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Post by Amandine Rossi on Nov 16, 2009 6:26:45 GMT -5
At times she felt controlled by an intangible force, her mind trapped within this body, her consciousness becoming a forced spectator. Tonight was the anniversary of her death and rebirth, and it was this evening that she planned to end this possession. As all the other girls in the circle, Amandine did not truly believe in any of it, finding herself attracted by the possibility of there being some supernatural force within her that she could tap into with a few incantations. She had never been one to believe in miracles or deities, but when being the living proof of an unexplained miracle, her beliefs were shaken to the core. For the most part, she ignored these urges to invest time into it all, but the occasional trip to the cemetery down the road helped her cope somehow or another.
Alice had come home minutes after the sun had set, returning to a full house. The other two members, Jennifer and Iris, had arrived within the hour, and had each brought their designated items. Amandine was ready, her hair tightly tied back into a high bun, face uncovered by make-up and creams, and her slender form suited in fitted, black clothing. She wore leggings and knee-high boots, an oversized sweatshirt hiding the three layers of tank top, t-shirt, and thin sweater she wore above. In her hand, a plain messenger bag made out of cloth, its contents a variety of items often associated with these kinds of rituals.
An hour after sunset, the girls ventured out of the apartment, all wearing scarves and dark clothing. Amandine and Alice led the way, far more acquainted with the area they were destined towards. It took an other hour to set up once they arrived, repetitive snapping of wood echoing within the misty field. The bonfire was circled by a myriad of objects, amongst them: metal, stone and obsidian tools. Iris initiated the meeting by pouring water from a bottle into the tarnished cup they brought to every meeting. Lighted only by the fire, the girls passed the cup around, each using a sharp shard of obsidian to cut their flesh in order to offer four drops of their blood to their sisters. As a bystander, Amandine had found these rituals amusing, but once a participant, it was amazing how seriously the role was taken on.
The cup was emptied and set aside. A few reassuring glances, and Amandine reached for a frayed hardcover she’d found in a shop a few weeks prior. Stepping closer to the fire, her features illuminated by the flickering flames, she opened the page marked with a leaf. She cast a last glance at Alice before licking her lips and reading the words out-loud: Jam tibi impero et præcipio maligne spiritus! ut confestim allata et circulo discedas, absque omni strepito, terrore, clamore et foetore, asque sine omni damno mei tam animæ quam corporis, absque omni læsione cujuscunque creaturæ vel rei; et ad locum a justissimo tibi deputatum in momento et ictu oculi abeas; et hinc proripias. [/I] None of them were attaining perfection, so when Amandine stumbled upon a few words, no one opened their eyes to acknowledge it. Latin was a dead language, and this was all a sham. Or so they had all thought. The heavy book fell to the ground with a loud thud, and it was only then that the other three women opened their eyes. The redhead’s hands remained as if they were still cradling the book, but her fingers were shaking. A chocked shriek was all she managed as her body was flung backwards at an incredible speed. A cloud of dirt gathered around her as her body collided with an aged tree trunk and then collapsed onto the floor. Iris grabbed as much of the tools as she could in one hand, reaching for Alice’s arm with the other. Jennifer kept still, staring across the violent flames in Amandine’s direction, panicking. It didn’t matter how concerned they were for Amandine, for as soon as the fire burned black and disappeared, the three females ran for the cemetery's entrance. A distant howl echoed beyond the perimeter, bare tree branches crackling overhead as a chilled breeze blew strong. A strong stench of sulphur lingered in the air, the dense mist capturing every single atom of it. It was only when Amandine stirred, that the bonfire's flames combusted back into existence. Translation Now I command and charge you, O evil spirit! that you immediately depart from the circle, abstaining from all noise, terror, tumult, and stench, and if you refuse I will damn you both in body and soul. And abstain from harming any creature or thing, and depart immediately to the place which justice has appointed for you. Depart from my sight and flee from here.[/justify]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Nov 16, 2009 8:43:27 GMT -5
As soon as he woke up Tarquin showered and dressed. There were no rituals he followed; no reason to brush his teeth, to make breakfast (or dinner, seeing as it was that time of night). Being completely unaccustomed to modern technology, he felt no need to flick on the television or the laptop that Rima had insisted he buy. No, there was nothing in the house to distract him or keep him occupied.
