``this.is.how.its_{gunna}>be! [open]

[Dahlia Cruorem]

The wood pitched beneath her feet, rolling as if it were a bitch in heat, moving to, fro, wanton and utterly free from male constraints. Why were ships allowed to be whores? The woman tossed her head back, hair flinging back as the wind slid it's fingers through the tender locks, whipping it around as if it would urge her to a game of tag; tempted, so tempted, but the woman, Dahlia, Lady D to the members on the ship knew the pain, the consequences and instead turned her simmering, smoldering eyes on the oncoming kingdom -- humanity lay sprawled at her feet as the boat pitched, rocked, the wood moaning under the stress of their sea battles -- it was winter and not the safest time to sail, but the sea was a hard taskmistress and the pirates were not one to give up on a challenge.

So they sailed when they shouldn't, died when they failed and prospered like Kings when they didn't. Beautiful, so beautiful and Dahlia's lips curled up, the corners sneaking up the plains of her face and sparking life into her orange eyes. The wind rattled the sails, the mast rose and fell, the people scattered before her, around her, behind her -- power! It was in the palm of her hand, a tender flame that burned her with it's possibilities and it was perfect. She grinned, ran down the length of the boat to tangle her narrow little hands in the rigging, her body flinging outward to be caught and the ship rose up, up, up, borne high by a cresting wave and crashed down, dipping into the water so that a spray caught her face, her clothes to splatter with salt.

Pink little tongue darting out like a cat's to lick the brine from her lower lip and her eyes cast upward, her fingers untangling, gripping the rope and hoisting herself up as her soft leather boots found footing. Like a squirrel she climbed, one arm, then the other, her gaze upward, always upward when most would look to the side -- but she was a free, feral creature and didn't care that she was being reckless. The boat, The Serpentine was her domain, she had claimed it with her blood spilled during sea battles, with her sweat when she was huddled in the corner tying rope to keep them all afloat, all ahead of the chasers. She had earned her place when she hadn't needed to, but the ship demanded tribute and she had given it with her effort, with the only form of love she could show: blood, sweat and tears. It was there in the way the wind moved as if to catch her when she paused, when her foot got tangled, snagged on a knot of rope -- but she was moving quickly, rising up above the others, her eyes burning, a whole different world shimmering in their depths. So hot, so different, so other even in a world succumbed by myth. She grinned, flashing blunt, human teeth and threw her weight up into the crow's nest.

The man there muttered but she didn't hear him over the roaring in her ears, the ululating cry of war that set her veins on fire; she was where she belonged, in the thrill of danger, in a place where few could climb, and even fewer could exist: the shifting tides moved the mast and she felt her body slide to the side, then the other -- a dance of the likes that only the seamen really knew. And herself. Always herself.

There was no one on the ship who knew her as the sea knew her, as the ocean, and the creatures, when the adrenaline filled her nostrils with the stench of smoke and burning wood, burning flesh. Only she had the guts to push the survivors over the edge when their ship capsized and the sharks were circling, circling, circling like the hawks above them, like the seagulls which cawed at her, offended at her audacity, her sheer free will. No woman should be so! For sure, women were meek, if not weak, but this one, this monstrosity that paraded itself as a woman, as a foreign woman with her slanted, cat eyes and her delicate birdlike bones was so much more -- and she stepped onto the rim of the crow's nest, held herself against the mast where it wedged against her hips and freed her hands. If she could fly forever, she might have tried it, but her power was not omnipotent, though she often deluded herself into believing it to be so. With a challenging tilt to her chin, she gazed as the land drew nearer, as the boats moved from their passage.

Captain shouted, men scurried -- but it was all distant, all a different world apart from her as she soared above them all, had the gall to ignore the shouts in her direction. The wind touched her face, made her smile when she had no such right to smile. They had disguised the ship, gave it the illusion of a merchant ship, but anyone looking at the feral, guttural way the boat moved heedless of the danger in the water should be reason enough to believe this ship was other than what it seemed. Merchant ships were slow, were fat and sunk deep in the water but The Serpentine was slithering through the waves, scything through the waters and finding it's way into it's new temporary home. No matter, no matter. Who knew if she would ever set foot on The Serpentine again? Who knew indeed?

The ship docked -- Dahlia threw herself over the edge, grabbed the pitching rope and swung herself down to the deck, her soft-soled leather shoes barely making a whisper when she landed. A twittering laugh, a flick of her hair and she was gone, gone, gone, moving like they had never seen her move on the boat, a motion that slithered through her body, made of her flesh an instrument that sang to the blood, to the loins and she disappeared below deck. "Come Tezca." her voice, so low, so husky, and the creature lifted it's triangular, silver head, it's black eyes filmed over. A pause that seemed to last eternity in which they stared at each other and the creature moved, moved as if the world was full of sludge and he could barely move through it -- he slithered over the pale whiteness of her thin wrist and twisted himself up the loose folds of her shirt, cuddling its cold serpentine body around the heat of her own. A hiss, a flickering of his tongue in her ear and Dahlia was moving, sliding out of the ship and toward the town, the rocking of the dock solidifying into land, into madness, into unwashed masses and peasantry.

"Where to, Tezca?" Dahlia asked, though the creature was silent and only stared at her with it's pitch black eye.

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word count;; 1171
tags;; Open to any~!
OOC;; her debut post <3

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[Ceara Mindelan]

Anyone that knew her well wouldn't be too surprised to see Ceara storming down the streets, her fists clenched at her sides and looking furious. Anyone that knew her well would know that she didn't have a good relationship with her parents, and that she was still living with them, which meant that they argued- a lot. Which was exactly why Ceara was so furious. She'd just finished having the same fight she and her parents had almost daily. Her parents wanted her to be something she wasn't, wanted her to be all lady-like and graceful and to give up being a knight and sword fighting. They wanted her to find a nice boy, get married and give them lots of grandchildren, even if that wasn't what she wanted, and they knew that.

However, the fight she'd had with them today had been much worse than usual. Usually she was left annoyed, and she'd go out for a walk, clear her head and go home for another round with them. It wasn't often that what they said annoyed her to the extent that she very nearly shoved an elderly lady out of her way. She held herself back of course, which she was thankful for. She would have regretted it terribly later on, when her anger had died down. Today she was so much more angry, however, because her parents had tried to get her a date with their neighbor. It didn't matter to her parents that he was at least a decade older than her, or that they hadn't asked her and she wouldn't have wanted to go out with him, all that mattered was that he seemed nice enough, and he was fairly wealthy.

Little did her parents know that she had found a nice boy, one that she was actually interested in. The only thing was that she didn't really want to like Emlyn the way she liked him. He was too quiet for her liking...however, he was so sweet, and attractive...and god she wanted him so bad. She'd kissed him once, and lately that's all she'd been able to think of. She really wanted to kiss him again...however, she was too much of a coward to go searching for him. Okay, she wasn't really a coward, but she regretted kissing him so suddenly...and she could only assume that he thought she was a total slut. She was much too embarrassed to go looking for him.

Her anger suddenly disappeared, leaving Ceara feeling miserable instead. Her shoulders slumped slightly and she sighed, lowering her gaze to stare at the ground. She was walking near the ocean, right near the dock, and she wasn't looking where she was going. A moment later she walked right into someone, making her stumble backwards slightly. "Oh, sorry...I wasn't watching where I was going." She said, smiling sheepishly at the woman that she'd walked into, though the smile didn't reach her eyes, as she was forcing it.

