i'm insane
well, i can feel it in my bones
coursing through my veins,
when did i become so cold?
well, i can feel it in my bones
coursing through my veins,
when did i become so cold?
Valan was used to trouble. You don't become part of the living dead with out expecting trouble. She knew what it felt like to be chased by those you had thought friendly. She knew what it was like to be betrayed by those you let too close. Her master was constantly worrying, fretting, reminding her to not trust the mortals. Yet, like a moth drawn to the flame, eager and willing to be burnt for a brief moment of brightness, she couldn't deny the attraction. The way the mortals just lived. It was beautiful, it was chaotic, it was imperfect, it was . . . it was everything she wanted, and everything she was denied. Perhaps it was why she was trying to cling to Thomasin just as much as she was trying to chase the poor lamb away. Away from the gaping maw of the predator. Away from the disaster Valan caused in interacting with mortals. Away from her, least she grow too comfortable, and the inevitable abandonment hurt all the more.
Perhaps it was why she didn't necessarily halt herself when interrupting Thomasin. It was an unsightly act, and while she felt the need to correct the mare, to tell the smaller creature just what she truly was; what she truly possessed within her fragile body; that strength wasn't just physical . . . she knew it would have been proper to wait her turn, not to cut her off. But if she make herself unappealing, wouldn't it be sooner Thomasin would leave, sooner she would feel the sting of abandonment, and the sooner she could get over it again. No, that was a lie; she never truly got over it. Or she wouldn't be already preparing to protect herself again. You don't get over abandonment, betrayal attempts against your life. But the sooner they leave, the less it hurts. And she could see the way the little mare seemed to retreat into herself at the interruption.
And it panged Valan's heart to be the cause of such a distinct retreat. Even if that shame began to change, began to shift, a bashfulness that had Valan halting, pausing, uncertain. She had only spoken what she had seen in the young mare, but . . . but seeing that sort of bashfulness, the way her gaze turned downcast . . . there was a moment where even Valan had to admit the enactment was . . . was, well; cute. When was the last time she'd found someone's mannerisms cute? More often than not she was too busy trying to match them, to make sure she mimicked their small movements, to make herself seem more alive, less still, less dead. But for the moment, all she did was watch Thomasin, just watch her.
She knew, deep in her heart, Thomasin could be a friend, someone who could understand her, get her; see through the shroud of lady-like vampirism, to the mare that resides within her. If given the chance, had she been mortal, would a friendship have blossomed already? But she wasn't mortal. She mustn't for it. She needed to remember. She wasn't that special. She was dead. Empty. Lifeless. Nothing. And then the other spoke so freely of love . . . so, so freely. Valan had seen the dark side of love. She'd seen it, felt it, experienced it in its purity. She'd thought she'd found her forever, lost beneath the willows, playfully chasing each other around the roses. She'd been promised a forever with him, and then Nikolai had come in, had forced her into a marriage, had murdered her beloved when he'd discovered the truth of Nikolai . . . and then, Nikolai had killed her within their chambers hours after the wedding.
Love was pain. Loss. A black hole that would suck up your happiness and leave you a shell. A horrible, empty shell. And it was because of her that her beloved gardener had died, had found himself on the wrong side of a tyrant king content with making all others bow before him. It was her only kill, but it had been an avenging act of not just her own loss of life, but his loss of life as well. Her sweet gardener was among the flowers in the heavens, but she'd made sure that the individual who had cut him down as if he were a weed, and not a precious rose; would rot in hell for what he'd done.
She wouldn't put her heart through that again. She couldn't. She didn't deserve it. Not when her best friend had died in an attempt to protect, to save her. She couldn't do that to herself, or anyone else like that. Valan was a lovely creature, but inside, she was a mess of pain, hiding behind perfect smiles. The words spoken by Thomasin caused her to flinch, caused the slight welling of tears in her eyes, those tears as black as the marks stained into her cheeks, "I had my chance once . . . we both died, and only I came back." She whispered softly. She didn't continue, she didn't want to. Besides, there was something better, purer to talk about.