Instead, he retraced his own scent from the night before. It had vanished, of course, but he liked to think that he could follow his own scent. The sun and the day’s traffic had killed it completely. But he followed the path back to the red-head’s apartment. He had no idea what her schedule was, and he had no idea whether she’d be home, and if she wasn’t, when she’d be coming back. But he was bored, and this was all he had to entertain himself. For the moment.
He was dressed in patent leather shoes, dark slacks, a plain white, button-up tee and a short, black faux-military style blazer. He has his hands shoved into his pockets as he walked. As soon as he rounded the corner onto the red-head’s street, he immediately ducked back again—she was right there, with a bunch of friends. Tarquin frowned. He had no interest in her friends; he’d have preferred that she was alone, that she had no friends.
Of course that was incredibly selfish of him.
But he followed her anyway, curious to see what the group was up to. When they reached the cemetery, he only became more confused. What business could they possibly have in the cemetery? They lit the fire, and Tarquin lingered just outside of its reach, crouching down at the edge of the circle of light in the shadow of two trees to listen.
He wanted to laugh and be concerned at the same time. Laugh, because her Latin was absurdly awful. At first he was excited, thinking that she could speak his native language. But she clung to that book and read from it, and was horrible at the pronunciation. She did not speak his language, and he wanted to laugh at her attempt, wanted to step up beside her and correct her mistakes.
But he was concerned for what she was trying to say. A demon? She thought she had a demon in her? Tarquin had seen many things in his lifetime, so he wasn’t past believing it. But he wondered...
What happened next cut Tarquin’s wondering short. It didn’t matter whether he believed in it or not; the incantation did something, and he was on his feet in an instant. The red-head was flung violently against a tree, and as soon as the fire went out, her friends fled the scene. Tarquin had the urge to chase after them and force them to return—what kind of friends were they, that they should abandon one of their own so readily? Is this what the world had come to? Had everyone been infected with cowardice?
Tarquin took a few moments to let his adjust to the darkness, within which they could see perfectly, like in-built night vision. Long strides took him toward the red-head. He crouched beside her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face and placing a hand on her shoulder to gently shake her. Excito sursum He mumbled, slipping back to his native tongue simply because he’d heard someone else speak it.
A little louder, this time, “Wake up.” He was blunt about it, but he didn’t quite know what else to do.
After a while, she finally began to stir. Although the sudden flaring of the fire startled Tarquin, he remained steadfast. He glanced toward the light, but found nothing untoward; he returned his attention to the red-head, his hand still resting upon her shoulder.
“Are you hurt?”
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Nov 18, 2009 0:19:34 GMT -5
The previous night she’d been walked home by a stranger, a stranger whom she had stolen from. In her right mind Amandine would never have dared, let alone accept such a wanton offer, and yet last night she had potentially set herself up for something terrible to happen. It wasn’t the first time she’d been so keen on taking chances either. It was as if some voice within urged her to push onwards, convincing her that she would be protected from harm, just as she had been on the night of the accident. This time however, it rendered her far more uncomfortable than she’d ever been before. There was something haunting about the stranger that she simply could not get away from, nor could she put her finger on it.
Wake up
Amandine was startled out of her unconscious state by strange visions, fire and pitch, unending darkness. Hell. It was the same image that had startled her awake this afternoon, and it was an image that had crossed her mind various times before too. She just couldn’t remember the past well enough to find some sort of pattern, and yet she was certain there was something about this recurrent nightmare that held a hidden truth or warning, but definitely something. Gasping for air, the redhead jumped into a seated position, eyes wide as she stared beyond the shadowed face before her. She felt his presence and yet she couldn’t focus on anything other than the fire behind him.
It was gorgeous.
Are you hurt?
And he was in her way. In its way.
Her lips began to stretch into a smile, but it was clearly not her smile. This wasn’t Amandine, it was too cruel of a sneer to match her soft features. Furthermore, a human who had suffered such an impact would not be this delighted. Slapping away the hand on her shoulder with her forearm, the redhead crawled onto all fours before rising to her feet. Completely cut off from the world, she tilted her head as she gazed into the flames.
Whispering.
She could hear whispering, but she couldn’t understand the words. Furrowing her brow, Amandine approached the fire, stretching her right hand towards the heated flames. Her lips moved to mimic the sounds, her words a mere whisper: “Nemo liber est qui corpori servit...”
