

SETH BAUDIN
brother – ceo . court duke – five hundred and twenty-two

S I G N I F I C A N T

SETH BAUDIN
brother – ceo . duke –five hundred and twenty-two
His brother, his closest ally, and his betrayer. The only one Carmine ever may have loved, and definitely the first he ever truly hated. He is the source and the end to all of Carmine’s greatest and worst moments; his making and his undoing. The sheer duality of their relationship would have a normal creature’s head turning. However, the two seem to comprehend it quite well—and like most things, keep it within the family.

BIANCA ELLENA DE LUCA
sire – dancer . gypsy – long since dead
Maker, lover, victim—Bianca was so many, many things. He regards her fondly—like a man recalling his first time with a woman. Hers was the first and the sweetest blood he has ever since tasted. She was a fine wine. However, she was also far more trouble than she was worth. His history with her is most definitely a leading cause in his distaste for Italian women. No need in repeating past mistakes.

QUEEN ANNE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
banisher – queen – dead, apparently
He’ll always be a bit sore about not being able to do the deed himself, but the stupid bitch is dead,and that is all that matters. It’s her throne and her legacy that he covets. He’ll never see Summer as more than an minor barricade—it was Anne who dominated everything, and she, that will sit upon the throne of his mind until he finally topples her and takes it for himself

T H I N G S . I V E . S E E N

Alejandro and Jacqueline of the Baudins did not love each other nearly so much as they respected one another. Alejandro was a savvy, passionate aristocrat with a fine head of dark, obsidian curls and the clearest blue eyes in Europe. Jacqueline was a clever, capable woman—a beauty, by most standards, and the social butterfly of any party. The two respected one another for these admirable qualities—but it really wasn’t an act of love that brought their first son into the world. Not even the oppressiveness of an arranged marriage could halt the inevitabilities of reproduction.

The birth had been a complicated one, to say in the least. Pain-soaked seconds passed, and soon those minutes were cruelly collected into a seemingly endless strain of hours. The midwife and the physician had begun to fear for the life of the child and the mother—and it was quickly evolving into a scenario that no proper doctor ever enjoyed taking part in. It was appearing that quite shortly, Alejandro would need to decide who he’d rather save—his wife or his babe. But he wouldn’t decide—he couldn’t decide. And for once, the heavens rewarded man for his indecisiveness. Twenty minutes later, the babe was slumbering silently in his mother’s loving, and exhausted arms. Tired, but quite alive, Jacqueline had cheated death. Yet, she was not able to walk away from the encounter wholly unscathed. Tearfully, the couple listened to the physician as he quietly explained the complex mysteries of the womanly frame. She would be unable to sire another babe—all their hopes and dreams would be placed upon their single son. He would be the sole heir to the Baudin legacy.

He was an odd babe, to say in the least. He never cried, he never laughed, he merely lay in his cradle and stared at the world through passive eyes. Such unending silence terrified his nurses. He did not act like a normal child. And yet they could not fully articulate their fear. His stare was no unkindly—though there was no warmth within those eyes. Rather, it was a vacuous gaze that ate everything it in range and spat out it’s nothing feeling. It was unsettling. He was unsettling. They thought him a monster—a changeling child. And yet such fears only passed in whispers or remained unspoken all together. If the Crown Prince and his French bride were to hear so much as a single word against their only and most beloved son, heads would roll. Quite literally.

And so the strange babe grew into an even stranger boy. Quiet and reserved, one could not deny he was a brilliant child. Learning only under the best of tutors, he could often be seen sitting amongst men three times his age, quietly voicing his opinion. He did not delight in the typical activities of a young boy. He would ride his horse, practice his sword fighting techniques, and play the piano—but none of it seemed to hold any particular interest to him. The only thing he ever seemed to enjoy were the hunting expeditions his father would occasionally host. Though he did not shout and laugh as the chased the poor creature, his dark, green eyes seemed to be lit with an inner fire that had until now, previously never existed.

And then the miracle happened. The Queen (for Alejandro and his Queen had ascended the throne not long before the news) was pregnant. The entire kingdom called it a miracle from God—a sign that the Baudins were meant to rule. Carmine was just as passive as ever.

His brother was born without so much as a hint of complication, and there was no mistaking the complete and utter differences between Carmine as a babe and he. They were complete opposites. The younger Baudin wouldn’t shut up. Always cooing and laughing and crying—it was noise, noise, noise all the time. And unlike many, the babe adored Carmine. How long would the young child sit there with his brother in his arms as they silently stared at one another? Many remarked as if they were speaking to one another—as if they understood the depths of each other’s souls by merely looking each other in the eyes.

