Post by Avella Netha Isilian on Oct 4, 2012 11:34:40 GMT -5
Avella lay entwined in the strong, experienced arms of a Paladin Lord of Trinsic. His well appointed, yet modest, estate sat in a wooded area not far from the walls of the great city. A small reflecting pool in the courtyard outside, cast reflected moonlight on the stuccoed ceiling of the bedroom. The gentle gurgle of a fountain lent itself to the atmosphere of quiet solitude along with the steady breathing of the man as he slept. Avella lay on her back watching the silver reflection of water dance across the ceiling and thought of … nothing.
The lovemaking had been intense. She feigned weakness to allow him every opportunity to use his physical strength to subdue her as their bodies battled for control. She used every ounce of self-control to repress her natural instinct to bleed him dry. For all the world the lovemaking had been bloodless and for a time, for the briefest of moments, she was human once more.
Turning on her side she watched the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest and tilted her head as her gaze fell upon the blue, pulsing vein in his neck. His heartbeat slowed as he fell deeper and deeper into sleep. Below them, in the gardens and sitting rooms of the shadowed house, lay the bloodless, soulless bodies of his servants. Their slack-jawed corpses staring at eternity. Their souls firmly in the hands of the Daemon Lord. She had sated her thirst shortly after her arrival and watched as the Dire Wolf took their souls. The great wolf now lay just outside the bedroom door, his body returned to vitality and the stinging horde of flies and maggots gone. Avella too regained her stark, unnatural beauty and youthful appearance that her self-imposed starvation had stolen from her. In all, it had been a good night.
She smiled as the man turned over in his sleep and mumbled something. Running a finger down his spine she grinned as he flinched and moaned softly. Oh, how she envied mortals. Their short lives allowing them to live deeply and feel deeply. Allowing them to taste the intensity of love or battle knowing, full well, this could be their last moment. How long had it been? Three, four hundred years since Draven took her? And he, six-hundred years before her? She was dead to him now and him to her. For the Kindred, there was little room for compromise and no room at all for forgiveness. Now, with their numbers dwindling, most to ash, some to Torpor and others … somehow others found a way to regain their mortality … through Magick or potions, she neither knew nor cared to know. Now after all this time, Avella stood as one of the last of her kind.
“We are what we are and nothing more.” She whispered.
She had, long ago, accepted what she had become. And her recent allegiance to the Daemon Lord only served to enhance that undeniable truth. But she yearned for a taste, if only briefly, of her former life and this yearning drove her, at times, to commit the most heinous crimes imaginable. Not out of hatred for the mortals but out of jealousy and envy. She lay on her stomach and slid one leg over the back of the sleeping Paladin. She could feel the warmth of his body against her inner thigh and ran a finger through his dark, unruly hair.
“Why does your kind fear me so?” she whispered. “Why do they hate me so?”
“Because,” the Daemon Lord answered. “Because you remind them of their own mortality. You, who are immortal, possess that which they long for and often struggle to achieve without success. You are their failure in the flesh. The irony is; they would rather face a shorter life and die in agony than become what you have become even as they would gladly sell their souls for a chance at immortality. Instead they war upon each other and leave destruction in their wake. They murder, enslave, imprison, and leave a legacy of violence for their heirs. Their politics is one of conquest and their idea of compromise comes at the point of a sword or a spear. They place golden crowns upon their heads and proclaim themselves King while all the while cursing the likes of you for being what you are. Pity them. Do not envy them my child. Pity them and take from them what you will, for they are born into the servitude of death.”
Avella rolled onto her back and sighed deeply. She would have to be content to wander through the ages alone. To have these tiny moments of warmth and mortality scattered throughout the endless stretch of time that had become her prison. She lay musing over these thoughts when the Dire Wolf approached. His fire-red eyes peered up at her as he whimpered his hunger. Avella did not need to see him to know what it was he wanted.
“Not this one,” she stated. “This one shall live for he pleases me and I wish to keep him whole. For a little while at least.”
