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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 20, 2010 12:44:57 GMT -5
[/i]:[/B] [0] ♫ Für Elise ♫ 1st mvt. → 2nd mvt. → 3rd mvt. [Moonlight] ♫ 1st mvt. → 2nd mvt. → 3rd mvt. [Tempest][/size][/ul] There was nothing familiar about this place which frustrated her greatly as she roamed directionless through the house. Her heels clicked against the floor as she wandered in and out of rooms, opening every door, closet, and cupboard she came across. Amandine had always been curious, just about anything, though today her prying was motivated by a general lack of understanding regarding her surroundings, the owner, and ultimately, herself. There were no answers to be found, and the books she did come across were written in Latin—a dead tongue he had previously mocked her for not speaking. The redhead could only assume Tarquin was a well-educated man, and a man of means as well, for the extravagance of the home suggested a great fortune had been invested in it. Then there was also the matter of his clothes, which she had considered to be merely a façade of wealth, but turned out to simply be a sign of affluence. Her nose scrunched up as she thought of his selfish disposition however, and all thoughts pertaining to him were duly set aside. In her quest to disregard her persistent thoughts, she delved further into her search, prying through every nook and cranny until she came upon the ample room.
Furrowing her brow, she remained at the entrance of the room as she tried to comprehend the reason for having such an open layout. This room housed everything from a dinning room table, to lavish couches, and a piano! There was surely more to explore for the room itself extended past two rounded corners, but Amandine was more concerned with turning on the lamp nestled by the piano forte. She prodded the inside of her cheek with her tongue, gazing down at the instrument before running her hand over its wooden carcass; her fingers picked up quite a bit of dust, which caused her to really look at her surroundings and realize they were unkempt. Dust did accumulate fast, sometimes even in a manner of hours, but this was rather a discomforting sight. Inhaling deeply, a habit she would perhaps never overcome, Amandine cracked open the lid and gazed at the ivory keys. She could only hope the piano itself was maintained, for now that she had laid eyes upon it, it would be her sole source of comfort.
Slipping around the instrument’s curved end, she pushed the lid open with surprising ease, and then set it up into its customary elevated position. Her heels clicked noisily as she paced back to the keys, dragging the stool aside before reaching for a few tentative notes. It was tuned! Amandine’s lips drew up into a smile as she set her second hand upon the keys, one leg extending forward towards the right pedal. Without consideration towards Tarquin’s (or anyone else who may be in the house unbeknownst to her) slumbering state, she began to play... Five minutes turned into ten, and as she found much needed comfort in the melodies her playing became far more akin to a professional player when she came upon the 3rd mvt of the Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven was her favourite composer, and she would play for the entire repertoire she housed in her mind.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 21, 2010 1:31:50 GMT -5
As soon as he’d hit the bed Tarquin had fallen into the deepest of slumbers.
His door was left open. Amandine’s scream had awoken him. If anything else untoward happened—if she came into the room with the intent of bloody murder, he was certain that, although his reaction might be slow, it would not be hopeless. It was better to risk Amandine’s anger than to make her feel as if she was not welcome in his room. As far as he was concerned, she was welcome anywhere. She was welcome to make this place her own home. He would place no boundaries. But he could not garner the energy to deal with her anger.
So he slept.
And although his sleep was not restless, it was filled with images of his past. The grit and blood of the gladiatorial circle. The sweat that clung to both his body and that of his opponents—they glistened like warrior gods in the afternoon sun. It beat down upon them, burning them, draining them of their energy and their will to keep going. He remembered the resistance of the blade against the armour, and the contrast apparent when the harsh metal finally found skin that it could damage. It was like a hot knife through butter. The blood, then, had held nothing of the appeal it did not. The blood, then, was only a symbol of death. It was only horrific to witness the blood of others because, one day, it could very well be his own.
Oh, how naive he had been. How ignorant of the world. It had been so small. And now it was too large.
When he stirred again, it was night time. He did not feel as lethargic as he had during the day, but his energy was still drained. He needed to feed in order to regain it. But he knew he had to try to deal with it, at least for a little while. He assumed he’d have to deal with Amandine first. She, too, would need to feed, whether she liked it or not.
He rolled from the comfort of his bed, resisting the urge to simply fall back into the comfort of the woollen quilt. He was still clean, from the night before. He knew he should dress, so that he was ready to go out. But he was going to take his time doing it. He reached for the black silk dressing gown that hung over the chair at the side of his bed, pulling his arms through the sleeves lazily.
