;; naamah

[kurayami]

character pic here

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† Naamah - Lucifruge - Rofocale †

†Naamie†

† General Information †

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Full Name: Naamah Lucifruge Rofocale
Nicknames:Naamie/Luci
Gender:Female
Race: Werewolf
Age: 20 years
Age they appear: Seventeen
Orientation: Heterosexual
Health Problems: some ADHD, night terrors (parasomnial sleep disorder), and obsessibe stalking (if that could be considered a health problem)

† Personality †

Basic Personality:

FIRST IMPRESSION ` At first, she seems like any other foolish, airheaded girl, and in some cases, that's exactly what she is. She makes a habit of acting kind of random and her innocent looks do no good to warn others of the mischievous fatale inside. However friendly she may seem, don’t be caught off guard – she likes to hang around long after her welcome has worn off.

AMBITIOUS ` You could say that I'm a perfectionist. But that might be stretching it a little. It's not a surprise that i like being on top. Doesn't everyone? Well, if not then I guess it's just me. When I do things, I like getting them right. And when I get a job, I want to see respect and fear in the eyes of my client and a nice fat payment in compensation for the killing.

MISCHIEVOUS ` I like trouble. Is that a crime? it's a lot more interesting when where is something happening. Anyways, life is boring enough as it is so why let the opportunity for adventure and excitement pass?

IMAGINATIVE ` Ok, I confess. I do life in a world enitrely of my own making. it's the setting for my day dreams and the realm of my fairy tales. Trues, it does sound quite the tall story but real life gets a bit dull sometimes and I need something to keep me entertained.

PESSIMISTIC ` The darker side of like is always the reality. Though I live in my own dream world, it, like real life, is by no means, perfect. There will always be more mishaps than not. When your expecting them , they are not as troublesome. And when something good happens, it's all the more of a pleasant surprise.

MORBID ` In this world, there are two kinds of pessimists. The moody kind, and the happy kind. i believe I all under the happy kind. There are down fall of having a nice, active little imagination and a pesstimistic nature all in the same person is that your not always 'nice' to people. You can happily tell me that your planning to go to the ocean for a dip and I'll detail you in about your downfall at the mouth of a shark in all it's gory detail.

WHIMSICAL ` Oh, I do love this word. And believe it or not, it describes me like red describes a rose. I do see myself as quite unpredictable. As it is, I tend to change my mind on a whil. A plan that I might've once though quite clever can suddenly be changed or called off if I happen to fancy a new idea. A person that I just spat at can be my best friend the next day. Well, as for the person, I don't know too much about how they'll like that.

HEADSTRONG ` Maybe it's a good trait. Maybe it's a bad one. But as spoiled as it sounds, I have to have my own way. Some tell me that I could probably be a lot smarter than butting heads with everyone who disagrees with me, but I can't help it. I like my ideas and enjoy seeing them work out. But that doesn't mean I'm narrow minded. I'm always open to suggestion. Most of the time.

Likes:

† Fans (the kind that you use to cool yourself off)
† Music
† Blood
† Bondage
† Dancing

Hates:

† People who look down on her
† Idiots
† Humorless people
† Boringness
† Night terrors

Talents:

† Dancing
† Being annoying
† Tying knots
† Acrobatics
† Not paying attention

Habits:

† Stalkerness
† Telling people if she thinks they taste good or not
† Talking to herself

† Appearance †

Skin Color: Creamy peach
Hair Color: Plaitnum Blonde
Eye Color: Honey brown
Build: lean
Piercings/Scars/Tattoos: N/A
Choice of Clothing:

At 5"5', Naamah is of fairly average height. She has a slender physique that makes her look frail. The lean muscles of her body are not made for fighting as she can easily be overpowered by anyone. Instead, she puts her stamina into dancing and acrobatics.

According to Wyrda, Naamah looks like her mother with her pale complextion and naturally curly blonde hair. Her eyes, however are supposed to be from her father, since their light brown shade was a far cry from her mother's clear blue.