As they grew, it remained as thus. Wherever Carmine would go, his brother would follow. Many remarked that it was like the younger child was the somber Carmine’s colorful shadow. And yet, if one were to truly look closely, they would see that it was the younger Baudin that led the way and merely Carmine who followed.

The years passed, as they usually do, and the two boys grew into men. Many had remarked that Carmine had left the unnerving awkwardness of his youth far behind. He laughed, he was engaging, intellectual, and perfectly charming. While the younger Baudin was the beloved Prince of the people, they more than accepted Carmine as their future ruler. And so, life was good—or, in Carmine’s case, it merely was. Now, thanks to his brother and countless hours of talking and traipsing about, he could change his exterior emotions to fit the ever-changing roles required of him. He was a chameleon—and it was all thanks to the younger Prince. Of course, Carmine never really understood how much he owed his brother—gratitude was just as foreign as concept as selflessness.

And life could have gone on like this, a series of acts until revelation or death. Carmine would’ve lived the life of a King—but still died like a man. Fate had other plans for him, however. Fate brought to him, Bianca.

It was not uncommon for Gypsies to roll through the Castilian mountains during their endless travels. Though they were generally regarded as murders, thieves, and witches, peasants flocked to the caravans simply because they were something new, something interesting. Sometime during a rather cool summer of Carmine’s twenty-seventh year, a traveling band of Italians gypsies made camp not far from the palace. Among them was a dancer whose beauty was said to be parallel to none. The flurry of rumors and gossiping admiration had the small kingdom in an uproar. Of course, the younger Baudin was enthralled with the prospect of seeing such a creature. Carmine, who at the time was passively engaged to some Spanish Bureaucrat’s daughter, could not have cared much either way. His bits and pieces reacted correctly if a woman threw herself upon him—but he didn’t have them on the brain like most men. In fact, he rarely thought of them at all. But his brother was dead set upon going, and so he, per usual, accompanied him in the dead of night.

Bianca de Luca was everything the rumors had claimed—and more. Like some goddess straight from an Italian myth, she twirled and gyrated about the crowd—her dance, hypnotic. To all except Carmine, that was. He found her foolish. Covered in trinkets, bells, and breathing silks, she may have looked exotic to some—but to him, she just looked like a performer. The attire she wore was not even remotely Italian, but of an Indian nature. Any fool could’ve seen that. She was just an actress using her body to turn a few coins.

And so he left, sliding away from the crowd and the fire to walk into the shadows of the forest, alone. His feet and the absence of fear took him far. Deeper and deeper into the heart of things, he was in a place where only beasts roamed that night--Until the tinkle of bells broke the heavy silence. Walking from behind a tree, all feline grace and womanly wiles, the brightly-colored gypsy was like a fish out of water. She did not belong in a place absent of admirers—it was obviously how she thrived. And so Carmine told her just that. And in truth, Bianca was quiet the vain creature—decades upon the earth had not taken that from her. She had grown accustomed to the love, the lust, the passion, the hate, and the fear that she saw in the eyes of all she crossed. And yet, in this nobleman, she saw nothing. It perplexed her; it infuriated her, and gave her, for the first time in years, something to work for.

At first she simply tried to seduce him. And yet, all of her persuasion (physical or otherwise) held no sway over his hollow stare. Ranting and raving, she revealed her true nature to him—hoping for a rise. Teeth rose like jagged hooks, skin became rough like coarse stone and her eyes—they became as black as the darkness that engulfed them. Brujha, monstrua—she was the thing of stories and legend.

And yet, Carmine merely stood there, confused rather than terrified. She could not stand such indifference—it stung worse than rejection. It did not mean he did not want her—he just did not know how to want her. Like a spoiled child, never had she desired something so much. She leapt at him, and he fought her—only because it seemed the natural things to do. Of course, being only a man, she easily overpowered him. Drinking from him ‘til he was quite nearly at death’s door, she stopped only when she heard his heart softly flutter with exhaustion. She then began the first step. Slicing one of those tanned, delicate wrists, she held it above his lips, letting the blood fall and dash upon his lips.

It was the blood that pulled Carmine from the abyss. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. It was like drinking the finest symphony, all color and sound; the essence of life itself. The first night, he drank, and drank, and drank, until he felt as though the insides of his stomach would burst. It was his first act of human greed. He would have drunk them both to death, had not Bianca belted him across the face and pulled away. For the first night, he dreamed.

