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Chantarelle
Planetoid
- Joined
- Apr 28, 2018
- Location
- USA
"If all we have is this imagined empty canvas of endless possibility...this potential heaven...then let it be our haven. A place of marriage between two souls desperate to feel something beyond the cruel tedium of real life. If we truly be the masters who dream these dreams then let our innermost desires fuel the adventures we create and the love that we make here, let it all unfold endlessly or for only a brief moment in time but for as long as it breathes let it devour and I will forgive you your boldness if you will be so good as to forgive me mine..." ~ Chantarelle
I've been writing role-play for 20+ years of my life and pride myself in having grown much throughout the years. Developing my skill as a writer has been a serious endeavor for me and I've always striven for improvement and have found that in order to best aide in this pursuit of self-betterment its been crucial for me to seek out writers who's skill level matches or (even more helpful) surpasses my own. I am a multi-paragraph storyteller who puts strong effort in character development and as much as I do enjoy a good 'love at first sight' story I have oft times an even greater adoration for a challenging love/hate dynamic between mains. It should also be noted that I will never write stories where the main focus is smut, sex of course will always make an appearance in the worlds we create together (slow burn and sexual tension is a requirement for me) but it should be treated as a cherry on top of the sundae rather than the sundae itself. Kink-wise I am - so sorry to the majority who read this - a vanilla(ish) sundae type of girl. Those who reach out should be aware that the stories I tell through my characters come saturated in mature and dark themes. Lastly, I ask that my partners use discord as a homebase for all OOC socializing and collaboration as well as use actual pictures (or no pictures at all) for FC's.
And now…my girls
I've been writing role-play for 20+ years of my life and pride myself in having grown much throughout the years. Developing my skill as a writer has been a serious endeavor for me and I've always striven for improvement and have found that in order to best aide in this pursuit of self-betterment its been crucial for me to seek out writers who's skill level matches or (even more helpful) surpasses my own. I am a multi-paragraph storyteller who puts strong effort in character development and as much as I do enjoy a good 'love at first sight' story I have oft times an even greater adoration for a challenging love/hate dynamic between mains. It should also be noted that I will never write stories where the main focus is smut, sex of course will always make an appearance in the worlds we create together (slow burn and sexual tension is a requirement for me) but it should be treated as a cherry on top of the sundae rather than the sundae itself. Kink-wise I am - so sorry to the majority who read this - a vanilla(ish) sundae type of girl. Those who reach out should be aware that the stories I tell through my characters come saturated in mature and dark themes. Lastly, I ask that my partners use discord as a homebase for all OOC socializing and collaboration as well as use actual pictures (or no pictures at all) for FC's.
And now…my girls
AVAILABLE
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"Some people absolutely need to be blinded before they can fully appreciate the dark. It's the only way they'll ever take it seriously."
Full name: Leona Del Fiore
Face Claim: Lady Gaga
Species: Fae
Powers: Ignite - (Phoenix Bloodline) - Impervious to heat or fire. Her body naturally runs a high temperature averaging 120 degrees. She's able to manipulate flame, not create it.
Razzle Dazzle - (Autumn Court) - Primarily used for the stage 'Ona's ability to create illusions encompasses all five senses. She's gotten good enough to fool small venues; moderately sized nightclubs, theatre's and bars.
Opium - (Lived Experience) - For most of her life 'Ona has struggled with truly feeling her emotions. She has the chilling skill to go numb down to an art. That skill has manifested itself into an ability which allows her to dull a (human) persons senses (her power does not work on fae). Through intentional focus she can lull a person into a relaxed, numb state of mind to the point they can be impressionable though she has never abused this ability.
Occupation: Performance Artist
Notable features: Confident / Creative / Oddly Spiritual / Passionate / Crude / Turbulent / Unconventional
Age: 32(ish) (02/15/75)
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Born Brunette
Height: 5'1
Sexuality: Demi
Likes: Heat / Rain and the sizzle of it on her skin / Game Shows / Performing / Spicy Foods
Dislikes: Promises / People who name their cats Cali / Sensitive People / Manipulation / Weakness
Strengths: Singing / Selling herself / Acting / Intimidation / Fighting / Unhealthy relationships
Weaknesses: Offstage vulnerability / Baking / Sleeping (insomniac) / Short fuse / Faking interest
Personality: 'Ona has a hard edge to her that rightly (and gratefully) can chase away the more delicate of personalities. Individuals who smile excessively tend to make her uncomfortable. People who constantly apologize make her want to scream. She can be uncompromisingly forthright, invulnerable, and at times even mean. Many find her intimidating, a response she can appreciate. She makes no apology for preferring secure people. She admires self-will and strength in a character as well as an ability to fight back whether that be verbally or otherwise. Not all gristle and stone, her softer side is easily seen and felt by those who spend enough time around her. They will see her laugh, they will see her rage. Those with any capacity for depth perception will clearly see her heart. What is highly unlikely that anyone will ever see however, is 'Ona sad. They will never see her cry.
Friendship is important to 'Ona but she is very selective as humanity has shown it can't be trusted. Those who can withstand her personality and come to understand it may find she is a loyal friend. Anyone related to the entertainment industry and creative arts in general will find an easy in with 'Ona. Bonus points if they inspire her.
Regardless of what Kindle at times portrays onstage or what anyone could easily view online of her, 'Ona is not an overly sexual person by nature…she just plays one for the love of art when it is necessary. She understands sex. She's experienced sexual pleasure before, albeit at mostly by her own hands, but her time in porn has only encouraged her cynicism and further disillusioned her from ever feeling as if she were missing out.
The Story:
Story Notes: Sparking Development - The ultimate goal would be for 'Ona to actually open up and to eventually break down her barriers, to really feel the pain of her past and to process the emotions she's suppressed. Ultimately I am looking to grow the character.
Epiphany - Currently, 'Ona knows nothing about what she is. She's gathered some ideas of what she might be through meditation and study of various spiritualities but as of yet she is unaware of what magic runs through her veins. I'm excited to see how she would react to the truth and what court she would affiliate herself with.
Flame - 'Ona has never even been close to falling in love. She's been in short-lived relationships for one personal or professional reason or another in her past but never has it ever developed into love. It would be nice to explore whether or not she holds the capacity for it.
Burning Bridges - Because she can rub people the wrong way - many have (mistakenly) labeled her a diva, for example - it would be fun to write scenes that turn our characters into rivals or even enemies.
History:Some people weren't cut out for life, they just couldn't hack it. That will to keep going, something that should unquestionably come naturally to all living things, for some, just escaped them like the universe had simply neglected to add that part in. Batteries should always come included or else what's the point? Growing up, that seemed to be the hand her father had been dealt though he lasted a lot longer than expected. Now there was a shell of a man; bitter, joyless, mean, a horrible, nasty human being. True enough, he had every justification under the sun for being that way, at least if you asked him. Wheelchair bound after a stroke left him with half his body he relied on the state and his only remaining daughter to care of him. Effectively 'Ona served as his everything, she acted as his left side. She cooked, cleaned, helped him when he needed to shower or shit, took him to his appointments, kept his beer stocked, and made sure he never ran out of cigarettes (for her own sake). 'Ona was sixteen years old when she became a martyr.
Not ever knowing her mother, 'Ona felt a sense of obligatory devotion to her father, taking after her older half-sisters example. This was just what families did where they came from, they stuck together even when doing so was toxic. Never mind their father prior to his stroke was an emotionally and physically abusive cunt, he was all they had. Or, they were all he had. If things had worked out the way Sophie had wanted them to, she would have been the only scapegoat in the family as her martyrdom would have extended itself to her little sister. 'Ona was supposed to be the breakaway, the one who made it. 'Ona was the one with big dreams, after all, not Sophie. 'Ona had aspirations to become some famous actress or a singer one day and she was going to let her follow those ambitions because Sophie knew she had the chops to do it. 'Ona was the talented one, not her, and Sophie knew it. At least if her sister got famous she might be able to send money back home to help out. That was Sophie's plan from the beginning and it might have happened that way too if Sophie had kept on holding on, but then…she hadn't come with batteries included in her packaging.
Super Bowl Sunday was the day Sophie had decided she was done, or maybe it had been an accident, who really knows? 'Ona knew, that's who. 'Ona was the one who found her on her bedroom floor frothing out the side of her mouth, her eyes rolled back deep inside her skull. Opioid overdose. 'Ona just remembers her father looking at her as the paramedics finally gave up trying to bring her back. "God took the wrong one. Now what am I gonna do?" His words were only shocking to the coroner and EMT's, as for 'Ona they just rolled off her like water on a ducks back. It wasn't a secret Sophie had always been his favorite. He had traumatized them both the same but 'Ona had always gotten the brunt of it. Something about her mother leftover in him a darkness for the child. Subsequently, 'Ona became accustomed to his treatment of her and had grown impervious to his blows and slings.
For a time, 'Ona held firm onto the baton her sister had dropped and effectively passed on to her. She abandoned her dreams for duty and as sick as it sounds for love, or at least what 'Ona had come to know as love. To suffer an individual as despicable as her father she had to at least "love" some part of him, right? Problem was that part was just in her imagination. The little girl in her holding out hope that her father would one day see her or acknowledge her sacrifices in some way and to yes, "love" her. It just was never going to work out that way. Once he was diagnosed with lung cancer that was the straw that finally broke the camels back. It got really bad there for awhile. The fighting and mental abuse (by this point emanating from both parties) had reached a level of poison that threatened 'Ona's capacity. It was sheer luck in the end that her father finally decided to give up the ghost and with his "suicide" came 'Ona's emancipation. She was twenty years old.
Fast forward...
Hollywood, the land filled with souls for sale and bodies for rent, of hard knocks and rude awakenings. Turns out unemployment agencies were filled to the rafters with talented actors who just could never catch a break. She'd gotten a couple roles on t.v. and even one recurring spot before her offers just seemed to dry up out of the blue. Didn't help she'd caused ripples with a certain director with tons of pull in the industry. Basically blackballed, 'Ona decided to set plan B into action. She started singing at open mic nights just hoping to get herself "discovered" while waiting tables in the interim. She was a terrible waitress however and at service jobs in general and was forced to find other means to keep her belly full. Eventually 'Ona moved to San Francisco when she'd gotten the tip that that's where singers were getting offered contracts left and right. It was there she started doing porn and developed a small following which only helped her gain attention musically even if it wasn't mainly for her singing.
