A Kiss Between Strangers.

A Kiss Between Strangers.

Postby Varian » Mon Mar 19, 2007 4:20 am

"Open your eyes, my dear." The young man's quiet voice beckoned to the small girl he held so gingerly within his arms. One of his cold, glove-covered hands was rested delicately over her mouth, to keep her from screams.

As her eyes staggered open, she peered upward through the darkness at he who had snatched her from the very street of the town and stole her away, into the shadows for reasons she could only fathom in her nightmares. She trembled in fear, her breathing had caught in her throat and her face was flush because of it. She had never known such terror as that which flowed like a river through her veins and set her heart to beat like a war drum.

The man was smiling, though. The expression on his face was not that of some maniacal murderer, instead it was of compassion and concern. His orchid eyes stayed focused on her own, blue irises, even through the well of tears that steadily grew.

His embrace was not forceful, but the power with which he kept her captive was undeniable. He doted on her, despite circumstance and cooed to her, affectionately.

"My name is Varian duMonde. Do not be frightened, my love. Look upon me now as your savior." His hand slid away from her lips and trailed its fingertips across them softly, during the journey to her collar. "You mustn't scream. I'll not harm you. The love I hold for you is of a depth that you are incapable of imagining, for mine is the last face you will see before angels wing you to Heaven."

The girl's eyes widened and she began to struggle. Varian's arms grew tighter, only a slight degree, to assure her of the futility. "Fear not, my love. It is that I am damned that all of your sins and transgressions against your Father may be forgiven. Through my kiss, you are absolved."

His hand at her throat climbed higher once more, its thumb set firmly under her small chin. He forced her to turn away and bare the length of her neck to him. He hesitated; took an unnecessary breath and closed his own eyes. His head lowered and his lips touched her flesh, just before his fangs pierced the vein that throbbed desperately beneath it. The girl shuddered and uttered a sound more suited for a mouse, than a human.

The ordeal itself, despite the theatrics before it, was swift and relatively painless. The body of the girl had gone lax in his grasp and he swallowed ravenously, before he reared back from the punctures he'd inflicted.

He took great care, as her heart slowed to a stop, to touch his tongue to each wound and heal it, with the assistance of what life still clung to her. He cradled her against his chest until even that dull flicker ebbed away, as well. She was wrapped in her cloak, its cowl pulled to hide her now colorless, pretty face and she was placed near the edge of the street, where the sun might shine the following morning.
I'm like a prisoner getting ready to talk. I feel the blood in my hands and the threat in your walk.
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Mar 19, 2007 8:35 am

It's become a habit for the apprentice, almost a ritual in recent days and weeks. He inevitably wakes early each day, somewhat before the sun and well before most of the townsfolk, and he has come to appreciate the quiet of the morning before the day's work truly begins. Combine that with the fact that he is wary of rousing the rest of the household with the clatter of training so early in the morning, and these walks in the cold pre-dawn light help to clear away the last cobwebs of sleep, and give him something to occupy him until it is a fit time to return to the house and begin the day's exercises. Learning the lay of the town, its deserted streets and alleys, its shuttered houses and shops. A pleasant routine.

On this particular morning, however, the routine is disrupted. At first glance he takes the bundled shape to be some manner of parcel, perhaps a roll of cloth lost or discarded? It is only when he notes the small feet peeping from one end of the bundle that its nature becomes clearer. A child. He stops in the street, staring for long moments before stepping closer to investigate, to stoop over the small, still form, then to crouch beside it.

"Hello? Excuse me, can you hear me?"

One hand is withdrawn from his coat pocket to reach and lift the cloth from the child's face. The body's face, he realises as his hand draws back sharply as if burned. A moment's hesitation, then slender fingers touch briefly to her pale cheek, a palm is held over those blanched lips, but her skin holds no warmth, her lungs no breath. Truly dead. Dead and cold.

He stands abruptly, looking quickly along the street in each direction, pale eyes glittering in the narrow band of exposed skin between his scarf and his hat, but sees no one. His gaze drops back to the dead child, taking in the scene. No wound apparent, no blood spilt upon the ground or stiffening her clothes. A man might think her to have perished from the cold, perhaps, except that she is not huddled into herself for warmth. So meticulously wrapped in her own cloak, so carefully laid out at the side of the street. Arranged.

