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Pasion Pasiva

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Pasion Pasiva last won the day on October 1

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    The Black Queen

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  1. “I am sorry -- I am so sorry.” She looked up at Xartia, a picture of gentlemanly charm and serious concern. Her brows pinched in sheer supplication, brows that were now adorned by a thin sheet of sweat. Though moments ago she had appeared as the picture of health, she was now beginning to look a little green around the gills. This was their third stop, and much like before, she disentangled her arm from his, for he had been kind enough to offer it in support, and darted into the nearest alleyway. Not bothering to be too far out of view, she doubled over, with trembling, pale fingers gripping at the brick-stone walls of the building before her, and began to vomit again. It was mostly dry heaving now, but a few swirling streams of orange-juice soaked pancakes managed to come rushing out. “Dear god,” she mumbled to herself as she tried to straighten up, “--it doesn’t taste or smell anywhere close to what it did when it was going down.” And of course, why would it? Stomach acid and bile had now joined the mix, and all of these things were natural and normal, the typical thing a human would know should they find themselves sick to their stomach. But she marveled at it, nearly with the same amazement as she had when the food was first served on the table. Really, you’re coming off as absolutely insane. Can’t you get a hold of yourself? Honey-colored eyes closed tight as she fought back the practically torturous pain of an oncoming headache. Throwing up was affecting a lot more than just her stomach, throat, and the tastebuds in her mouth. After a moment, she composed herself and walked back out onto the street. “I am really sorry. You didn’t have to walk me all the way here, but I am glad you did.” She did not dare take another step. The gratitude she displayed felt genuine in her heart, so she wanted to ensure that it was perceived that way. And after ensuring that he had heard her and that he wasn’t too disgusted by her display, she carried on. It was just around the corner anyway, the Black Tarantula, after that he would never have to see her again. Although, when she caught sight of Ilyana standing outside the doors, in the icy morning mist, still wearing nothing but her skin-tight black dress and a look of annoyance upon her lovely face, she wondered at the possibility of backtracking and asking Xartia to adopt her and simply take her away. No more running away. “There’s my friend,” she said to the man, pointing at Ilyana -- Gabriela looked a little distressed, “--I am late. I made her wait.” She took the lead and crossed the semi busy street, moving at a slow jog now that Ilyana surely had eyes upon her. Gabriela looked paler than she should have, given that she was now human -- her bout with stomach cramps was not quite done, and she was dying to get the taste of vomit out of her mouth. “Ilyana, I am sorry for making you wait...there was a small problem at the bank. This is Xartia, a new friend. He rescued me from distress, and has now come to deliver me safely back into your hands,” the petite woman gave Ilyana a sharp, knowing look -- humanity did not fit Gabriela very well, she could hardly hide her feelings of annoyance as she had been able with her ice-cold vampyric mask. Now she just appeared a frazzled, sick-looking, girl giving people odd narrowed glares. @Twitterpated @Dolor Aeternum
  2. Lucia Ellena Bartolome was walking in the company of her royal guard and her governess, a tall and elegant woman who -- oddly enough -- looked like an adult version of the child. Most may have mistaken the woman for the child’s mother, but most knew the truth. The princess’ mother was the Black Queen of Orisia, or rather, the former Black Queen of Orisia. The governess walking besides the young girl was nothing more or less than a creature selected for her likeness to the girl, a doll, or rather an intelligent plaything, with which the child was meant to entertain herself while her father was away. And he had been away for so very long, though he lived just there in the same city as she did. Today, of all days, she decided on a walk. It was a good way to escape the dark and ugly whispers that were growing louder and louder with every passing day. People were talking about the ‘disappearance’ of her mother, which was not anything to be surprised about -- Gabriela had a reputation for running away, save that this time she had taken the Empire’s most treasured jewel along with her, growing inside of her. For her own part, Lucia was glad that Gabriela was gone -- not because she would not miss her mother, she always did terribly so -- but because she had taken that infernal creature growing inside of her away. And rumor had it that somehow she had even managed to snuff out its life. The first true-born pure blooded vampyre, conceived by a royal pair, and then viciously murdered by it’s own mother before it could even draw it’s first tiny, pathetic breath. Yes, she was glad for it all, and hopeful that she could soon go back to being her father’s favorite. “The repairs on the city are going well, my Princess,” said the governess aloud, without seeming all that interested in actually engaging in conversation. She seemed programmed to say things, the