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Pasion Pasiva

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Pasion Pasiva last won the day on March 10

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About Pasion Pasiva

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    The Black Queen

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  1. You are the cold inescapable proof You're the evil, the way in the life and the truth You're revival, beginning and you're genocide And I watch in wonder Hung high and dry, where no one can see If there's no one to blame, blame it on me Storm in the sky, fire in the street If there's nothing but pain Put it on me I know that you'd never feel like I do And I'd break into pieces right in front of you And I'd burn down the city and string up the noose And you watch in wonder
  2. Morris the Bartender He pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured out two and a half ounces into a mixing container that he had previously filled with ice. Next came half an ounce of dry vermouth. Morris kept an eye on Xartia and Akako as they spoke, though he was subtle in his eavesdropping. Shifting his eyes back to the drink at hand, he began to vigorously shake the mixture before pouring it through a strainer into a martini glass and finally, garnishing it with a green olive. “Word to the wise,” said Morris as he set the drink before Xartia, “A martini should always -- always -- be stirred and never shaken. Why pay $15 for only slightly vodka-flavored water?” But there wasn’t much time to wait for a reply, when Morris turned to look he noticed that Igni and Shanna were engaged in friendly conversation. Of course he had heard what Igni had muttered before he had to walk away -- something about how he and the devil were both ridiculous, he couldn’t begin to imagine why. The very idea that he was comparable to the Devil of Patia seemed laughable. He fully intended to enter the conversation and return to Shanna as he had promised, but the sight of Cammy and Caeceila stopped him in his tracks. He could see that something was up, and by the movement of armed guards out of the corners of the room he knew the party was about to be over -- what he couldn’t begin to understand was what it could possibly have to do with Xartia and the woman he was with, the lady with the fluffy tails. His fingers slid across the bartop, smooth as if he were touching silk as he made his way back to Shanna and Igni. “I’ve never been to a party like this before! It’s kind of exciting, isn’t it? Have you? Been to many birthday parties?” asked Shanna. There’s more chatter -- Igni is replying, and Morris stops again, this time seeking out Isabella. Mention of the birthday reminds him of why this whole event is happening in the first place. To his surprise and alarm, most people seem blissfully unaware of what’s going on. There’s still laughter and chatter, and some people have even taken up dancing now. Pinching his brows, he can’t help but shoot a glare in Cammy and Caecelia’s direction again. He can hear them, huffing and puffing about injustice, and yet it seems they have no issue at all pumping a room full with an experimental substance. Again, he was moving. “Are parties usually full of this much… angst? I thought parties were meant for enjoyment, but so far, I see a lot of misery here.” “Misery?” he asked, interrupting the duo. “My lovely lady, I think you have to take a better look around you -- people are having a good time. A real good time,” he said, though his smile was gone, and his posture had suddenly become inexplicably impressive. All his swaying, his leaning, his tilting was gone. One hand reached under the bar, his long, cool fingers touched traced the long handle of the strapped shotgun he kept hidden for emergencies. A rather rudimentary weapon, but one shot was all he needed. “But it may be getting rather late for two good girls such as yourselves…”
  3. This is the end Hold your breath and count to ten Feel the earth move and then Hear my heart burst again...
  4. Of course -- I don't believe the building is locked down yet!
  5. “That pretty much settles that then,” Xartia said. She wondered what was settled and felt a swirl of unease in the pit of her stomach -- nothing that reflected on the polished exterior she presented to the world of course, especially not with the smile that continued to curl her lips. “I’m afraid I have no useful advice to afford you that you wouldn’t already be aware of or have considered prior. I can only wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.” He was distracted. He’d shot a look clear across the room to the door. There was no clearer indication that he was awaiting for someone, except maybe for the sparkle of hope that shone across his eyes when he deemed her worthy of his attention once more. It was the first sincere change of emotion she had seen in the man since they first met and so she found it utterly fascinating. And with Ilyana’s approach and reintroduction to the group, it didn’t take long for the magician to excuse himself. “...If you ladies would excuse me for a moment.” Isabella watched him go, curious to see who or what was the cause of such an urgent escape. But being seated and having the confines of the underground nightclub become more and more crowded made it harder and harder to see. And with her human eyes, it was simply impossible to get a good look at all the people standing and sitting around the bar -- which is where Xartia had headed. Her previous offer to fetch drinks lingered in the air, and was an excuse enough for Ilyana to abandon her as well. The black-clad, alluring woman called Isabella back with that siren’s voice of hers, “You are free to do as you please. This is your part after all.” Was there a bite in the words? She sat there on the sofa looking up at Ilyana with a pretty smile on her face that hid the ache of uncertainty in her breast. Whatever Morris had put in her drink was a superficial antidote to the severity of her true nature -- the heavy, melancholic, worrisome, and lonesome Gabriela was still there, but she was covered up under layers of smiles and fluid, charismatic gestures. “While you do that I will go and talk to a… friend.” “Oh, alright… what would you..like..to..drink?” About halfway through her sentence Gabriela realized that she was talking after Ilyana and that the woman had gone beyond earshot or was simply ignoring her. The smile faltered for a moment just as the muscles in her jaw tightened. Just then there was a surge of warmth inside her wrists. It caused her pretty features to twist up into a wince, and for her attention to refocus on her hands, which she examined for a moment. The blood in her veins circulating her hands felt warm, and there was an uncomfortable prickling in her fingertips. All else was forgotten -- the chatter around her, the very real or perhaps totally made up abandonment of the people she had foolishly decided latched onto as friends, everything beyond the strange sensation in her hands. With pinched brows, she began to wring her hands together as discreetly as possible. It was the slow easing of the ache in the pads of her fingers, and the relief that came that brought about her smile once more. Relief. “That was strange,” she mused to herself while examining her hands once more. They hadn’t changed color, they didn’t appear any different. Up until now the music had been, for the most part, indiscernible. Between the voices, laughter, and obnoxiously deep bass, nothing had really come through. But now, a string of