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Pasion Pasiva

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    The Black Queen

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  1. Pasion Pasiva

    Heavy Is the Head

    For someone who claimed to love her so much, Raphael certainly lacked empathy when it came to his cousin. He knew better than anyone what had transpired on the night she was spirited away -- he knew exactly what happened, at least from her perspective. The fact that he still laid the blame at her feet spoke volumes. Perhaps they were simply beyond any sort of sympathy, regardless of the strength of their bond. He felt wronged, and he blamed her solely for all that he had suffered without any thought as to what she endured and why. He did not value her unique perspective of life, and instead, sought to crush her will against his own. It wasn't enough to force her submission, he needed to ensure that she loathed her old ideals -- a thing that was simply impossible, and thus the reason for their unhappy union. They would never see eye to eye, and it was in his nature to force his way while it was in hers to simply runaway from the conflict. They were a terrible match, and yet for all of his pursuing and all of his hard work, Raphael had been awarded the prize that he most sought. Gabriela lay in his bed sleeping soundly. Of her own free will, she had come to him, and of her own free will she had deposited her child into his care. He may have been upset about her carelessness, and he may have demanded answers from her -- of which he got none. But surely, with the strength of their bond and the link of their blood, surely he -- if no one else -- felt the sheer exhaustion of her soul. For the first time since they had come back into each others lives, Gabriela appeared what she was -- a young, confused, and very frightened girl. There was no pretending now. She had crossed the threshold of his private chambers seeking out the comfort and protectiveness that he had violently conditioned her to accept. Now there was simply nothing else. But still he loathed her, and still he looked upon her with the same contempt every Bartolome felt for every DuGrace. Her dreams were nothing but nightmares. She saw the deformation of her limbs, and recalled with near perfect recollection how she had been turned from vampyre to swan. And although there was no pain, for the Mutator had been certain to spare her the physical agony of twisting bones and transforming flesh, he could not have hoped to save her from the psychological distress that came from the sheer worry of what might happen to her child. That was what ruined her dreams now. Even in sleep, she could not escape the suffocating anxiety of fearing for Philippe's life. But she didn't just dream about the kidnappers. In her mind, the devil stalked her every move. He had what he wanted from her -- a royal child to place upon his throne, to mold into his liking, to love and cherish where he had failed to love and cherish her. There was also Tenebre, a long and twisted shadow that stretched razor sharp talons toward her sleeping boy with the threat of snatching him away from her and into the deep, dark abyss. She awoke trembling and whimpering to the smell of his blood. She'd become so accustomed to it now that even the slightest whiff of it produced a reaction in her -- not strictly hunger, something more akin to panic and a sense of danger. The smell of his blood was the smoke of a burning building, and it only added to the dread of the nightmares she had just woken from. He would take her child, she knew it -- he would take her child and torture her with his captivity. Badly shaken, Gabriela appeared in the door way and saw Raphael sitting with Philippe in his arms, his finger within the infants perfect suckling mouth. Her blood ran cold for a moment, until she saw -- truly saw -- the expression upon her cousin's face. His lips were moving, uttering sweet nonsensical things to the child as it busily fed. This was a level of affection that could not be feigned. Slowly, Gabriela approached the scene, feeling very much like an unwelcome outsider. She sat on the sofa opposite to them and watched quietly. Gone was the Black Queen, with her proud posture, her ethereal beauty, and her perfect, emotionless face. She was replaced by a wide-eyed creature of equal beauty, who lacked confidence and was filled with legitimate fear. Somehow, she managed to look smaller as she clutched her hands in her lap and pulled herself inward as if she were cold. "I am sorry," she said as softly as she could, her golden eyes -- still quite radiant -- shifting to stare down at the lace hem of her nightgown. "I haven't been able to sleep. I didn't know where else to go."
  2. Pasion Pasiva