right things, at the right time. “Yes -- father, has revitalized the capital, as he promised he would.” “Indeed, sweet child, indeed,” replied the woman before a great and terrible shaking of the ground caused her not only to stop, but to reach out and put a protective hand upon Lucia’s shoulder, effectively stopping her as well. Not terribly far from where they walked, a decrepit building, one already marked for demolition, suddenly came down in a tumble of debris and dust. There were terrified screams and then authoritative shouts as her guards came around her in formation. There was chaos, as was to be expected, but then there was calm as everyone settled to watch the dust settle. “What happened?” asked Lucia, suddenly animated, suddenly quite excited -- in a way only an eight year old child could be, an eight year old child who was particularly fond of destruction and death. “Did that building just fall? Did it crush someone...how ghastly! I want to go see!” “Oh my dear, I don’t know about that…” said her hesitant and suddenly nervous looking governess. “It may be dangerous, and there will be people in need of help. Best we stay out of the way.”
  3. It was her first meal. The first morsel of food that would land upon her human tongue and the first burst of flavor to spread across it. Somehow, she felt disappointed after the food was placed before her -- neat and delicious as it appeared. There was a yearning in her heart for something very specific, something she had watched Roen eat before her on many occasions. He was fond of fruit -- that awful devil -- and he had never imagined how envious she was of him when he’d produce some manner of it, an apple or a peach, and begin to cut into it with some carving knife he just happened to have on hand. When he wasn’t looking, she’d study the way he’d slip slices of the fruit into his mouth and she would fantasize about the flavors, only to steal away whatever meager semblance of it remained upon his lips from forced kisses. But the plate before her displayed nothing of fresh fruit, besides a thin, almost flower-like sliver or orange that had been cut and artistically set to the side of her potatoes. Everything else on her plate seemed tragically heavy, and unappealing, though her hunger begged to differ. So although it may have seemed odd, before she touched anything else, she plucked the small piece of orange and ate it first. And how was she supposed to hide her sheer delight? The flavor of the orange -- the sweetness, the tanginess, the citric crispness -- it was better than sunlight, it was better than warm blood running in her veins, it was better than anything else she could have ever asked for. Her eyes closed and her knees, under the table, pressed together in sheer pleasure as she sucked the pulp free from the skin until there was nothing left but the rind, a thing that’s sheer bitterness kept her from devouring. Of course Xartia was very polite in not staring or mentioning that she ate like some orphan off the streets that hadn’t seen a proper meal in days. She went on to attack the rest of her meal in much the same way, forgiving the fact that it was nothing as wonderful as fresh fruit, but no less delicious. The texture of the eggs, the sharpness of hollandaise sauce, the crunch on the biscuit, the saltiness of the ham. He spoke casually and lightheartedly, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist once the food was brought out. She nodded her head or shook her head, and every now and then she would deem him worth enough to regard him with those soft amber-colored eyes of hers. By the time she was done, he was probably halfway finished. At which point she noticed a newspaper sitting on their table -- she hadn’t noticed that it had been brought along with her drink order. She had no intention to be rude, but a name caught her attention. Vadrian Dawnwood, was sprawled across the front page as a participant in a tournament called the Feast of Blades. He was a long way from Orisia, but Gabriela was not about to question the legitimacy of such a fated gift. She knew the Dawnwood House to be loyal to her name and claim upon the Orisian throne. If there was anyone she might consider turning to for aid in this most desperate of times then certainly it would be him -- but she would have to get to him first, and that was definitely going to be easier said than done. “I hate to eat and run,” she said suddenly, springing to life after having spent a long and silent minute staring at the paper. She didn’t realize how much longer it took her mind to process things, and therefore how much more noticeable her pauses were as a human. “But I just remembered that my friend is waiting for me, and I should have gotten back to her nearly half an hour ago…” She was moving to stand, preparing herself to go, when she stopped about half way out of her chair. A cramp in her belly caused her to pause, to grip at her side with a visible flinch before she settled back down in her seat. Her stomach had never been full before, not like this -- the feeling was new. When a human child is born their tiny stomachs slowly and steadily grow and stretch to accommodate their growing need for calories. Gabriela did not have the advantage of that sort of time. She was a newborn -- a newly created human with a body to match. “I am sorry -- just a moment.” This time when she got up, she did so much slower and managed to get to her feet. “It was such a pleasure, Xartia… I hope we’ll meet again.”
