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Saturday, November 04, 2006
4.30am
Sydney, Australia

Dawn was coming.
Ceridwyn sat on the floor, before the painting.
She knew this painting was her.
So young…
So beautiful…
A moment, captured in time…

As she closed her eyes, a dream floated to her mind….
Sitting, watching her master…. He came over to her, adjusting her pose, his proximity bringing the scent of roses….. he would put an arm around her, arching her back, run his fingers up her throat so she would tilt her head….. and then go back to the painting….

Her heart would race, her mouth go dry…

Her mind comes back to herself, pulling herself together, reminding herself of the events earlier that evening. No dominate in her mind, that they found…. Only the scent, and that ‘La Ange’ was kindred, and now she knew who…..

In her mind she pictured the events of Saturday night, and him. So different , but so the same….. a kindred that fed from her.....
lips on the back of her neck… his tongue caressing the corner of her mouth, tasting her blood….

Heaven and Hell….

Pain, excruciating, agony, blood, fear, ecstasy...

Ceridwyn cuts off the flow of memory, shaking, resisting the beast that screamed for release. Somehow her dream had become a nightmare... Something terrible....

Standing, she looks at the painting, and then at herself. Years difference. Not a lot, but enough. She unbuttons the shirt, dropping it to the floor. The young woman in the painting would have no clue what she would become…. Her hand strokes over her skin, over the puncture wounds, the slices, the whip scores. She goes to the bedroom, puts a bowl of fresh rose petals next to her bed, and goes to sleep.

Outside, the sun rises, bathing the city in its fire.

Current Mood: bored

This is an amalgum of previous posts...

( Read more... )

Criticism is welcome.... Its only a draft as this stage....

Ceridwyn sat in her room, spacious, two areas to it, the bedroom with no windows, and the study. The furnishings were opulent, as befits its owner Claude, and comfortable, though sparse with lots of room. In the middle of the floor are two tea chests smelling of moth balls, and against the wall behind her, a long flat package, similar to a painting shaped box.

The sum total of her life.

Three boxes.

She cracked open the first tea chest, and began to pull things out - A kachina doll from the South American people she had visited, several old books, a number of beautiful swords and knives. She unpacked them relatively quickly, and turned her attention to the second one. Opening it, it contained not items, but an old steamer trunk, something from the victorian age. She opened it, and proceeded to take out the clothes, gently, fragile, she would need to have someone restore some of these...

Finally she got to the last one, wrapped in calico.

Her hands went to open it, but a whisper of {something} travelled across her mind, and she paused, reluctant for some reason. A lot of her things she had not opened, preferring to just keep them, should she ever need them. Her gaze turns to the painting box, against the wall, and finally comes back to the calico. She lays it out gently on the long table, and slowly begins to unwrap it.

A memory flashes briefly, standing in a room, holding a post of her bed, with her corset laces held tight...

Just as suddenly, it is gone, and she gasps slightly... Its been that smell, the scent of roses thats been around her mind since Saturday night. She finishes unwrapping it, and stands, staring down at the beautiful blue dress....

For a split second she remembers something - he laced my corset too tight... fainting into someone's arms...

Seized with an irresistable compulsion, she suddenly bundles it back up in the calico, puts it back in the trunk, and backs to a wall, seized with an overwhelming sense of grief. She leaves the room, goes out, till dawn nearly, and then goes to bed.

She pays no attention to the box, and that day she dreams of music, roses and the scent of blood.

Current Mood: sad

1813
Paris

The young woman stood in her bed chamber, holding the post of the bed, as the servant behind her tightened the laces of her corset. She had washed, washed and dressed her hair, and stepped into the new silken underwear that her master had brought with her new dress, and stood patiently as she was laced into it, displaying her shape, in pantaloons, chemise, and the corset showing off her waist and hips.

Unnoticed, the creature stood in the shadows, watching his ward. The shape of her was accentuated by the corset, her hair was dressed on top of her head, creamy shoulders rose out of the chemise, all temporarily obscured as the servants carefully put the overdress over her head. Silently he moved into the room, so softly she was unaware of him till he stood behind her, and the scent of roses reached her. The servants withdrew, as Vittorio began to rhythmically tighten the laces on the dress.

At one point, a silken tress of hair fell between them, and he gently brushed it back over her shoulder, his hand whispering across her skin. The touch of his hand makes her skin tighten and warm, and heat pooled in her belly. Her lips part, as she tries to draw air into her lungs, with a sensation that her corset is tied too tightly.

bloodheatpassion

As he remembers her taste in his mouth, she remembers the sensation of the tip of his tongue on her lips. He gives no sign, and she gasps softly, trying to contain the senses
firebloodpassion
his touch is arousing, since cleaning her mouth.....

