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Post by Scarlet Kiera Feroce on May 29, 2013 1:24:59 GMT -5
Scar pulled softly at the hem of her leather skirt, frowning slightly as the clothing refused to mold to her hips.
She'd have to report this to her headquarters, she thought, as she continued to tug once, twice, before finally letting it be. Straightening her white blazer, she glanced once at the watch strapped loosely on her wrist, before fixing the bow that hung just below her top button of her blouse.
Scar, as always, was obsessed with looking immaculate--being a figure of such popularity (the Feroce's had always been favourites among the public), she had to be sure she looked perfect just in case any paparazzi decided to make a surprise visit.
Her lips curled at the thought, annoyed at having to put up such pretenses for a crowd so inferior such as the general public, but mostly, at continuing to have any links with the rest of her (now deceased) family. The press had had a field day, on that one, she was sure. All but one Feroce found dead; youngest survived, but at what cost? She let out a short laugh, the high bells ringing through the silence.
They'd pitied her.
They'd lapped up the drama, the shock; pictures of her with teary eyes and a fallen face had lit up every newspaper and magazine in the country, and all she had to do was sigh, and they'd come falling at her feet.
Vermins, the lot of them.
She'd wish their death, but, unfortunately, they held use for her--they were her source of income, and the publicity did wonders for her company.
She, with a flick of her pale blonde hair (perfectly styled, of course) walked through the halls of the citadel, her heels making soft click, clacking noises as she walked, her form proper and back straight.
The onyx found, that lately, her thoughts had turned to Thomas.
For a moment, the blonde paused, her heart--usually so cold--aching, as it so often did when the topic arose. Closing her eyes, her hand fluttered to her lips and she pressed it gently against it, as if re-enacting that moment when they first touched his. Her mind wondered, her heart feeling as if it were about to break, whether, if he were to still be alive, whether she would be any different--kinder, maybe. Gentler.
But he's not alive, she thought harshly, forcing herself to return to reality, he's dead; and you know why.
Her eyes fluttered open, and her features--which had turned soft, and almost, almost, vulnerable during the time she'd thought about Thomas (it always did)--returned back to their stoic harshness, and the blonde turned to face the window, both hands gripping the windowsill, her nails digging into the stone.
It wouldn't do, to have thoughts like these--they were nothing but weaknesses for her; they held memories of her past, memories which served nothing but to hurt her, like they had before.
Only this was worse, because there was nothing she could do to stop it.
She could only watch, as she replayed the death of her love, over, and over, and over again.
Her lips pursed, and with clenched fists, the blonde turned on her heel to continue walking down the halls, before making a sharp left and cutting towards the gardens, feeling the need for the presence of flowers to calm her.
It was ironic, she supposed, that her mannerisms demanded that she continue to resemble ice--yet such small, unimportant things, like flowers, could have such an effect on her. Walking through the tall opening which served as the entrance, she walked (making sure to stick to the footpath so that her heels wouldn't dig into the grass) through, reaching out a delicate hand to gently touch the petals of each flower as she walked past.
Picking one, she cut off the stem of a rose with her nails, before bringing it to her nose and she inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet scent.
Thomas used to bring you roses.
She felt that familiar pull at her core, once more, and feeling as if she may break, she pulled the flower away, letting it drop from her fingers and onto the floor, the red petals falling apart and scattering across the grass, as if mocking droplets of blood spraying across the ground.
Snap.
The crack of clumsy feet on twigs alerted Scar of the presence of another, and she froze, eyes narrowing infinitesimally before composing herself, pulling herself away from the heartbreak, from Thomas, and stood upright, her posture once more demanding respect, and authority.
"Who is it?" She called pleasantly, turning deftly to face whoever it was that dared to intrude--her gaze fell on some servant, and her eyes found the mark of a human, and her demeanor instantly changed to one of disgust.
She didn't need this--not right now.
Not when she was already hurting from the memories of him.
Fixing her blazer so that it hung straight, she dropped her gaze onto him, her upper lip curling, and one brow arching as if demanding the other to defy her. "Human, are you?" Resisting the urge to spit on the floor, she took one step forward, expecting him to back away. "If i were you," she murmured, voice low and icy, almost clipped due to her disgust, "i'd turn right back and scatter off to where you came from, sweetheart; i've no time to deal with the likes of you."