    Heavy Is the Head

    "Gabriela...You shouldn't be up." Bewildered eyes regarded the Orisian Emperor, wide and full of unasked questions and wonder. She couldn't put her finger on it, but the sight of his disheveled appearance did a world of good for her badly battered confidence. If he was looking this bad, then she might have some smidgen of a right to feel as badly as she did. But beyond that, she was just oddly amused at his implication regarding where she should or shouldn't be. Up or down, walking or resting, nothing could bring peace to the endless grinding of the gears in her mind and the terrible exhaustion that came with overthinking just about every last little thing. "You need your rest. My blood will only do so much." Even though he attempted to sound concern, and maybe even looked the part, he gave away the reality of the situation the moment he made space for her to squeeze by him through the door -- and she did. She quickly pressed forward, even before he had fully moved to the side. Her small, nearly bare shoulder, brushed past his own, leaving him to marvel at the fact that she had grown terribly cold -- so cold that the frost in her wake seeped through the layers of his shirt and coat from just a touch that lasted less than a second. "You must forgive me the mess. It's been an unusually stressful month for me, what with all that has transpired. I haven't had much time to tidy up, and strangely, I've found it's easier to find things in a rush when they're all scattered about." Gabriela only took a moment to look around. Her golden eyes swept from left to right and then back across the wide, open room and the many adjacent spaces that were all accessible from here. She saw the bedroom, the bathroom, and the wide doors that lead to a private dressing room, and beyond that another dark space where fine coats, shirts, and trousers hung neatly from an impossibly long rack. All of this, she examined in great detail but just for a short amount of time. It was almost as if she were looking for something -- perhaps the same devil that Raphael had been certain to spy dancing between shadow and flickering candle-light. Or maybe it was someone else -- or something else. Maybe it was Tenebre that Gabriela was looking for, and maybe it was only after she was certain he was not here, hiding among the darkest corners, that she felt comfortable enough to continue forward with the same sort of mindless courage that had brought her to his door and caused her to knock and knock until he got up to answer. Truth of the matter was she hadn't heard him tell her to come in, just like she wasn't hearing much of what he was saying now. She was aware of him, of his words, of his tension and of the lingering despair that wafted through the air, thick as smoke. Yes -- she was aware of all of this, but none of it really mattered. When her eyes laid upon him again, it was only to see a man reflecting on the great expanse of a very difficult life. It was as if he were on the precipice of true hopelessness, and he was considering his ability to cope. She did not feel much in the way of sympathy for him, even as he sat there wondering if her foolishness, her recklessness, were ways to pay him back for being so heavy handed with her. Her mind was so far from the life they had shared previous to this moment. "I was worried. I have lived for over a thousand years, Gabriela, and never once have i been so worried. Call me overbearing, a tyrant, a murdering bastard..." He went on, singing a song of self proclaimed heroics and seeming to beg for pity from one so heartless as her. She didn't understand him, or why he was wasting his breath. Everything he was saying had already been said, a hundred, or a thousand times before. She wasn't interested in trying to figure it out, trying to talk about their problems. She was exhausted, and her nerves were burnt out. She did not feel safe, even though he had done everything to ensure her safety -- and that of her child's. "Look at what we have become." Foolishly, she wanted to look at herself. She wondered what he meant and took it as some commentary on her physical appearance. She had a long way to go before she was fully healed, regardless of the endless supply of blood he could provide her with. Her wounds went far deeper than just flesh and bone. She had lived through something traumatic, but she hadn't bothered to really explain that in any great amount of detail to him or anyone else. Why bother trying to explain that when she closed her eyes she could still see in her mind the white-hot scalpel cutting through her skin, through the flesh, across the muscle? Was there any point in explaining that she could still feel the metal hooks that had been pressed into her open incision, which kept trying to close and heal and therefore had to be continuously torn open, in order to pull her open? What could she ever hope to gain in sharing with him that she had felt how Marigold's hands had disappeared inside of her and had pulled, twisted, and dragged her child out of her -- while she felt everything. What had she become? She didn't want to know. "Why are you here, Gabriela? What is it that you want from me? The annulment? Even after everything that I've done, you think I won't keep my word? Is that what this is about -- is that what's troubling you so?" "I am tired," she said at long last, after an uncomfortable pause and silence. He had stopped and waited for her to reply, and after some time, when she did not yet move to answer it had appeared that he might continue to speak -- but Gabriela stopped him. Stirred to life by the mewing of the child in her arms, and his small stretching form, Gabriela hurried forward to her cousin and deposited her most precious possession into his arms in a nearly carelss manner. "I can't sleep...I can't close my eyes without...I..." She looked at the small child in Raphael's arms, and marveled at how comfortable this giant of a man appeared holding such a small and helpless child. There was an immediate relief in her, something that was visibly notable as she stepped back. "I am scared they'll take him -- or take me..." Already she had turned her back to him. Without a word she was moving through the disarray of his private rooms, weaving her way in that lovely nightgown of hers, looking so very much like a walking and breathing dream. She passed the threshold of his bedroom and went to his bed, which was surprisingly enough still made. It was large, but inviting with it's dark colored sheets and sea of pillows. Like child, she pulled her nightgown up over her knees and climbed onto the bed and across to the center of it. Without looking at her cousin again, without ensuring that he could manage the baby, she settled herself down on her side -- with her back turned to them -- and closed her eyes to sleep.
  3. Pasion Pasiva