quick-fire lyrics came pouring through the speakers which she immediately recognized. Been there, done that, messed around I’m having fun, don’t put me down I’ll never let you sweep me off my feet I won’t let you in again The messages I’ve tried to spend My informations just not going in Burning bridges shore to shore I’ll break away from something more I’m not turned on to love until it’s cheap Been there, done that, messed around I’m having fun, don’t put me down I’ll never let you sweep me off my feet This time, baby, I’ll be -- Bulletproof This time, baby, I’ll be -- Bulletproof She was smiling again, really smiling. Honestly, fuck them if they had more important things to do than accompany her on her birthday -- her first, real birthday. They weren’t her friends. She had to remember that. She couldn’t let herself slip back into the weaknesses that had made Gabriela the pitiful creature that was so easily trapped under the thumb of multiple tyrants. It would serve her well to remember that she didn’t need friends. It would serve her well to remember that the quiet and stillness of the abyss was the only true and honest comfort that existed and the only reason she hadn’t slit her throat and ended her miserable existence was because all of the world deserved such sweet comfort and only she could bring it about. Loneliness was beneath her, and the longing for companionship was not fitting for someone with her aspirations. She sat back with her arms draped over the sofa and her legs crossed one over the other. With golden eyes, she watched her party -- watched as people came together from all corners of the world at her behest. She sat there in silence and stillness, with the emptiness of her heart filled with the meaningless joy of the synthetic bliss that had been mixed into her drink and felt something akin to satisfaction. “You shouldn’t be seen without a drink, Isabella,” said Terry, who had come up from the left. He was holding a champagne flute, which he handed to her. Terry was a man she had picked up in Patia. A personal assistant of sorts, and one of the countless members of her staff -- or what could have been her court in another lifetime. “Thank you,” she replied after taking a sip of her drink. “But I’ve just about had it with champagne -- make sure it’s vodka from now on, okay?” “Got it, boss-lady.” He excused himself, more than likely to fetch her another drink and left her to contemplate her newfound isolation. But she knew it wouldn’t last. There were eyes upon her. The weight of them felt different in her human skin. They were flickers -- like the speckled light of the sun shining through the branches. It was just a matter of time before someone came, before someone sought her out, and so there wasn’t much time at all to take in the sights, the sounds, the smells… Just the taste. She gulped down her champagne. “Excuse me, I hate to be a bother...I was hoping to perhaps speak with you in private, Ms. Marquez? You see, your father actually sent me here to find you because he believes that we could perhaps be friends…” Isabella was in the middle of chugging down her drink, and refused to stop -- she regarded the young woman with a bright golden gaze above the rim of her glass and held up a hand with a single pointed finger -- the universal sign for, ‘just a minute.’ “...I’m not the most social woman, but I figured that if such a highly regarded man such as him made the suggestion, then I would be a fool not to listen.” Having polished off her champagne, Isabella set the glass on the floor, near her lovely, polished heels. Shifting, she pushed off the sofa, and took to her feet so that she could stand before the woman clad in black. Unlike the seductive Ilyana, this creature was reminiscent of a Victorian tragedy in her getup -- but Isabella approved, the outfit was charming. The young woman held out her hand, and Isabella took it with both of hers. “Apologies, I forgot to tell you my name, I am Sarah Bouchard.” Even the potent dose of bliss running through her veins couldn’t keep her smile from faltering at the sound of that name. As a former member of the vampyric royal family -- in fact, as one of the Royal Pair, she had been privy to personalities of many of the nobles in Atitlan. She knew all about Lord Bouchard. But how could he have had a daughter? And one with flesh so warm… Gabriela realized then that she was holding on to Sarah’s hand -- clinging to it in fact. “I am sorry,” she said breathlessly and then forced herself to let go. Just when she thought that there was nothing left in the world to hurt her, Tenebre delivered. Perhaps he was the only being alive who knew how best to wound her -- the proof stood living before her now, and she could barely breathe. Somehow he had found a dhampyre, although she had been certain that Philippe had been the only one -- at least the only one born in the last three centuries. But here, in her own backyard, in the absolute nothingness that was Valucre, he had managed to find another and send her forth to torment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she heard herself say, but the words felt hollow, though they were framed with a set of smiling lips. “If my father sent you to me,” Gabriela began in a hushed tone, “...then I think we should speak -- but you’re right, it should be in private and not here…” however before more could be said, the pair was interrupted. “Ms. Marquez?” Warmed by the bliss in her blood, a permanent blush had spread across her cheeks, painting them with a pleasant hue of pink. It was that healthy sort of color that came with exercise, or from being in close proximity to others in an enclosed space, a mild color, but alluring against her particular tone of skin, matching with the shade of her lips, especially as they parted in surprise upon inspection of the man who interrupted them. She saw the devil and for a moment appeared like a deer caught in the headlights. Wide-eyed, and with that tell-tale expression that gave her away as Gabriela Irene DuGrace -- her brows pinched, her lips pressed into a line, her posture straight and ready. She was only half turned toward him, that’s how utterly unprepared for she was for the sight of him. She had stopped mid pivot, for her senses were no longer strong enough to give him away to her -- she could not smell his cologne of brimstone and spice, nor feel the impending doom of the otherness that followed in his wake. It wasn’t until her eyes laid upon him that the fear of god lay into her. “Roen, Lord of the Black City. I saw the fliers.” He smiled, friendly. “The next time you throw a party, do invite me.” He was laughing and she had no idea if he was laughing at her or the situation. When he reached into his coat, she took the chance to steal a glance at his attire -- her golden eyes roaming him up and down. She had never seen him in a tux, and was appalled to find herself attracted to the sharpness of his appearance. Modernity served and fit him well. And then she jolted because he was leaning forward and then over her, so close that his lips were just an inch or two away from her ear, and his breath was landing across her mostly bare shoulder, rolling down her mostly bare back. “For the birthday girl…” He pressed a small package into her hand while his blackened fingernails scratched along the inside of her wrist. And she was left mostly speechless at the sheer audacity of his boldness at having come, at approaching her so openly, at daring to touch her… “Don’t spend it all in one place.” And then he was gone, and she was standing alone once more -- though she wondered, she had to wonder if he had taken any notice of Sarah. Had he seen beyond his obsession, his lust, and his perversions? Could his heart still break like hers? There was a flesh and blood reminder of the child they had lost, made manifest by a cruel deity that refused to leave them alone. More than just playing some rich-playboy king, she wanted to see the same hurt and anger in his eyes that she felt in her soul -- but he was gone. She thought of making a spectacle of this. To publicly thank him for his gift and thereby, perhaps, entice others to donate to her cause, but there was a commotion. She couldn’t quite see, even standing on her impossibly high-heels. Roen, who had turned his back to her, was just one of many in the way. She glanced at Sarah, who was more than likely still there, still standing near, still waiting to hear when and where they would talk. Again, Gabriela held up a single finger -- one minute, please -- she mouthed, before walking after Roen, and standing besides him to see what was happening. “What is going on?”