In terms of fashion, Naamah might as well be attending a royal ball. She prefers lolita dresses and renaissance inspired gowns to 'modern' day clothes. Dresses to pants. However, since it is no longer the fourteenth century, she wears clothes that usually have a punk theme with an excess of buckles or cross/fleur de lis jewelry. But more often than not, she can be seen walking around in one of her dancing costumes. She likes to put emphasis on her eyes by putting black liner and shadow on them.

Range or combat combat doesn't matter to Naamah. However, she refuses to use traditonal hand to hand comabt styles. While she is familiar with the concepts and most of the basic movements, Naamah has spent hours merely observing people fight. She then tries to incorporate it into dancing, resulting in a style unique to her that simply looks like innocus dancing. However, in combat, Naamah is skilled enough to kill in a few blows.

She prefers not to go head to head with her opponents, doing more dodging during fighting than anything else. While her feminine frame reduces her strength, her slender physique and speed developed from dancing allows her to strike and dodge quickly.

Wolf Appearance:

Pale creamy fur accentuated by patches of darker blonde cover a slender frame. Lean muscles that, like those of her human form, exmphasize her need for speed rather than strength. From a dark outline come two lively honey brown pools flecked with small patches of bright gold.

Other:

Naamah is no idiot when it comes to staying safe. She likes fighting the old fashioned way and iron fans are the ideal weapon for a dancer such as her. Iron fans look like the everyday instrument for cooling one's face. But these innocuous weapons are deadlier than they seem. Naamah's forte for dancing makes this an ideal weapon for her to use, as she regularly does fan dances. Her strong wrist muscles allow for her to easily flick the light fans open and closed. Her pair of iron fans is made of different metal plates attached together. They make a small metallic clink when flipped open or closed. Each plate is intricately detailed with different designs. Like other weapons of this make, the outside rim is also sharpened. She carries them around at all times.

† History †

History:

Naamah was born on a crisp winter morning. It had snowed last night, and a thin white layer blanketed the world, yet to be touch by man or animal. Annette held her daughter close, listening to the child's wailing cries. Still weak from labor, she placed a cool hand on the child's damp cheek.

What blasphemous words are you trying to write for me, Madame? You make it seem as if that thing they called my mother was glad about conceiving me. Hmm? She was? Who has clouded your eyes so, Writeress? Obviously, you don't know the whole story. What now? Tell it in my own words? Hmph, what is so interesting about my early days that you must have an exact chronology on? Would you not rather learn about my time with Wyrda and her ward, Blanche, hm? No?! Ugh, fine, the beginning.

The circumstance under which I was born was just like that of any other child. I was born in a hospital with doctors watching over my delivery, blah blah blah. Nothing too special. I don't remember much from those early days. Just blurred glimpses of bright lights and looming figures. When I was discharged from the hospital, my mother brought me to her tiny apartment. Tiny might've been an understatement. The apartment, from what I remember, had two rooms and a bathroom. One was a kitchen the size of a walk in closet and the other was only just a bit bigger than our mattress. It was under these conditions that I lived my first four years of life.

To this day, I believe my mother had some kind of mental illness. She existed in a world purely her own where there were monsters she referred to as werewolves and vampires. Living in Orleans, France at the time, my other was constantly afraid of discovery by the so called werewolves. Apparently, she wanted me to lead a simple life. One where I would grow up as a human and enter society as a human. As it went, she wanted nothing to do with those creatures that she had yet to believe was her imagination. So for four years, I never once stepped into a daycare. When she went to work, my mother would bring me to a ‘friend’ of hers were I would stay for the day. Annette Vasser worked at a theater, doing what, I never learned but I doubted that it included performing but she brought back enough money for us to make ends meet, so my young mind never sought to wonder.

I suppose now you might be wondering why I hated her so. Well, hate would be a bit too venomous a word. something like 'dislike' would be more accurate. From the beginning, my mother was so blinded by her image of what I was to become that she forgot to see who I was. For hours, she would lecture me about the future, how I was supposed to get a good education and live a good life and all that stuff. She constantly mentioned her imaginary world. A world that to me was mere myth at the time. She was a true story teller, and when I was young, I easily succumbed to her stories, shaking in fear as she told of the monsters.