    A Long, Awaited Reunion

    "...She tried to murder MorceLa'Kai before he was even born because she felt he was not worthy. What kind of a mother would do that to their own child for the sake of opportunity?" "A very misguided one," Gabriela replied almost without thought. Although Kalicity's startling blue eyes were set squarely upon the black queen, Gabriela could not meet the gaze. She was still watching the shifting waters of the fountain. She was wondering if she had ever, in her entire life, had to defend Kalicity to anyone other than Kalicity. This conversation felt familiar. Once upon a time, when the Dark Goddess came to her, wallowing in her misery, Gabriela had attempt to talk some sense into her. Depression, however, was a deep and ugly disease, and it had a firm grip upon the woman that she had mother. It took her many long and painful years to finally realize that it didn't matter -- nothing she could have said would have ever saved Kalicity from the trajectory she was on toward self-destruction. But could things be different now? She looked at the woman standing besides her. She looked at her thoughtfully -- she was already passing judgment on the old Kalicity, just like the old Kalicity had done to herself. So slowly, and tactfully, Gabriela posed a question, " -- what if she simply did not know any better?" It seemed grossly oversimplified. She remembered MorceLa'Kai, for once upon a time they had been very close -- nearly lovers. He was madness incarnate. A haunted and terribly tortured man. He was full of loathing and anger, and he was gifted with the strength to act on all of those terrible and painful emotions. What Kalicity had done to him had marked him for life, leaving him with a scar that to this day, she wasn't certain was truly gone. And yet she felt for Kalicity, even now... "No one ever taught her any better. She was born into a brutal world, and there she grew up, and that's all she ever understood. When her children grew up and sought different paths, she became obsolete. She felt useless. Can you imagine, finding peace and proserety, and feeling yourself to have no place or purpose there? She was so tormented that she literally could not exist within a reality that offered her tranquility and even happiness." They shared a quiet moment before Kalicity inquired further. "...I'm curious, what challenges do you speak of?" "I think, like your former self, you'll give yourself a goal -- and if you fail to meet it, or do not meet it in such a way as to provide you with a sense of success -- I feel that you may grow so disappointed and disillusioned with life that you may no longer wish to remain alive. You've always been hungry, always craving something. All I am saying is, you were never one to accept defeat in the battlefield -- perhaps those sentiments have changed, but I think they are vastly the same. Your former self lacked the flexibility needed to accept the change of perspective that her life took. I don't want that to happen to you."
  4. Pasion Pasiva

    Heavy Is the Head

    Gabriela was beyond numb. Whether it was due to the events that had just transpired or the ridiculous amount of blood she had consumed from her cousin, she felt as if her insides had been burned raw and then a calming and cooling balm had been spread all around. It did more than ease the pain -- it completely did away with any sort of sensation. She did not feel the small, and warm, bundle of joy in her arms, who nestled so peacefully against her breast as she lay on her side upon a bed laid out in prestine white linen. In fact, she did not feel the icy silk against her icy limbs, nor did she sense the smooth sheen of it as it slid across her nearly intact flesh. Her grevious wounds should have sent her deep into the bosom of slumber, for a hundred or more years. And yet, here she was, by virtue of Raphael's blood. The searing pain of the quickened healing was done away with, as was the muscle memory of what had transpired. When she tried to grasp at the sensation of being sliced open, the hot, white pain that she could so perfectly envision, simply did not respond with the nerve endings that had been severed. It was strange, and near maddening to known she had experienced unbelievable physical pain but to have her own body deny it -- and just a few short hours ago. His blood was magic. His blood was old and powerful, and of all the people in the world, he shared it freely with her. He cut his own vein and allowed his precious vita to flow out of him, and for what? To grant her life so that she might actually survive long enough to hold her child... It was a startlingly generous thing to do, especially among their kind. Blood, to a vampyre, was everything. That's the one thing she vividly remembered from her father. He had all but beaten that small but important truth into her. It was the reason she was reluctant to create fledglings, it was why she loathed losing so much as a drop of her blood to the expanses of the whole, wide world. All of her history, all of her life, all of everything she was could be deciphered from a single black-red droplet of her blood. And the same was true for any vampyre. The same was true for Raphael. But she knew why he did it -- why he was so generous with her. Months and months had passed since she last questioned the sincerity of Raphael's feelings for her. She questioned the execution of his love, and the reasons for it, and the validity of it when it seemed only to represent such an archaic way of thinking and doing things -- she had been promised to him since before her conception, further still, to the days when Isabella (her own mother) wasn't even certain if she would or could ever be a mother. She questioned all of those things, but not him -- at least not anymore. He was a poor, pitiful, and broken beast. He did not know any better, did not understand that love could be, and should be, freely given and not claimed or conquered. But he was thousands of years older than her. Raphael was set in his ways. He likened her to a child. He thought that she was foolish and idealistic, and the events that had brought them here -- on this very night -- would only strengthen his resolve. She knew this. She had been kidnapped out of her own home. She had been spirited away by a band of misfits who hardly seemed able to function on their own, much less as a group -- and yet they had succeded. And he had orchastrated it all, without even knowing it. It was his spy, Marie who had convinced Gabriela to hold the bloody coronation, it was because of her pushing and insistance that the Black Queen opened the doors of her home and welcomed everyone in. And every poorly executed step from there on out had sealed her tragic fate. She was always meant to be kidnapped. She was the damsel that Raphael needed to rescue, the treasure that simply had to be horded. Tonight she felt the weight of the many sterotypes she had worn, and worse of all, the truth of them. She would have never been able to free herself from the clutches of her captors. In all likely hood she would have ended up having to make a terrible deal with Agony just to escape with her life and that of her child's. She needed help then, and -- with some uncomfortable self reflection -- she realized she needed help now. She felt cold, and misrable, and alone. Even the child in her arms could not bring her back from that dangerous edge she was tittering upon. She had been so close to death, so close to that listless sleep, from which so many vampyres do not return. Her spirit felt torn, as if a part of her wanted to topple over and fall into the abyss. Her child was born, her work seemed at long last done. Why not die? Why not let go and sink into oblivion... These weren't normal thoughts. The baby in her arms coo'ed, and with some trepidation, she realized that she felt very little toward the child. There was of course that fierce sense of protectiveness, of loyalty, of devotion -- but not love. She felt incapable of love. Chewing on her bottom lip as she peered at the little sleeping child -- perfection incarnate -- Gabriela decided to reach out. The halls of her castle had never felt more empty. Even the silver lilies growing like weeds at every corner of her private chambers, proof of Xintylin's return, did little to ward away the creeping sense of despair. She cared for nothing. Something or someone had to pull her back. So Gabriela got up. She pulled on her robe and made sure she appeared presentable and modest. From the bed, she plucked her sleeping child, who protested in reply but quickly resettled within his mother's arms. And then she walked across the hall to his bedroom and knocked on the door. While Raphael decided, on the other side of the doors, whether or not to come to her rescue -- yet again -- Gabriela stood there in the hall, glancing in both directions. Roen had been told to follow, but had he? She had taken her son from his arms, and she had seen the look of hurt and betrayal. She imagined she would be getting many dirty looks from the devil from now on. She imagiend that he would never again look at her with that dangerous, but exciting, fondness that reminded her of that singular but infinatly true statment -- they could not be left alone. Now, the statment was probably just as true, but only because Roen would surely end her life the first chance he got. She had taken his son. Gabriela didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think about all the damage she had caused -- all the hurt she had brought upon him. She knocked again, a little more desperatly now.
  5. Pasion Pasiva

