#ladyoriannas

                    { Ruse among Beasts }

                    Why he had done it ?  The act in itself hadn’t really crossed his forethought , where his own judgement would manifest.  Laying claim of the unscrupulous act out of influence. Beckoning the excuse rather impassively  , one he in the long run ended up convincing himself upon belief.  A territorial dispute ?  Or so it was what he had conjured for the story in question.  It would have been hard for his pack to fathom had he simply poured the full extent of the deed - the precise foundation of why the Beast of Lyria had been slain essentially by his hands. That he, Dettlaff van der Eretein, their alpha, higher vampire of tribe Gharasham ; did it because the folk suffering over it’s hunting grounds had been kind to him abroad their social exterior.

      That the Fiend bull had gone rogue with countless slaughter - pointless slaughter.  Speculative that the beast had been searching for nesting grounds to entice a female ( if their even had been one.) Particularly odd to be over a human stronghold by fault of the animal’s quest.

      So there the beast’s carcass lay within the outskirts of deserted stone.  Almost peaceful when brought to an insentient state. Not much of a struggle indicated by the flesh either. The throat is where the final blow was made , it was where the evidence could conjugate. Yet the lesion bore too clean; precision ended life without suffering. Yet the essence that gave life, gathered at a pool beneath his feet.  With it conceived an immense intoxication to lesser creatures that roamed these regions.  Though his scent alone on the beast could easily deter the majority of corpse eaters.

  Yet it was in good intention that the decision to drain the beast  before presenting him to a hunter a mile out. What good would a staged hunt have been, if ghouls found him absent of the odor that served to dissuade them in the first place.  A contradiction he wasn’t willing to risk.

   He looked perturbed by the idea, if not the entire situation. Regret settling thin, weighing him inward .  The guilt conducting his hesitance to progress. Digits though once idle with verification discoloring talons that gradually receded; twitched irregularly as he hoovered over the mass. A twinge of his rigidity, corrupting his expression with one of disdain. Singularly reflective and drawn within. A language spoken through his movement and his body poised, easily registered that regret openly so. A stage of forgiveness if not solicited, for what he was about to do.

The S I N C E R I T Y of her gratitude brought about a s o f t n e s s to his expression, showing empathy to the tone she carried on her voice. Her words held the W E I G H T of her care, this was clear enough. She was not u n l i k e himself in that matter. Yes, Dettlaff assumed with surety that Regis meant much to all those he has ever D E C L A R E D a friend. He simply had that e f f e c t on others. 

Janna loves sending letters  - accepting send ❤: For a love letter.

Orianna,

you must have received a thousand letters like this one. A thousand men and women must have expressed their affections for you. Again and again, messengers brought them to you. How often have you been compared to a summer’s day? How often did you shine as warm and radiant as the sun, how often did your eyes let the stars fade away in the nightsky? How many spoke of roses, of honey, of fire, of their endless love for the idea of you? 

As I am writing these lines, I imagine your face, I imagine your smile that will always be so familiar and dear to my heart. I could reassemble all letters of love and admiration in all imaginable ways and they would not be something you have not read already. There is no point in writing about endless love, about two souls that will always be drawn to each other, about love that endures everything and conquers all hardships. We are not two lovers who will walk hand in hand into eternity, no young pair who dreams of a future together. We are no mortals who believe forever will not be more than a couple of decades. We are beyond love and beyond dreams, we are no past, no future, no present, such as all rings have neither a start nor an end - and neither do we. 

     Even if we part ways for years and decades, even if we were to be apart for a century - separation cannot be anything but an illusion. At all times, I see your face as clearly as if you were standing right beside me, your laugh ringing in my ears, your touch warming my heart even if years have passed since I last saw you, even if I know that years will pass before fate shall lead my steps back to you again. None of that matters.

     This is my letter of awful confessions, a sentimentality I must have caught from too many poems and too many stories of love I have heard and read. I pray, do not let this paper disappear in the same drawer where you stash all the other love letters addressed to the idea of the Noble Lady Orianna who might love them one day. I cannot bear the thought of having to share that space with all your other admirers.

