I had a lot of fun cranking out 1499 words in one sitting, and adding a new layer to my OC's lore. This is your warning for heavy description of blood, gore and death. Now enjoy as I put Jazz through the horrors for my own entertainment <3
Pasta La Vista
NEXT // ao3
Prologue
"There's a murder on the dancefloor"
Silver feather manor, Sliverslope 1702
Walking down the dark corridor, her footsteps echoed off the tall, pristine white walls. Legend says a vampireâs steps were not to be heard, and the legend told the truth. But she wanted them to know what was coming. Who was coming. Everything in those familiar halls felt perfect -too perfect- after she took over the manor. Filling the air, only illuminated by the strong, yet gentle and beautiful, moonlight, the air was filled with careful dust. One where if one might breathe too much, they were to disturb the stillness of her domain.
The walls were decorated with paintings of her past. Framed in gold, one could see the faces of what looked to be a happy family, a father, a mother, both smiling directly at whoever were to lurk. Both of them had a hand gently resting on top of their daughterâs shoulder. A wave of unwelcomed, but familiar, sadness washed over her, and she sighed, breathing out the tenseness in her shoulders, before moving further down the looming hall.
The following paintings suggested that the supposed daughter grew, her smile getting more relaxed and controlled, fangs glinting in the reflecting light, and the creases around her eyes being more defined by every portrait, making one think she went her childhood about smiling. Seeing all this, her claws flexed, then went back to the tight fist, folded neatly behind her back. She was jealous of the older version of herself. One could even say it was an earlier version of the shell left, standing in front of said painting, mourning a form of love she had lost. Her eyes narrowed, tightening around the edges, and instinctively her posture straightened. Even more than 200 years later, that daughterâs lessons still sat heavily engraved into her soul. Bored into the inside of her skull, not by force, but by love. It had been engraved, but with it had followed laughter, the tightness in her cheek after smiling uncontrollably a whole night, and the way training would leave her claws sore, a strange sensation, an endless fizzle, a numbness only that daughter knew.
It came with the pride of belonging to the Jayson family.
It followed any who were born a real vampire.
It followed her everywhere.
With this newfound sorrow, she huffed, moving down the wing of the manor, passing by endless doors on her way. The wall facing the wilderness outside, allowed moonlight to shine through the tall pillars of windows. In streaks, they ran across the patterned flooring, running slightly up the walls wherever it could reach, like a dying light stretching for the last time. Desperate. The trinkets that sat unbothered on display on the various dressers, some collecting a thin layer of dust, as they simply served the purpose of looking pretty. The faint, barely reaching, moonlight caught on a few, making them cast their own shadow up the wall, walking past, it looked like each one were dancing silently, gracefully, before she had walked past, and they no longer danced for her very eyes.
Finally, her path ended in front of a door, so tall it almost touched the ceiling, intricate carving running up the dark oak. It was worn down in some places, yet that didnât seem to put any distress on her mind. That way, it felt lived in, like it wasnât the empty building with no such soul, that had been felt behind for her. The carvings spelled out words, only one whom had learned such language knew exactly what it said. It so happened to be her mother tongue, an ancient language lost to time, a purity she could not run short on, therefore her parents had shared this gift.
âArck micth graĂ©c luocwe, neoubly aos heft.â
The truly loved, always finds home.
She had always thought it was such a beautiful meaning, hidden away, only for few eyes to truly understand. It was to be shared with one another, if you truly loved. The memory, which had just felt comforting, grounding, now felt heart wrenching, like someone had driven a stake through her very heart, shattered it into a million pieces like glass, and then left her to pick every shard up. Cutting herself on every piece, she kept going until her hands bled and she flinched away from the door.
The rest of the carving told another story. One only found with love. No sorrow could be found in these woodcarvings. They edged into the wood, wearing down so much, the curves had stained this lighter brown, filling the door with its own sense of memory. Dragons flew freely over every breathing fibre of the oak, fire dancing and twisting its way up the careful door, which seemed to hold its breath, just for her.
Letting her eyes wander down, the handle came into her line of sight, the bronze worn down a hefty amount, letting the hall fill with the familiar atmosphere of life, that once roamed these halls. Breathing in an unnecessary intake of air -she had never relied on her lungs, but it helped her feelâŠalive in a sense she never had been before- she opened the door ever so carefully, like it might crumble under her touch, startled by her reason to leave the safety, the knowing of the halls, to enter the ballroom. She felt the air around her thin out of the last remaining life, as she opened the door into the living hell.
The ballroom had even bigger windows, covering most of the wall on one side of said room, and the light provided by the night felt wrong. She closed the door behind her, careful to not let any of the vomit inducing smell escape the room. She would have the servants come in and dispose of the disaster at dawn, even if she knew her kin would be sickened by the sight they would be met upon.
The smell of iron coming from the pools of blood, seeping from the pilled-up bodies that were disposed of, clung to her in an instant and she welcomed the smell with a curl of her lips. Something that easily could be mistaken for a smile, but it was moreâŠtwisted in a dark way. Her footsteps now carried sound, even if she intended to make her way over the floor quietly, it was harder to do when she was walking on a thinning layer of crimson.
The rays of the night spilling in from the grand windows, stained with colours of all sorts, figures dancing around, yet frozen forever in time. The rays hit the crimson, making the whole ballroom stained in a sweetly red essence. She navigated the maze of deads with ease, until she found herself in the centre of the room, the centre had called out to her, guided her. She saw herself, 200 years ago, sneaking out right before dawn, when she was supposed to be far gone, sleeping soundly in her room. Her small feet barely making sounds, even as she ran down the very hall she had just walked, small thuds being the only evidence of her small presence. Being just tall enough when standing on her tippy toes, she had turned to handle, cold metal making her shiver as she was only dressed in her nightgown, not the slightest prepared for the coldness of the big, empty space.
She had caught glimpse of her parents dancing away, basking in the last of the nightâs moments, her dad leading as her momâs hair flowed behind them. It had a red hue to it, making it shine like the first autumn leaves, paired with the striking red lipstick she had always worn. Jazz frankly couldnât recall ever seeing that creature -her mother- without those love-kissed lips.
Her father had caught her red-handed and laughed at the whole absurdity the situation carried. The banter that night was light, and had stuck with her even all these years later, the lesson that dawn had not been scolding, but to enjoy every second like it was supposed to be your very last one. Jazz lifted her arms in an ancient way, forming patterns in her doing, before making her legs sway, then making them carry her effortlessly between the deads, as if they had always been there.
They hadnât.
Her claws were stained red, blood dripping down her arms, onto the ruffles at the end of her sleeves, as she carried herself around in an airy dance. The same one her father had taught her all those years ago. It held value to every single vampire of her bloodline, a piece one can only pass down through finding real love, settling down and extending their roots to make new life. She had been so close, if not for the âholyâ father.
He now laid on her floor, unmoving as she danced with unnerving grace around every last member of the church.
She was a real Jayson.
She was Jazz Jayson.