That’s what the whispering was, but what did it mean? She leaned in closer, falling to her knees as she tried to understand the meaning of what she was being told. Luckily her hair was tightly tied back, or else it would have already caught on fire given the deadly proximity. Closing her eyes, she sighed, steadily reaching for the flame with an open palm.
Translation "One who is slave to his body is not free." Conversly, "No one is free who is a slave to his body."
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Post by Quin Contiello on Nov 23, 2009 21:58:39 GMT -5
The girl finally woke, though she did so with a start. Tarquin doubted that it was his urgings that had woken her, but instead wondered whether something else was afoot. She did not even seem to see him, slapping his hand away so that she could crawl toward the fire. The expression that had twisted across her soft features was one of pure evil—Tarquin had nothing against pure evil, even though he didn’t consider himself a purist. Really, he didn’t believe anyone could be pure evil. Things weren’t ever so black and white.
But that expression on her face...it didn’t bode well for anybody.
The word demon was one often flung around by their kind. In fact, he and Rima had had a rather engaging conversation one night; neither one of them had taken a particular side, but Tarquin was curious, and Rima was more than happy to argue the basics. There were vampires who believed they were demons and destined for hell after death. Of course, this was not something Tarquin prescribed too because he’d skipped the whole Catholic/Christian uprising. He’d long ago stopped believing in any kind of higher power. There were humans, too, who believed vampires were demons. This Tarquin disregarded, however. Humans did not have the knowledge that Tarquin and his contemporaries had; they did not know, for sure, that vampires still had morals, a conscience; they still adhered to their own thoughts and actions. They were not controlled by anyone or anything. Or, well perhaps some of them were controlled by their want for blood.
That started a whole different conversation.
But in the end Tarquin had to sit back and wonder; if vampires and werewolves existed, why shouldn’t other supernatural beings exist too? It didn’t matter if vampires were or were not demons. Demons could exist in their own right.
Tarquin couldn’t help but wonder whether that conversation had been heard by the fates; they’d heard it, and decided to throw this situation in his path, just to prove him right. Demons. Is that what was going on here?
Tarquin stood, slowly stepping toward the girl and the fire. They suited each other—her with her violent red hair. It was mesmerizing to watch. It was only when she started whispering in perfect Latin that Tarquin concluded that there was definitely something untoward happening. Her Latin had been atrocious before, and she’d been reading. Now, she had nothing in front of her, and was speaking it perfectly.
She was getting dangerously close to the fire, and if it was not the girl who was in control of her own body, Tarquin felt obligated to take care of it for her. So he reached forward, grasped her by the shoulder and flung her away from the flames. He stood in between the red-head and the flames.
Quisnam es vos? He asked, Quare operor vos cruciatus insons insontis? As if he really had the right to ask—he was not guiltless of torturing the innocent. He just didn’t want this one to be harmed.
Translation: “Who are you?” “Why do you torture the innocent?”
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Nov 26, 2009 1:40:19 GMT -5
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Post by Quin Contiello on Nov 29, 2009 22:43:46 GMT -5
The red-head, or whatever possessed her body, didn’t answer Tarquin. She seemed far too preoccupied with her own body and its injuries. Tarquin frowned as he watched, and waited. He kept his mouth shut; either waiting for an answer or a reaction to his presence.
The reaction he did receive, however, was not one that he was expecting. He was confused by her sudden fear of him. It was incomprehensible, to begin with. His jaw fell slack as he watched her try, and fail, to scramble away from him. It wasn’t a reaction that he wasn’t completely unaccustomed to. Sure, he’d been met with fear before, though he usually tried to seduce his victims rather than scaring the wits out of them. But the fear didn’t fit in this situation. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was the good guy, at least for now. He was a demon, though he was a completely different kind.
Tarquin’s mouth snapped shut as he realised, of finally assumed, what she was afraid of.
She had no memory of what had just passed. All she knew was that she was in a slight amount of pain, and something untoward had happened to her body while she was blacked out. There was no one else around but him, and he’d not given her the safest impression of himself.
He couldn’t help but be the slightest bit offended, however. It was she who’d come here, who’d made this fire and tried to expel a demon from her body with poor Latin. Didn’t that mean she at least believed in the possibility of possession? Did she not stop to think that maybe that had something o do with her current state of being?
But the offense was fleeting. She was out of sorts. It was understandable that she wasn’t thinking straight.