  4. Three ages of woman by Gustav Klimt When I first came across this painting I saw a cropped version that just showed the mother and child, and it was just instantly a favorite because it resonated with me and how badly I wanted to be a mother. Obviously that only got better after I had my kids. It's only until recently that I realized I had never seen the full painting, and now I just love it that much more. The Kiss also by Gustav Klimt I remember this one from an Art History class that I had to take in college, and I just thought it was so romantic and so unbelievably beautiful. Oddly enough I can't say I like much of anything else he made.
  5. “It is done.” It was a near impossibility to physically manifest upon Terrenus, but he extended the massive will of force required to create a pale shade -- a rather pathetic thing -- for her sake. He knew, somehow that it wouldn’t be enough to simply do the deed. Rodan, peevish man that he seemed to be, would require something visible, if not tactical, to satisfy his needs on this rather poorly thought out deal. So here he was, a thing barely visible, that rose like wisps of smoke off of Gabriela’s small shoulders. It appeared that he was black flames, dancing in a lively display before rising higher and higher, thick at the base and nearly translucent at the peak. It took only a moment for the dark manifestation to take shape -- the rough outline of a man standing behind Gabriela, though her back was pressed to the bench. And with the interior of the Tarantula being as dark as it was, it was a wonder how he didn’t simply disappear into the background. There was something peerlessly black about him, specifically around the edges that touched Gabriela’s form -- creating a halo of pure darkness around her head. He was in fact, so depthless dark, that he stole away the much the light from Gabriela’s (now tragically dull) eyes, until they appeared like nothing more than white dots within the almond shape of her eyes. Tenebre reached out once he felt an adequate song and dance had been performed, and with clawed shaped tendrils extended, he laid claim to the small seed that lay upon the table besides his beloved daughter’s now human hand. Slowly, and with great care, he rolled the seed to the edge of the table until it dropped -- but never hit the ground. Gabriela, who had been in a strange torpor up until then, finally shifted positions. She turned her head, an odd gesture that was marked most notably by how jerky it seemed. She turned and her entire head wobbled as if the bones and muscles in her neck were confounding and new to her, and as if the movement itself had made her dizzy. Those pretty amber eyes of hers, the color of sweet summer honey, watched as a shadow fell across the table and as the small seed began to roll on its own. Gone was her ability to see Tenebre’s manifestation, at least, here on Terrenus where the God of Darkness had to pick and choose who to purposely manifest himself to. Today the honor was reserved specifically for Rodan. “Do you...see him?” Gabriela asked, but her voice dropped and picked up in that same odd fashion. She flinched at the sound of it and reached up to wrap a hand around her throat. The sound of her voice was offensive to her ears, the feel of it in her throat was strange, and the taste in her mouth as it left her lips -- all of this felt wrong. Tenebre did not wait for Rodan to answer his daughter. The same hand that had extended to collect his unborn grandchild now reached out again, pointing one of those jagged fingertip-like things directly at the Mutator. That arm extended all the way across the table, reaching until the tip of the abysmal claw was touching the man directly upon the chest, just below the throat, just between the collarbone. It moved this way and that, and pushed aside his garments until it was touching his flesh. All that Gabriela could see -- all that anyone would see -- was a shadow cast across the table by something that was not there. All that Rodan would feel with his special abilities was whatever he felt when it came to shadows -- simply the darkness cast by an object coming between a surface and a source of light. In this case, it was a sense of coldness. At first, just a chill, a little brush of ice against his skin where the black vines of Raphael’s influence had taken root. Tenebre’s frigid touch was instantly purifying, but