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Words: 528
Mood: Not too bad
Notes: Problem solved <) She could be walking into Dahlia

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[Dahlia Cruorem]

The world was moving of it's own accord - and no, Dahlia wasn't going mad. The world wasn't just moving, it was moving: each stuttering breath whispered through cracked lips, rasped through chaffing mouths, puffing, exhausted, tired of life, all of it just surged around her, made her hyper aware of the people, of the activity, of the particular strangeness that alienated her. She felt herself projecting outward, casting forward into a foreign world where the only truth lay in what her hands could feel, in what she could touch, and prod and tear apart. Especially the latter. Destruction only proved creation, and in that death, true life resided. It was her belief, the rules by which she governed her life -- this desire to see the world, to know it, to taste it with the fervor of one who has been longed denied. Who was she? The what was painfully obvious, and it vibrated through the lines of her flesh, vibrating along the strings of muscles which hollowed out her thighs -- bared to the world.

Yes, boys, girls, men, women, bared to the world. Of her clothes nothing much remained but the bedraggled rags which covered shoulders, small, pert breasts and bared stomach underneath long twisting lines of cloth. Gone, gone, gone but it didn't matter much, for it allowed the caress of wind, and the touch of the more amazing things in life, and in that even Dahlia wasn't going to argue. There was energy here, lively, fiery energy that she fed off of like a succubus long starved, throat parched as it's fingers reached greedily for the things which would sustain it, create it, make it perfect. She smiled, a mischievous turn of her mouth as she slid through the masses - like oil, like contamination, the plague which rubbed her body against bodies that should not be touched, which should not be so aroused by the lithe little creature which turned a cheeky grin on them and disappeared in the masses. Where do you go devil's child, demon's spawn? Do you pretend to play the game of humanity? Or do you disdain such foul illusions? No, no, you know the truth and it galls you to be so hollow when there is so much energy sizzling along your flesh, tempting you, calling to you. Shift, it says to you when the world turns a blind eye to your corruption, to your demise. Each little blessing makes of you a liar and you, little darling, little demon in angel's flesh, cannot stand it.

So she turns her eyes from the sky, shuns it with a flickering of her dark lashes and lets the beast rise from within her. If she wished she could destroy them -- or so she pampers her thoughts, licking her imaginary wounds much like a child would. No, much like a dog brought low by it's master. But who would be her master? Who would dare to take her on and make of her a creature to serve, to please? For sure, she would please, but the moment your sweetness was melded with her flesh would be the moment her poisonous blade, her Sweet Requiem would cut through the cords of your throat, her thrifty little fingers combing through your dead cadaver. Would you risk death to play with a God's tool? A God's bait?

Oh, you think you can handle it, do you? For shame, for shame! Dahlia purrs, a rough, husky sound that rips through her chest where she's standing on the side of the flowing tide of sea-men, of merchants, of customers -- and the sun starts it's slow sink into death. Darkness hours off yet, but it's death is imminent, much like these people, these children, those fish sold at market who's children would play with the bone's of the fish wife's fingers when her life is extinguished and the sea takes back what it had given. Oh, sweet cycle.

Lips pursed, there is a little feral glint to her eyes that speaks of languages long forgotten, of existences only half remembered when the world was a darker place, when shadows form on the very corners of your bedroom and make faces at your children. Her birth, her bane, her curse. She was not her own person and in her desperation to know herself, Dahlia lost what was most vital: the sensation to feel, to know what others feel and examine it from a subjective point of view. Her soul, ladies, gentlemen. Her soul has broken, shredded in the monstrous jaws of her thriving hunger, of her wrathful grief that slithers through her body like the snake coiled about her body. Over and over, it writhes over the pale porcelain flesh of her mask, silver hued scales only faintly darkened with black whorls. Tezca, creature of silence, of dignity, of betrayal and temptation! He lifts his head, eye staring boldly into the fiery mirror of her own and feels with an emotionless that she must envy, must wish she could covet.

But she cannot and instead turns her head away from that taunting, goading gaze and snickers instead at humanity. So much easier to focus on their own woeful inferiority than her own, and instantaneously the tides have changed and the very posture that captures her body has altered, let her become what she has always wanted: Secure, powerful, omnipotent. It is merely a thought, but a thought transcends realms when desire stunts it, and she finds herself feeling empowered, superior and giddy with it.

So much garbage, so much scum, and she grins a wicked grin, flashing her flat teeth, her orange eyes burnt and simmering like embers. Where to, indeed.

Then the hit, the softness of a human's flesh pressing the scales to her back, the snake to writhe and rearrange itself from it's bodily grip on her. She hissed, a feral sound as her tangled, wild hair flies over her shoulders when she whips around -- little fingers dig into sash, into harness, sheath, blade -- and Sweet Requiem sang freely from it's bind, the soft whistling of it's lullaby nearly drowned by the sheer power of the waves crashing against the docks. Again and again, her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out thought, drowning out emotions, logic, reasoning -- nothing left but the instinctual, the basic creature which would survive when the world collapsed around her in shambles. And her pulse skyrocketed, punished her skull, her flesh, with each painful, rapid throb. The blade sang, cut through air, sailed through the world with an inhuman thirst for bloodshed, for lust which can only be slaked when the red crimson was let loose. Sang, flew, and stopped just as suddenly, inches, or perhaps it was centimeters, from the woman's throat, from the sweetly pulsing neck which glimmered so humanly, so mortally --- so fragile. A bite, the slightest scratch and the black poison which stained the edge of the blade would wreak havoc, would kill with the venom of the Black Mamba which coiled about her.

A short breath, eyes flashing, stilling, becoming fire, becoming life as reason flowed --- but she wanted, oh, don't mistake her for she wanted so badly! "Human, are you?" she sneered, shifting her chin to the side, bangs falling across her face to give the appearance of a predator peeking out from around tall grass. Slanted cat eyes glinted harshly, judged twice as hard and withdrew the dagger.

Tezca, annoyed with the jostling, slid around his mistress' neck and twined like a giant necklace of scales, his triangular head rising up above her own and staring, staring, staring, bottomless pits for eyes, emotionless where his mistress was overcome, cold where his mistress was hot, so hot, it nearly burned her to exist in her own body. "Figures."

A toss of her hair, a wicked smile and she mocked, "Good thing I stopped then, eh? Imagine the trouble that would have caused. Useless death, that." a twist of her lip, eyebrows quivering between her eyes. Well maybe not useless. A snarky little smile.

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word count;; 1355
tags;; Ceara <3
OOC;; ---

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[Ceara Mindelan]

To say that Ceara wasn't expecting what happened next would be a bit of an understatement. If someone accidentally walked into someone else on the street, the common reaction was to forgive that person, be friendly about it, say it was alright, no harm done. So as Ceara stepped back from the woman she'd accidentally walked into, she did not expect the woman to suddenly grab a dagger and lash out with it at her throat. She felt her heart suddenly skip a beat and her eyes widened in surprise and terror. Yes, she was scared. She didn't really see her life flash before her eyes, but she saw the end of her life coming, knowing she'd never get to say goodbye to the ones she loved, or say another mocking comment to the ones she didn't. She stiffened and shut her eyes, waiting for the flash of pain in her throat that was sure to come, followed by the warm sensation as her blood flowed out of her, and then finally, death.

However, the first of the three never came. She opened her emerald eyes, surprised to find that the dagger was mere inches from her throat, but thankful that the woman had stopped her strike. She blinked a few times, surprised. Everything had happened so fast, it took her a moment to actually process it all. She didn't answer as the woman asked if she was human, for she figured it was more of a rhetorical question, one that she did not much feel like answering with the dagger poised inches from her throat. She barely even dared to breathe, as though that would be incentive enough for the woman so slash her throat.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime to her, though she was sure it had only been a few moments, the woman drew the blade away from her throat and Ceara stepped back, raising a hand up to rub at her throat uncomfortably even while she glared at the woman. "What the hell!?" She practically yelled, though it was mostly the fear that made her yell. She did her best to ignore the snake that was coiled around the woman, as snakes also terrified her. There wasn't really all that much that scared her...but she'd only just met this woman and almost everyone about her made her heart race with fear and made her want to scream and run away. She wouldn't do that, however. She was a knight, she did not run from things lightly. Instead she placed her hand over the hilt of her sword and just continued to glare at the woman, watching her closely for any sign that she might suddenly attack once again.