    A Rare Bloom

    "...I can show ye' a glimpse ov my prizon, baby...if dat is some'ting dat ye'need." Lucia could say nothing to this offer, it was so strange -- so foreign. No one had ever sought to prove to her the truth of any matter. She wasn't regarded with enough respect to warrant any sort of explanation, much less proof that showed validity of a claim. But more so than all of that was the sweet caressing thumb that had strokes across her cheek and chin. There was a warmth in that loving touch that even Raphael had not shown her. It was sincerely given, and she found herself inclining into the woman's hand. There she cried, even as she was pulled close and held against a leather-wrapped chest. "Ye', my dearest love, are de' reason I am no longar bound in chains." Caught and held, Lucia was pinned against the woman's body with one arm around her shoulders and another behind her knees and under her bottom, until she was plucked from the ground like one of the silver blooms that surrounded them. The kiss that was planted on his head, given from cold but perfect lips, produced from the child a sad but genuine laugh. Her own slender, white arms wrapped about Xintylin's neck, where they held on for support as she was heaved up and held tight. "Fer ye'...I vill murdar de vorld." But there wa sno need for that, Lucia wanted to say as she thought of potentially asking this dark angel to give her vengeance on those who had hurt her most -- Dollya for leaving, Lucis for lying, Roen for taking her mother away so many times, Raphael for abandoning her for Gabriela, and of course, Gabriela herself -- for failing to be this, the very thing that came so naturally to a woman who was not even blood bound to her. She wanted to ask then, why Gabriela had failed so miserably at being a mother, and not just to her, but even her own flesh and blood, Lucis. The woman was utterly incapable of protecting or guiding her offspring, and she hated her for it. They were moving. Rubbing some of the tears from her cheeks with small balled up fists, Raspberry settled into her mother's arms and turned her body as much as was needed in order to better guide Xintylin forward. Together they moved in silence, through the lush greenery of the solarium to the green gardens outside and beyond. Across great courtyards and up an endless supply of steps, carved into white marble. They were well within the heart of the castle when they turned a corner and finally came across another living being. It was a young woman carrying a wicker basket full of freshly cleaned and pressed white linen. The woman blinked big, blue, mortal eyes at them before immediately dropping her head and bowing deeply. "Little Queen," said the girl, fidgeting nervously with her basket of clean sheets. "The castles been in an uproar, your guards have been looking for you -- your ladies in waiting are quite worried! You must run along to your governess and let her know that you are well. Come, I will take you and your guest." "This is my mother," replied Lucia. The young woman looked confused, and after glancing at Xintylin nervously, somewhat frightened. "Oh, darling Little Queen, I think you've made a mistake. That's not your mother -- that isn't the Black Queen." "This is my mother, and you will ready her rooms -- the rooms of the Black Queen. You'll do it at once!" The girl jolted with her fear but nodded her head and turned around right away and began to walk. She was considering her options. In the end, she decided to do as the regent ordered and leave the figuring out of the situation to someone above her pay grade -- far above her pay grade.
  6. Pasion Pasiva

    The Orisian Shadow Wolf (Lupus Nocturnus)