The wolf retreated into the deeper shadows. Avella turned and kissed the sleeping Paladin only once upon his brow then floated from the bed and dressed. Moments later she stood outside the house staring up at the open window. The Dire Wolf tugged at her skirt, wishing to renew the hunt. Reluctantly, she turned and drifted into the night.
The lovemaking had been intense. She feigned weakness to allow him every opportunity to use his physical strength to subdue her as their bodies battled for control. She used every ounce of self-control to repress her natural instinct to bleed him dry. For all the world the lovemaking had been bloodless and for a time, for the briefest of moments, she was human once more.
Turning on her side she watched the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest and tilted her head as her gaze fell upon the blue, pulsing vein in his neck. His heartbeat slowed as he fell deeper and deeper into sleep. Below them, in the gardens and sitting rooms of the shadowed house, lay the bloodless, soulless bodies of his servants. Their slack-jawed corpses staring at eternity. Their souls firmly in the hands of the Daemon Lord. She had sated her thirst shortly after her arrival and watched as the Dire Wolf took their souls. The great wolf now lay just outside the bedroom door, his body returned to vitality and the stinging horde of flies and maggots gone. Avella too regained her stark, unnatural beauty and youthful appearance that her self-imposed starvation had stolen from her. In all, it had been a good night.
She smiled as the man turned over in his sleep and mumbled something. Running a finger down his spine she grinned as he flinched and moaned softly. Oh, how she envied mortals. Their short lives allowing them to live deeply and feel deeply. Allowing them to taste the intensity of love or battle knowing, full well, this could be their last moment. How long had it been? Three, four hundred years since Draven took her? And he, six-hundred years before her? She was dead to him now and him to her. For the Kindred, there was little room for compromise and no room at all for forgiveness. Now, with their numbers dwindling, most to ash, some to Torpor and others … somehow others found a way to regain their mortality … through Magick or potions, she neither knew nor cared to know. Now after all this time, Avella stood as one of the last of her kind.
“We are what we are and nothing more.” She whispered.
She had, long ago, accepted what she had become. And her recent allegiance to the Daemon Lord only served to enhance that undeniable truth. But she yearned for a taste, if only briefly, of her former life and this yearning drove her, at times, to commit the most heinous crimes imaginable. Not out of hatred for the mortals but out of jealousy and envy. She lay on her stomach and slid one leg over the back of the sleeping Paladin. She could feel the warmth of his body against her inner thigh and ran a finger through his dark, unruly hair.
“Why does your kind fear me so?” she whispered. “Why do they hate me so?”
“Because,” the Daemon Lord answered. “Because you remind them of their own mortality. You, who are immortal, possess that which they long for and often struggle to achieve without success. You are their failure in the flesh. The irony is; they would rather face a shorter life and die in agony than become what you have become even as they would gladly sell their souls for a chance at immortality. Instead they war upon each other and leave destruction in their wake. They murder, enslave, imprison, and leave a legacy of violence for their heirs. Their politics is one of conquest and their idea of compromise comes at the point of a sword or a spear. They place golden crowns upon their heads and proclaim themselves King while all the while cursing the likes of you for being what you are. Pity them. Do not envy them my child. Pity them and take from them what you will, for they are born into the servitude of death.”
Avella rolled onto her back and sighed deeply. She would have to be content to wander through the ages alone. To have these tiny moments of warmth and mortality scattered throughout the endless stretch of time that had become her prison. She lay musing over these thoughts when the Dire Wolf approached. His fire-red eyes peered up at her as he whimpered his hunger. Avella did not need to see him to know what it was he wanted.
“Not this one,” she stated. “This one shall live for he pleases me and I wish to keep him whole. For a little while at least.”
The wolf retreated into the deeper shadows. Avella turned and kissed the sleeping Paladin only once upon his brow then floated from the bed and dressed. Moments later she stood outside the house staring up at the open window. The Dire Wolf tugged at her skirt, wishing to renew the hunt. Reluctantly, she turned and drifted into the night.