like fire it seared as it cleaned him of his bond to the elder vampyre. And like Gabriela had warned, it was every drop of his blood that was burned in the fire. When it was said and done, and both Gabriela and Rodan were left changed in some manner or the other, Tenebre pulled back and away. He spent a moment regarding his daughter and her new human guise, a thing that only Rodan would be privy to, before dissipating into nothingness, exactly like wisps of smoke in the air. For a long while after that, Gabriela was silent -- she wasn’t sure if Tenbre was done but she guessed as much after Rodan opened his mouth to speak. She interrupted him. “It is done then, good.” She turned and on wobbly legs got to her feet -- warm, vibrant, but limited and mortal… weal… inferior… but free, unabashedly, unimaginably, inexplicably free. A part of her considered thanking Rodan, but the thought made her just about as nauseous as the memory of her morning sickness, which of course made both her hands suddenly reach up to her flat stomach. The baby was gone -- it was real. “Ilyana,” she called with that squeaky and strange voice of hers, that soft and curiously quiet voice that did not command the attention she was used to. She had to get closer, she had to keep walking through the dancers. She tried to be careful, and managed only barely to make it to the bar once again. “Ilyana...I have to go...I have to go to the bank,” she blinked those big honey-gold eyes at the woman, “I’ll be back in an hour. Please wait for me. I just,” she glanced around, she looked confused, and possibly not in her right mind -- but also not like anyone was going to be able to stop her from whatever she was scheming. “I just have to go to the bank to make a withdrawal.” And just like that -- a newly born human came into the world, not screaming and crying, not naked and bloody -- but a new, shiny, curious creature who walked on wobbly legs and saw with two bright eyes, and thought with a sharp mind. She left the safety of the nest into which she had been born, and walked out into the world in search for something she that no longer existed the fortune of the Black Queen. [Exit Gabriela]
  6. “I’m not usually the sort to hold people for ransom, though I feel the need to tell you directly that I refuse to let you leave this cute little diner without actually having a bite to eat.” Perhaps, to his amusement, she was already in possession of a menu when he began to speak -- but by the look upon her lovely face she looked to be anything but. The topic of being held against her will caused all pretenses of pleasantries to melt off her face, and for a moment she appeared more Black Queen than charming, newly-made, human girl. There was even a glint of molten gold in her soft, amber colored eyes as she regarded him with a seriousness that could have chilled the blood in a lesser man. But she was quick to recover and understand the humor of his words. Privately, she marveled at how once upon a time, her hunger would have been geared toward the blood thundering away and against the walls of his arteries rather than the savory dishes mentioned in the menu. It was the wonder of this miracle that carried away her agitation and allowed her melt back into a smile. “You’ll get no resistance from me -- consider me your most willing hostage,” she half smiled, with only the right corner of her mouth curling while her lips pursed in a sultry tease. You’re no longer that animal, so don’t pretend to be. I am not pretending to be anything. You have no idea who -- or what -- he is. Don’t tease him. Don’t tempt him. Gabriela lifted the menu on her lap and peered at him over the edge. There was a narrowing of her eyes as she took in the measure of his features. He was a handsome man, there was also something terribly familiar about him, but because he had been one of the faces in the crowd when first and last she saw him, he was not at the forefront of her badly clouded memories. She pinched her brows in frustration and went back to looking over the menu. “The eggs benedict looks good,” she said at long last. That is going to be entirely too heavy for your first meal! “Yes, I think that’s what I’ll have -- with some house potatoes, and maybe hot cakes.” Are you trying to make yourself sick? You have no idea how you’ll react to food. “What are you having?” She closed the menu and set it back on the table.