'Ona had always had a special fondness for fire, her fascination with it had started at an early age. She loved everything about it, the way it danced, the smell of its smoke, it's heat. She began incorporating the element into her shows as soon as she got the budget for it. One night while performing, the flames she used to decorate the stage caught her dress on fire sending her up in flames. Weird thing about that, it left her unscathed. Not one burn, not even a pinkening of skin occurred. The blaze had taken with it her clothes, leaving her naked (not anything her "fans" hadn't seen before), it even singed away most of her hair but as for her flesh, nothing, nada. The fire had done something else though, something unseen.
'Ona felt…different, like the way a near death experience leaves a person feeling changed except 'Ona never once thought as the flames were devouring her that she was any real danger of dying. On the contrary, 'Ona had never felt more alive. Her experience that night triggered something in her that ultimately set her down a spiritual path of self discovery. She quit porn, she stopped performing, deleted all her social media accounts, she basically dropped off the face of the earth for a considerable period of time before re-emerging as "Kindle".
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"Some people absolutely need to be blinded before they can fully appreciate the dark. It's the only way they'll ever take it seriously."
Full name: Leona Del Fiore
Face Claim: Lady Gaga
Species: Fae
Powers: Ignite - (Phoenix Bloodline) - Impervious to heat or fire. Her body naturally runs a high temperature averaging 120 degrees. She's able to manipulate flame, not create it.
Razzle Dazzle - (Autumn Court) - Primarily used for the stage 'Ona's ability to create illusions encompasses all five senses. She's gotten good enough to fool small venues; moderately sized nightclubs, theatre's and bars.
Opium - (Lived Experience) - For most of her life 'Ona has struggled with truly feeling her emotions. She has the chilling skill to go numb down to an art. That skill has manifested itself into an ability which allows her to dull a (human) persons senses (her power does not work on fae). Through intentional focus she can lull a person into a relaxed, numb state of mind to the point they can be impressionable though she has never abused this ability.
Occupation: Performance Artist
Notable features: Confident / Creative / Oddly Spiritual / Passionate / Crude / Turbulent / Unconventional
Age: 32(ish) (02/15/75)
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Born Brunette
Height: 5'1
Sexuality: Demi
Likes: Heat / Rain and the sizzle of it on her skin / Game Shows / Performing / Spicy Foods
Dislikes: Promises / People who name their cats Cali / Sensitive People / Manipulation / Weakness
Strengths: Singing / Selling herself / Acting / Intimidation / Fighting / Unhealthy relationships
Weaknesses: Offstage vulnerability / Baking / Sleeping (insomniac) / Short fuse / Faking interest
Personality: 'Ona has a hard edge to her that rightly (and gratefully) can chase away the more delicate of personalities. Individuals who smile excessively tend to make her uncomfortable. People who constantly apologize make her want to scream. She can be uncompromisingly forthright, invulnerable, and at times even mean. Many find her intimidating, a response she can appreciate. She makes no apology for preferring secure people. She admires self-will and strength in a character as well as an ability to fight back whether that be verbally or otherwise. Not all gristle and stone, her softer side is easily seen and felt by those who spend enough time around her. They will see her laugh, they will see her rage. Those with any capacity for depth perception will clearly see her heart. What is highly unlikely that anyone will ever see however, is 'Ona sad. They will never see her cry.
Friendship is important to 'Ona but she is very selective as humanity has shown it can't be trusted. Those who can withstand her personality and come to understand it may find she is a loyal friend. Anyone related to the entertainment industry and creative arts in general will find an easy in with 'Ona. Bonus points if they inspire her.
Regardless of what Kindle at times portrays onstage or what anyone could easily view online of her, 'Ona is not an overly sexual person by nature…she just plays one for the love of art when it is necessary. She understands sex. She's experienced sexual pleasure before, albeit at mostly by her own hands, but her time in porn has only encouraged her cynicism and further disillusioned her from ever feeling as if she were missing out.
The Story:
Story Notes: Sparking Development - The ultimate goal would be for 'Ona to actually open up and to eventually break down her barriers, to really feel the pain of her past and to process the emotions she's suppressed. Ultimately I am looking to grow the character.
Epiphany - Currently, 'Ona knows nothing about what she is. She's gathered some ideas of what she might be through meditation and study of various spiritualities but as of yet she is unaware of what magic runs through her veins. I'm excited to see how she would react to the truth and what court she would affiliate herself with.
Flame - 'Ona has never even been close to falling in love. She's been in short-lived relationships for one personal or professional reason or another in her past but never has it ever developed into love. It would be nice to explore whether or not she holds the capacity for it.
Burning Bridges - Because she can rub people the wrong way - many have (mistakenly) labeled her a diva, for example - it would be fun to write scenes that turn our characters into rivals or even enemies.
History:Some people weren't cut out for life, they just couldn't hack it. That will to keep going, something that should unquestionably come naturally to all living things, for some, just escaped them like the universe had simply neglected to add that part in. Batteries should always come included or else what's the point? Growing up, that seemed to be the hand her father had been dealt though he lasted a lot longer than expected. Now there was a shell of a man; bitter, joyless, mean, a horrible, nasty human being. True enough, he had every justification under the sun for being that way, at least if you asked him. Wheelchair bound after a stroke left him with half his body he relied on the state and his only remaining daughter to care of him. Effectively 'Ona served as his everything, she acted as his left side. She cooked, cleaned, helped him when he needed to shower or shit, took him to his appointments, kept his beer stocked, and made sure he never ran out of cigarettes (for her own sake). 'Ona was sixteen years old when she became a martyr.
Not ever knowing her mother, 'Ona felt a sense of obligatory devotion to her father, taking after her older half-sisters example. This was just what families did where they came from, they stuck together even when doing so was toxic. Never mind their father prior to his stroke was an emotionally and physically abusive cunt, he was all they had. Or, they were all he had. If things had worked out the way Sophie had wanted them to, she would have been the only scapegoat in the family as her martyrdom would have extended itself to her little sister. 'Ona was supposed to be the breakaway, the one who made it. 'Ona was the one with big dreams, after all, not Sophie. 'Ona had aspirations to become some famous actress or a singer one day and she was going to let her follow those ambitions because Sophie knew she had the chops to do it. 'Ona was the talented one, not her, and Sophie knew it. At least if her sister got famous she might be able to send money back home to help out. That was Sophie's plan from the beginning and it might have happened that way too if Sophie had kept on holding on, but then…she hadn't come with batteries included in her packaging.
Super Bowl Sunday was the day Sophie had decided she was done, or maybe it had been an accident, who really knows? 'Ona knew, that's who. 'Ona was the one who found her on her bedroom floor frothing out the side of her mouth, her eyes rolled back deep inside her skull. Opioid overdose. 'Ona just remembers her father looking at her as the paramedics finally gave up trying to bring her back. "God took the wrong one. Now what am I gonna do?" His words were only shocking to the coroner and EMT's, as for 'Ona they just rolled off her like water on a ducks back. It wasn't a secret Sophie had always been his favorite. He had traumatized them both the same but 'Ona had always gotten the brunt of it. Something about her mother leftover in him a darkness for the child. Subsequently, 'Ona became accustomed to his treatment of her and had grown impervious to his blows and slings.
For a time, 'Ona held firm onto the baton her sister had dropped and effectively passed on to her. She abandoned her dreams for duty and as sick as it sounds for love, or at least what 'Ona had come to know as love. To suffer an individual as despicable as her father she had to at least "love" some part of him, right? Problem was that part was just in her imagination. The little girl in her holding out hope that her father would one day see her or acknowledge her sacrifices in some way and to yes, "love" her. It just was never going to work out that way. Once he was diagnosed with lung cancer that was the straw that finally broke the camels back. It got really bad there for awhile. The fighting and mental abuse (by this point emanating from both parties) had reached a level of poison that threatened 'Ona's capacity. It was sheer luck in the end that her father finally decided to give up the ghost and with his "suicide" came 'Ona's emancipation. She was twenty years old.
Fast forward...
Hollywood, the land filled with souls for sale and bodies for rent, of hard knocks and rude awakenings. Turns out unemployment agencies were filled to the rafters with talented actors who just could never catch a break. She'd gotten a couple roles on t.v. and even one recurring spot before her offers just seemed to dry up out of the blue. Didn't help she'd caused ripples with a certain director with tons of pull in the industry. Basically blackballed, 'Ona decided to set plan B into action. She started singing at open mic nights just hoping to get herself "discovered" while waiting tables in the interim. She was a terrible waitress however and at service jobs in general and was forced to find other means to keep her belly full. Eventually 'Ona moved to San Francisco when she'd gotten the tip that that's where singers were getting offered contracts left and right. It was there she started doing porn and developed a small following which only helped her gain attention musically even if it wasn't mainly for her singing.
'Ona had always had a special fondness for fire, her fascination with it had started at an early age. She loved everything about it, the way it danced, the smell of its smoke, it's heat. She began incorporating the element into her shows as soon as she got the budget for it. One night while performing, the flames she used to decorate the stage caught her dress on fire sending her up in flames. Weird thing about that, it left her unscathed. Not one burn, not even a pinkening of skin occurred. The blaze had taken with it her clothes, leaving her naked (not anything her "fans" hadn't seen before), it even singed away most of her hair but as for her flesh, nothing, nada. The fire had done something else though, something unseen.
'Ona felt…different, like the way a near death experience leaves a person feeling changed except 'Ona never once thought as the flames were devouring her that she was any real danger of dying. On the contrary, 'Ona had never felt more alive. Her experience that night triggered something in her that ultimately set her down a spiritual path of self discovery. She quit porn, she stopped performing, deleted all her social media accounts, she basically dropped off the face of the earth for a considerable period of time before re-emerging as "Kindle".