My mother's obsession with demonology and mythology was obvious. My namesake, Naamah, was a fallen angel. For me, it represent her resentment of me; for Naamah was an angel of prostitution and I; I was a child of such. The mistake resulting from her own pleasure seeking ventures. My last name is my father's. And by someone's sick humor, it also happened to be part of the name of the demon Lucifruge. So as it was, my own middle name ended up becoming Lucifruge, completing the imbecile's name. It was also who her first sparked my interest in mythology. It began with an itching curiosity as she told me the tale of Sati and her gift to humans. Of how the jealous Shiva destroyed it as it began its descent so that only one part remained intact as it met the ground. Curiosity turned into mounting interest when she told me about Pandora and her magical box. How she unleashed unfathomable misfortune and eventually hope unto the world. By the time she got to Isis and the Egyptian gods, I was hooked. My favorite was probably the Roman epic, Aeneid.

And he. He visited us sometimes. No, not us. Her. He visited my mother claiming to miss her. Claiming to love her. I wanted him to die. To go away. Be eaten by blood thirsty maggots. Be thrown to starving cannibals. I didn’t care what would be done. He just had to die. Die terribly and lonely. Die suffering and screaming repent for his sin. And who might I be so hatefully speaking of, you might ask? That thing they called my father. The thing that referred to me as a daughter but regarded me as no more than a pest. He woke a monster in me, a snarling bloodthirsty beast that lusted for his blood to spill. But the ugliest part of me never came out. Not yet.

I suppose I couldn’t help myself. I followed him once after his visit. Followed him back to where he lived. And I saw him greet his family like nothing happened. Like his sin was never there. And so, I began to watch their comings and goings. They seemed like a happy family. An intact unit consisting of people who seemingly cared for each other, who trusted each other. One of them in general, a boy about a year older than me, caught my interest. I suppose it was because he was close of my age and that I was curious of what ‘normal’ children did. The children who weren’t mistakes that was. I would follow him to the little school a few streets down then sit in the cover of some bushes and watched them play their games. Once, I even ventured into their yard, looking for some way to break in. I was interesting in what their home looked like. It was nice enough from the outside. Well, curiosity did kill the cat. I had thought there was no one home, but in truth, their mother and the boy and his sister was home. The lady took one look at me, noticing how I looked like a bag of bones and thought I was a homeless orphan. Well, it granted me entrance for she pitied me, thinking me underfed. I spent the remainder of that afternoon eating home cooked spaghetti. The lady’s husband, my father, was furious when he came home, though. He threw me out under the pretense that if they fed one motherless orphan, then they’d might as well feed all of them. But in truth, he didn’t want his secret to be found out.

The day my mother died started as any other day. I was dropped off at my neighbor's house. At the time, I was six and supposed to be attending kindergarten. My neighbor should've asked questions but didn't, caring only about the amount that she would get in compensation for babysitting me. I went through the usual routine, sitting or walking around or whatever doing my own thing while the aging lady sat there reading or talking on the phone. Ate lunch in the afternoon and resumed whatever I was doing. However, my mother was late that day. I, of course, thought nothing of it. The bus could've been late for all I cared.

The sun was beginning to set when the door bell rang. Getting up to answer it, my sitter came face to face with two women around my mother's age. They exchanged words for a few minutes before I was told to go with the women. Reluctant at first, I was soon led to a black car waiting outside. Much to my surprise and confusion, they drove me to a hospital. They brought me to my mother's bedside. Apparently, her bus had gotten into an accident and she was one of the more unfortunate victims. I wasn't consumed with worry and sappy words as the other victims' families were. No, I just sat there, straight faced and listened to her explain my living arrangements should she die. I was to stay with the woman, Blanche, for the time being, and permanently if death does take her. She died the next day.