  6. Well, things are in full swing now. We have a good number of people in the thread, and I am hoping we'll all be interacting soon! This is essentially a last call for anyone who wants to join before we close off the thread and let the real fun begin! Also, this is a chance for anyone who might be having second thoughts to give their characters a proper exit -- although that would be sad and we would miss you terribly. 😭
  7. Morris the Bartender “I’m fine…” said Roen, pissed sounding in Morris’ opinion. “Mhm,” he replied with a hum of sass in his throat as the devil pushed off the bar, abandoned his seat, and walked off. “Damn fine,” he muttered as he swiped a pristine, white rag across the bartop where Roen had left some fingerprint smudges atop the glass-like surface. “I wouldn’t bother with that one,” he said after ensuring the cleanliness of his workstation -- baby-blues shifting to look at Igni, “--he’s walking around with an emotional suppository shoved so far up his ass he can’t relax for a second without shitting out all of his feels.” Morris snickered, and found himself rather enjoying his meanness. "This is delicious, thank you!” And then, just as his eyes sought the lovely ray of sunlight that was Shanna, he grazed a passing glance upon Marcellus. A vampyre. Morris was instantly curious, but not enough to abandon the only creature capable of shifting his own mood tonight. The man, pensive and troubled as he seemed, would just have to wait his turn. Though it lingered in the back of his mind, what could have a vampyre (old as Marcellus was) looking so scared? By the time his eyes settled on Shanna once more a dusting of a blush had fallen across her cheeks. Could she be any more precious? His thin lips spread into a wide grin, with his pearly white teeth just visible below the pale-pink dip of his cupid's bow. The hard lines of his jaw and chin, and the harshness of his square brow softened immediately with the genuine pleasure of his smile -- a reaction to her presence. Perhaps it was the fact that he could sense, at least on some superficial level, the swirling tempest of emotions that she felt -- and therefore had his proof of her unquestionable innocence, a quality so rare it was perhaps more valuable than any of the vile concoctions he housed and sold behind his bar. In a world of ancient vampyres, weretigers, newly created humans from vampyric flesh, demons, devils, dragons, and god only knows what else -- she was the only truly exceptional thing. A breath of fresh air. A piece of clear sky. A ray of sunlight. “I am glad you like it, beautiful,” he replied after leaning in, crossing his arms over the bar, and resting there as close to her as possible. “Are you the only bartender tonight? You’re gonna get really busy, I imagine.” Morris glanced to the right and then to the left. He hadn’t noticed that he was alone. There were supposed to be others tonight -- they were expecting a full house, and were already near full capacity. His grin melted away and his lips settled into a serious line. He was handsome when he smiled, but rather intimidating when he fell serious. Even the soft shade of his eyes, and the boyish disarray of his blond hair could do little to diminish the sudden sharpness of his expression. “Those fucking assholes -- they’re late. Yeah, I am not supposed to be working alone tonight. Wait until all these chumps start getting loosened up. That’s when the wine really starts flowing and things get crazy.” He was smiling again, after giving her a wink. But Shanna would prove herself to be a prophetess, and no sooner had Morris settled in to continue their conversation when more people flocked to the bar. And it was, with a heavy sigh, and a toss of his neat, white rag, that Morris excused himself to go fill some more drink orders. “I’ll be back in a moment, beautiful… don’t you go anywhere.” Much to Morris' annoyance, his first drink order came from some prick who made a near spectacle of ensuring that he was aware that he wanted a non-alcoholic drink. After some consideration, Morris began to mix a drink -- 8 ounces of ginger ale, 8 ounces of lemonade, two splashes of syrup out of a candied cherry jar, and then a few of the cherries themselves. It was served in a tall glass over ice, with a little pink umbrella. “Here you go, an extra virgin -- cherry fully intact -- Shirley Temple,” he set the glass before Tynes (just as the man mumbled to himself) while barely able to contain a snicker of contempt. Next came to Sarah, a swirling vortex of uncertainty, trepidation, and worry -- decked out in full goth gear. It suited her rather nicely, and he found himself looking her up and down approvingly, “What can I get you?” He could tell when someone wanted to be left alone, so he didn’t plan on sticking around too long and bothering the woman who seemed so intent on studying the birthday girl from afar. When she placed her order he’d provide her drink and move on. Having the event be fully catered and all drinks provided was the one good thing about this whole mess -- there was no waiting on payments. Even so, he desperately needed some help! When he saw his bosses walk in -- Cammy and Caecelia -- he considered desperately flagging them down and forcing some aprons on them. Surely they had remembered to schedule more help for him behind the bar…Before it came to that, a near-platinum haired creature settled at the bar before him. He stopped and regarded her, mostly -- he eyed the plush sea of tails upon which she sat, like a very regal squirrel -- quite fluffy, and rather soft looking. “Merlot, please,” she asked -- and her voice was sweet and pleasant. “Someone is going to make a coat out of you,” he replied almost dumbly. But it was true. Terrenus -- or Fracture, whatever the hell this place was calling itself now, was not a good place for strange creatures, and she was by far one of the strangest things he had ever seen. The spell broke, just as the dark-skinned man who had been sitting with the birthday girl made his approach. He came to be near to the elegant, fluffy-tailed creature, and Morris turned away to pour a glass of Merlot. “Konbanwa, Akako-Sama! I’m extremely pleased you could make it after all.” “Do you have any idea of your son’s whereabouts, Lord Pendragon?” Hrash, Morris thought as he set the glass before Akako and looked to Xartia. “Lord Pendragon?” he tested out the name, and then followed with, “--what are you drinking tonight?”
  8. I am sorry it took me so long to post, but I wanted to get it just right!