For long moments he stands lost in his thoughts before he stoops once more. This time it is to gather her up in his arms, holding her frail body carefully as if she only slept and he feared waking her. Then with a swish of coat-tails and ringing of heels upon the cobbles he is striding up the street in the direction of the barracks. His features are an impassive mask as he walks, though there is a cold anger in his eyes.

This is not right.
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Postby CroWWing » Tue Mar 20, 2007 12:49 am

Day's light. Thin reedy streams of the hated suns rebirth. As was her habit she took to the out of doors at night. Not for the purpose of meals, that was simply unthinkable to her. Old ways and laws were kept by some
Time for most thinking, sane individuals to be home, tucked into crisp clean linens. Asleep.

Then again, Crow was not known for her sanity.

Paused as she observed the unknown to her individual gathering up the small bundle. Carefully, cautiously. As if the thing were fragile. Small bit of homespun fabric until she as well saw the tiny fish-belly white feet sneaking out one last time.

Unobtrusive fingers reached up to pull the dark cloth of her cowl closer, elegant appendages paused to pass across a shadow painted cheek in a gesture of thought. Other man, or at least she thought it to be a man was observed. He was well covered as well, gender was difficult to tell and she made no assumptions. Sounds of angry steps rang like church bells into her ears and she waited until he was well and truly gone.

Smooth steps revealed her to some innocent individual and she would murmur her apologies for nearly knocking the poor creature aside. Forgotten quickly enough, though the wagon pushing person would remember her for days to come.

To the place where the corpse had been, squatting - small hand pushing out as fingers tips were dragged there. Dust, dirt, leftovers from many trampling of feet. Pads of fingers pushed together, rubbing against one another as the refuse was simply examined.

Quiet as the grave, silent except for the whisper of her silks. Which now rustled together in an angry voice as she too made her way down the cobbled street. Not in the directions of the barracks - she had another route to take.
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Postby Wendy » Tue Mar 20, 2007 11:57 am

Prior to evening's refuge, on the same day, was an unusually early hour for the woman to be closing her shop, especially when the nighttime sort of visitors would soon be pressing themselves against the door of the teahouse and peering in to see if anything moved on the inside. Such was the draw of the notable eatery, which offered tea and cakes and the supplemental entertainment of clever fortune telling, among other things.

Why Cambree Swinton was coming out of doors, instead of opening them, as was normal practice, one could not guess. She did not want to be caught by an expectant patron on her way out, so she hurried to fold the latch and secure the door closed. Seeing her reflection, she pulled the hood of her cloak until it could veil her as unrecognizable, then turned to miss a collision with a stranger that was on his way past.

"It is not right," he said. She may have heard him, but she continued in an opposite direction. "It is not right," he repeated, louder and well defined. Curiosity whipped her thoughts and she drew aside a portion of her hood to see beyond it; the look shot over her shoulder. The man could have been any of the lunatics that often beg on the streets who would speak to themselves for comfort, but he was dressed as a gentleman and looked as clean.

He stood in front of the freshly closed teahouse with his hands ready to strike at anything. It seemed a struggle for him to keep them from turning to fists. She could have returned to her mind's path and walked away, but she did not.

"It is not right."

Realizing that letting the front parlor open to the public would cost her a great period of the night, she struggled to be gracious. Already, there were problems with her practice. She could not afford a public demonstration in front of the teahouse from another restless patron. She had been paying heavily to the demands of the court for months, the Governor notwithstanding.

"Good morning," she said, having turned in the reverse direction. "I was just about to open for the evening." Her voice lacked its usual lacquered grace. Weary, the lady Swinton moved to be in front of the upset patron to wrestle with the lock on her door. "Please, come in." she said, granting the man the room he'd need to move beyond her and into the room once the door had been opened.

Inside, the room was still. The mild odor of singed candlewicks tickled her nose. "Do sit down, Mister…"

"Cinnabar." he said, "Cinnabar Calomel." He took the offered seat, distracted, and only eventually met her eyes. "Tell me, if you will: is it considered normal for dead children to be left in the streets in Myrkentown?"

Others would trickle indoors as the evening grew long before her eyes, but the incredible conversation with Calomel would remain in Cambree's mind. She told herself that she would conference with the girls before they left for the night. If she could continue to stay awake, perhaps she would also speak to the guardsman who was her patron. The wasteful death of a child would shake the quiet out of a place like Myrkentown.
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