He awoke in a strange and unfamiliar place. Not really paying any mind as to why he was naked, he attempted to rise and gauge his surroundings. And yet, he could not. Unresponsive and weary, his body would not move. He could only lie amongst the masses of silk sheets and pillows. The room was small and wooden, and the scent of the perfume that hung heavy in the air instilled within him a sense of hunger that he had experienced only once before. Bianca.

Later that night, she came to him. Emptying her daily wages upon the nightstand and shrugging out of her clothes, she crawled to him and laughed—the sound both beautiful and cruel. She mocked him for his lack of strength—asked him to beg her to tell him why he was here—and what she was. Instead, like he was still the one with power, Carmine demanded that she open her wrists to him once more. She hadn’t expected that. She had expected fear, pleading, begging. The venom in his body had kept him momentarily sedated—and with lack of mobility usually came fear. If he hadn’t have said what he had, she probably would have drained him and thrown his body into a ditch. His fancy clothes would’ve fetched a pretty penny.

Instead, she proceeded to cut him a deal. She would give him what he so desired, if only he would worship her. She could not understand that it was not rejection that she was received—but merely that Carmine was truly incapable of such things. It was then that Carmine realized that his initially assumption had been right. She truly was just a silly, vain thing—albeit with something more than just the typical womanly wiles. Still, he knew that his brother’s teachings would convince even a creature such as her. He wanted her blood, so he would once again play her game.

Touching his lips upon the sheets on which she sat, kissing the hands that pinned him so helplessly down, he pledged himself to her, and she was pleased. Though they made love, it was only the blood that had excited Carmine. It was the blood that had allowed him to fake his way through it all. And she proved a monster to her word. For the next several days he remained paralyzed be the venom. Nightly, she drained him and filled him, and each time, Carmine was overwhelmed by the hunger he felt.

By the weeks end, he could move. He could have left her, and perhaps if he had, things might have been different. However, he was not a fool, and he knew there were things in which he could learn from her. Bianca, thinking that he, a newly changed Siren, would understand that he was hers forever more, gave him enough freedom to leave the wagon in which she had kept him. Naturally, He wandered about the countryside, marveling at the way he did not tire, as well as the remarkable distance he could cover.

For a year he lived like this. And yet fate intervened once more where typical desires should have taken him. On one of his many walks, he encountered his brother. The hunters the younger Baudin traveled with blanched in fear and abruptly turned their horses about, galloping away. Though his brother did not run, he did not exactly look thrilled to see his elder brother. Carmine, slightly perplexed, asked why the men had not bowed, as was customary when the crown prince stood before them. His brother, instead, asked why he had returned to haunt them—after all he had received a proper Catholic burial. Again, such a statement was only met with confusion on Carmine’s part. He insisted he had never died.

His brother dismounted his horse, walked over, and clasped his shoulder. When he touched tangible flesh, his eyes widened and he nearly wept with joy. Alive! But how could it be? Carmine’s body had been found in the woods, his neck savaged and bloody, as if mauled by some vicious beast. The next day after a grand procession, he had been placed within the family crypt, and the country mourned.

It was then that Carmine realized the dreams he had experienced the night of Bianca’s first attack were not visions merely formed in his head—but the truth. He had died that night—Bianca had killed him. How she had dragged his body from its supposedly final resting place, he would never know. As was customary with their relationship, he told his brother everything that had transpired over the year.

Unsurprisingly, his brother was not terrified, but intrigued. The darkness within Carmine had not fazed him as a child, and so now the darkness of the exterior only made the plot all the more interesting. Immorality was the stuff of legend—and here before him, his brother was overflowing with it. Carmine did not so much as beg his brother as he did ask if he would like to join him. Unaccustomed to life without his shadow, the time spent with Bianca had not felt right. Be it out of brotherly devotion or planning of his own design, his brother accepted. Slapping the horse’s flanks, Carmine sent it galloping off into the woods, insisting that they would not need it.

And yet, he could not summon the teeth which Bianca had exhibited the night of his attack. Standing there focusing, he merely remained in human guise. Shrugging, he confessed that he did not know how he could end his brother’s life in the correct fashion. He had yet to feed off a mortal’s blood. Selfish, Bianca had kept him close, giving her own lifeblood, rather than set him loose upon the various peasant women they encountered. Her small mind believed that if he laid eyes upon another woman, the devotion he exhibited would lessen as he soon learned that he would appear like some shining god to those lacking in the potential blood of the ancients. Carmine had been more than fine with that. Her blood was far more than filling.

