Post by Vladimir on Dec 8, 2006 10:17:56 GMT -5
Name Vladimir
Nickname Vlad
Breed Andalusian
Gender Male
Age 5
Color Grey
Height 16.2
Type normal
Image see signature
Example Post from another rpg, written by me, of course (vampire/human)
I love to watch. To follow those that call themselves Children of Darkness, Vampires. I love to watch them, follow them and understand them better than they, perhaps, know themselves. I enjoy watching them in the endless nights, waiting for the day to leap at them. I no longer worry of the day. The sun cannot kill me, it only bronzes me and I may pass as more nearly human even though I am over 200 years of age. I was born in the end of the eighteenth century; when customs and religions were dying; when the world was changing into something anew. I was born on the peak of a new era. And so, it is only fitting that I allow my children to follow me into this era as well. The Gods made me what I am. They took and they gave, both of them, over and over again; the ecstasy too great to describe here. The passing of blood through me and back into them is one feeling you’ll have to experience for yourself. I am the only children made by the Gods. I am Lestat. This name you will hear over and over again, until your ears ring with it. O, how I long for such things. I long for the celebrity you would give me. Please do. Please, know my name, understand the way I move. Yet, no, you will never understand the wy I move or what I do. I am me and no one else is anything like me. There is nothing in the world that can satisfy my lust for fame and adventure.
Two girls. Vampires they call themselves. One stands watching the world go by, while the other ignores the drunkard as she seeks company. Ignoring a drunkard. Easy pickings. Not to your taste? In your mind you speak these words, yet, how can you think this? Blood is blood. Like air is air and you are vampire. Before the two enter the apartment I watch them, vaguely trying to understand what it is that draws them together. Perhaps the same thing that draws me to them. Or the drunkard to me. A trick of the mind? The summoning game I love to play, only by accident? The way Louis does so often. Poor, ragged Louis. Stays in his shack alone, reading by the moonlight. The shack itself is covered in vines, ah, but I get ahead of myself.
Please, forgive me if I seem as focused as a wolf on the hunt sometimes, and at other times, as a toddler. I really am a sophisticated being, I just have this little knack for getting excited and going off on a tangent. I've been known to go on and on about my time in Paris a long time ago. But again, I get ahead of my tale.
The drunkard stumbles in the darkness as I gaze over the bay, watching the waves attempt in vain to destroy the rocks below. I wait patiently as he stops beside me, seemingly focused on the sun rise. I sleep later than most others, a full hour can pass from now before I have no choice but to seek the darkness. The summoning game is one that many Blood Drinkers play, whether they know it or not. They think it "neat" that they can tell which of the mortals <i>wants</i> to die. All they've done is summon the one that wants to die to them. The most ruthless of the Vampires are those that summon none, but take those that they will with no regards for age or will. Louis hunts in this manner. I prefer the men that have killed. My brothers in death. The murders, cut-throats, thieves, villains, whatever you will call them. Yes, those are to my taste. This one, this drunk, what the two femmes failed to glean from his slow mind is that he's a murderer. A fool could tell this, yet they gained not the slightest idea.
Slowly, as if watching a horror film, the man's head clears from the fog I had caused and his eyes grow wide as he stares at me. At my white skin, hard as marble and the gleaming nails on the fingers that so gently hold tightly to his own hand. His heart is racing, it's going to burst! The sweet salty sweat pours from his face and down his neck, the dark wet hair sticking to his forehead in clumps, his soiled shirt seeming too small for as round a man as he. Oh, yes, the perfection of such a man to my taste is exhilerating. He struggles to free his hand from my own, I don't move, there's no getting away from me. If I let you go, I will follow you later and get you. You don't "get away" from Lestat. I pull my lips back slightly, revealing the tiny fang teeth, and he goes into a panic; wrenching his hand this way and that, and still I do not move. The only movement in the last five minutes that I have made, is to reveal the instrument of his death. The fear cause his stomach inside to convulse, my other hand comes up to turn him towards the bay, the vomit sliding through the night into the waters below. He leans heavily against the waist high wall, breathing hard, apparently calm for the moment.