Miss Blanche kindly made arrangements for the funeral of Annette Vasser. Being a devote Christian, my mother would be buried like one of them: with a priest delivering sermons over her coffin. On the day of the viewing, I was dressed in black and led to the altar where my mother's body lay. They had covered up her wounds and her expression was seemingly peaceful: it looked more like she was sleeping then dead. She looked like a porcelain doll with her pale skin and emotionless features. Then again, I suppose I underestimated death. I was still young, and the concept of death was vague. Standing next to that coffin, I still seemed impassive but inside, I secretly considered this is victory: no longer would I have to put up with her insistence that I become something I was not. No longer would I be a chained animal being trained in what my master wanted. On the day of the funeral, I sat in the front pew, unmoving and emotionless. When her coffin was closed for the last time, I quietly followed the procession outside. With a definitive thump, the coffin was placed in the horse drawn hearse, and we all looked on as it disappeared from view. I don't know where they buried her, and I don't want to know. Without bidding a final farewell, I followed Blanche to her car.

Desperately, she contacted her best friend, who conveniently lived in the suburbs of Orleans. My mother's friend, Blanche, was the widow of a politician. She herself was childless because she could not, would not conceive. Blanche's lover and husband had died several years before at the hands of kidnappers; and she refused to take anyone else to her bed. I suppose the main reason she agreed to adopt me was that I was her second chance at motherhood. I would be the child she never had.

Entering through the front gates, I was awed by the size of her estate. It was a clear sign of the wealth that her husband had left her. Who was this woman and why did she have so much power? As far as my six year old mind was concerned, only the famous people you hear about on TV had such wealth. But the name 'Blanche Ozera' never crossed the TV screen nor graced the front page of newspapers. And yet here it was, a wealthy estate tucked neatly between smoothly rolling hills away from prying eyes. Little did I know that my time there would too be short.

My schooling began immediately. Blanche complied with my mother's wishes and didn't send me to a boarding school. However, my education was not to be neglected. Private tutors were hired to teach me the same subjects and material that kids my age learned in their so called 'schools'. Blanche, who had taken acrobatics and alongside my mother, continued to teach me the art. She was a much kinder teacher and at her side, I flourished even more still. In addition to these, Blanche thought that I should learn more of the arts. Arts meaning ballet and piano. These lessons too, I loved. Ballet was an extension of my ic and acrobatic lessons. And piano became my escape from the world. In a few years, I was totally consumed in these studies and saw little of others save for Blanche and Wyrda and her other bodyguard, a serious and silent male by the name of Kerl.

Before I knew it, four years had passed since I had entered Blanche's estate. In these years, I had given my dead mother little thought, sometimes forgetting her existence all together. However, I never saw Blanche as my mother. No, it was Wyrda who filled in that parental role. Whether she liked it or not, I always admired Wyrda. Always looked up to her for approval and guidance. In the mornings, she and Kerl got up early to practice. I spent those early hours watching first from my bedroom window then from the porch step as they performed endless exercises to keep up their finely-toned muscles. They often sparred, and I watched in fascination as their graceful bodies spun in the air, aiming offense after offense. At the age of ten, I begged Wyrda to teach me. And in due time, she agreed.

To my disappointment, my first few months consisted of nothing my exercises: pushups, sit ups, running. Wyrda's reason was that I had to tone my muscles. But I was already trained in the performing arts and found these lessons dull. When we finally moved on to the basic movements, I learned each with great excitement, practicing for hours attempting to reach 'perfection'; then falling sore into bed, eagerly awaiting the next day's lessons. It wasn't long before I too spent my mornings sparring. Most of the time, it was with Wyrda. We soon discovered that however much muscle I built on my lean frame, I would never really be as strong as Wyrda. It took every inch of exertion for me to simply keep from falling over. Trying to go head to head with Kerl was out of the question. He could easily pin me down as if I were a rag doll. In time, I learned that my greatest ally was speed. I would spend hours dodging Wyrda's punches and kicks. Though, she always told me that a bodyguard's job was to dispatch the target as fast as possible – an act that was more than necessary now that I had been informed on the fragile thread connecting humans, vampires of werewolves. Surprise, surprise, my pitiful mother was right for once. Still the thought of being prey was a disturbing thought for me; I refused to fall to such a miserable. Despite the dangers that were now clear to me, the notion of dispatching your victim as quickly as possible was still boring to me, so I continued to dance and jump around them, putting everything else I had learned to use.