    1. Csl


      It's alright! ^_^ 

    2. Pasion Pasiva

      Pasion Pasiva

      I am really enjoying Pallas! Thank you.

  9. She saw it then -- just a shift, a minuscule thing, so small and insignificant most would not have noticed. His eyes, vibrant and green, had shifted and grazed the back of her hand (the hand upon his knee) as surely as a caress. Either her touch was not welcome and made him uncomfortable, or her touch meant more than she realized. Being that he did not politely over her hand, she imagined it was the latter. Of course, she was not conceited enough to believe herself overly significant to this man. He was a measured man -- measured in voice, in emotion, and clearly in honesty -- though she was hardly one to criticize. But she did wonder what it had meant to him, to be touched so freely, so happily, and so warmly by a woman. Did it imply loneliness? Lust? Or a sentimentality for some stirred up memory that she had the misfortune of bringing back to life. “Typically I am too busy with myself to enjoy the leisure of functions like this one. Though if there is one thing you should know about me da’ling, is that I’m never too busy for a friend.” Through this pause of thoughtfulness, Gabriela had not even realized that her hand remained gently set upon the Cambion’s knee -- but when she did realize it, after she was brought back from her reverie by the sound of his voice, she gave him a squeeze. A friend, he said. A friend, he called her. “I am your friend, aren’t I?” she replied, before drawing her hand back to her lap. She sat there, pretty as could be -- this small, warm, human girl. Gone was the otherworldly beauty of her moonlit skin and the radiant glow of her summer-set eyes. She was ordinary now, and young -- and this was a celebration of her aging, of the forward-momentum that brought her closer and closer to death, to the end. The end. She smiled in wordless reply to his Cheshire grin -- an expression she was quickly learning to read. It did not denote joy or comfort, or even confidence anymore. It was a mask, a perfectly crafted and handled facade. But what hid behind? She couldn’t say. She couldn’t begin to imagine, but that was mostly because she didn’t care. Whatever evils he felt needed to be hidden, whatever horrors he thought himself guilty for, whatever wrongs he had committed and walked away from without remorse -- she did not care. He was her friend. And in these final days, she didn’t have the luxury to renounce anyone for any reason. She was fading, and whether that meant making it to her final goal or burning out bright and brilliant just short of the finish line -- all that mattered was what she made of these small and precious moments. The end was inevitable, either for the world or for herself. Another bubble of laughter came from somewhere deep in her belly -- from that dark and ugly place. She was laughing easy and soft, but also full of genuine feelings. She was enjoying his company, and she sounded like a total idiot with her silly, girlish giggling. “...to be honest, I had no idea how inclined you were to lead prior. Would this be your first time, leading?” Isabella’s carefree laugh slowly inched down into a tight and mischievous little smirk, the most delicate grin pressed down tight and confined to the expenses allowed by the fullness of her lips. Behind her teeth, which were closed neatly and forcefully kept from clenching, her tongue darted back and forth, feeling the shape of them as she struggled to keep her mouth shut. She needed a moment or two to keep from blurting out the reality of it all. Her mind was a fog of sparkles and a rose-colored fog. But through the haze, she saw Xartia for what he was -- a prying little bastard intent on digging out more and more of her story. Did he have suspicions? “Not directly,” she half-lied, “I grew up, mostly alone after I ran away from home, but often found myself at the head of collections of people. I am a natural born leader, some would say. I would say most people are natural born sheep, just waiting and seeking the next best thing to look toward for answers and direction. Anyway, when I found my way back to my family, I was surrounded by people who wielded power. I learned from them.” Not one thing she said was a lie. She sat there, examining the magician with her lovely amber-colored eyes and a half smile upon her lips as she waited to breathe in the effects of her words upon the man -- her friend. “Already quite the spectacle. I’m hopeful Cammy and lo appreciate the business you are likely to bring their way.” “To the spoiled brats -- may learn to better appreciate all the gifts given onto them,” she said, shifting her gaze onto the beautiful woman, dressed in black, dripping jewels, and regarding her with abysmal eyes. Gabriela could not quite describe the pleasure of seeing Ilyana, or the sudden and confounding comfort she felt at being in both Xartia’s and Ilyana’s presence at the same time. They had been with her from the beginning -- Ilyana at the onset and Xartia just a few hours later, when she took her full stroll as a newborn human girl. Or maybe it was the alcohol… Whatever the case, she visibly relaxed upon the arrival of the Ilyana, a beauty who put every other woman in the club to shame. “So with the trio reunited, what does the gracious Isabella Marquez have in store for us today?” Gabriela had inched to the very edge of the sofa. Most of her bare back was presented to the magician, as she leaned forward to reach out with her small hands for Ilyana. The woman, gracious and doting as ever, allowed for the whimsical Isabella to catch her hands and drew her near, closer and closer. “World domination,” Gabriela whispered up at Ilyana, with her bright, golden eyes opened wide and her lovely mouth a smile -- a wide, beautiful smile. And then she was laughing again, a bubble that had burst and all of her secret joy came spilling out in the form of sweet chime-like giggling, like little bells caught in a gentle breeze. “I am just joking,” she added after a moment or two, after observing how Ilyana looked about -- imagining that the elegant woman was concerned about Gabriela’s behavior. Maybe it wasn’t affection or concern, but Gabriela felt that Ilyana worried like any dutiful mother, fretting over the child she birthed into the world. It was her natural instinct to sooth the woman’s worries if she was, for any reason, the cause of them. “Just a little fundraising… I am well established, thanks to Xartia’s generosity. But my actual plans require substantial financing…” Plans, plans, plans… Did anyone actually care what her plans were? “Oh,” she said suddenly -- quietly so only they could hear her, “...it’s gotten so crowded in here. I need another drink...Shall I fetch us some?” @Dolor Aeternum @Twitterpated