The air outside that night had been warm with all the electric hungover feeling of a random summers rainfall, merely a drizzle but enough to lace the breeze with the sweet smell of petrichor mixed with the subtle fragrance of trash from nearby waste bins the city had placed here and there to discourage the homeless from littering. Nothing could have been more perfect as the eager throngs began to amass inside the stark concrete building conveniently positioned on the corner of Oakdale and Pennsylvania right in the heart of the historic warehouse district of San Fran. Each and every individual would be handed a blindfold and instructed to put it on when and only when the room turned blue, an apparent subsequent change between the white fluorescent glow it was bathed in at the moment. Undoubtedly, the distinct assortment of enthusiasts would receive this directive with mixed reactions. In some, it may be received with a certain degree of suspicion, likely from those new to the artist they had come to see for maybe the very first time, perhaps brought or dragged out by a friend more familiar with Kindles brand of entertainment. Certainly the sketchy surroundings they found themselves amidst would not help to soothe their unease in the least. The space was cold, bare, dirty and by all appearances inhospitable with around a dozen thick, graffitied support columns separated into two rows designating north, south, and center where a large stage had been erected for the nights performance. Whats more, chances were they would have already arrived skeptical and apprehensive as they would have had to travel through the worst part of town before even arriving at their destination. Far from incidental, this was a feature of the venue that had lent itself to its sale as the concept was to put the audience on edge at the outset, more akin to a haunted house than any concert. As for other attendees, the blindfold would have been expected to arouse anticipation as well as other feelings of a more sensual nature, and these obviously would be the types amongst the artists fanbase originally turned on to Kindle through her past seedy work in pornography. Then of course, there would also be foreseen purely art and music driven fans of various backgrounds as well as the underestimating critics of both the sleazy and honest sorts awaiting their opportunity to either eviscerate or praise the rising star respectively and Kindle, for her part, could not wait for the show and judgment to begin.
Deceptively, though the stage appeared empty, Kindle was there, a silent, solemn figure masked in glamor to hide herself from the gathering crowd who grew and whispered around her. Their din of anxious, excited chatter filling her ears, their energy already making her skin tingle and the little hairs on the backs of her arms and nape of her neck stand on end. Like a ghost she stood there motionless, her head still as haunting hazel eyes swept with a hyper focus over all the people who'd paid good money to see her, chin dipped slightly under a dark shaggy mane. If someone could see her in these moments, they might fall under the assumption that this was all some strange, unnerving performative art piece, and in a way…they would be right, though it would have all been entirely self masturbatory being as she was invisible and all. In actuality, Kindle was gearing herself up by emotionally feeding off the vivacity of the warehouse's congregants, her thrill and delight increasing, her ego expanding by the second. Then the lights turned blue triggering a rippling crest of diverse vocalizations to spread throughout the crowd compressing against her stage and she watched as blindfolds were placed over a sea of faces as a tiny smile curved her lips. Gradually a hush would fall across the sea, only then would she use her gift to amplify her voice…"How obedient." To which she would receive a faint, nervous chorus of laughter before giving them a show they would never…fucking…forget.
The performance would begin with a poetic story about two little girls held captive by a monster, that they were in fact, inescapably bound to this monster, their monster. She spoke graphically about some of the horrors the little girls were subjected to without even a hint of emotion in her voice. Then she would tell her captivated audience how the older sister had one day tried to sacrifice herself to their monster just so that the younger sister might have a chance to break free but that her plan hadn't worked and that in the end the older sister was slain. Kindle did this all the while using her 'Razzle Dazzle' to create through their own senses exactly what she wanted them to feel. The soft growing pulse of a beat only just starting to become audible and as she wove her tale it grew in its intensity. The second part of the story told of how, now alone with her monster, that little girl gradually became a monster herself until one day she was just grotesque enough to slay her monster for good. Played overhead through speakers, that pulsing beat had gradually led into the opening sounds of the first single from her new album, "Zillion Points of Light".
"Fuck the industry!" She would let out a guttural scream, making a deliberate choice to confuse the meaning of the story she had just told. Had it been personally based or just some creative message about her time in porn or Hollywood in general? Had it been both? They'd be left to wonder as they were directed to unmask themselves in order to, as she so delicately put it,"make way for my fucking band, you blind fucks!" The rest of her performance would comprise heavy rock-pop, nudity, ballads, dancing, and lots of pyrotechnics, or at least, what appeared to be pyrotechnics to the untrained eye. At one point the crowd and critics would swear they had witnessed Kindle on fire as the microphone (which eventually she did use) became ablaze and spread up her arms and down her back. By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
Gradually the satisfied crowd would begin to exit the warehouse one by one taking home with them their own individual memories and judgments of the spectacle they had just experienced, it would only be when just a dozen or so of these patrons were left that a certain peculiar fellow with slicked back hair, 5 o'clock shadow and a leather jacket would suddenly approach the bar that had been set up along the back wall of the warehouse. It had been busy serving drinks all night and yet, they had been under explicit instructions to keep the drinks coming until otherwise instructed to do so. Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
As soon as Kindle set a single, dirty bare foot offstage all the procured energy she'd held tight inside of her body for the purpose of delivering a meaningful performance began to shift, and with every step that carried her away from the sea of noise she'd created, her exhilaration progressively diminished. "Backstage" - which amounted to just one large adjacent roped off room connected to the performance space - the air was cold and still. Here, the roar of the crowd, somewhat muted, unavoidably lost its power, relinquishing her from its captivating thrall. Here, 'Ona could disrobe her persona and relax back into her own skin, a soporific process that usually left her feeling tranquil in the post-coital afterglow of a performance well received.
Her team knew better than to pester her after a show, these moments of dissimulation and decompression were important to her and to them as well, as self-preservation and job security would undoubtedly prevail in their support of this boundary of hers since 'Ona's wrong side was not a tribulation any rational person who valued peace would willingly suffer…especially if they only knew…
In the corner of the room had been assembled for her a vanity on which was littered the tools of her makeup artists trade. A large mirror hung from the wall bordered by large lightbulbs which shone the perfect brightness and intensity while along the wall sat a portable clothes rack where hung her street clothes the likes of a pair of skintight black jeans, a simple man's white undershirt and a leather jacket, some black doc martins in a size 6 lay placed underneath the suspended apparel. 'Ona's first stop, the vanity, where she wouldn't bother to lower her body into the dark, leathered captains chair that was positioned there in front of it, her depreciating energy wasn't burdensome enough to warrant that, instead she'd merely grip its raised frame and lean against it as she studied her face in the mirror straight ahead of her. Looking back at her would be the flushed, morose face of a woman in mid-reflection. Layers of her unkempt, dark mane settled messy upon her head, lustrous locks of various lengths framing her face, nearly eclipsing it before she gave her head one intentional shake which drove those tufts back revealing two penetrating pools of hazel gleaming against the mirrors light, rich golds and greens intermixed within limbal rings, creating a variegated storm.
Tonight had been more than acceptable and though she told herself she didn't care she knew the reviews in the morning would reflect that fact and yet even still, 'Ona was…bothered…not by her performance but by the audience itself, in particular, one man situated towards the front of the stage. At first she hadn't noticed him, busy assessing her congregation and absorbing their aroused energies, it wasn't until her eyes just so happened to sweep over him that she'd realized him. He was striking if only for his otherness. In a roomful of misfits and perverts, of the young and wayward, this man was an island unto himself, strange and unfitting. Curious, he'd disquieted her as soon as she'd registered him. His gaze seemed to linger where she stood invisible, masked by glamour. He never looked directly at her, but around her, as if he could sense her. It had been a strange moment for her. She'd been doing this for years and never had she experienced a situation quite like it, never had she had to question as she had tonight. It had all been so peculiar, a small thing really and yet it had just…bothered her. Not enough to ruin her show but just enough to unnerve her slightly. Of course, she had gotten through the performance just fine. As soon as she'd begun addressing her audience the man was all but erased from her mind although it had been noted and pissed her off the fucker hadn't put on his blindfold after being given strict instructions and clear indications to do so. Regardless, it wasn't until afterwards as she gazed into her own hazel orbs in the mirror that the occurrence revisited her.
After a time of pointless, irritated fixation, 'Ona pushed away from the chair she'd gripped, her knuckle joints surprisingly sore and tight as she let her grasp slip from the back of the seat, she even felt a rush of blood flowing through her fingertips again as if the circulation had been momentarily cut off due to severe clenching, something left unconsidered as she began to strip.
Sam had become a ritual by now, something to slip into after her shows to blend in with her leftover audience, he was her fly on the wall, just some rando greaser hanging out, grabbing a few beers before he hit the road. Just laid back and quiet enough not to raise suspicion, just a little too odd and disheveled enough to ward off approach. Sam was her spy, Sam was fun and his clothes were extremely comfy. Wearing the costume made her job so much easier, one less thing to concentrate on; a little stubble and dark under eye here, a little sculpting and editing there, a nice bulge between his thighs because, why not? She liked Sam, he deserved it. No male illusion of hers was going to walk around like a Ken doll. A man needed something to be proud of.
'Ona made sure to cater to her Kindle's fan base and to herself, so she made sure where it was possible that none of her shows were dry events. Thus, Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
Sam wasn't a difficult character to embody for 'Ona, much of him was just an artistic amalgamation of every talent agent she'd ever had in her career, swirl in every skeezy casting director she'd ever had the displeasure of interacting with, sprinkle a dusting of every man who'd ever fucked her (figuratively and literally) and BAM! … you had yourself the likeness of one Sam Morelli.
With a clench of his jaw Sam would clear his throat and run pale fingers through his slicked black hair. The sound of thick glass hitting the counter beside him followed by a man's voice asking for another round barely elicited a glance from Sam who was preoccupied eavesdropping on a couple beside him talking about how good Kindles ass had looked in that g-string, followed by an even less savory conversation regarding her…other assets. It wasn't anything new or surprising. 'Ona had no delusions about what helped sell her product. Their money was just as green as someone else who actually respected what she did. 'Ona new she could sing, knew she could entertain, and more importantly she had something to contribute, so what if her ass helped to facilitate her spotlight. Sex was the bread to her butter.