    Lupus Nocturnus, the Orisian Shadow Wolf One of the more fearsome mystical creatures of old Atitlan, the shadow wolves’ origins predates even the eldest of the island’s vampyres. Like they vampyres themselves, they too are creatures born of the abyss, given shape by the Dark Father, Tenebre, himself. It is from these primordial ties that the wolves have developed a somewhat intrinsic bond with the Orisian vampyre, who they have followed to the Summer Isles of Valucre. The vampyres can exude a certain level of control over the beasts, with older vampyres being able to possess both higher numbers and larger, alpha class wolves. Because of the magical nature of their existence, the wolves possess a wide array of unique abilities tied to their shadows, natural shadows, and the abyss. The first and most notable power is their ability to change their state of being from entirely physical, to partially (effectively half corporeal, half incorporeal), to being entirely shadow. These transitions are instant. Now, while one might assume the default state of their being is fully corporeal, it is the in-between that the wolves favor most in their day to day lives. Researchers have determined that the typical shadow wolf will spend only a quarter of a standard lifetime in their corporeal form (a standard lifetime being roughly ninety years, as the wolves’ lifespan far exceeds that of a typical wolf. No one knows how old these beasts may become, with some wolves, like Lobo, being rumored to be as old as some ancient vampyres). From what has been observed thus far, the creatures only become wholly physical during times of feeding/digesting, mating, and birthing. In most other instances, their partial form is most common. The preferred state of being for the wolves, the creatures appear to be an imposing mixture of inky shadows and lazy-trailing smoke. While in this state, they are capable of physics-defying feats, including but not limited to: running up walls or walking across water, appendage manipulation, immunity to the elements, and dramatically increased speed. Older, larger wolves have been witnessed demonstrating these abilities in the extreme, such as opening their mouths wide enough to devour at least half fully matured adult with a single bite. The final of their three phases, the fully shadowed states is used almost exclusively as a means of travel. While in this state, the wolves are capable of traveling through both natural and made-shadow, including the shadows of others [for “allies,” this requires attuning their shadow to the wolves and vice versa]. While this allows for unbelievably fast travel, covering miles in mere seconds, the wolves cannot teleport. They are likewise incapable of interacting with the physical world while in this state. Regardless of their state, shadow wolves are immune to standard weapons and munitions. While a blow that might kill a regular wolf will efficiently disrupt and disperse the creature’s physical state, it will reform itself shortly after. Banishing/expelling magic can remove the wolves from specific areas, but not from the ruling plane, due to the duality of their existence. The only way to properly kill a shadow wolf is with a weapon that has been imbued with shadow magic or forged from the shadows, themselves.
  7. Pasion Pasiva

    The Orisian Vampyre (Homo Nocturnus)

    Homo Nocturnus, the Orisian Vampyre The Orisian Vampyre, previously known as the Atitlan Vampyre (taxonomically homo nocturnus), is a subspecies of the traditional vampire often found in the folklore of the world. But while there are a number of similarities between the vampires of legend and their Orisian counterparts, there are also a substantial number of differences separating the two. Like most creatures of the vampiric domain, they subsist by feeding on the life force (generally in the form of blood) of the living. This is not limited exclusively to humans, however, though human blood is their preferred sustenance. Over the ages, vampyres have demonstrated that they can survive off the blood of animals and mythological creatures (demons, devils, nymphs, fairies, gods, angels, etc.), as well. Some are said to even be able to survive off the blood of other vampyres, a strictly forbidden practice as it is said to cause a severe mental deficit in those who consume vast quantities of vampyric blood. These creatures are called Crusnik. In addition to their feeding of blood, vampyres possess longevity far greater than that of even the most fortunate human, often times spanning thousands of years. The eldest vampyre in recorded history is over 80,000 years old, but is hardly recognizable. He or she appears as an oddly shaped slab of marble (most modern vampyres hardly believe it to be a living being, though it is said that a heartbeat can be heard once every ten years). This is because, as vampyres age and crest the higher echelons of existence, their skin begins to harden. Over time, the hardened portions of skin spread over their entire body, until they are encased in a marble tomb of their own flesh. Another trait unique to the vampyres is not the absence of a reflection, but the loss of