  10. “Is that what you want, princess? Shall I find your mother and drag her back, kicking and screaming, and bind her to this garden with these maidens for all time?” She had lived, just years fewer than Gabriela -- but unlike her mother, she had truly lived them. Gabriela had gone to torpor not twenty years after her birth, and had slept for three centuries there after. She was a child. But within the scope of those centuries, she and Dollya had wandered the world, they had learned, they had grown, they had come to reason on their own because their guardian had abandoned them to the world when they were newly born. But this question -- to be asked such a thing and to pass, not just judgment, but to establish a punishment, little Lucia was not ready for it. She was full of anger and hate, but not to the point of knowing what it would mean to Gabriela to be brought back here under Raphael’s thumb. Like he knew her, she knew him, and underneath the calm and quiet of his sapphire eyes and the endless sea encompassed therein, she knew the turmoil and violence within. Suddenly her demeanor changed. She was shy and uncertain. “She’s just a child,” she said quietly and genuinely -- much to her own surprise, “more so even than me, within the confines of this vessel I inhabit. She’s lived so little. She’s known so little. Sometimes I hate her, because I never got to be a child. But then, I reason, that she is now that very child, the very child I first met after I was formed from water and clay. Foolish, hopeful -- stupidly hopeful.” Lucia frowned, and the words sounded so strange coming from her full, cherub lips -- from her rosy cheeks, from her wide, crimson eyes. She was a babe, but she was speaking like a woman -- a wise woman. “She’s all alone again,” she whispered, her voice nearly cracking under the strain of it all. “You don’t know what it was like -- seeing her alone, seeing her when she was 15 years old, as old as Dollya looks, a child, a true child, a babe in the world constantly struggling against those who would take advantage of her -- for her beauty, for her blood, for her power. And how much older is she now? Truly? And she’s alone again. She doesn’t know better. She doesn’t know. She should be here. She should be safe and sound.” Lucia struggled then, squirming until she was let down back on her feet. Like all creatures of water and clay, she needed the grounding of the earth to help settle her nerves. Her small hand remained in his, and she clutched onto his fingertips with all of her supernatural strength. Those pretty, ruby-colored eyes of hers were upon the gardens once more. “I want her to stop hurting… she hurts so much, so very much. I can feel it. I can feel it every day. She's in constant agony.”
  11. Without a single word of opposition, Gabriela accepted. “It’s decided, then.” There was the urge to tilt her head. Gabriela, at her core, was birdlike in more ways than one. Many of her mannerisms had been compared to those of the avian variety -- it was often said that she was flighty, peckish, peacockish. She was described as a songbird in a gilded cage. She was called the Black Dove by those who followed La’Ruta, and given the name Black Peacock by the High Lords of Genesaris. The latest story arc that had brought her here today, to ask for help from a near-stranger, had in fact had its beginnings when a villainous group kidnapped her from her own castle by turning her into a massive swan they then carried out in play sight of day. She was birdlike in so many more ways than the obvious, but somehow, she knew this and resisted the urge to tilt her head and examine him as he settled into whatever false sense of security her undefiant acceptance had granted him. She didn’t need his men. She didn’t need his might and his power. All that she needed was his name -- his name backing her up as she made her own way. His name, and his voice, and his gentle disposition as he publicly accepted her lie, that she was not Irene Gabriela DuGrace and merely just a human who shared an uncanny resemblance. Who would nay-say a king? Even if he was just a temporary stand-in? She had gotten exactly what she came for -- his backing, his confidence, his name. He seemed pleased with himself, or perhaps just relieved -- a sentiment she could understand. Immediately, she felt a pang of guilt for having come to his home and for using him so unkindly. She recognized the tiring weight of rulership upon his seemingly young shoulders, and she ached for the added troubles she had brought by virtue of her presence. But somewhere, in the murky waters of her mind and heart, she knew that this was a necessary sacrifice. Her foolish inability to separate her duty from her sentiments was going to endanger everything, and in the end, wasn’t she doing this for him as well as everybody else? You deserve better, she thought as her eyes shifted down to examine her hands, which sat atop her lap. Her brows were pinched and her expression seemed heavy, thoughtful, and sad -- yes, quite sad. You deserve a better world than this -- I can’t give it to you, I can’t change the world, I can’t make a new one. But I can give you peace and I can give you quiet. And I will. She was preparing to go, gathering herself up mentally before reaching out to hold the armrests of her chair to push herself up. “No, no. Your company’s… welcome. It’s a welcome distraction from work. I haven’t left Taen in months… much less the castle, actually. It’s nice having guests.” This time, she couldn’t help it. Her head tilted, just a bit, just enough to send a dark ribbon of hair down across her face, and over her shoulder. She brushed it back with a flustered frown, before looking right back at Pallas. How do you rule, if you never leave the safety of your castle? She wouldn’t dare question him or his methods. He looked fragile to her -- tired, lonely, and lost. He looked young and she felt that awful instinct to nurture, the one that she buried deep and fought back constantly. It wasn’t her place to care. It wasn’t her place to shield or protect anyone other than the one who was already gone -- Philippe. But she saw it in his face, what this confession had meant and she felt the ache in her chest -- familiar and awful. He was reaching out. Not to her specifically, she could have been anyone. