Post by petronia on Apr 13, 2007 16:20:45 GMT -5
"I believe I shall simply give my name, Petronia. You may know me from Quinn Blackwood's re-telling of his damnation. I am the face he would put to it, the thief of his young life. I am neither woman nor man, living nor dead.
In life, I was forced to don many masks - Gladiator, sleeper, slave and artist. Unlife is much the same, only now I choose when and how I don them, gaining more power than can be fathomed by a mere human. I am a killer, drinker of the 'little drink' and I delight in the utter control that my immortality affords me.
If you think that perhaps I squander this power, my dear Arion would agree with you. He is the only one I shall ever call Master and he despairs at my often-needless rage. So, yes I squandered Quinn. There, are you happy? Your blessed admittance of ill conduct. You wanted me to admit I destroyed a boy at the prime of his life. Yes, I did that thing and will probably do so again. Why? Simply because it was my nature, I make no apologies.
There was a time when the boy loved me, craved my approval in as much as he feared me. The thrall of the Dark Gift insures that he shall never completely loathe me. My heart softened and thus, I gave him his Hermitage back. I owed him that little, did I not?
You wonder at my reasons for following vampiric suite and committing pen to paper. Simply put, it is my desire to use this missive to invite my child back to the fold. To invite all of them, friends and enemies alike. My critics will relish the chance to rally a charge! So, come one come all. How I delight that I disgust & confuse you. How delicious you are to hate me.
Is it that some of you find me magical, driven & intoxicating? My physical duality may truly be seen as a metaphor for the dark trick itself. The delicate balance between one thing and another. All my mortal life I have struggled with the subtleties of my emotional & physical body. Learned to use and harness my natural ambiguity. I was an object of fascination long before I took Master Arion's kiss. The lessons cruelly learned, I will pass on freely. I have to wonder however. Are you, my undead kin, ready to be taught, to learn under me? Will you adore me for showing you the truth of our kind, as you should? Or will you still think me a monster?
Petronia"
The figure hung back, taking the letter in delicate hand. Waiting as always for a lull in Pompeii's evening tourist crowd , so that the letter may be stuffed into the very foundations of the the creatures old home, to be found by some passing soul.
The risk was great and the irony not lost on Petronia. "she" was copying the methods of "The Brat" with his spoiled ego and ugly blood shot eye. However, tried and tested methods are taught, handed down and thus - likely used by Quinn. Needs must then.
As the letter was placed, deep in the sandstone moss. The creature thought of how much easier it would have been, to leave this note at the Hermitage. Right there, on Petronia's beloved golden desk. "She" had promised never to attend there again. "She" had been many things in her life, but she wasn't a breaker of bargains. So, those fingers packed the letter down tight.
The shadow of a man, vaulted away. Screams and fire, as fresh in her mind today; as it has been in AD 79 - The day Pompeii died.
In life, I was forced to don many masks - Gladiator, sleeper, slave and artist. Unlife is much the same, only now I choose when and how I don them, gaining more power than can be fathomed by a mere human. I am a killer, drinker of the 'little drink' and I delight in the utter control that my immortality affords me.
If you think that perhaps I squander this power, my dear Arion would agree with you. He is the only one I shall ever call Master and he despairs at my often-needless rage. So, yes I squandered Quinn. There, are you happy? Your blessed admittance of ill conduct. You wanted me to admit I destroyed a boy at the prime of his life. Yes, I did that thing and will probably do so again. Why? Simply because it was my nature, I make no apologies.
There was a time when the boy loved me, craved my approval in as much as he feared me. The thrall of the Dark Gift insures that he shall never completely loathe me. My heart softened and thus, I gave him his Hermitage back. I owed him that little, did I not?
You wonder at my reasons for following vampiric suite and committing pen to paper. Simply put, it is my desire to use this missive to invite my child back to the fold. To invite all of them, friends and enemies alike. My critics will relish the chance to rally a charge! So, come one come all. How I delight that I disgust & confuse you. How delicious you are to hate me.
Is it that some of you find me magical, driven & intoxicating? My physical duality may truly be seen as a metaphor for the dark trick itself. The delicate balance between one thing and another. All my mortal life I have struggled with the subtleties of my emotional & physical body. Learned to use and harness my natural ambiguity. I was an object of fascination long before I took Master Arion's kiss. The lessons cruelly learned, I will pass on freely. I have to wonder however. Are you, my undead kin, ready to be taught, to learn under me? Will you adore me for showing you the truth of our kind, as you should? Or will you still think me a monster?
Petronia"
The figure hung back, taking the letter in delicate hand. Waiting as always for a lull in Pompeii's evening tourist crowd , so that the letter may be stuffed into the very foundations of the the creatures old home, to be found by some passing soul.
The risk was great and the irony not lost on Petronia. "she" was copying the methods of "The Brat" with his spoiled ego and ugly blood shot eye. However, tried and tested methods are taught, handed down and thus - likely used by Quinn. Needs must then.
As the letter was placed, deep in the sandstone moss. The creature thought of how much easier it would have been, to leave this note at the Hermitage. Right there, on Petronia's beloved golden desk. "She" had promised never to attend there again. "She" had been many things in her life, but she wasn't a breaker of bargains. So, those fingers packed the letter down tight.
The shadow of a man, vaulted away. Screams and fire, as fresh in her mind today; as it has been in AD 79 - The day Pompeii died.