"You look terrible."
The insult hit her out of no where, shots fuckin' fired without cause. The jab was hurled so unexpectedly for a second she'd nearly forgotten who she was sitting there masked as. She had to remind herself she was Sam, the world wasn't looking at 'Ona or Kindle right now and that being fact, okay yeah…Sam did look like shit, but even still…
"Hey, fuck you too!" Sam shot back, brows furrowed, dumbfounded and offended after taking a moment to process what had happened. His voice would register as male to any ears who might hear, especially to the asshole beside him which at the very end of his comeback Sam finally peered at through bloodshot hazel eyes.
Fuck.
All the expression in Sams face departed in an instant as he locked eyes with the man, recognizing him immediately as the man who 'Ona'd sworn could sense her through her veil. She couldn't help but wonder with a little shudder of anxiety if he could see through her Sam right now. The movement of his hand caught her eye as he dropped his blindfold on the counter…his unused blindfold. The ripple of irritation that shot through her quickly chased away any anxious agitation he had initially evoked. Sam ground his teeth tensing the muscles of his jaw making them flare with a long exhale through his nose as he turned his attention to the inner pocket of his jacket where he began to fish for something, using the distraction as a way to give 'Ona time to disperse her vexation before she lost her shit (and her poker face, namely, Sam).
What fucking part of "put on the blindfold when the lights turned blue" was so difficult for this guy to understand? She'd been trying to give her audience an auditory, sensual experience. 'Ona had put a lot of fucking thought and meaning into the concept and all she'd asked was for a little fucking audience participation, goddamnit!
As she vented inside her own head Sam could be seen struggling to remove whatever was in his pocket he was after. The fresh pack of Marlboro's had wedged itself sideways and it finally took a somewhat violent yank to rip it out of its confines. Sam screwed up his maw, his lips twisting into an aggravated grimace which he had to darkly laugh away under his breath in order to keep from angrily crumpling them within his fist.
"Ya know…" Sam began offhandedly, barely noticing the beer that had long been set in front of him by the bartender as he ripped the plastic off the red and white box of cigarettes and tossed it on the counter before lifting the lid to tear away at the annoying inside paper of the packaging, the last barrier standing between him and his addiction. "…I'm just in fucking awe at the creativity of that woman." He declared, giving a nod towards the blindfold the jerk had dismissed so thoughtlessly. "I mean, who's ever thought of that? Do you know how much careful thought she had to have put into that? How much meaning she wanted the audience to get out of it?" His cigarette had been by now pulled from the pack and was being used by Sam to gesticulate as he spoke with surprising passion about Kindle. One might get the impression this dirty, questionable character was a fanatic the way he spoke of the entertainer, the way his eyes held such zeal. "Some people just don't give a fuck…they don't respect the art…" He shook his head, profoundly disappointed as he held the unlit cig between his first two fingers and wrapped the remaining three around the neck of his neglected beer bottle lifting it to his lips before reversing momentarily to ask, "…ya know?" He finally took a swig, barely swallowing it before nearly jumping out of his seat, "I mean…" He leaned in as if about to speak confidentially and yet he'd maintain the same volume he'd been using, "…the visual deprivation and how that lends to the story…the two little girls…it's like she wanted the people to feel the darkness they felt…the aloneness…" he trailed off as his pupils bore into the assholes own hoping he felt like the insensitive prick he was for not engaging with Kindles vision, with her vision. Sam gradually leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle again to take a proper drink but once again, falling short… "Can you believe some fuckers choose not to put on the fucking blindfold? … Fuckin' disrespectful if you ask me." He drove his point straight home as subtly as 'Ona could muster before finally sating her thirst with a nice, full drink of Guinness.
Deceptively, though the stage appeared empty, Kindle was there, a silent, solemn figure masked in glamor to hide herself from the gathering crowd who grew and whispered around her. Their din of anxious, excited chatter filling her ears, their energy already making her skin tingle and the little hairs on the backs of her arms and nape of her neck stand on end. Like a ghost she stood there motionless, her head still as haunting hazel eyes swept with a hyper focus over all the people who'd paid good money to see her, chin dipped slightly under a dark shaggy mane. If someone could see her in these moments, they might fall under the assumption that this was all some strange, unnerving performative art piece, and in a way…they would be right, though it would have all been entirely self masturbatory being as she was invisible and all. In actuality, Kindle was gearing herself up by emotionally feeding off the vivacity of the warehouse's congregants, her thrill and delight increasing, her ego expanding by the second. Then the lights turned blue triggering a rippling crest of diverse vocalizations to spread throughout the crowd compressing against her stage and she watched as blindfolds were placed over a sea of faces as a tiny smile curved her lips. Gradually a hush would fall across the sea, only then would she use her gift to amplify her voice…"How obedient." To which she would receive a faint, nervous chorus of laughter before giving them a show they would never…fucking…forget.
The performance would begin with a poetic story about two little girls held captive by a monster, that they were in fact, inescapably bound to this monster, their monster. She spoke graphically about some of the horrors the little girls were subjected to without even a hint of emotion in her voice. Then she would tell her captivated audience how the older sister had one day tried to sacrifice herself to their monster just so that the younger sister might have a chance to break free but that her plan hadn't worked and that in the end the older sister was slain. Kindle did this all the while using her 'Razzle Dazzle' to create through their own senses exactly what she wanted them to feel. The soft growing pulse of a beat only just starting to become audible and as she wove her tale it grew in its intensity. The second part of the story told of how, now alone with her monster, that little girl gradually became a monster herself until one day she was just grotesque enough to slay her monster for good. Played overhead through speakers, that pulsing beat had gradually led into the opening sounds of the first single from her new album, "Zillion Points of Light".
"Fuck the industry!" She would let out a guttural scream, making a deliberate choice to confuse the meaning of the story she had just told. Had it been personally based or just some creative message about her time in porn or Hollywood in general? Had it been both? They'd be left to wonder as they were directed to unmask themselves in order to, as she so delicately put it,"make way for my fucking band, you blind fucks!" The rest of her performance would comprise heavy rock-pop, nudity, ballads, dancing, and lots of pyrotechnics, or at least, what appeared to be pyrotechnics to the untrained eye. At one point the crowd and critics would swear they had witnessed Kindle on fire as the microphone (which eventually she did use) became ablaze and spread up her arms and down her back. By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
Gradually the satisfied crowd would begin to exit the warehouse one by one taking home with them their own individual memories and judgments of the spectacle they had just experienced, it would only be when just a dozen or so of these patrons were left that a certain peculiar fellow with slicked back hair, 5 o'clock shadow and a leather jacket would suddenly approach the bar that had been set up along the back wall of the warehouse. It had been busy serving drinks all night and yet, they had been under explicit instructions to keep the drinks coming until otherwise instructed to do so. Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
As soon as Kindle set a single, dirty bare foot offstage all the procured energy she'd held tight inside of her body for the purpose of delivering a meaningful performance began to shift, and with every step that carried her away from the sea of noise she'd created, her exhilaration progressively diminished. "Backstage" - which amounted to just one large adjacent roped off room connected to the performance space - the air was cold and still. Here, the roar of the crowd, somewhat muted, unavoidably lost its power, relinquishing her from its captivating thrall. Here, 'Ona could disrobe her persona and relax back into her own skin, a soporific process that usually left her feeling tranquil in the post-coital afterglow of a performance well received.
Her team knew better than to pester her after a show, these moments of dissimulation and decompression were important to her and to them as well, as self-preservation and job security would undoubtedly prevail in their support of this boundary of hers since 'Ona's wrong side was not a tribulation any rational person who valued peace would willingly suffer…especially if they only knew…
In the corner of the room had been assembled for her a vanity on which was littered the tools of her makeup artists trade. A large mirror hung from the wall bordered by large lightbulbs which shone the perfect brightness and intensity while along the wall sat a portable clothes rack where hung her street clothes the likes of a pair of skintight black jeans, a simple man's white undershirt and a leather jacket, some black doc martins in a size 6 lay placed underneath the suspended apparel. 'Ona's first stop, the vanity, where she wouldn't bother to lower her body into the dark, leathered captains chair that was positioned there in front of it, her depreciating energy wasn't burdensome enough to warrant that, instead she'd merely grip its raised frame and lean against it as she studied her face in the mirror straight ahead of her. Looking back at her would be the flushed, morose face of a woman in mid-reflection. Layers of her unkempt, dark mane settled messy upon her head, lustrous locks of various lengths framing her face, nearly eclipsing it before she gave her head one intentional shake which drove those tufts back revealing two penetrating pools of hazel gleaming against the mirrors light, rich golds and greens intermixed within limbal rings, creating a variegated storm.
Tonight had been more than acceptable and though she told herself she didn't care she knew the reviews in the morning would reflect that fact and yet even still, 'Ona was…bothered…not by her performance but by the audience itself, in particular, one man situated towards the front of the stage. At first she hadn't noticed him, busy assessing her congregation and absorbing their aroused energies, it wasn't until her eyes just so happened to sweep over him that she'd realized him. He was striking if only for his otherness. In a roomful of misfits and perverts, of the young and wayward, this man was an island unto himself, strange and unfitting. Curious, he'd disquieted her as soon as she'd registered him. His gaze seemed to linger where she stood invisible, masked by glamour. He never looked directly at her, but around her, as if he could sense her. It had been a strange moment for her. She'd been doing this for years and never had she experienced a situation quite like it, never had she had to question as she had tonight. It had all been so peculiar, a small thing really and yet it had just…bothered her. Not enough to ruin her show but just enough to unnerve her slightly. Of course, she had gotten through the performance just fine. As soon as she'd begun addressing her audience the man was all but erased from her mind although it had been noted and pissed her off the fucker hadn't put on his blindfold after being given strict instructions and clear indications to do so. Regardless, it wasn't until afterwards as she gazed into her own hazel orbs in the mirror that the occurrence revisited her.