She wasn’t going anywhere very fast, and Tarquin knew he’d be able to catch up if she finally did find her feet. So he simply remained still, pushing his hands into his pockets as he cocked his head to the side to contemplate her. He would have stepped forward to help her up, but that would have only startled her, made her all the more frantic. And there was nothing Tarquin loathed more than unnecessary shrieking.
“I did not do this to you, you did it to yourself.” he told her, matter-of-fact.
“And if I were you, I would search for different friends.” he said, glancing around at the abandoned clearing.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Nov 30, 2009 21:28:05 GMT -5
“Sure I did!” she nearly barked at him as she stumbled onto her feet, finally straightening up, though still very unstable. As he mentioned her friends, Amandine looked up only to notice she was alone, alone with him. She felt a shudder run up her spine as she glanced back at him—so, so bloody composed. Huffing indignantly, she stumbled a few feet away from him, to the side where the book lay open on the ground, facedown. Her eyes scanned the grounds, lips pressed into a thin line as she evaluated the situation. There were many disturbing aspects about these circumstances, but she couldn’t prioritize any over another. Immediately she assumed he had done something with them, her friends. There was nothing creepier than to be stalked, and she assumed it was what was happening, for there should have been no reason for the two of them to meet again. Then again, the realization that the incantation had done something for she was indeed possessed, or perhaps simply mentally ill, was scarier. Taking a deep breath, she reached down for the heavy book with both hands, nearly toppling over as she did. Albeit fearing what consequences she had yet to face, Amandine couldn’t stop herself from flinging the tome at him.
“What did you do to them? Where are they!?” Amandine visibly shuddered, but she ignored the fear that was hardening her muscles. Leaning down once more, this time she grasped a handful of dirt, flinging it in his direction. The chilled breeze caught the speckles however, blowing them into the fluttering flames, causing them to ignite. Using the back of her soiled hand, the redhead pushed the stray locks that were slipping out of her loosened chignon.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 9, 2009 6:35:35 GMT -5
Tarquin needed only to lean to the side slightly in order to avoid being bashed with large book. It landed with a ‘thud’ on the ground not too far from him. Still, Tarquin didn’t move. He felt no need to either get closer to her (although he wanted to) or to run get further away from her. So he continued to just stand, hands in pockets, amused by her paltry attempt at getting rid of him.
The corners of his lips curled into a smile that echoed his amusement, and perhaps gave away some indication of his penchant for mischief, too. Now that the girl had got her own personality back, and that she seemed well enough to throw a book at him, he was able to calm himself and retreat back into his indifferent posture.
“I assure you, I did nothing to your friends.” he said, then shrugged. “You will soon see that I am telling the truth.” It was a given fact. She’d return home, return to her life, and she’d find that her friends were unharmed. He wondered whether, after the red-head was assured of their safety, they’d still be her friends. And, as he spoke, he reached down to pick up the book of ‘spells’ from the ground, remaining crouched at the red-head’s level as he idly flicked through it.
It was all written in perfect Latin, and he wondered where the girl found such an item. The topics within were intriguing, to say the least.
“It is maybe a good thing that they ran away. Your bad Latin...it could have damaged them.” He said, eyes narrowed as his smirk broadened. He was teasing her, making fun of her poor attempt at an incantation. Perhaps if it was uttered by a professional, it may very well have worked. He honestly didn’t know, but he was having fun at her expense.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 9, 2009 19:30:10 GMT -5
[/u]![/b] And he was laughing, laughing at her. If he wasn’t going to give her answers, then at least he’d give her the satisfaction of being her punching bag. “What the fuck are you laughing at, Versace?” She flung her phone at him before stomping in his direction, fire in her eyes. Her fists clenched at her side, and she did not show any hesitation as she jumped on him. Sure, they could both fall, and her knees would hurt like hell, but at least he’d go down first. Her left hand curled against the collar of his shirt as hoisted herself up, slamming her forehead straight into his as her legs wrapped around his hips. [/ul][/justify]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 9, 2009 19:59:19 GMT -5
Tarquin didn’t know who Versace was, or why she should be calling him such a name. Nor did he have much time to figure it out, as yet another object was flung at him from out of the gloom. This time Tarquin did not dodge the object, as it was small enough to catch. He’d not had much experience with mobile phones, and he didn’t own one himself. But he knew enough from experience to know that she’d probably regret breaking the thing.
