Post by Bianca on Nov 18, 2006 20:28:53 GMT -5
The world was a wash of sights and sounds and smells. Yet there was no color. Eyes gazed down at a rose that was cradled by slender, feminine hands. But, as if the color had slowly bled away, it was almost painful to look at. Thos slender fingers curled upwards, crushing the blossom to mush before dropping it to the slightly damp grass of the garden. Colorblind. It was hard when you were born and couldn’t tell the difference between two colors. But this person? This figurine had lost her sense of color after a decade of life. She knew the beauty of all those colors: Red, orange, purple, green, blue, pink, yellow, brown, black. All of those colors, along with the less orthodox shades of lavender, plum, cherry blossom, cream, gold, and smoke were lost to her.
Time had passed. Her life had faded like the colors she had lost, until it blossomed anew. Much like the roses within her garden. Her name had faded, died, and dwindled. If it were a flower, it was not the kind that re-bloomed. Dead, as it was said, was dead. How ironic, for when she spoke those words she became a walking oxymoron. So she became Elisabeta. Elisabeta, the very meaning becoming “Reborn” when spoken in a language as dead as her old self. But her name and her personality were all that had changed. The rest of her was the same, unmarred by time.
Long, thick locks that fell in thick curls fell down to her narrow waist, so darkly auburn that it shouldn’t have flashed the rich red highlights that most hair of a similar shade did. Yet, the red was there, obvious and beautiful. Her face was framed by the brilliant waterfall of her hair, the heart-shaped dais set upon a slender and swan-like neck. When she had lived in a different time, her neck would have been described as “Made to wear jewels befitting a Queen.” Instead, it was covered by a leather chocker with a smooth onyx pendant attached. A jewel, no, but it was a beautiful piece anyway.
Her face would have been described by many a’ Grecian poets as “Madonna” or “Aphrodite” and would have been captured by sculptures of all races and cultures. High cheekbones and large eyes gave her a younger, almost child-like look, though her figure exclaimed she was anything but a child. Full lips shaped like Eros’s bow were set, the color of a newly bloomed rose petal and made for curving upwards into charming and teasing smiles. She was a beauty, and was often called “Mirabel” by those much older then herself.
When she had had a true family, many centuries ago, her mother had described her as a “delight to dress.” She had a courtesan’s figure, lush and plump in the right places, slim and smooth in the others. Her pale skin made it possible for her to wear many shades, but she kept to black. In the olden world, she would have worn full-length ball room dresses. In this modern one, she wore teasing, tight, and low cut pieces that displayed her figure shamelessly. Any maidenly modesty she might have had when she had been sixteen, which she still looked, had been lost when she capped her hundredth birthday, her eighty-fourth death day.
In her garden, which was a small paradise of unseen color, she wore four inch stiletto heels that would have sunk into the soft ground, had she not been a creature born of a supernatural nature. Black stockings cloaked her shapely legs, their tops flashed when she walked. Her dress was tight, like it was merely paint upon her skin, thrusting her breasts upward and giving view of her curves. Elbow-length arm warmers hugged her arms, a stark comparison to the paleness of the skin on her upper arms and hands.
Eyes covered with tasteful makeup flickered open, revealing piercing orbs of grassy green, the left, and vivid violet, the right. All around her, in this home where she and her kind lived as a coven, she could hear the whispering of voices in the back of her head. They belonged to those she had exchanged blood with, changed, and who came from the same line as she. They all heard her as easily as she them, but none could shuffle through the thoughts and pick one to read like a book. With age came rank, and with rank came power.
As night truly settled around like a blanket, the thin, glorious creature stood and glided silently off, her walk one of grace and elegance. Walking down a brick path, she headed towards a fountain with three cherubs, all spewing crystalline water from their mouths into the carved basin of a pool. Floating water lilies beckoned to her as a breeze pressed by gently. She paused, looking back at the now deserted rose garden. The only sign she had been was a forlorn looking flower, crushed within the grass. A smile played on her painted lips and she bent, tracing her hand through the cool water.