From down below he could hear the piano. He’d been aware of the noise as soon as he’d opened his eyes. Amandine was home, then. She’d not run off. Tarquin didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Of course he was relieved. He brought his hand to his temple, rubbing idly at the ache there; she was his childe. He did not want anything bad to happen to her. And something bad was bound to happen if she slinked off into the night on her own.
But he could not approach her. He’d explained himself to her. She’d told him exactly how she felt about the whole situation. They were at a stale mate. And Tarquin believed that she would have to come to him; if he went to her, there was a good chance he’d do so before she was ready to speak to him again. And that might very well provoke her anger again.
Besides, the music was soothing. It filtered into his mind and relaxed his muscles. He did not want it to stop just yet.
So he sauntered toward his closet, idly sifting through his clothes to find something suitable for the evening.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 21, 2010 2:21:55 GMT -5
Amandine did not keep track of time as her fingers glided along the ivory shore of the instrument, her repertoire extensive enough to keep her there for three full hours. Every great master had been honoured, from Chopin to every other Bach, and ultimately the piece de resistance, the final tune, by Schumann. Despite the persistence with which she played, her muscles did it not ache as she would have expected after so long a run, but her mind was indeed weary. The redhead could not find it within in her to continue into the second movement; instead she withdrew her hands from the keys and allowed them to rest upon her lap. Closing her eyes, she tried to ease her weary mind, though she found the fatigue much too unrelenting to gain any sort of comfort in the silence. Surely some fresh air would do some good in alleviating the headache, but given her previous attempt, she doubted much good would come from a second trial.
Her brow furrowed as she heard sounds coming from above. She listened in hopes of determining what they were exactly, but knew fully well what they meant. Tarquin. Heaving a sigh, Amandine’s posture took on a dramatic slouch as she opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling; surely this was an expected occurrence she had not considered. Hesitantly, the redhead closed the lid over the keys and stood slowly, losing any sense of comfort she may have harvested during her solitary afternoon. Albeit her theatrical departure earlier, surely it should be him who would approach her now, for this was all his doing and his alone. Lest she fidget, her palms set upon the front of her dress and smoothed the supple cloth as she stepped away from the piano.
Inhaling shakily, she let out a shuddered breath before hesitantly reaching towards a heavy curtain and pulling it back. Her arms were still littered by angry red marks, though luckily the shallowest burns were now but vividly pink, contrasting less visibly against her pale skin. Snapping her hand away lest she get it burned by the sun, Amandine watched the heavy material of the curtains sway due to the force she exerted on them. There was no harsh light. Furrowing her brow, she reached for the curtain once more, pulling it towards her as she leaned away from the opening. Still no light. Tentatively, she reached her free hand towards the gap, only to remove it prematurely in fear of being burned once more. No pain.
The realization dawned upon her with such tardiness that she chuckled at her sluggish thought processes and tore the curtains wide open. Her heels clicked against the floor as she unhooked the window’s lock and pushed the thick glass doors outwards. The moisture in the night air clung to her skin, cooling her features. The chilled breeze was a welcome breath of fresh air which made her realize how truly stale the air within had been. The female leaned into the wall at the opening and marvelled at the night quietly, well aware of the noise upstairs. Whether it was the prospect of freedom or the realization that the world still existed beyond the walls of this foreign house, Amandine found some solance.
Pushing herself off the doorframe, she crossed her arms over her chest and stepped out onto the gravel. With one hand clasping her ribs whilst the other grasped her shoulder, Amandine followed the shale path that rounded the back of the house. The silver crest of the moon was barely visible in the night sky due to the heavy light pollution from the city’s centre a few miles south. Sighing, she walked towards the dry fountain, gravel crunching noisily beneath the heel of her boots. Surely this was a form of avoidance, but she would not allow her anxiety in regards to Tarquin to eat away at her, not now. Closing her eyes, she stood with her back to the house, lost amongst the green overgrowth—the world had not changed perhaps, but it felt different.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 23, 2010 6:04:57 GMT -5
The music abruptly stopped just as Tarquin was pulling on a long sleeved, red button-up shirt. For the moment it remained unbuttoned, however. It was a struggle, even, to remain within his jeans. The material was constricting, and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe in it. The clothes of this century took some getting used to. If he could, he’d wander the streets in a toga, though he doubted he’d be accepted as sane if he were to do as much. Whatever the case, he remained as free of cloth as possible when in the house. He only dressed for public when he went out. Anyone who lived in the house... well, they’d just have to get used to it.