My lessons were not always daily, though. Because of her profession Blanche had to leave for days at a time. During these absences, Kerl and Wyrda had to go along with her. By now at the age of eleven, I had learned to deal with the loneliness of an empty estate. During those lonely nights when there was only Blanche's maid and cook present, I was allowed to roam the estate. Blanche, like my mother, had a extensive love of literature. Though my mother never had enough money to buy books, Blanche own a whole library full of old classics and modern works. I didn't grow up around books, but her library had a power similar to a magnet. It always drew me towards it. I would spend my days and nights there, my loneliness shattered by the familiar rustle of a turning page and the close comfort of words as they sped through the page and formed vivid pictures in my mind's eye. In those empty days where my only companion was a good book, I read works by Shakespeare, Homer, and Virgil. I read the ancient epics including translations of The Epic of Gilamesh, Ramayama, and Odyssey. There were also medieval epics like Beowulf, Bhagavata Purana, and Divina Commedia. Most of these were just for personal pleasure. I read and reread her copy of Aeneid by Virgil, fascinated with the said founder of Rome.

The discovery of Shakespeare propelled me into sleepless nights. It was an obsession, an addiction. I found kindred spirits in his cryptic speech. I spent endless hours reading his texts. Romeo and Juliet was the first, recommended to be my Blanche's cook, Jai. She had noticed my interest in the classics and thought she'd recommend me one of her own favorites. Romeo and Juliet would be a good read for any hopeless romantic. But for me, I simply read through it, bored with Shakespeare's unoriginal and sometimes even idiotic depiction of young love. What kept me reading was his use of language. Finish that one, I quickly moved on to another one, Hamlet. This one, I liked much better. From the first page onwards, Shakespeare drew me into his world much like the darkness that envelopes after the candle has been blown out at night. My most favorite of his works is undoubtly the Tragedy of Macbeth. Reading it, I felt as if I understood Lady Macbeth's lust for power.

As I grew older, I became more intrigued with this strange world that I had just only been introduced to. By the time I turned thirteen, Wyrda and Blanche decided that I needed more practice. On these trips, I learned what Blanche's 'profession' was. I don't think it would be considered a job, for she got no money from it. She spent her time away from the estate meeting with other political figures. She spent hours chatting about thinks like the weather and how lovely her garden was coming only to spend hours more on debating passionately on the werewolf and vampire problem in London. Much of her listeners scoffed at such ideas, but a few listened in a trance and in the end, agreed to help convince the others to look more into it. I doubted that they would do much though. There were just too many conservatives around. When I asked Blanche why she so relentlessly pursued the topic, she told me that she wanted to help. After a long pause she told me that she didn't want to be forgotten after she died, for if people remembered her name, she could be immortal.

As I turned fourteen, my days became increasingly numbered. Fate seemed to frown down upon my good fortune. Or perhaps my forgotten 'mother' was angry with me; and with her friend for taking her daughter so completely. Either way, tragedy struck on a quiet night as we walked back to our hotel.

Our days had become rather uneventful and I suppose we were starting to let our guard down. There was an odd feeling hovering in the air. Or at least, I thought it was odd. Walking down a deserted lane, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. However, Wyrda seemed completely at ease so I didn't pay any mind to what my instincts were telling me. However, nothing ever warned me that my worst enemy that night was myself. It was that beast again. It gnawed at my insides and clawed itself outward. I was lost in a myriad of pain and confusion. I could hear bones cracking but didn’t whose they were. I could hear feral snarls but the more I wondered, the more they seemed to be coming from me. None of it really registered as I changed, blinding pain becoming my only concern. But there was more to it once blood entered my mouth. It was a slap back to reality as I, now only having to put up with the aches of an overworked body, cleared my vision to carnage. I heard a door slam and wild instinct forced me to take loping strides away from three bodies.

I sat in the shadows of an empty park that night, going through my life. My deceased mother had wanted me to be oblivious to these odd creatures. But I guess now more than ever that she had never intended me to change. And making me believe that I was human hindered the process but never really stopped it. Counting back the years, I felt like an idiot. I was almost fifteen now, and I still held on to a masquerade of youth. I never thought that I would be a creature of the wild. But now that I was, I had a hunch as to where my wild lineage had come from. But there was another ordeal ahead of me.