  7. A small hand reached out and turned upwards. In the palm of her hand she caught the small, peacefully drifting pieces of paper that were floating raining down, dancing through the air like snowflakes. The book from which Raphael was reading was destroyed, and the testament of his love for Philippe lay in shredded ruin at the foot of his mother’s tomb and his final resting place. It painted a sad picture, even Tenebre could not deny it, and so he took a moment to appreciate the tragedy that was unfolding before him as the polluted love (but love nonetheless) that Raphael had once felt for his beloved daughter now turned into pure and unbridled hate. And much like the metaphoric snow that the fragmented pieces of paper represented, he knew that the self-proclaimed Blood God’s hatred would never thaw. Yes -- someone should stop to mourn the loss of beauty and the loss of love, even if it was insignificant in the scheme of the universe at large. And for a moment, as he regarded with his black eyes the tiny pieces of paper that were gathering upon his open hand, he wondered at the role he played in this although he lacked any sense of remorse. “You should go and you should rest,” said the vessel that wore his cousin’s beautiful face and figure. She moved from where she stood and dropped aside the collection of paper snowflakes. Her dark hair was speckled in the residue of his destruction, but she shook most of it out with her forward momentum as she crossed the room and returned to the bench and to his side. Once again, she sat down. “Whether you plan to avenge or to mourn, you are in no condition to do it now. You will either find her or you will not, her blood may run or it may not, but it will not be today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon -- what she has done, it is beyond what you could have ever thought her capable of doing.” There she sat, in all of her likeness, her soft profile regarding the sarcophagus with that worried expression of hers -- pinched brows, pursed lips, and fingers interlocked, pressed between her knees. Thoughtful and troubled, she bore her black, abysmal stare upon the tomb with something akin to despair. “Surely, by now, you must have realized that I don’t care for the lot of you all. You and her are the exceptions, and before you both, your own mother, and her father, and so on -- I cannot help but wonder what the story may have been had Philippe lived, and your child, had she lived.” There was a smile then, a slow, sad smile. “You were both so convinced that it was a boy -- let me tell you,” that voice lessened, and grew quiet and grave, “...she was just like her mother.”
  8. Gabriela was well pleased by the sound of her mother’s name rolling off of the man’s tongue. He had a talent for her native language, a way hissing out the ‘s’ and stretching out double ‘l’ -- it made her smile softened, and a touch more genuine. Beyond that, she found it increasingly curious, how delighted he seemed in the feel of her hand against his. He didn’t do much to give it away, but she noticed it in the way his eyes darted down between their bodies, to linger upon her fingers, on the back of her hand, and her wrist. It was a little thing she had never noticed in her previous life, a sort of flattery that went beyond the beauty of the face to something tactical and often overlooked. In fact, she found herself following his gaze, and for a moment examining her own hand. There simply had not been much time to examine her new human body, but in that moment, he forced her to notice that her glass-like fingernails were gone, and replaced instead by soft, pink nails with small half-moons at the base and clear white tips at the tops. “In a world filled with magical prowess, you’d believe that you were ever broke? Bank, bank error, or otherwise?” “Good sir,” she replied with a rise of her dark brows, “would you really be so surprised to find that a majority of the population has to get along without the know how of magic? We don’t all have powers at our disposition, and so, as rudimentary as it may seem, institutions such as banks -- unreliable as they seem to be -- are a necessary evil.” There you are. There you go. You’ve found yourself -- myself -- once again. I feel lightheaded and giddy. That’s adrenaline, at least I think. Before, your body used the hormone with precision and near perfect control in order to serve you… us… me… best. But now, Our brain cannot do it. It’s flowing freely in our bloodstream. You’re lying and you’re slipping easy into it. It’s excitement, but it the high won’t last and the crash will be bad. You need to sit down, get some food -- sugar. “A mild inconvenience I assure you, I’ll be happy to explain more over tea. In the meantime, allow me to treat you. Typically that’s what happens when a gentleman invites a lady to be his guest. Perhaps my thoughts are too outlandish