His hands have stilled, the laces coiled about them, holding her prisoner. She turns her head slowly, to look at him, lips parted slightly, very still, like animal around a predator, but completely trusting too. He stands still, his eyes on the skin of her back, just above the lacing. Very gently, slowly, he leans forward, holding the corset lacing tight, and gently bites her, on the back of her neck, just below her hair. Goosebumps raise all the way down her spine, as the skin parts under his fangs, a little taste, and the kiss triggers, her knees go weak as she sways in his grasp, overwhelmed for a moment.

His lips travel down her neck, over her shoulder, as he fastens her corset completely...leaves a small, bloody smudge on the curve of her shoulder...then smiles and is gone. With no explanation, just suddenly not there anymore, leaving her wondering if it even happened at all. The scent of roses hangs in the air, and a whisper "Gwenyfar..." then even that is gone.

She is swaying, and her eyes are confused. She sees the smudge, and her fingers find the back of her neck, as she tries to work out what just happened. There is no wound on the back of her neck, so where did the blood come from? She sits down, the skirts of the dress flowing out around her, looking a little scared, and thinks “What is he? Angel... Angel and Demon both....”

She pulls herself together, stands and laces the dress. Only then does she notice that the corset is tighter than it ever has been before….

Current Mood: amused

2006

Ceridwyn slept....

In her dreams she lay in her bed, a half remembered place, that smelt of cleaness, and roses... She drifted through the house, from her room, polished wooden banisters under her hand, smooth stone under her feet...

A half remembered melody on a piano, played with heart breaking beauty, reaches her ears, and she moves in the direction of it....

A different person to the one she is now....

She goes into the music room at the top of the house, and glimpses a figure at the piano... her heart leaps into her throat, as a maelstrom of remembered emotion floods through her.....

Ceridwyn wakes, blood tears dripping down her cheeks... She cannot remember who it is she misses so much....

With lots of thanks to

thorncoronation for being so incredibly inspiring....

Paris, France 1813

( Read more... )

For my characters.....
Stolen from the Inquisitrix

thorncoronation

Ceridwyn - Requiem Gangrel Crone
Not overly surprising, at least from my point of view.
( Read more... )

Forsaken - River…... Calahaith Iron Master
Surprising result, from my point of view. Some of the questions were incorrect, because River is not as controllable as this implies…..

( Read more... )

Angel – Mage - Acanthus Mysterium
I expected more than a bishop, if only because she is SO incredibly arrogant of her own ability….

( Read more... )

For my answers as a person, refer to

ravenseer

Current Mood: amused

She ran through the forest, leaping logs, spinning around trees, pacing her own stamina.

What are you running from?

Memory of a ferocious childe who called herself a monster, flickered across her mind, hiding under tables…. Once upon a time Tara had been her.

How did I become… this? Tame? Unable to speak my convictions, control…. Half a person…. No…

Not
A
Predator.

Rage boiled through her blood, as faces flickered across her eyes, Tara, the new one, Davion, the new prince, Nicolette, such a sense of loss, even though she knows it’s the right thing, Dr Harker, a sense of … kinship of ideal, for all their differences.

And someone who challenged her with every smile, every posture…. How very intriguing Her his? Grace was….

She came to a pause, at the edge of a ravine.

Antonio.

We are monsters

The ritual.
Something that must be a threat to us.
Or at least something we must understand.

We need a research group, a think tank. Not a crone one, but across the board.

Blood swelled through her, want, rage, fire…. She longed to give it its freedom, and yet she knew she could not…..

She roared and pushed herself further, running faster, longer, and then the ground dropped out from under feet, and she was falling…..

The water closed over her head, and the rage cooled.

If you only want to see particular genre stories, like just Reqeuiem etc, comment here and I will make a filter.
Thanks.

She woke that morning, and it was dark. As she stirred, a sound was heard in the room, and a body sat down on her bed. She tried to open her eyes, and could not, realizing she was blindfolded. Fear bloomed in the pit of her stomach, her lips went dry.

A hand touched her face lightly, fingertips moving over her skin, the blindfold, her lips. The hand gathered the bed clothes, and drew them back from her, one hand holding on to her shoulder, stopping her from getting away. She knew the touch, and the scent, her ofacultry senses sharpened by the loss of her sight.

Once the bedclothes were removed, the hands clasped hers, and drew her out of bed, to her feet. When River went to speak, one finger touched her lips, warning her to be silent. The hands guide her out of the room, outside, and then withdraw. She goes to remove her blindfold, and suddenly they are back, pulling her hands away, so she remains without her sight. The hands withdraw again, and River stands barefoot, the early morning sun beating down on her, with only hearing and scent to help her.

[to be continued...]