The day of the funeral was a grim day. Donning the ravenous obsidian used for morning, I sat in the front row before three coffins, cold and unfeeling. There were no tears shed. I tried not to fidget with my impatience. As Blanche’s only family, I was written into her will to inherit half of her fortune. The rest was to go to charity. I didn’t cry for any of them that day because I was pretty sure they would’ve wanted to go without carrying the grief of another. I wasn’t sad either. They were behind me now, Wyrda, Blanche – two souls from my past. Life would go on with or without them and as close as I had grown to them, I wasn’t one to lose sight of the future over a few petty lives. Once again, I watched a coffin being lifted into a horse drawn hearse. As the vehicles receded into the horizon, I craned my neck to get one last glimpse of the two people who held the most influence in my life. And thus, another chapter ends.

I had figured that my werewolf lineage came from my absentee father. So that’s where I looked first. Going back to Orleans, I easily found their old dwelling. The lady wasn’t there anymore and the house was simply occupied by my father and half brother. Apparently, she had died of food poisoning several years before and that wimp Suzanne moved out with her fiancé. I wasn’t one to waste time. Breaking into their house wasn’t hard. And once inside, it didn’t take much to restrain them. They were surprised and ill prepared. A young looking girl in odd, wrong century dress made them wonder. Knocking Siva, my half brother, out, I held a bladed fan to my father’s throat, demanding that he change. Demanding that he fight me. He only looked on with confusion however, and I realized that he was a mere human. Stupid pawn. It was my pathetic mother, the tamed dog, who carried my canine heritage. Still, I hated that man, and giving him the most painful death possible was my first satisfaction. I was about to leave when dark pools fell on the other one. He looked so pretty and helpless all knocked out on the ground that I couldn’t resist the monster in me. Yes, in other words, I ate my half brother. And enjoyed it.

There’s not much to say after that. I didn’t want to stay in France so I packed my bags, took my money, and went to London under the guise of a dancer

Mother/Father:

Annette Vasser;; Mother;; Werewolf;; Deceased

Ahh yes, my dear dear mother. I remember my limited days with you. How desperately you tried to teach me about hard work and morals. To not end up like you. In the end, you expected respect, but I couldn't respect you because you were too pathetic in my eyes. You wanted love but instead that subordinate nature of your's got hate. I don't have a doubt about how you ended up where you were. And I'm determined not to make your mistakes.

Saki Rofocale;; Father;; Human;; Unknown

I've never met you personally. But if I did, I think I would like you just as much as I liked mother. According to her, you were a kind, if not demanding man. Demanding married man. I don't know you, and I don't want to. May you die many terrible deaths.

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Wyrda Nikitin;; 'Foster Mother'/Tutor;; Werewolf;; Deceased

Mm, now here are some fond memories. After all, you, my friend, helped me realize my goal and taught me much of what I know today. And for that, I offer many thanks.

[/blockquote]

Siblings:

Siva Ryo; Half brother; human; Deceased

Ahh yes, my dear dear older half brother. You never learned of my existance, did you? Oh wait, where has my memory gone? Of course you met me. Or more accurately, you met my teeth...very personally. You were the only one I considered my actual blood; other than Wyrda, that is. Especially not that little brat, Suzanne. Such a sorry end for your pretty face, I almost regret doing what I did.

Offspring:

Offspring? OFFSPRING? Are you kidding me, madame? I’m a virgin still. And if I weren’t, they would’ve long since been digested.

Other: ---

† RP example †

I shaded my eyes as I glanced up past the azure sky and towards that shining orb we humans called a sun. Many would color that thing orange and yellow but to me, it was red. Red because greedy tendrils of its light reached as far as the darkest shadows and still yearned for more to swallow up within its blinding abyss. For me, that was not yellow or orange or whatever hue idiots these days called it. For me, it was res. Red like the freed that emanated from its essence as it reached into the inner adobes of humans and cut through every possible crevice it could reach. Red as it lusted for more, reaching farther and farther into dark chasms each time only to falter after it reached its zenith. And then it would come back after Selene closed her silvery eye. Yes, for me, the sun was not an embodiment of life, but of greed; of ambition; of an unfulfilled desire. And for that reason, I thought it a kindred spirit as I walked under its stifling heat. A friend that would always open its blind eye to me.