or outdated.” “Perhaps, but I am happy to play the damsel in distress if you’re willing to be the knight in shining armor,” she didn’t need further prodding. She had already turned from him, flipping her hair over her shoulder and accidentally striking him across the chest. It was a great mass, her dark mane of hair, waves of silken locks that floated behind her like a veil of near black. Without prompt, she pushed the door open and the sound of bells and the smell of freshly baked bread welcomed them. There were only a few tables to pick from, so she went for what was closest but also what afforded them the most privacy. A cozy little table for two near a window, offering the best view of the busy street outside. No sooner had they been sitting than a young woman walked up to them and asked to take their drink orders. “A glass of orange juice for me, please...and some coffee…”
  9. “Just remain still -- I will be opening you up for a moment.” The shiny, thin sheet of ice that had formed under the pads of her fingertips was suddenly shattered when her glass-like fingernails pressed down, crushing the pristine surface while ripping downward, tearing trenches into the table as well. It was the sensation of his hand digging under the table against her stomach, shoving away the layers of her clothing as he attempted to make contact with her bare skin. It took about all of her self-control not to reach down and twist his hand off, tearing it straight off at the wrist. Instead, she settled for gripping at the edge of the table with as much force as she could muster, which left the poor board under her grasp as nothing more than a collection of splinters, some of which bite into the soft parts of her palms and caused black blood to ooze from between her tightly clenched fingers. And surely, to Rodan’s annoyance, he would find that she did not help him in the removal of the pestering fragments of fabric -- it would be up to him. At long last he managed the task, and his warm, human hand laid flat against the gentle curve of her cold, pregnant belly. Though she tried to mask it, a quiet whimper escaped her until all sensation was gone, including the pressure of his touch. Rodan was diligent in his work, no one could argue on that front. Masterful in theory as well as practice, he went about his work, while her gaze drifted off into the crowd of dancing bodies. The air was thick with smoke. She could smell perfume and blood, and the thick and potent fragrance of human sweat, flowing alcohol, and sex. Wanting to completely disengage from what was happening to her body and her soul, she allowed herself to drown in the sea of sensations that assaulted her heightened senses. Lights flashed through the thick screen of smoke and fog. She stared right into the blinking luminescence, until she felt utterly blind. And the pain that threatened to ease away from the hundred of splinters that had dug into her palms from the abuse she had wrought upon the table, she clung to it by clenching and relaxing her grip over and over, and shifting the tiny splinters against her flesh over and over. While she couldn’t feel any pain -- there was pressure. She could feel his hand inside of her pulling, shifting, pressing. And every now and then she would look to him only to find that he was enthralled in his work. More than once, she thought of telling him to stop, but it was as if her mouth was unable to open -- as if it were sewn shut. This was the right thing to do, and she knew it. Goodbye little one, I was never meant to be your mother. And then it was over. Rodan set the seed before her on the table, but she could not look at it. “It will not last eternally, but if you keep it in the right conditions, I am certain it will keep for decades, if not centuries.” “Very good,” she replied, and nothing else -- her bloody hands were on her flat stomach, drenching her blouse in black. Still, she could not look at the seed, or at Rodan. “Now, the second part of our agreement will be far more simple. I only need a hand. However, if your part of the bargain must be completed while you are still a vampyre, then I’ll respectfully request that we perform it first.” “It requires nothing from me,” she answered, holding out a bloody hand that had already healed and pushed out the offending splinters that had caused the harm. Her small hand sat, palm up, besides the small seed. “When I am human, and only when I am human -- you will feel a shadow fall across you. It will chill you. You will feel a cold unlike any you’ve ever experienced. You may believe that you are dying -- I don’t know. Raphael knows your blood intimately, and that is your doom, my father must… he must cast his shadow upon every drop of your blood and renew you. That is how we will break the bond, and that is how you will have your freedom. It will not be pleasant, but I know of no other way.”