"Do you always attack strangers that accidentally walk into you!?" She demanded, glad that at last her heart beat was beginning to slow back to normal, though she kept a close eye on both the snake and the dagger. "So you're not human then, I suppose?" She asked, her voice quieting down as she decided to stop yelling now. She was drawing attention to them, anyways, and she didn't much feel like having a crowd of people around them expecting a fight or something. She decided to ignore the woman's comment, mostly because she had a sneaking suspicion that the woman had just insulted her, though she didn't much feel like thinking it through and finding out.

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Words: 594
Mood: Not too bad =)
Notes: <3 xD Don't expect all my posts to be this long

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[Dahlia Cruorem]

There is knowledge shared within a look, within the trembling air that passes from one hand to one's throat, when death lingers over the shoulder and cracks it's malignant, anticipatory grin. She knew it well, Dahlia, Lady D, Lady Death; it was intimacy, a thread of Fate that would bind them tighter, and tighter, snuggling under her skin and hooking the very flesh of her bones, the very marrow to melt with her combatant, with her enemy, her victim, her own little death. It is a thing not many are acquainted with -- this hyper awareness of life that floats so beautifully beneath skin so fragile, so tender, and it is not something one comes by with ease. It is through hardship, through the superposition of thoughts over matter that the reality of fragility comes to fruition and you know, and she knows, how close to death you stalk, how close you snuggle into his black cape of shadows and regrets; it kills, this knowledge that shares, that stretches out from the end of her poisoned blade to touch the very breath that stills in her chest.

The woman's lungs had stopped -- surprise, and perhaps fear widening the dark discs of her pupils, skin taut from tension; but she wasn't moving, was barely existing in that registered moment of shock, in the thrill of the hunt which had been singing so brilliantly in Dahlia's ears. To the victim, to the other, this woman, this human, did not feel the same, could never truly feel the depth of emotion which plagued Dahlia, haunted her when she slept, and paraded itself about her eyes, and her ears, her pores clogging with recognition of the act between two players on a stage. The script was the same, always the same. Chance encounters blossom into unlikely friendships, but she was not a friend, and she would never be a friend.

But perhaps! Her soul might cry, but her soul was something that had long ago been denied by the existence of other parents, of a power that was wholly her own and no one else's. There were others for sure, but there was only one Dahlia, though she wore many masks, many faces and paraded around as if she were many, many different people. Underneath it all was the same vast greed, the un-slaked thirst to do and to be that would not cease to whisper in her ear. The power was it's own thing, an instrument that welded itself to the shape of her current body -- slender of youth, with narrow shoulders, slanted eyes, small flat nose. Of the Orient, her body was of the Asian variety, but it wasn't her face -- no matter how many days she wore it, or how long the mask hung on her visage, she was not this face, was not the Dahlia that she was supposed to have been. Instead she was nameless, shapeless -- a being without expression, without gestures to fulfill the wanton desires that plagued her, incited her to action when perhaps she should have remained in stillness.

Creature of movement, of shadows and brilliant flame, she would not let the power rule her, but it could not be denied either. So she lingered in the sensitivity that opened up between her blade and the other's throat, tasted it on her tongue like sweet wine, for this was real, and it wasn't imitated, wasn't fake. This thing that stretched between them was as precious as breathing to those who were suddenly denied and their heads were going under water. Like a dog, she slavered, drooled, foaming at the mouth (as a matter of speaking of course), her soul quivering with excitement, rustling up the delicious memories of true life that this ignited in her. Sparks of pleasure, of disdain, of true emotion poking through the condescension, the fake steps she took in a fake body.

The blade had been lowered, her words had been spoken and like a rush of heat the other yelled, her voice almost strangled with fear though there was nothing of it in the green reflection of her eyes. Solidity held itself taut, like a shield that would not break under duress but overcome even that bombardment. In that steely moment of tension which held them taut, Dahlia knew the strings of fate must be cut, must be rendered impotent -- the other's hand was on her hilt, anger rising up, wave upon wave, like pulse upon pulse which had reddened her own ears, hidden behind the long wanton locks of her hair. Dahlia smiled again, a strange little smile that seemed to mean everything, and nothing at the same time, as if the Cheshire cat had managed to penetrate the centuries that stretched between now and its creation and find a home on her face. Her perfect, malleable face. What would happen, you must think, for a woman so intent on being superior, on being the best, the strongest, if only for the sake of what if? Would she be offended?

No, you've judged her wrongly if you believed her to act out in anger. There was satisfaction that eased the lines of her face where crinkles had marked the corners of her eyes. Amusement, smugness, pulling the muscles of her visage and distorting the smile into something softer, crueler, if only more potent with feeling. How could she say so much without saying a word? Her presence was it's own thing, an intensity that crackled the air as if she had magic to draw on at her fingertips, but she did not, and relied instead on flesh, bone and sweat to get her through the day. Still, her body was of the magical sort, and it was in this that she found the unnerving ability to laugh -- no, to purr: a chuckling rolling sound of amusement that crinkled the corners of her eyes and lighted up the orange banks of her irises. Interest was there, a curiosity that could turn dangerous, infectious -- but the girl was amusing, daring to yell at her when even she knew death was not far from them this night. "How was I supposed to know it was an accident?" and she shrugged, a fluid motion of her thin, angular shoulders and slid Sweet Requiem into it's home on her hip sheath. "You could have been robbing me, or trying to kill me." A flick of her eyes, looking up coyly from under the span of dark lashes, "Who's to say you're still not trying to do it?" the smirk deepened, dimples darkening little spots on her face; so cold when her body was on fire, when it was flaring to life at the trembling uncertainty which had been birthed between these women, these two warriors, challengers of fate.

The woman had not run, though perhaps she should have, and Dahlia, well.... Dahlia never ran. Tezca flicked it's forked tongue, the black muscle rippling through the air in silence as he watched, and watched and watched, a stony silence that defined his kind. His poison drenched her weaponry, and yet he coiled about her body, warmed by it's heat, and did not strike. Like stone, he remained, and only the light weight of his body around her own, and the rustle of her hair against his flesh made him known to her. "No, I'm not human." a disgust, clear and embittered made the words sharp, like blades burying into your back, severing spine and crying on death.

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word count;; 1260
tags;; Ceara
OOC;; It's okay ^^ >is loving this thread<

[Ceara Mindelan]

Ceara stared at the woman, still looking furious as she clenched and unclenched one hand, though she kept her other hand on the hilt of her sword. This woman was infuriating, and she was pissing her off. Now that she was no longer afraid for her life, since the woman had sheathed her dagger once more, she was just getting more and more angry. First because the woman had just done the stupidest thing she'd ever heard of, which was nearly killing someone who accidentally walked into you, but also because the woman didn't seem to care. She seemed amused by her reaction, and the woman didn't seem like she was about to apologize, either.

She was tempted to yell that it wasn't funny, that the woman was insane, but instead she just decided to answer what the woman said. "How were you supposed to know it was an accident!? Maybe because I said sorry!?" She snapped, though her voice was no where as loud as it had been, and the people around them that had initially paused to stare at them when she'd started to yell had turned back and continued on their way. Ceara still glared at the woman, though she said nothing else right away as the woman said that she could have been trying to rob her, for she knew that was true. That didn't mean it was okay for the woman to pull out a dagger and hold it at someone's throat, but still, she did understand that it really could have been someone trying to rob her.

She took her hand off the hilt of her sword slowly, still glaring at the woman all the while. Especially as the woman said that she wasn't human. Ceara didn't much like things that weren't human, because they intimidated her a little bit, though she refused to let that show. "What are you, then, if not human?" She asked, sounding annoyed by the disgusted tone to woman had used. There was nothing wrong with being human. Things that weren't human were just freaks, that's how she saw it, anyways.