Under its calming rays, my arid clothes were open enough to allow the breeze to cool my hot skin. I was not scared of exposure. Oh no, Naamah Lucifruge Rofocale was not ashamed of any part of herself. Let the people gawk at the girl who looked like she just stepped out of A Thousand and One Nights. And if any of them decided to get kinky, well, I had my fans strapped to my thighs. They were conspicuous, two curious objects sitting in leather sheaths. They were not shaped like daggers, leaving the rest of those on the bridge to wonder what the heck they were. There were advantages to being adopted into a rich family, and one of them was being able to bribe. With the fortune that Blanche had left me, I was able to bring most of my wardrobe with me, along with a few other items and then some. The other was being spoiled with virtually everything you wanted. Blanche, working towards me affection, had spent money on whatever I wanted, which included apparel from any country and time period that I happened to take a fancy to. With these material items, she was able to exchange small portions of her wealth for a façade of love.

Walking down the bridge, I watched the Imperatore and Amanti. This was a bridge connecting their territories after all, so I was not surprised their factions made up most of the present population. I supposed that dressed as a Moroccan dancer, I blended in with the Amanti just fine, Unless, of course, there was a mind reader around. Then I was pretty much screwed. Stupid troublesome little leeches. Taking silent steps towards the railing, I idly watched some birds, thinking about the salty taste of their blood. It was a familiar taste, and once that I was beginning to tire of. I wanted some human blood. Good human blood. The kind that was sweet like poisoned honey as the thick liquid rolled over my tongue. The kind that I would probably never get tired of even after a millennia’s worth of drinking. It was a little pretense of paradise. No, correction. It was my drug.

Walking further towards the center of the bridge, a harsh voice suddenly assaulted my train of thought, cutting through my mind like sharpened knives and causing my body to automatically tense. My fingers brushed the cold handles of the fans strapped at my thighs. It would only take a second to draw them and even less to turn them into a lethal threat, If there was one present, anyways. Turning around, I met the wild eye of a vicious looking woman. She was obviously annoyed about something. What, I wasn’t completely sure of but I swear I heard the words “you” and “staring” so apparently, she didn’t want anyone to see the wad of cash that she was holding. Looking around to see who was “staring”, I only saw a few confused Imperatore that had simply been startled by her outburst. There was a man walking towards her and I focused my acute hearing just enough to catch a greeting coming from his lips. Craning my head for a closer look, I recognized him as the Morte leader, Eric. Oh, this could easily become an interesting situation.

Taking a few dancing steps towards them, I noticed someone else. It was a young Asian girl, perhaps around my age, give or take a few years. She seemed at ease as she took in the Imperatore and Amanti in the area but it wasn’t long for that friendly expression to turn into one of horror as she noticed the woman and Morte leader. She seemed to shrink as she started to back away, a rabbit noticing danger was but a few feet away and trying to escape before the wolf, or in this case, wolves, saw the prey. It seemed as if she might succeed before she stumbled. Momentarily losing interest in the two that I was headed towards, I made a move towards the girl, standing so my shadow fell over her slender form. Leaning down, I took in a scent similar to clothing kept too long in a musty trunk and the sink of paint. Amanti. But besides that, there was the delicious pulsing of crimson honey under that skin. ”Tasty”, I muttered into her ear before taking a few steps back, giggling a little and licking my lips. I held out my hand with a painted smile, ”Need some help?” Chocolate pools were not watching the two now, they were fixated on the Amanti, playing the role of a wolf in a rabbit’s skin.

† Let's talk about you †

Name: Kurayami
Other Characters: ---[/size]

[AKREE]

Accepted

Welcome to RoO and Happy Rping... please don't eat me *hides from namnam* rofl.[/blockquote]