it as they continue to age. The vampyre’s reflection first begins to mist, then blur, before it starts vanishing in sections. It is an extremely slow process, as Rafael M. Bartolome V’s reflection has only just begun to mist at the wholesome age of 1,300. Now, while this prolonged existence might give the illusion of immortality, vampyres do not live forever, as they are not undead (more on this below). Hand in hand with their age, vampyres likewise become more physically competent as the years pass. Already considered superhuman by modern standards, a vampyre’s strength, speed, endurance, durability, and accelerated healing factor significantly increased after their first century. This upward trend in raw ability continues throughout the ages, which has led to a staggering gap in terms of power between the species’ younger and elder generations, excluding the few rare exceptions. This correlation between age and power also translates to their more supernatural abilities, as well. Vampyres possess the ability to charm creatures of a weaker constitution than themselves, a feat that becomes far more pressing the older they become. A vampyre’s hypnotic charm can manifest itself in two ways, the first being intentional. They can direct their influence into a subject at will and force them into submission, making their hypnotized victim believe or do what the vampyre wishes. The second is far more subtle and paired with vampyre’s striking good looks. As creatures of unnatural beauty and perfection, the vampyre is able to exert a subtle influence over sentient beings, encouraging them to believe what the vampyre says and agree with his or her suggestions. It is worth noting that as children of Tenebre, the Orisian vampyres possess a powerful affinity for the shadow realm and its various creatures, the Orisian shadow wolves (taxonomically lupus nocturnus) in particular. Though these savage creatures are almost impossible to tame, powerful and determined vampyres have been known to form unbreakable bonds with them, given enough time, as witnessed with the legendary alpha wolf, Lobo, and the vampyric elder, Rafael. Orisian Vampyres can also create other vampiric lifeforms through the sire process, though these creatures are undead. Vampyre blood contains significant healing properties when ingested by the living, the effectiveness determined by the quantity consumed. However, if a person consumes too much at once, or too much an extended period of time-- the human body can filter the blood completely over the course of several days --the infectious blood will hijack the body, killing it, and then reanimating the deceased into a vampire. Vampires “born” in this way are bound to their sire for all time, and incapable of disobeying an order given to them by their creator. Now, unlike their distant cousins or the sired vampires they create, the Orisian vampyre separates itself from the others in the fact that they are not undead. Created by the Dark Father, Tenebre, as opposed to some curse or dark magic, they are living, breathing creatures with the ability to procreate and pass down their genetic traits and secrets (e.g. the gold eyes of the royal DuGrace family, or the sapphire eyes of the Bartolome family). Still, this is not without its issues. The species has been known to suffer from devastating infertility issues, stemming from the lack of a royal pairing. This is not to be confused with hierarchal status, though those possessing the gene are elevated to rule over their fellow vampyres. A king and queen vampyre are two fully matured purebloods that possess a unique genetic trait that allows their bodies to create a specific, odorless pheromone that when paired triggers a chemical reaction in their bodies-- and the bodies of other purebloods that have been exposed to the pheromones --that drastically increases the sperm count in men, and the egg fertility in women. However, it is known that even without the royal pairing, vampyres have been able to procreate with other species, as well. Atitlan history has no shortage of accounts pertaining to dhamphirs (creatures that are half human, half vampyre), some of whom have gone on to hold important positions at the royal court. More recently, Irene Gabriela DuGrace, Black Queen of the Summer Isles, gave birth to a boy fathered by devil king of Patia. Being a living creature also comes with a myriad of other issues that are typically inconsequential to the undead. The Orisian Vampyre is at the risk of mortal injuries, including, but not limited to: poisoning, starvation, suffocating, drowning, decapitation, loss of blood, bludgeoning, and organ failure. They also possess a deathly allergy to the sun, though some have developed unique manners to which they can combat this. Religiously speaking, the Orisian Vampyres are not known to gravitate toward a single creed. While a great deal still hold loyalty toward their creator, the Dark Father, others have flocked instead to the Sitraic Faith led by their champion, Rafael M. Bartolome V. Others have chosen different paths, practicing well-known religions from the planet Earth, from which they all hail.
  8. Pasion Pasiva