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. His honesty, it stung her because of her own inability to be so. He was fresh, and young, and even in his brokenness, so very hopeful and strong. Philippe could have been like him. “This is your first birthday as a human -- that’s a nice thing. A new start.” The beginning of the end, she thought sadly. Pallas stood and offered his hand. He was all boyish charm again, all sweetness and loveliness in the way his certainty melted away, leaving behind a shy young man attempting to be a good host. She loved him for it -- loved him deeply in that moment. “I don’t have much personal experience with birthdays… but I know how the celebration goes. Let’s make a proper toast to that before you go, shall we?” She wanted to say no. She knew the moment her hand touched his -- he would become important. There was no need for any of this. No need to help her celebrate. No need to go beyond what he had already said he would do for her. Did he recognize her own loneliness? Did he see past her well crafted exterior to the darkness within, the awful silence and ever growing emptiness? Was he trying to save her… Of course not. She set her hand in his and pulled herself up. “Don’t let go.” “Wait...what?” The world swirled around her. As a vampyre, she had suffered from horrible motion sickness whenever one of her would-be lovers felt it appropriate to whisk her away without a word of warning. She loathed the sensation of immediate-magical transportation. It went against every sense and sensibility that lived within her. But where she had suffered as a vampyre, she suffered perhaps tenfold as a human. The world spun, stopped suddenly, and changed immediately. As soon as it was safe, she did let go. She let go and covered her suddenly pale lips with both sets of fingers. The lovely color of her skin had drained away, leaving her pale and sickly looking as she stumbled away from the prince. In the seconds following their sudden appearance in Dendrokipos, Gabriela inched herself close to a potted tree and the shade cast by a hanging plant. “I am so sorry,” she whispered, as she tried to calm her breathing and avoid vomiting all over the floor. He was, of course, gracious and gave her space and time to compose herself. It was the sight of delicate green leaves uncurling from long vines, of little buds bursting open into full blooms, and the lovely and peaceful smell of them that brought her back and calmed her down. By the time she was ready to face her host once more, she found him sitting and looking by far more relaxed. She drew near and joined him on the opposite side of the couch, with a grand view of the open space below and all the people enjoying their social activities. Glasses appeared, and then a bottle, and she sat there looking at this with a perplexed look. He explained what it was and poured out the contents of the bottle. Of course she took her glass when he motioned to it with a tilt of his head. She couldn’t help but swirl the liquid and bring it to her nose to smell -- his description had been rich, but nowhere near as heady as the intoxicating smell. “Here’s to… mortality. To numbered years made precious by their rarity. To the sweetness of stories that come to close. To the peace that comes at the end of long journeys.” “To death,” she said softly, by means of correcting the flowery titles that were not needed for the one force of nature more powerful than any other, “ -- to the end.” He sipped his drink, but she threw it all back. Alcohol, within the scope of her new mortal life, was her weakness. It burned from sweetness, but she didn’t care -- she hardly tasted it. It was the blissful fuzziness that she wanted. The bleeding colors that came with intoxication. The deafness to the ache in her soul. “...I don’t know. Good for you, though, escaping immortality. Escaping your responsibilities -- put yourself first if you can, and you could, and you did. I can’t.” As much as she liked alcohol -- she was a new human, barely months old. She was a lightweight and it didn’t take much. The dangerous edge that came with inebriation was there almost instantly as she settled her near-gold eyes on his one. “I am not escaping my responsibilities. I am fighting, tooth and nail, to be allowed to meet them.” Did he hear her? Did he care… He was surrounded by his wings, and she didn’t seem bothered or curious in the least. It came with being a ward of the High Lords. They were all winged creatures, and she had seen their feathered-splendor many times before. “Death is a gift, in some ways,” he muttered. “Only if you get to pick it…” she muttered back, looking away, looking down at the people below -- doubting herself. “I am sorry,” she said suddenly, breaking the stillness of the quiet that had settled between them as he thought of all the things he knew, and examined her with the very wise realization of the things he did not know. With a lick of her lips, and a careful maneuvering of a stray strand of dark hair back behind her ear, she regarded Pallas once more. “I didn’t tell you all of that to make you feel -- anything -- for me. Not pity, not sympathy, not pride… You asked for the truth, and I provided it. At the core of all of this,” she continued, by far more confidently than she had spoken before, “-- at the center of it all, is a simple desire to do what I think I can do, what I was taught I would do -- a social responsibility to leave things better than I found them. There have simply been many hurdles in the way to fulfilling my destiny. It saddens me that it seems that the only way I can do my work is by not being who I thought I was.” She let the words linger and they seemed so dense and so needlessly perplexing. After a moment or so, she smiled -- she laughed a little and shook her head. “I am so sorry I came and bothered you, but I really am so very grateful.”
