Post by edmund on Jan 30, 2008 21:23:47 GMT -5
Lovella Rousseau was not one to be trifled with. This, the gossipers of the Mayfair district had learned a rather hard way. Though always pictured as a delicate primrose, a few of the unlucky ones had encountered the side of her which truly was what her name represented. Not always had the lovely young woman of eighteen been a socialite of London. No, the young woman fondly remembered her days of childhood, spent in the rolling hills and the darkened forests of rural England. She yearned for the solitude and the enchantment only the country could provide. There was no tea time with strangers, other socialites that only spent their time looking pretty. There, within the secret recesses of nature, one could freely feel the fragile leaves of a blue bell and experience the dew that wet bare flesh as it grazed the soft blades of grass. Here there was a butler, petticoats, flowing gowns, every luxury that the rich could afford. She absolutely detested it.
Through a horrid stroke of luck her father had inherited a good sum of money and the small manor that belonged to her great uncle. With no living male relative other than her father, the fortune had been thrust upon him. Of course, her mother delighted in the pampered life they now lived, recalling her younger days when she was courting beaus and sipping on only the finest tea available. Yet the moment Lovella was introduced to society, there was a completely different set of rules. Society here was harsh and cruel, bent on lowering one to the point where they could no longer stand. Yes, others pains fueled these high bred women’s perverse humor, and once upon a time Lovella had been a prime target for those with nothing better to do than twirl their fingers in her hair. It only lasted as long as it took for her to adapt to their own ways, to truly become the wolf.
Suitors had found her one of their most difficult trials, this young woman of flaxen hair and sun kissed skin. Her bronze eyes were also of some attraction, a mixture of both dark and intense light. To those London boys that had never truly known the beauty of someone that had once lived her days experiencing nature in its finest she was an enigma. To the neighboring girls she was a source of envy. There was something untouchable about her, an air of superiority, yet at the same time, an impression that she was nothing more than an exquisite wood that made the very chair she seated herself in. Perhaps these qualities were what drew her murderer to her, or in another’s eyes, her savior. Within an entire ballroom of lovely women of the courting age, only she had caught the fiend’s eyes, for only she stood apart from the masses.
No sooner had she noticed her admirer than she was ensnared in his trap. Her mind had become clouded to the point of drunken stupor, so much so, that she hardly recalled how she became the predator. There was no intimacy between her and her maker. She tolerated him, but only so that she could learn what she needed, and the moment that she did, she disposed of him as easily as she had her earlier adversaries. He had never seen it coming; the offering that had contributed to his death, never once expected her betrayal. But then again, no one ever expected this ray of sunlight, or would it be preferable to say moonlight, to wield the scythe of death. Yet it came to her as easily as the adaptation to a world of eternal darkness, no boundaries, no one that could keep her from her nature.
And so the years passed by. She flitted through the cities like a ghost and wandered among the forests as if she truly belonged there. Every now and then rumors would circulate that a nymph roamed their woods, straw like hair adorned with blue bells or various other short lived flowers. The eternity of nature perhaps was what drew her in now, what kept her isolated from the rest. She never searched for another of her kind, never yearned for a companion that shared in her perpetual fate. After all, who would wish to be among those that did not understand, people who could not comprehend what she truly was? Furthermore, who wished to spend even a few passing years with someone such as herself? This was embedded into her mind the moment she had slain her sire.
For years she had watched sickness and greed spread across the continent, heard talk of Revolutions and of civil wars. Britain’s population began to increase substantially since her time in the very beginning of the eighteenth century, and with that came the lack of land on which she could roam. So she travelled to a new continent, somewhere the influences of England were evident yet there was still enough land for her to be content with, and it was so for her until the year 1900. Faced with an ever expanding nation yet again, she decided that now it was time for her to rest, and so she did, the sounds of the passing decades falling upon deaf ears. Nothing interested her, not the two world wars, the civil rights movements, the riots over the sending of troops overseas first to Kuwait and then to Afghanistan and Iraq. Thus, she had no clue as to why she had the sudden urge to rise from her crypt, the decay of her own clothing the first smell for her to truly recognize.