But because Tarquin planned to go out, he at least dressed accordingly. He did not plan on coming back upstairs, so he had to make sure he had the essentials.
The shoes were at the front door. That was one thing he might do while out in the city; find somewhere to buy shoes. He could at least wear sandals instead of those ghastly things that pinched at his toes. Surely he could find some modern version of the sandal. Surely people would not look down on him too much if he decided to wear them. Not that he was bothered much by what people chose to think of him.
Slowly, so as not to exert his energies, Tarquin sauntered down the long flight of stairs. When he reached the bottom he paused and looked about the house—what he could see of it, anyway. He could see the piano from where he stood. The lid still sat open, though Amandine no longer sat in front of it. Tarquin’s head rolled on his shoulders as he forced himself to relax, his eyes closing as he used his extra senses to locate her.
She was in the garden.
He glanced toward the front door and contemplated leaving without her. But no, that would not do.
As much as he wanted to avoid her anger, he was still infatuated. He’d had her, he’d changed her, she was now his in a certain sense of the concept. There was a good chance that he could have lost interest. But he had not. She was still his fiery goddess, and he wanted only to watch her progress.
So he followed her to the garden, silently creeping up behind her. He stood at a distance, however;
I am going into the city. I am... thirsty. If you come with me, I might choose to spoil you. He said. Of course she’d have been able to conclude that he had a lot of money beneath his fingers to spend. He had no qualms about spending it on her. She was still dressed in the same thing she’d worn the night before. He assumed she had clothes at her old home, but if she should want new one... well, he was more than willing to oblige.
There was nothing else he wished to say. He turned back toward the house, sauntering back along the path as he fingered at the front of his shirt, reluctantly pulling the buttons through their holes.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 23, 2010 6:32:12 GMT -5
Amandine glanced out of the corner of her eye as she heard him approach; she was hypersensitive to his presence. The bare muscles on her back visibly tensed beneath her pale skin, but her posture remained the same and she did not look over her shoulder as he spoke. It was only when he turned on his heel to leave that she considered his words; their meaning had been previously lost for she’d been too stress to process them. Swallowing thickly, she clenched her jaw as she glared into the dark bushes ahead. The dull ache in her temporal lobe had yet to disappear, which was the primary reason why she did not pursue him. Quite frankly his words offended her, but she was too weary to care for an argument—as far as she was concerned Tarquin was an incorrigible asshole. Sighing, the redhead gave in, glancing over her shoulder as he sauntered back the way he’d come.
It was pointless to chafe inwardly in silence. Furrowing her brow, she crossed her arms over her chest as she walked back towards the house. Once more, the heels of her boots sounded loudly against the floor as she tracked him unhurriedly. Inhaling deeply, she tried to calm herself before calling after him: What if I decide not to satiate the thirst?
She inquired in a deadpanned tone, her arms dropping to her sides as she stopped a few feet behind him. Her tresses had not been tamed since this morning, their volume heightened by the exposure to the night’s chilled breeze. Staring at him with lacklustre eyes, she reached up to wipe the tears that clung to her lower lashes. Her left eyebrow was arched dramatically as she stared at him evenly.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 23, 2010 7:04:54 GMT -5
Tarquin wasn’t surprised that she was following him. It hardly registered. The buttons were giving him grief, and even with his dexterity he could not get them to submit to his will. He had this problem every night. Why did he choose to wear these stupid things? That’s right, because it’s all that Rima had stocked his cupboard with—she said they looked good on him. Well, he now had a grasp on the city and control over his own stocks. He could damned well buy his own shirts. He’d do that. He’d buy his own shirts, and his own sandals.
The question did not catch him off guard. Although she could not see him, his head tilted back, single brow twitching as the consequences of her ignoring her thirst flashed through his mind. His jaw clenched as he remembered the gnawing, scratching, burning suffering of a neglected thirst. Not that he’d intentionally neglected his. The condition had been forced upon him. He wouldn’t wish that upon his worst enemy.