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Words: 373
Mood: Good, but I have a headache =( xD
Notes: =D I like this post too xD Dahlia is a little insane, though, isn't she? xD

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[Dahlia Cruorem]

Rivers of emotions: ire, anger, madness, passion, rage, fury, wrath, vehemence -- these things were heated, boiled blood, maddened the mind and woke the dormant demon that slept within everyone's soul. It was a lustful emotion, tasting at once hot, and so very cold until the flesh tingled with streaks of numbness, pins and needles that slid through your flesh and sewed your lips together like those careless witches burned at stakes, drowned in water, rivers of blood, of burning flesh reflecting in the shimmering pools of water, of tears -- and it was here, an epiphany of otherness that snarled in the broken rhythm of her mind and made her feel freer. A gift of knowledge, a kiss of truth that opened her eyes to realities, to the reasoning behind her anger, her vehemence that made the girl's mouth tighten, her fists clenching, muscles contorting.

Shadows danced about the muscles there, little darting figures playing along the creases in her flesh, and it was fascinating, infuriating, tempting to know that flesh, to be that flesh, to know the thoughts that slid behind those opaque emerald jewels and to feel it in the fire of her blood, but the ruse would not last, would not be anything other than a brief amusement in a sea of dissatisfaction. Anger, so succulent, it was like the tender beef from one's prey -- falling away from the bone at the teasing of one's tongue, the gentle caress of teeth slicing through cooked skin. And she wanted it. That was worst part. She wanted it. Wanted it with the madness that changelings must endure - for when there are many fractured selves reflected in the soul who's to say which one is right, and which is wrong? Which is false, and which, dear children, dearest adults in the crowd (yes I see your wary looks!) would you pick for death?

She doesn't, for fear that the self which she would eradicate would be the self which would stabilize her, make her what she should be, and not what she is. Power hungry? Oh yes -- hungry for that unity with the world that she deludes herself into seeing, into touching with her fingers. Drugs could not produce a high as potent, or as powerful as Dahlia's secret poison. Hope, dreadful, awful hope rendering her weakest at the points where she should be strong. Should have killed her. Dahlia thinks, her eyes sliding to the side, glancing out from under her lashes -- no innocence this, but a creature of madness, of brilliance, staring out from the shadows of her mind and smiling ever so slightly. Mocking without conscious thought. What harm had been done? The girl lived, still breathed, still existed in this topsy-turvy world that threw the changeling into torrents of insanity.

She was on the brink, for certain, knowing her selves would look on her and pity: pity for she was reaching, and hording other people's thoughts, other people's emotions and holding them dearer than her own. Who else would be the Puppet Master but herself? So she toils among lost humanity, taking on shapes for the mere sake of tasting of their life, of their misery and comforting herself to know that she still is superior to them, that she has not fallen so low as to become worthless. When they fall, she stands, and she is enamored of the youthfulness which pulses in her body. Eventually, she will die, but it will not be age which takes her immortal soul and tears it apart. It could not be, and would never be.

Ululating cries, warlike and terrible pound in her chest, slither through her veins in this hyperactive state in which she lives, breathes, sees the world. It is more brilliant, more colorful than a human would guess; in the shadows she sees hundreds of shades of darkness and all of them are black, but each minute detail avails itself to her probing, orange eyes -- burnt out from passion, from greed, from power which she wrestles down into her hand as if it were, too, a beastly thing she must conquer with force. She cracks a smile, a lopsided look to her face that makes her seem more fiercesome with her angular body, her round, flat face, but those eyes! Those eyes burn, burn with a passion that is not human, could never be human, and be sure that there are no human thoughts going through that head.

To you, she is insane.

To another, perhaps she is simply wise, threading through the world at a reckless pace, tasting, drinking, eating what is offered and giving thanks to that which helps her, supports her though it is silent in it's regard.

More yelling! A blast of heat that washes over her face, a sensitivity to emotion that has nothing to do with magic, and everything to do with her awareness in the world, her eyes seeming to capture the essence of this warrior, this woman knight and seizing her in her grasp. Power, living, aching, writhing creature that it is, slides through her veins, pulses with her heavily beating heart. Like sludge she feels as if time is slowing, as if the world was stopping it's continual rotation and left her paused, a statue, hot, bloated with power, lust, desire and it pinched her skin, made her eyes sparkle and leap to life when she catches the other's with her own gaze. A smile, unrepentant, looking so much younger than her twenty years. A child mischief-maker with dangerous reflexes. A hot-blooded snake, but what snake was ever hot blooded? Perhaps cat was better analogy, hiding in the trees with it's ticking tail, slanted eyes, flexing claws. The heaviness of Belle Mort and Sweet Requiem was a fickle thing in comparison to the temptation of turning feral, of letting herself fall into a transcending memory and take on it's forms, it's life -- for it was dead but she could bring it back in it's memory, in it's voice and mannerisms, could speak and think and mimic to the basic cellular level what this creature had been.

And who would be there to tell? Who would be there say this creature is not alive. How could you?

Another shrug, enigmatic and careless. "I didn't hear you." no pouting, no slithering sensation of manipulation; there was no oil or guile in her eyes, only vibrant heat which was as natural to her as this girl's moral compass was to her. Without it, she would not be the same, and the stony way with which she spoke was enough to warn that she was in motion before the thought slid behind her eyes -- her muscles moved of their own volition. She held out her hand, raised up, palm toward sky -- where sun was starting it descent, still hours away. Light, natural, potent, glimmering off the porcelain cast to her skin and the silver scales shifted, moved -- the creature in motion, as if in tune to it's Mistress' desires though such a thing was hardly the case. It moved because it wanted to move, and when it did, it's coils dropped from around her neck, it's black pitiless eye filming over once, black tongue, black mouth, black name, and spilled into her hand, twining about the shoulder, taut and glimmering, rising along the slender lines of her forearm, tongue flickering, teasing the air, the slight rise of goose-flesh that rose on Dahlia's arm.

"What am I?' she asks, rhetorical, not so mocking, but all too dangerous in this playful mood of hers. A cat with it's mouse and the mouse too proud for it's own good. Didn't it know the cat loved to play games? Oh yes, oh yes, and the cat was shifting, becoming stranger, other. "Humans, you are so arrogant to think you are the first race to ever walk the earth." and she chuckled but her voice was changing, and she was sliding forward, moving with an oily ease that hadn't been there before -- poison seemed to swirl in the very depths of her eyes, turning her, changing her, orange reflecting the faintest circles of grey, then brown -- then brightening to green, as sharp as an emerald, as angry as the ones staring at her, demanding of her. "But there are others before you, and who's to say you're the real you, anyway?" she chuckled, less like the rolling purr of her own voice, but taking on the harsh, womanly sounds of the knight. "You might be powerful, but then, there will always be someone to replace you." and she stepped closer to the girl, her clothes shifting, body reforming, growing, lengthening, her hair spiraling down in golden locks, until the name Ceara pooled on her tongue. Resonate with power, resonate with the intimacy of being her, of knowing her as no lover would ever know. And she stepped forward, the snake draped around her forearm, her blades seemingly gone as she leaned in, a mirror image, a mirrored being, and whispered. "How do I look?"

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word count;; 1523
tags;; Ceara <3
OOC;; yes, she is a little
bit insane, but then wouldn't you
be too if you took on people's
thoughts when you changed
into them?

[Ceara Mindelan]

This woman...she bothered Ceara, more than anyone else she'd ever met had. There was just something sort of sinister and evil about her. Now she'd met plenty of evil people before, people that were completely evil to the core, but none of them had bothered her this much. Not to say that this woman was for sure evil, Ceara just thought of her that way. Sure, the woman hadn't actually done anything very evil yet...other than hold a dagger to her throat, but she hadn't killed her, now had she? So no, this woman wasn't for sure evil, but she made Ceara feel uneasy. No one would be able to tell that just by looking at her, however, as Ceara still looked furious and not at all nervous or intimidated or anything of the sort.