Movement in the corner of his eye made him aware of her approach, but he was not prepared for what she attempted next. He could only conclude that she’d run out of objects to throw at him, and so contented herself with throwing her whole body.
Well, hell, Tarquin didn’t mind. He’d been eyeing that body off since she’d first run into him with it. She obviously didn’t realise that she actually giving Tarquin exactly what he wanted, though she was doing it in a rather vicious fashion.
As her body impacted his, he stumbled backward a couple of steps but otherwise kept his balance. He cursed in Latin as her forehead collided with his, though only from shock, not from pain. There was only a dull ache before any semblance of pain vanished. His tapered fingers curled around her leg, holding her in place as he tilted his head back to get a proper look at her.
“That was foolish.” He stated, tut-tutting as he shook his head shortly from side to side. “You have made yourself bleed.” He continued, a completely different fire flashing behind his eyes as the scent of her blood suddenly overwhelmed him. There was something so different about it; like it could be liquid fire, like it could be some kind of drug, some kind of aphrodisiac that he couldn’t rightly resist.
And resist he didn’t. He just had to know whether that blood tasted as good as it smelled. He took his free hand and tenderly wiped his thumb over the blood spilling from her nose; he made no move to shove her off of him. Having her this close only fuelled his blood-lust, made him want her more. And it was not a feeling he chose to deprive himself of.
Keeping his cobalt gaze locked with hers, he took the blood-laden thumb and slid it over his lips, tongue reaching forward to taste the bright substance. For a split second, he appeared only to be a stone-cold predator, his eyes flashing a brilliant blue before reverting to their ordinary hue. Her blood burned its way down his throat, and he could feel it as it spread. It was like a shot of whiskey. It was more than he could have hoped for.
He wanted to drain her, right then and there, and his tightened grip on her thigh indicated as much. But he applied control, and resisted.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 9, 2009 21:07:17 GMT -5
[/i] stalked her, and he was awfully calm and expectant of her actions, that it made her wonder if this was something he typically did. If yes was the answer, then she was at a severe disadvantage—this was the first time for her. Had she entertained a killer to mark her as her next prey? Attempting to calm herself, she kept her arms stretched, fingers clutching the lapels of his coat and the collar of his shirt—she had torn the first buttons off in her haste previously. Her gaze dropped to his throat and collarbone before flicking back up to his face; his eyes were normal—had she imagined it? Licking her bloody upper lip, she dragged the blood around to her lower lip as she prepared herself to speak. “Are you going to kill me?” [/JUSTIFY][/ul]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 10, 2009 5:25:12 GMT -5
Tarquin had to give the red-head credit for remaining steadfast and not flailing and kicking like madwoman to get away from him. It’s what he would have expected from most of human kind. She didn’t seem to have any revulsion whatsoever, however, and it was refreshing. It only made her more appealing.
On any ordinary day Tarquin only half used the abilities he’d garnered over the centuries. He knew he could charm her with the full force of his charisma—it could help to cool her down. But he didn’t want to cool her down. He liked her, just the way she was. He didn’t want to directly influence her actions; he wanted to find out what she’d do without any influence at all.
Instead, he settled into a posture more attune to nature; he focused on the red-head and blocked out all else. He could smell her blood, could hear the jagged quality of her breathing, could see the vibrant colour of her hair and the way it lit up against her pale skin. And finally, in every inch of her body that touched his, he could feel the strengthening rhythm of her oh-so-human heart. She was putting on a brave front, and maybe she wasn’t struggling because she knew it was futile. She was smart, then, as well as strong. Tarquin didn’t regret his choice.
She licked her lips in such a way that the blood spilling from her nose spread across them, like some kind of enticing lipstick. In fact, even as she pulled away from him, Tarquin leant forward, as if he was going to lick that fiery liquid right off her lips. His unneeded breath mingled with hers, though his was cool against the warmth of hers. His entire body tensed as it buzzed with his want for her—he stared intently at those lips, and was disrupted from his purpose as they parted to utter a question.
Tarquin’s laugh was low and lightly sinister, and he held her that tiny bit tighter if only to cause her the tiniest amount of alarm. His face remained close to hers as his gaze shifted from her lips to lock steadfastly with her eyes.
“No. If I killed you, I would murder my entertainment.” he told her, his heavily accented tone low, seductive even. For a few moments he stayed like that, keeping her close as his eyes glanced one more time toward those luscious lips.