Thomasin.
And she had no issues to lay on those praises, to speak so gently about the coffee-hued flower just beginning to bud. The little lamb that didn't mind spending time with the lion. Did Thomasin know, know at all, how much these precious moments would be held in the highest regard within the pale dame's mind? These weren't moments she would just forget . . . even when Thomasin finally realized she was better off running away. These conversations would be replayed. Yet . . . why was Thomasin still here? Every moment, every second that turned into another minute where they were sharing company had Valan finding less, and less stable ground. Thomasin had seen her fangs, had learned the truth, had cried in fear. Why was she still here? Didn't she realize that Valan was a threat? A monster that could rip into her delicate skin. Could turn those delightfully soft colors of her pelt red with blood. Could tear her into pieces before anyone had any idea that a monster was feasting.
Why hadn't she left yet?
So she clung, she clung to the interactions, the conversation, allowing it to flow, to let the commentary continue, but this time . . . Valan offered a gift she hadn't given in such a long time. She offered her name. Her real name. Not the nickname she had used for so long. Saying those old words, a house, a family name forgotten to time, her own name not remembered in history except as an unfortunate victim to a tyrants desire for a crown. Forgotten, just as she; herself, so often was. And like this conversation, like this continued interaction, she gifted it to Thomasin, praying the little mare wouldn't cast the gift aside. She repeats that old name, and Valan's ears perk, listening to the way it fell from the other's lips. Had her name always sounded that . . . that enticing, unforgettable, delectable? Or was it that it came from the mouth of a lamb?
The curtsy was just as much about culture as it was about distracting herself from the way Thomasin had said her name - or she may beg her to say it again. And then the little mare said a title Valan hadn't heard in so, so long, and her head jolts up so quickly, all grace is lost in the extremely mortal motion, her eyes wide, shocked. She watched the other bend, but Thomasin's eyes never leave Valan, her expression soft, that playful whisper and Valan finds herself responding in kind, "I did marry a king, if only for a night; perhaps you should try 'Your Majesty."" Her tone was painful, but there was a brief flash of anger, pain, hatred at the mention of her marriage. Proof of how troubling that entire situation had been. The pain of losing her beloved gardener, her sweetest Rafie had yet to fully leave her.
So she clung onto everything Thomasin offered to allow her mind to keep moving, to not ponder, to not regret. And it was so easy to let herself get lost when those pale grey eyes, like the calming of a storm; met her own pale gaze. It made her ponder what Thomasin saw, what she was looking for. If she knew what to look for. Pale rose eyes compared to when her eyes grew darker, a deep magenta, or when they turned black with rage or hunger. And then she offered the sweetest of boons to the ageless being, and the vampire was eager to clasp the offering close to her chest. Thomasin was willing to keep her company. But the offer of as long as she would have her had a wayward pausing thought of how long could she keep her.
She shook such foolish thoughts away. Friends were made gently, not by possession. And she certainly had no right trying to take possession of the little mare who deserved so much more. So, she let herself be distracted by the question posed, and Valan grew thoughtful, even as she gently lowered herself to the ground, limbs folding beneath her, wild curls spreading across the ground, and a slight smile touching her face, warming the shadows from her eyes. She turns that bright, pure expression to Thomasin, "Life." She admits, "Or I do . . . When I dream, it's my memories. Going back in time, to my youth. Running around the gardens with Rafie as we avoided our parents and guardians." She sighed softly, gently, her muzzle reaching down to gently nuzzle her roses again, "I miss those gardens. They were burnt the night I died . . . or, almost died? I'm still not sure how to classify the situation." Her gaze softens, a melancholy expression at the memory as she breaths in the soft scent of those roses clinging to her pelt, "Rosario, I believe, is the last bit left of that garden." She added gently, her gaze on the dormant and unresponsive rose vines before looking back up at Thomasin, and adding, "Mis-, Er, I apologize; old habits; Thomasin . . . please, feel free to ask me anything. Provided, I may ask questions about yourself in return."