Ceara waited impatiently for the woman to answer her when she asked her what she was. She waited, and watched, and noticed immediately when the woman's eyes began to change colours. Her own eyes widened slightly and she just stared, looking first surprised, and then horrified as she realized the woman's originally orange eyes had changed into an exact replica of her own emerald green ones. "...What the hell...[/b]" She whispered, her eyes glued on the other woman, unable to tear her gaze away as next the woman's voice changed to match her own, then her height and her build, and then finally her hair, until she was staring at a mirror image of herself. For a moment she thought maybe it was just a mirror, that the woman was tricking her into thinking she'd changed into her when in reality she'd just grabbed a mirror and held it up without Ceara really noticing, but she was just making excuses to herself, and she knew that.

The woman had changed into her. She just continued to stare for a few moments, her body tensed once again. She didn't even step backwards as the woman advanced, until they were mere two feet apart. She wasn't really sure what to think. It wasn't every day you saw a woman turn into you, and her mind had sort of gone blank, and all she could do was stare.

Finally, after what felt like ages, she snapped out of it, a look of total fury coming across her face. How dare this stupid woman change into her!? Fast as lightning she grabbed a dagger from her belt and a moment later held it mere centimeters from the other woman's throat. She did her best to ignore the fact that she was now, technically, holding a dagger at her own throat. "Changling," She snarled angrily. "Change back. How dare you turn into me." She hissed, aiming the touch the cool blade of her dagger to the other woman's throat, just as a warning. To be honest, though, she doubted she'd have the guts to kill the woman, only because it would freak her out. She'd be killing herself, even if the woman wasn't really her. She still looked exactly like her, though, so Ceara was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to kill herself.[/color]

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Words: 553
Mood: Really good =)
Notes: ...True xD Wow, I loved your post! I dunno why, it was just really cool xD I don't know how Dahlia is going to get away from Ceara long enough to find and chat with Emlyn, though xD

[/size]

[Dahlia Cruorem]

To and fro, side to side -- a rocking motion as souls flared, as magic ran up the line of her back, spilled down the long paleness of her arm to dance across her fingertips. Invisible, pure, potent and intoxicating, it swirled around body, licking up the plains of her borrowed body, the back to shiver for reasons she didn't understand. Faults, here -- a crack there. An imperfect body, weaknesses at joints, mortality shimmering along the soft flesh of her arms, her breasts, her waist. A dread rose in her, natural, toxic, all-consuming, a fear of the thing which ached, a dark creature she could not penetrate, did not understand -- it would consume her, this fear and Dahlia, separating herself from the force of Ceara's personality, the taste of her name on her tongue pulsing with a quickly beating heart, shoved it away. Away, away, away, until the darkness which ate at her mind, which would become her (such awful dread!) would eat her as surely as maggots consume rotten carcasses, receded.

Gone, banished, and she was herself, inebriated on the power which coiled in the pit of her belly, sliding down to warm the soft folds of her quim where a lustful fervor was slowly growing, an addiction that she had become aware of, but never denied, for in denial there was only pain. Feed, her gut moaned, and she would feed, would latch onto the memories, on the creature she embodied and coil her arms around her and the lust would slake, would disappear from her to hide in the ravages of greed, of sloth and sinister coilings of monstrosity. She was losing herself quickly to this entity, this golden-haired knight who's emotions were a feast, who's thoughts easily slid through her mind -- a warm hand against her body and the creature, the changeling could not deny it. She knew the body's secret wants, knew it the way a philosopher would read the stars and map out your destiny. She knew your destiny, your personal guilt, and she knew, oh how she knew that this body thirsted, wanted to be held, to be touched.

The desire made her melt, her body becoming putty, rapidly softening under the weight of that sharp emerald gaze. No anger reflected, but an emotion that she did not fight: longing. Longing, yearning, it was there in the hidden chambers of the heart, a thing that took her focus when she needed it to be elsewhere. Ceara, and Dahlia coaxed the memories to her fingertips, rifling through the surface of her mind as one would a photo album. Images, quick, scathing, cutting her to the bone but delicious, tender where she tasted luscious desire, a hidden lust, a soft naive crush that made her flush, made her skin turn a darker hue as blood rushed to her face. So intimate this look, of one lover gazing into another's eyes, a wanting there, a clinging hope of what could be and the line was drawing, the memories coming faster where she dwelled too long on them.

Darkness banished under the sheer might of this man who haunted her memories, who made her feel when all she wanted was to remain unfeeling, and a smile curled her lips, soft, inviting, heat rushing up along under her skin in a blush that darkened her eyes to emotion. The green rolled, became thick with desire, sickened by this need that she was denying herself. With this she murmured, voice huskier, darker, pressing her neck to the blade as her hand reached out -- the one without Tezca -- and the spell was being woven. Not with magic this, but sheer power of emotion, drawing her in with the sickened, loving eyes, tender, round, wanting, wanting, to be held, to be considered equal. Was it so wrong that she was as good as the other men? That she didn't need to be taken care of? These thoughts flew across the mirrored face -- but it did not mirror the one who glared, but the heart of the knight, the inner mirror that she hid from others, but could not hide from herself.

"Would you really hurt me?" and there was uncertainty in her voice, a quavering note that hardened as she tried to collect herself. No longer Dahlia, but Ceara: Ceara with the pride of a knight, with the honor and duty who would give herself over to save someone's life. So simple, this desire and yet her heart had run away from her, had softened under the gaze of one who was indifferent, and it hurt -- oh it hurt this pain, and the pain puzzled over her green eyes, trembled in her reaching hand where she gently, ever so lightly touched the knight's skin. Ceara and the memory pulled out and slipped over her tongue.

The boy. No. Man -- and his eyes were looking at her, into her where she was on the floor. Unconscious. What had happened? Oh yeah, the drunken scum. Aithne. Yes, yes and the memory solidified, became many as the emotion pulled at her heart. Yes. And he was there in the forefront of her memory, every rigid piece, a poor copy to be made, but one nonetheless and Dahlia pulled on the reigns of this creature's emotions, her own smile sliding up to the surface, sitting so strangely on Ceara's duplicate face. "No?" and her voice pitched to become her own, her own, her own. No longer Ceara. "Perhaps then you'd prefer something more exotic?" and she shifted again, muscles rolling forward, over her, a gigantic wave that washed her clean and where once she had drawn out the change for Ceara's sake, now she let it take hold of her -- she stretched, she filled out, hollowed out, became man, became blue, became solid, and she didn't smile, but became he.

He didn't move but look at her with puzzled eyes. Blankness, nothing but what Ceara knew of him, thought of him, but it did not matter as he bent over her, his fingers sliding forward into her hair. "Would you really hurt me?" he murmured, lips barely moving as he drew himself closer, heedless of the blade marking his skin where it was pressing against him. "This time, when you kiss me, don't run away." and he leaned in, his lips centimeters from her own, blade cutting into his neck.

Somewhere in all this, Tezca slid down from the arm, nestling in looped circles around his leg.

[/color][/size]

word count;; 1094
tags;; Ceara <3
OOC;; OMG XD
Dahlia is so mean lol

[Ceara Mindelan]

Ceara was seething with rage, wanting nothing more than to hurt this woman that dared to steal her body and to try become her. She wanted to kill this woman, or at least to cause her as much pain as she possibly could...but the woman was still in her own form, and no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't bring herself to push the dagger forward, to let it cut through flesh. Only because this woman had stolen her body. Had the woman been in her own body, Ceara probably wouldn't have hesitated to slit her throat. Alright, maybe that wasn't true. She was a knight, and she would have felt awful if she'd killed this woman, but she did want to hurt her. She was trespassing and Ceara definitely did not like it.