With that, she turned back to her flowers, fully expecting him to obey her and run, like the filth he was.
NOTES: hmmMMmmM hope it's ok c: i've missed them two aw |
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Orion St. James
Human
Pet ? Isadora Diardo
played by no_one [/size][/center]
Posts: 15 
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Post by Orion St. James on Jun 28, 2013 0:11:05 GMT -5
It was a usual day for Orion. He was actually allowed out of his room for the first time in what felt like ages. Apparently he hadn't been on his best behavior as of late. There had been much too much of him disobeying in the eyes of his vampire captors lately. They didn't like it much when he felt like doing what he every so often needed to do. They thought they owned every fiber of him right down to his very own blood. He figured that had to be it, they were displeased that he liked to spill his own blood from time to time. It wasn't like he wouldn't make more...vampires were so dramatic. Orion couldn’t help but mentally roll his eyes at the thought.
He'd been “good” for about a month, not that he had any choice. They had removed anything that could possibly be sharp from his room. It was much less cluttered in there now. At that thought he rubbed his wrists a little as he made his way through the gardens. The marks from his chains were almost gone and he had no recent or raw cuts upon his wrists, arms or really anywhere on his body. He tripped a bit on a stone that stuck up a little higher than the rest but he managed to regain his glance and not drop the book under his arm.
For a while they allowed him to have a sketchbook but after he rigged the pencil sharper into a device for cutting, so all he had now was a few old and worn books to read. It was just a then that he found a nice spot to settle down for a bit, his legs ached slightly from the walking. Had it really been that long since he was last allowed to move about freely? Orion lowered himself down into a crossed legged seated position. A little breeze through the garden ruffled the pages of his book as he opened it to begin reading.
He had been lost in the world of Holden Caulfield when his ears picked up on the sound of approaching footsteps. Dry eyes blinked as he looked up from the pages of his book to see who was coming his way. A female who was impeccably dressed was in the garden, she picked a rose, took a deep breath of it and then dropped it to the ground. Orion thought that was a bit silly, she could have smelled it while it was on the bush. Why cut it and then discard it so quickly. A frown pulled at the corners of his lips as he watched her from his little spot mostly hidden by the plants around him.
Orion leaned a little to one side to see her better; it was then that a twig he had apparently been sitting upon snapped giving his position away. He delicate features seemed pleasant as she turned but the look on her face quickly changed as her gaze fell upon him. She took a step toward him but he didn’t budge, he merely closed the book he had been reading. She suggested that he leave. Why? He’d been the one that had been there first. She had been intruding on him after all. He quickly decided that he wasn’t going to budge. Instead he shrugged as she turned around and reopened his book, eyes scanning the page to find the place where he had left off.
So he wanted to sit and read his book, Orion saw so harm in that. She could do as she pleased; he wasn’t exactly interested in whatever she was up to. Vampires they thought they were so special. Words: 621 Muse: indifferent Notes: sorry it took me so long, it’s been forever since he has posted especially for Scar! |
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Post by Scarlet Kiera Feroce on Jul 22, 2013 12:34:02 GMT -5
The Feroce’s were infamous for their hatred of humans—Scar remembered the old days, before the takeover, when vampires were forced into hiding and humans were the dominant species of the world. How her father used to writhe at the humiliation of it all, at how they, the vampires, the superior, had no choice but to bow down to creatures that they could so easily kill without a second thought.
Her whole family were like that—arrogant, egotistical and cold. She remembered when the King had first appeared, when the world as everyone knew it changed for the better; how her family celebrated the takeover, killing off all humans that they could find.
The Feroce’s hated humans. They all did—
Except her.
She always thought of it as irrational hate, comparing it to the mind numbingly idiotic likes of racism and sexism. But then again, she was a Crimson, and in the eyes of her family, Crimsons were just as bad as humans. She supposed it was ironic that she’d adopted their attitude of such hate and disgust of them now—especially considering her history. But, do not forget, she thought, that is precisely why I loathe them.
Humans were bad for her; they brought about painful memories that she didn’t have the strength (or courage) to endure—to go through again. It was cowardly, she knew, but she was better off displacing her fear and sadness into uncontrollable anger and hate.