And so it was only when his brother sat next to him that he detected the subtle scent of life coursing through his veins. Gazing at the pumping blood as it coursed beneath the thin venire of skin, he felt the hunger that so often plagued him. Reaching out, he made to gingerly trace the throbbing jugular—and found that his finger would not move. Gasping in surprise, his brother turned to face him. Small suctions rose and broke the surface of Carmine’s arms, and his pupils swallowed the dark greens and blues of his irises. Placing the other hand around his brother’s neck, he felt his kin’s lifeblood literally coursing through his fingertips. Though not exactly the same as tasting the blood, it was a euphoric sensation. Like scratching a never-evening itch, like finally climaxing, like feeling one’s body grow; it was fantastic. Moments passed like an eternity as he reveled in the utter wonder of the moment. He almost killed him. Opening his eyes, he saw that his brother’s were closed, and his face painted with an ashen pallor. Carmine did not panic—but then again, he never did.

He told his body to stop. He knew that he was still hungry, but the promise of Bianca’s exchange was enough to pull away. His brother’s blood couldn’t compare. Removing the sword strapped to the fallen prince’s side he slit his own wrist, just as Bianca had done so many months ago. Pushing it to his brother’s lips, he forced him to drink.

Bianca was furious, of course. Though the younger prince was handsome enough, he was just a man. She had remembered him, with his young, bright-eyed stare, watching her with the typical male hunger as she danced. There was no challenge there, nothing at all. And if she wasn’t mistaken, her Carmine loved the brat far more than he loved her. She could see it in the way he quietly sat by the bed which they once shared, tended to his paralyzed kin—refusing to let her see him. For a week she ranted and raved. Many villages mysteriously lost several of their young men. Her anger always made her hungry.

When the younger Baudin emerged from the wagon shining and new with his pale skin and hungry eyes, everything changed. Carmine had what he wanted, and truly, he no longer needed Bianca. It only made it easier that she and his brother did not see eye-to-eye whatsoever. Carmine never argued, never took sides, but the two were always at odds with one another. Though it was hardly ever said, the silent battle for possession of Carmine seemed quite apparent—even to the elder Baudin.

Carmine hadn’t cared. Rather, after tasting his brother’s blood and perfecting his own feeding habits, he began preying upon those hapless enough to find him intriguing. He began to understand why Bianca delighted in seducing her victims—the god-like sense of elevation, while not incredible, was slightly amusing. He began to view his killings like the hunting expeditions of his youth--mildly entertaining. It quite literally drove Bianca insane. She began to threaten their cover—to lose her mortal disguise. Quite often, they’d be forced to kill dozens of peasants, simply because in her rage, she lost control. Her actions were beginning to draw rather unwanted attentions.

A clan of Spanish sirens approached the rogue band. They viewed Bianca with distaste. She was not as old as she had let on, apparently, and was already well known amongst those of her kind. Trashy—was the word best to describe her. And yet, they were intrigued by her children. The younger Baudin they found charming and witty, the elder, thoughtful and brooding. The two, royalty when mortal, had not lost that aristocratic sophistication in their death. Still, the clan was old, ancient, and did not accept outsiders into their ranks merely by personality traits. The Baudins were far too young and inexperienced, and the deep dwellers had no desire to foster those born of the shallows and Italian scum. They warned Bianca that should she endanger them all, she would be dealt with—and suggested that the brothers journey to the Sea.

The strange clan’s disapproval of Bianca only fueled the younger Baudin’s indignant fires, and his distaste for her only grew. He claimed that she held them back—leaching off of Carmine solely because he was heir to a throne, and she craved power. Bianca of course claimed that she loved Carmine and that his brother only sought to undermine her because he had nothing but his brother. The fighting began to bore the elder Baudin, and he spent more time alone, not really caring for their petty quarrels.

It was only when things came to climaxing blows that he intervened. Bianca was out for blood. Simply ready to end the younger Siren’s life, she attacked him with a burning branch. One could only guess her shock when Carmine intervened, grasping her neck with his cold, hungry hands. His had reacted with the instinct he had not known to exist. Was it need that made him choose, or love? Such strange sides physical confrontation brings out in a man.

And is on reflex, he began to feed. Her struggling only made the inherent desire of forced indulgence stronger. Pressing his lips to her already straining neck, he grasped her flailing hand and interlocked his fingers with hers. Like some macabre dance, they twirled and spun about the campfire--she fighting, and he feasting. The dance may have lasted minutes—it could’ve gone hours. It only halted when he opened his eyes and met his brother’s startled stare.