    Cradle Of Fate: The Swan Song

    “Do it...do it.” People never seem to know how to appreciate a good thing. That was the resonating thought that seemed to vibrate through her entire body -- more physical feeling than words or emotions. It was a manifestation of disappointment so strong that it nearly made her throw up on top of the small, precious bobbing head that was now desperately rooting at her chest, instinctually seeking both warmth and nourishment from the only source of safety it had ever known. She was so disgusted with Marigold and his ridiculous sense of dignity, pride, or loyalty that she nearly missed the honey-sweet words spilling out of Rodan’s mouth, his tongue flickering no better than the spineless, belly-dragging serpent he was. “I will… dull the pain… keep it all together… save the doctor…” He was trying to sell his sincerity, but what he failed to understand was that Gabriela was the offspring of two very different people. While most tried to take advantage, and often succeeded, of the more empathetic and benevolent side of her parentage -- nearly everyone ignored the fact that she was half Bartolome, just like Raphael. There was a certain cruelty in her that did not often show, but still managed to manifest itself when it was most appropriate. She glanced at him now, through those suffering eyes that were half lidded with the weight of bloody sweat and gathered tears. She wanted to say that nothing would save him -- him or the rest of the conspirators that had brought her to this place, and had delivered her to this moment. The dignity of her child stolen by the sad circumstances of his birth. No one would give him back the pride and joy of being born upon Orisian soil as was his very birthright as the one and true prince of the Summer Isles. No -- no amount of DuGrace blood running through her veins could temper the sheer hate she felt for Rodan and his ilk. If only she had the strength and imagination to turn an accusing finger at him now and to wield Raphael like the fine weapon he was. She would deliver violence onto them, each of them, one at a time, but not death. Rather than the mercy that death would grant, she would take them to the Warlord and add to her collection of prisoners upon the floating fortresses that he commanded -- guests to his exceptionally creative hospitality. “...get out, both of you.” But it wasn’t going to happen. Her macabre thoughts only lasted so long before the mewing cries of her child and the sudden release of tension that came from Raphael relenting pressure upon her last, lingering thread of darkness. She reasoned in that instant that he could have done it. That he had cut through every last one of her attempts to defend Marigold’s life, and that he had won the right to end him right there and then. However, he had stopped and somehow managed to find his way back to her. She considered speaking out again, and urging him not to let Rodan go, but again she found herself too tired and too preoccupied with breathing to care what happened to the Mutator. All she knew with any amount of certainty was that her promise would be kept, and that she would repay the man every manifestation of indignity and pain that he had forced her to suffer. She would be the end of him, but not today. What could have cut through that rage? She wondered as her head fell back into a pillow of dark hair and softly folded cloth that smelled of smoky spice and brimstone. There she lay, feeling the numbness of her own blood spread across her aching abdomen. The wounds were closing again -- slowly but surely. She had no idea if it was Rodan doing it or if he had gone away as he was ordered and it was her body that was finally functioning as it was intended to. It was hard to believe the latter, being that she had lost so much blood. That’s when she noticed, the profound stink of it. She felt drenched in her own blood, and when she shifted ever so slightly, whether it was to adjust her aching back or pull her crying baby closer to her, she felt the sheets under her stick and squish with the vast quantities of the sticky, black liquid. It was the first time that she wondered if she might die here, for now she noticed the slow beat of her heart and how painful it was to feel what remained of her blood pushing and pulling through her veins, like dense slush that was hardening with every second. Above her things were being said, gifts were being made, peace was forging a difficult path through fire and ice, but her eyes had grown misty and tired and she couldn’t be bothered to see beyond what was directly before her -- a blaring, white light. Death -- death was coming. “May I?” she heard Raphael ask. She turned her head toward Roen, intent on saying something, anything… I know you’ll be a good father. I know you will learn to love him as much as I do, as much as Raphael does. She wanted to say this specifically, because Roen didn’t know -- he couldn’t begin to understand the thing that he had gotten himself into. This child was a special child, he was precious but dangerous. He would be a difficult bloom to tend to. He would be mocked and ridiculed, and he would need to learn to curb the deadly ability to silence those who hurt him most. And his appetite, it would torture him. Raphael knew, he had been with her as he grew from tiny seed to little sapling, and now this, a child. Raphael, the love-sick Emperor who had nearly ended his life before it ever began -- he who had threatened to rip him out of his mother’s belly. It had taken time and effort, but he had learned to love the wee, little baby. That’s what she wanted to tell him, to be patient and kind and sweet -- ever so sweet -- to her darling, baby boy. But when she turned to Roen, he was gone and with him, her child. “No, you may not.” Roen was walking away with the baby, and she was shaking terribly because of it. Distress fell upon the layers of pain and horror that were already harassing her tortured body. Now panic pricked her all over and she was afraid that he would leave, disappear right before her eyes, and that she would die without ever getting to look into her baby’s face, without ever getting to kiss his brow. A mess of rattled nerves, she tried to sit up again and went so far as to grip the edges of the bed where she lay, intent on throwing her legs over the edge to sit up and go after the devil. She was lucky that Raphael stayed by her side and caught her. He pulled her back and held her down with all the patience of saint. But it didn’t stop her from trembling like someone on the verge of succumbing to hyperthermia. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be. It is time to go home.” He looked at her -- in pain. His pain meant nothing to the vampyress, her golden eyes were wide and alert, but somewhat mad. He had always held a place in her heart. His sadness, his sorrow, his agony, it had always resonated with her even when she hated him most. But not right now. She had just felt her body ripped open for the sake of the small baby that he held to his chest. And it was a sad thing really because he was the father and felt equal devotion and love to the small creature. But she needed that child. She literally needed a reason to continue living, and in that moment she felt like he had taken her very life. “Do you have a way out? The Everlinde cannot land in Orisia.” She turned her head and looked at her cousin. He had eyes only for her, as if he knew, or had just realized, the depth of her peril. He looked frightened -- genuinely frightened. He had one hand under her head, rubbing his fingers into her scalp, while the other was set firm between her breasts. He was rubbing -- rubbing hard and forcefully into her skin. He was also speaking, but she couldn’t hear his voice. There was just a high pitch hum. Something strange and mechanical. She squinted her eyes up at the light. “I can’t hear you...I can’t...see you…It's so, so cold...”
  9. Pasion Pasiva

    Seven Swords Stolen!!!

    Umm...whatever this is, I like it. I like it that you are all in Orisia. Let me know if you need a story teller, or someone to play a random monster, guard, or produce some sort of challenge for ya'll.
  10. Just wanted to tell you that your last post in our thread was beautiful. Very moving ❤️ 

