elsa

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 — an independent, indie portrayal of characters that live in multiple verses.

carrd (under construction). promos. writing sample. ©.

At sixteen years old, Maisie Roth had been lifted from the arena, bathed in a sea of scarlet blood and clutching onto her daggers with so much force that no one could pry them from her cold, reddened fingers. Her body, once beautiful and unmarred, had been covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises, the marks paying homage to the battle that had gone down in the arena. Her lip had been split, painting the bottom half of her face in blood (or mayhaps the blood had belonged to another; there was so much that no one could be sure). The public never learned of how scarred she had been, though, because only a handful of hours later, she had been pushed onto a stage with Caesar Flickerman, forced to play the part of a charmer, a jewel.

An oh so charming interview had followed, causing the capitolites to eat out of the palm of her hand. Later, though, once she was left alone within the seemingly, safe secure confines of her quarters, she broke down, letting her facade dissipate, flying away with the breeze.

Valerie was born as the result of an affair between Severus Plinth and a high-ranking peacekeeper. Severus refused to divulge the woman’s identity, citing that it was better for everyone that way. Valerie tried to change her father’s mind, to learn the identity of her mother, but he remained firm, refusing to waver, to wilt in the slightest. His silence fueled the many whispers surrounding the Plinths, causing people to speculate and come off with outlandish claims. Whether any of said claims held truth remained to be seen . . .

No matter the identity of her mother, Valerie grew up well off, far better off than most of District Two’s inhabitants. Severus, a moneyed figure in the munitions industry, ensured that she never wanted for anything by playing the part of a businessman with a level of ease that brought in streams of money.

Daniel knew his place. He was a nobody, a no-named reporter from the deepest, darkest depths of Modesto. The same depths that most remained stuck in, unable to escape, no matter how hard they tried. He had tried to leave, setting out with nothing more than his tape recorder and a sad wad of cash, which led him to the present, the here and now. An edge of danger was present, leaving him apprehensive but also . . . amused. He had never before met anyone like Louis, and that scratched a certain itch within his brain, making him want to learn more.

A faint edge of lightheadedness had arisen beneath Daniel’s skin, slowly but surely beginning to stray, to spread and travel the length of his form. That edge did not wilt or waver as the minutes passed, either, trickling by oh so slowly. No, quite the opposite; its existence only grew all the more palpable, perceptible. Such was why he blinked once, twice, thrice when the sound of a familiar voice filled the air, trickling his ears. Louis’ voice. Somehow, he steadied him, stabilizing him amidst the storm of turbulence that waged within his chest, threatening to envelop him, to swallow him whole and leave nothing – not even a small, seemingly insignificant trace – behind.

The images that had filled his head were so tainted, so twisted that he should retreat, putting a sizable, substantial amount of distance between them. He knew that. He did, yet, he stayed there, frozen.

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 — an independent, indie portrayal of characters that live within multiple universes.

Water had pooled in Daniel’s eyes at one point or another, spinning tales of the pure, palpable storm of desperation that had been birthed beneath his skin, threatening to envelop him, to swallow him whole and leave nothing – not even a small, seemingly insignificant trace – behind. He had made an effort to control himself, preventing the water from escaping, but that effort had been for naught. Such was confirmed, cemented in reality by the single silvery tear that slid down his cheek, wetting his skin.

It was just that . . . he had never before possessed a want so carnal, so all-consuming that he could barely think, could barely blink, could barely even breathe. He wanted Armand, completely and wholly, and not just for a few years. He wanted him forever.

Daniel was a nobody, a no-named reporter that had set out with nothing more than his tape recorder and a measly, near minute wad of cash. It had been dull, mayhaps even doltish of him, but just as he had lost his way and began the long, lengthy descent into drugs and degeneracy, a chance encounter had seen him crossing paths with Louis de Pointe du Lac. Said encounter had thrown his world off its axis, leaving him floundering, flailing like a fish out of water, and while he could have very well drowned, disappearing beneath the waves never to be seen again, he had somehow persevered, pushing through despite the odds.

Such had led him to Armand, a man he had grown to feel . . . something for. A flame of adoration and ardor had been birthed between them, pulling them closer, ever-closer, but that flame was tainted, twisted beyond words.

He knew that. He did, he just could not help himself. He had never before possessed a want so carnal, so all-consuming that he could barely speak, could barely blink, could barely even breathe.