The second was the scent of blood. It instantly brought a glaze to her bronze eyes and a hunger to boil within her immortal blood. Instantly her senses ran amuck, as if she was experiencing another rebirth. This time she wasn’t the least disgusted by the thought of warm blood flowing down her throat and imbuing her with new life. In fact she delighted in the sudden death she brought to an unsuspecting mortal, emptying his pockets and leaving him to rot in the very tomb she had been in. There was something different about this time, something that appealed to her more animalistic nature. Soft speech and corsets were not necessary in this cut throat world. Everyone struggled for their own success. Damn anyone that got in their way… Perhaps this would not be a dull world in which she sought the amusement of petty things of beauty. This time, she might delight in her immortality.
Through a horrid stroke of luck her father had inherited a good sum of money and the small manor that belonged to her great uncle. With no living male relative other than her father, the fortune had been thrust upon him. Of course, her mother delighted in the pampered life they now lived, recalling her younger days when she was courting beaus and sipping on only the finest tea available. Yet the moment Lovella was introduced to society, there was a completely different set of rules. Society here was harsh and cruel, bent on lowering one to the point where they could no longer stand. Yes, others pains fueled these high bred women’s perverse humor, and once upon a time Lovella had been a prime target for those with nothing better to do than twirl their fingers in her hair. It only lasted as long as it took for her to adapt to their own ways, to truly become the wolf.
Suitors had found her one of their most difficult trials, this young woman of flaxen hair and sun kissed skin. Her bronze eyes were also of some attraction, a mixture of both dark and intense light. To those London boys that had never truly known the beauty of someone that had once lived her days experiencing nature in its finest she was an enigma. To the neighboring girls she was a source of envy. There was something untouchable about her, an air of superiority, yet at the same time, an impression that she was nothing more than an exquisite wood that made the very chair she seated herself in. Perhaps these qualities were what drew her murderer to her, or in another’s eyes, her savior. Within an entire ballroom of lovely women of the courting age, only she had caught the fiend’s eyes, for only she stood apart from the masses.
No sooner had she noticed her admirer than she was ensnared in his trap. Her mind had become clouded to the point of drunken stupor, so much so, that she hardly recalled how she became the predator. There was no intimacy between her and her maker. She tolerated him, but only so that she could learn what she needed, and the moment that she did, she disposed of him as easily as she had her earlier adversaries. He had never seen it coming; the offering that had contributed to his death, never once expected her betrayal. But then again, no one ever expected this ray of sunlight, or would it be preferable to say moonlight, to wield the scythe of death. Yet it came to her as easily as the adaptation to a world of eternal darkness, no boundaries, no one that could keep her from her nature.
And so the years passed by. She flitted through the cities like a ghost and wandered among the forests as if she truly belonged there. Every now and then rumors would circulate that a nymph roamed their woods, straw like hair adorned with blue bells or various other short lived flowers. The eternity of nature perhaps was what drew her in now, what kept her isolated from the rest. She never searched for another of her kind, never yearned for a companion that shared in her perpetual fate. After all, who would wish to be among those that did not understand, people who could not comprehend what she truly was? Furthermore, who wished to spend even a few passing years with someone such as herself? This was embedded into her mind the moment she had slain her sire.
For years she had watched sickness and greed spread across the continent, heard talk of Revolutions and of civil wars. Britain’s population began to increase substantially since her time in the very beginning of the eighteenth century, and with that came the lack of land on which she could roam. So she travelled to a new continent, somewhere the influences of England were evident yet there was still enough land for her to be content with, and it was so for her until the year 1900. Faced with an ever expanding nation yet again, she decided that now it was time for her to rest, and so she did, the sounds of the passing decades falling upon deaf ears. Nothing interested her, not the two world wars, the civil rights movements, the riots over the sending of troops overseas first to Kuwait and then to Afghanistan and Iraq. Thus, she had no clue as to why she had the sudden urge to rise from her crypt, the decay of her own clothing the first smell for her to truly recognize.
The second was the scent of blood. It instantly brought a glaze to her bronze eyes and a hunger to boil within her immortal blood. Instantly her senses ran amuck, as if she was experiencing another rebirth. This time she wasn’t the least disgusted by the thought of warm blood flowing down her throat and imbuing her with new life. In fact she delighted in the sudden death she brought to an unsuspecting mortal, emptying his pockets and leaving him to rot in the very tomb she had been in. There was something different about this time, something that appealed to her more animalistic nature. Soft speech and corsets were not necessary in this cut throat world. Everyone struggled for their own success. Damn anyone that got in their way… Perhaps this would not be a dull world in which she sought the amusement of petty things of beauty. This time, she might delight in her immortality.