After a time of pointless, irritated fixation, 'Ona pushed away from the chair she'd gripped, her knuckle joints surprisingly sore and tight as she let her grasp slip from the back of the seat, she even felt a rush of blood flowing through her fingertips again as if the circulation had been momentarily cut off due to severe clenching, something left unconsidered as she began to strip.
Sam had become a ritual by now, something to slip into after her shows to blend in with her leftover audience, he was her fly on the wall, just some rando greaser hanging out, grabbing a few beers before he hit the road. Just laid back and quiet enough not to raise suspicion, just a little too odd and disheveled enough to ward off approach. Sam was her spy, Sam was fun and his clothes were extremely comfy. Wearing the costume made her job so much easier, one less thing to concentrate on; a little stubble and dark under eye here, a little sculpting and editing there, a nice bulge between his thighs because, why not? She liked Sam, he deserved it. No male illusion of hers was going to walk around like a Ken doll. A man needed something to be proud of.
'Ona made sure to cater to her Kindle's fan base and to herself, so she made sure where it was possible that none of her shows were dry events. Thus, Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
Sam wasn't a difficult character to embody for 'Ona, much of him was just an artistic amalgamation of every talent agent she'd ever had in her career, swirl in every skeezy casting director she'd ever had the displeasure of interacting with, sprinkle a dusting of every man who'd ever fucked her (figuratively and literally) and BAM! … you had yourself the likeness of one Sam Morelli.
With a clench of his jaw Sam would clear his throat and run pale fingers through his slicked black hair. The sound of thick glass hitting the counter beside him followed by a man's voice asking for another round barely elicited a glance from Sam who was preoccupied eavesdropping on a couple beside him talking about how good Kindles ass had looked in that g-string, followed by an even less savory conversation regarding her…other assets. It wasn't anything new or surprising. 'Ona had no delusions about what helped sell her product. Their money was just as green as someone else who actually respected what she did. 'Ona new she could sing, knew she could entertain, and more importantly she had something to contribute, so what if her ass helped to facilitate her spotlight. Sex was the bread to her butter.
"You look terrible."
The insult hit her out of no where, shots fuckin' fired without cause. The jab was hurled so unexpectedly for a second she'd nearly forgotten who she was sitting there masked as. She had to remind herself she was Sam, the world wasn't looking at 'Ona or Kindle right now and that being fact, okay yeah…Sam did look like shit, but even still…
"Hey, fuck you too!" Sam shot back, brows furrowed, dumbfounded and offended after taking a moment to process what had happened. His voice would register as male to any ears who might hear, especially to the asshole beside him which at the very end of his comeback Sam finally peered at through bloodshot hazel eyes.
Fuck.
All the expression in Sams face departed in an instant as he locked eyes with the man, recognizing him immediately as the man who 'Ona'd sworn could sense her through her veil. She couldn't help but wonder with a little shudder of anxiety if he could see through her Sam right now. The movement of his hand caught her eye as he dropped his blindfold on the counter…his unused blindfold. The ripple of irritation that shot through her quickly chased away any anxious agitation he had initially evoked. Sam ground his teeth tensing the muscles of his jaw making them flare with a long exhale through his nose as he turned his attention to the inner pocket of his jacket where he began to fish for something, using the distraction as a way to give 'Ona time to disperse her vexation before she lost her shit (and her poker face, namely, Sam).
What fucking part of "put on the blindfold when the lights turned blue" was so difficult for this guy to understand? She'd been trying to give her audience an auditory, sensual experience. 'Ona had put a lot of fucking thought and meaning into the concept and all she'd asked was for a little fucking audience participation, goddamnit!
As she vented inside her own head Sam could be seen struggling to remove whatever was in his pocket he was after. The fresh pack of Marlboro's had wedged itself sideways and it finally took a somewhat violent yank to rip it out of its confines. Sam screwed up his maw, his lips twisting into an aggravated grimace which he had to darkly laugh away under his breath in order to keep from angrily crumpling them within his fist.
"Ya know…" Sam began offhandedly, barely noticing the beer that had long been set in front of him by the bartender as he ripped the plastic off the red and white box of cigarettes and tossed it on the counter before lifting the lid to tear away at the annoying inside paper of the packaging, the last barrier standing between him and his addiction. "…I'm just in fucking awe at the creativity of that woman." He declared, giving a nod towards the blindfold the jerk had dismissed so thoughtlessly. "I mean, who's ever thought of that? Do you know how much careful thought she had to have put into that? How much meaning she wanted the audience to get out of it?" His cigarette had been by now pulled from the pack and was being used by Sam to gesticulate as he spoke with surprising passion about Kindle. One might get the impression this dirty, questionable character was a fanatic the way he spoke of the entertainer, the way his eyes held such zeal. "Some people just don't give a fuck…they don't respect the art…" He shook his head, profoundly disappointed as he held the unlit cig between his first two fingers and wrapped the remaining three around the neck of his neglected beer bottle lifting it to his lips before reversing momentarily to ask, "…ya know?" He finally took a swig, barely swallowing it before nearly jumping out of his seat, "I mean…" He leaned in as if about to speak confidentially and yet he'd maintain the same volume he'd been using, "…the visual deprivation and how that lends to the story…the two little girls…it's like she wanted the people to feel the darkness they felt…the aloneness…" he trailed off as his pupils bore into the assholes own hoping he felt like the insensitive prick he was for not engaging with Kindles vision, with her vision. Sam gradually leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle again to take a proper drink but once again, falling short… "Can you believe some fuckers choose not to put on the fucking blindfold? … Fuckin' disrespectful if you ask me." He drove his point straight home as subtly as 'Ona could muster before finally sating her thirst with a nice, full drink of Guinness.
AVAILABLE
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"When you don't know who you are you can be anyone or no one at all. Sometimes the freedom feels like heaven but most of the time it's hell."
Full name: Lola Gil
Face Claim: Britney Murphy
Species: Human (Discarded Vessel)
Occupation: Unemployed
Notable features:
Age: 32
Eye Color: Light Brown
Hair Color: Blonde
Height: 5'3
Sexuality: straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Wooden / Co-dependent / Contemplative / Sensual / Numb/ Fearless / Insecure / Impulsive / Liar
History: "You see her?"
The boy couldn't really. Not through the blood and dirt caked in his eyes.
"You see her?!"
The mans grip was like iron twisting scalp skin by long, greasy, tequila-drenched hair owned by one Diego Morales who's broken mouth twisted and spat out pieces of his own teeth. He made many sounds as he choked on his own blood but none resembling syllables either in English or in Spanish.
"Come closer, mija."
The smells of dust and gasoline finally made way for the soft, sweet scent of the 'Queen of the Night'. The orchid cactus bloomed only once a year, filling the entire dessert with its perfume. It wasn't poisonous, just beautiful. Like her. Or so Diego once thought.
Blinking through the crimson fuzziness of his vision he finally saw her. She got down real close, even lying on the dirty desert floor to get on his level where his temple dug into a large rock half buried in the sand. Big doe eyes dead and unnerving. Vacant. Expressionless. Had they always been that way?
"You see her now, chico?"
Diego's "si" came out deformed thanks to his lack of incisors but unfortunately he was understood well enough by the man Pascual who promptly severed the beaten boys carotid artery with his navaja. Only then did Lola's eyes flicker alive if only for a moment.
Story: Maybe she could have been somebody a long time ago. But now? Ella es Nadie. (She is nobody.) Except of course to Pascual. To him she is his vengeance, his vessel in which he pours all of his spite and vindictiveness. She is completely human, completely innocent and completely broken. Her only crime was being born to a woman who shattered and blackened the once Supremes heart, turning him away from the sacred path and towards the dark...a road to be covered with bodies...starting first with the bitch who'd betrayed him, Lola's mother.
Afterwards, in Pascual's keep, Lola Gil became Nadie. Kept under the influence of some very potent blood magic, Nadie was used. She effectively became Pascual's daughter and eventually Pascual's lover. A brainwashed puppet and perpetual victim, she did what she was told and she baited who she was told to bait, until the night Diego Morales was killed and for the first time she felt something new, something she hadn't been told to feel…and it scared her...
Story Notes:
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"When you don't know who you are you can be anyone or no one at all. Sometimes the freedom feels like heaven but most of the time it's hell."
Full name: Lola Gil
Face Claim: Britney Murphy
Species: Human (Discarded Vessel)
Occupation: Unemployed
Notable features:
Age: 32
Eye Color: Light Brown
Hair Color: Blonde
Height: 5'3
Sexuality: straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Wooden / Co-dependent / Contemplative / Sensual / Numb/ Fearless / Insecure / Impulsive / Liar
History: "You see her?"
The boy couldn't really. Not through the blood and dirt caked in his eyes.
"You see her?!"
The mans grip was like iron twisting scalp skin by long, greasy, tequila-drenched hair owned by one Diego Morales who's broken mouth twisted and spat out pieces of his own teeth. He made many sounds as he choked on his own blood but none resembling syllables either in English or in Spanish.
"Come closer, mija."
The smells of dust and gasoline finally made way for the soft, sweet scent of the 'Queen of the Night'. The orchid cactus bloomed only once a year, filling the entire dessert with its perfume. It wasn't poisonous, just beautiful. Like her. Or so Diego once thought.
Blinking through the crimson fuzziness of his vision he finally saw her. She got down real close, even lying on the dirty desert floor to get on his level where his temple dug into a large rock half buried in the sand. Big doe eyes dead and unnerving. Vacant. Expressionless. Had they always been that way?
"You see her now, chico?"
Diego's "si" came out deformed thanks to his lack of incisors but unfortunately he was understood well enough by the man Pascual who promptly severed the beaten boys carotid artery with his navaja. Only then did Lola's eyes flicker alive if only for a moment.
"Fool. There's no one there."
Story: Maybe she could have been somebody a long time ago. But now? Ella es Nadie. (She is nobody.) Except of course to Pascual. To him she is his vengeance, his vessel in which he pours all of his spite and vindictiveness. She is completely human, completely innocent and completely broken. Her only crime was being born to a woman who shattered and blackened the once Supremes heart, turning him away from the sacred path and towards the dark...a road to be covered with bodies...starting first with the bitch who'd betrayed him, Lola's mother.