  12. I've been havin' dreams Jumpin' on a trampoline Flippin' in the air I never land, just float there As I'm looking up Suddenly the sky erupts Flames alight the trees Spread to fallin' leaves Now they're right upon me Wait if I'm on fire How am I so deep in love? When I dream of dying I never feel so loved I've been having dreams Splashin' in a summer stream Trip and I fall in I wanted it to happen My body turns to ice Crushin' weight of paradise Solid block of gold Lying in the cold I feel right at home Wait, if I'm on fire How am I so deep in love? When I dream of dying I never feel so loved Wait, if I'm on fire How am I so deep in love? When I dream of dying I never feel so loved I never feel so loved
  13. Isabella Morcia Marque Although she spoke, although she laughed, and although she shared the glory of her honey-colored eyes with those around her, those who craved her -- never did her focus waver from the shy creature that was Shanna. Perhaps, their brief interaction had not been meaningful enough to constitute a commitment to memory or perhaps it had to do with the fact that she had been a vampyre then and the memory persisted now as vividly as ever in her human mind, whatever the case, Gabriela knew exactly who Shanna was. A deeply devoted child who could not begin to understand the depth of darkness upon which she built the foundation of her faith. She was good, pure, and kind -- Shanna was gentle. Of this, there was no doubt in Gabriela’s mind, for her heart still ached with the memory of the young woman’s gift -- the bits of softened sea wood, the smooth and foggy pieces of sea glass, the seagull feathers, the strings of twine that held it all together -- the beautiful baby mobile that she had built for Philippe. But misguided or not, Shanna was a follower of the Blood God -- a faithful maiden of his shame of a religion. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips like a curse, and she acted like it had been a curse, for her eyes widened and a hand came up to cover her mouth. Caught off guard by the sound of her own laughter, and found to be utterly charming by what appeared to be nothing more than girlish bashfulness, Gabriela and her audience were at an inter-cross. They laughed with her, and looked to her for an explanation, but she could only wonder where her hatred had gone. And so much like a woman whose sight had just been taken, she felt her way across her soul seeking out the comforting anger only to find it gone, and replaced instead, by a giddiness that made her feel utterly stupid. The opposite of fear was courage -- and fear was the thing that gripped her most tightly around the neck when she first saw Shanna, but it was not courage that replaced the anguish and worry that should have been building. Rather, it was bubbly, fizzy, everesent -- happiness. And as Shanna turned away, even after giving her one last long, narrowed look of suspicion, Gabriela could only stand there with a hand over her mouth trying to hide the full expression of her laughter. “So what’s so funny?” asked the young man with the dark eyes, the blond-woman’s companion. “Yes, let us in on the joke….” said the curly-blond, who was pouting, rather ridiculously, at the man who was clearly her junior in age. “The utter absurdity of this moment,” came Isabella’s reply, as her eyes cast a long glance across the room to find Shanna. But she was gone -- lost among the crowded bar. She should have seen him there and then -- that finely dressed devil with the broken-hearted look on his face. But he was hidden behind the wide girth of a woman dressed in a lovely shawl. Gabriela, who was beginning to tremble from the essence that had spiked her drink, did not seek more beyond the obvious sight. “That’s not nice,” that sassy, green-eyed woman said, turning her grown-woman pout on Isabella. “I am certainly not absurd.” “Of course you’re not,” Isabella offered, leaning forward to pat the blond woman on the cheek -- it would have been a painfully condescending gesture for anyone watching. But Gabriela had a way of doing things, where she would smile or offer the most subtle of touches, and that would ease the bite of even her most miserable attacks. “You’re precious, beautiful, and absolutely not at all absurd.” This time the laughter broke past her last defenses, and soon enough she was just standing there laughing so freely and so genuinely that it wasn’t long before her sides began to ache. By then she had been abandoned by the blond and the brown-eyed man, both of whom had had just about enough of Isabella’s teasing. She watched them go, wondering vaguely if she had had anything to do with it. And then she was off. She may have no longer been a vampyre, and the obvious grace that came with it was gone, but she still managed to move like a dream. She had her human legs now, she understood a little better how to sway her arms to balance, how to control the length of her step so she didn’t risk toppling over like a toddler. But she was very much like a toddler, for it was the sight of Xartia sitting and lounging at the very back of the open gallery that sent her bounding over like a little bubbling force of energy. “You came!” she called, almost before being in polite range of conversation. She got a few curious looks for it, but she shrugged them off and finished with a smile. No invitation was needed, and so she did not wait for one. She fell onto the bench with him, keeping a respectable distance, though she leaned closer to him than she had ever before, and even went so far as to rest a small hand on his knee. “I thought you were far too busy for these sort of things,” she teased him before sliding her hand off his knee and leaving the impression of a soft and warm human touch. Isabella was not herself, and perhaps Xartia would notice it. Gone was the somber darkness of her eyes when they were cast to the shadows of her dark thoughts. For the first time since he’d laid eyes on her, Xartia would see the ease that came with a clear conscience, or with the utter lack of concern for responsibility, or perhaps more importantly, with a deeply felt comfort in oneself. Though she was petite to begin with, she looked lighter. It had everything to do with that light, bubbly laugh of hers, which she was having a hard time controlling as she settled into her seat besides the rather glum looking Xartia. “Look at what you’ve done. Your small investment in me has paid off -- or it will, sooner than you think.”
  14. When are you going to join! I feel like I need some exotic cat-girls as waitresses. >_> 