She saw different emotions play over her own face as she looked at the mirror version of herself, and immediately knew that the woman was looking into her memories. It seemed impossible, but she couldn't deny it when seeing the pain, the lust, the desire that was in her own eyes...only not her eyes, just the other woman's eyes, disguised as her own. She snarled furiously, but she was faltering slightly, and she knew it. She couldn't help but wonder exactly what memories the woman was looking into. By what she could see in her own eyes, she guessed that it must have something to do with Emlyn.

She pushed the blade farther, so that it was pressing slightly into her own--no, into the woman's throat. She snarled once again, but she was still faltering, a look of uncertainty passing over her face. She wanted to stay angry, to stay furious, but looking into her own face...seeing all the emotions there, and wondering what memories the woman was seeing...it made her own memories rear up, remembered little flashes of the times she'd spent with Emlyn. She didn't answer as the woman asked whether she'd really hurt her, though the voice was Ceara's own.

Suddenly a grin that she recognized to be the other woman's came over the mirrored face of her own, and seeing it made it easier to remember that this was not her. This was some evil bitch that had taken her body and was now stealing her memories, invading into her mind. She snarled once again, even as the woman asked whether she'd prefer something more exotic. "More exotic?" She couldn't help but asking. "What do you-" She broke off as her breath hitched in her throat as the woman changed once again, become the face of a man she knew all to well, but knew next to nothing about. Emlyn.

Her hand that held the dagger at the woman's--no, man's?--no, yes, the evil bitch's throat began to tremble. She shook her head, blinking, a look of confusion and pain coming over her face. No, this was not Emlyn. It was the evil woman, just taking Emlyn's face, to try hurt her, and sadly, it was working. "Y-You're not...him." She said, though her voice trembled with uncertainty. She'd seen the woman change into Emlyn...but her mind was still finding it hard to believe that this wasn't actually Emlyn. It had to be him, right?

Emlyn--no, the evil bitch? No, Emlyn bent over her, and she couldn't help but lean backwards slightly, some part of her knowing that this wasn't really Emlyn...but she couldn't bring herself to move away from him, nor could she bring herself to cut his throat. Her hand trembled more violently as she noticed it digging into his throat and felt compelled to pull it back, which she did, moving it just so that it was no longer right up against his throat.

She felt his fingers slide into her hair and felt herself melt slightly, yearning for more of his touch, wanting to press her body against his. But still, she remained frozen and just stared up the short distance at his face, still looking uncertain and with brief flashes of pain in her eyes. This was like no torture she'd ever encountered before. The woman was messing with her mind, trying to hurt her using the man she wanted so much. She would have shaken her head, had his fingers not still been in her hair...she didn't want to dislodge them. Then he asked her a question, asked whether she'd hurt him, and the immediate answer was no. Of course she wouldn't hurt him. She'd never hurt Emlyn. She was slowly forgetting the fact that this wasn't Emlyn, so strong was her desire for him.

His lips were mere centimeters from her own. She stared into his eyes, wanting to close the distance between them so badly. It was wrong of her to like him this much, but it wasn't exactly something that she could control. She moved forward slightly, and then moved back, fight with herself constantly. There was a look of pain and confusion on her face as she stared up at him, looking into his eyes, looking at his lips. Still, she didn't kiss him, though she didn't move away either. He could kiss her, and she wouldn't pull away, but she was hesitant to actually initiate the kiss. Some part of her was still so sure that this was the evil bitch, that she wouldn't be kissing Emlyn, that she'd be kissing the evil woman. Still, she didn't pull away either. It was obvious that she wasn't sure whether he was real or not.

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Words: 990
Mood: Absolutely ecstatic! I LOVE this post. My favorite post on this site!
Notes: So much muse! This is the longest post I've ever made ever. I get so much muse when it involves my character being hurt physically or emotionally xD

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[Dahlia Cruorem]

Y-You're not...him.

It cut her to the quick though it shouldn't have. Of course Dahlia wasn't him. She was her own person, her own entity with her own patterns, own thoughts, own emotions, but it was a sore point with her, a thing that slithered under her skin and spilled into the cracks of long ago wounds. She had faults, terrible faults and though in this body she was male and the sheer maleness stretched out over her mind like a gigantic hand, she could not feel the right presence. This wasn't the Emlyn that existed in the world - this was a fanciful illusion dredged up by romantic hopes, romantic love and it wasn't right. It hurt that it wasn't right, and if she had been able to, Dahlia would have dove deeper into the current of his thoughts to capture exactly who he was, why he was, and would have lost herself to it.

But she was empty, a hollow shell -- and it was the weak spot in her stolen memories. Without touch, without sure knowledge, it wasn't perfect, influenced by others' judgment. It hurt, hurt so much that she was right, that Dahlia wasn't him, when in that moment, consumed by this childish, pure longing, she wanted nothing more than to be him, to become that entity and steal it and hold it close to her heart. It was her sickness and there was none that would know it but for another changeling who might catch her drifting thoughts, her unsought desires.

She wanted to be someone, and without that, she was left with ashes slipping through her fingers -- fragments of a memory that she was trying to build and failing, failing so utterly it was disastrous. A throb of agony ripped through her, emotional turmoil making her breath ease more slowly between her lips, but the girl, Ceara, the knight in shining armor, was melting in her arms, and for the briefest moment it was how it was supposed to be.

Just like this. She could walk around in his skin, become the man that he could never be and fulfill this woman's wish for love, foolish though it might be. The temptation was a wretched thing, for it meant discarding her current identity and throwing herself into this hollow character and filling out the mistakes, tweaking him to fit the needs of this young, foolhardy woman. But she had felt the strength of that crush, that desire and it was something that Dahlia would have given much over to attain, to hold in the palm of her hand. Without it, she did the only thing she could: she reached out for it with physical hands, her body manlike and stiff, hands big, square where they cupped the delicate jaw-line, where her mind was being overcome by the desire, the attraction of this woman. Her eyes -- depths of emotion, of a sultriness that had nothing to do with affectation, and was simply, and would forever be, natural. It was an allure Dahlia found herself fighting against, beating back the maleness that was creeping up over her body.

She had to cut it, to sever herself from this persona she had created out of thin air and it was a battle her body did not want to fight. There was satisfaction in giving in to this lust, in fulfilling this woman's fantasies and taking her to bed, in shedding her clothes and touching her, molding her against her own hard body, taking her as only a man can take a woman. The sick need made her dizzy with it as the knife wavered, paused, jerked away. He ... no, she was so close, her body thrumming in Emlyn's form where it was trembling close, inches, centimeters disappearing though she was jerking away, backing away from his touch, melting with each caress, each long-filled look that filled his eyes, -- no, her! Dahlia was not Emlyn, this false person.

The desire to see this man cut her, sliced through the bones of her power and left her with a frightening need to see, to touch, to taste his skin as this woman wanted to, to hold him as this woman wanted to. Full of these contradictory emotions, drowning in the potential that lingered in the awkward glances, the silences, the angry white lines along their mouths she was drawn toward them, finding herself wanting both, wanting one, no, the other. Then again as her mind spun and spun and spun and she was staring in puzzlement at the girl floating in her cupped hands, delicate as a flower for all that she was a knight and her anger was a dangerous thing to provoke. So much desire, it was eating her up inside and her lips hovered over her's, an intimacy of breath that commingled and spread the desire like flames, fanning her from embers to a glorious blaze and the guise fell from her as if burned by a brand.