She could not afford to have such weaknesses.
Not right now—not when so much was at stake.
So when the creature had appeared, sitting on some bench with a book in its lap, looking so nonchalant, so peaceful and so, so human, Scar could not help but suck in a sharp breath, the image of the pet so like him, so like her lost love, that she wasn’t ready for the attack of memories, the pain that never left.
It’s not fair—why should he live when Thomas is dead?
They came at her all at once, screamed at her, but at the same time each one played out slowly, lengthening each second into minutes, hours. The feel of his hair, his touch, his lips—his smile, smirk, frown—the sound of his voice, laughter, concern, anger—
She wasn’t a Feroce for nothing.
In the half a second it took for the memories to occur, she allowed herself half a second more to compose herself, plush lips pressing against each other, eyes momentarily closed as she fought for placidity, equilibrium, building up a brick wall which she cemented together layer by layer until she was certain she would not break. Opening her eyes, she let her gaze fall onto the pet, her demeanor forcibly (but not noticeably—she was better than that) changing into one of disgust, taking one step forward to assert her dominance over this—this pitiful creature.
She suggested that he leave, that he scampered away—but he, having closed his book, simply shrugged and opened it once more, ignoring her commands and continuing to read instead.
Scar was used to being obeyed without a second’s hesitation—since being born she was placed in a position of power higher than most could ever hope to achieve. Her parents were elitists, and they made sure that their attitudes were adopted by their kin. Although Scar wasn’t as arrogant as they, it was hard to escape nurture’s clutches when growing up. Now—when Scar had accumulated so much more power than her parents—there was hardly a time when her orders were ignored.
So when this human, this pet decided to ignore her words, her orders, it didn't go down well.
The boy, without so much as a second's thought, dropped his gaze back to the book, and for a moment, a brief second of pure surprise and shock, Scar paused, frozen at the rarity of the situation, before bringing herself back, silently cursing the pet for having the ability to catch her unaware not once, but twice.
Narrowing her eyes, she took another step forward, reaching down and grabbing the book in one fluid motion, her movements elucidating grace, but most of all power. It could be seen in the way she asserted herself--the way she held her head, just high enough to be arrogant, but not overly so, the way she positioned herself with surety, moved with poise and conviction. Taking hold of the book with nimble fingers, using only the tips of her thumb and index finger as if it were something trash, she quickly scanned the title--The Catcher in the Rye; she'd read it in school, and vaguely remembered it to be interesting, albeit slightly dry--before using her other hand to tear it neatly in two, then once more, before throwing it behind her, where the wind caught hold of the pages and blew it all across the area, some snagging in the thorns of the roses.
Her eyes--usually cold, and unreadable--were uncharacteristically burning with anger, glaring down at the human with a look of distaste, her upper lip curled in obvious disgust, and her hands, now book free, placed firmly on each hip, maintaining a demeanour that assured dominance and control. "Take care of noting your place as well as who is addressing you, pet," she said acidly, her tone almost a murmur--soft, yet somehow containing a cold edge that speared clearly through her words. "It will not bode well for you to be so brash, boy."
Her eyes flicking down to the mark that proclaimed him to be a pet, she added, almost gloating, "I'll make sure of it," before lifting her gaze back up.
Not moving from her position, she continued to glare at the boy, her anger growing slowly, but surely, with every second that passed. Pausing for a moment, she clicked her fingers before flicking her hands up once, motioning him to stand. 'Your Master's name, pet. Or yours, if you are not possessed by one," she spoke with clear authority, the questioning sounding like more of an order, making it clear that he did not have a choice whether he wanted to answer it or not.
She briefly wondered what Thomas would think of her, the way she treated humans; the answer was clear.
He'd hate her--and that hurt her more than anything.
But she could deal with that pain--with the notion of her love hating her, wanting her dead. She could handle it all, the thought of him wanting nothing to do with her; because it meant that he was still alive, still here, with her on Earth, feeling.
But the thought of him dead? The very idea of him never to feel anything ever again?
That was the only thing she could not handle. NOTES: ERIHGDOGHDOFGI THIS IS RLLY BAD SORRY V. RUSTY AND DIDN'T GIVE U ANYTHING TO REPLY TO WOW SORRY X100 |
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