#viced.starter

     Fate. Truth be told, Lana didn’t believe in fate. Or rather, she didn’t want to believe in fate; she didn’t want to live in a world where things were meant to be, and she certainly didn’t want to be a part of some grand, predestined plan designed by supernatural powers beyond her control. It was a thought that gave many people comfort, the idea that things happened for a reason, and perhaps once upon a time, it had given her comfort, too. But nowadays, it simply felt like yet another aspect of her own life that was out of her hands.

     All the youngest of the syren princesses had ever wanted was the right to choose her own destiny. To have just the tiniest, littlest measure of control over her own life, unbound to the customs of her kind and unburdened by the duty that came with being a part of her family. And yet with that thought came a deep-seated, crushing sense of guilt, because she loved her parents dearly, and she had never once wanted to hurt them or disappoint them. Lana was incredibly grateful for the life she had been given. She wanted to be happy with it. She wanted it to be enough for her, but it wasn’t; and while the years had taught her how to dream smaller and settle for less, she had yet to learn how to stop yearning for more.

     It was this inherent contradiction, of wanting to be excited about the Harvest and yet failing to even feel present in it (or to feel anything at all about it), that occupied the brunette’s mind as she sat perched on a small rock, picking at a cupcake with the crowd milling around her. Seriously, what was wrong with her? The most sacred and significant night of their kind was upon them and all she wanted to do was go home and take a nap. “Hey,” she greeted a passerby, offering them a small smile along with the baked good. “Do you want this?”

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. With her opened, the human looked around. Everything around Raven was overwhelming. Her chest felt tight, her fingers itched, thirst was threatening to overwhelm her and something around her didn’t feel quite... right. Raven couldn’t remember the last time she had felt like this ---- or if she had ever felt so much at all. At least she felt better. 

It didn’t help that her family was present, as well. It only made things worse. 

Taking a champagne flute, Raven had to wonder who ---- or rather, what --- was around her as she took a long sip of the bubbly beverage. As a child, she was told everything but not enough to understand what’s going on around her. The moment her family realized she wasn’t a wytch, any and every less came to a stop. Raven was left to fend for herself in a world she was only aware of half of the things. Maybe the stories weren’t true at all.

The moment she bumped into someone, it was as if every bit of energy she had was sucked out of her for a few seconds and the human had to lean into a wall. “Fuck.” Raven breathed out, confused, scared. She can imagine just how much attention she would’ve gotten if she fell to the floor. 

     On the polished oak bartop that smelt of spilt beer and disinfectant, her crimson nails had been carelessly cutting into the brittle material. Splinters could not pierce her flesh, and there was little resistance beneath her fierce touch - it was pitiful just how breakable things were.  ❛  Do you mind?  ❜  the bartender barked at her, noticing the mess that she’d made on the countertop. When she flashed her pearly white teeth at him, her fangs were nowhere in sight. He was a quintessential town-boy, someone who had grown up in Deadwood and who would never leave. There was probably a point in his teenage years when he longed to travel, maybe he had big city dreams - but money was tight, or a relative died and so too did that dream.    ❛ I’m sure I can make it up to you later. Care to pour me another drink?  ❜  

Anytime that Céline gave a man the best night of his life, she’d collect his head in the morning. She was like that dark poem she’d once read, Salome. 

In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter. I flung back the sticky red sheets, and there, like I said – and ain’t life a bitch – was his head on a platter.

She offered the bartender a wink when another glass of red was pushed in front of her, while a dozen messages from needy clients buzzed on her phone. She switched it to silent. It was a Sunday and they could fuck off.  ❛  I’ll be back, ❜  she promised the bartender, and then slipped from the high-stool with old-elegance. She was still a Duchess, after all. 

Her stormy irises flitted over the patrons, some in sets of families, while others dined alone. Céline spotted a vacant space in a corner booth, only one seat taken up by a solitary figure.  ❛ Mind if I sit here? You looked like you were in need of some company. ❜