She was dead—a withered husk. Carmine, with his undying hunger, had drank her dry.

It was his brother who cleaned up the mess—as he usually did. He burned her while Carmine watched. He burned everything—the wagon, the knickknacks; everything. He burned Bianca from their lives. And yet, he did not know what it felt like to have the older Siren coursing through his veins. Fresh faced and alive, Carmine stared off into the distance, still tasting the ecstasy upon his tongue. Despite it all, he was a bit upset with what he had done. Never would he taste her again. He had been greedy.

And so several decades passed, and the two ghosted about Europe without a home or destination. Since the night of Bianca’s death, Carmine had retreated further within himself—to the point where not even his brother could fully comprehend what he was thinking. He also began draining far too many mortals to count. It was the taste, the damnable taste. He couldn’t drive it from his mind. It wasn’t so much that his thirst was incredibly strong—he just needed that taste upon his tongue one last time.

Upon the beaches of Italy, the words of the Spanish sirens drifted to the immediate and comprehendible consciousness of Carmine’s mind. To the Sea. He understood, in that moment, it wasn’t beaches that they meant—but into its welcoming arms, quite literally. There he would find peace and answers. Nothing matter but that peace and he waded into the waters without so much as a farewell to the brother that had remained so faithfully by his side. Years had passed, and still the concepts of gratitude and selflessness eluded the elder Baudin.

The further he went, the more he forgot. Eventually, even how to carry the shape of a man escaped him. Scales replaced skin, and tentacles sprouted. No longer a man, but a squid, he drifted to the fathomless depths where The Old Ones slept. It was there were Carmine traded his burning blood and petty desires (for whether he had known it or not, he possessed them) for the peace and infinite power that came with the ancient forms of the Sentinel race. Centuries passed as he dreamed in the sleepless, crushing deep.

How he awoke, he could not comprehend. Perhaps the depths judged it time to release him from its eternal embrace, or perhaps it had merely consumed all there was of him. Whatever the case, he awoke to the light as he drifted to the surface. Walking from the waters, he knew not how long he had slept, nor where he was. And yet, as he could once feel Bianca, he felt his brother. Whether it had been the subconscious or fate, he had emerged close to his kin.

He soon learned that he had beached upon England. It was a dreary place, a country that the Baudins had not lingered long on in their travels. And yet, his brother was here, somewhere. For lack of better things to do, he sought him out. It didn’t take long.

He found his brother a member of a court. It was the notorious Court of Pearls, to be exact. Sporting some of the very same tight-knit members of the Spanish Clan, it was an extension and something far more along the style of the Baudin aristocratic sense. There was a hierarchy here—one of the few things Carmine understood. And fortunately for him, it wasn’t only his brother who remembered who he was. Enthralled by his trip to not just the sea, but The Deep as well, they welcomed him with open arms. After all, a journey to the deep was suicidal….or a funeral of sorts. Used for Banishments, one typically did not return from the waters from whence their ancestors were from. He was something new, something strange and beautiful.

Though Carmine viewed his relationship with his brother to be a mere extension of what it once was, he, for the first time, was wrong. Though perceptive, he never really had to read his brother; he merely understood. His time in The Deep had stripped that bond from him, and his brother sensed it before even he could comprehend the emptiness. He truly was merely a shell now; the sea had taken from him, everything. Though the others did not see it, it burned brightly in his brother’s eyes.

And so when Carmine approached him, talking of intrigue and power, his brother merely listened. It seemed that Carmine, per usual, had risen to political power, causing him to take a backseat once more. Quickly becoming one of Queen Anne’s favorites, Carmine was moved closer and closer into the inner circle—in record time. It infuriated the younger Baudin, who had placed far more effort and time into securing himself a place of power. He felt as though he was once more a mere shadow and he was not content. So rather than play the knight in his brother’s lofty goals of conquest, he betrayed him.

Carmine was thrown to the inquisitor for questioning. Stoic, calm, and even mildly amused, he did not deny any of the charges. Instead, he looked to his brother. It was the younger Baudin who looked away first.

The sentence for high treason was banishment—something that the blue-blooded aristocrat found quite distasteful. Torture him, bleed him dry—but to strip him of title and rank? That was just cruel. He knew it was his brother who was his undoing. In trusting him, he had destroyed everything that could have been and should have been. As if to rub salt in the wound, the two were ceremoniously lined up side by side. To the elder, the terms of banishment were made painstakingly clear. To the younger, the title of Duke was bestowed, thanks in large part to his selfless dedication to the crown.