Again, I move him, gently, to face me. The panic mounts in him again and I put a cold finger to his lips. "Quiet, m'chere. No need to struggle." My thick French accent coming through in the hushed tones. What a pair we must make. I the man in the silk frock coat, and he the chubby drunkard almost dripping with sweat. Perfect. Cupping his head with my hand I tip it to the side, revealing the bulging vein full of rushing blood. The site always brings about the blood lust in me, and always I let it take control. The thirst will carry you to your victim, always be sure of that. The mind game is being played again, the convincing of the victim to release to you all their sins and misgivings. But need I do this? Feathering kisses along the vein, he struggles again, the salty sweat enough to drive any vampire mad. But no, the blood is what I want. Opening my mouth upon the vein I can hear the blood rushing, my teethe break skin and he struggles again before I can quiet him. I drink slowly, letting the blood fill my mouth before letting it loose to run rampant through my limbs and every pore of my preternatural skin. The pure ecstacy is that which cannot be described or experienced by any other than the Blood Drinker. With the blood comes the visions of the drunks past. The murders of the elderly women and rapes of both the young and old. Sad, sad man. One less serial killer terrorizing the elders of our society. The heart slows, like thunder in my ears. Refusing to stop pumping the life giving blood through him and into me. It slows until finally it bursts and I swallow the death, it hits my stomach like a punch and leaves me slightly dizzy for a moment. His eyes have rolled up into his head, with a drop of my blood the pin pricks on his neck heal and I drop him into the bay below. Someone will find him tomorrow, and no one here will be upset or worried. For this is Kirgot, the vampires city.
The girls have disappeared into the apartment. I will visit them, but not yet. For the moment, I stand quietly watching the water glow as the sun rises and reveling in the feeling of the blood working on my skin, making it a little more human for a short time. A slight flush comes to my face, a luster -more than before- in my eyes and hair. Only one human, not enough blood to truly do much. But enough for me to notice, and others to understand that I have recently fed. Another ten minutes and I turn my back on the rising sun and drift down the alley towards the door to the apartment. I drift because I make no sound, I touch the ground yet you hear nothing. And so I drift. With a mental twist, the lock turns and the door opens silently, revealing them both inside. I smile and step inside and out of the way of the door, another mental twist and the door closes with a soft click. Knowing just how terrifying I can seem when I smile, I let my face relax and bow slightly as any eighteenth century gentleman would do.
"Arelia, Rosalind. Interesting names. Modern, too. Tell me, what brings you here? To this room? Why not one of the more luxurious hotels uptown?" With the last question my head tips to the side and I gesture before me, as if I were outside. "Mon Dieu! Where are my manners? Forgive me, I am Lestat de Lioncourt." My words, each pronounced specifically correct, are shadowed as always, by the heavy French accent. I flash a smile, revealing the tiny fang teeth to them, for reasons beyond my own understanding and wait patiently for either or both of them to respond. For, what have I but time? But, then again, I've never been a patient creature.
((1,606 words.))
Nickname Vlad
Breed Andalusian
Gender Male
Age 5
Color Grey
Height 16.2
Type normal
Image see signature
Example Post from another rpg, written by me, of course (vampire/human)
I love to watch. To follow those that call themselves Children of Darkness, Vampires. I love to watch them, follow them and understand them better than they, perhaps, know themselves. I enjoy watching them in the endless nights, waiting for the day to leap at them. I no longer worry of the day. The sun cannot kill me, it only bronzes me and I may pass as more nearly human even though I am over 200 years of age. I was born in the end of the eighteenth century; when customs and religions were dying; when the world was changing into something anew. I was born on the peak of a new era. And so, it is only fitting that I allow my children to follow me into this era as well. The Gods made me what I am. They took and they gave, both of them, over and over again; the ecstasy too great to describe here. The passing of blood through me and back into them is one feeling you’ll have to experience for yourself. I am the only children made by the Gods. I am Lestat. This name you will hear over and over again, until your ears ring with it. O, how I long for such things. I long for the celebrity you would give me. Please do. Please, know my name, understand the way I move. Yet, no, you will never understand the wy I move or what I do. I am me and no one else is anything like me. There is nothing in the world that can satisfy my lust for fame and adventure.
Two girls. Vampires they call themselves. One stands watching the world go by, while the other ignores the drunkard as she seeks company. Ignoring a drunkard. Easy pickings. Not to your taste? In your mind you speak these words, yet, how can you think this? Blood is blood. Like air is air and you are vampire. Before the two enter the apartment I watch them, vaguely trying to understand what it is that draws them together. Perhaps the same thing that draws me to them. Or the drunkard to me. A trick of the mind? The summoning game I love to play, only by accident? The way Louis does so often. Poor, ragged Louis. Stays in his shack alone, reading by the moonlight. The shack itself is covered in vines, ah, but I get ahead of myself.
Please, forgive me if I seem as focused as a wolf on the hunt sometimes, and at other times, as a toddler. I really am a sophisticated being, I just have this little knack for getting excited and going off on a tangent. I've been known to go on and on about my time in Paris a long time ago. But again, I get ahead of my tale.