Her gaze was curious, turning towards the little mare, even as she kept her gaze soft, gentle; reassuring, "Might I enquire about . . . the garden in your chest? I've just . . . never heard of such a situation before." And she wanted to know why, what should be an open wound, did not entice her hunger, but instead enticed her curiosity.
@Thomasin
Perhaps it was why she didn't necessarily halt herself when interrupting Thomasin. It was an unsightly act, and while she felt the need to correct the mare, to tell the smaller creature just what she truly was; what she truly possessed within her fragile body; that strength wasn't just physical . . . she knew it would have been proper to wait her turn, not to cut her off. But if she make herself unappealing, wouldn't it be sooner Thomasin would leave, sooner she would feel the sting of abandonment, and the sooner she could get over it again. No, that was a lie; she never truly got over it. Or she wouldn't be already preparing to protect herself again. You don't get over abandonment, betrayal attempts against your life. But the sooner they leave, the less it hurts. And she could see the way the little mare seemed to retreat into herself at the interruption.
And it panged Valan's heart to be the cause of such a distinct retreat. Even if that shame began to change, began to shift, a bashfulness that had Valan halting, pausing, uncertain. She had only spoken what she had seen in the young mare, but . . . but seeing that sort of bashfulness, the way her gaze turned downcast . . . there was a moment where even Valan had to admit the enactment was . . . was, well; cute. When was the last time she'd found someone's mannerisms cute? More often than not she was too busy trying to match them, to make sure she mimicked their small movements, to make herself seem more alive, less still, less dead. But for the moment, all she did was watch Thomasin, just watch her.
She knew, deep in her heart, Thomasin could be a friend, someone who could understand her, get her; see through the shroud of lady-like vampirism, to the mare that resides within her. If given the chance, had she been mortal, would a friendship have blossomed already? But she wasn't mortal. She mustn't for it. She needed to remember. She wasn't that special. She was dead. Empty. Lifeless. Nothing. And then the other spoke so freely of love . . . so, so freely. Valan had seen the dark side of love. She'd seen it, felt it, experienced it in its purity. She'd thought she'd found her forever, lost beneath the willows, playfully chasing each other around the roses. She'd been promised a forever with him, and then Nikolai had come in, had forced her into a marriage, had murdered her beloved when he'd discovered the truth of Nikolai . . . and then, Nikolai had killed her within their chambers hours after the wedding.
Love was pain. Loss. A black hole that would suck up your happiness and leave you a shell. A horrible, empty shell. And it was because of her that her beloved gardener had died, had found himself on the wrong side of a tyrant king content with making all others bow before him. It was her only kill, but it had been an avenging act of not just her own loss of life, but his loss of life as well. Her sweet gardener was among the flowers in the heavens, but she'd made sure that the individual who had cut him down as if he were a weed, and not a precious rose; would rot in hell for what he'd done.
She wouldn't put her heart through that again. She couldn't. She didn't deserve it. Not when her best friend had died in an attempt to protect, to save her. She couldn't do that to herself, or anyone else like that. Valan was a lovely creature, but inside, she was a mess of pain, hiding behind perfect smiles. The words spoken by Thomasin caused her to flinch, caused the slight welling of tears in her eyes, those tears as black as the marks stained into her cheeks, "I had my chance once . . . we both died, and only I came back." She whispered softly. She didn't continue, she didn't want to. Besides, there was something better, purer to talk about.
Thomasin.
And she had no issues to lay on those praises, to speak so gently about the coffee-hued flower just beginning to bud. The little lamb that didn't mind spending time with the lion. Did Thomasin know, know at all, how much these precious moments would be held in the highest regard within the pale dame's mind? These weren't moments she would just forget . . . even when Thomasin finally realized she was better off running away. These conversations would be replayed. Yet . . . why was Thomasin still here? Every moment, every second that turned into another minute where they were sharing company had Valan finding less, and less stable ground. Thomasin had seen her fangs, had learned the truth, had cried in fear. Why was she still here? Didn't she realize that Valan was a threat? A monster that could rip into her delicate skin. Could turn those delightfully soft colors of her pelt red with blood. Could tear her into pieces before anyone had any idea that a monster was feasting.