Cool water? She snatched her hand back. She could barely tell the difference between heat and chill. Her world had become a horrible blend of senseless touches, each feeling blending together. Days, nights, weeks, months, and years flew by, all blending together. Anything or anyone she loved or might have loved was snatched away, gone in a single sigh of a vampire. And Rene had long given up holding her breath, for there was nothing, no one, to hold it for. She had loved, she had lived. She had died, and she had hated. She, in turn, was hated.
But…would she ever truly be loved?
(Creative critique is /very/ much wanted. ^^)
Time had passed. Her life had faded like the colors she had lost, until it blossomed anew. Much like the roses within her garden. Her name had faded, died, and dwindled. If it were a flower, it was not the kind that re-bloomed. Dead, as it was said, was dead. How ironic, for when she spoke those words she became a walking oxymoron. So she became Elisabeta. Elisabeta, the very meaning becoming “Reborn” when spoken in a language as dead as her old self. But her name and her personality were all that had changed. The rest of her was the same, unmarred by time.
Long, thick locks that fell in thick curls fell down to her narrow waist, so darkly auburn that it shouldn’t have flashed the rich red highlights that most hair of a similar shade did. Yet, the red was there, obvious and beautiful. Her face was framed by the brilliant waterfall of her hair, the heart-shaped dais set upon a slender and swan-like neck. When she had lived in a different time, her neck would have been described as “Made to wear jewels befitting a Queen.” Instead, it was covered by a leather chocker with a smooth onyx pendant attached. A jewel, no, but it was a beautiful piece anyway.
Her face would have been described by many a’ Grecian poets as “Madonna” or “Aphrodite” and would have been captured by sculptures of all races and cultures. High cheekbones and large eyes gave her a younger, almost child-like look, though her figure exclaimed she was anything but a child. Full lips shaped like Eros’s bow were set, the color of a newly bloomed rose petal and made for curving upwards into charming and teasing smiles. She was a beauty, and was often called “Mirabel” by those much older then herself.
When she had had a true family, many centuries ago, her mother had described her as a “delight to dress.” She had a courtesan’s figure, lush and plump in the right places, slim and smooth in the others. Her pale skin made it possible for her to wear many shades, but she kept to black. In the olden world, she would have worn full-length ball room dresses. In this modern one, she wore teasing, tight, and low cut pieces that displayed her figure shamelessly. Any maidenly modesty she might have had when she had been sixteen, which she still looked, had been lost when she capped her hundredth birthday, her eighty-fourth death day.
In her garden, which was a small paradise of unseen color, she wore four inch stiletto heels that would have sunk into the soft ground, had she not been a creature born of a supernatural nature. Black stockings cloaked her shapely legs, their tops flashed when she walked. Her dress was tight, like it was merely paint upon her skin, thrusting her breasts upward and giving view of her curves. Elbow-length arm warmers hugged her arms, a stark comparison to the paleness of the skin on her upper arms and hands.
Eyes covered with tasteful makeup flickered open, revealing piercing orbs of grassy green, the left, and vivid violet, the right. All around her, in this home where she and her kind lived as a coven, she could hear the whispering of voices in the back of her head. They belonged to those she had exchanged blood with, changed, and who came from the same line as she. They all heard her as easily as she them, but none could shuffle through the thoughts and pick one to read like a book. With age came rank, and with rank came power.
As night truly settled around like a blanket, the thin, glorious creature stood and glided silently off, her walk one of grace and elegance. Walking down a brick path, she headed towards a fountain with three cherubs, all spewing crystalline water from their mouths into the carved basin of a pool. Floating water lilies beckoned to her as a breeze pressed by gently. She paused, looking back at the now deserted rose garden. The only sign she had been was a forlorn looking flower, crushed within the grass. A smile played on her painted lips and she bent, tracing her hand through the cool water.
Cool water? She snatched her hand back. She could barely tell the difference between heat and chill. Her world had become a horrible blend of senseless touches, each feeling blending together. Days, nights, weeks, months, and years flew by, all blending together. Anything or anyone she loved or might have loved was snatched away, gone in a single sigh of a vampire. And Rene had long given up holding her breath, for there was nothing, no one, to hold it for. She had loved, she had lived. She had died, and she had hated. She, in turn, was hated.
But…would she ever truly be loved?
(Creative critique is /very/ much wanted. ^^)