Afterwards, in Pascual's keep, Lola Gil became Nadie. Kept under the influence of some very potent blood magic, Nadie was used. She effectively became Pascual's daughter and eventually Pascual's lover. A brainwashed puppet and perpetual victim, she did what she was told and she baited who she was told to bait, until the night Diego Morales was killed and for the first time she felt something new, something she hadn't been told to feel…and it scared her...
Story Notes:
Her world had never been this loud before, not ever. Why was it wailing like that? It was like a bombardment, like actual bombs being dropped on top of her head.
The passenger sitting shotgun beside Carlos directly leaned in through the little window that separated compartments and snapped the command viciously at the woman holding the screaming infant across from Nadie. She'd been trying to shush it since Monterrey but nothing had worked. She'd tried feeding it, rocking it, patting its back, singing to it. Nothing. But now, spurred on by Carlos' partner, aka the angry-man-with-the-gun, the woman began her efforts once again at double urgency, practically begging the swaddled bundle of squalls to quiet.
After another five loud minutes the angry man had gotten out of the van, marched around to the side sliding doors and ripped out mother and child who were both crying now. Soon, Nadie was watching the image of the woman holding her baby in the middle of the dessert getting smaller and smaller as the van they once rode in (somewhat) comfortably drove away, stranding them. It was hard for Nadie to wrap her head around just how she should feel about the situation so she let her big eyeballs glance around at the other immigrants sharing her space. She noticed how they barely lifted their heads to watch the ejection and subsequent abandonment and so it was that this lack of a reaction sent a clear message to her that this was all very normal, that she wasn't required to feel anything at all about any of this and so Nadie didn't flinch, she just watched the two sad souls fade into a dot and disappear, thinking to herself in solace that at least it was quiet now.
She was used to living inside her head where the space she occupied was small. Where life was a movie scree of sorts, though more like watching a movie screen through a whispy, dream-like fog. She was there, going through the emotions as life played out on one big, fuzzy panoramic blur before her eyes but she couldn't interact with it, not really. She couldn't command it. She could only suffer along. Especially, at first. Oh, at the beginning there'd been nothing but the confused, muffled torture of a little girl confined but eventually...well, Nadie was proof a person could become accustom to absolutely anything.
But things were different now...
Nadie wasn't used to running away, so much so that the actual physical act of her legs pumping up and down underneath her body which made up the action that equated to literal running felt wrong. It felt like she were a fish trying to fly. It felt unnatural. Her adrenaline pumping, her breath gasping, her heart pounding so hard it made her think it might explode.
Please explode.
Nadie was suddenly halted in her tracks, a rifle aimed at her midsection by hands attached to a man with blood splatter on his clothes. Blood that had belonged to Carlos.
It had been right after crossing the Rio Grande when they'd all disembarked the raft and set foot one step closer to the U.S. border that things had gone awry. There'd been men waiting for them with mean-looking weapons far scarier than the rifle 'angry-man' carried. At first sight there had been panic as realization set in Carlos that he'd been set up by his compadre. There had been words spoken in the heat of anger and even a fist thrown. But only one. In the end Carlos lay dead and the small group was taken by the cartel minus one: Nadie, who was taken by Carlos' killer, the angry one with the rifle, the one who'd thrown to the elements mother and child and the one who'd managed throughout his brief struggle with Nadie to maintain his erection for her.
She was used to no one hearing her. She'd stopped screaming on the inside years ago. She was used to just watching the movie play out. She was a receiver. She was used to obeying and so she got down on her knees and simply waited to receive.
The sound of a car engine and the rolling of tires over the gravely terrain is what paused the one-handed unbuckling of the mans britches. He fell still for only a moment before reaching down to grip a fistful of blonde hair, enough to firmly drag her off into the darkness with him just as the lights of a vehicle swept over where they both had been.
There wasn't much that could hide a person out here on the plains, best bet was to keep moving and rely on the nightfall to secure sufficient cover from any potential searching eyes or border patrol.
With rifle under his armpit the man yanked the blonde up onto her feet telling her to keep moving without a peep, instructions that were wholly unnecessary since Nadie had no intentions of disobeying. She was unaccustomed to having a working fight or flight response trigger and now it seemed to be glitching, forcing her back into her go-to default of acceptance. That she'd ran from him initially had been a surprise to even herself. He'd slapped her across the mouth as hard as he could knocking her to the ground for slowing down on their journey to god knew where and the pain from his ring slicing open her lip had been so technicolor vivid that it had brought memories back to her that she had no idea ever existed.
"Shut that kid up!"
The passenger sitting shotgun beside Carlos directly leaned in through the little window that separated compartments and snapped the command viciously at the woman holding the screaming infant across from Nadie. She'd been trying to shush it since Monterrey but nothing had worked. She'd tried feeding it, rocking it, patting its back, singing to it. Nothing. But now, spurred on by Carlos' partner, aka the angry-man-with-the-gun, the woman began her efforts once again at double urgency, practically begging the swaddled bundle of squalls to quiet.
After another five loud minutes the angry man had gotten out of the van, marched around to the side sliding doors and ripped out mother and child who were both crying now. Soon, Nadie was watching the image of the woman holding her baby in the middle of the dessert getting smaller and smaller as the van they once rode in (somewhat) comfortably drove away, stranding them. It was hard for Nadie to wrap her head around just how she should feel about the situation so she let her big eyeballs glance around at the other immigrants sharing her space. She noticed how they barely lifted their heads to watch the ejection and subsequent abandonment and so it was that this lack of a reaction sent a clear message to her that this was all very normal, that she wasn't required to feel anything at all about any of this and so Nadie didn't flinch, she just watched the two sad souls fade into a dot and disappear, thinking to herself in solace that at least it was quiet now.
She was used to living inside her head where the space she occupied was small. Where life was a movie scree of sorts, though more like watching a movie screen through a whispy, dream-like fog. She was there, going through the emotions as life played out on one big, fuzzy panoramic blur before her eyes but she couldn't interact with it, not really. She couldn't command it. She could only suffer along. Especially, at first. Oh, at the beginning there'd been nothing but the confused, muffled torture of a little girl confined but eventually...well, Nadie was proof a person could become accustom to absolutely anything.
But things were different now...
"Slut!"
Nadie wasn't used to running away, so much so that the actual physical act of her legs pumping up and down underneath her body which made up the action that equated to literal running felt wrong. It felt like she were a fish trying to fly. It felt unnatural. Her adrenaline pumping, her breath gasping, her heart pounding so hard it made her think it might explode.
Please explode.
"Where you think you're going, slut? My cocks right here not over there."
It had been right after crossing the Rio Grande when they'd all disembarked the raft and set foot one step closer to the U.S. border that things had gone awry. There'd been men waiting for them with mean-looking weapons far scarier than the rifle 'angry-man' carried. At first sight there had been panic as realization set in Carlos that he'd been set up by his compadre. There had been words spoken in the heat of anger and even a fist thrown. But only one. In the end Carlos lay dead and the small group was taken by the cartel minus one: Nadie, who was taken by Carlos' killer, the angry one with the rifle, the one who'd thrown to the elements mother and child and the one who'd managed throughout his brief struggle with Nadie to maintain his erection for her.
"On your knees."
She was used to no one hearing her. She'd stopped screaming on the inside years ago. She was used to just watching the movie play out. She was a receiver. She was used to obeying and so she got down on her knees and simply waited to receive.
The sound of a car engine and the rolling of tires over the gravely terrain is what paused the one-handed unbuckling of the mans britches. He fell still for only a moment before reaching down to grip a fistful of blonde hair, enough to firmly drag her off into the darkness with him just as the lights of a vehicle swept over where they both had been.
There wasn't much that could hide a person out here on the plains, best bet was to keep moving and rely on the nightfall to secure sufficient cover from any potential searching eyes or border patrol.
With rifle under his armpit the man yanked the blonde up onto her feet telling her to keep moving without a peep, instructions that were wholly unnecessary since Nadie had no intentions of disobeying. She was unaccustomed to having a working fight or flight response trigger and now it seemed to be glitching, forcing her back into her go-to default of acceptance. That she'd ran from him initially had been a surprise to even herself. He'd slapped her across the mouth as hard as he could knocking her to the ground for slowing down on their journey to god knew where and the pain from his ring slicing open her lip had been so technicolor vivid that it had brought memories back to her that she had no idea ever existed.
"Not a fucking word."
AVAILABLE
Genre: Modern/Period Supernatural (Vampire Masquerade)
"I am not a woman that needs any meaningless verbal utterances suggesting even in the slightest way that I might be loved by someone. Lusted for...now that's a different animal all together, darling."
Full name: Elise Eloise du'Clermont
Face Claim: Adrianna Lima
Species: Vampire (Lamia)
Powers:
Occupation: Night Club Owner/Investor
Notable features:
Age: 282
Eye Color: Blue/Green
Hair Color: Raven
Height: 5'8
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Articulate / Captivating / Individualistic / Passionate / Sophisticated / Glamorous / Sensual / Vain / Hedonistic / Venomous
A small quirk about Elise is that she more or less subconsciously and actively seeks brushes with her own death and not because she wants to really die but because she wants to really live.
Whereas the once young and human Elise du Clermont was prone to mixed feelings that often changed her mind, one day happy and sure, the next anxious and uncertain, now when Elise decides upon something she is immovably resolute, a characteristic her sire would attest to if he were still alive to do it. When she must she calls forth traits found in the ghost of the old Elise brought up under the scrutiny of courtly nobility. Visits to Versailles has taught her many things including charm and wit to win over favor and advantage and she will use these social gifts along with her charms if needed to further her pursuits.
In love with the idea of being in love she used to be susceptible to falling like a brick tied to a boulder and flung out into the deepest parts of her hearts ocean and it was men; debonair, enchanting, beautiful men who way back when had the dangerous potential of flinging her there. Fortunately and in no small part thanks to her late sire Elise has grown up and replaced her ideas of "amour eternel" with more imaginative ideas of how exactly to make the men who do unluckily cross her path pay for the sins of that one who'd disillusioned her.