Well, that was a lie. He’d wish it upon those who’d done it to him to begin with. He’d wish it upon the hand that had severed Decimus’s head from his body. He’d wish it upon that whole clan, who’d watched Antonia die, and enjoyed it.
You will feel the worst kind of pain. It will get worse, the more you neglect it. It would not kill you, but you will feel as if you are dying—eaten from the inside out. It is the worst torture. And if you do not indulge, the monster inside of you will take over. You will slaughter without care. You will do it, because you will not have a choice. You will no longer be you.
He explained it to her very bluntly, as he did not see the point in sugar-coating it. And by this time he was at the front door, slipping his feet into those insufferable shoes and pushing his wallet into his pocket. If she had stopped following him, he trusted that her new preternatural hearing would have deciphered his words. And if not... well, she was missing out on the answer she’d asked for.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 23, 2010 14:58:22 GMT -5
Amandine did not bother closing the door behind her as she followed him, her glare burning into his broad back. Her heels sounded against the ground, announcing the quickening of her pace until she was able to leap before him, both hands on his chest to stop his movement. Looking up at him with an impertinent stare, her hands balled into fists over his clothed flesh as she assessed his expression. Is this is? You declare you had to have me, but now that you do—now that you have ruined my life—you resolve yourself to treating me like something you can overlook? Am I a joke to you? her tone was strained; it was evident she was keeping her emotions on a tight leash lest her countenance weaken the respect she commanded. I swear, Tarquin... What you described back there—the thirst? I’ll beat that by a thousand suns if you so much as dare to look down upon me like some expendable diversion, she stared up at him, one hand still fisted against him whilst the other prodded at his chest with her index finger. You wanted me, you fool. Well, guess what? You have me... she narrowed her eyes at him, there was something ominous about her visage in this darkness, the shadows accentuating the angles of her face. ... and you’ll regret it.Her demeanour surely wasn’t a positive card to bring to the table, but before she could accept to survive this hell he had brought upon her, he would have to understand that she was not expendable. Amandine’s lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze lowered to his chest, where a handful of buttons remained unbuttoned. She sighed, uncertain why she was even doing this. Her hands made their way to the hem of his shirt, where her deft fingers pushed the remaining buttons into their designated holes. Versace...The redhead recognized the brand, breathing its name out mutedly as her lips pulled into a sad smile, though they quickly reverted to their unsympathetic expression. It was only yesterday that she had introduced him to the designer, and today it seemed he took his responsibilities with far less determination than she had in regards to his style. At least she still took an interest in his clothes, the seemingly only constant in this medley of variables. I wish I had never met you. It was the only truth within herself that she could find, for her distate was smothered by her lust and her anger dampened by her dependence of him.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 24, 2010 2:00:34 GMT -5
She’d stopped him in his path, and luckily, too. There were too many precious things in that house to leave it unlocked. But they were in no hurry, and Tarquin was at least willing to indulge Amandine her words.
You misunderstand, amori. I want only to spoil you. If I were overlooking you, as you say, I would have left this house without consulting you. And I have you, because you are following me. He said, slightly amused.
The thirst... he did not believe that she could beat it. Head cricked to the side ever so slightly, his tongue drifted across his teeth, parted his mouth as if to speak the opinion. But there was stubborn independence about Amandine, and he believed that if he were to taunt her, to tell her that she could not do it, she would do her best to try in order to spite him. So he held his tongue, and did not tell her what she could and could not do. He had to give her her peace, and a way to deal with this in her own fashion.
Amandine... For the first time, he called her by her full name. He leant forward, if only to get a little closer—if she could only remember the night before and the passionate fun they had had together... it was all Tarquin needed.
I could never regret you. He stated, before turning around and heading back toward the front door in order to pull it shut and lock it. Her last statement he ignored. She may wish it, but she could not take it back. And, as cold a front as Tarquin tried to assume, he could not think of losing her. He did not want to push her in the wrong direction.
He planned to pass her, to exit through the front gate and start the trek toward the city. But when he reached Amandine again, he sighed. He placed his hands, one on each of her shoulders. He leant forward so as to be at her level, to catch her fiery eyes.
You will need guidance, and I will give it. You are more than an...object. He assured her. He was being sincere, though he had doubts as to whether she would listen to his sincerity. After a few moments, he dropped his arms and stepped toward the gate.