The drunkard stumbles in the darkness as I gaze over the bay, watching the waves attempt in vain to destroy the rocks below. I wait patiently as he stops beside me, seemingly focused on the sun rise. I sleep later than most others, a full hour can pass from now before I have no choice but to seek the darkness. The summoning game is one that many Blood Drinkers play, whether they know it or not. They think it "neat" that they can tell which of the mortals <i>wants</i> to die. All they've done is summon the one that wants to die to them. The most ruthless of the Vampires are those that summon none, but take those that they will with no regards for age or will. Louis hunts in this manner. I prefer the men that have killed. My brothers in death. The murders, cut-throats, thieves, villains, whatever you will call them. Yes, those are to my taste. This one, this drunk, what the two femmes failed to glean from his slow mind is that he's a murderer. A fool could tell this, yet they gained not the slightest idea.
Slowly, as if watching a horror film, the man's head clears from the fog I had caused and his eyes grow wide as he stares at me. At my white skin, hard as marble and the gleaming nails on the fingers that so gently hold tightly to his own hand. His heart is racing, it's going to burst! The sweet salty sweat pours from his face and down his neck, the dark wet hair sticking to his forehead in clumps, his soiled shirt seeming too small for as round a man as he. Oh, yes, the perfection of such a man to my taste is exhilerating. He struggles to free his hand from my own, I don't move, there's no getting away from me. If I let you go, I will follow you later and get you. You don't "get away" from Lestat. I pull my lips back slightly, revealing the tiny fang teeth, and he goes into a panic; wrenching his hand this way and that, and still I do not move. The only movement in the last five minutes that I have made, is to reveal the instrument of his death. The fear cause his stomach inside to convulse, my other hand comes up to turn him towards the bay, the vomit sliding through the night into the waters below. He leans heavily against the waist high wall, breathing hard, apparently calm for the moment.
Again, I move him, gently, to face me. The panic mounts in him again and I put a cold finger to his lips. "Quiet, m'chere. No need to struggle." My thick French accent coming through in the hushed tones. What a pair we must make. I the man in the silk frock coat, and he the chubby drunkard almost dripping with sweat. Perfect. Cupping his head with my hand I tip it to the side, revealing the bulging vein full of rushing blood. The site always brings about the blood lust in me, and always I let it take control. The thirst will carry you to your victim, always be sure of that. The mind game is being played again, the convincing of the victim to release to you all their sins and misgivings. But need I do this? Feathering kisses along the vein, he struggles again, the salty sweat enough to drive any vampire mad. But no, the blood is what I want. Opening my mouth upon the vein I can hear the blood rushing, my teethe break skin and he struggles again before I can quiet him. I drink slowly, letting the blood fill my mouth before letting it loose to run rampant through my limbs and every pore of my preternatural skin. The pure ecstacy is that which cannot be described or experienced by any other than the Blood Drinker. With the blood comes the visions of the drunks past. The murders of the elderly women and rapes of both the young and old. Sad, sad man. One less serial killer terrorizing the elders of our society. The heart slows, like thunder in my ears. Refusing to stop pumping the life giving blood through him and into me. It slows until finally it bursts and I swallow the death, it hits my stomach like a punch and leaves me slightly dizzy for a moment. His eyes have rolled up into his head, with a drop of my blood the pin pricks on his neck heal and I drop him into the bay below. Someone will find him tomorrow, and no one here will be upset or worried. For this is Kirgot, the vampires city.
The girls have disappeared into the apartment. I will visit them, but not yet. For the moment, I stand quietly watching the water glow as the sun rises and reveling in the feeling of the blood working on my skin, making it a little more human for a short time. A slight flush comes to my face, a luster -more than before- in my eyes and hair. Only one human, not enough blood to truly do much. But enough for me to notice, and others to understand that I have recently fed. Another ten minutes and I turn my back on the rising sun and drift down the alley towards the door to the apartment. I drift because I make no sound, I touch the ground yet you hear nothing. And so I drift. With a mental twist, the lock turns and the door opens silently, revealing them both inside. I smile and step inside and out of the way of the door, another mental twist and the door closes with a soft click. Knowing just how terrifying I can seem when I smile, I let my face relax and bow slightly as any eighteenth century gentleman would do.
"Arelia, Rosalind. Interesting names. Modern, too. Tell me, what brings you here? To this room? Why not one of the more luxurious hotels uptown?" With the last question my head tips to the side and I gesture before me, as if I were outside. "Mon Dieu! Where are my manners? Forgive me, I am Lestat de Lioncourt." My words, each pronounced specifically correct, are shadowed as always, by the heavy French accent. I flash a smile, revealing the tiny fang teeth to them, for reasons beyond my own understanding and wait patiently for either or both of them to respond. For, what have I but time? But, then again, I've never been a patient creature.
((1,606 words.))