History: Elise du Clermont was born to a prostitute and Francis Louis du Clermont, the Duke of Burgundy in the late winter of 1738, in France. Her father would tell her when she was old enough to really hear him that her mother was an angel that took one look at Elise and flew to heaven not wanting to have to compete for her fathers affections. He loved his daughter more than his wife who never knew the child ever existed since the Duke kept her locked away in his hunting lodge some many leagues from his home. Elise was constantly surrounded by adepts in their various fields of knowledge; medicine, philosophy, history, religion, art, law, even courtesans would come to teach the young girl how to be a woman.
When she had come into her own she signaled it by becoming headstrong and far too curious about the outside world for her fathers liking. Their constant fighting culminated finally one night when she told him flatly that she wanted to move away from the lodge, to experience life on her own, promising that she would never reveal her true identity lest she ruin her fathers reputation. Tearfully and after much convincing he agreed, even giving her a monthly stipend to keep her afloat out in the world.
She waved to her father as her carriage began its journey to Paris, not knowing that in less than a year she was to suffer the first of two greatest misfortunes of her life - she would fall in love. Her husband, ended up taking the shape of a tall, dashing young man who spoke French and Italian perfectly and had promised her an exciting life full of pleasure in their estate neighboring Versailles.
Life with her husband, a staunch libertine with hedonistic tendencies, was a roller coaster of sensual delights. With him she experienced love, glittering society with all its intrigues and scandals and midnight parties. She fell in love with him hard and savagely but like with all mortals they expire whether through old age or calamity and in her husbands case it was the latter. Pierced through the heart by some other woman's husband who had found out that he'd been fucking his wife. Elise's broken heart reduced her to wishing she were dead, swearing to herself that she would never fall in love again. Their marriage had lasted a total of three blissful years. Making things excruciatingly worse, shortly after her husbands death her father died from an attack of the heart adding exponentially to her pain. The fact that both men had left her with a substantial sum of money assuring her that if she were cleaver with her purse she'd never have to work again did not ease her shattered soul. Tired of France accompanied by its happy memories she moved to London feeling drawn to the rain that she'd always found tied to romanticism and inspiration.
In London she kept friends and lovers at an arms length and stayed mainly to herself as she grieved. She became a recluse for a span of time learning various languages while she drank absinthe, and smoked hashish imported from India. She still took on lovers from but it was few and far between as she waited for her depression to lift. It would be in 1767 at the age of 28 that she would meet a tall, handsome stranger that would change her life forever.
His name was Armand and he was a vampire in love with a beauty he could not resist capturing for eternity and over the years, as well as parenting her Armand seduced and spoiled her, making her fall in love with him slowly yet utterly until he haunted her every thought. Yet, blessings are quickly outlived by a vampire and Armand was no exception. When Armand met his "unfortunate" end it was at Elise's own hand as for the second time in her life she had found out that she'd been betrayed by the man she loved. Elise swore to herself for the last time that she would never love again and so far she has kept that promise. She'd rather live eternity alone than to ever feel those pangs of torment again.
Elise, a wealthy woman by then, having invested her money in successful business ventures, used that wealth to leave London for America, it was during these days that Elise became a monster, venturing out only to feed or abduct a victim to torture slowly as she tried to process her pain and anger at existence in general. Today she has calmed down some in her cruelty but she is no less restless and bored of life's joyless existence and so on a whim she decided to start a little business for her own entertainment.
Elise's baby, NUMB has gained a reputation spread by word of mouth for being a contemporary Studio 54 and just like that famous disco tech at NUMB not everyone can cross that red velvet rope but the lucky ones who did were promised a scandalously good night. It does not discriminate by species, its only prerequisite? Be beautiful. Something worth looking at. Simple. Once inside (if you are so lucky), depending on the night you might see aerial chain or burlesque performers, human statues, masked DJ's, caged dancers, fire eaters, or any number of novelty acts.
List of Services:
* Three fully staffed bars (one for each level).
* Can be rented out for private parties and events.
* Underneath the main floor is an even more exclusive area of NUMB known as The Dungeon which caters to membered guests only.
Cali, or Calliope as Elise, who was fond of using peoples proper names, much preferred, was a relatively new addition to the vampire's life. She was hers, contractually speaking, for the next five years or until such time Elise grew bored of her enough to sever ties prematurely or unless unfortunate circumstances required Elise to let her go sooner than anticipated for reasons besides those of a capricious nature. In other words, this arrangement was not ever meant to be a forever thing, no matter what the ebony-skinned beauty came to believe to be true, or thought she was being led to believe to be true, and Elise would never be made to feel guilty over any feelings the young woman may or may not have developed whilst serving Elise nor for any wishful thinking that may evolve over their time spent together, just as she had never felt a drop of it before with the others. Her butterflies. And there had been many.
Story:
Story Notes:
Genre: Modern/Period Supernatural (Vampire Masquerade)
"I am not a woman that needs any meaningless verbal utterances suggesting even in the slightest way that I might be loved by someone. Lusted for...now that's a different animal all together, darling."
Full name: Elise Eloise du'Clermont
Face Claim: Adrianna Lima
Species: Vampire (Lamia)
Powers:
Occupation: Night Club Owner/Investor
Notable features:
Age: 282
Eye Color: Blue/Green
Hair Color: Raven
Height: 5'8
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Articulate / Captivating / Individualistic / Passionate / Sophisticated / Glamorous / Sensual / Vain / Hedonistic / Venomous
A small quirk about Elise is that she more or less subconsciously and actively seeks brushes with her own death and not because she wants to really die but because she wants to really live.
Whereas the once young and human Elise du Clermont was prone to mixed feelings that often changed her mind, one day happy and sure, the next anxious and uncertain, now when Elise decides upon something she is immovably resolute, a characteristic her sire would attest to if he were still alive to do it. When she must she calls forth traits found in the ghost of the old Elise brought up under the scrutiny of courtly nobility. Visits to Versailles has taught her many things including charm and wit to win over favor and advantage and she will use these social gifts along with her charms if needed to further her pursuits.
In love with the idea of being in love she used to be susceptible to falling like a brick tied to a boulder and flung out into the deepest parts of her hearts ocean and it was men; debonair, enchanting, beautiful men who way back when had the dangerous potential of flinging her there. Fortunately and in no small part thanks to her late sire Elise has grown up and replaced her ideas of "amour eternel" with more imaginative ideas of how exactly to make the men who do unluckily cross her path pay for the sins of that one who'd disillusioned her.
History: Elise du Clermont was born to a prostitute and Francis Louis du Clermont, the Duke of Burgundy in the late winter of 1738, in France. Her father would tell her when she was old enough to really hear him that her mother was an angel that took one look at Elise and flew to heaven not wanting to have to compete for her fathers affections. He loved his daughter more than his wife who never knew the child ever existed since the Duke kept her locked away in his hunting lodge some many leagues from his home. Elise was constantly surrounded by adepts in their various fields of knowledge; medicine, philosophy, history, religion, art, law, even courtesans would come to teach the young girl how to be a woman.
When she had come into her own she signaled it by becoming headstrong and far too curious about the outside world for her fathers liking. Their constant fighting culminated finally one night when she told him flatly that she wanted to move away from the lodge, to experience life on her own, promising that she would never reveal her true identity lest she ruin her fathers reputation. Tearfully and after much convincing he agreed, even giving her a monthly stipend to keep her afloat out in the world.
She waved to her father as her carriage began its journey to Paris, not knowing that in less than a year she was to suffer the first of two greatest misfortunes of her life - she would fall in love. Her husband, ended up taking the shape of a tall, dashing young man who spoke French and Italian perfectly and had promised her an exciting life full of pleasure in their estate neighboring Versailles.
Life with her husband, a staunch libertine with hedonistic tendencies, was a roller coaster of sensual delights. With him she experienced love, glittering society with all its intrigues and scandals and midnight parties. She fell in love with him hard and savagely but like with all mortals they expire whether through old age or calamity and in her husbands case it was the latter. Pierced through the heart by some other woman's husband who had found out that he'd been fucking his wife. Elise's broken heart reduced her to wishing she were dead, swearing to herself that she would never fall in love again. Their marriage had lasted a total of three blissful years. Making things excruciatingly worse, shortly after her husbands death her father died from an attack of the heart adding exponentially to her pain. The fact that both men had left her with a substantial sum of money assuring her that if she were cleaver with her purse she'd never have to work again did not ease her shattered soul. Tired of France accompanied by its happy memories she moved to London feeling drawn to the rain that she'd always found tied to romanticism and inspiration.
In London she kept friends and lovers at an arms length and stayed mainly to herself as she grieved. She became a recluse for a span of time learning various languages while she drank absinthe, and smoked hashish imported from India. She still took on lovers from but it was few and far between as she waited for her depression to lift. It would be in 1767 at the age of 28 that she would meet a tall, handsome stranger that would change her life forever.
His name was Armand and he was a vampire in love with a beauty he could not resist capturing for eternity and over the years, as well as parenting her Armand seduced and spoiled her, making her fall in love with him slowly yet utterly until he haunted her every thought. Yet, blessings are quickly outlived by a vampire and Armand was no exception. When Armand met his "unfortunate" end it was at Elise's own hand as for the second time in her life she had found out that she'd been betrayed by the man she loved. Elise swore to herself for the last time that she would never love again and so far she has kept that promise. She'd rather live eternity alone than to ever feel those pangs of torment again.
Elise, a wealthy woman by then, having invested her money in successful business ventures, used that wealth to leave London for America, it was during these days that Elise became a monster, venturing out only to feed or abduct a victim to torture slowly as she tried to process her pain and anger at existence in general. Today she has calmed down some in her cruelty but she is no less restless and bored of life's joyless existence and so on a whim she decided to start a little business for her own entertainment.