Now please, come. Come... and I will try to make your regret go away.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 24, 2010 2:40:28 GMT -5
Amandine caught his gaze briefly as he rested his hands upon her bare shoulders, but lowered her eyes when he paused before the word object. Her gaze flickered back to his face for a few moments as he lingered before her, his expression seemingly sincere. All she could do in the face of his earnestness was sigh, and by the time she thought of a follow up question, he had already moved past her. Moistening her lips, her fingers twitched nervously to her side as she tried to contain the anxiety she felt towards these new circumstances. Would there be any middle ground in the face of this undue change? Sighing once more, she forced herself to stand tall, arms crossing over her chest lest she continue to fidget with the superfluous material at her hips.
Turning her heel as he beckoned her, she tightened her hands into fists and pressed them into the sides of her breasts. There was no use fighting tonight, for she did not know what she was fighting against. What did she know about vampires? Well, she knew a handful of things due to popular culture, few which had already been proven true, such as the sunlight and thirst for blood. In silence, Amandine walked towards the gate, her lower lip protruding in a semblance of a pout. It was evident that she did not like the lack of power this sudden turn of tables had ensued.
Is there no way to sate the thirst without the expense of a human life?
She walked a step behind him, her heels clicking loudly as they made their way through desolate streets towards the vivid centre. In all honesty the consummation of blood did not make her stomach churn as badly as the thought of murder.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 25, 2010 3:54:51 GMT -5
Tarquin smiled as he glanced toward Amandine, slowing his pace so that he might at least walk beside her. From what he had seen of Amandine so far, he had thought that she could be a vicious killing machine, ready to take what she needed to survive with zest and no remorse. But it was his mistake for assuming too much. Just because a person was to possession by demon, didn’t mean that they themselves had a penchant for evil.
There was no doubt that Tarquin would be considered a mass murderer by now. But he did not attach any morals to his feeding. It was survival of the fittest. And he assured himself that those that he did kill were sacrificial lambs for Mars, even though he’d long since lost his fervent belief in the Gods.
Yes. You can drink the blood of animals. It is not...satisfying. You can drink small, and not kill them. You need control. Again, he glanced toward her. The latter sentence was important. Control was something that most fledglings did not have. They would find it hard to drink only small portions. But who knew? His newest lamb might surprise him and have control beyond what he could imagine.
He hadn’t had control in the beginning. But he’d been blood thirsty as a human, and he hadn’t known that he could exert control. He didn’t know that it was possible. He could do so now, if he wished. But he did not wish.
I can help, if that is how you wish to survive. He said, even with some reluctance. Those who lived by their morals had a harder time of this life than those who submitted to their higher rank. But, he assumed time would give her a way to adjust. For now, he would do what he could to ease her transition.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 25, 2010 21:25:54 GMT -5
Tarquin was being so obliging, it was discomforting. Amandine couldn’t decide whether she preferred him better earlier, when she had something to hold against him. As his pace slowed to match hers despite his longer strides, she cast a sideways glance at him and sighed. Turning her face away from him, she looked at the unfamiliar surroundings and continued in silence. The redhead had no idea where he was leading them, he had not been specific as to where in ‘the city’ he was going. Reaching up for the side of her face, she scratched her cheekbone before returning her hand into its tucked position at her chest.
What about immortality? she finally broke the silence, unable to keep to herself as the questions began to freely flow through her psyche. Amandine glanced up at him expectantly, adding before he could answer: What about the images I saw? Who were those people?
The redhead knew the images that were so reminiscent of Gladiator and Troy were not scenes from the films she had watched many years prior; there was no Crowe or Pitt. If she had been able to see his memories, had he been able to see hers? What did he see? Suddenly she felt robbed of her dignity; her mind, the darkest crevice of her person, had been infringed upon without her knowing. Could he read minds too? Could she read minds?
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 26, 2010 9:15:30 GMT -5
Tarquin had not been certain that Amandine would have seen his memories as he had seen hers. It didn’t matter much to him. At least he had a story to tell; something to explain away his actions and personality. He didn’t think he’d be explaining it all to her so soon, however, as was evidenced by his lengthy sigh. But they still had a ways to go, so there was no reason why he should not regale. At least with a little of it.