Her body was young, slender and almost boyish with it's narrow shoulders, small neck, shorter, so much shorter but so close. Bewildered eyes, orange and vibrant, brightness tinged with surprise as her lips darted forward, mouth clashing with mouth in one chaotic spiral. Hardly a kiss, hardly what was to be expected after her drawn out words, male and under breath, but she was Dahlia, unable to hold onto that desire without feeling it in her own body and in the end, she hadn't wanted to be him but herself when it happened, and she had changed, had shifted back to her first form, the girl her parents had stolen. The world kept spinning even as her breath came short, and her voice, when she spoke, was breathy with bemusement, words coming slow as if from a long distance. "You're so interesting, Ceara Mindelan." They were too close now, the tension between them making her uneasy, though she managed a half-hearted laugh, even as her eyes searched Ceara's as if looking for a piece of herself gone missing.

A heartbeat of stony silence, a quirky smile to hide her discomfort and Dahlia stepped back, a tilt of her head, a cat-like smile that tells of stolen secrets, stolen loves and she hops back a few more feet as if teasing, as if the girl could be coaxed to a game of chase though she knew in her heart that the only game of chase this one would ever play with her, would be to kill her. I want to see Emlyn, she thinks to herself, her chin lifting up in defiance, a sparkling color filling in the gaping holes in her eyes, hair tangled and mislaid along her back. She wanted to see the real man, to see how different he was, to touch him, to know him as she knew Ceara.

Ceara. Names have power, and it pulsed in her, a muscle memory of that shape, of those feelings that had nearly torn her apart. How perfectly imperfect.

[/color][/size]

word count;; 1176
tags;; Ceara ^^
OOC;; The plot is
officially on the path xD
Now she wants to
see Emlyn. LOL

[Emlyn Zynooth]

Sometimeslifewas easy. Each passed by like a dream, actions unfolding as easily as the wind blew the grass. Days when a simple laugh could break through anything and no silence was purely quiet. The type of days the lovers looked back on with awe, the days when no words were needed to describe the emotions and feelings as one ran away with them and tossed them around without a care in the world. The days where nothing was taken seriously and everything was as light and fluffy as the downy feathers of a duckling. Everyone wished that life was one of those days.

This was not one of those days.

In fact, it was about as far as you could get from one of those days. Everything inside of Emlyn was a tumbling hurricane, confused rain splattering, angry wind blowing, with clouds of emotion that he had never known before swirling. Emlyn knew hard days well. He had been physically tested to the point where his own strong body had collapsed. He had dealt with pain. He knew starvation. He knew thirst. He knew cold. He knew heat. He knew panic. But nothing, none of it was like this. Those were the things he could run away from, and toss aside like scraps of paper. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he wanted it to, this just wouldn't leave him. It was like post-traumatic stress disorder, only...he hadn't been traumatized, or had he?

Could it be considered torture to do this to a person who in all his life had avoided feelings like the plague? Who, to many people, had lost his soul just so he wouldn't feel pain? Why couldn't he throw this away? It had been so easy to avoid relationships before. All he had to to was not initiate anything, but maybe that was the problem. Before, it had been someone like him, who didn't try to initiate either, but now...he had thought he could be strong, that by physically testing himself to the point of nearly killing himself that everything human would disappear from him, but evidently, it was not so. And how he hated to think he had failed in becoming the pale shadow he had always longed to be.

Which made him wonder why he had come back here, to the place it had all started, where the cruel curse of coincidence had reared it's ugly face upon him and brought him all sorts of confusion, puzzlement, bewilderment, whatever you wanted to call it. But then again, maybe that was exactly why he had come back. To grow immune, to face it, to look it in the face like a man and prove he was better than it. To move on. And then what would he do? After he had proven that it didn't affect him, he would run away and never come back, so that this place wouldn't be given another chance to try and take hold of him. His dark blue-violet eyes flitted over everything as he tried to ignore every little piece of memory that was getting up. He was tougher than it. He could defeat it the same way everyone defeated the ghosts that lived inside them, only his ghost wasn't evil, his ghost was the possibility that he might be hurt in a way that he couldn't handle. His worst nightmare.

[Ceara Mindelan]

For long moments they just stared into each other's eyes, and Ceara was losing herself, and she knew it. She was slowly forgetting that this was not Emlyn, that instead it was a woman, an evil woman. Or evil in her opinion, anyways. Still, all the mattered was that she was here, with Emlyn, now. Still, however, she couldn't bring herself to close the distance between them and to kiss him. She didn't even more her arms to wrap them around him, though she wanted to. How badly she wanted to. It was almost painful, this desire to be with Emlyn. Now, it seemed, she had more then one weakness. Before her only weakness had been the scar on her back, the thing that caused her pain and caused her to mentally break down when someone touched it. Now, however, she had a second weakness....Emlyn.

She felt Emlyn's hands disentangle from her hair and instead cup her chin. She willingly tilted her head back slightly, so that he could kiss her, as she really hoped he would. He leaned closer and right before pressing his lips to her...he changed, his eyes turning back into the orange colour she recognized to be the eye colour of the evil bitch. Emlyn disappeared, only to be replaced with the woman. Before Ceara could react, could pull away, the woman had closed the distance between them, slamming her lips against Ceara's own. Her eyes widened in surprise and shock, and she stiffened. She probably would have unfrozen after a few moments and pushed the other woman away, but the evil bitch pulled away from the kiss first, though she didn't move away.

"You're so interesting, Ceara Mindelan."

Ceara finally spluttered, raising the hand that wasn't still holding the dagger and using it to wipe at her mouth, spitting on the ground. "[What the hell!?" She said, and finally her anger came back. The woman had been tricking her. She'd lost herself into thinking it had been Emlyn...but no, it had never been Emlyn. Emlyn wouldn't do that. It had been this stupid, evil bitch. First she'd changed into her, learned her deepest desires, saw her memories, and then she'd changed into Emlyn, to trick her, to play with her....and it had worked. Ceara clenched her fists, her eyes narrowing and darkening with barely suppressed rage. And then the woman had had the nerve to kiss her! After changing back into her own body!

"YOU BITCH!" She screamed and suddenly lunged forward, lashing out with the dagger and hoping to have it plunge into the chest of the evil bitch. Her face was contorted with rage, but on the inside she felt rather...numb. She'd fooled herself into believing that it was Emlyn that was touching her, that had been about to kiss her...when really it had just been this woman playing with her. No, Emlyn wouldn't have kissed her...wouldn't have touched her so softly like that. He did not like her in that way...in fact, she doubted he liked her much at all. The last time they'd parted ways, he'd thought she hated him, thought nothing he ever did was good enough for her. How wrong he'd been. Tears came to her eyes, though she did her best to keep them at bay, even biting her lip to keep from actually crying. This stupid woman had hurt her...now Ceara would kill her. Or try to, at least. She didn't care that she was a knight and she would regret it later, this woman had taken it too far.

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Words: 638
Mood: Still ecstatically happy! =D xD
Notes: This post is so awesome! I wonder what Dahlia is going to do when she finds Emlyn >D xD

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[Dahlia Cruorem]

Can you really understand that she didn't mean anything wrong? That, when it came down to the cold hard fact, Dahlia was just acting out in the only way she knew how: by grasping onto things she understands. At first, it was a game, for sure, don't be fooled -- a cat that had found a particularly pleasing mouse to play tag with, and she had stalked the mouse, found it was nothing but putty against her tactics, her intimacy, and the remembered thrill of that hunt, that brief ecstacy was enough to make even Dahlia pause: but she was no longer in the outside world. While time slowed to a tick, she withdrew, folded into herself and sought a way out of the net that she had created for herself. There was torment in this game, a sickly sweet taste of pain that arched over her back and gripped her by the neck.

No, dear audience, you don't truly understand. She didn't mean it, in the end. Hadn't meant to anger the girl when she had shifted back to her form, hadn't meant to cause such anger, hadn't meant anything when she had withdrawn except for that in itself: to distance herself from the creature she had taken under her wing, the phantom self she had etched into her brain. There was a lingering attraction there, holding her captive even as the girl exploded, even as her emotions spat in her face like darts of poison. Terrible, terrible, and yet Dahlia didn't do anything. She was too attached, too intrigued with this version of her own self that she had found in the girl, and it was more than addicting: it was obsession. Her tongue darted out, wetting the lower arc of her lip as she stared, pupils shrunk to slits as the endorphins opened her system, cut gaping wide in front of the world. To be seen, to be shown, she felt as if her guts had been strung along and used for harp's strings. but it was okay, because there was a deeper affection, a sensation of knowledge of home that tied her to the girl when all that Ceara wanted to do was tocut her head off.