As he was marched to the sea, Carmine, for the first time in his life, felt what it was like to be blinded by rage. The betrayal of blood—for a title and nothing more. He could not comprehend—he did not want to comprehend. The punishment was more like a blessing, for they did not know what peace the Sea brought to him. He wanted to forget, he wanting to sleep. He wanted this feeling, this burning, inexplicable tightening in his chest to be stripped from him. He wanted to become whole, he wanted to devolve.

But he knew he would one day wake. There was no eternal place for a creature like Carmine. Not even the depths of the sea could swallow him.

H E R E . A N D . N O W

For the past fifteen years, Carmine has been back and biding his time. He’s watched Summer ease into her role as Queen, and he’s watched his brother teeter on the edge of affluence and failure. He’s made no move to waltz back into the intricacies of the Courtesan lifestyle, and has instead chosen to build his own solitary empire alone. He’s a leading partner at the law firm in which he works, and those who manage his affairs have amassed him large sums of money within the stock market. He’s wealthy, perpetually eligible, and with a client like Lynch, damn near has the world at his fingertips. But that doesn’t mean he is content. Men like Carmine never are. He hasn’t forgotten. He can’t forget. Every time he so much as ponders on the subject, he is filled with an indescribable sensation that makes his stomach churn and his pulse quicken.

And so, watching quietly like some vengeful spirit, Carmine Baudin has waited for his opportune moment. Fifteen years is not so long a wait when eternity stretches out before you, and Carmine has never been an impatient man. But then the skies rolled back, and shed a little light on his dark plans. The Hunters. It was perfect. The shifter wench, Brady, was their little legal eagle and so they arrived downtown at The Firm every so now and then. The combination of the group’s putrid, earthy scent was enough to make his stomach turn—but also clued him in onto their visits.

During his brief stay, the Court of Pearls had expressed nothing but disgust for their earth-walking cousins. The blatant animosity was ever-present, and led to some deliciously exciting decrees from the mousey Queen Anne, herself. He had flourished during such a time. A brilliant strategist and a leader without fear, his popularity grew in the Court as well. There were a considerable amount of approving whispers when he considering rising to wretch the Throne from the current Monarch. He could have that again.

And so he followed the Hunters home from the office one dark evening. Truly they were fierce enemies when they realized they had been followed by a creature of The Deep. All fangs, claws, and fur, they sought to end his life through shedding their forms and taking him with unparalleled teamwork.

But Carmine Baudin did not need teamwork—he never had. It had rained for several nights, and the sewers were pregnant with the runoff. With a few flicks of his wrists, he summoned unending tendrils of the stuff to rise like vile snakes—or liquid swords. The beasts made the mistake of snapping at them as the water figures rose to block their paths. That was all that Carmine had needed. Their mouths had opened—and so he sent torrential streams rushing down them. Piercing the nose and the eyes as well, he would’ve filling every orifice if he could have. He did not stop until their lifeless, repugnant bodies were swollen with the vile waters. They were not of human make, and so like he, they tended to heal quite quickly. He couldn’t take that chance. And so he filled the filth with filth. That thought kept him chuckling as he ambled off into the cold dark, night, leaving their bodies to be discovered.

And now all that is left is to convince the Queen that claiming the killing as her own would be a perfect way to solidify her position and display her power. And it would work—all that lovely credit and admiration would go to her and not where it rightfully belonged—him. But still, Carmine is a patient man, and he can wait, and be merely content with a seat back in the Court. He will, in time, get her to love him, or at least to trust him. It then won’t be long until she alienates all others, her preference being him, the spot of Duke or Inquisitor his for the taking. And then one cold, solitary night, he will rise up and cast her aside, just has she had done to the Queen before. And then Carmine Baudin, exiled child of the Sun, and monster of the Deep, would be king--just like he was always meant to.

You can call me MAE AKA GOD and I'm in the divine time zone. You guys suckered me in with yer groovatational pull and I guess I'll be sticking around to post when I want, where I want times per week. Tell you something though, I’m really drained after this application.

.a fisher of man ´´

R P . SA M P L E

. C O N G R A T U L A T I O N S .
guess that means they like you

You've made the ranks as a S I R E N, love, very well done indeed.
So what're you waiting for? Get to the good stuff already and go rip
some throats out!

.. or post your plot page if you're into that kind of thing.