    1. The Alexandrian

      The Alexandrian

      I started typing up a post yesterday, but I lost it.  I shall attempt to post something tomorrow!

    2. Pasion Pasiva

      Pasion Pasiva

      Oh that's awful! Use google.docs!

  15. Morris Malayne -- the bartender Amused at the devil’s reaction to his question, the handsome young man simply stood there, casual but elegant. He was a good deal taller than the outsider, broader of chest as well -- just an overall massive sort of creature. But his build was slender, and the way he moved seemed more feminine in grace than brutish or harsh, especially considering his size. There stood, leaning over the bar top, when most had to sit high on a stool to rest their elbows on it properly. He was leaning his weight forward on his palms, which were cast far and wide across the bar under his chest. His lashes fluttered at the devil, even as the crimson-eyed creature turned away, looking rather put off. “Smolder to boot,” said Morris, not in the least bit concerned if the devil heard him -- or took offense to the good-natured teasing. And when the devil had turned fully away and was back to wearing the feelings he so openly revealed to the bartender, upon his face now, Morris wondered. Here was the manifestation of love, not obsession as the devil so badly wanted to portray, and beyond him, to where his longing gaze was cast, stood the epitome of hate. Morris chuckled. “...A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life, Whose misadventured piteous overthrows, Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.” Hm. Hm. Hm… “Dragon kin, or demon kin? If you don’t mind me asking.” It was the silken voice of the large woman that drew Morris out of his reverie. From his quiet perch, at the center of these two strange creatures, he observed the curious interaction -- though he too glanced, every so often, up at the chattering birthday girl who had polished off her glass of champagne. “Neither,” replied the devil to the woman, “And I don’t mind you asking.” Morris nearly pouted. “A devil. Though I haven’t called them kindred in a long time. Years, now, I think…” So it was too much to ask how he knew the birthday girl, a totally genuine question considering the sentiments of love and devotion all but dripping off his aura, but the man could easily spew a short history on his make and model with no problem and to a complete stranger no less? “Well that’s just rude,” Morris murmured to himself as he turned from the quietly speaking couple and sank behind the bar -- he was looking through a very special drawer at the collection of small vials he kept on hand. “And rudeness will just not do… hm, what to use, what to use.” A long finger caressed the little bottles, toying with them affectionately until he found what he wanted. He was back then, once more tending to his post just as the dark-skinned woman saw fit to include him in the conversation. “And what are you? Are you something in disguise, like us? Or are you what you appear to be?” “Don’t we all wear disguises, my love?” Morris asked with a mischievous grin spreading over his thin lips. “Sometimes, we don’t even know we are wearing them. Take this one for example,” he jutted his chin at Roen, “--devil he says? If you could see what I see, you’d be quite put off. He’s so much more than just that. He’s a rainbow of sentiments, right now, at this very moment.” Expecting a glare, Morris held up his hands in surrender. “Now don’t get cross, I am just your common, run-of-the mill empath -- human, boring. I just have an uncanny, and rather useless, ability to sense what some people might be feeling. But you, my love,” he went on, directing himself now more toward the dark-skinned woman, “ -- dragon folk? Now that is something. Aren’t you frightened of being these parts? Your kind is nearly extinct upon this world, hunted to the edge of the brink by those who believe dragon’s scales are good for the libido.” He laughed, a rich and colorful laugh, a playful laugh that would hopefully ease any tension Igni might be feeling. “Can I get you two another round of drinks? More champagne for the lady, and for the devil -- what was it, brandy or scotch?” Before the devil can answer, his lovely little bird reappears. The curiously melancholy girl, pretty but with big, sad eyes. He is smitten with her, perhaps more so than with Roen, and his attention is hers for the duration of her short visit. “May I try something sweet, this time? Thank you.” “But of course,” he replies before reaching under the bar to a freezer and pulling out a brown bottle. “Sweets for my sweet,” he explains before twisting the top off the bottle with his wide hand and sliding it across the bar to Shanna, “That’s a mixed-berry cider. Do tell me what you think, won’t you?”
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