| Subject: [anyone, EVERYONE, ESPECIALLY Lairy boi.....] |
Author:
Mina
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Date Posted: 17:56:08 11/24/02 Sun
We are all of us, invented. Cobbled together, from cartilage and dust. Few of us know, in certainty, the name of our maker. But I do….
Existence is a capricious thing; damned more than praised, certainly. We are but souls, entities, captured in a being that we sanction and manage. Our choices to do such with this apparatus will morph the opinions of all others about us…. which is why the arrival to a new land is a vital revival of ones deep, and subsequent past.
Such is the case, with our dear Mina.
And the forename does undeniably chime a signal in the heads of all; the bride to be of the infamous Dracula. It would not surprise the entire to let it be acknowledged of superstitious rumors of Alairic, tracing to this great being. As did she, but let us return to the beginning…. retracing to the pasts of long ago….
All of them desire your love. And you, their most beloved flower, are mine…
Her life was taken by the infamous nosferatu, indeed, but replaced with a existence perpetual, unsurpassed by the trivial reminiscence of what was a capricious being; born to subsist and expire.
Each night since his auspicious demise she has had the inveterate imaginings, the same, always reminiscing her to the magnificent time of his company, one she longed again…. each day in the deceased hours of darkness and the full of the moon they returned as banal as the stars….
The feeling of the deep, surging water…a singing present in my ears. Always suddenly there is a feeling of something very sweet, but very bitter all around me at once; everything ostensibly passing away….my soul seems exit my body, floating about in air….but it always returns to the same, the awakening; to the cry of the wolf, and the crash, of the waves…..
She could follow him, follow his mere existence for days and fortnights, miles…she knew him, his creature…from the sound of the waves…It shall be followed by a musty smell, and beyond…. the sound of waves still pounding, and pounding. Days later if she comes no closer the pounding remains the same but wait; there is a change, the waves have stopped. Now there are footsteps; voices. Water this time but yet it is softer, lighter. She is drawing nearer, nearer to him…
And so this returns us to the present moment, as a slender silhouette appears over the hill of the sanctum, with an affectionate hand pulling open the outsized iron gates of the cemetery. Her form was sleek, refined. Her skin was pulled smooth and pure, lacking any marks and colored milk upon the curvaceous perfection. Pleasing to the eye was her form, and developed; cleavage faintly exposed from the bodice of her mauve dress; which seems to be tattered and bloodstained. Thick locks of dark hair toppled in silk strands down the back of the figure, eloquently framing a soft, striking face. Her orifice, as her wear, seemed tainted the color of blood; her eyes diverging with an artic cerulean. From them, thin lines of deep crimson drew their way athwart a flawless facade; tears of angels, weeping with blood.
Tis the sign of the nosferatu; wont this be a surprise to thee, Alairic my boy.
With one nimble hand she drew forth the cascading mahogany tresses to cover the kiss of existence upon her collar; it could not be bare, her clandestine, not just yet. Extending a pale finger she tenderly brushes it over the words she passes as she crosses the sanctum, remembering slightly that past when immortality was not possible…ah, those bitter hours; ghastly days…
…. our dearest Lucy, God Rest Thee Soul…for our Remarkable Jonathan Harker…in Loving Memory of the Accomplished Abraham Van Helsen…the pious John Seward…
Her finger lingered over the names; more so the one labeled Jonathan; but her countenance registered ever emotionless, rich and voluptuous lips puckered vaguely; seductively yet naively so. She chuckled slightly, an innocence erupting deep within, and for the first time, she speaks.
They thought that death would be more appropriate….precious to them, life of mortals…..and here they lie, below the dust, and here I stand in centuries past before them….how truly wrong you were……..
She twisted, quite hastily, eyes darting around in search of one. He has not seen he since her days of earthly; and she has returned to show him her reincarnation, her sacrifice. Flipping forth her locks, framing her visage and concealing a cream colored neck, the feminine parted her orifice, concealing her lustrous teeth which themselves too withheld a indication to her surreptitious. Her accent flowing elegantly with the reminiscence of Britain, a engaging tone echoes its way to the ears of the one whom she knew.
Alairic? Have you elapsed your cherished Mina in these centuries precedent? I entreat not, for thee’s sake…
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