It didn't matter in the end, for Dahlia wouldn't let her emotions get in the way of this cold ruthlessness, but it was still something that enthralled her, pushed her to taunt the knight when she shouldn't have, to goad her into action when perhaps she secretly hoped for otherwise. What was that saying? When the only tool you have is a hammer, all your problems begin to look like nails. Well, for Dahlia, when all the tools she has are death and seduction, and she is trying to be nice ... it didn't equate well. Stuck in this middle-ground, she found herself caught, unable to move like that stupid squirrel that darts into the middle of the road --- and freezes.

Dual actions, dual wants: to hug, to hold her (she could not quite shake off the sensation of being male) and the desire to simply kill her, to take her away and solve the hesitation that was written in her very blood, etched in an ugly intaglio on her soul, the changeling did the only thing she could think of. She ran. Not the running that perhaps another person would have done, but it was running nonetheless.

In the end, she didn't want to hurt Ceara. Not yet, anyway. A grin snarked up her mouth, cracking a smile as contradictory as her behavior, dancing away from the oncoming knight -- but she wasn't quick enough on her toes, found herself on the wrong end of a potential knife wound and rolled her shoulders to the side, ducking under the thrust of the blade even as it cut through her clothes, slashing across her shoulder and making her bleed. Bleed hard, bleed fast. Teeth grit, instinctive rage gripped her, hand her hand going for Belle Mort before reason checked the motion. Instead she rolled, sliding under feet of the oncoming crowd and laughing though she bled. Light on her toes, and acrobatic by nature, Dahlia bounced to her feet, melted her equilibrium and left Tezca scurrying for cover into the alley ways. She somersaulted through the air, landing on a stack of barrels, her eyes looking comically bright when they caught the green jewel sharp edges of Ceara's eyes. "Good day, m'lady." she mocked, her voice pitched down and taking on Emlyn's voice.

Another maddening laugh and with a theatrical bow, she winked in Ceara's direction and launched herself in the direction of the seagulls -- they scattered, squawking at first in indignation, then surprise and shock as human shape took on bird form and she disappeared among the flock, to spiral around the people on deck -- but her shoulder had been torn open by the blade and flying was difficult, terrible for her.

It wasn't long before she found herself lagging, and swooped down into the crowd, shifting into herself and hurrying through, grabbing her shoulder in irritation, more than pain. It was a distant throb, one that numbed her skin, rather than irritated it, but that she had been too distracted to dodge it, was aggravation in and of itself. Her thoughts spiraled, darkening, flexing as her power curled around her in invisible tendrils, stroking along her back, her neck, her face, whispering to her. Get someone, change, hide, become them --- until Fate took strings from her basket and smiling at the colors tied two of them together, weaving them into the giant quilt of life. The crowd parted -- a glimpse of blue!

Excitement pulsed, throbbed in her temples as her eyes widened, darted to the side as she hid among the people, another anonymous walker, staring, staring, hoping -- God how she was hoping, and found herself smiling when she recognized the brooding stare, the hard-lined profile: Emlyn.

Etched in perfection from a borrowed memory, Dahlia looked behind her to see if the Ceara was following at her heels -- she had been so enraged, so angry. Delight coursed through her belly, tightening her body with adrenaline and she shifted into that favored image: blond hair, green eyes, athletic build, taller, steadier, heavier. She hunched, the wound the only marring in her image but it was okay for she was a devious creature, giving over to tricks and she wanted so badly to meet this person, to know him for who he truly was, and not some foolish dream conjured by an equally foolish girl. Gripping her shoulder, she called out, in Ceara's voice, in Ceara's body. "Emlyn!" a gasp, shortness of breath and she stumbled to the side, catching her shoulder, fingers tightening where the blood was seeping through. Her eyes were frantic, pleading -- and hope was opening them up like petals. Help was here: at last. But the crowd moved and he was lost from sight. No! She pushed, and shoved, fighting her way though it forced her wound to bleed deeper, bleed red crimson, to stain her clothes, her skin, her nails painted with it.

"Emlyn!" she called again when, like the ocean, the tides seem to clear for a brief moment. Stumbling over to him, her voice harsh from breathing, she said, "Remember when I said I don't need help unless I'm dying?" she looked over her shoulder, angry, scathing looks passing over people's heads. "I was stupid. I got caught by a changeling -- she's following me, and I only have one good arm left."

She didn't look at him, kept her eyes scanning the area looking for the supposed changeling, becoming this woman who was starting to realize how hopelessly in lust she was with him. So easy to manipulate this situation, so easy, too easy, and she was near him, and the maleness he gave off was so different than the one she had imagined from the borrowed memories. She hissed when the crowd moved against her injury. "Goddamn it." she didn't shrug, but pulled her shoulder tighter to her, her green eyes ablaze with anger.

[/color][/size]

word count;; 1363
tags;; Ceara // Emlyn
OOC;; I'm too tired to
proof read. Must is kinda iffy
so if it's choppy sorreh .__.

[Emlyn Zynooth]

Emlyn froze as he heard his name as he heard it being called in desperation, in an all-too familiar voice. Every single particle in his body was held tightly, tense, even though he knew that only his mind would be the one struggling. He knew it was her, no one else had the same voice. Nothing else could make him look like a dear in headlights and cause his heart to thump so. Nothing else made him feel like a complete and total fool when he prided himself on being an educated warriors. But on the other hand, this was his savior. From now on, there would be no doubt or wonder. Whatever would happen would happen and even if her regretted what he would do, it would be over.

He heard it again, and then she erupted from the crowd, seemingly engaged in something, like she always was, only something was wrong. The way she had left him last time...would she really be running up to him like this? Would she try again? Just the thought of that made him back up a step. He had thought he had known at least a vague outline of who she was, but now everything was blurry, he had no idea. Perhaps he had just been a toy all along, or a tool to get herself out of sticky situations, for he did always seem to have to rescue her from something or other. He remembered what Aithne had told him, but maybe she was in on it, this feminine trick that had him going in circles.

But no, that was not what was wrong. It was something else...the blood on her shoulder! Had she been attacked? Was someone chasing her? His hand went to the hilt of his sword, ready to slice up whoever had hurt her, but she informed him that a changeling was after her. A changeling? Those were shape-shifters, right? He couldn't be sure. Most of his education that wasn't physical concentrated on famous literature, not...beasts? Was a changeling a beast? Oh, he had no idea, but the point was that she was hurt, and now...he didn't have to worry about anything. He could just be a soldier who could help her. That he could do. All he had to do was take care of her and leave emotions behind.

He put one soft hand on her uninjured shoulder and with his other, gently lifted her hand off her other shoulder to reveal the wound, though flushing slightly as he did so, but he was doing nothing more than being professional. He needed to look at it, and if touching her was what he had to do to achieve that then he would. His motives were completely practical. He reached down and grabbed the bottom corner of his long black coat and stood up again to place it on her injury and stop the blood. Aithne wasn't here. He was going to have to clean it and bandage it himself, which he would do without hesitation.

"I should get you back to Treasure, he's on the edge. I can use the bandages from his saddlebags," he informed her as he started to pull her slightly with him. At least she seemed willing to accept his help this time, instead of pretending like it didn't mater, like he usually did himself. But this was good. Well, it wasn't good that she had been hurt, but it was a distraction for both of them from that day. They wouldn't have to worry about that until later, or maybe they could forget about it entirely. He was certainly willing.