Elise's baby, NUMB has gained a reputation spread by word of mouth for being a contemporary Studio 54 and just like that famous disco tech at NUMB not everyone can cross that red velvet rope but the lucky ones who did were promised a scandalously good night. It does not discriminate by species, its only prerequisite? Be beautiful. Something worth looking at. Simple. Once inside (if you are so lucky), depending on the night you might see aerial chain or burlesque performers, human statues, masked DJ's, caged dancers, fire eaters, or any number of novelty acts.
List of Services:
* Three fully staffed bars (one for each level).
* Can be rented out for private parties and events.
* Underneath the main floor is an even more exclusive area of NUMB known as The Dungeon which caters to membered guests only.
Cali, or Calliope as Elise, who was fond of using peoples proper names, much preferred, was a relatively new addition to the vampire's life. She was hers, contractually speaking, for the next five years or until such time Elise grew bored of her enough to sever ties prematurely or unless unfortunate circumstances required Elise to let her go sooner than anticipated for reasons besides those of a capricious nature. In other words, this arrangement was not ever meant to be a forever thing, no matter what the ebony-skinned beauty came to believe to be true, or thought she was being led to believe to be true, and Elise would never be made to feel guilty over any feelings the young woman may or may not have developed whilst serving Elise nor for any wishful thinking that may evolve over their time spent together, just as she had never felt a drop of it before with the others. Her butterflies. And there had been many.
Story:
Story Notes:
Beige swarovski crystals twirled lazily betwixt slender, bronzed fingertips where long pointed nails glazed transparent and reflective in the passing lights just outside the tinted windows of Elise du Clermont's midnight black Rolls Royce. The wand in her hand topped with a simple mask the color of Victorian flesh had been thoughtfully chosen as to not draw the eye too apparently, though Elise's cerulean irises haunted by verdant shades of green might do just that anyways and thus compete too evenly matched with what exquisite fashion covered her eternally ripe body on this night of rare occasion outside of Club NUMB. But for all her incessant Venetian mask spinning Elise could not keep her mind from floating away from her. For only a moment at a time it seemed her attention once having becoming firmly fixed by conscious grasp would in the next instant trail off rebelliously back into the past, a place where her stubborn minds eye had been explicitly forbidden to cast its curious gaze.
Nostalgia, like most feelings of sentimentality would always be an enemy of peace, since with its sweet always came its bitter and with its bitter always came its suffering. But then, she'd only done this to herself tonight, hadn't she?
Silk chiffon. A material worn to represent wealth and standing since the 1700's had evidently come to represent much more than that to Elise du Clermont as every time she wore it (a thing she rarely did) it seemed to always transport her to her tragic human youth. For example, the weight of it on her frame felt not only akin to the lightness of a cloud but also felt plainly like the excited, tingling sensation of adventure. In fact, the very exact sort of feeling of one particular mademoiselle leaving home for the very first time to start a new life in Paris, France in the Spring of her 19th year...and that was not all...because that softly draped delicate mesh as well had the unfortunately uncanny power of evoking the recall of emotions that could only ever belong to an effulgently stupid young woman in the clutches of life's greatest and most cruelest trick...love. Thankfully however, almost mercifully then did the shimmering fabric hugging her with its devastating elegance also cast upon her senses the delightfully redolent memory of vengeance committed through her own sires end, even if it had been a fleeting satisfaction, one that still to this day came and went like the waves of an ever angry, spiteful ocean, it still at times held the magic to console Elise, if only momentarily.
Thus, with full knowledge and understanding of just what effect this textile had on the vampress, why would she choose to torture herself?
Was the answer not obvious? It was gorgeous. Daresay, spectacular.
"We're nearing our arrival point, madame."
Smoky eyes flickered towards the world outside her window just as her transport drove around a limo haphazardly parked along the side of the road where some activity was taking place towards the back of the vehicle, a situation perhaps? And one that she was not in the least curious about. "Take me around the back."
Elise had no coat to check, nor did she have any keen interest on being surrounded by drones of the colony or for all eyes to be on her all at once. She wasn't even in a social mood, so why had she come? She could be back home at NUMB where her comfort would not be in question, where she could sip on Calliope, spectate the frenzy below her birds nest and be left alone. But she was here, surrounded by architecture reminiscent of France, attending a ball thrown by once upon a time French nobles that she may or may not recognize depending on which royal courts they had haunted. Lord knows their name did not ring any bells inside her head. De Verre?...Nothing.
Her Rolls Royce slowly rolled to a stop behind the Crimson house rocking Elise gently in her seat and after a few moments of silence her driver's voice again reached her ears: "Should I circle the premises a few more times, madame?"
"You're perfect where you are." She reassured him in a soft, distant voice.
Of late her mood seemed to change like seasons to God and her choice of fashion on this night had not helped her stability. Graceful fingers splayed upon the soft silk barely covering her thigh before lightly tracing the patterned gold sequins there.
It was perfect. The stitching. The execution. Stunning. She could not possibly hate it even if it did hurt her so. It was poetry. It was resplendent and it deserved to be adored. Perhaps then she was not here purely out of boredom or morbid curiosity to watch the sheep prance and bleat before their cult leader. Perhaps she was here to honor one of the best designs she had ever seen...
There was a chill to the air that if she were human might have unnerved Elise but as it was it was easily ignored. It had taken her a handful of minutes to collect herself as memories once dredged were hard to settle back down into the murk but eventually she had stepped out of her ride with the help of her chauffeur who's years of experience with his employer aided in his taking patient care to avoid stepping on or closing her gown in the cars door, an error that he knew would not be taken lightly. Helpfully and with a focused sort of patience all her own Elise paid special attention to the piece of art she wore as well, making sure its short train was safe from the doors closure before giving Charles a little nod to dismiss him. He'd been with her long enough to know exactly what was expected of him which of course now, was nothing. He was to wait for her right here with the car until her return whenever that would be, whether that be an hour or a day, he would loyally stay put and be paid more than adequately for his dependability. Good help was hard to find they say and as far as employees go Charles was one of her best.
Having yet to raise mask to face or even to move a muscle for that matter, Elise's notice was taken suddenly by a figure approaching the halo of soft light she stood within coming from the single wall sconce directly above the backdoor...
Nostalgia, like most feelings of sentimentality would always be an enemy of peace, since with its sweet always came its bitter and with its bitter always came its suffering. But then, she'd only done this to herself tonight, hadn't she?
Silk chiffon. A material worn to represent wealth and standing since the 1700's had evidently come to represent much more than that to Elise du Clermont as every time she wore it (a thing she rarely did) it seemed to always transport her to her tragic human youth. For example, the weight of it on her frame felt not only akin to the lightness of a cloud but also felt plainly like the excited, tingling sensation of adventure. In fact, the very exact sort of feeling of one particular mademoiselle leaving home for the very first time to start a new life in Paris, France in the Spring of her 19th year...and that was not all...because that softly draped delicate mesh as well had the unfortunately uncanny power of evoking the recall of emotions that could only ever belong to an effulgently stupid young woman in the clutches of life's greatest and most cruelest trick...love. Thankfully however, almost mercifully then did the shimmering fabric hugging her with its devastating elegance also cast upon her senses the delightfully redolent memory of vengeance committed through her own sires end, even if it had been a fleeting satisfaction, one that still to this day came and went like the waves of an ever angry, spiteful ocean, it still at times held the magic to console Elise, if only momentarily.
Thus, with full knowledge and understanding of just what effect this textile had on the vampress, why would she choose to torture herself?
Was the answer not obvious? It was gorgeous. Daresay, spectacular.
"We're nearing our arrival point, madame."
Smoky eyes flickered towards the world outside her window just as her transport drove around a limo haphazardly parked along the side of the road where some activity was taking place towards the back of the vehicle, a situation perhaps? And one that she was not in the least curious about. "Take me around the back."
Elise had no coat to check, nor did she have any keen interest on being surrounded by drones of the colony or for all eyes to be on her all at once. She wasn't even in a social mood, so why had she come? She could be back home at NUMB where her comfort would not be in question, where she could sip on Calliope, spectate the frenzy below her birds nest and be left alone. But she was here, surrounded by architecture reminiscent of France, attending a ball thrown by once upon a time French nobles that she may or may not recognize depending on which royal courts they had haunted. Lord knows their name did not ring any bells inside her head. De Verre?...Nothing.
Her Rolls Royce slowly rolled to a stop behind the Crimson house rocking Elise gently in her seat and after a few moments of silence her driver's voice again reached her ears: "Should I circle the premises a few more times, madame?"
"You're perfect where you are." She reassured him in a soft, distant voice.
Of late her mood seemed to change like seasons to God and her choice of fashion on this night had not helped her stability. Graceful fingers splayed upon the soft silk barely covering her thigh before lightly tracing the patterned gold sequins there.
It was perfect. The stitching. The execution. Stunning. She could not possibly hate it even if it did hurt her so. It was poetry. It was resplendent and it deserved to be adored. Perhaps then she was not here purely out of boredom or morbid curiosity to watch the sheep prance and bleat before their cult leader. Perhaps she was here to honor one of the best designs she had ever seen...
There was a chill to the air that if she were human might have unnerved Elise but as it was it was easily ignored. It had taken her a handful of minutes to collect herself as memories once dredged were hard to settle back down into the murk but eventually she had stepped out of her ride with the help of her chauffeur who's years of experience with his employer aided in his taking patient care to avoid stepping on or closing her gown in the cars door, an error that he knew would not be taken lightly. Helpfully and with a focused sort of patience all her own Elise paid special attention to the piece of art she wore as well, making sure its short train was safe from the doors closure before giving Charles a little nod to dismiss him. He'd been with her long enough to know exactly what was expected of him which of course now, was nothing. He was to wait for her right here with the car until her return whenever that would be, whether that be an hour or a day, he would loyally stay put and be paid more than adequately for his dependability. Good help was hard to find they say and as far as employees go Charles was one of her best.
Having yet to raise mask to face or even to move a muscle for that matter, Elise's notice was taken suddenly by a figure approaching the halo of soft light she stood within coming from the single wall sconce directly above the backdoor...
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