But then he relinquished his hold on her, allowing her feet to gain purchase upon the ground. It was a bit to get her to trust him, as much as he loathed letting her go.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 10, 2009 6:33:47 GMT -5
[/i]. Her body remembered what she had so long denied it, and despite her mind’s apprehension, submitted itself to his actions. Her lips parted once more in preparation to speak, but snapped shut as his intent gaze focused on her mouth once more. She watched him warily, realizing he was far handsomer than she had previously assumed. Oh no, this was not right—this man was dangerous. Danger was appealing. No, no it wasn’t. Curling her fingernails into the palms of her hand, Amandine looked away, glancing down only to realize he was supporting her weight with surprising ease. Before she knew it, her feet touched the ground. She did not run. Backing a few steps away from him, the redhead maintained eye contact as she wiped her nose with her sleeve. If she tried to run now, would he let her go? Or was he hoping she’d run just so he could feel the adrenaline rush from chasing his prey? Whatever it was that he said, she didn’t believe him. Entertainment or not (whatever that meant), Amandine was far too aware that he had stalked her—and that bothered her in itself. Narrowing her eyes, she crouched to pick up the hardcover book, keeping her gaze fixed on him. Once she clutched the book to her chest, she stared at him for a few seconds in silence. Without the slightest change in her expression, she turned her back to him, and made her way to her bag. She glanced over her shoulder at the fire, the pull she felt towards it still tugging at the back of her mind as she stuffed the book into the bag. Turning to face the direction of her destination, Amandine briefly glanced at the stranger as she hoisted the strap over her shoulder. Sighing, she turned her back to him and walked away. [/ul][/justify]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 10, 2009 7:00:44 GMT -5
She still did not trust him. Of that he was absolutely certain. But at least she’d stopped throwing inanimate objects and accusations at him. Though he wondered, idly, whether he preferred it the other way around. Her cold silence was not entertaining, and though it was probably a good thing that it calmed the lust he’d so recently been privy to, it was not something he wanted to let go.
Being awake after sleeping for such a long time, Tarquin had found that his indifference to things had grown. It had enveloped his heart and mind so that they were not receptive to the ordinary human emotions. The only things that ever seemed to get a rise out of him were sudden memories of Antonia and Decimus...
And, as he’d only just discovered, the fiery red-head who’d now started to walk away from him.
There was nothing he could do but follow her. How could he let her go, when in this modern world she was the only person who’d yet made him truly feel something? Sure, he was fond of Kali, of Rima, and even of Julian Moore. They were friends to him, and they kept him sane. But he’d not felt any kind of lust for them. They had not yet been in any kind of danger, so he did not yet know that he would risk his own life for them. It was a horrid thought, but it was the kind of man Tarquin had become.
And he couldn’t let her go. One day, she might understand. At least, he hoped they’d soon come to some kind of understanding. Even now, in the darkest recesses of his mind, he was scheming. He couldn’t let her go, and there was only one way he could think of making her stay. Forever.
As he passed by the still-burning fire, he kicked a lump of dirt into the flames. It dulled them enough. The flame would go out easily enough on its own.
With Tarquin’s long strides, it did not take much for him to catch up to the red-head.
“I know where you live. I know you like to take money from strangers. I know you like to...light fires in grave yards. You could tell it to me, your name.” He shrugged, “I will find it, soon enough.” He said, his head rolling as he considered the thought, before adding “I could just call you ‘Red’.” The latter part he mumbled mainly to himself. It didn’t really bother him, either way. He would find out her name, sooner or later. He was curious to know it now.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 10, 2009 7:23:42 GMT -5
[/i]. When he said this, she let out a musical laugh, turning her face away from him to regain her composure before she looked at him. How could she have been so forgetful!? Of course! She had stolen from him, and surely his behaviour last and this night were merely attempts at scaring her—and what a terrific job he had done. Clearing her throat, she smiled knowingly at him, not saying a thing as he suggested a nickname for her. Licking her lower lip, she shook her head to herself, “That’s not very original... Versace,” she added, feeling the need to use something to balance her sentence. She could have used his name, but it was elusive. He had given her his name, had he not? It was something rather original, or at least she thought it was. Was she just thinking about her own name? Inhaling deeply and exhaling loudly, Amandine rearranged her bag. [/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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