Why hadn't she left yet?
So she clung, she clung to the interactions, the conversation, allowing it to flow, to let the commentary continue, but this time . . . Valan offered a gift she hadn't given in such a long time. She offered her name. Her real name. Not the nickname she had used for so long. Saying those old words, a house, a family name forgotten to time, her own name not remembered in history except as an unfortunate victim to a tyrants desire for a crown. Forgotten, just as she; herself, so often was. And like this conversation, like this continued interaction, she gifted it to Thomasin, praying the little mare wouldn't cast the gift aside. She repeats that old name, and Valan's ears perk, listening to the way it fell from the other's lips. Had her name always sounded that . . . that enticing, unforgettable, delectable? Or was it that it came from the mouth of a lamb?
The curtsy was just as much about culture as it was about distracting herself from the way Thomasin had said her name - or she may beg her to say it again. And then the little mare said a title Valan hadn't heard in so, so long, and her head jolts up so quickly, all grace is lost in the extremely mortal motion, her eyes wide, shocked. She watched the other bend, but Thomasin's eyes never leave Valan, her expression soft, that playful whisper and Valan finds herself responding in kind, "I did marry a king, if only for a night; perhaps you should try 'Your Majesty."" Her tone was painful, but there was a brief flash of anger, pain, hatred at the mention of her marriage. Proof of how troubling that entire situation had been. The pain of losing her beloved gardener, her sweetest Rafie had yet to fully leave her.
So she clung onto everything Thomasin offered to allow her mind to keep moving, to not ponder, to not regret. And it was so easy to let herself get lost when those pale grey eyes, like the calming of a storm; met her own pale gaze. It made her ponder what Thomasin saw, what she was looking for. If she knew what to look for. Pale rose eyes compared to when her eyes grew darker, a deep magenta, or when they turned black with rage or hunger. And then she offered the sweetest of boons to the ageless being, and the vampire was eager to clasp the offering close to her chest. Thomasin was willing to keep her company. But the offer of as long as she would have her had a wayward pausing thought of how long could she keep her.
She shook such foolish thoughts away. Friends were made gently, not by possession. And she certainly had no right trying to take possession of the little mare who deserved so much more. So, she let herself be distracted by the question posed, and Valan grew thoughtful, even as she gently lowered herself to the ground, limbs folding beneath her, wild curls spreading across the ground, and a slight smile touching her face, warming the shadows from her eyes. She turns that bright, pure expression to Thomasin, "Life." She admits, "Or I do . . . When I dream, it's my memories. Going back in time, to my youth. Running around the gardens with Rafie as we avoided our parents and guardians." She sighed softly, gently, her muzzle reaching down to gently nuzzle her roses again, "I miss those gardens. They were burnt the night I died . . . or, almost died? I'm still not sure how to classify the situation." Her gaze softens, a melancholy expression at the memory as she breaths in the soft scent of those roses clinging to her pelt, "Rosario, I believe, is the last bit left of that garden." She added gently, her gaze on the dormant and unresponsive rose vines before looking back up at Thomasin, and adding, "Mis-, Er, I apologize; old habits; Thomasin . . . please, feel free to ask me anything. Provided, I may ask questions about yourself in return."
Her gaze was curious, turning towards the little mare, even as she kept her gaze soft, gentle; reassuring, "Might I enquire about . . . the garden in your chest? I've just . . . never heard of such a situation before." And she wanted to know why, what should be an open wound, did not entice her hunger, but instead enticed her curiosity.
@Thomasin
for goodness sake
where is my self control?
if home is where my heart is
then my heart has lost all hope
where is my self control?
if home is where my heart is
then my heart has lost all hope