I said I was not Italian. Not...as you know Italians. I am...Roman. It was a small lie. He was not born in Rome. He was born in Corsica, but he did not remember the country he was born in nor the language he first spoke. He was raised mainly on Roman territory, worshipped the Roman Gods, spoke the Roman language, to an extent. He mixed with the Greeks, later on, but it was his Roman master who’d taught all he knew.
I was Gladiator. He said. The word was new to him, but he’d watched those films. He’d watched them with avid fascination, incredulous as to the kind of mistakes they made. His own life had never been so clean or heroic. He wasn’t inclined to think so, anyway.
The people...He did not know what people she referred to. They could have been anyone. But if she’d seen his strongest, most important memories, he could only assume she meant the people who had always been closest to his heart, and who had been torn so cruelly from it. Antonia, my sire. Decimus...our son. It was the only way he could explain how he felt about them. For all intents and purposes, Antonia had been his wife, and they’d treated Decimus as a beloved son, even if he had a wisdom and knowledge beyond his years.
And although Tarquin did not want to go any further, he did not want to explain what had happened to them, he knew it was necessary. It was information that was best told up front. Then he would never have to speak of it again. Not to Amandine.
Decimus was beheaded. Antonia bled dry and burned. He spat the words with venom in his tone, pure fury writ into his fiery eyes and solemn frown. I condemned to a century imprisonment in a poison box. But they did not come back. I wake...only months ago. He admitted, finally. His terrible secret. He was not as old or as strong as he ought to be, because really he had not lived over two thousand years. He had only lived a little over a century, maybe two. The years blended together, became like a blur.
He brought a hand up to rub at his temple, as if the memories caused him a headache.
Yes, Red, you will be immortal. I hope your immortality gives you more happiness than mine.
The streets around them were slowly changing; less upper class urban to a yuppy kind of commercialism. On their right they passed a theatre dedicated to only cult films, and across the road a vegetarian take-away shop. Soon the crowds would be bigger, and in some alley or dimly-lit cafe somewhere they would find some free spirited hippies to feed from. Maybe. Tarquin would have done it swiftly and got it over with so that his night could be spend doing other things. But now that he had Amandine with him, at least on this, her first proper night as a vampire, she could choose their dinner and their destination.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 26, 2010 15:49:30 GMT -5
Amandine kept her eyes on the sidewalk ahead, though continuously glanced sideways as he spoke. It was impossible to wrap her mind around the information his words conveyed, for there was no way that people as old as that were still around. In fact, such was the incredulity, that she wanted to scoff at him and tell him that she too was Roman; after all, all Italians were proud of their heritage, and she was no different. When he said the word Gladiator, she turned to look at him, her face void of emotion as she searched for some sign of amusement that he was unable to restrain; to her dismay, he was completely serious. His tone grew darker as he continued, and Amandine turned her eyes back on the road, not sure if she had the mental capability to understand what his words suggested.
The Roman empire had fallen centuries ago, which meant he was centuries old... it meant that she too would, or could potentially, be centuries old one day. No, that was not possible... that was impossible! Twisting her shoulders as though trying to rid herself of a slimy bug perched upon her back, Amandine grimaced as he spoke of his hopes for her. What he was saying made her so uncomfortable her own skin was making her claustrophobic. Tightening her fists until the inside of her palm ached from the imprint of nails, Amandine walked in silence for a few moments after his account had ceased. There were many more questions beginning to surface, and she had no idea which was of greater importance.
Inhaling deeply, she stretched her arms alongside her torso and tried to shake the discomfort from her limbs; it was like that dull prickling sensation one got in their legs when they had left them in one position too long. Her body was giving her grief; Amandine hoped it was merely this first taste of her new reality that gave her such an allergic reaction. The burns were healing ever so slowly, itching madly despite her amazing control over herself not to scratch. Balling her hands into fists at her sides once more, she huffed, exasperated by her inability to calm down. After a busy night and sleepless day, she felt restless, which was surely evident from her constant fidgeting.
Amandine craved a bath to soothe her mind, a change of clothes into something more flexible, and a good night’s rest. Hopefully she’d wake up tomorrow morning and realize this had all been some perturbing nightmare she had not been able to wake from. Yes, this sequence of bizarre events was surely triggered by the anxiety she felt towards her acting as Clio. The piece premiered on Friday, which was why she was so anxious surely. Furthermore, there was no reason why she would be out and about without her purse.