  11. Pasion Pasiva

    A Long, Awaited Reunion

    Gabriela stood on the outskirts of Kalicity’s stage -- for she had certainly created a stage out of the courtyard. The way she moved, the way she paced, even the way she stopped to glance over her shoulder. As always, Kalicity was indeed a work of art. She was a living, breathing masterpiece and she could well see why many and more would be frustrated with what she had become. But Gabriela was different, endlessly different, beautifully different -- tragically different. She remembered the brokenness of Kalicity Darkbane, the constant self loathing and the torturous existence. With great pain, she recalled the inexplicable willingness she saw all over her mother’s face when she went headlong into death’s cruel embrace. Although she had never agreed, she had always understood a very vital aspect of Kalicity’s death -- that it was suicide and not murder. It had taken her a long time to accept this fact, a tragic fact that had led her to foolishly seek out The Great Devourer himself in a desire to avenge a crime that had never taken place. It had taken her years to accept this, but she had come to accept it. Still, there was a sense of disatisfaction in her when she learned that it was the Marquis Zantara who had brought her back from the dead. She nearly flinched at the mention of his name for it produced in her such a terrible memory. Roen, in his infinite wisdom and upon one of the countless occasions when he had held her against her will in Patia had seen fit to leave her in the care of the good marquis while he attended to matters of warfare. Immortal as she was, and powerful and strong, Roen never trusted her near danger. And so she had become the very unwilling guest of the marquis. But it was not the memory of the marquis himself that caused her so much distress, but rather the cruel treatment she experienced from the devil while living under Zanatar’s roof and the prevailing thought she saw written across everyone’s face -- that she had done it all to herself. Somehow they all believed that she was deserving of the devil’s treachery and cruelty. How or why, she would never understand, but she had made her peace with this as well. Coming back to herself, Gabriela moved forward and came to stand besides Kalicity and also peered down into the crystal clear waters of the fountain. “There’s a place in Genesaris with this fountain,” she said as way of opening a strange sort of story. Her eyes remained fixed on the fountain, though her brows pinched as if she were working hard to recollect her memory. “You look into it and the waters change colors. There’s a soother there and she’ll tell you what it means, what those waters were able to see in your soul. It’s a curious thing. When I looked into the fountain you know what color the water turned?” She looked up, those bright golden eyes curious -- Kalicity didn’t remember her, but she wondered if the old version, if her mother, might have had some insight. “Black,” she stated quietly, and then, after a pause, “ -- and then, at the center, a small splash of gold, a warm light that never grew larger than my fist. A little light surrounded by a vast darkness. I wonder what you would see, Kalicity if you looked into those waters. You may be a new person, but you carry the same old soul. I see that clear as day.” Gabriela smiled at her, warm and comforting and then set a hand upon her shoulder. As always, Gabriela’s touch was cold as ice. She squeezed Kalicity before letting go. “I worry that you will fall into the same trappings as your last incarnation. You may be very different, but I think you’ll face a lot of the same challenges. Hopefully this time around, I’ll be able to help you.”
  12. Pasion Pasiva

    A Rare Bloom

    Little Lucia had become a strange creature during the many years of Xintylin’s absence. Tenebre,at the behest of Gabriela, had granted the child her very own soul and in doing so had done away with many of the memories that had plagued the miniature queen. But there were things that had been woven directly into the core of her being -- certain feelings and a strange familiarity for special individuals. And so, she felt the tightness that gripped the beautiful woman’s chest just as surely as she heard her voice aching with regret and sorrow. It came as a great comfort, oddly enough, to know that she was the cause of such distress for it resonated with a sort of devotion that Lucia had simply never felt given to her by others. “I ‘ad no choice, baby. I might be immortal...but dis body is not.” It would have been a hard concept to grasp for any child other than Lucia, for she understood all too well the weight of death -- the sort of finality that came from the loss of loved ones. It wasn’t all that long ago when she had mourned Gabriela’s passing, only to find out later that the Black Queen lived, and that her tragic death had been nothing more than a masterfully executed drama meant to stabilize the highly unstable ascension of her older brother to the throne. But even that perfectly reasonable answer did little to mend the heartbreak the child had suffered and the dire damage her ability to trust had taken. Raspberry had quickly learned that people lied -- especially those who she depended on most. In regards to the garden… “...dis garden blossomed vith yer sorrow…One flower… fer every tear… fer every lost memory.” Those crimson eyes of hers widened and took in the full scope of the solarium’s interior. From floor to high ceilings, everything was covered in thick vines of vibrant green, and there was an endless display of silver-violet flowers. The idea that each and every one of them came from her, and had at its source of existence her own sorrow was both numbing and humbling. Had she really suffered so much? Had she really wept so often… Those eyes dropped back to Xintylin’s chest, after having been tucked under the woman’s chin and held securely against her torso. Angry, lonely, and tired, she watched as more flowers bloomed in response to her crying. She wept until she couldn’t anymore, until her arms wrapped around Xintylin’s neck and she was hanging there limply, being held up by a loving embrace that had been denied to her. “Don’t leave me again, please…”
  13. Pasion Pasiva

    General Chatter [18+] Violence always permitted!

    I just found out my doctor died about a month ago. I went to his office recently and was seen by my old doctor who retired like 10 years ago. I couldnt understand why she was there, but now I realize she was probably covering. The man was 39 years old, he had three children, the oldest of which was 14 or 15. I feel more upset than what I believe I reasonably should be. He was a good doctor, although a little trigger happy on prescribing pain medication. But when my mother didn't have insurance (this was bedore the pre-existing condition mandate) he kept her supplied with free pharmacy samples of the medications she needed. He did that for a lot of his patients. 39 years old, that seems hauntingly young to die...
  14. Pasion Pasiva

    OoC I: The Abbadon Triumvirate

    who is up?!
  15. Pasion Pasiva

    OoC I: The Abbadon Triumvirate