  10. The danger is -- I am dangerous. 

  11. My love is wasted, sorry for this, I never meant to be Hurting ourselves, hurting ourselves and I'm-- Complicated, you won't get me, I have trouble Understanding myself, understanding myself
  12. The man laughed and clapped his hands. He seemed utterly delighted with her performance, but she had no way of knowing if he had actually bought into it. Luckily for her, something that had not been spirited away along with many of her heightened senses and supernatural abilities, was her naturally set serious face. She stood there, regarding him throughout his jovial outburst with the same nearly blank expression, her golden eyes set firm upon his and her lips settled into a fine, straight line that only curved at the center where her cupids bow forced a bend. Whether she was insulted by his laughter or equally amused did not show. The only thing that was for certain was that she was interested, for she did not break eye contact with the man for any duration of time while he spoke. “Forgive me, it appears I’ve lost my manners. My name is Xartia Raye Pendragon, The First…” he extended a hand, “I was just going to have a bite to eat, would you like to join me Miss…?” “Isabella,” she replied as she settled her hand into his. For the first time she let her eyes drift away from his face and it was only to marvel at the way the warmth of his fingertips did not shock her. Usually, her flesh was so very cold that nearly any amount of warmth was enough to render her uncomfortable, but now -- with her own flesh warm and inviting -- she noted only the strange comfort that came from simple, friendly touching. It caused a touch of a smile to form on her lips, a strange expression given this odd exchange, and surely, more questions to add to Xartia’s mounting curiosity regarding the not Black Queen. “Isabella Marquez,” she corrected herself after a moment, as she took the initiative and shook his hand. Fortunately, she had already thought of a name before this particular interaction, so she wasn’t completely caught off guard. She had to hope that the man was not too familiar with the Black Queen’s history, at least not enough to know that the Black Queen’s mother was named Isabella. “I would absolutely love to join you. I am rather embarrassed to admit it, but I am in a bit of trouble...I just came from the bank, I am not from Terrenus you see, and from what I was told, all of my accounts have been frozen but they couldn’t give me a reason as to why. I am not sure what they expect me to do. I just got in yesterday from Genesaris. And without access to my funds, well...I am just not sure what I am going to do. But I am absolutely starving.”
  13. A voice inside her head spoke up then and there -- it was cool and crisp, and familiar like the sound of a dear friend or a beloved sister. But what it had to say was harsh, and the young woman with teary eyes, could not help but look to the misty sky, past the towering buildings that threatened to entomb her as she struggled to make sense of what she was hearing. Get a hold of yourself. You’ve been turned human, not into a dimwit. You’re blubbering about as if you’ve lost your mind -- this change cannot be the end of you. A trembling hand rose and pale fingers curled into a fist. With her knuckles she rubbed at her eyes until they were clear of their tears. Still, she sniffled a little and swallowed back a few pathetic sobs until she finally managed to settle herself down. Her long, dark lashes fluttered, and again she looked skyward as if she might find answers there. She knew for certain that it was not Tenebre who was speaking directly into her mind for their bond had been broken the moment Rodan had changed her from vampyre to human. The Dark Father would have to manifest himself physically if he wished for his daughter to hear his voice. I am you -- or some fragmented piece of you. I don’t know. But here we are, and here I am, telling you what you need to hear at this particular moment. You’re overwhelmed and you're not thinking clearly. You cannot go without food or water, not the same way you could before. You aren’t thinking clearly because you aren’t taking well enough care of your body. Being human, the responsibilities are different but no less important. “Pardon me…” Bright golden eyes widened and settled on the visage of a handsome man standing before her. Dressed in black, his outfit was neither overtly fine nor was it shabby. He was well dressed for the time and place. There was of course, a familiarity to his face, and had she the sharpness of her vampyric mind, she would have placed him immediately. But instead, he was but a fuzzy figure in a clouded memory. “Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like The Black Queen of Orisia?” “I am not,” she replied immediately before sucking in a breath that she nearly hissed out through her pearly, white teeth -- fangs gone, “I mean, yes, I’ve heard that before, quite often. But I am not her, ha...I am not the Black Queen. I am missing a few key components, or so I imagine, if what they say about her is true -- you know, the fact that she’s a blood thirsty vampyre and all of that.” Don’t over play it, said the voice in her head, no need to overplay it. “I mean, that’s just what I’ve heard…” she pushed back a wayward strand of hair, a long wave of dark hair that had fallen over her shoulder and across her pretty face. “How do you know what the Black Queen looks like? Have you ever seen her in person?”