Gladiators, poisoned boxes, immortality—it’s way out of my league, Tarquin. she shook her head, coming to a stop at the corner of a busy street. Amandine recognized this part of town, it was a ways away from her apartment. Her denial was tangible from the words. Deep down she had an inkling this was all very real as the scent of the crowds began to heighten the itch in her throat.
You really think I am stupid enough to believe something like that? It is impossible. She turned to face him, staring up at his profile. Swallowing thickly, she couldn’t help herself but glance over at the people waiting at the corner besides them. Amandine locked eyes with the female, who quickly lowered her own gaze before mumbling something to her male partner.
She looked up at him begrudgingly as the couple walked past them to cross the street in a hurry, and so she added, distractedly, What is a sire anyways?
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 28, 2010 8:10:09 GMT -5
Tarquin huffed an aggrieved sigh. It took effort to tell her his story. It was not something he told freely or with great pleasure. It was a part of his past that he believed made him weak, and he would not weaken himself in front of any audience. But she did not believe him. It was all for nothing.
They’d come to a crossing. Such tedious things. Tarquin did not like waiting, especially when his restlessness had escalated over the last couple of minutes. How could he prove it to her? Obviously, she’d witnessed his memories. What more proof was there than that? But he had to try and look at it from her perspective. Sure, there was a lot to take in, a lot to absorb. In time, perhaps, she would understand. She would believe him. And Tarquin could be patient, yes. Patience was definitely one of his virtues.
A sire...I am a sire, now. You have made me a sire. Because I have made you, I am your sire. he told her with a frown.
It is not impossibile. You will see. He narrowed his eyes in her direction, straining his memory back to the night before. What had he seen in her memories? If he repeated them now, would she believe that what she saw was the truth? Probably not. And he did not have the energy to try to persuade her, not just yet. It didn’t matter that she did not believe him. They were still here, alive. She was still his childe, and she was still by his side. That was all that mattered.
The man across the street started flashing green, and they moved hastily across the crossing.
No, best to attend to the matters at hand first. He would be far less irritable once he’d fed. He didn’t believe the feeding process would be as smooth tonight as it usually was, but he wanted to get it out of the way.
The humans, they are appealing to you, no? You must feed from them. You choose. he said, leaning in close to Amandine to mumble directly in her ear so as to keep their conversation from the humans at hand. Yes, it was forward. To expect her to choose was probably not wise. But she had to learn, sooner or later. And she’d fed so naturally the night before, directly after her turning. If she just gave in to her instincts, she would do fine.
But she had to take that step first. And with the way she was speaking, Tarquin doubted her ability. But he would give her the chance, even if she frustrated him.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 29, 2010 1:56:03 GMT -5
Having been exposed to the words of Anne Rice, she understood what he meant, though the terminology he used was foreign; it was surely one of those details that had never been considered important and thus been overlooked. Amandine walked across the intersection in silence, glance sliding along the length of bodies as they made their way past her when he asked about their effect on her. She refused to believe she was weak enough to cede to his goading, but he was right; the humans caused that prickle in her throat to worsen. Clearing her throat, she dug her nails into her bare skin, causing it to lighten further under the pressure. The redhead could sense his reservation, and it annoyed her greatly... she had this innate need to aggravate him. Si fueris Romae, Romano vivitomore; she recited to him in Latin, offering him a spiteful smile. He may think her Latin was bad, but at least she wasn’t completely ignorant. As soon as she glanced back at the road ahead of them, her lips pressed together into a thin line. She too was Roman, but clearly her culture was not interesting enough for him to bother learning. Did he go around telling everyone he had been locked in a poisonous box and was from centuries old? If so, she wished he had told her earlier, at least she would have been more adamant about giving him a wide berth. Allora, show me, Coraggioso stallone she released one arm and waved it ahead of them to further the grandeur of her words, Show me how to vici what I veni to vidi... You are after all my sireUnless he knew the English meaning of the word, he may not catch the scornful gist of her sentence; yet the mocking tone would surely tip him off. Returning her hand to her chest, she fell back a few steps, expecting him to lead the show. The extent of her annoyance was unprecedented, even for her. [/i] Si fueris Romae, Romano vivitomore {When in Rome, do as Romans do} // Italian Allora {well then, so} // Italian Coraggioso stallone {brave stallion} // Latin Veni {I came}, vidi {I saw}, vici {I conquered} [/size] [/ul][/justify]
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