The sorceress scowls, shrugs, averts her face a little as she runs the comb through her tangled curls. Her hair is singed in places, smells of smoke and fire. Nothing that cannot be fixed with a spell and some old fashioned brushing, but it nonetheless is a reminder of defeat.

She had expected so much from this new Art that she had painstakingly gained mastery of, so damn much. By now, she should have known that high expectations only increase the bitter taste of failure. She should have known.

“I was expecting more”, she concedes, bitterly. It is an admission she would have never dared to make to any of her fellow magicians, amongst whom the rumour of her polymorphy has spread like wildfire, and who since regard her with a mixture of envy and admiration. A rare and unusual talent, indeed, its mastery difficult and fraught with danger. Trust her, trust Philippa Eilhart to be one of those exclusive few who have been granted such power. And trust her also to pursue it with a passion bordering on obsession, with complete disregard to the many ways in which her aspiration could have resulted in her untimely demise.

But Orianna is different. In her company, Philippa is unafraid to express her doubt, her disappointment. Sometimes the sorceress wonders if it is wise to do so, but sometimes, sometimes the words simply must be spoken, if only to get them out of her head, to stop the doubts that gnaw at her mind, her heart, her soul.

“I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, what I would think I’d turn into. But I was certain I’d be more than this.” Her left hand disappears into the depth of her dark curls, only to resurface holding a small white feather between thumb and index finger. “You’d think my inner being would have manifested itself as something more, I don’t know, regal. Powerful. Some great creature all claws and teeth and mighty jaws that can crush bones like dry twigs. Not just some bird.” She lets go of the feather, watching as it slowly sails towards the ground, white as snow in the halflight of Orianna’s rooms. Here, she feels at ease and unsettled at the same time – part of Orianna’s allure, part of what has drawn Philippa to her in the first place.

E M O J I   M E M E - accepting

🌝 - Their thoughts early in the morning.

     Stale. 

     When you live forever, the beauty of the sunrise becomes little more than a reminder of the monotony of a life that will not end. One would see many sunrises.

     But there was a familiar smell dancing its way into the lavish bedroom. It didn’t come from the open window that showed off the beauty of the Venetian canal below, but from the kitchen.

     Cinnamon. It was upon toast with butter, she knew. Her favorite breakfast. One Aballach made for her each morning if he awoke first. It fused with the scent of coffee, his breakfast of choice.

     She was fortunate. Very, very fortunate. Life was normal lately, and even a mundane sunrise felt a touch more special with him in the same flat, the same bed. Not a temporary fling, nor a client. A real companion she owned a home with. Aeva’d never been one to settle down, but it felt natural this time. What were the chances of two of the same type of predator, the only two she knew of, meeting and falling in love? Unlikely, she assumed.

That person, he hoped, would be his old acquaintance and good friend Orianna. He had heard from mutual friends she had taken up residence in Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery, where he now staggered through. He was -- in human terms -- almost blind drunk, barely able to walk in a straight line. He fell against the wooden door of the crypt when he reached it, sliding down until he sat leant against the door and banged a fist against it.  “ Orianna! Orianna, please, you must be here. ”

drunkards stumbled about the delicate fountains of the mandragora in some pitiful imitation of dancing, fingers far too fat from beauclair's delicacies to properly strum their lutes.  the feet of the mirror never properly rested upon the ground as he weaved between the soirée & its guests, tasting their auras like the stench of wine in the air, conjuring infinite fantasies of deceit amidst their revelry.  so much TEMPTATION churned about him, yet he did not bite!!  he would play nice —— for now.

even he, MASTER of form & nameless in his essence, donned a mask for the occassion, a simple thing fashioned of brown leather ( nothing could hide that honeyed GRIN ).  her kind was not so different, pretending that they would bleed the same as humans —— why, then, did she refuse to blend in?  arms rested upon the banister near the gracious hostess, a great enough distance left between them to secure an image of humility.  clicking his tongue & crooking his neck, he asked:  

“But what if you never move on? What if something so VILE and HORRIBLE happens that it eats you alive for all of eternity?”

     The vampiress before her wasn’t the first to be asked such things, and she wouldn’t be the last either. Aeva would never stop asking until the chains of her past were no longer tethered to the confines of her troubled mind. 

     No more nightmares.

     One day. Please.