  14. She was on the verge of tears -- she could feel them forming and misting her view of the busy street. All around her people were walking with their arms full of bags and packages or mouthful of words spilling out in conversation, laughter, or what appeared to be angry tones. And she couldn’t concentrate on any of it, but somehow was able to be utterly overwhelmed by all of it. There were a hundred thousand sounds, and each and every one was nothing more than a jumbled cord of static that hissed violently and offensively at her senses rather than being a clear and precise thread she could pick out and understand. Beyond that, there was her eyesight which felt dampened and muted, in the bright, early morning sunlight, especially as it filtered through the mist and smog of the city. To add to her troubles, the tears that were welling up were blurring her sight and she seemed to have no control over them -- at the very least they were clear as water rather than ink black like her blood. Her blood… She stopped mid step in the middle of the street only to be knocked into by someone who had been walking behind her. “Hey! What where you’re going -- what’s the big idea, stopping like that.” It was a man, larger than Gabriela by far, and quite angry. He was talking into a contraption, some metal band around his wrist, and he only slowed down enough to glare over his shoulder at the young woman. To her surprise, there was no recognition on his face, not even a touch of familiarity. The only thing she saw upon his features was unabashed hate, and for the simple sin of having stopped midstep. “I am sorry,” she mouthed the words, but the man was gone into the crowd by then and she had been pushed back into a slow trot down the sidewalk. The Black Tarantula wasn’t too much farther away -- maybe three or four blocks, but the sights, sounds, and smells of the city had proven a powerful concoction against Gabriela’s new human senses. Oddly enough, it was with her newly hindered faculties that she felt herself more aware of the world. She was unable to control how she processed what assaulted her, and so it all seemed to affect her at once. It was dizzying and with her stomach being empty, and with her being unable to recognize hunger for what it was, the sickness that came with nausea was completely forgein. Soon she found herself out of the throne of people, leaning against the display window of a bakery. Her stomach growled, audibly so and trembled with such force that it shook her from her moment of risk. Both her hands came to rest atop her belly, while she frowned deeply. She looked absolutely puzzled as she stood there, holding onto her stomach as if she did not understand the most basic occurrences of her own body. So utterly out of sorts was the former Black Queen, that she absolutely did not notice the fact that she was openly being observed and followed -- just the sort of thing that would have never passed her attention before. But standing there, what a sight she was, this vampyre recently turned human. She was like a newborn, with skin as perfect and pristine as that of a little child’s, totally unmarred by a life of experience. There were no marks, no bruises, no scars what-so over. Her hair was as lustrous and long, falling lose around her small frame in elegant waves, well past her bottom. She was dressed in tight jeans, they were a dark wash, and a light gray shirt, with a heavy wool coat over it that was just perfect for the morning chill -- which she absolutely felt and suffered from now. Could Xartia even understand what he was seeing -- the blessing and curse this could be? He was privy now to the whereabouts of the Black Queen of Orisia, and more so to what had become of her. It was knowledge that could undo her life, and could give him power the likes of which he could never imagine. Beyond all of that, he was given a chance to simply study her in a way very few ever had, without her knowledge, without her consent.
  15. I am sure there are a handful of people who would disagree... I am also one of the people who has had to put people on ignore, which I honestly think is a completely valid resource when people not only refuse to cooperate, but get downright nasty.
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